#when I was barely drawing janes coat

[copper-9spurgatory]

Can I give Feral J a dog bone scented with oil and has peanut butter on it :3

Ate everything but the bone..finally peanut butter

[anoddreindeer]

Brothers in the Blackwood Gang

Jane Sutton blinked and cursed as a bullet smashed into the edge of the overturned table she crouched behind and sent a spray of chips and splinters into her face.

"Douglas Hale you son of a BITCH! When we get out of here I'm going to strangle you!"

The deep roar came from her left, where John Blackwood was propping up the broken, shot to shit table he'd tried to take cover behind when the shooting started. It had been a nice piece of furniture once - or as nice as any saloon card table was, anyway - but it was John's name on the gang and all the wanted posters, so most of the gunfire was pointed in his direction and the table could only take so much. It had already broken down the middle from the stress, the left half falling away and the right half being what John was still using for cover. The green felt top was shredded, the chips and cards a distant memory, and it wouldn't take much more punishment.

"Well how was I supposed to know her brother was a lawman? 'S not like she wore it on her sleeve, John!"

Douglas Hale's distracted voice came from behind the bar as he popped up and fired twice before ducking back down as distinctly fewer bullets answered his attack than there had been. Douglas was an idiot and a flirt, but he was a quick idiot and flirt and he'd managed to shoot at least two of the posse currently adding new windows to the front of the saloon.

"My brother ain't a lawman!"

The sharp female voice came from behind the bar as well, and Jane flashed a quick grin at John, who simply rolled his eyes. Douglas had managed to bring the Jezebel he'd been talking to over the bar with him when the shooting had started, but apparently she hadn't known about any of the other skirts he'd been chasing since they got into this jerkwater town. The place was barely big enough to merit its own saloon and post office, but Douglas had managed to find several women more than willing to step out with a handsome stranger. More incredibly, he'd somehow managed to keep that fact from each one of them.

The sharp sound of a slap punctuated a lull in the gunfire, and the Jezebel went flouncing away from the bar towards the stairs up to the bedrooms. When Douglas popped up to fire again, Jane could clearly see the outline of a hand and all five fingers on his cheek.

She whistled.

"Damn, but that's an arm on her! Shame she met you first, Doug, she mighta made a good member of the gang!"

Douglas dropped back behind the bar as three guns answered his shots.

"Oh fuck you, Jane."

"Not even in your dreams, Hale!" she called back as she took the opportunity to pop up and fire.

Five bodies were clearly visible on the dusty road outside the saloon. One of them had the stupid hat she'd seen the sheriff wearing; John had shot the man before he'd been forced to turn over the card table. The other four were other members of the posse; the fact they hadn't run when John shot the sheriff meant that someone else had to be holding 'em together.

Jane shot one of the other lawmen, his shiny badge drawing her eye to the rain barrel he'd been trying to stay behind. The next moment, a man in a fancy-looking black duster popped out from the corner of the water tower and yelled something she couldn't hear. The other posse members could, though, and a renewed hail of fire drove Jane back down behind her table.

"One in the fancy coat, over by the tower! He's the one holding the reins on these idiots!"

John didn't bother answering Jane's call, just stood up with a roar and started firing. He wasn't fast, but he was accurate; even as a bullet smashed into his shoulder, jerking him halfway around, the man in the fancy coat dropped with John's bullet in between his eyes.

"Let's get out of here!"

The panicked shout was music to Jane's ears as the three remaining posse members broke and ran, heading East and out of town quickly. She stood up and stretched the crick out of her back before brushing off the splinters and wood chips from her unfortunate table. John had already crossed the room and gotten Douglas by the front of his shirt, though the shorter man was attempting to reach around and put pressure on John's reddening shoulder.

"I swear to God ya idjit, can't be tellin' our after-heist plans to every light skirt and pretty face in ev'ry town we done come to! Why-"

"John, I understand that you are angry with me - and it is well within your right to be so, but perhaps we ought to-"

Jane tuned them both out as she walked to the front of the saloon - both the doors had been shot off, so there wasn't anything but a gaping hole in the front now - and put two fingers to her mouth. The earsplitting whistle that followed drew complaints from both men behind her, but more importantly drew out Batterbee, Lewis, and Lucke from where they'd been hiding in case things got too rough. The rest of the gang was back at camp, waiting for the all-clear that would mean they could come into town - a signal they wouldn't be getting, thanks to Douglas. They'd have to move on to the next town and try their luck there.

"John's been shot, one of y'all go find the town sawbones," she said, ignoring the complaints about her whistle coming from behind her.

Lewis turned away and walked off without another word; he was a strange man, silent but for the sneezing that gave him away at the worst times. If he wasn't so useful otherwise, John would've given him the boot years ago; as it stood, if you needed to know where something or someone was, Lewis was the man you'd go to. How he knew what he knew was the subject of much debate, but he refused to say and nobody'd figured it out yet.

Batterbee and Lucke headed for the horses Jane and the other two had tied up in front of the saloon. Batterbee was short and dressed like Yankee Doodle, in the latest fashions from New York - no matter how dirty or worn the clothes were by the time he got new ones to replace them. He was sharp as a tack and mean as a snake, but he respected the hell out of John and would stop his bullshit if the man told him to.

Lucke was almost the diametric opposite; he was tall and gangly, and was a friend to all and sundry. He was also one of the few people who'd put up with Batterbee's shit, and was therefore almost always the one to do so.

The two of them would get the horses ready for a quick getaway, once the sawbones had finished up with John. She nodded at them, and Lucke nodded back with a wide, gap-toothed grin.

Satisfied, Jane turned back to find that John had somehow managed to get Douglas in a headlock, and was threatening to drown him in a glass of whiskey. She snorted, and went to find a chair and a bottle to watch the show. They'd be fine; they always were.

[buckybleu]

❈ you ❈

pairing: dark!Shang-Chi x Reader

summary: Shang-Chi will do anything for your love. His small, sweet crush turns into something more dark.

warning: stalking (& insinuation of stalking); mild mentions of violence. Just Shang-Chi being a creepy stalker

a/n: Night 12 of Tricks & Treats takes a dark turn. I recently started watching "You" and it sparked a little darker piece of writing. I've never wrote anything like this so bare with me, haha. I hope you enjoy and happy reading! ❤️ (sorry for the very unoriginal title)

all mistakes and errors are mine!

reblogs/like/feedback are greatly appreciated! 🎃

word count: 1.2k

Your tight, black pencil skirt and flowy blouse says you’re all business. Your black pumps accentuate your gorgeous legs. They look soft. You don’t look very happy right now. Maybe it has something to do with that phone call you’re on. You’re furious. Something about missing a date.

“Frank, seriously?! This is the fourth time this week. We can’t keep doing this! I can’t keep doing this!”

Frank. Boyfriend I presume. Sounds like an asshole if you’re asking me. I don’t get it. A beautiful woman like you deserves to be cherished; attended to. And he isn’t doing that for you. So why stick around? Look I don’t know who he is, but he isn’t good enough for.

“Whatever, I’m over it.” Are you though? Your glossy eyes and sniffling nose says otherwise. “I have to go, I have a meeting.” Anyone who might take a glance at you might assume you’re some uptight, wealthy bitch. The expensive car. The designer handbag dangling off your shoulder. Red bottoms. Even the scent of your brown sugar and vanilla perfume smells luxurious. But there’s more to you.

Charlotte Bronte. Jane Eyre. A literary classic. You’re a bookworm. The book is peeking out of your bag. Jane Eyre, a headstrong and independent character. Maybe you relate to her in some way. The story and theme is beautiful and deep. There is more to you. And I want to read more.

“Hi.” Your smile. God, your smile is something out of this universe. There are so many things that already draw me to you, but damn. Your captivating smile just takes the cake.

You hand me your keys, I’m confused at first. Right. You are handing me your keys to park your car. That’s okay, I’ll do anything for you.

“Hi there. Here’s your ticket. Have a nice day.” And there it is again. Please don’t ever stop smiling at me. I am putty in your hands when you do that. And I want to be the only person you smile at.

You’re wheeling two suitcases behind you. So you’re staying here for a few days?

The receptionist inputs your information into the computer before handing you your keycard.

Hm, so you are staying for a few days. Maybe a while. I’ll find out more later.

-----

A black coffee. One packet of stevia. Sometimes you grab a banana. But if you’re feeling spontaneous, you’ll pick up a blueberry muffin from Sal’s down the corner. 8 AM sharp. That’s when you pick up your car. You have meetings at the Transamerica Pyramid. That’s what your Google calendar tells me.

At noon, you like to grab lunch in Chinatown. Only on Fridays is when you take a cab to the Palace of Fine Arts and take a stroll around the park. It’s never hard to spot you. You’re always sporting an oversized clementine coat. You pair it with over the knee boots on the chillier day. Nude espadrilles when it’s warmer. On your more casual days you’ll sport a t-shirt and jeans. Sometimes a floral dress. You could wear anything and you still look great.

Like clockwork, you’ll return back to the hotel at 5 PM. If you’re not carrying a bag of takeout, you’ll most likely be ordering room service for dinner. Wagyu New York Strip Steak with a mushroom butter sauce. A side of fries. And a Coca-Cola to wash it all down. Your dinner order never changes.

“Thank you Shang-Chi. Take care of my baby.” You laugh, handing me your keys. Your keys are adorned with a small picture frame. You and Frank are squished into frame. You laugh while he kisses your cheek. If I’m being honest, we’d make a better looking couple. Frank just doesn’t...doesn’t you. I do. We fit together. We’re better together.

But tonight, there’s something wrong. Who upset you? Your beautiful face is stained by tears and mascara. You don’t greet me with a smile or your melodic voice. No. Today you just shove your keys into my hands and walk away. No ‘Hey Shang-Chi’ or ‘Your hair looks nice today Shang-Chi.’ Nothing. What’s got my girl so riled up? Was it Frank? Did he do something to upset you?

-----

You look ravishing tonight. Crimson lips. Your hair is perfectly set. Black pumps. And your legs. God what I’d do to have a taste. You’re nursing a whiskey. Is that your choice of poison?

Your calendar didn’t say anything about a dinner reservation. I would know. You’re lucky though. I’m always looking out for you. By chance I overheard you and Katy talking about the hotel’s restaurant.

“You should check out the hotel restaurant. The Watcher. Best clam chowder, and they serve it in that bread bowl too.” Katy hands you your keys. “Try to get a window table. Dinner with a view.” But you are the view.

“Thanks for the recommendation Katy. I’ll make sure to get reservations then.” You pull Katy into a friendly hug before driving off. Dinner alone doesn’t sound fun. I’ll make sure we have reservations for two.

It seems like you weren’t able to grab a window table. Lucky for you, I have connections with staff. Maybe we could enjoy dinner together? I’ll give you a bit of time for yourself. Then I’ll go and spark a conversation, bring up Jane Eyre. Your interest will pique. I suggest we continue the discussion on my table. And maybe, just maybe, the night goes well and we schedule a second da一

Woah, woah. Hold on. Who is that?

“Frank? What are you doing here?” Frank? The ‘Frank?’ The Frank that cancelled last minute. The Frank that made your mascara run because you found out he was cheating on you with his secretary? What is he doing here?

“I know, I know. You never wanted to see me again. But please let一”

“No!” You pull your arm away from Frank’s touch. “You shouldn’t be here. We’re done, I don't know why you came here.” Good girl, you deserve better.

“Baby, please. I just wanted to talk. Let me fix this, I’m sorry for the shit I put you through.” Pathetic. She doesn’t want you. She knows her worth and一

“Fine.” WHAT?! “Five minutes, that’s it.” No no no. My sweet girl, that's not a good idea. He’s bad news for you.

And now. Now I have to sit here and listen to your douchebag of an ex-boyfriend try to explain himself. You shouldn’t be sitting there wasting your time, listening to his bullshit. You should be sitting with me, enjoying the San Francisco skyline, where we discuss our favorite novels.

“C’mon baby. Come back up to my room. We can talk more there, in private. Please, I promise no funny business.” How predatory. I swear to god if we weren’t in public, he would 12 feet under ground with a bullet between一

“One last chance.” No! What are you doing? “If you mess up, we’re done for good.” You were done with him. You were done with him when you blocked him on social media. You were done when you didn’t answer his emails. You were done when you threw away the picture of you and him.

You and Matt leave the restaurant together, you wrapped around his arm. Your giggles fill the air as he whispers something in his ear.

Silly girl. So fazed by his lies and deceits. Don’t worry, I’ll help clear your mind soon. I’ll reveal the truth to you. And when I’m finished with him, you’ll be mine. I’ll treat you better. Love and cherish you. But for now, I’ll admire you from afar.

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

COSMIC - S1:E6; Chapter Six, The Monster - [Pt. 1]

A Will Byers x Male!Reader Series

𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘠/𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘌𝘭𝘴𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘑𝘰𝘺𝘤𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘣’𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

|| 𝟑𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ||

Joyce and Hopper sat opposite one another at the kitchen table of the Byers' home. The house was cold and hardly lit, copies of newspaper clippings scattered all around the house. One of the only light sources was a dusty chandelier that hung from the kitchen ceiling above the table and their heads, illuminating the several papers.

"Look, we gotta go through this again." Joyce insisted.

"I told you everything that I saw."

"Oh, gosh," she sighs into her hands. "Tell me again."

"Upstairs or downstairs?" Hopper asked.

"Upstairs."

"There was a laboratory. It was where they must do experiments or something, and then there was... well you see, like I said, I got turned around."

Hopper was currently sharing all he had encountered on his rogue mission at Hawkins National Laboratory. Joyce, all the while was hanging on his every word.

"I told you, it was like, I don't know, it wasn't supposed to exist. That whole area, it was abandoned and... forgotten, like it was all some big mistake. Once I found my way back, I saw that... kid's room. That other kid's room, I mean. Like it was actually used, but it didn't even look like a kid's room, neither of them did. It looked like a prison."

Hopper sighed and rubbed the bottom of his palms into his eyes tiredly, is fingers held the lit cigarette inches away from his face as he did so. "If that even makes sense,"

"Well," Joyce began, trying to get to the bottom of this never ending mystery. "So why would you think it was a kid's room, then?"

"Because, I told you, the size of the bed, there was a drawing, there was a stuffed animal--"

Joyce interrupted the man quickly. "Y-You didn't say there was a drawing."

"Yeah, there was a drawing of a... an adult and a child. It said 'Eleven' on it."

"Was it good?" Joyce pressed.

"It was a kid's drawing, Joyce. It was stick figures."

Joyce had a knowing look on her face as she stood up with a sigh, retrieving a piece of crinkled line paper and slammed it down on the table for Hopper to see.

She pointed to the detailed drawing as she sat back down.

"Wasn't Will." She stated confidently, shakily bringing the cigarette back up to her lips.

Hopper examined the drawing and everything seemed to click. He returned his gaze to the anxious mother. Hopper quickly put out his cigarette in the ashtray and made a beeline for the coffee table.

"Earl..." he muttered, as he made his way into the living room. Joyce, who had abandoned her cigarette, was right on his heels.

"The night that Benny died, Earl said he saw some kid with a shaved head with Benny," Hopper and Joyce took a seat beside one another on the living room couch, Hopper's eyes fixed on the several news clippings splayed along the wooden coffee table. "Now, I pressed him, he said it might be Will, but maybe..."

The man began shifting through the papers, and Joyce spoke up.

"Wait... Maybe, it wasn't?"

Hopper pulled the article he had been looking for and pointed to the fuzzy photograph of the woman in the article.

"Look... this woman, Terry Ives, she claims to have lost her daughter, Jane. She sued Brenner, she sued the government... Now, the claims came to nothing, but what if... I mean, what if this whole time I've been... I've been looking for Will... I've been chasing after some other kid?"

|| 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ||

Everything is a mess.

Will is still missing, the party is falling apart, Mike and Lucas are still angsty messes that won't speak to one another, and now, El left us. She probably thinks I hate her.

'But I don't! I was just scared'

(Ok but like,,,, who else ships El and reader cause damn I've been giving myself feels lately, dang)

'We need to fix this'

I sigh and sit up from my bed and make my my way to Dustin's room.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"I just... I can't believe she didn't come back." Mike sighed.

Dustin and I agreed we needed to talk some sense into the rest of the party. So we got our bikes and made our way to Mike's. Dustin was standing opposite Mike while I currently occupied one of the D&D chairs I had pulled up. Mike was worriedly pacing the floor in front of us.

"She's gotta be close." Dustin offered.

"She said it wasn't safe. She just messed up the compasses because she wanted to protect us. She didn't betray us."

"Mike, calm down."

Mike only ignored Dustin and kept talking, more to himself than anybody it seemed.

"I shouldn't have yelled at her. I never should've done that."

"Mike, this isn't your fault." Dustin said.

