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rentsturner · 3 years

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Bruised Knuckles | Mark Renton

Warnings - Reader has punched a wall, mentions/descriptions of injury, mentions of (non-specified) scars, alcohol and drugs, content that some people may find as very similar to self-harm, reader is paranoid and insecure. If any of this triggers you pls don’t continue to read. I’ve tried to note all the possible triggers.

wc - 1.7k

a/n - I’ve had a pretty shitty few days tbh and I still feel the lowest that I’ve felt in months. So I’ve channeled all of that into this fic. It’s quite angst heavy but there’s fluff at the end (what can I say, hurt and comfort is my shit). You may find the reader’s emotions a bit dramatic but I’ve basically self projected on to this and I’m not rlly arsed. Read the warnings and if you don’t like it, don’t read it. I don’t want any shit over this

It’s a cold day in Edinburgh, the skies grey and cloudy over the city.It’s been a long day without Mark. He’s been out since the early hours with Sickboy, no doubt dragged into another of Si’s infamous schemes, leaving you to spend the day alone in your tiny apartment. As much as you don’t want to admit it, the isolation has gotten to you - you slipped, more than once. Yeah, you regret it, but also there’s that nagging need for more at the back of your mind. You try to push it out, to forget about it, but the cold in the air doesn’t help to ease the ache in your knuckles.

The door to the apartment shuts with a click and a jangle of keys, footsteps heading towards the door. He’s back. A wave of relief, before you remember and your chest clenches in panic.

‘Alright, love?’ Mark flops onto the bed with a lazy grin, stretching his arms up over his head.

‘Yeah, fine, you?’ Keep it simple. You busy yourself with a stack of books by the bed, straightening the pile of novels so it’s not about to topple over. Keep the hand busy.

‘Yeah, alright. Si led us on a fucking wild goose chase but we got there in the end, y’know?’

You didn’t know, but you nodded along anyway and let him recount the story. You’re admiring the way his lashes flutter against his pale skin and how his arms flex as his hands come to rest behind his head, when you realise that Mark’s stopped talking. And you’ve stopped moving.

‘Your knuckle...” his eyes dart down to the hand you’ve been trying to hide ever since he walked through the door. Busted.

‘Oh.’ You move to get up, anything to get his eyes away from your swollen knuckles, red lines criss crossing over the flowering purple bruises where your hand collided with a solid wall. Multiple times. The open cuts are still weeping, even though it had happened hours ago.

‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ You offer a small smile, but it doesn’t fool Mark.

‘No.’ He moves as you do, standing in front of the bedroom door to block your escape. His arms are crossed over his chest, stance serious , but the worry in his blue eyes betrays him. ‘Love. Let me see it.’

He holds out his hand, pale fingers reaching out to you, his skin just as scarred as yours - different actions, same result. He knows how to help. The hand reaching,an offer of support, reassurance, love, all those things that you crave but can never admit. Emotions aren’t your forté - never have been.But Mark knows that. There’s no secrets between you. You almost laugh out loud at the thought. No secrets, but you won’t even show Mark your hand.

Mark would do anything for you, you know that - he tells you all the time. Days spent in bed chatting shit to each other.

‘I’d run to John O'Groats and back for you, y’know?’

‘Would you now, Mark? What about down to Land’s End?’

‘In a heartbeat.’

Bright eyes, wide smile. Your Mark. He’s joking, of course, but his tone is so serious, his answer without a second of hesitation. Your heart skips a beat.

So now, you give him your hand (and your heart).

He takes it tentatively, one cold hand underneath, the other poking at your raw knuckles gently. When one of his prods reaches a tender spot, you wince and he moves his finger away, meeting your gaze in apology.

‘You punch something?’ His brow creases, a hand running instinctively over his closely cropped hair, before scratching at the back of his neck. He refuses to grow it out, no matter how much you try to persuade him, still getting his razor out every other month like clockwork.

‘It’s easier this way.’ He insists. Less hassle in the morning is what he means.

The sting in your hand brings you back to the present.

‘No.’ You look away from Mark’s gaze, knowing that in doing so you’ll give yourself away, but not having the energy or willpower to stop yourself. Much like the ‘incident’ earlier in the day.

‘I’m going to take that as a yes.’ Mark huffs, not in anger, but in frustration - frustration that he wasn’t there to help, to calm you down. ‘Let me clean it up, give me a sec.’

His hand rubs at his eyes, scrunched shut for a moment. There’s dark bags marring his pale skin there - he’s tired too. He goes to move to the bathroom, but you grab his arm with your good hand, gripping it as tight as you can. Don’t leave.

‘No, Mark, it’s alright, I’ll sort it.’

But he shakes his head. He doesn’t look happy. Not that you’d expect him to, but...he’s frustrated with you, you can tell.

‘You can’t clean yourself up with one hand. Just wait here, alright?’

The inkling is worming its way in now, from your subconscious to your conscious, until its at the forefront of your mind. He’s angry, he’s disgusted, he’s going to leave. He’s not going to the bathroom, he’s going to the front door so he can get out of here. You’re sure of it.

‘I’m sorry.’ The whisper escapes you and you have to bite the inside of your cheek so no tears will spill. The words are almost silent, your hand dropping Mark’s in defeat.

But Mark turns his head at your weak apology, stopping in his tracks.

‘What? Why -‘

With a jolt, he notices the way you’ve changed - unable to look at him, arms beginning to wrap around yourself, one fist clenched. He knows what’s happening.

‘No, no, love, I’m not angry.’

He’s back at your side in a heartbeat, bringing his hand up to your chest, thumb carefully wiping away the rogue tear that’s tracking a salty path over your cheekbone.

‘I love you. I just want the best for you, alright? I don’t like seeing you hurt, just like I’d fucking hope you wouldn’t like seeing me hurt.’

His face breaks into a sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and you realise he’s right - of course he is. You don’t want to see him hurt, he’s been through enough, but that’s what you’re doing. He’s hurting just from seeing your hand, it’s obvious from the crease in his brow, the blue of his eyes dulled and flat. Mark’s got too much to deal with already, you’re just one extra problem to add to the mix. You don’t want to be his problem.

And suddenly it’s all coming up to the surface, ready to combust, explode, these emotions that you never really have a grip on. You bottle them up and push them down, so far down that the only way they can escape is through a rush of anger, jagged and uncontrollable.

But instead of that, you bury your face into Mark’s neck and let it out as slowly as you can.

‘I’m sorry, I was angry, I just wanted to feel something. Some pain. I don’t want to make you feel like this. I’m sorry.’

You’re clutching onto the worn fabric of Mark’s shirt like your life depends on it. You can’t possibly let go of him, the only one you have left.

Mark is steady, your rock in a storm of emotions. He listens, stroking your hair, pale fingers threading through the strands to knead at your scalp, knowing it tends to calm you down.

‘You’re alright, I promise. I promise you, love. I know you get angry. I know you. And I know what it’s like to want to feel something, trust me. We can get through it together, or we can be a mess together. I don’t care, as long as we’re together, honest. I’m not going anywhere.’

And the sincerity in his eyes, those familiar bright blue eyes, it convinces you. He means it.

You stay like this for a few minutes, your good hand clinging onto Mark’s ratty jumper, the other grasped tightly (but not too tightly) in Mark’ grip. His right arm is around your waist, pulling you closer, as if in doing so he can pour all of his reassurance, all of his love, directly to your heart. He knows it’s not possible. But he tries anyway. Because he’ll do anything for you. Your Mark.

Mark helps you clean your hand later, shushing you everything you wince (though that isn’t often). His hands are steady and practiced as he dabs at the cuts with alcohol, wrapping the gauze over your knuckles and securing it with some tape, humming to himself as he works, the steady tune in time with his deft movement. He doesn’t look up until the job is done - and a good job it is too. He knows what he’s doing, probably after years of wrapping Sickboy’s hands up in the same way - late nights out in the rough streets of Leith, fuelled by alcohol and amphetamines (and worse)

Mark kisses the bandages gently when he’s done - a silent ‘I love you. I care for you and I love you.’

And you smile, a smile that fills your whole body with warmth, a smile that drowns out the demons, if only for a little while. Because how can you not, when you have Mark. He tries his best and so do you - neither of you can ask anymore. You’ll be a mess together.

‘Let’s order Chinese and watch Dr No, eh?’

Or you’ll get through this together

*~*~*~*

@callmearwen @ohhellokenobi @darthserling @stardancerluv @goldenkenobi @lunarthoughts @saintlaurentkenobi @million-dollar-legs @i-am-i-am-obiwankenobi @letmybabysleep @haydens-moles @alideetoo @all-hallows-evie @junkieboyfriend @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @star-whores-a-new-hoe @arianalilyblack @sigynragnarsdottir @funkytxwn @drinksomecoco @darlingkenobi

#mark renton imagine #mark renton x reader #mark renton #mark renton headcanons #trainspotting #ewan mcgregor #ewan mcgregor x reader #fic recs #my writing #scotland #mark renton blurb #mark renton one shot #alex law

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moonbeamwritings · 3 years

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Hey, could I get a Jonathan Joestar with a young (like teenager) non-binary, (born female) who gets bullied for their sorta more masculine way of dressing and Jonathan not really understanding but helping basically walking around with them and actively using they them pronouns? Or even just any fic refs of Jonathan with a young with a young non-binary or female reader, I can’t rlly find that many fics of that but her my confession character so yeah lol

hey there anon! i’m not enby myself, but i hope you enjoy this and and that i can do this ask justice! thank you for sending in and for being patient !! jonathan’s a lil confused but dear god does he have the spirit 💗

tw: bullying, discussions of being misgendered

Jonathan Joestar + non-binary!reader

It had started young. The sneers from the girls in your classes when you’d show up to school in “boy clothes,” the alienation as they realized you weren’t like them. The boys were no better, viewing you as nothing more than a silly girl playing dress-up.

Your elementary school years were lonely, but became lonelier still once you came into your teens. At that time, you more readily embraced your identity, venturing out in masculine clothes more often and experimenting with different pronouns.

On one summer afternoon as you rested along the bank of the river, a large, spotted dog ran towards you, nearly knocking you flat on your back. His owner, a boy around your age, came bounding over, angrily scolding his companion for spoiling your afternoon.

“I’m sorry about Danny, I promise he’s more well-trained than he seems.”

You brushed his apology off, scratching behind the dog’s ears as he flopped onto the grass next to you, “No harm done. He seems very sweet.”

A hand came into view and you followed it to find one of the most genuine grins you’d seen in years. “I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Joestar.”

