#but by god does a funeral of flowers go so fucking hard!!!!!!

[slicksquid]

remembering how fucking insane the fire emblem three houses ost went

[codfanficedits]

One fucking mistake - Part five

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader.

Summary: Simon lost you after making a mistake on a mission.

Wordcount: 1025 | Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: cussing, swearing, grieving, angst with no comfort, conversation, blaming, funeral, therapist.

A/N: Part four!

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ AO3 Link

It is the worst day of Simon’s life. The flowers, the suit he is wearing, the people surrounding them. He had dreamed of the day this would happen, but you wouldn’t be gone, you’d be getting ready to marry him, and by God, every time he thinks his heart is ripped out of his chest, the claws of life dig deeper and rip out the remaining pieces of his love. And he catches himself looking for you, even though he knows you won’t arrive.

But his love for you is still inside of him, and he carries you wherever he goes.

Simon knows he has to speak, his final act of love towards you. You deserve it, even though your body is not here, you deserve to get a proper burial. But it’s hard, too hard. The worst part of that love is that he remembers it, walking around everyday thinking that he is going to die in the universe that you loved him in.

He clears his throat, heads snapping into his direction as he tries to brace himself. It’s easier to treat this as a mission. Saying what he needs to say, keep his voice from breaking and getting out.

His eyes shift to the empty casket on the left, and without his permission his vision starts to get blurry and his goddamn heart starts to ache again. God, God, God. How he wished the two of you could’ve met as kids, because he knew you would’ve loved the softer version of him.

Simon looks down at the paper before him, the little speech he wrote to honour you, but he can’t read it through his tears, so he has to speak the words from his heart.

“Since you happened, I’ve never been the same.” Off to a great start.

“I don’t know what’s more tragic, that I keep looking for you wherever I go. Or that you’re never there, and I promise you, someday, somewhere, we’ll be together again.” Fuck, he can’t keep his voice from breaking.

“Whiskey was easier to swallow than the fact that you aren’t coming back.” He is becoming a mess, for all to see. His feelings on display as if it were in a museum. “I’ve learned that I can drink too much and forget the night before. But I’ve learned I can’t drink enough to forget the people I’ve loved and lost.”

A sob interrupts his speech.

“I don’t know what to say to you, except that it tore the heart out of my body saying goodbye to you.”

He has to get out, he needs to breathe fresh air, he wants the grief in him to be replaced by the scent of fresh flowers and sunshine. Who knew losing his lover could turn a hardened soldier into a sobbing mess?

Someone hugs him, but he is too far gone to even register it. Those same arms, same hands guide him to his seat, and his mind is empty when he listens to the rest of the wake.

And now he is sitting in a comfortable chair, a therapist in front of him. Simon still doesn’t know why he accepted it. After all, he still believes that he should suffer from what he has done to you. If you didn’t deserve to live, why would he?

He filters out her voice as he concentrates to the ticking noise of the clock. These appointments feel like a waste of his time. But so does rotting in bed, so he keeps telling himself you would’ve wanted this for him, for him to seek the help he doesn’t feel he deserves.

71 days. The last time he saw you was 71 days. And for those 71 days he feels like an empty shell of an human. And the worst part? Your shirts no longer smell like you, he had to throw out your leftovers, the mold covering the food you had prepared, but he had tried to cling on to it for as long as he could.

71 days, and your voice is a mere memory, it sounds different on the video’s he has from you, and he is ashamed that he can’t remember the real sound anymore.

What would you think of him? God he hopes you can’t see him from the afterlife like this, a goddamn mess, the last time he took a shower must’ve been a week ago, and if he doesn’t go to his therapy session, all he does is, well, nothing. The time he has on this earth is waisted by staring at the wall, hours on end. Just staring, and when his mind is done beating him up for making the mistake of asking you to go on that mission with him, it’s just turned off.

A waste of space, a waste of oxygen, a waste of everything. A pathetic excuse of a human being.

“Simon.” The voice of his therapist snaps him out of it. “Are you okay? I’ve been talking to you for minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He grumbles.

She doesn’t believe him, he can feel it, and he can’t blame her, after all, most sessions are filled with an awkward silence, he doesn’t want to talk, and she learned that asking her questions gets her nowhere.

His mind wanders to your funeral again, how the empty casket is haunting him, how the nightmares about you being cold, dead and alone are haunting him, how even when he sleeps, he finds no peace from his mistake.

He can hear his therapist sigh, her long nails tapping on the clipboard, and it’s fucking annoying. He wants to tell her about the flashbacks, how he keeps relieving the mission, how he keeps replaying the last minute with you, he wants to, but he can’t. It is his secret, his punishment.

His therapist clears her throat. “Well, our time is up. Is there anything you’d like to discuss before we call it quits?”

“No.”

“Alright, see you again next week then, same time.”

With a scoff he gets up from the chair, ready to go home to embrace the darkness of his bed again.

[emloafs]

ep by ep thoughts (ck s6ep4)

THIS ONE IS MY FAVORITE EPISODE (iykyk). i haven't recovered from it. spoilers below!!!!!!!

EP4

You’re telling me the episode opens with hawks ugly ass American flag hair? Shut the hell up. and no one comments on it????

NO WORDS JUST THE SHOT FOCUSING IN ON DEMETRI OVER ELI’S SHOULDER LOOKING LONGINGLY LETS REPLAY THAT

“Each and every one of you has a shot” as its a shot of Anthonyy (Anthony does not have a shot xo)

“Its really only that 6th spot that’s up for grabs” “yeah and its yours for the taking” ELI BELIEVES IN HIM SM STOP

Sorry to say I eat my words the fab 4 will not all be making it, and neither will hawk, you can just tell from how overconfident they are

It is the way that my entire body is reacting to having average, every day content of binary bfs at school and its ruined by Eli’s FUGLY HAIR and HORRIBLE OUTFITS 

I do appreciate that demetri is still demetri and he’s like there’s an 18% chance of me making it and I know that so it is what it is academics over karate has always been my thing

“MIT cannot turn down the binary bros” OH NO MITS GONNA TURN DOWN THE BINARY BROS

I think Eli is having second thoughts about MIT or he thinks he won’t get in 

I love them being normal in high school!!!!!!!!! Cancel the karate half of the show I don’t need it

THE BABIES BEING FRIENDS THE BABIES BEING FRIENDS ANTHONY DEVON KENNY BROT3 AHHH

Idk how ep4 is gonna go down but it’s my favorite already 

The camera work is fire

Okay kiaz cartwheel… go off? Ig?

NATE YELLING FUCK???? IM DYING

“Mucles” “I HAVE A NEW NICKNAME!!!” This is Mitch’s season fr

Actually rooting so hard for demetri <3 call me biased

Kisses for baby Anthony throw him a bone

Anthony is SO TALL NOW?

“The power couples and hawk” honestly that’s the best way to describe them let’s coin that

Devon better be picked fr actually she needs a win and she’s better than most of them

NOT YASMIN SHOWING UP IN A MINI SKIRT WTF

Not me imagining Yasmine walking into the dojo and she just finds dem and Eli making out

Omg are they breaking up

“I’ve come as far as I can go, and I can live with that” that’s right dem and you’ve done great

“Youre breaking up with me?” “No!” Damn. So close.

Why does his girlfriend have to be the motivation ugh

“Just like MIT, you’re not going to Barcelona without me” LOVING MY HAWKMETRI CRUMBS THEYRE IN LOVE

“I didn’t apply” MMY JAW IS ON THE FLOOR GENUINELY

Eli doesn’t want to let dem down :((( 

Oh shit he’s gonna tell him and demetri is gonna be betrayed and kick his ass low key

I personally love capture the flag <3

Omg eli’s literally not gonna make it his head is in the clouds about college and demetri brother get it togetherrrrr 

If Anthony makes it to the tournament and not Eli im suing 

I am scared of barnes

Ok power couples saw that coming

JUSTICE FOR ELI IM GONNA THROW UP

Daniel is a bloody nose Anthony will be fine

Angsty Anthony idek what do with you

Oh god Johnny and barnes fight in a warehouse with power tools WHY just WHY

Oh I don’t like when demetri and Eli fight I hate this game 

Eli won’t hurt dem again and if they come to a head, and frankly demetri is going to destroy him

ELI NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO TELL HIM OH I WANT TO CRY

DAD AND DAD STOP FIGHTING I CAN’T TAKE IT I SAID I WANTED THE DRAMA BUT I WAS WRONGGGGG GO BACK TO BEING BACKGROUND CHARACTERS STOP THE VIOLENCE oh god im UNPACKING this scene later

Hawk buddy you’re fucked. Demetri is going to kill you. Honestly. I’ll start picking the flowers for your funeral.

Eli’s outfit sucks in this btw I need to speak to wardrobe

OH SHIT DEM FOLLOWED ELI THEY’RE FUCKED

No way… Kenny has the runs… this his sabotage.  That sucks literally that’s gross and embarrassing. You’re all dead to him.

IM SICK TO MY STOMACH ABOUT DEM AND ELI 

I JUST GASPED

I DON’T LIKE DARK DEM

HOLDING HAWKS ARM???? “How do you like it?!” IM GONNA THROW UP 

Eli loves him so much it hurts and dem is so mad at him 

I ACTUALLY AM SHITTING MY PANTS THAT DEM WON

IM CONFLICTED im really proud of my baby but dear god am I worried about Eli

Thank you writers for not making dm a background character <3

KARATE DADS CRUMBS: Anthony comforting hawk after he lost <33333 he’s like I hate when my dads fight fr

Devon obv put the laxatives in his water right… OH YUP it is now confirmed 

I like really actually cannot believe the hawkmetri fight…………… like……….. holy fuck did that just happen? The arm thing?????? Holy fuck

Why does it feel like they just broke up

Someone hold me.

(I enjoy the pain, though. Episode 4 IS my favorite.)

[inkykeiji]

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-4fGPKi34xddcFk3msZFnc_UWYCMndkquW7UkGQE83I/edit

AAAA OKAY SORRY SORRY TRY NOW!!!

-💤

IT WORKS NOW eeeee yay thank you so much!!!!! this made me so emotional (in a good way!)!! i just cannot tell you how honoured i am that you did this for one of my stories like.....i genuinely don’t even have the words to describe how incredible that is and how lucky i am to have you here with me. thank you so much for sharing this with me, i will cherish it so very much ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

my thoughts on each song beneath the cut!!!

family tree - ethel cain

i totally see what you’re saying here!!! ugh god i love ethel cain so much, her music is just so perfect for so much of my work in terms of vibes and atmosphere yk what i mean??? so i was so glad to see that u included her here!!

demolition lovers - mcr

there’s a dozen reasons in this gun has got to be one of my favourite lyrics ever, wow!!! but also, i loved the whole last minute or so of this song!! i know that’s where the lyrics you selected are from, but i just feel like that entire final verse describes the trajectory of dabi and reader’s relationship??? from their first meeting to that last scene with keigo in the hospital.

i would die for you - in this moment

okay, YES. yes, i completely get what you mean LMAO. just that ravenous, all-consuming, downright obsessive love, us against the world type, those who continuously swallow each other whole just to spit them back out again and repeat the entire process. loved it so much <33 VERY dabi x reader!!!

voodoo doll - the funeral portrait

oof okay this song hit so hard it made me sob. as i’ve said before, tag you’re it is a very personal story to me, having grown up with and lived with (and been parented by) addicts for my entire life. because, honestly, addiction doesn’t just hurt the user, it hurts everyone who cares about the user, too. i’m not gonna go too deep into that but i loved everything you had to say about this song and i agree with you one million percent, you hit the nail right on the head!!!

life vest - the material

okay let me just take a moment to bask in the fact that the motel scenes are your favourite because i worked SO insanely hard on those scenes LMAO <3 two bodies with one beating heart oh i love love love this. but yeah!!! at that moment in the story especially, dabi is her life vest; for the majority of their time there (right up until the end) he discards his manipulation and casts off his selfishness and allows himself to just be with her, to be there for her, for completely selfless reasons, because he truly does love her. it is a crucial point in their relationship!

tears don’t fall - bullet for my valentine

ooooh yes okay!!! one of the lyrics that really stuck out to me in this song is there’s always something different going wrong / the path i walk’s in the wrong direction because it feels very keigo, especially since he was the golden boy who fell from grace, essentially. adding onto your selection of lyrics, the her conscience calls the guilty to come home also kind of reminded me of the guilt reader feels for leaving keigo, and how that guilt kind of repeatedly calls for her to come back to him, sometimes in the form of keigo himself.

everybody sells cocaine - motionless in white

holy fuck i LOVED this song!!! and you’re SO right, btw!!! dabi is constantly tempting keigo, taunting keigo, ‘testing’ keigo in the most twisted, unfair ways ever. i don’t even have anything to add, i just agree with you wholeheartedly.

jupiter - flower face

omg yes this is VERY dabi x reader during their budding relationship in part one especially. also, these silly games we play / stupid ways to make you stay / my heart’s split open on display / i can’t wait another day pretty much encompasses them fully <33 also also, rly loved the lyric it must be holy to feel something so pure makes me think of dabi as he initially starts to truly fall in love with her—real, pure, sincere! okay i just got to the end of the song and tbh, i think there’s even an argument to be made here for part two as well, and the way their relationship progresses, the concept of home, etc.

luna - wisp

feeling u hardcore on the chest aching with this song. it’s just the melody, you know??? it feels so infused with raw emotion. this one also kind of reminds me of the sex scene in part one AHAHAHA but that’s more due to how hazy and fragmented reader is <3

bottles - the material

oh yeah, for sure! alcoholism is still substance abuse, and it is still addiction. oof this is another one that made me like, super emotional. just rly struck a chord!! i love everything you’ve pointed out here, and i also love how the chorus (in particular the lyrics those bottles are everywhere / and i can’t be everywhere / to keep them from you) reminds me so much of how reader feels towards keigo’s addiction for the majority of the series; she so desperately wishes to save him from himself, she so desperately wants to help, to be useful, but she truly cannot be everywhere cataloging all of his actions all of the time

aaaah WOW sleepy!!!! incredible playlist, thank you again for sharing it with me and the rest of us here on inkykeiji!!! your selection of songs and the order in which you curated them was just genius, i am so blessed to be able to experience this <333

[lifesver]

@meatriarch said: [ FIVE CALLS ]  send for five times the receiver nearly calls the sender and the one time they do. | ( could be post-house calling mama ginny maybe c: )

one. the last time leland remembers them all being together was at jesse's funeral. even though most of them were still numbed out from maria’s service — only a couple days ago — everyone had come out to support mrs. jones today. it was only right. he'd only been to one funeral, before. in the span of a week, they had buried a close friend.

today, it's a boy that couldn't be much older than he was.

at least the rain was polite enough to hold off.

it's difficult to be still. his tie felt too tight. he hated this vaguely cigarette-smelling coat he'd borrowed from his dad's closet. only half-listening to the pastor speak, leland couldn’t help but stare into the flower-framed photo of a smiling boy with bright blonde hair, and wonder if it was strange, and sad, getting all dressed up like this, for an empty casket. while a bitter little voice in the back of his mind whispers; if any of these strangers around him had really cared, someone would have helped mrs. jones bring her son home. someone would have helped them find maria.

after it was said and done, leland had pulled away from the dispersing mourners. out on the too-green cemetery lawn, mrs. jones had met him, and stood next to him quietly, for a while. she took his hands in hers, giving them a comforting squeeze. and then she handed him a little slip of paper. folded his fingers over it with a look only a mother is capable of. it made him feel a little less cold, as the sky opened up, and began spitting rain down.

she would only be a call away, she said, if he, or any of them needed someone to talk to. don’t hesitate, baby. he felt shellshocked by the gesture. on probably the worst day of her life, she was still thinking of them — some college kids she hardly knew. today, she didn't even have the body of her son to bury, and she was checking in on him. because she was a good mother. he wanted to say that jesse was lucky, at least, to have had someone who cared so much for him. who fought so hard to find him. but he couldn't get any of those words out, in the end. he dragged in a shaky breath, and tried to smile back at her.

