#when y’all show up at my funeral that better be what you remember me for | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dinoalexander · 2 years ago

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YOUR MOMENT OF ZEN: THE WORLD FAMOUS SEMI-QUOTABLE 2022 QUOTEDOWN QUOTETACULAR

Ladies and gentlemen and multiforms across seven star systems. It is an honor, a privilege, and a pleasure to inform you that READER DISCRETION IS STRONGLY ADVISED.

With that said, the World-Famous Get Down Like a Hound Party ‘til You Puke Semi-Quotable 2022 Quotedown Quotetacular is live in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… BEGUN!

—

“I’m not people, I’m your brother!” -C

“Now that Jeff Bezos owns Whole Foods, it’s more like two cans.” -Klauss

“F 2021 in its poop chute.” -Carl

“Kim, if I ever go into that drawer, always assume it’s for a fork.” -C, on a coworker’s junk drawer with plastic cutlery and… feminine hygiene products on full display.

“The 2020s need to go into time out and think about what they did.” -Q

“Chose the right week to choose my wife over trivia.” -Dave

“A bemusing coincidence that we lose Howard Hesseman on the same day the football team from Cincinnati does their best impression of a flock of turkeys being dropped from a helicopter...” -Justin

“… come on, girl. You saw ‘Set It Off’.” -C

“The groundhog saw his shadow, meaning six more weeks until the Times puts Wordle behind a paywall.” -Justin

“It Was a Thing a YouTube Dipshit Did With Too Much Money.” -Klauss

“I’M A BAAAAAAAAD MAAAAAAAAN!” -C on a Big Brain 12K

He's a D*ck - Gordon

You know I don't use that language - Bonnie

P*nis? - Gordon

No - Bonnie

Flapping piece of soft cartilage? - Gordon

.....- Bonnie

"Hey, didn't you used to be Antonio Brown?" -Justin

“Remember if you’re not having fun while you’re cooking, you’re just making food.” -Alvin Zhou

“The more I thought about swinging by Food Lion, grabbing a steak and a pack of risotto, the more I thought… I don’t want to cook, and even if I did, the kitchen is in no condition to be trifled with.” -C

“It’s not fitting in the hole” -Ken

“That’s what she said.” -Dan

“The group had a six-titty tour.” -Jonathan Oakes

“I’m stuck between namaste and kiss my ass.” -Craig Shoemaker

“The word of the day...is Thwomphammer.” -G

“They are trying to get Alabama in SO BAD. if Alabama gets in it's megacans.fuckyou.wav.” -J

“Y’all re-awoke a fire in me that will only make me stronger and I’m beyond excited to unleash that demon again to exponential levels on any OPP that lines up across from me next season.” -Eli Apple

“Hold on. Gordon’s plant is being naughty again.” -C

“Typed a 2,000 word reply to an email. Edited it down to 1,000 words. Edited it down to 500 words. Edited it down to 12 words. Hit send. Felt really good to type the 2,000 words, though.” -Kevin

“I’ve lost my appetite… and perhaps my will to live.” -C, on Q’s textcapades

“If it’s Beverly Crusher, we’re in trouble. If it’s Wesley Crusher, we may be okay.” -Benny

“When I am rich… you’re getting therapy, you’re getting therapy, you’re getting DOUBLE therapy. EVERYBODY’S HEALING.” -Deborah’s reel

“Man this is a Howie Mandel-hosted show on Netflix!” -Jay

“Before you guys put me in a chat, can you solve this problem by looking at policy?” -C

“Today I learned Måneskin isn’t the porn version of the 1980s classic Mannequin.” -Klauss

“Walk into the club like whaddup I got a oh god oh no wrong building I’m so sorry continue with your funeral god bless.” -TJ’s shirt

“I’ll try being nicer when you try being smarter.” -Tara

“Ta-DOW! … did that word just come out of my mouth?” -C

“We’re not going to beat Abraham Lincoln’s poop today.” -Megan

“I’m the blue one.” -Benny

“You don’ look like David Yost to me!” -C

“I’m gonna feed you. I don’t know you but I’m gonna feed you.” -?.. somebody

“Interesting fact: The world population will pass 8 billion sometime in the next few hours.” -Bruce

“Nick Cannon at it again?” -Jenny M

“Not gonna make it this year because I haven’t said anything particularly funny. My writers are on strike for better living conditions and improved food in the commissary. I told them they’d still have to share a room and they were gonna eat whatever their mother cooked.” -Daniel

“Uber driver:”I was a contestant on The Price is Right four years ago!”

Me: “Yeah? How’d you do?”

(Surprisingly long, uncomfortable silence)

Uber driver: “Bitch bid a dollar more.”” -Adam

“Irish nachos… 0/10. Would not recommend. I don’t think the cheese was even cheese. Might’ve been something from Flippy’s Gas ‘N Gulp.” -C

“And last night he was all “no I haven’t decided yet.” Even Brett Favre was like “this goddamned prick.”” -Greg, on Tom Brady’s retirement.

(Phlebotomist brings in labs when it’s time for us to go)

“… WHAT, YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME?!” -C

“Yay Albania!” -Tommy

“Use the toilet now or forever hold your pee.” -Frontier stewardess

“NERD SHIT!” -C & Phillip

“Tom Brady is the human version of Herpes.” -Blaze

“Oh CURSE WORD!” -C

“We have standards.” -Ken

“Finally!” -Benny

“I'm going to fail 30 times. It sounds like my dating life." -Klauss

“Rename the Washington Football Team the Gotham Rogues, because our stadium looks like Bane just left.” -Mark Ellis

“Give a man glitter, he glitters for a lifetime. Teach a man to glitter, he ALSO glitters for a lifetime. That's just how glitter works.” -Heather

“Shut the fuck up, Fay Vincent.” -Greg

“My computer locked up in computer jail. Come save a biiiiiiitch!” -Gena

“The big 69 ROFLMAO - Gordon Pepper Commissioner. Every game is nice.” -J

“Normal Québécois is dirty French. BOOK SAY SO.” -C

“You know what, sure the Vols lost this week...but you know who I feel bad for? America's fairweather college football fans...every one of them has had the staggering realization that, sadly, they are going to have to start rooting for Georgia...again.” -Brian

13: “Time loop.”

Yaz: “Time loop.”

Dan: “Groundhog Day.”

-from “Eve of the Daleks”

Paul Heyman: “Ladies and Gentlemen… my name is Paul Heyman, and I am the #Advocate for the…”

VRM: “QUARTERBACK FOR THE SAN FRANCISCO 49ERS…”

Paul Heyman: “… BRRRROCK…”

VRM: “PURDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Carmelo Anthony… going from missing the lay-in to missing the play-in.” -Shaq

“You’re in their DMs. We’re in them. We are not the same.” -Tampax

“You’ve been hanging out with us too much.” -C

“Or not enough!” -Brian

“My next door neighbor told me her dogs Zeus and Xena had an “accidental breeding” and Xena is going to have puppies at the end of April. I’m thinking, you can’t name a dog Zeus and NOT expect him to impregnate all the bitches!” -Megan

“In case you're wondering if the automatic closed captioning on YouTube is good enough, please remember that it once thought I said, "I'm going to Popeyes while I pick up some great sex on the internet."

Obviously that's ridiculous. It was Raising Cane's.” -Wingo

“Charlie Cox plays Daredevil, you idiot!” -C to Jay as James May

“I laughed. LORD, HOW I LAUGHED.” -Liz

“First progress report (too tired to do anything last night) One hour in and three cars prime gives me a nice $120 profit. Now to run to the boys room and figure out what my next move is.” -C

“Royal flush.” -Carl

“Do you care to udder that again?” -Austin Rogers #callback

“I don’t drink Pumpkin Spice Latte before October 1. I don’t do my holiday shopping before Thanksgiving. I’m an American, dammit!” -Jay

“Autocorrect can be a real piece of shut.” -Doug

“Carl has the football.” -C

“Let us know when Carl has the sporting goods store.” -Jay

“Quisla what’s wrong? Do you have hemorrhoids? Do I have to pray for your ass?” -Adam

“Isn’t That Girl Lay Lay just That’s So Raven with artificial intelligence instead of magic psychic powers?” -C

“We are stumbling through this class like a flock of angry, feral geese, and that's ok!”

-TJ, describing how we're going to think about queer theory and that it's tough and scary and uncomfortable.

““Doc, I can't stop singing 'The Green, Green Grass of Home.'” “That sounds like Tom Jones Syndrome.'” “Is it common?”“Well, It's Not Unusual.”” -Brian

“Q: What has 27 actors, three settings, two writers, and one plot? A: 671 Hallmark movies.” -Lollie

“I’m firing up my 43-inch…. TV.” -Jay, on 4/20

“Southwest is the worst of the American air carriers, except for all of the others.” -Scott

“So @Chico I have beef with Duke now.” -Kim

“‘On a scale of 1 to 10, what is your pain level?’ MOTHERFUCKING 15!” -Q

“Ummmm the United States also has a big glass pyramid... with a Bass Pro Shops in it.” -Danielle

“I don’t want to feel like king shit while washing my undies.” -C, pondering the cost of a new washer/dryer

“What the colonized Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon did I just watch?!” -Kim

“The league controls the narrative. NFL Network (Will Forte) is the cuck in the buttfucking between Roger Goodell (Laurence Fishburne) and Tom Brady (Kristin Wiig).” -Klauss

“TOILET OF HOLDING!” -Chico

“I remember this thing being a thing.” -Austin Rogers

TIM: "Well, the big sports news today is that Russell Wilson has been traded."

ME: "Is he the guy that they named the footballs after?"

TIM: "....No."

ME: "Then he must not have been that good."

And that's today in "Talking with Adam about Sports."

“First pregnancy: I’ve never felt more beautiful, thinking about the little miracle growing inside of me. It’s such a blessing! Second pregnancy: … never doing this again.” -Manuela Arbeláez

“My in-house normal is borderline illegal.” -C

“Lionel Goldbart and Barbara Lowe in one room. No wonder nobody had a tape of it, everyone’s TV exploded.” -Ben

“Scott Hanson is definitely the Ryan Seacrest to Andrew Siciliano’s Brian Dunkleman.” -Awful Announcing comment

“I expected to be disappointed. I was indeed disappointed.” -D

“This came up today. Sympathy is personally having experienced similar sucktitude such that you can have an emotional memory when someone else's circumstances suck. Empathy is recognizing that some else is going through something sucky. Compassion is one of the above PLUS feeling a desire to solve the suck for that other person. I have heard a few people say they have lost their empathy. I guarantee you haven't. You have just stopped trying to solve other people's lives; that is a growth step not a failure.” -Jenni

“My deep and abiding knowledge of pantyhose comes in handy again.” -Jay

“I’m not a fan of this lineup. It’s not great. Not great at all.” -C

“NOT GREAT, BOB!” -Benny

“Congratulations to Jimmy Garoppolo on replacing Dr Fauci as Aaron Rodgers’ least favorite Italian” - Richard Staff

Dave Pasch: "Is he aware that you played for the Boston Celtics?"

Bill Walton: "I have no idea. Did I?"

Pasch: "You did win Sixth Man of the Year."

Walton: "Which means I was Larry Bird's valet. Which means my job was to tell Larry what time the game started."

“I worked with Howard Hesseman a bit in the early 70s. I’m paraphrasing: “I bought a set of leather luggage today. It looks new now, but 25 years from now I’ll have a set of groovy luggage.” - Steve Martin

“Odell Beckham now has as many Super Bowl touchdowns as respected former NFL tight end Aaron Hernandez.

A great honor.” - Barry McCockiner

“Hey Shohei Ohtani is doing these amazing things.....and the Angels are losing again" - Gary Cohen

“Late night television is still selling nonstick cookware as if it’s 1975 and this is somehow a new invention.” - Tom Nichols

“Every G-D website I go to I click “Accept Cookies”-- and how many cookies have I actually received? Zero. Zero cookies.” - Rainn Wilson

"Tom Stone who looks an awful lot like Mike Scott of the Houston Astros. Maybe if he was scuffing the ring, he would have a better chance in some of these matches." - Peter Winston

“Recently heard a newscaster say, “Today is National Bring Your Dog to Work Day. Which is, of course, a made-up holiday.” And I thought, “Aren’t all holidays made-up?” - Gerard Mulligan

“My arts & entertainment Spidey-sense is going mad! But I swear I thought it was Phantom.” -Q

“Yeah I’m that bitch that cut you off. Fuck you and your mama.” -Mary on her personalized license plate

“I believe it was Gonzaga who said… “(makes gagging, gasping, and choking noises)”” -C

“That would be my fat ass.” -… somebody on TikTok

“If I haven't made the wall yet, I'm not going too, so I'm going to just spew unintelligible gibberish for the remainder of the day. This is no different than my regular programming.” -Erskine

"He should be Admiral Crunch by now. He's been delivering deliciousness for quite some time and surely is due for a promotion." -Howard

“Tent poles, everywhere. Tent poles.” -Shannon

“Turducken for everyone!” -Carl

“You’re too concentrated on listicle! Just answer the question!” -C

“It's more difficult to give away a couch than I remember!” -J. Keith

“Congratulations to Dusty Baker. His team can kiss my Halo fan rectum.” -JVG

“Challenging me for money in bowling is a good way for me to have all my food and gas paid for for my trip to Virginia.” -Gordon

“Behold, our all-purpose emergency preparedness medical contingency chest. Or as I like to call it… The doomsday box.” -C

“Or as I like to call it… The Oh-Shit Kit.” -Q

“Briar patch, me, some assembly required.” -David

“Why does every NFT look like a Digimon villain?” -Trevor Williams

“So when is the series finale of Twitter?” -BFG

“If people ask me why there was a strike that led to no postseason in 1994, I simply answer that with the same answer I have to “How did the Twins and Braves make the World Series in 1991?” “How and why did the Marlins beat the Indians in the 1997 World Series?” “How and why did Florida and Arizona get baseball teams while Washington didn’t?” and other logic-defying baseball questions from that decade, and that answer is simply… “Because it was the ’90s.”” -Ian

“The best worst team name of the night… “The Odds of Chico Showing Up for Trivia Again Are 3720 to 1”.” -Richard

“(running into the pub) Never tell me the odds!” -Chico

(Someone has a problem with Mayim Bialik referring to the Jeopardy! Round as “Single Jeopardy!”)

“As a great American would ask, “Why the BLEEP is this news?”” -Doug

“"We Paid A Freelancer To Say A Thing You Like ls Bad Because The Google/Facebook Duopoly Ate The Whole Digital Ad Market And Now Harvesting Hate Clicks Is The Only Viable Business Model For Online Media" That’s why.” -C

“"It's good it's good it's good that was good I just wanna do it one more time..." -The Andrew Garfield story, I love him so much

The milkshake take was our last of the day, btw, costume and hair depts were ready :)” -LMM

“Rorrie Travis. Beast Morphers Red Ranger. It’s funny you said you got replaced… by Barack Obama… because, uh… you kinda were.” -Russell Curry, Dino Fury Red and Obama lookalike.

