#of COURSE i have one right where the shoe heel rubs on my right achilles

[thestarmaker]

Me trying not to scratch my 30 mosquito bites until I draw blood 😶😶😶😶😶

[pedros-mustache-main]

i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

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

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

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

january, 1982.

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

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

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

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

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“right.” he nods once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

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

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

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

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

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

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

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

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

this is a job for you. nothing more.

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

“hello?”

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

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“afraid so.”

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

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

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

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

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

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

“are you an angel?”

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

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

“that’s kind of you.”

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

“i think you’re still drunk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your nails tap against the counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

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

“but where will i—”

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

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

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

you come to when a car horn blares outside. 

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

“roger!”

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

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

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“[y/n], please!”

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

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

you’re nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but then the phone rings.

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

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

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

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

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

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

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

“why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“is this your wife, roger?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that’s not really—”

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

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

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

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

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

“there! that could enough for you?”

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

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

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

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

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“have you told rog?”

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

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

you’d forgotten about that too.

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

“i guess but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

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

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

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

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

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

you could get used to this.

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

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

you know he’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

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

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

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

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

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

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

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

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

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

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

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

“roger–”

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

“there’s something i should—”

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

“what?”

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

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

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh, sorry. hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

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

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

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

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

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

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

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

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

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

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

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

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

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

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale.

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

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

your stomach plummets to your feet.

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

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

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

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mhm.”

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

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

someone could be watching.

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

“i remember.”

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

you oblige him without hesitation.

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

you nod, and he leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you okay?”

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

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

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

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

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

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

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

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

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

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

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

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

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

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

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

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

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

it happens before you have time to react.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

only my pride, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

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

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

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

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

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

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

“what?”

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

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

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

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

“yes.”

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

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

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

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

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

[extremelyblackandwhite]

handmaid - 11

PAIRING: mob!sebastian stan x ingenue!reader

WARNINGS: age gap, mentions of violence, gun mentioning

A/N: i watched endings, begginings again solely because of the scene we get a close up of seb making out with shailene and that scene will forever make me want him in unholy ways. hope you enjoy this chapter xxx

NEXT CHAPTER

    - What? - Y/N stared at him, not because she hadn’t heard what he had said but because her brain seemed to have stopped mid synapse. She wondered if this was the hopeless romantic in her mixed with the lack of sleep that were making her hear things. But no. That confirmation came to her through his actions as he stepped close enough to her she could feel his breathe on her cheekbone. His hand cradled her face, looking at her with the uttermost adoration, almost like a scene straight off Springtime by Pierre-Auguste Cot. 

   - I’m here, nothing and no one can harm you. I don’t think you understand the things I would do for you. - he traced her bottom lip with his calloused thumb causing her small hairs to raise up as a shiver rolled down her spine. 

   - I ... You shouldn’t. - she was too immobile to even try and step back, but in all honesty, even if her nerves weren’t stopping her from moving, she herself would’ve stopped herself from moving. It felt nice. - You make me very nervous, Mr. Stan.

She took a step forward, hearing the shift of the gravel as her sock covered feet moved so her toes touched the point of his shoes. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do but there was an overwhelming need to be close to him. As so, she stretched her arms to him, wrapping them around his neck and burying her head in his pyjama shirt. It was a very baggy shirt with the logo of Regis High School. She guessed it had probably been his during his high school years and the little holes and slight thin patches of fabric spread across the tee contributed to that guess of hers. Sebastian sighed at this motion, his hand coming to rest upon the small of her back while his lips pressed against the crown of her head, slightly inhaling the faint scent of her lavender shampoo.

They remained in that same position as the bird slowly awaked as the very first sun rays broke through the night sky, the sounds of nature making them both forget they had just escaped a crossfire. They continued in that embrace until his phone loudly rang from the backseat where he had thrown it before. 

With much regret, he broke the embrace, hand taking slightly longer to her waist as he grabbed his phone, angrily answering it. Y/N just stood there, hand hoovering over his like someone who really wanted to hold his hand but was too shy to do so. Of course she was to shy to do so, this was her friend’s future husband. The same future husband who she would have to kiss and some day give a child to and here she was fully considering the idea of entering some sort of Anna/Vronsky relationship minus the opium and suicide.

   - I’ll be there in a few. - his words as the phone beeped off took her off her thought pattern.

   - Is everything alright? - she questioned, worry laced into her sleepy sounding voice. It was 4 AM after all, Y/N guessed that all in all, she’d probably gotten about an hour or two of sleep. 

   - Yeah. - he sighed, rubbing the side of his neck out of tiredness. - We need to go. 

