#But does Rog do it in drag is the question.. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

illfoandillfie · 4 years ago

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Kinktober Day 1: Rimming

Kinktober Masterlist | Regular Masterlist

Pairing: Ben Hardy x Fem!Reader

Words: 3,560

Warnings: Rimming, anal sex, some vaginal fingering, himbo Ben (mild unintentional hypnosis I guess)

A/N: Welcome to Kinktober! This is actually an idea i’ve been thinking about for quite a while. We’ve done himbo Rog and himbo Gwil so it only seemed fair to do himbo Ben and since he’s obviously an ass man......only made sense that he’d be into anal lmao. It seemed like the perfect fit for the first of these prompts. But this is the first time I’ve written (or even really thought about) rimming so I hope it’s okay!

“Geeze Ben, could you maybe close your porn next time. Didn’t really expect to see that autoplay when I woke the computer up this morning,” Ben snorted into his plate of eggs, “Which one was it?” “Something called Anal Punisher 3.” “Don’t know what you’re complaining about, that’s a good one.” His eyes twinkled teasingly and he poked his tongue out as you sat in front of your own plate. “I’m sure it is.” You chuckled, able to see the funny side now that you weren’t staring directly at close up of a porn stars arsehole, “Just not when I’m trying to check my emails on our shared desktop.” “As if you’ve never had a cheeky wank at that computer.” “That’s what I have a laptop for,” You laughed again, shaking your head. “Alright, fair play. I only left it up cause you got home early last night and I had to, um, clean up.” You rolled your eyes at the flimsy excuse. “And if you don’t want me watching Anal Punisher 3 then maybe you should let me punish your anal....arse....fuck, you know what I mean.” It was your turn to snort into your breakfast, Ben’s clumsy attempt at seduction nearly making you inhale the scrambled eggs. When you finally got yourself under control you said, “I don’t care if you watch it, just shut it down when you’re finished.” “Sorry love,” “But y’know, if you did want to anal arse fuck me tonight I wouldn’t say no.” Ben’s eyes lit up in excitement. He’d either not heard the joke you’d made at his expense or decided it wasn’t worth bringing up if the possibility of anal was on the table, “Serious?” “Serious. I’ll even put my plug in when I get dressed so we don’t have to spend as much time on foreplay.” “If I hadn’t already married you, I’d propose on the spot.”

But by the time Ben got home he seemed more interested in just cuddling on the couch. You’d done as you said you would and worn your plug all day, constantly thinking about what would happen later that night. Right up until Ben stepped inside yawning, when you snuck off to the bathroom to remove it, realising your plans were unlikely to go ahead. You’d half expected him to fall asleep on the couch after dinner but evidently, some part of him still wanted you. He tapped his thigh and beckoned you towards him, pulling you down so he could hold you close and kiss your shoulder. Soon enough that cuddling had turned to making out, you straddling his lap as you kissed him deeply, his large hands pulling you into him, stroking whatever bare skin he could find. Without thinking you dragged your fingers through his hair. He hummed in response so you did it again, your fingers creating small, firm circles against his scalp, drawing random patterns there as you focused on keeping your lips on his and your tongues entwined. Ben made soft pleased sounds as your fingers kept up their movement, almost moaning at the sensation. You could feel him getting harder under you as you carefully rocked your hips. “Benny?” “Huh?” His hands had begun to roam more, moving down to your arse, grabbing and squeezing as he pulled you against him. “Kinda got me excited here honey. Might wanna stop if you’re too tired to carry through,” “What?” He seemed nearly dazed, not properly comprehending what you were saying. You shifted your hand to his chest, drawing small circles with your finger, “I mean I’ve been thinking about you fucking me all day anyway.” “Think?” “Exactly, thinking about our conversation this morning. Remember? Anal Punisher 3?” “Anal?” It was still a question but there was a tone of excitement behind the dopey confusion. “You said you wanted to.... I kinda really want you to.” “Mmmm,” “I mean I get it if you’re too tired,” you said softly, stroking your palms over his biceps, “but I’m up for it now if you are. So, do you still want to?” “Mmhmm,” but as keen as he sounded, Ben didn’t seem inclined to move to the bedroom or even to begin to undress you. He was too caught up in feeling you up and trying to kiss you again. “Don’t you want me Benny?” He was slow to react, eyes still shut as he nodded, speech flowing like treacle “Want - you.” “You can have me.” You had to lean back to stop him from kissing you again. As much as you liked making out, you were getting eager for more and wanted to know where he was at. He nodded again, not seeming to hear you, and then, when he couldn’t immediately locate your lips again, opened his eyes. It reminded you of the time a few friends had dragged you and Ben to a hypnotists show. None of your group had been pulled on stage to experience the hypnotic powers the man claimed to have, but those who had been had all worn similar expressions to Ben. Eyes heavy lidded and almost glazed over and when they’d gone back to their seats you’d noticed that they seemed a bit dazed and confused. You’d not seen Ben look like that before. Well, maybe a bit dazed after you gave him a proper good blow job, but nothing to this extent. Not even when you edged him repeatedly. He tended to get whiny and loud rather than glassy eyed and dopey. Usually more talkative too, begging or moaning your name. This was something new.

Curiously, you stoked his hair back off his face and asked him how he felt, tugging lightly on the ends that reached the back of his neck. “Good,” he sighed softly, “Kiss?” You couldn’t deny him that when he’d asked so cutely, so you leaned in to kiss him again, letting him draw you in deeply for a moment. When the chance arose you let your lips slip from his, kissing along his jaw until you reached his ear, “What else do you want?” Ben hummed softly and then said, “Arse.” It was unusual for Ben to be so monosyllabic. Even when he was super horny and desperate for you, he could generally get most of a coherent sentence out. Nothing that would win any literary awards of course, but enough so you knew what he meant. “What do you mean Benny?” “Ummm....arse.....cock.” It sounded like it had been a struggle for him to even think of the two words he wanted but you couldn’t help but giggle, “Does that mean you want to fuck me?” “Yeah,” “Okay baby. But you have to do everything I say, understand?” Ben nodded. “Can you do what I say Benny? Be a good boy and follow my instructions?” He nodded again, “Yes. Please.” You kissed him once more, trying not to laugh too much, and then scooted off his lap. Ben whined as soon as the physical contact was broken. “If you want my arse we gotta move to the bedroom,” He frowned as if he didn’t quite understand but let you take his hand all the same and followed you to the bedroom.

Ben’s hands began to wander again when you stopped to open your bedroom door, grasping your hips and then dropping lower to rest against your behind. It was hard to ignore the tingle the light contact sent through you but you bit down on your rising need as you turned and grasped Ben’s hands, “Gotta wait for that Benny. Just a little longer.” You stepped back towards the bed and Ben smiled dopily as you pulled him along. “I mean I’m ready but not all the way. But if you help get me lubed up you can fuck my arse for as long as you want.” It was like a light turned on inside Ben’s mind. His eyes still had that unfocused look but they were wider and he was nodding enthusiastically. “You gonna undress me or should I start for you?” You laughed and when he didn’t immediately move you began pulling your shirt off over your head, too eager to wait. You reached behind you to unclasp your bra, “C’mon Benny. Help me out.” Ben blinked twice before he seemed to understand but was soon offering his help, pulling the bra from your arms, gently cupping your breasts as he revealed them, thumbs falling into a familiar rhythm rubbing back and forth over your nipples. Still moving slowly, Ben leaned in and kissed your throat, humming in response as you pressed your chest into his hands and sighed contentedly. But he clearly had something else on his mind because soon enough his hands fell, fingers picking at the waistband of your leggings. Indulging him you quickly shed your pants, turning so he could see the thing he really wanted as you stripped off the final layer of clothing. Ben watched intently as you wiggled your hips teasingly and eked the waistband of your knickers down a few inches. And then something changed.

You felt it in the air, a shift in energy, but even that wasn’t enough to prepare you as Ben growled and lunged forward, his hands tight on your waist as he lifted you onto the bed, barely giving you time to settle on your hands and knees before he dived in behind you. All you could manage was to gasp his name as he rushed to tear your underpants down your thighs. But your surprise at his sudden movement doubled as he spread your cheeks and buried his face between them. He’d licked you like that once or twice but only when he’d been eating your pussy and teasingly snuck his tongue elsewhere as you tried to recover from your orgasm. This was entirely different.

It felt similar to the vaguely tickly sensation he made you feel when he was helping you relax before a round of anal, when he would tease you with light strokes from his fingers until you were shivering and wanting more. But there was more heat to it. His breath hot and his tongue wet as he traced your hole. You felt like you’d been completely lit up from within, like he’d suddenly discovered a hundred more nerve endings than he usually hit. And adding to all the physical sensations of Ben’s fingers holding you open and his mouth exploring your darkest nooks, was the feeling of doing something properly filthy. You’d felt the same when you and Ben first tried anal, completely depraved at enjoying something so taboo. That feeling had lessened as you did it more, your enjoyment then stemming from Ben’s improved skills more than the act itself. But with your head against the sheets and your arse in the air you remembered why you’d liked feeling so downright dirty. It only heightened your desire and made every caress of Ben’s tongue sweeter.

Of course, best of all was just how into Ben was. You wondered how he could possibly be breathing when every second seemed to be taken up with moans and groans as he feasted on you. The noises started softly as he tantalized you with hard licks against your arsehole and the surrounding area. But as his tongue explored deeper, as he pressed into you, making your arse feel slick and hot with his drool and making your pussy throb, he got louder. He seemed to enjoy you more and more, as if he’d never eaten anything as satisfying in his life. That was enough to have you shaking. You were already wet from grinding against him on the couch but the ways he was touching you and how thoroughly he was enjoying it had you positively soaked. “Finger me Benny,” you gasped, trying to maintain some of the control you’d intended to have. Ben did as you asked, never able to deny you what you craved, but it wasn’t up to his usual standard. His fingers weren’t as deft as normal, moving awkwardly and out of time. It was as if his fingers were trying to work off of muscle memory alone, his mind too consumed with something else to take any notice of your cunt. With a needy whine you clumsily disentangled one fist from the sheets and batted Ben’s hand out of the way, replacing it with your own. Ben didn’t make any indication that he’d noticed you start touching yourself, except to tighten his grip on your arse, holding you firmly as you began to writhe against your fingers. He happily went back to gripping a cheek in each hand, pulling them wide to give himself better access to your arsehole. It seemed that wearing your plug had been a good idea because Ben found it easy to press his tongue into you, licking around and making your muscles tighten before withdrawing and sinking in again. And that stimulation plus your own fingers in your cunt made you moan wantonly into the bedding. Ben answered with his own long, loud moan of desire, sending a shiver along your spine. It was enough to tip you over the edge, your fingers massaging a spot within you as Ben rapidly tongued your hole.

You rode out your high before letting your fingers slip back to tangle in the sheets once more, but Ben showed no signs of stopping. He might very well have kept up the intoxicating performance all night if you hadn’t whined his name. Even that wasn’t enough to make him stop entirely, just slow down and hum. “Ben? Benny?” you gasped, as he readjusted his grip on you, “You gonna fuck me or what?” Ben groaned as if he didn’t want to stop tasting you but wanted to move on to other things as well. And you were on the verge of instructing him to get the lube when you felt his fingers. He reached under you, two digits carefully tracing along your cunt, sliding through the creamy evidence of your earlier orgasm. He didn’t break contact, his fingers just as softly sliding along your crack and up to your arsehole. And then they were pushing against the ring of muscle. Usually he’d take his time applying lube but he seemed too lost in the moment to remember it. You didn’t mind too much though. Lube might have made it a touch more comfortable but wearing the plug had helped loosen you up and Ben had thoroughly coated everything with his saliva and your own cum. His fingers breached you moderately easily, making you shiver and whine at the feeling of being filled again. “God it’s a good thing we do this a lot,” you half sighed, half laughed into the sheets, as Ben’s fingers sank another inch into you. Ben’s only response was to lean forward and lick around where his fingers were penetrating you, humming happily as he did so.

Ben seemed inclined to spend just as long fingering you as he did licking you, but the way his fingers moved inside you quickly had you worked up and eager for more. “God Ben. You’re hard right?” Ben only pumped his fingers into you faster but you took it as a yes. "So fuck me already. Please Benny,” It came out whinier than you’d expected so you cleared your throat and tried a proper demand, “I need your cock in my arse now Ben.” You weren’t sure it would be enough to get Ben’s attention. He seemed too engrossed in fingering you to even hear what you were saying. But thankfully, something broke through his blinders. Suddenly, his fingers disappeared. It was followed by the sound of his pants coming down and then you felt the head of his cock against your back entrance. “Wait,” You gasped, “Wait. Lube.” Ben repeated the word lube in a grunt, shifting hips slightly so he could run his shaft along your soaked cunt. You felt him between your lips, as if he were teasing you, sliding back and forth, coating his length in your juices. A moment later, he returned to your other hole, his hands on your hips to pull your arse back onto him. Ben let out a satisfied groan as he sank into you but you were panting roughly, almost seeing stars with how good it felt to finally be filled the way you wanted to be. Once or twice your breath hitched, the discomfort of his size pushing into you exacerbated by the lack of proper lube. But it wasn’t enough to truly bother, certainly not enough to stop. The fact that just seeing your arse had made Ben snap into an animalistic, almost feral demeanour had made you impossibly horny. And you were desperate for him to fuck you properly now he was fully sheathed in your arsehole’s tight embrace. Ben moaned at the feeling, vocalising your own desire. And then he said something. “What was that Benny?” you asked, unable to comprehend him. “Fuck....arse......hngggg.....arse.....” he said though you were sure you were missing something. But as nonsensical as it was it was still hot. Knowing Ben was so desperate for this, for you, knowing you could make him babble incomprehensibly. It was insanely hot. And then he began to fuck you. You whined and brought your hand to your pussy again, finding your clit, though Ben’s frantic thrusts made it hard to keep the contact consistent.

You screamed when you came, voice tearing out of your throat as Ben roughly pounded into you, his hips almost bruising hard against your arse. It was nearly impossible for you to breathe under so much pleasure and you panted for air as the orgasm subsided. But Ben was still going, still thrusting into you furiously, grunting with the effort as he neared his own release. You gasped his name and told him to cum, trying to not get swept away by the feeling of his cock moving inside you, wanted him to keep going almost as much as you wanted to feel his semen warm you from the inside out, and drip out of you. Your request was enough to make him shudder to a halt, his hands squeezing your hips tightly as he released himself with a groan. He thrust a few more times and your limbs gave out. You felt them wobble and then collapse under you, Ben’s body pressing you into the mattress as he sank down too, still trying to fuck you.

It took you saying his name twice before he stopped though he made a reluctant sort of a sound when he realised he had to pull out. “Well if you didn’t fuck me so well you probably could have gone on a bit longer,” you laughed as he, somewhat grudgingly, pushed himself to his feet. With a satisfied groan you rolled over and stretched your arm out to grab Ben’s hand so you could pull him onto the bed too. He lay on his front, sighing as his head fell into the crook of your neck, his body resting almost entirely over yours. You were half being crushed by his weight but you enjoyed it. It was comforting and warm and you softly drew your hands over his back as you caught your breath properly. Ben was quiet as he lay there until, some ten minutes later, he suddenly pushed himself to his knees, blinking at you. His eyes still had a vaguely unfocused appearance but the more he blinked the more normal he seemed. “Are you okay?” He asked slowly. You laughed and nodded, “More than okay. Lie back down, I’m too tired to sit up.” He compiled with your request, lowering himself again but this time on his back, “I have no idea what just came over me, babe.” With a sigh you shifted to your side, propping your head up on one hand, “What do you mean?” “All I know is I saw your arse and just needed it, more than anything else, more than air, I just wanted you.” “Gotta admit, it was a little unexpected,” you lay your palm on Ben’s chest, his skin still flushed and warm to the touch, “But ummmm, definitely didn’t hate it.” His hand landed gently on top of yours, holding you against his heart, “Did I use any lube at all?” “Only spit and my cum.” “Fucking hell. Are you sure you’re okay?” “It’s fine Benny. If I’d needed anything else I would have made you stop. If I’m honest....kind of made it hotter.” “Babe!” “Not in a weird way! I’m not going to let you get away without lube all the time.” You laughed, “Just knowing you wanted me so badly was nice.” “I always want you badly.” You patted Ben’s chest softly, your heart fluttering, “Does that mean you’d want to eat my arse again another time?” “You liked it?” “Well you were very thorough.” Ben groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes which just made you laugh again. “I did enjoy it,” you said softly, deciding to put him out of his misery, “Wasn’t necessarily expecting it but it felt really good.” “Well that’s something. I still don’t understand what just happened though.” “What’s that saying...Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?”

Taglist: @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor @hannafuckingsucks @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming @queenmylovely @ilovequeenmorethanyou @johndeaconshands @borhapbois @stardust-galaxies @cherries-n-rocknroll @rogersslave @scorpiogemini

#my writing #my fics #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy smut #kinktober 2021

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80s4life · 4 years ago

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The Thought Of Losing You

Word Count: 2,507

Status: Not Requested!

Fandom: Lethal Weapon 1987 {1}

A/N: This follows sort of around the ending of the first Lethal Weapon film where both Riggs, Murtaugh, and Rianne were being tortured in separate ways. I know it sounds brutal, but trust me, it isn't that bad. AND! Happy ending! (Spent all night on this!)

Relationship: Martin Riggs x Reader

Summary: When a team is formed, Roger Murtaugh and Martin Riggs are solidified together once Y/N is added to the mix, squeezing in perfectly. Although very fiery and stubborn at heart, childish games and teasing became common place for sergeant Y/N and Martin, unable to let the other out-trash their own trash talk. But, when there is a complication during the final breakthrough of the whereabouts of the heroin-trafficking cartel, Y/N is separated from the duo. Only coming together when a kidnapping sends her in a desperate spiral trying to save the people she loves, especially Riggs.

Warnings: violent themes, kidnap, manipulation, torture, violence, language, attempted!self-surrender/suicide, 18+ audience suggested, read at own risk

Masterlist Lethal Weapon Masterlist

Prompts: #67, #68, #100 (from this list @palettes-and-prompts) & #6, #8, #17 (from this list @waiting-for-motivation)

{I do not own any of the prompts, credits to original owners above, nor do I own the gif below -> @leofromthedark}

Strolling around to the back of the supposed drug dealer's extravagant condo, Murtaugh, Riggs, and I engage in light conversation, silently noting and observing our surroundings. Stopping just near the edge of the rather expensive-looking below ground pool, Murtaugh and Riggs catch sight of two brunette women inside. Rolling my eyes, I expect Riggs to do something flirtatious, a painstakingly common reaction to almost every woman he lays eyes on. Every woman... except me. Yet, I pay no mind, Riggs' crazy nature probably too much for me to handle anyway.

Murtaugh flashes his gun, indicating to the women that he is armed. In a flash of a second, just merely after he had shown his weapon, the women duck and run from within the glass-paned wall, just in time for a man to blast a shot from behind. More specifically, the source being a shed occupying the space on the opposite side of the pool we resided on, destroying bits of its siding from the sheer distance and voracity of his attempt of subduing at least one of us.

But, we came prepared, although we were slightly taken aback, Murtaugh's swift abilities with a gun coming in handy as he lands on the drug dealer's right knee, lower thigh area. Splitting off, Murtaugh and I take either end of the pool's side, desperately trying to corral the person of interest. All the while as Riggs takes the women from in the house outside and to the nearest tree, in case of them being suspects as well, handcuffing their wrists together around the tree.

Once the task is done, Riggs hurries over to our aid, following our one, sole purpose: keeping the suspect alive for questioning.

Coming around the perimeter of the pool, Murtaugh reminds Riggs of this rule, replaying it to refresh his sometimes questionable mind. This, however, does not work in our favor as the man pulls yet another gun, this time a pistol, as Riggs had went to pull the man up.

"He's got a gun!" I scream, yet it's all in vain, as Riggs tries to act just as fast as his reflexes would've allowed, lifting the man's aimed arm as the trigger was pulled.

Yelping in surprise, I clench my teeth as the copper red liquid instantly encompasses the injured area, jerking as far away from the incident as possible.

"Y/N!" Murtaugh yells, instantly coming to my side as I go crashing to the concrete floor, catching my head and my left side as I now slowly lean into the ground below me, clutching the stinging injury to the right of my abdomen.

As Murtaugh had come to my side, Riggs took care of the suspect, unfortunately not being able to accomplish our sole purpose of being here, but overall getting rid of the threat.

"Cocksucker," he all but grunts, as he makes sure to shoot the man once more, pissed at the fact that I had gotten shot, although that fact being unbeknownst to me. "I'll call the ambulance," he all put spits out some time later, not making any attempt to check on my well being nor even making eye contact, stalking back through the side gate we had entered through.

//Some time later//

Now nestled safely and securely, I lay within the gloomy walls of the hospital, hooked up with some anesthetics and monitors, all for separate purposes. The stitches surely going to leave an awesome scar, only adding to my aggravation and exhaustion as the day finally settles and the slightest of movements constantly sending sharp pains within my whole body.

The doctors, coming in every so often, had reassured me of a discharge after the course of at least 2-4 days, only needing to ensure the proper sanitary measures are used and stitches being durable and strong without issues or tears.

Staring off at one of the four blank and colorless walls, in a daze, my ears perk up at the sound of a knock on my door, followed by Roger and Martin entering the room.

Handing me a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates, I smile at Roger as he pulls a chair beside my bed, asking, "How ya' feeling, Shortie? How're they treatin' ya' here?"

Giggling at the nickname, I respond with an, "I'm doing just as good as I can I guess. It's not so bad here either. The nurses are nice, although they're all pitiful glances and meek gestures, coming in and out as quickly as possible. I guess bullet wounds aren't their preferred cases?" I joke lightly, trying to lighten the tension in the room.

Roger catches on instantly, having caught wind on Martin's rather uncharacteristically quiet sulking in the far corner of the room. Turning to look at him briefly, he all but shrugs at me as he comes up with no response or solution to his partner's unknown issue.

Checking the time, I make up an excuse, assuming Riggs just didn't want to be here maybe? "Damn, look at the time...It's almost 9 pm guys, don't wanna be late for Trish's cooking do ya'?"

"Shit, really? Come on Riggs, you know the ass whoopin' I'm gonna get? Let's go, minus well feed you too, huh?" Murtaugh says, getting his coat and squeezing my shoulder, giving me a sympathetic look that I swipe away quickly. Riggs just gets up, side-eyeing me once quickly, but above all, ignores my presence and leaves the room. With one final look from Rog, he shuts the door, leaving me to my boredom for the remainder of my stay.

//Some time later//

Having been discharged, Roger had caught me up on the recent news, and how they had left to finish the job a day before I had gotten out of the hospital, that being yesterday evening, and it now being a full 24 hours of no communication from them.

This had struck me as odd, given that they were very advanced in their fields. Finding the whereabouts was the last big hump of every mission, the rest supposedly coming easy. This had all changed as soon as I had stepped foot onto my front porch, a not left hanging slightly within the pocket of my mailbox.

The words shocking me to the core;

"Come to xxxxxxxxxx if you want to save your partners. 8 o'clock. Sharp."

Rushing to my car, I waste no time, pulling out of the driveway and to the given destination, the time being almost too close to the deadline as I preferred it to be.

Once outside of the destination, an old, run-down warehouse stands gloomily in front of me as I slip my gun into the waistband of my jeans. Another, tucked against my ankle within my boots.

I move quietly, staying alert as I enter the warehouse quietly, instantly hit with the cries of what could only belong to Riggs, my heart wrenching. A new feeling that I instantly push aside. Following the pained screams, inching closer to the source, I catch wind of yet another's set of booming cries as well, recognizing it as Murtaugh.

With this new set of knowledge, my heart does another painful flip, as the sheer terror now courses through my veins as if it was my blood. They were the toughest men I had ever known. At least that is how I had always felt, how I feel right now, but with their pained screams, it makes me feel utterly hopeless.

Drawing my gun, I aim it before me, right beside the wall I hide on, lining it up around the corner, my full intention at being able to at least shoot down one of the three men guarding one of my teammates; their identity unknown to me at the moment with the unfortunate dimness.

Taking the shot, I hit one man, the two now swinging to guard the area, looking my direction. The man held captured, Riggs, tied to the ceiling, consistently doused in water, making the homemade shock therapy increasingly unbearable with multiple relentless blows.

"Come out now, Little Rabbit, or I pull the trigger," a booming voice commands, me now peeking out from the corner to see none other than Mr. Joshua, the man we've been after, pressing a firm gun to Riggs' limp form.

Coming out from my hiding space, Joshua motions for his goons to grab me, now taking Riggs off the hook, and into another room. The room we are led to happens to be the room Murtaugh is in, his daughter beside him, both incarcerated and handcuffed. Moving Riggs to the chair beside the pair, he is tied down just as I am, the four of us now completely helpless.

Mr. Joshua, confident and prideful of his work, moves Riggs to the center of the room, starting his interrogation, answering with beatings and threats here and there. The cause: the information given by Hunsaker on his heroin-trafficking cartel.

Just as Joshua leaves yet another powerful blow, Riggs' strength starts to run low, just watching him making me squirm in my chair, wanting nothing but to take him in my arms and drag him as far away from here as possible.

"If you have to kill one of us, kill me. Take me instead, please? Just stop! Stop all of this now," I say breathlessly, doing anything in my will to get their hands off of Riggs.

"What would I want with someone as pathetic as you?" Mr. Joshua answers bitterly.

"Information. That's all you want right? You just want details about the business, you went through all this trouble, and for what? Just to kill us in the end? I know your type. You can't get off without getting what you want, and this would've all gone to waste without it," I respond, determined now.

"So, what do you want? To strike a deal?" I nod. "So, if I let them go, you'll give me what I want?" I nod again.

"Y/N no," Riggs says, now worried about what you're going up against.

"Shut it," Joshua states strictly.

"Y/N, listen to Riggs! You can't do this!" Murtaugh adds, now borderline terrified as everyone in this room is filled with the most important people in his life, all threatened with the only thing that could take them all away: death.

"SHUT IT!" Joshua all but screams now. "Fine. I'll take you up on your little deal. However, you fuck with me, I'm killing them."

"I don't agree with you unless you cut them loose right now, and I am assured that they are out of this building," I say confidently, yet shaking with fear.

