#until they step foot on manila

[hyunebear]

in just a few hours skz will be breathing the same air as i am and i’m trying not to freak out too much abt it and cry my eyes out but that isn’t promised.

[ectologia]

do you have a lil drabble on the brain abt hawks being a lil obsessed w his coworker?

TOP-DOG

KEIGO TAKAMI + FEMALE READER

WARNING: DUBCON/NONCON, WORK-PLACE ABUSE, POWER IMBALANCE, FORCED BREEDING

Oh, I like this one.

Seems very plausible indeed.

Being The No. 2 Pro-Hero Hawks’s personal assistant.

He’ll have you following him everywhere, trailing behind like a little puppy with your little clipboard as he pads about his agency on the phone. Cleaning up his swiftly moulting feathers, plucking the flitting red bristled-brushes from the air and floor after every step.

He’ll turn on his heel to take a subtle glance at your rear, every time you bend down to scoop up one of his floating feathers, rolling a drooling tongue over the grooves of his teeth once he catches that leaky mound of pretty PA pussy hiding under your slitted pencil skirt.

He likes his coffee with lots of cream and lots of sugar. Is it weird to kiss your boss good morning? No, baby. Of course not, now come ‘ere and give your favourite hero a little peck.

He’ll have you placing a nice, wet, sloppy kiss against his stubbled jaw while he sips his coffee, tapping a foot triumphantly as he palms the tent in his cargos with the other hand.

He’s smug, sleazing a cocky grin when he catches you off guard and quickly snaps his head to the side, mashing his lips against yours for a little split-second smooch.

“What’s wrong, chickadee? I’m just showing my favourite assistant how much I appreciate all her hard-work.”

He’ll mouth witty comments and make faces at you during meetings, chuckling behind his palm once he sees your frigid expression unfold beneath his charm.

While you giggle away at his constant innuendos, he’ll have his phone shuttering frantically beneath the table, snapping photo after photo of that tiny wet breeding-slot in between your knees.

You’re such a good little personal assistant for him, he’ll reward you with a gentle massage, kneading and rolling the balls of your shoulders as you attempt to concentrate on the 20 manila folders piled sky-high on-top of your desk.

“Oh, hun.” He’s humming, spidering the thick leather of his gloves down the apex of your ribs until he’s pressing against the small of your back. “You’re so tight here. You must be exhausted, huh?”

“Is your favourite boss working you too hard lately?” His thumb swipes lazily over the two subtle dips just above your waistband.

You’re shaking your head in a panicked frenzy, adjusting the sliding papers that threaten to topple off of your desk. “Uhm.. No, sir..”

“Good girl.” A flat palm comes to tussle your hair about as he strokes you like a prized pet.

After a while, he’ll decide he wants to make things even more personal with you.

You find a grand bouquet of blood-red roses on your desk, tied with a dainty pink ribbon. The man himself, standing stoic and proud with a sun-swallowing grin etched along his handsome features as he takes the plunge and asks you to finally be his.

You’re frowning because you don’t know what to say.

He’s smiling because he knows you can’t say no.

Because now he’s gonna’ take you, face-down, pussy-up on his desk and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.

Because he’s your boss, and if he says he wants to pump his babies into your tight little womb and blow your belly up with his chicks, you’re gonna fucking take it.

Hard.

[thefallennightmare]

Broken-eight

*credit to whoever credit the gif. found on google/pinterest*

Pairings: Barry Keoghan x Reader

Warnings: angst, swearing, fluff, implied smut, mentions of alcoholism and death.

Summary: A failed marriage wasn't in the cards for Reader, she thought she found her happily ever after with Barry. While trying to overcome the heartbreak, a tragic event brings them back together temporarily. Will the devastating loss bring them back together or be what pushes them apart for good?

Authors Note: I've noticed a bit more traction with this story since the last update. Makes me very happy!

The house was an eerie, unsettling quiet, as the only noise that echoed throughout the house was the dreaded grandfather clock. I always hated that thing, my mom did as well. It was my dad that brought it home one day, years ago. He used to love antiquing, and I could remember his exact words and the way he said it on that day. 

“Oi, quit your whining. It’s a beautiful clock, almost as beautiful as you.” My dad mused while kissing my mom on the lips. 

Their love was like any other, never fighting, always being by each other's side no matter what they went through. I had always strived to find a love like that, promised myself that I wouldn’t settle until I did and for a while, I thought it did with Barry. How wrong and naive I was. 

With a soft sigh, I pinched my eyes shut in hopes to stop the tears from falling. I had done enough crying for the day, hell maybe even the week, when I returned home from my therapy session. After Barry had walked out to answer his phone call, I gave an apologetic smile to Ms. Rogers before sauntering out past Barry. I decided not to get a ride back home with him, upset about the way he acted during our session, and got a taxi instead. Barry never even looked away from his phone as I stormed out of the therapy office. 

That was a few hours ago and I had been alone since then. No word from Barry on where he was or if he was coming back. There was a small ounce of hope that he was so upset and angry with the session that he decided I wasn’t worth it anymore and went back to his own place. 

“I can only wish,” I mumbled to myself as I kept myself busy by sorting through the stack of mail. 

Typical bills or letters, a few cards offering their condolences, and at the bottom of the stack was the dreaded manila envelope that I had yet to open. I was afraid to find out what my parents had left me in their will or if there was anything left to leave me. However, I knew I couldn’t put it off forever, whatever was in the envelope needed a final decision soon. 

My eyes glanced over to the empty bar cart and I silently wished there was even half a bottle left. Anything to give me the courage to open the envelope. 

The grandfather clock chimed loudly six times, indicating it was now six in the evening. With a check of my phone, I realized that Barry hadn’t called or texted me and came to the conclusion that he had in fact returned to his own home. 

I tapped my foot, weighing the decision between my shoulders almost as if there was an angel on one and a devil on the other. 

Stay home and waste another night in front of the television or go to the pub that was a short walk and enjoy one drink. 

It was only one drink, what could hurt? Barry was gone which meant that whatever deal we had was officially off of the table. 

Before I could second guess the decision I had made, I snatched my keys from the bowl next to the front door, my footsteps bounding down the concrete steps. 

“One drink,” I said out loud to myself. 

“Where ya headed?” 

My feet halted as I nearly ran into the body that stood in front of me with a suitcase in one hand and a brown bag in the other. 

“Barry?” I asked. 

His brow raised. “Again I ask, where ya headed?” 

My mouth ran dry as I tried to come up with an excuse. “I was running to the market quickly. We’re out of eggs.” 

Barry motioned to the paper bag in his left hand. “I already went. Try again.” 

“Why don’t you tell me where you’ve been all afternoon?” 

As much as I tried, I couldn’t hide the jealous tone from my voice. The thoughts of where he was or who he was with wouldn't stop the entire time he was gone. 

He merely shook his head before walking past me into the house. “Jealousy never looked good on ya, Y/N.” 

I scoffed, offended, and followed him back inside. 

“I am not jealous. I just wanted to know where you’ve been? I thought you went back home,” I said while tossing my keys back into the bowl. 

“Is that why you were headed to the pub?” He asked while putting away the groceries. 

My mouth pulled to a thin line, my silence being the answer he needed. 

“I thought we had a deal?” Barry sighed while looking directly at me. 

I bit down hard at the inside of my cheek to keep the snarky remark to myself. 

“Well, I thought the deal was off since you disappeared all afternoon,” I reiterated my words from earlier.

He sat down on the couch while I kept my hands sprawled on the back of it, looking down at him. There was a tiredness in his eyes and suddenly I felt a pang of guilt. 

“After my phone call with the promoter, I decided to head back to the gym for another quick spar. The guy I’m fighting in big time around here. I want to make sure I’m prepared,” Barry explained, him still looking up at me. 

I nodded, moving around the couch to sit, making sure there was still some space between us. 

“I also had to grab some more clothes,” he motioned to his suitcase next to the front door. “I’ve got five days left with ya but can’t keep wearing the same clothes.” 

“Oh,” I nodded again, eyes looking over to the other couch in the room that still had the blankets and pillows from his slumber last night. 

“Is the couch fine?” I asked. “I feel terrible knowing there’s another bed for you to sleep in. It’s my parents but.” 

My words trailed off, the strength to finish the sentence faltering at the mention of my parents. Barry immediately understood and placed a soft hand on my thigh. 

“I’m fine with the couch. It’s only for a few more days,” he said. 

The way my stomach fell made me realize that as much as we had been fighting lately, I was going to miss him when he did in fact leave. 

“So,” I adjusted myself on the couch, Barry’s hand falling away. “Can we talk about the therapy session?” 

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I don’t see how we got anywhere when all she cared about was our sex life?” 

“I mean, it was an honest question she asked us. You said it yourself, we got married young.” 

“What did you want me to say? That all I cared for during our marriage was sex?” Barry asked. 

I pointed between us. “We did start off as friends with benefits.” 

“I know,” he nodded while pursing his lips slightly. “But if I remember correctly, you were the one that said no strings attached.” 

“Yet, I was the one who fell the hardest,” I muttered while cracking my knuckles. 

With the way Barry sighed, I knew he had heard my voice even if I tried to keep it to myself. 

“Y/N,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know what else you want from me.” 

Anger began to boil low in my stomach but refused to get upset with him just yet. There was something I wanted to know, something that Ms. Rogers asked him before our session ended.

“Do you still love me?”

The question wavered, my voice cracking on the word love.

Barry lifted his head from the back of the couch and stared at me, lips parting slightly. His pupils dilated before avoiding my own gaze, staring at his hands in his lap. 

“I do-.” 

He was cut off by the sudden loud ringing of his phone and I started to wonder if he had somehow rigged it to interrupt our important conversations as a way to get out of it. 

I was about to tell him not to answer when the flash image of a blonde appeared on the screen, my heart dropping low in my belly. 

Alyi. 

“I thought you two broke up,” I said. 

“I never said that,” Barry responded, his thumb ghosting between the answer and decline button. 

I hummed. “Then why won’t you answer it?” 

With a quick decision, Barry hit the red decline button before pocketing his phone. 

“I don’t feel like fighting with someone else right now,” he shrugged. 

I shook my head. “We’re not fighting.” 

He let out a low chuckle. “That’s all we ever do.” 

“Then why are you still here, Barry?” 

“For you,” he said. “To make sure you get sober again and stay sober.” 

My eyes rolled to the back of my head and I stood to my feet. “It’s been two days. I haven't had a drink since the night of my parents' funeral. Clearly, I’m doing fine and don’t need you here anymore.” 

There was some hostility to my voice, something Barry picked up on immediately. 

“Fine?” he stood to his own feet, his height towering over me a bit. “If you’re fine, then how come you haven’t read through their will yet?” 

I blinked, unsure how to answer. 

“It’s none of your business. I’m waiting until you leave to read it,” I crossed my arms over my chest. 

“Another excuse,” Barry shook his head before brushing past me, towards the bathroom. “I need to shower.” 

“Oh, fuck you!” I snapped, the anger I did my best to keep at bay exploding within me. “I tried to have a civil conversation with you but you're the one that always makes it into a fight.” 

“I’ll talk to ya once you’ve calmed down,” he called over his shoulder. 

Barry came to a quick halt right outside of the bathroom door when he felt a pillow crash into his back. I had another one in my hands ready to throw when he turned to face me, eyebrow raised to his hairline. 

“Did ya throw a pillow at me?” 

“I want to do a lot more,” I seethed. “I want to smack that smug smile off your face.” 

Barry took a few steps towards me, the smug smile he wore almost an invitation. Do it, it practically screamed. 

“You’re so fucking infuriating,” I yelled throwing the pillow at him. 

He smacked it away, it falling to the floor at his feet, but continued to close the distance between us. 

“Stop throwing pillows,” he said with an even tone. 

“I don’t need you here, Barry! You’re making everything worse!” 

He stopped about a foot away from me, eyes twinkling with a mischievous gleam as he caught another pillow I chucked at him. I groaned in annoyance, ready to throw something else, anything else at him in hopes he knew exactly how angry he was making me. 

I was doing fine without him. Yes, I relapsed but I could come back from it. I always did. It was only a moment of weakness, given everything I had gone through the last year I say it was justified. Barry being here did make everything worse. Seeing him every morning when I wake or being around him in general made all of the feelings I had to force myself to bury slowly creep back into my heart. 

“Tell me to leave,” Barry said nonchalantly. 

My bottom lip caught between my teeth, but I held my head high. “I don’t need you here anymore.” 

He clicked his tongue while leaning closer towards me, his warm breath fanning my mouth. “Not the same thing, grá .” 

That nickname. The same nickname he had called me so many times before caused my heart to soar into my throat and I shuddered at the lowness of his voice. 

My eyes bounced from his mouth up to his own eyes and when I moisten my dry lips, I let out a deep breath. 

“I’d be fine if I never saw you again.” 

Barry moved a strand of loose hair behind my ear, fingers grazing over the skin of my neck. My entire body shuddered with pure euphoric bliss when I felt his hand scratch at the hairs on my scalp, eyes fluttering shut with a hushed moan falling from my lips. 

“We both know that’s a lie,” he mused while his other hand traced down the skin of my arm. 

Damn him. Barry knew exactly where to touch me, all these years later, to make me a puddled mess in his hands. I was like a dog that was getting his ears scratched. It was pathetic. 

Seven chimes from the grandfather clock struck which caused me to jump in Barry’s light embrace and I stepped away from him, his hands falling to his side. 

“Is this a joke to you?” I blew out a shaky breath. 

The smugness faltered from his face. “What?” 

“My feelings,” I said, feeling the tears caught on my lashes. 

Barry quickly shook his head. “Of course not.” 

“Then why do you keep messing with my head? You say you don’t love me anymore but yet touch me the way you used to or call me the names I loved once before.” 

“I never said that.” he said, not missing a beat. 

It was my turn to look at him confused. “What?” 

With his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, he let out a deep sigh. “I never said I didn’t love you anymore.” 

As that was his parting words, Barry turned his back to me, retreating into the bathroom. 

[ceruleanmusings]

Big Time Rides - Mickames

things get angsty in this one. also there's a warning for some cursing.

@partiallypearl @raging-violets

-----

Mickey’s humming eased when she heard the rap of knuckles on the doorframe. She didn’t bother glancing up, letting her eyes scan over the stack of papers tucked in her arm, making sure they were in alphabetical order as she’d been tasked to do.

For a record producer, Gustavo wasn’t the most organized guy in the world. Maybe he only put in the effort to acts he oversaw that didn’t make him want to pull out his hair. (It’d explain why he didn’t have much left). Shifting the papers, Mickey tapped them against the desk and said, “I’ll be done in a few minutes, Uncle Gustavo. I just have to get...through…”

Explanation dying on her tongue, Mickey snapped her lips together at the sight of him, James, standing in the doorway. No, not standing. James filled doorframes with his height alone. And in the past couple years he added muscle to that, widening his shoulders and arms due to many gym visits. But now he barely took up space, standing smack in the center, shoulders rounded, head hung, a soft downward curve to his mouth accentuating the contrition in his eyes.

“You probably shouldn’t be up,” she stated, voice flat, stuffing the papers into a manila folder. Gustavo’s chicken scratch across the small label made her take pause, glancing at the other folder on the desk amongst the assorted paper balls, broken pencils, half empty Styrofoam cups holding hours old coffee, and an empty King size package of Twizzlers. Was that the right folder? With a small shrug, she put the folder in the open desk drawer by her knee. Oh well. All he said was to sort and organize, the rest would be his problem.

“I’m okay,” he said.

She let out a sound between a scoff and a snort, the noise nearly drowned out by the rolling groan of the drawer she pushed shut with her foot. Okay was such a dismissive word. She would know, she used it all the time. It may as well be tattooed on her tongue, how often she spit out the word, filtering everything she thought and felt down to two syllables to keep the peace, to remain under the radar, to not be a burden.

How dare he use it against her. Like what he did was no big deal.

“You damaged your knee,” she continued, voice still without emotion. Detached. Clearing her throat, she tossed her head, flicking her hair out her face. She crossed her arms, hiding her fingers curling into fists by tucking them into the pits of her elbows. “Good luck getting through rehearsals. Gustavo’s gonna flip when he finds out.”

James cracked his knuckles, taking his time with each one, pressing his thumb against each one until they let out pops. “Gustavo doesn’t need much of a reason to flip on us.”

He had a point, of course, but that wasn’t the point he should’ve been focusing on. Mickey pushed a breath out her nose, nostrils flaring, lips pulled back into her mouth so hard her teeth left temporary grooves when she released.

“Mickey—”

She held up her hand, extending her arm in such a ferocious fashion anyone walking by would have been clotheslined. It effectively stopped whatever he was going to say at the one word, and him as well. But not before he managed to take a few steps forward. She noticed the wince right away; he tried to keep himself standing tall, his walk even, but his knee buckled just slightly, and his face flashed a grimace.

That stupid, stupid idiot.

“I really don’t want to talk right now,” Mickey said. Her voice shook and…oh. It wasn’t just her voice, but all of her. She lowered her hand, bracing her palms against the side of the desk, leaning her weight against it to keep from falling over. Gustavo’s desk chair sat behind her but she didn’t trust taking a step back to sit down. Didn’t trust she’d move in another direction, closer to James. Didn’t trust what she’d do if she got close to him.

It’s why she took up Gustavo’s offer in the first place. (Less offer, more lesser of two evils. The other option was washing all his sports cars. What was the point of going near them if he wouldn’t let them drive it?) Going through his files, putting everything in order, she needed the job to calm down. It tamped out the fire burning in her belly, an inferno which grew so wild she was surprised James didn’t catch on fire when she saw him in 2J, covered from head to toe in plaster, hunching over the handlebars of that stupid bike! (Not that she was calling a Harley Davidson XL 883 Sportster itself stupid, it was a thing of beauty her dad would salivate at the sight of it. But in this case, it was a vehicle for stupidity. No pun intended. …Okay, maybe a little.)

God, she could’ve throttled him! Hell, the bike almost took care of that for her. So she left and agreed to sort through Gustavo’s files, all but throwing him out his office when he made a comment wondering if it were her time of month. Which was, one, gross and two, so very wrong. Her boyfriend did something stupid. Not just stupid, but downright dangerous! So yeah, she was angry, and she wanted some time alone to not have to sink into her thoughts, the ones that screamed at her at night wondering if she was just a glorified babysitter for him rather than someone he actually cared for or thought about.

“Then listen,” he pleaded. Either the brightness of the lights above or James' seemingly earnest plea put a sparkle of something in his eye. She didn’t allow herself to think too long on it, or look too long. She wasn’t going to fall for it. Yeah, she’d played that song and dance many times before, letting him off the hook when he did or said something idiotic because of that look, but she would let him dangle this time. Still, she bit the inside of her cheek to quell the familiar urge to brush it all aside, to roll over and let him have his way. Her back was beginning to bruise.

“No. No.” She shook her head, words sharpening as she directed them down at the desk. Little grooves had been intended into the wood on the edges; Mickey could almost see Gustavo air drumming, listening to whatever beat he’d produced that day. “You don’t get to make those puppy eyes at me and make this all go away.”

“I’m not trying to! Just listen!” At this she lifted her head, looked James in the eye and held onto the desk tighter. “I messed up. I know I messed up. I’m sorry.”

Mickey’s eyebrow quirked. Messed up? Was that all he did? She liked to call it lying and endangerment. But maybe those words meant different things in his world. “What are you sorry for?” she asked, dragging a blue glitter painted nail against the edges of the desk. The rhythmic grating sound, the rough edge rolling beneath her nail kept her focused, grounded deep in the flickering wildfire pushing up her neck.

“For everything.”

She took her time breathing, fighting against the tide slapping at the dam she’d built behind the flames. “What exactly?” Her question, a barb, hit him the way she wanted: surprise burst onto his face. Of course it did, she didn’t usually press him like this. Mickey Mason let bygones be bygones, let James be James; taking his apologies, if he ever did apologize, at face value so as to smooth things over, to make everything easier. But she was tired. If he wanted to be with her, as he claimed, he couldn’t white-boy-charm his way out of this. So she stayed silent as James looked downwards, shuffling his feet, crimson mottling the length of his neck.

“For…being stupid, I guess?” Lifting an arm, he rubbed the back of his neck. The sight of his muscles straining against the tight cuff of his sleeve normally would have thrown her off balance and, lately, openly admire him. It did nothing for her now; anger coursed and popped beneath the surface of her skin, electrifying the air around her. Her eyes narrowed and he gulped. “For…doing something stupid. And-and dangerous. And for lying. I shouldn’t have lied to you.” He hung his head, his long, helmet matted hair curled over his forehead. “I just…I wanted…”

“What, James? What could you have possibly wanted?”

He blew out a breath, quick and harsh. “I wanted to impress you.”

…This boy… Her hair formed a thick curtain as she hung her head, dread strands dangling in front of her like jungle vines, shielding her face. A burning prickle stung the backs of her eyes and a thickening built in her throat. “James…y’wanna to know what impresses me?" She didn't give him a chance to respond. "Your voice impresses me. Your drive impresses me. Your confidence impresses me. Your passion impresses me. Your ability to ride a bike doesn’t. I don’t care about that! God! I care about you!” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she hated it. Oh, did she hate how the dam she’d built up behind the fire allowed a tiny fissure in, failing beneath the pressure welling up inside her. The flames retreated under the sprinkle of water, just a little. “Fuck, James, I…y’coulda been really, really hurt. D’you get that? You somehow—and I still can’t figure this out—drove up two flights of stairs and crashed into your apartment! What woulda happened if you kept goin’ and crashed right out the wall?” He twisted his mouth to the side, his eyes shifting past her head, probably to the shelf of music trophies Gustavo liked to keep on display even if they were from about ten years ago. She knew his tricks; he liked to look at them partially because he imagined getting some himself one day and partially to daydream while Gustavo chewed them out for whatever infraction they managed to obtain that day. “And all because of a lie. You should've just told me—”

“I know,” James cut in, his voice a strained whisper. “I’m sorry.”

The flames backed off a little more. Tears rolled onto her bottom lids. “You really scared me.” Her voice, already small, sounded smaller in the large office. He didn’t reply right away, for that Mickey was thankful. She didn’t know what she could say to him; her head hurt, her eyes burned, and all the energy fueling her fire yanked away, leaving her an odd combination of drained and relieved and hurt all at once.

“Mama Knight’s making me sell the bike.”

“Good!” Mickey said emphatically. “You shouldn’t be operating it without a license anyway.”

James blinked. “…You need a license?”

“Yeah! You have to go through a whole class too. You can’t learn how to ride one in one day!”

“Now you tell me.”

A part of her wondered if it was her fault for assuming he knew what he was doing. She and her sisters had their motorcycle licenses after all, but that was after going through classes and having their dad’s love of the hobby as a backup ensuring they obtained it the right way. And James tended to accomplish any goal he set out for himself, so of course it wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary for some Minnesota kid to have his motorcycle license either. A second later she banished the thought from her mind. No, she was not in the wrong here. This was James, all James. She had no fault or blame in this at all. He may be her boyfriend, but he made his own decisions, no matter how bad they could be. (This one took the cake.)

"You already impress me, James, you always have. You don't need to pull some crazy stunt to do it." His following smile was short lived when she stabbed a finger in his direction. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you yet or you’re back in my good graces!”

"I get it." His mouth twisted to the side and, when he released it, it opened and closed a few times, trying to form words.

Did he? She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed. The rims of her lids stung and fresh tears dripped down her cheeks, the scent of the salt mixing in with the faint, stale remnants of beef jerky and his usual scent of sandalwood. Colors swirled before her eyes, shifting and mixing and colliding to form a picture, once she thought she'd scrubbed years ago with the help of therapy. Of her dad lying in a hospital bed, so still, wires and tubes coming out of his banged up body. She squeezed her eyes tighter. The image shifted, James lying in a hospital, banged up, tubes and wires running everywhere.

She shook her head, erasing the image, banishing it.

No, no, no! Not again!

"How bad did I mess up?"

Mickey took in a shuttering breath, opening her eyes. Sniffing, she hastily wiped at her wet skin with the backs of her hands, smearing the tears around. "I don't know." He deflated before her eyes, pain scrunching up his face, reality crushing all traces of his strength. She rounded the table, stepped into his space, lifted her chin to look up at him properly. She saw the lump he swallowed bobbing in his throat. And when she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her ear against him, his relieved sigh matched hers. He wrapped his arms around her, curved over her until her forehead brushed the side of his warm neck, tucking his head down against her. She counted his pulse, sure and steady. He was still here. He was still with her. He was still alive. “But I am so...so glad you’re okay.”

[astarionscherrycaprisun]

Prologue

The woods whistled with a breeze as Rowan sat in the back of the cop car with her… protector of sorts. His name was Kennedy… or something. She tucked strands of hair behind her ears quickly - a nervous tic she'd never learned to hide.