❝ … thank you, mrs. jones, ❞ he managed, voice raw, and small. she wordlessly pulls him into an embrace, and he hugs her back twice as tight.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

two. he's had some bad nights, since then. the types of dreams that'll tear you from sleep screaming — waking up the whole damn house, dad complained. running hot and cold, and swearing to god he never left that fucking basement cell. that freezer. feeling a hand crushing down on his throat. hearing screaming, always the screaming of his name, down a pitch-black tunnel.

every night was the same. he's getting better at managing, though.

just now, he has mrs. jones’ little slip of paper, laid out on the kitchen counter under his hands. truthfully, he had almost forgotten it, tucked safely in his wallet most days. didn't ever intend to bother her, after everything. but sometimes he thought about it.

if you ever need someone to talk to, he can still hear her saying.

maybe he does, but that was a tough pill to swallow, wasn't it? he's staring at himself in the kitchen window, and taking in the dark under his eyes. the healed, jagged scores across his face, that will never go away. not ever. it's still hard to reconcile with that unfamiliar reflection, and suddenly — it felt a bit harder to breathe.

the yellowy overhead light tries to warm the space, but to leland, the quiet of a sleeping house no longer felt comforting. instead, he only became more aware of the creak of floorboards, and the the tap of a tree branch on the windows.

right now, he felt claustrophobic. tap, tap, tap, drag. taunting laughter, sound of knife striking, striking — the wall of the slaughter house. drip, drip. blood slipping down his temple, landing on the freezing concrete —

eyes squeeze shut, dizzied. hand drags through hair. one, two, three, four, five — nails dig into palms hard, and he paces the length of the kitchen. six, seven, eight, nine — remember the breathing part. he stops in front of the phone, clutching the receiver, only to freeze. ten. he remembers to breathe.

he reminds himself of a couple things; not to call mrs. jones, because she'd been through enough. not to call ana, because she needed time alone. not to call connie, because she doesn't want to know him, anymore.

no one needs your shit.

leland takes his hand off the receiver, and he swallows down the sick feeling. he walks himself back into the empty living room, and falls asleep in front of the tv instead.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

three. leland mckinney wasn't the type of boy that was supposed to get in fights. he wasn’t raised like that — is what his mother had said, as she fussed over his bloody nose.

what he'd learned, though, was that even after a year, he was still the type that heard his heartbeat like gunshots in his ears, whenever someone sounded a little too close to that low, taunting drawl from his nightmares. that his anger was a hairpin trigger, every time someone tried to start in with a hey — ain't you that kid from the paper?

he should have minded his business, in that bar. should have known better. now he has to listen to his parents arguing over his head. until he felt like he just wasn't there, anymore.

head still pounding badly, leland abruptly gets up, catching them both off guard. pulling away from his mother's touch, and worried tone. he sidesteps cecil mckinney in the kitchen doorway. can barely hear him start up again, talking to him — at him. raising his voice, when that doesn't work, he gets stopped by a strong hand around his forearm, as cecil turns him back around.

— well. didn't matter, what happened, really. his dad ripped a stripe off him, like he always did. because it was easy;

what the hell's the matter with you, lately? doing nothing with yourself, sulking around the house all day. now you’re getting into fights?

and a lot of bullshit, about god, second chances. you could have died, but you didn’t. that most people would be a little more grateful to be alive, after something like that.

— wasting your damn life, leland.

he's heard this speech before. usually lets it roll off his shoulders. only this time, it strikes the last frayed nerve.

leland says something he shouldn't have, right back. that he didn’t ask for this. that sometimes, he sure as hell wished he was dead, too. didn't really know if he meant it. just knew it'd shut everyone up.

it does. the backhand lands sharp across his cheek, and stuns out any other thought process. and then it’s just white noise pitch in his ears after that. numbly, his hand comes up, to hover over the bright sting of where he’d been struck. leland’s eyes flutter with a tell-tale burn. which makes it worse.

( you gotta toughen up, lee. quit crying at every little thing. that's why those boys picked on you, you know that? )

you don't ever, let them know you're hurting.

leland's head pulses. he drops his gaze, and he shuts his mouth. his old man doesn’t stop him from leaving, this time. out the door. getting in his car and just driving, mindlessly out in the dark. well out of georgetown.

for maybe an hour, before he finally stops, at a dimly lit gas station on the edge of town.

what did he think he was going to do, now? he couldn’t go home. but maybe he should call dan, or ana. they'd probably pick up.

he leaves his car by the pump, slipping into the phonebooth outside the gas station building. brain on autopilot, he shuffles in his pocket to retrieve his wallet, rooting for change and feeding it to the payphone.

absently, leland thumbs at the transparent pocket of his wallet, until a little over-folded paper slips free. when he opens it, mrs. jones' looping, clean cursive greets him again.

leland wonders what she would be doing, at this time of night. if she was much like his mother, probably watching johnny carson, or getting ready for bed. if he would be bothering her too terribly, and if her offer to talk still stood. if she remembered him at all.

he lets it ring twice. and wonders what he should say. maybe sorry? leland closes his eyes, forehead pressing to the glass. he lets it ring a third time, before he loses his nerve, all at once. leland drops the receiver down hard, like it had burnt him. shoulders shake with something choked out and quiet.

fuck. fuck this. you're fine. you're okay.

he sinks down to the floor of the booth, and he buries the sob in his hands.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

four. on holidays, he thought about mrs. jones. and hoped she had other family to spend them with. he couldn't imagine facing days like that alone — like thanksgiving, or christmas, when a spot at the table was always going to be empty.

in the spin-cycle of his thoughts, he imagined a bedroom similar to his own, left untouched, with the door left firmly shut. a museum of someone's life in photos, and baseball cards, and high school yearbooks. leland wondered, if it was just easier to leave some things in their boxes.

he never did unpack the moving boxes, from his dorm. they stared at him in their little corner, by his closet. most days he forgot about them. the idea of going through that shit set off something visceral in him. an unfair bitterness, or shame that would climb up out of him, every time he tried to face his old letterman. or one of sonny's books he'd forgotten to return. or a teddy bear, from connie, from his birthday. or maria's photo album. the one she would have given him personally, if she were still here.

— but it's been a few years, now, since he'd thought about the little handwritten note in his wallet. a few christmases. but it's easy to remember virginia's phone number — for how many times he's folded, and unfolded that little slip of paper.

leland can hear the hum of his mother's relentless shirley temple christmas album, from the other room. he shoulders the phone to his ear, and leans against the wall. casting a smile to willa, as she crosses the hall showing off the new jacket she got as a gift, before disappearing. he hears sadie and april’s enthusiasm in ooh’s and ah’s from the dining room.

against his ear, the line rings, rings, rings. and it's almost a relief, when only her voicemail answers.

there's a few seconds of silence, and then leland remembers to speak.

❝ hi, mrs. jones. it's... leland — um, mckinney. i don't know if you remember... ❞ a long beat. what did he think he was going to say, exactly? hey, i know you haven't heard from me properly in years, but i've been having a lot of nightmares, again. i guess i feel scared, in my house, outside, in the dark. and i've been missing everyone i've ever lost. so i was wondering, you know, if you ever find a way to get through it? like, how do you move past it? how do i stop feeling like there's a hole in the middle of me that everyone can see? how do you keep going? how —

— leland sucks in a sharp breath, gives a soft, vaguely unsteady laugh. his voice feels incredibly small. ❝ sorry i — don't know why i called this late. you're probably with your family. i'm. doing okay. i just wanted to say, merry christmas. and, i... hope you're well. that’s all. ❞

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

five. the others — his old friends that had showed up already, were fast asleep. jules and dan were flying in in the morning, they said. sonny would try to take a couple days from his job. said it would be nice to see everyone, at least.

leland hadn’t realized how quiet his house was, before he had people in it, again. or how small his life had become, over the years.

connie's on the couch, covered in a few quilts, with the dog resting by her. ana was in the armchair with another blanket.

the movie they'd been watching is rolling credits to a jaunty cowboy tune, and he's the last one up, now — sitting in the dull light of his kitchen, surrounded by the reason for all of this, and balancing his phone against his ear. news articles and old missing posters are scattered on a circular table.

it looked fucking crazy. he sounded fucking crazy. keeping tabs on a town he should have left behind a long damn time ago.

maybe some part of him didn’t think any of them would agree to this, to begin with. to something so stupid. maybe he sort of hoped they wouldn't. maybe he thought someone would tell him no, convince him to stop reliving the awful shit that happened to them, all those years ago.

but they had all picked up, every single one of them, when he called. twenty. twenty fucking years, and they all still think of, dream of, that fucking farmhouse, too. but jesus — twenty years. twenty years to have a real conversation with some of them, again. he ought to be ashamed.

anyway — this was the phonecall he was dreading most, somehow. he hadn’t wanted to let mrs. jones know what they were doing. what he was planning to do, until dan chewed him out for the very idea of leaving her in the dark.

❝ hi, mrs. jones? ❞ his fingers clutch in the curling wire. self-soothing. until a soft voice greets him on the other end. there's a pause, and then a gentle warmth as she says his name. age more apparent in both their voices, now.

she speaks to him like no time had passed at all, though. tells him she thinks just virginia is alright, now.

it was kind of funny, how some part of him still felt like a kid, talking to her.

they talk about how things have been, for a little while. it's nice — even if it's the kind of small talk you have to struggle with, when you don't really know someone, anymore. it didn't feel much different, than sitting across from his mother at the kitchen table, as a kid. talking about his day, or how practice had been.

until eventually, a comfortable silence falls between them.

and she asks him kindly, then, why he had really called.

for leland, there’s the ever-familiar tug toward lying. but what the hell was the point of that, now? he’d been lying for years. hadn't done him any favours.

❝ … i think — i think, i'm going to do something i shouldn't. ❞ leland begins, evenly. he stares at the newspaper clippings. the faded picture of maria flores. the old headlines, over the years — unexplained incidents around the town of newt, texas.

he couldn't ever get away from it. and now he's insisted on dragging his old friends down with him into this mess, too.

his eyes land across the sleeping bodies in his living room. there’s something, then — that feels like the closest thing to clarity he’s had in years. ❝ i guess... i was looking for advice. how do you know if — if something is right — if you’re doing something, for the right reasons? ❞

[sunflwryu]

warning: yandere  |  not requested

accident

the first time jeongin saw you was at his grandfather’s funeral.

you had been seated at the back dressed in all black, gloved hands folded in your lap as you listened intently to whenever someone was speaking. there was something so striking in the way you kept away from everyone though, opting to pay your respects to the picture frame displayed in the bed of flowers over the casket after everyone else, bowing your head and looking towards the ceiling as if you were staring at the sky. you didn’t stand out and blended in with the goers, and he could’ve missed you easily if it weren’t for his bored but all-seeing eyes, if it weren’t for that he had no care for the distant relative who died of old age.

he had went up to you out of curiosity, asking if you had known his grandfather and if you didn’t, why did you come to such a depressing event like this?

“i didn’t know him at all,” you’d explained gently, your voice quiet and soft as if you didn’t want to be heard and misunderstood, “i know it’s strange of me, a total stranger, to be here, but i always go to these things and pray for them in case no one else does. that way, there’s someone who at least acknowledges that that person existed, you know? that they had lived on this earth, that their existence wasn’t meaningless. i think they would be able to rest peacefully that way.”

there were flaws in your thinking. what if they was a bad person that didn’t deserve it? what would you say to that? would you still say the same ignorant words you did? but his questions stuck in his throat as you gave him your sincere condolences and quickly left the building without leaving him a name, phone number, anything at all.

your naivety yet wonderous innocence was quite fascinating to him, so much so that he thought about you when he got home that night. god, did he want to see you again, and badly.

and he does.

seeing your familiar figure in the back of the room, he rushes up to you, heart beating. “hey...um, do you remember me...?” he asks nervously.

you give him a sympathetic smile. “i do. i’m so sorry that you lost your grandmother too...really, that’s terrible. so soon after your grandfather too...gosh, i can’t imagine how it must be like for you.”

the tears begin to build in his eyes, but he returns a dry smile. “i-it’s been hard,” he admits, glancing back at his grief-stricken parents with a heavy, apologetic heart. they’re really going through it, he feels so sorry. “i mean, she fell down the stairs when nobody was around...it was so sudden, you know?” you purse your lips understandingly, feeling sorry for him, nodding.

“well, i’ve been thinking about what you said last time,” he continues, “and i think it’s really nice that you come. i mean, sending them off while acknowledging their existence so they can rest in peace. it’s comforting. and...t-thank you so much for coming today, too. it means a lot...especially since it’s someone as sincere as you...”

“of course...” you seem to not know what to do to comfort him, your hands making small, hesitant movements to reach over to him but your hesitance forces them back by your sides. he finds that a bit cute. “u-um...i’m glad that what i said helped you a little.”

you both just stand across from each other, not knowing how to break the ice. he‘s wracking his brains on how he can approach you and get closer to you without making you uncomfortable with him, having not planned out what he was going to say this far. unfortunately, it‘s not long before you blurt an excuse to go to the bathroom to escape the awkwardness of the situation, causing jeongin to let out the impatient breath he’d been holding while pressing his hand to his forehead.

well, he really fucked that one up, didn’t he? really, it’s not his fault that funerals make it so difficult to bond over.

it’s not like he can’t see you again, though, he would try again as many times as it took to have someone as intriguing as you in the palm of his hands, to have you as his, to have your eyes only on him, to talk only to him about all the mysterious little thoughts you had.

he looks at his family members, how much they all sob in each others’ arms for their consecutive losses. for their sakes, they better pray he can snag you soon.

after all, an accident can happen anytime.

note: it’s been a week since my last work, hasn’t it? i did try to write some but it didn’t turn out good, and i definitely didn’t want to put out bad stuff cuz y’all don’t deserve that. i hope you like this one even though it’s short! i can’t take all the credit though, i remembered this plot twist from a wattpad book i read years ago, it was something like two sentence horror stories or mysteries or smthg like that, where this guy saw a girl at a funeral one time and just decided to cause another one to see her again. ooft. anyways, thank you for reading and supporting me as always, i really appreciate all of you! <33

skz masterlist  |  main masterlist  |  by @sunflwryu

[tryingmybestpls]

Not A Team: Part 2- New World Order

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: The Reader gives a speech at the opening of Steve’s exhibit and has a talk with Sam following his speech.

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER, talks of death, talks of mental illness, feelings of isolation

Read Part One here

Listen to the playlist inspired by the series here

Y/N felt like coming here today was a mistake.

Her stomach tossed and turned like a stormy sea, threatening to send her breakfast all over Rhodey's shiny shoes. She was second guessing everything. Was her dress nice enough? Rhodey had told her she looked great, but she hadn't worn a dress since Steve's funeral-Oh God, what if he was lying to her? No, he wouldn't lie to her-but what if he felt bad? Jesus, dd her shoes look stupid? Maybe she shouldn't have worn heels-but then she always wore heels with dresses and if she wore flats that would look childish. Did her speech sound coherent? Fuck, what if she messes up. Would they think she was doing it on purpose out of retribution for what Steve did? No, they didn't know what Steve did, what he had done to her. What if-

"Hey, hey. What's wrong? You look like you're going to blow chunks." Rhodey cuts through her thoughts like a hot knife through butter. He puts his hand on her back, "Breathe, Y/N."

"Maybe this a bad idea, Rhodey. I mean they have Sam. I think Sam can handle this." She stumbles over her words, trying to calm herself down. Her heart was racing a hundred miles a minute and she swore her hands were shaking,

"You're going to be okay, but you need to relax. I've read and reread your speech a dozen times. It's perfect." Rhodey tries to soothe her, his hand rubbing her back. Y/N squeezes her eyes shut, working on slowing her breathing. In through her nose and out through her mouth.

"Hey pretty lady, I was wondering where the exhibit is. I'm supposed to be giving a speech there today." A voice calls out, sending Y/N's eyes flying open. She turns on her heels, being greeted by the sight of Sam walking towards them, holding the leather case that carries the shield. Y/N can feel the tension melting out of her shoulders as a smile spreads across her nervous face.

"Rhodey, I think they might be letting anyone speak here today." Y/N teases, the anxiousness slipping away, releasing its hold on her. Rhodey chuckles, shaking his head at his friend's antics. She hadn't seen Sam since the days following Steve's funeral and right now, he's a welcome sight. Sam rests his hand over his heart, feigning hurt as he gets closer.

"You wound me, woman." Sam jokes, smiling right back at her. They embrace, her arms wrapping around his neck as his go around her waist, "I missed you, kid."

"I've missed you too, Sammy." She murmurs back, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. They pull away and Sam smiles at her, the skin around his eyes wrinkling. Rhodey clears his throat, gently touching Y/N's upper arm.

"Hey I need to go talk to some people, alright?" Rhodey announces, almost as if he is asking permission. Y/N just smiles and nods, the smile staying on her face until he walks away from the two.

"How are you feeling, Y/N?" Sam questions, to which Y/N sighs, looking down at her shoes.  She stays quiet for a moment, feeling his eyes on her.

"You want the truth or you want me to tell you what I tell Rhodey?" She replies, looking back at him. Y/N shifts from one foot to another, glad they were far from the crowd that was gathering. He gives her a look, giving her an answer without opening his mouth. She sighs again, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.

"I don't sleep, not really. I get maybe an hour a night if I am lucky. I-The house is filled with boxes that I can't unpack because-" Her voice cracks, her chest rising and falling quickly. She bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to not cry, "I thought that leaving the apartment would make him go away, but it didn't."

