#sorry if freddy's is kind of lackluster

[trashyslashers]

Jason & Michael & Thomas & Freddy with an s/o that self-harms?

here you go! under a readmore for obvious reasons

Jason Voorhees:

To put it bluntly; Jason is utterly heartbroken. You’re the light of his undead life so the fact that you struggle with harming yourself is absolutely angushing.

Right away he’s pulling you into a hug and holding you there for as long as you’ll let him. He desperately wants you to know how deeply he cares for you, and he wants you to feel safe and secure in his arms.

If you have any fresh cuts or burns, he’ll want to fix them up for you. I think he has a basic knowledge of first aid so he’d pull out an old kit and patch you up, the last thing he wants is for them to get infected.

He has his own moments when he’s upset where he just needs to be left alone, so he knows better than to hover over you too much and if you say it, he’ll let you be (though you can tell he’s a bit hesitant to). However, when you two are together, he’s upping the physical affection. His arms are around you tighter, his grip on your hand is more firm, and so on. He doesn’t want you to feel alone.

If he got the sense that you were upset or struggling again, he’d try his best to distract you. Taking you out around for a walk in the woods, hand in hand, would be his go to. While there wasn’t anything super interesting, he hoped that looking at the scenery and getting fresh air would help you feel better, at least a little bit.

Michael Myers:

Michael, characteristically, is silent when he first finds out. After spending a good chunk of his life in a sanitarium, Michael is pretty familiar with self harm. While he never struggled with it, there were occasions he saw other patients with scars or fresh wounds, and he’s heard the doctor’s talking about it before.

Don’t take his silence as him not caring because it’s the exact opposite. Internally? He’s freaking out. He’s feeling a jumble of emotions; sadness that you’d feel the need to hurt yourself, confusion because he couldn’t understand why you’d feel the need to hurt yourself, and frustration with himself because he didn’t know how to help.

Mikey would want to make sure that what he saw was the extent of it. If you self harm on your arms, he’d want to check both of them, same if it was on your thighs. Don’t freak out if he suddenly tried to pull your shirt up; he just wanted to make sure there weren’t anymore hiding on your stomach or anywhere else. He may do this often; sliding the sleeve of your shirt up just to make sure you haven’t hurt yourself. If you tell him if you’re uncomfortable with it he’ll respect that, though.

As I said before, Michael is very standoffish when it comes to much physical contact, so it would be a complete surprise when he suddenly pulls you into probably the tightest hug you’ve ever had in your life. He doesn’t speak; so he’d hope that his actions would be enough to show you how much he cares for you.

After he discovers your self harm, he’d try to push his own hesitance with physical contact off to the side so he could comfort you more often. He wouldn’t want you to feel alone. He’d hug you a bit more often, pat your head, hold your hand, etc. He’s big on small touches.

Thomas Hewitt:

Upon finding out about your self harm, an all too familiar feeling of sadness weighs heavily on his heart. As I’m sure you know, Thomas used to have a tendency towards self mutilation when he was younger, and I think that on occasion it’s something he still struggles with if he’s particularly stressed or destructive. It breaks his heart to know that you struggle with something similar.

His first line of action is to make sure you don’t have any fresh wounds, and if you do, to patch them all up. While the most he could do himself is bandage them up for you, he may take you to Luda Mae to see if she can help. However, if it’s something you don’t want his family members to know about, he will respect that.

Tommy would be very wary about letting you alone for awhile. I know, it feeling like someone doesn’t trust you once they find out you self harm can sometimes make you feel worse, but he’s just incredibly worried about you. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, he’s just worried that if you start to feel lonely or sad then you may hurt yourself again.

If you’re comfortable with it, he’s the type of person who would caress any scar that you had, he’s a pretty touchy-feely person. I’m pretty sure that part of the reason he self harmed was because he didn’t like his appearance, so I feel like in his mind you self harming = you not being happy with that part of your body, so he’d want to make sure you knew he loved that part and all of your body.

Expect extra hugs. This sweet boy wants to make sure you know you’re loved. If you seem like you’re having a hard time he’ll hold you close for as long as you need and will be a shoulder to lean on if you just need to cry. He just wants you to be okay.

Freddy Krueger:

Freddy is a bit different from the others as he’s never actually dealt with it or seen anyone display self injurious behaviours. Don’t take it the wrong way if he seems a bit put off; he just really doesn’t know what to say.

For once he’s silent, when he finds out. Eyebrows furrowed (though he doesn’t really have any anymore……. just pretend that he does), he’d look over any scars that you had, his ungloved hand holding your arm in a gentle grip.

He’d offer a shoulder to lean and cry on. He cared about you deeply, even though he may not always show or say it, and he’d much rather you get your emotions and feelings out verbally instead of harming yourself. If it’s too much for you to put into words, he’d tug you close to him and let you cry it out.

Since the only time he really sees you is in the Dreamworld, he’d try to make your dreams as pleasant and warming as possible. He’d want you to have at least one safe place away from the stressors in your everyday life, and what better place than your own dreams?

Though he won’t admit it, he feels pretty bad that there isn’t more he can do to help you. Internally he’s worried as hell that you’re going to self harm again, and he wishes he could be there throughout your day to give you any support that you need, but he can’t. He hopes that the love and attention he gives you in your dreams is just enough to help keep you going.

[emblemxeno]

Show vs. Tell in 3H and Why I Think It’s Important

(This rant is a mess, sorry lmao)

And here’s the thing, y’all. I harp on about “Show, don’t Tell” a lot, but truly? The best works utilize both as best they can. It’s called “Show and Tell” after all.

It’s just... video games as a story telling medium have evolved so much, that you can use so many aspects to help build your story that isn’t just text. It’s the same with movies and TV shows and other media with visuals and sounds. The best actors can convey how their character is feeling with facial expressions. Good visuals and set design, with background characters and things happening around the central focus helps things feel more alive. Music choice and ambient sound design helps the audience feel what the writers/directors/producers want them to feel.

I love 3H’s lore (for the most part), it’s history and special dates/events. I love character backstories. I love how each of Fodlan’s countries are described. They have the “Tell” part done amazingly!

But the show is just that lackluster in comparison.

Why is the monastery visually the same every month despite going through all the seasons? Why are things as important as the Church of Seiros doctrine and other historical facts so disconnected that they had to be reduced to library books? Why do characters that are apparently important (like Count Bergliez and Holst) never appear to us? Why are concerning events caused by the war like economic troubles, mass food shortages and religious persecution reduced to NPC one-off quotes (and one quote from Ashe)? Why is stuff like Bernadetta’s tragic backstory accompanied with ‘Haha, funny music’?

It stings even more because the most recent mainline game before 3H was Echoes, a game that did “Show and Tell” beautifully. Sure, the nature of the game itself helped (not every game has deep explorable towns and dungeons after all) but hell, there’s not even any damn villages to save in 3H. Battles in 3H are only fought in important locations, like forts and capital cities, to justify not having any towns or common folk to comment on it all. There are hardly any CGs to signify important events or show off the general public-except in Blue Lions which has like, at least 5 CGs alone iirc? Why couldn’t the rest of the game have more of those too?

