#it's just really fitting as a straw that broke the camel's back situation. i love the HD and nemesis crossover with mirrors so much | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kaitycole · 4 years ago

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the countdown

Summary: There’s a countdown on your wrist, but what happens when it randomly resets?

Pairing: Daichi x Reader, Hinata x Yachi (side pair)

Warning: Fluff, I guess?

Word Count: 3578

Prompt: Soulmate AU: There is a clock countdown on your wrist to when you meet your soulmate

A/N: Part of the @celestialarchiveshq soulmate collab

Y/N

It has always annoyed you, the ticking clock on the underside of your wrist, to the point that you started wearing things to cover it. Over the years, you watched people close to you obsess over the clock, a few of your college friends had dropped out because the constant partying and searching to meet their soulmate seemed to overshadow their grades.

When you were younger the idea of the clock reaching 0:00 excited you, meeting the person who was supposed to know you best, who wouldn’t want that? But as you matured, you started to believe that soulmates don’t always mean forever, they don’t always mean romantic partners, so how could you stay excited over something that could lead to a huge disappointment? Not to mention the depressing thought of what if your soulmate was the romantic type and they weren’t attracted to you. That could happen, right?

What if they preferred long hair but you had just cut it? Or the opposite? What if you had just colored your hair a color that reminded them of an ex? That thought would put you in a tailspin. What if they had exes? Even with the soulmate system, people still found themselves attracted to other people. It made you think of that trashy MTV show where everyone has a perfect match, but there’s always one couple that finds out they aren’t matches, but they refuse to move on. What if your soulmate had someone like that?

You drop your head down onto your desk, the loud bang catches your coworker’s attention as she walks back towards you with two mugs of coffee. Not that she needs it, just like her soulmate, she’s like an endless ball of energy.

“Still upset about last weekend?”

You slowly lift your head, rubbing your forehead knowing you’ll have some embarrassing red mark. Yachi Hitoka has to be one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met, she’s always there for anyone who needs it, helps out whenever she can, and at first you were worried when you met her. You instantly became protective of her, not wanting anyone to take advantage of her kindness, but then you saw her lay down the law when it came to someone missing a deadline for one of the ad campaigns and all you could do was smile proudly.

“I just can’t believe I was this close,” you hold up your hand, using your index finger and thumb to show a small amount, “to meeting them and they just disappeared.”

* * Over the weekend, Yachi’s soulmate Hinata Shoyo came in from Osaka to visit and the three of you ended up attending the Bunkyo Plum Blossom Festival. Despite being the third wheel, you couldn’t help but find yourself smiling, watching just how well they not only complimented their similarities but their differences as well.

You glanced down at your wrist, for no particular reason and felt the wind get knocked out from your lungs. Yachi turned to ask if you had heard her before she stopped walking, backing up to be at your side.

“Y/N, what’s wrong?”

You couldn’t find the words, your mind completely blanked as you held up your wrist, showing her just how low the clock had gotten.

00:01:13

00:01:12

00:01:11

“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” Yachi started to jump up and down, causing a small scene on the tightly packed sidewalk. Hinata tilted his head, waiting to be filled in as the two of you walked back towards him.

“Kinda romantic, Y/N. Meeting your soulmate at a festival.” Yachi now had her arm looped with yours, scanning the sidewalks.

“It’s never been this low before.” You said casually, but a knot started to form in your stomach. It felt as if every emotion you could imagine started to wash over you, grabbing ahold of you and making you realize just how real the situation could be.

What if they didn’t like you? What if it was a best friend type of soulmate? What if they simply brushed you off, telling you that they were going to be with someone that wasn’t their soulmate?

What if…?

Yachi hand slightly squeezed your arm, pulling you from the anxiety that had seemed into your chest, tightening with each breath. “Look at your wrist.”

00:00:20

You started to look around, wondering briefly if your soulmate had been looking around for you, eyes on the clock waiting to bump into you.

00:00:13

Your stomach dropped and you walked over to a wall, leaning against it with fear that you’d just drop if you didn’t have support. Wasn’t this supposed to be an exciting moment in your life? If so, then why did you currently feel like you were about to melt into a puddle of nerves?

00:00:09

“Are you okay?”

You glanced up, seeing two uniformed officers standing around you. Hinata quickly drug Yachi up to the brunette officer, the three seeming to be familiar with each other while raven-haired officer was waiting for your reply.

“Oh, uhm, yes.” You felt dumb, but you held up your wrist, “just a little nervous.”

00:00:07

He let out a small chuckle, “I’m sure things will be fine. My husband ran into a light post when we first met.”

Yachi waved you over, you could hear her mention your name to the other officer but your movement halted when the officers’ radios crackled, a voice requesting back-up. The two officers quickly excused themselves, a few other officers gathering around them before they left, disappearing around the corner.

When you saw a person walking towards you, you glanced down, wondering it this person could be it, but something in you cracked noticing a drastic change in the clock on your wrist.

1368:59:52

* * 1200:03:25

50 days.

That’s how long you have to wait to meet your soulmate. But would you ever meet them? You had asked around and no one else had ever heard of someone’s clock restarting, what if you didn’t actually have a soulmate? If it was just some glitch, your clock just resetting to some random time like an electronic clock after the power cuts out and then back on.

Absentmindedly, you sip on the coffee Yachi had brought you, looking out the window wondering that if it wasn’t a glitch, had your soulmate being eagerly looking for you that day too? Were they just as upset that your clocks reset? A smile twitches on the corner of your lips, maybe the whole soulmate thing wasn’t so bad after all.

* * * * Daichi

Sawamura Daichi tilts his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as he lets out a yawn. Daichi is tired and stressed, all he wants is to sink into his bed and sleep. At least until his clock hit zero and his soulmate was standing in front of him.

He pulls himself up in the chair, rubbing his eyes before glancing down at the countdown that’s on his wrist. He isn’t someone that spends large amounts of time staring and obsessing over each tick of the clock, but just a few weeks ago, it seemed to have reset and that alone caught his attention.

960:12:46

40 days.

Part of Daichi wants to say the clock on his wrist doesn’t bother him, that it’s not something he thinks of often, but that’s a lie. His dedication to his job, to protecting not just his loved ones, but those around him often painted him as a strict, by the book type of guy. The guy that wouldn’t bother to think of love or soulmates, being too focused on his job, but Daichi is just another hopeless romantic.

Which is exactly why he often wonders how it will fit in with the whole soulmate aspect. Even with the ups and downs his job brought, the uncertainty that sometimes came with each day, he has never regretted his choice of profession. But while those things didn’t sway his own personal opinion, it leaves him wondering how his soulmate would feel about it. If it would be something that they’d be able to accept and understand why he went that route.

What if they couldn’t accept it? What if they asked him to change careers? What if it was the straw that broke the camel’s back and tore them apart?

What if…?

“Keep it up and you get forehead wrinkles.”

He feels a warm hand on his shoulder, turning to see his silver-haired best friend smiling at him. Sugawara sits across from Daichi, the two finally having a free day to meet and catch up.

“Keep worrying about me and your hair will go white.” “Take that back right now Daichi!” Suga rolls his eyes as the former captain starts laughing.

After ordering drinks, the conversation sways to Suga and his new group of students before it inevitably goes to Daichi and his soulmate mark. When he called the former setter, he, like everyone else, had never heard of a mark resetting, but he refused to let his best friend dwell on it. Even now, Suga places a comforting hand on Daichi’s forearm as he gives him a comforting smile.

“Maybe fate decided it wasn’t the right time.” Suga offers, he didn’t have too much room to talk. His current significant other isn’t his soulmate and yet he refuses to let it go, saying that what he has makes him happy and that’s all that should matter.

Daichi sighs, taking a sip on his drink, one of his fears sitting on the tip of his tongue. “What if I end up arresting my soulmate?” “You’d have a pretty unique meet-up story. Ow!” Suga rubs his shin, Daichi sitting there with a smirk on his face.

“That aside, it doesn’t change the fact that it reset in Tokyo and I was just there temporarily.”

“Visit on a day off.” Suga shrugs, “though you were there for a festival that attracts tons of people.”

“I hope you’re better at advice when it comes to your students.”

Suga rolls his eyes, shoulders drooping in defeat, he really was out of ideas. “When exactly did it reset?”

“Not sure, it was low before I ran into Hinata, but by the time I got back from a call it had already reset.”

“Was there anyone else around? Besides Yachi.” Daichi just shakes his head, finishing off his drink before he twists his wrist causing the ice to circle around the glass. Then it hits him, there had been someone else, but he didn’t get a good glance, his partner was talking to them. He simply shrugged it off back then, but now he wondered if maybe, just maybe they had been his soulmate.

* * * * Y/N

720:03:36

30 days

You’re dancing around your apartment, headphone in as you straighten up the throw blankets on the couch, so you didn’t hear the knocking on the door or the voice calling you until you turned and let out a scream.

You’re doubled over, panting as you struggle to catch your breath, Yachi apologizing frantically and repeatedly until you finally stand up, telling her you were just a bit startled.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” The worry on her face as plain as day.

“I swear,” you flop down on the couch, “what’s up?” “Oh yeah!” She instantly perks up, “my high school is doing an alumni volleyball game and Hinata’s going to be in it. Thought you might want to join!”

“When is it?” You know this is her way of saying ‘you can’t meet your soulmate if only go to work and home’ but you were pretty confident that if you waited long enough, they could just end up moving in next door.

“Next month! It’ll be so much fun!” She pulls her hands up to her chest, putting on her best pouty face, “please Y/N.”

You want to just tell her no because who knows what you could end up doing that clashes with her plans. Plus, if you had counted correctly and your clock didn’t decide to reset again, that would be close to when you were supposed to meet your soulmate. And you had been in Tokyo when it almost hit 0, so they had to be here, right?

“Yeah, of course.” You gave her a smile as she gave you a quick hug, telling you just how excited Hinata and the rest of the crows would be, apparently, she bragged about you to all her former classmates. She excuses herself to make a call, most likely to Hinata, and you take the time to sigh, you had never cared about your soulmate before, what was so different now?

* * * * Daichi

“Did you just put in for time off?” His partner Ito teases, sitting down at his desk that’s next to Daichi’s.

“I’ve taken time off before.”

“Three years ago, doesn’t count.”

“It was—” Daichi starts to protest before he realizes that Ito’s right, the last time was just before Ito was assigned his partner and it had been for one of his sibling’s graduation.

“This much be important then.”

He shrugs, “just getting together with some old teammates from high school.”

Ito smirks, “should I call you captain to help take you back?”

“Don’t even.” Daichi shakes his head, getting up before heading to the breakroom. Maybe meeting up with old friends would help take his mind off the whole Tokyo debacle. Glancing down, he signs when he sees his countdown.

480:52:46

20 days.

* * * * Y/N

“My mom said that you are more than welcomed to stay, she has the guest room ready.” Yachi beams, bringing you the usual after lunch coffee she gets. For the last few days Yachi has been eagerly gushing about the upcoming alumni event, having the entire weekend planned out with tons of things to do.

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You aren’t, if anything she’s excited to finally meet you!”

You haven’t had the courage to actually tell Yachi that you no longer wanted to go, that you would rather just stay at home instead of being the one that brings down the mood. The countdown on your wrist has all but consumed you lately and as you get closer and closer, you just want to forget about it. People lived happily without them, right? Who was fate anyways, trying to tell people who they should and shouldn’t be with. If you put in the effort, anything could work, right?

Part of you knows that’s not true, you watched someone try to date their someone who wasn’t their soulmate. They were blissfully happy and everything seemed wonderful, until one of them met their soulmate and soon their relationship had burnt out. It seemed no matter what, that bond from a soulmate just overfloods anything else.

But then again, when you watched just how much Yachi lights up when she hears from Hinata or when someone mentions him, you couldn’t help but want that too. Wanting someone who acted like they were seeing you for the first time each time they saw you, being able to just know how you felt with one look. You look down at the clock again, wondering if maybe it had reset because you didn’t have the right mindset back then. That if maybe fate somehow knew you weren’t ready yet, if it took almost having them to losing them for you to finally realize just how much a soulmate could offer you when you let your guard down.

240:26:01

10 days.

* * * * Daichi

Night patrols are something Daichi never really thought he’d find himself enjoying, but the ability to just causally drive around in silence is more welcoming that he considered it would be. Originally, his partner Ito was supposed to have patrol but he offered to pick it up since he was getting the next few days off to visit with his former classmates, he really didn’t mind the last-minute change to his schedule. Especially since he was getting nervous thinking about the game tomorrow, it wasn’t that he was worried about his skill set, but there were going to be several pro players in attendance.

It was already 8:45PM which meant he only had 15 minutes before his shift ended and he could go home, which he figured would go by slowly since most people were already in for the night. The sudden blur of speeding headlights catch his eyes and he let out a defeated sigh, of course it was too much to ask for a quiet night.

16:14:32

* * * * Y/N

Shit!

You curse yourself, you had told Yachi that you’d take the train to Miyagi, she left the day before to meet up with Hinata, but you ended up staying later at work than intended. So here you are, five hours into your drive, half asleep and irritated, you should’ve just told her no.

You hear your phone going off, no doubt it’s Yachi asking where you are, you look down briefly to grab it, not paying attention to the change in speed limits as you continue down the road. It’s not until you hear police sirens that your attention is pulled away from everything else and you just want to scream.

Luckily due to the almost empty streets, you are able to pull over with ease, the patrol car pulling in behind you shortly after. You close your eyes, hitting your forehead to the steering wheel repeatedly before you hear a car door close and brace yourself.

* * * * Daichi

He taps on the driver’s side window twice with his knuckle, waiting for it to be rolled down. A speeding ticket wouldn’t take long to write up, so his plans to be home by 9:30PM was still looking good which he was thankful for.

As the window rolls down, he catches his soul mark in the reflection and he scrunches up his face, getting an odd look from the driver of the vehicle.

00:00:02

* * * * Y/N

“This is awkward, but—” You stop, noticing where his line of sight is and you finally look down at your wrist.

00:00:00

He smirks, “I never thought I’d meet my soulmate right before issuing them a speeding ticket.”

You aren’t completely sure why, but you end up laughing to the point you end up coughing. You couldn’t believe it, your whole life wondering at what moment you’d meet your soulmate, thinking of all the different situations that could possibly set up running into them, for it to end up like this. Talk about anticlimactic.

“Speaking of soulmates, think you could let me off with a warning?” You bat your lashes at him, really hoping that the soulmate card will work.

He clicks his tongue, smile on his face, “no can do.”

You drop your jaw in disbelief, “I guess this will be one hell of a meet-cute story, huh?”

* * * * “You are so lame, Daichi.” Sugawara laughs, Nishinoya joining in on joking with their former captain.

Daichi glances over to the other side of the gym where you are, laughing with Yachi and Kiyoko and he can’t help but be smitten. He had tried for the longest time to not imagine his soulmate, not wanting to put that imaginary burden of being what he had wanted on the one he ended up with, but with you, you just smashed through any expectations he had and it had only been half a day.

You look over and see Daichi looking at you before you quickly turn your head away, getting a laugh from the former team managers. You were thrilled to have your soulmate, everything made sense, and it definitely helped that he was easy on the eyes.

“I still can’t believe he gave you a ticket!” Yachi protests, shooting Daichi a scold.

“I can.” Kiyoko smiles, “and I don’t think Y/N minds.”

Kiyoko’s right, you don’t really mind at all, because that’s part of your story with your soulmate, with Daichi. The person who had you waiting at the edge of your seat since before you could even tell time, the person that the stars had willed to be yours.

The first time you had almost met, he was in Tokyo because the festival needed more officers to help monitor things, it was just by chance that he ran into his former classmates that you happened to be with. The time you actually met, he was covering a shift that he wasn’t even supposed to be working and you were running late which was something you didn’t tend to do.

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side, placing a soft kiss on the side of your forehead. You let yourself melt into his side, finally understanding what was so special about soulmates, why so many people spent forever trying to find theirs.

“You know, I can talk to my boss, erase the ticket.” “No way! I’m gonna frame it!”

Daichi’s face deadpans, “what?” You nod, “oh yeah, you aren’t gonna live that one down.”

Daichi just shakes his head, letting out a deep breath, suddenly realizing you were gonna be as much trouble as Kageyama and Hinata were. But somehow, he feels himself looking forward to the adventure that was you.

#haikyuu!!#hq daichi #haikyuu sawamura daichi #sawamura daichi #daichi x reader #daichi x y/n #haikyuu reader insert #haikyuu soulmate au #soulmate au #hq soulmate au #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu fanfiction #hq fluff #hq fanfic #post timeskip daichi #hq post timeskip #daichi sawamura #sawamura daichi x reader

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

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i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

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

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

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

january, 1982.

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

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

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

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

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“right.” he nods once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

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

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

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

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

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

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

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

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

this is a job for you. nothing more.

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

“hello?”

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

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“afraid so.”

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

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

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

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

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

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

“are you an angel?”

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

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

“that’s kind of you.”

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

“i think you’re still drunk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your nails tap against the counter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

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

“but where will i—”

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

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

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

you come to when a car horn blares outside.

