#*takes a long drag from a non-existent cigarette*

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

Fuck it, I need to stop drawing my favourite characters as if they were eyefucking the viewer.

FIRST ARNO.

NOW JACOB.

I NEED TO STOP DOING THIS TO MYSELF.

I CANNOT FOCUS PROPERLY.

Like.

We know you are one hell of a sensual gremlin, Jacob.

No freaking need to make it a point WHILE I AM DRAWING YOU.

[kierahn]

FUELED BY HATE. [ academic rival x m ! reader ]

summary : you were the best in your entire batch while he stays in second place. nick initially thought that the rivalry between you and him would end after graduating, but it seemed like fate had other plans. you recently joined his workplace and stole his spotlight once more. after years of being overshadowed, nick has had enough and decided to finally put you in your place; below him, right where you belonged.

content warning : blackmail ✧; character despises reader ✧; non/dubcon nsfw ✧; cigarette burns ✧; degradation

masterlist !

✩ i’m so sorry for disappearing for almost a year ! i recently started my first year of college, and things have been hectic for me so far. i'll try writing more often now that I've adjusted better :] ✩ this is a draft i left before i disappeared. i decided to refine it before working on newer stuff. ✩ i've also decided to clear out all the requests on my inbox since i want a fresh start. with that, my inbox is open for requests ! (still selective of what i'll write) ──★ ˙ ̟🪿 !!

➷ nick cromwell was a man who excelled in his studies. from the first day he entered the military academy, nick already knew that he was gifted. this easily earned him respect and admiration from the people around him.

but despite his decent reputation and academic performance, nick's name lingered solely in second place throughout the years, never surpassing the name above his.

➷ dark eyes glued themselves on the name tag that was sewn on the right side of your newly tailored uniform; y/n l/n, it read. seeing your name never failed to sour his mood.

you had joined his department just a couple of months ago, yet you rose to the top with ease and easily surpassed him once more. barely a month in, and you already managed to solve a missing person case that had long gone cold. it was a huge feat that set you on a path towards a promising promotion. one that nick highly sought after years of working his ass off.

➷ nick averted his gaze away from your form, a pang of irritation hitting him. he hated you— your voice, your presence, everything. he hated how you were better than him in every aspect.

you were always surrounded by your co-workers who depended on you for help despite being new. everyone seemed to look at you with stars in their eyes, filled with admiration. everyone except nick.

➷ the first day you joined his department, nick slipped out of the bustling room with a box of cigarettes in his hand. he placed one stick in between his lips while his other hand searched for his lighter only to find that it was missing. he brushed his dark locks back with an annoyed sigh. great.

just as nick turned to head back inside, a lighter greeted him out of nowhere, sparking to life and lighting his unlit cigarette. the sudden gesture made his heart skip a beat out of shock, but he was grateful for it nonetheless. nick took a deep drag of the now lit cigarette, directing his gaze to thank the owner of the lighter.

his expression hardened. y/n.

"cromwell," nick watched as you placed your lighter back inside your pocket. he stared, not bothering to hide his displeased expression.

did you remember him from military academy ? that's impossible, you were in different classes and had never crossed paths before. he doubted you knew about his existence.

after a long pause, nick exhaled a puff of smoke, deciding to snap out of his trance. holding the cigarette between his fingers, he returned the greeting. "l/n."

that was his first interaction with you after all those years. a face to finally match the name that had long stirred his competitive spirit.

➷ your feats only kept getting more and more impressive as time went on, and the sight of your constant success ignited something within nick. he knew he had to humble you, to remind you of your place. nick worked his ass off trying to get where he was, it wasn’t fair of you to take that away from him.

he had to be better than you this time even if he had to go the extra mile to ruin you.

he considered a couple of extreme measures: framing you for murder, planting drugs in your desk, or any other nefarious scheme that could tie you to wrongdoing. but, it wasn't enough for him to see you behind bars. that wasn't what he aimed for. he needed to completely ruin you— humiliate you so you wouldn’t dare to step out of line ever again.

it only took him a few drinks between 'friends' to have you all putty in his hands. he didn't expect you to be such a lightweight, but it was convenient for him to set his plan in motion. it wasn't an easy task dragging you around in your drunken state, but nick was satisfied with his work.

you were fully stripped of your uniform, both hands cuffed behind your back, black leather wrapped around your eyes, and a cloth between your lips to muffle whatever sound you were bound to make.

a tripod sat at the edge of the bed, a camera set up to capture your vulnerable state. all he had to do was take a picture and finish up, but that idea didn’t seem to satisfy him. it wouldn't be enough to make up for the years that you have overshadowed him.

nick monitored your unconscious form from across the dimly lit room. the cigarette that sat between his lips illuminated the lower half of his face, dark eyes reflecting the light of the burning cigarette. rising from the wooden chair he had nested himself in, nick stalked towards the bed where you laid unconscious. he placed his cigarette on an ash tray sitting on top of his bedside table. the camera's light illuminated a crimson red color, indicating that it was recording everything.

nick's gloved hand slowly traced a line down your exposed stomach, feeling you shudder slightly at his touch. your still breathing turned frantic the lower his hand slid down your torso. an unsuspected ghost of a smile crept up on nick’s lips as he watched you react to his touch. there was something about seeing you in such a humiliating position, all vulnerable and helpless.

perhaps this was where you rightfully belonged, below him.

his thumb glossed over your cheek as he stared down to study your sleeping face. now that he had a closer look at you, nick realized how good you actually looked. no wonder people liked you a lot, aside from being reliable, you were also a piece of candy for one’s eye.

his hand unconsciously found itself wrapped around the base of your cock, still soft and limp from the lack of stimulation. even this part of you looked good. he had every right to be jealous.

having initially planned to simply take photos and leave it at that, nick knew he had to improvise. he bent down and coated the tip of your cock with his spit. it helped his gloved hand glide smoothly up and down along your shaft.

your breath hitch in response, and that was when nick knew you were awake and could feel everything.

knowing this, nick quickened his pace, twisting and rubbing with the goal of making you finish in his hand. the gag around your mouth muffled your groans. with the way your cock hardened and twitched in his hand, nick could tell that your body liked his touch.

“who knew you were such a slut,” nick taunted. he noticed how you bit against the gag to suppress your moans, staining the cloth around your mouth with your saliva. “i wonder what our superiors would think if they saw you in this position ?” his other hand ripped the gag from your mouth. he wanted to hear what other noises you could make.

you open your mouth to question who he was, but nick took it as an opportunity to capture your lips in his. he tilted his head to the side to muffle your

this was all to humiliate you, nothing more. he inwardly told himself. but the strained feeling in his pants told a completely different story.

nick groaned as he felt you come undone, staining his hand white with your cum. he pulled away from the kiss, replacing his lips with his fingers as he let you have a taste of yourself. he pinched and pulled at your tongue, stretching the inside of your mouth with his fingers. he coated his fingers with your saliva, dark eyes watching you gag on his fingers.

nick pulled his fingers out of your mouth with a pop and let them hover your rim in a teasing manner. he pushed a finger past the ring of muscles despite your protest, holding you down by straddling your hips as you thrashed around. “shh, you’ll tire yourself out before i can even start.”

the sound of clothes shuffling reached your ears as nick pulled his trousers down with his other hand to free his hardened cock. he could see your chest rise and fall quickly, but you stayed surprisingly compliant. “you’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you ?” nick’s fingers continued to prod at your entrance, teasing you as he rubbed circles with his thumb on your gaping hole. “we can’t have that. you’ll have to beg for it first.”

you gritted your teeth at the thought of begging. there was no way you were going to— nick pushed his thumb inside, making you jolt as your walls clenched around the digit. a sharp groan escaped your lips that were slightly agape as you breathe heavily.

your cock painfully twitched at the lack of sensation. nick wiggled his thumb around inside you, but it still wasn’t enough to stimulate anything. “is that your dick ? pretty small for all that big talk.”

you decided to bite back and insult him. you weren’t going to beg for anything any time soon, instead, you would taunt him into doing what you wanted. hearing the male simply chuckle at your insult, nick pulled his thumb out of your hole and replaced it with his cock, its tip kissing your entrance. “you’re really asking for it. i knew you were a filthy whore underneath that professional bullshit you keep pulling on everyone.”

without warning, nick slammed himself inside. he groaned at the sudden tightness, hands holding you in place, a bruising grip on your hips. “shit, can’t you loosen up a bit ? you’re going to chop my dick off,” he growled, a slight rasp in his voice.

your hole swallowed him whole, dragging him deeper inside as he thrusted in and out of your abused hole. it took him a while to set an actual pace because of how your hole clenched tightly around his dick, but you did loosen up after a while. he made a mental note to prepare you properly next time

next time ?

nick pushed those thoughts away. this was a one time thing, he.. fuck.

nick tightened his grip on your hips out of frustration. he almost forgot why he was doing this in the first place, this was all to simply ruin you, nothing more. he reached out to grab his cigarette off the ash tray, placing it between his lips as he dragged one out to calm his nerves. ‘i shouldn’t be enjoying this,’ he inwardly scolded himself.

he exhaled, keeping the cigarette in between his fingers as he placed his palm against your bare stomach. ‘but, holy shit, how can i not enjoy this. his ass is swallowing my dick like it’s his last meal.’ nick grunted.

out of frustration, he dragged the butt of his cigarette against your bare stomach. you hissed at the burning sensation, your muscles tensing as you bit back a scream of pain. nick’s dark eyes examined the burn marks he had left in your skin, no longer feeling remorse. instead, his cock twitched at the sight of your pained expression.

he continued thrusting into you, your moans acting as a positive reinforcement for him to keep going. nick took the cigarette back to his lips, inhaled, and leaned down to slam his lips against yours. it tasted like ash as nick’s tongue intertwined with yours into a sloppy kiss. his pace eventually slowed down as he felt himself near his climax.

you were also close, whining against the kiss as he slammed into you one last time before he unloaded inside of you. he finished first, pulling away from the kiss and giving a few sloppy thrusts in order to help you finish. seeing your cock twitch and spur, nick pressed the cigarette butt against your tip. the pain from the scalding heat helped you finish, your cum putting out the cigarette’s light.

nick threw the cigarette onto the ashtray and pulled out of you, letting his finished work trickle down your thighs. he detached himself from you, removing his dirtied gloves as he approached the camera that continued to capture everything. “this should be enough to keep you in line.” he muttered under his breath as he ended the recording.

nick took the camera with him as he stalked back towards the bed where his finished work laid in display. the sound of a camera shutter reached your ears and a brief flash of light penetrated the blindfold around your eyes. “you look way better under me anyway.”

[watermelonshine]

PRETTY GIRLS

cassandra kiramman x fem!reader

part two of one that got away ; part three

cw: smoking, lowkey angst, you might start hating cassandra

"Oh come on you don't have to try it ever again, just this once. Do it for the experience! Nobody will even know." You said, while passing the cigarette to Cassandra. You two were standing in the balcony of your house, with you looking at the night sky and her leaning her back against the railing. Both of your parents had some dinner to go to. As much as they would like for you both to join them, Cassandra's parents insisted that both you had some 'girls time' together.

"I like my lungs clean with no traces of soot, thank you." She pushed away the cancer stick you held.

"You're going to one boring grandma, Cass."

"And you're gonna be one bad aunt. My kids will not be visiting you." She retorted. You tsked and took in a puff, "You can't even keep yourself away from me, pumpkin pie, let alone your non existent kids."

Cassandra stilled, you noticed. "What's up, pie? You okay there?" You asked, dropping the stick and crushing it with your shoes.

Fuck it, might as well do it.

"Pass it." She demanded, forwarding her palm. You smirked, she finally let herself a little loose. It took her about 20 years to do so.

Cassandra Kiramman, always at the top of her class and the valedictorian of her batch. Always the prim and proper one. Everything around her had to be in the order she wanted. She was a huge hater of surprises. She'll have not a single thing out of the their designated place. Diplomacy ran in her blood. She gained her early access to the Ionian Parliament through her outstanding negotiation skills and the undeniable influence of her family name. She always had the upper hand.

One thing she was never able to negotiate with, however, was her unrequited longing for you.

You somehow had the ability to put her underneath you with all your risky use, or atleast for her, of free will. You were always a bit of a rebel in high school, dabbling your toes into things that were not yet appropriate for your age back then. She was amussed and, though she'll never agree, jealous of your recklessness.

She was afraid. She was afraid that if she confessed and if you reciprocated, and if you stayed together, she would tie down your free spirit. She was afraid that if she confessed and you didn't reciprocate, and if you started hating her for it, she won't be able to live by herself. She was afraid of tainting your gaint wings with her ruthless diplomacy. But by Janna, did she want to be selfish for once.

You were always a piece in her puzzle she didn't know where to place. That night was the last chance for her to get to know whether she wanted you placed in her heart or amongst the faces of the people who stood far away from her.

She placed the cigarette between her lips while you lit it up with a lighter. She took in a big drag and immediately started coughing. "Ooo well that's a rookie mistake. Take in short puffs, Cass. The night's still young and this case is not running out anytime soon." You chuckled, shaking your cigarette case to show how much you got in them. Training for the armed forces was frustrating so you developed a habit of dipping your toes into different sorts of poisons to deal with the stress, blunts were easy to access so they stuck with you.

Cassandra took in another drag, this time slowly and a short one. Blowing out the smoke, she faced you and asked, "How cool do I look now?" You smiled, "Very cool." She looked so relieved, her shoulders were not as rigid as they used to be. There was a cathartic look on her face, the one she had not have on for a long time. There was something relaxing in watching the Kiramman heiress let go, even if it was just for tonight.

"And how about now?"

"What do you me-"

She took in another a puff before crashing her lips against yours. It was sudden. And it felt like time stopped. To feel her lips on yours have been something you'd been dreaming about for years. She breathed out when she pulled away, the smoke getting shared between you both. She brought her hands up and cupped your face, waiting for your response.

"Even cooler, pumpkin pie."

You grabbed her collar and smashed your lips on her, your arms wrapping around her neck with one hand gripping her hair. She kissed back hungrily, pressing you against her with her hand on your waist. All these years of pinning on each other, all these years of yearning for each other, it all came down to this one hungry kiss. And you both weren't stopping it there.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹

By the time you woke up, she had already left. The sight of the empty side of the bed felt like a punch in the gut. The warmth you shared with her the night before was replaced with the cold air that hit your bare body. The kiss, the night... It definitely meant something, didn't it? There's no way they can go back to the way things were. And that was exactly why you've been so afraid to make a move all these agonising years. You were afraid that one of you wasn't ready for a change in your relationship and from the looks of it, it seemed that Cassandra definitely wasn't. Why else would she leave before waking up you to say goodbye? Was she afraid of getting caught all tangled up with you by your parents? You were sure your parents would be okay with it. They knew you preferred girls and by how attached you both were, it wouldn't have been a surprise. Cassandra's parents were friends with your parents, so surely there wouldn't have been a problem with them.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹

"Cassandra darling, did you tell her? When I told her parents, they were absolutely ecstatic that you'll be taking such a huge step. Oh why, they even shed a few tears. You are like a daughter to them too." Cassandra's mother spoke, with her legs crossed and a cup of tea in her hands.

Cassandra thought she could slip her way into her room without attracting her mother's attention but unfortunately for her, all the women in their family had eagle sharp eyes. Those eyes reminded of her duty, the same eyes that stared back at her when she woke up that morning next to you and looked in the mirror.

She took a deep breathe in and sat infront of her mother. "Yes she... she was surprised when I told her, but was eventually happy. She didn't want to let go of me. I think... she'll miss me when I'll be gone for Piltover." She was playing with her fingers, the same fingers that got you off last night, while lying through her teeth. She could be selfish this one time, no?

"Well it's about time we send out the wedding invitations. Why don't you ask her to be your maid of honour?"

note: i warned ya 乁⁠|⁠ ⁠･⁠ ⁠〰⁠ ⁠･⁠ ⁠|⁠ㄏ

[loves-alibi]

john price x reader

summary: you ask John to do the last thing he’d ever want to do

tw: mention of dying in the military

*****

John Price who’s following the nasty footsteps of his family– a long line of men killed in the army, by their blind loyalty to the crown. John Price won't give up his job. John who knows that he’s not breaking the cycle– the curse. He won't suddenly be the first of many John Prices (because, of course they share a name) to see his fifties.

The same John Price who marries you. A non-military sweetheart. At first he thought you found it charming, brave of him to put his life down for the crown and for the world. You let him put a ring on your finger. You let his crew come to your intimate wedding (so intimate that your extended families aren’t invited). You let him disappear from your home for weeks on end, no contact, and welcome him back like it’s perfectly normal.

Then why are you so upset? Why are you standing before John on the morning of his deployment, tears in your eyes begging him, it’s time to retire.

He doesn't get it because it's all he's ever known. All the Prices have been cursed to ever know. You beg him to retire but you don't understand that he can't. That every fiber of his being will cease to exist if there isn't gunfire whizzing by his ear and someone calling him Captain. That John Price is fated to the same end that his father and his father before him and- hell -probably his father before him met. The Prices are simply born to serve.

He tries to help you understand. He gives you his mum's phone number, tells you to call her when you get lonely or worried on deployment. Call your mother? The woman widowed by war?

John cringes. The sun is peeking over the horizon. He needs to go and he tells you that. You crumble. Your hands tremble as they hold onto his chest, padded with layers of clothing and jackets. It's winter, when deployments are always the worst. It's only winter in half the planet, yet somehow John always ends up in the cold.

His thoughts pull him away from you, your heat, from the damp warmth of your breath to the molten tears streaking your face.

Please, John, you said, for me.

Give it up, for me.

Give up, for me.

Give up.

He leaves you for base. You whose picture John looks at a little more than usual during this deployment, and Simon Riley, who notices.

Simon Riley who sits next to John during his night watch. He pulls two cigarettes from his pocket and hands one to John, lighting it without a word. They’re in Siberia, of course. John’s been crying, but the bitter cold dries his tears before they can leave his eyes.

"Pretty bird," Simon says, gesturing his hand to the picture in John's hand. John's thumb brushes over the curve of your cheek. "Lovely bird."

John's fingers twitch, ready to refold the picture. Simon notices and places a calm hand on John's wrist.

"She's making me retire," John blurts.

"That true?" Simon muses, taking a drag like he knows it’s not. Frankly, he does know. John’s his longest friend, and Simon can read him like a book. "I didn't know that was possible, giving you orders.”

“Neither did I.”

Simon puts a hand on his shoulder, “Why don’t you head in? I’ll take watch.”

John goes inside wordlessly. He heads to the bathroom and in the mirror he sees the face of his father. He’s always looked scarily like his old man, down to their idiotic facial hair. John grew it out like him in his twenties, when he was finally able to grow more than pubescent scrap. Now, with a fuller beard and duller eyes, he’s more similar to his father than young John ever thought possible. His father— a man who never had the privilege of going gray. Sure, he died a few years older than John is now, but he was never exactly old. Dead at 42. John's got... 5 years left by that count. 5 more years fighting, five more years with you.

John shaves it off. He leaves his stache, but that’s about it. He doesn’t want to see the old John Price, put six feet under before his boy— his namesake —graduated primary school. His hand shakes while he shaves. He should stop. The knife he’s elected to use is too sharp to risk a case of unsteady hands, but John needs it off. And off it goes. The skin beneath the beard is paler than the rest of his face. It’d take much longer for that to go away.

Someone pounds on the door of the bathroom. “Captain,” Johnny, “I know you’re takin’ a shite, but could you hurry up?”

John chuckles softly, “Fuck off, MacTavish.”

John shuts the toilet lid with his boot and takes a seat on it. He shoves a hand in the chest pocket of his coat, to the pen with a piece of paper stuck in the clip. John carefully unfolds the paper.

Armed Forces Pension Application Form.

John clicks the pen and gets to work.

[hiraet3h]

Alate { Pietro Maximoff x FEM!Reader }

Alate - Adjective (Latin) |

~ Having wings; lifted up in flight

Summery:

"The past dripped slowly in places like this—quiet, empty, and full of ghosts. The ground doesn’t forgive, it just waits."

or

An 'impromptu' encounter with a boy she never quite really knew. And a man she never had any interest in meeting.

Too bad they were the same person.

Pairings: Primarily: Pietro Maximoff/Fem!Reader, Slight John Allerdyce/Fem!reader, Slight Remy LeBeau/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 11.5K

Warnings: strong language, canon typical violence, reader gets hurt, smoking, cigarettes, bad bird puns/nicknames, Use of (Y/n)! I'm sorry if that bothers you, but i use it quite a bit, Pietro being an asshole, Reader is also an asshole to be fair, Gambit and Pyro too honestly, so everyone really, an excessive use of em dashes, Reader has curly hair! It's pretty vague and not specified what kind of curls, but it's mentioned a couple times! other than that, her appearance is pretty neutral i think. Let me know if I forgot something!

Fic Type: Oneshot/standalone

Author's Note: Omg! this is the first time i'll ever be posting to tumblr, and it being my shitty fanfic is kinda nerve-wracking! I've posted on Ao3 and Wattpad before, but tumblr always intimidated me for some reason. But there are SOOO many incredible writers on here, and i thought someone else might appreciate a non movieverse/fox/MCU Pietro x reader, so i decided to post it here as well! I hope it makes someone out there happy as well!

Anyways, this take place in a semi -alternate AU? In the way that, i didn't quite have a specific variation of Pietro or the x-men universe i was writing for. It's a mesh between an aged up X-men Evolution AU and the Wolverine and the X-men universe. With some comic elements thrown in. So it's my playground essentially.

This fic will also be available on AO3! I have other nonsense on my AO3 if the curiosity ever strikes and you want to check it out!

Please, if anyone wants to chat about anything, my door is always open!

The wind carried more than cold that night. It howled like a wounded creature through the hollow veins of the abandoned train yard, weaving around rusted steel and splintered wood and forsaken motors with a kind of sorrow only old places knew. (Y/n) stood near the skeletal remains of a cargo car, arms crossed, her shadow carved in sharp lines by the moonlight above. She found comfort in places like these. In places filled with things long abandoned and things that should have been.  A feeling of tragedy she couldn't help but chase. A masochistic tendency she’d hoped she would have outgrown in her adolescence but had unfortunately been a habit that had followed her into adulthood.

Maybe she found comfort in things and places and stories she could relate to. 

Romanticizing life, or whatever the hell the kids were calling it these days. 

She hopped onto the train tracks, her arms outstretched to her sides in an attempt to keep her balance as she walked along the stealrail of the track, as though she was a tightrope walker, dangling dangerously on the brink of doom and death. 

A single misstep and she’d be gone, and nothing but her memory would remain, before that too would inevitably wade out of existence, time chipping away at the ghost she used to be. 

The metal creaked under her boots like it remembered her from all those years ago—like it knew she didn’t belong to war or missions or field assignments. Not really.

But she'd always show up anyway.

"You’re late, L/N."

The voice skittered through the dark, cocky and cruel and cold,  like a blade dragged across glass.

A sharp exhale through her nose. 

She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to.

The air told her he was close. It always did, vibrating with the static of him, with the feeling of electricity that he would leave in his wake and upon his arrival. With a disruption in the winds as it bowed to his whims. 

"Punctuality has never been your thing, has it?" she replied, dry. "I figured if I gave you an extra ten minutes, you'd still manage to make an entrance."

In a blink, he was standing where moonlight met shadow—just on the edge of it, and the light of a street lamp which was miraculously still working save for the occasional flicker before being resurrected by the currents running in the wiring. 

Quicksilver. Pietro Maximoff. 

Silver hair tousled like he’d just stepped out of a storm, windswept and wild but in a way that looked intentional and effortless all at once. And smirking, of course. Always smirking. His eyes were electric with the kind of arrogance only someone who could outrun time itself had any right to wield.

"Nightingale," he drawled, crossing his arms with exaggerated ease as he leaned against the streetlamp with a casual grace that could only be achieved by a man who had been trained in combat for years upon years. A confidence that came with self assurance and a pride that wasn’t completely unearned "Did you miss me?"

She rolled her eyes. “Like a migraine.”

"Oof. And here I thought we were finally building something resembling camaraderie."

"No, but we can build something else entirely. Like a coffin for you to lie in. Or your gravestone. If you’re here to finally do the honors and give me the relief that would come with you dropping dead.” 

He chuckled, stepping closer with the kind of laid-back threat that came from someone who didn’t need to try hard to be dangerous. "Come on, (L/n). You think anyone else could put up with your holier-than-thou shtick and still show up like clockwork?"

Her jaw tightened. Her glare was met with a look of mirth. A punchable one, if she was able to say so herself.

"Why are you here, Maximoff?"

“Birdwatching,” he says, a smug grin playing on his lips. He looked proud of that one.

She gives him a bored look, unamused.

He rolls his eyes at her, not at all intimidated, nor deterred. And he had not enough shame to ever feel a lick of embarrassment, so that was out of the question as well, despite his ill-received pun.

“C’mon, that was a good one. Even you have to admit it.”

She spins on her heels, ready to walk away from him, and this train yard and the whole useless encounter, when his voice stops her in her tracks before she’s made more than a couple feet away.

“Magneto wants a word,” Pietro said suddenly, almost too casually.

She turned slowly, narrowing her eyes. He remained at ease. 

“Then he should send someone with better people skills.”

He chuckled. “He did. I’m charming. Ask literally anyone.”

“Not your ex-wife, I presume.”

That got a crack in his cool, his brows furrowing and a frown marred his lips quickly. It filled her with a satisfaction she’s not proud of.

“Low blow,” he muttered, eyes flashing. “He wants to make you an offer.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard it yet.”

“I don’t need to.”

Pietro tilted his head, undeterred, voice still carrying humor of a joke she wasn’t in on. “You always this stubborn, or is it just around me?”

“I know how he sees people. How he turns them into pieces on a board. I’m not interested in being another one of his knights, thanks.”

“You’d be a rook, if anything,” he said, thoughtful. “Straight lines. Limited. Boring.”

“Funny, coming from a pawn.”

That one seemed to have also landed. His jaw clenched, but only for a second

He recovered with a grin. “You used to be more fun, birdie.”.

“And you’ve always been annoying.”

He sighs. And rubs the back of his neck, his eyes closing for a brief reprieve from her insults.

“Look, he only wants to talk right now. There’s no harm in a conversation, right?”

She stepped back. Not far. But enough. Enough to make the space between them suddenly mean something deliberate.

"Not interested."

"Didn’t ask if you were," he said smoothly, straightening and taking a step forward to reclaim lost distance "Only told you what’s happening."

"Not to me, it’s not."

She turned as if to leave, but in a flash, he was in front of her again. This time closer. Too close. She could feel the charge in the air between them. Like standing beside a live wire. He towered over her, and she was face to chest with him. She tilts her head up to meet his eyes, and his gaze is firm. Jaw tight and lips pressed into a firm line, almost resembling a frown but not quite. 

It seems her jeers and refusal were getting to him. Good.

"I’m not here to play tag, (L/n). I’m here to bring you in."

She blinked. Slowly. As if the words themselves needed processing.

Then her laugh—a low, bitter thing—cracked through the lighting-tension like a sharp knife.

“You're pathetic. Running after daddy’s approval by doing tasks he couldn't be bothered to do himself.” 

His jaw tensed. Just a flicker. But she saw it. She knew all his sore spots. That one was particularly tender, she knew. 

"You think I have a choice?" he said quietly.

"You always do." Her voice was sharper now. Not louder, but colder. "You just stopped pretending to care."

Pietro's expression shifted then—like clouds over the moon. Not anger. Not yet. But the storm was there, gathering behind his eyes.

"You think you know anything about choices, L/N? You, with your perfect little X-men who’ll pat you on the back every time you try and fail to throw a punch? You don’t know what it’s like to be needed by someone who only values what you can do, not who you are."

Her jaw tenses at his words of vulnerability. But she knew a farce when she saw one. He wasn't going to emotionally manipulate her tonight. 

"And yet, here you are," she said cooly, stepping past him. “I’m not going with you.”

He grabbed her wrist. Gently—but firmly. His touch was warm. Steady. Frustrating.

"(Y/n). You don’t get it. He’s not asking.”

She looked up at him, chin lifted, heart pounding like war drums beneath her ribs.

She hated that he said her name like that. Like it meant something. She rips her arm out of his grip and takes a step back, insistent on keeping space between them

“I’m not going to be a pawn, Pietro.”

"You're already in the game. You just don’t want to admit it."

“I'm not in shit.”

Her fingers sparked with energy then—just barely. A shimmer of violet light flickered up her arm like fire in a hearth. Slow and steady. Pietro's eyes dropped to it, then back to hers.

"You sure you want to do this, moon girl?"

"I’ve never been more sure of anything."

He didn’t move. For a moment, the silence held its breath. The wind paused. The night listened.

Then he stepped back. Let her go.

“You’d lose.” he says like it's a fact. Like no other outcome could be possible.

She holds his gaze for a beat. Then two.

He was probably right. She couldn’t fight to save her life. Which, coincidently, was exactly when she needed it. And she needed it often. 

Her sigh then cuts through the air like a slow exhale of a long-forgotten lullaby. The kind of sound a soul made when it was too weary to fight the silence, but too stubborn to surrender fully.

She was stretched thin with exhaustion, not from the confrontation, but from everything. From war and missions, from expectations and choices. From a world that hated them for simply being, and the constant requirement to prove themselves worthy of existing in places that deemed them undeserving. And the inevitability of running into him. Again. Always.

The past dripped slowly in places like this—quiet, empty, and full of ghosts. The ground doesn’t forgive, it just waits.

A reluctant truce between instinct and exhaustion and pure curiosity had overcome her. 

So she turned. Slowly. Her boots whispered against the gravel as she moved, the oversized denim jacket she adorned slipping from her shoulder just enough to show the moonlight pale on her skin before she pulled it back up into place. It was approximately five sizes too big— ill-fitting, like a life she never asked for but lives anyway cause there’s no other choice. A little girl lost in grown-up‘s clothes. A soldier pretending she knows how to play war. The cold of the freight train bled through her layers when she leaned back against it, metal biting down through fabric and resolve alike at her back. She flinched only slightly, then settled, one boot scuffed against the asphalt, the other kicked up behind her to rest flat against rusted steel.

It was the posture of someone who wasn’t going to run, but wasn’t going to be dragged either.

Quicksilver hadn’t moved. Maybe he was waiting for her to bolt. Maybe he was calculating how many steps it would take to reach her if she did. But she wasn’t running.

Her eyes flicked back to him with a gaze she wore like armor. Bored. Tired. Disinterested. Except it was a lie, of course. She was studying him. Every angle. Every slight change.

His hair was longer now. Not by much, but enough for her to notice. Enough to know she hadn’t seen him in months. Time had been kind to him in the way it was kind to cruel people—preserving their beauty like a warning sign. His silver strands, always unnatural, gleamed in the moonlight like silk laced with mercury. She remembered thinking, once, that he looked like he’d been touched by the stars. Moonkissed, she had called it. 

But that was before she knew who had really touched him.

Before she knew who had carved him from the same sharp stone and set him loose on the world.

It had always been like that, even when they were teenagers, even when he was just some cocky blur of a boy who annoyed her on missions and flashed too many teeth when he smirked. She’d initially thought the color was dye, some edgy brooding Brotherhood thing.

She'd been wrong. It was blood. It was legacy. It was Magneto’s, like everything else about him. The sharp lines of his jaw. The eerie grace of his movement. The cold glacier- blue in his eyes, That intensity beneath the bravado, coiled tight like a spring, waiting to snap. The anger. Oh, the anger. Constant and bitter. Angry at a world that wouldn’t change no matter how hard anyone tried. 