“It’s so cold outside, people are going to Five Below just to warm up a bit.” -Matty

“Drinking a pink drink with sugar on the rim. I don’t know if you notice this but… I’m a girl.” -Q

“I know I am not supposed to attribute to malice what can easily be explained by stupidity. But that woman strikes me as the kind of person who is both malicious and stupid!“ -C

“Every time I watch the Winter Olympics, I just think how life used to be so miserable and boring in these cold countries that they invented a bunch of sports that were like "how can we find ways to DIE".” -Lynn

“Every machine is a smoke machine if you operate it wrong enough.” -Ken

“I have half a mind to start casually referring to the first round as Single Jeopardy! Just to trigger a bitch.” -C

“Hard drinks with people who want to get drunk!” -Megan quoting “Its a Wonderful Life”

“I’m gonna have to start drinking at 11.” -Jamie C. - talking about WrestleMania Day 1

“Somewhere Brett Favre is watching Aaron Rodgers and saying “This jackass…”” -C

“I've said it before and I'll say it again: DHL could fuck up the delivery of a shit from an asshole to the toilet bowl...” -Justin

“BE BETTER NOT BITTER YOU DUMB SON OF A BITCH.” -Sheiky

“Give me five. I have to pee.” -G

“To the white cat who decided to tear ass down the cross street leading to my home as my bumper moved menacingly close: 1) This is not "The Cube." Dwyane Wade is not going to give you nine lives to fritter away. Clearly a human is concerned about you. 2) Go home. You were lucky.” -Evil Travis

“I’ve done everything I could possibly do. WAIT! (Does some extra stuff) There. NOW I’ve done everything I could possibly do.” -C

“Rebuke them in the name of Black Jesus.” -Tricia, re: her travel tech agency

“If you still simp for that manchild (ed: you know the one. -C) please feel free to find some 4 letter words and go do them to yourself.” -Chelsea

“Whoa! Where in the world did that come from, Carmen Sandiego?” -C

“‘Netflix making a sequel to A Christmas Prince saved 2018.’ … well, someone had to.” -Rose McIver

"Those look like uteruses. In fact, that looks like what my uterus does to me every month." -Trina, on Activision Boxing

“Don’t do ho shit during the summer.” -C

“We can afford shit now we adults!” -Melissa

“Hmmm… Hot Pot Spot. Dibs on that for a pop-up restaurant name.” -C

“I was talking to the golf coach. He said they were going to Hawaii, but they couldn’t practice because of all the snow. I told them… ‘Gotta get up to par!’” -Sarah

“INSP goes full cowboy. Here’s the thing that gets me tho… “The textured hat represents salt-of-the-earth people with heart and soul, who have put in a hard day’s work.” You, marketing EVP Hayes Tauber, are full of shit.” -C

“Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this Son of York...and now a brief word from Imperial margarine.” -Brian

Sonic Whammy: I have a question on the Covid tests...does it hurt?

Gordon: Well, sometimes, it's a light swab, and sometimes they jam it up your nose and take out a piece of your brain. In either case, for you it will feel exactly the same and you won't feel anything.

Chappy: “Little short until pay day.”

C: “I too am a little short until payday. Once payday hits I’ll still be short, but at least I can foot bills.”

“I learned that with game shows that if you want to get involved, you have to ask.” -TV’s Ryan Vickers

“The Jets will forever be the team that made Antonio Brown quit football.” -@TheJetPress

“It’s either streak or stink.” -C

“Remember, it's, "Goddamnit, JB."” -Ethan

“Remember, if you’re not having fun while playing trivia, you’re just answering questions.” -C, with apologies to Alvin Zhou

“I guess I wasn’t funny this year.” -Ken

—-

Thank you for being a friend. Travel down the road and back again… your heart is true, you’re a pal and a confidant.

Here’s to 2023. And as always, come together, just think of tomorrow.

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blues824 · 2 years ago

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May I request the obey me brothers with an undertaker like mc from black bulter? Who is an reaper like Thirteen also an 100+ years old with an large weapon & sleeps in an coffin, can pull out memory in an shape of a something (I ended up forgetting)

Also don't stress yourself out too much and remember to take care of yourself!

If Undertaker ever asked me to marry him, y’all would never see me again. He’s just so beautiful, and happy, and I’m in love with this man.

ANYWAYS, I’ve been working on finding a balance between schoolwork and hobbies, and I think I found a middle ground. Take care of yourself, too!

Lucifer

You seem rather joyful for such a somber occupation. Since you couldn’t exactly run a funeral parlor in Hell, you would travel to the Human World whenever necessary. He understands that the majority of your fascination with the dead is that you can obtain information much more easily.

Once, Diavolo and Lucifer were working on finding why demons all over have been going missing, and they tried to pay you with actual money. You spat out your refusal and told them you would only give them what they needed if they made you laugh. The latter thought that this was absolutely ridiculous, but the former gladly told a few jokes.

One time, Lucifer needed to talk to you about something when he saw you experimenting on the corpses in the parlor. One of them was actually moving around, and he was concerned. You just giggled and told him that you wanted to see if you could bring them back to life. Unfortunately, you still lacked the ability to form a new soul, so it was basically just a zombie. Lucifer had never been so worried.

You and Thirteen seem to get along well. He’s glad that you are getting along with other exchange students, but could you please talk about something other than the funniest “times you went to harvest souls? It is not a proper dinner conversation. And it is certainly very rude to show off your old scythe at the table as well, Y/N!

Mammon

He’s honestly vibing with you on the happy part. However, we all know how much of a scaredy cat is. You owning a funeral parlor makes him a tad terrified. He doesn’t do well with dead bodies, especially if they’re real.

He remembers one time where he went to you for information about one of the witches he made a deal with. You see, she had died, and she was sent to your funeral parlor. She was part of a coven that Mammon was involved with, so he needed to see where they are now. However, you weren’t about to give information out for free. You told him the price, and he thought you were being ridiculous as well. However, he paid, you laughed, and you gave him the info he needed.

Another time, Mammon came by to drop off some stuff for you when he noticed you were talking to someone. He creaked open the door and saw what looked like a corpse standing up. He slowly walked backwards, but then one of the floorboards creaked. You opened the door fully and caught him, dragging him to the room to tell him about your experiments. He was genuinely terrified. You told him that the bodies were the equivalent to zombies since they didn’t have a soul.

He’s glad that you’re making friends, Y/N. But could it be anyone other than Thirteen? He’s seen you both in action because she invited you to do one more soul reaping. You, loving to partake in old hobbies, gladly accepted. He’s seen you take the film of the soul you took. Is this what happened to everyone?

Leviathan

You remind him of the Old Reaper from “My parents have perished in a terrible fire, and to seek revenge I made a deal with my demon butler to help”. It was a good anime, too bad they haven’t made a new season.

He has never seen you in your domain, so he can only rely on his brothers’ words. He’s heard of your strange bargain, info for a joke. However, he will agree that it’s better and more reliable than paying actual money for it. Plus, you see people getting back-stabbed for money, so it’s not as upsetting to tell a joke to get you to laugh.

He’s also heard from his brothers of your… experiments. The countless times they’ve heard you talking to a corpse as though it were alive, until they heard footsteps that weren’t yours. You would refer to them as your ‘dolls’, which is even more unsettling.

He definitely gets jealous whenever you say that you have plans with Thirteen when he asks you to hang out. He’s the Avatar of Envy, after all. However, you with your scythe is his new terrifying nightmare. You and Thirteen with your scythes is even scarier (extra points if you have your cloak).

Satan

He’d say your too joyful for your job, but to be fair he does enjoy a good murder mystery story. He wouldn’t be concerned about you and your profession. Everyone has hobbies, after all. He would be concerned about how you talk about it so eccentrically.

Your way of an information exchange is rather unusual for someone who remains on Earth. Usually, humans want money in exchange. However, when Satan visited to gain info on something, you told him your price. He doesn’t have a problem with it, but it’s odd.

Another time, he went to drop off some lunch for you when he saw you and two bodies walking around. He would have dropped the food if one of the bodies didn’t catch it before it hit the ground. You are more than glad to explain your experiments and the inability to create a soul that you have.

I think he’s on pretty good terms with Thirteen. The two don’t seem to have a problem in the game. He would like to accompany the both of you as you help her harvest souls. Mans is probably shocked between the differences of technique, since you view the film of the life and Thirteen just harvests the soul.

Asmodeus

He’s glad that you find joy in your job! You don’t see a lot of that. Plus, there is a macabre sense of beauty with the dead, and a lot of classic novelists as well as painters would agree. I mean, look at him! On Earth, he’d be described as something undead and supernatural.

I’d say that he likes your way of exchanging information. He’s used to having to pay money to gain information about witches, but when one went to your funeral parlor for something and Asmo went by to gain info on said witch, all he had to do was tell a joke. He appreciated the easy atmosphere you put on in such a grim place of business.

However, every positive thought he had about you disappeared when he visited and he heard you talking to someone in the next room. He called to you and opened the door, where he saw a corpse walking around and you sat there in deep thought. Upon discovering that he was there, you smiled and told him what was going on. He was disgusted at the sight, to say the least.

It doesn’t specify, but I think he’s also on good terms with Thirteen? He’s glad that you both bond over past experiences of being Reapers. Don’t tell Thirteen, but your version of reaping a soul is much different and more appealing than hers. The film of their life made him tear up.

Beelzebub

He’s glad that someone is optimistic around here. It’s not everyday you see someone so happy to be in Hell, literally. To be fair, you do get to visit your funeral parlor whenever a body arrives, but for the most part you reside in the Devildom.

He also enjoys your way of exchanging information. You prefer laughing rather than somber situations, so it only makes sense that you’d rather take jokes rather than actual money. The trick is to tell a joke good enough to get you to laugh.

However, it was one day where he came to take you to eat somewhere in the Human World. It was a rather normal day, until he saw you ‘resurrecting’ a corpse. He suddenly felt sick, as though the snacks he ate on the way were coming back to haunt him. You then saw him, ran and gave him a hug, and explained that you were trying to make your dolls come back to life. You further told him that since you couldn’t create a soul, they were basically just animated bodies. He threw up.

He’s kind of scared whenever you and Thirteen go out with each other. While it’s typically for business, you do get happily nostalgic about your time as an official reaper. Thirteen stands in the back just hyping you up, though. The both of you paired together are an unstoppable force. He’s probably still traumatized by her because of the whole ordeal with her causing his life candle to burn quickly.

Belphegor

No one has the right to be this happy, Y/N. Not even on a billion cups of coffee with a trillion shots of espresso. How are you so happy-go-lucky? And especially with a job such as yours. You’re surrounded with death and misery.

He finds your way of exchanging information rather annoying. Like, can’t he just pay you and get it over with? But nOoOo, you have to do something unique to make yourself stand out. Wait… it’s not that? It’s because you love to laugh and you think it takes tension away from the situation? Now he feels like shit.

He remembers once where you had to visit your parlor because someone had arrived and he had to accompany you so that you were carrying out your promise of no nonsense. He walked into your parlor exhausted from the day, but gets suspicious when he hears your sinister giggling. He peaked in and saw one of the corpses in the room walking around. He was wide awake for a few weeks after that.

I feel like he also gets jealous whenever you go hang out with Thirteen. Like, how dare you choose reaping souls with her rather than cuddling with him? Another part is that both you and Thirteen are much more powerful than he is, so he gets that small sense of inferiority and powerlessness. He doesn’t like it at all.

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hihellogoodbyebruh · 3 years ago

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SEASON 4 FINALE BABYYYYY

NOT STARTING OFF WITH COCO’S FUNERAL PLEASE

You know what tho? Letty might get her shit together. I hate it has to come like this but she might do it. I believe in her.

Angel can’t even go to the site because he FUCKED. COCO’S. DAUGHTER. Omg every time I remember I’m pissed off again

They didn’t deserve him. You’re so right Letty. He was the best of them and now he’s gone. Damn we really gotta say goodbye. Imma miss tf outta Richard on this show. He brought such depth to Coco. He was phenomenal.

TIG!! MY PSYCHO LOVE!! WAIT NOT HIM ABOUT TO KILL OL’ BOY

And not the Nurse coming in

$80,000?! FOR ONE JOB???

WAIT I KNEW IT

DONT. EVER. THREATEN. EZ.

Zeke is dead and gone yall. He gone. This is EZ through and through. This some cold-blooded shit right here.

EZ you should at least give the girls the money. Like they ain’t do nothing

NOT MANNY MEETING WITH THEM. JESS FINNA SET THEM UP. PLEASEEEEE NOT MY BABYYYYYYY

OH GOD THE SONS ARE HERE

I’ve missed Tig a lot actually. It has been so nice seeing him. I’m gonna take “sexy and bad” as a reference to Venus. Her and Tig are still together because I say so.

Oooo Marcus finding out that they killed Montez and they got a snitch in the clubhouse. Shit finna get realllllll

Creeper don’t even talk to her. It’s a waste of time. Shiiiiittttt she do got all your tea

AND SHE TOLD HIM THERE’S A RAT IN SANTO PADRE

i want that bitch DEAD. YA HEAR ME? KATIE IS DONE. KEEP COCO’S NAME OUT YO MOUTH

Louie is botching it but his heart is in the right place and this is really fucking nice. I think the car is really cute.

Padrino says it’s 3 to 1 and EZ says “more of them to kill”….WHATS NOT CLICKING EZEKIEL????

They’re staging a coup. I said Padrino would always have my respect but they were gonna dethrone or murk him.

Wait Adelita killed him?? How’d she get involved??

Emily been playing secret spy all season and it’s all been for NOTHING. Miguel got himself back together and got his son back so quick. I can’t stop laughing omg 😂😂😂😂

And no, I do not care that Erin is dead. Me and Holland have beef since the Teen Wolf years so I never cared about the character. I’m sure Emily will plan some way to avenge her next season but for now Miguel is winning and I am LIVING

Sofia throwing up and shit….guess we finna find out if she can really hang

NOT LIKE THIS!!! AND NOT BY FUCKING ISAAC DUDE. THEY FINNA BURN HIM??!!??!!!!

HE DOESNT DESERVE THIS!!

ELGIN WHEN I FIND YOU

Letty went and got Hope!! Okay that makes me feel better. That’s really nice. The women sticking together and I’m so damn proud of Letty! I KNEW SHE COULD! I just hope that Hope doesn’t run when things get hard again because they will and Letty is still growing. And so is she.

“We have that in common” You are yo Daddy son. DUH!

We finna lose Pops too?? He might as well tell the truth.

SECRET’S OUT LETS GOOOOOOOO

He finna killswitch????

Angel has a SON. He don’t wanna do this shit. What a fucked position to be in. But has he even told EZ about the baby yet??

EZ is out of CONTROL. They are so bloodthirsty and FOR WHAT? Y’all started this shit, wouldn’t even let Marcus finish talking because you’re thinking off pure emotion.

Y’all finna burn this club to the fucking ground. He is absolutely right. They gon see next season. They gone see.

LMAOOOOOOOOOOOO EVERYONE SEEING THE POWER PLAY FOR WHAT IT IS BUT IT’S TOO LAAAAAATE

Bishop’s face! Angel’s face!

Look at EZ sitting comfortable on the throne and giving a damn State of the Union address. THIS SPEEEEEECH!! HE’S WHACKED

Angel finna have a real tough time next season. Oh boy.

Poor Jay-Jay’s family….I guess this was Sofia proving herself tho. Ez really should give them the money. Some if it. Something.

That Ez and Angel scene was…..I don’t know what to say besides I’m real scared. I’m SO. SCARED. I just wanna repeat again that Ez IS GONE.

Creeper finna SNITCH?! DONT PISS ME OFF.

Oh HE IS TAKING ALL THE HEAT. A REAL MUTHAFUCKA FOR LIFE !!

Ez look a plum fool still on that twin mattress.

I think Angel got the location from Padrino and burned that bitch to the ground.