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

“roger!”

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

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

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“[y/n], please!”

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

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

you’re nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but then the phone rings.

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

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

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

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

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

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

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

“why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“is this your wife, roger?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that’s not really—”

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

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

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

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

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

“there! that could enough for you?”

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

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

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

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

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“have you told rog?”

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

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

you’d forgotten about that too.

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

“i guess but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

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

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

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

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

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

you could get used to this.

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

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

you know he’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

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

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

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

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

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

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

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

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

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

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

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

“roger–”

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

“there’s something i should—”

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

“what?”

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

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

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh, sorry. hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

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

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

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

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

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

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

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

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

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

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

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

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

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

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale.

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

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

your stomach plummets to your feet.

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

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

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

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mhm.”

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

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

someone could be watching.

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

“i remember.”

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

you oblige him without hesitation.

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

you nod, and he leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you okay?”

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

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

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

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

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

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

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

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

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

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

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

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

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

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

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

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

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

it happens before you have time to react.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

only my pride, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

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

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

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

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

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

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

“what?”

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

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

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

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

“yes.”

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

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

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

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

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

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

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the-crows-typist · 4 years ago

Note

hi! since your askbox is open may I request a ficlet of leona and fem!mc with the word "crown" please? thank you💖

The Possibilities are Endless

Hello there, dear. I hope you’ll like this one. A little piece where you are the heir to a fallen kingdom and married to the prince to save it.

This piece has an AU where in you, the reader, is the heiress to the fallen kingdom of bird people and is arranged to marry Leona in order to save it. you can say this AU has two concepts in one!

“Another game of chess, eh? Tell me, will you win this one?”

Your marriage to Leona Kingscholar was purely out of political gain. You, the daughter of the fallen king of the Avian Kingdom and him, the third in line throne of the Kingdom of Beasts. The ceremony was short and the vows were recycled from an old piece love story remembered through the ages, neither of you shared a glance at each other nor neither did you speak during the reception. You didn’t really think that someone like Leona could love you nor did you ever think that someone like you could even love Leona. The two of you were pieces of a puzzle that never matched.

That is, until the both of you decided to play a game of chess.

“Is this a pastime for you, your majesty?” You asked, moving your pawn in the way of his queen as a last ditch effort to protect your king. He moved his queen piece, eating the pawn without hesitation and leaving the king alone and unprotected. “You can call it that. When Farena and I were kids, we would play chess to pass the time.”

Your hand drew back and you gave it a thought, Leona’s pieces greatly outnumbered yours. Your king would be put on checkmate if you don’t do something quickly. “You and King Farena…Interesting. I did not think that he would be into these kinds of activities…As I see him out and about all the time.”

You pulled your king back and Leona retaliated by eating the nearby rook piece. You were slowly losing control of the board. “He likes board games as much as the next person. He’s just not very good at it. His words, not mine.” A small laugh left your lips and you raised your hands. “And this is where I raise my hands in defeat.”

“But you still have your queen to use.”

“True.” You say, tipping the king to fall on its side before looking to the queen piece staying in its position. “But I don’t think a king would want to see his queen suffer just for his protection.” Taking the queen, she placed it near the fallen king.

Leona huffed, taking the fallen king from the board to get a good look at it, scrutinizing the detail of the polished hardwood. “Using your heart in these kinds of situations will guarantee a bitter loss.” He said, you took the queen in your hands as he continued to speak. “Isn’t that what happened to your kingdom, princess? Why you had to marry.”

The grip on the queen tightened and his words bit in and pulled out the memories you so wanted to keep hidden. Your kingdom was falling apart with siege after siege and the straw the broke the camel’s back was when the trusted advisor of your father was assassinated. Your mother, bless her soul, was your father’s last source of comfort and he couldn’t bear to lose her.

So he surrendered, leaving your kingdom in the hands of the enemy. In overwhelming guilt, your father disappeared and soon did your mother follow; leaving you to be the sole heir to the kingdom.

“I don’t expect you to love me.” You put the piece down. “Neither do I expect myself to love you.”

“But I’m going to right the wrongs my father has down and help my kingdom with this marriage.”

Your eyes shined as your stared into his bright green ones. Somehow, it reminded you of emeralds polished to perfection its brilliant gleam contrasting the dull appearance of the second born prince.

“Checkmate.”

Days passed as the both of you bonded over chess, whether it be teaching each other how strategies to gain control over the board, discussing philosophies, or just telling each other funny memories from childhood.

“No, wait, you mean your scar wasn’t from this big epic battle like the stories say?” You asked through your fits of giggles as Leona sighed in embarrassment. Somehow, telling you his personal stories were both a pleasure and an annoyance. “It wasn’t. I actually…I got it by running into a wall.”

“Oh my stars, Leona!” You burst out laughing, holding your stomach as your voice echoed through the halls. “That’s precious.”

Leona grumbled, his lips barely keeping in a smile. “To be fair, I ate too much sugary treats. I couldn’t help it.” You rubbed your eyes of the tears that settled on your lashes, your cheeks darken from the sheer joy you got from your laughter.

“Hey, at least mine wasn’t as bad as the time you got stuck on the tree because you thought it was a good idea to start flight training.” He retorted again.

“I was 5.”

“So was I.”

The chess games then became nights where you would meet him by the balcony to stare at the stars and talk. Your hands in each other’s grasps. “When you’re up in the sky, the world below looks like a river of stars.” You began. “It’s just so different up there. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Leona blinked, looking over to you. “Then why don’t you try to fly up now if it makes you happy.”

You pushed yourself off the ground and bringing your knees to your chest. “If I did…I don’t know how long until I come down. If my parents didn’t then...”

His hand went to yours, caressing the soft skin of your hand.

“I can’t do it. Not now.”

“You don’t wear any crowns, Leona?” His brother, Farena with his wife and son made a public appearance for some time. Little Cheka was sick for a few days and the family decided to walk around the market place so that the little prince could get some fresh air and some sun.

“The royal jewels are only used by the reigning monarch.” On Farena’s head rested the family’s prized crown. The ruby stone shined greatly on the crown of Farena’s head, an emerald on his wife’s, and a tiny diamond on Cheka’s. You hummed out in reply as you walked with him.

“You came here without one. Don’t you wear a crown in your kingdom?”

“I’m not one for certain jewelry. I like bracelets and necklaces, even rings…But never crowns.”

The both of you held hands as you walked through the market, easily losing the royal guard in the crowd. Your wings tucked to your back, making sure it doesn’t bump into anybody and alerting others of your presence.

“Do you like wearing crowns, Leona?”

“I’m fine with it as long as it’s not heavy.”

“Heavy?”

Both of your hoods went up, hiding his ears and your hair just as the scream of the guards resonated through the crowd.

“Where is his highness and his wife?!”

“I tried wearing Farena’s crown back then. It was really heavy; I’m surprised he doesn’t have stiff neck from wearing it all the time.”

“Search the perimeter. They shouldn’t have gone far!”

The both of you stopped by a flower shop, its products floating in tubs of water. Something catches your eye.

Flower crowns.

“How much for this, madam?” You ask the lady looking after the stall. She was a small thing, quite old but kind looking. “That will be 75 madols for one, miss.” Your eyes widened at the offer then moved to take some notes and coins out of your pocket, handing it over to the nice old lady.

“So, you don’t like crowns that are too heavy…” You fish out a crown of purples, blues, and pristine white. “Then these will be perfect for you, Leona.” You nudged him, your elbow to his. “Come on, you know you like the crown. I can see it in your tail.” You say with a giggle.

“I hate it when you’re perceptive.” Your husband says, his tail swaying in excitement and glee. He removes his hood from his head and bows it. “To think I would have a public coronation.” The stall owner chuckles as you put the crown on him. “I dub thee—“

“Prince Leona, your highness! There you are.”

Leona let out a growl as he straightened himself to look over at the guards running your way. “Why did you stray away from the group?” They asked. “Please, let us go back. Your brother is worried sick.” The both of you exchanged glances and Leona turned around to get another flower crown form the tub. “Alright, alright. Tell my brother to calm down. It’s like neither of us were trained.” He growls, taking your hand and walking back into the crowd.

On his head was the flower crown you gave him.

Your fingers intertwined with his as you walked back to the safety of the royal family’s convoy. “Leona?”

“Hm?”

“Let’s play chess later.”

He gave you a smile, one that was not laced with his usual haughty nature. The hold on your hide tightened comfortably. “Sure.”

#requests #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona ficlets

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sodone-withlife · 4 years ago

Text

i lost a friend (i lost my mind)

Criminal Minds Fic Part Three

| PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 |

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: character death, canon-typical violence, mental instability (I’m reluctant to name a specific disorder or condition)

Notes: cross-posted on Ao3, and this was my first whumpfic in this fandom so forgive me if it sucks. this is canon-compliant until after 12.01 The Crimson King

“What do I regret? I regret that we just took it as it was, that we didn’t look harder.”

Rossi thought about how he ended up in this situation, bulletproof vest on as he faced the one person he never expected to be at the other end of his gun, that he might have to take down.

He met the kid nearly twenty years ago on the Womb Raider case and immediately recognized raw potential when the kid told him about what he gathered from the dumpsite. They kept in contact even after Rossi went back to Quantico, and he spent the next year trying to get him to apply to become a profiler. The kid did eventually join them in Quantico, and he quickly proved to be a quick study with an incredible intuitive ability.

He ended up retiring a few months after the kid joined, but he kept in contact and they met for dinner a few times. While he wrote books, the kid became unit chief, all the while expanding the BAU to involve more than just a few profilers in a cramped cave that had been their office.

When he rejoined the team, he watched as the kid—he’ll always be ‘the kid’ to him, no matter how good his glare got over the years—struggled to reconcile the failure of his marriage and his own feelings of being a failure as a father.

He watched as the kid obsessively hunted the Boston Reaper, turned to self-blame when seven people were found shot dead in a bus, as the kid realized the killer was in front of them the whole time, as he reacted to the news of Foyet’s escape.

He worried as the kid didn’t turn up when called, as they found him in the hospital after getting stabbed nine times, as his family were put into protective custody, as he walked into a confrontation unarmed and managed to save a child the day he returned from medical leave.

He watched as the kid obsessed and worked himself to the bone over the Reaper, as he stepped down and put Morgan in charge, as the team raced to find Foyet before he could get to the kid’s family.

He watched as he found the kid savagely hitting a dead body, as he found him later clinging onto the body of the woman he had loved, as the kid turned into a shell of himself while trying to be a good father for his son.

He watched as the kid tried to remain the unwavering pillar of strength for the team, as he was sent to the other side of the world away from his family for half a year, as he came back from Pakistan looking much too thin for a man his size and faced a wall of anger and betrayal.

He watched as the kid slowly found love again, as he tried to help Reid get through what he himself went through just over two years ago, as he tried to help his estranged brother get out of a mess of drugs and spikings.

He watched as the kid collapsed on the conference room floor and had to be rushed to the hospital, as George Foyet managed to kill him twice as he flatlined in the ambulance and in the operating room.

He watched as the kid tried to help solve Gideon’s murder, as he ended things with his new love.

He watched as the kid ended up on the other end of a serial killer’s obsession, as he hallucinated the whole team getting killed in front of him, as he nearly shot and killed Reid as he came in through the door.

He watched as the kid struggled to hide his terrors, as he tried to eliminate the threat against two of his teammates, as he tried to stop Morgan from doing what he had done six years ago in a frenzy that only resulted in the love of his life getting killed, as he was arrested at gunpoint in front of his son.

He watched as the kid tried not to let seeing the victim with his name carved into her forehead get to him, as he tried not to go out of his mind in worry about his son while he was stuck in a snowstorm, as he tried to keep everything inside in the months that followed, as he went through his daily life without really living.

Now, a memory of a conversation he had with Gideon rose to the forefront of his mind. Rossi hadn’t questioned it then, but now he wondered if Gideon saw this outcome, all those years ago.

He wondered if Gideon saw this when the kid came in all those years ago, absolutely smitten with his wife and yet hiding darkness deep inside him, when the kid easily slipped in and out of the minds of the worst humanity has to offer.

A year ago, just a day after Hotch was admitted into the hospital after being subjected to whatever torture Peter Lewis managed came up with, Prentiss had returned to the BAU. Hotch was going to be on leave for quite some time, given the nature of the drugs he had inhaled and what had happened when the team rescued him.

He remembered confessing his worries to her, that Hotch wouldn’t make it through to the other side with this one, that Hotch’s too-brilliant mind (brilliant not in the way that Reid was, but in the way that a prosecutor turned SWAT turned profiler’s brain was) would figure out a way to end it all, even though he was on suicide watch.

He remembered one early morning, a few weeks after Hotch had been discharged, when Prentiss was suddenly called into a meeting with the Director. He remembered seeing her sprinting back into the office, abandoning all professionalism as she stormed into the office next to his.

He remembered freezing at the doorway. It was bare of any signs of the previous owner: the heavy law books, the pictures, the awards, the small mementos from the team—they were all gone.

He missed the others’ reactions as they read the last words the—now former—unit chief left for them as he left the office and drove to Hotch’s apartment, only to find it completely bare with an envelope left on the door with Rossi’s name on it.

He remembered the days that followed, as Garcia and Reid desperately tried to search for the man who had completely dropped off the face of the earth, as Prentiss tried to fill Hotch’s shoes for the team.

He remembered JJ asking him about Jack and the pure, unfettered sadness that he let show on his face.

He remembered the horror saw in the others when he quietly told them that the ten-year-old had collapsed at school six months ago, soon after the DOJ fiasco, while Hotch was stuck in a blizzard in the middle of a case in Colorado, that Hotch didn’t make it to the hospital in time to see Jack awake one more time.

That Jack’s heart gave out on him while he was breaking every speed limit while driving Hotch to the hospital.

That Hotch was too late, just like he was too late with Haley seven years ago.

That Hotch spent the last six months hiding his grief and desolation, throwing himself entirely into work and doing the bare minimum in regards to his health.

That after a man, the husband of a murdered victim and father of a child who died of cancer just a few days later, committed suicide, he had forced Hotch to live at his place for two weeks so he could make sure the still-grieving father would wake up every day, alive and breathing.

He remembered hating that the straw that broke the camel’s back was of the Mr. Scratch nature.

He remembered wondering, not for the first time, how damaged affected Hotch’s psyche was.

Today, nine months to the day Hotch resigned from the bureau, he got his answer: incredibly damaged.

Rossi thought back to the profile they had given the Boston PD.

~~~

“The man we’re looking for is in his mid 30s to mid 40s and exhibits traits of both an organized and disorganized killer,” Rossi started, looking out into the Boston PD bullpen. “It is also highly likely that he fathered a son who is around 4-5 years old. He has recently suffered a personal tragedy, likely one that involved losing his son and wife in a way he feels responsible for.”

“The crime scenes itself demonstrate a high level of intelligence and control, but that control is shattered when it comes to the men,” JJ added. “We tracked their last movements, and it seems that these men all frequented BDSM clubs.” Everyone in the room got the unsaid message: the men were cheating on the wives.

“He may be using the men’s infidelity as justification for his actions,” she finished the thought.

“When we talked to the children, they said they remembered the unsub being very angry at the fathers,” Luke picked up from where Tara left off. “This, in addition to the level of overkill he exhibited and the smashed mirrors at every house, may be a manifestation of the unsub’s own self-hatred and of his desire to make others feel his pain and guilt.”

“The children also said that the unsub was incredibly nice to them and the wife and that he apologized before he knocked the kids out,” Reid interjected from where he was sitting at the side of the room. “This man has a fractured psyche: he’s able to exhibit care and consideration one moment, shoot a person in three vital regions the next, and then destroy a face post-mortem in a fit of angry self loathing. This will show in his day to day life.”

“We’d like for your officers to canvas bars and clubs in the area,” Prentiss instructed, “ and ask the workers if they know anyone who may fit the profile: again, male, 30s to 40s, may have recently suffered a tragedy, and may be acting erratically—asked for time off, mood swings, anything out of the ordinary.”

~~~

They had gotten it completely right, but, looking at the man playing with the child in front of him, Rossi still felt like they had completely missed the mark.

“Let the kid go,” Rossi ordered quietly.

“Dave, why are you calling him that?” came the quiet baritone, the dearly-missed voice inciting within Rossi a strange rush of familiarity and fear. “You know his name.”

It can’t be the kid’s actual name that he wants, look at the body language, it’s so protective. So what—Rossi briefly closed his eyes as a flash of grief overtook him.

“Hotch, please,” he finally said, placing his gun away and slowly moving around the man so that he could see the child. “Let Jack go, he doesn’t need to see this.”

That got a reaction out of the man, who looked up and shocked Rossi with the sheer depth of broken protectiveness that was in his expression. “He needs me,” Hotch insisted, his next words sending a bolt of shock through Rossi’s system. “He just lost his mother.”

Rossi kneeled down cautiously, mind racing. “Hotch, do you know what day it is?”

