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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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letsperaltiago · 4 years ago

Text

when the morning comes

Summary: The lazy, soft morning after Jake and Amy's first date and "Lets not have sex right away"-kinda night aka. me making up for my craving for more Peraltiago in the ‘New Captain’-episode. Pure fluff and goodness.

Rating: G

Words: 4.8k

Read on AO3 here

It feels like waking up from one of those amazing dreams that make you want to fall back asleep, pursue whatever fairytale world your brain had created for you. Waking up that morning feels peculiar, hits differently than otherwise always early and routinely embossed rises. Rather than her alarm clock pounding into her ears, prompting her to rise and kick off yet another productive day, this morning she wakes up to the bright sun begging for her eyes to open.

This morning is the exact opposite of everything she knows.

One thing that does seem to be the same though is that she has slept on her right side, something she can safely do within the four walls of her own home without being bothered. But this morning this seems to be the reason why she’s been awakened by sunlight rather than her many planned alarms.

Amy squints her eyes open just enough to see the sunlight peeking through poorly drawn window blinds - window blinds that definitely aren’t her flowery curtains and a sun that rises in the east and usually doesn’t affect her through her west-bound bedroom window.

Every sensation is brand new. Especially the subtle presence of warmth before her: a pile of blanket and duvet, which could’ve potentially hidden her from the sun but alas is just too flat to do so. Even though they’re mid-May the air around her feels cool, and what she discovers is an open window seems very unnecessary. It’s chilly enough as it is in this estranged bedroom. Plus, she can very clearly hear every sound Brooklyn has to offer - everything from people yelling and honking cars to dogs barking and children laughing. All at once very life-affirming yet bothersome. She tries to form a reality of these new surroundings that she’s seen before but never like this - not from the bed’s point of view.

A tired, miffed feeling creeps over her and the only solution seems to be shutting her eyes in hopes of hiding, sleeping just a bit longer. But the sun rays are much stronger and stubborn, and half-awake she flips over, fleeing, to her opposite shoulder and a position that hides her from the day breaking outside. For a second she almost slips back asleep, into oblivion where she can forget the sudden, uncomfortable waking up.

It’s not as though the presence of another body’s presence has been consigned to oblivion. Flashes of the night’s event still bubble in the back of her consciousness. The mattress shifts beneath her, the duvet shifts against her bare skin, and arms wrapping themselves around the curve of her waist arouse goosebumps and tiny hairs, thousands of them, all at once. When a surprise, an unfamiliar rush of warmth, collides with her skin and floods her veins, she’s drawn out of her before fleeting consciousness and back into a wide awaken state of alert and attentiveness.

As if on purpose, a quiet sigh, one of content, prompts the arms to tighten just a bit more around her and pull her in closer to the warmth of the body behind her. It’s not clear whether it’s caused by the colliding of the skin or her finally being fully awake, but Amy suddenly remembers the evening and night before in its entirety.

Everything. Bouche Manger, brown eyes lighting up when he first saw her walking towards him, strong hands pulling out her chair for her, awkwardness, Kamikaze-shots, talking and laughing for hours with curious eyes raking over each other, him following her home, her offering him to come up… Then the door being kicked shut behind them as their hands were too busy touching the other and then, lastly, naked bodies colliding in a climax that’s been accumulating for so long - months, maybe even years.

Every single detail seems to come rushing back, every sense, almost as if she’s reliving every touch, word and sound exchanged between the two of them - everything from hisses of pleasure and moans of surrender to sweet sighs and happy giggles.

The duvet that was once a wall between the two vessels, wrapping them in each their own little cocoon, has vanished and Amy quickly, though slightly overwhelmed, feels at home against the skin she’s dreamed of touching for so long. She allows herself to enjoy this, for once not overthinking every aspect of it, and melts into the arms she can feel herself fit into so perfectly that it has her silently regretting they didn’t give in to their stubborn pining sooner. Here… She could definitely get used to sleeping here.

Immediately after finally closing her eyes and chasing another round of sleep in this newfound position, the young detective feels the soft pressure of warm lips against the back of her head. The pressure relocates multiple times, each time lower than the previous, and by the time it reaches her neck Amy is back to being more awake than ever before. Fingers and soft palms, ones that aren’t her own, make their lazy way across her exposed ribs, almost as if they’re trying to count them, and even though she doesn’t mind that kind of touch either, at all, Amy appreciates the fact that said touch stays beneath her chest. A chest that holds a galloping heart.

See, it’s not because Amy feels insecure about last night’s events. She knows her partner. He might be cocky and somewhat annoying, but not that deep down he’s selfless and would never use her, especially not for his own randy benefits. Then again, she’s been with the wrong people before, people who didn’t have the right intentions, and so she needs to remind herself that Jake likes her.

Jake. The name alone is enough to make her smile and knowing that the caresses and pecks are from him only makes it even more impossible to not smile. The soft momentum of strokes across her midsection diminishes to a point where only the very tips of his fingers can be felt tiptoeing across her skin and Amy, even though she hates to admit it, has already grown stupidly addicted to the touch. There’s an urge to chase it, seek it out, which she can’t deny but here, even though Amy Santiago will usually just go for whatever she wants but right here and now under the warm covers with her partner of many years, she feels herself hesitate. Not because she’s unsure of him. On the contrary, after so much back and forth, pining and wrong timing, she couldn’t be happier to be where she is. Right now. In bed. With Jake Peralta. But allowing herself to feel like this, about him, will take some courage and kicking down doors.

She reaches for the hand that’s come to a halt on her stomach, placing hers on his. For a second Amy feels like she’s imagining things when Jake’s hand seems to automatically, prompted by her simple touch, entangle his fingers with hers. How can they respond to each other so naturally, so mean to be, when all they’ve known is dodging each other’s romantic advances? Peacefully, and as though it were something they’d done forever when in reality it’s been a couple of hours at most, his fingers fiddle around with hers. It’s light, it’s easy but it somehow means so much. Amy feels the butterflies in her belly break free, as if letting go and giving in to him equals letting in the faith and happiness she’s been longing for but at the same time also been scared of.

Her emotions are all over the place, back and forth, up and down, although she does have one thing she holds on to. Something clear as day even in the fogginess of new emotions and confusion...

I really like you.

The scene plays over and over in her head, brings a smile into existence and Amy feels like she’s back in the copy room or, even better, the evidence locker. The bare arms around her now do feel a lot softer than Jake’s blue flannel, although nothing will be able to beat the feeling of kissing Jake, running her hands up said flannel, in the dim lights of their precinct’s evidence locker. The most inappropriate yet best thing she’s ever done in a professional setting and if she ever gets the chance to do it again, she will.

She wants this. Him. Them.

When making up her mind, deciding that staying reluctant will get her nowhere and there’s a very good reason as to why they’re here, in bed in the AM, Amy manages to switch back to lying on her other shoulder. It brings her face to face with none less than Jake Peralta himself. Obviously, she already knew it was him the soft hands, strong arms and warm chest belonged to. Although there’s something special about facing him, seeing him like this for the first time with tussled hair and skin glowing in the early morning gleam, resting in such a peaceful state, that takes her breath away all over again. Not for long but just for the tiny period of time it takes to fully wrap her usually very sharp, cut to the chase mind around his presence. She persuades herself of the fact that she’s where she’s supposed to be, tries her best, kicks down her barricades, and succumbs to the ever-growing urge to cuddle into his chest. Hopefully to be held just a bit tighter, and tell him just how much she likes him by painting his neck with kisses.

So she does it.

Surrounded by the coziness of their shared duvet, a warmth that somehow still isn’t enough when the window is open, Amy scoots in as close as physically possible. Her arms are pressed to her chest, sandwiched between their chests, but luckily not to a point where she can’t have her hands explore and caress the delicate skin of her partner’s collarbone and chest. Partner - feels weird to call him that now that they’re here.

On his left shoulder is a beauty mark, prominent but not enough for her to have noticed before - then again, before last night, what would’ve been the occasion for her to see it? Said discovery immediately sparks a stronger connection to the young detective before her. She pecks the mark, an act of affection and familiarizing herself with his body, something they’ll get to do now, and the fluttering eyelids she receives in return are enough to keep her going. With a few seconds in-between, enough time to take in the feeling and taste of his skin, musky, a bit salty from last night, she switches between pecks with lips and strokes with her nose. Just about anything that will keep them in touch. At some point, after having showered him with affection for some time, it provokes a muffled grunt, a clearing of his throat, and even though it has no literal meaning Amy feels as if he’s been the first to break the silence. His eyes are still closed though and she doesn’t want to risk waking him up so she waits; she waits even though all she wants to do is talk to him, look into his eyes, make him smile. Everything. Him, him, him.

“Why’d’ya stop?” He mumbles, voice laced with fatigue and hoarseness to it, not quite comparable to anything she’s experienced before and it’s… nice. This raspy voice is not just another simple detail, a sound he murmurs into the top of her head, sending vibration throughout her entire vessel. No, to Amy, it’s the fact that that he’s been asleep for hours, next to her; he’s just woken up and she just so happens to be the lucky one who gets to be a part of his first moments of rising from his sleep - something oddly intimate and heartwarming.

“Didn’t wanna wake you up, ” she whispers as if he was still asleep, maybe, in a twisted, self-contradictory way, wishing he was so that she could live on in the hazy, daydream-like bubble of a reality that had seemed to surround them when he was still asleep and she didn’t have to worry about being weird, too much, too little, or whatever. Can’t they just in bed like this - limbs all tangled up, lips melting onto each other’s skin at random intervals - and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist? A stupid world where Holt is gone, Captain Dozermann is watching them like a hawk, and everyone they know wants to meddle.

“Don’t mind waking up…” He huffs, lazy as ever, before dragging his lips from her hairline down to peck her lips in a way that’s so careful and soft that has Amy surrender on the spot. The attentive touch of his lips is imitated by his fingers which initiate a delicate tracing of small nonsense patterns on her bare back that somewhat makes up for the loss of his lips seconds later “... when you’re here.”

Amy is at a loss for words. Obviously, hidden behind competitive and childish behavior, she knows her partner is the most genuine kind of person with a heart of gold and good intentions. Although, experiencing this whole other side of him - toned down, calm, affectionate, romantic even - has Amy questioning all past decisions she’s ever made. How come he hasn’t been one of them sooner? How come she’s kept this, the subject of them, off-limits for so long when right now it feels like everything she could ever ask for?

A breeze travels in through the window, automatically resummoning her goosebumps and a small shiver, but Jake is quick to catch on, there’s a problem he needs to fix, so he pulls her in even closer in hopes of keeping her warm and shielded. “Hey, you feeling okay?”

Her silence, lack of words, perhaps, must’ve worried him and even though her silence is nothing but a good sign, meaning that she feels at home with him, appreciates, she realizes that she can’t allow that his worry lasts. She’s happy, more than, to be here with him and he needs to hear that.

“Yeah, I’m… good.”

After tilting her head back just enough for him to be able to see her face she draws her lips into a smile, tired but of the most genuine and charming kind, and allows her frigid-feeling fingers to palpate his chest. Now it’s his turn to feel goosebumps diffuse across his skin, not quite sure if it’s her cold fingers’ work or simply the fact that Amy Santiago is blessing him with chaste touches of affection that he’s been dreaming about for so long. He wonders if the pattern of her strokes is meant to follow the rhythm of her soft breathing or if he’s just imagining things. Analyzing how her hands dance back and forth across him to the lulling sway of her lungs.

“Is this okay?” He asks again and Amy never thought she’d get to see Jake Peralta careful and lowkey vulnerable like this.

He’s well aware of the fact that it perhaps is a bit late to ask so, after many hours of kisses and touching, but better late than never, especially if it concerns her comfort. Even though he’ll, of course, accept her retraction, with no hesitation, he hopes this won’t be the last time she’ll be the first thing he sees when he wakes up.

“Yeah. I thought the kissing and touching would communicate that?” she says with just enough confidence in her whisper and glint in her eyes to persuade him.

“Of course, I just-” he halts, the sounds and words in his throat somehow not making sense, even before they’re out of his mouth. How does he know? He just does… That’s how it works, in his brain, when she’s looking at him like the whole world revolves around him. Though, at least to him, the truth is that it revolves around her. “I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t regret anything?”

She curls her eyebrows into a confused frown, nose wrinkling along, instantly making Jake feel bad. Did he say something wrong?

“I mean, do you regret anything?” The confusion on her face quickly melts away, transitioning into a new nervous character that lets Jake know that the only reason why she’s been so silent and careful all morning is probably that she’s just as nervous as he is. No need to make her feel like she should regret anything when he certainly isn’t.

“No, Ames, no!” He hopes the sentimental squeeze from his hand on her back can pull her confidence back in from the sea of doubt flooding her mind. “I- I’m just rambling because you’re here, with me, and I can’t believe it because it’s so... good.”

With minimal stuttering he makes it through the closest thing he can come to a grand emotional confession, one that won’t chase her away this early on, and watching her expression loosen up, lips lightly parted in surprise, he prays to God he hasn’t overstepped.

Open window, crisp air, and the stubborn sun are immediately forgotten, replaced by the warmth Jake’s confession contained. He likes her and she him, the last puzzle piece falling into place, and in there is no, not here or in any other parallel universe, a good reason to hold back anymore. A new wave of emotions, clear and virtuous, comes crashing over her, pushing her to an extent where she can’t help herself. Just like the wave of emotions washing over her, she pushes, knocks him onto his back, and washes over him with her body, duvets and sheets quickly becoming disarranged around them. God knows they’ve kissed already. Both a couple of first kisses during their undercover mission and during the long night of discovering this new side of each other, but right then when she kisses him, not just a peck this time, there’s no more worry, no more hesitation nor overanalyzing.

She’s got herself hovered over his chest, hands tangled in his messy curls and starving lips working overtime to let him know that she loves being here and if he’ll have her then she’ll gladly stay. Even through the motion of being pushed over by her he never lets go of her, hands firm on her lower back and holding her as close to him as physics will allow. The kiss deepens, small smiles and whimpers of simple and sincere joy are exchanged between their lips’ rhythmic reunions, and, fully neglecting prior hesitation, Amy ascends, almost drags herself onto his body. She’s got him straddled but this time the agenda isn’t sexual. Sure, their sex was mindblowing but right now all she wants to do is pepper him with kisses that tell the story of how she’s missed him even though he’s never been hers to miss - at least not until now.

Jake probably has a similar calling, an urge to show her how much he cares about this emotional fusion, this brand new intertwining of their lives that’ll create a story they’ve yet to fully experience because he pays her back by pushing back - back to lying on her back.

Even though Amy’s eager to pick up where they left off, hands still in his hair and on his neck, Jake halts in his now hovered position which leaves him as the only thing within her point of view.

“I really like you, Amy.” The words are undoubtedly earnest, even laced with the heavy breathing caused by the kisses, and Amy could happy cry if her eyes weren’t too busy taking in the sight above her. Little did she know that she herself - dark messy hair tousled all around her head on the pillow, pink plump lips agape in awe and deep, sweet chocolate eyes - was the world’s eighth wonder, lying right there between his arms.

“And I know I’m, like, kinda a mess,” he chuckles nervously, his secretly fragile heart on his sleeve because Amy Santiago will do that to a poor guy like him. “But I swear I-I’m not here to mess things up or, like, dumb stuff like that.”

“I know, Jake.” There’s comfort for him to find in her eyes. He can tell she believes him which is more important than anything else. Her smile gives him the confidence he needs to go on, and the sudden calm that comes washing up on the shore of their little, intimate metaphorical island comes as a strong contrast to their little makeout session just seconds ago. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Cool…” He trails off, drowning in her presence and as if she wasn’t perfect enough already, she picks up where he’s left off.

“... cool cool cool.” It’s exactly what he needed to hear - it’s simple, silly but so them. Her grin is wide and proud as she says it, she knows he’ll love it, and if it means she can earn a smile then she’ll gladly do it.

“Wow, you learn so fast.”

“Oh, I’ve been caught up for longer than you think, Peralta.”

Their grins meet but Jake is weak, has to give in, and bend his arms just enough to kiss her, brushing off that perfect grin of hers with a peck before returning to his hovering position.

“Is that so?” He cocks an eyebrow. If he let her off the hook, passed up the opportunity to challenge his always know-all partner - even post-boinking - they wouldn’t be Jake and Amy, Peralta and Santiago,

The way the dynamic has changed, so effortlessly, from being caught up in a whirlwind of new emotions and confession to their stupid banter has them both persuaded: this feels right. They almost, the key-word being almost, drown in this first page of their new chapter when suddenly reality does catch up to them - or her, at least.

“Shoot, what time is it?” She exclaims ducking out of this box he’s created around her with his arms and torso, knocking him over in the process, before reaching for her phone which she believes (last night is still a bit blurry) is in her handbag on the floor.

“Uhm- I don’t know? Too early? Santiago-stylez.” He’s already back to cuddling the duvet, hiding his face in the pillow, and ignoring the very sudden frantic inclination their moment has taken. Just like how their dynamic hasn’t changed, Amy hasn’t changed either and it would be a lie if Jake said this sudden outburst of hers worried him. After so many years of being colleagues, then friends, he’s seen worse and knows when he can intervene with a joke and when he has to intervene with genuine emotional support - this moment seems to be the former.

Meanwhile, on a mission to see what time it is and how horribly late and busted they will be, Amy has got herself leaned over the edge of the bed to grab her handbag. Her hand has just made it into her bag, hand wrapped around her phone when two, by now pretty well-acquainted, arms wrap themselves around her waist and pull her back into the oh so welcoming comfort of Jake’s bed and embrace.“Ooh- Jake!”

“Stay here,” he whines playfully, attacking her neck and shoulders with short pecks that, if they were perceptible on her skin, paint her skin like a starry sky, and he recognizes her scent as being his new favorite: a pleasant mix of her perfume and his own cologne. Even though the way he’s acting reminds her of the comportment of a silly kid, Amy, after recovering from the small shock, has to laugh. She can’t be mad at him, not when all she feels like doing, in all honesty, is to stay in bed all day. In bed where she can kiss and touch him, perhaps repeat the night’s racy activities, without interruption or worries from the outside world.

“We can’t.”

Oh, how she wants to. Especially when she wiggles around in his arms to face his goofy grin and messy hair, feeling like there is nowhere else in the world that’s more important to attend - even work. She’s home.

“We have work.”

From the way a disappointed pout upon realization replaces his before carefree grin, two expressions as different as night and day, Amy can tell he’d already happily given in to their new rose colored reality: a place where time and duties aren’t genuine in existence. A place where there were no eight to four shifts. Four to eight shifts under the command of Captain Dozermann and his awful Dozerpads.

“I have an idea…”

“Uhuh?” she cocks an eyebrow prompting him to go on.

“Okay, so, we quit our jobs-”

“Jake…”

For every word he adds to his farfetched story of a plan he keeps peppering her face, everywhere but her lips - to her dismay - but once again she can’t help but laugh with him. After all, it is what he does the best: he makes her laugh.

“-forget the precinct, no, the entire world, exists-”

“Jake…”

“-and instead we just stay here, all day, all night, forever, and hang out, make out, instead.”

“Jake,” she shuts him up, her index finger firmly placed against his finally hushed lips, and Jake can’t tell if it’s the cutest or hottest thing she’s ever blessed him with - probably both. On her part, Amy is wondering if she’s ever seen anything more adorable than the surprise on his face, bright, childish, and playful eyes when he is shut up and waits for her to talk.

“We have to go, Jake.”

He seizes the situation and pecks her commanding index finger which very quickly drops, slides down his lips before she lets the entire hand fall to his chest.

“But I wanna stay here and… kiss.” The whining tone is back though this time much less dramatic and, more than anything else, pleading. “We never just stay in and kiss.”

She rolls her eyes, still smiling, and it might just be his favorite combination.

“Kissing has never been an option before, dummy.” For good measures, and a million other things and reasons she can’t begin to list because she’ll never finish, she grabs his chin in-between her thumb and the same index finger that moments ago silenced him, pulling his face down for a long, delicate kiss that has his toes curl and fingers dig into the curve of her waist. One, two, three, four, five… he loses track of how long the kiss lasts, rather focusing on running his hands up and down the arch of her back as if it were the last time he ever gets to when in reality, a reality he still needs to learn to fully believe, it’s not. It’s far from the last time. A tiny bump on her lower back, a beauty mark, lets its presence be known under the stroke of his palm, and Jake, already devoted to getting to know every inch of her, makes a mental note of it, promising himself he will come back to kiss it whenever the occasion arises.

“What a mistake that is…” he whispers once she’s pulled back, not farther than the tips of their noses still touching as a constant touch of affection.