He nods his agreement, showing a security camera view from one of his computers, watching as Rianne, Roger, and Martin are all led back outside, handcuffs removed, and all moved into my car, them pulling away from the warehouse.

Pulling the computer's view away from me now, he turns to me sharply, my gaze turning upward as my arms are still strapped behind my back, behind the chair. "Now," he starts, the voice strict like a parent beginning to question a toddler, "The information. What did Hunsaker tell you?"

Taking a breath in through my nose, I exhale through my mouth as I ponder my response, "Just as much as he's told you."

With this, Mr. Joshua lets out a scream, landing a punch to the jaw, my body leaning in on the stitches. Taking notice to my sharp intake of breath from the movement, Joshua uses that to his advantage, grabbing a knife, lifting my shirt, and pressing the cool metal along the line of handiwork. The only thing keeping my skin together at the moment.

"Let's try this again, what information did you receive from Hunsaker?"

"I told you. I. Don't. Know."

"Bullshit!" He digs into the skin, smirking at the cry of agony and shaking engulf my body.

"I-I don't know anymore than you do! Please! He was killed before we got anything from him!"

"Bullshit," he answers playfully now, dragging the blade of the knife wherever he pleases now, enjoying my pleads.

As he opens up my stitched bullet wound, he goes to start at another spot, the attempt being short-lived as a bullet wound of his own goes through his skull, the source standing in the doorway alongside Murtaugh with Rianne tucked under her father's arm.

Crying now, I sigh in relief as Riggs rushes to me, cutting me loose and lifting my limp body. Carrying me to the car, we make our way to the hospital once more.

During the wait and multiple switching of rooms, Riggs stays, waiting for me, only getting up once I emerge from the exit, patched up and clean. He smirks at me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, leading me to Rog's car, taking us to the only place we find comfort; his house.

//Some time later//

Getting settled in at the Murtaugh residence, Riggs and I share Rianne's room, which was so generously offered as one of the youngest decide to have a sleepover with her.

Looking over at Riggs, he looks at me, covered in open cuts and bruises, dirt and grime, and, taking a first aid kit from Rianne's desk, I make it my priority to get them fixed up.

"What are you doing?" Riggs asks, tiredly amused.

"Taking care of you, it's the least I can do," I reply determined once again.

"Awww! Someone's got a little crush on me huh?"

"Hey! When I finish patching you up, I swear to God I'm gonna kick your ass for making me worry about you," I say jokingly. Riggs replying by grabbing me by the waist and pulling me closer.

Locking eyes on one another now, I couldn't help but joke once more, adding a sly, "Is this the moment that we kiss?"

Giggling, he looks down, placing his head on my chest, murmuring, "I think I'm in love with you and I don't know what to do. I mean, I've been married before, and I- I lost her and I don't wanna lose you too- I couldn't live if you go too, I-"

Grabbing his chin, I tilt his head upwards to meet my gaze, "Look at me, Riggs. Look at me. I love you."

Eyes watering, he leans in for a kiss, my hands finding way to his hair, while his pull my hips into his lap, wrapping lightly around them. After leaning back for air, we giggle once more, leaning our foreheads against one another.

"I never want to ever feel the fear of the thought of losing you again, okay? So don't be a dumbass, Dumbass."

"Yeah, yeah," Riggs answers once more, leaning in for another kiss.

#mel gibson #danny glover #traci wolfe #lethal weapon #lethal weapon 1989 #martin riggs #rianne murtaugh #martin riggs x reader #female reader insert #martin riggs imagine #lethal weapon imagine #roger murtaugh #mel gibson imagine #mel gibson x reader #1989 #80s #90s

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outofangband · 3 years ago

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So when I wrote my fics on Morgoth and Sauron and their ‘honored guests’, it still left out a few canonical survivors of Angband so I figured I’d make another little collection of snippets and also include a few characters who were captured but never ended up in Angband (Túrin and Finduilas for example). This includes characters I’ve never written before!!

CW: mentions of torture, deprivation of food and water, captivity/slavery, implied death of an unnamed elf, uh, two of these entries canonically end in death that isn’t described but I still felt I’d note (well three if you count Túrin’s but it’s not his death)

Some stuff here is discussed in my Hierarchies of Angband and other world building posts but definitely aren’t necessary to read, I just infodump a whole lot more there Also finally I am working on a second world building post in that series that will further expand on some of the stuff here!

and as always feel free to send prompts or questions about any of the characters here or on the previous two pieces!

masterlists

Rog

The whip comes down against his back again. This time he wasn’t sure what infraction he was being punished for. It was not as though he never lashed out or defied the overseers, he often did. His reputation among the thralls was one he had cultivated with no small number of painful scars and lasting injuries. But it was also true that the orcs and occasional balrog who were in charge of his group of prisoners did not particularly care whether an infraction had actually been committed when it came to doling out whippings and other punishments.

This beating was bad enough that he likely wouldn’t be able to resume his ‘work’ for some time afterwards. The overseers would of course have no sympathy for this and he’d find himself facing yet another punishment for daring to be so injured. Rog doesn’t care for this but he loathes his inability to be among his fellows when they are at the mercy of one of the worst of the orcs that are tasked with watching and punishing them

Gelmir They blindfold him as they half carry him from his cell. They never tell him where they are going and this time, they do not stop after mere minutes like he is used to. His bare feet are soon dragged over unfamiliar ground and his chest seizes when the grunt of doors rings in his ears and, despite the thin material tied over his face, he is assaulted by a blinding light. For a moment, Gelmir is sure he will burn away completely but the shock fades relatively quickly and he is being dragged along again, confused, disoriented, and frightened. He cannot think of any reason why he would be taken from the halls. Surely if they mean to kill him they can do that anywhere?

There is an odd silence from the two, orcs presumably, who are leading him. Usually his tormentors laugh and joke among themselves, often at his expense. Gelmir feels unsettled by this, not that he misses the taunting but, he was not the first to think it, novelty in Angband was never a blessing.

Gwindor

There is never enough water in the mines. Gwindor had never known just how dreadful a demon thirst could become. He thought he could grow used to it, he had long since grown used to the lack of food but this longing is nearly ever present and what little sips of water he is occasionally afforded never quench his thirst. He dreams of bubbling creeks and glistening pools and spring rains. He knows now why so few of his fellow captives weep. It is not that they are resigned. They do not physically have the water to spare in tears.

It is the end of the work day. No, that is not accurate. Gwindor does not know if it is night or day and he does not think that there are consistent rest periods in between the long hours of labor. But regardless he has a rare moment of rest, curled up on the bare ground in the dormitory of sorts he shares with twelve others. A dormitory of course in that it is a shared space for sleeping (when they manage sleep). There are no beds or other furnishings. The most he can do is take comfort from the cold stone of the ground that is sometimes soothing to his bruises. They all sleep naked, their flimsy rags that make up their clothing bunched up beneath them or clutched in one hand. Gwindor has never seen an elf here attempt to steal the meager belongings of another but he supposes the fear is a reasonable one. For while he has witnessed acts of selflessness, of compassion and courage here in the darkness, he lives every moment around the neverending attempts to snuff them out.

World building post

Túrin

He doesn’t know much of their language. Beleg and a few others had taught him what words they had picked up over the years but these are sparse and of little use here. He wonders if his captors recognize him. If they knew to take him by appearance alone or if this was merely ill luck. Trying to decide that, he thinks, will drive him mad well before any torment does. Túrin is bound again, his wrists tied behind his back, not neatly but tightly. One of his hands has long since lost sensation and it feels unpleasantly heavy with blood. His tunic and breeches have so many gashes they appear to have been put there by some bizarre design.

They’ve stopped for now. Túrin thinks they must be tired themselves or perhaps waiting for something (or someone). He very much doubts it is out of consideration for his exhaustion. They push him roughly against a tree, hard enough that he hits his head and start working on tying him in place. Túrin’s struggles feel perfunctory at this point. He has no hope of actually getting free of his restraints.

Finduilas

It is some time before she realizes the screaming she still hears must have at some point faded into echos and illusions. The small group is pushed along without pause and Finduilas cannot help but to cry out herself when a weakened captive falls, inadvertently pulling on the harsh ropes that bind one to the next. The larger of the orcs barks an order, though they do not speak the tongue, the meaning is quite clear; a demand for the prisoner to stand and stand at once. Finduilas is struck by a mad desire to laugh. It is not the cruelty so much as but absurdity. How do they expect screaming to mend a broken leg or restore the strength stolen by hunger or other hurts? What she is now being forced to contemplate settles unpleasantly in her chest. The captive unsurprisingly does not rise and the orc approaches, pushing Finduilas out of the way and brandishing a ragged blade. They cut through the ropes connecting the fallen elf to the prisoners behind and in front and roughly tie those together instead. Then, they kick out, sending the weakened elf rolling off the makeshift path. Finduilas watches as they lie there among the ferns and when the orc pushes her again to demand she continue on, there is a moment she considers refusing. It is a reckless, suicidal thought that fills her chest like a wracking sob, like fire.

This time she does not act upon the thought. She is pulled along too quickly by the renewed pace of the other prisoners. But her rare anger hasn’t died there in the undergrowth and it warms her slightly as she marches on.

(first author’s note: I imagine elves who do a lot of patrol and are involved in lots of small fights would inevitably pick up some of the language of the orcs, even if the language is said to be dreadful to the elves)

(second author’s note: I hope this is ok! this was my first time writing Finduilas and my second time writing Gwindor. Finduilas’s death is one of the more disturbing ones to me in the Narn, just the brutal dramatic irony, I think I am using that correctly, of her being so close to potential help...I figuratively live for the works of @princess-faelivrin and others for the Fin-galad theory and creations. It’s both cathartic and incredibly badass)

#Finduilas #Túrin #The Silmarillion #the children of húrin #Gwindor #Rog #in the iron hell #short writings #can reblog!

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mirkwoodshewolf · 4 years ago

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On set visits; Queen x reader x Borhap boys pt. 2

*Author's note*

And here is part 2. And that's all I've got of the Rock Angel for now. Hope you all enjoy this special binge read of the series. Soon enough the story will come to an end after a few more chapters (I've had the last chapter written for like 2 years now) but I hope you all enjoy this chapter as well as the binge reading I have provided for you all. Until next time, stay healthy, stay safe, and anyone getting their vaccines GOOD LUCK!

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@simonedk

@waddles03

@ixchel-9275

@psychosupernatural

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@queensdivas

@bohemiansweede

@queendeakyy

@queen-paladin

@geek-and-proud

@isabella-bby

@labessieisallama

@5sos-wdw

@onebigfangirlworld

@wormzteef

@ssa-sadboi

@naturalswifty89

@starswin

___________________________________________________________

*Meeting the new Rock Angel. Filming continues*

A few days later after bonding with the actors playing my boys, I came to any day of filming I could (outside of my album recording and touring with Queen and Adam). Now the boys promised me and I knew they would follow up with it, the young actress they got to play me in as a cameo for the Live Aid sequence.

I was talking with Miami when we both heard a knock and that's when Graham King came in.

"I've got her."

"Bring her in." I said. He opened the door wider and soon came in the young woman came in.

"You wanted to see me Mrs. Kline?"

"Yes my dear come in." I said. She came in and took a seat on one of the producer's chair. "I wanted to speak to you guys privately about some things that have come up. But first I would like to know your name my dear girl."

"Ashley. My name's Ashley Johansson. But my friends call me Ash."

"Lovely to meet you Ash, from what I saw up there you—you blew me away."

"Uhh thank you. And can I just say I've been such a big fan of yours. My mum always played your first album on repeat every day when she'd take me to school. But I thank her for that cause your story has just been such an inspiration to not only me but her as well."

"I'm flattered Ash. I'm always happy to hear that I inspire people, even when I feel like I'm not really doing anything. All I do is just bring my music out into the world and try to give voice to things that other's don't deem important."

"That makes you an inspiration Mrs. Kline." She said.

"Oh please Ash darling, call me (y/n)."

"Okay....(y/n)."

"Now then straight to business. As you know Hollywood's always wanting to create biopics of anything and everything. And while I've been aware of both Queen's story as well as Elton's life being made into films. I've always been reluctant in getting my story out, but from what I saw a few days ago I feel like I might've found the right team to do just that. So my dear Ash, tell me this; who do you trust the most in Queen?" she looked at me confused but she soon realized just what I was doing.

"Brian was asking me tons of questions but that was the only question Roger ever asked me."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him, that.....All the members of Queen are my family. But if I had to pick, Roger has always seen each side of me. Whether it was the happiest moment of my life, or the darkest day. He's seen my true colors that none of the other band members had seen." I smiled softly and said.

"What happened after you said that?"

"He—he might not have wanted anyone to know but—I could swear I saw him wipe a tear from his eye." I smiled and lowered my head.

"That's my papa lion alright." I muttered. I looked back up to Graham and Ashley and continued, "After seeing the hard work you all have put into Queen's story, I've come to the decision along with my manager and former boss Miami, that I'm willing to sign off the rights to the film to you Graham King. And I want you my dear Ash to play me." They both looked at me in surprise.

"You're—you're serious? You-you want me to play you?"

"I can think of no other person. My uncle and father figures chose well. They—after all knew me better than I knew myself." I heard Miami chuckle softly.

"Thank you (y/n)."

"But there are conditions that I seriously must emphasize on."

"Whatever you want."

"Okay first; I will be heavily involved with the project."

"Done." He said.

"Second, there are some events I will allowed to be shown. But I absolutely refuse to have the stalking episode I was forced to suffer with be heavily shown. It can be touched on but I want nothing else about it in the film. It was hell for my family and my children were scarred for almost ten years, especially my daughter."

"It was horrifying. In my Folklore and true crime class, someone actually did a story on him in the aspect of why celebrity stalking should've been taken more into consideration." Ash said. I closed my eyes heavily trying to compose myself when I felt a hand grasp mine.

"If anything more is spoken about in regards to my Angel's stalker, the project will immediately be terminated." Miami said. I turned to him and he looked at me and nodded firmly as he patted my hand comfortingly.

"The writer's will be informed on it immediately."

"And in regard to Queen's casting, make sure that those four young boys are involved with the project. I love all four of them, they are—everything I remember when I first worked with Queen."

"It shall be done. After this film wraps up and the premiere at Wembley Stadium, you and I can meet at Abbey Road to discuss further more on the project and all the rights that need to be signed." Graham told me.

"Graham King, you've got yourself a deal." We both shook on it. A pact forged that a movie about the Rock Angel would come to place.

Months passed and I was busy touring alongside Queen and Adam for a time, up until Brian decided to pop in on set for a surprise visit. He told me that the boys were now filming the Rockfield farm studio scenes. Now this was one filming session I definitely didn't want to miss.

Brian and I drove up to the location in Hertfordshire, a charming little place known as Stocker's farmhouse and cottage. Since the real Rockfield farm studios wasn't suitable for filming, and ridge farm closed down back in 2003, Stocker's was the only place left.

Coming up onto the filming location, I began to see it looking sorta similar to what Rockfield was when I had used it earlier in my career.

"The studio definitely chose the perfect setting I must say." I said to Brian who was driving.

"Indeed. When the lads and I first came to Rockfield farm we couldn't believe that that was what Fred had in mind."

"But the wide open spaces sure do provide little to no distraction. Guess that's what made a Night at the Opera so successful to you guys."

"You really think so?"

"I know that's how it was for my first album. Plus why do you think your 5th album is the most talked about in regard to your earlier works."

"Suppose you do have a point." He shrugged. After about ten minutes of driving through the country roads, we finally arrived at the farm and the barn house there made me think of the real Rockfield farm studios.

"Not quite the same but the atmosphere of it just brings back memories doesn't it?"

"It does indeed. Shall we go surprise them?"

"Yes, lets." He shut the car off and we both exited the car. We walked towards the barn house where the guys must already be filming right about now since there wasn't really anyone outside. Once we got up to the door, Brian slowly and quietly opened the door but gestured me to go in first.

"Oh lady's first." He said.

"Thank you." I walked inside and Bri followed behind me. Inside I saw some of the crew walking around setting some stuff up. All around it was like the actual recording studio Rockfield farm had. From all the pictures I remember seeing in either magazines or even Brian himself, it was like I was transported back in time to when Queen recorded "A Night at the Opera".

"You know some of those amps and even Roger's kit we used at the time are here."

"Really? So you and Rog donated some of the actual gear?"

"Yep. Since the fans will be nitpicky about certain aspects it's just a fun little way to give them a taste of some of the real equipment. Even Red's here."

"No way. No wonder why you've been using those Red special copies throughout the tour. But Bri are you sure it's okay? I mean I know how protective you are of Red."

"She's been in the best of care."

"Right, right with your mini-copy. I swear even out of the wig and the clothes I can still see you in Gwilym. Are you sure you didn't have another child with a different woman besides Chrissie?"

"I'm positive." He assured me.

"Oh and speak of the devil there's your clone now. Why don't you go say hi while I go find the rest of the little rascals." I patted his shoulder and walked off. As I walked along I saw a familiar figure wearing a long blonde hair sitting next to another young man wearing long auburn hair that went past his shoulder.

I shook my head and walked up to them saying.

"God I swear it's like I transported back in time to 1975." They looked up and proclaimed my name. I was soon tackled in a sandwiched by Joe Mazzello and Ben Hardy.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were touring?" asked Ben.

"I was. But Brian decided to do a little surprise visit so I figured since I missed seeing you four so much, I figured I'd tag along and see how it's coming along. So what all have you done since I was last here?"

"We did a scene in Miami's office to represent Queen getting back together before Live Aid, a concert at Madison Square Garden, and the recording studio scene with Mike Myers." Joe explained.

"Now for the next couple of weeks we'll be doing some of the Rockfield farm recordings as well as the Bohemian Rhapsody music video, when Freddie joins Smile, and the "I want to Break free music video." Ben finished.

"Oh now that last one I've got to see for myself." I said grinning ear to ear. "I'll bet you four are gonna rock the drag look just like my boys did. Especially you Ben." I teased as I gently pinched his cheek.

"Yeah Benjamin I can't wait to see you in that skirt." Joe teased as well pinching his other cheek.

"Alright, alright you two enough." He said brushing our hands away and trying to contain his blush. I giggled softly.

"When that day comes, do I got some stories to share with you all about that day."

"We look forward to hearing them." Said Joe.

"And I look forward to telling them. Just let me know if you boys ever get bored of an old woman ranting on about the past."

"Never (y/n). We could never be bored of you. We love having you here, you've given us a lot of support and advice for playing your coworkers and family members." Ben said as he leaned his head against my shoulder.

"Yeah. We could never get bored of you. The day we get bored of you is the day the four of us stop being Queen fanatics. And this movie only keeps increasing our fandom tenfold each and every day." Joe said as he leaned up against my other shoulder.

"Aww you boys are sweet." I kissed Ben's cheek first which made him blush and softly chuckle.

"You lucky dog! I wanna Rock Angel smooch!"

"Then pucker up Joey dear." He puckered up his lips and I leaned in but at the last second I kissed his cheek which made him pout like a child. I laughed and said. "Sorry my dear, but my lips are reserved for one man."

"Can't blame a guy for trying though right?" he asked hopefully.

"No. I guess not. Now Benjamin, if you'll come with me real quick I would like to spend a little one on one time with you." I wrapped an arm around him when Joe said.

"Better not seduce him away from me!"

"Please Joe dear like I'd ever steal a man from you!" I cried back at him. We walked outside and walked towards the cottage. "Ben I've been wanting to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"When we first met; I had mentioned that I was looking forward to seeing you play the drums, but I noticed that you seemed a bit—tense." He froze right there on the spot. I turned towards him and stood in front of him. "Benjamin. Is there something you'd like to share with the class?"

"Well I—uhh.....when I, when I went to auditioned I—might've said that I......knew how to play the drums. But I've....never drummed a day in my life."

"So you lied? You lied and ended up getting the part of playing my only father figure in the world?" I snapped.

"I'm sorry (y/n) I just really wanted the job. But I worked hard and trained over ten hours a day in the 8 weeks rehearsal time before we shot Live Aid. I just love Queen so much and I—"

"Ben." I pressed my finger to his lips. "Relax. I knew you lied the second day of filming. Roger told me."

"Did he mention the prank that Rami tried to pull on me?" I nodded as I hummed. "Damn rat."

"Oh trust me. When it comes to certain secrets, Roger cannot keep them forever. Especially when his lion cub gets involved in wanting to know." I removed my finger and cupped underneath his jawline. "But when I saw you perform the entire Live Aid sequence, it hardly seemed like you hadn't drummed a day in your life. While I don't condone for liars, I appreciate that you took the time to study just how exactly Roger drums."

"It wasn't easy. But he was supportive and he even gave me a mini drum lesson. Of course he had to step back and say 'alright. Show me what you got'."

"That's exactly like Roger. He always did the same to me whenever he gave me a drum lesson. I remember when he taught me how to play 'Don't stop me now' back when I was an intern and he told me to play it all the way through."

"Jesus that's rough."

"Depends on how you look it. Guess I got on the lighter end than you did cause he's always had a soft spot for me. But his heart's always in the right place when he mentors. Just ask his son Rufus. That boy takes everything after his father. Not just his looks but his talent too."

"Yeah. Roger has given me some good pointers on how to strike the cymbals on a certain song. Or how to properly spin the drumsticks."

"Knowing how to keep the heartbeat going. The drums are the center of the band. If one beat is off, the entire song can go to shit."

"That was always his number one rule to playing the drums. Drilled that into my head every time." I sighed reminiscing the old days of my tutorial sessions with my dad. "So he really was like your father?"

"Yeah. Out of all the members of Queen, Roger was the one I was drawn to the most. It also helped that he loved me just as much as I did him. Always there to comfort me at my lowest moments, but there to celebrate and keep me grounded when I was higher than a kite. Roger Taylor has and will always be my papa lion."

"That's so cute you guys called each other that. Anytime you came up in conversation, Roger always called you his lion cub."

"Either that or his lioness. Lioness is more for the moments when my true strength comes into play and I do something world changing. Lion cub is like a private thing between us. God I can't believe I confessed to him being a lion to me when I was drunk. But if I'm being honest, I don't regret it."

"I can see you don't, my little lion cub." I looked at him and he just gave me Roger's cheeky grin and that familiar twinkle in his eyes just made my heart flutter.

"Cheeky." I grinned. He smiled and shrugged playfully.

Yeah I know he may not look exactly like Roger when I met him but there are some mannerisms that Ben has that just made me think of my adoptive father.

We continued to walk into the cottage cause I wanted to see what they did to the inside of it. There I saw Rami sitting by the piano in the now wearing the long black hair that Fred had at the time. Jesus without the tache, he looked more like Freddie than I could ever imagine.

However that happiness soon turned to dread and absolute disgust as soon coming right beside Rami was a young man who looked like someone who I had loathed my entire life. The one man who made my life a living hell throughout my years with Queen, the poison who nearly destroyed Queen and exposed my secret to the boys.

It was Paul Prenter.

Rami and Paul were chatting away with each other and I felt sick to my stomach.

"(Y/n)? You okay?" Ben asked me.

"Excuse me." I muttered as I passed him. I trudged right over towards Rami and shielded him. "Stay. Away. From him you snake!"

"E-excuse me?" he asked confused. "I don't know what you're talking about." Typical Prenter.

"Don't play games with me Prenter! You might've fooled Freddie once but you will not do it again! I lost him because of you. You ruined his life! And I swear to you I will make you pay for it. I'm not that little girl anymore!"

"(Y/n)! (Y/n) calm down. He's not really Paul Prenter." Rami tried to reason with me.

"Freddie please I'm doing this to protect you!" I then gripped the collar of Paul's shirt and dragged him aside. "You lying son of a bitch! How dare you show yourself again!"

"Wait! Wait I'm not Paul Prenter!"

"STOP LYING TO ME!!!"

"(Y/N)! (Y/N) (M/N) KLINE LET. HIM GO!!" I turned to see Brian as well as Joe, Gwilym and Ben along with some of the crew staring at me. Brian stomped towards me and pulled me away from Paul and he said to me in a stern voice. "The real Paul Prenter is dead. He's been dead just as long as Freddie has. That's an actor playing him. Alan Leech."

My adrenaline came down and when I looked at 'Prenter' again to see that it wasn't the Paul Prenter I knew. For one thing this guy was much younger, the tache wasn't as thick as Paul's was, and his eyes weren't as cold as I remembered Prenter's, they shown with absolute fear.

Oh god.....what have I done? I collapsed to the ground trembling with regret as tears formed in my eyes. I buried my face into my arms as I softly wept. It was then I felt Brian's arms wrap around me, his head gently resting on top of mine as he rocked me slowly while I wept.

*3rd Person POV*

Rami, Joe, Gwilym and Ben looked at each other before turning towards Allen who spoke not a word but was just as worried as the four main ensemble cast was. Rami first tried to approach (y/n) but Brian looked up at him and put his hand up and shook his head.

After she went silent, Brian helped her stand up and he walked her over to the car. He allowed her to just sit there and have some time to herself. Once he shut the door, the young actors walked up to Brian and Joe asked.

"Is she gonna be okay?"

"With time. Allen I apologize ever so much but you can't blame (y/n). The real Paul Prenter he—put her through hell when she started off as an intern. One thing he did was extremely unforgivable that I don't see why we ever kept him around."

"Brian, she uhh—I know I shouldn't say this but when she was trying to defend me from Paul, she—actually called me Freddie." Brian sighed solemnly and said.

"She still blames herself."

"What do you mean?" asked Gwilym.

"Come with me lads." Brian led them over to the cottage porch and all of them sat down along either the railings, the porch swing or on the two chairs that were out. "As you know everyone in Freddie's life suffered after his death. Some of us still grieve the way we do like Roger and myself. And there are some who became so fragile like Deacy. (Y/n).....she's always lied on the in between stage. She misses Freddie beyond anything no mistake about that, but then there are days when she blames herself."

"Blames herself?" Rami asked.

