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l0ngschl0ngking · 1 year

Text

Work for it

Javier Peña x f!reader

summary: Javier wants you. Plain and simple. You don’t fall for his charm so easily

warnings: as always SMUT (m!masturbation, semi-public handjob, vaginal fingering, oral - f!receiving, protected p in v, biting, spitting, hair pulling, praise kink), cursing, alcohol consumption, mentions of food, fluff and soft!Javi - because I can’t help myself

word count: 17k (holy moly guacamole - I am so fucking sorry)

A/N: This took me literally five days to finish (longer than I anticipated). Writing and then editing, re-reading it over and over again. But I had so much fun writing these two together. I love them.

You will never forget the day you met the infamous Javier Peña.

It was the first day at your new job - a new beginning for you, let’s say. Moving to a new country whose language you hardly spoke, having to accommodate to the new pace of things. That didn’t mean it was a bad thing though - you needed the change. After living in a small town for nearly all of your life where everyone knew everything about you, you were pretty glad when they accepted you as a secretary for DEA office in Colombia. It was…different. The people, the lifestyle they led. Nonetheless, change was good for you - you needed it.

What you didn’t need - or at least you thought so at the beginning - was having a smooth talker, devilish charmer and so-called "ladies' man" ogle you right as you entered the DEA building. His eyes watched every measured step you took as you held your head high when passing by him - not giving him the time of a day. You could see from the corner of your eye that he licked his lips and smoothed his thumb along the bottom one, his eyes trailing your figure.

He watched your smooth legs move effortlessly - light as if you were a butterfly slowly floating in the air, even in your heels. He could definitely make your legs wobble if you would let him, he thought as he licked his lips. Your green work skirt fitted you like a damn glove, your white blouse flowy - made to look professional yet efficient for you to not cook alive in that god-forsaken Colombian heat - highlighting your sun-kissed skin. He felt like a dog that was shown a proper peace of meat after days of starving. Oh, and starved he was.

He almost broke his neck when you disappeared around the corner and Steve threw him an unimpressed look from behind the folder he was going through before he heard Javier roughly exhale. The blond-haired agent tossed the thick folder filled with documents on the desk and leaned back on the uncomfortable office chair as he watched his partner seemingly lost in thought - he could guess what thoughts were occupying his mind right then. He scoffed and that seemed to pull Javier out of his trance, his dark eyes narrowed as he looked at his partner.

“What?” he grumbled. Javier’s eyes were challenging as he bored them into Steve’s baby blues as if saying “just say what you want to say.”

One thing Javier hated about Steve - and there were a lot of things that he didn’t like about him but if he was to pinpoint one it would have to be this - was how he unseemingly loved to call out Javier on his so-called “bullshit”. Even though often it was his private life - which frankly was none of his business. He loved to criticize and not be criticized in return - that he and Peña had in common even if he neither one of them would ever admit that.

“Don’t even think about it, Peña.” Steve muttered as he held eye contact with Javier - neither of them ready to back down.

Seconds passed. Maybe a minute even.

Javier was the first one to break it off as he glanced behind his shoulder, a sly grin spreading across his lips. He liked to play dirty - and pissing off his partner seemed plenty dirty play enough for him. And if you’d give in - as he was sure you would - and Steve would hear the pretty little cries of Javier’s name falling out of your lips? That seemed like a sweet victory to the dark-haired agent.

One thing about Javier was that when someone tells him can’t or shoudln’t do something - you know he will do exactly that. He turned to Steve once more.

“I don’t know what are you talking about.” Steve squinted his eyes and sighed - knowing damn well Javier was already planning on how to charm you in his mind.

“You know what I am talking about, Javier.”

His grin spread wider - his fingers quickly drumming on the wooden desk he was leaning his hands against. It was an old thing - folders that Javier should get through by tonight sitting on top of it. He had better things to do now. Paperwork could wait. Your perfume lingered in the office when you passed by, calling him to you like a damn siren song.

“Just trying to be friendly here, Murphy. Not that you know anything about it.”

“We both know that your definition of ‘friendly’ when it comes to women means ‘I want to spread-“

Before he could finish his sentence Javier was already one long leg out of the office making his way toward where you were seated at your desk. You were concentrated - your brows furrowed and the rim of your reading glasses falling from the bridge of your nose. You were not from here - Javier could tell. He noticed the mug filled with coffee on your desk that had “best sister ever” written on it in a thick cursive, the letters red and next to it a big heart.

The temperature in the office was hot - too hot even for Javi that was used to the Texan heat back from Laredo. His blue shirt damp from the sweat that dribbled down his back, his torso, his neck. The material of the shirt stuck to him. That wouldn’t be the last thing that would stick to him today. He was sure of that.

It seemed you came prepared though - the small fan on your desk felt like heaven on earth against your sweaty skin. He watched one droplet roll down from the side of your temple, slowly down to your jaw, your neck, falling into the juncture of it and rolling down between the valley of your breasts. He would gladly lick it from your skin if you’d let him. He would do much more than that to you if you’d let him.

“Can I help you with something?” His eyes teared away from your cleavage and met your gaze - your eyes narrowed in annoyance as you put your reading glasses down, the papers you were reading before he came laid now on your desk. He quickly scanned your features and yeah, you were definitely someone who’d he like to spend his night with. Or lunch break, or-

He ignored your question as he looked at your nails - one of his hands coming to inspect it closer but before he could you pulled your hands away - folding them across your chest. “I like the color. Brings out the color of your eyes.”

You quirked an eyebrow at that - leaning against the leather chair you looked him up and down quickly before leaning back towards him. Your elbows were prepped on the wooden desk and he leaned closer as well -his eyes quickly dipping to your cleavage once again.

“Listen here-“ A pause followed.

“Javi.” He offered.

“Javi.” You repeated. His name falling out of your mouth - the accent not quite right but he did not mind one bit. He found it endearing in a way. “Listen here, Javi. I don’t know what you think is going to happen but whatever it is just forget about it. Your southern charm won’t work on me. Been there, done that.”

He pulled away - taken back by your quick rejection, his eyebrows furrowing just a little. The crease on his brows showing and he took a quick breath to retort something, his tongue slipping out to lick his lower lip.

“And what did you think I thought was going to happen, mariposa?” The old leather chair creaked beneath your weight as you moved back in it slightly. An amused smirk pulled at your lips as you ignored the nickname he gave you - which in all honesty you didn’t know what it meant. You’d ask him another time. It seemed that you would be seeing this “Javi” a whole lot more than you thought.

You leaned closer to him and he did the same - as if the two of you were pulled by some magnetic force toward one another. It got hotter once his nose almost touched yours, his fingers with neatly trimmed nails gripping the edge of your desk. You slowly raised from your seat. You ignored it all - the way his eyes bored into yours, how you felt as if molten lava was in the pit of your stomach, how your hands clenched at your sides.

He smelled like cigarettes and coffee, and some kind of expensive cologne. The smell of him made your nose and insides burn - something about his presence made you feel like every cell in your body was on fire. That’s how the DEA agent made women feel most of the time - you didn’t know that back then.

Your voice dropped an octave lower as you whispered. “I don’t think it would be appropriate to say what I think you thought in a public setting. Especially in a working place.” An amused chuckle fell out of his lips as you seated yourself. Mirth danced in his eyes as he replied:

“Good thing I am inappropriate most of the time, mariposa.” Javier Peña was a bold man. He knew that and most of the people that were acquainted with him knew that. But you didn’t know who he was and he expected that you would scoff - tell him to fuck off. But you didn’t.

You couldn’t help the smirk that made its way onto your lips as you pretended to read the documents on your desk - your conversation ending with that.

He watched you for a few seconds, expecting that maybe you would say something smart back in return because you know - it seemed you had a smart mouth. He turned on his heels as he left you to do what you actually came here to do - work - and he should do the same.

Oh, and you were going to be fun, he thought. When he came back and sat behind his desk, he had this stupid boyish smirk planted on his face. Steve looked at him and then back at where you were supposed to be working - even though he couldn’t see you. And the blonde-haired agent thought that this meant no good.

Three years passed since your first encounter with Javier.

Three torturous years filled with you two dancing around each other - like two ships passing one another in the stillness of a night. You two became somewhat friends. Three years filled with flirting and bickering, stolen glances and going out on drinks.

Sometimes Steve joined the two of you - most of the time not. At first, he seemed to be glued to Javier’s hip - afraid that his partner would try another one of his many tricks on you. Oh, and he did.

His flirtatious nature came out on the surface anytime you were near him - though you did not crumble under his advances as Javier wished you would. Your knees didn’t buckle, your cheeks didn’t turn a darker shade of red, your eyes didn’t flutter when he was closer to you than it seemed proper. But after a while, both agents found out you weren’t even near to falling for the smooth talker that Javier was. The only thing you offered him was friendship - your presence and your laugh, your silly jokes and weird habits.

And he took it all - his flirtatious nature and comments remained but it seemed more friendly than not. And you did the same in return - your smart-ass comments about how his ass looked “good enough to bite in those tight jeans" kept him on his toes, his cheeks hurt with all of the genuine laughter you pulled out of somewhere deep in his chest.

So Steve started joining your outings outside of work less and less - you were an intelligent woman and he liked you. You wouldn’t do something stupid like sleep with Javier.

The thing was - you wanted to. After the stressful day at work, you wished you could have Javier here - in your crappy apartment that was assigned to you by the U.S. embassy. You knew his reputation, you knew that his needs were simply carnal - a basic transaction of pleasure and bodily fluids. He never wanted his lady friends to stay over - never wanted them to have any expectations of having something more with him.

You can still remember the vivid shock you felt when you banged on the door of your next-door neighbor who appeared to only come alive at night.

The walls were thin and you could hear every moan, groan, slap of skin against skin, every bang that the bedframe made when hitting the wall. At first, you tried to ignore it - you bought earplugs. Multiple pairs. None of them seemed to work and one night you had had enough when you were right there on the edge of sleep after a particularly rough day and then - a long drawn-out moan made you squeeze your eyes before you shot out of the bed. The robe you wrapped around yourself to look at least half decent flew dramatically behind you.

You didn’t knock at the door - you banged - irritated and tired but still, you chewed at your lip as you thought of how the fuck will you say in spanish that they should finally “shut the fuck up and let you sleep”. You could hear a loud bang and then curses thrown into the air before the door swung open and Javier was standing in them - Javier from the office, Javier that undressed you with his eyes every time you entered the same room as him - his eyes wild and angry before they landed on you. All of the fire in his eyes disappeared and a toothy grin replaced his scowl. He leaned one arm on the doorframe - his bicep flexing with the movement.

His hair was disheveled and he didn’t have any of his significant half-unbuttoned shirts on. His chest was broad, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and his golden skin glowed in the low dim light in the hallway. The tight jeans he wore stuck to him like a second skin - he didn’t zip them in the hurry to get to the door. You could see the sparse hair leading from his belly button growing thicker the lower and lower you went - you must have gaped at him like a fish before you gulped.

He wasn’t any better though - his eyes dragged over the naked expanse of your skin and as his eyes trailed higher. He was sure you weren’t wearing anything underneath that flimsy robe. A peak of the soft flesh of your breast caught his attention as he absent-mindedly licked his lips, catching his tongue between his teeth - only a sliver of the pink flesh poking out of his mouth.

“Came to take me up on my offer, mariposa?” You wanted to wipe the self-assured cocky smile off his face.

He never really said the “offer” out loud but you knew what he had in mind. Now even more so. After a few weeks at the embassy, you heard rumors about Peña, about his reputation, about who he was. You tried to pay them no mind.

“No, Javier.” The way his name sounded falling out of your mouth was his absolute favorite thing. “Just keep it down, would you?”

You didn’t wait for his answer - turning on your heel and he watched your ass sway before you closed the door of your apartment.

He fucked the girl that was in his place harder than he ever fucked anyone in his life that night.

So that you knew what you were missing.

The way you glared at him the next day was definitely worth it.

But you also knew Javier - how he cared for those who were close to him, how the only thing he “ate” all day was coffee and so you had to almost shove any form of food into him - not that he minded - how his eyes crinkled when you cracked one of your stupid jokes that weren’t even that funny - he seemed to think otherwise.

So you were somewhat friends. You went out to drink away your thoughts, sorrows and feelings together. An unhealthy coping mechanism that you seemed to learn from Javi after the first year and a half you spent in Colombia.

You always went into that one filthy bar - quiet but with a sticky floor with not a lot of people around - somehow, Javier always found a girl that he would take home that night in it still. He was tall, broad, charming, he knew the way around with ladies - compliments forming and falling easily off his silver tongue. They seemed to be pulled towards him by his sheer presence in the room. He didn’t even have to try.

You hated the way your heart tightened in your chest whenever a pretty woman caught his attention - he always quickly stubbed his cigarette down with a quick apology that he’d be right back. His walk was confident and self-assured, his body language lose when he talked to them.

To make things worst he always had this soft look in his eyes when he asked if you were okay with him leaving. Oh, his brown eyes that always looked at you with such curiosity and interest. Those eyes made you feel like you were in another world. Looking into them - looking into those prettiest brown eyes, the eyes that you loved the most - made you feel like dying and feeling alive at once.

Even when some of them almost pulled his arm off as they tried to get him out and to wherever they would get more acquainted with one another, he still waited for your answer. Every time, you offered him the same tight-lipped smile and quick nod as you shooed him off. The imprint of his smile he always offered you in gratitude felt like a punch to the gut - as if he broke all of your ribs to get to your heart and squeezed until no blood remained in it after it stopped functioning completely.

But even if you wanted to give in - learn and feel his touch, find out if the girls were faking all of the moans and gasps or if he was really so skilled - you never dared to. Refusing to become another woman who would have to leave eventually and never look back. You wanted more than that. Because you knew Javier.

And you wanted all of him, not just a piece that he would offer and then rip it from you.

So you never acted upon the feelings you developed over the years - staying somewhat friends with the Texas man would have to be enough. Had to be.

Things changed after almost two and a half years. After he came late at night knocking on your apartment door and you sleepily opened it - the tiredness leaving your body as your eyes widened at his state. He was drunk - that was clear. He hiccuped and stumbled into your place when you opened your door wider.

There was no exchanging of words that night. He planted face-first onto your couch and fell asleep almost immediately - his soft snores filling the silent room. You draped your favorite light blanket around him that night - the one your sister gave you as a Christmas present. Javier always made fun of it. It was an ugly thing really - she said that it was compensation for an ugly sweater as she couldn’t find any. And yes, it was hideous - it looked like it just came from some dumpster - but you loved it nonetheless.

Something changed between the two of you the next morning. When you came into the living room he was still lounging on your small couch - his long legs dangling from the edge of it. You laughed as he groaned, his eyes tightly shut, one of his arms draped over his forehead. When he slowly sat up his head spun and he mumbled something about “never drinking again” - you laughed some more at that.

You didn’t ask why he drank so much - you knew it was because of something more serious than just simply wanting to get shit-faced. If he wanted to, he’d tell you. Eventually.

You passed him some painkillers for which he offered you a grateful smile - throwing his head back as he swallowed them. The only thing that could be heard in the room was the coffee machine as you stared at each other. He looked different in the morning - peaceful, soft. Things he didn’t want anyone to see.

You cleared your throat, saying that you will quickly hop in the shower while he can choose what are you two going to have for breakfast - the book you’ve written your favorite recipes in kept on the lowest shelf in the kitchen cabinet right above the stove. You were stocked with all sorts of ingredients as you like to cook a lot. He nodded as he watched you softly shut the door behind you.

The recipe book was old and rusty - the pages of it covered in smudges, the corners of them sometimes torn off. He wasn’t sure if it was yellow because it came in that color or if the was white before and it just yellowed over time. He flipped the pages quickly - honestly, he’d eat anything you’d cook as he often said you should have opened your own restaurant and not waste your time behind the desk. You always brushed these comments off with a small smile. A dried-up rose layed between the pages. He softly grabbed it and inspected it - his heart lurching into his throat when realization dawned on him. He gave you the rose. A long time ago.

Steve always bought Connie a bouquet of flowers every Friday -a habit he kept even after all the years spent with her. It was sweet, really. Romantic. You eyed the different flowers - a small flicker of yearning danced in your eyes. Javier noticed. Of course, he did. One day he came over to your desk, one of his hands behind his back and you threw him a curious look before he brought the single white-petalled rose in front of your face. The big grin you gave him and the quiet “thank you, Javi. I love it” made his entire week.

So he didnn’t know how long he had been standing there - the tip of his fingers delicately brushing over the dried-up white petals until you called his name, coming over to him.

“You kept it.” You threw him a confused look, your eyes widened when he backed you up against the kitchen counter - the small of your back hitting the edge of it. He caged you in, his hand coming to lay on the counter next to your side, the other one showing you the rose and you gulped.

“Yeah, I kept it.” You whisper and something in his chest shifted back then, his eyes softening. You held your breath when his chest brushed up against yours, his nose almost bumping with yours. You could see every freckle on his skin, his long eyelashes, the curve of his nose. Your lips nearly touching.

And then the phone rang and he closed his eyes in irritation, taking a deep steadying breath. He moved away from you and you slipped away from him quickly- your heart almost jumping out of your chest. You picked it up with shaking hands, looking over at Javier who put the rose back into its place.

“Hey, Steve. Yeah-yeah, I’ll be there in ten. Yeah, I will go over to Javi’s to kick him out of bed. See you.”

His jaw ticked when you hung up. He was going to kill Murphy.

He stopped seeing every and each of his lady friends after that day. If he wanted any information he’d meet them on neutral ground - sometimes offering to buy them a drink or two. But nothing more. He stopped picking up random girls at the bar too.

And somehow, he felt happy. Mind shockingly happy - like a kid that wished really hard for a present under the Christmas tree and got it. He cared for you - the realization hitting him in the back of the head like a fucking bullet. And you cared for him - took care of him, fed him and made him feel fucking alive and happy and thriving. You were the one that got drunk with him and never asked questions, and listened. You had to feel something if you kept the stupid rose after the years. Right?

But Javier overthinks things easily and just as easy as it was to imagine somehow a happy and safe future with you, it was just as easy to imagine scenarios - where in every one of them - he was the jackass who’d hurt you. And he couldn’t have that. No, no, no.

So he keeps his distance - still talks to you and keeps being friendly, but neither of you talks about the morning when you almost kissed. You were confused and hurt. He played with you but you couldn’t be angry at him. He never tried anything again after that on you. Even though this thing you two had between you kept simmering under the surface and he tried to ignore it. As have you.

But Javier is just a man - impulsive and quick to jump to conclusions. When he sees red? He acts. And right now he sees red as you talk to one of the other agents - he can hear your soft laugh and can see the way you grip the man’s arm as you laugh some more. What is even so funny? The muscle in his jaw ticks as he grips the edge of his desk tighter in his hold and Steve wants to laugh at his partner.

He takes pity on him and when he stands up he places one of his big hands on Javier’s shoulder which he wants to shrug away -his gaze lingering on you.

“You should ask her out, Peña.”

Javier almost breaks his neck with the speed he looks at Steve. Did he hit his head? Since when is he telling him what to do with women? Javier scoffs - an ugly twisted snarl adorns his lips. Like a wolf barring his teeth to its prey.

“Since when do you tell me what and what to not do when it comes to our lady co-workers?” Steve sighs and squeezes Javier’s shoulder tighter making his dark-haired partner look at him.

“We both know she isn’t just a co-worker to you, Peña.” He hisses at him, the grip on his shoulder loosening. “Now go ask her out before someone else will.”

And maybe it’s the first time in his life that Steve is actually right. He was fucking exhausted of playing this game of cat and mouse with you.

Javier’s legs act quick and his mind can’t seem to catch up with his actions before he is standing at your desk. When he arrives the other man bids you a quick goodbye before he scatters away under Javier’s intense gaze.

“Do you need something from me, Javi?” You offer him a small smile - so different from the first time you two met and he thinks: “yeah, you”.

His tongue sits heavy in his mouth and just now he finds out he actually doesn’t know how to do this. This dating thing. For fuck’s sake he hasn’t been on a date since Lorraine and he is getting old. Should he bring you flowers first? Should he ask you out with a note like in high school? Should he-

“Javi, you okay?”

Man up, Peña.

He scratches the back of his head before he blurts out:

“Go out with me.”

He says it so quickly that you are sure you heard him wrong but the tip of his ears are a darker shade of red and he stares at you expectantly. You gape at him like a fish - your mouth closing and opening but no sound comes out of it. He sighs and this time he says it slower, his dark eyes boring into yours as he reaches to grab your small hands in his.

“Mariposa, I’d like nothing more than if you’d go out with me. Like…on a date.” His palms are sweaty and he gulps seemingly nothing. He is nervous. It’s cute. That this big bad agent that chases narcos left and right is nervous about asking you out. You grin as you squeeze his fingers in yours.

“I don’t know, Javi. This seems so sudden and I am not sure if that’s the best idea. With us being colleagues and all.” You try to hide your grin as he looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.

“Mariposa, I swear I will make it worth your while. Just give me a chance. Please? I will-“ You break when you see his pleading eyes.

“Javi, I was just kidding. I’d like to go out with you. You are a scaredy cat when it comes to these things, aren’t you?”

He offers you a sheepish smile, his eyes glowing.

“Kind of. So please, try to be patient with me, yeah?”

“Of course.” You throw him a reassuring smile. Yeah, he could do this. With you.

He looks around before he brings your hands towards his lips - kissing them and he grins against them when he sees how you blush.

“Tonight at eight sounds good?” He offers as he pulls away from you.

“Sound perfect, Texas.” His grin spreads wider, his cheeks hurt and his heart hammers in his chest.

He owes Steve.

For someone who dreamt about being asked out by Javier you are unprepared. You never expected that he would ever actually make a move on you - not counting the sexual ones. You can’t wipe the smile off your face for the rest of your shift. You beam at Javier when passing by him to get home and he throws you a sultry wink - his knuckles resting on his desk as he looks through the documents. Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t quip anything as Javier watches you leave.

He had a date tonight. With you. Stating that he was nervous and giddy at the same time was an understatement. He felt a like a teenager expecting his first kiss. It felt strange and absolutely addicting at once.

When you arrive home you take a quick shower - Javier always said that you smelled like coconuts and one time you saw him secretly glancing into your bathroom to see what kind of shampoo were you using.

The water is scorching hot and it soothes your muscles and nerves. You scrub all the stress from your body and scurry into the bedroom when you are done - the droplets of water falling onto the floor as you don’t even bother to dry yourself off.

Your bedroom is a big space - the same as Javier’s and Steve’s and anyone who lives in the same apartment building as you, really. You open your closet which was built by Javi and Steve - both of them complaining “why the fuck would you need such a big closet if you live alone” and as you replied “because I like them big” Javier choked on seemingly nothing sending you a quick glare, his Adam’s apple bobbed and it seemed he started sweating even more after that.

You and Connie watched as they argued because, of course, neither of them needed the instructions. Glass of wine in your hands.

It was a pretty closet - cheap as someone bought it and it was too big to fit into their living space and they wanted to get rid of it. Made from mahogany wood, the doors of it had two birds on each side carved in it. Vintage and fitting into your bedroom - you even got a carpet with it for free, the one you were currently standing on.

As you pondered on what to wear you suddenly realized you didn’t know where was Javier taking you. Dancing? On a dinner? To a bar just for drinks? After a while of just checking through your wardrobe you decided to wear a sundress - it was too hot, even at night, to wear anything else, to be honest. It was a light green color - patterned with white flowers and the seam of it reached just below your knees. Backless with long sleeves. Cheeky but modest. Your mouth quirked upwards as you looked at yourself in the mirror.

A knock echoes through the apartment and you look at the watch in the kitchen when coming to answer the door -precisely seven. When you open the door your breath hitches.

Javier stands there with a bouquet of white roses - his face hidden behind them. He has his leather jacket on, his signature tight jeans on but you’ve never seen the pink shirt on him before. It suits him. He peaks at you through the flowers and his jaw sets - his eyes raking up and down your form, multiple times before he passes the roses to you.

“Thank you, they are beautiful, Javi.” You get an instant response, his hands now in his pockets.

“You are beautiful, mariposa.” His baritone raspy. He was used to you were pencil skirts, blouses, jeans and shirts when you went out. Never has he seen a dress on you even after three years. He prayed to all saints out there that you would wear only dresses from now on.

You flash him a grin before you quickly disappear inside to throw them into a vase. He has to clear his throat when he realizes that he can see the whole expanse of your back - the swell of your ass disappearing under the fabric but if the cut would be a little deeper he could definitely see that as well.

