#there's also something to be said of him filling Max’ head with faceless loved ones humanising them as a tactic to urge him

[barbituratecongestion]

Macbeth, William Shakespeare / Henry IV , William Shakespeare Collateral (2004) dir. Michael Mann

On the homophone pair ‘deer’ and ‘dear’ in Shakespeare’s works, the line in Macbeth denotes those that were dear to someone. Also seen in Henry IV.

In Collateral the function the usage of homophones assumes is adapted when Max makes out the bloodied windshield from the hit to be the blood of a deer; the original meaning being extracted just before with Vincent – in a similar vein – noting about his quarry, “they’re somebody’s friends…”

In addition, prior to the cops pulling them over, Vincent muses: “Probably married. Maybe that one's got kids. Probably his wife's pregnant…” assessing the potential familial relations of the (“deer”) persons he threatens will be added to the quarry of murdered “deer” ones filling the trunk space.

[stormberry-12]

faceless // P3: yes sir. negative ~ charles leclerc x reader

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!driver!reader

includes/authors notes: language, lack of equal rights/ gender equality, readers an unknown figure in the races, fem!reader's gender assumed as male, use of "y/n". So sorry this took so long, I've had some mega writters block and no motivation really. But I hope it's still good and thank you so much for all the kind feedback, it means a lot! <3

Bold Italics are the past.

Normal Italics are thoughts.

summary: "There is a new mysterious driver on the grid. Nobody knows who he is, the only thing we know is that he races for Red Bull with the number 66. Other drivers call him the faceless driver for none have ever seen his face or heard him speak. The faceless driver is a legend in the making and even giving Lewis Hamilton and Max Verstappen a run for their money…”

"No fucking way mate," Lando choked out his words, "Holy fuck-" 

Lando's face had never looked so shocked, he scratched the inner corner of his left eye as if he thought he was seeing something. And when his eyes focused back on you, you could see his mind filling with questions. His eyes flickered from the helmet sitting on the ground to the tears brimming in your eyes.

"Oh my god," you sobbed into your hands as your mind began to race. 

Should you run away? 

'Oh, sorry Lando, no you must have seen my celebrity doppelganger in the suit earlier. It wasn't me-"

"No wait, don't cry-" he protested, rushing over and crouching down next to you on the ground, "You're my idol, I'm like obsessed with your driving, you're frickin' amazing-"

"Oh, shut up Lando!" you snapped, instantly feeling bad for yelling in his face. He was silent for a moment, not taken aback by your outburst though. "Sorry," you whispered.

You looked up to see him scanning your face intently. "You haven't told Charles yet," he said matter-of-factly like he could read your life all of a sudden.

You shook your head.

"Who else knows?"

"Just you and Christian-"

"Heh, I'm so special,"

"Lando stop!" you cried quietly, feeling more tears forming. "You weren't supposed to find out and I'm so going to get fired for this-"

"Why would you be fired?" he asked,  "You're the driver keeping Red Bull afloat right now while Max is shittin' the bed,"

"Because. It's part of my contract that no one knows who I am,"

"Who came up with that shit?"

You furrowed your eyebrows at him, "What shit?"

"Your contract rules," he said.

"We both did. I didn't want to be in the media, I've never liked it. And Christian just agreed I guess-"

"But you and Charles were just in a video together, you've been doing media anyway," He chuckled dryly.

True.

"And you and Charles love each other, I can see it in your eyes, I don't think the media content is going to stop anytime soon. Frankly, they will ask you to do more now that you've already agreed once."

Also true.

"I understand that privacy is important to you but..."

"Yeah, I know, I know... you're right," you said, wiping tears away from under your eyes, thinking back to the tweets you had just read, "After the video went out I was expecting so much worse but nothing happened, I might need to take a chill pill."

"Maybe..." he said slowly. "And why should-"

"-I care what people on the internet think of me?" you stole the words right out of Lando's mouth, a smile growing on his face. "Charles tells me that every time I don't help with his Twitch streams,"

"Right, you're thinking like a media-trained F1 driver already!" he grinned. "Except, I don't think you're getting enough credit for your racing because you keep that helmet on all the damn time. Just one guy's opinion though,"

You hummed in response, getting lost in your own mind again.

"I won't tell a soul, I promise," He crossed his hand over his heart, "Scouts honor,"

For some reason, you felt you could trust Lando. You gave him a small smile and let your shoulders relax, taking deep breaths to calm your nerves. He stood up and offered you his hand, you took it gladly and rose to your feet. "I think you should talk to Christian about it,"

"I will, thanks Lan,"

"No problem," he winked, slowly stepping away, "And for what it's worth I truly meant what I said before. You're amazing, don't let them push you around or tell you otherwise. You gotta pave the way for all the little girls out there."

That shook you to your core. 

You had never thought about your career that way and it bothered you how oblivious you had been.

How could you not realize the impact you could be making for the girls who dream of racing just like you had? Who cared what some old guy on the internet thought about women in motorsport, he needed to grow up. And you needed to make a difference. It was all sliding into place.

Also, since when had Lando been that well-spoken in his life?

After a quick 'See you on track,' you and Lando parted ways towards your respected garages. Pulling your helmet over your face, you stepped out of the alleyway and marched towards the blue and red signs of the Red Bull garage.

Christian gave you a look through your visor as you walked up to the car, you just nodded, he hated it when you were late. You climbed into the car and tried to shake the nerves out of your body, you could see a camera in your peripherals, panning the garage and landing on you. 

Pave the way Y/n.

This newfound purpose gave you anxiety but at the same time a different kind of drive to your craft. You could feel the car hum beneath you, grateful for the all-clear from the team, you exited the garage to start warming up your tires.

"Radio check, you ready for this?"

"Yep. Copy." 

Shit, that sounded forced didn't it? Why were you acting so weird? Be yourself Y/n.

"Ah, not going to humor me today? That's too bad mate," Rick chuckled.

"Don't know why but it smells like barbeque in the car,"

"You've got a problem, change your fucking carrrr,"

"No, you change your car because Checo has been saying the car is fucked-"

This had Ricky howling with laughter over the mic.

"Okay, that's enough lads." Christian stepped in, pulling the plug on you and Rick mocking him.

"Fun police..." Ricky sighed.

"I'm not a fun police, do your job Richard."

"You are a fun police, I have it on record. I hAvE it, I hAve iT pRiNteD oUt!"

"66."

"Sorry." you replied, giggling to yourself and waving back at Lando as you passed.

"Damn it!" Charles cursed stomping towards the Ferrari garage. He had just spun out two races in a row and had to, unfortunately, retire from the race.

Walking into the garage he could feel all eyes on him as he stuffed his gloves and balaclava into his helmet angrily. A few engineers and his trainer gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he walked past, but no one dared to interact with Charles while he was this livid.

He needed y/n.

She was who he always needed after a bad race, he walked to his driver's room remembering the spin-out from his previous race hoping that y/n would actually be there this time.

"Where's y/n?"

"I don't know mate, sorry. She disappeared a while ago," an engineer named Fred shrugged.

But of course, as he opened the door she was nowhere to be found once again. Thoughts ran through his mind a hundred miles per minute

Had she always left after he got into the car and never actually watched him race?

Is he not as important to her as she made it seem?

Was she just in this for the money like a few of the girls he had been with before?

No, y/n isn't like that. He told himself, but still, he felt that pang of uncertainty in his chest. It would certainly be the reason why whenever he asked for her opinion on his performance it was almost as if she didn't remember what happened, she would just nod, smile, and agree with whatever he said.

Charles sat down on the couch and shut the door to his room. The TV had the race on and he watched the 19 remaining cars complete lap after lap. 

He couldn't watch this anymore...

"Ohh! That was a nasty hit from Verstappen from behind- SOMEONE HAS SPUN INTO THE WALL AND IT LOOKS TO BE THE OTHER RED BULL!"

"Oh my, it is! I can tell you right now Crofty, Christian Horner is not going to be pleased about that,"

"The race has just been red-flagged and we are currently awaiting more news on the second Red Bull driver. Here's a replay, there's Max Verstappen in third and his teammate ahead of him in second."

"And Verstappen was told to hold position because both drivers were in the podium places, Max is slightly slower than his teammate with very worn tires, but he pushes them anyway and tries to go for the very forced overtake. And there it is! Now why does he swerve into his teammate?!? This is mind-boggling to me-"

Charles looked up from his phone and back to the television. A bright 66 is painted on the Red Bull that is in pieces on the edge of the track. And as the camera zooms into the smoking race car, the eerie silence in Charles's driver's room makes his chest tighten slightly.

"Oh dear, it seems we have no verbal conformation from the driver so as you can see the medical car has made it's way to the scene."

Charles watches the unconscious driver slowly get pulled from the car and layed on a stretcher right there on the side of the track. They lift the visor of his helmet and shine a light across the driver's face as their eyes flutter awake. Beautiful eyes that Charles had engraved in his brain from the moment he met her.

previous chapter // next chapter

[childishfluff]

The Feeling Of Family- A MCYT Agere/CGLRE fic (Regressors!SBI+Tubbo and Ranboo, Carer!Philza)

There was a very specific feeling that came to Ranboo when he met up with his internet friends. A weirdly comforting feeling, a reassurance that he had finally found his people.

It came to him with every hug from Tubbo, every teasing ruffle of his hair from Techno, every inappropriate joke he shared with Tommy. It clouded his mind every time he regressed with them, too, he didn't quite know how to describe it. But if he had to put a name to this odd emotion, he'd call it 'the feeling of family'.

A/N: get ready for a looooong ride. This was written over the course of two days, I really hope you guys like it! I haven't dropped a fic thats over 4000 words in a bit, I think. This is inspired loosely by Cypherr's (on ao3!!) fic 'four's a family', that's where I got the idea of Phil just being overwhelmed because there's so many babies to deal w/, so I'm crediting them! Though, this fic is much different then their's, but also please go read their fics they're great- anyways, I hope you enjoy! This fic is kinda (?) in Ranboo's pov (third person but like,,,you see his thoughts), but there's so much going on that it kinda feels like it's jumping around? Sorry for that, I'm used to writing w/a 2 littles max per caregiver ratio, so this was different. I've also never written Phil as a caregiver before besides his brief appearance over in my 'Mister Nook' series. okay I'm done rambling,,,enjoy the fic please!

--

There was a very specific feeling that came to him when he met up with his friends. A weirdly comforting feeling, a reassurance that he had finally found his people.

In an internet dad, a fellow faceless streamer who used a pig as his icon, a song writer, a bee-loving teenager, and another who was known for wearing red and white. He felt just a bit out of place in this dynamic, SBI were the ones that were close. SBI plus Tubbo wasn't an odd pairing either, and it almost seemed as if Ranboo was only there because Tubbo was.

But that doubt seemed to wash away with the welcoming energy that the car ride to Phil and Kristin's home was filled to the very brim with. Tommy and Wilbur arguing like brothers while Ranboo and Tubbo joked about. The half-joking stern look that Phil gave him through the rear view mirror when he made an inappropriate joke. The soft feeling that Techno teasingly ruffling his hair left in his chest.

This group felt like family.

Of course, he had a perfectly good set of parents back home, but this was different. In a good way, though. This home wasn't his, it was Phil's, but he was surprisingly comfortable here. He was comfortable with his close friends.

"Breakfast is ready!"

He jolted awake with a slight shock when he heard knocking and shouting outside of the door of the room he was staying in, the noise startling him from his sleep. He rubbed at his eyes and stretched his arms above his head as the sleepiness started fading from his mind, clocking the voice as Tommy's as he processed his surroundings. It was his second day at the Philza Minecraft's, the first being made up of mostly content creation.

They had all been shown to their respective guest rooms late last night after quite a few movies and a half-asleep conversation full of laughing and heartfelt emotions. Today was supposed to be a chill day, and the next they'd be exploring the area just around Phil and Kristen's home. It was Ranboo's second time in the UK, and just like last time, he wanted to explore and get a feel for the place he'd be temporarily living in.

He fished some clothes out of his suitcase, pulling them on and discarding his pajamas in a white laundry hamper he had been given for that exact purpose. Then, he sat on the bed, pulling out his phone and scrolling through it. He chuckled as he saw a picture of their entire group with a fan they had run into the day prior, just after he was picked up from the airport, remembering how many similar ones had been taken during his last meet up.

He thought back to the months he spent at Tubbo's house just a while ago, it was one of the funnest parts of his life if he was honest, and now he was right back in the UK for another long meet up. This one was supposed to be a month, at least. SBI and the Bee Duo all under one roof for an entire month! Twitter had freaked out completely when they heard of this arrangement.

During his last trip to the UK, he found out something interesting after revealing something about himself to Tubbo. He admitted to his habit of age regressing to his friend during a late night conversation, only to be met with a 'me too' and then being asked if he wanted to call some friends. This response had confused him, but he said agreed, figuring that there had to be some logic to this.

And after an hour long conversation with Techno, Tommy, Wilbur, and Phil, he learned about an ongoing secret dynamic between the group. Tommy, Tubbo, Phil, and Wilbur were all also regressors. This was a lot of information to process at around 6 am during an all-nighter, but he was glad to know he wasn't alone.

Almost immediately after finding out about his headspace, Phil insisted on taking care of him, messaging him more often and helping him regress over video calls. And over the process of a few weeks, Ranboo had been officially added to the group of littles Phil cared for regularly.

The man took the time to learn his headspace range, things that upset him, how to deal with him when he did misbehave (though the occasion was rare, especially compared to someone like Little Tommy), all in the name of making sure he was cared for. It was sweet, really, and sometimes the boy felt bad for all the man did for him.

