#literally my achilles heel its been years and years and years and they are just as hard every single time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

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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katierosefun · 4 years ago

Text

well, even though literally no one asked, am i going to do a whole analysis on how the red album is also lowkey about tcw? sure. sh, let me indulge 12/13 year old me.

state of grace:

our wonderful opening track. the lyrics “just twin fire signs / four blue eyes”—from this line alone, i think a lot about anakin and ahsoka and obi-wan, just because what color are their eyes? blue. check and mate.

but on a more serious level: “and i never saw you coming / and i’ll never be the same” speaks to how each of these characters’ lives were interrupted by the presence of the other. obi-wan certainly didn’t expect anakin to come into his life, and i doubted anakin ever expected ahsoka to come into his life.

“love is a ruthless game unless you play it good and right” and “these are the hands of fate / you’re my Achilles heel” speaks to how this whole theme of love and how both raw and burning and ruthless love can shine in this specific universe. specifically anakin’s kind of love. additionally, the idea of Achilles heel...i’ve already discussed the parallels between Achilles and anakin and don’t feel like rehashing, but it’s def. worth noting.

“this is the golden age of something good and right and real”...golden age. the war was messy and terrible and shouldn’t have ever happened, but also, i think for that brief moment, disaster lineage was at least together.

red

look me in the eye and lie to me about how this song doesn’t sum up the exhilarating rush that must have been being around someone like anakin skywalker.

“losing him was blue like i’ve ever known / missing him was dark grey all alone / forgetting him was like trying to know somebody you never met / but loving him was red”: this entire refrain is about that kind of ruthless, very fiery-seeing-red-everywhere kind of sensation that comes with love. (or, as the song alludes, a kind of dangerous love.)

and if we’re talking about dangerous kind of love—“fighting with him was like trying to solve a crossword and realizing there’s no right answer / regretting him was like wishing you never found out love could be that strong”...thinking thoughts about how there must have been all these times for the people around anakin to clash heads. bro. what even is that.

“remembering him comes in flashbacks, in echoes / told myself it’s time now, gotta let go”. ha ha. you ever think about the people who live after order 66 and wonder what the hell happened to the person they loved. ha.

treacherous

alright, time to put on the anidala hat. this song is supposed to be all about loving someone and constantly feeling like you’re sliding down a slippery slope. a treacherous path—a reckless path—and yet, and yet, “i like it”.

the whole concept of these two being put in a whirlwind romance matches perfectly with these lyrics: “i can’t decide if it’s a choice / getting swept away / i hear the sound of my own voice / asking you to stay”. this mess of a relationship that probably shouldn’t have happened, but it happened, and now the only choice for these two is to hold on...bro.

i knew you were trouble.

ohhhh god, do i need to explain how this is an anidala song or—

“i was in your sights / you got me alone / you found me”,,,the fact that anakin skywalker really looked at padmé amidala after ten years and automatically went “i love her”. a part of me will always sigh and want to pat anakin’s head that please, please, please control yourself, but what am i supposed to do anyways—

but also, the way this song also addresses all the dangerous things that come with a love that probably shouldn’t have started / shouldn’t have been born with so many secrets. the damning / basically self-loathing lyrics like “the joke is on me” and “shame on me now” is honestly kind of sad, and while i don’t think padmé ever regretted loving anakin (and i’ve covered this so many times, but i think anakin and padmé genuinely loved each other), there was def. a sense of constant danger and fear that one day, all the secrets will come tumbling out / something’s going to happen. and all that ultimately bubbles over in revenge of the sith, right when padmé looks at anakin and just doesn’t see him anymore.

all too well

tbh, this song deserves a whole long post on its own, but i’ll try to be concise. i genuinely think this could be about any of the tcw characters / tcw pairings, but because it’s my post and my obsession, i’ll discuss the disaster lineage. there’s something so quietly sad about the line “but you still got [my scarf] in your drawer, even now” and how that speaks to how obi-wan has anakin’s lightsaber / how anakin has ahsoka’s lightsaber both as himself and as ahsoka after ahsoka left the order / after order 66. the fact that you still have a piece of someone you love(d), long after they’re gone...

the fact that this song is so full of memories and longing and aching and grief over a loved relationship. thinking about the lyrics “you tell me about your past, thinking your future was me” is especially sad because while i don’t think anakin was ever completely open about his childhood / past, i like to think he must have told some stories to obi-wan and padmé and ahsoka about happier moments—and you have to wonder what kind of future anakin saw for himself with his loved ones.

“maybe this thing was a masterpiece until you tore it all up” speaks to how for a rare, rare moment, we see anakin skywalker as the hero we’re all supposed to like—and we see how it all crumbles apart so fast.

“but you keep my old scarf from that very first week / because it reminds you of innocence and it smells like me” hits especially hard when you think about how vader still has ahsoka’s lightsabers, or the fact that everything goes “back to when i loved you so / back before you lost the one real thing you’ve ever known”...thinking. a lot about anakin and how the love he felt / received from his friends were real, realer than anything that palpacreep could ever give him. it was all real, and now they’re all memories.

okay, this is just a fun song so i can’t really apply it anywhere, but i like to think there must have been a birthday somewhere along the line / some kind of happy event where there’s some chaotic tcw fam shenanigans. ditching the whole scene and “end[ing] up dreaming instead of sleeping”...i like to think they must have had some kind of happy moment like that.

i almost do

this song honestly reminds me the most of anakin and ahsoka. do you ever think that ahsoka might have wanted to reach out to anakin at some point? how “it takes everything in me not to call you”—how she might wish that she could talk to him again but every time she doesn’t, she almost does. (and ha. this makes their S7 reunion even more painful.)

the whole “i bet you think i either moved on or hate you” and “i bet it never ever occurred to you that i can’t say hello to you and risk another goodbye” speaks mostly to that very same reunion. the fact that ahsoka and anakin leave so many things unsaid—the fact that ahsoka restrains herself, cites that reason for the fact that they’ll just catch up another time...when that another time never happens.

we are never ever getting back together

hahaa, i can’t quite laugh about this but also i can because i kinda made a crack edit of disaster lineage + this song over the summer, and it really is just a joke but also...lol vader + ahsoka + obi-wan, but more specifically ahsoka and vader in their reunion in rebels lol. they’re never getting back together, geddit? they “used to think [they] were forever” and “[sigh] he calls me up again and is like i still love you and like,,,this is exhausting, you know?” yeah, me too sis. 🙄

stay stay stay

okay, okay, okay, maybe going a little bit into crack-y happy tcw feelings, but all i’m saying is that i love the image of these dorks staying for each other, you know? the whole “you took the time to memorize me” and “all those times that you didn’t leave / it’s been occurring to me i’d like to hang out with you for my whole life” and “no one else is gonna love me when i get mad” makes me kinda soft but also sad knowing that one of the tragedies of tcw fam is that no one really stays.

the last time

highkey the whole clovis arc in season 6. but anyways, especially the lines about “this is the last time i’m asking you this / put my name at the top of your list” speaks a lot to me about this hunger (yeah, this is @ anakin) to be someone’s first choice. it’s about the anger and jealousy and dull pain of knowing that everyone else’s priorities are elsewhere (and that’s not their fault, but you still feel like it is).

but if we’re thinking about the clovis arc especially, i think a whole lot about anakin + padmé, as well as anakin and obi-wan, esp. in these lyrics: “you wear your best apology / but i was there to watch you leave” and “all those times i let you in / just for you to go again”. we know anakin and padmé were...going through it in this arc, but specially anakin and obi-wan’s conversation—the one where obi-wan’s trying to reach anakin? we see obi-wan briefly open up (ie. about satine!) and anakin quickly shuts it down, and when obi-wan leaves, we see the pain on both of their faces because this wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go.

but also, if we’re circling back to anakin and padmé’s relationship in this arc especially: the really, really painful lyrics about “this is the last time you tell me i’ve got it wrong” and “this is the last time i say it’s been you all along” and “this is the last time i let you in my door” and “this is the last time / i won’t hurt you anymore”...this arc truly explores just how deep the hurt can run when you have a secret relationship. how quickly love can blur into possession and jealousy and anger, and we see that in how anakin and padmé just...both crumble apart, especially in that one bit when padmé basically says she doesn’t want to see anakin for a little while. like. idk. it’s just sad, because this arc really showed just all the issues and problems within a relationship built on lies.

holy ground

oh god, what a fun song. but anyways, just to kick things off: “and darling, it was good / never looking down / and right there where we stood / was holy ground” speaks to a relationship that was good, even if it was wild and brief. which. disaster lineage.

the whole “i guess we fall apart in the usual way / and the story’s got dust on every page” and “i see your face in every crowd” vibe too—these idiots miss each other, and they probably see each other where they’re not supposed to. there was nothing unusual about their falling apart, of course, but something about this song compels me to think about how even in the grief and pain that ultimately drags ahsoka and obi-wan down especially, i think they still are fond of their happier memories with anakin.

also, “tonight i’m gonna dance for all we’ve been through” and “but i don’t wanna dance if i’m not dancing you” makes me a little sad because i think a lot about the fall of the empire and how the whole galaxy is out celebrating, but there’s a certain togruta woman who can’t completely celebrate because now she knows that. her whole family. really is gone.

sad beautiful tragic

this whole song is so tragic, but. anyways. more tragic disaster lineage vibes. the words “words, how little they mean / when you’re a little too late” makes me want to scream because i think a lot about how in rebels, ahsoka tells vader that she won’t leave him—not this time—and obi-wan crying that he loved anakin—the real tragedy here is that these were all words that anakin should have known deep down, but he didn’t, and they all felt late. their timing is terrible.

and “in dreams, i meet you in warm conversation” screams to me this one passage about how obi-wan dreams about anakin, although those dreams are anything but warm. but the idea of how obi-wan still dreams and how “time is taking its sweet time erasing you”—because in the kenobi novel especially, obi-wan explicitly struggles...a lot with anakin’s loss. he definitely gets...sad and tries to remember how the hell it all happened. he keeps pulling out anakin’s lightsaber and just. forcibly puts it away because he knows looking at it would cause just more grief and oh yikes.

the lucky one

ngl i forgot how fuckign good this song is,,,bro. anyways, i think this def. speaks to the og prequel trilogy trio especially, because i think they were all seriously going through with the whole...reputation thing. thinking mostly about how anakin, padmé, and obi-wan are all supposed to be these heroic / cool / beautiful figures who everyone’s supposed to look up to when in reality, they were all struggling with something. also lol the fact that obi-wan and anakin were both propped up as war propaganda figures in-universe because of palpacreep def. speaks to that whole “they’ll tell you now you’re the lucky one”.

and “they tell you that you’re lucky / but you’re so confused because you don’t feel pretty, you just feel used” and “you wonder if you’ll make it out alive” hurts the most, i think, just because how they apply to all those in prequel trilogy. anakin, obi-wan, and padmé—not to mention all the other jedi and the clones, oh god, the clones—were all fighting a war that ultimately didn’t matter, and they were all fighting a war that didn’t leave them as heroes. it just left them as pawns.

but i think if there’s any hope—any hope at all in this song, i think it’s in the last lyrics: “and they still tell the legend of how you disappeared / how you took the money and your dignity and got the hell out” reminds me the most of probably ahsoka and rex, or the people who survived the mess that was the clone wars. granted, rex didn’t exactly have the choice that ahsoka had, because she was the one who really made the big decision to look around herself and say “nope, i can’t be a part of this order”. she got the hell out.

everything has changed

hear me out, but i just think this makes for a cute anakin and ahsoka song, esp. their very cute beginnings. just like. as soon as they meet each other, both of them are ultimately changed. the fact that ahsoka has been noted to be the key to understanding who anakin is—the fact that it’s ahsoka’s relationship / interactions with anakin that ultimately makes him a better person because they’re siblings, your honor—yeah. very much the cute “all i know is we said hello”...the lyrics going on about “i just wanna know you better” and “your eyes look like coming home” makes me soft because. i think that while yes, they had their own rocky beginning, the difference between anakin and ahsoka’s relationship vs. anakin and obi-wan’s (rip i love anakin and obi-wan and i genuinely believe that obi-wan was the best teacher for anakin, and i think their bond is incredibly special, but.......boys please communicate better) is that i think anakin makes a really explicit effort to make sure ahsoka knows that like. he wants her around.