He looked more like Erik than Wanda did. More than Lorna ever could, despite her having her father���s powers. It unsettled her. That resemblance. That inheritance. Sure he was younger, the lines of time yet to set into his face. He was taller and leaner and wore his cockiness out and arrogant, but at the core they were alike in a way that was undeniable. She wondered if he ever looked in the mirror and saw himself, or only the man he’d been chasing his entire life like a ghost, despite him always being right there, just unwilling. She wondered what Magneto thought when he looked at him. His eldest child? Or the reminders of the failures of the man he used to be? Maybe that’s why he was so cold towards his only son. 

Her eyes lowered briefly. Civilian clothes, tonight. That was interesting. 

No combat gear, no flashy insignias. No weight of war on his shoulders, only a dark leather jacket that suits the season, resting just right across a frame broader than it used to be. He’s taller now, more filled in. Still lean, still quick—but not all sharp corners anymore. There’s muscle under that snug black tee. Probably more than he needs. Probably more than she needs to know about.

Of course the shirt clings like it always did, tighter than it probably needed to be. Not that he needed help drawing attention. But Pietro Maximoff didn’t know how to wear anything without a little arrogance sewn in.

“What could that man possibly want with me?” she asked at last, voice level, somewhere between disinterest and disdain.

Pietro didn’t answer at first. He just looked at her.

And maybe it was the moonlight, or maybe it was something else, but for a moment, he wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t mocking her. He just stood there, staring like she was something just slightly out of reach, slightly more dangerous than she'd ever let herself be.

"You're asking the wrong guy," he said eventually, voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “I don’t play chess, remember? I’m the piece that gets moved.” He tilted his head. “You, on the other hand… you’re a piece Magneto can’t quite figure out.”

"Or maybe I'm just not worth the effort," she replied.

His smile returned, sharp and annoying. “If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be here.” He took a step closer, boots crunching on gravel. “You think he sends me to do grunt work?”

“Yes,” she says, not even hesitating for a second. Voice flat and deadpan, like it was an obvious answer to that question

“Ouch. You wound me, little bird.”

She gave a lazy shrug, the oversized jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder once more. She didn’t bother pulling it back up this time. “That’s the idea.”

Pietro's gaze slips to the newly revealed skin for a brief second, eyes mapping out her collarbone and the slope of a shoulder that was now exposed due to the sleeveless shirt she wore underneath, before his eyes snapped back to hers. She pretends not to notice. 

They stood there, not quite talking. Not quite fighting. The wind carried a whistle down the tracks, eerie in the emptiness. The city was far away now, nothing but a glow on the horizon.

"Why are you really here?" she asked, softer this time. "You hate taking orders. You cannot stand your father. I’ve seen the way you flinch when he speaks to you like you’re a tool. So why are you still running his errands?”

His jaw worked. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then:

“Because I’m good at it,” he said finally. “And when you’re good at something, you’re not given a choice. Not really.”

Her brows furrow at his words. 

“That’s not true.”

He scoffed. “Says the girl who stayed with the X-Men even after they kept sending her out there like bait.”

That one stung.

He noticed. His voice softened just a little. “You ever wonder what it’d be like to stop trying to be what they expect?”

“I don’t take advice from someone who also does exactly what’s expected of him,” she shot back. “You think you’re a rebel, but all you’ve ever done is chase your father’s shadow. You talk big, but you’re still a scared little boy running after a man who will never give you what you’re looking for and everybody knows it.”

That did it.

His expression hardened, and he took a threatening step forward. Once again the distance between them has shrunk to a considerably small size. Like a waltz, they ebb back and forth. The air seems more hostile this time, however. It seems her words had finally stung as deeply as intended. 

“I came here,” he said through clenched teeth, “to give you a chance. You could’ve walked away from all of this. Could’ve had power. Could’ve stopped playing foot soldier for Xavier and his pathetic dream.”

God he was insufferable. 

“Firstly, it’s not pathetic, you self-absorbed-”

“Please, i’m self-absorbed that’s actually rich coming from you-”

“-And you’re no better, following orders like a dog-”

“-considering the moral high-horse you lot sit on. it’s actually nauseating-”

“-for a man who has no idea he’ll become what he hates-”

“-the way things are going is gonna get us all killed, we don't have time to-”

“-he’s a damn hypocrite, and you’re no better-” 

“-and the X-men are useless at best, hoping if you do enough dirty work, they’ll accept mutant-” 

“-Have you and any of your buddies actually done anything except prove every mutant stereotype down to a T or-”

“-Who the fuck cares? They’re gonna blame everything on us anyways-”

“-yeah, so proving them right is the move-”

“-God, you reek of self-righteousness and privilege-”

“-better than playing terrorist-” 

“-you’re saying this from up in your ivory tower-” 

They were yelling over each other at this point. And it was beyond unproductive, considering neither was willing to even attempt to hear the other out. 

“Enough!” she yells, and it's actually enough to get him to shut up. He continues to glare at her and she lets her eyes close, and her head drop as a sigh pulls from between parted lips, her breath fogging in the cold air with the exhale. 

“I didn’t come to debate politics with you,” she says, voice tired. She takes a few steps away from him and slips further against the freight train, letting the rusting junk take on the brunt of her weight so she wouldn't have to carry it all on her own. Her bones feel heavy. They have for a while and she was getting tired of carrying them with her everywhere she went. 

(Y/n)'s words fell like slow, deliberate raindrops—each one dampening the tension rather than snapping it. They weren’t meant to wound. Not really. But they were heavy, and the weight of truth had a way of bruising.

“Xavier’s a bastard,” she said, voice steady, eyes narrowed as she watched him. “But Magneto’s no better. ‘Sides, Cyclops has been calling the shots for a while now.”

Pietro scoffed, but said nothing. Not yet. So she kept going.

“I’ve disagreed with Charles plenty, especially the older I get and the more I see what he's willing to overlook for the sake of the dream. But his ideology doesn’t rest on bloodshed, or dominance, or this superiority complex your father breathes like air.”

his eyes narrow back at her words.

‘Not talk politics, my ass.’

“It’s not a superiority complex.” He says, voice cold and agitated. “News flash, Nightingale—they hate us. They want us dead. We have to fight back with the same force or we’ll be wiped out. Why cant you and those spandex-wearing freaks get it through your thick heads.” 

He also lets himself rest against the cart, his shoulder to the metal so his body is facing her, but his head is looking out into the rail yard, nothing in particular catching his interest. He just didn’t want her to see him seething. 

“You think ‘peaceful coexistence’ means anything to the people outside that mansion, praying we disappear? We’re fighting for our lives, and you're still acting like it's some kind of moral debate club.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. 

“I’m not doing this with you, Pietro .” 

“You’re the one who started it.” 

“Just shut up.” 

He fumes, but relents.

The quiet overtakes, and they let it settle between them and the night like a balm on a burn, meant to soothe. Frustration and anger easing out of both bodies slowly and slightly.

He steps closer—not all the way, but enough that she could feel the cold static of his presence again. That same subtle tension in the air, like a thunderstorm waiting behind glass.

“You’re scared of it,” he said, softer now. “Of your powers.”

Her lips parted, just slightly but no words came out. He’d hit something. Something she didn’t like people seeing.

“I’m not afraid,” she said eventually. “I’m cautious.”

“Same thing,” he said, and for once, there was no tease nor malice in it. Just truth. 

She swallows a huff, breathing slowly through her nose. “Maximoff, I can go borderline nuclear in  five seconds flat if i dont have the reins all the way in check. What would you have me do?” 

He gives a lazy shrug. Nonchalant and noncommittal. Like she couldn't level a city block with a flick of her wrist if her head was on wrong. 

“Don’t be afraid.” He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. Like the answer has always been obvious and she’d been looking in all the wrong places for it. 

She shakes her head, not bothering to answer him. She doesn’t really know how. 

Maybe he was right. Maybe not. It didn't particularly matter. Because she didn’t know how to stop being afraid. It was etched into her soul, the fear she had of herself. It took over a decade of training to get where she was, to the mastery she possessed of her own mutation. And even then, it felt like a bandaid over a gaping wound. Superficial. Only there to cover the damage so nobody had to look at the bloody, ugly thing. 

Another sigh slipped from her lips like the wind blowing between forgotten cracks. It was quieter this time. Less a sound of defeat and more the weary exhale of a woman who'd been holding her breath too long. Her head dipped forward, curls swaying gently kissing the sides of her face, as she reached up with a manicured hand to rub the back of her neck, her fingers digging into a knot that had formed like a stone lodged beneath her skin. Firm and pulsing like the echo of the tension she'd been carrying for days. Weeks. Years, if she was being honest.

This place—the X-Men, the mansion, the maddening missions and miscommunications, the quiet understanding that no one really knew what they were doing—they were home. Not perfect. But hers. The family she never had. The one that fought like hell and screamed in the halls and cried behind closed doors. The children running around, learning to use and accept and be with their mutations. The one that let her be broken, and still let her stay.

There was never a version of this where she left the X-Men. Not even in dreams. Not even when the mansion got too loud, or too quiet, or too full of ghosts.

They were hers. Her ragtag, squabbling, loyal, impossible family. The one she chose. The one that stayed.

Scott with his leadership and saviour’s complex. Ororo with her soft reprimands. Kurt, always trying to make her laugh even when her world was falling apart. Kitty, with her quiet strength. Rouge with her southern charm and a shoulder she always had to cry on. Logan with his gruff grunts that somehow meant love.

Even the ones who were gone. Even the ones who’d stayed too long.

She would not leave them.

And she definitely wasn’t trading them for Magneto’s army of true believers and half-broken boys pretending they weren't scared.

Her gaze slid lazily back to Pietro, head tilting, curls catching moonlight. Her voice came soft, almost amused, like a cat playing with something half-dead between its paws.

“He still hates you, y’know?”

Pietro blinked, clearly not expecting it. “Who?”

She smirked. “Scott.”

The reaction was instantaneous. That deadpan look returned to his face like a well-worn mask as he stared at her in exhausted disbelief.

“Good,” he snapped.

A pause.

And then, quieter, sharper: “Mutual.”

She laughed.

Not a scoff, not a sneer. A laugh.

It burst from her, sharp and musical, and it knocked the cold out of the air for a second. It was unexpected, unguarded—like a bell ringing in a quiet cathedral. Genuine, melodic, light. It peeled from her like sunlight through fog. And Pietro, who’d spent a lifetime outrunning things—responsibility, feelings, his own name—froze in place.

Because it was the kind of sound a man might go into reverence for.

It undid something in him. Made the space between them feel impossibly close, impossibly far.

Pietro would’ve done anything she asked to hear it again.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. There was a soft twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides, like they ached to hold something they knew they couldn’t.

It was unfair, honestly, how good it sounded. How alive it made her look, even draped in fatigue and denim too big. The smile that followed bloomed across her face, softening her features into something sweeter than he had any right to see after threatening to drag her back to his father like a prize.

The smile on her face was gentle now, real. Something that didn’t belong on a battlefield, didn’t belong in the ruined husk of a rail yard at midnight. It belonged in gardens. In sunlit kitchens. On slow Sunday mornings and soft cotton sheets. It made her look younger, somehow—like this war hadn’t touched her quite as deeply as he knew it had.

She rolled her eyes, but there was no sharpness in the gesture. Just… tired affection. Fondness. Soft-edged history. The kind that tasted of years they pretended didn’t matter.A thread of memory pulling through the decade. The old days, back when the fights were mostly verbal and the stakes were mostly pride.

Some things didn’t change. Not really.

She slipped a hand into her pocket then, the movement smooth, easy. Like instinct. Her fingers closed around the battered pack she hadn’t even dared touch for months now. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the company. Maybe she just wanted to reclaim a little vice for herself tonight.

The Camel menthols box were practically falling apart. The cardboard was soft with wear, corners dented and edges fraying like the last edge of self-control in a stressful week. But she popped the lid open and plucked a cigarette from the pack like it was routine.

Then her eyes flicked back to him, one brow arched high.

A silent offer.

Pietro’s eyebrows rose, a soft scoff escaping him. “You smoke?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest again, the leather of his jacket groaning softly under the strain. His too-snug shirt pulled tighter across his chest with the movement. It was entirely too obvious, and he was entirely too unaware of just what he was doing to her unconsciously. She ignored it expertly.

She shrugged, the cigarette dancing slightly between her fingers. “Not really,” she said. “Sometimes.”

Another scoff. But he reached out anyway.

She didn’t hide her surprise at that, though she disguised it behind a curl of her lip. He plucked a cigarette from the pack she held, slipping it between lips that were always slightly wind-chapped, with practiced ease. 

And for a moment, they just stared at each other, smoke-less, caught in the absurdity of it all.

She tucked the pack away again, reached into the same pocket and produced a cheap plastic lighter—one of those corner-store things, half-broken and temperamental. She flicked it once, twice, three times before the  flame danced alive in the dark. She gave him a look, one of those universal gestures that meant you’re too damn tall, get down here.

He snorted but obliged, bending at the waist, so their faces were close. Too close. With only the lighter’s flame flickering in the narrow space between them. It danced like a restless spirit, casting his face in shifting gold and shadow, tracing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth.

The flame caught his eyes like a hook in water, drawing out something ancient and quiet and furious. An impossible shade of blue, not sky, not sea, not anything she’d ever seen. Something colder, deeper—like the gleam of lightning before it strikes. 

There was anger in that gaze, a deep, smoldering kind—the kind that burned low and endless. Anger at the world. At how it had turned him hard when he might’ve been something else. 

He was painfully handsome. Unfairly so. Like a statue half-broken by time—still beautiful, but not untouched. Not innocent.

But it wasn’t like she wasn’t, either. Innocence wasn’t something she could claim anymore—hadn’t been for a long time. It had been taken, not lost. Ripped away in pieces, sharp and sudden, in the way only the world could do when it didn’t care how young you were.

They’d all been too young. Too soft, too full of things like hope and wonder and the foolish belief that the world might give back what it took.

And yet—here she stood. Still holding onto that hope like a lifeline, knuckles white around it. Because that was all she had. Cause it was all she could believe in to keep herself going. Because without it, everything unraveled—everything turned gray and senseless, and she needed something to tether her to the fight. Hope was the thread she stitched herself together with each morning. Fragile, foolish, maybe, but hers.

He didn’t seem to need something as delicate as hope. Anger was enough. There was no softness in the way he looked at the world—just that simmering fury and a drive so relentless it was almost frightening. 

She stepped forward, closing the last inches of space, the heat from her hand near his jaw, the flare of fire catching the end of his cigarette. He kept his eyes on hers, unmoving. That’s when he caught a whiff of her perfume—soft, powdery, clean and sweet. Something candied-floral tucked beneath warm skin and the faint scent of ozone that always clung to her after she used her powers.

It hit him harder than expected. It made him dizzy.

It was her. And it was comfort. And it was memory. And it was the scent of someone who made abandoned train yards feel like the edge of something beautiful.

Then she stepped back, putting space between them again as she lit her own cigarette with the same soft detachment, as though she hadn’t just handed him a memory he’d crave for the rest of his life. The flame briefly illuminates the gentle curve of her face, the shadows beneath her eyes, that seemed darker these days. She inhaled, slow and long, and exhaled just as steady, smoke curling from her lips like fog rolling through forgotten hills.

Her absence was immediate. Like being snapped out of a dream too soon. The distance felt wrong, like something sacred had been broken.

Pietro took a drag, the nicotine burning hot and sharp in his chest, and for a second, they were just two people in a forgotten train yard, caught somewhere between what they were and what they could’ve been.

He savored the moment. He wanted to memorize it. To stretch it out so it could last forever. The ease. The quiet affection of an enemy who still remembered what he used to look like when he was seventeen and angry at the world.

He supposed not much had changed. He was still angry at the world. Angry at all of it.

He took another drag, this time, without looking at her, letting the menthol numb his tongue and sting the back of his throat. His jaw worked as he exhaled slowly, letting the smoke unfurl into the cold night air, curling like ghosts between them.

She leaned against the train again, one leg bent, boot still planted on the metal behind her, cigarette now resting between her fingers like an old friend. Her eyes were on the stars.

“You ever think,” she said, voice quiet now, like the moment between them had shifted into something not quite safe to name, “that if we’d met under different circumstances... things might’ve been different?”

Pietro’s gaze drifted toward her.

The wind carried her curls across her cheek. The cherry of her cigarette glowed faintly red. Her lips were parted just slightly, flushed a deeper color from the cold. She looked something straight out of a painting. A masterpiece. 

He didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t want to lie.

So he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, exhaling smoke from the corner of his mouth. “I think about that a lot.”

She turned to look at him then. Just once.

And in the silence that followed, they both said everything they couldn't say out loud.

The smoke curled from her lips, delicate and transient, vanishing into the cold night like the moment they were standing in—fragile, stolen, doomed. They stood in that half-silence, the kind that only exists when two people are trying not to admit there’s nothing left to say. The train yard stretched around them, rusted and quiet, a graveyard of motion and memory. A place suspended in time, where the past dragged its heels and refused to die.

For a breath—a single breath—it felt like peace.

But peace was never meant to linger.

Not for people like them.

The leaves rustled in a way that wasn’t wind. In the way that whispered company. Her spine straightened before she even processed why, cigarette frozen halfway to her lips. Years of training kicking in subconsciously like reflex. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the shadows between the train cars. She heard them before she saw them—footsteps too coordinated to be casual. Too numerous.

Pietro noticed it too. She caught the flick of his eyes, the way his jaw locked tight. Not fear. Not surprise. Just cold understanding.

​​Then they stepped out of the shadow and into the moonlight. 

Three men. 

Monsters, some would say. Freaks. 

She knew them all.

The first wore a grin that stretched too wide over his sharp face, flame-red hair catching the dim light as if already half-ignited. His eyes sparked with glee, like he loved the idea of having an audience for whatever carnage he planned. As unstable as the fire he worshipped.

The second was all smooth swagger and subtle menace, red-on-black eyes glowing faintly under the brim of his hood. With those cards of his and a mouth that dripped charm like venom. She remembered him kissing her hand once, years ago, as a distraction to swipe something from her pocket.

And the last… 

The sight of him made her stomach turn.

His footsteps were heavy and slow and sure. A beast in human skin. A hunter stepping into the world. Taller than the other already tall men, Older. Broader. Wild blond hair tangled like a lion’s mane, falling around his face like a curtain. His eyes were yellow—sharp, detachteched, cold, predatory. She didn’t even need to see the claws to feel them at her throat.

She remembered that feeling all too well. It still haunts her nightmares sometimes.

Her fingers tensed around the cigarette. Her lips parted in a breath that didn’t come. Her heart plummeted.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Her eyes moved to look at Pietro then, with a slow turn of the head, as if she could somehow will him into explaining this away.

But he didn’t.

He stood still, expression unreadable, back straight and spine rigid like a soldier at attention. His face was blank, so carefully composed it almost hurt to look at. He wasn’t surprised.

He’d known.

The realization hit her like a blow to the gut.

She’d been set up.

The look she gave him wasn’t betrayal. Not quite. No, it was something softer, something older. The weight of inevitability. The quiet ache of knowing they’d always end up here, drawing lines in the dirt only to find themselves standing on opposite sides again and again.

Her heart dropped through her chest, nonetheless. She didn’t need to say it. The betrayal wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. It bloomed quietly in her eyes, like the first crack in a stained-glass window. Barely visible.

But once it started—it never stopped.

She looked at him like someone who had almost let herself believe in something, only to be reminded why she never could.

He would say it if she gave him the chance.

I don’t owe you anything.

And he’d be right.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t say anything.

Because what could he say?

They always ended up here.

Different sides. Same battlefield. The same war they never asked for. Both fighting for mutantkind in their own way, but walking paths that would run parallel for all of existence, never crossing. Not when one was lit in fire and fury and the other was a tightrope balanced over a chasm of compromise and restraint.

Maybe it was fate.

Or maybe it was another cruel trick of the universe. 

Or maybe it was just survival.

She took a final drag of her cigarette, the burn of menthol sharp and grounding. She exhaled smoke slowly, deliberately, as the three men came into clear proximity. They didn’t run. They didn’t need to. The way Pyro’s grin widened, the way Gambit rested his hands in his pockets lazily, the way Sabertooth sniffed the air like he was already tasting the hunt—it was clear.

Magneto had sent his Acolytes.

They were here to collect her.

And it was clear they didn’t think they’d have to try very hard.

"You never were very subtle, mate," Pyro called out, an Australian accent thick, “Bit dramatic for a snatch-and-grab, don’tcha think? Having a smoke under the moonlight?”

Her eyes turn back to Quicksilver’s face. "How long?"

His jaw clenched. Just a flicker.

"Since the start."

She nodded once. Not big. Not dramatic. Just an acknowledgment of something already known in her bones.

"Well, well, well," Pyro purred, voice coated in gasoline. As the three had made their way over to them. “Didn’t think we’d find you out here alone, Nightingale. Guess the songbird strayed too far from the nest, eh?”

(Y/n) didn’t answer. unblinking, unreadable.

Sabertooth chuckled low, like gravel sliding down a mountain. It was a sound that was familiar in all of the worst ways. “This her, Maximoff?”

Pietro’s voice came steady. Empty. “Yeah.”

That was all he said.

Not a warning. Not a protest. Just confirmation.

Her blood ran colder.

“You’re not walking away tonight, chère,” Gambit said smoothly,  his voice sliding around her like smoke, Cajun accent as heavy as she remembered. “We’ve got business. You, me, and the boss.”

She straightened, finally, letting the cigarette fall from her fingers to the dirt below. She ground it out beneath the heel of her boot, slow and silent. When she lifted her head, there was no fear in her expression. Only resolve. Contained. Contoured.

Like a fuse lit but not yet burning.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. 

“Come on, now,” Pyro crooned. “Don’t be like that, love. Magneto’s got plans. Big ones. And you’re on the guest list, baby bird.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He just flashed his teeth at her with a knowing wink that went completely unacknowledged. 

The weight of the situation came pressing on her chest. Hot and heavy, and cold and unfeeling all at once. She looked around uselessly already knowing there wasn’t an out for her. She wouldn't be able to escape or flee. Not with Quicksilver and not with Sabretooth. And fighting seemed laughable. She was outnumbered, outclassed and outranked. She couldn't take on one of the assholes, much less all four.  It was a losing situation for her no matter the hand dealt.

She sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that night. 

Besides, she didn’t want to fight.

Not tonight. Not now.

The adrenaline was starting to mix too heavily with the nicotine in her blood, and she knew if she let her panic take the wheel, she’d regret what followed. So she reached back into her jacket instead—hands steady, slow, deliberate—and pulled out the battered pack of Camels. Her fingers dipped inside and came out with one last cigarette, slightly bent, a little weathered, but still perfectly smokable.

“Quite the party,” she murmured, voice soft but steady, refusing to look away from the approaching threat. “Didn’t realize I was so popular.”

It perched delicately between her lips, the curve of her mouth pulling around it like it belonged there.

A girl playing dress-up in her father’s jacket. A delicate, pretty thing made of soft curves and sharper edges. The cigarette looked out of place in her hand. On her mouth. She didn’t look like a smoker. But the ease with which she moved—the practiced, habitual precision of it—betrayed the truth. 

It looked out of place until it didn’t. Not when it had clearly lived a few lives with her already.

Because nothing about her was simple.

She let her eyes drag lazily over the men in front of her, as though they weren’t here to drag her  to some gilded prison of Magneto’s making. As though they were just three guys she might see in a dive bar or waiting outside a concert venue.

They were dressed like civilians, the same way Pietro was. Their attempt at blending in, at pretending this was anything less than an ambush. Gambit, of course, wore that damn trench coat—dramatic as ever, even without the armor or gear. Pyro looked like he’d stepped out of an indie band lineup, something almost artistic in the haphazard way his clothes clung to him, flannels and baggy jeans and some obscure band’s t-shirt she couldn’t tell you the first thing about .

And Sabertooth?

Sabertooth looked like a monster in borrowed clothes.

Nothing on earth could domesticate that man.

She studied them with the same gaze one might give a gallery painting from across the room. An art critic trying to decide if they were charmed or offended.

Gambit caught her eye first.

He’d changed. Gambit looked older now—matured. The boy she remembered was long gone, replaced by a man who hadn’t lost a drop of that swamp-born charm.  Heavily shadowed stubble now lined the sharp angles of his face, making him look older, rougher, better, honestly. His charm had deepened—ripened with time like some expensive wine. The smirk on his face was criminal, lethal, and she knew if the smile didn’t get a woman, the voice would. Honey-dipped and sin-slick, he’d always known how to draw hearts like blood from a wound. The kind of thing that would make a girl trip over herself and thank him for it.

But his eyes—those unforgettable eyes were the same as she remembered them. Oddly beautiful; red irises and black sclera like spilled ink and blood. They seemed amused. Like he could hear every thought in her head. Roguish charm was an understatement. 

He caught her looking.

Of course he did.

He offered her a lazy grin, slow and smooth, like molasses poured from a silver spoon. “Ma chérie,” he said with a wink that probably made hearts flutter from miles away. “If you keep lookin’ at me like that, I might start thinkin’ you missed me.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response, just raised one unimpressed brow and moved on.

Pyro—he hadn’t changed as much. His frame had filled out some, arms defined beneath the thin long-sleeved tee he wore under an open flannel. Shoulders broader than she remembers, and he might’ve been an inch or two taller than he used to be. His vibrant hair had grown a little longer, hanging in his face, which was sharper now, in artful chaos. Tonight, he’d swapped his flamethrowers for something subtler. He stood with one hand in his pocket and the other fidgeting with a matchbook—flicking it open and closed, the snap-snap-snap a rhythmic tic she remembered from years ago. There was still that unhinged brightness behind his eyes. That barely-contained chaos that looked like a spark always about to ignite.

Her eyes lingered on him a little longer.

Old crushes were a strange thing.

She remembered liking him once. Maybe it was the accent. Or the danger. Or that brand of reckless energy. Or maybe just the way his eyes used to light up when he talked about fire like it was a living thing. Like he was in love with it. That kind of devotion was rare. It was foolish, in retrospect. But she had been seventeen, and he had laughed at her jokes. Sometimes that was all it took. 

And then there was Sabertooth.

She swallowed.

He hadn’t aged a damn day.

He still looked older than any of them but was aging like some slow-turning curse. Healing factor made him almost eternal.

Out of everyone, he had changed the least. He was still enormous. Still terrifying. Still too quiet and too aware for someone so feral. Still exuding the kind of hunger that wasn’t about food or sex, but something deeper, more primal—an instinct to devour whatever he couldn’t control. His golden eyes didn’t blink as he watched her. They never had. He was the same the day she met him, and he’d be the same long after she was dead. Time didn’t touch men like him and Logan. Not the way it did everyone else. 

She looked at him, and in the quiet between her thoughts, wondered—not for the first time—how long he and Logan had been circling each other, roaming the earth. How many times had they torn chunks from each other’s flesh, only to heal and meet again? 

And how many more times were left? It seemed they’d be here till the end of the universe itself.

Star-crossed lovers, Shakespeare had written.

She supposed Logan and Creed were something else entirely.

Star-crossed enemies.

The term didn’t exist, but maybe it should’ve.

Destined to destroy, and somehow, destined not to die.

Her voice broke the stillness like glass underfoot. She turns her attention back to Pyro, her head cocked to the side, a dry smile on her lips. 

“Got a light?”she asked, utterly casually. As if she wasn’t surrounded. As if they weren’t here to kidnap her. She thought she was funny. She brought the cigarette up in front of her and waved it nonchalantly, as though that explained everything. 

Pyro blinked.

A heartbeat passed.

Then a shit-eating grin spread on his face, like a fire catching wind. God help her, he looked like the type who’d light a match just to watch it burn down to his fingers and laugh about the scars.

Oh, he liked that. Not just the question, but the whole performance. The cigarette dangling from her lips like punctuation. The way her curls framed her face in disheveled poetry. The tilt of her head like she was unbothered, like this was just another Tuesday and not a setup spiraling into something dark.

Gambit let out a low whistle under his breath. “Mon dieu chérie… bold of you.”

“Oh, Darlin’,” Pyro drawled, pulling his lighter from the inside of his coat like it was a holy relic, flicking the silver Zippo open with a practiced snap. A distinct cling sound filling the hollow air. A tiny flame danced to life, flickering gold in the shadows. “You know I always have a light.”

He took a step forward, hand outstretched. Even though he didn’t need to. They both knew that. He could’ve lit her up from ten feet away with a thought and a twitch of his fingers.

She raises a brow at him in question, and he just flashes her a brilliant smile. 

“Don’t mind sharin’. Any excuse to get close to you, songbird.”

(Y/n) didn’t flinch. She didn’t laugh either. But her lips twitched, like she was amused. Maybe she was. In a twisted sort of way.

Pietro let out a slow breath through his nose, muttering something under it that sounded suspiciously like you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

She stepped forward as well with casual ease, cigarette held delicately between her lips. She didn’t rush. The men around her, the fear clawing up her ribs, the betrayal still scalding behind her breastbone—all of it could wait.

“Let me guess. You want me to say something cheesy. ‘Light your fire, birdie?’”

“I’d actually prefer it if you’d shut up, but I never get what I want.”

“Aw don’t be like that, love.”

Pietro’s voice cut in then. Cold and sharp.

“She has her own lighter.”

(Y/n) didn’t even look at him. “It’s out of fluid.”

That was a lie. Her plastic Bic was full. She just didn’t feel like using it.

She could practically hear him grit his teeth from somewhere behind her. She didn’t really care.

She leaned in, letting the thin cylinder of her cigarette rest against the edge of Pyro’s flame. It caught with a soft flick and a brief flare, the scent of menthol curling up in the air between them. For a second—just a second—they stood close enough that she could see the ash flecks in his eyes, the faint scar near his temple she didn’t remember from before, the way his grin faltered as if surprised by the calm in her gaze. Like maybe she wasn’t scared of him. Like maybe she never had been.

She stepped back once her cigarette was lit, giving a little flick of her fingers in a mock salute.  Smoke twisted in lazy ribbons around her face. 

“Thanks, Johnny. Glad to see you’re good for something still” Her voice was breezy, offhanded, cut from the same cloth as the smoke curling from her lips—soft and biting at once.

He chuckled low, licking the inside of his cheek. “You know how much I like watching things burn. I take any chance I can get to light one up for pretty girls. 

A beat.

“Especially the mean ones”

She rolled her eyes, but the sharp edge of her mouth softened just a touch, betraying the ghost of reluctant amusement.

Behind her, somewhere closer to the rusted freight train, Quicksilver grunted.

Not loud. But sharp. Meant to be heard.

(Y/n) didn’t turn.

Pietro hadn’t moved since the moment the others arrived, but the tension had twisted his spine into something steel-cable tight. He looked like he wanted to punch something—preferably Allerdyce’s stupid face.

And Pyro, the bastard, caught his eye over her shoulder.

Met his stare.

And gave him a slow, lazy grin, mouth quirked like a match head begging for a strike. His expression said What? Jealous? as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud. 

Go on, do something

Pietro’s finger’s twitch, every bit of self restraint he had going into not choking the redhead right here, right now.

He could. God, he could do it before anyone blinked. Pyro wouldn’t even see it coming.

But he didn’t.

“Mm. Therapy might help with that.” Nightingale replies, unaware of the silent threats the two men shared in a split second.

 The flame snapped closed with a flick, and Pyro watched her with something unreadable in his gaze as she took a drag. Something one could mistake as veneration.

Not lust. Not infatuation. Something deeper.

The kind of quiet awe a boy might carry for the storm that ruined his hometown—beautiful, destructive, unforgettable.

Behind her, the moon hung low, swollen and bruised against the indigo sky like it had seen too much and said too little. A witness draped in borrowed light. She turned her head and exhaled smoke up toward the stars. Ironic, how peaceful it looked. How quiet. Like the world wasn't holding its breath around them.

Like nothing was about to break.

“You’ve changed,” he said eventually, almost admiring.

She exhaled again, eyes on him like steel under velvet. “So have you. Still an asshole, though.”