"Yeah, it's Lucas'."

"It wasn't his fault, either." Dustin countered softly.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Mike stopped in his tracks. He looked at my brother dumbfounded and took a few steps in his direction. "It wasn't his fault?"

"No."

"So you're saying he wasn't way out of line?"

"Totally, but so were you!"

"What?"

"And so was Eleven."

"That's ridiculous! Y/n, tell him he's being ridiculous!"

Very calmly, I stood up with my arms crossed and stood next to my brother, and sighed, eyes fixed on Mike. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but Dustin is absolutely right."

Mike seemed even more furious. "Oh, give me a break!"

Dustin snapped at these words and stormed up to Mike. "No, Mike, you give me a break! All three of you were being a bunch of little assholes! Y/n and I were the only reasonable ones! But the bottom line is... you pushed first. And you know the rules. You draw first blood..."

"No! No way! I'm not shaking his hand."

"You're shaking his hand." I press, stepping forward.

He was sure to make eye contact with me over Dustin's shoulder as he spoke. "No, I'm not."

So I strode toward him and gave him a slight glare.

"This isn't a discussion. This is the rule of law. Obey or be banished from the party. Do you wanna be banished?" I asked firmly.

Mike crossed his arms and pouted before speaking up meekly. "No."

"Good!" I chirp, my face beaming as if we hadn't just been fighting which seem to only terrify him more.

I all but skipped over to the chair grabbing my coat, Dustin following my actions.

"Where are we going?" Mike asked with a hint of frustration.

"Where do you think?" Dustin asked as he put his arms through the sleeves of his coat.

"We're going to get Lucas." I finished, straightening my jacket then looked back to Mike.

My face softened and I tilted my head slightly. "And then we're gonna find Eleven."

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The three of us stood on Lucas's porch and I rang the doorbell. We stood waiting until the door swung open and Lucas stood there glaring at all three of us, but mostly Mike.

"What do you want?" He spit, resting his hands in his pockets.

There was brief silence which was then interrupted by a muffled smack of Dustin hitting Mike in the arm.

Mike sighed softly and looked to Lucas, clearly hating every second of this.

"I drew first blood, so..." he extended his hand for Lucas to shake but Lucas didn't move.

Great. Of course nobody was going to make anything easy. Why would they?

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Somehow I had convinced Lucas to let us all in and now, we all stood in the middle of his living room as he paced silently across the floor considering Mike's offer. He finally stopped and stared at the three of us.

"Okay, I'll shake."

Mike sighed what I barely made out to be a "finally" as he extended his arm out once more. Dustin and I perked up, that was until Lucas continued.

"On one condition. We forget the weirdo and go straight to the gate." He finished, arms crossed defiant.

"Then the deal's off." Mike barked.

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

"No, no, not fine! Guys seriously?" Dustin yelled, as I threw my head back frustrated.

Dustin forced Mike to face him as he spoke. "Do you even remember what happened on the Bloodstone Pass?"

Lucas and Mike shared a confused glance.

Dustin seemed shocked and offended that they had no recollection and continued.

"We couldn't agree on what path to take, so we all split up the party and those trolls took us out one by one. And it all went to shit. And we were all disabled! So we stick together, no matter what!"

"Yeah, I agree. But this is the party, right here in this room."

"El is one of us now."

"Um, no, she's not. Not even close! Never will be. She's a liar, a traitor--"

"She was just trying to keep us safe! She didn't mean to hurt you. It was an accident!"

"An accident?"

"All right, accident or not... admit it, it was a little awesome." Dustin said.

"Awesome?"

"Yeah, she threw you in the air with her mind!"

"I could have been killed!"

"Would everybody just shut up for one second, please!" I snap.

Everybody looks to me, a shocked expression on their faces.

I step forward and begin my long awaited  rant.

"I am sick of your attitude." I point at Lucas. "I am sick of your whining." I point to Mike. "I am sick of all three of you bickering," I gesture to all of them. "I love you guys and I can't thank you enough for taking me in and including me, know that, but GOD I am tired of being stuck listening to you boys argue about every little thing!"

I myself began pacing, my voice continuously rising. "I'm sick of putting up with all your petty arguing when we should be looking for Will only to come home at the end of the day, having found NOTHING and crying my eyes out because the only person who never gave a shit about who started what is missing and probably dead!"

I stopped pacing and looked to the boys who were all silent. I sighed and lowered my voice. "Lucas, you're right. You could have been killed. Which is exactly why we need her. She is more powerful than all of us combined."

"Y/n's right. Do you seriously wanna fight the Demogorgon with your wrist rocket?" Mike said, anger still in his voice. "That's like R2-D2 going to fight Darth Vader. We're no use to Will if we're dead."

Lucas looked torn for a moment, but then he shook his head and pointed at the three of us. There was disappointment in his voice. "If you three wanna waste your time looking for a traitor, go ahead, 'cause I'm not spending my time on her anymore. No way!"

I sighed, putting my face in my hands. Lucas continued.

"I'm going to the gate. I'm going to find Will."

Lucas shoved the boys aside and stormed off, leaving the three of us alone in more ways than one.

[iheartgod175]

Thoughts on The Roman Holidays… (UPDATED 12/01/22)

Since I’ve been watching the series over the last few days, I feel that I can articulate my thoughts a bit more here.

First Impressions

For starters, I can completely understand why the show was cancelled. There are moments where the show’s attempts to stay “hip and current” with the times (the 70s) were not only flat but also pretty darn cringe, not to mention the animation here is worse than some of the strangest H-B cartoons of this time period.

The fact that the template used for the Flintstones was hardly changed to give the Holidays a chance to stand on their own two feet (ie. Gus works at the marble quarry, is a cheapskate, has a horrible boss and enjoys bowling to de-stress) is a huge detriment. It even takes the family template from the Jetsons, but it switched out Judy and Elroy.

But in spite of all this…it DOES have its own kinda charm. That’s why I’ve been watching it for this long, lol. If it didn’t have “The Flintstones but IN ROME” thing attached to it, it MIGHT have been better.

I won’t lie, though. The theme song is a total bop. It sounds to me that Precocia’s voice actress was the only one with some singing talent, though, since it was done by the cast.

Dramatis Personae (The Characters)

Our leading man, Gus Holiday, is my favorite character alongside Evictus. He’s not as loutish as Fred, and more snarky than George-and similar to those two, his own get-rich-quick schemes kinda fall flat on his face in ways that are utterly hilarious. Plus he’s got an “I don’t get paid enough to deal with this ish” face and it is PRICELESS. I’m gonna draw it one day and post it to my blog. That being said, I DO wish he had a foil to balance off of him, like how Barney bounces off of Fred. The show attempted that with Herman, Groovia’s dad, but, eh, I wasn’t really feeling it.

Speaking of Herman, he and his wife were annoying.

Brutus is a third fave, although I’m disappointed that we didn’t get to have Daws Butler use the full extent of his talent—he would’ve stolen the show if he did, no doubt. Happius “Hap” Holiday, the teenage son, is not bad as a character either.

Evictus is my second favodrite character, in part due to his unlikability being so cartoonish that it’s great. Everybody literally everyone drags him through the show, while he gets to drag the Holidays and anybody around on occasion. I love it.

Not fond of Mr. Tycoonius, probably because he barely showed up. He’s basically like Mr. Slate 2.0, but didn’t have much of the charm (or hateable characteristics) that Slate had. In fact, the blurb on the DVD mentions him as though he has all this importance, only for him to show up in like four of the show’s episodes. Like, really. On the other hand, I didn’t like him when he did get an episode that focused on him, so I guess H-B did their job right.

The female characters of the show are kinda…eh. Laurie, Precocia, and Groovia do have their strong points, but they just aren’t as memorable as Wilma and Betty or Jane and Judy.

If I had to say who was my favorite female character, I’d have to go with Laurie. She not only keeps things on an even keel, but also seems to work with Gus and will go to bat for him (more on that below). And yes, while she does fall into the same shopping crazy habits that Wilma and Jane had, it doesn’t dominate her personality like either of those two (well, not really Wilma. Jane, though, yes.).

Precocia’s snarkiness is hilarious, but the show really underutilized her character, other than she’s supposedly a child genius. Like, she literally gets one episode, and it doesn’t really do much for her as a character—in fact, it’s more focused on Gus, than anything.

Groovia is okay, though her occasional gullibility gets on my nerves.

Honestly, though, how the Holidays haven’t been evicted yet despite LITERALLY BREAKING THE RULES OF THE LEASE (and occasionally causing other screw ups because of Gus’ schemes) is beyond me. They are coated with so much plot armor, they should’ve been in Star Wars: The Clone Wars.

The Worst of the Worst

You know you’re in for a special kind of treat when the show makes you cringe in the first episode. I mean, there were some funny moments, especially when Precocia snarks at Gus’ cousin and everyone makes fun of Gus for his crazy idea, but I’m not kidding when I tell you that the whole scene where Gus has to pretend to be a teenager is one of the most cringeworthy things I have EVER seen. And this is coming from someone who genuinely likes the Galaxy Goof-Ups.

The episodes with Hap and Groovia were a bit more grating, though. “The Big Split-Up”, which featured them at their stupidest AND their worst, was a sour point for me.

Another episode I wasn’t terribly fond of was “Star For a Day”. Two reasons—one, the animation was HORRIBLE. Two, the music really, REALLY got on my nerves. H-B cranks out some good tunes majority of the time, even in their worst works, but this…ugh, this was just BAD. Add in the basic “Prince and the Pauper” plot, and yeah, a pretty generic episode.

The Best of the Best

One of my favorite episodes was “Switch is Which?” In it, Gus stays up all night working on a project for a big client, and Laurie has to pretend to be him in his place to both save his job and the project. The ruse works well (somehow) until the big client invites himself into “Gus’” home, forcing Gus and Laurie to dress as each other. In addition to the hilariously bad disguises and the ribbing that both Laurie and Gus get from their kids about them (and said client flirts with Gus in his disguise!), there’s a great moment in the end where their disguises are revealed, and the big client, rather than shutting down the whole thing like Tycoonius was starting to do, asks to get the whole story from “the man of the house”. One would assume he’d turn to Gus, but he actually turns to Laurie and she explains without hesitation. Seeing their devotion to each other, the client takes on the project, and Tycoonius doesn’t fire Gus, and Evictus doesn’t evict him; said client OWNS the bank of Rome, meaning Evictus has to answer to him. Laurie went to bat for Gus here, even though she admits that she knows nothing about his job or what it entails, and did so without shaming him OR bragging about it. In today’s times, such things would be seen as “woke”, but kudos to Hanna-Barbera for handling it well and not making it cringe.

“Hero-Sandwiched” was also a really good episode. True, Gus allows the attention to get to his head, and the other half where he’s arrogant and intolerable is really a dream, but his initial response to being hailed a hero is commendable, especially since most episodes featuring “accidental heroism” features the main character creating a world of lies only to have it blow up in his face. Gus just wanted to set the record straight before it got out of hand, and I have to give him props for that.

[djarinbarnes]

me olvidarás - three

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

Pairings: Javier Peña x female reader

Warnings for the chapter: charming javi. (again, yes he needs his own warning) kissing. dry humping. fingering. flirting. again, doubtful javi. talk about sex. a little angst. but a lot of fluff.

Word count: 6.2k

Summary: an undeniable warm summer vacation in Bogotá. simply trying to get away from your nosey, boring parents and live for once, you meet a man who impresses you beyond where your imagination could ever take you.

a/n: more slowburn, yet a little action. 😏

previous chapter · series masterlist

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

The hours that pass after that are excruciatingly long, and you find yourself bored out of your mind. You have a small garden that connects your parents’ rented apartment to yours, and that’s where you spend the most of your hours.

Your trusty, worn-out copy of Jane Eyre is in your hands, and you’re nearing the halfway mark again. With sunglasses resting on your nose, you can get away with occasionally dozing off, your parents probably not even having noticed you weren’t at home all night.

Under the stinging rays of the sun you lay, finding comfort in your book as you miss Javi. Missing a stranger. How pathetic, you think to yourself and mentally condemn yourself to hell for 1. Falling in love with a devilishly handsome stranger that 2. Is pushing 40.

You can’t believe you let it come to this, no matter how good it felt. Somehow, with Javi, it felt right. You couldn’t explain why, but there was just something about his aura that captivated you and held you prisoner.

You knew you wanted to know more about him. You wanted to know everything. You wanted to feel him, all of him. And you knew now, that Javi was the one you were losing your virginity to, no matter what it took you.

Now, some may say that losing your virginity to a stranger you’ve met on some vacation is one of the stupidest things you could do, but right now you didn’t really care. You couldn’t care less about what other people thought of what was right and wrong, because you knew this felt right for you.

You reach over and take the soda by your side, sipping the sugary beverage into your mouth through the straw. You sigh and put the soda back on the table, the book following it. You lean back and let your skin soak up the rays of uv you so desperately need.

You don’t know how long you’re asleep for, but you’re startled awake by banging on your front door. You quickly sit up and gather yourself, before pulling your robe around your body, the flimsy material barely covering your skin.

You open the front door reluctantly, not really sure if you’re awaiting a visit from someone. Your head is cloudy from falling asleep in the sun, and you mentally cheer at the fact that you’re not sunburnt.

In front of you stands Javi, a tidy bouquet in hand. Your lips tug into a wide smile as you swiftly pull the sunglasses off your face, watching as Javi gulps at your undressed state. Bikini and a robe - he didn’t expect you to open your door like this. He really didn’t… And yet there you were. Even more beautiful than this morning.

You watch as he extends the hand with the bouquet towards you. He’s bought you roses. It’s your first ever bouquet of flowers, and they’re bigger than any roses you’ve ever seen before. Red, voluminous and just downright beautiful.

“I saw these and thought of you.” He says, and if you’re not mistaken there’s a slight blush littering his cheeks. You couldn’t have seen that right. Maybe he was just shocked that you weren’t really dressed.

“Oh my god, Javi they’re absolutely breathtaking!” You take them from his hands and bring them to your nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the flowers. “Thank you so much.” You lean forward and place a kiss on his cheek before you turn on your heel.

“Come on in. I have no idea if vases exist in these apartments, otherwise I guess a glass will do…” you say as you rummage through the different cabinets in the kitchen, before making your way through the sparse living room before finally coming up with something that you figured was supposed to be a vase.

You watch him through your lashes as he takes uneasy steps around your apartment, looking at every little painting on the walls and books forgotten in the unsubstantial shelf, supposedly a bookcase. You set the roses in the filled vase on the small table in the middle of the apartment, before peeling your robe off your shoulders and placing it on one the chairs, before you make your way into your bedroom to change into something more comfortable.

You knew Javi watched you as you basically stripped in front of him, but you wanted to tease him. You were hoping that he would give in and possibly sleep with you if you teased him enough. He was a man, after all. And men had desires, after all.

You found a flowy summer dress, forgoing a bra since it was already a little tight around your bust. You swiped on a coat of mascara, mentally cursing yourself to the devil when you accidentally hit the bridge of your nose with the wand.

Understandably though, since your hands were shaking. You hadn’t even noticed before now. You quickly get rid of the black mark before you gather your lip balm from your bag, bringing it along with you this time if you were lucky enough to place more kisses upon the man in the living room.

His eyes followed you as you walked out of your bedroom and over to your handbag, putting the small container into the bag. You drape it over your shoulder and turn to him with a smile.

“Alright. I’m ready to see Bogotá through the eyes of you.” You walk up to him and he swiftly pulls you in for a determined kiss. Your arms automatically wrap around his next as you deepen the kiss slightly, pushing your body against his to have him closer.

His tongue glides over your bottom lip again, taking you back to the night before. You feel your heart pick up the pace at the thought. His hands are on your waist, drawing you impossibly closer. You feel the heat radiating off his body, and you figure it’s from the scorching heat of the Colombian afternoon sun. Maybe mixed with a little bit of desire. Hopefully a little bit of desire.

You whimper against his lips as his hands tighten on your hips, his fingers digging slightly painfully into your muscles. It’s a good kind of painful, though. It lights your nerve endings on fire, just like his touch did yesterday. There’s an urgency in the way he’s kissing you, almost like he was craving you as much you were craving him.

His hands are rough as they slide up your sides, swiftly coming around your upper arms to hold you out in front of him, your lips still perked as if he was kissing you, the swift breakage of your intimate moment making your erratically beating heart thud uncomfortably in your chest.

“We need to go. I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off of you if we do this much longer.” He breathes, and you can easily see the conflicting feelings battling away behind his hooded eyes. You lean into him again, forcing yourself out of his grip to place another kiss on his lips.