“Wear some comfortable shoes. I am gonna show you the beauty of Bogotá tonight.”

You link your arm with his as you softly shut the door.

You talk and laugh and jab at one another. The cool night air makes you shiver - you thought it would be a lot warmer than this. Javier drapes his jacket over you even as you fuss that he doesn’t have to.

You walk - it could be miles - but you don’t really pay it no mind as times fly by. You pass the few spots Javier wanted to show you - a pretty lake that reflected the moon shone under its light, looking like a silver liquid- a few daisies growing near it and you picked them, and after a while Javier even allowed you to put one behind his ear after you pleaded him. The spot where they served the best arepas in the city - Javier said so - and you had to agree as both of you munched on them, comfortable silence falling over the two of you.

It wasn’t awkward as you thought it might have been - you know a lot about each other but somehow you still find new things to talk about. You learned that he liked to paint when he was younger and enjoyed horseback riding with his pops. That he was mama’s boy - his tone softening as he talked about her. You squeezed his hand, telling him it was okay if he didn’t want to talk about it. But he did. Somehow, he wanted you to know everything about him. You took everything he gave and never wanted more and he felt at peace when with you. You found out that he grew up on a ranch and that he was a dog lover - he had a border collie that followed him everywhere when he did his morning chores - feeding the chickens and such.

The final spot of the day’s date was a pretty place with a view from which you could see the whole Bogotá, surrounded by trees and his truck parked there

Both of you lean against the hood - you pull his jacket around you tighter. It smells like him and you realize that after the years you don’t mind the smell of cigarettes. It’s soft and warm and it feels entirely like him.

“So, will you ever tell me about your little Texas boyfriend?” He cuts off the silence with his question and you cock your head to the side.

“Since when do you know I had Texas boyfriend?” He shrugs his shoulders as he brings the cigarette to his lips - blowing the smoke away from you.

“You told me the first time we’ve seen each other. You said that you will not fall for my Texas charm - “been there done that”. He quotes and you laugh breathily. He stubs the cigarette under his foot. The gravel under him crunches.

“You remember that?”

“I remember every little thing you say to me, mariposa.”

The air thickens with his confession as you look into his eyes. He is gorgeous under the dim moonlight. His hair blows in the soft wind. You reach to take the daisy from behind his ear and twist it between your fingers. The contact your skin makes with his when you reach behind his ear results in goosebumps erupting all over his body.

“I think a talk about ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends is more suited for a second date. Don’t you think?” He quirks an eyebrow at you.

“You want to go on a second date with me?” It surprises him - really. He expected…he actually doesn’t know what he expected but second date wasn’t it. He ignores the way his heart skips a beat.

“Yeah, don’t you?” Your eyes are hopeful and he doesn’t understand how you could think he wouldn’t want to go on another date with you.

He was smitten with you from the first time he laid his eyes on you. With your sharp tongue and wicked sense of humor, and how you love to call him out on his bullshit, how your nose wrinkles when you laugh and you throw your whole body forward - always needing to bang your hand against something, whether it was your thigh, table, his shoulder.

“I’d love to.” You grin and he mirrors it before you lean away from the hood as does he. It’s late and you are tired - even though you do not want this night to end. You yawn and Javier claps his hands together as he opens the door of the car you.

The car ride passes in comfortable silence as you keep sneaking glances when you think he isn’t looking.

You look at his sharp jawline and aquiline nose, his hand that grips the steering wheel - watching how he drums his long thick fingers against it and you lick your lips as you trail your eyes over the veins on the back of his hand. You take a sharp intake of breath as he places the other hand on your thigh after a while. You look at him but he doesn’t even glance at you, you can see how he becomes tense and when you don’t push his hand away he relaxes again, his thumb stroking idle circles on top of your covered flesh.

It passes quickly and before you know it you are outside the door of your apartment and he is pulling you closer by the small of your back. You put a finger on his lips when it looks like he is ready to kiss you senseless and you giggle, grabbing him by the chin and you turn his head to the side.

“I don’t kiss and tell on the first date, Peña. You will have to work for it.” You whisper against the skin of his cheek and his grip on you loosens as he feels the ghost of your lips against his flesh before you kiss him under the hinge of his jaw. The kiss imprints into the core of his bones.

Before he can say or act you are already closing the door of your apartment - he can hear the giggles that leave your mouth behind them. The muscle in his jaw ticks, his hands ball into fists as he stares at your door.

Seconds pass. Minutes. Maybe hours. He isn’t sure as he seems to be glued to the spot outside of your door.

When he finally moves he closes the door behind him forcefully. He feels so fucking worked up. And you didn’t even touch him. What were you doing to him? For fuck’s sake.

He stumbles into his place as he tries to tear his jeans from him. He fumbles with the zipper and button of his jeans and falls onto the couch as he quickly tries to undress. The jeans are thrown somewhere behind him and he tugs at his cock a few times, hissing as he swipes his thumb across the sensitive head - a spurt of precum falling out of it. He tries to imagine your small hand around his cock. Your slender fingers gripping him and pumping him from all he has. He groans when he squeezes the base of him and he thinks of how you looked tonight.

All pretty and soft when he held your hand in his. His brows furrow when he thinks of how your skin heated up under his touch when he placed his hand on the small of your back. How your dress showed all of your curves and how you laughed - your nose wrinkling. His movements speed up, he concentrates on how you smelled and moved. He thinks how you wouldn’t be able to grip all of him in your small hand - would you try to put all of him in your mouth or would you just suck and lick the tip of him while you would pump the rest of him? The roughness of his own hand isn’t ideal and it is hard to imagine your softer one - his eyebrows furrowing even more so as he concentrates, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth.

And fuck, you care for him. You truly care for him. You listen - really listen- and let him talk your ear off. You never judge him. And that’s why he is so fucking attracted to you. Because Javier just wants someone who will care for him and provide him with not only physical but also psychical comfort. And you are that someone.

He groans, his head thrown back as the pleasure builds in the pit of his stomach - twirling up the column of his spine. He is not quiet and his eyes roll into the back of his head when he hears the squelching sound of his hand stroking his cock - pretending that it was your pussy making the noise while riding him. He smears the precum around his cock - the glide over the hard hot flesh easier. He thinks about how would you sound screaming his name and a needs curls in his belly - primal and hungry. He finds a steadier and firmer pace and the muscle on his forearm and bicep flex with each stroke.

He is covered in a thin sheen of sweat and he feels he is so fucking close - so close - his eyes tightly shut. The pleasure builds and builds - liquid warm and full of aching desire for you growing with each slick movement of his wrist. Long smooth strokes are deliberately made, his thumb running over the head, his grasp tightening on the base of his aching cock. His muscular thighs lift off the sofa, the muscles underneath his softer belly pull tighter with each second as he fucks up into his fist. His feet are firmly planted on the couch and he pretends you are there with him - on top of him, riding him as he pinches and explores, gropes and holds every inch of your body.

His balls pull tight and his cock twitches in his hand a few times before he is cumming with a string of spanish curses and your name falling out of his mouth. He keeps up the pace until he is too sensitive and he lets go of his slowly softening cock - his hand sticky with his own release as is his shirt. The back of his head collides with the soft cushions and he opens his eyes to look at the ceiling. Bringing his hand in front of his face, he watches how his spend dribbles down his wrist and his forearm - if you were here he’d tell you to lick him clean. He waits before his breathing calms down and then he slowly sits up.

And fuck, he was in big trouble. What were you doing to him?

The second date comes around not even a week later - flirtatious looks and fleeting touches scattered throughout the week when you pass each other at work. Steve rolls his eyes at the two of you but he is honestly happy for you and for Javier too. You are his friend and after your first date Steve cornered his partner, jabbing his finger into Javier’s chest as he told him to “not fuck this up”.

This caused Javier to become defensive, saying he would never dare to even try - but under no prying eyes he was so fucking afraid. Because he was him - he left his bride at the altar for fuck’s sake and the worst thing was he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to meet you.

And he never ever felt this way with Lorraine - how his heart seemed to start beating faster anytime you touched him or how it skipped a beat when he heard your laugh. How his skin felt like it was on fire under your touch, how all of his blood traveled down to his cock each night he thought of you. He felt fucking dirty and wrong for that - but alas he didn’t fuck anyone for over half a year and he was touch-deprived, your soft touch lingering in the back of his mind as he stroked himself.

He was terrified he would fuck something up sooner or later. And you noticed it - how he seemed lost in his thoughts anytime he spend time with you, your touch on his hand pulling him back into reality. You caressed his knuckles and he smiled - a real genuine smile on his lips.

“What’s bothering you? You know you can tell me, Javi. That’s if you want to, of course.” The way you offered him a soft smile made him want to kiss you right there and then.

Because yeah, he knew he could tell you anything. You wouldn’t look at him weirdly, you wouldn’t judge him. You would sit and listen and after he’d be done talking, you would tell him your honest opinion. He rubbed your fingers that were on the back of his palm with his other hand.

“I-I am afraid, mariposa. I am afraid I will fuck this up and you will never want to talk to me again. And that would break me.” He whispered, the words meant to be heard for your ears only and your heart jumped when you saw the concern in his eyes before he looked anywhere but into your eyes. Because in reality Javier Peña was a big softie deep in his core and it was sweet how he tiptoed around this thing you had between the two of you - afraid that he would break it. Break you.

“Javi.” You said in a serious tone and he met your gaze, his breath hitching when he saw how serious you looked at him, your eyes filled with adoration. For him. “We are both adults. And it is most likely one of us will fuck something up down the road. But we will try to repair whatever damage will be made. That’s how relationships work.” You shrugged your shoulders, pulling your hands away from his as one of your colleagues passed by.

He grinned. You called it a relationship. He thought it would make him scared - putting labels on whatever was going on between you. That maybe he would run for the hills because he never wanted anything serious after Lorraine. Afraid of commitment. Afraid of his own feelings. But he didn’t. He felt fucking happy. You two were at the beginning of your relationship.

“You are right, mariposa.” He laughed as you quipped “as I always am.” “I will pick you up tonight. At eight?”

“Sound like a date, Peña. Where are you taking me this time?” He grinned, the corners of his mouth quirked upwards and he wiggled his eyebrows at you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Wear another dress tonight. You looked beautiful the last time.”

“You like me in a dress, Javi?” You fluttered your eyelashes innocently at him and he felt a growl building in the back of his throat as he leaned closer to you.

“You have no idea how much. Makes me hard as a fucking rock.” He left with that and as he turned around he had to hide the teasing smile on his lips as he saw your shocked expression.

Oh, but you had an idea how much. After all the walls of your apartment were thin.

You decide to wear one of your more revealing dresses - the one in a dark shade of red, tight around your body with thin straps that held it in place, the seam of it just reaching just above your knees. It makes your breasts look absolutely wonderful. A touch of red lipstick completes the look.

A knock echoes through your place and again - he is right on time. When you open the door a single rose in his hands greets you but you don’t care about that right now as you admire his look. He swapped the tight jeans - which you loved - for looser black dress pants which highlighted his narrow waist. He has a nice pair of black shiny dress boots on, his black shirt more loose than the ones he wore for work - of course, a few of the top buttons of it unbuttoned. He looked good enough to eat and you have the urge to lick the few salty droplets of sweat rolling down his torso.

He eyes your figure shamelessly and almost chokes when he sees the dress you are wearing. It hugs you in all the right places and his fingers itch to touch you, your fingers brushing against his as you take the rose from him making a surge of electricity pass through his nerves. The red lipstick you are wearing just compliments your look. You look like sin itself. And he makes it his mission that tonight the red lipstick will be smeared all over him. He clears his throat as he offers you a quiet “You look absolutely gorgeous, mariposa” and you thank him, his hand on the small of your back - as his urge to touch you wins over him. He leads you towards his car, his eyes trailing to your ass.

“So, where are we going tonight?” You ask when you are sitting in the passenger seat and he grins, his hand automatically falling on your thigh, the tip of his fingers dancing across your sensitive skin.

“You like dancing?” Your eyebrows shoot up.

“Depends. When I have a good dance partner then yes.” You challenge and his head falls back as he laughs bitterly - as if offended. The grip on your thigh tightens.

“Don’t worry. I know how to move my hips, mariposa.” He winks as he starts the engine.

The drive is spent in you two talking about your past relationships as you promised him on your last date. You tell him about your Texas boyfriend - your college sweetheart. He was a sweet boy, a little shy and he didn’t like to engage much in social events. You were the one who approached him first when you saw him looking at you at all times during one of the classes you had together. He stammered and blushed when you asked him out but agreed and he loosened up after a few months of you two dating - his Texan charm slipping on the surface. You tell him about how he smooth talked you into visiting his uncle who had a ranch. He took you horseback riding. You do leave out all of the spicy details though. Javier’s brows furrow in confusion - it seemed like you were totally in love with each other from your talking, so he didn’t understand why you broke up. A quick “ah” follows when you explain that he fell out of love with you. You stayed friends but eventually, both of you parted going your separate ways. Back then you were still bitter about your break up even if it wasn’t his fault. Things like those happens. But you know, love blinded you and the rage you felt sat heavy in your heart for a long time.

And in return, Javier tells you about his girlfriends and to your surprise there weren’t many. A few flings here and there - kissing behind back of his house, exploring but neber doing anything more - before he met Lorraine during high school. His high school sweetheart. They both were the talk of the town when they announced they were getting married. The sweet, handsome and hard-working Peña boy and the perfect Lorraine who seemed to be adored by everyone. She was the one who taught him a lot of tricks when it came to sex. You listen as he tells you about how he left her at the altar - it didn’t feel right and Colombia felt like a place where he could make some kind of change. Not that he made any after the years spent here. You scold him with a quick “hey”, your hand shooting to grab his hand that rests on your thigh.

“Don’t bring yourself down, Javi. You are a great agent and an even greater man. Even if you don’t believe so.” He throws you a crooked smile, his pulse going from zero to a hundred because of the way you look at him. As if he was worth looking at. He brings his lips to kiss the back of your hand.

“So, tell me; why did you give me the nickname ´mariposa’?” you ask and the mood car shifts to playful and loose again.

He can vividly remember how you were so bothered that you didn’t know what it meant and asked him about it constantly. He teased you and each time you asked - because you could tell he wasn’t telling the truth - he told you something different. It drove you mad, you wanted to ask Steve but didn’t engage with him back then as much and you felt awkward asking some random person working in DEA. He lived for the way you squinted your eyes at him and jabbed into his chest with your nimble index finger as he didn’t even budge. Eventually, he gave in and told you the true meaning of it - and as of right now, you asked him why. He never answered you.

“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” He asks cheekily and you huff, your hand coming to draw circles on the back of his hand.

“It doesn’t bother me per se. I just want to know why do you call me “butterfly”? His fingers drum against the steering wheel as he parks outside of a club. It was a big building and the outside of it seemed new - a big neon sign shone in the dead of the night to grab the attention of passersbys. The outside of it was made out of black bricks, and the door was made out of glass.

He turns his torso towards you - his knee bumping with the driving console while doing so. And he really does look incredible tonight - the dress pants fit as if they were made just for him and you can see the visible bulge between his legs. You look away quickly to look into his eyes but you are pretty sure he caught you staring as he shifts in his seat again.

“You remember the first time we met?” He asks and you nod - it’s hard to forget.

“Yeah, I wanted to slap you across your stupidly handsome face for how you looked at me. As if I was a piece of meat.” He laughs, his tongue poking out to lick the seam of his lips.

“Well, you looked like a butterfly - moving past me as if I didn’t even exist, your movements so effortless in those god-forsaken high heels you wear to work. By the way, I still can’t grasp how you can walk in those. Anyways. You had this green pencil skirt on and it just seemed suitable, even more so after I found out you really do wear crazy and bright colored combinations of clothing.”

They made fun of you for that - all in a good and light-hearted manner though. Not really wanting to upset you. You still remember how Javier smacked Steve behind the head when you wore a bright pink blouse with the said green pencil skirt and the blonde asked you if you were going to masquerade. When Javier saw how your jaw set and your eyebrows pulled together in silent rage he almost beat up Steve. He came to your desk later that day and told you to ignore Steve, his words of “don’t mind Murphy, he’s an idiot. You look nice, mariposa” ringing in your ears for the rest of the day.

You nod and have to agree that indeed - the nickname does suit you. He grins at that and takes you by the hand when you both get out of the car, dragging you towards the entrance of the club.

The first thing you notice is that it’s super noisy in there - people cheering, music blasting. The dance floor is a big space and even with all the people on it there are still spots where you could squeeze in with Javier if you wanted to dance. The bar is opposite the dance floor - long and more than one barman is working there, the bottles of liquor shine under the lighting that is reflected from the disco ball that lies above the dance floor. The floor isn’t sticky from all of the sweet alcohol as is the bar you frequently visit with Javier. The booths are small but cozy - a maximum of four people could squeeze in there and Javier drags you towards the empty one that is further in the back with not a lot of people there. When you sit he whispers if you’d like something to drink and you shake your head before you leave your coat on the leather seat. This time you are dragging him on the dance floor.

His hands find your hips almost immediately as the music speeds up - flowing through your veins, your ears ringing as you concentrate on the way his hips drag against yours as you grind against him.

Javier’s brain stops working - he pulls you closer to him, his hands drag across your exposed thighs higher and higher, his hands stopping just under your breasts and his touch tickles as his fingertips hover above your ribcage. He is close -you can feel his breath on the back of your neck and his mustache scrape you there, his hands gliding and groping. His hips move alongside yours and yes - he didn’t lie when he said he knew how to move his hips.

You feel him everywhere but nowhere at once - you want more and you moan when he tests the waters and one of his hands brushes against your collarbone, slowly moving the hair away from the slope when your shoulder and neck meet and he places a tentative kiss there. The ghost of his lips is so feather-light you almost don’t feel it and his other hand squeezes your hip tighter when you brush against his clothed cock that strains behind the fabric. You can feel the scrape of his mustache on your skin and feel the tip of his tongue slowly slip out from his mouth - tasting the salty taste of your skin, his blunt nails digging into your waist when you lean against him, his hand snaking to hold you in place.

You are drunk but not from alcohol - neither of you drank anything tonight. But from the sheer presence of him as you don’t even seem to dance but only explore each other. Your hands tangle in his hair and he hums in pleasure when you tug on one particular suck he gives to your skin. It will leave a nasty purple bruise tomorrow but he doesn’t care - his eyes darkening when he sees the imprint of him on your skin. You move and sway, and grind and Javier follows your lead, never once taking more than you give him. His touch makes your skin burn with primal desire for him as they skate under the seam of your dress but as quick as they go there, that quick they leave too. He is teasing you and he grins when he feels the vibration of your whine against his mouth.

He inhales your scent and his head spins - you smell like coconut and somehow…him. Sweet and tempting and he has the urge to drag you towards to small bathroom in the corner of the room. Show you how good with his hand and other parts of his body he can be, show you what you were missing all these years. And see what he was missing for all these years.

You stay on the dance floor for a while longer before you lean your head against his shoulder, your lips brushing the underside of his jaw as you whisper in his ear that you want something to drink and he nods absent-mindedly, leading you back to your booth. His hands now dip lower, smoothing his big palm over your ass lightly - the way you almost draped yourself all over him on the dance floor making him bolder. You throw him a sultry smile when he says he will be right back and he does - not even five minutes pass before he is back with two glasses of alcohol and you quirk an eyebrow at him as you see the long line near the bar.

“Hope you like gin and tonic. Whiskey on ice is getting old. Wanted us to try something new.” You thank him as he passes you your drink, your lips catching the straw and you move closer to him - his hands resting on the back of the booth around your shoulders. He splays his legs wider and you sneak quick glance at him and see the small grin - he is doing this on purpose.

Game on, Peña.

You move even closer to him, your torso twisting as your tits brush up against his chest and his breath hitches when he feels your hand land on the inside of his thigh - too close where he was getting hard. It seemed that was too easy when it comes to you. He eyes your cleavage, his eyes turning darker, his pupils blown wide as you take the drink from his hand and place it on the table, placing butterfly kisses on his neck. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands - one of them digging into the leather seat, the other stroking the base of your spine. You inch your hand higher and he should really pull it away but he doesn’t have the strength in him to do that - his throat closing on its own accord.

Your fingers quickly scatter to work on his zipper and his hand that was gripping the leather seat closes around your wrist - his lust-filled eyes looking into yours frantically. You smile at him, and he isn’t holding your wrist tight, so you slowly move his hand away, his breath speeding up when you unzip his pants and your fingers brush along his course hair that grows down his belly button. You bunch the material of his shirt and move it over his belly, he slides lower into the seat as you kiss him near the lobe of his ear.

“Want to take care of you. You okay with that, baby?” He almost whimpers at the new nickname for him that falls out of your lips. You grin against his skin, your tongue licking the hinge of his jaw and he closes his eyes when your hand snakes painfully slow towards his weeping cock - the tip of him an ugly red color, precum leaking out of it and he throbs in your hand when you take him out of his pants. He hisses, his eyes shoot open when he feels a dribble of slick rolls down the underside of him - you spat on him. And fuck, if that doesn’t make him even harder.

He is hot and hard and fucking big in your hands. You cannot see much of him in the dim light but you can feel it. He sits heavy in your palm. His hot breath fans over the front of your neck, his nose trailing over your collar bones.

“I heard you jerking off to imagines of me. The walls are thin. Did you forget, Javi? Hm?” His eyes wildly look around to see if anybody is looking your way but people are minding their own business. You heard him. You heard him every time and it makes a desire shoot down his spine knowing you listened to him.

The first swipe of your soft hand against him knocks the breath out of his lungs and you squeeze him tighter around the base when he doesn’t answer you.

“Fuck, mariposa. I couldn’t help but to jerk at the thought of you.” You smile - seemingly pleased with his answer and your thumb swipes along his tip, his hips jerking forward at the contact and you tut at him - your other hand pressures his hips to move down again. He whines, sweat rolls down the side of his temple and you lick it - his eyes roll into the back of his head, your hand moving with slow firm strokes. Just as he likes it. If he wasn’t so touch-deprived and seemingly in heaven he would have at least so much decency to touch you too. But he is lost in the feel of your hand against his, the coil in his belly tightening with each glide of your hand down his cock.

The music is loud - too loud - but the only thing he can hear is the squelch of his cock in your hand. It rings in his ears and you keep up your pace - your lips never faltering as you keep assaulting his neck and the thought of you leaving hickeys on him, marking him as yours brings him closer to his release. You mouth at the vein on his neck, feelings his pulse underneath your lips and you softly bite him there - the hand that was stroking your spine digs into the space between your shoulder blades.

The muscles in his thighs flex as he chases the touch of your hand - slowly fucking up into your hand and he feels the liquid warm need to just let go seeping into his whole being, his brows furrowing. You thumb at his head and squeeze him tighter at the base, your other hand moving to play with his balls and he chokes when he feels the feather-light touch. He opens his eyes which are hooded and he wants to look at you when you make him cum - the material of his pants is soft when your hand moves up and down. It only takes a few strokes before he warns you that he is going to cum and his fists fly to bang against the table - the alcohol on it spilling as you take him in your mouth. The wet warm feel of your mouth mixed with your tongue circling the tip of his cock has him cumming in seconds and he paints the inside of your throat with his spend. He violently twitches in you - the salty taste of him hitting your taste buds. You pull off him after he softens in your mouth and you tug him back into his pants.

“We don’t want you to make a mess. Do we now?” He doesn’t answer you, his eyes wild as he looks at you before he is bringing you towards his lips by the back of your neck - his fingers tangling into your hair.

He never imagined you would kiss under these circumstances - and he imagined kissing you a lot. It never was after you’d practically sucked his soul out. He isn’t complaining though. He can taste his release on your tongue and he deepens the kiss, wanting to swallow you whole. His other hand keeps your mouth open as it rests on the hinge of your jaw - his thumb slowly stroking your skin there. He feels desperate. Desperate to feel you. To have you. To be with you. And he tries to pour everything he feels into the kiss.

He hopes you understand.

When you part away you throw him the cutest smile -as if you just didn’t jerk him off under the table of a packed club - and he laughs, his eyes crinkling. He feels happy - that is how he always feels with you. And he wants to feel like that all damn time. When he is with you he doesn’t think about narcos or Pablo fucking Escobar and his inner demons don’t crawl on the surface of his fucked up mind.

He kisses you again. This time the kiss is softer, and not as desperate. Languid pass of tongue against tongue. As if the two of you had all the time in the world.

