#it even got to the point where the ''yes'' option went invisible but its still there for me to be able to click anyway

[aria0fgold]

The way an emulator slowly "breaks" the more you use its save states and then reverts back to normal once you restarted it has got to be poetic in its own way.

[imjustdreamingig]

medieval times with the pevensie's

Heres a strange little headcanon/au/meta I'm not sure what they're called :

I had a thought, imagine if the Pevensie's story took place present day (as in the 2000's)

When the Pevensie's returned from their first trip to Narnia, they were miserable, confused and in bodies two sizes too small.

Their mother noticed something off about them when she went to pick them up at the train station when they returned from the country. Her children might look the same yes, but there was something different in the way they held themselves. The glint in their eyes were not ones of childish innocence but of ones that had seen horrors many have not even seen in their nightmares.

As the weeks passed, Helen began to notice that her children's odd behavior was probably not going away anytime soon. There was always a sad tilt to their smiles even when they assured her that everything was alright. Helen couldn't bring herself to mention that she did indeed notice the amount of worried and hurried whispers going around between the four, as she didn't want another lie told to her face. She would rather them come to her in their own time and not pressure them into telling her anything.

Helen noticed how her children never hung out with any of their friends anymore and that they rarely watched T.V. or used their phones. She constantly had to remind them that at least one of them, namely Peter, had to take a cellphone whenever the four of them went on walks which was quite odd because who ever heard of a teen not obsessed with their phones?

Another thing that struck Helen as odd was that it was always just the four of them on their walks. They invited no one else with them, that she knew of anyways, but they never mentioned anyone else once they returned.

After noticing her children's odd behavior, she decided to do something to treat them, to lift their spirits and maybe see a genuine smile on their faces for once. She saw on T.V. a commercial for this place called Medieval Times and thought that this would be a perfect place to take her children to. It seemed entertaining, exciting and an event that she thought would contain elements that would interest all four of her children.

The siblings, mainly Peter and Edmund, had suddenly taken an unusual interest in using fake swords they ordered off of Amazon and having sparring matches in the backyard whenever they thought Helen wasn't home. She would briefly catch a glimpse of them whenever she arrived early from work and was surprised to notice how good they were. Susan and Lucy would cheer them on from the sides and occasionally Lucy would join in the sparring, the fluidity of her movements causing another shock of surprise from her mother.

She then called the number displayed on the screen and since she called because of that specific ad, she got a decent discount on their tickets.

On Saturday morning, Helen awoke long before her alarm was set to ring. She went about her morning routine before waking up the children. Lucy was naturally an early riser so she got up with no problem which always baffled Edmund because who would willingly wake up early with no complaints? Which is why it was no surprise that Helen had to practically drag Edmund out of bed who kept groaning until Peter, who had woken up because of the amount of noise they were making told him to stop and to get ready.

Helen found it very strange that all of her children would listen attentively to whatever Peter said and would do whatever he asked them to with practically no hesitance, even Edmund who fought the most with Peter before leaving for the country. That had taken a lot to get used to, although she was glad that the level of fighting and shouting had diminished. She oddly kind of missed the noise.

Meanwhile, Susan was standing by the doorway having gotten up right after Peter and was watching the scene before her unfold. She was reminiscing the now bittersweet memories from back in Narnia when she herself had to drag Edmund out of bed whenever they had to have a particular earlier start to the day. She sighed and left the rest of her family to head back into her room to get ready, pushing back the memories of Narnia and focusing on choosing what outfit she was going to wear for the day.

About an hour had passed and everyone was set to go. The Pevensies piled into the minivan, because of course the Pevensie's had a mini van, with Peter in the passenger seat, Susan and Edmund in the next row and Lucy in the backseat. Although they had asked politely, she would not give the children any clues as to where they were going.

Helen slowly found herself getting used to the level of formality it seemed her children now acquired. It seemed she found herself getting used to a lot of changes in their behavior ever since the children returned from the country. She didn't notice the discreet nervous glances the siblings shared as they really didn't like not knowing where they were being taken, each of them recalling a specific occurrence back in Narnia with much disdain.

When they arrived and approached the main entrance of the building where the name Medieval Times was proudly displayed, the four siblings exchanged glances that to outsiders would've revealed nothing but gave the impression as though they were having entire conversations with just a few short looks. Helen noticed the sudden silence from her children and although she did not know why, she began to feel a little worried.

Once they had taken their seats in the front row so they were directly in front of the stadium and been told which team they were going to cheer for, Helens anxiousness grew when the children, even Lucy, declined the option to wear any of the plastic crowns they offered the crowd to show support for their given teams. She was sure she saw a look of mild disgust when Edmund took notice of what was clearly two fake swords crossed over each other and mounted on the wall on the way to their seats.

She didn't notice however, the slight tremble in Susan's hand when her gaze fell upon a bow with a quiver of arrows clearly made of plastic in the display case of the gift shop, or how Lucy went slightly pale when her eyes came across a small dagger made out of cheap metal with silver stones embedded into its hilt, or how Peter's eyes turned cold when he spotted an inaccurate imitation of what was supposed to be a medieval sword and shield displayed in a glass case right in the center of the room.

When the show finally began and the horses galloped out into the stadium with the 'knights' mounted on top of them, their team colors proudly displayed on the flags each of them held, she saw out of the corner of her eyes how Edmund who was sitting beside her, slowly placed his hand on top of Peter's who was gripping the arm of the chair so tightly his knuckles were going white. Susan, who was in between Peter and Lucy, wrapped her arms around Lucy's shoulders, but this action went unbeknownst to Helen as her line of sight was partially blocked.

The whole crowd was cheering and applauding their respective teams, laughter and screams filling the stadium, but there was no noise coming from any of the Pevensie siblings. They weren't even trying to pretend they were enjoying themselves, too caught up in certain memories during their times in a certain land. The wounds were still too fresh, it had only been a little less than a month since they'd returned. The pit of anxiousness in Helens stomach only grew with each passing moment.

Half an hour went by and still none of the siblings said a word, their steely eyes were firmly fixed on the events happening below them, a mostly stoic expression donning each of their faces. Helen's worry only grew and she was beginning to silently panic. She didn't understand what invisible force was holding her back, why she couldn't bring herself to ask her children what was wrong.

Maybe it was because when she glanced over at them she didn't see children, but for a brief moment a vision of grown men and women sitting straight backed, their heads held high with their chins raised ever so slightly. She had to blink several times because she was quite sure she saw a gleam of silver and gold coming from the top of Edmund and Peter's head, as if there were crowns perched on their heads a mere few seconds ago. She shook her head of the absurd thoughts filling it, blaming the illusions she'd just been presented on the lack of water she'd drank that day and turned her attention to the front once more.

When the actually fighting between the knights began, that's when things took a turn for the worse. As the knights were sparring and performed what looked like some rather complicated moves with their swords to the rest of the audience, Edmund beside her finally showed signs of life and leaned back into his seat. As he crossed his arms, he scoffed and rolled his eyes, mumbling something about how uncoordinated the wrist movement was and that their stance was atrocious. Helen was shocked. Since when did Edmund use words such as atrocious?

She then saw similar behavior from Peter although it was slightly more reserved, but one could still notice the hint of disapproval when he sighed and shook his head. Helen was even more shocked when Lucy actually booed at one point. She wasn't that loud but before she could say anything else, Susan leaned down and murmured something into Lucy's ear. At first Lucy looked offended but then a resigned look fell upon her face as she nodded. Even so, Helen was still surprised to see the hint of sadness that was present in Susan's eyes as she turned to face the front, this time able to see her arm once again wrapping around Lucy's shoulders and the placement of her other arm in the crook of Peter's elbow.

When the fourth pair of knights began to fight, Helen felt a charge in the air before anything happened. The temperature in the room had risen and those around the Pevensie's began to feel warm and sweaty. Suddenly, Peter leapt up from his chair and onto his feet. He had grown restless and had enough of watching inexperienced amateurs who had no idea how to handle a sword, pass off as though they were naturals in that specific art of combat with a certain air of superiority around them. Peter couldn't establish if it was actually there surrounding them or if his rage was causing him to see things.

Peter's patience snapped as he directed his harsh glare at the closest knights in front of him, all whilst maintaining a relatively calm look on his face which made him look that much more terrifying. With his arms clenched at his side, Peter spoke in a voice Helen had never heard coming out of the mouth of her son, laced with disgust and a mocking undertone. As Peter spoke she felt many things at once; curiosity, fear, and surprisingly shame as if though she was getting scolded by someone who caught her doing something against the rules.

The strangest thing however, was that she felt as if she was standing in the presence of someone with high authority, someone in a position of power that knew what they were doing, that addressed their company in a tone that made it clear that they were in charge. How she felt this way when staring up at her son with eyes wide, she does not know.

"By the mane," Peter said under his breath before a slight scowl graced his lips and a booming voice filled the air, "are you seriously acting as though you know what you're doing? With that footwork and those feebly attempted strikes you'll end up killing yourself before you even lay a blow on your oppone- Susan get off of m- Lucy do not encourage her, Ed what n-"

The knights turned to look at the source of whoever was shouting with a slightly affronted look on their faces as did a lot of people in the audience. They were shocked to see that it was merely a young boy who looked as though he had a lot more to say before being grabbed by what the knight assumed were his siblings or friends.

Peter had always been a composed man for the sake of keeping up appearances for his subjects in Narnia. Many of its inhabitants had learned to fear the rare outbursts of the High King's anger. When Peter snapped and let his anger loose, there was no going back. His anger was similar to a fire, at first a small flame yet still capable of burning you if you got too close until eventually, it grew into a monster filled with heat and rage, finally let free of its cage and seeking to destroy everything in its path. It became uncontrollable to the point that not even Lucy could manage to tame it automatically.

Ever since the Pevensie's stumbled out of Narnia, Peter's been a ticking time bomb, slowly counting down the seconds until he finally exploded. The tension in Peter's chest has been brewing, growing tighter with each passing day without a glimpse of a possibility of returning to Narnia, of going home.

With all the anger and the resentment Peter's been keeping away from prying eyes, his siblings are surprised and mildly impressed he's been able to keep a handle on his emotions until now. They all knew that Peter's pride and his role as High King would prevent him from answering truthfully if any of them had outright asked Peter if he needed to talk.

To make up for this but still looking for ways to support their eldest brother, Lucy made it her personal goal to make Peter laugh as much as possible at the many jokes she'd say and the joking banter she'd try to make him participate in. Susan would lace her arm through his at random points of the day, knowing that although it was a simple action, it was a way of responding to all the unspoken words between them but were ever so visible in the way Peter's eyes would occasionally appear bloodshot red whenever he sat down for breakfast. Edmund would come into Peter's room and sit down on his bed and talk about a plot of either a book he'd been reading, a movie he remembered watching, what he saw their neighbors doing in the morning, anything to distract Peter from the thoughts plaguing his mind.

Susan, Edmund and Lucy all knew deep down the moment they realized where their mothers surprise was taking place that this would be the final straw for Peter. They were both in some ways relieved that he would finally be able to release all the built up tension wound tightly in his chest but also nervous about its outcome.

Which is why when Peter suddenly stood up from his seat about to reprimand the so called 'knights', they sprung into action. They were expecting this and Peter's reaction didn't come to them as much of a surprise. They really couldn't blame Peter for this to be the deciding factor for his upcoming actions. Every move that was supposedly meant to imitate real sword fights of the past made the rest of the Pevensie's siblings grimace as well.

As they led him out into the hallway outside of the arena, Lucy had swung one of Peter's arms over her shoulders, her hand clutching his with the other wrapped around his waist. Susan grabbed his forearm and gently pulled him in the direction of the exit despite his protests. There was a reason both girls had the task of leading him out into the hallway, it was because they had a better chance of not being shoved aside and walking back down to the arena to continue his verbal assault on the knights quite frankly embarrassing display of a sword fight. If it had been Edmund leading him it might've been a different story.

Edmund was directly behind Peter, ready to take matters into his own hands if Peter did indeed end up trying to escape the holds of his sisters. Edmund knew Peter however, and knew his desperation would never get to that point. On the rare occasions Peter lost his composure in front of visiting dignitaries back in Narnia, all he needed was a gentle reminder from his siblings, a touch or a glance to remind him of his position. Unless he was in the battlefield, there no one who could stop Peter on his path to claim another victory for Narnia.

As the children led Peter outside they did not notice the pairs of eyes that followed them as they went, or realize that they had left their mother behind, still sitting in her seat with her mouth agape. Once she shook herself from her stupor, she hastily grabbed her belongings as well as the coat Lucy left behind and rushed to catch up with her children, leaving two very red faced knights openly staring at her as she left, not quite understanding what had just happened.

The people in the audience who did not take notice Peter's outburst started to wonder why the two knights had stopped their sparing and what made them do so? It was likely that the supervisors of the show noticed this too as a voice over the intercom announced they would be taking a short intermission and if all the knights would please make their way to backstage. They did although say to make their way into the castle to not ruin the medieval effect they were trying to push across.

When Helen finally caught up with her children the siblings were making their way to the car. She noticed Peter's shoulders were slightly slumped and that Susan was rubbing her hand across his back as they walked, Lucy's right hand grasped in Peter's left. Edmund was now walking in front of them and leading the way to the car. Helen didn't know wether to be furious at the display she had just witnessed her son put on or be worried about his well being.

As she approached them to where they were leaning on the car, her mouth opened to either scold Peter or console him, which one she would end up saying she did not know. Right when she was about to speak Edmund shot her a glance that made whatever words that had formed die in her throat. She closed her mouth and looked at her second youngest with an astonished expression on her face, wondering how a single look from her son made her quiet but more importantly, why she had done it without question?

She glanced at Edmund once more and noticed a stern look dominating his face. Once again a strange feeling washed over her and she couldn't help but read into his expression a little more than she should, the words 'royalty' and 'kings and queens' once again danced in her brain. Once again, she shook her head and reprimed herself of thinking those silly notions, unlocked the car and motioned for the kids to get in, confused but understanding that now wasn't the time to address the situation at hand.

No one spoke on the ride home. 10 minutes into the journey, Helen turned on the radio to hopefully ease the tension that stifled the small space. In all honesty, she turned it on to avoid any awkward moments between her and the children and to have something to distract her on the tedious journey home.

Lucy had offered to sit in the passenger seat and Helen didn't object. Lucy didn't dance or sing along to any of the songs on the radio as she usually did. Instead, she leaned her elbow on the window ledge, a small frown lacing her lips as her unmoving eyes took in the scenery. Edmund, Peter and Susan squished into the middle row with Peter in between them. There was no doubt that it was a tight fit and they must've not been very comfortable but no one seemed to mind the cramped space, their bodies having practically no air between them with their shoulders and legs pressed tightly together.

Susan had her hand placed delicately on Peters thigh as she too like Lucy, took in the scenery outside the window yet her eyes were unmoving. Edmund had his head leaning on Peters shoulder. The first time she had seen him do this gave Helen a startled shock but she had quickly gotten used to all of her children's now physical behavior with one other.

As Helen looked into the rearview mirror and took in the scene displayed before her she couldn't help a pang of hurt from developing inside her as she wondered not for the first time today and certainly not for the first time since she had picked up the children from the train station; "Are they even my children anymore, let alone children? What happened to them in the country that they refuse to talk to me about?"

When Helen pulled into the driveway of their house since it's not really home to the siblings anymore is it, that's when Peter finally decided to say something for the first time since leaving the venue. As they got out of the car the rest of the siblings headed inside with slight nod to Edmund that he would follow shortly. Before Helen made her way to the front door Peter pulled his mother in for a hug.

Helen was not a very tall woman so Peter didn't need to strain himself too much to give his mother a proper hug. Startled by the abrupt display of affection directed towards her, it took Helen a moment before she wrapped her arms around Peter as well. Peter then pulled back and apologized for his actions and for ruining his mothers surprise. He said he didn't mean for his temper to get out of control and to shout at those men who were only doing their jobs. He promised to make it up to his mother soon and that he would learn to better keep his emotions in check.

When Helen asked the inevitable question of why Peter had acted the way he did, his face paled slightly, guilt laden in his eyes. His gaze shifted towards the ground for a moment before they eventually met hers again, his gaze now unwavering as he promptly told her that it reminded him of something that he'd seen in the country, but not to worry as he had it all sorted. Helen later blamed it on a trick of light when once again a flash of a broken adult, not child, appeared before her in that moment.

It was only because Helen saw beneath the broken mask Peter was desperately trying to keep firmly in place that she sighed and said alright. She didn't exactly know the reason why Peter had such a pained expression in his eyes but nevertheless, she pulled him into another hug. Not for the first time Helen whispered in his ear that if he ever needed to talk to someone she was there, and not for the first time Peter chuckled and promised that he would. They both secretly knew it would never happen.

Helen knew that she wouldn't find out the sole reason as to why Peter had reacted in such a manner that day and as she climbed into bed that night, she realized she never will. She realized that ever since her children came back from the country there were bound to be more instances where her children's motives would never be fully revealed to her. Peter's expression out in the driveway was proof of it.

Helen took into account the sadness she noticed in Peter's eyes and the noticeable weight that pressed firmly on his shoulders which is why she wasn't terribly harsh on him or pushed him to reveal anything he clearly wasn't comfortable talking about with her, even though that realization hurt her very much. Pain, even if not understood by everyone around them, was still pain, and she was not going to cause her son any more of it.

That did not mean she was going to let him go unpunished however, Peter still acted out in a crude manner in public and directed it towards other people. She grounded him for a week with dishes duty for every meal and with no electronics, but something told her Peter didn't really mind having to go without an electronic device for that long as he already did so anyways.

Helen also made note of not planning any more huge surprise trips like to the now off limits Medieval Times unless she was absolutely certain it was a place her children would enjoy going to or they had straight up told her they'd like to go there in the first place. In fact, she decided that from now on surprise trips or any huge surprises for that matter, were to be put on pause until further notice which probably meant forever.

No one got much sleep that night and if she heard three pairs of footsteps heading towards Peter's room in the middle of the night and hushed whispers for the rest of it, Helen made no implications that she had noticed at all the next morning at breakfast.

[chickenmcstucky]

FIRST OFF YOUR REVAMP OF YOUR BLOG?!?! *chef’s kiss* 😭😭😭 second... 👉👈 if you’re able to do requests 👉👈 can I request 40s!bucky advancing with reader on a date? Maybe before he gets shipped out? 👉👈 you can do whatever you want with it! Thank you for reading this AND I CAN’T WAIT FOR WHATS TO COME FROM YOU

ROSEEEEEEE you are my heart omg <3 seriously none of this would be happening without you. I did a little headcanon-style thing for this, I hope that’s okay and that you like it!! Also this got really long, its basically a full length fic in bullet point form lol

So because I love a soft, sweet Bucky, it starts like this -

You were on a first date with some guy your mother had set you up with, seeing as his mother and your mother were friendly

At first you were excited, you’d never really talked to him much but he was handsome and you thought maybe it could go somewhere

All your girlfriends were always going on dates and having a good time, while you usually preferred to stay in with a good book, and to be honest you’d never gotten as much interest from fellas as them but that was alright, you were happy as you were

So there you were, out on the first date with Freddie Jameson, and from the start it was...less than great

He picked you up late, didn’t even compliment your dress, did none of the things your girlfriends were always gushing over guys for doing

On your way to the cinema, he was absolutely talking your ear off about some stupid argument he had with some guys down at the docks where he did the books

You couldn’t get a word in edgewise, but honestly you didn’t wanna talk anyways because this guy was just not who you expected or wanted...some big macho guy obsessed with his reputation and single-minded to the point of barely paying attention to you? No thanks. You knew your worth

You were determined to push through the date, hopeful to a fault, so when you arrived to the cinema and he let you pick the film, you were surprised, but picked the new sci-fi film The Invisible Woman

From the way Freddie scoffed at this, and grudgingly bought the tickets, acting like it was an inconvenience, you should’ve known things would only get worse, but on into the theater you went

When Freddie realized the story revolved around a woman - one getting comedic revenge on her boss, no less - he gave you some choice words about how you were forcing this new-age mess on him, how he didn’t really wanna take you out anyways but had been “kind” enough to give you a chance, this that and the other thing until you were in tears and your face was so hot you were sure the temperature in the theater had raised a few degrees

When someone in the theater finally spoke up, it wasn’t even to defend you, but to tell you two to take it the heck outside and stop interrupting

Freddie stomped right out, and with your only other option being to cower in the theater, alone, for the rest of the film, you left too

By the time you made it outside, Freddie was long gone, and you barely managed to slink around the corner to the back alley before the tears started falling in earnest

Just your luck to finally go on a date, and get left in the lurch and embarrassed in front of a whole theater of strangers

As you stood against the brick wall in the darkness of the warm night, you tried to calm yourself down enough to catch the streetcar back home so you could sulk in the privacy of your own room

Suddenly you heard two male voices and your head jerked up because you really didn’t need more humiliation - or worse, danger - right now

But when you saw the two men come around the corner, you relaxed seeing it was none other than Bucky Barnes and little Steve Rogers, and you knew they wouldn’t cause you trouble, Bucky was an Army man after all, just back from basic training

You’d never really interacted with them except as children, knowing Steve could be a real spitfire and Bucky a sweet flirt, but they were good men without poor reputations relating to ladies

Still, you rather hoped they’d just pass on by you without noticing, because really, you’d had enough for the night

Just your luck, though, Steve noticed - he must’ve known how it felt to be sulking, defeated, in an alleyway and sensed your struggle

As you made eye contact with him, you saw him nudge Bucky, who had yet to notice, and gesture towards you, the two of them still a fair distance from you

They immediately turned course and walked right towards you, as you just stood there blinking like a deer in headlights, unsure how to act and stuck between embarrassment for your state and hope that maybe you could at least ask them to accompany you to the streetcar stop so you didn’t have to go alone in the dark

“Uh, you alright there?” Steve spoke first as they came to a stop in front of you, scuffing his foot against the dusty pavement as Bucky took in your appearance, you feeling his eyes run over you from head to toe

You sniffled, unsure what to say and not wanting to reveal to them the humiliation you’d suffered - though you knew Freddie had been a real jerk, it was your pride that would suffer the more people knew what had happened

Then a smooth, sweet voice broke the silence, “did something happen, doll? What’s a nice dame like you doing alone in some back alley at night, huh?”

Something about the softness in his voice enveloped you in safety, and you couldn’t help but blurt the truth, “oh, it’s just awful, I was meant to be on a date with Freddie Jameson and he was so coarse and he just humiliated me in front of everyone and then just left,” your voice broke on the last word as the tears threatened again

When you raised your head back up, you saw a cold look of anger come over both mens’ faces, “that Freddie ain’t nothing but a jerk,” Bucky harrumphed, and Steve nodded ferociously, a look of determination coming over his face

“Somebody oughta teach him a lesson, that ain’t no way to treat a dame,” Steve growled, and before you or Bucky could protest, he stalked off, presumably in search of Freddie; you never forgot how once in grade school he’d punched a boy for pulling your hair, he hadn’t changed at all of course

You couldn’t help but laugh, knowing he’d show up tomorrow with a split lip and a black eye, but endeared by his passion in defending you

At your own giggle, Bucky’s handsome face broke out in a soft smile, as you shared a moment of reprieve from your upset

“I’m real sorry, doll, you didn’t deserve to be treated like that - Freddie don’t know what he’s missin, alright?” he spoke gently, and you couldn’t help but believe he meant it, seeing something in his eyes that gave you sweet pause

“I guess I know that, it’s just - I never - finally a date and it goes like this,” you scoffed, shrugging

“You never had a date before, doll?” you were surprised to see some genuine shock on his face

“Well, not never, I mean, just nothin serious now that I’m out of school and all, I guess…” you trailed off - here you were admitting to one of the handsomest GIs around that you didn’t have dates every Friday night like the other girls

“Well, we’re gonna have to fix that,” Bucky’s head tilted up, as if daring you to protest, a confident expression on his young face

“Oh, can’t I just go home, Bucky? I don’t wanna see Freddie again,” you kept the whine out of your voice, but just barely, thinking he was gonna find Steve and Freddie and force Freddie to finish your date

“I, uh, I meant - well, how bout I accompany you home, pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to walk around alone,” he insisted, but the slight pinkness on his face confused you, soon realizing perhaps you’d misunderstood his statement

Relief washed over you, though the sting of Freddie’s actions was still fresh, you were glad to not have to journey home alone; explaining to your mother why you were home so early was going to be bad enough as it was

“Gee, Bucky, that’s so kind of you,” you smiled, and he offered you the crook of his arm

“You’re over at Sycamore, right?” he inquired, and you realized perhaps he had paid you more attention over the years than you’d noticed, as you nodded yes

Gently, you wrapped your arm around his elbow, the soft fabric of his handsome uniform rubbing against your bare skin, and with your manicured fingers pressed against his forearm, something so right seemed to click into place, an unfamiliar yet not unwelcome feeling

As he walked you down the avenue, you were at first quiet, still unsure how to start a conversation with someone who had found you in such a state and who was being so kind

But Bucky, ever the ladies’ man, kept the conversation going, and as he talked about the upcoming Stark expo after he saw your eyes draw to the colorful advertisement for it on the front of the ice cream parlor

you were struck by the fact that you and Bucky really shared similar interests - innovation, sci-fi, adventure...soon you found yourself enthusiastically talking to him about all your favorite adventure books and how you hoped to see Stark himself present at the expo when it opened next month

Before you knew it, you were in front of your family’s apartment building; you hadn’t even realized Bucky had skipped the streetcar and walked you all the way home

You were struck by how much you wished the walk was longer, or that you could linger outside, but you already felt like Bucky had done enough for you and you knew you should go inside and face the music, get it over with

You slowly pulled your arm from its perch on Bucky’s, but before you could pull away fully, he caught your soft hand in his larger one as he gazed into your eyes

“Well, guess you’re home safe now, doll, it was real nice talking to ya,” he laughed a little, but he didn’t release his grasp on your hand

“That was the most fun I’ve had in a long while,” you laughed at yourself, “tonight wasn’t so bad after all,” you smiled at him and squeezed his hand, his reticence to leave giving you courage as you flirted

“Thank you again, Bucky, you really didn’t have to do this but I’m so grateful,” the earnestness in your voice shocked even you; he had really saved you from taking the streetcar alone, and had chased your upset mood right away with his boyish passion in your conversation

“My pleasure, honey. Listen, I know you might not wanna after such a bad experience, but hows about I take you on a proper date sometime? I’d really like to get to know you more, and besides, someone oughta show you what Freddie failed at,” your heart thumped at the offer and the prospect of someone like him wanting you

You were still scared though, what if it was just pity that had led him to talk you home and ask you out? What if the date went just as badly, and it turned out you were the problem, and not Freddie?

You realized your silence after his question had stretched out an uncomfortable amount as you saw his sheepish look, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck nervously

Before he got the wrong idea, you finally found your voice, “I’d like that,” you said simply, shyness overcoming you once again

“Next Friday then, is it alright if I come pick you up? Say, around 7? We’ll have a real nice time, I’ll make sure, you deserve it doll,” Bucky was speaking so fast you couldn’t get a word in, but his charming nervousness was too cute

“Friday at seven,” you nodded, as he gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go of it

The whole week you were on edge, teetering between nerves and excitement at the prospect of your date, you were still so surprised at your luck that such a bad night could turn out so well, and that the handsome Bucky Barnes was so similar to you

Of course, in the back of your mind you knew he’d surely be shipping out soon, but all your girlfriends were dealing with that too, and you pushed the thought away, wanting to just enjoy the time you had

True to his word, Bucky knocked on your door right at 7, your father answering the door as you were still in your room finishing getting ready with your mother

You heard their voices down the hallway as Bucky introduced himself respectfully to your father; he really did seem like such a gentleman

Your mother put the finishing touches on your updo and sent you out to the living room to face your date

As you came into the room, your eyes went straight to Bucky, looking so dapper in his uniform - you loved that all the boys yet to ship out were required to wear their dress uniform while they were out, it was just so romantic

You saw a small bouquet of flowers in his hand and smiled shyly as you crossed over to him, taking the bouquet from his offering hands and thanking him kindly for the gesture

You went to hand the bouquet to your mother to put in a vase, but Bucky reached out and grabbed a single bloom first, tucking it into your pinned hair

“You look beautiful tonight,” he complimented you; you thought your mother might faint from excitement but you just looked down at your feet, a small smile gracing your face

“Thank you, Bucky, you’re very kind. Shall we?” you gestured towards the door and he led you towards it, his hand at the small of your back as your parents looked on

In contrast to his talkativeness from the previous week, Bucky was quiet at first as he walked you towards the main avenue, but it was a comfortable silence

“Oh!” he exclaimed suddenly, as though just then realizing where he was and what he was doing, “Jeez, look at me, said I’d take you on a proper date and I ain’t even held your hand,” he shook his head at himself and offered you his calloused hand, which you took gratefully

You found his sudden nervousness endearing, but it was soon gone as comfortable conversation began to flow; he asked about your week and didn’t seem to mind when you talked about your trip to the hair salon and the new dress your mother was having made for you, instead he was hanging on your every word like you were a new adventure book

To him, you truly were a new adventure, he’d talk about anything you wanted as long as he got to be with you

You talked with him about anything and everything as you made your way to your destination, him even joking to you about Steve’s rather unsuccessful attempt to defend your honor to Freddie, but you realized he never actually told you where you were going

“So,” you lilted at him, “where does a fella like you take a girl like me on a ‘proper date’ then?” you queried him, laughter in your voice because this was truly so fun, you’d be happy to just walk around talking all night

“Oh, I can’t tell ya just yet, sweetheart, it’s a surprise,” he winked at you and your knees went weak

Soon, though, you arrived at a cinema, not the same one as your disastrous date with Freddie thankfully

As Bucky walked you up to the ticket booth, you were excited to see what he’d choose

“Two tickets for the special showing, please,” he said to the boy in the booth as he handed over the dollar

Of course, he was expected to pay, but the way he was so confident in asking for the tickets and had the money ready made you feel like he was so glad to do it, honored, even

Bucky took the two tickets and steered you into the theater, but not before you saw the sign for the special event posted just at the door, they were projecting a special film about space onto the ceiling of the cinema - one of those planetarium experiences!

You couldn’t contain yourself, “Oh Bucky, wow! “A Journey through the Stars,” you read from the poster, “oh wow,” you repeated

“I hoped you’d like it,” Bucky said shyly, “let’s go on in, I want to get you a good seat”

The whole film, you were just enraptured by the narrator talking about cosmos and black holes, whole new solar systems

But Bucky was barely paying attention, his gaze drifting to your awed face

Sometimes you felt his eyes on you and you’d glance over, shy, but he’d look away just quick enough that you couldn’t be sure he was looking at you

As you walked out of the theater, he gently put his arm around you, and you reached up and grabbed his hand to keep it there; you felt so at home with him

“Bucky that was amazing, thank you!” you gushed as he led you down the street

“I’m real glad you liked it, doll,” he answered, “how about an ice cream?”

You were happy for the chance to extend the evening, not ready to leave his company

He took you to the same parlor you’d passed the previous week, even holding the door for you and helping you up onto a stool at the counter

“Oh, there are so many choices, I’m not even sure what I want,” you laughed, your eyes scanning the flavors on the blackboard on the wall

“Well, pick your top two, and I’ll get one and you get the other, and we can share!” he babbled, “I mean, if you want, that is…” he trailed off, but you just smiled

You picked classic vanilla, and cookies and cream to be adventurous, and he ordered for the both of you

You laughed and talked the rest of the evening, until finally the old man who ran the shop had to shoo you out so he could close

A little embarrassed at how you’d let the time get away from you, you hesitated on the sidewalk before Bucky offered you his arm again, and you took it, confidently this time

It being fairly late, he took you home via the streetcar this time, wanting to get you home at an appropriate hour so as to stay in your father’s good graces

It was still friday, though, no matter how late, so the car was rather crowded; he led you to the side of the car and grasped the bar running the length of the ceiling with one hand, wrapping your arms around his waist with his other hand so you didn’t have to reach up; once you were secured, he gently wrapped his free arm around your shoulders

Taking his lead, you rested your head in the crook of his neck as the car took you to your stop

The two of you were quiet, basking in the sweet comfort of each other; you kept thinking how right this all felt, and it seemed like something like hope had taken hold in your heart

The car lurched to a halt at your stop and Bucky’s arm tightened around you, keeping you steady, before he guided you onto the street and up the block to your building

You stood in the same place as a week ago, yet so much had changed; it was just one date, but there was a spark between you glowing bright

Slowly, Bucky took your hand, and you stepped closer to him as his thumb rubbed against your hand

“I guess it’s time to say goodnight then,” he spoke, regret coloring his tone

“I had a wonderful time, Bucky, thank you. First dates don’t seem so scary now,” you laughed, “thanks for doing this for me.”

“Happy to, but doll, I didn’t just take you out because of what happened. I just wanted to be with you, get to know you. I sure am glad we found you in that alley, I barely know you but...you’re changing my life, honey”

The adoration and conviction in his voice choked you up, no one had ever made you feel so seen, so wanted

“Oh Bucky, I feel it too, it’s so -” you shook your head, unsure how to vocalize the soaring feeling in your heart

“It feels like...coming home,” he whispered to you, his forehead leaning against yours in a lover’s confession

Instead of replying, you coasted on the wave of feeling that took over you, and kissed him softly, the taste of the ice cream still on his lips

Both your eyes fluttered shut as the simple kiss drove all other thought from your heads

He pulled away first, raising his hand to caress your cheek as he smiled softly, his eyes tearing away from your lips to meet your own sweet gaze

“So,” his kind cockiness returning, “next Friday?” he asked, his head tilting jauntily as he winked at you

“Next Friday,” you returned, your heart swelling

With a final kiss to your knuckles, he opened the door into your building for you, tipping his hat

You finally had a reason to be happy for Friday nights, a handsome fella to offer you his arm

And Bucky had a home to return to; no matter where the Army took him, he had the home you made for him in your heart

[pedros-mustache-main]

i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

word count: 16k+ (holy crap i’m sorry)

warnings: idiot-strangers to lovers, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), frightening situations & suspense, alcohol consumption and drunkenness, language, innuendo, timeline inaccuracies

a/n: please bear with me as this is my first time writing rog and i’m relatively unsure about it. anyway, have a vaguely spooky fic just in time for halloween! xoxo! also: big thank you to @ineloqueent​ for helping with this fic! y’all, she literally held my hand and walked me through every paragraph what a saint

january, 1982.

“you’re off your rocker if you think i’m going to go through with this, jim.”

from his place on the couch, john snorts. “what? afraid she won’t be pretty enough for you, rog?”

roger levels john an uncharacteristically dark look, jabbing his finger through the air like a knight brandishing his sword or a cowboy his gun. “watch your mouth, deacon.” john holds his hands upwards in surrender, and roger returns his piercing gaze to jim. “i’m not getting married. that’s absolutely out of the question.”

long-suffering band manger and unofficial rockstar wrangler, jim beach drops his face to his hands with a harsh groan. roger cringes in his seat, shifting uncomfortably. he knows what this is about; they all know what this is about.

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

god, he’d gotten so wasted. even now, two months later, he can barely remember that night.

brian, ever the diplomatic, is the first to break the tense silence. he leans forward from his place on the couch beside john and offers roger his most sympathetic look. it does nothing to ease the growing knot of dread in roger’s stomach. “maybe we should leave you and jim to talk, rog.”

jim lifts his head. “i think that might be best, yes.”

roger huffs and falls slack against his chair. he drops his head back, and the ceiling turns topsy-turvy. if jim and the rest of management get their way, his life is bound to feel the same: flipped upside down, all that he knows turned on its head.

john squeezes roger’s shoulder as he slides by, a silent expression of solidarity, but it doesn’t feel like much. john’s got a wife, a parcel of kids. he’s happy at home. roger—he’s never been that way, never seen the point in all the domestics. he isn’t about to join the bloody women’s institute just because a little fun upset a few highbrow jackasses who can’t tell a party from a funeral.

the door to jim’s office shuts with a soft click, and roger imagines the lid of his coffin closing with the same resolute noise. he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. from behind his tinted shades, jim stares across the expanse of his desk. he drums his fingers, worrying his lower lip. roger’s nose twitches to the side. jim isn’t playing around. the proposal typed and printed in the manila folder under jim’s hand is serious, deadly so.

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

there’s a heavy beat of silence. jim blinks once. “roger, you went streaking through a group of nuns and priests.”

roger squeezes his eyes shut against the words, thankful, for once, that he has no memory of the event. “did i?” he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “honestly couldn’t tell you what i did or didn’t do that night.”

“you did.” jim opens the manila folder and reads from a crumbled newspaper article. “queen’s roger taylor bared all this evening after the explosive conclusion to the game tour, filmed before thousands in montreal’s biggest arena. in a rare display of vulnerability, taylor stripped naked and exposed himself in the hotel lobby where queen resided. he stood on a table and beat his chest like a wild gorilla, chanting about the success of the evening’s filmed concert. lookers-on included none other than a group of nuns and priests recently arrived to canada on special assignment from the vatican. john deacon, bassist for queen, could also be seen laughing in the background.”

jim’s hand thumps against the desk as he drops the article, his stare decidedly unimpressed. “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

running his tongue over his teeth, roger hesitates. not his best moment, he would give jim that. but if he remembers anything about that party, it’s that he wasn’t the only sinner present that evening. john had gotten into his fair share of antics; crystal, too. it seems arbitrary that he should be the one singled out for punishment—and with a strange, archaic, probably-unethical punishment at that.

he shrugs, tossing his hands up in defeat. “i’m not going to be able to say what you want me to say. it was just a party. it got a little out of control. that’s all. i’m sorry if i gave the nuns a little show. i’ll—i dunno—write a letter if you want me to.”

jim scoffs. “write a letter if you think it’ll make me feel better—which it won’t—but that’s not the issue here.”

“then what is the issue? and where the hell does marriage come into it? because i’m not seeing the connection.”

jim sighs. his desk chair creaks as he leans back. taking off his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose before meeting roger’s eyes again. “this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, rog. remember new orleans?”

roger holds up an accusatory finger. “you were in new orleans too, jim, so you can’t attack me on that front.”

jim leans forward, his glasses between his hands. he runs his finger back and forth across the top of the frames. “i’ll be blunt. some other people in the office think you’re becoming too—how shall i say it?—explicit for the band. you’re not twenty any more, and raucous parties don’t fit queen’s image. they’re concerned that if more incidents like this hit the press, there will be a drop in sales or concert attendance because nice, suburban families don’t want to go to a concert with a drummer who flashes nuns. do you get what i’m saying?”

roger itches his temple and pushes against the sudden pain behind his left eye. “yeah. yeah, i do.”