He pushed these thoughts away as he heard his name called by his father figure from the kitchen. He groaned, exiting off of Twitter and making his way out of the room and down the hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he mumbled, still tired. He took his seat between Tommy and Tubbo after entering the kitchen/dining area and was quite overwhelmed with the amount of greetings and 'good morning!'s' he got all at once.

"How'd you sleep, hun?" he smiled when he heard Kristin's voice, humming a bit, settling on responding to her instead of facing the rest of the ongoing chaos in the kitchen.

"Pretty good, I think. Still waking up, though," he admitted. He watched the woman bring a plate over to him, setting a stack of pancakes in front of him. "Thank you."

Before she got the chance to respond, Tommy was shouting all to loud for how early it was in the morning. He sounded whiny, too. "Why does he get his first? I was awake before him," he complained, earning a response from Wilbur as he entered the room, his obviously messy hair temporarily contained by a beanie.

"Maybe because he's not throwing a fit over everything like you are," He made his way over to the table as Phil shot the both of them a look. Ranboo minded his own business, digging into his food, he knew that he wasn't in trouble. The brown haired man sat next to Tommy, leaning back in his seat casually.

"Will, be nicer to your brother. And Tommy, be patient, or else both of you will be put in timeout the moment we finish eating." he threatened, half joking.

"What?" Tommy said, sounding shocked as his eyes went wide.

"I second that, none of us are little!" Tubbo finally spoke up after laughing at the situation the whole time.

"Tom-tom here is sure acting like a baby, though," Wilbur teased, sitting back up to ruffle the blond's hair, continuing even when the younger whined and attempted to shove his hand away. He only retracted it when Phil gave him another stern look.

"Stop teasing him and eat your food," he told him as Kristin brought over plates for Tommy and Wilbur. "Where's Techno?" Phil seemed like he wanted to continue talking to Wilbur, but was distracted when he noticed that someone was missing. Wilbur smirked, sticking his tongue out to Tommy, as if bragging about being let off the hook.

Even Ranboo could admit, even out of headspace, everyone seemed to fill their roles in the family dynamic well. Wilbur was the cocky middle brother who somehow simultaneously gets in the most trouble and gets away with everything, Techno is the oldest who's mostly calm but will join in on the antics when it seems fun, and Tommy's the youngest who will play the 'innocent' card at any chance he could get.

Ranboo and Tubbo's exact roles were a bit undecided, but they seemed to consist of a lot of watching the scene play out and somehow getting dragged into an argument they had nothing to do with. Phil acted as their dad, who kept peace between everyone and tried to keep things calm, while Kristen played the role of a sweet mother-type figure.

When they were little, it was a bit different, but the general feeling of family remained the same.

After a few chaotic minutes of gathering everyone up and calming everyone down, they were all sitting around the table and talking in a much more civil manner. Things got loud once again only a few minutes later when Tommy knocked over his cup of orange juice.

"Sorry!" he squeaked, "I didn't mean to!" he defended, looking up at Phil apologetically. He immediately seemed much younger, a light pout on his lips as he apologized for his clumsiness.

"It's alright, Toms." the man assured, flashing a soft smile to let the regressor know that he was alright, reaching for the paper towels across the table. In just a few moments it was like there was never a spill in the first place. "Can you get him a sippy cup, please?" he asked Kristin, who immediately set off to get the requested item.

"I told you he was a baby," Wilbur spoke up next, predictably earning protests from the clearly regressing boy next to him.

"I'm not a baby!" the younger cried, looking to his other  "Techno, tell him I'm not a baby!"

"I mean, only babies need sippy cups," the other man leaned a bit closer the table, his words causing the teenager's eyes to widen.

"Can't Kristin just refill dis one?" he questioned, holding up the cup he had knocked over and looking to Phil hopefully.

"Sorry, buddy, I just don't want you to make another mess." Phil sighed, shooting a disappointed look towards Wilbur and Techno. Ranboo sunk further into his seat, trying to avoid getting pulled into the conflict. He wasn't sure how the others could handle Phil's 'disappointed look' so easily, the boy was very much scared of it.

"I'm not gonna!" Tommy whined, practically glaring at the cup that was set in front of him a moment later. He huffed and crossed his arms, refusing to drink or eat anything.

"This is what happens when you make fun of him, he gets all insecure and stubborn," Tubbo groaned, rolling his eyes as if they had been through this process a million times over.

"Tubbo's right, apologize to him," the oldest man ordered. Wilbur and Techno looked at him as if this suggestion was completely outrageous, so he added, "Now."

"Okay, okay!" Wilbur gave in, sounding defensive, "I'm sorry, Toms. You're not a baby."

"Really?" he lowered his arms, finally uncrossing them.

"No, you're just clumsy and we're sorry for making fun of you for it," Techno sounded very reluctant, but he followed Phil's orders. After these apologies, the rest of breakfast went fairly smoothly. By the end of it, Tommy was very obviously fully regressed and making a useless attempt to hide it.

It was a fairly often occurrence that Tommy slipped just for fun, acting and being treated like a kid was something he just liked. He got to be the annoying little brother and watch cartoons while he did it, it was a win-win across the board.

But Phil and Kristin knew, that whenever one of them slipped over their voice chats, anyone else in the discord call would too. And now, they were all actually together under one roof, so he was sure he'd have five littles to deal with by noon at latest.

--

As predicted, all of the boys ended up in littlespace, slipping one after another like a line of dominoes getting knocked over. After some reassurance from Phil, Tommy allowed himself to slip, and he dragged his best friend into a game of pretend. And the two toddler minded teenagers decided they wanted to play with Techno and Ranboo as well, and Wilbur soon followed when Phil babied him a bit to much.

At first, it was quite loud, and there was a lot of conflict and disagreements between the boys. Eventually, after everyone but Ranboo had managed to get in some sort of trouble, Phil sat the boys down to watch cartoons. Tommy, Tubbo, and Wilbur were out like a light one episode in. Wilbur was in babyspace, he always needed extra sleep, and Tommy tired himself out by crying when he assumed Phil was upset with him.

Tubbo, however, was just tired. No excuse, that's just how he was sometimes.

Ranboo and Techno were older then the rest of them, and far more behaved, so they didn't get quite as much attention earlier in the day. Phil was quite busy comforting Wilbur and trying to keep Tommy and Tubbo in check, and it didn't help that Kristin had to leave the house. To make up for this, Phil wanted to do something special with them while the other three took their mid-day naps.

After a while of Ranboo and Techno watching cartoons, trying to stay quiet so that their friends could sleep peacefully, Phil spoke up.

"Boys, quietly follow me," he whispered, managing to get out from under from where Wilbur was laying cuddling up to him without waking the boy up. Techno and Ranboo glanced at each other, seemingly confused but intrigued. They scrambled to get up, following their caregiver into the kitchen.

"What are we doin', dada?" Techno questioned once they entered the other room. They had left the cartoons on, so Phil was fairly sure they wouldn't be able to hear what was going on in the kitchen.

"You guys are gonna be my little helpers for snack time, okay? I got some special treats and such for everyone and we need to put everything together before everyone gets up!" the man explained in a quiet but excited tone, speaking even quieter as if his next words were a secret, "And if you guys do a good job, I'll even give you an extra cookie."

Ranboo's face immediately lit up, and he bounced on his feet as he awaited more instructions. Phil specifically chose him and Techno out of all of them, they must be special. It was like a super secret mission, just for them!

"So we're all gonna have fruit and vegetables before we get to the sweets," he continued on, going over the fridge and pulling out various fruits and vegetables, "Techno, could you wash the strawberries and blueberries for me?" he asked.

"Mhm!" he agreed, excited to be able to help. It seem weird that Phil's idea of "something special" was just putting them to work, it was more about the idea of making them feel special. They were more well behaved then everyone else, so they got extra time with Phil and a cookie.  

"What do I get to do?" Ranboo questioned. He watched as Technoblade took the containers with the fruit he was told to wash over to the sink.

"Are you big enough to pour drinks for everyone?" he questioned, pulling various new sippycups and bottles from a hidden spot in one of the cabinets. The two littles gasped, completely distracted from their tasks, "Yes, some of these are for you two." he chuckled at their excitement, coming over to Ranboo and holding out a simple but cute black and white sippy cup.

"I thought maybe you could put stickers on it," Phil explained. The boy nodded quickly, practically attacking him in a hug. "Okay, go on, get to work now." he said, motioning over to the counter where the rest of them sat.

As requested, they got to work. Techno helped wash the fruit and put then on their plates, while Ranboo filled the sippy cups and bottles with whatever drink each one of them liked best. His demise came when he tried to sneak soda into his sippy cup without asking, and he managed to spill it all over the counter.

"Uh oh! Spill on aisle Ranboo!" Phil joked, grabbing the paper towels and running over to help. Immediately, the boy panicked. He was the well behaved one, and Phil was gonna find out that he was trying to be sneaky! His guilt was obviously clear to the caregiver, because the next thing he said was, "Don't worry, accidents happen."

The gentle and reassuring tone he used only made him feel worse. It only took the man a moment to actually realize what the boy had been pouring into the cup. "Ranboooo," the caregiver held out his words, sounding disappointed, "You know that you could've asked for soda if you really wanted it, right? You've been so good all day, I would've given it to you."

"Really?" he asked, pouting when the man took the cup and dumped the liquid in the sink. He then ripped paper towels from the roll and wiped up the remainder of the drink from the counter.

"Yeah, I would've," Phil affirmed, "But trying to sneak around me isn't okay. You told me you were putting juice in here. That's lying, and I know for a fact that you're big enough to know that's not allowed. " he tsked, causing Ranboo to look down at his feet.

"M' sorry," he mumbled, ready to cry over such a small thing. He knew what he was doing was dumb, Phil rarely let them have sweets like that when they were small due to the fact that they got hyper.

"Don't cry, sweetheart, you're not in trouble," the man assured with a sigh, softening his tone immediately, rinsing the cup out as he spoke. Ranboo still felt bad, despite the gentle reassurance. He glanced up to see the man filling his cup with his favorite drink besides the over sugary soda: strawberry lemonade. "Here you go." he tightened the lid onto it and held it out for him.

"Sorry, dada," he apologized again, his eyes still glassy as he took it in his hands. Phil sighed a bit, opening his arms and pulling him close.

"You're okay, buddy, I promise you." he spoke gently, "Little boys make mistakes sometimes, it's alright." The man knew that while Ranboo might've been regressed to an older age, he was still quite sensitive, and he always felt overly bad whenever he got in trouble. Even if he had managed to get away with sneaking the soda, he would've owned up to what he did guiltily after just a few sips of the drink.

That's just how he was.

"M' all done!" Techno's voice interrupted them as he finished placing the snack-filled plates in their spot at the table, besides their respective sippy cups. Phil pulled away from the other regressor and ruffled his hair, smiling at him before addressing the other little.

"Good job, honey. You're such a good helper," he complimented, before looking back to Ranboo. "And so are you." he reminded. Ranboo giggled a bit, feeling happiness well up in his chest at the praise despite any childish guilt. The giggles only increased when his caregiver tapped the button of his nose, causing him to scrunch it up.

Once he was sure that Ranboo was alright, or at least doing a bit better, he gave them their next instructions. One good thing about Ranboo was that it was easy to sway his emotions to the more positive end if it was done before any tears came. "Take your seats and eat, I'm gonna wake up your brothers and have them pick up their toys from earlier, then they'll join you." he told them, before leaving the room.

Technoblade's eyes followed Phil as he exited the room, and he waited until he was sure he was out of earshot to say anything. "Psst, 'anboo," Techno leaned close to the table, grabbing the other boy's attention.

"Wha'?" he questioned, popping a grape in his mouth and tilting his head in curiousity.

"We should scare daddy when he comes back in! It'll be so cool," he suggested, "We can wait by the door and jump out!"

"Hmm...," Ranboo looked over to where the other pointed, considering his options, "We 'posed to be eatin'." he pointed out, shaking his head.

"We won' get in trouble, it's just playin' round," he tried to sound convincing. It seemed to work, because Ranboo reconsidered, before hesitantly nodding. He grabbed one more grape and his sippy cup before standing up, Techno leading him over to the entrance of the room. They were concealed behind the wall on either side of the doorway.

They listened Phil woke the others up and helped them put the toys away, excitement ramping up as they waited. To their shock, Tommy entered first, fully ready to greet him in his usual loud tone. Techno quickly put his finger to his lip, shaking his head to signal him to be quiet. Tommy's eyes widened as he realized what was happening, deciding to duck behind the with his older brother.

It was then that Phil entered, carrying Wilbur. The boys jumped out from their spots, exclaiming different variations of "boo!" and "AHH!", breaking out into giggles immediately after. Wilbur squeaked, the sound startling him a bit, but he didn't seem upset. "Well hello, little ones," Phil chuckled, "If I remember correctly, you boys are supposed to be at the table."

"Jus' wanted to scare you! We go eat now," Techno assured, taking Tommy's wrist in his hand and pulling him over to the table. Ranboo however, peeked behind Phil to see if Tubbo was coming.

"Where Tubs at?" he pulled on Phil's shirt before he could walk away, whining a bit.

"He had a bit of an accident," the man admitted, "He's a bit smaller now, but he'll be out soon, okay?"

"Okay..." he trailed off, looking out into the living room, completely set on standing there until his best friend was able to join him.

"How about you head over to the table, kiddo?" his caregiver questioned, earning a pout from the little. "Okay, okay, you can wait here for him!" he decided, figuring there was nothing wrong with it. With a forehead kiss, Phil left him at the doorway.

