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mandoalorian · 4 years ago

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I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — Ten: Justice

Summary: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person’s relationship with his son. You’ve heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You’ve felt his pain and anguish and you’ve never been able to relate to anything more. But things don’t come easy for you, and they certainly don’t come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Warnings: so many tears, mention of child neglect and abuse, child custody battle, court. This is essentially the chapter we’ve all been waiting for. I’m so nervous to post this so please let me know what you think and, as always, reblogs are very much appreciated.

Word count: 5000>

Masterlist

Previous - Chapter Ten - Next

Just like the past few days, you had been rudely awoken by a phone call from Diana Prince. This time, you were back in Maxwell’s king sized bed in D.C., with Alistair sandwiched between you and Max.

“Di?” You asked, rubbing your tired eyes.

“Barbara is here. Now. You have to come over. I’m trying to get her to renounce her wish but she’s fighting back. Come in your Amazonian gear and don’t forget your lasso. Hurry!” she exclaimed before hanging up.

You yawned and put the phone back on the hook. You could stay in bed with Alistair and Maxwell forever but, if Diana needed your help, you had to provide. You followed her instructions and headed out without saying anything to Max. You shouldn’t be too long anyways, you decided. Everything would be okay.

***

When Maxwell eventually woke up and you weren’t by his side, he was confused. In fact, to say he was devastated would have been an understatement. Today was his big court date-- the battle where he’d fight for Alistair’s custody. He had faith you’d be there, just like you promised. Only, there was one small thought haunting him in the very back of his mind.

What if you had become too powerful for this world? What if you already had to go back to Themyscira? No. It would be fine-- Max reassured himself. Maxwell got all suited up and Raquel came to the door.

“Thank you for agreeing to watch Alistair.” Maxwell sighed, adjusting his cufflinks.

“It’s really no problem, Mr. Lord.” Raquel smiled graciously, taking Alistair’s hand.

“Daddy?” Alistair asked, his eyes glossy with unshed tears.

“Yeah buddy?”

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to say this, but I really hope you win today.” Alistair confessed before turning around and leaving with Raquel.

***

“You… Diana!?” You shouted, running up to Barbara and untying her from the bed. Barbara’s eyes locked onto you as you helped release her. “Hey listen… I don’t know what’s going on but I’m your friend. I don’t want to hurt you.” you promised, locking your gaze onto her ocean blue eyes. The colour alone was enough to remind you of the beautiful oceans back on Themyscira.

A tear slipped down Barbara’s cheek and you quickly wiped it away, smoothing out her blonde wavy hair. “I feel so foolish,” she choked out, shaking her head. “Just for once I wanted to be the greatest. And all to prove a point.”

“It’s okay,” you shushed her, cautiously wrapping your arms around her and pulling her into a hug. You wanted to be careful not to smother her. Barbara had done terrible things, no different to Max, but you knew that it wasn’t really them. That they were both possessed by the power of the wish. “Did you speak to Diana?” you asked eventually, truly wondering where your sister was. She’d called you and yet she wasn’t here.

“I came after her… for-- for the dreamstone,” Barbara confessed as her tears soaked your tunic. “She told me it had been destroyed but that’s… that’s impossible.”

You exhaled. “No Barbara, it’s true. Max and I… we--” you tried to explain but Barbara cut you off.

“Babajide said only true love can--”

“I know.” you sighed, looking down at your feet.

“Oh.” Was the only sound Barbara could bear to omit. “You love him?”

You smiled weakly and nodded your head. “I’ve never really been in love before, I don’t think. But I have this feeling in my heart and no words can describe it. I’ve read about it in mythology… like the story of Orpheus and Eurydice and when I’m with Max I just feel… complete. I feel whole.”

“I know the feeling because I feel it too.” Barbara sniffed, pulling off you and crossing her arms over her chest. You could immediately tell that she was feeling vulnerable.

“You do?”

“With Diana.” Barbara confirmed.

“...You-- you’re in love with Diana?” You asked with a small gasp.

“I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.” Barbara sighed into admittance.

“Then you will know that love is the most powerful thing in the world. Barbara… if you renounce your wish then--”

“I know.” Barbara whimpered, rubbing her tearful eyes.

“The wish might have given you all this power, but I promise you there is nothing more powerful than the love you have for Diana,” you reassured Barbara and took her hands. “And the love she has for you.”

“The-- what?” Barbara asked.

“I’m the goddess of family, Barbara, I have a pretty good judgement of knowing when somebody is in love. I see the way she looked at you in the tomb back in Athens. You could have something so beautiful together,” you smiled, giving Barbara’s hands a light squeeze. “Renounce your wish. For Diana.”

Barbara turned and looked out the window, her lips trembling before she looked back at you. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I renounce my wish.” she declared, and you felt a breeze-- and wind, almost, gush through your hair. The grip on her hand became electric and you pulled off her, noticing the way your body began to glow. Barbara’s eyes snapped open and her jaw slackened as she watched your feet leave the ground. You were floating, a glittering golden aura similar to the lasso of truth highlighting your entire body. It was blinding.

The walls of Diana’s apartment began to crumble around you and you eventually fell to the ground. Barbara gasped upon seeing you again. “You-- you’re outfit. You’re glowing…”

You looked down at yourself and your eyes widened in disbelief. Your typical Amazonian tunic had literally changed colours. What was once brown, was now gold, red and blue-- the traditional colours of a child of Zeus. “Like Diana,” Barbara mumbled. “It’s beautiful.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you admired the way your new armour looked. The Gods had blessed you with this transformation, and that must have meant you had done something right. You had gotten Barbara to renounce her wish, after all.

No, love was what had gotten Barbara to renounce her wish.

But the walls around you were still crumbling down and the ground beneath you was splitting. “Oh my-- Barbara. I have to go. I’ve already overstayed my welcome.” you said in a panic.

“What? I’m sure Diana doesn’t mind you being here.” Barbara replied, scratching the back of her neck in bewilderment.

“No. The World of Man… I’m too powerful I-- I have to return to Themyscira,” you said in a fluster. You remembered that Diana told you-- with the combination of both of your lassos, you could create a portal that would ensure you returned back home safely. “I have to go now.”

“What about Max?” Barbara asked, standing up and staring at you.

Shit, Max.

The court case.

You were already so late.

“Barbara, I have to go. Keep Diana informed. I-- I have to go see Max and tell him… tell him…”

“Tell him you love him.” Barbara confirmed.

Could you really do that when you were leaving so soon? You opened the window and unravelled your lasso of truth before signalling one final goodbye to Barbara. In a panic you flew out the window and glided through the air, overhead the bustling city beneath you. You had to get to court, at least before the verdict. You couldn’t let him down.

***

“Can both parties please rise?” Judge Edward Wilson requested.

Maxwell felt sick to his stomach. You weren’t here. You were supposed to be here; fixing all of this. You had promised. And you were nowhere in sight. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fingers into a fist. He heard the scraping of the chairs as Julianna and Theodore stood. He followed their actions just a few moments after. It was fine. He could do this without you. Maxwell had come from nothing and he had gotten this far in life completely alone, he could do it again. Maxwell took a deep breath and flattened his suit down before shooting the judge one of his charming, albeit fake, television smiles. The judge grinned, excited to be working on a case with the Max Lord.

“Your honor, I am Theodore Thomas, esteemed family lawyer and I will be representing Miss Julianna Grey on this child custody case.” Ted introduced himself, holding himself high and mighty.

“I’m Julianna Grey, your honor. I’m the biological mother of Alistair Lorenzano and I am here today to request full custody of my son.”

The judge nodded in understanding before turning to Maxwell. “O-oh,” Max shuffled uncomfortably upon realising it was his turn to speak. He looked at the jury of twelve that sat before him. Twelve randomly selected members of the public who were about to learn his true identity. The identity he had kept so well hidden for the last twenty years. “I’m Maxwell Lor-Lorenzano and I’m the biological father of Alistair Lorenzano,” he looked back at Julianna and Theodore who were glaring in his direction. “And I am here today to tell you that I love my son so much.” Maxwell exclaimed.

Judge Edward Wilson adjusted the brimless reading glasses that sat on the curve of his nose. “Mr Lorenzano, you do agree to the case proceedings that will be occurring today, yes?”

“Yes. I do.” Maxwell affirmed, placing both his palms flat on the oak wood table.

“And you do not have an attorney?” Judge Wilson quizzed further.

Maxwell sighed. You should be here. “No I do not. But if possible, may I request a publicly funded attorney?”

“Now now,” Judge Wilson reprimanded, pointing his finger. “I will be the judge of whether or not Mr Lorenzano’s lack of care is sufficient for the transferral of custody.”

The jury murmured amongst themselves, questioning whether or not Max Lord didn’t have a jury because he was broke. They raised their eyebrows, judging the businessman who stood before them. “Unfortunately, with this being a civil case, you are not entitled to a publicly funded attorney.” The Judge hummed, rearranging his stack of papers.

“With all due respect, your honor, we gave Mr Lorenzano ample time to find a representative for this case. This right here is an example of Mr Lorenzano’s lack of care for the minor child in question. If he wanted to even stand a chance at gaining custody of Alistair, he would’ve gotten a lawyer.” Theodore scoffed incredulously whilst Julianna tried her hardest to suppress her smirk. Maxwell knotted his eyebrows together as furiosity consumed him.

Thankfully, Judge Wilson knew better to just dismiss his comment. He turned to Maxwell. “Mr Lorenzano, you said you were ‘busy doing other things’, indicating that those other things are the reason you did not find an attorney to represent your side of the case. May I ask what those things were? Perhaps a work commitment? Or a family commitment?”

Maxwell was still glaring at Theodore for his out of pocket comment. “I care about Alistair, so much.” Maxwell told the court, but his dark eyes were trained only on his ex wife and her current boyfriend. “I would argue that a week in advance is not enough time to hire a lawyer and familiarise themselves with the facts of this case. I was busy doing other things.”

“Facts?” Theodore laughed. “Your honor, Mr Lorenzano knows nothing about ‘facts’. This man is deceitful. He has built his whole career on lies. Don’t you think young Alistair deserves two good role models to look up to? For example, a stay at home mother such as Julianna who can give him her full attention and care, and a family lawyer such as myself, who fights for justice in society?” Maxwell felt nauseated as he was being forced to hear the absolute bullshit Theodore was spouting out. He was painting himself as some kind of hero to a courtroom who knew no different. But that’s what Theodore Thomas did the best. And that was why he was the most successful lawyer in Washington D.C.

“Uh,” Maxwell squeezed his eyes shut. “Not exactly. It’s complicated, your honor. I was in Athens with a friend.” He hated the way the revelation left his lips. But it was the truth. And if he had learned one thing from Diana, it was that the truth is beautiful. But was truth going to win the case?

Judge Wilson blinked momentarily as silence filled the courtroom. A smile flexed upon Theodore’s lips. “You were in Athens with a friend?” Judge Wilson repeated, gritting his teeth.

“Yes, your honor.” Maxwell sighed in admittance.

“Mr Lorenzano,” Judge Wilson addressed Max before glancing towards the jury who were taking notes. “I hope you realise this does not sound good in your favour.”

Maxwell cursed in his mind. Of course it didn’t. He’d gone with you to Athens to help you find and destroy the dreamstone. But he couldn’t say that in court. Hell, he couldn’t say that to anyone. You trusted him with your secret and he wasn’t going to expose you like that. Then again, you had broken your promise. You hadn’t shown up in court. You lied to him. And Maxwell was hurting a lot. He felt betrayed. Nevertheless, he still loved you so much. No doubt the jury would even believe the fact a magical goddess came into Max’s life and encouraged him to accompany her to Athens to destroy a wish-granting stone possessed by the God of Lies. That would just be ridiculous.

Maxwell didn’t reply. “On that note,” Judge Wilson grimaced before turning back to face Julianna and Theodore. “I ask that the claimant address all their points as to why they believe Mr Lorenzano is an unfit father to Alistair Lorenzano.”

Julianna clapped her hands excitedly. Maxwell figured she must have spent her entire life preparing herself for this moment. Max knew that he’d likely have to sit through possibly hours of Julianna and her sleazeball of a boyfriend demonizing him and pushing him down. Nothing new. But when it came to illustrating the point whether or not Maxwell was an unfit father, he didn’t want to hear it. To Max, Alistair was an angel. He deserved the best and Maxwell had always wanted to be the best for his son. None of this would’ve happened if Max hadn’t been led down such a dark path in the first place. Yes, Maxwell often doubted his capability as a parent, but at least he was trying to change. Julianna didn’t even care about Alistair. She was a neglectful mother, always dumping Alistair upon Max without warning so she could spend time with Ted or go shopping with her friends. Maxwell loved his son more than anything else in the whole world.

“Mr Lorenzano, as I’m sure you all know, is what I’d once describe to be a ‘successful’ businessman. Now I personally think he’s just a businessman,” Theodore smirked and Maxwell rolled his eyes. “He’s a television personality who goes by Max Lord. He’s a liar. A con man. Not only has he lied about his identity to the whole world, but he’s tricked the weak minded into investing into his ponzi-scheme.”

“Hey!” A juror interrupted. “I invested in Black Gold Cooperative!”

“Well-I mean, obviously you’re not weak minded.” Theodore quickly backtracked.

“He did just call you weak minded.” Maxwell muttered with a shrug of his shoulders. The juror frowned and sat back down.

An hour passed and both Julianna and Theodore were still taking turns to drag Max down. He felt like giving up. You were his only hope, and you weren’t even there. “Mr Lorenzano,” Judge Wilson began. “Do you have any objections to the claimants allegations?”

“Yes, I object to it all!” Max exclaimed.

“I should rephrase,” Judge Wilson sighed. “Are they telling the truth about you?”

They were. They hadn’t lied. They’d compiled a list of all of Maxwell’s mistakes, errors, and flaws. They had him backed up into a corner he couldn’t get out of. On occasions, were they making a mountain out of a molehill? Of course. But were they honest? Yes. Maxwell had fucked up.

“They are.” Maxwell nodded, his knees becoming weak with anxiety.

“Okay,” The Judge replied, his tone dripping with disappointment and perhaps even sadness. “It’s now your turn to speak, Mr Lorenzano. Although I have no doubt the jury has already come to a decision.”

Maxwell turned to face the jury who were looking at him with identical stone cold expressions. Like he was some kind of villainous monster. A lying criminal. And it was all thanks to Theodore’s stupid little speech.

“Uhm,” Maxwell stood up and brushed down his suit again before walking over to the jury. “Theodore is right. I have done bad things and I have lied to many people. I’m not perfect, but I’m trying to get better. For my son. For Alistair. He gives my life hope and reason and purpose. I believe that he makes me a better person. I’m not sure if any of you have kids of your own but you know how hard the pressure can be. The truth is, I never considered myself a family man. I never wanted children but when Alistair came into my life… for the first time I felt like the universe was on my side,” Maxwell took the polaroid out of his pocket and slid it over for the jury to look at. “This was the day he was born. I had never felt so much love.” Maxwell smiled faintly at the memory.

“Quit it with your sob story.” Theodore moaned, rolling his eyes.

“Let Mr Lorenzano speak.” Judge Wilson snapped back. Max nodded his head with gratitude.

“I never used to believe in love before Alistair was born. And then recently, I got lost. Things didn’t make sense and my mind became clouded with just about all the wrong things. And then this girl came into my life and she reminded me of how it feels to love and be loved in return. So now I do. I believe in love. I believe that love conquers all. That love can end all wars and quash all hatred in the world. Please, I ask that you empathize with me. We’ve all made mistakes. If I could go back and fix it I would in a heartbeat. But I can’t and I don’t know what I’d do if I lost Alistair.” Max croaked, letting a real, genuine tear slip down his cheek.

Silence filled the courtroom and deciding that Maxwell had nothing else to say, he sat back down in his seat. He knew he’d lost. You weren’t there to help him. He had no attorney. And like Diana had warned him; the consequences of his actions lay in his fate with Alistair. He was going to lose the little boy he loved so much. His only son.

Maxwell knew he was a lot of things but he was not an unfit father. He was prepared to give Alistair the world. An unfit father would be his own father. A man who spent his days drunk and abusing him and his mother. Both physical and mental torture. Max would never ever do that to Alistair. Ever. He tried so hard to be a positive, influential figure to Alistair because he never had one himself.

“I believe the jury has come to a conclusion,” Judge Wilson announced, taking a painful amount of time to open the envelope that had been handed to him. “The jury have decided that full custody of Alistair Lorenzano will be granted to Juli-”

“STOP!” You screamed, using your full force to push open the sturdy double doors that led into the courtroom.

The scene ahead was something straight out of a courtroom drama movie. Maxwell’s jaw dropped upon the sight of you and the jury gasped, muttering words of bewilderment amongst each other as you ran up to Max. And oh, you were a sight.

Maxwell didn’t know what happened, but there you were, dressed in red, blue and gold. He pinned it down to an Amazonian warrior’s outfit, for sure, because there was no way any Sears’ or Macy’s or Bloomingdales’ would sell anything like that. You were sparkling, your tiara fit perfectly on your head and your gladiator sandals tied in neat ribbons to your kneecaps. You looked like a real-life Goddess. In your element.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Maxwell gasped as you ran into his arms. You hugged him tight and he tried to hold back his cries. “Thought… you’d already gone back to Themyscira.”

The thought of you leaving Max without a proper goodbye was debilitating. He was the man who took you in, gave you a home and comfort, and showed you what real, true love was.

“I couldn’t leave without keeping my promise.” you sniffed, cupping his cheeks and offering him a small smile. You spent a moment just gazing into his chocolate brown eyes. In the past day, his eyes looked like they had aged ten years due to all the stress he was under -- but they were still the most beautiful things you had ever seen.

Gods, you loved him so much. And you wanted him to know how much you loved him. He deserved to know. But right now, you had to focus on keeping your promise. The reason you had come to the world of man in the first place was to reunite Alistair and Max, so that was exactly what you were going to do. You hadn’t constructed a plan, and you knew that would be your fatal error -- but it had to be now or never. All you could do was hope that, somehow, everything would fall into place. You cleared your throat and presented yourself in front of the judge, before introducing yourself. “I’m here to represent Maxwell Lorenzano in the custody battle for Alistair Lorenzano.”

The judge sighed, adjusting his white wig. “The case started two hours ago, ma’am. With all due respect, the jury has already reached a verdict. Unless you have any valid evidence as to why you believe Mr Lorenzano would make a worthy father, or Miss Grey an unworthy mother, there is nothing more I can do.”

You felt your heart stop in your chest and it was like everything around you was in slow motion. Goose pimples pricked your arms as you looked around the courtroom at all the different faces. You were standing in front of fifty or so people, easily and they were all staring at you. Of course you knew why… you weren’t exactly dressed like a ‘typical’ citizen of the world. But you just had to suck it up because you had made a promise to Maxwell, all those days ago. You had a duty to fulfil as the Goddess of home and hearth, and you knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but in that moment you knew exactly what you had to do.

“I have evidence.” you said with a shaky exhale.

Maxwell narrowed his eyes and leaned into you. “What?” he asked, just as confused as everyone else. Julianna and Theodore exchanged a nervous glance as the jury and audience continued to murmur amongst each other.

“Trust me.” you smiled a tearful smile and you felt your lips begin to quiver with anxiety. You closed your eyes and tried to regulate your breathing. It would be okay. It was going to be okay.

“Well, present your evidence.” Judge Wilson sighed and you nodded your head with affirmation.