   - Where are we going? - what was she doing? she asked herself as she noticed she was already sat in the shotgun seat without getting an answer. Was she that enamoured that she would get in the car without any response? Maybe, yet he did let this particular sight of safety. 

  - Airport.

She watched as his eyes were kept on the brightening road. Y/N didn’t know exactly what to say, all she knew exactly was that he made her feel warm and nervous but not in the way that being next to a mob boss. You should fear contact with one not crave one. 

Things were rather silent until the crash of noise from the airport made her look at something rather than the side of his face, watching as various airplanes landed a bit closer than she’d ever seen them land. He just drove as if a plane couldn’t misdirect or mislead and hit them, he drove with that sort of confidence that made you want to throw your arms in the air in great Taylor Swift music video fashion. He drove with the confidence she wished she had. 

The car slowly yet surely came to halt and as she turned her face to the window she could see the airplane from a few days before. She guessed they were going home for safety and despite her love for Paris, right now she wanted to go somewhere familiar. 

   - Gwen’s already inside. - he put his hand on the glove compartment, picking the music box and handing it to her. - Make sure you don’t lose this one too.

   - Are you not coming? - she noticed his hand was still very much gripping the wheel of the car. 

   - After this, I think I have some matters that need resolving. 

   - Why won’t you come with us? Surely it is Mr. Williams’ job to look over the Paris affairs. 

   - He’s very useless, angel. If I leave him to do anything, I’ll have to fly back and fix it. Besides, I’m sending him to New York for a bit after his disastrous deal.

   - Oh ... - she cradled the music box closer to her chest. - Are you gonna be alright?

   - Are you worried about me, angel? - he smirked at her, immediately causing her cheeks to heat up. - I will be just fine, you need only worry about Gwen.

   - That’s not what I meant. - Y/N faintly smiled at him, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek which took Sebastian off guard. It was so sweet and so young that half the rage he had accumulated towards whoever shot at his hotel. She just stared at her lap, lightly tracing the golden details of the box. - I don’t exactly want to go to your funeral.

   - I think I’ll be fine, angel. 

He is a mob boss, he will be fine. One does not become notorious by being easy to wound or easy to kill. Nevertheless, so had been the man who raised her and Gwen and he had still gotten a pretty bad wound shot every once in a while. No one is invisible. Achilles had his heel and Odysseus, Perseus, Theseus all had a lot more and they were all heroes who were eventually defeated. Dynasties fall and Y/N had seen it plenty of times.

She opened the door of the car, her sock covered feet reminding her that she was about to walk into a private jet in her pyjamas and socks. Gwen surely had thrown her into some wild situations yet none seemed to quite match up to this one. 

Closing the door behind her, she walked to the stairs that led to the door of the plane, turning around to briefly wave at Sebastian before he took off. Maybe it was best they were separated for a bit, maybe it was just a little crush that would vanish with a bit of time. What she wasn’t expecting was to walk into Gwen having her neck peppered and sucked by one of the bodyguards, Christian. 

    - Morning, Y/N. - she pushed the man away, giving her an enthusiastic smile as Y/N sat in the leathered seat in front of her. - Where have you been? Elias said Sebastian took you during the crossfire.

    - Yeah, are you okay? Sebastian said you were, I’m really sorry I didn’t come to find you.

    -  You two are sure buddying up. - she opened one of the magazines that were on the stand as the plane prepared to take off. 

    -  Oh, it’s not that. - she bite her lip looking at her feet.

    - Of course it is. You better not tell him about any of the boys or Christian, the last thing I need is to have someone dead because my fiancée is jealous. 

    - I’ve told you I’ll never tell on you besides he’s not jealous, he’s just worried about you. 

   - Well ... - she smirked, lowering the magazine. - He does employ some very fine men, specially at the art of bedding.

   - See, this is why your dad didn’t want you to watch Sex and the City when you were younger. - Y/N laughed, remembering when a teenage Gwen would sneak in at night along with her to watch Sex and the City reruns on the TV which would constantly annoy Mr. Forrest. 

   - You can’t be such a prude, you must have someone on your radar. Seriously, has there never been a guy who made you want to take a cold shower just from looking at him?

   - Guys don’t tend to look at me Gwen, they look at you. 

   - Bullshit. I could just bet you have someone and you’re just not telling me. 

Y/N just laughed it off, leaning against her pillows and the sleep finally won her over, throwing her for a nice slumber. She was awoken by the faint sound of rain hitting glass and as she slowly opened her eyes, she came to see the airport of what she called home for now. 

Rather quickly and wearing one of the bodyguards jacket in order to not look like a public threat to society in her pyjamas and socks, both her and Gwen were hushed into the limo which drove them back to their penthouse. The building looked darker and the weather was even darker. She prepared to go inside the bed and sleep more, despite having slept for 9 hours on the plane from Paris to NY. 