He doesn’t drink any more alcohol that night. Afraid that the taste of you would wash out from his tongue.

He watches you all the damn time the next day at work. The images of you last night flash through his mind. How your lips felt against his, the pass of your tongue against his cock, the soft touch of yours. He craves more, wants more, needs more.

He was shook when you finally arrived at your apartment complex and he kissed you breathless - his thigh coming between your legs as you slowly grinded on him, your fingers brushing against the smooth material of his shirt before you pulled away and bid him good night. Once again, he stood outside your door like an idiot.

He wants to return the favor. So he waits and waits on the right moment so he can pull you aside - show you that you were not the only one who could bring toe-curling pleasure to someone. He grins when he sees you enter the file room and he looks around - Steve seemingly busy with reading reports as he scoffs angrily - before he slides away. Closing the door behind him swiftly but softly.

You first hear the soft click of the door and then you feel big hands splaying over the expanse of your hips, mustache scraping over the skin on the side of your neck as he looks at what are you holding in your hands. The file is pink and thick and he takes it from you and places it in its rightful place - or at least where he thinks it was before - and you close your eyes, your muscles relaxing under his touch. You’ve seen how he looked at you today and for once, you were the one who gave him a show yesterday - being as loud as possible so he could hear. He almost lost his mind, almost knocked at your door.

He will show you that his fingers are better than any of your toys.

“What do you think you are doing?” There’s no seriousness behind your voice - he can pick up on the small smile behind it and he grins against your neck, softly pecking you there before his hands move lower, bunching the material of your skirt higher. He can hear the way your breath hitches and he grins - his tongue lapping at your pulse point, his finger inching closer and closer to your core before he turns you around. He slowly sinks down on his knees and oh my fucking god, Javier Peña is on his fucking knees for you. Looking up at you as if you were some kind of goddess and he was just a mere mortal ready to serve all of your needs. And he was ready to serve all of your needs. Your back collides with the bunch of files-filled shelves and the wood of it digs into you uncomfortably but you can’t seem to give a shit right now.

“I think you know what I am doing, mariposa. Did you think of me yesterday, hm? Did you think about how dirty of a girl you were? Jerking me under that table where anyone could see?” You moan when his blunt nails dig into the roundness of your ass as he tries to find the zipper of your skirt in the back. His gaze comes to watch your reactions as he slowly pulls the piece of clothing down your hips and bare legs as it catches on your heels and he helps you out of it. You squeal when he puts both of your thighs on the broadness of his shoulders and his head moves forward as he smells your arousal through the skimpy fabric of your panties.

It takes you a while to answer, your head spinning with the image you now have in front of you - Javier’s head between your thighs which rest on his shoulders, his wild hair in which you placed your hands in; tangling your fingers in it, how his long lashes flutter against the apple of his cheeks, his fingers digging into the soft flesh on your thighs - trying to imprint himself there. You can see the expanse of his neck and the hickeys you left the previous night - all purple and nasty looking but he doesn’t try to hide them, wearing them proudly.

“Yes, I thought about your big fat cock in my hand and how you seemed to enjoy yourself.” You tease and a sound between growl and a snarl forms in the back of his throat. What a samrt mouth you have - not for long though. One of his hands moves closer to your core and he kisses the inside of your left thigh first - his hand patting and mapping the trail of saliva he leaves with his tongue. Paying the same amount of attention to the other one as well. He worships you and takes his time - if he could stay like this forever, he would. His knees hurt under the weight of you as he kneels on the hard tiled floor but he ignores it.

You feel like you are in another world. Your breath ragged, your chest constricting as he looks at you through his eyelashes, his mustache burning your flesh in the most delicious way. You thought that maybe - just maybe - all the girls with Javier were just faking it. That his reputation was built on a bunch of fake moans and well-learned constricting of their inner muscles. But oh, how wrong you were. If he was at least half as attentive with them as he was with you right now, you had no doubt they were definitely not faking it.

“Wanna know a secret, mariposa?” You want him to just shut up and make you cum - to stop teasing you but you nod nonetheless, pathetically quickly.

“You remember when I came to you drunk? When I found the rose in your cookbook the next morning?” He murmurs as he draws patterns with his tongue against your thigh and again, you nod. How could you forget? You were so sure he was going to kiss you back then. Your lips almost touching but then Steve had to call. “I was so fucking drunk because I fucked a girl that night. She looked a lot like you and I pretended, just for a moment, that she was you. And then I went to see you and tell you that I wanted you. But this right here?” He nips at your thigh - his teeth leaving their mark behind. “Your pretty little sounds and pleas, and this pussy that is so wet for me?” He growls the last words. “This is better than any imagination I ever had. Fuck, you are so fucking perfect, mariposa.”

And his confession shouldn’t make your gut twist and fill with butterflies. It shouldn’t even surpsirise you. Not really. Because he tried his moves on you throughout the years. Multiple times. But hearing it from his mouth? That he wanted you so much that he pretended someone else was you? It makes a surge of possessiveness wash over you. He was yours all those years ago. As is he yours now, his head between your legs.

One of his hands snakes under your bum, the other trailing towards your mouth as he softly orders you to “open up” and you do - you would do anything he’d tell you right now. Two of his thick fingers work their way inside your mouth and you suck them in - moaning as he softly wiggles them before he pulls them out and in. And again, again, and again. Until you are gagging with how deep he seems to rach with them in your throat - your teeth grazing along his knuckles and he smiles; a twisted smile as if he was in pain, his nostrils flare before he removes them from your slicked mouth and shows you what a mess you made of them. Your eyes shine with lust and want and need as he drags them to your bottom lip. And then he removes them - pushes you even more towards the shelves so you won’t fall and his hand that was holding your ass moves to pull your panties to the side.

He moans at the sight of your slicked folds. His nose bumps with your clit before he inhales you all in. If he could, he’d touch himself. The image in front of him makes his cock jump in his tight jeans but this is about you. He wants to make you feel good and ruin you for any other man that would even dare to try and touch you. Because you were his - he knew it even if you never said so. As he is yours. You own him. Body, mind and soul and the thought of it hits him hard somewhere deep in his chest. He wants this. He wants people to hear and know that he is the one making you feel good - pissing off Steve would be just a cherry on top.

You plead his name - a string of “Javi please” falling out of your lips. He smiles - posessive and dark because he hasn’t even touched you yet and here you are; begging for him. All pliant and soft, and ready to take whatever he gives.

The first drag of his fingers inside of you makes you throw your head back and it collides with the wooden shelf - but you don’t feel the pain. You only feel the thickness and roughness of his fingers inside of you. His mustache burns your skin as he nuzzles your inner thigh as he watches you - his eyes dark and pupils blown back wide. He is enjoying this as much as you - you realize ,when a particular harsh thrust of his fingers makes you squeeze him hard and he moans even louder than you. It seems like he is doing it on purpose and it sends a thrill down your spine - if someone caught you here. He didn’t even lock the door.

His fingers work their way inside you - deeper and deeper, working up, up until he finds the spongy inside you. You squelch around his fingers and you beg for more. You are close, you can feel the pleasure build inside your body and when you are right on edge he stops. A whine escapes your lips as you open your eyes at him and growl in frustration. He grins and while he holds your gaze his mouth inches closer to your gaping cunt. He spits on your clit then and your eyes widen before a drawn-out moan falls out of your lips. He watches as his saliva drips down and he catches it - coating his fingers in it before he brings them into your mouth again.

You bite his fingers, the imprint of your teeth leaving its mark behind and tug at his hair when you feel the first slide of his tongue against your pussy. He moans under your harsh touch - his fingers pulling themselves deeper into your mouth and you feel the first set of tears make their way out of your eyes. It feels too good as Javier laps at you as a man starved - the vibrations of his moans making your thighs twitch.

He eats you out as if your pussy was his favorite meal - and it definitely is. The tangy taste of you hits his taste buds and he works the pink muscle into your gaping cunt - licking and exploring your walls. Javier never really was a fan of going down on someone. But with you? With the way, your breath hitches and you moan his name, how your fingers tangle in his hair and your Adam’s apple bobs with each pass of his tongue? He would keep doing this forever. And ever. He learns quickly what you like and what you don’t as he tests the waters. He is a quick learner and to your surprise - definitely a giver when it comes to sex.

He laps st you as if his life depended on it - his fingers moving with each flick of his tongue and you cry out when he puts his plump lips onto your clit and languidly sucks at it. His tongue flicking against it.

“Yeah, such a good girl. Come on, cum for me, mariposa.” He urges and one look at his state - his slack opened jaw, his ruffled hair, his hooded eyes that watch you with such an intensity you feel it in the pit of your very own being and you are a goner.

The euphoric feeling of it finally snaps, making you trash and spasm and writhe under his touch. Your toes curl and he keeps working you through your orgasm - lapping at what you give him before you push his head away forcefully as he tries to protest and give your sensitive clit a few more soft licks.

When you stand up on shaky legs he is still on his knees - his hand snaking behind the back of your thighs to hold your ass. He looks breathtaking like this - his mustache and chin covered in your release, his eyes hooded and he seems sedated, proud of himself.

You bring him to you by the collar of his shirt and he moans into the kiss you give him - all teeth and tongue, quick and he tries to deepen the kiss before you are pulling away. The taste of your own release sitting on top of your tongue and he grins when you start searching for your skirt - his eyes watching your ass as you bend down to put it back on you. The image of you in your high heels and panties will be kept hidden somewhere in the back of his mind from this time on.

When he passes by you to get out of the room first, he kisses you softly on the back of your neck before he whispers:

“Thank you for the breakfast, mariposa. It was delicious.” He skirts past you with a wink. Leaving a mess of piles on the ground behind him.

And you with a stupidly satisfied smile on your face and a hazy mind.

The third official date comes around three weeks later.

Work keeps you both busy but Javier always finds time for you. He comes to yours at night or sometimes well past midnight. Plopping next to you in bed, his hands snaking around your middle as he pulls you closer to him. And he swore he never slept better than when he slept by your side. So it becomes a habit.

It’s not a surprise to you that he seeks your touch at all times. One of Javier’s love languages is physical touch. Whether it’s just holding hands, smoothing his fingers down your spine or drawing circles on your knee under the table when you eat. Sometimes he comes sooner and you watch TV on the couch and read - to your surprise, Javier is a big fan of fantasy novels but he never actually has the time to read any so you read them to him when you two are already comfortably set in bed or lounge on the said couch- or play board games - and he has to cheat because there is no way he is so good at all of them.

Your nights spent together usually end up with you two making out - teeth clashing, lips latching onto each other, you grinding on his impressive clothed length. Sometimes it’s just a slow languid press of tongue against tongue in the early morning light when he is warm, putty and soft under your hands - the hardness of his walls that he builds up against him not yet coming on the surface. And Javier is insatiable but not only in the sense of sex. He craves the intimacy that you provide - your soft touch and sweet words as your fingers trace each and every scar, the press of your lips against them.

It’s dizzying the way you disarms him in every way. Making him feel so secure and whole as he opens up to you in ways he thought he never would have.

He feels desired as much as he desires you.

He drives you crazy - the close proximity of him makes you want to jump his bones on each and every surface in your place.

“Na-ah. I want to be a proper gentleman. So sex should come at least after the third date.” He said with a teasing smirk as he kissed your pouting lips and then ate you out on the kitchen counter.

It didn’t matter that you jerked him off on your second date. It didn’t matter that he ate you out the next day at work and returned the favor by giving you a mind-blowing orgasm. It didn’t matter that he fingered you from behind on your couch or that he fucked your throat while you laid on your bed, back splayed on the soft sheets. It didn’t matter that he had to eat you out at least once a day and it certainly didn’t matter if it was on the floor, kitchen counter, table, couch, your bed or a chair.

So it's an understatement that you cannot wait for your third date to finally happen. You are supposed to go to a nice restaurant - you’ve been there once or twice with other men that asked you on a date. But as Javi said, “I will make it a mind-blowing experience for you”. And you didn’t doubt it.

So you wait and wait, your eyes keep fleeting at the clock on your wall. An hour passes. Then two. He is never late. You are pacing around your kitchen - you tried to call Steve and called Javier multiple times. You knew they had a smaller op today, “don’t worry,” he said, “this should be an easy job,” he said. Easy job my ass. You were getting worried, your foot tapping against the tiles in your kitchen.

What if something happened to him? What if he was injured? What if he was bleeding out somewhere right now? What if he was-

A soft knock stops the train of your thoughts. Three knocks, the last one lighter than the other. Only one person knocks like that and you almost trip on your own feet as you hurry to open up the door. And he is standing there. Alive.

But he doesn’t look like your usual Javier. His clothes are drenched - the rain pouring outside heavy. It sticks to him - his clothes. His hair sticks to his forehead a few strands of it fall in front of his eyes. You see the difference in his posture, the haunted look in his eyes. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, what to do with himself. He doesn’t even know why he came to you in this fucked up state. And he wants to leave - he doesn’t want you to see him like this. But before he can get a sound out of his mouth, the hushed and broken “sorry” stuck in his throat, before he can move his heavy limbs, you are pulling him in, softly dragging him on the couch. And as before - you don’t ask. You just wait. Wait if he says something, wait if he needs something, wait if he wants you with him right now.

The realization of it makes him want to rip open his chest and give you his scarred and broken heart. Because you own it. It’s yours, if you will have it.

His body acts quicker then his mind can catch up and he is pulling you in - his strong arms winding to hold you close to him. And you don’t protest, you just hug him back, your fingers dancing across the broad expanse of his back. He breathes you in - coconut, vanilla, mango. It grounds him. Knowing that you are here. With him. Next to him. For him.

“They-they killed them. I fucked up. Fuck-“ He hiccups. “I fucked up, mariposa.” His hold on you tightens as you shush. The slow beat of your heart drums against his ear.

You rock him back and forth and he feels like a little kid again. As if he was five again and his mother kissed the bruise on his knee from when he fell off his bike. He feels wanted. Safe. Home. Neither of you know how much time has passed as he slowly pulls away from you. His nose brushes against yours, his eyes bore into yours and the mellow look you have in them makes him want to melt into you.

“I need you.” He whispers against your lips and his fingers tighten when he feels you pulling away, your hands bunching the wet material of his soaked-up shirt. You want to push him away. It’s not right. You shouldn’t. Not right now.

“Javi-“ You protest weakly.

“Please.” And that’s all it takes before you tentatively seal your lips with his. He doesn’t push, he doesn’t take more than what you are ready to give - enjoying the slow and languid pass of your tongue as you hum in his mouth. You cup his cheeks - your thumbs smoothing slowly down his jaw and his hands rest on your shoulder blades. It’s slow and sensual and neither of you is in any kind of rush. His body buzzes all over, his lungs clench - the oxygen seemingly leaving his lungs and the only thing that can make him breathe again is you. He feels warmth in his chest spreading and spreading some more when you peck his lips and you are careful with him - as if he was fragile peace of art. And to you, he is.

He doesn’t know how he got into the bedroom before you are slowly pushing him down onto the mattress and his back collides with the silken sheets. He watches your form in the dim light as you leisurely undress in front of him. His chest heaves, his breath picks up, his pupils extend. He leans back on his elbows as he watches you - how your hand reaches behind to pull down the zipper of your sundress and as it pools on the floor beneath you. Another time he would have jumped at you and pull you towards him. Another time he would pin you against the floor and fuck you silly that you would forget your own name. Another time he would make you scream his name before you would even have the chance to undress. But tonight you both take it slow - enjoying the show you are putting on for him. Tonight he wants to be the one taken care of. And you know it.

You are a goddess sent from above as you stand a few feet away from him only in your underwear. He wants to worship you as his eyes rake over your body, taking note of every dip, every mole every “imperfection”. And you are simply perfect. He holds his breath when even the last pieces of clothing fall from your form and leave you in all of your naked glory. And he seems to be glued in place before you are coming his way. It feels like a dream when your nimble fingers hook under his belt and he hears the metal on the belt buckle fall onto the ground with a clink. He reaches for you as he slowly sits up - his rough hands coming to brush and caress your pebbled nipples. He feels the weight of your breasts in his palms and it is so strange how his simple touch makes your insides burn. All of it is strangely intimate. Neither of you talks, only the ragged breaths and quiet moans that fall out of your mouth can be heard in the stillness of the room.

You push at his chest and he falls backward again with a quiet thump. You rid him of his jeans - the damp material of it sticking to him and you both laugh when you almost push him on the edge of the bed with them. It’s sweet and it doesn’t feel forced or rushed. Just two people enjoying the presence of each other, the feel of their skin, the sentiment behind each touch going straight into their hearts.

His cock is hard, the tip of him resting on his belly and he scoots backward on the bed, you following the suit. The last piece of clothing - his shirt- is gone before he knows it as you throw it somewhere behind you and it lands on the floor with a wet plop. Your thighs swing on either side of his narrow hips and your wet core makes contact with the hardness of him as you smear your juices over his length. You roam and caress his shoulders, his biceps, his chest, his neck. Stroking and teasing, and rubbing. And he does the same to you, his hands squeezing your ass before they move higher up your hips, his thick fingers ghosting over them and you squirm and giggle, your forehead bumping with his the movement tickles you. He wants to roll you over, to hover above you, to fill you up but your hands move to his shoulders, holding him tight as you look into his eyes. Your noses brush against each other and he sighs - as if all the weight from his chest had been lifted - when you whisper “I want to take care of you, Javi”.

Because yes, that’s what Javier wants. Someone to take care of him, to share his passion and hobbies and life with. He wants someone to take for a ride while they will wear his yellow aviators. He wants to take someone back to Laredo, to eventually settle down. He doesn’t want to take Escobar down and put end to all of this - retire after. And he wants to do all these things with you.

The tension leaves his body as he yields under your touch, undressing his wounds as he knows you will caress each one of his scars and kiss each bruise that is scattered not only on his body but his soul and heart too.

Bodies naked and souls bared to one another you reach blindly into the nightstand as you rip the condom and slowly roll it down his cock. Javier is big - his cock is thick and you could feel it the first time you felt him in your hands under the table in the club. When you first saw him - really saw him- your eyes almost bugged out from your head. Because you had no idea how you would fit him inside you. But you do not worry right now as you slowly sink down on him, the pinch almost too much to bare.

He waits for you to move as he kisses your neck, your shoulders, the underside of your chin. You feel like heaven around him - your walls squeezing him tight as you try to accommodate to his size. He slips his tongue into your mouth when you lift off him and then slowly -oh, so painfully slowly - sink back down the whole length of him. He kisses you more hungry this time, the kiss heated and fiery. One of his hands cups your ass while the other holds the back of your head - pulling you closer as the kiss grows more urgent, messy and sloppy as do your movements.

You feel like he is somewhere deep in your stomach, the weight of him in you makes your toes curl and the coarse hair on the base of him scratches your small bundle of nerves just right with each slide of his cock. You feel every ridge and grin of him, the tip of him hitting something deep inside you. The muscles on his thigh flex when he starts meeting your thrusts and he growls against the soft skin of your neck when your blunt nails scratch his back, your breasts bouncing with each thrust upwards. It’s glorious - this feeling you both feel. It’s not about the physical proximity right now. But It’s about everything that led you to this moment. All those years of bickering and flirting, of fighting and spending your time together led to exactly to this moment. And the awareness of it all hits you like a truck because somehow, deep inside, you knew that this would happen one day. And you think he knows it too.

The droplet of sweat that rolls down the valley of your breasts makes him lap at you there and you moan, your nails digging harder into the muscles of his back when he catches one of your nipples into his mouth, one of his hands roaming to find your clit before his skilled fingers start to draw circles on it. The roughness of his fingertips and the feel of his tongue swirling on your nipple makes seizes before your inner muscles pull him deeper, the squelch ringing in your ears before you are clamping around him - falling into an abyss. You moan his name, your orgasm washing over you before you tug at his still-damp roots and he hisses - at the way you squeeze around him, at the way you hold him.

You kiss him frantically, your tongue exploring his mouth when you feel him sob into your mouth. He pulls away and your legs lock tighter around his middle, you can feel the softness of his stomach and a sound between a growl and a moan bubbles in the back of your throat. You can feel he is close when his thrusts become more hectic as he loses rhythm, his arms somehow trying to pull you closer, his pace increasing as he chases his own high.

It only takes a few more passes of his cock through the inside of your slicked pussy and your encouring words "Come on, I want you to cum, Javi" before he is cumming. He cums with a loud moan, thrashing and jerking under you. Pumping his seed into the condom and he holds you closer, his forehead resting on your clavicle, his hands tracing over your back as a shudder runs through you when you feel him twitch inside of you.

You stay like that before he moves you off him, disposing the condom into the bin and he is surprised he can even feel his own legs. His body completely relaxes when he falls into the bed with you and pulls you almost on top of him - your legs tangle together, your chin rests on his chest as you trace his eyebrows with your fingers and he smiles at you. Because he is so fucking happy in that moment he could burst with joy.

You talk a long time after as you tell him about your sister - how she squealed into your ear when you told her over the phone you were going on a date with Javier - and he grins because if you talked about your sister with him that means that he is worth talking about. He cherishes this information and hides it into the back of his mind.

You fall asleep not long after, moving away from him a little and he watches you - you are so pretty when you sleep. You are always pretty. And his. He knows you are because he is yours.

His lips plant soft kisses where your heart is before he murmurs into your skin where it rests “I love you”. So only your heart can hear it. He is not ready to tell you. Yet. But he is completely fine with knowing your heart heard the hushed words under the ray of moonlight stream coming from your window.

TAGS: @harriedandharassed

#javier pena #javier pena narcos #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters #javier pena reader #javier pena x reader #javier pena x f!reader #javier pena x female reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #soft javi #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal ff #narcos smut #javier pena one shot

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daisynik7 · 8 months

Note

Hi there, I left tumblr a few months ago but came back for nanami content 😂 and saw your 2k event {congrats btw 💐}!

If you're still taking requests for it, I'd love to see "Kiss Me by Sixpence None the Richer" for Nanami. I know it's not in the Y2K era but it's a very sweet song and I think it's such a great one for him ✨

Kiss Me

Kiss me beneath the milky twilight, lead me out on the moonlit floor

Pairing: Nanami x f!reader

Word Count: ~1.0k

cw: fluff, alcohol consumption

Author’s Note: You and your new boyfriend attend a Halloween party together dressed as peanut butter and jelly. The two of you haven’t shared your first kiss yet, but with all the stars aligned on this beautiful night, it’s the perfect opportunity to finally do it.

Summary: Thanks for the request, @jadeee! This song is too cute for the y2k karaoke party! With the 31st approaching, I figured this would be a good time to do a little Halloween themed fic. I hope you like it! Divider by @/saradika.

Shoko stands beside you, sipping on her cocktail. Tonight, she’s dressed as a doctor, which basically means she’s wearing her normal attire with a fake stethoscope draped around her neck. It’s no surprise that your friend puts the least amount of effort in her costume; after all, she’s only here for the free booze, which you don’t blame her for one bit. You on the other hand, are wearing one half of a couple’s costume with your new boyfriend, Nanami. He’s the peanut butter while you’re the jelly, and all your colleagues here at this party can’t help teasing the two of you, especially Shoko.

“Wow, this is a huge step in your relationship,” she says, eyeing you with a smirk on her face. “Have you two even kissed yet?”

You cross your arms over your chest, letting the fabric of the bread costume bunch up in front of you. “We haven’t. We’re taking things slow.”

“But a couple’s costume is okay? To me, this is even more intimate than a kiss.”

“What? Why?!”

She shrugs, hiding her grin behind her cup. “I don’t know. That’s just what I think. Seems like it’s deeper than kiss, you know?”

You sigh, relaxing your arms back to your sides, not entirely sure if you understand. “We want to kiss, that’s for sure. It’s just…I think we’re both just waiting for the right time.”

As if on cue, Nanami appears before you, wearing his peanut butter costume proudly with a smile on his face, handing you a drink. You smile back at him, accepting it. “Thank you.”

“Looking good, Nanami,” Shoko says. “Bread is your favorite right? This costume seems very fitting for you.”

“It is. And I think so too,” he replies. “Especially when she’s wearing the other half.” He glances to you, holding your hand to raise it up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

Shoko rolls her eyes, pretending to be annoyed at the public display of affection. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone then.” She flashes you a sly wink before heading into the kitchen for more alcohol, where Gojo offers to be tonight’s bartender.

“Are you alright?” he asks, taking Shoko’s place beside you. He laces his fingers with yours, swinging your arms gently.