“the marriage thing—that was barnaby potter’s idea. if you have beef with it, take it up with him.”

it’s roger’s turn to scoff. he throws his head back on the sound and curls his hands against the cool wooden arms of his chair. when he looks back at jim, he is surprised to see the older man rifling through a filing cabinet in the corner, his back turned.

roger surges forward with his ire anyway. “of course i have beef with it! slap my ass and scold me, sure, but hitch me to a woman i don’t even know for publicity? you’ve got to be joking.”

“personally, i think it’s an idea that will work if you give it a chance.” jim returns to chair and hands roger a sealed packet. “we’ve already got it all lined up, picked the lass and everything. it’s just for a year or so, until the tabloids calm down. then you can get divorced and go your separate ways.”

“wait, hold on—you picked her? without telling me? before even approaching me with the idea?”

“roger—” jim’s tone borders on a warning, but roger ignores his better judgement and cuts the other man off.

“you won’t even give me the option to choose the woman i have to shack up with? god, jim, i’m getting fuckin’ railroaded here!”

jim clenches his jaw. “i’m sure it feels that way, and i’m sorry for that. but it’s this—well, to be frank, it’s this or you’re out. the montreal party was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.”

roger can’t be sure but he thinks he sees red. never in his life has he so badly wanted to wring someone’s neck. it takes every fiber of his being, every molecule in his body, to keep from lunging across the room and tackling jim to the floor. he bites his tongue hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. it coats his mouth in a metallic taste, but it’s nothing compared to the rage boiling in his stomach.

still, he knows what his answer must be. it’s this—a sham marriage, a year of hell—or losing the life he’s worked so hard to build.

he rips the envelope from jim’s hand as roughly as he can when he stands from his chair. he hopes he gave the man a papercut.

“i’ll do it, you bastard,” he mutters. “but i damn well won’t be happy about it.”

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

with a playful roll of your eyes, you offer ivy a smile. “thanks, love, but you and i both know this is just part of the job.”

ivy laughs and steps closer to adjust the puffed sleeves of your dress. “it might be a job, but damn, if it isn’t a comfortable one. i just about fell out of my seat when you told me you were quitting the agency to marry roger fucking taylor.”

you slide ivy a bemused smirk in the reflection of the long, oval mirror before you. “we’re not really getting married, ivy. you know that, right?”

ivy frowns and jabs her thumb over her shoulder, confusion awash on her round face. “unless i’m mistaken, we’re at a church, you’re in a wedding dress, roger taylor is the groom, and there’s a priest waiting for you right outside. did you read the memo wrong or something? feels like a wedding to me.”

sighing, you turn away from the mirror and reach for your bouquet of flowers. the white roses interspersed with springs of green leaves smell sweet, their stems tied together with a long white ribbon. you adjust one of the wayward petals then sit on the edge of a cushioned chair to slip on your heels. ivy leans against the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

“are you happy?” she asks, her voice soft.

you look up and pause. the heel of your white mary janes squeezes around your achilles’ tendon, and you wince as you shove your foot into the shoe. “what do you mean—am i happy?”

“i dunno.” ivy shrugs. she picks at an invisible piece of lint on the shoulder of her blue bridesmaid gown. “when we were kids, you always used to talk about your wedding day. now it’s here and—”

“ivy.” you rise from the chair and cross the floor to grab her arm. when you speak, you keep your tone firm and stare into her wide, brown eyes. “i’m doing this for the money and nothing else. it’s not a big deal. i don’t even consider today my wedding day. when roger and i get divorced i’ll find some other chap and make my childhood dreams come true, but that’s not today, and i’m okay with it. so yes, i am happy. this is what i want.”

ivy doesn’t appear convinced what with the way she continues to gnaw at her lower lip and shift her concerned look about your face. but she relents when someone knocks on the door, moving to allow you to grab the doorknob.

“wait, [y/n].” you turn at the door, eyebrows lifted in expectation. “how much are you getting paid?”

you press your pointer finger to your lips. “handsomely,” you whisper, dipping your head as though you are about to spill a secret. ivy leans in. her eyes sparkle with interest, and you inwardly smirk. she’s always been a sucker for drama and intrigue, your cousin. “but,” you continue. “that’s for me to know and you not to know.”

before ivy can respond, you pull open the door to see none other than your future husband waiting for you in the vestibule of the chapel.

he stands poised to flee the premises. he’s half-turned toward the closed chapel door, his hands worrying before his waist, his gaze hinged on the flurry of life outside the chapel, visible through the windows on either side of the door. you realize he’s fiddling with an unlit cigarette, not merely rubbing his hands together in an external sign of nervousness. you can’t make out whether or not his eyes are wild with fear or anger or some other emotion; the black tint of his sunglasses obscures the majority of his eyes. he’s handsome in his suit, but, then again, he’s roger taylor. you would be surprised to find a time in which he isn’t handsome.

when you clear your throat, his head whips to face you, and his fingers stop fidgeting. “sorry,” he mutters. “i was just—” he rubs a hand across the back of his neck and sighs. “they’re ready for you.”

“okay.” you nod with a smile and hope the gesture will ease whatever consternation plagues him. “i’ll be up in a moment.”

“right.” he nods once.

from behind his shades, you see his eyes trail from the top of your head to the soles of your shoes. it’s not sexual, not lewd; he’s just inspecting you, and you don’t blame him. who are you to him other than the model pulled out of a catalog, prepared and willing to be his wife until his time served is complete? you’ve spoken only once before this moment, and that phone-call was terse at best. roger made it perfectly clear his opinions on the arrangement, and he wanted to be sure—no, he needed to be sure—you understood his feelings on the matter. you assured him you had heard him loud and clear; your ear had rung for the next hour if only to remind you of his extreme distaste.

“roger,” you say, pulling his attention back from wherever his mind has drifted off to, his stare gone vacant but hardly serene.

his eyelashes flutter as he struggles to focus. “hm?”

“i said i’ll be up in a moment. you can go in now.”

he nods again, this time his chin smacking his collarbone in his urgency. he rubs his jaw, mutters something unintelligible beneath his breath, and turns on his heel, slipping back into the chapel sanctuary with heavy footfalls. your brows rise on your forehead in the wake of his exit. ivy hovers behind your shoulder.

“that’s him?” she squeaks. “that’s roger taylor?”

“yes.” your mouth twists in pity. “poor dear. he really doesn’t want this.” after waiting the appropriate amount of time to be sure roger has made his way to the front of the church, you step towards the entryway, but not before you can ask ivy one last question. “do i look okay? the pictures taken today are bound to be published in the papers.”

ivy chuckles and shakes her head as she lightly pushes your shoulder. “you look gorgeous and you know it. now go get married to a rockstar, you lucky bitch.”

the actual wedding ceremony itself is a formality. truly, it cannot be called a ceremony. there’s no wedding march, no attendees gently dabbing their tear-filled eyes, no heartfelt vows or kiss to signal the joining of two souls. instead, there’s you and there’s roger and there’s a red-faced, balding priest who points to the solid lines on which you must affix your signature to make the marriage certificate valid. roger signs first, and his knuckles are white against the ballpoint pen. you sign second, and the pen feels overly-warm against your cool palms. the priest blesses you with a sign of the cross and promises the certificate will be notarized and sent to your home address within the week.

then it’s done. you’re married. you feel largely the same as you did this morning. if it weren’t for the giant rock on your ring finger and the recent transfer of seventy-five-thousand pounds into your bank account, you might wonder if this was all a product of your over-active imagination, run away with a plot stolen from a b-list film.

the most vital part of the day, the reason you’re here and dressed in a gown with your hair crimped and nails painted, comes right after the priest scurries away to tend to his more important duties. jim beach stands from his place in one of the pews and ushers a photographer forward. he points between you and roger.

“all right, get snug, you two.” jim chews on a large wad of gum, and his words are slurred with an excess of saliva. “just a few pictures and then we’ll go eat. we all know that’s the only reason john showed up today.”

lounged against a pew, john raises his finger in agreement, and his wife elbows him in the chest. he sputters, doubling over in pain, while freddie laughs in amusement. beside you, roger watches the interaction with a back as straight as the pew benches, his jaw tight. you push your arm around his elbow and tug lightly. he inhales before turning to meet your eyes.

“what?” his voice is not cruel or unkind; it’s just tired.

“try and look happy, yeah?” you say, offering him a gentle smile similar to the one you’d given him in the vestibule. it’s the only thing you have to give him other than your hand in marriage and a chance to salvage his reputation; yet, again, it does not alleviate the tension pinching his brow. “the faster we smile the faster we can eat.”

roger shifts, as though he wants to pull away from you, but knows he shouldn’t. his feet dance back and forth on the carpeted stairs leading to the sanctuary state. “i should be telling you to try and look happy. this is just as much an inconvenience for you.”

you shake your head with a chuckle. “hardly. i make my living pretending to be happy, or moody, or sultry. whatever the director wants. i’m a pro at this. and besides,” you add. “it’s my job to make you look good. though, to be honest, that’s not very hard. you look good all on your own.”

roger sniffs and rubs the underside of his nose. he ignores your compliment and keeps his eyes trained on the photographer setting up his equipment at the base of the stairs. “maybe i could use some tips…”

he’s being glib but you take the opportunity to try and break the ice—the rock solid, absolutely frigid, polar ice-cap style ice—between you both. holding up a finger to the photographer, you slide to stand in front of roger. he’s taller than you, not by much, but enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye-contact. his blue eyes very much resemble the ice with which he’s surrounded himself. you can feel the chill on his shoulders, even as you smooth the wrinkles on his tailored dress-shirt.

“whenever i have to fake a smile,” you say, adjusting his thin tie. “i always think about the thing that makes me happiest.” he doesn’t ask you to expand, but you do anyway. “for me, it’s when my cousin ivy moved in with my mother and me. i was seven and she was six and it’s been one giant slumber party ever since.”

“is that your cousin?” roger’s eyes flick to the girl sitting across the aisle from the band and management. ivy has her hands beneath her thighs, her head dipped, her dark black hair covering a curtain over her face.

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

“right, sorry.” roger exhales deeply, and the weight of the world slips from one of his shoulders to the other, tilting his body in a stiff hunch. “i’m feeling out of sorts today, as you can probably imagine.”

“just think about what makes you happy, roger.” you dare to lift a hand and press it against his cheek. his skin is smooth beneath your fingers. he must have shaved his morning. he looks boyish up close, and you wonder if, like you, he had ever dreamt of what his wedding day might look like. you wonder if, like you, he had given up those dreams to make today a reality.

the photographer takes a picture of your hand against roger’s cheek, and the sudden flash of light has you blinking in surprise. you look over your shoulder, mouth slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering to clear the white spots over your vision.

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

the shrill of a ringing telephone wakes you the morning after the wedding, and you groan, pulled from a heavy slumber by the incessant and high-pitched tone. there’s a dull ache at the base of your skull, and your tongue feels like it’s coated with a fine layer of sand. beside you, a man snores softly, his face pink and eyelashes soft on his cheekbones.

oh yes, that’s right. you’re married to roger taylor, aren’t you? you’d drunk so much at the celebration supper that you’d nearly forgotten. the evening itself is but a hazy memory, but you think you recall freddie imitating a russian style jig atop a table, and phoebe going into great detail about all the fabulous dress-up parties you’ll be expected to attend now.

one thing you can’t remember is how you ended up in roger’s bed, dressed in one of his oversized t-shirts. your hair is still stiff with sticky hairspray, your legs still encased in a pair of nylon tights, and you don’t feel… sated, for lack of a better word. it’s probably safe to assume that you did not sleep with roger; you merely slept beside him. why you didn’t take up residence in his guest room will be the first question out of your mouth once his day starts. 

you might be his wife and he might be your husband, but you don’t want him getting any funny ideas about the nature of your relationship.

this is a job for you. nothing more.

the phone continues ringing and, lest roger wake before he is ready, you move to reach across him for the phone on his bedside table. you speak into the receiver on a whisper, adjusting your fist on the mattress to keep from falling flat on roger’s stomach.

“hello?”

“uh—hi.” there’s a pause, as if the speaker is uncertain how to react to your voice on roger’s line. “is this [y/n]?”

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “yes, i know who you are, brian.”

he chuckles softly. “sorry—i can’t remember much of last evening. it’s probably best i make a second introduction if i can’t recall the first.”

“well then, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n]. [y/n] taylor now, i suppose. pleased to meet you.”

“brian may. the pleasure is all mine. ours, really—me and the guys. what you’re doing is—we appreciate it, truly. you’ve saved the band, in a way.”

“that’s kind of you, brian.” you glance at roger out of the corner of your eye. he hasn’t moved a muscle, and his face is the most serene you’ve ever seen it. saved the band? you doubt it. smoothed a few ruffled feathers? that’s certainly more likely. “it’s no trouble, though. it’s just my job. what was it you called for?”

“roger was supposed to be at the studio an hour ago. we have a recording session today.”

“shit, really?” pressing the receiver to your shoulder, you twist your wrist upwards, but find your watch missing. you scan the unfamiliar room. a digital clock glows red on a built-in bookshelf. “is it really nearly one o’clock?!”

“afraid so.”

“shit, i’m sorry. i only just woke up. yesterday was hectic—to say the very least. i’ll have roger out the door in half an hour.”

“thanks, [y/n]. you’ll find this happens a lot after a night out. but, hey, at least you’re not shouting at me like rog does.”

after passing pleasantries a moment more—brian asks you about ivy, who you are surprised he remembers, and you ask him about his stargazing habits—you reassure brian that roger will be on his way as soon as possible. you drop the receiver on its base with more force than necessary, but the crack of plastic on plastic and the slight ring of the internal bell gets roger moving.

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

you shake his shoulder gently. “wakey wakey, sleeping beauty. the day is already half gone.”

roger yawns as his eyes blink open. he rubs a hand down his face and arches his back like a cat as he stretches. slumping back against his pillows, he stares at you for a moment, his eyes roaming your face.

“are you an angel?”

you laugh at this, and he winces, holding the heel of his hand to his forehead. “no. i’m your wife. are you still drunk?”

“maybe a little.” his eyelashes flutter rapidly as he adjusts to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. he waves his hand around your head, and you lean back slightly, away from the exposed skin of his chest and striking collarbones. “you look like an angel with the sun all around your head. ‘s like a halo.”

“that’s kind of you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “just sayin’.”

“i think you’re still drunk.”

as if to prove your point, he hiccups then falls to his side on the bed. “maybe.” his cheek is pressed firmly against the mattress, smushing half of his face flat. soft, steady breaths filter in and out of his parted lips, and his eyelids begin to grow heavy as he is dragged back to his dream world. he looks more tired child than grown man, but the sight is endearing. still, your current job is getting him out the door and on his way to the studio. you can’t let him be any later than he already is.

“oh no, you don’t.” grabbing his arm, you pull as you slide from the bed. roger resists your strength and moves to push his entire face against the mattress. he mumbles something against the sheets, but you can’t make out the words. “brian already called. you’re late, pretty boy.”

roger rolls over onto his back, and the movement causes you to lose your grip on his wrist. you stumble backwards then plant your hands on your hips.

“come on, roger. you’ve got to get up.”

“i don’t want to. yesterday was shit, and all i want to do is stay in bed.”

with a sigh, you gather your wedding dress from its heap on the floor. you lay it over your forearm and pull open the closet door. “nice to know you thought our wedding day was shit,” you say. 

you mean it only as a joke, but roger sits up fast, swaying slightly with the movement. he catches your eye as you exit the walk-in closet, and you pause, turning the light off slowly, held by his angry stare.

“fuck off,” he says. “i don’t want this. i don’t want you.”

to say his words don’t sting would be a falsehood. no one wants to hear such a thing, least of all from their spouse. the words make your heart clench painfully in your chest, and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. he doesn’t look at you, though; he cradles his forehead in his hands, his back hunched where he sits on the edge of the bed.

inhaling deeply, you reach up and begin to remove some of the pins lost in your hair. you head for the bedroom door. “well, while you sit and sulk, i’ll pack you a lunch. you’d better shower, though. you reek.”

from your place puttering about the kitchen, you hear the shower start up a few moments later. good—at least he’s moving. you haven’t the foggiest idea where anything is in his kitchen, but you make do with what you can find in the poorly stocked fridge, and pack him a light lunch. you start a pot of coffee, too, and lean against the counter as you wait for the pot to fill.

the ancient coffee pot takes too long, and you can hear roger humming in the shower down the hall. 

your nails tap against the counter. 

you’re antsy, unsure of what to do with yourself now that the wedding is over. how do you be a wife to someone who doesn’t want a wife? how do you be a friend to someone who doesn’t want a friend?

it’s too big of a problem to solve in the span of time it takes for roger to finish his shower, so you slip into the bedroom and peel off your stockings and his tee-shirt. you put on a sweater, some jeans, and wipe the day-old makeup from your face with a wet-wipe. the movements are tried and true, and they calm your racing thoughts. 

you have an entire year to figure out how to live with roger taylor. you don’t need to have it all figured out this morning.

the coffee pot dings, its job complete, just as you and roger both enter the kitchen.

but he hesitates before taking another step, and so do you. 

his hair is wet from the shower. a white sweatshirt swallows his torso. part of the hem is tucked into his white-washed jeans, and you’re struck by the narrowness of his hips. the weariness is gone from his face, replaced with a youthful sort of glow and stubborn cheekiness. you aren’t sure how he’s managed it, but he looks well-rested. 

you lift a hand to your cheek. you must look a state. it takes a lot longer for you to put yourself back together after a night out.

he stares at you for a moment, then shakes his head and crosses the kitchen to fill a travel mug with hot coffee. gnawing on your lower lip, you lean your hip bones against the kitchen island as he putters about the room, quiet as the grave.

it’s only your first day as husband and wife, and under such unique circumstances, you shouldn’t expect him to—what? make conversation? ask about you and your life?

“so… what do you think you’ll work on today? in the studio, i mean.”

he glances over his shoulder then shrugs. “not sure. probably something related to the rest of the tour.” bending at the waist, he pulls a drawer out from beneath the sink. his ass looks good in those jeans, but you doubt he’d like you staring, so you look away, mouth screwed to the side. “do you know where the sugar packets are?”

you frown and push away from the island, rounding it to stand beside him. “no?” he turns at the sound of your confused voice, and his head jolts backward to see you standing so close. “i don’t live here, remember?”

“well, you do now.” he swivels on his heel and pulls a small white jar across the counter. lifting the lid, he sighs. “i can’t find the sugar.”

“actually, about living here now...” you follow as he starts for the door, grabbing his keys from a small table in the foyer. “the bedroom situation? i figured we’d have separate bedrooms but last night—”

roger opens the front door and silences you with a hard stare. “the only other bedroom is my practice room.”

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

“i wasn’t going to make it a guest room if you’ll be gone in a year.”

“but where will i—”

“fuck it all, [y/n].” he curls his hand around the doorframe, hanging his head. a cold winter breeze sweeps through the hall, and you pull your jumper tight around your waist. “just sleep in my bed, okay? i don’t fuckin’ care.”

you swallow hard, nod. you’d been prepared for some measure of hostility, some measure of resentment. what you hadn’t been prepared for is the way his rebuffs settle like dead weight in your stomach. he alone can be blamed for this; it was his actions that drove management to force you upon him. yet, he seems to look at you with nothing more than dread and disgust. perhaps it is because you are the physical embodiment of his wrongdoing. his antics created you, and he is powerless to wipe you from his eyesight as he might a clump of dirt. you are a permanent stain—at least for the next year.

maybe you can’t begrudge him his disdainful attitude, then.

you come to when a car horn blares outside. 

roger is gone, the door open, void of his claustrophobic presence. leaning around the frame, you catch sight of him and his blond hair as he reaches his car parked on the side of the road. spinning on your heel, you grab his sacked lunch from the fridge and race after him.

“roger!”

he looks up from his car door, and you can’t help but note the way his shoulders lift, tensing at the sight of you running barefoot down the sidewalk. the winter air quickens your steps, and you’re out of breath and huffing when you reach his side. white plumes escape your mouth and drift towards the gray sky.

“you forgot this,” you say, pushing the brown paper sack against his chest. you curl your toes against the frigid bricks beneath your feet.

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

for the first time since meeting him, the ghost of a true smile lifts the corners of his mouth as he stares down at the sacked lunch. he lifts a hand, and you are surprised by its warmth when he covers your knuckles with his palm. his eyes flick upwards, meeting yours.

“thanks, [y/n].” he tilts his head to the side. “i’m sorry i’ve been a prick. this is all… really new for me.”

you slip your hand from his grasp, sure that your smile is somewhere between girlish and shy. a sharp wind whips through the stitching of your sweater, and you shiver.   

“we’ll figure it out,” you say, and it’s a message to both him and yourself. you will figure this out.

“yeah.” he slides his key into the slot on the car door. “yeah, we will.”

“oh. rog, wait.” you stop him by putting a hand on his shoulder. when he twists at the waist, you wind your arms around his neck before he has time to react. you squeeze tight, your toes skimming the ground. he feels firm, stiff like a board. “hug me back,” you whisper against his ear. “there’s someone across the street taking photos.”

the sound he makes in your ear—a grumble, a low growl—sends your blood pumping into overdrive. he’s angry, but he dutifully embraces you as any newlywed husband might. his arms are strong around your lower back, and you melt into him.

god, he feels good. you can’t remember the last time you were held like this. he smells like the soap from his shower, and his sweatshirt is soft. his hair brushes against your cheek, and your eyelashes flutter in response. you should pull away; you’ve hugged him long enough to appear the besotted wife, desperate for her husband to stay home the day after their wedding. the paparazzi surely got what they wanted.

so, why is it so hard for you to let go?

you shake yourself free of the feeling, whether it be longing or desire or something else entirely.

sliding your hands across roger’s shoulders, you drop from your raised stance. you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and without hesitation. just in case.

“go on.” you hurry to step back, to allow him the space the leave. “you don’t want to keep the boys waiting any longer.”

roger’s eyes linger a moment more, his stare somewhere between searching and assessing. then he mumbles an oath beneath his breath, wrenches open his car door, and slips inside. the door slams behind him, and the engine roars to life. you retreat further at the sound, wrapping your arms around your stomach when the car tires squeal against gravel in his haste to get away.

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

biting the inside of your lip, you turn back to the house. the front door remains open wide, and it’s likely the heat has long since left the warmth of the halls. you pause long enough to lift the paper from the front stoop. what you see beneath the fold makes you hesitate all the longer.

there’s a photo of you and roger on the left side of the page beneath the headline, roger taylor marries model. the grainy, black and white image of your wedding day presents you, the smiling bride, and roger, the smiling husband, joined hand-in-hand beneath a heavy wooden cross. to the untrained eye, all is joy in the taylor household. the article describes the ceremony, though the details are patchy and entirely false, as intimate and “drenched with love.”

you scoff before you can stop yourself. clearly, the author of the article has encountered roger taylor under duress.

but it’s not the article which holds you frozen to the front stoop, your exposed toes and fingers sticking like icicles to the newspaper. rather, it’s the smear of red paint slashed over your picture. it’s the word slag scrawled over the article, an arrow pointed in the direction of the wedding photo.

still, in a one-on-one meeting you’d had with jim beach prior to the wedding, he’d warned you of something like this. though all four queen members are undeniably attractive, it is roger who makes the fans go gaga.

maybe it’s his boyish good looks contrasted with his raspy voice. maybe it’s the frenzy with which he plays, his easy charm and sunkissed skin. whatever it is—roger’s fans are a possessive lot.

jim had told you to prepared for a few nasty letters or scathing criticism in the papers. he had told you it wouldn’t last long, just until the initial shock of the marriage wore off, just until roger’s fans accepted the reality that they were not be his lawfully wedded wife.

so, truly, the first incident does not scare you. you just hadn’t realized the scrutiny would begin so soon. if anything, the painted paper makes you chuckle. roger’s fans certainly don’t like to waste time.

you toss the paper in the bin beside the stoop, and it’s forgotten before the day is over.

a week bleeds into a month, and you find yourself falling into some semblance of a life with roger.

you cohabitate for the most part. he does not outright rebuff your attempts at friendship, nor does he accept any olive branch you extend.

conversation is stilted, his contributions terse and monosyllabic. he prefers your home-cooked meals be eaten before the television, and not at the dinner table, where he would be forced to engage with you. he doesn’t even give in when you ask if there’s anything he’d like to rant about. he just shakes his head and bangs on his drums well into the evening, despite having banged on them the whole day at the studio.

yet he sleeps beside you, allows you to sleep beside him.

without fail, he appears more at ease come nightfall. he sheds whatever protective shell he wears throughout the day in favor of something softer, something more tender. you’re not sure what changes him when he walks over the threshold of the bedroom, but something does. perhaps it’s the soft lamplight or the hum of the fan he insists be kept on despite the chill of winter.

there’s a part of you that wonders if it might be your very presence that softens him, but you’ve taken to silencing that part as of late. he’s long-since proven that you hold no sway over him whatsoever, and that’s okay. your job is to be a buffer between his antics and the all-seeing eyes of the public. nothing more.

two months to the day after your wedding, you’re stood in the hallway, slipping on a pair of earrings, and brushing away roger’s hurried attempts to get you through the door. he has one hand on the doorknob, the other wrist tilted to expose his watch face.

“[y/n], please!”

“roger, the party doesn’t start until queen arrives. give me just a minute more.”

tonight, the savoy hotel, the first music industry party you’ll attend by roger’s side as his wife.

you’re nervous.

your hands shake as you press the earrings into your ears, and you rub your lips back and forth, feeling the slick lipstick rub over the flesh. you’re thankful the dress you chose is a gauzy sort of chiffon. if you sweat, no one will be able to tell, thanks to the pale blue of the fabric.

impatient as ever, roger drags himself from the door to stand behind you, as though prepared to throw you over his shoulder. however, a smirk pulls at your mouth when he pauses in his frustration long enough to primp and preen his hair in the mirror. you catch his eye, your fingers paused in snapping your clutch closed. he sees your smirk, and his own lips pull on a wry smile.

the moment hangs in the air, thick with—what? tension? no. something else. camaraderie comes to mind.

your eyes remain locked with his, and his grin spreads until he is shaking his head with amusement. he pushes your shoulder, but the touch is friendly, almost brotherly in nature.

“come on,” he says. “i don’t want to miss all the good wine.”

nodding, you start for the door, trailing behind him to flick the lights off. darkness engulfs the house, the only light the white glow of the moon spilling through the window above the kitchen sink and a night light plugged in along the hallway baseboard.

but then the phone rings.

roger stamps his foot against the floor, the door already half-open. “fuckin’ hell!”

“let me get it.” you’re halfway down the hall before he can stop you. “i’ll tell them to buzz off. hold on!”

“i’m going to get the car started,” he says. his voice echoes through the hall to meet you where the phone hangs in the kitchen. “you have two minutes, [y/n]. two minutes!”

lifting the phone from the receiver, you press it against your ear. “hello?”

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

but you’re sure you heard the phone ring, so you lean closer to the receiver and plug your opposite ear in a piss poor attempt to hear better. “hello? this is [y/n] taylor speaking.”

the sound of heavy breathing—deep inhales, hard exhales—meets your ear. deep inhale, hard exhale. over and over and over.

your throat tightens, but you push past the lump. “hello? who’s there?”

a stuttering of breath on the inhale, a shaky exhale. a croak, voice poised to speak.

only you slam the phone back on the receiver before the person on the other end can say a word.

for a moment, you stand still, eyes glued to the phone, mouth parted in shock.

but then roger honks the car horn, and you shake yourself free of the unsettling feeling. a missed connection, you tell yourself. a wrong number. a mistake. that’s all it was—a mistake.

still, you are shaking when you slide into the passenger seat of roger’s car. he glances at you before pulling into the busy street.

“are you cold?” he asks. he turns the heat up, blasting the air against your face. “you’re shaking.”

“no,” you say, and, truly, you aren’t. he loaned you an ostentatious fur coat for the occasion, lined with a smooth brown fabric, and you are comfortably warm beneath the heavy material. “just nervous.”

roger snorts, his eyes sliding to you. “nervous? surely you’ve been to parties before. you’re a model, for god’s sake.”

“i’m not sure what kind of model you think i was, rog. i did mostly print, never runway. parties were never a part of my nine-to-five.”

“oh.” his mouth screws to the side. “i guess—well, to be honest, i kinda thought models all did the same kind of work.”

“most people do. that’s in the past now, though.” you shift, glance out the window, and watch the streetlights blur in a hazy streak of orange and yellow. he’s driving fast, and you grip the side of the door, willing your heart to stop racing.

the car slows to a stop beneath a red light. roger taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and the silence in the car is deafening.

you should strike up a conversation. he seems willing tonight, and maybe that’s due to the cramped nature of the car, but it’s an opportunity nonetheless.

only you can’t stop thinking about the phone call, about the heavy breathing and the unanswered questions. you shut your eyes and find yourself mirroring the caller’s breathing patterns.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

you open your eyes and turn to look at his profile. why he insists on wearing sunglasses in the dead of night you will never understand, but the sight alone makes you smirk. he knows he’s attractive; you have to give him credit for embracing it.

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

roger laughs—and you realize it’s probably the first time you’ve heard the sound. his laugh aligns with the light timbre of his voice, and the anxiety in your chest eases to hear him sound something other than malcontent.

“i knew you were a gold digger!” it’s a joke—you can tell by the quirk of his mouth and the lines around his eyes—but you rush to defend yourself all the same.

“no, i’m not!” you hesitate before shrugging with a rueful chuckle. “well… maybe a little. i won’t deny that the money i get from this arrangement really helps. i was looking for a way out of modeling, anyway.”

“really?” roger’s eyebrow arches, and, as the car turns into the savoy, the wrap-around drive clogged with limousines, sport cars, and photographers jostling for a good spot, you catch a glimpse of admiration on his face. “what do you want to do now?”

“i’m not sure. go back to school. i’ve got a head for maths, so maybe accounting or something.”

roger twists his head to meet your eyes, and his smile is earnest. it steals the breath from your lungs.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“you don’t strike me as an accountant, dove.”

“why not?”

“accountants are stuffy, greasy men. you’re… you know…” he waves a hand, inches the car forward as the line moves. camera bulbs flash in the world outside, but within the car, all you can focus on is roger and his next words.

“i’m…?” you’re fishing, but this is the first time he’s given you more than the time of day, and you’re eager to get something, anything, out of your husband.

he shrugs, and his hands curl around the steering wheel. a muscle in his jaw ticks. “you’re too nice.”

you look away. “ah—nice.” not what you’d been expecting him to say.

he pulls the car to a stop along the hotel’s entrance, and a sharply dressed attendant opens the door. sliding out after roger, you instinctively reach for his hand. he spares you a short glance and squeezes your fingers together in a gesture of encouragement.

a black—not red—carpet lines the walkway from the drive to the open hotel doors. velvet ropes hold back the crowd of photographers, reporters, and fans lucky enough to have squeezed their way to such a prime viewing spot. camera flashes paint the inside of your eyelids with bright, white spots. despite the chill of winter, the air is hot, heady with glitz and glamor. it’s hard to distinguish any one voice over the plethora of people vying for attention, and your head swims in the chaos of it all.

roger moves easily from one side of the rope to another. he is in his element, grinning for the cameras and joking with reporters who grab him long enough for a quote. his moments with the press are short, few and far between. he much prefers the fans—their simpering smiles, tear-stained cheeks, and waving slips of paper begging for a signature. you don’t blame him. who could ever resist such unfettered adoration?

near the end of the carpet, a reporter snags roger’s attention with his waving arm. palm still clasped in roger’s, you trail behind your husband, hovering just behind his shoulder. the cool smile you perfected in your modeling days remains fixed on your face, even as the reporter acknowledges you with a tilt of his head.

“is this your wife, roger?”

the reporter has to shout to be heard over the sudden surge of excitement as a new celebrity takes their first step on the carpet. it’s kate bush, if you aren’t mistaken. you could be wrong, though. the reporter’s query pricks your ears, dividing your focus between the cacophony around you and the question at hand. thus far, you’ve remained nameless by roger’s side. no one—fan or press alike—has asked after you, and you’re happy for it.

roger turns to look at you, and his grin spreads. he goes so far as to slip his arm around your waist, tugging you against his side, keeping his gaze on your profile. a sudden rush of blood floods your cheeks, and you duck your head beneath his watchful eyes. yet you find your own smile widening. the action is not one you have to force or fake, though. it’s easy to smile when roger is smiling.

“yes, this is my bride,” roger says. “[y/n].”

the hand he’s placed on your waist squeezes the flesh of your hip, pushing you further against him. to keep from tripping over your own legs, you press a hand against his chest to steady yourself. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers; his heart pulses to a steady rhythm. your own heart beats twice as fast.

the reporter checks something on his small pad of paper. “is it true that you used to be a model, [y/n]? there are rumors that this marriage is a publicity stunt.” he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as someone bumps his back, pushing him against the velvet rope. once righted, he continues. “there are rumors that you were hired to get the press to stop talking negatively about the montreal incident.”

you open your mouth to speak, but roger jumps in before you can utter a single syllable.

“are you joking?” he tosses his head back in an easy laugh and pulls you even tighter against his side. you’re afraid if he draws you any nearer you will absorb into him completely. but with the way the lights dance off his eyelashes and his hair looks perfectly tousled and his body feels strong against yours, you aren’t sure that would be a bad thing.

“i’m crazy about my wife!” he says, and the words go straight to your heart like a wildfire. “you should get yourself one, mate.” he playfully slaps the reporter’s upper arm. “they’re great fun!”

the reporter arches an eyebrow. “it’s just that i know you’ve gone on record as not exactly believing in marriage and—”

“what do you want me to do? kiss ‘er? would that make you happy?” a shit-eating grin rises on his face, indignant and cocky all at once. he shoots you a look out of the corner of his eye; you bite your lip. “will that get you off my back?”

“that’s not really—”

“here.” he taps the wrist of a bystanding photographer then points to you, twisting his body so that you stand face to face. “put this in your bloody paper!”

grabbing either side of your face, roger dips his head to capture your lips with his. for a moment, you remain unsure. you hold fast to his wrists, your mouth unmoving. the blood in your veins stands frozen in shock, and your heart presses painfully against your ribcage. somewhere in the back of your mind, your conscious screams for you to react, to play along, but it’s not until roger slides one hand from your cheek to the small of your back that you register what part you must play.

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

with a tilt of your head, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold tight. he tastes faintly of cigarettes and the mints he uses to freshen his breath. his lips are soft, softer than you’d anticipated. you can hear the clicking of cameras, feel the blinding light of flashbulbs pierce your eyelids, sense the growing interest in your display of affection, but none of it penetrates the bubble—the bubble of you and roger, of his lips and your lips, of his arms holding you close, his very air becoming yours.

he pulls away entirely too soon, and his smile is all the more cheeky. you press your fingertips to your lips, lower your face, and draw in a sharp breath.

“there! that could enough for you?”

roger steers you away from the reporters and into the sanctuary of the hotel at last. a rush of cool air meets you and, though it is mid-winter, you sweat beneath roger’s fur coat. the gentle whoosh of air-conditioning is a blessing against your hot skin.

as you enter the ballroom transformed for the event, roger lowers his mouth to your ear. “sorry about that, poppet.” the low register of his voice and the feeling of his breath against the back of your neck sends a shiver down your spine. “i’ve dealt with that tosser before, and he really grinds my gears.”

“‘s fine, roger,” you manage to say through your tight throat. “it’s what i’m here for, yeah?”

he stops walking, and his hand moves from your back to your wrist. his eyes drift over your face, calculating, searching. you let him look. you aren’t sure what he’s looking for, but you get the feeling that he’s truly seeing you for the first time. even in the manufactured blue light of the room, even with the myriad of tables surrounded by producers and singers and agents alike, his face visibly softens and his hand curls around your wrist.

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

three tables away, freddie waves his hand, beckoning you over. roger drags you along, his fingers intertwining with yours as you sidestep people already lounging at their seats. once at the table set aside for queen and guests, roger pulls out your chair, and you sit, smoothing your hands over your skirt. he sits beside you and leans to his side to whisper something to john. on your right sits chrissie may, and you offer her a smile in greeting.

the function—a charity benefit organized to bring awareness to the falklands disagreement—comes and goes without issue. the dinner is bland, but the wine is good. chrissie is pleasant, and it’s your first chance to speak to another band member’s wife since the wedding. you appreciate her advice, laugh at her stories, and enjoy yourself without restraint. it doesn’t hurt that as roger drinks more, he more pays attention to you. you really shouldn’t encourage him, but when he slings an arm around your chair and pulls you closer, when he turns his head to whisper a joke in your ear at brian’s expense, when he plays with a loose lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger, it’s all you can do not to melt like the ice-sculpture in the center of the room.

come the end of the event, you find yourself walking between chrissie and veronica, your steps slow as the boys stumble through the hall. roger and john cannot stop laughing, though no one has said anything remotely funny for the last few minutes. they cling to one another like koalas to trees, as though the other might drop to the ground if released. brian and freddie aren’t any better. they sing off-key, their voices bouncing off the empty walls and laminate floors. you aren’t sure what part of the hotel you’ve wound up in, but it’s certainly less plush than the ballroom. still, you smile when roger slides his sunglasses over his eyes and snorts at one of john’s inane comments.

your smile falters when the sound of veronica’s labored breathing, pregnant as she is, reaches your ears.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

in the flurry of the evening—amidst the kiss and the dinner and the joking and the drinking—you’d forgotten about the phone call.

chrissie reaches out to grab your arm when your steps stutter. “are you okay?” she asks.

you stop walking. if the boys get into trouble around the corner, you’ll surely hear it.

meeting chrissie’s wide eyes, you frown. you hate the put a damper on the evening’s chipper mood, but the memory of the phone call crashes to the surface, bringing with it anxiety and unease. roger doesn’t need to know, but perhaps the other wives experienced a similar phenomenon. perhaps it’s all in your head. either way, you’d like a second opinion.

“this is going to sound weird, but… have either of you ever gotten a strange phone call?”

“phone call?” veronica rubs a hand over her swollen stomach. “what do you mean?”

you explain the events prior to your departure earlier in the evening, and the concerned looks that settle on chrissie and veronica’s faces stir the uncertainty in your stomach.

“that doesn’t sound good, [y/n],” chrissie says.

you gnaw at your lower lip. “no, i suppose it doesn’t.”

“have you told rog?”

you shake your head. “i don’t want to trouble him. not if it’s just some practical joke. it very well could be our kid neighbor having a lark.”

another memory drifts to the surface: the newspaper, the red paint dripping across your photograph. slag, they’d written.

you’d forgotten about that too.

veronica pulls you back to the present with her even tone. “i think you should tell him. if someone is harassing you, even if it’s just the once, don’t you think he should know?”