"Tubbo! We gots apple slices for you!" he rambled excitedly when his friend finally did arrive, running towards him and grabbing his hand. He started to pull him further into the kitchen, but the mentally younger of the two stumbled a bit, seemingly clumsier then he was earlier in the day.

Ranboo realized that he had a pacifier in his mouth now, and he saw Phil replacing his sippy cup with a bottle out of the corner of his eye. He had worked hard to put apple juice in that sippy cup, he thought, pouting a bit.

"M' sorry, didn' mean to make you almost fall! We can go slow," he decided, earning a thankful smile from the other regressor. "Are you gonna say anything?" he asked, walking beside him. As they approached the table, Phil replied for the boy.

"He's a bit younger, bud, he might not be up for talking," he explained, "You know what it's like to be so little that you feel like a baby. Can we all be understanding? He's only a bit older then Wilbur at the moment." "

Tubbo seemed quite embarrassed as he sunk into his seat, pulling his pacifier from his mouth to eat his food. There were sounds of agreement around the table. Ranboo was curious as to what exactly made Tubbo slip so much younger then he usually did, but he didn't voice this curiosity, settling on eating his food in favor of not embarrassing his friend anymore then he already was. .

"These are yucky!" Tommy claimed, pushing his plate with carrots and ranch away from him.

"You like carrots and ranch, what are you talking about?" Phil sounded tired and just a bit annoyed.

"Don' want em," he shook his head, whining just as he had that morning when Wilbur teased him.

"If you eat them you'll get a cookie," the caregiver bribed.

"What type of cookie?" the toddler minded boy squinted his eyes, as if considering this, as if it was a negotiation of sorts.

"Sugar cookie, chocolate chip, I think we have Oreos too...whatever you could want," this definitely caught the boys interest.

"Chocolate chip?" his eyes went wide with excitement, which was only intensified when Phil nodded. Immediately, he uncrossed his arms and pulled his plate back towards him. Phil seemed satisfied with this, ruffling his hair.

The boys were still waking up, so Phil asked them to talk about their elaborate games from earlier in the day to keep them occupied. So, as they ate their snacks, they giggled about imaginary wars and adventures and argued over who won their dramatic plastic sword duels. Eventually, the caregiver gave them their promised sweets before sending them back off to play.

"Ranboo, you left your sippy cup in the kitchen," Phil tapped the boy's shoulder and distracted him from his game of peek-a-boo with Tubbo. He quickly discovered that his friend seemed much to little to participate in any games he'd usually play, so he did what he always saw Phil do with Wilbur: play a simpler one.

It was obviously much more entertaining for the littler of the two, but Ranboo was happy to hear his friend's giggles and squeaks. "Oh! Thanks, dada!" the boy reached up to take his sippy cup from the caregiver as he was sitting on the floor and Phil was standing. Ranboo gasped when he took a drink, feeling bubbles on his tongue.

Immediately, Phil put a finger to his lips and gave him a warning look. This made the boy giggle a bit as he nodded, understanding the signal. "Thank you!" he repeated, smiling when his hair was ruffled softly. The moment didn't last long, Tommy called Phil over for something, and it was back to peek-a-boo with his best friend.

Ranboo didn't mind it, though, peek-a-boo was fun. Being with everyone was fun, even if it meant he got a bit less attention due to there being so much going on. It all evened out, he got to be a snack time helper! And he got an extra cookie! If you asked him, that was pretty awesome.

In the next few days, they'd all get back into making more collaborative content, as that was the point of this meet up, but for now, it was just time to play. To spend time together, to cuddle, and giggle, and make far to much noise in the name of fun. To just be a family.

That was the specific feeling that came to Ranboo with this meet up. The comforting feeling that bubbled in his chest whenever he got a forehead kiss or his hair ruffled by Phil, or when he played babyish games with his friends when they regressed younger then him.

This was the thing that clouded his mind whenever he regressed with this group specifically, or when they were in the car, joking about anything and everything as they got closer and closer to their destination. A feeling that consistently made his life better, the feeling that brought a smile to his face everyday...

The Feeling of Family.

--

A/N: I really hope you liked that adorable mess of 4500 words! I appreciate reblogs and likes, but no matter what, thanks for reading to the end! Did you like the chaotic feeling that five littles/so many people brought into my fic? I kinda had to switch up my normal formulas to make room for so many characters, there's a reason I literally put three character to sleep halfway through the fic hjsikajsa. Did I write Phil well? I tried to portray how a caregiver w/so many littles would act somewhat realistically? Kind of overwhelmed but managing. Also, did you like me portraying ranboo as 'the angle little' of the group? idk I felt like it fit his personality in the scenario. If you reply with/send an ask/reblog with feedback, you can answer those questions, leave a request for something (whether it be in the universe father into the month-long meetup timeline I set up or just another fic), state your general opinions on the fic, or just leave a strand of emojis if words are hard. No matter what, it means a lot! I hope you all have a great day!!!!

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

COSMIC - S3:E2; Chapter Two, The Mall Rats - [Pt. 1]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

Baffled with Mike's sudden behavior, El seeks out Y/n and Max for advice while Will struggles to get through to Mike and Lucas. Billy takes his co-worker on a field trip, and Steve and Dustin enlist a helpful ally in their top-secret mission.

WARNINGS: possible allegory to r*pe when the mind flayer does his little ✨ possessing ✨. It's not meant to sound like it, but when I wrote Will getting possessed I'm pretty sure some people compared it to that and I just want to be sure yall are safe reading this so [■■■■■■] these guys are back. Hope this helped! + oh yeah also brief mention of gore and v*mit [yes I censored that, let's move on] but they all fit inside the warning markers.

A/n: can't remember if I put this before but f/d = favorite drink

||𝟑𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

An eerie silence stretches across the town of Hawkins, from the bustling new heart in Starcourt Mall all across town to the edge of its grassy hills. Sitting in the shadows of these grasslands, tucked in with blankets of discarded steel and machinery all being pulled back into the earth to be properly claimed is the stomach of the town; Brimborn.

Unlike the heart, it is shrouded in darkness, death, and decay. It sits abandoned just miles off the main roads and welcomes nothing but trouble. Once nothing but an empty husk of potential had long since reared its head and swallowed a darkness—the sickness of Hawkins—that now resides deep in the belly to be digested.

And it had just gotten its first taste in months.

Billy Hargrove stumbles out of the darkness of the steel stairway and into the forgiving light of the moon.

His face nearly collides with the concrete on at least three occasions in the time it takes him to run back to his car. His adrenaline spikes with every frantic beat of his heart and heaving of his lungs. The rubber soles of his boots punch the concrete, only hammering in the fear of being pulled back under. He can't understand what he just saw, nor can he hold off the feeling of nausea brewing in his gut much longer as he fumbles for his keys in his pocket.

It would seem he has enough luck to get inside the car and start it. The sound of tires squealing against the pavement is music to his ears. He's back on the road just as soon, head pounding painfully as he tries to keep his shaking hands that grip the wheel from throwing him off the road. And they are able to do so for several minutes—several minutes of Billy choking down air and adrenaline while the smell of burning diesel from his car stings the back of his throat. And yet still it wasn't the worst sensation in his mouth by far. He could still taste the rot sitting on his lips and tongue... from that... that thing...

He doesn't know where he's going apart from away—as far away as he could get from Brimborn until he sees a box of light in the distance just off the side of the road. A payphone. He could call someone. Hell, if this thing was chasing him—if it got him someone should at least know what little he did. His car lurches off the road with one swift yank on the wheel and suddenly his tires are screaming against the asphalt again. Clumsily Billy throws open his door and tumbles out onto the streets, stumbling to the payphone he had spotted.

He's already on the phone before he realizes; time was still moving in blurs catching every other moment as he blacked out. Yet another miracle he managed to make it down the road safely in his car. Billy's chest heaves up and down as he drowns in panic, trying so desperately to get ahold of each breath.

His eyes, bloodshot and wild, sweep the darkened streets and he jumps when a soft click goes off in his ear.

"911, what's your emergency?"

At once, everything comes back to Billy, still in flashes.

He remembers a lurch in his gut when the car spun out, followed by a searing pain in his temple that spread throughout his skull in a dull ache. He can smell smoke from the busted engine. It was covering up a smell of rot and sewage and... and an overwhelming sense of copper like an old change jar. It was similar to the smell coming from the blood running down his face. Its texture almost similar to the slime he felt on his fingertips when he saw the state of his windshield.

Another lurch in his heart when something shrill cried out as it scurried by.

And then his face was in the dirt. Something had hooked his leg and reeled him in. Billy remembers the pain of his nails clawing at the dirt. And then concrete and then metal stairs. He can feel it all burning his stomach too like road rash. A blood-curdling scream tore from his throat as his fingers burned, they were in searing pain as they clung so desperately to the iron doorway where they eventually lost their battle.

[■■■■■■]

What followed never held the absence of more pain, that was all he knew. From his chin colliding with every metal step, to the thousands of tiny feet clawing at his body as the swarm closed in. And ultimately the unbelievable anguish of that thing invading every cell in his body. It all happened so fast, even in the moment and he was left but nothing but the horrifying image of a bloodied tentacle attacking his face.

Every attempt at a scream was shoved back down his throat along with the dark and bloodied mass spewing from its insides like icy vomit. He could feel it going everywhere, soaking through into his bloodstream and it traveled throughout his body.

[■■■■■■]

And just as Will Byers had experienced half a year ago; Billy felt every essence of warmth cease to be, and all that existed was icy darkness. And there it remained.

He could feel it even now as he stood underneath the flickering lights of the phone booth.

I̵̢͖̘̪̞̻̜͍̪͛̌͘͝s̴̮͈̮̟̮̥͔̃͘ ̶͉̂͛ş̷̳͉͖͖̠͉͉͇͖͆ó̴̝̰͉̟͙̘̝̥̲͂͌̒̿̅͝͝m̵̖̐̌̽̐͋̊̏͝e̵̛̜̘̰̫̩̋̅̊ͅo̷̢̫̻͙͕̫͚̮̅͗̃̃̐͊̋̕͜͠ǹ̶̡̞͖̪̯͉͓̖̜̳̉͝e̷̬̞̣̝̬͕̱̫͊̏ ̴͕̇̌͆͑̄͋̄t̴͎̯̥͉͌̕h̶̹̚͜e̴̯͔͓̬̗̞̥̳̠͜͠r̶̨̬͎̬̙͉̩͐͜ë̸̥̣̺̘̭́̇̽̉̓̐̕͘?̵̼̠͛̋ ̸̪͒͋H̸̭̺̞̬̖̎̓̇̐͆͐̚͝͠ͅe̸̢̲͎̭͊̄͗̌͌͝l̶͉̉͜͜ḽ̵̠̟̻̅̏͗̏̒̌͜͝o̵̖̙̼͓̽̓̎?̶̩̱͎͍͉͓̅̑̈͋͝

Darkness. That was all that was left after the distorted voice died out with the rest of the booth. His eyes flew everywhere, but not for long. An impossible chill fell over his already frozen body when he realized what was so wrong.

The world outside the phone booth was not how he left it—not how it was only moments ago. The beautiful summer night sky was swallowed by storm clouds, taking all warmth with it. The air was heavy and sticky, a combination of humid and cold all at once. It was hostile, and it wreaked of decay. But what startled Billy most was the glistening array of vines that engulfed the earth and everything on it.

In a sickly daze, he stumbled in front of his car. Its headlights seemed to shine brighter than the moon and yet it was not enough to illuminate the oncoming army of figures marching through the fog.

"What do you want?" He asked, feeling brave. When they didn't answer, he stalked forward several steps and raised his voice in a panic. "Hey! I said, what do you want?"

No answer. Just the haunting sound of the marching of the faceless army. He matched their step, just a notch slower thanks to the fear filling his lungs. Billy was too afraid to notice the scarlet lightning raging up above his head.

"I said, what do you want?!"

The faceless army stopped but its leader remained in a steady march straight for him. Try as he might, Billy couldn't bring himself to take another step. He could only watch with bated breath, heart in his lungs beating so loud he could hear it in his ears as the figure revealed himself to him. When he did, Billy's next breath was stolen right out of his chest.

Standing there before him was another Billy Hargrove.

||𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

"Are you sure you know how to ride that thing?" I quip, watching as Max tumbles off her board for the sixth time since she got on.

"Do you wanna give it a try?" she asks, smirking. "Wanna see if you can do a kickflip?"

"Oh, that's not a question I need answered," I say, finishing another sip of my f/d. I put it back down on the curb beside me where I sit, and lean back with my hands propping me up in the grass. "The question is, can you do a kickflip?"

"I can, I told you," she huffs, turning her board back over. "I did one this morning,"

She mounts her board and tries again. The board flips under her feet but never comes full circle. Her feet land on the edge of the underside and she stumbles back. Max releases another frustrated huff, moving the bits of hair that had fallen over her face.

"I'd give that a solid 4.0," I comment.

"Why are you here again?" She asks, stopping to look at me. Her face is stern but anyone could see she was teasing. Mostly.

I laugh and stretch out my legs.

"Cause you love me?" I offer, sheepishly.

Max clicks her tongue, pretending to think about it. "Mm, no I don't think that's it."

"But you don't deny you do?"

"Whatever," she scoffs, hopping back on her board.

"You do love me," taking a long, loud sip of my drink I grin with my eyes and she rolls hers.

I tip the f/d all the way back, lick my lips, and sigh.

I ultimately decide I've put it off long enough and I rise from the curb.

"I'll be back. I gotta whiz,"

Max eyes the empty glass of f/d I have in my hand and smirks. "Surprise, surprise. You're gonna run us dry at this rate,"

"You guys ate all my Mac n Cheese," I wink, and she blushes. "I'm just doing the neighborly thing and repaying the favor,"

Max rolls her eyes and scoffs, and feeling victorious I disappear inside.

||𝟑𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

Max's eyes linger where Y/n had disappeared and her lips threaten to hook upwards in a small smile. She quickly shakes her head, forcing herself to focus back on the task at hand.