   - You look terrible. - Y/N heard a familiar voice as the lift doors opened. A big smile stretched on her face as she saw Dan standing there. - Are you even wearing any shoes?

  - You’re here! - she jumped into his arms, wrapping hers around his neck before stepping away for a bit. - I wasn’t expecting you to be here this soon.

  - After the crossfire, I decided to spend some time with you and Gwen at least until Mr. Stan returns

  - Oh great. - Gwen rolled her eyes. - Another babysitter. 

  - It’s good to see you too, Gwen. - he turned his gaze back to Y/N. - You look unharmed. Survived your first crossfire

  - Yeah, it’s been a crazy few days. Enough about me, did you bring Sophie? 

  - No, she’s staying at her mum’s for a while but we can go and visit I’m sure she’ll love to see you. 

  - Just set the date. 

  - So ... - Daniel took a seat on the living room’s coach while Gwen returned to her room, Christian in her foot. Y/N guessed she would be better sat by Dan’s side than in her room where she would possibly hear sounds of things she didn’t really feel like hearing right now. - I heard from Gwen that Sebastian was the one who took you during the crossfire. 

  - Yeah, his room was closer to mine ... - it wasn’t, it was as further from hers as it was from Gwen’s but she didn’t exactly felt like telling Dan that she had kissed his sister’s fiancé. - He’s not as bad as you think, Dan. 

  - You always try and see the good in people, Y/N. It is remarkable but please be careful. Seriously, there are things in this whole world that you are not used to. 

  - I’m not exactly clueless, Dan. He hasn’t been rude to me, he’s treated me as well as he treats Gwen. Besides until he mistreats any of us, I refuse to have such a deep dislike for him. 

  - Y/N, c’mon. I know you don’t get to see it but his kill count? It’s high even when compared to my dad and grandfather’s count all together. You step out of the line, you get erased. 

  - That’s not true. Mr. Williams stepped out the line in France and he’s still not dead.

  - Mr. Williams? When have you even met Thompson Williams?

  - At Gwen’s engagement party. What I mean is, I’m safe here, Dan. I would love if you stopped treating me like I’m the most clueless thing ever.

  - But you are clueless, Y/N. We’ve sheltered you and Gwen for most of it, you don’t ...

  - Oh ... - Y/N interrupted, getting up. - Since I’m that clueless, I think our conversation is over.

  - Y/N, don’t take it personally. 

  - I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow, Daniel.

tag list: @lilya-petrichor @xoxohannahlee @irespostthingsiwanttoseelater @nikkipea @madisonpillstrom @cevans98 @thelostallycat @sideeffectsofyou @anxiousdreamersworld​ @sarge-barnes-sir​

[nitewrighter]

I know its a very rare pair, but could you write some short fluff for Faustine and Samir? THANK YOU

Whoops this ended up not-short.

—

He followed her out from the Casino’s dance floor to the pool area. It should have been closed off from the rest of the party but he assumed she could probably go wherever she pleased in the casino, seeing as her guardian owned it. 

The lights beneath the pool lit up the whole area in an aquamarine light. She was slumped on a pool chaise lounge, the tulle of her skirt hiked up to expose her legs as she pressed her fingers to the neuroprosthetic nodes at the side of her knees and swore under her breath, trying to extend her leg but seizing up and flinching back on herself. Her head jerked up as she picked up on his presence and she quickly shoved the fabric down.

“How’s your infiltration going, Detective?” she said, still slumping forward.

“It’s going,” he said with a shrug, “I was half-expecting to see you on the dance floor–”

“Shut up,” the words fell out of Faustine, harsh and reflexive, a far cry from her usual coy and smirking manner. She seemed to catch herself and her eyes flicked up at him, wide. Nearly purple, their depth enhanced by the neuroprosthetic nodes that pocked the ridge where cheekbone met temple.

“Leg on the fritz?” asked Samir, tilting his head.

“It’s fine–I shouldn’t have been on my feet all day–It’s fine–” she seemed to be talking to her leg as well as him. She huffed and her shoulders slumped. “It’s probably hilarious seeing me like this, isn’t it?” she said quietly.

“Why would it be hilarious?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Just so you know, all I have to do is hit a button on my comm and three men will come down here and break your kneecaps,” she said stiffly. Then she said half to herself, “But of course your training would probably have me in a position where you can negotiate for at least a few minutes before a sniper gets in position to take you out…” 

“We are on your turf,” Samir conceded. He motioned at her leg, “Does it hurt?” 