“A mistake we can make up for...” Her lips, grinning, peck the tip of his nose. They’re on the verge of falling back in, drowning in their craving for something they’ve been missing for so long and now finally have, like a kid getting something from their wishlist, when Amy decides, for the both of them, that she has to be the bigger person and get them out of bed. “... after work. Okay?”

“Okay…” he nods and it’s impossible not to grin like an idiot.

Eventually, after a few more pecks and loving touches that just can’t be fought off, they get out of bed. As new and unusual as it seems when she slips on a flannel of his that hung on a nearby chair, it very simply also seems equally amazing, incredible, and normal. Even when she catches him gazing at her with admiring eyes, causing blush rises to the apples of her cheeks before she tries to justify her actions with an “I’ll just take it home with me and wash it for you. Then you can have it back when I come over again.”

But she doesn’t have to justify a thing. She can wear any flannel of his she desires, give it back to him whenever or if she pleases, clean or dirty. He doesn’t care. All he cares about is the fact that there will be an again. He’s been promised more - later, tomorrow, next week, after work, before work, again and again, all the time, the next morning - with Amy Santiago.

#peraltiago #Jake and Amy #jake x amy #jake peralta #amy santiago #santiago #peralta #peraltiago fanfic #peraltiago fanfiction #oneshot #new captain #brooklyn nine-nine #Brooklyn nine nine #b99 #Brooklyn 99 #jake amy #jamy #fluff #season 3

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piraticalarchive · 4 years ago

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okay so for everyone who hates big corporations and management who takes advantage of their employees.. this one’s for you. it’s long but .... i find it completely hilarious.

so a brief recap: amy got fired back in march from a huge international retailer, yes? when things first started like they were going south, i worked on really re establishing a relationship with my brother who is like one level below C-suite (cfo, ceo, etc etc) of that same company because i had an idea in mind. March rolls around, amy gets fired .. and I’m like .. okay. time to put this in motion. but stress and depression obviously took the motivation away from me, but i continued to keep that line of communication up with my brother. we started talking weekly, sometimes twice a week via an actual call. well, i’m finally feeling better .. so this week i finally put my plan in motion. here’s how it went

stage 1: i sent a text to my brother asking if i applied to the store in my area if i could use him as a reference. he said, of course but every store is hiring so i’d look at any store besides that one. (which is already fucking hilarious but i digress) ... so i call the store and one of the managers who sat in on amy’s firing answers when i ask to speak to someone involved in hiring (oh lucky day). I start off with “hi! I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve been looking for a job thats a bit of a change of scenery and my brother is the *insert position name* and works in *insert headquarters location* and he recommended i give the company a try despite that I had a less than stellar experience last time”. And this manager FALLS OVER telling me they are hiring for so many positions blah blah blah and then at the end when i’m like “thanks for the information! I’m definitely going to apply!” she’s like “of course! I’ll give our hiring manager your information so she can pull it immediately. Whats your name?” and i give my name and suddenly its just dead fucking silent... because they know who I am and they know that I’m in a relationship with amy and that i know what they did. But she recovers and is like ‘can’t wait to see your application!’ .. so.. okay. stage 1 was a success. but then, enter...

unexpected event: the store manager himself calls me. Starts off with some small talk, finally gets around to saying ‘so I hear you’d like to come back and work for us? I was looking at your previous application and I didn’t see any mention of the relation you talked about when you called”. And I’m like “oh, yeah... I don’t like using stuff like that because I’d prefer to get in on my own merit and skills and not by a family member’s position. Plus its like that show undercover boss, you know? I get to see what the place is like before they know. BUT given with what happened to amy, I was unsure if I’d even be considered without a reference like that” and he laughs nervously and is like “i totally get it. So did anyone know that you had a brother in that position?” and I’m like “oh i mentioned it once in passing to [amy’s manger] but I just said my brother was in corporate and there are a lot of levels so i think he just left it at that” and the store manager is like ‘haha yeah different levels but thats like ... its own level...” and we talk a little bit and he’s like “what made you want to come back?” and I’m like “like i mentioned before, the amy thing really threw me off. I was angry and the good thing about siblings is you don’t have to sugarcoat stuff. So I went to my brother and was like this is how you treat people?? are you kidding?? what about job security?? and i sent him the picture amy had snapped of her discharge papers where it listed the reason and he told me that, and everything else I yelled at him about, wasn’t the company’s way and that the store had seriously violated something. So for one, I now know that isn’t actually something that should have happened and two, i inadvertently brought this store to corporate’s attention and there are a lot of good people who work here, and they don’t deserve the consequences of that, so I want to help make it right” and he’s fucking sweating yall, I can hear it over the phone. and he’s like “fill out your application and put whatever you want down and we’ll call you and talk about positions and we can find a way to give you what you want” and I’m like “oh, don’t tell me that nick because your chair is looking awfully good right now” and he did a nervous laugh. SO, unexpected event made my plan even better. Then we get to:

Stage 2: I apply. I check literally every management position, including the one they fired amy from and also some hourly positions and put down ridiculous hours. I pass the manager test with flying colors and when it asks why i said i want to be a team trainer i wrote down ‘thanks to knowing the home office, i know how things should work and I want to help this store raise its position in the district and I know what policies aren’t being followed to help make that raise smoother.” I submitted the application, called the first manager I had spoken to and told her I had done so and she was like “I’m sure we’ll give you a call tomorrow!” ‘Tomorrow’ came and by 7 that night, they hadn’t contacted me. So I went to the ‘we’re hiring’ image they had posted on their facebook page like an hour previously and tagged my brother and was like ‘dude this is one of the positions at my store i was telling you about. think i could pull it off?” AND BAM ! they sent me a request for a phone interview at 8am the next morning. I scheduled my interview for later that afternoon at 2:45 and we enter Stage 3.

Stage 3: Amy and I go to the store to pick up a few things. It’s suddenly fucking spotless. There are no gaps in the shelves, the floor has been cleaned since the last time we were there (monday night and i called them tuesday and it is now white and shiny as hell) and they have the lights turned up all the way so you can actually see. EVERY FUCKING AISLE is perfect. Cat food? perfect. Funko pops? stacked and lined up perfectly. Video games? Filled. Clearance aisle? Perfect order. Like its super obvious they did a mad dash and tried to get the store in shape. So amy and I walk down every single aisle and point things out and kind of put our heads together and talk and I take out my phone and act like i’m texting etc .. basically we’re just fucking with people’s heads because the managers are nearby and they can see what we’re doing.

Stage 4: So later we’re home and 2:45 comes and goes with NO word. No phone call, no email, no hey can we reschedule. they FORGOT about the interview. I’m dying because they’re making it even better and even easier to fuck with them. So I text my brother (who KNOWS my mental health has been in the trash) and I’m like “I filled out an application just to see and they set up an interview and blew me off. You were right .. not a great help when it comes to the blues” and he was like “yep...i’d look at literally any other store” and talked to me a bit more about it. He was irritated that they’d do that and kept saying they were on thin ice. Finally at 5 they text me and they’re like “hey, this is the [insert store] and we’re sorry we missed your interview. I wanna apologize. Can we reschedule?” And I wait like an hour and a half (i was napping, i’ll admit it) but I respond with “I apologize for the late response, I had a prior commitment I had to take care of. Unfortunately, I reached out to someone [they know who it is. they know] in the off chance I had misunderstood the process since I hadn’t heard from you guys and I was encouraged to pursue opportunities at other branches in the area. Thank you for the original consideration and I hope you have a great day!” and they waited until 11am the next day to reply back which I’m assuming is because they were waiting for the higher up management to return to the store.

Come to find out the managers are still basically pissing themselves and freaking out because not only did they a) fire someone against company policy and now know the people at the top know and b) drop the ball and forget to interview a family member of said people at the top ... I got to add salt in the wound one more time by mentioning that my brother dropped in a lot (he doesn’t) and that I’d love to show off the store since it’s such a huge part of the community and it was looking better than I’d ever seen it look. And that it would be nice because he’d get the real experience since it wasn’t a formal, announced visit .... but, of course, that he’s salary .. so the policy is that he’s always ‘at work’ and obligated to take note of things.

so basically, i feel justified. Six and a half months of careful planning and maneuvering was totally justified. 10/10, I’d do it again. Let this be a lesson that patience in planning vengeance is completely worth having and I hope I helped make the store better for employees who aren’t management by putting the fear of god into them with the idea that my brother or anyone else from his office can just drop the fuck in whenever they want with a totally casual visit that could still fuck the management over completely. This is a good week, mates .. a very good week. Am I petty? yes. Do i hate their guts and feel like it was an entertainment that was totally worth it given what they did to the love of my life? also yes.

#also if they checked - i'm facebook friends with their international corporate lawyer. my brother obviously and the cfo who i didn't realize #at first was him bc he goes by a different name via facebook. like last name is the same but i think he uses his middle name as his first #i love it. i love it so much.#i planning on doing more stuff but i gotta take a breather and plan it carefully but #god i am L IVING #fuck that place #we laugh because i'm known here for messing with companies that fuck with people #and i did my best one like 3 years ago but amy was just like 'this is 10 miles beyond that'#long post //#i'm sorry for this but i just want to let everyone know the major reason for my incredible mood this week

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shesawriter39049 · 5 years ago

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|7 DEEP| M| MASTERLIST|

SMUT/ANGST/FLUFF/POLY AU

AU SUMMARY- Your husband Namjoon and yourself run a successful Adult Film Entertainment Company called “Onyx” with your 5 best friends from college who you also happen to be in an open relationship with! This is a candid in-depth look at the rollercoaster ride that is your life!

ALSO LOWKEY A RAGS TO RICHES STORY.....

Namjoon, Yoongi, Jin, Tae, Hoseok, and Jimin, all already work with the OC and Joon, Kookie comes in later one as a new hire...and the possible final piece…

DISCLAIMER: Obv this is a poly so the boys are Bi..but outside of kissing and dirty talk I have not YET ventured into physical MXM….

NOTE- As long as this keeps getting support the initial plan is 7 one-shots, one for each boys. Everyone installment will have smut as well as a overall storyline, one that not only ties into your job, but also the OC’s (AKA YOU) special dynamic with each individual member. The last one-shot (7th) will be the first and maybe only one where smut wise it’s all 7 of them, it will finally address how they all came together, and will be partially a flashback sequence. HOWEVER, there will be bits and pieces of the “Characters” lives and what not sprinkled within the “drabbles” too...so those will also be worth reading especially, as the story developes....or at least reading the summaries!

Kookie will make appearances throughout, however, he is NOT as involved off rip as the other boys…

ONE-SHOTS SO FAR :

AFTER-HOURS- NAMJOON X OC (Tae comes in at the end) -

ABOUT- Your husband and business partner find you up way past acceptable work hours for the 3rd night in a row! So, daddy has to step in and remind you that’s not something we do in this household. You come before work, in every sense of the phrase!

OR-You're in desperate need of a 2nd videographer/editor, because Yoongi’s in over his fucking head! So here you are, up at 1 AM scrolling through resumes because your that boss that hates to overwork her employees so she overworks herself!

AKA- “MEET THE KIMS”

PRETTY PLEASE- TAEHYUNG X OC - ( Joon comes in at the end)

About- Tae fucks you on top of your receptionist's desk before you fire her…

Or- Tae’s feeling a little needy...and somewhat high-key self continuous about you possibly hiring a new production assistant...AKA...Jungkook. It seems as though Mr. Kim takes pride in being the youngest within the office! It seems as though your baby boy just needs a little..reassurance…

JIN & CHOCOLATE- JIN X OC (FT A lil Seok at the end ) -

(5K SMUT WITH A SIDE OF PLOT! NOT JIN’S INTRO CHAPTER)

About-You suck Jin off…and brownie batter may or may not be somewhat involved because why the fuck not. Oh, Hoseok comes over to drop off weed…and welll….doesn't exactly leave

Or- His assistants birthday is tomorrow and she’s insisted on him making his infamous “Dizzy Brownies” AKA…pot brownies and Jin being the perfectionist he is, scrapes the first batch. You however, think they’re fine and if he’s not gonna bake with said batter you’ll find use for some of it…..Then Hosoek stops by to bring the missing ingredient…weed and his dick…

TOUCH ME , TEASE ME- NAMJOON X OC

(5K, IN COLORATION TO THE EVENTS THAT WILL TAKE PLACE IN “GOT ME LOOSIN’ ALL MY COOL)

About- Namjoon eats you out the minute you walk in the door because well…that’s the kinda husband he is!

Or- Jimin text’s Namjoon to brace him for the mood you’ll more than likely be in after a day full of drama and finally firing the front desk receptionist! Which essentially red for him to make you come hard AF and then feed you….OH, and You guys invite Yoongi over to talk about the Tae and Kookie “Thing”

PRIVATE SHOW- TAE X OC (NEW)

(5k, Holiday esque one-shot however for the 1st time it does dive into the downside of being in a poly relationship that’s essentially a secret in the publics eye)

About-Just a casual lunch outing where Tae’s trying to do his job and your trying to get him off under the table with your shoe...nothing new!

OR- Tae and yourself are grabbing lunch at 71 Above, after checking out the last couple of venues for the company's end of the year Holiday party. While at said restaurant, it becomes a humbling reminder that the most important people in your life are essentially a secret...cute!

UP AND COMING: In no particular order!

MUTED- YOONGI X OC (SIDE JIN)- HIATUS

Note, this is more of a smut drabble though it will be around 3k...this is NOT Yoongi/Jin’s official “Introduction” if that makes sense….(SNEAK PEEK IS LINKED)

About-Yoongi goes down on you in the back seat while you’re on a business call….Jin’s driving, lowkey watching..and being a little shit the entire time…

Or- You’re on the phone with a dick of an investor and a second away from losing your shit and calling off the entire deal…however…your boys decide to “distract” you. Give you a little something to keep you at ease so you don’t blow this 6 figure account…

MAKE ME PROUD- JIMIN X OC (ALL THE MEMBERS ARE IN THIS BRIEFLY)

About- Jimin and yourself take a trip to get a sneak peek at “Filter” before it opens… and Jimin fucks you on top of the bartop…

Or- Jimin’s ready to make his first solo big boy investment….AKA...opening up his own Gay club in WeHo...and the new business venture also reopen’s old wounds about his past. Both good and bad..but at the end of the day he remembers he wouldn’t the version of himself that he’s oh so proud of...without a little someone named “Y/N”

“PARTY FAVORS”- YOONGI X OC-

About- You and Yoongi get a little one on one time while in Amsterdam, IE getting completely stoned, and attending a sex show..hell maybe even joining in on a sex show...shit just get’s wild in the Dam!

OR- You and your boys jet out to Amsterdam for the weekend to celebrate 16 AVN award nominations (AKA THE TONY’S/GRAMMY’S OF PORN) and while high and in a country where nobody knows who you are...(which means Yoongi and yourself are free to do as you please even in public)....Yoongi admits for the first time that sometimes he feels a type of way that HE wasn’t the one that married you considering the two of you were a thing FIRST....

“CHAMPAGNE SHOWERS” - JIN X OC (Side Namjoon)- NEW

About- Jin says he's coming over to discuss business over brunch, champagne, and a nice Jacuzzi bath…which, of course, leads to more than just talk about “Finances and portfolio expansions”

OR: Jin’s the eldest, he loves control, he needs control, hints why he’s the finical controller..always has been...even in the domestic sense. Jin’s also shit at feelings he’s used to being the shoulder to cry on not needing the shoulder..he’s not used to feeling vulnerable...so it’s not to easiest for him to admit that he misses being the one you all come home too...misses being “needed”! He’s used to being the one that has his shit together, being the glue that’s held you lot together during your worst times..so this...is completely out of his comfort zone!

“ALL EYES ON ME” - HOSEOK X OC (FT OT7)- NEW

About- Hoseok and yourself have sex in a very questionable place while at the launch party for ‘Spectrum” I.E. your newest business venture...sex toys…your man deserves a little…”Thank you” for all the work he’s put in...including planning this party!

OR- Hoseok’s in over his fuckin head, he’s the one essentially spearheading the launch of “Spectrum” which is obviously his job as the head of Marketing, tactical ETC, however, this is just..different...he’s literally the one steering the boat. He’s good at what he does he knows this, he’s fucking made for it...but...it;s still’ bringing out some old, nasty insecurities...reminding him how he's his own worst critic...a perfectionist to the fault. Reminding them of those days where he never thought he was good enough...and it would absolutely break him if he lets you lot down!

“GOT ME LOOSIN’ ALL MY COOL) -KOOK X READER | JIMIN X READER (SMUT) FT- YOONGI & TAE

About- Jimin and yourself take Jungkook shopping for a new suit to wear to the “Spectrum” launch party! OH, and Jimin fucks you in the backseat of your truck in the parking garage of the mall…..

OR: You know Kookie still in that “Broke college grad” phase only being with the company barley a month, and you don’t want him to feel self-conscious at the event! You’ve also been too busy to really check in with him to see how he’s adjusting! So, you thought something like this, in a more laxed atmosphere, would be a good solution! Oh and Jimin, honestly he’s just nosey as fuck and inched himself along, like nobody really invited him he invited his damn self! Also Jungook can’t underatand why the fuck your all so damn attractive...like...why!?

AKA-MEET JUNGKOOK JEON

SNEAK PEEK

***

THE “FINAL” ONE-SHOT, IS NOT FULLY OUTLINED YET

******

FINAL NOTE-

This series is open to request...for one-shot/ member scenarios/drabbles.

The initial 7 one-shots are done to get the dynamic and I guess you could say “Plot” set in stone...however, once that’s done and in-between I’m open to random scenarios as long as it somewhat coincides with the “Universe”

This is a story that follows normal day to day life in a sense....they just happen to live a very exciting one!

Anything from them going grocery shopping and making dinner...all the way to the OC and one of the boys fooling around on set...as long as it fits the vibe. I’m down!

*** To clarify as well...publicly ( And in the workplace) the world just knows your married to Namjoon....the whole poly situation is not something blasted on your Wiki...at least not yet....***

(Optional)

***POSTIONS’S WITHIN THE COMPANY***

(Obv things are spread out now and they have other employees but they all STILL oversee multiple jobs...It’s a habit now. For so many years they couldn’t afford the help! So, now that they can they’ve just become a little...protective of said job duties..)

Y/n Kim(26)- CEO/Founder/HR/Storyboard/Content creator/Directory/Scriptwriter/Talent scout/ALL OF THE ABOVE (Set design, DVD author, 2nd Location manager, etc)

Namjoon Kim (26)- CEO/ Founder/ Director/ Content analyst/ Lead scriptwriter/ Sr Production manger/ ALL OF THE ABOVE (IT, web design, outreach, etc)

Yoongi Min (27)- Head digital producer/ Program/site Planner/Production manager/Sound engineer/Production scheduler

Taehyung Kim (24)-Executive Assistant/ Content admin/ location manager/Wardrobe assistant/backup talent scout & health liaison

Seokjin Kim (28)- Senior Accountant/ Sales manager/ Financial controller/Logistics/Operations

Jimin Park (25)- Head talent scout/ Model Liaison/ Wardrobe/ Hair & Makeup coordinator/ Onset assistant/Health Liaison

Hoseok Jung (26)- Social media/ Streaming manager/Tactical marketer/ Advertising/event manager/PR

NOW HIRING: FOR A VIDEO EDITOR/IMAGE PROCESSOR/SOUND EDITOR/SECONDARY PHOTOGRAPHER AKA-

“PRODUCTION COORDINATOR“

....WELCOME TO ONYX!

194 notes · View notes

lokidiabolus · 5 years ago

Text

The Deal - Chapter 1

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (web series)

Pairing: Alastor / Angel Dust

Warnings: human!Angel Dust (Anthony), Deal with a devil AU

Summary: Sometimes you had nobody to spend the Christmas with. Sometimes you didn’t want to. Sometimes you took a chalk and drew a pentagram on the floor fully ready to deal with anything that would come out as an alternative to self-pity occurring otherwise.

The time when Anthony thought if he can't get anybody to love him properly, he can just make a deal with a devil and find out what affection feels like. Alastor thinks this mortal is pitiful beyond belief and concede. Cuddles happen.

Can be found on Ao3.

Notes: I'm absolutely new to Hazbin Hotel, watched Addict first (thanks youtube) and was like holy hell, is there more of it somewhere? What is this?! And then found the Pilot and here I am. This is just me indulging in what my mind threw out one day, and while it's not very canon compliant, it's just my tribute for this intriguing universe and sort of a comfort fic, I guess (although there is one darker bit, but yeah). I read several fics before even writing this and kind of got stuck with the "deal with a devil" one as a starting point, even though I much more prefer settings in canon version. Yet somehow this was basically writing itself, so maybe next time :')

Also, English is not my first language. This is not betad and there is this thing with Alastor's proper speech I basically just winged by not shortening anything lmao. Therefore apologies if it's not very accurate - the same thing with Angel and his accent. I plan to add more to this and even a bit of a "in hell" part, but so far I'm just winging it.