You rest your head on his shoulder, nuzzling against him. “I’m good. And you?”

“Great,” he responds, squeezing you.

There’s a beat of comfortable silence that passes between you as you enjoy each other’s company in the middle of the crowded space. Despite the cacophony of sounds, like the music playing in the background or Gojo’s laughter as he attempts a couple of party tricks while mixing drinks, all you can focus on is Nanami’s steady heartbeat thumping against his chest. You wonder if the right moment is now, here in the midst of this party. Maybe you’re ruining it by overthinking so much, wanting everything to be perfect when it already is.

Before you get too much in your head again, Nanami nudges you gently. “Want to get some air?” he asks, pointing towards the balcony.

You nod, following him as he leads you through the partygoers. He slides the door open, letting you out first, closing it shut to drown out the noise from inside. There’s a nice breeze tonight, and from this floor of the apartment, you can see several stars in the night sky twinkling above you. You lean over the railing, watching the cityscape below you.

“Thank you for indulging me in this,” you say. He looks at you curiously, waiting for you to elaborate. You continue. “I just…I know this costume is silly, and that maybe dressing up isn’t your thing, so I appreciate you for going along with it for my sake.”

He faces you, a serious expression on his face. “I didn’t do this for your sake. I did it because I wanted to.”

“You really don’t have to say that,” you reiterate, feeling shy all of a sudden.

He leans in closer, tipping your chin up to meet your gaze. “I’m happy to do this with you. I want to be the peanut butter to your jelly. Not just today, but every day.”

You smile, peering up at him with tears in your eyes. “Really?”

He nods, inching closer, noses touching now. “Really.”

You push forward just the slightest, kissing him softly, lips brushing seamlessly together. His hand slides behind the back of your neck, pulling you in closer, deepening the kiss. It’s as perfect as you imagined it to be, even better because it’s actually real. All the worry about setting this moment up to be special fades. It doesn’t matter when, where, or how it happens. All that matters is that it’s you and Nanami together in this moment, loving each other the way you should. Being dressed as two halves of a sandwich, kissing under the moonlight on the balcony of Gojo’s high-rise apartment makes it all the more memorable.

His tongue slips inside your mouth, and you’re tempted to go further until there’s a loud knock from the other side of the sliding door. Startled, you break apart, checking to see who it is. It’s Shoko and Gojo watching from inside, grinning. “Get a room!” they say, voices muffled.

Nanami laughs, ignoring them to give you a smooch on the forehead. You hug him around the waist, squeezing him tightly, yearning for more. “So, should we take their advice then?”

He kisses you on the lips once more, nodding. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

#nanami fluff #nanami kento fluff #kento nanami fluff #nanami x reader #nanami kento #nanami x you #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #kento nanami #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #y2k karaoke party #milestone event

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exhaustedsandwhich · 6 months

Text

Wrote this at 3 am. Couldn't sleep so I let the fish tank spill

I’m tired. So tired. Everything. Everyone. I’ve been so tired for so long I have forgotten the feeling of relief, of being unburdened, of being… me. Everything I do, everything I feel - they all feel forced, artificial, as if I only do them, feel them because I am obligated to.

I am definitely losing my mind. If not for the couple people that keeps me grounded. Hell, one of them does not even know I exist. I function solely on delusions of what could be. On Fantasies. It is literally one of the only things keeping me somewhat afloat.

Ludicrous dreams, crazy plans. None of which may ever come true. What is hope but a waxing strip made with superglue. The more it settles, the more one believes, the more painful reality becomes.

What am I doing? Why do I aim so high when everyone tells me that I do not have enough propellant? The launch was fantastic, beyond planned but as I ascend through the atmosphere more and more fuel gets used. I try to conserve some. Using the most I can while using the minimum and yet everyone tells me I do not have enough. They tell me I should try harder. I should’ve managed my fuel better. Is it my fault that I do not have control over my fuel consumption? Is it my fault that I tried my really best during my early and vulnerable years that I now need sustenance? Why is it that everyone tells me that I do not deserve the rest? Why is it that everyone tells me to try harder when my sights are beyond the stars?

Now, in the middle of my journey, sick and exhausted. I lay here, staring at the darkness of the void, calling for me to join it. To become one with it. I have tried to open the hatch on more than one occasion. I have thought about what it may mean for me, what it may feel for me to finally open it and relish in the embrace of the void. As much as it pains me, I could not open it by myself. If someone were to do it for me, I would gladly welcome the abyss but as it stands right now, I am too weak to open it.

My brain is revolting. Giving in to the temptation of hope. It statistically knows the chances of even nearing my destination barely exist and yet that chance is so incomprehensible that it has opted to accept that it may be feasible. I regret to say that even my mind is tempted, convinced that there is a possibility. Of course there is a possibility of anything, but that is besides the point. My brain and mind has decided to let life run its course on me. To see how far I will travel until I run out of fuel. To see me ultimately stop, not even halfway to my intended destination. Maybe then I will finally be strong enough to open the hatch on my own.

I don't even know why I am writing this. Under no circumstances that I have any intention of sharing this to the general public but here I am, writing.

I am exhausted, tired, delusional, crazy, insane that my brain flicks to her when I think these words as myself. As if she could fix me. My own fantasies, my own delusions fuelling my hope fuelling my obsession.

Ah yes, obsession. It wasn’t until relatively recently that I discovered my obsessive tendency. I want something, I will stop at nothing to get it, unless of course, the obsession ebbs away into disinterest. Right now, my obsession is not just a mere obsession. I know deep inside me that I will do anything for her. I will stop at nothing for her.

I feel like Joe Goldberg with that last paragraph, but right now, I couldn’t give a shit. I am and will live my life as I see fit. I am tired of defending, of holding the shield and I feel that she is more than capable of doing it for me. To shield me from the rest of the world. To care for me, to be there for me. In turn I will be there for her when she needs it. I will do anything I can to comfort her, to make her happy.

I am exhausted.

#personal rant #rant #emotions #spilled thoughts #life #hope #thoughts #obsession #parasomnia #parasocial behavior #parasocial moment #reality #im so tired #tired #sick #mentally exhausted #im exhausted #emotionally exhausted #future

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jenakuns · 1 year

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Approaching any internet discussion

I maintain that anyone entering a discussion/argument on the internet with the intent of convincing the other person of their point of view is a moron beyond belief. I myself have fit this characterization on occasion (well maybe not just on occasion). The idea that your words are going to be convincing to the person hearing most of the time is delusional. People have a hard time understanding simple statements on the internet and the meaning behind them; there will be no assumptions of good doing when there is conflict. Anything you say can be brushed off at a moments notice and will be. Because what do you know? The people you're arguing are more likely going to be ideologically convinced of their point; they already have all the answers anyways; you're wrong.

But that doesn't mean these discussions are without merit. It just needs to be defined around the impacts on you; because you are having none of the impacts you want on the other person. If you enjoy arguments on the internet and annoying people, good for you. That's not me personally; I don't enjoy conflict of any kind and even the smallest criticisms cut deep to the core with me. The reason I enter is to gather facts and sharpen my knowledge base. Anytime I want to say something, I generally make a point of googling or looking through the relevant pdfs to ensure what I'm saying is not without basis (which jeeze luoise; anyone who asks for a sauce when you're sitting on top of the greatest archive of knowledge the human race has ever created; take some fucking initiative).

The amount of times I've done this and found that I've completely misread something scares me; how much of what I know is wrong just based on my consumption of the material. Which makes me scared thinking about other people; maybe I'm more scatted brained than the other people; but then again, maybe they're walking around with a bunch of wrongs in their heads as well.

I'm also practicing my ability to gather those resources and present them in a clear format. Misinterpretation is rampant, so saying things in a lucid manner that is able to get across to the other person clearly, is impressive. A side note to include, these discussions also tend to scale. 1 person says 1 sentence; person b replies with 3 sentences to counteract A, A replies pointing out inaccuracies in those 3 sentences with 2 paragraphs and pretty soon we're out of space for the argument on the internet. Try to avoid getting argument sniped/scope changed where you end up discussing completely unrelated points to the first point. It's in these scenarios you end up saying the dumb stuff.

Ultimately, the opinions which you hold right now; the ones defining the argument, are probably worthless. Opinions are merely a means to the end; giving you a frame of reference from which you can use to travel around in to find new information. Because that opinion is generally formed in the absence of counter ideas and without the whole factual picture. So thinking you're already right entering is foolish; you should expect to hopefully learn something or reevaluate something else. If you're not getting any of the above out of the discussion; you're convinced you're flagrantly right; leave. It's your precious time on this Earth you're wasting. Well, I suppose you could still be doing it on a public platform; for the clout of winning.

Facts are everything, but also nothing without a common line that is able to handle the context that generates those facts and produce a cogent point of view.

#spacobs

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itsstrange · 3 years

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Coffee Run & Green Eyes

Series: Spark Between Us

Relationship: Jensen Ackles x Skyline McNoir (OFC)

A/N: Hey everyone! I know it’s been a long time and I apologize for those waiting for more stories, but if you follow me on IG then you would know that this last week I was struck with a stomach flu which caused me to not have enough energy for various things. Luckily, I’ve recovered and feel much better. I also want to apologize to those who have requested me some stories, don’t worry I have Not forgotten about you! Just been dealing with some things!

But!! To not keep you guys in the dark I decided to post a Series I wrote for Ao3 on here, just to give y’all something to read meanwhile I work on some other works for y’all!! Hope y’all enjoy it!

Another thing, we have hit 105 followers y’all!!!! Thank you so much for all the love y’all continue in giving me!! I appreciate it so much!! 🥲💚

✨{Credits to owner for the gif}✨

Summary: Skyline McNoir tags along with a few friends who are attending a convention of some show she’s never watched. Little did she know, she would fall head over heels for the lead actor.

Word Count: 2.4 K

Warnings: Will contain Fluff, public sex, alcohol consumption, public fingering, just pure NSFW for all you Jensen fans out there 😊

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ENJOY!!

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The blasting chorus of Follow Me Now by Jason Gleed, wakes Skyline up. Her Hazel eyes glare straight ahead at the coconut cream wall for a few seconds before bringing the cover above her head, trying to muffled the music. Which didn’t help. At all. Then to make the morning less fun, her bed begins to shake violently by her best friend who’s jumping up down awhile singing at the top of her lungs. Skyline groans into the covers and tries to bury herself deeper into the warmth, but before she can even hide, the covers are being shoved off her form. A shiver runs throughout her body from the coldness in the room.

“C’mon Sky! Today’s the day!” Erin yells as she hovers above,

Skyline groans once again, eyes closed shut when it’s far too bright in the room “Five more minutes,”

“No come on,” Erin says, slightly pushing Sky’s body with her foot, “Tiffany and Laila are already downstairs grabbing breakfast,”

Still not moving, Erin shoves her body once again with her foot, when that didn’t do the trick an evil smirk spreads on her face. Grabbing an unused pillow, she raises it above her head before roughly slamming it against Sky’s head, causing her to jerk upright. With sleep still in her eyes, Sky is only able to squint at her best friend.

“Erin! What the fu-,” Her words were cut off when a large pillow smacks her in the face,

Erin chuckles at her, ignoring the death stare as she hops off her bed, “Chop chop.. we got a busy day today!”

With a roll of her eyes and a loud groan, Sky rolls off the comforter and towards the bathroom. After taking care of her regular morning routines, she hops in the shower. Erin’s music still blasted through the speakers, as Sky took a quick shower and she honestly hoped none of their neighbors complained about their disturbance, she knew she would have if she was trying to get a few more hours of shut eye.

That’s all she ever really wanted at the moment, sleep. After months of studying, exams, piles upon piles of work, and busting all nighters she was finally in winter break. The feeling of being able to come home for the holidays and spending those days with her family sounded amazing and relaxing. However, after the second day of being home, she gets a call from Erin. Mentioning something about having another extra ticket for a convention to meet the cast of some show she’s never watched. She kindly declined the offer, wanting to spend her days off with her family sounded like a much better idea than meeting unknown actors. However, Sky often forgets Erin is not the type to take no for an answer and demanded her to hand the phone over to her mother.

Thinking her mother would defend her and find a way to convince Erin to try and find someone else to take to the convention, Sky hands the phone over to her mother. You can only imagine who won that argument.

Once out of the shower with a towel wrapped around her body, Sky heads out the bathroom and towards her duffel bag. In the winter season of Austin, Texas, she decides on a plain long sleeve, black jeans, grey hoodie, black boots on her feet with a leather jacket on top. Once her hair is made and adds a couple splashes of makeup on her face, she grabs her phone and book from the small counter as she follows Erin out the room. After a few minutes later, they finally arrive in the breakfast buffet where Tiffany and Laila are already stuffing themselves with waffles and eggs. With a yawn, Sky makes her way over to the buffet with Erin right behind her. Once they both get their plates and sit down on the table, they dig in before getting on with their day.

****

8:45 am

“Oh my god!! I just hugged Speight!!” The sound of Laila coming around the corner interrupts Sky from her book,

The sight of Laila bouncing up and down on her feet with a wide grin makes a small chuckle escape from Skyline. As her friends beamed over this Speight guy, Sky returns her focus down on her book. Not really paying much attention at their excitement, but still having a smile on her lips as she reads the next chapter in her book. Even if she’s not having the same excitement as her friends, she is still having fun with them. Being around them in general for whatever reason always brightens her day. No matter how rough of a day she’s seems to be having, her girls always know just how to distract her and make her have fun.

“Ohh it’s almost time for Osric’s panel,” Tiffany says while looking down at her phone,

No longer able to focus on her book, Sky marks her spot before getting up from the floor.

“You guys go in, I’ve got auto’s for Kim at nine,”

It’s barely nine in the morning? Jesus. Sky thinks to herself, the day has felt extremely long she could have sworn it was already noon.

“Okay, let’s go Sky,” Laila motions her head to the side for her to follow,

“If you guys want me to continue tagging along, I’m gonna need an espresso,” Sky states, feeling yet another yawn creeping up her throat,

Her friends chuckle at her but agreed with her idea. They wouldn’t want her dragging her feet all over the convention, besides, coffee did sound like a great idea. Once writing down their preferred drinks in her notes, Sky leaves through the doors, down the steps and towards a coffee shop not too far away. It was only a couple blocks away, she should make it back in no time. Hugging her jacket closer to her body when the wind picks up, Sky quickens her movements to avoid its freezing weather but careful to not slip on the wet pavement. The last thing she needs is to fall flat on her ass, better yet get a concussion or go back home with a broken wrist.

Boy would her mom faint if she saw her daughter in a cast. Will most likely give her a lecture on why it’s important not to be on the phone during the most worst seasons. ‘If you weren’t on the phone this wouldn’t have happened Skyline’. Yep. She can definitely hear her ranting.

After a few blocks in the harsh winds, Skyline is finally reaching the small little coffee joint. Just as she reaches for the handle of the door, another, large, hand reaches at the same time. Thick fingers slightly touching her own, making her pull back with an apology.

“No it’s fine go ahead,” A deep voice says beside her, letting a shiver run down her body,

Most likely from the weather, what else would it be?

She looks up at the man. Dark beard, shades on his face, black hat on his head, with a black T-Shirt underneath a checkered navy flannel and black Levi’s jacket. Even under the dark shades she can tell he was good looking, handsome in fact.

“No you can go ahead,” Sky smiles at the man, stepping aside for him to enter,

He only shakes his head, gripping the door handle as he opens it for her, “Please I insist, my mom would throw a fit if she finds out I didn’t show my manners,”

Sky chuckles at him, “Well we wouldn’t want that now,”

The man chuckles back, smile forming on his lips. Man did that smile just make her stomach flip.

“No, we really wouldn’t,” Chuckling once more at him she accepts the offer with a thanks before entering the coffee shop,

As she walks inside, the change of temperature immediately hits her cold cheeks. Almost as if a heating furnace was suddenly shoved in her face, but she wasn’t complaining, the warmth was needed. Walking further into the coffee shop, she takes a glance over her shoulder to see if the man was behind her, but only lets a smile appear when she catches the moment of him allowing an elderly couple enter before him.

That’s sweet. She thinks to herself as she walks up to the counter. Once her drinks have been ordered and paid, she heads over to a small empty table near the window. Sitting on the chair she pulls out her book and continues where she left off as she waits for her drinks. A few minutes had passed and Sky was too engrossed in her book to notice her name being called out by the barista. Eventually though, she comes back to reality when someone places her drink in front her. Looking up from her book she meets eyes with bright emerald orbs, and noticing those breathtaking eyes belong to the same man from the door.

“I’m guessing your Skyline?,” The way her name rolls off his deep voice sends a shiver down her spine,

Definitely can’t be the air this time, absolutely not.

Eyeing the cup of coffee in front of her, she lifts a eyebrow at the man, teasing him. Even if she sees her name written on the side of the cup.

“And what makes you think that?” The way his lips slightly lift causes something to flip in her stomach,

Again.

“Well.. seeing how there’s hardly folks in here,” He looks around the shop for a few seconds before landing his eyes on hers again, “and you being the only one sitting down without a coffee.. I took a guess,”

Sky hums with a smile as she takes the cup, “Nice deduction,”

He shrugs a shoulder with a smile, “This seat taken?”

Sky shakes her head as she takes careful sips from her drink. With a small smile the man pulls out the chair with his other free hand, seeing how he has a cup of his own in one hand.

“I’m Ross by the way,” The man extends a hand once seated,

With a smile Sky accepts his hand, feeling it warm and rough as it wraps around her own.

“Nice to meet you,” Still smiling she pulls away from his firm hand,

“You around from here or just passing through?” He asks, taking careful sips from his cup,

Sky softly smiles at him as she wraps her hands around her coffee, trying to warm up her fingers.

“Born and raised,” He raises a brow at the small fact,

“No kidding?”

She nods, “Yeah but I’m just home for the holidays,”

He hums with a nod, “In the army or something?”

Sky couldn’t help the chuckle that escapes from her, definitely noticing how the corner of the mans lips slightly lift as well.

“More like college. My last year,”

“Really? What’re you studying?” He asks, taking another sip, never letting his eyes drift from her Hazel ones,

But does notice how they dart down towards his mouth before quickly looking back up to his eyes. A small smirk hides behind the cup, but doesn’t hide it when he pulls it away from his face.

“Biology,” He hums once again with a sincere smile, making her stomach flip,

It was such an odd feeling, especially when it was coming directly from a man she hardly knows. But for some reason, it felt right. Their conversations switched from topic to topic, never faltering. It just felt right, as if they were long time friends catching up with each other instead of two strangers who just met. Eventually, their conversation was cut short with the barista calling out her name once again with the rest of her drinks.

Getting up from her seat she walks over to the counter where her drinks waited. As she grabbed a cup holder and begins placing her drinks in each space, Ross, settles next to her. Getting a whiff of his cologne. Leaning on the counter he had both his and her coffee in either hand, which he hands over with a smile once all coffees were safely secured in place.

“I should get going,” She smiles up at his green orbs, and only then noticing how freckles are splashed on his face,

This man was literally dashing, no doubt about it.

“Yeah same here,” He says looking down at his watch, “Need a ride?”

She shakes her head with a smile, “I’m good thanks,”

“You sure? Heard it might rain,” He continues to lean on the counter as she places her coffee in an empty slot of the holder,

“I’m sure, it’s just a few blocks from here,”

“Well it can rain from those few blocks,” He argues as he gives her a smile, not wanting to end their little moment,

Neither did she, but she had friends waiting and the moment she tells them the reason why she took a little longer than expected, they wouldn’t leave her alone until she gives them the whole shebang.

She lets a small chuckle escape her lips as she picks up the coffees, “I’ll make a run for it,”

He softly chuckles at her comment, green eyes staring straight into her Hazel orbs that have slightly turned grey from her sweater. Definitely finding her and her eyes fascinating and beautiful.

“It was nice meeting you Ross,” She smiles at him as she walks away,

He smiles as he watches her, sending her a wave goodbye when she looks over her shoulder before walking out the door. Watching her leave didn’t feel like a loss, it felt the complete opposite actually. Why? Well for starters, he knew it wouldn’t be the last time he saw her considering she had the all too familiar Creation Entertainment wristband on her left hand. Also, he had her book inside his jacket, another reason on why he would see her again.

Both to retrieve her book and to have a reason to see her again. Don’t get him wrong, he was actually going to give it to her before she left, but the thought of holding it and having a reason to see her again sounded like great idea. He wanted to see her again, wanted to have a conversation longer than 10 minutes and just wanted to get to know her. She was different, in a good way, absolutely in a good way. The way she seemed to not know him or maybe she did but simply did not care made him feel relaxed, made him feel somewhat normal and he would give anything to feel that way again.

Even if it meant “stealing” her book to have an excuse to see her again.

PART 2

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-Hope y’all enjoyed this first part of the series!! Stay tuned for random updates for ‘Spark Between Us’ I won’t give an announcement on when I’ll update it so keep your eyes peeled on it!!

-Turn on Post Notifications!! 🔔 For more!!

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#jensen Ackles #jensen ackles x ofc #jensen ackles x y/n #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles imagine #Jensen Ackles smut #smut #Spark Between Us Series #supernatural imagine #supernatural #supernatural smut #dean winchester #Dean Winchester x reader #the boys #the boys tv #the boys imagine #Soldier Boy

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sweeterthansammy · 3 years

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What Are We? || Sirius Black

Young!Sirius Black x Fem!Reader; Reader plays the role of Sirius’ ‘plaything’.

Genre: Angst & Fluff

Written in third person point of view.

Summary: When pushed away in front of his friends, Y/N questions where her relationship with Sirius stands.

Warnings: Smoking, sexual innuendos (little to none in the beginning), brief mention of alcohol consumption, & mild language

Word count: 2.0k

Removing the cigarette from in between her lips, she let out a thick ball of smoke, running her tongue along her bottom lip before taking another pull. She rested against the edge of the Astronomy Tower, watching as the stars twinkled against the pitch black sky.

Godric, where is he? It’s been over twenty minutes, she thought to herself, stepping on whatever remained of her cigarette once it hit the floor.

“There you are! I was just about to leave,” she exclaimed, greeting Sirius with a hug.

He smelled strongly of sleeping draught, earning a furrow to the eyebrows from Y/N. It wasn’t his usual scent - sugary smoke. And then her eyes trailed further down, landing on the tiny mark beneath his jawline. Surely it was a hickey, yet she disregarded it. She hadn’t seen Sirius for over two nights.

He said that they were just “laying low,” as he didn’t want everyone to know that they’d been sneaking around for a few months. She looked back into his eyes and as he opened his mouth to speak, she attached her lips to his, easily pushing him against the cold stone-wall of the tower.

“Pads, don’t tell me that you don’t see the way Mooney looks at Minerva,” Peter chuckled, taking a sip of the fire whiskey in his flask.

“Shut up,” Remus groaned, frustratedly running his hands over his face.

“You’re only telling him to stop because you know it’s true,” James elbowed Sirius, the three boys erupting into a fit laughter all while Remus’ face grew red as a tomato.

Hearing her voice from the front door, the boys easily grinned to themselves, wanting nothing more than to tease Sirius for seriously falling in love with someone. Only they knew about Sirius’ deep infatuation with Y/N, yet he found it so hard to set his pride aside and just admit it to her.

“Hey, boys,” she mumbled, giving the boys their individual forehead kisses as she always did.

As a greeting and a goodbye, they received forehead kisses. They wouldn’t trade it for the world. I mean, who would? Passing up a forehead kiss from the hottest girl at Hogwarts was something that someone stupid enough would do.

As she laced her fingers with Sirius’ raven locks, he tensed beneath her, cheeks flushing a bright pink as she leaned into his side, placing her forearm against the nape of his neck. Instinctively, his arm wrapped around her waist, protectively pulling her body closer to his.

Hearing a few snickers from the other boys instantly brought him back to reality, his eyes widening as he dropped his hand from around her waist. Y/N particularly chose to not be phased by the sudden change, continuing to engage in her discussion with James and Remus. She felt her chest tighten and her throat go dry when Sirius pushed her figure away from his.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

She glanced at Sirius abruptly before turning back to the boys, only to find that he was staring right into her soul.

Does he want me or not?

As the hour of 4 o’clock approached, she said her goodbyes to the boys, claiming that she was providing other students with help in Defense Against the Dark Arts, ignoring Sirius as he held his arms out for a hug. She simply walked away, not saying a word to the big black dog as she found her way out.