“I don’t want you to hold back.” You whisper against his lips, before you pull away and make your way to the door leading out to the small garden between your parents’ apartment and yours, which hadn’t been fully closed. “But we can do that later. Don’t need my parents to see anything,” you cast a smirk back in his direction, before sliding it open fully, walking over a small patio to locate your parents.

“Mom, dad, I’m going out. I won’t be home for dinner, alright?” you smile when you find them. Your dad is asleep in the shade of a balcony extending over the garden. Your mom is reading her usual magazine, and you know she’s deeply invested in whatever Doctor-Sexy novel that’s found its way into the magazine this time when she doesn’t protest.

Normally they would be against you going out alone in a city you barely knew, but you had spent most of the day yesterday checking out the city after your arrival, where normal people would’ve probably been tired after a flight like that.

But you weren’t - quite the contrary though. You had been full of energy and determination as you’d dressed yourself in your most comfortable hiking shoes that you’d packed with the knowledge that Bogotá was located on the high plateau of the Andes.

You loved exploring - a lot. In the span of a few hours, you’d found more than enough small taverns, shops and restaurants you wanted to visit in the three weeks you were staying in Bogotá. When the sun had gotten too warm and the air too humid, you’d gone home, taken a shower and changed clothes - and you know what happened then. Something with a handsome stranger.

You had no idea where Javi was taking you, and it almost felt too good to be true. It felt like a literal fairytale, being swept off your feet by a handsome, older stranger who brought you flowers and complimented you on your looks, even though you barely knew one another.

Maybe it was the Colombian custom, but you couldn’t care less at the moment. It was a whole new world for you, to actually feel interest from the opposite sex - well, not exactly new, but the whole reciprocation of feelings that you were sure was there.

He even opened the door for you, watching you as you slid into the passenger’s seat of his car. He’s quickly on the other side of the car, seating himself in the driver’s seat. When the car roars to life, the sound of the engine finally manages to drown out the sound of your heart beating in your chest. You admire him as he pushes the sunglasses resting on his dashboard onto his nose.

It was so exciting and scary at the same time, going out with Javi in a city you barely knew. You hoped that he would show you something extraordinary, but you literally had no idea what he had planned for the two of you. You watched the small apartments slowly turn into nothing else but landscape, and it dawned on you that he was taking you out of the city.

“Okay, so I guess I’m not going to see Bogotá today, huh?” you tease as you turn your body toward him. You watch as his lips tug into a smile as he casts a look at your bared legs, the soft swell of your chest under the flower-patterned dress you were wearing.

He noticed the air condition had made goosebumps rise on your skin and pebbled your nipples, letting him know you hadn’t put on a bra. God fucking damn it. He felt his pants tightening over his hips, and he mentally cursed himself to the devil. God, you were really going to be the death of him.

You watched as his hands tightened around the steering wheel, and you cast your eyes down his body. You bit your lip as you noticed the slight bulge in his pants. It was like a lightbulb going off over your head as you pushed the seatbelt strap under your right arm before leaning over the middle console slightly, placing your mouth right against his ear.

“See something you like, Javi?”

You watch as goosebumps rise on the skin beneath his ear, all the way down his neck. You look over his shoulder to take in the area of his crotch again, watching him twitch slightly. You bit your lip, overthinking a possible plan that wouldn’t distract him too much.

You slowly let your hand follow his front, all the way down to rest against the hard cock in his pants. You very much enjoyed the fact that you had this effect on him. You heard him draw in a deep breath of air as your hand finally came in contact with him, and you watched as his eyes fluttered slightly.

“What are you doing, hermosa…” you can hear he’s short of breaths, and it makes your heart do a slight flip. It turns you on, knowing the effect you have on him. Maybe it turns him on as well - knowing you’re aroused and willing to tease the living shit out of him.

“Eyes on the road, Javi…” you whisper in his ear as he tugs his lip in between his teeth, your hand moving over his bulge with gentle strokes. You tug his earlobe into your mouth, sucking on the soft flesh before you lick up the outside of his ear with a firm tongue. He lets out a moan as his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

You place a kiss on his tragus, then his cheekbone before peppering kisses down his jaw. You reach the column of his throat, placing small kisses over his pulse point, feeling the way his pulse is beating erratically under the soft, tan skin. Your hand is still moving in gentle circles, his breath languid as he’s still watching the road.

“Does this turn you on, Javi?” you whisper into his ear and he nods with a gulp. You smile as you go back to kissing his neck, hearing the way his breathing got caught in his throat again. You barely feel it when he brings the car to a stop, but you definitely feel the way he turns his body violently, his hand grasping you behind the neck, drawing you in for a hot and heavy kiss.

His tongue is dominating your mouth, tasting every crevice of your teeth and the roof of your mouth. You’re a breathless mess by the time he lets you go, yanking his seatbelt off before he’s undoing yours and basically manhandling you into his lap.

You’re whimpering as his hands find your hips, grinding his crotch forcefully into your mound, drawing a moan out of your mouth. His tongue is still exploring your mouth with everything it’s got, drawing a wet patch into the crotch of your panties. The fabric of his jeans is rough against your inner thighs as they grow more and more sensitive as your arousal begins to bloom in your belly.

Javi’s hands are traveling up and down your hips, gripping your flesh on top of your dress, bunching the fabric in his hands as he continues to ravish your mouth. You place your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, whimpering wantonly into his mouth as the friction from his bulge draws you closer and closer to an inevitable orgasm.

It’s a whole new feeling from the few times you’ve brought yourself satisfaction with your own fingers, and it turns you on even more to think that someone is present to watch you come undone. You bite onto his bottom lip as you moan out, the friction against your clit finally makes the coil in your abdomen snap. Your eyes snap shut as your fingers dig themselves into his shoulders, his hands stilling your hips over his, holding your convulsing pussy tight against his bulge, letting him feel the contractions happening within your panties.

You let his bottom lip go as you finally come down from your startling high, opening your eyes slightly to take in his lust-blown eyes looking right back at you. You tug your own lip in between your teeth, your chest heaving from the daze you found yourself in as you lean back slightly, accidentally leaning against the steering wheel, making the horn go off.

It startles both of you before you both break out into laughter of just how unconventional the whole situation was. You hoped that no one noticed your little escapade - hell, you didn’t even know where you were. You finally looked around, noticing you were literally in the middle of nowhere, and you saw nothing but water and trees around the car.

It was like he’d driven you straight out into what appears to be a lake, and you’d been too occupied with him to even notice where you were. You popped open the door and stepped out into what appeared to be a mix of sand and dirt. You let out a laugh as you finally inhaled something that wasn’t the warm air of the car that reeked of sweat and sex.

Javi followed you out of the car before opening the passenger door behind the driver’s, reeling out a blanket and a basket full of delicious looking food, fruits and two bottles of wine.

“How romantic.” You giggle and hear your stomach grumble, letting you know it hadn’t forgotten about the lack of food since the pancakes earlier in the morning. You almost moan out at the sight of ripe strawberries, raspberries and blueberries. “A picnic?”

“Come on,” he says as he makes his way toward a small spot behind some trees that has the perfect amount of shade while it still overlooks the water of the lake. From the place where you’re standing, you can’t make out how big it is. You follow him and almost throw yourself on the blanket the moment he’s laid it on the grass.

You’re happy that it’s grass you’re on top of - you hate having sand in between your toes, no matter how much you love the beach and walking barefoot. You smile as he places the basket in the middle of the blanket before sitting down on the other side of it, facing you.

“Don’t know how long I can sit on the ground. I am an old man, after all.” He says as he picks the wine out of the basket, wringing it open. You really like the whole screw-lid invention. It’s so much easier.

“From the things I’ve experienced, you’re definitely… Young by heart.” You giggle before reaching into the basket to pick out a strawberry. You hold his gaze as you push the red berry past your lips, biting through the fruit. You giggle when you feel some of the juice trail down your chin and watch his movements as he quickly wipes your chin with his fingers.

“Thank you, Javi.” You smile before chewing through the berry, very much enjoying the way he sucks the juice off of his fingers, and the way he looks at you while doing so. You watch as he pours two glasses of the wine before he extends one glass toward you. You take it and happily take a sip.

“You know, I actually didn’t take you for the romantic type,” You say as you both fill your mouths with fruit. “But this is pretty damn romantic in my opinion.” You let out a laugh when he shrugs his shoulders, letting you know you were probably somewhat right.

“Guess I’d have to be a tiny bit romantic seeing I just made you come in the driver’s seat of my car.” The way he says it so shamelessly amazes you. He says it like the most natural thing in the world - bringing a stranger he met yesterday to an orgasm in his car on their second date. This was a date, wasn’t it?

“I mean, if you wanna call it a date, then it’s alright with me.” He says and you furrow your brows before you realize you’d actually said it out loud. Asked him if it was a date. Oh my god. You mentally slap yourself as you let out a small laugh, before nodding.

“Alright. A date with the most interesting man I’ve ever met.” You say as you raise your class for him to cheer with you. “I know this summer is going to be unforgettable.” You say as the rim of his glass meets yours, making you both smile at each other.

The hours, like yesterday, pass by like you’ve known each other for a lifetime. You’re both telling each other even more details about yourselves that hadn’t surfaced the day before. Before you know it, the sun is setting, and you’ve found your way into Javi’s embrace. It feels like you belong there - like his arms were made for holding you.

“Is it safe to swim in the water?” you whisper as you watch the sun descend on the sky. You bite your lip at the thought of skinny dipping with a man watching you, maybe even joining you.

“In el Embalse de San Rafael?” he moves his body slightly to look down at you, and he watches you as you nod. “Yeah, it is.” He feels his heart pick up the pace as he thinks about seeing you in nothing but your underwear. Or the bikini, which he’d seen you in earlier. Then it dawns on him that you probably hadn’t brought it along, which left the only possibility… you being naked.

If you do decide to strip, he knows he’s definitely not going to be able to keep his hands to himself. There’s so much sexual tension between the two of you, he’s constantly semi-hard in his pants and thinking about what messes the two of you could create together. On the other hand, he knows that you haven’t been with anyone yet, and it makes him reluctant to just do anything with you.

The whole thing the two of you had done in his car had been completely on autopilot on his behalf, and it only dawned on him what he’d done to you after he’d felt you orgasm against him. He almost felt bad about getting you off, but then he’d seen the blissed-out expression on your face.

Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t even noticed you shimmying out of his arms, discarding your summer dress and gliding your panties down your legs before his eyes are glued to the swell of your ass, moving as you slowly tread out into the water.

He feels his heart going through many if not all emotions right at that moment. He watches as you turn your body slightly, waving to him, encouraging him to follow you into the water. He gulps down a lump that has formed in his throat as he watches your body slowly disappear under the water, before he stands up and hurriedly pulls off his clothes, one item at a time.

He contemplates on keeping his boxer briefs on, but quickly decides to discard them along with the rest of his clothes. He notices you’re giving him privacy, as you’re facing away from him, and he silently appreciates it. It’s been a long while since he’s been this kind of intimate with a woman, and boy if he doesn’t feel some kind of nervous.

As he walks toward the edge of the water, he thinks over the last time he actually took his time in appreciating a woman. Not just pleasuring her - actually appreciating her. Sure, he appreciated some of his informants’ readiness in sleeping with him and satisfying his need, but he didn’t spare them much more than that. He kind of felt like a dick about it, now he thought of it.

Before he could think more about it, his hips had become engulfed within the water, and he was close, so close, to you. If he reached out, he was touching your shoulder. He admired the way the water dripped from your hair onto your shoulder as you took in the view in front of you, getting just as lost in your thoughts as he had been in his.

He slowly submerges himself in the water behind you, and he’s sure you know he’s right behind you. His arms come around your middle, pulling your back into his chest. You giggle when you feel his mustache tickle its way over your shoulder, his warm breath turning cold against your wet skin.

You feel his hands slowly, timidly, explore the front of your body, and you extend your torso slowly from the crumpled-up position you’d been sitting in. His hands slide opposite of each other, one up and one down as he places one hand on your hip and the other just under the swell of your breast.

You moan lightly at the contact, his touch once again alighting something inside of you. His thumb grazes the underside of your breast just under your nipple, and it makes you suck in a deep breath. It’s the first time someone has ever touched your chest, and it feels so damn good. Then he’s gingerly rolling your nipple between his fingers, making you whimper out - and it’s almost not possible that it feels even better. But it does.

You lay your head back against his shoulder as the hand on your hip travels further down and in between your legs. You tug your lip in between your teeth as his lips continue their assault on your neck and shoulder. You feel his fingers experimentally moving in between your folds, rough pads gliding over the very delicate lips of your pussy.

“This okay?” he whispers in your ear as his hold on you tightens, drawing you closer to his body. You feel the evidence of the effect you have on him as his erection presses into the small of your back, making you moan even more wantonly.

“Yes, god Javi, touch me.” You whimper out as his fingers drag through your folds once, twice, three times before he languidly dips just the tip of his finger into your wet core. It feels amazing when you do it yourself, but when Javi does it - it feels way better. Like he knows just the depth of where your most sensitive parts are, as pushes his finger in further, finding it in an instant.

Your hand finds his arm and you tighten your hand on top of the muscle, squeezing your eyes shut as he sucks over your pulse point. You’re left breathless by so little, and it makes you wonder just how little he needs to do to ruin you completely. It isn’t going to take much for him to take you apart.

Another finger dips into your core and you moan out again as he slowly works you open. His mouth is tugging your earlobe into its heat, and it feels like you’re going to lose yourself into pleasure. Your mind is spiraling into a haze as he thrusts his fingers into you, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your bundle of nerves while his fingers are still pulling and twisting your nipple.

You let out a deep, guttural moan as he curls his fingers just right inside of you, making stars appear before your eyes. Your free hand makes its way into Javi’s unruly locks, the wet digits tangling with his dry hair. You feel yourself on the edge of going absolutely feral, simply wanting to turn around and absolutely ravish the man behind you. You want to lay him against the sand of the shore and ride him senseless.

You let go in his arms, relishing in the fact that he’s bringing you pleasure so easily. You clench around his fingers as he holds you close, your cunt milking his fingers, silently wishing it was his cock. You knew it would probably take some getting used to - having something as big as the thing you so obviously felt against your back inside you.

You were certainly going to find out if you could though, and just how much of him you could fit inside of you. Maybe not right now, but sometime later, that was for sure. Your chest is still calming down from your high and Javi’s arms are still keeping you anchored to the ground. You were sure that you were going to ascend into heaven at one point during your orgasm.

His arms are warm around you in the cold water, but it still makes you shiver lightly. You wring out of his hold, turning to face him before you’re kissing him intently, bringing both of your wet hands into his hair this time, pulling his front close to yours. You feel him nudge against your stomach and you smile against his lips, before you hum slightly.

His arms come around you yet again - or rather his hands come around you to grasp the flesh of your ass. He moans into your mouth as you move your body against his sensually, wanting to repay the favor. He doesn’t let you, though, because he’s pulling away from you shortly after.

“Come on. You’re shivering.” He says as he finds your hand under the surface of the water, pulling you by the hand to the shore. On the way there, you get to admire the muscles of his ass - the way he carried himself made something clench in your pelvis, even though he’d just given you an orgasm. Were you already ready for round… 3?

The angry, red wound on his shoulder reminds you just what kind of a man he was. You wondered how long it had been since he had been shot - the wound looked partially healed, and there was just the slightest scab over it. You didn’t know much about gunshot wounds, but it appeared that he was shot from the front. You wondered if it had gone right through. It looked like it.

You caught yourself getting lost in thoughts about the kind of people he chased - if he chased people - that could leave him with a wound like that. You decided you were going to ask him about it, when you felt the time was right. For now, you let your eyes wander again.

Back on land, you’re still admiring his body, and you’re admiring him very shamelessly. It was like he brought out the worst in you - an untamable, aroused demon. You hadn’t ever eaten someone up with your eyes like you were currently watching Javi. You knew he felt your eyes on him, but you weren’t sure how he was handling it.

You tilted your head as he brought his boxer briefs up his legs to cover his ass and shield his crotch from you. You reluctantly walked over to your own clothes, also pulling your panties back on with your back turned to Javi.

There was that awkwardness again… you sigh as you pull your dress back on, the wetness of your body making the fabric stick to your skin uncomfortably. The dress clings to the back of your thighs as you tie the band behind your neck, and just then, you realize how much the temperature has actually dropped, simultaneously with the sun setting.

Even though it was still warm, you were sure the temperature had dropped more than a few degrees. The goosebumps that rise on your skin this time are from the coldness of the air around you, as you make your way back to the blanket you were previously sitting on, looking through the basket to find the next thing you were filling your grumbling stomach with.

You slightly ignore Javi as he sits down beside you, feeling kind of mad at him for acting the way he did. How did he just take you on a romantic date by a lake, proceed to give you an orgasm while you both were stark naked in the lake, care enough to get you out of the water because he could feel you were cold, and then go on to blankly ignoring you while he got dressed?