“No–just…numbs and tingles and… I just–it just needs a few minutes to set itself right because my knee keeps doing this stupid jiggling and—” she caught herself, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Go back inside and play your stupid, ‘I think I know what suave is because I watched spy movies when I was a kid’ act, I can handle this,” she said, waving him off.

“Will you be able to get back inside?” asked Samir, getting down on one knee next to her.

“I can handle it,” she said more insistently.

“Can I see it?” asked Samir.

Her lips thinned to a line twisted by annoyance, but he met her eyes with a disarming patience. Not breaking eye contact with him, she hiked her skirt back up to expose the offending leg. She was already pale, but the bluish light of the pool rendered her leg moon-white, though still lined with neuroprosthetics. Samir pulled back the cuff of his sleeve to reveal the hard-light projector on his hand. She flinched back at the sight of it but he put up both hands in a ‘It’s okay,’ motion and she eased up a bit where she was sitting. He extended a hand to support her leg but hesitated before touching the bare skin, “May I?” he asked.

Faustine waved him on, still frowning.

He brought one hand under her knee and the other at her achilles tendon then gently bent and extended her leg, watching her knee tense and twitch with the movement. 

“A sniper, a detective, a world-class swimmer, and now, suddenly, a nerve damage specialist,” Faustine muttered bitterly as he puzzled over her leg.

“Grandma’s a medic,” said Samir, supporting her leg a bit more, “She taught me some stuff. I think I can get you walking for another hour or two though.”

“Really?” hope bled into her voice and she caught herself before looking off bitterly again, “Well… I suppose you can’t make it much worse than it already is…”

Samir extended the palm of his hard-light projector hand upward and projected a small hologram of several arcing straps. “Bear with me,” he said, semi-materializing the hard light and securing it just above and below her knee, forming a compressive brace around her knee. “Better?” he said, looking up at her.

She bent and unbent her leg, noticing it more steadied with the brace, “It should work if I keep weight off of it…” she said quietly.

Samir stood back up, rolled his cuff back down, then extended an arm to her.

“Oh please,” she said flatly.

“We don’t have to dance,” said Samir with a smirk.

“What’s the angle, here?” asked Faustine.

“The angle is, despite you being… pretty much pure evil, I do respect you,” said Samir, “When I beat you–”

“If.”

“When. When I beat you, I don’t want it to be because of this,” he gestured down at her leg.

“Oh, it wouldn’t be sporting,” said Faustine with an eye roll, “Thank you, Samir Amari, for your charity.” Her shoulders bunched up, “This isn’t a game. You have friends, family, teammates hanging in the balance here. I’m the enemy. You have to accept that.”

“I do,” said Samir, keeping his arm extended, “I know this fight isn’t going to end with us, though. And it isn’t going to end tonight. And trying to take advantage of your leg fritzing out is… probably going to get me killed.”

“It will definitely get you killed,” said Faustine.

“So… are you going to let me walk you back in there or not?” said Samir, gesturing with his elbow a little.

Faustine reached up and took his arm and pulled herself onto her feet, shoving the skirts of her dress back down with a few brisk brushes of her hand. She swayed a little but kept upright, walking with him with only a minor dip of a limp.

“Medical applications of hard-light technology,” Faustine said quietly, “It’s actually quite impres–”

The heel of her shoe suddenly broke and she flailed. Samir nearly managed to deal with the shift in her weight for all of two seconds before he stepped on the hem of her dress, slipped, and both of them fell in the pool. She knocked the wind out of him as they broke through the surface of the water and he quickly surfaced again, spluttering and coughing as Faustine scrambled on him, clinging to him like a cat in a barely-concealed panic.

“You okay?” he said, keeping her supported above the water. The tulle of her skirt clouded around her, like purple food coloring diluting in the water.

“My Louboutins!” her voice thinned to a near violin-shriek as she looked at the offending broken heel resting on the edge of the pool. She looked down at her dress in alarm. “My Dior!” 

Samir followed her eyes down to the dress, then quickly jerked his head back up and away when he noticed that the sheer fabric of the bustier-style bodice of the dress got a lot more sheer when wet.

“…So you’re okay,” said Samir, still looking off.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it!?” She shoved forward with her hand, splashing him.

“I didn’t break your heel,” said Samir, still looking off, treading water and keeping one arm under hers to support them both, “If I meant for this to happen, I assure you, you would be the only one in the pool.” 

She narrowed those purple eyes at him, already a little bloodshot from the chlorine. With her hair wet, her bangs were swept back from her face, exposing the other neuroprosthetic nodes at the outer corners of her eyebrows. “You should have just left me alone!” she snapped, “But nooo, you have to be Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes detective. All ‘Oh, let me help you my poor little Faustine.’ Well I can handle myself! I’ve been living with these stupid limbs and this–this whole—apparatus stitched into my body and I don’t need anyone’s help! Least of all some–some– GODDAMMIT, SAMIR, LOOK AT ME!”