His lips pulled into a smirk. Crooked. Honest. “Fair.”

A low growl cut through the air then like a scalpel through skin—feral, throaty, primal. The kind of sound that made your bones remember what fear was even if your brain insisted you were fine.

“You’re stalling,” Sabretooth rumbled. His voice was gravel soaked in blood, low and sharp, the warning in it unmistakable.

(Y/n)’s head snapped toward him on instinct, her pulse hitching despite her best efforts. For just a flicker—just a breath—panic danced behind her eyes, a sliver of raw instinct. The kind that came when someone called your bluff before you could salvage the illusion. Her expression didn’t falter long, but it was enough to make the corners of Sabretooth’s mouth twitch.

She covered it with a lazy draw from her cigarette, but the damage was done.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I just wanted a smoke before your people started throwing punches.”

“You always this mouthy before a beating?” Sabretooth asked. He was watching her the way a lion watches a cornered gazelle—curious, patient. Hungry. A confidence that comes with knowing you’ve already won.

Something in his gaze said: Run. It’ll be more fun for me.

(Y/n) inhaled, and let the smoke sit in her lungs for a heartbeat. Then exhaled slowly through her nose, eyes trained on the older mutant like he didn’t terrify her down to the marrow.

So she opened her mouth and said something she knew was beyond stupid. 

“You always this eager to play attack dog for someone who keeps you on a leash? Or is this your way of proving you still got it after that thrashing Logan gave you?”

The silence that followed was deep and sharp, like the breath before a scream. 

Sabretooth’s snarl was instant—teeth bared, hackles raised, the line between man and beast erased in one second.

He lunged a half-step forward, claws twitching into view—

And Pietro moved.

In a blink, he was between them, arm outstretched, fingers splayed—not touching her, but blocking the space between her and the coming storm. His voice came low

“Enough.”

“You got a real goddamn mouth on you, girl,” he hissed. “Let’s see if you still got any jokes when I tear out your fucking throat—”

“Whoa, whoa—easy, mon frère,” Gambit cut in, stepping slightly in front of him, one hand raised.“Ain’t no need for that just yet. She's just talkin’, homme,” Gambit said lazily, though his tone was a notch more serious than before. “You know how birds get when they’re backed in a cage. She don’ mean nothin’ by it.”

(Y/n) turned her gaze sharply to Gambit. “Don’t speak for me.”

The look Gambit gave her was pleading—bordering on annoyed. Like a man trying to keep a bar fight from turning into a body count.

Quicksilver turned toward her at that, eyes burning. His jaw clenched hard enough to tremble at the edges.

“Stop talking,” he bit out. “Just—stop. You’re not helping yourself.”

His face was unreadable, but his eyes flickered—furious.

And beneath it all—he looked scared.

For her?

She nearly scoffed. Yeah, right. 

He’s the one who got her into this fucking mess.

From off to the side, Pyro chuckled lowly, breaking the tension just enough to turn all eyes.

“Bloody hell, love. Ain’t you just a little spitfire.” His voice was darkly amused, tinged with something she couldn’t quite place. “Careful now, Creed,” he added, eyes flicking toward Sabretooth. “Looks like the little birdie’s got claws too.”

Sabretooth growled again, a low, guttural threat vibrating up from his chest. But Pyro wasn’t finished.

“She’s not wrong though,” he mused, head cocked, genuinely entertained. “Wolverine did mop the floor with you last time. What was it—three minutes? Two?” He grinned, wicked. “Not that anyone’s counting.”

Sabretooth snarled—really snarled this time, shoulders bunching, claws arching forward like he meant to carve someone in half right then and there—

“Say that again, you little—!”

“Don’t,” Pietro snapped, venom sharp and sudden, his voice cracking like thunder across dry air. “We’re not doing this now.”

Gambit threw up a hand in warning, cool and casual but firm.

“Let it go, Victor.”

(Y/n) glanced at him, a ghost of a smirk tugging the corner of her mouth despite the pulse thudding behind her ribs.

“Thanks for the assist,” she murmured.

Pyro winked. “Anytime, birdie.”

Quicksilver made a strangled sound like he might actually implode. “Somebody shut him up” he hisses. 

Gambit’s eyes slid to (Y/n) again, sharp and steady now. The flirtation had bled out of his expression, replaced by a sort of grim calm.

“You come now, chérie. Quiet-like. We walk, we talk. No one gets hurt.”

“And if I don’t?”

No one answered.

They didn’t have to.

Sabretooth’s claws flexed in the still air with a slow, deliberate snikt.

And the night held its breath once again.

A pin drop could’ve echoed like a gunshot in the stillness that followed.

It was that quiet.

like the world itself had gone silent, teetering on the knife’s edge of violence. (Y/n)’s heart thundered in her chest, a frantic drumbeat behind her ribs. Fear had its hands on her—tight around her lungs, threading through her limbs, trembling just beneath the surface. It was there in the way her shoulders stiffened, in the twitch of her fingers at her sides, in the shallowness of each breath that left her.

She knew it.

They knew it.

She would have gotten mauled in five seconds flat had Quicksilver and Gambit not stepped in.

And still, she was stubborn.

Stupid, reckless, gut-deep stubborn. The kind that burns out stars before it ever yields.

She moved before she thought.

Shoved Quicksilver back with both hands—palms pressed to the cold leather over his chest. The contact was brief, but unexpected, and he stumbled—not from force, but from shock. His silver brows lifted a fraction, mouth parting in disbelief.

“Get away from me!,” Her voice cracked like glass, and still she stood her ground “All of you.”

Son of a bitch. The whole damn lot of them. 

She smashed the cigarette under her boot’s heel, twisting her toe into the gravel until the last ember died with deliberate finality, grinding it into the rocks like it was something she could control.

Then she straightened slowly, lifting her chin like a blade drawn from a sheath. Her voice rang out like something final—low and serious.

“I thought I made myself perfectly clear. Tell Magneto he can rot in whatever hole he crawled out of.” 

Her gaze swept over them, unflinching now despite the way her pulse screamed behind her ears.

“And if you're all so eager to follow him to hell.” her eyes landed on each of them, one by one. “be my guest, but I'm not gonna roll over so easily.”

There it was.

The line.

For one raw moment, no one breathed.

Then—

“Oh, come on,” Pietro snapped, throwing his hands up. “Are you trying to die tonight?”

Gambit winced and muttered something in French under his breath, something that sounded a lot like a prayer—or a curse.

“Merde,” he muttered under his breath. “Girl really don’ know when to shut up.”

Pyro’s expression was hard to read now. The flame in his grin had gone out, replaced by something pensive, almost cold.  There was a flicker of something in his eyes—not admiration, but maybe... regret. Maybe just the echo of it.

“You’re makin’ this harder than it needs to be, love,” he said, and for once, his voice wasn’t teasing. No lilt, no smirk hiding behind his words. Just truth. And something that could have almost been pity.

And Sabretooth?

Sabretooth laughed.

A low, guttural sound that crawled up his throat and slithered across the night air.

“Well, that settles it,” he growled, flexing his claws with audible delight. “We do this the fun way.”

 A wind stirred through the train yard then, sharp and cold as an icicle pick in winter. It slid past (Y/n)’s cheeks like a warning. 

The sound of Sabretooth’s laughter rooted her in place, that deep, lupine rumble clinging to the insides of her ears like cobwebs. He stepped forward again, slow and heavy—each movement a flex of coiled muscle and malevolent intent. The moonlight caught on his claws as they extended fully, glinting silver like the teeth of some ancient trap.

He stepped again—deliberate, savoring the moment, the way monsters do when they’re certain the end has already been written. His bulk loomed larger with each stride, shoulders rolling like tectonic plates, hands relaxed but twitching with promise.

And still—she didn’t move.

Didn’t dare to.

Every instinct screamed at her to run. But where would she go? There were four of them. Trained. Ruthless. Men who had bathed in battle since their bones were half-grown. She’d be tackled in seconds, ripped apart before she could so much as scream.

Still, she couldn’t stop her legs from tensing, couldn’t stop her fingers from curling, couldn’t stop her power from flaring just a little too bright behind her ribs.

She took one breath. Another. And then—

The air around her began to shimmer.

Faint, at first— like a flickering lightbulb.. Then stronger. A ripple of something soft and silver-blue, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks, the stars above catching in her eyes like pin-lights reflected in water.

Pietro saw it first.

“No—no, don’t,” he snapped, his voice slicing the air like a whip as he turned to her. His hand lifted, palm open, like he might physically push the power back into her chest. “(Y/n) stop!. Don’t make this worse—”

Sabretooth lunged.

Fast.

Too fast for anything but panic.

But Pietro was faster.

In a blur of black and silver and wind, he caught Sabertooth mid-leap—shoulder crashing into the older mutant’s side with the full force of a sonic boom. The impact sent both of them tumbling across the gravel in a burst of motion and fury, a cloud of dust exploding where they fell.

“Get her!” Pietro shouted mid-scuffle, his voice a gruff and a whip-crack of command as he fought to keep Sabretooth’s claws from his throat.

But (Y/n) was already turning—already moving—legs pushing off the earth like a raven. Her power bloomed behind her eyes now, lighting her skin in soft purple pulses. She moved with desperation, hands splayed, eyes scanning for the narrowest exit between rusted freight cars and stacked debris, and wooden carts.

And then Gambit stepped into her path.

He didn’t raise a hand. Had no cards visible. Didn’t reach for the bo staff strapped to his back. He just looked at her, red eyes almost glowing under the yellow streetlight

“Don’ do this, chère.”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t even hesitate.

She ducked low and lunged past him—

—only to feel his arm loop around her waist mid-sprint, catching her momentum and spinning her hard into the wall of a derailed car. He was holding back, just wanting to use enough force to stop her. But it still hurt like a motherfucker.

She gasped, the air knocked clean out of her chest, her shoulder slamming into rusted metal with a sick clang.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he said softly, arm tightening around her middle like a steel band. “Please.”

‘Too fucking late for that.’ She thinks bitterly in her head as her body continued to thrash, desperate and fierce.

A burst of shimmering energy flickered from her palms, reading herself to break free from his grip—only for Gambit to seize her wrists in his gloved hands and pin them to the wall beside her head.

‘Son of a bitch.’

“Enough, Nightingale,” Pietro barked from across the yard, his voice ragged with effort. Sabretooth had him pinned now, but not for long—the black blur of his limbs still jerking, struggling under the larger man’s weight. “Goddammit, get off Creed—”

“Let go of me,” she hissed, still writhing, her voice gone hoarse from panic and fury as she fought tooth and nail to break Gambit’s hold. 

“LeBeau, I will kill you, I swear to god-!”

He pulls her restrained wrists away from the wall of the car, the movement forceful enough to peel her entire back from the surface just for him to slam it back in with a force that makes a grunt leave her lips, and she bites her lip to restrain the whimper that want to follow. 

“Chère you need to calm the hell down-”

“Fuck you-!”

That’s  when she sees him from her peripheral vision. Pyro approached slowly now, arms outstretched—not threatening, not mocking, almost placating, like trying to sooth a frightened animal. His brows were drawn tight, mouth a grim line.

“You’re not gonna win this fight, love,” he said, gently now. “Not here. Not tonight.”

Her lips parted, breath catching on a sob she didn’t let out. Her wrists ached in Gambit’s grip. Her heart ached worse.

Pietro finally shoved Sabretooth off with a surge of speed and landed, panting, one arm cradling his ribs.

“Let her go,” he said, voice gravel-rough. “I’ve got her.”

Gambit hesitated.

Then slowly, he stepped back.

(Y/n) staggered forward—but not far. Pietro caught her by the elbow, not unkindly, just firm. Like a leash. Like gravity. An unstoppable force. 

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t look at any of them.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the tracks ahead—long, endless steel rails stretching toward darkness.

And the night felt colder than before.

She felt a ringing in her ear.

Sharp, high, incessant.

She didn’t know if it was from the panic attack crawling up her throat like a hand around her windpipe, or if it was from Gambit bashing her damn head—twice—into cold, unyielding steel. Probably both. Either way, it wouldn't stop.

There was an unabating throbbing at the back of her head as well. One she was desperately trying to ignore. 

Her knees threatened to give out, breath rattling, but she didn’t fall. Wouldn’t give them that.

She hated this.

Hated the stifling heat of her own skin, hated the pounding of her blood in her ears, hated the hands that had touched her, gripped her, held her down.

She hated the freight yard, the scent of rust and ash, the cold press of gravel under her boots. She hated them—every last one of them. Why couldn’t they have just left her alone? 

She hated the way Pietro’s hand still gripped her elbow like he was the only thing keeping her from shattering.

But most of all—

She hated herself.

For letting it happen. For not being faster. For not being stronger.

She was supposed to be better than this. She had promised herself she would never be this helpless again.

She was an X-Man, dammit.

And yet—here she was.

Surrounded. Dragged from the only sense of control she’d managed to carve out for herself in this brutal, unforgiving world. Caged like a bird with clipped wings and too much pride.

(Y/n) sucked in a breath that caught in her chest like broken glass, blinking against the pressure behind her eyes.

She was not going to cry. She doesn’t think she’d be able to survive the humiliation that would come with her breaking down into tears right now. 

“Get off,” she muttered. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady—knife-steady. “Don’t touch me.”

Pietro didn’t move for a beat too long.

Then—slowly—he released her.

She stepped away from him like his touch burned. Like she could scrub it from her skin if she just moved fast enough.

Pyro watched her with a strange stillness now, all the fire in him dimmed to embers.

Gambit’s mouth was tight, eyes unreadable beneath the glint of shadowed red.

And Sabretooth… Sabretooth looked pleased.

Pietro’s voice came again, quiet, but with a thread of command under the weariness.

“We're leaving.”

(Y/n) didn’t answer.

Just stood there, staring at the ground. Her jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“You can walk,” Pietro said, voice a bit softer, “or someone’s going to carry you. But we’re going.”

Her fingers curled at her sides.

And after a long breath, she moved.

[what-have-i-unleashed]

baby, come home

for @peach-flavored-cyanide loveverse again :3 please i want more murmur PLEASE GIMME THE LOREEEEE

Mur hasn’t been allowed outside for a while.

Ia kept him locked inside the house “for his own good”. Said that he wasn’t stable enough, wasn’t ready to be back in the field just yet. That he would react badly to the outside world. That he would lose it if he stepped foot outside that gilded cage. Mur can’t help but think maybe Ia is right. Maybe Mur has lost something in that room of his, stitching the uneven seams, clinging to a jacket that smells less and less like the person who used to wear it. He can feel the way his mind frays away at the seams. The walls talk. The jacket whispers back to him. Sometimes, Mur can see something in the corner of his eyes. Something red. Something blurry.

He's getting worse. He’s regressing.

Maybe that’s why Ia has let him be here along with the others. He doesn’t have to do any work though, just sitting on the bench in the secluded hidden room in Waterfall, listening to the flowing currents and watching the grass billowing lightly in the wind. He has no idea how long he’s been sitting here waiting for the others to come pick him up until he hears a familiar popping sound.

He turns to the side and sees him.

Cypress.

No, not him. Not his Cypress.

This one is strolling slowly towards him, a cigarette between his teeth, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his jacket. The gait is wrong, the build is a bit to the left. But it’s close enough. Close enough to make Mur’s non-existent stomach churn. If Ia knows a Fell Sans is here with him, they will never let Mur go outside again. If they know how Mur is looking at this Fell, they will drag him back home by the ankle and make sure he’ll never see another ghost in the flesh again.

Mur wills himself to shrink into the bench, to disappear, but there is no place to go. He looks down, staring at the scuffed red shoes stepping closer to him.

“Hey.” The Fell stops a few feet away from him. The voice is the same but also isn’t at the same time. It lacks something – the weight, the wear of someone who has seen so much. This one sounds lighter, easier, like the world hasn’t pressed down on him too much just yet.

Mur’s hands bunch at the sleeves of his jacket – Cypress’ jacket. There’s a difference. Enough to make this Fell not his.

“Nice jacket,” the Fell says. “Almost thought you stole mine for a sec.”

Mur force himself to stay still. His SOUL is beating too fast in his ribs. He keeps the mantra going through his mind. It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not him. Forcing a dry chuckle, he looks up at those red, red, red, and replies. “Guess we just have similar tastes.”

The Fell goes silent for a moment, then huffs a laugh as he takes the cigarette from his mouth and taps the ash onto the ground. “That. Or I have a long-lost twin I didn’t know about til now.”

Mur swallows. His eyesight blurs, and he’s not sure if that’s from the smoke or something else. The red is creeping from the corner of his sockets, and he resolutely doesn’t look at them.

“You look lost.” The Fell tilts his head. “Or just… tired.”

Mur forces a smirk. “Why not both?”

The Fell studies him for a moment, and Mur can feel something crawl up his spine. He forces himself to relax. After a brief silence, the Fell exhales a slow puff of smoke. “Well, bench is big enough for two, if you ain’t opposed to company.”

Mur hesitates.

Ia will kill him.

No. Worse. Ia will kill this Fell. Rip him apart like they did with Cypress. All just because he gets too close. Just because Mur wants something he shouldn’t.

But Mur has never been smart about his vices.

He slides further down the bench, giving the Fell more space. So they won’t accidentally sit too close. “Suit yourself,” he says, his voice wary.

The Fell takes the seat, legs stretched out. “So, what’s eating ya?”

Mur almost laughs. He hasn’t had a real conversation with anyone outside his own fractured world in so long. But there is no way he could answer that. So instead, he shrugs. “Life.”

The Fell snorted. “Ain’t that the truth.”

For a moment, they sit in complete silence. Murder steals glances at his unlikely companion, searching for the things that he has missed. The slight wideness in his smirk, the way his cigarette rests leisurely between his fingers, the way his shoulders aren’t as weighed down by things unspoken. Because he’s not Mur’s.

“This your usual haunt?” The Fell asks after a minute. “Never seen ya around before.”

Mur shakes his head. “Just passing through.”

“Ah.” Red nods. “Hope you’re not causing a ruckus around here. We don’t get visitors much.”

Too late, Mur wants to say, but he refrains. Instead, he just tilts his head. “Don’t intend to. I’m just waiting for some friends.”

“Hmm...” The Fell’s gaze flickers over him, assessing, sharp in a way that almost makes Mur jump. His fingers twitch at his sides. “Well, you don’t look like the type to cause troubles.”

Mur lets out a breathy laugh. “You think so?”

The Fell hums, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Well, maybe you are. But you’re too spooked now to do anything, aren’t ya?” He sweeps a glance at Mur again. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

Mur doesn’t respond right away. He just keeps staring at the Fell’s hands, watching the way his fingers curl around the cigarette, how he flicks ash away with practiced ease. It stirs something in his brain – a memory of someone so far away, so lost that Mur couldn’t reconstruct no matter how hard he tries.

“You ever get the feeling you lost something that you can’t get back?” Mur asks, suddenly, abruptly. He doesn’t even realize the question has poured from his mouth until too late.

The Fell lets out a stream of smoke, looking at a spot somewhere on the crystal cave ceiling. “Yeah, well. I think everyone does feel that at some point. ‘S just life.”

Mur nods, staring at his own hands. Hands that have held the dust-stained to his chest. Hands that have tried and failed to stitch back the pieces again and again. Hands that are too slow to save what really matters. Hands that are dyed red over and over and over, never washed clean.

The Fell glances at him again, more curious. “Ya lost something important?”

Mur nods, hesitantly this time. He doesn’t trust his voice not to blurt out the words. It feels wrong to burden a stranger with a familiar face with what he didn’t have with his own Fell.

It’s fine. (It’s not.) Everything’s fine. (Nothing will be.)

“Sorry to hear that. It sucks,” the Fell mumbles under his breath. “But ya know, gotta keep going. Gotta keep moving forward.”

(But how can you move on when this is all you have? When the good things are all in the past? When you wear the dead on your mausoleum of a body? When your bed smells of earth and dirt and rot like the flower bed from whence the flowers of his namesake will bloom again? When you want nothing but to be forever with him – him in the ground you walk on, in the air you breath, in the warmth you sequester? When everything is but broken memories of a broken mind? When you aren’t sure if he was even real at all, but it doesn’t matter anyway? How do you move on?)

Mur stands up abruptly, stuffing his hands in the oversized jacket. “I should go,” he mutters.

The Fell blinks at him, looking mildly surprised but not offended. “That soon? Thought we were just getting to the good part.”

Mur forces a smile, but it’s rigid and doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint.”

The Fell studies him for a beat longer, then shrugs. “Nah, it’s fine. Take care of yourself out there, stranger.”

Mur nods, then turns on his heels and walks away. He doesn’t look back. He can’t.

Because if he did, he might have stayed. And that is something he can never afford to do. Not ever.

[sarrsqz]

Cosmic Attachments

AHS: Murder House

Tate Langdon x Death!Reader

Mentions of Violet Harmon, Chad Warwick and Sally McKenna.

This is a combination of both Murder House and Hotel, but the large majority of it takes place in the Murder House.

In this, the reader is an ambiguous character to takes on the common Grim Reaper trope of guiding souls to the afterlife. They struggle with doing this in supernatural hotspots such as the Murder House due to the stubborn, evil and traumatized spirits that live there.

But they especially struggle with Tate Langdon, a boy who refuses to accept his hellish fate. But Death just can't seem to grapple their strange attachment with him.

Word count: 2k

If you don't want to read the Hotel section, skip to the transition symbol ┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

The hallways of the Hotel Cortez were never welcoming. At least, for you they weren't. The non-human entities, most of whom contradict your existence, weren't keen on having you roam the building. You demonstrated the truth of their circumstances. The vulnerability they hid behind violence.

But you still saw it. How could you not? It's your job, after all.

The carpeted floor felt grimy, even through your shoes. The lights down the hallway flickered. You could feel a draft echoing through the unmaintained vents, or... screams?

It's difficult to tell when they all feel the same to you. A calling – more work to be done. Eventually, that is.

You heard footsteps staggering somewhere behind you. Turning your head down the dim hallway, you saw Sally stumble out of a darkened room. Her old, crimped and frizzy hair fell around her face while cigarette smoke curled around her figure.

She stopped when she saw you. She pointed at you, cigarette latched between her two fingers. "Well, look who's decided to haunt my hallways. What do you want, Grim Reaper?"

You smiled, glancing down at the patterned floor before meeting her eyes again. "You know that's not my name, Sally." The ghost in question scoffed, throwing her shoulders back to emphasize her distaste at your correction. "And it's not haunting, it's... monitoring. Making sure the lost know they have a choice."

Sally snorted, her feet dragging as she walked further down the dimly light hallway. "A choice? Please. You really think any of us would choose this damned place if we had any real options?"

You shrugged. "Some did. Some still can, if they want. It's never too late for those who haven't thrown it away." Your voice was gentle, but firm. It was a necessary precaution when speaking to spirits, especially those like Sally.

You watched Sally take a long drag of her cigarette. She had stopped walking, planting her heeled shoes into the dirty carpet. Her narrowed eyes never left yours.

Breathing out the smoke, "You mean, if they haven't been stupid enough to turn you down already." Her arm fell back down to her side, cigarette ash falling to the floor. She paid it no mind. "But we all know how that goes–regret and begging. You get off on that, don't you?"

You shook your head. "It's not about getting off on anything, Sally. It's about respect. It's about finality. I don't relish in their pain. I mourn it."

The ghost laughed bitterly. Your words, which normally cut through the fragile facades of the deceased, barely scratched her. "Well, yeah, keep your mourning to yourself. None of us are going anywhere. We're all trapped in our own hells, and nothing you say will change that."

"Perhaps. But I'll still be here, Sally. For those who might change their minds. For those who need to know that there's a way out, even if it's only once." You spoke softly, looking away from Sally for a moment. You nodded slightly, confirming your beliefs to yourself.

You need to stay in touch with your ideals. Your morals. Your job.

You saw her eyes flicker, hints of vulnerability poking through before they hardened again. "Don't waste your time." She brought the cigarette back up to her red lips but stopped before she inhaled the drugs within. "You know, instead of bargaining with the freaks here, you should really be having that talk with your boy-toy at that house."

Your face hardened whilst hers curved with humor.

She shrugged dramatically, tilting her head in the process. "Seems like you're not so good at your job after all." Her eyes widened in mockery.

"Tate's choices are his own. I can't force him to do anything." You defended your stance, shifting your body to fully face the deranged ghost. "My job doesn't circle around force. It's about accepting your situation and moving on."

"Hm. Well, good luck with that." Her eyes narrowed more, which you didn't even think was possible. "Places like this have a way of holding on to its ghosts." Her hand, cigarette still placed between her fingers, gestured around you two to the otherwise empty hallway.

You watched her turn heel and walk down the remainder of the hallway. Your eyes remained latched onto the cheetah print of her coat before she turned out of sight.

You sighed, looking down at your feet for a moment. Shit– you should really check up on that place.

┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

You walked into the house through the back door, noticing the emptiness in the air due to the absence of the living. Ever since the death of the Harmons, the large house has sat abandoned for the most part.

You sighed, running your fingers through your hair. You haven't been here in a hot minute– too caught up at the hotel in the city.

"Oh, look who it is." You looked over your shoulder at the kitchen area, seeing Chad Warwick leaning on the counter. "Back again, oh door-to-door Jehovah's Witness? Still trying to sell us all on that afterlife plan?" You watched his nose crinkle when he spoke and how his clasped hands gripped each other with more strength.

The man's reaction to you was common. He's always been like this. Originally refusing you to stay with his boyfriend, now existing in pure ignorance ever since the relationship soured with age.

You raised your eyebrows, responding to him anyway. "Your choice, Chad. But remember, doors to the afterlife don't stay open forever."

"Hm, do they?" He tilted his head, watching you as you walked by and towards the staircase. You knew his bitterness was just a reflection of his personal problems, so like the others, you didn't let it affect you.

The stairs creaked under your shoes. Dust and broken glass littered the wooden floorboards. Graffiti decorated the walls in various bold colors as you trailed throughout the familiar building.

Your fingers traced the cracked walls. The paint crumbled and fell behind them, hitting the floor softly. The only sound was the sound your shoes made as you navigated down the hall. You finally stopped when you turned a corner, opting to lean against the wooden doorway instead of fully entering it.

Tate laid on the old mattress in the room. It still sat on Violet's old bed frame, although you don't remember who owned the mattress. It's been too long to remember trivial details like that.

The boy turned his head to face you, dirty blond hair falling over his forehead. "What's the matter, Death? Didn't get enough souls today?" His voice was laced in sarcasm, arms crossed in a defensive pose. He became detached after learning of your true purpose. Cold.

You haven't decided if you should put that against him though.

"Just thought I'd check in, Tate. How's the afterlife treating you?" You raised an eyebrow. He's rejected your proposals of moving on more times than you can count. There's no point in being professional anymore. So why do you still feel so attached?

Tate scoffed, sitting up on the bed and crossing his arms in his lap. "Oh, it's great. Violet still hates me; the house is still a hellhole."

So hostile.

"Why are you here?" He added on at the end of his short rant. You watched his blue eyes, lined with redness, narrow at you.

You shrugged, walking in the room slowly. You lingered around the walls, quickly glancing outside through the window. "Just... doing rounds. Discussing the reality of the stubbornness you ghosts seem to hold for my proposal." You said it nonchalantly, but Tate could recognize your poor attempts at manipulation. You were a truthful, blunt entity. Manipulation wasn't in your blood.

You leaned against the wall, shadows encapsulating your face as you looked at the boy. In contrast, the sun amplified his features. His expression of hatred, fear. Refusal to accept his fate. "Maybe," you started, "I'm just... attached in a way I shouldn't be."

"Attached? That's rich." He crossed his legs on the mattress, jaw ticking as his fingers traced the stained seams of the fabric. "I thought you were all business. Guide souls, move on. An eternal one-night stand attitude." He grumbled, eyes looking back at you.

You smiled. "It's not that simple, Tate."

He didn't respond. His fingers continued to trace the stitches in the fabric, trying to find a distraction to the situation he was in. An obvious detail that none of the ghosts here seemed to take into consideration when scaring the living away was the removal of any distractions or entertainment.

You looked down to where Tate – and also Violet, at some point – had stored his albums. The floor was empty now.

"You know," you heard him speak, "if I go with you, there's only one place I'm heading. Hell. Doesn't exactly sound like a vacation."

It wasn't a lie. You had been honest about that with him from the get-go. The boy was destined for Hell, and you couldn't help but silently pray that he'd just accept that.

"Tate, you've always known the consequences of your actions. But staying here, trapped in this endless cycle, isn't a permanent solution to your problem either. You remained natural, as best you could regarding the boy. Your stance was approachable, casual.

His eyes darkened. His finger stopped the movement against the mattress below him. "At least here, I know what to expect. Hell... that's a different kind of torture. I'm not exactly itching to find out what they have planned for me."

"Hm." You hummed, leaning your head against the cracked wall and staring off at the ceiling. "That's true. You don't. I don't even know."

He scoffed, annoyed by your attitude. He could feel his irritation grow the longer you intruded in his space.

"But think about it, Tate." Your nose crinkled as you turned your head to look back at him. "This house won't stand forever." You smiled. "One day it will crumble or be torn down. And where will you be? Trapped in the ruins, a ghost with no anchor. Your suffering won't end, Tate. It'll just evolve into a new kind of torment."

Tate frowned, a hint of fear flickering in his eyes as he quickly looked away from you. "Why does it matter? I'm already in Hell here. At least it's familiar."

Your voice was still soft, but sterner as you continued to fill his head with images of his fate. "Familiar doesn't mean safe. The ghosts bound to this place will scatter, their ties disconnected. Lost without something to focus their energy on. You have a chance to leave this shit hole on your own terms. Obtain a semblance of control over your fate."

"Fuck. Control, seriously? What kind of control do I have knowing what's on the other side?" His voice got louder, angrier as his head shot up to face you again.

"Hiding from what you fear will only make your existence more miserable when this place can't protect you anymore."

Your face went blank. You watched one of his eyes twitch, annoyed by the impending reality he was faced with. You stared at each other, yours a look of understanding, his of fear and boiling hatred. Suddenly, he whispered, "You really believe that, don't you?"

You nod. "I do. I need to. And I'll be here, waiting, for whenever you do too."

You stood up straight, not giving the boy another look as you left the room. Your hand trailed against the wall again, before you turned the corner.

Tate watched you leave, attempting to appear indifferent to your conversation. But he couldn't deny the emotions it stirred up inside him. He could take what the other ghosts said about him. He could push their words down until he either forgot about them or lashed out in a swell of emotions.

But you... you were different. You were an inhuman, cosmic creature crafted by the universe.

And his attachment to you wasn't going to save him. 

[h0tb0x1nnac0ff1n]

𝒴ℴ𝓊'𝓇ℯ ℳ𝓎 ℋℯ𝓇ℴ 𝒟𝒾𝓍ℴ𝓃

Daryl Dixon X Mentally unstable fem! Reader

Genre: Fluff

TW: Insomnia, depression, ED, anxiety, SH, thoughts of unaliving

Summary: Reader is a female who has been struggling mentally for years, after everything has happened and they have run out of their medication they have gotten worse. But thankfully her crush, Daryl Dixon, is there to comfort her.

A/N: If you can relate to any of these warnings, please seek help. This post is for people who are struggling mentally but wish for a story that can truly help express how they feel. If you are not comfortable with the topics of this story, please scroll.

✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩☆✩

I sat on top of my sleeping bag, wrapped in a soft blanket holding a stuffed animal, earbuds in my ears, the wires ran through to the iPod I had playing my music. The time on the IPod said 2:27 am. I haven’t been able to sleep all night.

But the music that played

'𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑔ℎ-𝑓𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠 𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑐 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟ℎ𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑚 '

'𝐵𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ'

'𝐵𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ'

I know I shouldn’t listen to music that makes me feel sadness to this level but the instrumental of the song alone is beautiful.