“Enjoying the trip, Miss?” one of the cops asked in a playful tone, “a fun get away with the novio?” Rowan shifted her thin rimmed glasses up her aristocratically pointed nose.

“It's doctor,” she corrected. “And I'm not on this trip for pleasure and Mister Kennedy is not of any romantic relation to me. We have a professional working relationship. Nothing more.

“Ouch,” the cop driving laughed, “that must hurt, huh?” He asked, meeting gazes with Kennedy in the rear view mirror.

“You get used to it,” Kennedy said. Rowan resumed gazing out the window, taking in the surroundings. Why was she even here? Surely, someone of Kennedy's rapport knew how to do a basic medical examination? She looked back at the manila folder on her lap.

Saving the president's daughter. What a pleasant task.

The car came to a stop and the cops chattered in Spanish. Rowan only caught a few words here and there. She knew enough Spanish to let people know that she barely knew Spanish. She'd taken German - which had come in handy when she'd studied abroad in Germany, but was rendered null when she came back to reside in the states.

The cop stepped out and she sighed, hoping it wouldn't take him forever. She uncrossed and then crossed her legs patiently. She flipped through the file absently - looking for something to engage her.

When the second cop left the car, her gaze flicked up and then back down to the file.

She'd always been like this - relatively disinterested in anything that wasn't a task or some scientific oddity. She was also relatively disinterested in others.

“Stay in the car, Doctor,” Kennedy said after a few moments. She nodded, waving her hand dismissively. She ran her thumb along the edge of the manila folder thoughtfully. Her foot bounced to an unspecified beat as she read diligently through the case.

She looked up when Kennedy didn't return. Of course, she could defy his orders. They were of equal status regarding professional employment. She cracked open the door and looked for the male. She clicked her tongue when he was nowhere within her line of sight.

She opened the door, leaving the file in the backseat. Just in case of emergency, the doctor had been required to go through gun training and received a handgun. Kennedy was meant to be the primary defender, and she liked it much better that way. It wasn't that she was god awful with guns, but the recoil certainly had a way of knocking her ungracefully onto her ass.

“Mister Kennedy?” she called out into the eerily still blackness. Silence answered her. Complete, total silence. That was wrong. In her study of ecosystems, there should be at the very least, the sound of insects. She crept forward, her hands coated in a light film of sweat. She looked at the intimidating sheen of unfiltered moonlight on the leaves that seemed to tremble in fear.

She shuffled forward, her handgun firmly in her palms. It was eerie. Something was definitely wrong. She didn't dare speak, in fear that something would leap out of the bushes and grab her.

She remained silent - until a palm rested on the center of the back and she let out a yelp, whirling and pointing her gun at the assailant. “Doctor Brannon, it's just me,” Kennedy said, raising his hands.

She lowered her handgun. “I could have shot you,” she warned, embarrassment flooding her features.

He gave her a doubtful look, but didn't challenge her. “This place is some sort of infection site,” he said with a grimace.

“Great. And they didn't think to quarantine it,” Rowan grumbled, a few strands of hair falling out of her pristine bun. She let out a huff of irritation. “Though I suppose I'm useful now.” She shifted her glasses up her nose. With the light sheen of sweet on her nose, they'd slipped down her angular face.

“I just wanna get in and get out. The Spanish government should be fine handling this,” said Kennedy. Rowan nodded. In this situation it would be better to find the president's daughter and get the hell out of this place. She nudged her glasses father up her nose until they dug into the bridge.

“I cannot argue with that,” she said with a definitive nod.

“Alright. Stay beside me doctor. And only shoot if you absolutely have to,” he warned with a serious expression. She nodded and looked down at her gun.

Rowan gravitated to Kennedy's right side. Her weakest side was her left side. Why not cut her losses now? She looked around, muscles coiled and ready to spring. She let out a small breath. If she was in a safe zone this place was quarantined, she'd have a field day conjuring up a delicious scientific procedure. Nothing in the heavens seemed to align for her.

“Mister Kennedy,” she gestured to a lookout. He ducked behind it, pulling her with him. She adjusted her jacket with a scowl.

“Must you be so rough?” she mumbled.

He shot her a look but moved to observe the area before them. “Infected village. You look around for a safe entry point and I'll see how much of the locale I can pick off,” the man said. “Any questions?”

“Not that I can think of,” Rowan said thickly. “Thank you, Mister Kennedy.”

“Alright, the Mister bullshit’s gotta go. I think this situation is a first name basis kind of thing,” he said. She remained silent. She had forgotten his name. With a sigh he looked at her.

“It's Leon,” he said. Leon. She'd known it had been something unique.

“Rowan,” she replied.

He nodded. “Alright, Rowan, find a place to meet up and I'll take care of everything else,” he ran off into danger and she let out a low groan.

“I knew this job paid too well,” she muttered as she climbed the hill, looking for a way around. She looked at where all the infected gathered around Leon. A house. They could meet in a house.

She picked the one with the least amount of movable objects - less opportunity to make noise. She opened the window and winced at the squeak. She eased herself in, moving her bangs from her eyes. She coughed at the dust but turned on her flashlight.

She was terrible with a gun, but she could manage a flashlight like no other! In fact, her flashlight skills were quite formidable!

She examined the home, picking up a picture. She looked around, feeling sick in the eerie silence.

The door slammed open and she screamed, during a shot.

“JESUS! ROWAN!” yelped Leon. She lowered her gun and let out a breath.

“Don't scare me like that,” she rasped. He didn't say anything, but he went ahead of her to scout out the rest of the house. She licked her lips and followed him, her flashlight gripped in her palms like a lifeline.

She was at the stairs when a palm wrapped around her throat and her world went dark.

[transmogrified-in-the-void]

Similar to last ask, what if, however unlikely ofc, Electrode and Virtue join the "good side" and become heroes?

So, I have been working on this for over half a year and I'm still not done, so this is part one of however many. But I hope you enjoy :)

"They were slaughtered." Cato says, voice almost unnaturally neutral. "For something they didn't even control."

Virtue stands in the middle of the semi-decent motel room, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, and back again. They don't know how to approach Cato, or how to comfort them. Hell, they're still processing what just happened themselves.

"Can I hug you?" Cato's voice cracks at the end of their question, and Virtue looks at them. Suddenly, more so than before, it's so apparent that Cato's just a kid. A twenty one year old kid who had to fight to survive and find home. Who has to do it again.

Virtue nods, and Cato almost falls into them, crying. "It's not fair. It's not fair that their Powers came late, it's not fair that they were persecuted for that, none of this is fair."

"No, it's not." Virtue agrees as they carefully move their arms to better hold Cato. Their mind is moving faster than it ever has before, trying to figure out the best course of action. "But what if we could change that?"

Cato almost falls back. "What do you mean?"

"We can go to the press, start to organize riots for change."

Virtue watches as the tension in Cato's shoulders and arms melts away, and they take a step back to look up at Virtue. Their light brown eyes squint as they look up and down Virtue's face before closing and nodding their head.

"I'll be back." They say with a voice still thick from crying, and Cato walks into the small bathroom.

The air around Virtue doesn't have time to weigh upon their shoulders as Cato comes out only a few minutes later, brown eyes now a violent and bright yellow, and staring directly at Virtue. They hold up a hand, and vibrant electric arcs fly between their fingertips until they lower their hand.

"I have personal stake in this, Virtue." Cato says before clearing their throat. "I have an idea of how we can change everything from the inside out, I just need you on my side for it."

The tension is back, but instead of the tension that draws upon adrenaline and panicked anxiety, it's the sort that pulls the panic and fear that settles deep inside your stomach and spreads it thick on your chest and shoulders and throat. A tension that Virtue knows intimately.

They walk up to Cato, looking at their face and the way their hair is finally long enough to curl around their ears and neck. They look so young, with wide and open expressions and constantly moving microexpressions that give away their nervousness.

Virtue's hand ruffles Cato's hair, and a gentle smile grows on their face. "I'm in your corner, always." They say, and watch as relief floods through Cato. "Now, tell me the plan."

-

Cato sits in the bare interrogation room, bored and mildly upset. They sit on a metal chair, in front of a metal table with another metal chair on the other side. What sort of idiocy allows for this sort of overlook to happen? Cato knows that they know that their Power is electricity based, because they were told that's how their Power worked.

The door clicks open, drawing Cato's attention to the hero walking in. She's tall with wavy blonde hair, and a hero costume decorated in bright oranges and reds. She glares at Cato, the way every hero does to anyone who they think is a villain, and she drops the manila folder on the table as she sits. "You're Cato Bennett?"

Cato looks at her, blinks, and nods slowly.

The hero huffs as she flips it open and skims the first few pages. "You know why you're here, then."

Cato nods again. "I want to join the hero agency with a friend."

She laughs, harsh and short. Her face tilts down to show the malice and glee hiding behind her eyes. "Yeah, no. We don't recruit criminals. If you'd thought to follow the law and register your Power before you turned 18, this would be a different story."

Cato tilts their head to the right and focuses on her face rather than moving their own. There's two cameras watching them, and the hero is calm. "It would be a different story if you so called heroes did your duty and protected the people most vulnerable."

The hero's heartbeat jumps as Cato speaks, but her face doesn't so much as twitch. "We do. I don't like what you're implying."

"So I won't be implying it, then." Cato sits up straighter, and takes a deep breath to control their facial expression into neutrality. "I was abused until I turned 18, when I finally put them into jail myself. This abuse included monitoring where I was going, making sure I felt as weak and as small as possible, restricting when I was allowed to leave the house, and what information I was allowed to know. Part of being small and weak included them never allowing me to be able to have a registered Power, because that would be admitting that I had something they never did, something that made me stronger than them. Even when I tried to tell numerous different police and hero stations about what was going on, all you did was smile and say you would do something." Cato leans forwards and puts their elbows on the cold table. "And I can't imagine I'm the only one. I bet, if I became a villain instead, I would find a large amount of them are from similar backgrounds."

Cato watches as the hero keeps her cool facade intact. She raises a neat eyebrow and stares them down. "How do you know so much if they supposedly restricted what you knew?"

This time, it's Cato's turn to laugh, but their laugh is quiet and shakes their body as it runs its course. "I had a good engineering teacher who taught me everything I know." They answer, and a reminiscent smile crosses their face for a moment.

The hero takes a deep breath, and pinches the bridge of her nose. "So you're saying that it's not your fault you're not registered? Why didn't you explain once you turned 18?"

"What was I supposed to do?" Cato says as they school themselves back to neutrality. "I was 18, just went through a very stressful and traumatic event and life, and it was pretty clear at that point that nobody in the police force or hero agency was going to do anything but vaguely allude that I was a villain and kill me."

They lean back in their chair and watch the hero's face refuse to move. "I was only proven right a few months ago. You know, when an entire villain assassination team stormed into the house me and my bandmates lived in peacefully, and didn't just kill the only family I had, but turned them into actual human ribbons without any chance to explain their situation. If that were to get out, that the most powerful people in the world will just slaughter civilians without any explanation or even probable cause, or a warrant to get into the house I might add, I wonder how people would react?"

Finally, the hero's face twitches. Just slightly, but it still does. Cato can feel her heart beat faster and her desperate attempts to calm her breathing. That did it.

She brings her hands together in front of her on the table. "So, what are you proposing, Cato Bennett?"

Cato hopes the smirk that they can feel deep inside their being isn't on their face. "I'm not the only BI member who was there and survived that day. We both want life security by being heroes."

The hero inhales sharply. "I will have to contact my superiors about that-"

"We already have, this is the final step."

The air between them charges with confusion and panic and anger. "What-"

"It's to see if I'm really as 'dangerous' as they think I am." Cato air quotes the word "dangerous" and rolls their eyes. "Which, again, I've never used my Power on anybody, and my fellow BI member doesn't have one. I don't see a reason to continue this . . . whatever." They end their tirade with a tired wave into the air.

The earpiece hidden behind her hair lights up, and she pauses as somebody says something to her. After a few moments, she nods, and sighs heavily.

The chair scrapes as she stands up, body sagging and defeated. She holds out a gloved  hand. "Gloria Dapnov."

"Hm?" Cato hums, a little confused.

"It's my civilian name. Since we're going to be colleagues, it's fair that you know it." She grits, and sticks out a hand. "Welcome to the Agency."

Cato grips her hand firmly, and shakes it with a grin. "Glad to be here."

-

Virtue’s hand on Cato’s shoulder is the only thing keeping them from running away at the moment. The official training building for heroes is so tall, and they’ve never felt small in quiet this way. It’s oppressive and suffocating and heavy, and it presses in all the spots that they’ve never thought to protect.

Virtue squeezes their shoulder, bringing them out of the existential pit they had started to dig. Cato looks up at them, and they smile softly.

“C’mon, I think we have somewhere to be.” They say as they gently push Cato towards the large double doors.

Inside is somehow both more and less intimidating. It’s impeccably clean and crisp and smooth, from shiny white marble floor to uniformly cut and structured desks on the sides, to the vaguely stylized signs showing where the meeting rooms and stairs and elevators are. There’s six people behind the desks, three on each side, and there’s not even the light clacking of keys as they use whatever new typing technology just came out.

Even so, they both walk in silently. Cato, from years of learning just where to put their weight on their foot to not make a sound, and Virtue from being naturally silent anyways. When they walk up to one of the desks to get information, the person sitting behind the computer jumps once she notices that they’re there.

“Oh, um, yes, hello! Welcome to the American Hero Training Center, how may I help you today?” She says, her face tinged pink and her eyes looking determinedly at her computer.

“We were told to come here to get started on being heroes.” Cato answers, and the woman looks them up and down.

“Look, kid-” She starts, and Virtue pushes against Cato’s head as they see them start to get upset.

“Ma’am, Gloria Dapnov told us to come here. You might have us in your system. We’re Virtue Bassow and Cato Bennett.” They cut her off with a grin. She huffs, and silently types something on the computer. She looks at the screen, then at the pair, and back again.

She rubs a manicured hand down her face and sighs. “Seventh floor. You’ll know where to go.” She mumbles, and Virtue’s grin gets wider.

“Thank you for your help!” They wave, and drag Electrode to the stairwell.

The stairwell, unlike everything else in the building, is cramped and unpolished. There’s a thin layer of dust on everything, and the lights screwed into the walls are yellowed, and bathe the cramped corridors in a pale golden light. It’s a welcomed and delighted change from the cold and white architecture outside.

“You know, V,” Cato whispers as they start to climb the stairs, “The more time I spend around heroes and their various buildings and complexes, the more I wonder if we might be making the wrong choice.”

No matter how quiet they try to make their voice, it still rings and reverberates through the abandoned stairwell, and gets louder and less coherent. Virtue waits for the vestiges of their voice to disappear before responding. 

“If you hate their minimalist style so much, we can turn this stairwell into our personal design hotspot.”

Cato comes to an abrupt stop at the top of a flight, and turns swiftly on their heel to face Virtue only a few steps below. “Wait, really? Can we do that?”

Virtue shrugs. “I don’t know, but they really can’t stop us if they never come into the stairwell.”

They can see the gears turning in Cato’s head as they turn to the third floor door and analyze the hinges and latch. “Well maybe- I’d need to check- wonder if I can get- yeah. Yeah we can make sure they never come into the stairwell.”

“Wait that’s not-” Virtue’s sentence is cut short as it’s Cato’s turn to grab Virtue’s wrist, and they are dragged up four mour flights of stairs at speeds that should be illegal in a stairwell. When the two of them fall out of the seventh floor stairwell door (and really, there’s no other way to exit after that impromptu workout), Virtue wishes that they knew how to knock Cato out without them knowing.

“Well,” Cato pants as Virtue curls up on the floor in some desperate and useless effort to get air into their lungs, “She was right. We would know where to go.”

Virtue glances up to see a poster with the hero Sunspot pointing to the left. In bright red bubbly text are the words NEW HEROES THIS WAY! 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe their architectural and media designers are braindead morons.”

“I didn’t say anything like that, I just said that I hated everything they’ve ever made visually.”

“Same difference.” Cato stretches and stands up, and offers a hand to Virtue.

Virtue pushes the hand away and stands up, making Cato scoff and make an offended face. “Last time you tried this we both ended up in a ditch in Missouri.” They say, and make a point to lean over Cato. “Because, y’know, I’m half a foot taller.”

“I will kill you and I won’t even feel sorry.”

“Oh no, that’s so scary.” They deadpan at Cato as they turn to leave. “I hope you don’t follow through with that, that’d suck so bad.”

Cato groans and moves faster to match pace with Virtue as they follow the Sunspot posters. “It’s not my fault my growth was stunted.”

“No, but it is your fault you make it so easy to make fun of you.”

“Shut up!”

“No.”

[serzojv]

MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Have you ever wondered what life is like for someone like me? Mabuhay! I am J.V. M. Serzo, a 17-year-old man from Tanza, Cavite. A Filipino, a child, a Leo, an honor student, a journalist, a leader, a humanista, and a son of God. I was born on the 25th of July 2005 at Fabella Hospital in Manila. Many people always asked me if my first name is just a two-letter name and I always answered "Yes". They were often shocked about it and teased me that my parents want me to be at ease especially when my teachers ask their students to write our names on a paper back and forth. I am a product of Cavite and certified Caviteño. Many people say that when you are a Caviteño, you are brave and I think they are right. I am brave, I am fierce, and I am confident as what a Caviteño is.

I am the 6th child of Myla Matta, my mom, and Roberto Serzo Jr., my dad. I have 5 siblings namely Erwin, Mhay, Cheska, Ian, and Yna. I am the youngest among the six. When I was young I often fell on our stairs because I always want my favorite bolster to be at my side but because it is too big for me at that time I cannot see the following steps when I am going down so yeah! I fell so hard so many times. So because of this, maybe that is why I'm short. I'm 5 foot and 1 inch tall by the way. However, even though I am not that tall, I always receive compliments from others that I am small but terrible. Thank you to people who always give and tell me some acknowledgments just like it because it boosted my morale and my confidence.

I am a consistent honor student from kinder to the present, in Grade 12. I was one of the top students who always join extracurricular activities and represented our school. Way back in elementary, I was part of the BIGSAYWIT Team of Malagasang 1, and a secretary of the Youth for Environment in Schools Organization. I am also a qualifier for the ASEP Quiz Bee and more until Junior High School. And now, I am taking Humanities of Social Sciences at Emilio Aguinaldo College- Cavite and hoping to graduate in June this year.

All of these years in school were never an easy challenge for me. It feels like a roller coaster ride for someone like me. I cried, I laugh, felt proud and disappointed in myself while studying and fighting in the battle called life. But, there is something that my mom always tells me, that I should believe in my capabilities and that I am limitless. This lesson from my mom is embarked in my heart and soul. And every time I face difficulties in my life I always remind myself what my mom told to me.

All the things I have experienced in my 17 years of existence are truly something to be proud of. Now that I am nearly entering college life and will take a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science, I already submitted my applications to many universities that have the said program. I applied to UP, UST, PLM, PUP, CVSU-Indang, and EAC. I am hoping to get as well a scholarship so that I can have something to support my study, and to help also my family financially. I know that everything I experienced in my 17 years is not as heavy as what college and the real world can bring to me, and that is why I already collecting faith, trust, and courage to face all the circumstances that will happen to me. I know that with the faith I have in the Lord, he will not let me down. He will be my weapon, my sword, and my power to pursue what I want and achieve the greatest that I could achieve.

Just like what people always tell “Malayo pa pero malayo na” I know that there is nothing that can stop me from getting the greatest that I could be but only me. And, this is also what I want people to learn about me, that we are the leaders of ourselves and we are the authors of our stories.

[andsheloved]

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ➺ 𝟏

pairing ~ loki x f!reader

word count ~ 7.6k

summary ~ throughout your day to day at the tva, you've only gotten glimpses of chaos, peeking through windows and time doors to get a taste of something new. that is until you get an up-close look at the new variant taking your workplace by storm. anarchy never looked so tempting.

chapter warnings ~ loki series, infinity war, the dark world, and endgame spoilers, minor jealous behavior, some loki series dialogue is used, minor angst, mobius and reader are besties, tva agent!reader, protective behavior, descriptions of death.

a/n ~ it's finally here!! this is, the largest fic i've ever written and it's only the first chapter :'), i'm actually really proud of how this came out, and i can't wait to see what you all think of it!! this is a long one so without further ado; part 1!!

It was never supposed to be real, just something to keep the other agents at bay while Loki danced around them for a while.

You never could have expected how your heart felt when you saw them together.

But you could have sworn you felt something shatter.

You could remember the day he was brought in so clearly. Time worked differently in your workplace, that you had known from the very day, a day you couldn't seem to recall, when you had first began working at the TVA. But all of the clocks in every corner of the universe seemed to absolutely stand still when variant LL1130 entered the court room.

The shuffling of polyester pant fabric and pacing foot steps bounced off of the walls of the small hallway as you trailed behind the man that was sprinting in front of you. Mobius had all but yanked your arm through the time door just seconds after the other agent had handed him the variant's file.

"We have to go." Was all that he had said to you, a gleeful, childish smile on his face as he hurried through the portal.

You had attempted to ask him questions while you two rushed down the winding corridors, though he didn't seem to even hear you as you spoke to him, or more so, spoke at him, only continuing to stare almost lovingly at the file he had been handed just moments ago.

You realized now that you should have known exactly who this was about with just how thrilled he was.

Just as he was about to tear the court's door off it's hinges from enthusiasm, you stopped him, gently grabbing his arm.

"Mobius." You exhaled, your voice thinner than usual as you tried to catch your breath from the impromptu marathon he had put you through. "What's going on?" You asked again for the umpteenth time.

He stood frozen for a moment, his face completely blank as he stared back at you. His mouth parted for a moment, a hushed "Oh" falling from his lips, the gears in his head seemingly finally clicking into place when you cocked an eyebrow at him. His lips suddenly turned, forming an uncharacteristically satisfied smirk as he pushed the file into your hands.

You snapped the manila folder open, your eyes flickering and bouncing around the page as you skimmed through.

"It's him." The smile in his voice was palpable, and you couldn't help but smile a bit yourself, his excitement was always contagious.

Mobius had been here longer than you, you never knew for certain how much longer, all that you really cared to know was how he had quickly taken you under his wing without so much as a thought from the moment you met.

You couldn't quite remember when you had gotten your job at the TVA, maybe it was because you were simply just thrown into the work so quickly. Files and paperwork being shoved into your hands and haphazardly tossed onto the ever-growing stack pushed to the corner of your desk faster than you could finish reading over them. Though even throughout all the chaos, you could always remember Mobius.

"You seem familiar" You recalled how soft his eyes were as he looked at you, his feet planted firmly in front of your desk for the first time of many. You were panicked enough already, and the last thing that you needed that day was someone else's misguided pity. However, this felt different, something in the way he spoke to you felt different, genuine, like something clicked in him the moment he spotted your flustered expression, as you frantically searched your desk for some lost file, that activated his innate need to protect everything on the timeline. He barely knew you, even that was an overstatement, he didn't know you at all, it had only been less than a few moments after you looked up at him confused, dazed, and wondering why this oddly folksy stranger had suddenly taken an interest in your frazzled state. "...I've traveled enough places and seen enough faces to know when to trust someone."

Ever since day one, even on the days that were filled with nothing but frenzies of papers and meetings and courtrooms, you would always know one thing to be true, and it was that if the TVA dealt with only one thing, they dealt in only absolute facts.

Between Red-lines and Nexus Events and case files, only things of absolute certainty passed through your workplace.

And if there was one fact that was of absolute principle to you, it was that you and Mobius were always by each other's side.

You weren't sure if you could really remember a moment that passed without him beside you every step of the way. Even when you were still a bumbling new agent struggling to figure out your own Tempad, he was always the first one to offer that you take a break and a Josta.

Over the course of your career, you had grown to cherish those spontaneous cafeteria breaks, when the two of you would just simply wax poetic about his inconsequentially profound metaphors of time and space, even though they really meant nothing within the walls of this place. You especially loved those rare occasions when a blanket of calm and quiet was finally placed over your small slice of the timeline, when only the sounds of your joint laughter echoed off the arid walls surrounding you both. Those memories would always bring a smile to your face, even the memories of the nights when you would just sit in silence across from each other, only hushed, exhausted sighs being the sole sounds exchanged between the two of you.

For people who had seen almost every moment in time, every invention, every war, every celebration. Sometimes, silence was enough.

Regardless of the many nights spent in quiet, you still had been no stranger to his rambles about Loki, the variant he had apparently become quite fond of during his time working at the TVA.

Loki and his many variations almost became just as much as friends to you as Mobius was. You supposed you knew them well enough, well, probably not not as well as Mobius, but well enough.