“So, I was thinking we could go somewhere to eat, if you’re hungry. I was thinking maybe I could treat you to some empanadas and a beer?” You almost rolled your eyes at him but caught yourself before you could actually do it. You let out a deep exhale, not really knowing how to handle the situation unfolding.

On one hand, you were starving for something that wasn’t wine and fruit. Empanadas and cheap beer sounded so perfect, and you silently cursed Javi to hell for being so thoughtful and yet so resistant. You kind of hated him for not taking advantage of you. It sounds weird, saying it that way, but you really did wish he wouldn’t hold back with you. You didn’t really think further before the words had already left your mouth.

“Is there something wrong with me, Javi?” you say with so much uncertainty it takes him aback. Where the sudden doubt from you had come from, he had no idea. You appeared to be so sure of what you wanted - so sure of yourself. And yet here you were, tears threatening to spill out of your eyes.

He understood why you felt that way, though. He didn’t feel good about why you possibly felt this way, but he just couldn’t bring himself to let go with you. He didn’t want to selfishly take advantage of you, even though he desperately wanted to feel you clench and come around him. He wanted to feel the warmth of your cunt, and the warmth of having you close - closer than he’d already had you.

“Hermosa, no.” He speaks as he quickly draws you into his arms, pulling your trembling body back into his warmth. Why was he so damn warm all the time? You hated yourself for the way your body so easily relaxed into his body, calming you down in an instant.

“There must be something wrong with me. Why don’t you want me?” you whisper as he’s peppering kisses into your damp hair, his hands sliding up and down the length of your arms. It feels so good, being right there in his arms. The tremble in your body has been turned down to nothing more than a little shiver, and you feel yourself relaxing into his chest.

“Trust me, hermosa, I want you so much it hurts.” It felt weird, putting it into words like that, but it was the truth. It wasn’t just in the way his cock ached to find solace within your heat - no it was so much more than that, and it scared him more than anything had ever done before. He didn’t even feel this way about his ex-fiancée.

“I want it to be perfect for you. But I’m scared, hermosa. Scared I’m going to hurt you. Scared that I’m not right for you, hell, even good enough for you. I want you to have the best. And I’m not the best.” He speaks as he looks out into the mountains on the opposite side of the lake, that mountain ridge separating the two of you from the bustling life of Bogotá.

It was easier to say it to you, when he wasn’t looking at you. He felt so bad about turning you down again and again, even though he knew you would come onto him again and again. He was afraid you were going to change your mind about him, hell, he was afraid he was going to change his mind about you.

His head and heart were going a thousand miles an hour. It’d been so long since he’d been honest with someone in this way. Not even Connie, not even Steve. Not even his informants. You just had that effect on him. Wanting to open up to someone.

“Javi…” you finally speak, and he closes his eyes, awaiting your next words. He feels as you wiggle out of his arms, before he feels your legs straddling his, your hands sliding up his arms before coming to a rest on his shoulder and his neck. He feels you press a gentle kiss to his lips, before he finally lets his hands come up to rest on your hips.

“You could never hurt me. At least I don’t have the imagination to think of why you would hurt me. Everything I’ve experienced with you has been absolutely amazing.” Your fingers are rubbing soft circles into the nape of his neck, and he feels the tension leaving his body slowly.

“Javi, I want to do this with you. I want you to give me an unforgettable summer. And I know you can do just that.” You lean in and place another kiss against his lips, this time feeling the reciprocation of his lips against yours. “I want it to be you. I want to give myself to you.” You breathe against his lips, making goosebumps rise on his arms at your words.

His mind is imagining so many things as the warmth of your inner thighs spreads over his hips, seeping into his hips and straight into his groin. He’s imagining other women with your face on them, how he would fuck them into senselessness in indescribable positions, bringing them undeniable pleasure.

Yet he can’t bring himself to act on his feelings and desires just yet. He knows you’re going to be saddened by him turning you down yet again, but with this rejection, he also knows that he is going to give into you, sooner or later. You just had to wait.

“Okay, hermosa.” He says against your lips, before capturing them in another kiss. “But not yet. Not today.” His hands are working over your ass, massaging the soft flesh with his rough hands. It draws yet another wet patch into your panties, joining the dried one already left there.

“If I’m going to have sex with you, I’m gonna be doing it in a proper bed.” You giggle at his words, just the thought of the two of you coming together as one alighting your nerve endings. “But right now, I think we both need to eat something.”

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

next chapter

[kinnoth]

After the battle, after the aether, Thor goes to Svartalfheim to bring his brother home. Loki lies how he had left him in the grey dust, his long, white hands folded over his lifeless breast, and not a thing about it allows Thor to mistake him for being asleep. Life's golden light has fled from him, and he is heavy and cold as a stone in his arms as Thor lays himself down next to him and wishes for a different world.

Even after, when no more tears will come, he holds him for a while longer. Loki's clothes, his hair, still hold his scent, beneath the stale tang of blood, and though there is nothing to pretend, Thor tries to find some relief in it. But night falls, even in Svartalfheim, and Thor must go. He unpins his red cloak and drapes it around Loki as his shroud.

Though it is not his duty to, Thor tends to his brother's body himself.

"This is unseemly," his father says.

Loki is stripped bare under a linen sheet and lain out upon a stone slab, the blue-veined marble of his limbs streaked with dust and black blood. Thor washes him carefully with a warm cloth and a basin of water. He says evenly, "It is not beneath my dignity to care for him any more than it was beneath yours to care for mother."

"She was my wife and queen to the nine realms." Odin knocks his great spear against the floor with emphasis. The chamber echoes violently. "Loki was a traitor and a criminal."

"And he was my brother. And he died for me because I could not save him."

"He killed your mother."

"Our mother died in defence of Jane Foster. Loki shares no more blame for that than you do, or I, or rather--" Thor feels his throat closing and his vision growing watery dim. He pulls his brother's cold hand up to his cheek and holds it there, tries to breathe deep what meagre comfort he can. "It is more my fault than anyone else's." Odin's face twists in something like impatience and so Thor beseeches him before he can start, "Please, father, even if you do not understand, I beg your indulgence in this matter for a little while longer."

Odin leaves him to his task and to carry himself through the maelstroms of his grief. Thor understands enough. Had they been different men in different circumstances, perhaps they might have mourned together, but Odin is not only his father, and not only his king. Thor is an ungrateful son and an ungrateful prince, but for not the first time in his life, he finds himself wishing that, rather than all the riches and privileges of his position, that he might have had a life where he had had a family for himself. A father who was only a father, a mother who was only a mother, a brother who he could have loved without the rule and responsibility and regret of Empire.

(The things Thor would have done for the chance to have loved Loki as his own man.)

But it was always the kingdom that came first in Odin's eye, and, with what it has cost him to keep it, Thor can understand how his father can have no concern left for anything else. He is heir to that doctrine, heir to that great and terrible empire, and god, to think he wanted that. To think what he had, mere days ago, been willing to become. To think that he and his brother had fought each other for that seat, that they had hurt each other for the privilege of being the tinder upon which the heart of empire burns.

Loki had won it and Loki had died, and now Thor is never going to be able to breathe again.

He cleans his brother's hair and combs it from his face. Thor touches it and tries to draw it into his memory. He might live another fifteen hundred or fifteen thousand years and he will never see this face again. This part of his life is over. The best part of his life is over. Thor is already beginning to forget. When was the last time he heard Loki say his name? When was the last time Loki had smiled for only him? When was the last time they had touched?

Thor pulls the sheet up to Loki's chin and makes it neat. He does not have the skill to close or disguise his brother's wounds, and so the morticians must come soon to ply their trade to make him ready for the funeral tomorrow. He has asked that they dress him in particular items in Loki's effects. It is custom that the dead go on in their next journey gleaming in their full armour and raiment, but Thor has never known Loki to be a warrior. He has chosen for him, instead, the clothing he best remembers of him: his deep green coat, his soft-soled shoes.

"I will see you again," he murmurs, for it is late now, and the lamps gutter meaningfully on their wicks. "Goodnight," he says. From his cold bed, Loki does not respond.

 Thor wakes without having dreamt and that itself is something of a mercy. He leaves today; he has decided. He has no reason to stay.

He cleans himself and dresses himself and his eyes are dry. He will go to see his brother once more, and then he will go. He leaves the living area and makes his way down into the mortuary. He opens the door and then his heart stops. Loki is sleeping. Someone has come and enchanted the body. They have bloomed the warmth back beneath his skin and closed his eyes and even done the little trick of making his breast rise steadily and fall. They have left him in the clothes Thor chose for him, and for that he is thankful, but he is changed now, something too clear about his expression, too restful in the way they've draped his limbs. And he smells wrong, like nothing, like empty rooms with closed windows where no one lives or goes.

Loki is not here anymore, and there is nothing left in Asgard for Thor, only ghosts and bad dreams.

Thor feels the burning head of anger rise beneath his anguish, but it doesn't matter now, it is done, and there is naught left for him to do but to say goodbye. Thor slips his rough hand beneath his brother's hair once more and strokes his smooth jaw and the warm nape of his neck. He presses his lips to his brow and to each closed eye.

"Take with you all my love, brother," he murmurs. He kisses the thin line of his mouth, and when he draws back, Loki's lips slip open like a breath. "Loki?" he says cautiously, but of course there is no answer. Thor feels a flood rise within him too fast and zcalamitous. His dignity leaves him. He drowns. A ragged breath drags out of him, and Thor feels his legs give way, and then he is weeping.

"Brother, please," he says. He presses his face down into Loki's bewitched chest. His hands have turned to claws, and they rake at his brother's arms and hair and face. "Loki. Loki," he calls, "what am I supposed to do? Please," he begs, a child again, seeking comfort and having no recourse when comfort is not forthcoming. It is his own fault, of course. It has always been his fault. Too stupid, too foolhardy, too slow. What good is all his strength and power if none of it will save the ones he loves? What good is his life if he cannot have the ones he loves?

He cannot be here. He cannot stand to stay here a minute more.

The tears leave him gradually. He has made a mess of Loki's fine jacket, and his eyes feel heavy and dull. He sits back, feeling for his pulse inside of himself and willing it to slow. He must go and see his father; he must tell him of his decision. But for right now, he reaches out and smooths down the front of Loki's jacket and lays his hands back over the front of it. He lifts his chin carefully back to an angle that resembles repose and tucks back his hair. His hand comes away with a long inky coil; even in death, his brother is not free from Thor's injuries.

"Forgive me, I did not mean it," he says. His voice is choked and harsh from misuse, but he strokes, as gently as he is able, the lean angle of Loki's cheek. "Forgive me."

He sits and for a little while longer anyway, it is only the two of them together in this quiet room. For a little while anyway, Thor can almost pretend it is only morning.

[pedros-mustache-main]

i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

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

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

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

january, 1982.

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

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

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

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

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“right.” he nods once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

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

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

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

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

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

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

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

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

this is a job for you. nothing more.

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

“hello?”

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

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“afraid so.”

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

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

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

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

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

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

“are you an angel?”

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

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

“that’s kind of you.”

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

“i think you’re still drunk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your nails tap against the counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

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

“but where will i—”

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

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

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

you come to when a car horn blares outside. 

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

“roger!”

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

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

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“[y/n], please!”

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

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

you’re nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but then the phone rings.

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

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

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

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

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

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

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

“why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“is this your wife, roger?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that’s not really—”

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

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

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

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

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

“there! that could enough for you?”

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

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

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

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

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“have you told rog?”

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

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

you’d forgotten about that too.

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

“i guess but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

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

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

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

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

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

you could get used to this.

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

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

you know he’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

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

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

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

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

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

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

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

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

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

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

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

“roger–”

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

“there’s something i should—”

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

“what?”

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

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

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh, sorry. hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

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

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

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

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

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

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

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

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

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

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

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

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

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

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale.

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

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

your stomach plummets to your feet.

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

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

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

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mhm.”

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

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

someone could be watching.

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

“i remember.”

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

you oblige him without hesitation.

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

you nod, and he leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you okay?”

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

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

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

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

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

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

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

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

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

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

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

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

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

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

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

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

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

it happens before you have time to react.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

only my pride, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

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

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

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

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

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

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

“what?”

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

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

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

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

“yes.”

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

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

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

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

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

[k00263737]

Media Research- Week of 16/3/21

Over the last week, I did some research into how collars have been used on strong female characters within fiction and the media.  My initial thought was how collars are used on the women in Game of Thrones, particularly the character of Daenerys, who is initially depicted in only a sheer white gown, which the designer created specifically to depict her innocence and naiveté. As she grows stronger and gains power, she gets thicker fabrics, and begins to wear statement neckpieces and collars, and by the final season, she is only ever seen in a heavy coat, with a high collar and wide, prominent shoulders.  This can be compared to that of Queen Amidala in Star Wars, Episodes 1-3.  Whenever she is acting in the role of the Queen herself, instead of one of her stand-ins, she is always shown with large hairstyles, head pieces, and prominent collars and necklines.  Even when they soften this look for the celebration scene, she is still seen with a piece worn on her back, creating a halo around her head, very similar to that of Queen Elizabeth I.  When she is in scenes where she is undercover as one of her hand-maidens, with a stand in taking her place as ‘Queen,’ she still wears higher collars, but the hair styles and shapes of the collars are toned down, and the headpieces pretty much disappear.  In her most vulnerable state, in Episode 2, when her and Anikan escape back to Naboo, we finally see her shed many of these accessories, with light gowns, and we finally see her bare neckline during the wedding scene.  

In Disney, we see these prominent collars being worn by many of the ‘evil’ characters. While they are viewed as evil, they are also still very strong, powerful female characters.  In Sleeping Beauty, we see Maleficent pictured with a large, pointy collar.  It is similar to that of a medici colllar, but with sharp angles cutting around the face.  This is accentuated when the character was adapted to live action, for the film Maleficent in 2014, where it is cut around Angelina Jolie’s very angular face, and again in season 4 of the tv series ‘Once Upon A Time.’  This TV series does a great job of adapting the collars both from the fantasy of the fairy tale world into reality, when we see the fantasy characters in the alternate reality American town of ‘Storybrook.’  We not only see Maleficent wearing high, strong 1940s style collars, but we see The Evil Queen from Snow White as ‘Regina Mills,’ the town’s mayor, always in business attire with a sharp collar.  In the 1937 animated Disney film of ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,’ we see a contrast of the large collar.  Both the Evil Queen and Snow White wear these collars, partially because of the 17th century setting of the tale, but while the Queen’s is sharp and high, Snow White’s collar is much softer, rounder and highlights her innocence.  In Cinderella, we see a different style of high collar.  In the 1950 animated version of this story, the Evil Stepmother is seen in a high, late-Victorian style collar, making her very strict in appearance.  While the collars are more updated and stylized in the 2015 live action version, she is still wearing strong collars and shoulder lines.  They almost appear to be based off of the late 1940′s/early 1950s ‘New Look’ style.

Another place that we see a collar being used to show strength is in the recent Netflix series ‘Bridgerton.’  While the characters are wearing lower necklines typical of the Regency period, they almost never wear collars or chemisettes, with one notable exception: Eloise.  Eloise is a character painted as strong, independent, and feminist.  She speaks her own mind and refuses to let others tell her who she’s supposed to be or how she’s supposed to act.  And she ALWAYS wears a very high-necked, very prominent chemisette.  The only scene in the entire series where she bares her neckline is in a ball scene, when she is acting decidedly not like herself, and everyone takes note of this change in appearance.  Drawing comparisons, I noted that her chemisette is very similar to that worn in the portrait of Jane Austen, who many consider to have been a highly feminist literary figure.

[themetaphorgirl]

“you should lie down”

So I wrote this prompt once already with canon Spencer and the team...

...but since it was prompted a second time, I thought I would fill it with little baby boarding school Spencer!

(you can prompt me with anything from this list, or anything you want!)

things I’ve written | boarding school AU tag | my ff.net | my AO3

----------

Hotch frowned. Spencer’s books were spread across the library table, his backpack was propped up on a chair, and the papers were covered in his scribbled handwriting...but Spencer was nowhere to be found.

“Spencer?” he said tentatively.

“...down here.”

Hotch frowned and looked under the table. Spencer sat cross-legged in the small space, surrounded by books, his chin resting in his hand. “We didn’t see you at lunch,” he said.

Spencer drummed his fingertips against his cheek. “Wasn’t hungry.”

Hotch crouched down, frustration mounting his chest. “We’ve been worried,” he said. “No one’s seen you or heard from you in hours.” Spencer raised and lowered one shoulder in an apathetic shrug. “Morgan’s been looking for you all over campus. Penelope and JJ are worried.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been worried. After what happened we-”

He stopped. Spencer slammed a book shut and threw it down. “I can’t do it!” he said.