“And you, Sirius Black, have fucked up big time,” James stated, tutting as he slapped his hand onto Sirius’ back.

“W-what’d I do wrong?”

“Oh you goddamn idiot! You pushed her away from you when she was near you,” Remus explained, shaking his head as he folded his arms in front of his chest.

Sirius’ face dropped in realization, putting his head down while all of the boys urged him to make it up to her.

“I’m pretty sure that she hates me now, makes no sense trying to make anything up to her.”

“Sirius, you’re so utterly stupid, I have never been more amazed,” Peter sighed.

All of the boys turned to him, eyebrows furrowing.

“Look who’s talking,” Sirius mumbled to himself, earning a snicker from James and Remus and a punch to the arm from Peter.

“She’s in love with you. I don’t know if there’s something wrong in your little head or if you can’t see the signs, but she would do anything for you. She’d literally die for you before anyone else,” Peter went on even further, trying to somehow make it make sense to Sirius. “All you have to do is acknowledge the fact that she’s trying to show you that she loves you. Stop pushing her away or else she’ll be gone for good.”

“And when did you suddenly become Cupid, Wormy?” James retorted, ignoring the deadly glare he was currently receiving from his best friend.

“But he is right, Padfoot. She left after a minor action, imagine what’ll happen when something more damageable happens,” Remus chimed in, looking back and forth between Sirius and Peter.

“So...w-what do I do? Do I just leave a bunch of flowers at her door and say sorry?” Sirius asked, allowing his tongue to toy with his teeth.

“Why do women even go crazy over you?” James asked, squinting his eyes at Sirius.

“I’ve never been in a serious relationship!”

“I, for one, can definitely tell! You don’t just get her things, she’ll think that you want to buy her love. Think of something heartfelt. What does she like to do? Take her out on a date after figuring that out. Play with her hair, stargaze with her - I don’t know, just do something meaningful with the girl!”

Everyone looked at James, stunned by his suggestion.

“Lily’s rubbing off on you, aye?” Peter asked.

“Well, she’s given me a few tips for when I’ve pissed her off,” James explained quickly and quietly. “Beside that, do you understand what I’m telling you, Sirius?”

All of the boys turned their attention to him, supportively patting his back while muttering words of motivation.

Astronomy Tower at 8? - Sirius

Y/N clutched dearly onto the note that Sirius had attached to his owl, sending the owl back once she’d given it a few feathery strokes to the head. Kicking back and laying in her house’s common room, she engaged in a conversation with a few boys that she was closer to than anyone else in her house - Orion, Gilderoy, and Augustus.

“So, what does it mean when a boy pushes you away? He shows all of the signs that he likes you but then he just changes and...doesn’t want to be near you at all.”

“Well, for one, he’s either in denial of his feelings for you,” Augustus started.

“Or two, he’s not interested in you at all and he just wants to be friends,” Orion continued.

“Oftentimes, it’s the first one - he’s not really sure of what to do about his feelings,” Gilderoy explained.

“Now, is this about Sirius Black - your best friend, boyfriend, whatever he is? Because if it is, then we cannot help you at all. He’s a closed book so it’s harder to tell where he wants to stand with your relationship.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, Orion,” she groaned, remembering when everyone had teased her back in their third year when they had first discovered that she had a crush on Sirius.

“Whatever he is, we all know that you two are in love but you’re afraid to admit it, more so Sirius than you.”

“And how do you know that?”

She peered down at Augustus, leaning on her elbows to get a glance at the trio sitting on the floor.

“Have you not seen the way he looks at you on a day to day basis?!” Gilderoy’s eyes were practically bulging out of its sockets as he looked at her in disbelief.

“How does he look at me?”

Oh, how young and naive she was.

“He basically eye fucks you in every class that we have together,” Orion said bluntly, nonchalantly leaning back so he was resting against the foot of a sofa.

Her cheeks grew a bright shade of pink, her eyes widening for a moment before she turned back to the boys.

“He asked me to meet later...what do I do?” she asked, panic clearly written on her face.

“Go, silly! He obviously wants you to know that he’s got some sort of feelings in his heart bottled up for you,” Augustus suggested, leaning back onto Orion.

She smiled at them, thanking the three of them for the advice.

A heavy trench coat kept her warm as she waited for Sirius, the rain coming down harder and harder.

I can’t do this again.

She was about to leave, droplets of rain soaking her from head to toe when she felt a pair of hands firmly position themselves on her waist.

“Sirius, I’m tired of doing this! I can’t keep coming up here and waiting for you!”

She competed with the sound of the rain pelting down onto the stone padded floor.

“Y/N, I-I need to tell you something,” he said, holding onto her wrists as she tried to pull away from him.

“What is it?!” she asked, trying to fight the tears that were flooding her eyes.

“The moment I laid my eyes on you, I fell in love. I knew I would love you forever. I didn’t know that I would have fallen in love with you any harder than I already had. Please, I need you to be by my side no matter what happens. Will you be my girlfriend?”

She was stricken by his words, her waterlines beginning to fail and letting her tears flow, mixing with the raindrops that lay upon her face.

“Sirius, before I give you an answer, answer me this - why don’t you like being seen with me in public? You claim to have loved me so much yet I can’t figure out why you seem to be bothered by my existence half of the time.”

She watched as he dropped his head, sighing as he looked back up.

“I never meant to make you feel that way. I-I thought that if I’d just push my feelings for you aside, it’d help, but...” he paused, motioning his arms around them. “Clearly it didn’t.”

“One more thing.”

“What is it?”

“The hickey...the sleeping draught. Sirius, I know you were out with another girl, don’t even try to lie to me. You promised me that it was me and me only, even before you asked me to be your girlfriend. Why couldn’t it just be me?”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I mean it. I just needed to get you off my mind for a couple of days but no matter who I was with, it wasn’t you so it didn’t help with anything. Y/N, I love you with all of my heart and I’m truly, truly sorry.”

With the soft look that rested on his face - the tip of his nose red, eyes glossy with tears, lips soft and pink - she couldn’t say no. She easily wrapped her arms around his neck, perfectly molding their lips together in a soft kiss.

His large hands dispersed over her back, holding her tightly to his body as they kissed under the rain. With a flick of his wand and a quick mutter of the word “apparition,” they appeared in the center of his dorm room, the boys laying in their own beds.

“So...I’m assuming she said ‘yes’?” Remus questioned, flipping the page of the book that rested in his lap.

“I had to. The eyes made me feel so weak,” she chuckled, sniffling as she wiped the teardrops and raindrops from her cheeks.

“Well, he is a dog after all. Their specialty is manipulating with the eyes,” James snickered.

“No it’s not,” Remus argued, eyes still pasted to his book.

Taglist: @thatcatsit @apieceofuniverse @oleariaux @zhangyixingxing1 @arianabrashierstuff @ficticiouscreativity @milazka @snoopydoop1 @hufflrpuffforfred @adoregin @ilovejjmaybank @eunoia-kth @mrspadfoot4 @akalittletimmytim @kaitieskidmore1 @amourtentiaa @ftwert @wholebigboxofyikes @lainerain17 @cami05sworld @tomshollandz @taysiasworld @canibeoneofthepogues

#sirius black #sirius black imagine #sirius black imagines #sirius black angst #sirius black fluff #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #harry potter #marauders hp #marauders #marauders era #platonic!remus lupin x reader #platonic!james potter x reader #platonic!peter pettigrew x reader

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tazwren · 3 years

Text

My two cents on the devolution of fandom spaces...

As a former mod of a fandom space and a woman of colour, I do not feel safe.

Seeing what has been done to so many in this fandom, by a particular group of white American women, in the name of moral policing is both abhorrent and demoralising. As it also is to repeatedly see the same narrative being shoved at everyone as the gospel truth.

A narrative that very conveniently either becomes about fic or has nothing to do with fic, depending on how people want to swing things. A narrative that will accuse a person of Jewish heritage of anti-Semitism, a person of colour of racism, a practising Muslim of being an Islamaphobe. A narrative that will define for you and me and all of us comprising this myriad of multitudes in the world what generational or personal trauma includes and what induces the same.

Those of you who know me, know what I’ve been dealing with the past few days & why I haven’t spoken up before now. Before I logged out a couple days ago, I saw what looked like more of the usual nonsense by the same group of people I’ve kept my distance from once their true colours were revealed. What I didn’t expect is that they would think themselves so above the norms of human decency and accountability that they would go after not one but two women of colour this time around in their rabidity. And many others who spoke up, as it turns out.

It hurts to see what these women, that I know of, have had to endure and to see the passivity of the community, save for a few voices, in sitting back and letting the circus rampage through town. It hurt when I was at the receiving end of it and it hurts now.

Why? Because it shows me a microcosm of the world that I don’t really relate to, that makes no sense to me with the values I was brought up with, and which reduces basic human decency to a commodity to be trampled upon and for you to be seen as weak for having. Because people who willingly laud you for your art / writing / wit, meet you with effusive claims of love and affection and friendship, who have no qualms in taking your help when it suits them, will throw you under the bus and let the wolves ravage you when it doesn't.

Before I get into that, let me talk a little bit about what has transpired over the past few days to a week, and what has been systemically taking place over perhaps the past year in this fandom.

One thing is that everyone who makes a statement about anything suddenly has people in their mentions demanding they show what gives them the right to hold that particular opinion. A critical thing people forget about fandom is that it is a place where people hide their identity for a variety of reasons, all valid, and this approach to fiction and conversations where everyone has to reveal every part of their past and identity as a means of establishing their "credentials" in order to present their views comes in direct contradiction with how fandoms operate. It violates people's rights to privacy.

The other is that there has been an increase in the voices that purportedly stand up to “speak for” the marginalised, the abused, those discriminated against and those who belong to minorities who “need to be protected / kept safe”. An admirable sentiment, to be sure. If it weren’t for the fact that none of these groups of people needed saving, speaking for or the protection of this particular group of voices.

Voices who only want to define and use these people as "model victims" to hurt other white women and establish their supremacy over both them and other POC. Voices that will present their "truth" as they see fit and sans context or present you with screenshots of snippets of conversations held in supposedly secure spaces that they have no qualms in violating in the interest of the "greater good" and claim offense / silencing if the misdemeanour is pointed out or action is taken against them, Voices that will conveniently categorize you as a "token POC" or "white adjacent" when you do not support or align with their narrative. Voices that belong to a predominantly white American group of women, whose real agenda, as is evidenced by their modus operandi, has nothing to do with real altruism or a drive for justice or indeed to right wrongs.

No, their agenda is purely power.

To hold sway over groups of followers, to shepherd them as though they are sheep who cannot think for themselves, and to set themselves up as white saviours who call out those who step out of line, or are deemed to be problematic and toxic and unsafe. To be the owners of the only "safe spaces" in fandom and to drive other groups and spaces to be boycotted or worse.

Now, I've long wondered, who indeed are these women to decide that for anyone? In a world comprising multiple cultures, religions, groups, subgroups, genders and which contains multitudes, who are these women and what gives them the right to foist their puritanical standards on everyone, very conveniently disguised as concern for the moral well being of everyone and the consumption, of all things, of fiction?

Certainly, there are many things in this world that people regard with justifiably equal dislike / horror / sadness. At the same time, there is much that is not shared, that is particular to a culture and to a person’s background. There is a multitude of perspectives that make the whole. And the white women of the United States of America have not cornered the market on what those are, or indeed even own any curatorship or censorship of the same. They cannot, because each person’s culture and background and joy and trauma is their own, as are their ways of dealing with it all.

That being said, let’s talk about their pack behaviour and the devolution I’ve witnessed on social media as basic human decency is bartered for clout.

I’m all for standing up for someone who doesn’t have a voice or a platform, or maybe afraid of repercussions to voice dissent. I’m all for being there for our fellow human beings as they face struggles of often unconscionable and unfathomable proportions. I’m all for holding people accountable for their negative behaviours as they impact the larger community.

What I am unequivocally NOT for is treating such situations as an opportunity to preach, to virtue-signal, to shame and to put on blast the alleged wrong-doers. I say alleged because that’s what most accusations are on these platforms—allegations to do with things that disturb our sense of balance or make us wrinkle our noses or that we deem bad, and therefore make the accused deserving of the full force of the community’s misbehaviour and censure.

I ask you if you were found guilty of a crime in real life—you know, the one away from your phones and keyboards—would you not have an opportunity to retain a lawyer, to plead your case in a court of law, to acquit yourself? Or, if found guilty, would you not have the opportunity for correction and rehabilitation? Yes, you say? (If you say no, then that explains the spate of state-perpetuated injustices across the USA, but that is a different matter).

Why then are people treated so abhorrently in this court of public opinion? What gives you, me, any one of us the right to judge people so vilely and with a metaphorical gun to their heads? What gives anyone the right to say you better agree with everything I say, retract everything you said and grovel for it or we will eviscerate you in public, shame you, force you to change or delete the content that offends us and still ostracise you and in some cases even threaten you with bodily harm or death, or doxx you?

Why is there no grace in how people are approached or dealt with? Whatever happened to allowing people to learn from their mistakes, where applicable, or hearing them out and giving them a chance to explain their side of something we may not fully understand?

Why is there no accountability for such behaviour on the part of the accusers?

What makes the rest of you sit back and allow this to happen? What makes you think this is in any shape or form okay to watch? Today, it is a virtual stranger at the receiving end, one you can distance yourself from quite conveniently saying Oh, she just mods a group I am in, or I only read their fics a couple times or I only followed them for their art or jokes or whatever flavour of excuse you choose. Tomorrow, it will be one of your own - or it may very well be you. And you'd better hope there's someone left to speak up for you.

The irony is you will have allowed it to happen by letting the wolf in the fold. By letting these white women manipulate you, and the community you claim to be a part of, so unapologetically, so maliciously and so unashamedly that before you can do anything about it the cancer has taken hold.

If this was happening in the world outside of social media, they would have to follow due process, to present real evidence based on facts (not based on emotions, rumours or perceptions) and would have to allow the person they are accusing to present a counter-argument, to defend themselves or be defended. Failure to do so is a miscarriage of justice and, depending on whether this is a professional or legal proceeding, they would either seriously risk their jobs or have the case thrown out of court. If not face action themselves for attempting to derail the process of justice.

Why then are they permitted to range so freely through the landscape of fandom, snarling and biting at who they please, or who displeases them?

I have no shame in saying I was at the receiving end of their behaviour for defending a friend they put on blast and I will tell you right here and now, I am a woman of colour who feels unsafe and attacked by these so-called self-appointed white saviours of your social media experience, these so-called upholders of the common morality—whatever that means—who will fight for you the evils of problematic and toxic writers who dare to have an opinion not aligned with theirs and who do not bow to their clout. Not that they care, so long as they can ignore this fact since it doesn’t fit their narrative. So long as they can ignore what has just been done to so many people in the name of cleansing the fandom.

If any one of these women were truly interested in alleviating the troubles and pains of the discriminated, the marginalized, the trauma-affected, I invite them to please come roll their sleeves up and help in the multitudes of troubles that wrack this world, not just in the backyards of their minds. My country is amidst a struggle for the basics of human life in this horrific pandemic and, prior to that, for basic constitutional rights for religious minorities. Do not patronize me and lecture me on trauma and racism and discrimination. Do not marginalise me in your attempt to pontificate and set your pearl-clutching puritanical selves above the rest, or assuage your white guilt.

A largely American audience or fanbase in this fandom is purely a function of access and interest—other cultures have vast followings for things you couldn't begin to fathom—and it doesn't mean you are entitled in any shape or form to be spokespeople for the rest of the world. We have no interest in being colonized again by white oppressors.

If you disagree with what I have said, I congratulate you on being a part of their coterie and wish you much joy in being the sheep in their fold. Kindly unfollow or block me on the way off of this post.

#fandom #fandom culture #bullying #gaslighting #gatekeeping #minorities #people of colour #real talk #toxic people #problematic behaviour #problematic authors #problematic fiction #fanfic #reylo #reylo fanfic book club #reylo fic recs #trauma #safety #accountability

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

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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lilbabycee · 4 years

Text

bunny // steve rogers (part two) 🐰

READ PART ONE

↳ summary: the reader gets an unwelcome visitor

↳ relationship: soft dark!steve rogers x brat!reader

↳ word count: 5.3k

↳ warnings: sugar baby au, eventual dark steve, daddy kink, eventual smut, mentions of substance abuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms + relationships, the reader is rich and a little bit of a bitch

↳ author’s note: it’s back! :) enjoy my loves! x

chapter two: it was for me too

---

"if you really listen, then this is to you mama, there is only so much I can do tough for you to witness it but it was for me too"

- r.i.p 2 my youth, the neighbourhood

---

You can do nothing but nod dumbly, eyes roaming the large figure standing in front of you. The only thing that snaps you out of your trance is Natasha’s quiet exhalation of breath through her nose, her little laugh making you woman up and place your hand in Steve’s larger one.

“Likewise,” you speak lightly, your words little more than puffs of air escaping your mouth. His eyes don’t leave yours for a second and the longer you look at his face, the more that you start to believe that you know him from somewhere. But he drops your hand the moment that recognition starts to claw at your brain and the up-and-down look that he gives you snaps you out of any deep thought.

“So, bunny,” a teasing voice comes from beside you, causing you to tear your eyes away from Steve’s. From the way he’s smirking at you, you assume that Sam was the one who spoke up. Turning your whole body away from Steve, you saunter up to the handsome man glowing like bronze underneath the warm light and take the drink he pours for you with a sultry smile - and you know that you should never take drinks from strangers but without really knowing why, you already trust this man.

“That’s me,” you throw him a wink, sipping from the glass slowly.

“Where’d you get a name like that?” He pats the arm of the sofa and as your smile grows, you perch yourself on it, crossing one leg over the other. Natasha follows your lead, situating herself on an armchair to your right, in between the couch that Steve sits on and the one that holds you, Bucky, and Sam. You open your mouth about to answer Sam’s question, but Natasha swiftly steps in.

“I gave it to her,” she grins, running a hand through her loose waves. You can see both Sam and Bucky’s eyes follow her movements which makes you laugh a little, the hunger displayed in both the pools of brown and blue almost overtly obvious.

“Why?” Bucky’s voice rasps, his tongue coming out to wet his lips. Your eyes can’t help but follow the movement - you’re not blind and he’s a very attractive man - but you stop short when you realize that someone is searing holes into the back of your neck. Looking to the side, you can see that Steve has sat down in his previous seat, hands resting on thick thighs and legs spread wide.

His eyes are on you - unflinchingly, you note, even as yours meet his; it’s obvious that he saw your eyes glued to Bucky’s lips. You engage in a quick staring match and even though you’re not usually the type to back down easily, the way that your face heats up and his gaze makes you feel has you looking away after merely a few seconds.

Your eyes refocus on Natasha and stay there.

“It’s because she’s like the energizer bunny,” your best friend snorts, taking the proffered glass of rosé from Sam’s hand and taking a sip. Her statement makes all the men laugh - apart from Vision because he’s too busy whispering in Wanda’s ear for him to be involved in the rest of the conversation and by Wanda’s reaction, you can tell that their conversation isn’t exactly fit for public consumption.

Natasha continues, tracing a finger along the rim of her glass, “Once she gets on something, it’s… she’s, like, stuck on it, you know? Can’t get enough of it - she goes crazy over it, gets super excited and stuff. It’s cute-”

You interrupt her with a groan, causing a chorus of laughs and ooh’s to rise from the group. “Nat- I-I don’t even like that nickname anyway. I’d rather you call me literally anything else-”

“Okay, bunny,” Bucky grins at you and you reach over Sam to swat at his very hard arm, all traces of your previous nervousness having dissipated with the alcohol. Your hand comes back sore but to humor you, you suppose, Bucky recoils from you and dramatically sinks down in his chair, wailing exaggeratedly.

“Sounds good, bunny,” Sam joins in, flashing you a cheeky smile that only earns him a blow on his equally thick bicep that leaves your hand stinging but he too rubs at his arm after drawing a sharp intake of air through his teeth. They’re funny, so you throw your head back and laugh - really laugh - and find yourself slipping off the side of the couch and into Sam’s lap. You let out a little squeal as Natasha and Bucky laugh at you.

“Whoa there, bunny,” Sam chuckles, hands immediately coming up to grip your waist tightly. “Slow your roll.”

You scoff and roll your eyes, but you’re only mock-annoyed: “Christ, Sam, take a girl out on a date first.”

The response you get from the man underneath you is mirthful - “You’re the one who landed on me, darlin’” - and causes you to smile, but then you feel it again , his eyes so intently focused on the side of your face. You choose to ignore it because if this guy has a staring problem, he can take it up with-

“-you,” Bucky flicks Sam’s ear playfully. “I get plenty of women.”

“Oh yeah, Barnes? ‘Cause your lap is lookin’ awfully empty -”

And the two go back and forth like this for what seems like an eternity. You know that you’ve lost Wanda to Viz , the seat that they once occupied currently vacant. You kind of want to be annoyed at her because she promised that she’d help you with what you really came here for in the first place, but you can’t because, for the past few weeks, you and Natasha have kind of maybe been avoiding her to some degree because, really and truly, she’s been such an uptight bitch - and you say that in the nicest way possible - so you want her to get some dick in peace so that she can release all of that backed-up tension.

You love her, really, but a sexually frustrated Wanda has the potential to rival your mother in terms of how completely unbearable they are to be around.

You turn to speak to Natasha but then Steve clears his throat loud enough for everyone to hear which causes all chatter to cease. He sighs loudly, running a hand over his bearded jaw before he speaks. You can’t help but take some more time to admire the beauty of his jawline, so defined and sharp that you wonder if it could cut up the skin on the insides of your thighs-

“I mean, while I’d love to continue this,” Steve checks his Rolex, “we should probably get down to what you girls really came for.” His eyes land pointedly on you, and you realize that you’re still sat comfortably on Sam’s lap. You sit back even further, wrapping your arm around Sam’s shoulders. Steve’s fists are clenched so hard that you’re sure that his blunt nails are digging into the palms of his hands.

You decide that you’re not going to move.

“Right,” your best friend leans forward to put her empty glass on the coffee table where your own lies and clears her throat. She then says your name and gestures vaguely to where you’re sitting, “she’s looking for an arrangement similar to what Wanda and Vision have-”

“-and since Wanda isn’t here to help us explain exactly what all of that consists of,” you butt in, pressing your long thumbnail to your lower lip and pushing it into your mouth, “we were wondering if you gentlemen would be kind enough to help us out?”

Natasha’s head snaps to yours, her eyebrow raised in a way that says this is not what we agreed on and you reply with it’s fine, but then she responds with why don’t we just wait for Wanda and you don’t even think that warrants a reply. You give her a deadpan look and she physically holds her hands up in surrender; you both know that Wanda’s not coming home with the two of you tonight. The three men around you look lost so you direct your attention back to them.

“So?” you follow up, sucking lightly on the end of your nail. Even from where you’re sitting, you can see Steve’s darkened eyes - his pupils are blown and they only leave a thin ring of blue around them. The rise and fall of his broad chest has gotten just that little bit faster.

He’s so pretty.

“The arrangements are different for all of us,” Bucky downs the amber liquid in his glass. “So it’d just depend on who you’re interested in gettin’ to know, doll. Got anyone in mind right off the bat?”

Oh wow - you didn’t expect to be put on the spot like this so early into this conversation. But you don’t mind; the pressure or awkwardness that should come with a question like this in a situation as unique as this one doesn’t come. You only smile coyly, batting your eyelashes and looking down.

“Oh, well,” you start shyly, swinging your legs innocently. “I don’t really know about all that yet-”

“It’s alright, bunny,” the voice ignites a fire in your veins so you know who’s just spoken. “We’ll make this decision easy for you. She’s mine, boys.”

This makes you choke yet again, causing you to clear your throat loudly. Your fingertips press down on your cheeks just to see how warm your face really is from this blatant stake of his claim on you. Normally, you’d be the first one to protest, completely indignant that this man thinks that he owns you in any capacity. But there’s none of that kind of passion here; rather, you’re more- no, probably not- no, definitely turned on by his words.

The two other men, much like Natasha did only a minute ago, throw their hands up in acquiescence. In fact, they both seem so moved by Steve’s words that they trip over each other to speak.

“Yeah, that’s all good, man.”

“Sounds good to me, pal.”

There’s a lull in the conversation while you all digest the implications of Steve’s exclamation. You twist your fingers together, scraping your nails against each other.

“So,” you drag out the last syllable. “Is there some kind of… contract or something?”

