angrylizardjacket:

Anon asked: What if you did one where it’s like roger and the reader have a fight and he kinda storms out and goes to the studio cause the guys are there or some shit and the reader shows up later just like we can fix this for the sake of our family or you can leave and that’s how he finds out shes pregnant… sorry if it’s stupid you don’t have to do it

Anon asked: could i request an imagine where you tell roger you are pregnant and you are scared that he doesnt want kids and he starts crying bc he is so happy? thank you 💞💞

Anon asked: can you please write more angsty ben hardy!roger taylor x reader? ❤️

A/N: 2008 words. I sort of mangled all three prompts together, a little angsty in the middle. I hope you enjoy!! 

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“We’re gonna be late!” Roger’s voice rang out through the apartment, while you were buried in the drawer full of clothes that had slowly become yours over the past year. Pulling out a brightly coloured button up, you pulled it on, leaving the front unbuttoned over the top of the rest of your ensemble. 

“I thought I left this shirt at my place.” You breezed past Roger who was waiting by the bedroom door, jingling his keys impatiently in his hands.

“Then why would you try and look for it?” He asked, rolling his eyes and following you from the apartment. 

“Because I thought it might be in there anyways,” after a beat, you turned to flash him a sunny smile, “and it was!” Halfway down the stairs, on the second landing, you give him a little twirl, showing off the shirt. He looks you over, slight smile tugging at the edge of his lips, and you continue to traipse down the stairs.

“We’re still gonna be late.” He was smiling as he said it, and followed you out to the car. “Was everything alright this morning?” He asked, unlocking the passenger door for you before moving around to his side. You knew he was referring to the fact that you’d woken up at the crack of dawn to be sick. You hadn’t realised you woke him, or that he’d heard, and you tried to brush it off.

“Yeah, just must have had some bad food last night.” Your smile was weak and unconvincing, though he didn’t seem to notice. When you considered it, however, you wonder how he’s not noticed, it wasn’t the first time you’d woken up unbearably nauseous. Even on the days where you woke up fine, there was a chance that you’d have it wash over you like a wave, and you’d need to find the nearest bathroom. Though you had your suspicions of the cause, and the tests to back them up, you were hesitant to raise the idea with him.

“I’m just saying,” you steered the conversation back to the previous discussion, tone picking up, “it would be easier if I knew all my stuff was in the one place.” You pulled on your seat-belt as he started up the car. He was very quiet. “Like, if we officially moved in together.” You’d been thinking about it for a while. The words terrified you, but in reality, it wouldn’t be much of a change, you hadn’t actually stepped foot in your own house for the past two and a half months, and between the two of you, you could afford the rent of a slightly bigger apartment.

“Why?” 

The two of you sat in the silence that his answer had created, you shocked, him looking a bit like he regretted being so blunt, not that he’d apologise.

“Because it’s… it’s what people do, Rog.” There was an anger, a panic rising in you, your fingers laced together, resting over your stomach as you turned to frown at him.

“Isn’t it a bit-” He clenched his jaw, stopping himself mid sentence, and you could see his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“A bit fast?” You asked, the panic turning to disappointment, anger now bubbling away, “I’m sorry that I suggested living together after over a year and a half of dating.” He’s got the gall to be angry, and you turn back to face the road, both simmering in the silence.

“If we move in together, I’m gonna be on tour and you’re eventually gonna leave.” He spoke through his teeth, as if he had to force the words out. It took you a moment to consider what he had said, but your anger began to dissipate.

“Why would I leave you, you dipstick?” Leaning back, you could feel the heat of the car making nausea swirl within you.

“Did you just call me a dipstick?” He asked, turning for just a moment, to squint with confusion at you, before turning back to the road.

“Why would I leave you?” You repeated for emphasis, leaning forward to crank the air conditioning.

“You’ll get bored of being by yourself, or find something you think is better,” he paused for a minute, “which is ridiculous, but not out of the realm of possibilities.”

“God, you’re so used to kicking girls out of bed, it’s just a step up to kick something good out of your life, isn’t it?” You hissed, vitriol dripping from your words as your own fear and paranoia picking up, your nausea increasing. Roger pulled over, furious.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He snapped, and you took in a deep breath to steady yourself before turning. He’s still holding the steering wheel, white-knuckled, whole body tense where he’s still looking through the windshield.

“If we move in together, I’m not going to be there.” You repeated back to him the underlying message you’d heard, and watched as his muscles relaxed as he began to realise what he’d said. “Do you see a future with me, Roger, at all?” You asked, voice quiet as you turned to look ahead, blinking back tears you hadn’t realised had begun to form.

“What kind of question is that?” He asked, and you let out a humourless laugh, unclipping your seatbelt. 

“One with a wrong answer.” You replied, opening up the door and stepping out. “Go to practice; if you’ve got a different answer after, you know where I live.”

All the anger that had been building in your body dissolved the moment he turned the corner, and you burst into tears on the side of the road. Every fear you had about your future since discovering your pregnancy had hit you tenfold, and after a moment, the nausea breaks and you’re throwing up into the bushes, teary, sick, and alone.

All you want is a fucking hug, and to be told it’s alright. You knew getting involved with Roger was a bad idea at the start, knew he wouldn’t want the family life, or something long-term or committed, and here you were, a year and a half later, with the potential of all three, and he’d thrown it back in your face.

Without thinking, you start treading the now unfamiliar route back to your old home, weary already despite the early hour, your whole body aching. You’re half a block away when you realise you don’t have your keys, and a fresh set of tears tracks down your cheeks as you head back to Roger’s.

“Y/N, dear?” You pick up the phone at his house out of instinct, and Freddie knows it’s you without even letting you speak. You make a small noise of confirmation, wrapped in a towel, taking advantage of the facilities while you could, with Roger still at practice. You hear what can only be the sound of a tambourine going flying in the background of Freddie’s end of the line. “Roger’s in a mood.”