Unbetad!

***

2019, 24th

Christmas was a day full of magic. Day majority spent with their loved ones, with their family, their spouses, in peace and joy. TV promoted Christmas as if it was the only day that ever mattered in the whole year way back to October, where people were still wondering what costume to wear for Halloween, yet already seeing Christmas ornaments and ideas of presents that were overpriced but pretended to be on sale. It was a day of good food, relaxing atmosphere and snow falling from the heavy clouds while flames were crackling in the fireplace, warming homes of the blessed.

The blessed were not as numerous as the TV would give out, obviously. Rarely anybody had a fireplace at home. Rarely anybody considered Christmas as the best day in the year because it stressed them with tons of preparations and last-minute calls to distant family members not attending the scarcely enjoyable Christmas dinner. There were quarrels, there were misunderstandings, there were old grudges coming to life and sometimes it ended in tears instead of happy evening it advertised.

Sometimes you had nobody to spend the Christmas with. Sometimes you didn’t want to. Sometimes you took a chalk and drew a pentagram on the floor fully ready to deal with anything that would come out as an alternative to self-pity occurring otherwise.

Anthony finished the outer circle of the pentagram with a light tap and peered once more into the book he drew it from – a leather bound journal he got on his 21st birthday from an acquaintance that thought satanism is the right answer to his plight – ironically he only knew a sliver of it back then. Maybe if he heard the whole story, he would give him the whole devil with a big knife to help, who knew. Anthony forgot about the book for 10 years while it rested stashed in the topmost drawer in the bedroom, waiting for life to get hard enough to pop back into Anthony’s conscience.

Well, now it did. When Anthony went through the yellowed pages, it felt surreal somehow, like a forbidden knowledge taking place in the back of his mind. There were no incantations, no summoning words that would specify or make this feel like from a bad movie – it was just the pentagram, two circles, and five symbols at the peaks done neatly on the wooden floor. The only huh, this may be a real deal addition was the blood Anthony had to provide for the summoning to complete, as the journal stated.

The blood of the desperate soul will seal the deal with the answering.

Anthony thought it was good enough, he was desperate plenty. And if it didn’t work, he would just have to do some cleaning, because who knew how badly the blood would stain the wood. He put down the chalk and the journal on the sofa and stood up, admiring his work from above. The living room sure did look more interesting with the pentagram gracing majority of the floor now, with armchair and the table pushed away to make space.

Anthony reached for the knife he prepared for the occasion, a small sharp thing he normally used for cooking rather than himself (unless it was an accident while cutting veggies) and peered again at the pentagram. The TV buzzed behind him with Christmas songs and snow was falling heavily outside, padding the streets with fake diamonds.

God rest ye merry gentlemen Let nothing you dismay Remember Christ our Saviour Was born on Christmas Day

He took a deep breath and gently touched his palm with the edge of the knife, adding pressure and then easing it back down, his heart slowly picking up the pace. Sure, nobody knew what would happen. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. But maybe something, right?

To save us all from Satan's power When we were gone astray Oh tidings of comfort and joy Comfort and joy Oh tidings of comfort and joy

He tried again and the sharp edge bit into his skin almost unexpected, leaving behind a cut quickly filling with dark red, flowing Anthony’s palm like a well. He closed his hand with a sigh and turned it down above the circle, staring at the red streaks forming at the peak and then dropping down into the middle of the pentagram, splattering against the wooden boards like rubies.

In Bethlehem, in Israel This blessed Babe was born And laid within a manger Upon this blessed morn The which His Mother Mary Did nothing take in scorn

Anthony watched the red forming a small puddle, his eyes taking in the shape and the colour and counted his breaths in wait. He took a note of every odd noise and every change of air, but nothing came but the song from the TV, buzzing at the edge of his mind.

Oh tidings of comfort and joy Comfort and joy Oh tidings of comfort and joy

He gulped down the disappointment and turned his palm back up, ending the blood flow like a tap on the water with a tissue. What was he expecting anyway? There was no higher power to end the misery or to lift it, only bitter life until the heart stopped beating and the flesh rotted away.

Fear not then, said the Angel Let nothing you affright This day is born a Saviour Of a pure Virgin bright To free all those who trust in Him From Satan's power and might Oh tidings of comfort and joy Comfort and joy Oh tidings of comfort and joy

What a mess, Anthony thought, looking down on the floor. The buzz of the TV twitched slightly, and he reached for the remote control with a sigh, turning it off. He felt tired despite not doing anything, but the thought of leaving the blood behind until morning and then dealing with it would definitely work against him.

The TV buzzed again, the song filling the room once more and Anthony froze, turning towards it in a glacier pace when he heard the chorus picking up too many voices. The room grew dim all of sudden as if shadows where climbing the walls all the way to the ceiling, swallowing up any light in the process.

Ğ̸̤̳o̶̪̪̿̽d̵̨̢͛ ̵͕̜̔̐r̵̖͘e̶̜͎͛s̶͓̫͂̿ť̸͎͘ ̵̻͇̈y̴̺̆̒e̷̫̤̍̒ ̶̫͔̾̎m̷̝̠͆e̷̲̊̓r̴͈̅r̷̛͜ẙ̷̥ ̵̙̜̀g̴̯̀e̴̳̫͝ň̷͕̑t̵̮̞̓̿ľ̶͎̑ē̸̙͔̿m̴͔͊e̸̦̳͐͘n̶̢̠̈́,̸̻̗̾ ̸̢͋̒ľ̵͙ͅe̶͈̻̕͝ṱ̶̛̗̽ ̶̺̒̚ň̵͎͗o̴̧͛ţ̷̗̾̚h̵̛͚i̶̭̅̇n̷̞̋g̵̢̹̿͂ ̴̱͉̑ÿ̸̜̳́o̸͙͖͐û̴͇ ̷̧͊͘d̴̨͐i̶̛̤͙s̷͕͔̚m̷̗̯͆̎a̵̞̒̓y̴͍͚̏͘.̸̜̏͝ ̴̢̤̅R̷̘̚ͅē̶̗̆ḿ̸̖̲é̴̯͖͠m̴͉͓̈́̃b̵͈̺́e̶̠͒͊r̷͔̠͌̌ ̴̺̻̒̽C̷̡͘h̷̥͆r̵̜̳̓ḯ̷̞͍̀ș̸̐̀t̶̜̑́ ̵̨̈́͠o̵͙̪͐͠ṵ̶̇̋ŕ̴̟̌ ̸̡̜̑͋S̷̜͐ͅå̵͇̳v̴̛̙̒i̷͚̊̌ơ̸̬u̶̠̎r̵͈̬̔̓ ̷̯͓͊̌w̵͕̄̚ḁ̶̐s̶͙̏̇ ̷̥̱̄̍b̵̛͖̔o̷͉̠̅̏r̸̠͈͌̅n̷̤͊ ̷͇̐ͅo̵̠͐n̷̹͗ ̷̺̙͒͋C̸̫͝h̵͎̮͒r̷͎̝̈́i̶̡̒̿s̴̠̣̚t̴̰̍m̸̨̟̑a̶̼̒s̶̭̝̔͝ ̸͉͌D̵̂ͅa̷̾̆͜ÿ̶̢̠́̚ ̶̱̈́ţ̵̫̽̿o̴͕̘͆ ̴͖̔̂s̴͕͂͊a̶̞͑v̸̙͑̈́e̵̛͈͙ ̷̝̲̄͐ȕ̶̪̠̐s̶̠̃ ̴͉̱͋̅ã̵͈̀l̵͉̮͑l̷̥̔̀ ̶̯̆̕f̷͓͚͑̕r̵̼̽ȍ̴̹͉̑m̸̡͔̒ ̸͚̔̚Ș̶͍̂a̴̝͆t̶̮͑ͅȁ̸̯̅ņ̵̿͊'̶̟̚͝s̵͌͠ͅ ̶͕̍̓p̴͙͝õ̴̢̐ẇ̴͓e̶͈͘r̷̝͍̅̽ ̵̼̈͑w̴͙͒͝h̸̜́e̸̠̫̚n̷̮͊ ̷̝̺̕w̸̛̗̣̓ę̶͂͌ ̸̣̃̑w̶̱̓̈́ͅè̸̪̈́r̴̓́ͅe̶͓͌ ̵̮̙̃g̴̩̻̉͝o̷̠̜̿n̷͕̭͋̿e̶̜͔͋ ̶̮́̔å̴̧̹͂ṡ̵̲ṫ̵̬r̷̝̅̌a̶̖̬͊͘y̸̨͋̄.̷̡͖̈͊ ̷͇̇̉Ò̸͖̏h̴̥͎͝͝ ̷̲͚́͝t̷̘́̔ȋ̵͈d̴̳̬̃i̵̝̹͗̀n̷̺̋g̵̗̒̔s̸̘̰̾ ̵̻̘͛̄ő̶̅͜f̷̗̍̔ ̵̺̲̀c̵̼̒͌o̷̮͝m̶͍̕f̶͍̱͐o̵͇͆̏ṟ̸̏͜ṯ̴̓ ̴͈͒ạ̷̈́͆ṇ̴̛͙d̷̼͋͝ ̴̰͎̚̕j̶̼͉̔̽ŏ̸͎͐y̵̦͖̋,̶̦̓ ̶̖͐̕c̶̙͝͝o̸̫͇̓͌m̸̧͗̃f̶̞̎ọ̸͗r̷̃̇ͅẗ̵̛̳̱́ ̵̥̐͂͜a̴̫͛ṅ̶̤͠d̷͎̔̏ ̶͐ͅj̵͕͇̎ò̵̳̪̇y̶̩̓͜.̴̪̜̇̚ ̸̘̣͑Ō̷̫̓h̸̥̄͘ ̵̩̖̆t̷̻̏ï̷̙ḑ̴̋i̶͈͂n̶͓͎̿̇g̵̳̓ͅs̶̭͎̕ ̵͚̖̌̚ȍ̸̤̬̚f̵̦̭̈́ ̶̙͕͝c̷̺̒ô̸̩m̴̝̠̐ḟ̴̲̠̃ò̷̤͔́r̶̛̞̳̀t̴͈͚͛ ̶͓̅̿ả̸̠̣̔n̴͔͔͑d̷̬͍̊ ̴̧̯̉̈́j̷͓̫͒̈o̵͎͎͊y̵̛̫̾.̷̠̿̔

The TV gave another set of buzzes and then died out, the room falling into creepy silence.

“What a lovely song,” a staticky voice rang through the stillness and Anthony forgot how to breathe for several seconds. A voice meant somebody was in the room. In the room where he summoned a devil. So that meant a devil was in the pentagram right now, right? A real deal. Expecting anything, from a winged abomination to a devilish imp, Anthony turned back towards the pentagram and… found it empty.

“What?” he breathed out, confused. Was it just a broadcast? It sounded like an old radio or something.

“Sixteenth century, I believe,” the staticky voice rang again and Anthony realized it was on his left instead and when he looked that way, he sure did find a body it belonged to – a man sitting on his couch, legs crossed primly, crimson eyes locked to Anthony’s frozen form in the middle of the room. He was fully dressed in pinstriped red suit with black accents, his gloves looked like they had claws at the end, tapping against a cane he was holding with light clink clink clink against the metal. Anthony couldn’t decide what to make of his face – was it handsome or scary? The red, unblinking eyes were staring right into his soul and his mouth was split in a grin he couldn’t place as happy or pleasant, more like unnerving. The red hair framing his face were trimmed right at his chin with black ends that continued shorter to the back, probably giving him an undercut, though Anthony couldn’t see that from the angle he was sitting. Despite all that he didn’t look that… devilish as Anthony would think he would.

“This version is much nicer, I have to admit,” the man spoke again and then the TV buzzed once more with crackling static, filling the room with old recording of the same song, but definitely not as clean and enjoyable as the version playing before. “1917 Edison records recording. Very Christian.”

“Oh,” Aidan realized. Of course Christmas songs were Christian and he had them playing while summoning a devil – he could have sprayed everything with holy water and it would be the same welcoming sight. “Sorry.”

“You are forgiven,” the man remained seated on the sofa and Anthony glanced back towards the pentagram. The blood was gone from the centre.

“Shouldn’t you be in there?” he pointed towards the sign and the man tilted his head, his smile widening.

“No, this spot is much more comfortable,” he responded in kind and there was a laughing track afterwards. Did he have a radio with him? His voice sounded like was talking from one, but here he was, sitting in person in the room with no radio in sight. “But thank you for the treat nevertheless.”

Which was probably the blood. Anthony decided not to question it.

“Now tell me what you desire.” The question fell between them like a lead and Anthony felt the despair he managed to contain until now grow. He played it in his head several times – how he would word it, how to ask, what tone to use. Several scenarios playing the moment he decided to summon this being, but now, standing here with the opportunity, he couldn’t find his voice. He didn’t expect a normal looking person sitting on his couch like a therapist ready to take notes on his condition, despite all the red and radio going on with him. Were it an unholy picture of a demon with wings or horns or more (or less) eyes than was considered normal, it wouldn’t be so difficult.

“How about you sit down first, then?” the devil-incarnate gestured towards the armchair on his left and Anthony heeded the advice and dragged himself towards it, sitting down heavily. Now being on the eyelevel with the creature made it even more surreal. Were those antlers on his head? It didn’t look like horns he normally saw devils depicted with. They were almost hidden between the tufts of hair sticking up, but definitely present. Actually, his whole hairstyle was impressive, denying gravity like that.

“There, much more comfortable, is it not,” the devil crooned a let the cane touch the floor, resting his hand atop of it. Or, wait, was it a microphone? “Yours a troubled soul indeed. It is quite a heavy burden you are carrying.”

Anthony looked away, his throat tight. No, this definitely didn’t help, he felt like there was a hell file of him now, like the devil read the dossier and thought oh boy, this boy is fucked up beyond help and came to deliver a judgement worth hell and beyond.

“Maybe you would like to dispose of him?” Came a question. Anthony looked back at the man with wide eyes. “Or maybe torture him instead. He hurt you quite a lot. A simple death might not be enough satisfaction.”

A searing pain, blood, the stench of sweat and come, a chain and never-ending humiliation, a caress on his cheek, smearing the tears, suffocating, suffocating, suffocating-

“No,” he choked out, curling to himself.

“Would you like to do it yourself then?” the man in red gestured with his clawed hand and Anthony shook his head.

“No death,” he mumbled, his body shaking. “I don’t… I don’t wanna think about him. Or anything ’bout that. It’s gone now, it’s in the past.”

“If that pleases you,” his guest conceded.

It definitely didn’t please him but nothing about it would do any good anyway.

“Is there other wish then?” An inquiry. His voice was rather soothing, despite the static background, like a radio host.

“I just want…” Anthony started, his chest tight. “Love.”

“Love?” the man repeated, the confusion apparent in the tone.

“Love and affection and… home with someone, I… don’t wanna be alone,” Anthony let the words fall out while hugging his knees tighter to his body. “To have somebody to be with me. To love me. To care?”

There was no response and Anthony gulped down the tears that threatened to spill out. When nothing came out for a whole minute, he risked a glance towards the man and found him staring back with a raised eyebrow.

“Love and affection,” he finally repeated after Anthony, tone bewildered. “You do realize you summoned a demon, not a fairy god mother, yes?”

Anthony nodded.

“Love and affection cannot be wished upon anybody,” the demon tilted his head to the side. “Ironically by nobody, even fairies. They can make somebody infatuated, like a fever that hazes their brains, but that also disappears after a while, and usually does not have much to do with… affection.”

“Oh,” Anthony let out in disappointment. “Then… can ya kill me?”

The demon stared even harder now.

“Kill you,” he repeated.

“Painlessly?” Anthony added quietly. “Like… put me to sleep I wouldn’t wake up from?”

The demon sighed and uncrossed his legs so he could lean closer towards Anthony, his face frowning a little.

“Let us put death aside for now,” he said afterwards. “I came to an understanding this day and age opens unlimited possibilities for people to meet and have… affection spark. You are flattering to an eye, my effeminate fellow, surely finding a partner is not an obstacle in this day?”

“A man,” Anthony uttered in a response and the demon made a vague gesture.

“Does not change a thing, my dear,” he continued, the echo of the static buzzing. “Internet, was it? Open possibilities with establishments and support. This century is welcoming.”

“You mean dating apps?” Anthony scoffed, unhappy and the demon actually looked curious when he nodded. “All ya get from there is sex.”

“And?”

“And that’s it.”

“Not what you are after?” the question seemed peculiar and Anthony decided not to take it in a bad way.

“I don’t mind sex, but after all that…” he tried to explain quietly, but words were failing him. It was a part of how fucked up he was anyway. Normal person would never ever touch or let others touch them after all the abuse he went through, yet he was still pretty much open for anything sexual. It was something he was good at, even. It just felt… so empty. Like staring into an aquarium without a single fish in it.

“Understandable,” the demon leaned back to rest against the sofa, the invisible audience aaahed. “Surely not impossible to find somebody of the similar mindset though?”

“I’m…” Anthony took a breath. “Filthy.”

It took the demon back by the look of it.

“Beg your pardon?” He looked him over. “Filthy?”

Anthony nodded, hugging his sides again to stop the tremors.

“Having the baggage I have… it makes me undesirable. It’d come out sooner or later. Anybody learning about it would leave. Left. Will leave.”

The demon seemed to ponder that a bit, his expression thoughtful.

“Rather than put an effort into the search, you wish to make somebody fall in love with you instead?” It sounded accusing, but not wrong. Anthony couldn’t really deny it. It wasn’t like he wanted somebody concrete. He just wanted to experience it at least a little, without the endless worry about the truth coming out and the spell disappearing.

“And since it cannot be done, you wish to die,” the demon concluded, and Anthony hummed in defeat. His life was a series of failures, pains and loneliness. This kind of life… it was not worth living. Depressions, anxieties, states of utter self-hatred, drug hazes that ended with more self-loathing, he didn’t want this. If it made him weak, so be it. He deserved being looked down upon. He was like this since he was a child.

“What a silly, pitiful mortal,” the demon finally stood up. “But at least you made my job easy.”

And with that, everything faded to black.

***

Anthony woke up with a start, like a cold water roused him from depths of unconsciousness just to threaten him to plunge him back in with a heart-attack. He sat up straight like a bolt, chest heaving and cold sweat drenching his clothes before he took in the surroundings and realized it was just his bedroom drowned in darkness of the night, his own bed and nothing more.

Was it all just a dream? Or was this afterlife? A punishment for trying to escape the bitterness of living by plunging him into the same misery, but never ending? He felt cold but at the same time thirsty and that in the end pushed him out of the bed, despite risking a limb or two if this was some kind of purgatory and monsters were hiding under his bed.

He met with no surprises when he stepped into the living room, the floor was clean with no sign of blood or chalk, with furniture in the right places and cold night from the snow falling outside seeping through windows.

“Oh…” he let out quietly, gazing across the peaceful living room like nothing transpired there just a moment ago. Or was it an hour? A day? A lifetime? Or just a figment of his imagination? He shook his head and padded quietly to the kitchen. The knife he used to cut his hand with was resting peacefully in the knife holder and when Anthony opened his palm, there was no wound in sight. In a sense, it was rather disappointing. It’s not like he wanted to die and then endlessly suffer in hell for his crimes, but it wasn’t like he wanted to live either, like he was stuck in a limbo, waiting for something bigger to crush him under its heel.

He shook his head and filled the glass with water to drink it on the spot. Maybe it was just a strange, real like dream that would disappear in the morning without a trace, along with the red-clothed demon talking to him in a surprisingly soothing voice about killing a man that made his childhood and most of his teenage years a living nightmare. He kind of hoped to remember him though – for a demon he was rather nice.

He walked back to his bedroom with a sad sigh and almost screamed when he realized somebody was sitting on his bed, legs crossed and holding a book.

“You do seem rather unhappy with the fact you are still alive, dear,” sounded the staticky voice of the demon and Anthony cleared his throat, not daring to take another step. He was reading the leather-bound journal Anthony used to summon him and apparently didn’t mind the fact Anthony was gaping at him like a fish out of water.

“Well,” the human shuffled on his feet nervously. “I certainly didn’t expect to wake up, I suppose.”

“Terribly sorry to disappoint,” the man responded, obviously not sorry at all. “I just put you to sleep to have some time to think about your wish.”