After a moment of enthused bickering, the both of you finally hastily tiptoed into the court room, clumsily shuffling into one of the benches like school children late for class.

Though his back was turned to the both of you, his distinct energy was already detectable. There was an indisputable air of despicable playfulness surrounding the man stood at the front of the room.

You shifted closer to Mobius, his face like an excited puppy as he watched the raven haired man in awe, even when he cursed and struggled against his restraints, his eyes to so wide and bright that you would've thought Mobius was watching some perfectly choreographed ballet performance.

"Is that him?" You whispered, smiling as you leaned into him.

Yes. Clearly it was him. But you wanted the confirmation of the expert, you know, just to make sure.

He quickly replied, not even bothering to turn to look at you, "Yeah."

You didn't know what you had expected, or more so, who you expected. You knew that variants differed all across the timeline, you often wondered if there were variants of yourself walking around somewhere in the universe, what did they look like? Were they some demented, grotesque monster, with horns and fangs, with nothing but a semblance of your face that resembled your own? Or did they look just like you?

Mobius had shown you what some of Loki's variants had appeared as throughout the years, though none of those images could have prepared you for the man that stood at the front of the room now.

His hair was much shorter than some of the others you had seen, cut just below his ears and surprisingly curly. His skin wasn't the vibrant blue shade like you had thought it would be from seeing so many of Mobius' holograms, instead, it was almost abnormally pale, like he had been stuck in an eternal winter, his complexion freezing over just as chilled and wintry as a blizzard.

You hadn't even been paying any real attention to what was going on around you, though you felt your head instantly snapping up to the front of the room as Ravonna struck her gavel. It was a flurry of struggle and confusion before you felt the warmth of Mobius leave your side.

"I think I might..."

You looked up at him, your lips drawn into a thin line of bewilderment at his boldness, your brow furrowed as you awaited for him to dig himself a deeper hole with Ravonna.

"Have an idea... Of what he's capable of."

The room was filled with a thunderous silence when Mobius approached the bench, and a small smile appeared on your lips as you studied the very frazzled Loki that was still being restrained at the front of the room.

All of your life, you had known nothing but order and complete uniformity. It felt like ever since you could begin to form memories of your own you had been stuck in a limbo of nothing but utter equilibrium.

Loki was the embodiment of everything that you, and everyone else around, you weren't.

He was chaos and mischief and a concoction of endearing disarray all wrapped into one. Finally experiencing him in person made you understand how Mobius could become so captivated with someone so puzzling.

You knew you shouldn't have been so intrigued.

But watching him spat and quip at Ravonna, the woman who seemed to always float above everyone, as he poked at her without a single ounce of care in his tone about what was to happen next to him, you found yourself reeling from the abrupt, overwhelming urge to know more than just what Mobius had told you during all those late nights.

A bizarre feeling of discontentment flooded you. You weren't satisfied with just the fun facts anymore, the fuzzy holograms of blue-skinned creatures and outlines of golden horns.

You needed to know him.

You were thankful for Mobius' friendship with Ravonna, if it weren't for that, you probably wouldn't have wound up sitting across from Loki as you were now in the barren, orange and beige time theater.

His piercing stare threatened to scorch holes through the table. You saw now how he was much more intimidating up close, sitting only mere feet in front of you. You wondered how Mobius could ever compare him to a pussycat, a title which you now knew to be insanely incorrect.

Watching the two of them go back and forth at each other could be likened to watching a tennis match, one that you were sure could never be witnessed anywhere else but in this theater.

"I can't believe you were D.B Cooper!" Mobius exclaimed cheerfully, enthusiastically slapping the small table in front of him, "C'mon!"

Loki stared at him for a moment before replying, his arms contentiously crossed over his chest, "I was young and I lost a bet to Thor."

You hadn't even realized the enthused chuckle that escaped you until Loki's biting gaze was suddenly directed to you.

You sat in a chair to the left of Mobius, just the slightest bit behind him, taking a back seat as you watched the duo, up to this point, like a theater audience. Your eyes eagerly bounced between the men as they bickered, though now it seemed you had now unexpectedly been added into the conversational equation.

"And who are you?" Loki finally spat, his eyes squinting threateningly, as if he were appraising you.

You stammered out your name, and you internally cursed yourself for sounding so caught off guard.

Loki hummed in response, and a smug smirk grew on his lips, looking adequately satisfied by your frazzled state.

"Taking notes on all this?" He hissed scornfully, slumping back into his chair.

Your eyes flickered to Mobius to see his concerned expression, even though his powers were essentially put on a leash as long as he stayed within the confines of the TVA, you both understood that he was still just as dangerous.

You swallowed thickly before finally replying, "No," You sighed, "I'm just here to help."

If you were being honest with yourself, you weren't even exactly sure why you were here, though you tended to follow Mobius wherever he dragged you, this felt a little unorthodox, even for him.

Loki only cocked an eyebrow at you, "Another puppet for the Time Variance Authority, how delightful."

A part of you wanted to snap back at him. You weren't a puppet, you thought, you were your own person, you were more than just your job, it's not like this was all you thought about-

"Hey," You quickly dropped your gaze to the unexpected hand on your thigh, your eyes travelling up the fabric of his blazer until they landed on Mobius' concerned features. "You okay?" He whispered.

You offered a slow nod in response. He was always like this, knowing just when your gears were turning a little too fast for you. Over the course of your friendship, you couldn't even begin to count all the times he had pulled you from your own spiraling thoughts. You wondered how he hadn't already been snatched up by another agent, one that actually knew what they were doing, instead of always hanging around with you.

"I'm okay" You smiled, sighing as you gathered yourself.

He gently pat your thigh before returning to his interrogation.

It was always strange feeling though, one that you didn't think you would ever get used to, and one that you were sure felt even stranger for the man, who was now standing, across the room from you.

His hands were firmly planted on his hips as he watched what would have been, his eyes frantically darting back and forth across the projection as you watched him try to make sense of what he was seeing.

"Than am I not your mother?" The woman's words now seemed to echo from every corner in the now deathly silent room.

"You are not."

He began to inch closer to the projection as he watched, his features softer now.

It had never really occurred to you until now how jarring this all must be for someone who didn't deal with past, present, and future on a routine basis.

You were been told in training that variants were nothing more than nuisances, just minor footnotes in the grand scheme of the universe, the only purpose they served was to be wiped from reality.

Though now, as you watched his shoulders slump at the sight of his mother, you wondered if they were more than that.

Or at least if this one was.

There was a part of you that wanted to tell Mobius to stop. You understood how much this all meant to him, how much this case meant to him, but it felt like he had forgotten that inside these walls, Loki was still just as much of a person as the two of you, not some lab rat for him to poke at.

No magic or tricks could hide the vulnerability you felt radiating from Loki as he pleaded, asking Mobius questions with answers you knew would only hurt him more.

"I'll kill you." The words weighed heavily within the room even as Loki's voice grew thinner with desperation.

"What? Like you did your mother?"

In an instant, a chair was flying across the room, shattering the projection before it quickly repaired itself. Your breath hitched in your throat as Loki stomped over to Mobius, and suddenly, words were flying from your lips before you could even begin to think about them.

"Stop." You called out, not so much of a yell as it was a stern request.

Loki was already on the floor, hissing in pain as his shoulders rose and fell.

Mobius immediately turned from you as you got up out of your chair, his lips mouthing a silent "You okay?"

You quickly nodded before continuing, "I think we should take a break... I think that would be good." You turned to Loki, offering him an anxious smile before facing Mobius again.

The roar of a burning city continued to play in the background, the metallic, mechanical sounds of heroes gathering bounced off of every corner in the room, though there was still an atmosphere of silence that surrounded the three of you.

The quiet was finally broken by the resounding banging of the large doors opening, causing all three of you to whip your heads to the back of the room.

"What are you doing?" The hunter sneered, her annoyance was clear in her tone.

"My job." Mobius quipped, helping Loki from the floor as you stood off to the side, timidly gripping your clipboard as your fingers drummed against the back of it. "Is it yours to interrupt?"

She huffed before continuing. "We have a situation."

It was only a second really, well, maybe a few minutes at most had you both stepped out, but regardless of the amount of time that passed, he was gone.

"Get out of my way." You heard the strong grumble from behind you, before you found yourself being pushed into Mobius' side by another hunter.

"Sorry" You winced, gently pushing yourself from him.

"He couldn't have gone very far" Mobius mumbled to you, a twinge of displeasure in his voice as he adjusted his blazer, huffing before the two of you began to trail behind the group of hunters. But before you could even take more than a few steps, he stopped you, his hand abruptly gripping your arm, almost yanking you backwards as he paused. "You okay?"

You let out a quiet gasp before you whipped around to face him. He smiled, almost apologetically, before slowly dropping your wrist, "Sorry..." He whispered, and you had to actively stop your brows from furrowing at the strange sight of a light blush creeping up his cheeks.

"I'm okay, Mobius, I promise." You smiled, even though you knew it would take a little more convincing for him to be satisfied with your answer, seeing as he didn't believe you the two other times you had said that. "Why wouldn't I be?" You added cheerfully, but if you were being truthful with yourself, you were still a little shaken, and you were also certain that that fact was written all over your features. You couldn't exactly pin point what had gotten you so flustered, but this whole day was turning out to be more chaotic than either of you had ever anticipated.

"I just wanted to make sure, you seemed kind of... Spooked, before"

You sighed, reaching out to grab his hand and giving it a quick, reassuring squeeze before slowly starting down the hallway again.

"I could do this without you, you know" He quickly muttered.

If you hadn't gotten so used to his ever-changing, almost-frantic speaking pace, you may have missed it. Though almost instantly, you were pausing to face him once again.

"I mean it, not like I want you to- or for me to do this without you" He stammered, his fingers anxiously fidgeting with the corner of the manila folder partially tucked under his arm. He grumbled something unintelligible, clearly frustrated with himself before he finally sighed, "I just don't want you to get hurt."

"Mobius..." You looked directly into his eyes, and for a second, there was no missing variant, no exasperated Ravonna surely waiting for the both of you, just two friends concerned for each other. "I'll be fine, I promise."

You wanted to sound more sure of yourself, you wanted to be more sure of yourself, but with how up in the air everything was at the moment, you couldn't really be sure of anything.

He sighed, and you could tell just by the way he looked at you, with his eyes so full of worry, and a melancholy sort of half-smile on his lips, that he knew you wouldn't leave his side so easily.

"Promise?" He asked, his eyes furiously scanning your features as he awaited your answer.

"For all time." You smiled.

"Always."

It wasn't until you were forced to chase an escaped variant when you realized just how confusing your workplace could be. The endless corridors and the same three orange-hued propaganda posters plastered on every wall didn't help much in your search either. After a while every, hallway began to blend together.

You wondered what the point of all this chasing was at the end of the day, it wasn't like he'd really be able to escape anyways. Even if he managed to find a way back onto some random date on the timeline, that substantial of a Nexus Event would surely be rectified in no time at all.

You and Mobius had split off from the group of hunters at some point along the way, realizing that separating was probably the better option, though a part of you wondered if it was just that maybe Mobius couldn't stand being with those hunters for any longer.

After an endless amount of circling and aggravated grumbling, "Should've never interrupted... Never would'a lost him then." You both found yourselves at the doors to the time theater once again.

For once, it seemed, that the forever-creaking doors decided to finally silence in your favor, that, or Loki was completely distracted by the video playing before him now. But as you finally realized what scene was playing out, you figured the latter was more probable.

"You will never be... A God."

You could barely bring yourself to look, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as you watched.

You knew that this happened, that once all was said and done, Loki would die.

There was something undeniably unnerving about watching it play out on the projection before you though, his pale skin turning a skin-crawling shade of light purple as the Titan dropped him carelessly to the floor.

You couldn't help the quiet gasp that escaped you as the reel finished unceremoniously, the bleak, pale light of the END OF FILE illuminating the room.

The chilling sound of desperate laughter suddenly filled the room, and Mobius took a single, echoing step from the door before finally speaking.

"What's so funny?"

Loki huffed, his back straightening as he took a deep breath, "Glorious purpose."

Mobius hummed, taking a few steps closer to him, "Nowhere left to run..."

Though as Loki sluggishly walked to the side of the room, gracelessly dropping himself down onto the small ledge that lined the perimeter of the room, you couldn't help but think all this chasing and melodrama was all for nothing.

It seemed that he had come to realize on his own that there was no use in running. What was there for him to run back to?

"I can't go back, can I? To my timeline?" His voice was thick with exhaustion as he looked up at Mobius.

You and Mobius shared a melancholy sigh before he continued.

"I don't enjoy... Hurting people. I don't enjoy it."

Your footsteps thundered through the nearly-silent room, and you could hear how Mobius' breath caught in his throat as you suddenly sat beside Loki.

You placed your clipboard beside you before taking a deep breath. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, unsure if you would even be able to get any words out at all. You looked to Mobius before finally speaking, "Explain that to me."

You turned to face him, and you almost wished you hadn't. His eyes were glassy, his forehead wrinkled as his lips turned into a faint frown.

It amazed you how this was the God that Mobius had warned you so much about, how even Ravonna had once told you how vicious the Loki variants could be.

As you looked at him now, you couldn't help but think how wrong they both seemed to be.

"Because it's part of the illusion." He smiled weakly, "It's the cruel... Elaborate trick, conjured by the weak to inspire fear."

Before you could even respond, Mobius cut you off.

"So you do know yourself..."

"A villain." He answered suspiciously quickly, as if the words were always sitting in the back of his throat, just waiting for someone to prompt him.

"That's not how I see it" You whispered, your eyes widening at your own statement. You casually turned from him, looking back to Mobius, trying to ignore the unfamiliar warmth that bloomed in your chest as you felt Loki's gaze lock on you.

"Listen..." Mobius interjected, "I can't offer you salvation, but maybe I can offer you something better."

Loki left your side, slowly crossing the room to Mobius as he continued.

"A fugitive variant's been killing our minute men-"

"And you need the God of Mischief to help you stop them?"

Even as he tried his best to humor Mobius, you could still hear the faint traces of heartbreak in his tone.

"That's right."

"Why me?"

Oh, yeah. That.

Until now, you had almost entirely forgotten why this Loki was so important to Mobius in the first place.

"The variant we're hunting is... You."

Even though that fact had been sitting in the back of your mind ever since he had arrived, you found yourself shuttering at the idea.

If this was only the havoc that one Loki could cause in the TVA, you didn't want to even begin to imagine what more of them could do.

For a moment, you found your and Loki's thoughts syncing up perfectly.

"I beg your pardon?"

You didn't think these days could get any stranger, at least not until you patiently waited for Loki to notice you from the corner of his eye as he swatted the animated Miss Minutes on his desk with the rolled up Jet Ski magazine.

“New uniform?” You asked, and he hastily spun in his chair in response, his arms spread wide to give you a full view of his new attire. “Looks good.” You smiled, leaning on the edge of the Mobius’ former cubicle which had now been turned into Loki’s makeshift training room.

"It'll do." He smirked, wiping his hands down the front of his pants. He grumbled something else unintelligible under his breath before tossing the worn-out Jet Ski magazine back onto the desk in front of him. “So,” He spun in his chair now to face you, “Other than all this” He gestured aimlessly around the bustling office, “What do you do?”

The answer to his question should have come easily to you, you had done nothing but this for what felt like your entire life, yet you found you couldn’t find the words to explain your own work. It felt like such a vulnerable question, one that was reserved for close friends and your coworkers, and he certainly wasn't close to either of those things.

Loki came into your life like a hurricane, turning your entire office upside down in what seemed like only a few moments. He was pure anarchy, disguised in a button up and dress pants, though you couldn't help the strange voice that nagged at you from the back of your mind as he grinned at you, insisting that you could trust him.

So you stammered out the only answer you could think of, one that seemed to be carved into the very ridges of your brain since as far back as you could remember. “Protect the timeline.”

Loki instantly scoffed and your brow furrowed, not so much out of offense, but at the idea that he may have known just as well as you did how unsure you were of your answer.

"You asked what I did" You smiled timidly, feeling how your arms seemed to cross over your chest on their own accord, as if your body was already telling you to activate some sort of long forgotten self-defense programming from your training days.

"You really are so good, aren't you." You heard him mumble, so quietly, that if you hadn't been standing so close to him, you probably wouldn't have heard it.

"What?" You questioned, almost choking on your own words.

"You're good. Purely decent." He swiftly explained, "You are truly, one of the good guys. It's a rare occurrence. You should be proud."

"Why does that somehow feel like an insult coming from you?" You laughed.

"I can assure you it's not, simply..." He thought for a moment, his lips curling into a smirk once he finally came to a conclusion. "An observation."

You raised your eyebrows at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I mean, what else do you do around here other than," He gestured aimlessly around the office, "This?"

You stammered as you quickly realized that no one had ever asked you that before, well, you supposed no one ever needed to, you all worked here anyway, what else was there to talk about?

"Talk... I guess..?" You almost winced at your own answer, when had you become so boring?

"How thrilling." Loki deadpanned, "Haven't you any hobbies? Anything you actually enjoy?"

You thought for a moment, the only ideas coming to your mind being work related. "Mobius and I..." You finally sighed, a soft smile on your lips as you answered. "After everything's done for the day, sometimes we go to the cafeteria."

"You have to be, the dullest human I have ever met."

"Hey!" You exclaimed humorously, attempting to mask the slight pang of disappointment that came with his observation. "Is saving the timeline not enough for you?"

"I believe you know my file well enough to know the answer to that."

"I think you have the wrong Analyst." You mumbled.

Loki tilted his head, his eyes squinting for a moment before he continued, "Am I to really believe that you, of all people, haven't see it?"

"Seen what?"

"My file. Or whatever other documentation this place has curated for me." He replied, rolling his eyes at the notion.

"I've seen it before, Mobius has shown it to me before," You added, "But that was it." You smiled softly, a twinge of dissatisfaction in your tone as you continued, "It's just not my area."

You could hear the sardonic hum of amusement that escaped him before he replied, "I must say, I didn't take you for a sidekick."

Before you had a chance respond, Mobius seemed to materialize beside you, his hand suddenly securely fixed on your lower back.

A quiet whimper escaped you at the unexpected feeling.

"S'that my Jetski magazine?" He asked, casually inserting himself into your conversation.

You tried to chuckle at the odd possessiveness Mobius always exhibited over his treasured magazines, but you couldn't even bring yourself to.

Sure, Mobius had touched you before, after what you could only imagine to be years upon years of working together, it was pretty hard to not come in contact with each other, but this felt different.

He stood just the slightest bit behind you, the front of his shoulder almost brushing against the back of yours.

His voice never wavered though, there wasn't a single shadow of edge or defense in his face, he just sounded just like the same, amiable Mobius that you had come to be such good friends with.

The only fact that had changed was that he was touching you, no, holding you, like you were something to loose.

You decided not to dwell on it for now.

"Anyways, c'mon, gear up, there's been an attack."

Your head was spinning at his abrupt change in pace, and you wondered why he hadn't led with that in the first place. Maybe he had other things on his mind.

Loki shot up from his chair as Mobius haphazardly tossed him a packaged jacket, the both of you hurriedly trailing behind him.

"Is he always like that?" Loki asked, though you were too busy trying to keep up with both of the men's lengthy strides to respond at first.

"He just get's excited abo-"

"So protective of you?"

If you all weren't in such a hurry, you probably would've paused in your tracks right then.

Was that what that was?

Despite your own questioning of Mobius' intentions with the gesture, you decided to not even give Loki the satisfaction he so clearly desired from you.

You only hummed in response at first, keeping your gaze locked in front of you as you weaved in and out of the many desks and cubicles that littered the main floor.

"That's Mobius." You finally replied, but was it? If you hadn't been so focused on trying to make sure you didn't lose Mobius in the crowded office, you probably would've closed your eyes to cringe at your own answer.

You couldn't tell if your breaths were becoming shallower from the sprint Mobius had just put you both through, or if your shortness of breath had something to do with how suddenly damp your palms had become.

This was what he wanted, to bother you, to get under your skin.

Just like Mobius told you.

You shook your head to yourself, maybe you would scold yourself later for putting so much sympathy in him, for thinking he was anything more than a self-entitled prince that longed for nothing more than to cause chaos, though a part of you still couldn't help but feel bad for him.

You took a deep breath, that was for later, there was more to focus on now.

Not another word was uttered between the two of you for the rest of the way, and even though you didn't dare look at him directly, you could still sense the smirk that was surely turned the corners of his lips as he studied you, searching for any crack in your facade.

Protective. You thought, of course he would be protective of you, you were his friend. He knew Loki more than anyone, and if he was worried, you were sure it was for good reason.

You smiled as you walked through the Timedoor, thankful for once that the location was somewhere slightly more enjoyable than sixteenth century France.

You wondered when the last time you had been to a Renaissance Fair rather than the actual Renaissance.

It was a nice change.

There were some times when you wished you could just stay, to witness the ever-stretching passing of time in places just like this.

There was so much life here. Colorful, patterned flags gently swayed gently in the breeze as children in not-so-accurate medieval witch and knight costumes ran around you without a care in the world. You paused for a moment, trying to take it all in without the pressure of a rogue variant on the loose or the endless paperwork that would surely arrive on your desk after all this.

"You on break time?"

You groaned, sighing before looking beside you to find another hunter.

"Just enjoying the view" You mumbled as you took another glance around.

You started to join the rest of the group, trailing just a few feet behind so you could still manage to get some peace before the inevitable pandemonium that awaited you all.

"Oof!"

You gasped when the sudden force collided with your leg.

"Sorry Miss!" The small voice below you chirped.

You looked down, the over-sized witch hat obscuring the rest of the child from your vision until she turned her chin up, smiling brightly at you.

"That's okay" You smiled, kneeling down to match her gaze, "Just as long as you don't put a curse on me."

The small girl's curls bounced as she shook her head fervently, "I'm a good witch!"

You let out a soft "Ah" in feigned realization, nodding your head.

If you hadn't been trying to entertain her, you probably would've rolled your eyes, groaning at the thought that in a few moments, you'd have to rush off and eventually leave this small bubble of normalcy.

One day, you swore, maybe you'd stay for more than a few minutes.

You looked to your side, spotting a small, rogue Daisy beside the girl's boots. You smiled before gently tearing it from the ground.

"Thank you-" You laughed at how the girl already snatched the flower from you before you had even fully lifted it to her, "For not cursing me." You whispered.

The little girl giggled, clutching the flower to her chest as she leaned into you, "You're welcome."

The sound of your name being called had you both jumping, your head whipping around to see both Mobius and Loki standing at the entrance to the large tent that stood in the center of the fair.

You smiled before finally standing up, watching as her bright smile quickly turned to a pout as she realized you had to leave.

She gasped, making you look down again.

"S'that your prince!"

You looked back at the two men, noticing how both of them were focusing on you, as if they had been listening to the whole conversation, a faint, almost-wistful smile on both of their faces.

"Sort of." You finally answered, before waving a quick goodbye.

"Think you were a Princess?" Mobius asked smirking when you finally joined them.

You let out a soft hum of amusement before walking past them.

"Smoothly done."

Loki's derisive response caught you off guard, to the point of almost tripping over your own feet as you rushed into the tent.

His sarcastic reply was only met with an unintelligible grumble from Mobius.

Any thought you had on the odd exchange dissipated in seconds though, you sighed as you looked around, helmets and batons thrown about haphazardly around the face-down bodies.

This was going to be a long day.

It was over before it began really, after a quick attempt at deceit from Loki, the whole ordeal ended with a reset charge. As it always did.

Before you knew it, all three of you were being rushed to Ravonna's office. It was a flurry of bickering and mindless back and forth arguments as Loki tried to convince Mobius that it was all just 'a lesson in catching a Loki'.

"Watch him." Mobius finally huffed, rushing into the office and swiftly closing the door behind him before you could even say anything.

You heard Loki unceremoniously drop himself into the padded chair to the left of large, golden double doors.

"I'm sure you won't have to supervise me for long." He mumbled.

You couldn't even bring yourself to look at him, continuing to stare back at your distorted reflection as your own thoughts began to torture you.

It seemed that every time things didn't go just quite the way Mobius had planned, or rather, Ravonna had planned, you always found yourself right here, feet planted firmly outside the doors that you knew you would probably never see the opposite side of.

You were just as a part of those mission as Mobius, and still everyone acted as if you were still an inept trainee.

"I didn't take you for a sidekick"

The words now seemed to bounce off of every corner of your mind. Was that really all they saw you as? You closed your eyes, doing your best to bury the thought, though the effort was useless.

You would always be thankful for Mobius taking you under his wing, but in times like this, you couldn't help but indulge the notion of where you would be if he hadn't been so quick to swoop in to your life. Certainly not as far up as you were now, if it weren't for him, you probably still wouldn't have been allowed in the court room, but maybe you'd still be you.