“Serves him right.” You mumble, and you can hear Freddie covering the receiver, but not well enough to completely muffle himself.

“Well, you’re right, she is there, and she’s in a mood too.” Another crash, and someone else yelling distantly, followed by a third crash. “Please come and talk with him, he’s already broken three individual drumsticks and a tambourine.” He uncovers the receiver to talk to you, and you hear what is distinctly Brian’s voice calling ‘two tambourines’ and another crash. You take in a deep breath.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.” You huffed, and Freddie sighed deeply. “Ask him if he sees a future with the band.” You sneer, catty at the suggestion that simply waltzing in and talking would be enough to fix what Roger had implied. 

“Absolutely not.” Freddie replies automatically. “Come and collect him before he kills Brian or Deaky.”

“And what about you?” You ask, and you hear Freddie laugh.

“Bold of you to assume Roger could kill me.” And he hangs up, just like that. After hanging up the phone, you step into the shower to brood, before finally getting dressed and hailing a taxi.

You knew what you needed to do, you needed to get a straight answer out of him before you told him about the baby; you had your family and friends if it came to it, but whether or not you’d need to call on that support network depended on his answer.

Brian, John, and Freddie were all sitting on the one sofa in the reception area of their studio space. They tell you he’s in there, but none of them make a move to lead or follow you in. 

He’s laying in the middle of the space, not wearing shoes, holding a single broken drumstick, one half in each hand.

“What do you want?” He asked, not looking at you, flicking half the broken drumstick to the side of the room.

“To stop you from killing your band members.” You responded, voice level as you approached him.

“They all ran out, I think they’re safe.” He’s speaking in the same, level tone as you. Emotionless. A little heartbreaking. “You should go with them.” 

“Why would I leave?” Voice soft, you finally sit beside him, parroting your own words from earlier. His gaze is still shallow when he turns to look at you, there’s no anger there, no bitterness, there’s nothing.

“Because I’m a liability. Can’t be trusted and all that shit.” He paused, looking back up at the ceiling and flicking the other half of the broken drumstick to join the first. “I break things, Y/N.”

“You haven’t broken me.” As you say it, you finally see some expression return to him, shock, a little awe even. “A year and a half, and,” you let yourself smile a little, reaching out to take his hand, which he lets you, threading your fingers together, “I’m still whole.” And then some, you think, though you’ll get to that later. “I have friends and family outside of you, Rog, I won’t be alone when you’re on tour, so if that’s your main reason for not wanting to move in together or whatever, I gotta ask again; do you see a future with me?” He’s quiet for a long moment, contemplative, before he frowns a little, finally looking you in the eyes.

“Do you see a future with me?” He asks back, he actually sounds a little nervous, but you smile, and you see the nerves vanish.

“Of course.” You admit, and he sits up at that. Hesitating for a moment, you drop his gaze, pulling your hand from his your rest it on your stomach. It was now or never. “I’m pregnant.” When you’re met with silence, you feel your blood run cold, and look up at him. His expression reads nothing but shock, before bursting into a smile. Relief washes through you as he reaches out and takes your hand.

“Pregnant?” He asks, and you nod, a small smile on your lips. “And it’s-?” 

“Yes, Roger, who’s else would it be?” You snorted, and he pulled you in for a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around you, joy seeming to seep from his pores. All the fear and stress you’d been bottling up for the past few weeks dissolved in that moment, the worry that he’d reject you the moment he found out, that he’d see it as as burden or something that distracts him from the band. 

“I’m- I’m a dad?” You could hear his disbelieving murmur by your ear, and when he pulls away from you, there’s something almost awestruck in his eyes. “I love you.” He tells you, kissing you passionately.

“Everything alright in here?” You hear Brian at the door before you see the rest of the band peering through, and Roger leans back and grins.

“Everything’s great!” He assured them, and you lean forward, letting him wraps his arms around you as you rest your forehead on his shoulder with a giggle. “Everything’s bloody fantastic.”

angrylizardjacket:

ask your destiny to dance [4] {Roger Taylor}

A/N: Non-explicit smut.

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

When Ash wakes the next morning, Roger’s still there, his chest against her back and arm draped over her hip. Something in her chest aches a little, he’s so warm and it’s been so long since she’d had someone stay over; sunlight isn’t even peaking through her shitty blinds, so she lets herself relax, lets herself lean into his warmth a little, and fall back to sleep.

“Your heart doesn’t feel broken.” Before she even opens her eyes, she can feel Roger smiling against her shoulder as he speaks, hand gently cupping her left boob, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth against it. Even the gentle touch has a shiver running down her spine, but before Roger gets the chance to be amused by it, she’s shifting to lie on her back. His hand moves with her, but he stays propped up on his side, grinning at her as he trails his fingers down her ribs, feather light touches moving across her stomach until he’s at her hips, holding her.

Reaching up, she cups his cheek and brings him in for a kiss, his lips warm against hers as he deepens the kiss, tongue gliding against her bottom lip until she parts them obligingly. She’s got a hand on his waist, gently tugging at him, silently insistent that she have him on top of her, which he agrees to without hesitation. 

It’s not frantic like it was last night, a little sloppy and a little rough; she knows she’s got bruises on her hips from how hard he held her, and she can see the bite marks on his shoulder that she’s a little bit proud of.

He’s golden in the mid-morning light as it peeks through her blinds, fucking her into the mattress in her dorm in the uni housing, movements deliberate and deep, and so fucking gorgeous where she’s looking up at him. When she’s got a hand pressed to her own mouth to muffle her gasps and moans, he takes her hands and holds them above her head, gripping just tight enough to be a little thrilling, kissing her to swallow the sounds he knows he elicits from her.