Hotch sent him a confused look. “It was Haley’s funeral yesterday,” he answered, breath hitching at the end as he looked away. His eyes locked onto the ballistics vest Rossi was wearing, noticing it for the first time. “Why are you wearing a ballistics vest? Is everything alright?”

Rossi’s eyes began to burn as he realized what was going on. “Hold on, I’m going to go get something, and then I’ll explain everything, alright?” he said, standing up and feeling relief at the responding nod. He quickly walked back into the living room where the others were waiting, only stopping to tell them to stay there before grabbing the case file they had brought with them.

“Come here,” he beckoned Hotch over, placing the file on the desk in front of the window in the sparsely decorated bedroom.

Hotch left the child on the ground and walked over, still confused. “A case?” he asked absently as he flipped through the reports with a focus that hadn’t been since eighteen months ago, when he was still with the bureau, before that fateful day.

Unseen, Rossi went to the child and quickly ushered him out of the bedroom, making sure that he got to one of the others before going back inside, making it back to Hotch before he looked up from the file.

“What do you make of it?” Rossi indicated the folder, tone even as he successfully hid the turmoil within. He watched with a pang as Hotch easily slipped back into old habits, verbalizing his observations and yet remaining utterly oblivious to the significance they hold to him.

Hotch paused, looking around. “Where’s Jack?” he asked Rossi, panic seeping into his voice when he realized the child was gone. He backed away from Rossi, who had stepped carefully towards him, hands up placatingly. “Dave, what’s going on? Where’s Jack?”

The situation was all too painfully familiar.

“Hotch, you know that isn’t Jack,” Rossi said carefully. “His name is Charlie Summers. Yesterday wasn’t Haley’s funeral. It’s November 2020, and you’re in Boston, not in Virginia.”

“What are you talking about?” Hotch looked at him as if he were crazy.

Rossi pressed forward. “Do you remember what happened eighteen months ago, when you were taken by Peter Lewis?” he asked as Hotch froze in his place. “He had you for a day. He had taken you to your childhood home in Manassas, do you remember that? He drugged and tortured you. We found you just in time, but you almost killed yourself.”

He watched as blood leached out of the man’s face, as he started rapidly shaking his head. “You were discharged from the hospital a week later,” Rossi pushed, hating every second that passed while he tried to pull Hotch out of the delusion. “And while you were still on medical leave, you sent in your resignation and asked that Emily Prentiss, who had come back while you were in the hospital—”

“Take my place as unit chief,” Hotch finished in a whisper, staring at the floor and shaking like a leaf. Rossi rushed forward, flashing back to the day Hotch got that devastating phone call as he caught the man and lowered him to the ground—holding and comforting him, despite the circumstances, just as he had done back in that hotel room.

A few minutes passed, filled with harsh breathing as reality set in.

“Why?” Rossi finally asked the once stoic and unmovable unit chief, now reduced to just another unsub—only he wasn’t just another unsub. He was the man who held the elite profiling team together as they went through hell and back, the man who had reignited Rossi’s dormant paternal instincts.

He wondered if it had been a good idea to ask that question when Hotch remained silent, placing his head between his knees and still shaking as reality continued to seep back in.

“His voice,” Hotch finally muttered, “He wouldn’t stop. Taunting, laughing, talking, talking about how people are ungrateful and should be taught to be thankful for what they have that the children don’t deserve—” he broke off with a whimper covering his ears with his hands.

“Hotch?” He didn’t answer, even as Rossi forcefully brought his head back up. His eyes were squeezed shut and he had bit deep into his lip, drawing blood. “Aaron,” Rossi tried, raising his voice only to get knocked onto his back when the aforementioned man reflexively shoved him away, causing him to hit the bed then fall to the ground.

Hearing the crash, the team fell back onto instincts and rushed into the bedroom with their guns out and ready, only to see Rossi staring helplessly at the once-proud man curling into himself in the corner and letting out painful, guttural cries as the last pieces of his mind finally shattered under the weight of the demons he spent his entire life fighting.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #dave rossi #aaron hotchner whump #tw character death #bau #sodone i lost a friend i lost my mind

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ranma-rewatch · 4 years ago

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Episode 7: Enter Ryoga, the Eternal ‘Lost Boy’

Hey, it’s Ranma Rewatch, I’m on episode 7, and I don’t want to waste too much time with the preamble. I am super excited for this episode, my boi is here, I really hope it holds up, see you after I watch it again!

That wasn’t exactly how I remembered it, but not in a bad way. The episode starts with a short scene that has become pretty freaking iconic, and has been sampled in dozens, if not hundreds, of AMV’s: A man cloaked from head to toe, walking through a desert, his eyes barely visible under goggles. It is a really cool shot that catches the eye right away.

We cut from that to that same person approaching a small village, deciding to throw off his concealing clothes to reveal his typical yellow and green outfit, with a bandanna around his head and an umbrella on his back, which he takes out to slow down his descent when he jumps off a cliff. This village happens to be being attacked by a huge wild boar, wrecking everything in its way, but this fellow is able to stop the animal with little effort and send it flying. When the grateful villagers approach, he only has one question for them: where is Furinkan High School?

At first they don’t understand the question, until they look at what he has for a map and realize it’s of Tokyo. The problem is, this young man is on Shikoku, a completely different island in the archipelago. They point him in the right general direction, and he reveals before the scene ends that he is specifically trying to find Ranma Saotome.

Speaking of the show’s titular character, we get a small scene of him in his cursed form being blackmailed by Nabiki into wearing women’s clothes because all of his stuff is in the wash. After that, we get another scene of the mysterious umbrella-wielding stranger asking someone for directions to Furinkan High School, but this time he’s in Hokkaido. Once again a completely different island, only this time on the opposite end. Fun fact: Hokkaido was the inspiration for Sinnoh in Pokemon!

We get another small cut-away to Ranma in various outfits, then another of our new character somehow ending up back in that village he was in earlier. The point is being made clear to us: he is terrible at getting where he wants to go, but is also so inhumanly strong and resilient that he has no trouble surviving in the wilderness in the process.

What seems to be the next day, he finally gets to where he’s going, just as school is letting out for the day. Ranma is being chased by Akane for something, though we don’t know exactly what. (Of course, we know their dynamic well enough by now to know it’s almost certainly something Ranma did to annoy her.) The newcomer slams into the ground where Ranma is landing at the same time, leaving a crater in the cement from the force of his landing, all while screaming how Ranma has to die.

The problem is, Ranma has no clue who this guy is, which pisses him off to know end. Even after he brings up that his vendetta has something to do with Ranma never showing up for a duel, Ranma still struggles (and fails) to remember this guys name, but luckily he gives it to Ranma anyway: Ryoga Hibiki. They went to Junior High together, and they’d agreed upon a duel, but it never happened because Ranma wasn’t there when Ryoga arrived.

Now, Ranma protests that he waited in the agreed upon empty lot for three days before taking off for China with his dad, which is honestly more time than most people would have waited. As we already know though, Ryoga can’t seem to get anywhere quickly, so he got there on the fourth day. Oh, and the lot was right behind his house.

The crowd of students who only moments before considered him with awe over his fantastic martial arts abilities are now looking at him like a buffoon, and Ryoga is ready to get his revenge on Ranma already. But Ranma puts a pause on that, runs out, and comes back with a bunch of different kinds of bread. Why? Because bread was the reason for their duel in the first place. Their school was only for boys, and getting food at lunch was a nightmare. Ranma ended up snatching the last piece of bread just before Ryoga could get it time and time again, and all the bread he brought was one of each type he’d taken years before.

But Ryoga doesn’t care about that, making it clear that the bread isn’t something he cares about anymore, that Ranma has put him through hell, even if Ranma has no clue what he’s talking about. But before they can get a proper fight going, Ranma runs away, losing Ryoga enough that when he starts busting up the school looking for him, he ends up going the wrong way and out of the area entirely, leaving Ranma and Akane to wonder where he went. We do get to see where before the episode ends: once again back in that village that had the boar problem, where he gets a meal before running out into the evening to find Ranma once more.

Like I said before, this episode wasn’t entirely how I remembered it. Namely, there was a lot more humor than I remembered. For the most part, that’s not a bad thing, there was actually some really good comedy, and I don’t feel like it trampled over the more serious parts of the episode.

If it isn’t clear, I am going to say right now that I did still love this episode. The animation was really on-point, some of the visuals of Ranma darting around people or the brief combat he gets with Ryoga just looks beautiful. Also, even though we don’t get a fight between the two just yet, it’s already solidly communicated, through Ryoga easily beating the boar, barreling through steel barriers, and hitting the ground so hard it destroys concrete, that he is strong as hell.

As much as I love the opening desert shot, I actually think my favorite part of the episode is some of the conversation between Ranma, Akane, and Ryoga. Ranma straining his brain to remember who Ryoga is killed me. It was weirdly relatable too, I’m sure many of us have run into someone who obviously knows us, while we can’t even remember how we know them, let alone their name. The fact Ranma actually specifically bought one of each bread he’d taken from Ryoga before was kind of cute, more than I expected of the usually flippant martial artist.

There’s also an exchange I’ve seen on Tumblr a few times in screencaps and gifs, and there’s a reason people love to share it. When Ryoga says he’s going to destroy Ranma’s happiness, there’s this shot of him freaking out, only to turn to Akane and blankly ask if he is happy, to which Akane doesn’t understand why he’s asking her. They take such a trope-y line from a character seeking revenge and turn it around into a really good joke.

There was also a really interesting thing I noted in terms of translation. After hearing about the string of times Ranma stole bread from Ryoga, Akane makes an analogy to why it mattered so much, but it’s different from dub to sub. In the English Dub, she says the straws broke the camel’s back, a common phrase that seems to fit the situation. But in the English Sub, she says (loosely remembering) “enough dust can make a mountain”, and I think that actually fits much better. After all, we soon learned that the bread isn’t really why Ryoga is angry, but once you do know everything that happened that led to Ryoga’s rage, that analogy fits perfect: it isn’t so much one specific event, as a collection of small events that collected into an enormous vendetta.

All my compliments aside, I did have some issues with the episode. Some of the comedy didn’t really work for me, and that was most true with the early scenes of the Tendo girls trying to dress Ranma in Akane’s clothes. Some parts did make me chuckle, but on the whole the mini-plot made me uncomfortable. Primarily because, as I’ve said before, I feel like the best way to look at Ranma’s cursed form is as a trans man. Even though his body has changed, his gender hasn’t, he’s still a man. The scene has Ranma protesting again and again that he is a man, even as they try to dress him as a woman. The idea of some cisgender folks trying to force a trans man into women’s clothes just...isn’t very funny to me. It’s kind of terrible, at least from a more queer perspective. That complaint done, let’s do the character spotlight.

Oh come on, who else did you think I was going to do? If it isn’t clear yet, Ryoga Hibiki is my favorite character in the series, and he has been since I was a teenager. Who knows if that will remain true this entire watch-through, but so far I’m not liking him any less. I’ll get into why, but first let’s talk about his voice actors.

The voice actor I’m more familiar with, his English one, is Michael Donovan. Like most of the actors for this dub, he’s someone who worked with the Ocean Group for a lot of series around this time period. That said, if you’re a fan of the Fate franchise, he has done some voices in Ufotable’s recent anime adaptations, playing Risei Kotomine and Zouken Matou. In Japanese, his voice actor is one Kōichi Yamadera, and he continued the pattern of voice actors who are well-known in Japan for dubbing English works. He’s most well-known for dubbing over Jim Carrey in a lot of movies, but he’s done a ton of others as well. In anime, some of his notable roles include Spike Spiegel, Beerus in all the recent Dragon Ball movies and anime, and Gentle Criminal in My Hero Academia. Seriously, diving into this guy’s list of roles is like swimming in an ocean of great roles.

So, how do they do? Well, so far I’d say I like both of them a lot, but they do play Ryoga differently. At his core, Ryoga is actually kind of a perfect microcosm of the tone of the series itself. Ranma 1/2 is simultaneously a shonen battle anime, a romantic harem series, and a wacky comedy. Ryoga is someone who takes himself very, very seriously. His desire for vengeance against Ranma isn’t a joke, and neither is his ability as a martial artist. But he’s also a doofus who ends up crossing the length of Japan several times because he can’t follow directions properly and the reasons (so far) for his hatred of Ranma are completely laughable.

I wouldn’t say that Michael Donovan’s performance lacks seriousness, in fact when he wants Ryoga to sound menacing I think he does it well, but on the whole he leans more heavily towards the comedic parts of the character. Meanwhile, Yamadera’s Ryoga hasn’t really sounded silly once to me. He plays the character dead straight, and let’s the comedy come through in the contrast between that demeanor and the circumstances around him. We’ll have to see as we go, but I actually might be preferring the Japanese performance so far, a rarity for me.

Okay, so, why do I love Ryoga so much? There are SO many reasons, many of which I won’t go into just yet because I’ll save them for when they appear in-series. But there is still a lot shown in this episode that I feel I can discuss. To start with, I adore his design. I don’t mean the cloak and goggles, though those are absolutely awesome, I’m referring to his standard mode of dress. The yellow and green as a color scheme, with accents of black to top it off, is something really unique. I don’t know enough about art to really articulate why, but I just love every touch of his design. My favorite small touch has to be the yellow strands wrapping around his lower legs, clashing with his otherwise dark green lower half. I have no clue what they’re supposed to be for, but they just add something, almost making him look more rooted to the spot of wherever he’s standing, more solid.

That is a good word to use for Ryoga in general. Even though we haven’t gotten to see him in a proper fight just yet, we’ve seen quite a lot of evidence of his main attributes. In Dungeons & Dragons terms, Ryoga is making out his Strength and Constitution. He hits like a truck and he can be hit by a truck without slowing down. I love that because it contrasts so perfectly with Ranma’s strength: his speed and precision. I adore it when rival characters actually have qualities that make the fights between them more interesting from the contrast, and Ryoga fits the bill there quite well. He’s also a good foil in terms of personality: Ranma is easy going, likes screwing with people, and is quite quick-witted; Ryoga has a hot temper and a long memory for grudges, hates it when people trick him, and tends to let his emotions do the thinking for him.

I will say it feels like his character has some classic Early Installment Weirdness, as he uses his umbrella quite a bit in this episode. If I remember correctly, after his introductory arc, he doesn’t use his umbrella much at all for the rest of the show, preferring to rely on his fists. It definitely feels like they hadn’t quite nailed the character completely yet, if that makes any sense.

Ryoga is also doing that thing where he’s seeking revenge and really angry, but refuses to talk about why, drawing out the mystery as long as possible. While that trope can become annoying, I don’t really mind it in this case. This isn’t a situation like Godot from Ace Attorney, where Ryoga is purposefully hiding it for some grand plan or something, or to teach a lesson. Ryoga doesn’t go into specifics because A) he thinks Ranma should already know; B) Ryoga is very mad; and C) he doesn’t want anyone else to know his secret. I’m not saying it isn’t stupid that he doesn’t tell Ranma why he’s mad, but I am saying that it’s in-character.

Are you surprised that I adore this episode? You shouldn’t be, I’ve been gushing about it this whole time. Even with the parts I found more rough to watch, this is still my favorite episode of the series thus far, putting the rankings at:

Episode 7: Enter Ryoga, the Eternal ‘Lost Boy’

Episode 2: School is No Place for Horsing Around

Episode 6: Akane's Lost Love... These Things Happen, You Know

Episode 4: Ranma and...Ranma? If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Another

Episode 5: Love Me to the Bone! The Compound Fracture of Akane's Heart

Episode 1: Here’s Ranma

Episode 3: A Sudden Storm of Love

The big question is: will the next episode of this four episode Ryoga arc be even better? We’ll find out next time with Episode 8: “School is a Battlefield! Ranma vs. Ryoga”. See you then!