It’s all just unfortunate to me, because I hear what the game is telling me and I love it, I just think it can be even better expressed if some of that were shown well too. 

And if I had to choose between Show vs Tell, it would be Show, because showing what the world is like and how characters interacting with it is, in my opinion, a better way to tell the story than a 2 minute narration describing it all. Like, an example. One of the early cutscenes of Xenoblade Chronicles, when Fiora and Shulk are eating in the park, the debris alarm sounds and Colony 9 shoots the falling debris with a defense laser. Fiora and Shulk treat it like no big deal. 

Just in that scene alone, you get a sense of the world. Shulk tinkered with old parts before yeah, but now we know that stuff falls from above, showing that Colony 9 is on a lower part of Bionis and that mechon parts are still falling from up at Sword Valley. The characters’ reactions show that it happens regularly too. If I saw that and didn’t know what the hell the world was about, I’d be fucking weirded out and confused. But the characters treat it as normal for them, so there’s no confusion on my end too. And the fact that Colony 9 even has a defense laser in the first place tells you “Oh, that must be used for something like anti air threats too, not just the garbage”.

In an FE example, Chrom and his gang in the very beginning deal with the possibility of Robin being a Plegian spy; Freddy Bear is very insistent on treating it seriously. That’s the “Tell” portion for why the Shepherds and Ylisseans as a whole are wary, but the “Show”? Prologue has Plegian bandits burn a town. Chapter 3 and 4 reveals that Plegia wants to cause tension between Ylisse and Ferox. Chapter 5, Maribelle was dragged out of her home in order to incite war by making it look like it was her doing. These things show why the relationship between Ylisse and Plegia is bad! The lore dump from Chrom is strictly for past events and backstory, and gives Robin (and the player, by extension) more context of the conflict as a whole while giving them time to process it. You can Tell first then Show later, and vice versa as well!

3H just... doesn’t do that very well in my eyes.

I will admit, it’s also a bit of bias on my part. That’s just the kind of storytelling I like the most. If I had it my way I would do both “Show and Tell”. If I had to choose between the two, it would be “Show”. So naturally, 3H appeals to me the least in its storytelling method because it doesn’t do both, and it chose “Tell” over “Show”.

Man, ‘show and tell’ don’t even sound like words anymore, I need a break lol.

[dramaticskeleton]

Chapter 4: Weekend

Fancy:

In my 25 years, I’ve had one boyfriend, who turned out to be a grade A psychopath. I’ve had countless one-night stands since him. Some guys I’ve seen twice, or even three times. If anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be with the same person for five months, I’d say they were crazy. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I didn’t want that. I didn’t need that.

Yet here is Freddy, who has become my exclusive partner. How the hell does something like this happen? Maybe it was because he made me breakfast that first morning. Or because he called me asking for a second night. And then a third. And a sixth. There was something about him that made me want more. Some impulse had told me to ask him to stay with me and I felt elated when he had actually come. Somewhere along the lines, our little fling had become something different and I’m not entirely sure it’s a bad thing.

I look at him now, sipping his tea, the steam rising up into his face. His hair falls into his eyes and I resist the urge to reach across the table and brush it out of the way. I have to resist doing a lot of things to him when we’re in public. I want to touch him all over. But it’s not just sexual. I want to kiss his cute upturned nose, hold his hand, and listen to him speak. God, if he could just talk to me for hours at a time, I’d be happy.

“Can I ask you something serious?” I ask, suddenly shy. He turns his vivid blue eyes to me, sparkling with amusement.

“Are you capable of being serious?”

I kick him under the table. “Shut up.”

“Ask away.”

“Do you like this?” I wave to the air between us. “What we’ve got going on?”

“Yeah, I think it’s good.”

“Do you want to take it further?”

Freddy bites his bottom lip before saying, “How do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve met my sisters. You’ve met my cousin. We’ve only seen each other for the last five months. I’m assuming.” I give him a look as if to confirm. He nods his head. “Is it safe for me to call you my boyfriend now?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to?”

“Well, I can’t very well call you my one-night stand forever, can I?”

He looks so uncomfortable that I’m afraid I’ve ruined things by asking. Maybe it would have been better to leave things as they were, without putting a label on them. I twirl the mug in my hands, waiting for him to respond.

“The last time I was that serious with a girl, it didn’t end well.”

“What happened?”

Freddy shrugs. “We were engaged.”

I gape at him. Of all things he could have said, that is the last thing I expected. “How is that not ending well? Isn’t that the goal?”

He gives me a withering look. “Well, we obviously didn’t get married, did we?”

“Sorry. Why not?”

“After I gave her the ring, she wouldn’t stop talking about our life together, and getting a house, and children.”

“As one does when they’re about to get married.”

The corner of Freddy’s lip twitches into a sad smile. “I realized I wasn’t ready for it. Not really. I thought I was, but I couldn’t stop thinking about…” he pauses, chewing on the inside of his mouth. He hesitates to continue. I reach for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I just wasn’t ready to settle down yet. So I left her.”

“As simple as that?”

“Last time I talked to her was the night before I left. As far as I know, she’s still in France, so I can’t go back there. “

“Wait, did you tell her you were leaving?”

Freddy smirks. “No.”

“And you haven’t talked to her since?”

“Nope.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re literally the worst kind of person.”

He watches me with a calculating gaze. “You still wanna call me your boyfriend?”

I think about it for a minute. Obviously he’s got commitment issues and there is a good chance he’ll do the same to me. And given my growing feelings for him, I don’t think I’d be able to handle that. But at the same time, I think even a few more months with him would be better than ending things now. Call me masochistic.

“It’s kind of hot,” I say finally. “A young, tortured, angsty soul. It’s the new thing.”

Freddy makes a face. “I’m 27.”

“A baby. I’ll call you my boyfriend as long as you promise not to ask me to marry you and I won’t talk about a future with you beyond nightclubs and dinner. Maybe breakfast. That seems to be the problem. Easy fix.”

He laughs, and the deep sound sends a shiver throughout my body. It sounds heavenly. “Okay,” he says, “I can agree to that.”

“However, I do have one question about our immediate future that I must know the answer to.”

“Does it involve you being pregnant?”

My eyes widen. “Absolutely not!”

“Then shoot.” He gives me an indulgent grin.

“Will you go to Christmas dinner with me?”

Freddy freezes as he lifts his cup to his lips again. He sets the mug down again slowly, watching me carefully. His mouth curls into a half smile. “That’s basically a proposal.”

I blush. “I mean, that was never in our bargain.”

“Fair.”

“But really, will you?”

“Why do you want to go? I thought you hated your parents.”

I fiddle with my fingers, running them along the rim of the mug, playing with the spoon, looking anywhere but at him. Why did I want to go? My parents had kicked me out of their home seven years ago when I had made the ultimate decision to pursue my own path, not theirs. I had always resented them for it. They were my parents; they were supposed to support me and help me, the same as they did my sisters. But I think of Mercy and Grace, who had been there for me even after I spent years raging at them when we were younger. They were always helping clean me up after I started going to clubs and fucking around. If they can bear to forgive me my mistakes, maybe I could do the same.