You placed your hand in his, replying with your own name as you did so.

From that day forward, Jonathan became an unwavering friend, kind-hearted almost to a fault as he protected you from the glares and whispers. He hadn’t understood at first, what you meant when you explained your gender identity to him, but he was entirely supportive.

“If you feel more comfortable using they/them pronouns,” he’d said with a smile as you climbed a large tree together, “then I’ll use them and I’ll fight anyone who doesn’t.”

And he certainly wasn’t kidding. You’d lost count of the number of times Jonathan had defended you against the peers who had bullied you for years.

“Leave them alone.” Jonathan growled at one of your bullies, hands gripping the front of his shirt. “They haven’t done anything to you.”

The bully let out a weak chuckle, “You mean her?”

You had never seen Jonathan quite so upset. The bully was spewing nothing you hadn’t heard a million times, but that didn’t make his words sting any less.

Jonathan’s grip remained firm as he landed one final punch, “Do not let me catch you in their line of sight again.”

You couldn’t lie, seeing Jonathan leave your lifelong bullies bleeding and crying as he landed a well-timed punch to the jaw was rather exhilarating, but you hated seeing him so dejected afterwards.

“It’s not fair,” Jonathan spoke, moving rocks around with his feet as you wrapped his hand in bandages, “they’re so awful, but no one does anything.”

“But you do.” You responded, finally pinning the bandage down in time for Jonathan to lie back on the grass, staring up at the colors from the setting sun.

“It doesn’t feel like enough.”

You smiled, reaching between the two of you to grasp his uninjured hand in yours, “It’s enough for me.”

Jonathan went quiet for a long moment, pensive in his reflection on your statement. Squeezing your hand in his, he watched the clouds roll by, “Then it’s enough for me too.”

#moonbeam answers #jonathan joestar x reader #jonathan joestar imagine #jjba x reader #jjba imagine #jonathan joestar: defender of the lgbtq+ community and anyone not in the gender binary #tw: bullying #tw: misgendering

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mayz1er · 2 years

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talkin abt ily the fic but it’s mostly me worrying so it’s not that great ^_^

guys :( the next cjapter is making me sad :( so much so i had to pause like five times while editing. also i accidentally make it 17k words long instead of 12k i hope u don’t mind :( fuck it’s gonna be a pain in the ass to edit esp since i don’t think ill have any1 to beta read it but it’s ok

i’m also on mobile haha tap tap on my little phone screen. i think i made my writing to incomprehensible. it feels so dense to me and i’m not sure how to fix it. good writing is understandable and i feel like mine is not. that. right now. maybe it’s just cuz it’s so many words idk i got a headache half way thru editing only the last section of the chap.

i accidentally started projecting on present life flashback ranboo migjtve accidentally given him mommy issues?? soz?? but he’s so fucked it i feel so bad this poor kid

i feel like with how stupidly flowery my writing style can be, it’s like i’m romantacizing things i shouldn’t be. i had this problem w blood red presidential ties too, because sure dark topics hidden in metaphors are cool but r they still cool if it looks like it’s supposed to be pretty?? i don’t wanna glamorize things that shudnt be glamorized especially with important topics that effect not only me but the readers that deal w the same issues. i don’t wanna paint a pretty picture of an ugly topic, ykno?

ilybeeduo :( tragic. star crossed lovers or whatever the fuck it’s called. i miss them alrdy. i’ll tell you something, i’m seeing this story as a loop. i outlined this fic in a circle rather than a straight line that ends. do i wanna break the cycle? maybe i do. maybe i will! but u won’t like that ending either tbh. not as in “it’s a bad ending” no it wud just also probably be a little sad. let me tell u a little more. ranboo is a lamb to the slaughter. ranboo is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. PRWTEND LAMB AND SHEEP R THE SAME THING 4 THE SAKE OF THIS METAPHOR. also another worry i have is that i’m conveying ilybeeduo as toxic like i mean yeah a little bit like. FUCK AISIEKOK ok i’m calm. they love each other. they don’t purposely hurt each other. ok ok ok.

i’m actually sick n twisted for this chapter i feel so bad oh god but i’m gonna post it bc i need this out in the world. or at least to the readers LMAO. i wanna say that there’s a distinct lesson to learn by the end of reading it, like how presidential ties was me trying to convey a message of healing and hope. but that doesn’t exist in ily the fic. i’m sorry 2 say that i don’t think i’ll write a healing and hopeful ending. it just doesn’t work out, at least in the time frame i have. maybe there’ll be a sequel. who knows.

i mean it when i think this is a make or break chapter and it’s less so the story and more of my progress in writing. this is either the best or worst thing i’ve ever written. this story is either beautifully inctricate or a stupid piece of shit. ew ok i don’t even hate this fic or my writing that much rn but like that’s what i’m thinking. i feel like i rlly did push myself out of my comfort zone while writing especially this chapter and these characters and the amount of thinking i had 2 do to interlace the backstories and part present future but like. idk. what if it flops???? what if i haven’t improved as much as i wanted to??? eh. idk! i’m just saying things

also i love ily!alliumduo so much i love them so much i totally wasn’t projecting my old friendships on them naurrr id never do thy 🤨🤨🤨🤨

lmao i feel like i’m saying everything n nothing at the same time cuz i have 2 be vague in order to not spoil it. but dont worry i’m alright w my stance on ily the fic it’s just. i want this chapter to be good.

#it sounds like i’m venting BUT IM NOT i’m just talking abt my fic n shit #ily rambles #don’t rb #might delete this later lol

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sakuatsutingz · 3 years

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i'm bored so hi random post

there are 18 characters in this tHE MASTERLIST IS GOING TO BE SO HARD TO UPDATE HELP ME

also this took like 3 hours to put together don't let it flop tyvm

- bri

haikyuu in danganropa

TRIGGER WARNING : heavy mentions of death + brief talk about how they die and mentions of mental disorders

find the masterlist here

request or talk to us here !

who dies + their killers

iwa and kyotani

i feel like kyotani would take the first change to murder iwa

very spiratic and little planning

obvious it was him lol

kyotani would get blackened

rightfully so -

oikawa = paIN GN

this is kyotani's way of showing he's better

twisted but hey it works

not like his sense of superiority was long lasted

since he died anyways but wtv

saeko and yachi

OKAY HEAR ME OUT

we all know yachi = angel

but i imagine that either

a. someone was trying to attack her

and she killed them in self defense

or b. she got v paranoid and just stabbed whoever got close to her

in this case it was point a and her victim was saeko

actually did a v good job at hiding the body

she would've tried to save saeko tho

like she stabbed saeko's stomach

and then tried to save her from bleeding out

didn't work obviously

kiyoko figured it out

since she saw the difference in yachi

and yachi was blackended

noya and tanaka

they would've been sharing a room

like tanaka slept in noya's room

and tanaka ended up killing noya in his sleep

quick and painless tho

he just wanted to try to live

and felt extremely guilty that he killed noya

he was pretty good at hiding it

kinda like leon style from the anime

but he left some clues

which kiyoko and kuroo put together

and figured it out that it was him

honestly it made kiyoko hella sad that tanaka betrayed his best friend

kenma and lev

this hurt me so much to write sOBS ASF

would be an accidental death

like i feel it would be a todoroki moment

kenma and lev were cooking food

lev accidentally dropped hot water onto kenma

and kenma was in hella agony

so lev killed him to put him out of his pain

kuroo = emotionally pained

both at the fact kenma is dead

and that lev betrayed him

lev didn't do a good job hiding it

but would go hysterical when they realize it was him

not in the matter of wanting to save himself

but rather apologising for killing kenma

atsumu and kageyama

after what happened yesterday

i want both twins to die 🙄🙄

but atsumu gonna die here gn

i was so tempted to put myself as the killer SJSJ

kageyama would've planned it all out

not for atsumu specifically

but rather just the general plan of it all

and atsumu happened to be there wrong day wrong time ya know ??

and boom atsumu was dead

kageyama almost got away with it as well

tried to blame osamu lol

but there would be one or two clues

that got kageyama sus'ed and killed

so kageyama was blackened

survivors

kiyoko

v good at hiding the trauma

but you know she's crying at night

misses yachi x100

kuroo

this man is r u i n e d

kenma and lev both gone

absolutely sobbing

i lowkey already headcanon he has some form of depression

so now it's just so much worse

oikawa

idek how this man would react

like he is so haRD TO READ

would he act the same ??

would he become rlly quiet ??

would be just become despression ??

i have no clue

tsukishima

lowkey just acts like normal

to him it's just more stuff to bury

that's what we call issues ✨✨

hinata

mans would become a lot quieter

and a lot less happy and energetic

would c l i n g to anything he had from his friends

like kageyama's volleyball

and noya and tanaka's vball jackets

would give kenma's gaming console to kuroo

osamu

he would binge eat 100%

had to get used to living without his twin

lowkey would scare him not to have the support anymore

mastermind(s)

spoiler warning for danganropa

yamaguchi

punk ?? yamaguchi ?? yes ??

i love the hc that once he gains enough confidence he becomes a badass

so i'm projecting into this

would be the more 'behind the scenes' leader

also the main reason the outside world is now the purge but 24/7

he originally brought his friends to hopes high

in the matter of protecting them

it's the next person who made most of it to a murder game

he just kinda watch it all happen

but would step in if tsukki was in danger

tendou

the one running the murder game aspect

basically the "monokuma" of it all

also the one who decides all of what will happen in the blackenings

doesn't care much for planning

usually just listens to yamaguchi's plan

or his orders

letting out the inner rage

that built up cause of the bullying as a child

just imagines the ones he's killing

are those childhood bullies ✨✨

if i knew their name they would be v much dead

i am to protect tendou with my entire life

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babysizedfics · 4 years

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hii,, ive been havin kinda a sad baby day n was wonderin if u had any headcanons for any of the sides cause ive read ur like ur whole blog n 💖 i love it

i'm sorry i couldn't get to this earlier anon i rlly hope ur feeling better 💞

but this morning i am very soft about protective big brother roman so let's do this

i’ve said before that Roman is bad at caregiving because he cares so much about vee and overthinks it - not because he is actually bad at taking care of his baby bro

and i stick by that RELIGIOUSLY

he’s never going to be a caregiver, or “uncle roman” as he puts it, but he is able to take care of vee on rare occassions when for some reason no one else can and does a great job (these are very rare tho)

baby vee looks up to his brother so much and copies him a lot - it used to annoy roman and he pouted and told vee to stop copying him and then vee pouted

until the CGs explained that it means vee wants to be more like him

now roman gets really smiley and stand taller when virgil copies him because he feels important and loved

once roman finds out about the cyberbullying virgil experienced he actually really struggles to go into his littlespace for a few days

he just doesn’t feel the need to, he doesn’t want to let his guard down, he wants to be able to look out for virgil

and when he usually sees virgil start to regress he always 1) calls one of their cgs and 2) goes into his own littespace when they show up and he knows vee is being looked after

but during the week or so after finding out about the bullying he hesitates to call the cgs when vee regresses with him

he stays big and he cuddles his baby brother and talks to him softly and sings to him a couple of times

when logan found them both in romans room with roman rocking vee in his lap and hummin a lullaby he was quite shocked to be honest

and roman got really embarrassed and felt a bit guilty because he was supposed to get the caregivers when vee regressed, that was the rule

but logan realises that roman is not little and that he clearly wants to protect his brother, the rule is really only for when roman is little

so he does takes vee away briefly to change him because he’s sure roman wouldnt know how to deal with any accidents, but he brings vee back to romans room and hangs around for a few minutes then slips out to let the boys have their time together

after a couple of hours, roman calls him back in and says thank you and is finally able to go into littlespace

because he got to protect virgil for a while and that’s all he needed, he needed to know he could keep his baby brother safe and now he feels much more relaxed about it