"Well Steve was always stubborn." Sam responds, making a laugh bubble out of her throat before she could stop it. There was an "I'm sorry" buried in the joke and Y/N knew it, but decided to only focus on the joke.

-

The stage looked daunting.

She forced herself up those steps, the person who had introduced her still had his hand outstretched towards her. Y/N wondered if she could make a run for it. Sure people will be mad at her, but she won't be forcing herself through this. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, the clapping nothing but a ringing in her ears. For a moment, her eyes landed on the giant banner of her husband, a lump forming in her throat. He was watching over her, his face emotionless as his eyes seemingly followed her every step. Cameras flashed as she stood on the stage, striding over to the podium. Once she stood in front of it, a hush fell over the crowd.

Y/N Rogers had saved thousands of lives. She was an Avenger and had faced countless foes. Hell, her wedding had more people in attendance than this event, but she still felt sick to her stomach. Y/N gave them all a smile as she forced herself to calm down, swallowing hard before speaking.

"To say that Steve Rogers was a special man is putting lightly. He was a hero that many of us, myself included, aspired to be one day. And while many of you only knew him as Captain America, I was among the lucky few that got to know him just as Steve Rogers. Now I could stand up here and tell you about every battle he won, how valiantly he fought-but everyone else is going to do that. Hell, you can read about it in the exhibit." Y/N chuckles, blinking away the tears in her eyes as the crowd laughs.

Y/N finds Rhodey and Sam in the crowd, both of them giving her smiles of encouragement. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the diamond on her wedding ring sparkling in the light. It's the first time she's worn it in a while, but it felt almost right to wear it. Once again, she's pretending like Steve didn't leave her. No, Y/N is ignoring that completely, almost blissfully. These people only know Steve as Captain America, as a god-damned American hero. She isn't going to tarnish that, won't ruin his legacy. And regardless of what Steve did to her, she is still in love with him and she wants to talk about the man she fell in love with, not the one that hurt her. Y/N inhales and exhales shakily before continuing.

"Steve was so much more than just Captain America. He was my best friend and my husband. He was the type of man to pick up flowers for you just because. The type of man to tell you that you looked really pretty even though you were covered in dirt and ash. He would let me go on and on about things that didn't even matter, but with the way he paid attention you would think that I was telling him the secrets of the world. Steve loved staying in and having movie marathons-he-he had a list he'd carry with him to write down things he needed to learn about. Before we dated, he would text me randomly, asking me why Jar Jar Binks is hated so much or asking me to explain what emojis are. He never quite got the hang gof the latter." A laugh comes out of Y/N's mouth, the crowd following suit. There was a smile on her face, a warmth spreading in her chest.

"He's the man I'll be in love with until the day I die, but then I'll fall in love all over again because I'll be able to see him again. Steve was the sweetest, kindest man I've ever met and while I will always wish we had more time together, I was lucky to have him as long as I did. We were all lucky to have him." Y/N pauses again, her throat constricting with emotion, "Even though he's gone, Steve lived a long life-a life longer than some of us get and I am happy that so many different facets of his life is going to be explored and shared with so many people. I hope you all enjoy the exhibit. Thank you."

The applause that followed was almost thunderous. Y/N smiled as her heart slammed against her ribcage, cameras flashing as she made her way off the stage. She was glad it was finally over as she moved to stand next to Rhodey and Sam. Sam kissed her cheek before he climbed up the stairs to the stage. Rhodey rubbed her back, telling her quietly that she did great. She just nodded in response, her eyes on her friend, watching as Sam leaned the shield against the plexiglass podium.

"Thank you Y/N for making my job a lot harder." Sam teases, causing everyone to chuckle. Y/N smiles right back at him, shaking her head as her friend carries on, "Steve represented the best in all of us. Courageous, righteous, hopeful. And he mastered poising stoically. "

Sam's a natural at this, standing up there like its nothing. And while Y/N should be focused on the speech, her eyes keep drifting down to the shield at his feet.

"The world has been forever changed. A few months ago, billions of people reappeared after five years away, sending the world into turmoil. We need new heroes. Ones suited for the times we're in. Symbols...are nothing without the women and men that give them meaning. And this thing," Sam chuckles, picking up the shield, "I don't know if there's ever been a greater symbol. But it's more about the man who propped it up and he's gone. So, today we honor Steve's legacy, but also, we look to the future. So thank you, Captain America. But this belongs to you."

Y/N feels sick to her stomach as she watches Sam hand the shield off. Her chest feels tight and she-she can't be here. There's a ringing on her ears and she can't breathe. Y/N pushes through the crowd, not bothering with pleasantries as she does it. A dozen emotions rack her body, causing her hands to start to heat up. She forces it down, deep down as she walks into an empty bathroom, locking the door behind her.

Sam gave away the shield.

He gave it away.

Like it was nothing.

And she wants to scream, wants to cry, but it won't come out. Y/N won't let it, not now when she is still in public. She walks over to the sinks, her hands gripping the counter. Her eyes are rimmed with red, eyes all watery. Her red painted lips press into a thin line as she forces herself to not cry, practically glaring at her reflection. What did her therapist tell her to do? Ah yes, breath in and out. In and out.

This was all too much way too soon. She couldn't handle this. She was being bombarded with memories and emotions already and now Sam giving the shield away? She felt like she was going to lose it. A part of her felt like she was overreacting. overthinking this whole situation. And maybe she was. Y/N did that from time to time. Tony had told her she was an expert of making mountains out of molehills. Maybe Sam just didn't want to be Captain America, didn't want to shoulder that burden. That was understandable. It was a shitty, shitty job-one that Sam didn't ask for. He shouldn't be forced to take on the mantle of Captain America, not when the previous owner had tossed it away so carelessly.

Yet, the bigger part of her was incredibly upset. Angry at the fact that Sam handed off the shield to be shelved in a museum. Overwhelmed by the amount of Steve that was everywhere. Confused over the multitudes of feeling that were swarming her body.

And there was nothing she could do about any of them. She just had to grin and bear it, just like she's been doing since Steve decided he much rather spend an entire lifetime with a woman he knew for a few months. So Y/N collected herself, blinked away her tears, and left the bathroom. Her feet had a mind of their own, carrying her towards the one place she didn't want to be.

The exhibit.

Steve's image is plastered on every single surface, telling the details of every part of his life. Scrawny Steve, bootcamp Steve, darling icon of patriotism during the war Steve, frozen Steve, Battle of Manhattan Steve, cartoon Steve punching Hitler, Steve during Sokovia, Steve on the run. Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve. He covers every single square inch, which makes sense because this is his exhibit. And while Y/N knows she should just turn on her heel and not put herself through it, she throws caution to the wall. She's already incredibly upset, so she might as well pour gallons and gallons of salt and lemon juice into that open wound.  So she forces herself deeper into the exhibit, running straight into the very last man she wants to see at this moment.

"You know I wasn't expecting to find you here." Sam tells her as soon as her foot enters the next room. She keeps her mouth shut, so he adds "Rhodey is looking for you."

"You know on his right sleeve of his suits, right near his wrist, he had my initials stitched. He told me he wanted to carry a piece of me into every mission, into every fight." Y/N announces as she looks at a picture of Steve on a mission, most likely taken by Natasha. Sam sighs, walking over to her, wanting her to see his point of view.

"Look I know you're upset-" He starts, but is immediately cut off by a dry chuckle slipping out of Y/N's mouth as she walks around the room. She wants to lay in to him, wants to give him a piece of her mind.

"Oh I am far past the point of being "just upset", Wilson. It wasn't yours to give away. I-I don't care if you didn't want the mantle, but..." Her angry words trail off once she realizes what part of the exhibit she has reached, her face dropping.

Y/N stops in front of a part of the exhibit labeled 'Two Heroes United'. Her eyes roam over the pictures of her and Steve's wedding and the pictures taken throughout the duration of their relationship, so much more than what the file Rhodey had left detailed. So many smiles, so much happiness filling each and every picture. Her facade is cracking, chipping away as she forces herself to study every picture, studying their faces over and over, trying to see if there was something she had missed, if-if there was something she could have said or done to hold onto him a little longer. If there was something hidden behind his smile, behind his touches, they don't reveal themselves in the photographs.

She's just a footnote in his life, a blurb at the end of a long story. A tool to make him look like an all-American family man. Bucky and Sam had much larger parts of the exhibit dedicated to their roles in Steve's life and who they are outside of being Steve's friends. Y/N-well Y/N gets this, a paragraph saying that she was on the team and then married Steve. She is just haphazardly tacked onto the story of his life, a cute story to make people feel all warm inside. He got his happily ever after, they'll say-or they'll whisper to one another God she was so lucky to have him. They won't ask if she got her happily ever after or if she feels lucky now.

Sam got to hand off the shield, got to throw away the title of Captain America. He gets to keep on living his life after this, but Y/N-Y/N will always be Steve's wife. And it doesn't matter how many people she saved or what she did with her time on earth, she will only be know for being the wife of the man who abandoned her. Y/N's tied to him for eternity, stuck loving a man who decided to love someone else.

And then, just like that, something inside of her just snaps. Her facade fully crumbles, leaving her unable to mask what she's going through.  Y/N's eyes fill up with tears and she's unable to blink them away before they spill over the edge, sending tears rolling down her cheeks. And as she stood there, crying in the middle of the exhibit dedicated to Steven Grant Rogers, a depressing epiphany popped into her mind.

The shield was the last part of Steve that she had that wasn't tainted in some way, a piece of him that she could still bear to see. And Sam had just given it away, leaving her with nothing but memories that would haunt her.

-

"I watched your speech. You did really good, Y/N." Her therapist praises, giving her a soft smile. Y/N nods, twisting her wedding ring on her finger. She had decided to start wearing it again, even though her feelings about Steve were still conflicted. While a part of her thought that this meant she was healing, Y/N knew it was more likely tied to the fact that Sam had given up the shield.

"It-It felt good." Y/N replies, shifting in her seat. She had thought it was a subtle movement, but Dr. Raynor gave her a look. After a few months of court-ordered appointments, the therapist knew Y/N all too well and she sure as hell knew when Y/N wasn't telling the truth.

"Something is upsetting you. What happened?" The doctor questions, clicking her pen. Y/N dreaded the noise. It meant a longer session, more bandaids being ripped off in order to force the wounds into the light. It would mean she would return to her home a little colder, a little emptier.

"Nothing happened. It-I had a good day. A good week." Y/N tries to reassure her, even going as far as to give her what she thought was a honest smile. Dr. Raynor held up her pad of paper, making a show of slowly bring the pen down to the paper. Y/N's smile falls and she looks down at her hands, letting out a small sigh.

"He-Sam gave away the shield. He gave it away like it was nothing." The ex-hero announces, feeling like a scolded child. Raynor lowers her pen and paper, settling back into her seat.

"And you feel like he shouldn't have?"

"No. No, Steve-Steve chose him. Steve gave him the shield because he knew that Sam was good, that Sam could handle it. And-And Sam just gave it away." Y/N stammers, picking at a thread that was hanging off her shirt.

"You know, I think that is the first time you have said his name aloud." Raynor mentions, causing Y/N to stop her movements. The thread is caught between her fingers, pulled taut. The doctor continues, "You always refer to Steve as 'he' or 'him' or 'my husband'. You never say his name."

"I don't think I was ready to be around...Steve. Not that much." Y/N tries to shift the focus, shame filling her, her face feeling hot. She knows she has her reasons not to say his name, but she still felt terrible about not being able to say his name.

"But you still spoke at the opening of his exhibit. I'm sure everyone would more than understand why you couldn't. So why did you decide on speaking?" The therapist asks, taking down a couple notes of her pad of paper. Y/N stays silent for a moment, letting go of the thread to start twisting her ring again.

"I-I don't know. Rhodey asked me and I-I guess I thought I could do it. And the speech wasn't bad I just-I wasn't expecting Sam to give away the shield." Y/N responds, her voice soft. She feels so small, sitting here on this charcoal grey couch. Y/N almost felt...stupid for being so angry at Sam. It wasn't his fault at all and as Y/N said everything out loud, she felt like such an asshole.

"If you would've known that Sam wanted to give the shield away, would you have stopped him?" Dr. Raynor replies, leaning forward slightly as she takes a few notes. Y/N feels herself sinking into the couch.

"I don't know. I-I wish he would have just told me so that we could've talked about it." She answers, looking out of the window. Dark grey clouds filled the sky, blocking out a lot of the sunlight that wanted to shine down on the city. Y/N didn't know if she would have actually forced him to keep the shield. That wasn't on him to have hold on to hat chunk of vibranium. It was wrong for Steve to have thrown that all on Sam. What would be the alternative? For her to keep the shield? Y/N highly doubted that the United States government would allow that.

-

Y/N was watering her garden when her phone started to ring in her back pocket. She quickly moves to shut off the water hose before she slips the phone about her pocket. Sam's name and picture appears on her screen, making uneasiness fill her stomach. Y/N exhales through her noise loudly before answering it, holding the phone against her ears.

"Have you seen the news?" Sam asks, not even letting her get a single syllable out.

"No, I've been outside-What's going on, Sam?" Y/N questions, making her way to the house. Something was definitely wrong. Sam never called her unless it was for emergencies. if they did communicate, it was mainly through texting. Her heartbeat started to race, as did her thoughts. A million different scenarios filled her head, each one worse than the last.

"You need to turn on the news right now." Sam replies as she opens the back door, quickly crossing the kitchen and walking into the living room. Her hands are almost shaking as she picks up the remote, turning the television on. Luckily for her, the last thing she had been watching was the news. Unluckily for her, she was greeted with a man holding the shield-Steve's shield, dressed in what looked like an off-brand, shitty version of the Captain America suit.

Anger filled her body. It had been four days tops since Sam handled off the shield and already, they had found their 'new Captain America'. The man in question was smiling smugly in the ill-fitting suit, waving at the camera, holding onto his shield tightly. God, Y/N wanted to beat the shit of the man and every single person who had okayed this. She could only hear bits and pieces of the speech as the news replayed it, but even that bullshit was too much for her to handle. She muted the television, tossing the remote on the couch.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?" Y/N exclaims, her hands getting warm. The Avenger was unable to get to anything articulate as rage filled her. She quickly put the phone on speaker, setting the device down just in case her hands caught flame.

"I know. I know. It's fucking bullshit." Sam replies, sighing. Y/N paced in front of the television, trying to calm herself down before she burned a hole through her rug. On the screen, the fake Cap was talking about something, a saccharine smile spread across his face. Y/N wanted to take that God damn shield and smash his teeth in.

"That asshole has my husband's fucking shield. They-He isn't supposed to be Captain America, okay? It's just not-It's not theirs to give away." Y/N's voice cracks towards the end, tears filling her eyes. While she wasn't Steve's number one fan, she hated that they had already chose someone to take up his title. If Sam wasn't going to be Captain America, then no one should be Captain America.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I wouldn't have given away the shield if I would've known...I'm sorry." Sam murmurs over the phone. Y/N covers her face with her almost glowing hands as she tries to control her breathing, not able to respond to Sam’s apologies. Her sadness and anger quickly shifted into something else. 

Something inside of her switched on, something that she hadn't felt in a long time, not since she was a hero, back when she was an Avenger.

Y/N wanted to go to work.

------

Not A Team taglist (if you would like to be added to the taglist please let me know!)

@lady-elena-adeline​ @simonedk​ @hersilencedscreams​ @rqmanoff​

[soft--dragon]

Bees and Daisies

Hello!! It's me again :D You guys seemed to really enjoy that last mcyt fic I made with Wilbur and Tommy (I may be working on a part 2...)

Sooooo have this in the meantime! I wrote this instead of sleeping so please be kind I was very tired

Word Count: 2,041

Warnings: None

This is a SFW tickle fic, if you don’t like that then don’t read :)

Enjoy lovelies 💙

Tubbo fell back onto the grass with a heavy sigh, stretching his arms back then letting them fall back above his head.

"Man, I'm dead."

"Same" Tommy groaned next to him, arm over his eyes to block the sun. "God why did we think staying up till 4 last night was a good idea?"

"Cause we're both idiots" Tubbo replied.

Tommy lazily swung at him with his hand, nowhere near hitting Tubbo. "Fuck you I'm an intellectual."

Tubbo giggled. "Debatable."

"Rude" Tommy grumbled but was too tired to really argue. He sunk further into the grass, the warmth only adding to his sleepy mood. "Ya know, taking a break from streaming for a week was the best damn decision we've ever made."

Tubbo hummed in agreement. "Having you over for the week was the best decision we've ever made."

Tommy grinned. "Can't argue with that."

Tubbo rolled onto his stomach, resting his head on his arms. They lay in a comfortable silence for awhile.

Tubbo suddenly gasped. "Tommy don't move, whatever you do, do not move."

Tommy froze. "What? Tubbo, what is it? Tubbo?"

Tubbo's eyes lit up with his smile. "There's a bee on you!"