#episode 7 #Enter Ryoga the Eternal ‘Lost Boy’#ranma 1/2 #ranma saotome #ryoga hibiki #anime analysis #anime rewatch

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r-a-d-imagines · 5 years ago

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No need to fear! I am here!! I’m corny ok sry. I did give you lots to write lmao it won’t happen again. So that same pent up request with Simeon, Diavolo and Lucifer? And one of the other 6 brothers. I’d like you to pick. You’re writing is like phenomenal. 💕🦇— U can call me Alice :3 ghost anon 😭

A.N ; a h!!!! no need to be sorry!!!! thank you for your request in the first place!! ^^ i’m glad you enjoy my writing alice!!! i took some liberties on what exactly pent up means for each simeon’s-if you’d like something different, please feel free to ask for it! also, i hope you’re okay with a bit of a sub!lucifer ^^’‘ couldn’t miss the opportunity to write him like that

Simeon, Diavolo, Lucifer, and Leviathan ; Pent Up Sex (w/ female partner)

SimeonEvidently, this was a side of your boyfriend you... Would never have imagined existing, but, low and behold, here you were. In the back of your mind, you worried about getting chewed out for missing class-it sure seemed like you were skipping right now-but, due to some... Certain circumstances, you found it hard to care all that much.“S-Simeon-this bathroom is very echo-y, please-” His hips snapped against your own at a very particular angle, and you slapped your hand over your mouth mid-sentence to halt the cry that threatened to tear itself out of your throat. Breathlessly, he chuckled from his spot behind you, a contradicting gentle hand smoothing itself along your slightly exposed back-he hadn’t taken your uniform off completely, after all. That was the whole reason you were here, not that you knew that. It was new, since the one you’d been given at first didn’t fit right, and, well... This one fit a little too well.“All the better for me to listen to your sweet sounds, love. I’m sure no one’s around-please be as loud as you’d like.” His casual tone made you want to reach back and elbow him right in the ribs-how could he be so nonchalant while he was fucking you like this! In the school bathroom!“Wh-what’s-what’s gotten into you?” Your words sounded more like restrained whimpers, as Simeon saw no reason to allow you a minute to breathe and speak clearly, and you shuddered at the thoughtful hum that left him as his fingers fiddled with the ends of your uniform skirt, flipping it up a little to watch his cock slip in and out of you.“Mm... I just really admire the way your new uniform fits, is all. Couldn’t help myself.”DiavoloYou couldn’t believe him-you knew he wasn’t shy about fooling around in public, but... God. Here, now, with people so close by? Really?He’d elected to take you and the demon brothers out to dinner to celebrate something or other, making a reservation and getting a special table and all that-but upon arriving, it was found that the table was one chair short of being able to seat all of you. Instead of inconveniencing the staff, Diavolo very happily invited you to use his lap as a seat-you should have said no, in retrospect, so this whole mess was partially your fault.Somewhere along the way, without getting caught, somehow, he’d fished his dick out of his pants and pulled your underwear to the side, slipping himself inside of you-”to make it more comfortable,” he’d said. But comfortable for who, you had no idea. You had to admit, though-it wasn’t the worst. It’d been a while since the two of you got to have sex in general-this was an entirely different kind of thrilling. You guessed that was probably why he was doing this-he must have missed you, too.Just sitting with him inside was enough to have you on the verge of coming undone-after all, he was huge, every slight move you made felt overwhelming. You were at least vaguely sure no one had caught on to what was going on-though the looks Asmodeous was giving you from across the table were a bit... Worrying. How he constantly wiggled his eyebrows at the two of you with an almost knowing smirk.“H-how long is this dinner supposed to last, Diavolo? I-I don’t think I’m feeling very well,” You cleared your throat to try and make your voice sound a bit more normal, and you wanted to cry as Diavolo only laughed behind you, patting your thigh.“We haven’t even gotten our food yet, my love-I’m sure you’ll feel better once you’re full.”LuciferQuite frankly, you were a bit frustrated. Not with Lucifer personally, but... Well, maybe it was a bit personal, actual. You wished he would take a break from all that work he had-even if only for a minute. Your heart broke when you bumped into him in the kitchen earlier, hearing the way his shoulders cracked and popped as he begrudgingly fetched himself something to eat before slinking back into his office-though not without pausing to at least grace his lips against your forehead, almost apologetically.He was sorry-for neglecting you for his work, likely. He’d never actually say so, though-nor would he admit to being tired or stressed, that much you knew all too well.And then, it occurred to you-what was stopping you from helping him yourself, instead of waiting around for him to burn himself out and join you in bed? So that was how you found yourself... Here.With Lucifer on his knees for you in the middle of his office, bare from the waist up, skin stinging and red from being struck with the very same riding crop he so often used on you. He had that stubborn, prideful smile of his on his face as he looked up at you, breathless and panting, barely managing to speak, “... I might be letting you have for fun for right now, my dear, but I really should-”“You go near that desk, and I might just go looking for one of your whips.” You interrupted him coldly, delighting in the way his breath hitched, the way he shivered at your threat.“... Alright then, mistress,” The title rolled off his lips sarcastically, though his face flushed deliciously at the sound of it, “-continue with your punishment.”LeviathanYou weren’t sure how much longer this could go on-one of you was bound to snap sooner or later and escalate the situation, but... Alas. Levi sure did seem keen putting all of his focus into the game he was playing, even if your throat was wrapped snugly around his dick, and had been for the past while.You were trying to get him away from his computer, even if only for a little while-and he knew that, so he was trying extra hard to ignore you, but as you stared up at him from where you were, between his legs under his desk, you were overjoyed to see the slight twitches of his eyebrow, the tiny growls he’d let out every few seconds as he shifted around to, in his words, “get comfortable”. Any minute now, you knew-any minute now, he’d give up.You brought your hands up to his thighs, nails raking down the length of them slowly, pressing down just enough to make his cock twitch in your mouth-and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.“You’re so unfair-” His hand leafed itself into your hair, “-damn, I was winning, too-” He was starting to all but yank your head up and down, “-you’re goona regret this, ____-”... Were you, though? Not likely.

#shall we date obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me simeon #obey me diavolo #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan

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broken-hearts-lives-among-us · 5 years ago

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Pretending (Part 4) Jughead J. x Reader

Hi~ Long time no read haha, I honestly drop this story because my life became busier with college, and then I stopped watching the show as the plot lose my interest. Yet, as I was reliving my Tumblr I came across with Part 3 and Part 2, which I really enjoyed, so I thought I might just give the story an end, since I’m fond to the characters of the show and my own OCs, Not really sure if anyone is gonna read it, specially since I won’t be following the exact plot and timeline as the original show, but, I kinda feel that’s what an imagine is about, so ooopsie

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Summary: Drama in Riverdale seems to never end, your home-life was a mess, your past was still hunting you, yet, breaking up with your boyfriend was the last straw that broke the camel’s back. How are you supposed to go through all the chaos that was coming? Are you going to keep pretending to be the normal nice girl? Or his your heart willing to reveal it’s true skin?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Pairing: Jughead Jones x reader

Words: 4583

Note: English isn’t my first language, I deeply apologize for any mistake.

Disclaimer: Since I’m writing this as someone who doesn’t follow the current plot of the show, I’m unaware of the fandom’s situation, so I just want to clarify that this fic is only meant to entertain, it doesn’t hate or trash in any character, I still love the cast of the show so I’m not here with any negative vibes, pls keep it like this, I’ll try my best to write the most human, imperfect, mistake makers characters, you’re welcome not to read if you don’t like it, thanks y’all!

“Easy there, Hot Dog.” you said calming down the little dog that seemed overwhelmed by the presence of the beanie-less Jughead Jones III. “He’s family.” You added smirking at him, quite pleasant by the shock in his features.

Tall Boy started talking, dragging his attention from you to the man. “We heard your dad could have named names, but he didn’t.”

His eyes were on you just as he heard that, you just winked an eye to him.

“We wanted you to know, no matter what happens to him, however long he's gone, we've got your back.”

The serpents were all looking at him, some with decision and compromise, some with thankful welcoming eyes.

“This is yours… If you want it.” You mentioned, giving him a leather jacket with the Southside Serpents’ logo.

Your heart flattered as you saw him putting on the jack.

Good Lord, he’s hot.

No one could deny how good Jughead looked in that jacket, it suited him perfectly, he belonged to them. You looked at him, smiling as you with that quirky sparkle in his eyes, and he smiled to you slightly.

Like it was meant to be.

“Juggy?”

Snap.

That’s how you felt your world while you and the Jones kid both turn around to see a pretty blonde girl hiding her body behind the wall, confusion marked all over her face. It didn’t take you long to notice the state of her clothes.

His clothes too.

Oh.

Noticing the sudden mood in the air, Jughead spun around seeing at your figure with horror in his eyes.

“I think we might have interrupted something, gentlemen.” You said towards the group without looking at him. “We should leave.” You got down the stairs as you suggest the departure.

“Dismiss.” Ordered Tall Boy, everyone following you, as you became smaller and smaller with the distance.

You collapse in your homemade bed as you arrived at the Whyte Wrym, you’re staying in a little room at the second floor thanks to the fact that the manager owned FP a favor. You felt Hot Dog jumping by your side.

“Can you believe it Hot Dog?” you said looking at him incredulous. “I mean, yeah we waited because when we started to date we were too young to make that kind of things, but even tho, hell they have just been some months together.” You covered your face with your hands, memories of Jughead’s touch filling your mind.

He was so fucking good and lovely at bed.

And now all of that was in hands of the Cooper girl.

“Here comes the green-eye monster Hottie.” You announced looking at the puppy. “How he dares forgetting me so easily? I’m glad we ruined their night.” You huffed crossing your arms.

As your head started to hurt you decided it was better to sleep than overthink. You cuddle as you could, embracing Hot Dog between your arms, closing your eyes hoping that the next day you would be blessed to avoid the beanie boy.

Successfully, you hadn’t see your ex for a week or so, apparently, he kept dumping classes to go to the northside, but who could blame him? With all this Archie’s father being shot and The Black Hood thing going on, it was pretty normal for him to be there.

If not, he was shut in the Red&Black newspaper office. It was kind of funny, yet kind of sad how you two would remain like strangers under the same roof, even if not so along you were soulmates.

With that being said, today was an odd day, you entered your class as normal, your presence shutting down everyone as usual, walked to your destined seat, in front of Toni, diagonal to Sweet Pea and beside Jughead. What?

You faced at your left being welcomed by those intense blue-greenish eyes that could make everyone in the room faint with a stare. You looked sights for a second, broke apart when the professor entered the room.

He started to talk, the class started to become noisier, making the teacher fight for the attention, it made you grew impatient at the idiotic attitude of your classmates. You harshly kicked the desk at your right startling everyone, the room fall in silence just a second later.

“Thank you, Miss Y/L/N.” said the professor continuing with the lecture, you nodded absently as you tried to focus on his words rather than the handsome boy next-desk that couldn’t keep look away from you.

The class kept the same pace you had managed to achieve, your mind spaced out as the clock’s tic-tac rhythm filled the room, making everyone count the seconds unconsciously. Distracting you from the pass of the time a little paper ball was throw to you from your left.

You opened cautiously, no bothering in turning around to see the paper’s owner.

“What was that?” was written in a small quick handwriting.

You furrowed your eyebrows crumpling the paper and throwing it away.

Just a few seconds later another paper ball landed in your desk. You sighed no bothering open it, you just set it aside.

A minute later it wasn’t a ball what arrived, it was a full paper plane with the words ‘Stop ignoring me’ written at a wing.

You opened it tired of the little game.

‘What was that?’

You rolled your eyes taking a pen answering. ‘What was what?’ you threw the paper at his direction not even looking, you could hear Toni chuckling behind you, well at least she was having fun.

The paper was with you a minute later, his plane form was built again.

‘Earlier you hit a desk, and everyone shut up.’

‘Yeah, you’re welcomed.’

You extended your arm to pass him the paper this time, your hands touched as he took it.

‘I owe you my life ;P but my question was why did they shut up because of you, they looked afraid.’

You couldn’t help but smile a little at the little face he drew in the paper. ‘Oh no, they weren’t afraid. Well, not at all, they just respect me. And lets just keep it like that.’

You looked at him finally, leaving the paper at his desk. “End of the conversation.” You said quietly, the bell ringing just a second later, you took your stuff and stormed out of the class before anyone else.

Jughead’s PoV

I sat at the canteen with the other serpents, my eyes instantly scanning the place to see a certain Y/H with Y/H/C.

“Where’s Y/N?” I asked as she was nowhere near to be seen.

“She doesn’t sit with us.” Said Sweet Pea bluntly.

I just throw a confused look to Toni.

“She just sits there.” She said calmly pointing out at her in a desk a little far away, all alone.

“What the hell?!” I felt by heart sinking in fear at her sight “You just let her sit alone?! The Ghoullies are gonna eat her alive!” as sudden as I said that the table broke in laughs.

Noticing my unbelieved face Toni faced me. “I kind of think she sits there to protect us.”

“How?” I asked as her answer didn’t make any sense.

“Well, she used to sit with us, but the Ghoullies did come to bother her even if we were with her, after that she started sitting alone.”

“The Ghoullies stopped coming, just focused on her.” Continued Fangs.

“Why?”

“Because she was Southside’s bookworm.” Answered Sweet Pea making me glared at him because of the nickname he has given to her.

“And even if we tried to help her she stopped us.” Fangs sighed as everyone else nodded.

“But now none of the Ghoullies has the guts to face her.” I looked up at Sweet Pea who was smirking at Y/N’s direction.

I arched a brow confused. “Are you kidding me?”

“No” said Toni smiling. “It’s true, it was awesome Jones. One day an idiotic asshole Ghoullie mentioned her family and threated her about hurting her cousin.”

“She exploded.” Fangs concluded with a glint of joy in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” I said gulping the anxiety out of my voice.

“She beat the hell out of him and his friends.” Sweet Pea nodded fondly at the memory.

“Sweet Pea had to stop her when she took the fire extinguisher.”

He nodded again. “I’m still curious about what she would have done with it.”

“That’s how she finished earning the respect of all the gang and the school.” Toni finished, all looking at Y/N’s desk where she ate an apple reading a little book in her other hand. “She looked so hot. The serpent’s loner wolf.”

“Riverdale’s Sweetheart.” Argued Fangs earning a glare from Toni.

“Southside’s bookworm.” Said SP taking part of the argument.

I felt my blood boiling at their comments. “That’s enough.” I scold them loudly dragging their attention to me. “Stop tagging her for God’s sake. She hates that. You can’t just classify her in a category you know? Y/N is just too unique to fit in one of those mundane descriptions.” I ranted taking my tray.

I leaved the serpent’s safe zone and proceeded to walk towards the girl with the serpent jacket and the book.

“Mind if I sit?” I said taking the seat in front of her.

“I actually mind, yes. But as always you’re just gonna do whatever you want.” She said not even looking at me.

I took a moment to appreciate her, with all the shit that has been going on the town, I hadn’t notice her subtle change, her makeup was just a smidge more notorious and rebellious, her hair was more wild, her soft face was now contrasted by her hard expression, her Serpent jacket embraced her body in all the right places, she emitted this new sensation of power and sassiness, even with the sweet glimpse that was still in her eyes.

“You know Jones? That look you’re strolling all over my body can be consider sexual harassment, jail won’t be seen good at your curriculum.” She said quietly, yet cold enough to freeze my train of thought.

I blushed furiously as she noticed it. “Sorry, it’s just… You look different.”

“I guess.” She muttered bluntly.

“It suits you.” I smirk at her slightly.

She looked at me for the first time in all the conversation. “Thanks.” Her eyes sunk down at her book again, I didn’t feel her blush, her voice didn’t stutter neither, her eyes didn’t look at mine with warm, unlike every time I used to compliment her, and it hurt me, the fact that she treated me like a stranger was slowly killing me.

“Y/N… Listen, I’m being honest. I don’t like our current status.” I said snatching her book to have her full attention.

“Oh, you mean ex-boyfriend and ex-girlfriend? Well I’m sorry it bothers you, but it wasn’t my decision.” She took the book away from me.

“I know… I know I hurt you and I’m sorry for that, I didn’t mean to screw up the things between us, but, can’t we just be friends? Please…”

She locked eyes at me, thinking quietly, she slowly began to open her book, ready to ignore me again. Being as fast as I could I took the book again this time my other hand has gripping her wrist.

She sighed. “I guess I could pretend to.” I could her the bluntness in her voice.

“Pretend?” I repeat quietly amused. “I was expecting something more real… Like a true friend, I need you here Y/N.”

“Well I’m sorry it’s disappointing to you but is the best I can offer you.”

“Why can’t we just be friends, like when we were kids… Come on, don’t you miss me…?” I hold her hand between mine, craving to feel her warming soft skin.

“No. We can’t.” She removed her hand from mine.

I silently cursed, her rejection hurting me down my soul.

“Why not?” I asked bitterly.

“Because friends don’t love each other like I love you. Because friends don’t crave for the touch and the kisses of the other. Because friends can be okay to see you with your girlfriend. But I can’t, I can’t be your friend because I’m in love with you, you idiot, I want to be your girl, I want to be your best friend, your confident, your person. But I’m not, so don’t ask me to be okay and be your friend. Because I can’t, I just can pretend to.”

I saw her eyes growing watery, but I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t react I didn’t know how, she has never talked to me so harshly. She blinked, stopping the tears from falling, she avoided my eyes and stood up, walking trough the door, leaving me there, with her book between my hands, in the cold lonely bench, in a cold lonely mess.

I saw the book’s cover, it was a little antique poem book we stole from the library some years ago, I flip the pages until end, there in the back face of the book, was a little photo attached with some tape, it was an old polaroid photo of us, with Tobias, the baby was in her arms giggling, I had my hands in her waist as I embraced her, she between my legs, her back leaning against my torso, I was looking at the camera with a faint smile, and she was…

She was looking at me…

I tighten my grip on the book as I exanimated her face, her pupils were slightly bigger, and her smile was little, but warmly breathtaking, her eyes were soft, I knew that expression, it was the same she put whenever she admire something, like an art piece, or when Tobias said his first word, I loved that expression, yet, I never knew…

She saw me like that.

My heart sunk as the realization that maybe, maybe all this time I never took a moment to realize those little things about her, and our relationship, and now it was too late to think of them, maybe…

Maybe I got too used to have her around, that I looked at her, but I didn’t see her.