Taking your lasso of truth, you began to unravel it, and showed the courtroom the way it glowed golden upon touching it. “What is that?” you heard one of the juror’s ask.

“This is the lasso of Hestia. It belonged to my mother and it’s powered by the truth. The truth and purity of the universe.” You explained, and the jury were in complete awe.

Julianna was the first one to burst into laughter. “You can’t be serious? A magical lasso? What? You got that from the costume and prop store on 2nd Street? Please. This is actually a serious case. Get outta here.” she snarled, her lips curling into a frown.

Maxwell went to snap back but you quickly stopped him before slowly padding towards Julianna and Theodore. And you smiled. “May I demonstrate?” you asked her, and Julianna gulped hesitantly. “If it’s just a prop from a costume store then… you have no reason to be afraid, do you?”

Julianna turned to Theodore who just shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. Fine.” Julianna sighed, holding out her wrists. You carefully tied them together with the lasso before trailing it across the courtroom.

“Ted, Max, Judge Wilson… feel free to hold on to the lasso,” you pulled it to where the jury was sitting and made sure that each member held a tight grip onto it. “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt.” you promised.

“What are you doing?” Maxwell gritted out. “I can’t let you do this. Exposing your powers in front of all these people… it’ll turn you into a mortal.”

You knew that. But it was a sacrifice you were willing to take. If this past week had taught you anything it was that love was the most beautiful thing in this universe. And that love truly does conquer all. You were able to tell Barbara that with your whole chest-- so just for once, maybe you should listen to yourself. You deserved your happy ending.

And you were never happy on Themyscira.

But here, with Maxwell and Alistair? You were happy.

You were finally happy and you wouldn’t let anything get in the way of that.

Taking a deep breath, you shrugged off his comment and turned around to speak to the courtroom.

“The lasso of Hestia compels you all to see the truth about Alistair Lorenzano.”

You watched intently as their eyes snapped shut and they saw the truth. They saw how neglectful Julianna and Theodore had been, and how loving Maxwell was. How Maxwell flew home from Greece just to be with his son whilst Julianna left him in the house alone. They saw the way Julianna verbally abused Alistair, and Maxwell winced as it paralleled his own childhood memories. They saw it all. They saw the truth.

But-- it was draining you. It was like you could slowly feel your powers slip out of you. You were losing your immortality, and your strength. You felt yourself become weaker by the second until eventually, it was over. They opened their eyes and looked at Maxwell in shock.

You took the lasso from each person and you whimpered slightly at how weighted it suddenly felt in your grip. Attaching it back to your tunic, you took Maxwell’s hand. “Did it work?” you asked weakly, hoping and praying that your sacrifice would change something.

Maxwell swallowed but before he could open his mouth, a juror spoke.

“The jury would like to change their verdict.” he announced, and the judge looked down at the envelope. He rubbed his teary eyes and sighed. The Judge had been… crying?

“Well, I hereby grant custody of Alistair Lorenzano to his father, Maxwell Lorenzano.” Judge Wilson declared before banging his gavel down on the desk.

Julianna screamed. Members of the audience cheered. You turned to Maxwell who’s cheeks were tearstained. “Oh my Gosh Max, we did it!” you cried, and Maxwell let himself fall limp in your arms as he sobbed uncontrollably.

“You-- you just-- I can’t believe--” He cried before pulling off you and flashing you the most precious grin. It was enough to make your heart swell with happiness. “I can’t believe you sacrificed your powers for me and Ali--”

“Well, believe it.” you said, leaning in and pressing a soft yet passionate kiss into his lips. Max’s hands fell down to your hips as he held onto you and relished your taste. He pulled away from you and instinctively smoothed out your hair.

“I love you so much,” Maxwell admitted finally, unable to keep his true feelings to himself any longer. “I’m so in love with you.”

And now, it was your turn to cry. It was the words you had longed to hear from the moment you came to the world of man. “I love you too Maxwell Lorenzano,” you confessed, running your fingers through his golden hair. Max choked back a sob as he gazed into your eyes. “Come on,” you encouraged, rubbing the small of his back. “You have a son to get home to.” you giggled and Maxwell’s eyes lit up.

“Does this mean you don’t have to return to Themyscira?” Maxwell asked hopefully and you felt your cheeks flush with heat as you shook your head.

“No, I don’t have to return to Themyscira. I’m a mortal now, just like you”

Somehow, you thought you’d be hurting more. You just gave up your powers-- your whole life. But this… this felt perfect. Like it was meant to be. You weren’t hurting, in fact, you had never been so elated in your life.

“Well, you’ll always be a goddess to me.” Max confessed, pressing another kiss into your lips. “Come on. Let’s go get Alistair.” he grinned, tugging on your hand as you excitedly ran out of the courtroom together.

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I Believe In Love: Tagged in comments!

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atlafan · 4 years ago

Text

She Doesn’t Like Him

Hello! This is my entry for @majorharry‘s 20K fic celebration! This was such a fun idea, and I decided to use a few of the prompts to help move the story along. “I know you’re busy, but…can we talk?” “I’m pretty good at minding my own business. You should try it sometime.” “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” “Cover up, please.” and “Well, maybe I don’t want to just be your friend.” I didn’t put any smut in this, for once in my life, I didn’t know who would end up reading this, so I wanted to keep it a little more tame than I usually do. Plus, who doesn’t love fluff, right? Hope you enjoy! This is an office worker!Harry AU.

Warnings: angst and fluff

Words: 4.4K

Harry got along great with all of his coworkers, well, almost all of them. For some reason or another, he just couldn’t crack Y/N’s code. She was short with him, barely ever looked at him, and if she did, the eye contact was minimal. She’d look at his forehead or nose. He wasn’t sure if did something to piss her off, or what. No one else was bothered by him. Harry was one of those guys that could usually look on the Bright-side, find a silver lining, and everyone appreciated that about him. Once in a while if he said something optimistic in meeting, he would catch Y/N rolling her eyes or shaking her head.

The really interesting thing was that Y/N was nice to literally every single other person in the office. She was bubbly and personable. Harry just brought out this unpleasant side to her, and she hadn’t even noticed she was acting that way until he finally worked up the courage to bring it up. Harry didn’t want to work in a hostile environment, and he thought it was best to go straight to the source before talking with his supervisor about it. One afternoon he decides to knock on her door.

“Come in!” She says, not looking up from her computer.

“Hey.” He says as he slips inside. “I know you’re busy, but…can we talk?”

She looks up from her computer with a scowl on her face. She sighs heavily and gestures for him to sit. He does so and looks at her, waiting for her undivided attention.

“Sorry, just let me get this email out.” She says as she types even faster than she was. Once she clicks send, she turns her body so she’s fully facing Harry. “What’s up?”

“I’m just going to be blunt…do you have a problem with me?”

“What? Of course not, why?”

“It’s just…I feel like every time I’m around, you flip a switch. It’s like you don’t like me or something…”

“Oh.” She blushes slightly out of embarrassment.

“In fact, I think this is the most you’ve ever even looked at me.” He frowns. “If I did something…I don’t know what it could have been…but would you tell me?”

“Harry, I’m so sorry…I think I’ve been a bit rude…subconsciously.” She bites her bottom lip and looks away. “I’ve been dealing with a lot lately, and I’ve been taking it out on you, which is wrong, and unprofessional.”

“To be fair, you’ve been like this with me since we’ve both been here. I don’t think you’ve ever even smiled at me.”

“Do I need to smile because I’m a woman, or are you someone that just needs the validation?” Harry’s mouth falls open. “I see you, Harry. You float through this halls, bounce from office to office, cracking jokes. It makes me wonder when you actually ever get any work done.” She leans forward and rests her chin on her palm.

“You’re not like this with everyone…just with me.”

“I apologize if I’ve been cold towards you, really I am. I’ll try not to be, okay?”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” She graces him with a weak smile.

“I hope you don’t just think I’m a goof off, I really do work hard.”

“I’m sure in your own way you do.” She sighs and turns her attention back to her computer. “Are we done, I got about fifteen emails alone just from sitting here with you.”

“Um…yeah, we’re done…thanks for the chat.”

“Anytime.” She says without looking at him.

He leaves her office and closes the door behind him. What she said was starting to seep in. Did others see him as lazy or a clown? Harry worked really hard, so what if he would go chat with others when he needed a break? He also wondered what it was she was dealing with. He hoped she wasn’t alone with whatever it was. He was no stranger to therapy. Harry saw someone once a month or more if he needed it. Once he’s back in his own office he sits down and looks out the window. At least she said she would try to be nicer.

Y/N’s version of being nicer, was avoiding Harry at all costs, which he hated. He was a people person, and it killed him when people didn’t like him. He knew it was stupid to think that way, but that’s anxiety. He saw her in the break-room, grabbing her lunch out of the fridge. He decided to spark up a conversation. He thought maybe she would like him more if she got to know him better.

“Hi, Y/N.”

“Hello.” She says, putting her container into the microwave.

“How was your weekend?”

“Fine.” She wasn’t looking at him.

“That’s good.” He stands up and walks over to her. “I went to the movies with one of my best mates, haven’t seen him in a while. Have you seen any good movies lately? I like going when I can. Sometimes a few of us from here go, maybe you could-“

“You know something?” She looks at him now, just as her food is finishing. “I’m pretty good at minding my own business. You should try it sometime.” She snatches her food, and brushes by him as she walks out.

Harry sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair as he watches her leave. A couple of other colleagues walk in to have their lunches.

“Harry! Haven’t seen you all day.” Lora pouts. “Come sit with us.”

“Think I just lost my appetite.” He frowns.

“What’s wrong?” Amy asks, as she sits down. Harry sits with her and Lora.

“It’s Y/N. She hates me.”

“Y/N?!” They say at the same time.

“Y/N doesn’t hate anyone.” Lora says. “She’s way too nice to hate anyone.”

“Well, apparently she’s nice to everyone but me.”

“Have you tried talking to her?” Amy asks.

“Yeah, we spoke Friday, and she said she’d try to be nicer to me, but…she just snapped at me out of nowhere.”

The women look at each other. They knew Y/N for a while now, they never really noticed her attitude towards Harry, but now that he was bringing it up, things were starting to click.

“Is it because I’m one of the few guys here?”

“No.” Lora squeezes Harry’s forearm. “She likes men plenty. I’m sure things will get better. She really is lovely.”

Harry felt better after speaking with the ladies at lunch. He usually enjoyed gossiping with them as it was, but it was nice to be able to vent a little. He was standing at his desk, rocking out to some music, working on some data when Y/N stormed into his office and slammed the door shut. It startles him, and he pauses his music immediately. She was fuming.

“Y/N, is everything-“

“Stop, just stop!” She charges towards him. “I told you to mind your own business, didn’t I?”

“Y, yeah you did…”

“So what do you do? You run off to Amy and Lora, your little mother hens to tell them I haven’t been all that nice to you. I stay away from you, I keep it professional, I do not to be your best friend.” She crosses her arms.

“I never said we needed to be best friends, I just wanna know why you’re literally nice to everyone here but me.”

“I’m getting divorced!”

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t! Because I didn’t want you or anyone else to know! But now, I just had to explain to them why I’ve been a little pissy towards you. You wanna get to know me, Harry?! Wanna know why we’re getting divorced?! My husband, whom I’ve known for ten years, my best friend in the entire world is gay. He’s just come to terms with his sexuality, and I have to be okay with it and support him! It’s not that I’m not, I’m very happy for him. He’s free and open to live his life as he wants to now, but now I’m left to pick up the pieces. I want to hate him, but I can’t!” Tears were welling up in his eyes. “I almost wish he had just cheated on me or something, but no, he’s gay. And you know what my family had to say about it? All they said was how stupid I was. How could I not have known? Obviously I didn’t know! If I did, I wouldn’t have married him after three years of dating! He feels terrible of course, but he’s been too busy going out and meeting men to notice or care that I’m crumbling from the inside. So you’ll have to excuse me that I’m not jumping at the chance to laugh at one of your stupid fucking jokes!”

Harry stood there stunned as she stood there catching her breath. It was clear she had been bottling all of this up. He felt terrible for her. There was a lot of turmoil going through her. He wanted ask what all of this had to do with him, but maybe he could get to the bottom of that later.

“Let’s get a drink after work.”

“What?! Are you crazy? What makes you think I would possibly want to go anywhere with you?”

“Y/N.” He sighs. “Swallow some pride and let me take you out for a drink after work. You seem like you need to let out some steam, and if I need to be the target, I’d like to have a shot in front of me.”

It was the most adult thing Y/N ever heard Harry say. He was actually being serious.

“Okay.”

After work the two decide to meet at a local pub. They sit down at the bar, and Harry orders two shots of Jameson. They clink their glasses and take the shots.

“You know, I actually think I needed this.” She smirks at the empty small glass, and Harry orders two more.

“So…no judgement or anything, but walk me through your marriage.”

“Well, we met when we were freshmen in college, and became fast friends. He was my best immediately. We were always together, and then one day he kissed me. I was actually dating someone else at the time, so he apologized and said it was because he was drunk.” She shrugs. “My boyfriend and I at the time ended up breaking, up and that was when he and I got together. We were together for a few years before we got married. We’ve only been married a year.” She sighs and takes her next shot. “Keep ‘em coming.” She tells the bartender.

“How did he tell you?”

“He made me this really nice dinner.” She smiles and then her eyes well up. “I thought he was going to tell me he was finally ready to start trying for kids, but…I was wrong. He told me that…I basically kept him alive, that I was the only person that could make him smile, but something was missing. He grew up in a really conservative home, and even when he went to college he still had so much repressed. He told me he wanted to be with men. He didn’t cheat on me or anything, he said he’d never hurt me like that, but he works with a few gay men, and he was talking to them more and more. Things sort of clicked for him one day. We just finalized the paperwork over the weekend, and on Friday I have to leave work early to go meet with our lawyers to finalize things.” Her voice cracks. “We have to sell our house, and I haven’t figured out where I’m gonna go yet. It all still doesn’t feel real.”

“I’m so sorry, that’s a really tough situation.”

“It’s been so weird, packing up all our memories. And I honestly couldn’t tell! Whenever we…well…you know…he was always very passionate.” She blushes and wipes a few tears away. “We have a glass of wine each night as we pack things up. Sometimes we laugh and other times it’s just silent. He feels terrible, and I’ve been trying not to make him feel more guilty.”

“Where’s he going?”

“He found some guys to move in with…in a different part of the city.” She sighs. “I suppose it’s better to not have brought a child into it.”

“Can I ask…why you’ve been taking things out on me?”

“You…you’re just like him.” She looks away. “Not physically, but you have the same exact sense of humor. I picked up on it early on, and maybe at first I liked it, but when things started to go wrong you just started to piss me off. That, and you’d always be so cheery. It was annoying…” She takes another shot and so does he. “I’m sorry, Harry. It was a stupid reason not to be nice to you and to be nice to everyone else.”

“You’re going through a lot, I understand.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone else.” She looks at him. “I see a therapist once a month. I have my own issues. She’s amazing. I could give you her card, you need someone to talk all this through with.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She sighs. “Talking to you has made me feel a little better…guess talking with a stranger is good.”

“Hey, I’m not a total stranger. Despite your bad attitude we do work well together.” He grins.

“Don’t push it.” She smiles and shakes her head. “This was much needed. I didn’t know Jameson could go down so smoothly.” She was starting to slur her words.

“So, you said you weren’t sure where you were going to live?”

“I’ve been looking at some apartment, but I’m bummed. I’ve really liked living in a house. Maybe I could rent a detached condo or something.”

“This may sound a bit forward, but I actually rent a house. It’s a rent to own situation. It’s spacious, and I could honestly use a roommate.”

“Harry, you’re not seriously asking me to move in with you.”

“You’d have your own bathroom. We’d just be sharing the kitchen and laundry…and the living room, oh, and I guess the-“

“Why are you being so nice to me? I’ve been so awful, and-“

“Because I’m a firm believer in treating people with kindness. Plus, I wouldn’t mind my monthly payments going down. You’re used to living with a guy too, shouldn’t be too weird for you.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

“Sure you have.” He smiles. “You’re sure as hell not going to move in with anyone else from work. And I can only guess your parents have offered, but that’s not an option for you is it.”

“Dear god.” She pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.

“Let me know when you can move, I’m more than happy to help.”

Y/N couldn’t believe that she was moving in with Harry, but she really had no other choice. She sure as shit wasn’t going to move in with her parents, and all of her close friends were married with kids. She couldn’t afford to live on her own, nor would she want to. Much like Harry, she was a people person. She’d go crazy if she lived alone.

Harry helped her move and everything. Got her things settled, explained how the washer and dryer worked, as if she didn’t already know, and he explained how he liked things organized in the fridge. She thought it was interesting how particular he was. She even started seeing the therapist he recommended, and she was doing better. She kept in touch with her ex-husband, but she told him they needed some time apart. She needed time to fall out of love with him.

Y/N and Harry were having a ball at work now, and it made him so happy. They had way more in common than she thought, and she loved getting to gossip with him after work in their now shared home. Things weren’t even awkward! She was grateful she had her own bathroom, and they both seemed to be on different laundry schedules. One night she was sitting in her room, watching some TV when she spilled some soda on her shirt.

“Oh, shit.” She groans. She peels the shirt off, and puts on a new one. She puts her robe on and heads down to the laundry room. She stops short when she sees Harry in there, only in a pair of boxers, tight boxers. “Cover up, please.” She says as she turns away.

“Y/N!” He practically shrieks. “I’m so sorry!” He snatches some sweatpants and a t-shirt and puts them on right away. “I’m decent.” She turns back around to look at him. “Sorry about that. You don’t usually do your laundry at this time.”

“I know, I, uh, spilled and, um…”

“Oh, let me take a look at that.” He takes the shirt from her. “I’ve got some stain fighter, I can throw this in with my next load if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m already putting some stuff in, not a problem.”

“Thanks.”

He smiles at her and sprays some of the stain fighter on the spot before tossing it in with his things. He presses the button and sits up on top of the dryer, grabbing his book.

“Do you always just sit in here? It’s not like you’re in an apartment building.” She smirks.

“Old habit, I suppose. To be honest the sounds of the machines are sort of calming, and it gives me a chance to catch up on my reading.”

“Oh.” She nods.

“Does that need to be hung up or can it go in the dryer?”

“It can just go in the dryer, it’s a bed shirt.”

“You were getting ready for bed?”

“I was just hanging out, watching TV.”

“You should watch TV with me more. We eat dinner together.”

“Yeah, and then I like having time to wind down, just be with myself, you know?”

“Oh, right, yeah.”

“But I like knowing you’re in the house.”

He smiles at her and puts his glasses on, opening his book to where he had dog-eared it. She thanks him again for washing his shirt, and that was that. When she gets back up to her room she tries not to feel flustered when she thinks about the small glimpse she got of his body. He was littered with tattoos, and she had absolutely no idea. Sure, she had seen the ones on his arms, but on his torso? His thigh? Y/N always liked tattoos. She didn’t have any of her own, but she really liked them on men, for some reason.

The next morning, her shirt was folded on top of the dryer. She smiles and brings it up to her room to put away. Sometimes in the morning, Y/N could faintly hear Harry singing in his shower. He sang everything, nothing was off limits. Sometimes it was Gary Pucket and the Union Gap, and other times it was The Backstreet Boys. After living together for a few months, she noticed he would sing certain songs depending on his mood. Lately, they had all been love songs. She wondered if a new woman had come into his life. It made her happy to know Harry was happy.

She was making some scrambled eggs in the frypan when he comes downstairs. He was still humming whatever song he was singing before.