You wouldn't just be Mobius's assistant, his protégé, his sidekick.

You were a Junior Analyst. The title was etched as clear as day on the small placard that sat on the corner of your desk, yet still everyone seemed to think that you were nothing more than a temp.

"Somehow, this doesn't seem like the first time this has happened." Loki interrupted your silence, and for the first time today, you kind of felt grateful he was talking to you. You appreciated the brief distraction from your own thoughts.

You sighed, finally ripping yourself from the spot in front of the door and sitting in the chair opposite him. You feigned a weak smile as you rubbed your temples.

"Tell me, do they always slam the door on you when the adults are talking?"

If you had any more energy, you'd probably roll your eyes, maybe you'd even have the nerve to quip back at him, but now, you didn't even have the energy to tamp down the small sparks of self doubt that Loki only continued to fan.

"Sometimes." You finally mumbled.

"If it's any consolation, I thought you did well today."

You had to suppress the scoff that threatened to leave you at his words. He hadn't gotten that blaring, emblazoned Variant jacket more than a few hours ago, and yet here he was telling you that you did a good job like he was your boss.

You should've been more annoyed with him, but only a strange feeling of warmth filled you as he spoke.

When was the last time someone told you that?

You swallowed, before responding with a quick "Thanks."

"I mean that." He urged, and your brows furrowed, "And trust me, I wouldn't just say that."

Trust me.

"I appreciate it."

You hated how sharp you sounded, how on edge, but you couldn't help it. You wanted to say it was because of him, of Loki, but if you were being honest with yourself, that was mostly a lie.

If helping Mobius on a larger case such as this one had begun to reveal anything, it was that you were growing weary of only being seen as Mobius's second in command.

It felt nice to have someone finally pat you on the back for once.

"You didn't do too bad yourself" You smiled, "If you didn't try to throw us all off into a Red-line..."

You watched his smile grow when you finally responded with more than three words, his eyes shining like he had finally managed to unlock a treasure chest that had been locked for eons.

"I was testing you, you know-"

"Keeping our ears sharp?" You smirked.

"Exactly." He hummed before continuing, "That little girl in the market, dressed as a witch, what did she say to you?"

You chuckled, you had almost forgotten about that moment entirely in all the chaos. "She ran into me, I told her thank you for not putting a curse on me."

"And when Mobius called you and she saw us, what did she say?"

Your lips drew into a thin line at his sudden line of questioning, even though it seemed harmless, you couldn't help the faint whisper of suspicion that nagged at you from the back of your mind.

"She asked if one of you was my prince." You smiled.

"What did you say?"

You lifted your chin to better see his features in the orange-hued lighting of the makeshift waiting room. You noticed new wrinkles in his forehead as he waited your answer, his eyes didn't look so calculating anymore, and if you looked hard enough, you thought you could see just the smallest bit of care in his gaze, as if he were waiting on the edge of his seat to hear your reply.

"I told her that she'd have to ask you herself."

He let out a humored groan in response, "How could you!" He exclaimed playfully, "You just broke that girl's heart, you know."

"And how did I do that?" You sputtered through your own laughter.

"Now she'll have to live out her life never knowing if either of us were your prince or not!"

You gasped jokingly as he continued to berate you, your laughter carrying through the hallway and probably past Ravonna's office doors as well, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

"I don't think I can live with myself" You sighed, wiping away any rogue tears that had begun to roll down your cheeks during your amusement.

"You are truly a menace to the timeline." He added, winking.

You wanted to hate the strange warmth that suddenly began to bloom within your chest.

But in truth, you didn't mind.

You took a deep breath, collecting yourself, "How are you feeling though, about all this?"

"Nothing I can't manage."

"I know this can be... A lot, all at once..."

You recalled the first time you had seen the variant processing procedures, watching humans and aliens alike being subjected to such aggressive rounds of supervision and precaution made you cringe.

You wondered what Loki really thought of all of that. You wondered if he really was just indifferent to the experience like he had said, or rather just aggravated by the whole process.

Your mind wandered for a moment, was he scared?

He had been ripped from the timeline, not even knowing the power of what he had done with the Tesseract. You knew that a majority of the hunters weren't kind, and although you understood why, you often thought that they could make more of an effort to be a little more compassionate when transferring variants into processing.

You wondered if any of it was really worth it, just to send someone to their inevitable pruning.

"I can assure you, I can handle whatever the Time Keepers" He drawled out each syllable before as he continued, "Throw in my direction."

You smiled, "Good."

The door unlocked with a resonant click as Mobius emerged, his face flushed. He walked past the both of you, his only acknowledgement of your existence a hasty, "Let's go."

You and Loki both shot up from your seats before Mobius quickly turned, both of you pausing in place like a pair of headlight stricken deer.

Your name echoed from his mouth in a tone you didn't think you had ever heard before, like a command, you thought.

You felt Loki's eyes land on you as you stared back at Mobius, anxiously awaiting whatever he was going to say next.

"We don't need you for this one." He smiled weakly, almost apologetically, "You can take a break."

"Mobius, I-"

"It's okay," He swiftly interrupted, "I got this one, I'll come and get you if I need you, okay?"

It was an odd feeling, a mixture of indignation and relief and confusion hitting you all at once.

He didn't wait for your response before leaving you, swiftly turning and gesturing for Loki to follow him as you stood frozen, dumbfounded in the middle of the hallway.

You were suddenly thankful that no one was ever really around this area of the office, Ravonna's Lair, as some of the other Analysts would call it. You knew that you probably wouldn't ever come this way if you had any say in the matter. Even on days when everyone seemed to be working overtime, this small intersection of hallways and doors was always nearly empty.

You were grateful for that fact now.

There was a brief moment were your own feet faltered, taking a single step in the direction they had left you.

You wanted to follow them, you were just as a part of this as Mobius, this wasn't just his case.

Though as you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, the fleeting thought flew from you just as quickly as it came.

You were sure it was for a good reason.

And so you trudged back to your desk, and for the first time in what felt like forever.

Mobius was leaving your side.

holy cow. i can't believe it honestly, this has been such a labor of love for so long, and i really hope you guys enjoy it as much as i did writing it!! i'd absolutely love to hear what you all think of it!! so please feel free to hop into my asks and tell me all your thoughts/questions!! we have so much left to cover over the next few parts, and i can't wait for you guys to see where loki and his favorite analyst (it's you, you're his favorite analyst) go after this ;) also mia and nate and 🌻 anon this is for you guys for enabling my loki and fake dating ramblings and for being so nice to me through all this mwauh :)

tag request: @mobbucky

as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always, always appreciated!!

want more loki? check out my masterlist!!

perfect illusions masterlist

➺ part 2

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All together now

Warnings: noncon sexual acts and rape, violence, blood, breeding/forced pregnancy

This is dark!Stucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Based on this drabble request: Stucky + “You take him so well, just not as good as you take me.” + breeding/forced pregnancy + Steve and Bucky realize they both have their eye on the same girl. They decide to work together to get what they want. @river-soul​

“It’s just Bucky,” Steve waved for you to get your hand off your gun.

“What’s he doing here?” you left the pistol on the metal table and went back to the pot of canned soup.

You stirred the pot and looked around at the small safehouse as you heard the car door and the ensuing steps. You tapped the excess broth from the metal and turned back to cross your arms as you leaned on the counter.

“He does realise we’re hiding out here?”

“I asked him to come and have a look at these,” Steve jabbed his finger towards the manila file as he peeked out between the slats across the window.

“Wha-- I already translated them for you,” you huffed, “and we don’t have enough soup for him.”

“He knows Hydra better than anyone, he can tell us what the symbols mean,” Steve took a deep breath.

“We could have waited and got them back to intel in New York--”

The deadbolt turned and you shut up as Steve pulled the door open. You turned back to the stove and watched the soup. You had no issue with Bucky really but the last time you saw him, he’d confessed things to you that made it hard to look at him. And he hadn’t reacted well when you didn’t reciprocate.

“There,” you listened to the two men move around, noting that you didn’t even get a hey from the third agent, “thanks for coming, Buck.”

“Mhmm,” you heard the chair groan tellingly and you turned off the burner. 

You took out two metals bowls with a clink and poured the beefy stew into them. You added a spoon to each and turned to hand one off to Steve as he sat on the only other chair. You stood by the counter and slurped yours.

“It’s a map,” Bucky said, “the star, the five points,” he took out his phone and flipped through. He leaned forward and pointed to five different cities, “up in Siberia, Hydra checkpoints.”

“Shit,” Steve sat back as he scooped up his soup, “well, we should’ve caught that.”

“How could you, it’s not exactly marked on Google,” Bucky closed the folder and placed his phone on top of it, “how much longer you here?”

“Couple days at most,” Steve answered and you felt entirely ignored in the two way conversation.

You gulped down your food straight from the brim and rinsed your bowl. You wiped off your hands and checked the time on your watch. You took your gun and cleared the chamber.

“Early morning,” you said, “I’m gonna hit the hay, let you guys catch up.”

“Alright,” Steve set his bowl down on the small square table beside him.

“Night,” Bucky said, his first word to you, “sweet dreams.” His voice trailed after you and you felt both watching you as you pushed into the bedroom. You didn’t look back as the door clicked behind you.

You and Steve settled in easy to the meagre safehouse. There were missions you slept on concrete or in dirt so the dusty old mattress you shared wasn’t anything to gripe about. You changed into your plain grey sweats and your military issued matching tee. 

You dropped down onto the mattress and listened to the drone of the male tones through the wall. You stretched and rolled onto your side and closed your eyes. Hopefully he sent Bucky away by morning.

⭐

You grumbled and rolled over as the other side of the mattress shifted. You hid your face in the pillow as you hugged it with one arm. You tried to ignore Steve as he settled onto the flattened springs. You needed whatever rest you could force out of the short nights.

You went rigid as you felt his warmth against your back and his arm wrapped around your middle. You grabbed his wrist and froze. The vibranium was shockingly cool against your palm. Your eyes shot open as you were pulled flush against Bucky and Steve lowered himself on your other side.

“What the fuck are you doin--”

The vibranium fingers smothered your voice and you grunted in surprise at Steve’s nakedness. Your hand grazed against Bucky’s nude thigh and your heart began to pound. You reached for Bucky’s wrist again and Steve snatched away your arm and slung it over his shoulder.

You mumbled into the hand across your mouth and tried to push away from Bucky. You only served to brush his prodding excitement with your ass as your other hand beat against Steve’s chest. You tried to shake your head as the super soldier in front of you tugged at your loose pants.

You threw your head back and Bucky grunted and retracted his hand as you smashed your skull into his nose. You drew your hand from over Steve’s shoulder and punched him across the jaw. You pushed yourself up and tripped as Steve kept hold of the sweats and you fell at the foot of the bed.

You were tugged back as Bucky swore and flipped over as you reached for the end of the mattress. Steve peeled away your pants and you kicked out at him as the other soldier cradled his bloody nose. He spat a glob of saliva and blood onto the floor and got to his knees to help Steve wrangle you in.

They pinned your arms above your head as you kept kicking and flailing, snarling at them.

“What the fuck? Let me go?” you gritted.

“It didn’t have to be like this,” Bucky growled and sniffed as the blood trickled from his nostril, “I was nice and patient.”

“Steve,” you hissed at the blond, “you’re really gonna let him do this?”

“Him?” Steve’s jaw ticked, “Us.”

“What--” you grunted and fought harder, bringing a knee up far enough to catch Bucky’s ribs.

Both soldiers turned to grab your thighs and held you flat to the bed, gripping both wrist and legs. They looked at each other over your body and shared a conspiratorial moment.

“We should have sedated her,” Steve said.

“No, I want her to feel it when I fill her up,” Bucky scowled, “you got ties?”

Steve stared back a moment then nodded. They flipped you over and Bucky quickly straddled you as he twisted your arms back and held them to the middle of your back. Steve got up and disappeared through the open door.

“Why are you doing this?” you huffed.

“Why’d you lead me on?” Bucky snarled.

“I didn’t--”

“You didn’t,” he scoffed, “no you just flirted with me then laughed in my face.”

“That’s not what happened,” you wriggled and he squeezed you between his thick thighs.

“I wanted more than this but… you’re good stock, strong,” he fingers tightened painfully on your wrists, “all the genetic markers for a successful term.”

“What--”

“Shut up,” he stretched his fingers around both your wrists and freed a hand to pin your head down. Steve entered and you could only watch his feet as he neared. You closed your eyes as he got to his knees and Bucky helped him bind your wrists. “You got anything to gag her with?” the latter asked.

There was silence and you were lifted again and put on your back, your head between the pillows. You flung a leg up and it was caught easily. Your legs were forced down and your ankles held far apart. You opened your eyes and watched Bucky step between your legs as Steve kept your feet in place.

“Steve, don’t let him do this,” you begged, “please, whatever you’re thinking--”

Bucky dropped to his knees and his hand grasped your throat. He applied enough pressure to smother your voice.

“He’ll have his turn too,” Bucky wiped away the last of the blood from his nose with the back of his real hand then shoved it between your legs.

You gasped as he poked around impatiently. He moved closer and you felt his tip against you. Your hands throbbed as you laid atop them painfully and you whined through your tight throat. Steve’s hold on your didn’t waver as your legs tensed at Bucky’s violent intrusion.

He slammed into you so that your back arched and you pushed your shoulder down into the mattress. Your breath crackled in the air as his fingers squeezed firmer with each long thrust. The mattress shifted with his motion as he rutted into you.

He stretched his finger up your cheek and turned your head straight. He bent over you as his hips kept their pace. “Look at me,” he rasped and your eyes met his stormy one, “that’s it, I want you to look at me as I fill you up.”

He fucked you harder and panted as you gasped past his grip on your neck. Your ankles were released but you could do nothing as Bucky brought his legs back under yours and pushed them wide. He leaned most of his weight on your throat as he rammed into you.

“I want you to… remember,” he said through thick breaths, “the moment I… fill you up…” he bared his teeth and thrust frantically, “the moment you… become a mother.”

His voice fizzled and he bent to rest his forehead against yours as he came. You whimpered as his hand slipped from your throat and he slowed his hips. You tried to move your wrists as your fingers throbbed painfully.

He sighed and lifted himself off of you. He slipped out and you winced at the warmth leaking from your cunt. You couldn’t look at them as their figures moved at the edge of your vision.

You were flipped over again. Weak, your resistance was met with a sharp slap to the back of the head. You lifted to your knees and Bucky stood in front of you as Steve got behind you on the mattress, his legs between yours as he gripped your hip.

Bucky stroked his dick as he gazed down at you. He shivered with the overstimulation but barely softened as he kept on. Steve angled himself past your ass and squeezed until you tilted your hips. He slid into you and groaned as he reached his limit.

“Ah, please,” you lowered your head and Bucky caught your chin.

He shushed you and pressed his tip to your lips as Steve began to rock cautiously behind you. Bucky pushed past your lips and sank down your throat as he forced your head back. Steve’s hot breaths grew ragged as a sharp clap came with each deliberate thrust.

“You take him so well, just not as good as you take me,” Bucky purred as he glided in and out of your mouth, your spit dripping down your chin and smeared around your mouth. He grabbed your head between both hands and rubbed your cheekbones with his thumbs as he moaned in delight, “fuck, I hate to waste it on your mouth,” he rasped, “better fill her up good, Steve.”

The man behind you seemed enlivened by his name. His hand went to your neck and he felt Bucky inside of you. Steve crashed into your harder and faster, the noise of wet cunt around him added to the steady slapping of skin. Your eyes rolled back as you struggled to breath and your body struggled to adjust to the constant barrage.

You almost choked as Bucky emptied himself down your throat and coughed as he pulled out. He let you fall forward onto your face as Steve kept his rampant pace. Your cunt thrummed around him and your entire body ached as he reached his peak. He slammed you back and held you there as he came in a fit of spasms.

Steve hummed and tickled your ass as Bucky lifted your head and poked his thumb into your mouth. The soldier in front of you helped push you up as Steve sat back and you were held in his lap, completely full with him.

“Got your story straight?” Bucky asked as Steve began to move you again.

“Think so,” Steve panted and Bucky rolled your tee shirt up and hooked it behind your head. He bent and played with your chest as Steve fucked you from below.

“She went missing, right? You got that intel but she was gone. You called me to help find her,” Bucky paused and teased your nipple between his teeth, “got it?”

“Got it,” Steve leaned back and groaned as he moved you in his lap.

“Don’t…” you begged in a desperate whisper.

“We’ll take care of you,” Bucky trailed his nose between your tits, “for the baby’s sake.”

⭐⭐⭐

Please reblog and like! Let me know what you think.

[ragingbookdragon]

A Shot In The Dark

Batfamily x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 2.6K Warnings: Explicit Language, Mature Themes

Author's Note: I'm going to start the flow of Ghost-Maker fanfiction onto this site, watch me. Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

The butler cleared his throat. “Master Bruce, Ghost Maker is here.” A grunt signaled his response. “I shall take my leave.”

“I forgot you still had the butler hanging around.”

Bruce didn’t look over from the screen as the vigilante stepped into his peripheral. “Are you here about Kolkata?”

“Spice has been entering the U.S. through the black market.” He looked over. “It’s in Gotham.”

“I know. I tracked a shipment in on one of Penguin’s cargo ships.” Bruce shot him a grin that practically bled, ‘I just one-upped you’. “The same one you tagged after me.” He knew Ghost-Maker wasn’t going to take the bait, easy as it was, but still, the way the man’s jaw set told Bruce just how ticked it made him.

“The only way to stop it from getting in is to head over and stop it.”

Bruce shook his head, tapping at the screen. “Interpol can shut down the operations in India. I just want it stopped in Gotham.”

Ghost-Maker sighed. “Why do you always have to take the easy way out of things? What’s stopping you from going?”

“Tim’s got a presentation at Wayne Enterprises tomorrow, Cass has a dance recital, and Damian has a debate team championship.” He glanced at him. “I promised I wouldn’t miss them.”

“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” he asked and the other nodded.

“Like clockwork.” He pointed to a drawer. “Hand me the instrument from the bottom drawer.

Ghost-Maker bent over and pulled open the drawer; a small carved flute rested inside, and he picked it up, examining the instrument. It was made of carved onyx, slashes of tiger-eye and jade up the sides; holes were drilled into it in a fashion telling him it would produce music if he blew into the piece at the top.

He handed it over. “Why do you have a flute in your drawer? And why do you need it?”

Bruce didn’t respond, merely bringing the instrument to his lips; he blew softly, an almost mournful sounding tone. Setting the piece down, he waited, and to Ghost-Maker’s surprise—which didn’t happen often—a cloud of black smoke began to swirl beside them. Faster and faster, it spun until it suddenly dispersed and in its wake was a woman—a rather bare woman…in a rather exposed position, her arms stretched out above her head, and one of her legs up in the air like it had been resting on someone’s shoulder and the other leg like it had been around their hip.

She let her legs fall, almost gracefully, and she heaved an incredibly annoyed sigh. “One of these days, Bruce Wayne, I will refuse your summons.”

“Well, it wasn’t today,” he quipped, spinning in his chair to look at her. “Were you in the middle of something?” his tone denoted that he knew she was, he was just being a sarcastic ass about it.

“I was.” She griped, then let her head loll back on the floor. “In the middle of silky sheets with all those fine bedfellows and now here I am on a cold, hard cave floor with no one to drive me into sexual-oblivion.” She stuck one perfectly nailed hand in the air. “Ahem.”

Bruce rose from his seat and took her hand, pulling her up and into his arms. “However, can I make it up to you, (Y/N)?”

Cocking an elegant eyebrow, she murmured, “You do not have enough resources to make up the good time you just pulled me out of.” Pushing out of his arms, she bypassed Ghost-Maker like he wasn’t standing there stunned out of his mind about what just happened.

“Is my wine still down here?” she asked, already bending down to rummage through the drawer. “Hmm, I see I answered my own question,” (Y/N) remarked, pulling out a bottle of wine so old, vintage didn’t seem to describe it. Popping the top, she took a sip and snapped her fingers, a silky black robe instantly clothing her naked body.

Leaning on the desk, she crossed one of her smooth legs over the other, idly swishing her foot. “So, why do you need me?”

Bruce nodded at the screen. “Do you know about the spice shipments in Gotham?”

(Y/N) hummed. “The shipments of spice that Penguin’s buying from black market deals that are originating out of Kolkata? Those spice shipments?” she shrugged. “I might know something. Why?”

“We’re trying to stop Penguin from getting it into Gotham.” Ghost-Maker interrupted before Bruce could say anything and she gazed at him.

“And you are?”

“Ghost-Maker.”

“Hmm.” She said, though she sounded disinterested. “Come here.”

“Why?” he questioned, though he obeyed and before he could even react, she reached up and touched his jaw. In a flash he saw every memory of his life in his mind, and she pulled away, tone curious.

“Oh? So, you are the one Bruce thinks about. The hedonistic anti-hero that copes with his psychopathy by challenging himself to fix the world.” A smirk tugged her lips. “Interesting.” Her eyes found Bruce’s. “Why is your ex-boyfriend in Gotham? I thought you did not want him anywhere near here? From both of your memories, you are both antagonistic to the idea of working in each other’s locations.”

“You just read my memories?” Ghost-Maker inquired, reaching up to touch his face. “How?”

“Telepathy, amongst many other dark things that would make even a person like you quake in fear.” (Y/N) glanced at Bruce again. “Answer the question.”

“He’s not my ex-boyfriend.”

“Wrong question and even more wrong answer.” She shot him a knowing look, one he matched with a firm look of his own and she waved a hand. “Fine, I will relent for now. What do you need to know about Penguin’s shipments?”

Bruce hit another button on the computer and a picture of a manila file came up. “It’s locked in his personal office surrounded by turrets and armed thugs.”

(Y/N)’s lips pulled pathetically, and she whimpered pitifully, “Aw, can the two of you not get into the office with your powers combined? So sad.” She raised a hand and touched the tips of her pointer and thumb to one another, then she lifted it to her mouth. She blew a single, sharp ear-splitting whistle and both Bruce and Ghost-Maker heard ringing in their ears as a dark smoke began to pool from the edge of the cave, the type that sent shivers up someone’s spine.

A low growl sounded from the smoke and out of the vapor stepped a dark hound, black as midnight, with glowing red eyes and rows of razor-sharp teeth. (Y/N) clicked her tongue and it bounded to her. She reached down and caressed its head, speaking in a language that neither Bruce nor Ghost-Maker understood.

She stood back up and pointed to the screen, uttering one more word, cold and firm. “Hunt.”

The hound barked but it still sounded like a growl, and it turned, sprinting towards the wall; it collided with it in a hail of smoke, and (Y/N) looked at Bruce. “Cù-sìth will get what we require.”

“I haven’t seen your hell-hound in a long while, (Y/N).” Bruce noted and she scowled.

“Death hounds. Cù-sìth and Garmr are death hounds.”

“And where is Garmr now?”

She frowned, looking away from him. “He is…recovering from a sustained injury.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

(Y/N) sighed and shook her head. “I appreciate your sympathy and trying but injuries that death hounds receive can only be healed by darker magic.” Her fingers swirled with her sorcery.

“Is that why you’ve been in hiding for a few months now?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I have devoted most of my time to healing his injuries.”

Bruce took her hand, gently but firmly. “(Y/N), is there anything you need from me?”

She met his gaze, holding it for a moment before sighing again. “Do you think you could find nightshade and belladonna extract for me?”

“Absolutely,” he nodded, then he nudged her in the ribs with a grin. “You’re not planning on poisoning anyone, are you?”

(Y/N) chuckled. “Maybe just a bit. You know, not enough to kill them but just enough to drop them out of a city government meeting where an especially important vote is being decided.” She winked. “Care to wonder who it is?”

Bruce grunted, pulling from her. “I already know who it is.” He took a seat at the computer, and she leaned against the desk, her thigh brushing the arm rest. “You’re not allowed to poison people.”

She let out a humored breath through her nose and reached out, gently carding her fingers through his short dark hair. “Joy-killer.” (Y/N) took a moment to gaze at him, then she shifted, tracing the dark circles under his eyes. “When is the last time you rested?”

“A few hours ago.”

Frowning, she corrected, “I meant when was the last time you actually had a restful sleep?” he opened his mouth, but she was quicker. “You are not getting younger, Bruce.”

“I’m fine.” He grunted and she rolled her eyes.

“You are so stubborn.” (Y/N) glanced at Ghost-Maker. “Do you get decent sleep?”

“Of course,” he retorted. “Only Bruce thinks sleep is for the weak.”

“It is.”

(Y/N) looked back at Bruce. “That’s because you are a stubborn ass.”