Life has mastered the irony, as the loner boy was now the one to say hi, when he was the first to say bye, and the sweet girl refused to answer back as she tried hard not to fall apart.

I went to the Red&Black office to clear my mind, I took the local newspaper and my heart pound as a read the headline, a cryptograph from the Black Hood to solve? Sounds like a case for Sherlock Jones, I sat starting to analyze it when the creaking sound of the door caught my attention.

There she was, Y/N herself entering the office with Toni, some boxes in their hands.

“Oh, you’re here.” Toni said putting her box in the desk.

“Yeah… Hey have you seen the news?” I said looking at both.

Y/N just left her box next to Toni´s and stormed out of the room.

Toni looked at me with a scold on her face. “Did you do something to her?”

“W-What? No, she’s just… We’re in the middle of the ex’s war zone.”

“Ex?” She said widening her eyes.

“You didn’t know? I thought you knew her!” I replied mimicking her expression.

“And I do, but she never talked about her love life, I didn’t get to ask her neither.”

I sighed covering my face with my hands. “Don’t tell anyone.” I asked sternly.

“May I ask what happen?” She said raising a brow. “Like bro, who dumps a girl like Y/N? or what did she did for you to leave her. No wait, did she dumped you? That makes more sense.”

I looked at her, too tired to explain myself or to discuss, I just told her everything vaguely.

“So, Mrs. Pony Tail and you started to grow closer, you both develop feelings and she convinced you to try a relationship even tho she knew that you were Y/N’s everything.”

“No!” I yelled angry. “When you say it like that it sounds cruel.”

“And you really just left an almost three years, relationship like that. You’re easier than I thought Jones.”

I growled. “Thanks Toni.” I give her the newspaper changing the subject. “Wanna solved it together?”

She sighted looking at me, smirking faintly. “Hell yeah.”

Y/N’s PoV.

There was an awkward silence in the room, just the sound of the pencils on the paper or the flipping of the pages filling the mood.

I can’t really tell how I ended up in this situation, I just know that I gave up at Toni’s begging for me to join she and Jug to decipher the Black Hood’s code, but she never mentioned it was going to be at Jug’s trailer, neither she told me that Betty was coming too, although the pissed expression in her face makes me believe she had no idea.

The bright side of this was that Kevin had come too, I was so happy to see him that I just jumped into his arms when he noticed me, he was currently resting my back against mine as we helped each other to reach a comfort

“These symbols look so familiar to me.” Said Betty breaking the silence, catching all our attention. “It's like I've seen them before and it's driving me crazy I can't figure out where.” She added sounding frustrated.

“Maybe if you loosened your ponytail.” Said Toni bluntly. I facepalmed internally as I saw the offended faces of the Northsiders. “What? That was a joke, guys.” she cleared, yet it was already too late, I sight hearing Kevin’s indignation.

“Betty's ponytail is iconic and beyond reproach.”

“Kev. It's fine. And at this point, I'm willing to try anything.” Betty said loosening her ponytail as Toni said, being free from it.

I looked at her for a moment as the other returned to discuss the important matter of the night. Betty wasn’t a bad girl, not even close, yet I couldn’t help but be mad, she knew all my story with Jughead, every single fucking detail, and yet she didn’t even think about it when they started dating… But then again, I didn’t have any right in the Jones boy… He was free to fall in love and leave, so was Betty.

I heard vaguely part of their conversation as I started to feel dizzy, getting even sicker as I notice the tension in their voices, there was a war getting near, I could feel it.

“No, I mean like why, why is he killing people? Or at least, why now? We know the Hood's obsessed with cleansing the town of sinners and hypocrites, right? And he seems to be attacking anyone with ties to the Northside.” I tried to focus in Betty’s analysis as my head spun around.

“Here we go with the fake news again.” Said Toni getting in a defensive attitude, I slapped myself mentally finally waking up as I knew this wasn’t going to end well.

“Toni.” I said calmly looking at her. “Breath.”

“No! This Northsiders and their privilege. All you do is demonize the Southside so of course you think the Black Hood's from there.”

“It's not demonizing, Toni. It's stating facts.” Betty excused herself not helping Toni to calm down. “There's way more drugs and gangs.” The little Cooper continued, yet it didn’t take long for Toni to interpose.

“And the drugs you mean which were sold primarily to Northside crackheads? And what about the Northside Neo-Nazis?” Perfect, Archie´s little gang was now on the discussion. I looked at Kevin’s awkwardness, sharing the feeling, as we were the ones in the middle watching all the drama.

“The Red Circle?”

“The Red Psychos, you mean. Hell, Betty, I'm surprised you haven't just come out and said it yet.”

“Said what?”

“That you think the Black Hood's a Serpent. We all know how much you hate us.”

“Okay, Toni. I don't hate the Serpents.”

“Oh, yeah? Says the girl who stole a good friend’s boyfriend, mostly just as a whim than for love. Then, tell me why is it that your boyfriend here lies about the fact that he sits with us at lunch?” She ranted her breath getting heavy, I took her arm as I stood up.

“That’s enough Toni, we should go okay?” she scoffed taking her arm back from my grip but starting to gather her things.

“Yeah I’m gonna go too.” Said Kevin looking away from the situation. “Maybe I can walk you home.” He added looking at us, Toni just glared at him. “Or you can walk me home.” He muttered as we exit the trailer, making me chuckle a little.

I took a last glance at the quirky couple we had left behind, being slightly worried for the fight I knew we had caused.

I sighed shaking the thoughts from my head and I looked at Kevin. “Do you want me to take you home?”

“I don’t know, then you’re gonna be all alone walking in the middle of the night when you return.”

“Who said we were going to walk?” I smiled at him passing him a helmet.

He gasped at the sight of it and looked at me in disbelieve. “No way.”

I just laughed. “This way.” I said guiding him to where I had parked my motorcycle. “Beautiful right?” I said caressing the seat.

“Who would imagine little sweet Y/N in a beast like this?” He said amazed. “Boys most be head over heels for your bad girl version, right?”

“Just a smidge” I winked at him jokingly “Wanna do a bad boy version yourself?” I said sit think in the motorcycle “Come on lazy turtle, hop on.”

After dropping Kevin at his house, winning a worried glance from our local sheriff by the way -I guess laying to him didn’t help our relationship- I returned to the White Wrym ready to shut everything down and gain a good night of sleep.

Since the day after the “solve coding party” was Saturday you decided to help serving at the White Wrym thing you usually did whenever you got the time as a way to show gratitude for your little room and your food. Life was just easier like this, not worrying about anything or anyone, your only problem now was, ironically, Forsythe Pendleton Jughead Jones III. Screw him for interrupting your peace.

“What are you thinking about?” The voice of the pink haired serpent girl woke you up from your thoughts.

You looked at her for a straight second without saying anything as if you were still on a trance.

“Um.. . There’s a murderer on the loose, I have to finish my report before Monday and Hog Eye is running out of tequila” you listed as you cleaned some glasses from the place “There’s a lot to think about Toni”

She raised an eyebrow skeptical “Yeah… Sure… That includes Jughead Jones, am I right?”

“Not quite actually, but it does include the little war that was throw yesterday at his trailer” You looked at her putting a glass down and sighed “They’re not bad Toni, Betty is not just a basic mean girl… She’s nice”

“Are you really defending that white Northside girl? And after she stole your boyfriend?” She asked indignated.

You took a heavy breathe “Northsider or not, that doesn’t matter at all, she’s not bad, and I still appreciate her as a friend. Am I hurt? Yes. Am I angry? Yeah, a little bit. But Betty didn’t put a gun in Jones’ head, he could have said no, yet he didn’t, and is his right, and is her right to fall in love with whoever she wants… I believe in sorority and I can’t just judge her and shame her or hate her because of this… This things… They just happens sometimes. She’s not the bitch you think she is.”

Toni looked at the floor taking your words in, thoughtfully, maybe even a little ashame.

“But” you continued, smiling at her truthfully “I highly appreciate the fact that you like me enough to acknowledge and worry about my feelings, thank you Toni, for real, you’re a great friend” You took her hand squeezing it a little bit, she looked at you slightly surprised at this new face you had never show to her.

You didn’t saw, or heard about anyone from the other side of the own in the whole, it was just as usual as before everything in Riverdale started falling down.

And even if you felt comfortable with the mood, you couldn’t help but think it was a bit strange too, as you saw the moonlight walking down the rain, an uneasy feeling started forming on your gut. Maybe it had something to do with the serial killer on the loose, maybe.

You heard a spray paint can, the unique sound of the paint being ejected against the wall caught your attention, yet you didn’t look for the source, since that wasn’t unusual in this part of the town, you decided it was better to ignored it, but after hearing Archie’s voice you couldn’t help but turn around.

“You can’t just come here and tag our turf.” Said Sweet Pea with anger in his voice. “So why don’t you get your ass back to the Northside before someone gets hurt?” He snapped at Archie threatening.

“Get my way, or someone will be hurt” said Archie without a glimpse of fear in his voice.

“You just made a terrible mistake” you saw Sweet Pea taking his knife out of his pocket, your blood turned cold and you ran as fast ass you could.

“Sweet Pea! NO! Stop!” You yelled, your words trying to reach him. Yet your steps stopped abruptly as you saw with fear the gun Archie had in front of you three, as you heard his heartbroken, heavy, tired and paranoid voice screaming “Who made a mistake?!”

“What the hell?!” Was the last thing you heard from the pair of serpent that was there before they ran off, yet you didn’t run, looking straight into Archie’s eyes.

You watched him carefully as he put the weapon down, breathing heavily squeezing his knees.

You contemplated the big red circle on the wall for a minute “I’ll guess you need a ride” He looked at you saying nothing, still in shock.

“It’s been a long time” You commented as you stopped in front of Archie’s house “The last time I was here Jughead broke my heart” a bittersweet laugh scape from your lips but you shut it as you saw Archie’s uncomfortable expression.

“Sorry, that was something dumb to say” the blush in your face creeped as you apologized.

Archie nooded, not knowing what to say “Do you want to come in and dry yourself?” He asked with concerned seeing your wet dripping because of the rain.

You smiled at him feeling that little nostalgic warmth “Yes, yes please” he opened the door as you followed him, both of you oblivious of the worried blonde her next door.

“Veronica? I think you better come here, quick!” Said Betty, concerned following her trembling voice.

“Archie might cheat on you!” Was the last thing Veronica Lodge heard before hung up her phone.

Hi again~ if you read everything till here and you liked it, thanks for the support! I’ll do my best to not disappear again oopsie

Tag list:

@somethingweird168 @evanpeters3826 @trumpettay @oxoxo0 @superhalsteads @the-mad-girl-with-a-book @beforethebraces @agusdoti @zarinnaaaa @unaveragewriterfreak @k-n-e @letsdosciencekids @immanuelreblogs @prettyylamee @honeyveeeee @sineadgereal @buttercups145

#riverdale imagines #jughead imagine #jughead jones #jughead x reader #cole sprouse imagine #cole sprouse #forsythe pendleton jones iii #x reader #riverdale

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in-the-name-of-the-holy-reborn · 5 years ago

Note

Hello again! Thanks for the first scenario, I really loved your way of writing! Can i have a new scenario where Takeshi and his s/o broke up for whatever reason and they discover (thanks to lambo's bazooka) that they re married in the future, so they try to make it work again? 😅 I m sorry if it s too specific ahah And don t hesitate to stop me cuz otherwise i ll keep requesting things again and again and again 🤣

Aaaah~ thank you it’s so nice of you and don’t worry, I don’t mind requests! *.* But.. I hope you’ll not hate me with this one... I realized I took it the wrong way and it’s not what you were waiting for. I’am so sorry ! I’ll try again if you want to!🙇

Yamamoto

Takeshi loved you, from the bottom of his heart, it wasn’t a secret nor for you, nor for anyone, the good news was that you were feeling the exact same way, the bad one is that you weren’t the only one.

Your feelings evolved quickly since you had first met him, as for him, well, Yamamoto being Yamamoto.. he was sweet, nice, caring and charming, it’s his nature after all and he’s made out of gentleness and perfection.

A complicated situation, because you were sure there were no distinctions between you and the others, it was slightly painful when your feelings became clearer but it was hard to push this ball of sunshine away, so you just suffered from the whole thing while that dork needed your green light to make a move on you.

When he asked you out few months ago, you didn’t really realized what was happening. «Was it a joke? Did he really felt that way? Why me?». The relationship could have been perfect, he made you laugh, you made his heart thumped hard in his chest each time he saw your smile, unfortunately, Yamamoto was still Yamamoto, sweet, nice, caring and charming, with everyone, for everyone.

Rare was the time the two of you could share some intimate time in public places, girls revolved around him like flies around a jam jar and he wasn’t aware of the hard flirt they were, so he didn’t push them away.

He finally understood how it affected you, he did his best to kiss away your doubts, your fears, about him, your relationship, but the worse were about you and it killed him to see you so sad.

He was constantly on the lookout, stressed that he might do something that could hurt you, and it was the last straw that breaks the camel’s back, you couldn’t accept to put him in this situation, to change him, because you loved him for who he was, and according to you, he didn’t deserve that.

You took the hurtful decision to stop the relationship, he wasn’t okay with this, you didn’t let him the choice anyways, ignoring his large numbers of calls, avoiding him and his so desperate big honey eyes. On his side, he didn’t know what to do, he would have done everything for you to come back, to make you smile again and again, you couldn’t leave him because of ‘this’ right ? It had to be something else, did you..really loved him in the first place?

As he was mulling over all of this on Tsuna’s bed, a click of the door was heard and he looked back in this direction, your direction, you entered the room agitated, and you tripped on your own feet just in front of him. The three apples tall spotted tornado appeared, running behind you with a bang, a purple bazooka came flying right in your direction, you were both engulfed in a pinky smoke, a wave of heat running around you then – Pouf.

You hesitated to open your eyes at first, nuzzling reassuringly on the soft fabric next your head, the delicate perfume you loved so much tickling your sens when you realized two arms were securely around your form to protect you. Yamamoto didn’t let you go and you lifted your head slowly, the tip of your nose against his neck.

It was an awkward situation, it had been weeks since you didn’t exchange a word, and here he was, surrounding you in a protective embrasse as if nothing had changed. You both jumped a bit when you took conscience of the proximity, eyeing around you with a fake interest.

Here you were, sitting on a large comfy bed, in a well decorated room and unlike Takeshi, scratching the back of his head with no intention to move, you got out of the bed, exploring excitedly around. You took a look at the opened dressing room, taking in your hand one of your favorite shirt

«WOH ! I still have it! It’s reassuring to know it’ll still fit in ten years!»

Your laugh. Yamamoto felt his heart clenched, it felt like an eternity since he heard it, and it warmed his chest in a way only you know how to. A smile came to his lips quickly replaced by a frown, and he let his head fall bitterly on the night stand

«Oh hey! It’s my baseball signed by Ichirō Suzuki !»

You both frozed, item in hands, and you crossed googly eyes in a mecanic movments, did that mean..

The heavy smoke was back, as you in Tsuna’s room, you didn’t stop looking his way and he was searching for your gaze. You couldn’t deny the sparke of hope meandering in your guts, were all of your fears not justified? Could it be that your love was so powerful that you could overcome this crisis which seems impassable at the moment.

Your thoughts were interupted by two hands coming to your cheeks, bringing you back to reality, gleaming hues and perfect smile on a face inches of yours. Takeshi’s lips were so close you could sensed his breath, it was so hard to not be tempted and close the distance in a kiss you both wanted. He pulled you out of your transe once more and in a whisper, he said

«I’am glad I succeed to make you change your mind, I don’t know how, I don’t know when but I promise you that I’ll fight with all I have to secure this future!»

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kashimos-hajime · 5 years ago

Text

the society | s.r.

summary: “He was there and then he wasn’t. Like I blinked and he was gone.”

WARNINGS: guns, death, violence, swearing, angst, injury, blood, implications of torture, revenge pairing: hitman!Steve Rogers x hitwoman!Reader word count: 11.2k

a/n: written for @starksparker and her summer writing challenge! sorry for taking so long, it’s been a rough couple of weeks, and i’m barely getting by at the moment, and even though i’m not 100% happy with this, if i don’t post it, it’ll never get done. this is, as usual with everything lately, really long for no reason other than i can’t shut up, and it’s meant to be full of blanks and a cliffhanger. it’s up to the reader to decide what happens.

my prompt was it’s just you and me. based on the poem by nikita gill, i. tiny stories and inspired by john wick. gif not mine

the saddest word in the world is almost

i. he was almost in love

“How do we always get stuck in these situations?”

“I wonder.”

The sarcasm is not lost on the man sitting against the hotel adjacent wall. You roll your eyes, hissing as you press your palm against the bruise blooming across your abdomen.

“I thought Pierce gave me Stane,” Steve says as conversationally as one can with a smashed face and potentially broken ribs. You shove yourself up against the hotel wall. The corner of your mouth splits when you smile wryly and a dribble of blood tracks down your cheek while Steve’s nursing a nasty black eye with an instant ice pack.