I look at Freddy, who’s still staring at me. I lick my lips, thinking of my words carefully. “I’ve been thinking about what you said in October. How I’ve got to forgive Mam and Da before I can go back to them. And I think it’s time I did. It’s just bad if I keep resenting her if she wants to put things to right. She’s trying to make an effort and I need to do the same. And I… I want to see my parents.” I blink back the tears that start to well up.

Freddy nods once. “Of course I’ll go with you.”

I give him a watery smile. “You’ll have to dress up in something better than jeans and a white tee.”

He rolls his eyes in response. “Do I have to wear a tie?” he asks with a smile.

I pretend to think about it. “I think you can leave it off.”

~~~~~

When we get home, I run up to my room to change. I had convinced Freddy to go to La Dame Rouge tonight and I needed to look good. Even if I wasn’t trying to score a date for the night, it would still be fun to dress up. We hadn’t been to a club in weeks. Another testament to how much our relationship had changed.

I clean my face and apply new makeup, giving my eyes a dark and sultry look. I choose a violently red lipstick to go with it. The combination is delectable, if I do say so myself. I move to my closet, picking a short black dress with long sleeves and my thigh high boots. I grin at my reflection. I would have the boys dropping at my feet, and I’d have the pleasure of turning them down. Call me a tease.

I make my way downstairs, stopping in the doorway to the kitchen. I find Freddy and Oliver standing unusually close together.

“Don’t,” Oliver is saying. I clear my throat and he looks at me over his shoulder. “Hi, Cici.”

Freddy looks around him and gives me a small smile. “You look gorgeous,” he says with a wink. I blush with delight.

Oliver snorts as he moves back to the table. “You look like a stripper.”

I take the seat across from him. He looks up from his phone, raising a brow. “I’m wearing far too much clothing for that,” I tell him. He makes a noise and rolls his eyes.

“Where are you two off to tonight?”

I turn around to look at Freddy. “I’m taking Freddy to La Dame Rouge.”

“Oh, that’s a good one.”

Freddy shoots a curious glance between the two of us. “What makes it so special?”

“It’s only the best club in Oxford!” I squeal. “It’s got the best music and the best drinks.”

“Not to mention,” Oliver adds, “The people. They either dress nice, or they dress like sluts. There’s no in between. It’s always interesting to see what people show up in.”

“Oh, that sounds… fun.”

I get up and sidle next to Freddy, planting a kiss on his cheek. “We’re going to have so much fun. Go on, get changed then.”

He smirks at me. “You’re dressed nice, so does that make me the slut in this relationship?”

I giggle and push him towards the stairs. Sitting back down, I find Oliver watching me closely.

“S,o it’s officially a relationship now?”

“Yeah, I asked him earlier, at the cafe.”

“Oh, you asked him?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Yes, is that a problem?”  

“No, not at all,” Oliver shakes his head, frowning. “It’s nice to see you… settling. I was getting worried about you for a while there. I’m glad you found someone.”

I smile lightly. “Freddy’s a good guy. He makes me feel happy again. Truly happy.”

“Good.” I know he means it, even if he sounds lackluster about it. Oliver spent four years watching over me. I know the last two have been as hard on him as they have been on me and watching me spiral out of control and not being able to do anything about it must have killed him. I’m a bit ashamed, to be honest. But Oliver has been patient and understanding of it all, making sure I don’t fall too far. I probably wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him.  

I give him a sly grin. “Now it’s your turn to find someone.”

“This house is crowded enough with three people.”

“One more person won’t add too much.”

“You’d be surprised what four adults in one house are capable of.”

“Come with us tonight. You haven’t been with anyone in months! Not since Meghan.”

Oliver gives me a look with thinly veiled annoyance. “Your concern about my sex life is appreciated but unnecessary, thanks.”

“Come on,” I whine. “Just come to have fun then. When was the last time you weren’t working?”

Oliver just shrugs. “I’ve had a lot of clients recently. “

I look at him, taking in all of his features. His hair looks like he’s run his fingers through them hundreds of times just in the last hour. I note the bags under his eyes, and his gaze is dull. “You’re working too much. You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious, come relax a bit with us tonight. For like, two hours. You can afford that, can’t you?”

“Why are you being so persistent?”

“I want to hang out with my cousin. Is that such a bad thing? I feel like I haven’t actually seen you in a while. Not since Freddy arrived.” I stop, a sudden suspicion clouding my mind. “You don’t like him.”

Oliver blinks at me. “He’s fine.”

“You’ve been avoiding us.”

“I haven’t.”

“What’s wrong with him then?”

“Nothing, there’s nothing wrong with him.”

I’d be inclined to believe him if it weren’t for the shifty look he gives me. “What were you talking about before I came down? You told him not to do something.”

“I was just telling him not to hurt you, is all.”

I roll my eyes. “You are such a terrible liar.”

Oliver shrugs his shoulders, looking down at his hands. “He looks like someone I used to know.”

“What, like an old boyfriend or something?”

He rubs his face and leans back in his chair. “What? No!”

My eyes flare wide. “He was, wasn’t he? Oh my god, I’m sleeping with your old flame, this is so weird.”

He stiffens, his eyes shut.

“Oliver!” I hiss, kicking at him.

Oliver runs his fingers through his hair with a sigh. “God, you’re incorrigible. Not everything is a drama like that. He’s just someone I went to school with.”

“Did you have thoughts about him in school?”

He glares. “Stop it.”

I smile a bit. “Jokes aside, was he a good person back then?”

“Yeah, he was decent. You couldn’t have found a better person to be with.”

I give Oliver a grin. “Fine, so you’re not avoiding Freddy. You don’t hate him. You’ve got no excuse not to come to the club tonight.”

“God, are we back to this? Okay, look, I’ll meet you at the club, okay? I just have to finish one last thing and then I’ll go. I promise.” He holds up his pinky finger.

I smile widely, taking it in my own. “You can’t break this.”

“I know the rules.” He glares at me for a second before pulling his hand back. “How are your sisters?”

I lift my shoulder nonchalantly. “Fine. I think Mercy’s pregnant.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I dunno, she looks fatter.”

Oliver spits his tea back into his mug, laughing. “What a horrible thing to say about your sister!”

“What? It’s a good thing! She’s fat because she’s pregnant. That’s good!”

“You can’t just call people fat, Cici!”

I pout, crossing my arms. “It’s not like I said it to her face.”

“Fucking good!”

A comfortable silence falls between us as Oliver finishes his tea. When he gets up to leave, he mumbles something about having to finish work and starts to walk out of the kitchen. As he reaches the stairs, I blurt out,

“Mam asked me to Christmas dinner.”

Oliver turns slowly and regards me with worry in his eyes. “Are you going?”

I nod. “I asked Freddy to come with me, because I don’t think I can do it alone, but I’m gonna go.”

Something like pain flashes across his face, so fast I wonder if I really saw it, before he says, “I’m glad.”

“What do I get them? I can’t show up empty handed.”

He shrugs and smiles at me before turning to leave. “Draw them something.”

I think of my drawing supplies, lying around to rot in my room.  I haven’t touched them in nearly two years but maybe… maybe I could pick them up again. I could make a make a family portrait, something for both my parents and my sisters to enjoy. It will take me a while, since I’m so out of practice, but it’s a good time to start practicing. I’ll start tomorrow.