“The death wish?” Anthony asked while trying to suppress the cold seeping into his bones. Well, he did stand there just in the shorts and a tank top with bare feet on the floor, so there was no wonder, but seeing the demon sitting on his bed, he didn’t want to risk going closer, even though so far he probably didn’t really have a reason to fear him.

“The affection wish,” the demon closed the journal with a quick snap and regarded Anthony with an evened stare. “While it is virtually impossible to grant it, there are roundabouts that could eventually lead to the outcome you seek.”

Anthony blinked, not sure what to say.

“Didn’t ya say killing me made your job easier?” he settled on a simple question and the demon stood up and gestured for him to come closer. Anthony hesitated, but the cold was starting to annoy him, so he left the spot at the door and walked towards the bed, where he promptly sat down.

“And it is not wrong,” the demon finally spoke when Anthony hid his feet under the covers. “It definitely would make this go fast and easy. But then you would be completely useless to me, and that kind of defeats the purpose.”

“What do you mean useless?” Anthony raised an eyebrow. “I’d be dead.”

“And in Hell,” the demon reminded him rather sweetly and Anthony paled. “You did not think summoning a demon would grant you a passage to Heaven, did you?”

Quite frankly Anthony didn’t give it much thought. The pressing matters were now, when he was alive, and what was after his death was a problem for dead Anthony. Sure, he didn’t expect to be welcomed in heaven anyway, since duh, gay, drugs and attempted murder, but he didn’t care as much, until the demon told him.

“Didn’t think I’d go to heaven anyway…” he mumbled more to himself than the demon, but the man chuckled anyway.

“Good, good,” he nodded in agreement. “Honestly… a weak-willed person makes a weak-willed demon. The more his psyche is disturbed, the less of a form and power he manifests in the purgatory. Those lesser shades are at the end of a food chain, useless even for a simple pawn. I have no use for these.”

Anthony tilted his head to the side, not quite grasping the concept. It didn’t look like the demon cared though.

“Therefore, granting you a quick death while you feel blue would not benefit me at all,” he continued while starting to pace through the bedroom. He looked rather excited, honestly, wildly gesturing as if he was telling his grandiose plans. “Which led me to your first wish, and as I said, while I am unable to grant it for you in its entirety as you would probably imagine it would go, I can make a deal with you instead.”

“Alright?” Anthony raised his knees under his chin and the demon finally stopped, looking right at him.

“I would be your partner,” he stated victoriously while the invisible audience behind a secret radio cheered, and Anthony blinked.

“Uh…”

“While I refuse to participate in anything sexual or intimate,” the man in red continued, “which apparently is not that big of a deal for you, I can provide, as you mortals call it, a human warmth. Which is a form of affection, yes?”

A human warmth, Anthony repeated in his mind. Was that a formal word for something or…

“Oh. You mean cuddling,” it dawned on him suddenly.

“Cuddling,” the demon repeated like he was tasting the word. Then nodded. “Yes, I assume that is the word.”

That… didn’t sound bad, really. Sleeping with a person without fear of needing to open his legs at the end of the night to be able to stay was something Anthony could get behind.

“Alright,” he agreed, making the demon smile widely again. “But.” The smile fell a little. “This is for the cost of my soul, right?”

“Why, yes, indeed,” the man in red didn’t sugar-coat it. “Or more precisely, your soul would belong to Hell, but your heart would belong to me.”

“Which means?” Anthony re-seated and crossed his arms on his chest. His guest watched him for several seconds from under black eyelashes, and then leaned closer, smiling wickedly.

“That you would be mine for eternity,” he purred sweetly, and Anthony felt rather conflicted on how to feel, because somehow it scared him, but at the same time it sounded kind of reassuring? “It is like an unbreakable contract. You would have to do my bidding.”

“Forever,” Anthony added.

“Oh yes. Forever or until you get eradicated.”

“Eradicated?”

“The dangers of Hell are numerous,” the demon retreated again, standing straight. “Which is probably not coming off as a surprise. But yes, your soul can be destroyed completely, which prevents you from being reborn. Or something like that, details are useless. Being reborn from Hell is more like a myth anyway.”

“Let’s leave it at… my heart will be yours sort of thing, alright,” Anthony nodded, which apparently pleased the demon, since he smiled again. “So, cuddling. But that’s not enough, the price is quite high.”

“Indeedy,” the demon fiddled with his microphone, twirling it between his fingers, and the audience clapped again. “Glad to see you are not a complete pushover, at least.”

Anthony rolled his eyes but didn’t comment on it.

“I want to eat dinners together, at least three times a week,” he lay down his first request and the demon seemed to ponder that. “And every second weekend I’d like to spend it together somehow too. Like… going out somewhere, or… even staying home, I mean, just… with the company. Watching a movie or ya know.”

It made the demon bark out a soft laugh, which quite frankly suited him. He was rather tall and intimidating from the get-go but laughing with sincerity softened it marginally. Anthony liked that kind of setup.

“This is the most bizarre wish I have ever granted,” the demon commented in amusement, but didn’t refuse, so Anthony considered it a green light. “But alright. Three days for dinners and then every second weekend. Does the three days count into the weekend or do they have to be separate days?”

“Separate,” Anthony immediately shot out, earning a thoughtful nod. “Also, rainy days.”

“Rainy days?” the red-haired man repeated. “Are those special somehow?”

“Somehow,” Anthony mumbled, “depressing.”

He earned a hum, which probably meant alright, and was glad when he wasn’t pushed to elaborate.

“Is that all then?” the demon prompted when Anthony kept quiet for too long, and the human hesitantly nodded. It wasn’t like he wanted much, honestly. Pretty sure any kind of relationship with a normal person would crash and burn in days anyway with all the insecurities he packed. But this man… he knew – if not all of it, then at least the worst of it – and he didn’t want anything from Anthony, except of his heart and not in a romantic sense. A deal like that… it sounded fair. Just having somebody to spend evenings with, easy and domestic.

“Actually…” he tried, and the demon gave him a questioning look. “What’s your name?”

“Call me Alastor.” The reply indicated the name was not real. “How uncouth of me, not introducing myself during all this time. Pleasure to meet you, Anthony.”

He offered his hand, clawed, with gloves red and black like the rest of him, and Anthony reached for it without hesitation.

“Anthony,” Alastor’s voice stopped him just a mere inch from touching. “Do we have a deal, then? If you take my hand, you cannot back out. Ever.”

A green sheen of light filled the room, menacingly reminding him Alastor was not a human and the deal wasn’t money or goods, but the cost of his soul and afterlife. There would be no backing out.

But was there ever?

Anthony smiled and closed the gap, tightly gripping the gloved hand in his.

“It’s a deal.”

Alastor’s smile widened and the green shine disappeared, leaving Anthony somehow exhausted. The demon seemed to take a note of that – or maybe it was normal when closing a deal with him – and pushed him back to the bed, which Anthony happily obliged with a tired sigh. He saw in the corner of his eye how his guest took down his red coat, folding it neatly on the back of the sofa near the bed, then slowly took off his shoes (Anthony couldn’t even be mad he had shoes on in his flat, it was far above his energy levels) and socks (red), unfurled the bowtie and opened first three buttons of the red shirt and then finally turned towards the bed, scanning it thoughtfully. Anthony rolled on his side, looking at him with half lidded eyes.

“Comin’?” he breathed out with a chuckle and Alastor nodded but remained on the spot, as if he were doing some advanced math on sleeping in one bed with another dude. Which he actually might have.

“Al..stor?” Anthony yawned and the demon finally stepped closer.

“I would like to sleep at the wall,” he requested simply, pointing at the steep angle of the partition that probably made the corner of the bed look like a safe spot. Little he knew any sudden movement up was going to meet his forehead, but Anthony didn’t feel like warning him for now.

“Sure thing,” he shuffled closer towards the open edge of the bed and that finally made Alastor move in, gracefully stepping over Anthony’s legs and then sliding into the vacant spot on the mattress, under the covers and towards his companion. A hand snaked around Anthony’s waist, pulling him back against Alastor’s front, and yeah, okay, the guy was quite warm indeed, that was nice.

“Comfy?” Anthony asked after few moments when the shuffling stopped and Alastor made a humming noise. Then: “No.”

Before Anthony could ask why, Alastor was pulling him back and turning him towards himself like a sack of potatoes, then grabbing him by the waist and almost suffocating him when he pushed Anthony’s head against his chest.

“Gee, warn a guy next time,” the human groaned into the red shirt. “Or is this an elaborate plan on how to kill me immediately after striking a deal, by suffocating?”

“Hmm,” Alastor hummed again. “Not really. This is not comfortable either.”

This time he only flipped himself on his back, wiggling up and down, completely ignoring Anthony’s bewilderment at the actions, until he finally stilled and grabbed the human by the back of his neck and pushed him again against his chest, where Anthony landed with a quiet oof.

“Ah, yes,” Alastor finally stated. “This is just right.”

“Fuckin’ finally,” Anthony huffed and dragged his body higher, draping his legs over Alastors’ while resting his head on the demon’s shoulder. Then finally let out a breath and melted into the warmth like ice cream.

“I am a hard man to please, you will find,” Alastor pitched in. “But I am sure we can find a compromise.”

“Your compromising seems rather one-sided so far,” Anthony jabbed, and it made Alastor chuckle.

“Not wrong.”

There was a clawed hand on the back of Anthony’s neck that moved towards his hair, combing through them slightly. The movement was pretty nice and if Anthony was a cat, he’d have purred for sure.

Speaking of hands… “You healed my wound?”

“Why, yes, I sure did,” Alastor answered easily. “No reason for it when it filled its purpose.”

“Thank you,” the human whispered into the red shirt and the hand in his hair patted him. “Sleeping now.”

“Please do,” the demon responded rudely, but there was not enough consciousness for Anthony to get back at him somehow. The waves of sleep claimed him like a spell casted by a demon in red, sealing a deal for eternity.

***

Anthony woke up to a warm but empty spot in his bed, smell of coffee waffling through air and sun peeking between clouds to his bedroom. The snow stopped falling but the ice drew crystals on the window, signalling the temperature outside was rather low, despite the sunny lie.

He sat up groggily but surprisingly well rested and his head had to take a five to catch up with everything that transpired at night, which quite frankly still felt like a dream. But then the dream was standing in his kitchen again fully dressed, sipping a cup of coffee (Anthony’s favourite cup, a black wide and low beauty with golden accents and a handle, even though he never used it for coffee) while reading a newspaper. Where he got one was a mystery, since Anthony definitely didn’t have any at home, but then again – a demon. He could probably snap one from thin air.

“Ah, Anthony,” he immediately spotted the human standing in between the doors, “my good fellow, good morning. I took the liberty of using your coffee machine, thought you could do with wider variety of blends.”

“I don’t even know I have a coffee machine,” Anthony yawned and shuffled into the kitchen while absentmindedly scratching his belly under the tank top. “Or blends on that matter. Where did ya even find it?”

Alastor pointed at the cabinet that was obviously fiddled with and it only assured Anthony that he had no idea of its contents. Somebody must have left the coffee here, he mused, while reaching into the cabinet himself and pulling out a tea box.

“Not having a knack for coffee?” Alastor asked while watching the human pouring water into a kettle and then filling another cup with four spoons of sugar.

“Don’t like bitter stuff,” Anthony mumbled while hanging the tea bag inside.

“I can see that,” Alastor commented, pointedly looking at the cup with enough sugar to sustain Anthony through morning and cause anybody else a cardiac arrest. He obviously wanted to nag him for it, but was nice enough to keep his mouth shut, which was a smart move.

“I have to leave for now,” the demon announced after the water finished boiling and Anthony looked at him wordlessly. “Busy as ever, I am afraid. But,” he snapped his fingers and there was a retro-looking radio standing on the counter, just appearing out of thin air, “I will leave this here. Consider it… a Christmas gift.”

“A radio?” Anthony stared at the contraption in confusion and Alastor patted the radio gently.

“Yes, indeed!” he happily announced and tuned it so that smooth jazz started to play. “It is more of a… communication device for you and me though. Not saying it can always reach me in Hell, but it usually can. And I can reach you here as well if the need arises. Sounds fair?”

“Sure,” Anthony eyed the radio suspiciously. “So, what’s with ya and the radios anyway?”

“No time, we can talk later!” Alastor pushed his empty cup into Anthony’s hands and with another snap of his fingers his microphone appeared, and he spun it in his hand. “I am not able to make it today for sure, but let us start the dinner routine tomorrow, how about that?”

“It’s fine, but Al-,”

“I will see you later then, my dear fellow!” And with that, Alaster poofed out of thin air like a goddamn David Copperfield on a good day, leaving Anthony gaping like a fish once again.

***

2019, 25th

The Boxing day was quiet and mostly for kids anyway. The joyous squeals of children when obtaining their dream toy filling households only lasted for a while until kids went out to play. Anthony saw the lot of them outside in the snow, throwing snowballs around and letting their parents take a breather or two.

Anthony never wanted kids. Hell, he couldn’t even have one when the only woman he ever loved was his mom, and she was probably in heaven, unless she fucked up somewhere on the road and the elevator went down. He wondered if Alastor would know of her, if she ended up in hell. Or anybody, really, if Anthony asked.

Hey, you met my pops in there? The old fucking homophobic bastard? Hope he’s squealing like a pig on a roaster.

Yeah, no. Maybe Alastor would know and would tell him and Anthony wouldn’t like the answer. Not to mention it wasn’t in their deal anyway, exchanging information from Hell and beyond. But he still wondered, now when he knew hell really existed and everybody who did bad things ended up as a demon in there. If they never struck a contract with a demon while alive, did they just arrive there free to roam about until somebody eradicated them? Or picked them up? Was it all about deals in hell? Dog eat dog? It would make sense, probably. But he still thought it’s purgatory with everybody being tortured by having their organs ripped out and eaten and then growing them back out just to do it again the next day, that sort of vileness. Maybe having a pineapple stuck in their ass too, just as a good measure of their sins.

He glanced towards the kitchen, the radio perfectly visible from his spot on the couch, just sitting on the kitchen desk like it was no demonic contraption that could call his owner in hell. It was like those old dandy radios before TV was invented, vintage and possibly kind of nice looking, yet completely out of place in Anthony’s flat. Was it Alastor’s checking on my investment sort of thing? A spyware but old fashioned? All about Alastor was a bit old timey, the way he talked, the way the never-ending static around him buzzed and played all kind of reaction tracks, even the way he dressed. Though Anthony had to admit that kind of fashion was more timeless if anything else. The static noise that surrounded him and even coloured his voice was strange, and Anthony didn’t know what to exactly think about it. He never stopped emitting the sound, even when they were sleeping, the static was still there. Anthony didn’t mind, it was a white noise sort of background he fell asleep to even normally, but the question still stood.

“Maybe I should write the questions down,” he mumbled to himself. Alastor was not coming tonight and Anthony was prone to forgetting things fast. If he wanted to know, it was easier to make a list.

***

2019, 26th

“You made a list?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Anthony batted Alastor’s hand away when he tried to grab the paper. He was primly seated at the table, legs crossed, and his grin ever present. “You’re the first demon I’ve met. Of course I have questions and there’s lots of them, so I wrote it down.”

It was seven in the evening, Thursday, 26th. Alastor appeared out of nowhere in the living room approximately at 18:30 and scared the shit out of Anthony who was attempting to do some yoga after half a year, which obviously caught him in an embarrassing position with his butt sticking in the air and a not very manly shriek following when he heard Alastor ask about the occasion.

They decided to make spaghetti. Or better Anthony decided and Alastor didn’t argue. And then it came to the questions and Anthony remembered the list and that obviously piqued Alastor’s curiosity.

“Fair enough,” the demon conceded and folded his hands back on the table. “I suppose I can indulge you.” He didn’t look any different from the last day Anthony saw him – the same suit, the same hair, and it probably made sense, being in hell and all. Dead didn’t have many people to impress with wide variety of clothes, unless sinners had keen fashion sense down there. The time also may flow differently in hell, right? Was the time even a thing in there?

Anthony peeked into his list, then returned to the kitchen counter where he was cutting tomatoes.

“Do you know Lucifer?”

It was the first thing that occurred to him when he tried to think back to Christianity. Lucifer the Morning star, he was supposed to rule hell, right? Or was he a fairy tale?

“Yes,” Alastor responded easily. “Everybody knows the King of Hell. Or at least know of him.”

“I mean… personally?” Anthony peered at the demon over his shoulder and Alastor nodded.

“We have met. He quite enjoys the polka music.”

“Lucifer the Morning star enjoys the polka music,” Anthony repeated with a snort while scraping tomatoes into a pan. “Sure thing.”

“He can play variety of instruments as well. Very proficient,” Alastor added and Anthony seriously couldn’t say if he was fucking with him or if the King of hell played harmonica at dinner. He shook his head and let it go – if Alastor wanted to make fun of him, nobody would be able to stop him anyway.

“Are you summoned by humans often?” he continued with another question while moving around the kitchen and by the corner of the eye saw Alastor leaning against his palm.

“Not exactly,” the demon admitted. “Rarely anybody knows how. Of course, there are attempts to summon something, but simple mortals lack imagination when it comes to it. They just think it is oh so fun to try and ruin the party with powers that should not be trifled with. Unless they use right signs, they usually cannot summon anything. When they are at least partially right, they may get a vengeful lesser shade which may cause enough trouble for them to get hurt. Or die.”

“Oh,” Anthony blinked in surprise, then got back to tasting the sauce. “I was lucky to get ya, huh.”

“Why, yes, lucky indeed!” the cheering background made Anthony snort.

“Making deals with humans is not really a norm for you then. Or do you venture here by yourself?” he asked another question and heard Alastor behind him shuffle. When he glanced towards him, the man was standing already, reading the list Anthony left on the table. “Hey!”

“Merely curious what kind of thoughts you had in my absence,” the demon masterfully avoided Anthony’s snatching hand and circled the table with two long steps, putting a barrier between them. “Oh dear, those are quite intrusive questions you have. Half of them are unanswerable.”

“Yeah? Why?” Anthony gave up chasing him and crossed his arms on his chest. “Is it some kind of hell code?”

“More like I do not feel like telling you, is all,” Alastor responded sweetly and sheesh, his nice and understanding personality from yesterday must have been just a fluke, since he was rude. “Personal information is dangerous to give. Especially to an underling.”

“Not your underling yet, big boy,” Anthony sent him a wink which seemed to take Alastor by the surprise, judging from his wide eyes.

“Alright. Underling eventually,” the demon huffed and twirled the list in his hand. “Ah, this one I can answer. Is hell only about torturing sinners – no and yes.”

“Very eloquent, thank you for enlightening me,” Anthony rolled his eyes and returned to the stove where he pulled the sauce off the flame. “You just want to keep me in suspense, huh. Wait till you get there, my good fellow!”

The laughing track was a bit insulting, but alright. Maybe it was a rather presumptuous question anyway.

“Every sinner is different, therefore every sinner’s experience in Hell is their own,” Alastor walked to the radio he left the there the other day and patted it. Jazz started to play in the background and Anthony gave out a huff before walking to the living room and turning off the TV that played until now. Guess it was Alastor’s way of saying he liked music better.

“For lesser shades… I imagine hell must be quite a purgatory. But honestly? It is but another life in another city where good intentions do not exist,” Alastor looked out of the window at the snowy New York, his eyes half lidded. Seeing him standing there like that made him look almost normal. “Nobody will help an old lady to cross the street. Most likely will try to hit her by the car if anything else. Nobody will do you a favour if you are in a pitch, simply because good favours are not repaid. Unless you have power… you are nothing in Hell.”

“So, like in a real life,” the human mumbled and Alastor made an agreeing noise in the back of his throat. “No chains or anything? No eternal suffering by having your organs eaten and then regrown to have them eaten again?”

“How colourful!” Alastor laughed from his spot. “I assume there are places like that too. Business where chains are used, and organs eaten… everything is possible in Hell. Maybe you can start that by yourself once you are there. It’s quite a way to make a living!”

Anthony refused to get unnerved and instead commanded his guest to sit down so he could serve the food to him. He didn’t miss the gleam in Alastor’s eyes at his refusal to comment on the topic.

***

“Are you usually busy in hell?”

“Of course I am,” Alastor answered the question like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Maintaining status in Hell is a full-time job.”

They were seated in the living room, the sofa dipping under their weight. Alastor was good at his word and had Anthony sitting next to him while having an arm around his shoulders in a cuddle. If felt a little stiff but he tried, and Anthony didn’t complain. The TV remained off, Alastor seemed to have an aversion to it for some reason, but the radio still played music from the kitchen. He was glad Alastor seemed to like his cooking at least, since he ate everything Anthony gave him and even praised him for a splendid Italian experience, even though it wasn’t exactly anything special.