"Yes. See, when Freddie first told us that he was diagnosed with AIDS. He wanted to keep it away from (y/n), because her career was skyrocketing, plus she had her own family to look after with Kelly and the twins. Freddie didn't want her to worry about him, but one year when we were all in Montreux recording our last album Innuendo, (y/n) allowed us to stay at a vacation house of hers that she had there. That's when she began to deduce just what was wrong with Fred. He told Roger and myself that the poor dear had blamed herself for not being there for him. Because—well truthfully there was a fallout with Queen and the Rock Angel for a time. Now whether we make that into the film is unknown I know writers are always doing rewrites. But she felt like had she stepped up to Prenter or held onto Freddie just a bit longer before turning her back on him, he would've been alive today."

"Jesus." Muttered Ben.

"Poor lass." Allen muttered.

"But she couldn't have known. None of you did."

"And we didn't. Because Fred didn't want anyone to know. It was his personal business and his alone. And although (y/n) says she accepts that it wasn't her fault, there are some days where she says it is. And any reminder of it just sometimes makes her snap."

"I don't blame her. I—I know exactly what she's going through because of my dad's illness. Anything regarding glioblastoma and I just freak out. But—thanks to these guys I.....don't know where I would be."

"We're here for you mate." Gwil said as he patted Joe's knee.

"So you see guys, this film is bringing back a lot of memories for her. Good and bad. So Allen I really hope you don't take offense to what just happened."

"Not at all Brian. Besides after hearing and probably thinking what the real Paul Prenter did, no wonder why she would get defensive around Rami. I hold no grudge against her."

"Thank you. Just—give her time to cool down and then you all can go see her." The five boys nodded in agreement and took the guitarist's word.

*My POV*

After a while once I calmed down and decided I needed to find young Allen Leech and apologize for my erratic behavior. I got out of the car and dapped my eyes with a handkerchief and walked towards the barn.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Kline. We're—not sure it's a good idea for you to be here right now." Said one of the crew members. That's understandable, I knew it wouldn't be that easy.

"It's not that we don't want you here it's just that, well after seeing what happened between you and Mr. Leech. We—think it'd be best if you were to not be on the set for a while." I sighed and said.

"I understand. I was way out of line. But—can you please express my deepest apologizes to Mr. Leech. As well as the boys."

"You can tell me that yourself." An Irish voice spoke up. It was then I looked up to see the five boys themselves.

"You're not going anywhere." Said Rami.

"Mr. Malek, we....."

"We heard what you said dear. Now step away from our Rock Angel so that the six of us may talk." He came up and took my hand and the boys took me into the cottage.

We came into the kitchen area and Rami gestured for me to sit down. Joe pulled out a chair and I sat down while the boys surrounded me.

"Boys; I—what you all had to witness, I have no excuse for my behavior. I am ashamed that you all had to see me act like that. Especially you Allen dear. I—hope you all can find it in your hearts to forgive me."

"I do. Seeing me remind you of someone who—was just known to be such an arsehole and black sheep in Queen's circle, I can see why you acted the way you did. I would've done the same thing too had I seen someone I hate come back and standing before someone who was once a dear friend of mine." Allen said. He came up to me and extended his hand.

"Why don't we forget this whole mess ever happened and start over? Hello Rock Angel, my name's Allen Leech." I looked up at him and smiled as I took his hand.

"Pleasure to meet you Allen darling. And please like I've told these guys, call me (y/n)." he smiled and that's when I stood up and hugged Allen and he hugged me back.

"Aww now that's sweet." Rami cooed.

"We're all friends now." Joe said with a smile.

"Yes. We're all friends. Now get in here you lot, group hug boys!" they all laughed and cheered as we all came together and group hugged each other. Forming a new bond and a new start with one another.

Thankfully the studio actually managed to let me stay the rest of the day after that whole fiasco (all thanks to the boys but mostly Allen for agreeing to not press charges on me for assault). Of course they warned me that with another outburst like that, not only would I not be allowed on set again, my consultant position would be taken away.

So I was more well behaved than usual after hearing that I would be kicked off the set.

Right now the lads were recording Gwilym's bit for the guitar solo, but what was cool was that the crew decided to allow Brian to play the solo for the fun of it. So as the playback of Freddie's voice came on, Gwilym stepped aside while Brian came in his spot and began playing his guitar solo.

I stood beside Gwilym as we both observed Brian playing the famed Bohemian Rhapsody guitar solo. I even took my phone out and took a video of what was going on. After the solo, Gwilym walked over to Brian and I made sure to get both of them in the shot.

"That's brilliant. I love that." Rami's voice spoke as Freddie from the other side of the recording studio.

"So now what?" asked Gwilym.

"The operatic section." Said Rami. Both Gwilym and Bri nodded. A grin spreading across Gwilym's face as he muttered.

"Ah-huh. The operatic section. Good."

"Of course." Brian said. Jesus just seeing them like this and hearing the same voice come out of them, it really was like we took Bri back from 1975 and brought him here.

When Dexter Fletcher called cut, I stopped my video and said.

"Oh man Jack's gonna flip when he sees this."

"Is he ever gonna come by for a visit?" Brian asked me.

"Yeah I myself would like to meet the famous Jack Kline." Joe said from the other side of the booth.

"Well unlike us where we know when our schedules begin, law enforcement doesn't get days off. Especially when he's going for the Chief's chair. But who knows maybe he might come by for a day if not a few hours."

"I hope so. It's been awhile since we've seen that husband of yours." Brian told me.

"Yeah, I know. Jack misses coming in every day just like the old days."

"I'll bet he does. Or he just misses seeing the love of his life perform and rehearse. Back in the day when you kids first started dating, he'd always have that puppy love look in his eyes as he watched up on stage. Remember the time in Seattle?"

"That was in Houston, Bri. If you're meaning the time he was so distracted by watching me that he almost ended up tripping over the stage, that was in Houston, Texas."

"Oh yeah that's right."

"Alright we've had our fun, now let's do this for real. Gwilym get to your mark. Brian and (y/n), gonna have to ask you both to get out of the shot frame please."

"Good luck Gwilym dear." I said as I gave him a peck on the cheek for luck as Brian handed him his original red special and we both walked out of the frame and stood behind the camera.

The day continued on filming the boys recording the famed song that this movie was named after and I swear to you, it was like I was seeing history happen. Like I was transported back in time to the summer of 1975 and seeing my boys (just five years before they even became my boys, back when I was just one of their millions of fans) record one of my favorite albums.

And even seeing the struggle and perfectionism that Freddie had for this song. Rami truly brought Freddie's perfectionist behavior right onto the camera and it just—had me bewildered. It was like I was seeing Freddie again, hard at work on his masterpiece.

After a long day's filming, Brian and I unfortunately had to head back to the city to actually record an album together that he was helping me produce. Since touring was over for now, the boys and I (yes including Adam) we were all focusing on our solo stuff now till the next tour came around.

And since Bri had some free time after working with a talented young woman, I had asked him to come help produce my latest album 'Resurrection'. Ever since hearing about the Queen film and also hearing that Elton as well was going to make a biopic film, the title was named in honor of their upcoming films.

Because it would show a whole new generation of audiences what their stories were and show them that like a phoenix, Queen and Elton will resurrect because you can't keep down true legendary artists.

So for about 2 weeks Brian helped produce the album and of course he and I would post on our Instagram accounts both pictures of brief videos of some behind the scenes stuff of our partnership together.

"And there she is. Working diligently as ever." I heard Bri said. I looked up from my I-Pad to see him holding his phone, probably taking a video for his collection package he likes to do on certain events on his Instagram.

"Yes and I thought you'd be helping me too."

"I am. I'm your publicity for now, then I'll go back to being your producer." I smiled and laughed as Brian chuckled. He turned his phone onto him as he spoke to his Instagram followers, "As you can see we're both working extremely hard. Now we can't give too much away, but you can expect this album to be just as powerful as her previous albums in the past."

"But we unfortunately have to go now, our special guest on the album has just arrived and like Bri said, I never give away spoilers." I said as I came in the shot now.

"Okay well you heard the Angel ladies and gents, this is us signing off till next time. Bye."

"Bye!" Brian turned off the video camera and exited his account. And just as he pocketed his phone away, my special guest came in through the doors.

"(Y/n)!"

"Pink, my sister how have you been?" Yep you read right. I had reached out to the one and only Pink to come sing a duet with me. For years since she came up on the market, people have confused our voices cause she and I had the same powerful low range vocals.

Our first time doing a duet was—oh gosh I wanna say very early 2000's. I wanna say even just shortly after the 9-11 attack. I wanted to bring up an album that would spark some life and hope into the people of America, my in-laws especially cause when we lost Jared and Gen, the whole family felt like it was gonna come apart.

I auditioned several young female artists to sing along with me but their voices just either weren't right for the album or they sounded too nasally. But when this young woman at the time, an artist barely known came along, it blew me away at how our voices could mold well together.

So with me singing in a higher range and her taking the low range we launched the song 'Death by bombs, (live by hope)'. It was at the #1 charts in America for the entirety of the New York cleanup and became a national anthem. Pink and I were even asked for several years to sing the song every 9-11 for about 9 years.

Now here we are again six years after our last collaboration.

"You ready to do this?" I asked her.

"Angel, I was born ready. Anytime to sing with you is always gonna be a good one."

"Alright then ladies, step into the booth and let's get this song rolling."

"You got it Brian." Pink said enthusiastically as she and I walked with an arm wrapped around each other's shoulders and we walked into the booth together to begin our work.

Another week passed and when I received a message from Ben Hardy telling me that they were about to start filming my all time favorite music video 'I want to break free' I was on the first flight back to England (since I was recording the album in America) to see the shooting for myself.

I walked through the studio and everything came flooding back. The extras in the cow patterned leotards, the design of the music video set but it wasn't until I saw Joe dressed in the same granny attire that Deacy wore that hit me with pure nostalgia.

"Oh my god nana Johanna I did not know you were still alive." I said exasperatedly.

"Yeah, yeah hahaha very funny." Joe sneered.

"No, no Joe don't take my comment as an insult. You look—every ounce from what I remember Deacy looking like the day I came by with my wedding invitations."

"You were passing out wedding invitations during this music video?" he asked me. I nodded with a hum.

"Jack and I decided to come by to see the guys cause I wanted to deliver their invitations personally. And also ask them to walk me down the aisle since—well you probably know."

"Yeah I get it." He said as he came up and placed a hand on my shoulder. "So you really think I looked exactly like John did?"

"Absolutely. All that's missing is a crying girl crying out 'where's daddy! Where's daddy! That's not my daddy'."

"Okay this could be my dirty mind but that sounded—" I playfully slapped him in the back of the head.

"You're right to get your head out of the gutters young man! I was referring to his daughter Laura. I mean I wasn't there to see it, but Veronica had told me just shortly after the shoot that she had brought the kids over to see their father. Of course Michael and Robert were hysterical with laughter, but poor little Laura who was only 4 at the time was crying cause she didn't recognize her dad."

"Awww well if you wanna recreate it, I can call my sister and get my niece on Facetime to see if it'll work."

"As much as I would love to see that, let's not scar your niece up for life. But yeah, Laura kept denying that the old granny was her dad. Until he took off the wig and she recognized her daddy's fluffy hair."

"That is literally the most adorable thing I've ever heard."

"I know. Laura was a sweet kid. She was the one most attached to me when I first met her. She even recreated a bit of my song for my birthday when she was just 3 years old."

"Okay (y/n) seriously stop you're gonna give me cavities at this point." I laughed and said.

"Alright now show me the rest of the boys, I want to see them."

"They all look amazing. Except for Ben." I looked at him skeptically but he just took my hand and led me towards the kitchen part of the set. There I saw Rami by the table in the pink shirt and leather black skirt, sporting the 1950's hairdo and nails that Freddie wore that day. Gwilym by the fridge in the pink nightie and bunny slippers, along with the curlers, and of course Ben in the 'Rogerina' getup.

The same style wig, the schoolgirl outfit with the leggings, the heels. Wow he looked more of a Rogerina than the real Roger did for this music video.

I let out a wolf whistle and that's when the three of them turned towards me.

"Rogerina has returned. The women who makes men drool at her feet and women turn for her. And if my son Freddie were here, honey you would most certainly turn him."

"God (y/n) please stop embarrassing me." Ben whined.

"I shall not. My cousin Rogerina was the talk of the town back home. Of course along with Aunt Brianna and Fairy godmother Frida."

"Is that what you really called the guys when you saw them like this?" asked Gwilym.

"Who do you think started the trend names? Freddie's was—kinda last minute since....well due to certain things going on at that time. But really you guys, I love each and every one of you."

"I'm still disappointed in Ben's look." Joe bluntly stated.

"And why's that?"

"His thighs are too big. Too much rugby."

"Yes Joe I know. I've been trying to slim down as best I could but these thighs man!"

"Not everyone can please everybody Ben. But trust me when I say, fans will love this and will love you as Rogerina. Plus I think you look absolutely beautiful."

"You really think so?"

"Hell yeah. You're still prettier than I am."

"Oh come on now that's never gonna happen. You are an eternal beauty."

"That's what I've been telling her for years." A voice said behind us. No way. It—it couldn't be. I turned around and my ears weren't deceiving me at all.

Dressed in grey shirt with a dark color blazer and dark blue jeans, the greying of his once blonde hair but those warm eyes of his were unmistakable. A wide smile spread across my face as I laughed out and walked towards him.

"Jack!" I hugged him and he hugged me back. I separated but kept my arms wrapped around his neck. "What are you doing here?"

"The case got solved so I figured might as well put some time off and see just what you and Freddie were talking about. So I called up Roger and asked him where the filming was at, and here I am."

"Ohhh you." I leaned forward and we gave each other a loving kiss.

"Awww." We separated from each other and I cleared my throat.

"Whoa. Okay did we just transport back in time?" asked Jack.

"No love. Boys, I'd like you to meet my husband and the love of my life for over 30 years, Jack Kline. Jack, this is Rami Malek, Gwilym Lee, Joe Mazzello and Ben Hardy." I pointed to each of the actors individually.

"It's a pleasure to meet you boys." Jack said with a wave.

"Believe us, it's an honor to meet you Mr. Kline. Brian, Rog and (y/n) have told us many stories about you." said Rami.

"Oh god, if Roger was telling the stories he made me look bad didn't he?" I playfully slapped his chest.

"Not all the time." replied Ben.

"In all seriousness, I must say.....wow this is....."

"I know right? Oh darling just wait till you see the Live Aid sequence Brian managed to record. Don't they just look the part?"

"Yeah. So much so that it's almost scary."

"Ohh and Jack dear, you remember back when George and Jackson were obsessed with Jurassic Park?"

"Lord do I ever. They practically ruined the tape." He said with a groan.

"Well—Joe here, played the young boy Tim in the film." I then saw Jack's jaw drop as he turned towards Joe.

"So you're—you were....."

"Yep. I was little Tim Murphy in Jurassic Park. My first major gig that got my name out there."

"Wow. And seeing you now dressed like this it—you look so much like him." Jack said in awe. I turned to Joe with a 'told you so' look.

"Yeah it was scary to see just how much I looked like him. I even asked my mom if she was up to anything around 1983." Jack laughed.

The rest of the day was spent seeing the boys perform the music video, as well as a couple more stage concerts from both the 70's and 80's. When Jack got to see these four young actors in full Queen costume and hair/makeup, he was blown away. As we were in the back of the extras who were the crowd, Jack kept his arms around me as we watch in awe.

His head leaning against mine as we watched Rami literally become Freddie with every strut, head turn and bent back, se saw Gwilym play a model of the red special guitar just how Brian is known for, Ben working hard in the back with the drums literally playing just like how Roger is known to play. But I know that out of the four of them, Jack was beyond amazed at seeing Joe Mazzello play his former mentor and idol John 'Disco' Deacy.

His bass playing and even doing the funky little moves that John as known to do on a more upbeat song like 'Fat Bottomed girls,' or 'We will Rock you'. We clapped along with the extras and cheered for them. I knew that with what I've seen so far, this movie was going to be—sensational. Just like the band themselves.

Later that night after wrapping for the day, Jack and I were now at home getting ready for bed.

"So, what did you think of it?"

"They picked the right actors. And the right team to work on it. You were right (y/n)."

"Of course I am." I teased.

"Don't get cheeky with me love, you know what I mean. This movie it—it's everything I hoped it would be. I just wonder if—he would've loved it." I looked at my husband empathetically and said so

"He does." I looked out towards the window up at the stars and continued, "They both do." I felt Jack wrap his arm around me and the two of us cuddled up close together and fell right asleep after a long and busy day.

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mypoisonedvine · 5 years ago

Text

Love, Theoretically | Sebastian Stan x reader (Chapter 3)

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2)

series summary: having lost your husband, sister, and best friend all to the same extramarital affair, you ran away to a secluded villa in the Hungarian countryside to write and get a little time away from the life you’d left behind. you were only looking for peace and perhaps some inspiration for your novel, but instead you found an unlikely connection with the immigrant repairman– even though the two of you don’t speak the same language.

word count: 2.5k

warnings: a brief and half-assed description of theoretical male masturbation. that’s it. lol.

moodboard by @evnscvll, if you’re not following her what are you doing with your life???

As the afternoon was just starting to wind down into the evening, you went for a stroll along the side of the lake; it was your new daily routine in this place, and you’d done it every afternoon for the past several days. You found yourself looking for Sebastian outside, and being oddly disappointed when he was nowhere to be found. It took you a bit to appreciate that the strange feelings and behaviors you were exhibiting were a crush. You hadn’t had one in so long, not since you’d met your husband, that you almost forgot what it was like. This one felt particularly childish, exceptionally misguided, as you knew so little about the man. What was it that made you want to be around him anyways? There were plenty of guys you’d met since getting married that were, on paper, worthy of a crush. Successful, kind, good-looking... who knows, maybe if you’d been lonely and desperate and saw one of them hammering nails shirtless in the sun, you’d have been in the same predicament you are now.

And that was exactly why you needed to get your mind off this guy ASAP. You were just projecting your loss onto him. You’d been feeling neglected and unattractive because of everything that had happened with your husband and he had been kind to you. And helpful. And handy in a way your husband had never been. And so devastatingly hot.

He must know, right? you thought to yourself as you took in the scenery, just barely making out grey-ish shadows of mountains in the distance. He must know that he looks like that, and exactly the effect he has on women.

...And a decent portion of men, probably.

The idea of him being overwhelmed with attention of that nature made you feel slightly jealous. He was probably the exact kind of person you weren’t in high school: a heartbreaker. Yes, this was the narrative you needed to keep yourself from falling any further into this crush; you two were sworn natural enemies-- him the heartbreaker, you the heartbroken. A guy like him probably didn’t even give a girl like you the time of day.

Except, he had. He’d been friendly and attentive. Maybe he works for tips or something? Why else would he be giving you any of his energy?

No, that was specifically not the line of thinking you needed at the moment. Does he think about me when I’m not around? Could he think of me as much as I think of him? you found yourself wondering anyways.

Either way, he could never beat me at overthinking, you smiled to yourself. I always win at that one.

You’d almost spent too much time outside; it was nearly too dark to see by the time you made it back to the cottage. Clearly the bustling city had trained you to stay up late, but out here, you had no recourse if the sun set while you were outside without a flashlight.

It was so late, in fact, that Sebastian was nowhere to be found when you passed through the living room— and since he was certainly not working outside with no light to use, you figured he’d gone to bed. By now you knew where his room was, but you’d never seen it. Not that you wanted to. It was none of your business.

Making your way up the stairs, you tried to avoid the creakiest spots in case he was asleep. It wasn’t that late though, he was probably just… doing whatever people do before bed when they don’t have a television. Reading a book, maybe?

You shook your head to no one in particular. You shouldn’t be thinking about him so much. God, having a crush was exhausting.

Oh god, what if he, you know… took care of himself, before bed? It’s a fun way to end the day and wear yourself out for sleep, certainly. You felt your face turning hot just imagining him in such a compromising position. You didn’t even mean to imagine it, it just sort of happened. Maybe right now, just as you were struggling to keep quiet on this rickety old staircase, he was trying to keep quiet as he stroked his cock, the muscles in his arm flexing with each movement, that perfect bottom lip caught between his surprisingly white teeth.

Probably not. But it was a nice thought.

Just as you stepped into your room and shut the door behind you, you thought you saw something in the corner of your eye. Turning to look, you realized that there was a rat running across the floor. With an embarrassingly girlish scream, you ran and jumped on your bed, trying to see where it went while keeping elevated; you know, just in case it tried to run up your leg like in a cartoon or something.

Creaking outside alerted you that someone was running up the stairs. Your door flew open to reveal Sebastian, wearing only pyjama trousers and a very concerned facial expression.

"Este totul în regulă?"

"There's a rat!" you screeched.

"Ce?" he asked with a furrowed brow of confusion.

You tried to explain, but how could you? Pointing to where you saw it last, it was gone, so you turned back-- only to see it running towards him! Screaming again, you pointed to the rodent barreling towards his feet and, finally, he understood.

In fact, he understood your situation better than you realized he would, so much so that he jumped up on the bed with you with a blood-curdling scream of his own.

"Şobolan!" he yelped, and you weren't sure there was room on this bed for two people afraid of rats but here you were anyway.

You both watched it scurry into a corner, and he seemed to relax a little.

"What are we going to do?"

"Stai așa," he said as he raised a finger as if to indicate 'wait', "ma voi intoarce."

He lept from the bed straight to the open doorway and dashed down the stairs. You figured he might come back with a broom or jar, so you were beyond surprised to see him come back with an enormous shotgun, quickly pumping it and bracing the stock against his shoulder.

"Unde este?" he asked quickly, closing one eye to look over the sights.

You nearly screamed your protest. "Jesus, Sebastian! Don't shoot it!"

“Ce vrei sa fac?!” he squawked in reply.

“I don’t know!” you replied. “Just put the gun down!”

He looked a little disappointed but lowered the barrel.

Hearing a squeak and a scurry from the corner of the room, you jumped off of your bed and found yourself hiding behind Sebastian.

“Nu sunt la fel de curajoasă pe cât crezi,” he said as he turned back to look at you.

“I can’t sleep here,” you admitted with a sigh. “We can set a trap in the morning, or hope it escapes on it’s own…” you trailed off, talking mostly to yourself as you made your way back downstairs. Sebastian shut the door quickly with a shudder before following behind you.

You pulled a blanket off of the loveseat as you passed through the living room, dragging it with you to the couch.

“Nu te pot lăsa să dormi pe canapea!” he protested when you laid down and covered yourself with it— after leaning the gun against a wall, thank god. You wondered where it was normally kept for him to have grabbed it so fast.

“I can’t sleep in my room,” you explained.

“Poți să dormi în patul meu,” he announced, pointing down the hall.

“What?”

“Poți să,” he repeated slower, pointing to you, “dormi,” he laid his face on his hands and feigned sleep for a moment, “în patul meu,” he pointed to the hall again.

“There’s another bedroom down the hall?” you asked as you sat up a little, not having realized there was a third bedroom.

“Da,” he nodded with a smile.

You got up, the blanket still wrapped over your shoulders, and followed him to the room down the hall and around the corner.

As he opened the door, you smiled but sighed as you realized you couldn’t sleep in here. The bed was still disturbed from where he’d jumped out of it; there was a picture in a frame by the bed.

“Sebastian, I’m not going to steal your room just because I’m afraid of a probably-harmless rat,” you sighed. “I’ll take the couch—”

You turned to walk back into the living room but his arm across the doorway stopped you.

“Te rog ia-mi patul și voi dormi pe canapea,” he instructed, motioning away from his chest towards the living room to, apparently, indicate he would sleep on the couch in your place.

“I can’t let you—”

He gently grabbed your wrist, getting your attention.

“Nu e nicio problemă,” he soothed. “Noapte bună!”

He basically just shoved you into the room after that, shutting the door behind you. You supposed it was the best option, but you still felt a little guilty that he was being kicked out of his own bed.

You turned and looked at the very bed in question. Realizing you should change the sheets, you began to search the room for a linen closet or chest that might have a spare set.

You weren’t intending to snoop, per se. You really just wanted the sheets… but it was a nice glimpse into the personal life of a man you knew so little about. A room says a lot about someone, of course.

The picture on the bedside table was of a family with a small boy; it looked like it had been taken by an instant camera, the sepia tones evoking a bygone era. You assumed that the boy was Sebastian, considering the faint resemblance. He looked happy, and so did his mother; his father less so, but it seemed stoic more than negative. Next to the photo was a card which rested partially open— thankfully, you couldn’t read it even if you wanted to, but you could also see the signature inside from where you were standing: “Iubesc, Mama.”

You weren’t sure if it meant ‘love’ or ‘sincerely’ or something else, but it made you smile. You figured his mother must miss him with him living in Hungary for work. You wondered if anyone missed you back in London.

A lot of his clothes were strewn in a pile on a chair in the corner. Relatable.

Inside a small white paper box, you found a silver locket— oddly enough, no picture inside. While ignoring the fact that you obviously were snooping because you would never look for queen-size sheets in a white paper box, you wondered why he would have something like that. Maybe it was a relic from a previous relationship, and hopefully not a current one; maybe it was his sister’s or his mother’s. Hell, maybe it was his: you weren’t the sort of person to say a guy couldn’t rock a silver locket. He had the masculinity to spare, surely.

You gave up after searching the closet and the side bathroom and finding no sign of linens. Surprisingly, he owned a lot of shirts. They didn’t seem to get much use. He wouldn’t mind if you stole one to use as pyjamas, right?

Pulling a soft button-up from the hanger, you stripped and changed into it, loving how small you felt with it on. You snuggled up into the sheets and took a deep breath as you realized you were surrounded in the smell of him. Oh, this was a very dangerous game to play. You needed to be avoiding this infatuation, not indulging it by playing girlfriend. It was almost like you two shared this bed, like he would come back any moment and pull you into his arms, kiss you goodnight. You saw the light from the living room go dark through the crack under the door and felt another pang of guilt for his night spent on the old sofa. Maybe in the morning you could convince him to take a day off or something, just so he could relax for once.

Your last thought was of him as you drifted to sleep. You wished you could say that wasn’t true of every other night.

The next morning came early; he slept with the shutters open, something you hadn’t noticed when it was dark out. The sun shined directly into your eyes at about six in the morning.

“Must be an early riser,” you mumbled to yourself as you got up and used the side bathroom, splashing your face to perk yourself up a little. When you left the hallway tentatively in pursuit of breakfast, all that was left of him was a Sebastian-shaped dent in the couch. As you began to make a pot of coffee, you heard someone step into the kitchen behind you.