Wow wow wow y’all done stressed me tf out

See ya next season

#nae watches mayans #mayans mc #long post

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yeo-rims · 3 years ago

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anyways, baekdo stans, here is my last gift for y’all, in honor of our clownery and the time we spend loving this couple and drama:

my headcanon for present! heedo and baek yijin (totally based off on the voices in my head, my 2 years of lit degree that told me if i can find evidence on canon then my views aren’t wrong and my pisces heart)

[fist of all, the evidence: heedo has no wedding ring, not even when she’s not working (therefore it would be likely that she’d be wearing it, right?). why is it important? we know heedo is a romantic at heart, she goes full in when she’s in a relationship and even if she thinks couple stuff can be corny, she does it anyways (the luggage, the couple’s plan, etc). if i’m correct, the only time husband is mentioned (besides in 2009) is when he gives min chae a gift and she says “your father” (which makes sense in context) but the lack of thoughts about her husband could mean something. other things: we don’t see anything related to him anywhere, not in her car, not when she talks to people. also, during seung wan’s dad funeral she says something about being easier to split up when you’re engaged than ask for a divorce. ji woong even jokes about how a married woman can say that, and she laughs. but heedo isn’t one to say things she hasn't thought about it, so let’s be a bit of clowns now (if that means some of you will feel a bit better).]

1. heedo got married to mr. kim somewhat in 2006, soon after she got pregnant with min chae. 2. the fact that her father seems to be constantly overseas and that heedo isn’t one to make friends outside of the places she knows, I either think he is a former athlete/now coach our a reporter, yeah. anyone more serious, more business-like isn’t the type carefree heedo would fall in love with, I think. 3. yes I know he doesn’t show up because he isn’t important to the plot, but not being important to the plot could also mean he isn’t that important to heedo, at least not in this time of her life. 4. since the first episode I have this headcanon that heedo got married because she wanted a family, like how she dated sweet pea for the breakup. I think she loves her husband, yes, and she would want to give min chae the best life she could get. so, I feel like part of her reasons to retire are also because of min chae. 5. people already talked about how yijin puts a picture of her in his copy of before sunset. we speculated on that, but what if that really is what happened after the 2009 interview? 6. what if, after retiring and seeing yijin for the first time she remembered all those years of happiness and she started looking at her husband and realizes that even if she loved him, she missed something more? (poor mr. kim) 7. even if i loved the ending, it was pretty open and min chae knew since the beginning about her mom’s ex. why is that? she talked about him when she saw him on the news, probably. OR yijin and heedo started talking again after the interview. slowly, sure, but they kept in touch. probably exchanging emails. heedo thought she was subtle (she wasn’t). 8. I think that, even if they reconnect, heedo would never cross that line again because she regretted so much the things she said to him. she wouldn’t want to lose that friendship again. so they’re friends. 9. now, I know i’m reaching, but i just want to make people happy. how long did yijin parents stayed apart? 11 years. present heedo is in 2021, the last time we saw her and yijin interacting was in 2009. 11/12 years had passed, too. so imagine during these 11 (ish) years they never actually were together, but they exchanged emails. but she kept him at a safe distance. 10. so when the plague hits and people have to stay at home, mr. kim and heedo finally realize they are not meant to be. they decide to split up and heedo, reminiscing of a time life was simpler, opens that shop. she names it 2521 because it was a moment she was truly happy. she has the rainbow chairs because that’s the word she had for the type of love she felt, then. 11. yijin probably wants to visit the shop, but he is also afraid to be too close. I don’t think he would get married, tho I see him having a lot of girlfriends. 12. much like before sunset, they still think about that brief moment they had and how happy they were, and how fast things change. one day yijin sends heedo a copy of her picture, the one he asked ji woong for. she puts in her album, but that’s at her mom's place because why would she bring that to her marriage home. 13. but then, because mr. kim and her broke up she starts spending more time with her mom, so does min chae, since her father works abroad, too. that’s how the story starts. 14. now, we’re in the last episode, when heedo finally learns that yijin was never mad at her, that he understood her, that he didn’t go to the u.s thinking about the harsh words she said to him. 15. she goes to that tunnel and lets go of the weight of that regret. she remembers, now, every good memory she forgot/repressed. she is happy because she knows how important they were to each other. 16. heedo gets home, she writes an email to yijin talking about the journal. he replies quickly, they decide to finally talk on the phone and she hears him calling her name for the first time in 11 (ish) years and she feels a lot of things at once. they get a bit emotional and all. 17. maybe that continues for a while, maybe min chae sees her mom smiling a bit more. maybe her mom sees that too. heedo, because she was always the direct one, the one who isn’t afraid of losing it all when she can have it all, now more mature and less anxious finally asks yijin out. 18. he freaks out, calls ji woong (because they’re besties, ok). they talk it out. yijin says yes. 19. it’s awkward, at first, but they have so much love and respect for each other that they talk for hours. they continue to meet up, not naming what that is. not telling people, either. I mean, besides the squad. they know. 20. one day, yijin asks to meet min chae, and they get along so well it’s the day heedo decides she must have baek yijin. her mom rejoices, she’s baekdo n1 stan, min chae pretends to think it’s lame her old mom has a boyfriend, but she is very happy. mr. kim is not surprised, but isn’t mad, either. he loves heedo, she also loves him and is grateful to him and the life (and family) they created together. 21. they never get married, but they’re always together. someone won a bet at UBS. they go to the beach with min chae once the plague is less deadly. yijin listens to her talking about ballet and never gets bored. heedo loves them. she doesn’t have it all (sometimes she misses fencing, other times, she thinks about how happy it was with mr. kim, her mom is getting older and min chae is going to university). 22. but she understands that there is no “right” time in life, only now. and she does the best she can to keep the people she loves close to her heart. yijin, yurim, seung wan and ji woong drink together whenever they can. heedo and yijin’s mom are best friends, it is scary. yurim never had children, but they’re fine with it. seung wan adopted two siblings, she loves them a lot. it is hard, tho, being a solo mom. but she doesn’t regret it. people jokingly tell her to go into politics, and, who knows. maybe one day. 23. ji woong’s mom is so proud of him, she calls him every night to tell him so. (it’s what he deserves). 24. life isn’t perfect, they all fight every once in a while. but they also choose to stay together, because now they can make that choice. and that’s all that matters.

EDIT: when present yijin is typing the name of his first love (na hee do) and press continue... do with that what you want.

#twenty five twenty one #meta #this is for people who need a little bit of hope to see a brighter future #we're never too old to fall in love again etc etc #mom found the love of her life at 48 and my stepdad used to be her boss? in the 80s!! wild she had such a crush on him he didnt even #remember her at first #what i mean is_if you believe they can be together_they can #also_i found evidence on canon to support my clownery so dont @ me #much like david luiz said in the 2014 world cup #i just wanted to bring happiness to my people who suffers so much every day

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darkchocolaine · 3 years ago

Text

The Countess

Pairing: Adriah Thomas x F!Reader

Content/warning: smut, historical au, Adriah calls you madam once,

Synopsis: A young inventor in need of some sponsoring so he tries his luck to the recently widowed countess.

Note/s: Adriah Thomas is freaking 6’7” y’all and my puthy is vibrating. No beta/edit. Also, pls let me know what you think. (I wrote this with a headache so pls be gentle xD)

+I kinda did not know how to address Adriah in the story but since I call all hq boys with their last names (with the exception of the miyans bc they’re twins.) I figured I’d take the same format with him. Idk if Adriah is better or Thomas.

@nakizumie xD 👀🥴

What started as Adriah Thomas approaching you in hopes of getting sponsorship to kickstart his endeavours ended up as him getting tangled under the sheets with you.

You’re young and yet widowed. Your late husband, an old man preying after young naive women such as yourself. Caught in the greed of your father and the lustful eyes of the count, you’re unlucky enough to marry the old man at a price. Your life under the count was miserable, with his crotch for a brain and his lecherous hands who only know how to satiate his libido.

Rumor has it that you killed your husband. That you’ve long set your eyes on the money you’ll inherit in his death. That you’ve bought the sedative that made the count stumble on his steps causing him to crash down the stairs. And that you’ve faked the tears you shed at his funeral.

Whether it’s true or not, you’re delighted to be free from the constraints of your abusive husband.

Thomas is a sight to the sore eyes, untainted by the wicked desires of men. Nothing but curiosity in his gaze as he watches the exquisite paintings hanging on the walls of your estate when he sits down, giddy at the display of the grandfather clock handcrafted by a master watchmaker as he spewed on how it was made on what year and the high quality components assembled to create that masterpiece. An impressive chuckle from you made him shut up then, embarrassed at how he got lost praising the purchases of the count.

He realized his blunder when you showed him your other collections. It was you he was praising for having a good taste. You’re an eccentric woman they say, reckless in spending your late husband’s money and squandering it on things. It just caught him off guard to know that your objects of purchase are crafts from master artisans.It’s adorable how he shifted on his seat, fidgeting at the brim of his hat that it was evident how he was trying to hold the enthusiasm from bursting out of him. Striking dark eyes are drawn to your soft gaze as you smile to him in amazement that he got lost in them, mesmerized at your gracefulness and refined air.

The redness of his cheeks darkened when you expressed how you considered Thomas as a master artisan as well, having heard of his practical inventions that was convenient to use. He’s flattered by the comments that leave your lips, all the while hypnotized at the allure of you sitting so elegantly across from him as you bring a cup to your lips, a bewitching smile barely touching the rim.

Thomas enjoyed the conversations with you. He relaxed in such a short amount of time at how easy it was to approach you and how easy conversation flows naturally between you two. The assurance you told him you’re interested in investing in his works made him remember that he was in fact there for a reason and not just to casually engage in some idle talks.

When he leaves, there’s an air of gloominess following after him as he alights his carriage. His eyes never leave yours as he watches you retreat in your estate after seeing him off.

That night he’s tossing and turning thinking about a certain madam, hand slipping down and inside his pants where he slowly feels his hard length against his palms and he’s smearing the leaking cum with his thumb. It's surprising how one meeting is enough to reduce him into a lovesick boy fantasizing about another woman, and to a widow no less. He should be ridden with remorse but there’s nothing of some sort when he remembers nothing but intense gaze looking his way that he was certain you’re interested. Or at least even for a little bit.

He returns the next day with a contract in hand for you to sign your name, eager eyes drawn in the way you removed your gloves to receive the paper. He jolts when you brush your fingers against his skin and he swears it was on purpose how your touches lingered for a while, stroking the thumb that meets yours.

He returns again at your invitation, telling him you wanted to hear more of his plans over tea while the tip of your shoe plays around at the hem of his slacks, sliding upward his legs. He’s licking his lips, trying his best not to be fazed with your little games as he sits upward and subtly talks about some risky things he is contemplating about.

And the next, at the excuse you needed a company. Your last words enticing him to take the risk.

At this point, his hesitation is cleared as he watches your cheeks pull into a soft smile like your words are nothing close to the temptation you offer.

When he visits you again, he’s latching his mouth on you, fully letting his overwhelming emotions take the wheel. No more playful touches as he indulges himself with the soft feel of you on his hands.

His palm is cradling the back of your neck as the other takes a feel of your body, rubbing up and down your side. You’re fisting his shirt, pulling him down trying to keep him as close as possible to you. His teeth sinks into your lower lip drawing out a moan from you that he can’t help but shiver in delight. You taste so sweet that he just melts into your kiss. It’s exactly how he envisioned every night when he imagined those same lips that spoke so gently kissing him on his lips but better.

Thomas hums when he darts his tongue inside of your mouth. Your eyelashes flutter against his cheek, puff of breaths mixing in with the swallowed moans of his name.

“Oh, Adriah…”

He likes how melodious you call his name. Sighing and humming. It’s music to his ears to just hear you fall apart just as much as he was.

When he pulls away, there’s a string of saliva connecting the two of you. He’s catching his breath while he looks at your disheveled hair, chest heaving up and down, lips swollen from the ferocity of his actions. You look so irresistible with your glossy eyes staring up at him as he hovers over your figure.

A tiny spark of guilt comes within his chest. He wanted to be a little more gentle and treat you with more care but another part of him wants to completely ravage you and just ruin you. Leave you begging and crying for more. Gingerly, he places a tender kiss along the side of your face and down your jaw. A complete opposite of how he wanted you.

Thomas pecks and licks at your flesh, finding it difficult to be a little more gentle when his cock is straining inside his pants. He can feel it growing stiffer every second passing.

His teeth bites into your neck, the sharp pain making you wince and tighten your hold on his chest. Sometimes he sucks on it and lap at the skin branding you with a mark of his own.

Nimble fingers yanked at the laces holding up your dress, untying them as swiftly as he could. With how complicated your dress is, his patience is growing thin. He mentally curses at the intricacies of the bows and ties that seeing him struggle makes you laugh a bit as you offer your assistance and do it yourself. Meanwhile, he takes off his clothes and pants without even breaking eye contact with you. The way he’s so eagerly shaking them off of his body makes you hasten your pace as well. The dress pools at your feet and you step out of them.

Your sight travels downwards, to his cock unnoticeably hard against his stomach and you can’t help but gulp at how big he is. Bigger than your dead husband. You bring a hand to it, dragging your palm along his length.

“Madam…”

“Call me by my name.”

The tip of his ears reddened at the idea of calling you so intimately but he tries it still, liking how naturally your name rolls off his tongue.

The second he touches you again, Thomas feels dizzy, a little crazed feeling your skin against the tiny layer of undergarment you have left on that he’s kissing you even more deeply as if trying to devour you. The pad of his hand comes to fondle your breasts, pushing the neckline of your camisole to the side to let it free. He kneads with his rough and calloused hands and switches with flicking your stiff nipples.

A low whine tears his throat, the tremors going directly to your core as your hand glides along his shoulder and feel the taunt muscles underneath his skin. He's surprisingly built for an inventor.

He hoists you up against the wall, your feet immediately coil around his hips while his other hand comes to support your weight. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, hips rutting into him, trying to feel his hardness against your cunt with your camisole hiking up your waist. You’re so wet, oh he can feel you dripping down his cock. The pain is unbearable now with your walls fluttering around nothing. You want him now.

“Adriah… Please please please… Give it to me, please…”

It's embarrassing how you sounded right now, so pliant, drowning in the haze of your arousal, breathing labored against his lips.

Thomas couldn’t wait any longer. Not with you crying so desperately against his ears, pussy just begging to be stuffed full. He drags the tip to your entrance rubbing it along your slit to gather your juices on his length and slips inside before pulling back a little again to slowly carve your insides with his cock. Little by little he’s stretching you out. It’s a painful sting that makes you whimper and he lets out a satisfied moan against your skin.

Warm settles on your stomach as the pain alleviates into pleasure and he moves with more force. He tightens his hand on your thighs and keeps the rocking of his hips at a steady pace, letting you feel every vein along his cock.

“Ahh… That’s it. You’re taking me so well,” he sighs into your mouth, kissing you a little more greedily. “You’re so pretty like this…”

You feel so full with him sheathed inside you that you're dripping wet and arching your back.

His hand goes at the back of your knee, putting you in a different angle as he moves in and out of you with control despite his eagerness.

“Do you like it, hmm? Do you like it when I do this?” he hits a spot that has you curling your toes.

“Y-yes. Ah!”

He takes you by surprise by slamming his hips against yours, burying his cock into you quite deeply that you can only hold onto him to keep yourself grounded, hands anchoring along his back as he fucks into you and sets up a quick rhythm that sends you spiraling out of control. Every slap of his skin sends tremors along your thighs. Every hit to the sweet spot inside you makes you moan so sweetly. Breasts bouncing up and down.

His lips found your neck, containing his grunts on your skin.