Before he could respond, a growling caught their attention and they all turned to the entrance of the cave, seeing Cù-sìth coming towards them, the manila folder in his teeth. She plucked it from his mouth and flipped it open, scanning the contents; when Bruce reached for it, she jerked it away and clicked her tongue.

“Oh no. Only those who have maintained a correct sleep schedule are allowed to read this.”

Bruce glared at her. “Give me the file.”

“No.”

He started rising from his seat. “Give. Me. The. File. (Y/N).”

“I think you are forgetting that I am not one of your little minions, Bruce.” (Y/N) snapped her fingers and he sunk back into his seat, compelled by her magic. “You do not tell me what to do. Ever.” She looked at Ghost-Maker. “Come with me to the docks and we will take care of this.” Then she met Bruce’s gaze again. “When I snap my fingers again you will go up to your room and sleep for a few hours.”

“(Y/N),” he warned. “No killing.”

“I will do as I wish,” she offered nonchalantly, handing Ghost-Maker the file. “You know I have never adhered to your rules.”

Bruce’s glare darkened. “I know.”

“You know as well as I that you get rude when you are tired. Sleep now. Let us take care of this.” (Y/N) held out her hand. “K, take my hand.”

“How do you—”

She ignored the vigilante’s shocked question, taking his hand and the world twisted and turned around them until the smoke cleared and they were outside the gates of the dock. “You will want to take your mask off.”

“I’m not taking my mask off,” he retorted, and she shrugged.

“Then you will be sick in your mask.”

He stared at her, then he spun around, undoing the clasps of his mask, barely getting it off his face before he was vomiting into the grass.

(Y/N) merely watched. “I told you. Magical teleportation always wreaks havoc on the stomach the first time.”

“What—what are you?” he asked, then went back to puking.

When he went down on one knee, she leaned over and steadied him. “Older than what your mind can comprehend.” (Y/N) reached down and placed a hand on his forehead, then he stopped retching and coughed a few times. “There. Your digestive system should relax now.”

He didn’t necessarily shove her away, but it was obvious he didn’t want her seeing him because he pulled from her touch and wiped his mouth, quickly pulling his mask back on. “Don’t ever do that again.” He warned and she snorted.

“What? Heal you or teleport you right to the location of your target?”

With his mask back on he glared at her, light blue slits glowing brightly. “Call me K.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, you and Bruce are so much alike.” (Y/N) hauled him to his feet by his sword scabbards and let him go, starting towards the opening of the gate. “This will be a rather enjoyable night.”

“You need adequate protection.” He said. “You’re going to get killed without anything on.”

(Y/N) tossed a smirk over her shoulder. “My, my, Ghost, are you worried about me?”

“I don’t feel empathy,” Ghost-Maker said, hurrying to walk beside her.

“That is not completely true. At least through the memories I have seen.” (Y/N) looked over at him. “You are empathetic to Bruce. It is not like my empathy to him, but on some level, you do care.” She smiled. “Nothing is completely void of some form of empathy.”

She looked over at the dock, scrutinizing the cargo ship. “There are armed guards along the pier. A frontal assault will get us caught…no airstrikes…” she hummed, then brought a hand to her chest. “I have an idea.

“Care to share?” he asked, looking over at her, and to his surprise, she transformed before his eyes, taking on the shape of one of the thugs on the ship. “Huh. That’s impressive.”

“Thank you.” She said, though her voice was much deeper, like a mans and she stood up. “I will infiltrate the ship from the front. I trust you can go through the back?”

He pulled out his swords and (Y/N) swore she could practically see the smile growing on his lips as he said, “Absolutely.”

“Then be swift.”

***

A few hours later they appeared in the cave, and she sighed, gazing at the man collapsed at the desk. “I forgot how easily he deflected magic. Even mine.” Shrugging, she left the file beside him, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. “At least he is sleeping though.”

Pulling away, she looked at Ghost-Maker. “You did well this evening. Your training is almost superior to Bruce’s.”

“It is superior to Bruce’s.” he griped and she tsked at him.

“Well, from what I have seen in your memories, I am afraid you have not much proven superiority to him. Equality, yes, but not superiority.” (Y/N) hummed and smiled at him. “I hope you and I can do missions together again, Ghost. It was rather enjoyable to have a talking partner. Bruce does not like to talk unless he has to.”

As she started walking towards the stairs, he followed her. “Can I ask you something?”

“You may.”

“Where do you live?”

(Y/N) eyed him. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Your meditation techniques appear similar to mine.” He smiled at her. “I was thinking you and I could meditate sometime.”

She paused and looked him over, a hand on her hip. “You want to sleep with me? Really?”

“You already told me what I am. A hedonistic crime-fighter.”

“Technically I said antihero, but I digress.” (Y/N) stepped up to him, staring into the glowing blue slits. “But I saw your abilities…they could be…intriguing.”

“I can show you now, if you’d like?” Ghost-Maker tipped his head to the entrance of the study. “There’s enough rooms for us to disappear into.”

(Y/N) chuckled and shook her head, walking ahead of him. “Bruce would not be happy about that.” She reached the top step and turned back, grinning at him. “But worry not, Ghost. When I am ready to see you, I will find you.”

“I look forward to it.”

[babydaddyleorio]

Tantalizing (Toji x reader)

pairings: Toji Fushiguro x fem!reader

word count: 1,649

summary: You are the director of a security company, charged with the simple task of selling your technology to esteemed businesses. The simple task, however, becomes more complicated than you imagined when you meet Mr.Fushiguro. Buckle up because work becomes a lot more difficult when the heart gets involved.

warnings: slight cursing, grammatical errors 

AN: y/n = your name , l/n= last name

You sat in your black, leather chair while focusing all of your attention towards decreasing the stacks of paper that were currently piled on top of your wooden desk. You had, much to your dismay, procrastinated completing your work for the past week and now you were reaping the consequences of going into overdrive. You clenched the ballpoint pen that was in your hand rather tightly, and your feet tapped against the grey carpet with impatience. You felt like banging your head against your desk, repeatedly might you add, and you probably would’ve done so if your eyes didn’t catch the shadow of someone moving towards you from your peripheral.

“Knock, knock.” Your assistant, Nadia, tapped her knuckles on your door frame while peeking her head into your office. You glanced up from your papers with low eyes as she walked towards the printer sitting in your corner, suddenly deciding to yourself that talking to her would be the perfect excuse to take a break from doing your work. You then straightened your posture and cleared your throat loudly, Nadia already rolling her eyes at your predictable behavior.

“So, Nadia-”

“No, don’t even think about it.” Nadia wagged her finger and sang her words to you in a teasing manner, simultaneously pushing buttons on the printer she stood in front of. “You are not using me to get out of your work.”

“Why nooootttt?” you groaned loudly and threw your head back against your leather chair, eyes rolling up to glare at your ceiling. Nadia turned to face you with papers in her hand, fixing her beige hijab while doing so.

“Because you have a deadline you have to meet.” Nadia stated matter of factly to which you side eyed her with annoyance.

“Deadline my ass, I’m taking a nap.” You murmured and reached over to lift a messy stack of documents so you’d have more room to sleep on your desk. Nadia furrowed her eyebrows and stormed towards you, rolling up the papers in her hand before whacking you on the head with them.

“Ouch, what was that for?” You whined while holding the top of your head, a pain now circulating in the spot that she hit. You glanced up at the annoyed woman who stood in front of you with her arms crossed and an eyebrow cocked challengingly. The thing was, Nadia was not only your assistant, but she also happened to be your best friend as well. Nobody could really tell that the two of you were close because she always kept your relationship professional and cordial while at work, but sometimes her “take no shit” side (as she would call It) would slip through the cracks of her cool façade.

“Y/n, I am this,” Nadia pinched her fingers together while shoving them in your face. “close to molly-whopping you if you don’t finish these damn papers.” 

You rolled your eyes at her threat, but still chose to pick your pen back up because you weren’t in the mood to test her right now. Once Nadia saw that you were getting back to your work, she brought her hand to her mouth and blew you a kiss.

“Love you, bestie.” She cooed in a sickly-sweet voice and turned around to strut out of your office. You looked up from your papers with squinted eyes, slyly sticking your tongue out at the back of your retreating assistant.

“Also, don’t forget that you have a meeting with the Zen’in Association in 3 hours! So chop, chop!” She called out over her shoulder with a smirk and this time you didn’t stop your head as It fell on to your desk. 

          ✧✧✧

“I think I have a wedgie.” You whispered into Nadia’s ear as you stood next to her in the elevator, hand reaching behind you to pull the annoyance out. Nadia rolled her eyes and looked at the watch on her wrist.

“At least we got here on time, although you really need to work on your driving.” She chided and you looked at her with your forehead scrunched.

“My driving is completely fine.” you scoffed, slightly offended at what your assistant was insinuating.

“Oh please, you are the definition of road rage.” She said while rubbing her temples and you clicked your tongue in disagreement.

“It’s not my fault some people are complete idiots behind the wheel.” You said and Nadia snapped her head to look at you.

“And you’re not one of them?!” She asked with her eyebrows raised high. 

You snorted as the elevator doors pulled open. The both of you walked out of It and were immediately met with the receptionist who sat behind the desk that was placed in the center of the room.

“Hello, how can I help you?” The woman asked with both hands clasped together and a smile on her face, revealing a set of deep dimples. You and Nadia walked towards her and Nadia pulled out a paper from the manila folder she had in her hands.

“We’re here for our appointment that is scheduled today.” Nadia replied and the receptionist took the paper from her hand. She then examined the white sheet, but It seemed like the more her eyes drifted over the information on the paper, the more the bright smile on her face disappeared.

“Oh.. It seems that you’ve arrived promptly for your appointment with Mr.Fushiguro.” The receptionist said, you picking up on the hint of nervousness that was now intertwined in her voice. Her sudden mood change threw you off and you wondered to yourself what would have shaken the girl up in that short amount of time.

The receptionist stood up from her rolling chair and politely told you to “hold on one second” while bowing. She then scurried off through one of the doors behind her, leaving you and Nadia standing in front of the wooden desk completely baffled.

“Well that was weird.” You said out loud and Nadia nodded in response.

“Right, I wonder what got into her...” Nadia trailed off, just as lost as you were.

Moments later, the receptionist came back, but this time an extremely tall woman followed behind her. The new woman wore a yellow, sunflower dress with white wedges on her polished feet and her faux locs pulled into a high ponytail. She had a bright smile plastered on her sun kissed face as she moved to stand in front of you.

“Good afternoon, It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I am Mr.Fushiguro’s assistant and you can call me Laila.” The woman chirped happily, extending her hand to shake Nadia and yours. The woman’s persona was a complete contradiction to the receptionist’s ghostly one and your eyes trailed back to her sitting behind the desk with her eyes now casted downward.

“Ms. L/N, I will escort you to the 1-on-1 meeting now. Your assistant can wait in the waiting room until you're done.” Laila nodded and began walking towards a hallway, beckoning for you to follow behind her.

The Zen’in headquarters was very fancy and also seemingly calm, you thought to yourself as you trailed Fushiguro’s assistant. The whole place had a dark theme going on with black marble structure, black colored furniture, black framed paintings... hell It seemed like even all the employees were clad in black- well minus Laila that is. You whistled to yourself lowly with your hands in your pant’s pockets, eyes wandering to look out the tall glass windows that framed the hallway. To be completely honest, you really wanted to skip this meeting. You would rather be at home, binging your favorite show while munching on some very questionable healthy snacks, but unfortunately you had priorities to attend to. You were in charge of a security company that dealt with supplying high-grade technology to other businesses and that is essentially why you were here today. From what you were told, the Zen’in association was run by a prestigious family, Toji Fushiguro being one of its members. You were supposed to meet with a different family member today to discuss the arrangements of your products, but for some reason you were swapped to consult with Toji instead.

Whatever, It didn’t make you any difference anyway.

“Ms. L/N, we’re here.” Laila interrupted your thoughts and you turned to see that she had stopped in front of a tall, black door. Laila then knocked twice on the smooth marble before turning the handle and stepping inside the room, you taking that as a sign to follow behind her. As soon as your foot stepped over the threshold, you took note of how the office reeked of expensiveness and still matched the dark theme that the whole building had, but It also seemed minimalistic as well. 

“I see you finally made It.” A low voice suddenly reached your ears and you whipped your head to the side to see a man that was blanketed by darkness sitting in the corner of the room. The man reached an arm behind to adjust the blinds, and you squinted your eyes at the sudden bright light that hit you, and once they adjusted they caught sight of the man’s appearance. The man wore an obsidian, polished suit with a white shirt underneath that was slightly unbuttoned. His legs were spread wide, and he had his elbow propped on the arm of the chair as the other twirled around a glass of alcohol.

“Toji Fushiguro.” The man said with eyes scanning your body, slowly moving his glass toward his mouth to take a sip from his drink. You stood immobile in your spot as you watched his veiny hand set the glass down on the table beside him and lean his body over, extending his hand for you to shake while smirking with his eyes low. “Pleasure to meet you.”

[laurensprentiss]

Jouska [Hotch x Reader]

Chapter 1:

Gif credit: @tommyshelbcy

Warnings: Mentions of stalking/blood

Word count: 1363

———

"The end is in the beginning and lies far ahead." - Ralph Ellison

———

"Haley, listen, I'm gonna have to call you back, I'm about to meet with him right now."

"Oh my God, you always do this, Aaron, you promised we-"

"- Yeah, we will, I promise but I really gotta go. Bye." He rushes out in a low voice as he sets the telephone down. He gathers himself, buttoning his suit jacket as he strides confidently towards the steps, butterflies in his stomach.

His first official assignment, and he was determined to make it count. Months of gruelling training, exams and physicals were finally going to allow him to get his foot in the door and get to where he wanted to be. He takes a steadying breath before knocking on the door three times and waiting for the voice inside.

"Yeah. Come in." Barnes lifts his gaze from the paperwork he was engrossed in to beckon Aaron forward. "Take a seat."

"Yes sir, you wanted to see me?" He wrings his hands unconsciously.

He sees the bright eyed agent’s behaviour betraying him and smiles knowingly. “It's alright, no need to be nervous, son. This here's good news for you. In fact, these are your transcripts and reports I'm looking at." He smiles. "You were one of the most promising cadets during your training stint, and the work I've seen from you so far is more than I'd expect from a fairly new recruit."

Hotch lets out a half- breath, half laugh of relief as he lets his shoulders relax. "Thank you, sir. It means a lot coming from you." He smiles almost bashfully, the words ringing unfamiliar in his ears. Praise had always been a foreign concept to him thus far.

"Not so fast, I still need to tell you why I called you in today." He sets his pen down now, looking Hotch in the eyes as he tells him, "your talent hasn't gone unnoticed, which is why I'm assigning you to the personal and home security detail of the US Ambassador of France while he's stateside."

His heart pounds. Barnes' talk of his team and responsibilities feel far away now and Aaron tries to rapidly take in everything that he's saying. This is it. The opportunity he'd been waiting for to prove himself as an agent of the bureau and not just a trainee. Barnes brings him out his mind by asking him if he has any questions and tells him to go meet with his new team. He shakes Barnes' hand and thanks him for the opportunity, before quickly excusing himself.

Barnes interrupts him as he's leaving. He turns to face his superior as he tells him, "I'm trusting you on this one, Hotchner. The Ambassador will explain when you meet him but this one's personal."

"Yes, Sir." He ducks his head out of respect and turns to leave to be briefed with his team.

————

"Alright everybody, you know the drill. Make your introductions, follow protocol and see the Ambassador's staff for your assignments." McCall commands over the comms.

He directs Aaron to take the next left as the SUV's pull into the driveway of the sprawling estate, lined with perfectly groomed grass and trees. As they step out of the cars, the double doors open as your father and his assistants step out. A large man in stature, the Ambassador demands attention but his smile is welcoming - warm, even. Eight agents in total make their way over the man as he walks them through the grand foyer of the home.

Hotch has a strange feeling in his stomach, half excitement, half dread. He feels out of his depth. Small. And he doesn't like that feeling.

Niceties exchanged and introductions made, the Ambassador beckons McCall over to him while the other agents speak with his staff. McCall leans over and tells Aaron to come with him as the three of them step into an office.

"Sir, it's lovely to see you again. This is Agent Hotchner, the one Agent Barnes told you about." McCalls explains. Hotch steps forward to offer your father a firm handshake but still doesn't quite understand what is happening as he looks around confused.

The Ambassador lets out a short laugh. "I take it Barnes didn't quite explain the scope of your duties here. He has a tendency to be quite dramatic."

Hotch shakes his head as he laughs slightly, and explains that he was told he would be informed of his duties once the initial meeting had taken place.

"Well, alongside the standard home and personal security, I have an additional, sort of special request." The Ambassador takes a beat and asks McCall and Aaron to take a seat. "My daughter, she-. She was due to take off to Yale this summer, but it appears that somebody has been following her. And for some time."

He pulls out his desk drawer and takes two Manila folders, placing them in front of McCall and Hotch. "As you can see these photos go back to last summer, outside of my daughter's apartment, the gym, her school." He rubs a hand over his stubbled chin and sighs. "Then came the mysterious packages delivered to her door. Sometimes flowers, her favourite chocolates, jewellery. And then the notes."

The two agents flick through the folder to find photocopies of notes, dotted with specks of blood. Hotch mumbles the last words written on one of the notes. "Watch me earn you."

"That last note was delivered with all of the pictures of my daughter. It's because of this, that I advised my daughter to defer for a year, until we can find this man and asked her to move back home, here with me." He looks tired.

Hotch looks from McCall to the Ambassador and back again in confusion. "Pardon me, Sir, and I mean no disrespect at all, but why me? I'm still fairly new at this, and while I would be honoured to take this on, I just want to make sure that you think I'm the right man for the job."

"Well, I know you've taken the profiling course over at Quantico and you come highly recommended from Barnes." He reassures Hotch. "I have faith in you and McCall. Your job is twofold I suppose, as well as providing a security detail, you'll also be tasked with investigating this whole thing and getting to the bottom of this person's identity. And because of your age, the person who's following my daughter will simply think you're a new friend instead of law enforcement."

It finally sinks in for Hotch now. He nods his agreement slowly and thanks him for the opportunity. There's a knock at the door and the Ambassador calls out for whoever is on the other end to come in.

"Ah speaking of my daughter, here she is!" He stands up with a smile. McCall and Hotch turn to face you as you walk into the room and close the door behind you. you feel a pair of eyes following you as you do. The agents both stand as your father makes his way over to you to hug you. "We were just talking about you sweetheart." He tells you as he places a kiss on your temple.

"All good things, I hope!" You tease as you step forward to shake their hands and introduce yourself. You shake Agent Hotchner's hand as he towers over you, holding your gaze, your hand small in his. "Call me Aaron. Or Hotch, whichever works." He chuckles.

You smile as you share a moment but he looks down quickly and lets go of your hand. He's handsome, you think. He stands at 6'2 with broad shoulders and chest, dressed in a suit and tie and his slight beard and fluffy hair gives him a rugged look. His cheekbones and jawline are sharp and he has a disarming smile.

"These are the agents I told you about, honey. They'll be accompanying you while we get to the bottom of this." Your father says.

"Yes ma'am, rest assured we will do everything we can to catch this man." Hotch says as he looks into your eyes, his gaze flickering to your lips for a quick second before looking away.

This should be interesting, you think.

<Prev | > Next

[moonlit-djarin]

Home

(gif by @ithinkwehitametaphor ) 

Paring:Javier Pena x gn!Reader

Warnings:  Brief mentions of canon violence and topics surrounding PTSD. Mentions of fighting within a relationship, alcohol, and smoking. Potentially a little out of character. 

a/n: Once again there is no dialogue in this because I can’t write that apparently. 

I took an unplanned break from writing and then this came to me when yearning in @mitchi-c ‘s inbox. Thank you for all of the continued love on my fic’s and sticking with me as I worked through a rough few weeks month. 

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary: Javier is away for a week and is anxious to get home.

- 

The pillow next to you was cold. The couch unoccupied by a tired body. The cup in the bathroom held one less tooth brush. The kitchen table was free of cigarette butts and miscellaneous stolen manila files folders. Javier had been gone for a week and fuck. The sudden radio silence was driving you crazy.

It wasn’t the longest he had been gone, nor the longest you had been gone. Time away from each other was common and ingrained in your lifestyle. Mix matched schedules and late nights or early mornings contributed to savoring every lingering moment. The night before a lengthier trip normally consisted of take out and a few beers before retreating to each other’s arms under the covers. This trip was different. The day before he left had ended in bitter words swimming in whiskey and a slammed door. Leaving both parties on opposite ends of the door and red with anger and guilt. 

The drags on his cigarette became longer and longer as Javier tried to ease his mind when he turned the corner to your apartment building. Remaining guilt lingered with the anticipation of being in your arms again, making him feel sick from something other than the nicotine in his system. Pulling to a stop in the designated parking spot for your building, his eyes wandered up to your window. Memories of watching the sunset through them or seeing your head peak through the linen curtains to see if he had arrived yet flooded his brain. His heart stalled and quickened to a hammering pace as he saw your lights off. Without better judgment, his mind jumped to the worst possible conclusions before centering himself on the fact that it was an unspeakable hour in the early morning. He knew you had to work in just a few hours and never expected you to wait up for him. Yet he couldn’t shake the fear that momentarily paralyzed him in the driver's seat. He wouldn’t blame you if you had left, he just wanted to make sure nothing happened to you. 

Sighing and carding a hand through his sweaty hair he took gentle steps and tried his best to close the door quietly as he came in. The apartment was clean, cleaner than he had left it and his heart sank a little with knowing he had left an unorganized mess for you to clean up after him. The need to check on you before he could let go of the long week behind him had become a habit. His heart constricted as he peered into the dark bedroom, the hallway light illuminating the outline of your figure under the sheets through the slightly cracked door. The next breath felt like clean air in his lungs, no longer polluted by fear. Not ready to sleep just yet, and not wanting to disturb you, he turned back to the kitchen. A wave of exhaustion crashed through him as he walked down the hallway flicking off the light to let you sleep as he went. 

Back in the kitchen, his eyes scanned the shelves within the fridge, before deciding he wasn’t hungry. Containers of leftovers and a half drunk bottle of wine sat next to an untouched new case of his favorite beer.

He sighed and grabbed a beer. Leaning against the counter, Javier trusted it to hold his weight as he took a sip. He closed his eyes and the relief of being home finally washed through him, fighting the wave of exhaustion dragging him down. 

His mind wandered as the alcohol flowed through his system, temporarily numbing the loud intrusive thoughts in the back of his brain. No matter how unsuccessful it was, the week was behind him and you were safe. That’s all that mattered now. The blood staining his hands had not reached you this week. 

Lost in lethargic thought, he didn’t hear you sleepily pad into the kitchen. A blanket wrapped around your shoulders, draping off you like a cape. He stiffened at your sudden appearance in his arms. Blinking, all of his worries eased that moment. His brain swarmed with thoughts of you instead of images of the harsh reality he lived in (like how cute you looked in his shirt and the blanket wrapped around your shoulders). Nothing plagued his brain more than you, and here you stood in between his arms, looking up at him with wide and sleep filled eyes. A comforting sight for sore eyes. 

He placed a kiss on your head, running a thumb on your cheek before wrapping his arms around you tightly. Holding onto your frame for dear life mumbling about how you needed your sleep. . Even after a week of cold sheets, empty arms and out of grasp conversations. With every possible exit point wide open. You remained. Guilt ate through his stomach and to his throat. After all he had put you through, the late nights, bitter words, everything, why had you stayed? He couldn’t be more thankful that you did. It was a confessed moment of selfishness. You were his home. His everything. And here you were in his arms, not a figment of his imagination teasing and calling him back to reality. Man did it feel good to be home. A soft smile formed to his lips as your hands cupped his face and the blanket fell. 

Coaxing him into bed with a kiss and a promise to hold him close. To make up for lost time and harsh words with nothing more than just taking comfort within your arms. Contact was kept as he carefully stepped over the blanket, beer forgotten on the counter as the bedroom door closed behind him with a kick of his foot. Laying beneath the covers, his hands found the small of your back. Gently kneading out any tension that you held there. Your head pressed into the crook of his neck, breathing in every scent you missed. Harsh words forgotten and forgiven for the time being. Vulnerable moments like these were unfamiliar to Javier. He couldn’t help but feel tension rise on the bridge of his nose, his eyes withholding the bubbling rawness that arose as you mumbled the three words he said out loud too little. I love you. He only responded with a gentle kiss and a whisper of a promise that the both of you were safe. At least for now. He waited until he heard a soft snore come through your lips before he echoed his response. Mumbling it back like a broken record skipping into your hair. Silently questioning how he deserved to have such a home to return to after all that he has done. It was something you would scold him for later, but he allowed the peaceful air to create a moment of vulnerability, one of pure admiration for you as he pulled you closer than imaginable and stared at the ceiling. Listening to your even and steady breaths, feeling your heartbeat against his ribcage. He would always come back to you, the guilt of leaving you waiting was too much. The thought of you in his arms comforted him as much as his arms comforted you. 