“Good morning,” you greeted as you turned around and smiled at Sebastian.

“...Cămașă mea,” he realized, pointing to you with raised eyebrows. You glanced down and remembered what you were wearing, feeling yourself blush a little. Maybe you should’ve put on pants…

“Oh, this… yeah, sorry, I hope you don’t mind…”

“Îl porți mai bine decât mine,” he shrugged, and it seemed to be a vague approval, so you kept on making the coffee.

“You want some?” you offered, pointing to him and a mug as he stepped past you and sat at the table.

“Nu, mulțumesc,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand. You nodded and poured your own, sitting across from him and sipping quietly. You hadn’t noticed he was holding a book before; the shirtlessness, as always, distracted from that sort of detail. But now that he pulled it out and continued from where he must have been before, you laughed a little. It was clearly a Romanian translation, but the title was Dracula.

“Isn’t that a little stereotypical?” you giggled.

He looked up from the book at you, and you pointed to it. “Ah, Dracula!” he said.

“Yep, I’ve read that one.”

He made a little hissing noise, holding his fingers up and curling them, and you realized he was doing a vampire impression. You laughed again.

“You don’t make for a convincing vampire, what with the healthy glow and all,” you smirked. “But feel free to bite my neck any time.”

For a second he made a serious, almost shocked face like he had somehow understood what you’d said, and you straightened up from sudden fear. But he only nodded and returned to his book, relieving your anxiety a bit. You realized that just because he didn’t speak English didn’t mean you could say whatever you wanted; maybe you’d given more away than you meant to with your facial expression. Or maybe he really had no idea that you’d said anything notable at all and it was just a coincidence.

Maybe you needed to change out of this man’s shirt before it drove you even more insane.

@mariahthelioness29 @navybrat817 @navegandoaciegas @mandalorianspace @2smittinkittin @maizyistrash (it won’t let me tag you :(( fuck tumblr) @honeygingergemini @msmarvelwrites @honeyloverogers @toozmanykids @dangertoozmanykids101 @fleeingdawn-blog1 @readermia @fanfuckingtastic04

#sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan fluff #sebastian stan fanfic #sebastian stan x you #just a reminder that this is a love actually au... this will come into play again next chapter lmao

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pedros-mustache-main · 5 years ago

Text

crayons & caresses

summary: you know it’s wrong, that pining after your student’s father is wildly inappropriate, but gosh if john deacon isn’t the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

word count: 12k+

warnings: pining to the extreme!, slight angst, discussions of parental death, health scare + medical response, alcohol, language, innuendo, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: mechanic/singledad!john is everything i didn’t know i needed in my life. also: WOW this took me a long ass time because i find john the hardest to write, but i love him so. much. so hopefully it’s worth the wait.

(photo: originally from @davidgayhan i think?? ugh look at him. i drool. yes i did set this during the brief short-perm-montreal moment. sue me)

september, 1981.

you love all of your students equally. each one is like a fingerprint on your heart: unique in their own way, made up of patterns and histories you will never be able to appreciate in full before they are whisked away to their next year. it is safe to say you adore the collection of twenty-four seven year olds who walk into your classroom each morning. their bright faces, some still chubby with baby fat, fill the lonely parts of your soul, and you leave your flat each morning with a sense of purpose and duty. you are their teacher, their guide through some of the most crucial parts of learning. it is an honor and a privilege to teach them—each and every one. but there is one student who sticks out among the rest.

his name is beau deacon.

beau is remarkably quiet. he’s small for his age, both in height and in weight. at times, he appears frail, what with the way he sits by himself in the corner during reading hour, flipping through a picture book with glazed over eyes, never really concentrating on what’s before him. he walks slowly during recess, preferring to stay by himself and drag a stick along the blacktop than play a game of kickball with the other boys. he whispers when he speaks and avoids meeting the eyes of those who do try and pry a few words from him.

you try to engage him—really, you do—but nothing seems to stick. not the participation reward system you build just for him, but use for the entire class. not moving his desk closer to yours. not even coercing your best friend ami to bring in her therapy dogs one afternoon early in the year. despite your best efforts, beau remains decidedly uninterested and removed.

it bothers and worries you to the point of questioning your colleague on the matter. martha is sixty, but spry as ever. she’s been your confidant this last year. you’re new to teaching, green as ever, but she has welcomed you with open arms and a plethora of advice. you feel comfortable sidling up next to her in the car-line one friday afternoon. it’s hot outside, summer not yet allowing autumn to take root, so you hold a hand over your eyes to shade yourself from the sun.

“can i ask you something?” you say, keeping your eyes trained on the children who filter out of the school and into their parent’s waiting vehicles.

“as long as it’s not about sex,” martha mutters. “haven’t had a good romp in so long i don’t even know if it still works the same way.”

you swallow a laugh as a trio of students pass you by. their mother waves over her shoulder, shouting her thanks, before shoving the children in the backseat of a tan mini-van. you watch the van pull away, another car rolling forward to take its place, before asking your question.

“beau deacon,” you start, hoping that, if you simply say his name, martha will fill in the gaps herself.

blessedly, martha twists and nods with a knowing smile. “i know that tyke well. had him last year.”

you release a huff of air in relief. “oh thank goodness. i’m almost beside myself. i don’t know what to do with him.” you frown as you attempt to speak as diplomatically about your student as possible. “he’s awful quiet. he doesn’t play with any of the children and barely looks at me when i speak to him. how’d you manage?”

to your dismay, the older woman just shrugs. “i didn’t really. his mum died all sudden like about halfway through the year, and he clammed up. no matter what i did, what tricks i tried to pull, he stayed completely unmovable.”

“oh.” your shoulders drop in defeat. “i didn’t know.” truthfully, your heart tugs for the child. to lose one’s mother at such a tender age? you can’t imagine the world of hurt he lives in. it’s no wonder he sticks to himself.

“you didn’t speak with his father?”

“no. was i have supposed to?”

“no, not necessarily. mr. deacon was helpful on a few occasions last year. we were sort of a united front, i’d say, when things were particularly bad in the beginning. perhaps give him a call. at least to let him know you’re in his corner.” she smiles and squeezes your bicep. “and you can always come to me, love. i may not have all the answers but i do have some.”

“thank you, martha. i think giving mr. deacon a call might be smart—” you turn at the tell-tale sound of feet dragging against the ground. in the few weeks since classes have started, you’ve grown to know the sound of beau deacon’s footsteps better than your own. he’s always on your mind, the sullen little boy with glasses, so it’s hard not to pounce on him with love when you turn around to see him in the school doorway. “oh! beau! we were just talking about you.”

beau stops walking, and his grip tightens on the straps of his backpack. he doesn’t look up at you, doesn’t say anything. he simply stands there, as if he’s listening but doesn’t know how to respond, so you soldier forward.

“do you have any big plans for the weekend, beau?” you ask.

he shakes his head.

“none with your father?”

another shake of the head.

“well, perhaps you’ll do something fun and you can tell us about it on monday, yeah?”

to your surprise, he nods, which is more than he does most days. you can’t help the smile that claims your lips and the way your arm waves a little too hard to his retreating form. he walks to a faded old corvette and opens the passenger door with ease. you can hear a muffled voice—his father’s no doubt—and see the man stretch his arm out to take beau’s backpack.

but then the car door is shut, and the chevy pulls out of the parking lot with too much speed to be safe when a child is in the front.

you glance at martha. she rolls her eyes and mouths men. you can’t help but agree.

a week passes before you finally find the time to phone beau’s father. you find his name—john richard deacon—and a telephone number in beau’s emergency contact form, shoved amongst a stack of other hastily filled-out parent paperwork. there’s no secondary number listed—not even a distant relative or family friend—so if the call doesn’t work, you aren’t sure what your next move will be. even so, after all the children have left and the other teachers are beginning to close their classrooms for the day, you slouch at your desk and punch the numbers into the phone. it rings three times before someone picks up.

“taylor auto-repair. this is rog.”

the voice on the other end is high and scratchy. you’re taken aback, both by the man on the phone and the blaring rock n roll music in the background. you aren’t an expert, but it sounds like zeppelin. not what you’d expected.

“hello?”

you shake yourself free of surprise, and the wheels beneath your chair scrape against the linoleum floor as you sit forward. “oh, sorry. i thought i was calling the deacon residence?”

“deacon? like john deacon?”

“yes, i’m beau’s schoolteacher. i thought—well, this was the number on the contact form.”

there’s a sigh, and the phone brushes against something rough before rog says anything more. “hold on.” when he speaks next, his voice is distant yet poorly muffled. “deaky! there’s some bird on the phone for you! what have i told ya about putting the shop’s number down instead of the house’s? fuckin’ hell, mate.”

you frown, pressing your fingers to your lips as you wait for... deaky... to take the phone from his co-worker. when a new voice does appear on the line, you again find yourself surprised.

“hello? this is john deacon.” john’s voice is almost lilting, like a song. it’s soft, comforting—though how you determine this from four simple words is beyond your understanding.

“mr. deacon, hi! my name is [y/n] [y/l/n]. i’m beau’s teacher. i thought we might have an over-due chat, if you have the time?”

“oh, hello.” there’s a pause on the other end, as if he’s considering whether or not he’ll entertain your out-of-the-blue phone call. “has beau done something wrong?”

you laugh despite the worried edge to his tone. “no, absolutely not! beau is a delight. he’s practically a model student. however, i do have a few concerns... do you have a moment?”

“yes, i can have. just give me a second.” the line goes muffled again, the only sound a fading rolling stone’s song before all goes quiet. you hear a door shut and the squeak of a chair before john speaks again. “i suppose this is about beau’s shyness?”

you choose your next words carefully, uncertain if john simply cannot accept his son’s retreat into himself or if he does not see it. you’d rather not jump to conclusions and alienate him on your first phone call, but you must admit your unease at hearing the word shyness. beau is far more than shy. despite the frown puckering your brow, you hold your concerns close to your chest for the moment.

“shyness is a word one could use, yes.”

“he’s been that way since his mum died last year.”

rolling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. “i heard. i’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

john makes a noise somewhere between a huff and a grunt and does not acknowledge your paltry offer of condolence. “if you’re calling to ask how you can fix ‘im, i don’t have any answers for you.”

“i don’t want to fix him, mr. deacon,” you say. “i simply want to help.”

“i’m sure you’ve spoken with mrs. cooper then.” he sighs, and the sound seems to rattle the receiver pressed against your ear. “look, i appreciate what you both are trying to do for beau. but he’s young, and the pain of losing his mum— i just don’t want him to rush into moving on.”

“oh, mr. deacon, that’s not my intention at all!” you wince at the high-pitch of your voice and clear your throat. good lord, this was not going as you’d planned. “i just want him to feel comfortable in the classroom, that’s all.”

“that’s kind of you, but i think it might be easier if you just let beau work it out for himself.”

you fall silent and glance down at the hem of your blouse. there’s a blue thread dangling from the article of clothing, and you pull on it, watching the thread unravel until it falls free from the shirt itself.

in all honesty, you’re puzzled by john’s hesitance to so much as entertain your concern. anyone—student, teacher, classroom parent—who comes across beau knows he’s more than shy. it’s written in his face, in the way he holds himself, in the way he shuffles aimlessly to and fro. god, he breaks your heart. you want to wrap him in a blanket and protect him from the cruel world.

but you’re not his mother. you’re merely his teacher, and you must respect john’s wishes despite how wrong you think they are. perhaps, in time, he will come around, see the need for a little concerted effort in helping beau work through his obvious grief-stricken state.

“is there anything more i can do for you, ms. [y/l/n]?”

clearing your throat again, you sit straighter in your chair and fiddle with a pen on your desk. you click the depressor up and down, up and down. “no, there’s not. i’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“you didn’t,” john says—and his voice has that indescribable soft quality you noted the moment he first spoke. “really, it does mean something to me that you even thought to call.”

“i care for my students a great deal.” you aren’t sure what brings the words to your lips, but the second they fall past your tongue, a flush crawls up the back of your neck. you’re sure you sound like a petulant child, whining at the mere inconvenience of a rejected idea.

“i can tell.” his tone is anything but salty. in fact, the truth dripping from each word leaves you decidedly flustered. you click the pen faster, your leg bouncing beneath the desk.

“yes—well—i’ll leave you to it.” though you add, “if ever there’s something i can do for beau, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“i’ll be sure to.”

after a rushed goodbye, you drop the phone to its base. the hard-plastic clatters, the coiled wire dropping in a pile on the desk. you press your fingers to your eyelids and groan. both deacon boys, it seems, have the power to infuriate and melt you at the precisely the same moment.

this, you think, does not bode well for the rest of the year.

if you’re being honest, you have to admit that you think of john deacon often as the school year falls into a comfortable rhythm. no matter how hard you try to forget the phone call, forget the way his voice lulled you into a strange sense of serenity, he’s like a specter in the back of your mind: always there and definitely uninvited.

still...

when the children work silently at their desks, you sit behind yours and struggle to keep your mind from wandering to either of the deacon boys. when you greet beau as he walks through the door each morning, you resist the urge to drop a question about his father’s well-being. when the faded red corvette pulls to the curb each afternoon, you bite your tongue and fist your hands at your sides to keep from introducing yourself properly through the open window.

it’s embarrassing, really, how much the phone call with john deacon has affected you. it’s embarrassing how... interested you are in his life. you’re a schoolgirl with a crush—a crush on a man you’ve never even seen! if you were to admit your undue fascination with the deacon household to your best friend ami she would laugh in your face and remind you how desperately you need to get out more. you keep your wonderings and your daydreams to yourself to save her the trouble of telling you what you already know.

come mid-november, when the students are well-adjusted to their daily routine and you’ve learned how to juggle so many personalities at once, you finally pause to take a breath. the breath comes at the end of a school-day. it’s drizzling outside—not raining, but not dry either. the sky is a wash of gray and a deep purple. there’s a storm coming, a bad one too from the looks of it. humming to yourself and contemplating whether or not you should stop by the grocery on your way home, you tug on your jacket and step outside the school into the chilled autumn air.

you’re about to cross the parking lot to your car when you hear a harsh sniffle come from your left. you pause, keys in hand, and twist to see a huddled form on the curb. it’s clearly a student and a young one at that. knees drawn to their chest, backpack large over their back, fingers interlaced on their knees, they are the picture of a frightened schoolchild. the hood of their blue raincoat obscures any defining features, so you hustle to their side and kneel down, but not before glancing at your watch.

nearly four. someone’s been forgotten.

“hey?” you tilt your head to try and catch a glimpse of the face beneath the shade of the jacket hood. “did mum not come through the car line?”

you barely stifle your gasp when the slick raincoat crinkles as the student turns to meet your gaze.

it’s beau deacon.

his eyes are puffy, tears still clinging to his blotchy cheeks. beneath the wide frames of his glasses, fear swims across his gaze. he draws in his lower lip and rubs his hand under his nose. his eyes flicker to the ground, his toes tilting inward.

you press a hand to his shoulder. he feels so small beneath your palm, like a fragile piece of clay, molded by tragedy and loss in such a short span of time. “where’s your father, beau?”

he shrugs. “dunno.”

“i guess he’s running late.” you look at your watch. very late. “should we give him a call?”

beau nods, and you stretch to your full height, offering your hand to help him from the curb. beau does not take it as he stands. he pushes his glasses up his nose and follows you inside the school office where he hesitates in the doorway as you borrow the receptionist’s phone to call the auto-shop.

no one answers.

lowering the phone to its base, you look over your shoulder. through the venetian blinds you can see the sky darkening as you hem-and-haw. in the distance there’s a flash of lightening, and fat raindrops dot the tan sidewalk.

you could leave beau with the receptionist. it’s not uncommon for parents to run late or completely forget about their child. normally, betty calls the child’s guardian and gives the waiting student a granola bar and coloring page or picture book to flip through as they wait for the mortified adult to speed to school. there’s nothing obligating you to stay.

just as there’s nothing obligating you to offer to drive beau home.

you look at betty and calculate the words of your offer. “would it be wrong of me to drive beau home? he lives on my way ‘s all.” boldfaced lie—at least, you think—but what betty doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

betty doesn’t stop clacking on her electronic typewriter. “i don’t think so.” she peers over her glasses at the clock hanging over the door, still typing. “i’ve got a dentist appointment in half an hour, so i don’t have time to wait around today. you’d be doing me a favor, love.”

“alright, it’s settled then.” you slip the thin strap of your purse over your shoulder and turn to beau with a toothy grin. “i’ll drive you home. maybe your father just isn’t feeling well today and overslept?”

beau frowns, and inwardly, you cringe, your smile faltering. beau’s mother died of an illness, so it likely disconcerts him to think of his father in a similar state. in a piss poor attempt at an apology, you grab a piece of chocolate from the bowl near betty’s desk and slip it in beau’s hand as you make your way to the parking lot. the faintest flicker of a grin crosses his face as he methodically unwraps the candy. you take that as a sign of forgiveness.

once beau is snug in the backseat of your station wagon, you pull into traffic with a bubble of giddiness in your stomach. what you’re doing is ridiculous. though you feel horrid beau was left behind, there’s a sick park of you that is glad for it. it’s unlikely you’ll ever meet john deacon unless fate throws you together. he did not attend back to school night, and as a single father, you doubt he has time for any of the other parent-student events on schedule for the rest of the year. in all honesty, you’re taking this opportunity to put a face to the man behind the phone call that’s plagued you with daydreams since it occurred.

if you can just see his face, just learn what he looks like, perhaps the fascination with fade. unless, of course, he turns out to be as attractive as your mind has made him out to be and then you’ll be in even hotter water than you are now.

adjusting yourself in your seat, you glance in the rearview mirror. beau has his head pressed against the foggy glass of the window, his eyes scanning back and forth as he takes in the surrounding scenery. rain droplets create dark shadows over his face, and you wonder if that’s what he feels like on the inside: foggy and rainy and shadowy. you shake the thought free; you read too many melodramatic novels.

“so, beau, what’s your address?” you ask, your tone obnoxiously chipper. he tells you, and you shrug as you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. “gotta give me more than that, hun. do you remember how to get home? do you think you could tell me?”

beau nods and scoots away from the window, leaning nearer the space between the driver and passenger seats. there a gleam in his eye. you catch sight of it as you turn right at his instruction and see him hovering near your shoulder. it seems that with each turn you make his voice inches a decibel louder until you can hear every word with a clarity previously unknown. he’s confident when he’s instructing you, when he knows what he’s supposed to do.

he’s confident when he’s helping.

you tuck the bit of knowledge away for later as you pull into the cracked driveway of a red-brick bungalow. the house is small and unadorned, the homes on opposite sides just as plain and simple. a single spruce tree, like something out of a holiday catalog, is the only foliage in the yard. gauzy curtains are drawn to block the sunlight coming through the two bay windows framing the white front door.

you turn the car off as beau slides across the bench to open the car door. grabbing your handbag, you all but tumble after him, hastening up the sidewalk.

“wait a minute! beau!” you punctuate your call with a breathy laugh and smooth the sides of your hair back as you approach the front door. the bubble of giddiness from moments before has turned to a bubble of nerves, and once again, you realize this moment is entirely ridiculous. still, you adjust your blouse and straighten the crooked edge of your collar.

beau’s left the front door open, his shoes and backpack already tossed on the living room floor. you hesitate at the threshold. you haven’t been properly invited in, but the open door might just be beau’s way of telling you it’s alright to invade his home. at least, that’s the message you decide to take.

crossing the threshold, you hold tight to the strap of your purse and glance around the cramped front living area. beau’s nowhere to be seen, and the home is silent as the grave. you bite the tip of your tongue when your gaze falls over a photograph of a woman holding a baby. it’s beau and his mother; has to be.

maybe... maybe you’ve overstepped your—

“beau, is that you?” the sound of heavy footfalls on stairs snaps your attention away from the photograph. before you can slip away and forget you ever had the silly notion of meeting your student’s father with the intent of something other than a professional hello, a man rounds the corner.

your eyebrows shoot up your forehead. it’s not the john deacon you’d imagined.

he’s shorter than you pictured, only several inches taller than yourself. his jaw is sharp, peppered with a five o’clock shadow, and a thick mustache almost covers his upper lip. a white wife-beater tucked into green trousers completes the ensemble, and his bare feet pad across the floor as he sticks his hand out in greeting.

“you must be the teacher!” he pumps your hand up and down, his grip crushing but his smile wide. his voice is friendly and welcoming, though you can’t be sure it was the voice you heard over the phone. so many days have passed since then, perhaps you just forgot, though it’s highly unlikely.

“i’ve been trying to call deaky ever since i got here, but the damn fool just won’t pick up. i don’t even know where beau’s school is so i couldn’t come and get him myself. the ship we run here isn’t very tight.” he rolls his eyes with a grin. “thanks for bringing him home, darling.”

your head swims as you struggle to keep up with the man’s fast pace. so, he isn’t john deacon? and john deacon isn’t here? you open your mouth to ask the first of several questions but he beats you to it.

“hell, you look positively confused. shut the door, won’t you? the rain’s getting in, and molly was always worried about the the hardwood. i’ll put on the kettle.”

“oh, i don’t—”

he bumps your hip toward the door. “nonsense! deaky will want to thank you for driving beau home.” he’s around the corner before you can refuse, so you shut the front door against the steady rain and slip off your shoes, leaving them beside the two pairs already against the baseboard.

you’re quick to follow him to the kitchen. the walls are a muted yellow, the countertops clear but the sink full of unwashed dishes. the refrigerator in the corner is bare save for the back to school letter you gave to each student to bring home to their parents. that—and a photograph of four men in a basement. it appears to be a homegrown band of sorts, and the man behind the drumkit is shouting at the man who looks like an overgrown string bean. you’re not sure which one is john, so you turn away, feeling rather out of place when the man at the stovetop says:

“beau’s probably in his room. he always holes himself away as soon as he gets back. doesn’t come out until supper. that’s when deaky gets home.” a pair of mugs clatter against each other as he pulls them from a cupboard. “brian says it’s just a phase, that he’ll grow out of it once he processes molly’s death, but i’m not certain.” the man’s eyes flicker to you, and he laughs, loud and short. “oh dear, i’ve done it again! i forgot you’re not in the loop. i’m freddie,” he explains. “part-time nanny, full-time diva.”

you accept the mug of tea as freddie passes it to you, a smile lifting your tight mouth. “[y/n] [y/l/n]. so you’re beau’s... nanny?”

freddie drops to the round kitchen table shoved in the space between the kitchen counter and the wall. you follow suit and stir a drop of sugar in your tea. “you could call it that. i just watch him in the afternoons, between school and deaky getting home.” he sighs. “since molly... well, things have been hard to juggle.”

“i thought mr. deacon picked beau up from school? unless that was you in the car i saw?”

“heavens no! i don’t drive!” freddie laughs again. “that was deaky you saw. he takes his break at the garage long enough to pick beau up and bring him here. i guess he and rog were overrun today. bet beau was terrified. poor dear...”

you glance over your shoulder, down the dim hallway leading to, you assume, beau’s bedroom. there’s a half-full laundry basket deposited outside another open door, perhaps the bathroom. a few mislaid toys litter the carpet. it’s reassuring, knowing that beau has a few good men in his life, willing and ready to raise him. still, there’s a pervading sense of loneliness throughout the bungalow. you saw it in the photos on the living room wall, but it’s here too: in the dead roses, brittle to the touch, in the table vase; in the index-card note tucked on a notch in the cupboard, the feminine handwriting unreadable from your spot at the table.

freddie’s voice is somber when its breaks through the thick air. “complications of pneumonia,” he says, following your gaze to a wedding photo on the hallway wall. “it came on quick but didn’t last long, thank heaven.”

unbidden, tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’ve never felt more like an intruder—and you know why.

your crush on john deacon is misplaced. you see that now. realizing what you’ve done in coming here—twist a child’s terrified moment of abandonment for your gain—makes you sick to your stomach. what kind of person are you? assuming a recently widowed father would be at all interested in his son’s pesky teacher? the thought brings a flush to your cheeks, and you rise from the table all too fast. the mugs of tea wobble when your knee connects with the underside of the table.

freddie frowns at you. “you okay, love?”

“i—” how to explain yourself without sounding a total fool or heartless woman? “i think i’ve overstayed my welcome” is all that comes to mind, and you aren’t surprised when freddie uses his foot to push your chair back out from under the table.

“sit down. john will be home soon. let him thank you then you can go.”

from where you stand, you look to your right. the front door practically screams for you to politely decline freddie’s insistence and high-tail it to your car, to get out while you still have the chance. but he’s making it too easy to stay for what you’ve come for: a peek at the illusive john deacon. you know you should go, that you should leave well enough alone, but despite your best intentions, you find yourself sitting down again and allowing freddie to bombard you with questions about teaching life.

half an hour later, when your sides hurt from laughing while freddie regales you with the dramatic story of beau’s birth, the door to the garage opens and closes with a loud click. you twist in your seat, arm draped over the back, and bite your lip hard to keep from drawing in a sharp breath.

by god, he’s a stone-cold looker. better than you could have imagined.

john deacon stands in front of the garage door, his head of tight curls wet from the rain. he’s tall but not towering, his shoulders made broad by the leather jacket across his back. he hasn’t noticed you or freddie as he’s too preoccupied with wiping the grease on his fingers across a piece of soiled cloth. he turns, not towards you, but towards the hallway when beau tumbles out of his room with a shout of joy. beau races down the hall, his arms extended, and jumps into his father’s waiting embrace. john mumbles something in his son’s ear, ruffling his hair, before dropping him back to the ground. the sullen little boy jumps around his father’s feet, chattering in great detail about his day at school, though he forgoes mentioning his father’s absence in the car-line.

you exhale, a wash of new tears covering your eyes as you stare at beau. he can be happy. you’d thought it impossible.

you must have exhaled louder than you thought because john looks over at the sound. his brow tightens in a frown of confusion, his eyes flicking back and forth between yourself and freddie, but freddie is quick to explain. he stands from the table and takes your hand, pulling you to your feet.