idk—i’m not saying obi-wan didn’t want anakin around! but i think one of the greatest tragedies of their relationship is that anakin always seemed to just. not click with obi-wan’s own demonstrations of love / i want you to be here messages. (the gambit duology goes a little more into this—only in those books, anakin and obi-wan actually talk a little about their feelings! which is nice!) but anyways, point being: anakin and ahsoka really looked at each other and were like “oh yeah. you’re my idiot now.” and i think that’s really cool of them.

starlight

oh god, this is kind of an anidala song but i also am tempted to say obitine song just because of that one line about “pretending to be a duchess and a prince” because,,,lol duchess geddit? and overall just think it’s really cute because. summer love!!!

but also, i do see this as an anidala song because “he was trying to skip rocks on the ocean, saying to me / don’t you dream impossible things?” because i see anakin as most certainly that dreamy-eyed boy who looks at padmé and is just. like that. (and we see a whole ton of that, esp. in aotc and how padmé initially is like “this is a terrible idea” and eventually winds up falling in love anyways, as one does.)

begin again

this song is odd because it doesn’t really give me overwhelming star wars feelings, but it does remind me a little bit of how ahsoka must have felt getting with the rebels crew. because i think ahsoka must have “watched it begin again” when she noted kanan and ezra’s interactions with each other, and i feel like when she’s with ezra, she sees a lot of the young padawan she used to be, and i think there must have been a point where she recognizes that “what’s past is past”. she’s watching everything begin again.

the moment i knew

this is another one of those songs that makes me sad about anidala because it seems like they’re always getting interrupted? the idea of being told that someone’s going to show but it might not happen because life (ie. war! there’s a war!),,,and still not being able to be really that sad about it in public makes me sad. just. i’m reminded of this one moment in tcw where anakin has to leave early because of something and just. the lyrics “what do you do when the one who means the most to you is the one who didn’t show”—like, of course, we see anakin sneaking off, but i def. think in that one tcw episode, we get a glimpse of. how lonely life might be if you’re just. waiting for someone to come home, only to realize that they might not show.

come back...be here

ha....hahahahaa weirdly both anakin and ahsoka and obitine feelings? give me a second.

okay, so as for anakin and ahsoka first: “i can’t help but wish you took me with you” hits hard just because of the time anakin tells ahsoka that he knows what it feels like to want to leave the order. just. oh god.

and then there’s this bit of “this is when the feeling sinks in / i don’t wanna miss you like this” hits hard, esp. considering the whole utapau arc where anakin accidentally slips in ahsoka’s name. he misses her, and i don’t think he really wanted to show that—but it sinks in so hard and fast for him, and it hurts so much oh god

also, the “right when i was just about to fall”: i know that in this context, fall is supposed to mean falling in love, but. the fact that anakin is literally about to fall like,,,a few days after his reunion with ahsoka. i cry now!

as for obitine: ahahahaha. pain, esp. considering how they probably separated after their year on the run? thinking about how that goodbye must have been like—mostly thinking about how there’s so much history between the two. how strange it is that they “didn’t know each other at all”, and how they might have had “the feeling they could know so much without knowing anything at all”, and now i think about how both of them could have “stumbled through the long goodbye”. i think a lot about those years of separation and how satine confesses how she had been in love with obi-wan for a long time—and how that in itself...wondering how or when satine knew for certain that she had fallen in love with the young jedi who came to her aid. thinking about how her “falling in love in the cruelest way” is how that whole falling in love—and realizing just how in love she was—is so cruel, because like. you know. when you’ve been in love / are loving someone for like...ten years....that’s kinda intense ngl

girl at home

lol this song doesn’t really fit with anything star wars related because i don’t think anyone in tcw would actually cheat on their loved ones? still 100000/10 a bop of a song though, and i still think it’s one of swift’s more mature songs, 10000/10 recommend.

#caroline talks #my essay #can you believe i spent 2.5 hours writing this

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tomhardydallasstarsgirl · 4 years ago

Text

FUCK.YOU.ANGEL.REYES

Chapter 3.5

Angel Reyes x Black Reader

Warnings: Crude Nasty Hot and Dirty Language. Oral Sex Unprotected Sex. Female receiving. Bodily Fluids

Summary: You return to Santo Padre after being gone for nearly 15 years. Your life and also others will change. Affecting everything you hold dear including your Mayan MC Family.

Not requested by anyone. This is a short Chapter solely dedicated to Angel basically being Angel. ENJOY PEEPS!!!

Pic credit by @claytoncardenas_angels from Instagram

A thunderstorm has arrived to Santo Padre with howling winds, loud crashes of thunder and flashes of lightning. You were asleep after yet another lengthy round of sex with Angel who was holding you close as you two were asleep. That was while the moon was out. But, now it’s a different story as you two are awake again. Just like the raging storm outside there’s a whole different one of pain, passion and so much pleasure going on under Angel’s roof as he just has your back pinned against his heavy shower glass door as a mixture of cries and lustful pleas are mixed with the hot showering steam. You have your legs around him his tall solid figure as he drags more orgasms from your body. That feeling that was once wrapped so tightly in the pit of your stomach was never reached or challenged by any man before Angel also which wasn’t many either. He has single-handedly been able to push, tease, manipulate your body to the edge as he’d watch you dangle before taking the plunge into the abyss of ecstasy. His eyes, teeth, voice, lips, thick ringed fingers and deadly tongue have all done a insurmountable assault on you. Of course, not including that Double XXL King Cobra big dick energy swinging between his legs. Its funny how even before letting him touch you in such an intimate way he latched onto you in more ways than one. He occupied your mind loving there rent free as he eased into your heart little by little and grabbed a hold of your soul by revealing himself by warming up to you. He pulls you out of the shower as he dries your body slowly and on purpose. Then he walks you back to his bedroom. Grabs a blindfold covering your eyes as he sits you down at the foot of the bed.

“Don’t move mama. I’ll be right back”, he whispers as he kisses your lips softly disappearing for a minute.

All you can hear is the rain falling with the heavy winds as your breathing was steady until you felt the nearness and warm heat of a body coming near you. What you can’t see is that Angel is carrying a small tray in tow as he places it on the floor near your feet. A pair of strong hands touched your thighs as rough pads of his fingers trace the outlines of them as your breath slightly quickens. The feeling is making you nervous but, at the same time it’s exhilarating. Once the touching stops he stepped away from you heading toward the head of his bed. You can hear as if something was heavy and chained was being put in place at the headboard.

He comes back to you as he stares at you as you anxiously chew on your bottom lip while your curiosity is like a runaway train. He grabs a strawberry as he holds it in front of your face rubbing it against your lips.

“Hmmm is that a strawberry daddy?”, you ask as a smile appears on your face.

He doesn’t right away as he dips it in chocolate dripping down his thick finger as a he places it toward you lips as you take a bite. You moan at the taste as he watches you lick the extra chocolate from your lips. He nearly finishes the rest of it as he holds the last piece on his own lips. Moving closer to you as you pull him in taking the rest into your mouth as he lets out a feral growl as you suck on his bottom lip. He’s suddenly overheated and his dick is hard as fucking steel as he grabs you picking you up placing your body flat on his bed.

“Damn my necklace looks beautiful between these breasts I’m going to lick and suck the hell out of”, as your mouth waters with anticipation.

He grabs each of your wrists as they become shackled to his headboard while his hard dick keeps brushing your left leg as a yelp escape your lips. He laughs under his breath as he leaves your legs free.

“Alexa. Play Living Room Flow for me”, asks Angel.

“Sure thing Daddy. Anything for you”, the feminine voice responds back to him as you raise a quizzical eyebrow and shaking your head.

Suddenly music comes thumping from his sound system as Jhene sultry voice seeps through his sound system.

I’m so glad you called right on time

You must have just read my mind

If we skipped the small talk, want you now

But, I don’t have to stay til mornin’

I don’t have to, I don’t have pack no clothes

I am really not that lonely

We finished, we finished and I will go

You gasp and hold you legs together for the simple fact that Jhene gets you in the mood for sex. Unless Angel knows now that her music is your Achilles heel and makes you melt to do just about anything.

He doesn’t say a single word as you only hear his heavy ragged breathing as you pool between your legs. So there you are chained to Angel’s headboard with a blindfold over your eyes when you as that moment feel him snake between your legs as your heart jumps into your throat. Suddenly hear as if something is being shakened in a can when something cold is applied to your belly button as you jump from the coldness of it. A split second later it hits you that this man is putting whip cream on your body so you know what’s going to happen next. His hot tongue laps up every drop of the whip cream as you want to free your hands from the cuffs to touch Angel so badly as you bit down on your lip. You call his name repeatedly as he continues to torment you slowly. He grabs your hips to hold you in place.

“You keep your fine ass still dulce. Or else”, he demands as you stay still not wanting the latter of his threat.

You’re body is still as a board as you feel a sticky and dripping sensation on your skin running between you breasts and on top of your hard as diamond nipples. A slow and agonizing slick trail of his tongue leaves you gasping and begging as he sucks up the honey. Putting your body in hyper drive as you feel two fingers dip between your folds as the pad of his thumb making tiny circles to you clit.

“FUCK ANGEL!! Make me come daddy!!!”, you when as he circles your clit faster as your hips move too.

He must’ve felt you were close to euphoria as he whispers to you.

“I told you to not move didn’t I?”, he whispers in your ear as your breath is ragged and uneven as rubs your clit as your upper body slowly leaves his bed.

Just as you were about to cum for him he removes his hand as you growl in anger.

“WHAT FUCK YOU DO THAT FOR ANGEL”, as you yell at him in frustration as he laughs at you.

“What fucking part of be still you don’t understand little girl? I fucking meant that shit”, as he toyed with you some more.

He then grabs the chocolate syrup as he dips his thick finger into it. He drizzles the syrup onto your folds and clit as he grabs your legs pinning you down so you can’t move an inch. He dives in laying his tongue flat as he suck up the syrup as he gasp and cry his name. You so badly wanted to touch and grab onto Angel as he assaulted your pussy with his stiff tongue and thick full beard as tears fall heavily from your eyes.

“Daddy please let me touch you baby”, you yell in a crying sob as you beg Angel for relief.

Of course, Angel being the brick wall he can be licks deeper and faster as you pull at the restraints wanting to be set free. You’re thinking to yourself as your running full steam ahead as Angel is nearing you towards that infinite orgasm you’ve been within reach as tears fall faster from your eyes as your so want to squirt all over his beautiful beard. Just as your nearing the finish line you whisper his name non-stop and he does it again pulling back from you as your now beyond pissed as your now cussing him out.

He does nothing but, guffaws with such cockiness you are practically beside yourself at this point.

“I fucking hate you Angel Reyes. I literally can’t stand you right now”, as you spew anger and cuss words.

He grabs you by the waist as he yanks your lower half toward him as you attempt to resist him.

“Colibri this is a losing battle of you trying to fight and rebel against me. Especially since I know you want Daddy to stretch out this tight ass pussy you been waiting for. All you want to do is wet and squirt all over this dick too. So, when you think you denying me you actually denying yourself”, he whispers in your ear as his tongue flicks your lobe as it sets your body a blaze. You cry uncontrollably as you plead with him to satisfy you so desperately. To a certain extent he’s enjoying this teasing game of cat and mouse he has going with you. But deep down he just wants to fuck you so hard that he’ll be the only man on your mind. He wants to be so consumed with all of you physically and mentally it’s tearing him up to an extent to see you begging, crying and pleading for him to fuck the living day lights out of you. So, he lets bygones by bygones and gives you just exactly what you needed. As another song ends he asks Alexa for another request.

“Play When we by Tank for me”, says Angel as a moan escapes from your lips.

He removes the restraints from your wrists as he softly kisses them, he goes for the blindfold as you move your head from his reach.

“Leave it on daddy. I just want to feel you”, as Angel rolls out a growl from his lips as he’s turned on and his dick is bricking up for your pleasure.

“Get on all fours baby. Head down ass up”, commands Angel as his voice has gotten deeper.

You bite your lip as music pours out from his system again.

When we

Mmm

When we

I like it when you lose it

I like it when you go there

I like the way you use it

Angel rubs his nose along your folds as you hold onto his bed sheets.