And for when they are both big because i’m a sucker for that too:

big virgil is just as respectful of roman, more than he has ever been before, because he sees how hard roman is trying to be a good brother and it means so much to him

it bleeds into their adult relationship too! they still consider each other brothers when they’re grown-up even though they don’t actually acknowledge it aloud

they’re a lot quicker to stop bickering and it’s a lot easier for them to say sorry and forgive each other - because they won’t ever stop bickering tbh it’s just a part of who they are when they’re big

but it’s always over trivial things, never anything big, they don’t ever hit each other where it hurts

they really trust each other a lot now because there’s just a special bond you have with siblings that will never be matched by parents, they even talk to each other about emotional stuff that they’re not sure how to tell their cgs

not big stuff, but things that bother them that they don’t really want to make a big deal out of - their cgs love them and are wonderful but they do take every negative emotion very seriously and sometimes you dont want it to be taken seriously you just want to vent

and sometimes roman just wants to rant about writers block without actually hearing advice and solutions and Virgil listens to him ramble without saying a word and roman almost always reaches a realisation of OH IT’S BECAUSE I SHOULD BE WRITING FROM CHARACTER B’S POV NOT CHARACTER A’S!! and thanks virgil and virge is like i didnt do anything but romans like you listened and virgil kinda feels soft

and sometimes virgil just wants to growl and complain about this stupid disastrous scenario that keeps replaying in his head and doesn’t want to be told how unlikely it is or be calmed down, he just wants to growl and when roman wordlessly hands him a pillow he smushes it into his face and screams then pulls it away blushing and whispers thanks and hands it back to roman who is giggling a bit - then roman won’t offer sympathy or logic, he will just say ‘yeah that sounds annoying’ then virgil will yell ‘I KNOW RIGHT??’ and actually smile and laugh because thats all he needed

it’s always really casual too, it’s usually when they’re paying a video game together and they dont need to look at each other bc they are focussing on the screen, or when thy’re both up at 3am in Roman’s room leaning against each other as they gaze up at the constellations from roman’s nightlight and trying to be quiet so the other two don’t hear them awake

and yeah i said in the minecraft hc that roman and virgil become comfy with physical contact

they cling onto each others hands when theyre little but when theyr big too if roman notices virgil getting a bit nervous about something or if he just feels like he needs some contact he will silently slide his hand over virge’s and splutter some random comment or joke to distract attention from it

virgil always calls him dumb and sappy as he wraps his fingers around romans hand

and virgil always flops on the couch when he’s tired or moody for whatever reason and he used to do it just precisely so that he avoided landing in anyones laps and bent his body at awkward angles to avoid touching anyone bc he was nervous he would be rejcted

but now he will happily collapse right across roman’s lap, bonus points if it annoys him

actually he seemingly does it just to annoy roman, but even after roman complains andvirgil sasses him and they bicker and go FINE I WONT TALK TO YOU and FINE IYOU TALK TOO MUCH ANYWAY

they pout at their phonescreens and cross their arms but virgils legs are still laid across romans lap and roman is absentmindedly running his fingers over the rips in virgils jeans

#AGH I am so soft for these boys #i base a lot of their adult relationship on me and my sister and i love it #i'm writing a oneshot (or might add it as a chapter to a multip chp) where they have a secret all-nighter sleepover and i can't wait #little/big concepts #long post #little virgil #little roman #agere virgil #agedre roman #asks #anon

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pocmuzings · 4 years

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hello and i hope you’re doing ok!! i’m thinking of starting a murder mystery esque rp but this will be my first time running an rp and i’d love to hear any tips/preferences/things you’d like to see if you have any in terms of plot/execution!!

omg how exciting !!!!! you have to link me when it comes all together, i’d love to see it ! in response to you - this is by no means definitive or how you should run a rp. u can run it HOWEVER you would like, but these are things i’ve found that i enjoy for these type of rps / general murder mystery plots!!!

HAVE THE KILLER BE SOMEONE IN THE RP - this is the essence of the rp after all, it’s a murder MYSTERY, u can’t just have joe-blow an npc be the murderer bc then it kinda defeats the purpose of why anybody would want to solve it! ppl like to have an EMOTIONAL CONNECTION to whoever the killer could be. before you even open the rp to the public, u should know who your killer is, and WHY they’re the killer. and they should be someone who is a playable character!!!

HAVE RED HERRINGS - this is a classic move for murder mysteries of all sorts. you need someone to look like the bad guy. you need someone to be suspicious and have motive and incentive, but then . . it turns out they’re innocent ! have 2-3 red herrings hidden away. this really involves people in the plot because they start thinking it’s one person, then another person, THEN ANOTHER!! it’s great for all development !

MAKE THE RP EITHER OC, OR SKELETON. DON’T MIX BOTH - this helps create the ~mystery~ and whodunnit. if you write skeletons .. chances are, the murderer is going to be one of the skeletons, right ? so then that already wipes out all of your oc’s from being suspects!!! i personally think its more fun to have one or the other for this sort of rp !

HAVE A STRONG TIMELINE OF EVENTS - plot this out beforehand too. think about how and when evidence will be found. think about police reports being released. think about who will be called into the police station , and how this will throw a spanner into the works for all the other characters in the rp. create doubt. create suspicion. create paranoia amongst the characters . don’t let your rp start with a murder mystery and then let it flop with no plot drops, or events pertaining to said murder mystery. this is like baking a cake , and not even putting it in the oven. it’s like .. u started smth great , but now whats the point?

GIVE EVERY CHARACTER JUST A LIIIIITLE BIT OF MOTIVE - this is good because you do want every character to have just a little bit of a reason as to why they would have potentially ~murdered someone

KEEP THE MURDERER A MYSTERY … EVEN TO THE MURDERER ! - i don’t think its necessary to let someone know they’ve picked up the ‘murderer’ straight away, unless u need to for plot development and for them to ~play~ the character and the game ! but honestly, it’s fun for everyone if NOBODY knows who did it, including the one who did it !

WATCH AND READ MURDER MYSTERIES !!! - there are some really really good ones out there ! desperate housewives, KNIVES OUT, prisoners, the first season of pretty little liars, veronica mars, one of us is lying, a good girls guide to murder , sadie, . . these are all bits of media that have done FANTASTIC jobs at creating characters and a really well-driven and developed mystery plot!

CREATE STRONG CHARACTERS - this goes without saying for any rp, but i think this is especially important for murder mystery rps which is why i lean towards having SKELETONS for these type of rps. give them bones, and a trope. make them all as different as you can . think about characters that work well in other murder mysteries and try to mimic what makes them so good and strong, and what they can PROVIDE to the murder mystery . is one of them a reporter ? an ex best friend ? a nancy-drew sort of character ? they should be !!! they should all have a clear PURPOSE in the rp , don’t just give them a label like ‘the peacemaker’ and call it a day. what is their purpose ? what do they serve by being in the rp, and why do you NEED them in order for the rp to work ? ( and u SHOULD need them ! ideally, u should need every skeleton taken, right ?!)

THINK OF PLOT DROPS AND EVENTS, AND ASK MEMBERS TO CONTRIBUTE IDEAS TOO - these should all keep the same sort of aesthetic as having something spooky or mysterious to them . a haunted halloween night. a spooky festival. a power outage at school. a piece of evidence found by one of the characters . somebody finding out who the murderer could be, and then getting into an ‘ accident ‘. this type of rp is PLOT HEAVY and events and plot drops should absolutely be something you already have in mind and know when are going to happen and WHAT the main event of them happening will be !

CREATE THREATS AND A ‘SCARE FACTOR’ - it should start light and easy , in some degree. the rp should start with everyone thinking their character is going to be safe. lull everyone into a false sense of security, and then show that nobody is safe. either by having an anonymous blogger, or gossip blog make blasts, or by hurting one of the characters who keeps sticking their nose in. you should have people in the rp seriously realise that there will be consequences for their characters actions , bc lets be real .. if ur a killer and someone is purposely goading u or trying to Solve the Crime .. ur gonna be pissed and want to Eliminate them !

HAVE A GOOD SETTING - honestly, setting in murder mystery rps is SO MUCH FUN and is what can make a rp so unique ! is it a small town, therefore the murder ROCKED the entire town to their shells bc everyone knows everyone and WHO WOULD DO SUCH A THING ?? is it a homely city, that was previously thought of as being very safe and ideal, until this horrible crime happened ? is it a grungey neo-noir city, that has a lot of crime, but THIS crime was ‘ particularly heinous ‘, or maybe the work of a notorious serial killer ? think of a location. think of a setting. this is IMPORTANT to the rp and to drawing people’s interests in !

CREATE CONNECTIONS - how does skeleton a know skeleton b ? who trusts who ? who DOESN’T trust who ? who thinks who did it ? who thinks who is innocent ? ideally, every character should have an impression of the next. this create a more tight-knit feeling within the rp, both ic and ooc, because EVERYONE knows everyone and has a basic ‘first impression’. you don’t have to write all of these or provide them for every skeleton, but i think its important to try and write a couple at least, so everyone finds it a bit easier to plot and reach out to different people !

ENCOURAGE SECRETS AND LIES - this goes without saying. i think its fun to have each character have a ‘secret’ or ‘something they’re not telling the police’. i find this makes for more in character development and activity !!! again, u can let ppl think of their own, or u can assign one if u want ! but basically, this rp should be filled with no ‘good’ characters and no ‘bad characters’. everyone should have equal amounts of flaws, and advantages.