“deaky, this is [y/n] [y/l/n], beau’s teacher. remember you spoke to her on the phone?”

your cheeks heat at the thought of him mentioning the phone call beyond the walls of the auto-shop. warmth spreads over your face even further when he gives you a tight-lipped smile and extends his hand. you slip your fingers over his palm, and he shakes your hand.

for a moment, your hands linger as john glances at beau, who is tucked behind his leg. he cringes, groaning. “please tell me you didn’t go out of your way to bring beau home today?”

you drop your hand from his and clasp your fingers before your waist. scrunching your nose, you tilt your head to the side. “well...”

“bloody hell,” john murmurs. he screws his eyes shut and runs a palm down his face. “i’m sorry,” he says. “you shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“it was no trouble, really. in fact, you live on my way home.” the comment isn’t a falsehood. you’d realized as beau pointed his way home that your flat lie only a minutes down the road. just as it had then, the realization sends a nervous clench to your stomach now. the thought of the deacons so close...

“you must think me a horrible father.” as he says this, john reaches around to smooth his hand across beau’s back. the gesture, done mindlessly, almost makes you laugh. how could anyone find him a horrible father?

“absolutely not, mr. deacon.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward in something close to a smile. “john, please.”

you roll your lips together and blink rapidly to keep your eyes from going wide. john. “lots of people miss the car-line. it happens more often than you think.”

“well, let me give you something for your trouble.” he slides past you, the scent of cologne and car oil in his wake. his movements are stiff, hampered by beau who insists on clinging to his father’s leg, his ankles crossed over john’s foot.

“i don’t want anything, john.” you almost trip over his name. it tastes good, strong and steady. god, you’ve got it bad. “it wasn’t a hassle.”

john ignores you as he slides open a kitchen drawer. unsatisfied with its contents, he reaches for another before meeting your eyes with a wry smile. “all we’ve got is take-out menus anyway.” he shuffles nearer, beau still heavy on his leg. “thank you, ms. [y/l/n], for bringing him home. i got sidetracked at the shop and—” he sighs. “anyway, just... thanks.”

“again, you’re welcome—and call me [y/n].”

there’s a moment where you’re simply staring at one another, the room around you lulled to a comfortable silence. john is handsome, of this there is no doubt. perhaps he’s not striking in a classical way but you’re sure someone would have killed to chisel a bust of his face during the sixteenth century. it’s regal and sure in all the right places, but soft where it counts: around the eyes. when he chuckles at something freddie says, his eyes fold around the edges, and your heart all but gives out.

“what do you say, [y/n]?”

“sorry?” hopeful no one caught you ogling, you bring your attention front and center, turning to freddie. his proposal dawns on you a second too late to be anything but obvious. “stay for dinner? no, i can’t do that.”

“why not?” freddie reaches out to pinch your forearm. “it’s our way of saying thanks, and neither of us will try to poison you with our cooking. we’ll just have brian bring something ‘round.”

you shake your head and scoot around freddie to lift the handbag hanging from a kitchen chair. “i’d like to, but i’ve stayed too long already. perhaps another time.”

prying beau from his leg, john trails behind freddie as you make your way to the front door. freddie wishes you well, reminding you to drop by any time, and john simply lifts his hand in a motionless wave. on the front stoop, hair tangled around your face by a sharp wind, you lean your torso across the threshold.

“mr. deacon—i mean, john,” you say quickly, willing your voice to sound stronger than you feel. “if you’d like, i can drive beau home in the afternoons. i live not five minutes from here, and it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

john hesitates. beau stands in the kitchen, his head poked around the corner. john looks over at his son then back at you. “that’s a kind offer, but i like coming to the school.”

your eyes flick to beau, to his round, soft face and intelligent eyes. yes, if you were his mother you’d enjoy coming to pick him up too.

with a nod, you retreat into the wind. “well, the offer still stands.”

as you slide into your car and pull out of the driveway, waving to beau who now stands in the doorway, you hope against hope that john will accept the offer one day—just so long as it means you get to see him again.

he calls during the middle of show-and-tell. you nearly forgo the call as abby sinclair insists on lifting her pet toad for all to see and you’re worried she’ll drop it, but you’re waiting for a message from the front desk—missing package again—so you pick up on the last ring.

“hello?”

“hi, ms. [y/l/n]. it’s john deacon. is this a bad time?”

“oh, mr. deacon!” you wince at the delight coloring your voice and tear your eyes away from abby, who has handed her toad off to max. “i was expecting a call from the front office.”

he snorts out a rushed laugh. “sorry to disappoint.”

you brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “no, not at all.” out of the corner of your eye you catch max squeezing abby’s toad between his palms, and you push the phone away from your ear. “oy! max, knock it off! abby, please put the toad back, dear?”

john is chuckling on the other end of the line when you return to the call. “sorry,” you say. “show-and-tell.”

“i know. beau was excited this morning.”

with a smile, you glance at the boy in question. “he did very well. everyone was impressed with what he brought.”

“brian made that for him as a birthday gift, so he can’t take any of the credit.”

“he didn’t! he explained who made the planets, but he did want to be clear about who painted the stars.” you hesitate, the sound of laughter over your shoulder reminding you not to get too entangled by the sound of john’s voice. “is there something i can do for you, mr. deacon?”

“right, yes. well, it’s a bit awkward... do you remember a few weeks ago when you drove beau home?”

you nod, the memory lifting from your heart with ease. how could you forget? you only replay the evening like a film every night before you fall asleep. “of course”

“do you remember offering to drive him home again?”

“yes.”

“i’m in a jam at the shop and can’t leave this afternoon. would you mind? taking him home, that is.”

you answer without hesitation. “i can do that. it’s not a problem.”

“you’re a life-saver. it’s just with freddie not driving... i guess what i mean to say is thanks. it helps me out a lot.”

“i’m happy to do it, john.”

“i promise i’ll make it worth your while this time. proper take-out and all.”

“you really don’t have to do that,” you say, hoping he does anyway.

“no, freddie will insist. i’ll let you get back to class for now. thanks, [y/n].”

“don’t mention it. good luck with your jam at the shop. i hope it’s cleared up soon.”

“me too. all the sooner to get back to beau—and you.”

he hangs up before you can respond, and you’re left with your jaw scraping the floor and your heart in your throat.

all the sooner to get back to you.

the words circle your head like a drug for the remainder of the day. you can barely focus as you teach, stumbling over your words and through math equations and spelling tests.

surely he didn’t mean it like that. he probably just tacked you on at the end of the sentence in his haste to get back to work. he probably wasn’t thinking when he spoke.

but, by god, you were listening.

you’ve never been so head-over-heels for a man in your life. each day when you wake up with john at the forefront of your mind, you wish for a morning where you can stay in bed and dream of him all day—his voice, his smile, his gentle way with beau. it all makes you crazy. ami calls your fascination puppy love and claims it will fade with time, but you wonder if it’s gone deeper. you’re interested in more than john deacon’s looks. you’re interested in what makes him tick and whether or not he’s in a band with the three other men who constantly appear in every conversation you share and whether or not he misses his wife and what his hair looks like when he wakes up in the morning. you what to know him and be known by him.

all the sooner to get back to you.

perhaps it’s wishful thinking—a dreamy idea on the part of a lovesick woman—but part of you wonders if he feels the same way about you.

driving beau home becomes part of an unspoken routine. after sharing dinner at the deacon household that second evening, john admits when walking you to your car how overwhelmed he can feel between his job at the auto-shop and his responsibilities with beau. with a tentative hand on his forearm, you promise you’ll help lighten the load. he thanks you by squeezing your fingers with his, and then he’s gone.

it begins by driving beau home every monday, wednesday, and friday. you enjoy your time with him. as soon as he settles in the back seat of your station wagon, he comes alive. the protective shell he wears in the classroom is replaced by the bright and earnest eyes of a seven year old boy, curious about the world and all it has to hold. he asks you questions and tells you stories, and you laugh as you watch the light dance in his eyes. he’s a sweet child, and you truly treasure the afternoons you spend with him.

one friday, you drop him off and find the cozy bungalow empty. beau has stopped retreating to his room once returning from school—at least, this is what freddie tells you—so you’re not completely surprised when beau invites you in for an afternoon snack. you are surprised by the empty house, however. freddie is nowhere to be seen and neither is john. what concerns you even further is when beau opens the refrigerator and slams it shut with a huff.

“nothin’,” he mutters, slumping to the table with a groan.

“what?”

“there’s nothing in the fridge.”

“what do you mean by that?” you cross the floor and open the fridge, hoping beau’s comment is nothing more than a hungry child displeased with the array of choice and nothing to his liking, but you find his statement to be true. the fridge is woefully stocked—naught but a half-filled carton of orange juice, three apples, and a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. you glance over your shoulder. “is it always like this?”

“no.” beau circles about on his chair. “but it’s happened a few times since dad and uncle rog got more busy at the shop.”

“well, that won’t do. grab your shoes, beau, we’re going to the market.”

once returned from your grocery run, you teach beau how to make spaghetti. he stands beside you on a stool, pushed up on his toes as he watches you prepare the boiling water and pasta. as you wait for the pasta to soften, you set about crafting a homemade pasta sauce. it’s your mother’s recipe, and it’s easy to make. easy enough that you allow beau to carefully slice the tomatoes under your supervision and dice the onions and sprinkle the spices.

the kitchen smells like your childhood: fragrant yet simple, sweet and comforting. somewhere in the waiting for the sauce to simmer, beau turns on a radio and draws you to the center of the kitchen. he holds your hand tight and kicks his feet to the music. you laugh and mirror his movements. he grabs your other hand and steps on his stool, forcing you to bend in an awkward twirl around his finger. you struggle but complete the movement, though he attaches himself to your shoulders like a barnacle. you whirl around on your socked feet in attempt to toss him off, but he holds tight, his fingernails digging into the skin of your collarbone. he squeals in your ear, a mixture of laughter and gasping breath and shrieks.

“mama, mama, stop!”

he says it without thinking, his head lolling against your shoulder as you stop short at the sound of his breathless voice. he giggles against your back then releases himself and slides to the floor. you stare at him, feel his words in the back of your throat like an uncomfortable burn, and then you hear the garage door shut.

you swallow hard and force your eyes from the yellow-and-white linoleum floor. beau hops from his stool, sauce-covered spoon in hand, and rushes to his father’s side.

“daddy, look, we made dinner! miss [y/l/n] and me!” he tugs on john’s shirtsleeve, but john’s just staring at you, his face unreadable. beau turns to one of the other three men crowding the hall behind john. “uncle roggie, taste it!” he forces the spoon in the face of a mulleted blond.

eager to break the thick tension, you motion to the spaghetti. “i—there wasn’t anyone home so...” your sentence trails off, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

so many eyes on you. you feel exposed against them all, caught in a domestic moment with a child that’s not your own in a home that’s not your own.

john looks over his shoulder, eyes flashing in anger. “fred?”

freddie winces. “about that, deak.” he rubs the back of his neck and glances at beau. “i can explain later.”

“you’d better,” john mutters.

“i should go,” you say at once, hastily grabbing your things from the table. your keys jingle in your hand with the force of your anxiety, and you stub your toe against the floor in your hurry to put your shoes back on.

john’s hand on your arm stops you. you look up, stooped as you try to slip the back of your sandal over your heel. he looks down at you, face still remarkably unreadable. “no, please stay,” he says. “you made supper.”

you shake your head and rise to your full height. “i’ve intruded enough already.”

you’re embarrassed, too. the gaggle of men heard beau’s slip up; they heard him mistake you for his mother—and certainly they saw the immediate flush of happiness rise over your cheeks at the sound.

mama. you’d always hoped, always wished, someone would call you that one day. you just didn’t think you’d hear it from a student with a deceased mother and a father you pined after first.

“[y/n], stay.” john’s voice is soft, breathy, and his eyes flit back and forth between yours with a startling amount of intensity.

how can you say no?

once the dinner has been divided, you sit beside john on the couch in the living room. the kitchen table is too small to host the gathering, so the living room was deemed appropriate just this once, to beau’s great delight. he sits on the floor at the coffee table, a tall glass of milk beside his plate of pasta, his eyes bouncing over everyone in the room with unrestrained joy.

“beau, why don’t you introduce everyone for miss [y/l/n]? she doesn’t know all your uncles.” john nods to his son in encouragement, and beau is only happy to take the job.

standing, beau crosses first to the impressively tall and curly-haired man sat beside him on the floor. “this is uncle brian. he likes space and teaches all the big kids at uni.”

he moves to freddie, who sits on a plush armchair. “this is uncle freddie, but you already know him.”

the last man leans against the foyer table, his ankles crossed and sunglasses still perched on his nose. beau pats his arm. “this is uncle roger and he works with daddy.” in a stage whisper, he adds, “he thinks he’s a lot cooler than he really is.”

roger guffaws and lightly pushes beau’s head to the side. “oy, you twerp, take that back!”

glancing about the room, you nod in greeting. “it’s nice to meet you all. i’ve heard quite a bit.”

brian smiles at you from the floor. his legs are bent awkwardly beneath the coffee table, and you’ve noticed the way he helps beau cut his side salad and keep sauce from dripping to the area rug. “all good things i hope?”

“oh yes, of course.”

“[y/n], dear, you really must tell brian what that student of yours did last week,” freddie pipes up. “it had me laughing well into the night. i’m sure some of his twenty-year olds are much the same.”

“i shouldn’t, fred.” you look at beau, who is watching you in interest.

freddie nods in understanding and tugs on his earlobe. “little ears, yes. maybe another time.” he pushes brian’s shoulder with his foot. “really is a riot of a story.”

as supper progresses, conversation twists and turns down different avenues. you explain how you came to teach in the area and find you used to work with one of brian’s newer colleagues. freddie tells the group about his recent run-in with an angry bird watcher in the park. his gestures are so grandiose he whacks roger in the chest, who has come to sit on the arm of fred’s chair. there’s more laughter than there is silence, and you settle back in the couch. at one point, john drapes his arm over the back of the couch—not around your shoulders, but close enough to send your heart into overdrive. it’s all you can focus on—the proximity of his muscular arm behind your head—as brian explains to beau the difference between the big and little dippers. even as roger describes the ramshackle band they four participate in on the weekends, you barely register the words because you swear to the high heavens you feel john’s pointer finger purposefully brush against your shoulder.

beau begins to yawn sometime near the eight o’clock hour, and you jump from the couch when you realize you’ve stayed so late.

“good lord, i’ve got to go!” you shuffle about the room, gathering your belongings, as john rises behind you. “i didn’t know it was so late!”

his hands are in his pockets, and he studies you as you put your shoes on. “got a big date tomorrow?”

you frown. “no,” you say on a laugh. “i’ve actually got breakfast with my mum.”

he looks away for a moment, but you can’t help but note the edge of a smile.

he grabs his jacket from the coat-stand when you’re ready. “i’ll walk you out.”

at the door you wave to the others. “good night, all! it was nice to meet you.”

roger tips an imaginary hat. “i’m sure we’ll meet again, [y/n], if deaky has anything to say about it.”

freddie kicks the back of roger’s leg, and the injured man doubles over in a yelp of pain. “you fucker!” freddie mutters. “you know that—”

john ushers you out the door before you can see or hear any more.

the night air is chilly, and you warm your arms around yourself. you reach for your keys in the depths of your purse and slide them into the lock on the driver’s side of your car. it’s dark out. you can barely make out john’s features beneath the light of the moon, but when he shuffles to the side, an automatic flood light turns on above the garage. you blink against the sudden light and smile, chuckling beneath your breath as your vision adjusts. you’re not eager to leave quite yet, and he doesn’t seem eager to send you away, so you both stand, looking at one another in the darkness of the drive.

“your friends are nice,” you say.

he hums in agreement. “m’yes, they are. we just started as a screw-around band a few years back, but when molly got sick...” he pauses, clasps his hand on the back of his neck, and shrugs. “they’ve been my lifeline, y’know?”

“i can’t imagine what that was like, losing her. i’m glad you had them around.” you suck in a deep breath. “about earlier... i didn’t know beau was going to say that, and i’m sorry it happened. i realize that my... involvement might appear to be me wheedling my way into your family, but that’s not it, really! i mean, i like you and beau—as friends—but i’m not trying to...” you sigh, shaking your head. “i’m sorry it happened ‘s all. i don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

before you know what’s happening, john’s reaching out to cup your cheek. his smile is soft in the glow of the moon and the floodlight, and your heart stops in your chest.

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “i haven’t seen beau that happy in a long time. you’ve brought a lot of joy back into the house, [y/n].”

you’re sure you’re sweating despite the chill of night. you shake your head, but his hand holds fast against your face. “no,” you whisper. your voice sounds heady, even to your own ears. “beau’s just a good kid.”

“yes, and you’re a good teacher.”

is his face inching closer? you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“a good teacher and a good person.”

if it weren’t for your firm hold on the car door handle, you think you might slip to the ground in a puddle of goo.

his lips are on yours, then, and you fall into his arms as he holds you against himself. you have dreamt of this moment far too many times to count, but you never thought it would happen. really, you thought you would finish the year without ever knowing the taste of john’s deacons lips.

but there he is, and there you are, and he tastes like the wine he drank during supper. he is more eager than you thought he would be, and soon he has your back pressed against the door of your car. you huff into his mouth and feel your eyes roll back into your head when he drags his lips across your jaw, inching closer to that spot behind your ear. your arms practically quiver around his shoulders, and you open your eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of a particularly bright star winking down at you.

he catches your lips again, and you feel hot and delicious all over.

“john,” you mumble against his mouth. “john.”

loathe as you are to stop the moment, you do, pushing his shoulders until he pulls himself away. his hand still cradles your hip, and he looks flushed in the moonlight. you’re sure you look equally as rumpled.

you grin. “well.”

he matches your smile, though it’s fleeting. “call you, yeah?”

unlocking your car door, you nod. “please do, mr. deacon.”

he shakes his head on a chuckle and shuts the door, waving gently as you pull out of the drive. when you’re several homes away, out of eyesight, you drift to the side of the road and blast the air conditioner. then you pound your fists against the steering wheel and let out a muffled squeal of delight.

he doesn’t call you.

when you sit down to think about it, it’s not that great of a surprise. you’ve been around him only a handful of times, and though you’ve both been comfortable in those moments, you don’t blame him for resisting whatever it is he feels for you. there’s beau to think about. you’re his teacher; surely there’s some line you shouldn’t be crossing? there’s molly too, and her memory and the years they spent together and the child they had together.

if anything, you figure he’s using you to test the waters of romance again. those stolen touches and deep stares and that kiss in the drive—it’s all just experimentation. the conclusion drawn from those experiments? he’s not ready.

you sigh, take another sip of wine. maybe you should stop driving beau. you like john; you like him a lot. and after that kiss, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. you thought about him before, but never this much. he threatens to consume your every waking moment, and it scares you because he’s not interested. desperately pining after a disinterested man means one thing: ruin. if you stop driving beau home, put some distance between yourself and the deacons, the puppy love and infatuation will fade over time.

it has to or you’ll go crazy.

it’s early evening, and your stomach grumbles. your flat is quiet as you putter around the kitchen in search of a suitable supper. there’s not much in the cupboards and even less in the fridge. you desperately need to go to the grocery store. take-out it is. withdrawing a handful of menus, you spread them out on the counter and flip through them mindlessly.

your thoughts are elsewhere. always on john.

you wonder what compelled him to kiss you. he’s an enigma, john deacon. you’ve seen him in moments of great levity—when he’s around beau or his friends or recounting a story from his youth. he has an infectious laugh, delightful crinkles around his eyes, and a quick wit. but he can be hard, too, like an immovable stone. he’s quick to toss a glare at anyone in his way in those moments of weakness, and his biting wit can turn sour at the drop of a hat. you chalk it up to weariness, those moments. weariness, loneliness, frustration. it doesn’t phase you, though perhaps it should.

with a groan, you drop your forehead to the cool counter and shut your eyes. the kiss lingers on your lips; it has the entire week since. you want him badly—in more ways than one.

the telephone rings, and you startle, clutching a paper menu to your chest. “fuck,” you whisper. you need to get a hobby other than daydreaming. pressing the phone to your ear, you barely get out a word of greeting before someone’s shouting at you on the other end.

“[y/n]? it’s fred! we’ve got a fuckin’ problem over here.”

you frown. “freddie? what’s going on? why are you are john’s? it’s a saturday.”

“no time for that! how fast can you get here?”

“well, i don’t know. i’ve got to—”

“beau’s sick! he’s on the bathroom floor, moaning and groaning and—shit!—[y/n], i don’t know what to do!”

“i’m sure it’s just a tummy ache, fred,” you say. “i see it all the time in my class. give him some pepto and he’ll be fighting fit in the morning.”

“no, [y/n]!” something in fred’s tone—a raw, animal fear—has you standing straight, your heart stuttering in your chest. “he said he feels like he’s gonna die just like molly did!”

“okay, okay.” you begin to move toward your bedroom, but are yanked back by the phone chord attached to the wall. you stumble backwards with a grunt. “okay, i’m coming, fred. just hold tight.”

“fucking hurry!”

you slam the phone down, rush to your bedroom to change from your nightclothes, and jump in the car without a pair of shoes. as quickly as you can you race to the deacon household. the sun dips low, casting an orange glow over the suburban streets lined with family cars. you grip the steering wheel tight, your heart thumping a prayer of protection for beau.

the driveway of the bungalow is empty, the garage door thrown open. the old convertible john toys with in the evenings is parked inside, but his everyday vehicle is gone. cutting the engine of your car, you run through the garage and into the house. fred stands in the hallway, pressed against the bathroom door. he looks ridiculous, clad in a bright yellow bathroom and bunny slippers, but he pounds his fist against the door, pleading for beau to unlock it and let him in. he turns at the sound of your bag dropping on the carpet.

“oh, thank god,” he breathes. he grabs your arm and wrenches you to his side. “beau, miss [y/l/n] is here. why do you talk with her, huh?”

before you say anything to beau, you frown at freddie. “where’s john?” your whisper sound harsh in the dim lighting of the hallway.

“at the shop. overtime. i can’t reach him.”

you jerk your head to the phone sitting on a side-table in the living room. “go try again and i’ll stick with beau here.” when he’s gone, you slide to a sitting position on the floor and press your ear to the thin wood of the door. “beau? beau, honey, it’s me.”

beau only groans in response.

“beau, can you please open the door? i want to help you. that’s it; just help.”

there’s a pause then you hear: “no. go away.”

“it’s okay if you’re embarrassed, beau. we all get sick sometimes. fred and i just want to help you feel better.”

there’s the sound of water sloshing and then a hard sniff. “i want my mommy.”

“oh, baby, i know.” you clear your throat to work past the lump rising to the surface. “come on, just let me in. i promise it’ll be okay.”

“but... what if i die like her too?”

“that’s not gonna happen, beau. i promise.” he doesn’t respond, so you plead once more. “please let me in.”

he shuffles to the door, unclicks the lock, and cracks it open. through the opening, you can see his pale face gleaming with sweat. gently, you push the door open further.

beau’s curled on the floor, his head bent toward his knees. his arms tighten around his stomach, and a spasm ripples through his body. he’s dripping with sweat, his star wars pajamas soaked through. hot air clogs the room, and you switch on the overhead fan. pressing your fingers to his forehead, you cringe and draw back. he’s burning up.

“beau, baby, what hurts?” you finger some of the sweat-matted hair away from his forehead.

“my tummy.”

“what’s your tummy feel like?”

beau shakes his head into the floor. “bad.”

“do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”

“already did. on my floor.” he opens his eyes long enough to stare at you through thick lashes. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologize about that. we’ll get it cleaned up later. i’m just gonna go get you some water, okay?”

he groans, shifting against another spasm of pain. “okay.”

stepping back into the hall, you grab freddie’s arm before he can slip into the bathroom. you tug him to the safety of the kitchen. his eyes dance between yours, expectant.

“well?”

“did you get ahold of john?”

“no, the fucker.”

“we’ll have to go pick him up then.”

fred’s brow twitches. “what? why? what’s wrong with him?”

you throw a glance down the hall when beau whines. “i think it might be his appendix. my dad’s burst last summer and he looked a lot like beau does now.”

“fuckin’ hell.” freddie runs a hand across his mouth. “just what deaky needs.”

you nod in agreement. “i know. we’ve got to take beau to a hospital, though, before it gets any worse.”

“yeah, yeah, i know. go get the car started and i’ll meet you in a minute.”

several minutes later, you’re en route to the auto-shop, freddie cradling beau in the backseat of your station wagon. the drive is tense, your bare foot hard on the gas pedal. beau wrestles and whines against freddie’s hold, continuously asking for his parents and where you’re taking him.

no one wants to say the word hospital, so his cries go unanswered.

freddie directs you to the auto-shop, his phrases terse, and you pull into the drive with a sharp squeal of tires on gravel. with the car still running, you hurry across the parking lot, loose pebbles catching on your feet. music blasts from a stereo within the garage. it’s loud and obnoxious and keeps you from locating john fast enough.

“can i help ya, miss?” a lithe man steps out of a side office, his hairline receding and face near gaunt.

“yes—i’m looking for john deacon.”

the man continuously wipes his hands on a dirty rag. none of the oil and grease on his fingers budges. “he’s down there.”

dirt and grime covers the bottoms of your feet as you race down the shop. cars of all varieties line the wall to your left, some stationary on the ground, others lifted towards the vaulted ceiling. there’s a handful of men at work, but you don’t recognize any of them as john. you’re prepared to start shouting his name when a familiar voice stops you.

“[y/n]?” it’s roger. “can’t get enough of our deaky, can you?” he’s chuckling as he steps out from behind a truck. “what are you doing here?”

“it’s beau,” you say, and his face falls.

“over here.” roger wastes no time in finding john beneath a volkswagon beetle. only john’s legs are visible, his knees bent and leather boots firm on the floor. he curses when roger hooks the toes of his shoes around a curve in the sliding plate on the floor and drags john out from under the car.

“what the fuck, rog? i—” john stills when his eyes land on you. his muscle tee is loose over his chest, and a line of grease mars his forehead. he swallows. “[y/n]... i...” he sits up. “i’ve been meaning to—”

though you’re curious about the end of his sentence, you cut him off. “beau’s sick. we’ve got to take him to hospital.”

the blood drains from john’s face in an instant. the wrench in his hand clatters to the cement ground, and he’s grabbing your elbow, pulling you toward the exit, before you can say anything more.