“More please,” you whine, not caring how you sounded anymore. At this point, you’re too lost at the feeling of his cock drilling into you to mind anything else.

Thomas is happily following your demands, fucking impossibly deep into you while you're riding his cock. He's so strong and sturdy, holding you up like you weigh nothing in his arms, muscles flexing and his stomach ripples with his motions, not wasting any time to thrust more.

He grunts every time you squeeze around him, sucking him more and you can hear the squelching noise of his cock disappearing inside you. Intense gaze weighs heavy on you as you shift and moan whispering his name over and over again.

You catch his lips on yours, tongues tangling messily around. You're almost there. You can feel your climax looming at your stomach. With a few more thrusts and white light punches through your sight as you shudder with your high. Your toes are curling as you gush around his cock.

Thomas keeps at it, he doesn't stop until he reaches his high and he's rolling his hips with a staggering pace. He lets out a guttural sound, almost a moan as he hugs you closer to him, kissing your bruised lips so softly and sighing against you. Chest against chest, you're recomposing yourself trying to even out your breathing in his arms. There's a ghost of a smile pressing on your lips and you're chuckling while looking at his crescent eyes.

He wants to keep you longer like this in his arms. It's a perfect fit to hold you with the attention you deserve. While pressing his forehead against yours, Thomas finds himself getting greedy. Whatever this thing is between you two, he doesn't want it to end.

#dclaine.writes #adriah thomas #adriah thomas x reader #haikyuu smut #hq smut #cw smut #haikyuu adriah #adriah thomas smut #adriah thomas x you #msby #msby smut

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one-more-offbeat-anthem · 3 years ago

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after the credits

to thirteen years of cas and of the greatest love story ever told...an empty rescue fic for y’all :) 2.3k, read on ao3 here

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

After a while, Castiel gets tired of watching. He’s practically dreaming all the time, but he’s so tired.

Eternal sleep is not restful.

He can’t leave the Empty, but he manages to mold it, with his mind, into a theater. He went to one once, with Dean, and there are probably nicer theaters, like those for plays and operas, but this movie theater is right for him. If he concentrates, he can almost smell burnt, buttery popcorn and spilled soda and old carpet, and Dean right next to him, aftershave and car oil and whiskey.

Almost.

The scenes unfold in a memorable order, because they’re Cas’s own memories. At first, he tried to jump in, alter the scene, but he’s powerless. So, like clockwork, he watches. He’s saving Dean in hell. He’s being stabbed in the chest by the same man he raised. He’s asking Dean to get answers from Alastair and then almost getting the grace pressed out of him. He’s slamming his palm onto a bloody sigil. He’s--

Everything, all of his twelve years on earth, pass by, over and over and over again.

Right now, it’s an early scene, not far into the cycle. It’s not one of his favorites, because he can see the expression on his face, remembers exactly how he felt. Remembers that he he was feeling at all.

“That was a pretty awkward kiss, huh?”

Cas turns sharply at the sound of Dean’s voice. Of course, Dean does talk in this scene, before he kisses Anna. But this Dean is sitting next to him, frowning at the screen.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Cas says.

“I know.”

Chances are this is just the Empty trying to mess with him. Last week a random trashcan showed up in his theater. Or maybe it was last year, or a millenia ago, or five minutes from now. Time is weird.

They keep watching in silence. On the screen, in the memory, Cas’s head jerks away from the sight of Dean and Anna kissing. The scene flips then, to a park at night, Anna right in front of Cas, no Dean in sight.

“For the first time, I feel...” Memory-Cas says.

“It gets worse,” Anna warns.

“So your first feeling….” Dean starts.

“It was something.” Cas can’t look at him. The scene on-screen changes.

Dean, to his merit, doesn’t press.

The memories progress through the year they spent trying to stop the apocalypse, the year that ended with Sam diving into the pit and Dean going off to Lisa’s. Then through Cas starting to work with Crowley, a conversation that happened right behind Dean without his knowledge.

On-screen, Cas is watching Dean rake leaves. The expression on his face is nearly mournful. After a moment, Crowley steps into view.

“Ah, Castiel. Angel of Thursday. Just not your day, is it?” Crowley says.

“What are you doing here?” Memory-Cas asks.

“I want you to help me help ourselves.”

“Speak plain.”

Crowley smirks. “I want to discuss a simple business transaction. That’s all.”

“You want to make a deal? With me? I’m an Angel, you ass. ”

The scene flips again.

“Is there a way to pause this?” Dean asks.

Cas shakes his head. “It just does this, on a loop. I can’t sleep. The Empty won’t let me.” He puts a hand on the armrest between them. “I forced the theater up, to make it better.”

“It looks a lot like that theater we went to once.”

“I know.” Cas stares at Dean for a moment, looks away.

Many of these scenes are things Dean knows of. Cas works with Crowley, gets locked in a ring of fire, feels his chest seize up as Dean looks back for a moment. Watches the Leviathans lead him to a lake. They meet again on porch steps, Cas unable to remember who he is but still able to figure out that Dean is important. Cas gets his memories back, takes on Sam’s hell trauma. They go to Purgatory, Cas stays behind. It’s like clockwork.

Until.

“I don’t remember that,” Dean says slowly, watching himself die on the screen. “You never--you’ve never killed me.”

“Yes and no.” Cas knows what’s coming next--he’s going to kill Dean thousands of times. Each one is the same, with Cas in tears as these copies, mock-ups of Dean struggle, beg and plead, tell him not to. Each time, Naomi makes him do it again.

Until, finally, he doesn’t hesitate.

And she says he’s ready.

As they watch that scene in the crypt unfold, with the real Dean at Cas’s mercy, Dean leans forward, putting his elbows on his thighs and propping his chin in his hands. “You lied.”

“Hm?”

“You said you didn’t know what broke the connection.” Dean twists his head to look at Cas. “But you did.”

“I did,” Cas assents.

They watch Cas ride cross-country on a bus, pulling out his phone and almost calling Dean over and over again.

“Is there a way that we can see some of my memories?” Dean asks.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”.

Dean shrugs. “Well, I am here, and you figured out how to make a friggin movie theater, so I think I can do it.”

The image on the screen shudders, coalesces, breaks into a million pieces and then reforms. Dean is standing on the edge of a lake, picking up Cas’s coat, still covered in Leviathan goo. “You dumb son of a bitch,” Memory-Dean mutters, wrapping up the coat in his arms.

The scene flickers again--the coat in those same hands, moving from car to car to car, and then being passed to Cas. “I always knew you’d come back ,” Memory-Dean says. It’s a soft scene, almost, but then it flips to Dean seizing a monster’s collar in purgatory. He’s covered in blood and grime as he shoves the monster up against a tree, practically growling, “Where’s the angel?”

Even after the monster answers, Dean guts him.

It’s a cycle. The memory blurs through sleepless nights, through Dean stepping into streams to pray, prayers Cas knows well. It pushes past Cas letting go of Dean’s arm in the portal, and here’s something else new: Dean sees Cas on the side of the road, sees him outside the window while it pours down rain, sitting bolt upright at the phantom sight of Cas’s face.

“Why are you here?” Cas finally asks. This must really be Dean, after all. The Empty wouldn’t know these things, wouldn’t be able to dream them up. They’re too good, too honest.

“To bring you home.” Dean kicks the back of the seat in front of him, leans back in his own chair.

“I can’t go home.”

“You should.” The scene on screen rapidly changes--it’s Dean as he looks now, carrying a little boy on his back. The little boy is blonde, round-faced, holding onto Dean’s neck for dear life, laughing as Dean swings around.

“Is that--” No, it can’t be.

“Yep. He’s four, you know.” Dean clears his throat. “He misses you.”

“I wish I could have gotten to say good-bye.” Cas trails off.

“Come home. Then you never have to say it.”

Cas shakes his head. On the screen, Dean is reading to Jack, Jack following the words with a chubby finger. “It would be...awkward.”

“How?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “We’re family, dude. Jack misses you, Sam misses you, and Eileen’s been hanging around, and me…” Dean clamps his mouth shut.

That’s why.

“Things aren’t going to be the same. Not after…” Cas takes a deep breath. “What I said. We won’t be able to ignore it.”

“Then we won’t.”

“Dean--”

“You don’t know?” Dean’s eyebrows furrow. “You don’t know. Okay. I, uh…” The screen turns black.

“You what?” Cas is almost afraid to know.

“I didn’t want you to see this.”

The blackness unfurls into Billie’s library, Dean standing in front of her. They’re clearly in the middle of a conversation.

“What do you want me to say?” Memory-Dean asks. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. ”

“Don’t you?” Billie replies.

“I couldn’t save Mom. I couldn’t save Cas. I can’t even save a scared little kid. Sam keeps trying to fix it, but I just keep dragging him down. So I’m not going to beg. Okay, if it’s my time, it’s my time.”

“Dean--” Cas starts, but Dean just looks at the floor, like he’s trying to avoid this.

“You really believe that,” Billie says. “You wanna die.”

“When was this?” Cas asks, speaking over the rest of Billie’s statement.

“It was...right before we, uh, got the call from you. That you were back.” Dean leans his head all the way up, looks at what would be the movie theater’s ceiling, if it wasn’t in the void. “I had a bad time. I…I would show it to you. But I don’t want you to see me like that. I held it together enough to wrap your body and burn it…”

“Hunter’s funeral.”

“Only kind I know how to do.” Dean swallows, audibly. “I’m doing what I can now. Having Jack to take care of, and Eileen around, too, helps. But it’s…” He finally looks at Cas again. “Please let me take you home. Please come home with me.”

Cas would do anything for Dean Winchester. He has done anything for him before. So he will grant him this, at least the illusion, because Cas knows he can’t leave the Empty. He’s trapped here for eternity.

He takes Dean’s hand.

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

There is a little boy crawling on him.

“Daddy,” the boy says, poking his face, “I know you’re awake.”

“Jack,” Dean says, from somewhere up above, “Cas is still sleeping.”

Cas blinks rapidly. “‘M not.”

“Shouldn’t’ve said that.” Dean releases Jack, and Jack fully clambers onto Cas.

“I missed you,” Jack says.

“I missed you too.” Cas holds onto him, tight. He’s so small, like he’s supposed to be. A kid. Safe.

Cas thinks he might be in Dean’s bed.

The bunker, he discovers, looks much the same. He was gone for four months, in which time Dean and Sam took care of Chuck, Jack became a kid, and Eileen became a permanent fixture. When Dean and Sam aren’t looking, she signs to Cas, “He already looks better.”

“Who, Dean?” Cas signs back.

Eileen nods. “He had a pretty bad time.”

Dean turns around then, and Eileen presses a finger to her lips.

There’s not a quiet moment for the rest of the day. Sam explains what happened--”You might be human now,” he says, and Cas replies, “I’m not tired yet.”--and Jack wants Cas to read to him and play Barbies and racecars and puppets (apparently Dean built Jack’s little puppet theater, which--).

After dinner (spaghetti and meatballs, and Dean has a Coke instead of beer, Cas notices), everyone goes off to bed, and Cas realizes he is tired, which is something to think about.

He starts to head to the room he typically stays in, but Dean seizes the top of his arm. “Nope, you’re coming with me.” Dean drags Cas down the hall towards his room.

Cas hadn’t gotten a good luck at it earlier, what with Jack climbing all over him, but he sees it now. Dean’s bed unmade, scraps of random paper littered across the dresser, a picture Cas recognizes because he and Dean are wearing cowboy hats, and now he knows how Dean was really doing right before that case in Dodge City--

There’s also a dent in the wall. That’s new.

Dean follows Cas’s gaze. “I chucked a whiskey bottle at it. Sam took the rest of my stash the next day.” Dean steps over, brushing the drywall’s cracks with his fingers. “I didn’t fix it up so I wouldn’t forget.”

I couldn’t save Cas. I can’t even save a scared little kid. Sam keeps trying to fix it, but I just keep dragging him down. So I’m not going to beg. Okay, if it’s my time, it’s my time.

“Dean,” Cas says, “Tell me in words.”

“What?” Dean turns away from the wall. “Tell you what?”

“You know.”

Dean swallows, licks his lips. “I’d say don’t ever do that again on the whole dying thing, but I said that to you once and you didn’t listen. And maybe if I say it the right way now, you’ll stay, but…” Dean slumps, sits on the bed. “You can’t leave again.”

Cas touches the wall himself before sitting next to Dean on the bed. “I’m not going to.” He isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch Dean.

Dean touches him instead, leaning into Cas, finding one of Cas’s hands, holding it tight. He’s crying, Cas realizes. “I love you,” Dean says into their joined hands, then his chest wracks with a sob. “I was always so sure that if--” another sob, “If I said it, you’d leave. Get taken away from me.”

“I’m not going to leave,” Cas repeats.

He isn’t sure how long they sit like that, but Dean finally straightens up, lets go of Cas’s hand, wipes his eyes with the back of his own. “Pajamas,” Dean says, standing and crossing to the dresser. “We gotta get you some of your own, but…” He digs a pair of sweats out of the drawer and tosses them to Cas. “These’ll do for tonight.”

Cas doesn’t ask if he can stay. Dean doesn’t ask him to leave.

With the lights out, it’s pitch black, almost as inky as the Empty, but Cas can hear Dean breathing, so close to him. The bed is almost too small for both of them, so they’re nearly chest-to-chest. Hardly ever have they been this close. Never did Cas dare to dream it.

In the dark, under the covers, the world outside of this room, Dean kisses him. It’s flat, soft, a brush of lips, the barest ghost, but it’s enough. More than enough.

Cas is home.

#offbeatwrites #it's DEANCASAVERSARY #IT'S CAS DAY #IT'S CAS'S BIRTHDAY #it's also one of my best friend's birthdays she has the best birthday huh #anyways I don't really know where this fic came from I just went hey. what if cas hadmovie theater #and I LOVEEEEE the trope of them showing each other their memories. there was so much stuff that if they'd just TALKED about it..........#god.#anyways! enjoy :)#also yeah minor similarities to a drabble I wrote this summer #that was very much an accident but I think they're different enough

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pr1ncessm00n · 4 years ago

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for sale or wanted • jean kirstein x fem! reader

seven.

series masterlist

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warnings: cursing, some “friends” (tv show) references, hostility towards reiner >:( and some mentions of a disrespectful relationship. slight ass staring LOL. awkwardness. lots of it. thick tension geesh

*written chapter * THE DATES ARE WRONG. THIS TAKES PLACE IN JANUARY. I REPEAT THE DATES ON THE MESSAGES ARE WRONG I JUST REALIZED. 💔 Proceed.*

[ playlist - more than friends : real life animals ]

“Y/N!” Ymir yelled.

Flinching, Y/N turned to face Ymir, who’s arm was around Historia on the non-Porco couch. That’s what they had coined the couch they actually liked and fit with their theme. Ymir and Historia were currently on it, watching a rerun of Friends. Y/N was making a sandwich. Sasha was snoring loudly on the Porco couch.

“You don’t have to yell,” Y/N rolled her eyes. “What do you want?”

“When’s Kirstein comin’?” Ymir asked.

“I’m not sure,” Y/N responded. “He said around 4.”

“It’s 4:15.” Ymir retorted.

“Your point?” Y/N placed her hand on her hip, butterknife in her hand.

“He’s not coming.” Ymir said smugly. “Typical Kirstein.”

Historia sighed, exasperated. “Just shush Ymir. You haven’t seen Jean in years and you still act rude to him!”

Ymir cackled. “It’s just fun to work you guys up.”

Y/N turned back to making her sandwich. “It’s not like we’re on time for anything either.” She grumbled.