“But now ya gotta be here for three to five days a week. Doesn’t that cause problems?” Anthony folded his legs under him and cuddled a little closer to Alastor’s warmth which made the demon stiffen even more for several seconds before he eventually relaxed again. Definitely not used to touching, this one. Striking a deal like that must have taken quite a big deal of self-control. Anthony was wondering how far he could push him before he’d show it.

“I have ways to secure my constant vigil,” came a vague reply. Probably his underlings as Alastor had put it – who knows how many of them he had, how may deals he made. What did they want in exchange for their souls?

“What’s the most wanted thing in your deals?” he inquired next while sneaking a hand on Alastor’s knee. The demon’s whole body became rigid and Anthony bit back the laugh.

“Not affection, I assure you,” the demon pried Anthony’s hand off, then apparently realized what he had done, so he awkwardly held it in his gloved hand like a baby on fire until Anthony took a pity on him and wiggled out of the hold. “Most of the time they want money or fame. Sometimes revenge.”

“Did you make somebody super famous? Like a singer or an actor?” Anthony continued like nothing happened and for a while it seemed like Alastor was back to his relaxed self. “Like Brad Pitt or somebody?”

“Well-,” Alastor stopped immediately once Anthony put the hand back on his knee. Then glared. “You are doing this on purpose.”

“A little.”

Another glare, surprisingly not very scary because it was ridiculous – the man was manhandling him yesterday in bed without ounce of shame with the cuddling and suddenly couldn’t relax into a normal side-to-side couch snuggle, and a simple knee touch almost sent him out of the room? Talk about overreaction out of nowhere.

“Ya hate being touched,” Anthony sat straight, putting a distance between them, looking at Alastor pointedly. “Yer stiff like a board, holy shit. Is this some kind of hell practice? Like ya gotta torture yourself at least once per month somehow?”

“Do not be ridiculous, Anthony,” Alastor rolled his eyes and the invisible audience booed. “The deal is perfectly fine in all standards and does not cause any torture on my part.”

“Uh huh,” the human voiced and slapped his hand back on Alastor’s knee with a loud smack. The rigidness immediately followed. “I can see that right ‘ere.” Alastor did nothing against it with stubbornness of an oaf, but then Anthony dragged the hand higher up the leg and at that point his wrist was caught in a vice grip and pulled away again.

“The deal said nothing intimate or sexual,” the static got a little louder around his voice. “Is that right, my dear?”

“Touching your knee is hardly sexual,” Anthony gave him an unimpressed look. “Dear.”

The grip got tighter and the static almost deafening and he would have sworn he saw shadows getting taller and darker. That was an obvious cue for Anthony to concede unless he wanted to be evaporated, probably. With a sigh he raised his free hand in defeat and the static returned to normal and music resumed from the radio in the kitchen like nothing creepy just transpired. Alastor let go of his hand and leaned back against the backrest and raised his arm for Anthony to come back closer, without a single comment.

“You’re really somethin’,” the human shook his head and returned to his position next to the demon. This time Alastor relaxed marginally, but Anthony would swear the claws on his shoulder bit down more than they should have.

***

He woke up alone again the next morning but this time to an empty flat. There was no trace of Alastor making coffee in the kitchen either, the cup safely stashed in the cupboard and no lingering smell of coffee beans remained. Anthony leaned against the counter with a deep sigh, wondering if the deal they made wasn’t another catastrophe waiting to happen, like any other relationship he had in his life, romantic or not. Sure, this thing was more of a… body pillow status than anything else, but then there were still dinners and weekends spent in the same vicinity and if the demon came to dislike him enough, wouldn’t those be a complete disaster?

“New year can’t come soon enough,” Anthony mumbled to himself while reaching for the kettle to fill it with water and sighed. He was at work the whole night on New year and it usually worked well enough to get nasty thoughts out of his head for the time being. It wasn’t like he totally loved his job, but he didn’t mind it as much either – it gave him money and the money gave him the rest. Even when he had to fend off drunkards and touchy-feely customers, especially on a costume day. The pub he worked in wasn’t the fanciest joint but sometimes they had fun events where all waiters wore the same costume, no matter the gender, and if they looked cute enough, the customers weren’t shy to put some bank notes in the clothes with patronizing smiles. Some thought it bought them few touches too, but unless they went straight for the crotch or wanted more, Anthony didn’t really mind. The girls on the other hand were a bit less inclined to be groped at work, which made some patrons grumpy. Served them right to be slapped across the face though.

He stopped in front of the radio, eyeing it unhappily, and then fiddled with one of the black buttons until it started playing a tune. Swing, probably, judging from the tempo, and he wondered if Alastor had it only tuned for an old-time music he liked and nothing else or if it was the only music available in hell. He left it be and waited for the water to boil until the radio buzzed oddly and swing stopped.

“Ah, Antho-y-are up,” Alastor’s voice leaked out of the demonic contraption and Anthony froze, staring at the radio with wide eyes. No matter the demon told him they could communicate through it, it still came as a surprise to hear Alastor from the speaker.

“Mornin’,” he responded a little dumbly, not even sure if the radio went both ways, since normal one definitely did not.

“Apo-gies for le-ing ea-ly,” Alastor’s voice said with enough interference it almost made it impossible to tell what he was saying. “Duty ca-d.”

“It’s fine,” Anthony assured him with a small frown. “Can’t hear fuck though, hell has pretty bad signal.”

“No mat-r!” Alastor sounded cheery enough though, even with all those interruptions. “-ll try to c-e to-ght, but--pro-ses!”

“Whatever you say, Smiles,” Anthony sighed, patting the radio as if it could help the signal to correct itself and the buzzing intensified until it smoothed out and only the lyrics of Peeping Tom slithered out of the speaker.

“Fitting,” Anthony snorted and got back to his breakfast.

***

2019, 30st

Alastor didn’t show up for four days apart from some staticky messages through the radio, through which Anthony only caught about half of what had been said. Something about a war – which was probably bad? War in hell. Or maybe pretty normal? And then something about a lord, which maybe was Lucifer. Alastor attempted to ask normal questions, Anthony thought, but very often the conversation, if not hardly understood through the interference, was interrupted by screams that sounded like somebody was being torn apart, and that usually made Alastor shut up, then sigh, and then say in a cheery voice: “I’ll be right back, dear.” And then another talk happened the next day the earliest.

Anthony didn’t really blame him. Lord wars or whatever was happening down there didn’t sound like a picnic, and Alastor was probably in one of the higher places in the hierarchy, so maybe it was like his job to get all the sinners under the control – like with a whip and high heels… or something. That image actually got Anthony through the day because he laughed every time he imagined Alastor in red latex.

It was in the evening of Monday 30th when Anthony was going through the shifts roster his boss sent him on e-mail, sitting on the couch in the living room with TV on, and heard the radio in the kitchen spur to life once more.

“Al?” Anthony dragged himself off the couch towards the kitchen and then let out a scream he didn’t know he was capable of. Slithering out of the radio was a black shadow with evil blue eyes and wide raggedy smile, filling the room like an imposing nightmare and Anthony hit the table with his back when trying to back out.

Was this also a gateway? Could another demon use it to get here? For whatever reason it might have? Was this how Anthony was going to die – eaten by some shade-like monster? In a complete fear stupor Anthony couldn’t even turn around to flee, he just stared at the abomination and the abomination stared back at him for about twenty seconds, then it tilted its head to the side and fucking bowed to him.

“What the…” the human wheezed, his heart thumping wildly, and then it hit him. This thing. It had huge antlers on its head, not like those small things Alastor normally had, but fully grown antlers of an imposing width – actually its entirety of a head looked like the red-clothed demon, like his fucking shadow just slithered out of the radio by itself to say hi.

“Are you Al…?” he asked a little dumbly and the shadow made a vague hand gesture that could only mean half and half. Fucking half and half, was his shadow acting by itself normally? Was it a demon thing?

“He still can’t make it?” he tried to make a conversation and his heart was finally slowing down again to a normal pace. The shade nodded and on the wall behind him a shadowy show appeared, explosions and flying body parts and then also miniature Alastor standing on a tower or something? Silently laughing at the mayhem.

Ah, so it was probably a fun war then, Anthony mused. Or maybe Alastor just liked chaos and blood. Which was possibly normal – for a demon. When the scene disappeared, the Shadow Alastor turned back to Anthony and the big smile widened even more.

“I suppose you’re not really here for dinner though…” the human trailed off when he saw the Shadow pick up a frying pan from the hanger and put it on the stove. “Holy shit, you can actually touch things too?”

In a blink of an eye the shadow disappeared and reappeared right behind Anthony where he lifted the human with ease and then moved him towards the stove like a damn figurine in a clothes’ shop. That thing didn’t really feel warm or cold, it was like being held by a paper bag. Just there. At the job well done it grinned at the human like it wanted a praise and all Anthony could do was to stare.

“Well fuck me, this is even weirder than the whole deal thing,” he finally stammered out. “Can you eat too or…?”

The Shadow shook its head.

“So, you just want me to cook for myself?”

The Shadow nodded.

“Alright then,” Anthony glanced at the frying pan. He wasn’t really thinking of what to cook even if Alastor actually arrived, but since now he sort of had to and it was only for him, he decided to settle on an egg omelette with mushrooms he had in a fridge and hoped they were still edible and not covered with mould. It happened to him too many times to count, since he rarely had an appetite to eat unless Alastor would grace him with his company. He looked back at the Shadow, which was expectantly hovering on his left and cleared his throat. “How about you get me eggs and mushrooms from the fridge?”

He couldn’t say if it really wanted to do something or had been acting on orders, but the shade actually slithered to the fridge and grabbed the pack of mushrooms, brought them to the kitchen counter and then got back for the eggs, turned around and tilted its head.

“Three of them,” Anthony understood the silent question, at least hopefully it was what it meant, and the Shadow opened the package and took three eggs out – then started to juggle them around.

“Oh, so ya a fun guy, huh,” Anthony watched him with amusement. “Not like your owner.”

“Depends on what you expect of fun,” the Shadow spoke in low voice that made Anthony shiver involuntarily, and it gently put the eggs on the counter while grinning wildly.

“Can also talk,” Anthony commented with a hitch of a breath.

“When I feel like it,” the Shadow changed locations again, this time he hovered on the right side of Anthony, like he was playing with him.

“Wait, so are ya a separate being from Al? Like… yer supposed to be his shadow, right?” It was a weird question to ask, probably, but Anthony couldn’t wrap his head around a shadow being its own thinking entity without some sort of setback.

The Shadow tilted its head, not answering.

“Don’t feel like talking often, I see,” Anthony huffed. “Fine. Keep ye secrets. I know Al doesn’t like to talk about himself cuz he’s scared I’d stab him in his back in hell once I die.”

The Shadow remained silent but dramatically manifested a knife in his back and then dissolved into a dark puddle on the floor before materialized on the other side of Anthony again. Obviously a theatrical animal, the human thought with surprising calm, and just left him be.

The cooking took him only half an hour and since the Shadow seemed to hold his tongue for the rest of the evening, he took the plate to the living room to watch something on TV while eating. The Shadow followed him like an obedient dog and once Anthony seated himself on the couch and dragged a fluffy pink blanket over his legs, it appeared right next to him, peering at him expectantly again from a way too close.

“Hi,” Anthony said into its grinning face and the smile widened. Probably liked being acknowledged. “Ya here to cuddle me instead of Al too?”

That seems to perk it up and Anthony barely managed to save his plate before the Shadow threw itself on Anthony’s lap, seating itself right on top of his legs while completely blocking not only the view at the TV but the access to the plate and the rest of barely functioning brain cells Anthony had. Then it looked down at him expectantly, his huge antlers by some miracle so far didn’t destroy anything.

“Alright…” Anthony took a deep breath and put away the plate with food for later somewhere near him on the couch, since he couldn’t reach anything else over the black mass of the shade sitting on his lap like this. “Not what I had in mind, but sure, whatever… floats your boat, I suppose?”

Obviously, it did float the Shadow’s boat since it didn’t move away and instead of that hugged Anthony closer to its chest and its shadow-y claws started raking through his hair. Which was quite nice, honestly, if the situation wasn’t so bizarre. The true Alastor would probably bristle like a cat at this though, judging from the knee incident, so Anthony kept his hands to himself. The Shadow itself wasn’t heavy – Anthony felt him, sure, but like… with almost nothing to weight him down, even though it felt very palpable, very here, yet somehow not as real. He let his eyes close, only concentrating on the movement of the claws on his scalp and felt sleep tugging at his consciousness.

“Hey,” he piped, and the claws stopped for a fraction of second before resuming their movement. “Tell Al I’m at work whole night tomorrow… okay? In case the lord war or whatever you guys do down there would miraculously end itself.”

“Yes, Anthony,” the Shadow purred above him and then in several next minutes Anthony’s consciousness faded away.

***

2019, 31st

It was only lightly snowing in New Year and the temperature didn’t really drop as low as Anthony expected. He arrived to work at 17:00 on dot and the girls greeted him with wide smiles and winks, which meant the costume for today was going to be something lewd – but not completely or they’d riot. Maybe a maid uniform, he mused while walking to the changing room and greeting other waiters on the way.

Then it made sense – a Honeybee themed outfit with fishnets was about to end his whole career, he was sure of it. Several girls in the locker room were already dressed up and applying makeup, and the moment he entered the room they all had that gleam in their eye which meant the only thing: They wanted to see him in the costume and do his makeup like a hive minded coven.

“I suppose boss didn’t have mercy on me, huh,” he commented when there was a carefully wrapped costume hanged on his locker. Girls around him shook their heads with a giggle. “I have no ass. This is going to be a disaster.”

“You have no tits either and still walk away with most of the tip on busy nights,” one of the girls smirked at him. “Quit whining and get it on. I’ll do your hair.”

“Yes m’am,” he kept the sigh for himself. It was going to be a long night for sure.

New Year’s nights were always busy in the pub. Hell, in probably all pubs around the world, people were so willing to drunk themselves into the stupor it felt like it was the only joy they had that year. Anthony didn’t know how many times he already said Welcome to the honeybee inn, sweetie during the night but it definitely kept any other thoughts at bay when he had to remember orders, faces, and keep his smile on all the time. It didn’t stop him from thinking about Alastor though, just wondering if New Year’s had any effect on Hell or not. Maybe they all had a day off from hellish suffering?

It was very close to midnight already when he twirled around tables with another set of shots, putting them in front of a group of middle aged men and one of them took a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and waved it in front of Anthony like a bait.

“How about you sit on daddy’s lap for a while, honey?” he asked him in a slightly drunk tone and Anthony eyed the bill for a second before gracefully sitting on the men’s knees, snatching it from his hand and putting it behind the cleavage.

“Of course, daddy,” he wounded an arm around the man’s shoulders. “Are ya enjoying your time with us?”

“Now I definitely do,” the man responded, his hands immediately went to the groping mode as expected. Anthony let him do whatever he liked – for a hundred he bought it as long as he avoided his dick. His equally drunk friends were laughing and then stopped other waitress and ordered more shots for Anthony to drink with them, passing him around their laps like a groping doll.

Well… it’s fine. It’s the only thing I’m good for anyway.

One of them was a sloppy kisser and other one had a thing for his thighs. At least he heeded his warnings of not to rip his fishnets, which was a small miracle. Anthony wasn’t sure how many shots he was made to drink, but he clearly recalled being called pretty and a slut.

He blacked out eventually, but he heard the countdown and New Year fireworks in the back alley behind the pub.

There was nothing happy about it though.

***

The tiles in his bathroom were cold as ice. Anthony heaved one more time and there was already nothing but disgusting bile coming out. He felt sick, dirty, and miserable, and the rumpled money that fell out of his costume at home were so not worth it, even though it was almost 1k. Filthy, disgusting money, the same like him.

It was a miracle he was strong enough to take a shower, even though he sat in there for twenty minutes while ugly sobbing, and then passed out in his bed still in a towel and with wet hair and smudged mascara.

Why didn’t he insist on Alastor killing him when he had a chance? This was the lowest of low for him, the fucking rock bottom of his pride shattering.

Pride? What pride. Did he even have any? Doubtful.

He woke up at 3 in the morning, his stomach was hurting, and his head was splitting. He wobbled out of the bed on unsure legs, holding the towel barely up, and rummaged the cabinet for Tylenol he by some miracle still had. The water from the tap in the kitchen was cold as fuck and it woke him up a little when he was gulping the pill down and praying it would stay there.

He leaned against the counter to take a deep breath and then his eyes fell on the radio quietly sitting on his left. His hand absentmindedly fiddled with one of its buttons and it cracked several times, but no music came out.

“Figures,” he mumbled, defeated. “Hey Al. Ya there?”

Nothing but crackling static.

“Al,” Anthony repeated. “I dunno if ye can hear me. Just wanted to talk maybe. Or see ya. Or Al Junior maybe? I don’t mind that one either, haha… both of ye are… fine.”

Crackling buzzed through the kitchen with no words. Anthony slid down against the counter and remained seated on the wooden floor, fighting against tears that were coming up all of sudden.

“You know,” he sobbed quietly. “This night was fucked up, huh. Was it fucked up for ya too? How’s hell during new years anyway? Do demons drink alcohol even? Hey Al…”

He sniffled and rubbed the back of his hand against his face. It came out blackened from the mascara.

“Oh man. Al, I fucked up again,” he let his head fall back with a thud against the drawers. “I wonder if there’s a way to even get better? Like this… I’d be so fuckin’ useless to ya down there. I kinda wanna die already, but I know ya wouldn’t like me being this way so...”

A sigh. He was babbling. His stomach hurt like a bitch. Some of the drinks must have been spiked, he knew this withdrawal feeling.

“Hey Al. Are drugs down there? In hell?” It sounded more like a whine. “I guess it’s the best way how to destroy a person, ya know. Just make him an addict. Fun times for a while, then pit of snakes.”

He quieted down, hot tears streaming down his face. Would Alastor be angry if he just took a knife and slit his wrists? Probably. Would he just double kill him once he’d land in hell for being such a pathetic weakling? He sure wouldn’t want to be reborn with the same shit soul again anyway.

“I…” he raised his voice, then sobbed again. “Hope it’s fine. Down there. With ya.”

“There, there, Anthony,” the radio suddenly cracked to life and the human bolted up and almost lost his footing before catching the edge of the counter. It was Alastor’s voice, no doubt. “You sound like you are in very low spirits for such joyous occasion.”

“Ha, yeah… sort of…” Anthony smudged the mascara even more, judging from the state of his hands, and reached for a tissue with a frown. “It’s been a shitshow here, but what else is new.”

“That much it ended in tears for you?” the demon asked from the other side, for once the transmission clear and easily understood, and Anthony forced down the sob that was trying to get out of his throat.

“Kinda…” he admitted quietly. “I thought maybe… you’d have time. Tonight. It’s been a rough day.”

“Today-,”

“Or your shadow pal,” Anthony quickly interrupted what sounded like a refusal. “He’s pretty nice the other day. Not that chatty but still nice. Would be fine if you can’t. Unless he can’t either.”

There was silence on the other side for a while and Anthony feared the transmission was interrupted again. But then the static sound filled the kitchen once more.

“…my shadow pal?” Alastor repeated incredulously, apparently not liking the nickname. “I see.”

“I know it’s whiny,” Anthony couldn’t deny that simple truth, but he refused to back down now. “But I really could use a body pillow right now.”

“A what now?”

“A cuddle,” the human wiped his face to the tissue, and it came dirty as hell. Damn, his face must have been a mess. He wiped it some more until nothing black remained and threw the dirty tissues to the bin with a fed-up sigh.

Silence again and Anthony braced for an inevitable refusal.

“You sure are a handful, Anthony,” sounded behind him suddenly and he almost dropped the towel he was holding around him, and that definitely wouldn’t help the situation. Alastor was standing several steps away from him and looked exhausted. There was no other word for it, his shoulders were slouched, he had huge dark circles under his eyes and his coat was rather tattered on the edges – although if there was a war it was still in a pretty good shape, considering.

“And you look like shit,” the human commented, even though he really didn’t mean to. There was a saying that beggars can’t be choosers for a reason.

“Oh, that is rich coming from you, dear,” Alastor tilted his head to the side, taking in Anthony’s state. “How about you dress yourself first. Then we can talk business.”

“Smart,” the human admitted and wobbled back to his bedroom to change into pyjamas. The night was cold and fluffy clothes sounded like a great idea; he was already half a popsicle from the time on the floor.

When he got back, Alastor was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, and crimson eyes fixated on Anthony the moment he appeared. It looked like both of them had a rough night, so maybe a good night sleep wasn’t that bad of an idea even for the demon. Although maybe he preferred sleeping in a coffin or something, Anthony didn’t know.