“i guess but—”

“hey, party people!” john sticks his head around the corner, breaking the conversation with his over-loud voice. “guess what we found?”

“judging by your wet trousers, i’d say a pool.”

john trips down the hall to grab veronica’s arm. “have i ever told you that you’re brilliant?” he presses a noisy kiss to her cheek, and even veronica isn’t capable of remaining firm under such affection.

like a child who has found an interesting twig, john crooks his arm in a follow-me motion, tugging his wife toward the pool. “come on. come see!”

veronica follows john around the corner, but before you can follow, chrissie presses her palm to your shoulder.

“you should tell roger,” she says. “before it gets serious.”

you nod, promise her you will, then make your way to the indoor swimming pool, knowing full well roger won’t hear a word of the incident.

the savoy’s pool room is understated in comparison with the rest of the hotel. though the ceiling stretches high, skylights allowing moonlight to shimmer over the undisturbed water, the room is just as hot, just as stuffy, as any other hotel pool. you drop your coat and rog’s to a plastic lounge chair as soon as you enter, swamped as you are by the thick air.

all nerves, all worries about the phone call, fade away as you slip your shoes off and watch roger and john’s poor poolside rendition of abbott and costello’s “who’s on first” routine. roger can’t keep up with john no matter how hard he tries, but their combined effort is valiant.

laughing, you clap as they take their theatrical bows and only laugh harder when john trips over the edge of the pool mid-bow. he lands belly-first in the clear water, rising a sputtering, drenched mess, his hair and clothes sodden to the bone, though his eyes are bright with mischief. he swims to where veronica sits with her ankles in the water and, before she can sternly admonish him, has her pulled into the churning pool beside him.

brian is next in. he cannonballs in the deep end, and chrissie follows of her own volition. the impact of their jump launches a tidal wave of water in your direction, and you screech, nearly falling in your attempt to avoid getting wet.

but then a pair of arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the cool, albeit slippery, floor.

“roger, no!” you twist in his tight hold. “no, roger, don’t!”

your voice echoes in the room, bouncing off the windows and walls; yet roger ignores your pleas for release. he shuffles to the edge of the pool at the behest and cheering of his friends, each treading water, watching as you struggle to break free.

the water beneath your feet rises and falls, sloshing this way and that. you can see the bottom of the pool from where roger holds you, and there’s a delicate, inlaid design of a turtle twelve feet down on the pool’s stone foundation.

you curl your nails in roger’s arm. “roger, i can’t—”

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

you fall through the air with a scream, land on your back, and sink beneath the surface of the water. chemically-laced water fills your mouth, your nose, and your lungs scream for air.

for a moment, fear grips you, not unlike the way it gripped you in the hallway of your own home, the phone cradled against your ear. only this time, you know exactly what will happen if you don’t get help.

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

kicking to the top, you break through the water and cough, shaking your head. tears cloud your vision when you open your eyes, but the liquid that’s caught in your eyelashes disguises them, and for that you’re thankful. roger bobs beside you, a grin on his face, looking much too pleased with himself and his antics. without a second thought, you reach for him.

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

his face falls. “oh.” he blinks then, realization striking as you grab onto his shoulders. “fuck, [y/n]. i’m sorry.”

clinging to him, you wrap your arms around his chest, your legs around his waist. you rest your cheek against the back of his neck and sigh, inhaling deeply. “i tried to tell you,” you whisper.

beneath the water, his hand curls around the skin of your ankle. he squeezes, and it’s all the apology you need.

the band stays in the pool for entirely too long. freddie starts talking about the next album, and the other boys chime in, clamoring for their opinions to be heard over the others. despite their drunken state, music brings a sense of clarity to their speech and thought. it’s their life’s work and something about which they care deeply. there’s no denying that. even when brian tries his hand at a backwards flip and freddie challenges john to a diving contest, they are always thinking, always working, toward their next goal. you admire them for that.

roger remains steady where he stands. you cling to him like a barnacle, even though you just as easily could remove yourself and find a place where your feet touch solid ground. he feels nice, though. his body is a comfort against yours, and as the business talk continues, your head lolls to the side on his shoulder, a gentle smile on your lips.

you could get used to this.

at some point, veronica complains about her aching back and drags john from the pool. they are the first to leave, but brian and chrissie soon follow. you aren’t sure if you want to go, if you want the evening to end. if it means roger will go back to ignoring you, shoving you aside, you think you could stay in this pool until your skin wilted and dripped off your bones.

“we’d better go, love,” roger whispers.

you know he’s right.

“yeah.” you try to keep the disappointment from your voice.

he moves to the side of the pool, and you heave yourself over the edge. your dress is heavy, weighed down by the absorbed water. you wring out the skirt as best you can, but until you can give it a proper wash and dry, it’s really no use. gooseflesh breaks out on your arms where the cool air hits, and you shiver.

roger appears behind you, turns you gently with a hand to the shoulder, and lifts a fluffy white towel. “here. i found these.”

“oh!” you move to take the towel from his grasp. “thank you.”

“i’ve got it.” with a smile—a boyish, gentle sort of smile—roger unfurls the towel and wraps it around your shoulders. he tugs the corners beneath your chin and laughs through a short breath. “comfy?”

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

lifting your mouth from behind the towel, you tilt your head with an impish grin. “you once told me i looked like an angel. so, which is it? angel or marshmallow?”

“oh, angel for sure.” he thumbs a finger over the end of your nose. “you always look like an angel.”

you roll your eyes and hope the action does not expose the sudden flutter in your chest. “you’re just saying that ‘cause you’re drunk.”

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

he looks at you for a long time. you look at him for just as long. the unease cadence of your breath, the way his breath whistles through his nose, the lap of the pool against the tiled walls—it all sounds so loud to your ears, though nothing can compare to the beating of your heart. it fills your entire body: bump bump, bump bump, bump bump. your cheeks feel hot with blush, and you finally look away, casting your eyes to the floor. you wiggle your bare feet against the tiled floor; roger wiggles his toes back.

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

roger pays an attendant to ferry you home, and the drive leaves your entire body close to overheating.

the back seat of his car feels strangely intimate compared to the front seat, but that might just be your imagination. surely, roger didn’t sit so close to you on purpose. surely, his hand isn’t pressed against your leg because he wants it to be. his car is just… cramped.

“did you have fun tonight?” you break the silence, but when you do, your voice sounds strange—slightly strangled, nervous, earthy—and you wish you’d remained quiet. you continue toying with a loose thread on your coat, ignoring the way roger’s eyes traverse your profile.

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

from the driver’s seat, the attendant coughs, and your gaze shifts.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

chrissie’s words of earlier surface in your mind: you should tell him about the phone call. it’s only right.

twisting, you look to your right, meet roger’s eyes, and promptly lose all sense of direction. his face is so near, his mouth parted, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed. your throat runs dry, but you can’t look away.

“roger–”

“hmm?” his lips tighten, but his smile is just as sly as it had been the moment before he kissed you in front of the reporters. the touch still lingers on your mouth, but you will the memory away.

“there’s something i should—”

his fingers sift through a lock of your hair, and he moves his head almost in a nuzzling sort of gesture. you swallow hard. “i was wrong about you,” he whispers. when did his voice get so raspy?

“what?”

“i was wrong to judge you,” he says. his hand moves from your hair to the side of your neck, one long finger tracing the lines of your skin. “to be honest, i thought you were some cheap girl looking for a way into my bed, but i was wrong. you’re more than that.”

“what—” deep inhale. “what am i, then?”

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

his mouth claims yours, and you don’t fight him. you melt against him, his chest pressed against yours in the narrow space of the car. you’re vaguely aware that a driver sits not two feet away, more than able to hear the way roger pulls a soft whimper from behind your lips and the rustle of clothes as you both scrabble for any exposed skin. but you don’t really care. you’re drunk off of roger, and have been since you met him. it’s his looks, yes, but tonight—tonight you saw him in his element. you heard him laugh and saw him smile and preened under his attention. you would go to hades and back to live in a world shaped just like tonight, every bit of it.

roger can’t keep his hands off you as you make your way from the sidewalk to the front stoop. his hands roam your body, skimming every inch, squeezing the parts he seems to like most. you giggle like young lovers experiencing one another for the first time, and maybe that’s because you are.

when you drop the front door key because you’re too focused on returning roger’s eager kiss, it doesn’t seem to matter. you just stand on the stoop and kiss beneath the light of the moon a little longer.

when you finally get the door open and his palm hits your ass at the same time, you squeal, and he dissolves into laughter.

when he fumbles with the hallway light because he’s too focused on getting your coat off, you tell him to forget it. you don’t need the light anyway.

halfway down the hall, limbs and lips tangled, the phone rings.

you laugh as you peel yourself from his grasp. he puckers his lower lip in protest.

“i’ll be just a minute,” you say, lifting the phone from the receiver. he sticks his tongue out, but then sheds his shirt, leaving it on the kitchen floor as he slips into the bedroom. you bite the edge of your thumb as you watch him go, your head as muddled as creamy soup.

someone clears their throat on the other end of the line.

“oh, sorry. hello?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

cold dread extinguishes any joy lingering in your chest at the sound of the sickeningly smooth voice. 

your fingers curl tight around the phone. “who is this?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

angry tears spring to your eyes as you scoot to stare out the window over the sink. nothing but darkness meets your eyes, but still you try in vain to search for an answer in the inky blackness. “i said: who is this?” your voice cracks, but you push forward. “how did you get this number?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

“i swear i calling the fucking police if you keep this up!”

a beat of hesitation then: “what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

with a helpless groan, you slam the phone down for the second time in one day. your fingers creak as you let go and step back, chest heaving. your skin feels slimy—slimy with roger’s lingering touch, slimy with the possibility that someone had been watching you kiss your husband, slimy with the possibility that someone could be watching you now.

you don’t stop and admire roger, clad only in his boxers, as you make your way to the en suite bathroom. you can’t stand to look at him, to know that somewhere someone cares for him so much they would take to harassing you. god, it makes you want to vomit.

you don’t bother with the bathroom door so intent are you at getting in the shower and scrubbing your slimy skin raw. you struggle with the zipper at the top of your spine, the tears hovering over your eyes threatening to spill over if you can’t be rid of your soaked clothing. you stamp your foot with a grunt and drop your hands, hanging your head in defeat.

roger’s soft chuckle sounds from the doorway. you don’t turn to look at him.

your back stiffens when he undoes the zipper, the pads of his fingers pressing along your shoulder blades, your ribs, the small of your back.

“that eager, huh?” he presses a wet kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

you want him; you really do. there’s some part of you that wants to drag him into the shower and work out your fears with the aid of his body against yours. but you won’t do that. you won’t use him, not when he confessed he thinks you better than that.

you twist to face him, holding the dress against your chest. “rog, i…” you place your hand on his smooth chest, feel the small hairs peppering his collarbone. “you’re drunk,” you finally say. “you’re drunk and you should go to bed.”

he smirks and pushes his hips against yours. “so? you’re drunk too.”

you shake your head. “no, not anymore.” you push him away gently. “believe me, roger, i want nothing more than to go to bed with you but—”

he plays with a lock of hair beside your face, and your desire to resist him weakens. “but?”

“i won’t do it while you’re drunk. besides, you’ll be over this by morning. you’ll go back to not wanting me. so i won’t do it—not while you’re drunk.”

with a huff, he lets you go, but not without kissing you once more. a traitorous tear slides down your cheek, and your throat seizes with emotion. somewhere in the back of your clouded mind, you wonder if you love him. or, if at least you are on the edge of loving him.

but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be gone in a year, and he will move on to someone else, someone strong enough to withstand his rabid fans.

he pulls away first and kisses your temple. “goodnight, angel,” he whispers.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and, once stood beneath the hot water of the shower, let the sound of the creaking pipes drown out the sound of your crying.

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

he leaves you a note on the kitchen island, scrawled in his plain script: “angel, i’m hungover now, not drunk. i’d still like you in my bed. – rog”

the note should send a thrill to your stomach, but it manifests itself in a ball of dread instead.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

you crumple the note and toss it in the bin, jumping when the phone rings. you hesitate, your gaze locked on the inanimate object that has come to haunt your dreams.

eventually, the phone stops ringing, but the shrill sound echoes in your head as you go about the day.

after the second phone call, tension becomes your constant companion. the days pass, and you withdraw into yourself, scared by the slightest sound, the never-ending line of cars outside the front window, and roger’s growing interest.

he seems to like you now that he knows you. he makes you laugh, asks you questions, even goes so far as to help you research university entrance exams.

but when he comes home from the studio, your stomach takes to twisting with apprehension as you wonder if your faceless friend watched him drive home and wonder further if your faceless friend can see roger kiss the side of your neck.

you try not to push him away. his attention is what you’ve wanted all along, and, though the romantic turn of events was certainly unplanned, he does make your knees weak and your head giddy like a schoolgirl’s.

still, the phone calls persist. it’s not every night and every day. you can’t trace the caller’s pattern because there is none. you never know who will be on the other end of the line. it could be roger calling during his lunch break as he is wont to do; it could be the university to which you’ve applied; or it could be them, the phantom who chills the blood in your veins.

there’s a pad of paper tucked beneath your side of the bed. the words of your faceless friend are scrawled across the page in frenzied handwriting, the handwriting of a madwoman.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

will he ask john to help you study for the maths entrance exam?

you should stop answering the phone; you know you should. but each time the phone rings, you respond like a pavlovian dog. you rush to answer, to frantically write down the day’s comment just in case there’s some sliver of information that might shed light on your faceless friend’s identity.

the caller is a woman; that much you know. her voice is deep and gravelly, but she’d referenced herself as the better woman for roger before. she seems to cling to the idea that you will leave him and the position of roger taylor’s wife will fall to her. if only to spite her, you will remain married to roger until your dying day.

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

when you first met him, he was sullen, dragging his tail between his legs like a scolded pup after the montreal debacle. it took a while, but you see him now for his true self. he’s carefree in a grounded sort of way, sold out for his music and the lifestyle it affords him. he’s gentle and kind and surprisingly considerate. he picks up the groceries when you ask it of him; he cleans the dishes from supper without complaint. he doesn’t pressure you for anything more than a make-out session on the couch when the lights are low and a record spins on the turntable. you would go further, but you can’t—not right now. he doesn’t ask any questions.

it would break you to tell him about the phone calls, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. each morning, you imagine his crestfallen face. you imagine the anger and the shouting and him calling the authorities and—

it’s easier for him—for everybody—if you just stay quiet.

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

one evening, after dinner at an expensive restaurant, you let roger to take you to bed. he’d looked so pretty in the candlelight, and he’d listened to you talk about your hopes and dreams for the future. you think you fall in love with him when he drags you onto the bed and whispers sweet praises in your ear the whole night long.

when you wake the next morning, he is still there, and you snuggle into his chest. you breathe him in, and it’s bar soap from the shower and dried sweat and lingering cologne. his arms circle your back, squeezing you tighter.

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

for a moment, you don’t respond. you keep your eyes closed and think back to yesterday.

there’d been no phone call. a blessed reprieve from three days in a row of randomly timed messages. roger had held you, and he holds you still. he is a comfort amidst your turbulent sea.

you should tell him. he can handle it. you’re tired of running from him.

rising to your palm, you meet roger’s gaze. he stares at you through his lashes, a sleepy smile on his mouth. he lifts a hand to cradle your face, and his thumb skims your cheekbone.

“how come you get a halo every morning and i don’t?”

you ignore his compliment before the bravery rushing through your veins dissipates. “rog, there’s something i haven’t told you.”

“yeah? is it about the freckle by your left ass-check?”

gasping, you slap roger’s chest. though he laughs, a red handprint remains in the center of his sternum, and he clutches his skin in pain. once settled, he apologizes and promises to behave.

deep inhale.

“about a month or two ago, i started—”

the phone on the bedside table cuts you off with its sharp bell-like ring.

your stomach plummets to your feet.

your eyes widen as roger holds up a finger and reaches for the earpiece.

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

some part of you hopes it’s your faceless friend. roger could deal with her himself. the other part of you prays it’s just a wrong number or john or—

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

you slump to the side, leaning your weight against roger’s hip. thank heaven.

roger’s eyes slide to you, and he grins, winking. he squeezes the point of your chin between his forefinger and thumb, his eyes locked on yours as he nods and hums in response to freddie on the other end of the line.

“no, we won’t be late,” roger says. “yes, she’s coming. i promise i won’t forget.” he leans closer to the bedside table in his effort to end the conversation. “okay, fred. yes, i will.” finally, he heaves a sigh. “oh, for fuck’s sake, fuck off! i’m trying to woo my wife, so scram!”

“now,” he says, once the earpiece is on the base. “where were we?”

tugging on the back of your neck, he closes the distance between his mouth and yours. even with a hint of morning breath, you dissolve in his capable hands. he kisses you earnestly, and you struggle to remember what it was you wanted to tell him. he has this way with his mouth and his tongue and his hands that makes you forget everything but the feeling of him.

pulling back a moment later, he mumbles against your mouth: “what was it you wanted to tell me?”

you blink rapidly. “i—” damn, he looks so happy, glowing with youth and perhaps an inkling of love. you press your palm to his cheek then shake your head. “never mind. it can wait.”

he cocks his head to the side. “you sure?”

“mhm.”

“you remember the movie thing tonight, right?” he asks as he slides from the bed, drawing up his sweats from the floor and padding to the window. “that’s what fred called about.”

he throws the curtains open. the morning sun shines through, piercing every hidden corner, and your heart trips in your chest. your hands shake as you lift one of the bed sheets to cover your naked chest.

someone could be watching.

roger grimaces. “oh, shit, sorry, angel.” he tosses you his shirt from the floor, which you gratefully tug over your head. “anyway, tron, you know? we’re supposed to go to the premiere. something about flash gordon and—”

“i remember.”

“good. wear something nice because i don’t give a fuck about this movie, and i’d rather be looking at you anyway.” he smirks as he presses his palms against the mattress and leans in for another kiss.

you oblige him without hesitation.

“gotta go,” he says, pulling away only to firmly kiss you once more. “be ready by six, okay?”

you nod, and he leaves.

the majority of the day, you putter about the house. there’s chores to do—laundry and bills to catch up on and research for university admissions. it’s domestic work, mind-numbingly dull and repetitive. it leaves far too much space for your thoughts to run wild.

you admonish yourself for once more failing to tell roger of your faceless friend. you’d had the moment, and you’d blown it. with his unreliable schedule, there is no telling when you’ll have the chance to sit him down for a serious conversation again. you consider going to jim beach for help, but know once roger hears wind of it, he will fly off the handle because you didn’t come to him first. perhaps rightfully so, too.

you resolve that until you can find another peaceful moment, you will continue to suffer through it. it’s a step in the right direction, though. at least now, you have plans to tell him.

by five-forty-five, you are ready for the event. you sit in the living room, gnawing at your lower-lip as your leg bounces in anticipation. you haven’t gone anywhere with roger since the charity function earlier in the year. your faceless friend will surely be watching tonight, and already you feel sweat gather along your underarms.

roger unlocks the door and sticks his head into the living room upon his arrival. “car’s running. ready to go?”

you lift your handbag from the floor, nodding as you make your way to his side. roger stops you with a flat hand against your stomach. he bends to catch your eyes.

“you okay?”

“yes,” you say, but your voice sounds too rushed and eager even to your own ears.

he doesn’t hassle you for a more illuminative response. he just leads you to the car, opens your door, and makes his way to the theater, foot hard on the gas pedal.

as soon as you see the carpet—red this time—stretched along the sidewalk leading to the movie theater, bile rises in your throat. you reach for roger’s arm and squeeze tight. his head whips to the side.

“roger, i don’t think i can do this,” you breathe.

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

he pulls the car to the side. an usher opens the door, sound and light and chaos breaking the comforting quiet of the ride. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

“[y/n], what is it?” roger’s voice is low, on the edge of irritation.

this is not the time. yet why do you feel like you’re going to pass out if you don’t—

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

purging the emotions clawing at the front of your mind, you push roger’s shoulder and avoid his searching gaze. “nothing. go on! i’m right behind you.”

roger huffs as he slides from the car, but he dutifully offers his hand to aid you onto the red carpet. as he did before, he leads you toward the theater doors, stopping at the appropriate moments to pose for photographs. you hold on to the back of his jacket so tightly your knuckles crack. your eyes scan the crowd in search of your faceless friend. you will know her when you see her. she is a part of you now, like a demon on your shoulder.

roger rubs his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture and leans to whisper in your ear. “you feel a stiff as a board,” he says. “what is it?”

you shake your head and nudge him further down the carpet. “we can talk about it later.”

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

he studies your face a moment longer before nodding and returning his smile to the crowd.

near the entrance to the theater, a gaggle of girls wave their hands in an attempt to grab roger’s attention. he glances at you, and you nod, backing away to allow him one of the moments he so enjoys.

but one of the girls calls out your name. you lift your eyes to stop tracing the intricate weaving of the red carpet and stare at the girl in question until roger has to drag you over with a laugh. the girl shoves a newspaper in your face, your wedding announcement crinkled with affectionate wear-and-tear. she asks for your autograph, and you chuckle, feeling rather ridiculous as you scrawl your name across the page with a fat green marker.

it happens before you have time to react.

your head is bent as you sign the girl’s newspaper, your attention diverted from scanning the crowd for your faceless friend. but you feel her when she arrives, sense her eyes on your neck, and her fingers reaching for the sleeve of your dress. you have time enough to turn and catch sight of her long fingernails descending upon your cheek, but not time enough to stop her.

you scream more out of fear than pain as her nails scrape your face. truly, it does not hurt, though blood does begin to trickle down your chin and along the column of your throat.

it’s just that she’s there, before your very eyes, and she’s much smaller than you imagined. yet her eyes are dark with envy, and her nails are sharp. you recognize her labored breathing—deep inhale, sharp exhale—as she tries to move backwards and disappear within the crowd before she can be seen. you cannot look away from her, even when roger grabs your shoulders and wrenches you away from the iron gate. he’s shouting in your ear, cradling your uninjured cheek, but everything sounds like you’re underwater.

her face—round and childlike in its innocence—does not match the picture you’d created of her in your mind. she does not resemble the evil witch of your childhood fairy tales. she’s just a child, a little girl with a heart full of love for someone she cannot have.

your faceless friend is pointed out by the girl with the newspaper, and someone—maybe theater security, maybe queen security, maybe a good samaritan—drags her away.

roger grips your chin harder than he should considering the circumstances, but it brings your attention back to him. his eyes are ablaze with fury, and you suddenly feel the urge to cry.

“are you all right?” he demands. “are you hurt anywhere else?”

only my pride, you think.

“no,” you manage with a shake of your head. “no.”

“come on.” he slips his arm around your waist and pushes your head into the curve of his neck, away from prying eyes and flashing cameras. “we’re going home.”

the trip home is silent. your head moves back and forth across the passenger window, in time with the bumps and dips and curves of the road. there’s a fast-food napkin pressed against your cheek to stem the blood. you aren’t sure if it helps. roger keeps his hand firm on your thigh.

once inside the house, he forces you to sit in the middle of the bed as he scurries to retrieve the first aid kit. while he roots around in the bathroom, muttering to himself when he can’t find what he’s looking for fast enough, you strip yourself of your dress and return his old t-shirt over your head. you lift the collar to your nose and inhale his scent. when you draw the collar away, crimson blood and fresh tears stain the fabric. you sigh.

“fuckin’ hell.” roger drops to sit in front of you, his legs skewed to the side. a white, plastic box sits in his lap, and when he opens it, the contexts spill onto the bed sheets. “i’ve had this thing for ages. i think brian got it for me when i moved in.”

his hand returns to your chin; only his touch is gentle now. he looks over your wound, frowning at the sight.

“this is gonna sting, angel,” he warns.

it does. the antiseptic hurts, and you wince, but he keeps you from drawing away, his grip on your chin firm. he unwraps a butterfly bandage and presses it over the shallow scratch on your face. then he shakes his head, his face drawn tight.

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

“there is—was this girl… and she kept calling, saying things.” you twist and unearth the pad of paper from under the bed. rubbing your eye, you hand it to him and watch his face darken as he reads the words.

he looks up, and you can’t bear to see the anger—the anger directed at you—in his gaze. “why didn’t you tell me?”

your first instinct is to shrug, to obfuscate, but he deserves the truth.

“you never wanted a wife,” you say. “you certainly didn’t want a wife who brought a stalker into the house. i figured—” deep inhale. “i figured i could live with it until our year was up.”

“oh, baby.” roger presses his forehead to yours. he cups your untainted cheek. “fucking up in montreal was the best thing that ever happened to me. it brought you to me, didn’t it?”

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

“no.” he draws back and grabs both shoulders in his hands. “i mean it. i never was one for marriage. didn’t make sense. but i get it now. it’s about partnership, yeah, but it’s about more than that. it’s about trust, too.” he smiles softly, pressing his thumb against your lip. “it’s about affection.”

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

“don’t apologize. this whole arrangement is weird, and i don’t blame you for keeping quiet. i just wish you would have told me so i could help you.”

you sigh, dropping your head. “what do you want, roger?”

he lifts your chin, and you are struck by the love so firmly etched in his eyes. it knocks the wind from your lungs, leaves you breathless.

“i want you to keep my last name,” he says.

“what?”

“you heard me: i want you keep my last name.”

tears flood your vision, but not for fear or worry or regret.

you begin to smile, but the skin of your cheek pulls tight, and you wince, touching your injury. “ow,” you mutter.

roger laughs and pulls your fingers away from the bandage. he kisses each knuckle then rubs the wedding band along your ring finger. “can we give each other another chance?” he asks. “can we forget all the assumptions and just be us? i think we started on the wrong foot and somewhere along the way we switched—”

“yes.”

he stops mid-sentence, his brows drawing together in confusion. “what?”

“i said yes. i’ll keep your last name. i want your last name, roger taylor.”

he grins, and the happiness in every line on his face outshines even the sun’s rays. “god, you’re perfect.” he kisses you hard, and you laugh as you drop against the pillows, pulling him with you. he stops attacking your neck with his lips long enough to prop himself up and stare down at you. “but don’t you ever pull something like that again! if someone starts nagging you, tell me first thing. promise?”

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

he smooths the hair on your forehead, and your stomach somersaults to watch him examine you so openly “good girl,” he mumbles before lowering his mouth to yours again.

you lose yourself in him. he loses himself in you. somewhere along the way, you find one another, and all is bliss.

in the morning, legs tangled in the sheets and steady rain pelting the window, roger adjusts his hold on your waist. he’s still asleep, his chest rising and falling in time with his gentle breath. you pull his arm tight around you and smile into your pillow.

your cheek is still sore, and you’re sure there’s some poor nun who remains scarred for life after witnessing roger’s montreal incident.

but this morning you cannot find it within yourself to feel bothered by your faceless friend, nor by the scarred nun. indeed, you think, you should write them each a thank you card, because in a funny sort of way, they brought you to your husband. in a funny sort of way, they gave you love of your life. and for that, you are indebted to them.

you twist at the sound of roger’s yawn. taking his face in your hands, you smile at him. “good morning, husband,” you whisper.

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

taglist (italicized handles wouldn’t work): @im-an-adult-ish​ @bluewillowmom​ @deakygurl @aprilaady @dancingdiscofloof​ @six-bloodyminutes​

[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars CXXXV (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: :c

Words: 4,500

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Battle of the Department of Mysteries.

The group divided in two and she was leading Ron, Luna and Ginny without having a clue of where to run next. 

Rodolphus Lestrange suddenly appeared ahead and she silently raised her wand, shooting a bolt of purple lightning directly into his chest.

"You know nonverbal spells?" Ginny panted.

"She can do that since our third-year," Ron responded. "Don't stop running! — Stupefy!"

"And you decide to use them until now?!"

"I've been using them all the time!" Mel argued, shooting towards another Death Eater. "But I'm obviously not going to walk around announcing it!"

She cleared the way and pushed Ginny and Luna through the door, then Ron pushed her and before he could close the door a dark something hit the side of his head and the boy stumbled back. Mel slammed the door close as Ron fell flat on the spot, she kneeled beside him.

She shook his shoulders but nothing happened. Ginny shouted something about footsteps getting closer. Mel pointed to his chest and used a reviving spell to bring him back, Ron's eyes sort of cleared, but only for the briefest moment, he stared at her with a stupid smile.

"Haha... Mel," He giggled. "You have two heads..."

"Great," She groaned. "He's been confunded... At least he's awake — We need to move."

"You go ahead, Luna and I will carry him," Ginny replied, grabbing her brother.

Mel advanced carefully and as quickly as she could, a new pair of death eaters ran into the room and started to throw curses. One charged up to her, caught off guard by his sudden actions, she fell backwards and cut her face with the edge of a table.

"Get off!" She shouted, placing both hands on the man's chest. A burst of energy sent him flying across the room. Mel wasted no time, the other death eater was fighting with Ginny and Luna.

"Reducto!"

The shelf next to him exploded, giving the girls enough time to push Ron out of the way. Mel grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to the next room, closely followed by Ginny and Luna.

The group ran all together into the next room. Mel suddenly felt her feet being lifted from the ground.

"Space," She gasped.

But this couldn't be the real thing, since she could breathe and the planets were all her size.

"Avada —"

"Petrificus Totalus!" shouted Luna.

Ron was floating around and having a laughing fit; she pushed to get closer to the boy and shield him. A planet exploded a few feet away, she landed on top of Ron, who laughed louder.

"My foot!" Ginny growled behind her.

Mel pushed the hair out of her face.

"Take Ron, you three keep going —"

"But —"

"Do as I say!" Mel yelled as she lifted Ron from the ground with Luna's help. "I don't need to use my wand!"

Ginny ran to the door, broken ankle and everything. Mel forced Luna to walk out of there with Ron, and with both hands, she conjured a stunning spell strong enough to hit the three remaining men. She didn't wait to see the results and turned around, rushing out of the room and slamming the door close.

"Ginny?" Harry's voice took her by surprise. "What happened?"

Ginny fell to the ground and held her leg tightly, Mel walked up to her and crouched.

"Ferula!" She exclaimed, Ginny's ankle quickly got wrapped in bandages.

"I think her ankle's broken, I heard something crack," Luna explained. "Four of them chased us into a dark room full of planets, it was a very odd place, some of the time we were just floating in the dark —"

"Harry, we saw Uranus up close!" said Ron. "Get it, Harry? We saw Uranus — ha ha ha —"

"What happened to you?" Erick asked when he saw her. "You have a huge cut on your —"

"Doesn't matter," She moved his hand away from her face.

"It does matter!"

"Everyone here is hurt!" She replied harshly. "You have a massive cut on your lip — Neville, dear Merlin, Neville's got his nose broken and — What's wrong with Hermione?" Mel walked up to her unconscious friend.

"And what about Ron?" Harry asked them, holding Ron so he wouldn't fall.

"I don't know what they hit him with," said Luna, "but he's gone a bit funny, I could hardly get him along at all... Mel woke him up — It's been lucky that she was with us, she took down three of them at once."

"Harry," Ron snorted, "you know who this girl is, Harry? She's Loony... Loony Lovegood... ha ha ha..."

"We've got to get out of here," said Harry. "Luna, can you help Ginny?"

"Yes," said Luna.

"It's only my ankle, I can do it myself! Mel fixed it!" But even with all the fixing, Ginny couldn't stand on her own.

Harry tugged Ron's arm over his shoulders. Neville pulled Hermione closer and Erick quickly approached to help him. Mel was the only one left who still had no extra weight to carry.

An invisible mantle had fallen onto her unexpectedly, now it was her duty to make sure everyone would leave this place in one piece. She almost wanted to fall to her knees and cry like a baby, she knew that people would eventually need her to lead, but it had been too soon, too sudden.

"There they are!" Bellatrix yelled.

Mel lifted a big magical division between them.

"GO!"

Harry kicked another door open and went inside, closely followed by Erick, Neville and Hermione. Mel started to walk backwards as Luna helped Ginny move forward, trying to maintain the spell for a bit longer. Two figures appeared on her sides, Erick and Harry were back in the room, helping her keep the protection. As soon as they reached the door, Erick yelled 'Now!' and the three of them ran for it.

"Colloportus!" Harry shouted, just in time to hear the adults crash into the entrance.

"It doesn't matter! There are other ways in — WE'VE GOT THEM, THEY'RE HERE!"

"Decide quickly!" Mel yelled. "We can seal all the doors or run, but we have to do it now!"

"We keep going, but we seal half of these first. You and Erick watch over the others," Harry said. "Luna — Neville — help me!"

The three of them tore around the room, sealing the doors as they went: Harry crashed into a table and rolled over the top of it in his haste to reach the next door.

"Colloportus!"

There were footsteps running along behind the doors; every now and then another heavy body would launch itself against one, so it creaked and shuddered. Luna and Neville were bewitching the doors along the opposite wall — then, as Harry reached the very top of the room, he heard Luna cry, "Collo — aaaaaaaaargh..."

"Get Potter!" Bellatrix shouted.

"Stupefy!" Mel said, hitting another death eater across the chest.

"Hey!" said Ron, somehow he'd escaped Erick and Mel's protection. "Hey, Harry, there are brains in here, ha ha ha, isn't that weird, Harry?"

"Ron, get out of the way, get down —"

"Honest, Harry, they're brains — look — Accio Brain!"

"DON'T—" Erick started, but it was too late.

"Ha ha ha, Harry, look at it —" said Ron, watching it disgorge its gaudy innards. "Harry, come and touch it, bet it's weird —"

"RON, NO!"

"Harry, look what's happen — no — no, I don't like it — no, stop — stop —" The tentacles wrapped around his arms and quickly crawled up his chest.

"Diffindo!" yelled Harry.

"Harry, it'll suffocate him!" shouted Ginny, before she could reach her brother a spell got her and she fell unconscious on the ground.

Erick did one swift movement with his wand and the death eater who'd gotten Ginny flew back against the wall.

"STUBEFY!" shouted Neville. "STUBEFY, STUBEFY !"

"Immobulus!"

Mel got the brain around Ron's torso. The thing stopped at once and fell limply on the ground, but Ron was half-gone already. Only Mel, Erick, Harry and Neville remained.

"We cover," Mel said. "You and Neville run."

"But —"

"I can do more than you," She said tensely. "Protect that bloody orb — Do what I say."

Harry and Neville ran while Mel and Erick shot at the adults all the curses they could remember. Some of them bounced on the walls and she realized how dangerous this could be for her fallen friends. She had no option but to follow Harry and Neville so this room could be left alone.

They were back in the room with the stone archway, Harry stumbled down and Neville was nowhere to be seen, the terror in Mel's body started to show through her magic, thin dark lines started to spread around the back of her hands.

"Children, your race is run," Lucius Malfoy pulled off his cloak. "Now hand me the prophecy like a good boy..."

"Let — let the others go, and I'll give it to you!" Harry panted.

"You are not in a position to bargain, Potter. You see, there are ten of us and only three of you... or hasn't Dumbledore ever taught you how to count?"

"There's ford obf us!" Neville shouted from the top of the stairs.

"And I can assure you Dumbledore taught me way more than just numbers," Mel replied, holding her wand firmly.

"Neville — no — go back to Ron —" Harry urged desperately.

"STUBEFY!" Neville shouted, trying to take down as many people as possible, "STUBEFY ! STUBE —"

One man launched over him and seized his arms behind his back.

"It's Longbottom, isn't it? Well, your grandmother is used to losing family members to our cause... Your death will not come as a great shock..." Lucius started.

"Longbottom?" Bellatrix asked in delight. "Why, I have had the pleasure of meeting your parents, boy..."

"I DOE YOU HAB!"

"Someone Stun him!"

"No, no, no... No, let's see how long Longbottom lasts before he cracks like his parents... Unless Potter, Dumbledore and the traitor want to give us the prophecy —"

"DON'D GIB ID DO DEM!" roared Neville, she would've been proud hadn't been for the fact that they were all about to die. "DON'D GIB ID DO DEM!"

"Crucio!"

Neville fell to the floor in agony, Erick tried to curse Bellatrix, but four different death eaters attacked at once. Harry and Mel managed to protect him from most of it, but he doubled abruptly, blood staining his uniform.

"That was just a taster!" said Bellatrix. "Now, Potter, either give us the prophecy, or watch your little friend die the hard way! And eventually the rest of your friends. The nasty traitor will bleed out, and nutty will join us to be the Dark Lord's little pet..."

Harry and Mel stood side by side, it didn't matter how strong she was, she couldn't fight ten people ready to kill. Harry hesitantly stretched out his hand, but before Malfoy could grab the prophecy, the doors burst open and Sirius, Lupin, Moody, Tonks, and Kingsley entered the room.

Harry grabbed her wrist and yanked her down, she seized Erick and dragged him too. The three of them crawled all the way up to Neville.

"Are you okay?" Harry shouted.

"Yes," Neville said shakily.

"That was really brave!" Mel cupped his face, examining his injuries. "And really stupid, Neville! You were supposed to stay close!"

"And Ron?" Harry asked them. "And the girls?"

"All out," Erick panted, he was holding onto the side of his body and was getting paler with each passing second. "But alive."

"I don't know how to heal cuts that deep," Mel said in worry. "Stop moving!"

Harry suddenly got lifted onto his feet by a man.

"Give it to me! Give me the prophecy —"

Neville stood up again and stabbed the man's eye with Hermione's wand. He let go of Harry and Mel shouted: "STUPEFY !"

Harry yelled 'Thanks!' as he stood up, but he slipped on Moody's eye, who was now unconscious a few feet away. Dolohov stared at them with a nasty smile.

"Tarantallegra!" He yelled at Neville, making him lose balance. "Now, Potter —"

"Protego!" Harry shouted.

Mel lifted Erick's white shirt that was now sticking to his body and did the first thing she could think of: She cauterised the cuts.

Her friend screamed in pain, she apologized hurriedly and kept going as Sirius and Dolohov fought behind her. When she finished, Erick was no longer conscious. Harry helped her stand and stared at him worryingly.

"He's not bleeding now," She tried to dry her tears, but only managed to smear Erick's blood across her face.  "I can't do anything else — I don't know if he'll live..."

"Petrificus Totalus!" Harry yelled over her shoulder. Dolohov fell backwards.

"Nice one!" shouted Sirius forcing them to lower their heads. "Now I want you to get out of —"

Tonks fell a few feet away from them.

"Take the prophecy, grab Neville and Erick, and run!" Sirius ran towards Bellatrix.

"Can you stand?" Harry asked Neville.

"Hang on," Mel pointed her wand towards Neville's legs and ended the jinx.

"Put your arm 'round my neck," The boy told Neville, then turned to her. "You're sure you can take him?"

She pointed at Erick's limp figure and made him float a few inches above the ground.