“Want some eggs?” She asks.

“That’d be great, thanks.” He smiles at her. “What’s your Saturday look like?”

“Just hanging out for a bit, and then…well…I don’t know. I’ve been invited to a party tonight, but I’m not sure if I want to go.”

“Why not?”

“It’s at Dave’s…”

“You’ve started speaking more?”

“We have.” She nods and scoops some eggs onto a plate for him. “I miss him, he was my best friend. Him and his roommates are having a big party, and he really wants me to come. I just don’t know if I could walk in there alone.”

“Hello!” He waves to her. “I love parties, I’ll go with you.” He sticks his fork into the eggs and takes a bite. “Delicious as always.”

“Thanks, and…you don’t already have plans?”

“Not really.” He shrugs. She doesn’t quite believe him.

“You really wanna go?”

“I do.” He smiles. “It’ll be fun.” He looks down at his chipped nails. “Should probably fix these up.”

Y/N giggles to herself as she watches Harry walk away. He could get frantic when he needed to go somewhere. She found his little quarks to be charming. Whatever woman was now in his life was a lucky lady.

“You look really nice by the way.” He says on the drive there. She was wearing a black dress, nothing special, she thought.

“Thanks.” Her leg was shaking. His large hand reaches for her knee.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little.”

“You can hold my hand the entire time if you want.”

“You’re the best, Harry, thank you.”

Once they get to Dave’s she takes a deep breath, and they go inside.

“Y/N!” He practically says in tears, kissing her on the cheek. “You look wonderful. I’m so glad you came.” He straightens up when he sees Harry. “And who is this?”

“I’m Harry.” He smiles and shakes Dave’s hand. “We live together.”

“Oh?” He smiles and Y/N and gives a wink.

“It’s not what you think.” She chuckles. “Come on.” She loops her arm through his. “I need some wine.”

Dave leads her into the house and introduces her to the new people in his life. After a couple of glasses of wine she felt perfectly fine. Her and Dave were laughing like old times. Harry was mingling with the other people. He would glance over at Y/N to make sure she was alright. The house was packed with people, and he sort of wanted to get her alone. He notices that she’s gone out on the balcony for some air, so he follows her.

“Hey, stranger.” He says to her.

“Sorry, I left you completely alone in there.”

“No problem, found plenty of people to talk to. Although, I have to admit, I really like talking to you.”

“I like talking to you too.” She smiles. “Now that I’ve had some liquid courage, I have to ask, who is it?”

“Who’s who?” He chuckles.

“The girl you’re madly in love with.”

“Wh…what are you talking about?”

“I hear you singing in the mornings, you’re repertoire has been nothing but love songs lately. So, who’s the lucky lady?”

“Oh, Y/N.” Harry shakes his head. “There’s no one new.” She looks at him confused.

“Then why all the love songs?”

“I’m definitely in love, you were right about that, but I haven’t met anyone.” He steps closer to her and takes one if her hands in his. Her heart nearly stopped.

“We’re friends.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to just be your friend.”

“How…I mean…when did you start feeling this way?”

“A month ago.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “We were so in sync when you first moved in, it was great. Then one morning you made extra toast and bacon and eggs. You just…made me breakfast, out of nowhere. It was so nice. I was really happy that you had started being nicer to me, and then I just realized that you in general made me happy.” He uses his free hand, that wasn’t squeezing hers, to tuck some hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to feel the same way, maybe it’s just some silly crush, but I think you’re really special. You’ve been through a lot, and Dave’s really lucky to have your heart. I guess I’m just hoping you’re ready to give it to someone else.”

“Oh, Harry.”

She wraps her arms around him, and he does the same with her. They hold each other close for a little while.

“You have so much love in your own heart, and you really want to give it to me?” She asks.

“I do, if you’ll let me.”

“I think I could be open to it. I’ve been so happy living with you. To think I used to be so mean.” She pouts up at him , and he thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. “Would you kiss me?”

“You want me to?”

“Yes.”

He smiles and leans down. His nose brushes against hers before their lips meet. She tasted like the wine she had been sipping on, and he didn’t mind one bit. Her hands tugged at his hips to pull him closer. His lips were soft, and she wanted more. He cups one of her cheeks to deepen the kiss. His tongue swipes along her bottom lip, and she opens up for him. At first maybe just to take a breath, but when he licks into her mouth, she’s not mad about it. Her tongue meets his, only for a moment, before she pulls away. She smiles up at him, and he’s beaming down at her.

“And to think I didn’t want to come tonight.” She laughs.

“We would have kissed eventually, I’m sure of it.” He grins and she swats a hand at his chest.

“Oh, shut up, and order our uber.”

“You wanna go so soon?”

“Hmm, stay here or go home and make out?” She holds up both of her hands as if she has weights in them. “Seems like the latter wins.”

Harry laughs and kisses her cheek. They both go back inside and say goodbye to everyone. They get into the uber and head home. Y/N felt really lucky. Over the last few months she’s been able to get to know Harry really well. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t like him. She had no idea he had these feelings for her, but she was delighted it was her he was singing about. Even though going through a divorce sucked, and she had to grieve over her long gone relationship with Dave, he was living his best life, and now, so was she. Y/N didn’t know what the future would hold with Harry, but she was starting to believe that everything happened for a reason. As he pulled her closer to his side and kissed the top of her head in the car, she knew that everything in her adult life was leading her to him.

#majorharry20k #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles y/n #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #friends to lovers #i also rushed this a bit another reason there's no smut #it was starting to get long so here we are #hope you like!

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

Text

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

#roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #queen #queen fic #j writes

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lovelyfinch · 4 years ago

Text

my summary of ranboo’s story of his character from his stream

copied from my 5 page google doc i wrote instead of doing homework

this starts at the beginning and goes until 1hr 28 minutes into the stream

(i think i got basically everything he said)

joined the server, killed by dream, received a small tour from niki

the next day, he got a tour from tubbo, president of lmanburg. they talked about how ranboo was also running for president

shaped his first thoughts on lmanburg. that it was a good place.

finding michael with tubbo!

meets tommy! tommy tells him about george and ranboo agrees to burn down georges house (in order to not make enemies since he thought they had more than him)

niki and puffy were on a date and they tried to sneakily get past (asking niki for her armor, not suspicious at all)

tommy and ranboo grief georges house, accidentally burning it down. they ran from it, thinking they got away.

puffy asks if ranboo did it. ranboo couldn’t remember and doesn’t know why.

dream started building the walls on lmanburg

dream shows them georges house, destroyed. tommy gets blamed, ranboo is questioned bc puffy says she saw him. tubbo kills ranboo with the spoon (not canon)

the meeting hall to meet with dream.

THE MINUTES MAN OF LMANBURG - tasked with taking the notes for the meeting

there was a pig man watching the meeting

the meeting did not go well. tommy brings out spirit against dream. dream played along but didn’t truly care, only caring for the disks.

tommy stood up for ranboo at the trial. they asked ranboo about it and he said his memory was bad but they cut him off. he never said he didnt remember the burning, only that his memory was bad.

being the minutes man gave him the idea to make the first Do Not Read book, writing who to trust and not trust

dream tubbo tommy quackity and fundy on the wall. tommy being taken away for some reason. the exile.

ranboo felt guilty because tommy wasn’t the only one who destroyed george’s house.

things in lmanburg were going great, he had a house and pets and was the minutes man and technically part of the cabinet

feeling guilty, he visits tommy in exile a few times. ranboo could tell something was off with him, with dream. so he wrote letters to tommy, trying to understand what he was going through in exile.

things were good, he built the ice cream shop with fundy

one day ranboo was approached whilst writing in his memory book. quackity tells him that techno is a traitor, the reason things are bad. and that they were gonna go get him and bring him to justice. which ranboo thought meant a trial and such.

the first butcher army meeting. ranboo is confused by it, the bloody butcher outfits.

traitors are bad right? can’t have traitors

the butcher army went to technos place. ranboo shot a few arrows, maybe intentionally missing “he is a person still”

q gets carl and so techno agrees to go with the army

the execution. no trial. techno gets executed but survived.

phil, who saved ranboo from lava, who ranboo liked, gets put on house arrest. phil is mad at the army but ranboo was saying how he didnt think itd just be an execution. so the two are on even/neutral grounds.

ranboo talks to ghostbur, who calls him an aaron burr. they go to the snow, to technos. techno immediately tries to kill ranboo, who was just part of the butcher army. threatens him until he gives back all his armor.

tommy was at technos too. with techno. ranboo is surprised and writes it in his memory book.

ranboo goes back to lmanburg. realizes he just betrayed the entire butcher army by giving the armor back and saying he doesnt know where tommy is.

he kept seeing techno and tommy around lmanburg with dogs for some reason

he was kind of on both sides, techno/tommys and lmanburgs. he doesnt want to choose so he decides to help everyone

the festival plan to try to kill dream. ranboo spent time making festival games (the trident game!)

dream arrives and starts building the wall again

before the festival ranboo met with techno and tommy.

the community house was blown up. gone.

according to dream it was techno and tommy.

dream says hes gonna blow up lmanburg again. techno joins him. blow it all the way to bedrock.

dream calls ranboo out as a traitor in front of everyone. dream has ranboos book. the first memory book. which ranboo had lost a few days prior, and found somewhere he didn’t put it. it had been moved. dream gives it to tubbo

THE PANIC ROOM. a place for him to think. the water outside providing a white noise.

ranboo realizes that he kept choosing sides. he decides to choose people.

ranboo wonders how dream had his memory book

he checks the memory book and just finds the smile. the first smile. “all that was left is a smile”

that book becomes the second memory book.

the destruction of lmanburg on the horizon, they band together to attempt to stop it.

he speaks out. there are lots of people watching him

eye contact. he lashes out at people, as his judgement is impaired

he goes back to the panic room

the dream voice. a voice that is him but sounds like dream. it tells him that by trying to help everyone he has just betrayed everyone. ranboo doesn’t believe the voice because all he did was give techno his armor under pressure, right?

he decides the best thing to do is help the people who have helped him. lmanburg.

but the first memory book is still missing

“it was time for doomsday”

they thought they still had time to save lmanburg. but then they heard explosions and withers.

lmanburg. “it was falling. it was gone”

people were suddenly switching sides and in the chaos of the destruction ranboo hears techno ask “what’s this do not read book”

ranboo runs to techno to get the book, techno has it. techno gave him the book and told him to get out of there, that he has no issue with him. techno showed ranboo mercy when he could have killed him

ranboo doesnt know where he stands with the destruction of lmanburg. so he watched. “watched as lmanburg fell”

he talks with fundy, with quackity, after the fall. fundy seemed off. quackity seemed to forgive ranboo, having read the book and changed his mind.

ranboo didn’t know what to do

“someone came in and asked me if i was okay. phil. phil realized that when he blew up everything” that ranboo was one of the few who lived in lmanburg and had no more home. phil offers him a place to stay, with him and techno

the situation is awkward at first but they get through it

MELLOHI

ranboo hears mellohi. “a disk from somewhere far away” “it was from the panic room”

he goes back to the panic room. “why was i hearing this from all the way over there” and takes out the disk. but then “an old friend came back. the voice.”

but this time with more to say. that he was more of a traitor than he thought. the voice tells him that he has been helping dream the entire time. but that he just didn’t remember that. that he had something to do with the community house and other things on the server.

the voice wasnt dream. it was what he thought was himself trying to fill the gaps with memories.

he denies the voices claims. “you have no proof”

the voice says to mine an obsidian block. behind it are two pieces of tnt.

he still doesnt believe the voice

ranboo is very confused. did he do it? did he not?

the disk war. tommy and tubbo had begun to prepare.

“the disks were very important right?”

“and then i just… lived. for a while.”

“for the first time in a while, happy. and that was good”

and so he decides that he is done. “done with living in fear of the dream voice”

and so he goes to the dream voice

“the dream voice said, hey? you literally have a disk”

“there’s no way i could have a disk right?”

but the voice says that he hid it. he met with dream. so he searched. and he found a disk. the disk. in a chest under his house.

“so then i realized. something’s going on. there must be a reason why i cant remember these visits with dream, right?”

he “had been sleepwalking of sorts but that was a problem for another day”

time for the disk war. everyone thought that both tommy and tubbo would die

(he forgets what happens next? canon? idk)

dream was now in prison.

he decides to call the sleepwalking state enderwalking

everything was good. except the egg, but “we don’t gotta care about that”

ranboo has the “good idea” to visit dream

so he visits the prison. everything went normally. except “dream told me exactly what i didnt want to hear. apparently i had been visiting dream. i had been talking to dream.”

“and apparently i was one of his best friends”

and dream hands him his own memory book. the entire chest was filled with memory books.

“dream disappeared. and the prison started to crumble. and i guess the entire prison visit was just the dream voice but even worse”

so he didnt know what to do “i guess i’ll keep my head down. i didn’t really do much during that time”

but he needed to visit the prison again. “for real. to actually get closure”

he gets in to the lobby. sam asks his questions. and asks when the last time he visited. “and of course i havent visited before. so i said this is my first time.” and sam said “very funny” and tells him he has visited before.

“i had technically visited the prison in the enderwalk. i asked sam to show me the books and they were written in ender”

he looked through the memory books, the three he had now. nothing showed that he had visited before. “there must have been a fourth book”

“i dont know what the fourth book is. and i still dont know where it is to this day”

“the fourth book wasnt a memory book. it was a book of the enderwalk” so he’s searching for it

he tried but nothing worked.

“i guess i was just kind of living. i noticed my tools on lower durability and my beacon had gone missing”

“the best thing to do is just live”

visiting snowchester a lot

done cool things with techno. techno was his friend now

“i was happy”

building the bee n boo, got married for tax reasons.

the news. “after saving michael we got news. tommy had died. tommy was dead.”

the grieving stage.

one day ranboo decided to just relax. and then he sees niki. “what was niki doing at me techno and phils house?”

decided to be “extra stealthy” and watch out the window

techno asks him about anarchy, and ranboo says “that sounds good”

ranboo “had become part of something called the syndicate” which seemed to be for conflict resolution

tells the syndicate tommy died

tommy was alive? “somehow tommy was still alive. how? how is that possible?”

and then something happened. ranboo gets brought to a room. with two shrines and a hallway. with everything people value.

he started to remember. to hear things.

“so dream had a revive book. he was trying to control the server by using everyones loved things against them”

he doesnt remember when punz and everyone came and saved tommy and tubbo from being killed by dream

dream had to be stopped “before he could bring back the villains”

he has michael to protect now

tommy approaches while he is with tubbo. and ranboo agrees with tommy. they build that tower

talks with ghostbur “and he seemed like he didnt want to go, which was interesting”

“so right now im trying to kill dream”

but the enderwalk is still an issue. he needs to figure out how to stop the enderwalk. “it hasnt happened in a while, right?”

the reason he is doing everything is to make sure his adopted son, michael, is safe.

and that is the story so far.

#ranboo #ranboolive #dsmp #rp #dream smp #mcyt

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avis-writeshq · 5 years ago

Note

Can I request a zeldris x fem reader please

Zeldris x Reader: Hidden Places

Requested: Yes, @fandomatakeover18

Pairing: Zeldris x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst (?), fluff, trash writing

Other: Really rushed ending! I was hoping to get this out before Valentine’s Day, yet here we are.

Word count: 1,833

Things you probably wanna know, for all you ‘x reader’ illiterates:

(Y/N): Your Name

(H/C): Hair Colour / Color

(E/C): Eye Colour / Color

(N/N): Nickname

***

Camelot was the 2nd greatest kingdom in Brittania. The 10 Commandments knew that which was exactly why they targeted that exact location. Being demons, they had to feed. It was inevitable and Camelot had more than enough humans to kill; this was the perfect place to start their demon army and begin their revenge against Meliodas.

While the rest of the commandments scattered temporarily to get their energy and power back, Zeldris took over the throne in Arthur’s absence. As weeks passed it was clear that there were no longer any humans within the walls of Camelot. At least, that’s what he assumed.

It was late. The darkly patched skies hung overhead as the rampage went on. As he walked up and down the castle, Zeldris heard something. Was it a whimper? But there was no one around him. The only possible option was…

His fist collided with the cobblestone floor, crumbling away to reveal a flight of stairs. His chest burned with frustration. Did someone dare to defy him? How could they assume he was so blatantly stupid?

Against his better judgement, Zeldris began to walk down the stairs rather than teleport down them. He’d give this puny human the satisfaction. And when they least expected it, he’ll kill them.

***

Survival. That was the only thing that you were aiming for. Families were slaughtered, friends were mercilessly killed and you had no idea what was happening in the outside world. Camelot, your home, was being destroyed by demons. The details of the attack were spared from you and you were forced to hide in a secret passageway for the royal family. But you were a castle maid. Did you deserve to survive while others died for your sake?

The small taps of metal armour against cobblestone brought you out of your reverie. Before you could react or run away, a hand clasped over your mouth, small tears prickling the corners of your eyes.

“I’m going to eat your soul now.”

The voice made you freeze momentarily as thoughts swarmed your mind. Was this Zeldris, leader of the 10 Commandments? Biting his hand would be out of the question – the thick gloves that covered each finger would be too hard to bite through. The only thing you could do…

You jerked your leg backwards, your foot colliding with the one thing that can guarantee your escape… his crotch. He hissed, letting you go for a split second. You jumped away from him, trying to get to the stairs. A small laugh echoed in the back of your head. What were you going to do? Run away? Did you forget that there were demons all over Camelot?

A fist collided with your stomach, snapping you out of your thoughts and throwing you against the wall. Gasping in pain, you struggled to your feet as Zeldris leaned over you.

“Interesting. Most humans would die from that hit.”

You didn’t say a word, silently pleading for mercy as you looked up at your executioner. It was right then when the son of the Demon King really looked at you, a decision he grew to regret. Your dirty clothes clung to your deprived body, tears glistening in your (E/C) eyes as they locked to his dark ones. A strange feeling washed over him – a feeling he hadn’t felt in thousands of years.

“Get up.” He hissed, standing over your body. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Eyes widening, you scrambled to your feet, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. He began to climb the stairs before looking over his shoulder.

“Are you coming or not?”

***

If a secret is a secret, it’s probably because the truth is dangerous. You knew that now. Your newfound life with the Demon Prince was complicated but strangely comfortable. He didn’t kill you, that’s for sure, and that’s one of the highlights. No, he made you into someone you never wanted to be.

Bait.

You were bait to the unsuspecting traveller. You were bait to the provincial little village that was kind enough to take you in when you arrived at their door. You were his greatest weapon. But for how long, was the question. If the other towns and kingdoms were smart, they would memorise your face and never let you into their kingdom. Would Zeldris just kill you then, claiming your soul as yet another meal?

Clutching the stirring spoon tighter in your hands, you shook your head, trying to wash your thoughts away. No, he had other means for you, too. For starters, you were… the slave. The thing about demons was the fact that they ate raw food. Cooked food wasn’t a basic option because most of the time Zeldris ate… souls. As for you? You were a human who needed to consume actual proper nutrients. So that’s why you stood over a stove in the abandoned kitchen.

You swallowed thickly, tears beginning to well in your eyes. You were growing tired – tired of being stuck in the prison-like castle, tired of being used as a pawn in Zeldris’s game of destruction. And then the tears began to fall. Turning off the stove, the tears began to blur your vision…

You drew your hand back, a searing hot pain tingling up and down your arm. The back of your hand was beginning to swell; a hot red appeared began to spread.

Quick as a flash, you ran your hand under cold water just as Zeldris appeared behind you.