Maybe if she got a running start.

Max takes off on her skateboard and gives it another try. The board barely moves.

Her third attempt is the closest but still wields no results.

And when she tries a fourth, her board flies out from under her and cruises down the road.

Where it lands at El's feet.

Max straightens, unsure of where this was about to head. She watches carefully as El picks up the skateboard and makes her way over.

Was this really happening?

El had never wanted anything to do with anyone other than Mike, and Y/n.

So what was she doing here?

"Hi," she says.

"Hi?"

El hands her skateboard over to Max, her steely composure melting a little.

"Is Y/n here?"

Max's shoulders fell, any hopes she had growing in her chest dashed.

"She's inside," Max said, trying to mask her disappointment. "She'll be back out in a minute,"

Max took her skateboard and returned it to the concrete, ready to hop back on. But El's words stopped her in her tracks.

"Can... we talk? All of us?"

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Welp. Another day, another migraine for Robin Buckley. She couldn't even pretend to care anymore as she numbly hands over what had to have been the sixth dozenth ice cream cone of her first shift.

"Have a nice day," she drawls, passing the cones to the over-eager couple.

"Thanks!" They turn away, heading for the door, revealing the next over-eager customer in line.

He bounces up to the counter, wearing a Roast Beef tee, bright yellow ball cap, and a toothless grin.

"Hi!"

Robin blinks. "Hi," she says carefully.

His smile never wavers, even when he seems to catch on to her cluelessness. He gestures to himself.

"I'm Dustin," he clarifies.

"I'm Robin,"

"Pleasure to meet you," man, this kid's optimism was a little unnerving. Impressive, but unnerving. But hey, at least it was something new. He glances over her shoulder and back to her expectantly. "Uh, is he—? Is he here?"

"Is, who here?"

The sudden and obnoxious sound of rubber shoes squealing against the freshly waxed linoleum floors ripped their attention to the employee-only door. It had been thrown open as the figure before them had nearly crashed through. There stood an overzealous Steve Harrington wearing his usual Scoops Ahoy uniform and a growing grin.

His mouth falls open in a gape, unable to contain his excitement and he throws his arms up.

"Henderson,"

Dustin laughs excitedly as Steve begins bouncing around the counter to greet him.

"Henderson! He's back!" He cheers. "He's back!"

"I'm back!" He cries, gesturing past a Robin and her startled expression to the giant Scoops Ahoy sign. "You got the job!"

"I got the job!" Steve blows an imaginary trumpet before going in for their handshake.

As it always did, the handshake gradually morphed into a false battle, imaginary lightsabers drawn and clashing. Each of them create their own sound effects. Dustin thrusts the invisible blade of light into Steve's abdomen, who in turn illustrates his fake wounds. The pair of unlikely friends fall into a fit of giggles, while a less than impressed Robin watches in boredom behind the counter.

The name had already registered, but she was still a little shocked at the other Henderson she never had a chance to meet. She always forgot there were two, and if Robin was being honest, she preferred the other one so far. Sure, the girl stared a lot but she seemed less... well whatever this was.

Looking at her coworker, she tilts her head and cocks a brow. "How many children are you friends with?"

The young man sighs, exasperatedly swiping a hand over his mouth as he gestures to her, giving Dustin a tired look.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"No," Steve laughs through a cracked smile. "No way! Hotter than Phoebe Cates? Nah,"

Dustin hums, swallowing a bite of his ice cream, and nods excitedly.

"Brilliant, too! And she doesn't even care that my real pearls are still coming in. She says kissing is better without teeth,"

"..." Steve nods, trying his best to not let his nervous laughter shine through. "Wow! Yeah, um—well that's great! I'm proud of you man, that's rom— that's kind of romantic. That's like... wow!"

Dustin hums happily in agreement, swallowing another bite of his ice cream. He shakes his head.

"Do you really get to eat as much of this as you want?"

"Yeah," Steve shrugs. "I mean, sure. It's not really a good idea for me though. You know, I gotta keep in shape for the ladies,"

-"Yeah, and how's that working out for you?" Dustin and Steve follow the voice across the shop to see Robin shooting them a knowing look.

"Ignore her,"

"She seems cool," Dustin's smiles.

"She's not," Steve says, eyeing the foot traffic outside Scoops Ahoy momentarily. "So, where are the other knuckleheads?"

"They ditched me yesterday,"

As Dustin digs out a spoonful of his U.S.S. Butterscotch Sundae, Steve laughs off the boy's last comment in disbelief.

"What? No way,"

"My first day back. Can you believe that shit?"

Steve's face falls when he sees the look on Dustin's face. He sits up in his seat, growing angry.

"Woah, seriously?"

"I swear to god, mhm."

"No, no not Y/n though?" Offered Steve, sounding genuinely surprised. "I mean, I don't think she wanted to admit it but she was pretty psyched about you coming home,"

"Yeah, Steve. Even Y/n," Dustin snaps. But judging by the look washing in after his outburst, he doesn't seem very committed to his anger. He sighs into his ice cream. "I mean, she tried to stick with me but she had to leave with Byers or something. Said she was worried,"

"That blows," Steve says, sighing into a hunch over the table. "I'm sorry, man."

Dustin nods, eyes still drilling into his Sundae. No doubt dwindling on his growing separation from his sister and friends. Feeling bad for the kid, Steve still remembers the events of the previous year. And if, like then, it had something to do with Will, then... Well, he couldn't really blame her. But he was broken up just seeing Dustin like this.

"Hey, I'm sure it's fine," Steve tries. "You know her better than anyone; if she's worried about something she has a good reason. I'm sure she's just being cautious, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want to be here with you. I'd just give it time,"

"I guess," Dustin frowns, his spoon playing with a cherry on his ice cream. He suddenly perks. "Doesn't matter now, though. They're all gonna regret it, anyway. Big time. When they won't get to share in my glory."

Steve sits up, growing curious.

"Glory? What glory?"

A sort of cocky smirk grows on Dustin's face and he scooches further in the booth, closer to Steve. His voice lowers a considerable amount, only doubling Steve's curiosity.

"So last night," he begins. "I was trying to get in contact with Suzie,"

Unfortunately for Steve, he catches the playful look on the kid's face and nervously nods along. The 'no teeth' comment and the small, uninvited image it forces onto his mind threatens a shiver.

"and I uh," Dustin leans in further, pausing to scan the ice cream shop as he hides his mouth behind his hand. When his next words come out, they're barely a whisper as he looks into his bowl."I intercepted a secret Russian communication."

Steve only blinks, his mind racing to catch up with the words he thought he heard. He blinks again.

"What?"

"Uh," It's clear Dustin is trying to look as casual as possible, but every attempt at doing so was only obscuring his words more. "IinterceptedasecretRussiancommunication,"

"Just speak louder,"

"I intercepted a secret Russian communication!"

The shop goes quiet, everyone including Robin who stood behind the counter stopped to look at them. Steve shifts in his seat, hastily shushing the boy as discreetly as possible.

"Jesus, yeah. OK, well that's what I thought you said." Both of them look around the shop again, relieved to see everyone had gone back to their conversations assuming they misheard. Either that or wanting to keep out of it. "Wait, what does that mean?"

"It means, Steve, that we could heroes. True American heroes."

"Ahh," Steve says through a blooming smile.

"Mm-hmm,"

"American heroes," Steve said, liking the sound of the words on his tongue.

"Just think. You could have all the ladies you want. And more."

"More?"

"More."

"I like more."

Dustin hums, and as the two think on it they can very nearly picture their glorious, hopeful future before them.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch, I just need your help."

"With what?"

Dustin only smiles, turning to his backpack beside him. Unzipping the bag, he retrieves a small red book that he displays with a hopeful smile. The title read,

RUSSIAN - ENGLISH

ENGLISH - RUSSIAN

"Translation."

· · ─────── ��𖥸· ─────── · ·

5 Ways To Help Palestinians Through Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions - [link]

20 Organizations That Support Black Women During Black History Month and Beyond - [link]

Stop Asian Hate Linktree: A variety of resources dedicated to helping those affected by, and stopping Anti-Asian Violence - [link]

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Tag List:

@dickkwad​ @aimee-lucass @iblesstherainsdown-in-africa​ @miscellaneoustoasts​ @happyandlonely-blog​ @missmulti @youpi-chan​ @peeperparkour​​ @ba-responds​ @bibliophilesquared​​ @blogforhoes​ @witch-of-all-things-soft​​ @shawkneecaps​ @whothefuckstolemykeds​ @mirdall @fishswimbetterunderwater​ @daughter-of-the-stars11​ @stranger-things4​​ @kpopanimegirl​ @nightbu-g​​ @lozzybowe​​ @bluechildrenlickmytoes​ @spiderbitch69420​

❥ Let me know if you would like to be added to or removed from the taglist! ❥

[kyloren]

«you have witchcraft in your lips» —famous!Bughead

When Jughead Jones and Betty Cooper were cast as leads for HBO’s Harry Potter prequel show Magic is Might, they thought they did not know each other. They were wrong.

note: this is a collaborative work between myself and @lilibug--xx. I wrote Jughead’s POV and she Betty’s. Be warned, we are each other’s betas, too. 

read it on ao3. 

“A dress made of air and webs and you,

The wet dreams evaporate as they come true.

To anyone else just endless blue,

An invisible kite string connects me to you.”

— Pieces of Sky by Beth Orton.

CHAPTER ONE: mr jones and me, we’re gonna be big stars…

@Variety: HBO picks up four pilot episodes, including Toni Topaz’s Harry Potter prequel project.

@Deadline: Up-and-coming musical director Kevin Keller branches off from theatre and confirms working on Harry Potter prequel series with HBO — Magic is Might.

@EntertainmentNews: BREAKING NEWS: Disney darling Veronica Lodge officially casted as one of the leads in Kevin Keller’s upcoming Marauders Era project — Magic is Might.

@Buzzfeed: You will not believe who was just confirmed to be cast in Magic is Might! 

@CherryBombshell: To all my loyal, beautiful followers: Of course, I got the part. How could they not cast moi?

@NZHerald: Singer-songwriter Archie Andrews is rumoured to be involved with HBO’s Magic is Might.

@Deadline: Magic is Might Harry Potter prequel series finds its Sirius Black: “He walked in right off the street and I knew — that is our Sirius Black,” says showrunner, Kevin Keller.

@EntertainmentNews: HBO’s Magic is Might just cast its Remus Lupin, and it’s a very interesting choice.

@Buzzfeed: Magic is Might’s Remus Lupin is now — Remmy Lupin?!

.

.

.

.

THE WAYWARD PRINCE:

The thing about Jughead Jones — he was weird, and he liked to be weird.

Jughead Jones was the following things: adroit wordsmith, razor-sharp, and a smart-mouthed asshole. He was not, however, the sort a teenage girl’s dreams were made of. He was a little too tall and a little too angular with a face that was a little too fond of scowling to be conventionally attractive. He had two girlfriends in the span of his entire life, and first one he’d acquired when he was nine for the span of two days. He was akin to a scalpel — sharp-edged, clinical, and very good at cutting people out of his life.

Except, Sabrina.

Never Sabrina.

And because of Sabrina — he was here, regretting everything.

“This,” Jughead grumbled for the nth time, “is all your fault.”

“Yes,” Sabrina agreed, throwing a dusky-blue button-down at him with a glare that clearly conveyed wear this or else, “it is my fault that you’ve landed the biggest television role of this year. I apologise for being magnificent.”

Jughead snorted. “Potter is the lead.”

“Who cares? Sirius is obviously meant to be the hot one. That makes his role the bigger fish. And you,” Sabrina said, tilting his head sideways and inspecting the carelessly casual style she arranged his hair in (read: brushed once and let it air-dry), “cousin-german, will soon be smiling from a poster on every pubescent girl’s wall and be the main feature in their dreams.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Jughead’s scowl grew deeper, a feat he had not imagined was achievable before he’d done it. “I’d rather not.” 

Two hours later, two thirds of which were spent navigating L.A.’s atrocious traffic, Jughead found himself lounging in a deceptively comfortable egg chair in a Hollywood studio, waiting to proceed with the first script reading session with the rest of Magic is Might cast. Sabrina, primly perched to his right, was scanning the others over the brim of her rapidly cooling coffee cup with shrewd, pale-grey eyes, as Jughead lazily thumbed through the script.

“Stop eyeing them like you want to wear their faces as a mask, Ree,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“I am so not. I’m eyeing them like I want to make a fashionable skin suit, obviously. Get your facts straight, Jones.”

Here was the thing; — Jughead firmly believed that if you did something, you better put your best foot forward from the start; to do your very best at everything you undertook and not half-ass it simply because it required effort. (Life required effort, Jughead often reminded himself, if it didn’t it wouldn’t be so damn difficult.)

This stance seemed at odds with his disaffected and cynical slacker persona, but what could Jughead say — he was contrary like that. He could remain apathetic and be a pedantic perfectionist at heart; he had layers, like a lasagna.

But precisely that sort of attitude had landed him the lead role in Magic is Might as Sirius Black.

It had happened nine days ago, when Jughead had accompanied Sabrina to her second audition for Magic is Might — she had failed to get Lily Evans’s role and was trying out for Narcissa Black. Jughead was there for emotional support, for the sort of get your shit together, you walking waste of space pep-talks Sabrina and he excelled at. He was there to permit his hand to be crushed in a vice grip as she waited for her name to be called, and to take her to Wildflower Café by their apartment to gorge on breakfast foods and stuff their faces with toasted marshmallow milkshakes in the face of another disappointment.