"I don't need brute force," Mel said, pushing her friend's body forward.

Just as they started moving, Malfoy launched himself towards Harry and both fell onto the ground. Harry kept his hand up in order to not crash the prophecy, Mel let out a growl.

"The prophecy, give me the prophecy, Potter!"

"No — get — off — me... Neville — catch it!"

Harry flung the prophecy across the floor, Neville spun himself around on his back and scooped the ball to his chest. Malfoy pointed the wand instead at Neville, but Harry jabbed his own wand back over his shoulder and yelled, "Impedimenta!"

"Round up the others and GO!" Lupin yelled, standing in front of Malfoy to keep him from attacking.

Neville approached her.

"You grab dis," He handed her the prophecy, surprisingly warm at the touch. "You're a better dueller."

"You're okay?" Mel asked.

"I'b fine," He said fiercely.

"Come on!" Harry yelled.

Neville pushed the Slytherin's floating figure, Mel looked down at the prophecy and froze.

'S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D'

She recognized the initials.

"That's how he knew..." Mel whispered. 

"Mel!" Harry yelled.

The prophecy was dangerous and they had almost let it fall onto the wrong hands... but there was a way to make sure this wouldn't happen, and it didn't necessarily mean both sides would lose.

She held the orb firmly and smashed it against the ground.

"NO!"

A white misty figure appeared wearing a pair of glasses that she knew all too well, a triumphant expression appeared on her face while Harry rushed back to her side.

"Have you lost your mind?!"

Her hand now had pieces of broken glass encrusted, but she couldn't feel pain, the adrenaline kept her working, the strange dark lines were slowly spreading across her skin. Harry looked down at her hand and shook his head, still unable to believe what she'd done.

"Let's get out of —"

"Dubbledore!" gasped Neville.

"What?"

"DUBBLEDORE!"

Mel's heart went from being in the depths of despair, to high above the clouds, now they had a chance to leave the Ministry in one piece: Albus Dumbledore had arrived, and he was angry.

It was an impressive display of power. A few death eaters ended up tied and wandless in a matter of seconds. Sirius and Bellatrix continued fighting, not noticing the battle was almost over.

"Come on, you can do better than that!" Sirius taunted.

"He shouldn't be here," Mel pulled a piece of glass out of her palm. "Sirius shouldn't —" 

Before she could finish, a spell hit him right on the chest. Sirius' eyes opened in shock as he stumbled back. 

Mel was vaguely aware of Harry as he ran down the steps, her body went numb as she witnessed the man falling further into the veil. She couldn't see his face from where she was standing, but she saw his body fall, not quite touching the material hanging from the archway. The veil moved slightly, and then engulfed him.

"SIRIUS!" Harry screamed. "SIRIUS!"

Lupin caught the boy before he could go too far, Mel's fists tightened and she felt the pieces of glass piercing deeper into her skin. 

"There's nothing you can do, Harry —"

"Get him, save him, he's only just gone through!"

"It's too late, Harry —"

"We can still reach him —"

"There's nothing you can do, Harry... nothing... He's gone." 

"He hasn't gone! SIRIUS! SIRIUS!"

"He can't come back, Harry, He can't come back, because he's d —"

"HE — IS — NOT — DEAD! SIRIUS!"

Something inside Mel snapped, the glass shot out of her palm and she walked back into the fight, attacking every dark shape her eyes would encounter. 

She wanted to hurt, to make them regret Sirius' death. Dumbledore slowed down her movements when he realized Mel had lost it, the girl looked down just in time to see faint, black lines vanish from her forearms.

Mel wouldn't remember much of it afterwards, all she knew was that her wand was extremely warm once she'd finished with the remaining death eaters and her fingers had a grey mist coming out of them. 

"What..." She stepped back clumsily, crashing against her great-uncle.

"I warned you," He said quietly. 

"Harry? Mel?" Neville had reached the place where Harry was standing, the boy had an absent look on his face, and he was unable to look away from the archway. "I'b really sorry... Was dat man — was Sirius Black a — a friend of yours?" 

Harry nodded, looking completely lost. Mel realized someone had managed to slip away from her outburst: Bellatrix was still fighting with Kingsley. Anger rose up to her chest once more, but Dumbledore didn't let her move forward.

"Let me have her!" She yelled.

BANG!

Kingsley fell flat on the ground, Bellatrix tried to run for it and Dumbledore threw a spell, but she was fast enough to avoid it.

"Harry — no!" 

"SHE KILLED SIRIUS!" Harry ran. "SHE KILLED HIM — I'LL KILL HER!"

Mel pushed Dumbledore aside and shouted 'Protego!' before anyone could try to stop them. They ran across the brain room and into the room full of doors, but this time neither Mel nor Harry had time for guessing.

"Where's the exit?!" Harry shouted. "Where's the way out?!"

The door behind them opened and they reached the elevator just as Bellatrix was leaving, Harry pushed the button to call a second lift and once inside Mel crouched, struggling to breathe. She didn't know how she still had the energy to do all this, but she didn't care as long as they could end that woman. 

Bellatrix was in the middle of the entrance hall, she threw several spells their way but Mel made them bounce away with flicks of her wrist. However, a potent spell pushed her back, and Harry dragged her behind the fountain before Bellatrix could take advantage of the momentary slip.

"Come out, come out, little kiddies! What did you come after me for, then? I thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin! You were doing so well downstairs, you nutter!"

"We are!" Harry yelled.

"Aaaaaah... did you love him, little babies?" Bellatrix let out a peal of manic laughter. "Well, you're not the little babies, that filthy newborn is! Lucky for us we killed the father before he could ruin it! If we kill the mother too, we could raise their bastard on the right side of the family!"

Mel's stomach dropped, how did Bellatrix know about the baby? Where was her mother?

"Crucio!" Harry stood at the same time as her.

Mel once again lifted a protection spell around them, but this one came out slightly weaker. 

"Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?" Bellatrix was now talking to them more like equals and less like infants. "You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain — to enjoy it — righteous anger won't hurt me for long — I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson — Crucio!" 

Mel pointed her wand to the woman's feet and the ground exploded, causing her to lose balance and stumble back.

"You cannot win against me! I was and am the Dark Lord's most loyal servant, I learned the Dark Arts from him, and I know spells of such power that you, pathetic little children, can never hope to compete —"

"Stupefy!" 

"Protego!"

Mel and Harry only had time to crawl back behind the fountain.

"I am going to give you one chance! Give me the prophecy — roll it out toward me now — and I may spare your life!"

"You're in no position to bargain," She said, the same way Lucius Malfoy had done it. "And we have bad news for you —"

"— You're going to have to kill us because it's gone!" Harry said, and he glanced briefly at Mel before wincing in pain. "And he knows!" 

Mel couldn't feel this, probably because she was already hurting as well.

"Your dear old mate Voldemort knows it's gone!" He panted. "He's not going to be happy with you, is he?"

"What? What do you mean?" 

"Mel smashed it! What do you think Voldemort'll say about that, then?"

The girl raised her injured hand and waved it around.

"See? I crushed that thing until there was nothing left!"

Her hand stung badly and she lowered it to rub it, smearing more blood on her skin. 

"LIAR! YOU'VE GOT IT AND YOU WILL GIVE IT TO ME — Accio Prophecy! ACCIO PROPHECY!" 

"Liar?" Mel spoke over Harry's insane laughter. "I'm a nutter! Crazy people never lie!"

"Nothing there!" Harry shouted. "Nothing to summon! It smashed and nobody heard what it said, tell your boss that —"

"No! It isn't true, you're lying — MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED — DO NOT PUNISH ME —"

"Don't waste your breath!" Harry continued as Mel tried to heal her hand. "He can't hear you from here!"

"Can't I, Potter?" 

She still remembered him from her visions, but it was nothing compared to the live version.

Tall, thin, and black-hooded, his terrible snakelike face white and gaunt, his scarlet, slit-pupiled eyes staring... Lord Voldemort had appeared in the middle of the hall, his wand pointing at Harry who stood frozen, quite unable to move.

Mel knew then that she would not survive, she was starting to feel tired.

"So you smashed my prophecy? No, Bella, they're not lying... I see the truth looking at me from within his worthless mind... Months of preparation, months of effort... and my Death Eaters have let Harry Potter thwart me again..." 

His eyes moved to Mel, she used the remnants of her strength to keep him out of her mind and closed her eyes tightly, breathing heavily, Voldemort let out a quiet hiss. 

"Miss Dumbledore, how nice to finally meet you... I see the rumours are true... Unfortunately, you're too young to be a real threat. Since it's been you who destroyed my prophecy, I'll have to kill you, but at least I'll make it fun to watch..."

"Master, I am sorry, I knew not, I was fighting the Animagus Black!" Bellatrix kneeled down in front him, Mel found the scene revolting. "Master, you should know —"

"Be quiet, Bella. I shall deal with you in a moment. Do you think I have entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your sniveling apologies?"

"But Master — he is here — he is below —" 

"As for dearest Potter," He continued, ignoring the woman. "I have nothing more to say to you. You have irked me too often, for too long. AVADA KEDAVRA!"

[...] The headless golden statue of the wizard in the fountain had sprung alive, leaping from its plinth, and landed on the floor with a crash between Harry and Voldemort. The spell merely glanced off its chest as the statue flung out its arms, protecting Harry.

"What — ? Dumbledore!" 

Mel's uncle was standing in front of the golden gates.

The statue of the witch ran at Bellatrix, who screamed and sent spells streaming uselessly off its chest, before it dived at her, pinning her to the floor. Meanwhile, the goblin and the house-elf scuttled toward the fireplaces set along the wall, and the one-armed centaur galloped at Voldemort, who vanished and reappeared beside the pool. 

For some reason, none of the statues charged towards her, and Mel had the strange thought, that it was because her uncle knew she was done fighting.

"It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom," said Dumbledore. "The Aurors are on their way —"

"By which time I shall be gone, and you dead!

Dumbledore flicked his own wand. The force of the spell that emanated from it was such that Harry, though shielded by his stone guard, felt his hair stand on end as it passed, and this time Voldemort was forced to conjure a shining silver shield out of thin air to deflect it. 

"You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore? Above such brutality, are you?"

"We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom. Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit —"

"There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!"  

"You are quite wrong. Indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness —" 

[...]Fawkes swooped down in front of Dumbledore, opened his beak wide, and swallowed the jet of green light whole. He burst into flame and fell to the floor, small, wrinkled, and flightless. At the same moment, Dumbledore brandished his wand in one, long, fluid movement — the snake, which had been an instant from sinking its fangs into him, flew high into the air and vanished in a wisp of dark smoke; the water in the pool rose up and covered Voldemort like a cocoon of molten glass —

For a few seconds Voldemort was visible only as a dark, rippling, faceless figure, shimmering and indistinct upon the plinth, clearly struggling to throw off the suffocating mass —

Then he was gone, and the water fell with a crash back into its pool, slopping wildly over the sides, drenching the polished floor.

"MASTER!" cried Bellatrix.

The girl tried to walk towards his uncle, Harry moved out of the statue's grip. 

"Stay where you are!" Dumbledore ordered.

Both froze, waiting for something, anything... Then Mel's body burst into flames.

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @kylosleftbuttcheek @reverse-hxlland @bloodorangemoonlight @omiwashere @t-rexs-world @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @21bruhs @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @dielgonacoffee @thelastpyle

[mostly-marvel-musings]

A Mere Mortal - Chapter Five

A/N: This story is based on Landlord Vampire Fic Frenzy hosted by the amazing @just-the-hiddles​. The second last chapter of this series! Yay Feedback’s appreciated as always! :))

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire! Bucky Barnes x Vampire! Loki x Human! Reader

Word count: 2043

Warnings: Foul language, murder description, mostly angst.

Tags: @buckybarnesplumwhore​​ @ladyacrasia​​ @tcc-gizmachine​​ @alexakeyloveloki​​ @rogerrhqpsody​

Taglists open! Send me an ask if you wish to be tagged in future chapters.

...

You’d had enough. Bear was driving you insane with his persistent howling and barking. For such a small pup he was quite loud. Groaning, you turned on your side hoping to block the noise out.

Maybe it’s a phase. Don’t they start teething or something at this age?

You thought you’d ignore him and eventually he would keep quiet and go back to sleep, but something made you get out of the warmth of your bed, down the stairs and flick the light on in the living room. Bear was standing by the front door, staring it down as if it were an enemy. Huffing, you went closer.

“What is it buddy? Bad dream?” you leaned down to give him a scratch but he backed away; instead trotted up to the door and began scraping it with his front paws.

“You want to go for a walk now? Its 4:00 am and freezing cold. Come on now back to sleep.” You turned to switch the lights off again when Bear grabbed your pajama bottoms and tugged on them.

“What the hell Bear! We cannot go out now. Enough.” Irritated at this point, you picked him up and took him upstairs to let him sleep in your bed. Maybe he’d calm down then.

Once inside, you slid inside the still warm bed with the puppy and cuddled him close, he was surprisingly pacified at that time. He scrambled around a little bit before snuggling in, his rapid breathing gradually began lulling you back to sleep. Though it was short-lived.

Soon the quiet of the room was broken by Bear’s yapping right beside your ear. Angry at this point, you threatened to lock him in a room, though you could never do such a thing. He sat beside your bedroom window and looked out into the darkness. Following his gaze, you peered out to see what’s got him so riled up.

You saw a blurry dark figure laying on the ground on the far end of the street. The hairs on the back of your neck stood in alarm as you squinted to see clearly. 

Were they unconscious? Or worse? Should you call the police?

Deciding the latter was the logical option, you got your phone and dialed 911 and waited for in your living room for a car alarm to be heard. You weren’t planning on standing in the dark out there alone.

Upon hearing cars in the distance, you pulled on a sweater and a hat, carried Bear in a little blanket and went out to the possible crime scene.

As you got closer, your heart rate picked up, Bear’s barking returned and you could sense something was horribly wrong. One of the officers saw you approaching and walked towards you.

“Do you live around here ma’am?” he asked looking at you warily.

“Yes, right down the street. I was the one that called you. My dog kept barking endlessly and I saw a figure on the ground. What happened?” you asked trying to peak behind him where the figure still laid, lifeless.

“I’m afraid it’s an animal attack. A brutal one. This woman was dead when we arrived. Her head was about ten feet away from her body.” He said matter-of-factly.

Your eyes went wide as he described the scene as if it were a routine weekday for him. You stepped around him, still in shock, to see who the woman was. To your horror, it was Jenny. Jenny who served you food at the grill on your very first day here; Jenny who was always so warm and kind towards you whenever you visited her.

She lay there on the cold ground, decapitated. Her mouth agape in shock, her eyes grey, lifeless, and what looked like scratch marks all over her severed neck and shoulder region. All this, and not an drop of blood was to be seen.

That was odd, to say the least. Judging by the intensity of the attack, there should’ve been a pool of blood right? Unless those freaky legends were all true. It couldn’t be, could it? Body drained completely of blood? What animal does that? Your detective alter ego was hard at work at this point.

“I can escort you home miss. We’ll do an inspection of the woods for any signs of animals. It’s not safe out here.” The officer broke you out of your mental investigation of the scene.

Agreeing, you let the officer walk you home, still in disbelief that you had just witnessed such a terrible yet odd scene. You were in shock.

Placing Bear down once you were inside, you walked in the kitchen, dazed, and got a glass of water. Bear following you closely, sat right at your feet as you leaned on the island counter, and looked up at you concerned.

“I forgive you for waking me up.”

…

You woke up that morning with a pounding headache and your hyper puppy dancing around the bed and licking your face.

Stepping under the shower, you recalled last night’s or rather, this morning’s events. The sight of Jenny’s lifeless body without a drop a spilled blood filled your mind with equal amounts of panic and curiosity. Mind immediately jumping to Bucky’s story from the other night.

Bucky! You could talk to him about the incident. You hadn’t spoken to him since the little make out session at his house. Sure not much time had passed, plus you had just witnessed a mysterious death.

Sam’s words echoed in your head at that moment. Creepy town.

After a heavy breakfast, you fed the dog and stepped out heading towards the library. The change in weather was quite evident as the leaves had started to fall and your breath was visible even during the day as well. You were sure you heard leaves crunch a few feet behind you but you didn’t stop to look, in fact you picked up your speed and jogged to the library.

“Ah (Y/N) my dear, how nice to see you again.” Frank’s kind voice came from his desk on your right as you entered the library.

“Good morning Frank. Did you hear about Jenny’s death?” you replied, immediately getting on the subject. You saw him get shifty-eyed for a little before a sympathetic smile donned his aging face.

“Ah yes. Terrible animal attack. You be careful when stepping out at night, my dear.” He replied hurriedly making you wonder if he’s memorized that response.

Not asking any further questions because he said he was busy looking at the logs, you made your way to the usual spot by the window and opened up a dusty copy of Dewsbury Legends & Myths.

You were lost in the book, not noticing a figure approach and sit right across from you, until he cleared his throat.

You looked up to find Loki peering at you intently with a slight smirk adorning his thin lips. As if a hunter would look at its prey who has absolutely no chance of escape.

“Hello love.” His smooth accented velvety voice enveloped your senses with intrigue and trepidation. He was leaning close, a bit too close for your liking. Your body automatically straightened back, going as far as away from the man without getting up.

“Loki. What brings you here?” keeping your tone polite yet unyielding you held his gaze.

“Oh you know me, Frank is a dear friend. And you are too.” He added with a full grin this time. Something about that grin sent a shiver down your spine. You wanted to get away from his presence, and yet you couldn’t get yourself to physically stand to leave; as if he had put you under a spell.

“How’s James? Haven’t seen him in a while. You two have gotten quite close it seems.” He interjected your train thoughts, his tone dripping with disdain.

You remained silent. Somehow you knew this wasn’t the end of his queries.

“Sad what happened with Jenny, you must’ve heard. Such a poor thing. Pathetic.” He said, gaze piercing at this point as if trying challenging you to speak the obvious at this point.

Your mouth went dry as your mind grasped the idea of what Loki had just implied. It was him. He did it. He killed her. He had bitten her, drained her body of blood.

Him.

Was he a-?

In flight-or-fight mode you scrambled to gather your things to get the hell away from him, of course he stopped you.

“Come on darling, it is only just getting interesting. I haven’t even told you the best part yet” His calm demeanor frightened you all the more.

“Since you’re so keen on knowing our town history, has James been telling you the real one or the one about Morwenna and Lucas?” Loki said sitting back on the armchair, knowing you wouldn’t run away now. Not until he spills the whole truth anyway.

Your voice came out feeble and shaky as you asked him what he meant by the real story.

“Has James ever mentioned of his deceased sister? My guess is he hasn’t. Well (Y/N), Evelyn was James’s sister who died tragically in the woods.”

“Evelyn was Lucas’s sister.” The words just blurted out without your approval.

“There is no Lucas darling. James made it up. He’s been telling that story for decades.”

Decades?

“You’re lying.”

“Perhaps you should ask him yourself. He should be here any minute, wanting to ‘protect’ you from me.” Loki sneered, leaning forward again. You swore you could see his eyes turn dark.

As if on cue, the library door swung open and Bucky came charging in towards you. Your body felt released from invisible chains as you scrambled to stand up and backed away from the two men.

“(Y/N) I’ve been calling you, why didn’t you pick up? What’s he doing here?” he looked concerned as he scanned you before staring daggers at Loki.

“Nice to see you James. I’ve just been updating our darling (Y/N) on real Dewsbury history.”

Before he could answer, you interjected,

“What happened to your sister?” your voice shaking with fear as you began plotting your escape from the small library. Would it really work? Probably not. Would you still try? Yes.

“Don’t believe a word he says doll, I was worried about you.” Bucky started stepping closer as you moved further away, not knowing who to trust.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Look, let me take you home, we can talk then.” He tried to reason with you as he saw fear in your eyes.

“That’s not an answer either.”

All the while Loki sat back in the armchair, observing the drama unfold. The one that began because of him.

“She died. In the woods.” Bucky finally said, head bowed.

You knew deep down Loki’s words were true, though Bucky’s admission shocked you nonetheless. It was true. The legends, the myths. And you needed to get away from them at once.

You made a run for it as you closely avoided Bucky who could’ve easily stopped you, but didn’t. As you reached the door, his hand interrupted your actions. You didn’t even hear his footsteps follow you.

“Please let me explain.” He pleaded.

“You stay the fuck away from me.” Yelling, you pushed his hand away and opened the door, bolting towards your house.

You kept glancing back as you ran, looking to see if either of them were following you, they didn’t.

“(Y/N) please, I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I was protecting you.”

 Of course he was standing right behind you. 

Angry tears blurred your vision as you turned to face him, “I think I told you to stay away from me. Leave me alone. Please.”

Bear’s barks filled your ears as you heard him scratching at the front door, to come to your aid. You turned and opened the door, immediately your dog began growling in Bucky’s direction without stepping out of the house. He could probably sense Bucky wasn’t a human.

“(Y/N).” he said as a last attempt to get you to listen.

You of course, slammed the door, locked it shut and sank to the floor, crying.

…

[gukyi]

prince-napped | ksj

summary: life is simple for a wanted pirate like yourself: leave nothing behind, and don’t stay for anything. but when you suddenly become entangled with a runaway prince who clearly has never left his palace before today, you suddenly realize that life is much, much more complicated than you thought it was.

{pirate!au, begrudging allies to lovers!au, prince!au}

pairing: kim seokjin x female reader genre: fluff word count: 1k warnings: gun mention a/n: a huge thank you to @youwannabelostandnotbefound​ for commissioning this piece and for donating to the #blacklivesmatter movement!!! this is from my fic titles game, and is also something that i wish i could fully write if i had the time.

You have two policies when it comes to town-hopping: leave nothing behind, and don’t stay for anything. 

Well, at least you’re still following one of those rules. 

The bag that you had forgotten at the tavern has probably long been stolen, along with your only gun and money that was meant to feed you for a few days—or at least keep you off some local ‘WANTED’ lists—but you’ll survive. You always do, even with setbacks. So long as there was nothing that could identify you within its contents. Wait, was the picture of your parents in that bag?

Shit. 

Too late for that now. You can’t risk going back and getting caught by local authorities. Nobody in this town can see your face more than once. You keep your head down and move quickly, with purpose. People don’t question folks who look like they know what they’re doing and where they’re going. 

And even if you are winging this whole pirate thing, at least you have your destination in mind. 

The pier is a good couple of miles away from the town square, a bustling center lined with shops and houses, chimneys always smoking as everybody shouts at each other. Townsfolk are always the same, no matter where you go, no matter what port you dock your little dingy at. They say the best way to be invisible is to hide in plain sight. And no one ever notices a sad, insignificant boat on a dock the size of two town hall buildings.

Something cracks behind you. You whip your head around to look for the culprit, but nothing sticks out. No officers rushing to arrest you nor citizens pointing and whispering. Still, you pick up the pace, ignoring the way your feet are aching and the relentless beating of your heart. To be a lone pirate is dangerous, but to come with a crew brings too many liabilities. You work alone. 

When you reach the docks, you take a sharp left turn and shift from your speed-walking to more of a relaxed jog, making it look like you’re just casually headed towards something as opposed to looking like you’re on a mission. Your dingy is tied to the pier two boats from the very end of it, inconspicuous so as not to draw attention.

But as you turn the final corner, you spot something exceedingly out of place. 

It’s an extremely attractive man, well-groomed and properly-dressed, pleading with one of the sailors for supplies. He looks rather desperate for someone so rich, like he has somehow managed to lose all of his wealth in the last hour and now has nothing. He also is almost certainly not from this area, if the sailors are anything to go by. 

You stop for a moment to inspect the situation. If the sailor and the man spot you, you could potentially be dragged into the conflict, which is not ideal. But you seriously doubt you’ll be able to slide by the both of them, judging by how distressed the man looks. You watch suspiciously, waiting for a sign that will let you move past them without incident, when you see the sailor brandish a gun from out of near-nowhere. 

“You want to beg for a boat some more?” The sailor spits, looking menacing. “You got anything else to say, huh?”

“Whoa, it’s alright, seriously, I can pay you, I swear!” The man sputters, hands up in surrender. “I’m wealthy.”

“You don’t look it,” the sailor sneers. “Hopefully no one will miss you when you’re gone.” He cocks the gun and aims it straight at the man’s heart. Oh, shit. 

You can’t believe you’re doing this, but you rush in, putting on the most desperate expression you can manage, grabbing onto the man’s arm. 

“Oh my god, what on earth are you thinking, James?” You shout at the man, who clearly has no idea what you’re talking about. You press on. “You know better than to speak to strangers.”

“Who are you?” The gruff sailor asks. He’s lowering his gun, which is a good sign. 

“I’m his sister,” you explain, hoping that the man will catch on. “Normally I try not to leave him alone but I went shopping for some food for our trip and he wandered off.” You try to sound as helpless as possible. Maybe he won’t kill you both if he thinks you have some sort of empathy. 

“Wha—”

You elbow the man in the stomach, effectively shutting him up. 

“I’m terribly sorry for anything he may have asked you for. He thinks that we don’t have enough as is, ungrateful brat,” you say, already trying to usher yourselves away from the sailor. 

“Better keep a damn close eye on him,” the sailor eyes carefully. “I won’t ask questions next time.”

“Of course, sir,” you say with a dutiful nod, pulling yourselves away until you reach your dingy. When you’re out of earshot of the sailor, you round on the man. “Tell me, just what do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” He counters. 

“Saving your goddamn life,” you spit. “Do you have no social skills? No awareness? You think you can just ask for things and get them?”

“Yes…?”

You heave out a sigh. Who does this man think he is?

“My name is Seokjin, by the way,” he says snootily, crossing his arms as he turns away from you. 

“Whatever, Seokjin. Get in the boat.”

“What? I’m not getting in there with you, I don’t even know who you are!” Seokjin shouts, incredulous. 

“I’m Y/N, and if you don’t, then you’ll probably be dead in the next twenty-four hours,” you say. Why is he disagreeing with you? Didn’t he just get a gun pointed at his face? Does he really think he’d make it? “Get in or don’t. I’m not gonna offer again.”

Seokjin contemplates his options for a few seconds, but you’re almost certain that if Seokjin doesn’t come with you, he’s done for. And yeah, you don’t really want the extra baggage, especially one that’s so goddamn naive, but letting him die on your non-action seems like bad karma. At least he’s something of a looker. 

“Fine,” the man mutters, stepping awkwardly into the dingy. There goes your second rule. He shrieks when the boat rocks on the water, like he was expecting it to stay still or something, reaching out to clutch onto your hand. 

You roll your eyes, getting in after Seokjin has settled from his fear of being in a boat. Quickly, you detach yourselves from the pier and begin to row away as rapidly as you can. Sticking one hand down at the bottom of the boat, you pull up another oar. “Here, row.”

“What? Me?” Seokjin asks. 

“No, the mosquitos flying around you,” you say sarcastically. “Yes, you. Chop, chop.”

You almost explode when you see Seokjin holding the oar upside down, sticking the wooden pole end in and out of the water like someone dipping sweets into chocolate. He’s hopeless. Eventually, you snatch the oar from his hands and just row yourself, making your way to your ship, hidden amongst the outskirts of the island, in a bushel of overgrown trees. 

“Where you from, anyway?” You ask, trying to make conversation with him. He’s not from anywhere you’ve been too. Too nicely dressed. 

“Oh, uh, Lumor,” he says, scratching the nape of his neck. You recognize that town name—it’s a big more inland than the one you’re at now. You suppose he hasn’t gotten far, then.

“What do you do to afford silken shirts, Seokjin?” You ask him. Obviously something lucrative. Maybe he’s just a really bad hitman. 

Seokjin grins awkwardly, looking nervous. “I’m, uh, I’m actually the prince.”

What.

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget i’m still taking commissions!

[robbyrobinson]

OWL HOUSE X CTHULHU MYTHOS: GODS AWAKEN (XIX)

Odalia walked into Emperor Belos’ throne room and prostrated herself before him and Nyarlathotep. “Lord Nyarlathotep, I have retrieved the book.”  

Luz and Amity awoke in the original bodies and sprung back to life. “Uh? What happened?”  

Amity groaned and fell backward her head throbbing with pain. “Why is my head spinning?” Her cheeks grew green and bloated out of the instinctive urge of retching whatever sour contents were churning in her stomach.  

“So that is apple blood,” Luz spoke to herself, “after this, I’m never going to try that stuff again.”  

Amity and Luz stared at each other surprised to find that they were back in their own bodies. They waved their hands in front of their faces and squeezed their arms until they took on a bluish hue. Their probing would only strengthen the notion that they were truly back in their bodies. But one thought came to their minds: if they were borrowing the bodies at the time, then what happened to the original host’s souls?  

“Welcome back to the Isles, human.”  

Belos had gotten off his throne and his large frame towered over the two. Unlike Odalia’s height at around 6 feet, Belos stood at a startling 8 feet. He eclipsed obviously Kikimora, his most trusted servant and right hand, but he was also an imposing figure when it came to the members of his imperial guards. This only accentuated the perceived majesty and authority he encouraged from his worshippers.  

Luz stared at the Emperor with contempt manifesting on her face. “Belos.”  

“I see that you are still bitter over our last encounter?” Emperor Belos asked. It was more a rhetorical question, really, but one he made out of amusement.  

“Where’s Eda?” Luz asked.

Emperor Belos raised his hand. “Unharmed, I assure you, but we must keep her from interfering with our plans.”  

He looked at the murals depicting the wild witches. “As you may have guessed I had...taken care of the wild magic practitioners...one by one.”  

Luz internally shivered at the implications of what he was entailing. He raised his staff and carefully traced an invisible line through the savage witches on the murals. “The Day of Unity is now upon us.”  

“How dare you send your hideous monsters to attack my home?” Luz demanded. Her fists shook and turned red to match the increasing anger in her face.  

Belos chuckled. “It was more of a method of ringing you out; I knew that because of your compassionate heart that you would rather give yourself up than allow more of those rats to die in your stead.”  

“Well, you got me now,” Luz stated never taking her eyes off Belos’, “so leave the Earth alone.”  

Belos tilted his head. “The Titan proclaims that the Earth must be laid to waste before it returns to its full powers. There is no stopping the inevitable. The Earth will bleed a deep, gushing red, before it crumbles away to its slow, miserable, pitiable demise.”  

Luz fought the urge of drawing a glyph to cave Belos’ head in. “Mami..”  

Belos’ eyes flickered and glowed. “Oh, your mother? She is here.”  

Luz’s eyes shot up. “She is.”  

The metallic fingers of his gloves came together to create an echoing snap. Warden Wrath walked into the throne room alongside the Owl Spy. Luz’s eyes widened, her mouth hanging agape. A middle-aged woman with dark brown hair and tan skin was brought in with chains. A metal ring was fixed around her waist, and the heavy metal shackles around her ankles echoed on the floor in miserable tune.  

She wore glasses topped with a red frame. From what Luz could see, she was a continually tired woman with heavy bags behind her glasses. Her hair was in a disarray as well as her uniform, one of those outfits you would see in hospital settings. Tears were crudely decorated on the woman’s uniform, particularly towards the bottom where the hem of her shirt was.  

“Mom?”  

The woman looked up to see Luz running towards her. “Luz!?”  

Luz jumped and practically tackled her mother. “Is it really you?”  

“It is me,” she stated. She tried to hug her daughter back with her limited capabilities. “I have been so worried about you.”  

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Luz said, looking down. “I didn’t actually go to that summer camp that you wanted me to.”  

“I am just delighted to see that you’re okay,” she replied, “when those letters stopped coming in, I almost had a mental breakdown.”  

Luz felt moisture building in her eyes. She hated that she had to put her mother through that, but she had no other option in order to keep Belos from getting to Earth. She knew that at some point, the letters that she would send her Mom would soon drain up, but she was the optimist believing that she could find a way back home before her mother had the chance to worry.  

Amity scanned the woman Luz was hugging. “Who is that, Luz?”  

Luz looked back at the young witch her smile shining brighter than before. “This is my Mom, Amity.”  

Her mother gave a smile, but it was more forced given the circumstances. Amity’s thoughts spiraled out of control. “My future mother-in-law?” she asked.

“What was that?”  

Amity quickly caught herself. “Um, your mother and my mother in the same room.”  

Luz’s eyebrow peaked. “Why are you here, Mom?”  

Emperor Belos interrupted the reunion disgracefully. “Yes, why don’t you tell my grandchild why you are here, Camila?”  

The room grew quiet with not even the sound of a pin dropping on the floor could spur any response. Luz eyed Belos sternly. “Grandchild? What are you getting at?”  

“My, Camila, you kept this secret about yourself successfully hidden for years?” Belos asked again.  

“Mom, please, tell me what is going on.”  

Camila sighed. She exhaled sharply now looking at her feet in deep shame. “Luz, you love the Good Witch Azura books, don’t you?”  

Luz nodded. “Me and Amity both; we bonded over them.”  

“What if I were to tell you that there is some truth to those books?”  

Luz couldn’t understand what her mother was saying at first, but it did slowly start to dawn on her. “Are you saying that you’re Azura?”  

Camila snickered a bit and shook her head. “No, no; Azura is a fictional character...but I did use creative liberties when it came with writing the books.”  

The thought that the events of the books, regardless of whether they came about as fictious stretches of the actual events, crossed Luz’s mind. “Why did Belos call me his grandchild?”  

Camila sighed. “When I was around your age, I found myself in the demon realm much like you – I can’t for the life of me remember how if it was through some door or other means – but I was a foreigner in a world that discriminated against humans.”  

Luz listened carefully not noticing that Odalia was singling for her daughter to be taken away.  

“One day, Emperor Belos discovered me with some old scraps of metal and trash and decided to adopt me for reasons I did not understand at the time. He told me that humans were unable to practice magic on the Boiling Isles because of them lacking the bile sac necessary for it, so he placed a bit of his evil, dark magic into my body and took me as a protégé.”  

“So that was why I was able to see those glyphs?” Luz asked.  

“After being trained under him for some time, he told me of the Day of Unity. It was some weird, cultish holiday I had initially taken it. But I soon found out what intentions he had for the Earth, and I fought against him. With his own magic surging through my veins, I easily overpowered the Emperor and...I might have caused him to be in his current unhealthy state of being because I can sense now that Belos is slowly dying.”  

Luz saw discarded palisman carcasses around Belos’ throne. “Was that why you wanted me to stop being obsessed with fantasy books and magic?”  

Camila nodded her head. “It was a selfish thing for me to do, but I wanted to protect you from the knowledge that such a world existed.” She looked at her feet again likely fearful of meeting her daughter’s eyes. “That was why I was hopeful that the trip would remove that desire so you would never come to this world.”  

Luz didn’t know what to say after being given such a bombshell. Her mom knew about the Boiling Isles because she had been there at some point only to somehow escape once things got sour. Now she learned that Belos took her mother in and how she was now his granddaughter. She had his malevolent magic flowing through her body. Her heart was pumping his unholy blood into her veins and through her bloodstream. It made considerable sense because, as was explained to her by Eda years ago, humans could not practice magic.  

“Luz?” Camila asked.  

Luz was still speechless and incapable of reaction. Belos laughed again and tapped Camila’s forehead with the staff. “I was hoping that I could take your daughter in and have her as a protégé to turn her against you, but that plan went awry.”  

He glared at Warden Wrath. “Take her to the execution site.”  

Warden Wrath shook his head and grabbed a hold of Camila. Camila’s legs shook but were heavily weighed down by the shackles. “Luz!”  

Luz tried to run after Warden Wrath, but Odalia shot a blue stream at Luz; it ripped into the floor dividing it in half. “No wrong step, or I will slice you in two as well.”  

“Mom!” Luz shouted. She shot daggers from her eyes at Belos. “Unhand her at once!”  

Belos shook his head. “The sins of the past must be made to pay for.” He exited the throne room before turning around once he reached the exit behind the beating heart of the Titan. “I’ll have my master take it from here.”  

Nyarlathotep, once more in his Black Pharaoh guise, approached the girl. “Hello once again, Luz.”  

“It’s you!” Luz shouted and pointing her finger at accusingly. “Was this all your idea!?”  

“I’m not a man who has pre-made plans just hanging there collecting dust,” Nyarlathotep said with a half-serious tone. “Odalia, give her the Necronomicon.”  

Odalia’s eyes shot up. “Lord Nyarlathotep, why would-”  

“That is an order,” Nyarlathotep replied. His voice went down a couple octaves.  

Shaking, Odalia handed the Necronomicon to the human girl and made her leave. Luz had a weird feeling about this. “What game is this?”  

“When you are literally older than time itself, it’s always best to play a game to take a load off your mind,”  Nyarlathotep answered.  

Nyarlathotep snapped his fingers. Above him was a column wherein a trap door opened. From there, she could see a large, glass cage descending. She squinted her eyes to make out the figures. Eda, King, and Lilith were inside. At the side of the cage was Hypnos, once more in his youthful appearance, flowers and all. He held the piece of horn in his hand.  

“Eda!” Luz proclaimed.  

Eda looked up happy to hear her apprentice’s voice. “Kid, you made it!”  

King and Lilith also turned their glances to Luz. King jumped up and down much like how a dog does whenever they are happy to see their owner come back. Lilith smiled as well, but it was a small one. Luz slammed against the cage’s walls. “Youch!” Luz rubbed her injured nose with her hands. “You guys are alive?”  

“Nyarlathotep took us as prisoners and had us as bargaining chips for you,” Lilith explained.  

“Well, don’t worry, I’ll have you out lickety split!”  

“Wait, Luz!” Eda screamed.

Luz smashed her fist on the glass only for it to bounce back. Thinking, Luz looked into the bag to find something she could use to break the cage. She scribbled glyphs on paper and activated them, but it only made the magical glass stronger. Luz turned to her bag again this time drawing out the jar containing the shoggoth. She tossed it at the cage, but, like with the other objects she tried to use, it rebounded and skyrocketed off the glass. It shot across the room and exited out the door when Kikimora opened it.  

“Luz, you can’t break the glass; we all tried to break it ourselves, but there’s no use,” Eda said at last.  

“There has to be something..” Luz lamented.

“Aye, there is a way, my dear,” Nyarlathotep answered.  

“Why should I trust you?” Luz asked in a matter-of-fact way.  

“The glass can either be broken two ways; either I can use my powers to free the three captives, or an Elder God can destroy it.”  

“Well, I want you to free them!” Luz declared.  

Nyarlathotep held his finger up. “Quid pro quo, my dear, quid pro quo.”  

“Squid pro what?” Luz reiterated.  

“I will free them and you will all go on to live happy lives if you gave me the book.”  

Luz held the demonic book between her arms. “But I can’t just give the book over to someone like you.”  

“Why not?”  