MAKE THE KILLER STRIKE MORE THAN ONCE - so the killer most likely strikes once at the ‘beginning’ of the rp, or just before the rp opens, to kick things off. but then . . don’t forget about them ! its very common for someone to strike twice . they can kill a npc, or .. maybe somebody doesnt mind throwing their character in to be Axed, but honestly . . the killer should and will strike again , and this should help keep everyone on their toes, ic and ooc, too !!!

WRITE ABOUT THE KILLER IN YOUR PLOT - its a murder mystery . it’s horror. so. talk about the killer, without giving away their identity. give hints as to who it could be . tell us what their relationship was to the deceased. tell us how they killed that person. was it a crime of passion ? a crime of hate ? an ACCIDENT ??? how did they feel after they’d realised what they’d done ? what happened that night/day/morning ???

this is all i can think of right now, and i hope it helps!!! whatever u come up with will be AMAZING i bet. as a nerd of murder mysteries, i rlly enjoyed answering this and if u need any more advice or help . let me know !!! good luck, and make sure to link me when ur good to go !! i can’t WAIT to see it !!

#rph #rpc #murder tw #murder mention tw #tip #tips #Anonymous

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sunrisespidey · 5 years

Text

ceo!tom

pairing: tom holland x reader

summary: ceo!tom falls in love with smoothie-loving intern, y/n

word count: 5.9k im sorry

a/n: i’m literally never writing shit like this again wtf?? the ending is so rushed and i’m rlly sorry but i got so bored of this i just wanted it out and done with. it was 14 pages on google docs bye

it’s a different style that i usually write in, but i wanted to branch out so idk let me know what you thought about it?

PLEASE DON’T LET THIS FLOP! I WORKED ON THIS FOR LIKE A WEEK

warnings: swearing, long read, and unedited

masterlist ♡

Y/N’s made a mistake.

Or at least, that’s what she thinks, staring up at the daunting skyscraper that towered before her, with the large Holland and Co. sign glinting under the bright glare of the sun. How had she ended up here? Her, a struggling college student, and yet here she was, interning at one of the biggest business firms in England. It really didn’t add up. It’s all been a blur. She remembers getting the phone call, being told to arrive at, and she quotes, “7AM on the dot, tardiness will not be tolerated”, and it’s almost as though she’s reliving high school all over again, only this time around, her future is actually on the line.

Which is probably why she’d dragged herself out of bed at 4 in the morning, and then proceeded to spend an hour pep talking herself in the mirror. Was it too late to back out now? She figures if she turns back and leaves, she can probably make it back to her apartment in 20 minutes flat, and then she can call in faking an illness or whatnot. After that, she can stay in, snuggled up to her cat, Dusty, and stay curled up in front of her tv with a warm mug of hot cocoa in her hands and an episode of The Office playing quietly in the background. (This, she decides, smiling internally, is her ideal day.) She’s almost ready to give in, leaning back to book it, the idea of leaving almost too enticing. Instead, she finds herself placing one foot in front of the other. Y/N doesn’t even know what motivates her to take that step forward, the step that began to lead her to those terrifying glass doors, but she’s managed to take a second step, then a third, a fourth, and—

A rush of warmth surrounds her, sending a shiver through her body, and she immediately misses the cold outdoor winds that previously nipped at her ears. Y/N doesn’t think she’s ever wanted to venture back out into the cold winter as much as she does at this moment. Her eyes stay trained on the ground, and she dreads the moment she’ll have to inevitably look up, so she doesn’t. Instead, she studies the marble floors (they’re really nice, she should consider investing in something similar, she thinks), until she hears a voice, practically coated with sugar, pipe up.

“Excuse me, Miss?” Her head whips up, swallowing nervously, and she’s greeted by a lady who looks to be in her mid-twenties with a sickly sweet smile plastered on her face (fake, no doubt, but really, who was she to judge?), head tilted in concern. “Are you lost?”

She considers saying no just to turn back around rather than face the fire, but she steels her nerves and sends her an abashed smile. “Yeah, I am. Would you mind helping me?” And Y/N nearly cringes at her attempts to be polite but continues anyways. “I’m an intern, Y/N Y/L/N?”

She isn’t really listening when the receptionist lady answers, and she knows she should’ve, but she listens to the lady drone on, the same smile that didn’t seem to reach her eyes glued to her face, and Y/N wonders what kind of toothpaste she uses to whiten. Somehow, Y/N finds herself being whisked away and up into the elevator, where she finally starts paying attention long enough to meet a kind woman who she remembers is named Nadine and would be her shadow for her time at Holland and Co.

She listens attentively (or at least she tries), as Nadine gives her a tour of the floor, and she can’t help but wish that she brought along a strawberry smoothie. She ends up so lost in thought that she nearly stumbles into Nadine after she stops abruptly, and Y/N peeks around her to see what’s happened. She’s startled when the noise reaches her ears, and she realizes that it’s a grown man backing away slowly from an office, pleading for someone to rethink their decision.

“Please, Mr. Holland, I’ll do better next time, please—” Y/N hears the slam before she sees it, yelping quietly at the shock of it, the noise still reverberating through the office. Her eyes blow wide, mouth gaping. She hopes she never comes in contact with this Mr. Holland.

Y/N finds that the tour ends quickly after that.

It’s not that Tom’s a cruel person.

He doesn’t jerk off to the thought of firing employees — he’s most certainly not a masochist — it’s just that he works with absolute morons. So really, what’s he supposed to do when some twat from accounting screws up some simple numbers that cost his company 10,000 pounds? (it’s not like his company can’t afford it, but the thought still makes a scowl form on his face) The only reasonable choice he can make is to fire the man, and it certainly isn’t his fault if the twit stumbles out of his office blubbering about how he’ll do better. And it definitely isn’t his fault if a cute, smoothie-loving intern witnesses the whole thing, because why does it matter if a bloody intern is afraid of him? (at least, that’s what he tries to convince himself)

(spoiler alert: it doesn’t work)

It’s day two, and Y/N thinks she’s made some friends.

She’s promised to bring each of them a smoothie (“They’re the light of my life,” she’d said, “can’t live without ‘em.”), which explains why she’s currently juggling four smoothies, one for herself and each of her new friends and, Sarah, Jacqueline, and Mike, while arriving at work at 6:50 in the morning. She’s so focused on carrying the drinks, eyeing each one with a careful precision that she fails to see the man donning a crisp suit (expensive. Gucci, maybe?), and a stern expression on his face, walking in front of her. She doesn’t realize that he’s been eyeing her the entire time, face softened into an unusual smile, rarely seen around the office. And she definitely doesn’t notice when he stops walking — at least, not until it was too late.

It all happens in slow motion to Y/N. She watches, helpless, as the smoothies in her hand tipped, and as Tom Holland, CEO of Holland and Co., turned around to be met with not one, nor two, nor three, but four strawberry smoothies. His mouth gapes, and hers does too, a quiet but sharp “oh fuck,” spilling from her lips. She stands, motionless, for less than a second before she’s sprung in motion, leaping for the nearest towels, endless apologies spewing from her lips.

This is it. Months of effort to even be considered for this position, and she’s fucked it up on the second day.

Y/N waits, eyes closed, preparing for the inevitable blow of being fired, the humiliation she’d face (god knows the entire floor was already staring at them wide-eyed), but to her surprise, it never comes. Instead, the towels are plucked from her hands, and her eyes snap open to be met with the prettiest face she thinks she’s ever come across, amusement flitting through their eyes.

“Don’t do that again, yeah, love?” And he’s gone, strolling away from her stunned form, so casually that Y/N wonders how he can ignore the smoothie dripping off his suit so easily. The rest of the floor stare after him as well, each of them with eyes blown wide and mouths hanging open.

Tom has no idea what just happened.

He’s got smoothie dripping from his suit that — mind you — was quite possibly one of his most expensive clothing investments, and he’s not even that angry about it. He isn’t really sure what had happened. He remembers looking over at the intern, Y/N, he remembers (and god, was she adorable), and then suddenly being drenched in a thick, gooey substance that suspiciously smelled like strawberries. Had it been anybody else, Tom’s sure they’d be out of his company faster than they could blink. But there was something about Y/N that captivated him, and he isn’t sure he’d be able to handle firing her over such a trivial mistake (of course, he’s fired employees over less, but he dismisses that thought). So instead, he’d strolled away as casually and as quickly as he possibly could force himself to act, trying to disguise the red blush that would’ve surely risen to his cheeks and turned his ears a bright, piercing red. His heart had pounded in his chest, so loud he wonders if Y/N had heard it, and as soon as he was out of sight, he’d darted into his office and shut the door.

His heart is still pounding in his chest, and he has no idea how some intern he’s never even said more than three sentences to can have such an impact on him. (Tom almost considers turning to Harrison for advice, but he would prefer not to be called a sap for the rest of his life) So, he strips himself of his smoothie-soaked suit jacket and prays to avoid any future interaction with Y/N.

Of course, Tom’s wish refused to come true, because the next morning, walking into the building, he bumps into her again.

Well, not literally. He’s strolling leisurely into the warm building, shooting a tight-lipped smile to the receptionist who always seemed to be showing a ridiculous amount of cleavage whenever he came around when he hears his name being called and the sound of approaching footsteps. Turning around, he crosses his fingers desperately, hoping that it was some other employee — preferably one that didn’t make his heart skip a beat at the mere thought of them.

But he’s still met with the sight of Y/N running through the doors of the building, regardless of his desperate wishes. It only takes a few seconds for her to catch up to his still figure, and when she does, she bends over, panting with her hands resting on her knees.

“Holy fu— sorry, language. M’so out of shape,” Y/N heaves, straightening up and wiping at her head, “you’re so fast, wow—” Tom finds himself unable to respond, head dizzy from her presence. He’s pretty sure if she knew he was taking such deep breaths because she smelled so oddly intoxicating, she’d call him a creep and run away and never speak to him ever again. He thinks she smells like vanilla, which is so common that he wonders how she can make it work so well, and—

“Mr. Holland?” Y/N’s hand waves in front of his face, and Tom snaps out of his daydream to muster up a charming smile for her. “Were you listening?”

Tom hums, nodding his head to show he was interested — a common courtesy. She shot him a suspicious glance but returned his smile nonetheless. “Well,” she started, clapping her hands together, “I brought you something — to say sorry for spilling my smoothies on you yesterday.” Tom doesn’t really know what to expect, but as she reaches into her purse, he’s definitely not expecting her to pull out a small pastry wrapped in a Greggs wrapper, neatly folded into a small rectangle.