~~~~~

Freddy opted to match my black with black, wearing a tight fitted shirt and dark jeans. Maybe less dressed up than me, but I was okay with that. We have a quick smoke before going inside, the beat of the music loud enough to be felt as we lean against the walls of the building. I take in the site of Freddy standing in front of me, almost blending in with the shadows. He’s got his shoulders hunched against the cold as he puffs on the cigarette. His hair is brushed off to the side, making his face fully visible. He cuts a striking figure, dark and mysterious.

“You would make a good villain, I think,” I say to him. “You’ve got the right look.”

“I suppose that’s a compliment.”

“I’ve always liked the villain best.”

Freddy smirks and moves closer to me, pressing our bodies together. “The bad guy never gets the girl though.”

“Have you ever seen the women my age with novels? They, myself included, would give their right hand to be with the bad guy.”

“How about I give you my right hand instead?” He slips his hand down my back, landing on my ass and gives it a squeeze. I shriek in surprise, giving him a playful shove. His voice is sensual as he whispers in my ear, “I can do other things with it too.”

“Do you think of anything other than sex?”

He huffs a laugh and leans down. I can taste the nicotine on his breath as he kisses me. I let him into my mouth when he asks, running his tongue along my lips. It’s an effort not to melt as he explores me. I use the wall to support me. I start to grind against him, but he holds my hips in place. He starts to deepen the kiss, bringing his hands up to my face, but I pull away slightly. I’m panting a little bit as I say,

“Are you going to take me right on the street?”

“It’s called voyeurism,” he answers lazily, but he backs off. The smoke curls around his face as he takes a drag and exhales, and then he says, “I’ve been thinking about Oliver. What’s his story?”

I give him a look through half closed eyes. “Should I be jealous that you were thinking about my cousin while kissing me?” I laugh at his face. I continue, “You ought to know. Oliver said you guys were friends in school.”

Freddy’s face falls into a bemused expression. “Did he?”

“Oof, clearly not that good of friends. Don’t tell him you don’t remember him; he won’t take it kindly.”

He shakes head vigorously. “I don’t recall much past the last year, to be honest. So, tell me about this friend of mine.”

I laugh, resting my shoulder against the wall. “Well, he went to Goldsmiths’, obviously. Then he did a tour of Europe with a friend, but he ended up finishing it alone. He never said why, but I think it was a partner that left him.”

“That’s rough,” Freddy said, unusually soft.

“Yeah, he doesn’t talk about it much though, so I never got full details about what happened. And then his uncle on his dad’s side died a year later and left the house to him in his will.”

“Oh, is that where the gorgeous house comes from?”

“Yeah, it was lucky. I mean, not lucky that his uncle died, of course, but the house is a nice touch. He and I started talking again after I started living with my sister. I was looking for a new place to stay and he offered to let me live with him, so I took it up. I figured, a nice house, one of my favorite cousins, an artist like me. It was the perfect environment. And we’ve been here for four years now.” I smile at Freddy. “It’s been lovely. We had a rough patch about two years ago, but Oliver has always been there for me. He’s always cared about me.”

Freddy mumbles something under his breath that I don’t catch, but he’s got a smile on his face. “What’s he do?”

“He’s an interior designer. And I was talking to him earlier and he said he has a lot of clients right now, so he’s been busy. He hasn’t been avoiding you and he doesn’t hate you, in case you were worried.”

He shrugs. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, he thinks you’re great, and great for me, so you’ve got the Oliver seal of approval.”

“Wonderful, do I get a prize?”

I point to myself and waggle my eyebrows suggestively. Freddy laughs, dropping his cigarette butt and stamping it out with his foot. “Are you done?” he asks, pointing to the one in my hand. I let it fall to the ground too and slip my arm into his.

“Are you actually going to dance with me this time?”

“I don’t dance.”

“You did that first night,” I say, leaning into him. “And you were quite good too, as I recall.”

He shakes his head. “That was an exception. Besides, I like watching you seduce your way across the dance floor and then come back to me. Makes it look like I don’t even have to try hard to get you.”

I give him a light shove, but he pulls me back under his arm as we walk to the door. The man standing out front gives me a friendly nod.

“Hello Jordin,” I greet him.

“Haven’t seen you around in a while, Fancy,” he says.

“I found a new form of entertainment,” I respond. He gives Freddy a quick once over and hums approvingly.

“And what a fine form that is. You two enjoy your night.” Jordin waves us in.

The music hits us as soon as we walk through the doors. It slams into our eardrums with a steady deep bass beat and the lights flash in time with it. I can see the dance floor is already crowded. I’m getting excited already. I look at Freddy.

“Are you sure you won’t dance with me?”

He gives me a little push in the direction of the crowd. “Go, I’ll get us some drinks.”

I run to the floor and mingle with the people moving to the music. I don’t know what it is about dancing, but it lets me forget my world for a minute. Someone puts their hands on my hips and I let them move me in time with them. I don’t think about work, or my parents, or Christmas. It’s just me, the music, and this one other person. I turn around, coming face to face with a pretty blond. She gives me a smile as the tune changes and suddenly we’re throwing our hands in the air, laughing as people bump into us.

“You’re really pretty!” she shouts at me over the noise. Her words slur a bit.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I reply.

“Do you wanna get a drink?”

I look over my shoulder, catching Freddy’s eye. I point to him. “I’ve got a date!”

The girl follows my finger and her eyes get wide. “Damn girl, that’s fair. I’d pick him, too.”

I move around people and on them. One guy tries to kiss me. Months ago, my first reaction would be to draw him off to the side with a flirtatious grin and convince him to take me home. But I ward him off with a finger and a shake of my head. After what feels like forever, I make my way off the floor, finding Freddy sitting in a lounge chaise by a window. He gives me an easy smile and holds out a glass to me. I take it from him and slide into his lap.

“Are you having fun, sitting in the corner alone?”

“I’ll have you know I’ve had at least four girls come up to me and try to get me to leave with them. It’s been entertaining. How are you doing?”

“My feet are killing me,” I say, running my hands through my hair. “I didn’t think my shoes through at all. But it’s been fun. I wish you would join me.”

I pout at Freddy, but he just shakes his head, smiling. I curl my feet up onto the chaise, taking a sip of my drink as I lean into his chest. It’s a rum and coke, my favorite. A little wave of pleasure spreads through me as Freddy runs his hand along my back. For a while, we’re content to just sit there, watching everyone else. I turn to ask him something and notice he’s playing with his necklace, a little coin with a symbol on it.

“What does it mean?” I ask, nodding to the chain. Freddy instantly stops fiddling with it and tucks it back under his shirt. He looks almost embarrassed.

“It’s just something stupid.”

I fish it out again, rolling the coin around my fingers. “I won’t laugh.”

He shifts uncomfortably under me. “It stands for love. A friend gave it to me years ago.”