“Defending Kirstein?” Ymir scoffed. “Sounds like you got the hots for him.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“Are you 12?” Y/N snapped. “The ‘hots’? Really? Who says that anymore?”

Ymir only cackled in response.

—

Jean clicked his phone off, leaning back in the passenger seat of Reiner’s car.

“Everything good?” Reiner asked.

“Yeah, just Connie and Sasha being aggravating as usual.” Jean explained. Reiner shook his head.

“So this couch, was it really worth it or did you just see a pretty girl and get too embarrassed to say no?” Reiner teased, smirking.

Jean rolled his eyes. “It’s not the best piece of furniture out there but I am, one, BROKE, and two, it was an easy buy.”

Reiner shrugged. “I don’t know, I saw your tweet.”

Jean blushed. “I just tweet my thoughts, we all know that by now.”

Reiner’s smirked deepened. “Not everyday you tweet about a pretty girl.”

It’s not everyday I meet one, Jean thought.

Jean shook his head, looking out the window. He tried to stretch but hit his arms against the truck’s roof. His legs were cramped as well.

“How do you even fit in here?” Jean asked, irritated by the tight fit.

Reiner shrugged. “I’d trade the inconvenience of no leg room for a big pickup bed anyday. It’s useful.”

“Nah, you probably just like to show off your massive truck bed and hope girls find that kinda thing cool.” Jean said.

Reiner laughed. “That too.”

“Has it worked?”

“Nope.” Reiner replied cheerily.

“Is that Becky G!” Jean exclaimed, suddenly hearing the faint sound of “Shower” playing through the truck’s speakers.

“Shit!” Reiner exclaimed, turning red. He quickly rushed to move his hand off the steering wheel and change the song off his phone. Jean continued laughing, the sight of Reiner’s red face, embarrassment clear, only fueling his laughing fit.

“Shut up,” Reiner growled. “It’s a good song.” The thought of the huge guy jamming out to Becky G almost sent him into another fit, but Jean strained to hold it in. The ride remained silent for a few minutes when Reiner spoke again.

“If you ever mention that to anyone, I’ll run you over.” He murmured. Jean chuckled and turned to face Reiner only to see he was being serious, staring intently back at Jean. Jean shut his mouth, nodding.

A few moments after, almost subconsciously, Reiner began to whistle the tune. Jean couldn’t resist the laugh that escaped his throat, earning a dirty look from Reiner.

—

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. “Coming!” Y/N called, taking her apron off and rushing to the door. She opened the door, smiling.

She was met with Reiner’s face.

“Reiner?” She asked, somewhat in disbelief.

“Y/N, put the butterknife down,” Reiner put his hands up, backing up a few steps.

“What-“ Y/N remembered the butterknife in her hands, clenched tightly now between her knuckles. “Oh, sorry.” She went to put it in the kitchen. “Come in!” She called behind her.

Reiner cautiously stepped inside the dorm, eyeing his surroundings.

“Braun.” Ymir greeted, nodding at him.

“Hey!” Historia waved cheerily. Reiner sheepishly greeted them back.

“Ymir, Historia. Good to see you all again.” He managed to get out awkwardly. He tilted his head curiously, looking at Sasha snoozing on the couch. He gestured to Sasha questioningly at Ymir.

Ymir waved her hand dismissively. “She’ll wake up, just give her a minute.” As if in response, Sasha mumbled in her sleep.

“Um,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Jean’s on a phone call, but he’ll be here soon.”

Jean was on the phone with his mother, who called at that exact moment and decided it was a good time to scold him about not calling for a week and a half. Jean was pacing on the sidewalk, his hand in his hair.

“Oh, okay.” Y/N replied. “Um, so how have you been?” The tension in the air was thick, but since neither Y/N or Reiner were confrontational they didn’t know how to address the mood.

“Good, good.” Reiner nodded. “And you?”

Y/N nodded back. “Good, too.”

The room grew silent.

“I’m sorry, but did someone die?” Ymir blurted.

“Ymir!” Historia gasped, slapping her arm. Ymir removed her hand around Historia and sat forward, opening her hands in a What? gesture.

“Well, it feels like a funeral in here!” Ymir said defensively. “Y/N’s over here glaring at Reiner like he’s an enemy of the state.”

“I am not!” Y/N semi-shouted, her voice shrill. Sasha sat up on the couch.

“Can y’all shut up?” She snapped.

“No!” Ymir and Y/N shouted at her. Sasha groaned, throwing her hand over her forehead and falling back on the couch.

“Look, Y/N,” Reiner started awkwardly. “I don’t mean any harm, and I know it’s weird after everything with Porco... but I just wanted to say that I don’t agree with anything he did. And I wouldn’t have just shown up here if I knew it was your place.”

Y/N uncrossed her arms, trying to fix the visible displeasure in her face. She could not hide her emotions if her life depended on it. There was a few beats of silence before Y/N finally spoke.

“Reiner, I don’t hate you,” She said begrudgingly. “It’s not that, it’s just… You knew what Porco did and said behind my back and you just never told me. I always felt like his friends agreed with him that I was crazy or something.”

“No! Not at all,” Reiner reassured her. “To be honest, I didn’t really know what was going on in his life. I haven’t talked to him much since I left Marley. All I knew was that he was dating you. He just told me you broke up and that’s when he finally told me everything he did. I’m so sorry.” Reiner rambled.

Y/N sighed. “I mean, I’m not going to blame you. It was between Porco and I. But I guess that makes me feel better, like you didn’t betray me.” She chuckled awkwardly.

“No, I’d never stand for the stuff Porco did.” Reiner said.

“Did he cheat?” Sasha whispered to Historia. Historia shushed Sasha, swatting her.

“So we’re good?” Reiner asked. Y/N nodded.

“Sorry for the hostility, I just never expected you to be here.” Y/N admitted.

“No, I get it. But I wish Jean would’ve at least given me a headsup you were Sasha’s room mate.” Reiner muttered.

There was a knock on the door then. “Come in!” Y/N shouted. Jean walked in, peeking his head around the corner to where Y/N was standing in the kitchen with Reiner.

“Hey!” Jean said. He waved at Historia and Ymir. “So I assume you met Reiner?”

“Actually,” Y/N chuckled nervously. “We’ve known each other.”

“Oh!” Jean replied, eyes widening. “Even better! So he’s gonna help me move this thing.” He patted the couch Sasha was snoring on.

Y/N nodded, a tight lipped smile.

“Kirstein,” Ymir called. Jean glanced at her. “Long time no see.”

“Oh yeah! How have you been?” He asked Ymir. “And nice to see you too, Historia.”

Historia waved.

“I’ve been pretty good,” Ymir responded. “But I see you’re still late to everything.”

Jean blushed a deep red, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. I got a phone call I had to take.” He looked at the floor, embarrassed. Ymir simply grunted.

“So do you want to start moving it?” Jean asked Reiner.

Reiner nodded, walking over to the couch. The men stared down at Sasha’s sleeping figure, unfazed by the commotion. “Do we wake her?” Reiner questioned.

Jean sighed, shoving Sasha. “Hey. Wake up. Wake up. Wake upppp,” He shook the side or her body with his palm.

Sasha groaned. “I’m not ready to say goodbye.” she grumbled sleepily.

“You and Ymir literally bullied me to get rid of it,” Y/N scoffed.

“I had forgotten how comfy it was!” Sasha protested, turning to the opposite side. “Five more minutes.” Y/N scoffed.

“Do you guys want a sandwich while we wait for Sleeping Beauty?” Y/N offered, tilting her head towards the kitchen with the butterknife.

“More like sleeping ugly.” Ymir snorted.

Y/N and Jean made eye contact.

“You get used to it..” Y/N mouthed. Jean nodded, agreeing.

“I heard that!” Sasha exclaimed to Ymir. “Just for that, I’m gonna fart in your bed.”

Reiner turned a deep red. For someone who liked to listen to 2014 pop, he was pretty bashful.

“I’ll take one, if it’s not too much of a bother,” Jean raised a finger, inquiring.

“No problem! Follow me. And you, Reiner?” Y/N walked back to the kitchen, opening the fridge, Jean a few steps behind her.

“I’ll take one too then, thank you.” Reiner accepted. Y/N nodded, bending over into Jean’s line of sight almost unassumingly. Jean’s eyes widened, before looking the other way, a faint blush appearing on his features. He didn’t want to get caught ogling the girl on their second meeting, possibly giving the impression he was a creep. But damn, was it hard. He felt someone staring at him, and when he focused he realized it was Historia, who was holding back a giggle. He got even more flustered, looking away from her too.

“Any specifics? Mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup? We have pickles and a wide variety of condiments and lunch meats.” Y/N listed.

“Y/N,” Ymir scolded. “Those lunch meats are for the fancy guests!”

Y/N shot her a glare. “Ignore Ymir, she’s just grumpy because she hasn’t been fed her daily sacrifice of small children.” Jean laughed a little too hard while Reiner chuckled. It was hard for Jean to focus when she smelled so good and was at a certain angle.

“Um, lies,” Ymir replied nonchalantly. “Children eating is at 12, it’s 4. That’s the senior citizen buffet.”

“Har, har.” Y/N rolled her eyes. “So what do you guys want?”

“Anything is fine, really,” Jean said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Is ham and muenster cheese good?” Y/N asked, standing upright and grabbing the two containers.

“Monster cheese?” Reiner asked, puzzled.

“M-U-E-nster. It’s so good, try it!” Y/N began to assemble both boys their sandwiches. “I’m gonna give you the works! Lettuce, mayonnaise and tomatoes!”

“Is Y/N making sandwiches?” Sasha asked from the couch, eyes tightly shut.

“Yeah, but don’t get your hopes up. There’s no children flavor.” Ymir mocked.

Y/N flicked her off without turning back.

Sasha bolted off the couch. “Can you make me a sandwich, Y/N? Pleaseeee? Pretty please?” Sasha begged, appearing at Y/N’s side and slightly shoving Jean.

“Yeah, yeah. But I’m not cutting the pickles this time. That’s gross.”

Sasha hummed happily, going to the kitchen to hand Y/N her sandwich components.

“Why don’t you just make your own, Sasha?” Jean asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Because!” Sasha exclaimed defensively. “Y/N makes the best ones! They’re so good, and they aren’t lopsided and sloppy like Ymir’s.”

“You could always just starve.”Ymir suggested unhelpfully. She suddenly joined Historia in clapping her hands along to the Friends theme.

“But hello! Cheerio!” Ymir waved frantically to Jean and Reiner. “Don’t y’all got a couch to be moving?”

“Right,” Reiner agreed, walking over to the couch. “Jean, you take that side and we’ll lift it to my truck. Can someone open the door?”

“On it!” Sasha ran over to help.

Jean got on the other side of the couch, and on the count of three him and Reiner lifted it.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Ymir chided. “PIVOT! PIVOT!” she suddenly shrieked, causing Reiner to startle.

“Is she always like that?” He asked, wincing.

“Yes.” Everyone in the room agreed.

As Jean and Reiner moved the couch out of the dorm, Ymir sang the Friends theme song loud enough to be heard from the hallway. Historia harmonized with her happily, leaning into her chest.

Once Reiner and Jean safely secured the couch to Reiner’s truck bed, they returned to the dorm room.

“Yay! It’s gone!” Y/N clapped her hands enthusiastically. “Thanks guys, really.”

“Thank you,” Jean replied. “I really needed a couch.”

“And thank me,” Reiner teased. “For having a truck and upper body strength.”

Y/N laughed. “Here’s your sandwiches, courtesy of Chef Y/N.”

“Five stars!” Sasha banged her first on the table, chewing loudly.

“I put some chips on the side,” Y/N pointed to Jean’s plate. “It just adds that extra flavor.” She admitted almost shyly. Jean’s heart swelled. Why was she acting so.. adorable? There was just no other word for it. It wasn’t a big deal. His friends often acted adorable. Armin, Connie, even Sasha. Eren… On second thought, not Eren.

“Thanks! I love chips!” Jean said. Y/N laughed again, the corners of her eyes crinkling, shaking her head a bit. Even Reiner chuckled.

“Great commentary,” He said, patting Jean on the back with a large hand. “Thanks, Y/N.” He made his way to the couch, where Historia scooted to make room for him, smiling brightly.

“Don’t even try anything,” Ymir warned, holding up a finger to Reiner and giving him a death stare. Reiner shook his head, eyes widened in fear. Ymir borderline barked.

“You can sit!” Y/N motioned to the small breakfast table Sasha was devouring her sandwich at.

Jean quickly glanced at the table, then at Y/N leaning against the counter. “Nah, I’m good here.” He took a bite out of his sandwich.

“Ugh, that’s so barbaric,” Y/N scoffed. “Eating standing up.”

Jean nearly choked on the bite of sandwich. “Weren’t you just thanking me for buying your ugly couch?” He sassed.

Y/N rasied her eyebrows. “Um, you should be thanking me and my ugly couch for saving you from sitting on the floor. Why’d you even buy one if you just eat standing up? You animal.” Jean shook his head, trying to contain his smile.

“That’s rude.” He stated simply.

Y/N punched his shoulder jokingly. “You can handle it.”

Jean shrugged. “I don’t know. I might just cry myself to sleep every night. Who knows how long the guilt will eat you alive for.” He said in a fake menacing tone.

“Oooh, I’m terrified.” Y/N waved her hands.

“For good reason. I’d be a pretty annoying guilt trip.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Y/N agreed. His voice is so deep, Y/N thought.

Sasha stared at them blankly, head on her hand, mouth partially open.

“Uh…”

“Sasha,” Jean rolled his eyes. “Close your mouth, I can literally see the chips.”

Like a fish, Sasha’s mouth closed with a wet sound. She finished chomping and swallowed before getting up.

“You guys are weird.” She said, walking to the couch as well.

Jean and Y/N watched her go, attempting to fit on the medium sized sofa.

“I think we might need another couch.” Y/N commented, watching Sasha try to shove Reiner off her usual seating spot.

“No take backsies,” Jean smirked, looking at her.

“I sold it for a reason, whatever your last name is.” Y/N crossed her arms.

Jean guffawed. “Like you don’t know my last name.”

“I don’t! It’s pretentious.” Y/N insisted.

“Uh, huh.” Jean replied, not believing it, more so hoping it was just a joke. “It’s Kirstein.” He said instead, opting to not find out the hard way.

“I was right, it is pretentious. All fancy soundin’.” Y/N shuddered.

“It is not!” Jean argued.

“Whatever. Do you know mine?”

“Duh,” Jean mocked, staring at Y/N and placing his empty plate on the counter.

“Then what is it?” Y/N shot back, staring just as intently.

“It’s uh- It’s um,” Jean drew a blank. He stuttered, trying to recall the memory.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh.”

Jean waved his hand dismissively. “It’s probably just basic.”

“Sure, Kirstein,” Y/N dragged out the syllables. “It’s L/N, if you must know.”

“L/N.” Jean repeated. “Nice to meet you.” He stuck his hand out.

“You’re not gonna freeze up now?”

“Very funny. You totally froze up first.”

“You looked like a deer in headlights.”

Jean shook his head, checking his watch. It was 5:15. Connie would be home soon, hungry. “I should head out, I got a lot of stuff to do.”

“More interesting than couch transporting?” Y/N picked up Jean’s plate, moving it to the sink.

“If you can believe it, yeah.” Jean chuckled. “But hey, thank you. It was pretty good.”

“The sandwich or the couch?” Y/N teased.

“Both.”

“Probably the sandwich.” Y/N said.