“How’s your heart, lover boy?” She asks, grinning and breathless as he moves to sit beside her, reaching down the side of the little, single bed, looking for his jeans. “There’s smokes in the bedside table.” Ash grinned, moving to sit up against the headboard.

“My heart? Absolutely shattered.” He snorted, voice dripping with sarcasm, not even attempting to be serious as he pulled open the drawer, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. “Do you have anything else in there?”

“What else would I need?” And upon hearing her say that, Roger has to actually take a moment, watching her grin at him unapologetically, not bothering to pull the blanket up to cover herself, unselfconscious in her post-sex, late morning glow. His expression is curious, even a little awed. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Fuck, we really are alike, aren’t we?” Shaking his head in disbelief, he doesn’t see her face fall, but they’re shoulder to shoulder on the tiny bed, and he can feel her shift to cross her arms over her chest.

“Stop saying that.” The way she says it, quiet, a little hurt, he’s never heard her like that before, and when he looks at her, she’s avoiding his gaze, expression sullen. However, Roger can feel the indignance bubble up inside of himself.

“Do you really think so little of me?” He asked, lips around the cigarette as he flicked on the lighter, scowling at the sudden shift in mood. There’s silence as he takes a long drag, looking around her room, waiting for her answer. She doesn’t give him one. “Oh what the fuck, Ash?” He asks, and she’s snatching the cigarette out of his hands, taking a draft to avoid answering. “You can be a right bitch, you know that?” He snapped, and Ash pulled the cigarette from her lips once she had inhaled, passing it back and holding the smoke in her lungs for a long while.

“So I’ve been told.” She breathes the words out with the cloud of smoke, and after a beat she adds; “Roger, if we were alike, either I wouldn’t be here because I’d be with someone else, or you wouldn’t be here because -” But she cuts herself off, sighing deeply. Her accent is a little thicker when she continues. “Doesn’t matter.” And she clambers to stand on the bed, stark naked, stepping over him to get to the rest of her room. 

“No.” Roger snaps, frowning at her, cigarette sitting loose in his grip. “That’s not an apology or a real answer; do you really think so little of me?” He watches as she rifles through her drawers before pulling out a sundress.

“I think you’re a guaranteed good night, Rog, which honestly, I haven’t had in a long time, despite what you may think. I just don’t think we’re that similar, and, if we were, we wouldn’t be here.” She’s entirely too nonchalant about the whole ordeal, carefully casual in a way that let Roger know that she was quite on edge. Once dressed, she stretches, avoiding his gaze, and he does take the moment to admire her in the sunshine yellow dress with little red flowers all over it. He takes another drag of the cigarette.

“What the fuck does any of that mean?” He finally asks, and Ash hums, not actually answering, heading for the door. “Ashley.” That gets her attention, and she turns, giving him a tight, thin-lipped smile.

“We’re good, okay? No, I don’t think so little of you, yes, last night was fun; you’ve fulfilled your promise. No heartbreaks, no strings. Everything’s fine.” She assured him, before stepping out into her hallway and closing the door behind herself.

He’s not there when she returns, holding singular coffee, not expecting anything more. She doesn’t like to think about the way her heart aches, just a little bit.

When they see each other next, there’s a weird tension in the air. It’s almost three weeks later, Smile walks in the front door, and Uncle Dave had disappeared over half an hour beforehand in anticipation. Her shirt this time is white, the same style as the last, sequinned in the front, silk at the back, and Brian tells her she looks snazzy.

“Yeah, really nice shirt, you’re really knocking it out of the park with this one, Rocket.” Tim agrees blithely. Roger is very quiet, just nods at her and starts loading in his equipment.

“He’s quiet for once, it’s a damn miracle.” Brian laughs, but Ash is quiet too, just smiles at his joke and heads back to the bar.

“You okay, sweetie? You seem off tonight.” Maureen asks, pouring a beer and passing it to Ash without hesitating. Ash downs half of it in one go. Maureen, while impressed, given the girl’s size, only grows more concerned.

“I’m fine.” Ash doesn’t make it sound questionable, voice firm, meeting Maureen’s gaze. “I’m just ready to get on with the night-” 

“Oi, Rocket.” It’s Roger, and Ash fixes the most artificial, glassy-eyed smile on her face as she turns to him.

“Hi Roger! How can I help you?” At the sound of her high, fake, customer-service voice, he frowns, and just asks for some beers. Once she gets uncaps all the drinks, Roger hesitates.

“I also- uh, I need your help, if that’s okay.” He asks, and she can feel her heart sink; this, she’s pretty sure, isn’t going to be a band-related decision.

“Sure, ‘Reen, just gimme a few to deal with this.” She smiles at Maureen, who gives her a kind, understanding smile in return, watching as Roger delivers the drinks to the other boys, leading Ash out the front door to where the van is parked.

“What’s up with you?” He hisses through his teeth, and Ash fixes him with a smile, though it’s still not her real one.

“Things got weird and personal between us, so I’ve decided it’s easier to go back to passive-aggressively hating you.” And she’s using the customer-service voice that he’s learning to fucking hate.

“So like nothing happened?” He asked, still practically fuming in the face of her chipper mask.

“Like nothing happened.” Ash agreed, and Roger stepped back from her, rubbing at his forehead, eyes closed as if the very sight of her pained him.

“So you’re just going to keep treating me like shit and glaring at me when I order drinks?” He asked, and when he was met with silence, he opened his eyes, and saw the hesitation on Ash’s face. She’s looking at the hand he’s got by his side, gaze a little glassy as if she’s watching a memory, a faint blush rising on her cheeks.

“I- I guess I shouldn’t.” She said, wetting her lips, voice soft, and once she realises he’s looking at her, again, her gaze snaps to his, face flushing a darker red. “I mean, it was one of the reasons we hooked up in the first place, right?”