Samir was still looking off and he flicked his eyes back to meet hers before he stammered, “Uh… water’s a little nippy.”

“What–No, the pool is heated, why would it–” Faustine glanced down at the bodice of her dress, her face dropped, and she splashed him again.

“I wasn’t looking!” said Samir.

She splashed him again.

“I’m not looking!” said Samir.

“Get me a towel!” she barked.

Samir moved to swim off. “Wait–! Don’t let go!” she said and she clawed her arms around his shoulders and pretty much floated piggyback as he swam until he reached the edge of the pool. They both climbed out and sat on the edge of the pool for a few tense, quiet minutes, Faustine still rubbing at her leg, the hard-light brace still around her knee. Samir brought a towel over and Faustine wrapped it around her shoulders with a sullen “Thank you.”

“This would probably be a funny story if we weren’t trying to kill each other all the time,” said Samir, taking off his shoes and trying to dump some water back into the pool from them.

“It would, wouldn’t it?” said Faustine. They made eye contact and both realized how ridiculous they both looked in waterlogged formalwear, Faustine’s makeup running down her face and Samir’s previously neatly gelled hair now making him look like a greasy drowned rat. They both laughed.

[praydastles]

Title: Jasmine tea and kisses Fandom: Monsta X Member: Wonho/Hoseok Genre/Warning: Soft smut Summary/Request: Some soft Hoseok smut for @wonheonie A/N: my lovely Jaz who advises and loves and makes her us all smile! She works too hard and needs some love returned, so this is dedicated to you <3 Word Count: 2455

Opening the door to your home felt like a much heavier task than it should have. You felt how tight your body was wound up, how your bones creaked from the invisible weight placed upon you, how your muscles were sore and on the verge of allowing you to collapse, yet wouldn’t allow you any feeling of relaxation. You were tired to the point you could feel the sag beneath your eyes, tiredness your new skin and even as you removed the shoes that you were in all day, on your feet non stop you still couldn’t relieve the tension. You sluggishly reached your hand up to place your coat on the hook next and then made you way, without much energy in your walk, toward the bathroom.

You released a heavy sigh already listing the things that you needed to do around the house. Even if you had clocked out for the day at the office, doesn’t mean work had actually finished. Clothes had to be washed, dishes to be done, hoovering and wiping down the surfaces, preparing dinner, the list went on and on as you made your way to the kitchen with a noise of distress.

In between putting the washing to dry, preparing the veg that will be used for dinner amongst the rest of your tasks you barely register the sweet call of “love, I’m home.” an hour or so later. It wasn’t till the featherlight touch of thick lips pressed to the back of your neck and firm arms weaved its way around you like a vine that you realised he had come home. The way your body seemed to break away from the cemented state of wound up muscles, knot filled back as you relaxed against his chest was sign that only now were you truly home.

Your hands felt desperate to Hoseok when you were quick to latch onto his palm tightly, releasing a heavy sigh and letting your head fall back. Hoseok lowered his face till he rested in the crook made for him and pecked your skin lightly before asking softly, in a knowing voice. “Long day baby?” You loosened your hold so you could turn in his arms, his own hands melding into your skin, warming and comforting as leant your head against his chest and shut your eyes to take in the steady beat of his heart. “You have no idea…” You mumbled, feeling his fingers press to your tensed lower back. “Baby, go to bed, I’ll wake you up for dinner.”

You paused against him, thinking over the suggestion, how tempting it sounded before concluding that you could not simple just go to be with so much to do. “That’s okay baby, but I have so mu-” Hoseok lowered his head, quickly planting a sweet peck against your lips and pulled back with a cheeky smile. “You really need to learn how to relax. Come on.” He was so easy to get caught up in, his smile was big and warm and just drew you in like a moth to a flame, likewise his eyes that stared at you as if you were his whole world, as if you were the only thing he could see trapped you too him as he began to walk backward with that cheeky smile held on his face.

He led you to the bottom steps, removing your arms gently from around him and encouraged you up the steps after turning you around, fingers never letting go and steps never far behind yours. Your bedroom was welcoming; familiar items that spoke of both your personalities, photos of soft kisses on days out, sweater on the edge of the bed that you stole from Hoseok to wear during particularly cold nights when he wasn’t around, his aftershave lingering amongst your perfume in the air, a room that was a perfect combination of little things that were the both of you.