Hotch blinked. “Can’t do what?” he asked.

“Any of it!” Spencer burst out. “I need to write this stupid English paper and none of it makes sense!”

Hotch rocked back on his heels. “Take a deep breath,” he said. “You’re a genius, Spencer. You’ll be fine.”

“Sure, whatever,” he snapped.

“You’ve been running yourself into the ground,” Hotch said. “When’s the last time you actually got some sleep?”

“Some times when I sneeze, my eyes close,” Spencer said flatly.

Hotch sighed. “If you stop and take a break for a second, things will be easier,” he said.

“It should already be easy!” Spencer shouted, thumping his fists against his thighs. “Why is it so hard?”

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Hotch said, his voice coming out more stern than he meant. “That’s enough.” Spencer knocked a pile of books aside and scooted away from Hotch, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Cut it out! Stop having a temper tantrum.”

He didn’t notice Alex approach until she was standing next to him, the toe of her heeled mary jane tapping lightly against the floor. “Hey, Hotch?” she said. “Any reason you’re having a shouting match with a table?”

He looked up at her, fighting back the sudden surge of embarrassment. “Spencer’s...in a mood,” he said.

Alex surveyed the chaotic mess. “I didn’t even know he was here,” she said. She knelt down beside him to look under the table. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Spencer slunk down further, crossing his arms and tilting his chin to his chest. “Nothing,” he said. 

Alex raised an eyebrow at Hotch. “Dad, you want to fill in here?”

“He skipped lunch and no one’s seen him all afternoon,” he explained. “We’ve been looking for him everywhere. And now he’s freaking out over an English paper, of all things.”

“Ah,” she said. “I’ve been there before. You hit that overload point, didn’t you?” Spencer shrugged. “You’re overwhelmed and the easy stuff suddenly feels really hard.”

“It should be easy,” Spencer mumbled. “I don’t know why I can’t do it.”

“You can, just not right now,” Alex said. “You should lie down. Get some rest, and something to eat, and James and I can help you with your paper tomorrow.”

“I need to do it now,” Spencer insisted.

“It’s the same one Penelope and JJ are working on, right, the Shakespeare paper?” Hotch said. “It’s not due till Monday. You have plenty of time.”

Spencer crossed his arms tighter. “I need to do it now,” he repeated, tight through his teeth, and he dropped his head forward, refusing to look at them.

“Spencer, this is childish,” Hotch said. “You need to calm down and think-”

Alex placed her hand on his arm. “Of course he’s being childish, he’s ten,” she said gently. “Hold on for a second.” He stopped and exhaled slowly.

Alex crawled under the table with Spencer, tucking her legs underneath her and smoothing out her skirt. After a moment she tapped his arm, and when he looked up, his eyes suspiciously wet, she started signing to him.

Hotch watched her, fascinated. Alex was a genius with languages; she and Rossi often had conversations in Italian, and she and Emily could speak to each other easily in French and Spanish too (sometimes Russian, but Emily’s Russian wasn’t as strong). Spencer had been enthralled by their secret conversations from the start and begged for them to teach him, so it was no surprise that he wanted Alex to start teaching him ASL when she started to learn.

There was a long pause before Spencer responded to Alex, his fingers hesitant. Hotch couldn’t understand what they were saying to each other but he could sense the need for privacy, so he stood up and started silently cleaning up the books, papers, and pens sprawled across the table.

Spencer hadn’t been himself lately. Not since the day a few weeks earlier when they found him chained to the goalpost. He hadn’t said much about it, which Hotch understood. Things like that didn’t heal overnight. But he didn’t know what to do to help, either.

Alex pulled herself out from under the table, her dark hair loose and staticky around her face. “Is he okay?” Hotch asked quietly.

“Just give him a second,” she said. She pulled the narrow navy ribbon out of her hair, smoothed back the sides, and retied it. “I’m going to close up the library. Don’t leave without me, okay?”

“Sure,” he said.

He piled the reference books into neat stacks and put Spencer’s things back into his messenger bag, the new one they’d chipped in to buy when his old backpack was ruined. The clip of the buckles seemed too loud in the silence. 

Spencer crawled out from under the table and stood up. “Hey,” Hotch said, trying to keep his voice gentle. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. He tucked in his rumpled uniform shirt and straightened his cardigan. “I’m sorry for...for freaking out.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “I know we’ve avoided talking about it, but...we all know you’re trying to work through a lot of shit. It’s okay.” Spencer’s mouth pressed together in a kind of half smile, his big hazel eyes a little too bright.

“All right, you ready to go?” Alex said as she tugged her blazer on and fastened the gold buttons. “I know that technically I’m not allowed in Lincoln House on a school night, but...if I’m escorted by an RA I should be able to get in.”

Hotch rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll sneak you in,” he said. He slung the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.” 

He cleared his throat as Alex took off her keys lanyard and locked the library doors. “So...Morgan says you’ve been watching a documentary on the Romanovs,” he said. “Want to tell me about it?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up. Hotch bit back a grin as he started talking a mile a minute. Truthfully, he only had a vague idea of what the kid was talking about, but if he was cheered up, then he was happy.

It was starting to snow a little, dusting their hair and their shoulders as they walked outside to make the trek to the dorm. Hotch regretted not wearing his coat; it hadn’t been that cold earlier in the day, but the sun had long since gone down. 

It was warmer in the dorm, Spencer’s energy seemed to flag as they climbed the stairs to the seventh floor, his rapid chatting slowing down. That wasn’t too much of a surprise- Morgan had told him that the kid was barely sleeping at night, and they’d all noticed he hadn’t been eating much lately.

Spencer unlocked his door; Hotch reached around him to flip on the lights. “Morgan’s probably at dinner with everybody else,” he said. “I’ll text him and the girls, let them know we found you.”

“I’ll text James and David and see if they’ll bring back dinner for us,” Alex said. She touched Spencer’s shoulder lightly. “Go put your pajamas on, okay?”

Hotch waited until Spencer was out of the room. “What did you two talk about?” he asked.

She sighed as she finished typing the text message and hit send. “He’s stressed,” she said. “A lot more stressed than any ten-year-old ought to be. And…”

“And what?”

“He’s scared,” she confessed quietly. “That part he didn’t say, but...it’s written all over him.”

Hotch took Spencer’s messenger bag off his shoulder and set it down on his desk chair. “He needs to open up more,” he said. “We can help him better if he would just talk to us.”

“It’s not that simple, Hotchner,” she said. “You can’t force him to behave the way you want, just because it makes things easier for you. You have to meet him where he is.”

Hotch fiddled with the strap of Spencer’s bag. He was suddenly reminded of his own memories, his own father, and he pushed the thought away. “You’re right,” he said, a little too firmly. “I’ll try...differently.”

Spencer walked back in and dropped his uniform in the laundry hamper. “I know I was talking about the Romanov miniseries, but I do you want to watch it with me?” he asked hopefully.

“Absolutely,” Alex said. She sat down on Spencer’s bed. “And James is going to drop off dinner. That sound good?”

He picked up the television remote and climbed up on the bed beside her. “You know, multiple women have claimed to be Anastasia Romanov, but no one’s claimed to be Alexei?” he said. 

“Oh, but that makes sense,” Alex said. “All it would take was a blood test and they’d know.”

“Why’s that?” Hotch asked.

“Because of the hemophilia,” Spencer said, as if it was painfully obvious. He turned on the TV. “Just watch, you’ll see.” He paused. “Do you want to stay and watch it with us?”

“Sure,” he said. He pulled the chair away from Spencer’s desk and sat down. “Why not?” He wasn’t terribly interested in the subject, but if it made the kid happy, he’d watch it. 

“Come on, lie down,” Alex said as the documentary started to play. Instead, Spencer crawled onto her lap, curling up against her. It was funny- Spencer hated to be touched by strangers, had even become notorious for spouting off germ statistics if someone tried to shake his hand, but he always seemed so happy and enthusiastic when someone from their group wanted to hug him.

Maybe, Hotch thought, he feels safest with us. 

[riversofmars]

Happy Sunday, everyone!! <3 Here is the next encounter of the “Big, Vast, Complicated and Ridiculous“ Series! Round two at Luna U... just a bit earlier! ;)

Rating: General

Word Count: 1800

Read on AO3 or below

Luna University Part II

“Mind out!“ The Doctor stumbled back into the broom closet she’d parked and hidden her TARDIS in. The warning came just in time as someone zoomed past on a hoover board, nearly taking her head off.

“Alright then…“ The Doctor closed the closet door quickly in the hopes no-one would notice where she’d come from. She looked around and wondered if she’d taken a wrong turn in the vortex somewhere. Luna University - which this quite clearly was, she recognised the corridor from her visit just now - resembled a mad house. The corridor was a mess, there were paper cups and spilled drinks, abandoned books, half eaten dinners and items of clothing. “Oh no…“ The Doctor winced as she realised where and most importantly when she had arrived: Fresher’s week.

Slowly the Doctor made her way down the corridor, unsure of what to do next. River had to be here somewhere… She rolled up the manuscript and stuck it into her coat pocket for safe keeping. If she had calculated correctly and the TARDIS hadn’t messed with her flight plan again, River should be in her final year of her degree. An upper classman who surely should be above something as silly as freshmen parties… but this was River Song as a uni student… Young, wild… and currently downing a drink at some speed as the Doctor reached the communal area of the the student halls.

“Where… do-do you put all… that…“ The student River had apparently been competing with could hardly get his words out right and he spilled the remainder of his drink across the table.

River jumped out of the way of the liquid and laughed, shaking out her impressive mane of hair.

“I have a theory that in addition to an extra heart, there’s also an extra liver hiding in there somewhere.“ River retorted with a winning smile drawing laughter from the surrounding students.

The Doctor hung back, watching. River appeared to be in her element. Loud, bold, people were fawning over her and she was loving the attention. The Doctor chuckled to herself a little, remaking again on the vast contrast to the River she’d last met. It was remarkable how much she had changed with time and how much she had stayed the same as well.

“But before we go for another round, I do have one question…“ River took a sip of the gin and tonic  someone handed to her. “You, Darling, don’t go to this university, I would have noticed.“ River turned to look at the Doctor who jumped, startled, not expecting her to notice her at all. “So what are you doing here?“

“I uhh…“ The Doctor didn’t know what to say, she looked around to make sure River was actually referring to her. Suddenly all eyes were on her as she hovered in the doorway.  

“I mean, I’m not one to complain when a cute girl turns up on my doorstep…“ River smirked making her way over, leaving her admirers behind disappointed.

“River…“ The Doctor forced a smile, wondering how to best approach this situation. She thought back to the Maldovarium. River had indicated she’d met her then so this must have been that encounter.

“I see my reputation precedes me as usual.“ River smirked, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “And you are?“ She placed her hand on the doorframe, baring her way.

“Jane… Smith…“ The Doctor answered slowly, trying to keep the chronology intact.

“You expect me to believe that, Jane Smith?“ River burst out laughing as she seized her up. “Why have I never seen you around campus before?“

“Recent transfer.“ The Doctor retorted quickly, feeling the pressure.

“Is that so.“ River tilted her head to one side and grinned like a cheshire cat. “What is it you study, Jane Smith?“

“Archeology.“ The Doctor answered, hoping that was her best play.

“Isn’t that one hell of a coincidence.“ River hummed, stepping a little closer still. Close enough to make the Doctor inch back nervously.

“Yes, I know, that’s why I… I was hoping we could talk… professionally.“ The Doctor glanced over her future wife’s shoulder to the other students that were watching curiously.

“Well, Sweetie, you can talk to me any time but no promises I’ll be keeping it professional…“ River husked with a smirk that made the Doctor blush and her hearts beat a little faster. So this was what young River Song was like. She hadn’t had much of a chance to get to know her at the Maldovarium but maybe there was an opportunity now… The Doctor had just spent a wonderful night with her wife but still, she was drawn to this brazen version of her just as strongly. The River she had seen just now she’d known very well, but this young River, she didn’t, at all.

If the Doctor didn’t give herself away, as the older River had suggested, it would be a glimpse at what she was like when she thought no-one was watching. When she didn’t have to be good River Song, the wife of the Doctor, but her unpolished, unfinished self… so full of energy and mischief. It was alluring in a totally different way to the loving safety and warm comfort her older wife had given her.

“Well, maybe you don’t have to.“ The Doctor found herself saying, silencing all her contradicting thoughts about what she should or shouldn’t do. Why not live a little?

“How about that drink then, Jane Smith?“ River appeared delighted, she reached out and ran her fingers along one of her yellow braces.

“Sure, yeah…“ The Doctor nodded, her throat was getting rather dry after all.

“Outstanding.“ River grinned and went to fetch her a drink. The Doctor remained standing in the doorway, unsure whether to follow her or not. She felt everybody’s eyes on her and it was making her uncomfortable. “There you are.“ River returned moments later, placing a glass in the palm of her hand before stroking her fingers up the Doctor’s arm with a grin.

“How about we take it somewhere more quiet so we can talk?“ The Doctor asked, very much aware of their audience and she wanted to have River to herself. River raised her eyebrows with a smirk, this was infinitely more easy than she had anticipated but she wasn’t going to complain.

“Come along then.“ She grabbed the Doctor’s hand and pulled her down the corridor to a chorus of disappointed calls of the students they were abandoning.

From there, things happened very quickly, quicker than the Doctor had anticipated. River shoved her up against her dorm room door once she’d closed it and assaulted her lips with her own. The Doctor gasped, overwhelmed, spilling her drink over the both of them.

“Ah well, that’s a shame, we’re gonna have to take our clothes off now.“ River smirked. She slid her jacket off her shoulders and threw it onto her chair, then pulled her tank top over her head and off. The Doctor just stared at her, her head spinning. It was silly really, she knew every inch of her wife’s body very well but the way this young River was advancing towards her, flipping her hair back…

“I uhh…“ The Doctor tired her best to look at her face, not her lacy bra. Her mouth went dry.

“Something the matter, Sweetie?“ River hummed as she slowly pushed the Doctor’s coat off her shoulders, she pressed her lips to her throat, trailing wet kisses down to her collar bone. The coat fell to the floor and River pushed her hands under the Doctor’s t-shirt, running her fingers up her stomach.

“Oh crap…“ The manuscript the Doctor had left in her coat pocket had fallen out and spilled over the floor. The Doctor pulled away from River and bent down to pick it up before the pages could get mixed up.

“Lost something?“ River asked in amusement, watching her scramble around the floor. She bent down as well and picked up a couple of pages. “What’s this?“ River frowned, her voice suddenly far more serious as she skimmed the pages. “Is this some kind of a joke?“

“Uhh… no, this is…“ The Doctor didn’t really know what to say, she hadn’t gotten as far as that in her planning of this trip. Was she supposed to just tell her her future self sent this with kind regards?

“Cause this is exactly the topic I’m planning to write my thesis on, I’ve got notes detailing this section and… What is this? Where did you get it?“ There was no small measure of distrust in River’s voice now as she demanded an explanation.

“This is actually why I’m here…“ The Doctor decided it was best to just come clean, she knew River would be able to tell if she was lying. “There is someone out there that wants you to have it. Save you some time…“ She tried to explain.

“Someone? I haven’t told anyone about my topic yet!“ River countered.

“Well, it’s not just anyone…“ The Doctor gave an apologetic smile but River’s expression just grew more suspicious. “Okay fine, your future self asked me to take this to you. You wrote this yourself but a long time from now. Happy?“ The Doctor sighed, hoping the revelation wouldn't have any consequences. She figured technically, River would eventually have to find out it was her that wrote the thesis for herself, so she would know to write it in the future.

“That… does sound like something I would do…“ River admitted taking the rest of the papers, mulling over whether or not to believe her.

“I’m just the messenger.“ The Doctor held her hands up defensively. “You do with this what you like.“

“So… if you know my future self… you must be from my future, too.“ River stood up and so did the Doctor.

“Oh, no, no, who’s to say your future self didn’t come to visit me?“ The Doctor countered quickly, she knew she shouldn’t be telling her too much.

“I’m saying that.“ River pointed out, jabbing the pages at her. “And that means, either you have access to time travel or you know someone that does!“

“Now listen… River…“ The Doctor could virtually see the gears turning in her future wife’s head.

“Who are you?“ River asked suspiciously. “Your name is not Jane Smith, that’s for sure.“

“I think I best get going.“ The Doctor picked up her coat quickly. “This was great, really nice, but…“ She fumbled with the door knob.

“How did you get here? What’s your means of travel?“ River carried on, intrigued. “And how will we know each other?“

“I was really hoping we could have a bit more time for this one…“ The Doctor sighed, realising this was just another fleeting moment. “Sorry about this.“ She knocked the pile of papers out of River’s hand, sending them flying to distract her future wife long enough so she could bolt.