“crystal, i’m gone!” he shouts, practically shoving you in the direction of the car.

there’s either no reply or you don’t hear it because john shouts for freddie to move the fuck over and give him beau. you slide behind the wheel and pause, twisting to catch a look at the scene in the back.

beau looks like a newborn swaddled in his father’s arms. his face is wet with tears and sweat, and he sobs in his father’s grasp. john feels beau’s forehead and frowns, muttering an oath under his breath. then his eyes flick to yours.

“what are you waiting for? go!”

you don’t need to be told twice.

it’s another fifteen minutes before you reach the hospital. your head throbs under the stress of it all: beau’s pitiful moans for help, john urging you to go faster, freddie barking directions as he slaps the headrest behind you. before you’ve pulled to a complete stop, john is out, beau in his arms. you shoo freddie after him.

“go! i’ll park the car.”

by the time you’ve found a parking space and picked your way across the parking lot, beau’s been admitted for emergency surgery. his appendix, as you suspected. it’s a routine procedure, and he’ll be fine within the next hour. relief floods your system at the news, and you find john and freddie sitting beneath a large fish tank in the waiting room. you take the open spot beside john and cross your ankles.

“your feet are disgusting,” fred says. he points to the bottoms of your feet, dark with dust, dirt, and grime.

you shrug. “forgot shoes.”

the quiet of the waiting room is both a comfort and annoyance. a clock on the wall ticks loudly, and the fish tank bubbles at an uneven rate. every breath you take feels too loud, and the antiseptic smells cling to the inside of your nose.

still, the quiet gives you a moment of rest. you catch your breath. you let the knowledge of skilled and capable doctors working on beau ease your heart-rate. it will all be okay; he’s going to be okay.

you glance at john. his fist is pressed against his mouth, his eyes shut. his leg bounces, and you dare to reach over and lay your hand against his knee. he stills, his eyes flashing to you.

“he’s going to be okay, john.”

on the other side of john, freddie jumps to his feet. “i’m going bananas just sitting here.” he rubs the side of his head. “might burst. i’m gonna give brian a call.” he stalks away, his bunny slippers slapping against the linoleum floor.

you shake your head, biting back the urge to smile.

but then john’s fingers curl around yours, and you can’t help but give into the grin.

you look up, meet his eyes.

“i didn’t call you,” he says.

“no, you didn’t.”

he shifts in seat and looks to the floor. “you should be wearing shoes.”

at the turn of conversation, you frown then follow his gaze. “yes, i suppose.”

“take mine.” he releases your hand to bend down and undo his laces.

“no, john, don’t be silly. i’m fine.”

“please, [y/n], take the shoes.” he slides the boots toward you, and you begrudgingly slip your feet into the warmth of his shoes.

you look silly, the pair of you—your ill-fit mtv t-shirt, loose jeans, and oversized leather boots; his muscle tee with the aptly faded word muscle scrawled across the chest, his faded jeans, and socked feet. one of his toes pokes through the end of his sock, and his exposed arms look cold in the frigid air of the waiting room. you laugh.

“we look like a pair of bikers or something.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “not much of a biker. that’s crystal’s territory.” he doesn’t look at you when he continues speaking. “i’m sorry i didn’t call.”

on a sigh, you drag the boots across the carpet. though it pains you to do so, you let him off the hook. “it’s not a big deal, john. it was just a kiss. no promises.”

“i know.” his head tilts to the side. “but i wanted to call you. nearly did twice, but i chickened out.” he turns, then, and meets your eye. “i like you, [y/n].”

you smile, but know it doesn’t reach your eyes. still, you reach for his hand again. “i like you too, john. i’ve enjoyed getting to know you and your family.”

he shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is firm. “no, i like you. that’s why i kissed you and that’s why i didn’t call. because you make me so bloody nervous.”

your shoulders drop, as does your jaw.

“ever since you dropped beau off that first time, i’ve been thinking about you and about you and him together and then he called you mum and i saw the way you acted with him and—” he pauses for a breath. “molly was different with beau. i mean, she loved him, but she was always so fragile and worried and—and that’s not the point! the point is that you make beau happy and you make me happy. and i want to be happy again.”

“john...”

his grip on your hand tightens as he leans closer. “make me happy, yeah? i’m stubborn as a mule and shy, too, but i want you—badly.”

the fire in your heart spreads at his words. it spreads throughout your body until you feel like you could burst and shine a light into even the darkest corners of the earth. a laugh bubbles forth from between your lips. you lift a hand to stifle it.

“you want to know something?” you ask.

“what?”

“i’ve been pining after you, john deacon, ever since i heard your voice over the phone. i was content to just wallow in my daydreams, but this seems better.” you lift your fingers to brush his chin. “a lot better.”

“i can’t promise i’ll make a good boyfriend. i’m pretty rusty.”

“me too. we can be rusty together.”

he grins, leans forward further, his nose brushing yours. “can’t promise there won’t be hiccups. i’ve got baggage.”

“i can carry it.”

he kisses you, his hand on the back of your head, keeping you firm against his mouth. you grin, your teeth knocking his as you laugh. his curls are soft against your fingertips, and you hold on for dear life when he chuckles into your smile.

“mr. deacon?”

john kisses you once, twice more, before pulling away to look at the doctor. “yeah?” he doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed to be caught in such a position in the middle of a hospital waiting room, but you hide your face against his neck. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide.

“beau’s ready to see you now.”

john stands and extends at hand. “comin’, dove?”

your footfalls are hard against the ground, the boots heavy around your ankles, as you walk with him hand-in-hand to beau’s hospital room. you lean against his side, breathe the comfort of him in, and smile.

yes, this is much better than your daydreams—baggage, boots, beau, and all.

#john deacon #john deacon x reader #john deacon fic #queen #queen fic #j writes

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likesomekindofcheese · 4 years ago

Note

How do you think Roger would be with someone who had adhd? (I'm so sorry if you've gotten this before, I only just found your blog)

I've always presented more on the inattentive side, though I can be hyper, but it mostly makes me a really messy person to live with, like I just can't clean anything up, and when I try to it quite literally sends me into a breakdown. And I infodump to people all the time, and I'm just a wreck really in all areas. My adhd is a massive issue in my life and I just honestly wonder a lot how people I idolize and love would treat me because of it

Could I get HCs for Roger in a relationship with someone who has adhd? I'm gonna describe kinda what part of ADHD I present as. I'm like, more of the inattentive type. I daydream a lot and have a really hard time processing words people say, so stuff always flies over my head. But I'm also hyper sometimes, and I can get quite loud and obnoxious. I also overshare a lot (lmao this ask is an example of that I guess) and I hyperfixate on a lot of stuff. I also get really overwhelmed by like, strong emotions, and that translates into me flapping my arms and making really loud noises, which I hate about myself. Basically I'm just a mess, especially so right now, and I so desperately want comfort from Rog

Hi there Nonny! Thanks so much. I think oversharing actually helps so that way I have more detail and more to play off of and that way I will be able to probably have a more accurate portrayal of ADHD as well! Also thanks for your patience! This past weekend I was rehearsing an online play and it got busy and I was trying to conserve my energy and recharge myself when I could!

Also, it’s normal to hate yourself. You have worth and enoughness even when you don’t feel like it. I’ll say it again, your worth, okayness, and enoughness does not change with how you feel. I have to remind myself that sometimes too! If you ever need to send another anon or dm me, please feel free to! I am not a counselor, but I have a listening ear. Let me know once you read it and what you think!

I wrote about ADHD Reader’s before. Here’s one with Joe! And here’s one with our badger loving spaceman, Bri!

If I get this wrong in any way, drag me gently via anon or dm.

First off, Roger is a bit inattentive himself. He probably doesn’t have anything diagnosed, he is just a little antsy and easily bored so his mind wanders. He doesn’t have a problem keeping up with your energy. I can see you two enjoying a night stroll and then stopping at a playground to go down the slide and have fun on the swings, for example!

Both of you are more on the messy side. When you move in, your clothes are strewn across chairs and on the floor. When Deaky comes over to visit he has a heart attack at the sight of it.

He saw you breakdown from trying to clean and hugged you, assuring you would find a way to make it more fun.

But sometimes you pitch in and play music while picking it up and wind up dancing and it’s really cute.

Eventually, he uses some Queen money to hire someone to help pick up after your stuff as a gift. That way, it looks a little nicer and you don’t have to worry about breaking down.

Sometimes he will be chatting away as you ride in his car, squeezing his free hand. Then he feels your grip loosen as you look at the green blurry trees passing outside. He will go “Y/N, what’s up!”

And you look and shrug with an embarrassed smirk. “Was just...just daydreaming. Isn’t it silly?”

You felt a little ashamed admitting that to your rockstar drummer boyfriend. But he shook his golden head and said “no! No, it’s not!”

Both of you get to be loud and obnoxious together since he’s the most extroverted member of the band. Dinners together are so much fun. Even after your dessert plate is cleared with leftover chocolate stains that Roger will scoop and lick off with his fork, you still have fun. You both laugh and talk a lot. He makes you smile so hard your face hurts from all of the smiling.

If there are any spats or conflicts, both of you calm down and take time to process it, then go back to the conflict and solve it.

He helps you remember all sorts of things like the car keys or phone numbers. So then you say “you’re a genius, Rog!” and he says you’re welcome by kissing your cheek or wrapping his hand around yours.

Rog is also really intelligent. He could listen to you infodump and ask questions and be involved. He also buys you gifts and experiences involving your hyper fixation. He loves to give you all sorts of gifts and it’s really sweet.

When emotion overwhelms you, he walks you through it. Talks with you. He gives you space to flap your arms. He never nags you and doesn’t verbally nag you. Nor does he do anything to shame you. He lets you communicate your emotions and he responds kindly. He used to parent you, but he stopped. He let’s you be. Even though Roger is the wild boy, he has a heart of gold beneath all of those cigarettes and cheeky smirks.

He asks questions about your ADHD. He even reads a couple articles about it.

You adore him with all of your heart. You know you can be yourself and be loved and safe with him. You love to hug him, be the first to listen to all of his songs, run him hot baths after a long day, and you never stop telling him how wonderful he is to you.

And the same goes for him. You’re his angel and shining star.

Taglist: @queenlover05 @seraphicmercury @ewannmcgregor

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freddiesaysalright · 5 years ago

Text

Just Like a Woman - Part 2

A Roger Taylor x Reader Fic

Summary: You and Roger were once in love when you were young. Only, he went on to be a rock star, and you went on to be a lawyer. Now, quite against your will, you’re representing him in his divorce.

Word Count: 3.8k

Tag List: @psychosupernatural, @someone-get-a-medic, @bensrhapsody, @deakyclicks, @crazylittlethingcalledobsession, @minigranger, @crazyweirdocalledfriday, @the-moving-finger-writes, @assembledherethevolunteers, @rose-writes-prose, @queenlover05, @26-7-49, @drowsebaby, @moon-stars-soul, @im-an-adult-ish, @ixchel-9275, @jennyggggrrr, @zyanmaik, @mypassionfortrash, @a19103, @madeinheavxn, @beepbeephardy, @lizawritesthings, @qweenly, @blisshemmings, @seasidecrowbar, @internationalkpoplova, @ellystone, @takemetoneverland420, @coffeexcigarette, @lookuptotheskiesandsee, @thatpunkmaximoff, @angelkissys, @rocknroll-stolemyass, @simonedk, @anotheronebitesrogertaylor, @peterquillzblog, @mrfahrenhcit, @joseph-mozzerella, @theprettyandthereckless If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: The next installment! Hope you guys enjoy some more pining, we love to see it

Warning(s): None :)

Part 1

Part 2 here we go!!!

“Mark, I am so sorry!” you gasped. “I - I had no idea!”

“You had no idea that it’s our anniversary?” he snapped. “Does it really mean that little to you?”

“You know you mean the world to me,” you returned. “I’m so sorry, I just got so caught up at work and I really had the worst day imaginable, so -”

“You forgot our anniversary and our dinner plans and you expect me to feel sorry that you had a bad day at work?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m sorry. It just slipped my mind, love, really. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Don’t bother,” he replied, getting to his feet.

He flung the flowers onto the floor before aggressively snatching up the plates and walking them into the kitchen. He dumped the ruined food into the garbage bin, and slammed the plates into the sink. You winced at the sound of the crash.

“Mark, don’t be like this,” you pleaded, stripping off your coat and leaving your briefcase by the door to follow him into the kitchen.

“How d’you expect me to react, then?” he shouted, switching the faucet on. “Like everything’s fine? Because I know it isn’t, Y/N! I give and give and give in this relationship, and you’ve not once shown me that you care!”

“I care, it’s just that I’m busy with work and-”

“You don’t think I’ve got a busy job?!” he cried squeezing the life out of the bottle of dish soap to lather into the sponge in his hand. “Christ, I’m saving lives, Y/N! I also work long hours, and yet, I made time for dinner tonight! Because we discussed this last week!”

“I forgot!” you returned. “I don’t have any excuses, okay? I just forgot! It was shitty and I’m really sorry! Now, will you please stop cleaning?!”

He paused. With a sigh he turned the water off and looked at you.

“I’ve already ruined the evening,” you said. “You shouldn’t have to clean up.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I should be going home.”

He stormed past you. You reached out and took his arm, stopping him in his tracks and making him look at you.

“Don’t go,” you pleaded. “I really am sorry. There’s still some wine left. Why don’t we just split the bottle and get cozy on the couch, yeah?”

He sighed. “I’m really no longer in the mood to see you, Y/N. I’ll call you later, okay?”

With that, he shrugged out of your grasp, grabbed his coat, and walked out the door, closing it with a harsh snap. You heaved a sigh as well. Then you got to work on the dishes. Luckily, Mark had already cleaned up what he had used to cook, so you were able to quickly wash the rest and put it all on a drying rack.

As you labored in the sudsy water, your mind once again went to Roger. The thought of seeing him on Wednesday both delighted and terrified you. Especially after your conversation with Dominique. If Roger still cared for you, why hadn’t he reached out? You were usually single. This relationship with Mark was the longest you’d had since Roger. Once again, you decided she must be wrong.

When the dishes were done, it was about a quarter past midnight. You went to get ready for bed. You had another meeting in the morning with a new client, and you would probably be hearing from Mark as well. Perhaps because you’d been drinking, you were able to fall asleep with little trouble.

Roger, on the other hand, had no such luck. He sat on his back patio, smoking a cigarette, and wide awake. The air was cold and dry, but he hardly felt it. His eyes were fixed on the puffs of smoke emerging from his mouth and disappearing into the air. He could only think of one thing. You.

He had hoped that he would never see you again. The breakup was painful enough, and he had always felt foolish for how he handled it. Now you were forced into his life through another painful event. He was embarrassed that you would see all the drama between himself and Dominique.

Just as he thought of her, she appeared behind him. Though they no longer shared a room, she was still living at the house.

“Rog,” she said. “What are you still doing up?”

He turned to face her. She wrapped her bathrobe tighter around her and shivered as she waited for his reply.

“Go inside, Dom, it’s cold,” he said.

“All the more reason to wonder what you’re doing out here,” she said.

“Just thinking,” he replied, taking another drag and inhaling it deeply.

“About Y/N?” she asked.

He exhaled. Smoke once again rolled from his mouth into the air.

“I know, it’s a small world,” she continued. “But if you really don’t want her to represent you, you can find another lawyer.”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” he said simply.

He heard her huff. “Rog, just come inside.”

“I’m in the middle of a cigarette,” he protested.

“Rog -”

“What happened to us, Dominique?” he questioned suddenly. “All my life, I’ve wanted what I never had - a stable home. I wanted to meet a nice girl, marry her, have some kids, and be the best bloody rock drummer in the world. Didn’t I do that?”

“Sure,” she replied with a shrug.

“So why isn’t it working out?” he wondered.

“Because you married the wrong girl,” she said levelly.

He sucked in a sharp breath but said nothing in return.

“I’m going in,” Dominique said. “Freeze your balls off out here for all I care.”

He faced the yard again. The door creaked open and he heard her step inside.

“That’s not true, you know,” he called to her. “I married a great woman.”

Dominique’s lower lip trembled, and not from shivering. She closed her eyes and let a tear fall down her cheek.

“That doesn’t make me the right woman,” she returned. “And if you want my opinion she’s come back into your life for a reason.”

She gave him no time to answer before closing the door swiftly behind her.

The next morning, you arrived at work a little late. You went right over to your assistant, Jane.

“Jane, were there any calls for me?” you asked, picking up some papers and flipping through them.

“No,” she answered. “Were you expecting one?”

You frowned. You thought for sure Mark would have called the office first thing.

“No,” you lied. “Just wondering.”

“Well, your new client, Mr. Broome, is waiting for you in your office,” she told you.

“Oh, has he been waiting long?” you wondered.

“No, just a few minutes,” she assured you.

“Alright, I’m heading in,” you said. “If Mark calls, have him hold for me, okay?”

“Will do.”

You walked past her station and into your office. There sat a tall, handsome man, but with a scowl on his face that made him much less attractive than he was.

“Mr. Broome,” you greeted.

He rose from his seat. “Miss Y/L/N, I’m so glad you’re here. This is the most dreadful business.”

You shook his hand. “How can I help you?”

“I’m seeking an annulment of my marriage,” he told you.

You set your briefcase down by your desk and hung your coat up on the rack.

“On what grounds?” you asked.

“Her breasts are fake,” he said. “I didn’t know until after we were married.”

You blinked. The cases you got continued to get stranger and stranger.

“Um, well, I’m not sure I understand how that qualifies for an annulment,” you said.

“We didn’t - um - have relations until after we were married,” he explained further. “I was under the impression that everything about her was real. I feel I entered into this marriage without full knowledge. I was deceived!”

“So, you feel she presented herself to be something that she isn’t?” you asked, to clarify.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Okay, we might have a case here, but we’re on pretty flimsy ground,” you said. “Was there anything else in the marriage you felt was presented as false besides her breasts?”

This meeting went on for about half an hour. You got all the information you could from Mr. Broome, but since his wife had apparently no other supposed indiscretions, and he had never asked if her breasts were real, you felt it was a pretty weak case.

Afterwards, you checked with Jane again.

“Any calls?” you asked.

“Mark hasn’t called,” she said. “But Roger Taylor did.”

You raised your eyebrows. “What did he want?”

“He said it was just to confirm the meeting tomorrow, but I think it was something else,” she said. “He seemed agitated.”

“Hm,” you said, though your mind was awhirl with questions. “Well, if he calls back, put him through.”

“Hey, Y/N,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends on the question,” you replied.

Her cheeks went pink with a deep blush. “Um...what was it like, being with Roger?”

“You mean in bed?”

She nodded, looking at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Oh, it was so...so…” you began dreamily. Then you frowned. “Private.”

She huffed. “Well, there’s no need to be snappish.”

The day wore on. Still, there was no word from your boyfriend and you were beginning to worry. Was he really that angry at you? The only way to move forward was to talk things through. Or, was his abrupt departure last night his way of ending it? No, he said he’d call you.

By the end of the day, as you were gathering your things, Jane came in to invite you to the bar again.

“No, thanks,” you said. “I haven’t heard from Roger all day, so I don’t feel much like going out.”

She put her hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow at you.

“Roger?”

“Mark!” you quickly corrected. “Of course I meant Mark, don’t go making this into something that it isn’t!”

“Whatever you say, Y/N,” she sighed. “Just shows who is really on your mind.”

Not eager to hear Jane tell your coworkers what she heard, you skipped the bar, and headed home. You still had some research to go over for Roger’s case, especially where the house was concerned.

As you set down your work things, you looked around your flat, recalling the events of the previous evening. You glanced at the phone. The idea of foregoing tradition and calling Mark first crossed your mind, but you pushed it aside. If he needed time to cool off, that’s what you would give him. Instead, you sat on your couch and opened your law book, searching for some precedent similar to Roger’s case.

The next day, you still had no word from Mark when you came into work. Now, you were really worrying. Had something happened to him? Should you report him missing? You shook your head. He was probably just busy and would call you later. You were sure of it.

When ten o’clock rolled around, you were waiting in the conference room when Roger arrived. He looked disheveled, blonde hair rumpled and a wrinkled shirt beneath a leather jacket. His jeans were fine, but his sneakers had an odd stain on them.

“Big night?” you questioned.

He took off his sunglasses and tossed them onto the table.

“Freddie had a party and I needed to unwind before today,” he explained through a groan.

“Ah, I see,” you said. “I’ve got some aspirin in my office, would you like some?”

“Please,” he replied quickly.

“I’ll be right back,” you assured him, holding back a laugh.

You left the conference room and started walking to your office.

“Oh, Y/N, before you go in -” Jane began, but you cut her off.

“Not now, Jane, I’m just grabbing some aspirin,” you said.

When you opened the door, you realized what she had been trying to say. Mark was there, leaning against your desk. He looked up at you when you appeared in the doorway.

A soft “oh” fell from your mouth.

“Mark’s waiting for you in your office,” Jane said sassily.

“Thank you, Jane,” you spat, and then slammed the door in her face.

“Can we talk?” Mark asked.

“Now’s really not a good time,” you said. “I’ve got a meeting.”

“Y/N, it's about our relationship,” he went on. “Isn’t that more important than work?”

“I’m sorry, but not while I’m actually in the office working,” you replied. “I only came to my office to grab something for Rog - er, my client, and I’ve got to be back in that room. We’re on a very tight schedule since I’ve got to be in court shortly after.”

“Y/N, I’m working a long shift tonight, I won’t be available later,” he said.

“Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you ignored me for an entire day,” you snapped.

“Oh, you’re angry at me now?” he demanded.

“I’ve got a right to be!” you shot back. “You stormed out of my flat, said you’d call, and then you didn’t! I’ve already admitted to and apologized for my wrongdoing the other night.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s over,” he argued. “The issue isn’t that you forgot about one night. It’s all the nights you forget. I’m trying to tell you that I feel neglected by you more than I feel loved.”

“Well, Mark, as I said, that’s not a conversation that I -”

Suddenly the door swung open and Roger strode in.

“Y/N, I thought you were just getting aspirin, now Dominique and Tim are here, and my head’s splitting - oh,” he stopped himself, observing you and the man standing beside you. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, you didn’t,” you assured him. “Mark, this my client, Roger Taylor. Roger, this is my boyfriend, Mark Bitters.”

They nodded at each other.

“Boyfriend?” Roger questioned.

You rolled your eyes. Then you opened up your top desk drawer, retrieved the aspirin, and tossed it to him. It rattled as he caught it.

“There. Take care of that headache, Rog, and I’ll be right there,” you said.

Roger looked between you and Mark once more before backing out of the office and returning to the conference room.

“Is that Roger Taylor of Queen?” Mark questioned. “Who is also your ex-boyfriend?”

“Yes,” you sighed. “Long story. But I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Alright, then,” he agreed.

Roger stormed back into the conference room, throwing himself into his chair. He slammed the bottle of aspirin down on the table, making Dominique jump.

“Alright, Rog?” she asked.

“She’s got a boyfriend…” he said, mostly to himself.

“Who’s got a boyfriend?” she wondered.

That was when you walked in. You felt some tension in the air, but assumed it was something Roger and Dominique had said to each other in the time you were gone.

“Right, sorry about that,” you said, taking your seat beside Roger. “So, Mrs. Beyrand, I’ve looked into the house issue, and since the deed is solely in my client’s name, without mention of tenants or anything similar, the rights to the property are entirely his.”

Dominique looked at Tim. “Isn’t there anything we can do? I live in that house, I clean it, I’m raising the kids there.”

“Miss Y/L/N, I’m not comfortable with the assertion no action can be taken,” he said. “Why else do we have these negotiations?”

“Well, comfortable or not, my client has no obligation to allow your client to continue living in his house,” you returned. “There’s no law that protects her. And if you’ve done your job, you’d know that too.”

“So, you expect Mrs. Beyrand to just live on the street?” Tim countered.

“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Hooper,” you said. “The expectation is for her to find a place to live that’s her own. In the meantime, Mr. Taylor has agreed to allow Mrs. Beyrand to live there, is that not true?”

“He has,” Dominique conceded. “But I don’t want to move. Especially with the kids.”

“Christ, Dom, you always do this,” Roger groaned.

“Do what?” she demanded.

“Bring up the kids to make me feel like shit!” he cried. “You’re the one who filed for divorce, did you not expect me to want you out of the house? How else do we move on?”

“I don’t bring the kids up to make you feel like shit, I bring them up because it’s important to consider them,” she retorted. “Putting children first is what good parents do.”

“Hey, I’m a great dad!” he returned hotly. “I provide for my family!”

“Oh, yeah, kicking mum out of the house is some provision,” she shot back, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not kicking you out, this is part of the process!” he insisted. “This is what you always do, guilt trip me until I give in. Well, I’m not giving in with this one!”

“I have to say, I also find this tactic a bit manipulative,” you agreed. “No one is forcing you into homelessness. Roger is quite generously allowing you to live in the home until you’ve found someplace new. As for the children, custody hasn’t been addressed, but we can discuss it at the proper time. Right now, all we need is a time frame.”

You looked at Roger expectantly. Dom and Tim did the same.

“I’ll give you six months,” Roger said.

You blinked, shocked at the selflessness of this. That was much longer than you’d ever heard of. Admiration began to seep into your heart as you looked at him.

Tim whispered something to Dominique, who sighed.

“Alright,” she said. “Six months. I’ll be out.”

“Good,” Roger returned. “Dom, I’m not happy about this, you know.”

“I know,” she replied. “I’m not either. But it’s for the best.”

They went silent. Something passed between them as they locked eyes, but you couldn’t quite name it. Understanding? Regret? General sorrow at the situation?

“Right, let’s continue, shall we?” you said, clearing your throat.

You continued discussing assets and recording everything to put into their final divorce settlement. It seemed that they had both softened at Roger’s offer. As the meeting drew to a close, you looked at Tim.

“Let’s meet again tomorrow afternoon,” you said. “To discuss custody of the children.”

“Very well,” he agreed.

You all shook hands. You watched Tim and Dominique leave, but before she stepped into the lift, she looked at Roger one last time. Then, her eyes found yours. She shook her head and disappeared behind the doors.

“Alright, Rog,” you said. “Come to my office, and we’ll discuss what you want out of the custody meeting.”

He followed you there and closed the door. You placed his file on your desk. As you did, you looked at him again. There was such a drastic change in him since you had seen him last, and it wasn’t just the short hair.