“It’s a sausage roll,” Y/N explains, pushing it into his hands, “from Greggs. I just love their sausage rolls, and I just passed one as I was pulling into work, so I thought I’d buy you one as an apology.” At this point, he’s working overtime to not consciously drool over the sausage roll in his hands, because he’s sure that Y/N would run for the hills if she saw him so unprofessional.

So, he musters up a polite nod, a smile, and a: “Thank you, love.” And she takes that as her cue to scurry off, with a wave to the receptionist who’s not so inconspicuously scowling at her, and she’s out of Tom’s sight.

He stares after her until she’s completely out of his sight, and when she’s gone, he breathes a sigh of relief.

He’s got an issue on his hands.

---

When Y/N tells her new friends about the traumatic incident that had occurred the previous day, she finds that they’ve taken to staring at her in awe, because holy shit, you’ve spilt four smoothies on the most temperamental CEO in the business and yet you’re still here. (how reassuring. mind the sarcasm.)

“Are you joking?” Mike stares at Y/N, mouth open so wide that Y/N’s curious if his jaw is achy yet. “If that were me, I would’ve been fired quicker than I could’ve said sorry. And he called you ‘love’ too? Man, you’ve got him wrapped around your little pinky finger.” (Y/N’s sure they’re just saying this to make her feel better — after all, it’s not every day you spill four smoothies on a multi-millionaire CEO)

“I bet Mr. Holland’s got the hots for you,” Sarah whispers, turning her head to make sure nobody important is in earshot (because anything can set Mr. Holland off, really), “you could probably bust up all of his cars and he’d smile at you, babe.”

“Yeah,” Jacqueline butts in, and Y/N sends her a frown because this entire time they’d been talking, Jacqueline had been quietly filing papers (or at least that’s what Y/N thought), only to realize she’d actually been listening in the entire time, “Mr. Holland likes you— like, like likes you.”

Y/N snorts, sending Jacqueline an unamused stare. “What is this, middle school? M’sure he’s just being nice, s’all.”

Sarah scoffs, raising her eyebrows disbelievingly. “Yeah, right, and I’m a millionaire,” she jokes sarcastically, glancing at Y/N with a lopsided grin on her face. “Trust me. Mr. Holland is anything but nice.”

But Y/N can’t seem to believe that. Surely, he wasn’t that horrible, right?

Days pass and Tom hasn’t seen Y/N in a while, and although he has to admit that popping out a stiffy in the middle of a business proposal at the thought of her isn’t the most enticing, he’s starting to miss her. (of course, the only interaction he’s truly had with her is the disaster that cost him a fortune at the dry cleaners, but he still admires her from afar in the least stalker-y way possible)

Most employees would find it beneficial to have the least contact with Tom as possible. It’s been a bit of a known fact that when called into his office, chances are, they’d be leaving with their belongings in a box. So when Nadine, her supervisor, tells Y/N that he’d like to see her in his office, (and in a very loud tone, at that, so now she’s got the whole office staring after her as she shamefully trudges to Tom’s office) she’s quite terrified. She’d only heard horror stories about what went on in his office, and she’s really come to love the company and crosses her fingers and toes that he isn’t going to terminate her internship. (maybe, Y/N thinks, Tom changed his mind about the smoothie incident. Or even worse, he hated the sausage rolls)

So needless to say, Y/N is just about ready to piss herself pushing open the door to his office, because she remembers what happened on her first day and she has no desire to receive the same treatment. As soon as she sees Tom, sitting in his office chair sorting a few papers, she’s already immediately blurting out a plea.

“If you’re going to fire me, please just make it quick.” Tom’s face twists into one of confusion, and he chuckles. (my god, was she dense.)

“Fire you?” He laughed, placing the papers to the side. “The opposite, actually. When your internship finishes, I was going to offer you a permanent job here at Holland and Co. Unless you don’t want it?” The grin that he offers her is so cheeky that Y/N considers saying no just to wipe the smile off his face for scaring the shit out of her like that, but she isn’t nearly rich or petty enough to refuse such a huge proposal. So instead, she nods eagerly, holding in a squeal that threatens to burst out of her throat, and thanks him profusely. What Tom doesn’t expect is for her to pull him into a tight hug, and he’s floored. (he realizes that he really enjoys her hugs.) When she’s pulled back, her face has contorted into one of embarrassment, and she mumbles an awkward apology before she escorts herself out of the door.

(Tom’s grateful, because maybe then, she wouldn’t have seen the blush that tinted his tan cheeks a rosy red.)

Tom has a problem.

He’s found that he’s got a crush on one of his company’s interns, Y/N. A real, massive, red-faced, crush on her. In fact, he’s found himself looking forward to seeing her when he can — even though he only sees her a handful of times in a month — and yet, he feels an oddly joyful twisting in his gut when she directs that brilliant smile of hers towards him. He’s realized that she’s weaseled her way into his heart and life, and truth be told, he really has no problem with it. Even embraces it, at that.

So yes, he’s got a problem.

Tom is absolutely fucking exhausted.

He’s just about ready to go home, make himself a cuppa, and crash in his obnoxiously soft bed. He’s sure that the company is empty by now because it’s well over the time they get dismissed, so he stumbles out of his office before closing and locking the door. Tom scans the room a final time, ready to leave, but his eyes catch a dim light left on in the back, and he rolls his eyes to go check, annoyed at whichever wanker decided to leave the lights on before they left. So he’s certainly caught off guard when he comes across Y/N tapping away at her computer, sat in her little cubicle.

“Y/N?” Tom asks cautiously, brows furrowed. He has no idea what she’s still doing here, especially since she was supposed to leave at five and the sky outside has already darkened drastically.

“Holy fucking shit—” she screeches, her arms jerking up to cover her mouth, “oh my God, Mr. Holland, you scared the shit outta me.” He finds it quite adorable that she’s sitting there, eyes wide, a hand placed on her heaving chest.

“What’re you still doing here?” Tom questions, because he hasn’t known a single person who would stay past the time they were supposed to return home, and he wasn’t expecting an intern of all people to do so at all.

“I was gonna leave soon, promise, s’just that I almost had this done, so I just wanted to stay to finish it.” Tom nods thoughtfully, switching his briefcase from his right hand to his left, and beckons her to follow him to the parking garage.

“Well come on then, I’ll walk you to your car.” And although Y/N appreciates the thought, (a foolish one, to be honest, because what university student can afford a bloody car?) she shakes her head.

“Well, I was just planning on walking home, because it’s not too far, y’know, and—“

“No way you’re walking home at — 9 at night!” Tom scoffs, checking his watch. He’s gotten way too attached to her to let her put herself in any sort of danger, so he proposes the only idea he could think of in the spur of the moment— “I’ll drive you home, darling.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, Mr. Holland,” she protests, shaking her head wildly, “besides, I’m sure it’s not even on the route, so—“ He interrupts her yet again, (a repeating occurrence, she realizes) shaking his head.

“Nonsense. Come on, now. The sooner we get you back, the better.” And with that, Y/N watches him turn around, followed by her trailing behind him like some sort of lost puppy.

It’s not long until they arrive in the parking garage, but Y/N sees a stunning Rolls Royce and gushes over it internally. She’s ready to pass it by, wave goodbye at it, (call her dramatic, but it isn’t every day you can admire a sleek red Rolls Royce in person) but instead, they stop in front of it.

Y/N, who experiences an odd sense of deja vu, crashes into his sturdy back in response. Tom raises an eyebrow, amused, and shoots his hand out to steady her. “Thank god you didn’t have any smoothies this time, hm?” Y/N watches as he moves to the driver’s seat, opening the door, but pauses when he catches sight of her frozen figure.

“What’s the matter, love?” He grins, his hand resting lazily on the open door. Y/N stays where she stood, too terrified to even approach the vehicle (because let’s be real, if she fucked anything up, she’d have to sell every single one of her internal organs to pay it back).

“Oh—Oh fuck— sorry, but shit, Mr. Holland, there’s no way you can expect me to get in that car,” she swallows, backing up slightly, “that’s gotta cost more than I would if I sold myself on the black market.”

Tom simply chuckles, and Y/N’s heart sort of bursts at the sound since it’d been her first time hearing the joyous sound. He ducks his head to crawl into the luxurious car with a simple, “Alright, doll, just get in,” and she practically scrambles to the passenger seat. (as reluctant as she was, she wasn’t thrilled to walk the long trek home in the slightest.)

She’s barely halfway inside the car before she’s already cramping herself to occupy a smaller area of space despite the spacious interior. Tom notices at the same time, tilting his head as he watches her cautiously press the seatbelt into its buckle as if she’d shatter the buckle with too much pressure.

“You look like I‘ve just forced you into an airtight box, love.” He mutters casually, placing a hand on the back of her seat to reverse out of the garage, “Loosen up for me, alright? Where am I dropping you off?”

She gives him an address, and he programs it into his phone. “Well, look at that, darling, you’re right on my route home.” (he’s lying, but she really doesn’t need to know that they essentially live on opposing sides of London, because the last thing he wants her to do is to leave and walk home) He can see her exhale a sigh of relief and grin, and that alone is enough for Tom not to feel an ounce of regret about his choice.

In hindsight, this was a great idea.

Now, Tom’s not too sure, because she’s got the radio on now, and she’s singing like nobody’s there and it makes Tom’s heart grow three sizes too big. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s starting to fall for her, further than any point of return, and if anyone saw them in that car in that very moment, they’d see him staring at her with the softest gaze anyone had ever seen on the seemingly apathetic CEO in a long time.

It’s when they approach Y/N’s apartment building that something happens. Y/N whispers out a thank you, and she’s almost out of his car, that Tom catches a glimpse of her phone wedged in the cup holders, and he reaches out for her wrist, calling out for her to wait. He doesn’t expect her to unceremoniously tumble back into his car and lap with a squawk from the sudden tug on her wrist.

“S—Sorry!” Tom yelps, a flush crawling up his neck, and it’s then that he realizes how close their faces were. If he were to lean down in the slightest, their lips would meet and— “Your phone! You forgot your phone!”

Y/N never really had the ability to think rationally in unforeseen situations. Which is maybe why she can’t help but lean up and press a quick kiss to his lips, stunning into silence, but it’s not even her fault, truthfully! (it is, but she tries to give herself the benefit of the doubt) She’d never seen him so uncomposed and flustered, and it was honestly the most adorable thing she’d ever seen.