[subarubi]

Last Dance

Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: It was a broken deal from the start, just one dance and Bucky Barnes will leave you. 

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: 18+. Angst. This is sad. I’m sad, sorry bout it. Fluff. Light smut. I think I wrote ‘ass’ once. 

--

He’s on a date with a sweet dame at the soda fountain when he first sees you looking like an absolute vision. Scowl and all. And when you smack the boy leaning over you from behind, he’s certain you must be some angel fell from heaven. An angry one sure, but an angel still. With downy feathers and doused in golden light. His heart, big and red and beating strong, trembles at the sight. He’s felt flutters in his stomach before and let out uncontrollable smiles when pretty lips press kisses to his cheek, but never has his heart stuttered like that.

Tip to tail, Bucky Barnes trembles, tingles as you walk towards him with fire in your eyes and dark lead drawing your lips into a frown.

Him! You’re walking towards him, kitten heels pounding into the checkered floor and Bucky’s mouth falls slack mid-flirt. His date protests, face twisted sour, but he can’t bring himself to do more than stutter over an apology. Jeez, he sounds like Steve, jaw falling open and offering her nothing but a strangled gurgle.

Ten feet feels still too far as you tie your coat closed tight, spitting venom over your shoulder at the disgruntled man with a red handprint across his cheek that trails after you.

In front of him, right there before him you stand a heavenly storm and he can’t help the breathless “Hi...” that escapes his lips.

You fix Bucky with a strange look, narrowed eyes flitting across the handsome planes of his dazed face. It doesn’t matter how you’re looking at him though, at least not to Bucky. No, all that matters is that you’re looking at him, damn the residual anger still dragging your brow down. He feels fuzzy all over, lights fading into twinkling stars and chatter softening into a low hum like all the cheesy pictures Steve sees. 

What feels like an eternity to the Brooklyn boy only really lasts about fifteen seconds before you’re glossing over him and focusing instead on his date, Rita. “Can we get outta here, Reets? I think I’ve had my fill of drugstore cowboys,” you ask, curiously side-eyeing her date that seems to have a few screws loose. 

Rita sighs, lifting her hand from where she’d placed it on Bucky’s bicep, “But-”

“I can walk you home!”

Bucky cringes as the both of you stare at him following his outburst, a little too loud and a touch too eager. He can feel Rita glaring daggers into him and while Bucky does feel guilty for being a complete jerk, he can’t help himself to stop staring at you with that hazy look in his baby blues.

Your friend coughs loudly, interrupting the drawn out eye contact as you scrutinize this strange man she had chosen to spend the night with. You’re almost thankful for it, the reprieve from those deep pools that seem to shine with your reflection in them. 

“Ya know what, you two-”

“Bucky,” he supplies with a lazy smile stretching across his pink lips, even if you didn’t really ask. Your face scrunches up and really, he has never seen a woman so beautiful. 

“Right... Reets, you and Bucky enjoy your night. I’ll find my way home just fine,” you smile tightly, already making leave. Anything to get away from the starry-eyed man who didn’t seem to concern himself with anything else but you-- not even his date, your friend.

The swinging door and the soft ting of the shop bell accompanies the fleeting image of your skirt flaring behind you and Bucky’s suddenly cold. You’ve taken all warmth from him, any semblance of the burning giddiness that’s seemed to overpower him in the short time since he first saw you. Steve teased him before of a similar feeling. Those infatuations that burnt too bright, too fast and then, in the blink of an eye fizzle out pathetically. 

This doesn’t feel like that. This feels like if he lets you go without getting your name and some hope of seeing you again, he might never be able to breathe again. 

Really, what is happening to him? 

“Listen, Rita...” he sheepishly mumbles, gathering his own coat.

Rita glares at him with enough force to level Brooklyn, eyes ablaze in disbelief, “Bucky Barnes, I swear if you leave me right now...”

Bucky straightens, his whole body buzzing with the need to run after you. His eyes may be glued to your figure floating past the shop windows, but he has at least enough in him to guiltily offer, “I am so so sorry. Will you get home alright?”

“Will I-” Rita’s rising volume starts to draw eyes, “Are you serious? You’re going after her? My friend?!”

“I really am sorry,” he fumbles in his pocket for some cash, slapping it down on the counter. Barely glancing at the shop owner Bucky asks, “Make sure she gets home alright, Tommy?” 

His feet start moving on their own volition, worn brown soles headed for the door before he even has the chance to hear a reply. He knows Tommy is a good man and that Rita will be fine. But him? Well, doused in the cool November air and whirling around left and right trying to find you, Bucky can feel the tightness in his face, a deep frown threatening to settle over him. 

Bucky hears you first, clicking heels-- those robin’s egg blue Mary Janes with the daisy eyelets that he’s surprised he even noticed-- mixed in somewhere between an errant car horn and distant music. You’re a flurry of wild hair, tawny peacoat waving in the wind as you chase down a yellow cab. His lips pull into a grin as it leaves you in the dust, cursing colorfully under your breath. 

“Hey!” Bucky shouts to get your attention.

“Oh,” your lips fall slack at the sight of him briskly walking to close the distance between you. There’s cute little lines on your scrunched up nose that Bucky just wants to kiss away. “Everything alright? Is Rita okay?”

Bucky nods eagerly, unable to calm that wide smile that makes his cheeks ache or his racing heart that unconsciously sends his chest into a soft heave, “She’s fine, jus’ wanna make sure you get home alright. ‘Specially after that handsy jerk back there.”

It might’ve been cute, a nice gesture that would’ve soothed over the harsh sting left by some other man earlier in the night. It could’ve made you smile and set butterflies loose in your stomach and all of the other feelings that your girlfriends talked about. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date right now?”

You expect a lightbulb to flick on over his head, for him to head right back into the shop at the reminder, to break out of whatever odd stupor had kept him from rational thought. But it never comes, he just nods softly and sways on his feet, hands stuffed into his pockets looking relaxed and very much unbothered by your question.

“Well, Billy, don’t suppose it’s proper date etiquette to leave your girl to walk home her friend, is it?”

He tries not to let the misnomer hurt too bad, settles instead for a brief grimace to relieve the pang in his heart. Bucky kicks himself for not properly introducing himself before. Maybe if you hadn’t been so absolutely disarming, he would’ve been able to offer more than a quiet whisper of his name. Maybe then it would’ve stuck and he would’ve gotten yours in return. 

“It’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes. And if it’s all the same to you, Angel, can’t we just pretend I’m just walking my girl home?” 

You snort, honest-to-god snort and it only endears you to him more. He thinks at this point he’s half in love with you and any more he might just propose on the sidewalk. It’s crazy, he realizes. But his mother always said sane is boring. 

“Are you thick in the head or just a plain jerk, Bucky Barnes?”

“Huh?” Bucky’s eyes bug out of his head.

You roll your eyes and that’s it for him. His knees scream at him to bend down on one of them and beg you to be his forever. “You do realize Rita’s my friend, right? The girl you left to do whatever it is you’re doing right now?”

He’d thought he was flirting, being cute, the right side of cheeky. Apparently not. Bucky clears his throat, smile falling just a bit into something softer, shy if you’d believe it, “I ain’t ever met a dame like you, Angel. What’s your name? Please, I gotta know.”

Quiet, less full-on than before, you can appreciate how handsome he is. That bashful blush across rose petal lips, stirs you up inside. You vaguely remember Rita gushing about meeting him the 'most beautiful man across all five boroughs’ and laughing at her hyperbolic tendencies. Dark chestnut quaff, chiseled jaw with a dimple at his chin, frosted blue irises-- ‘most beautiful’ may not be something you can say for certain, but he is a downright dish. Too bad he’s apparently a perfect mix of thick in the head and jerk. 

“What’ll it take to get you to leave me alone, fat head?”

Truthfully, Bucky will go if you really want him to. He’s not so arrogant to overstay his welcome with women who want nothing to do with him. He won’t try and change their mind about him because normally, they’re right. 

“A dance?” He can’t help himself. 

His heart, the big and red and beating strong one, feels like it blooms flowers out of his chest when you seem to actually ponder the idea. You've lost a lot of your initial fire, eyes cast downwards, brows pulled together in thought, hands fiddling with a button on your coat. Another flash of you that Bucky just catches a glimpse of that makes him feel like a little boy. 

“So if I dance with you, you’ll never talk to me again?”

“One dance and I’ll disappear, if that’s what you want,” Bucky reluctantly replies. He’s pretty sure the one dance is gonna make him want a million, but he’ll honor your wishes. 

You spare a glance up at him, and god dammit he looks like a puppy. A puppy you’ve kicked and you just want to wrap him up in your arms and tell him you’re sorry for whatever it is you’ve done and- what?

“You’ll keep your hands chaste?”

“Scouts honor.”

“Right here?”

“Right here,” Bucky smiles, the soft one that you like a lot more than the too big one you saw him flash Rita earlier in the night. Rita! You’d almost forgotten that the next morning Rita will have that sour look on her face and be cursing his name. And you’re supposed to tell her just how much of a jerk he is and how she deserves better than men like him. 

“But there’s no music...”

“Sure there is, Angel.” 

Bucky gestures to the shop behind you as he already sways gently to the faint sounds of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet from the windows emanating warm light that paints everything rose. 

“You’ll stop calling me Angel?”

“But you are.”

The words catch in your throat and you can only manage a flustered “um” in response. You’ve not exactly shown Bucky Barnes your best side tonight. He’s witnessed you slap a man and storm out of the soda fountain dramatically with the ugliest angry face you could muster. You’ve called him the wrong name and then fat head and you’ve rather rudely told him to ‘bug off’ in no uncertain terms. And you’re an angel for it? He really is crazy.

You ignore it, shaking your head and holding a hand out to notarize the agreement. 

“Okay, deal.”

It’s a broken deal from the start. Bucky knew it, you knew it. 

As you sway back and forth in your apartment, bodies desperately clinging to one another, some part of Bucky, the unselfish part of his love that only wants to see you happy, wishes you’d never said yes. That you left him in the rear window of a taxi or even gave him a good wallop for pestering you so much because you’re breaking his heart-- because he’s breaking yours. 

“Angel, I-”

“Can we just dance, Buck? Please, just let me hold you.”

Your tears are warm and wet in the hollow of his neck, eyelashes drawing small streaks of mascara over his pulse. Every time your trembling lips brush over his throat, peppering it with soft kisses like bolts trying to anchor him to you and Brooklyn, Bucky feels like his heart-- the one that trembles just for you-- just might shatter. 

One of the fingers clutching tight balls of his fresh green uniform, he’d hoped to be wrapped in a gold band some day. He imagined a matching one of his own, gleaming proudly in the sun for all to see that he is yours and you, his. He tells you all of this because he thinks it might make you feel better. Give you hope and something special to plan for when he gets back. Steve will have to hold on to the rings, of course, because Bucky can’t be trusted to not lose anything important. 

He bites his tongue thinking that the sentiment might include even you. 

You’ll get married at the courthouse because once he’s back home, he won’t want to spend another night not being your husband. It’ll have to be in secret because his and your Ma’s will murder you both for not having it in a house of god. That’s okay, though, because Steve will be there with the rings and Rita, who never fails to shoot him scathing glares, can reluctantly hold your flowers. It’ll be perfect. He can’t wait. 

“Bucky, please...” you sob, not really sure what you’re asking for. 

Please let’s just dance. Please hold me tight and never let go. Kiss me, touch me, give me something, everything. Please stop making promises you can’t keep. Please stay.

His answer is to softly cup your jaw and brush his thumb over your chin tenderly. To duck down and press his lips to yours lightly, sweet and slow with a saltiness that you can recognize as tears. Yours, his, the world’s. 

It’s quiet, only the static of a finished record that still twirls around the gramophone and your soft sniffles filling the dark room. You’re still swaying as Bucky holds you tighter to him, the hand over your jaw slipping into the back of your hair, the other gliding from hip to the small of your back.  

He hasn’t stopped touching you since he got his orders. At dinner he kept your left hand tightly grasped in his across the table, wouldn’t let go, even when you needed it. At the Stark Expo, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and littered your face with kisses when he could, sometimes drifting a hand on the curve of your ass. He wanted to go dancing, to get to hold you close for a couple more hours and see you smile-- touch up the image of it etched in memory so that he won’t forget on the nights he’s surely going to need it. 

You end up at home instead, not really dancing like he’d wanted, but better still. Just wrapped around each other with pale moonlight lighting the high points of your faces, the rest in shadows. There’s some semblance of dancing. Your hands began on the tops of his shoulders and his respectably on your hips. 

On the bed, Bucky’s shivering weight pressing you into the mattress, your shaking hands curl around his back and dimple the hot expanse of skin there. He’s whispering all those hopes and dreams into your skin, marking it as a promise with a kiss and lave from his warm tongue. Bucky’s sweet on you, he’s made sure all of Brooklyn knows it, so he’s always sweet with you. You feel grotesque, eyes puffy with snot dripping from your nose, but he calls you the most beautiful things, stares at you like you’re an angel. 

He marvels quietly at the sight of you beneath him, skirt rucked up and the top half of your dress pulled down so his lips could find familiar ardent trails. Bucky’s fingers trek the path from your bobbing throat that’s still half sobbing down the center of your chest, curving around you to slot themselves between your ribs. He’s unusually sloth-like in every movement, eyes lazily tracing your familiar curves, hands palming your flesh that vibrates with need unhurriedly, drinking up all of the soft sounds of pleasure that spill from your lips. You know what he’s doing and you can’t keep the tears at bay when he meets your eyes again. He’s committing every part of you to memory, looking at you like it’s the last time. 

Bucky thinks perhaps the worst and best thing he’s ever done was dare to look at you long enough to fall in love. 

He’s crying too when he finally takes you, muttering ‘I love you’ so many times that it starts to sound like ‘I’m sorry’. Punctuating every thrust with a desperate kiss that makes him love you more and more and himself less and less. He never deserved you and you loved him anyway and now he’s off to war unable to fight the deep upset at the idea of you at home waiting for him. Wondering if he might die before he ever gets the chance to do the decent thing and marry you, make an honest woman out of the love of his life. 

“Bucky, I-” you choke out, legs locked around his undulating hips, feet pressed into the backs of his thighs.

He smiles the soft one you love so much, but it wavers as he balances himself on one trembling arm, bringing the other up to brush damp hair from your face and hushes you soothingly as he picks up pace. 

Bucky ruts into you with his forehead pressed against yours, eyes locked so close and all you can see is blue and a reflection of yourself that is more beautiful than you see in the mirror. 

This is how Bucky sees you and your heart burns at the realization. 

You moan in the small distance between your lips, as you feel it bubbling up inside; all that Bucky has always tried so desperately to show you, he’s pushing into the warmest parts of you and begging you to understand. Love and adoration and something so strong you don’t think there’s even a word for. It mounts in your tensed gut, cresting with a hard thrust that has you wailing and clutching him so tightly you think you’ve melted into him. You’re sure of it. He’s taking every part of you with him. 

After he’s finished simultaneously filling you with all of his love and ripping your heart out of your chest, there’s not much else to say. No more tears, no more declarations of love and apology. Just this emptiness as the two of you lay a tangled mess of numb limbs, waiting for the sun to come up and take him off to war. 

Bucky kisses your forehead softly, and manages to push a whisper out of his throat raw from sobbing and crying out your name, “I’ll come back to you or I’ll die trying.” 

[bexterbex]

A Soul to Mend His Own | Ch. 70

So um....like last time this one gets 🥵. Read at your own risk.

Warning, PLEASE CHECK TAGS IF YOU SEE SOMETHING YOU DON’T WANT TO READ THEN DON’T READ. | Tag lists are closed | INBOX OPEN

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Will tag as I go along, Will update tags, Slow Burn, Influenced by Star Trek and other Sci-Fi themes, References to We Happy Few, Tons of References and quotes to George Orwells 1984 see if you can find them all, The First Order is the new Big Brother,  but who is really surprised, Blatant Nazi Symbolism, Interrogation Themes, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Really just drawn out Slow Burn, Don’t repost without permission, Torture themes, Suggestive Themes, Execution themes, Disturbing Themes, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Verbal Abuse, Controlling Kylo Ren, Physical Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Possessive Kylo Ren, A character shamelessly based on Zelda

A Kylo Ren x Modern! Reader in a soulmate au with canon divergence. —————————————SLOWBURN————————————–

He is already the Supreme leader, searching the universe to find you, his Empress. Your name on his wrist has been the only constant in his life, while you have doubts about his existence and his acceptance of you. He isn’t in the database and why did the name Kylo Ren cover Ben Solo?