Jughead Jones was, by profession, a screenwriter; he wrote seven plays, one of which had been actually made into a film. He was not an actor. The universe disagreed, however. Kevin fucking Keller disagreed, too, apparently, because the moment Jughead had walked up to a dumbfounded-looking Sabrina after her audition — handkerchief at the ready, just in case — he’d been spotted by Kevin fucking Keller’s eagle-eyed stare. Kevin fucking Keller who’d taken one look at Jughead, pointed his finger at him and with eyedrum piercing snap, barked out, “You, there — in here, now.” and Sabrina, that fucking traitor, had pushed him forward into the audition room.

It was serendipitous he knew the script like the back of his hand, having practiced with Sabrina until they were blue in the face, it was also fortuitous his reaction in the face of sheer audacity was to fall back on his most defining traits — sarcasm and generally all-around fuck-you attitude.

Both, as it had turned out, were great characteristics for one Sirius Black.

So here he was, Forsythe Pendleton Jones the third, newly minted actor extraordinaire with no education about the craft and enough talent, according to Keller, to fill the Pacific ocean and then some — out of his depth, and feeling utterly displaced.

It was a peculiar feeling, foreign and unwelcome — Jughead hated it with the blazing ebullition of pure abhorrence.

“Hey,” Sabrina called, soft as a whisper, placing her hand on his knee, stilling it. Jughead hadn’t realised his left leg had been bouncing. “Relax, bro-bro.”

Jughead opened his mouth to reply something along the lines of Shut it, hambone, but was interrupted when a tall shadow of a small person fell across his lap.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mad Max himself,” commented a small, red-headed girl on berry-red charged murder-weapons on the lam from the law and thus posing as women’s footwear. “So, tall, dark, and inexperienced, how does it feel to finally be in the real show biz?”

There was a refractory set to Jughead’s clenched jaw, so Sabrina answered in his stead, snickering, “I don’t know Big Red, you tell us?”

The girl’s exceedingly red mouth was reset out of its perpetually sullen pout into a grimace of distaste. “For a virtual nobody, you sure have a mouth on you, Emily Strange.”

There were four rules Jughead Jones instinctively followed whenever he chose to speak: Was he being rational? Was he being truthful? Were his words necessary? Were they kind? Often times, if he had not met all of his criteria, Jughead would settle on keeping his silence a while longer.

This, was not such a time.

“Is that all you can do,” Jughead found himself rasping out, “try your utmost to diss people with painfully obvious references? You’re not doing a very good job, are you?”

“You’re a pretty cool customer, huh?”

“I hide my inner pain underneath a stoic visage,” Jughead quipped. Cheryl Blossom looked like would like nothing more than to dig her red-tipped claws into Jughead’s stoic visage.

“Hey, guys,” said a guy in corduroy slacks and a blue-yellow varsity jacket of all things; he was average-height, but with a Heroic Build identifying him as James Potter material. There was a hint of admonishment in his tone, but not enough to reign anyone in. “We’re supposed to be getting along…”

Jughead was utterly unsurprised when he was promptly ignored.

Big Red sneered down on them and with a snazzy flip of gloriously red hair, pointedly perched on the corner of the oval table. Then, she extended a bedazzled with a shape of a cherry phone Jughead didn’t realise she held in front of her on a selfie-stick, and with that godawful pout, began, “See, my lovely cherries, when presented with a choice between either Tim Burton Junior and his blonde Fran Bow or a ginger Kelly Clarkson, Cheryl Bombshell has no choice but to choose herself. I certainly hope their acting is better than their personalities because those are as parched as a dry spell.”

“Oi, Cherry Bomb!” a female producer barked sharply, the one with pink-striped hair and a punk attitude, “don’t fucking live blog a closed script reading, you imbecile!”

“Don’t call me that!” Cheryl Blossom snarled, teeth unnaturally white against the vivid red of her mouth. “How are my cherries supposed to know what I’m doing at any given moment if I don’t blog about it?”

“I don’t know,” Jughead grumbled, too low to be heard by anyone but Sabrina, who promptly elbowed him in the ribs, “maybe try not to seek validation from a faceless mass of people online?” said the kettle to the pot, he mentally added.

The woman with the pink hair was even shorter than Cheryl, but when she stood up, she cut an impressively intimidating figure nonetheless. “This,” she growled, “is what we get for casting a bloody Instagram starlet.”

“She’s a solid choice, Toni,” Keller admonished, softly, gingerly prying away her fingers off his bicep, “she can act and her hair is iconic. What more could we ask for?”

“A fucking professional attitude for one. And maybe,” Topaz, that was her name, Jughead finally remembered, pointedly shouted in red-head’s direction, “not to always pout like she’s about to suck dick.”

Cheryl Blossom looked up from the highly-focused examination of her razor-sharp talons she’d been performing and pouted. “I don’t suck dick on sheer principle, you grotsky little byotch.”

Varsity Jacket raised his hands in placation. “Okay, seriously, maybe you should—”

“Toni, go smoke a fag and find your chill,” cut in Keller, and her hand immediately shot up, giving him the middle finger, but she left the room nonetheless. “And Cheryl, take it down a notch. I’m serious, you hear me?”

Cheryl turned away from him with a huff, but she hadn’t said anything. Instead, she began typing away furiously on her phone.

Huh, thought Jughead.

Kevin Keller was not a tough guy, he noticed, he did not have a commanding presence. Even Varsity Jacket drew more attention to himself with his ridiculous floppy hair, freckled face, and All-American attitude. But, Jughead decided, Kevin Keller understood women. With that in mind, Jughead settled back in his chair, reading over the script yet again.

It was fifteen minutes later when Toni Topaz strode into the room, her combat boots practically abusing the dotted, grey linoleum with the force of her steps, not looking an iota less stressed. “Fuck it,” she announced, “if we wait anymore for those two, we’ll get behind schedule.”

“All right, then,” Keller said, clapping his hands, “places, everyone.”

Like the asshole she was, Sabrina took the seat assigned to him, next to Varsity Jacket, and switched their name planks with a wink. Jughead had neither the inclination nor the naiveté to question her choices, so he dragged the chair he had been sitting for the last half-an-hour towards the table by its back, and positioned himself on Sabrina’s left, straightening the SIRIUS BLACK plaque so it was uniformly aligned with all the others.

The plague before a lounging Cheryl Blossom did not read BITCH FROM HELL, much to Jughead’s surprise, instead, it said — LILY EVANS.

A thought streaked across the forefront of his mind: We are all royally fucked.

Varsity Jacket’s named turned out to be Archie Andrews. Jughead knew that now because the first words out of that kid’s mouth were, quite literally, “Hey, there. I’m Archie Andrews, I’m eighteen, you may know me from last year’s 16 Birthday Wishes, and I look forward to working with ya all.”

Jughead could not have conjured this kid up had he even tried. He shared a concerned glance with Sabrina who mouthed, is he for real? and Jughead only had the energy to shrug. Yeah, he decided, he could see this Archie Andrews as one James Potter. If he squinted.

Cheryl Blossom did not introduce herself. She scowled at all of them, even poor golden retriever puppy personified Andrews, called them philistines, and proceeded with reading her lines. Interesting development: she could act. Expected conclusion: she packed too much malice into her lines and came of as passive aggressive. Keller had to intermediately correct her. That was, however, a correctable quality she could redeem herself from with enough effort; or so Sabrina had said, Jughead’s inescapable, little-devil-on-the-shoulder-type expert on all things acting™.  

When it was his turn to read, Jughead did what he had always done when he read out loud his scripts during editing: tried his damndest not to stutter, keeping his voice smooth and even, and detached himself from the situation, rendering himself utterly impervious to nerves and apprehension. It was not Jughead Jones who had been reciting the script from memory as the lines printed on paper streamed before his eyes in a confusing, maddening swirl — it had been Sirius Black doing all those things; teasing his friend James, flirting with prim and proper Lily, arguing with Narcissa.

Disassociating might have kept Jughead’s anxiety at bay, but it made Sirius Black come alive.

So, of course, once Jughead had gotten into the swing of things, the universe rained on his parade: the door slammed open, revealing two girls standing on the other side of its frame.

“Oooops,” said the shorter one, her dark hair reflecting light attractively as she stode in the room. She had not sounded particularly sorry, Jughead noticed. “Apologies, hadn’t meant to barge in quite so—”

“Veronica,” Toni cut in, as bitingly as a wolf, “you were supposed to be here half-an-hour ago!”

“That late, huh,” muttered Veronica assumingly Lodge, flipping her wrist to check the slim, diamond-encrusted watch on her left hand. “Apologies, Toni, darling, but L.A. traffic is simply odious, as you well know. Got held up.”

“By what — appearance of abominable snowman in the middle of Franklin Avenue?”

“Not quite,” Veronica replied, a sly not-quite smile settling on her face, “Betty and I—”

“Of course, you had hamstrung Cooper, too.” Toni cast a dirty look over Veronica’s shoulder at a willowy, nervous-looking blonde still hesitating in the doorway. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you there, princess.”

“Well, as I was saying, Betty and I,” continued Veronica Lodge, bulldozing over Toni completely and out of the corner of his eye, Jughead could see Call Me Archie Andrews’s jaw unhinge a little, “were late completely by accident, but it was all my fault. Let’s just say, a Lodge doesn’t always land on their feet.

“Still, I had to amend such an insufferable grievance,” Veronica smiled, charmingly, still sly as a fox. “Imagine how tickled pink I was to learn we are not only headed into the same building, but for the same script reading—”

“To which you are late; both of you,” grumbled Toni, but she seemed to have lost most of her heat. Kevin was rubbing her shoulders soothingly as she massaged her temples. Momentarily, Jughead wondered if she was prematurely grey beneath all that pink dye.

“—long story, short: Betty here,” Veronica said, stepping back and drawing the taller girl into her side. “Is my new BFF and I love her to pieces.”

“From a five minute meeting,” Kevin asked, corner of his mouth twitching.

“Boo, you whore,” teased Veronica, earning an unexpect snort from Sabrina, “it’s love at first sight. Don’t judge.” Then:

“You there,” Veronica snapped her fingers in the direction of a fish-eyed assistant Jughead took care to ignore — she’d been making moon-eyes at him, according to Sabrina, and there were times to be wary of his cousin’s advice, but not in instances such as this one. “Fetch me a skinny venti white mocha, one shot, with two pumps of sugarfree vanilla, no whip — pronto. I can’t think clearly without my daily recommended injection of sugar and caffeine.”

Immediately, the situation dissolved into absolute bedlam as everyone clamoured for Ginger’s attention to place their coffee order, too. She’s a sly one, Jughead thought for the third time, smart, too.

Here was the thing about Jughead Jones: he was an objective observer of life, not an active participator. An introvert and a borderline misanthrope, he regarded the world from a safe distance of cool, clinical detachment — he watched and he recorded and he understood because he noticed enough to pay attention in the first place; he was perceptive, and he used this to his advantage. 

And as if enticed by a magnetic pull, Jughead’s eyes drifted towards the leggy blonde to his right. The first thing he noticed her was this — she was uncomfortable. The second was that she was seemed nervous, displaced; and third — well, she was making her way towards him.

This girl, however, was totally throwing him for a loop.

She was dressed in a diaphanous, intricately embroidered, sapphire-coloured blouse, and when she shifted to pull out her chair, Jughead could see her laced brassiere through the silk material. Unexpectedly, she sat next to him, across from a plaque reading REMMY LUPIN. She had a striking look — blue-eyed and golden-haired with a face like a porcelain doll’s; wide-eyed, lovely, and haunting in its stillness. I met a lady on a moor, Jughead though, aureate hair, refulgent eyes; a dancing, starry sprite.

“Hi,” she greeted, turning to him, face splitting into a blooming, honeyed smile, white teeth gleaming, the streaming sunlight from the window behind them set her braid into a molten blaze, “I’m Betty.”

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THE DREAMER:

“Three creams, two splenda, please.”

Betty Cooper was already running (hopefully, fashionably) late; not exactly a good first impression. She had woken up behind schedule (she had sort of fallen into the black hole that was Tumblr, recently, and had taken to staying up late); her cat, Caramel, had thrown up all over the kitchen floor. One side of her hair had dried flatter than the other — she was never going to bed straight from the shower ever again. And her uber had been running behind. Fantastic, she had uttered when finally arriving at the address given. The time on her phone alerting her that she should would have been inside already, had her morning gone accordingly, sipping on her coffee without a care in the world.

Well, that last bit was a stretch. If you asked anyone who knew her, they would say without a doubt that, Betty Cooper cared too much, about everything.

It was kind of her thing, though. Betty had a profound sense of perseverance and applied it to anyone in need of help that she came across. Polly (her older sister and recently, albeit somewhat regrettably, her manager) akined it to her being like a new mother, babying her fresh-faced ducklings. It often impeded her own desires and well-thought out plans.

Betty was a goner for a schedule. She could plan her day like nobody’s business — rarely did it ever actually go according to plan though. She would describe herself as being meticulous bordering the edge of perfectionist — Betty actually detested that word. Being in control of the situation, however, gave her life.

This was all new to her though, at least, fairly. Acting, that is.

She had been on edge of booking a flight back to San Francisco for what seemed like months. With only $200 to her name, and a can of cold soup sitting like a rock in her belly, Betty had auditioned for a role in Magic is Might. She had been failing auditions for months, her savings account was gone, and she was exhausted from working two menial jobs in order to have money to even go to auditions.