The bed was even more welcoming when he directed you to it. He didn’t allow you a moment to disagree, already pushing you to lay on the bed. He shuffled on the edge, his body against yours, heat passing through each other making you feel toasty and drowsy. “You’re overworking yourself again baby,” He admonished, voice soft and low as he pushed your hair back gently with his fingers. He sighed, fingers tracing the creased and dark skin beneath your eyes for a moment before leaning forward and laying gentle pecks beneath each of your eyes and then over your lids that fluttered to a close with him so near and soothing you with his presence everywhere.

His fingers trailed down your cheeks and then he sat up, taking you by your forearm. Hoseok pressed his fingers to the ball of your shoulder and motioned them in circles that made you sigh in relief. He went down gradually, fingers applying pressure into the plump flesh of your arm, his fingers rolling out the aches you felt as he lowered to your wrist, and then to massage your fingers right up to your nail beds.

You moaned softly, the sensation pushing out the tension that locked up your body. Hoseok reached over to repeat his gentle movements on your other arm before scooting a little lower down the bed. His fingers found the tops of your bottoms, slipping into the waistband he began to pull down allowing your legs to breathe. He let it drop to the floor and shifted onto the bed, going between your knees as he allowed both his hands to circle the expanse of your upper thigh, starting high up and squeezing down, lower and lower to your ankle where he massaged even your achilles heel. No part was left untouched, the balls of your feet, the arch and up. Hoseok looked down at your tired body, feeling his heart clench as he even felt the strain on your body as he massaged you. He leant forward and over your lips, letting his stroke against yours softly before whispering against you, “Can I make love to you baby? Can I worship you?” Your tired eyes lifted slowly, staring into his and feeling your heart suddenly violently thud seeing the look he gave you; concern, love, want and something much more powerful swirled in the pools of his brown eyes as you barely noticeably moved your head in a tiny nod.

The feel of Hoseok’s chest against yours, of his hips barely resting on you when he allowed himself to sink lower for his lips to capture yours has your heart beating harder and when he tilts his head in an angle that allows his lips more of you, a soft moan is pushing out of your painfully tight chest. I love you is on the tip of both of your tongues, the words being spelt out against each others lips in soft and slow movements that turn more passionate as you breathe in each other. His fingers trail down your neck and down your side to slip under your back. His hands mould with your skin, your back arching up into him allowing him to rub you. When he pulls back from your lips it’s to stare down at you in wonder almost before he’s soft smiling, lips pulled back to show teeth. “You’re lips feel right against mine,” He tells you, placing the lightest of kisses at the corner of your mouth, “I’m so thankful to be blessed with someone as hardworking as you,” He continues, lips pressing to the underside of your chin, “Someone who is so giving,” lips lower along your neck, “Someone who gives their all with nothing in return,” he finds your collarbones, tongue licking out to taste your skin, then lowering his lips as he unbuttons your shirt, “Someone who quietly suffers, but goes on,” your shirt is spread open and his mouth is leaving bruises sticky from his lips over your chest, his hands trailing over your stomach and down to your inner thighs, rounding to grasp one to his hip, “Someone selfless, not caring for their own pain if it means they can help someone else, even if it’s something little,” His thumb is rubbing slowly on your thigh and his words are choking you, making tears prick at your eyes as you become overwhelmed, “Someone who listens, someone who loves wholeheartedly, someone who can make you feel at home, who can make you smile, who makes you feel like your world would end without them… that’s you to me.” The tears pool and then overflow to stream down the corners of your eyes as you stare up and him and all his sincerity. “Let me take care of you a little baby, it won’t be anything compared to what you do for me, for us, but… Let me start here for you.” Free hand coming up to wipe away your tears. You make a small noise at the back of your throat, unable to speak and Hoseok leans up to kiss you again, slow and with his tongue dipping into your mouth before pulling back, shuffling onto his stomach so he lays between your legs.

His fingers hook into the band of your underwear, hips rising off the bed to allow his to pull them off. You’ve never felt more gentle, or as if you were delicate than when Hoseok handle’s your body, hands gentle in their motion when he pushes your spread legs up higher and allows them to rest on his broad shoulders. You’re exposed, vulnerable for him and in no way does this phase you, your mind, body and soul at complete comfort with Hoseok. He never let you feel uncomfortable or unsafe and so when his lips found your folds and allowed his tongue to stroke along them, you felt nothing but content, a sigh slipping past your lips. His tongue ran from the bottom up, courses of pleasure shooting through you with each nudge against your clit.