MASTERLIST

Chapter 70: A Guard Dog and His Kitten

He pinned your arms above your head, leaving you vulnerable but you weren’t scared. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you, not unless you asked, or if it was to protect you. “Do you want to meet the beast, Kitten?” His eyes were black pools of obsidian, rich in lust and raw brutality.

He kept your arms pinned to the bed with the Force, taking a rather predatory position being propped up by his hands. All you could do was nod in response, arousal high making brain all fuzzy. He pulled his re-hardened cock out of you and hastened down the bed. He forced your legs wide open his face hovering inches above your now empty cunt. His eyes wild with animalistic fever.  

You swallowed back nerves as he maintained eye contact with you before he lowered himself down to meet your tender flesh. If you didn’t trust him as much as you did you would have sworn that he would have actually cannibalized you as he bit and licked your swollen folds. He attacked you with such enthusiasm and aggression you thought you were going to faint. It was like you were the first meal he has had in ages. His nose burying itself between your delicate tissue, his long tongue thrusting in and out of you while his teeth nipped and grazed your swollen flaps. It all felt so good as you barely choked out his name before he lapped up any and all of your juices like he was a dehydrated man in a desert and you were the only water source.

When he was finished his chin grazed up your belly still shiny from your cum, you were definitely his prey now. “Now my Kitten has a clean pussy.” His eyes black with a hunger that only you could satisfy. He gripped your hips so hard you knew he was going to leave bruises. You both weren’t even finished, and you knew you were going to look like you had been savagely beaten instead of worshiped. He lined himself up to your hole as his lips were against your ear, your hands still held in place above you by the Force. Without warning, he thrust into you, his grunts and groans directly next to your ear as he picked up the unrelenting pace. “Purr for me, Kitten. Let the galaxy know what monster is fucking you.”

You tried to comply by vocalizing your moans and pants. Your brain not keeping up, but why should it? His pace and sheer force picked up as he braced himself against the headboard using it as better leverage to pound into you. If you thought he was using his full force before, it was nothing compared to now. You could hear the bed frame cracking under his strength, as you took him completely. His head abandoned your neck as he attempted to mark every square inch of your body. You were his, and you were going to look like you were owned by a beast. In a flash he flipped you over, taking you from behind, where his cock could pound into you deeper. He was truly an animal now as his heavy balls slapped against your bare clit as he hooked your legs around him. You were so full and were being pounded so hard that you felt like you were going to pass out, just as his hips stuttered and his grip returned to your hips.

Your orgasm crashed around you as his warm cum filled you. “Ngh, Kitten,” was all he said before he collapsed next to you catching his breath, pulling you into his arms as he slipped out of you. He played with your hair as he was coming back down to reality. “You were made for me, Kitten,” his voice husky and thick from his post fuck high, gravelly from all of his grunting and groaning.

You were flush against him as his hands roamed your tender bruised body, his hand reaching your sore crotch. You grabbed his hand as you were sore and overstimulated, “Aww has Kitten had enough,” he teased. But that didn’t stop him as he dipped a finger into you, coating it in your combined juices.

You watched with dilated pupils as he brought the finger to his lips tasting what the two of you created. “Mmm perfection. Would you like a taste?” You couldn’t answer as your brain was failing to work. But he brought his hand back down and dipped another finger into your sore blown out cunt, slicking it with both of your mixed cum before he brought it up to your lips. You took the finger into your mouth keeping eye contact with him as you sucked the digit clean. But he was right, you both tasted heavenly. He chuckled as he pulled his hand back from you which caused you to whimper in response.

As he groped and massaged your breasts, “We should get you cleaned up, Kitten.” You whined as he left you.

“Now, now I’ll only be gone for a minute. I am going to draw us a bath.” You watched as he disappeared into the bathroom, his big flaccid cock swinging between his legs. He might be big, but he was still a grower. How that was even possible you had no idea, but you weren’t complaining. He was part beast for sure. And like he said, he returned after only a minute and picked you up off the bed bridal style. It all reminded you of Tarzan and Jane as he carried your naked body into the bathroom with ease.

He lowered you gently into the tub before joining you. Instead of keeping eye contact with him, you eyed his dick as he lowered himself into the water, which earned a chuckle in response from him. You hated your body in that moment, as your pussy felt too weak to take him again, even though you wanted to. He beckoned you forward with a finger, “Come here, Kitten.” And you scrambled to get closer to him.

He helped you sit, not on his lap but on his hard abs. Your cunt sore and throbbing at the closeness of his cock. It was begging you not to be used, as it needed to rest if you ever dreamed of walking again. But Kylo guided your hands to his thick length, showing you how to make it hard again.

“How are you doing this,” you asked because he was like no other man you had slept with before.

“Well, I’ve spent many years training my body to comply with my will, with the Force and without. And when I want to fuck, it responds on its own.” He then came close to your ear and whispered, “It likes you too much to want to stop.” He caused goosebumps along your back.

It took both of your hands around him to even attempt to hold all of him, but you still failed. He was now standing at attention, his veins deep and purple under the water, but his head was an angry red. You did your best to jerk him off but there was too much of him, which caused you to whine. But then an idea popped into your head. “Can I suck you off?”

You heard him groan in pleasure, “If that’s what you want Kitten. But you are doing a good job.” He was right, his cock was responding well if the sounds he was making were to be believed.

“I want to suck you off. It’s only right that I return the favor.” An orgasm for an orgasm, you only hoped you could return the favor as well as he did.

“As you wish.” He then lifted you off of him before he lifted himself up onto the edge of the tub. You were now face to cock, he was at the perfect height.

Another idea popped into your head as you took his shaft into both of your hands. You eyed the tip curiously before you looked up to his eyes with a smirk plastered on your face. You moved in and gave a kitten lick to the red, swollen tip of his dick. Which earned a deep guttural moan, “Kitten.” You took this as a sign to continue. You kitten licked and sucked his head, using your hands to pump his shaft. Occasionally you sucked down the side of his length, giving special attention to his big balls, sucking one and then switching to the other which caused him to white knuckle grip the edge of the tub. You then used one hand to massage and cup his balls while the other kept pumping his shaft. You then attempted to swallow him as far as you could, which wasn’t even halfway as he was so big. He kept his hips still, all that self-control training coming to use.

You sucked and bobbed as long as you could before you relented to just sucking the head. Which he seemed perfectly content with, but he mostly preferred the kitten licks as they cause his hips to move slightly, trying to add friction to what you were doing. You took his head in your mouth as he was cumming, trying to swallow his large load down, but before he finished his hips stuttered and his head slipped free, causing him to shoot some onto your face and chest painting you with his milky white cum. Marking you as his. “Kitten,” was all he could say as he looked down at you covered in his seed. You kept pumping his shaft, knowing there was still more as he ejected one last bit, right on to your lips, which you happily licked up. He slumped back and groaned out, “You are going to be the death of me.”

Still covered, but now smirking you asked, “So was that good?” You didn’t need an answer to that question, you already knew the answer, but you liked teasing him, anyway.

“You’re the one covered in my cum, you tell me,” he said before he slipped back down into the water.  You faced him and climbed up onto him, your chest meeting his.

“Do you like me covered in your cum?” By the way he was looking at you, this would be how he would want you every single minute of every single day.

He kissed you before licking his own juices off of your face, “Of course. You look like a goddess covered in it.” He then licked down your chest, cleaning you up with his tongue. While his tongue was still covered in his own excitement, he kissed you sharing himself with his tongue, somehow the flavor was heavenly.

Eventually, your kissing died down as he grabbed a sponge and soap to actually clean you both up with. He took his time cleaning you, being ever so careful near your pussy, with the gentlest of touches. Spending a lot of time admiring your chest and ass before handing you the sponge to clean him up.

You spent your time admiring his perfectly sculpted body. It was like the gods picked a statue to come to life. You took great care cleaning around his fresh, but healing wounds. Running your fingers along his scars, trying to memorize every beauty mark, the angel kisses. Taking your time to properly clean his cock, but not too much as to excite it again.

You then took turns washing each other’s hair, Kylo helping to undo your hairstyle from the wedding, even though it was a wreck already, and you unbraiding the crown of his head. You loved the gentle intimacy you were sharing at this moment. Your taming of the beast. Many sweet and gentle kisses were exchanged before you were both clean. He helped you up out of the tub and handed you a towel, as he started to dry you off while paying attention to every detail of your body, his fingers ghosting over the fresh bruises he left just over an hour ago. You dried him off, appreciating his size and carefully, again, dried off his cock without trying to excite him, but it was tempting.

When you were both finished, you turned to go back to the bedroom, legs ultimately failing you, but he stopped you and hoisted you up onto the vanity, “Not so fast Kitten. I promised that I would take extra special care of you.” He then grabbed a container of body butter from behind you and started to massage it into your skin. Moisturizing you, keeping you soft for his touch. Your body couldn’t help but respond to it, wetness returning to your broken for now cunt. His hands made sure to cover every inch of exposed flesh even lifting you onto himself as he massaged your ass. His fingers ghosting a little too far for your liking at the moment. But then he carried you back to the bedroom.

“Do I not get to take care of you?” You were rather disappointed that you didn’t get to massage him as well.

“Kittens and guard dogs have different needs. I will be fine, but I need to keep you silky and smooth. After all, all the best kittens are.” His words caused you to blush as he set you down on a chair. And he brought you your black wrap dress, but this time you wore nothing underneath it. Once you were dressed he pulled his pants back on, something thrilled you knowing that he preferred to go commando 24/7. The thought of his bare cock only being one layer away was something that sparked arousal in your belly.

You watched as he picked up your underwear, bra, and garter and shoved them into his pocket. “Someone will be by to pick up your dress, but these are mine.” That spark turned into a flame as he said this. Something about his possessive nature now turned you on, before it seemed rather annoying, but now you wanted nothing more than to be claimed his for all to see.

He then picked up your jewelry and crown and helped you put them on. He left his own with your dress before he put his shirt back on. “Now let us return back to the ship where you can get some rest before we christen our bed.” He leaned down to kiss you before lifting you back up into his arms. He carried you out the door and made his way back to the ship. You buried your face into his neck, enjoying his natural scent.

Out of the corner of your eye in the main room, you could see some officers milling about, apparently, there was a sort of reception that you two didn’t join. You lifted your head for a moment to look at all of them before you spotted Pryde with a sickening knowing smirk on his face. Any arousal that was built up in you dissipated like an extinguished flame. You buried your face back into Kylo’s protection.

Once you exited the room, you asked in a whisper, “I didn’t know that Pryde was going to be invited to the wedding.”

Kylo seemed to get the hint and sensing your disgust, “As Empress, you now don’t need an excuse to execute him.” He said it in such a blunt way and it surprised you causing you to look at him.

“Really? Someone should have told me ages ago, I would have done this sooner,” you joked.

A grin painted his face as he teased, “So promise of my cock wasn’t enough? You needed capital punishment too. If I would have known I would have told you on day one.” He was teasing you, but it all felt good.

This time it was Kylo’s Command Shuttle that picked you up, and just you two no one else for a change. He strapped you in, and this time it felt intimate again, before strapping himself in next to you.

“Mmmm a kitten and her guard dog,” you mused. “See you are no monster, just a guard dog.” Your dream replaying side by side with the fresh memory of him fucking you.

He hummed, “I am still a monster, but I am a guard dog that loves his Kitten.” His fingers carded through your hair.

You paused heart pounding, “You love me?” He had yet to speak the word out loud. But you knew how he felt about you, but hearing the word made you feel something on a whole other level than anything you had felt before.

He frowned. “Of course. Why would I have done all of this for you if I didn’t,” he gestured around him, hinting at the whole situation.

“You have never said it, the word love, but I didn’t want to push you. I know it isn’t easy for you.” You took his hand in yours, running your hand over your name on his wrist.

He took your face in his hands and said it completely, “I love you, Kitten.”

The world melted away as you said it back, “I love you too, Kylo.”  

A/N: Plot? What plot? JK, we now get to have some NSFW fun with Kylo, so I thought a chapter basically dedicated to that was necessary. 

[altairtalisman]

I’ve been seeing some people with Sixtended OCs being asked about what monsters their OCs will be in @spooner7308’s Monster AU, and I was inspired to come up with my own. So yeah... this is the monster Jane Parker would be in the Monster AU.

Thanks again @redlover411 for having the bloody brilliant idea of making Jane a deer if she was an animal as well as showing me a drawing of a Tariaksuq!

The left is a picture of my fucking sketch as I attempt to copy the picture Red had shown me, and the right is the end result of Tariaksuq!Jane.

Anyways, information on the events leading up to her transformation below the cut (I would suggest reading @pandora-dusk‘s post on Amalia and the events leading up to becoming a phoenix to understand better...)

I was thinking that Jane’s transformation started when Amalia flew out from her window after burning everything into dust, and Jane was the one who saw her leaving. 

Jane doesn’t know what happened, apart from the fact that a large red bird left Amalia’s scorched room with the German woman being nowhere to be found. She connected the dots later and realised that the bird and Amalia were the same being, and Jane would start stressing out over how she could’ve done something to prevent the transformation.

Bear in mind that Jane still doesn’t know the triggers behind Amalia’s transformation, all she knew was that something happened and that despite being one of the closest to Amalia, she didn’t notice the signs. Jane started to blame herself for not noticing, for being unable to be a pillar her girlfriend could lean on for support, for not being able to do anything to help Amalia. 

Overtime, Jane’s self-blaming turned into self-loathing, and she hated herself for not being able to help her girlfriend, to take care of her like what she had promised Anna, to be useful in helping the rest search for Amalia. 

During this period, Jane has been going through a transformation of her own, albeit very slowly. She started to grow more hair that was thicker and resembling more like fur, something that she doesn’t notice because she’s too absorbed with hating and blaming herself over Amalia. 

She only starts to notice when her feet starts transforming into reindeer hooves as well as developing a splitting headache, and god, they hurt a lot for her. Jane didn’t care, she feels that this pain is punishment for not being able to be there for Amalia. 

Jane also starts growing taller during this period, quickly looming above @chimkennumget‘s Percy and starts being unable to enter doors without bending over. Her hands had also grown bigger, with her fingers resembling more like a beast’s than a human’s. 

These changes don’t bother her though, in fact she welcomes the pain the transformation had brought about as she views them as punishment for being unable to help Amalia. Her head was also slowly transforming into a reindeer’s but without the antlers, and this aroused whispers about her changing appearance. Jane hated the constant attention, but accepted it as she felt that this was what she deserved for all her failures. 

What truly completes Jane’s transformation into a Tariaksuq is overhearing Anna making an offhand comment to someone else that Jane should’ve noticed the signs in Amalia. After overhearing this particular conversation, Jane ripped a black curtain out from its hinges and returned to her room. She had locked herself in there, whittling away her time alone while fashioning her signature coat out from the curtain as all her clothes were too small for her. Days had passed, and her headache had gotten much worse. 

She went to the mirror one day and saw that she barely looked like herself, that she resembled a grotesque monster than a human now. She bitterly laughed to herself, her reflection was indeed right in showing her that she was less than human, for if she truly was human, she would’ve been able to help Amalia, to not burden others, to not fail them. She placed a hand on her reflection, the words she whispered serving as the trigger to complete her transformation.

“I wish I could just disappear into the shadows.”

Within seconds, antlers shot out from the top of her head, with Jane crying at the sudden intensity of pain that threatened to break her frontal skull. Pain spread through her body, followed by sickening bone cracking sounds that left Jane howling in pain. 

Once the pain fully subsided, she glanced at the mirror and stared at the monster reflected. It was neither human nor any kind of deer Jane had seen before, rather it was a mix between the two species. She cried at the sight, not because she was no longer human, but rather the pain she experienced wasn’t enough to kill her, to help her to disappear from the face of the globe. 

Furious knocking broke her out from her thoughts, and before she could react, the door was instantly broken down by Anna, who gasped at the sight of Jane. Jane didn’t want anyone to see her in her hideous form, and all of a sudden, she was transported into a world of nothingness. All she could see was black, and as much as she knew she should be worried about her current whereabouts, Jane could only feel relief. 

No one was staring at her, no one was talking about her, no one was disappointed with her. Jane cracked a faint smile, she had finally found a place where she could be forgotten by everyone, to melt into the shadows, to truly suffer alone for all her failures. 

She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, and when she woke up, she was surrounded by trees that loomed above her imposing figure, filtering out most light from the sky. Jane sighed, she could see no one around her, which suited her just as well. 

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

COSMIC - S1:E6; Chapter Six, The Monster - [Pt. 1]

A Will Byers x Gender Neutral!Reader Series

𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘠/𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘌𝘭𝘴𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘑𝘰𝘺𝘤𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘣’𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

||𝟑𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

Joyce and Hopper sat opposite one another at the kitchen table of the Byers' home. The house was cold and hardly lit, copies of newspaper clippings scattered all around the house. One of the only light sources was a dusty chandelier that hung from the kitchen ceiling above the table and their heads, illuminating the several papers.