So, by all accounts, Betty figured an extra boost of caffeine was in order to make it through the whirlwind day that had been plotted ahead. A table read with her cast mates of Magic is Might, who she had yet to meet, was slotted for the whole day. As well as some promotional pictures of the group. The whole thing came together rather quickly for an HBO show, as she understood. Betty would be forever grateful that they hadn’t found anyone for the part of Remus Lupin yet.

Somehow, her name had been misspelled (she wanted to glare at Polly) and they thought it had said Elizander, on her papers. Whoever had been manning the audition hadn’t done a thorough look-through at the time and had barely looked up at her, just shooed her through the door. They seemed desperate.

To be fair, she hadn’t realized that the part of Remus was male. Of course, she had read the Harry Potter books, who hasn’t? But Polly had simply implored her to get her ass to this audition, without much else to go on.

Everyone had stared at her when she entered the room, but the guy in the middle of the group seated before her had stood up, planting his hands on the table with a loud smack.

“Excuse me, this isn’t —”

“No, excuse me, but that was incredibly rude.” A blush bloomed across her chest, streaking upwards, despite her outward display of confidence. “I’m here to audition, so let me audition before turning me away.”

It turns out that the man was Kevin Keller, one of the showrunners. Betty had desperately wanted to curl into a ball from mortification when she found out, but instead she had been engulfed in a hug while he had exclaimed “Such fire!”, and had let her do the audition.  

They had complimented her afterwards. Apparently she had an inner voice that matched Remus’s suppressed darkness à la werewolf unequivocally. They were going to change the character and rework the script for her. Betty was unperturbed usually, but she had been floored by their sentiments.

Now, granted, they had done the same thing for the character of Snape, but that was for Veronica Lodge — ex-disney starlet who had bowed out of the limelight for several years only to return and turn everyone’s heads when she demanded the part of Severus Snape.

Betty mussed her life was going to be very different from here on out (assuming the show gets picked up after the contingent episodes), but she was looking forward to not cringing every time they ran her card through a register. She loved food, and coffee was a vice she wasn’t willing to give up.

In L.A. there seemed to be a Starbucks on just about every godforsaken block, so she had been thankful there was one conveniently close to the building she was now ardently walking toward. Betty was practically jogging as she took a sip of her drink, the mouthful of cold coffee was sweet and creamy. It was really refreshing — had she not just spilled it all over her shirt when someone plowed into her shoulder, jarring the cup from her hand.

Betty had stood frozen in place, her muscles turning tense as she panicked. Of course she had worn her favorite outfit today. Her pale pink sweater was now sticking to her skin uncomfortably, but thankfully there were only a few drops on her jeans — the dark color of them would prevent a stain from being noticeable, but her sweater…

“Oh my god, fuck, I am so sorry.”

Betty looked up from where she was still staring at her coffee soaked front, hand crushing the now empty cup. She blinked owlishly at the girl who had spoken. A dark haired girl with an equally empty cup, however stain free clothes — impeccable, by the way, in front of her. Small hands covered in white lace gloves (really? The urge to roll her eyes was strong) were reaching out for her and grabbing hold of her arm, gently albeit forcefully. Betty had no choice but to be tugged along and out of the path of the ravenous L.A. goers on the sidewalk.

“It’s… fine, really,” Betty hadn’t wanted to use the word, but there wasn’t anything else on the tip of her tongue. “I’m running late to my read through anyway, I should —”

Veronica interrupted her, raising her impeccably arched brows even higher. “Read through? As in, script?”

Nodding, Betty looked up to the tall glass front building they were almost in front of. She had been so close…

“Well, I think we’re headed to the same place then. Veronica Lodge,” the raven haired girl extended her glove covered hand and Betty raised her hand that wasn’t a sticky mess to shake it. Veronica continued, “pleasure to meet you…” she trailed off and Betty interjected.

“Betty Cooper.”

“Betty, allow me to offer you a new blouse, I simply can’t let you in there like that.”

Betty had started to shake her head, fingers itching to reach up and tighten her ponytail, but alas, she realized, she had worn her hair in a loose braid that brushed the edges of her collarbone. “No, that’s okay, you don’t have to do that.” she waved a hand, tossing her empty cup into the trash bin they had stopped by.

“I insist. Come,” it wasn’t up for debate anymore, that white glove grabbing Betty’s wrist again and pulling her toward a sleek black car that was parked some spaces down. “Don’t worry about being late, if we both are then they really can’t do anything about it."

Betty was surprised that the words didn’t sound pretentious coming from the other girls mouth, but humble. Veronica had pulled her inside the car, instructing her to pull the door closed. She hesitated before doing so, the door shutting with a soft click. She never thought being in a car alone with Veronica Lodge would ever be on her agenda, but here she was, with a collection of delicate tops spread over their laps that were distinctly not at all Betty’s style.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Her green-blue eyes examined the choices carefully, taking in the price tags still dangling from them. Her throat was dry, her swallow surely audible. Everything was more-than-her-rent expensive. Plucking the one with the smallest numbers up, a transparent (okay maybe she had made a mistake here…) sapphire-blue blouse with colorful embroidered flowers, “This one is great,” she smiled at Veronica.

“Oh, excellent choice. Can’t go wrong with Derek Lam 10.”

She scrunched her nose up, fingering the material. Veronica had leant back against the seat, arms crossed expectantly. Betty glanced around to the car windows. “You want me to change here?”

“I expect you, too, yes.”

Betty sucked in a breath of courage and peeled off the stained sweater. Thankfully, her white (unlucky, she had decided) lacy bralette would be suitable underneath the barely-considered-a-shirt. She felt Veronica’s dark eyes on her, watching as she slipped the garment on over her head. Betty tugged it down gently, it only hit the top waist of her jeans.

Veronica reached out a hand to snap the price tag off, tossing it into the empty front seat. “There, oh you have to keep it, it looks perfect on you.”

The blonde smoothed a hand down her somewhat exposed stomach, wishing she were thinner or more toned. “Sure. Thanks, Veronica.”

“You’re quite welcome, darling. Nothing bores friendship quicker than the sharing of clothes and gossiping over boys. So one down, one to go.”

Betty couldn’t help the smile blooming across her face at Veronica’s words. She could use a friend. L.A. had been a lonely place the past two years, which did nothing to help her anxiety.

“Of course, I’m looking forward to it. We’ll be spending a lot of time together after all.”

The other girl smiled back, tucking glossy black hair behind her ear. “Indeed, we might as well make the best of it.” she paused, checking the fancy was fastened around her delicate wrist. “We are incredibly late now, darling. We had better hurry along before Toni sinks her teeth into us.”

Betty nodded, climbing out the car door as gracefully as she could with shaking hands. Veronica had saddled up to her side, linking their arms together as they walked. Feeling a burst of adoration for the girl Betty felt she had wrongly judged in the past (she grew up watching Disney channel, after all) she vowed not to judge any of the other actors based on the same principle.

The ease of being by Veronica’s side made her nerves calm until they were in front of the appropriate conference room door. A wicked smirk graced the raven-haired girl’s features and she disentangled their arms. A dainty platform heeled foot kicked the door in with surprising force for such a small girl.

It had Betty stepping back, hiding away from the doorframe a ways, eyes darting around the room and taking in the scene. It looks like they had already started the read through, and the ball of nerves in her stomach started to grow again.

She did not think it would ever leave her.

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tbc.

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note: Title comes from Shakespeare’s Henry V: “You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate. There is more eloquence in a sweet touch of them than in the tongues of the whole French council.” Chapter title comes from Mr. Jones by Counting Crows. 

[lilibug--xx]

》you have witchcraft in your lips《

—famous!Bughead

When Jughead Jones and Betty Cooper were cast as leads for HBO’s Harry Potter prequel show Magic is Might, they thought they did not know each other. They were wrong.

note: this is a collaborative work between myself and @strix. I wrote Betty's’s POV and she Jughead’s. Be warned, we are each other’s betas, too. 

read it on ao3. 

“ A dress made of air and webs and you,

The wet dreams evaporate as they come true.

To anyone else just endless blue,

An invisible kite string connects me to you.”

— Pieces of Sky by Beth Orton.

CHAPTER ONE: mr jones and me, we’re gonna be big stars…

 @Variety: HBO picks up four pilot episodes, including Toni Topaz’s Harry Potter prequel project.

@Deadline: Up-and-coming musical director Kevin Keller branches off from theatre and confirms working on Harry Potter prequel series with HBO — Magic is Might.

@EntertainmentNews: BREAKING NEWS: Disney darling Veronica Lodge officially casted as one of the leads in Kevin Keller’s upcoming Marauders Era project — Magic is Might.

@Buzzfeed: You will not believe who was just confirmed to be cast in Magic is Might!

@CherryBombshell: To all my loyal, beautiful followers: Of course, I got the part. How could they not cast moi?

@NZHerald: Singer-songwriter Archie Andrews is rumoured to be involved with HBO’s Magic is Might.

@Deadline: Magic is Might Harry Potter prequel series finds its Sirius Black: “He walked in right off the street and I knew — that is our Sirius Black,” says showrunner, Kevin Keller.

@EntertainmentNews: HBO’s Magic is Might just cast its Remus Lupin, and it’s a very interesting choice.

@Buzzfeed: Magic is Might’s Remus Lupin is now — Remmy Lupin?!

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THE WAYWARD PRINCE:

The thing about Jughead Jones — he was weird, and he liked to be weird.

Jughead Jones was the following things: adroit wordsmith, razor-sharp, and a smart-mouthed asshole. He was not, however, the sort a teenage girl’s dreams were made of. He was a little too tall and a little too angular with a face that was a little too fond of scowling to be conventionally attractive. He had two girlfriends in the span of his entire life, and first one he’d acquired when he was nine for the span of two days. He was akin to a scalpel — sharp-edged, clinical, and very good at cutting people out of his life.

Except, Sabrina.

Never Sabrina.

And because of Sabrina — he was here, regretting everything.

“This,” Jughead grumbled for the nth time, “is all your fault.”

“Yes,” Sabrina agreed, throwing a dusky-blue button-down at him with a glare that clearly conveyed wear this or else, “it is my fault that you’ve landed the biggest television role of this year. I apologise for being magnificent.”

Jughead snorted. “Potter is the lead.”

“Who cares? Sirius is obviously meant to be the hot one. That makes his role the bigger fish. And you,” Sabrina said, tilting his head sideways and inspecting the carelessly casual style she arranged his hair in (read: brushed once and let it air-dry), “cousin-german, will soon be smiling from a poster on every pubescent girl’s wall and be the main feature in their dreams.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Jughead’s scowl grew deeper, a feat he had not imagined was achievable before he’d done it. “I’d rather not.”

Two hours later, two thirds of which were spent navigating L.A.’s atrocious traffic, Jughead found himself lounging in a deceptively comfortable egg chair in a Hollywood studio, waiting to proceed with the first script reading session with the rest of Magic is Might cast. Sabrina, primly perched to his right, was scanning the others over the brim of her rapidly cooling coffee cup with shrewd, pale-grey eyes, as Jughead lazily thumbed through the script.

“Stop eyeing them like you want to wear their faces as a mask, Ree,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“I am so not. I’m eyeing them like I want to make a fashionable skin suit, obviously. Get your facts straight, Jones.”

Here was the thing; — Jughead firmly believed that if you did something, you better put your best foot forward from the start; to do your very best at everything you undertook and not half-ass it simply because it required effort. (Life required effort, Jughead often reminded himself, if it didn’t it wouldn’t be so damn difficult.)

This stance seemed at odds with his disaffected and cynical slacker persona, but what could Jughead say — he was contrary like that. He could remain apathetic and be a pedantic perfectionist at heart; he had layers, like a lasagna.

But precisely that sort of attitude had landed him the lead role in Magic is Might as Sirius Black.

It had happened nine days ago, when Jughead had accompanied Sabrina to her second audition for Magic is Might — she had failed to get Lily Evans’s role and was trying out for Narcissa Black. Jughead was there for emotional support, for the sort of get your shit together, you walking waste of space pep-talks Sabrina and he excelled at. He was there to permit his hand to be crushed in a vice grip as she waited for her name to be called, and to take her to Wildflower Café by their apartment to gorge on breakfast foods and stuff their faces with toasted marshmallow milkshakes in the face of another disappointment.

Jughead Jones was, by profession, a screenwriter; he wrote seven plays, one of which had been actually made into a film. He was not an actor. The universe disagreed, however. Kevin fucking Keller disagreed, too, apparently, because the moment Jughead had walked up to a dumbfounded-looking Sabrina after her audition — handkerchief at the ready, just in case — he’d been spotted by Kevin fucking Keller’s eagle-eyed stare. Kevin fucking Keller who’d taken one look at Jughead, pointed his finger at him and with eyedrum piercing snap, barked out, “You, there — in here, now.” and Sabrina, that fucking traitor, had pushed him forward into the audition room.

It was serendipitous he knew the script like the back of his hand, having practiced with Sabrina until they were blue in the face, it was also fortuitous his reaction in the face of sheer audacity was to fall back on his most defining traits — sarcasm and generally all-around fuck-you attitude.

Both, as it had turned out, were great characteristics for one Sirius Black.

So here he was, Forsythe Pendleton Jones the third, newly minted actor extraordinaire with no education about the craft and enough talent, according to Keller, to fill the Pacific ocean and then some — out of his depth, and feeling utterly displaced.

It was a peculiar feeling, foreign and unwelcome — Jughead hated it with the blazing ebullition of pure abhorrence.

“Hey,” Sabrina called, soft as a whisper, placing her hand on his knee, stilling it. Jughead hadn’t realised his left leg had been bouncing. “Relax, bro-bro.”