Panic briefly gripped Tommy. "Fucken what-?! Wave it off!"

"No!" Tubbo shot back firmly, "he's just chilling, I'm not going to get rid of him!"

"Tubbo can I move my arm at least so I can see him?"

"Okay, just be slow."

Knowing how much bees meant to the brunette beside him, Tommy carefully shifted his arm off of his eyes, blinking at the brightness. His eyes lowered to his torso and he tensed up. A bumblebee sat calmly on his stomach, antenna shifting with the breeze.

Tommy stared at the fuzzy critter, flicking his eyes over to his friend. "It's fucken huge Tubbo."

"He's beautiful" Tubbo interrupted him firmly. "Don't be rude."

"It's not like he understands me-"

"Yes he does."

Tommy once again couldn't be bothered arguing. He kept his eyes on the bumblebee as it calmly sat on his shirt, beginning to wash it's face.

Okay it was kinda cute.

Tommy slowly let himself lay back, the bee barely reacted to his movements.

"Gonna name it or some shit?" Tommy found himself asking after a moment.

"Already have" Tubbo replied, resting his head back on his arms and watching the bee with half lidded eyes.

"And?"

"Honeypuffs."

"Jesus christ" Tommy sighed heavily but couldn't stop the smile crossing his face. "That is so dumb."

"Think you could come up with a better name?"

"Pogchamp" Tommy replied without hesitation.

Tubbo laughed softly. "You would."

"Obviously."

The bee shifted around, waddling up to Tommy's chest making him tense again.

"Tubbo what do we do if he stings me?"

"We freak out and after you're killed by Honeypuffs, I'll hold you a funeral."

"What-?!"

"I'll invite Wilbur and Phil, Techno as well-"

"Tubbo shut up-"

"Maybe Dream would like to come too-"

"Tubbo he's getting really close now-"

"Sapnap and George would probably come if Dream did, it would be pretty cool to meet all of them-"

"Tubbo-"

"Ooooo what if we got Niki to come too-!"

"Tubbo help me for fucks sake!"

Tubbo laughed, "alright alright, relax."

He gently picked a nearby daisy and held it out to the bumblebee. "Come on Honeypuffs, get on the flower, you're scaring Tommy."

"I'm not scared-!"

"Yes you are shut up, come on Honeypuffs."

The bumblebee paused looking at the flower for a moment then crawled closer to Tommy who definitely didn't shriek in response.

"Tubbo! Get it off!"

Tubbo laughed again. "Just calm down Toms, you're fine."

"I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" Tommy yelled, voice rising naturally.

"YOU'RE NOT GOING TO DIE!" Tubbo half shouted back, voice raising to match Tommy's on instinct. "RELAX!"

Honeypuffs had reached the collar of Tommy's shirt and was now starting the climb up Tommy's face.

Tommy screwed his eyes shut, hands clenching the grass. "Tubbo, get it off right fucking now."

"Tommy chill" Tubbo snickered, pushing the daisy close to Honeypuffs again, "he's literally doing nothing."

"Yes he is! He's bloody terrorizing me-"

Tubbo paused. "Oh so you are scared then?"

Tommy turned to glare at Tubbo and instantly regretted it when he saw the shit eating grin on his best friend's face. He growled, turning away. "Shut the fuck up and just get him off."

Tubbo laughed. He eventually gave up with the daisy and held out the back of his hand to Honeypuffs. The bumblebee instantly walked onto his fingers, crawling up to his knuckles and settling down. Tubbo took the bee away from Tommy, laying back down on his stomach.

Without the bee on him, Tommy instantly sat up to glare down at Honeypuffs. "Fuck you" he growled at the small thing.

Tubbo gasped at Tommy. "Tommy! Apologize right now."

"No, this twat was freaking me out, I'm allowed to say that."

Tubbo sat up, being careful not to jostle Honeypuffs. He glared at Tommy for a moment then sighed and stood up. He went over to a rose bush and gently lowered Honeypuffs onto it.

"Wait here bud" he said gently then turned to Tommy and his whole aura changed.

His eyes narrowed and he approached Tommy slowly. "Sure you're not gonna aoplogize?"

Tommy held his head higher defiantly. "Yes."

"You're funeral."

Tubbo tackled Tommy to the grass making the younger yell out in alarm. "Tubbo! What the fuck?!"

It was probably the sleep deprivation making Tommy easy to take down, or Tubbo was really determined to extract revenge. Whatever the case, Tommy fell down like london bridge.

Tubbo instantly locked his hands onto Tommy's sides, squeezing quickly. Tommy gave a squeal, falling into a hysterical giggle fit.

"Wahahahit! Wait wait wait! Tuhuhubbo!"

His hands weren't even pinned but it wouldn't have mattered if they had been. All Tommy was doing with his hands was weakly shoving at Tubbo's arms and chest, laughing like an absolute madman.

"Apologize bitch!" Tubbo yelled, pushing through Tommy's weak defenses to attack with no remose, "say you're sorry to Honeypuffs!"

"Hohohoneypuffs cahahan gohoho fuck himsel- TUBBO! HANG ON! NOHOHOHOT THEHEHEHERE! NOHOHOHO!"

Tommy curled into a ball, trying to protect his stomach that had fallen victim to Tubbo's ruthless attack.

"You know how to end this Tommy!" Tubbo giggled, switching from skittering his fingers to tazering, the tactic leaving Tommy in stitches.

"TUB-TUHUHUBBO!" Tommy managed to grip Tubbo's wrists and hold them tightly. "STOHOHOP!"

Tubbo switched tactics again, making his touch featherlight casing Tommy to, honest to god, squeal.

His laughter had started turning into wheezes much to Tubbo's amusement. Tommy attempted to roll onto his stomach to try and protect it from Tubbo's attack but immediately abandoned the escape route when Tubbo started squeezing his hips causing him to jack-knife onto his back again, letting out a high pitched yelp followed by a series of bubbly giggles.

"Tubbo! Tuhuhubbohoho plehehehese- stohohop! I cahahan't-"

Tubbo grinned. "Can't what Toms? Handle it? Should've thought of that before insulting Honeypuffs."

"Okahahay! Okay okay okay! Tuhubbo I'll apologize pleheahese juhuhust stohohop!"

Tubbo's fingers paused in their onslaught, letting Tommy get his breath back. He rested them on Tommy's sides making him flinch.

"Dohohon't" he whined weakly.

Tubbo gave a single squeeze making Tommy flinch and squeak. "Apologize then."

Through a string of giggles, Tommy managed to get out, "Ihihim sohohorry Honeheheypuhuhuffs."

Tubbo sighed dramatically. "See that wasn't so hard was it?"

He got off of Tommy, about to go retrieve his fuzzy friend from the rose bush when his ankle was grabbed, causing him to fall face first into the ground. "What in the hell-"

Weight settling on his lower back made him realise what was about to happen. "Tommy, hang on a second-"

Tommy crossed his arms above him. "Yeah no, I don't think I will."

He latched onto either side of Tubbo's ribcage and squeezed mercilessly. Tubbo shrieked, trying to push himself up from the dirt but his arms lacked the strength from both lack of sleep and the shock to his body. He crashed back down, his fists beating the grass as he laughed hysterically.

"Tohohohmmy! Tommy stohohop plehehease I'm sohohorry!"

"Oh? Youre asking me to stop, Honeypuffs are you hearing this?" Tommy looked up to the bumblebee still sitting peacefully on the rosebush. "This man right here, has the audacity to ask me to stop, when I asked the same thing earlier, do you know what he did Honeypuffs?"

"Tohohohommy plehehehese-!"

"Tubbo, be quiet, I'm trying to talk to Honeypuffs" Tommy shoved his hands under Tubbo's arms making him squeal and clamp his arms down.

"As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted-" Tommy gently swirled his fingers in the hollows making Tubbo squeak and twist in ticklish agony. "-I requested Tubbo to stop when he was torturing me Honeypuffs, do you know what he did?"

"T-Tommy plehehease, I cahahan't tahahake thihihis-"

Tommy continued, ignoring Tubbo who was laughing like mad. "He didn't stop Honeypuffs, can you believe that?"

"Tommy I'm sohohorry alrihihight!? I'm sorry! Plehehease fohohor the love of god juhuhust stohohop!"

Tommy paused for a moment, letting Tubbo breathe. "Hmmm, let me sleep on it."

He snuck his fingers underneath Tubbo to lightly skitter across his lower belly, well aware the boy was horribly ticklish there.

Tubbo snorted, his whole body short circuiting and causing him to collapse, lost in his laughter.

"Did you seriously just snort?" Tommy's eyes danced with glee. "Oh that is too good, do it again!"

"T-Tom- Tohohohmmy" Tubbo tried to speak but the gentle nails spidering over his belly was too much for him. He gave in to the sensation, gripping the grass with tight fists as he shook with giggles.

"Awwww too ticklish Big T?" Tommy teased, occasionally pinching the skin lightly making Tubbo jolt. "Well trust me, it's about to get worse."

In one quick movement, Tommy flipped Tubbo over and yanked his shirt up. Tubbo opened his eyes just in time to see Tommy dip his head towards him.

"WAIT-"

Tommy blew the biggest raspberry he could on Tubbo's stomach, his victim withered as his laughter went silent, legs kicking out in desperation.

His voice squeaked when it came back, his laughter peppered with hiccups.

"TOMMY" He gasped through his laughter, "Tommy p-please no- I'm going to fucking die-"

"Don't exaggerate" Tommy snickered but decided to take pity.

He'd fallen victim to raspberries from both Wilbur and his parents, he knew how intensely they tickled.

And he didn't want to accidently kill his best friend after all.

Tommy pulled Tubbo's shirt back down, gently rubbing the area free from any phantom tickles.

Even at Tommy's soothing movements, Tubbo was still giggling up a storm, tears in us eyes and his face red though he tried to hide it.

"I'm not even trying to tickle you" Tommy laughed.

"Cahahan stihill feheheel ihihit" Tubbo whined, hiding his face in his hands.

Tommy laughed again getting off of Tubbo and helping him sit up, hugging him a little to help calm him. "Sorry, I forgot how much of a death spot that is for you."

"Ihihit's fine, just...don't you dare do raspberries again jesus christ, I thought I saw my life flash before my eyes."

Tommy giggled again, "And what happens if I do dare?"

Tubbo glared at him playfully. "I'll tickle you until you piss yourself."

That wasn't an empty threat.

Tommy held his hands up in surrender. "Okay, understood."

"Good" Tubbo sighed heavily, falling against Tommy's shoulder. "...I'm sleepy."

"Ugh get off me" Tommy grumbled, but made no move to shove off the smaller boy.

Tommy fell back, taking Tubbo with him. They fell with a grunt, Tubbo still pressed to Tommy's side.

"Clingy" Tommy mumbled.

"No you" Tubbo replied.

Tommy giggled quietly. "I hate you."

"Sure Clingyinnit."

"Fuck off."

Tubbo grinned. "We should probably go inside if we're gonna pass out."

"Mmm probably" Tommy made absolutely no move to shift.

That was okay by Tubbo, he was tired too.

Honeypuffs flew over now the chaos had calmed down, settling in Tubbo's hair. The boy barely reacted to the small creature, smiling up at his new bee friend.

They all passed out on the lawn, under the warm sun.

[marshmallowprotection]

Saeran’s Diary

Spoilers for Saeran’s Diary. It’s within the Special Believer package. Not all of the pages are here. I’ve compiled the ones that looked the most note-worthy to talk about but I will summaries and talk about everything in this post. 

Okay, so Spoilers Ahead, read at your own caution. It’s Spoilers for Another Story, V Route, Ray Route, and the After Ending. 

Saeran introduces himself to the diary even though he has no idea how to use one of these. Saeyoung got it from the Cathedral. His brother tells him that if he can’t think of anything to write, he could draw instead. Saeran spends a lot of his time drawing out things on the pages just as much as he spends talking about this or that. His handwriting is rather clumsy and messy, much more so than what a child his age would have. 

However, he’s not in school and he’s roughly only been able to learn a few rudimentary things thanks to his brother. 

Saeyoung spends a lot of time at the cathedral. He’s been taking countless notes in his books. He’s literally been coping things to learn from the books that he can get his hands on. He’s got four of them, as far as Saeran knows. He has some of Saeyoung’s notes in his journal because he asked him what he was writing about all the time. He’s perplexed, saying that those coding notes look like they’re... 

Puzzles? 

He doesn’t know. 

Saeyoung takes him out for ice cream, and we can assume that’s when they made the promise on their ice cream to always be there for each other, knowing that there will be one day that they can escape together. You know, the one from Ray Route where we’re treated to their promise on twin-popsicles. It seems like Saeran is alone more and more often though. He’s spending so much time at the church.

There’s one day where he and Saeyoung are out that someone suspicious sees the two of them. Saeyoung gets them out of dodge, but it continues to haunt his mind for a while. He draws something really stark imagery. Then, Saeyoung is all of a sudden gone. He’s gone. Their mother demands that he find him but he cannot find him. He’s panicking. He thinks that maybe that man took his twin away and he may never come back. 

He’s so alone. 

He’s so scared. 

He’s begging for someone to come and get him. He’s still fairly young here and out of sorts, but his emotions are rapidly increasing the longer that he’s alone in that house. Until one day, something changes. 

V and Rika come to take him to the cathedral more and more often. He’s spending a good amount of his time there because the two of them managed to convince Mother Choi that it was a good idea. Saeran has no idea how they did it or why they did it. He just knows that this is the place that Saeyoung went to once and that maybe he’ll be able to find him there? Then he talks about how he may be able to find him. Twin’s intuition? 

That plays into the theme of the After Ending. How Saeran and Saeyoung can seemingly feel the other is alive, or that they’re okay. I think that’s kind of a really sweet thing to tie in like that. It’s like they’re connected when they’re not actually connected, and I don’t know if I’ll ever understand that connection since I’m not a twin but it stands out to me since Saeran is so hopeful for his brother again. 

He spends more time in the sun and it feels good. He wishes Saeyoung was here. It’d be nice if they could live somewhere nice like this... where he could see the sun all the time. V said to him that Saeyoung was okay, he had a strong feeling about it. Saeran doesn’t know how to feel about that. He thinks it’s okay but... he wishes that Saeyoung would find him first. He’s him and I’m him, that’s what he says. 

So, can’t they reach for one another...? 

Saeran starts to spend all his time going to classes and learning things at the cathedral. He’s learning how to focus on his work, how to bake, and how to get his head in the right place for things that he’s enjoy. Like, for example, he talks about how his plan for the future would be to have an ice cream store not far from his house as he stays with Saeyoung. He really writes down recipes and his trial and errors. It’s so cute. 

V gifts him a book about flowers and a good chunk of his diary is spent talking about them. He lists his favorites and some that stand out to him. There’s a photo that V took of him in the garden that you’ve likely seen before as he holds tightly to them with a smile. He talks about the life cycle of flowers as he tries to figure them out. He’s really thoughtful and spends an awful amount of time trying to learn how something so little makes something so big! 

I did not know that Rika and V had their own flowers. I’ve talked about these bookmarks before for Saeran and Saeyoung. 

Geranium can be a wish for good health, hope that you pray that the other person will someday feel better and find peace. It makes sense that that is for Saeran because he was a young and sickly child for such a very long time, and this was a gift that said, we pray for you and you will grow to be a bigger flower in due time. You will not wilt and you will grow until you blossom into something that is lovely. 

Rhododendron can be a sign of optimism, the hope that you have that the future ahead will be great. It makes sense that that was gifted to Saeyoung because he is the one that hinges on the hope that one day, he can save his brother and be sure that they are both free from their chains that have kept them down. This is a gift that says, never lose hope in yourself and those that you love when it feels like the end of coming. 

Narcissus means rebirth and renewal because it's one of the earliest bulbs to sprout. We all know the story. Unable to look away from the water, Narcissus grew tired, fell into the stream, and drowned. Rika’s suicide is implied to be her falling from the edge of a cliffside and falling into the water down below. It’s their way of symbolism her final rebirth into someone finally relishing in her cruelty and devil to it’s fullest form. 

Another popular story in mythology, Rhodanthe was someone so beautiful that people wouldn’t leave her alone. They were always at her heels and begging for her love. She turned them all down and grew so tired of them that she retreated and ran away to the Temple of Diana. Those suitors just wouldn’t quit, though, and because of that Diana decided to turn Rhodanthe in a rose and all of the suitors into the thorns of the flower. The implication here is that V and Rika are twisted together in a dangerous path, but it’s hard to tell who is the rose and who is the thorns here. Interesting. 

Here we go, huh? Rika gifts Saeran a book that she claims is the same one that his brother was reading. Saeran wants to be closer to him so he starts to learn and study what he can. He knows that he hid Saeyoung’s books for him so he has to get those from the house and he wants to use them to know more about who his brother is. It’s kind of hard, even Saeran claims that he’s struggling in all of this learning because it’s so much!