“Probably.” Jean agreed. “You ready to go?” He asked Reiner. Reiner nodded, getting up from the couch. Sasha scrambled to her feet off the floor to take his spot.

“Bye, everyone,” Reiner waved. “Thanks for the food, Y/N.”

“You’re welcome! Hope you enjoyed it.” Y/N waved.

“And um,” He stepped closer to Y/N, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry about earlier. If you ever want to um, talk about it,” Reiner ran a hand through his hair. “Just text me.”

Y/N grew stiff. Plastering a fake smile on her face, she just nodded. “Thanks, Reiner. I’m okay though.”

Reiner nodded. “I’ll see you outside, I’m gonna start the truck.” Reiner told Jean. He walked out, keys jangling, and shut the door gently. Jean stared at Y/N quizzically. He decided it was best not to ask, not wanting to come off as nosy or creepy. But Y/N could tell he was curious. She figured Reiner would explain and grew flustered just thinking about the humiliation of Jean knowing what Reiner knew. She preferred to leave that to Reiner and Jean to talk about.

“So I’ll see you around?” Jean asked, making his way to the door. Before Y/N could respond, Historia piped up.

“Wait, Jean!” She walked over to the breakfast table, digging into her pink Coach shoulderbag. “Here!” She produced a small pink invite, extending it to Jean.

HISTORIA’S 21ST BDAY BASH <33

Jan. 15 @ 8 PM @ Reiss Estate

2000’s THEMED

wear ur best y2k attire!

can’t w8 to see u there ;)

Jean raised an eyebrow, flipping the card to the back. It was a pic of Historia as a kid, wearing a hot pink feather boa with a pink plastic cellphone against her ear. She looked more or less the same, only more subtler. The girl did like pink.

“You should totally come! Connie’s also invited, and Eren is coming with Mikasa! It’ll be so fun, I hope to see you there.”

“Thanks!” Jean replied, glancing at Y/N. “I’ll be there. Bye guys!” A chorus of “bye!”s ensued. He stepped out the door.

Outside the dorm, he let out a sigh of relief. Historia’s birthday bash. Another opportunity to see Y/N.

Inside the dorm, Ymir glared at Historia. “Why’d you invite him, babe?” She whined, pouting like a child.

“Many reasons,” Historia began, walking over and sitting on her lap. “One, to spite you. Two, he’s nice! Three, I can’t invite all of his friends and not him. That’s rude. And four, for Y/N.” Sasha and Ymir looked at Y/N.

Y/N’s mouth dropped. “Um, what? I didn’t say anything!”

“Oh, please,” Ymir rolled her eyes in disbelief. “We all saw you canoodling.”

“No, we weren’t.” Y/N grumbled, washing the dishes.”

Historia giggled. “It’s okay, Y/N. You can just talk to Jean at my party.”

Y/N shrugged. “Maybe.”

Pulling out her phone, Y/N found herself re-reading her and Jean’s messages. Not really knowing why, she decided to save his contact.

Just incase, Y/N thought.

—

Later that night, Y/N’s phone dinged.

—

Meanwhile:

—

a/n: hey guys!! i’m sorry for the late update but I made this chapter extra long to make up for it :D so i saw this post and it was like “fanfic authors be going thru the most traumatic shit and then come back like nothing happened with a 6k word count chapter” and LET ME TELL YOU, that is my life. Rn nothing traumatic is happening but man it’s like this fic WANTS to be delayed lol. So i broke my thumbnail and i could NOT type for a few days without excruciating pain!! then i was busy into the night time which is my usual writing time. now i am sick with a fever, sore throat and a stuffy nose!! but i’m here, hopefully i won’t be sick for my graduation lol cus then i won’t be able to go. i hope y’all enjoyed this and ahh i felt so bad being mean to reiner but i feel like this was necessary for the porco plot to develop haha. also this is not proofread it’s 2am and i literally suck at writing first meetings/conversations. can you tell this was rushed lmaoooo. there was a lot more i was going to say but i forgot omfg so tune in to the next chapter!! love you all xx

btw i literally do not know how to do that “keep reading” tab thing where it cuts off your writing so it isn’t one big post so can someone please teach me :)

taglist: @usernamehere91 @calumsfringe @tsunderehokage

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stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale · 3 years ago

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I might be back on my bullshit thinking about Louis [as if I ever stopped] and episode 2 again. Like... there are a lot of things that could’ve been handled better when it comes to ep2, but can we just appreciate his apology to Clementine during the archery scene?

[note: this turned into a bit of a rant, and for that, I apologize]

It still baffles me that he gets dismissed as a shitbird by portions of the fandom to this day for being upset with Clem and AJ when he just found out his best friend gave away the twins, murdered Brody and tried to pin it on Clementine to cover his tracks... only to then be murdered by AJ after he already gave up, shot him in the back of the head right in front of everyone and left Louis heartbroken and traumatized.

Like I understand that some of y’all think Clementine and AJ should never be held accountable for anything they do and they’re always right, even when they’re in the wrong because you’re the player projecting yourself onto them and everyone who is mean to you is a stupid head unless they’re mean in the right way.

Or you’re one of those violentine stans who feels like the only way to validate your ship is to create this narrative that Louis is a traitor and Clementine would never love him after he voted for them to leave as if the only way you know how to make Violet look good is to make Louis bad by comparison instead of like... y’know, being one of the decent stans who explain and gush about the positives of the ship itself and why they love it rather obsessing over the other ship.

Either way, you’re really gonna look at that situation of Louis reacting to his best friend’s death after what just went down and be like “calm down, Louis, you’re being a jerk :/” like.... I’m sorry?

Aren’t you the same people who complained about Luke not giving a shit about Nick’s death back in s2? how he didn’t have a reaction? In fact, aren’t you also the same people who vigorously defended Kenny for his reaction to Sarita’s death after he lashed out at Clementine? Remember? When he yelled at her and called her a stupid fucking kid who thinks she can just get anyone killed and it’s okay because she said sorry? but it’s fine because Kenny’s reacting in a realistic way that makes sense for his character and he later apologizes for it?

but now here you are, getting a realistic reaction out of Louis that makes sense with his character and all of a sudden, you don’t like it? You want him to just be like “Oh no, Marlon.... anyway.” Really?

Louis is hurt, he’s pissed and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s so shaken by what the hell just happened, Marlon’s dead body is bleeding out on the ground, Ruby’s talking about getting fucking medicine as if that’s gonna do anything, Violet waving her cleaver around at them even though literally none of them were looking at AJ they were all looking at Clementine, Violet you are not helping anyone in this situation, you’re only making it worse and adding to the aggression... but no, Louis shouldn’t be a fucking mess right now. He should just shrug his shoulders and be like “Welp, this is fine.”

Then there’s the damn funeral. Look, Clementine and AJ shouldn’t have been there. I know they had to be for story purposes, but it’s such a bad idea that it makes Violet, the one who wanted them there, look like an ass who has no regard for anyone other than herself, Clementine and AJ, and those who agree with her... which is only Tenn and I guess everyone else sucks and their feelings are invalid because no one else wanted them there since it’s not a good idea to have Marlon’s murderer attend his funeral and if you believe that isn’t going to piss people off or make them uncomfortable, then either you don’t care or you don’t know how to read a room.

And by the way, Louis wasn’t the one who suggested voting them out. He wasn’t even there when MITCH said they should take a vote and everyone agreed to it. So why is it that Louis gets all this blame for how the vote turned out? Oh, Louis is such a traitor because he’s the reason they got kicked out.... except no?

First of all, if you’re so mad at Louis then how come you’re not mad at Ruby? She voted them out, too. So did Omar. They contributed to kicking them out. How come no one else talks about how much they hate them after they said having the vote was a fair idea and then voted them out? Oh, and Willy, too. Willy voted them out. The only other person who gets heat for the vote is Mitch, and he was the one who came up with the idea in the first place... but no one else, huh?

Also, how come only Violet gets praise for wanting Clementine and AJ to stay? Never see anyone talk about how amazing Aasim is after he was the third vote for them. He has legit reasons for wanting them around, too, but he didn’t want them at the funeral either so what, does that cancel out his vote for you? Where is the Aasim love?

Then we got the dorms where Louis and Violet come to escort them away, and once again, I have to mention that both of them are wrong in this situation. They’re on the extreme opposites where Violet thinks they should stay because they didn’t do anything wrong, and Louis thinks they should leave because AJ’s dangerous. Both of these view points make sense with their characters.

However, I guess some conveniently ignore how conflicted Louis is about the whole thing and how he’s feeling about it because it doesn’t fit with the narrative they’re trying to push about his character.

Again, he’s dealing with a lot of shit right now only to be constantly invalidated by Violet, who keeps telling him what a shithead he is for hurting about this, how he’s just burying his head in the sand again and all this other shit, and he eventually snaps at her and says AJ’s dangerous, which hurts AJ and it’s all over Louis’ face that he realizes he snapped and he feels bad about it.

But Louis never got aggressive with them, he never laid a hand on them, and he was there to escort them out in the woods. And that argument of “he sent them out there to die therefore Clementine and AJ should hate him, Clem shouldn’t want any friendly/romantic relationship with him because he put AJ at risk and got him shot” is.... I dunno, ugh? It’s ugh. You act like Louis did this to intentionally get them hurt when that’s not true.

Clementine and AJ have survived on their own for years, so it makes sense that Louis would try to justify this to himself like “they’ll make it out there, they’ll survive because they’ve done this before... this is for the best for everyone” and no, him telling them that this is probably like going home for them isn’t okay, but it makes sense for his character because he doesn’t actually know how bad it is out there.

None of them know, they’ve all lived in walls their whole lives. It’s naïve of him, yes, but it makes sense and he didn’t do this with shitty intentions of wanting them to get hurt. He didn’t know that Lilly and Abel would be out there, he didn’t know AJ would get shot, he didn’t know any of it. He didn’t think that if they voted them out, this would happen. He was struggling with his feelings about them and saying goodbye to someone he was starting to feel a connection with.

And he let them back in. Hell, he carried AJ into the school himself when they showed up wounded and you still wanna call him an asshole and a traitor? He could’ve said nope, get the hell out. We kicked you out, you’re not welcome here.

He didn’t do that, he ran to them to see if they’re okay, he brought AJ to Ruby and stayed with him the entire time Clem was in the office with Violet.... AND he apologized to AJ, quietly begging for him to be okay... and when he’s faced with Clementine after what happened, he doesn’t know what to say to her. He can’t even look at her because he feels so ashamed of himself and feels all the blame for this.

This is a moment that ties back to backstory. Louis’ emotions overpowered him, he made a decision and now AJ is shot and bleeding on the couch.... when he came to the school, they [the staff, I assume] said these kids were bad people, they told Louis that he was bad after what he did to his parents and he internalized that, and this whole this just reaffirms that idea “I am bad, I hurt people, this is my fault.” He blames himself for everything even though there’s no way he could’ve known. You can feel Louis’ genuine concern for AJ and how he’s doing, but at the same time, he’s trying to distance himself from Clementine… and well, sorta failing since he brings her clothes and they have the conversation in the dorms.

Then the archery scene.... y’know, the scene I was gonna make a simple little post about that somehow turned into this.

Once again we have Louis and Violet arguing because that’s what they do now, and Violet continues to tell him to get over himself without listening to anything he says, and he goes to practice archery so that y’know... when the raiders come he can use a weapon to help defend them since he’s not very good with it and needs practice.

Clem goes to check on him, and Louis apologizes for voting them out, explains that when AJ shot Marlon, he blamed Clementine when that wasn’t the right thing to do. He had a lot going on emotionally on top of what was happening around him, but after having two weeks to work through things alone, even though he’ll never be happy Marlon died, he can understand why AJ thought it was the right thing to do... and if he could take everything back, he would. He knew that the moment they came back, and he still does.

I just.... how often does Clementine ever get an actual apology from anyone who has hurt her? A real apology from someone who means it and then doesn’t just turn around and repeat the same hurtful actions? Like... it baffles me that people will look at this genuine apology and tell him to fuck off, but will accept and continue to adore someone like Kenny who will apologize for hurting Clem, only to never try to be better and ends up hurting her even more next time.

Or they’ll accept and justify Violet’s last minute apology for punching Clementine in the face on the boat and putting everyone [including AJ, rememeber?] at risk of either dying or being made into brainwashed soldiers by the delta.

They both have reasons for their behaviors and you’ll work your ass off to justify them, and I’m not saying your points are wrong or invalid, but you seriously won’t even try to extend that same thing to Louis? Why?

Well, jokes on you because I too will work my ass of to talk about Louis and what he’s going through and that’s how posts like this get made. I know not everyone is going to feel that connection to him that I have, and you’re allowed to not like him as a character, but realize that I’m also allowed to give my perspective on his character and why I disagree with points posed by those who don’t like him.

The archery scene is one of my favorites. It’s Louis and Clementine proving that they’re able to open up to one another and say they’re sorry, to forgive the other without being petty or holding it over the other to throw back at them the next time they argue. It proves that Louis wants to put in the effort to repair their relationship and atone for the mistakes he made, to step up and not be “bad” anymore.

I mean, Louis says it best himself. Everyone heard the jokes and the piano, after that, they stop listening... a lot of people just boil him down to a funny man who never takes anything seriously and the only thing he could ever bring to Clementine’s life is a good laugh, but those who stuck with him and put an effort into building his and Clementine’s relationship know better than that. They know how much this apology in ep2 means even with the downer that the timeline of events rushes everything a bit.

The fact that Louis doesn’t have this big ego that prevents him from apologizes, that he can forgive AJ for what he did and still build a strong relationship with both him and Clementine, that if you earn his trust he will follow you to hell and back, that he isn’t afraid to call Clementine out on her bullshit and doesn’t have a come apart when she does the same to him, that with her and AJ by his side he finally doesn’t feel alone anymore.... it’s all just so fucking good.

I dunno, maybe you can understand why I get so ugh whenever I still see these same arguments about him being made with this double standard that doesn’t apply to other characters.

#twdg louis #twdg clementine #twdg aj #twdg marlon #twdg violet #twdg aasim #twdg ruby #twdg willy #twdg mitch #twdg omar #twdg tenn #twdg brody #twdg clouis

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daisybeewrites · 3 years ago

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July — d.j.

for @dreamcxtcherr ‘s 3k writing challenge. congrats lena!!

word count: 1.8k

warnings: mention of car crash/death, mention of alcohol consumption, daisy cries, i think thats it lmk if not!!

ship: R x daisy johnson

okay y’all… first ever anggstttttt!!! i’m way too excited about it. if you want a fully immersive experience, i recommend listening to july by noah cyrus slowed + reverb

(gif uncredited on pinterest (ugh, i hate that. credit a gif if you use it!! im trying to find the owner)) update — found owner

It was another mission. Another nightmarish fire-fight where you almost lost a limb, almost lost a friend, almost lost your life. Twenty-four hours later and you’re back home, safe.

Well, as safe as you can be when your engagement is on the verge of breaking off.

You stare at the simple ring on your left hand. White gold band, a tiny amethyst set to the left of a diamond. There was a nearly identical one lying next to the sink, the only difference being the switched places of the glittering gems.

You know she didn’t do it purposefully. You had both been exhausted after what was supposed to be an in-and-out mission turned into a hostage situation. Daisy did what she always did as soon as you were home — take off her gauntlets, wash her hands in the sink, grab a snack, and hop into a steaming shower.

But you still can’t stop yourself from staring at it, eyes fixed, hands shaking, breath held and mind racing.