The strokes of his tongue caught your growing wetness, his face pressing more to you, nose nudging your clit when he found your hole and pushed inside with a desperate whimper, your hands shooting to the silk strands of hair that caught between your tight grip, hips gyrating against his face as the slow push and pulls of his tongue set you alight. You urged him to use his tongue faster, the room a musical of your moans and wet strokes, Hoseok pushing his own hips into the sheets as he became hard eating you. He hungrily groaned, turning his head to your inner thighs to leave sweet bites and licks that painted you prettily before he was sticking his tongue out to flick at your clit till you felt a pulsing sensation. His finger slid easily inside as his mouth closed around you, the pressure of his mouth making you moan louder, his finger slow, taking its time to stroke your walls to life. He added another, a burning coursing through you quicker as he remained locked to your clit. Your thighs squeezed around his head, hips stuttering against his mouth as you quickly drew to the edge, just needed a little push, and when he removed his fingers in place of his mouth and the pads of his fingers pressed down to your clit, his jaw tensing as his urged his tongue to bury deeply, quickly into you, you fell over the edge, from your toes, to your head blood rushed in an overwhelming wave, a lone long scream leaving your lips when finally you came undone.

You were on his tongue, more so as he never relented with his licks, swirling inside of you till you were twitching and overwhelmed. He left a lingering, sweet peck to your clit and then pushed up, crawling over you, to your dazed and flushed face to kiss you again, lightly biting your lower lip and letting his tongue play against your lips before slipping in and circling yours. “Go on your side for me please baby.”

You rolled over, facing the wall and waited, feeling Hoseok sidle up to you. He’d removed his close, bare skin even hotter against yours and then he hand was lifting your thigh, manoeuvring to line himself up to you and when the head brushed and pushed in you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as Hoseok took controlling breathes, pushing in more till he was engulfed by your heat. He settled more behind you, sliding his arm under you and holding you close to his chest just as he dragged his hips back and began his slow thrusts. Your nails clawed at his arm, whines and desperate moans being pushed out of you with each of his languid strokes. You felt every part of him, his heart drumming wildly in his firm chest pressed to you, his thigh over yours as he pushed and pulled back his hips, his cock slow to fill you, slow to stretch you.

You’re acutely aware of everything, of the inches of his cock that fill you, the grooves that brush your walls with each slow stroke and Hoseok is panting in your ear, ‘Oh God’s’ leaving his mouth, ‘I love you’s’ being whispered against your neck as he speeds up and the sound of him slapping against your skin blends with the chorus of moans that leave the both of you and then he’s holding you tight, hips pressing hard, cock deeper as he releasing one long sweet melodic groan, his orgasm a mess inside of you, warm and thick and soon mixing with yours as his fingers quickly lower to your clit and rub till you're nearly rolling away from him, moans muffled in your mess of hair, against his arm, a final chorus of screams as you shudder and jerk around him.

Moments pass in blissful silence, heavy pants and his hands stroking your hair in comfort, still holding you close. He kisses the back of your head and instructs, “Stay awake for a moment.”

He leaves for your not sure how long as you try to gather yourself and fight the sleep that is more than ready to take over till the aroma of something sweet and soothing hits your nostrils. “Sit up a bit love.” He requests quietly, watching your tired muscles move slowly into a sitting position. He hands you a saucer with a small cup of tea atop of it and you’re grateful as you inhale deeply, the scent of jasmine washing over you and settling amongst the scents in your room, another thing that will remind you of what home means for you and your love Hoseok.

[onkey-bedtime-stories]

seal the deal

This one is for the anon who requested #36. Thanks for being a really patient with me, sorry it’s waaaay too late since you requested! Anyway, hope you like it :)

Prompt is from this list

—————————————

It’s 2 degree outside and only by standing next to the window itself, anyone can tell how brutal it is the wind blowing in the evening. Some people down the street looks hardly walking in such weather and for some whom strong enough crossing the sidewalk pacing as fast as they can, almost running to find any close shelter to warm their freezing bodies.

“Honey, stop standing like a power pole over there! Go change your clothes we need to leave in thirty minutes!”

“Can we just watch a movie and fall asleep on the couch?”

Kibum’s heels feel like it stuck on the ground, his brows are knitted together eyes ready to murder someone. He spent the last hour picking which shirt and pants would match his new coat, even laid down every option on the bed and took a picture of each set only to check whether it’s photogenic enough when the camera captured him.

“What did you just said?”

Seeing how angry his boyfriend is, Jinki walked closer to his side, took his hand and sit on the head of the sofa, “Baby, it’s cold outside.. And as much as I want to spend this evening having dinner with you, I’d rather stay home covered under the warm blanket.”

“Jinki! Do you even know how hard it is to make reservation to that fancy restaurant? Since Minho announced as the sexiest restauranteur of the year, we can barely even sit at its bar! And this guy couldn’t slip our reservation until tonight!”

“I know, Baby.. Minho told us himself when we visited Jonghyun’s new house two weeks ago.”

Kibum tried to release himself from Jinki’s manmade cocoon, “That’s why.”