I raise an eyebrow. “A friend, or a friend?”

“Someone very close to me.”

I drop the necklace. “Are you still close to them?” Freddy shakes his head silently. “Why do you wear it then?”

He shrugs weakly. “It’s sentimental. He meant a lot to me back then.”

I brush away the pang of jealousy that creeps into my heart as his words sink in. “He?”

Freddy blanches, looking like he wished he hadn’t said anything, but it’s out there now. I stare at him until he responds. He won’t look me in the eye.

“Yes, he,” Freddy finally says. “I used to have a boyfriend when I was in school. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, no, I’ve got nothing against it. It just surprised me. Was it a real relationship or just an experimental one?”

He looks a bit sad as he reminisces. “It was real. It was perfect. But then I made a mistake and I left him. I haven’t seen him since.”

I use a finger to turn his face towards me, staring into his eyes. His pupils are large, making his eyes look dark in the lighting of the club. I kiss him gently on the lips. “Everyone makes mistakes, Freddy.”

“Mine seem to be exceptionally stupid.”

I hesitate before asking, “Would you go back to him? If you saw him again, I mean?”

Freddy gives me a glance out of the corner of his eye and snorts. “That’s an unfair question for my girlfriend to be asking me.”

“I’m not trying to start anything. I’m just curious. If it was that perfect, would you go back?”

“It wouldn’t be the same. A lot has happened since then, a lot of things I’m not proud of.”

“I mean, if things could be the way they were before you left.” I pause, then say quietly, “If I could go back to my ex when we were sixteen, I would. Back when things were good between us and everything seemed like it would work out. When things were good, they were really good.  I always wonder what would have happened if nothing had changed and we were still that happy couple. How different would my life be?”

He’s quiet for a moment as he chews on his lip. “That’s the problem with ‘What ifs’, isn’t it? You get lost in the wondering. I constantly think about it. What if I hadn’t left. What if I’d listened to him, trusted him? I’d give anything to go back to that day and change what I did. But it’s no use wishing for something that can’t happen.”

I nod, resting my head against his shoulder. “As horrible as things get, I try to think about where I am now, and how I wouldn’t be where I am if those things hadn’t happened. It used to be shitty and I hated it. But I’m starting to like where I’m at now.” My hand bunches his shirt. He covers it with his own, kissing the top of my head.

I’m blissfully aware of Freddy’s arm around my body when I notice Ollie pushing his way through the crowd. I lift my head and start to smile at him, but it dies on my lips as I note his panicked expression.

“Cici,” he says when he gets closer. “We need to leave.”

I lift my head slightly, frowning. “What do you mean? You just got here.”

“Trust me, we have to go. Come on.”

I snuggle back into Freddy’s arms. “You promised you’d come out with us. You can’t just come for a minute and then leave.”

Oliver reaches to grab my shoulder but before he can touch me, I hear it. My name.

“Oh, Fancy!”

[sentientpaperbag]

I often forget how many people ignore the fact that Freddy canonicaly is a pedophile

it’s why i hate him so much :)

what’s interesting is in the original movies they just changed him to a child KILLER cuz i guess they didn’t wanna imply anything but the remake from 2010 pulled no punches with it, because none of those kids died when they were children. They had trauma. And yes Rooney Mara’s acting was... lackluster... but I really kinda liked it. It’s a guilty pleasure and it was really satisfying seeing her slice him up just like it was satisfying seeing Freddy get defeated in the original film.

Honesty I like the 2010 remake because the make him less likable. Sure he still told jokes, but it was a lot less and he was a lot more intimidating. Honestly I wouldn’t want him in my nightmares cuz I know i’d die. I think the 2010 film doesn’t get enough credit cuz people don’t like remakes. Granted I don’t like them either but the horror ones are some that I’m willing to give a chance cuz it’s kinda cool seeing them get a kind of reboot.

The Robert Englund one is great don’t get me wrong, he’s iconic. But like... he’s too funny? Or at least after movie 2 he is. He’s fairly intimidating in the first film, and just plain creepy in the second one. But after that... and the really good third film... you kinda forget that he was killing children after a while and go “haha funny burnt man tell joke”

I liked Wes Craven’s New Nightmare cuz they made him scary again. Craven went back to his original source idea and had Krueger be a threatening villain like he wanted.

He just kinda turned into an over the top sleezeball and the original story was kinda pushed to the side.

sorry, this turned into an essay about how i feel about this character whoops.

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 27

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: We update weekly, have a masterlist, and a tag list.

Warnings: Swearing?

Abstract: don’t shun it fun it

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John Deacon saw himself in the mirror looping his necktie into a perfect full Windsor knot. It was a fancy knot, entirely sophisticated and completely ironic regarding the rest of his carefully chosen ensemble. Clothes could be used to intimidate, to beguile, and to disarm. Deacy knew more about this than most people. Clothes could repel and repulse others or compel them through charm and sex appeal. Deacy might not have the obvious raw beauty of Roger Taylor, but he was attractive in a different way: his style was his own and he committed to it with every inch of his gigantic heart. His style was a reflection of his paradoxical personality, and he was proud of that. He always wanted to simultaneously bring people close and push them away. It was unexpected and always a success. If you wanted to fight for him, fight with him, play with him and join the chase, well, he’d be down; he usually didn’t find someone who was able to do this, to understand him and his innate shyness and his unflappable confidence. He was more handsome than pretty and more lupine in the lines of his face than cherubic. His shy, almost reserved confidence was tempered by his natural wit and sharp tongue; he liked the power he had in knowing he could destroy anyone with a few chosen words. The power wasn’t from being able to do this, but from not doing it. From his holding back, from his benign sparing of one person to his ruthless random attack on another; this meant people were always kept guessing and paralyzed in a glorious suspense entirely controlled by Deacy. They never knew when he would strike. And his fashion was a reflection of this chaotic energy, and every piece of clothing he was wearing tonight was a play, a game, just like everything else in his carefully controlled life. Deacy kept looping the tie, smiling to himself.

Brian dragged an unhinged Roger into the bathroom; his arms were looping through the air, trying to get at Brian’s hair, trying to get away; Brian’s arms were so unnaturally long, and Roger knew it was a fool’s errand to try and wrench himself away. He shoved Roger into the shower, fully clothed, and turned on the water. Cold sheets of moisture cascaded onto Roger’s shaking frame. Brain saw Roger’s perfect blond hair fold into lackluster browns under the water’s transformative powers. He growled, wiping water from his long eyelashes. His white shirt was soaked through in a matter of seconds and his tuxedo pants immediately weighed him down. Despite this, he tried to heave himself out of the shower. He gripped the once azure marble frame around the sliding glass door, and used his slippery leverage to regain his footing. Brain, in the mood to suffer no fools, immediately pushed Roger back into the shower and onto its cerise and cerulean tiles; those tiles, a daring choice from Roger, now only looked grey to him. Everything was grey. He felt more stable and less panicked since being forcibly emerged into the water; he had been hoping this shock to the system would reboot his sense. But it hadn’t. He was still as blind to the colors of world as he was to the whispering of his own heart.