I like it that you don’t play fair

Recipe for a disaster

When I’m just try’na take my time

Stroke is getting’ deep and faster

You’re screamin’ like I’m out of line

His tongue is flattened against your clit as circles and sucks on as you gasp for air

“Don’t stop daddy don’t you dare fucking stop. I wanna come all over your beard please”, as you spur him on. You feel to finger hook inside your center as you buck your round ass against his face. He lets out a moan telling you that he likes it as you pump against his stiff faster. His licks against your clit are more sloppy and profound as you start to shake uncontrollably.

“Oh fuck Angel it’s right there daddy take me to it pleeeease”, you beg as he starts to smacks your ass cheeks one at a time back at forth. Those butterflies in your stomach start to flutter out of control as you take to jump.

“Come for daddy baby. Wet up your beard you love so much” as you lose your mind as you spasm against his bed.

Without noticing “Wet the Bed” is playing as a split-second later Angel enters you from behind filling you completely drawing all the air from you as he steadies himself inside you. He pulls your hair to meet his long deep strokes as he reaches around to rub your swollen clit. You come instantly as you slowly try to pull away from his deafening strokes as he laughs at you.

Bring it forward, don’t you run run

I don’t want to be a minute man

Baby you’re just like a storm

Rainin’ on me girl, your soakin wet, ooh whoa

He grabs his cell phone feeling himself at the moment as he starts filming. He snaps a couple of salacious pics of his dick penetrating in and out of you as your moans and cries mix with the skin to skin contact getting louder over the music.

“Fuck girl I love hearing the sweet sound of my dick slapping against my pussy and sweet ass. This is the money shot right here Colibri”, he grunts as he strokes faster connecting to your sweet spot over and over. His strokes are erratic and slowly losing control. He regains as he grabs your waist as he flips you on top of him as he strokes upward into you as he grounds his feet into the mattress.

“You’re mine forever Senorita”.

“Always and forever Mi dulce”.

“No one can’t take my place baby.”

His words alone spare you nothing as you come for him again.

“You hear me? Unless I must remind you again”, as his hot breath is against you ear sending you into over load as he digs his thick fingers into your skin leaving noticeable bruises.

“Yes daddy. Please remind me”, you moan as Angel flips you onto your back as his darker side kicks in. He removes the blindfold as he see you teary brown eyes as he rubs them away. He grabs your legs and pins your knees to meet your shoulders as he moves back and forth inside of you

His beds starts to rock back in forth against the wall as he digs deeper and harder into you. Sobbing cries are grabbed from you as you dig your nails into his skin as you hear his bed creak back and forth from him pounding into you.

“Soy tan adicto a ti papi”, you moan to him as he kisses you with such power behind it his kiss leaves you a sobbing muttering mess.

“Mi Mundo, Mi Todo”, Angel whispers to you as he bits your bottom lip again.

Your eyes glaze over as you dig your fingers into his hair as your signal to him that you about to cum again.

“Come with me daddy. Let me feel every drop of that pearly essence inside of me”, you whisper as you two come together as so strong that you both yell to the top of your lungs.

You both stay in the same position as you both began to breath evenly again as his head is resting against the crook of your neck.

“I love you Angel Ignacio Reyes” you whisper as your fingers play with his hair.

“Te quiero Y/F/N, Y/M/N, Y/L/N” as he kisses your neck softly.

“Angel I thought the frame was gonna give there for a bit” as Angel laughs at you comment.

“Nah, Colibri that’ll never happen. It’s too strong like the one who sleeps on it”, gloats Angel as you two slowly doze off to slumber as rain continues to fall.

Angel slightly adjusts his big body between your legs as there is a creaking sound.

“CRASH”, as the frame and headboard come apart.

Your eyes are wide as saucers when you realize what you said has come to fruition. Angel looks you in the eye as you attempt to suppress you sniggling giggles of laughter.

“Hmm maybe you should’ve let me come those 3 times you denied me and that would’ve never happened Angel”, you boasted.

“WHAT THE FUCK”, yells Angel as you can’t help but, laugh out loud as he tickles you.

#angel reyes #black reader #mayans mc #mayans fanfic #clayton cardenas #mayans fandom #mayans imagine #mayans fx #mayans drabble #mayans x reader #angel reyes x black!reader #angel reyes x you #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x oc #mayans mc imagine #mayans mc x reader #black!reader

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echoghost1 · 4 years ago

Text

The Baldr to My Odin

Word Count: 2300

For: @sailor-toni

Summary: Pariah has recently acquired a son and wants to get to know him better. This is a sequel to Fool's Errand!

You can read it on AO3 or down below the cut

Pariah leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom and watched him sleep. After all the things that had happened in his afterlife, he never expected to find himself in this situation.

Never in all his wildest dreams, and he had his fair share during his entombment in the sarcophagus, did he picture himself as a father.

His son sighed in his sleep and rolled into a new position. The boy’s mouth fell open and the small breath that escaped made his fringe billow slightly.

Pariah couldn’t help the fond smile that graced his features and crinkled the scar under his eye. There was so much he wanted to teach the boy, so much he wanted to see the boy do for the first time.

There were so many ‘first times’ he had already missed.

Adoption was both a blessing and a curse in that way. He wasn’t sure what the child had experienced already. He really didn’t know what things he didn’t know about.

Although that was in itself its own challenge. It could even be fun to discover these things.

Pariah was drawn from his musings as he felt something encroaching on his territory. The boy gasped in his sleep and woke instantly. He jumped up from the mound of overstuffed pillows and blankets and hovered above the bed, awake and alert.

“You sense that too?” he asked.

Phantom looked to him and nodded, “Please tell me you were expecting visitors?” he asked with worry tilting his brows together and mouth into a frown.

Pariah simply shakes his head, “Let’s go see who this intruder is then, shall we?”

The boy nods and floats along in Pariah’s wake.

Once they reached the entry hall they could hear some fool shouting at the closed doors. Their words are muffled by the thick wood and stone bricks but the intent is easily grasped.

“Doesn’t sound like a welcoming committee.” quips the boy, “I was kind of hoping it would be someone with presents.”

“Why would there be presents?”

“Well, I was recently adopted so that’s like a birthday, right? And I was crowned Prince, so maybe a party for that too?”

Pariah laughed good-naturedly, “I suppose a coronation ball could be arranged, but we should wait on that a little. I did raise a bit of hell when I woke up after all. Let them lick their wounds before telling them to celebrate our good fortune.”

“I guess that’s fair.” the boy relents.

“Good. Now, wait here while I greet our unwelcome guest.”

Pariah waits until Phantom has landed silently on the stone floor before finishing the journey to the door.

It opens with a thought and reveals a small band of animalistic warriors. Their bright white fur glistens just like the snow from the frozen wasteland that they call home.

They hesitate upon seeing him there.

Good.

He makes quick work of the small army but decides not to finish them off completely. That’s an awfully violent thing to do with his son watching.

It was also completely unnecessary. He merely needed to show them that he was still the king. He was still just as powerful as he had always been.

It would be easier to let them run away and spread the news than to let the rumor spread slowly if they didn’t return.

He waited until the last of the icy beasts had disappeared on the emerald horizon before he turned back to his keep.

“Were those yetis?”

“Yes? They are the denizens of a region called the Far Frozen. Old enemies of mine from before your time.”

The boy simply nodded before changing the subject. “I don’t see many ghosts use ice. Is that a common or uncommon thing?”

“I would say uncommon. Fire tends to be the most common elemental aspect.”

The pair walk back into the keep and Phantom continued his curious line of questioning. “What do you think I’ll be?”

Pariah paused in the hall and thought, “It’s hard to say,” he paused again and looked down at the boy, “You haven’t shown any inklings towards anything? Wait,” he looked the smaller ghost over, “When did you achieve ghosthood?”

“Uh, if you mean when did I become a ghost?” Pariah nodded and the boy continued, “I guess that was about a year ago, I think? Maybe a little less.”

Pariah just blinked as he tried to process the information. How could such a young ghostling be so strong? He couldn’t believe that something the equivalent of a baby had nearly bested him in a one-on-one battle?

And he’s so little.

Where does he even store all of this endless bountiful power?

And there’s no reason why he wouldn’t get more powerful as he ages.

“Uh, Dad? You okay?”

Pariah blinks and refocuses his attention on his overwhelmingly powerful child, “Yeah, I’m fine.” He takes a breath to recenter himself so he can stop worrying his son, “I just hadn’t realized you were so young.”

Again, the joys and surprises of adoption.

“Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Aw come on! I just had a nap. I’m not tired.” the boy pouts as he floats to sit cross-legged in the air.

That was unexpected. The boy had been so obedient earlier, what changed?

The battle.

Had he been that ready for a battle he now was wide awake? That must be it.

“Have you ever used a sword before?”

The boy crosses his arms so his elbow resting in his hand and a finger to his lip as he ponders, “Well I’ve held the Fright Knight’s sword a couple of times and there was this one time I used the neck of Ember’s guitar to fight Youngblood when he had a sword. Other than that, no.”

If anything was constant about this boy, it was how full of surprises he was.

“Well then let us see how much you have to learn.”

The boy floated upward and beamed, both literally and figuratively, with excitement.

How was it that this child was exactly what he had always wanted despite having never wanted one before he found him?

He was both powerful and graceful. The fluidity of his movements as he flew along besides Pariah as they walked to the training grounds made him wonder if maybe the boy was made for this. Was it his destiny to be a ghost? Born only to become something greater?

So rare and seemingly impossible. He was a perfect dichotomy.

Pariah grabbed two short swords, tossing one to the boy, “Let your training commence.”

===============================================

The pair dueled for several hours. Pariah made sure to hold back just enough to not overwhelm the child, but not too much so that he wouldn’t learn anything.

“I’m impressed with how well you are picking this up.” Pariah encouraged as he went in for a quick counter-strike on the boy’s unguarded left side.

“Really?” Phantom replied as he just barely dodged out of the way.

“I don’t give compliments just to stroke egos.”

“Isn’t that a waffle?” the boy says as he parries

He nearly misses the easy block in his confusion, “What?”

“Oh wait, I’m dumb.” The boy lowers his sword as he floats backward in thought, “I’m thinking of Eggo’s. Am I hungry?”

Pariah doesn't think he can continue this lesson if the boy is so distracted. Although it was very wise of him to float out of range while he lowered his guard. He sheaths his sword into the course dirt beneath him, “Are you hungry?”

“No?” He hums to himself in thought, “maybe if I think about it more.”

“Are you often unsure of your own needs?” he asks gently taking the sword away from his son and placed it near his own.

“Sometimes. I think I just get distracted by other things, you know? Like if I’m super focused on something I literally can’t think of anything else. Bodily functions included.”

“Ah, I see.” Hyperfocus was great for battle, but could easily be an Achilles heel if not monitored.

“Wait that actually made sense? I’ve tried telling other people that but they didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“I’ve felt the same way myself. A good way to keep that in check is to be around people you trust. That way if you work yourself too hard, they can pull you out of it.”

The boy smiled. He had the sweetest smile.

But then he wavered, his body sinking to the dirt below as he tried to steady himself.

“Whoa, I got kind of dizzy for a second there.” he blinked and shook his head as if that would make it go away. Instead, he stumbled forward into Pariah’s waiting arms.

Pariah brushed back the boy’s fringe and noticed he was much warmer than before. They might have been training for an extended period but he was sure he hadn’t worked the boy that hard.

“The suit.” the boy’s breath was shaky as he gripped onto his father for support. “I think it’s still on. I, it,” he stammered and his words started to slur together, “gotta get it,” he was panting now, as if the effort of standing was more strenuous than an uphill run, “get it off. Gonna,” he looked up and his eyes were full of fear, “please?”

Before he could finish the boy passed out. Pariah easily scooped him up and took him back inside.

He took the boy into his bedroom and gently lay him in the nest of blankets and pillows. He ghosted his hand down the boy’s arm. The energy of the armor buzzed and he could feel it as it tried to leech from him as well.

The boy was right, the armor was poison. Donning it was dangerous, but the thought of leaving him exposed seemed even more so.

Especially after they had already been attacked once before since he had been here.

There was only one ghost he could think of that would have the answers, but he wasn’t someone he was ready to see just yet.

Phantom whimpered in his sleep and Pariah sighed. He really hoped this wouldn’t backfire.

Pariah went to his study and picked up the broken pocket watch. He clicked the release on top to open the small timepiece. The glass was cracked and the time was stopped. Stopped at the moment he had been betrayed.

Pariah pushed down his resentment and wound the clock.

“I didn’t think I’d be receiving a call from you so soon,” a familiar voice spoke from the doorway.