“What happened?” He demanded, his voice next to your ear and your heart leaped to your throat.

“It’s just a burn,” you mumble, “I’m fine.”

You heard him sigh, gritting his teeth at your clumsiness. “Be more careful,” he said and before you could process what was happening, your injured hand was in his as he inspected it closely.

“Do you even know how to deal with injuries?” You remarked foolishly. Who could blame you? He was a demon – demons don’t get hurt.

Much to your surprise, he didn’t snap at you. Strangely enough, he didn’t get mad at you for a single second. He was slightly annoyed at your clumsiness, that’s for sure, but he wasn’t mad.

“I know. But I can deal with burns. Your injury isn’t that bad.” He said finally, going to the freezer to get some ice. “You really are stupid.”

“Thanks.” You mumbled bitterly.

Zeldris raised an eyebrow. “You’re upset.”

Wonderful. If he wasn’t mad then, he was definitely mad now.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re lucky Galand isn’t here or you would be stone by now,” he drawled. “I know when you’re lying.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” You suddenly demanded. “You should have killed me 3 months ago. I should be dead. So why am I still here?”

Zeldris was quiet until “I can’t understand my emotions right now.”

“That’s not a good reason!”

“Well, I don’t know why!”

“Then kill me!” You yelled, ripping your hand away from him. “If I’m not meant to be here, then why am I? Why am I still-”

“Because I need you!”

Silence. The silence was ringing in your ears and you wanted to know how it could be this loud. The silence was silence – but it was deafening.

“For souls?” You snapped. “Is that it?”

“No.”

“Then why?!” You were crying now, tears beginning to fall down your cheeks. Death would be better than this, you reasoned with yourself. You won’t have to be a captive.

“Maybe because I love you!”

You stared. He… loved you? Did he even know the meaning of the word?

“What are you talking about?” The words slipped off your tongue and you felt your cheeks beginning to heat up.

“I told you, I don’t understand it,” he said coldly, glaring at you. “I just know that there is something wrong with me.”

And with that, he left the room, leaving you confused, embarrassed and really nervous. Your heart hammered in your chest as you recalled everything he had just said. Did he just… confess to you?

***

You had to avoid him. It was the only possible way to eradicate all the feelings that you had. But this was his castle. To be fair, you knew the whole castle inside and out from working there, but he could literally teleport. And the worst part? No matter where you went, he would randomly pop out scaring you half to death.

You were roaming around the castle, looking up and down the grey stone walls as they towered overhead. It was hard to believe that this used to be your home.

The sound of a castle wall being destroyed brought you out of your trance and a shiver ran down their spine. Oh no. The rest of the 10 Commandments?

“Look what we have here…”

Someone – something – was behind you. And they were dangerously close.

“A human… were you feeling particularly brave today, little human?” Melascula, the Commandment of Faith was directly behind you.

No. No, no, no, no, no, you couldn’t die now! Not today… not before you find out what Zeldris really meant.

And then, speak of the devil.

“Step away from her, Melascula.”

The woman frowned but stepped away with distaste. “Are you saving her for last, Zeldris?”

Zeldris growled, stepping in to separate you and Melascula. “She’s mine.”

Your heart hammered in your chest and you hid behind Zeldris instinctively. He’ll protect you, right? Or would he hurt you instead? You weren’t sure, but you needed to believe in him. And in an instant, you were whisked away to… your room?

“I told you I wouldn’t let them hurt you,” Zeldris said finally after moments of silence.

“I know,” you said finally, looking away. “That’s not what I’m scared about.”

You could tell that he was onto you. “Then what are you scared about?” He pressed, and he knew that he had you backed into a corner.

“I…” you trailed off, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I’m scared of you…”

That was a stab to all 7 of his hearts.

“Why?”

The question turned out more forceful than it should have been, and you couldn’t help but flinch at his steely tone.

“I’m just a tool, aren’t I?” You mumble, “You’ll throw me away after a while won’t you?”

“Why… why would I do that to someone I care about?”

“You’ll do anything to get to the throne. At least, that’s what I heard.”

Zeldris sighed, taking your hands in his. “I’m going to protect you. From my father, from the other commandments, from anyone who dares to hurt you. I’m not going to let you get hurt because of me because… because I care about you. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

“I wasn’t going to say no anyway,” you mumble. “You spared my life, gave me a home, looked after me… What were you expecting?”

“Nothing less,” he breathed before pressing his gentle lips to yours.

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peaceoutofthepieces · 4 years ago

Text

you were my crown

I managed to actually do that little scene for the royalty au :) I don’t know anything about how any of this stuff works so I literally just made everything up please don’t think I in any way tried to be accurate I’m talking out of my ass here.

I don’t know if anything will ever actually come of this, but this is an idea of what it would look like :)

~^~

Jens hates sitting in for Court. It’s less about the ‘criminals’ and more about the royals, the endless lines of knights and Lords and servants, eager to witness another fool. Jens doesn’t care much for fools, but he cares even less to laugh at them. He cares least for his formal attire, the sharp slacks and too-tight tunic, laced up by maids unable to even look him in the eye. They don’t even seem necessary. He’s overheating in his jacket, delicately buttoned up to the throat, the collar digging into his skin. He’d tried leaving the top hanging open, and it had hardly taken a second for his mother to give him a sharp glance, nodding to a maid that had hastily run to button it back up. Now he sits and suffocates and waits for whatever poor soul is being charged to make their way to the throne.

Jens straightens subtly in his chair, placed to the right side of his mother’s throne, and meets the boy’s eyes for half a second. Until his mother opens her mouth and orders a sharp, “Kneel.”

Before the boy can comply, one of the guards that had escorted him sets a heavy hand on his shoulder and forces him down, falling onto the stone floor in a manner that leaves Jens’s own knees aching in sympathy. The boy simply catches his breath and holds his chin high, looking straight at them and through, his jaw clenched. Jens drums his fingers on his knee in interest.

The same guard gives his head a forceful shove. “Speak your name to the Court.”

The boy takes a breath as some of his masqueraded confidence seems to slip. “Lucas. Lucas Van der Heijden.”

Jens licks his lips, cataloguing the sound of his voice, the way his mouth parts for an instant before the actual sound escapes. The name rumbles deeply around the room and seeps into the walls, encased in the brick in case it’s soon to be lost. Jens’s job is to watch, to note, and to only give judgement if asked. It often doesn’t take him long to form conclusions.

His conclusion of Lucas Van der Heijden is that he seems, at once, nothing and everything like a criminal.

He’s young, and clean cut, though his clothes are a tad too tight and an inch too short on his ankles, fraying at the hems. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, a familiar sandy mixture that Jens has seen on all hostages of the castle cells. There’s an innocence to his youth and a diligence to his posture. His eyes hold a pleading light and a resolute film. Whatever his crime in regards to the Crown, he holds a loyalty to someone.

“State his crimes,” the Queen requests.

The opposite guard stares straight ahead as he speaks up. “Thievery and dishonor to the Court, Your Majesty.”

Jens can barely hold back a snort. He relaxes slightly. There’s rarely a severe punishment for a loaf of bread. The scene before him suddenly makes more sense.

His mother’s tone, however, is unusually steely. “Thievery of what?”

“Sir Viktor’s sword, Your Majesty.”

Jens blinks. A rumble of interest spreads through the Court. Lucas’s jaw tightens and he gives a minuscule shake of his head, so much so that Jens is sure he’s the only one who notices.

The Queen seems equally intrigued. “And what, boy, do you want with a sword?”

“I didn’t steal it.” Lucas speaks through gritted teeth, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “I’ve never even seen the sword before.”

“It was found under his bed, Your Majesty, free of its sheath. Sir Viktor had been missing it for a full day before organising a search.”

Jens barely resists rolling his eyes. If Viktor had been missing it that long, he’s almost in need of a punishment himself. He’s known Viktor for only over a year, becoming acquainted with him long after he’d already met his brother, Senne. Senne’s loyalty and honour, that Jens has become easily familiar with during the man’s service in his personal guard, did not seem to emanate as clearly from his brother. Jens has had few pleasures of his presence, and pinned his discomfort down to this unfamiliarity. As he sees Lucas’s expression tighten further, however, there’s something that doesn’t sit quite right with him.

The feeling only strengthens as the Queen raises her head and stares Lucas down. “You’d do best to not add dishonesty to your list, Mr Van der Heijden. The proof sits against you. If you claim not to have stolen it, how do you suppose it ended up with you?”

Lucas swallows. For a tiny second, his gaze flits over to the crowd on his left. Jens follows his gaze and sees nothing that stands out. “I didn’t steal anything,” he repeats. “I’m an artist. I have no reason for a sword.”

“And yet,” the Queen says lightly, “there was one so close to you. Are you able to explain that?”

Jens comes to the realisation too late, after noticing the hard lines of his mother’s frown and the steel underlining the easiness of her voice. This isn’t a trial—this is merely the sentencing.

“Someone else must have placed it there,” Lucas says, just as light, with just as much steel underneath.

“I’m sorry, Mr Van der Heijden, truly, but the evidence against you is not something I can simply dismiss as a wrong guess. Do you have proof, of anyone else who may have had access to your quarters? Even so much as a theory.”

“It’s not hard,” Lucas laughs slightly, “to access my quarters. From the way your guards stormed my home yesterday without so much as a knock as a notice, that seems fairly clear.”

Jens raises his brows as the Queen lowers hers. “You’d do well not to speak out of turn, boy. Evidently, my guards had every right to rip your home to shreds if they so pleased.”

Jens looks at her in surprise. He knows his mother holds a firm and stern rule, but she has never shown herself to be cruel. Jens would never have expected her to so openly disregard the rights and welfare of her people. He supposes Lucas is good at pushing buttons, and he’s somehow managed to hit a number of her’s through their short interaction. Jens glances over Lucas again, his curls scattered and shoulders straight, and feels a stab of worry in his stomach.

Help yourself, Jens silently urges. Try to win her over. Don’t make it worse.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” Lucas seems to force the words out, dragging them from himself as if he was being made to pull his own teeth. “My mother—I take care of her. I worried that she would have been harmed in the fray.”

Jens watches his own mother soften slightly before regaining her resolve. “While that’s admirable of you, it doesn’t truly explain your resistance. Your lies, Mr Van der Heijden, may only lead to further searches of your home in an attempt to confirm either your guilt or your innocence. Would you not, in that case, rather save your mother the trouble?”

Jens swivels his gaze back to Lucas, watching the low blow hit, cataloguing the way the boy’s own resolve crumbles.

Then he straightens, undeterred by the hand still tightly clasped on his shoulder. “My mother has no involvement, because neither do I. I’m not lying. I stole nothing.”

The Queen regards him for another long moment, as does Jens. Then she releases a heavy sigh. “I was hoping that your cooperation would provide an option for leniency. A true explanation may have lightened your sentence, but the proof against you is overwhelming. I cannot believe that you are free of intent to threaten the Crown, due to the unusual action of your crime. I fear I have no choice.” She stands from her throne and steps down from the dais, looming over Lucas in her heavy red robes and shimmering crown. “Lucas Van der Heijden, for the charges of thievery and dishonor to the throne, I find you guilty and sentence you to death.”

The murmur this time is of a much more extensive volume, but it isn’t quite enough to drown out Jens’s incredulous burst of laughter.

All eyes turn to him, and he feels his shoulders stiffen. Lucas’s gaze is most prominent, evidently confused, with eyes wide and disbelieving. His mother’s are equally surprised, though underlaid with anger. Jens does his best to ignore his discomfort under the attention and keep a princely smile on his face. “Since when do we sentence death without proof? For a kidnapping of a sword that wasn’t put to use, no less.”

The murmur that he’d silenced picks up again, and his mother raises an unimpressed brow at him. “The proof has been presented to you as it has been presented to me. Are you aware of evidence we are not?”

“I’m aware that there is a possibility, however slim, that he is telling the truth. Even if he had stolen it and intended to put it to use, the sword has been retrieved. He presents no real immediate threat. If anything, I believe he would have committed the crime as a scared boy with family he wishes to protect. Surely that is something any of us can understand. He may be deserving of punishment, yes, but death?”

The room has fallen into utter silence. Jens doesn’t dare look at any of the Court members, but he chances a glance at Lucas. The other boy is staring back at him, with all surprise now wiped from his face. He wears a carefully constructed blank expression, that doesn’t break as Jens looks back at him.

Jens doesn’t know why he feels such a strong urge to save him. But now that he’s started, he can’t bring his own argument to an end.

“So what else do you suggest?” His mother asks this at length, unwillingly. He shouldn’t have spoken out. It wasn’t his place. It isn’t good for her, he knows, to have her rule questioned in public by her own son. But he’d argued without thinking, looking at Lucas and feeling an inexplicable need to stand up for him.

To protect.

“It’s his loyalty in question, is it not?” Jens raises a brow and waits for her nod. “So let him prove it. I’m sure someone youthful and strong could have a place serving the Court.”

The murmur picks up again. Jens resists the urge to roll his eyes.

His mother stares at him. “Your suggestion is to allow him a position in the castle?”

“He couldn’t be placed under more watch,” Jens says simply. “I would rather taste someone’s loyalty and perhaps gain a better bond than let a life go to waste.”

This murmur sounds somewhat agreeable, though it is silenced the second the Queen raises her hand. “There are no positions in the Court up for offer, and I cannot possibly gift a thief the sword he’d stolen.”

Jens doesn’t even think before he says it. “I don’t have a personal servant.”

There is, surprisingly, no murmur. The room is eerily quiet as Jens and his mother stare each other down and Lucas flits his gaze between them. It’s not a lie, and is perhaps even the reason he’s doing this. He’s tired of fussy maids lacing his shirts and buttoning his coats and buckling his cuffs. His sisters both have maid-servants, while Jens is left with an array of strangers carrying out various duties, never even able to become familiar with faces as they avoid contact and conversation at all costs. He does his best to be amicable with the castle staff, to form relationships, to form bonds. But aside from the few close friends he sees only on occasion (sons of various Lords in various agreements with his mother), and a few chosen guards, Jens spends most of his time alone.

He wouldn’t mind someone like Lucas by his side. Someone his age, who isn’t afraid to look him in the eye.

“You wish to risk letting a criminal become your personal servant? You would trust him to be so close to you?”

Jens lets his mother stare disapprovingly at him before shifting his gaze to Lucas. They consider each other, concrete met with intrigue, before Jens gives a simple shrug. “I would. It’s my risk to take, and I believe there isn’t much risk to it. If I am wrong, then I should get what’s coming to me.”

A few of the guards give a quiet titter in acceptance, and he watches as his mother looks at a spot in the crowd, before nodding her acceptance. She looks down upon Lucas. “Very well. You will have a guard assigned to you that will accompany you on any outings, alone or with the Prince. While you are in his service, there will, as always, be guards stationed at his door and extra security provided throughout the castle. It is only as a sign of trust towards my son that you are being given leniency. You should be grateful to him that you are leaving here with your life.” She looks to the guard on his left, the one that had spoken calmly to them without laying a finger on Lucas. “Assign him a room in the Prince’s quarters. Remain with him until the new measures are fully put in place. You are dismissed,” she tells the room at large.

Lucas listens to her silently, and remains wordless as the guard at his right yanks him to his feet. Jens watches on until his mother speaks up again.

“Jens, you are to accompany him now. If he is not to be trusted from the beginning then he is not to be trusted. You are also dismissed,” she says. “Though you will be meeting me again later to discuss this decision further.”

Jens bites back a sigh and rises to his feet. The intrigue spiraling up in him is quickly turning to elation. He feels that he had been entirely right to speak up and to continue to stand as his ground.

As he makes his way down the dais and is met with Lucas’s stony gaze, however, he considers that this may not be as simple as he thought.

#van der stoffels #vds #vdsweek2020 #prince!jens au #vds royalty au

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filypadreams · 4 years ago

Text

Fleeting Touches

( Asmodeus x GN!MC)

Synopsis: Do you know what fleeting means? It means you should apreciate every moment while you can. Even if you get lost in illusions for it.

TW: Slight angst

_______________________________

The streets were full this time of the year, even with the cold weather. It was a race for most humans to get that last minute gift for that special someone.

Their children, parents, grandparents or significant others. For some reason it's tradition to get that one person a last minute present.

And that's always a disaster...

" Calvin Klein One... with bergamot, cardamom, pineapple and jasmin. Tropical? Or maybe Dolce & Gabanna Velvet Exotic Leather. Traditional and italian... also at good prices, I need to ask if they are antiallergenic! "

I spend 15 minutes on the line but get both perfumes and walk outside onto the sunny street. It's not as busy as the mall and I really should get home before it gets to close to one pm.

Today, faces are a blur to me.

" Thanks for the tip Asmo, I was sick of the strong scents of women perfumes and the always down to earth male ones~"

I cheerfully speak to myself while touching the 'tattoo' above my left breast.

It's a one-way communication system. I'm not even sure Asmodeus hears what I tell him but I sure do hear his thoughts.

" Ohhh, bootie alert at 12! No, wait! Delicious curves at 4- oohh...that's a mix at 9 o'clock~!"

I see a man, woman, I think the last one is in mid transitioning but I'm not sure.

" He'll be a beautiful man, I'm 95% sure!"

" Maybe it's a 'they'... not that you can hear me."

Though I agree, they look...handsome. With a nice physique, curly shoulder lenght hair, smooth skin as if rivalling Asmos' ... and who can resist a dark biker leather jacket?!

No, stop. Don't let the mark influence you from your mission MC!

Setting the christmas gifts.

I start running in the direction of the bus station when I collide with a tall lady, her black shades falling to the ground from her beautiful light pink sweater.

My head hurts. It felt like hitting a brick wall...or Beel.

Are my only thoughts as I scramble to pick her glasses and my shopping bag. Good thing it was well packed.

"Oh my~ I'm so sorry, I didn't notice such a beautiful face in this crowd. I was retoutching my eyeliner, huhu! Let me help~"

The lady crouches down next to me. I notice from the corner of my eyes that she is also wearing a black turtle neck... and has peach coloured hair...

" Asmo?!"

Darkness. A cold hand covers my eyes while the other takes the shades from mine and exchanges them with my bags...it seems. He whispers is my ear.

" Now, now. Don't ruin the surprise! I'm just a beautiful 'lady'. Hahaha."

And with that he dissapears. Everything seems to dissapear, as soon it gets dark and I'm sitted in my couch, replaying today's event.

It felt so real... I called him a lady.

Well... I don't think Asmodeus minds.

I walk around the tree, putting down colorfully wrapped gifts. That I went purposely to markets and malls to have wrapped!

Diavolo better play Santa and give me some grimm if I ever get an invite to Devildom, I blew most of my allowances with these!

On the blue corner I have vynil disks and office supplies. Getting stuff for Lucifer is hard.

The yellow corner... is a mess of acessories like shades and wristwatches and some jackets. Mammon needs a new one.

The orange corner was the cheapest but most difficult to prepare. I wrapped most of my otaku related rarities, in Devildom at least, and put them in a pile. Levi better apreciate my figurines!

The green pile was also simple. It's actually small with my old literature books. All from great authors and all trying to escape religious judgement so Satan might find that amusing.

I don't have a red corner, just baked goods on the table and two glasses of milk in case Santa visits.

I put purple pillows, warm robes, matresses and scarves around the tree. Belphie won't lose comfort soon.

And now finishing the pink corner.

There's the perfumes, some cosmetics I really don't get but my 'chest instinct' said to go ahead and...

" I hope he likes this fluffy bunny backpack!"

I kinda wanted the bunny for myself... but I can't.