They both know he knows what she was recalling, and he can hear her faint, panting whimpers in his memory, a smile spreading across his face.

“Right.” He agreed. Neither of them break eye contact. “I feel like I’ve earned that.” With the teasing edge in his voice, he sees the moment she stops being embarrassed by the memory, and resumes being exasperated by him in the present.

“Yeah, okay fine. You get that one.” She conceded, turning back to head back inside, though he calls out after her.

“What’ll it take for you to actually be nice to me?” It’s half a joke, but she actually stops, suppressing a smile as she swivelled back to face him.

“You’ll have to really work for that one.” She told him, mischievous glint in her eyes, though there was reservation in her voice. Roger crossed his arms, tipping his head to one side with a smirk.

“Could I do it in a night?” And that gets her to actually laugh, giving him her genuine smile that he’d only seen maybe twice.

“You can certainly try,” she teased, but immediately followed it with, “or you could if I was looking for something like that.” Stepping backwards toward the pub, her smile became tight. “I’ll try not glaring, lets see how we go from there.” 

“We’re good though, right?” He asked, his own mask cracking just a little as the concern slipped out in his face. Her smile warmed, and she nodded.

“We’re all good, we had our fun and now we’re string and glare free.” She shrugged, before spinning on her heel and heading back inside.

“What’d he need help with?” Brian asked as soon as you stepped in the door, his brow furrowed. Ash smiled brightly at him.

“He asked me to take in the bass drum; I told him it wasn’t my job and where he could shove his drumsticks.” She lied easily, stepping through to the bar, feeling only the slightest pang of guilt when Brian said it served Roger right, that he had a band to help with equipment, that he shouldn’t ask Ash.

Things are a helluva lot easier after that, and Ash thinks that it could work out, that she could have a passing friendship with the band whenever they would play at the pub, and that if she played her cards right, she probably wouldn’t end up hooking up with Roger again. The very idea of it fills her with anxiety, not from Roger himself, her disposition towards him had mellowed considerably, but her past experience in friends-with-benefits sort of situations put her on edge.

She just wanted things to be light and breezy.

“Ash, I think I’ve joined the band. I need your help with deciding what to wear to my first show.” 

Freddie calls her the very next day, and Ash can already feel a headache forming.

“Start from the beginning, what?” She answered. Freddie took in a deep breath over the phone, and she could hear him grinning with pride as he started up his story. So much for a passing friendship; Freddie doesn’t do things by halves, and it seems he wants her there… Not that she’s actually complaining.

[buy me coffee?]

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angrylizardjacket:

[part 1] [part 2]

“I think I’m going to start wearing sequins to work.” It’s an idle thought that Ash speaks into existence on Wednesday afternoon in the back of a lecture hall. Freddie’s slumped over his desk, barely paying attention to the professor at the front, and makes a noise of agreement. 

“You should; more people should wear sequins to work.” Yawning loudly, he waves off the professor’s stare with a weak smile, before resting his head on his arms to look at Ash. “You’ve already got it ready, don’t you?” Half-smiling as she nods, grinning bashfully.

“Black sequinned, button up, sleeveless.” Whistling low through her teeth, Ash’s eyes glazed over at the mere thought of the shirt. “I’m gonna get so many tips.” After a beat, she flushed, turning her mischievous expression on Freddie. “And Smile’s playing, so Dave’ll be in the back room all night.” At his confused look, Ash leaned down to rest her own cheek against the desk, eye to eye with her friend. “Okay, so they’re the only uni band we hire, usually it’s just middle-aged dudes trying to be hip,” she rolls her eyes at that, and Freddie has to repress a smile of his own, “and good ol’ Uncle Dave takes one look at ‘em walking through the front door and he’ll grab a bottle o’ rum from the back shelf and wave me over to them,” her voice has dropped so that only Freddie could hear her, and he can see her barely contained laughter, “which, while hilarious, means I can wear basically anything I want.” 

“Don’t you do that anyways?” Freddie’s grinning outright now, amused at Ash’s quiet passion, but she doesn’t seem offended by the question, just laughs.

“I mean, yeah, but Dave’s always there and I don’t want him seeing me with like, more than three buttons undone.” Sighing wistfully, Ash closes her eyes, lets herself relax against the desk. “But every time Smile plays, he fucks off, I can undo a few extra buttons- Fred, I made like fifty pounds in tips last time! Fifty! Ate like a king at McDonalds that night.” It took everything Freddie had in him not to burst out laughing at her content expression, but moments later when the class was dismissed, he couldn’t help himself.

“At least buy yourself some real food now that you’ve got a job.” He admonishes her, ignoring her groan of protest.

“But no shops are open at two in the morning, Freds,” she whined, dragging her feet as she trailed behind him, cutting through the swathe of other students as they headed to the exit, “at that point I’m just hungry, and hamburgers are easy to find and so good.”

“How you function in regular society continues to baffle me.” He said fondly as the two of them made their way to their favourite afternoon coffee spot, bickering back and forth as they were often want to do. The week passes relatively uneventfully, and by the time it’s Friday, and Dave has complimented her appropriately buttoned, sequinned shirt, – “It’s nice; it’ll go over well with the kids.” – he’s all but absconded into his office as the band walks through the door.

“Evenin’ boys!” Maureen greets them warmly from behind the bar, drying off cups and hanging them up. Ash is already making her way around to greet them, grinning brightly at the trio.

“Hey, how’s it going boys? Ready for a good show?” It’s the fifth time they’ve performed here in just over two months, and Ash feels like she’s really getting to know them. After their final set for the past three times she’s taken a smoke break, the first time she and Brian shared a cigarette, the two of them looking up at the stars as he tried to point out constellations around the light pollution.