“So soon?” Pariah turned to face his guest, “Was it truly inevitable that we would meet again?”

Clockwork smirked that knowing smirk of his, “Of course. Now, what’s the question you want me to answer today?”

“Don’t you already know?”

“Yes, but I do prefer to hear it from you.” he admitted then added, “In real-time.”

Pariah shook his head, “It’s easier to show you.” he led them to the boy’s room and waited.

“Do you really need my advice on this?” Clockwork asked. His tone wasn’t demeaning, just curious.

“I don’t know which would be better for him. I feel both options are equally terrible.”

Clockwork hummed to himself as he floated closer to the boy.

Pariah tried his hardest not to get defensive. He did his best to not attack someone he had just invited into his lair. It was difficult to just stand back and let someone as powerful as Clockwork be so close to his child.

Difficult, but not impossible.

“Remove the armor.” He turned to Pariah, “Unless of course, you wish to kill him outright?”

“If death is the result of inaction, that doesn't sound too terrible.”

“For you maybe, but he isn’t going to like it.”

“He’s already a ghost.”

“True. But he’s also a child, he’s still alive. The living aren’t all that excited about the concept of death.” Clockwork floated back over to Pariah, “besides he’s currently the most perfect anomaly. Would you really wish to destroy that?”

“I suppose that is true.” Pariah easily walked past the other ghost to his son’s bedside. Certainly, he was strong enough to keep the boy safe without needing to swaddle him in such dangerous protection.

He reached forward and through the armor. He pulled the boy up and out of the cursed metal and relaxed with the child.

Using his other hand he waved the offending armor aside with his ghostly energy and placed the boy back down to rest.

Once he was settled in, he transformed back into his human form.

This didn’t make Pariah feel any more at ease but he resisted putting the armor back on.

“Let the boy rest. He’ll be alright.” Clockwork consoled as he hovered dangerously close to Pariah himself. “You know, fatherhood looks good on you.”

Pariah turned to the purple-clad timekeeper, “And what exactly does that mean?”

“It means it’s been an awfully long time since we were alone and I think there’s a lot we need to catch up on.”

Pariah did not miss the coy implications of that statement. He was merely taken off guard by them.

“And what makes you think I forgive you?”

“Time heals all wounds.”

“Even the sting of betrayal?”

“Especially that.” Clockwork’s smile softened, “Now come, let��s give the boy some privacy while we get reacquainted.”

Surely a private conversation wouldn’t be too bad. He had missed the company of the other, but he didn’t think they would ever be as close as they once were.

Clockwork wasn’t one to move too quickly, there was no reason to worry about any trickery or line crossing.

They walked back to his study, it was Clockwork’s favorite room after all, and talked casually, like old friends.

He missed this.

#phic phight #phic phight 21 #Danny Phantom #ghost adoption #Pariah Dark #Dark Ages (ship)#but just a tiny bit hinted at the end #sailor-toni

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kmpac · 4 years ago

Text

Noona No More

➸ 18+

➸ Summary: You are a stylist for the biggest group in the world, which has some decided advantages, but it also has some definite distractions. The biggest of which being Park Jimin. After a performance goes slightly wrong, you get your chance to tell Jimin exactly what you think of him and turns out he has some things to say about you too.

➸ Word count: 6K

➸ Pairing: Park Jimin x stylist noona

➸ Genre: Slight Angst, Smut, Fluff if you squint

➸ Warnings: Jimin crying (it broke my heart to write it!), some foul language, dry humping, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex, praise kink (because, of course!)

➸ A/N: I have been on tumblr for a while, but haven’t ever shared anything I’ve written. Being a mom in my 30s, it has been literally 15 years since I actually wrote anything, but I’ve been inspired by Jimin lately. My sweet ultimate bias. I just adore him. With the encouragement of some ARMY friends, I decided to share this. We will see what happens and if anyone reads this. Lol. I have never written warnings before, as this is my first time writing smut. I’m so sorry if I forget something. If you see anything I should add, please let me know!

Being a stylist for BigHit had some decided advantages; working for a company that cared for its employees and paid well not being the least of which. But BigHit was also full of idols who were not prima donnas, which from your 10+ years in the business had taught you was an incredibly rare feat. The worst thing you had to deal with was boys falling asleep in the styling chair or wanting to play in front of the cameras that followed them everywhere. No, you had it really good, you couldn’t deny.

That did not change the fact that being a stylist for Big Hit, and primarily being assigned to BTS had some decided disadvantages as well. Primary among these disadvantages was one – Park Jimin.

Jimin was the kind of person that would sit quietly making polite conversation with you making you feel seen and important and not like a prop in his everyday life. But he was also the kind of person that would brush just slightly too close to you as he stood from his chair and would cutely say “excuse me” with a knowing smirk as you blushed from ears to toes. In other words, he was dangerous. He was charming, sweet, sexy, funny: all the attributes to make any woman weak at the knees. Unfortunately for you, having a crush on your gorgeous idol subject was not an option if you wanted to keep your job. Not only were you required to be professional in order to carry out your duties, but it was also the road to heartbreak, and you knew it. Idols weren’t allowed to date openly, and for BTS it wasn’t only impossible with their superstar status, but was impossible due to their schedules. You knew well the hours they put into their work and had more than once blow dried and curled their hair as they fell asleep standing. They worked hard, but play was something foreign to them.

So when Jimin would flirt just before a show, you assumed it was only to get into the mindset of his stage persona, not to personally give you a heart attack. It was the only form of comfort and a wakeup call that you could offer yourself.

That was until one particular day when your whole world turned upside down.

You were backstage at an award show, curling Jimin’s hair as his sleepy chin dipped to his chest. His lips were puffy and adorable as usual and his makeup was flawless so you could barely see his cute freckles that you wished the makeup people wouldn’t hide. His complexion, too, was a bit too light, but you always attributed that to a broken sense of the beautiful in this country. Pale did not always equate to beautiful and tan could be gorgeous, like Jimin’s own natural honey skin tone that made him look like candy you could eat. Come to think of it, it was probably safer for your sanity that they did adjust his complexion, if that thought was any indication of your fragile state of mind around this man.

“You will be needing another dye job soon,” you said casually as you assumed his half asleep mind wouldn’t even register it.

Without even opening his eyes, he uttered, “will you do it, Noona?”

“If I’m the stylist on duty, of course.”

“You are the only one who is gentle. I always feel like my scalp is on fire when anyone else does it.”

“You exaggerate. And I don’t do it any different than anyone else.”

He looked up then as you were midway through a curl of the iron and grabbed your wrist, “promise you will be the one who does it, Noona.”

You were distracted by his eyes that were so much more than the colored contacts he wore. Even those couldn’t distract from how jaw dropping and gorgeous his eyes were, especially as he had some of the most honest and forthright eyes you had ever seen. This man didn’t do secrets.

“I will try,” you offered, though you knew you would do nothing of the sort. Dye days were the worst because you spent hours upon hours with one boy exclusively and you couldn’t handle that with Jimin. He was your Achilles’ Heel.

“Thanks, Noona,” he said as he closed his eyes again.

You hated him calling you Noona. It made you feel old. Sure you were both adults, but you had 7 years on him and such matches just didn’t happen in Korea. Not that it mattered, anyway, you reminded yourself as you turned to grab the hairspray, because Park Jimin would never look at you that way even if you were his age.

The boys rushed out of the room in a whirlwind shortly after with last minute checks of wardrobe, makeup and hair as they went to perform. It was always a mad house just before stage, and the boys were jumping around and singing to warm up their voices, and overall getting hyped up so they had the energy they needed to go full out. There were a lot of people there to see them, and they never disappointed.

The moment your life turned upside down though, started just as you were backstage, putting away most of your equipment and cleaning up any mess left backstage as you and your fellow stylists watched the boys performance on the monitors in the dressing room. The boys were performing Dionysus to perfection. Every move was as accurate as in rehearsal, even with the jet lag and exhaustion of the boys. They were used to it, they would say, but you always felt for them. Jimin was front and center doing his incredible solo spotlight as the boys made a V formation behind him to “Where the Party at” when it happened. Jimin’s voice squeaked and it came out rather profoundly on the monitors. The boys rarely made mistakes of any kind, or if they did it was largely overlooked by the audience, but there was no hiding this moment as he was the focal point.

You could tell by his face for that split second that he was shocked by his voice, but then he went right back to being the exceptional performer he was born to be. You forgot about it entirely until the moment the boys finished the performance and came back down the hallway to the dressing room. You were all crowded into one of the bigger rooms at the show, but even still it was hard to shove everyone in who accompanied the boys, but any crowd was quickly forgotten when you saw Jimin’s face.

He was puffy around the eyes and slightly red. His face was contorted with a grimace and there were definite tear tracks on his face. Tae had him under his arm, practically dragging him into the room. When he made it inside, he completely lost it. He started crying in earnest and fell to the floor against a wall as he shucked off his 3 million Won jacket and cast it in his makeup chair.

The makeup artist assigned to Jimin made no show of emotion as she took her kit and went to sit beside him on the floor to clean him up. She turned back toward you, who was still standing shell shocked in the middle of the room, and asked you to grab the dabbing paper from her station. You quickly went to her side and offered her the materials, which she quickly put to work. The boys would no doubt be called to stage at any time to accept one of their millions of awards they would win tonight, and there was no time for tears. You sat beside him as he attempted to get control of his emotions. RM was hovering as his stylists scurried around him and Tae was shouting praises to Jimin to cheer him up, but nothing seemed to help.

“Noona,” he said and your focus went back to his face and you saw he was looking at you as his makeup artist reapplied his eyeliner in a hurried fashion.

“Yes, Jimin?”

“I messed up. Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“Don’t joke,” he said as he adjusted his position and you tried not to make eye contact. You didn’t want him to know that, yes, you saw him, and yes, you noticed the mistake, because admitting it meant everyone saw it, everyone heard it. You wanted to distract from that, but you didn’t know how. You were quickly shuffling through a million statements you could make that would give comfort without making him feel worse, when you felt his hand slip into yours discreetly. You looked down and then straight into his eyes. What you found there had your heart beating wildly out of your chest. Such an open look of desire to be comforted, to be heard and understood, and it conveyed only a desire for honesty, and though you couldn’t ever verbalize how you knew that, you still KNEW.

You took a deep breath and looked around as all the boys and their stylists began to shuffle toward the door. Before long it would only be the three of you in here if you didn’t manage to get him up and out the door on time. His makeup artist was still going about her work with such wicked accuracy and precision that you marveled at her talent.

“You messed up?” you asked as your eyes were still on the makeup artist, “Who cares?”

As soon as the words were out of your mouth, you knew there was no going back. The makeup artist stopped her work and Jimin completely froze staring at you.

“You aren’t perfect, Jimin, and you aren’t made to be. Sometimes you are so insanely talented that I think the whole world forgets that you are just a guy. Just a man. And that’s ok.” At this you made eye contact with him and grabbed his hand more fiercely. Jimin was looking at you with a guarded expression, but his eyes were alight with tears or something else – you couldn’t tell.

“You know that, right? You know that you are perfect in your imperfections, even when you mess up?”

He blinked back at you but didn’t speak. The makeup artist looked at you and stood to leave the room to give you a moment. You couldn’t say why she did that, but some cosmic intervention must have made it happen, because as soon as she left you realized that you and Jimin were the only ones left in this room filled with half full garment racks, makeshift beauty stations and piles in every corner of the room filled with people’s belongings.

“Do you really think so?” He asked, bringing your attention back to his face.

“Think what?”

“That I’m perfect, even when I mess up.”

“Of course, I do! Life is messy, and it never goes according to plan, but that’s what makes it beautiful, people are the same.”

His eyes looked down in disappointment, but he wasn’t crying anymore so that was something, although that look made you confused as you felt like you were getting through to him, if not for that expression.

“You know, I failed my final exam in beauty school the first time.”

“You did?”

“I sure did. And if I hadn’t I wouldn’t be here.”

“What do you mean?”

You laughed at the open look of curiosity on his face, “My dream had always been to work for YG and I probably would have stayed there forever, but because I failed and my spot was taken I bounced around from job to job with company after company until no one would take me on except Bang PDnim. And now, all this time later, I’m stylist to the biggest group in the world. How is that for No More Dream?”

He smiled at you then and even chuckled lightly under his breath, but his eyes never left your face.