In a world like today, feeling nothingness is how I get by, if I don’t feel happy I won’t get attachments, if I don’t feel sad then I don’t want to… you know.

'𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑢𝑟𝑠'

' 𝐺𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒'

‘ 𝑀𝑒'

'𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑑𝑠'

I tear falls from my seemingly emotionless face.

My eyes close, and I just let the feeling of everything rush over me. I check my pill bottle to see if I had anything left, knowing I’ve been out for weeks at this point, not caring to tell anybody that the medicine that saves my life is now gone.

I then decide to get up to smoke a cigarette outside my tent.

I put the cigarette butt in my mouth and cover the end with my mouth and ‘flick’ with a lighter.

As I inhale, the lightheadedness of the nicotine entering my lungs relaxes me. I feel nothing. I’m empty.

The outdoors is dark, and damp from the rain we had just a few hours before, making the earth smell cozy and natural

“Whatcha doin’ up at this time?” I jump and the sudden presence of the individual.

I sigh “I just couldn’t sleep, that’s all”

I hear the ‘flick’ and ‘fwoo’ of another lighter, I see the small flame light the face of a man whom I’ve gotten to know as Daryl.

He himself lights a cigarette and the smoke fills the air around us, the smell was disgusting. The smell of cigarettes are nauseating, the taste was worse. But I don’t smoke for the taste.

“Whatcha listening to?” He asks turning his head to me, standing to my side.

“Just some alternative from the 90’s” I show him the screen of my IPod

“Mm, ya like music from then?”

“Yea I mean it wasn’t really that long ago, it was just 2010 when everything went to shit.” I say as I look at him with a slight smile on my face

“I mean music that’s 20 years old?”

“I mean, if you look at it. The grand scheme of everything it’s recent, the existence of intelligent humans it’s recent, not that time exists anymore, non of that stuff matters anymore.” Looking down at my cigarette and taking a quick drag of it

“Why do ya think like that? Like very deeply about the way things are.” He and taking a large drag of his cigarette and doing a ghost with it

“I just try to have a realistic and optimistic mindset on things” I said looking at him with soft eyes

“Hmm?” He responds, raising his voice a bit to make it sound like a question

“I think, we should acknowledge the way the world is, let it change us, but we should also be optimistic about it, and be grateful that I’m alive right now, speaking to you smoking this cigarette. I may not be breathing tomorrow, but right now I am”

“Have your meds ran out?” He asks quietly

“Yes, yes they have” I say in a serious voice

“How long have ya been out” he looked at me with sadness in his eye, the look of genuine appreciation and affection. His eyes were soft and sweet.

I pause for a moment, feeling the tears in my eyes show up. My eyes started to burn at the sudden wetness. “Uhm, maybe about two? Three weeks? I uh, I’m not entirely sure” I say looking down at my feet taking a long drag of my cigarette and flicking the ashes.

“Why haven’t ya said anythin’?” His voice gruff, and quiet. He seemed as if he was holding back anger, trying not to scare me.

“Because there isn’t anything I can do, we can’t just go to any pharmacy and pick up prescription medication especially that kind” I said raising my voice slightly at the last few words, starting to sound a bit agitated. Taking another drag of my cigarette I start to cry.

“I just wanna be normal Daryl. I don’t want to have to rely on these fucking pills to keep me alive! To keep me wanting to stay alive. And now there all gone” I said between sniffles, taking multiple drags of my cigarette as it burns out, and I reach for another one to light, taking a drag from that one.

“I just, I wish I had healthy ways to cope with everything. I’d rather feel nothing than feel something, maybe I’m better off as a walker or some shit” I say kicking a rock below my foot

Daryl then grabs both of my shoulders and makes me face him, his cigarette ash falling on my shoulder.

“Don’t ya EVER say somethin’ like tha’ in front of me ever again ya hear me girl!? I can take ya being sad, but not talking down on ya self, like ya said ya gotta except the way the world is, the fact you’re breathin’ as we speak, you’re alive and you’re alive without you’re meds, so stop sayin’ ya need them to live. Because ya don’t, and ya ain’t!”

I stare at him, my eyes fill up once more and I hug him. I hug him tight and bawl.

“I’m so sorry Daryl, I’m just having a hard time right now, I can’t sleep I’ve been trying all night I haven’t slept in two days I just ‘sniffle’ I just don’t know anymore.” I say as my face is pressed into his chest, soaking his dirty sleeveless shirt.

“It alrigh’, let’s get ya to bed” he says quietly, almost so soft I could hardly hear it. “Do ya want me to watch ya? Make sure ya sleep” he lets me go but holds onto my shoulder, letting me know he’s still there.

“Yea, that would be nice.” I say sniffling, looking up at him quickly then back at my feet twiddling with my fingers.

We then go inside of my tent and take my jacket off, showing my scars but I quickly hide them, feeling self conscious. But Daryl grabs my hand and kisses my wrist “I want to know how many times you cried for help, and nobody listened, I want you to know your safe and that I won’t do anything to hurt you” he says still holding into my hand.

I feel myself start to cry once again, why am I so emotional today?

Daryl hold me in his arms once more and lays down on his back on top of my sleeping bag, and covers me in my blanket. I lay my head on his chest, hugging him as he holds me, rubbing his hand through my hair and back.

After what felt like a hour of crying, my eyes are heavy and sleepy. I snuggle up to him more feeling myself start to fall asleep

“If ya need anybody, I’m here, because I care. I really do.” Daryl spoke softly

“But why?” I asked quietly as my voice cracked.

“Because-“ he froze for a second, thinking of what to say “I just think you’re a great woman, and that it’s unfortunate ya feel the way ya do about yourself because your beautiful, I wish ya could see tha’ too.”

He.. he thinks I’m beautiful? I look up to meet his eyes, and sit up slightly. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes on” his voice was rough, and sounded a bit shaky. Was he nervous?

“I think you’re the most handsome man I’ve met Dixon.” I say as I meet his eyes.

We just look into each other’s eyes for a moment before I notice Daryl sitting up more. He pulls me onto his lap and looks at me, like as if he was asking for permission for something. I lean in closer to him and place a soft gentle kiss on his lips, and he reciprocated. Looking into his eyes I could see he was happy, he looked to be calm, at ease. He then hugged me, and placed a kiss on my cheek. “Daryl, do you like me, or was that in the moment?” I ask looking at him and he shares the expression of guilt

“I’m sorry, I thought you felt the same” Daryl says as he looks away from me, letting go of my hips. “No Dixon I do, I do feel the same” I say looking into his eyes, he kisses me one more time and smiles.

We then lay down and I check the time. 3:26 am, everything just happened in a hour.

I lay my head back on Daryl’s chest and close my eyes. And finally, fall asleep in the warm comforting embrace of the man of my dreams.

Weeks have gone by and Daryl and I are in a relationship now, he is always there for me when I need him. Always there to hold me tight when I feel at my worst, always there to smoke a cigarette with, there to speak about my feelings, and i speak to him about his feelings. Daryl and I haven’t just become a couple, we developed a genuine appreciation and love for each other. We are inseparable now, and years later, after prison, Terminous, Alexandria. Were are here for each other.

Daryl Dixon, has become my hero.

𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒻ℴ𝓇 𝓇ℯ𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃ℊ♡

[antielevator]

@general-kalani ( starter call ) // for joseph or cain, considering the body double thing.

Father's out by the lake.

...out of context, that's one of the stupidest sentences Sebastian could come up with. But he's confused at the sight of him, unsure what a man of such stature is doing all the way out here, especially at this unholy hour.

His cigarette lights up as he takes one last drag of it. Sebastian only turns away to put the damn thing out on the ashtray before him.

Though renting this cabin for vacation had simply been a pretense for his stay, he has to admit the lake is a tranquil sight when nobody else is around. Sebastian's taken to sitting out on the deck just to watch the water and the sky and wind down from his work in the day, and drinking and smoking like he can't wait to die. Krimson City may be home to him, but it isn't very often he gets to live in nature like this, and there's something to be said about the wind, the silence, the scents; there's something to be said, too, about drinking whiskey outdoors for once instead of alone at a shitty little bar.

Joseph Seed's presence doesn't necessarily put a knife in his non-existent plans. It does, however, make Sebastian a little self-conscious. Unbidden, the desire not to look like a fool in front of him because that's Father rises inside him, and Sebastian has to shake his head and scowl because where the fuck did that come from?

In place of any bizarre emotional states, Sebastian rationalises that a tourist wouldn't catch the attention of a whole religion's damn leader. So long as he's quiet and behaved-- and he has been, against all odds-- there's no reason for anyone to give him the time of day.

So Sebastian goes back to drinking, the lingering smoke of his cigarette still wisping in the air as he tries to focus on the music drifting from the radio at his side. For all that he tries to ignore the man, though, Sebastian's gaze keeps drifting towards him, almost as if deep down he's wishing Joseph would look back.

[chenziee]

The Stubborn

This story was written for the amazing @zosanauzine!! You can find it as a part of the main zine :D

It's also a part of the Obstacles soulmate AU verse 👀

This is actually a little bit of an extend version because I needed to cut a scene out for the zine because of word count 😭 there's also a few minor changes because I wrote this way before The Markless so I had to do some edits to make the timeline fit together but shhh

The zine's aftersales are open right now, so don't miss out!! 👀

[ Read on AO3 | Obstacles series | Ko-Fi ]

—————

They say that everyone has a soulmate out there somewhere. There will always be a person matching the mark decorating your skin, you simply have to find them.

Sounds easy enough.

But nothing is ever as easy as it seems when the world is separated into five seas, when it’s nearly impossible to travel through freely unless you have government permission to cross the Red Line and a Navy warship to get you through the Calm Belt. Only the strongest—or absurdly lucky—go wherever they want and survive.

And, even if you overcome all those odds and are able to travel across all the seas to find that person, there can be other obstacles to stand in the way. 

Blank skin is one.

Stubbornness another.

—————

“You seriously don’t have a mark?” Usopp asked doubtfully.

Sanji sighed before he lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. Only after a ring of smoke left his mouth did he bother to look at Usopp to reply, “Seriously. And good thing too, it gives me the freedom to love all the ladies.”

“Uh-huh,” Usopp hummed, raising an eyebrow. A person without a soulmate—or at least without a soul mark—wasn’t completely unheard of but they were usually people like Luffy, people without a single ounce of interest in romance or dating. Not… Sanji.

Torao may have put a tiny dent in that theory but the point still stood.

Usopp knew there had to be a catch. Either Sanji was lying, or his mark was so subtle that he mistook it for a regular birthmark. There was simply no way that—

“Ah, crap,” Sanji cursed when he dropped a spatula.

And then, Usopp could only watch as Sanji bent down, the hem of his shirt riding up on his back and exposing a little bit of skin.

It felt like Usopp’s jaw hit the floor when his mind processed just what he was looking at. There was a mark. The mark. The exact soul mark that Sanji claimed he didn’t have. And its shape was—

Usopp had to rub at his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing things but no. It really was three crossed swords, the one in the middle suspiciously resembling Wado Ichimonji.

Immediately, Usopp’s mind flashed to all the times their local Three Sword Style expert pointedly ignored any and all questions about his soulmate. He remembered all the fights that used to abuse the Going Merry and that still continued to abuse the Thousand Sunny to this day. He could practically see the face Zoro made everytime Sanji would go off to hit on yet another random, beautiful woman.

And suddenly, it all made sense.

Gulping heavily, Usopp bit hard on his bottom lip to keep his voice level as he addressed Sanji, who was now scrubbing his dropped spatula in the sink. “Hey, Sanji,” he started slowly. “There’s something on your back.”

Sanji paused at his words, turning his head to look at Usopp, then craning his neck to see his backside. He struggled for a few seconds, even reaching with his hand to blindly try and brush the non-existent dirt off of himself, completely misunderstanding what Usopp had meant.

“I can’t see, can you get it for me?” Sanji asked, frustration clear in his voice.

And Usopp… had to struggle very, very hard to not start laughing as he complied, making a show of ‘cleaning’ Sanji’s shirt.

This was seriously getting better and better. Not only had he learned some wonderful, sweet information that Nami would pay good money for—maybe even forgive the interest on the money he had borrowed from her if he played his cards right—but Sanji also didn’t know about any of this because he couldn’t see his back.

The peaceful days on the Sunny were about to get a lot more interesting.

—————

Zoro didn’t understand. It was as if overnight, the rest of the crew had collectively decided to become a complete pain in his ass. He could simply be training and minding his own damn business, and suddenly, Nami would start loudly complimenting the cook’s new pants, saying how well they fit him. The stupid love-cook wasn’t able to form a single sentence the rest of the day; the only things that came out of his mouth were incoherent mumbles and sighs of ‘Nami-swan’, which only annoyed Zoro more. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cut Sanji or Nami for that.

Or he could be sitting in the kitchen, trying to eat his late breakfast in peace when Robin would walk in. She’d look at Zoro, then Twirly standing at the stove and smile, only to note how ‘sweet’ the atmosphere was. 

Zoro had nearly choked on his rice.

One time, he was even asleep when Franky had decided to loudly drop one of his creations right next to him. Zoro had startled awake, thinking they were under attack but then Franky’s laughter filled his ears.

“Hey, Zoro! You look super tired!” he said. “You should get some sleep, man.”

“Shut up,” Zoro replied with a yawn. This guy, seriously; what did he think Zoro was trying to be doing?

Franky grinned with a suspicious spark in his eyes, like he was dying to make fun of Zoro further but desperately trying to hold back. “You should ask Sanji to help you sleep.”

Zoro’s eyebrows shot up. What the fuck was this cyborg even saying? “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked finally, after what felt like an eternity of them just staring at each other, trying to gauge each other’s thoughts.

“Who knows?” Franky shrugged, his teasing grin only widening. “But Sanji’s our super cook and he spent two years learning new recipes. I’m sure he can whip up something nice especially for you.”

Zoro blinked, giving Franky one last blank look before deciding to ignore this entire exchange and go back to sleep. There was no point pursuing this further; he was sure he wouldn’t get anything else out of the shipwright that would make any sense.

But there were many more instances like this; Usopp noting how ‘amazing’ Eyebrows was at random times. Brook telling him to cherish his soulmate after reminiscing about the time he had spent with his own. Jinbe earnestly wishing him good luck for no reason. Nami threatening to charge him if she was ever ‘subjected to hearing things’, whatever that meant.

There was something off about the whole thing. It was as if…

No, it couldn't be. There was no way the idiots had somehow learned about Zoro’s soulmate… situation. After all, he’d made both Luffy and Chopper swear to not blab out anything stupid and he always made sure to wear his haramaki to keep his mark perfectly hidden. After all, there was no need for anyone to know, no need for anyone to see the stupid spiral on his hip—least of all, the shitty cook it belonged to.

Closing his eyes, Zoro cursed internally; the universe really had a sick sense of humour. Of all people, of literally all the people in the world, his soulmate just had to be someone infuriating. The only saving grace was that the idiot was too stupid to realise.

Seriously, it was ridiculous. Who even missed something like a soulmark? How did that happen? He might have expected something like that from Luffy but not the cook; he might have been absolutely maddening but he wasn’t dumb. He had saved the crew several times by using his brain before but apparently, finding something on your own skin was a more challenging task than outsmarting the navy headquarters at Enies Lobby.

Zoro startled at the chuckle that easily passed his lips at the thought. Stupid Mr Nosebleed making him feel all these things. It would have been so much easier if he was just an annoyance or just an endearing idiot but no, he had to be both. Making Zoro want to kill him and kiss him and then kill him again all in the span of five seconds just by breathing and it was driving Zoro absolutely insane.

“You’d think I’d get used to all this by now,” Zoro growled, ruffling his hair in frustration.

“Is this about Sanji?” A soft chuckle accompanied the words just before someone sat on the barrel next to him.

Zoro sighed. “Why do I get a feeling no matter what I say, you’re not going to believe me?”

“Because you’re not a very good liar,” Robin laughed, crossing her legs and leaning back against the railing behind her.

“Shut up,” Zoro could only grumble before looking away. At least he could confidently say he was still better at it than Luffy. It was just that nothing seemed to get past this woman.

“You two are so cute. You do know you could just talk to each other, right?” Robin was quite obviously holding back laughter as she asked, even having to raise her hand to hide her mouth when Zoro shot her a glare.

“As if I could just bring that up!” he snapped. “What would I even say? Shitty cook doesn’t even know.”

Robin smiled at him gently. “Doesn’t he?”

Zoro froze at her words, but before he could so much as ask what that was supposed to mean, Robin continued, “The connection doesn’t appear for no reason. It doesn’t have to be that difficult, you know.”

Zoro didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like she was wrong but it didn’t seem right either. They hated each other. They couldn’t say good morning without it turning into a fight. And yet, this woman was basically saying it was all in his head.

“Easy for you to say…”

Letting go of a deep sigh, Zoro let his head fall back. He couldn’t help but note what a beautiful day it was. Almost too beautiful. They must have been close to a spring island.

If only everything was as simple as the cloudless blue skies.

—————

“I’m off! I’ll make sure to pick out only the best ingredients for you, ladies.” Sanji bowed before he turned around to leave.

The Sunny had docked at a spring island earlier that morning and after some preparations—namely Luffy insisting on getting his pirate lunch-box before going anywhere—the crew was ready to go check out the port town. It didn’t really matter to Nami what any of them did there, as long as Luffy didn’t manage to set the town on fire before lunch but…

As funny as the whole thing was at first, she was also getting a little tired of it.

“Sanji!” Nami called after their retreating cook. “Take Zoro with you!”

Both Zoro and Sanji froze, whipping around to stare at her with open mouths.

“Why would I want to bring the idiot mosshead?!”

“Why would I want to go with the idiot love-cook?!”

Nami sighed deeply before pointing at Zoro. “Because I don’t want you to get lost and—” she paused to point at Sanji— “because I don’t want you to get distracted.”

It was a lie, a transparent one. It wasn’t like this was the first island, the first city where they would each go their separate ways with no idea what the rest were doing. As much as she was right about Zoro’s sense of direction and Sanji’s tendency to chase after women, she had never gone out of her way to force them to stay together for no apparent reason. But if she didn’t step in, they would never get anywhere and she was done watching these two dance around each other like a couple of idiots.

“Oi, Nami,” Zoro hissed but a single stern look from her was enough to end the argument before it even began.

They were going to go together and talk and there was nothing either man could do about it.

—————

Automatically grabbing the bag that was handed to him, Zoro wondered why he had even agreed to this. He wanted to say it was because of the kindness of his heart, because he took pity on the cook, because he had nothing better to do. He didn’t want to admit it was because he was scared of Nami or worse, that he wanted to spend time with Curly. Absolutely not.

But there was a damn limit, alright?

“Hey, Cook,” Zoro growled when he was handed yet another bag. “Just how much stuff do you want me to carry for you?”

Brow raised, Sanji put down the apple he was examining to look at Zoro instead. “What else are you here for? Don’t tell me this is too much for a muscle-head like you.”

“That’s not the point! You carry something, too!” Zoro snapped back because really, it wasn’t like it was heavy but why was he carrying all of the thirty shopping bags?

“Why should I? Plus, I need both hands to choose the highest quality food for Nami and Robin.”

Sanji’s snarky tone softened as soon as he thought of the girls and Zoro hated how much that change irritated him. Why did he have to get stuck with this womaniser for a soulmate? “It’s always about the women,” Zoro muttered bitterly.

“What?” There was a mix of annoyance and honest confusion in Prince’s voice and somehow, that only made Zoro angrier.

“You heard me,” he said curtly, looking straight at Cook in a direct challenge.

There was a moment of silence while Sanji stared back, then wordlessly lit a cigarette. Closing his eyes momentarily, he took a moment to blow out the smoke before he glared at Zoro. “Are you picking a fight? Who do you think all the rice is for, huh?!”

“For me, so the razorblades have flavour!” Zoro shot back, already reaching for Enma despite all the bags in his hands.

“You asked for those!” Sanji’s foot was on fire now, slowly rising up to return Zoro’s attack… but then it froze in mid-air, the flames dying as Browgoro blinked, his mouth falling open, cigarette dropping. “Wait, you actually ate that?”

Suddenly, it felt like the flames from Sanji’s attack jumped over to Zoro’s face; he wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed—he had been very proud back on Punk Hazard for managing to digest those, just like he had claimed he could…

So, why did he feel like disappearing off the face of the earth now?

He couldn’t even look at Dart-brow when he replied, his voice a quiet mumble, “We can’t waste food, right?”

Grave silence settled over the two of them at his words; it was like everyone at the market had disappeared, leaving only Sanji, Zoro, and his increasing sense of mortification.

It felt like several long, agonising hours later that Sanji finally let out a long-suffering groan and buried his face in his hands. “Why did I have to get stuck with this Marimo for a soulmate…”

Immediately, Zoro’s good eye widened.

“You knew?!” he asked in horror. Curly had always claimed he didn’t have a soul mark, that he was ‘free to love all the ladies’, so what the hell was he saying right now?!

Sanji visibly froze; he obviously didn’t think before speaking, was probably just as shocked as Zoro to hear his own voice forming the words.

They stared at each other for a moment, both too stunned to even blink. It took a laughing child crashing right into Zoro to get time to move again… only it felt like it sped up a little too much. Zoro’s head was spinning. He barely knew what was going on anymore, only that he needed to do something. Anything. But… He was never one to think too deeply about things.

That was what Sanji was there for and look where that got them.

Clenching his jaw, Zoro decided.

Fuck it.

He took the two steps that separated them, grabbing Sanji’s arm without a word to drag him away. He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t know what he was going to do…

But if, at the end of it, he finally learns what Sanji’s lips taste like, that was perfectly fine by him.

—————

“How did it go?” Usopp asked casually when the two of them got back.

“We got everything for your special tangerine sauce, Nami!” Sanji called, completely ignoring Usopp in favour of waving to the navigator. No surprise there.

Zoro clicked his tongue at the cook’s antics, simply walking by while carrying all of the many shopping bags. “Sanji, I’m gonna drop these in the kitchen. Put the shit away yourself.”

“As if I’d let you mess around my kitchen anyway!” Sanji snapped back immediately.

Yep, nothing’s changed. Usopp wasn’t surprised Nami’s plan didn’t work; if forcing them to be alone was enough, then they wouldn’t be—

Wait.

“Did you just call him ‘Sanji’?!”

[marvel1012]

Sins of the Father - Pt. 1 "Richie"

Synopsis: AU 3rd season episode of The Bear. Carm makes a startling discovery, and must navigate the fallout.

Warnings: just a lot of cursing and smoking for this installment (later parts will also have drinking, mentions of domestic violence/crime)

Word count: 1,993

Author's note: This is my very first fic posted to Tumblr, honest feedback appreciated but please go easy on me! I'm new to The Bear fandom and have hyperfixated this silly AU fic into existence, if it sucks then I probably won't bother posting the rest. I hope you enjoy this long, strange trip :) (Oh, and I had to make up a first name for Mr. Berzatto because nobody says his name in the show. Cheers!)

Part 2 | Part 3 ___________________________________________

The sound of a few distant gunshots echoed around the alley behind The Bear, but it had that bouncing, ricochet quality that meant it was far enough away to be someone else’s problem, not his. Carm took a last drag on his cigarette and tossed the still smoking butt to the pavement, stomping it out with the sole of his non-slip sneaker. Exhaling the last of the drag, he glanced over at the lone streetlight above the parking spot. It was strobing, the ancient bulb still trying to provide light but dying nonetheless. “I’ll have to get the city out here to fix that,” he thought.

“Hey Carmy, somebody’s out front to see ya,” the new guy, Connor, had his head stuck out the back door. 

“What? Who is it?” It was the middle of the night, an hour or so after service ended. Who would show up to the restaurant at this hour, asking for him? 

“I dunno, he says he’s your dad? Or somethin’?” 

Carm felt like he’d been punched in the stomach and slapped across the face simultaneously. 

Not ready…

Why now…

Why here…

On his sharp intake of breath, Connor’s eyebrows lifted in confusion. “You want me to tell him to get lost, errrr?” 

“Ah, no. No, that’s okay. I’ll— I’ll be right there.” 

Connor nodded and stepped back inside, leaving the door open for Carmen to follow. Carm rubbed hs index finger against his bottom lip, considering the empty doorway. Not ready…

As he passed through the kitchen and toward the front of house, the flurry of activity that usually followed dinner service was winding down. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sydney and Marcus talking low about something over near the prep area. He did his best to hide the fact that the thought of them dating, of them being together, made his blood boil. What right did he have to be jealous, though? It’s not like he deserved someone as beautiful, smart, and talented as Sydney. He was broken, and the whole debacle with Claire had proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Marcus is good for her, she’s good for him, and I’m not good for anybody.

Passing into the dining area, he noticed a chair that hadn’t been pushed in. Someone must have missed it when they were straightening up. He stopped to put it back where it belonged. Old habits. Or maybe just stalling to avoid the awkward interaction he was about to face. Taking a deep breath, he hit the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of The Bear, expecting to see the father he barely knew, the one from the pictures, the one that had walked away from him and everybody else all those years ago. 

But what he got was– someone else. 

Instead of broad shouldered, salt and pepper haired Jerry Berzatto, he of the deep set, dark eyes and craggy features that looked so much like Mikey’s it hurt, the man standing in front of him, taking a long drag on a Parliament, was pretty much the polar opposite. He was on the taller side, close to six feet, slender build but still muscular, kind of a wiry guy. His wild shaggy hair, haloing his face in the glare from the streetlight, was gray, but more like a light brown gone mostly to lighter blond, not like it had once been black. Not like his dad’s would have been. 

“Heeeey, you must be Carmen, the head honcho. You got one for your old man?” The stranger popped his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and took a step forward, offering Carmen his now free right hand for a shake. Instead of doing likewise, all Carm could do was stare. Stare directly into those piercing blue eyes– his eyes. The world tilted on its axis, and he took a step back. 

“Wh-who the fuck are you?” 

The man’s lopsided grin fell, and he reeled his hand back in, reclaiming the cigarette. “What? Didn’t your Ma tell ya I was gettin’ out this week?” He paused, looked for recognition in Carm’s eyes. Seeing none, he threw his hands out. “Didn’t– didn’t your Ma tell ya anything?” Silence. The stranger rolled his eyes. “Sheeezus, that is just like crazy Don. Just like her, that fuckin’ broad, I swear,” he rubbed his lips with the fingers of his free hand, clearly agitated. 

Just like I would do. 

What. The fuck. 

“Who are you, man?” 

His question was ignored. “I bet she ran around the whooooole neighborhood tellin’ everybody that you were Jerry’s kid. And just who did that crazy bitch think she was foolin’?” He gestured broadly toward Carm, “I mean, look at ya.” He shook his head in apparent disbelief, taking another long drag. Then mumbled under his breath, more to himself than anything, “Jerry’s fuckin’ kid, heh, get fucked.” 

Taking in the ratty bomber style leather jacket and threadbare jeans that must have come from some lower end thrift store, like the Goodwill down on Washington, the gaunt, sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, the badly faded neck tattoo that could have been a pair of dice, once, possibly? Or maybe they were dominoes? It all suddenly clicked into place. Carm’s rage flared, hot and jagged. 

“Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are, or what kind of shit you’re tryin' to pull, but you need to get the fuck away from my place. Whatever you’re sellin’, I don’t want it. Did somebody put you up to this? Did Richie put you up to this?” 

The man cocked his head to the side, any and all traces of friendliness suddenly evaporated. He flicked the cigarette into the gutter, took another step forward as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. There was anger now, barely simmering under the surface. “Look, I may have been doin’ time for the last 30 years and maybe I coulda called once in a while just ta ask about ya, but me being gone doesn’t change the fact that I’m your Dad, and-'' he stopped, stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, looked down at his busted Nikes, and sighed. Although it obviously pained him to swallow his pride, he had to admit defeat. Softly, almost a whisper, “And, well, I guess I could use your help. Maybe a job washin’ dishes or–” 

And there it was. “Get the fuck away from my restaurant. If I ever see you near my place again, I’m callin’ the cops and tellin’ em that you’re down here flashin’ women on the street in front of my place of business. They’ll get here quick.” 

The stranger’s mouth set in a thin, hard line. Even that small detail struck Carm as vaguely familiar, as if he’d seen the expression somewhere before. You have. In the mirror. The tall man retreated a couple of steps backward on the sidewalk, shaking his head again. “I should have known. I should have known you’d be just as psycho as she is. You go ask her, ask her about Sam Miller. If she hasn’t pickled herself by now, she’ll tell ya exactly who I am.” 

He turned on his heel, and Carm released the breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. What the fuck is going ON? Without waiting to make sure the guy kept walking, he bolted back into the restaurant and locked the door. 

“Cousin? Everything okay out there?” Richie was standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen, looking concerned. 

“No, ah, yes, no. I don’t know.” Carmen leaned against the door, pressing his forehead to the cool glass. He was still gripping the deadbolt, as if he thought Sam Morris was coming back to try to force his way inside. 

“What’s goin' on?” Richie moved across the darkened dining area, coming to stand beside him. He peered through the tinted glass, straining to see out. 

“My, well, my uh,” Carm swallowed, started again, “It was some crazy guy that showed up, trying to say he was my dad. Did you like, pay some guy to fuck with me?” 

Richie got very still. He didn’t say a word, just stared. It looked like all the blood had drained from his face. That, or he’d seen a ghost. 

“Richie.” 

Nothing. Richie Jerimovich speechless was a scary sight to behold.

“Richie? Do you know who that guy is?” 

His brother’s best friend finally turned to look at him, and there was so much sadness there. Whatever he was about to say, he didn’t actually want to say it. The reluctance was palpable in his voice. 

“That guy,” another pause, he really didn’t want to have to say this, “that guy is your dad, Carmy. Your real dad.” 

“No, I don’t believe you. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Carm.” 

“Nuh uh, there’s no way. I don’t– I can’t– I-I”, he could feel the panic rising in his chest, tightening, getting harder to take a full breath. He was getting out of control again. 

“Carmy, calm down. It’s gonna be alright,” Richie pulled a chair over to where they were standing, “here, sit down for a second.” 

Carmen sank into the chair, hand pressed to his sternum, rubbing. Just focus on breathing, in and out, in and out. Don’t think about those eyes. Your eyes. Don’t think about that, think about anything but that. 

“Look. Me and Mikey were just kids when all this went down. We were old enough to know that some shady shit was happenin’, but the adults didn’t really tell us anything. Sam was a guy that worked with your dad doing electrical stuff. Remember? And your mom worked in the office for the electrical company? Before they bought The Beef?" he stopped to make sure Carmen was lucid enough to be getting all this. He sure as shit did not want to repeat it. 

“Uh huh,” Carm nodded to show he was following along, and for him to continue. Focusing on Richie’s voice, on his words, was helping him calm down.

“So, from what I know, Donna and this guy had some kind of thing goin’ on, behind your dad’s back. It didn’t last long but it was, ya know, long enough, obviously. Anyway, your mom got pregnant and that Sam guy split. We never saw him come around again.” 

Carm stopped rubbing his chest and looked up, “So Mikey knew. And you knew. Who else knows? Does Nat know?” 

“Ah, no I don’t think so. She was still really little when all this was going on. Nobody ever talked about it after, either. I think we all wanted to forget that it happened, and move forward with like, life, ya know?”  

Carmen couldn’t help but grunt and shake his head at that one. Sure, just forget it all happened. Just move on, pretend it’s all okay. Except it wasn’t, not for him. This changed so much.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. How could I not know? I always looked different from them, felt different from them. Never really fit in. Not really.” 

“I don’t think you wanted to see it, Cousin.” Richie put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you head home, me and Syd can make sure everything gets finished here and lock up. If that prick has the nerve to show his face again, I’ll make him wish he hadn’t.” 

“Yeah, okay.” As he headed toward the back of house to grab his stuff, he paused. 