But, he says he can do it. 

He’ll do it for Saeyoung. 

We know why Rika is doing this, and we know where this is heading but I’m kind of like: I really don’t want to see how tortured my boy is about to be by this damn woman again. I continue onward to see how Saeran progressively learns as much as humanly possible as fast as he can. Okay, oh boy, he writes that he snuck out late at night to go to cathedral and nobody is usually there, but Rika was there tonight. 

He was perplexed by why she was looking at the wall of photos that contained each child that attended the church and did their studies there. He says that it felt wrong. He felt like he couldn’t speak. Something felt twisted and wrong in his chest but he stayed. He’s not even spending a lot of time with V and Rika at the cathedral up until this point. They just check on him now and again... until now, Rika seems to be more forward. 

She’s been giving him extra lessons and things to do. 

“It looked like she wanted to tell me something.” 

She didn’t though. 

Here’s one continuity error, though. Saeran knows that his mother passed away and she even had a funeral in this diary. He said that nobody came. Not their father, not their brother, nobody. There was nobody in the world to come for his mother’s passing but him and V and Rika. It’s just him and Saeyoung. His twin isn’t there but this is his only family. His only family. He missed his brother. He wishes he was there. 

He knows that his mother is dead but he doesn’t know how she died. I’m bit confused on that front. I’ll go and glance at his speech during the AE to know if it’s an error or not. Okay, so, they imply that Mother Choi never got a proper funeral. I think that means that you know, the one that Saeran held as a child wasn’t a real one by any meaning. It’s just a small ceremony. 

I almost want to say that the fucking trauma of Mint Eye destroyed more and more of his memory as a young child because it implies also in this diary that he does talk to some of the others at the cathedral sometimes, but not often. 

So, it could be an error, or it’s literally that the specific memory of that time at the cathedral isn’t accessible to him. It makes sense, though. Ray and Suit held a lot of their own memories and it feels like there’s other pieces that they’re missing in their lives. It still doesn’t take away from the fact that Saeran didn’t know how she died. Or that Rika burned the house down with V. 

Or that they both hid the fucking body. 

This is just the one thing of interest in the diary that doesn’t make sense unless I apply my theory that he cannot remember that incident. Either way, he makes a prayer to God about Saeyoung on the page after that. He says that he wants to be strong. He wants to be as strong as Saeyoung. Let him have that. 

Rika tricks him not long after this. “Come and meet me late at night. I want to give V a surprise.” He’s noticed that the two of them have been having a really difficult time lately, he thought they weren’t on good terms since they weren’t visiting together. This is literally after the trauma of the murder, self-defense or not, they had to remove a body and worse. 

That added to how bad their relationship already was. This was Rika’s turning point, after all. Saeran’s a child. He just thinks they’re going to make up and get better? He wants to help them because they helped him. 

But this is a trick. 

He spoke to Rika that briefly and then he went home. Someone grabbed him, and before he could fight, he was taken off the streets. It wasn’t Rika, but my money says that it was someone working for her to do the dirty work. He has no clue it’s Rika or anything for a while. He’s locked in a dark room. There’s not a lot in it but it seems like it was prepared for someone to stay in it. He’s scared, they leave him there. He banged on the door over and over, but nobody would listen to him. 

Days pass. 

He’s left with some notes about Mint Eye to read that make no sense to him but he’s trying to understand what they mean. How long is he going to be stuck in a room like this? Nothing makes sense! He gets fed every day, and he thinks that is okay. 

He’s trapped but he has food. It’s not so bad.. right? 

Nobody came to see him until the fourth day. He was taken away to what we can presume is the basement. He doesn’t know what’s happening here, but he just stares, slack-jawed at Rika in the basement as he lifts his head. 

She’s wearing a mask.

But, there’s no doubt. 

It’s Rika. 

He begged for answers but she would barely tell him what was happening in this place. She just says that V is a traitor and a liar to him. She said that he should call her his Savior. By the 11th day, they’re literally drugging through the food as time passes. He says that things don’t taste right but I know what that means as it’s the easiest way to poison someone over time.

I imagine that this is slowly happening as they’re starting to torture him with the elixir outright not long after this. 

He’s clearly confused and losing time the more that he tries to think because these are written on snippets as he’s trying to make sense of what’s going on around him. He’s hurting. He’s in pain. Nothing makes sense and he’s having a hard time dealing with being awake and eating these days. It just gets worse and worse as time passes for him. 

I don’t think I have to explain what this looks like: 

He’s literally terrified out of his fucking mind. He’s not able to focus and this is a point in the timeline where Ray takes control of the situation. Saeran cannot be awake anymore and Ray wakes up. This child has suffered enough already and Ray needs to be here to do this. His anger... his confusion. It’s played out in front of us as he loses himself and Ray takes control of everything that’s going on from now on. 

This is where the scraps end and Ray’s official diary begins. 

Yeah, this is actually a portion of the diary that I’ve seen before. It’s that proof that Rika is the one that dressed Ray. He would prefer to wear dark things but she says that he’s not good enough. He feels gloomy, he would have preferred something gloomy but Rika said no. Her reasoning is that he’s not strong and he needs to wear something vibrant to feel stronger. 

To feel more needed. 

He isn’t sure how to feel about that. He just says that Savior knows best and this is okay. I love his outfit but I know that’s uneasy about it. His gloves are rather tight on his hands so they can keep him from overextending his fingers and not get them to lock or have fractures from working so hard. He’s typing at a speed that not even I can manage so. 

He needs the support. 

No gloves slander about Ray, I know they’re half-gloves and bother some of you but it suits him. And, not to gush about Ray but there’s just so much Ray in this portion of the diary and you know I’m a massive Ray fan. Rika forces hm to do all of the security work. He spends like a week trying to make the system better but he’s hardly sleeping to do it. He’s the one that made the card system, as well, for both Rika and for others. 

He’s the one that grants access to anyone that is a believer. 

Certain people have certain powers. Rika can go anywhere, he can go to some places, and others... limited access. She “gifts” him the often of being able to help design the garden. He does pick a handful of flowers that he thinks are nice to decorate the garden and it’s the one thing that actually makes him feel good in comparison to security hell.

Though, we start to see him planning for the RFA Messenger as well. That’s not looking really good. Rika tells him what they’re going to be doing and that they have a grand plan that she needs him for. He’s so desperate for someone to see him and give him affection that he’s willing to fall to her feet and cry. He doesn’t know if he deserves this chance. He beats himself up over and over about it but takes it. 

He can’t say no to Rika. 

He’s literally crying because she told him that she wants him to do something for her. I’m not a vicious person but if given the chance, I would slap Rika one good time. I just need one time. I realize violence doesn’t solve anything, but I don’t know if I could hold myself back if I saw her treating him like this. 

It’s just not okay and I can’t stand it. No matter how you feel about Rika, when you read and see shit like this, you get angry at her for what she’s done to this child. Saeran was a child. 

He was a child who trusted her and V. 

Goddammit. 

He was a CHILD. 

He’s sleeping three hours. Max. That’s not okay. He’s chugging caffeine pills like they’re Tic-Tacs. Ray, honey, baby, darling, they’re not Tic-Tacs. That’s not okay at all. It’s actually blotted out. I don’t know what he’s eating. I don’t know how many he’s eating. I knew that he was popping like them candy to stay up and at his desk, but Jesus Christ, Ray. The space implies that it’s a high number, it could be double-digits. 

If it’s more than 15, I don’t know what I’m going to do. 

He’s not even eating right. Food that’s easy to eat. Okay, that’s why he eats chocolate most of the time. He’s eating snack foods when he’s eating and only using real food if he has time. [He never has time. It makes me want to cry as I read it because I wanted to grab him by the wrist and ask him to stay during the meals because I don’t really eat more than what a toddler eats due to my health and he could have the rest. He needs it.]

I love this guy, but I can see his suffering here. 

I don’t know if you’ve seen this but he ranks the RFA on a sliding scale of how tough they are to defeat and how easy they are to defeat. Seven and V have the strongest list. V is to be captured alive and that you have to be cautious so he doesn’t trick you.

Seven is “No need. Discard.”

I have to ask Ray what the hell a “honey trap” is though, as far as Zen goes in his explaination. Does that mean that Ray is saying “If there’s a pretty honey, he’ll fall to his knees?” RAY? 

RAY????? 

RAY??????????????

Jumin: Attack social status. Just take his fucking cat. 

Yoosung: Rika. Just use Rika information or threaten his family. 

Jaehee: Break C&R. If it or Jumin falls, she’s easy. Not sure. 

Oh, and there’s actually recipes in his portion of the diary as well. He has a lot of sweet things listed and God, he would get me. He literally makes notes about a tester in this. He has to jot down who would be a good idea and how he could ensure their happiness. He says that he’s not as good as the chef in Mint Eye but he wants to be good enough.

So, he actually tries to learn how to make things for us. He failed at making ice cream. He made some progress at brunch and he tried to make some cake but it wasn’t quite up to par yet. He notes his mistakes and says that he’ll keep trying to learn for the tester. So, that’s how he’s spending his six months. 

His final note in this journal is hopeful of the tester. He’s got everything as it needs to be but he needs his tester to come to him. He hopes they’re a good person but he doesn’t know how to interact with them. He wonders how he should start talking to them, anyway. How do you talk to people on the outside? He doesn’t know... maybe an introduction? 

Should he greet you? 

Should he try harder? 

He really fixates on how to say hi to you. 

He decides simple is good. 

“Hello! My name is Ray.” 

And if you turn the page, you’re smacked with that photo and my knees just went a little weak. Oh boy, honey, darling, I love you. I’m sorry that you’ve suffered so much but it’s okay. I’m here! We’ll get out of this place together soon. All and all, this was a solid read that gave me a lot more perspective on my boy. There’s still a bit of information in Rika’s Diary, to be honest. But this stood out more to me here. 

[novelconcepts]

have you already been asked what your top 5 jamie x dani scenes are? you’re welcome for not saying 3, but also i tried to pick only 3 and i don’t think it’s possible without short circuiting. i feel like i can guess a few of yours but i am just curious.

Oh. Well. That’s a great question, and any answer I type is absolutely going to be redacted the minute I hit post and my brain shouts “YOU FORGOT [INSERT SCENE HERE]!!” But I’ll give it a go. (In no particular order, because genuinely I’m not sure I could.)

1) Moonflower grove scene. It’s got our first real genuine insight to vulnerable!Jamie (which, once out of the bag, never gets locked away again), it’s got Dani at her absolute Listening best, it lays out the philosophy of the show beautifully while also serving as agonizing foreshadowing. And the kiss is just. I mean. The dreamy smile on Jamie’s face, the nuzzle, the grabby hands, the way Dani just goes in for the second one. Aces.

2) Pre-funeral scene. Jamie at her toppiest-top energy while also managing to be impossibly gentle. Dani hurting, but lighting up the second Jamie walks in the room. The sort of...easy-flirt/soft-reassurance way they’re dancing around one another. “Help me out of this thing.” It’s top-tier tension of the best kind, they both look fucking incredible--you cannot tell me for a second Jamie didn’t pick this outfit SPECIFICALLY to pick Dani up, and you also cannot tell me Dani had That Hair and That Dress for any reason other than “to impress the girl, and then get super nervous about doing so”. I simply won’t hear it. Also “there will be serious consequences” will haunt me forever.

3) Hallway kiss. The energy of the first two kisses is fantastic for Oh God, I Need This novelty, and the energy of all post-Bly kisses has that beautiful This Is My Person intimacy, but this is just. The thirstiest fucking thing I’ve seen in my life without being over the top. The little sway Dani does, the way Jamie takes her hands, the insane we just left the bed and we will be back in it the first chance we get of the slow lean. The kiss itself, which manages to be both sexy and just...so soft and delightful? With Dani pressing a hand to the small of Jamie’s back, with Jamie guiding Dani’s up with that sense of giving permission to touch her, with the giggling into each other like a couple of teenagers who have just found freedom for the first time. It’s so lovely. And of course the promise of “there will be other nights”. Love it. 

4) “Do you want company?” It hurts, but I can’t not include it. Pedretti’s delivery of what Dani is going through is perfectly present and unplugged at the same time--walking the line between where Dani was for most of the show and will be for the rest of her life. Jamie with that single tear. The moment of assessment as she sits, takes a breath, makes her offer. The look on Dani’s face, watching Jamie quite literally take her hand, close her eyes, leap with a kiss. It sums up the devotion before there’s any real time behind it, and everything between them for the rest of those thirteen years is just building on that solid foundation.

5) (Okay, this is where it gets difficult.) I’m gonna go ahead and cheat and say both the “I’m in love with you” and proposal scenes in one. Because they’re meant to be reflective of one another. Both give the certainty that each of them has looked long and hard at this thing and decided, “Yeah. This is what I want forever, or for however long we get.” The flower shop has Jamie’s nerves, Dani’s half-teasing uncertainty, the brightest smiles committed to cinema, a kiss that absolutely is leading to fooling around in the back room. The proposal has...everything. The obvious domesticity of them moving around one another in the kitchen, the root metaphor without being too heavy, the just...open wonder on Jamie’s face contrasted with the determination on Dani’s. The carefully-intimate way of shooting the kisses where the show both lingers as long as it can in the moment with them, but also sort of gently nudges the viewer away from intruding on them too much. It’s beautifully shot and performed in every way. 

(I can’t even do honorable mentions, we’d be here all day, but I have to include the final bathroom scene. It cuts me open every time, but it’s just. Two performances which have been steadily knitting together in perfect sync for an entire show finally starting to punch up against one another in the most brutal way possible, and it’s. Gorgeously done. If I had to show just one moment to explain how good these two women are at the subtlety of their craft, it’s probably the bathroom scene. Pedretti, doing terrified-but-surrendering even as she wants to keep hanging on; Eve, doing so-in-love-she’ll-fight-to-the-death even as she knows it’s crumbling. Too good. Never fails to get me.)

[oddlybitter]

draft excerpt from “for the good of the people, tartaglia must die”

hehe i am creating more and more work to do hehe

i am FINALLY writing a chili piece lmfao but it’s also got a lot of other ships in it. so, uh, it’s a bit of a wild ride. here’s what i have so far!! it’s rather unpolished but it has heart!!!

- (zhongli/childe, yanfei/hu tao, chongyun/xingqui + more to come)

- this part mostly focuses on yanfei/hu tao and chongyun/xingqui

cw: violence, blood

Pressing his back to the wall, Childe pants, blood rushing in his ears as he tries his best to listen out for the tell-tale sound of shoes pattering against the pavement. A few yards away, the sound of labored breathing grows louder, and two boys, each about the same height, skid to a halt underneath the Stone Gate's towering sheet of rock, nearly tripping on the uneven boards of the walkway. 

"Where'd he go?" One of them asks, his face very red and eyes clouded with wavering focus.

The other clenches his hand around his sword, brushing his navy bangs out of his face. "I'm not sure. The sun has not yet set. If we keep searching, I am sure we shall locate him before nightfall."

Childe swallows, his eyes wandering to the long poles of bamboo that appear to be his ticket out of here. The first boy, the one with pale blue eyes and thaumaturgist's gear, frowns, wiping his brow. 

"I don't know how much longer I can stay in control, Xingqiu."

While maintaining a look of stony focus on his face, Xingqiu leans closer, brushing the other boy's fluffy hair back with his hand to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. The light-haired boy closes his eyes, swaying slightly. 

Xingqui pulls back, cupping the other's cheek with his palm. "You're doing so well, dearest Chongyun. Just hold on a little longer."

Instead of waiting around to see this exchange and be swayed by their affectionate ways of reassurance, Childe is shimmying up a bamboo trunk, taking an arrow, and sticking it into the wood to get a leg up onto the stone ledge above the walkway. Breathing heavily, he rests for a moment, leaning his hands above his knees as he bends over. Then, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, Childe starts into a sprint again, frowning against the biting wind that beckons from Mondstadt.

How he ended up running from what seems to be the entire population of Liyue is a rather long story that you've probably heard by now. You know, the whole "summoning a destructive tentacle god, nearly drowning the entire city of Liyue Harbor, having a rich lady drop her house on him" thing. He'll spare you the gritty details that you've seen before and cut straight to where the most relevant bit started: this morning, Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. 

As an apology for trying to steal his Gnosis and wipe Liyue off of the map, Childe had taken to delivering gifts to Mr. Zhongli, the consultant at Wangsheng. Usually, he would send them by mail, seeing as giving Zhongli those gifts face to face was too much for the other man to bear, especially after Childe realized he had played him like a cheap flute. How a man so polite and honorable could be so cruel was beyond him, but Childe had finally plucked up the courage to see him once again. 