You used to join her. You would wash each other’s hair, ease each other’s sore muscles with delicate touches on tender purple-black bruises. She would lean into you, letting you braid her hair and falling asleep in your arms, drifting into a deep slumber. It was intimate, lovely; it was normal and perfect.

Taking a sip of your room-temperature beer, you slide off the cool granite of the kitchen island. You had a new routine after missions now, you just had to get used to it.

You hear the shower shut off, bare feet pad into your cosy bedroom, and the door shut with a loud creak. The minute squeak of the mattress tells you that Daisy flopped into bed.

A ghost of a smile lights your face. It looks more like a grimace, you think, as you check your distorted reflection in the green glass of your beer bottle. Chucking the empty bottle in the recycling, you run a hand through your dirty, salty hair. The comfy sweats you changed into an hour ago would need to be washed, the dirt still adorning your skin rubbing off on the black material. You exhale before heading down the hall towards the bathroom.

The tiled room is filled with steam, the mirror fogged up so that only a blurry outline of your silhouette could be seen. You are unrecognizable.

How fitting.

The quick, cold shower you take does nothing to ease your mind or body. You wipe the mirror in a circle, taking out a first aid kit.

With all your cuts bandaged and the proper creams Jemma had snuck to you and Daisy applied to your fresh bruises, you headed into the hallway in your towel.

Daisy is standing in the kitchen, lilac lounge shorts you bought her last Christmas showing off her tanned and scarred legs. She looks warm and soft, a very different Daisy than the superhero who had broken a mob boss’ legs just hours before. Her hair is wet and in braids. You frown. You always braid her hair.

If she hears you, she doesn’t turn around, so you take a moment to admire her. Ten seconds, that’s all you give yourself. It was a stressful mission, if you stare too long she might snap. From the back, you can’t see the dark circles you know are there, but you can see the tension in her shoulders and the slight tilt of her head as she ponders what to eat.

You say nothing as you go to the bedroom to change. You find a black pair of SHIELD sweats and an old, holey t-shirt you vaguely remember stealing from Fitz. A presence at the doorway catches your attention.

“Hi,” Daisy says tentatively. Your breath caught in your throat, your lungs holding the air captive until Daisy spoke again.

“I missed you.”

Your eyes widened. Maybe tonight wouldn’t end with one of you on the couch, clutching a six pack while the other cried as quietly as possible, tucked into cold, lonely sheets.

“Braiding my hair, I mean,” She clarified. Her fingers twisted together, rigid posture giving away her nerves.

The air felt humid, as if the open window had suddenly sucked all the AC out and let the mid-summer heat in. Your memory flashes to the last time you and Daisy had a normal, happy conversation.

The edges are fuzzy, but the pure joy in Daisy’s chocolate eyes is clear. Fairy lights strung haphazardly around the living room, a movie playing in the background, your lips on hers. Blankets make a ceiling over your head that shut out the rest of the world, this moment was only for you two. You played with the thin metal band on her ring finger, she ran her hands through her hair. Her matching ring scratched your scalp lightly. You both smile as you pull away. You whisper childhood stories, laugh at the funny parts and offer melancholic smiles at the not-so-lighthearted parts. You were happy.

That night you got the call — Lincoln Campbell, yours and Daisy’s best friend, had wrapped his car around a telephone pole coming off of a long shift at the hospital. His blood alcohol was almost .40.

Eggshells littered the house from the time you got back from the funeral. One wrong word, Daisy would snap and spend hours punching a bag until her fingers bled. You would fill those hours with whatever was closer — wine or your car keys. You pulled yourself out of your head, realizing you should answer her.

“I missed it, too,” You breathed.

Daisy made a small, unintelligible noise before collapsing against the door frame. You froze for only a second, your mind racing through possibilities. Was she bleeding internally? Was it her back again? Did she get shot and not notice until now?

You leap over to her, catching her as she crumbles to the hardwood floor.

A quiet sob wracks her chest. Your hands hover over her slouched back, unsure how to comfort her. At this moment, Daisy feels foreign. Her sudden vulnerability alerts you to how she’s been holding her emotions in for god knows how long.

“Daisy…” You start, hesitantly.

Daisy hiccups loudly, another wave of tears washing over her.

“Tell me to leave, I’ll pack my bags,” Daisy cried, “But I don’t, I-I don’t want to lose you!”

Burning tears gather on your lash line, threatening to fall at her words. You never could stand to see Daisy cry.

Your brows furrow slightly in confusion before you realize what Daisy is talking about. After Lincoln’s death, you two had fought increasingly more often until Daisy locked herself away or spent the night at May’s, and you went for drives until your car ran on empty. On those nights, bottles of wine disappeared from the cabinet without a trace.

Daisy sits up, stamping down her sobs, seemingly resigning herself to the fact that you aren’t going to say anything. Her trembling lip and red eyes pierce your heart. The astronomical distance between you two seems atomic now. You reach out quicker than lightning, shushing her cries and rubbing her back.

“Do you want to go?” You asked after a while. Your knees dig uncomfortably into the floor, your shoulder hurts from the ridges in the doorframe.

Daisy sniffles, her hair falling into her face as she looks away. You crane your neck down, carefully tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You know I’m afraid of change, I guess that’s why we’ve stayed the same,” You sigh, your chest constricting and squeezing the broken glass pieces of your heart.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to continue, “But if you want to find a new life, someone who loves you better than I do, darling, I understand.”

Daisy is still frozen, stare burning holes in the floor. You’re glad that the two of you are at home, the poly-tectic adaptive materials hidden between the walls keeping the house from collapsing. By the slight groan of the foundation, you can imagine Daisy could bring down a mountain with the amount of pain she’s in.

Which can only mean one thing.

“I’m not enough,” You stated. It wasn’t a question. You glance down, a glint in the low light cast from the lamp on the bedside table catching your eye. She has her ring on…

Daisy finally, finally shakes her head ‘no’. You let go of a breath, guilt building every second that passes. She isn’t happy. You shouldn’t be happy that she’s staying.

“Feels like a lifetime, we’ve been trying to get by while we’re dying inside,” You say, gently.

Daisy snaps her eyes to yours, a desperation in them you recognize as grief.

“So much of the past year has been consumed by grief. We never took time off, we never talked about it. I’ve done a lot of things wrong, loving you being one,” She whispers.

You nod, there is no denying that you each had a part in getting to where you are now. Delicately, you grab her hand. She squeezes it, a rush of small vibrations traveling up your arm. Your chest flutters at the familiar affection.

“So have I,” You assure her. She gradually falls towards you, exhausted. You let her rest her head on your shoulder, her breath evening out as her arms wrap around you. You feel hot tears flow down your face, fall onto her hair. Slowly, you pull Daisy closer to you.

Hours later, the sun peeks over the top of the mountain range in the distance. You had adjusted the two of you sometime around two a.m., no longer able to feel your legs from how the floor cut off your circulation.

Sometime around three, you had gathered the courage to move Daisy to the bed, trying hard not to wake her. She had only turned over and not let go of your hand.

You haven’t slept at all tonight, thoughts spinning until you force yourself to pause and count to ten, only to repeat the pattern.

You know what you have to do. You know what’s best for the both of you. You’ll leave, pack your bags and find a place to stay until you can scrape up enough money to rent an apartment. You’ll go to therapy, learn to live without Lincoln, without Daisy. Eventually, Daisy will heal, too. You both have the team at your backs, no matter what happens. She would be okay.

But you know you won’t. The fear of losing Daisy, of losing your life, your home, yourself stops you. You can’t move on. You can’t move forward.

You know that the big changes it takes to heal could cost you Daisy. So, you stay the same. You give into fear. You’ll never be enough, never love Daisy right, never quite heal fully — and neither will Daisy. But you still stay.

You’ll always stay the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ahhhh how was it? did you love it? any feedback? want more? put any thoughts/feelings/questions/concerns in the comments or my ask box!! i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you enjoyed reading it even more!!

<<3

#daisy johnson x y/n #daisy johnson x reader #marvels aos #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#angst #fic #quake #ashby writes #dousy #lincoln cambell x daisy johnson #lincoln cambell x reader #mcu #bioquake #jemma simmons #gn!reader

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writing-in-april · 4 years ago

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A Hope to go Home

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader (Spencer’s POV and Vietnam war AU)

Summary: Spencer is drafted for the war and the only thing that helps him get through it is the letters he gets from Reader.

A/N: This is my second fic for my 1250 follower celebration!!! It’s also the third part for my Spencer Reid & Letters series based on this request by @90spumkin 😊 This was super fun to write cause of how much of a history nerd I am! It’s the first time I’ve done a full blown historical AU (besides the series I’ve got coming in the future) Thanks for reading hope y’all like it and requests are open!

Warnings: Talk of violence & Talk of war- this whole fic is kinda loosely based on the prison arc with Spencer, just with an obvious twist

Main Masterlist Word Count: 1.6k

When October 28th was called out over the radio my heart dropped deep down into my stomach. I had been huddled next to the men that I worked with that were eligible. I remember distinctly thinking that there was no way that it could ever be me, if I didn’t fully acknowledge the possibility it would be easier to get through.

Then reality decided to slap me across the face.

Out of all the 27 million men that were eligible for the draft, why did I have to be part of the 2.2 million that got chosen?

None of the other men I worked with at the bureau had been called in, besides Anderson though I wasn’t very close with him. Most of them besides Me, Anderson, and Morgan were already too old to be eligible, I envied them immensely.

The looks on their faces told me all that I needed to know. They looked like they were already ready to start planning my funeral. I was glad I had at least been given the rest of the day off so I wouldn’t have to look at their somber faces anymore. At least I’d also get to go home to them early. It would probably be my last day off in a while, maybe ever.

Morgan and I had been pushing to get funding from our bosses for a new department, along with a few others, especially that old timer named Rossi. We had a few working names, chief among them the “Behavioral Science Unit”. Our idea was to create a unit in response to the uptick of violent crimes- especially serial offenders and help catch them by analyzing their behaviors. Most of the bureau thought we were a bunch of cooks, they still viewed our idea to use psychology to help catch criminals as a pseudoscience. I had even considered quitting my position a number of times because of the rampant disregard for people’s rights by the director, J. Edgar. Hoover, who’s questionable investigations caused my stomach to churn regularly.

But, we were getting close to getting that first pile of cash to help us fund a unit and I felt a need to see this project through. It was too important of a project to quit right when we were so close. Even though the actions of the government made me sick, I wanted to help from within, I wouldn’t quit. Though in light of my new circumstances I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to see that pile of cash, let alone be able to name the unit. Maybe I’ll live to see what name they choose, if I get out of Vietnam alive. Though from what I had seen already from the people that came back injured beyond belief, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get out alive.

Even though I considered myself too weak to be a proper soldier that could be successful in combat, I didn't have any viable exception to the draft and I wasn’t brave enough to dodge. I cursed myself internally for not going for another PHD, I had heard it was rather easy to obtain a waiver if you were a student. However, I felt increasingly guilty for thinking that.

It was a well known fact that the richer you were, the easier it was to get a deferment. And, even though I wasn’t the most well off I still would have been able to afford to get another PHD when many couldn’t even think about getting a bachelors. Plus, I wasn’t even sure what we were supposed to be fighting for anyway. In the last world war there had been a reason. It seemed like no one knew the reason for this one. Was it worth it to see all these men perish? I guess it was for the Washington elite.

As I boarded to leave to a country so few knew anything about or cared to know anything about, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever come home again. The look on their face when I broke the news to them and their devastation when we had said what may be our last goodbye haunted me. They were smart, arguably just as smart as me, they knew I was most likely marching to my death. I hoped their devastation wouldn’t be the last thing I’d ever be able to remember of them while I bled out in a country I didn’t think we should be fighting against. I hoped I’d be able to come home.

—-

The only thing that was really keeping me going over here, where the sun was so hot I thought I would be incinerated to a crisp like those poor people in Hiroshima and Nagasaki was my hope. Though maybe that was the fear of being bombed by my own country and brushed off as “necessary casualties” talking, all in an effort to put down an enemy most of us didn’t understand.

I waited impatiently under the burning sun tapping my foot repeatedly while someone next to me kept talking. Any other time and at any other place I would’ve been talking just as much as he had. When I first got here and the only person that I had connected with in basic training was almost immediately blown to smithereens. I decided that forming relationships here was futile. It was just easier to keep my head down and hope for home.

It had been quite a long time since I had gotten my last letter, specifically from them. Most of the letters I ended up getting were from them, my mom sent some on occasion but because of her fragile mental health I had told the staff where she was to not tell her where I had gone. My co workers had tried too, mostly at the beginning though when it was somewhat assured I’d still be alive. I think they had lost hope that I’d return, though some had obviously thought that was never going to happen, probably on account for my obviously unathletic stature.

My significant other had been the only one who seemed to hold out hope, even sometimes more than I could muster. That’s why every night I’d look over the letters they had sent me, to help replenish the hope that had been drained throughout the days.

It had been so long though, since I had received my last letter from them. A sense of dread filled the bottom of my stomach over the crippling fear of wondering if they had moved on. I didn’t know how long I’d been here, I stopped counting after a month. Had they stopped bothering to count too? Was it no longer worth it?

“Reid!” My last name was barked at me by the man in charge who I only bothered to learn the name of because I didn’t know I would have gotten in trouble. He barked again at me, “Letter for you!”

My heart caught up in my throat. I hoped the letter would be from them, if it was from anyone else I’m not sure it would bring me any happiness- at least it would be nothing compared to the happiness letters that they sent me made me feel, even if only for a moment.

I scooted off quickly with my letter in hand towards the barracks eager to tear into the letter. I hadn’t flipped over the envelope yet, wanting to wait to see who it was from by myself so I didn’t show emotion in front of the other soldiers. I plopped down on the cot assigned to me, though it was so thin it might as well have been a wooden board. My fingers shook as I tore into the envelope rabidly, I needed to see the words written in their hand. I didn’t know if I could handle this letter not being from them.

“Dear Spencer,”

As soon as I saw those words written in loopy cursive on a creased piece of paper I always felt slightly better. The letter was filled with sweet words and flowery language that most people would scoff at, but it meant the world to me. I wasn’t ok by any means and I didn’t know if I’d ever be fully ok again. But the words ‘Dear Spencer,” made me hope I’d one day go home again.

—

When that fateful day came, it was surreal. It wasn’t until I was back home on U.S soil that I had processed that I was finally going home.

My heart pounded in my chest as I waited to be reunited with them- the streets were crowded with many people. It had been the happiest sight I had been able to see in a long time, people reuniting with their loved ones.

I couldn’t find them in the sea of happiness around me, it made me worry. The last letter I had gotten from them had been a few months ago. I clutched it in my hand like I had clutched onto my hope. I wondered if it had been too long since I had been home.

“Spencer!” My name being called, my first name, not my last as I had become accustomed to overseas. Relief flooded through my veins that had only known anxiety, dread, and fear for so long. I knew who it was instantly and I knew it was time to come home. Maybe they’d let me name the unit now that I was home.

——

Tag list (message me if you want to be added):

All works:

@shotarosleftpinky @oreogutz @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar @s1utformgg

Spencer Reid/CM:

@calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss @slutforthegubes

Letters Series: (Group of Unlinked fics about Spencer and letters)

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#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #matthew gray gubler x reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds #mgg #mgg x reader

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chalkrevelations · 3 years ago

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SO. Word of Honor, Episode 10, and everyone is deep in their feelings … well, their feeling, which is misery.

First, due diligence, and I really mean it on this one: SPOILERS not just for this ep but for the entire show. Out of the car, for now, and come back later, if you want to watch the whole thing unspoiled.