Sleep never came easy to him, but with the knowledge of you being safe in his arms, he could quiet his mind for at least a little bit. Enough to get through the hours until dawn when you would wake up for work and he would return to his coping mechanism of cigarettes and liquor. Until your arms opened again and the the cover of night allowed for him to relax into the bed mumbling, 

I love you. 

- 

Thanks for reading/commenting/reblogging <3 

Taglist: @forever-rogue @callmehopeless @dinthisisthe-wayson @intu-witch-tion @magicrowiswritingstuff @mitchi-c @xjustmenobodyelse @freeshavocadoooo @oloreaa​ (please let me know if you want to be added or removed <3 I appreciate you all!  ) 

[realtacuardach]

Deception and Perception

“Con-artist” entry for Obiyuki Bingo 2021, hosted by @snowwhite-andtheknight

I hope you enjoy!

~~~

Leaning nearly double on the folding chair, Shirayuki clutched her ankle and moaned lowly under her breath as the security guard closed the door behind him. His footsteps echoed as he walked down the hallway to the main office, the steady rhythm slowly fading away to nothing. A half-minute more ticked by on her watch, and Shirayuki straightened up. Quickly getting to her feet, she walked over to the filing cabinets stacked against the wall and pulled fruitlessly on one of the handles. It didn’t come as any surprise that the research had been locked up, but she allowed herself a small curse of frustration before extracting a lockpick from her pocket.

There has to be an easier way to get information, she internally muttered to herself as she got to work.

But there wasn’t, she’d already tried.

When the progress on her laboratory’s latest research had slowed down, Shirayuki initially filed it away as one of the typical delays and frustrations of being a researcher. But months had passed, and they weren’t getting any further in their findings - meanwhile, the neighboring lab from Bergatt Enterprises, who had piggy-backed on their research for a time, was making leaps and bounds.

She had asked to see their results, to understand where she might have been making mistakes. In response, they had erected swift, impenetrable walls, stating that their findings were their intellectual property. A bitter pill to swallow, but their offering a thorn bramble when she’d offered an olive branch in the past was just going to have to be a lesson to keep her guard up better in future.

But when she’d returned to her own lab, intent on looking at her earlier notes and samples to start over from scratch, she’d found that her notes were gone. Someone had taken them.

The filing cabinet clicked open, and she shoved the lockpick in her pocket before reaching into the drawer, fingers flying over the tops of the file folders.

She hadn’t wanted to believe that the other lab would stoop to theft or sabotage, but when the lab assistant who’d started work two weeks before their collaboration with Bergatt stopped showing up with no explanation two days after it had ended, she’d had suspicions. Suspicions that were confirmed, at least in her mind, when she’d seen that same lab assistant in the lobby of Bergatt Enterprises when she’d first approached them and been shut down. Calling after the woman had been an impulse, but also a mistake. The faux lab assistance had scurried deep behind the security of ‘limited access’ doors, and Shirayuki had been escorted out.

The guard had rushed her out so quickly that she’d tripped on the threshold, and landing hard on her ankle had hurt but also given her an idea.

The first drawer didn’t have them. Fighting the urge to slam it shut in frustration, Shirayuki instead closed it slowly and started on the next cabinet down. It has to be here, she assured herself, squinting at the papers and forcing herself to keep a steady pace, this is the only place left.

Bergatt Enterprises had four labs within the state; it would have been too much to hope for that they’d have left the research in the first place she’d looked, the facility where she’d seen the spy. But she’d tried anyway.

After a week, she’d gone back, her hair tied back and covered with a bandana to fill out a job application. On the way to fill out the paperwork, she’d walked by a Wet Floor sign and fallen. She’d held her side and groaned, curling around her injury. Frantic to avoid lawsuits, employees had ushered her into a makeshift nurse’s office and left there for a few minutes. Moving quickly, she’d managed to get into the lab offices, only to find the filing cabinets were only for show and were disappointingly empty.

The paper in the file folder at the back of the cabinet caught on her fingers, the paper crumpled and off-color compared to the pristine contents of the other files. Her breath catching, she pulled the paper out and nearly cried with relief. Found you, she grinned, holding the paper tight to her chest. Now I just have to-

Two sets of footsteps were coming closer down the hallway. Shirayuki just managed to keep from slamming the drawer shut, instead smoothly closing it and darting back to the chair. Wadding her notes into a square and shoving it down into her blouse, she drew her jacket around her before bending down to resume the slow massaging of her ankle.

The security guard returned, closely followed by a man who looked distressingly official. Next to the guard with his ill-fitting button-up and baggy slacks, the new man had an air more polished and somehow dangerous, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. “This is the lady?” He asked, tucking his badge into his suit jacket.

“Yes, sir.” The guard glared at Shirayuki. “Procedure said to call you in if we had anything....suspicious happen. We’ve had a lot of attempted break-ins.”

“Have you?” Behind his sunglasses, the new man’s eyebrows raised, the skin pulling taut around a scar over his left eye. “And not been able to catch them yet? At all?”

The security guard puffed up indignantly. “I caught her.”

“Hmm,” the other man stepped around the desk where Shirayuki’s chair had been situated and sat down on a chair behind it. “And you’re sure this girl is some kind of criminal mastermind?” He snorted. “I can see why you had to call me in.”

Flushing red, the guard drew himself up, but got waved off. “Easy, easy. I’m not saying you’re wrong.” The well-dressed man leaned forward, Shirayuki’s breath catching as he moved closer, smooth and sinuous and unpredictable. She stared steadily back, praying he couldn’t hear her heart pounding or the paper crinkling as she struggled to keep her composure. The man smirked at her, then leaned back in his chair. “You can go,” he told the guard.

“What?” The guard hitched his belt indignantly. “Shouldn’t we both-?”

The suited man’s lips twisted into an irritated smirk. “You think I can’t handle one little girl?”

Shirayuki focused on her fake ankle pain to keep from bristling and giving herself away.

“Well, no,” the guard stuttered.

“If it makes  you feel better,” the man waved towards the door, “you can wait outside. But this is my case now.”

The two men stared at each other for an agonizing few moments before the guard stepped back. “Okay, Mr. Nanaki.”

Nanaki smiled, his smile full of teeth and thinly veiled malice. “Ah, ah, ah. Agent Nanaki.” He pulled out a badge with a smooth flourish. Shirayuki caught a glimpse of “Internal” and “Security” before the badge was returned to the jacket. Nanaki reached out his hand towards the guard, palm up, and beckoned with his fingers. The guard, his expression simultaneously flustered and cowed, stepped forward and pulled out a manila folder that he’d been carrying between his arm and stomach. He handed it to the agent.

‘Thank you,” the agent snarked smoothly. “I’ll call if you’re needed.”

His tone indicated that the guard wouldn’t be, and the guard stomped out..

Agent Nanaki opened the manila folder, flipping through the pages, his head moving ever so slightly from side to side as he read. Silence grew thick between them, and Shirayuki’s heart pounded in her ears. She took a silent deep breath and licked her dry lips. “So…”

The agent lifted his head to look at her. “Yes?”

Shirayuki gritted her teeth. “Can I leave?”

Clicking his tongue, the agent’s smirk that had previously been twisted with irritation smoothed out into amusement. “Come on, Miss. We both know you’re smarter than that.”

“Excuse me.”

He turned a page and whistled. “Never mind, maybe not. They got camera footage of you that time.”

“What?”

“It’s true.” He picked up a grainy picture of a figure with shoulder-length hair lingering near an office door. “Not the most revealing angle, but these aren’t the most sophisticated cameras.”

Shirayuki just managed to keep from folding her arms; this man was incredibly irritating. She squinted at the photo - even though it was grainy, she could just see the loose sandal strap she’d used as an excuse to linger behind from the group. “I can’t believe you think that’s me,” she sighed. “It doesn’t look anything like me.”

The agent sighed and scratched his forehead. “Okay, so we’ll play it that way.” He turned all the papers over until he reached the first page, which he extracted. “Incident one, main campus. Young woman with red hair comes in for an interview. Falls down in the lobby, sustains injuries, risks suing the company. They leave her alone to try and get her medical attention - and a lawyer.” His mouth quirked. “By the time they get back, the young lady has collapsed by the filing cabinets, saying she’d hit her head.” He flipped the page. “But when they turn around, she manages to sneak off. And the name used to secure the interview was fake.”

Well, she could have hardly used her own name. “I hope the poor woman got help.”

“Hmm.” He rifled through the next few pages before pointing at a new sheet. “Incident two, east campus. Another young woman, also with red hair, was walking out by the storage house. Some guy with a cart ran into her and knocked her over. She got rushed inside, reported symptoms of concussion.” He snorted. “They left her alone for a few minutes to get a glass of water, came back to find an empty room with a cabinet wide open with a safety pin jammed in the lock.”

“Really?” Shirayuki raised an eyebrow in interest. She’d brought a bobby pin along, but it had gotten lost when she’d mistimed her footing to collide with the stockroom employee. She’d been lucky she hadn’t gotten a concussion; less lucky that she’d had to resort to using a safety pin she found on the top of the cabinet. “I didn’t know you could open locks with a safety pin.”

“You really can’t,” the agent looked down at his paper. “I think the lady just yanked it open at some point - the cabinet locks are pretty weak.”

Shirayuki begged to differ, she had nearly splintered all her fingernails in her haste to open the drawer.

Agent Nanaki looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “You’re still - okay, incident three, south campus. A young woman, again with red hair, joins a group of students to tour the labs. She accidentally,” he smirked, “broke the strap of a sandal and stayed behind to fix it. Tour guide goes back to check on the young lady, but she’s vanished. Meanwhile,” he drawled, “ someone managed to jimmy open a door to the main lab, off-limits to the tour, and snuck in.” He tapped the grainy picture. “Sure this isn’t ringing any bells?”

Shirayuki shook her head. “I’m sorry, but no.”

The agent snorted. “And that brings us to today. Young woman, with red hair,” he shut the manila folder and made a sweeping gesture towards her head, “somehow gets lost in the north campus and twists her ankle. She gets helped to a room, but then the rent-a-cop gets suspicious and calls in the cavalry.” He leaned forward. “Because even he can tell this can’t be a coincidence.”

Swallowing back her anxiety, Shirayuki shrugged. “I couldn’t say about the other times, but this time is certainly a coincidence.”

“Really?”

“Hair like this,” she waved a hand around her crown, “stands out like a sore thumb. Would I really be so dumb as to not conceal it - if I was the person you are thinking of?”

Agent Nanaki leaned back in his chair, springs squeaking, and barked a laugh. “Ah, a double bluff, Miss? Not too shabby.”

She couldn’t tell whether it was pleased pride or irritated frustration that was filling her chest at that laugh, but she chose to ignore the sensation. “If that’s really all you think you have that points to me, I’ll be going. I need to ice this ankle.”

“Oh.” Nanaki got up and walked around the desk in front of her chair, before sitting on the edge of the desk. “No, Miss. That’s all they have on you.” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small notebook. He flipped open the cover, and Shirayuki could see pages filled with cramped writing. “This,” he licked his thumb and turned another page, “is what I have on you.”

“Oh?” Shirayuki was having a little trouble breathing, although where that was from the revelation of this knowledge or the awareness of how close the agent was standing, she wasn’t sure.

Nanaki took off his sunglasses and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. He looked into her eyes, and she was captivated by warm amber. Leaning forward, his smirk grew as he closed the distance between their faces. Shirayuki swallowed as she felt herself drifting into his eyes. “Uh, what are you doing?”

“Eyes are the windows of the soul,” he drawled smoothly. “Trying to see what I can see.”

Shirayuki’s fingers curled on her lap as she looked into his eyes. “And what do you see?”

“Hmm.” He leaned closer, and she felt her hips tilt her towards him. His tongue brushed his lips  - and then he licked his thumb and turned another page in his notebook. “Name: Shirayuki Leon, has doctorate in biology specializing in medicine and botany. First studied in Tanbarun before moving to Clarines three years ago. Been making a real splash in the science scene. Working under Garrack Gazelt, has published two-” He flipped a page. “-three papers in various academic journals.”

Shirayuki took a deep breath, striving for calm. “Sounds interesting.”

“I thought so.” He smirked harder. “Recently working on the same research that Bergatt has been focusing on for the past few months.”

“Ah.” Her fingers shook a little under his scrutiny.

“Research that really picked up,” he continued, “once Bergatt’s current head researcher came from your labs with some classified notes, and possibly after sabotaging your work.”

“I knew it!” Shirayuki cried, and then shrunk back. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” The agent smiled broadly. “Gotcha, Miss.”

Shirayuki slumped back in her chair, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “Yeah, you got me.” She sighed. “Now what?”

“Well…” Nanaki’s watch chime and he looked at it. “Time for us to leave, I think.” He stood up. “Will you come quietly, or do I need to use handcuffs?”

She sighed. “You don’t need handcuffs.”

The agent craned his neck towards the door, sliding his sunglasses back on. “After you, Miss.” 

Shirayuki’s feet dragged as she made her way to the door. The agent moved around behind her, his arm grazing her side as he reached to turn the doorknob, and she shivered. Nanaki’s hand encircled her wrist as the two stepped out into the hallway, and the guard roused himself from his half-asleep position against the wall.

“I’m taking the suspect into custody,” the agent snapped, pulling lightly on Shirayuki’s arm. “I expect a full report sent to the department by noon tomorrow.”

The two briskly made their way down the hallways. “Good thing you’re not actually injured,” Nanaki mused as they walked through the parking lot, “otherwise we might not make it in time.”

“You’re in that much of a hurry to arrest me?”

“No.” The agent opened the passenger side door - funny, she’d expected to be put in the back - and indicated for her to get inside. “But time is not on our side.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he leaned in, “the actual agent should be here any minute.”

And with that shocking statement, he closed the door.

“The real agent?” Shirayuki exclaimed as the fake agent slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“Yeah.” He swore under his breath. “Duck down, he’s pulling in now.” Shirayuki could hear the sounds of a door opening and closing, although the sound grew smaller as Nanaki stepped on the gas.

“What in the world-”

“You can sit up now, Doc,” the man grinned, tossing his sunglasses to the back as they sped away from the parking lot. He flexed his shoulders underneath his jacket. “Can’t wait to get out of this monkey suit.”

Shirayuki stilled. The humor and wry tone that had been lingering beneath his officious demeanor was in full force now, and his grin was rakish. 

“Who are you?”

“I have many names,” he smirked, eyebrows wiggling, “but mostly I go by Obi. And I think we have a common enemy. I’ve been trying to take down the Bergatts myself for a while now.”

“Okay, Obi,” she tried, and his grin grew. “Now what?”

“Well, first,” Obi answered, “we stash away that research you have hiding in your shirt.” Shirayuki blushed, her hand going to her blouse. “And after that, well, that’s up to you. I figured we could get you someplace safe until things cool down a little. Or-”

"Or?"

“I like the way you work, Doc,” he smirked, “and I think we can bring the Bergatts down a lot faster if we work together. You bring the science smarts, and I bring the infiltration and deception skills. I teach you, you teach me.” Keeping his left hand on the wheel as he continued driving, he raised up his right hand towards her. “What do you say? Partners?”

This was crazy.

Shirayuki smirked back and clasped his hand with one of her own. “Partners.”

[spookyceph]

Pull Test

Summary: Shigaraki and Kurogiri meet with the League of Villain's newest candidate.

Rating: Gen Fic, SFW

Relationships: Shigaraki & Magne

Characters: Shigaraki Tomura, Magne, Kurogiri, Giran, mentioned Dabi, mentioned Toga Himiko

Words: 2,732

Warnings: Implied/Referenced transphobia and deadnaming when Magne's background is mentioned, swearing

The manila folder dropped from the air like a dead bird, hitting the bar top with a slap. Tomura jerked back, stool wobbling beneath him, and grit his teeth as he heard the staccato sounds of his fighter taking damage in his game. Recovering balance, he hit the pause button before glaring at the warp gate that swirled into being across the way.

“Another one already?” he snapped the moment the tall figure of his caretaker stepped out of the darkness.

Kurogiri straightened both his tie and metal gorget. “I was quite impressed myself. Giran is proving to be as professional and efficient as advertised.” He motioned to the folder he’d air dropped in. “Shall we consider this new candidate together, Shigaraki Tomura?”

Tomura wasn’t in the mood to consider shit. He hadn’t been hanging around the bar for going on two hours hoping for work to come along. One of his hands strayed to his pocket. He touched the lump that was the jar of salve he’d taken to carrying at all times. The serpentine ridge of a friendship bracelet (I used red, white, and black string so it would match you, Tomura-kun!) had joined it a week ago. Of course, he’d die before admitting to lurking just to catch a glimpse of Dabi. Or that he’d agreed to let Toga show him her favorite otome games as soon as she came back from her shopping trip. He definitelycouldn’t tell the smug old ink splatter to fuck off and let him get back to his goal of a high score—not without having how wrong he’d been about those same two people rubbed in his face.

That left being a responsible leader as the only option.

Tomura growled and set his game aside. He flicked the folder open. “Fine. What’s this new asshole’s name?” Giving in didn’t require him to be gracious about it.

“Ah. About that. I believe there’s a conflicting issue in her files about that point. Her family name is Hikiishi, however, her given one, or both, may require an update.”

A look at the top of the file filled in the blanks. The picture Giran had included showed the candidate flashing a bold smile at the camera. Shoulder-length auburn hair framed prominent cheekbones. Slightly darker fuzz lined her jaw and chin. Tomura couldn’t tell what color her eyes were behind her sunglasses, but they locked with his through lenses and stock paper alike. Hikiishi Kenji, read the first line of information on the page beneath the photo. A police report, by the looks of it.

“I see. Well, for now let’s just call Hikiishi by her alias until she confirms with us.” Tomura skimmed through the info again. “Magne, right? Related to her quirk, I assume.”

The currents of Kurogiri’s mist slowed and relaxed into looser coils. “Correct.”

Tomura frowned. “What? Did you think I’d have some sort of problem with the name thing?”

“After the misunderstanding with Dabi—”

“Dabi and I talked.”

The yellow eyes glowing within the darkness widened. “Did you now?”

Fuck, he wasn’t turning red, was he? Was he? “We’re adults. We worked shit out, okay? Not everybody has a stick up their ass about being polite all the time.” He scooped up his game, more than ready to retreat into something he could control. “When are we expecting Magne?”

“Giran can bring her by tomorrow evening.”

“Fine. Let’s get the stupid meet and greet crap over with.” When only silence followed, Tomura raised his gaze from the screen to glare at Kurogiri. “What?”

The wisps curling from the smoggy bastard’s head looked suspiciously like smiles. “Nothing, Shigaraki Tomura. Nothing at all.”

-

Taptaptap.

Tomura’s finger rose and fell on the bartop fast enough to give a sewing machine needle a run for its money. The ball of his right foot bounced on the stool’s crossbar in time with it.

Taptaptap.

Giran had promised he’d be there between 9:00 and 10:00. The clock by the door pointed to 9:51.

Taptaptap.

Lots of people would be riding the trains on a Friday night. Or roaming the streets, looking for food and alcohol, karaoke, strangers to stave off loneliness. Heroes would be out in force as a result, watching for any predators stalking the herds of humanity. Tomura didn’t know how to calculate exact probability rates for shit hitting the fan, but he got the sense they were on the higher end under such conditions.

Taptaptap.

Why couldn’t he just run into party members along the way as needed, like in games? Each one would specialize in a skill, forming a well-rounded team. Everyone would follow him to the bitter end because they believed in him and not some ass goblin named Stain. Why they believed in Tomura wouldn’t matter, though money would be a reasonable guess. Idealism didn’t pay much from what he could tell.

Taptap—

“Be calm, Shigaraki Tomura. This meeting will go well.”

He bared teeth at Kurogiri. “There has to be a meeting for it to go a certain way. And I am calm, damn it.”

“So I see.” He finished wiping down the glass he held before setting it on the bar and grabbing another. “My apologies.”

Tomura twisted on the stool to give the smart ass shadow a piece of his overthinking mind.

Knock, knock, knock.

Without missing a beat, Kurogiri stuck his free hand through a small warp gate and turned the handle of the door across the room. He went back to polishing as two figures entered the bar.

For someone who charged such high fees, Giran went out of his way to look cheap and kitschy. Little round tinted lenses pinched to the bridge of his nose. A scrunched scarf like someone’s guts slung around his neck. One front tooth missing in his low-key sleazy smile. The woman following right behind him and surveying her new surroundings made for a more welcome sight. Sunglasses (her and Giran both, for fucks’ sake) hid her eyes just like in her picture, but her lips held a hint of a smile.

The essence of good manners, Kurogiri bowed to their guests. “Good evening. Welcome to our humble home.”

Tomura, to balance the scales, snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “Took you long enough.”

Giran shrugged and twirled his hand, leaving behind a smoke spiral from the tip of the cigarette between his fingers. “Our train was delayed by some prankster threatening to blow up the tracks.”

“Doesn’t sound like a prank.”

“It wouldn’t have been if the lazy bastard hadn’t been trying to pass off children’s clay as plastic explosive. One of the cops noticed the stuff was bright yellow and they rushed him. They didn’t even call in a hero.” The broker shook his head. “What’s this world coming to? People can’t be bothered to find and pay for real weapons anymore. It offends my pride as a businessman.”

Behind Father, Tomura grimaced. His short-lived venture with Stain had indeed moved people to lash out at society. The problem was most of them were fucking morons. He doubted any decent candidates the League managed to net would make up for all the secondhand embarrassment he’d suffered in the past couple of weeks from watching the news.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the woman said, tapping her chin. “I felt kinda bad for the poor guy. He looked like your average office wage-slave. I thought he was going to break down in tears when they hauled him off.”

“Serves him right for cutting corners. No conviction, no integrity these days I tell you.”

She hid a grin behind her hand. “You’re heartless, Giran.”

The broker snorted smoke from his nostrils like an exasperated dragon. “I’m practical.”

“And yet you still haven’t introduced me.”

Posture straightening, Giran tugged at his weirdly anatomical scarf. “Sorry, got sidetracked. Magne, Shigaraki Tomura and Kurogiri of the League of Villains.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Slipping off his stool, Tomura gave her a short bow. The way Kurogiri swayed slightly, as if he’d swoon from shock, made the display worth it.

“I take it I’ve earned my fee?” chimed in Giran.

Kurogiri’s misty form shuddered as he roused himself. “Of course. We’ll hear from you again soon?”

“I’ve got a few candidates lined up.” The broker sketched them a mock salute before turning and closing the door behind him.

“Please, have a seat.” Tomura motioned to the row of barstools beside him.

“Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”

While Magne approached, he studied her movements. She strode across the hardwood floor, work boots making minimal noise with each step. Grace as well as power. She knew how to use the muscle under her shirt’s rolled up sleeves rather than relying on pure size. Although, that didn’t hurt either—Tomura put her at over ten centimeters his own height at least, and she definitely outclassed him by weight. He wondered whether she had speed to go along with strength. She slid into the next seat over and rested her chin in her hands.

“Would you care for something to drink, Miss Magne?” Kurogiri asked, jumping at the chance to play host.

“Oh, my. So formal. Sure, I’ll have whatever you recommend.”

Tomura waited until a small glass of something amber-colored had been set in front of them both (ginger ale for him) and she’d taken an approving sip before getting things rolling.

“You have quite a record, Magne.” Though he’d already memorized the relevant bits, he flipped open the folder container her information.

She glanced over, shades slipping down her nose as she scanned the first page of the police report. “Twenty-nine attempted murders, huh? Is that what they’re calling those? I’m surprised you guys bothered having me come in after reading that garbage.”

“Why?”

Like a small bird, Tomura’s stomach dipped and fluttered when Magne looked at him over the edge of her glasses. Not quite in the same way it did when he caught Dabi watching him from across the room, but close enough to classify the sensation as pleasant. Her irises shone like polished agates, made up of rich layers of browns from a starburst of mahogany around her pupils to flecks of burnished copper. Tomura suddenly understood her hiding them behind lenses. Such a beautiful detail would stick in anyone’s memory.

“Somebody who tried and failed to kill that many people would look pretty incompetent, right?” she replied. “Or like they chickened out at the last second. I don’t enjoy killing. I’ll tell you that up front. But…I didn’t hesitate with the three I did put down, let’s just say that.”

Tomura, a multiple murderer himself, examined the square set of her shoulders, the twist of scorn to her mouth towards her accusers, and found no reason to doubt her. He nodded.

“The so-called attempts were from the robberies you pulled off then?”

“Mostly, though I’m sure a few of the bullies I smacked around exaggerated just to prove what big, strong men they are.” She harumphed and took another sip from her drink.

“And the actual murders?”

Her lips puckered, as if she tasted something more bitter than whatever alcohol Kurogiri had given her. “Personal matters.”

“I see.” Tomura turned the page and ran his finger further down the information. “Your quirk has some unique parameters.”

The lines of Magne’s face eased into a smile. “Oh, the gender thing? A theory really. I haven’t had much opportunity to test it seriously. It might be nothing but my own perception…but I guess that doesn’t make it any less real, does it?” She lifted a hand from her glass and reached halfway toward him. “Care for a demonstration?”

Tomura caught himself drawing away from her, his nails latching onto the sides of his neck. Cowering—great way to display his leadership skills. “What’re you going to do?”

“Oh, just tug on your arm a little. Go ahead and put it down by your side for me.”

Resisting the urge to look to Kurogiri for reassurance, he did as asked. For safety’s sake he curled his fingers into a fist.

Magne smiled. “Ready?”

According to the knot in his stomach, no, but he nodded anyway. His arm jerked and leapt up as if it were tied by a string. Tomura gasped, almost slipping off his seat. Magne caught and steadied him.

“Sorry, honey! Got so excited to show off I put a bit too much oomph into it.” She patted his shoulder as if there weren’t dead, gray hands clutching it.

“’S’alright,” he mumbled. And it was—his skin showed no marks, his muscles and joints registered no pain. He readjusted the delicate hand decorating his wrist. Cold, waxy, and pliant. Nothing like Magne.

“So, can you manipulate people’s movements? Turn them into your puppets?”