“Much better,” Alastor said pointedly and stood up. “Now we can sleep. Or talk, whichever you prefer.”

“Looking at ya, I think sleep would be the better option,” Anthony shrugged, and he didn’t miss the displeasure that showed on Alastor’s face for a second. Probably didn’t like when people saw him weak, although Antony doubted it made him any less dangerous. He let the demon lose the coat and the shoes first before Alastor climbed to bed and once he was lying on his back, Anthony sneaked in next and remained resting on his side, not touching him anyhow. For some reason he looked like a timed bomb and any touch could set him off, unless he would initiate it.

“Ya could’ve just send the shadow again,” he mumbled quietly. “If this is not a good time.”

Crimson eyes switched to him, searching.

“Busy now,” he said simply. “No matter. We had a deal and I neglected it, which is not going to happen again.”

He was lying there almost motionless, stiff like a board. Anthony wondered if the war ended badly. Alastor looked like in a bad mood.

“I said it’s fine,” he assured the demon. “Whatever lord war was going on, I’m sure it needed all your attention.”

“Lord war?” One eyebrow went up and Anthony shrugged.

“Or something,” he uttered. “The transmission was so bad; I heard every third word. Or scream.”

“Ah. The interference must have been displeasing,” Alastor sighed. “My apologies.”

“No biggie.” He wanted to ask what kind of war it was or how it ended, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to. Alastor didn’t like talking about himself and this seemed to fall under the same category. So, he just lay there, breathing in and out and sometimes a bit more deeply when the pain shot through him again.

“You are in pain,” Alastor noticed immediately and turned towards him on his side. “Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride,” Anthony gave him a weak smile. “Or what’s left of it.”

Red eyes seemed to take more of him in, as if he was searching for any kind of a visible wound. When he found nothing, his shoulder seemed to finally relax.

“Are you hurt?” Anthony repeated the question and Alastor shook his head.

“Just my pride,” he repeated Anthony’s answer as well, smiling a little bitterly. The war ended badly then. “The end of the year is… unpleasant. More for some, less for others. Never good though.”

“Oh,” the human let out. “More than usual bad hell things?”

“Much more.”

“So better not dying on New Year’s, huh,” he joked and Alastor actually chuckled at it.

“Unless you want to get immediately eradicated, not really,” he concluded with a sigh. Then he raised his hand and gently swiped Anthony’s hair off his forehead, like he didn’t make a scene few days ago about a knee touch. Complicated guy. “You were crying in the transmission.”

“I have my moments sometimes,” Anthony responded meekly. It was probably a little embarrassing. “Thanks for coming to my rescue though. Nice of ya.”

“I would hardly call dis a rescue,” the demon took his hand back, much to Anthony’s disappointment. His eyes seemed to be extra tired now and his voice slipping. “We talked about dis. You were right I wouldn’t like it if you died like dis.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m glad you didn’t do it.” The static of his voice was flickering in an out, like he was forgetting about it. Anthony didn’t comment on it, Alastor just must have been so tired. It made him feel a little bad for dragging him all the way here.

“Yeah well. Me too, now,” the human said softly, and it made Alastor’s face relax. His hand reached out again, this time latching onto Anthony’s biceps and tugging slightly. Anthony could only imagine it meant it was time to cuddle, so he slowly inched closer until the hand reached for the back of his head and gently pushed him against Alastor’s chest again.

“Ça c’est bon,” he heard the demon say, no static, no interference, just human voice slipping out while his eyes closed slowly, and Anthony held his breath for a while to not break this ambience. Alastor’s breathing evened and the room got swallowed by untypical silence, free of any static whatsoever.

***

2020, 1st

Anthony wasn’t sure what woke him up. When he opened his eyes, there was nothing pressing that wanted his attention. The phone was silent, nobody screamed outside, his neighbours were probably still away or passed out in the bathroom, so it was only normal silence and evened breathing.

It took him about a minute before he realized the breathing wasn’t just his, but Alastor’s, who had his face buried in Anthony’s chest, arms locked possessively around Anthony’s waist like a body pillow, sleeping deeply. Normally it would be the demon who was up first, but the New Year’s toll must have drained him enough for the morning not having any power over it.

It made Anthony smile though – for a guy who seemed to be not that big on touching he was pretty cuddly when it was his initiative. He risked his luck and gently raked his fingers through the red hair and damn, it was fluffy as fuck, what the hell? It could have a been a great example of a pet therapy, just pet this damn guy’s hair and all worries were out of the window. Not to mention it didn’t even stir the demon out of the slumber so Anthony could touch it even longer until he got to the tuffs on top of Alastor’s head. He gently touched the tips and his eyes widened – those weren’t fucking hair. Those were his ears.

“What the…?” he whispered, quickly letting go. But when Alastor still didn’t wake up, his curiosity got best of him and he touched the ears again, gently, until it suddenly flicked and Alastor hummed something and then breathed out again.

So, this guy… this guy had antlers, okay. And then he had those ears too. Like a deer? Was he a deer demon or something? Did he… did he have a deer tail too? Anthony gulped down and checked Alastor’s still sleeping face. No change.

The blanked was draped around them both, but got dragged almost as low as Alastor’s waist, so if he could just lift it… to peek… But then again, he did see him without the coat right. Wouldn’t he notice if there was a tail? Did he even ever saw him from the back? Or dared to actually look at his butt?

No, definitely not. Self-preservation won, probably.

He took a deep breath, then another. Then gently raised the blanket from above Alastor’s behind, straining his neck to see… a fucking tail, holy shit, he had the tail, alright. He let the blanket fall to squash down the urge to touch it and probably lose a hand in the process and just silently whined to himself. Damn scary and bloodthirsty demon having a cute Bambi tail and ears, how was this even fair? What was he supposed to do with that knowledge now anyway? Just stare at it longingly when Al is around?

He risked one more head pat and that made Alastor stir, if the fucking mmrrrp he did was any indication.

Holy shit. Too cute, illegal, deadly. Anthony wanted to cry.

“Mornin’,” he tried to somehow mask his exciting discovery and Alastor wiggled a little before breathing out again, apparently comfortable on top of Anthony.

“Coffee,” came out staticky-less and sleepy.

“Sure, will make ya some,” Anthony grinned, liking this clingy Alastor a ton. “Black, right?”

“Mmm.”

“Okie,” he tried to sit down but Alastor didn’t move an inch. If anything, he just clamped on his waist harder. “Al... if ya wanna coffee, ya gotta lemme go.”

“No leave, just coffee,” came a muffled reply and Anthony had to bite on his fist to stop himself from making an embarrassing squeal. This KO move was too powerful, so he remained lying on his back for a while longer that seemed to be enough for Alastor to fall asleep again.

It was a sin, to dislodge from that kind of hold and leave Alastor alone in the bed, but he was going to hell anyway, and thankfully the sleep made the hold lax and Anthony was free in a second. He looked the scene over once more, gulped down another squeal and tiptoed to the bathroom to clean himself up a little, then to kitchen to make the requested coffee. Maybe if Al was still asleep by the time he’d get back, he could still sneak back to the bed and act like he didn’t leave at all?

***

He couldn’t sneak back. The absence of warmth was what probably woke Alastor up eventually before Anthony was even done boiling water, and he felt a little guilty for it, since Alastor obviously needed the rest and could have slept much longer if Anthony didn’t crawl out (maybe, it wasn’t one hundred percent adamant theory).

But he appeared in the kitchen already in his coat and looking surprisingly prim and tidy and not dishevelled at all, even though he should have because Anthony might have messed up his hair a lot more than he thought.

“Aw, you woke up,” Anthony greeted him with a smile. “Didn’t even managed to finish the coffee.”

“It is the thought that counts, dear!” Alastor replied cheerily and aw, the static was back and the prim voice too. Guess he only slipped when really tired, but it was adorable anyway.

“Slept well?” he turned around, watching Alastor fiddling with the radio to get some tunes out and then sitting at the table properly. He looked composed, the dark circles under his eyes much less prominent, his posture straight again.

“Quite well indeed,” the demon nodded, and it actually sounded sincere. “I see you are also feeling better?”

“Yeah, feelin’ great, thanks.” Anthony didn’t even lie. Yesterday was a whack, one of the really bad days and his psyche was on verge of breaking, but Alastor’s presence literally turned his frown into a smile and that counted for something. Sure, maybe it was just endorphins talking, but it was legit.

“Now, I have a question for you,” Alastor thrummed his claws against the table and Anthony froze a little. Was he going to get scolded for touching the ears? Or seeing the tail? Was he awake after all?

“Sure, shoot,” he gulped down the nervousness while fiddling with the black cup Alastor used before, waiting for the verdict.

“Yesterday, you mentioned my shadow,” thankfully nothing about touching the untouchables, “that it came here instead of me one night.”

“Yeah, through the radio,” the human pointed at the device on top of the counter. “Made me cook dinner for myself, then refused to let me eat it.”

By sitting on his damn lap, by the way, but it wasn’t something Alastor wanted to hear. He probably knew anyway but better letting sleeping dogs lie.

“How uncouth of him,” Alastor commented and the tapping got faster. “But other than that. No problems?”

“None whatsoever, except of scaring the shit out of me at first,” Anthony shrugged, and the water finally boiled. “It’s fine if ya wanna send him over instead though, on busy days or something. I mean obviously I prefer the real thing, but ya know. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

The tapping stopped.

“Noted,” Alastor finally said. “Then if you find it amendable, it may sometimes happen. Not often, but as we both know by now, Hell is unpredictable.”

“So is life,” Anthony reminded him and suppressed the shiver running down his spine when he recalled last night. No, not thinking about that now. Happy thoughts. Deer ears and tails. Fluffy, fluffy ears and a tail.

“Very true,” Alastor agreed and thanked him when Anthony put the cup of coffee on the table right in front of him.

If somebody asked what his favourite start of a New year was, he would definitely say 2020 with Alastor drinking his coffee and the knowledge that under that well-tailored coat was a cute furry Bambi tail.

#hazbin hotel #radiodust #alastor x angel dust #AU #The Deal series #human!Angel Dust

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prorevenge · 5 years ago

Text

The time I got my manager a promotion so he quit

I am going to have to be a little vague on some details to protect myself here so I can't discuss the type of business etc so its going to be a struggle.

This is a lot of background to explain the kind of situation that developed over a decade, a place that was once truly fun to work at and easy to earn a bit of extra overtime became a dog eat dog struggle to survive, the low level peons like me were split between those who felt disenfranchised and hated by the management, those that were basically looking for an escape route, and that group of snakes who would smile to your face and act sympathetic to your situation before sneaking away to inform the managers of anything they had learned which might have value.

We were in a specific area of the business that was isolated and slowly being replaced by technology, so from over a thousand in our building it dropped to just around 250 when I left. Most of this was done through voluntary redundancy but the mangers were given incentive to fire as many as possible to save money on VR, and since manager jobs were also slowly being cut they were desperate to fire as many as possible but most were incapable of following procedure.

Mike was that intelligent and brutal kind of manager who like the others had been promoted into the position, but knowing he wouldn't get trained officially took it upon himself to become competent. The man had gotten dozens of people fired directly and more indirectly by helping less competent managers follow the correct procedure.

A certain quantity of work at a certain level of quality was required, which everyone met. Yet they had a bottom and top 10 list and if you were on the bottom 10 list your job was on the line regardless if you met the basic requirements. Since there was always a bottom 10 by definition, there were always 10 people on the firing line. This might be vague but it has to be.

Mike's team was a sort of clearing house for the bottom 10, we were shifted between shifts and teams for various reasons but what I quickly learned is that somehow the shifts bottom 10 were all on Mike's team. Now my performance was consistently in the top 10 so I was safe on that count but my attendance was low due to health issues and my attitude was really bad. I also learned that the rest of the team was made up of people who weren't low in performance but had low attendance and attitude problems just like me, and we had all been on the chopping block by managers who failed to follow procedure.

In short Mike was the executioner of the workforce, the most vulnerable to being fired were shifted around to his team so he could succeed where the others had failed. Sooner or later my time came, my health caused a series of absences while I had hospitalizations and Mike pounced into action. In the space of a year he made 7 attempts to fire me and each time I involved HR who stepped in and protected me.

I approached HR to make a case that what was happening was wrong, not just to me but to everyone. I made the case that the situation of Mike being the executioner created a hostile work environment and the fact that I had gotten his attempts to fire me thrown out proved that he was not only hostile but was actively toxic. That it was against the law to discriminate on age/disability and a myriad of other arguments.

I was told that there was nothing they could do, Mike was untouchable and had the full support of the upper management in our building because he was saving a lot of money in voluntary redundancy payouts by firing the vulnerable. Legally there might be a case but it would have to go through a court system and not through HR unless I had an example of him being hostile and abusive.

The person I spoke to was very sympathetic and he suggested I look into some things related to job opportunities that were coming up, he mentioned that many of them were managerial positions because a new type of roaming manager had been introduced. These were very needed and weren't getting much interest, think substitute teacher where a manager gets sent all around the country at the drop of a hat.

It didn't occur to me instantly but weeks later as I sat at work listening to Mike talk about his family it clicked into place and my plan began to take form. Instead of making a complaint I gave a glowing review and had several others do the same. If we couldn't get the man fired for his actions, we could get him promoted into a job that he couldn't take.

The managers in our area were not even being considered for transfers because they lacked the training and qualifications to be managers anywhere else, our reviews might just push him over the line into getting a promotion, and since roaming managers were being sought the two should dovetail nicely.

We didn't give the reviews to our management but directly higher up the food chain, way above anyone that ever dealt with our area of the business. Each of us mentioned that Mike had done an amazing job at sorting out problems etc, had great managerial skills and an in depth knowledge of procedure.

Then we sat back and waited, a few months went by with nothing happening and I thought the attempt had failed but then we came in to Mike losing his mind, he was shouting at the shift manager (his boss) about how he wasn't being given a choice.

Turns out the higher management had gotten our reviews, looked into his record and decided he was a perfect fit for the roaming manager position and since they were in the process of getting rid of managers in our area they insisted that Mike be pushed into it.

Mike had of course tried to refuse the promotion as was his right, but the higher management had made it a choice of accept the promotion or be demoted back to peon. Mike had a family and couldn't just uproot them whenever the company needed him elsewhere, and a demotion with a pay cut back into the workforce of people who despised him and that were slowly being culled was just as bad.

So he asked for voluntary redundancy instead, and was accepted. His last day he went berserk shouting and swearing about how badly the company had treated him after "all he had done", I was unfortunately absent for it but got a play by play and loved every second of it.

Since I was told explicitly that I couldn't get him punished or fired, I got him a promotion he couldn't accept instead.

(source) story by (/u/locusness)

#prorevenge #by /u/locusness #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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sleepless-in-starbucks · 5 years ago

Text

Falling for You has Never been So Literal

Ao3 link

Summary: Virgil's too gay for this shit. He's outie. (Or Virgil saw a hottie. What's he supposed to do? Stay conscious? Unrealistic) Warnings: Fainting, gay too much, swearing, breaking promises (but in the best way possible don’t worry) Parings: Romantic sleepxiety, platonic prinxiety

Inspired by @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors being just Too Gay and also fueling my inability to not write Too Gay

It had been a long day. Nothing new, of course- it was retail. What did Virgil expect? To be shown basic human decency? Unrealistic.

His shift only had an hour left to it, however, and Virgil was just hoping that his next customers could not be dicks. Was that too much to ask?

Speaking of demons, Virgil heard the sound of clicking approaching his stand, a lovely little spot shoved near one of the back corners of the store. There wasn't much to actually purchase here, so if someone was coming, it was almost definitely a customer approaching.

Mental fingers crossed for some very basic interaction that did not involve asking him to lower prices or any other crappy thing someone could come up with, Virgil ducked his head and waited for the customer to start handing over their soon-to-be purchases. A little awkward, yes, but what could he say? He wasn't a big fan of eye contact.

"I hope you found everything to your satisfaction." Virgil mumbled. Company policy to ask. He thought it was a little stupid, given customers who had a problem had a tendency to just tell you that, but it was still policy, and Virgil still didn't want to be fired just yet.

"Everything was just fine, darlin', thanks for asking." The customer replied as Virgil scanned through their purchases. Mostly just coffee beans and a few bottles of nail polish.

"That's good." Virgil said back, slightly more cognizant of the conversation. Responding wasn't strictly required, but it was preferred. And, well, he wasn't just going to say the customer had a nice voice, that would be weird, but, well... he was definitely thinking it.

Caught up in his totally not gay thoughts, Virgil finished the bagging automatically, pushing the groceries to the side as he punched in a few more things on the register. Finally, he actually looked up at the customer, about to ask how they planned on paying today.

His voice dried up in his throat before he even had the chance to use it, however, which probably had something to do with the fact that idling at his station was arguably the prettiest man he had ever seen.

The customer, aka Hottie McHottieFace, was sporting the absolutely most basic jeans, shirt, and (leather) jacket combo Virgil had ever seen, but it looked very, very good on him. Sunglasses were criminally hiding eyes that Virgil was relatively sure would kill him if he saw them, and his dark brown hair was pulled into a braid over his shoulder.

Worst of all, the customer was smirking at Virgil, intent probably harmless, but the consequences most certainly not.

Virgil wasn't sure how long he stood there, wordlessly gaping, face steadily turning into a cherry, but eventually the customer asked, voice teasing, "See somethin' you like, hun?"

Words, that's right, Virgil had to say words while looking at someone or it was rude. But upon moving his mouth, Virgil found that was apparently not a thing he could do anymore. He was fairly sure he was making some noises, but they were definitely not building themselves into any thing understandable

The whole 'clearly trying to speak and failing' thing wasn't going unnoticed by Hottie McHottieFace, who propped their sunglasses up with a frown and oh Virgil is not making it out of this alive, not when those sparkling green eyes were watching him, even if they were looking very concerned.

"Hey, uh... are you alright?" The customer asked, and Virgil would have loved to tell them absolutely not, please either leave or hold me, but then he reached over the counter to lightly place a hand on Virgil's arm, seemingly worried Virgil was going to fall over, and that was it. Virgil was out.

Virgil didn't completely remember how he went from standing and dying at his stand to lying, assumedly dead, on the floor, but he did remember the cause of it.

He reached a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, groaning. Great. Super. Couldn't wait to explain this to his boss. 'Fainted because of gay.' He should get himself a sign. 'If you're cute do not shop here, please and thank you, the cashier is liable to fainting like an absolute fool if you do.'

"You up, babes?"

Oh. Virgil knew that voice.

Was it possible to faint again if you were already on the ground?

Instead of doing that, Virgil settled for shooting up like he had heard free money was being handed out. More black spots danced across his vision the minute he did that, something he really should have seen coming, but it was already pretty clear his brain was functioning on 'fried-by-the-gay' mode, and his common sense was severely lacking.

"Woahhhh, let's slow down there." Hottie McHottieFace said, gently pushing against Virgil's chest to get him to lie back down, as if he had already forgotten the exact reason why Virgil fainted in the first place. Hottie smirked. "I know I sound like an angel, but I really don't want to see you have another fainting spell. Especially considering you've already stuck me here for five minutes with your first one."

Virgil cringed a little at that, going to apologize, but Hottie waved him off before he could even open his mouth.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I'm not 'stuck' here." He said, smirk turning into more of a genuine smile. "I just figured it was pretty bad manners to just leave you." The smile turned smug once more, "I apologize also for the angel bit. I know I sound like one, but it really isn't fair to say that without pointing out you look like one."

Dead.

Virgil was dead.

Right?

This simply could not be real.

Grasping for literally anything he could use to stop the blush that was beginning to regrow across his face, Virgil finally noticed that Hottie, who was sitting next to him so that he didn't have to sit up to see him, was now only sporting his jeans and shirt.

"J-jacket." Virgil said. He hoped it sounded like a question. He also hoped Hottie just didn't hear him, because if his first words to him after all of this was 'jacket' he might as well just die of embarrassment right now.

Hottie raised an eyebrow, however, looking confused for a second before realizing what Virgil meant. "Where's my jacket?" He asked in confirmation, and Virgil nodded. Hottie's smirk only grew. "Did you think you were laying on a bag of flour, or...?"

Now it was Virgil's turn to look confused. Laying on... oh, there was something under his head.

Oh.

Kill him now. Please.

"Oh, good. Your processing skills are still intact." Hottie pointed out helpfully, glancing off towards a different end of the store. "Your boss said that was a thing I should keep track of, or something." Hottie glanced back at Virgil. "He's worried you gave yourself a concussion."

The salty part of Virgil would have loved to inform Hottie if anyone had given him a concussion, it would have been Hottie himself, since Virgil certainly hadn't planned for it. But the salty part was still barred by the fact he was currently working with one word per minute speaking wise.