“That was sweet of you, you know,” you told him. “Giving her six months. That’s a lot more than most people would agree to.”

“She’s the mother of my children,” he said. “I’m happy to accommodate her if I can.”

That admiration was starting to make you melt a little.

“You’re a very kind person, Roger,” you said. “I don’t know if people tell you enough.”

“That means a lot, especially from you,” he replied. “I - uh - wasn’t very kind to you, was I?”

“It was a long time ago,” you said. “It hardly matters now. Anyway, let’s talk about your children.”

Roger glanced at the ground to hide his hurt. When he looked back at you, you couldn’t tell that you’d burned him with “It hardly matters now.”

“Right, um, there’s my little boy, Felix,” he said. “He’s three. And then my girl, Rory, and she’s one.”

You tried to keep your eyes from watering.

“Felix?” you questioned. “My dad’s name?”

He flushed and looked down again. “Yeah, well, he was always...there when my own dad, y’know…” he trailed off. “How is your dad?”

“He passed, actually,” you said. “About a year and half ago. I’m sorry, Roger, I had no idea he meant so much to you.”

“S’alright,” he sniffed. “Just as well. I couldn’t have handled it if I’d known.”

Another beat passed.

“How’s your mum?” he asked.

“Still adjusting, but pretty much okay,” you told him. “She’s coming for a visit soon.”

“Good, that’s good,” he said.

In all the time you had known Roger, you had never seen him look so awkward.

“What about your mum and stepdad?” you wondered.

“They’re doing great,” he told you. “Mum’s a bit upset about the divorce, but she’ll get past it.”

“I’m sure you all will,” you said.

“Yeah…”

You held each other’s gaze for a long, tense moment.

“So,” he said, clapping his hands to draw you both away from the trance. “The kids.”

“Right,” you agreed, shaking your head. “So, tell me how your schedule usually works and how often you’d like them to stay with you.”

You took notes as he spoke. You knew that with Roger’s job there was no way to argue for him to have primary custody, especially since the kids were still so little. But, he had rights as their father, and you felt he deserved to see them as often as possible. When he finished, you looked over your notes.

“I think we can work with this,” you said.

“Is that all for today?” he asked.

You nodded. For some reason, you found yourself dreading his departure.

“I’ll you tomorrow then,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” you confirmed.

He started toward the door, but when he took hold of the handle, he hesitated. He looked back at you and watched as you pulled out another file from your desk and opened it up. You hadn’t changed much since he last saw you. In fact, you hardly looked aged. Your face still had that youthful brightness to it that he remembered so fondly. The way you hummed as you looked over the papers was so familiar to him, it was as if no time had passed at all.

You looked up and caught him staring.

“Is there anything else, Roger?” you asked.

“No,” he said, but a hit of a smile pulled at his lips. “I’m just really glad you’re my attorney.”

You chuckled. “Any time.”

With that, he tugged the door open. There stood Jane, ear pressed to where the wood once was. Her face went pink.

“I was just - um - I wasn’t - I -” she sputtered.

“Just go to your desk, Jane,” you instructed.

“Sure,” she replied hastily. Then she looked Roger up and down. “Hey,” she said, fluffing her hair.

“Hey yourself,” he returned with a wink, and then left.

You frowned. So much for your good mood.

#roger taylor #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor x you #Queen #queen x reader #queen imagine #queen x you #BoRhap #borhap imagine #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody imagine #ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy x you #just like a woman series

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hubbie22 · 5 years ago

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tears ricochet part two

A/N: If you’d like to be tagged, please let me know! Thanks for reading.

“Well, where is she going to stay? I have more than enough room.” Freddie starts to talk about the late night wine fests, the sleepovers, and parties.

“What about one week with you, one week with Deaky and Veronica, and one week with us?” Brian says trying to come up with a compromise.

“We sound like divorced parents passing around our child.”

“Well, she can’t stay alone!” Brian seems frazzled as he always does. “Chrissie is adamant on that.”

“I think we all are, at least the six of us.” Deaky’s words cut Roger, cause he knows he’s excluded from this conversation.

“Where will you go?” It’s a legitimate question.

“You don’t have to worry about me, not anymore.” She says, as she holds Felix in her arms. He’s a happy baby, and he seems to like anything that gives him attention. And Liv hands it out to him in spades. This was the compromise, he did what she asked. He didn’t come alone, he came with Felix in tow. While that certainly wasn’t alone, it wasn’t what she meant. She wondered if Roger’s girlfriend knows he brought their son to see his ex. And if she knew, did she care? Or maybe she pitied Liv, that seemed to be the prevailing emotion she always recieved.

“Shouldn’t smoke with him in the room, Rog.” Liv scolds him, “And you shouldn’t worry about me.”

“Always worry ‘bout you.” He says as he takes a drag of his cigarette. It was preconditioned into the very fiber of his being to worry about her. Even if he tried to push it away, it always came flooding back.

Somehow Liv ended up with Freddie at Garden Lodge, at least until she was on her feet again. Or that was the promise they made to her.

“It’s like one big slumber party!” Freddie says pulling out silk robes from the Chanel bags. Freddie hands her a rose gold colored one, and he puts on a blood red one. The rose gold fabric pools around her feet, its luxurious.

“Freddie this is beautiful.” She says feeling the silk against her skin.

He looks at her with a playful light in his eyes, “All ways the best for us, dear.” It felt odd to be included in the word us, again. The last time she had been part of an us, was when the other part of it was Roger. She pushes him out of her head, he can’t occupy that space anymore. Just like he can’t occupy the other part of us in her life anymore.

“Manicure and pedicures this way!” Freddie says, he must sense her sadness. Because he tops her off with more wine, as she sinks her feet into the small tub of water.

They are in the middle of getting facials, being pampered for the tenth night in a row, “This really is a never ending slumber party.”

“What a great song idea!” He darts off with a blood red silk robe, leaving her alone with a multitude of cats. She picks up the orange tabby, who nestles into her embrace. She brings him up the stairs to the bedroom, and she can hear the pitter patter of little paws following her. She lays on the California king, looking up at the great white canopy above her. She can hear him singing from the other side of the house. It reminded her of the old times.when they were a penniless band, and not a household name.

“Like this!” Brian says as Roger bites back. “That’s not it! It’s slow!” They had been at the studio for the better part of 96 hours. Liv watched them, she hadn’t been spotted yet.

“I don’t like it!” Freddie says with a biting ferocity. “It’s so blasé!” They couldn’t achieve the correct sound for the song, and it was driving them mad. Which of course, lack of sleep didn’t aid in driving them mad either. But, she wouldn’t tell them that.

“I’m playing it how I always play it, Fred!” Brian seems to be cracking under the pressure, which is typical. She rolls her eyes, as she snaps a candid photo of Brian’s reaction.

“What do you think, Liv?” Deaky asks her.

She turns her head ready to answer, letting her camera fall against her chest as it was secured by a strap, only for Roger to answer for her. “Livie listens to only sad songs!” He goes on, “ She thinks the whole of it should be slow. For god sakes, she listens to sad American country music on repeat. If I hear that damn twang of “Your Cheatin Heart” one more time!”

“How dare you disrespect the late and great, Hank Williams, Rog.” She looks at him, “That man was a legend in a cowboy hat!”

Roger rolls his eyes, “All he does is stand there and sing sad country songs about his lost love in his country twang.”

“It’s called talent.”

“I know, I have it.” Roger says with a smirk on his face.

“What’s wrong with American country? What’s wrong with the sad songs they sing? I find it quite lovely, very telling of the human experience.” Brian asks, but he’s ignored.

She snorts, “Also, didn’t know your name was Liv, now?”

“ ‘S how I see it, just telling it how I see it.”

Hank Williams voice blares through the house, “Your Cheatin Heart” reverberates off the walls of Garden Lodge. Even those five years she spent comatose, did nothing to diminish her love for the American country star. Deaky chuckles at the thought, as she closes the front door.

“Liv?” Deaky shouts when the song dies down, and she yells from wherever she is. He walks to where the sound of voice came from. She’s dancing, her bare feet agaisnt the marble floor, to a sad country song. It’s a new one, George Jones if he’s not mistaken. A small smile is on his lips, as he noticed that Liv hasn’t changed. If anything it’s like she’s been frozen in time. She’s twirling around to the sounds of “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” in her white eyelet sundress. She hasn’t changed, it was like she was frozen in time. He had seen this scene at Liv and Rog’s flat and the Surrey Mansion. But the scenery around her changed, if this was five years earlier she would be dancing with Roger. But now, she danced with Freddie’s cats.

“Deaks!” She says clearly winded from her little dance party.

It causes Deaks to laugh, “Sorry to break up your dance party, but I was looking for Fred.”

She grimaces, “He’s with that evil bloke, Paul.” Liv and Paul didn’t like each other in 1975, and time didn’t faze that dislike from either parties. “Said he’d be back soon.” She answers his next question before he can even ask it.

He looks around, “Eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Come on, let’s get something.”

They end up at a little diner around the corner, one that they used to visit when Freddie only dreamed of owning Garden Lodge. She orders a burger and a strawberry milkshake, and he follows suit substituting the milkshake for chocolate.

“You haven’t changed, still blaring that horrendous country music.”

She rolls her eyes as she bites into her burger, “It reminds me of my dad.” Deaky didn’t know that, and he winces as she continues. “He was an American from the great state of Alabama,” She says the state with a fake southern drawl, “He came over here during the War. Survived that, and married the nurse that took care of him in the hospital.” She has a small smile that dies on her lips, “Only to die of cancer, when I was five.” She plays with the straw in her milkshake, “All I had of him were his Hank Williams records, kinda turned me into country music. We used to dance around the kitchen to it. I guess I found comfort in it. And I just never stopped finding comfort in it, makes me feel like he’s still here.”

“I’m sorry about your dad.”

She shrugs her shoulders, “It’s just another sad story in a long line of sad stories.”

The only sounds that can be heard is the chatter of the waitresses and the clinging of pots and pans.

“After your accident, we had some rocky times between the band. And I remember Roger would blare Hank Williams, when he was getting ready to go on stage.” Deaky looks at her, really looks at her and he sees how her eyes light up at the revelation. “Said it was his way of feeling like you were there, even when you weren’t.”

“Took my coma for him to appreciate my musical taste.” She deadpans. And the rest of the meal is spent in silence.

Her brows knitting in confusion, as they are walking back to to the Come to think of it those records at Freddie’s aren’t dad’s. I don’t even know where dad’s records are anymore. The last of dad just gone.”

The sounds of a country drawl lull him out of his sleep. He opens the door to his dressing room, head peaking out to find the source of the music. His feet take him to Roger’s dressing room. He opens the door to find what he least expected to find, Roger head in his hands as “I Saw the Light,” drifts off the cement block walls of the arena dressing rooms. Roger wasn’t a religious man, but Deaky knew this song wasn’t being played for religious purposes. It reminded Roger of someone, and with it the memories of her singing it. Those memories comforted him, when he couldn’t be at her beside. Maybe in a way, it was akin to a religious experience for him.

For two years, Hank Williams lulled him to sleep on couches across the world’s arenas. Until, that day when Roger decides to put it behind him. Deaky finds the Hank Williams records in the trash bin of the arena, he notices a pretty redhead knock on Roger’s dressing room door. Deaky takes the records from the trash, and he notices how old they are. And the intials etched on the cover OLH, it takes all of him not to march in Roger’s dressing room and drag him out by his hair. But, instead he takes the records with him. Closing the door to his dressing room, he slips the record out. He puts it on the player, when he walks to the couch he notices a note fell out the cover. He unfolds the note, finding a tear stained letter.

Dearest O,

I don’t want to write this, actually put it off until I could. But I can’t anymore. Soon, it’s just going to be just you and your mama. You have to be a big girl for your daddy, now. No tears, no fear, just be brave. I need you to be good for your mamma, she needs you. Do what she says, even if you don’t want too, which I know you never want to do what she says. I know you think she’s hard on you, she only is hard on you cause she loves you. And she just wants the best for you, she wants your life to be easier than ours was. Just remember everytime you listen to one of these Hank Williams albums, I’m right there with you. Singing along, while dancing around with kitchen with you. I’ll always be with you. I’ll be the wind that carries the leaves that dance around you in the fall, the sunshine that warms you up, I’ll be everywhere you are, where ever you are, there I’ll be. I love you, O. I’ll love you until the sea meets the sky.

Deaky folds the letter back up, placing it snuggly in the cover. The next thing he knows the phone is in his hand, and he’s waking Veronica up at 2 am to speak to his children. When they leave the arena the next hour, he put the records in his bags. He notices Roger has his sunglasses on, and his arm draped around the same redhead from earlier. And so begins the revolving door of groupies, until Roger meets a dark haired girl that reminds him of someone else.

“I have them.” Deaky says as they reach Garden Lodge.

“Why would you have them?”

He can’t tell her the truth, that Roger throw them away in some arena trash can in the States. So he covers it with a lie, he has to save her from the truth that Roger threw away the last of her dad so he could put her in the rearview mirror. “You let me borrow them before the accident.”

“Oh!” She still looks puzzled, knowing damn well she wouldn’t let anyone touch those records. But whatever Deaky isn’t telling her, she decides it best she doesn’t uncover it. “Can I have them back?”

“Of course, I was keeping them safe for you.” And that wasn’t a lie, it was a truth. Those records were locked in safe in his house, so the kids couldn’t destroy them.

The next day, Deaky is back with at Freddie’s with the records in hand. He notices Roger’s car is in the drive. He opens the front door to hear Liv laugh, and the sounds of a Felix stringing together some sound. He walks into the living room to find Roger and Freddie sitting in chair facing opposite each other, while Liv is on a pallet on the floor playing with Felix and Jimmy, Brian’s son. And the second Liv notices Deaky has arrived, her eyes zero in on what he’s holding. She leaves Felix laying on the pallet, but Jimmy is running after her. “Daddy’s records!” She sounds like a little girl. And as Deaky puts them in her hands, Roger’s eyes are as wide as saucers. Liv darts out of the living room, Jimmy hot in her heels, as she’s explaining to him about Hank Williams. The two year old is enamored with her, as she scoops him up. She’s running up the stairs to her room, focused on showing Jimmy the her dad’s records. Once Liv is out of earshot, Deaky decides it’s time to face the truth.

“Luckily I fished them out, knew she’d want them.” Deaky doesn’t skip a beat, as he situates himself on the couch. “Throwing out her dead dad’s records, that’s low.”

Freddie looks at Roger, “Was this during-”

“Yeah.” Roger interrupts him, as he bends down to pick up his son.

“He didn’t know what he was doing.” Freddie says defending Roger’s actions from three years ago. As if they could be defended, as if it was something so simple.

“Who didn’t know what they were doing?” Brian asks as he comes from the kitchen, three cups of tea in hand. He hands two cups to Freddie, one for him and one for Liv. He sits a cup beside Roger’s chair, and the other beside the spot he was occupying. He turns to Deaky, “Hello, John! Tea?” Deaky responds with a nod at Brian. Brian is back in a second, handing the cup to Deaky before taking a seat. Brian of course doesn’t let his question go, “Who didn’t know what they were doing?”

“Apparently Roger, didn’t know what he was doing when he threw away Liv’s dead dad’s records on tour in America.” Deaky’s words cut like a knife, and every word was meant to kill. “Of course Rog and Fred think it’s okay he did that, right?” Deaky looks at them, “Because of the cocaine?”

Brian looks at Roger, “What the fuck?!” Brian looks disgusted, “And you blame it on the drugs?”

“I went back for them the next day,” Roger looks like he’s on the verge of crying, “When I realized what I did-”

Freddie steps in, “He told me, after I punched him in the face. We went to the arena and turned every trash can inside out. But it was too late, they were gone.” Freddie is pleading, “We tried, Roger tried. He was just in a bad place.”

“And that makes it alright?” Deaky snorts.

“Please don’t tell her.” It’s all Roger can say, he can’t let her find that out. He can’t. And he knows Freddie won’t let it happen. Because Freddie was with him that night, when he smashed his drum set and destroyed everything in his hotel room.

“He won’t.” Freddie says finitely, turning to Deaky. “Will you, John?”

“No.” Deaky looks at Roger and Freddie. “But not because you asked me to, but because Liv doesn’t need you to break her heart a second time.” Deaky looks at Felix, “She can handle that fact that you moved on, that you settled down. She can be happy for you.” Deaky gulps his tea down. “But she won’t forgive you when she finds out, that you threw out something out of hers that was the last thing she had of her dad.”

“Thank you.” Roger says quietly. Freddie mouths a thank you to Deaky but he doesn’t say a word. And Brian seems like he is trying to process the information.

“You got it Jimmy!” Liv has the record player in her hands, and Jimmy is carrying the records. She sets up the record player in the hallway. She puts on the record, and Hank Williams voice floats through Garden Logde. And the three of them, with Felix in Rogers arms watch as Liv and Jimmy fight a fit of giggles as they dance.

“I did it cause I remember what that looked like.” Deaky says pointing to Liv twirling Jimmy around in her arms. “Maybe that morning you woke up, you remembered it too.”

#roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x reader #queen imagines #roger taylor x y/n #roger taylor angst #ben hardy! roger taylor #ben hardy as roger taylor #ben hardy x reader #queen fanfiction #roger taylor

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dreamingfanficsmasher · 5 years ago

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A Secret Chord (Part 3)

Notes: So I am really getting into writing for this story, especially with lockdown and all. Please let me know if you want to be tagged. Also i know it seems a lot of the story takes place at a party, but i promise that is just for now!

P.S For some reason my whole inbox has been wiped out, I have no idea what has happened. So anybody who had requested prompts or anything, and has not yet received their request, please message me again, and I will sort it out!

Summary: You and George had been back together for a while now, but after you do something at John’s birthday party. Roger is forced to intervene and talk to you. Warnings: mention of drug use. This part is quite long so gear up!

Part 1, Part 2

Its been months since you and George had gotten back together and lets just say that those had not been the best months of your relationship. Some how the emotions of George leaving and coming back, the way he no longer trusted you, and the confusing way you felt towards Roger, had all taken a toll on you.

You were back to the way you were before you met George; you drank a lot more, cocaine was your friend every now and then, and you hardly saw Rog and the boys anymore.

All of them were seriously worried for you when they heard that you had gotten back together with George. Now they are even more worried about you, they hardly see you or hear from you, and when they do, all they see is the fear and pain in your eyes, along with the way your voice breaks whenever talking about George.

So, when they noticed you arrive at John’s birthday party, one could say that they were surprised to see you, but also heartbroken to see how broken you had become. George had always been the life of the party, no matter the occasion, so of course he wanted to attend John’s birthday.

“Darling! It has been forever since we have seen you. It’s great to see that you’re still alive!” Freddie pulled you in for a tight embrace, “George, how are you?” He nodded at George; you could tell by the way his eyes got cold that he was clearly no longer a fan of your boyfriend.

Before George could answer, you were scooped up by Brian, “Y/N! It has been so long!” You started to giggle, then you noticed John peeping over Brian’s shoulder waiting to greet you.

“Hi Deacy! Happy Birthday!” You pulled him in for a tight embrace, placing a kiss on his cheek, watching him go red as you did so. John had always been like a brother to you, even though you were always the closest to Roger, you and John always had a brother-sister relationship.

“Where’s Rog?” Your eyes darted around the three boys, you then noticed the scowl your boyfriend had given you from the corner of his eye, making you withdraw into yourself. “Just curious.” You squeaked, refusing to look at George.

All three of the boys noticed this reaction, but chose to ignore it, not wanting to make your life anymore difficult. “He’s around here somewhere, probably run off with Ally, he’s bound to show his face soon.” Freddie piped up, not realising how your face dropped at the mention of another girl.

You soon found yourself partying quite intensely with George, drinking twice your combined body weights. George had pulled you towards a small table where a lot of people were crowded doing lines.

With no hesitation, you closed your right nostril with your finger, bent down, and took a large sniff of a line. You then straightened up again, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, when you caught a certain pair of piercing blue eyes. It was Roger.

He had a girl on his arm, the same bimbo from the other night, who you assumed to be Ally. You politely gave him a small smile, but he just gave you this look. A look that clearly said; What are you doing? This is not you.

You still thought to yourself that he was being a hypocrite, as he also does it. So, ignoring Roger’s judgement, you decided to then do another line. And another. And another.

Soon the night became a complete fuzzy blur of you dancing, snorting and drinking.

~The next morning~

Roger had woken up in one of the many guest rooms, with a naked Ally sleeping soundly next to him. His head felt like it was going to explode, and his heart ached at the thought of how you acted the night before. He knew you, that wasn’t you.

He also knew that you hated being like that, so if you had reduced yourself back to that, there was definitely something wrong and someone to blame.

He made his way outside to the back porch, walking over many passed out figures, and laughing at a shirtless John sleeping on the large sofa, Veronica being clutched to his side.

As he took a drag of his cigarette, he noticed a sleeping figure on the grass, to which he shook his head and moved his gaze elsewhere. But then something clicked, his gaze quickly shifted back to the figure, it had the same hair colour as yours, and was wearing your dress from the night before.

He quickly put out his cigarette and rushed towards the body. You were ice cold, and you wouldn’t wake up, you were breathing at least. Your nose was raw and bleeding, your skin was pale, and you had a stench of alcohol on you.

Worst of all, George was nowhere to be seen. Roger then recalled the night before; as he was walking up the stairs with Ally, he noticed George leave the party, but he just figured you went with him. He never thought that your boyfriend would be so careless to leave his drunk and clearly drugged out girlfriend by herself at a party.

He quickly scooped you up, a lump in his throat forming, and brought you inside.

~A couple hours later~

You woke up in a strange bed, your head wouldn’t stop banging, and your nose felt like it was on fire. You definitely overdid it.

You noticed the bottle of painkillers on the bedside table along with a glass of water, you quickly gulped down two tablets, before noticing you were not alone.

You didn’t even see the figure sitting next to you on the bed, his eyes riddled with exhaustion along with concern. “Roger? What happened?” You yawned, placing your palm on your brow.

“Well, you got pretty fucked up. Drank a lot, and you probably sniffed enough cocaine to supply the whole party.” He sighed, but you could tell he was not angry. “I then found you this morning, passed out on the grass, and you’ve been out for about 6 hours now, since then.”

Before you could respond, you could feel your stomach churning, and you started gagging. Roger quickly grabbed the room’s dustbin, and brought it to your face, kindly letting you spew your guts out. He just gently stroked your hair, taking the bin from you when you were finished.

“Where’s George?” You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, and then took a large gulp of water.

“Good fucking question.” He sighed, staring at you. Now you could tell that he was angry, but still not at you.

You just mouthed an ‘oh’ while thinking of something else to say.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” You just looked at him, very confused by his question. You were going to give a snarky comment but decided that now was not the proper time nor place.

“Y/N, you’re back with this guy, who left you for a month, because he didn’t trust you enough to believe that you weren’t sleeping with me, may I add. He treats you like shit, he has got you back into the drugs and alcohol and partying, which you hated about yourself. I mean to the point that you came to us to help you. And he doesn’t even have the decency to bother to take you home, or to pick you up when you’re passed out.”

You were about to say something, but then he cut you off before you could. “Do you see him anywhere? Because I surely don’t, it’s just me. Y/N it breaks our hearts to see you like this, he’s not good for you.”

You could see that his eyes were now watering, which showed you that he did genuinely care. But you also noted that he said our hearts, not my heart, meaning that he only sees you as a friend.

However, you also found yourself infuriated at the fact that he is telling you how to live your life.

“Excuse me Roger, but I do not need you telling me who to date and how I should live my life. You do lines too, you also drink, and oh yes, you do in fact party. So, don’t be a hypocrite! Anyway! Why do you care? You have Ally, she perfectly satisfies your need for a woman’s attention. So, leave me alone, okay! I know what I’m doing!” You wanted to take the words back the minute you said them, you knew they were harsh.

Instead, you took out a cigarette, fumbling with the lighter to get it to light. You were so nervous for the fight that was about to break out with Roger now, you said some pretty hurtful words, you were just waiting for the retaliation.

But he didn’t. He just bent down to your eye level, and gently took the lighter out of your hands, bringing it up to the cigarette between your lips, lighting it for you.

Your eyes never left his, the entire time, a single tear falling down your cheek at the tenderness of his actions. He then placed a small kiss to your cheek and stood up.

“Call me if you need anything, Y/N.” And with that he left the room, slowly closing the door behind him.

Leaving you smoking in the dark by yourself.

Part 4

Tags: @cubedtriangle @jennyggggrrr @rogertaylorfanfic @queen-rogertaylor @queenrogah @brian-roger-deaky-and-fred @sevenseasofskye @hardforbenhardy @rogersgirlfriend @benhardyisdaddy @39taylor @debdarkpetal @rogerinamelinamaydeaconxoxo

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illfoandillfie · 4 years ago

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Heyyo I love when you take blurb requests because i know we are going to be Fed 😍 anyways I would love a continuation of the meet cute with the Cross rog now that he knows she's single and ready to mingle he can let his cheeky/flirty seduction take over!! 😳🔥

ahhh this was a fun one to go back to!