Jughead opened his mouth to reply something along the lines of Shut it, hambone, but was interrupted when a tall shadow of a small person fell across his lap.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mad Max himself,” commented a small, red-headed girl on berry-red charged murder-weapons on the lam from the law and thus posing as women’s footwear. “So, tall, dark, and inexperienced, how does it feel to finally be in the real show biz?”

There was a refractory set to Jughead’s clenched jaw, so Sabrina answered in his stead, snickering, “I don’t know Big Red, you tell us?”

The girl’s exceedingly red mouth was reset out of its perpetually sullen pout into a grimace of distaste. “For a virtual nobody, you sure have a mouth on you, Emily Strange.”

There were four rules Jughead Jones instinctively followed whenever he chose to speak: Was he being rational? Was he being truthful? Were his words necessary? Were they kind? Often times, if he had not met all of his criteria, Jughead would settle on keeping his silence a while longer.

This, was not such a time.

“Is that all you can do,” Jughead found himself rasping out, “try your utmost to diss people with painfully obvious references? You’re not doing a very good job, are you?”

“You’re a pretty cool customer, huh?”

“I hide my inner pain underneath a stoic visage,” Jughead quipped. Cheryl Blossom looked like would like nothing more than to dig her claws red-tipped into Jughead’s stoic visage.

“Hey, guys,” said a guy in corduroy slacks and a blue-yellow varsity jacket of all things; he was average-height, but with a Heroic Build identifying him as James Potter material. There was a hint of admonishment in his tone, but not enough to reign anyone in. “We’re supposed to be getting along…”

Jughead was utterly unsurprised when he was promptly ignored.

Big Red sneered down on them and with a snazzy flip of gloriously red hair, pointedly perched on the corner of the oval table. Then, she extended a bedazzled with a shape of a cherry phone Jughead didn’t realise she held in front of her on a selfie-stick, and with that godawful pout, began, “See, my lovely cherries, when presented with a choice between either Tim Burton Junior and his blonde Fran Bow or a ginger Kelly Clarkson, Cheryl Bombshell has no choice but to choose herself. I certainly hope their acting is better than their personalities because those are as parched as a dry spell.”

“Oi, Cherry Bomb!” a female producer barked sharply, the one with pink-striped hair and a punk attitude, “don’t fucking live blog a closed script reading, you imbecile!”

“Don’t call me that!” Cheryl Blossom snarled, teeth unnaturally white against the vivid red of her mouth. “How are my cherries supposed to know what I’m doing at any given moment if I don’t blog about it?”

“I don’t know,” Jughead grumbled, too low to be heard by anyone but Sabrina, who promptly elbowed him in the ribs, “maybe try not to seek validation from a faceless mass of people online?” said the kettle to the pot, he mentally added.

The woman with the pink hair was even shorter than Cheryl, but when she stood up, she cut an impressively intimidating figure nonetheless. “This,” she growled, “is what we get for casting a bloody Instagram starlet.”

“She’s a solid choice, Toni,” Keller admonished, softly, gingerly prying away her fingers off his bicep, “she can act and her hair is iconic. What more could we ask for?”

“A fucking professional attitude for one. And maybe,” Topaz, that was her name, Jughead finally remembered, pointedly shouted in red-head’s direction, “not to always pout like she’s about to suck dick.”

Cheryl Blossom looked up from the highly-focused examination of her razor-sharp talons she’d been performing and pouted. “I don’t suck dick on sheer principle, you grotsky little byotch.”

Varsity Jacket raised his hands in placation. “Okay, seriously, maybe you should—”

“Toni, go smoke a fag and find your chill,” cut in Keller, and her hand immediately shot up, giving him the middle finger, but she left the room nonetheless. “And Cheryl, take it down a notch. I’m serious, you hear me?”

Cheryl turned away from him with a huff, but she hadn’t said anything. Instead, she began typing away furiously on her phone.

Huh, thought Jughead.

Kevin Keller was not a tough guy, he noticed, he did not have a commanding presence. Even Varsity Jacket drew more attention to himself with his ridiculous floppy hair, freckled face, and All-American attitude. But, Jughead decided, Kevin Keller understood women. With that in mind, Jughead settled back in his chair, reading over the script yet again.

It was fifteen minutes later when Toni Topaz strode into the room, her combat boots practically abusing the dotted, grey linoleum with the force of her steps, not looking an iota less stressed. “Fuck it,” she announced, “if we wait anymore for those two, we’ll get behind schedule.”

“All right, then,” Keller said, clapping his hands, “places, everyone.”

Like the asshole she was, Sabrina took the seat assigned to him, next to Varsity Jacket, and switched their name planks with a wink. Jughead had neither the inclination nor the naiveté to question her choices, so he dragged the chair he had been sitting for the last half-an-hour towards the table by its back, and positioned himself on Sabrina’s left, straightening the SIRIUS BLACK plaque so it was uniformly aligned with all the others.

The plague before a lounging Cheryl Blossom did not read BITCH FROM HELL, much to Jughead’s surprise, instead, it said — LILY EVANS.

A thought streaked across the forefront of his mind: We are all royally fucked.

Varsity Jacket’s named turned out to be Archie Andrews. Jughead knew that now because the first words out of that kid’s mouth were, quite literally, “Hey, there. I’m Archie Andrews, I’m eighteen, you may know me from last year’s 16 Birthday Wishes, and I look forward to working with ya all.”

Jughead could not have conjured this kid up had he even tried. He shared a concerned glance with Sabrina who mouthed, is he for real? and Jughead only had the energy to shrug. Yeah, he decided, he could see this Archie Andrews as one James Potter. If he squinted.

Cheryl Blossom did not introduce herself. She scowled at all of them, even poor golden retriever puppy personified Andrews, called them philistines, and proceeded with reading her lines. Interesting development: she could act. Expected conclusion: she packed too much malice into her lines and came of ass passive aggressive. Keller had to intermediately correct her. That was, however, a correctable quality she could redeem herself from with enough effort; or so Sabrina had said, Jughead’s inescapable, little-devil-on-the-shoulder-type expert on all things acting™.  

When it was his turn to read, Jughead did what he always did when he read out loud his scripts during editing: tried his damndest not to stutter, keeping his voice smooth and even, and detached himself from the situation, rendering himself utterly impervious to nerves and apprehension. It was not Jughead Jones who had been reciting the script from memory as the lines printed on paper streamed before his eyes in a confusing, maddening swirl — it had been Sirius Black doing all those things; teasing his friend James, flirting with prim and proper Lily, arguing with Narcissa.

Disassociating might have kept Jughead’s anxiety at bay, but it made Sirius Black come alive.

So, of course, once Jughead had gotten into the swing of things, the universe rained on his parade: the door slammed open, revealing two girls standing on the other side of its frame.

“Oooops,” said the shorter one, her dark hair reflecting light attractively as she stode in the room. She had not sounded particularly sorry, Jughead noticed. “Apologies, hadn’t meant to barge in quite so—”

“Veronica,” Toni cut in, as bitingly as a wolf, “you were supposed to be here half-an-hour ago!”

“That late, huh,” muttered Veronica assumingly Lodge, flipping her wrist to check the slim, diamond-encrusted watch on her left hand. “Apologies, Toni, darling, but L.A. traffic is simply odious, as you well know. Got held up.”

“By what — appearance of abominable snowman in the middle of Franklin Avenue?”

“Not quite,” Veronica replied, a sly not-quite smile settling on her face, “Betty and I—”

“Of course, you had hamstrung Cooper, too.” Toni cast a dirty look over Veronica’s shoulder at a willowy, nervous-looking blonde still hesitating in the doorway. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you there, princess.”

“Well, as I was saying, Betty and I,” continued Veronica Lodge, bulldozing over Toni completely and out of the corner of his eye, Jughead could see Call Me, Archie Andrews’s jaw unhinge a little, “were late completely by accident, but it was all my fault. Let’s just say, a Lodge doesn’t always land on their feet.

“Still, I had to amend such an insufferable grievance,” Veronica smiled, charmingly, still sly as a fox. “Imagine how tickled pink I was to learn we are not only headed into the same building, but for the same script reading—”

“To which you are late; both of you,” grumbled Toni, but she seemed to have lost most of her heat. Kevin was rubbing her shoulders soothingly as she massaged her temples. Momentarily, Jughead wondered if she was prematurely grey beneath all that pink dye.

“—long story, short: Betty here,” Veronica said, stepping back and drawing the taller girl into her side. “Is my new BFF and I love her to pieces.”

“From a five minute meeting,” Kevin asked, corner of his mouth twitching.

“Boo, you whore,” teased Veronica, earning an unexpect snort from Sabrina, “it’s love at first sight. Don’t judge.” Then:

“You there,” Veronica snapped her fingers in the direction of a fish-eyed assistant Jughead took care to ignore — she’d been making moon-eyes at him, according to Sabrina, and there were times to be wary of his cousin’s advice, but not in instances such as this one. “Fetch me a skinny venti white mocha, one shot, with two pumps of sugarfree vanilla, no whip — pronto. I can’t think clearly without my daily recommended injection of sugar and caffeine.”

Immediately, the situation dissolved into absolute bedlam as everyone clamoured for Ginger’s attention to place their coffee order, too. She’s a sly one, Jughead thought for the third time, smart, too.

Here was the thing about Jughead Jones: he was an objective observer of life, not an active participator. An introvert and a borderline misanthrope, he regarded the world from a safe distance of cool, clinical detachment — he watched and he recorded and he understood because he noticed enough to pay attention in the first place; he was perceptive, and he used this to his advantage. 

This girl, however, totally threw him for a loop.

And as if enticed by a magnetic pull, Jughead’s eyes drifted towards the leggy blonde to his right. The first thing he noticed her was this — she was uncomfortable. The second was that she was seemed nervous, displaced; and third — well, she was making her way towards him.

The girl was dressed in a diaphanous, intricately embroidered, sapphire-coloured blouse, and when she shifted to pull out her chair, Jughead could see her laced brassiere through the silk material. Unexpectedly, she sat next to him, across from a plaque reading REMMY LUPIN. She had a striking look — blue-eyed and golden-haired with a face like a porcelain doll’s; wide-eyed, lovely, and haunting in its stillness. I met a lady on a moore, Jughead though, aureate hair, refulgent eyes; a dancing, starry sprite.

“Hi,” she greeted, turning to him, face splitting into a blooming, honeyed smile, white teeth gleaming, the streaming sunlight from the window behind them set her braid into a molten blaze, “I’m Betty.”

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THE DREAMER:

“Three creams, two splenda, please.”

Betty Cooper was already running (hopefully, fashionably) late; not exactly a good first impression. She had woken up behind schedule (she had sort of fallen into the black hole that was Tumblr, recently, and had taken to staying up late); her cat, Caramel, had thrown up all over the kitchen floor. One side of her hair had dried flatter than the other — she was never going to bed straight from the shower ever again. And her uber had been running behind. Fantastic, she had uttered when finally arriving at the address given. The time on her phone alerting her that she should would have been inside already, had her morning gone accordingly, sipping on her coffee without a care in the world.

Well, that last bit was a stretch. If you asked anyone who knew her, they would say without a doubt that, Betty Cooper cared too much, about everything.

It was kind of her thing, though. Betty had a profound sense of perseverance and applied it to anyone in need of help that she came across. Polly (her older sister and recently, albeit somewhat regrettably, her manager) akined it to her being like a new mother, babying her fresh-faced ducklings. It often impeded her own desires and well-thought out plans.

Betty was a goner for a schedule. She could plan her day like nobody’s business — rarely did it ever actually go according to plan though. She would describe herself as being meticulous bordering the edge of perfectionist — Betty actually detested that word. Being in control of the situation, however, gave her life.

This was all new to her though, at least, fairly. Acting, that is.

She had been on edge of booking a flight back to San Francisco for what seemed like months. With only $200 to her name, and a can of cold soup sitting like a rock in her belly, Betty had auditioned for a role in Magic is Might. She had been failing auditions for months, her savings account was gone, and she was exhausted from working two menial jobs in order to have money to even go to auditions.

So, by all accounts, Betty figured an extra boost of caffeine was in order to make it through the whirlwind day that had been plotted ahead. A table read with her cast mates of Magic is Might, who she had yet to meet, was slotted for the whole day. As well as some promotional pictures of the group. The whole thing came together rather quickly for an HBO show, as she understood. Betty would be forever grateful that they hadn’t found anyone for the part of Remus Lupin yet.

Somehow, her name had been misspelled (she wanted to glare at Polly) and they thought it had said Elizander, on her papers. Whoever had been manning the audition hadn’t done a thorough look-through at the time and had barely looked up at her, just shooed her through the door. They seemed desperate.

To be fair, she hadn’t realized that the part of Remus was male. Of course, she had read the Harry Potter books, who hasn’t? But Polly had simply implored her to get her ass to this audition, without much else to go on.

Everyone had stared at her when she entered the room, but the guy in the middle of the group seated before her had stood up, planting his hands on the table with a loud smack.

“Excuse me, this isn’t —”

“No, excuse me, but that was incredibly rude.” A blush bloomed across her chest, streaking upwards, despite her outward display of confidence. “I’m here to audition, so let me audition before turning me away.”

It turns out that the man was Kevin Keller, one of the showrunners. Betty had desperately wanted to curl into a ball from mortification when she found out, but instead she had been engulfed in a hug while he had exclaimed “Such fire!”, and had let her do the audition.  

They had complimented her afterwards. Apparently she had an inner voice that matched Remus’s suppressed darkness à la werewolf unequivocally. They were going to change the character and rework the script for her. Betty was unperturbed usually, but she had been floored by their sentiments.