"EMTs got called, too." Hottie added. "I mean, I assume you already saw that coming, but a head's up probably can't hurt."

Shit. Other people. If anything was going to stop him from being 100% a flustered mess, it would be the thought of having to interact with people he preferred not to tell the exact cause of his fainting spell.

Of course, he was still going to be roughly 94% flustered, but it was something.

Virgil moved to sit up, slowly this time, still gaining a very worried look from Hottie that he waved off. "I'm fine." He said, and his voice sounded like he had been screaming for an hour, but it was working, and that was pretty good if he did say so himself.

"Uh huh." Hottie said, disbelievingly, even as Virgil managed to get himself into a sitting position without falling back over. "Just be careful. I think your boss is going to kill me if he finds you fainted. Again."

"Why would he kill you?"

Hottie shrugged. "Beats me, sugar, but he seems to think I sabotaged your ability to remain awake. Don't know why, though, since that's a little ridiculous sounding, don't ya think?"

Ridiculous sounding, yes. Accurate? Also yes.

Virgil coughed. "Uh. Yeah. Ridiculous."

Luckily, Hottie didn't seem to pick up on his obvious bluff, holding out his hand instead. "Remy. Remy Starbucks."

Virgil raised an eyebrow as he took the hand. "Virgil. Is your last name really...?"

Remy laughed, and Virgil had to focus very hard on the fact that EMTs would be coming soon and he could absolutely not be flustered again, because Remy laughing was... nice just leave it at nice Virgil, damnit, if you start waxing poetic about him you're never going to stop looking flustered for the rest of your life.

"Nah, babes." Remy said as he released Virgil's hand, sitting back. "While it has been a spectacular ten minutes with you, you have spent half of them doing a very good impression of me without my coffee, and the other half mostly failing to speak. I'm not supposed to just hand out my last name to every good looking stranger I meet, now am I?"

Virgil fought down the sudden urge to give Remy his last name. He was 100% certain it wasn't nearly as sly of a move as he thought it was... but it would be a move.

Virgil was saved from making a decision on just how disastrous he wanted to be by the sound of someone approaching, quickly followed by his manager coming up behind Remy. He crouched down when he actually got to them, offering Virgil a bottle of water he readily accepted. "How are you feeling?"

Virgil shrugged as he drank the water. "Fine."

His manger frowned. "Yeah. That's why you fainted. You just felt too fine."

No, I fainted because the customer was too fine. Virgil thought in annoyance. Get your facts right.

"Listen, I am fine." Virgil repeated. "I just..." He glanced over at Remy, who was apparently also interested in the reason behind him fainting. "Just, uh... tired."

"You were tired?" His managed replied.

Virgil nodded his head as seriously as he could. "Just didn't get enough sleep last night, I guess." He said, hoping the lie wouldn't be too obvious. Probably helped his case he always looked tired, at least.

His manager didn't look entirely impressed, but it was deemed good enough. "Alright. Well, you still have to wait for the EMTs to make sure you don't have any serious head injuries from your fall, but assuming they clear you, consider your shift off for the day. Actually, take tomorrow too." The manager threw in. "Take a nap. I can't have my employees fainting on me become a common thing."

Virgil gave him a mostly sarcastic salute as his manager stood back up, glancing towards the nearest doors as the sound of sirens approached. "I'm going to go grab them." He said, heading off once more.

Remy watched him run off before turning back to Virgil. "So, can I assume you've got this all under control?" He asked, adding, "Under control as in you don't need random customer who's done nothing but sit around and be snarky to stick around?"

"You don't have to stay, no." Virgil answered, immediately panicking barely a second after the words were out of his mouth, rushing to continue with, "But, uh, my manager might, um, want to give you something as thanks for, y'know, sitting next to me." He said, angrily fighting off his once-more rising blush.

"Yeah. I'm sure that's the only reason I should stay." Remy said, voice lilting and wow here Virgil was, a dumbass, really thinking he really had a chance to survive this experience when he had a million dumb gay brain cells. "But as nice as a five dollar coupon would be, I have a meeting I can't miss, so I'm 'fraid I'll have to skip it."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Virgil said, trying not to sound disappointed. "You should, uh, you should really go then. Don't want to be late or anything."

"I'm already late, doll, don't worry about that." Remy said, winking at Virgil before he flipped his sunglasses back over his eyes. "Fashionably so, of course."

"Of course." Virgil echoed automatically.

Remy scooped up his bag of groceries, which had been lying next to him, and snagged his jacket from where it was sitting, folded up and at the moment useless, behind Virgil. Before standing up, however, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a receipt paper and handing it to Virgil.

"I know I'm supposed to keep that, but it was the only paper I had on me." Remy said with a smirk as he stood up. "If you really need to fulfill your cashier duties, though, well, I hear you have tomorrow off. Call me. We'll make a date of it." Remy said, blowing Virgil a kiss before turning and walking away. He stopped right before the doors, taking a moment to look back one last time and add, "Oh, and feel better, sweetie," before he was truly gone.

Virgil moved a hand to his face, unhappy but not in the least surprised to find it burning. Hand still on face, he looked down at the receipt he had been given, only to find some very swirly writing declaring the number scrawled across it to be Remy's. Virgil didn't know how, but somehow his face got even warmer.

Virgil was still busy trying not to die when he heard a group approaching, glancing over at the doors to see his manager returning with two EMTs. Stuffing the receipt in his pocket, he tried to look as alright as he claimed.

He considered it quite rude the first thing they mentioned was how red he looked.

Twenty minutes later and too many questions about why he had fainted (complete with one of the EMTs asking him suspiciously if being tired was all that had caused it in a tone Virgil didn't care very much for) and Virgil was finally free to go home.

Well. Free to go home as soon as someone picked him up, since apparently being tired enough to faint at random posed a serious risk to his driving ability and he wasn't allowed to do that. He was tempted to just drive home anyways, but his manager apparently didn't want anymore liabilities on his watch, and had helpfully taken Virgil's keys away.

So he was waiting.

Eventually, after ten minutes that had felt like forever, a car pulled up to the curb in front of the store, stopping in front of him. Even if he didn't already know what his roommate's car looked like, the Disney stickers plastered over literally every surface of it was all the identification Virgil needed.

He pulled open the passenger door and slumped into the seat, not surprised to find the Frozen soundtrack playing. After a minute where the car didn't start moving, Virgil glanced at Roman in annoyance.

"Are you going to go?"

"Not until you buckle-up, buttercup." Roman replied, sing-song.

Virgil sneered. "Why?"

"So I don't get a ticket just because you're lazy and angsty." Roman replied. "And don't say you're not being angsty, because I just know you were about to say you're not going to do anything that'll increase your chances of remaining in this 'dark, joyless world.'" Roman said the last bit much more dramatically than Virgil felt he had to, leaning back and putting the back of his hand to his forehead with a melodramatic sigh.

"I don't talk like that." Virgil said defensively.

"No, you just say those words." Roman agreed. "But not with nearly enough emotion. I'm just trying to make you seem exciting."

"That goes against everything I stand for."

"Just put on your seatbelt."

Virgil grumbled some more, but he did as requested, happy when Roman actually started them moving. For a few minutes, everything was fine, Roman's music a little loud but Virgil having long since learned that trying to turn it down only resulted in Roman singing it louder.

When Roman reached out and turned it down, however, Virgil knew he was in for twenty questions, a game he really didn't want to play when the final answer was 'fainted out of gay.' Roman would literally never let it go.

"So." Roman started, trying to sound casually conversational and failing entirely. "You fainted."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Fuck you, Watson." Roman replied before pushing on, "You don't do that a lot."

"Thank you, Capt' Obvious."

Roman rolled his eyes. "I just wanted to ask why, Fainting Beauty."

Virgil shrugged non-committedly. "'Tired."

Roman side-eyed Virgil. "You don't faint when you get tired, though. You get more and more grumpy until someone wrestles you to bed." Roman said, only speaking a little (read: a lot) from experience. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. "Which means you're lying about why you fainted, which means the real reason must be-"

"-Unimportant." Virgil cut him off. "Something happened, I fainted, and I don't have a concussion. End of story."

"I don't think it is." Roman said, grinning. "Come on. You know I'm not going to let this go. You might as well tell me."

Virgil glared at Roman, annoyed that he was right. Roman wouldn't drop the matter for weeks if that's what it took to figure out the real story. He sighed. "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"I swear it on my brother's grave!"

"Your brother's not dead."

"I swear it on my brother!"

"You're just going to take the name of Patton in vain like that?"

Roman huffed in annoyance. "No sense of dramatics in you at all." He complained. "I promise, alright, just spill the tea already."

Virgil hunched in on himself a bit, feeling silly as he admitted, quietly, "It was a cute guy."

"What did you say?"

Virgil cleared his throat and said again, louder, "It was a cute guy."

"I'm sorry, you're really going to have to speak up-"

"I SAID IT WAS A CUTE GUY."

Roman smirked. "Heard you the second time."

Virgil punched his arm. "Jerk."

"I know." Roman said smugly. "Now, details!!!"

"What details?" Virgil asked, annoyedly. "I saw a cute dude and I fainted because of it."

"Yeah, you swooned over him! How romantic! How magnificent! How gay!" Roman exclaimed. "You have to give! Me! The details! How cute is he? Can you see the universe in his eyes? Did he smile and you went weak at the knees? Did he introduce you to a world you didn't know existed?!"

"Our interaction lasted for, like, ten minutes Roman." Virgil pointed out in exasperation. "And I was busy being gay-dead for five minutes of that."

"Five minutes conscious is all you need to fall hopelessly in love." Roman assured him.

"I did not fall 'hopelessly in love' with him."

"Surrrrrrrrre." Roman drawled. "At least tell me you got totally-your-true-love's name?"

"Yes...?"

"Perfect!" Roman said excitedly. "Now you just keep an eye out for him, ask other cashiers to look for him, all that, and eventually, when you find him again, with my careful wingmanning we will get you the best second-meet-cute that can be artificially created!"

"That sounds really excessive and borderline creepy." Virgil pointed out.

Roman pouted. "Well how do you propose we get you and your soulmate properly matched together, then?"

"Well, I could just call him." Virgil responded, so caught up in being snarky that he forgot that sometimes, keeping secrets was helpful.

Roman squealed loud enough Virgil thought he was going to go deaf and, yeah, this was one of those times. "YOU HAVE HIS NUMBER?!"

"Yeah, I do." Virgil confirmed as he snapped next to his ear, a little relieved to find his hearing was, in fact, intact.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?!" Roman exclaimed, much too loudly for the confined space. "You have to call him right now!!"

"I think I will not do that." Virgil responded. "Not with you in the car, anyways."

"Why ever not?!"

"Because you'll take the phone from my hand and set us up before I have a chance to say so much as 'hi.'"

"Blasphemy!" Virgil looked at Roman, unimpressed. Roman sighed. "Alright, maybe a little accurate." Pause. "Alright a LOT accurate. But still! You have to at least text him!"

"And why do I have to do that?"

"So you can be together and have literally the cutest getting together story ever. Duh." Roman responded like it was obvious.

"Invalid reason."

"And why's that?"

"Because you're the only one who knows about this." Virgil answered. "And you are never, ever going to tell anyone else that's why I fainted."

Roman looked scandalized at this new information. "But Virgil!"

"Nope. No buts." Virgil cut him off before he could say more. "You are not telling or so help me I will throw his number right out the window."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me, bitch." Virgil threatened. He left out the fact that the number was already saved in his phone, Remy's contact name stereotypically followed with a heart.

Roman sighed. "You live to torture me." He bemoaned. "But fine. If you promise to actually text him and at least schedule one date, I'll keep your gay secret."

"For real? And for ever?" Virgil checked. "This better not come up later, Princey."

"For ever and ever." Roman said with a flourish of his hand. "And if I so break your trust, you can dump him and blame me."

Virgil knew the promise was good. If there was anything more important to Roman than sharing embarrassing gay moments, it was actively supporting the gays in his life. "Deal."

"Magnificent!" Roman said. "Now, go be a dear and get! That! Boy!"

Virgil smirked. "We're already having lunch tomorrow."

"You already set up a date?!?! And you used having a date as blackmail against me?!?!"

"Yep."

"Touché, sir, touché." Roman said, before grinning mischievously. "You know I'm going to get you back for that, right?"

"I'd expect nothing less from you." Virgil replied. "Hence the whole protecting my secret first thing."

"Oh, don't worry Virgil." Roman assured him. "I'll figure something out."

And with that slightly ominous warning, Roman turned the music back up, immediately jumping into singing, the Frozen soundtrack having moved into Little Mermaid.

Virgil tried not to take it to heart that the song now playing was "Poor Unfortunate Souls."

~Time skip of roughly a year and a half~

Virgil was starting to have some doubts about making Roman best man.

It wasn't like he really had a choice- Roman was his closest friend, and given Roman refused to drop the idea he had, in some way, been a deciding factor in keeping Virgil and Remy's relationship going, Virgil doubted Roman would have even allowed himself to be anything other than best man.

But looking at Roman now, Virgil was almost certain he was up to some sort of trickery, and Virgil was pretty sure it was going to be very, very bad for him.

He had been nothing short of perfect throughout most of the ceremony, making sure everyone was in their places, showing people to their seats even though there was an usher, worrying over everything at a level to rival Virgil's worry. You almost would have thought it was Roman's wedding.

But now it was the after party, Virgil still mouthing the word 'husband' to himself over and over like it was unreal, and Roman was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Virgil didn't know what he was planning, but he was planning something. Virgil was almost tempted to demand answers from him, but before he could properly work up the energy to stand up and move in a direction that didn't bring him closer to Remy, Roman was standing at the front of the room, tapping a mic to get everyone's attention. Apparently it was time for the best man's speech.

"Hello guys, gals, and non-binary pals!" He said, loudly, proudly, dramatically. "For those who have lived their lives in shameful ignorance of true talent and beauty, I'm Roman, and I will be the most entertaining part of your evening."

"Rude." Virgil murmured to Remy, who just chuckled.

"You knew this would happen."

"Doesn't make it less rude."

"I can hear the criticism from here." Roman said, once more gaining the grooms' attention. "Though I may, for exactly once in my entire life, deserve it."

"The best present you could have gotten us: a little, tiny bit of humility." Virgil called back, the crowd of guests laughing.

Roman shrugged, grinning. "What can I say? I, of all people, am not blind to neither love nor beauty. And it would be a crime against both to not acknowledge that the true show-stopper of this evening, this day, and likely this entire week will be our two handsome new husbands." He said, sincere. "They are, honestly, the cutest couple I have ever known."

The crowd 'awwwwwww'-ed at this, turning to clap once more at the newly weds. Remy happily took the excuse to wrap an arm around Virgil's shoulders, pulling him closer.

Virgil smiled around his blush. Turns out not even more than a year's worth of dating could change the fact that Remy was the finest man Virgil had ever seen, or cure his Gay. Virgil was just content with the fact he hadn't fainted while they exchanged vows.

"And speaking of cute, every good couple has an amazing meet-cute." Roman continued, his grin turning mischievous, and suddenly Virgil realized exactly what his plan was. "And with our lovely couple here, well, rest assured when I tell you they have the cutest meet cute. Care to hear it?" He asked the guests.

The crowd cheered him onwards, giving Roman time to glance at Virgil, who was desperately trying to telepathically send Roman death threats if he continued onwards. Roman just winked at him.

"I'll take that as a yes." Roman said, turning his attention back to the crowd. Virgil groaned and turned to stuff his face in Remy's side.

"Kill me now."

"You're gonna have to speak up, sweetheart." Remy said, the arm around Virgil's shoulder shifting a little to comb through Virgil's hair while still holding him. "Despite common belief, my ears are not located in my sides."

Virgil moved his head just enough to put his mouth in the air, his voice not muffled this time as he said, "Kill me now."

"But I just got married to you!"

"Roman hates our love."

"How so?" Remy asked, still amused. "I know how we met, darling, I was there."

"You don't though." Virgil moaned.

Remy raised an eyebrow, something Virgil could actually see since Remy had agreed that, for their wedding, he could briefly lose the shades. "Maybe I should listen in, then, huh?" Remy teased, and before Virgil could beg him no please do NOT you'll kill me on our wedding day and that would suck, his husband had kissed him and turned his attention to Roman.

Unfair, Virgil considered in silence, that Remy could still fluster him into silence with something as simple as a kiss.

"Most of you know that Virgil and Remy met in the most romantic place possible: a grocery store." Roman's voice fell flat for a moment before he went back to sounding excited, "And they were brought together by the magic of Virgil fainting. Though the swooning was most certainly romantic, the fact that he fell onto the floor instead of into Remy's arms was a fairly huge detriment to their cute points.

"But there is a very important part of this story that you, my fine folks, are missing out on, an overlook that cannot be allowed to stand. The reason behind Virgil's fainting spell was not caused by common sleep-deprivation, as he claimed. The real reason behind it all was..." Roman paused, dramatics winning out over his desire to say it as quickly as possible, and Virgil went back to hiding his face in Remy's side as if that would block out Roman finishing his sentence with, "being too gay to function."

There was an oooh from the crowd, and Roman nodded in faux sympathy. "It's true! Virgil, poor, sweet, incredibly gay Virgil saw the absolutely stunner that is Remy and found not a single one of his brain cells could cope." Roman smirked. "Though he did walk away from it with pretty boy's number in hand, so maybe he's got more game than all of us combined."

"Got married faster too!" Remy called out, and Virgil wasn't sure if he was going to die of embarrassment or if he was going to die of love for Remy.

Was both an option? Maybe he'd go with both.

Roman's grin just grew as he pointed at Remy. "That he did, sir! That he did!"

Roman let the guests stop laughing again before he continued, "Now, I wish to assure you all that if I wanted to make this a good ol' fashioned best man speech, I could. If you think the dude who met his husband through gay fainting doesn't have more embarrassing stories to be told, you've never met Virgil. I could sit up here for another five minutes and go on til the cows came home.

"But, I do have a little pity for my former roommate, and given that I haven't seen his face for a full minute, I'm thinking he's already as embarrassed as I need to make him to fulfill my job as best man, so I think I'll cut him a little slack and stop it here." Roman said, laughing at the disappointed sigh from the crowd. "I'm sorry to leave you unsatisfied, but I'm not here to make dear Virgil's wedding day his funeral as well."

Too late for that. Virgil thought bitterly. Very much too late for that.

"So with that in mind, I'd like to propose a toast!" Roman said, grabbing his glass from where it had been sitting on the table in front of him, raising into the air. "To Virgil, the gay that went all in on the 'gay disaster' aesthetic, and made out incredibly successfully!"

The guests raised their glasses, echoing the chant exactly, as if they were all there not to see Virgil wed but to have a hand in his murder. Virgil was fairly certain Remy joined in as well, which was complete betrayal on his husband's part if he did say so himself.

The noise died for a brief moment, everyone silenced with their drinks, and when it came back it was quieter, murmurs around the room. Virgil still stubbornly refused to remove his face from the safety of Remy's side, however, only scooting closer when his husband tried to pull away and reveal him.

A pair of footsteps approached them a moment later, Virgil able to discern them from the crowd only because he was good at hearing traitors. They stopped in front of him and Remy, their traitorous cause laughing.

"Aww, did I get him that bad?" Roman asked Remy.

"He doesn't want to show his face." Remy answered, ignoring the muffled gasp Virgil gave when Remy dared to positively interact with the betrayer. "Which is unfair given I'm sure he looks adorable just about now."

Remy just chuckled when Virgil mad angry noises into his shirt. "I can't hear you, babes."

Virgil continued his angry mumbles without an attempt to explain them.

"He really is cute, ain't he?" Roman agreed. Virgil made an extra loud angry noise.

"And so angry." Roman added, voice still teasing.

In pure annoyance, Virgil tilted his head up just enough to free his mouth, muttering to Remy, "Throw a fork at him."

There was a slight clang noise and than an 'ouch!' from Roman. "What'd you do that for?!"

Remy's shoulders moved as he shrugged, and Virgil smirked, "It was requested by the cutest person in the world."

Virgil finally pulled away from Remy at this, openly gaping at Remy as he hit his arm. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"And I am!" Remy assured him, arms shooting out to grab Virgil's hands before he could get them away. He pulled them close to him, lifting Virgil's left so he could plant a kiss over Virgil's new, shiny ring. "But that doesn't change the fact that you are, inarguably, the cutest most amazing man I have ever met, and I refuse to remain silent about this fact for even a second, love."

Virgil's face turned red so fact he was surprised his hair didn't literally start to smoke. "I hate you." He mumbled, though any heat to it was busy turning his cheeks redder than roses.