You looked into his open honest eyes for only a moment and yet it could have been days for how your heart began to beat out of your chest. It was one of those defining moments in life. As you looked into his perfect eyes, it was as though you were tied together in that moment, where two souls were speaking though your bodies were silent. It was not something you could verbalize and you didn’t want to. Time didn’t exist in that moment.

That is until you heard the bell alerting them of a commercial break, which would allow them the moment to go back to their seats on the stage. It woke you up and reminded you that you were still sitting on the floor with a pop star who needed to get to his seat before the gossip started. After his mistake on the stage, he didn’t need people speculating that he was backstage crying (even though it was true).

“Ok, let’s get you out there,” you said as you went to grab his bicep, which was surprisingly firm and strong for such a skinny man, but you had no time to think on it, as he interrupted you with your name. He never called you by your name.

“Wait,” he looked at you again in earnest and you felt the blush rise on your cheeks as you waited for him to say whatever he would say.

“I know you hate being the center of attention, and getting any kind of praise, but…thank you”

“You’re welcome, Ji-“

“And…I know you probably don’t feel the same way, but…” he looked behind your back at the door that now contained no one, “If this is my only opportunity, then…”

You had no idea what he was talking about and were about to turn around and head toward the door, no matter his requests for you to wait. He had to go.

But before you got fully turned toward the door, he grabbed you by your wrists and spun you to the wall behind the open door so you would be secluded, and then crashed his perfect plush lips on yours. You had often imagined what being kissed by Jimin would feel like. Soft, gentle, like pillows against your mouth, because his lips were so fluffy looking.

This was not that, though. He was rushed for time, so his lips were tight and brutal against your mouth. In a second, when you went to take a breath, his tongue was in your mouth stealing your hastily taken breath with the greed of his. His hands were in your hair, and his solid front was pressed firmly against yours. You were taken so off guard you forgot to respond to his kiss, to take advantage of running your hands through his hair that you had just styled a few hours previously and still looked gorgeously coifed. Instead you were practically paralyzed against the wall with hands at either side of your head, but as the heat of his body seeped into yours and the semi hardness in his pants connected with your softness, you gasped in pleasure suddenly.

The sound shocked him out of his trance and he stepped away apologizing profusely to you. Instead of listening to him wrongfully assume you weren’t into him, you decided to show him just how much he was wrong by grabbing him by his neck and merging your lips back together. Like two people starved of each other you grabbed and pulled and pushed with a fiery passion and one of your legs lifted off the floor to wrap around his waist as you rubbed your center against his front seeking friction from the only man you ever wanted between your legs for as long as you live. He growled and took your leg off his waist and set you back on your feet in a show of great restraint.

His head hit your chest as he tried to catch his breath and gain control back. The bell was ringing again to say the commercial break was over.

“Fuck,” he grunted out toward the floor as his face continued to be hidden from you. “I have to go back out there.”

“I wish you didn’t, but you are right and the others will be back soon,” you said referencing the other staff.

“Please know,” he said as he lifted his head and made eye contact with you, “this isn’t just physical for me.”

You took a shaky breath through your nose to gain control of your beating heart, “Same here.”

He smiled at that, wide and with his gorgeous eyes.

“I thought I was too old for you.”

He chuckled as he wiped his pants off from sitting on the floor, “I thought I was too young for you.”

He turned to leave as you heard familiar voices approaching.

“We aren’t done here,” he said as he pointed at you and then ran out of the room, just as the others returned to the room.

You stood at the door and watched him go. At the last minute, he turned and smiled at you and like the tease you always knew he was, he licked his bottom lip and bit it.

You knew you probably looked like a love sick puppy as you leaned on the doorway watching him go with a light blush on your cheeks, but you couldn’t help it.

Just before he went on stage, though, you ran out to him calling his name. As your cover you fluffed his hair that needed no fluffing, but to him you whispered, “Don’t call me noona anymore.”

He tried to hold in his laugh but leaned down as his eyes scanned the backstage to make sure no one was looking as he whispered back, “you got it baby. I’ll see you after.”

Then he winked and was gone.

_____________________________________________________________

You did your level best to focus on the performances and your cleanup of the back room until the end of the show that night, but you couldn’t help but relive that kiss over and over again in your mind. You had kissed Park Jimin! The most famous idol in Korea. The literal It Boy of the country, probably of all of Asia. He was beyond beautiful, talented, kind, funny, and did you mention gorgeous? You kept stealing views of his perfect flirtatious eyes in the monitors as you packed up your belongings and shuffled to load the Big Hit vehicles for the end of the show. Every time you caught his eye, you felt like he was looking straight back at you (which was silly since you knew he was just looking into the camera to make eyes at the fans).

After the show everyone was exhausted and piled into the black tinted windowed vehicles to lead them back to their hotels. BTS got a private floor of the fancy hotel designed for performers and the famous actors who presented the awards. You on the other hand were staff, and not just staff, but support staff, not managerial staff, like Sejin who stayed in the hotel with the boys so he was on hand in case of emergencies, and not like the body guards and personal assistants to the group. You were just a stylist. Suffice to say, you didn’t expect you would see him again tonight when you went back to your budget hotel down the block from the venue. Jimin had promised he wasn’t done with you (the thought of that statement made something in your lower stomach twist, even as your legs rubbed together), but surely the circumstances being what they were, that would be impossible.

You were winding down for the evening after washing your face and brushing out your hair and were about to put on a sleep mask and turn on some late night TV program to fall asleep to when your door rattled as a heavy hand hit the door. Like any self-respecting Millennial, you were immediately terrified at the prospect of an unexpected visitor, and ironically, your mind was so full of his kiss that you were beyond astonished and taken by surprise, when you opened the door to Park Jimin in the flesh. You would have pinched yourself to wake up from your obviously delusional dream, but then he started walking in through the door without invitation.

You backed into the room surprised as he threw the keys in his hand on the table and started shucking off his boots as he closed the door with his leg.

“You drove here?”

He nodded.

“How did you even find where I was staying?”

“I’m clever, and Sejin isn’t as protective of his planner as he thinks he is.”

In a moment, you were in his arms. If he had given you time to consider the state of the hotel room, with your belongings strung out across the bed, including your bra and underwear you planned to wear the next day, and your cosmetics strewn across the countertops and tables, you might have been embarrassed. Instead, he was like a man possessed as he took advantage of your surprise, like he had done that afternoon at the show, as well. In a rare moment of confidence, you wondered if he had imagined being with you like this as many times as you had imagined being with him.

His mouth encapsulated yours like he was afraid you would run away if he stopped. You were so incredibly consumed, you didn’t have one thought of stopping him. It was like a dream come true. And having him in this intimate environment that smelled like you and was filled with your things after the previous night’s stay, you felt your whole body come alive.

His hands were in your hair, but his arms were so tightly wrapped around you that every inch of your body felt sealed in his arms. As he walked with you in his arms toward the bed, you only had time to think about how good he smelled, like citrus and some kind of flower. In a word, he smelled delicious. And his body was so solid against yours, and hair and skin were so soft, which you knew because you couldn’t stop your hands from devouring him even as your mouth was completely drowned in his lips.

And GOD his lips. Were there two such lips anywhere else in the world that tasted, felt, and looked this beautiful? Not that you could see them right now as your eyes were rolled back in your head in ecstasy, especially as he drove his stiff shaft into your clothed center. You moaned wantonly and he pulled away to stare in your eyes. His face flushed and lips swollen, even more than usual, as he lay you down on the bed and leaned over you.

“Is this ok?” he asked and you sputtered out a yes in reply as his smiling face fell to devour you once again.

His hands began to loosen the ties on your robe and he slowly ground his heavy anatomy into your clit, which only furthered the fire in your belly.

“Please,” you started chanting as he ripped your robe open and quickly took up residence on your unclothed chest like a man starving. You whined wantonly, who could blame you? You had to remind yourself again that Park Jimin was the one currently running his perfectly pointed tongue over your pert nipple. As he did he moaned in a voice so deep you would have believed it was someone else if not for the evidence before you. His hands were soft as they ran across your sides and your ribs and gripped with his ring clad fingers on your waist. You found yourself growing wetter by the second as you imagined him bruising your hips with those ring clad fingers. It was a thought you often had when you watched his fingers wrap around his microphone when he performed.

“I can’t control myself,” he said, bringing you out of your trance. “If you don’t want this, tell me so now.”

“I want this!” you practically screamed as you lifted your hips to grind against his clothed member. He practically growled in response as he pulled away and stared at your unclothed body. He started to slowly remove his jacket and unbutton his white button up shirt. For your part, you lifted onto your elbows to drink him in, as you pulled your robe from underneath of you and threw it across the room. You were still wearing your underwear (thank god they were cute ones) but your upper body was bare and your hair was draped in what you hoped was a seductive way. He was biting his lip, meanwhile and slowly untucking his shirt from his pants as he, one arm at a time, removed his shirt. It was so hot and sultry, you felt another gush of liquid between your legs as you moaned. Jimin, for his part, seemed to grow more bold and flirtation the more you seemed to enjoy yourself. With the grace of a dancer, he stood to his full height as he finished shucking off his shirt and tossing it across the room. Until that moment you had been fully concentrated on his eyes, but you couldn’t deny that his perfectly sculpted stomach and chest were a very welcome distraction. You had never seen anything so perfect before in your life. From his honey skin, soft and smooth and free of blemish, to his dusky nipples that made your mouth water, you were ready to eat him alive right then and there. You lifted to do just that as you took in his muscular stomach and his sexy tattoo. Your hands followed the trail of your eyes and it took no time to dig in to the feast laid before you.

Your tongue was currently swirling around his perfect nipple, when a particularly high keening noise left Jimin’s mouth. His enjoyment encouraged you to be even more bold as your hand found the front of his trousers. He took a big inhale as your hand connected with his member. The softness of his balls as you brushed them made it even more extreme of a contrast as your hand connected with his engorged manhood. It made your mouth water as you imagined taking it into your throat.

With that thought you pulled away to make quick work of his pants. Jimin was vibrating, practically, with anticipation as his hands joined yours in removing his slacks. His belt flew across the room, and his pants and boxer briefs came off in one shot like lightning. Your eyes again devoured the man, and for the rest of forever you knew you would never see anything as beautiful as a naked Jimin. He blushed slightly as you took him in from head to toe. He knew what he looked like, but obviously was not used to being appraised so fully. His blush only increased his sexiness, so you decided to tell him.

“You are literally the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

His smile could have outshined the sun and in that moment you promised yourself that you would make an effort to be vocal with him to keep that smile on his face.

Now, with only your underwear as a barrier, you both finally realized the gravity of the situation as things got more serious. You began to crawl backward on the bed, as he went on hands and knees to chase you up the bed. You bit your lip and whined at the intensity in his eyes, and he growled at your wanton behavior.

In a second he was back on you and now his unclothed dick was the star as he rolled his hips into your center. You were already so close, it was embarrassing, but you didn’t even care. You wanted him: carnally, emotionally, in any way he would give you himself and you would thank him for any shred of it.

“More baby,” you heard yourself beg, “please, more! I want more, Jimin!”

His lips met yours as he gripped onto your lower lip and bit it, causing you to whine again.

“What do you want from me, Jagiya?”

Your eyes shot open at the use of that word, but it only brought a warmth in your heart as you answered his question.

“I want you to make love to me, Jimin. Please…”

He wasted no time as he descended down your body with open mouth kisses. His pillow lips making you so crazy you thought you could probably just come from his kisses, but he went too quickly down your body and before you knew it he was biting into your underwear to pull them down your legs.

You lifted up to watch and what you saw made your heart explode and your lower lips vibrate in anticipation. There before you were the eyes of a man possessed as he stared straight into your soul and his mouth wrapped around the lace of your underwear.

God he was sexy. He always had been, but nothing had prepared you for this. He hadn’t even brought you to orgasm yet and you were already certain that he was a sex God.

As your thoughts swirled with his perfection, his glorious lips took up the position of your underwear as he slowly but surely wrapped his perfect lips around your throbbing nub. Your panting intensified and you found your hands fisting in the sheets as he began to suck. In between sucks, he would moan about how wet you were for him and instead of being embarrassed you felt sexy and powerful. Jimin had the incredible ability to make you forget his status in a moment of passion and only feel how much he worshiped you. Or at least that was what he did to you.