Now, granted, they had done the same thing for the character of Snape, but that was for Veronica Lodge — ex-disney starlet who had bowed out of the limelight for several years only to return and turn everyone’s heads when she demanded the part of Severus Snape.

Betty mussed her life was going to be very different from here on out (assuming the show gets picked up after the contingent episodes), but she was looking forward to not cringing every time they ran her card through a register. She loved food, and coffee was a vice she wasn’t willing to give up.

In L.A. there seemed to be a Starbucks on just about every godforsaken block, so she had been thankful there was one conveniently close to the building she was now ardently walking toward. Betty was practically jogging as she took a sip of her drink, the mouthful of cold coffee was sweet and creamy. It was really refreshing — had she not just spilled it all over her shirt when someone plowed into her shoulder, jarring the cup from her hand.

Betty had stood frozen in place, her muscles turning tense as she panicked. Of course she had worn her favorite outfit today. Her pale pink sweater was now sticking to her skin uncomfortably, but thankfully there were only a few drops on her jeans — the dark color of them would prevent a stain from being noticeable, but her sweater…

“Oh my god, fuck, I am so sorry.”

Betty looked up from where she was still staring at her coffee soaked front, hand crushing the now empty cup. She blinked owlishly at the girl who had spoken. A dark haired girl with an equally empty cup, however stain free clothes — impeccable, by the way, in front of her. Small hands covered in white lace gloves (really? The urge to roll her eyes was strong) were reaching out for her and grabbing hold of her arm, gently albeit forcefully. Betty had no choice but to be tugged along and out of the path of the ravenous L.A. goers on the sidewalk.

“It’s… fine, really,” Betty hadn’t wanted to use the word, but there wasn’t anything else on the tip of her tongue. “I’m running late to my read through anyway, I should —”

Veronica interrupted her, raising her impeccably arched brows even higher. “Read through? As in, script?”

Nodding, Betty looked up to the tall glass front building they were almost in front of. She had been so close…

“Well, I think we’re headed to the same place then. Veronica Lodge,” the raven haired girl extended her glove covered hand and Betty raised her hand that wasn’t a sticky mess to shake it. Veronica continued, “pleasure to meet you…” she trailed off and Betty interjected.

“Betty Cooper.”

“Betty, allow me to offer you a new blouse, I simply can’t let you in there like that.”

Betty had started to shake her head, fingers itching to reach up and tighten her ponytail, but alas, she realized, she had worn her hair in a loose braid that brushed the edges of her collarbone. “No, that’s okay, you don’t have to do that.” she waved a hand, tossing her empty cup into the trash bin they had stopped by.

“I insist. Come,” it wasn’t up for debate anymore, that white glove grabbing Betty’s wrist again and pulling her toward a sleek black car that was parked some spaces down. “Don’t worry about being late, if we both are then they really can’t do anything about it.“

Betty was surprised that the words didn’t sound pretentious coming from the other girls mouth, but humble. Veronica had pulled her inside the car, instructing her to pull the door closed. She hesitated before doing so, the door shutting with a soft click. She never thought being in a car alone with Veronica Lodge would ever be on her agenda, but here she was, with a collection of delicate tops spread over their laps that were distinctly not at all Betty’s style.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Her green-blue eyes examined the choices carefully, taking in the price tags still dangling from them. Her throat was dry, her swallow surely audible. Everything was more-than-her-rent expensive. Plucking the one with the smallest numbers up, a transparent (okay maybe she had made a mistake here…) sapphire-blue blouse with colorful embroidered flowers, “This one is great,” she smiled at Veronica.

“Oh, excellent choice. Can’t go wrong with Derek Lam 10.”

She scrunched her nose up, fingering the material. Veronica had leant back against the seat, arms crossed expectantly. Betty glanced around to the car windows. “You want me to change here?”

“I expect you too, yes.”

Betty sucked in a breath of courage and peeled off the stained sweater. Thankfully, her white (unlucky, she had decided) lacy bralette would be suitable underneath the barely-considered-a-shirt. She felt Veronica’s dark eyes on her, watching as she slipped the garment on over her head. Betty tugged it down gently, it only hit the top waist of her jeans.

Veronica reached out a hand to snap the price tag off, tossing it into the empty front seat. “There, oh you have to keep it, it looks perfect on you.”

The blonde smoothed a hand down her somewhat exposed stomach, wishing she were thinner or more toned. “Sure. Thanks, Veronica.”

“You’re quite welcome, darling. Nothing bores friendship quicker than the sharing of clothes and gossiping over boys. So one down, one to go.”

Betty couldn’t help the smile blooming across her face at Veronica’s words. She could use a friend. L.A. had been a lonely place the past two years, which did nothing to help her anxiety.

“Of course, I’m looking forward to it. We’ll be spending a lot of time together after all.”

The other girl smiled back, tucking glossy black hair behind her ear. “Indeed, we might as well make the best of it.” she paused, checking the fancy was fastened around her delicate wrist. “We are incredibly late now, darling. We had better hurry along before Toni sinks her teeth into us.”

Betty nodded, climbing out the car door as gracefully as she could with shaking hands. Veronica had saddled up to her side, linking their arms together as they walked. Feeling a burst of adoration for the girl Betty felt she had wrongly judged in the past (she grew up watching Disney channel, after all) she vowed not to judge any of the other actors based on the same principle.

The ease of being by Veronica’s side made her nerves calm until they were in front of the appropriate conference room door. A wicked smirk graced the raven-haired girl’s features and she disentangled their arms. A dainty platform heeled foot kicked the door in with surprising force for such a small girl.

It had Betty stepping back, hiding away from the doorframe a ways, eyes darting around the room and taking in the scene. It looks like they had already started the read through, and the ball of nerves in her stomach started to grow again.

She did not think it would ever leave her.

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tbc.

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[diamondsaregold]

‘The Time It Took to Fall’ - A Maxwell/MC Fanfic

#ChoicesCreates Round 16

Prompt: “Don’t ask me to say I don’t love you.”

Rating: T

Pairings: Maxwell/MC, Drake/MC

Summary: When he sees the way that she glows around Drake, Maxwell can’t help but regret the chances he missed. [A different, melancholy take on Drake’s birthday party scene, from Maxwell’s POV.]

Background Info: Well, I took a complete detour from my initial plans for a comedic take on Maxwell’s unrequited* (lol) feelings for an MC that’s in love with Drake. This fic could not be further from comedic. So...oops?😂 I’ll still try to write the other piece. In the meantime, dim the lights and cue the angst!

Title taken from “Cherry” by Luna Shadows. 

Here, Maxwell was supposed to be in his element.

Up ahead, a group of girls giggled in his direction. To his left, Hana and Liam sat with him at their small bar table, chatting amiably with each other. A hoard of guys stood amid flashing lights in the center of the dance floor, awkwardly busting out moves and laughing at each attempt.

He barely noticed any of them.

Usually, he’d be the life of the party. Making his friends laugh with his antics, or wooing the ladies and commanding the audience with the dance moves that no one (not even Bertrand, six years ago) could compare to.

Except tonight, all he could think about were the sway of her hips and the chime of infectious laughter, all colors of the vivid, smiling girl he couldn’t get his mind off of.

And, the stinging fact that it wasn’t him that she was with tonight.

Watching her move closer and closer to the man in the denim shirt, in their own corner of the dance floor—untouched by the rest of the world and his own watchful, longing gaze—Maxwell couldn’t help but notice, darkly, that this scene was all too familiar.

“There’s no one I’d rather be dancing with right now,” she murmured. For past few minutes, she had been grazing her hands across his chest, standing closer to him for heartbeats longer than the waltz dictated, until his hands were sweating from the proximity.

Her eyes were clear and bright, and he knew she was unaware of the not-so-innocent rush that surged through him at her touch and her words, when he was overwhelmed with the urge to pull her flush against her.

He, on the other hand, was painfully aware of all the ways that she made him weak in the knees: when she shined a soft smile in his direction, or stepped out of the dressing room in a skin-tight gown, or when she sweetly called him “Max” during their late-night meetings (when all the castle was asleep except for them, and finally, he felt free to drown in her dark brown gaze. But only for those nights.). It was these moments that sent cracks rippling through his composure, tempted him to throw his resolve to the wind.

So many times had he imagined giving in to burning desire. What it would feel like to press a kiss to the curve of her neck and run his hands along the lace of her bodice, until it was all strewn on the floor. To revel in the feeling of her breath mingling with his and the sound of her soft gasps. To become undone as her heat pulsed through his veins, and to feel nothing, nothing, but her.

But here, in the ballroom, he was still Lord Beaumont—a man who kept careful watch of the piercing gaze of the nobles lurking about, and cowered under the glare from Bertrand he knew awaited him later that night.  And Lord Beaumont could not succumb to temptation for even one tender moment.

Maxwell willed himself to look away from her soft lips and the curl of her hair, the one that was practically calling to him to brush it gently away. Stiffly, he straightened his posture and held her at a distance.

It was such a rigid response, and so unlike him, that he had to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from apologizing (or confessing something more, something worse), when he saw her bottom lip begin to tremble. No matter how much it killed her, she needed to know that this could never work.

No matter how much it killed him.

“You should always be thinking of Liam,” he stated firmly, coldly. He winced at the hurt flashing through her eyes, but kept his face as blank as possible.

Too soon, he pulled away to another partner. And another. And another. As he swayed with the new ladies, each becoming more and more faceless than the last, he ignored the pounding ache in his chest. He was doing the right thing, it was for the best, and there was no going back.

That night, he didn’t see her again.

From across the opposite corner of the bar, Maxwell watched. He ignored the twinge in his stomach when Drake casually slung a shoulder around her shoulders. Pretended that his eyes didn’t linger on her lithe frame as the pair strolled over to the bar together.

“More champagne?” the bartender asked, wryly. After the fourth glass, he already knew the answer. Slowly, Maxwell sipped the clear, bubbling liquid. He barely registered the burn in his throat.

It was almost unbearable. As he watched Drake scoot his barstool closer and closer to hers—as if she was blind to his advances, as if she was stupid—and “accidentally” grazing his knees against her, he clenched his glass. Disdain, and something headier, heated like jealousy, simmered in his stomach. When she playfully punched Drake in the shoulder and he laughed, loud, Maxwell slammed his glass down, hard.

The bartender glared at him, and Hana and Liam jumped up, startled. “Sorry,” Maxwell muttered, wiping up the spilled liquid.

He should have been bothered by the fact that he didn’t feel apologetic at all. Truth was, he had been feeling further and further from himself with every passing week, every new lie. Tonight had simply added kindling to the growing flame—another instance of denying himself of what he truly wanted.

In the end, he should’ve saw it coming.

It all happened in slow motion. She leaned in close to Drake and said something, teasingly, before laughing softly to herself.

Unblinkingly, Drake stared. His eyes darted down to her dress, before hovering about on her face. Something passed over him, a flicker of doubt, then desire—a look that Maxwell saw mirrored in his own face, three weeks ago in her arms. He knew then that he was too late.

Drake gently caught her by the wrist and kissed her, long and slow.

It was as if cold water had seeped through his veins and into his stomach, mixing with the roaring burn of the champagne. He was on fire and frozen all at once, but still, he could not rip his eyes away from the intertwined pair.

She pulled away—Maxwell heard his breath come back in a rasp, heard hers too—before he saw her running her tongue over her bottom lip, Drake’s cheeks darkening. Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to his again.

As Drake gripped her chin with his hand and the two drew closer to each other, the champagne sloshed over the glass and onto Maxwell’s shaking hand.

Next to him, Liam and Hana smiled.  “Well, I’ll never,” muttered Liam with a grin. “I’m happy for him. And for her.”

“I was wondering why they both seemed so excited for this!” Hana said, laughing.

“And I thought I’d be the first to get a girlfriend in this whole mess!”

“Me too!”

They returned to their previous conversation as if nothing had happened—as if what had just transpired meant absolutely nothing. As if they were utterly blind to their friend sitting silently next to them, cold hands burning underneath the table with regret and agony.

Maxwell noticed, bitterly, that Hana and Liam didn’t check for his reaction. As if it wasn’t enough for him to be torn out of his place, his running (he noted with a grim laugh, at how it all fit together so very well, between these terribly twisted parallel lines) in his feelings for her, he was also literally the man on the side.

Well, he had it coming. He supposed that he had become a much more skilled liar in the past few months—so skilled, in fact, that he had learned how to pretend around his best friends. After endless nights of whispering lies to himself, concocting a million tales of how he would run away and be happy without her, he had convinced himself it was all for the best.

But as he watched her rest her head on her shoulder (with both their backs to him), as a swell of bitterness rose in his throat, Maxwell knew that he was still no master of deception.

Why didn’t he say yes?

He downed his drink, and strode across the floor to the group of giggling girls.

No, he wasn’t thinking about the glint of her soft hair under the sunlight of the beach, the gentle dance of her pulling him closer, and him pushing her away. He wasn’t remembering how he waited for her to return to him every time. He wasn’t drowning in the emptiness that was swallowing him whole now, the realization that she we could finally leave him for good.

And what would she come back to? The thought was so ludicrous that he almost doubled over in laughter (or tears, he couldn’t tell).

When the title of Lord Beaumont crumbled down, he was nothing more than a nameless liar. Someone who too fragile, too uncertain to ever be worthy of her.

It was for the best.

“Hey ladies.” For a moment, he was tempted to return to his corner of the bar, to drink himself into oblivion and drown in the memory of her eyes. Bright with hope and filled with images of him.

Instead, he pushed it aside and extended a hand to the nameless blonde in the center, ignoring the hollowness in his chest as he put on his best, practiced grin.

“Make room, make room! Let me show you some of these moves.”