No warning, just short and sweet and a lil bit flirty

Meet Cute

Blurb Advent: Day 11

~~~

You followed Roger back inside the studio where everyone else seemed to be finishing up and packing away their instruments. Peter immediately looked your way and you gave him a sly thumbs up to let him know you got the date.

“Give me a second,” Roger said quietly, heading back to the mixing desk. You took the opportunity to head towards Peter.

“Think I might need a rain check on that movie,”

“Well done on successfully seducing Rog then,”

“Thanks,” you laughed, “Wouldn’t have taken so long if he hadn’t thought we were an item. Apparently something Spike said gave him that impression,”

“Urgh, gross,” Peter scrunched up his nose, “That’d be like dating my sister,”

“Preaching to the choir, man.”

“Are you gonna be free tomorrow?”

“Well,” you looked over at Roger who was slipping his wallet into his pocket, “I mean, I guess that depends on how well things go this afternoon. I’ll call you in the morning and tell you how it went.”

“Nothing too detailed, please,”

“I can’t make any promises.” You laughed as you leaned in to hug Peter and kissed his cheek.

Goodbyes were said, most of the band catching you in hugs as you headed for the exit accompanied by Roger. You couldn’t help but giggle at Spike’s shocked expression when Roger placed his hand on the small of your back as he walked you out to his car, steering you in the right direction.

“So, did you have somewhere in mind?” he asked, opening the passenger door for you,”

“Thanks,” you said as you slid into the seat and reached for your belt, continuing talking once Roger had taken his place behind the wheel, “There’s this nice little café a couple of streets over,”

“The one with all the yellow beach umbrellas over the tables outside?”

“Yeah, you know it?”

“We do a lot of coffee runs while we’re recording and they’re do the best cup in the area,”

“I imagine you’d need the caffeine to get through an album. Is it always as repetitive as it was today?”

Roger laughed, the sound warm, “Yeah, pretty much. It can drag on a bit sometimes too, especially if everyone’s got different ideas about what it should sound like. It’s fun though,” he said quickly, “We’re always goofing around and making jokes. Much more fun recording an album with the band than on my own, especially when you have to stay at it late to get things finished.”

“I had fun in there with you all today,”

“You did?”

“Yeah. It was nice seeing what Peter does and I’ve met the others before so it was good to catch up with them. Plus, watching you.” “Watching me?” Roger looked over to you with a raised eyebrow and then back to the road as he found a parking spot.

“Oh yeah. All I could think about was getting you alone so I could ask you out.”

“Well you got me,” he laughed, leading you towards the café. You took your seats, outside under one of the umbrellas, and ordered your drinks. Roger added in a couple of the slices of cake he’d seen in the display at the counter, double checking they were okay with you. There was a pause as the waitress walked away but Roger was quick to fill it.

“So how long have you known Peter?”

“Oh god, years. He lived next door to me when we were kids and our mums sort of became friends and would baby sit for each other. Kind of had no choice but to be Peter’s friend since I saw him so often.”

“Oh wow, so you go right back,”

“Yeah, bit crazy really.” Roger laughed again, “Little bit. Has he always been so…”

“Mischievous?” “Yes, that’s a good word for it,”

You laughed, “Yeah he was a right little shit from day one,” Roger joined in with your laughter as he told you about some of Peter’s antics in the studio, until the laughter naturally subsided. “Enough about Peter, I already know him. Tell me about yourself. Are you still studying?”

Aside from a few small pauses between topics, talking to Roger was easy. He was charming and kind, asking you lots of questions and telling you about his own life. He mentioned Queen of course, but it wasn’t in a braggy way. And he never acted as if he was doing you a favour by letting you be seen with him. Midway through the conversation a young fan interrupted to ask for an autograph. Roger was happy to oblige, asking the boys name as he signed his own and then apologised to you once and continued on with his story without making a big deal of it. On top of how down to earth he was, Roger also had a wicked sense of humour, able to find the joke in just about any situation and matched your flirting equally. It was a fun first date, and a lot less awkward than most you’d been on.

Afterwards Roger offered to drop you home, once again opening the passenger door for you and continuing your conversation in between checking he was driving in the right direction. He pulled up outside your apartment building and offered to walk you to the door.

“I had a really great time,” you said as you fell in step beside him.

“Yeah me too. I’m really glad Peter brought you along and that you aren’t seeing him,”

You laughed, “I’m very glad I came.”

“I think I already know the answer but, can I see you again?” “Yes, definitely. But, if you didn’t want to say goodbye just yet, you could come up to my flat.” For the first time all afternoon Roger seemed a little lost for words.

“Not the answer you were expecting?”

“The first part was,” he looked over your shoulder at the doorway, as if considering your offer, “I like how forward you are and it’s a very tempting offer but I really should be off. I wasn’t expecting to end up on a date today and I’m meant to be meeting with a few record company people this evening. Sorry,”

“You don’t even have time for one drink?”

Roger let out a breathy laugh as he looked down, “No, unfortunately not. I get the feeling that if I went up to yours, I wouldn’t want to leave again too soon.” “That’s probably true. But you better call soon so you can find out for real.”

#my writing #my blurbs #blurb advent 2020 #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor imagine #Anonymous #bit different to what i posted yesterday lmao #idk if this is any good #im very tired

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drunklander · 5 years ago

Text

Drunj!Der Yells About Outlander

Thoughts on Ep. 502

Watched this episode after winning Wynonna Earp trivia (fuck yeah, The Shit Tickets!) at a bar, put on by a queer af podcast, followed by going to see a queer af movie, and was all ready to get my Beauchamp fix... And it was like oh here’s a taste and a hint that we’re gonna end up in a story line similar to what we’ve already done multiple times, but now on to the menfolk.

For real though, this episode was like an OL greatest hits clip show. It had all the stuff we’ve seen before. A time traveler who wants to go home? Check. Rape PTSD? Check. A man being a dad to a kid who isn’t/might not be his? Check. That same man being the absolute worst? Check. Claire being reckless with future medicine? Check. Townsfolk questioning Claire’s medical knowledge in favor of the local Man of Importance? Check. Jamie trying to be on both sides at once? Check. A villain who seemed to have died the previous season and should have fucking stayed dead? Check.

We’ve literally seen all of this stuff before.

For a show that spent the first part of season two claiming to be a political drama and then last season claiming that they “weren’t political” I see we’re back to just leaning hard into politics that have direct parallels today.

No fucks left to give about the system Murtz is kind of my favorite Murtz. Like this dude spent his whole life living by a code and an oath and was fucked over by the system so many fucking times that he’s ready to just burn it all down. Curious to see how they walk the domestic terrorist vs. freedom fighter line with him for the rest of the season.

Got all excited about the bread title card because yay medicinal mold, but of course, the lead character was relegated to the B story.

Old timey medicine baffles me. Like the fact that bleeding someone was like a catchall remedy boggles the mind.

I feel rull bad for Mrs. Whoeverthefuck though. She tried.

Also, shit like this makes me be like, yo Claire, you sure you wanna stay here? Jamie’s really not all that and a bag of chips. But you do you, boo.

Speaking of Jamie, his hair looks really good. A thousand fruit baskets to the new wig person.

Lulz at Knox thinking the Gathering was about being loyal to king and country. Dummy.

Srsly though, Murtz Valmurtz is really getting under their skin. Is he like the *only* Regulator leader?

The convo between Knox and Jamie is literally as relevant today as it is in the 1770s. But yeah, the show IsN’t PoLiTiCaL.

The fact that fuckers think those at the bottom should be happy with their lot because “lol it could be worse” need to be punched in the face and taken out of power. Stat.

Also any time someone in power talks about civility as a reason not to rise up against injustice, I want to punch them. Because they deserve it.

I want to punch a lot of things.

This whole episode is very Les Mis, tbh.

Literalol at Claire covering dead guy’s face and not his body cavity before Bree comes in.

Aw Bree, why you gotta be a buzzkill? We were cheated of badass Doctor!Claire in S3. Let us have this.

Also, yeah, Claire, Bree’s fucking right. Which you’d think you’d know by now what with alL THE FUCKING TIMES YOU’VE BEEN CALLED A WITCH. AND NOW YOU’RE UPPING YOUR GAME TO LIKE NECROMANCY?!

Also the more she says no one will find out the more annoying it is because *clearly* someone *is* gonna find out and we’re gonna be back on the “she’s a witch!” “I’m not a witch!” “you literally have a dead guy in your closet!” merry-go-round again.

Today in most on-the-nose shots ever: How convenient that Marsali just happens to be doing some butchering right there, right then.

Petition for the show to go full Shondaland and just turn into a backwoods medical drama with Claire and Marsali, and all the others (cough the men cough) can fuck on off.

Tarring and feathering is like the old timey version of #AlwaysPunchAFascist but dialed to 11.

Oh the baggage behind Jamie saying redcoat man will someday wear his scars with honor that none of these fuckers know about...

Ok so clearly the English know that Claire’s a doctor so whenever shit hits the witchy dead dude fan, can we please have a quick resolution and not that dumb af “Claire goes to jail and of course her cellmate is a lesbian because Diana sucks at writing queer characters” nonsense?

Man Jamie is *not* subtle with this convo at the jail. Like Knox is right there and he’s just like hey buddies, I have people and we’re Scottish and y’know how we feel about protecting people vs. obeying the English.

I AM SPARTACUS FITZGIBBONS!

Aaand, naturally, the fuckwit preaching civility is the one to kill a man in cold blood. Rise up, motherfuckers. Rise up.

THANK FUCK ROGER IS A TERRIBLE SHOT BECAUSE IF THAT SQUIRREL DIED I WOULD LEGIT QUIT THE SHOW. RUN AWAY AND BE FREEEEEE YOU PRECIOUS LIL WILDERNESS FLOOFER!

Roger is, and I cannot stress this enough, the fucking worst.

He’s like look how shitty I am at being a soldier but then bitches about having to try to learn. And then he bitches about how dumb it is to shoot at squirrels as if being able to hit a squirrel wouldn’t make hitting a much larger thing, like a man who is shooting back at you, that much easier. And also, how the fuck does he think they get meat to eat? Shooting it, you twatwaffle.

And he’s like so fucking butthurt about being left behind. Like no shit, asshat. You’re bad at being in the past and have made no real effort and you whine a lot and are generally the worst. Of *course* you were left behind. Stop being emo about it and maybe actually try.

“He doesn’t respect me, Bree.” Yeah, no shit. Because you’ve done LITERALLY NOTHING to earn his respect. WHY ARE YOU SO TERRIBLE IT’S LIKE THEY’RE INTENTIONALLY TRYING TO MAKE HIM SUCK.

He also is like butthurt that his wife is a better shot than him when she gets the turkey he misses. How the fuck are we supposed to ship this. Ugh.

#BreeDeservesBetter

Oh Bree, sweetie, Jem won’t get hit by a car, but there are like eleventy million ways to die in the past. Just stick with the “you want to stay with your family” stuff.

Roger clearly doesn’t want to stay and is gonna pull a Fred and make Bree feel bad about wanting to all season, isn’t he. Fahkin’ doucherocket.

“I want to go but I’ll stay for you and look how magnanimous I am as I whine about it and make no effort to acclimate to the time.” Take your martyr card and shove it, Rog.

Shorter Jamie Fraser: “If you stand for nothing, Knox, what’ll you fall for?”

I’m already over Roger singing all the time tbh. Mostly because it reminds me that soon he won’t be able to do that anymore and we’re gonna be subjected to like half a season of him being more insufferable than he already is.

Wait, was Joan already born last episode? Or was there another time jump? Is Marsali preggers with baby #3? I lost track.

I love this scene between Claire and Marsali with my whole heart. Marsali especially.

CAN WE PLEASE JUST HAVE A WHOLE SHOW OF THESE TWO BEING ALL BADASS AND DOCTORY TOGETHER!?

Although, quick question, how fucking long is Claire planning to keep that un-embalmed body lying around in an un-refrigerated surgery/root cellar? Just curious...

Because you know someone’s gonna find it eventually and that’s gonna be a whole to do and I really need to stop being preemptively annoyed at plot lines that haven’t actually happened yet.

And with all this talk of plowshares and swords, I really am going to be singing Les Mis for days...

How long have these biddies been living on the Ridge? The fucking Leoch folks spent like a minute with Claire before they were like yep, she knows what’s up. These folks have apparently been here for months and are like loool, pass. They live in the fucking woods. You’d think they’d be more open to Claire’s brand of medicine.

Omg are they like the accidental antivaxxers of the Ridge?

#VaccinateYourFuckingKids

I mean, Bree, I think there’s some difference between Claire pretending to be a dude doc and telling folks to wash their hands and Otter Tooth.

Season 2 Claire and Otter Tooth on the other hand...

Ok so Jamie needs more men so that means next week is AHS: Beardsley Farm and then maybe (hopefully) instead of being like lol jk you can all go home, it actually goes right into the battle thing. Still not sure if they’re gonna do Roger getting hanged as the mid-season big thingy and then do the Bonnet nonsense in the back half or keep trying to do both of those at once.

Hey, Roger, pro-tip, next time you see Morag MacKenzie, maybe don’t fuCKING MAKE OUT WITH HER YOU FUCKING DUMBASS.

Claire’s totally right about how they should go back. Honestly, they should. But instead of talking with her like Claire is now with Roger, he’s just being all moody about how he’s bad at the past and wants to go back. You’re shooting yourself in the foot, broski.

Oh hey Husband the Quaker. And is that a fellow Quaker named Hunter with him? Are we gonna get Denny and Rachel this season?! Please and thank you that’d be great, I love them.

Murtz talking to his squad is full on Enjolras being like don’t worry fam, Marius will stand and fight with us. His place is there, he’ll fight with you.

The two very different but very similar ways Murtz and Jamie approach being Laird of their squads is fun to explore.

Bree lecturing Claire about changing the future by saving a few backwater hicks like Claire didn’t spend years trying to fucking change all of Scottish history is a bit rich. Like writers, we get it, you’re trying to be like oh snap, wait for the consequences of this bread!science! But like come the fuck on. We sat through all of season two.

“You’re a good dad, you know that?” Oh man, I’m getting that déjà vu about a shitty man getting kudos for being a good dad to a kid as if that negates all of his shittiness.

Oh hey, Bonnet’s back. Clearly we couldn’t have just let him die last season. Gotta drag shit on for longer than it has to. This is the [Outlander] Way.

If they were gonna keep him around as a villain, they shouldn’t have (in addition to all the other reasons) included him raping Bree. Jamie, Murtagh and Bonnet all making choices within and outside of the law to various degrees in order to make their living in the Colonies would be a really interesting contrast. But nope, gotta just go all in. BeCaUsE tHe BoOk.

Also I hate with the passion of a thousand fiery suns the Jemmy’s paternity stuff. Le sigh.

Remember in season one when the show was about Claire and she was in episodes for longer than 10 minutes?

I miss Claire.

#*#outlander starz #outlander 5x02 #drunj!der yells about outlander

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izzy-b-hands · 5 years ago

Text

You Send Me: Chapter Two

A bad night that gets better, and a sign that maybe this tour will be special for more than just being Y/N’s first with Queen.

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

The next day was a whirlwind. In part because you were fighting to be not behind on time anymore, and in part because...well. It was a tour with Queen. For it to not be a whirlwind would perhaps have been more unusual, as far as you knew.

And this show was a rough one. Issues with the power, issues with instruments, and a crowd that, just as Freddie would get them hyped and standing, was immediately shouted at by security to simmer down.

“Fuck!”

The mic stand half flew in your direction, and you just managed to catch it as Freddie stomped backstage.

He stopped when he saw you, and for a moment his anger over the night seemed to pause. “Christ, did I nearly spear you with that?”

“Good hand-eye coordination practice,” you replied, holding the mic stand half as if it were gold (and as far as you were concerned, it was.) “No harm, no foul.”

“Sorry,” Freddie muttered, before dropping into the first chair he saw. “That would be a fitting end to the night. Running you off to hospital, because I accidentally stabbed you.”

You hesitated. There wasn’t really anything good to say; the night was what it was, and there was no way to magically make it better.

“Well, it was good dodging practice, in case I ever do anything to get myself fired.”

Freddie had been glaring up at the ceiling tiles, but tilted his head back down to smirk at you as the rest of the band trickled into the room. “I like this one. He’s funny, the rest of you never are on nights like this.”

“And why the fuck should we be?” Roger spat.

“Don’t,” Brian said sharply, and you winced as Roger whirled around.

Instead of shouting, he pouted, and sighed. “The rest of the shows will be better. They have to be.”

“Who says that?” John asked and smiled, but the smile dropped along with the temperature in the room as the rest of the band glared in his direction. “Fuck’s sake. I was just joking.”

“We’re all just tired,” Freddie sighed. “And frustrated. We should go before we tear this room to shreds.”

“You were thinking of that?” Roger asked. “I thought I was the only one.”

“No,” Brian responded as Freddie nodded. “Me as well. Would be satisfying to just...”

“Lose it?” John finished the sentence with a raise of his brow.

“That,” you said with a slight tremor in your voice. “Could be fun. But, and stay with me-”

“What if we didn’t?” Freddie chuckled. “So you all don’t have to clean up after us? That’s a fair point. We’ll have to shake this off some other way.”

“How?” Roger muttered as he changed, tossing his used clothes back into the suitcase they’d come from.

“Let’s ask the American,” Freddie mused. “You know the place best. Where can we go to let off some steam?”

“Uh,” you mumbled. “This is a big city, I’m sure I can find something. For now, maybe drinks and venting round the table together, I mean that’s what I do usually, well, I’m usually alone but I vent to myself and that’s helpful at times so maybe-”

You stopped as you felt all of their eyes on you.

“You willing to play Agony Aunt?” John asked.

“Me? I’d come with?”

“Why ever not?” Freddie asked. “Your suggestion, you should come with. And you know just how bad the night was, seeing it from your side of things, so you can vent with us.”

You hesitated. “The rest of the crew...”

“Crystal!” Roger shouted into the hall.

“What?!”

“Are you busy?”

Crystal’s head popped around the doorway, and he gestured for you to bring him Freddie’s mic stand half. “No, just shutting down and cleaning up an entire fucking stage set, not busy at all. Do you need something, or is this one here incapable of helping you all?”

“That’s what I mean,” Roger replied. “He’s gonna come listen to us bitch at the bar. Said it’ll be better anger management than tearing this room to bits and pieces. Think you can spare him?”

Crystal looked at Roger, then at you, then back to Roger, his face a mix of confusion and frustration. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do with him, so long as you consider it him working and helping out.”

“There,” Roger said with a grin. “They’ll be fine without you, you even have permission from one of the boss men. Come on, let’s go!”

“I’m still changing!” John protested.

Freddie hadn’t even started to change, still slumped in the chair, an arm tossed over his eyes. “John is still changing, and I will be. Eventually. Just relax, Rog.”

Roger shook his head at you. “Musicians. Honestly.”

Brian scoffed. “And what are you then?”

“The man who didn’t take an hour to change out of his trousers,” Roger replied with a clap of his hands. “Come on, get moving! I need a drink.”

It took another fifteen minutes and a lifetime worth of frustrated grumbling, but finally you all were out the door and on the way to the nearest bar.

“God, fucking finally,” Roger muttered as the first round was brought to the table. “So, are you ready?”

You nodded, though you weren’t really. You were used to friends venting to you, but this was essentially as if your bosses were using you as a temporary counselor. What should you say to certain complaints? What shouldn’t you say? Should you say anything at all, or just listen?

“The fucking power,” John groaned. “How do you have a building that isn’t even that old, and you can’t keep the damn power on in it? I swear, the next venue that can’t keep the lights and electric on-”

“You’ll promptly rewire their entire place?” Freddie interrupted with a smile.

“I just might,” John sniffed. “I could.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Freddie said. “And the security! What was their problem? I mean it, does America have something against people enjoying music?”

It took you a moment to realize the question was directed at you. “Ah. No. I mean, not exactly. But I think they worry about the crowd getting out of hand more than anything else. That’s what security at my old venue always told me, at least. Said it could be dangerous to the band.”

“They’re mostly kids though,” Brian said. “And even the older ones I mean...so what? A bunch of people our age, how much damage are they going to do?”

“Crowds can, when they want to,” you admitted. “There was the night a chandelier fell, one of the last nights I worked the old venue...”

In an instant, all eyes were on you.

“Did it fall on anyone?” Roger asked.

“No,” you replied, sipping politely at the beer you weren’t exactly thrilled with the taste of, but were grateful for nonetheless. “They just kept climbing up to it and yanking on it, any way they could, in their excitement and want to get ‘wild’ I guess, and not five minutes after the last patron was out of the auditorium area, down it went!”

“What a shame,” Freddie murmured. “Was it insured? I’m sure it must have been, if the venue was an older one.”

You winced. “It was. But that policy lapsed in 1946, and our boss never re-upped it.”

They shared your wince at that.

“I bet I can guess who got to clean it,” Brian smiled.

“I bet you can,” you replied. “I still have a scar to show for it, actually.”

They leaned in as you showed off a white and not yet fading scar on your wrist. “I slipped, on my knees picking up some of the glass that had been on it. Didn’t even feel it though until I my boss came in and gave me hell about the blood on the floor.”

“Christ,” John murmured. “He helped you clean then?”

You chuckled. “No. He told me to finish up, and then he brought me a first aid kit, a mop, some water, and a brush for the floor so I could clean the blood!”

“Better that you’re with us now,” Freddie said. “We won’t put you on lone chandelier clean up, or let you bleed out on a floor.”

“Among other benefits, like this round that is on me,” Roger said as a new round was brought to the table.

“Oh no, I can-”

But your protests were quashed each time, with varying defenses from ‘But it’s my turn to pay anyway, Y/N,’ to ‘We pay you so it would be like you paying us to drink if you pay for these. We’ve got it.’

You didn’t mean to drink so much, and you didn’t think the band meant to either, but it was a good thing you were all able to prop each other up as you made it to the hotel.

“Careful!” Freddie cried as you stopped first at John’s room, helping Freddie to drop him on the bed. “He’s fragile.”

“How so?”

“He’s the youngest,” Freddie explained. “His mum worries about him, on tour, you know. It’s all very sweet.”

“I’m sure your mum worries about you being on tour as well,” you replied, struggling not to slur your way through the sentence.

He waved away your words as he led you back into the hall, to retrieve Roger and Brian from where you’d leaned them against the hall wall.

Roger managed to get into his room on his own, giving you a monster of a hug before he did. “You’re a smart man, d’you know that? That was much better than breaking shit backstage.”

Freddie helped free you from Roger’s grasp with a giggle, before waving him off to bed. “It was a good suggestion. Only thing we had to pay for was drinks, not damages!”

“Not sure it was any cheaper,” Brian frowned.

“That’s John’s worry, and he’s sleeping,” Freddie protested. “We’ll worry about it later.”

“I did try to pay for some,” you noted.

They both shushed you as you all made it to Brian’s room, helping him slouch inside and find a glass of water before wishing him a good night.

“Where is your room again?” Freddie muttered, looking down the hall as if it might magically appear.

“I think it’s my turn to sleep in the van tonight,” you replied. To save on costs, each crew member took a turn either sharing a hotel room with other crew members, or would sleep in the van to make it one less room to have to rent.

“No!” Freddie scoffed. “Absolutely not, it is freezing out!”

“It’s August,” you giggled. “It can’t be freezing in August.”

Freddie half led, half dragged you down the hall, then up the staircase to his room. “Well, it is freezing in here, I know that much. So you can’t sleep in the van, you’ll be too cold.”

“That doesn’t track though,” you protested weakly with a laugh.

“Would you really rather be in the van?” Freddie asked, and there were the deep brown eyes again, locked on yours. Not as intense this time, a bit tired, probably in part from the alcohol and from the overall exhaustion of the night, but just as captivating nonetheless.

You shook your head, and let Freddie lead you into the room.

“Take the other bed, if you want,” Freddie said before flopping face down on the other. “No idea why they got me a room with two. Maybe it was the only one left. Worked out though, I suppose.”

You sat on the other bed, and giggled as you watched him roll back over.

“What? Do I look that daft right now?”

“You look cute,” you said, before you could halt your tongue.

Before Freddie could reply, you continued. “That was out of line, I’m sorry, maybe it’s because I’m drunk, I haven’t gotten drunk in ages, but that’s no excuse, but you are really cute, and pretty? Your eyes are gorgeous, has anyone ever said? Well, surely they have, and that’s even more out of line, and-”

Freddie struggled to his feet, only to stumble over and sit heavily beside you on the other bed.

“Can I ask you something? And you have to answer me honestly, and I think you will, because I think you’d tell me anything honestly right now,” Freddie said. “Are you saying all that just because...”

His gaze dropped to the floor, and you knew what he had been going to say. Because he was famous. Because he was who he was, the Freddie Mercury. A voice gifted from the gods, and performances that electrified anyone who saw them.

“No,” you replied. “I’d say that no matter what. Because you aren’t...”

It was hard to put into words, especially in your current state, but you tried. “I mean. You’re you, you know?”

Freddie nodded, and you were so glad he was just as drunk so your drunken rambling made some sense.

“But...there’s a difference. Between Freddie Mercury on stage, and Freddie greeting fans, and then Freddie here, who drinks with me and keeps me company when Crystal tricks me into stupid shit,” you continued. “And I like them all. I’ve always liked the Freddie on stage of course, who wouldn’t? And you’re incredibly kind to every fan I’ve ever seen you meet.”

You took a deep breath as one of his hands moved to yours, his long fingers moving yours to intertwine with his. “But I like this Freddie the best, I’m finding. You’re funny, and kind, and sweet to me. And I like talking to you, a lot.”

Freddie’s eyes met yours again, much more focused than they had been in the hall.

The kiss was soft as his lips, and his other hand moved to gently hold your face, the thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Does that mean we get to talk more after this?” you asked after he had moved back away, your eyes still closed as they had been for the kiss.

They burst open as he broke into laughter, his other hand still in yours. “Is that what you’d like it to mean?”

You nodded. “Maybe more?”

He nodded, but hesitantly. “This isn’t like-”

“I know,” you said, and his brow raised.

“Not because I’ve dated a rock star before,” you clarified. “But where I’m from...boys don’t...you don’t do this, what we just did, in public much. Not every one accepts, not many at all, so to be safe, you keep it quiet. Just for you and him and anyone who you feel safe to tell.”

He smiled. “You have no idea how nice it is not to have to worry about that. Or then again, maybe you do.”

You let your head slump against his shoulder, and nodded. “This isn’t going to end tomorrow, will it? It isn’t just because we’re drunk? Because I mean it, every word.”

He pulled you close and sighed happily. “No. Not ending tomorrow. It isn’t happening just because we’re drunk. I promise.”

You hoped desperately that it was really true. It wasn’t that you wanted to doubt him, it was just that in your experience, the doubt was often necessary and correct, and in the morning there was no boy to speak of or to, already gone with the sunrise.

“We need to sleep this off,” Freddie mumbled. “What time is it?”

“Early,” you said, looking at the clock on the wall that read 4 A.M. “Or late, depending on how you look at it.”

Freddie snickered as he pushed you gently back onto the bed and flopped down beside you. “Maybe both.”

“Both,” you agreed, and wrapped an arm around him, to match the arm he had already wrapped around you, pulling you close.

“Morning is going to hurt,” Freddie muttered before his eyes fluttered shut.

#text post #LeeH writes #Queen band fic #freddie mercury x reader #freddie mercury x male reader

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