“He offered three times the amount.” Your eyes flutter shut and you want to down another glass of whisky, but Steve’s left the bottle on the nightstand and you don’t have the strength to get up and grab it. “I hate him.”

“That makes two of us,” Steve mutters, blond head knocking back into the wall and you laugh, letting it fizzle into a soft moan when your ribs pulse with your heart. Everything just aches. “But for what it’s worth, he got away.”

“Steve, that’s not a good thing. If you didn’t charge in like an idiot, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“If you weren’t there so concerned and everything, I would’ve been okay.”

“My bad.”

“Pierce isn’t gonna like this,” he sighs and your head rolls towards the sound of his voice, eyes peeling open. “He doesn’t like personal mixing with professional.”

“You were going to die, Steve. It was stupid and you know it. Besides, I'd rather have to fight you than watch you kill yourself.”

“Even if I nearly kill you?”

“You wouldn’t.” You shrug indelicately and feel like the whole weight of the world slams into your shoulders when they drop again. Slouching deeper against the wall, you try to unfold a leg. Your pants drag over the wood grain and you let out a sigh. “Look, it isn’t personal if the Society’s top hitman dies.”

He doesn’t have an argument for that, and yet still he wants to argue that this could be the final straw to break the camel’s back. “Are you sure about that?”

You stare at him for a moment, and then an incredulous smile crosses your face. You scoff, shake your head, try to shake off the crawling sensation in your stomach without letting it show in your shoulders. “Yeah. Why would it be personal?”

“Because I fuck you on the daily, doll.”

“Pierce never said not to mix pleasure with the professional,” you retort softly, but you can’t help the uncertainty in your voice. You don’t exactly like it when it comes to moments like these — the warm light in Steve’s eyes, the fire set in your blood without him even touching you. It causes an uncomfortable feeling to curl inside you, and your heart rate picking up higher than it’d be if you were in a firefight leaves room for concern.

Steve’s smile is brighter than the goddamn sun, but small enough that you can almost hold it in your hands, and your eyebrows knit together as you try to suppress the tiny smile fighting its way onto your face. “Yeah, well, the promise of pleasure is the way into your bed and heart.”

“Yeah, good to know.” You lapse into silence, the only sound the occasional crunch of Steve’s ice pack as he shifts it on his skull, your heart in your head, the sound of your breath rattling in your battered lungs.

“We needa get to bed.”

“I think you broke my ribs.” Eyes opening, you meet Steve’s bruised face and smile despite the blood and the sharp sting of your cut splitting open along your lip. “Did you have to kick me that hard?”

“It was my contract, first.” Steve gets up, and it’s almost like you can hear all the bones in his body clicking, every muscle screaming in protest. The faint golden light of your hotel room plays with his hair, dances on his skin, and when he pauses, stretching his bruised shoulder behind his head, you smile. Every little ridge, vein, crevice of his skin casts soft shadows over his skin and it makes him look dangerous.

You smile.

“Help me up, Steve,” you drawl, raising a lazy hand, knuckles just beginning to clot. You wonder what’ll heal first, the pretty bruise to his ribs, or the split skin along your hand. He lets his arm swing at his side, turning around to look at you, and you paste on the prettiest smile you can muster with a busted lip and a bleeding temple.

“What’s the magic word?”

“I’ll kick you in the balls.”

“That was actually six magic words, but they are accepted nonetheless.” The warmth of his palm sends a wave of heat down your arm and he pulls you up with a gentle tug. Despite your shoulder clicking, you let yourself collide with his chest, and his grin encompasses all you can see as he presses a gentle kiss against your mouth. You can taste the whisky on his tongue as his arm wraps around your waist, and your eyes slip closed as a wave of exhaustion crashes over your body, sapping what’s left of your energy from your limbs. Your knees feel like they’ll give in any time now, and you loop your arms around Steve’s neck to keep yourself standing. “Let’s get you to bed, doll.”

“Everything hurts.” He picks you up easily, setting you on the bed with another peck to the lips, and you drag him in after you, groaning when the bed bounces, jostling your bruised organs. “We need to move to different continents.”

“What? That’s not fun.” Steve pouts against your cheek and you sigh, threading your fingers through his hair as he presses his instant ice pack against your clothed side. Shivering, you reach down and take hold of it while Steve gets up to undress. You watch him pull off his shirt and roll over, smushing your face against the pillow. You can hear the sound of Steve’s pants dropping, the clink of his belt and the sound of him shuffling around the room as your eyes slip shut. A gooey heat oozes through your body and your mind drifts. “I’m taking the contract from you tomorrow morning.”

Instantly, you’re grabbed by the hair by what you’re hearing and dragged out of your sleep, hands pushing you up to glare daggers into Steve, who stuffs his bloody dress shirt into the laundry bag.

“What? He’s paying me more!” Your vision dots and you lower yourself back down, your shoulders screaming at you to let yourself pass out. Steve walks back towards the bed and chuckles, pulling the covers away and sliding into the bed beside you as you roll onto your side. You toss the ice pack blindly in the direction of the nightstand as he presses a sneaky kiss against your jaw and you hear it plop onto the ground. A scowl hard on your face, you know he’s grinning at how you struggle to keep your eyes open.

Oh, how you hate him.

“Go to sleep, doll.” His voice whispers against your cheek, and you push him away half-heartedly. The mattress dips underneath his weight as he rebounds back, and his hand runs along your bicep, fingers dancing across your bruised skin. “Never could beat me in hand-to-hand.”

Your scowl softens when he kisses the corner of your mouth. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, you say that,” he whispers back affectionately, before reaching to turn off the lights. “Get some sleep.” His hand runs up your arm and shoulder, and you smile when his thumb runs over your lips. The smell of whisky and sweat swarms your senses as you toss an arm blindly for him, landing over his waist. Tugging him close with all you can, you scoot into his chest. “Ow. Ow.”

“You deserve that,” you murmur and his laugh rumbles deep in his chest beside the drum of his heart. An inexplicable smile pulls at your mouth and you just want to sleep in his arms tonight. “That contract is mine.”

“Nope.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Go to sleep.” He presses a kiss to your hairline and you fit yourself against him, a comma to his body that lays snug beneath his chin. “And if you wake up before me, and manage to get yourself a head start, well, that’s a miracle.” His lips move in the words of things you can’t bear to hear and you find yourself kissing his jaw just once. “You’d tell me if you were in trouble, right?” he asks softly and you look at him, eyebrow quirked and eyelids heavier than elephants. You want to sleep so badly.

“Of course.” You want to say duh but you’re too tired to be too snarky, so you settle on, “If I needed your help, which is never.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And you can tell me if you’re in trouble, too,” you promise, kissing his chin. He smiles, fingers carding through your hair and you melt in his arms. “Promise me you’ll call me if you’re going to die.”

“I promise,” he says and it sounds an awful lot like another phrase that makes things too real.

“Goodnight,” you say, voice muffled, tired, full of things you don’t want to say.

“Goodnight,” he replies, because it’s easier to pretend than face the truth of the words that bubbles at his lips.

ii. she was almost good for him

“Hey, hold still.”

“It hurts.”

You pull back, holding the cloth in one hand and the alcohol another with an arched eyebrow and slight quirk of your lip. “You just broke into Stane’s flat, took out thirteen or so henchmen, and you’re complaining about a little cut?” Stepping close again, you kiss his head before running the rag through the blood dripping from the skin on his shoulder that had broken open.

“That doesn’t stop me from feeling things, doll. And I’m feelin’ so many things.” He nudges you with his head, and you set down the bottle of alcohol, wiping away the rest of the blood. Opening a non-adhesive bandage, you run your hands over his shoulder to smooth it out over the cut. “Thank you.” You press your palm into the side of his head and he leans against your stomach as you try to hide your smile. Your fingers play with strands of hair that brush against your fingertips like soft fur, and you wonder when he’s going to grab the strength to get out of here.

“I’m sorry I shot you,” you say, and his arm comes around you, hand against the small of your back. With a gentle nudge, you’re pushed into his space and he looks up with you with blue mist for eyes. You nearly laugh at how out of it he is, but you assume taking a few punches after the thorough beat down you had served him would make him a bit drowsy.

“Not your fault.”

“Well—” You shrug and Steve sends you an insulted pout. Your mischievous smile grows as you cup his face, fingers playing with the hair that falls into his eyes like golden sunbeams. In the gross light of the dock warehouse, he looks half a god— “kinda was.” “You shot me on purpose?” He sounds scandalized, almost shocked, and you almost laugh. You swing a leg across his lap and set your hands on his bruised shoulders. Your ribs still ache but it’s nothing compared to the squirming in your stomach.

“You were in the way of my shot, Rogers,” you quip, sinking onto his thighs. You settle yourself comfortably onto him and make sure he’s focused solely on you and your mouth. His eyes hazy, Steve barely mumbles a coherent word as you lean forward and press a soft kiss against his lips. His eyes close and your hand trails down his back, fiddling with the handcuffs he has hooked on his waistband.

“Didn’t have to be if you stayed home, doll,” he breathes and you press every inch of yourself against his battered body, breaking away from his seeking lips for just a moment. The heat of his body seeps into your sore muscles and half of your muddled brain wants to stay here for a moment or two, just to scratch an itch that bangs against your stomach. “And here I thought I’d get a reward for bagging Stane.”

But money is money, and like hell you’re going to let him steal your contract from you.

“Stane was my contract, baby.” With a short, succinct click, you cuff Steve to the legs of the chair and stand. Steve’s eyes open, startling clear lakes set in a porcelain face, and you grab his chin, smirking. “I don’t think I need to remind you who took the final shot.” He jerks out of your grasp, and you can’t help the satisfaction that sits underneath your lungs, tucked neatly between your bruised ribs. It pulls your lips into an insatiable smile as Steve lunges forward and to his complete surprise, is pulled back.

“You… You…”

“Me, me.” Your smile digs so painfully into your cheeks that you can’t help the laughter invading your voice. “You’ll get out eventually. I know you.”

“You have five minutes.”

“Oh, you’re so kind.” you can hear the gentle drip, drip, drip and a rat scurrying from one shadow to another. You turn around to table where the first-aid kit is cracked open, and zip up your black bag of rifle parts, knowing every piece is accounted for. “See you back at the hotel?”

“Go to hell, doll.”

“See you back at the hotel.” You shove your hands into gloves, pulling the velcro tight around your wrist and wiggling your fingers experimentally. You hoist the black bag onto your shoulder with a drawn out sigh. A warm rush of blood shoots down your fingers when the strap sits down on your shoulder, but you’re so used to the healing that you barely let it stop you. Walking back to Steve, you kiss his bowed head. “G’night, baby.”

“Night,” he mutters. You roll your eyes to yourself, your smile nothing more than the corner of your mouth tugging up as you walk to the exit. You know you’re in for some hot sex the minute he gets back to the room. Your hand digs into your pocket, retrieving a black phone that you turn on with a press of a button. When the screen lights up, you unlock it and send a drafted text to the unknown number you have memorized by heart by now. Behind you, you can hear Steve beginning to struggle against his confines. You don’t even give him a look back. You know exactly what his strategy is.

Brute force. As usual.

You yourself would’ve just dislocated your thumb and slipped out, but you’ve always had more finesse.

The gentle whoosh alerts you to the text being delivered and you glance down at the screen as Delivered shows up underneath your simple text. The gentle sea breeze swirls against your face and you look up, the full, pale moon staring back at you as you break into the night sky. The stars aren’t out tonight, nothing but a dark void staring back at you and you glance around the harbour. No activity, and all the lights are out besides the warehouse you’ve just left.

Perfect.

You toss the phone in your hand up into the night sky and watch as it falls into your hand again. Running your thumb over the button, your smile slowly fades and you look up to the moon. It makes you squint, or maybe it’s the smell of dead fish and bird shit, but it helps you think, and it keeps your head on straight, focusing on things so stable in a world of chaos.

“Getting bored?”

You tear your gaze away from the glowing thing hanging in the shadow above you and fling your phone into the sea, hearing the gentle plop as the waves usher your burner phone into its depths. Turning towards the voice, your legs move on autopilot towards Sam Wilson who smirks at your still-healing split lip and the cut taped together by butterfly strips along your temple.

“Hey, Wilson.”

“Hey. Rumlow wants to meet down by the dock.” You narrow your eyes at the man, who barely looks scathed, and you envy how he can probably move without feeling something protest, even just lightly. “Follow me.”

And so you do. You go to a little fishing shack at the end of the dock where the rank smell of fish intensifies and the puddles in the potholes of the dock reflect clearer than a mirror. Sam nods to the shack, inviting you in and you brush past him, pulling open the door with the most disgusting metal screech that reverberates in your bones.

You take one step in and immediately a gun cocks and presses against the back of your head.

“Sorry, girl, but you gotta drop the bag, too,” Sam says, and you let it slide off your shoulder with a thump, hands rising above your head. You swallow, eyes darting across the room that’s darker than black, and you wonder how many guns point at you from the too-many shadows in this little shack. It reeks of dead fish and melted ice and blood, and you can feel something sink beneath your foot as Sam nudges you forward. “She’s here.”

The lights turn on all at once, and you see Rumlow sitting behind a table, knives wedged in a block by his feet that are kicked up along the blood-stained wood, and you wrinkle your nose at the mold you can see he’s mussed up along the ridges of his combat boots. Hell, he looks good. Better than good, and you know that once upon a time, you’d have done anything for a mysterious suave motherfucker like him.

“Hey.”

“Hey. What’s up?” You can see the silenced pistol he has in his lazy grip, finger tracing the arc of the trigger. It’s aimed right between your eyes and you exhale softly. So it’s going to be that kind of exchange. Metal shifts, clacks against flesh, and you turn to see two others holding ARs aimed at you. One crouched at the door frame leading to another room, the other standing behind him. Turning around, you can spot another right behind Sam who still holds a Beretta to your head, but his face is stone, flat and unreadable. You swallow and turn back around.

“Pierce wanted an update on Stane.”

“If you read my texts, you’d know he’s dead.” You keep your hands high enough that he can still see them but lower them to ease the ache in your muscles. Brock doesn’t seem to mind, but you know it’s because he thinks he knows you and you still know him.

“You know I don’t read your texts.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“You started fucking Rogers behind my back.”

“You gave me chlamydia,”

“Oh, shit, really?” Sam whistles and if looks could kill, you’d all be melted puddles in the ground for Brock to splash in. “That’s rough.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest. Brock raises his head and underneath the gross, pale yellow light, you can see something glint in his eyes. Interest, arrogance, maybe both, but it makes his face light up in a way you’re not comfortable with anymore.

“What do you want, Rumlow?” you ask, words hissing between your teeth and he smiles like a cat who’s just caught the juiciest mouse.

“In a moment,” he begins and he swings his legs off the table, “a contract is going up, and I want you to take it.”

“What?” You frown. Friendliness between hitmen is rarely heard of, and coming from the handsome son of a bitch before you — maybe the world really is ending. You narrow your eyes as he stands, and he walks around the table until the barrel of his gun presses into your stomach. You can smell the gun oil on his fingers, the sweat tracking down his neck, the splat of blood he’s just missed along the cord of his throat. He just completed a contract, and here he is. Pierce’s fucking lapdog. The rasp of his voice strung like a violin between your ears, you try to gauge why he looks so fucking smug. “What happened?”

He smells like smoke and ash, too, like death has come, and when he smiles, you see the dozens he’s killed for the sake of money, the gold around his neck and the billion-dollar condo he lives in.

It’s a nice fucking condo and you’re jealous, but that doesn’t contribute to your suspicion.

“Nick Fury’s dead, and Pierce is more than confident Rogers’ the one who took the shot.” You scoff at his words but Brock’s smile flickers and so does your confidence. “Evidence points to him, dead and center.”

“Ballistics.” Because it can’t be true.

“Soviet slugs, no rifling, no trace.”

“Location.” Because Steve doesn’t use guns.

“His flat.”

“Autopsy?” Because no fucking way Steve killed Nick fucking Fury.

“Lacerated spinal column, cracked sternum, shattered collarbone, perforated liver. Ran off the road and killed once he got to a supposed safe house.” Brock grins. “Not like you to ask questions.”

“Like me to want to know all the facts.” You shove your face into his, noses bumping and he chuckles when three assault rifles line their sights with your head. You press your lips together and search his soulless eyes. You can see yourself staring back, and you pull back like you were burned. The honesty in his eyes is tired, weary, and beneath all his charm, you know Brock’s shocked, too.

“Your boyfriend killed the head of our little society, cherry. Get with the program.”

But then you remember he’s an asshole.

You take a step back, teeth bared as the beginnings of your protest, he’s not my fucking boyfriend, begin to ram against your tongue. Before you can say anything, though, Brock’s knifepoint grin softens and he pulls the muzzle from your stomach. It’s like an invisible weight immediately lifts from your belly and you suck in a breath as he backs off towards the table. Holstering the gun, he hangs his head like he does when he thinks and you count the seconds. His boots scuff against the concrete floor, and you look down to see you did step in something like fish guts.

Great.

“Alright, hold out your hand.”