“Richie?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Don’t tell anybody else what’s goin' on. This is my business, and I don’t want any drama. Not Fak, not Syd, and definitely not Nat. Please.” 

“Of course, Cousin. Whatever you say.” 

Carmen nodded, and turned to leave. 

To be continued....

[cursesavior]

Some part of him expects immediate condemnation, even if that not the kind of person Shoko is. Really, it's just a projection of his own shame - some part of him, the part that still clings weakly to his previous ideals, believes he deserves to be berated for even thinking of killing, of going back on everything he'd stood for as a sorcerer. But she doesn't - instead she grounds him back in the reality of the situation rather than the what-ifs, the should-haves that keep repeating in his mind. Regardless of whether it was right or wrong, of whether he should've killed the villagers or not, he had still saved them. He'd taken them away from that horrible place and they'd never have to go back there - that was more important than anything else, right?

But still, for someone like Suguru, who puts so much weight into philosophical concepts like morals and ethics, purpose and meaning, the tangible reality still feels like only part of the equation. He needs direction. He needs an answer.

Her question does make him pause, though - he keeps thinking about what would've happened in the moment, the righteous vengeance and visceral horror, but afterwards... What would he have done? Where would they have gone? They couldn't come back here, and he couldn't go back home to his parents, either. He would've figured something out, he's sure, but trying to imagine that reality now was nearly impossible.

"I guess I didn't have a plan," He admits, eyes watching the end of his cigarette as it turns to ash and falls to the pavement. "I would've done whatever I had to in order to protect them, I wouldn't have regretted it, but... But I can't say what would've happened, if it would've been for better or for worse." A heavy sigh at that - when putting it that way, it sounds like a pointless thing to ruminate on, doesn't it? No matter how much he thinks about it, he can't change the past. He'll never know. Why can't he just accept that? ( Because that's just not who he is. Always searching for something. )

Maybe this won't get anywhere if he doesn't admit what's truly bothering him - the thing that had been nagging at his mind ever since he saw that cult applauding Riko's death.

"You know, I learned something interesting recently." He starts, as if it were completely unrelated. "Apparently, the only reason curses exist is because of non-sorcerers. Curses are the result of the built-up negative emotions of the masses - but because sorcerers can control their cursed energy, we don't really contribute to it. And yet, despite that fact, sorcerers are the ones that suffer the most because of curses. It's not fair, is it?" He takes a long drag of his cigarette, lets the nicotine rush through him, balance him out where his emotions want to flare up and take control. "Looking at it objectively, wouldn't sorcerers be better off without non-sorcerers? Wouldn't killing those villagers do more to eradicate curses than just exorcising the curses themselves?"

It's a dangerous way of thinking, some part of him knows that - and he knows that Shoko won't have the answers for him. He doesn't need her to have the answers, not exactly - but he needs some other perspective when he feels so unsteady, unstable. Shoko is an anchor, in that way - a voice of reason to keep him from breaking and spiraling. There's a guilt to it - he doesn't want to put this on someone else, especially someone who was already so damn tired and stressed out like she is - he's always prided himself on being strong, self-reliant, the person you can lean on who never needs to ask for help. But who else can he turn to, can he trust with such heavy decisions? She's seen more suffering and death than any of them, seen the darkness that comes with being a sorcerer and kept moving forward regardless - it could only be her.

A light flickers between them. Here for a burning second, then gone in the next. Feels rather symbolic if she thinks on it too hard. Lets herself linger and mull over the events that transpired since the three of them branched off; all shot into different trajectories of their respective life.

The smoke that's coaxed into starved lungs feels just as grey as the setting sun had been upon Suguru's arrival. Bleak. Heavy. Stained. The voiced gratitude's only met with a single nod. Hazel dark eyes stare forward at the distant timberline to better hear anything cast between them. And what a hefty catch it is, presented with a world's worth of raw burden and contemplative morals. The scales have tipped, keep tipping between that wrong and right Suguru trapezes on.

Nothing's said for another few beats. "I think you made a choice to save them." Stating the obvious, certainly, but her perspective of things has never been so black or white. She's lived in the muddy grey even as a child. Came to accept the world for what it was not long after. Just being a part of the medical field alone calls for similar snap decisions while also being inherently imbued with rights and wrongs — those hard to swallow truths that directly those that have to live with such suffering versus those impacted by proxy.

"I don't have a yes or no answer for you." She won't even entertain the thought despite how a certain kind of rot's taken hold in the cavern of her chest. "But I can say how horrific it's been for them, to have lived in such a way." She's seen the evidence by physical examination alone. Felt that same breath of disgust dig into the back of her mind. Still feels it and will continue to do so for ages to come, she's sure of it.

"If you had dealt with them, would you have been ready to take on the repercussions at that moment? For the foreseeable future with them in mind and, potentially, in your care?"

[acciotwinz]

Long Distance ~ R. T.

Roger can't sleep and calls a random number left of a napkin. He expected to find someone to help tire him out. He never thought he'd find love.

[Reposting and major editing of an old fic I had posted on an old blog & crossed posted on ao3]

Warnings: SMUT, +18 ONLY - MINORS DNI; swearing & cursing; unclear timeline (lmao); Brian is a bit of a douche. It's a long ass one, over 20K words. Read at your own risk!

Sometimes, being a rockstar isn’t all it’s cooped up to be.

Especially when on a world tour because it really has a way of derailing one’s internal clock. It’s the reason Roger can’t sleep. He had been hopeful that between the jet lag, the excitement of being back in his own bed, the hectic rehearsal and recording schedule as well as the copious amounts of alcohol he’d consumed at the local dive bar with his mates would be enough to tire him out. Apparently, he’s very mistaken.

He'd done what he usually does: counts sheep, lays in the dark, read the really boring book Brian has suggested. Nothing seems to be working this time around.

For what feels like the thousandth time, Roger turns over in his bed. He almost misses those rock-hard mattresses and non-existent pillows in the hotels around the world. He groans, casting his eyes to the red numbers glowing in the dark room. It’s nearing 1.30am and as much as his body is begging for sleep, his mind wouldn't shut off.

Throwing the light blanket to the side, Roger swings his legs off the bed. There’s no point in laying around, letting his frustration build. He eyes his discarded jacket, deciding that a quick smoke might help him relax just enough to be able to finally fall asleep. Stretching his arms above his head, his back cracks and with a loud sigh, quickly followed by a loud yawn, he lazily crosses his bedroom to reach the jacket he left by the door, fishing his half-empty pack of cigarettes from the pocket. As he rummages around the pockets for his lighter, a crumpled piece of paper flutters to the ground.

With furrowed brows and cigarette dangling from his lips, Roger picks it up from the ground. After having found the lighter, Roger starts walking towards his bed. Lighting the cigarette, he takes a deep drag, letting his lungs fill with nicotine, immediately giving him a sense of calm.

Feeling more relaxed, Roger clamps his teeth gently around the filter, using his now free hands to uncurl the piece of paper. Once he sees the hastily scrawled digits, his lips stretch into a massive grin.

Taking another drag and flicking the ash into the empty ash-tray on his bedside table, he tries to recall when the number was slipped into his pocket. It had to be from earlier that evening as the number had the London area code and he hasn’t worn the jacket on tour as he’d forgotten it at home. However, no matter how hard he thought back to his evening, no specific girl sprang to mind. There had been quite a few that came to chat him and the lads up, but none of them stood out. He doesn’t even remember being particularly flirty with anyone of them.

Roger casts another quick glance at the clock. It’s still early enough that if the girl really was out at the dive bar with them, she’s probably getting home now as he left much earlier than regular, hoping that the jetlag and general exhaustion would lead to a good night sleep.

Deciding that the woman had clearly hoped for a call from him, Roger picks up the receiver and dials the number. Making himself comfortable, he waits for someone to pick up.

It rings much more than he thought it would and he debates if maybe he shouldn’t be calling this late, if it’s better to try again during working hours.

Suddenly, the phone stops ringing, and there is a very groggy and angry voice coming through the line, “Someone better be dead.”

Rogers chuckles. “Well, hello to you too love”.

In response, he only hears a groan and it sounds so deep that he questions if he’s actually speaking to a girl.

“Who is this? And why on earth are you ringing my flat at...” there’s a small pause, as the person on the other line is clearly reaching for something “1.17 in the bloody morning?!”

Roger cringes, closing his eyes as guilt floods his body. He really shouldn’t have called but he really isn’t great at making decisions when tired and slightly inebriated. “I’m sorry, love. Thought you’d want me to call as soon as I found your number.” He hates that he can’t recall a name or even a face.

“I am not your ‘love’!” the girl says angrily, “I have absolutely no clue who you are. Or why on earth you are calling me. I certainly did not give you, my number.”

For a moment, nothing is said on either end and Roger decides d to play it cool, act confident and pretend as if he actually remembers exactly who he’s talking to. “I know we didn't spend that much time together but I -”

“Let me stop you before you start,” she interrupts and Roger can hear her shuffle around, most likely sitting up in her own bed. “I have no idea who you think you are but I can guarantee that I did not give you, my number. And before you ask, no, I don’t have any roommates.”

The girl grunts in discomfort, questioning why she’s entertaining this jackass when she can just hang up and disconnect her phone for the night.

“Oh” the syllable is so sound and dejected that she can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him, even though he woke her at an ungodly hour.

She has no know why she speaks again. “You must have made a terrible impression if some random bird decided to leave you a fake number.”

There’s an offended scoff that comes down the line almost makes up for the unwanted wake-up call. “No girl has ever done that to me. Or would need to do it. I’m a catch, thank you very much.”

“Sure you are, big boy.” She says concededly.

“Are you saying that I’m not?”

She snorts, short and derisive, “I’m sorry to break it to you but it seems that the girl who gave you the number didn’t think you were all that special.”

Roger pouts, stubbing out his long-forgotten cigarette, “You don’t sound all that sorry to me.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m not.”

Roger can’t hep the small laugh that bubbles out, “And would you feel inclined to illuminate me on why?”

“Could it be because some random bloke decided to call me at stupid o’clock trying to get in my knickers?”

“You wish,” and even though she’s never seen him before in her life, she knows he’s smirking.

“Are you really telling me that you weren’t calling in hope of a shag?”

Roger shrugs, deciding to lay down and make himself comfortable, “I’m not going to lie and say I would be unhappy if it happened but that wasn’t the main reason I called.”

She bites, “Why did you call?”

“I…” Roger pauses. Why did he call?

“Are you ok?”

Roger blinks, surprised by the sudden care that seems to colour her voice. “What?”

“I just mean…” she sighs, laying back down and glancing at her alarm clock. “It’s late. Or early, depending on how you want to see it. And your voice sounded a bit off. There must be something on your mind if you think that calling a random stranger in the middle of the night is a good idea.”

She really can’t explain the sudden interest in the man. She doesn’t know him but he sounds so sad, and is clearly lonely. It tugs at her heart in all the best and worst ways. Thank you, childhood trauma.

A small, grateful smile forms on Roger’s face and his voice softens noticeably. “You’re very kind, love. I’m just a bit jet lagged.”

She hums in surprise, “That sounds fascinating! Where did you get back from?”

“That, I’m afraid, is only for friends.” He tuts, “And I don’t even know your name.”

She laughs and Roger’s heart does something weird in his chest that he pointedly ignores.

“Touché”, she’s still laughing. “The name’s Y/N.”

“Lovely name for a lovely voice,” he says softly. “I’m Roger.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Roger.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Y/N.”

There’s a small pause and it would be the perfect moment to hang up but neither seem to want to.

“Well, now that we’re friends, want to share why you’re jetlagged?”

Roger laughs, bringing his free arm behind his neck, “I was in America.”

“Fancy!” She says with a laugh, “What were you doing across the pond?”

“I’m in a band and we were on tour.”

-----

What should have been a one-time thing evolved into something more.

Roger and Y/N find themselves speaking on the phone nearly every day, even when Roger left for tour again.

The first month, it was Roger that called every day. It had started because of a particularly rough day in the studio and remembering the kindness and care in Y/N’s voice, he decided that her friendly voice was what he needed to feel better.

When the second month rolled around, Y/N asked for a way to contact him if she was having a bad day.

And thus, the tradition was born.

It’s been six months now and every time the phone rings, Y/N can’t help the flutter of her heart or the smile on her face. Roger has somehow weaseled his way into her life and she couldn't be more grateful. He’s become her best friend, her confidant, someone she can trust blindly and who would always listen to her and have her back. She feels like she knows Roger better than the people she hands out with daily. They’ve opened up about their lives, their dreams and insecurities. Y/N knows that Roger wants to make it big but he’s afraid that the drugs, the booze and the sex may cloud his mind and stop him from living his dream. He shares how much he loves his band mates but how they tend to get under his skin, especially when writing new music.

Y/N shares how she took over her mother’s bookstore while being an editor on the side to make ends meet. She opens up about her limited social interactions and how she feels like she’s a bit too clingy and overbearing.

They talk about their childhoods and what they do to relax.

The two of them understand each other in such a deep, soulful way that should scare her but only gives her a sense of calm.

Y/N has even come up with a sort of table to help keep on top of the time difference when Roger is traveling. She glances quickly at the alarm next to her bed and is excited to see that Roger should be calling her in a few minutes.

She makes sure her tea is still warm as she fluffs her pillows, settling down on the bed while tucking herself into the blankets. She waits impatiently for the phone to ring and when it finally does, she grins brightly.

“Hello there, rockstar!”

It only takes hearing his voice to know that something is up. “What did they do this time?”

“Who says they did anything?” Roger knows he’s pouting and that his tone is a clear indication that his band mates did indeed do something wrong, but he doesn’t feel ready or willing to talk about it.

“Rog, please don’t.”

They’d done this before: one of them – usually Roger – is in a mood and takes it out of the other, making everyone involved feel like shit by the end of the call. Y/N isn’t sure if she has the energy for it today but has never and will never be truly able to ignore Roger when he’s clearly upset about something.

“I know something is bothering you and I’m almost certain it has something to do with your mates since you were fine before leaving for rehearsal.” There’s a brief pause and Y/n adds softly, “I worry about you.”

Roger sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m fine.” He knows he’s being a bit too short with her and that nothing was her fault, but he can’t really help it. He doesn’t want to deal with it.

“Rog…I…” her mind can’t seem to form the right words to explain the thoughts running through it. She’s well aware of his temper and how it flares up around his mates; how he likes loads of sugar; how he can’t see without his glasses but still refuses to wear them.

Y/N knows that this time, something is different but she can’t really explain why or how without admitting that she feels more than friendship towards the drummer. And she isn’t ready just yet to wear her heart on her sleeve just yet.

She ends up settling for the next best thing. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, I understand. But please, don’t lie to me. I know something is up and I will never force you talk about it.”

Roger sighs in relief, some of his anger evaporation as he finds himself smiling “Thank you. How was your day?”

It’s at times like this, with Y/N talking happily about her day, rambling on and on about things he doesn’t quite understand and people he doesn’t know that he questions how he got so lucky to have gotten a random number that led to having this amazing girl in his life.

“I still can’t believe that no one except Peter Pan warned me about how much it sucksbeing a grown up,” Roger can tell she’s pouting and it makes him laugh.

The laughter however is cut short when she tries asking about his day and the previous night’s concert. “I’m in a rock band. It goes as well as rock concert goes.”

Y/N blinks, surprised by the venom suddenly lacing his tone. “What kind of answer is that?” She tries to keep her tone neutral, not letting it show how affected she is.

“The one I’m giving you.”

They may have been talking for six months but she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to keep up or understand his mood swings. “Why are you taking your shit out on me?! What’s your problem?!”

As understanding as she may be, Y/N has never had much patience for people taking their anger out on innocent bystanders, who just happen to be at the right place for the wrong time.

“You’re my fucking problem!” Roger snaps, voicing raising as he continues, “You ask all these fucking questions and pester me worse than my mother ever has. You’re not her. You’re not even my girlfriend. You’re a stranger that just doesn’t know when to let go.” His chest is heaving as he sits forward on his bed, empty hand curled into a fist. “God, we haven’t even met are you’re already so fucking clingy –”

With tears in her eyes, Y/N hangs up the phone. She tries reasoning with herself. She knows he’s upset, that something got him in this horrible mood but she has nothing to do with that. He’s hurt and wants to hurt others around him and he did succeed, if you ask Y/N. He’d said the one thing that he knew would absolutely shake her confidence and make her feel like garbage. They’d talked about it, multiple times. Roger had even reassured her at every turn that she was absolutely not clingy and that he loved every second they got to spend on the phone together.

He'll apologize when he feels better.

He values you.

You’re his friend.

Y/N keeps repeating these mantras over and over again as she stands on shaky legs, heading towards her small bathroom.

The phone starts ringing but she ignores it. She lets the tears fall, turning on the faucet and splashing some cold water on her face. The phone stops ringing, just to pick up again a few seconds later, confirming her suspicion that it’s Roger trying to get hold of her.

Taking a deep breath, she slowly makes her way back to her bed, sipping on the now lukewarm cup of tea. She glares at the ringing phone, wanting Roger to feel what she’s feeling, even just a bit.

Almost thirty minutes go by before she feels as if she’s got her emotions under control and is ready to speak to Roger, who hasn’t stopped calling since she hung up.

With a deep breath, she closes her eyes and picks up the phone, placing the receiver against her ear.

“I’m so sorry, love!” Roger’s voice floods her system as he stumbles over his words. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Or, I mean I shouldn’t… it isn’t…”

He takes a stuttering breath, collecting himself before he attempts to explain himself again. “You had nothing to do with my shit mood and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m so very sorry. I didn’t mean anything that I said, I just knew that those were things that would hurt you and it isn’t an excuse and I understand if you’re angry and don’t want to talk to me for a while but please know that I am extremely sorry and that I will do whatever I need to for you to forgive me and I’m such an ass. I’m so fucking sorry Y/N. I’ll make it up to you, I swear!”

“Will you now?” He can tell that’s she trying to be upbeat and wants to make him feel better but that isn’t her job. Not this time.

“I swear it, Y/N. On my drumming career. I won’t ever hurt you like this again and whatever you need me to do to get your forgiveness, I will do it. Name your price. Whatever you want, it’s yours. I s–”

“Really? Absolutely anything?”

Roger nods and realising she can’t seem him, he vocalizes his answer.

“Even if I asked you to rob a bank?”

He laughs, tears of joy springing to his eyes. “Just tell me which one.”

The line goes quiet for a few seconds but Roger’s guilt crawls up his throat. “I really am so extremely sorry, Y/N.”

“I know. I forgive you,” her voice is so soft, full of kindness he doesn’t deserve and his heart does some funky fluttering in his chest.

Roger’s shoulders lose their tension as he melts into the hotel mattress. Knowing she isn’t to upset with him and that they’ll be able to jump back from this soothes his fears of losing her. He’s not sure he’d ever be able to get over it if it were to happen.

“I’m sorry too,” she whispers and he can hear how upset she is and if he could transport himself to London to sooth all her fears with a hug he would. His urge to book the first flight out is almost uncontrollable. “I didn't mean to make you feel like I was pushing you to talk about something you didn't want to. I just worry about you, and I can't do anything if not ask what's wrong.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for love.” He shakes his head, clenching his hand against the comforter. Never before has he felt such a strong urge to hold a girl in his arms. His voice grows softer as he smiles gently, wishing her could be by her side. “You were just...just being a good friend. I should have seen that instead of the inside of my own ass.”

Y/N hums noncommittally. When she speaks again, her voice is a bit uncertain but sympathetic, “You've had a bloody terrible day, haven't you?”

“It wasn't exactly one for the books.” Roger can’t help the twinge of anger that laces his tone. He really doesn’t want to get into it, knowing full well he won’t be able to control his temper if he does.

“You're also tired.” It’s not a question. She knows. She always knows.

Roger smiles sadly, heart swelling in affection for the girl on the other side of the line “Yeah, I am.”

She sighs, frowning as she doesn’t want to let him go but knowing that he needs his rest “I should probably let you rest.”

“Please don't hang up.”

It’s Y/N heart’s turn to beat erratically as she grins ear to ear when she realizes that he cares for her as much as she does for him. “Okay.”

“Just for a little while, please.”

His voice is a whisper and she answer in the same tone, “As long as you want, rockstar.”

Roger lets his eyes drift shut, rolling onto his side as he holds the receiver tightly in his hands so he won’t accidentally drop it. He could never seem to get enough of her and he doesn’t even know what she looks like yet. What will happen when they finally meet? One thing he knows for sure is that he won’t be able to keep his hands to himself.

“I’d do just about anything to be with you right now”

Had he not been holding the phone tightly against his head, Roger would have missed it. She had spoken so softly, lovingly.

The blond smiles. “Really? Anything?”

She hums, fanning her heated cheeks as she thanks her lucky stars that he can’t see her. She hadn’t expected those words to slip out of her moth but they’ve been talking for so long and they’d just had their first fight.

“I'd swim across the bloody ocean if I could.” He means so much to her that she really would do anything to cross the distance separating them.

Roger blushes, eyes bright and cheeks hurting because of his blinding smile. She makes him so giddy, “All that work just for me?”

Y/N feels her cheek warming up even more, “You’re worth it.” She wonders how he doesn’t realize just how much he means to her or that she would do anything for him.

He hums to himself, grin never faltering as his minds comes up with all these different scenarios he’d love to make come true. Y/N laughs, almost as if she can read his mind, prompting him to ask what caused his favourite sound of the world.

“I think you might actually like me when we finally meet,” she admits finally, still laughing and it really is the best sound to ever reach his ears.

He feels a blush start to spread across his face as he realizes exactly what she said. Never being one to censor himself, he decides to push their carefully set boundaries. “You know, I sometimes imagine you’re here with me sometimes.”

“Yeah?” her laughter, just like her breath, is cut off abruptly. This is certainly not the turn she thought the conversation would be taking.

The drummer hums his assent, turning so he’s laying on his back, eyes locked on the ceiling as he imagines the girl of his dreams in bed next to him. “Yeah. I don't even have a picture of you in my head or anything...I know it doesn't make sense but –”

“No, it does!” She reassures. She never wants him to think that she doesn’t understand what was going through his mind.

He smiles, “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“What would you do if you were with me, right now?” because he knows exactly what he wishes they could be doing but he needs her to want and imagine the same thing.

“Why?” She has to put a hand over her mouth to stop the squealing his question brought to her lips. Why he makes her feel like a twelve-year-old girl with her first crush is beyond her but she wouldn’t give up this feeling for anything in the world.

“I don't know. It helps me picture you.”

She’s quiet for a second as she thinks over how much she’s willing to say out loud. “I'd make you tea...probably make sure you were all cozy, with plenty of blankets and pillows and the works. You deserve to be pampered.”

No one has ever cared about him as much as she does.

“Then what?” He’s aware he’s being greedy, but he can’t seem to help it.

YN swallows thickly, nervous as she forces herself to talk openly “I'd climb into bed with you. Hold you really close to me. I'd run my fingers through your hair –”

Roger moans, low and almost imperceptibly, at the thought. YN giggles, though she feels a warm ache forming below her stomach when she hears the sound. “You’d like that, huh?”

“Fuck yes.” His voice is hoarse and tired and it really isn’t doing much to help the situation between her legs. Y/N shifts on the bed, clenching her thighs while trying to concentrate on anything but the grovelling and sensual sound of his voice.

“What else?” He wants the conversation to take a specific turn but he’s beginning to get extremely drowsy and his voice betrays that.

Y/N smiles at the sudden sleepiness in his tone and her mouth goes dries as she tells him what has been on her mind for at least a few weeks now, maybe more. “I think...I think then I might have to kiss you, Rog.”

The line is strangely quiet and for a moment, she thinks she’s taken things too far and has completely misread the situation.

Roger gives a dopey, sleepy smile, hope filling his chest with a warm feeling. His voice is nearly a whisper in the receiver, “Where would you kiss me?”

She chokes back a sob, relief flooding her system as he doesn’t seem to mind the idea of her kissing him. In fact, she realizes with a start, he’s egging her on. “Maybe your shoulders...or your tummy.”

Roger hums wantonly into the phone as his mind conjures up the images she’s barely describing.

“Where would you want me to kiss you, Rog?”

The question is enough to wake him up. Roger groans, his voice huskier than a few moments ago “I can think of a few places.”

Y/N blushes, stuttering while trying to come up with a response while getting far too hot under the collar for her own good. Just as she’s opening her mouth, she hears a knock sounding through the phone.

Roger barely manages to hold back an angry curse as he gets up to open the hotel door, receiver still held against the side of his face. When he sees Brian, he rolls his eyes, “What do you want?”

Brian flinches at his friend's tone, holding up a tray of food as he grumbles “Fred wants to make sure you eat something before going to sleep.”

“Thanks, but I'm not hungry!” he responds before closing the door in the guitarist's face. He hears a faint mumble of "Whatever" as Brian heads back to his own room.

“Y/N –” he speaks, hoping against all odds that the mood hasn’t been completely lost. He needs to know what her answer is. Does she want to do to him all the things he wants to do to her?

“You should get some sleep, Rog.”

Roger wants to punch Brian for ruining what could have been the best night of his life so far. He was so close to getting somewhere with this amazing girl and that twat ruined his mood once again. He clears his throat, trying to not let tears of frustration gather in his eyes. “Y-Yeah...Yeah. You're right. I'll call you when I wake up?”

Y/N smiles warmly, quickly drying the single tear that had fallen at their lost moment, “I'll be here.”

Roger's chest buzzes. He whispers a faint 'Sweet dreams love' and waits for her reply before hanging up. He sighs, arm over his eyes.

One day, that girl will be his and he will be hers.

—————----------------------------------

“So” her friend drags out the ‘o’, looking at Y/N with pursed lips, “You like him.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, bringing the fuming cup of tea to her lips. She knows she’s just buying herself a few seconds as she debates how to actually address this whole thing. She knew she’d regret telling her best friend about Roger and their unorthodox friendship – or is it a relationship? Y/N shakes her head, aware of the piercing stare locked on her. She also knew that talking to Winnie would be a double-edge sword but she really needs to talk to someone about this whole Roger thing, just to make sure that it isn’t all in her head and that he too feels something for her. And to make sure it isn’t just some fever dream her mind has conjured in answer to her stress levels being through the roof.

It's been over a year since their first conversation. Roger has travelled the world and made his way back to England just to leave again but they had yet to meet. Y/N is starting to think that he might be ashamed of her. That, or he’s hiding who he really is.

“So what if I do?” Her cheeks start to colour as she avoids looking at the person across from her.

Winnie scoffs, shaking her heard “It's worse than I thought.”

Y/N's jaw drops at the remark, chest feeling a bit tight. “What do you mean by that?”

Winnie rolls her eyes, “I haven't seen you blush this much since...Well, I've actually never seen you blush this much. You've gone completely pink.”

Y/N's eyes fall to the table. She can feel her cheeks growing even pinker and hates her friend for being right.

“Y/N/N…” Winnie says with a frown, “I've got to be honest, here. I don't like it. At all.”

Y/N’s heart sinks. She never thought her friend wouldn’t approve of Roger and the words are like a knife to the chest. Sure, she knew that Winnie would be a bit skeptical but she never thought she’d be so against the idea of Roger. “W-Why not?”

Winnie doesn’t want to be harsh or hurt Y/N in any way but she also doesn’t want her best friend to get her hopes up and then her heart broken by a complete stranger. She reaches her hand across to the table and covers her friend’s. “Y/N… Just think about it rationally for a moment. The bloke calls you in the dead of night. You have no idea where he got your number or who he is and he's already trying to get in your pants –” Y/N opens her mouth to argue but Winnie talks over her. “How do you know he's not 70, huh? He could be anyone, Y/N. He could be your dad, for Christ’s sake!”

YN cringes, holding her head in her hand as she rubbed her temples. She feels utterly defeated. And a bit naïve. Even if she explains every detail to Winnie, she wouldn’t understand.

Winnie sighs, “What if he's got nothing to offer?”

Y/N clenches her jaw, anger boiling in the pit of her stomach. She knows it isn’t fair to be mad at Winnie. That her friend is only trying to look out for her. Still, she feels the urge to protect Roger and their whatever-this-is. “When has that ever been a problem for me? And that's just it, Win. He does...He offers me so much every day and he never expects anything back. He's kind to me...and he's silly and warm and sweet and–”

Winnie's expression softens as she sees the tears burning in Y/N's eyes as she takes Y/N's hands in hers again. However, she doesn’t back down, “You don't even know his last name.”

Y/N sniffles, refusing to let a single tear roll down her face. She takes a deep breath. “I don't really see where the problem is in that.” Winnie's brows knit together and Y/N crosses her arms, “He doesn't know my last name, either. It's not like I'm asking him for anything, Win. He's just great to talk to. He's kind and funny.... he’s smart. Wickedly smart, but he doesn't know it.” Y/N laughs breathlessly, getting lost in her memories of all their conversations. “Acts like this tough, careless thing sometimes but he's so soft on the inside. So good to me. He has the sweetest little laugh, too...gets all croaky when he's tired.”

Winnie squeezes Y/N's hand comfortingly, giving her a sympathetic smile. Realizing that nothing she says is going to change Y/N’s mind, she says softly “Just take care of yourself. That's all I ask.”

Y/N’s responding smile is as bright as the sun, “He's good. I know it. I can feel it. I’m going to be fine as long as I have him.”

“I hope so for you, darling. You deserve some happiness.”

Y/N takes another deep breath, reaching for her cup of tea.

Winnie grins too, “Just know that if he hurts you, I'll have his head. I don't care how old he turns out to be.”

Y/N laughs, rolling her eyes. “Thank fuck I know you've got my back, Win.”

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

Roger is so lost in his thoughts that when John sits down beside him on the small sofa of the tour bus, he flinches, knocking over his beer. John laughs at him, passing him a dirty shirt from the floor to help clean the mess. Roger mumbles a quick "thanks mate" before trying to dry the small table.

“You okay mate?” Brian asks from his spot at the table. The guitarist is barely paying attention to his game of Scrabble with Freddie. For the past few days, he had been paying closer attention to his best friend because something is definitely off. He can’t put his finger on what but he sure as hell is going to find out.

“‘Course I am. Why'd you ask?” Roger is now working on the stain on his trouser, not really listening to his band mates.

Freddie frowns, waiting for Brian to place his next tile and nudges him with a foot under the table to get his attention. When Brian keeps ignoring him, the singer exchanges a quick glance with the bass player, both of them confused about what’s happening.

Brian shrugs, trying to act nonchalant and failing, “You've been acting weird lately.”

Roger's head whips up, eyes zeroing in on the guitarist “What'd you mean?” his tone came out too suspicious and the drummer has a feeling he knows exactly where this conversation was headed.

“You've been extremely well-behaved lately and you spend most of your time holed up in your hotel rooms. What's going on?” Brian decides that beating around the bush wasn’t going to work with the blond.

Roger rolls his eyes, doing his best to hide the smile threating to pull his lips up as he tries to dissuade his friends from asking too many questions or giving them more reasons to be concerned about him. “’S just talking to a friend. No need to get your panties in a twist, old chap.”

“A friend?” Freddie's amused and now feels the need to be part of this conversation, especially if it makes Roger a bit uncomfortable.

The drummer shrugs, his ears going pink as Brian rolled his eyes, already tired of vague answers. “What friend?”

Roger keeps himself busy by wiping the now fully absorbed beer from his pants. “Just a friend.”

John chuckles when he notices how much the lack of tangible information is bother Brian.

“You don't have friends that we don't know!” the guitarist points out.

Roger rolls his eyes, head falling backwards as he drops the shirt to the ground “I do too! We don't do everything together Brian.”

“What's her name, Rog?” Freddie decides to cut to the chase, use to seeing through all of Roger’s bullshit.

The drummer sighs, knowing that the more he tries to get out of this conversation, the more they will pry. He mumbles, “Y/N”

John smiles as Freddie's lights up like a child on Christmas morning. The singer sits forward and leans into the drummer’s line of sight. “And where did you happen upon this friend, hm?”