Her eyes blink at her sudden bold attitude, and then she’s scrambling out the car, maneuvering herself in a way that she wouldn’t headbutt Tom, and she’s gone, running into the building with a loud stuttered “sorry!” Tom loses sight of her, still staring after her, dazed, one singular thought running through his head.

Holy fuck.

Tom calls Harrison as soon as he gets home. Harrison arrives in ten minutes flat. (“God, you’re such a drama queen. I’m on my way.”)

“C’mon, mate, don’t just stand there and call me a sap, what do I do?” Tom groans, throwing a toy to Tessa who lay on the couch beside his body, staring at him with a peculiarly knowing look, and Tom groans again because even his damn dog knew about his dilemma.

“She probably likes you, you div,” Harrison grins, raising his voice to imitate Y/N. “Mr. Holland is just… so hot! I dream about kissing him every night!”

“Oi, come off it, you dickhead, she doesn’t even sound like that,” Tom mutters, shoving Harrison to the side. “Probably didn’t even mean shit to her, just like, a friendly kiss or summat.” Tom knows it was more than that. If the amorous gazes and gestures were anything to go by, it would be easy to mistake them as head over heels for one other (unfortunately for them, it’s not exactly a mistake to assume they’re goners for each other, because it’s absolutely true).

Harrison shoots him a look. “Yeah, mate, I kiss all my friends too. S’just a normal friend thing, innit? Now c’mon, gimme a nice smooch.” Harrison teases, puckering his lips to make obnoxious smacking noises towards Tom. He’s met with a pillow to the face, and he laughs, throwing his head back. “You’re so whipped, mate.”

Maybe just a little, Tom thinks.

The next morning, Tom’s prepared to man up and do something about his hopeless crush on Y/N. He’s got his entire speech planned out, in fact.

He’ll start it off by handing her a muffin. Chocolate chip, to be specific. And then, he’ll woo her with a romantic speech, as follows: “Y/N, I think I’ve liked you ever since you spilled those drinks on me. I’ve been wanting to ask you to dinner for a while now, and the kiss we shared last night was amazing. So, will you go out with me?” (it sounds better in his head, it really does)

But none of that happens, because when he catches her eye, he beelines for her and they both let out a rush of words at once.

“I brought you something—“

“Last night was a mistake—“

Tom stops, mouth drying at her words. “Sorry, what?”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Holland, that was so unprofessional of me to kiss you. We can just forget it ever happened if that’s alright.” And Tom’s mouth snaps shut, his hopeful words dying on his tongue before they could escape. Y/N stood in front of him, wringing her hands, a smoothie by her side. “I brought you a smoothie to apologize — you seemed like a Berry Blast kind of guy. Hope that’s alright.” She hands him the smoothie, unaware of Tom’s internal battle because damn it all to hell, he so desperately wanted that kiss to mean something to her and no, he never wanted to forget about it. He sends her a pained, restrained smile, accepting the smoothie she holds as a peace offering and tries to retreat to his office.

“Wait, Mr. Holland!” Y/N cries out, running to tap his shoulder, “What were you saying? I cut you off earlier.”

Tom carefully hides the chocolate chip muffin behind his back, shaking his head. “It was nothing, you took the words right out of my mouth.” Tom laughs, and yet the sound is so forced it almost makes him wince. Y/N’s smile drops for the slightest moment before it’s up on her face again.

“Oh, alright then!” She smiles, waving her hand towards him, “Have a nice day then!”

Tom decides he most certainly will not.

“You guys are such bloody wankers!” Y/N cries as soon as she reaches her cubicle, “Y’said he liked me! And just now, he told me that he wanted to forget about the kiss too. God, I’m so humiliated! I might as well just go on and die from humiliation now—“

“Okay, babe, chill,” Sarah tries, but to no avail.

“—I can see the headlines already! ‘Intern kisses boss, gets rejected and dies.’ Fuckin’ hell—“ Y/N’s mini-rant is cut off by Sarah’s hand coming to clamp over her mouth, muffling any sound, but quickly yanks her hand back at the feeling of Y/N’s tongue licking a stripe across her palm.

“I’m sure everything’ll be fine, no harm done. He’ll forget about it in two days flat, promise.” Sarah reassures her, patting her back awkwardly.

“For fuck’s sake, mate,” Tom grumbles, head in his hands, “you said she was into me!” Tom’s in shambles because as far as he knows, he’s just humiliated himself in front of the girl he’s taken a liking to.

Harrison laughs at his distressed state teasingly, tossing a pen in the air and catching it to cease his boredom. “M’sure she was just doing what she thought you’d want — hope you realize you aren’t the most approachable guy.”

“Fuck off, you div,” Tom mutters, tossing a highlighter at Harrison’s head, “I resent that, mate.”

The next time Tom interacts with her, it’s not for at least a month. (he needed the time to shake off his humiliation.)

It’s so similar to the previous time that it makes Tom’s heart clench at the memory of her soft lips on his. This time though, it’s because the weather outside was pouring buckets that flooded the streets and soaked everything in contact. So it’s not even a question of ‘maybe’ before Tom’s already insisting on driving her home.

“Love, there’s no way in hell that I’m letting you walk through that rain,” Tom tells her, already pulling on his jacket. “Now c’mon, what kind of boss would I be if I didn’t drive you home?”

Y/N reluctantly agrees, shutting down her computer and picking her purse up from under her desk. “Alright. But you’ve got to promise me that I’m not a bother, Mr. Holland.”

“Never,” Tom promises, placing a hand on her arm to gently guide her to the exit. “D’you want me to pull the car up? I know it’s raining pretty hard out there, don’t want you to get wet or summat.” He picks up on his unintentional innuendo too late, his cheeks and ears flushing a thorough red blush. “Not—not like that, I mean like—”

“No, no, it’s alright, I can survive a little rain.” Tom’s never been more grateful for Y/N ignoring his slip-up, because he’s sure that if she’d acknowledged it, Tom would’ve stayed red for the next century or so. (get it together, he tells himself, she’s just a girl, and you’re not a virgin, you moron,)

The drive to her place is quiet apart from her loud singing, but the real dilemma comes when they pull up to the door.

“For fuck’s sake, I—ugh.” Y/N groans, hand leaving her purse dejectedly. “I’ve locked myself out. Don’t even have a spare key.” Tom’s headgears are already turning before she can finish her sentence. “S’alright, I’ll just call my landlord and sleep with a neighbour or something.”

“Why don’t you come sleep at my house?” Tom offers, and Y/N is quick to refuse, insisting that she’s already a bother, and she wouldn’t force him to deal with her presence any longer. “I already promised you weren’t a bother, darling.”

When Y/N buckles up her seatbelt again, she’s expecting Tom to just continue down the road, but instead he makes a swift u-turn and drives back down the same road the came from.

“Mr. Holland! You told me my apartment was on route to yours — why’ve we turned ‘round?” She gapes, head spinning to look back through the window towards her flat. Tom gives her a cheeky shrug, flicking his windshield wipers to a higher speed as the rain came down harder and obstructed his view of the road.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” he mutters, sending her a smile. “Plus, that’s Tom to you outside of work — Mr. Holland is my dad, love.”

Tom doesn’t know how he’s gotten into this position.

He’s got Y/N in his arms, sound asleep, wearing his shirt, sleeping on his bare chest, and his mind is still hazy from the kisses they shared that night. He remembers how they walked into his penthouse, and Y/N had gushed over everything inside, (“holy shit, Mr—Tom, you have a fucking fluffy bath mat? I’ve always wanted one!”) and awed over his dog Tessa, (“ohmigod, you have a bloody dog too? You’re like… the perfect man!” and Tom has to admit that he took this in a different way, because he would love to be Y/N’s perfect man.) Tom had set up his Netflix for her to browse as he prepared them both a warm cuppa, and he’d returned to see Y/N and Tessa cuddled up in a blanket he’d brought for her. The sight tightened his chest, and really, everything from there is a blur.

The main part that he remembers is that they kissed. (and oh, did they kiss)

“You’ve driven me bloody insane, darling,” Tom admitted, pulling her in for a kiss that frazzled her nerves and curled her toes. Y/N’d pulled away, gasping for air, and Tom trailed light kisses down the length of her neck, his arms wrapping themselves around her waist.

“What’re we doing, Tom?” She’d asked between kisses that he’d pressed to her face.

“What I’ve been wanting for a long while, love.”

And here he was, her head heavy on his chest, nose tucked into the crook of his neck, and Tom’s never felt more at peace. Y/N blinks awake, yawning softly and blinking blearily before she readjusts herself, pulling her body to lay on top of his.

“You’re my… my pillow now, m’kay?” She murmurs, reaching up to press a kiss to his jaw.

Tom smiles, tightening his hold on the sleepy girl, humming. He’s pushing her hair back to kiss her forehead, and Tom decides that he’s never been happier.

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angrylizardjacket · 5 years

Text

and then there was light [2] {Roger Taylor}

Anon asked: lmao sorry if ur not takin prompts but if u r what about one where the boys™️ have just preformed and reader (who is a long time friend of the boys and esp rog) and is secretly dating roger but after the show reader is so proud of roger that she just forgets about the secrecy and snogs him in front of the guys and Mary and they’re all rlly surprised and shook but Fred’s like ‘lmao my kids are in love’

A/N: 4859 words. So a few of these ideas are courtesy of the lovely and kind @roger-bang-the-drum, so thank you for your help. xx This goes a lot of places, and I hope you guys enjoy it as much as the first one. Feedback is always appreciated!!

Warnings: Smoking, M rated but no smut.

[part 1]

There are moments, sometimes few and far between, when everything feels right in the world, and right now? The moment Roger steps out of the shower, towel hanging loose on his hips, and asks you what you want to drink as he opens the hotel’s mini-fridge, you’re letting yourself bask in it.

The sun is peaking through the curtains, which isn’t doing your headache any favours, but he hands you a bottle of water that’s probably expensive, and pulls out a Gatorade for himself. Flopping onto the bed beside you, still wearing just a towel, the drummer is quiet for a long time, basking in the easy silence of the late morning, and the sliver of sunlight that’s bouncing off his chest. You let your gaze linger, let it drift to admire him, pale and almost effortlessly attractive against the quilt.

“Like what you see, love?” And when you meet his gaze, he’s watching you, grinning smug and knowing. Embarrassed to be caught checking him out, you feel a flush creeping up your cheeks, turning away quickly. His laugh is warm in the morning air, nothing cruel or malicious about it, and when he gently moves to hold your cheek, shifting you to look back at him, his grin has shifted to something has your heart hammering against your ribs. “Come here.” Voice low and intimate, he pulls you into a kiss.