“Because you’re evil; I know somehow you were responsible for the attack on the Earth; a lot of people could die if I gave you this book.”  

“Are a million lives more important to you than the lives of your mentor; her sister; and your pet?”  

“I am not a pet!” King remarked.  

Nyarlathotep ignored the demon and kept speaking. “It would be an unfortunate occasion if they were ripped away from you.”  

“Nyarlathotep, before you do your business with the three captives, do allow me the opportunity to give this demon his horn back.”  

Nyarlathotep looked at the Elder God with suspicion, but flicked his hand. “At least he should be presentable before dying I presume.”  

Nyarlathotep snapped his fingers allowing a small hole to form in the wall. Hypnos slipped the horn into the hole and it resealed after he removed his hand. Eda eyed the horn piece with curiosity. “It looks like it’s the size of your horn, King.”  

She dropped the horn in King’s lap and he sniffed it. “Feels like it; smells like it to...how did I lose it again?”  

He shrugged and dropped it over the crack of his horn. Before he could say anything further, the missing horn piece slipped in like a jigsaw puzzle. A green light glowed around the horn acting as an adhesive glue. In a flash, everything became crystal clear to King as his memories came blasting in at full force. An overtaking sensation. It all came flashing at once: the woman. The large, bat-like monstrosity with the one, three-lobed, bulging eye. The screams. And the smoky vapor – now he could perceive that it materialized together to form the appearance of a man. A tall man wearing a dark cloak. One who was bereft of any strand of hair and his skin darker than the darkest night. The green orb came out from a spell circle the hideous man drew. His mouth was stretched inhumanly widely into a twisted, ghastly grin.  

“Well, what do we have here?” he asked.

King sprawled on the floor of the cage sweat beads rolling down his skull head. He retched but nothing came up. Panic was building within him writhing in anguish for release. He looked at Nyarlathotep with complete hatred. “You were the one who killed my Mom, weren’t you?”  

Nyarlathotep looked at him with an amused smile. “You have to be more specific than that, child; I may be eternal, but that doesn’t mean I have an internal memory box that catalogues every individual scream.”  

Luz gripped the Necronomicon with anger. “So you killed King’s mother and cursed him?” She looked at the despairing demon. “And you decided to take it as a memento to remember your kill?”  

Nyarlathotep shrugged. “As I have said, I cannot be held to remember every one of my little endeavors.”  

Nyarlathotep snapped his fingers again. This time, the top of the cage opened with a gush of running water dropping down. Eda and the others were not too freaked out in that moment, but they could quickly see that the more water flowing into their cell, it was accumulating quickly and already taking the shape of the cage. They looked at Nyarlathotep who in turn gave them a look of humor. They banged their fists against the cage’s walls, but it only rebounded on them.  

“Nyarlathotep! Stop this nonsense!” Luz yelled. “You’ll drown them.”  

“I will free them,” Nyarlathotep promised, “but you will have to give me the Necronomicon in return.”  

“And how do I know that you won’t go against your promise?” Luz asked reasonably. It made sense for her to doubt the Crawling Chaos’ claims, but in her peripheral vision, she saw that the water was already up Lilith and Eda’s waists. King jumped on top of Eda’s head to keep his body dry, but this had the negative effect of pushing Eda deeper into the rushing water.  

“I’m afraid that they don’t have long for this world, Luz.”  

Eda and Lilith were up to their necks. “I always thought it would end by some overdose on potion,” Eda lamented.

Concern was in Lilith’s eyes, but she chuckled at the dark joke. “That’s my Edalyn, alright.”  

Luz found herself in internal conflict. She truly wanted to save the three roommates she had, but she couldn’t just hand a book of such cosmic power to the bad guy. Nyarlathotep seemed to read her mind when he spoke again.  

“I feel that you think that if something were to befall your teacher, you would be lost in the world.”  

Luz squinted. “What?”  

“If you were to give the book to me, I will make you my personal protégé; you will learn about all the secrets of this world and truly become the most powerful witch on the Boiling Isles. Leagues above your mentor, and even Belos himself. You can reign by my side as I destroy this world and remake it befitting to our image. The universe and the gods themselves will look at you in favor and you would never have the need to want again. Is that a deal?”  

Luz could admit that Nyarlathotep’s deal did have a kernel of her interest. Knowledge over everything could come in handy. While she did love Eda dearly, Eda was at a loss now because of her magic being at an all-time low. Maybe with Nyarlathotep’s help, she could learn a way of curing Eda of her curse and subsequently return her back to her previous state. As she thought, she took another glance at the cage now taken aback. The three captives were completely submerged in the water and were desperately hitting the walls of the cage in hopes of breaking them. Liquid was filling their lungs, cutting their oxygen supply sharply. They moved their legs back and forth in a fishy motion. Yet for every strike and punch they could muster, the cage’s walls jiggled back from the brunt force.  

Luz turned to Nyarlathotep. “No; I refuse.”  

Before Nyarlathotep’s eyes, Luz flipped the Necronomicon over revealing several fire glyphs on the back. Nyarlathotep’s eyes bulged from their sockets. “Mortal, please reconsider!”  

Luz took another glance at Eda and the others and saw that their movements were screeching to a halt and they sunk towards the ground of the cage. Luz had made her decision. She slammed her hand on the back of the Necronomicon, and it erupted in flames.  

“No!” Nyarlathotep screamed.  

The flames licked the ancient, crisp pages of the Necronomicon and exploded. A shrill hiss filled the air to indicate that the malevolent spirit lurking in the pages of the banned book was dying. Dark green, eldritch smoke crawled out of the embers of the fire and ascended skyward. Luz heard the pages crackle and pop reminding her of the sweet smell of fresh popcorn like the kind you could get at movie theaters. With one final death throe, the Necronomicon crumbled into a heap of ashes.  

Luz looked at Nyarlathotep spitefully. “You have lost, Nyarlathotep.”  

Instead of seeing his hurt, irritated face, Nyarlathotep was once more smiling. He chuckled deeply from the darkest, deepest regions of his stomach. He held his hands over the burning heap that was once the Necronomicon and absorbed a black light that suddenly appeared. He grew larger with his arms and legs becoming more muscular and pronounced. His abdomen became gargantuan as well to accentuate his broad shoulders. No more did he resemble a human, even if a crude mockery of one. He was now a hulking monster with rows upon rows of sharp, jagged teeth.  

A wave of dark power rocked Emperor Belos’ throne room and empire. It shattered the glass cage containing Eda, Lilith and King, and they were washed out on the floor. Eda coughed up the water in a wheeze. “That was close.”  

Before she said anything else, she saw Nyarlathotep tower before them. Alerted, she looked at Luz. “Kid, did you destroy the book or not?”  

“Yes, Eda, I did, but...something came up that I did not anticipate.”  

The ceiling shook and debris started to sprinkle down. From the point of origin, the dark wave of evil magic wreaked havoc through the Isles due to its intensity. Many of the imperial guards were caught in the wave and effortlessly disintegrated. Buildings and houses crumbled from their destroyed foundations compelling the denizens to evacuate from their houses lest they were the casualties. Emperor Belos hid away alongside Kikimora.  

“Sire, what happened!?” Kikimora asked.  

“It is nothing to be concerned about, Kiki,” Emperor Belos replied. He eyed his throne room. “So it did work as planned.”  

Nyarlathotep cackled his deep, monotonous voice shaking the floor. “It has been a thousand years, but it was completely worth it!”  

Luz couldn’t comprehend what had happened. “But..but I destroyed the Necronomicon; you saw it.”  

“I had already overseen the notion that you would refuse to rule by my side, but the good thing about it is that even if you accepted, it wouldn’t have mattered. I would still have reclaimed the powers that I lost. Even if you destroyed the book, that would entail that my powers would be returned to me either way.”  

Luz looked down. “Then it is truly hopeless.”  

Nyarlathotep raised his large scepter. “Before I lay waste to this world, I did promise Boscha that I would humor her little battle with your friend; may as well set the stage for it.”  

“I’ll find a way to stop you,” Luz declared. It was a heat of the moment thing, but she truly did mean it.  

Nyarlathotep chuckled. “After Boscha wins, I guess I’ll honor my deal with Belos and destroy the Earth for good measure.”  

With that, Nyarlathotep transformed into a black wind and swirled out of the throne room cackling his head off.  

[ayamari-no-goshi]

Verboten 13 | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary:   AU. When Danny was five years old, he went missing for 2 weeks. In the years that follow, his family tried to make sense of what happened, only for the truth to be discovered years later.

Warnings: rated T for violence, mentions of death, language. Be prepared for some very weird things

Parings: Danny/Sam

Notes: originally uploaded to Ff.net. Cross-posted to AO3 and tumblr. This fic is very heavily inspired by folklore surrounding mysterious wilderness disappearances

Chapter 13

After his mother made sure he ate something light, Danny escaped to his bedroom and set up a video chat with his friends. Once all of them were certain they would not be overheard, Danny told them about the strange green wall that saved him from whatever tried to attack him.

His friends were convinced it had something to do with his ghostly side. However, he wasn't as certain. Up until that point, the only ghostly abilities he'd seen were the random bouts of invisibility and intangibility of his arms and legs. Not only that, he hadn't been able to switch to his ghostly appearance since he returned from the other side.

Although it took a while, he eventually opened up to his friends about the little information he had about his abilities. Instead of being freaked out, they seemed fascinated. After a quick argument, Danny eventually gave in and agreed to let them attempt to help him figure things out.

It wasn't exactly the result he wanted. While he knew he was alive, he couldn't ignore the fact part of him wasn't exactly human. Up until he was released from the hospital, he thought he might be able to ignore what happened to him. However, between the events at school and whatever the thing that tried attacking him was, he knew it was impossible. Clockwork and Frostbite even warned him he might be in danger in the world of the living.

Speaking of Clockwork, how would the ghost contact him? Or better yet, how would Danny contact him? Did the ghost know what that thing was? Or how it could be stopped? If anything, that was the sort of very important information he needed.

Danny sighed and prepared for bed. He hoped everything would start making more sense in the morning.

….

When he finally wandered down to the kitchen the next morning for breakfast, Danny was surprised to find Vlad Masters talking with his parents. His unofficial uncle stood and swept him into a hug once he realized he was there.

"Daniel, I'm so happy to see you're alright." Vlad made a show of being concerned once he released him. "I'm deeply sorry I was unable to visit you when you were hospitalized. Between the police investigation from both my employee's and your class' disappearances and the resulting paperwork, it was impossible to make the trip."

As much as Danny usually didn't mind the visits from Vlad, today, the man sent shivers down his spine. It didn't make any sense. As unnerved as he was, he figured he was just being paranoid and tried to shrug it off. "It's fine. I mean, I know how busy you are. I did get your 'get well' gift though. I can't believe you were able to get the blue prints for that shuttle! It usually takes at least a few years for NASA to release information like that."

"It was no trouble at all, my boy. But, your parents told me something troubling. You were attacked yesterday?"

Danny just shrugged as he grabbed some of the pancakes waiting on the counter. "Yeah, the police are looking for the guy," he eventually answered after he sat down and took a bite.

"Honey, Vlad's here at our request." After raising a questioning eyebrow at his mother, she explained, "Your father and I did some digging on the thing you saw yesterday. On accident, we discovered other similar reports, not just from here, but from other places where there have been a lot of strange deaths. To be blunt, Danny we're not exactly sure what you saw, but we're becoming worried something dangerous has started crossing over into our world."

"So why…?"

His dad startled everyone by pulling Vlad into a side hug. "Your mom contacted Vladdy here to see if he had some contacts for our research, and he decided he wanted to directly get involved. Isn't that great?"

His mom fondly shook her head as Vlad tried to pull himself out of his dad's grasp. "What your father means is that Vlad has offered to both fund and assist with the research this time around," his mother clarified.

"I felt it was prudent I was more directly involved," Vlad explained as he straightened out his suit. "If I understood what your parents told me correctly, you didn't see a person?" With that question, the normal businessman seemed to vanish, and a stranger suddenly appeared in his place as his expression turned predatory.

The expression reminded Danny of Plasmius, and it made the uneasy feeling worse. "Uh… I told my parents everything I saw." He quickly finished his pancakes and ignored the desire to get a second helping. His parents even got the real maple syrup this time. It was so tempting, but he needed to get away from Vlad. Once his plate was rinsed and put in the sink, he headed towards the doorway. "Well, I need to get going. I promised Sam and Tucker I would meet up with them."

"Young man, you're not seriously thinking about going out today after everything that happened?"

He just rolled his eyes at his mother. "I think as long as I stick to the main streets and don't try to dodge behind buildings again I'll be fine." Before he left the room, he glanced at Vlad. "Hey… this might sound weird, but… uh, has anyone else gone missing from your company?"

The man's eyes narrowed at the question. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean, Daniel."

"It's nothing. Forget I said anything." Not wanting to be questioned any further, Danny ran out of the room to get ready. After getting ready in record time, he sped from the house and towards the park.

….

Well, he could have done a better job at forming an escape plan. Sure, he managed to get to the park without being attacked or having his parents decide they needed to follow him, but he wasn't supposed to meet up with Sam and Tucker for another hour. Groaning, he plopped himself down on an empty bench and reviewed his options.

He could continue to sit where he was, but being a teenager, boredom would quickly get to him. Checking his phone, he realized he probably didn't have enough of a charge to keep him entertained while he waited. Now that he thought about it, ever since his misadventure to the land of the dead, it had trouble keeping a charge. Something about that place probably fried it.

Not wanting to risk it going dead, he thought about his other options. Fast food was out. Tucker would kill him if he took a trip to the Nasty Burger without him. He could walk around town, but after what happened yesterday, he really didn't want to risk running into whatever that thing was again. Actually, what was he doing in the middle of the park, alone, when that thing was running around town?

Paranoid, he glanced around. Other than a couple nearby trees, his current position put him in a rather open area of the park. No one or thing would easily be able to sneak up on him, and now that he thought about it, the weird feeling he got before it appeared wasn't present. While he wasn't completely relieved, it was better than nothing, and it still left him with nothing to do.

He checked the area again. The park was strangely empty for the time of day, though with all the strange things happening around town, he figured people were just staying away. So, maybe he could try to work on control his abilities a little. Having some sort of handle on the invisibility and intangibility would be nice.

After setting an alarm on his phone so he wouldn't forget to meet up with his friends, he started focusing on his hands. When his abilities activated, it often felt as if the affected limb went numb, so he focused on that. However, attempting to will his own arm to go numb was just as hard as it seemed, and he quickly grew frustrated. Though, he did notice a cold child run up his spine.

"How quaint. Didn't your allies give you any information when they helped you escape?"

Startled at the voice, Danny jump up only to find Plasmius floating behind him. As he backed away, he realized the scenery changed. The purple and green swirls of the sky immediately alerted him to the fact he was back in the land of the dead. How in the world did Plasmius do that?

"It's a nice trick, isn't it? But it's really not that hard. Creatures like us who have ties to this world can easily slip into it. It's only difficult when we try to bring the living with us."

"I'll remember that," Danny replied dryly. "What… what do you want?"

"There are many things that I want," the creature admitted, "but right now, I'm only interested in your progress and possibly to trade some information."

"Well, I'm still living, if that's what you want."

"Yes, but not quite. While I loathe to say I'm not as skilled in being able to detect other ghosts and spirits as some of the others I've encountered, I can still detect the faint thrum of a ghostly core within you. Why don't you change into your more fitting form?"

"More fitting?" Danny repeated faintly. This thing thought him looking like a ghost was more fitting? "Sorry to disappoint you, but I haven't been able to chance since I came home."

"Really? With how much ambient energy is available in your home, I would have thought it would have occurred fairly regularly as you adjusted. No matter. It seems your body is naturally responding to this world."

"Huh?" His attention turned to the flash of light around his midsection. Knowing what that meant, he hugged his stomach as he tried to stop the process. His core was active. He could feel its power trying to surge through him. "Come on. Stop it." He didn't want to give Plasmius what he wanted, but his feeble attempts meant nothing and the power overcame him. As he fell to his knees as his body recovered from the recoil of trying to stop it, he sensed Plasmius float closer to him.

"It's remarkable how human you still look in that form. I would have thought there would have been a more drastic change as your core settled."

"You mean you were expecting me to look something more like you?"

"No, not necessarily like me, but it is unusual to find a ghost who could easily pass as a human without attempting to hide anything."

Standing, Danny glared at the specter. "Are you just here to marvel at how weird I am? Or can I go now?" It was one thing for him to be unsettled by the changes, but he didn't need some creepy ghost, who happened to be partially responsible for what happened to him, commenting on how he was different than other ghosts. Of course he was different! He was still human.

The ghost pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I am getting somewhat sidetracked. Now, Daniel, like I said, I approached you for information and nothing more. Firstly, what do you know of what is stalking this city? You encountered it recently, did you not?"

"How did you…?" A chill ran down Danny's spine as he backed away. Was this thing spying on him?

"I believe I mentioned that I do try to keep taps on you. I still have not given up on wanting you to become my eventual heir after all, but rumors of it and others like it have been circling for a while. Ghosts older than I despise them, but it has been difficult to procure information regarding them."

"You probably know more than I do then," Danny replied. Plasmius did seem like he only wanted to talk, but that didn't mean he could change his mind. If he did decide he wanted to attack, there was little Danny could do to stop him. If he was able to get out of this, he was definitely going to focus on working on his powers just so he could defend himself against Plasmius. "It looked like a deformed person. It… it…" The memory of it holding something red and the sound of dripping blood made his stomach turn. "It took… part of that person. When it left, it turned into an old lady."

Plasmius frowned as he mulled over the information. "Daniel, what exactly did it take?"

The image flashed across his mind again, and his shook his head to try to get rid of it. "Look, I don't know. There was blood down the front of the guy's chest. It was part of his body. I don't want to think about it anymore."

"Hmm… I wonder if that was the intention or an afterthought. I will investigate that. If it was intentional, then the rumors I've heard may in fact be true," the ghost muttered to himself before glancing at Danny again. "Now, I have one final bit of information I need from you. What exactly do you know of my involvement with the companies of Vlad Masters?" His almost friendly attitude turned icy.

"Involvement?" Danny replied nervously. He could feel Plasmius' energy building, and he knew the specter wouldn't hesitate to attack if he wasn't careful enough with his words. "All I know if that you took one of Vlad's employees for experiments." After debating for a moment, he slowly added, "The person who helped me escape said you've done a lot of experiments like that. Wait, are you spying on Vlad so you can get new people for whatever you're doing?"

Nothing he said was technically a lie. However, he was definitely wasn't going to say anything about how Tucker managed to copy some of the ghost's files and discovered he was spying on what seemed like all aspects of Vlad's companies. Yeah, that was going to remain a secret.

Plasmius narrowed his eyes which prompted Danny to back away. "Butter biscuits! I seem to have unintentionally given away too much. I believe our meeting has come to an end, but mark my words, boy, it would do you well to stay out of my business. What I'm doing is to benefit both of us." With that warning, he faded from view.

Danny spun around to attempt to figure out where he went only to find himself back in the park. There didn't seem to be any sign of Plasmius, and he didn't seem to have any of the weird chills he tended to get before something strange happened.

He should be happy he hadn't been injured by the other ghost, but the interaction left him unsettled. How did Plasmius know where he was? Was he stalking him? Actually, seeing as the ghost orchestrated an entire scheme to get to him when his school was on a camping trip that was probably the case. To make matters worse, now that he was something in between a human and a ghost, Plasmius could pull another stunt like that any time he wanted.

Not wanting to stay out in the open any longer, he grabbed his phone and ran. According to the clock, he still had some time before he needed to meet up with his friends, but that was not going to deter him from going to Sam's house. As silly as it was, her parents' anti-paranormal stance almost acted as an unofficial ward. If anything tried creating chaos in that house, he was positive Mrs. Manson would somehow throw it out of the house by sheer force of will.

Once he was out of the park, he took a moment to text Sam to let her know he was on the way. While he knew she wouldn't exactly mind if he showed up early, it was still better to let her know so she could keep her parents at bay. The only tolerated him after all.

When he was done, he noticed something off about his reflection. His hair was still white. Panicked, he checked himself, and sure enough, it seemed as if he was still in his ghost form. He tried to trigger the change, but he had no idea what to do to reverse it. When he was with Frostbite, his body just seemed to do it automatically. Not wanting to say out in the open any longer than he had to, he ran.

As he approached Sam's house, he called her to give her a heads up on his problem. Her response was to have him climb up the rope ladder she had for her regular escapes so he could get to her room without risking her parents seeing him before the problem was fixed.

Ten minutes and one harrowing rope ladder climb later (seriously, that thing was a safety hazard), Danny found himself sitting on Sam's bed while she examined him. Her pokes and prods made him self-conscious to the point where he actually pulled away from her.

"I get it. I look weird, but will you seriously stop?"

She shook her head as she sat down beside him. "In all honesty, you don't look that weird at all. Compared to the last time I saw you like this, you actually look healthy." When he gave her an incredulous look, she grabbed his hands. "What? I'm being serious. Aside from the glow, you look fine. The first time, you had this weird green tinge to your skin which was really creepy."

"Thanks? I think?"

Realizing she was still holding his hands, she let go and stood up. "Ignoring that, my parents are actually still home for once. Let's see if we can get you back to normal, well, your version of it, that is." At his indignant 'hey', she just laughed.

==================================

So, the little jab about real maple syrup... To be honest, I don't care for the stuff, but so many people I know make a clear distinction between normal store bought maple syrup and the "real" stuff (apparently you just have to double check what you grab?). And because I'm thinking about it, Karo isn't fake maple syrup; it's corn syrup.

Did you know it's fun to write Plasmius? His speech is a bit odd as he tends to attempt to sound as educated as possible while still throwing in some causal aspects. I find it that balance fun to write.

[amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines]

Sweet Pea//maybe that’s the most heartbreaking thing of all

Request: i requested this before but idk if it went through may I please request an imagine where the reader is Jug's little sister by a year and sweet pea goes out with her because of a dare but actually falls for her but she finds out and breaks up with him but he goes to her begging for forgiveness but she refused and ends up dating someone else but they break her heart and sweet pea is there and she is crying about not being good enough for anyone and he tells her how perfect she is how much he loves her and she forgives him admitting to still being in love with him and they get back together maybe it could be the first time they say they love each other

hey!! i hope you enjoy this! i struggled at the beginning to get in the flow of it but i got there! also. this goes right back to the beginning of imagine writing. its got all the abbreviations, so just in case you’ve forgot, or you’re new...here’s a quick guide: 

y/f/c - your favourite colour 

y/l/f/c - your least favourite colour 

y/f/a - your favorite animal 

Couples having their first date in Pop’s is nothing new. Its somewhat of a tradition in Riverdale, even more so after the drive-in closed down. Everybody either has or will have a date in Pop’s. With great food, cozy booths and neon lighting it makes the best backdrop to love. 

And tonight was your turn to experience the magic of it. 

Three days ago, Sweet Pea had approached you out of the blue while you were sat with your friends in the lunch hall. 

At first you thought he was going to give you a not very nice message to pass on to your older brother. Despite Jughead being a year older than you, he often got involved in very childish rivalries. The main one being between him and the very tall serpent in front of you, and even though they’d kissed and made up by now, there was still always something bubbling under the surface. 

But to your surprise and secret delight he’d asked you out on a date, and you of course said yes...probably too quickly. He then nodded towards your friends, all of which were trying and failing to hide a smile as they watched the interaction, before sending you a quick wink and leaving with a few of his friends. 

Once you were sure he couldn’t see you anymore, you let the blush on your cheeks fully take over and a small squeal left your lips. 

Tonight, you’d let out the same small squeak before you left your house. Saying a quick goodbye to your dad and Jughead, both of which suspicious as to why you were so happy and dressed up. You told them you were just going to see a movie with your friends and although you’re sure they hadn’t really bought it, to be honest you didn’t really care. 

You were going on a date! 

With Sweet Pea!! 

There are so many girls that would quite literally kill to be you right now, and if it weren’t for your brother being serpent leader, they probably would have by now.

As you turn the corner into Pop’s parking lot, you can see Sweet Pea pacing just beside the steps. He’s on the phone to someone and a small smile appears on your face as you hear him laugh. 

He doesn’t notice you’ve arrived until you’re tapping him on the shoulder making him jump a little. His laughter stops once he see’s you and your smile falters a little. He had been worried that you wouldn’t turn up. The only way his dare would count (and he’d get paid) was if you:

1. Actually turned up to the date 

And

2. If the date lasted at least an hour. 

He had one of those things, now he just had to get you to stay. 

Easy. 

His smile returns as he figures out the best way to get you as interested in him as he can. 

“Wow.” He mutters as he looks you up and down. A blush appears on your cheeks making you look at the pavement. “You look amazing.” He adds and the blush grows. Smoothing out some invisible wrinkles in your outfit, you force yourself to look back up at him, but soon realize just how much of a mistake that was when you feel your knees go weak from the way he’s staring at you. 

“Do you want to go in?” You change the subject and he nods, opening the door and letting you walk in first. 

There’s an empty booth right at the back of the diner and the two of you rush towards it. He lets you sit down first before joining opposite you and you send him a shy smile. 

“Sooooo.” He looks around awkwardly. “What are you getting?” 

“I’m not sure.” You say while scanning the menu. “I don’t know whether to get my usual or try something new.” 

“Try something new.” He replies quickly and you look at him a little surprised. “We both can. Its a special night after all.” He watches you decide what you want, a small smile on his lips as you read all the options out loud. But then he remembers what this is supposed to be. 

A dare. 

Nothing more. Nothing less. 

Easy money and a chance to piss off Jones. 

His smile completely disappears as he tries to tell himself not to get caught up in you and you frown when you notice his expression. 

“Are you okay?” You reach out to him and gently squeeze his hand. “We can go if you want?” 

“No!” He says rather too loudly and you stare at him confused. “I mean. I’m fine. Have you decided what you wanted?” 

“Yeah! I think I’m going to try this.” You lean over the table slightly, pointing at the food on his menu, but he’s not listening. Because the close proximity is doing something to him and if he breathes he can smell your perfume and its surrounding him, making him feel overwhelmed. “What about you?” You look up at him, your faces mere inches apart and you have to take a second to get your head to stop spinning before you sit back down properly. 

“I-I think I’m going to decide on the way there.” He stutters a little while standing, grabbing both menus. 

“I think they come and take your order if you’re sitting in.” 

“Its fine. It might be done quicker if I go up and order.” He shakes his head.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Your tone is playful as he walks away, but it makes him anxious anyway. He needs to keep you here for another 55 minutes, and the fact that Fangs and a few other serpents are hiding in the other corner of Pops, spying very badly on the two of you, isn’t making him feel any better. 

Once he orders he slowly makes his way back over to you. As he approaches he notices you texting, a soft smile on your face as you type and he has to push away the feelings of him being an awful person before he can sit opposite you again. 

“Do you know how long its going to take?’ You ask, locking your phone once you notice him. 

“About twenty minutes I think.” He replies. 

“So, about the same time if you’d stayed?” You say teasingly and he rolls his eyes in reply. 

“Whatever.” He huffs. He looks cute when he huffs. He always looks cute, but when he pouts like, you just want to kiss him. Woah...calm down. This is just the first date. Keep it in your pants Y/l/n.

“So. What do you want to talk about?” You change the subject before your thoughts become slightly less PG. 

“I don’t know. What do people usually talk about on first dates?” He asks and slumps a little while you think. 

“Oh!” Your eyes light up. “What’s your favourite colour?” 

“Really?” He sends you a look, making a soft blush appear on your cheeks. “Thats what you came up with?” 

“Hey. I have so many better questions but I thought I’d start off easy. So, are you going to answer or are you one of those people that ‘like all colours the same’?” You mock him and he rolls his eyes playfully. 

“Fine.” He shrugs. “I’ll answer your question, but you’re not allowed to laugh. My favourite colour is yellow.” He mumbles the last part and your eyes widen in surprise. “I told you no laughing.” 

“I’m not laughing.” You hold your hands up. “I’m just a little shocked. You do know yellow is a happy colour right? I don’t I’ve ever seen you wear anything brighter than dark blue.” 

“Thats because you don’t have to wear your favourite colour.” 

“I’m wearing my favourite colour.” You reply and motion to your outfit. 

“So you like y/f/c?” He asks and you nod. “It suits you.” He adds making your cheeks heat up. Thankfully the corner you’re sat in is quite dark, so you’re hoping it covers up just how much you’re blushing. Frankly its embarrassing just how much he makes you blush. But then again, this is Sweet Pea. Thy boy you’ve been crushing on for years.

“Thanks.” 

“So if we’re doing favourites. What’s your favourite animal?” 

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow and he looks at you offended. “And you complained when I asked about colours?” 

“Animals are living things. A colour is just something you paint your walls.” He replies and you just stare at him for a few seconds, a completely bewildered look taking over your features.

“You have some very strong opinions.” You take a mental note not to ask about his favourite food because god knows what reaction you’ll get. “But my favourite animal is y/f/a.” 

“Yeah. Thats a good choice.” He nods. “Mine is a dinosaur.” 

“What?” 

“My favourite animal is a dinosaur.” 

“How old are you exactly? Because I could have sworn you were the same age as my brother.” 

“Ha. Ha.” He replies sarcastically. “Dinosaurs are cool. They’re diverse. They’re old as hell-” 

“They got taken out by an asteroid.” 

“They look badass.” He glares at you. “There were some the same size as chickens. Can you imagine how cool it would be to have a dinosaur as a pet?” 

“Again, taken out by an asteroid.” 

“They also had two holes behind their eye sockets. And jaw muscles went through the holes to attach directly to the top of the skull. Which made the jaws able to open wide and clamp down with more force.” 

“Well, isn’t that lovely?” You grimace, although there’s a smile threatening to appear and you have to force it away. “Its like you’re a walking national geographic channel.” 

“Actually I learnt that from The Natural Museum website.” 

“Sorry.” You tease. “Wherever you learnt it though, I’m very impressed.” 

“I’m a lot smarter than what your brother might have told you. Speaking of, whats it like being related to Jones?” 

“Not as bad as everybody makes out.” You shrug and he sends you a look. “Its not. Sometimes he can be a bit annoying, but all older brothers are.”

“Sure.” He replies. “Blink twice if you need help.” He says making you laugh.  

“Here’s your food guys. I hope you enjoy.” Veronica smiles as she places the plates down. She sends you a wink before leaving you both alone.  

“You’ve really never had a burger and fries before?” You raise an eyebrow at him while you sip your drink. 

“What?” 

“You said you were going to try something new.” You giggle and point to the food in front of him. 

“Oh.” He looks down. “I er. I must have forgot.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright? Because if you’re not we can leave.” He looks away from you, trying to find Fangs in the now very busy place. He finds him, eventually and he’s already looking at him, holding his phone up and shaking his head. He then checks the time on his phone and notices you’ve only been in here for less than half an hour making him sigh. “Sweet Pea?” 

“Huh? What?” He looks back at you quickly, shoving his phone in his pocket. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah. I’m er. I’m just tired. I’ve had a busy day.” 

“Hey. I have a new favourite question.” 

“Go on. Impress me.” He challenges. 

“Whats your favourite memory?” 

“A picnic when I was 8.” He answers almost instantly. “My mom was at work so my grandma was looking after me. It was only in the back garden but I had so much fun. She never had anyone really look after it so it was full of really tall weeds that I used to play in and pretend to cut down with a plastic sword. She let me pick a spot and we managed to flatten enough of it to lay a blanket out and she’d gotten all my favourite food. It was really nice. And when my mom came to pick me up we were still out there so she joined us and the three of us shared the last cookie while I told them both terrible kid jokes.” 

“Thats really sweet.”  

He shakes your comment off, smiling bashfully as he watches you eat. He’s never told anybody that. If he’s being honest he really didn’t want to tell you that, but there was something about the way you looked at him and the happy tone in your voice that made him crumble. The way you asked him, and then listened, a smile growing on your face the more he told you. It was the first time anybody has really, actually, genuinely wanted to hear about his life. 

And that terrifies him. This isn’t supposed to be real. He isn’t supposed to feel real feelings. Its not real. He reminds himself. 

“What about yours?” He asks, desperately wanting to get the attention away from him because he’s scared if you continue looking at him like this he’s going to tell you his entire life story and he’s never been that vulnerable with anybody before. 

“Hmm.” You think about if for a few seconds. Your eyes sparkling as you go through every memory you have. “When I had my first kiss.” You chuckle at the memory and he looks at you confused. 

“What?” 

“Hear me out.” You laugh. “It was with Archie.” 

“What!?” 

“Yeah. And it was a dare.” 

“What?” His blood runs cold. Is he really that obvious? Have you figured it out? Of course you have, you’re clever and funny and smart and pretty an-

“It wasn’t like that though.” You shake your head. 

“Like what?” 

“Like, I dare you to kiss her and I’ll give you $1 for it.” You explain.

Change kiss to date and $1 to $50 and its almost the same. 

“I was 13 and he had just turned 14. He still hadn’t kissed anybody and he was worried. At the time I didn’t really know why, but when you look at all the girls he’s dated since, I can understand why he was worried. So I dared him to kiss me and he did.” 

“What was it like?” 

“Awful.” You laugh loudly and he feels himself relax again. “But at the same time it was nice. It was sweet. Plus, I always have that I was the first person to kiss Archie Andrews. When I’m feeling down about myself I like to tell myself that the reason he’s dated so many people is because he’s trying to find someone that can kiss as well as me.” 

“You should never feel down about yourself.” He says sincerely, and there’s not enough darkness in the world that could hide your blush. 

“What made it even better was that Jughead walked in on it and him and Archie almost got in a fight.” 

“I would have payed to see that.” He laughs. “I still would to be honest.” 

The two of you continue to eat, exchanging small conversation every so often. After you’ve both finished eating, he checks the time while you laugh at something he’s said, and notices that its almost been an hour and he’s happy that its nearly over. 

But the other part of him is sad that it might be ending. So he ignores time and the real world, in favour of pretending with you. He doesn’t even come back to reality when Fangs and the rest of the serpents leave, subtly dropping money on his seat. 

The next time either of you check the time is when Veronica comes over after a few hours and asks if you want anything else. Thats when you realize its almost 11, and that your dad is going to kill you. 

“Oh shit.” You panic. “I’m supposed to be back at 11.” 

“Fuck.” He stands up, quickly noticing the money and slipping it in his back pocket while you’re busy putting your jacket on. “Okay, I’ll pay and then I’ll give you a lift home.” 

“Sweet Pea. I can pay for my own food.” You argue. 

“I know you can. But I want to. And we have ten minutes to get you back home so you can’t afford to argue with me.” He replies and you roll your eyes but agree anyway. 

“Fine.” You huff. “But I’m paying for the next one.” You add and he freezes. “Thats if you want another one I mean. No pressure.” You back track, while he just stares at you. 

“I-er-” 

“Here’s your bill.” Veronica hands you a receipt and Sweet Pea lets out a breath. 

He pays quickly before leading you out into the dark parking lot. 

“Here.” He hands you the helmet and you take it, carefully placing it on your head. The ride back home seems far too short for you’re liking and the next thing you know he’s walking you up the steps to the front door. 

“You didn’t have to give me a lift you know?” You say. The two of you are stood on your porch. You’re sure if either your dad or Jughead look out the window they will definitely be able to see who you’re with and where you’ve been, but right now, you don’t care. You can deal with that later. 

You’re just enjoying spending time with Sweet Pea. You’re also glad you didn’t die on the journey back. Riverdale may have strict driving laws, but Sweet Pea does not stick to them. However, if you did die, you would have died happy with your arms wrapped around his chest and a bright smile on your face. 

“I know.” He shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “But, I’m going that way anyway soooo.” 

“You’re such a gentlemen.” You tease and the two of you giggle lightly. 

“What’s it like living in Coopers old house? Do the ghosts of her messed up family haunt the halls?” He asks and you roll your eyes, nudging him a little. 

“No.” You deadpan. “Its weird. Especially if you’ve lived in a trailer for the majority of your life. And even weirder now that Betty and her mom live with us. But I wouldn’t say its bad. Its kind of nice to have some sort of normal...ish family for a change.” 

“Your definition of normal and everybody else’s definition of normal are too very different things.” 

“Shut up.” You punch his arm lightly and he feigns hurt. 

“This was nice.” He says, now feeling more awkward than he ever has in his entire life. 

“It was, yeah.” You nod. 

All he has to do is say goodnight and leave. He’s completed a dare, he’s made some easy money and he’s had some great food. Plus it was nice to go to Pops with somebody other that Fangs. 

“Night.” He gives you one last look before turning around and starting to walk down the steps. 

“Sweet Pea?” You follow after him. “Tell me another dinosaur fact...please.” 

“The word dinosaur comes from the Greek language and means ‘terrible lizard’.” You laugh and a soft smile comes to his face.

Your eyes flutter closed as you slowly move towards him. Kissing him nervously, he freezes for the second time in one night. However he doesn’t stay like that for long, his arms wrap around your waist as he kisses you back.

Never has Sweet Pea been kissed like that before. So gently and like kissing him any harder would break him. 

But now he has a problem. 

Because he liked it. 

And he definitely wants to do it again.

“Goodnight Sweet Pea.” You kiss his cheek before jogging up the steps and through the front door. 

What the hell is he supposed to do now? 

----

Sweet Pea has been trying so hard to avoid you. No matter how hard his heart protests. 

It was one date, for a dare. Thats what he keeps telling himself. 

But deep down he knows that it wasn’t just that. He had a genuinely nice time with you. 

You’re sweet, pretty and kind. And despite the fact that you’re related to Jones, he knows there’s so much more to learn about you. 

“Hey!” Your smile is bright, and he can’t help the smile that appears on his face as he watches you sit beside him. Despite the fact that his heart is racing, either due to the fright you gave him, or the mere presence of you, he manages to reply. 

“Hi.” He mumbles, finding anything but you to look at. Only now has he realised how bland the walls are in the school cafeteria. Who paints a school cream? Cream is the worst colour in history. “What’s your least favourite colour?” 

“What?” You laugh.

“Well we talked about your favourite colour the other day. What’s your least favourite colour?” 

“Err.” You think for a moment before scrunching your nose up. “Y/l/f/c. Yours?” 

“Cream.” 

“Wow. You were very quick to reply. What’s cream ever done to you?” 

“Made everything boring.” He replies making you laugh and shake your head. 

“I was wondering.” You take a glance at your friends who are all giggling and whispering to each other while they watch you, which surprisingly doesn’t do much for your confidence. But you fight through it and decide to just get straight to the point.  “Do you want to go out again?” 

His eyes widen a little as he searches the room for Fangs or literally anybody. He’d even settle for Jughead coming over. Just anybody to get him out of this because he know’s he’s going to say something stupid like...