The day went on so fast... why am I even doing this? Might as well call Solomon and offer him these so he can perform his rituals. I'll just wake up tomorrow to a full room of wasted money and a mountain of calories. An empty heart.

I caress the bunny when i hear rustling on my door. Something is playing with my wreath? I pick a knife from the dinning table.

" W-who's there?! Show yourself fiend!"

" Aww, that hurts to hear MC-chan..."

From the darkness into the light walks the same person I crashed into this morning.

" You better drop that knife before someone gets hurt..."

" How...Asmo, how are you here?! Why?!!"

Tears come to my eyes. It's been a while. A long while since I've seen any of them. Since I've had slumber parties with Asmodeus, self care sessions...

He shakes his head cleaning the few teardrops away with the back of his index finger and walks to the tree, messing with the gifts.

" Tears don't suit you well. Oh, you even got something for Barbatos... I'm slightly jealous, I thought you only thought about me~"

He starts opening his gifts.

" Wait! It's not even Christmas Eve. We need to wait until midnight at least..."

As I try to explain, his taller stature hovers over me, playing with my hair and putting a mistletoe, secure in it's knots. Wait... how is he so tall? The height difference is too abnormal.

" I'm afraid the concept of time doesn't apply in dreams, MC."

" H-huh?! Wha... the day... went on really fast. So you..."

I look down slightly dissapointed. The floor starts cracking and falling. Darkness and constelations starting to form under my feet.

" Afraid not. Christmas is not really part of our traditions, haha. Even if we had a great celebration that one time Diavolo proposed we did it with the exchange students.

I like the angel."

He points to the tree top.

" Oh, that... I was thinking of Beel and Belphie when I made the decision. It's my oldest decoration. I was thinking on putting a star this year but... I got a literal gut feeling to keep the angel."

I smirk at Asmodeus as he puts an arm around my shoulders, leaning me a little closer to him. We both apreciate the flashing lights from the tree. Even if it was fake. The rest of the room crumbles away and Asmo let's go of me to pick his gifts and stuffing them inside his new backpack.

" I know he was thinking of the only person that shines as bright as us two together.

Hmm, but you haven't been taking good care of yourself, MC-chan! Remember to follow the morning routine I gave you so your skin is almost as perfect as mine!"

" I haven't been feeling like...doing much I guess. I had a lot of work this year."

" Humans are always full of work. I mean me too.

Since RAD is closed for the 'holidays', we are back to our other jobs. Things get dirty real fast, so many pests! Maybe we can actually come visit during New Year's."

After apreciating the representation if Lilith, he turns to berate me, before picking a bottle of perfurm and examining it, followed by spraying some on while making a spin as he explains his bodyguard/demon threat exterminator job.

He must have loved it because he transforms, with a smile on his face and his horns move like pincers.

" I always found your demon form the funniest."

" ...Dear, I'm fabulous."

" Hahahahaha! Ok, but if this isn't a Diavolo, Barbatos or Lucifer' scheme... is it Belphegor's? You mentioned dreams, and it explains the constelations."

I look around, darkness being drilled by the light of many tiny stars.

" I think I see taurus... and of course he had ro include pisces. Mammon is supposed to be the greedy one, this is OUR moment!"

He huffes and crosses his arms. I chuckle and pat his back.

" So, I'm asleep at the same time as Belphie."

" It's night time in both worlds. You could say I'm an intruder. I was taking my immersive nightly bath as I prepared to get into your dreams~ I hope I didn't actually fall asleep, my poor skin!"

" How did you convince him?"

I wonder as he touches his arm and the parts of revealed skin as if to feel if something was wrong with his real body.

" Oh, well...he actually wanted to see you to! I also promised to take more cute pictures of Lucifer for him. But I don't think he admires his beauty the same way I do-"

The world trembles. Belphie must be waking up. And angry...

" Oh, dear! I must have upset him. This illusion will end soon and you'll wake up in your bed as if nothing happened. I hope you don't forget me."

Asmo walks closer and caresses my face. Kissing my forehead.

It's warm. Fleeting but I can feel his gestures. Even in a dream.

I slap his hand when I feel it sliding down my back a little too far.

" Ouch! My nail...ok, ok. I'm sorry! Won't happen again~"

He apologises when making contact with my burning stare and proceeds to act innocently after.

" It better not. I... think it will be difficult to forget you. Specially now. Make sure the others know-! Ahh!!!"

Another quake and I "conveniently" fall in his arms. I'm able to see his pixie sized wings batting in excitement.

" This is a cliché."

I mumble as Asmo wraps his arms around me.

" I need to go. I'm sure we'll see each other soon. You know I'll always be here. Literally. And I do hear you, you know?"

He pokes his mark, above my heart and pouts.

" ...I know... see you soon Asmo."

I pick his hand and kiss it.

Then I wake up. It's still the middle of the night. My room is cold.

There on my window sill are two roses. One peach and one dark pink.

The End

______________________________

Special dedicatory to: @shortnessangel

and @asmoluvsyou .

Bunny Backpack comes from: https://kawaiibabe.com/products/creepy-bun-backpack

(Curiosities: The perfumes are gender neutral, I can still link you the page where I found them.

The colour of the roses have a specific meaning. I can post the pic I got it from if you want.)

#obey me #obey me fic #asmodeus x gn!mc #asmodeus obey me #gn!mc #gn reader #slight angst #shikibutterfly

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moonbearmeliox · 4 years ago

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X-Men Series Film Review

Welcome back to “Bren rambles about a movie/tv series.” So I just spent the past three days watching the main X-Men movies and while watching I wrote down my thoughts and what came to mind when watching the movies. Spoiler Warning(duh) for the X-Men movies. Also trigger warning because I do talk about homophobia and conversion camps.

X-Men

As the woman is talking about how mutants can be scared to revel themselve because they could be met with hostility and violence, I find this as a parellel to gay marriage and how LGBTQ+ are scared to come out because they won’t be accepted. Mutants are scared to say they’re mutants of fear of being put to death; LGBTQ+ people are scared to come out in fear of being met with violence or judgement(some places you can be put to death for being gay.

“We should decide if parents want their kids to be in school with mutants.” Sounds the same as “Do you want your child to go to the same school as a gay person? Do you want to be in the bathroom with a girl who has a dick?(in the context of conservatives who don’t want transgender people to use the bathrooms they identify with because “their genitals don’t match)”

Speaking of gay: Eric and Charles

Wolverine got anger issues

Wolverine adopting a young girl with mutant powers, how many times is this going to happen? At least twice.

Rouge really got the shortest end of the stick with the mutant gene.

Give Rouge a male love interest that will inevitably die by her hand, that’s what I’m assuming.

Jean Gray is going to be Wolverine’s love interest, calling it now

Mystique’s costume always bugs me because she’s essentially naked. Like, the directors were like “She must wear no clothes.” “That’s not practical-” “Men will eat it up. The sex appeal, yes. Because women can never have practical costume design.”

Scott looks like he’s played by the main dude in the Sonic Movie(I was right!)

Can Magneto bend the iron in people’s bodies?

“You never use your power against another mutant.” How long is that going to last?

Dad Logan is the best Logan.

The Train Splitting scene shows how powerful Magneto is but didn’t Charles tell Wolverine that Magneto can control metal. Wouldn’t Wolverine have the knowledge, “Hey using my METAL claws against a METAL bender might not be a good idea.”

Kinda figured he would want Rouge, a mutant who can literally kill someone with touch is definitely something the big bad would want.

Magento could just metal bend Charles’ wheelchair.

So Magento’s plan is to turn everyone into mutants, right?

Charles explained it more and it sounds like Terragensis from Agents of Shield with the crystals. Some come out of it with powers, others will crumble to dust.

What powers the cortex that makes it so Charles goes into a coma? Like how does the liquid get into his brain for that to happen?

Yes Jean, it is a perfect idea to put the helmet that put Charles into a coma on your head. Nothing will go wrong.

Mystique really only has like five lines in this whole movie. She really is just supposed to be eye candy.

Of course classic shapeshifter double, who’s who scene. Probably going to be resolved with Jean Gray knowing which one is the real Logan.

The fight scene isn’t that well shot but it is 2000 so

I don’t remember there being a big museum when I visited the Statue of Liberty

I doubt Mystique will stay dead.

Again they thought it would be a good idea to send Wolverine, the man with METAL CLAWS to help fight a METAL BENDER.

Nice of Magneto to put Cyclops and Jean right next to each other face to face.(Director: They’re a couple they must face each other so one can kill the other)

Yep, knew Mystique couldn’t stay dead

Why did they try and have Jean and Logan have a weird semi romance set up when Jean is dating Scott

They gave Charles a plastic wheel chair for when he visited Magneto. Ha, that’s funny.

Plastic isn’t that durable, it would be easy to break Magneto out

Nightcrawler!

The fights scenes have improved, but they’re using a lot of wire rigging

Alan Cummings played NightCrawler. Knew he looked familiar.

Let’s have Wolverine follow a wolf even though wolves are wolverine's natural predators.

Watch the president be a mutant

Dad!Logan

Still painting it that Logan and Jean could possibly end up together. No thanks.

I see they didn’t change Mystique’s costume design. Is she going to say more than five lines in this movie?

Government wants to pass an act to detain and control all mutants, goes and raids a school filled with mutants, and then is SURPRISED when the mutants retaliate. “Oh we don’t want to start a war” THEN LEAVE THEM ALONE. Of course they’re not going to leave them alone because what isn’t normal scares them and must be dealt with no matter what.

Getting even more parallels between mutants and LGBTQ+. Striker wanted his son cured of the mutant gene but was ultimately upset when Charles’s school couldn’t do that. It’s similar to how when people come out to their parents, their parents send them to conversion camps to “Cure” them because they think being gay is an illness.

Bobby don’t get horny, it will only end badly

I asked the question if Magento could bend the iron in people’s blood in the last movie. The answer is yes. Yes he can.

Bobby’s parents “Have you tried not being a mutant.” Gives more LGBTQ parreles “Have you tried being straight?” “Have you tried being your assigned gender?”

An officer shooting a white guy? Unrealistic.

Welp Bad guys and good guys team up to save Charles.

Jean and Logan kissed. Here’s my shocked face. #TeamScott.

But seriously, I hate how the main dude must have romantic interactions with the main girl. It’s never the main dude has romantic interactions with a minor(minior in the sense of not that important to the plot) girl, Storm is right there with no love interest. Pair Logan up with her, that way we aren’t running an already established romance, But nooooo, Hollywood loves to have love triangles.

Mystique changing into Jean, making out with Logan, and then changing into a bunch of different girls makes me uncomfortable.

But again, “All women who have the potential to be a love interest must kiss the main dude” now we wait for Storm to give Logan a smooch.

Female Wolverine!

Magneto had his own secret agenda? Who would have thought?

Bobby’s going to come in clutch with freezing the water

Why does Jean need to go and stop the water? Bobby has control over ice, he can stop it.

Man I really feel bad for Scott.

But I’m miffed because it’s the classic female character dies to further male character’s development.

Oh look Jean’s alive, not surprise. Is she going to be the villain of X-men 3?

I couldn’t watch X-Men 3 because it wasn’t available on any sites but reading the wiki synopsis I was right on her being a bad guy(MY BOY SCOTT GOT MURDERED!). Upset Charles died but he was old and the mentor figure so he kinda had it coming. On to the prequels.

X-Men-First Class

So Charles met Mystique first. And her name is Raven. Wonder what caused their split. I just hope they weren’t romantically involved

Poor Erik, really giving him a tragic backstory

James Macavoy!

Raven and Charles call each other siblings! Oh this is going to hurt more.

Excuse me while I get distracted by Vegas women.

But also did the CIA woman plan to sneak in as a showgirl. Because who would wear lingerie under work clothes unless she planned for this(or planned to get freaky later). I mean it’s Vegas so maybe she was prepared.

Emma Frost is a telepath and can crystalize her body. Not what I was expecting with the last name Frost but I also find it odd that her two mutations don’t intersect with each other. Telepathy and crystallization have nothing in common, so the only explanation is that she got both genes from her parents. It would have to be rare since males are usually the ones to pass the gene to their kids.

Azazel. I’m guessing is Nightcrawler's dad. He and Mystique will get romantically involved and have Nightcrawler. He’ll get the blue skin from his mom but the mutant gene from his dad.

Ok I’m miffed about the costume design again. It’s London and it’s raining and they decided to have Raven and the CIA woman wear SHORTS! They’ll be freezing their asses off all so you can have some leg candy? What’s so appealing about knees? Nothing. It’s always been women’s costume designs that have to be appealing, not practical.

If Charles can’t be involved with Mystique, then he’ll have to get involved with Moira?(I don’t know if I heard her name correctly, the CIA lady). Because all male characters MUST have a romantic love interest(sarcasm)

That one CIA dude, he’s a real one.

So the dude that killed Erik’s mother, is also a mutant.

How is Erik trending water and controlling metal? Nevermind, he’s drowning

Charles saves Erik! And thus the ship is born. “Erik, you’re not alone.”

Hank Mcoy. They zoomed in on Mystique when he was looking at her. Reading the camera angles...oh please don’t have another romantic set up.

They did the Spiderman/MJ framing with Hank upside down and Mystique very close to his face. Yep, they’re setting up a romance between them that will ultimately go nowhere because again, Mystique will do the do with Azael to get Nightcrawler.

Hank and Mystique have only known each other for like five minutes and they’re already having a picnic on top of a rocket. I hate how romance moves so fast in movies.

And Mystique was going to kiss him. Just...no

Erik, right after he walks in on Hank and Mystique’s picnic: If I looked like you, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Are they really trying to set up a love triangle between Hank, Mystique and Erik? I know Magneto and Mystique's relationship in the first three movies is close, but that sentence just makes it sound like Erik is jealous.

“Are you sure we can’t shave your head.” “Don’t touch my hair”. I mean he’s going to lose it eventually.

I love the mutant finding montage. Especially the Wolverine cameo

My mom just informed me that the bad bad is played by Kevin Bacon so that’s what I will refer to him as since I can’t remember his name.

These recruited mutants aren’t going to last long. They’ve got the youthful team up energy, they will be the “First Class” hence the name, but we probably won’t see them again after this movie.

Charles, Erik and Moira being disappointed parents. Starting to get a family vibe that we didnt get from the last three movies.

Charles as Erik storms in: I’m sorry, I can’t leave him. They’re gay your honor.

I just realized that Frost is the second right hand woman to have no real costume. She’s just like Mystique where “she must wear the least amount of clothing possible or have no clothing at all when using her powers” I just wish it would stop.

Let’s take the right hand woman who is a telepath with us. What could go wrong?

What is Angel’s motive to go with Bacon, like I don’t get it. And the adaption dude? It’s just a turn on the dime. Nevermind it was a fakeout and one of them died. Knew they weren’t going to last long.

I feel like Chalres trying to shoot Erik as training is foreshadowing.

Training montage

SO Bacon loses Frost and now has Angle as his right hand woman? I honestly didn’t think that necessary.

Welp there goes Mystique and Hank’s relationship. He only liked her when she was in disguise.

Conflicting differences! Finally get to see Erik and Charle’’s view on humans.

Knew it! As soon as Hank dumps Mystique she goes straight to Erik. Because “She MUST be romantically involved.” Why? Why? Can’t she just...not. She doesn’t need a man.

Erik: I want to go to bed. Maybe in a few years. Ha funny.

I get Mystique going to Erik because he accepts her, unlike Hank but again, she doesn’t need to have a love interest.

Suits! But again, miffed about Mystique’s suit not being fully set up. SHE DOESN'T”T NEED TO HAVE HER CLEAVAGE TEASING IF SHE”S GOING TO BE FIGHTING!

Could Charles just stop controlling Bacon, so he can move and Erik wouldn’t have a chance to kill him.

But good cuts between Bacon and Charles.

The boyfriends are fighting!

Oh that’s how he gets parralized. I forgot about that.

Erik really does care for Charles even tho they have different viewpoints

Mystique going with Erik and having Azeal with him is setting up the perfect opportunity for Nightcrawler.

“Gentleman, this is why the CIA is no place for a woman” *Big gigantic crash* That’s what you get for being sexist.

Days of Future Past

So these machines can absorb mutant powers and transfer them to other machines. A new threat.

Oh Charles isn’t dead from being disintegrated by Dark Phoenix

Logan!

Charles confirmed Mystique was like a sister to him.

So Mystique’s dna was the cause of the Sentitnals. I understand that stopping Mystique from shooting the doctor will change that, but also if that doesn’t work they would have to kill Mystique.(which won’t happen because she’s in the next movie.

Charles tells Wolverine that he didn’t have his powers in 1973, but First Class takes place in 1962 where he definitely had his powers. So what happened to Charles that made him lose his powers?

For once the government isn’t targeting mutants

Well one dude from First Class is in this movie, but sadly I can’t remember his name. X-beam guy.

Why is Charles drunk and not parallelized?

Hank still cares for Raven. Guess the love triangle is still a thing

Oh he’s doing the equivalent of mutant heroine to get rid of his powers and walk.

Erik in gay baby jail.

Erik killed JFK?! Why?!

I feel like if Mystique is searching around the office of someone, she should still be disguised as someone so she doesn’t get caught. I get her dropping the disguise to show the audience it’s her and it builds suspense but she would draw less suspicion.

PETER! MY boy!

I love that he talks fast and that’s kinda like a teenager. I don’t know how old he actually is.

“My mom knew a guy who could do that.” They’re not even trying to be subtle here.

Slow mo Peter speed scene! Yes!

Is that all we get of Peter in this movie? I hope not.

JFK WAS A MUTANT?

So Magneto can lift a plane, a submarine, and now a baseball stadium. Why does he need a baseball stadium?

They showed a clip of Peter watching the broadcast and he’s holding a little girl. I’d like to think that’s Wanda.

Everyone’s alive. Yay!

I’ll excuse Jean being alive because time changes and all that. SCOTT! SCOTT”S ALIVE! YES!

Apocalypse

Hey Oscar Issac

Young Scott!

Young Nightcrawler!

Erik went from wanting to kill humans to being a farmer and having a wife and daughter. Still going to end up on the bad side.

Young Jean Gray! Scott and her start out rocky but we know they’re going to end up together.

Knew the wife and kid wasn’t going to last long. Always got to do something that makes Magneto the bad guy

Two birds...one arrow

For this one, I can understand Magneto’s anger

Young Storm was originally on the bad guy’s side.

Scott sees things through literal rose tinted glasses.

I love Kurt.

Scott use to be a rule breaker

At least Storm has a practical costume.

Also if Erik really wanted to lay low, why did he choose to work at a metal factory.

Pyslocke’s costume isn’t practical. She’s got a boob and butt window. Girl there are so many places you could get stabbed.

PETER!

Charles and Erik always greet each other with old friend

So birdman gets metal armor and the girls get nothing.

Peter slow-mo! This will always be my favorite speedster scene

So the only people that can save the X-Men are Cyclops, Jean Gray, and NightCrawler. Three teenagers with no plan. They got this.

Go Charles! Fighting no matter what.

Logan!

Thankfully most of these characters can’t die.

Pyslocke and Angel can die but the others all have plot armour

Peter didn’t tell Erik he’s his son. Why?

No not the hair! Apocalypse took Charle’s hair.

Go Peter!

No Peter!

So Charles still has the hair when he’s in Apocalypse's head. Part of me knows it won’t grow back but I hope it does.

Mind fight!

So Erik is on the good guys side until the next movie.