“You really know a lot about this stuff, don’t you?” She smiles at him, fondly amused, and he smiles back, a toothy grin filled with pride.

“I’d hope so, uni’s too bloody expensive to have it wasted.” And that’s how she learns he’s studying astrophysics. He joins her again the next time, though she’s quiet, listening as he and Roger banter back and forth about the quality of their performances for the night. Her hatred of Roger had softened somewhat, though it’s probably because she refuses to speak more than three words to him outside of serving him at the bar, so she feels like she hasn’t had to really deal with him. 

She’s seen him, of course, picking up pretty girls at Maureen’s end of the bar, the way they practically drape themselves over him at the sofa by the stage, has heard Brian complain more than once;

“At least go to her place, need I remind you how thin our walls are?” And maybe when she hears it for the first time she chokes on smoke in her lungs and Brian has to slap her on the back to try and help her through it. And maybe the second time her pencil presses down on the line of the dress she’s sketching a little too harshly, a little off from where she wanted, enough that she has to scrap the whole page, but that’s just what he’s like, she knew it from the moment she saw him, and part of her thinks she’s happy to be proven right.

The last time they’d played, Tim talked her ear off about his own performance while Roger and Brian loaded their stuff into the back of Roger’s van, and while Tim’s self-importance bored her almost to tears, she amused herself watching Roger become increasingly annoyed. Small victories.

“It’s going well, thanks Rocket, how about you?” Brian puts his guitar case down by the stage to walk forward and wrap Ash in a hug, which she returns.

“I’m good; always better with you guys around, I can pretend I’m in charge.” And she’s grinning brightly when she steps back. Brian’s always been the friendliest of the bunch, well, Roger may take the top spot for that in general, but not in the way that counts. Speaking of Roger, when she spots him, he’s actually giving her a smile, though his eyes are fixed more on her shirt.

“You’re very sparkly tonight, Ash.” Tim’s mild grin snaps her out of where she was forming a suspicious glare at the drummer, and she smoothed out her shirt, enjoying the sensation of the sequins passing beneath her fingers.

“It’s a good look on you.” Roger adds, gaze moving up to look at her face, and she gives him a proud little smirk in return.

“Made it myself.” And she lets herself bathe in the surprised compliments they offered, ignoring Maureen laughing over by the bar. The boys start setting up and Ash heads back to grab them each a drink before students start pouring in.

By the time the first set’s finished, she’s unbuttoned two more buttons on her blouse and had an old man who looked very out of place surrounded by students try and slip

£10 directly into her cleavage. Taking the money from him and placing it there herself, she gives him his drink and her most winning smile before turning to the next customer.

“So that’s what it’s for, to distract hapless young men so you can take their cash?” Roger was grinning at her across the bar and Ash felt her whole body tense.

“What?” She snapped, not taking her eyes off of his as she tucked the note further out of sight, though his own eyes followed the movement.

“The shiny shirt.” He explained, finally pulling his gaze back up to meet hers. Gaze icy, she cocked her hip, crossing her arms beneath her chest. A single raised eyebrow was all the answer he received, though it seemed to be enough of a confirmation for him as his smile stretched into one of mischief, and he ordered another round of drinks for the band. She gives him her sharpest smile when she passes them over, but doesn’t say anything, and he leaves with a smirk and an eye roll.

“This whole passive-aggressive ‘hating-me’ thing is getting old, Pocket Rocket.” He’s the only one of the band members who uses the full nickname anymore, and she’s pretty sure he’s taking the piss every time he does. The other two band members are still inside when she goes on her break after they finish for the night. She hasn’t even pulled out her lighter when the back door comes crashing open and Roger walks through; he doesn’t even see her before he starts talking, just knows she’s there.

“Alright, I’ll drop the passive;” she said, focusing on the flick of her her lighter and taking the first puff of the cigarette before looking up at him, “fuck off.” The words were spoken around the cigarette, but even so, a phrase that universal was understandable no matter how it’s said.

“I’m just wondering what I did to warrant it.” Turning, he leaned against the closed doors of the van, crossing his arms as he looks back at her.

“I don’t like you, Roger,” Ash leaned back in kind, kicking her legs out in front of her, crossing her ankles as she relaxed against the brick wall, “because you’re the sort of boy who breaks pretty girls’ hearts.” As if to punctuate her statement, she takes another draft on her cigarette, and tries not to read into the way Roger’s regarding her curiously.

“Pretty girls like you?” It takes her a moment to recognise his tone, not that she hadn’t heard it before, not that hadn’t even used it herself before, but because he’d never been so brazen about it with her. He was flirting! The nerve!

“Oh, you wish.” Ashe couldn’t help but laugh at that, hating the blush that rose in her cheeks as she looked away, casting her gaze to the road at the edge of the car park. Roger watched for a long moment, enjoying the genuine, if amused, smile that lit up her face; he was so used to seeing the artificial mask she put up whenever she focused on him.

“You’re a hypocrite, love.” He calls, and the smile is gone in an instant, replaced with a frown that she levels directly at him. It doesn’t deter him, however, it was something he’d been wanting to bring up for the past two weeks, after he did a little digging about her, seeing if any of his friends from uni knew about her. “Yeah, I know about you and your first year, Ashley.” Her blood runs cold, expression was unreadable, which only served to make him more smug. “We do have a few friends in common, you know; pretty boys with broken hearts.” And finally he felt like he had clawed back to an inch of moral high ground.

For a long moment, she looks at him, expression fading to a thoughtful frown, cigarette sizzling away in her grip, though she did nothing about it. It’s still mostly intact, but she throws it on the ground, stamping the cigarette out with the heel of her boot against the gravel.