She hummed and pushed her sunglasses back into their proper place. “Not really. I can move someone with the proper amount of push versus pull, but it’s such delicate work that they could break free pretty easily. Hold out your arm and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Still making a fist, Tomura followed her suggestion. Magne positioned her hands on either side of his forearm, spread about half a meter apart. Concentration dug a V between her brows. A thrum jolted through Tomura’s bones. He startled at the rush of tingles in his elbow and shoulder but kept his balance. Something like a low electrical current pulsed along his arm, raising its pale little hairs. Eyes wide, he watched as the limb drifted from one side to the other, then up, down—anywhere the poles of Magne’s palms guided it. He could even see, feel his skin being tugged and pressed by her quirk. Taking a deep breath, Tomura drew his fist back. He met some resistance, but didn’t have to put up any real struggle.

“Weird.” He shook his buzzing fingers out. “But kinda nice. Tingly. Like an electrical field.”

Magne tilted her head and smirked. “Oh? That’s a new one. Then again, maybe I’d have heard it before if I used my quirk for something besides bashing jerks.”

What would he have done without Father hiding the fact he blushed at the slightest fucking thing? He’d never get used to talking to people at this rate.

“Your skills would be a great asset to the League, Miss Magne,” Kurogiri said, saving Tomura from having to pretend he could be witty. “I presume Giran discussed the expenses we cover? Upon joining, you would also be welcome to claim a room upstairs, should you wish.”

Magne went still. Even her breathing stopped for a moment. “You’d let me stay here?”

Tomura knew right then he’d never live down being wrong about not letting League members move into the hideout. Kurogiri would never be crass enough to say it out loud, of course. He didn’t have to. Tomura sighed, accepting his fate.

“Two members live here already, including another woman. We can introduce you to them both before you decide.”

Gaze aimed at the ceiling, Magne touched fingers to her pursed lips. “I’ve already made up my mind.” She met Tomura’s eyes, a smile lighting up her face. “Sign me up.”

Well. He had no clue whatso-fucking-ever how they’d convinced her, but results were results. Besides, she hadn’t mentioned Stain once. She deserved free room and board for that alone.

“Ah, wonderful. We’re so delighted to have you, Miss Magne.” Kurogiri steepled his fingers. “Please let me know if you require any assistance in moving your belongings. I can warp them to whichever room you choose.”

A soft laugh huffed out of her. “No need, honey. I travel light these days. Would tomorrow evening be too soon?”

Tomura shrugged. “That’s fine. I’ll make sure Toga and Dabi are around so you can meet them.” Even if he had to staple the latter to a chair to make him comply.

“Sounds like a plan.” Magne raised her glass. “To new friends then?”

There was that word again. Offered with the same ease Toga had shown. And Dabi…he’d never said it maybe but his gift had implied…well, something. Tomura touched his pocket. The weight and shapes of the items inside it. With the same hand, he picked up his own glass and clinked it against Magne’s.

“Sure. I’ll drink to that.”

[pedros-mustache-main]

i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

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

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

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

january, 1982.

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

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

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

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

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“right.” he nods once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

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

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

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

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

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

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

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

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

this is a job for you. nothing more.

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

“hello?”

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

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“afraid so.”

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

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

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

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

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

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

“are you an angel?”

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

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

“that’s kind of you.”

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

“i think you’re still drunk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your nails tap against the counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

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

“but where will i—”

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

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

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

you come to when a car horn blares outside. 

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

“roger!”

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

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

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you shake yourself free of the feeling, whether it be longing or desire or something else entirely.

sliding your hands across roger’s shoulders, you drop from your raised stance. you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and without hesitation. just in case.

“go on.” you hurry to step back, to allow him the space the leave. “you don’t want to keep the boys waiting any longer.”

roger’s eyes linger a moment more, his stare somewhere between searching and assessing. then he mumbles an oath beneath his breath, wrenches open his car door, and slips inside. the door slams behind him, and the engine roars to life. you retreat further at the sound, wrapping your arms around your stomach when the car tires squeal against gravel in his haste to get away.

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

biting the inside of your lip, you turn back to the house. the front door remains open wide, and it’s likely the heat has long since left the warmth of the halls. you pause long enough to lift the paper from the front stoop. what you see beneath the fold makes you hesitate all the longer.

there’s a photo of you and roger on the left side of the page beneath the headline, roger taylor marries model. the grainy, black and white image of your wedding day presents you, the smiling bride, and roger, the smiling husband, joined hand-in-hand beneath a heavy wooden cross. to the untrained eye, all is joy in the taylor household. the article describes the ceremony, though the details are patchy and entirely false, as intimate and “drenched with love.”

you scoff before you can stop yourself. clearly, the author of the article has encountered roger taylor under duress.

but it’s not the article which holds you frozen to the front stoop, your exposed toes and fingers sticking like icicles to the newspaper. rather, it’s the smear of red paint slashed over your picture. it’s the word slag scrawled over the article, an arrow pointed in the direction of the wedding photo.

still, in a one-on-one meeting you’d had with jim beach prior to the wedding, he’d warned you of something like this. though all four queen members are undeniably attractive, it is roger who makes the fans go gaga.

maybe it’s his boyish good looks contrasted with his raspy voice. maybe it’s the frenzy with which he plays, his easy charm and sunkissed skin. whatever it is—roger’s fans are a possessive lot.

jim had told you to prepared for a few nasty letters or scathing criticism in the papers. he had told you it wouldn’t last long, just until the initial shock of the marriage wore off, just until roger’s fans accepted the reality that they were not be his lawfully wedded wife.

so, truly, the first incident does not scare you. you just hadn’t realized the scrutiny would begin so soon. if anything, the painted paper makes you chuckle. roger’s fans certainly don’t like to waste time.

you toss the paper in the bin beside the stoop, and it’s forgotten before the day is over.

a week bleeds into a month, and you find yourself falling into some semblance of a life with roger.

you cohabitate for the most part. he does not outright rebuff your attempts at friendship, nor does he accept any olive branch you extend.

conversation is stilted, his contributions terse and monosyllabic. he prefers your home-cooked meals be eaten before the television, and not at the dinner table, where he would be forced to engage with you. he doesn’t even give in when you ask if there’s anything he’d like to rant about. he just shakes his head and bangs on his drums well into the evening, despite having banged on them the whole day at the studio.

yet he sleeps beside you, allows you to sleep beside him.

without fail, he appears more at ease come nightfall. he sheds whatever protective shell he wears throughout the day in favor of something softer, something more tender. you’re not sure what changes him when he walks over the threshold of the bedroom, but something does. perhaps it’s the soft lamplight or the hum of the fan he insists be kept on despite the chill of winter.

there’s a part of you that wonders if it might be your very presence that softens him, but you’ve taken to silencing that part as of late. he’s long-since proven that you hold no sway over him whatsoever, and that’s okay. your job is to be a buffer between his antics and the all-seeing eyes of the public. nothing more.

two months to the day after your wedding, you’re stood in the hallway, slipping on a pair of earrings, and brushing away roger’s hurried attempts to get you through the door. he has one hand on the doorknob, the other wrist tilted to expose his watch face.

“[y/n], please!”

“roger, the party doesn’t start until queen arrives. give me just a minute more.”

tonight, the savoy hotel, the first music industry party you’ll attend by roger’s side as his wife.

you’re nervous.

your hands shake as you press the earrings into your ears, and you rub your lips back and forth, feeling the slick lipstick rub over the flesh. you’re thankful the dress you chose is a gauzy sort of chiffon. if you sweat, no one will be able to tell, thanks to the pale blue of the fabric.

impatient as ever, roger drags himself from the door to stand behind you, as though prepared to throw you over his shoulder. however, a smirk pulls at your mouth when he pauses in his frustration long enough to primp and preen his hair in the mirror. you catch his eye, your fingers paused in snapping your clutch closed. he sees your smirk, and his own lips pull on a wry smile.

the moment hangs in the air, thick with—what? tension? no. something else. camaraderie comes to mind.

your eyes remain locked with his, and his grin spreads until he is shaking his head with amusement. he pushes your shoulder, but the touch is friendly, almost brotherly in nature.

“come on,” he says. “i don’t want to miss all the good wine.”

nodding, you start for the door, trailing behind him to flick the lights off. darkness engulfs the house, the only light the white glow of the moon spilling through the window above the kitchen sink and a night light plugged in along the hallway baseboard.

but then the phone rings.

roger stamps his foot against the floor, the door already half-open. “fuckin’ hell!”

“let me get it.” you’re halfway down the hall before he can stop you. “i’ll tell them to buzz off. hold on!”

“i’m going to get the car started,” he says. his voice echoes through the hall to meet you where the phone hangs in the kitchen. “you have two minutes, [y/n]. two minutes!”

lifting the phone from the receiver, you press it against your ear. “hello?”

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

but you’re sure you heard the phone ring, so you lean closer to the receiver and plug your opposite ear in a piss poor attempt to hear better. “hello? this is [y/n] taylor speaking.”

the sound of heavy breathing—deep inhales, hard exhales—meets your ear. deep inhale, hard exhale. over and over and over.

your throat tightens, but you push past the lump. “hello? who’s there?”

a stuttering of breath on the inhale, a shaky exhale. a croak, voice poised to speak.

only you slam the phone back on the receiver before the person on the other end can say a word.

for a moment, you stand still, eyes glued to the phone, mouth parted in shock.

but then roger honks the car horn, and you shake yourself free of the unsettling feeling. a missed connection, you tell yourself. a wrong number. a mistake. that’s all it was—a mistake.

still, you are shaking when you slide into the passenger seat of roger’s car. he glances at you before pulling into the busy street.

“are you cold?” he asks. he turns the heat up, blasting the air against your face. “you’re shaking.”

“no,” you say, and, truly, you aren’t. he loaned you an ostentatious fur coat for the occasion, lined with a smooth brown fabric, and you are comfortably warm beneath the heavy material. “just nervous.”

roger snorts, his eyes sliding to you. “nervous? surely you’ve been to parties before. you’re a model, for god’s sake.”

“i’m not sure what kind of model you think i was, rog. i did mostly print, never runway. parties were never a part of my nine-to-five.”

“oh.” his mouth screws to the side. “i guess—well, to be honest, i kinda thought models all did the same kind of work.”

“most people do. that’s in the past now, though.” you shift, glance out the window, and watch the streetlights blur in a hazy streak of orange and yellow. he’s driving fast, and you grip the side of the door, willing your heart to stop racing.

the car slows to a stop beneath a red light. roger taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and the silence in the car is deafening.

you should strike up a conversation. he seems willing tonight, and maybe that’s due to the cramped nature of the car, but it’s an opportunity nonetheless.

only you can’t stop thinking about the phone call, about the heavy breathing and the unanswered questions. you shut your eyes and find yourself mirroring the caller’s breathing patterns.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

you open your eyes and turn to look at his profile. why he insists on wearing sunglasses in the dead of night you will never understand, but the sight alone makes you smirk. he knows he’s attractive; you have to give him credit for embracing it.

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

roger laughs—and you realize it’s probably the first time you’ve heard the sound. his laugh aligns with the light timbre of his voice, and the anxiety in your chest eases to hear him sound something other than malcontent.

“i knew you were a gold digger!” it’s a joke—you can tell by the quirk of his mouth and the lines around his eyes—but you rush to defend yourself all the same.

“no, i’m not!” you hesitate before shrugging with a rueful chuckle. “well… maybe a little. i won’t deny that the money i get from this arrangement really helps. i was looking for a way out of modeling, anyway.”

“really?” roger’s eyebrow arches, and, as the car turns into the savoy, the wrap-around drive clogged with limousines, sport cars, and photographers jostling for a good spot, you catch a glimpse of admiration on his face. “what do you want to do now?”

“i’m not sure. go back to school. i’ve got a head for maths, so maybe accounting or something.”

roger twists his head to meet your eyes, and his smile is earnest. it steals the breath from your lungs.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“you don’t strike me as an accountant, dove.”

“why not?”

“accountants are stuffy, greasy men. you’re… you know…” he waves a hand, inches the car forward as the line moves. camera bulbs flash in the world outside, but within the car, all you can focus on is roger and his next words.

“i’m…?” you’re fishing, but this is the first time he’s given you more than the time of day, and you’re eager to get something, anything, out of your husband.

he shrugs, and his hands curl around the steering wheel. a muscle in his jaw ticks. “you’re too nice.”

you look away. “ah—nice.” not what you’d been expecting him to say.

he pulls the car to a stop along the hotel’s entrance, and a sharply dressed attendant opens the door. sliding out after roger, you instinctively reach for his hand. he spares you a short glance and squeezes your fingers together in a gesture of encouragement.

a black—not red—carpet lines the walkway from the drive to the open hotel doors. velvet ropes hold back the crowd of photographers, reporters, and fans lucky enough to have squeezed their way to such a prime viewing spot. camera flashes paint the inside of your eyelids with bright, white spots. despite the chill of winter, the air is hot, heady with glitz and glamor. it’s hard to distinguish any one voice over the plethora of people vying for attention, and your head swims in the chaos of it all.

roger moves easily from one side of the rope to another. he is in his element, grinning for the cameras and joking with reporters who grab him long enough for a quote. his moments with the press are short, few and far between. he much prefers the fans—their simpering smiles, tear-stained cheeks, and waving slips of paper begging for a signature. you don’t blame him. who could ever resist such unfettered adoration?

near the end of the carpet, a reporter snags roger’s attention with his waving arm. palm still clasped in roger’s, you trail behind your husband, hovering just behind his shoulder. the cool smile you perfected in your modeling days remains fixed on your face, even as the reporter acknowledges you with a tilt of his head.

“is this your wife, roger?”

the reporter has to shout to be heard over the sudden surge of excitement as a new celebrity takes their first step on the carpet. it’s kate bush, if you aren’t mistaken. you could be wrong, though. the reporter’s query pricks your ears, dividing your focus between the cacophony around you and the question at hand. thus far, you’ve remained nameless by roger’s side. no one—fan or press alike—has asked after you, and you’re happy for it.

roger turns to look at you, and his grin spreads. he goes so far as to slip his arm around your waist, tugging you against his side, keeping his gaze on your profile. a sudden rush of blood floods your cheeks, and you duck your head beneath his watchful eyes. yet you find your own smile widening. the action is not one you have to force or fake, though. it’s easy to smile when roger is smiling.

“yes, this is my bride,” roger says. “[y/n].”

the hand he’s placed on your waist squeezes the flesh of your hip, pushing you further against him. to keep from tripping over your own legs, you press a hand against his chest to steady yourself. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers; his heart pulses to a steady rhythm. your own heart beats twice as fast.

the reporter checks something on his small pad of paper. “is it true that you used to be a model, [y/n]? there are rumors that this marriage is a publicity stunt.” he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as someone bumps his back, pushing him against the velvet rope. once righted, he continues. “there are rumors that you were hired to get the press to stop talking negatively about the montreal incident.”

you open your mouth to speak, but roger jumps in before you can utter a single syllable.

“are you joking?” he tosses his head back in an easy laugh and pulls you even tighter against his side. you’re afraid if he draws you any nearer you will absorb into him completely. but with the way the lights dance off his eyelashes and his hair looks perfectly tousled and his body feels strong against yours, you aren’t sure that would be a bad thing.

“i’m crazy about my wife!” he says, and the words go straight to your heart like a wildfire. “you should get yourself one, mate.” he playfully slaps the reporter’s upper arm. “they’re great fun!”

the reporter arches an eyebrow. “it’s just that i know you’ve gone on record as not exactly believing in marriage and—”

“what do you want me to do? kiss ‘er? would that make you happy?” a shit-eating grin rises on his face, indignant and cocky all at once. he shoots you a look out of the corner of his eye; you bite your lip. “will that get you off my back?”

“that’s not really—”

“here.” he taps the wrist of a bystanding photographer then points to you, twisting his body so that you stand face to face. “put this in your bloody paper!”

grabbing either side of your face, roger dips his head to capture your lips with his. for a moment, you remain unsure. you hold fast to his wrists, your mouth unmoving. the blood in your veins stands frozen in shock, and your heart presses painfully against your ribcage. somewhere in the back of your mind, your conscious screams for you to react, to play along, but it’s not until roger slides one hand from your cheek to the small of your back that you register what part you must play.

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

with a tilt of your head, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold tight. he tastes faintly of cigarettes and the mints he uses to freshen his breath. his lips are soft, softer than you’d anticipated. you can hear the clicking of cameras, feel the blinding light of flashbulbs pierce your eyelids, sense the growing interest in your display of affection, but none of it penetrates the bubble—the bubble of you and roger, of his lips and your lips, of his arms holding you close, his very air becoming yours.

he pulls away entirely too soon, and his smile is all the more cheeky. you press your fingertips to your lips, lower your face, and draw in a sharp breath.

“there! that could enough for you?”

roger steers you away from the reporters and into the sanctuary of the hotel at last. a rush of cool air meets you and, though it is mid-winter, you sweat beneath roger’s fur coat. the gentle whoosh of air-conditioning is a blessing against your hot skin.

as you enter the ballroom transformed for the event, roger lowers his mouth to your ear. “sorry about that, poppet.” the low register of his voice and the feeling of his breath against the back of your neck sends a shiver down your spine. “i’ve dealt with that tosser before, and he really grinds my gears.”

“‘s fine, roger,” you manage to say through your tight throat. “it’s what i’m here for, yeah?”

he stops walking, and his hand moves from your back to your wrist. his eyes drift over your face, calculating, searching. you let him look. you aren’t sure what he’s looking for, but you get the feeling that he’s truly seeing you for the first time. even in the manufactured blue light of the room, even with the myriad of tables surrounded by producers and singers and agents alike, his face visibly softens and his hand curls around your wrist.

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

three tables away, freddie waves his hand, beckoning you over. roger drags you along, his fingers intertwining with yours as you sidestep people already lounging at their seats. once at the table set aside for queen and guests, roger pulls out your chair, and you sit, smoothing your hands over your skirt. he sits beside you and leans to his side to whisper something to john. on your right sits chrissie may, and you offer her a smile in greeting.

the function—a charity benefit organized to bring awareness to the falklands disagreement—comes and goes without issue. the dinner is bland, but the wine is good. chrissie is pleasant, and it’s your first chance to speak to another band member’s wife since the wedding. you appreciate her advice, laugh at her stories, and enjoy yourself without restraint. it doesn’t hurt that as roger drinks more, he more pays attention to you. you really shouldn’t encourage him, but when he slings an arm around your chair and pulls you closer, when he turns his head to whisper a joke in your ear at brian’s expense, when he plays with a loose lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger, it’s all you can do not to melt like the ice-sculpture in the center of the room.

come the end of the event, you find yourself walking between chrissie and veronica, your steps slow as the boys stumble through the hall. roger and john cannot stop laughing, though no one has said anything remotely funny for the last few minutes. they cling to one another like koalas to trees, as though the other might drop to the ground if released. brian and freddie aren’t any better. they sing off-key, their voices bouncing off the empty walls and laminate floors. you aren’t sure what part of the hotel you’ve wound up in, but it’s certainly less plush than the ballroom. still, you smile when roger slides his sunglasses over his eyes and snorts at one of john’s inane comments.

your smile falters when the sound of veronica’s labored breathing, pregnant as she is, reaches your ears.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

in the flurry of the evening—amidst the kiss and the dinner and the joking and the drinking—you’d forgotten about the phone call.

chrissie reaches out to grab your arm when your steps stutter. “are you okay?” she asks.

you stop walking. if the boys get into trouble around the corner, you’ll surely hear it.

meeting chrissie’s wide eyes, you frown. you hate the put a damper on the evening’s chipper mood, but the memory of the phone call crashes to the surface, bringing with it anxiety and unease. roger doesn’t need to know, but perhaps the other wives experienced a similar phenomenon. perhaps it’s all in your head. either way, you’d like a second opinion.

“this is going to sound weird, but… have either of you ever gotten a strange phone call?”

“phone call?” veronica rubs a hand over her swollen stomach. “what do you mean?”

you explain the events prior to your departure earlier in the evening, and the concerned looks that settle on chrissie and veronica’s faces stir the uncertainty in your stomach.

“that doesn’t sound good, [y/n],” chrissie says.

you gnaw at your lower lip. “no, i suppose it doesn’t.”

“have you told rog?”

you shake your head. “i don’t want to trouble him. not if it’s just some practical joke. it very well could be our kid neighbor having a lark.”

another memory drifts to the surface: the newspaper, the red paint dripping across your photograph. slag, they’d written.

you’d forgotten about that too.

veronica pulls you back to the present with her even tone. “i think you should tell him. if someone is harassing you, even if it’s just the once, don’t you think he should know?”

“i guess but—”

“hey, party people!” john sticks his head around the corner, breaking the conversation with his over-loud voice. “guess what we found?”

“judging by your wet trousers, i’d say a pool.”

john trips down the hall to grab veronica’s arm. “have i ever told you that you’re brilliant?” he presses a noisy kiss to her cheek, and even veronica isn’t capable of remaining firm under such affection.

like a child who has found an interesting twig, john crooks his arm in a follow-me motion, tugging his wife toward the pool. “come on. come see!”

veronica follows john around the corner, but before you can follow, chrissie presses her palm to your shoulder.

“you should tell roger,” she says. “before it gets serious.”

you nod, promise her you will, then make your way to the indoor swimming pool, knowing full well roger won’t hear a word of the incident.

the savoy’s pool room is understated in comparison with the rest of the hotel. though the ceiling stretches high, skylights allowing moonlight to shimmer over the undisturbed water, the room is just as hot, just as stuffy, as any other hotel pool. you drop your coat and rog’s to a plastic lounge chair as soon as you enter, swamped as you are by the thick air.

all nerves, all worries about the phone call, fade away as you slip your shoes off and watch roger and john’s poor poolside rendition of abbott and costello’s “who’s on first” routine. roger can’t keep up with john no matter how hard he tries, but their combined effort is valiant.

laughing, you clap as they take their theatrical bows and only laugh harder when john trips over the edge of the pool mid-bow. he lands belly-first in the clear water, rising a sputtering, drenched mess, his hair and clothes sodden to the bone, though his eyes are bright with mischief. he swims to where veronica sits with her ankles in the water and, before she can sternly admonish him, has her pulled into the churning pool beside him.

brian is next in. he cannonballs in the deep end, and chrissie follows of her own volition. the impact of their jump launches a tidal wave of water in your direction, and you screech, nearly falling in your attempt to avoid getting wet.

but then a pair of arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the cool, albeit slippery, floor.

“roger, no!” you twist in his tight hold. “no, roger, don’t!”

your voice echoes in the room, bouncing off the windows and walls; yet roger ignores your pleas for release. he shuffles to the edge of the pool at the behest and cheering of his friends, each treading water, watching as you struggle to break free.

the water beneath your feet rises and falls, sloshing this way and that. you can see the bottom of the pool from where roger holds you, and there’s a delicate, inlaid design of a turtle twelve feet down on the pool’s stone foundation.

you curl your nails in roger’s arm. “roger, i can’t—”

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

you fall through the air with a scream, land on your back, and sink beneath the surface of the water. chemically-laced water fills your mouth, your nose, and your lungs scream for air.

for a moment, fear grips you, not unlike the way it gripped you in the hallway of your own home, the phone cradled against your ear. only this time, you know exactly what will happen if you don’t get help.

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

kicking to the top, you break through the water and cough, shaking your head. tears cloud your vision when you open your eyes, but the liquid that’s caught in your eyelashes disguises them, and for that you’re thankful. roger bobs beside you, a grin on his face, looking much too pleased with himself and his antics. without a second thought, you reach for him.

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

his face falls. “oh.” he blinks then, realization striking as you grab onto his shoulders. “fuck, [y/n]. i’m sorry.”