He had entered the funeral parlor with a box of imported wines and teas that he had learned Zhongli was fond of, only to find two young women whispering between themselves at the front desk. One of them had light pink hair that fell loosely around her waist and a set of antlers peeking out from underneath a red hat, a heavy ledger attached at her hip. The other was a girl with dark brown hair tied into twin-tails dyed red at the tips. She was dressed entirely in black with a recurring butterfly motif, and her fingers chimed each time her rings brushed up against one and other. 

Setting the box on the counter, he gave them each a quick smile. "You wouldn't have happened to see the consultant, would you?"

The young women stopped muttering, turning around to face him with faces of dawning satisfaction. The pink one smiled sweetly, clasping her hands in front of her chest. 

"Oh, but of course! Right this way, please." She beamed, leading him into a room Childe hadn't seen before. 

As soon as they stepped over the threshold, something felt off to Childe. The pink-haired girl had her back turned to him, fiddling with something on the shelf as she hummed a cheery tune. The smell of old parchment and something terribly musty clouded the air, and before Childe could react, something pressed hard against his windpipe, yanking him backward. Instantly, the pink-haired girl turned around, nodding to something behind Childe's shoulder. With a grunt, he clawed at the rope looped around his neck, digging his fingers between it and his skin as he flipped his assailant over his back. 

The dark-haired girl from earlier went flying, knocking a shelf out of place as she tumbled into the arms of her accomplice. "Yikes! He's feisty!"

As Childe went to summon his water blades, the pink-haired girl set the other on her feet once more, pulling a catalyst out of the air and drawing out the shape of a diamond with her forefingers. A sudden heat flared up by his stomach, and he looked down, taking in the seal on his Vision with a confused stare. The space in his hands remained decidedly empty. 

"According to the recently amended codices, chapter forty-one, segment three dictates that if a criminal goes unpunished and escaped justice, the allogenes within a ten-mile radius of the scene of the crime are permitted to subdue said criminal by any means possible." She said, holding her hands out in the air in front of her. "Revision date of the law is as follows: last night, June, a month after the passing of Rex Lapis."

The dark-haired girl thrust her spear out, slicing through the flesh of Childe's upper arm. "I wanted to give you an advance on our new deal, but Yanfei said that would be first-degree murder."

"We compromised," Yanfei added. "Hu Tao can be very persuasive."

Hu Tao grinned, batting her eyelashes at the other girl. "My, my... Stop it,  you! You're so cute when you flatter me."

Blinking, Childe pressed his palm to the cut on his arm, trying to stop the bleeding. "What's going on?"

"Manslaughter of the second degree!" Yanfei chirped helpfully, and then set his scarf on fire. 

“I thought you said you compromised!” He screeched, batting at the rather fiery half of his scarf.

Smoke clouded the room like thick, cloying cobwebs, and just as Childe had extinguished the blaze that set the entire room full of very flammable objects on fire, he saw Hu Tao and Yanfei slip through a doorway cleverly hidden by a cabinet. Ducking out after them, he left the door open behind him, letting the plumes of smoke cloak his departure. Without a moment’s hesitation, Childe sprinted to the back exit, ripping off the pointedly un-burned part of his scarf to wrap around his arm. 

As he pressed his back against the outside wall of the funeral parlor, Childe ran a hand through his hair, streaking ash over the bridge of his nose. What in the ever-loving fuck just happened, he asked himself, and who the fuck were they?

Before he could have received an answer, Childe lifted his head from his hands just in time to avoid a sword plunging into the ground at his face. Frost crept from the blade, stretching across the cracks in the cobblestone. He looked up, already tired, to see a young girl perching on the roof, peering down at him from above. 

"Qiqi missed..." She muttered, raising a finger to her mouth as if she were trying to remember something. "What were Qiqi's orders again?"

Before he could think, Childe blurted out the first thing to come into his mind. "Do you know a Hu Tao?"

The child's face darkened. "Hu Tao... Qiqi knows."

"She tried to kill me. I think you should run away before she does the same to you."

If realization could have dawned on this expressionless child's face, it would have been blooming like spring flowers. Hopping down onto the pavement beside him, Qiqi nodded solemnly. 

"Qiqi greets you, strange-looking zombie. Many a time has Hu Tao tried to bury our kind. Qiqi will protect you, seeing as we stand against her in solidarity." Qiqi promised very earnestly, and Childe felt a twinge of guilt in his chest for lying to a kid. It quickly vanished as the sound of rushed footsteps echoed behind the doorway a few yards away. 

With a salute, he nodded at Qiqi with a grim look on his face. "Thank you, Qiqi. I am sure you will live on as a hero."

"Qiqi already died, but thank you for the sentiment."

Childe was gone before he could even clock what she meant. 

[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​

[daveyjacobss]

skeletons in the bathroom

racetrack higgins x reader

summary: it’s spooky season, and is there anything scarier than having to confront and admit your feelings for one of your closest friends? (or, in which y/n is helping race get ready for a halloween party and desperately trying not to think about how much she wants to kiss him.)

a/n: i did it!! a halloween fic out for october 2020!! sorry it’s so late in the month, life has been very hectic with an overload of assignments and plenty of politics induced stress. anyway this is unedited so sorry in advance but i hope you like it :)

masterlist

__________

This had been such a bad idea. Why on earth had she agreed to this? What kind of astounding lack of brain cells had led to her saying yes to attending her own goddamn funeral?

"Albert, you would leave flowers at my grave, wouldn't you?" She turned to look at him just in time to see him roll his eyes. Jojo and Finch, sitting across from them at their table in the library, both stared at her with equally confused and amused expressions.

"Y/N if you tell me you're gonna die one more time, I'll literally kill you myself." Albert fixed her with a halfhearted glare, brushing his hair out of his face. She groaned and dropped her head down on top of her arms, resting lazily in the tabletop. Jojo laughed quietly at her, but she didn't have the heart to give him a death stare in return.

"Out of curiosity," Finch started, effectively abandoning his work, "what kind of flowers would you want?" She lifted her head, pursing her lips in concentration as she thought the question over.

"I don't know, either something really pretty or something ridiculously dramatic." Albert sighed beside her, finally putting his pencil down. Jojo had stopped actually trying to get work done a half hour prior. "Like, some pretty marigolds or daisies would be cool, ya know? But, also, a single red rose would have a very nice effect." Jojo nodded along with her.

"What about black dahlias?" He asked. Y/N perked up at that.

"Oh, yes! Definitely achieving that she-was-probably-murdered-and-the-killer-is-leaving-flowers vibe." She high fived Jojo while Finch shook his head at them. Albert hit her from her right side—lightly, but she let out a loud "ow!" anyway.

"Can you stop moping and acting like you're gonna die? You're the one who got yourself into this mess." She went back to being miserable immediately, groaning again for effect.

"Will someone please explain why she's dying?" Finch asked, directed more at the other two boys than at Y/N. Albert rolled his eyes again.

"Race asked her to do his makeup for his skeleton costume before the party tonight and she said yes, but now she thinks she's gonna die when she does it." He punctuated his words with a pointed look at her which effectively communicated all of his exasperation as well as the sentiment he had been expressing to her for almost two years, that she should just go for it and ask Race out. She ignored it completely.

"I am going to die!" She threw her hands in the air for dramatic effect, giving Finch and Jojo her best 'I'm in despair' look. "I'm gonna have to be ridiculously close to his face—and his lips—for way too long! I'm gonna either go insane and launch myself out the fucking window or die of embarrassment."

All three boys laughed at her. Insulted, she crossed her arms over her chest and pouted at them.

"Y/N, it'll be fine," Finch said, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes. "Anyway, why can't you just ask him out already and not have to deal with the funeral arrangements?" She offered him her best deadpan stare.

"C'mon, Y/N," Jojo chimed in. "What's the worst that can happen?"

"Oh no, don't get her started," Albert groaned.

"The worst that could happen? Are you kidding?" She looked at them incredulously. "Well, for starters, I could tell him I like him and then he could be disgusted because why would he ever like me back when he's him and I'm me, and then, because he was your friend first and things are super awkward between me and him, we drift apart, and then I lose all of my friends and I die alone with no one to leave black dahlias on my grave in order to entertain my dramatics." Finch blinked, staring at her with wide eyes as if he couldn't quite believe what he had just heard.

"Hold on," Jojo spoke up again, face contorted with anger. "He would not be disgusted. Even if he didn't like you back, which he does—"

"Does not," she grumbled.

"Does too," they all answered in unison.

"He wouldn't be mean about it," Jojo continued.

"And we wouldn't stop being your friends," Albert added.

"Plus, even if we suddenly become arch enemies I'm totally still leaving black dahlias on your grave for dramatics," Finch grinned, winking at her. That got her to laugh a little, smiling back at him.

"I just..." She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I don't want to ruin anything, and I don't want everything to change between us. I'm fine being his friend, that's enough for me. It's just hard to keep my feelings in check when he gets too close to me." Her eyebrows furrowed while she fidgeted with her fingers, not liking how vulnerable she felt while telling all of them that. Albert's arm slid around her shoulders, bringing her into his side. It was awkward and uncomfortable leaning across the gap between their chairs, but she enjoyed the comfort anyway.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," he said gently. "You have our support either way." Jojo and Finch nodded, both smiling encouragingly at her. She smiled back at them, moving to gather up all of her papers. The boys followed suit, shoving everything back in their backpacks.

"Thank you," she said quietly just as they were all pushing their chairs in.

"Anytime," Albert grinned brightly, throwing his arm around her again and leading them out of the building. A wind blew as they walked out into the October sun, sending a chill through her body and causing her to lean into Albert's body for warmth. They all started walking in the direction of their on-campus apartments, pointing out the most colorful trees and joking about the upcoming party with easy smiles.

"Speak of the devil," Jojo muttered from behind her. She went to turn back to look at him and ask what he meant, but Albert pulled her more securely against him and she laughed.

"Hey guys!" Finch called out, waving wildly. She looked in the direction he was facing and saw Race walking in the opposite direction with Romeo across the street from them. She felt heat rush to her face automatically, lifting her hand in a small wave while sporting a shy smile. Albert and Jojo waved enthusiastically with Finch, receiving an equally energetic wave from Romeo and a small wave from Race. Y/N tilted her head in confusion, frowning. Race never missed the chance to make an ordeal out something as small as seeing his friends across the street, was something wrong? No one else seemed concerned, though, and their small group kept moving. If anything, Finch and Jojo seemed amused, snickering quietly behind her and Albert.

They parted to go to their respective apartments, all three boys giving Y/N a hug goodbye. She took full advantage of their attempts at comfort, holding them tightly and burying her head in their chests. Once she was back in her apartment, her roommates thankfully back home for the weekend, she dropped her bag on the floor and took a deep breath. Race was set to come over a little while later to get ready for the party, that left her some time to clean up a little. He wouldn't care if the apartment was dirty, but she couldn't get rid of the urge to make sure the counters were decluttered and the bathroom where she would be doing his makeup smelled nice. Plus, at least it would give her something to do to distract herself from her ever growing anxiety.

She was definitely going to die.

__________

Race was ten minutes late, but Y/N had already figured he would be when his "omw" text didn't come until a minute after he was supposed to be at her apartment. He grinned at her when she opened the door, arms (adorably) holding the straps of his backpack that she assumed was carrying his costume.

"I wasn't sure if you would want me to put on the costume before or after the makeup," he said as he walked in. "So I just brought it to change into." She liked the way he looked so comfortable in her apartment, facing her casually with his hair messy from the wind. She smiled softly at him, unable to contain her ever present joy at seeing him.

"Before, definitely. If you put it on after you might mess your face up." He nodded, already shrugging his bag off his shoulder.

"Your room okay?" He asked, gesturing in the direction of her bedroom.

"'Course. Just don't mess with anything in there." She playfully pointed a finger at his chest and he laughed as he moved into her room and closed the door behind him. She walked into the bathroom, taking deep breaths and trying to tell herself everything would be okay. Her and Race were friends, and she was perfectly capable of helping him with his Halloween makeup like a normal person. Maybe. Hopefully. Kinda. Probably not. God, she was hopeless.

He found her in the bathroom obsessively reorganizing the makeup, dressed in his full skeleton getup. She smiled when she saw him in it, happy that he hadn't picked something with a good that would have concealed his beautiful curls. With his lanky stature and gangly limbs, the costume worked perfectly for him. He grinned back at her, doing a little shimmy that made her laugh.

"You like?" He wiggled his eyebrows at her and she shook her head in a amusement.

"It looks good," she confirmed, their usual joking banter hindered by her nerves. "We should get started so we have enough time, I still need to get changed and finish my makeup, too." She patted the bathroom counter and he followed her hand, hoisting himself up so he was sitting on the counter facing her, swinging his legs.

She tried not to think too hard as she started on his face, going in with a layer of white before anything else. She could feel his breath on her wrist, but she tried not to think about it. Thinking about it meant her own breath would hitch and then, because their faces were so close, he would notice. She brought a hand up to his jaw to steady his face and resolutely did not think about how easy it would be to pull him to her and kiss him.

Part of her wanted to listen to the boys. She wanted to say fuck it and tell him how she felt about him. She wanted to flirt with him while she had him at her mercy like this, wanted to lean in and put a hand on his thigh for balance just to see how he would react. She wanted to know if his breathing would change, if his heart would skip a beat, if he would look at her with wide eyes or if he would simply smirk and carry on. Or maybe he wouldn't do anything, because it would nothing but a meaningless gesture to him. But, god, she wanted to try. And she wanted to kiss him so badly.

Still, the other part of her triumphed. The part that told her he didn't feel the same way about her, that to him she was just a good friend and if she went and did something stupid she would ruin that.

She asked him to close his eyes and he did so obediently. She took the chance to look at his lips while he wouldn't be able to notice, realizing how quiet he'd been the whole time so far. Once his face was fully covered with white he opened his eyes and she took a small break, giving herself some time to calm down her erratic heart beat. He kicked his legs out again without her standing in front of him to block them.

"So," he started, staring down at his feet instead of looking at her. She tilted her head slightly, waiting for him to continue. "You and Albert, huh?" Her eyebrows furrowed and she stopped short as she went to grab a brush, paused in confusion. "What's going on there?"

"What do you mean?" She asked, trying to laugh to diffuse whatever tension had just overtaken the room but only managing a nervous chuckle.

"You two looked pretty cozy earlier, outside. Do I gotta start preparing myself for you to be acting all gross and couple-y whenever we go out now?" His voice sounded strained, like he was trying to force the question to be casual. She figured it was because he was upset Albert and her wouldn't tell him something like—which, they totally would if that was at all a possibility. Which it wasn't. The whole idea was so ridiculous a strangled laugh bubbled out of her throat.

"Oh, god no. There is nothing romantic happening between me and Albert." She looked down at her hands, avoiding having to look at his face. "No, it was just cold, you know? And he was trying to comfort me because I was upset." Suddenly he was there, standing in front of her. He gently tilted her chin up to look at him and used his other hand to grab hers.

"Babe, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

She was going to cry. She was going to burst into tears, standing in her own bathroom with Race's touch overwhelming her senses. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he was so handsome and funny and kind and loving. It wasn't fair that whenever he looked at her she felt like no one else existed. It wasn't fair that she couldn't breathe with his hand still resting just under her chin. And the universe was just playing dirty having him call her babe like it was nothing, like it didn't make her heart swell in her chest. Like it didn't absolutely break her. She was definitely gonna cry, her eyes already watery.

His concern only seemed to increase when he saw the distraught look on her face. He tried to take another step toward her but she moved backward, detaching herself from his hands. She breathed deeply, running her hands through her hair as she tried to keep herself from sobbing. He looked so worried—so sad—and it just wasn't fair.

"I'm—" Her words got caught on the lump in her throat. "It's nothing, really. I'm just being dumb." He looked at her disbelievingly.

"Y/N c'mon, you're clearly upset, let me—" He cut himself off at the way she back away from him again while he reached out, hurt flashing across his face. "Here, why don't we just skip out on the party? I'll stay here with you and we can watch old Disney Halloween movies or something." She wanted that so bad, she wanted that more than anything she had ever wanted. But she couldn't, it would only hurt her more.

"No," she sniffled, regaining her composure. "No, you should go. I might stay back, I dunno. But I don't wanna keep you from having fun."

"Hey." His voice was soft, the corners of his lips turning upwards just slightly. He was so beautiful she could have died over it. "I always have fun with you, party or not. If you don't go, I don't go."

"God, Race. You can't just—you can't say things like that." She huffed while he blanched in confusion. "It's not fair."

"What? I don't—"

"Listen, I'll finish your makeup, yeah? And then we'll go to the party and we can pretend like this never happened. Okay?" He nodded mutely, slowly positioning himself back on the counter. The concern wasn't gone from his eyes and his mouth was set in a frown, but he complied.