---

You wake up in a bed that feels far too crowded to be your own. There’s a body wrapped around yours, another set of legs intertwined with yours and an arm draped over your torso. In your groggy state, it takes all the willpower that you can summon to turn your head to the left and check who the fuck is sleeping in next to you in- your bed (???).

The hand of the arm that isn’t currently being pinned down by another human being comes up to rub at your eyes, clearing up your bleary vision so that you can try to successfully identify your intruder.

You could say that you’ve never woken up in a situation like this but that would be a lie and your New Year’s resolution this year was that you’d try to be more honest - so the truth is that this is definitely not the first time that you’ve woken up in a situation like this and if anything, this is probably the safest you’ve felt out of all of those scenarios.

Half of the person’s head is buried underneath the duvet so you squint a little in the obnoxiously bright morning light - you silently curse the sun for not wanting to take a fucking day off today - so that you can try to make out a defining feature of the body on top of you. Once your eyes focus, the mop of red hair spread across the white sheets makes you groan and close your eyes again.

You honestly didn’t have a game plan if it wasn’t Natasha.

Confused, you attempt to think back to exactly what happened last night. Since you’ve woken up with Natasha, you give yourself the benefit of the doubt and assume that nothing too compromising happened last night. After nights like Peter’s, you normally cannot immediately recognize the person next to you, so you’re going to take this as a glass half full kind of moment and call it a plus.

Nothing illegal took place as far as you can remember which is another first for you - apart from your excessive underage drinking but you turn twenty-one in a year so you shrug it off.

Wow, maybe I am growing.

After your conversation with those men - there was no contract - you had sent Wanda a text to let her know that you and Natasha were heading home. There was nothing at this party that you hadn’t seen before, so frankly, your work there was done and you had no more business at Peter’s. Speaking of, you did manage to run into him right before you left just to say goodbye to him - ever the gracious guest - and tease him some more about MJ. Naturally, he turned redder than the burgundy suit pants he was wearing and gave both you and Nat kisses on the cheek before almost running away from the two of you.

That gave you a good laugh.

You were halfway to Nat’s car when none other than Steve Rogers appeared from the shadows to put your number on his phone. He said nothing other than I’ll call you before walking further down the valet parking to get his own car. Natasha beeped her horn at you when she saw you lingering - you were staring at his ass - so you hurried to hop in the passenger’s seat of her black sports car after she shouted for you to get in the Porsche or I’m leaving your ass on the side of the road.

And now your phone rings; you can’t help that the weaker side of your brain wants so badly for it to be Steve. He left you with a promise - albeit a vague one - and you think that you’re going to hold him to that, although you don’t know how exactly how you’d go about that since he’s the one who has your number.

Shit.

Natasha groans loudly at the shrill noise coming from your phone speakers, grabbing a pillow and shoving it over her face.

She says your name exasperatedly, “I thought I told you to put that shit on silent-”

“Sorry, sorry,” you tell her, rolling your eyes because you don’t remember her telling you that, and then you sit up. At this moment, you realize that you actually aren’t in your own apartment and are in Natasha’s very grey and white bedroom that you always have something critical to say about. Reaching for your phone, you’re shocked that it’s not dead and is at a respectable 16%. The caller ID shows you nothing useful - unknown caller - and this only gives you some more hope that it’s the handsome man you met last night. You clear your throat before pressing that green button.

“Hello?” you wince at the dryness of your throat, spying an unopened water bottle next to where your phone lay. You grab it and pop the cap hastily, taking a swig while you wait for the reply of the other person.

A very distinctly feminine squeal makes you sigh in disappointment before you pause, the familiar voice making you smile sleepily.

“Shit- fuck, get out of my way- brother-” the person says your name loudly and you know by the rich accent and the impatient tone that it’s-

“Shuri,” you muster up as much enthusiasm as you can for a call this early in the morning - you pull your phone back from your ear to see that it’s actually already 10:33 a.m and wince - because you are actually genuinely excited to hear from your Wakandan best friend. Natasha pulls the pillow off her face at the sound of the girl’s voice through the speaker, and a grin of her own lights up her face.

“Hi, bitch!” Shuri yells and you close your eyes, shaking your head but smiling nonetheless. “I’m almost at your place - I’ll be there in ten.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your chest and you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Whose phone are you calling from? And Shuri, I’m not at home right now-”

“‘Koye’s - mine’s dead and in the back. Are you with Nat?”

“Well, yeah-”

“Are you two fucking? Without me? ”

The redhead next to you can’t contain her laughter either, curled up in the sheets next to you gasping for breaths.

“Sorry to break it you like this, babe,” you play along. “No, Peter had a party last night-”

“I know - I heard about it. Sounded like fun, but my Baba and I had to do some appearances in D.C yesterday before we came to this goddamn crowded city- brother, I’ll call it whatever I want to call it - Bast, get out of the car.”

There’s some rustling and the sound of a car door slamming before Shuri releases a deep, tired breath.

“I didn’t know you were coming this week,” Natasha has sidled up next to you, resting her head on your shoulder so that Shuri can hear her voice after putting your phone on speaker.

“Neither did I,” the Wakandan princess snorts, the sound of deafening car horns and faint yelling in the background almost drowning out her lilted tone. “It was kind of a last-minute decision. But enough about me - you don’t care about all this stuff. I heard you guys met with Bucky Barnes last night-”

“How do you know Bucky?” You frown, picking at your nails.

“Long story,” she says flippantly, sighing before clearing her throat. “But that’s not the point - I know what kinda guy Bucky Barnes is. What kinda business did you two have hanging around people like that?”

“Well, I wanna hear the story-”

“Shut up,” Natasha doesn’t even look at you when she says the words. “We’re- actually, it’s not even me- she’s looking for a-”

“-sugar daddy?!” Shuri exclaims so loud that both you and Natasha flinch as you move the phone further away from you. Maybe putting her on speaker was a mistake. “What- no, Okoye, not me...yes I’m sure,” the princess’ voice becomes more hushed, “bunny...what do you of all people need a sugar daddy for, miss princess of New York?”

Nat chortles louder than you like so you shoot her a glare, smacking a pillow over her face before redirecting your attention back to the confused girl over the phone. “Daddy cut me off and-”

Shuri;’s laugh is completely mocking and would definitely be offensive if it were anyone else, but you can do nothing but sit there and pout. Natasha’s laughter becomes louder and you roll your eyes, standing up and stretching your arms over your head. You throw your phone at your best friend, causing her to almost fall off the side of the bed trying to dodge it.

“Shut up, both of you,” you scowl. “Shuri, let me know when you’re here - I’m going to go take a shower and reflect on my taste in friends. You guys are both the worst-”

Already halfway inside the en-suite, you only hear a faint chorus of “ We love you too!” before the lock clicks behind you.

---

When you stroll out of the private elevator that leads directly to your apartment, you’re staring at something funny that Shuri’s sent you on Instagram as you walk through the front door, a blindingly white smile on your face. The chunky black and white Balenciaga sneakers on your feet pound the floor lightly and your hand comes up to tug absent-mindedly at one of the strings of Natasha’s black hoodie before running it down the leg of the matching cycling shorts. You push your sunglasses to the top of your head, the minty flavor of your gum filling your tastebuds and the loud sound of your nails clicking against your phone screen echoing against your high walls and tall ceilings.

The sound of a throat clearing makes you blink hard, your eyelash extensions brushing your skin as you look up to determine the identity of your intruder.

Once you see who it is, you physically are unable to prevent the loud “fuck” from falling from your lips. So when she stands up from your couch in your living room with her arms folded over her breast implants and her full, fake lips pursed while her eyebrows shoot to her hairline, you can’t help but laugh, surprised that she can still look like a raging bitch with all that botox in her face.

Her grating voice squeaks your name indignantly making you roll your eyes as you drop your oversized black bag by your shoe rack. Kicking off your trainers, you breeze right past her and flop down on one of your sofas, the plush material soothing your aching bones.

It’s been five days since Peter’s party and since then, Wanda had given both Bucky and Sam your number upon their request - you’ve been texting them all week. As much as you love your friends, these men are hands-down two of the funniest people that you’ve ever met. Despite your frequent conversations with his two best friends, there’s been radio silence from Steve Rogers. You don’t want to give these men the impression that you’re desperate - even though that’s exactly what you are - but you’re getting impatient. You don’t chase anybody; not once in your entire life has anyone made you work for their attention, so this whole situation is making you antsy.

You’ve just returned from the gym with Sam and Bucky where you were shocked to turn up outside only to see the two men shirtless, a huge but not unwelcome surprise in more than one way - “you have a fucking metal arm?!” - and it was truly a gift from above to essentially watch them work out from your place on the treadmill. You couldn’t even run - you almost fell on your goddamn face - because you were so distracted by the strong, glistening men across from you. You had instead slowed to a walk, texting Natasha and Shuri, sending them videos of these gorgeous men lifting seemingly impossibly heavy amounts with such ease and agility.

You couldn’t deny that it was making you feel things.

They then insisted that you should come and lift with them because “it’s rude to stare, bunny” and that was definitely less fun than just watching them.

And now here you sit, lounging carelessly and purposefully ignoring the presence of the woman sitting across from you. She sighs loudly, drumming her freshly-manicured red claws on the armrest of the couch, her eyes glued onto your face. Clearing her throat louder this time, you can feel the heat of her gaze on your profile burn hotter.

“Honey, are you just going to let me sit here all day?” your mother whines - like a child, you think - and flicks her hair face from her face.

“Yup,” you pop the ‘p’ and then fall silent, chewing your gum audibly, satisfied when you see her eye twitch in your periphery.

The two of you sit like this for a while, the deafening quiet weighing heavily on your mother’s shoulders. She’s always been a woman who’s liked to talk, fill moments of peace with mindless chatter and you’ve hated it all your life.

“Stop slouching,” your mother suddenly snaps, letting out yet another sigh, but one of relief as if it’s been painful for her to hold in her chest. With the silence effectively broken, you give a sigh of your own and finally meet her eyes, the same pretty color as yours shining back at you like a mirror. Then you assess the rest of her: the bleached blonde extensions, over-lined lips, and the designer coral pantsuit. You hold her gaze as you slip further down onto the couch, your posture even more relaxed than before. She narrows her own at you and a Chesire cat grin spreads on your face.

“You didn’t come here to correct my posture, mother,” you tell her, looking back at your phone, “so to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You haven’t been returning my calls,” she arches an eyebrow, dusting an imaginary piece of lint off of her pants, “even though I told your dad to tell you when you called him a week ago-”

“You don’t think there’s a reason that I’ve been dodging your calls?” you ask rhetorically, running the pad of your thumb over an eyebrow. Your birth giver cocks her head at you curiously, as if she’s truly confused as to why you don’t seem to like her-

“I don’t know why you don’t like me,” she states airily, examining her nails contemplatively. Your eyes dart back to hers in surprise, your jaw literally dropping because you’re that floored. “I’ve been nothing but kind to you-”

“Get out,” you say quietly, immediately shutting her up.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said get out,” you repeat, tossing your phone onto the couch behind you and standing up swiftly. Your mother is still sitting across from you, so you gesture with your hands so as to emphasize your point. “You should be lucky I haven’t fucking blacklisted you from this apartment-”

She exclaims your name, “-don’t cuss at me-”

You power through, “-after all you’ve done to me - so what I mean, mother, is get the fuck out of my apartment!”

Your voice carries through your home. When the echoes finally stop, the woman in front of you turns her nose up at you, clutches her taupe Birkin, and clicks those stupid stilettos all the way to your elevator. When she presses the button, she turns around to glare at you, failing to notice your defensive stance or how you’re fighting tears that you thought you’d already spent years crying out.

“Your father will be hearing about this,” she smirks and the doors open, bathing the side of her face in bright, artificial light. You don’t even look at her as the elevator chimes and the rose gold doors slide closed. But when they do, all of the breath leaves your body in a loud sob, your shaking hands coming up to wipe at your eyes.

The ringing of your phone interrupts you, the caller ID a number that you don’t recognize. In your current state, you answer it unthinkingly, not even registering that you’re about to be speaking to a total stranger.

“Hello?” You sniffle over the phone, running your sleeve over your cheeks to rid them of any tear tracks.

The person over the line greets you by saying your name in a deep tone that shoots straight to your panties, meaning that you know exactly who this is. It’s the call you’ve been waiting for the whole week and of all times, this is when he decides to pick up his damn phone and remember that you exist?

Motherfucker.

“Steve,” you breathe, gulping down large amounts of air to try and keep any residual tears at bay. “I-, uh, hi.”

His chuckle on the other end of the phone causes your cheeks to heat up because it should be illegal to sound like that. “Hi to you too, bunny-” you interrupt him with a shaky breath that’s louder than you anticipate, “-hold on, have you been crying?”

Shit, you think, massaging your temples. “Yeah,” you admit, sniffing again. It’s likely that your ears are deceiving you, but you think that you hear him groan, a sinful sound from deep in his throat that makes even more moisture pool in your underwear. “It’s not a big deal though - it’s nice to hear from you.”

“Are you doin’ okay?” he asks softly, making your heart do little flips in your chest.

“I’m fine,” you state almost automatically, hoping to brush off any concern and move on. You walk over to your fridge, scanning the contents before your eyes land on the row of clear, blue-capped bottles with a pink flower on the front. You put your phone on speaker and place it on the counter as you snatch one of the bottles of water from the shelf, cracking it open and taking a long swig from it.

“You don’t sound fine,” Steve protests, sounding borderline amused. “Maybe you can tell me all about it when I take you out to dinner tonight.”

He tells you mid-swig and of course, there’s no way for him to know his, but you’re so taken aback that you falter, subsequently choking on all of the water in your mouth. The coughs that wrack your body are violent, and there’s a burn in your throat from the strength of your body’s automatic reaction. You have to shut the fridge door and turn around, bracing a hand on the island counter where your phone lies.

“Sweetheart?” he probes, probably holding back a laugh but you can’t really discern whether or not that’s true over the ear-splitting sound of your coughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologize, wheezing through the paralyzing attack on your body. “That sounds great - where are we going?”

You finally recover, taking another - slower - sip of your drink, tears stinging your eyes.

“Hey now,” Steve laughs again, and you can’t help but notice how carefree he is now compared to the night you met him. It makes you smile. “That’d be telling. Just be ready by 8 - I’ll get my driver-”

“-oh no, that’s okay - if you give the location to my driver, he can take me-”

“No,” his voice is booming, even through the phone, and it gives you pause. His authoritative tone should’ve made you cry, especially with all that’s happened in your past, but instead, a tidal wave of desire makes you shudder and threatens to pull you underneath the surface. “My driver will pick you up at 8,” he repeats and you press the power button on the side of your phone so it shows you the time: 2:49, “and I’ll send over something appropriate for you to wear. Are we clear?”

“Yeah,” you exhale, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip.

“I asked if we were clear, sweetheart,” his voice has taken on a warning tone now and you can’t deny the heat that courses through you.

“Yes, sir,” you give him the answer almost instinctively, frowning afterward because you feel like you’re in school.

“Good girl, bunny baby,” he coos and it’s this that makes you almost audibly moan.

You? A praise kink?

Absolutely.

“I’ll see you then, hmm, honey?” he prompts you to respond. Normally, you don’t let anybody that you’re romantically involved with call you honey because it reminds you so acutely of your mother, and you suspect that she knows that which is why she keeps calling you that stupid nickname. But with Steve, you already feel like you’re in no place to be making demands.

And for the first time in your life, that doesn’t bother you all that much.

“Yes, Steve,” your eyelashes flutter and you squeeze your thighs together, trying to ease yourself of the growing discomfort at your most sensitive area.

“Good, good,” he speaks, sounding distracted. “I’ve got a meeting now, bunny - talk later.”

You don’t even get an opportunity to say your own goodbye before he ends the call. You save him to your contacts quickly before you forget, and then a thought hits you that makes you freeze.

How does he know your size and - more importantly - how the fuck does he know where you live?

tagged: @evnscvll @donutloverxo @stargazingfangirl18 @literaturefeen @smutdiariess @90sinspiredgirl @cruelsummer-s @honnneyybee

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers blurb #steve rogers blurbs #steve rogers headcanons #steve rogers headcanon #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers imagines #marvel cinematic universe #marvel fanfiction #sugar daddy au #soft dark steve rogers #sugar daddy steve rogers

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thoughts-on-bangtan · 3 years

Note

I m sorry if this post makes u upset but honestly this is something i have been wondering a lot about. So i m sure the admis are aware of a theory that has existed for long time in t/k spaces that BH was holding t/k back. So wrt that we also know the boys recently became partners of BH by buying shares sometime in 2020. They also renewed their contracts in 2020. We also know tae has become happier and the famous t/k conversation took place in 2020. We can also see that t/k have more on (1/2)

screen interactions and are more frequently paired together since after the ITS convo and also appear to interact more with each other in various cobtent. Also there is a fall in j/k content no? I wonder if that theory was indeed true and that tae being happier could be bcoz of him getting to be more open with jk now and not hiding their relationship infront of the cameras and if that has anything to do with them being shareholders and the new contract. Bcoz this kinda makes sense to me (2/2)

Admin 1: The only thing with which you’ve upset me is by ignoring what I’ve said just a few posts ago about how the only ships I feel have actual potential of being ‘real’ are vmin and, to a certain degree, namjin, and how I’m more than open to talking about other duos etc as long as we talk about them as their real life friendships. Just yesterday I said that I don’t really care or pay attention to what other shippers do because it’s simply none of my concern. Why is that? Because no JK+ML ship has ever given me reason to go “huh?” or given me the impression there could be more than just friendship. Also, I’m not here to try and disprove other ships, or somehow try to convince anyone that my views are the only correct ones, I simply want to have a good time talking about vmin, namjin, and Bangtan, and that’s it, which I’ve said it yesterday as well.

I’ve been ARMY for many years now and yes, I’m more than aware of this theory because, in a way, it’s inescapable even if you try to stay clear of what T/K (and J/K) shippers are up to. And yet, despite that, for years my opinion on the topic has not changed in the slightest. I’ve written a whole post about ships and BH and how they are used for marketing purposes in rather obvious ways at times, how more screen time doesn’t immediately equal them being romantic (and the whole no screen time = no bond paradox), or BH “allowing” them to show off their relationship more, because that frankly, to me, sounds ridiculous.

Even if we’d entertain the idea for a moment, while also remembering that apparently T/K is still the biggest BTS ship, wouldn’t it make more sense for BH to show them? Because that would bring in more money? So, in that sense, hiding them wouldn’t make such sense business wise? Someone could argue that scarcity creates more demand, which once they do supply that demand, the money basically rains down on BH like crazy. And yet even that, to me, doesn’t really make all that much sense, given that they could just put T/K content behind a paywall, as in keep their interactions as paid content exclusives, but even that isn’t the case since apparently there hasn’t been much T/K shipper satisfying content even there. So, what exactly, would be the business point for BH to “hide” them? Remember, they are a company after all, not a matchmaking service.

Anyway, going back to my thoughts. We have 4 O’Clock followed by the knowledge that not that long after Tae started working on Happy Christmas, a duet for himself and Jimin which supposedly was too much for two members to sing it together (the implications here are rather clear), which was followed by Scenery (which has clear connections to the same event as in 4 O’clock and to Jimin), and add to all of that what Tae replied to that ARMY on weverse (this I also have a whole post about which I thought might’ve made my thoughts clear in a way, but I guess it did not). That does paint quite the obvious picture, does it not?

Just yesterday I said that the biggest rule in shipping is respect and being respectful, yes? Do you think it is respectful to still hold on to this made up T/K theory despite being faced with Tae’s own words? Despite how ridiculous it sounds? I don’t think so.

Therefore, for me, with everything Tae has done to express his feelings in connection to Jimin, as well as clearly stating that 95z is love (just a few months after telling off that shipper) and the fact that (despite surely having to jump through many hoops along the way) Jimin answered Tae in kind by making Friends happen which solidified them as soulmates to us but also made their wish and promise of remaining together even when the cheers are gone known (here’s my analysis of that song). That’s no small thing. And if that T/K theory held any merit, I highly doubt either Tae or Jimin would do all this, which I’ve also already once discussed in a previous post. Add to that Tae’s Weverse reply, their conversation during ITS, and Tae wanting Jimin to come sleep next to him on JKs birthday (that being something the company has no control over and is their own free time and their free will of telling us about it), the only “relationship” that Tae has with JK, in my opinion, is that of close friends, band mates, and colleagues.

As for their contract and them being shareholders and that having some kind of connection to them being able to show their relationships more freely—while yes, they did say that they’ll sign the contract and thus give BH seven more of their years so long as the contract reflects their hard work and achievements, it’s rather ludicrous to think that there might’ve been some kind of clause in there as well about how BH won’t “hide” a ship anymore or allow them to just run free and show off their relationships. Frankly that would be stupid and way more risky than worth it both for BH and the members themselves. Besides their personal relationships, especially romantic ones, are not for public consumption, so to speak. Even more so in the world of idols and with the prospect of having to do their military service in the future (this being doubly important and risky when considering their relationships being between two members and therefore LGBT).

We have no way of knowing what is exactly in those contracts, and what kind of effect them having BH shares has on their work-relation with BH, all we do know is that whatever was in those contracts was satisfying enough for all seven of them to sign it and be happy with that choice. Everything else is pure speculation.

This is the final time I’m answering such an ask since now I think I’ve truly made my stance on JK+ML ships known sufficiently, and this time I mean it.

Also, for future reference, can we please talk about JK not in romantic connection to a member for once? I have a whole post expressing my grievances with the treatment he gets from shippers and how there is so much more to him.

Admin 2: We live in a materialistic capitalist world where money is the leading power. Many people get up in the morning and work their a*s off to bring in enough income to live and to feed themselves and their possible family. But there are also people who find ways to make money without having to work their a*ses off. Such possibilities in todays day and age gives you, among other things, making videos on Youtube. If you’re sneaky enough and have an eye for what sells best at any given time and what brings in the biggest viewership, you might come to find that a great way to earn well is by making videos about BTS, and more specifically, about popular BTS ships, or even the most popular one at that.

Maybe you noticed how at some point there was a boom on youtube when it came to people making reaction videos, especially to anything BTS related, as well as hundreds of channels about shipping doing analysis videos, especially for T/K and J/K.

More below the cut:

In that moment when Tae basically said no to T/K being romantic, those T/K channels faced potentially “losing their jobs” and thus losing a very lucrative source of income. When I say lucrative, I mean up to $90k a year, which is a sum of money the average person can only dream of. Therefore, to save their existence and income, they decided to push on with their agenda and disregard any signs pointing against their ship. That’s why I think theories such as the one anon presented us with are ones that are created during conversations between people with such channels as wonderful solutions to explain away signs and behaviors that simply didn’t fit them and their agenda. There is a whole own eco system between those channels and their views, and shippers at large, to keep their shipper fantasies alive at all cost.

We know that T/K is one of the oldest, and the most popular one, among BTS ships, which relies on how fun and nice interactions between JK and Tae are to look at, how silly they used to be in the past together, and how some of their on stage behavior worked well in terms of “awakening” crazy fantasies among shippers. The most important in all of it though has always been that this ship contained the maknae and the next member closest to him in age, and thus also to many of those who ship them. But that of course isn’t all there is to it.

Since 2016 we’ve had 4 O’Clock and Scenery, both inspired by the same event, as well as vmin defining each other as their soulmate. These facts alone are, for me, a glaring contradiction for this whole T/K theory and any kind of romance existing within either T/K and J/K. For me, it’s a rather absurd thought to have a soulmate and also be in a romantic relationship (or harbor romantic feelings) for another person. Just like it’s absurd for me how supposedly two big JK and maknae ships are supposed to be real at the very same time and the band also exists at the same time as some form of background noise.

We also later on have Tae who wrote Sweet Night in which Tae sings about falling in love with his best friend, who has always been Jimin. Taking into account what Tae told that shipper on Weverse yet months later announced that 95z is love, that he sang Friends with Jimin, which was also co-written by Jimin, I very much doubt that there have ever been any romantic feelings from Tae toward JK (and vice versa).

I’d also like to note that Tae and JK didn’t spend any time together during their vacation in 2019 (according to them in the first episode of BV4), as well as JK having shown a kind of distaste toward the idea of one of Tae’s friends already having gotten married (or at least that’s what his facial expression looked like) which to me indicates the same thing they said in the ITS conversations: they’ve matured and their personalities have simply grown in different directions making parts of their friendship a bit awkward.