So, you do, but not without analyzing every fucking muscle fibre of Brock’s body and as he slaps something into your palm, you nearly break his wrist. Your fingers wrap around whatever is and the ARs lower, which lets a little tension leave the tight little room. The thing you have in your hand — a sleek, plastic case that cracks open easily on its hinges — nearly makes you laugh as you run your fingers through the bills within.

“You keep your money in a case? You know a wallet exists, right?” you say to fill the silence as you reach the thousands, and your smile dies at how much Brock’s managed to cram into this stupid little thing. “What’s this for?”

He looks at you as if you don’t know, and you merely stare, silently asking him to just fucking say it. “It can either be a promise for more or a severance.” He leans against the table, crosses his legs at the ankles, and you let the case click shut as your hands fall to the side. Your lungs crushed, your heart crumbles to dust in your hands as you suck in a tight, quiet breath. “You know Pierce doesn’t like loose ends.” Your lips just barely parted, the softest of sighs slips from your mouth and you try to imagine putting a bullet through Steve’s skull.

It nearly frightens you at how easily it comes to you. After all, a job is a job, and money is money, and when your phone dings with the contract reward, you know you won’t be able to resist.

iii. he almost stopped her

You head to the dining room floor of the Tower, nodding to the other hitmen and women you know, your heels clicking along a polished tile floor. You can breathe in the sterile air that’s stained with perfume and cologne and blood all you want, but the fact that you’re not hungry for the first time in forever lets you know that you’re less than okay.

You’d read the email last night. Twelve billion dollars.

The net worth of fucking Tony Stark is Steve Rogers’ bounty.

Shit.

You’re half surprised, but not really. Nothing surprises you in this line of work. Not anymore.

So, when you don’t see him at breakfast, you’re not shocked either. You linger around the entrance, tapping away on your phone to pretend you’re busy, and Sam walks past you as nonchalantly as he can. Looking up, you catch his minute nod and pocket your phone with a bracing breath. You roll back your shoulders and walk in after Sam, not paying attention to the eyes that follow you.

They all got the contract, but you wonder if they were all offered the same price.

Sam walks to one of the tables by the floor to ceiling windows, and the seat you slide into is sun warm as a waiter comes by with two carafes.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee.”

Two steaming mugs are filled before you, and you reach for yours when it’s done. You’ve always taken it black and you remember how Steve used to be completely offended. It nearly makes you smile behind your mug before you remember he checked out midnight without coming up to your room to grab his things.

His favourite suit hangs in your hotel room’s closet. You had made sure the pocket square — his favourite navy blue silk with white stars — had been tucked into the breast pocket should he come back while you were asleep. Disappointment bites at your empty stomach as you look at Sam, eyebrows raising.

“You’ve already got a head start. You know all the places he likes to hide in,” Sam says as he pours creamer and you watch as it stains black to brown, a swirl of white that sinks in a plume. It smells heavenly — it smells like Steve, just a bit. Sweet and bitter, and you press your thighs together as you set your mug down with a rich thud. Your elbows dig into the counter, hands clasped beneath your chin like you’re at church and you’re praying, and Sam smiles slightly.

“Yeah, and? Want me to share what I have with you in a room full of others trying to kill him? It’s twelve fucking billion, Wilson.”

“Not even if I use my smolder and charm you?”

“Not even.”

“Fine.” “Really?” You’re not impressed. “You’re not pissed or anything that I’m not opening up?” You set down your hands and play with the salt shaker, turning it between fingernails painted black. You want to know what Sam really wants. “You’re Steve’s best friend, and you have no problem with putting a bullet through his head, huh?”

“You’re the one he’s fucking.”

“Was fucking.”

“Whatever.”

You set down the salt shaker, tapping it against the wood and Sam eyes it like you could kill him with it. You could, but you won’t. Instead, you ask, “What do you want, Wilson?”

“Told you.”

“I don’t believe you.” You pick off a stray thread on your sleeve and cup your mug, letting the heat sear into your palm. “Because you and your honor. You and Steve are cut from the same cloth and I don’t think you would even let yourself think about putting a gun to his head. So, what do you want?”

“Fine! I had a hint of his whereabouts, but you’re not letting me be secret about it, are you?” Sam growls, and his tone causes the clatter in the dining room that was already soft the moment you entered the room to cease all together. You swallow, lips pressed together as your eyebrows furrow together. “Now, do you want it?”

“Oh, now that you’ve assured my spot on everyone’s hit list, too?” You rake your burning gaze over the eavesdroppers and your lips pull back in a snarl. “Buzz off.”

And so the clatter, the clink of cutlery, the soft conversations, continue.

“So, what’s the hint?”

“Now, I don’t think you deserve it.”

You snort, your eyes still surveying the room. Maximoff is sipping her tea, sunglasses perched on her nose as she pretends to read the newspaper before her in the morning sunlight. “Fine.” Your list of places in your mind, you drain the rest of your coffee and push yourself up, throwing Sam the foulest glare you can muster. “Goodbye, Wilson.”

“See you around,” he mutters and you spare him one last glance before you walk past him. Something is shoved into your palm as you pass him and your fingers wrap around whatever it is, paper crinkling in your fist. You pretend not to notice and continue on your way, past Maximoff and her newspaper, and out the double doors.

Unfolding the paper in your hands, you see it’s some hotel stationary he’s ripped off. Four circles within each other, and a star within the middle.

Steve’s callsign. The Shield.

Turning over the paper, your eyes rake over the numbers, degree signs merely dots of black ink. Digging out your phone, you plug the coordinates into the map and watch the swirling icon load.

The moment it loads, you head to the front desk. The receptionist gives you a smile, and you clear your throat, tucking a hair behind your ear as you ask for a car.

“Of course, ma’am. A valet will pull up shortly.”

It’s five minutes before you get into a sleek, bullet-proof car and another twenty-five before you reach the coordinates.

The building before you is simple, red brick with white windows and a white door, and you almost smile at how old school it is. Clearing your throat, you give a nod to Mr. Hogan who speeds off as you unbutton your coat. With a hand on the pistol holstered at your thigh, you walk up the steps to the door. Now that you’re closer, you can see where the paint chipped and there's scuff marks, long black streaks stark against the white. Your jaw clenches and you raise your hand, knuckles rapping against wood thrice.

“In a minute!” You hear someone call and your hand slips off your pistol as the knob turns. Letting your long coat fall over your pistol, you paste on a smile just as an exhausted man appears behind the flaking-paint door. Plum eyebags hang underneath crystal blue irises and you barely manage to catch the twitch of his lip before you’re being pulled in and slammed against the wall. The door shutting with the force of an earthquake, you can hear it rattle on its hinges as a cold fist wraps around your bicep. Whipping out your pistol before his other hand can pin you back, you press the muzzle into the man’s abdomen and narrow your eyes. Dark hair falls over his face and you can taste the coffee on his breath as his arm clicks into place.

“Barnes.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Wilson gave me coordinates and I followed them.” His iron fist lets go and you hear the mechanics within whir as he runs his flesh hand through his hair. He’s cut it short, and it makes him look much younger than all the years he’s spent working for Pierce.

“Sorry.”

“No problem.” He backs off, and you holster your pistol with a small grin. Covering it up with your coat again, you run a hand over the small ache he’s gripped into your bicep. “How’ve you been, Buck?”

“Let’s go to the kitchen.” He gestures for you to follow, and you let your arms fall to your side, slipping off your heels with a relieved sigh. “And I’ve been good. Thanks.”

“How’s…” You trail off and he doesn’t look at you, already knowing what you mean. You’re lucky to know about whatever Pierce did to Steve Roger’s best friend, but you also know that means you should keep a hand on your gun at all times around him — Bucky’s words.

“Better. No episodes since.”

“I’m glad you made it out, Bucky.” You smile when he turns to glance at you over your shoulder. Sitting at his kitchen island, you lean onto the marble countertop as he pulls out two glasses.

“Anything to drink?”

“Juice is fine.” “Cool.”

He slides a topped up glass of orange juice over to you and fills the other glass for himself. “So, why’d Wilson send you this way?”

“There’s been a contract.”

“Oh?” “On Steve.”

You wince when the glass shatters underneath his metal fingers and the orange juice splashes with sharp splats. Glass pieces scatter over the marble countertop and you raise your glass to your lips delicately. Bucky immediately mutters his apologies and you shrug. You’ve always known Bucky to be careful, too careful around those he cares about.

Except when it comes to Steve Rogers.

“You know something, Buck?” you ask softly as he turns to grab a rag near the sink and twists the handles. The hiss of water landing into the metal sink fills the eery silence as you sip your juice and watch the spilled orange juice drip over the counter. You know Bucky doesn’t want your help. He’ll snap at you for so much as moving to try and clean up his mess.

The muscles underneath his white tank top flex as he wrings out the rag beneath a stream of water. He turns off the stream and flaps the excess water from the white towel, bending over to grab a plastic bag from the cupboard beneath the sink.

“What do you want from him?”

“What anyone still in the Society wants from him,” you reply and you set down your drink on a dry spot of the counter.

“Don’t,” he warns, running the rag through the spilled juice and swiping the shards of glass into the plastic bag. “You know, it’s a bad idea.” You smile indelicately, a sharp smile only for yourself as translucent juice spreads farther over the countertop. He’s only making a bigger mess, and you want nothing more than to tell him that you’ll do it, rip that rag from his hand and tell him to sit.

You don’t.

“You want to know how much?”

“No.” “Twelve billion.”

Bucky’s hand freezes for a moment, and then he continues sweeping. “You need to think with something other than your pockets for once, kid. Fuck.” He ties up the bag and tosses it onto a counter beside the sink before he begins to soak up spilled juice, and you frown at the annoyance that flares between your lungs. “Not everyone’s like you, okay?” You let out a sigh, eyes cast to the windows, to the garden you can see just outside. Plants are winding around those garden sticks, green and leafy, and vegetables sprout, a plethora of red and yellow, and flowers too. Probably Romanoff’s idea, the flowers. “Not everyone’s been allowed to make it out, or get this life. White picket fence, all that other shit.” You’re almost jealous, looking at the pictures of Bucky and Natasha framed like they’re some perfect little family. In one they’ve got a cat, and you wonder if that little creature is lurking around now. “You and Romanoff are fucking lucky.”

“We just had the guts to leave.”

You blink, lips barely parted as you suck in a breath. Shaking your head, your eyes dart to the aloe vera on the window sill and you trace every little spike, every little ridge that catches the white sunlight.

“You know it’s not that easy.”

“Kid, I’m begging you. Don’t go after Steve.” Bucky stops with his cleaning — gives up really — and walks around to hold your wrist. Your eyes flicker up to the vastness of his blue eyes. They are hollow in a way you can’t explain, and the plates of his arm click as cold fingers touch your skin. “You know he won’t hold back.”

“He doesn’t have to know I’m coming,” you whisper and his lips press together, eyebrows knitting together. His eyes squeeze tight and he hangs his head. “Bucky, just tell me where he is.”

Your hand twists to grab his hand, and your fingers run over the edge of each piece of his arm, feeling the hum underneath of the wires, the gears bringing him to life. “He’ll kill you, and he’ll never forgive himself for it.”

“Why?” A bitter smile crosses your face, and you nearly laugh. “He doesn’t love me. And I don’t love him.”

“Kid.”

“Buck, if I don’t do it, they’ll kill me, too.” It had been an unspoken — unneeded — thing, but severance only has one definition.

“Steve would rather die than kill you.”

“I’m sorry I’m not the same.” You swallow the hard knot in your throat and you look to the spill to avoid Bucky’s judgemental gaze. “I’m not good for him.”

“You could be.” His fingers fall away and you close your eyes, blood spilling behind your eyelids. A quivering sigh shudders in your throat and you shake your head, raising your gaze to Bucky’s, which has burned a hole into your cheek, and now washes you in fire.

“I’m not.”

iv. she almost waited

No one claims the bounty.

Bucky left you with nothing but doubt and anger, and one last plead to not go after Steve Rogers.

Like you ever listen to Bucky.

So, you go through your list of places you think Steve would hide and come up with zero, zip, nada. You call Stark to see if he’s seen him. Nope.

Later that night, you receive a text just after slipping off your heels and you lay in bed for hours, his silk pocket square slipping between your fingers like water.

Meet me where the sky touches the sea. Wait for me where the world begins. -SR

You want to smack that dork. Quoting your favourite book series always brings the stupidest smile on your face. Google says the sunrise will be at 6:31 AM, and you let your hands drop from where they’re holding your phone above you. Sitting on your king size bed, you want to just sink into the comforters until they swallow you up, and although you nearly do let your hotel bed swallow you whole, you wake yourself up with a cold shower.

Slipping into a hoodie that hides the bulletproof vest strapped to your chest, you pull on some sweats and grab your gun, stuffing it in your waistband. With your phone and earbuds, you slip into the guise of some early morning runner, throwing your hair back into a ponytail and your new runners.

You jog all the way to Louis Valentino, Jr. Pier, music purring low into your ears as the morning breeze bites at your skin. Licking your lips, you let the thud of your footsteps thunder up your heart and your eyes dart to the Statue of Liberty, to the bench on the pier that gives a perfect view of the copper statue.

It’s where you first met Steve, and you smile, slowing down with a skid of your sneakers against the pavement. Touching the sun-warming wood, you sink onto the bench and watch the water begin to glitter like a hundred sapphires. You sigh, pulling out your phone to check the time.

6:24

So, you’re early. You’ve got time to kill.

The wind plays at your face, strands of hair loose from your ponytail kissing your cheeks and you cross a leg over the other, the gun shifting against your back. Pulling out one earbud, you sweep your gaze around the area. For so early, there’s a surprising amount of people taking early walks or jogs or coffees.

Whatever normal people do.

You watch the sunrise, and you decide it’s much prettier the first time. Sure, the colors are different — orange and yellow dominating the violet, rather than the other way around the very first time — and the seasons have changed (you remember the bitter snow crunching beneath your boots as Steve wiped the blood from your forehead) but it’s still the same sun you saw the day before.

6:35

Now, you let the sun burn into your corneas as you begin to count every minute Steve is late and wonder what he even wants, meeting up.

You inhale a lungful of brisk morning wind, coffee and seawater and pollution mixing in your sinuses. You want to get a coffee, but the closest coffee cart you know is decent is too far for you to stay in Steve’s potential POV and you slouch against the bench, lips twisting into a frown.

“Where are you?” The words, uttered beneath your breath, are carried through the wind and disappear like you never said them, and you start to contemplate your miniscule existence in such a huge universe to pass the time. “Fuck.” Taking out your phone, you open up your messages to the unknown number.

Where are you? Not like you to be late -x

You click your phone off and shove it into your pocket, but keep your fingers wrapped around it. A clawing sensation digs into your lungs, and you clench your jaw, eyes cast to the grey pavement. You tap the toe of your shoe against the ground two times before your phone buzzes in your hand.

You dig out your phone almost too frantically, reading his text on your lockscreen.

Just wait for me. Five minutes. -SR

7:02

It’s been more than five minutes.

It’s the only thought that circles your head, and you shift in your bench, knowing something must’ve gone wrong. The claws in your lungs tear down and your breath rattles in your chest as you glance around, trying to see if Steve is just hiding right under your nose.

He isn’t.

It’s 7:04 before you decide to get up and head back to the hotel. You walk to the intersection, past the line of cars parked along the meters.

It’s also 7:04 when a black car pulls up with a screech of its tires in the wrong direction and the car door swings open, nearly slamming into your kneecaps as a blond head bursts from the sleek black thing.

Steve.

“You’re okay?” The words come out strangled and he looks to you sharply, eyes nothing more than knives held at your throat and you suck in a breath at the distance in his gaze. His eyes are nothing more than dark bruises and your eyebrows knit together as you look up at his baseball cap. It casts a huge shadow over his pale face, and you frown. Was he always so white in the face? “Cap?”

“Disguise.”

“Right.”

So here you stand, your mark before you open and vulnerable. Steve closes the door with a slam, jolting you out of your daze. He looks lost, a bit mussed with blood on the collar of his tee that pokes out from his dark jacket and healing marks around his neck.

“Did Romanoff get to you?” you ask, gesturing around your neck and Steve lets out a breathless laugh, sounding more like a scoff of derision the longer it echoes in your head, and you press your lips together.

“No, I... it’s long story. Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem. I was going, anyway.”

“I’m sorry—”

“It really isn’t a problem, Steve. It’s not fair to kill you like this, so I’m gonna let you go.” You brush past him and his fingers twitch against your wrist like he wants to grab you, but you don’t feel any of his heat follow after you as you set your earbuds in.

You get to the intersection only a few meters away before your phone rings, interrupting your music. Pausing, you fish out your phone and sigh to yourself at the Unknown ID. Shoving your free hand into your pocket, you swipe to answer and look up to the blueing sky as another gust of wind sweeps over your face. Steve’s stare bares heavy on your back and you try to make sure your words come out biting.

“What do you want?”

Instead, they come out tired, and just a bit sad.

“You said to call if I was ever in trouble. To call if I’m going to die.”