His fingers meanwhile, found your entrance and as your lips quivered he plunged a ringed finger deep into your hole without warning. You whined loudly as you threw your head back in ecstasy against the pillows. You felt him moan into your nub as you did so, which only intensified your internal struggle. You began panting his name as he continued to assault your nub with licks and sucks as his curved tongue would periodically flick out and tease your lower lips, whilst his first finger took a completely different rhythm, driving into you with abandon. The contrast of feelings and intensity brought you to orgasm faster than you thought possible. With a gasp, and a sharp inhale, you felt your silent scream as it racked your body with shivers. As you came down, and the sensations began to settle into over sensitivity, Jimin’s tongue licked up your liquid heat like it was ice cream. He even sucked on his first finger from ring to tip as he sighed into it at the taste of your release.

You think you might be in love.

In no time he was climbing up your body and smiling at your ecstatic face. You were so fucked out, you had no thought to be embarrassed. Instead you hooked your legs on his perfect ass and pulled him into you.

“Put that perfect dick in me this instant,” you told him as you were out of breath.

“As you wish,” he giggled. With no hesitation he drove himself into you harshly, causing both of you to exhale a fluttered breath. His forehead made contact with your own in an intimate gesture as his perfect lips pouted out to connect with your lips in a feather light kiss. You could have cried at the intensity of his gaze as he slowly began to pump in and out of you.

His dick WAS perfect, as you had said. Just the right size, not too big, not too small, and thick to stretch you in all the right places. And more importantly, he knew how to use it. He lifted one of your legs to drape across his shoulder as he ground himself deep inside of you. You had always been completely convinced that the G spot was a mystical imaginary body part, made up by women who couldn’t tell the difference between an internal orgasm and a clit instigated orgasm, but you stood corrected. As his hips rolled in a movement you had often seen when he was on stage (though admittedly, had never seen quite like this!) you felt that foreign fire burning beneath his pressure. You were about to explode again as Jimin’s hips quickened. You watched his stomach muscles clench and pull taught over and over as his wave motions grew quicker by the second and his moans grew in intensity.

“Fuck, I forgot a condom!” He shouted even as his motions grew more rapid.

“I’m on the pill. Shut up and fuck me!” You panted as you met his movements with your hips.

“God, you feel so good, Jimin.” He moaned at your praise, so you continued practically in a whine, “you are so fucking sexy, I want all of you! I’m so close again. Your dick is perfect! You are amazing! Oh my God!”

And just like that you both grew silent as you crashed over the abyss together. Your high pitched squeal came out even as your lips quivered and squeezed him of every last drop. He meanwhile groaned into your neck as his cock spluttered out the last of his cum into your waiting heat.

It took a while before you regained your breath enough to speak and when you did, you instantly felt embarrassed at the openly affectionate look on his face.

“I couldn’t wait to have you. As soon as you said it wasn’t just physical for you either, I’ve thought of nothing else.”

“I guess I should have trusted you when you said you would find me after,” you laughed, as you brushed his hair away from his face as he fell down beside you. His member was slowly decreasing in size, but you made no effort to remove him from inside of you.

“You should always trust me when I make a promise,” he said with intensity in his eyes, but immediately turned shy, like the humble duality king you knew him to be. “I hope it is ok that I came here.”

“Obviously!” you said much too quickly and much too loudly, causing Jimin to giggle and whisper ‘cute’ under his breath.

“I didn’t plan to come here just to attack you, but then I saw you and I couldn’t resist.” His eyes were on fire and completely set on you.

“I’m glad you did,” you said with a blush as you looked at your hands as you covered your face, “I’m afraid I would have been a mess if you hadn’t broke the ice, so to speak.”

“Why?” He asked earnestly and you almost laughed at how clueless he seemed.

“You have to be kidding.” When he didn’t respond, you sat up and looked him straight into his eyes as he lay back against your pillows. “You are Park Jimin, Lead Vocalist and Main Dancer of the Biggest Band in the world. It Boy of Korea, and literally the sexiest man alive.”

He smiled cockily at that last comment and asked you if you really thought so, but when you quieted him, he turned more sober.

“I get it. But all those things mean is I’m completely unavailable. My life is my job. I don’t have a lot I can offer.”

You tried to contradict him, but he stopped you with a hand on your mouth.

“Despite this…I find myself wanting to risk it all to be near you. I’ve been trying to get your attention for months, ever since you took a more primary role on my styling. I won’t lie to you, you are beautiful, gorgeous even, but I try my best not to pay attention to beautiful faces when I know it isn’t a good idea to get involved, but then you say things to me that completely change my outlook on something, or heal me with just a word, and I can’t help it…”

You were frozen in a seated position on that bed. Your cheeks were on fire at hearing this confession, and you opened your mouth to return the praise, but he stopped you with a kiss.

“Will you let me call you Jagiya? Can I be with you despite all the challenges?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he stopped you again.

“Before you answer, please think about it. We won’t be allowed to have a regular relationship. Not only will we have to be secretive with the outside world, but we will have to be secretive with the company as well. It’s never explicitly said, but I’m not publicly allowed a relationship, and in the eyes of the company this means – they don’t want to know about any exploits we have. As such, even at work, we will have to keep it a secret. Are you ok with that?”

Even with these challenges, you didn’t even hesitate when you accepted him, just as he is and promised to have him in whatever way he was able to give you.

With that he smiled like a man truly content, and his eyes swam with unshed tears, as he fell down beside you in bed. His chin upon your shoulder, as his lips coasted across your neck.

It didn’t take long for things to escalate again.

To say the least, you didn’t sleep much that night. Nor would you again for the foreseeable future.

#jiminie #park jimin #park jimin x reader #park jimin ff #stylist noona #my ultimate bias #park jimin duality king #old lady writing fanfic

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laurelleghuleh · 4 years ago

Text

𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 | 𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢 𝐒𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff, one-shot

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6.7k

𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐨𝐧: Ao3, Wattpad

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: post-time skip, aged-up characters, implied/referenced sex, sensitive topics(?)

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: This is a kind of “interactive” one-shot. At some point, you’ll find the link for the playlist I’ve created for the story. It’s not mandatory, of course. The songs are mentioned and their lyrics are quoted anyways.

I tried to keep the reader as gender-neutral as possible, I hope it works.

To be honest, I wrote the first half of this one-shot at 3 am after a very deep conversation with a friend of mine about struggling with self-love as “young adults”. It wasn’t meant to be public but I felt like sharing it. I hope this will help or at least cheer you up as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Lastly, italics when Daichi sings/for the lyrics and English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes!

Thanks for reading this, Laurelle.

---------------------------------

Taxes, laundry, rent, bills, grocery shopping, bank accounts, job interviews. These were just some of the things whose thought alone made you already shiver. Adulthood and the multiple responsibilities that had come with it scared the shit out of you, at times it completely fucked up your sleep schedule, and put your sanity at stake, but at least you weren’t alone in this. At least, you had Daichi.

You two had faced college together, one at each other’s side, and now you were again together in that new chapter of your life called adulthood.

By then, you two had been living in that little, yet cozy apartment for a few months. The Karasuno team had lent you a hand by making the move less hard, unpacking boxes and decorating the empty shelves with an unnecessary amount of frames, random objects, and souvenirs from their trips. All of this as Daichi was training at your hometown’s Police Department and as you were trying to find your place in the world, between part-time jobs and “real” job interviews.

The new routine was dull, draining, at times even overwhelming. The closer you were getting to make your dream life come true, the more your daily life felt like a nightmare. The more you felt tired, unmotivated, ultimately empty. And you couldn't help but wonder if that was really worth it anymore.

You started to slowly give up on your hobbies and passions, to spend your free time on the new couch, just spacing out, and to eventually forget about yourself. You didn’t want to sound too pathetic but life seemed to have lost its flavor. At that point, it just tasted like disinfectants and instant noodles.

Those fucking instant noodles … You thought as you looked at yourself in the mirror that evening. None of your planned outfits for that night fitted anymore, none, and at the sudden realization, that familiar smell of instant noodles rose inside your nostrils. But instant noodles weren’t really the point. Your outfits not fitting anymore wasn’t the point either. That you in that mirror was the point. That stranger. That empty shell.

The familiar boomy sound of keys twisting inside the front door’s lock, a click, and Daichi was finally home.

“I’m baaack” You heard him say - almost yell - and then saw him coming inside the kitchen to greet you.

“May I have a kiss?” He shyly asked, placing his hand on the small of your back, drawing little circles to get your attention.

“Sure,” You turned your head for a quick, soft peck on his lips, then got back to your chore.

“Still in your PJs, babe?” He commented, his voice small, clearly weakened by his long, draining day at work.

By that time, you were supposed to be ready to head out, but something in the process went wrong. On the other side of the city, a nice restaurant - highly suggested by Michimiya sometime before - was waiting for you and Daichi to arrive in twenty minutes.

“Yeah… I have to finish cooking these for tomorrow before we head out…” You murmured as your words fell down to the pot beneath you.

That wasn’t a lie, but in all fairness, you were only trying to avoid the truth. Little did you know you were about to experience what living with a future detective really meant.

Besides his professional deformation, when it came to you, Daichi never failed to sense when something was off. Even just from a slight change of your tone. He was so used to your voice that the most insignificant variation of its sound seemed to conceal a tiny, secret message only for him to decipher.

Anyways, you kept looking down, your mind somewhere else, your eyes still lost in the little fog coming from the pot. You still didn’t dare to look at him, which was rather unusual. Strange. Kind of suspicious.

Daichi rocked his head in your direction, trying to find other tangible clues for that particular case he wasn’t expecting to face once at home. Yet nothing was really out of place, except that gloomy aura all around you. Therefore, he decided to just play it cool for the moment and let you be.

Maybe he was overthinking. Maybe he was just being paranoid. The only thing that really mattered was that night to be perfect for both of you.

It wasn’t a special occasion or else, just Daichi’s first free evening after a whole month of night shifts. And in addition to that, that dinner had been meticulously planned the previous week. Nothing could have ruined it. Nothing.

Yeah, he was just being paranoid, for sure. Nothing to worry about.

Daichi moved away from you and walked towards the front door again. Then, he plugged his phone on the little speaker at the entrance and played the playlist you two loved to blast whenever you were at home, cleaning the house, or just swinging from a room to another.

And that was when everything got even more suspicious in Daichi’s perspective.

The first song came on (“Come Through and Chill” by Miguel, J.Cole, Salaam Remi ), the little bass drums slowly filling the room, vibrating from wall to wall, gradually reaching your feet through that old wooden pavement. And yet, you stayed completely still.

Suspicious .

“Everything ok?” He casually asked you from a distance, putting the phone back down on top of the speaker.

“Yeah, good, good. You?�� You mumbled, trying to hide your words under the rhythm.

Even more suspicious .

It wasn’t only your voice, but your posture, your face, just your aura that seemed so… Different. Even though you two hadn’t been living together for long at that point, he could simply tell what looked ordinary and what not. You knew each other and dated since college, which at that point meant years of studying the other up close, not only as partners but firstly - and mainly - as friends. Two best friends always looking out for one another. Those had been years of sincere trust and affection.

Funny thing was that neither of you could imagine that a casual encounter in a cafè would have taken that turn. But Suga knew. And Asahi too. Everybody knew, except you two.

One morning, the vending machine of your department was out of order, and that was just the tenth curveball of that day. It’s not even thirty past eight and I already want to go back to sleep , you sighed, walking outside the campus, looking for a cafè or something.

As fate would have it, the tiny, little-known coffee shop you found right behind the corner was Asahi’s workplace, which brought both Suga and Daichi to have their breakfast there every single morning.

Your first time there, your order was mistaken with Daichi’s, one thing led to another, and after a while, you two started hanging out frequently. Then even more consistently. Then no Asahi or Suga around. No coffee shop. Study sessions at his place. Then at your place. A movie night that actually looked and felt like a proper date. And eventually, that friendship blossomed into something else, something pretty serious.

You didn’t even realize when or how that happened, it just felt right. You two didn’t even have a real “date” for when your relationship had begun. For the sake of simplicity, you both used to count from your first kiss, both aware that whatever you two shared had started even before that, even that morning in that tiny, little-known coffee shop.

That was the type of love that comes easily, without warning, silently tiptoeing into your life.

Back in your apartment, once freed from his jacket, Daichi made again his appearance at your side, now wearing a playful look and about to hit his favorite line of the lyrics. He almost made you startle.