Mystique finally has a good costume design

Dark Phoenix

The dude they got to play Bush doesn't look like Bush

SPACE!

This mission is going to go wrong and the X-men are going to get planned. Thus leading the world going against mutants again.

They gave Scott is own eye cannon, nice

Yea absorbing a solar flare will definitely cause your powers to go way hire

Well the mission didn’t go wrong, the way i thought it would. That’s good.

Charles motives have changed

So, men, supposed gods, robots, and now we’re dealing with aliens

Charles kinda being shown as a bad guy is weird. So used to seeing him have good motives.

The aliens want Jean to use her power to take over earth. Not surprising.

Dad now is not the time to poke the super powered bear

Police always show up at the wrong time

I know Mystique can’t die. This is the prequels

But again, Stop killing female characters to further male character’s development.

Oh there’s Erik. 50 minutes in and i thought we weren’t going to see him

Jean’s got a heat signature with that solar flare so it would be easy to track her.

At least the military decided to fallback instead of shooting

And there goes humans liking mutants. This is why we can’t have nice things.

So Mystique’s death is what sets Erik on being the villain again? It’s the same as a woman losing her husband and becoming a villain for revenge. Honestly I’m tired of love revenge plots.

Guys stop fighting! You’re friends!

Oh shit! Jean is making Charles walk. And not in the good way.

OH SHIT KURT IS KILLING PEOPLE NOW!

Dark Phoenix. A movie about family.

Legend of the Phoenix. She’ll rise from the ashes.

Bummed Peter wasn’t in this movie more

All in all, Apcolypse is my favorite X-Men movie.

#bren rambles

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thrushpot · 5 years ago

Text

punch-drunk love

Billy Hargrove x fem reader

“dUDE drunken confessions are my favorite trope!!!! I can so imagine a post-starcourt billy au with a reader who maybe was his friend beforehand but they never really acted on their feelings. the reader gets a phone call at like 2am and billy's just like "listen,,remember all those hours we spent in detention with mr kaminsky? I would do it all again if it meant just sitting beside you because sometimes I look at you and I just see goddamn gold. are you sure you're literally not the sun??" requested by anonymous.

word count: 2,454

warning(s): swearing, drinking

a/n: HECK YEAH MAN I wrote this shit up in like two hours, and I’d even be open to continuing it to like a part two if anyone wanted. drunk Billy in fics is always angsty and mean, but I wanted him goofy and soft!! thank you for adding cute ideas to the drunk call trope <3

—

Billy huffs as he clumsily grabs the next bottle and unscrews the lid with his teeth, spitting it out on the ground carelessly and taking a good chug. It quit burning his throat as it went down a while ago, and now he just feels the weight on his shoulders finally give out. His body wiggles as he tries to stand up from the couch he’d been surfing the whole night, and he gives a lighthearted chuckle to himself at the pleasant buzz flowing. It’s getting to that point of his binge drinking where mistakes are going to be made. He has a persistent urge to break the rules, to do something he’s never had the courage of doing sober.

After no thinking at all, because who the fuck needs a brain when you’ve got booze, he picks up the phone and dials a number he’s sure as shit hasn’t forgotten and will never forget. A smirk plays on Billy’s face, a cocky, shit-eating grin that spreads like he’s the goddamn Grinch and even shows the whites of his teeth while twirling the telephone wire similar to a schoolgirl calling their crush. It rings for about thirty seconds, until he’s hung up on and directed to voicemail.

“Fuck! Don’t be a fuckin’ drag, Y/N. C’mon,” he whines as he kicks the cabinet by his knees, then hangs up and spins the rotary dial to yours again. He licks his upper lip deviously and takes a sip from the bottle he had opened, and waits for your sweet voice on the line again. All hope is lost when there is no answer once more, so he just curses and nearly chucks the phone out of desperation. Billy also thinks of leaving another voicemail this time around except more lengthy and demanding, something to grab your attention and make you talk to him again. That’s all he wants, after all. It’s been months since he’d even seen your pretty face sitting in the desks sideways, and he regrets not kissing the smile you always wore when he had you right there in front of him in detention every week.

Before getting to know you he’d settle for trying to make you laugh in the bleak silence of Mr. Kaminsky’s classroom, attempting to balance a spoon on his nose or throwing paper airplanes your way. Billy figured you were just laughing at his antics out of politeness but didn’t care to actually speak to him, that is until you threw a crumbled piece of paper at him one sunny day in regular boring shitsville of Kaminsky’s. It took him by surprise, considering it flew right to his face while he was zoning out, and he reacted by flailing in embarrassment before exclaiming a defensive “WHAT THE HELL?”. It was the most unique companionship the boy had ever had that followed after your laughing and pointing a finger at him. He had to give it to you, it was pretty funny. When he recovered from your attack, he shook his head with a small grin as he unwrapped your note, reading “heads up” in that adorable sloppy handwriting.

After that, the rest is pretty much history. Billy was hooked to goofing around with you more often, and you both always made it a point to get in trouble just to spend time together in detention. Considering this wasn’t hard at all for the blonde boy, getting into fights with guys or taunting the girls, even falling asleep mid-lecture, detention was another place to call home. You, however, chose how and when you got caught.

Billy never really did gather up the courage to say what he was thinking about day or night, how pretty he thinks you truly are and that you don’t even know it, which makes it that much more special. Not to mention the countless numbers he’d done howling with laughter at a comment you made, feeling like he just got a workout after laughing so much. He never got to tell you that those moments are all he’d look forward to day in and day out. That if his dad smacked him around if he misbehaved the slightest bit at home, or if teachers were ruthless and judgemental in every class, then he could take all that. He could take the whooping and the ass beatings and the name calling, if it meant he got to spend two hours fucking around in detention staring at you. A place where nothing is supposed to happen, and no one interesting usually attends.

Billy’s made progress gulping half his bottle, now picking at a protein bar from the kitchen, trying and failing to open the impossible wrapper. He almost decided on just eating the whole damn thing, fuck the wrapper, until the obnoxious blaring of the telephone rings. He’s quick to react, as drunk as he is, and tosses the snack he planned to scarf down before tripping to get to the phone. He picks up and holds it to his ear.

“Hello?”

There it is, that voice again.

“Heeeey. Hey there, little miss thing. It’s Billy Boy,” he draws out each word, trying to sound suave even if he hiccuped a little when he greeted you. Copying the same movements he did when he first tried ringing you up, he tangled the wire between his fingers and stared at the table dreamily, imagining you in your comfy clothes. Smiling and cozy.

“Woah, uh, hey Billy. It’s been a little while, what’re you up to calling this late?” you inquire over the phone, and he pictures you rubbing your eyes before stretching and yawning and he just wishes so bad that he got to see that madness.

“Mm, no no no. I’m curious about what you’re doin’,” he replies suggestively, smacking his tongue in his mouth.

“What? I’m sleeping, dude. I’m all for this reuniting thing, but could’ya please just have waited ‘til morning like a normal human being?” you say, growing a little frustrated at the randomness of the call and his ambiguous intentions.

“No Y/N! It’s top secret stuff, believe me. Fucking important that I call you now, at,” he bends over backwards to check the clock that glows on the microwave, “two fifteen in the morning. We never just talk like we used to, y’know since we graduated and all,” Billy complains like a petulant child, not hiding it in his voice that he’s pouting.

There’s a second of silence, and he slurs out your name to see if you rudely hung up on him again, until you speak.

“Are you calling me drunk?”

“Nuh-uh, silly goose. I never said that you were drunk,” he snorts, having to regain his balance after getting too excited and almost falling over with the phone still tucked in his right shoulder. He hears a long sigh being let out on the other end.

“Oh for fucks sake—“

“You always get so mad when you’re cute, d’you know that? Wait. I mean, fuck, lemme try that again,” the boy squints and puts his fingers on his temple to try to focus. “You’re really hot when you’re mad. There. Nailed it,” he finishes.

“Oh my gosh, you poor thing. Dude, you’re shit faced,” you crack up. “This is gonna be even funnier in a few hours. Not for you, I mean, you’ll probably have a killer hangover, but I for one am enjoying this.”

“Oh yeah? You like it, don’tcha cutie pie?”

“Sure do. Tell me more, Casanova.”

“Mmm yeah, I’ll tell you more. Right after you tell me what you’re wearing,” he chews on his lip, thinking that this is all going perfectly to plan. You double take, then decide to play along just for shits and giggles.

“Okay, you asked for it. I have my old Hawkins High gym t-shirt on, and some Spider-Man sweats on too. Oh, also some slippers, because the floor is cold,” you finish, hoping he’s satisfied.

“Noooo, c’mon. Fuckin’ lame-o. I wanna know what’s underneath,” he whines after not getting the kind of answer he wanted to get. Getting horny was always a given when he had a couple drinks, but what with having absolutely no filter and you right there on the phone, he’s getting irresistibly antsy. Wishing you were right next to him, so he could claw at your clothes and whisper his dirty thoughts into your neck.

“Fat chance there, hot-shot. What was it you were saying before? Oh yeah, about how I’m awesome and beautiful. Wanna keep goin’?”

“Ugh. Fine. If y’like lame sweet talk, then listen up, sweet cheeks. Remember all those long hours in Kaminsky’s? That old man would bitch at me for breathing, and like, existing. So, like the fuckin’ moron he is and the fuckin’ nuisance I am, I would get assigned to be there every day. I coulda ditched lots of times, just sneak through the window if he turned his bald head around or somethin’. But I never did. ‘Cuzza you. In fact, I’d do it all over again. Wanna know why?”

Billy’s now crashed into the nearest chair by the island in the kitchen, staring up at the ceiling and itching his crotch like the drunken mess of a boy he is. The clock on the microwave now glows the numbers 2:28 AM.

You’ve been stunned to silence, not quite knowing whether to laugh anymore or take what he’s saying truthfully or with a grain of salt. They always say that after someone’s had a few, that those are the times they spout about what’s really on their mind all the time.

“I-I don’t know about this, Billy.”

“Nope! Try again,” he giggles, putting the phone in a comfy spot nestled by his ear as his clumsy hands struggle to unbutton his shirt more for better comfort.

“...Cause of, cause of me?” you peep, unsure of yourself.

“Ding ding ding! Give the pretty girl a prize!” he claps his hands when they’ve fully undone the confines of his t-shirt, then laying back and sinking impossible further into the chair. He reaches for the bottle that has yet to be finished, and licks his lips as he realizes how thirsty he is for more.

“Billy don’t — stop it. Stop drinking, I can hear you. You’ve had enough,” you calmly advise, growing more nervous at the heavy weight this whole conversation has thrown at you. Since when did Billy feel this way?

“Aww, takin’ care a me. Such a sweetheart,” he marvels, blushing but keeping the bottle in his grasp. “You wanna know somethin’ else?”

“No, I don’t think I do. Not until we can discuss this when you haven’t been drinking.”

Billy chooses to ignore that and goes on.

“I’d just — when I looked at you, in detention, where we were like a thousand percent of the time together, I just. Can’t help but see goddamn gold. You’re the goddamn sun, you know that? I’m talking to the sun right now,” Billy suddenly wants to be held and nurtured, feeling tears well up in his eyes and his nose begin running funny. He doesn’t feel so good anymore.

Things are quiet on your end. Billy doesn’t know what your silence means, but it doesn’t seem too good.

“Y/N? When you looked at me, d-did you ever like, feel the same way? Look at me like that? Like I’m the sun?” he asks, desperate for your validation and then sniffled as the tears now started running down his cheeks in waves. He’s a hot mess.

“Billy... you never talked to me outside of detention. Like I didn’t exist, or I wasn’t cool enough to hang out anywhere else. I never knew...” you trailed off, trying to fight off your own tears and the overwhelming feeling his confession had given you.

“Y-You were so cool, I woulda hung out with you more if I wasn’t such a fucking bastard, or such a goddamn coward. But I miss you, and I wanna kiss you everywhere and I wish you could hold me all th’time,” his self pitying erupts to sobs as he finally lets go of the bottle that he clutched between his hands. It rolls into the floor, thankfully not breaking on the way down, but the contents begin leaking out onto the rug. Billy has yet to notice, still fumbling over his words and thoughts. He regrets getting this blasted now.

“Billy?”

“Hmm?” he mumbles, still not quite over himself as he hugs his bare chest, shirt still remaining open.

“Of course I looked at you like were the sun. Anybody who didn’t, like Kaminsky, or your fake asshole friends, they all don’t matter, okay? Please let me know if you’re hurting. Have you been home alone drinking?”

“Yeah, I have. And, and’ya really actually mean it? That stuff you said?”

“I would never lie to you. I’m really tired, and I’m so sorry for doing this to you, but I have to get back to bed,” you say, reluctantance in your tone as you sigh prettily in his ear once more.

“I’m gonna, I’m sleepy too. Real sleepy. Talk soon?” Billy asks, sounding about as hopeful as a child on Christmas Eve.

“Yeah. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”

“Mmmkay. G’bye, pretty girl.”

You let out a breathy laugh at that, then say your farewell, advising him to drink a glass of water and take an Advil before hanging up. The blonde drunk is absolutely exhausted, the whirlwind of emotions that you and the alcohol had put him through had knocked the boy right out. He face plants into the cushions of the couch for a minute, getting close to sleep until a sudden twinge in his gut pulls him up awake. He then makes a run for the bathroom, slipping on the spilled booze on the floor from earlier, and barely makes it in time. He pukes up all the drinks he had for a good five minutes, heaving sickly into the bowl and helplessly clawing at the toilet seat for a better grasp.

Once he’s sure that he has nothing left in his stomach to give, he sits up and scoots to the wall for support, wiping his mouth and hissing in disgust at the bitter taste it left. He gets comfortable even in an odd position, sitting up with his back against the wall right next to the toilet, and decides that this is where he’ll sleep for tonight. As Billy yearns for a much needed deep drunk sleep, he mumbles to himself under his breath about Y/N and her smile and the sun.

—

edit: there will be a sequel, writings in progress ! do not panic I swear this isn’t supposed to end bleak and depressing, I just wanted to show Billy being a hot mess. at first I kinda thought oooh this ending’s fine, if ppl want a sequel ig ill do it, but after reading it over myself I kinda went “the fuck?? this boy deserves to be happy” so I'm gonna do it. if anyone wants a tag as usual, just let me know ! & thank you for the sweet comments and reblogging, I can't be more thankful:)

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove #stranger things #billy hargrove imagine

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ask-hetaaca-denmark · 5 years ago

Text

This writing takes place directly after the events of this post.

@ask-hetaaca-bergen (for the mention of Agda!)

—

At Mathias’ sudden outburst—one that quite literally came out of nowhere—Majken is reasonably startled, but it doesn’t take more than half a second for her to realise Mathias, who’s been unresponsive for over a week now, is sitting up in bed and very much awake. Tears immediately start filling her eyes, and the book she was reading is discarded, thrown to the floor in favour of rushing to her son’s side.

Mathias’ eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the bright hospital lighting, so he’s having trouble making out anything. However, he can make out the silhouette of someone coming towards him, and he panics, jerking back against his hospital bed.

...

“..?” Mathias is confused when he’s met with a warm mattress as opposed to cold concrete. Last he knew, he was splattered across the street downtown, and now he’s somewhere else, he thinks. He tries to turn his head to look, but there’s something keeping him from doing so, and it only adds to his panicking.

Taking advantage of this opening, Majken takes hold of Mathias’ hand, careful of the IV but still squeezing it pretty firmly. He looks towards her, and even if his eyes aren’t looking at her directly, they’re looking in her direction, and she’s filled with joy over such a small action. “Baby.. you’re awake..”

She has to take a deep breath to calm herself, but she still chokes up. “It’s okay. It’s mama, you don’t have to run from me.”

He doesn’t understand the words spoken to him, but the voice is familiar to Mathias, though he can’t quite place it yet. It’s comforting.

He tries to blink away the haziness in his eyes, to see who this voice belongs to, but it takes a minute before he can make out anything else. This time it’s colours—better than nothing, he supposed. Now the familiar stranger is.. somewhat more definable. The biggest clue is green. Green eyes, and light hair. He tries to say something, but he struggles, eventually rasping out, ”Agda..?”

Majken is.. surprised? She and Agda look nothing alike, except maybe the same colour of eyes. “..No, mama. Your mama.”

Momentary relief is replaced once more with fear, and Mathias whimpers, his eyes flickering in different directions as if scanning the room for someone. Majken hesitates; Could he not see her after all? Did he hit his head hard enough that he couldn’t remember her? If he remembers Agda’s name, it’s unlikely that’s all he remembers, but Majken’s thoughts are quickly spiraling out of control. She takes a deep breath, and uses the sleeve on her free arm to wipe her face; now isn’t the time for this. “Agda will be here soon, baby. It’s okay.”

There’s no response to that statement. Majken leans over the guard railing to kiss Mathias’ forehead, before relinquishing her grip on him to go and retrieve her phone. She dials Vilhelm’s number, and when he picks up, she has to fight to not fall apart. Another deep breath, and she starts talking.

—

”Kære, he’s awake.”

That’s the first thing Vilhelm hears from his wife, and his heart both leaps into his throat, and drops into his stomach. He goes to ask for clarification, when she continues speaking.

”I don’t think he knows where he is.. but he’s asking for Agda. If you can, could you bring her with you?”

“..I’m on it.”

Majken hangs up, and Vilhelm gathers up his things, including Hannibal, before setting off on an adventure to find where Agda could be.

—

Mathias had zoned out again, until he heard Agda’s name. He repeats it in that questioning tone, and Majken looks at him, coming closer once again to put her hand on his leg.

Once she ends her conversation on the phone, she keeps breathing deep, trying to calm herself down. Everything is starting to come down on top of her, and while she’s telling herself she’s alright, her shaking hands say otherwise.

The dam that was holding back all of her emotions over the last nine agonisingly long days finally breaks, and Majken does as well.

—

The heart-shattering wails can be heard from the nurses’ station, sending several nurses down the hallway to come and see what’s happened.

Upon opening the door, they’re greeted with Mrs Henriksen barely clinging to Mathias’ bed, the rest of her on the floor, just screaming in tears. Two of the nurses come to check on her, while the other addresses Mathias. Normally this kind of reaction is reserved for when a patient dies, so naturally they want to make sure nothing’s gone wrong.

The immediate concern is that the cardiac monitor is beeping like crazy, likely caused by the fear and stress of the situation going on around him. Mathias is also tearing up, which is surprising, but not unwelcome; The brain being able to trigger that kind of emotional response right out of the gate is a very good sign, and may indicate a higher chance of a full recovery.

It’s decided that, for both Majken’s well-being and Mathias’, that she’s going to be temporarily removed from the room. She fights the nurses on this, but is easily subdued and brought elsewhere to avoid disturbing more patients.

—

The remaining nurse stays behind, talking quietly to Mat to try and reassure him that he’s alright, while grabbing the equipment needed to check his vitals. This is fine and dandy, until she sticks the thermometer in his ear and he flips out. She quickly removes it, and he looks at her in fear, trying to move away from her.

She puts the device in front of him, turning it over in her hand, “It’s just to get your temperature. It’s not going to hurt you, I promise.”

Mathias stares at the vague shape in front of him, and reaches his “hands” up to touch it; Nothing sharp, or dangerous, as far as he can tell. He stops and leans back again, and the nurse disposes of the tip before attaching a new one. “Let’s try that again, shall we?”

This time, while he still seems unhappy about it, he doesn’t fight as much. The nurse goes through with the rest of the tests, getting about the same reactions, and aside from his pulse (which is already starting to calm down again), everything seems within a good range. She asks if he needs anything else, and he moves his hand up to the oxygen mask over his face. “Can I take it off..?”