“Steve—” You turn around to look at him, and it’s like he stands on the opposite end of the earth, standing there on the sidewalk with his wrongly parked car and his cap and jeans. Your shoulders slump into your chest as your stomach crushes your intestines. You swallow down a knot in your throat— “they’ll kill me too.”

“I didn’t kill Nick Fury.”

“You think I don’t know that?” The sign changes and the white pedestrian light burns in your peripheral vision. You can walk away if you want. If you could. “It’s twelve billion.”

“He’s buying your loyalty.”

“I’m saving my own skin.” His lost eyes imprint themselves into your brain and you want to burn him out of your head. But nothing ever can, ever will, ever could even try to. “I don’t want to kill you, Steve, but I will.”

You hang up and make to cross the road.

Instead, a bullet slams into the asphalt before your toe, and you spring back just as Steve sweeps you into his arms. Reaching around to grab your pistol from your waistband, you wrap yourself around the blond and spot Brock, colleagues, people you know, suddenly swarm you. They’re dressed as you are, like ordinary men and women, that to the screaming onlooker, it must look so strange.

As Steve runs, you manage to pin a man in the head and you duck into Steve’s chest as he reaches his car. He throws you in the back seat, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Where’s your AR?” You shove your hands into the mess that is his car, frowning when nothing comes up beside some jackets and a pair of old socks.

“You think I keep guns lying around?” His voice syncs with the slam of his car door as bullets pelt the metal. You press against the car seat as the glass cracks and you throw his jackets to the floor. Fake IDs spill out of a box underneath the giant pile and you groan when the cards bounce everywhere.

“Uh, yes?” Popping out your head, you take a quick sweep before ducking again. The car revs to life and you let out a short grunt as you tumble onto the floor, onto the AR that slid out from underneath his front passenger seat. You crouch on the carpet floors as he backs up and jolts forward, trying to get out of his shitty parking job. “For fuck’s sake, just drive!”

“I’m trying to limit my destruction of other people’s property!”

“Steve, there are people shooting at us.”

“I got it!” The car purrs to life and you lay on the floor as a box slides out from the driver’s seat. Frowning, you sit up and grab it as the sound of guns firing after you fades to pops in the distance. You lean against the backseat on the floor, pulling the locked box into your lap as Steve sighs. Pulling out your phone, you take off the case to reveal the flat lock picks pressed against your phone.

With the right tools in hand, you set to the task of passing the time by picking the lock. Police cars rush past and you can see their siren lights reflecting in the cracked glass as you push yourself into the seat. The lock clicks as you twist the pick and you grin victoriously when it pops open.

Tossing the padlock aside, you lift the top off, prepared for the blackmail you might have. What’ll it be? you wonder with a smirk Porn magazines, betting stubs, or...

Pictures of you. Polaroid pictures of you laughing or eating, angry and covered in blood, in every way imaginable. Smiling with your new Berettas, snuggled up against him after a long day at work. You always wondered where those Polaroids went. A leatherbound notebook sits at the bottom of the box and you reach for it, pulling off the strap and letting the yellowed pages flip as you breeze through every single emotion Steve has managed to put to paper with his pen. Your heart stops at the tenderness in every stroke, the clear purpose you can see in his vision, and how much time he must’ve put. On stakeouts, when he could’ve been sleeping, when he’s been away.

Oh.

Shit.

“Steve, how long have you had this notebook for?” You look so much younger in some of these pictures that you wonder if it’s just Steve flattering you. Looking up, you try to get Steve’s attention with a half-baked smile. “Steve? Seriously, it’s... it’s crazy. These are life-like.” Still, nothing. You peer around the driver’s seat to catch Steve’s attention and your breath catches in your throat painfully. Steve’s head sways, dips as he fights to stay awake, and you toss the box aside, crawling into the empty front seat. Steve’s eyes are struggling to stay open and you glance at the cracked windshield as his hands slip from the wheel. “Steve!”

“What?” He jolts up and immediately, his face crumpled in pain. His back arches from the seat and you watch as his jacket sticks to the thing with a heart-wrenching squelch. He’s drenched in blood. Drenched in dark, sopping red that drips down his back and stains his fingers and your heart is nothing but ash in your mouth.

“Steve? Did you get shot?” You manage to swerve the car into a back alley and crash into a dumpster, and although the airbags haven’t been inflated, you still feel like you’ve been suckerpunched in the head. Crawling out of the car, you run around to his side and unzip his jacket, pushing him against the wheel. The jacket sinks between your fingers as you rip it off his shoulders, blood leaking like warm honey into the crevices of your skin. Pushing it down his arms, you find the grey of his tee stained by black.

“What the fuck is this?” Shoving the shirt up, your breath steals out of your lungs at the lashes down his back. “Oh, my god.”

“Doll?” His voice rattles inside your skull and you look to him for a moment before wrapping your arms around him. Blood seeps into your hoodie as you pull him out of the driver’s seat, dragging him to the back as quickly as you can and laying him stomach down. Scrambling to the trunk where you know a first aid kit is, you grab the huge thing and haul it to where Steve tries to push himself up. “Doll! Come back…”

“I’m here, Steve. Oh, god, what the hell?” You crack open the case, resting it on the floor as you crawl in. Snapping on a pair of gloves, you grab the scissors and snip his shirt off, staring at the angry, bleeding claw marks that have ripped him open. You press your lips together to prevent yourself from gasping at every hitch of his breath. “Where were you?” You tear open disinfectant packs, your medical training already running through your head as you gently press the wipe to his huge gashes. He shudders beneath your touch.

“Would it be crazy if I said Jersey?”

“Yes, you hate it there. What were you even doing?”

“Hiding? Big black thing tried to eat me? Didn’t fucking know those existed?” You scoff at Steve’s words. Delirious, you realize as you wipe away the blood from his back and he lets out a drawn out hiss, and he hid it from me. He hides a lot of things from me.

“Yeah? Yeah, they don’t fucking exist, Steve.” Wiping away his blood, you bite down on your cheek and watch as the blood streaks across what skin he has. It runs like vodka over him, and the smell of distilled alcohol half-reminds you of the first time Steve took you out drinking, the body shots he drank off your body. One of the best nights of your life. You lean down to kiss his sweating neck as he lets out a bare grunt, and silently promise to yourself you’ll take him out drinking when this is all over. “I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay. Just keep going. He said his name was Venom or somethin’,”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Tossing the disinfectant wipes to the floor, you reach for the first aid kit and shake your head, snorting at the mere idea that a big black monster can come and take Steve away from you—

The first aid kit splinters at the force of bullets spraying the red plastic and you grab your pistol from the car floor, your heart reaching your throat. Who the fuck has followed me here? Seriously?

At the end of your sights stands Brock, and you don’t know whether or not to pull the trigger.

“Brock.”

“Hey, girl.”

In his arm is the newly commissioned AR. You don’t need to ask to know that Pierce is field testing with his favourite lapdog.

“So I have a question,” he says like he’s holding nothing more than a cup of coffee. In ways, a gun is your cup of coffee in the morning.

“So do I,” you say warily, a nervous twitch crawling up your arm.

“Ladies first.”

“Why the warning shot?” You know it was him. There is no doubt in your mind that had Brock not been there, you would’ve been shot dead. “You saved my life.”

Brock’s grip on his AR falters despite the fact that a twitch of his finger will send an array of bone-shattering bullets into your body, and you swallow back the bruise blooming in your throat. “Hell, you know I’m sorry for shit I’ve done, girl. Lots of it to you.”

“Chlamydia.”

“Amongst other things,” he agrees with a shrug and then he’s strong again. His grip tightens and you can see his fingers turning white from how hard he holds his shiny new toy. “My turn. Who pulls the trigger first? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t want to.”

You smile in apology — a soft, sad thing — cocking your head. “How long can you buy me?”

“A day? Maybe two if you’re careful.”

You sigh, and your smile shakes as his own smile softens. He looks like a tired man, tired of fighting, and you wonder if he sees the same in you. Battle-worn, exhausted.

“I forgive you, y’know? For giving me chlamydia.” And for so much more. Brock laughs but it comes out quiet and bitter. “And I’m sorry.” You pull the trigger before he even has a chance to respond. A rogue splatter of bullets goes flying and a body drops to the ground with a thud.

You grab the AR, tug it from his limp fingers, and it folds easily underneath gentle pressure as you run back to Steve’s car, shoving his feet in. Slapping gauze and tape hastily onto his back, you slide into the bloody driver’s seat and twist the ignition.

You have a few minutes before hitmen swarm to the sound of the shot and you don’t want to be here when they arrive.

v. he almost lived

You manage to get to the hideout and sneak in some time to wonder how one man has managed to turn your whole life upside down. The bunker you’ve driven to is discreet, near-bomb proof, and stacked with supplies fit for the apocalypse. As you help Steve in and let him flop onto a table, you begin the mundane task of sewing flesh together.

Except this isn’t just some nameless face.

And it isn’t mundane.

“Why the fuck did I ever think meeting up with you was a good idea?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbles, not quite asleep yet not quite awake despite your needle digging into his muscle every few seconds. He’s so hopped up on painkillers that he’s barely lucid already, and as you continue down his back, you can hear his voice fade mid-sentence as he slips away from you. “I’m… I’m sorry…”

“Sorry? That’s all you can say? You were fucking late. I thought something happened to you!”

“Well, something did.”

“I hate you so, so much.” You shake your head to yourself, bending the light so it shines against the patch of skin you’re working on. “Shit.”

“What is it, doll?” He lifts his head but you shush him quietly, telling him to rest on the pillow. “But I can do it!”

“I’m sure you can, Stevie,” you whisper, and your eyes drift to the gun resting next to your scalpels and a pair of forceps. Pulling the thread through, you snip it clean and set down your tools with an exhausted sigh. Wrapping up Steve’s back with bandages, you secure it with a safety pin with little to no trouble before you’re turning off the intense surgical lamps you have in the room. Your gloves get tossed in the trash before you even think of wiping your sweaty brow with the back of your hand.

You haven’t had the time to change out of your hoodie and sweat has gathered uncomfortably in the hollow of your throat and the arch of your back against your vest. Pulling down your shoved up sleeves, you tug the hoodie over your head and drop it over the back of the chair. You grab a spare set of clothes you have that fit Steve and the smell of fresh laundry fills your nose. It smells clean and wonderful and everything that reminds you of the king bed back at the hotel.

You’re exhausted. It hits you all at once when you look at Steve, so hopped up he can only smile loopily at you when murky blue catch the bright white of your vest.

“Doll?”

“Hey, Stevie,” you whisper, helping him sit up. Kissing his lips chastely, you pull the shirt over his head, guiding his arms gently through the holes before pulling down his pants. He pitches forward and his forehead collides with your shoulder, his hair tickling your jaw as you work on pulling off his pants. “You tired?”

“Yeah. I think ‘m gonna nap before I get to work/”

“Work, huh?” You manage to kick off the pant leg stuck to his ankle before crouching down. He immediately begins to fall forward and you shove your arms up against his shoulders as his groan reverberates inside your skeleton. “Stevie, you gotta sit up.”

“‘M tired.”

“I know, baby,” you sigh, the pet name slipping off your tongue so naturally you almost forget that the guy you’ve been hooking up with for at least five years has barely avoided death’s grip. But you do remember, and his hands, limp in his lap, drag over the table as he manages to prop himself up against the metal bed. You pull sweatpants up his legs, and smile as his lips try to press a soft kiss against your throat. “Come on. Up?”

“No. I can sleep right here.”

“There’s a bed over there. Two steps, I promise.” Steve’s hand raises lazily to reach for your face and you offer a small smile. He drags himself off, crumpling in your arms as you haul him into a standing position, fingers yanking the sweatpants over the curve of his legs and settling them comfortably on his waist. “C’mon.” Your arms straining against the pure muscle mass that is Steve Rogers, you urge him in the direction of the fold-out bed. He falls into it as gracelessly as he can and you can’t help the laugh growing in your chest.

You tuck him in, making sure he’s comfortable and his stitches haven’t broken before you move to leave and his hand snags yours as you go towards the shower. You want to rip off the bulletproof vest strapped to your chest, you want to let hot water pellet your brain, you want to sleep for eons, you want to never leave this little safe haven, you want…

“Doll?”

Oh, god, you want Steve.

“Yeah?” you whisper, turning and twisting your hand to grab his wrist. His finger traces tiny circles on the inside of your wrist and you smile, taking the small steps towards his bed as he reaches up to grab more of you.

“It’s just you and me now,” he murmurs and his voice cracks as his fingers tighten around you, enough strength to break bones and yet gentler than anything you’ve ever known. You crouch by his bedside, and his eyes peer up at you from the stark white of your pillows, all at once sober and sad. “Please don’t go.”

You press your lips against his knuckles, hand slipping into his as your fingers interlock. “You roped me into this, babe. I’m not going anywhere.”

You sit by his bedside, on the floor and simply holding his hand until he falls asleep before you remember you have to take care of yourself, too. Your bones groan as you push yourself up and your fingers slip from Steve’s limp ones all too easily. Gently lowering his hand to the mattress, you card the golden hair brushing over his face back and gently kiss the apple of his cheek.

“You and me,” you repeat to yourself, and Steve stirs for a moment, the blankets twisting around him. “Yeah, ‘course it is.”

When you wake up two hours later to change Steve’s bandages and check up on him, you find his bed empty.

There’s a note, a rose with a black ribbon, and a card with his callsign inked in blood, and you don’t know what hurts more: your pride or your heart.

Walking over, you feel a chill brush against your thighs and neck, a shiver running down your spine as you crouch next to the bed, picking up the rose and twisting it carefully between your fingers. The smell of antiseptic and something cool clings to the sheets and you grab a fistful of the blankets, dragging it towards you. Blood dots the white sheets where the bandage had leaked, and you read the card with a clotted chest.

You forced my hand, agent, but do not think that I’m afraid of you when the Winter Soldier stands by my side, ready to comply.

-AP

Hot, gushing waves flood your arms and you rip the card in half, the dried blood flaking onto your skin. The heat rushes to your head and you’re nearly blinded by how much you want to rip something more apart, by how much you want to sink your fingers into something, to pull the trigger on someone. Standing, your heart thumps violently in your head just as a piercing click fills the emptiness of the room and something cold presses against your head.

“Don’t. Move.” It is a voice you don’t recognize, and you catch a flash of blue in face of smoke before it happens. You hear the sound before your skull cracks. Something hard slams into your head and black erupts in your vision, blinding you as you collapse against the concrete ground.

You wake up with dried blood caking your cheeks and a bullet to the stomach.

Wilson’s the one you call, and he cauterizes the wound while you lay on the same table Steve had rested upon hours earlier.

He shows you the picture. Steve’s brains painting the walls of some riverbank by a bridge and the water lapping at his ankles. You don’t believe it.

“Twelve billion already transferred,” he says as he pulls the thread through you. You hiss, glancing away from the phone to stop the burning in your eyes. “They said it was some secret agent. Like the Winter Soldier or something. He’s the one who shot you, too.”

“Oh?” You swear your heart stops beating and it does not start again. You swear it on everything you know that it can’t be Bucky. Bucky with the cat, Bucky who’s been dating Natasha, Bucky with the backyard and pet plants, and—

Shit.

“Yeah. Thought he was a myth, but people are saying he isn’t, and the whole Society is fucked up right now. It’s been a fucking mess.”

“Why?”

“Because Pierce put an APB on you, too, and people are thinking who’s gonna be next.” You nearly drop your phone when Sam tugs a little too hard as he pulls the thread through. “Maximoff isn’t convinced Steve’s dead.”

“This picture’s pretty solid proof,” you murmur, forcing yourself to look at the image. You can barely make out the shape of his lips, the apple of his cheeks. The clothes you’d given him are drenched in his life’s blood, and you feel the same bullet that tore through his skull wreak havoc on your heart. “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Did anyone ID the body?”

“Couldn’t.” Sam ties the thread and you glance down at his patchwork, a black criss-cross across your skin and you want to poke at it, despite the agony ripping through your core. “By the time our coroners got to him, face was already bashed up, but we had—” He clears his throat and you arch an eyebrow, trying to look as unimpressed as possible despite the tears dripping down your cheeks— “people look at the rest of him.”

“Great.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever.” You turn off the phone and hand it back to Sam. “Thanks for coming for me, Wilson.” The man looks exhausted and you let your shirt fall over your covered wound, gently scooting off the table. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“If you weren’t there, Steve would’ve died.”

“He was there because of me.” You limp over to the blood-stained sheets of the fold-out bed, and sink into the mattress. It’s harder than you remember, and colder, too. “And I’m going to make it up to him. No matter what.”

“What are you gonna do? Something stupid, I hope.”

You reach underneath the fold-out bed, to the black metal framework, and pat blindly for the strap. Your fingers brush against the velvet of a rose stained with blood and you ignore it in favor for something else. When your fingers drift over leather, you reach further to pull out pistol with the grace of a swan. The magazine slips into your open hand, and your eyes scan to check if it’s full before sliding it back in with a satisfying click.

“Kill Alexander Pierce. It’ll be a start.”

vi. they almost made it

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