It starts gentle, but becomes more insistent, your fingers ghosting over the bare skin of his chest as he pulled you closer, his hand on your hip tugging you closer, moving you until you’re straddling him. He’s got one hand in your hair and one on your ass, until it’s trailing up your back, beneath your shirt, nails scraping gently along your bare skin as your lips move down, trailing kisses from his jaw down his throat.

With the room only growing warmer, you can feel your hangover headache pick up again, and move to kiss just below his ear.

“Put on some pants.” You murmur, and he lets out a breathy laugh, as you move back to laying beside him, watching as he retracts his hands to lay them on his chest, looking up at the ceiling for a long moment.

“Tease.” His gaze slides to you, but there’s no malice in it, maybe a little disbelief, but you just raise your eyebrows at him and take a long sip of water, pretending like your pulse wasn’t racing, like hadn’t wanted to keep going just as much as he had.

“No strenuous movements!” Shrugging helplessly as you parroted his own words back at him, he shakes his head, but rifles through his things for a set of clothes. “For now.” You amended, and the devilish grin you sported was one he mirrored, and he stepped across the room to kiss you once more before making his way to the bathroom.

The moment, that golden, everything-was-right-with-the-world moment, it filled you with contentment from the tips of your toes as you finished off the bottle of water, and got out of bed, breezing around the room as you folded up your clothes from the night before.

And in an instant, the moment shattered.

“Room service!” What sounded suspiciously like a man imitating a woman’s voice came ringing through the door, which only had you frowning.

“We didn’t order anything.” You reply, confused, opening the door without thinking, not hearing Roger in the bathroom saying your name as a warning. It was for good reason, as it turned out, as you find yourself faced with Freddie, Brian, and John, all looking bewilderingly back at you.

“Spotlight? What are you doing here? Where’s Rog?” Brian asks, and it’s John who responds, expression shifting from confusion to exasperation.

“Brian.” He says, so pointed it almost hurt, and Brian’s face lit up with realisation.

“Oh!” And after a beat, the guitarist frowned at the implication. “Oh.” And finally, he sighed deeply, resigned. “Oh.” And he pulled out his wallet, handing ten dollars to John, who suddenly looked like the cat who got the cream. You furrowed your brows at the exchange, squinting, feeling a little betrayed at it’s implications.

“Well are you going to invite us in?” Freddie asked, and it’s then that you notice him beaming.

“No way, what do you all want?” Roger glowered at them the moment he stepped out of the bathroom fully dressed, buckling his belt. He hovered behind you, careful not to touch you.

“No, no, no.” You insisted, crossing your arms and glaring at the three of them. “What was that all about?” Your words were followed by a moment of silence, and the other three boys looking at you like they couldn’t quite believe what you’re asking. After a beat you hear yourself saying, “Do you really think so little of me?” And despite Roger’s actual scoff behind you, your gaze demanded an answer from the others. John at least had the decency to look a little ashamed as he passed Brian’s ten dollars back.

“We’re here to say that we’re leaving in a few hours, and came to see if you wanted breakfast.” And though his knowing smile had died down, part of you could tell he didn’t believe you for a second. He leaned in, almost conspiratorially, though his voice was loud enough that the others heard. “You know, wearing his clothes does hold some implications, darling.”

“I had a shower because I felt like I’d body surfed through a dumpster last night. But being incoherent is such a turn on, right?” The last bit dripped with sarcasm, and Freddie held up his hands defensively, taking an actual step back.

“No need to get bitchy, we’re just here for breakfast. You’re welcome to join.” And at his offer, you let your anger dissipate, uncrossing your arms. “We’re sorry if we offended you.” He added, and you smiled gently.

“Let me just put on some proper pants.” And with that, you close the door, leaning against it with your eyes closed, breathing in through your nose to steady yourself until you hear the other three leave. When you open your eyes, Roger is looking expectantly at you, and he does not look happy.

“What was that about?” He asked, and your expression fell as you stepped past him to grab your jeans.

“I don’t want to seem like just some groupie, not to them, not to anyone on this tour.” You mused, not looking at him as you stripped off the shorts he’d given you, pulling on your own pants. He didn’t respond, but you knew he was waiting for you to elaborate. “This is my job, Roger, and I’m happy to try things out with you, God knows I’m looking forward to sleeping on a bed again, but if things go south, I don’t wanna look unprofessional, like I was abusing my position to get close to you.”

“And what do you think they’ll say about me?” He asked, crossing his arms. “Rock-star lures in crew member with promises of fame and fortune?” He scoffed, and you looked up at him, expression softening.

“They’re not going to say that, you’re a man, Rog, and you’ve already got a reputation. You can go on living your rock-star life after me.” You mused quietly, and Roger takes a deep breath, making himself relax before nodding.

“Fine, I get it. We keep implications to a minimum for a while.” He agreed. Once your pants were finally buckled, you stood, giving him a thankful smile, moving to kiss him gently. “You know they don’t see you as just a groupie.” He said, half-smiling as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Good; I mean I am,” you admitted with an amused smile, “but I don’t want them knowing that.” And he kisses you, warm, hands on your hips holding you steady, grounding you in the moment.

“We should get to breakfast.” He sounds like he really doesn’t want to leave, but you know the boys are already suspicious, and so the two of you head down to the dining area.

The moment you step back onto the equipment bus, there’s a sinking sensation in your chest, the discomfort practically crawling up your spine as you breathe in the stale air, and see the rest of the crew already sitting themselves in the most comfortable positions they could find.

“You’re not usually so late.” One of the sound guys frowns at you, and you clench your jaw, ignoring him and making your way to the back of the bus. You take your place, trying not to let the heat or the bumpy ride make you motion sick, resigned to the long trip to the next city.

Things have changed between you and Roger, obviously, the dynamic had shifted, and for the first two stops, neither of you were sure how to maneuver your usual breaks, especially since the other boys had been insistent on joining you. It exasperated you, clearly they didn’t believe that nothing had happened between you and Roger, but you kept professional, and kept conversation light.

The thing is, nothing really had happened between the two of you, not yet; after gigs, he would go to the afterparty, and you would be too exhausted from bump out to do more than make your way to his hotel room and crash on his bed. It’s nice to wake up next to him, his arm around you where he’s also crashed, almost fully dressed, but there was never enough time to enjoy it by the time you had to leave to get to the equipment bus before anyone got suspicious.

Except that they were, because you were usually the first one there - obviously, you’d been living there - but now, if even one person arrived before you, people’s eyebrows would rise.

“We’ve blown a bulb in the drum risers!” Everything changes the night that you’re pretty sure you’re going to die. A bulb blows in one of the parcans beneath the drum risers, and the sound operator from his spot in the bio-box, is losing his goddamn mind. The stage manager tells you, and you’re just confused.

“We have spares but-” You’re cut short by the frantic stage manager feeding off of the sound operator’s panic.

“Where? How fast can you get to them?” He asks, and you take a deep breath, re-centering yourself in the chaos before answering that you can get to them in less than a minute, but you’re not sure what- “Can we go to black at the end of this song?” The stage manager is speaking into their headset, and you feel adrenaline flooding your veins as you realised what you would have to do.

The space behind the drum risers is not a lot, and there’s even less beneath them; space enough to fit one person, maybe. And yet here you were, spare parcan in your hands as Killer Queen comes to an end and the lights fade to black.

“Go! Go! Go!” You’re urged on stage, pushed by the stage manager, and you move as quickly as you can in the almost complete darkness, sitting yourself down behind the drum risers as the lights come up.

“What the fuck?” You hear Roger murmur to himself, unaware of you currently shifting to lay on your belly and wriggle beneath the about-to-be-active drummer. The rest of the band also confused, none of them having known what had happened, but they played it off well, Freddie laughing with the others about a technical difficulty before starting their next song.

You unplug the faulty light from the power board the moment the first bass drum beat kicks in, and you jump, whacking the back of your head on the drum riser, swearing loudly and profusely, though it was drowned out by the music. Pulling the light from it’s position as the drum beats set your teeth on edge, deafening you with every passing moment, you burn your hands on the still hot light. Gritting your teeth despite the tears welling in your eyes, you pull out the scalding gel in it’s frame from the parcan, shifting it into the spare. As the song died down, you moved the spare light into position, waiting for the lights on that level to die down so you could plug it back in, and have it come up naturally with the others.

Heart in your throat, you can feel every movement of the drum risers above you, and you’ve never felt closer to death before; large burns on your already calloused hands, whole body being knocked around by the beat of the bass drum. Once you’ve finished you’re job, you pull the broken light from it’s position, and lay behind the drum risers in shock, staring up at the ceiling, tears in your eyes as the adrenaline has already started numbing your hands, and the music turns to white noise in your ears.

Roger catches sight of you at the tail end of the set list, and his eyes go wide, mid-song, but he can’t stop playing. Looking up weakly, you see the stage manager giving you the thumbs up, but clearly signalling for you to stay where you are, and you do, pressing your burning hands to your cheeks in an attempt to cool them down as the adrenaline slowly vanishes and you’re left with the realisation of what had happened.

The lighting designer and operator yells at the stage manager for a full fifteen minutes while you sit on a road case, still in shock after the gig.

“One light doesn’t fucking matter in that situation; she could have died! Look at her; look at her!” He hollers, and you realise vaguely that he’s talking about you. Looking up, the stage manager meets your blank, shocked gaze with a guilty one. “Get her to the fucking medical officer, that was so fucking irresponsible.”

Once there’s cream and large bandaids on the burns on your hands, you make your way outside, having been given the night off as compensation, and almost immediately you’re swarmed by the band, asking what had happened.

Freddie calls you brave, calls you darling, kisses your forehead and brings the others in for a group hug.

“I don’t get paid enough for this.” You’re definitely still in shock as the laugh escapes you, but it makes the rest of them smile, and they offer to buy you drinks at the afterparty. You’re too dazed to say no. The others seem happy that you’re okay as you walk to the pub, but Roger trails behind the group, expression dark.

He keeps you close all night, always by your side though Freddie is also just as likely to be on your other side. The boys are true to their word, keeping your hands full of cool drinks all night, though you mostly sip them, pacing yourself to keep your balance as the night progressed.

“You seem really rattled, Rog,” John sits on your other side as you take a moment of peace at the bar.

“She was beneath my drums.” It’s the first time he’s said it all night, angry and a bit afraid. John’s expression fell and he nodded in understanding, wrapping an arm around you to give you a squeeze, and moving to clap Roger on the shoulder before moving on.