Not crying was a constant effort the entire time she finished his skeleton makeup. She felt her lip quiver at more than one point and Race's eyes kept darting down toward it. She did her best to keep it steady, not wanting him to see her cry. He had seen her cry before, of course, over classes and movies and the like, but there was a special kind of shame associated with him seeing her cry over him.

It wasn't until after she was done that he spoke up again. "Do you not want to be alone with me?" He asked it so quietly she was sure it must not have come from him, used to his loud, boisterous voice. Her heart broke all over again.

"That's not it, Race. You know that, right? It's not your fault I'm upset." It wasn't, really. If she was going to blame anyone it would all be on herself.

"What, then?" The joking tone was back in his voice, clearly trying to diffuse the tension and brighten the mood. "Too afraid you won't be able to control yourself around me?" Yes. "I know you'd love to jump these bones." She laughed despite herself, playfully hitting his arm. Her reaction made him smile again, and she was glad. He always knew how to cheer her up.

It only took a little while longer for her to change into her costume (just a regular witch in shades of black and purple) and put on her makeup. Race watched her as she put on her dark lipstick, making her nervous and subsequently causing her hands to shake, but she made it through alright.

They left just a bit before the party was supposed to start, Y/N shivering in the cold air as they walked. Race glanced at her a few times, seemingly conflicted, before cautiously wrapping an arm around her. She leaned into his touch and he gripped shoulder more firmly, pulling her into his side. When they stopped to let a car go by she turned to him and wrapped both her arms around him, basking in his warmth. Race was like a heater, generating warmth from the day she met him. He returned her embrace, rubbing her back soothingly.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He mumbled into her ear. A shiver went down her spine at his voice so close to her ear, but she nodded, holding him tighter. They were later to the party then they should've been, having spent a good amount of time in that embrace. It had made her heart all fluttery, not to mention the way it did somersaults every time Race looked at her for the rest of the walk (which was a lot, he must have been really worried).

She expected him to split off once they entered, going to look for some of his other friends, but he stuck by her side. It made her smile, the butterflies in her stomach going wild. They went to grab drinks together and ran into Finch.

"Hey!" He smiled dopily, clearly a little tipsy already. "The makeup looks great," he gestured at Race's face. "And you two look so cute together." Heat rushed to Y/N's face as she quickly took a sip of her drink in order to avoid having to respond. Race simply laughed.

"Yeah, Y/N did an awesome job, right? I knew she would, though. I could feel it in my bones." Y/N groaned and Finch cringed.

"That was awful, dude." Race grinned proudly anyway, waving as Finch left to go back to the friends he was with.

"Did you pick this costume just so you could make bad jokes?" Y/N turned to face Race, raising an eyebrow. He winked, which was all the answer she needed. She wanted to give some sort of sarcastic remark in return, but the wink made her giggle nervously. He seemed content with her response all the same.

About three thousand skeleton jokes later (he had literally greeted Davey by saying "bonejour." Davey had promptly turned around and left the two of them without saying a word), Y/N and Race were sat on the couch together, chatting amicably. She felt better with a bit of alcohol in her veins and a few buckets of false hope from the fact that Race hadn't tried to leave her side once the whole time they'd been there.

"You're such an idiot," she laughed uncontrollably as he relayed a story about him following a squirrel across campus the week prior.

"What can I say?" He grinned cheekily. Her smile dropped.

"Don't you dare—"

"I'm a bonehead." He knocked on his head for good measure.

"Okay that's it, I'm leaving." She moved as if to get up before Race reached out to grab her arm.

"Y/N, no!" He managed to get out through his laughter. "Don't leave me bonely!" She stared at him in disbelief.

"You're the worst," she groaned as she let him pull her back into her seat next to him.

"But you love me anyway." He poked her side and she looked at his face. The makeup looked good, she had to admit, but she wished it had been able to mask his face better. Because looking at his face was still looking at his face, makeup or no makeup, and she had a bad habit of getting caught up in looking at his face. His features seemed to tense, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly. "Drinks!" He said suddenly, breaking their staring contest and practically jumping out of his seat. "I'm gonna go get us more drinks." She nodded, eyebrows furrowed as she watched him scurry off. That had certainly been strange.

"Fancy seeing you here." She turned to see Albert falling into Race's spot beside her, grinning around his own drink.

"Hey," she smiled, adjusting her witch hat.

"You and lover boy work things out yet?" She punched his arm and he gaped at her.

"Shut up," she hissed. "It's not gonna happen, let it go." He rolled his eyes.

"You sure? Because, from what I've seen, he hasn't stopped staring at you all night." She glared at the redhead, pouting.

"Stop giving me hope, asshole. It just makes this worse."

"Makes what worse?" She looked up to find Race standing in front of them, two drinks in hand. She took one from him with a smile.

"Nothing," she shook her head. "Albert's just being annoying."

"Isn't he always?" Race asked with a smirk the same time that Albert said "hey!" Deciding this would be her best chance at payback for teasing her about her crush on Race, she pushed Albert off the couch. Race laughed loudly, stepping over his friend to return to his seat. She smiled brightly at him and he grinned back, bumping her shoulder with his. She had to take a drink to stop the flustered laughter from escaping her throat.

"You two suck," Albert groaned from their feet. It only made them laugh more, still giggling even as Albert stood up grumpily and walked away without saying goodbye.

"Your costume looks really good, by the way." She turned to Race, her smile faltering. "I didn't tell you earlier, but I like it." He said it so earnestly, looking right into her eyes. The only thing she could think of was hoping the boys were ready with those black dahlias, because she was a total goner.

"Thank you," she said softly, lost in his gaze. She thought about them in the bathroom, how she had wanted to put her hand on his thigh just to see how he would react. Thinking of what Albert had said and taking another gulp of her drink, she did just that. She leaned forward and put her hand on his thigh to steady herself. He froze. It was hard to tell over the noise of the party, but she thought she might have heard his breath hitch. She couldn't look away from him, her eyes once again finding his lips.

"You spent so long on this makeup," he muttered. "And it looks really cool." She tilted her head in confusion.

"Huh?"

"I really don't wanna ruin it. I'm sorry."

"Why would you—"

But then he kissed her, so no question she could have asked mattered anyway. He was kissing her. Oh, Albert was gonna laugh so hard when he heard about this.

She kissed him back fervently, one of her hands tangling in the curls at the back of his head while the other remained on his thigh to keep herself steady. One of his hands rested lightly on her waist, squeezing just slightly, while the other caressed her jaw. It felt like in the bathroom earlier that night when he had tilted her chin to look at him, but so much better.

He pulled back before she was ready, eyes still closed as she unconsciously chased his lips. She opened her eyes to see his makeup smudged and definitely some her lipstick on his lips, a warm feeling settling in her chest. But his mouth was pulled into a frown and it sobered her quickly. He was pulling at his hair, his eyes wide with panic and sorrow.

"I'm sorry," he panted. "You're upset, I shouldn't have done that. I've been trying to cheer you up and now I've, like, totally taken advantage of you when you're vulnerable and—"

"Race." He looked at her, face practically begging for forgiveness. She reached for his hands with a small smile. "You're not taking advantage of me. I was only upset because I thought I didn't have a chance with you." She shrugged slightly, averting her eyes. He gaped at her.

"You didn't have a chance with me? Are you kidding?" He tightened his grip on her hands, pulling himself closer to her. "Y/N, I've been pining after you since, like, the day we met. You're ridiculously out of my league." She looked at him with wide eyes, meeting his gaze. They both broke out into grins at the same time before she was leaning in again and he was following.

He tasted like candy and alcohol and she couldn't have asked for anything better. They slid closer to each other on the couch until her hands were clasped together behind his neck, playing with his curls, and his were holding her waist. She couldn't get enough of him. She didn't think she would ever get enough of him. They were both breathing heavily when they pulled away again, foreheads resting against each other.

"You know," Y/N breathed. "If that whole 'just the two of us spending the night at my apartment and watching old halloween movies' offer is still on the table...." He laughed quietly, his head falling to the crook in her neck.

"Definitely still on the table." He pressed a light kiss to her neck and she was dragging him into a standing position immediately, fully ready to get away from all the other partygoers. She wouldn't be able to handle it if his hands wandered any further than they had already gone, she needed time to breathe and process—preferably away from the crowd.

He held her hand and lead her through the sea of people to the front door. Jojo caught sight of them as they made their way out and, presumably seeing their joint hands and messed up makeup, whooped at them. Y/N laughed and Race stuck his tongue out at his friend.

"Which movie do you wanna watch first?" She asked as they walked back, holding onto his arm and leaning into his side.

"Oh, definitely Halloweentown." She smiled, pulling him in for another kiss. He chuckled when they pulled apart. "You know, I would say a skeleton pun right now, but I don't have the guts to ruin this moment."

"Oh my god, Race."

__________

tag list: @isarants @tomanybandstolove @seriously-ceci @bens-platt @earlyjunes @broadway-trashh @interwebseriesfan24 @returnoftheborle @cozykleinman @timesarehardfornewsies @jackclyde @last-an-eon @annabethgranger123 @musi-xals @notyouraveragegryffindoor @magic-made-by-melody @i-also-miss-our-talks@linfuckingmirandaaa @shatteringinprogress @storytellersun @psych-stereo @books-cats-sprinkles @me-andthe-sky @connor-is-my-sunshine @merediths2003 @papesfordavey @larryisinfactnotstraight @casifer-is-cute @gem-evieve @actually-lizzy @broadwayobsessedteen @majo16199 @sarkitsm @suffering-bi @tommy-braccoli @starryrevelations @woolfhrd @thesleepingandthedead @cruelnatalie @bencookisagod @abovethyfold @mycollectionofnuts @gayrightsansa  @dorkydavina

[crystalglassjar]

🦋 Butterfly Baby 🦋

-🦋 Butterfly Baby 🦋-

this isn’t exactly a fanfic but not exactly a list of headcanons either. it’s basically an “I suck at writing but I’ve already planned out an entire story”. is there a beginning, climax, and satisfying ending? no lmao

-📋 story description 📋-

xiao and hu tao get together and have a family. hu tao is 19 at the start of this fic if you’re wondering. I just really needed to get this story out my system...hehe...and reply to this post if you can figure out why the story is called Butterfly Baby

-‼️warnings‼️-

mild spoilers, also this was written on 2/7/2021 so some stuff might seem incorrect after more story quests come out. also major character death if you read the alternate ending

-📜 the actual writing 📜-

• hu tao and xiao start hanging out together (aka hu tao comes to bother xiao and eat almond tofu with him whenever he stops by wangsheng inn)

• xiao eventually grows fond for hu tao but makes many attempts to keep her at an arms distance, all of which were in vain

• xiao and hu tao are both in denial about being in love but obviously xiao takes his denial to a whole other level

• xiao doesn’t visit the inn for 2 weeks but eventually caves and goes back because he missed hu tao the silky texture of almond tofu

• ganyu finds out after overhearing verr goldet (desk lady at wangshu inn) reporting back to ningguang about her observations

• ganyu thinks it’s an exaggeration until she goes to wangshu inn for some business affairs sees xiao and hu tao chatting over some almond tofu and tea

• xiao pretends to not notice ganyu peering from behind a wall

• xiao brings it up during ganyu’s adepti training (ganyu story quest) and she just looks away and apologizes

• xiao knows she wouldn’t tell anyone so he doesn’t bother making her feel even worse than she already does

• xiao and hu tao start actually dating (in secret) but it’s hard to keep at least a few people from noticing an adepti and a funeral parlor director walking near the outskirts of town

• xiao once again tries to distance himself because he feels like he’s not worthy of her love after all the people he’s killed and that an adeptus can’t be with a mortal, hu tao shuts that argument down with “but I don’t care”

• hu tao is a bit hurt that he thinks it matters if she’s a mortal

• she laughs at the rumors that she’s dating an adeptus even if it’s true

• zhong li eventually hears about the rumors and is pretty sure it’s true because hu tao comes to his statue everyday and recently brought up questions about love

• fast forward 10 months of hush hush dating and he finally proposes. no ring or anything fancy, just a simple “do you want to get married?” while they stood at the peak of guyun stone forest

• hu tao says yes without even thinking about it and immediately kisses him and starts excitedly talking about wedding plans that she totally hasn’t been thinking about for the past 3 months

• xiao comes to ganyu to ask for help with wedding planning and ganyu nearly looses her head when she hears him say “so I’m engaged now..”

• hu tao somehow convinced zhong li to help her with planning

• zhong li isn’t too shocked about the engagement but hopes that xiao knows what he’s getting himself into

• hu tao, with a lot of effort, convinces xiao to move into the wangsheng funeral parlor with her

• xiao has a tough time adjusting to mundane life (haha get it because- no? not funny? ok I’ll stop)

• it doesn’t take much negotiation with ningguang to secure a venue at yujing terrace

• xiao would’ve preferred a private wedding at jueyun karst but didn’t know how to ask cloud retainer about it

• one month of planning later and they get married at yujing terrace

• basically everyone in Liyue attends the wedding including traveler

• the adepti got their invites delivered from ganyu and watched the wedding from afar

• I know nothing about Chinese weddings so uhhhh that’s for the reader to dream about

• hu tao throws a flower ball made of silk flowers into the crowd (customs of liyue, volume 1)

• may or may not have forgotten about contraception during their wedding night.....

• too embarrassed to go down to bubu pharmacy get morning after medicine

• hu tao prays to rex lapis that she won’t get pregnant

• zhong li, sipping his tea: I pretend I do not hear

• xiao doesn’t know if he should tell hu tao about zhong li being rex lapis so he just hopes he’ll never have to reveal that secret

• xiao nearly breaks his skull on the wall when he realizes what he’s getting himself into

• people of Liyue are still in shock about an adeptus marrying a mortal (since they were never confirmed to be dating beforehand) and nearly explode with buzz when the funeral parlor director starts growing a baby bump

• “have you seen the wangsheng funeral parlor director? last time I saw her, it looked like her belly was growing a bit. do you think she’s pregnant? oh my archons, a half adeptus baby? I can’t believe it!”

• xiao asks zhong li if he can go out an order a crib, rocking chair, baby clothes, etc for him

• zhong li obviously says yes

• fast forward 9 months and hu tao goes into labor just an hour before the funeral parlor was closing for the day

• zhong li rushes hu tao to her room and tells the undertakers to fetch the midwife

• hu tao calls for xiao and of course xiao is there within 10 seconds

• midwife nearly shits herself when she walks into the bedroom and sees an adeptus

•the midwife nervously asks if xiao was the father

• there was a popular (false) rumor going around that hu tao had an affair with zhong li and the baby was his, mostly because people refused to believe that hu tao was pregnant with a half adeptus baby. these rumors were only fueled further when zhong li was overheard asking a shop keeper if he should order multiple sizes of baby onesies just in case.

• zhong li just nods his head and xiao looks away in shame

• midwife gives helps deliver the baby while thinking “if I fuck this up, this adeptus is going to kill me”

• surprise! the baby is completely fine and healthy

• ganyu asked the qixing if she could take a day off (much to the shock of everyone who knew she wouldn’t even take her yearly vacation leave)

• ganyu has never ran so quickly down Liyue’s streets and nearly kicked down the funeral parlor door

• she’s super excited to know that there’s going to be another half adeptus in Liyue but is also incredibly worried about the idea of a half yaksha child

• I can’t come up with a name for the daughter so ill just call her daughter

• zhong li is named the god father and ganyu is the named god mother

• xiao and hu tao take the baby down to jueyun karst

• ganyu and cloud retainer both think the baby is such an adorable and precious little thing

• the rest of the adeptus are just like “xiao wtf...but ok”

• refer to my posts about xiao as a father if you want some more cute details but I don’t wanna just write a copy paste of my past post

• everyone at Liyue harbor is gossiping about it

• hu tao is a very fun and free mom and teaches the kid to become a tiny ball of chaos with the pyromania of klee and the sneakiness of yaoyao. aka the kid is now unstoppable

• pyro vision because of course

• hu tao teaches her daughter how to master pyro, how to write poetry, and most importantly, how to become a funeral parlor director

• the daughter actually prefers swords over poles and gets classes from the guhua clan, and more specifically,

• zhong li was very eager to give the kid a vision and was managed to get the pyro archons permission

• xiao confronts zhong li about the vision it in secret

• xiao: you gave her a pyro vision. do you know how destructive she will be? 

• zhong li, taking another sip of tea: ✨ I pretend I do not hear ✨

• hu tao overhears the conversation and puts two and two together

• hu tao and xiao have their first ever argument ever since they got married

• “why didn’t you tell me before?”

• “because it was a secret!”