“Yes.” dammit. His mouth moved before his brain even had time to comprehend what he was saying and now he hates himself, and more importantly Fangs for being late. What the hell where all the serpents even doing? 

“Great!” Your face lights up and his entire body sinks. “I’ll see you tonight at Pops again? At 7 maybe?” 

“Ye-yeah.” He nods. “That sounds great.” 

“Great!” You repeat and you seem even happier than before. “By the way, you do know there’s a serpent meeting going on right?” 

“Shit.” thank god. he can get out of here now. 

He somehow seems to be digging an even bigger hole for himself and now he has no idea how he’s going to get out of it. Definitely not with the help from any of his friends. 

----

The second date you and Sweet Pea had, was definitely different from the first. 

You’d met at Pop’s. But as soon as he saw Fangs sat by the window he decided that maybe going in there wasn’t the best option. 

Thankfully you didn’t notice the sudden change of heart, so didn’t think it was too strange when he suddenly shouted about going to see a movie. 

And to his surprise. He actually enjoyed himself. Well, he knew he was going to enjoy himself anyway. But it was better than he could of imagined, despite the slight crushing feeling in his chest. 

Plus he got to kiss you again! 

After the movie you walked around town for a little bit and talked about life and dreams and more favourite things...no matter how much he complained about that part. 

So maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. I mean, yeah, it started out bad. But plenty of good things come from bad experiences. He can’t think of any every time he tries, but he’s sure there is some and thats good enough for him. 

Plus, its not like he’s going to tell you about the dare. He likes you and he doesn’t want to hurt you. And he can’t imagine the rest of the serpents mentioning anything. Weirder and crazier dares are done by them everyday, this is ancient history by now. 

So a week after your first date, he decides that he’s going to make his first proper move. He’s ready. He’s only really known you a week but he knows your special. And you’re definitely worth putting up with Jughead for. He just needs  a milkshake first to collect his thoughts. 

Once he walks through the doors of Pop’s he’s hit with two things. 

One. How empty it is. Its Friday night, he should have to fight to get through the amount of people in the place. But there’s barely anybody here and he has to try and remember if he heard of any parties happening tonight. There’s none that he can think of, but it might be a last minute thing. Yeah, its probably a last minute thing. 

The second thing he notices is you, sitting in the corner again and his breath hitches as the sight of you. But then he see’s you crying and his heart aches. 

“Whats wrong?” He asks, sitting beside you as quickly as he can. As soon as he sits down his arms are around you, pulling you close. 

A part of him is scared that you’ve found out and that all of this is going to be over before its even began. But when you cuddle further into him he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, relief flooding every part of him. 

“Its nothing.” You shake your head. “Its not important.” 

“Clearly it is.” He says and slowly pulls you away from him so he can look at you properly. How do you manage to still look cute despite crying? “Come on. You can tell me.” 

“I just feel a little left out.” You sigh. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Just, when we were younger me and Jughead were really close. But now it feels like he’d rather hang out with anybody but me. And that really sucks you know? I know we can’t do everything together, he has a life, I have a life. But I just feel like I never see him again. Plus, all my friends have gone to a stupid party and they didn’t invite me.” 

“I understand.” He says, your eyes meeting his making you feel a little breathless. “And it does suck. But just because you don’t spend all of your time together, doesn’t mean he loves you any less. I mean, he almost fought Archie for you.” 

“That was years ago.” Your roll your eyes. 

“And I’m sure he’d still do it now.” He replies. “He’d probably lose, but still. Its the thought that counts.” 

“Hey.” You shove his arm. “Thats my brother.”

“I know. And everyday I feel sorry for you.” He says sincerely.

“And as for your friends? Idiots. Because that party is going to suck without you.” He reassures you.

“Thanks for making me feel better.” You kiss his cheek softly before leaning your head on his shoulder. 

“Well, thats what boyfriends are for.” He replies, eyes widening once he realizes what he’s said. This was not how he was going to ask you. 

“Boyfriend?”  

“I er-” 

“I’d like that.” You smile. “I’d like it a lot.” 

“Yeah?” He looks down at you. 

“Yeah.” You agree before kissing him sweetly. “At least now there’s one person who’ll never forget about me.”

There’s something about that sentence that doesn’t make him feel right for a few seconds, and he can’t help wonder if he did the right thing. 

----

“Just a few more steps.” You say while looking over his shoulder. You didn’t think guiding a giant into your back garden would be this difficult, however you’re now regretting not giving something to use as a blindfold. He’s practically dragging you along behind him and you’ve never met a clumsier boy. “Mind that stone.” You say but he’s already stumbled over it and you roll your eyes at him, despite the fact he can’t see you. “Okay. Stop.” You say and he stops walking abruptly. You groan as you bump into his back making him chuckle. “Ass.” You mumble and shove him a little. 

You move your hands away from his eyes and he gasps as he looks around. 

“Whats this?” The two of you look at the blanket and basket sat between the surprisingly long weeds that surround you and slight blush dusts your cheeks as you kick your foot about. 

“A picnic.” You reply, moving to stand in front of him. “Do you like it?” You look at him hopefully and he nods quickly, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in for a kiss. 

“Hey!” You hear Jughead bang on his bedroom window and the two of you pull away, flipping him off as you do. 

“I remembered the story about your grandma and thought I’d do something like it.” You explain while sitting down. “I even made sure my nobody moved the lawn for a few weeks to get the desired weeds.” You explain making him smile. “And I got your favourite.” You pull food from the basket and hand it to him making his smile grow. 

“You’re just the best.” He replies, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“I know.” You mumble. “And, I have even upgraded the whole favourite series of questions, because I know how much you hate them.” 

“I love you.” You know he’s only joking. He knows he’s only joking. But the sentence takes the two of you by surprise and you quickly scramble to think of something else to talk about. 

“Whats the best thing you’ve ever done?” You ask and take a bite of a strawberry. 

“This.” He laughs as he watches some of the juice dribble down your chin. “Here.” He wipes it away and you smile at him thankfully, despite the reddening of your cheeks. 

“What about you?” He asks, stealing a bit of chocolate from you and you glare at him playfully. 

“This.” You nod.  

“Whats the worse thing you’ve ever done?” 

this. “Probably the time I convinced one of my friends that he didn’t exist.” 

“What? How did you even do that?” He looks down embarrassed and you can’t help but admire the cute little bashful smile on his face as stares at the blanket beneath the two of you. 

“I got all of our friends in on it so it wasn’t just my fault. But I made him believe that I was the only one that could see him. When we’d hang out just us I’d be normal, but if all our other friends were with us, we’d all pretend he was invisible. One day I convinced our entire class to do it and he ended up crying so hard his mom had to come and pick him up.” 

“Holy shit.” You whisper. “Thats awful.” 

“Yeahhhh. I know.” He shakes his head. 

“But I suppose I still love you.” You add and he looks at you quickly. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah.” You nod. Both of you know the ‘i love you’s’ were silly. Far too soon to be saying, but even if they weren’t real, they made you feel something you’ve never felt before. And you’re excited for when they do have meaning behind them. 

“What about you?” 

“Who said that?” You tease and he shoves you playfully causing you too fall backwards. Your about to sit up again, when he appears beside you and so you decide to stay. Who needs to see the world when you can just look at him.

He moves to lie on his side, his head resting on his hand while he looks down at you. His free hand caresses your cheek and a soft breeze flows makes a piece of his hair fall in front of face. You move it gently and the next thing you know he’s leaning down to kiss you. Its so full of love and happiness that it makes you a little dizzy, so when he pulls away you’re glad you’re already lying down. Especially because your legs would not have been able to keep you stood up. 

“I once called my mom a bitch when I was 10.” 

“Ouch. What did she do to deserve that?” 

“Not cut the crusts off my sand-which.” You mumble making him snort. “That was so cute.” You tease and pinch his cheeks. 

“Nope.” He moves out the way. “You can’t change the subject after you told me you called Gladys Jones a bitch. How are you still alive?” 

“Believe me, I was very close to death.” 

“What saved you?” 

“The fact that I needed to go to school. I didn’t come home until about 8 that night. She was so worried that something had happened to me that she kind of forgot about the whole name calling thing.” 

“I don’t believe you could ever be that mean.” He kisses your nose. 

“I can prove it if you want.” 

“Yes please. I’ve very excited to see this.” 

You think for a moment. What’s the meanest thing you could say to him? 

“Ass.” really? growing up with gladys and fp as your parents and thats all you’ve got?

“I have a good one? Thank you.”

“You really are unbelievable.”

The first time you say this to him its said playfully, to annoy him with a soft smile on your face. The next time you say it, there’s nothing sweet or happy about it. Its said angrily, with tears running down your face instead of the smile that he’s grown to love.

However, at this minute, you have no idea what coming. You don’t know that all of this is going to end in tears and heartbreak. And maybe that’s the most heartbreaking thing of all.

----

“Please. Just let me explain.” Sweet Pea pleads. 

His trailer has never felt so small, despite the distance you’ve put between the two of you. You’re looking at him like he’s a stranger and he’s never felt so horrible in his life. 

You’d only gone on his phone to find a specific picture of the two of you. But when he’d gotten a text from Fangs asking if he’d let you down gently yet, you’d actually found a whole group chat title ‘dares’, the biggest one being your entire relationship with him. 

“I was just a dare. A stupid, idiotic dare?” 

“Yes.” He nods. “It was stupid and idiotic and I’m really sorry.” He walks towards you but you back away, closer to the door and he really doesn’t want you to leave. He’s gotten so used to you being around the past six months he doesn’t know how to cope when you’re not with him. 

“Our entire relationship was a dare?” 

“No, no. Just the first date. The rest of it was real.” 

“Oh, so that makes it alright then if it was just the first date? What the hell Sweet Pea. Why would you do that?” 

“I really don’t know.” He shakes his head. 

“I think that makes it even worse. Even if your excuse was just about getting back at Jughead, I think that would make me feel a little better because hey, its not just me. You didn’t just see me and think ‘she’d make a good target for a dare. she’s liked me for ages so she’ll obviously say yes’. But you just did it because? Because of what? You were bored?” 

“I’m so, so sorry.” 

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” You cross your arms. “Did you also make a bet? Are people betting on how long we’ll be together?” 

“No, of course not.” He argues. 

“So you’ve made no money from this?” You ask and he goes silent, looking at the floor. 

“You’re really are unbelievable Sweet Pea.” You sigh, grabbing your jacket from the sofa and storming out. 

How the hell did he not see that coming? 

----

*three months later*

“Jones? I know you said never to come round here again but there’s a problem with a few of the serpen-oh hey Y/n.” Sweet Pea has only been in the Cooper/Jones’ house a handful of time, practically all of them because of something bad, but this is by far the worst.

He’s never seen you like this, and he never wants to again. 

And the worst thing about it is that he’s the reason. He’s why you’re sat in the dark with a blanket wrapped around you and tears streaming down your face. 

“Whats wrong?” He takes a few careful steps towards you, completely forgetting the reason he came round in the first place. His only focus is you. He needs to make this right. This may be the only chance he has seeing as though Jughead is doing everything to keep the two of you apart. 

He did manage to get you alone one time, but it was only for a few minutes and they were the second worst few minutes of his life, the first being when you broke up with him. He’d tried to say sorry, to explain it. But you’d just told him to leave you alone and that you were seeing somebody knew. 

He wonders if they’re the reason you’re so sad. He isn’t sure if that would make him feel better or worse to be honest. 

“Y/n?” You continue to ignore him so he decides to just sit beside you. He makes sure he isn’t too close to you, no matter how much he wants to wrap his arms around you and tell you everything is okay. 

“Go away Sweet Pea.” You mumble and his heart cracks. 

“No.” He argues and sits back a little. He hears you huff in reply and wrap yourself further in your blanket. 

The two of you sit in silence for a while. Before you could sit together for hours without speaking, and be in total bliss just enjoying each other’s company. But as each minute drags on you find it harder and harder to breathe. 

“I thought I finally had everything figured out.” You eventually whisper and he sits forward, placing a careful hand on your shoulder. He’s expecting you to shrug him off, but you don’t and he’s almost certain you relax a little. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean. I thought I finally had everything figured out.” You glare at him and he gulps a little. 

He doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he just sits and lets you talk. 

“And now everything has gone to shit.” 

“It hasn-”

“I loved you Sweet Pea! I actually loved you.” You stand up and the sudden movement startles him. “The first boy I’ve ever loved, I was just some stupid dare to. And then when I try to move on. When I think that maybe I should try and forget about you and the way you made me feel...both good and bad. The next boy I end up with dates me for a few weeks and then breaks up with because I wasn’t what he was looking for. What the hell does that even mean?” 

“Y/-” 

“Is it me? It must be me. There must be something wrong with me. Or maybe I’m just not good enough for anyone. Maybe thats it. Maybe I’m going to go through life dating a string of disastrous boys who just use me to find something else. I don’t want that. I want love. I want all the stupid stuff you see on TV. Is that so hard?”

“Y/n?” 

“Why?” You drop back onto the sofa, utterly defeated and all he wants to do is go back in time. If only he’d never agreed to that stupid dare. You would still be happy and sweet and not totally broken. “Why would you do this to anybody? Why would you take their heart and smash it like its nothing?”  

“Because I’m an idiot.” He replies and for the first time in three months you actually agree with what he’s saying. “And so is that other boy.” He adds. “You are far too good for this world Jones, and you deserve somebody that loves you and treats you the way you deserve. And I haven’t done that, even though I should have. I never should have agreed to that stupid dare, but I thought nobody would get that hurt from it, but I’m definitely an idiot. I’m really sorry Y/n.” He rambles while you sob beside him. He pulls you into a tight hug, stroking your hair softly as he tries to find the right words to say. But there’s only one thing he can say. “I love you Y/n.” 

“What?” You pull away and look up at him. 

“I love you.” He repeats. More sure of this than he ever has been of anything. “You’re perfect. And I love you.” 

You so desperately want to tell him to leave. To go away and to never talk to you again. To never think of you for as long as he lives because he hurt you, more than you’ve ever been hurt before. 

But you love him. 

Despite everything. Despite the fact that he is an ass. 

So instead you say something probably very stupid, but it feels right. 

“I love you too.” 

And this time it has meaning behind it. 

Something you’ve been waiting a while for.  

[magic-and-moonlit-wings]

Chapter 52: Adoption

Becoming The Mask

Bold italics are trollish. Although honestly, I'm thinking about doing away with them? At least in scenes where it's just trolls talking to each other and nobody is present who doesn't already understand trollish. And in scenes where multiple languages are in use, I could just indicate them with dialogue tags.

+=+

"Blinky," said AAARRRGGHH, "I want to talk. About Jim."

"Certainly. What about him?"

"Jim needs help. Support."

"… Do we not already support him as his trainers?"

"Not that kind, not for fighting and strategy. For … feelings. For belonging here."

"Support of a familial or parental nature, then."

"Yes. I think …" AAARRRGGHH trailed off, then started again. "Jim has a human family, but he is not human. Or, not only human?" Changelings were oddly in-between and AAARRRGGHH didn't know how exactly Jim thought of himself, species-wise. "Jim is a troll, too. So he needs a troll family, too. And deserves one."

"AAARRRGGHH." Blinky put his hands on AAARRRGGHH's forearm. "Are you absolutely sure you're not projecting? Thinking of things you wish you'd had when you joined us? Master Jim seems largely content with his relationships as they stand –"

"He's scared." No matter what exactly Jim was afraid of – Gunmar specifically or failure in general – he was definitely scared. "He needs support."

Maybe AAARRRGGHH was projecting, but – but he and Jim had both deserted the Gumm-Gumms, so AAARRRGGHH should have some idea how Jim was feeling about that, right? What the boy expected and feared for his future?

I can't afford to mess this up, Jim had said.

AAARRRGGHH wanted Jim to feel safe and welcome on Trollmarket's side, not convinced that rejection was looming if Jim didn't immediately and perfectly do everything asked of him.

"What did you have in mind, beyond what we're already doing?" Blinky asked.

+=+

"Master Jim." Blinky steepled his upper hands together and folded his lower arms behind his back. "AAARRRGGHH and I have been discussing your … place, within troll society. Namely, that you don't officially have one, outside your duties as Trollhunter."

Behind Blinky, AAARRRGGHH winced. Jim carefully did not.

"That isn't going to be acceptable in the long term."

Now AAARRRGGHH covered his face with his hand. "Blinky," he groaned.

"So, to that end … How would you feel about being adopted?"

Jim's jaw dropped. That was not the direction it had sounded like Blinky was going with this.

"By … you guys?"

"Yes," said AAARRRGGHH.

"It would present the widest range of options," said Blinky, "although it could be just one of us if you'd prefer."

Jim looked back and forth between them. AAARRRGGHH nodded.

"What exactly would this mean?" Jim asked.

"Well, first of all, you are not required to renounce any family you have already," Blinky assured him. "You would remain 'Jim Lake Junior, son of Barbara'. You would simply also have the options of introducing yourself as 'Jim, son of Aarghaumont' or 'Jim Galadrigal, son of Blinkous'."

Jim covered his mouth to hold in a laugh. Not only did he have access to Dictatious' library, now he was being offered use of Dictatious' family name? If the Dark Underlord's Counsel ever found out about this, there would be steam shooting out of his ears!

"You'd also be welcome to share our dwelling, should you choose to live in Trollmarket at some point, though of course you had a standing invitation to our dwell before this so that wouldn't change much," Blinky continued.

That was news to Jim, actually. He'd only ever been in their home with one of them there with him.

"Perhaps the most direct benefit is that, as members of your family, AAARRRGGHH or I would then have the right to intercede on your behalf in legal matters, such as if you were accused of a crime or offered some sort of contract."

"Like an adoption contract?" said Jim. Blinky chuckled.

"I suppose, yes."

"And what would my obligations be to you?" Where did they stand to benefit, other than potential 'legal intercession' if Jim tried to broker a business deal with someone? This deal sounded heavily slanted in Jim's favour.

"… You'd be expected to acknowledge us as your fathers, I suppose," said Blinky. "Adoptions are forged by mutual agreement unless the whelp is still too young at the time to understand what's going on."

"Family is … mew-chew-all care," AAARRRGGHH said. "You tell us, if hurt, or scared, or sad, and let us help."

Jim narrowed his eyes at AAARRRGGHH. Being vulnerable like that would be a heck of a concession.

Although, it wasn't like they were as good as Toby yet, at telling whether Jim was lying …

"I accept," Jim decided. "How do we, ah, seal the deal?"

+=+

Apparently trolls didn't have adoption papers. Jim was instead loudly reintroduced to various trolls around the marketplace – Bagdwella, Rot and Gut, Shmorkrarg, Tagaw, Neorbin, Plagsnork – as Blinky and AAARRRGGHH's son. The newly forged family was given many "congratulations" and one "whatever".

Krax seemed to be the only one concerned.

"You … do know humans don't tend to live more than a century?" he asked Blinky gently. "If that."

Blinky huffed and neatly sidestepped Jim's actual lifespan. "I assure you AAARRRGGHH and I discussed all possible concerns before approaching Jim."

Krax shook his head. "You're both braver trolls than I."

"Vendel!" cried Blinky, spotting the Elder across the pub. "AAARRRGGHH and I have exciting news!"

"You're finally getting married?" Vendel guessed dryly.

"Close!"

AAARRRGGHH nudged Jim forward. "Meet our son, Jim."

Vendel dropped his mug and coughed. He pounded on his chest a few times and cleared his throat. "I see."

"We've adopted him," said Blinky boastfully.

"Yes, I inferred as much," Vendel said. "Well, congratulations, I suppose." He gave Jim a little nod. "Welcome to Trollmarket, Jim Galadrigal."

"Thank you, Vendel."

+=+

The Soothscryer rumbled into position the moment Jim set foot in the Hero's Forge.

"Oh, sure, now you guys wanna talk to me."

He climbed the statue and put his hand in its mouth, which still unsettled him. The room around him went dark and blue, stars lighting the ceiling.

"Jim!"

Even if he'd heard that voice before, the happy tone would've made it hard to recognize. The Ghost Council was not usually pleased with him.

A spectral troll faded into existence and held out four arms as though for a hug.

"Welcome to the family, youngling!"

"What?"

"Blinkous hasn't gotten around to teaching you about me yet, and I'm sure Dictatious had the sense not to endanger himself mentioning a Trollhunter ancestor," the ghost said casually. "I'm your great-great-grandfather, Araknak Galadrigal. More famously known as Araknak the Agile. I was the Trollhunter after Maddrux the Many, I know you've heard of them."

"Uh, maybe?" The name sounded familiar but Jim couldn't place it.

"The Battle of Doomscavern," said another ghost, who didn't bother manifesting beyond a flicker of floating light.

"Oh, right." Jim had read that one out loud, months ago, for Blinky to test his trollish literacy (and deliberately messed part of it up so Blinky wouldn't realize how literate Jim was).

"I've been keeping an eye on my descendants as best I can, though the Amulet," said Araknak. "Very happy Blinkous decided to adopt you! If my parents' ghosts were in here, they'd be so excited. With that scholastic mind of yours, you were obviously meant to be a Galadrigal."

"Says the troll who became a warrior because he didn't think he was fit for academics," sneered another ghost light.

"Says the troll who became a warrior because he didn't think he was fit for academics," sneered another ghost light.

"I could outwit you any day, Spar!" Araknak snapped. To Jim, he added, "I was, in the human terms, an odd duck. My parents were proud of me anyway. They used to follow me around to watch me fight things. I suppose you should expect that from Blinkous twice over, now."

"I guess."

Jim climbed down from the Soothscryer but didn't take Araknak up on that hug he still had his arms open for. The ghost shrugged his upper shoulders and let his arms fall.

"So, since I'm here," said Jim, "do you have any advice about the Triumbric Stones?"

Deya the Deliverer manifested beside Araknak. Jim recognized her from her displayed body, and a few illustrations.

"If you ever meet Merlin, punch him in the face," she ordered Jim. "This could've ended a lot sooner if he'd just given the stones to the Trollhunter instead of hiding them."

"In fairness, that might've been Tellad-Urr the Terrible," said Araknak.

"No," said a different Trollhunter, Jim wasn't sure which one, "if one of the stones is Gunmar's Eye, it would've been Deya, because that happened when he usurped Orlagk."

Deya growled and punched her palm. "I should've hit the wizard harder, then."

"So aside from punching Merlin," Jim said.

Deya cut him off. "The Eye is Gunmar's blind spot. Your armour got dimmer when your dad was carrying you back to the library the other day, so you weren't as easy to spot. See if you can go full invisible."

"It wouldn't have activated in the Forge because you weren't trying to hide from anyone there," added Araknak. "Maybe in a sparring match, but not with just the equipment."

Deya chuckled. "Unless you, what's the term, Epic Failed and were so embarrassed the invisibility kicked in."

Jim's heart sped up with excitement. "I have a stealth mode now? That's perfect! I mean, not super useful against Gunmar unless I'm back in the Darklands, but, for other things!"

"Yeah, I would've loved a stealth mode at your age," Deya agreed.

"… I'm in my four-hundreds," said Jim, suspecting Deya was misreading him as an adolescent or younger child rather than a young adult.

"I know. My four-hundreds sucked."

Araknak folded three of his arms together and tapped his chin with his upper hand. "That's right, you were Jim's age when you started trying to re-enter troll society, weren't you?"

Deya kicked him. Araknak shrunk down to a wisp of light before her foot could connect. Deya smacked him in the back of the head when he reformed.

"I deserved that," Araknak admitted easily.

Jim was confused. He'd heard and read a few stories about Deya, but all of them were about her time as a Trollhunter.

"Were you … temporarily banished, or something?"

"I was raised by humans," said Deya. "Kinda like you were, except they knew I was a troll."

"You're a Changeling too?!" asked Jim eagerly. No wonder her pre-Trollhunter life was undocumented –

"Nah. It's just a thing that happened sometimes. Fleshbags can't exactly tell Gumm-Gumms and any other trolls apart, so they'd attack our villages in, what'd they call it, 'pre-emptive self-defence'. Sometimes they'd keep a whelp or two alive as an exotic pet."

"Oh." Well, that was sickening. Not shocking, considering everything Jim knew about human history, but sickening.

"That's probably how Morgana got troll whelps to experiment on in the first place before she allied with the Gumm-Gumms," Deya continued.

Jim growled reflexively at Deya's insulting tone when speaking of the Pale Lady, but her hypothesis did seem likely. Although Morgana hadn't successfully developed the Changelings until after making her alliance with Orlagk the Oppressor, she had been experimenting with transmuting living stone into flesh and back again for centuries prior to that.

"Anyway, I escaped after a couple hundred years, and met trolls again when I was about your age, but obviously I didn't really fit in anymore, and I didn't luck into an adoption. I didn't even know my real name until the Amulet called me a few centuries later."

Jim cringed in sympathy.

"Then I soundly thrashed anyone who doubted me, killed a bunch of monsters, punched a wizard, saved the world, and became one of the most revered Trollhunters ever, the end."

"You forgot leading the migration to this Heartstone and founding a new Trollmarket," said Araknak.

"That part was honestly super tedious."

"True."

"Hey!"

"We were all watching, remember? The peace was refreshing at first, but the squabbles you were called to resolve …"

Araknak and Deya both shuddered.

"Worst part of being the Trollhunter."

"And how."

Jim was only half-listening now, trying to visualize himself translucent like the ghosts. Hide me, hide me …

He watched his hands. They weren't fading away. The fingertips of his gauntlets might have gotten a little darker?

The memory-replay-cloud, or vision-window, or whatever it was, appeared, showing Jim on AAARRRGGHH's back. Jim studied the image.

The silver parts of his armour had a greenish tinge, which might have just been a reflection of AAARRRGGHH's fur colour, and the blue light from the plates' etchings had faded out.

The black scale mail, visible here and there at the joints and gaps where armour plates met, was maybe a little closer to gray than black? The image was a bit washed-out, though. But it would make sense in a stealth mode, because gray blended into the shadows better than a true black.

"So that's another benefit to stealth," said Deya brightly. "People can't find you to ask you to deal with petty stuff."

+=+

While walking home, Jim considered who to tell, and how to tell them, about his new relatives.

His human friends should know, of course, because they spoke to Blinky and AAARRRGGHH regularly. They'd all be happy for him.

Enrique might get jealous, but if Claire knew, then he was likely to find out, so Jim should probably take the initiative of telling him.

Nomura, he probably should not tell. Jim's experiences with Trollmarket were basically the opposite of hers – or so the gossip chain implied; it wasn't like she ever confided in him about it personally – so she'd probably get bitter. A bitter Nomura was a violent Nomura.

Stricklander would probably find it hilarious. Jim's infiltration of Trollmarket had exceeded expectations in all regards.

(Hopefully he'd find it funny … Jim had some time to work out exactly how to tell him, at least.)

Jim was so concerned with how his fellow Changelings might react, it did not occur to him to worry about how his mother would feel.

+=+

"What were you doing in Trollmarket today?" Barbara asked, cutting up her steak.

"AAARRRGGHH and Blinky adopted me," said Jim brightly. Barbara dropped her cutlery. "It's mostly a bureaucratic thing, to give me a place in Trollmarket besides of my job. Jim Galadrigal might have a say in discussions that Jim Lake Junior wouldn't even be allowed to listen in on."

If Barbara had taken a bite already she might've choked on it. Jim had gotten adopted? He'd changed his name? What next, was he going to move into Trollmarket full-time?

She blinked quickly to avoid tearing up. Jim reached over but stopped before touching her hand.

"How could you make a decision that big without telling me?" she demanded. "I know, I know, you're technically an adult and don't need permission, but – this is a big deal, Jim! You could've at least told me before you said yes."

Oh, my God, I've become my mother. That was nearly what her mom had said when Barbara called to say she was spending a semester in Rome.

"Do you …" Oh, no, the tears were coming. "Do you not see me as a mom anymore?"

Jim gasped.

"This doesn't – Blinky said, troll adoption doesn't mean cutting any ties you had before," he said. "And, I, I didn't want to push it, but, I don't really know how you feel about me. Now that you know what I am."

AAARRRGGHH and Blinky know what I am, and offered me a place in their home, and you found out what I was and kicked me out, was unspoken, but Barbara heard it loud and clear.

She grabbed her son's hand, still on the table so close to hers.

"You've been my son for sixteen years – I'm sorry I took the truth as badly as I did but I swear I didn't just stop caring about you. And I should've told you that sooner, but I didn't know how you felt about me, either. Did – did you ever see me as a mom? Or just some human you were playing house with to keep your cover?"

"What?!" Both Jim's hands were on Barbara's now. They had a crushing grip on each other and were staring straight into each other's eyes. Jim's eyes glowed red. He was tearing up, too. "Mom – Mom, I got so, so attached. I'm not, I wasn't, supposed to be, but – it's an open secret for Changelings, we always get attached to our host families. You mean the world to me."

Almost as quickly as it exploded, the tension in the room started to drain away.

"I guess we should've talked about that sooner," Barbara admitted. "In … in the interests of full disclosure, I've been scared to bring it up. As long as I didn't ask, I wouldn't have to hear … an answer I didn't want to hear."

"Same," said Jim. He looked like he was trying to smile; with his red eyes and the tear-tracks on his upper cheeks it came across rather like a grimace. "So … we're still a family?"

"We're still a family."

"Finally!" barked Draal from the basement. "Now you can stop shying away from each other."

Barbara jumped as their lodger reminded her of his existence. Jim blinked and his eyes turned blue again. They both laughed.

Barbara made a mental note to check out some of those family therapy books at the library again. She doubted anything had been written about her specific situation – "I recently found out I had adopted my child, who has now also been adopted by someone else, and I don't know what to feel about that second part" – but at least there should be some advice on 'communication with your teenager'. And maybe 'co-parenting'.

+=+

Previous Chapter (Jim fights Blango for the Killstone)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (Claire and Not Enrique debate his name)

Jim and Barbara's talk was supposed to drag out a lot longer and have more tension, for the first part since neither of them really wanted to be the one to bring this up and for the second part because there was a lot of emotional ground to cover, but then feelings got intense and they both blabbed quickly.

I've got some new ideas, based on Wizards – some of them are here in Deya's backstory – but I think I'll wait until the movie comes out before fully updating the fic's outline again. As I believe I've said before, I am not keeping all of it; I've gotten a few comments asking if I'll be incorporating aspects of Wizards into this story, and my answer remains "some but not all". (For example, this timeline continues to have Trollhunters prior to Deya.)

Some elements from the spinoff novels and comics appear in this chapter: Araknak the Agile being an ancestor of Blinky's (though the exact generations were not spelled out in that comic), Barbara spending a semester studying in Rome, and Shmorkrarg being a common trollish name.

[winter-turtle]

House Of Wolves - Chapter 3 - Winterturtle - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own]

Chapter 3: Hope Is Fatal

(posting now because I'm a dumbass and I forgot to post it here after I put it on AO3)

Bound to a chair, he couldn’t move around too much. He was in pain.

“You need to learn how to be still.”

No, stop.

“The pain won’t be as bad once you stop squirming.”

He tried, but he couldn’t stifle the scream completely.

“Do you think someone else will give you a breather?”

It hurts.

“It’s for your own good.”

Peter’s eyes flew open with sharp intake of breath. He wouldn’t scream. He couldn’t. He’d learned long ago not to do it as it would show his enemies that he was weak.

And Peter wasn’t weak.

His hammering heart started to slow down to a more reasonable pace as his eyes adjusted to the dark, scanning his surroundings. The memory (nightmare?) began to fade into the back of his mind upon taking in the familiar shapes of his room.

When did he stopped thinking about it as a cell?

He was safe. Nobody could touch him here.

But… he didn’t fall asleep here. He didn’t remember walking back here either, so that only meant that someone had to carry him.

Again, he suspected who.

When one spends most of the time in confinement, it was only natural that they had a lot of time to think about things. That’s exactly how Peter was doing. He thought. He wondered. He went over every single interaction he’s had with the heroes in hopes of figuring out the reason why they were… trying.

More precisely why Stark was trying. Yes, the man might be persistent and his stubbornness seemed to turn everything into a disaster as the trip to the gym had proven, but Peter just couldn’t sense any hostile intent.

None of this made any sense. Why would people like the Avengers show any care to him?

“Hurting their own children is not something normal parents do.”

Peter shook his head. Those stupid words refused his mind since they left Stark’s mouth. “Normal parents…” he said softly under his breath, as if testing how the words felt. Normal. How normal parents behaved? How would his life turn out to be if he had normal life?

Then again, he never was normal, was he?

Deciding that the constant swirling of his thoughts won’t let him fall back asleep, Peter slipped from underneath the covers and walked towards the door. Moving around always helped. He stood there for a moment before placing his hand on the handle. What were the chances of it opening?

“Here goes nothing.”

He pushed and to his surprise, the door opened. “Huh.” Okay, so he wasn’t locked, but there was no doubt that the AI was watching his every move. Well, don’t look gifted horse in the mouth, he thought as he walked.

Turn the corner, first window, second window, third window…

Peter stopped before the fourth window. He didn’t get past this point the last time. “Okay,” he whispered to himself, raising his hand, “okay.” Ever so slowly and with bated breath, his hand inched towards the invisible barrier. His heartbeat picked up as he expected the stabbing pain any second.

But no pain came. No stabbing of needles, no sudden lightheadedness and no sudden loss of consciousness. Peter only released the breath when his hand was fully outstretched in front of him.

Peter put his other hand in front of him and took a step forward. Then another one. Then another one and then, when he realized that nothing was about to happed, lowered his hands so he wouldn’t look like a total weirdo that was pretending to walk like a zombie.

Stark kept his word.

Another speck of doubt fell on what once used to be carefully balanced scales, tilting it even more.

More or less, Peter found his way to the gym by following his nose. The room was dark, only illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the windows under the tall ceiling. The light fell on various machines which in turn threw long shadows all around the room. When Peter was little, he’d been terrified of shadows like these.  He’d felt like they would turn into a monster that would drag him away.

And then he’d spent five days in almost complete dark all on his own.

“See? That wasn’t so bad,” his mother smiled sweetly after he was let out, tired and with dried tear tracks on his cheeks. “The only monsters in the world are those people who call themselves heroes.”

Okay, no. He was getting side-tracked. A nice workout session was bound to clear his head.

Soon, Peter fell into a familiar routine. Warm-up, push-ups, sit-ups, some gymnastics… it did wonders to his mind. For the first time in four weeks, he felt himself truly relax.

Still, a tiny part of him remained on edge. Maybe it was the childish part of him that somehow remained in him despite the countless attempts to beat it out of him, but he could swear he saw the shadows shift every once in a while. Yet every time he looked, there was nothing amiss – just the same equipment sitting on the same spot.

Peter dropped down from the rings with almost inaudible thump. His eyes closed.

“A bit late for a workout.”

Peter whipped around, pinpointing the source of voice. Black Widow sat on a nearby bench, almost shrouded by the shadows, her gaze trained on the dumbbell in her hand.

So he wasn’t paranoid; it was most likely her who caused the occasional shift of the shadows. But that left one question.

Why didn’t his spidey-sense alert him to her presence?

“I must say, that was quite impressive set of moves.”

“What are you doing here?” Peter asked instead.

She switched arms. “I live here. Can’t I come for a late-night workout session too?”

Peter opted to remain silent. The woman continued through her set before standing up and putting the dumbbell to its original spot. “Care to give me a hand?” she asked as she lied down on a bench and grabbed ahold of a barbell.

Not a single of her footsteps could be heard, even with his super hearing. Peter found it impressive.

He didn’t know why, but he followed. He got ahold of the metal bar, securing it in case Romanov’s arms would buckle.

“You know,” she began, her voice slightly strained, “I always come here too when sleep seems impossible. Those night when something is keeping you up…”

Silence.

“So, what kept you up? You looked pretty tired at the movies.”

Peter huffed. “What kept you up?”

She shrugged. For a while, Peter thought that was the end of the conversation, but the universe loved to prove him wrong.

“It’s confusing, isn’t it? When two worlds clash and suddenly you are left to question everything.”

Peter didn’t like the direction the conversation was headed. “What do you know?”

“A lot.”

Okay, even if Peter was vaguely aware of Romanov’s background, the answer wasn’t helpful at all. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Despite the warning, despite me saying what I did… you know I could just let go of this barbell and let it crush your throat. Nobody would be able to do anything to stop me.”

“Then by all means do. Feel free. You have a perfect opportunity,” she said, perfectly unfazed.

Peter stared at her as if she was a particularly difficult piece of puzzle.

She wasn’t afraid of him.

Why wasn’t she afraid of him?

The weight gave a sudden jerk down. Peter instinctively gripped it, preventing it from dipping further. His slightly widened brown eyes locked with Romanov’s green, trying to read them, although unsuccessfully. But whatever the woman was looking for in his, she must have found it.

With a final grunt, Romanov put the weight back and stood up. She gave Peter a onceover before nodding to herself and then headed to the door, dabbing her sweat away with the towel.

“Why did you come here?” he asked in lowly before she crossed the threshold.

She shrugged. “Just a late-night workout. Same as you. And with that out of the way, I believe the sleep will come easier. You should head to bed too. Growing boys need their rest so they can get big and strong.”

Peter stared at the spot until he was sure he was alone. His mind was whirling.

Was this some kind of test? It certainly felt like it. But if it was, it brought on a question of whether he passed or not. He didn’t know which option he preferred.

A glint coming from underneath one of the bicycles caught his eye. Peter, pretending to tie his shoelace, picked up the object. A smile slowly spreading across his face at the sight of the forgotten black bobby pin. The hair stuck to it was long, too long, so that ruled out Black Widow as the owner. Peter doubted she would be careless enough to leave this lying here.

Finally something he could use.

He resumed the “tying” of the shoelaces when in reality, he slipped the pin into his shoe. He stood up and left.

Getting the bracelets open took him longer than he would like to admit, but prying small panels off with nothing but a bobby pin wasn’t the easiest task. But here he was, sitting on a bathroom floor, staring at the exposed mechanism. If he was correct, these parts were responsible for dampening his powers.

Peter positioned his wrists so they would be in line with the ends of the bobby pin. He had to do it correctly if he wanted to succeed. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he messed up.

It could shock him unconscious, release a lethal dose of the sedatives… the list went on.

Taking a steadying breath, he curled his hands into fists, and narrowed his eyes in concentration.

“Three, two… one.”

He brough his wrists together in one swift motion, stabbing the exposed areas at the same time. The bracelets let out a single spark of light each and thin trail of smoke.

“Well, that probably short-circuited something else too,” Peter muttered as he closed the exposed areas. You could spot the faint scratches on the sleek silver surface only if you looked for them. After he removed the pin from the soap and tucked it where, hopefully, nobody would find it, he returned to the living area. Had had mapped the field the camera could see, which allowed him to pick the blind spot big enough to test the results.