Well, it’s the breakup episode, y’all. Everyone is wallowing in misery, and Our Couple is taking that out on themselves and in some cases (:cough:WKX:cough) on everybody around them. We open on sad-sack Wen Kexing digging sadly in the dirt with a sword, the bodies of the Four Sages of Anji laid out beside him as he gives a RIP speech about how you have to be careful when making friends, because they’ll turn out to be bad news, which is clearly yet another warning about himself, because I don’t think anyone in the mob who killed these aging hippies in the last ep was a friend (although I suppose it could be argued that WKX is talking about their friendship with Gao Chong getting them killed) and anyway, you have to understand that WKX is a demon under the skin, not even really human, you guys, and he’s only ever going to disappoint everyone. Has he not made this clear by now? His sword breaks at this point, which probably ought to tell him he’s not going to be able to bury any of this mess. Then Zhou Zishu shows up and is understandably unhappy at the way his decision last ep to walk out on faith for this guy has gone completely pear-shaped, and he asks some rather pointed questions about whether four dead Sages of Anji is what WKX wanted and if he’s happy now – questions that sound, my dude, a little confrontational. I mean, I think you’re entitled, given the situation, but I’m just sayin’. WKX flings off ZZS’s hand and wants to know if “Leader Zhou” has only ever killed bad people, which is a hit that lands, and it hurts, just like it was supposed to, and this is definitely one of those nightmare scenarios where everyone just keeps digging themselves deeper. ZZS is all, FINE THEN, and leaves. Again. Because WKX is apparently a demon in human form who’s only ever going to disappoint everyone. Including his zhiji. I love you with all of my heart, ZZS, but a little bit, you come off like you only showed up to twist the knife, my man. Anyway, ZZS stomps off to go mope at Yuefan Tower, the scene of his bad decision to trust this guy BEFORE finding out he sets up revenge murders for fun. We’re treated to a flashback sequence of some of ZZS’s Tian Chuang state-sanctioned violence, including a pile of bodies in a burned-out house with a little girl who reaches out to him and calls him “shushu” (which I think is a reference to something that actually happens in Qi Ye); killing that official dude and making Jing’an drink poison, from Ep 1; inserting the Seven Nails into Bi Changfeng - a whole bunch of bad shit that WKX has dug back up way more successfully with a few words than that grave he was trying to dig with his broken sword. ZZS sighs mournfully and unfairly beautifully (your FACE, my dude) over the fact that he thought he found his soulmate, but he was apparently WRONG, and meanwhile, we see Han Ying lurking worriedly and devotedly in the background.

Then, both of these morose motherfuckers proceed to drink themselves (even more) stupid over each other, WKX in a brothel and ZZS moping by himself downstairs at the (No Longer) Getting Lucky Inn, leaving poor Han Ying and A-Xiang to eventually deal with them. ZZS is literally falling over as he calls for more wine – you are a sloppy drunk, laopo, although I have to admit, you’ve worked your way through a lot of bottles, so I suppose it’s understandable – and WKX proceeds to drink his four ... five? ... four, I think, girls under the table and clearly has no intention of sleeping with them, because it might interfere with his waxing drunkenly and mournfully about finding a thing you thought you’d lost forever but not being able to keep it at the price of giving up your big revenge murder plan you’ve been working out since you were 8 years old. (Also because he’s gay af. I’m just sayin’.)

So, yeah, Han Ying and A-Xiang eventually have to deal with these two, and for my money, the single most important scene of the ep - thematically, at least - is the one we get between A-Xiang and WKX, where a couple of big things are going on. One of the themes I see again, running through this ep, is the separation between the human world and the world of “ghosts,” and how that line is policed, and how Wen Kexing tries to maintain it as a bright line, in order to maintain his own distance from Zhou Zishu and the world. Now that things have gone so spectacularly wrong with ZZS, he’s going to dig in on the “ghost” side of that line for all he’s worth – much harder than he was digging that grave for the Four Sages of Anji, given he breaks the sword and gives up halfway through on that one, but this one he’s determined to get all the way to the bedrock on. So yes, in this scene we get the theme made explicit again, of human-ghost separation - which will echo and rebound throughout the rest of the show, until we see its awful, gory truth made manifest when it turns out WKX is horrifically correct and A-Xiang is NOT, in fact, going to be allowed by “humankind” to leave Ghost Valley and walk up to the human world with her lover, while meanwhile, if WKX is going to get out of the valley, he’s not staying in the mortal world but is going to end up on the icy remote mountaintop. BUT ALSO, this may be the first time we really see the show put A-Xiang forward as a proxy for Wen Kexing. This is going to be an increasingly weighted Thing as we go on, of course, but what I didn’t remember on my first watch-through - even after I realized what they were doing with the A-Xiang/Cao Weining and Wen Kexing/Zhou Zishu parallels further down the road – is that, in this first time we really see it, it’s not even about their respective love interests, it’s about their respective relationships with Chengling. I mean, clearly, clearly, when WKX is being a drunk asshole to A-Xiang about how she’s been too long in her human skin (and huh, interesting that, when we also have instances where fake skin disguises are literal), and DON’T EVER FORGET WHO YOU ARE, HEARTLESS AMETHYST FIEND GHOST VALLEY MASTER HEARTLESS AMETHYST FIEND, and who among them would ever pity you me you, he’s really talking about his recent breakup with ZZS, in which he got called a crazed psychopath just for setting up a few amusing revenge murders. But here’s the thing – what triggers the diatribe is A-Xiang saying she feels sorry for Chengling trapped in Yueyang Sect, in the course of nattering on about what’s up with Chengling, and what she and Chengling have been doing together, and how much Chengling misses WKX. Which is, A-Xiang tells WKX, a lot. After which WKX puffs himself up and proceeds to be a drunk asshole to her, because of course, he’s not worthy of having anyone care about him, they might think he’s human, or something, and then he’s only going to get hurt again when they find out he’s NOT. So, all that happens. We also find out in this conversation that Changing Ghost was responsible for the pile of heads; that A-Xiang was at the Funeral/Wedding Game and saw Deng Kuan become the last survivor and get set free in much better condition than he later showed up at Yueyang Sect, so what the hell’s happened to him in between; and that A-Xiang definitely thinks her Murder Dad master is crazy but isn’t afraid that he’ll end up killing her someday. I mean, let’s be clear, I don’t think she’s absolutely positive that he won’t go crazy and kill her – she’s just not afraid of it. Zhou Ye is fantastic here, because she has A-Xiang give WKX this gorgeous little smile that’s so simple yet just so filled with love and trust and faith and everything that must have kept his heart alive all those years, the one that she probably gave him even after he burned her mouth on congee that was too hot, and I end up clutching my chest because I think she’s killed me. And then in a horrible twist on what’s eventually coming down the pike, she tells him that she’d follow him even if he’s crazy, and that if he killed her, she’d even follow him in death, and GOD. MY HEART. Because we’re going to see that in fact, he’s going to almost follow her into death, and then he’s going to dream of her leaving him instead of actually staying with him after death, and the only thing keeping me together at this point is the idea that Nian’xiang will actually be A-Xiang reincarnated so that she can be with WKX and the rest of her family again.

Anyway, all of this is apparently a dress rehearsal for WKX, because he then gets himself dolled up in some luscious green robes and proceeds to go to Tragicomic Ghost’s mansion in order to terrorize the troops and spread the misery. He requests a report from all of his top ten nine eight devils; credits them with three Funeral Games (I guess we don’t get to see the other two), annihilating Danyang Sect, destroying Mirror Lake Sect, killing Mount Tai Sect’s leader (Ao Laizi), and leaving a pile of heads for Yueyang Sect to find. He’s doing his best Lunatic Wen bit, but come on, my friend, do they really deserve credit for ALL of that? Do they really? It sounds like you have your suspicions, as well, because you want to know who was responsible for the Mirror Lake massacre. Everyone looks around, pointedly not meeting his eyes, so, hmm, it must have been Long-Tongued Ghost, right? Right? (Who we last saw getting killed and getting his (Danyang) Glazed Armor took by Wen Kexing while pretending to be Hanged Ghost.) Changing Ghost, who’s supposedly Long-Tongued Ghost’s superior and who’s smart enough to sense the wind shifting, even if he’s not sure in which direction, hastily says that LTGhost doesn’t listen to him anymore. (Yeah, because he’s dead.) At this point, White Grim Reaper is dumb enough to draw attention to himself, and WKX chokes him out just ‘cause. ‘Cause he’s Lunatic Wen, and fuck you, that’s why. Both Tragicomic Ghost and Beauty Ghost look more Completely Done With This Bullshit than scared – in contrast to the men, who are shitting their pants - which is an early indication that their relationships with WKX are different than his relationships with the male Devils. WKX also makes some pointed comment about how oh dear, he’s killed someone, and they were already low on manpower, but as a chief of GHOSTS, that’s all he has to work with, isn’t that RIGHT, Changing Ghost – which sounds on the surface kind of like policing that line between ghosts and humans, but really seems more like he has his suspicions about exactly who Changing Ghost is actually working with, because while he may not be as smart as A-Xu, he’s not DUMB. Now, let’s all come up with a plan to fuck over the Five Lakes Alliance during the Hero’s Conference. Aaaaand … end scene (and ep).

Meanwhile, Han Ying is dealing with his poor, drunk dumbass charge, and we see ZZS wake up in some richly appointed rooms, in some strange bed, and he’s clearly thinking “Oh snap. What I do last night?” Also, feeling the hangover. Once he manages to get his boots on, he notices a shrine, complete with candles, and just about this point, Han Ying busts in like he’s WKX or something (although to be fair, it is his bedroom), and wants to know exactly wtf is wrong with ZZS, getting blackout drunk with his actual face hanging out like he doesn’t care who recognizes him? (I just have to take a moment here, and point out that ZZS, who went all in, in the last ep, and who will continue to be the more open one as this relationship goes on, is being berated here for not wearing a mask, for showing his real self, while the issue for both A-Xiang and WKX is going to continue to be keeping on a protective mask/skin, even though WKX accuses A-Xiang himself in this very ep of thinking the mask is real and not just a cover for her true face. Anyway.) Oh, and also, My Lord, how is your injury? DO YOU NEED SOMEONE TO TENDERLY CARE FOR YOU? I like this scene, because Han Ying’s actually kind of angry at ZZS, and a little bit, he shows it, and we get to see that he’s not spineless, even in the (blindingly beautiful) face of ZZS, he’s just devoted. And if that means keeping this dumbass safe from himself, well, Han Ying will try to do that, too, even if it’s enough to drive him to find religion, as we also find out in this scene, explaining the shrine. I suppose he needs all the help he can get. Anyway, ZZS tells him that he’s too mean to die just yet, although he doesn’t expect any blessings on his path, and Han Ying responds – and I think this is important, given ZZS’s decision last ep to spend the rest of his life living instead of dying – that “any day we live is a day gained.” (HAN YING. MY BELOVED.) ZZS pulls some Glazed Armor out of his robes to give to Han Ying, and they both realize that it looks exactly like two pieces Han Ying already has his hands on, gdi WKX. At this point, ZZS reiterates that he just wants Han Ying to lay low and stay safe, Han Ying reiterates his undying devotion, and ZZS has clearly had it with these kids and their starry-eyed devotion. He tries telling Han Yng again to just live a good life - as if Han Ying is at all wired that way – before making some dramatic pronouncement about expecting to have to deal with what’s coming to him in hell and sweeping out the door in the last we see of him this ep.

Let’s see, other things that happened:

Gao Chong, Zhao Jing and Shen Shen confer over their complete loss of face in the run-up to the Hero’s Conference; Shen Shen gets very offended and denies killing Ao Laizi, which is the rumor going around town; Gao Chong says the Ghost Valley isn’t responsible for Ao Laizi’s death (which they are) or for spreading the rhyme about the Glazed Armor (which they are); Zhao Jing says Five Lakes Alliance can’t get a reputation for forcing other sects to do things (when he can manipulate them into doing what he wants), and Shen Shen wants to know WHY THE HELL NOT (oh, Shen Shen) when the jianghu has always been, and I QUOTE, “a place where the strong pery on the weak,” so again, I have to kind of side with WKX on this one about the hive of scum and villainy. Or I would if you guys seemed capable of actually accomplishing anything.

Elsewhere in Yueyang Sect, it’s been Bullying Hour again for Chengling, and A-Xiang is furious when she finds out, threatening to break the legs of whoever’s responsible for smacking him around (she really is like the most delightful Chengxian love-child, I have to say). She also has some Wolong Nuts – crispy and delicious! – for him. Gao Xiaolian shows up with some treats, but Chengling doesn’t want her food, and also he doesn’t want to marry her, because he doesn’t want to be Gao Chong’s puppet, which is kind of new, because he said a couple of eps ago at the Five Lakes monument that he would abide by Gao Chong’s decisions. I guess now that he’s found out from A-Xiang that their Murder Dads are still around, he thinks there’s still a chance to run away with them. Gao Xiolian runs away, crying. Harsh, Chengling, but it does give him the chance to complain to A-Xiang that he’s effectively under house arrest, WHERE ARE OUR MURDER DADS TO SAVE ME?

Last but not least, there’s this incredible scene with Yu Loser Qiufeng, leader of Mount Hua Sect, in which one of the Mount Hua Virgins (tm WKX) comes complaining that everyone is looking down on them. Yu Qiufeng tells him that the entire jianghu is falling apart and to suck it up, and then another Virgin (tm WKX) shows up to say that some people from Mount Tai Sect are here to talk about Dead Ao Laizi, because the Five Lakes Alliance killed him omg. Yu Quifeng’s response is literally “Tell them I’m not here,” and when the disciple wants to know how he can possibly say that, Qiufeng’s response is literally “Say I went out. Say I’m sick. Say I’m dead.” (OMG, Zongzhu can’t see you right now, he’s dead!)

#wen kexing #zhou zishu #gu xiang #han ying #zhang chengling #yu qiufeng #word of honor #word of honor episode reax

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

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i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

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

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

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

january, 1982.

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

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

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

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

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“right.” he nods once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

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

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

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

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

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

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

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

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

this is a job for you. nothing more.

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

“hello?”

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

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“afraid so.”

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

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

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

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

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

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

“are you an angel?”

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

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

“that’s kind of you.”

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

“i think you’re still drunk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your nails tap against the counter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

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

“but where will i—”

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

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

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

you come to when a car horn blares outside.

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

“roger!”

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

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

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“[y/n], please!”

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

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

you’re nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but then the phone rings.

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

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

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

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

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

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

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

“why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“is this your wife, roger?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that’s not really—”

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

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

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

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

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

“there! that could enough for you?”

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

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

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

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

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

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

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

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

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“have you told rog?”

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

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

you’d forgotten about that too.

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

“i guess but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

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

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

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

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

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

you could get used to this.

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

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

you know he’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

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

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

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

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

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

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

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

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

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

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

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

deep inhale, hard exhale.

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

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

“roger–”

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

“there’s something i should—”

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

“what?”

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

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

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh, sorry. hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

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

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

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

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

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

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

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

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

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

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

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

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

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

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

deep inhale.

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

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

your stomach plummets to your feet.

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

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

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

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mhm.”

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

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

someone could be watching.

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

“i remember.”

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

you oblige him without hesitation.

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

you nod, and he leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you okay?”

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

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

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

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

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

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

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

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

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

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

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

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

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

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

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

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

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

it happens before you have time to react.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

only my pride, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

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

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

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

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

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

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

“what?”

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

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

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

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

“yes.”

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

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

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

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

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

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

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