When you suggest leaving, Roger agrees without hesitating, telling the others he would walk you back to your hotel room; they all gave him understanding smiles, knowing how much seeing you in pain and shock behind him, mid-show, had freaked him out.

The walk back to the hotel is quiet, his arm around your waist for the whole duration, though he still radiated an anger.

“Are you okay?” You’re pulling off your shoes, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“Me? I-” the question seemed to bewilder him, and he frowned, still lost in his own thoughts, “I’m fine, you- are you okay?” He asked, and you smiled gently at him, still not having fully processed everything that had happened. “Who fucking let this happen?” He snapped, not at you, just bitter at the universe, now pacing.

“Roger.” You stood, reaching out to catch him by the shoulder, and he turned to you, anger melting away.

“You looked scared and hurt. I know how loud I play, I can’t fucking imagine being trapped beneath that.” He admitted, quietly bitter. “I can’t believe they made you do that.”

“It’s my job.” Was all you could say in response, expression falling. “Sometimes I love it, sometimes I-” something catches in your throat, finally looking in his eyes, and you suddenly understand, and you scowl. “You shouldn’t have to worry about me, Roger, it’s how I make a living.” You snap, defensive, turning away to get changed into the pyjamas you’d thought to bring along when he checked in earlier in the day.

“If you think I’m not going to worry about you,” his hands are on your hips the moment you pull off your shirt, his voice a low growl in your ear, “you’re dead wrong.” A shiver runs through you, and he turns you around, pulling you close enough that he rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, bodies pressed together where you’re only wearing a bra and your jeans.

Seeing the fear in your eyes when he had looked back had fucking terrified him, and he can’t get the image out of his mind. When he opens his eyes now, however, you’re looking up at him, pupils blown wide, smirk on your lips.

“Shut the fuck up, just tell me I’m good at my job-” You tease, but you don’t mind when he interrupts you with a kiss. All he wants to do is to hold you, be with you after everything that had happened; the realisation that his feelings for you ran a lot deeper than he thought began to shift to a primal need to show you what you mean to him in the best way he knew how.

“You’re incredible at your job, okay?” He murmurs, walking you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed and you sit back on it. “What you did tonight? Dedicated to a fucking fault, you know that right?” He’s making quick work of his own shirt as you slide further back onto the bed, grinning as he praises you. “At the top of a ladder, you’re the queen of the goddamn stage and you know it, don’t you?” He follows you onto the bed, leaning over you, seeing the equal parts pride and mischief in your eyes, splayed out and waiting beneath him on top of the duvet. Your grin morphs into a smirk, the only confirmation he gets before you’re pulling him into a heated kiss.

When you wake the next morning, your burnt hands ache a little, but that’s nothing compared to the ease and contentment that you find yourself filled with. Roger’s got an arm slung over your hip, you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing with his chest pressed against your back. You lace your fingers with his, feeling him give your hand a gentle squeeze in his sleep, and let yourself fall back to sleep.

Things get easier after that, between the two of you, easier and more comfortable. After everything that had happened, it seemed the other band members’ suspicions had died down, which you were thankful for, and it seemed like things almost went back to normal.

You spend your breaks up ladders and shoving lights into the drum risers from the front, and you have a smoke with Roger as the break comes to an end, though now more often than not you’re using his stomach as a pillow. Freddie’s the only one who’s seen the change, you think, but he has the decency not to say anything.

The sex is pretty incredible; you’re given a few nights off from bump out after the incident had occurred, which you and Roger took full advantage of. Even after, you started to attend more of the afterparties, integrating yourself into the culture he was already so submerged in.

Sometimes, you’d get there late, and there’d be girls hanging around like flies, and you’d have to beat your own rising jealousy with a stick, because once you arrived, still wearing theatre blacks, he’d have eyes for no-one else.

So maybe you got comfortable in the new, easy dynamic, been a little bit careless.

“Lighting wench?” He calls, and you make a noise of discomfort in the back of your throat.

“You know I hate that.” You call to him from where you’re sitting against the drum risers, and ask him to retrieve the stack of gels from where they were resting on the edge of the stage. He does so without complaint, pulling out a cigarette and patting his pockets for a lighter. He doesn’t even need to turn and ask for you to pull the one from your pocket.

Lighting the cigarette as you cut a new gel for the ones that had been burned through during the last show, you feel him put the lighter back in your pocket, and hear him take a long drag, leaning back. It’s a comfortable silence that spreads between you, and he’s offering you the cigarette after he takes a second draft. When you look up, he presses a quick kiss to your lips, more as a greeting than anything else, and you take the cigarette from him with a smile, passing him the stack of gels to hold while you worked.

“Um, Y/N?” It’s the sound operator, and you look up suddenly, unsure of how long he’d been there. “I was told you’re the person to talk to if I want a cable run?” He asked, a little confused.

“It’s Spotlight.” Roger doesn’t look at the interloper, looks instead out to the empty audience. The sound operator doesn’t look less confused.

“I’m your gal!” You reply, smiling far brighter than you necessarily needed to, pointedly ignoring Roger. After being handed a cable for the weirdly positioned amps in this particular theatre, the sound designer leaves, giving an awkward smile to Roger, who’s been sitting, smoking, and crinkling a gel between his fingers while he waited.

“Thanks, uh- thanks Spotlight.” And with that, he leaves you and Roger to yourselves. Roger’s smiling to himself.

“Shut up, you barely call me Spotlight anymore.” You roll your eyes at him and begin to run the cord, listening as Roger mutters something about it being the principle of the thing, and moving to practice a song you didn’t recognise.

From that moment on, there was a tension in the air, and it felt like everywhere you went, the other members of the crew were watching your every move. It made it difficult to steal from the band’s catering, but it made it substantially worse to try and have a private moment with Roger.

“How’d you get so close with the band?” The assistant stage manager actually chose to sit with you at the back of the equipment bus on one of the shorter journeys you would be taking.

“They started hanging around me, I sort of had no say in it.” You shrug as much as your pretzeled up position in the back allowed.

“But they like, really like you.” She grinned, eyes shining as she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Like, Freddie gave you a nickname, Spotlight.” She said, pointedly, and you shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, he saw me... doing my job.” You mused, unsure if your discomfort wasn’t clear, or if she was just choosing to ignore it.

“And I heard about how Roger spends all his lunches with-”

“Yeah,” you laugh, loud and uncomfortable, cutting her off, “listen, why are you asking me this? You know you can just talk to them if you want to get to know them... they’re just people.” She looked taken aback by that, and you think she’s finally starting to get it. Except that you’re pretty sure you’ve offended her with your bluntness, and she purses her lips.

“Well, anyways, I’m glad he’s got a little ‘tour girlfriend’.” She sneers, and her words hit you squarely in the chest. She stumbles back to the front of the bus as it continues along, and you feel like you’re gasping for air.

“Hey, what are we?” It’s only a few stops until this leg of the tour is over, and the ASM’s words have been playing on a loop in your head for almost a week. Roger, laying beside you in the morning sunlight, is quiet for a long moment.

“Whaddya mean?” He asks, propping himself up on his elbow to properly look at you, though you’re staring at the ceiling, slight frown creasing your brow.

“I mean... well what happens after the tour?” You still can’t bring yourself to look at him, even as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“We’ll get to that when we get to it.” Though he may have thought it would be assuring, you feel tension knot in your stomach at his words.

“Rog, if you wanna leave me after, I- I mean I’ll understand.” It hurt you to say the words, and you don’t see the way his expression falls. He hadn’t thought about it, not really, you’d been together for almost two months, and he’d sort of just expected that you’d be on the next leg of the tour too. “They don’t usually keep the same crew for the full, cross-continent tours.” You admitted, heart sinking a little at your own words.

“What if I had a word to them?” His words surprised you, caused your heart to soar momentarily, though you tried not to get your hopes up.

“You really don’t need to do that.” You laughed humorlessly. “It’d be easier, honestly, less paperwork and hassle and shit.” Turning away from him, you feel him reaching for you, resting his hand on your shoulder, tapping a gentle rhythm.

“It’s not a hassle.” He tells you, and then, much quieter, “and it’s not like I want to leave you behind.”

The week and a half of the tour is nice, but different. You and Roger don’t talk about the future, just make the most of your time together, oftentimes becoming frantic and desperate to leave reminders of your existence on one another. Holding tighter than necessary, leaving pleasant bruises and scratch marks in places no-one else would know about, never speaking about what was to come.

He’d never made mention that he’d talked to EMI, not until the night of the final show.

It had been ethereal, he was glowing when he played, so focused and energetic, you tried to listen to the music, thinking it was one of your last chances to hear this set live, but you kept getting lost in the image of him. He beams at you when he catches you watching from side of stage, starry-eyed. You can’t even bring yourself to be irritated by the ASM’s eye roll. As soon as they finish, you feel the adrenaline flooding through your veins at the prospect of the final bump out, and he heads off stage to the dressing room.

As soon as the auditorium is cleared, the crew is given the go-ahead to start bump out, and you get to work. He comes out fifteen minutes later, and you’re both thrumming with energy.

“Spotlight!” Roger calls to you where you’re pulling up taped down cords. Looking up, startled, you see him making a beeline for you, before he wraps his arms around you, swinging you around. Surprised, you make a squeak before he puts you back down, pressing his lips to yours. You melt into his embrace, kissing him back, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“What’s that for?” You asked a little breathless, grinning at where he was beaming back at you.

“You’re coming to Europe with us.” He told you, and your eyes widened, before you hugged him tightly, laughing with disbelief. “Told EMI you’re the best lighting assistant we have; told them the show’d be a mess without you.” You murmurs in your ear, giving you a squeeze. Looking at him, there’s awe in your eyes, and he can’t help but kiss you again, in the middle of bump out.

“Okay, so who had ‘final show’?” You hear John’s voice behind you, and when you and Roger break apart, you see the crew crowding around him, all withdrawing their wallets.

“Me, obviously.” Freddie said, and the rest of the crew groaned. “I knew you too had a flare for the dramatic.” Freddie grinned at the both of you, accepting as people offered him ten dollar notes. “Good for you two.”

“Did everyone bet on when we’d get together?” You asked, frowning, and at that, you heard a chorus of laughter rippled through the crew and band members.

“Oh, we’ve known for ages, we’re betting on when you’d make it public.”

[part 3]

#roger taylor #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x reader #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #bo rhap #borhap imagine #queen #queen imagine #ben hardy imagine #the angry lizard writes

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