He placed his palms on the wall. “Here goes nothing,” he said and jumped.

He didn’t fall.

He didn’t fall!

Grin threatened to split his face in two. “Yes! Yes!” he quietly cheered. Wasting no more time, Peter climbed the rest of the way up and nestled himself into the corner. The familiar feeling was soothing him instantly. Well, it looked like he was about to get first full night of good sleep since he ended up at this place.

That was his last thought before he fell asleep, the corners of his lips quirked upwards.

“Friday, is the kid awake yet?” Tony asked from where he was pouring himself a cup of coffee. When Natasha came to him earlier and told him her night encounter, it actually put him in a good mood.

“I am unable to get my eyes on Peter.”

Tony’s smile froze. “Is he in a bathroom?” The kid didn’t get sick again, did he?

“Negative, Boss. He left the bathroom in early morning hours and then I lost sight of him.”

“Bracelets?”

“I am unable to detect the location from those.”

Tony’s heart skipped a beat at that. “Comb through the footage.” With heavy heart, he abandoned the coffee and headed to the kid’s room.

Kid, for both of our sake, but mostly for yours, I hope you didn’t run.

Peter woke up to a sound that sounded suspiciously like a wheeze. He let out disgruntles sigh and turned his head to look over his shoulder. To his surprise, he found Stark below him, his arms awkwardly in front of him.

“Why do you look like you’re about to have a heart attack?” he mumbled sleepily.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re stuck to a ceiling?!”

The brief flash of confusion turned into understanding once he realized where he was. “Oh. Right.”

“Oh? Right?! That’s all you’re going to say about it?! You could’ve fallen!”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Stark.” Mr. Stark, huh? Now when did that happen? “I won’t fall.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I know,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “My powers, remember?”

Wait-

Oh shit, his powers! Mr. Stark knew caught him. “I, uh…”

Smart, Parker. Really smart.

“Right,” Mr. Stark said slowly, “how about you come down?”

Shit, shit, shit- Peter did his best not to outwardly show his panic. He messed up big time. And when there was a mess-up, a punishment usually followed. What a pity. He went so long without one.

Peter could’ve jumped, but he wanted to savor those precious seconds before the pain came, so he started climbing down. Well, the least he could do was to face it like a champ. Like always.

No place for weaknesses.

“Hey, is everything all—"

New voice.

Peter froze still stuck to the wall. Mr. Stark whipped around. It seemed like the time in the room stopped as Wilson and Barnes’ eyes slid from Mr. Stark’s form to him.

Maybe if I don’t move, they won’t see me, Peter thought.

“I’m pretty sure he’s not supposed to do that,” Wilson said warily and to be fair, Peter couldn’t blame him. He did attack the man before.

Peter soundlessly lowered himself to the ground, the slight shift of the two newcomers’ bodies making Peter’s own tense in response. He will defend himself should he be attacked.

Mr. Stark stepped in front of him, shielding Peter from the view. “Everything’s fine,” he said. “Leave us. We’ll join you shortly.”

Wilson leaned to the side to catch a glimpse of Peter. The boy didn’t need to be a telepath to know what was going through the man’s head. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Go.”

The man looked like he wanted to protest, but Barnes’ hand on his shoulder stopped him. The former Hydra assassin nodded towards the door. Wilson, though reluctantly, relented. “Okay.”

Once the two were out of the sight, Mr. Stark turned to face Peter and took a step towards him. Here it comes. Peter lifted his head, his jaw clenched as he waited for the blow to land. Will it be a slap or punch? Will it be just his face that gets struck or his torso too? Will he get kicked once he’s on his knees?

Two arms sneaked around his body, one around his arms and one burying itself in his hair, made Peter turn into a statue. But no pain came. The touch was… gentle, actually. The hand in his hair began to cradle through his curls. It felt like someone pulled the plug and all of Peter’s tension went down the drain.

“I’m not mad,” Mr. Stark murmured into his hair, startling Peter and making him free himself from the hold before he could sink into it fully.

“What was that?”

Mr. Stark quirked one eyebrow. “Me saying I’m not mad or the hug?” When Peter didn’t reply, the curiosity turned into a small frown. “Did you ever get hugged?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, plenty. All-all the time,” Peter rushed out, but the lie sounded fake to his own ears.

“Right, as I was saying, I’m not mad, but I have to ask – how did you disable it?”

Peter decided to take the risk and merely shrugged. He fully expected Mr. Stark to press further for the answers, but the man only nodded and said, “Okay. Now come on, breakfast is on the table.”

Peter could only blink after the man. Mr. Stark didn’t strike him. Mr. Stark didn’t strike him! Peter messed up, did something he shouldn’t have done… yet there was no beating. Not even after he refused to say how he disabled the bracelets. All those things would get him pretty beaten up back home, what the hell?

Safe, his mind whispered.

Peter mulled over the word. Safe. Yes, he was safe, wasn’t he? Mr. Stark stepped in front of him, shielding him with his own body. Mr. Stark hugged him.

Nobody could touch him if he was near Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark meant safety. Safety felt nice.

Peter decided he liked Mr. Stark.

The day was spent by the kid glued to the TV, watching one sci-fi movie after another. The rest of Star Wars saga, Alien, Back to the Future, Jurassic Park – it didn’t matter. It was like he tuned out the rest of the world, only acknowledging when someone joined him on the couch with brief glance. Tony couldn’t help the tiny smile at the sight of childish wonder in Peter’s eyes. With all of the training his parents had put him through, there was no doubt that the boy had any time to just… be a kid.

Tony decided not to do anything about the bracelets. That was another point he wanted to bring up – trust. And besides, if the kid wanted to run, he would have done that the moment he disabled the power dampener.

He made a note to clean and basically child-and-villain-proof his workshop. He wanted to see on what level the kid was despite never attending school. He had to have some knowledge if he was able to disable them.

The whole confrontation refused to leave his mind. Peter looked like a deer caught in a headlight once he realized he was sticking to the ceiling. Like he was expecting him to lash out.

The addition of Mr. and Miss in front of their names came as a pleasant shock. Well, except Steve. Steve was still called Call-Me-Steve. And to Steve’s annoyance, the rest of the team took on the nickname as well. Still, it helped to ease the atmosphere between Peter and the group.

The efforts seemed to start paying off, because the kid basically imprinted on Tony like a duckling, checking from time to time if Tony was nearby.

When Tony found Peter sleeping in the same corner the next day, he had a comfy hammock installed there. Though he thought the kid would appreciate it, it was also mostly for peace of Tony’s own mind.

And as it turned out, he was right. Peter’s whole face lit up once he spotted the little nest.

Tony’s heart flooded with warmth.

Tony craned his neck up. “You sure like that book, huh?”

Peter, sitting on a ceiling, glanced over the top before returning his gaze to the pages. “It’s alright.”

Over the days of interacting with their little charge, Tony believed he became fluent in the teen. He never expressed outward joy and Tony for some reason suspected that it was because of the kid’s fear of having the object of his joy taken away. That, or he didn’t know how to properly express what he was feeling, which Tony found relatable.

Another round of laughter came from the group huddled near the TV. The team had taken up watching the aforementioned PSAs, making their local fossil cover his face in embarrassment. Clint was bent over, holding his sides. “Aw, man, these are hilarious.”

“Play the one about reproduction. You can see Call-Me-Steve’s soul leave his body in that one,” Peter said without looking away from the page. Eventually, he looked, but not at the group. He looked at Bucky, who was only half-attempting to hide his staring. “Why are you staring at me so much?”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Peter’s eyebrows knitted together. “Uh, okay? For what exactly?”

“For trying to kill you.”

“Do you have any idea how little that narrows it down? Many people tried to kill me. As you can see, they didn’t succeed.”

Bucky shifted, bowing his head slightly. “I tried… as a Winter Soldier, I was given the order to kill you shortly after you got your powers. I’m sorry.”

Aside from the rowdy group going crazy over the videos, everything was quiet in their little corner.

“Eh, it’s no big deal,” the kid said, making both men turn to him. “I don’t remember it at all, you obviously failed as I’m right here, so… no hard feelings on my side.”

“But I—”

“If you want to hear ‘I forgive you’ from me, then fine. I forgive you. You can cross my name off some list if you have one, but I literally couldn’t care less.”

Tony watched as Barnes’ shoulders fell in acceptance and mentally added him on a list of people that Peter started to slowly warm up to. First it was Natasha, then Rhodey and then Clint being, well, Clint, got jealous and practically started to buy the kid with chocolate. He puffed like a peacock when Peter told him ‘you’re not so bad’.

But Tony knew he was still number one and nobody could take it away from him.

His idle scrolling through SI documents that Pepper labeled as “important” got interrupted by an alert lighting up on his watch. Peter’s vitals were all over the place for the past five minutes.

Peter hadn’t moved from his spot on the ceiling, but it didn’t escape Tony how hunched over the book the kid was, wide eyes furiously going over the page and lips slightly parted. “Pete?” Nothing. “Kid?” Still no response. “Must be hell of a book,” he muttered under his breath.

A broom in the corner caught his attention. Shrugging, he grabbed it and then poked Peter’s side. The effect was instant. The kid yelped and if it wasn’t for his stickiness and quick reflexes, he would’ve fallen. “What the hell, Mr. Stark?” he cried out as he slightly swinged from side to side.

“Breathe!” Tony said, exasperated. “Or you’ll faceplant on the floor when you pass out.”

“You almost made me fall!”

Tony poked the kid’s ribs with the broom handle. “Well, what was I supposed to do? You didn’t react to anything else!”

“Well, maybe I acknowledged you with a hum but your old man ears didn’t catch that.”

Tony let out dramatic gasp. “You sassy little shit,” he said, flipped the broom over and began to playfully whack the boy with it. Peter giggled – actually giggled – and moved out of the broom’s reach. Tony gave chase, eliciting more giggles from the kid. “I’ll let you know that I’m not that old!”

“Whatever makes you feel better, old man,” the kid replied cheekily.

Tony huffed and shook his head. “Kids these days have no respect,” he grumbled. “Just breathe next time.” He went back to the documents, aware that Peter was following him to stay close.

And just when Tony thought that everything went well, of course it had to go to shit.

Tony heard the kid draw in shuddering breath, noticing that he made it through the book. But that wasn’t all that caught his attention. No, he tried and failed to decipher the emotions that rapidly flashed across Peter’s features. In one flash, Tony could’ve sworn that the kid was about to cry.

Just as fast as it appeared, it disappeared, Peter closed the book shut, jumped down, threw the book on the table and stormed from the room. Tony grabbed the book in hopes to find what had upset the kid since he enjoyed it so much. He flipped to the last page and he immediately understood.

“What was that about?” Rhodey asked.

“I’m going to get that girl from that bookstore fired,” he muttered angrily, passing the book to Sam’s waiting hands. Hope was apparently one of the themes; that was the reason Tony got it in the first place. “No wonder he’s upset with an ending like that!”

Sam passed the book to Natasha. “Well, it is a trilogy. If you wanted cliché happy ending, you should've gotten some standalone. Or different author.”

“Tony,” Steve said, “don’t—”

“What, Steve?” he snapped. “Don’t bother trying? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“No.”

Tony stopped.

“I wanted to say that whatever went wrong this time, you’ll be able to fix it. You always do.” Tony stared, dumbfounded. Steve continued. “I had my doubts before, but after seeing you two earlier… I was wrong. Whatever you need, we’ll help.”

“Huh. Never would have thought that we would see eye to eye, but… thanks, Cap. I appreciate it,” Tony said, and he meant it. But now onto more pressing matter. “Okay, I’m gonna go talk to him, make sure the kid’s okay.”

“Wait!” Clint called out, making Tony stop. “A bit of advice from seasoned dad to a new dad – if you push a teenager to talk when he doesn’t want to, you’ll do more harm than good. You have to let him blow some steam off first. And until then,” he opened a vent hatch and pulled out a chocolate tablet from now not-so-secret stash, “here.”

Tony accepted the sweet treat. Clint must really want to help if he was willing to pass up on an opportunity to bribe the kid into liking him. “Thanks, Clint.”

He was almost out of the room when he turned around so fast it almost gave everyone a whiplash.

“Hold on… what do you mean a new dad?”

In the darkness of his room and in the comfort of his hammock, Peter made up his mind. He was running away. He didn’t know where exactly he would go since his parents most likely changed the locations, but he could go to some of their old hiding spots. Those places still had running water and provided safe cover from the weather. Food will be a trouble, but he could figure that part out once it came to that.

He glanced at the chocolate in his lap that Mr. Stark brought him earlier and then threw it into the hammock because he couldn’t reach that high up and Peter refused to come down. He set it aside and jumped down.

He’ll miss the taste.

He’ll miss the comfort of the hammock.

He’ll miss Mr. Sta-

Peter firmly cut himself off. No. He had to stop this before he got in far too deep. Because if he dared to hope that things could be better, it would simply get taken away from him anyway. Hope was fatal.  Better to spare himself the pain.

Assuming that all doors were locked for the nigh, Peter found a stairwell and bean to climb up in a search for the roof. Then he could scale down the wall and leave all of this behind.

He found the door at last. With a sense of finality pooling in his stomach, he gripped the handle and pulled the door open.

Peter looked up and stopped.

It was a good thing that Tony wasn’t asleep when Friday alerted him that the kid was on the roof. He put on one of his old zip-up hoodies and headed to his destination, not knowing what to expect. Aside from the time in the gym, Peter never wandered the Compound at night.

He opened the door and whatever he was expecting, it definitely wasn’t a pair of feet hanging in front of his face. Ducking underneath them, it didn’t take long to find the rest of the teen. Peter was sprawled on his back above the door. “A bit late to be outside.”

“There are so many,” the kid whispered, pure awe in his voice.

Tony looked up at the inky sky littered with millions of tiny bright dots. “There sure are. Not a cloud in sight. Perfect time for stargazing,” he said as he leaned on the wall next to Peter’s legs. “You’ve… never seen the stars?”

“I never really left the city. You can’t see this there with all that light pollution. Plus, when we were doing night missions outside of the city, it was always on cloudy night for maximum cover.”

Yeah, that would make sense. Though Tony couldn’t help but feel queasy at the memories of being up there. It was enough to make his skin prickle.

“You’ve been to space, right? During the battle of New York.”

Dang, the kid had to bring it up. But he was talking with Tony willingly, so he wouldn’t let the chance go to waste. “Yeah. I was.”

“How was it?”

Terrifying. Traumatizing. Nightmare and panic attack inducing. “It was… big. Vast and dark.”

“I would like to see it one day.”

Tony huffed. “Let’s hope it will be under better circumstances.”

“Thank you for closing that portal. I don’t know what I would’ve done otherwise.”

“Wait, you were there?”

“Of course. Like every person in New York.” The kid paused, seemingly contemplating to elaborate. “I was outside when the invasion happened. I wasn’t fast enough to hide in the safehouse and those things cornered me. I fought but more and more kept coming… and then they all fell. The portal closed.”

Tony found himself sitting next to Peter. He pushed the memories away in order to focus on his young charge. “Wait, that was you?”

Peter glanced at him. “Huh?”

“There was a part of the city where we weren’t fighting, but we found a bunch of Chitauri that were incapacitated before the mothership was destroyed. That was you, wasn’t it?” But none of them were killed. That planted some serious doubt about Peter’s claims that he killed someone. Sure, he was way younger then, but child soldiers killed since very young age. Plus… “There were several civilians claiming that some enhanced human had saved them.”

The kid averted his gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just protected myself.”

Lies. Tony never thought he would be grateful for those. “Well then,” he said with small smile, “whoever saved those people is a hero.”

“I didn’t save anyone.”

“I didn’t say that.”

More silence. About half a minute passed before Peter sat up, still looking up at the sky. “Do you really think that I can change? Despite everything I’ve done?”

The vulnerability in those words made Tony’s heart ache. “You just have to have a little bit of hope.”

“Hope is fatal.”

“Is it though?”

Peter shrugged, then shivered.

“Are you cold?” Tony asked.

Peter wrapped his hands around himself and shook his head in amusement. “The spider part of me doesn’t exactly like the cold.”

Oh. Right. Spiders can’t thermoregulate. Tony immediately shrugged off his hoodie. “Here,” he said as he wrapped it around Peter’s shoulders.

With wide eyes, Peter pulled the hoodie tighter around himself. “I- I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this… or understand.”

“But you’ll learn.”

A brief hesitation. “But I’ll learn,” Peter repeated. “Thank you.”

Tony’s heart leaped with joy. A grin threatened to betray how he truly felt, but thankfully, he got saved by the kid’s stomach rumbling loudly. He laughed. “Hungry?”

“A little bit,” Peter muttered, his cheeks dusting pink. Another loud rumble could be heard. “Traitor,” he muttered, looking down pointedly.

Tony ruffled Peter’s hair. “Let’s get some food into you then. Nothing is better than the good old midnight raid of the fridge.”

They tinkered in comfortable silence in Mr. Stark’s workshop. If Peter counted correctly, tomorrow should be five-week anniversary of his capture. When he compared his current-self with his past-self, it was almost unbelievable how much has his attitude towards the heroes changed.

Where there used to be struggles and attacks and rude words, now there were group meals and playful banter. Peter still struggled with that one, but as Mr. Stark had said, he’ll learn.

And oh how Peter was willing to learn, especially in Mr. Stark’s workshop. So much technology in one place. It was a dream come true! Yes, he had restrictions because of his villain status, but he still made the most of what he was allowed.

Peter dared to say that he was… happy.

A sound of muffled explosion made his head snap up and not a second later an alarm started to blare. “What’s going on?”

Mr. Stark brought up a footage Peter couldn’t see. “We’re under attack. Don’t worry, just… stay here, okay?” he said, and with that, he was gone.

The tightness on Mr. Stark’s face, along with the churning of his stomach, gave Peter a pretty good tip on who was attacking. More explosions could be heard over the alarm. They were louder. Closer. Like they were on…

The roof.

Peter was torn. Why now? His own words echoed in his head.

“They’re just waiting for the right moment to strike.”

Dammit.

Mr. Stark told him to stay put. And he wanted to obey, he really did, but… the sound of the battle went on for too long.

Peter knew what he had to do.

With his features set with determination, he headed out of the lab, but not before slipping a metallic disc into his shoe. He willed his hand to stop shaking as he pushed the pulled the door to the roof open. Unsurprisingly, he was met with the sight of a battlefield. There were dents in the roof. Charred spots from where the explosion went off. Even some bloodstains.

“Peter?” he heard Mr. Stark say. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay put!”

Peter didn’t get the chance to reply. “Spider!” He knew that voice. That was his mother’s voice. “What are you waiting for? Come on!” Peter spotted her on something that resembled a helicopter. His father was piloting, but still shot small rockets at the heroes on the roof.

“Peter, don’t,” Mr. Stark pleaded, shooting from his wrist gauntlet.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and gulped. Then he began to sprint across the roof towards his parents. Someone tackled him.

“Pete, kid, listen,” Mr. Stark said, “you don’t have to go with them. Remember what we were talking about? You can be better! Don’t throw everything away. Please,” he choked the last word out.

But he knew what he had to do. So, flipping the man easily off of his body, he took off running once again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, not sure if it could be heard through the lump in his throat. Peter came to the edge of the roof and jumped. His hand clasped around his mother’s extended one.

“Now!” his mother yelled at the same time as their hands connected.

An electric blast went through the tower, rendering all electronic on the roof useless. Peter heard the clang of Rhodey’s metal suit as it hit the ground. Peter risked the glance over his shoulder at the people he left behind.

“Nice one, Richard!”

“You were great too, hun!”

As always, no praise for Peter. A sudden stabbing pain came from around his wrists. Peter set his lips into thin like. “I forgot about these,” he muttered.

Well, he guessed he deserved it.

Darkness swallowed him.

[nominnation]

Shard of Broken Things

Author's Note: This has been posted on NCT Amino and a03. It was made specifically for NCT Amino with the Writing Club as we make our way writing fics for every member of NCT.

Pairing(s): Renjun x Jaemin

Synopsis: Renjun and Jaemin went to high school together. They were the best of friends, but after high school, they went their separate ways. Now, Renjun is investigating the mysterious deaths in the city with his partner, Jeno, and Jaemin is piercing veins with his teeth and dumping the bodies in dumpsters at midnight. What happens when they meet again? Will Renjun discover Jaemin's secret?

Genre: angst, slight fluff, supernatural

Warnings: major character death, crime, insanity, minor blood

Hwang Renjun trailed his eyes over the body of the male laced in black garments, lying face first in the mud-caked asphalt, money and identification long plucked from the confines of his leather wallet.

Renjun rubbed his brow in frustration before carefully nudging the body of the male over, mentally choking when he realized how young he was. The male was no older than 25, long, dingy brown hair matted in clumps, obviously someone who had been homeless or had been held captive for a long time. He knelt down and brought his gloved hand up to push back the hood, searching for something he hoped wasn’t there. His hopes weren’t answered as his eyes zeroed in on the very familiar signature markings. “Well?” Detective Lee Jeno asked from his place by the garbage bins, evidence camera hanging loosely around his neck. “Call Chief Qian. We’ve got another,” he replied before stepping away, letting the coroner step forward to bag the body. Jeno shook his head with a drawn out sigh and pulled the phone from his police issued jacket, only pressing one button before raising it to his ear. “Bite marks on this one too,” he spoke into the speaker. Whatever was said on the other side was inaudible as Renjun passed his partner to slide into the passenger side of the black SUV.

~ Shiny black shoes silently hit the cobblestone floor as the owner led them down the narrow hallway, lit by fire lanterns along the windowless hall. When the torches came to an end, they were replaced with a metal winding staircase that creaked with every step, leading up to a heavy black door, beams of yellow light creeping around the creases. Pulling on the cold metal handle, he opened the door without so much as a groan at the weight before slipping inside, pulling the door closed. “You’re late!” an annoying “sing-song” voice greeted him. “Put a sock in it,” Jaemin muttered grumpily, kicking off his shoes off by the door. “Where’s Boss?” he asked, not looking at the younger male, hands plunged into elbow-high soapy water. “I think he’s in the office with Doyoung,” the male said, looking back down at the water as he pulled up a white ceramic plate, placing it in the dish drainer. Jaemin gave a nod and headed toward the open kitchen door before the younger at the sink called out to him. “Tell Tae that we need a dishwasher! I’m tired of doing it by hand!” Jaemin shook his head, a smile finding its way to his red lips. “That’s kinda the whole point of probation chores, Hyuck,” the male said, strolling out of the room, sock feet meeting laminated hardwood. He walked through the mostly unused sitting room and up another, narrower set of stairs, three stories high, getting off at the second story. A long hallway covered in white tile greeted him as he rounded the bend. He strolled down the hall, nose picking up strong whiffs of mold and Doyoung’s poisonous musk. The office, Taeyong’s office to be precise, resided at the end of the long hall, 10 doors down from the stairs. Jaemin brought a fist up to rap on the bullet proof, metal encased door, when said door swung open, a tearful Chenle walking out. Jaemin shot him a confused glance but dared not utter a word as the smaller male rushed from the door, nearly slipping on the tile as he hurried to the end of the hall for the stairs, most likely to the comfort of his room a floor below. Jaemin pushed through the half ajar door, letting it close with a heavy clang behind him as his eyes habitually squinted in the dark room, only lit by a single lamp, highlighting two shadowy faces that Jaemin didn’t need to see to know they were there. “Did you complete the task?” “Yes. He’s been taken care of,” he responded cooly. “Where?” “The alley of 5th street.” “Isn’t that where you dumped the last one?” Doyoung chimed in. Jaemin rolled his eyes, meeting Doyoung’s honey brown ones briefly before nodding. “It’s the closest to the dumpsters! Easiest place to put them!” Taeyong’s lips pursed at the comment before tapping a pen on the mahogany desk. “If you’re not careful, you’ll lead them right to us!” Doyoung hissed. Jaemin tried to make it seem like the words didn’t affect him, but the truth was, the thought of leading the police back to him, back to them, was not a thought that had crossed his mind before. The realization hit him in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t see all that well in the poorly lit room, but the inhale from Doyoung meant he wasn’t finished and he was getting ready to cut into Jaemin’s resolve once more when Taeyong raised his hand. “That’s enough.” His voice soft like honey, but held such command that Jaemin’s eyes met the floor and Doyoung’s mouth snapped closed. “Jaemin is a new recruit. He cannot be expected to know these things without being told,” he began. Doyoung scoffed, but the sharp look Taeyong sent his way had him hurriedly shutting up. “With that said, Jaemin, you may continue feasting, but when it is time to get rid of your meal, someone will escort you until you learn the ways of disposing,” he said. His tone was sharp and hard, digging into Jaemin’s resolve even more, because it wasn’t what he said that hurt, it was how he said it. Jaemin gave a curt nod, clasping his hands in front of him stiffly. Taeyong’s eyes flicked to him and then back down to the stack of papers in front of him. Reading glasses perched on his

nose where he’d eyed the scribbles and curved writing on the paper that oddly resembled a map. With a simple flick of his hand, Jaemin’s stomach dropped to his toes, scrambling for the door anxiously, throwing it open and hurriedly bounding into the hall. He didn’t realize until he got there, that his chest felt odd. A dull aching feeling that he faintly recalled from his earlier years. As the door slammed behind him, he pressed his back against the wall, breathing out a long sigh of relief before staggering his way back down the hall, heading to the staircase. As he trudged, it didn’t occur to him that someone was likely going to be watching his every move, sticking with him like glue, and assisting on every dumpsite to criticize whatever he’s doing wrong. It also didn’t occur to him to think about who that person would be. There were only a handful of people living in this house, that would be able to assist. And there was no likely way that Taeyong would select someone from a different house unit to come live here just so Jaemin had a partner. As he made his way back into his room, he flopped on the massive King sized bed, flawlessly made up in the perfectly organized room. Who would they send with him? It couldn’t be Donghyuck or Chenle. Both were too young and Chenle was still a probationary member. Taeyong and Doyoung were both far too busy to deal with something so miniscule. Mark wouldn’t be any better than Jaemin himself at disposing of a body. Hendery was far too busy capturing the “prey” to be of any assistance. As he ticked them off in his head, his stomach churned and his brow creased, a habit from the days when he’d once sweat. That left only two possible options. And neither of them were desirable. Nakamoto Yuta, otherwise known as Prince, or Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, also known as the Ten of Spades. There was no lesser of two evils. No better choice. Both were equally rotten. He was trapped between a perverted asshole who had more in common with Jaemin than he’d like to admit, and a crazy, combat thirsty devil with a dark sense of humor. His goose was well and truly cooked. ~ Jaemin’s fate wasn’t revealed until later that night. An unknown number popped up on his phone and his stomach tightened. They never gave out their cellphone numbers. And only a unit knew everyone’s real names. This unknown number was most certainly his new “partner.” He hesitated in answering the call for just a moment before, letting out a sigh, he pressed the green answer key and pressed the device to his ear. “Meet me in the catacombs.” With one instruction, the call ended, and Jaemin’s heart would have been beating impossibly fast, but all he received was another dull ache that slowly got stronger. That could have been anyone. The voice was too indistinguishable. Driven by curiosity or the ferocity of receiving an order, he slid out of bed and strolled across the hardwood floor, slipping his feet into soft leather black boots that flexed with his movements. He grabbed a small jacket from his closet, not because he was cold, but because normal people would wear jackets this time of year, and headed for the door, pain in his chest intensifying as he walked down three flights of stairs and headed through the kitchen where Mark and Donghyuck stood, glowering at the nearly broken microwave. He opened the heavy black door he’d come out of earlier and slid himself onto the creaking metal steps. The door slammed behind him as he slowly made his way down the steps, invisible pulse accelerating now as he awaited to see who this impossible partner would be. As he reached the bottom, he expected to see the silhouette of someone, but was met with only the familiar musty air that tickled the back of his throat as he breathed in. His boots silently swept across the dusty concrete as trekked down the hall of the century old tomb beneath the frontfort mansion. It didn’t take him long to locate the shape of someone’s shadow bouncing off the rocky walls by the glowing torch light. As the shadow came into view, at first

he was confused. This was neither of the men he feared, but as he got closer, a shock ran down his spine, and he had half a mind to turn the other way. He’d been wrong. There was a worse one out of his two options. And he’d gotten the worse of the two. Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul stood alert in the middle of the tomb hallway, back to Jaemin as he studied the curvature featured along the ancient pebbles creating the wall. The pain in Jaemin’s chest grew less of a dull ache and now to full blown panic as his feet drew him closer, half hoping his silent footsteps would creep up on the other, giving him an advantage. There was no advantage when the Ten of Spades was involved. “Look who finally decided to show up!” his lips curved into a sinister smirk as he spun around to face the younger. Jaemin tried not to look startled, and failed miserably if the other’s laugh was anything to go by. “For a Bloodsucker, you sure do startle easily,” he cackled. Jaemin could feel his face burn in embarrassment, the stoniness of his cheeks rippling at the pressure, a side effect from not actually being able to blush. The other’s laughter quieted finally with a shake of his head, returning back to his normal posture. The Ten of Spades was a small, thin male that was often underestimated for his height. He looked like a tiny, frail boy that was no more than a damsel. Common belief was totally incorrect. He may have been a full head shorter than Jaemin, but he could take down a typical, full grown body guard with a few swift moves. In fact, he had. He was a master at fighting, always able to locate someone’s weak spots even before they knew what they were. “Are you going to stare all day? Or are we going to get started?” he asked. Jaemin shook his head. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring. “Started on what?” he asked. Ten shook his head with a dark laugh. “Romeo brought someone else back. He’s being held in the usual place,” he said. Romeo, or as everyone else knew him, Hendery, was the units drug dealer. Except his job didn’t stop there. He was also the main man to capture and bring back individuals for Jaemin, or occasionally Yuta, to feast on. Usually, it was people who couldn’t or refused to pay for their product. Rarely was it a random civilian that had simply seen too much. Ten led them further down the tunnel, down the same cobblestone stairs he’d seen dozens of times and down into the creeping darkness that would lead to the dungeons. The brass cage door came into Jaemin’s view first, before his eyes landed on a male of about 30 or so, overweight, in ripped, bagging clothes with a trail of blood dripping down his arm. “Help me… please,” he muttered hoarsely, brown eyes filled with hope. Ten stared at him, features turning soft as he gently reached a hand in to grasp the man’s hand. Jaemin could hear the man’s heartbeat slowing as he calmed, relaxing as he finally had someone to rescue him. Or so he thought. Sharp nails dug into the chubby skin of the males arm, drawing blood to the surface in the tight grip, the male crying out at the pain as Ten’s sweet smile turned wicked. “Only death with help you now,” he hissed. Jaemin felt the familiar gnawing in the pit of his stomach as the back of his throat burned in thirst. Ten turned to look at him, giving him a wink before opening the cage door. Jaemin threw off the jacket he’d been wearing, having no desire to get stains on it. He crouched down low enough to step through the door, eyes meeting the flesh of the male before traveling up to his eyes. He was terrified. Jaemin’s eyes flashed bright red as he moved closer until he was crouched right beside the male, the delicious smell of warm blood filling his nostrils, making his stomach groan in want. “Type O. My favorite,” his voice came out as a raspy hiss. The male trembled in fright as Jaemin moved closer, placing his now parted lips on the males neck, two sharp teeth piercing the tender flesh, shooting straight into his artery. A loud, bellowing scream ripped from the males lips as he writhed and

struggled, held down by Jaemin’s iron grip as the hungry male swiftly guzzled his meal. ~ Jaemin wiped his mouth on his arm, letting the lifeless body drop to the floor as he stood up and turned around to find Ten staring at him. “Did you even leave a drop?” he asked, voice laced with humor. Jaemin shrugged in response and easily lifted the drained male, throwing the body over his shoulder and stepping out of the cage. “So are we going to go dump this thing now?” he asked. Ten gave a little chuckle somewhere between a squeak and a bellow, and nodded. “Sure, let’s go.” With that, the two made their way back up the tunnel hall they’d strolled down. “So when you drink from Haechan or Mark, what stops you from draining them like you did him?” Ten asked. Jaemin shot him a look. Since when did they have casual conversation? “Um… Well Yuta is usually there if I go too far. Not to mention, they’re some of my best friends. I keep that in mind and only drink a bit,” he said. Ten gave a humph and led them to the end of the hallway, to another black metal door. He pushed it open and stepped out first, holding the door open for the younger. When Jaemin stepped out, he was met with the blackness of the night in a back alley between the local Chinese restaurant and the Japanese manga store. Both owned and operated by members of their unit. “Now, if I weren’t with you, where would you put the body?” Ten asked. Jaemin looked around as he thought. “Maybe on 6th?” he asked, pointing with his free hand in that general direction. Ten clicked his tongue in disapproval. “And then you’re leaving bread crumbs for those stupid cops to follow,” he proclaimed. Jaemin looked down in embarrassment. He didn’t mind the killing. He didn’t mind the torture he knew some of the captives endured. He didn’t mind sleeping over an old tomb. He didn’t even mind disposing of the bodies. He just wasn’t good at it. “Come with me.” Jaemin didn’t object. He swiftly followed behind the lithe form of the smaller male, gracefully walking without a sound. “Now since you’ve been leaving bread crumbs, where do think would be the most obsolete place to dump the body without leaving a trail?” he asked. Jaemin had no idea. Up until that afternoon, he was led to believe that everything was fine with his technique, and now everything was skewed. “How about somewhere near the police station?” Ten said, a wicked glint in his eyes. Jaemin’s eyes widened. “That’s too dangerous!” he gaped. Ten shook his head and began leading the way in the opposite direction, careful to stay in the shadows of the alleys so as not to draw any attention to the boys carrying a large body. The police station was three streets over and would almost certainly be crawling with night guards, although most of them were usually alert until about 2 am. Then they’d be snoozing when they thought no one was watching or lurking. This time of night though, they’d all be wide awake, at least for another hour. And Ten seemed to think that that made the job exciting. One thing was for sure, though, Jaemin did not find this exciting. Not even a little bit. When they finally reached the back alley across the street from the police station, Jaemin could practically feel the nerves crawling over his skin. “Why do we have to do this?” he asked, voice trembling. Ten rolled his eyes and shoved Jaemin slightly, making the younger glare at him. “Relax! It’s not like we’re marching him up the steps of the station. We’re dropping him in the dumpster!” Jaemin’s eyes zeroed in on the dumpster. It was right near the entrance of the alley. Barely concealed by the shadows of the alley and the night. “No! I can’t do it!” Ten huffed and pushed Jaemin forward. “Throw it in the dumpster and run if you’re that scared!” he whispered sternly. Jaemin found his footing quickly and crept forward. He didn’t like this, but Ten would never let it go if he didn’t do this. Not to mention what Doyoung or Taeyong would do to him if he couldn’t succeed. As he got closer, he could feel the hairs on the back

of his neck stand up. He kept his eyes trained on the police station, hoping no one would see him creeping around in the dark. Taking cautious steps, he slowly raised the metal lid. Once it was open wide enough, he used all of his strength to maneuver the body off of his shoulder and down into the metal bin. As soon as the body hit the trash below, he let the lid fall, wincing as it gave a loud clang, no doubt getting the attention of all of the officers roaming the street. He wasted no more time and turned back toward the direction they’d come from and bolted as fast as his legs would carry him, not even caring if Ten could keep up or not. Jaemin let out a small groan as the phone near his head continuously buzzed, demanding attention. He rolled over, swatting around the mattress and sheets before finding the phone, answering the call without bothering to look at the caller id. It was probably an unknown number anyways. To his surprise, a familiar voice greeted him on the other side, causing him to shoot up in the bed. “Renjun?!” he asked in complete disbelief at hearing from his high school best friend again after three years. “Hey Nana, how are you?” he asked. Jaemin felt his insides turn mushy at the voice. “I’m good Renjunnie! How are you?” He heard a small laugh on the other side of the speaker. “I’m wondering if you will meet me in an hour at our favorite coffee shop. I miss you,” he said. Jaemin felt the same dull ache as the night before fill him, but this time, it was pleasant. “Ok! I’ll see you soon!” With that, the two hung up. A smile stitched itself across Jaemin’s face as he toppled out of bed, excited jitters flowing off of him as he pulled open various doors, pulling out a pair of jeans and a nice green shirt for this outing. He slid into a pair of black Vans and was out the door as soon as he could be. He bounded down the stairs with such an excited energy he was practically radiating it. “What’s got you so jittery this morning?” Donghyuck asked as Jaemin pranced into the kitchen. Jaemin couldn’t fight the smile on his face. “Renjunnie called! I’m going to meet him at the cafe!” he cheered. Donghyuck’s amused face fell. “But you haven’t seen him since… you know… the change,” he said, gesturing with his hands. Jaemin’s face fell. He hadn’t thought about that. Both boys had gone to high school together, along with Donghyuck, Mark and Chenle amongst others. Renjun and Jaemin had been stuck together practically all through high school. They never did anything unless the other was close behind. Both made good grades and stayed out of the limelight as much as possible. Keeping their heads down and never getting into trouble. After high school, Renjun had gone off to school and Jaemin had stayed behind, unable to afford the luxuries of further schooling. He was happy in the mafia. Happy with how his life had turned out. He had food and friends and shelter. But then there was the minor complication of his… new self. The one Renjun didn’t know and most likely wouldn’t approve of. Just like everyone else. Jaemin took a deep, unneeded breath and shrugged. “I don’t care,” he said coolly, strolling out the door. Upon arriving at the cafe, he strolled inside, hoping to seem as nonchalant as he possibly could. He spotted Renjun sitting at a booth near the back, dressed perfectly professionally in a tan button down shirt and tan pants that looked eerily familiar. Jaemin was gleeful as he got closer, plopping down in the booth across from his friend and giving him a wide smile that Renjun returned. “I ordered your favorite!” Renjun beamed. Jaemin’s face fell. How was he supposed to explain that his high school best friend that he no longer drank the coffee he drank every day for four years? How would the male ever understand without knowing the truth? Maybe this was a bad idea. “I um… I actually don’t drink coffee anymore,” he muttered. Renjun gave him a questioning look, a cover for the slight hurt that crossed his features. He’d tried to wash it away but Jaemin could still see