“‘s not the same.” Her voice is hollow, lips pursed, avoiding his gaze. Standing, she seems to hover for a moment, unsure of whether or not she was going to head back inside. “I’m a slut but I’m not a romantic about it, I’m not some wannabe rockstar reeling in boys with doe-eyed looks that promise the world, unlike some people.” Whole demeanour shifting, Roger’s surprised when she steps towards him, sneering. 

“I never really went for boys.” Roger mused, deliberately missing the point of her words as he moved from the van, meeting her halfway.

“You know what I’m saying; I only ever promised one night, don’t flatter me by thinking that’s all it takes for me to break a heart.” Her voice was a dangerous purr, the two of them standing barely a foot apart.

“And you think one night with me- ?” He’s grinning at her, nothing but amused in the face of her anger.

“Don’t flatter yourself either, you prey upon girls who already think you hang stars in the sky, it’s not the night that breaks them, it’s the morning after.” Ash snarls, her rant having filled her with adrenaline, and she waits, buzzing with anticipating about how he’d respond.

“You willing to test that theory?” With a tilt of his head and a slight smile, he looks her up and down, quietly delighting in the way her expression shifts from thinly veiled rage to shock.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The words spill from her mouth, as if she’s barely aware of them, but Roger huffs out a laugh.

“I’m willing to try anything to get you to stop glaring at me when I come up for a beer.” He murmured with a cheeky grin, and there’s that rage again, clear as day in her eyes. “Love, you’re like me,” he says it like it’s a compliment, reaching his hand to hold her chin. Something in his heart grew warm watching the way the gentle touch changed her expression from furious to softly surprised, “so we can both know it’s just a bit of fun, nothing more.”

“So which girl do you have lined up for when I say no?” Her voice tone was quietly accusing, and Roger raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“None.” He admitted easily. “I’m only promising one night, and you get to test that broken heart theory of yours.” 

“God, you’re so fucking arrogant,” she mumbled under her breath, squinting up at him; “one night,” she agrees, “and no I don’t think you hang stars in the sky, so there’s no chance of heartbreak.”

“But what if you’re the heart breaker?” Roger asks, mostly joking, though he’s already sliding his hand around her waist, pulling her close.

“Then you should have developed a harder heart before trying to sleep your way across the UK.” And she’s smiling in return, moving with him as he pulls her in for a kiss. He tastes like beer mostly, the scents of the pub sticking to him as she wraps her arms around him. Pulse racing, she’s the one who deepens the kiss, shifting to her tiptoes to get closer to him, but that only makes him laugh and pull away.

“This is the single worst pick up I’ve ever been on the receiving end of.” She purses her lips, breaking the embrace as she begins to step back to the bar.

“Does that include the middle-aged man slipped a tenner in between your boobs?” Roger calls after her, and to his surprise, Ash is smiling back at him when she looks over her shoulder, sunny and amused.

“Well yeah, I got a ten pounds out of it, didn’t I?” And he can’t really argue with her logic as he begins to follow her back inside to the rest of the band. “What do I get from you?” She smirks, and Roger lengthens his stride to join her as she walks through the door.

“I can’t tell you with company around.” His voice low as he murmured in her ear.grinning as she let out a quiet squeak of surprise. “But it’ll be worth it.”

---

the ususal suspects: @deakydickfanpage @hollyissuchahoe  @laueecakee@smittyjaws @crystalshines2909 @i-am-sarah @legendsaresooftenwarnings@2ptonpt @benhardy24-7 @maiilovely @mickey-yr-a-goner @butter-times@heyyouitskay @tired-eyes-fairy-lights @yepimthatperson @missieluvsmurder @ironqueen98

[buy me a coffee?]

angrylizardjacket:

[part 1]

“So what do you think?” Freddie’s eyes are shining when he accosts Ash on her way back from the bathroom. Giving a gentle shove, she weaves through the crowd, picking up various empty glasses scattered about the room while there’s a lull between sets.

“Yeah they go pretty alright.” She concedes, pretending like she didn’t have Doing Alright’s harmony running through her mind. That seemed to sate Freddie well enough, and he followed along behind her, picking up a few glasses here and there before she headed back to the bar.

“Hey, Pocket Rocket,” the way the nickname is said makes Ash’s hair stand up on the back of her neck, and she fixed her best ‘customer service’ smile on her face. Roger’s grinning back at her, almost completely ignoring Freddie, who turned sharply to Ash and mouthed the nickname at her with raised eyebrows. His incredulity, which she catches out of the corner of her eye, still making unwavering eye contact with Roger, makes her sharply professional smile crack as she represses a genuine grin. 

“Yes, Roger? Can I help you?” Voice sweet, she sees Freddie’s eyes widen even further, if it were possible, recognising the poison in her voice from a mile away.

“Me and the boys are about to start our next set, could I grab some beers?” There was nothing innocuous in his words, and he kept his gaze focused on hers, but he’s grinning like it’s a challenge. She doesn’t back down.

“Of course.” She sets about her work, grabbing three bottles from the refrigerator behind the bar, uncapping them, and handing them over. His fingers brush against hers where he’s quick to pick them up, and Ash retracts her hand like his touch burns. “Well, if you need anything else-” Tone chipper, she’s quick to fold her hands behind her back, bouncing quickly on the balls of her feet.

“I know where to find you.” Roger agrees, his gaze lingering just a little too long on the tightness of her smile before turning away.

“You guys are playing really well, tonight.” Freddie adds, and Ash chuckles at his earnestness, the sound fond and sincere where she were artificially bright only moments ago.

“Yeah, thanks mate.” Roger looks over his shoulder, her soft, genuine laughter catching him off guard, but she’d moved to start washing up the glasses she and Freddie had collected. 

As soon as Roger had gone, Freddie rapped his knuckles against the bar top to get her attention, practically bursting with questions. With the band starting up, however, she can barely hear him over the buzz of the music and the crowd, and so she offer to take her break early. Waving off her offer, Freddie seems far more content listening to the music, but she knows that he’d bombard her with questions at the next given opportunity. 