"Look, we gotta go through this again." Joyce insisted.

"I told you everything that I saw."

"Oh, gosh," she sighs into her hands. "Tell me again."

"Upstairs or downstairs?" Hopper asked.

"Upstairs."

"There was a laboratory. It was where they must do experiments or something, and then there was... well you see, like I said, I got turned around."

Hopper was currently sharing all he had encountered on his rogue mission at Hawkins National Laboratory. Joyce, all the while was hanging on his every word.

"I told you, it was like, I don't know, it wasn't supposed to exist. That whole area, it was abandoned and... forgotten, like it was all some big mistake. Once I found my way back, I saw that... kid's room. That other kid's room, I mean. Like it was actually used, but it didn't even look like a kid's room, neither of them did. It looked like a prison."

Hopper sighed and rubbed the bottom of his palms into his eyes tiredly, is fingers held the lit cigarette inches away from his face as he did so. "If that even makes sense,"

"Well," Joyce began, trying to get to the bottom of this never ending mystery. "So why would you think it was a kid's room, then?"

"Because, I told you, the size of the bed, there was a drawing, there was a stuffed animal--"

Joyce interrupted the man quickly. "Y-You didn't say there was a drawing."

"Yeah, there was a drawing of a... an adult and a child. It said 'Eleven' on it."

"Was it good?" Joyce pressed.

"It was a kid's drawing, Joyce. It was stick figures."

Joyce had a knowing look on her face as she stood up with a sigh, retrieving a piece of crinkled line paper and slammed it down on the table for Hopper to see.

She pointed to the detailed drawing as she sat back down.

"Wasn't Will." She stated confidently, shakily bringing the cigarette back up to her lips.

Hopper examined the drawing and everything seemed to click. He returned his gaze to the anxious mother. Hopper quickly put out his cigarette in the ashtray and made a beeline for the coffee table.

"Earl..." he muttered, as he made his way into the living room. Joyce, who had abandoned her cigarette, was right on his heels.

"The night that Benny died, Earl said he saw some kid with a shaved head with Benny," Hopper and Joyce took a seat beside one another on the living room couch, Hopper's eyes fixed on the several news clippings splayed along the wooden coffee table. "Now, I pressed him, he said it might be Will, but maybe..."

The man began shifting through the papers, and Joyce spoke up.

"Wait... Maybe, it wasn't?"

Hopper pulled the article he had been looking for and pointed to the fuzzy photograph of the woman in the article.

"Look... this woman, Terry Ives, she claims to have lost her daughter, Jane. She sued Brenner, she sued the government... Now, the claims came to nothing, but what if... I mean, what if this whole time I've been... I've been looking for Will... I've been chasing after some other kid?"

||𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

Everything is a mess.

Will is still missing, the party is falling apart, Mike and Lucas are still angsty messes that won't speak to one another, and now, El left us. She probably thinks I hate her.

'But I don't! I was just scared'

(Ok but like,,,, who else ships El and reader cause damn I've been giving myself feels lately, dang)

'We need to fix this'

I sigh and sit up from my bed and make my my way to Dustin's room.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"I just... I can't believe she didn't come back." Mike sighed.

Dustin and I agreed we needed to talk some sense into the rest of the party. So we got our bikes and made our way to Mike's. Dustin was standing opposite Mike while I currently occupied one of the D&D chairs I had pulled up. Mike was worriedly pacing the floor in front of us.

"She's gotta be close." Dustin offered.

"She said it wasn't safe. She just messed up the compasses because she wanted to protect us. She didn't betray us."

"Mike, calm down."

Mike only ignored Dustin and kept talking, more to himself than anybody it seemed.

"I shouldn't have yelled at her. I never should've done that."

"Mike, this isn't your fault." Dustin said.

"Yeah, it's Lucas'."

"It wasn't his fault, either." Dustin countered softly.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Mike stopped in his tracks. He looked at my brother dumbfounded and took a few steps in his direction. "It wasn't his fault?"

"No."

"So you're saying he wasn't way out of line?"

"Totally, but so were you!"

"What?"

"And so was Eleven."

"That's ridiculous! Y/n, tell him he's being ridiculous!"

Very calmly, I stood up with my arms crossed and stood next to my brother, and sighed, eyes fixed on Mike. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but Dustin is absolutely right."

Mike seemed even more furious. "Oh, give me a break!"

Dustin snapped at these words and stormed up to Mike. "No, Mike, you give me a break! All three of you were being a bunch of little assholes! Y/n and I were the only reasonable ones! But the bottom line is... you pushed first. And you know the rules. You draw first blood..."

"No! No way! I'm not shaking his hand."

"You're shaking his hand." I press, stepping forward.

He was sure to make eye contact with me over Dustin's shoulder as he spoke. "No, I'm not."

So I strode toward him and gave him a slight glare.

"This isn't a discussion. This is the rule of law. Obey or be banished from the party. Do you wanna be banished?" I asked firmly.

Mike crossed his arms and pouted before speaking up meekly. "No."

"Good!" I chirp, my face beaming as if we hadn't just been fighting which seem to only terrify him more.

I all but skipped over to the chair grabbing my coat, Dustin following my actions.

"Where are we going?" Mike asked with a hint of frustration.

"Where do you think?" Dustin asked as he put his arms through the sleeves of his coat.

"We're going to get Lucas." I finished, straightening my jacket then looked back to Mike.

My face softened and I tilted my head slightly. "And then we're gonna find Eleven."

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The three of us stood on Lucas's porch and I rang the doorbell. We stood waiting until the door swung open and Lucas stood there glaring at all three of us, but mostly Mike.

"What do you want?" He spit, resting his hands in his pockets.

There was brief silence which was then interrupted by a muffled smack of Dustin hitting Mike in the arm.

Mike sighed softly and looked to Lucas, clearly hating every second of this.

"I drew first blood, so..." he extended his hand for Lucas to shake but Lucas didn't move.

Great. Of course nobody was going to make anything easy. Why would they?

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Somehow I had convinced Lucas to let us all in and now, we all stood in the middle of his living room as he paced silently across the floor considering Mike's offer. He finally stopped and stared at the three of us.

"Okay, I'll shake."

Mike sighed what I barely made out to be a "finally" as he extended his arm out once more. Dustin and I perked up, that was until Lucas continued.

"On one condition. We forget the weirdo and go straight to the gate." He finished, arms crossed defiant.

"Then the deal's off." Mike barked.

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

"No, no, not fine! Guys seriously?" Dustin yelled, as I threw my head back frustrated.

Dustin forced Mike to face him as he spoke. "Do you even remember what happened on the Bloodstone Pass?"

Lucas and Mike shared a confused glance.

Dustin seemed shocked and offended that they had no recollection and continued.

"We couldn't agree on what path to take, so we all split up the party and those trolls took us out one by one. And it all went to shit. And we were all disabled! So we stick together, no matter what!"

"Yeah, I agree. But this is the party, right here in this room."

"El is one of us now."

"Um, no, she's not. Not even close! Never will be. She's a liar, a traitor--"

"She was just trying to keep us safe! She didn't mean to hurt you. It was an accident!"

"An accident?"

"All right, accident or not... admit it, it was a little awesome." Dustin said.

"Awesome?"

"Yeah, she threw you in the air with her mind!"

"I could have been killed!"

"Would everybody just shut up for one second, please!" I snap.

Everybody looks to me, a shocked expression on their faces.

I step forward and begin my long awaited  rant.

"I am sick of your attitude." I point at Lucas. "I am sick of your whining." I point to Mike. "I am sick of all three of you bickering," I gesture to all of them. "I love you guys and I can't thank you enough for taking me in and including me, know that, but GOD I am tired of being stuck listening to you boys argue about every little thing!"

I myself began pacing, my voice continuously rising. "I'm sick of putting up with all your petty arguing when we should be looking for Will only to come home at the end of the day, having found NOTHING and crying my eyes out because the only person who never gave a shit about who started what is missing and probably dead!"

I stopped pacing and looked to the boys who were all silent. I sighed and lowered my voice. "Lucas, you're right. You could have been killed. Which is exactly why we need her. She is more powerful than all of us combined."

"Y/n's right. Do you seriously wanna fight the Demogorgon with your wrist rocket?" Mike said, anger still in his voice. "That's like R2-D2 going to fight Darth Vader. We're no use to Will if we're dead."

Lucas looked torn for a moment, but then he shook his head and pointed at the three of us. There was disappointment in his voice. "If you three wanna waste your time looking for a traitor, go ahead, 'cause I'm not spending my time on her anymore. No way!"

I sighed, putting my face in my hands. Lucas continued.

"I'm going to the gate. I'm going to find Will."

Lucas shoved the boys aside and stormed off, leaving the three of us alone in more ways than one.

[changeling-mama]

Cheeky Chickens 01

@ice-demigod-skrael, @flamekeeperbellroc

Are you sure she is here? 

She must be. Where else would such strong magic reside?

And she will not suspect our presence?

Not in the least.

Jane had brought Lady Blanche Rabbit and The Good Dragon to school. It was their turn out of the toybox, after all, and she had two whole empty seats next to her. After kissing her mother bye-bye for the day, she spent a good many minutes arranging a few books on the chairs so that The Good Dragon could see over the desk. He was even shorter than Jane, after all, and even the smallest, fluffiest student deserved to see the board.

Through the bustle and chatter, a bell tinkled, signaling the start of class. Obediently, the students quieted down and faced the front where Miss Lenore stood besides her own grown-up sized desk. 

“Good morning, little farm animals!”

The class answered in a variety of animal sounds. including Jane in her own little voice. She was the smallest in the class by far, but she’d at least try to keep up with the others. 

“Whoa, that’s a lot of animals out on the farm today! Let’s see.” She raised a hand as if to shield her eyes from the sun, making a show of counting the number of students. “Let me check. Are all my grumpy goats here? Hello, grumpy goats?”

A table of five children sat below a laminated drawing of a goat. The children baa’ed.

“Good job. Now how about my captivating cows? Are all my captivating cows present?”

Another table moo’ed and lowed. 

“And my pleasant piggies?”

Oinking from the respective team.

“All right, looks like everyone is here but -- wait. Where are my cheeky chickens?”

Jane in the back pulled Lady Blanche Rabbit into her chest, unsure if it was really necessary to cluck out loud. She was the only one at the table, even though there were other empty seats at the other three locations. It was clear she was present.

Miss Lenore, however, seemed to decide that it wasn’t good enough. She raised a hand to her ear, and raised an eyebrow. “Huh. That’s strange. I didn’t hear any cheeky chickens, and I know we have one. Where’s my last chicken hiding?”

Jane flushed, and buried her face in the rabbit. She inhaled, half-wishing to disappear before Miss Lenore said anything else when --

“We were not hiding! We were simply late.”

All eyes shot to the front, including Jane’s. There stood two taller kids, one with a shock of white hair and blue as can be, and the other one had hair so rad that it made her think a little bit of a volcano. 

Neither of them had backpacks, but the blue one handed Miss Lenore a slip of paper. “I do beg your forgiveness,” he said. “We got lost on the way here from … um.” They looked to at the red one, who seemed to be busy scanning the classroom to help. 

Then, after a moment, the red one realized, and piped up, searching for words. “From...the office.”

“Yes -- yes the office. We are new here.”

“Yes. New students.”

“In your class.”

“This class.”

“And we are cheeky chickens indeed.”

Miss Lenore said nothing for a moment. She looked at them both. The blue one, with their heavy black coat, and the red one with their thick, dark glasses. She had never looked so lost, and Jane found herself wondering if these were even kids at all. They looked almost like cartoons brought to life, with how brightly they were colored. Within moments, however, Miss Lenore collected herself and nodded. “It says here your names are Bellroc and Skrael?”

The pair nodded in turn. Bellroc was the red one. Skrael, the blue.

“Do you have a last name?”

“Foolish mortal,” Bellroc declared. “Those are our names. First, last, and only.”

“Well!” Miss Lenore gasped, just as Skrael elbowed Bellroc in the side. “I don’t know what your parents taught you, but we don’t use insults here.”

“What?” they hissed, eyes on Skrael, then, realizing their mistake, they turned back to Miss Lenore with gritted teeth. “Oh. Excuse me. Our … parents … told me I have to learn to be nicer.”

“Which is why we are here,” added Skrael.

“Yes. We are here. To learn.”

Miss Lenore fumbled. “Right. Of course.”

“Now, good instructor, teach us to be, as you say, cheeky chickens.”

Miss Lenore coughed, and nodded, suddenly turning bubbly and bright once more and turned to the class. “Excellent. We do actually have some space available in our chicken coop. Do I have a volunteer to help these two find their seats?”

At the table, the other two kids looked pointedly away. Jane found herself the only one still facing forward, if half-hidden behind a stuffed rabbit. She still struggled to speak, but, with more strength than needed to push a mountain, she managed to lift one of Lady Blanche Rabbit’s hands. 

Miss Lenore clapped. “Excellent job, Jane. Kids, why don’t you two go over there and let Jane help you get ready. I have to, um. I have to go ask a few questions. Can you all sit tight for ten minutes?”

The class all nodded. 

“Great job! Now, you two go get your seats and I’ll be right back.”

“We can see the chairs clearly ourselves,” Bellroc announced.

“Of course. I see you're two very clever kids.”

And with that, Miss Lenore made her way out one door. In came a high school student, decked out in dark colors and countless bracelets. 

“All right, animals. You know the drill. No noise, or else I tell. Okay?”

“Okay, Sam,” the kids intoned.

Sure enough, Sam dropped into Miss Lenore’s chair, slapped a pair of headphones on, and began to bob their heads to music. Skrael made a note to inspect their music-making device later, but Bellroc was already on their way across the room. He rushed to catch up.

All eyes were on the pair as they made their way to the table furthest from the board, backed by a bookcase and a row of cubbies with children’s names on them. Jane, afraid of being teased for having two stuffed animals that day, stood up to clear off The Good Dragon’s seat of books and hide him carefully away in her little cubby.

“I’ll see you at lunch. Be good, and I love you,” she whispered, and kissed his forehead before turning back to see the two new kids standing over her chair.

“What’s that?” Skrael asked.

“It looks like some sort of child’s toy,” said Bellroc.

“This is a child’s place of work. Everything here is a child’s toy.” Ignoring the stares, Skrael reached out to grab the toy by the ear, but he’d barely reached it when --

“Don’t touch her!” Jane darted over, scooping up the rabbit and squeezing her tight. “She doesn’t like being touched by strangers.”

Skrael chuckled, but Bellroc leaned forward, inspecting the rabbit. “Does she? This toy has feelings and preferences?”

“Yeah.” Jane nodded, looking down to smooth out the rabbit’s fur. “Her name is Lady Blanche Rabbit. She’s kind of shy, but she likes to brush her ears, and her favorite food is star-shaped sprinkles, and her dad is the king of a secret forest. She came here to save her people, but she has to do it in disguise.”

“Fascinating.” They stood up, pulling Skrael in close to whisper. “Do you know what this means, Skrael?”

“That this is going to be hilarious?”

“No-- you fool. Focus. This child has trapped the soul of a noble in her toy.”

Skrael’s eyes lit up, and he turned to Bellroc. “An infant necromancer.”

Bellroc grinned. “Or a warlock.”

“Either way, useful.”

“Indeed, and --”

“Excuse me,” Jane said, finally drawing their attention back to the room. “We’re not allowed to tell secrets in class. It makes people feel left out.”

Skrael put on their best smile. “Of course. You must forgive us, we are still new to the ways of this world.”

Jane nodded. “I understand. My mom’s from Europe. She says it’s hard to get used to new places. Are you from Europe?”

A pause. Then, Bellroc nodded. “Yes….we’re from Europe. How clever of you to know.”

Jane smiled. “That’s so cool. I bet you know a lot of languages. Um. You can sit next to me, if you want. There’s two chairs right there.”

In fact, there were four. Bellroc and Skrael chose the ones directly across from Jane, and grinned. “You probably know a lot about this place, don’t you, Jane?” Bellroc asked.

She nodded. “I know a little bit, yeah.”

“And, seeing as we are new and From Europe, you would not be against teaching us, would you?”

Another nod, more hesitant. “If you want, I can teach you.”

“We promise not to touch your Lady Blanche,” Skrael added.

“Lady Blanche Rabbit,” Jane corrected. “She likes her full name to be used.

Skrael snickered. “A more than understandable request. Lady Blanche Rabbit, it is a pleasure.” He inclined his head into a mocking bow. 

Jane manipulated the rabbit’s hand to make it wave back. “She can’t talk, but I think she thinks you’re cool.”

Another snicker. “Lady Blanche Rabbit, you have no idea.”