it. Well that came out of nowhere. “Um… just down the street. I have a few roommates,” he said, not telling a complete lie. Renjun nodded and hummed as he tapped his fingers on the table. “What have you been up to since high school?” he asked. Jaemin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It wasn’t like Renjun to ask him questions like that. “Well, I’ve had a few jobs here and there,” he said. Renjun nodded and tapped on the plastic coffee in front of him. “What about you? What have you been doing since high school?” Jaemin asked. Renjun gave him an inquisitive look, glancing down at his own attire as if it should have been obvious. And it was. If Jaemin had been paying attention. The badge on his shirt was a dead giveaway, and Jaemin hadn’t seen it. “Oh… I see… That’s awesome!” he exclaimed with fake enthusiasm. “Actually, my job is why I wanted to meet with you,” he began. The pain in Jaemin’s chest intensified. Why else would he want to talk to him as a police officer if he hadn’t done anything wrong. Suddenly flashes of the night before filled his mind. What if they’d seen him? It was dark, but what if they’d seen him throw away the body? “We found a body in a trash bin last night. Probably 30 or so.” Here it comes! Renjun would surely be crucified now! “Whoever is doing this apparently is a vampire, judging by the saliva we’ve gotten off the bodies.” He froze in his seat. They had his saliva! “This person seems to have a thing for young people. So please, try to be careful. I don’t want to find my high school crush in the trash.” A load removed itself from Jaemin’s chest. They didn’t know it was him. But they would have to be more careful. Wait. Did he just say- “You had a crush on me?” A blush found its way up to Renjun’s cheeks, the once sturdy male now looking like the shy boy Jaemin remembered from early high school. [C] “Had is a little untrue… I have a crush on you,” he said, muttering the last bit. Jaemin’s eyes widened. All this time he’d been pining after Renjun, and now, he finds out after the horrible accident that Renjun had been pining after him too! “I kinda still have a crush on you too…” he said. Had he had the ability, he would have been blushing too. Renjun’s eyes lit up. “So maybe you’d like to go on a date sometime?” Renjun asked. Jaemin looked around the restaurant, eyebrows creasing. “Aren’t we on a date right now?” he asked. Renjun grinned. “If we were, I certainly wouldn’t be in my work clothes. And we’d be doing something a little classier than getting coffee.” Jaemin fiddled with his thumbs beneath the table, a shy smile worked its way onto his lips. “You’ve changed a lot, you know,” Renjun commented. Jaemin glanced up at at Renjun. “What do you mean? I haven’t changed.” The male across from him let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “A few years ago, if I had said a comment like that, your face would have been as red as a tomato.” So Renjun did remember. And if he wasn’t careful, the male would piece together just how different he was. Once Jaemin opened the big heavy door from the tunnels into the house, he was almost immediately bombarded by questions. “Why would you go out like that?!” “What did you do?!” “Does he know anything?!” “Why the meeting?!” Jaemin brushed them off as best he could, opting to walk past the questions and out of the kitchen, until of course, a small, but firm arm grabbed his elbow, tugging him back into the kitchen. “Jaemin’s friend is a cop,” Ten’s voice snarled. Jaemin’s knees locked in shock and surprise. “How do you-?” “I followed you. Now I understand why you didn’t want to dump the body near the station! You didn’t want your boyfriend to see you!” Jaemin shook his head rapidly. “No! I didn’t even know-” “Maybe Jaemin’s working for them!” Jaemin’s body shook. Why would anyone accuse him for that?! Let alone, Chenle! “No! I swear!” “Get out Jaemin.” Doyoung’s voice was snarled and low. A voice he was used to hearing, but never directed at him. His feet moved on their own, head ducked low,

feet shuffling up the stairs to his room to await whatever doom was being decided upon him. Something like this had happened only once before. Jaemin had been in the vampire transition then to fully comprehend and understand what was going on. He did remember Yuta though. Bent over the trembling body of a male in their colors. Vaguely, he remembered the name. Taeil maybe? He’d obviously been someone special to Yuta. He’d never been the same since. That changed him into a ruthless, bloodthirsty killer. The door to his room flew open. Surely they hadn’t decided his fate already! It’d only been a few minutes! But when Jaemin caught Yuta’s eyes, he knew what he’d be forced to do. And it shattered him. Yuta’s arms locked around Jaemin, holding the younger in front of him as he was shoved through the dark catacombs, feet never making a sound. Jaemin struggled, a feeble attempt at getting away. And had it been anyone else, he would have succeeded. He and Yuta shared far too much in common. “You shouldn’t have gone. Then this wouldn’t have happened. But you are a fool,” Yuta hissed in his ear. If Jaemin possessed the ability to cry, he would be bawling. Instead, he was stuck, hands trembling, mind reeling, stomach hardening. Yuta shoved him through the familiar room with the cages. A room he visited almost on a nightly basis for his meals. Usually, the room had no affect on him. If he was particularly thirsty, this room brought him great joy. Now, all he felt was fear and hate. Renjun’s body was bruised badly. His arm was bent back in a way no arm should ever be. His left eye was blackening and puffy. Jaemin had hoped that at least he’d be passed out, that this could be just a little easier. But of course, this was the mafia. Great when no one had wronged them. Ruthless when someone had. Renjun’s eyes zeroed in on Jaemin. His one good eye widening then scrunching into betrayal. “I knew you were hiding something,” he hissed. Jaemin’s eyes cast to the floor, chest tightening in pain. “Well get to it. We don’t have all day.” Taeyong’s voice came as a shock. He expected Doyoung to be here. But not their usually soft-hearted leader. The cage opened and Jaemin was shoved inside. His eyes roved over Renjun with pity, fear, and sadness. Love and pain filling his chest. “I knew there was something different. I just didn’t know you were a killer.” The words pierced Jaemin’s unbeating heart. “Please don’t make me do this,” his words were a hoarse whisper. “Pathetic,” Ten’s voice muttered, stepping forward. He reached through the cage with a pocket knife and cut a large gash on Renjun’s arm, Renjun yelped out in pain. Blood beaded down Renjun’s arm. As soon as the smell hit Jaemin’s nose, his eyes glowed the familiar red. Renjun let out a strained laugh, eyes trained on Jaemin’s. “So much for our date,” he muttered. Jaemin got closer, knelt beside the male, staring at him hungrily now. Eyes bright red as the blood wafted to his nose. “I have always loved you,” he whispered, leaning closer and pressing a kiss to Renjun’s neck. Renjun sucked in a harsh breath of air. Jaemin could hear the males heart thudding in his ears. Jaemin grazed his teeth over Renjun’s vein, his brain muddled with the sounds of Renjun’s heart. He faintly heard the quiet squeak of the cage opening. Most likely a hungry Yuta coming to help Jaemin finish the job. But Jaemin had other plans. He waited for the door to open completely, and when it did, he snapped around, finding Haechan standing at the door, wide eyed. Jaemin’s mind was too addled to coherently see Haechan. He pushed his body into the elder, sending them both barreling into the floor. “Run Renjun!” He screamed, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of Haechan’s neck, the other letting out a loud scream, thrashing around. He heard the cage rattle as feet scurried around him, attempting to yank him off Haechan, who’s blood pooled into his mouth deliciously. He didn’t get to indulge long though. Arms wrapped around him, encasing him against a chest as fangs bore into

his own neck, ripping the flesh. “Get him out of here!” he heard Taeyong bellow somewhere close by. He assumed Doyoung and Hendery had carried Haechan out before Yuta attacked the young one too. “Shit! He got away!” Ten yelled angrily, stomping the ground before walking over and slamming his fist into Jaemin’s jaw. “You little traitor! You are not better than Yuta!” he screamed. The teeth in his neck retracted. Jaemin knew what that meant. He took one last breath, looking around the room calmly, relieved that Renjun had got away. “I can’t help that I loved him,” he whispered hoarsely. His body felt so very heavy. Venom trickled down the holes in his neck as he succumbed to the weight. Renjun perched right outside a window in the tomb. He hadn’t been able to go too far in his beaten state, but it was away, somewhere they’d never be able to get him. He watched with tearful eyes as Jaemin’s body was dropped callously to the floor, eyes wide but without movement. No breath entering his body. He watched as the body thinned, stomach sinking in on itself, ribs revealing themselves. Taking him back to the same state he’d been in before he was turned. And he realized it then. Renjun had gone to college because his parents could afford it. Jaemin’s family couldn’t afford food. He’d slowly starved to death. “Get him out of here,” the smallest of them all muttered, kicking Jaemin’s body and stomping away as the other vampire picked up the body. Renjun’s heart broke in two places. One side full of sadness and sorrow. The other full of pure hatred and anger. He would avenge Jaemin’s death. He wouldn’t stop until everyone in this Mafia house were dead.P

[problamaticparagraph]

The old hunter:

Fanciful notions never appealed to Boris.

He much preferred what was in front of his face.

Up to now anyway.

The snow collected on his cloak, making it heavy and hard to move his shoulders.

There was a time he would have cared about that, the time when at a moment’s notice- he’d need to heft the weight of his sword.

But not now.

Now he was an old man and now monsters where more frequent, but impossible to fight.

Boris sat by his smouldering campfire, watching the flames. Occasionally he’d throw a lump of wood on the embers that would catch and prolong his only source of warmth. Boris liked fire, it hurt of cause. If you were stupid with it. Then again if you were smart it could cook a meal or dive away wolves or light the way. Boris liked fire.

He didn’t speak. There was no one to speak to, so he didn’t but Boris enjoyed the sound the bards sometimes made. So, he hummed a tune. Short and simple sounds that didn’t really have much of a structure, but it made the landscape feel less lonely.

He’d make it to a town in the morning, he’d have to see people and if no other option presented itself, talk to them.

Boris didn’t like people, they… where difficult but for now Boris had the evening. The howl of the wind made Boris think of the cry of yetis, how guttural they were, the power, the violence. Boris took a deep breath and for a moment could almost smell the stench of their hide.

That night, he happily slept under the vail of the stars dreaming of frost covered beast trying to tear him limb from limb.

----

He woke with the sun in his eyes and about a foot of snow around his body, his louche warm flesh left unfrozen by the layers of furs from rare creatures.

Begrudgingly Boris gets to his feet and begins walking toward the distant coeloms of cooking fires.

As he strides through the deep snow, after about thirty meters from is buried camp, the cracking of ice comes from under Boris’s feet.

“River… Fuck…”

The icy water closed over Boris’s head, for a moment he imagined massive pair of jaws about to close over him.

No churning water. No razor teeth. Just freezing water and the bed of the river lit by dull grey sunlight through the ice.

Holding his breath, Boris sawm under the ice to the far bank, drew is well aged sword, and plunged it into the ice, carving a hole that could accommodate his bulk.

Should anyone have been watching the frozen over river bank, which no one was but if they had been they would have seen a section of snow covered ice sink out of sight and then followed a large blank faced man lumbering out of the freezing water as if this near death experience was more boring than tax filings.

Ice formed in Boris’s hair and in the pelts covering his body as he entered the small town. People watched in confusion as this massive man covered in ice tracked ice onto the cleared area of snow. This man was clearly a barbarian but he wasn’t screaming for drink and women, nor money. He just walked into town and asked where the nearest inn was in an old language.

After several people not understanding him, one old man was able to point him in the right direction.

Then Boris sat at the bar, the man behind it took some time before asking but inevitably asked if he wanted a drink. Boris, his furs steaming gently in yhe warmth looked confused and mined chugging an invisible glass, the barman nods. Boris shook his head and reaches to a coin pouch, placing three of its coins on the counter.

Boris bit his lip and tried out this new language, “SSStories.”

The barman raised an eyebrow.

Boris try’s a further faze, “Bar, Hear, Everything.”

The barman looked around the empty room and starts rambling about various rumours. Boris let him talk without really listening until the man got to a word he knew. He raised a quieting hand, “Say, Again.”

The word repeated but covered with other drivel.

“Grateful.” Boris sits up and leaves the Inn.

Boris made his way to a leafless tree at a small way from the town, far enough that they were unlikely to try and talk to him but close enough to not be inconvenienced should he need return.

Boris sat at the base of the tree and pondered about the word.

“Dragon.”

It was an old word, older than him and that was something. He’d seen them, great hulking things, swarming like wasps and tearing at towns like they’re great walls were made of sand. He hadn’t fought them though. Not once.

Everything else yes. Trolls, defiantly. Ogres, sure. Gorgons, difficult but yes. Leviathan, with enough planning.  Fay, one or two. Giant spiders, absolutely. Orcs, by the dozen but never a dragon, not one drake. Monsters where getting fewer and further between. The last thing he’d slain had been an elk. The last vagally interesting thing was a damn nymph. Hardly a challenge for a dagger, let alone his well-honed blade.

The man had mentioned the new name for a distant peek, a foolish thing; no Drake ever dwelt there.

Nevertheless, hope burned is Boris’s soul. Hope that perhaps this tall tale was true. That perhaps he could finally find a Darke, that he could find a path forward, away from all this strangeness.

----

Boris sat under the tree for a long time. After a few hours a woman from the town came and tried to ask Boris something. He gave her an impassive look and tried to deduce what she was talking about.

“Need. No. Food.” He concluded waving a dismissive hand. After some time spent with her standing passively.

The woman looked confused and repeated her question.

Boris’s brow creased. “No. Roof. Have many pelts.”

The woman repeated herself again.

Boris stood up in mounting confusion. “Not. Understand.”

The woman reached into a bag at her side and withdrew a piece of parchment and a quill.

Boris took a step back, his eyes locked on the paper.

The woman tentatively stepped forward and tried to press the evil fiddley tools into Boris’s hands.

Boris in a moment of shock took them and found himself staring at the page.

Perspiration pored of Boris’s brow as he looked uncomprehendingly at the first line. Then those areas around it, decorative. Completely unnecessary. After a moment even colder than the snow, Boris whipped his face on his sleeve and quietly handed the two items back. “Have no use for such things.”

Boris left after that.

He’d considered buying some food before going but this place was too odd and there would be wolves on the way, he had made a plan now anyway.

That page really bothered Boris. The strange curly things inscribed there on, Nothing like that of his mother Tung. He could read, not very well it was true. Not very fast either, but at least in the old days people wouldn’t thrust sheets of paper at people clearly minding their own busyness.

The snow started falling again a few kilometres. Somehow that was comforting. It showed that at some level the world was still working. Tung’s change, people change, everything changes but snow will always fall.

Boris wore many skins. They were trophies of his kills, marks of pride but Boris liked the cold; it remined him how good warmth was.

That made him think about dragons. Most of them couldn’t breathe fire but they all loved the stuff. Polished there scales up really good, everyone knew they were vain as cats.

Some people said they hadn’t died, simply- left. Gone somewhere else, some far undiscovered land.

Boris didn’t know where he stood on that. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t.

Boris went over the horizon in pursuit of this supposed peek. Headed west.

After days of snow, ice and old dreams of fighting in-human evils. Boris spotted a coelom of smoke.

As Boris neared it, music flowed over the snow.

Boris stopped, listening. It was an old song. Played amateurishly but Boris had though it good enough to insight some nostalgia.

And then a discord. Nostalgia died. The wind blew cold.

In the same tune, the same key something new echoed out over the snow.

Boris Approved the small lodge, the familiar feeling of twigs raking over his skin making him think of great Ents trying to smash him into the dirt. He stopped and waited in the lee of a great pine; it’s needles reminiscent of spines in Boris’s mind.

After some time, listening Boris approached the tiny log hut. He loomed as the approached, the music faultered into silence.

“Song. Change. Why?”

The young man opened and closed his mouth in panic. Boris looked at him for some time. After a while the boy seemed much paler than when Boris hard first seen him.

“WHY?” Boris repeated.

The boy’s flute fell from his shaking hands. He ran inside his tiny shack and slammed the door behind him.

Boris stood as the bolts of the door shot home.

“Rude…”

Boris left after that, there was still a smouldering fire but he didn’t want to scare the man anymore then he already had.

----

The remainder of Boris’s journey was largely uneventful up until his destination, funnily enough people don’t tend to question a six-foot six man with a great sword on his back.

He’d had wolf the previous night, they were mostly genital creatures and he’d felt bad about killing it, but winter was reaching its peak and hunger drove them to hunt anything that moved. That and waste had no place on the road, he’d buried the bones properly after his meal; as a thank you.

Boris traipsed up the side of the mountain. His stride slightly diminished then from the start of his journey.

He neared the mouth of the cave and stood, outlined against the white of the snow; a clear target to anything within.

The snow blew.

Boris drew his sword.

The snow started to collect on it.

For a several minutes, Boris waited for something to happen.

The wind howled.

Boris sagged.

And sheathed his sword, turning his back.

“What do you want, little ape?” The voice was alien, old and rumbling, it was deep and regal. It was that of a beast of imagination.

Boris’s eyes lit up. Slowly, as to not insight hostility, he turned.

A black mussel protruded from the darkness of the cave, two meters from Boris; above its scaly black maw two blue-gold eyes shone in the shadows.

Boris very calmly, sat on the snow looking up at the thing.

“You are a warrior? You desire gold, I have none. You desire maidens, none are here. What for have you come? To slay me. You may try.” The drakes voice booms with gargantuan menace.

Boris pats his knee as he thinks.

“I want no gold, no women, no men, no blood. I come for other reasons.” Boris says thankful to be speaking to someone versed in his old language.

“Then why, ape? Answer.” The dragon withdraws slightly, as if preparing for something.

“Your people where evil but you only sought dominion. To rule all you saw. There is a new evil, more oppressive then you ever could be.” Boris says with uncharacteristic splendour.

“Taxes.” Boris says flatly.

There is a moment in which the dragon weighs its options. It cupped is jaw in its massive hands, “Tell me of these, ‘Taxes’.”

“Tithe. Penance. With no gods or kings. Can run from gods, can run from kings; cannot run from taxes.” Boris spits at the dirt.

“This evil has many allies, more than gods and kings?” Asked the dragon visibly intrigued.

“There minions have many names, ‘Secretary’, ‘Deputy of Hace RRR’, ‘Dave from accounting’…” Boris trailed into silence.

The dragon ponders for a few moments, “Some men with slips of paper came by a few months ago. Apparently, some lord owns this mountain now, they said I was… I believe ‘evicted’ is the word they used. Whatever they wanted I ate them on general principle. A few weeks later some other men collapsed part of my cave. It took days to dig my way out and when I did my gold was gone. It would seem these ‘Taxes’ can over-power even a drake. Perhaps I will burn them to the ground.”

Boris crosses his arms, “No. No blood. No more. We are both of the old world, the world before taxes and paperwork.”

The dragon cresses its scaly brow, “So? That makes us what? Obsolete?”

“Allies.” Boris reached behind him and allowed snow to collect on his hand. Then brought it around so the fresh snow was under the dragon’s nose. “We are of the same time,” closing his palm forcing the snow to melt and drip to the ground; “We no longer fit.”

The dragon’s voice emotes it rising boredom, “And what do you suggest?”

Boris wipes the damp from his palm, “I have travelled much, even with raiders in my youth. They had ships, good ships. I have seen distant lands, places that resist the grasp of taxes and building permits. No ‘Census’, no ‘most recent address in the last five years’; a place with no more ‘sir, ‘cave’ is not a recognised street address’.”

The dragon huffs hot steam in Boris’s face, “Interesting. How do you suppose we get there?”

“You can fly yes?” Boris says standing with a wide grin on his face.

The dragon stretched like a cat that weighed fourteen tones. “You intrigue me ape, very well; let us find this land.”

And they flew.

[borisbubbles]

17. CZECH REPUBLIC

Benny Christo - “Kemama”

So first off, thank you for the nice commens. 😇The past few months haven’t been the happiest time for me, so thank you for your patience as I scraped my bearings together for another post! 😁

So I will now extend that same sympathy to Benny Christo, whom I think I damn fucking underrated. Let’s jump in~

ENTRY ANALYSIS

As one may expect i INSTANTLY liked “Kemama” because you know, it’s a fun, laid-back, tropical afro-breeze, completely different from anything else we would see in NFs and the year. EXACTLY the type of song I was hoping the Czech NF would deliver (and deliver they did, see NF Corner). This level of mild like swung into strong unironic like upon realizing that the title is a contraction of “Okay Mother” 😍 and the song deals with the subject of overcoming racially-tinged discrimination and rising above the hate. That just feels very poetic and apt? “Kemama” felt like the entry that had to overcome the highest odds in order to earn the respect it so fully deserves, and still hasn’t fully reached it.

.In our Western European bubble, comprised mostly of gays and left-liberal straights, we have a very grateful and universal acceptance of many different kinds of [lizard] people that make up Eurovision casts. Yet with “Kemama” we may have reached  an unusually grimy undercurrent of coded racism. 

Of course nothing I read was outrageously rancid, than Cod for that. The worst statement I read was a double-whammy of “EWW THIS ISN’T CARIBBEANVISION” and “WHY WOULD SOMEONE FROM *KENYA* WANT TO REP CZECHIA IN EUROVISION?”, and yes they first got the continent wrong and then *also* got the country wrong in the follow-up post and then they were torn limb from limb by a pack of aformentioned left-liberals. I’m sorry but i can’t not have any other response than laughter in the face of yet another fucking MORON faceplanting themselves with words like a... racist JK Rowling if you will?

Still, while I never read something outright vile about Benny doesn’t mean I found his deniers really annoying and they were! Think “Ew Solovey is ‘Too Aggressive’ it will NEVER DO WELL IN ESC”, a statement that isn’t coded nor racist (and yet extremely false and misguided), functioned as a similar idea by the same minds. A statement borne from the same breed of narrow-minded stubbornness which has caused elitist morons to be all “there is **SOMETHING** about “Kemama” i do *NOT* like and I cannot lay my finger on it... but I **DO NOT** like it at ALL. It won’t ever qualify because everyone will think the same way I do” -- Eurovision snobs, tiptoeing around racial coda in January 2020.

 They would also insist that Benny was “arrogant” because he was seemingly impervious to their (de)constructive criticism. Like, if you were a biracial butterfly living in a slavic country who had to deal with statements such as the above on a regular basis, you WOULD block out the noise. And if you heard them often enough you will start to block them out pre-emptively. DO YOU NOT KNOW HOW COPING MECHANISMS WORK?? (oh wait you’re white-privileged. Nevermind 🙄)

 So naturally, when Benny decided that he would revamp “Okay Mother” by adding in MORE African elements it only made me love him even more lol. 😍 Was it a bull-headed, contrarian and possibly really stupid decision? Yes, yes and absolutely yes. Was it worth it? Well he managed to incite even more meltdowns in a group of people I feel nothing but contempt for, so hell yeah? Eurovision was cancelled anyway so who cares how much ‘worse’ “Kemama” actually got. 

Okay, so we’ve arrived at the revamp.

Granted, it wasn’t the best ‘vamp, I’d be a fool to deny it. The new elements threw a wrench in the melodic balance of the song. Out went tropical laid-back fun, IN went that fucking guitar oh my god this is some Hotel FM piano levels of overbearing I swear. (nb: this still didn’t stop me from ironically stanning Hotel FM’s lame asses anyway 😍). However, it made the personal backstory that I loved and savoured take a backseat to the now inferior composition. 😭

Regardless, New Kemama was fundamentally the same song, and I fundamentally liked Old Kemama, so whatevs, it made no different to me. In the eyes of many Eurovision diehards we were experiencing WORST PRESHOW SEASON EVER (after three songs... lol) and nothing clinches this brainworm more than a revamp announcement. “OH MY GOD HE WILL RUIN IT! I CAN GUARANTEE YOU I *WON’T* LIKE IT”. Self-fulfilling prophecies, ya know? It certainly didn’t help when the official channel accidentally uploaded a vid with broken soundmixing (‘OMG HORRIBLE LAST IN THE SEMI!!!!’ calm the ever-loving HELL down) and took another FULL WEEK to upload the correct vid. The damage had already been done. Typing "SEE I TOLD YOU THE REVAMP WOULD BE SHITE HA HA HA” in the Kemama comment box really just is the ESC equivalent of reponding with “Actually, *all* lives matter :smug:” to a BLM support pamphlet, isn’t it?

NF CORNER

While not my favourite NF of the bunch, I found the Czech NF to be lowkey epic. Not epic enough to remember its name but regardless Czechvision or whatever marked the end of an era because it was also the last selection spearheaded by Jan Bors :o

I think I’ve made it clear enough in the past that I’m somewhat mixed on Bors Era Czechia - Lake Malawi were a toetapping good, Ickolas was a pockmarked, skin-crawling evil and the other three inhibit a purgatory somewhere between “moderately nice” and “moderate timewaste.”

Still, I have great respect for the man who orchestrated Czech’s comeback after scoring NINE POINTS TOTAL across three years with the mindset of “So what? Why says we can’t win?” so ofc I was all into the idea of the “EIGHT INDIE ANGELS, HAND-PICKED BY BORS HIMSELF” NF that would serve as his swan song.

Naturally things went down the drain the second Bors left, with one of the eight peacing and his successor cancelling the live broadcast (does anyone remember what exactly happened? I vaguely recall one was the cause of the other but lol it’s July can’t be bothered to factscheck (Factsczeck?) anymore, bitches.

Anyway, ON TO THE GOOD STUFF, and yes, there was plenty.

We All Poop - “ All the Blood (Positive Song Actually)”

Yes, as you can imagine I ofc IMMEDIATELY fell into like when I saw that chyron and invisioned the inevitability of the Czech Rep’s Rep immediately alienating every parent just based on their name alone <3 😍 w/e WAP quickly became that “Good but not great” song you find in every NF that everyone gushes over because it’s the whitest option available. Like, yes, “All the blood” is good, but musically it’s identical to Green Day and Twenty-One Pilots and god name ANY 90s-early00′s American Punk Rock band. For me the enjoyment came from the fact that WAP were openly crazy vegan fundamentalists and the VC clip actively condemns the use ANY animal protein by replacing the cattle and game with LITERAL HUMAN BEINGS. 😍 :fusedmarcintensifies: :kasiamosage:

Pam Rabbit - “Get up”

Ohhhh YES a glorious experimental Synth-Trap song only I could love and ofc I did. God what is there even to say; the provocative darkness of the verses combined with the swirling amorphousness of the chorus gives me LIFE. LUFF THIS SHIT <3333 Ftr, this was also the fave of Slovene Juror duo / synth angels / Boris faves ZALAGASPER, further proving their pathetic naysayers that they own all things music and the haters can suck a series of-

Barbora Mochowa - “White and Black Holes“

Lol, yes even with a “Get up” existing, there was a song I liked even more. Barbora proved a very competent Lana del Gay last year, but I was a YUGE fan of this year’s... Kate Bush-Björk blend of ethereal awesome. It is so soothingly beautiful and the rare example of a song that I find completely free of flaws. Were the competition not such a hard place, I’d be pissed she didnt win (at least she won the jury vote MASSIVE KUDOS to every alum on that) but w/e this selection had opions and I’m rather robbed of a “Kemama” than I am of a BRILLIANT IRREPLICABLE AETHERBALLAD. ~Danse balance sûr les white and black holes~

Elis Mraz & Cis T - “Wanna be like”

I *VERY* strongly felt that if the Czech Republic wanted to win ESC, they should have picked Elis and even now I STILL believe she could have won. That isn’t to say I gushed over “Wanna be like” because I find it kind of annoying lol. Yes, I LOVE an annoying female voice (:Tones&Icackle:) but Elis’s reaches a Camilla Cabello sort of place for me (good lord get Senorita OFF the fucking radio) and the Scat + White Guy Rapping middle-eight. 😬. However, the second I opened up the video clip for this paragraph and was immediately BLASTED by Elis murdering a ukelele and wearing a  “schoolgirl” outfit straight from a Japanese tentacle porn movie and OH MY GOD THE AGGRESSIVE TWERKING made me reconsider that hey, this min-sized Meghan Traynor actually kinda highkey owns, yo!  Yet, I’m not at all bothered we lost her in the Czech NF because we got UNO DOS QUATRO CINCO SEIS :fatmansplit: fill up the megameme slot instead, so...

Eurovision 2020 vs Eurovision 2021

BENNY RUINED HIS SONG AND NEVER WOULD HAVE QUALIFIED. jk I’m not a moron. Sure, “Kemama” wasn’t an easy sell because you know AFROBEAT in a contest where half of the people watching are fash (ie: all of Eastern Europe, who watch out of ~Nationalistic Sentiment~ 😬), but there are Kemama live renditions out there and he owns them SO hard lol. A few soundmixing issues really would not have stopped Benny from qualifying in that RIDICULOUSLY WEAKSAUCE SEMIFINAL are you fucking kidding me. He probably would’ve bombed in the Grand Final, but I mean it’s Czech and it’s not Ickolas so ofc it would have.

And Czech renewed him for 2021 regardless of the sceptics, woohoo! I think part of it was due the Czech not wanting to re-organize an ENTIRE NF from scratch without Jan Bors, but probably also because Benny owns live when he isn’t engaged in psychological trench warfare with actual human detritus <3 and also because the Czech fucking CARE about their artists and don’t drop them like a sack of rotten potatoes wtfshitprus.

Can’t wait for the moment when he qualifies and Efendi does not, etc, etc. 

FREAKY! FRIDAY! FACTOR!

I’d say that the core around which the Ben Drama spun was pretty standard fare: niche fave beats out the concensus fave, meltdowns ensue, people convince themselves it was the WRONG decision because it wasn the result they wanted, try to disown the song and make a fool of themselves because the song slaps, sorry. Even the revamp drama felt more of less generic for me, because yawn fantards melting down over a revamp of a song they don’t even like what else is new.  

However, what I do take away that the revamp was ENTIRELY Benny’s idea which he told no one about (cue to JAN BORS having a social media meltdown like he’s Caesar at the Ides of March 💔) added MORE afrobeat just to troll his haters even more <3  God, I’d say it was bad from a musical perspective but this level of in-your-face defiance is fucking iconic and hilarious, sorry. This entire this year is so batshit bonkers that the concept of a someone potentially shooting themselves in the foot and “torpedo’ing” their qualification chances  (not rly, he would’ve Q’d anyway lol) JUST to take the moral high ground in a racially coded argument only HE took seriously may not even be the craziest concept in the year! (lol it definitely isn’t. Look at the pics I haven’t greyed out yet)

This and more yield Benny some well-earned Senheads! Yay!! 

Score: 3 Senhits out of 5.

[gloomverse-theories]

Something I’ve always been curious about regarding Gloomverse is: what was the deal with the dream versions of Wallis and Harold? The whole color change thing they had going on and why did Wallis have slight differences in his design from the Wallis in the non dream world? (For example, dream Wallis was wearing a tie while real Wallis was not.) Any thoughts or feelings on the matter? Personally I don’t trust dream Harold and especially not dream Wallis.

Mod Joe’s response:

Okay, strap yourselves in for a long one, because I have A Lot to say. I won’t talk about the clothing, this is mostly about Coloring and Rights... rights that were and are being broken.

TL;DR of my thoughts/feelings: The dream selves are supportive of Rylie and signal protection for their newfound family. They know a lot more than they should and seem to have even more in store. Even the links to Murder Hobo do not upset me because their general goals align, for the moment. Virga and Yellow are the greater threat...

Let’s talk about the Colors first. Colors change color when they get Magic. Why do I bring this up? Because we have this panel:

This moment is important because Harold addresses the Dark Overlord directly here. And from the sound of it, his hair and eyes changed to the black and red we know when he got his hat.

But wait. If he says her hair and eyes didn’t change, so it’s her real hat, then if eyes and hair do change, it’s The Wrong Hat.

But that shouldn’t be possible. As per the Right of Passage, you can only gain Magic through your own Hat, by taking out your wand from it. This is the first Right being broken here. Harold got Magic through a Hat that is not his own, a fact supported by us never seeing him with a Wand.

The giant lollipop does not count, as he only uses it to bash people with it. We never see him Manipulating anything, which you need a Wand for; he’s only ever seen Creating candy out of his “fake” Hat. But that’s another theory.

Important thing here is that he is breaking one of the fundamental Rights of Magic and changed color because of it.

We have another panel that we shouldn’t forget when discussing the dream selves: Wallis going berserk.

Not included in this picture is the levitating Seaweed hanging on to him, complaining that she cannot breathe in the next panel... which is violating another Right, that is the Right of Protection from magic. It states that Magic cannot be used directly on the body of a living being. Which he already violated once before (and after) by making limbs invisible.

This seems to indicate that this coloring (at least for them) is tied to Right Breaking. Something we should keep in mind...

Onto the dream itself now.

Sorry Harold, You didn’t have a good panel while standing upright.

Here, the colors are reversed. Wallis has the black hair and red eyes while Harold has his natural colors. Why? What rules could Wallis be breaking here? Well, he is in another person’s dream, which is having influence on their mind and by that breaking of the Right of Protection again. It could be that... but then Harold wouldn’t be breaking a law by being in the dream. Hm.

Wallis’ color scheme could also be tied to how he is MIA and color shifted at that point of the story, but then again, Harold also is. Another thing to note here is that Wallis is in full control of himself, not going mad with rage as he did against Cakegirl. Furthermore, not only are his clothes noticeably different from his magic show outfit, his limbs are still visible. This is most likely not directly the Wallis who disappeared during the magic show...

— Mod Green :  When Purple found Wallis in the crater, his hair was still reverting to its normal color so I’d guess he was indeed frozen in time or in stasis or something... —

Harold is a bit of an oddity as well. He has his natural colors, invisible limbs and candy canes, as well as the hat we’ve always seen him use.

We later see Rylie with both legs in her dreams, so having his limbs back shouldn’t be an issue; but she also only got multicolored hair when she remembered that’s how it currently looks like. It seems that the dream appearances are tied to one’s self perception.

So, could this just be how Harold sees himself. After all, he has had missing limbs for much longer than the other two, since childhood. Or maybe it’s a little off because it’s a sign of something greater. Why is he even there in the first place...?

Because, as for their intentions...

Dream Wallis is clearly being supportive of Rylie here but does extend a word of warning too. They even came specifically to wake her up early.

Which seems to indicate that these versions know more than their waking ones... but in the world they know, Rylie didn’t wake up after only two weeks? Hm! Perhaps Virga found her in Gloomverse then, or there is another timing issue we don’t know of that necessitates the change. Something seems to have happened that could be solved by her waking up “earlier”. (How much earlier? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? We don’t know, but Wallis dismisses two weeks as a short time, which is pretty alarming on its own.)

In any case, all points towards Wallis and Harold having the ability to go back in time in some way... but we’ve seen something similar lately, with Rylie and Prisma talking. Perhaps they contacted Rylie the same way. We’ll know more soonish.

— Mod Green : @trixylalamoon suggested that Harold’s “true” magic would have been time magic, fitting a time/space motif between him and his brother. And that does explain a lot of things! They could come from an alternate timeline, or from the future, and decided to intervene and wake Rylie “earlier”, maybe to prevent something from happening? Or provoke something. Like Wallis’ crash. He reappeared and crashed two weeks after the magic show, approximately at the same time as Rylie woke up in the hospital. Are those two events linked someway or purely coincidental?

What it doesn’t explain is “how did they get here?”. —

This timey weirdness doesn’t change the fact though that the brothers view Rylie as family and are going to help her get through whatever may come as best as they can. I do not doubt the sincerity of that, and neither should you...

“BUT HE LOOKS LIKE PRISMA’S MURDERER! TRUST NO ONE!” I hear you exclaim in chorus with Rylie. And you would be right to be suspicious, considering that Yellow is set on Necessary Murder and Amadeus seems equally determined.

For one, however, we don’t actually know whether Wallis and Harold from  the dream are working together with Amadeus; we can only confirm that they seem to know of him. (“Other red-eyed magician? What did they look like?” then a meaningful look once Rylie describes a long black haired, red eyed magician.)

— Mod Green : We know that “Mancers could inflict their powers directly on the human mind”, so to be inside Rylie’s dream, they would need the help of a Mancer. You could make a case that Harold and Wallis are mancers, but their magic wouldn’t really allow them to visit a dream, unless Wallis can open a wormhole in people’s head. Who are our other options? Of the five Mancers mentioned, we have only met two : Amadeus and Prisma. However, I don’t think Ama would help his sons to wake Rylie up. In fact, he would probably have preferred that she never wake up again. 

When Rylie wakes up and try to explain her dream, Hobo’s face is.... dread.

What about Prisma? She seems to care a lot about Rylie, and would want her to wake up. She’s already trapped in some sort of Dreamscape so she must have experiences. Well I’m not so sure... Without Dream!Wallis and Dream!Harold intervention, Rylie might have met Prisma faster. What if they were trying to prevent that...? She’s the reason why Hobo fears her and Yellow wants her dead. 

We can scratch Amaryllis and Malus from the list of suspects. One went missing thousands of years ago and the other is more of a “physical violence” than “spiritual help”. Which brings us to Hyacinth. Out of all the mancers, she’s the most likely to have mind related magic (we will talk about that another time), and she’s possibly still alive in Ecoverse. What is her interest in helping Rylie? No clue, but we can’t dismiss any lead.

And finally... Harold. I said before that maybe his “real magic” was time magic, but it’s only one possibility. He seems pretty at ease in Rylie’s dream, flying around on a giant lollipop just because he can, while Wallis looks powerless. He even has his original color scheme, so contrarily to his brother, he’s not breaking rules by being here.

He is also the first one to notice that Rylie is waking up, and says that they have to go. Which means they can come and go whenever they want, and are not dependent on another person to pull them back out. Finally, Amadeus asked the lemon kid to watch on Harold, and specifically on his sleep. He is “sleeping well” and so “his risk is back down to almost zero”. 

The Dark Overlord gave Harold a false hat, but is he also keeping his real one away to prevent him from using his magic? —

Secondly, about Ama’s motives themselves:

The reason I am using this image is to draw your attention back to the moment where Wallis went into a rage. Yes, Ama here seems very much in control of himself,but he seems to be leaking Magic everywhere. Just like his son when in great emotional turmoil. Hm. Just like...

Here. But seemingly much less controlled, indicating that he might have been less cold than he let on back then...

This picture is one of my favorite Amadeus moments. He just threw a few bombshells at us: Rylie is someone important, he’s the Dark Overlord, he murdered Prisma, he won’t let something happen again, and on top of that, he’s Petunia’s husband and the father of Harold and Wallis! Plus he has the same general color scheme as his sons! (Note that he’s ALSO rule breaking: no hat nor wand is visible during his magic usage.)

So how could we trust them when they have moments where they look like a murderer who’s been tricking the entire cast for months!?

Well, to sum up, two reasons:

1) Amadeus acts out of conviction. Both when murdering Prisma (despite his possible unrest in the moment) and when giving Rylie her Hat back. We can’t know for sure about the first, but he did the second to protect those important to him and his sons. He even apologizes to Rylie. I wholeheartedly do not think that he will harm Rylie as long as he can avoid it. Whatever it is he wants to prevent, he’ll try to explore the ways that avoid killing the newest member to his family.

2) Wallis and Harold are still their own people. They will oppose their own father who was not there for them for most of their lives if it is to protect their little sister. Even their dream selves would do it, as I have discussed above. It would not match their shown intentions, even if they seem to know more.

In other words: We should currently be worrying more over Yellow and Virga than Hobo and the dream selves of his sons...