“Right now, your oxygen levels are still pretty low for what we want. But I can switch it out for a nasal cannula, if that would make it easier for you.”

Mathias doesn’t respond, but it seems more like he’s thinking about it, rather than not understanding.

“The cannula goes into your nose, and doesn’t cover your mouth. If you decide you want the mask again, we can always change it back.”

A few seconds pass, and then Mat nods, and pulls his mask away from his face before the nurse stops him. She tells him to keep it on until she comes back, and then leaves to go and grab the necessary equipment to get him switched over.

—

It takes no more than 10 minutes for Vilhelm to locate Agda, but by that point he’s borderline hysterical. He explains that Mathias is awake, and she has to come with him. Agda puts aside what she was doing to follow, while also trying to reassure him that everything’s going to be fine. He has no interest in listening.

As they’re coming down the corridor, Vilhelm is horrified to see the lights are off in Mathias’ room. This whole time, the lights have been on, even when no one was in there. Too many thoughts flood his head, and he breaks into a sprint, nearly taking the door out in the process, but he has to see what’s going on.

Majken isn’t in the room. No one is, except Mathias, who looks just the way he did when he left. Majken said he was awake, did he fall back into a coma that quickly?

His thoughts are interrupted by a hand on his back. Agda says something—presumably something to comfort him—but Vilhelm moves into the room, setting Hannibal down in a chair and coming to Mat’s bedside. Against his better judgement, he reaches out to touch his son’s face, and is greeted with the most volatile reaction, getting teeth sunken into his hand out of self-defense.

The tender moment is immediately brought to an end when Vilhelm yelps, trying to pull his hand away and finding he can’t. He has to get his other hand involved to pry Mathias’ mouth open, yelling something in Danish at the poor boy, and eventually freeing his fingers. He shakes them to relieve the pain, and remove the spit, while Agda doesn’t even try to stifle her laughter behind him.

He whips around, more insulted than genuinely angry, “That’s not funny, Agda!”

“Of course. Sorry, dad.”

He takes a second to rid the pain from his digits, continuing to shake it out, before realising that what Majken said was true; Mathias is awake. Unfocused eyes stare back at him, full of fear, but they’re staring nonetheless. He’s shocked, and says, softly, “Mathias..?”

Mathias seems just as surprised hearing the voice—once again, it’s familiar, but he can’t tell why. He mumbles something under his breath that neither party can catch, before Vilhelm looks back to Agda and motions for her. “Majken said he was asking for you.. now’s your chance.”

Agda lets out a soft sigh, stepping further into the room and retorting, “I can't believe I’m about to lose another finger to a rabid Dane.”

Vilhelm practically squawks in laughter at this.

—

In the darkness of the room, Agda’s left even more blind than usual. The only real source of light is coming from the early morning sun, but even then, it’s obscured by thick curtains that allow only a faint glow to permeate them.

She can see the rough outline of Mathias, and as she steps around his bed and tries not to break her neck, she says his name. His eyes widen, and what used to be a hand fumbles to get out of the blankets and reach for her. She beats him to the punch, though, resting her hand on top of his head and lightly scratching.

Whatever composure Mathias may have had crumbles away in an instant. He starts crying—actually, crying is an understatement. He starts bawling, reaching his arms out to hug around her waist, and Agda’s able to pick out her name from between his choking and hiccuping. “I’m here, Mat..” She says, slowing her scratching down to instead cradle his head against her stomach. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Mathias nods, he understood that, but he doesn’t let go of her. As much as she’s enjoying this, she’s afraid of his physical condition getting worse if he stays bent over like this, so she gently pries him off and leans him back in bed. He protests this, but she gives him her hand again, and it seems to be enough to satisfy him. This would do, for now.

Vilhelm coos at the sight, pulling out his phone to take a picture before realising his camera can’t pick it up. Furthermore, as much as he’d love to fawn over two of his kiddos, his attention is getting pulled away the longer Majken is gone. He shoots her a text, and she replies almost instantly, relieving some of his tension.

He turns back to Agda, and asks if she can keep an eye on Mathias and Hannibal while he goes to find his wife. She nods, and jokingly pops off with, “I’ve been babysitting them since first year, I’ve got this.”

Vilhelm laughs once again, before excusing himself from the room.

—

Majken was brought to a bench near the nurses station, and Vilhelm found her right where she said she was, curled up with her phone and a blanket over her shoulders. He calls out her name, and she pops her head up, setting her phone down so she can greet him with a hug. He squeezes her back, tightly, and asks if she’s alright. “I just got overwhelmed,” she says, “I was freaking Mathias out, so they banished me to the Naughty Bench.”

Vilhelm chuckles, but he does ask what happened. She explains herself, her feelings, how everything hit her way too hard and all at once, and she gets a bit choked up recalling it all. “I’m still trying to calm down, I’m sorry.”

He tells her not to apologize, bringing a hand up to gently cup her cheek and wipe her tears with his thumb. She giggles, and gets on her tiptoes to kiss him, asking if he’s alright. He was going to answer that he’s fine, but instead he says, “Actually, I went to check on Mathias, and he bit me!”

“H- he what?!”

Vilhelm pulls away to show his hand, with the bleeding teeth marks, “He BIT me!” and Majken loses it, she was already about to start crying, but this tips the scale when she starts laughing, ”He bit you! Oh my GODS!”

She quickly escalates to where she’s not breathing with how hard she’s laughing, except for the occasional snort or screech, and Vilhelm can’t help but laugh either. Her laugh was always contagious.

He holds her steady so she doesn’t lose her balance, and she asks if he snarled when he bit him. That image makes him laugh even harder, and the both of them nearly end up on the floor by the time it’s over with.

Majken has to catch her breath before she passes out, but she’s in tears, that’s such an entertaining visual to her. “Okay, seriously, how did- did you stick your fingers in his mask?!”

“NO! He had the nose thing! I was just checking that he was still awake!”

“Did he not see you??”

“It was dark in the room!”

“OH MY FUCKING GODS- YOU SO DESERVED THAT!”

—

Back in the room, Agda’s making small talk with Mat. He’s having a hard time speaking, and coherently at that, but it’s something. For someone who was so far gone, he’s making ridiculously fast progress.

“Do you know where we are right now?”

“..Hospital?”

“Correct. Do you remember why we’re in hospital?”

“...”

He goes quiet, searching his brain for any memories that could help him. He remembers being on the ground.. or was he in the air? Maybe both? But why was he there?

Agda gives him time, and after a minute or two, he asks, “I got hurt..?”

“You did. Do you remember how you got hurt?”

“..no, not right now.”

Agda brushes her thumb over his knuckles. She doesn’t want to bring this up right now, but at the same time, she hopes it’ll jog something in his memory. She needs him to remember what happened, because only they will ever know what happened. “There was an explosion, Mat. Do you remember the explosion?”

More silence from Mathias, and now Agda’s getting antsy. Is it because he’s not remembering? Or is it her own body reacting poorly to the memories of what happened that afternoon? That’s something she’d have to figure out later.

“You stood in front of me. There was a villain, and he was coming for me, and-“

Agda has to stop. She takes in a few deep breaths, firmly squeezing Mat’s hand.

“You protected me. Do you remember protecting me?”

Mathias’ eyes light up at the mention, but slowly the light is replaced with horror, and Agda can only figure this out by his cardiac monitor going off. There’s a pang of guilt in her chest, but she knows that this is probably the safest way of bringing it up to him. He may be scared, but she’s right here to comfort him and answer his questions. He can reach out and touch her so he knows she’s safe.

However, even as Agda tries to convince herself that this is right, it doesn’t make it any easier to handle. He grips her hand tighter, and she hates the way his fingers tremble and shake, or the way he whimpers, ”Aggie..” like a child would whimper for their parents late at night. It hurts her soul hearing it from a voice that always sounded so happy.

She resumes petting Mathias’ head, and repeats some of her earlier statements to hopefully reassure him.

It doesn’t help.

She tries a different approach: “It’s okay.. we’re safe now, Mat. We’re in hospital. No one can hurt us here.” All while lacing her fingers into his hair. It does little to quell the nauseating twisting of Mathias’ stomach; He’s not worried about getting hurt, he’s worried about the damage already done. He can’t see Agda, he can only hear and feel her.

—

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Majken and Vilhelm return shortly after, turning the lights on when they enter the room. They’re laughing, but they stop when they see Agda looking to them for help.

Majken disconnects her arm from Vilhelm, quickly coming over to stand next to Agda. Mathias’ frantic, wandering gaze is broken by this new person, but he quickly identifies it as his mom. It stops his train of thought, utterly confusing him—why is his mom here? She doesn’t live on Perpetuum.

Regardless, seeing her brings a new sense of relief. The fear and pain in his body gets drowned out, lowering his heart-rate almost immediately. Agda steps aside so Majken can get in closer, and she takes his hand in her place. Her heart feels lighter when he squeezes it, and she bends down to rest her forehead against his, eliciting a soft, ”Mor?” from him.

Majken laughs, even as tears start bubbling up and dripping onto his face, and nods. She chokes out just as quiet of a reply, ”Mamma er her, skat.”

Mathias nudges her face, and she gets herself twisted at an angle that she can return the gesture, cupping his face with her free hand and letting herself openly fall apart.

”..Hvor..for græder du..?”

”Jeg er bare glad,” She sniffles, laughing with a fraction of the usual mirth she exudes, ”så glad..”

—

Vilhelm’s off to the side with Agda, the two of them sitting and exchanging glances while Hannibal’s been moved to sleep in dad’s lap.

A few more minutes of sappy, emotional bonding pass before Majken stands back up to give her back a break. Agda stands to offer her chair, and Majken thanks her, but waves it off, “I’m fine, sweetheart, just old.”

Agda snorts at that, but nods idly as she sits back down, prompting Majken to playfully snap, “Hey! That doesn’t mean you get to agree!”

The both of them and Vilhelm laugh, before the room falls back into silence. It’s more comfortable this time, though. With Mathias being awake, the tension has practically dissolved from the family. Hannibal being the exception, but they can handle that when he wakes up from his stress-induced 20 hour nap.

A thought pops into Agda’s head, though. From a medical standpoint, Mat should rest before anyone else comes to visit, and visitors should be kept to a minimum overall to prevent Mathias’ weakened immune system from failing on him. From a mom-friend standpoint, though...

“Mm.. I’m sure you guys want to let Mat rest, but at some point, there’s someone else who wants to come and see him.. Herakles has been sitting in the waiting room since he was admitted. I know it would give him some peace of mind to see that Mat’s awake.”

Mathias’ head pops up again. Hera’s here too? He was only out for a little bit—Hell, it’s still light outside! He was probably out for an hour at most, why is everyone here?

The confusion aside, he grabs his mom’s hand tighter, and asks, “Hera..?”

Majken looks between Mathias and Agda, and then at Vilhelm, who merely shrugs, just as stumped as she is. Mathias’ well-being is her first concern. “..I think it would be best to w-“

Majken is interrupted when Mathias says ”Hera” again, but much softer, much more worried than before. She pets his head, and continues, “I think it would be best to wait until Mathias is more stable.. He’s had a lot of stimulation already, and probably wants to sleep before getting bombarded with more people.”

Vilhelm nods, as does Agda, but Mathias doesn’t seem to like this plan. He tries to sit up, and fails. Majken looks back down at him, cocking an eyebrow and asking, “Whatcha tryin’ to do, honey?”

“Hera.. He..ra.. hh..”

“Hold on, Mads, you need to rest first before you try and get up.”

“..where..? Is he..?”

Mathias tries to sit up again, face twisted in a determined, yet pained expression. Majken lightly pushes him back down, holding him in place with her hand. This “resistance” upsets him, causing him to fuss and try to bat her hand away. She snickers, but kisses his forehead again. “It seems he has a problem with our choice.. Vilhelm, could you go and grab this ‘Herakles’?”

“..Are we sure about this? You just said-”

“Look at him, Villy. He’s squirming. He’s not going to lay down until he gets what he wants, we learned this when he was like, two.”

“Right.. okay, what does ‘Herakles’ look like?”

Agda chimes in, “You’ll know when you see him. He’s hard to miss.”

“...Alright, then.”

#aph denmark #hetalia #hetalia askblog #my heta academia au #My Heta Academia #tw injuries #tw blood #not much! just one specific part mentions blood #tw hospital #tw mental breakdown #??? if i need to tag more lmk!#Mama Henriksen #Papa Henriksen #long post #I'M SO SORRY THIS THING IS OBNOXIOUSLY LONG #Blown Away

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emmyrosee · 5 years ago

Text

Hopping.

On The Run I

Hey guess what.

It’s done! I’m so excited!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m terrified. This definitely isn’t how I thought this would go, but I don’t despise it??? I don’t know. Anyways.

WARNINGS: heavy plot, heavy dialogue, language. No smut in this chapter (don’t worry it’s coming😘)

Gordan Merkel x Fugitive!Reader; after a series of unfortunate events lands you in East Berlin, you fear everyone and everything in your path. And it crosses paths with a stranger who takes a risk on you.

———-

“Do you remember how you got here?”

The question snapped you out of your confused daze, and you stared at the man before you. His piercing green eyes bore into you like you were nothing more than a piece of wood, waiting to be carved.

It was a good question, to be fair. But which ‘here’ was this man referring to?

The ‘you,’ running in Milan?

The ‘you,’ hiding in the deepest, dankest corners of Paris?

Or the ‘you,’ committing the most heinous act that you knew possible all those years ago.

No one would blame you for jumping at the most random of sirens. The warrant for your arrest was out there, and the reward was obscene.

Hell, if you knew you would be given some form of immunity, it wouldn’t be such a big deal.

But this was your life on the line now. The police from home, various government officials, even the people who had once housed you had turned against you at the ridiculous amount of money being offered. And no stones could be left; whether they were criminal or not, their crimes would be lessened if they turned you in, dead or alive.

They weren’t very picky.

The chilled streets of Berlin’s alleys only seemed to make your stress levels grow, heart beating faster and faster as you tried to shield yourself from everyone you passed.

Night after night you wandered, opting it safer than the day. In the day, no one was willing to listen to your story, see another side of you. All they saw was money, and they wanted it.

At night however, stories howled like the wind. People of their own sins had more important things to focus on than you, and you accept and adore that lack of attention.

You’re not sure what tripped you off. A distant siren, maybe? Or maybe just one too many money-hungry eyes?

Whatever it was, you felt the need to run.

Well. Run further that is.

You dug your hands deeper into your pockets and slowly crept faster, walking speed feeling more of a jog.

Then faster.

The feeling grew and your holed, disgusting sneakers squeaking against the pavement.

You felt like you were doing this for your whole life. The same routine over and over and over and over again.

Your legs kick higher and higher as you dash, scrambling around as your weakened body struggles to keep up.

Until a massive force stops you, gripping your arms tightly to steady you.

“Woah, woah, woah,” a voice says, struggling against your fighting form. You shove harder at the chest that’s trying to hold you, unsuccessful with every jerk of your much smaller frame. His large hands grab your shoulders and force you into the brick wall you were closest to. But the fire of fear was still roaring, and whether you wanted to or not, you couldn’t stop.

All you could do was bite, kick and scream, praying someone would hear.

“Relax!” He commanded, giving you one last, hard shove. The bricks bit into your skin, the small pebbles of the flaking wall crumbling in your struggle.

“Please,” You whimper in fear. “Please let me go, I-I-I don’t-“

“Shush,” he demands. You close your lips, though you’re unable to stop your shaking lips from allowing whimpers past. Your eyes creak open to look at the deep voiced, large German man who’s grip wasn’t about to falter.

Despite his demanding, deep voice, his eyes showed no malice or anger; in fact, nothing but sympathy was pooled in his forest green irises. His jaw was tight with authority, and he seemingly waited for you to look at him before continuing to speak.

Shit, you think to yourself, not like this. Shit shit shit-

“We need to get you out of the open,” he says sternly, yet softly. “Come on-“

“N-no!” You protest. “No!”

The man pulls back slightly at your apparent fear, and licks his lips in thought.

“I’m not going to leave you out here,” he explains. “God knows the last time you ate or bathed or-“

You tremble weakly in his grip, and almost on cue, your stomach growls loudly. He tilts his head, “you haven’t eaten recently, have you?”

Against your better judgement, you gently shake your head and avoid his laser sharp gaze. He nods, “so I thought.”

“I’ll be fine,” you spit, shrugging him off of your arms. He finally drops his arms as you spin on your heel, crossing your arms tightly over your chest and walk hurriedly away.

“You don’t have to go with me if you don’t want to,” he calls after you, making you stop. “But I sincerely want to help. Please? Just allow me to feed you, then I’ll sneak you over any boarder you’d like.”

“No,” you say quietly, so softly you’re not sure he can hear you. “I’ve made it this far, I can make it further on my own.”

“Don’t think I don’t know who you are,” he says. “You’re that fugitive, aren’t you?” He asks though his voice is sure, making you screw your eyes shut tight. “The one who’s been on the lamb for, what, three years?” His footsteps are loud as they pound on the pavement behind you. “That little pile of mad money that the government has raised is enough to make anyone an enemy, no?”

You say nothing.

“Lucky for you, I have no reason for the money. In fact, I’d set the money on fire and join you on the run as well before I give into any shit that the government spills to its sheep.

“Just let me take you someplace; a safe place that I know. And then wherever you want to go, I will take you. But just take the help I’m willing to give because God knows how long someone is going to show you this extent of mercy.”

You want to scream at him, ask him how he dares speak to you like that. You want to smack him one, tell him that he has no fucking idea who he’s talking to, and that you’ve survived without the help of anyone for those three years.

But you can’t.

Because everything he said is true. That, and you’re so weak- especially from trying to fight him off- that you literally aren’t sure if you raise your hand high enough to smack him.

“I’m heading to Sweden,” you say softly. “You feed me, you get my name, and you take me to the Swedish border. I go from there. Deal?”

“Deal,” he says with a gentle smile.

——————-

“Do you remember how you got here?” The man asks quietly.

Your fingers clutch at the warm, thick blanket that’s draped over your shoulders. In front of you sits a small plate of cookies and a cup of tea, which of you’ve cleared three of. Each time you clear the plate or drain the cup, the man chuckles and merely refills it.

“Any recollection of how you ended up in East Berlin?” He asks, shifting to lean forwards on his knee.

You avoid his gaze some more, eyes casting away to the plate of cookies as you eye them.

“Go on,” he nods. “Have more. Please. I insist.” He smiles encouragingly, and slowly you reach forwards to take another one.

“I don’t know,” you whisper at your cookie childishly, playing the edge against your chapped lips. “I just.... turned a corner and ended up in Berlin.”

“You and I both know that that’s not the type of ‘how’ I meant,” he teases. “I mean I know your records and I know your crimes, but how did you get here?”

Your heart sinks further into your stomach as you finally look up at the man. His face was soft despite his sharp features, the dim lights of... whatever building you were in (a printing house? Some form of passport office? You couldn’t put your finger on it.) casting shadows on him to make him look statuesque.

And you wanted to trust him.

Desperately.

His reassuring kindness and your endless bounty of cookies and tea brought you a new wave of hope, that someone out there just might want to help you with nothing else in mind.

If he wanted the money, why didn’t he just turn you in?

“Where were you before?” He asks.

“Crossed over from Poland. Settled in Cottbus before the game began again.”

He cocks a brow, “game?”

You grin, “of cat and mouse, of course.”