You knew what your heart was saying, however. You didn’t want to ignore it or deny it. If anything, you wanted to tell everyone about your budding feelings. You couldn’t wait for Lydia to get home; though considering the timing of the dinner, you might miss her altogether; you hadn’t seen each other all day, and whereas this wasn’t uncommon, it was unfortunate as you were as curious about her night as she might be about yours. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what a night with Roger Taylor would look like or feel like, but you were intrigued to hear from your best friend what the details of that experience were like. You rather thought it would be different from your night with John Deacon; they were two very different kinds of people. Roger was a clear choice, meaning that he was overtly attractive, charmingly abrasive, and mostly harmless. His depth was hidden, carefully so; yet Deacy kept everything, or so you thought, mostly transparent and out in the open. You had felt if you asked him any question he’d give you an honest answer. You had told each other you didn’t want to hide things from each other, no matter what; and yet, and yet, he hadn’t told you about his dead wife. You didn’t want to push him into talking about her; you couldn’t imagine how hard it would be for him to do so, and what his relationship with you made him feel regarding her; you didn't want to speculate; you’d rather hear the truth from him. So you had decided to wait for him to bring her up, and then as kindly as you could let him know you already knew and why, and that you weren’t hurt by her or his keeping the story of them back, but that you did deserve to know what you were getting into, and not to hear it from someone else, but from Deacy personally; you hoped this wouldn’t come to ahead anytime soon.

You were trying to brush out your hair; you had just had a bath, and the entire time, you only thought of Deacy, and how excited you were to see him tonight. You had a black towel wrapped around your body as you slid a comb through your hectic dark hair. With your glasses off your olive eyes shined in the light of the black and white bathroom. Lydia was obsessed with this bathroom; it was her design; she had, more or less, financed the entire decoration process of your shared apartment; childhood friends, you knew everything about each other. She had money. Lots of money. Her family was embarrassingly well-off, and even at university she lived off a generous trust fund that would, to your understanding, triple upon her graduation. What she loved most about this bathroom was the color scheme. She was a large scale artist. Her bedroom was covered in her original artworks; she also had a painting studio in the apartment full of ongoing projects. Her obsession had always been painting in black and white. You had never seen anything like her pieces. No matter what she painted, no matter what style she was using, landscape, abstract, or portrait, she would paint only using blacks and greys and whites. And her scale was terrifyingly large, so these pieces that should be in color were shockingly powerful when all the color was sucked out of them, and the feeling upon looking at one of her creations was powerfully confusing and thought-provoking. The absence of color did not render the feelings or the mind inept. Rather, the mind did what it did best: it filled in the subtext into glorious juxtaposition creating a sense of dissonance so delicate it was exactly was Lydia wanted the viewer to feel. Sickened and awe-inspired, in short. So the black and white baroque bathroom caused Lydia nothing short of divine ecstasy when she conceived of it, with your help. You pulled the towel up and put the comb down. You needed to pick out the perfect outfit to feel good in and to impress Deacy; you wanted to render him speechless.

Freddie Mercury was speechless. Jim had just come clean about his entire afternoon with you.

“Jim…” Freddie said, frowning into the runway mirrors. He was taking off his sweatshirt and picking out an outfit for tonight. He turned to the mirror so he could see Jim’s face better. Jim always came clean to Freddie; it was just what they did, especially if they felt guilty about something. They were each other’s confidants, each other’s shoulders to cry on, each other’s shelter from the storm. It was a guiding principle in their marriage: full disclosure, compassion, and caring understanding no matter what. It was a promise they made to each other since the day of the Jim’s white pants: if they couldn’t be transparent with their feelings, be truly vulnerable, then they needed to end it; if you don’t have vulnerability, you don’t have honesty, and if you don’t have honesty, you cannot have trust. They’ve never found it easier to keep a promise before in their lives. This was compatibility and reciprocity at its finest.

“I don’t regret it.” Jim’s Irish lilt was always more pronounced when he was angry.

Removing his undershirt, Freddie said, “I’m not asking you to regret it, darling.”

“She needed to know; I won’t be made to feel bad for protecting Johnny.”

“You’re right; I’m sorry, my love.” Freddie stopped undressing and walked over to Jim, who was sitting on one of the white patterned elaborate sofas. He took his husband’s hand. “You need to tell Deacy you told her.”

“I know.” Jim was no longer angrily defensive; he was resigned to having to make a fuzzy situation less complicated somehow.

“That’s all I’m asking; they deserve an equal playing field. And it is unfair,” he said, kissing Jim to make sure he was listening, “to ask her to bring it up to him, when it is privileged information she shouldn’t already have. I can’t even imagine the courage that would take.”

“Nor I.”

“And you don’t want to set them up to fail or distrust each other or doubt what they have, especially since you hold them both in such high esteem.”

Jim nodded, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder.

“Nice pants, by the way; exceptionally snug.” Freddie’s eyebrows bopped up and down suggestively.

“Oh, there will be none of that Mr. Mercury.” Jim said standing up and making his way towards the exit of this closet and towards his own. The teal satin pants were a tight statement piece Freddie was proud to see his love wearing.

“We don’t have the time.” Jim reasoned.

“There’s always time, darling.”

“Not for what I have planned there isn’t.” Jim winked at Freddie.

Freddie beamed up at his husband. “I guess I’ll just have to be patient, then.”

“Indeed.”

“One of the white ones, maybe?” Freddie suggested, starting to sift for the perfect ensemble himself.

“I think you’d like that a bit too much, Fred.”

“But that’s the point, love.”

Jim laughed.

Miami Beach pulled up to the restaurant in his cream Rolls-Royce.

Deacy ran a hand through his bouncy hair, checking his reflection one more time. The black and orange spoon-patterned tie clashed brilliantly with his fitted forest green button-down. The shirt was covered in mauve and sandy-colored bird silhouettes. He wore a baggy grey blazer over it, and a simple pair of tailored ivory-colored trousers. It was a twofold curiosity he felt: 1) what on earth would you think and say about his ungodly attire tonight 2) how angry would Roger be when he saw him, since it would be clear to them all, though especially Rog, that something was meant by this beyond just the typical utility clothing served. Roger would know it was a game crafted to make them furious. He slipped on a pair of grey loafers, and headed for the front door.

Brian had closed the shower’s glass door and was doing his best to hold it closed. Roger was taking turns switching between banging on it and tugging on the handle. His hands were slippery and he couldn’t get enough traction to open it.

“Open the door, you sod.” Roger yelled. “I’m soaked through to the bone. I’m dying. Let me out.”

“You’re not dying; you’re drunk and you need to sober up for this meeting.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Come off it! You can’t lie to me, Rog; we’ve known each other too long.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Yeah, and a sober person vomits all over their treasured sunglasses collection. Please; give me some credit here.”