Roger's cheeks grow pink. He can’t and won’t even try to stifle the pleased smile forming on his lips. Brian’s face pinches in confusion: he's never seen Roger like this in his life. Roger hates when people get all warm and mushy; he always crinkles his nose up with displeasure when John rambles on about Veronica, and yet, here he is, looking as if he’s about to do the same thing.

“If I’m completely honest, I haven't exactly met her in person. Yet.” He confesses sheepishly.

Fred raises his eyebrows, the conversation already taking a turn he didn't expect. “Pardon?”

Roger sighs, rubbing his face as he tries to explain the whole situation as best he can. “We kind of met by accident. Before leaving for tour, I was talking to a girl in a pub back home and well... she gave me a fake number that turned out to be Y/N's.”

John nods, intrigued by the blond's story, “Is it safe to assume you called the number?”

“Yeah.” Roger grins, “Wasn't the bird from the pub, obviously. The girl on the line didn't have any clue who I was. She was pissed, to be honest.” Roger laughs thinking back to the night they met. “She's from London and with the fact that she hadn’t been out and about that night, I accidentally woke her up at one thirty in the morning. She put me in my place for it, too. We started talking after that, I guess.”

Deacy is happy to see his friend so smitten. “How long have you been talking?”

Roger takes a sip of someone's drink, stopping to think. “About a year, I reckon. Maybe a bit more.”

Brian chokes on his own saliva. “A year!? Really?” He looks to the other boys, and even John has his brows raised in surprise.

Roger looks confused, “What?”

“Rog, I don't think I've ever seen you talk to any girl for more than a few hours.” The bass player is quick to point out. “And even when you do, it’s because they’re a good shag.”

Roger frowns, a bit hurt by the comment. He knows he’s never had a serious relationship and that he loves sex but he isn’t some emotionless sex fiend. He is capable of being committed and in a monogamous relationship. He’s just never had the right motivation before. “Tt's not like that.”

Fred smirks, “So you're saying she’s just a friend?”

Roger stutters for a second before falling silent, his face going warmer. “I just… I think she's nice, and easy to talk to.” He knew he wouldn't be able to explain their bond eloquently enough for them to truly understand. It’s more that simple attraction or wanting a relationship. There’s something about Y/N and their bond that he will never be able to explain.

“You realize you broke up with Jo so you could spend more time with your drums? Rog, you're not exactly fantastic at commitment.” Brian feels the need to point out.

Roger’s heart sinks at the lack of support from his friends and wishes he hadn’t let any of this slip. “She's important to me, whether you understand us or not. I want to fly her out here so we can meet –”

Brian scoffs, arms crossing over his chest “You sure she's not just trying to sneak her hands in your pockets, mate?”

Roger is stunned into silence and his temper flares. “What?!”

“How can you be sure that she's not just trying to make a few bucks off you? We make good money now, Rog. People know that.” Again, Brian is pointing something out as if it’s the most obvious reason in the world for a girl to talk with him for so long. Why else would a girl want to spent a whole twelve months speaking to Roger, right?

Roger doesn’t even know where to start or how to respond. The fact that Brian would even imply that YN would ever think about doing something like that is infuriation.

“There are plenty of smart girls out there, mate.” The guitarist carries on, oblivious to the turmoil going through the drummer’s mind. “You've got a keep an eye out for the ones sniffing out gold –”

Roger sees red. “Don't fucking dare finish that sentence, Brian.”

The guitarist rolls his eyes, unimpressed by the drummer's outburst. “All I'm saying is you ought to be careful.”

“I know you think you're smarter than the rest of us but I'm perfectly capable of handling myself.”

Freddie rubs his temples exasperatedly, knowing that this is not going to be the end of the conversation and it’s going to end poorly for all parties involved.

“Roger, you're letting yourself fall in love with this girl and you don’t even know her! She's a complete stranger!” Brian raises his voice, “You've never bloody met her!”

“Fuck off, Brian. You have no fucking idea what or who you're talking about.” Roger slams the bottle against the table and storms off towards the back of the bus “Leave me the fuck alone for the rest of the day.”

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

Roger’s eyes blink open as soon as he registers the phone in his hotel room starts ringing. He scrambles for the receiver, nearly falling off the mattress in the process as the sheet tangle in his legs.

It's been nearly a fortnight since he's last spoken to Y/N. It seems the two have less and less time as the summer months have rolled around. There are interviews to do, books to edit, concerts to play, shelves to stock. All their work seems to be never-ending.

“Y/N?” Roger chimes, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He knows that the likelihood of it being anyone else is nonexistent but he always likes to make sure she knows that she’s always his first thought.

“Hi, Rog.” She smiles to herself. Hearing his voice always makes her days better.

Relief washes over Roger's body at the sound of her voice. “God, I've missed you.” He admits, chest aching happily. “Missed you so much. Every day. Fuck, you don't know how good it is to hear your voice.” Roger relaxes against his pillow, playing with the phone chord as his eyes close blissfully.

Tears well in Y/N’s eyes as she tries swallowing around the knot lodged in her throat. “I’ve missed you too, Rog.”

Roger's brow furrow. Her voice’s hoarse, as if she’s been crying. And tired. Immediately he can tell that something’s wrong but he tries clearing the thought from his head, trusting that she would tell him anything she wanted him to know.

“Had a dream about you last night.” He mumbles, smiling at the memory as he tries to make her smile. “I can't remember what you looked like in the dream but it couldn’t have been anyone but you. It felt like you.”

She smiles against the speaker.

Roger eyes furrow as he tries to recall if they’ve ever shared physical details of each other. He knows they’ve shared what’s in their hearts and minds but never have they spoken about what they look like. He needs to know. “How tall are you?”

Y/N doesn’t answer and Roger's worry comes back stronger than before. “Y/N?”

“Hm? What was that Rog?”

The drummer doesn’t like how tired she sounds. They’ve had had their share of bad conversations but she’s never ignored or not answered one of his questions. “How tall are you?”

“Oh... uhm... I guess /your height/.”

It took her too long to answer. Roger bites his lower lip before sighing, knowing that the only way for him to feel better is knowing that she’s okay. “There's something wrong.”

Y/N pauses, finally fully present in the conversation. Her heart beats a bit too quickly in her chest. “W-What?”

“You're not acting like yourself. Something's wrong.” Roger hates how certain of this he is.

She goes silent while trying to hold it all back, but it’s no use. Her face crumbles as she lets out a sob against the receiver. Calling him had been the best and worse decision she made today.

Roger's heart feels like it’s shattering as he fights helplessly to calm her from oceans away.

“Y/N...” He feels stuck. Someone he loves is sobbing and he’s a million miles away. “Y/N, my love, what’s wrong? What's happening?”

His mind is working a million miles a second. It’s been so long since they last spoke, that there are hundreds of things that could have happened. Is she hurt? Did someone she know get hurt? Has the press somehow found out about their conversations and been harassing her?

She chokes on her words, trying to explain as best as she could but her breathing is still too choppy and labored for her to be understandable.

Roger listens as she struggles to breathe and he doesn’t think he’s ever known fear before his moment. The sounds coming from the woman he loves sound painful and he wants nothing more than to hold her and soothe all her pain. “Y/N, my love, just breathe. Can you do that for me? Take deep breaths.” He does what he’s asking her to do so that she has something to mimic. “Just do what I am okay? I'm right here baby.” He keeps his breathing slow and steady, guiding hers until she settles. She wipes the tears from her cheeks, sniffling painfully. Roger wishes he could reach through the phone and scoop her up in his arms. He's trying to figure out how angry the boys – and the label – would be if he were to fly out to her for a few days.

“I had to fire them all.” She admits in a whisper.

His stomach drops, “Who love?”

“My employees... I couldn't pay them anymore.” She starts crying again, her voice breaking and he can barely make out the words tumbling from her lips.

Roger frowns, a thought he doesn’t like pushing to the front of his mind. “Who's been running the store when you aren't there?” Y/N cuts herself off abruptly and when she finally answers, he hates what he hears. “It's just been you. Oh, love, it's just been you all by yourself?”

Her sobs grow louder as Roger hushes her soothingly through the phone as he fights off his own tears. “Oh baby, I'm so sorry.”

“I-I didn't want to. I had to.” Y/N needs him to understand. She really has no other choice and she hates how powerless she is. She’s trying her best to ground herself but everything hurts.

“I know, sweetheart.” He reassures her, “They understand.”

“M-My landlord threatened to evict me and I've got no food in the pantry and I just didn't know what else to do.” She grabs her hair tightly as the pain in her chest increases.

Roger's throat tightens to the point where taking a breath is painful. “Why didn't you say anything, darling? I would have sent you mone–”

'No. No. I don't want to take money from you.” She states resolutely. “That's not fair and it’s not me. I will figure something out.”

He rolls his eyes at her stubbornness. “What's ‘not fair’ is that you're suffering, Y/N.” He pauses, “When's the last time you had a meal? Like, a whole meal, not just a snack.”

When doesn’t Y/N answer, Roger knows that it has been too long.

“I've been eating little things here and there.” She finally admits with a small, fearful voice, “I don't have time to sit and eat at work, anyway.”

“Y/N,” his tone doesn’t allow for any room for her not to answer, “when was the last time?”

She swallows thickly, “A week ago. I think.”

Roger feels like someone has punched him in the throat. His eyes burn as he fights off tears. Now is not the time for him to breakdown. He can do that once he knows she has some food in her system and she’s taken care of. He counts to five and takes a deep breath before speaking again. “Haven't been sleeping either, I bet. I can hear it in your voice. You're exhausted.”

Roger pauses and then add stubbornly, “I'm sending you money.”

Nothing she says is going to change his mind on this. She needs it, he has loads and he will never sit back and let her suffer when he can actively do something to make things easier for her.

“Roger, no.” She counters immediately, “Absolutely not!”

“Y/N, you need it! I want to help you. I need to help you. I need you to be safe and happy and healthy –”

“I can do it, Rog.” She guarantees, “I just need to work harder.”

She’s stubborn but so is he.

He sighs her name. Nothing he says will convince her to take the money. She’s too proud of that but there is nothing she can do to stop him from sending it anyway. Y/N doesn’t need to know until she gets it.

There is one thing that he can’t drop though. “Promise me, and I mean promise me you'll eat and you'll sleep. I want three meals a day and eight hours at night.” Y/N sighs, knowing that keeping that promise is going to be rough but Roger keeps speaking, “I know money is tight and it seems like it's hopeless right now but swear to me that you'll take care of yourself.”

Y/N's voice thickens as she whimpers pathetically. Never had she thought she’d be the kind of girl that needs a man to keep her together, but here she is. “I need you to hold me.”

Pain shoots through Roger's chest and this time, he can’t keep his emotions at bay. Hot tears roll down his cheeks as he tries to not sob too loudly. It hurts. It bloody hurts how badly he wants to be with her.

Roger moves the receiver away from his face, letting out a few sobs before he composes himself. He takes a deep, shuddering breath as his nose burns because of the tears he’s trying – and failing – to hold back. He does his best to keep his voice steady when he speaks to her again, “What if I fly out to you? Just for a few days. I could –”

Y/N’s tears start anew. “I want that, so badly but Rog, baby, you can’t. The tour –”

“To hell with the tour!” he says through gritted teeth, “I don’t care about the bloody tour! I care about you.”

Her breath catches in her throat. They’ve both tiptoed around their feelings, both making it clear that this is more than a simple friendship but never had either of them been so direct. It gives her hope and now, more than ever, she refuses to let him give up on his dream. She will get through this and knowing he’s willing to drop everything to help her is enough.

“I care about you too, Rog.” She admits softly, “But there are so many people counting on you. It’s your dream.”

“Maybe I have a new one” he mumbles. “Okay. If I can’t come to you then I can fly you out.” He needs to see her and make sure, with his own eyes, that she’s really doing better. He can’t lose her.

Y/N sighs wistfully, wanting nothing more than to accept his offer. “You know I can’t. Not right now, at least. The shop –”

Roger curses in frustration. “It’s not fair!”

“I know.”

Silence fills the line. Roger’s anger quickly dissipates and all he’s left with is unrelenting sadness. He feels so unlike himself; pitifiul and needy. He feels as if he needs Y/N more than he needs oxygen.

“Soon,” Roger’s voice breaks the silence, “Promise me. We’ll be together soon.”

Y/N smiles through the tears, “I promise.”

“And promise me you’ll eat and sleep. I need you to take care of yourself.”

“I promise, Rog. I will get as much sleep and food as I can stand.”

“Good.” He swallows thickly, “I… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She lets out a wet laugh, “Good thing is you’ll never have to find out.”

Roger finally relaxes a bit, breathing deeply. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you out of my sights once we meet.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

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

Roger keeps his head down, with his visor of the baseball cap pulled down almost over his eyebrows as moves quickly through the city. He’s hoping that between his disguise and Queen still being relatively unknown in the US will help him avoid any run ins with the press. It had been hard enough leaving the hotel without being seen by his mates or any of the roadies. He really doesn’t need word of his morning excursion getting back to Brian.

With a grimace, Roger walks into the American branch of his bank and lines up to speak to a teller.

It takes longer than he would have liked to get all the documents set up and money withdrawn but Roger definitely feels lighter as he steps back out into the sunlit streets and heads to rehearsals. Luckily, he was careful enough that no one noticed his prolonged absence.

The green room is still empty when Roger enters, heading straight for the vanity against the opposite wall. Slipping off his hat, he removes all the bank documents from his back pocket and sits at the mirror. He slides the signed check and bills into the same envelope, setting it aside as he removes his jacket. He definitely feels a lot better knowing he’ll be able to help Y/N in a way that matters and that will make her life easier. It also helps that their conversations have returned to being a daily occurrence, helping him ensure that she is as well rested and fed as she can be. Although she’s doing much better with his support, Roger doesn’t miss the stressed tone or how her work load seems to be constantly growing.

Roger only wishes he had managed to get to a bank sooner though this way, since it’s been a bit over a month since he offered her the money, she shouldn’t suspect anything.

Roger digs around the vanity for a pen and when he finds none, he uses one of Freddie’s eye-pencils and a tissue to write a short message to his girl. He hesitates, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure his friends aren’t going to barge in. He really doesn’t want to try explaining the money or check to them.

Roger sighs, mussing his hair as he tries to put pencil to tissue. There is so much he wants to say but he isn’t even sure where he should start. He knows that no matter what he says, she is going to rip into him so with a chuckle, he scribbles down one line before signing the tissues and placing it delicately inside the envelop with the money and check. He knows he’s doing the right thing, and even if she won’t happy about it, she’ll be grateful.

For once in his life, he’s grateful for his foresight of asking for her full name and address so that he could send small trinkets and post cards when calls aren’t enough.

“Morning, Rog.”

Roger nearly jumps out of the chair, quickly turning to see a confused looking John smiling at him, a cup of coffee in hand.

Roger exhales, laughing at his own reaction. “God, Deacy. You scared the living shit out of me. Didn’t hear you come in.”

John laughs too before sipping his coffee as he takes a seat on the couch. Roger turns back to the envelope, hiding it under his arm.

“Didn’t see you at breakfast this morning, I though you’d still be in bed.” John chimes, brow quirked.

Roger clears his throat, avoiding eye contact. “Just had to um...run some errands is all.”

John nods though he clearly doesn’t believe him. “What are you doing here so early?” The drummer desperately wants to change the subject before he gives himself away.

John shrugs, smiling “I tend to get here early to help the roadies with the amps. I built most of them from older models that'd been trashed so they can be a bit finicky.”

Roger hums in understanding, slipping the envelope into the pocket of his jeans as Brian and Freddie waltz in. The drummer nods at both, fighting back a yawn.

“Sleep well?” Freddie asks with a smirk.

“Not well enough.” Admits Roger, standing from his chair and lazily making his way over to the costume rack. He doesn’t notice the envelop slipping from his pocket when he bends down to look for his converse. Roger curses under his breath, “I’m going to see if I can track down my trainers. I could’ve sworn I left them here yesterday.”

Brian quirks his brow curiously as the drummer trots out the door, stepping forward to snatch the envelope off the ground. Freddie cranes on his tip toes to peek over his shoulder, curiosity lighting up his brown eyes, “What've you found?”

The envelope hasn’t been sealed yet so Brian doesn’t feel too guilty as he snoops. The guitarist runs his thumb over the hastily scrawled name and address, Y/N Y/L/N.

“What’s inside?” The singer asks, hoping it’s a love letter and that he can take the piss out of the usually emotionally constipated drummer.

Brian pulls back the flap of the envelop and frowns when he notices that there’s cash inside. He moves toward the couch where John is sat, quietly observing the situation as it unfolds. The guitarist clears off a small section of the coffee table and dumps the content of the envelop on it. A wad of cash falls with a small thud, as a tissue and slip of paper flutter down after it. He quickly counts the cash and his eye widen in shock. £500. And the piece of paper is a blank check that has been signed and dated with today’s date. The name on the check is the same of the envelop and it finally hits him: it’s the girl Roger had mentioned on the bus.

Don’t be too angry. R

Brian feels like his brain is going to explode. A blank cheque?! He’s sending her a blank cheque! Anger boils in his veins as he tries to comprehend how his best friend of years goes from dumbing his girlfriend of almost ten years in order to become a successful musician to blindly sending money and blank cheques to a complete stranger. Clearly, something has happened because not even Roger would be that stupid.

Brian grips the empty envelop tightly in his hand as Roger wanders back into the room, muttering about his missing shoes.

Brian walks up to Roger where he’s now lounging on the couch next to John and throws it at him. Roger eyes the envelop before his eyes fall to the coffee table.

The blond lets out a frustrated sigh, looking up into Brian's eyes. For this, his reaction angers Brian even more.

“Mind sharing with the group, Rog?” the curly-haired man asks condescendingly. “Mind explaining why your ‘friend’ who isn't taking advantage of you is getting direct deposits?!”

Roger does his best to swallow back all his annoyance, but apparently, Brian isn’t done digging into him. “A fucking blank cheque, Roger!? A blank cheque, really? Are you trying to get robbed?”

Roger can’t even get his explanation fully out of his mouth before Brian cuts him off. “She's lying, Roger! She's a con artist!”

“She's not!”

“And you're giving her exactly what she wants! She'll be laughing all the way to the bank!”

“SHUT UP!” Roger screams, raising to his feet and pushing Brian back. “You've all got spouses or children. I don't. I've got no one to take care of. Tell me what's so fucking criminal about sending some money to help someone I love.”

The three other people in the room are shocked into silence. Never before has the drummer tossed around the l-word so easily. Roger picks up the money and the check from the table, carefully tucking it back into the envelope and smoothing it out.

Roger heads for the door, turning to look back at the group one last time before he leaves.

“If you need me, I'll be buying stamps.”

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

“What the fuck, Taylor!?'

Roger chuckles into the receiver. “Well, hello to you too, darling.” He had been waiting for this call for about a week.

“Do not ‘darling’ me right now. I told you not to send money!” Y/N has rarely experienced such a mix of emotions. Anger, love, humiliation, sadness, helplessness, love. She whines into the phone, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. “Why didn't you listen? I'm not a charity case!” She hates feeling like a burden.

Most of all, she hates how loved and better she felt when she opened the envelope.

The blond frowns. It was never his intention to upset her, “Love, I –”

“Don’t you dare use your pet names on me right now, Roger Taylor!'’ Roger tries to hold back his laughter.

“I told you I can do this on my own!” she explodes, “I am perfectly capable of handling –”

“Oh, trust me, I know you are.” He interrupts. Roger toys with the phone chord, blowing some of his bangs away from his face. “You could run circles around me, darling. Just because you're able to do it on your own doesn't mean you have to.” He smiled softly to himself, “You don’t have to do everything on your own anymore. I can't physically be there for you, and I hate that. If it were up to me, I'd be stopping by the store to bring you food or help lug books around.” Y/N exhales, hand running through her hair. God-damnit. Why does he have to be so bloody perfect and far away? “And as much as I wish I could change it, I know I can't be there right now to hold you and promise it will all get better.”

“Rog–” There’s so much she needs to tell him.

“Let me do this, Y/N.” He begs, “Just this one thing to help you keep a roof over your head and eat and take care of yourself.”

Y/N gives up all hope of arguing with him about this. And just like that, she’s crying for a completely different reason. Her voice wobbles as she sobs into the phone, “You're so stupid, Roger. You're such a goddamn idiot.”

He laughs as he too starts crying, smiling lovingly to the empty room. “I thought we’d already established that.” She gives a breathy laugh, clutching the money and cheque to her chest like a security blanket. “Hasn't ever kept you from talking to me before, though.”

Y/N wipes her tears with her shirt sleeve, sniffling pitifully. She knows she’s never felt love like this before and she never will again. Not even her parents had shown interest in supporting her; she never thought any less of them because of that.

But here’s Roger. Sweet, stupid Roger forking over hundreds of pounds and sending it to her from worlds away without batting an eyelash. All because he wants to help in any way he can. She can hear him as he rambles on, still trying explain how it “really isn’t a big deal".

“Roger–” her voice’s is so soft that he misses it completely.

“–I just care about you and I wanted to help and–”

“Roger!” She yells with a laugh.

He stops, eyebrows quirking as he smiled. He hears her take a deep breath and waits impatiently for her to speak.

Y/N’s heart is beating like a hummingbird's. “I love you.”

“What?” Roger feels completely frozen until she repeats those three beautiful words to him.

There’s another long silence and panic set in YN's stomach as she bites her lip. She really doesn’t want to pressure him into saying it so it’s her turn to start rambling, “I'm not just saying that because of the money and I don't expect you to say it back but I just needed you to know because it’s true and –”

“I love you too.” He interrupts her panicked mumbles.

Y/N's whole body relaxes. She exhales, hands shakily holding the phone as she lets out a watery, “Thank Christ” that makes Roger laugh.

“God, I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you so fucking much.” Now that he can say it aloud, he doesn’t think he'll ever be able to stop.

Tears well in Y/N's eyes again, “I...I want you, Roger. I want you here.” She sounds selfish but she doesn’t care.

This is the moment she’s been waiting for. Now that it’s out in the open, she needs to see him, feel his body against hers. She wants to show him exactly how much she loves him.

His heart aches, “I know, my love. You have no fucking idea how much I want to be with you right now. Fuck, I'd fly out to you right this second if I knew you'd actually let me.”

Y/N chuckles, sniffling “It's really tempting.”

He grins, “Tempting enough to let me?”

She shakes her head, “I can't be the one to deprive the world of Roger Taylor. I know how that feels and it's too damn painful.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “Why can't you just be selfish once in a while?”

“I'm afraid I'm not as strong headed as my rockstar boyfriend.”

Roger smiles brighter than the sun, face red and heart full at her words. “Boyfriend, huh? I like the sounds of that.”

“Do you now?”

His smile seems to grow, “Love it, actually. 'Specially hearin' it from my girlfriend.”

Y/N giggles, loving his ability to make everything better with just a few, simple words. “Be careful saying that in front of all your groupies, might break their hearts.”

Roger scoffs, putting a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Groupies!? Who do you think I am?” Y/N laughs and it’s his favourite sound in the world “You're the only groupie I've got, darling. Take you with me everywhere.”

“That's my official title then?” She jokes, “Resident Groupie?”

“Yes. And it's a paid position so you have to accept the money I sent.”

Y/N gasps, grin on her lips “You absolute wanker!”

“You love me, really.” Her smile softens, “I really do.”

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

Roger's shoulders and hands ached as he plops down on his hotel bed. He winces at the contact between the sheets and the raw skin of his worn hands, biting his lower lip as he reaches for the phone. Hearing his girlfriend's voice always make it all worth it.

The line rings more times than Roger is used to and a very bad feeling sinks in his gut. Even more concerning is the fact that he goes to voice mail. The drummer frowns, setting the receiver back on the base before lifting and dialing again. Still no response. He tries a third time. Nothing.

Finally, on his fourth try, YN answers the line and relief washes over him.

“Hey, Rog.”

“Oh, thank god! I thought something had happened to –” He freezes, heart dropping when he realizes that she’s crying. “What's wrong my love?”

Y/N sniffles, hating herself for being the girl that cries at the sound of her boyfriend’s voice. She isn’t even sure what to do. If she tells Roger that his best friend called her and said she was a gold-digging whore, he’ll react rashly and she isn’t there to stop him from doing too much damage to the band or himself. On the other hand, these phone calls are all they have. Honestly is important, they both said so from day one and fuck, they’re in a relationship for crying out loud. She knows Roger loves her. He’s proven it more than enough times. It’s just that… If his best friend, the people he spends every waking moment with think that of her, maybe it’s because he’s said something. And she’s sure it isn’t only Brian thinking those things. They couldn’t have come to that conclusion on their own. Could they?

“Is it work? Did something happen?”

“No...” She hums, trying to gather herself. She’s not going to tell him.

Roger frowns, worry clawing at his chest. She isn’t tired of him, is she? “Talk to me, love. Please.”

His plea breaks some of her resolution and she fights hard to not start sobbing. She’s sick of crying every time they call. “It's nothing, just having a rough day.”

“No, it isn't.” Roger insists, brow furrowed determinedly. Something is gnawing at him to not trust her words.

Y/N swallows, mind running in circles. “Rog…You know I'd never lie to you, right? I'd never do anything to hurt you.”

Roger blinks in confusion, “Of course I do, sweetheart. Where's all this coming from?”

“Nowhere.” She lies, “I just want to make sure you know how much I love you.” She hesitates a moment. “Promise me you understand that, though. That when I talk to you...I'm never trying to get anything out of you. I'm not...digging for gold.”

Alarm bells ring loudly in Roger's head. Brian. Fucking Brian. “Did Brian call you?”

“No.” She answers too quickly.

“Brian called you, didn't he?” Roger is beyond furious as his voice raises along with the anger in his chest. “He called you and ran his fucking mouth, as he always does and hurt you. The fucking arse can’t accept that he’s not the smartest person in the room and wants to ruin everyone’s happiness because he’s a miserable bastard. Once I get my hands on him, I –”

Y/N sobs, “Don't fight with him! Please, don't. He was only trying to protect y– ”

Roger slams the receiver against the base, fists clenching as he tears through his door and down the hall towards the conference room turned music room, where he knows the lads are still rehearsing. He’ll apologize later to Y/N but right now, he needs to not be talked down. Brian deserves everything coming his way.

Roger slams the door open and as soon as he’s face-to-face with the guitarist, Roger punches him in the face.

Brian stumbles backwards as Roger keeps shoving his chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! What in the absolute fuck is wrong with you?!”

Brian's eyebrows furrow as he catches his balance, still trying to keep Roger at bay as he massages his sore jaw.

Roger's face is red, rage clear as day in his blue eyes as he spats his words at Brian, Freddie putting himself in the middle of the two. “Somehow, by the grace of fucking god, I'm happy for the first time in my miserable goddamn life and you have to go and try to fuck it up!” Tears welling in his eyes, Roger shoves his kit to the ground, cymbals crashing as pieces of set scattered across the floor. Freddie is grateful that it was just the four of them in the room, though the ruckus is sure to gather unwanted attention.

Brian rubs his bruising jaw, rolling his eyes at Roger's reaction. “I did it for your own bloody good, Roger! She was just going to keep leeching off you –”

“I don't fucking care, Brian!” Roger kicks his bass drum, foot going through the decal of his own face as he shoves Freddie away. “I don't fucking need it! I don't need any of it!”

Brian's eyes fall to his shoes as guilt filled his gut. Maybe he had been too rash and cruel. Maybe he should've given Y/N a chance to explain herself.

“What am I going to buy with all this money you've saved me, huh? Cars? Drugs?” Brian opens his mouth to argue but Roger cuts him off. “I love her, Brian! I don't care if she takes every fucking cent I have!”

Brian scoffs, guilt quickly being replaced by frustration at how idiotic his friend is acting. “Do you hear yourself? You've never met this person, Roger! You're being ridiculous! You're asking to get your heart broken!”

“I'm fucking grown, Brian! I can handle myself, you condescending prick! She's all I've got!”

The room goes eerily silent.

Brian clears his throat, pursing his lips. His voice is soft when he speaks again. “Since when don’t you have us?”

Roger stares right at Brian, daggers in his eyes. He scoffs sickly, “This? The band? The so-called friends that call up my girlfriend, making her cry and calling her a gold-digger?!” He gestures to the group, knowing that John and Freddie had done nothing to stop Brian from making the girl he loved question their whole relationship. “This is over. The second tour's finished, this is never happening again.”

Deacy knits his brows, “Roger–”

Roger takes a menacing step towards Brian, grabbing the front of his shirt in his tired and sore hands. “You ever speak to her again and I'll rip your fucking balls off.”

The blond turns from the group, retreating down the hall and back to his own room.

Brian, Freddie, and Deacy stand in shocked silence.

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

Brian sighs as he raises his fist to knock on Roger's door. He feels bad. He really does. And he doesn’t want the band to break up because of a girl. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t still think Roger was acting like a mad man.

The guitarist hopes that the few hours he had left Roger to wallow in his self pity has been enough for the drummer to calm down and reconsider the whole quitting nonsense.

“No, Y/N! I won't! I won't forgive him.”

Brian freeze, dropping his hand to his side. Why on earth would Y/N be defending him? Brian rests his ear against Roger's door, curiosity itching beneath his skin. There’s a pause as Roger listens to Y/N's response.

“I understand that he was trying to look out for me. I get that, but I'm a grown fucking man, Y/N. He thinks he's the smartest person alive and I'm sick of it! I could have lost you!”

Brian rolls his eyes. He doesn't think he’s smarter than Roger. He just thinks Roger is dumber than him.

“No, I'm quitting! Soon as tour's over I'm flying out to you and I-.... No, I'm not! I'm not being dramatic!”

Brian smirks, chuckling to himself. “I wouldn't miss them. Not for a second. I can play drums anywhere. I don't need them! ... It is not bullshit!”

Brian’s surprised. Impressed even. He never thought that this girl would be defending them after everything he'd said to her. “I don't want to talk to those wankers. They treat you like you're some conquest. They don't even see it. I'm not like that anymore, Y/N. I'm just not that person anymore. You need to know that.”

Something in his words give Brian pause. Roger’s right: it'd been ages since he'd heard any moans coming from the other side of Roger's door. The drummer barely showed up at after parties anymore. Hell, even when women throw themselves at him, he just smiled politely, signing whichever body part they present him and returns to his previous conversation with the lads or their entourage.

There’s so many things Brian was used to seeing Roger numb himself with. Booze. Drugs. Sex. Anything that would bring him any sort of temporary relief. It had all stopped suddenly. Roger is now more focused and plays better. He fights less. He even started apologizing for things. He smiles more. It’s as if a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders. No more dark circles under his eyes; no more empty bottles; no more smears of white powder left on tables.

Things are different now. They had been for a long time, he’d just been too conceited to notice. The changes seem to coincide with her sudden appearance in Roger’s life.

Brian bites at the inside of his lower lip, sighing as he knocks on Roger's door.

Roger curses, mumbling something to Y/N and brings the phone with him as he pries himself up off the bed and shuffles over to the door, flinging it open roughly.

“What the fuck do you want?” Roger spats. He’s vaguely aware of Y/N's voice in his ear, telling him to take it easy.

“To apologize.”

“Apology not accepted.” Roger tries to slam the door in his face but Brian’s quicker, smacking his hand against the hard wood.

“Really? I'm trying to be nice and you're going to bitch about it?” the guitarist can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Yep. That's the plan.” Roger is just about to try slamming the door shut again when he hears Y/N call his name loudly on the other line. He holds the receiver to his ear. “What did you say, love? ... No! Y/N, I don't want to hear anything he has to say.... Why should I?” The blond exhales angrily, eyes shooting daggers at Brian as he holds the receiver against his ear. “Come on in.”