• back and forth until they hear the baby waking up and crying

• they agree that there’s no point in arguing now and go off to calm down the baby

• they end up living a happy life as a family of three, and after hu tao’s death, xiao continues to raise the child as much as he can (with the help of zhong li and ganyu)

• their daughter becomes the 78th director of the wangsheng funeral parlor

~the end~

-↪️ alternate ending ↪️-

• osial somehow wakes up during one lantern rite

• xiao was distracted by a different, much smaller, demon

• the guizhong ballista and jade chamber had been repaired by now and were better than before, and they were able to defeat osial without sacrificing the jade chamber again

• however they didn’t get to the jade chamber fast enough and a small part of Liyue was destroyed

• one place in that part of liyue being the wangsheng funeral parlor

• xiao is overcome by grief because he believe it was his fault that he wasn’t able to protect this family

• he finally succumbs to the corruption

• what he didn’t know what was that hu tao did indeed die in the destruction, but his daughter (currently age 12) was still perfectly well and alive

• ganyu takes in the daughter

• zhong li took over the post as director after hu tao’s death and became the 78th director

• zhong li continued to teach the daughter about how to properly run a business and conduct flawless funerals

• the daughter becomes the 79th director of the wangsheng funeral parlor when she’s 18

• she also becomes the new demonslayer of the adepti, following in her father’s footsteps

• even through the trauma of witnessing her mother’s untimely death and being given the news that her father’s had also died, she made it through and raised a happy family of her own, while wearing the hat that her mom passed down.

~the end~

-📝 author’s note 📝-

ok...so that was longer than expected. let me know what you guys think! see any typos or anything off? please mention it! if you guys have a header for hu tao please do share~

[dumbasstrology]

first post first post

I gotta kick off this blog somehow I guess  I’ll do one of those “get to know me” things if I ever grow an actual following but for now So I suppose I’ll start this off with something really basic and simple. Explaining different best-known aspects and the signs within them, part one of however many of these I do, going from the Sun sign to whatever is the most obscure.  So let’s start.  First and foremost: the Sun sign. People who haven’t yet learned much of Astrology assume that the Sun sign is all there is to Astrology but, it’s quite the opposite. The Sun sign may be the ruler of a chart, but it’s just the surface. It’s what most people will get a vibe of from you, right behind your Rising sign but, I’ll get to that in another part.  Aries Sun are assumed to be very brute-force, mean and aggressive but, they’re often big softies underneath and really just don’t want other people seeing that.  Taurus Suns don’t only love food, they also love style and fashion; a lot of the best dressed people are Taurus Suns (or ruled by Taurus) and they really do have a sophisticated air to them.  Gemini Suns can have several personalities at once, they aren’t fake or two faced - they’re just very complex people and they have a lot of knowledge and different was of sharing said knowledge.  Cancer Suns are emotional because they feel so deeply and intensely, they just have this manner of understanding feelings in so many ways and they can’t help but let that be visible.  Leo Suns aren’t just really up their own asses, they’re up everyone’s asses; they have the tea, the receipts and the screenshots they’re lowkey the ones starting shit between other people just to grab the popcorn, sit back and watch the fireworks.  Virgo Suns are geeks honestly, total teacher’s pet and trying too hard to be everyone’s friend to seek validation but they have really good hearts and they truly care.  Libra Suns are super sweet and caring but they have a knife behind them, not because they’re two timing bitches but because if you hurt them they’re coming right back at you asking what shoes your grandma’s wearing in her casket, they’re coming to the funeral wearing light up Sketchers.  Scorpio Suns aren’t necessarily sex crazed whores, they’re also very emotional and get attached too easily but that’s okay because you’ll never see them in their feelings nor will you expect them to slice your Achilles’ heel with their Nintendo Switch Blade.  Sagittarius Suns are so fun and exciting to be around, they’re really the ones gassing you up on everything to make you feel good about yourself but also if you piss them off they go full on roast mode and it does not matter how little they are they’re coming full throttle; but if you’re their friend and someone hurts you they have already found a secluded forest in another state to bury the body of whoever harmed you and they’re planting endangered flowers over the grave so no one can legally dig up the missing body.  Capricorn Suns are so methodical, so smart and so full of themselves, they think they’re God’s gift to earth but if they actually care about you they’re so considerate and sweet, just don’t expect them to pay for your food.  Aquarius Suns oh my god, so unique and weird, they do dumb shit just to get an audience and a reaction, they really out here acting a damn fool because they know people are watching and they’re gonna get a laugh out of them.  Pisces Suns can kiss my ass, they can be so fake and full of shit but like...Give them a chance, they’re very perceptive and they’re ride or die bitches, if you’re going to jail they’re coming with you and they stole a key to the cuffs so get ready for one hell of a cop chase on the highway barefoot drunk as fuck.  Okay so I’m a little biased but here you go, take this and run. Thank you for your attention goodbye my loves 

[wormstacheangel]

Almost: Ch 5

Chapter Summary:  Dean hides in Cas's childhood bedroom during the funeral reception. He quickly finds himself having a nice conversation with Mick and - fuck- the dude's actually nice.

Read on tumblr Ch 1 link | Ch 2 link | Ch 3 link | Ch 4 link |

or read it on AO3 link (maybe leave a nice comment?)

Word Count: 2468 More Under The Cut

“Ah, this is where you’ve been hiding.” 

Dean was sprawled across Cas’s old twin bed, one leg swinging off the edge as he laid on his back holding up one of his old X-Men comics. He muttered a “Fuck” under his breath as he put the book down on his chest before looking up at Mick. The happy husbands-to-be walked in and closed the door behind him.

While Dean wasn't a big fan of the Novak clan - they weren’t so hot of Winchesters and company either - Sam and Charlie couldn’t give a rat’s ass. They both stayed downstairs with Balthazar who’s been the only one to welcome them in. Finding them ‘fascinating’. Whatever the hell that meant. But they were having a good time and Dean wasn’t going to rain on their parade just cause he wasn’t in the mood to mingle.

Instead, he hid in a familiar room, Cas’s childhood bedroom, that looked practically untouched. Even their old snack drawer was still filled with old Halloween candy wrappers. 

“Making yourself at home?” Mick asked as he looked around the room. His hands touching the items on the desk. “Oh, didn’t know Castiel read comic books.”

Dean sat up as he ran his hand nervously through his hair. “He - um, well - he doesn’t. I mean he does but he won’t buy them himself. Those are all mine.”

Mick looked at him, eyebrows pushed together as he squinted. “You brought comic books to read?”

“No!” Dean put the comic book he was reading down on the bed as he stood up to walk over to the bookshelf behind the door. He motioned towards the middle row. “These are all mine. I used to bring them so when Cas had to study I wasn’t so bored in his room.”

“Ah.” Was all he said as he looked back at the desk. “So you two spent a lot of time together?”

Dean shrugged, his hands awkwardly digging into his pant pockets. “Yeah, I guess. We did go to high school together.”

“Yes,” Mick looked over at Dean, a bright smile on his face as if he was excited that he knew something about Cas. “His first public school experience! He told me.”

Dean awkwardly chuckled. “Yeah, he got in real trouble when Chuck found out he forged his signature.”

“What?” 

“Cas! He um, he forged Chuck’s signature on the school papers.” Dean laughed remembering and walking back to sit on the bed while Mick looked at him, eyes sparkling in curiosity. Dean hated it. “Yeah,” He cleared his throat. “Um, Gabriel and Raphael helped him keep the whole thing a secret from Chuck for almost two years. It wasn’t until Cas got suspended that-”

“Castiel got suspended! He never told me!” Mick grabbed the desk chair and moved it closer to Dean. He looked happy to know more things about Cas and Dean felt himself relax just a little. As much as he was jealous - he was practically hulking out by how damn green he was - he was glad that Mick actually seemed to care about Cas. “Well, go on, Dean.”

“Oh, yeah.” Dean blinked a few times to catch his thoughts. His face blushing at the memory. “Shit, well, Cas got into a fight.”

“A fight?!”

“Yeah!” Dean laughed. “Some guys were messing with me. Just some dumb guy shit, you know. And someone must have called Cas cause all I remember is my nose cracking under a fist and then seeing the dude get tackled down. Like Cas full-on body slammed that dude to the ground!” Dean’s face hurt from the big grin that stretched over his lips. “Then he was screaming! Man, it was some sight! Never seen him so damn rabid like that since but I had to drag him off the guy before he really gave the guy a concussion.”

“My Castiel did that?” Mick sat back in his chair, in amazement and shock while Dean tried to hide the flinch from those words. Rolling his shoulders back before rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“Sure did.” Dean nodded before slowly standing up. “Well, we should head back down-”

“You know,” Mick sighed as he looked down at his hands. “I always feel that Castiel keeps me at a distance. As if he’s still guarding his heart from me.”

Dean falls back on the bed with a huff. For fucks sake, he really doesn’t want to play counselor to a guy he wants to hate. He could easily do the fake nice guy act and tell Mick that maybe Cas just doesn’t love him. That Cas was just a nice guy who has a hard time saying no to people and while that’s true he really doubts that’s why Cas said yes to him. Cas said yes because he loves this pathetic looking guy and Dean just wants him to be happy. 

Even if it’s not with him. 

Though Mick looked like he already trusted Dean wholeheartedly and it would be so easy - No!

Dean sighed as he scrubbed a hand down his face. Knowing damn well he was gonna regret playing nice but the guilt of being a part of hurting Cas would feel a shit ton worse. “Mick, man, Cas is complicated.” 

Mick looked at him with soft round eyes. He was being sincere as fuck and it was annoying. “Not to you.”

“I had practice.” Dean smugly smiled and gave Mick a wink. “Cas is like - fuck how do you even describe that crazy asshole?”

Mick laughed, relaxing into his chair more. “I guess like that but I wouldn’t say he was an asshole.”

Dean laughed and reached to pat Mick on the shoulder. “Oh, then you really don’t know him! If he hasn’t kicked you out of his car in the middle of a rainstorm because you offended his favorite character then just count yourself lucky.”

“He did that to you?” His eyes widened in shock.

“Twice.” Dean held up the two fingers with a grin. “Had to walk home too because he didn’t come back for me.”

Mick and Dean both laughed. 

Fuck. Dean thought as he saw the guy wipe tears from his eyes from laughing. Mick really is a great guy and now Dean just wants to help him. If it means he could make Cas happy then that’s all that mattered. He can at least do that for his old best friend. 

“He’s an old soul.” Dean continued and pointed at the bookshelf again. “You can check out the rest of the books and see they’re all classics. He won’t admit to it but he also likes cheesy YA books.”

Mick got up to check out the bookshelf, his eyes scanning it up and down before he reached for a random book that caught his eyes. 

“He’s a grumpy old man mostly. He hates being wrong and would fight you tooth and nail to prove his point.”

Mick looked up at him and shook his head. “I think me and you really do know two different, Castiels.”

Dean raises his eyebrows at that and hopes his heartbreak doesn’t show on his face. “Kinda curious on what your Cas is like.”

“He’s focused.” Mick nods stiffly at him before his face scrunches up. “That’s a sad first description of my fiance, isn’t it?”

Dean laughed before nodding. “Yeah, dude, it is.”

Mick looked so in love though as he smiled at Dean. “It’s stupid, Dean, but I just...since I met him I can’t think of anyone else.” 

No. No. I don’t want to hear this. Dean kept that smile on his face as he stood up to maybe distract Mick with a book. Cas usually had dumb bookmarks maybe he can talk about the pressed flowers.

“What about you, Dean?”

“What about me?”

“Did you feel the same when you got married?”

“When I got what?” Dean froze in the middle of the room but before Mick could ask again the door swung open. Shielding Mick from view.

Dean’s eyes meet the baby blue’s that made his stomach flip. 

Then Cas smiled at him and it wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t be smiling at him like that. Smiling as if Dean was his favorite damn person in the world. As if the hour separation from the last time he saw him was torture for him and seeing Dean was just pure relief. It wasn’t fair. 

“Dean.” Cas sighed, his shoulders dropping as his whole expression softened. He looked so relieved and happy to see him that Dean didn’t know what to do with himself. He just stood there like a dumbass as Cas ran into him. Crashing his whole body against Dean’s own and into a big comforting hug. 

Then Cas did this laugh - fuck it sounded so unrestrained and heartfelt that it made Dean feel like he was floating - as he hid his face against the crook of Dean’s neck. 

“I didn’t think you were going to come.” Cas quietly says and the relief in Cas’s voice left Dean more dumbfounded than he already was. 

“Wow! Am I getting one of those hugs too, sweetheart?” There was a small strain to Mick’s happy tone.

Cas froze in Dean’s arms - he even heard the dumbass cuss into Dean’s skin - before he pulled away to look back at Mick. Then looked back at Dean, his dumb head tilt - thank god that didn’t change - and squinty eyes asking questions that Dean could hear clear as day.

Dean rolled his eyes. “We were just talking. Don’t get your damn panties in a twist, Cas.” 

“I was just asking.” Cas shrugged, a smile in his voice before he walked over to Mick. “I’m glad you two are getting along?”

Dean could hear the damn question in his voice and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His heart was still racing from the few seconds of having Cas so close again. Having him look at him like...like that.

Mick pulled Cas from around the waist and reached to kiss his cheek. It was sweet and Dean saw the red prick Cas’s cheeks. 

“We are. I never had a best friend before but I am jealous of your friendship.” Mick looked over at Dean. “Must be nice to have that deep connection with someone.”

Dean looked away. Instead gave his attention to the desk that still had another comic book with a chip bag folded inside to be used as a bookmark.

“Yes.” Cas quietly said before clearing his throat. “Um, why are you both in my room?”

“I just followed Dean here.” Mick quickly answered while Dean nervously ran his hand through his hair.

“You know me, Cas. I can’t stay too long with that creepy vampire clan you have as a family.” Dean winked at him while Cas rolled his eyes.

“Vampires?” Mick asked as he looked between them.

“They’re not vampires.” Cas said at the same time Dean said, “Yeah, you know, bat wings and fangs. The full Twilight!”

“We don’t have...Dean! Stop telling people my family is made up of vampires!”

“I’ll be more worried at the fact that people always easily believe me.” 

“Ah,” Mick awkwardly laughed as he wiggled a finger between Cas and Dean. “Is this like an inside joke?”

“No.” “Yes.”

Mick hummed as he dropped his hand. Clearly uncomfortable but he should try stepping into Dean’s shoes. 

“How was the burial?” Mick turned to smile at Cas, leaning in to kiss his shoulder, and Dean had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. 

Just cause he thought the dude was nice doesn’t mean he wants to see that shit. 

“It was fine. Nobody really talked.” Cas nodded, his eyes far away as he was thinking about it because he was unsure. Then he blinked a couple of times before turning to look at Dean again. “Which reminds me, Bobby and you are invited to Dad’s will reading tomorrow afternoon. Actually, invited is the wrong word. You guys have to be there in order for the testament to be read.”

“What?” Dean shuffled the weight on his feet awkwardly as he tried to process Cas’s words. “What - wait. Why do we have to be there?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Cas shrugged, “But I would steer clear of my brothers for a while. Probably Sam too. While Gabriel may think it’s funny, he is the only one. They already don’t particularly like you, Dean.”

“Yeah, Cas, I noticed.”

“Really? They like me.” Mick proudly said, cheeks high as he smiled.

“Shocker.” Dean muttered but by the look of Cas’s face, he must have not said it quietly enough. “Whatever. Maybe I’ll just get Sam and Charlie and go home.”

Cas tried to step forward towards Dean but he saw Mick’s grip around his waist tighten. Cas made a face but then he gave Dean one of those fake smiles. “Yeah, probably for the best. Don’t want Mike finding you and interrogating you all night.”

Dean nodded, biting the inside of his cheek before he gave them both the same cocky smile. “Yeah. Sounds like a plan then. I’ll head out then.”

Dean made his way out of the room, not wanting to meet the stare that was digging holes into him. He made it down the hall and was on the first step down the stairs when Cas called out to him. Dean turned around just when Cas stopped only a few inches away from him. From this angle, he can just take the next step up and have his lips pressed up against Cas’s skin. Against his lips. Pull him down for a kiss he desperately can’t stop selfishly thinking about. 

At least he can imagine he was brave enough to do that.

Instead, he looked down at the piece of paper that Cas was handing him. “Take it, Dean, it won’t bite.”

Dean takes it and looks to see it was Cas’s phone number written in quick handwriting. That dumbass even drew a little happy face. 

“Call me in the morning so I can give you all the details about tomorrow afternoon.”

Dean puts the paper in his pocket as he smiles up at Cas. “Sure, Cas. Thanks.”

Cas smiles back and Dean swears he blushes. Before Dean could enjoy the handsome sight, Cas ducks his head down to leave a kiss on Dean’s cheek. It was quick but it still felt lingering as it burned his skin.

“Night, Dean.” Cas whispers as he starts to walk away. “Um, and thanks for keeping Mick company. Give your family my best for me!”

Dean sucked in a shaky breath. “S-sure.”

Then he waves back at Cas, who looked like he was almost skipping before he disappeared back into his bedroom. Back to Mick.