On the FESTA 2020 Rolling Paper Tae called JK his comedian while JK called Tae is safe place, which for me makes it sound that their bond is simply that of an older brother and his younger brother. I feel like during their ITS conversation they tried to communicate to us that they had some issues with each other but at the same time also try to somewhat negate all that obsessive romantic shipping that's been going on involving those two for so long. But that obviously hasn’t worked out.

Tae did say that he had to take certain steps and now he’s happier, but personally I believe that had far more of a connection to their work, or specifically Tae’s mixtape and the work and negotiations around it, since we know some of it might’ve been pushing the lines a little too much if BangPD felt the need to call him and ask him to tone it down a little. If I put on my delulu hat, looking at how happy Tae seems in recent months, I’d be inclined to believe this also had something to do with Jimin, who also seems to be in quite the happy mood as well.

Even if I’d step into a whole delulu tent, I see absolutely no connection to JK when thinking of all the things that could’ve been a factor that led to Tae’s happy state.

It’s easy to see that we’ve been getting more T/K interactions recently, which can be due to marketing strategies (since Tae’s mixtape is coming soon, and potentially also JKs since it’s been mentioned here and there last year) but also due to them getting closer again friendship wise after working through whatever was causing them to be awkward with each other (or at least slowly doing so). We all know that Tae is a very honest (as much as that’s possible in their line of work) and the only thing all of this shows us that Tae is simply showing us with JK that they’re doing better again, but none of their behavior in any way diverges or exceeds anything that’s normal for all of BTS and how touchy and full of affection they are with each other to various degrees. We have a whole post on the bias of body language as well.

Personally, I see no indication whatsoever for there being anything romantic about T/K, since that’s what you’re essentially asking about. After all Tae was the only one who had no idea about JKs drawing for Hobi, so if they were romantically involved, don’t you think JK would’ve showed it to him or at least told him about it?

I’d recommend listening to what Tae told us, remember that especially when we see him put his arm around JKs shoulder or touches his arm, that that isn’t a show of his romantic love for him, but just their normal level of BTS affection. Don’t let people convince you into buying into their agendas because at the end of the day, they have a lucrative business in doing so while, should it all one day come to an end, you will be the one that gets hurt due to their words and theories.

The sole fact that T/K relies on many of the same arguments as J/K, and both have JK as the part of them, is, for me, an indication that those ships aren’t real and instead that Tae and Jimin treat JK as their younger brother whom they love, just like all of BTS does. This is simply how BTS are. Everyone touches everyone’s arm, thigh, back, and hugs each other, it’s simply them being them. In order for a ship to be romantic and “real”, it takes a little more than just a touch of a thigh. There needs to be something more, like we’re able to find/see that something more with vmin, for example.

Tae is my bias and it always upsets me when people don’t respect him and the things he’s said.

#answered ask #BTS #Taehyung #Jungkook

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nolanell · 3 years

Text

Hero: Writer Wednesday October 6th 2021

Writer Wednesday: @autumnleaves1991-blog and @clydesducktape

Pairing: None. Setting is a Star Wars AU. Reader is GN Reader and completely undescribed, but likes coffee.

Length: 965 words

Warnings: Grief, death, implied survivor's guilt and dealing with PTSD-type feelings, dealing with the loss of a loved one, mention and consumption of alcohol, setting is a cemetery and graves and tributes are described. The character that has passed is mentioned by name at the very end.

Author's Notes: I really enjoyed writing last week's not-romantic story and I wanted to try to do that again. This is the first time I have written something that doesn't have a positive ending so it's new territory, but I'm proud of this.

It was always nicer to come here in autumn. Maybe because it was your favourite season, it was easier to come as the crackling and crunching of leaves under your feet was welcoming; the wind whipping around your shoulders just meant that you enjoyed the coffee you always got afterward that little bit more, feeling the warmth course through your body. Maybe it was because this time of year gave everything an inherently somber mood, so you felt like the world was stopping for a while to visit and remember with you. You hoped they remembered all the time. But even if they did, you couldn’t ever stop coming here. You would never stop coming so long as you were alive. You couldn’t forget, you couldn’t let the world forget, and you needed to know they wouldn’t. That bit you were still figuring out; how to ensure nobody forgets.

You walked the trail you knew by heart now, looking down at the ground and watching your boots take you forward. You had tried to look at each and every headstone for the first few months you came here; you had to give it up though as the enormity of everyone who had passed was taking its toll on you. You tried not to feel guilty, many people telling you there was no shame in feeling the way you did, but you felt bad that it meant there was one less person remembering.

It seemed fitting that her headstone was under a tree. So many stories, accomplishments, so many friends, supporters, so many who joined the cause and countless others she inspired or motivated or helped without even realising. All these things branched out from her, and so it was fitting the tree was over her. And it had been covered in tributes; there were fairy lights, flowers, cards, drawings, written tributes, and candles at the base of the trunk. It was absolutely covered, there were tributes on the ground at the trunk of the tree, as well as beautiful flowers and candles at her headstone. She was so loved, and it made your heart sing and lurch at the same time. People still remembered now, but who would still care in a year? Two years? Ten? You couldn’t let anyone forget. People needed to remember long after what happened slipped out of the forefront of public consciousness. People needed to remember and to care, so everything she did was not in vain.

You had stood at her headstone, not saying anything for a long time. Then you pulled the metal hip flask out of the pocket of your coat. The words weren’t coming easily today; they didn’t always. Some visits you knew just what to say, and others, you had no idea. Today was one such day. It wasn’t that you had nothing to say; in fact you had so much that you didn’t know where to start. And you knew she would want to hear everything from you. She’d want every report, every movement, every analysis, every brief and debrief, but she would also want to make sure you were okay, that you were coping, and had somewhere halfway comfortable to rest your head when you could, and could get something that could pass for coffee when you needed it.

‘I miss you, ma’am,’ you said simply, toasting the headstone. Calling her anything else felt wrong to you. You could almost see and hear her, smiling knowingly and saying ‘I know’, not quite with the cockiness of her partner, but definitely with understanding. You missed that warm smile, that slightly cocksure attitude, her quick sense of humour and the way she would just somehow make you feel more sure of everything. You took a long, slow drag of the hip flask, feeling the warming burn of the whiskey as you drank.

‘The Commander is keeping me on my toes,’ you laugh softly to yourself. ‘I wish I knew how you kept him in check.’

This visit was very different. You’re really struggling to find the words, and for the first time in a while, you felt the hot sting of tears at the corner of your eyes. You take another drag from the hip flask, much shorter this time.

‘I’m lost without you, ma’am. I feel like I’m just scraping by, just about getting it done. I wish you were here,’ you sniff as you drag the back of your hand across your eyes, wiping away the tears. You took in a shaky breath and looked at the headstone again. Kneeling down, you balanced on the balls of your feet as you poured the rest of the hip flask’s contents into the ground at the foot of the headstone. Your little tradition with her. At the end of a debrief, to commiserate or celebrate the mission, and you carried it on now.

‘I love you, ma’am, and I miss you,’ you whisper, as you ghost your fingertips over the chiseled letters on the stone. You always felt closer by doing it. It stung every time, the finality of where you were and the stone reminding you what had happened, but you wanted to be close to her and you would not trade that closeness for anything.

You placed the bouquet of flowers in front of her headstone, then stood and saluted. Before the tears came again, you turned on your heel and walked back the way you came. When you sat down to drink your coffee later on, feeling that wave of warmth crash through you, you closed your eyes. You could still see those chiseled letters on the headstone. You saw them every time you closed your eyes and they had never gone away. You were never going to forget.

Leia Organa

Hero

#writer wednesday #star wars au #star wars au fanfiction #please read the warnings #star wars fanfiction #leia organa #leia organa au

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zot3-flopped · 2 years

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It shouldn’t annoy me when PR hags and Haters say Harry doesn’t show Olivia affection but it does. There are plenty of times he has shows affection they just are not shared by fans enough for people to know. They only share their own side of the story. Harry was all over Olivia on the Yacht when they were lying down for example with his head on her arm and brushing her hair and whispering in her ear plus bending down to kiss her when she was reading. Or those stalker pics in Italy when they are walking and Harry reaches her hand and pulls her towards him and puts his arm around her. Or when he did that in other pictures for example like in London. They forget these things. Seems people like to only remember what they want and what will best fit their narrative they made in their heads. If some of these hard core larries on Twitter/tumblr who have seen them together in real life are having second thoughts about them being PR/a beard then that should tell you something! Deuximoi posted a podcast and the other person they did it with thinks they are PR yet they only talked about Olivia and PAP pics and not the pictures or stories that only Harry’s fans know were taken due to stalkers. This is why I don’t listen to Gossip accounts as when they talk about stuff they talk about the magazines and not the stuff fans see that isn’t public consumption. Btw I also apply this for every celebrity relationship otherwise we would all be saying they are all fake. Every celebrity uses PR and PAPS for their benefit so why when Harry and Olivia do it is it considered bad and fake? Example, They were literally together for Christmas in Italy and none of these Gossip sites talked about it or even know about it. If it wasn’t for these things and family interaction online and off I would be more PR leaning but these things make me believe it’s a real relationship. Anne was a huge turning point for me, I already believed it was a real relationship but Anne following Harry’s girlfriend for the first time and actually interacting with her pictures solidified it for me and I think a lot of others. If it wasn’t for fans saying Olivia is problematic I would think we wouldn’t have any of these issues honestly. Idk it just bugs me when people act like he is cold to her and never showed affection when we all know they are lying to themselves.

There was so much intensity and passion and tenderness and laughter between them on the yacht, yet these femcels claim he looked 'miserable.' They've been single all their lives, so they don't have a clue what a romantic relationship looks like.

#harry styles olivia wilde #harry styles #pr hags

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mrchalamet-mrstyles · 4 years

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Why is it that A can do ~whatever with three woman (or more) and some didn’t even say a word, and yet T mentioned Lily briefly in that article, and those same people lost their shit and still haven’t stopped going after him for being a liar, fame whore, etc, etc. So damn pathetic but also predictable.

I wonder about this a lot, anon. Armie has somehow managed to amass a group of fans that are more like disciples than stans. But I think the reason he gets a pass for his romantic bs is because they all hate Liz and feel like she was the only problem in that marriage, so he's now free of his shackles. But as for the 3 women, they came immediately on the heels of his marriage ending, when they were certain he had left for and to be with Tim so of course, none of those mean anything or are real because all they have seen of them are "pap photos" which automatically means FAKE NEWS to a Trum- sorry- Charmie. Let's forget the fact that Courtney was never seen in public with him and their pics were private, except.they weren't because she dared to post pics from her life on ig for anyone to find, as if no one is allowed to do that ever. She became "fake" by association. Deemed inappropriate for public consumption by his "team" and so she was pushed aside. Which lol, child, the lies they tell themselves, but I digress.

So then we come to Tim and Lily. Yes, they were papped in public, as most famous people are and Tim being such a hot commodity, we saw pics of them along over the time they dated. Which never truly followed the standard PR timeline of a showmance because they dated and were seen together long before promo for their film began. But what really got them was the fact they were seen so much together by fans when not being papped. They vaca'd together. Spent family holidays together and clearly had chemistry though they tried to deny, that was visible from space. And there was no reason for him to be in a rs like that. They didn't truly use it for promoting their film as they never acknowledged each other publicly, even when talking about the film. A passing mention but clearly avoiding. If they were trying to use it as a selling point for the movie, they would have at least had an official pic from the film together to play up that angle, but it never happened. So if he wasn't scamming to promo a film, then why was he scamming? Since they can't make the Charmie angle stick, they tried to make it about his sexuality, but no one but Charmies -and the few who want him to be gay for themselves to have a chance- actually question his sexuality. He booked The King and Dune and TFD long before he had shown himself to be 10000% heterosexual, even landing the roles because they had seen him play gay in CMBYN, which makes that excuse is null and void.

So, they rail against Tim because he doesn't participate as they need him to. His actions don't fit a Charmie reason to be seen as straight and they hate him for it.

#timothée chalamet #armie hammer

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knjnvrland · 4 years

Text

Prank Wars - ch.5

> pairing | jungkook x reader

> word count | 3k

> genre | college!au, fluff, smut, angst

> warnings | swearing, alcohol consumption

> synopsis | College can be a stressful time in anyone’s life as it is, why don’t we throw a little prank war in the mix to make it harder?

> fic masterlist

> A/N | English is not my first language, I’m sorry for the eventual spelling mistake, please let me know if you find any!

CHAPTER 5 - Yogurt

“Hey y/n, can I borrow a pen?” Jungkook was sitting across from you at the library, you just turned your case at him so he could grab whatever he needed.

There were a few of you studying for your exams on the shared table. Alice was already used to this new weird friendship between you and Jungkook, seeing as she met with you at the entrance of Yoongi's building the day she got back after your terrible date had happened, and you just ended up explaining everything to her, but the rest of the group was still very much confused and not really adapting to these new dynamics.

Every time you and Jungkook had any type of friendly interaction, a weird look would be exchanged between the boys who happened to be near, this time it was Namjoon and Jimin. Namjoon was actually studying for a test, while also helping you out with yours, seeing as he still had his notes from when he took that class, but Jimin was just hiding out from Hoseok, as the older one had been texting him for hours now wanting to have an extra rehearsal that day.

“Why is Hobi texting the group chat asking where you are?” Alice was taking a break on her phone.

“I swear to god if any of you rat me out our friendship is over” Jimin’s desperation was made clear in the tone of his voice, and none of you dared to contradict him.

“Why can’t you just tell him you’re tired today?” You asked, pushing your laptop away from you to rest your eyes for a bit.

“Or maybe just tell him the true” Jungkook added “we can’t put up with his shit anymore” he then found a pack of gun in your case and took one out, not really asking if he could, and extending another one to you, which you took gladly. Jimin looked weirded out by the small interaction again, but didn’t say anything.

“He helped me out a lot last year, I can’t do this to him” he dropped his face on the table with a sight.

“But you also have a lot to do, just tell him the truth” you insisted “besides you can’t keep this up for long, he’s coming to meet me here in a few” at that both boys across from you widened their eyes.

“fuck, where can we hide?” Jungkook was already gathering his stuff.

“wait, you’re also hiding from him?” Jimin was quick to follow.

“Yeah, I told him I had a dentist’s appointment, now hurry, he can be here any second” Jungkook was already putting back his coat and grabbing his stuff.

“you can hide at the studio, I’m going there now, I can let you in” Alice took her chance to scape the extra studying she was supposed to be doing, and started packing her stuff.

“will Yoongi be cool?” Jungkook stopped his frenetic getaway moves. Ever since his prank, and specially after Yoongi heard what came after with your date, he was banned from the studio. Yoongi even went as far as changing the password for the front door, and refused to help Jungkook out with the music classes he was taking on the side, even though he promised he would.

“Yeah, we’ll grab him food on the way there, I can help you out, he was talking about needing you this past week anyway, this might as well be your best shot” Alice started moving to the door without looking back, and the boys shared a look before following her. They were halfway out when Jungkook turned around and ran back to you, dropping the pen he just borrowed in front of you and giving you a quick peck on the top of your head while saying a barely understandable ‘thanks’, you couldn’t even respond and he was already gone again.

Your brother gave you the weirdest look, at which you only rolled your eyes and slammed your notebook shut. “let's go to Jin’s, I need coffee, I’ll explain everything there”.

“Wow ok I wish I knew all that a couple days ago when I bumped into Ray” Namjoon was beside you at a small table in the corner of your older brother’s cafe.

“It's honestly not that big of a deal” you sipped on your latte, wishing it was still as warm as when you got it. The story took longer to tell then you expected because of the thousand questions Namjoon interrupted you with. “If anything it helped me realize that Jungkook is not that bad”

“Of course he’s not that bad” Jin took the empty chair across the two of you “but why is he not that bad, again?”

“oh my god it’s such a long story, ask Joon to update you later” you grabbed one of the scones he sat in front of you and took a bite “hmm that’s actually the best one so far”. It was becoming routine for whenever you dropped by, you’d be forced to try a new recipe.

“Right? I told Alice this was the best one, but she insists on arguing the pecan one is what should be on the menu.” He took a piece of it as well “see? It’s great! I’m a genius!” That being said, he stood up and disappeared to the kitchen again, only to pop his head back out “I haven’t forgotten about Jungkook, once these cookies are ready I’m coming back out and want to hear everything about it!”. You rolled your eyes and Namjoon dismissed him, the two of you being used to the gossipy side of your older sibling.

“As I was about to tell you” Namjoon continued “if you ever need anyone to beat him up-“

“I’ll ask Jin” you completed, and although annoyed, Namjoon couldn’t really contradict, you all knew that Seokjin was the one who putted more hours in his working out and was definitely the strongest of your friend group. “but no one is getting beat up, let’s just forget he ever existed”.

“It’s your call” Joon finished his iced americano in a gulp “but you and JK are good, right?”

“Yeah, I think we’re friends. The morning after I slept over I woke up to him making me scrambled eggs, I can’t really stay mad after that”. It was true, you woke up really confused, not knowing where you were, but your sense of smell was the one to remind you, first with the peach scent all around you, and then with the smell of fresh breakfast. You were surprised to see Jungkook at the kitchen, specially because he never helped when all of you got together to cook, and the sight of him in an apron, in front of the stove, humming softly to himself, was an image that warmed your heart and you couldn’t shake off of your head ever since.

“I’m glad, we were all starting to worry how far the pranks would go, Tae even started a bet” he chuckled “the strange thing is that he betted on you” at that you laughed out loud. The thought of Taehyung siding with you was not a frequent one on your mind. You were about to ask Namjoon what the actual bet was, when Jimin bursted through the doors of the cafe, startling a couple of girls in the table by the entrance.

“You!” Jimin pointed your way, and took four steps, if much, to cross the whole cafe and stand beside the table “You’re going to help me”.

“What now?” You were already dreading your next task. The last time Jimin requested your help with such urgency you had to pretend that you were his jealous girlfriend to get him out of a horrible date.

“Jungkook. I must kill him” he was out of breath as if he ran all the way to the coffee shop as he plopped himself down on the empty chair your older brother was just in a few minutes earlier.

“Ok I can’t deal with this again” Namjoon shoved the rest of his croissant down his throat “leave Jungkook alone” you could barely understand him, but you figured out what it was, as he took his book and moved to sit on the counter where Jin was now finishing up a few orders.

“I don’t know if you realized, but our war is over” you clarified to Jimin “no more pranks for me”.

“Oh but it isn’t” Jimin stole the rest of the scone you still had in front of you “your new bff-“

“not my bff” you interrupted.

“whatever!” Jimin was clearly not up for the banter. “that asshole that we let hang out with us sold me out to Hoseok and I just spent the last hour of my life filling up his and Taehyung’s place”

“and my brother is not the target here because…?” You stole back the final bite of your food.

“because he set me up with a freshman last week and I swear to god it was the best head I've ever-“

“ew okay TMI! How many dates can you even fit in your schedule?” You were honestly impressed.

“not important” he then tried to steal a sip of your latte and you just gave it all to him. It was cold anyway. “the point is, I want blood -or at least some very public form of humiliation- and I need your help”

You rolled your eyes but you knew that you could never say no to Jimin. “okay, what do I have to do?”.

You were outside the boy’s changing room. Every Monday and Wednesday you had running practice, and every single time you ended up bumping into Jungkook as he went to his swimming practice. It was so routine that you never even acknowledged it. But Jimin noticed it, apparently, as he texted you your sign.

Chim Chim: yogurt You: ? Chim Chim: that’s the sign You: you could’ve just said that Chim Chim: just go ffs You: ok ok You: but if I get caught You: you’re paying for my food for a month Chim Chim: just fucking go omg

You tucked your phone inside the pocket of your hoodie and carefully opened the door. You could listen the sound of the showers running, and a few boys talking on the room next door, but there was no one on sigh. You tiptoed your way to locker number 10 -of course his number would be 10- and was about to unlock it with the numbers scribbled down your hand when you noticed it was open. What an idiot, honestly. The door cricked as it opened and you stopped breathing, afraid anyone could hear it. But no, all the human noises still came from de other room. You opened the bag you had with you and quickly began shoving everything in the locker inside it. After a few seconds pondering -you couldn’t spend that much more time in there anyway-, you retrieved his bucket hat and his car keys, putting those back into the locker and closing it without locking it back, as if you were never even there.

Once you were out of there, you finally released the breath you were holding in, and texted Jimin to let him know it was done. Then you made your way outside the building to meet up with the rest of the dancers that were waiting in the cafeteria across the entrance of the gymnasium.

“How did it go?” Taehyung was sipping on a soda can, while Hoseok scrolled through his phone and Jimin looked at you expectantly.

You set your bag on the table and opened it, revealing every single one of Jungkook’s itens of clothing, as well as his phone, wallet and house keys. “I left behind his car keys” you pointed outside the window, to a car parked up front that you knew was his “and his hat” you smiled triumphantly and highfived the three boys, taking your empty seat again.

Now it was all a matter of time as the three of you patiently awaited for the show. It was about 5pm of a Monday, and the cafeteria, as well as that area of the campus, was fully packed. It took longer than any of you anticipated, as you watched while Jungkook’s friends left the building laughing, but with no sign of the younger man. You were typing away an idea for a short story in your phone when you heard Jimin’s loud laugh beside you, startling you. Soon enough, everyone near you was laughing, as they all looked outside to a, you guessed, very naked Jungkook streaking across the street with only his hat covering what he could manage to cover with it, and car keys in hand.

Just as he unlocked his car, right before he got in and away from all the stares, jokes and, surely, people photographing his ass, he looked straight at your table -straight at you. You smiled apologetic and could see a glint of something in his eyes, although you could not understand what that meant. As Jungkook drove away, the three remaining boys congratulated you and each other once again, and Jimin stood up with Jungkook’s things to drive to the younger boy’s place and give it all back. Jimin had his fun, but he was not a terrible enough person to leave someone at our day and age more than a few hours without their phone. Besides, how could Jungkook check out the pics already being posted all over social media without it?

Once again, you felt a bit bad, but it didn’t last long as when you were leaving the cafeteria, you could already hear a group of girls sitting by the register commenting on Jungkook’s physique, and you could tell that the whole scene that took place minutes before would only bust up his reputation. You could understand why, the amount of sports the kid did really were showing, but just before you could let your imagination run too wild, your phone rang with a twitter notification. Yup, definitely a reputation booster. Jungkook would have to thank Jimin, after all.

The last few weeks of the semester went by fast, and soon enough your last week of classes was here. You had just left Hoseok final performance, the one that Jungkook, Jimin and Tehyung had been practicing with him, and went out to grab a few commemorative drinks. You were all a bit tipsy by them, with Jimin and Taehyung leaving the group table to dance and Namjoon off somewhere with a girl. The rest of you still on the table were making small talk to the best of your ability, trying to ignore the loud music coming from all around you.

“I’m going to get another beer, anyone want anything?” Jin stood up first, and all of you nodded, agreeing on another round.

“I’ll go with you” you had to stand up to let Hobi pass, and that’s when you noticed the whole room spin around.

“Careful there” Yoongi held your arm, giving you support and helping you sit down again.

“Someone already had too much” Alice teased and you glared at her general direction, not really being able to focus.

“I can’t believe I agreed to this” you had your last big final in a couple of days, and could already tell the next one would be lost on you, you were never good at studying after a night out.

“We can go home now sweets” Alice extended her hand to hold yours across the table “I can’t have a late night today anyway” she turned to Yoongi to give him a pack on the lips, and then motioned you to stand up with her. Jungkook ended up helping you out, but you were not that drunk that you couldn’t walk straight, it just took you a while to get used to the change from sitting to standing. You locked arms with Alice while she ordered an Uber, and the two of you made your way to the front door.

Yoongi and Jungkook watched as you left, and soon after Jin and Hoseok came back with the drinks.

“Where did they go?” Jin took his sit back by Jungkook.

“They left” Yoongi took a sip of the fresh beer in front of him “y/n was drunk and Alice has to wake up early”

“Well, more for us then” the three man clinked their bottles and were about to chug them down when something buzzed under Hobi’s butt “what the-“ he took your phone from under him, which was buzzing with some unknown number on it “someone forgot their phone”.

“It’s y/n’s” Jungkook recognized your case straight away. It was a simple transparent one, but you had the habit of pressing flowers in the middle of your books, and then using them to decorate everything you own. And there it was, in between your phone and the case, a small turquoise dry flower. “I can drop by to hand her tomorrow” he extended his hand, but Hoseok was hesitant to give it away.