The air is tense as Brian sits down next to Roger on his bed, biting at his thumbnail as Roger hits the speaker button on the base of the phone. “He can hear you now, love.” Roger mumbles. “Don't see why you're bothering with letting him apologize after he –”

“Just let him speak, Roger.” The voice from the speaker is crackly with static, sweet yet exasperated.

Brian smiles a little, feeling marginally better about things knowing she’s not too angry or hurt. “I, um...I wanted to say I'm sorry. I know I was wretched. I just got worried. Roger can be a bit of a dumbass sometimes and I –”

“I am not! You're the one that bloody –”

Y/N heaves an exasperated sigh, “For god’s sakes, Roger, just calm the fuck down and let him explain.”

Roger grumbles something under his breath. Brian can’t help but smirk. “Brian, I understand where you were coming from. You were only trying to protect him.”

Roger scoffs. “You're really going to side with Brian!?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, feeling a headache forming. Men. “You're being such a baby.”

Roger groans, crossing his arms over his chest as his jaw clenches.

Brian is starting to like this girl more and more. She knows how to put Roger in his place and he lets her. It’s refreshing, “I... I may have been wrong about you.”

Y/N smiles, “No shit!”

Roger can’t help but grin. That's my girl.

Y/N sighs, “But we'll get to you apologizing to me later. Right now, you two need to get your heads out of your asses and forgiving each other. Queen won't end because the two of you can't act like adults.”

Roger scoffs, “Fat chance.”

Brian shakes his head exasperatedly. “I swear, you're a child.”

“And you're a pompous asshole!”

“Just because I'm smart doesn't mean I'm pompous.”

“Oh, so now you don't think I'm smart?”

“Not when you act like a twat, I don't!”

“Piss off!”

“No! You –”

Y/N drops her phone back onto its base. Roger should have known she wouldn't sit there and listen to that crap. Roger and Brian go silent at the dial tone. The drummer curses, grumbling as he redials her number. It only rings once before she picks up.

“You two finished?” There’s silence and Y/N giggles. “I can't believe two grown men are being such babies.” Both of them open their mouths to argue in self defense but can’t before she’s laughing at them.

Brian sighs, “Rog, I'm sorry. I know you're not stupid and I –”

“You sure bloody act like it –”

Y/N exhales sharply, “Roger I swear to god if you don't stop interrupting, I won't pay my phone bill this month.”

Roger immediately goes silent and Brian laughs smugly. Roger flips him off.

Y/N shakes her head, “I wouldn’t laugh if I were you, Brian. You're already on thin ice.”

It’s Brian’s turn to go quiet and Roger’s to laugh smugly.

“Why do I feel like a mother scolding her two idiotic children?! Roger, Brian was just trying to look out for you. It was a shitty way of doing it but he loves you and wants you happy. Brian, Roger is hot headed, you know that better than me but because of you, I almost lost him and Roger was right in his reaction. You had no right to call me and call me a gold digger and an actress. You should have trusted your friend's judgment.”

Brian held out his hand, “I'm sorry, Roger.”

Roger takes it, giving it a reluctant shake. “I'm sorry, too.”

Y/N sighs in relief until Roger speaks again, “You need to apologize to Y/N as well. And you should know: she didn't ask for the money. I sent it to her without her knowledge and she yelled at me.”

Freddie walks by the open hotel room door, having heard their screams from the hall and leans against the post, observing the scene in front of him. Brian rubs his neck, cheeks turning red. “I'm sorry Y/N. I shouldn't have been so quick to judge.”

“You're right, you shouldn't have but I forgive you. I'm still hurt but I know it was done in good faith.”

Brian nods, guilt eating at him. “I understand completely. I... I wouldn't have forgiven me had I been in your shoes.”

Y/N smiles, glancing at the clock on her bedside table. “Lucky for you, I'm very forgiving and understanding. And as much fun as this is, I'm going to be late for a meeting.”

“Make sure to eat something, please.”

“Don't worry rockstar, I'm taking care of myself. I love you.”

Roger smiles sappily, “I love you too.”

After she hangs up, Freddie smiles and makes his way into the room and drops down next to Brian, “I like her.”

Roger grins, “Yeah, she's amazing.”

“I'm sorry I didn't stop Brian.”

The drummer shakes his head, “It's all good mate. You lot were just trying to look out for me. I was just angry because she was already hurting and you managed to make it worse. I hate hearing her cry.”

The two nod, realizing what a mess they had made. Freddie claps his hands, “Well, now that it's settled that you're not quitting the band and we're all friends again, we should celebrate! I won't take no for an answer, my darlings!”

————————————————————

Y/N’s pulled out of her thoughts as the phone rings at nine am. She knows it’s Roger: no one else calls her but she almost never gets calls from Roger this early in the day. There’s only a four-hour time difference, but it’s still rare for her to get a call before the middle of the night.

It’s nine and two minutes, meaning Roger is calling her at five in the morning his local time.

She picks up the phone in an instant, worried that something is wrong, “Rog? Are you ok?”

“Y/N? Y/N! It's me! It's Roger!”

She chuckles, realizing what’s going on. She can hear the smile in his voice as he basically screams across the distance separating them. “Hi, Rog. Sounds like you're having fun.”

He laughs drunkenly, stretching his legs across the couch he’s sitting on. “And you sound –” He groans longingly, “You sound so sexy, Y/N. So beautiful. Fucking gorgeous. Prettiest girl I've ever seen.”

Y/N giggles, face heating up at his words. “You've never seen me before, Rog.” She hears a few snickers from around him. “Am I on speaker phone?”

Roger nods, forgetting he was on the phone in his drunken state. He’s just happy to be speaking to his dream girl.

“Hello Y/N!” Brian calls, taking another swig from his nearly empty beer bottle. Y/N returns the greeting but Roger frowns, quickly switching her off speaker. “Brian doesn't get to ever talk to you ever.”

YN smiles sympathetically, “Aw, Rog. I told you I forgive him, so did you. He was just being friendly –”

“I don't have to see you to know you're pretty.” He interrupts, drunken mind already returning to the most important thing. “I just know it. I do.” He frowns, grumpy that she dares question how highly he thinks of her. “Prettiest girl in the universe.”

He yawns, rubbing at his eyes. “Wanna meet you so bad. I think...I think it's scary.”

YN hums, confused. “What's scary?”

“W-What'll I-...What is-...What if you don't think you like me as much? What'll I do then?”

Her heart stutters, “Oh Rog, of course I'll like you. I love you.”

“But you love hearing me but what about seeing me?” He croaks, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “What if you don't like seeing me?”

Y/N sighs, “Roger, I'd love you if even if you were bald with green skin.”

“What if it's worse than all that?”

Y/N laughs, “Worse than bald with green skin!?”

Roger hides his drunken smile, as if she was there to see it. “I'm serious! I'm being serious and you're laughing at me!”

“Aw, Rog, I’m sorry. I won't laugh anymore.” She speaks through her giggles. “I'm listening. Really...”

Roger sighs, self consciously looking down at his body. “I...I'm not big.”

Y/N quirks her brow, intrigued by where this conversation is going. “What?”

“I'm not so big and muscly! I'm skinny! I mean...well...My shoulders are ok but –”

She chuckles, “Roger, my love, I promise I'm going to love the hell out of you no matter how muscly you are.”

Roger groans, “You've got to stop that.”

She frowns, “Stop what?”

“Stop...Just stop being so goddamn perfect all the time.”

Y/N scoffs, “I'm far from perfect, Rog.”

He groans again, “You sound so goddamn sexy.”

She laughs at him, loving how his drunken mind seems to go in circles. “Is it my 'I just woke up and haven't spoken yet' voice?”

Roger moans, running his hands through his hair. “You're just teasing now! You have any idea the kind of things I want to do to you?”

“I might have a vague idea, yes.”

Roger let his eyes fall closed, mumbling. “God, I just want to suck on your tits.”

Y/N's jaw drops, “Roger!” She feels her face turn scarlet, knowing he’s just a few steps away from his band mates and they are absolutely listening in.

“I mean it!” He whines, “You make me so fucking hard –”

“Roger, I am not having this conversation with you in front of your mates.”

He whines again, “'m not asking for full on phone sex!” His lips turn up in a smirk, “Maybe I could just get you off? The boys aren't listening.” He glances at his friends but he’s too drunk to really see, “At least I think they’re not.”

Y/N buries her face in her hand, “They most definitely are, Roger.”

He frowns, not comprehending what the issue is, “But I love you.”

“I love you too, rockstar.” She smiles, “Do me a favor? Put an aspirin and a glass of water by your bed.”

Roger feels himself tear up, “Are you hanging up?”

She knits her brows sympathetically. “I've got work, baby.” The last thing she wants to do is hang up on him when he sounds so adorable and horny but she’s already running late.

“Call me?” he asks, “Once you get home? The minute you get home.”

She’s smiling, “I don't think you'll be awake.”

“Wake me up, then.”

She chuckles, “Ok, rockstar.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Roger wakes up hours later, unsure on how he managed to get back to his room and with a pounding headache. He reaches for the aspirin and water he vaguely remembers putting on his bedside table, as requested by his amazing girlfriend.

While going to wash his face, he notices an envelope by the door. Reaching down to grab it, his heart flutters when he sees the name of the sender: YN LN. It’s priority mail, meaning she probably spent quite some money on it and it’s dated three days ago.

His hands shake as he tears the envelope open and tears filled his eyes as he finally knows what the girl of his dreams looks like.

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

Y/N makes her way into her small apartment, keys held in her teeth, a grocery bag in one hand and mail in the other. She stops in the kitchen, quickly putting her groceries away before sitting on the sofa and going through the mail.

As usual, there are a few store coupons, a reminder that her rent is due in two weeks and an envelope from Roger. She’s come to love and hate these: postcards are great, full of witty comments and loving remarks. Envelopes usually mean that he either sent her money or a small gift. Stupid, sweet Roger.

Y/N's heart is beating like a hummingbird's as she opens the letter from Roger. She pulls out a single photo, clipped from a magazine with a single word written across the bottom.

Guess.

She smirks, sliding the photo back into the envelope and hurries to her room. She dials his number the minute she gets to the phone, sitting on the edge of her bed. It only rings once before he picks up. He doesn’t even get a chance to greet her. “You think you're so clever, don't you?”

Roger laughs, knowing exactly to what she’s referring to. “Yes, actually, I do.”

“You're such a wanker.” She’s laughing, shaking her head as she looks over the photo of Roger and his band mates.

He laughs, adjusting his pillow as he rubs his eyes, waking himself up a bit more, “Thought that was why you love me?”

Y/N smiles, kicking off her shoes as she lays back, “You want me to play that game? Fine, I'll play it, rockstar. I bet you twenty pounds I'll get it on the first try.”

“You really think you will?” Roger loves how confident she sounds. God, he loves this woman.

“Of course I will, drummer boy. I'd know you anywhere.” Her smile’s soft, the love she feels for the boy knew no limits.

He bit his lower lip, a grin breaking out on his lips 'You're on, sweetheart.'

YN pulls the photo closer, excitement rolling in her stomach. “Let's see...”

Every face in the picture is a beautiful one but she knows immediately that her Roger is the blond one but there’s no reason to make him aware of her discovery just yet.

She grins, the idea of making him sweat extremely amusing. “Suitor number one, here...Tall! He's got some legs on him, doesn't he? And just look at those curls! Gotta love a man with curls.”

Roger feels jealousy boiling in his stomach, but he does his best to ignore it, not wanting to give anything away. He starting to regret sending her a group photo. “Number two...Oh! that jacket is lovely. I like the silk. He knows how to dress, for sure.” Roger chuckles. Good old Fred.

“Number three...Number three looks like he's quite a sweetheart, doesn't he? So smiley! And that little striped vest!”

Roger purses his lips nervously, knowing she’s about to focus on him and talk about her first impression. What if she doesn’t find him attractive?

“Number four is this blond fellow.” Y/N smiles, her heart fluttering as she gazes at the man she loves. “Sparkly pink shoes, looks a bit tired. Might be drunk in this photo, actually. Stunningly handsome. Looks like he's got a bit of an attitude too.” She pauses for a moment, making Roger smile. She’d described all his friends perfectly and he can tell from her voice that she knows. He loves her even more for it.

“Yep, there's my Rog.”

Roger laughs, cursing his mind for doubting her even for a second. “I do not have an attitude!”

“You do!” She counters between laughs, “I would too if I wore pants that tight!”

He smirks, “I just wanted to show off my cute ass for you, love.”

YN grins, “Wait 'til you see mine, pretty boy. I can guarantee it's cuter.”

Roger's face goes red. The power this woman holds over him was astounding.

She hummed blissfully, head relaxing against her pillow as she admires the photo once again. “You're beautiful, Rog. Knew you would be...”

How she ended up being so lucky, she will never know but she will thank her lucky starts everyday from here on out.

Roger's heart stutters. He wants to ask her if she really means it but his heart knows she would never lie, especially about this. He looks over at her picture, propped against the base of the phone. He’s been carrying it in his wallet and keeps it next to his bed when they stop at hotels. His eyes scan her smiling face. “Do you have any birthmarks?”

She giggles, thrown but the sudden question. “What?”

“You know, birthmarks.” He realizes that it sounds random but he wants to know everything he can about her. At this point, he’s aware of her family history, of her interests and hobbies, and friends but he knows almost nothing about her body except for what he can make out from the picture. Roger wants to memorize every inch of her.

She quirks her brows, “I've got a little one on my back but it just looks like a mole. Why?”

“Just curious.” He admits, “What about scars? My hands and arms are covered in small ones because of the drumming and stupid fights.”

Y/N laughs at that, not at all surprised by his sheepish confession. “Mm... I have a scar on my left wrist. Got it when I was probably around five-ish. I was riding my bike and ran into my garage door. The glass window shattered on my arm. It both scared and scarred me.”

Roger smiles, imagining how her body looked liked, her scars and all. “Are you ticklish?”

“Depends on where you try it.”

Roger grins, “I can't wait to figure it out.”

They settle for a moment, letting the familiar silence wash over them. Words hang unspoken in the air and Roger decides to through caution to the wind. “I wish I could touch you. Just explore you. Every inch of your gorgeous body.” He’s wanted to say these words for so long.

Y/N smiles, a warm feeling washing over her. Roger can’t help but imagine her sitting in her room, holding the receiver to her ear. He hums, picturing his hands running down the smooth skin of her stomach. He swallows thickly, arousal pooling in the pit of his stomach. “Have you got a soft spot?” God, he wants to be with her so bad it’s a physical pain.

She smirks, her voice lowering a bit and taking on a sultry tone, “Why ever would you asking Rog?”

He chuckles, pants tightening at her tone and implications but two can play at that game. “Think you know why, love.”

She feels heat pool in her stomach, “Maybe you should wait and find it yourself.”

He groans in frustration, “What if I don't want to wait? What if I want to hear you moan my name right now?”

Y/N clenches her thighs, biting her lip to hold back any sounds that might escape her lips. Roger isn’t done though. “If you like that, just wait till I get my hands on you. I'll ruin you in the best ways. You'll be screaming my name.”

YN's head falls back, hitting the wall with a small thud as she moaned, panties growing wetter by the word. “Is that so drummer boy?”

Roger nearly moans, “Well, you know what they say about drummers, don't you?”

Y/N bites her lip. “What do they say?”

He smirks, “They do it harder.”

The silence is pregnant. Roger's boxers are tented and he’s feeling too hot under the hotel blanket so he throws it to the side before speaking again. “I had a dream about you last night.” His tone leaves little to guess about the nature of said dream.

“Lucky you,” She’s breathless, mind buzzing and body aflame.

Roger chuckles huskily, “And you said I have an attitude. What I am to do with you?”

Y/N smirks, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Are you taking requests?”

Roger moans shamelessly, boxers too tight to be comfortable as he rearranges himself. “I wouldn't mind having you under me.”

It’s her turn to whimper, legs rubbing together to alleviate some of the building pressure in her core. “I wouldn't mind having you on top of me.”

Roger closes his eyes, imagining the scene and wishing it was currently reality. “You won't get anything if you keep talking back.”

Y/N giggles, “You didn't think I'd go down without a fight, did you rockstar?”

God, he loved her. He can’t wait to fuck the attitude right out of her. “Honestly, I thought I'd be the one going down...”

Roger doesn’t expect the moan that comes out of Y/N's mouth and he wishes he could hear it in person. He smirks, “I bet you're an absolute mess right now.”

“You're welcome to come over here and find out.”

Roger wants nothing more, “That's tempting, sweetheart.”

She smirks, “It was meant to be.”

“You're such a brat.” He loves it.

“You didn't know that?” She’s playing coy, riling him up and Roger is soaking up each word.

“You've got quite the mouth on you.”

She bites her lip, “You'll love it even more once you feel what I can do with it.”

Roger moans, palming himself over his briefs. “I'm so bloody hard right now. All because of that mouth of yours, you minx.”

Y/N whimpers, “What do you want me to do about it?”

Roger squeezes himself, hips canting up from the bed. “I can think of a few things, actually.”

She palms her breast, bra getting in the way and she quickly rids herself of it. “Yeah? Want to know how wet I am for you? Would you like me to touch myself? Let you hear as I moan your name?”

Roger's breath comes out in pants, hand slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs to grip his cock. “That'd be a great start.”

She smirks, loving how worked up he sounds. “Bet I can finish too.”

Roger laughs breathlessly, “Damn right you will, love.”

Her underwear is soaked, fingers itching to remove them and get some relief and her mouth works faster than her brain. “What are you doing right now?”

Roger swallows around the knot in his throat, “I'll give you three guesses.”

“What if I get it wrong?”

Roger smirks, “Don't find out.”

Y/N has always loved a challenge, “What it I want to?”

“It might involve you not getting to cum, so I'd think about it real hard.”

“Is that a hint, lover boy?”

Roger moans, finally slipping his cock out of his boxers and slowly starting to run his hand up and down his shaft.

“That sure was pretty, rockstar. Let me hear it again.”

“You first, love.” He pants, “Touch yourself for me. Let me hear those pretty little sounds I know you make.”

Y/N lets her hand slip past the band of her panties, fingers teasing herself as she slowly circles her clit. She moans, making Roger speed up his movements as he smirks. “So you can follow directions.”

She moans again, applying more pressure to her clit. “Only you for.”

Roger can’t get enough of the sounds coming from the phone. “You sound so sexy. I can’t wait to taste you baby.”

Y/N slides her finger lower, teasing her entrance as Roger continues speaking, “I’ve had some many dreams about you, baby. Dreamt about watching your face as you clench around my cock.”

Y/N moans loudly, the images in her head and the words spoken in her ear driving her mad. “Roger”, she whimpers, fingers sinking into her slick core, “want your cock in my mouth, Rog. Want to feel it against the back of my throat.”

Roger curses, hips bucking wildly as he pumps himself. “God, the sounds you make will be the death of me.” He closes his eyes, holding the receiver close to his ear to make sure he won’t miss a single sound, “I'm so hard baby. Leaking all over my hand.”

Roger swipes his thumb over the tip, gathering the precum and using it to aid his hand. “Wish it was your hand.”

Y/N whimpers, fingers pumping her heat faster and faster. “Feels so good, Roger. I need you so bad.”

Roger curses again, “How'd you want me, love? You want my face buried in your cunt? That make you feel good?” The more he speaks, the closer she gets to her release. “Or would you want me inside you? I'd fill you up so good, baby.”

It’s Y/N's turn to curse, closing her eyes as she pictures his blond hair between her thighs. “I bet you'd look beautiful between my legs, rockstar. I want you so bad. Need to feel every inch of you stretching me. Fuck, Rog.”

She lets out a pathetic whimper, phone held between her shoulder and ear so both her hands are free, one to tweak her pert nipple and the other rubbing her clit furiously. “So close.”

Roger places the receiver on his shoulder, using his now free to cup his balls as the other increases the speed of his strokes. “hat's right love, cum all over your pretty fingers. Let me hear you.”

His vision goes fuzzy, chest warm as he lets himself cum while listening to Y/N whimpers and moan his name as she orgasms.

Roger whimpers as he finally lets got of his cock, breath coming out unevenly. He can hear Y/N's own sounds reducing, breath steadying. Never in his life has he felt such a strong need for aftercare. Through the years, he'd humor the stranger in his bed, playing with their hair or kissing them before they finally left. He never saw the point in pretending that the night of passion they shared was going to lead anywhere but he wasn't a complete jackass.

For the first time in his life, Roger wishes he could hold this amazing girl in his arms, kiss her lips as she relaxes against him. Maybe even clean her up, if she'd let him.

“Rog?” her voice sounds tired yet satisfied, and it makes him smile.

“Yes, my love?”

“I love you.”

Roger feels complete. “I love you too.”

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

“Are you excited the tour is ending tonight?”

Roger sighs, a smile on his face. “You have no idea! No more sharing a tour bus with those three wankers, I get to sleep in my own bed and eat food that isn't prepared in a restaurant or that comes in a take-out container.”

Y/N grins, putting a pillow behind her knees as she gets comfortable in the sofa, “Sounds like a dream.”

Roger hums, not completely agreeing. His dream is now something more domestic. “And the record label said we'll be in London for a while.”

The unsaid words hang in the air. Roger desperately wants to ask her to meet in person. They’ve been together for a bit over a year, speaking for almost three. If he’s honest with himself, he’s scared shitless. So much could go wrong and he needs her in his life.

“Oh.” Y/N isn’t sure on how to reply. She wants to meet him, hug him, see the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs or how cute his face is when he pouts. She’s scared but she knows she needs him in her life and it’s time she feels his arms around her. “Maybe we could grab a coffee?”

Roger grins, voice full of emotion. “Yeah? You sure you want to hang out with a rockstar?”

“You sure you want to hang out with a book worm?”

Roger laughs wetly, heart beating furiously in his chest. “I wouldn't want it any other way.”

—-—————————————————-

Every corner he turns, Roger can’t help but let his eyes drift over the crowded streets, searching for that familiar face. He keeps a hand in his pocket, thumbing over his photo of Y/N like a security blanket as he trails behind the rest of the boys. He unwraps another strawberry sweet, popping it in his mouth as Freddie grabs John's arm, leading them all into another women's clothing store.

Roger has been back in London for almost a month now, and both him and Y/N have yet to find the time or courage to meet in person. It’s an odd, nervous game each time he goes out now, like a "Where's Waldo" from hell. What if he’s right beside her and he doesn't even know it? He shakes the thought from his mind immediately: he would know her face anywhere.

“C’mon Rog,” John sigh, an arm wrapping around the drummer’s shoulders as Freddie digs through a rack of leather pants. He pulls a pair off the rack, holding them up to Brian but they fall about mid shin against his outrageously long legs, making the guitarist scrunch his nose in annoyance. “You’ll meet her soon enough, mate. You don't have to go searching every time you're out.”

The blond groans, letting his head fall back against his friend’s arm. “You have no idea how hard this is, John.”

The bassist frowns, “Sure I do. I've got a family. I miss 'em more than anything when I'm gone.”

Roger sighs as Deacy gives him a firm pat on the back. “But it's not the same, though. Yeah, you miss Veronica and the kids when we’re away but...but at least you know what it feels like to hold her. Kiss her... All I have is that one photo of her. You get to go home, to a house full of life and love. I went home to an empty flat.” His hand hovers over his coat pocket where said photo sat, tucked away.

Freddie gives a sympathetic look as he folds his arms over his chest. “It’s going to happen darling. You just have to be patient. The universe is waiting for just the right moment to spring her on you!” He winks, grinning brightly.

Roger rolls his eyes, “Fuck the universe.” He doesn’t care if he sounds like a child. He’s waited long enough. “It's been three bloody years. I'm tired of waiting.”

Brian smiled softly, “I'm sure she’s just as eager as you are, Rog.”

Roger wanders outside the shop, tired of their optimism. He just wants to meet the girl of his dreams. Is that too much to ask for? He ends up flipping through a little rack of postcards set up next to the door. He chuckles to himself, trying to figure out how funny it would be if he sends Y/N a 'London' one.

He pulls her photo out of his pocket, admiring it as his eyes wander about the crowd. He knows he'd recognize her in an instant. The moment he sees her, there will be not doubt in his mind. No other smile in a crowd of people could be as bright as hers. He’s so busy people watching that he barely notices it, tucked away on the street corner.

Author’s attic.

He freezes, heart speeding like a train as his eyes fixate on the store on the opposite side of the road. It’s a quaint little shop. Vines climb up the side of it, nearly obscuring the sign. It'd clearly been painted ages ago and cracks had long since riddled the letters. Roger feels like he can’t move a single muscle. It can’t be that simple, can it?

Roger pays the boys no concern, abandoning them in the shop as he forces his feet to move from their spot glued to the pavement. He stumbles across the street, eyes locked on the store as his heart sits in his throat.

Please, let this be the right place.

A small bell chimes as he allows the door to close behind him. The place is exactly the way he'd imagined: books lining every available surface, books piled by the register, books stacked beneath a potted plant. There are even books arranged beside a small armchair under the front window. It smells of coffee and old paper, and it feels welcoming and homey.

“I’ll be right with you!”

Roger feels like he’s stopped breathing: he would recognize that voice anywhere. Tears gloss his eyes, his hand trembles as he reaches into his pocket, fingers grazing over his worn picture of her.

He turns towards her when she buzzes into the main room, arms full of thick story books.

“Sorry to keep you waiting!” She chirps, eyes not leaving her work as she flits around her desk, putting things in their right place. “Things have been so busy around here lately.” She chuckles, “I've barely been able to keep my own head on my shoulders!”

He watches her with a smile, tears threatening to fall. He blinks them back quickly, refusing to let her see him cry. His throat tightens with emotion and he can feel his palms starting to sweat. He wants to say something suave, something that’ll make him sound poetic and well-educated. Something that won’t make him sound like the love-struck idiot he is, but his mind seems to only hold her name. “Y/N...”

She turns around so fast he fears she might get whiplashed. Her eyes are wide as she meets his blue ones. The room spins for a second, and she can't quite tell if she’s imagining it or if it’s real. Her rockstar. Home after all this time. Seeing him here, in her world of books, with his messy blonde locks. He’s even prettier than any photo she’s ever seen.

His name is a breath on her lips, “Roger.”

She drops the books in her arms to the side, stumbling over her own feet as she runs to him, falling into his arms. She presses her face against his neck, her arms lock tightly around his shoulders. She can’t even try to contain the sobs that wrack her body. He smells of cigarettes and wood. He smells like home.

Roger can't believe how perfectly she fits in his arms; how normal it feels. He wraps an arm around her waist while his other hand buries in her hair, crushing her tightly against him. Her hair smells amazing, something sweet he can't quite place.

He sniffles, kissing the crown of her head as tears stream down his cheeks. His voice is weak and pitiful when he speaks, “It's so nice to finally hold you.”

Y/N gives a watery laugh, lips pressed against the warm skin of his neck. “You're home.”

Roger moves his hand down to the nape of her neck, making her pull back to look at him as he moves his hands to cradled her cheeks. Never had he seen such beautiful eyes, so expressive and full of love. Roger's thumb grazes her cheek, soothingly. His voice’s barely a whisper. “Knew I was right. You're the prettiest girl I have ever laid eyes on.”

Y/N laughs, head thrown back. She kisses his cheek, making him grin like a child on Christmas morning. “You're so beautiful, Rog.” She admires him, tucking some hair behind his ears. “Don't even need muscles.”

He tickles her sides, and she giggles, nose scrunching as he pulls her close again. Her laughter trails off as he smiles down at her, forehead resting against hers. He feels her hand rest on his chest, right above his heart as she clutches his shirt.

His eyes linger on her lips before locking with hers again. Her breath stalls. Roger is slow in cradling her face, indulging in her as he runs his thumb over her skin. His hand drops to hold the back of her head, tilting her into him as her nose nudges against his. Their lips graze.

A bell rings.

They jump apart, heads turning to the door to find his three friends staring at them. Brian and Deacy’s eyes are wide with shock and confusion: they turn their backs on Roger for five minutes and here he is, nearly making out with a store clerk after bitching about not being able to meet the girl he loves. Freddie just looks amused.

Roger groans, failing to hide the smile on his face. “God damnit Brian! Why do you always have to ruin everything?!”

Y/N burst out laughing, her head lulling back as Roger's hands holds her hips. Once she cracks, he can't hold back his laughter any longer, her smile infectious. His grin widens at Brian's confused expression. Freddie gives them a knowing smile, waiting to see if Brian could figure it out.

The singer knew who she was the moment he'd seen the two: Roger's protective stance, the starry-eyed look he has in his eyes, the way they are so comfortable with each other. It’s more than enough to hint at the girl's identity. Not to mention that he'd seen Roger fall asleep on the tour bus couch multiple times, still clutching her photo in his hand.

Freddie glances at Brian, chuckling as he decides Brian wasn't getting any smarter about the situation. The singer takes a step forward, lifting his sunglasses off the bridge of his nose. He gives Roger a wink, “So this is the girl you love?”

Roger goes red as Brian's eyes light up with realization, a grin on his face as Freddie smiles knowingly. “What did I tell you, darling? Trust the universe.”

Roger rolls his eyes, unable to keep the corners of his mouth from tugging up in a smile.

Brian finally pipes up, “Wait a second, so you're –”

“The actress trying to get in to your best friend's wallet.” She gives an amused smirk, extending her hand to shake his. “It's a pleasure.”

Brian blushes. Honestly, he had hoped that when they finally met, she wouldn't bring up the horrible things he had said to her. Without making eye contact, he timidly shakes her hand, “It's nice to meet you. Again, I want to apologize fo –”.

Brian feels two slender hands rest on his cheeks. He slowly lifts his eyes, meeting hers.

Y/N wears a kind smile on her lips as she speaks, “I'm just teasing. It's all good, Brian. You were just trying to be a good friend.”

The guitarist nods, unsure in his smile as Roger wraps his arm around her waist once again, pulling her towards his body. Brian observes how connected the two seemed to be: their movements are almost synchronized, and although they had just met in person, they somehow work perfectly together, like a couple who had grown up together.

John smiles at the group, “As much as I would love to get to know you, I think it's best to leave you and Roger alone for a bit. You deserve some time to get acquainted.”

Roger grins, kissing Y/N's temple. The girl smiles, her hands resting on the drummer's. “I like that idea. Rog, want to grab that coffee?”

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

“Sorry for the mess Rog! I didn't think I'd be having any visitors today.” Y/N bites her lips as she moves around the messy living room, trying to clean up a bit but Roger wraps his arms around her from behind, making her stand straight. He gently moves her hair to the side, placing a gentle kiss where her neck meets her shoulder.

“I don't care about the mess,” his voice is as soft as his touch, “All I care about is being here, with you.” Y/N hums, relaxing in his arms with her eyes closed as she enjoys the warmth emanating from his body. “It's all I've cared about for a while.”

Roger chuckles, content to stay like this forever. He can’t get enough of her. Her smile, her hands on his, her smell filling his nostrils. If this is a dream, he never wants to wake.

“Did you really keep all the post cards I sent you?” Roger isn't sure why he asked, but he needs to know if those pieces of cardboard were just as important to her as they are to him.

Y/N nods, gently taking one of his hands in hers and silently makes her way through the flat. The drummer lets his eyes wander, taking in as much as he can. She leads him to her bedroom and it feels oddly reassuring to be here. He had imagined this room so many times; he had pictured her laying on that same bed so many times, playing with her hair as she talked to him.

It's surreal. It’s almost exactly like he imagined it to be in his head: soft and warm and homey. He loves it. Every inch of it screams her name. It’s cozy. A big patterned rug covered the wooden floor, and her bed’s made up with a pretty knitted blanket. And there, right above the bed, hangs a little bulletin board, holding every post card he'd ever sent her.

She smiles as she watches him wander around her room, a grin on his face. She stops herself from apologizing for the mess once again, as she moves to her bed to remove some papers and books from it.