“Hello, stranger… It's been a minute since we last kicked it” He sang and swung around you, positioning himself right behind you to wrap you in a warm hug. Then, gingerly nestling his head in the curve of your neck, he breathed against your skin, “Now that I’m home, I’m all good… ”

Bear hugs were Daichi’s thing and also your not-so-secret Achilles’ heel, for sure. So, you just leaned in his embrace and welcomed his familiar, calming scent. But still, you didn’t have the courage to face him.

Very, very suspicious .

Your oddly detached behaviors made his brow pinch and his mind wander as he left soft pecks all over your jaw and neck. No reaction , Daichi thought, taking mental notes of your actions.

At that point, he gave you one last, gentle kiss, this time on your shoulder, right where the hem of your shirt met your skin, and then silently made a step back. Daichi’s first thought was to temporarily let you be. A quick shower and a change of clothes were very much needed after that long day. He thought he still got time to unravel your mood.

Still focused on the pot, you heard him tell you, before disappearing in your bedroom, “I’ve been thinking about tonight all day, love. I literally can’t wait to try this restaurant!”

You felt a knot in your stomach.

Why was it so hard for you to simply tell him? To simply put into words how you felt? You knew he would have understood, you knew how sensitive Daichi was, especially when it came to you. But to look so needy, so lost in his eyes made you feel just weak. Not vulnerable, not emotional, just a weak person in need. And the last thing you wanted was to look or feel like a burden to Daichi. You knew how stressed and overworked he was. That was a pretty tough period for you both and you felt like you had no right to complain. Daichi never did, and all you wanted was to be as strong as he was.

It didn’t take much for Daichi to be ready, all cleaned up and dressed for the occasion. Nothing too elegant or pretentious, he was a very casual type of guy even when it came to clothes, but that was still your night. A little more effort won’t hurt , he thought as he picked his outfit, preferring a classic, white, button-up shirt to his favorite sweater - his safe choice whenever he didn’t know what to wear.

He just wanted to look good that night, to look good for your eyes only.

Right when “Sunflower” by Post Malone and Swae Lee started, Daichi’s unmistakable cologne stood above the food’s thick smell coming from the pot. You immediately turned around.

He looked handsome, as always. The view made your belly twitch again.

“Hey hon, remember that time we went to see Spiderman with Suga, Asahi, and Kyoko?” He started to speak, crossing the room with slow strides in your direction.

“You fell in love with this song on the spot. Oh my god, I think you blasted it in the car at least ten times on our way back...” He said wrapping his arms around your waist again, making you turn and trying to initiate a slow dance with you.

“I know you’re scared of the unknown, you don’t wanna be alone” He sang, “I know I always come and go,” The lyrics hitting way too close to home, “But it’s out of my control”

At that point, he held you tight, roaming his big, callous hands all over your back as he glanced at the pot from above your shoulder.

“That looks delicious, babe. Can’t wait to eat it tomorrow. I just know it tastes as good as it looks…”

There he was again, being all supportive and loving no matter what. So damn cheesy, he could have made someone sick. But not you.

You weren’t much of a chef yourself and you knew it, but you tried your best. And Daichi appreciated it a lot. He was so proud of you, always so blindly proud. He was undoubtedly a better chef than you were, but he still left you space to experiment and try out new things.

You never thought you could enjoy cooking that much, but probably Daichi being a foodie played a role in that. A foodie, well, possibly the biggest foodie you knew. The thought alone of food could make him insane, let’s say slightly irrational like he wasn’t functioning normally.

That was at the beginning when you both had all the time in the world to even plan a food competition and invite all your friends over to eat and vote for your plates. In the beginning, when that apartment’s walls were still white and bare, when the only furniture you owned was an old red couch and several boxes with all your things still packed inside. In the beginning, when there were way fewer things to care about in your daily routine.

“It’s ready, I guess. I should turn off the stove… ” You mumbled against his chest, then turned around still sweetly trapped in his embrace.

“Then you’re left in the dust… mhmhIdon’trememberthewordsmm” He kept singing behind your back, “ You’re the sunflower, I think your love would be too-”

When the little flame disappeared under the pot, a sharp sigh accidentally left your mouth.

“Daichi…” You breathed, squeezing his right hand still gently pressed on your belly.

Daichi .

You rarely called him by his first name. You’d usually go with “love” or “babe” or whatever sweet name came into your mind at that specific moment. Daichi . “Daichi” was something like a safeword, a code for “I’m dead serious right now”, “Your mum is calling” or, like this time, “Something is wrong”.

At that signal, the Karasuno’s former captain knew exactly what to do as if a ball had just flown past an invisible volleyball net right in front of him. That was just the confirmation he needed to make his move.

Living together, making a long-term relationship works, sticking together regardless, all of these for you both were based on the little things you started to learn about one another. Most of the time failing but never giving up on the other person. And this, this was one of those “little things”.

Daichi .

Wordlessly, he went straight to his phone and turned down the music at its lowest, the songs just a light, almost unperceivable background. You turned in his direction, watching him attentively, in silence, until he beckoned you to follow him.

You did as told and walked with him towards the living room, where he guided you to sit on the couch, your right hand gently secured in his.

He sat down on his heels, right in front of you, and waited, waited for you to say something, giving you all the time you needed to process your thoughts.

Minutes passed, the music still softly playing in the background.

Spendin' all my nights alone, waitin' for you to call me

You're the only one I want by my side when I fall asleep

Tell me what I'm waitin' for

I know it's hard but we need each other

(“SUGAR” by BROCKHAMPTON)

When you lifted your gaze to meet his sweet eyes, like two big, dark chocolate nuggets, you still didn’t know what to say. Automatically, his lips parted to catch your attention.

“Love,” His voice so tender it literally broke your heart to keep that facade any longer.

Your lips puckered, your nostrils widened, your eyes got unexpectedly watery until the first of many tears started to run down your face. When your head fell forwards, hiding between your hands, Daichi immediately got you. His arms circled your frame, welcoming you against his chest as you kept weeping noisily.

Daichi stayed silent, his head pressed against your shoulder, moving in sync with each of your sobs.

“Let it out, babe, don’t hold it back.”

At those words, your weeps only seemed to get worse to the point you didn’t know anymore why you were crying in the first place. Maybe you just needed to let it out, to rest, and let yourself get lost in Daichi’s embrace. His warmth felt like home and it was so comforting that after a while you finally cooled down. Nothing was wrong anymore, you were safe and sound.

“When you’re ready, I’m here to listen.” He whispered.

You nodded against his skin, then drew back, revealing your puffed and reddish face. He immediately stood up and walked towards the kitchen. Once back, he kneeled again in front of you and handed you tissues and a glass of water.

“Thanks,” You murmured and then blew your nose.

Daichi just stared at you, his eyes wandering all over your figure as you shrugged and sighed. You opened your mouth only to close it a second later. You didn’t even know where to start. Your bottom lip quivered, you felt like you’re about to cry again.

“What’s going on, love?” His voice small and tender.

You sighed again and gave a quick look to the clock behind him. It was almost time to leave. Actually, at that point, you were already late. Your eyes found his again and a thought occurred to you. He looked so happy until a moment before, singing and dancing, all dressed up, ready to leave and try that restaurant. But now there he was, all worried for you, down on his knees, not caring if that position was messing and creasing his shirt.

“It’s really nothing. Just had a bad day. I should go get-” You tried to stand up, but Daichi’s hands stopped you right there, pinning you down again.

“Are you sure, that’s just it?”

You couldn’t physically bring yourself to lie to Daichi. Not even for the smallest things. Not even for a white lie.

“To be honest, I don’t really feel like going out tonight…”

His eyebrows twitched. First clue unlocked.

“That’s fine. Let me just give them a call-”

“No, no. There’s no need. We should go anyway. It’s really nothing.”

Daichi was never really fond of you being difficult, he’d rather prefer you being straightforward. But sometimes, your pride overtook you. Nevertheless, that was not the right time to point out you were being too stubborn, so he just reassured you, saying,

“Listen, it’s up to you, babe. Your wish is my command, you know that, right?”

Daichi was always so kind. From time to time, you even believed he was way too good for you. Too good, it’s almost unfair , you thought.

“Really, it’s nothing… I’ve been thinking about tonight all day too. I couldn’t wait to finally spend some time with you…”

He giggled, your sweet tone instantly reassured him, “You know we can always stay at home and just watch a movie, right? Just tell me if you don’t feel like going out and I’ll call the restaurant right away.”

“Well, it’s not that… I… I…” You sighed. You really were being too difficult that time. “To be honest, I don’t know what-” Your voice cracked, “I really don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Daichi leaned closer and kissed your forehead, then stood up and grabbed his phone. From a distance you clearly heard him talk to someone, apologizing and saying something else you didn’t quite catch. The restaurant , you thought. You instantly walked towards him and tried to oppose, but Daichi politely hushed you and just hung up.

“Why did you do that?” You asked him.

“Cause it seems like you can’t decide right now. The restaurant can wait, really, but whatever is going on with you cannot. And now, if you want to tell me more about it I’m here, if not I’ll just let you be, or if-”

You grabbed his hands, stopping him. Your head swung from side to side as you collected your thoughts.

“It’s just that… I don’t know where to start.” You said and plopped yourself down on the couch.

He softly asked you when that started, if you remembered what little event had possibly triggered your current mood, and suddenly the right words found their way out of your mouth.

It had just been one of those everything-goes-wrong kinds of days, no rest, and too many things to do that eventually you found yourself already in front of the closet without even realizing it. Your eyes were drained and unfocused after all those hours in front of your laptop, working, sending emails, and stuff like that. Your stomach was aching and bloating after eating the previous night’s leftovers. Your legs were sore. Your mind was blank, empty, and at the same time also full of imprecise thoughts about work, what you needed to do before heading out, the dinner, the clothes, that mirror right in front of you.

You described to him this confused overwhelming sensation you had been experiencing for the previous months and all along Daichi was carefully listening to you, nodding and humming. From time to time he tried to comfort you, saying that it was quite understandable since you both started a new, complicated chapter of your lives since there were so many things to be settled and done, etc. He even apologized if he had accidentally neglected you in some way. He was so stressed and focused on work, he barely noticed what was going on with you. But you didn’t seem to listen to his words. Every single time you just replied with the same anxious thoughts you had already said before.

At some point, Daichi interrupted you, saying, “Babe, look at me and be honest,” then grabbed your hands and looked straight into your still reddish eyes, “Do you want me to listen … Or do you want some advice ?”

That was a thing Daichi had learned with time, not only from you but also from his experience as a captain. Sometimes people just need to vent, some other times to be taken by the hand and helped, but there are also other times when people may even need both.

You sighed. “Both I guess?”

He hummed and kept listening at other incoherent stuff you mumbled next about yourself, your image, your perception of yourself, “And that damn outfit! I’ve been thinking about it all day! It was my only option and it didn’t work! I looked terrible, I could barely stand my reflection in the mirror… Why do I have to feel so miserable about a damn outfit?! And then I put my PJ back on and I thought I looked like a fucking cartoon! I wanted to hide under a blanket and just disappear… I must sound delusional right now…”

New clues unlocked.

“No, absolutely, you’re not delusional, love. But... Let me ask you this. What is really bothering you? How you look or how you feel ?”

You tilted your head and pondered his question. At that moment you realized you had never thought about it that way before. How I look or how I feel… , you kept thinking for a while.

However, you still weren’t able to unravel that truth, therefore you just kept rumbling about those stupid clothes not fitting you anymore for another solid couple of minutes.

Daichi chuckled.

“That just means you need to do more shopping, babe,” He pointed out and leaned in to pepper your neck with soft kisses. You couldn’t help but giggle as his kisses alternated with random names of your favorite shops where you two could have gone to the next day to buy something. But eventually, you lightly pushed him away, not because you really wanted to but... Something wasn’t still quite right and you didn’t know what it was. That made you feel ultimately uneasy.

Daichi drew back on his heels, his hands still on your sides, sweetly caressing your hips. He stayed there and just contemplated you as your mind spun around and other vague thoughts piled up in your head.

“So, is there something else?” He softly asked.

“I guess so… It’s not about the clothes. I think it’s me. I look so different and I feel so different, I can barely recognize myself.”

“Love, you have so many things to do, I know it’s hard to find time for you to eat clean or be active. Maybe I should propose less pizza and stuff—”

“No, no, babe, it’s not you... I just feel awful about myself.”