The man chuckles at your joke, smile bright against the dingy air around you.

“More like fox and rabbit, since you’ve been hopping around like a little bunny, no?”

And you laughed.

You actually laughed.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

It was the first time in three fucking years you’d been able to do so much as chuckle, let alone laugh.

The silence, for once, is comforting to you, and you grasp the blanket higher on your shoulders.

“The sun is rising,” he says softly, bring you back to him. Your eyes traveled upward to the windows of his building, and through the dark grey clouds, you could in fact see the brightness of heavens joy that brought you nothing but fear.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper in worry. “I can’t go out there! Not now. Can I just... stay here?”

The man sighs, “sadly, no. But, I can help you further, if you so desire.”

“How so?”

“Stay in Berlin,” he says, grinning as you tense up. “I’ll figure a plan to get you safely to the Swedish border, exactly as you asked. Then,” he crosses one leg over the other, “home.”

Home.

You missed home.

You missed home. A lot.

You’d rather die than not go home, but after three years you wondered if you could even attempt. And to think this man could?

Hm.

But he hasn’t let you down yet.

“That amount of money is going to keep rising, sir,” you insist.

He grins, “my trust for the government cannot be bought, Miss.” He stands up and slowly creeps towards the door, “if you want to come with me and be served with the utmost protection, we must leave now.”

Your ears perk up and your heart pounds. “I don’t even know your name,” you say, a certain sadness in your voice.

He grins.

“Merkel. Gordan Merkel. Trust me. You’re not my first,” he says, pushing the door open. “I’ll come with the car around.”

He winks.

“It’s time to relax on the hopping, little bunny. You’re safe now. I promise.”

Tagging💕

@peachesandfern

@anxiousamandapanda

@hecohansen31

@blakewaterxx

@w0nder-marie

@babyboy-cody

@kathryn-jane

@kaigitana

@ohhoneyaaaaaaa

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unweavinglies · 6 years ago

Text

Kokichi Ouma Analysis: What Makes an Ultimate (Supreme) Leader, and Why His Talent is Not a Lie

SO A QUICK DISCLAIMER: Yes, I am very aware that this is most likely not canon, or at least not what the writers intended on being canon, nor am I saying that this is 100% canon and should be considered as such. This is just a fan theory/analysis I came up with for my own enjoyment and wanted to share with others, as I like coming up with theories/analysis posts and reworking canons to make enhanced stories and character development in my perspective. I firmly believe that the idea of making theories isn’t supposed to be a shouting contest to see which opinion is the most loud and correct, but should be something to share with others and find acceptance and understanding in different interpretations, even if you don’t agree with them.

This was honestly a long time coming, and is far, far overdue! However today, I got a bit inspired to discuss Kokichi’s role as the (unwanted) anchor for a class that is always trying to find peace in escapism, and then I realized that it tied in very well to his Ultimate Talent--being the Ultimate Supreme Leader, or to keep it shorter, the Ultimate Leader.

A big misconception that shrouds Kokichi is that his talent as a “Supreme Leader” is a lie, due to how little people he leads in his organization (which may or may not be true, as I’ve discussed in an earlier post) and doesn’t have the leadership qualities that other classmates like Kaede and Kaito have. So, if he doesn’t have these qualities, then he can’t actually be an “Ultimate Leader” of any kind.

Except... Kokichi’s leadership skills are so profound and subtle, that they go completely under the radar--the class was being lead by him without them ever even knowing it.

Without further adieu, let’s talk about the subtle nature of Kokichi’s talent, and what defines him as an “Ultimate Leader” above everyone else, even Kaito and Kaede.

Warning, this is pretty long!

So there’s a lot to unpack here, and it might be easiest to start from the beginning--from when Kokichi’s talent first shows up, and the progression his talent takes to “lead” his classmates without them realizing that he’s leading them to begin with.

The first, and most noticeable, Leadership quality that Kokichi takes is his willingness to say what needs to be said. For example: when Kokichi stands up to Kaede in the Death Road of Despair tunnels.

Though before we talk about that, let’s make a mental note here first: In the beginning of their attempts to escape through the Death Road of Despair Tunnels, Kokichi is supporting Kaede with full force.

After the first failed attempt, Kaede inspires the group to try again, and this is Kokichi’s reaction:

And even after the second attempt at failure...

It’s not Kaede who rallies everyone together this time--but Kokichi, who isn’t ready to give up yet. They’ve only tried a total of two times by that point, so he’s still inspired to progress forward. He doesn’t even wait for Kaede to come to completely and get her head together before he takes charge, not letting Miu’s pessimism bring anyone down.

And then they try, and try, and try again...

... With no success. Remember, the students started their attempts at the Death Road of Despair in broad daylight, and by the time they end, it was nighttime. This means at the very least, they’ve been attempting the tunnels for several hours, potentially missing dinner, and in the most extreme case, missing lunch as well. Despite this, despite everyone being tired, in pain, and weak, Kaede refuses to back down from the challenge.

(And yes, I am aware Angie says she is thankful no one was seriously injured, but considering Kaede has been knocked unconscious multiple times, her judgement as to what a “serious injury” actually is, is very unreliable. I thought I’d just throw this in here for good measure.)

Anyway... Kokichi, unlike Kaede, sees the pain everyone is in...

... And takes it upon himself to stand up for everyone else.

While Kaede doesn’t intend to, she is forcing everyone to endure very painful traps, ignoring the injuries the others might have obtained, and her message has gone from “inspiring” to “unreasonable” and “impossible.”

This instance is the first time Kokichi openly stands up for the others, and says something that no one else wants to say. They’re all afraid to hurt Kaede, to fail her expectations and morale, but they are tired. They are struggling, they are injured, they are weak, and they will only get more and more exhausted and hurt if they continue.

So, Kokichi stands up to the inspiring, passionate Kaede, and tells her exactly what she is doing to them.

Notice how Kokichi isn’t saying that he’s the one in pain, or he’s the one too weak to go on--he’s speaking up for the people, standing up to someone when no one else would, and this is a shining example of his true character--that he has the well being of everyone else on his mind at all times.

He could probably go on. Maybe he can’t. But he’s not speaking for himself, he’s speaking for those around him who he sees are in pain, who are suffering, and gives them a voice that they are unwilling to admit they needed. They were too afraid to be “the bad guy,” So Kokichi took it upon himself to do it for them.

And, let’s not forget, how difficult it is to actually stand up to someone. Even more so stand up to someone who doesn’t actually mean any harm. It’s natural human nature to remain quiet, to push forward and go with the flow. It’s far more difficult to rise above the crowd, especially when everyone else around you is doing the same--sitting there, and not doing anything. To stand up against the crowd--for the crowd--is a very admirable and brave act. Because when you rise above, there will be consequences--

--And that is, you might become the one to blame.

Because no one else wanted to stray from the path to do something uncomfortable, Kokichi’s willingness to do something so harsh leaves a bad taste in everyone’s mouth--like he has malicious intentions, like he wants the killing game to start. Rantaro’s own paranoia and Tenko blindly accepting it and reinforcing it, sets this unfortunate downward spiral into motion, and from here on out, Kokichi can’t take back the reigns. He does try here, too--giving an offering of peace in the form of bubblegum, but is threatened instead.

Everyone has this thought in their heads now, always tainting their perception of Kokichi and thinking the worst of him in every situation where he opposes them.

A normal person would have probably crumbled in a situation where they were just trying to do the right thing, and ended up with a threat like having their head smashed into the ground. It’s not a good feeling, to try to do right by others and be villainized for it. Most people would probably think twice about speaking up just from Tenko’s threat alone, and fall back into the crowd.

But Kokichi... doesn’t.

While the class is arguing and the peace is falling apart, the Nighttime announcement plays, alerting everyone that it’s about time they get some rest. When there’s resistance to the idea--

He tells them, point blank, to suck it up and makes a plan for the next day. Note that he’s still including himself in the group here as well, saying “we have to suck it up” instead of “You need to suck it up.” He doesn’t want this either, but they literally have no other options but to rest. Despite Kokichi getting the short end of the stick just moments before, he doesn’t hesitate at all to stand against the class in order to do what he thinks is right, for all of them, and not just himself.

He knows they need rest, and he knows that resisting is pointless. So once again, he does what no one else wants to do, and tells those protesting to the idea that they don’t really have any other choice. The class is unwilling to be as blunt nor do they want to hurt each other’s feelings or invalidate them, but in doing so, they are encouraging problematic behavior that will do more harm than good in the long run.

Kokichi also immediately makes a plan for the group to meet up at the Dining Hall every morning, a tradition the class follows for the rest of the game.

This is one of the biggest piece of evidence that points to Kokichi’s talent actually being genuine, but it doesn’t account for everything. He’ll take charge and power through in order to do what he thinks is best for everyone, but it’s actually not the more subtle ways Kokichi leads the group.

Kokichi leads them all with subtle manipulation.

The very next morning, when they all meet up in the Dining Hall, is an example of how Kokichi maneuvers the class into facing and accepting their issues and reality.

First and foremost, Kokichi notices/is aware of the fact that tension from the night prior have yet to be resolved, and thus still remains an issue that divides the class, and thus needs a resolution as quickly as possible.

Here, Kokichi is forcing the class to acknowledge two things--Kaede’s distress, and their own resentment towards her for their pain from the tunnels.

Again, he is met with resistance--

Instead of letting them avoid the problem, he forces them to confront it. There are hurt feelings among them, and frustrations that they need to talk about. Kokichi can tell that the people who were upset at Kaede and blaming her were still doing so, and it needs to be addressed.

A note to point out:

During this conversation, Tenko accuses Kokichi of blaming Kaede first--but that’s actually not what happened at all. Go back and read over what Kokichi says--and you’ll find that he never says it’s her fault. What he did tell her, however, was the reality of the situation, that she was hurting the others by pushing them too hard. He doesn’t blame her for her ignorance to the other’s suffering, but he brings her down to earth by making her realize what she was doing.

Yes, he was harsh, probably suffering from his own pain and exhaustion, but there’s a distinct difference between calling someone out for problematic behavior and blaming them for their ignorance.

It was Maki who openly expressed that she actually blamed Kaede with full force.

Note that this is right after Kaede was profusely apologizing as well. Considering that there was at least one person that openly expressed resentment towards Kaede, Kokichi knew that there had to be several others who were remaining silent, putting on a false bravado and pretending like it didn’t bother them.

It’s not just Kokichi who noticed it, either--

Kaito had also noticed that there were people blaming Kaede, and it needed to be addressed and resolved.

And when it’s resolved...

He expresses relief--like that was what he wanted to begin with. Kaede needed to acknowledge that she was being inconsiderate to those who felt that way and apologized for it. Keebo then accuses Kokichi of originally blaming Kaede first, and Kokichi kind of rolls with it and they move on.

However, Kokichi does say this:

And from his actions in just a single day that we’ve seen him... this isn’t a lie. It matches up perfectly with his actions--he really does have everyone’s best interest at heart.

But wait, there’s more, and the scene’s not even over yet.

Soon after this resolution, Monokuma provides the class with the first motive--the First Blood Perk, and creates a Prisoner’s Dilemma to counter Kaede’s attempts to make everyone cooperate. This causes a sort of mass panic, and everyone is freaking out, until--

... Well, this.

Following this, the class is confused, having suffered from intense emotional whiplash. Going from absolute panic to confusion is overwhelming, and it’s Kokichi who steps up to do damage control.

While Kokichi says the first part with a smile on his face, it very well is probably a mask. He acknowledges that “everything’s a mess now” and immediately dismisses what just happened with the First Blood Perk.

With how quick Kokichi is to basically say “Nope, there’s no more killing game, we’re done here!” it’s telling that he’s most likely internally panicking like crazy and latching on to the first thing he can think of to dispel the confusion and panic in one swoop. Miu was already implying that she was on the verge of considering murder just from the idea of the First Blood Perk, so Kokichi’s internal panic is very justified.

Kokichi also immediately dismisses valid concerns brought up;

Which is... very strange, considering what we know about Kokichi in the later portion of the game. We know Kokichi is hyper intelligent, and always thinking of the worst-case scenario/distrustful/paranoid, so him just dismissing Rantaro’s concern as if he truly believes in it or is in denial is very strange--until you consider what his actions and words are doing to the other classmates.

They’re not freaking out anymore.

Kokichi is purposefully shutting down any and all valid concerns in favor of reducing mass panic, because mass panic could very well start up the Killing Game without any ability for him to stop it. It might have started right then and there. So Kokichi, thinking on his feet, took advantage over the fact Monokuma exploded to distract everyone from the mass panic caused by the First Blood Perk

And, it’s working.

Unfortunately, Kaede doesn’t quiet get the memo--

And Kokichi’s immediate rebuttal is a distraction from the problem of the First Blood Perk, reminding Kaede and everyone else of the suffering from the tunnels. Which is very counter productive to what he did before, but he most likely feels cornered and pressured--panicking himself, afraid of the mass panic bubbling up again, and Kaede is unintentionally trying to drag everyone back into the mass panic by insisting that they couldn’t just ignore valid concerns.

If Kaede is going to be the opposing force and lead everyone back to mass panic, then Kokichi has no other choice, he has to socially isolate her before she can undo his damage control. If no one listens to her, then she can’t accidentally start up the mass panic again.

This is an example of a rather ugly side to leadership--sometimes, the right thing to do is ugly. It’s not always pretty, it’s not always nice, it’s not always kind, it’s not always easy. People will get hurt. Choices will be difficult. However, Kokichi doesn’t even hesitate for a second to put Kaede back on the hot seat, because he’s already accepted this fact. Whether or not it was the right choice is debatable, but we already know Kokichi is most likely internally panicking himself. He can put on a front, but his actions suggest otherwise, and I’m sure even Kokichi can crack under such intense pressure.

Was it the best choice? It’s hard to say, but it does dispel the mass panic in the heat of the moment.

Either way, the next morning proves that Kokichi’s damage control to avoid mass panic was working, because--

Everyone’s calm and happy. The First Blood Perk is the furthest from their minds it can be. Kokichi keeps drilling “the killing game is canceled” into everyone’s heads, too, to keep it that way. The fact he keeps say it makes me believe that he is saying it less out of denial and more for the sake of everyone else. The repetition sounds almost... desperate. Like he wants everyone to believe it no matter what, and keep believing it. Probably while he does his own investigation to get everyone out of there before Monokuma can return and bring the mass panic back, except of course, Kokichi and everyone else aren’t so lucky.

Kokichi’s immediate panic here is telling too. If he wasn’t in total denial, Kokichi’s shock and horror is from the fact that Monokuma came back way before he could figure something out, and the mass panic is going to return to the class whether he likes it or not. That false sense of security he created was gone in an instant.

Monokuma specifically showing up right after Kokichi says he’s dead, opening with the line “And that’s my cue!”, it could suggest that this is Monokuma’s way of thwarting Kokichi’s efforts to keep the peace, similarly to how the prisoner’s dilemma was used to break Kaede’s peace. The time limit put into effect was probably a result of Kokichi’s attempts as well, actually, but I digress.

Now that we’re finally done talking about Kokichi’s attempts to keep the peace, there’s another sign of leadership Kokichi displays right after the time limit is in effect.

Kokichi... quite literally offers himself up to die first. Miu even catches on to his maybe-not-so-subtle implication. Before this, he was crying about how he “doesn’t want to die,” but dismissed it as a lie. Maybe it’s true that he doesn’t want to die, but with the time limit in effect--well. I’m sure a good leader would rather go down with the ship alone rather than drag their crew down with them.

That is yet another ugly side to leadership--self sacrifice. Kokichi displays a lot of it later on in more obvious detail, but I wanted to show how early on in the game Kokichi was displaying these characteristics to put the full game in perspective. Yet again, in the span of just a handful of days, we see Kokichi displaying some kind of leadership quality that goes under the radar.

Being a good leader means putting those you lead first, and yourself second. Or at least, that’s what the general consensus is, and Kokichi follows that pretty closely. Becoming the villain to stop the killing game, to force himself to give Shuichi and Maki information when he had a serious head injury, outing Maki in front of everyone--Kokichi often paints a target on his back, and it’s always to help those around him... even at the cost of his own life, which is his biggest self-sacrifice for the others in the end.

Finally, I’ll like to wrap things up with a time skip to after Kaede’s trial, and Kokichi’s behavior the next morning.

... Which at a first glance, reads as insanely insensitive. And you’re right--it is insensitive. However, there is a problem that yet again, no one is addressing.

The class has resorted into escapism.

Everyone knows it, but none of them want to acknowledge it. They’d rather pretend everything was okay, fall into a false sense of security, and escape their reality. However, Kokichi already saw the outcome of what happens to this group when that fragile escapism breaks--he was the one who put them into a false sense of security before, after all. It resorts into murder.

They can’t afford to fall into this false sense of security again, because that false sense of security is what Monokuma wants. He wants the class to pretend everything is fine, so he can come and destroy it later and provoke another murder. And when the class resists to leave their escapism...

Kokichi mutters to himself about how they’re falling right into Monokuma’s trap.

And Kokichi is hyper aware of it. So even when everyone is resistant to face reality, Kokichi is there to drag them back kicking and screaming, because they can’t afford to fall into escapism.

However, this paints a very negative picture in their eyes, since Kokichi is the odd one out. He’s the one not playing along, he’s the one not cooperating, he’s the troublemaker for being so cruel. He gets dismissed and ignored, yet despite that, Kokichi in the later part of the game still does his best for everyone. Even when his mind is twisted in chapter 4, his motives are still related to his desire to be the leader. To save them, to do the right thing, even if it was out of a twisted sense of madness. His plot with Gonta, the mercy kill plot, was genuine (I’ve done an analysis/theory on it if you are interested) even when he insists it wasn’t--and yet it was, and the twisted kindness of wanting to put people out of their misery before they fell into a mind-breaking despair that you felt is still an act of mercy, of wanting to make sure those around him aren’t going to suffer like he had.

From the very beginning, Kokichi displays remarkable actions that lend themselves to his talent, to being a good leader. He stands up for those in pain when no one else will, manipulates the class to discuss uncomfortable topics that really can’t be avoided, acts quickly on his feet and improvises some nonsensical idea that the Killing Game is over to prevent mass panic and keep the peace, offering himself up as sacrifice, and finally, just doing what he thinks is necessary to prevent more murders, even at the cost of his own sanity and even if the others start hating him for it.

And that’s kind of what a true leader is all about. It’s not glamorous, its not rewarding, you’re not always treated like a hero--sometimes, you can’t even be the hero. It’s hard, it’s ugly, and it hurts you, it hurts those you care about, but sometimes there’s no better choice. You have to put yourself second, no matter what that might mean. Sometimes, you need to make the biggest sacrifice of all--not to be remembered as a tragic hero, not to be remembered as a leader, but simply to do what was best for everyone, and dying while knowing that your sacrifice won’t even be somewhat appreciate--that takes a serious amount of willpower. Dying, sacrificing your life for people you think hate you or you know won’t truly understand how deep your loyalty to them ran, not understanding how much you had done for them, and yet, you still are more than willing to do it because it will potentially stop more death and heartbreak for those people, that’s what makes Kokichi an Ultimate Leader.

He doesn’t demand recognition, validation, comfort, praise, nothing for his leadership. He just does what he thinks is the best thing to do for everyone around him.

And that is why, I believe, his Ultimate title cannot be a lie.

Anyway, thank you for reading! Sorry it’s another long one, but what can you do. I hope you enjoyed it, either way!

#kokichi ouma #kokichi oma #danganronpa v3 #danganronpa #analysis #theory

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