Roger runs his index finger over the leather-bound spines of the books lining the few shelves on her walls. She must have hundreds. Her walls are lined with them and still, she doesn't have enough room for them all.

Roger pulls a small red one from the bedside table. The Velveteen Rabbit. He smiles a little to himself, flipping through the brightly illustrated pages. Y/N walks over to him, arms wrapping around his middle from behind as she kisses his shoulder before resting her head against it.

“My mum used to read this to me all the time, especially when I was sad.” He mumbles quietly, stopping on a drawing of the little boy holding the plush rabbit. “It was my favorite.”

Y/N's heart grows a few sizes at the image of a young Roger seated in his mother's lap as she read to him.

Roger's heart stutters as he flips through the pages, recounting the story of the little plush bunny, turned real by love. A knot forms in his throat as he admires the book's last illustration: the rabbit, sitting by a raspberry bush in the little boy's garden, visiting the one who had brought him to life.

Y/N feels Roger stiffen a little, and she meets his glossy eyes as he turns in her arms, “What's wrong, rockstar?”

Roger laughs breathlessly, her gentle touch calming him immensely. “Nothing. It's just...” He shakes his head a little, refusing to let his voice go watery. “It's just that I never really got it until now.”

Confusion knits her brow, “Got what?”

Roger smiles a little, looking back down at the book and then at the girl holding him. “I guess...well...Sometimes it takes being loved by someone to finally make you feel alive.”

Y/N's heart feels full of so much love she doesn’t know what to do with it. She stands there for a moment, unsure of how to respond. She does the only thing she feels she can do: she tightens her arms around his waist, giving him the biggest, warmest hug, he'd ever received. His arms wrap around her, stroking up and down her back.

“I love you.” Roger whispers against her ear. It feels amazing to be able to tell her as he holds her in his arms.

“I love you too.”

Their foreheads meet as Roger's nose nudges hers, heat building slowly between them. Y/N takes a little step backwards, knowing if she inches any closer, she'd want to jump his bones more than she already does.

Roger smirks, taking a step forward. She goes a bit breathless, smiling playfully as she takes another step back, only for her back to be pressed flush against her bookcase.

He chuckles, toying with a loose strand of her hair. “Caught you.”

Y/N tries to steady her breathing as his hand cradle her face. He runs his thumb over her lower lip. “What're you going to do now?”

Her eyes trail to his lips subconsciously, “I'm going to wait for you to kiss me, rockstar.”

He grins, pressing into her. He thinks back to that night he first called her. He thinks over every moment he had been so desperate to hold her in his arms.

The moment he kisses her, Roger is brought to life.

Her lips are softer than anyone's he'd ever kissed before. The kiss is gentle, her hand moving to cradle Roger's face as they melt into one another. He tastes of sweets.

Her skin smells of cinnamon and it reminds him of the tea Freddie would drink in the morning.

Roger inhales the sweet, spicy scent as he deepens the kiss. Her fingers laced in his hair, soft and fine between her fingers, and he hums a moan against a sensitive spot below her ear, her eyes fluttering shut in bliss.

Y/N feels overwhelmed in the best way. This is what she had craved for over two years and now that it’s finally happening, she’s afraid she won't be able to commit to memory all the feelings. Roger's lips moving against her own, the rapid beating of their hears. The feeling of his breath on her neck as he lays gentle kisses on it. It’s enough to make her mind spin.

She lets his hands grip her thigh tightly as she gives in to the urge to grind against him. He refuses to let his hands leave her body: some small part of him still afraid she'll disappear at any moment.

Roger pulls her closer, keeping an arm against the wall as he grabs at her ass, rutting against her clothed heat. She lets out a whine, thoroughly enjoying the friction as wetness pools between her legs.

Y/N wants more. Craves it. Needs his hands all over her. Needs his red-stained tongue against every inch of her body. She pulls away from his lips, panting as he drags his eyes over the curve of her hips and breasts. He takes one step back, eyes locking with hers as he pulls his shirt off. Her eyes roam his chest, mouth still ajar as she tries to catch her breath. He holds her loosely in his arms, pecking her lips. He will never get enough of her sweet taste. Roger will never get enough of her.

“Rog, I...” Y/N fumbles over her words. “I...” She needs him to know. She needs him to know how much she loves him. She needs him to know how uncomfortably wet her panties are becoming. He chuckles, meeting her eyes, as she tries to remember English. Roger feels a thread of concern build in his chest. Has he made her nervous? Has he gone to far?

He presses a sweet kiss on her forehead, “What's wrong, love?”

Timidly, she takes a step away from the bookshelf, moving so that Roger is now the one with his back to it. His brow quirks with confusion. Her eyes are locked with his, cheeks flushed and hair messy. Roger swallows thickly, heart racing in his chest as he watches her slowly drop to her knees in front of him.

Her hands tremble as she unbuttons his jeans, tugging down the zipper and pulling them down off his hips. Roger has to force himself to grab her wrists, pausing her movements. “You sure?”

Y/N doesn't say a word. Instead, her eyes stay locked with his as she leans forward, mouthing at his cock through his boxers. Roger gives a whimper, his hand lacing in her hair as his head tips back against the wall. He curses under his breath at the feeling of her hot mouth on his cock.

Roger has been sucked off before. In fact, Roger has been sucked off a lot, but never once has it ever felt as good as it does right now and he isn't sure if it’s because he’s in love with her, and he's been dreaming of seeing her pretty lips around his cock for months now, or if it’s the way she’s taking him into the back of her throat, dragging her tongue over his shaft, but he can barely remember his own name. He knows e should be embarrassed by the sounds passing his lips, but he can't find it in himself to care.

Roger hadn't even realized how long it'd been since he'd had physical sex with someone. He'd forgotten how good it could feel.

He whines her name hoarsely, his fingers itching to be against her skin. “Y/N, you've got to stop, love. I won't last.”

He watches as she pulls off of him, kissing the head of his cock one last time before Roger pulls her up to meet his lips again. He has her on the bed in seconds, nearly tripping as he finishes shedding his jeans and boxers. He mounts her, wasting no time in grabbing the waist band of her pants and pulling them down over her ass, taking her panties with them. He wants to tease her. He really does but the moment he sees her cunt, all soaked and ready for him, he loses all coherent thoughts.

Her jaw drops open, seeing stars as he flattens his tongue, dragging up slowly over her sensitive folds. His mouth is hot and wet against her as he circles her clit with the tip of his tongue, sucking it expertly as her back arches off the mattress.

Roger has never been more grateful that he’s experienced. It’s as if every girl he's ever been with, had been a practice run for Y/N. He knows where to suck, where to prod and lick and devour to make her squirm and buck into his mouth. He watches her face intently as she moans and ruts against his face, the arousal from her inner thighs smearing across his cheeks. He loops his arms around her thighs, her hands clutching the bed sheet like a vice. She gasps loudly as he shoves his tongue inside her, fucking her with it as he explores the inside of her hole. She cries out, head pressing into her pillow as her legs start trembling. He can feel her clit throbbing as he returns his mouth to it, pushing two fingers inside her to replace his tongue. She screams hoarsely, and Roger smirks against her heat as he fucks her harder, crooking his fingers inside her.

“Roger, I'm cumming. Don't stop, Rog, please don't stop!” She gasps, hips rolling as she rides his face, a numbing, warm pleasure washing over her. She gives a breathy sob as Roger works her through her high with his fingers, face still buried in her cunt.

She squirms beneath him as she grows sensitive, overstimulation setting in. She whines as he presses his thumb to her clit, rubbing circles over it as he sucks at her folds. “R-Rog you can stop –”. She whimpers as he hums in response, continuing his tongue's assault on her pussy.

“Rog...” She groans again, her hips settling as the discomfort begins to melt into pleasure. God, she’s so sensitive. It’s so much. So much at once. How is she already this close? Roger chuckles against her, watching her face as his lips finds her clit again. She lets out a high-pitched moan as the pleasure begins to build again, warmth tingling till the tips of her toes. The fire in her belly increases and she grips his hair tightly as she comes on his tongue again with a silent scream. He brings her back to earth, resting his chin against her stomach as she finds her bearings, cheeks pink and chest heaving.

“Want to go again?” Smug bastard.

Y/N fights to catch her breath, “Jesus, Rog, if you go again, you'll bloody kill me.”

Roger laughs, crawling up to meet her lips. She groans, tasting herself against his tongue. “Taste like fucking candy, don't you?” His voice is thick with lust.

Y/N peels off her shirt, leaving her wearing nothing but a thin bra. Roger hooks his finger under one of the straps, pulling it down so that he can roll her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, making her moan and arch into his touch.

Y/N wraps her hand around his cock, pumping him slowly and Roger curses, eyes rolling back as he grinds against her hand. His name slips from his lips breathlessly. Heat bubbles in Roger's veins and without a second thought, he rips her bra down the center, exposing her tits. Y/N gasps at the sudden movement, breasts heaving as Roger kneads one in his palm, mouthing at the other. She barely notices his other hand sinking lower until he has two fingers pressed up inside of her.

Y/N whines, sobbing breathlessly as he fingers her. She’s wet and tight around his fingers, clenching as he hits her g-spot with ever movement of his talented fingers. Roger groans, the idea of his cock buried inside her nearly bringing him over the edge.

“I love you.” She moans, his name like a prayer falling from her kiss-bruised lips.

Roger curses, cock twitching in her hand at the wet sounds her cunt makes against his knuckles. He nuzzles his face in the crook of her neck, sucking dark bruises into her skin.

“I need to be inside you.” His voice is desperate and hoarse. “Please, I need to fuck you.” He’s desperate with the need to be buried inside of her, to be connected totally and completely.

Y/N pulls his face up to hers so she crashes her lips to his, cradling his face as he kissed her desperately.

“Ruin me.” She whispers, hands tangled in his hair.

Roger has to grip his cock roughly to stop himself from cumming. He whimpers, lining himself up with her entrance. Y/N cries out as he sinks into her.

“Tight fucking cunt. Shit.” Roger groans into her neck. “Love you so fucking much.”

Tears of emotion well in her eyes. “I love you too.”

Y/N’s breath comes up in short pants, back arching as pleasure flows through her body. “I love you, Rog. You feel so good inside me, baby.”

Y/N bucks into him as he fucks her, the head of his cock hitting her sweet spot with every smack of his hipbones against hers. His left hand finds hers, fingers lacing between her own. He squeezes her hand lovingly, thrusting harder against her. His eyes stay locked with hers as he kisses her forehead, her nose, her lips. “My gorgeous girl.”

He moans as her free hand finds his hair. “You fuck me so good, Rog. Oh god.”

She can feel him throbbing inside her as he watches himself disappear inside of her again and again. Tears stream down Y/N's face, “I'm close Rog.” Her eyes screw shut with pleasure.

“No, look at me, baby. Look at me while you cum. I want to watch you cum on my cock,” He kisses her jaw, releasing her hand so that he can rub her swollen clit, “I've got you, sweetheart. Cum. Cum for me.”

Y/N's eyes lock with his as her body trembles, her stomach pulsing with heat and pleasure as wave after wave of bliss overwhelm her. She sobs hoarsely, clenching around him again and again.

Roger buries his face in the crook of her neck as she tightens around him, letting her pull him over the edge with her. He whimpers into her neck, biting at it to muffle his moans as he spills inside her. Her legs wrap around his hips, heels pressing into his lower back as he relaxes against her, trembling. He kisses her long and hard, emotions pouring through the simple contact.

Y/N's leg go lax, releasing Roger from her grasp but as he tries to get out of bed, she latches onto his arm, forcing him to lay on his back so she can rest her head against his chest, legs tangling with his.

Roger smiles fondly down at her, an arm behind his head as the other wraps around her shoulders, pulling her as close as he possibly can. “I was going to grab a wash cloth to clean you up, but I think you may have other ideas.”

YN nods, placing a gently kiss over his heart. She turns her face upwards, eyes drinking him in. “I just got you, I don't want you going anywhere so soon. Sheets can be washed and we can shower later. I need this moment with you.”

Roger has never felt so happy or content his whole life. He places the hand under his head on her cheek, urging her to move her face closer to his. He closes his eyes as he gently places a kiss to her swollen lips, feeling completely at peace.

Roger never believed in fate or in soulmates. Not until he met Y/N. It had been Fate that had given him her number, it had been their destiny to meet and fall in love. She completes him, understands him and his crazy lifestyle like no one ever could. He wants this moment to last forever.

Roger wants to wake up everyday beside Y/N, kiss her whenever he wants. He wants to see her in the crowd of every single one of his shows. He wants to be the one she calls when she needs help moving around books or shelves in her store.

Roger wants a life with Y/N.

“Marry me.” He wants to spend the rest of his life getting to know every single facet of her body and soul.

“What?” her heart had just returned to normal and now it’s beating erratically again, eyes wide as saucers as she looks at his angelic face.

“Marry me.” There’s no doubt in his mind that this is what he needs to bet truly happy for the rest of his days. “It doesn't have to happen right away. You're it for me. There will never be anyone else. You're the love of my life, Y/N. I want to spend every waking and sleeping moment with you.”

“Ok.”

Nothing about their relationship has been normal. Not the way they met or how they fell in love. She never wants to spend another moment away from him.

Distance really did make the heart grow fonder.

[akiyamanemu]

🚬.Samuel Seo x Submissive Reader

W:Degrader, deep throat, submission, dirty sex,dacriphilia, dirty talk, alcohol, begging, spanking, hypoxyphilia, breeding.

He was sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, a white bathrobe partially covered him, he was waiting for you. He grinned expelled the smoke between his full lips, the whiskey glass was propped on the next table as he beckoned to you. Seo shifted in the armchair, bringing his hips forward as he opened the terrycloth robe, his body warm from the shower smelling of soap and cigarettes.

-You know what to do... His free hand caressed your face, while yours slid down the boy's thick thighs to his cock.

Samuel was semi erect, precum was dripping from his cock, you wrapped the member with your fingers leaning forward, your tongue touched Seo's glans, contouring it in circular movements while your hands went up and down the boy's thick phallus, he looked at you attentive, keeping his eyes on you while his hands stroked your hair giving light tugs. Resting your hands on his thighs you started to suck his dick halfway listening to Samuel cursing dragged with the cigarette between his lips, it didn't take long until the boy's rough hands held your hair forcing your face against his groin, you dug your nails on the boy's thighs, the dick must touch the back of your throat, Seo made you swallow inch by inch, he smiled slightly insane, one of his biggest fetishes was to degrade, all that made him feel more and more excited.

-Good girl... He said pulling you away from his cock.-You know how I like it... He passed his glans through your lips.

Seo stood up letting the robe fall halfway down his arms, the space between you was almost non-existent, you knew what he was going to do, and it made you more and more excited, you could feel your insides getting more and more wet as the boy smoothed your hair in his hands to keep you steady, he took his cock back to the back of your throat, he looked at you intently as he moved his hips towards your face.

-It will be a delight to fuck that angel face of yours... He said pulling his hip away.

Your fingernails scratched Seong's abdomen and tattooed thighs as he held you tight, you could feel every inch invade your throat taking the breath away, your body trembled in excitement, why you liked it so much was still a mystery to you, But maybe it was the way Seo held you, wanting you in every way possible, the expressions of pleasure he wore when he saw you from that outside.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, taking the mascara with them, as Samuel demanded you not wear anything waterproof. Saliva ran down your chin forming lines between them and the guy's balls that hit your chin every time he lunged against your lips. The vision Seo had was like heaven for him, you makeup smudged, your lips red, your face smeared with saliva, the choking sounds made him have pangs in his belly, he loved to see you swallowing everything, scratching his thighs, and most importantly, he loved to see when tears started to run down your face, the dirtier it looked, the better for both of you.

Seo took the dick out of your mouth again, holding it, you knew what to do, you just grabbed one of the guy's balls sucking it while massaging the other with one hand, you could hear him whisper things like "Yeah, keep it like this... ", all the while, the boy's husky voice seemed to reach inside you, every moan, every whisper, every word of approval made you more desperate for him, your insides throbbed aching. The boy lifted you in his arms, his face sank into your breasts while his hands squeezed you thighs, Seo took you to the bedroom throwing you on the bed with everything, again he kept the room in half light. The boy's strong body stood out and the tattoos that covered him made him even more attention, the way he moved or how his eyes were fixed on you showing how he dominated you was very clear. Samuel took off his glasses and placed them on a shelf in the corner of the room, the smile on his lips was full of malice.

-What should I use first?? He asked kneeling between you legs. -My fingers ?

Seo ran his index finger over your pussy collecting some pre cum of your pussy, he licked his fingertip as if tasting icing on a cake, but then his eyes returned to yours and he smiled bringing his face closer to your pussy.

-Maybe I should use my tongue first. He chuckled against you intimacy making you shiver.

Samuel wanted to see you pleading, he wanted to hear your pleas as God hears his faithful, and he knew how to do it the best way, with his fingers and tongue.

Samuel's hot, wet tongue licked you up and down, as he pulled back a trickle of saliva and pre-cum formed from his tongue to your vagina, he held your thighs keeping them apart and as he sucked you intensely, his tongue rubbed on your clit making you tremble, his hands slid down your thighs squeezing them and leaving heavy slaps there.

-Look how sensitive you are. He said penetrating you with his middle finger.-You really like being treated like a bitch...

Seo used a digit to fuck you while keeping his mouth on your clit sucking, licking and even kissing, your insides were making wet things and your hips straining against the mattress, the moans you let out filled the room becoming louder as Seo penetrated you with a second digit increasing the strength and speed of the thrusts, your body arched on the bed, your legs closed around the head of the boy who reprimanded you leaving painful slaps on your thighs.

Seo did everything in a dirty and erotic way, he kept his eyes on yours while he seemed to taste you, his fingers touched your most sensitive point, you couldn't hold it anymore, your body was sensitive, your hips swaying in the boy's thick fingers, his tongue playing with your clit was driving you crazy. But the best of all came later, when your body trembled on the bed, your legs closed again and you could feel all your pleasure spilling over to Seong's lips, he took every drop he could, licked his lips with a smirk and stood up.

-Did you just come with that?? He said licking his fingers that inwardly penetrated you. -So sensitive... He took his fingers to your clit that was sensitive after the intense orgasm, Seo's fingers worked quickly making you close your legs with a few squeaks, with the other hand he opened your legs again, reprimanding you with a hard slap on one of the cheeks of your ass. Samuel's face was now close to you, he bit his lower lip smiling slightly insane.

-What you want? With his free hand he pressed his cock at the entrance to your pussy rubbing it there.-Do you want this??

Seo's lips touched your ear lightly, the heat of his breath and the way his voice sounded caused tremors through your body, he kept his thick cock in contact with your pussy using the glans to masturbate you.

-Samuel, I want you... You whispered, putting your arms around the boy's neck, bringing their bodies even closer. -I want your dick as deep as possible in me...

Seo lunged at you, just as you felt his thick cock enter you so roughly and needy a cry of pleasure escaped your lips filling the dark room. He moved his hips roughly, removing the whole dick to put it back in with everything to the bottom, his face was on your neck, he marked your skin with hickeys and bites, his hoarse voice made you tremble all over, still more with his dick invading you like that.

-That's my bitch. He whispered lowering his lips to your breasts, he brought the two together with his hands sucking the nipples slowly while playing with his tongue over them.

-Samuel... I need more. You whispered through moans and curses, your body seemed totally immersed in pleasure, but you knew Seo hadn't even shown half of what he could do.

-You want more?? He asked raising his body slowly, the boy's strong hands held your waist, he lifted your hips looking you straight in the eyes. -Always a slut...

In that position he was thrusting even deeper, you could feel a kind of electricity going up your spine as your hands gripped your own tits and the mattress. Seo kept his eyes on you, he stared at you like a predator, his gaze filled with lust and arousal, he could do this forever just to see you squirming as you call his name like that, tears of pleasure streaming down your face , the involuntary movements and muscle spasms that surprised him every second, it was heaven for him to be able to dominate you like that.

-I want you on top. He laughed slowly pulling away from you, your body trembling and your insides twitching involuntarily. -Be a good slut and ride my dick until you can't take it anymore...

Seo was relaxed on the bed, his tongue roamed his lips while his eyes roamed your body, he turned you on your back helping you to sit on his thick cock, in that way it was much more vulgar and exciting for him who kept his eyes on your ass while watching your pussy lips fit into his cock. Without warning, he didn't even hold your legs holding you against him while moving his hips up and down hitting deep inside you, he fucked you with all his strength making your eyes roll, your hands scratched Samuel's arms, your walls twitched around his dick. You hadn't noticed the mirror in front of you until you heard Seo order you to look ahead, your reflections stamped the mirror, the boy's tattooed thighs, the heavy and thick cock that invaded you incessantly, along with your body trapped by Samuel's arms , your open pussy, your face that writhed in pleasure calling the boy's name in the most needy way possible.

-Samuel, please... I can't take it anymore... Your voice comes out full of groans greedy for pleasure.

Seo just tossed you forward onto all fours, you lifted your ass as high as possible pressing your face to the mattress, your hips snapped back into place, his cock slid smoothly along your wet walls as they contracted around him. He looked fiercer now, one hand firmly on your waist while the other gripped your hair forcing you to look straight ahead.

- I want you to watch while I fuck you, my whore. Seo smiled as he plunged deep into your pussy. His eyes were fixed on yours, Seo fucked you as hard and intensely as possible, you could feel your insides quivering, his big body looked perfect for you from that angle, his dark hair almost covered the boy's black eyes that glowed brightly in lust , the firm hand remained on your waist squeezing it so hard it hurt.

-Fuck, you're so nasty... He slapped your ass cheek keeping your hips glued.

You couldn't take much longer, especially with Samuel teasing you in all those ways, he knew you liked it when he was dirty, hitting, squeezing, making you quiver around his thick cock. You moaned against the sheets, calling Seo's name, begging him to get all he could for you. Seo's big body bent over yours, he used one hand to lean on the bed while the other held your throat and pressed it with his fingertips, Samuel's hip movements drove you crazy, your eyes became completely full of tears, your body lost strength all at once in an erotic and failed moan, the tallest man's breath weighed in your ear, he lifted his body again, increasing the speed of his movements while your walls contracted around his cock.

-So tight... He forced his cock inside you, making you scream, he kept the rough and fast movements while you begged for a break. You took the opportunity to move your hips in a back and forth as he filled your insides with cum, Seo's cock pumped all his pleasure into you, he bit his lips looking intently down as he withdrew his cock from inside you seeing the cum dripping onto the white sheets.

-Dirty whore, do you like being full of cum? He asked whispering in your ear, your body still shaking extremely exhausted.

-Yes... You replied while being lifted by Seo, he turned you towards him biting and sucking your lips before kissing you intensely as if he wanted to steal the air from your lungs, his firm fingers were in the middle of your hair, your hands resting on his chest could feel the boy's heart beating in his chest so fast that it seemed ready to explode. Amidst the pecks you can hear him whisper something like "Damn... I think I love you", making your heart jump even more in your chest as their bodies rested on the dirty and wet bed.

[rhysdasiorarchive]

As selfish as it likely was, Rhys was relieved to hear that all discussions pertaining to Hell would be limited. Or, rather, non-existent. Seth had suffered enough having to endure it in the first place and the last thing Rhys wanted to do was force him to relive it to satiate his own morbid curiosity. “‘least it’s the last you’ll be seeing of it. So long as you don’t fuck around again–” fixing Seth with a momentarily stern look from across the table, Rhys flashed a bright smile at him a second later to prove there were no lingering hard feelings. “–it’s all good.” Seth’s smile across the table was reassuring until it wasn’t and the inevitable topic rose its head at a speed that Rhys was wholly unprepared for. Taking a generous sip from his glass to buy himself some extra time, Rhys glanced off to the side, his gaze falling to the floor as he hummed in thought, his expression mirroring that of a kicked puppy until he pulled himself back together, glancing back at Seth with a nauseatingly polite smile, the kind typically reserved for all the exhausting coven-related soirées he was obligated to attend back in London. “Roland and I decided to be mature adults for once; had some things to talk through, had some different perspectives to consider. Things aren’t back to what they used to be, not yet. I’m giving him one last chance not to fuck things up.” Setting his glass down on the table, Rhys reached for his cigarette case and plucked one out, chucking it on the table towards Seth in silent offering as he lit it with his free hand, exhaling a plume of smoke as he shifted in his seat to get a little more comfortable if they were going to delve into the ever-complicated subject of Roland. 

“He came to see me the night after you told me you didn’t have long left. He’d been trying to win me back for a while, I’d had gifts and all sorts delivered to the office and my suite. Still haven’t opened half of them, most of ‘em are still piled high in the corner of my study until I’m ready. It all felt too raw to inspect anything closer. I’m rambling, though. He came to see me, explained himself properly and gave me a fair few things to reconsider. We’re working on rebuilding things now. Slowly. I’m making him work for it, so don’t give me any kind of look for it. He was nothing but truthful with his groveling; I made sure of it, checked throughout all his speeches to make sure he wasn’t bullshitting me. Wasn’t a trace of a lie, not even once. He meant every word of it. He explained that he’d done what he’d done out of fear, out of a reluctance to put himself through emotional turmoil again.” Taking a much-needed drag from his cigarette, Rhys rested it between his lips as he wriggled out of his blazer, throwing it over the back of his seat before he settled back into place. “He’d realised he was in love with me–” the emphasis was accompanied by a theatrical widening of Rhys’ eyes, his smile widening as he repressed a laugh. “–the night everything went wrong. When he realised, he’d panicked and resorted to cutting contact to try and convince himself he didn’t have feelings for me. It’s shitty, yeah, but I kinda get it. Was it selfish? Entirely self-serving? Yeah, absolutely. But it was never malicious. We’ve talked about it, talked it through for hours, and now we’re both in agreement that if he pulls that shit with me again, he’s as good as gone. You've got nothing to worry about. Trust me."

"All right well if you insist," Seth replied, smiling after Rhys as he waited for his drink to be handed to him. Once he had his vodka soda he met the other witch at the table and sat across from him, raising his glass in return and smirking as he sipped it. "Probably best. It wasn't a vacation, I'll tell you that." He chose to leave the topic of Hell there since it wasn't something he wanted to delve into. The most important thing was that he was back and... adjusting back into a sense of normalcy after a decade. "We certainly do," he said, folding his hands in front of him on the table and smiling sweetly at Rhys. "How about we start with what the fuck are you doing with Rolando again?"

[xxiamtiebrousxx]

Chapter Seven "Overtime" (My Fortress Home | TF2 x Reader)

A/n: *Slams down the non-existent physical copy of this book* BOOM! ENJOY! Also, I warn you! There will be a suicidal moment in this story near the end.

“We need to talk,” the Administrator said as she loomed over me. I gulped, my eyes never breaking contact with hers. It was pretty shocking I was meeting her for the first time. I didn’t know how to feel. Should I scream out in joy I was meeting her or feel nervous about this? The Administrator was pretty powerful. She had her own company and a lot of weapons. If she wanted to, she could have Pauling kill me right where I stood.  Speaking of Pauling, she ran off to the driveway and got into a small, purple car.

“What is it you need to talk about?” I asked. I rocked back and forth on my toes, keeping my hands behind me. The Administrator, or Helen as I should be calling her, took a long drag from her cigarette. She blew out the smoke directly in my face. I cleared my throat, fanning the smoke away from my face. That was very unnecessary. “So what is it?” I asked.

“You were never meant to be the tenth mercenary,” she replied, bending down to my level. Helen was a tall woman, especially with her heels. Maybe it was because I was slouching or she was just tall. The smell of tobacco lingered off her. I detected a scent of perfume. “Who are you and where did you come from?” Helen asked. “I have no record of you in my files. Are you a spy? Are you here to infiltrate us?” I hesitated before opening my mouth. If she knew I was lying, Helen would kill me right here and now. She wouldn’t hesitate. Even then, any word that left my mouth would be a lie. She never recruited me! I lied to the guys! I finally came up with my lie and opened my mouth.

“Um, I’m from Teufort and I’m no spy,” I lied. It really wasn’t lying. I wasn’t a spy at all.. “You definitely hired me, you just don’t remember because you were um, drunk.” I smiled from ear to ear, hoping to distract her. “I recall you gave me paperworks. I can guarantee I signed them.” Hopefully Helen wouldn’t notice the sweat rolling down my face. Helen’s eyes looked up and down, examining every bit of me. I held my breath, trying to keep calm. Did she believe it? Of course not, she was smarter than that.

“You’re lying,” she said. Helen harshly grabbed my hand and stormed down the steps, dragging me with her. “If you won’t speak, I will just have to get rid of you. Gray will never hear from you again.”

“Hey, let go!” I slammed one foot down and stood strong against her. My strength was nothing compared to the Administrator’s. She was stronger than me. Especially for an old woman over one hundred. Her sharp nails burrowed into my skin. “Where are you taking me?” She stayed silent. Helen stopped at the purple car. The car window rolled down, revealing Pauling.

“Ms. Pauling, please escort our friend here to the mines,” Helen said. “They have a very important meeting to attend.” She forced the back seat door open and shoved me in, slamming the door. Ms. Pauling started the engine and drove off. 

“Are you taking me to be killed?” I asked, sitting upright in the seat. “Is it the same mine where you buried the director?” Pauling slammed on the brakes. I lurched forward.

“How do you know about that?” she asked. I pushed myself off the front seat.

“I read the comics,” I said. “‘He’s a liability. Do the interview and get back here,’” I quoted. Pauling looked directly into my eyes. “The Administrator told you that over the phone when you guys did the interviews.” She pushed the gear into park.

“How much do you know?” she asked. 

“A lot,” I answered. I sighed. “Pauling, I’m not from this world. I’m from another dimension where this is a video game with comics, merchandise, and a really huge community.” Pauling grinned.

“You’re joking,” she laughed. “You are a really bad liar for a spy.”

“No, I’m serious!” I shouted. “You have to believe me! And please, don’t kill me!” Pauling shook her head.

“Sorry, I’m on my boss' orders.” I slammed my hand down on the gear shifter before Pauling could.

“No!” I sternly said. “You will not kill me, or else I will spill every little secret to your enemies. If you don’t want that, take me back to the base.” A revolver was pressed against my forehead. I sighed. “Fine,” I said, slumping back in my seat, “let it be that way. Kill me when we get there.” Ms. Pauling adjusted herself in the driver’s seat and began the drive again. That’s when it hit me. I wasn’t too out of range to respawn. One shot is all it took. I don’t care if my soul waited in the respawn. When the other mercs turn it on, I’ll come back. The revolver was on the dashboard. Pauling was focused on the board. Slowly, I rose up, reaching for the gun. Suicide was a horrible thing, but shooting myself was the only way I could be saved from this situation. A timer appeared above my head. It was similar to the game’s timer. It counted down from ten seconds. My health bar appeared, as well as my little character in the corner. Heck, I thought. I didn’t have much time. I snatched the gun off the dashboard. Pauling slammed on the brakes once again.

“What are you doing?!” she exclaimed, attempting to steal the weapon from me. We wrestled for the gun.

Eight

I was running out of time. I forced Pauling’s hand to turn towards me. Our hands were shaking. 

Seven

The barrel was facing me. Pauling gritted her teeth together. She was fighting to turn the barrel away from me.

Six 

I wrapped my other hand around the gun. Sweat dragged down my face. My heart pounded wildly against my chest as I placed my hand on the trigger.

Five

“Don’t do it!” Pauling yelled.

Four

I smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

Three 

Our fingers fought for dominance over the trigger. Pauling grew tired and let go. I kicked her back so she wouldn’t draw close.

Two

“See you later!” I exclaimed.

One

I pulled the trigger

OVERTIME.

I shot up with screams. I had done it, I had shot myself. My chest rose up and down rapidly. I ran my hands over my face. There was no blood, no hole, no wound. I was perfectly safe. I was safe in my own house.

But for how long?