“How can I trust that this is not another one of your pranks?” He moved the phone further away from his friend.

“How could it be if I didn’t even know she was going to forget her phone?” He stated the obvious, at which Yoongi agreed, motioning for Hobi to just give it away. "I spoke with Alice about dropping by tomorrow to do my laundry anyway, the last machine in our building broke a few weeks ago and I’ve been using theirs”.

“That’s convincing enough for me” he gave Jungkook the phone, and the boy tucked it in his front pocket after setting it to silent mode.

They kept drinking for a few more hours, but ended up having to carry Taehyung and Jimin out as the two boys were too drunk to walk properly, and the night ended with a lot of babysitting on the older guys side, with Jungkook disappearing as soon as he could, along with Hobi, and Namjoon never returning from his escapade, Yoongi stood around to help take them to Jin’s place and just spent the night there. Because of the confusion, however, they didn’t see the many missed calls from Alice’s phone the next morning, with you freaking out on the other side.

>A/N | not gonna lie I really love writing the pranks. Have a nice day, wherever and whoever you are :)

TAGLIST | @w1tchcraftt @girlwiththeglittereyeliner @teresaisla @nctssidehoe @kawaiimusiccollection @nininek12

TAGLIST IS OPEN

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #bts x you #college!bts #university bts #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #smut #fluff #angst #college!au #university!au #prank wars

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thebleuroseproject · 3 years

Text

Ludus

Name: Ludus

Nicknames: Many, but none that really stuck

Pronouns: They/Them, He/Him

Gender: Genderfluid

Sex: AMAB

Sexual Orientation: Marsic, but money is money.

Age: 23 (Lifespan 90-150 years)

Class/Status: Moderate. He gets by and has a little extra from time to time.

Physical Description:

Height: 6’5” | Weight: 10.5 stone

Ludus is wiry purple hellspawn with pupiless green eyes that can leave his face hard to read, as it’s hard to tell where he’s looking specifically. He’s hard to miss in a crowd, being tall, often covered in jewelry and clad in provocative clothing that colour-matches well with his skin. A prominent feature are his horns, small and neatly pointed; they curve around his skull elegantly, ending just a few inches in front of his forehead and sitting just above his browline like a sort of natural crown.They are a deeper purple than his skin, and are often covered in various tidbits of jewelry. His lips are naturally purple, only a little darker than his skin, but Ludus is rarely seen without black lipstick, as anyone with a true sense of style knows that this is peak fashion.

He looms over most people, with his intimidation showing not through his weight or size (because his ribs almost show through his chest) but through his cutting sarcasm and high perception when it comes to people, which some do fear him for. He isn’t afraid to get into people’s personal space when he wants to - which can leave many feeling unnerved, either by the lack of space, the headiness of the scent he wears or by physical attraction to him.

His physicality could still be seen as intimidating in some ways, as it’s clear there is some muscle behind those legs. Where one would expect those legs to end in feet, as they do on MOST humanoids, they instead end in a very solid pair of hooves inset with gold filigree - which look to be very painful if one was to be kicked by them.

There is no beauty without pain, and while Ludus has no tattoos (they don’t always match with their clothes), he has plenty of piercings from his ears to the tip of his pointed tail which he puts in or takes out to match with his current style. His thick black hair is shaved into a mohawk and grown from there, often braided and intertwined with yet MORE jewelry and dip dyed in a bright colour of their choosing. Like every part of Ludus’ body, it is cared for meticulously with an efficient routine. Only the best to look the best, he doesn’t care where it came from. If he needs to kill a puppy for good skin cream, then to the dog house Ludus shall go.

Quirks: Despite his best efforts, Ludus cannot stop chewing his nails. He often does it unconsciously and then becomes angry at ruining his own manicure. As a result, his nails are always short which is just as well really - it’s best they are to avoid any unnecessary injury in his line of work. Hellspawn nails, or rather claws at a certain point, can get VERY sharp. Aside from this, Ludus is a very clean individual - a very important habit as a sex worker.

Ludus ALWAYS buys gold jewelry but keeps (and wears) any he is given regardless of colour. He doesn’t mind silver, but in his opinion it doesn’t pop as much as gold does on purple skin.

He doesn’t have a phobia of anything as far as he knows - but he hasn’t exactly gotten out enough to find or SEE a lot of things to be scared of and is drunk most of the time due to his alcohol dependence. One thing he will flinch at occasionally, is someone raising their hand that he interprets to hit him. It’s a reflex at this point, and he hates it but isn’t sure how he can train it out of himself.

Morality: Neutral - “You do you and I’ll do me - unless I want something from you, or you’re being a shithead to something I personally care about.”

{Art by Kerry}

Personality

Strengths/Weaknesses:

Strengths: Perceptive, Bold, Enthusiastic

Ludus, despite his lack of a formal education, is a very quick learner - although this mostly applies to things of a sexual nature. They will learn very quickly how you like your blowjobs, or what exactly to say to get the job done as it were. His line of work has led him to be flexible and open minded in more ways than one, a fact they are very proud of. It's also given him an excellent fashion sense, although it does lean heavily into sexual wear.

When it comes to his work and his skin care routine, they are extremely diligent - and perhaps with the right call to adventure, this could be applied to other areas of their life.

For the most part, Ludus is reliable. If you need something done that fits in with his schedule and that he agrees with, he'll get it done. It can be difficult to negotiate with him, but 95% of the time, they're easygoing. The other 5% is when they’ve lost their temper - or when they’re paid to be the dominant or similar.

This easy going nature really does show in Ludus' enthusiasm and lust for life. They are ALWAYS down to party or throw down, and this energy can be very infectious in others. This doesn't mean that Ludus is loud and bouncing off the walls, but he’s definitely the type to have a small crowd around him at a table. He’ll often go with the flow and the desires of the group - but if uninterested, he will just leave. There’s no chance of them slipping away after all, so Ludus will just state his disinterest and take his leave if it’s something he’s not in the mood for.

Ludus is also bold, he is not scared to do what needs to be done (in his opinion - which can lead to trouble). They have NO shame or concern for their well-being or social grace, he grew up as a despised minority in a brothel after all - but please, don't punch the face.

Despite this mostly fast paced lifestyle, mostly given to him by his work, Ludus CAN be caring and does know when the party needs to stop. If he sees someone in trouble or someone that's clearly overworked and/or tired - he will slip them a mug of water or something to help them along. He often did this for his co-workers at the Lupanar, it has almost become second nature to help those struggling from fatigue or hangover.

Weaknesses: Insecure, Impulsive, Complacent

Ludus is not very forthcoming with his emotions due to his insecurity, and this shows through his flirting outside of work, which could be taken as platonic or sexual. He is bold, but he doesn’t think he’s worthy of actual love, and protects himself by being somewhat of a shy tsundere when it comes to people they like. They will help someone (eg, carry them to bed if they fall asleep somewhere) but will never admit to actually doing so.

This insecurity has led to a tendency to stagnate and just accept abusive relationships and situations as their lot. This has led to slow processing of trauma, and the unhealthy handling of it via the consumption of alcohol like it was water. Despite being a functional alcoholic, he is still a lightweight due to how little he eats, combined with his slim frame. As a result, Ludus is actually drunk most of the time, but you would find it hard to tell due to his experience in being drunk and due to the fact he is absolutely just as bold when he is sober.

He can be kind, but the side that shows most is the one that is judgmental and critical of others which leads to him running his mouth at the wrong time. You would think he would learn after getting hit at the bar/brothel every time he did so, but he doesn’t. He sees it as part of his ‘charm’, some clients like a challenge after all and he sees it as an integral part of his identity - one that he will never let go.

In spite of having a bold and outlandish personality - Ludus is not a leader. He loves parties, but he is not the type to plan them, purely because he is uninterested in the effort that it takes. He brings his ass and the wine, which is all he and anyone else needs (in his opinion). In non party situations, the lack of desire to lead due to effort remains. He’s no babysitter - he would just prefer to point out what’s wrong and let others fix it - rather than having to fix it himself. No one wants to be that sucker in the group project that ends up doing everything after all.

Skills:

Self taught makeup artist

Knows first aid.

Dances wonderfully

Decent pickpocket

Can use a knife as a weapon - their fighting almost looks like dancing.

Can tie all sorts of knots.

Has the ability to give almost anyone a makeover.

Good bartender, excellent mixologist, amazing dancer (modern).

Education: Ludus has never had a formal education, having been working from a very young age. Of course, his coworkers felt an obligation to teach him the basics (reading, speaking, basic numeracy) as well as skills required for the role (dancing, basic sewing, self defence)

His bardic powers were found by accident in his youth - and he doesn’t know too much about them or the extent of their abilities - he finds knives do the job in most situations. Ludus is very materialistic and prefers things he can see; he would need guidance to really start to focus on magic.

His intelligence comes from his love of gossip and people watching. They spend a good portion of time gathering information by loose lips either in public or the bedroom, and Ludus is often amazed at what people tell complete strangers.

Likes/Dislikes: In their spare time, Ludus can often be found at a bar. They love the taste of alcohol, especially STRONG sweet and fruity drinks. You’d NEVER catch them with an ale or similar unless they were paid handsomely to drink one. His casual drink is a GOOD red wine though, as they’re a bit of a wine snob and he always makes sure to stock up on bottles where he can.

(Fantasy note: Ludus would most likely have an unending flask of his favourite red wine.)

Since he isn’t a fan of eating unless he needs to, Ludus’ preferred side dish with his wine is a good old bitchy gossip. He loves hearing other people tell him about their lives and bitch about their problems, it fuels him somehow, makes his problems feel smaller - just for a little while.

When he’s not drinking and/or gossiping, Ludus is probably shopping. They love looking at clothes and perfume. He’s a fan of deep heady scents, such as jasmine and he likes people around him to be entranced in one way or another, as it’s easier to get what you want that way.

Ludus has learned to love certain parts of his work, even in his free time - he does enjoy good recreational sexual acts or even as a work around to get past certain people barring his path from certain things. In Ludus’ opinion, if you have a resource like money, make sure to use it.

There are other aspects of his work that he does not tolerate while off the clock, and one of these is rude clients - he is a gossipy bitch and a bit of a ‘mean girl’, so he does expect rudeness to be directed at him BECAUSE of this, but if there is no reason then Ludus will lose his temper very quickly. Being rude to those providing you a service or to someone you’ve just met is abhorrent, an attitude that has mainly developed not from rudeness towards him, but from the protectiveness he feels towards fellow sex workers. Ludus EXPECTS to be slapped and then to charm the slapper anyway, but the same treatment should not be given to workers just doing their job. He has no fear of any kind of bigotry, and will happily challenge anyone who doesn’t think his sexuality is ‘right’.

He’s also not a fan of anyone who doesn’t think or do anything for themselves, as they remind him of himself in the past before he realised the truth of his situation, and now this quality in others repulses him. This attitude has now resulted in Ludus doing things by himself as much as possible to the point where he rarely asks for help - even when it may be needed.

Childhood/Backstory:

Ludus was born a hellspawn to two highly religious humans, who were immediately appalled by what they had produced, as hellspawn were seen as an extremely bad omen, especially when brought into the world this way. He was immediately sold to the only person that would take him, the local brothel owner known as ‘The Wolf’, who “raised” them and set them to work in the brothel far, far earlier than they should have.

To keep Ludus, the Wolf kept a close eye on what Ludus learned and knew, forbidding them to ever leave the establishment due to hatred of his species and that he, as his guardian, had ‘saved’ them, rather than it being a rather cruel and illegal transaction. Ludus does not remember anything about their parents, and has no interest in ever knowing them after knowing what they did. He assumed the Wolf knew best, and followed his every order and command. Ludus knew no life outside of the Lupanar and didn’t need to - here they were lavished with many gifts from many appreciative ‘sugar’ clients and praised for being pretty. It was true that he was beaten occasionally, isolated outside of clients, and had to do things he didn’t want to do sometimes - but wasn’t that just life? Here, Ludus had everything he needed.

As a result of this lifestyle, Ludus became very materialistic and became obsessed with the things that earned him praise: his body and skill. After all, the prettier they looked, the less they got hit and abused because after all, people wouldn’t want to hurt such a pretty face. He became dedicated to dance practice and his skincare routine, and obsessed with what he ate for fear of getting fat - so he rarely ate at all - but drinking was often just part of the job. When he was being difficult, the Wolf would often get him drunk or drug him, so that the client could be satisfied. Ludus was assured that this was for ‘his own good’.

The Wolf and his coworkers were the only family he had, and while not all the other workers were complacent in their treatment - they had no choice. Bound by magical contract, blackmail or under similar delusions as Ludus, they were a tightly knit group who took it upon themselves to help and teach each other. This group was the closest Ludus ever had to a school, from them he learned to dance, to have sex, to read, to write, to sing and to defend themself when required with knives or information. The Wolf kept a close eye on all this learning, making sure Ludus believed he could never work or be anywhere else. It wasn’t safe, he was too stupid, he was only good here - so Ludus stayed.

It took many years for Ludus to build up the desire as well as the courage to rebel, and it was for the reason that there must be better wine out there. At age fifteen, they started to sneak out and rebel a little, frequenting other bars and offering their services and their discretion rather than the Wolf’s. While there he often got drunk and told his stories, to the horror of most who heard them. A child doing such things, and to sound happy about it, was horrific to witness firsthand.

Ludus was taken aback at these reactions as they told him what was done to him was wrong, abusive, illegal even!

No, that couldn’t be true…

With the seed of doubt sown, Ludus started to worry about his situation, but didn’t know how he could possibly leave a job he flourished in as well as his family. All he could think of was to gather information from clients, a task he had already been assigned to do by the Wolf. Sex workers were one of the ears of the city and their clients often had loose lips, or were persuaded to have them with pleasurable means. Ludus now started to hoard some of this information for himself, learning anything he could that could possibly be useful for an escape. Blackmail, ships, people of interest - anything he could find. He still had to tell the Wolf enough to satisfy him, but now Ludus did not tell him everything. Stealing spell books from clients and discovering that through his dancing, he could manipulate magic, he honed his talents in secret.

It took many years for an opportunity to arise and for Ludus to feel comfortable enough to leave. He started to distance himself from the other workers - passing it off as being too busy or too tired from work, but it was really just to make the ‘goodbye ‘ easier. On the week of the harvest festival, at the age of 22, Ludus disguised himself and “persuaded” the head of a large entertainment (the music and dancing kind) to hide him in their trailers so he could smuggle out of the city with a nary a word to anyone. He needed to leave the Lupanar at all costs.

While travelling to the next town - he met a couple people he liked and has so far stuck with them, although he is now developing the thick skin some of his other ex colleagues had and not getting too attached to anyone. Being on the outside and talking about his past is continuing to teach him the depths of the evil done to him, and he is not coping well. His trauma response so far has been to drink even more and in order to regain control over his body, he has taken to hypersexuality to do his old work on HIS terms alone.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t ask for help and often will push people away with a stubborn “I can do it myself” or “I don’t need help” which has led to a lot of trouble and members of the troupe having to drag him out of it. Ludus is strong though, and he staggers (metaphorically) along as best he can, determined to overcome his past.

Profession: Sex Worker | Dancer | Bard

Relationships:

The Lupanar

Ivellios | ‘The Wolf’ | Male High Elf | Age ??? | Max Lifespan: Around 750 years, presumably.

Ivellios ‘The Wolf’ - A High Elf Wizard that was disgraced from his settlement and family due to his dabblings in the slave trade. He decided to continue this work regardless, branching out into the sex industry. Starting small, he bought others and made them work for little profit until he could purchase a large building in a major city, naming it the Lupanar and really spreading his wings as a pimp that specialised in magical contracts. Ludus was sold to him after he had owned this building for twenty years, having quickly made a name for himself through this brothel. He raised Ludus for his own means with a combination of emotional, mental and physical abuse, forbidding his little toy from leaving the establishment and closely monitoring what Ludus consumed from outside those walls, shaping them into the perfect sex worker. He never thought Ludus would need a contract to stay but underestimated his quarry massively.

Kuqi | Stripper Name: Cookie | Female Goblin | Age 18 | Max Lifespan: Around 60 years

“Come and get your milk and kuqi’s!”

Kuqi ran away from her clan at age 5 (middle aged for an average goblin) before she had to mate with a variety of goblins she really didn’t like. Goblins usually live and die quickly, and there were not many of her clan left so as one of the remaining females, Kuqi was expected to be a brood queen to get the clan back to full strength. Unfortunately for the clan, Kuqi wanted something better, and so she ran away, eventually arriving at the city the Lupanar was based at. Ivellious was amused by her plight and so took her on as a worker at her request - the conditions of her contract being that as long as she continues to work, she gets bed, board and birth control and as a bonus - a longer lifespan than the average goblin.

Ludus was ten when she arrived, and the two have an odd relationship due to the drastically different age rates of their species, and arguably their heights as well. The relationship fluctuated from little sister to maternal figure for Ludus, and back in their youth they got into all sorts of trouble, both having a strong streak of mischief in them. He misses her terribly some days, but knows she wouldn’t leave the Lupanar as she is VERY grateful to Ivellios and LOVES her work.

Mival | Stripper Name: Angel | Male Aasimar | Age: 60 | Max Lifespan: Around 160 years

Born into a superstitious and mostly human community, Mival was revered strongly as a blessing and a saviour for their small village. He was commanded to do all sorts of petty tasks - ones he found hard to refuse with his polite and mild mannered self. As he grew older, the pressure grew on him - and eventually, he cracked. At age 17, he ran away to the city and he found himself with no shelter, no job, no long term means of survival. But he was very pretty, and a brothel was looking for workers. With no long term goals in mind and wishing to hide from his village - Mival made a pact with Ivellious. In exchange for his service, Merval would be hidden from the village and the people there. Of course, he can leave if he wishes, but his old village isn’t far from the city and he’s not hard to miss with his stark white hair that almost glows in the light. Not knowing what else he could do, Mival stayed.

As one of the first workers hired for the Lupanar, he was age 37 by the time a baby Ludus arrived in Ivellios’ arms. Horrified at Ludus’ treatment, but bound by contract to stay, he did the best he could to be a proper father figure to Ludus. Despite being asked to by a variety of clients, he never touched Ludus sexually and even was known to lose his rarely seen temper when pestered about it. He’s a gentle man, living up to his alias and race and there is not a day where Ludus doesn’t feel like he’s disappointed him during his struggle. A little of Ludus’ strength comes from the gentle faith that this man placed upon him.

Haze | Stripper Name: Haze | Agender Changeling | Age: 55 | Max Lifespan: Around 100 years

Haze is a mysterious figure whose past is unknown, but arrived at the Lupanar at age 32, covered in blood and looking for work… or as they put it..’something better to do’. Ivellios doesn’t like hiring anyone without a contract, but made an exception for a Changeling who he knew would make him a LOT of money in this business and that he could always get dirt on them for a contract later. To this day he hasn’t succeeded in getting Haze to sign anything, and it’s driving him to new levels of repressed rage.

Ludus was 16 when Haze arrived, but Haze had a tendency to keep their distance from everyone - despite being extremely charming while they worked. Haze’s ability is where Ludus got the idea to disguise himself to leave and he often finds himself wondering who Haze is and where they came from.

The Moondroplet Entertainment Company

The M.E.C is full of hundreds of entertainers, but Ludus travelled in the same trailer as these two and so often pairs with them as their dancer to make their performances more visually interesting. Each split off troupe has a quota to make each day and with Ludus’ “extra services”, his group surpasses that easily, and the three of them get on well enough although Henk and Ash have known each other for about four years.

Henk | Flute Player | Male Orc | Age: 28 | Max Lifespan: Around 75 years

Henk was previously a nomadic tribal orc, but was ostracized from his tribe due to a gentler nature than the rest of his species. One day, while out scouting for food he saw the line of trailers and caravans and saw an opportunity to leave his tribe for good. It took some time to convince them he came in peace, but eventually after a few days of camping nearby they allowed him to camp with the rest of the troupe even later, join them. He learned to play the flute by shaving his tusks - and now regularly makes a habit of doing so or removing them for better airflow. When people meet him, they are surprised by his gentle nature and his excellent flute playing.

Ashley/Ash | Lyre Player | Female Fire Genasi | Age: 26 | Max Lifespan: Around 120 years

You can’t miss Ash, she’s loud, proud and will bowl you over with her sound. The lyre player of the three, her playing is filled with fast, energetic melodies that Henk struggles to keep up with and Ludus relishes dancing to. Ludus and Ash bounce off each other very well, their banter often inducing a laugh out of their audiences on the streets and she’s even known to stoke a rare smile from Henk sometimes.

Ash rarely talks about her childhood, preferring to focus on the present with a crass and blunt attitude - but she does talk about her supportive, ex adventuring mother who told her to chase her dreams of being a musician. She regularly sends money back home to support her mother in her old age but curiously, does not speak of her father - who is rumoured to be a Fire Efreeti.

Location: ????

Previous: ‘The Lupanar’ - a large and well known brothel, owned by an elf known as ‘The Wolf, who has been in the business for many years.

Religious Beliefs: DND: Would most likely be a fan of a Dionysian type god, such as The Moonweaver. If there are no tangible gods like there are in DND, he would not give a toss. Money and himself are their gods then.

Goals:

1) To start living their life for them.

2) Finding other things to enjoy.

3) Learn to interact and bond with people outside of a sex work setting.

Other | Trivia

CANON VOICE: Toddrick Hall. Singing and Speaking. (was Alaska Thunderfuck)

Character influences: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Angel Dust, Irene Adler

Physical Afflictions: N/A

Mental Illnesses: Body dysmorphia, PTSD

COMPLETE LIST OF PIERCINGS:

Ears, both sides: Earlobe x4, Helix x4, Industrial, Tragus

Nose: Nose piercing, stud on each side. High Nostril, stud on each side, Septum.

Face: Eyebrow Piercing, one on both sides. (he wears the left the most.)

Lips: Snakebites, Medusa

Tongue: NONE - he has so many things in his mouth going in and out it’s dangerous.

Genital: Frenum ladder.

Tail: Eight, four on each side. Often studs, sometimes rings.

Other: Nipple (both), Hip, Collarbone, Naval.

He’s an aspect of me: Ludus is a fragment of me, specifically the part of my sexuality I can’t express because I’m not brave or attractive enough - so I made a character that was. He also got my eating issues from my youth, I didn’t eat sometimes because I didn’t want my father and brother to mock my cooking or what I was eating or because I just simply didn’t have the energy. I personally still have body issues but I’ve largely given up because I don’t want to exercise in a gym or people to look at me. Ludus is essentially made partially of a person I wish I could have been, mixed with my own repression. They’re their own person though, but they’re very close to my heart.

Ludus dances because I find good dance beautiful, it’s one of my favourite youtube rabbit holes I go down. He was made almost exactly a year and two months after a traumatic event, and I’m not sure if he’s a response to that yet. I think he’s mainly a repression response.

He’s attracted to power and people puppet masters but he knows they’re bad for him. Actual kindness is what he wants, to be someone's pet yet valued for who he is as an individual.

Intimidates others for power - Think IRENE ADLER

But they’re still mostly a sub and have to know they want something first, which is rare because he still doesn’t know what he wants.

He developed blackmail as a way to keep himself safe in the bar because no one else was gonna do it for him and it’s not like he could work anywhere else (well, that’s he was trained to believe).

Rarely shouts.

Can sing.

Urban Fantasy Setting Notes: His phone is black but usually has a bright pink bedazzled phone case with a pop socket. He adores it. Plays guitar in private (prefers acoustic - gentle vibes). Probably interested in learning piano. Has an OnlyFans and NSFW twitter under LEWDICROUS.

Fantasy Setting Notes: Dance bard. Fond of using daggers. Rogue /bard?

The Moondroplet Entertainment Company is indeed named as a nod to The Fletching and Moondrop Traveling Carnival of Curiosities.

The lipstick comment “but Ludus is rarely seen without black lipstick, as anyone with a true sense of style knows that this is peak fashion” is absolutely a Homestuck, specifically a Kanaya reference, well, as close as I could get.

He was named on 27/07/2019 which is his sort of birthday, and he was tangled in with the “essence” of Lux for the longest time - I thought they were the same person. The original character idea was a half gnome/half tiefling bard with purple skin, and gold teeth. They were an absolute gremlin, but I couldn’t hone in on them because there was just nothing there - and then over a year or so Lux and Ludus developed. Arguably him and Lux are twins (not story wise tho), which is an idea I quite like.

#character profile #original character #ludus

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