clinging to him, you wrap your arms around his chest, your legs around his waist. you rest your cheek against the back of his neck and sigh, inhaling deeply. “i tried to tell you,” you whisper.

beneath the water, his hand curls around the skin of your ankle. he squeezes, and it’s all the apology you need.

the band stays in the pool for entirely too long. freddie starts talking about the next album, and the other boys chime in, clamoring for their opinions to be heard over the others. despite their drunken state, music brings a sense of clarity to their speech and thought. it’s their life’s work and something about which they care deeply. there’s no denying that. even when brian tries his hand at a backwards flip and freddie challenges john to a diving contest, they are always thinking, always working, toward their next goal. you admire them for that.

roger remains steady where he stands. you cling to him like a barnacle, even though you just as easily could remove yourself and find a place where your feet touch solid ground. he feels nice, though. his body is a comfort against yours, and as the business talk continues, your head lolls to the side on his shoulder, a gentle smile on your lips.

you could get used to this.

at some point, veronica complains about her aching back and drags john from the pool. they are the first to leave, but brian and chrissie soon follow. you aren’t sure if you want to go, if you want the evening to end. if it means roger will go back to ignoring you, shoving you aside, you think you could stay in this pool until your skin wilted and dripped off your bones.

“we’d better go, love,” roger whispers.

you know he’s right.

“yeah.” you try to keep the disappointment from your voice.

he moves to the side of the pool, and you heave yourself over the edge. your dress is heavy, weighed down by the absorbed water. you wring out the skirt as best you can, but until you can give it a proper wash and dry, it’s really no use. gooseflesh breaks out on your arms where the cool air hits, and you shiver.

roger appears behind you, turns you gently with a hand to the shoulder, and lifts a fluffy white towel. “here. i found these.”

“oh!” you move to take the towel from his grasp. “thank you.”

“i’ve got it.” with a smile—a boyish, gentle sort of smile—roger unfurls the towel and wraps it around your shoulders. he tugs the corners beneath your chin and laughs through a short breath. “comfy?”

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

lifting your mouth from behind the towel, you tilt your head with an impish grin. “you once told me i looked like an angel. so, which is it? angel or marshmallow?”

“oh, angel for sure.” he thumbs a finger over the end of your nose. “you always look like an angel.”

you roll your eyes and hope the action does not expose the sudden flutter in your chest. “you’re just saying that ‘cause you’re drunk.”

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

he looks at you for a long time. you look at him for just as long. the unease cadence of your breath, the way his breath whistles through his nose, the lap of the pool against the tiled walls—it all sounds so loud to your ears, though nothing can compare to the beating of your heart. it fills your entire body: bump bump, bump bump, bump bump. your cheeks feel hot with blush, and you finally look away, casting your eyes to the floor. you wiggle your bare feet against the tiled floor; roger wiggles his toes back.

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

roger pays an attendant to ferry you home, and the drive leaves your entire body close to overheating.

the back seat of his car feels strangely intimate compared to the front seat, but that might just be your imagination. surely, roger didn’t sit so close to you on purpose. surely, his hand isn’t pressed against your leg because he wants it to be. his car is just… cramped.

“did you have fun tonight?” you break the silence, but when you do, your voice sounds strange—slightly strangled, nervous, earthy—and you wish you’d remained quiet. you continue toying with a loose thread on your coat, ignoring the way roger’s eyes traverse your profile.

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

from the driver’s seat, the attendant coughs, and your gaze shifts.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

chrissie’s words of earlier surface in your mind: you should tell him about the phone call. it’s only right.

twisting, you look to your right, meet roger’s eyes, and promptly lose all sense of direction. his face is so near, his mouth parted, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed. your throat runs dry, but you can’t look away.

“roger–”

“hmm?” his lips tighten, but his smile is just as sly as it had been the moment before he kissed you in front of the reporters. the touch still lingers on your mouth, but you will the memory away.

“there’s something i should—”

his fingers sift through a lock of your hair, and he moves his head almost in a nuzzling sort of gesture. you swallow hard. “i was wrong about you,” he whispers. when did his voice get so raspy?

“what?”

“i was wrong to judge you,” he says. his hand moves from your hair to the side of your neck, one long finger tracing the lines of your skin. “to be honest, i thought you were some cheap girl looking for a way into my bed, but i was wrong. you’re more than that.”

“what—” deep inhale. “what am i, then?”

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

his mouth claims yours, and you don’t fight him. you melt against him, his chest pressed against yours in the narrow space of the car. you’re vaguely aware that a driver sits not two feet away, more than able to hear the way roger pulls a soft whimper from behind your lips and the rustle of clothes as you both scrabble for any exposed skin. but you don’t really care. you’re drunk off of roger, and have been since you met him. it’s his looks, yes, but tonight—tonight you saw him in his element. you heard him laugh and saw him smile and preened under his attention. you would go to hades and back to live in a world shaped just like tonight, every bit of it.

roger can’t keep his hands off you as you make your way from the sidewalk to the front stoop. his hands roam your body, skimming every inch, squeezing the parts he seems to like most. you giggle like young lovers experiencing one another for the first time, and maybe that’s because you are.

when you drop the front door key because you’re too focused on returning roger’s eager kiss, it doesn’t seem to matter. you just stand on the stoop and kiss beneath the light of the moon a little longer.

when you finally get the door open and his palm hits your ass at the same time, you squeal, and he dissolves into laughter.

when he fumbles with the hallway light because he’s too focused on getting your coat off, you tell him to forget it. you don’t need the light anyway.

halfway down the hall, limbs and lips tangled, the phone rings.

you laugh as you peel yourself from his grasp. he puckers his lower lip in protest.

“i’ll be just a minute,” you say, lifting the phone from the receiver. he sticks his tongue out, but then sheds his shirt, leaving it on the kitchen floor as he slips into the bedroom. you bite the edge of your thumb as you watch him go, your head as muddled as creamy soup.

someone clears their throat on the other end of the line.

“oh, sorry. hello?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

cold dread extinguishes any joy lingering in your chest at the sound of the sickeningly smooth voice. 

your fingers curl tight around the phone. “who is this?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

angry tears spring to your eyes as you scoot to stare out the window over the sink. nothing but darkness meets your eyes, but still you try in vain to search for an answer in the inky blackness. “i said: who is this?” your voice cracks, but you push forward. “how did you get this number?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

“i swear i calling the fucking police if you keep this up!”

a beat of hesitation then: “what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

with a helpless groan, you slam the phone down for the second time in one day. your fingers creak as you let go and step back, chest heaving. your skin feels slimy—slimy with roger’s lingering touch, slimy with the possibility that someone had been watching you kiss your husband, slimy with the possibility that someone could be watching you now.

you don’t stop and admire roger, clad only in his boxers, as you make your way to the en suite bathroom. you can’t stand to look at him, to know that somewhere someone cares for him so much they would take to harassing you. god, it makes you want to vomit.

you don’t bother with the bathroom door so intent are you at getting in the shower and scrubbing your slimy skin raw. you struggle with the zipper at the top of your spine, the tears hovering over your eyes threatening to spill over if you can’t be rid of your soaked clothing. you stamp your foot with a grunt and drop your hands, hanging your head in defeat.

roger’s soft chuckle sounds from the doorway. you don’t turn to look at him.

your back stiffens when he undoes the zipper, the pads of his fingers pressing along your shoulder blades, your ribs, the small of your back.

“that eager, huh?” he presses a wet kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

you want him; you really do. there’s some part of you that wants to drag him into the shower and work out your fears with the aid of his body against yours. but you won’t do that. you won’t use him, not when he confessed he thinks you better than that.

you twist to face him, holding the dress against your chest. “rog, i…” you place your hand on his smooth chest, feel the small hairs peppering his collarbone. “you’re drunk,” you finally say. “you’re drunk and you should go to bed.”

he smirks and pushes his hips against yours. “so? you’re drunk too.”

you shake your head. “no, not anymore.” you push him away gently. “believe me, roger, i want nothing more than to go to bed with you but—”

he plays with a lock of hair beside your face, and your desire to resist him weakens. “but?”

“i won’t do it while you’re drunk. besides, you’ll be over this by morning. you’ll go back to not wanting me. so i won’t do it—not while you’re drunk.”

with a huff, he lets you go, but not without kissing you once more. a traitorous tear slides down your cheek, and your throat seizes with emotion. somewhere in the back of your clouded mind, you wonder if you love him. or, if at least you are on the edge of loving him.

but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be gone in a year, and he will move on to someone else, someone strong enough to withstand his rabid fans.

he pulls away first and kisses your temple. “goodnight, angel,” he whispers.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and, once stood beneath the hot water of the shower, let the sound of the creaking pipes drown out the sound of your crying.

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

he leaves you a note on the kitchen island, scrawled in his plain script: “angel, i’m hungover now, not drunk. i’d still like you in my bed. – rog”

the note should send a thrill to your stomach, but it manifests itself in a ball of dread instead.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

you crumple the note and toss it in the bin, jumping when the phone rings. you hesitate, your gaze locked on the inanimate object that has come to haunt your dreams.

eventually, the phone stops ringing, but the shrill sound echoes in your head as you go about the day.

after the second phone call, tension becomes your constant companion. the days pass, and you withdraw into yourself, scared by the slightest sound, the never-ending line of cars outside the front window, and roger’s growing interest.

he seems to like you now that he knows you. he makes you laugh, asks you questions, even goes so far as to help you research university entrance exams.

but when he comes home from the studio, your stomach takes to twisting with apprehension as you wonder if your faceless friend watched him drive home and wonder further if your faceless friend can see roger kiss the side of your neck.

you try not to push him away. his attention is what you’ve wanted all along, and, though the romantic turn of events was certainly unplanned, he does make your knees weak and your head giddy like a schoolgirl’s.

still, the phone calls persist. it’s not every night and every day. you can’t trace the caller’s pattern because there is none. you never know who will be on the other end of the line. it could be roger calling during his lunch break as he is wont to do; it could be the university to which you’ve applied; or it could be them, the phantom who chills the blood in your veins.

there’s a pad of paper tucked beneath your side of the bed. the words of your faceless friend are scrawled across the page in frenzied handwriting, the handwriting of a madwoman.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

will he ask john to help you study for the maths entrance exam?

you should stop answering the phone; you know you should. but each time the phone rings, you respond like a pavlovian dog. you rush to answer, to frantically write down the day’s comment just in case there’s some sliver of information that might shed light on your faceless friend’s identity.

the caller is a woman; that much you know. her voice is deep and gravelly, but she’d referenced herself as the better woman for roger before. she seems to cling to the idea that you will leave him and the position of roger taylor’s wife will fall to her. if only to spite her, you will remain married to roger until your dying day.

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

when you first met him, he was sullen, dragging his tail between his legs like a scolded pup after the montreal debacle. it took a while, but you see him now for his true self. he’s carefree in a grounded sort of way, sold out for his music and the lifestyle it affords him. he’s gentle and kind and surprisingly considerate. he picks up the groceries when you ask it of him; he cleans the dishes from supper without complaint. he doesn’t pressure you for anything more than a make-out session on the couch when the lights are low and a record spins on the turntable. you would go further, but you can’t—not right now. he doesn’t ask any questions.

it would break you to tell him about the phone calls, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. each morning, you imagine his crestfallen face. you imagine the anger and the shouting and him calling the authorities and—

it’s easier for him—for everybody—if you just stay quiet.

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

one evening, after dinner at an expensive restaurant, you let roger to take you to bed. he’d looked so pretty in the candlelight, and he’d listened to you talk about your hopes and dreams for the future. you think you fall in love with him when he drags you onto the bed and whispers sweet praises in your ear the whole night long.

when you wake the next morning, he is still there, and you snuggle into his chest. you breathe him in, and it’s bar soap from the shower and dried sweat and lingering cologne. his arms circle your back, squeezing you tighter.

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

for a moment, you don’t respond. you keep your eyes closed and think back to yesterday.

there’d been no phone call. a blessed reprieve from three days in a row of randomly timed messages. roger had held you, and he holds you still. he is a comfort amidst your turbulent sea.

you should tell him. he can handle it. you’re tired of running from him.

rising to your palm, you meet roger’s gaze. he stares at you through his lashes, a sleepy smile on his mouth. he lifts a hand to cradle your face, and his thumb skims your cheekbone.

“how come you get a halo every morning and i don’t?”

you ignore his compliment before the bravery rushing through your veins dissipates. “rog, there’s something i haven’t told you.”

“yeah? is it about the freckle by your left ass-check?”

gasping, you slap roger’s chest. though he laughs, a red handprint remains in the center of his sternum, and he clutches his skin in pain. once settled, he apologizes and promises to behave.

deep inhale.

“about a month or two ago, i started—”

the phone on the bedside table cuts you off with its sharp bell-like ring.

your stomach plummets to your feet.

your eyes widen as roger holds up a finger and reaches for the earpiece.

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

some part of you hopes it’s your faceless friend. roger could deal with her himself. the other part of you prays it’s just a wrong number or john or—

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

you slump to the side, leaning your weight against roger’s hip. thank heaven.

roger’s eyes slide to you, and he grins, winking. he squeezes the point of your chin between his forefinger and thumb, his eyes locked on yours as he nods and hums in response to freddie on the other end of the line.

“no, we won’t be late,” roger says. “yes, she’s coming. i promise i won’t forget.” he leans closer to the bedside table in his effort to end the conversation. “okay, fred. yes, i will.” finally, he heaves a sigh. “oh, for fuck’s sake, fuck off! i’m trying to woo my wife, so scram!”

“now,” he says, once the earpiece is on the base. “where were we?”

tugging on the back of your neck, he closes the distance between his mouth and yours. even with a hint of morning breath, you dissolve in his capable hands. he kisses you earnestly, and you struggle to remember what it was you wanted to tell him. he has this way with his mouth and his tongue and his hands that makes you forget everything but the feeling of him.

pulling back a moment later, he mumbles against your mouth: “what was it you wanted to tell me?”

you blink rapidly. “i—” damn, he looks so happy, glowing with youth and perhaps an inkling of love. you press your palm to his cheek then shake your head. “never mind. it can wait.”

he cocks his head to the side. “you sure?”

“mhm.”

“you remember the movie thing tonight, right?” he asks as he slides from the bed, drawing up his sweats from the floor and padding to the window. “that’s what fred called about.”

he throws the curtains open. the morning sun shines through, piercing every hidden corner, and your heart trips in your chest. your hands shake as you lift one of the bed sheets to cover your naked chest.

someone could be watching.

roger grimaces. “oh, shit, sorry, angel.” he tosses you his shirt from the floor, which you gratefully tug over your head. “anyway, tron, you know? we’re supposed to go to the premiere. something about flash gordon and—”

“i remember.”

“good. wear something nice because i don’t give a fuck about this movie, and i’d rather be looking at you anyway.” he smirks as he presses his palms against the mattress and leans in for another kiss.

you oblige him without hesitation.

“gotta go,” he says, pulling away only to firmly kiss you once more. “be ready by six, okay?”

you nod, and he leaves.

the majority of the day, you putter about the house. there’s chores to do—laundry and bills to catch up on and research for university admissions. it’s domestic work, mind-numbingly dull and repetitive. it leaves far too much space for your thoughts to run wild.

you admonish yourself for once more failing to tell roger of your faceless friend. you’d had the moment, and you’d blown it. with his unreliable schedule, there is no telling when you’ll have the chance to sit him down for a serious conversation again. you consider going to jim beach for help, but know once roger hears wind of it, he will fly off the handle because you didn’t come to him first. perhaps rightfully so, too.

you resolve that until you can find another peaceful moment, you will continue to suffer through it. it’s a step in the right direction, though. at least now, you have plans to tell him.

by five-forty-five, you are ready for the event. you sit in the living room, gnawing at your lower-lip as your leg bounces in anticipation. you haven’t gone anywhere with roger since the charity function earlier in the year. your faceless friend will surely be watching tonight, and already you feel sweat gather along your underarms.

roger unlocks the door and sticks his head into the living room upon his arrival. “car’s running. ready to go?”

you lift your handbag from the floor, nodding as you make your way to his side. roger stops you with a flat hand against your stomach. he bends to catch your eyes.

“you okay?”

“yes,” you say, but your voice sounds too rushed and eager even to your own ears.

he doesn’t hassle you for a more illuminative response. he just leads you to the car, opens your door, and makes his way to the theater, foot hard on the gas pedal.

as soon as you see the carpet—red this time—stretched along the sidewalk leading to the movie theater, bile rises in your throat. you reach for roger’s arm and squeeze tight. his head whips to the side.

“roger, i don’t think i can do this,” you breathe.

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

he pulls the car to the side. an usher opens the door, sound and light and chaos breaking the comforting quiet of the ride. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

“[y/n], what is it?” roger’s voice is low, on the edge of irritation.

this is not the time. yet why do you feel like you’re going to pass out if you don’t—

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

purging the emotions clawing at the front of your mind, you push roger’s shoulder and avoid his searching gaze. “nothing. go on! i’m right behind you.”

roger huffs as he slides from the car, but he dutifully offers his hand to aid you onto the red carpet. as he did before, he leads you toward the theater doors, stopping at the appropriate moments to pose for photographs. you hold on to the back of his jacket so tightly your knuckles crack. your eyes scan the crowd in search of your faceless friend. you will know her when you see her. she is a part of you now, like a demon on your shoulder.

roger rubs his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture and leans to whisper in your ear. “you feel a stiff as a board,” he says. “what is it?”

you shake your head and nudge him further down the carpet. “we can talk about it later.”

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

he studies your face a moment longer before nodding and returning his smile to the crowd.

near the entrance to the theater, a gaggle of girls wave their hands in an attempt to grab roger’s attention. he glances at you, and you nod, backing away to allow him one of the moments he so enjoys.

but one of the girls calls out your name. you lift your eyes to stop tracing the intricate weaving of the red carpet and stare at the girl in question until roger has to drag you over with a laugh. the girl shoves a newspaper in your face, your wedding announcement crinkled with affectionate wear-and-tear. she asks for your autograph, and you chuckle, feeling rather ridiculous as you scrawl your name across the page with a fat green marker.

it happens before you have time to react.

your head is bent as you sign the girl’s newspaper, your attention diverted from scanning the crowd for your faceless friend. but you feel her when she arrives, sense her eyes on your neck, and her fingers reaching for the sleeve of your dress. you have time enough to turn and catch sight of her long fingernails descending upon your cheek, but not time enough to stop her.

you scream more out of fear than pain as her nails scrape your face. truly, it does not hurt, though blood does begin to trickle down your chin and along the column of your throat.

it’s just that she’s there, before your very eyes, and she’s much smaller than you imagined. yet her eyes are dark with envy, and her nails are sharp. you recognize her labored breathing—deep inhale, sharp exhale—as she tries to move backwards and disappear within the crowd before she can be seen. you cannot look away from her, even when roger grabs your shoulders and wrenches you away from the iron gate. he’s shouting in your ear, cradling your uninjured cheek, but everything sounds like you’re underwater.

her face—round and childlike in its innocence—does not match the picture you’d created of her in your mind. she does not resemble the evil witch of your childhood fairy tales. she’s just a child, a little girl with a heart full of love for someone she cannot have.

your faceless friend is pointed out by the girl with the newspaper, and someone—maybe theater security, maybe queen security, maybe a good samaritan—drags her away.

roger grips your chin harder than he should considering the circumstances, but it brings your attention back to him. his eyes are ablaze with fury, and you suddenly feel the urge to cry.

“are you all right?” he demands. “are you hurt anywhere else?”

only my pride, you think.

“no,” you manage with a shake of your head. “no.”

“come on.” he slips his arm around your waist and pushes your head into the curve of his neck, away from prying eyes and flashing cameras. “we’re going home.”

the trip home is silent. your head moves back and forth across the passenger window, in time with the bumps and dips and curves of the road. there’s a fast-food napkin pressed against your cheek to stem the blood. you aren’t sure if it helps. roger keeps his hand firm on your thigh.

once inside the house, he forces you to sit in the middle of the bed as he scurries to retrieve the first aid kit. while he roots around in the bathroom, muttering to himself when he can’t find what he’s looking for fast enough, you strip yourself of your dress and return his old t-shirt over your head. you lift the collar to your nose and inhale his scent. when you draw the collar away, crimson blood and fresh tears stain the fabric. you sigh.

“fuckin’ hell.” roger drops to sit in front of you, his legs skewed to the side. a white, plastic box sits in his lap, and when he opens it, the contexts spill onto the bed sheets. “i’ve had this thing for ages. i think brian got it for me when i moved in.”

his hand returns to your chin; only his touch is gentle now. he looks over your wound, frowning at the sight.

“this is gonna sting, angel,” he warns.

it does. the antiseptic hurts, and you wince, but he keeps you from drawing away, his grip on your chin firm. he unwraps a butterfly bandage and presses it over the shallow scratch on your face. then he shakes his head, his face drawn tight.

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

“there is—was this girl… and she kept calling, saying things.” you twist and unearth the pad of paper from under the bed. rubbing your eye, you hand it to him and watch his face darken as he reads the words.

he looks up, and you can’t bear to see the anger—the anger directed at you—in his gaze. “why didn’t you tell me?”

your first instinct is to shrug, to obfuscate, but he deserves the truth.

“you never wanted a wife,” you say. “you certainly didn’t want a wife who brought a stalker into the house. i figured—” deep inhale. “i figured i could live with it until our year was up.”

“oh, baby.” roger presses his forehead to yours. he cups your untainted cheek. “fucking up in montreal was the best thing that ever happened to me. it brought you to me, didn’t it?”

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

“no.” he draws back and grabs both shoulders in his hands. “i mean it. i never was one for marriage. didn’t make sense. but i get it now. it’s about partnership, yeah, but it’s about more than that. it’s about trust, too.” he smiles softly, pressing his thumb against your lip. “it’s about affection.”

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

“don’t apologize. this whole arrangement is weird, and i don’t blame you for keeping quiet. i just wish you would have told me so i could help you.”

you sigh, dropping your head. “what do you want, roger?”

he lifts your chin, and you are struck by the love so firmly etched in his eyes. it knocks the wind from your lungs, leaves you breathless.

“i want you to keep my last name,” he says.

“what?”

“you heard me: i want you keep my last name.”

tears flood your vision, but not for fear or worry or regret.

you begin to smile, but the skin of your cheek pulls tight, and you wince, touching your injury. “ow,” you mutter.

roger laughs and pulls your fingers away from the bandage. he kisses each knuckle then rubs the wedding band along your ring finger. “can we give each other another chance?” he asks. “can we forget all the assumptions and just be us? i think we started on the wrong foot and somewhere along the way we switched—”

“yes.”

he stops mid-sentence, his brows drawing together in confusion. “what?”

“i said yes. i’ll keep your last name. i want your last name, roger taylor.”

he grins, and the happiness in every line on his face outshines even the sun’s rays. “god, you’re perfect.” he kisses you hard, and you laugh as you drop against the pillows, pulling him with you. he stops attacking your neck with his lips long enough to prop himself up and stare down at you. “but don’t you ever pull something like that again! if someone starts nagging you, tell me first thing. promise?”

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

he smooths the hair on your forehead, and your stomach somersaults to watch him examine you so openly “good girl,” he mumbles before lowering his mouth to yours again.

you lose yourself in him. he loses himself in you. somewhere along the way, you find one another, and all is bliss.

in the morning, legs tangled in the sheets and steady rain pelting the window, roger adjusts his hold on your waist. he’s still asleep, his chest rising and falling in time with his gentle breath. you pull his arm tight around you and smile into your pillow.

your cheek is still sore, and you’re sure there’s some poor nun who remains scarred for life after witnessing roger’s montreal incident.

but this morning you cannot find it within yourself to feel bothered by your faceless friend, nor by the scarred nun. indeed, you think, you should write them each a thank you card, because in a funny sort of way, they brought you to your husband. in a funny sort of way, they gave you love of your life. and for that, you are indebted to them.

you twist at the sound of roger’s yawn. taking his face in your hands, you smile at him. “good morning, husband,” you whisper.

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

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