Roger gave up fighting then. He knew what this looked like. He understood why Bri thought he was drunk. He also knew he’d sound like a lunatic if he tried to explain to his friend what was really wrong with him. This bizarre water torture wasn’t helping him calm down, however; sure, he wasn’t having a panic attack any longer, but he was growing angrier and angrier wet second by wet second. He was angry at himself, angry at Brian, and angry at Lydia. Angry at Lydia for fucking up his life, angry at Lydia whom he loved. Whom he loved. No, Roger thought, stop that; you don’t love her. You don’t know her. She’s not important. It isn’t like she’s thinking of you, wanting you; you’re nothing. She’s better off without you, mate. Roger let the water hit him, and he breathed in and out, trying to slow his breath, trying to mask his anger and self-loathing. If he ever wanted to get out of his shower, he’d had to make Brian believe he was fine. To do that, he’d have to conceal his rage and sorrow, and put on a happy face, or at least an apologetic one; in short, he’d have to lie.

“You’re right.” Roger sounded contrite, but wasn’t.

“I’m sorry! I can’t hear you.” Brian was deliberately plugging his ears.

“You can hear me, you bugger.”

“Try again, then.”

“You’re right, Bri. I had a drink to steady myself before the meeting and over did it.” Roger had his lips up against the glass door, dramatically screaming into it.

“And you’re a bit too drunk now to see you could have turned the water off on your own, hey?”

Roger spun around and growled at full volume in his shower before turning off the faucets. He had been distracted, yes, but not drunk. All the same, he hadn’t noticed when Brian locked him in here he had full control over the water. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he was going to break the glass door with his fists.

Brian, perhaps sensing this, opened the door. He reached a hand in and turned off the faucets for Rog.

“I hate you,” Roger said.

“I hate you, too.” Brian said.

It was how they said I love you, and always had been. They laughed together, and Brian felt his concern melt away and become a thing of the past.

“Pass me a towel, mate?” Roger was shaking. Brian thought it was from the cold, but it was from Roger’s barely controlled fury.

Brian passed Roger a canary yellow towel; Roger took the grey towel and began patting himself down.

“I’ll get you something to put on.” Brian left the bathroom.

Roger’s tears were mixing with the moisture on his face. His grey eyes sparkled back at him. He wanted to die. And since he couldn’t die, he settle for hurting someone or something.

You were in your bedroom, throwing clothing options on your bed, and rejects to the floor.

You found yourself unable to settle on one style over another, maybe it was leftovers from the impromptu costume party you and Jim had, but for the life of you, you had never had so many problems picking out what to wear. Lydia would say it was because you suddenly cared so much about what you had on because it would be taken off of you by someone else. And whereas she might not have been wrong, there was also the direct notion someone else you liked very much would be at a dinner with you, and his closest friends, and you’d have the opportunity to stare at each other all night. It had very little to do with touching for you. You felt compelled to have a visual impact that would draw attention.

Lydia was so much better at this than you; you wished she was home. You had a few outstanding pieces chosen, and even though Deacy had said it was a casual event, you had suspicions these men never dressed to not kill. You put on the top first. It was a golden brocade long-sleeved peplum. The raised pattern was adorned with pastel flowers, very small, very delicate. You paired the spectacular top with a pair of sky blue fitted velvet pants. You knew the shoes you needed, but they were Lydia’s. You both had an open door for fashion policy. You squeaked out of your bedroom and headed for Lydia’s room. You knocked on the door again, just to be sure, just to be polite--you knew she wasn’t home though. You opened the red crystal door knob and entered your best friend’s room.

The skylight was hexagonal and raised as if to kiss the sun itself. The bed was four poster with gauzy black hangings that did little much to obscure the view of whatever would happen in her bed. Unlike your room, where the walls were visible at certain points, Lydia’s walls were entirely covered by her artworks. Her black and white art screamed softly and sang loudly to you as you went for her closet. The canvases were all types of sizes, tetris-ed into perfect fits on her large walls (she had the largest bedroom). Though most of her pieces were at least four feet tall and wider when possible; she liked everything to be larger than life in all aspects of her life. In her closet you found them fast. You had your heart set on a pair of bright orange patent leather pumps. You threw them on, and ran to the bathroom to check your hair quick. Large and fluffy was as close to taming it as you could get. It would have to do. You put your large black plastic frames on, but still felt your outfit was missing something. Earrings, maybe? You went back into Lydia’s room and took her extra large golden hoop earrings and put them on; instinctually, you reached for her emerald bird-shaped ring, and slipped it on your finger. You looked at yourself in the mirror again, breathed in and out, and felt right. There was a knock at the door. You picked up the balloon string, you had removed it to shower, and went to answer the door.

Freddie and Jim were examining themselves in the runway mirror. Jim had on a pair of his white trousers with a bright red basic tee shirt tucked into them. He was combing his mustache and considering the white derbys Freddie had insisted he wear. This fashion stuff meant more to his husband than it did to him; he wasn’t used to it. He would never get used to having money; he just didn’t know what to do with it, and felt guilty every time he spent money on something nice for himself. It was perhaps nonsensical, but the principles we are taught as children never really leave us, and Jim was raised to be frugal and not spend money on himself--not that he ever really had any extra to spend on himself anyway.

“You look wonderful,” Freddie said, sensing Jim’s discomfort. “You are allowed to look wonderful, and to not feel like you’re neglecting anyone because of it.”

“I know.” Jim said sheepishly. “Learned behavior is hard to ignore.”

“Wait--what is that?” Freddie said dramatically, as if straining to hear an invisible caller, “It’s your mother’s siren call, darling!”

“Oh, give it a rest, angel.” Jim said, a laugh in his heart.

“You first.” Freddie had his hands on Jim’s shoulders, smiling at him, willing him to relax about money; when you grew up always worrying about money, it was impossible to never worry about it, even when you had it, it was always in the back of your mind like itch you couldn’t scratch, or a breath on the back of your neck you can’t find the source for, or the feeling when your shoes always come untied: it is the perpetual feeling of never being able to do enough to take care of yourself. And Freddie, since the white pants incident, had taken care of Jim, without even asking; it was like breathing for him, meaning, it was just what he did to live: he looked after others because he could.

Jim exhaled, “I love you.”

“I love you.” Freddie kissed Jim, then examined himself in the mirror. “What do you think?”

Freddie had on a yellow muscle shirt, tight acid-washed jeans, and a pair of red adidas boxing shoes: in few words, his current favorite look.

“Very sporty,” Jim said, smiling.

“Sporty?” Freddie said, mock-insulted, “This is fashion, darling!”

“I don’t understand why you get to wear that and I’m stuck wearing this.”

“Well, because all night, whenever I see you in those white trousers, I’ll get the immense pleasure of reliving the most important night of my life.”

Jim looked at Freddie, then. And what he saw was love.

“Reservation?” The maitre d’ asked.

“The reservation is under Beach.”

“For seven of you?”

“Yes; one chair for each of their massive egos.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes, seven.”

You opened the door and saw John Deacon. And you were rendered momentarily speechless, though not for the usual reason he had that effect on you.

“Wonderful!” He said excitedly leaning in for a kiss. “That’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

“Were you robbed?” You asked, returning the kiss.

“Not one bit.” John saw you then, really saw you, and a bewildered smile grew large on his face. He took in your outfit, the bird-shaped ring, almost the same color as his bird-patterned shirt, and breathed slowly. You were glorious, and you both were gloriously synchronized.