By the time the last set is winding up, Freddie’s had to head home, like Cinderella before the strike of midnight, and a lot of the crowd had dispersed. 

“You boys did such a good job.” Maureen’s voice carries over from where she’s uncapping three bottles of beer for the guitarist. Ash, tries not to eavesdrop, but Maureen’s speaking loud enough so he can hear her across the bar, over the jukebox.

“Yeah, we’ve never really played here before, what made you guys try and find us?” Brian, leaning against the bar, takes a sip of his own beer, letting the other two sit patiently beside him, getting gradually warmer. 

“Ash is the one who asked, actually.” As soon as she hears her name come from Maureen’s mouth, Ash freezes. “Yeah, apparently her little friend is a fan.” And there’s a fond note in her voice that has Ash smiling abashedly.

“He around? Should thank him for getting us a gig.” Brian’s smile is bright as he turns, gaze roving over the crowd, though Ash joins them, grinning faintly.

“I think you’re talking about Freddie; he’s left.” And at the sound of her voice, Brian’s turning back, though Ash’s attention shifts to Maureen. “’Reen, I’m gonna have a smoke, can you manage this lot for ten minutes?” Grinning, she doesn’t even need to cast her gaze around the bar to know that everyone at the bar was too busy fawning over Tim, the singer, to be bothered to order much.

“I think I can manage, my little Pocket Rocket.” Maureen ruffles her hair, stepping out of the way as Ash went to swat at her, making a beeline for the back door.

“Ash, could you do us a favour?” Calling out after her, Brian holds out one of the beers as she turns back with a half smile. “Rog is out by the van, can you take this to him?” After a beat of hesitation, she forced a smile on her face and took the beer, heading much slower towards the back door.

He’s sitting in the open back of his van, leaning against the side door, wearing shorts that exposed way too much of his thigh. He’s got one leg hanging down to the ground while the other was drawn up to him, where he’s propped his hand which held a gently smoking cigarette. His head was leaning back, his eyes closed, and after a beat of watching him, so relaxed, taking a moment in the cool night air, Ash watches him exhale a lung full of smoke, watches the smoke turn rose gold in the glow of the streetlight. There was something pretty, even calming, about the sight, his aura of easy confidence apparent even without his usual posturing.

“This is yours.” Breaking the silence, Ash steps from the back doorway, onto the gravel of the back car park, letting the door swing closed behind herself. He doesn’t start when he hears her, just cracks open his eyes and gives her a once over, eyes zeroing in on the beer. Neither of them move for a long moment, and then he’s turning, grinning at her as he legs hung over the edge of the back of the van, holding out a hand for the drink.

“Thanks, love.” The crunch of the gravel sounds so loud in the silence created by the closed door. Once he has the beer, she’s moving back to the door, pulling one of the crates from the stack by the bins, and sitting on top of it, patting down her pockets. Part of her knows he’s watching, curious, possibly a little amused, watching as she finally pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one, stashing both the remaining smokes and her lighter in her back pocket.

“Where’s Pocket Rocket come from?” Roger’s the one who breaks the silence. Ash looks like she’s trying to melt into the brick wall, head back, shoulders loose, heels resting in the gravel where she’s got her legs straight out in front of her. Smoke drifts from her lips, eyes looking up at the stars, and at first she doesn’t answer him, he thinks perhaps she didn’t hear him, and he opens his mouth, but she speaks over the top of him.

“Me or the nickname?” Unsmiling, she digs her heels further into the gravel, listening to the stones shift against one another. Roger takes a long draft from his cigarette, gaze wandering across the back of the building, along the parking lot that was mostly empty, save for the staff cars.

“Surprise me.” He finally says, and Ash makes a noise in the back of her throat that he can’t identify, though it does sound a little amused, but not necessarily in a good way.

“Why?” She snorts, finally looking at him, smiling sharp and uncooperative.

“Why what?” He asks, frown creasing his brow, and her smile widens.

“Surprise me.” It’s a challenge not an answer, and he knows he met her a few hours ago, but he thinks her grin has turned a little more genuine, a little more playful. Or maybe he’s imagining things. Either way, he finally looks away, goes back to leaning against the inside of the van with one leg up, looking up at the sky.

“I’m just trying to make conversation, aren’t I? We’re probably going to be working together again, after all.” He lets himself smile at her snort of amusement, or perhaps derision, but continues anyways. “Fine; you first, then the nickname.” 

For a long time, Ash is quiet, watching him, trying to discern his intentions, and he waits patiently for her to respond, sipping his beer, flicking his ashes onto the gravel.

“Fife.” After a beat, she sighs, knowing before he even opens his mouth that he has no idea where that is. “Northern Scotland.”

“Hence the accent,” Roger muses, squinting up at the sky.

“Hence the accent.” she agreed, taking a moment to breathe in another lung full of smoke and lean back against the wall of the pub, joining him in his stargazing. “And I’m Pocket Rocket because I am.” It takes a long moment for her words to sink in, Roger flicking his cigarette butt away.

“That’s not an answer.” He scoffs, and Ash makes a hum of agreement, cigarette hanging from her lips as she pulls out her notebook. Her answer was incomprehensible to him as she spoke both through her accent and around the cigarette between her lips. “What?” He actually turned to her, brow furrowed, trying to decipher what she’d actually said. After a beat, and without looking up from her work, she takes the cigarette out and breathes out.

“‘s not like I owe you my origin story.” The way she drew out her annunciations made Roger feel a little bit like a fool, though there was something about her accent that he found charming. “What are you even doing out here? Shouldn’t you be inside with your groupies and whatnot?” Not even letting him get a word in edgewise, she goes back to speaking normally, which he can decipher easily when she’s not mumbling around a dart.