“You feel , but you’re definitely not. I guarantee you that.” Daichi immediately comforted you.

“You know the saying, love is blind…” You tried to joke around.

“It sure is. I could love you with my eyes closed, but even with my eyes wide open, I can’t see anything wrong with you.”

Daichi’s love confessions were sappy at their core, but his voice was always so direct and honest they always sounded like facts. And they never failed to catch you off guard. Daichi used to be shy and awkward in the beginning of your relationship. He was constantly blushing hard and messing with his sentences whenever it came to talk to you. However, with time, his affection and ways started to be so sincere and straightforward you didn’t even know how to contradict him or how to even say anything back.

“I wish you could see yourself through my eyes…” His tone suddenly painted with melancholy, “Then you could see how beautiful you are, how precious, how…” He felt it too. He felt he was getting too emotional, so he tried to take the edge off, coming back to his goofy side. “No, no. Rewind. You might end up dumping me. Nah nah, not gonna happen!” He muffled, hiding his head against your belly, curling up with his torso over your lap.

You couldn’t help but laugh. You loved him so much.

“Jokes aside,” He said, lifting his head and looking up at you. “Tell me, babe, is this really such a big deal? Because if it bothers you to this point, you should think about it more carefully... Can I help you in some way?”

“Honestly, I-I don’t know how you could help me,” You confessed, “I feel like I’m not taking care of myself, but I also lack motivation to actually do something about it. It’s a dog chasing its own tail, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I get it… Well, I could encourage you, first. But then I could also help you and try to do things with you, like…” He thought about it for a couple of seconds. “What if I call Tanaka? He's a personal trainer but he also knows a lot about nutrition. He may suggest something delicious but fast and healthy for us to cook. It could be beneficial for both of us. We have been literally eating our stress away recently. You know what, I feel bloated too…” Daichi added and then proceeded to touch his tummy.

You lightly pushed him again and started to shower him with compliments. You couldn’t wrap your mind around the fact that Daichi could ever possibly be insecure about himself. He was… Daichi. He was just perfect.

He smirked at your reaction and got closer to shut your mouth with a sudden, deep kiss.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He whispered, just an inch away from your lips.

“Sure, what is it?” You said almost laughing. A secret?

“Ok, look at my pants,” Daichi said, drawing back until he stood up, right in front of you.

“Yeah, I’m looking at them and they look really good on you-” You started to say and tried to make him spin around to point out how good he looked in those dark pants. That was actually your favorite pair, you loved the way they highlighted his muscular legs, how- But he stopped you right there.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ok, thanks, but have you noticed that I’m not wearing any belt? And actually haven’t worn one in a while?”

You frowned. Where is he getting at?

“And you know why? I don’t really need one anymore. These pants stay up regardless,” Daichi confessed, giggling, “What I mean is… Look, you still like how they fit me. I still like how they fit me. I just know that you would like them even in another size. I would like them as well.”

You just stared at him, quietly pondering his words.

“Anyways, the pants are not the real point. These are just pants. Those things that didn’t fit you aren’t the real point either. You see what I’m trying to tell you?”

You did. You got what he meant, but you were still doubting yourself somehow. Because, in your mind, not fitting your old clothes was just the result of something that slipped out of your hands as you struggled to take care of anything else, except yourself. It wasn’t about your weight or the clothes, it was about losing track of yourself in the process.

“You think I’m perfect while I may, well, I am certainly not. Same goes for you. None of us is perfect, never been, never will. We are just us,” He got closer and sweetly brushed your hair behind your ears, “But for me, in my eyes, you are. And apparently, I’m too in yours. And that’s all that matters.”

Again, just straight facts.

Also, whenever he gave you one of his motivational speeches, he really looked like a captain. You could vividly picture the scene in your head, his teammates carefully listening to him, hanging off his words, right before an important match or even just a regular training session.

“I know it’s extremely cheesy to hear, but it’s also the truth. You’re perfect just the way you are and you’ll always be to me…” His voice small as he kneeled again in front of you. “Even now. Even if you feel lost. The you you’re looking for is still there, it’s not going anywhere. You just need some time and patience to find yourself again.”

You immediately cupped his face, about to tell him something, but before you could spell a single word, he whispered,

“But… But if this is a problem, something you want to change or improve, something you need some help with, then let’s do it, let’s do it together. No. Better. Let’s do it right now!”

Daichi immediately stood up and ran back to the kitchen, where you used to keep your little notebook. Once back, armed with a pen and unmovable willpower, he sat down again and opened the agenda on your lap. Going through your schedule, he noticed how packed it was, pages and pages filled with appointments and notes, but that didn’t scare him.

“Mmm… So, here’s the plan. Our lunch breaks on Monday and Friday look pretty long. We could… Meet at the park. You know, the one right after the supermarket, down the street-”

You nodded, showing him you were following him.

“We could jog a little and then eat something together! That way we’d see each other, have some fun and do something good for our health too… I know jogging doesn’t actually sound much fun, but I swear we’ll have a good time, babe. What do you think?”

Your lips curled upwards into a soft, little half-moon. You couldn’t say no to that.

“Sounds like a plan…” You simply commented.

He looked relieved and then added, “Also, remember that lunch at my mum’s next Sunday? Why don’t we just skip it and go somewhere fancy, like a spa-”

“But we promised-” You tried to object.

“Babe, I know, I know, but we can go some other time. She’ll understand.”

“Okay…”

“It’ll be beneficial for both of us, for real. To be honest, I think I’m this close to a breakdown too,” He laughed.

“You’re right, we should definitely go… You know, I was also thinking about joining some sort of club. I feel like I don't have a hobby or a passion anymore. It’s always work, work, work, the apartment, work, work, work. I feel so… Arid? Mentally. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah… Me too, I was thinking the same exact thing this morning actually… Maybe I should join a volleyball team again. Nothing serious but like a team to play with, just once in a while-”

Your eyes widened, “Oh God! Yes! Absolutely! You should definitely do that, love!”

Daichi nervously chuckled. He wasn’t expecting such an enthusiastic and energetic reaction from you, not after having seen you so blue and distant since he had come back home.

You loved seeing him playing volleyball. You still remembered vividly the times you used to sneak a peek at his practice and matches during college. The first time you saw him playing, all sweat and absorbed in the game, you did a double-take. He looked so hot.

“Alrighty, I’ll definitely think about it… Don’t worry, love, we’ll figure something out.”

“As we always did…” You added, shyly smiling at him.

That situation made you wonder. Life could be hard at times, but if you had the right people around you to rely on, to fight with, or simply talk to, it didn’t seem like that tough anymore.

“Yeah…” He smiled back and instinctively leaned forward to hug you tightly as you welcomed his frame against your chest.

After a few silent minutes, you muffled against his shoulder, “Thank you… I don’t even know how to tell you how thankful I am right now… ”

And in all fairness, there wasn’t much else to add.

“You could start by being less hard on yourself, love,” Daichi said, still pressed against you, “You’re doing so great…”

“You’re way too good to me.” You murmured back, your voice slightly above a whisper.

At your words, he brushed his head from side to side against your shoulder, silently disagreeing with your affirmation. He was just as good to you as you deserved.

Right at that moment, “Best Part” by Daniel Caesar and H.E.R. came on and Daichi thought that there couldn't have been a better time than that for that specific song to start.

He drew back from your hug and guided you to stand up with him, then walked backward to reach the center of the living room, his eyes still fixed on you.

“Siri, turn up the volume!” He ordered his phone to do as he took you in his arms.

You simply stared at him and followed his actions, like a puppet under his spell. His arms welcomed your figure and your fingers locked, your two bodies perfectly molded one against the other as you slow-danced to the rhythm, allowing yourself to utterly enjoy that moment.

A strange feeling warmed your belly, like an overwhelming wave of happiness was overtaking all your senses. Your mouth instinctively opened to shower Daichi with random compliments, words of gratitude, and all sorts of sweet nothings. He loved to be praised by you but after a while he tried to playfully hush you, holding you even tighter and whispered next to your ear a line of that song that seemed to be written right for you. Better, right for him to sing it for you.

“I just wanna see how beautiful you are, you know that I see it, I know you're a star. Where you go I follow, no matter how far. If life is a movie, oh you're the best part…”

The music eventually faded and an hour later you and Daichi were once again in your bed, curled up in your sheets, as you leafed through Netflix’s catalog, fruitlessly. In the end, you just end up cuddling and ultimately dozing off. Nothing special had happened that night, but you felt so restored, at peace, as if everything was completely fine again.

When you woke up the morning after, Daichi was already gone. You were used to this too. No night shifts meant early shifts. But this also had its perks, like the tiny heart-shaped post-it notes he liked to leave in the bathroom for you to read them as you washed your face or brushed your teeth. The breakfast? Ready on the kitchen counter, another post-it note on top of it. And then another one, on the front door, “I can’t wait to see you at lunch <3”

At noon, you two met up at the park as planned. A little warm-up under Daichi’s careful instructions and then you were ready to start. Just a casual jog, nothing too demanding, as you enjoyed the fresh air and the good company of that day.

During the whole run, Daichi kept encouraging you like a real captain and a loyal partner would do, saying that you were doing great, that you looked very good in those leggings, that you were half done at that point, and then that you could do it, you were almost at the end at that point.

“The last lap, babe! We’re almost done!” Daichi shouted, turned his head in your direction, and gave you a wide, shining smile.

“I-I think I’m done for today…” You panted as you struggled to keep up with his pace.

“Six more minutes and we’re done! C’mon! Don’t give up!” He incited but you soon waved the white flag, signaling him your surrender.

Daichi halted and got closer to you. A strange, gloomy aura suddenly spread all around him. A mischievous grin appeared on his face right when he whispered, an inch away from your sweaty face,

“Quitters don’t get their prize, you know that?”

Your breath almost failed you, when you told him, “Yeah, yeah, you can eat my lunch, I don’t want it anymore…”

But apparently, Daichi had another prize in his mind, another type of meal .

“Mmmh, that’s not the reward I was planning to give you…” His voice sounded dangerously seductive for the location you two were at the moment. Your eyes widened at the sudden realization.

His hands slowly roamed from your hands to your shoulders, then cupped your cheeks. His tone got back to normal when he playfully squeezed your face and said, “Six minutes!”

Six minutes passed and the jog was finally over. A little picnic at the park, a quick shower together at home, and then you were good to go. Your afternoon’s tasks awaited you.

That evening Tanaka and Kyoko joined you for dinner. They were both more than happy to give you some advice, to recommend easy and healthy recipes, and to see how the apartment had changed since their last visit.

Later that night, you and Daichi were again in your bed, tired but definitely satisfied. Your back was pressed against his broad chest, your body secured in his warm embrace, your thoughts were quiet, both your body and mind at peace.

You had worked, you had jogged, you had had some fun with Daichi at the park, you had also found some time to finish that book you had forgotten on your desk. Well, actually, Daichi had been texting you during the whole afternoon to remind you to take some breaks from time to time, to have a snack or read something. The dinner with Tanaka and Kyoko had cheered you up more than planned and that full, yet satisfying day was finally over.

You were still lost in your thoughts when you felt Daichi snuggle up, holding you even tighter than before. His left arm was wrapped around your figure while the right one was on top of yours, his fingers gently rubbing your hand, then your wrist and forearm, drawing imaginary patterns all over your skin. As he got closer, ultimately closing that tiny gap between you two, his head found the crook of your neck and gently nestled in it. Then he asked you, his voice hoarse with weariness,

“So? About the jog, did you like it?”

“Weeeell, let’s say that I liked it but mainly because we did it together.” You confessed, “Would I do it alone? I don’t know… Maybe?”

“Fair enough,” He replied and placed a sloppy kiss on your shoulder, his fingers still loosely tracing your arm. Then there was silence, the room was from time to time filled only with the muffled sound of those soft pecks he kept on leaving on your skin.

“You know,” Daichi whispered at some point, between a kiss and another, “Jogging is not the only option…” He paused to clear his throat, “There are other types of activities that we could do…” Another kiss, his breath warm against your neck, his tone husky with desire when he added, “That we could do indoor…”

#daichi x you #daichi x reader #daichi headcanon #daichi sawamura #daddy daichi #haikyuu oneshot #one shot #read on ao3 #read on wattpad #spotify #i wrote this at 3am #sawamura daichi x reader #sawamura daichi #fluff

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