"Bullshit." Remy said happily.

"Gaaaaaaay." Roman helpfully commentated, gaining a glare from Virgil and an amused look from Remy.

"Enjoy it." Virgil bit at him. "This will be your last chance to see me gay and happy."

"And why's that?" Roman asked with a smug grin.

"Because I'm going to die of embarrassment in five minutes." Virgil said solemnly. "Now that not only everyone, but also my husband, knows I am a weak, useless gay in every single way, I have no choice but to perish."

"Babes, I can tell this is heartbreaking for you, so I'm not one hundred percent sure how to tell ya this..." Remy paused for a moment, mouth quirking into a smile when Virgil looked distrustfully at him. "Well you weren't exactly subtle about it."

"No." Virgil said instinctively.

Remy nodded sadly. "Yep."

Virgil blinked at him a few times, ignoring Roman's barely withheld laughter, before saying, "Change of plans. I'm going to die one year and many months ago, after I fainted. Saves me a lot of trouble."

"Nooooooo." Remy whined. "No dying. I just married you. You're not allowed to die on the day of our wedding. Or to time travel to your death on the day of our wedding."

"Unfair. And I thought you loved me."

"It's because I love you and your cute, adorably weak gay heart that I refuse to let you die."

"You're too sweet." Virgil complained, leaning forward to kiss Remy before resting his forehead against his. "Which is why I hate to tell you that if I'm not allowed to die, I have to divorce you."

"You can't blackmail into letting you die."

"This isn't about blackmail." Virgil told him, turning to glare at Roman. "This is about Roman breaking his promise to never tell. I told him if he ever broke the promise I'd break up with you. And I have to be a weak gay of my promises. If you have a problem with this, I invite you to throw more forks at Roman."

Remy picked up another fork from the table, raised it, and aimed it. Roman turned away defensively, waiting for the projectile to hit…

But then Remy put it down.

"Nah. No problem for me, sugar." Remy said slyly, gently cradling Virgil's face with one hand and turning Virgil's gaze back towards him, smiling softly. "'Cause if you divorce me, I'll just have to chase you down, probably date you all over again, fall in love with you all over again, marry you all over again." His smile grew as he cupped Virgil's face now with two hands. "Twice the perfect memories sounds pretty good to me."

"I- You can't-" Virgil laughed, sounding a little watery, which might be because he was a few more sweet words away from crying in joy. He reached forward, wrapping one hand loosely around the back of Remy's neck and carding his fingers into the base of Remy's hair with the other, ignoring as Roman discreetly walked off. "You're going to make me faint again, Rem."

"That's alright, too." Remy assured him, scooting forward with his chair, pressing their legs together as he leaned forward to kiss Virgil properly, still smiling so softly, so adoringly, so lovingly as he pulled away and once more pressed their foreheads together, trapping them in their own little world, where all that mattered was each other, blocking out the guests and noise outside of their little bubble. "Because this time?

"I'll catch you."

#anyways turns out I'm an awful liar #because like #two days ago #I said I don't write plotless fluff #yet HERE WE ARE #what can I say?#I like the gays #the cryptid speaks #ts virgil #ts roman #ts sleep #ts remy #sleepxiety #platonic prinxiety #ts sides #sander sides #fanfic #fanfiction #violet

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bangtan-madi · 5 years ago

Text

All Of Our Lifetimes — Four: Spicy Ramen

Pairing — Taehyung x Reader

Tags — boyfriend!Taehyung, husband!Taehyung reincarnation au, lovers to strangers and to lovers again, established relationship, implied soulmate au

Genre — fluff, angst, crime (ish)

Word Count — 3.5k

Summary — Does love ever truly end, or does it simply take another form in a new life? The cycle is like clockwork: your lives end and you’re reborn again. You’ve lived it over and over. Each cycle, one of you loses your memories and is tragically unaware until the other finds and awakens their lover. After all these eons, all these lifetimes, is it possible to find each other again—even when neither of you awakens with your memories?

Part — 4 / 15

Warnings — language

A/N — Taglist has been added to the bottom of the post. It’s open for anyone who wants to be added! Comment, message, or ask and I’ll get you on there :)

Previous — Next

That night, you dream a different dream.

It's not full of death or murder, of the art museum or the crimson fountain, of fear and loss. This dream is full of new love and wishes, of magic and freedom, of Paris and the Chateau. It ends with a kiss instead of blood. It leaves you feeling rested instead of exhausted.

And it's the first time it's happened in this lifetime.

You wake, not in a cold sweat but in a hazy daze, with a tingling sensation on your lips. And despite the justifications you try to use to make sense of it all, that feeling remains there the whole morning.

It's enough to distract you for hours. From brushing your teeth to crossing the street to grabbing coffee, you're frazzled and dreamy all at once.

"Say you'll come. Say you'll run away with me."

His words echo over and over in your mind. The boy in last night's dream, though younger than you've seen him, is the exact same one as you usually see. And he's Kim Taehyung. You might've been doubting yourself before, but this time you're sure of it.

"I'll go anywhere with you."

Your resolve strengthens as you enter Big Hit HQ, scanning your employee badge to gain access to the elevator. You did make the right choice to move to Seoul, to get this job, to risk it all for answers. Half of you had started to believe you were going insane...but after that dream?

You haven't lost your mind. In fact, you're closer to having a full grasp on the truth than you've ever been.

The morning passes quickly, and eventually, you're able to muster enough focus to get some of your to-dos handled early on. The office is almost completely bare on Sunday. You weren't surprised; most of your coworkers were probably at home relaxing, enjoying their last day off before the Monday madness. But you knew this coming week was going to pick up due to Map of the Soul: 7. If you could go down the list and get ahead of the curve, you knew that future-[Y/n] would thank you by Wednesday.

What you don't expect is to have Director Hyeon pop her head into your office just as you settle back into your chair with a cup of instant noodles.

"Knock knock!" she announces cheerily, eying your lunch. "Sorry, didn't realize you'd taken lunch. I can come back—"

You shake your head and put your chopsticks down. "—No, please! What can I help you with, Director?"

"You're part of the Big Hit family now, call me Misun," she insists with a smile. "I was actually hoping I might find you here. I have a few people I want you to meet, and the baren weekend office is absolutely perfect. Can you spare a few minutes?"

"Um, sure!"

You push away from your desk and follow the petite woman to the common area down the hall. It's a space with cafeteria tables, lounge chairs, and a full kitchen for staff to use on their breaks. Usually, it's packed full of people for the two hour period around which most people take their lunch. However, due to the weekend, it seems that only a handful of people are using it.

But today's handful isn't your usual coworkers. You recognize most of them, but not from work. Well, not exactly.

Your legs freeze and your eyes go wide, realizing that the entire band has decided to make themselves at home in the lounge and prep for a mid-day meal. Jin and Jungkook are puttering on the other side of the counter, searching the cabinets for pots and pans. Jimin and Taehyung are unloading a few bags worth of groceries onto the island. Namjoon is talking with two older men, whom you assume are their mangers. Hoseok and Yoongi are sitting on the bar stools at the island, laughing abut something on Hoseok's phone.

The entire group is oblivious to your entrance, but Misun waves down one of the older men and pulls him from his conversation with Namjoon. She gestures to you as he approaches.

"Sejin, this is [Y/n] [Y/l/n]," she introduces. "She's our new production assistant. [Y/n], this is Kim Sejin. He's the band's primary manager."

Sejin flashes a smile and casually bows as a greeting. "Nice to meet you, [Y/n]."

You mirror his polite gesture. "Likewise, Manager Sejin."

"I was hoping that Sejin might be able to introduce you to the boys," Misun explains. "That way you can get to know them before we start filming next week."

"I saw that on the schedule," you add. "That's for 'Run,' right?"

Misun nods. "I know it's only your second week, but it would be good for you to get a feel of the production side. No better place to do that then in the chaos that is 'Run BTS!'"

"I agree," Sejin says. "Especially since we all have to fly out on the 18th to go back to the U.S. for the Grammys and their various public appearances. Fallon, Corden, it's going to be a busy few weeks. And I just found out that a couple of the assistants we usually take are unavailable. I was hoping, if you think you're ready, you might be willing to come to America with us?"

He ends it as a question, clearly giving you the option to say no. Realizing this is the best chance to get the answers you're searching for, you smile confidently and give an assured nod.

"You can count on me. Besides, I speak both languages fluently. I could be more than just a production assistant."

"Then it's settled!" Misun claps her hands, catching the attention of some of the boys, who give various looks of intrigue. "Sejin, get everyone acquainted. Even if it's just for a half-hour if your schedule allows nothing else. I have a committee meeting to get to, so I'll leave you with that."

As Misun exits the room, Sejin nods his head towards the rest of the group, a polite smile on his face. "C'mon. I'll introduce you."

You swallow visibly, your gaze shifting from the manager to the boys in the background. Particularly to the one already looking intently your way. Curly dark hair and deep brown eyes, you'd know this particular face anywhere.

"Everyone," Sejin calls, getting the attention of the others, particularly to Jungkook and Jin who are bickering over how to properly cook ramen, "I have someone I want you to meet." He gestures to you. "This is [Y/n] [Y/l/n]. She was hired last week as a production assistant. She's going to be on-scene for tomorrow's Run filming, and she's going to come with us to the States."

He turns back to you and gestures to each of the boys in turn. "[Y/n], these are Kim Seokjin, Jeon Jungkook, Min Yoongi, Kim Namjoon, Park Jimin, Jung Hoseok, and Kim Taehyung. And the wonderful man behind them is Song Hobeom, another of the band's managers. You'll be working with him a lot as well."

Each of the boys waves politely, and some say hello aloud. They seem a bit shy and reserved, which isn't something you expected from them—if you expected anything at all.

You return the gesture, flashing a small smile and saying, "Nice to meet you all," in your best natural, Seoul dialect. God, you wanted to make a good first impression.

"Are you American?" Seokjin asks abruptly.

Jimin turns to the eldest member with wide eyes, muttering something along the lines of, "Don't be so rude." Yoongi merely rolls his eyes at his hyung, and Hoseok gives an apologetic look in your direction.

"No, it's okay," you reply, knowing that you probably were going to get this question at some point, despite your efforts. "I am. I only moved to Seoul a little over a week ago, but don't let my looks fool you. I've been speaking Korean for years."

"She's fluent in both languages," Sejin nods. "I see her being a huge help, especially to you, Namjoon."

Namjoon is the first to walk over and greet you with a wide grin, showing off his dimples in the process. He extends his hand in an American-style greeting, obviously happy to meet you half-way.

"Welcome to Seoul," he states in perfect English, his accent slightly lilted in a region you can't quite specify. "I hope we haven't put you off too badly already, but if you can forgive our—" he nods over his shoulder towards Seokjin, "—brashness, then I have to say: you and your bilingual skills are more than welcome here."

His comment makes you chuckle as you retract your hand. Seeing that everything is going well, the managers take their leave to their respective offices, telling them they need to work out a few more details for the shoot tomorrow.

Already feeling more at ease, you change your language to his as to reciprocate the same respect. "I'm sure you get pretty damn tired translating all the time."

The lilac-haired man groans and slouches his shoulders. "You have no idea!" Turning towards the group, he waves you over. "Misun mentioned something about interrupting your lunch break as she left. Jin and Jungkook make the best ramen. As an apology, join us for lunch?"

"Hope she can take the heat," Seokjin chuckles, wiggling his eyebrows. "I've found that most Americans aren't used to Korean-level spices."

You cross your arms and flash a confident look. "Is that a challenge?"

"It is if you want it to be."

Jungkook groans, "Hyung, be nice!"

At that, Seokjin merely rolls his eyes.

"Keep rolling your eyes," Yoongi chimes in with a smirk. "Maybe you'll find a brain up there."

Before the eldest can muster a sarcastic response to the next-oldest member's comment, you shake your head. "No, no, I got this. My best friend at home is Korean-American, so I basically grew up with Korean food through her. I'm used to it."

Both Jimin and Hoseok give cheers of approval, the latter pulling out a stool for you to sit on between him and Taehyung. You gladly take the chair but are off-put by Taehyung's continued silence and apprehensive aura. He continues to throw glances your way, the odd expression never quite leaving his face, though he attempts to mask it.

"She's got more balls than you when it comes to spicy food, Seokjin," Hoseok laughs.

Looking offended, Seokjin places his hands on his hips in a sassy manner. "Oh, really? I'll bet you 100,000 won that I can outdo the new girl. You and me, Jagiya: a competition of who can eat the spiciest ramen. You in?"

The other boys turn and stare expectantly in your direction, even Namjoon who is clearly apprehensive about the first impression they're giving you.

You rest your elbows on the counter and your chin on your folded hands, giving off an aura of confidence and ease. "Bring on your worst, Kim."

"Oooh, you're going to wish you hadn't said that." Seokjin grabs the large cooking spoon from the counter with a sly grin, waving it at the youngest member. "Step aside, Kookie. This is a job for Worldwise Handsome Master Chef."

Jungkook raises his hands in defeat and scurries back to the group, perching on the stool nearest the oven.

"Dear god, what have you done?" Yoongi asks.

"You've awakened the competitive monster inside Jin," Hoseok states, turning to you. "There's no stopping him now. Start praying to the Scoville gods, [Y/n]!"

Namjoon looks completely done with his members, especially Jin, as he runs a hand through his colorful hair with a groan. "Seokjin, this was supposed to be an apology for being abrasive and standoffish, now you're making things worse."

Seokjin shrugs, giving an innocent look as he begins boiling the noodles on the stove. "She, quite literally, asked for it. And who am I to deny a pretty lady what she wants?"

The youngest member, along with Jimin and Yoongi, groan at Seokjin's attempts to be suave, making you chuckle all the more.

"You're quite the charmer, aren't you?"

The brunet gives you a playful wink. "You haven't seen anything yet, Jagiya."

Taehyung shifts in his chair at Seokjin's words, and Hoseok turns to face you as pots and pans clatter in the kitchen. "Well, since he's in the middle of losing his mind, tell us a bit about yourself?"

You do just that. You share a little bit about where you're from, what you studied, your home, friends and family, interests outside of work and the like. A bit of everything is covered. Most of the group reciprocates throughout the conversation. You end up learning just as much about them as they do about you. You might've started out nervous and shy, but the more you converse and the more time you spend with them, you realize they're just normal twenty-somethings. Sure, they're famous and on another level creatively, but in the end, they're ordinary guys.

"Why are you putting the beef in the oven?" you inquire of the oldest a little while later. "There's no part of ramen that requires an oven. At least, not that I've seen."

"Because if I bake the beef with the spices, the heat goes up by a thousand!" Seokjin raises his chin triumphantly as he slides the pan into the oven. "It's my secret, and I am the chef, so don't question my genius."

Yoongi snickers, "I think we can agree there's only one true genius in this group, and that's Namjoon."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Which one of us is the only one to have a bachelor's degree and is currently working towards a master's?"

Your eyes widen. "Wow, that's actually really impressive!"

Seokjin looks like a showy bird at the compliment. "See? Impressive. I like you. You can stay."

"But you're still going to make her eat your noodles of pain?" Jimin laughs.

"Absolutely! I have my honor to protect. No going back now." He leans down to see the selections on the oven. "So, I can either bake it at 200 degrees Celcius for 10 minutes or 2000 degrees for 1 minute."

The youngest's eyes bulge with concern. "No, that's not how you use the oven."

"Floor it?"

"No!"

"How about 2,000,000 degrees for one second?"

"Kim Seokjin, you are going to burn the entire office down!"

"Relax, it won't work, you idiots."

"I'm going to harness the fucking sun to make this ramen!"

"Annnd there goes any form of a good first impression, down the drain with Seokjin's dignity."

You burst into laughter, nearly falling off your stool in the process. Taehying grabs your arm before you fall, and Hoseok stabilized your chair. Wiping the tears of laughter from your eyes, you thank them both.

"I haven't had this good of a time in a while," you giggle as Seokjin finishes the last details of the ramen.

"At least we can provide entertainment," Yoongi states sarcastically. "We're not usually this bad, I swear."

Namjoon agrees, "We're all a bit tired from New Year's Rockin' Eve and the Golden Disk Awards."

"Not to mention both before and after that has been non-stop work on the comeback," Hoseok adds.

"Even if you were, I wouldn't mind," you reply, placing your palms against your cheeks. "My face hurts from smiling and laughing for so long."

"Well get ready for another level of pain, because voila!" Seokjin slides a bowl of ramen in front of you, handing you a soup spoon and a set of chopsticks. "Get ready to hurt, [Y/n]. You're going down."

Less than half an hour later, you're beaming with pride and 100,000 won richer than before. Seokjin has raised his white flag of surrender in the form of a napkin, his face flushes scarlet from the spice. It seems he'd overdone it while trying to ensure your defeat. Needless to say, he completely underestimated your ability to eat—and enjoy, to his horror—the so-called "noodles of pain."

"Thanks for lunch, Jin!" you cheered after finishing your second helping. "That really hit the spot."

Seokjin leans against the counter and continues to press a small bag of crushed ice to his face. "You're not human."

The afternoon wraps up as the others finish their portions. Luckily for them, they'd all been given ramen made with a normal recipe instead of Seokjin's deathwish version. Manager Sejin returns after a couple of hours and tells the boys that they have to get a few more hours of practice in before the day's over.

"I need to get a couple of things wrapped up, too, so no worries," you say nonchalantly. "You guys go have fun."

"We need to do this again," Jungkook says cheerily, nodding a shy goodbye before following Sejin.

"I agree, this was a blast! Especially seeing Seokjin actually lose when it was his own cooking," Jimin chuckles. "See you tomorrow, [Y/n]!"

You wave after them, and Yoongi shakes his head as he turns to Seokjin. "You just had to go and try to show off, didn't you?"

"Shut up."

You put some new crushed ice into another bag and offer it to the oldest member with an apologetic smile. "One for the road?"

He takes it with a grateful expression, eyes soft despite the playful bickering going around. "You're all right, [Y/l/n]. You can stay."

Yoongi claps his hyung on the shoulder, nodding in agreement. "Jin's right. You sure you still want to travel with us?"

Nodding fervently, you reply, "Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

Hoseok walks towards you, arms opened slightly. "Are you okay with hugs?"

"Of course!"

Hoseok eagerly wraps his arms around your shoulders, and you can feel the infectious giddiness that fills him like sunshine personified.

"Hobiii!" Jimin calls from down the hall.

"The third-oldest pulls back, flashes a smile, then turns towards the others while shouting, "Hobi coming, Hobi coming!"

Namjoon walks over to you as Hoseok slips down the hall. The only other person still in the room is Taehyung, who lingers by the door. His eyes shift between the other member and you, a torn expression on his face. You'd be lying if you said you don't feel similarly on the inside. There will be a time to ask the questions you so desperately want answers to, but today isn't that day. It might ruin what you've created with the band, and that's the last thing you want to do.

The leader extends a hand, a piece of paper in his palm. "In case you need to get ahold of any of us, or if you just want to talk. I think I can trust you not to put these on social media."

You take the note and unravel it, seeing nine sets of telephone numbers with corresponding initials beside them. "Oh, wow! You trust me that much already?"

He nods. "We all got a good vibe from you, and Sejin says we'll need to work with you on socials and whatnot. It'd be easier to just give you our directs instead of working through him or Manager Hobeom every time, although I did include their numbers as well."

"All of you?" you clarify, eying the figure still lingering by the door, attention now on his cell phone. "I don't think he likes me very much. He hasn't said a single word to me."

Namjoon knows exactly who you're referring to, even without looking behind him. His voice lowers as he responds, "Taehyung has been dealing with a lot lately. We all have, but he's been exhausted and hasn't been sleeping well. And..."

He trails off, shaking his head. "Nevermind. My point is, don't take his reclusive behavior too seriously. Taehyung is as kind as they come, but he might take a little while to warm up to you. That's just his nature, and his resting face is pretty intimidating." Namjoon taps the piece of paper. "Maybe try texting him. He's usually pretty good about responding there. Might feel more comfortable."

You fold the paper and slide it into your pocket, giving the lilac-haired man a nod and smile. "Thanks, Namjoon. And thank you for being so open to a newcomer. I know it can't be easy, letting someone else close to such a tight-knit group."

His dimples reappear at your words of gratitude. "I don't know what it is about you, but I feel we can trust you. So don't thank me." As he turns, he glances over his shoulder and murmurs, "Give Taehyung time. He'll come around."

Heaving a sigh of relief, you nod back at him. God, you hope he's right.

When your eyes shift towards the exit, you see Taehyung slipping into the hallway ahead of Namjoon, disappearing into the dark.

Taglist — @just-call-me-trash-can

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