“Ah, that’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.” You said, copying his exact delivery.

“Do you usually dress like this?” He was searching for something in your face, keenly; the gears in his mind were working fast.

“I think I was just insulted.” You muttered to yourself.

“Not at all.” Deacy said, taking your hand. “Honest answer?”

“I don’t, no. But I followed my intuition--which is never wrong.”

“Ditto; it is why I asked.” Deacy started leading you down the stairs. “You see, this is all for a specific purpose.”

“To make your friends vomit at the table when they see you?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want them to be off their game.” He said, trying to explain years of psychology only he could know about his friends. “It is the only way to win.”

“This is that kind of dinner, then?”

“Yes, and I’ll make it up to you forever if you’ll let me?”

You stopped on the stairs thinking of Veronica. You understood why he was able to make promises like this, even last night so close after meeting. It all suddenly and loudly made sense. Now you understood perfectly why those kinds of vainglorious-seeming vows could escape his lips and sound believable and were believable because they were the honest truth, his honest truth: he could say them and mean them because he had before; he had made those promises before to someone before, and he had meant them entirely, and was able to keep them. You steadied your breath before he could notice your epiphany, and said, “I will let you, Deacy.”

He smiled up at you, and noticed your wrist. A small frown appeared on his face.

“Oh! I removed it to shower.” You said, fast. “I was hoping you’d help me tie back on.” You held out the string to him. “Lydia wasn’t here to help.”

He took the string from you, and tied it perfectly on your wrist once more. It wasn’t full of diamonds or even anything remotely valuable conventionally, but its intrinsic worth was more than anything else you owned.

On the street, he led you to a different car than before.

“I thought your Mercedes was green?”

“Didn’t I mention the blue one, too?” He couldn’t recall completely.

“I thought you were joking.” You said.

And you realized this was her car.

It was a light blue Mercedes-Benz.

You didn’t know how you knew it, but it was what your gut was telling you, and you always trusted your gut, because it was always right.

“Roger fixed this one for me.”

“Fixed it for you?” You questioned. You felt bad, because you had a very good idea why it had to be fixed, but you didn’t want to pressure him before he was ready to tell you, or hint that you knew more than you should.

“It was out of commission for a spell.” Deacy said hesitantly. “Technically, this one is my car. My main car, I mean.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is.” There was something sad in Deacy’s voice, and you wanted more than anything to take that sadness away. He opened the door for you, and closed it once you had gotten inside.

He walked around to the driver’s side and entered.

“Thank you for coming to this dinner with me.” He said, suddenly very serious.

You took his hand, hoping he’d hear you. You made sure he was looking you in the eyes. Your olive eyes shone and his grey ones were slightly cold. “It is my pleasure to help in anyway I can.”

He smiled at you, and nodded. He put the key in the ignition and began heading towards the restaurant.

Roger Taylor’s hair was dry. He was in a white and grey fitted plaid blazer, at least that’s what he saw. It’s actual colors, because he knew his wardrobe, were a pale blue and grey. But color wasn’t a thing anymore, and all he saw was the grey. He was wearing a grey tee shirt, which should have been the same pale blue, but wasn’t. He was in a pair of actual dark grey trousers with a full break, and a pair of purple-colored oxfords that looked only black to him. Brian had handed him his baby blue aviators, which looked only light grey to him, and turned him to the mirror.

“It’s not as good as anything you could put together, but it’ll suffice.” Brian sounded impatient; he was in no mood to humor Roger anymore tonight.

“You’re right on both accounts.” Roger said, trying to lighten the mood. He felt like vomiting again; he missed color. He missed it dearly.

“Can we please go now?”

“Ready when you are, Bri.” Roger tried to smile enough to fool his lifelong friend.

“Let’s motor.”

Freddie and Jim arrived at the restaurant, surprised to find they had beaten everyone else when they were led to a table in the back and only saw their manager sitting there waiting alone.

“Miami, darling!” Freddie embraced Beach with a full-on hug compete with loud cheek air kisses that made everyone in the dining room turn and stare. This is what the public expected, and it was what Freddie would deliver with panache.

“Hello, Freddie. Jim! How are you?” Miami shook Jim’s hand, happy to see someone normal here for the night’s entertainment.

“Hello, Jim.” Jim Hutton said, smiling widely at his same-named friend.

“Listen, I’ll be at the head of the table for mediation, and I was thinking the band would be here in these four chairs, and the guests at the end.”

“Thank god,” Hutton said, happily sitting at the other end of the table; he knew what was coming. At least he thought he did. They all thought they did.

Roger was trying to shake Brian off him. “Stop fixing my lapel; leave me alone!” His mood had not improved during the ride to the restaurant. He was seething. He could make ice boil just by looking at it. They were walking up to the maitre d’, who wasn’t pleased at Roger’s outburst.

“Reservation?”

“Beach, please.” Brian responded as congenial as possible; next to him Roger kept taking off his sunglasses and polishing them compulsively. “Would you please stop it.” Brain said opening his mouth as little as possible and attempting to still smile at the host.

“Me stop it? You stop it!” Roger said way too loudly to be considered even the neighbor to polite behavior.

“Right this way, please.” The maitre d’ was doing his best to ignore Roger Meddows Taylor. The hard thing about that was, he was so gorgeous, especially when angry, that it was hard to look away. That unique charm Roger had to stop people in their tracks occurred the entire way to the table. People turned to look at the Blond God, and they loved every second of it. Roger, who usually loved the attention, just found himself getting more viciously furious by the second. What kind of black and white film hell had he stepped into? He enjoyed a good film noir like the rest of everyone else, but this was too fucking much; he didn't want to live in one.

Hutton was hugging Brian and Freddie came over to embrace Roger, who distractedly hugged him back.

“Hello, Miami. How’s the family?” Brian asked.

“Wonderful, thank you. Wife is pregnant again, actually.”

“Congratulations!” Brian smiled warmly. “That calls for champagne, I think.”

“Absolutely!” Freddie agreed.

Roger and Brian sat across from Freddie.

Shortly thereafter, you and Deacy arrived at the restaurant.

“Miami Beach, please.” Deacy said to the flustered-looking maitre d’.

“Miami?” You asked bemusedly.

“It’s a long story.” Deacy said, “I’ll tell you later.”

The maitre d’, whose night was about to get a million times worse than he could ever have imagined, led you and Deacy to a table in the back. You had never been to a place this fancy before. It was the kind of place with more than one type of fork and spoon.

“Here is your table, Mr. Deacon.”

Deacy hadn’t given his name, and blushed instantly; he’d never get used to be recognized in public. “Thank you.” He said graciously.

The table was full, except for two sets, belonging to you and Deacy. You saw they were apart from each other, but that was okay, and, if anything, facilitated the odds of being able to steal glances at each other, which was all part of the game.

You both stood at the back of the table near what would be your chair, when Roger looked up and noticed you both.

The look on his face shifted from casual, un-targeted annoyance to a direct venomous glare of absolute detestation.

Looking at you, he shouted loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, “What in bloody hell is she doing here?!”

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

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