“But who knows the weather would be this awful?”

“Old man, we’re going by car, not walking.”

“Still..,” he started putting the poor bunny face, pouting in front of Kibum’s eyes knowing it’s the latter’s weakness, “I’d rather cuddling with you here tonight. Thousand times better than eating delicious roasted chicken at the best restaurant in town.”

Kibum knows he lost the battle already before he could raise any objection, “Don’t you dare giving me that look! You knew it by textbook that would be my Achilles’s heel!”

The man before him smiling so bright, eyes almost missing trapped between the fat of his cheeks. He pulled Kibum closer to him, bring the man to sit on his laps and started nuzzling the edge of Kibum’s jaw.

“That’s why,” he pecked Kibum’s lips lazily which the latter still muttering some disappointment while on it, “So? Can we stay home tonight? I’ll text Minho right away and give the table to someone else.”

Though he already gave up, Kibum still cared about his belly.

“We still need to eat! I’ve been starve myself since the afternoon knowing I will eat my favorite pasta for dinner!”

“We can always order take out.”

He turned to his right and slapped Jinki right on his arm, “That’s not healthy! Last week you already ate take out for three nights straight!”

“In my defense, that’s because you’ve out of town and kept warning me not to burn the house down!”

He pinched his boyfriend nose which resulted to Jinki groans annoyingly, “Don’t give me another excuse! You can still have dinner with Taemin or Jonghyun!”

“Come on, baby.. Let’s just stay home tonight, we can eat a lot without afraid spilling some sauce on the expensive table cloth and Sister Acts is on Netflix tonight. Besides, I miss you so much.. I want to have you tonight for myself..”

Jinki started rubbing his nose to Kibum’s side and caressing his thighs, trying to persuade him even more.

“You’ve been planning this whole scam, haven’t you?”

“Of course not! Having dinner outside is my favorite! Where else I can show you off to those envious stare? I got the best boyfriend in the universe, all I want is walking a parade every eyes in the world blinded by his charm.”

“You and your sweet talk can rot in hell!”

“If we stay home tonight, tomorrow we can have lunch together with Taemin and Jonghyun. I’ll thread them to squeeze us to their schedule. Then after I’ll take you to your favorite shop to buy the coat you’ve been adored since last month?”

Kibum is tempted, but still upset with the sudden change of plan. Though, Jinki still able to catch the sparks lit in his boyfriend’s eyes.

“You think what I cared is only those material stuff?”

“Not even slightly.. I just want to spend the night cuddling and making out with you on the couch until we cannot even stay sober.. What if I scratch your back while we’re watching the movie? Hmm?”

Lee Jinki gives the best back scratch in the world and the image of him running down his stubby fingers up and down his spine might be the best break for Kibum’s horrible night.

“Okay, you win this time,” Kibum give Jinki long kissed before making a new deal, “You text Minho and call the food, I’ll go change and get the blanket and pillow. Oh, and honey, that coat would be nice with new pair of shoes.”

Jinki’s grinning from ear to ear, shaking his head weakly, feeling content, and realizing why he fell for Kibum over and over again.

***

Two limbs tangled on each under piles of blanket, the screen display their favorite movie. On the table, some boxes of take out neglected without nothing left inside, already devoured to the last bit.

Jinki stir in his place to adjust his position to make his left hand move easily. On the top him, Kibum lay down comfortably on his chest, while Jinki’s hand completely slipped under his top’s pajama.

“Oh this is so comfortable.”

Without lifting his head, Kibum scoffed to his statement, “Told you, investment on silk pajamas and wool blanket is always worth it.”

“And investment to the very gorgeous boyfriend is a lifetime reward, isn’t it?”

He jolted from his place, using his elbow to support his head, the sharp bone poking Jinki’s chest, making him grimacing in pain, “Excuse me?”

Jinki just winked and quickly pecked Kibum’s lips, three years together he still can’t get enough of his beauty and scent.

“Thanks for staying home with me, Kim Kibum.”

Kibum cupped Jinkis face, palm resting to both sides of his cheeks, adoring the perfect mixture of cute and sexy drawn all over his boyfriend, “Keep scratching or this will be your last kiss of the night.”

“Aye aye, Captain!”

Kibum resting his lips on Jinki’s for a minute before he went back to snuggle on Jinki’s chest. Like an autopilot, Jinki’s hand started to rub along his spine again, scratching his back on Kibum’s favorite spot. The best night in ever.

***

Hi! I’m (sorta) back! Life been so stressful lately, grad school is so demanding and the loss of my uncle didn’t help at all. I hope you like it! Please mind the grammar because my brain is not working properly now. Enjoy! XOXO