“Can’t a man have a smoke and get ready to load his van in peace?” Roger grinned, standing and stretching. Ash mumbled something else, too quiet for Roger to even hear, though it was accompanied by an eye roll where she was looking at what she was drawing. “Oi, watch it.” He went out on a limb trying to call her out, and when she looked up at him, flush with embarrassment, he at least knew what she’d said hadn’t been exactly polite.

“Watch yourself, drummer boy.” Despite the retort, she was bright red. Her gaze met his and she could see the triumph in his eyes. She could feel it rising within her, that anger from before at his sheer arrogance, even as he stepped out of the shadow of his van, haloed by the streetlight, smiling at her despite the situation, perhaps challenging, though, she thought it looked more playful than anything else.

Breaking the look, she turned away, face still warm with embarrassment having been caught shit talking under her breath. Stubbing out her cigarette, she put away her notebook and pencil, standing and taking a moment to kick the crate back to the stack beside the bin. Roger watches her all the while, his arms folded over his chest, as if analysing her; she doesn’t look back at him. The only sound is the aggressive crunch of gravel beneath her feet as she makes her way back to the back door of the pub, pulling it open to fill the night with the sounds of people talking and laughing, and the jukebox playing. They don’t exchange any more words, and when he comes back inside to start loading the van, she’s nowhere in sight.

“Ash, the band wants to see you!” Maureen calls when Roger leans against the bar, asking about their pay for the night once everything’s been loaded into his truck. All the bands get paid cash in hand, and Dave had left Ash in charge.

“If I have to talk to some long-haired muppet about how I owe him more than what I promised, I’m gonna retire on the spot.” Dave had said to her, looking exhausted at the mere prospect and putting a stack of notes in the till with a rubber band securing them together. “This is how much they get; no more, no less.” He’d been very serious about that part, and Ash took pride in the fact that he’d trusted her after so little time.

The smile she gives Roger is tight as she passes him the money, and he raises his eyebrows at her, finally picking up on her strained professionalism.

“Thanks again for the gig, uh, Pocket Rocket, was it?” He asked, feigning innocence, something inside of him delighting at the way her jaw tightened.

“Sure,” Ash said, working to untense her jaw, “it was lovely having you play.” After a beat, he gave her a nod, his own grin now just amused as he leaves to join the other members of the band where they’re talking to some, what Ash assumed to be, fans.

Roger catches her humming Doing Alright as she wipes down tables a little later in the night, and, for reasons he’s not quite certain of yet, he smiles.

---

the ususal suspects: @deakydickfanpage @hollyissuchahoe @laueecakee@smittyjaws @crystalshines2909 @i-am-sarah @legendsaresooftenwarnings@2ptonpt @benhardy24-7 @maiilovely @mickey-yr-a-goner @butter-times@heyyouitskay @yepimthatperson

[buy me a coffee?]

angrylizardjacket:

A/N: Here it is, folks, the first installment of my long-running OC fic. Please leave feedback if you have anything! My inbox is always open!

---

Love at first sight isn’t real, or, not with people at least, but when Ash sets her eyes on the dingy little bar that’s three blocks from her dingy little apartment, she thinks she’s as close as she’s ever gotten.

“Listen,” the gruff owner of the pub, Uncle Dave, as the regulars call him though he’s not really anyone’s uncle, claps a hand on her shoulder, “you’ve gotta be made of stern stuff to work here, girlie, you think you got what it takes?” He’d been sceptical of her, barely five-foot-three and soft faced, but her character references had been glowing enough for him to put her through training behind the bar.

“I think I can give it a go.” She grinned up at him, expression one of unwavering determination. It’s that determination that gets her through her first shift, thrown in the deep end on a Saturday night during the second week of term for the university half a block away, and everyone’s already looking to blow off steam. The band they’ve hired is… mediocre, and getting progressively worse as they fuel up on their free drinks between sets, and the guy they’ve got on bass slaps her on the ass when she’s going around picking up empty glasses. Even so, she manages to keep smiling, and doesn’t throw the leftover beer that someone had put out a cigarette in, in his face.

“You alright, honey?” Maureen, the only other female bartender, pouring a beer for a kid who looks suspiciously young, gives her a concerned look, but Ash gives her a sunny smile, and heads to the back, arms piled high with empty glasses, to start washing up. Despite the groping, the snide remarks, and occasionally spilled drinks, she loves it, the hum of people talking, of music playing, the smell of smoke and stale beer that she had become so accustomed to during her first year, now a place she hopes she’ll find herself a regular within.

Her saving grace of the night is Freddie, who shows up halfway into the second set, grinning brightly and waving at her over the bar.

“What is the fanciest drink this establishment offers?” He’s leaning both his elbows on the bar, chin resting on his hands when she comes to serve him. She can see the amusement sparkling in his eyes, and playing along, she leans against the bar on her side considering.

“We have the Long Island Iced Tea,” she’d heard a woman at the bar order it about an hour ago, though Maureen was the one serving her, and she recalls what she can where she had been half paying attention to the process, half pouring a beer for a guy who had told her to smile more, “it involves several of the bottles we have behind the bar, and a fancy glass from the back.” She mused, faux serious.

“And you know how to make it already?” Freddie seemed part-surprised, part-impressed, and Ash struggled to keep a straight face.

“No I do not. Would you like a pint?” She asked, already pouring the drink for him, anticipating his answer. He, unsurprisingly, broke out into a grin, agreeing, handing over the money for the drink.

“Do you know when Don’t Forget To Smile is playing next?” Freddie leans against the bar, beer in one hand, watching the band with mild interest, but Ash can’t answer for the customer beside him.

“Dunno, Freds, it’s my first day.” She reminded him pointedly, smiling brightly at the other patron as she passed over his drink and collected his money. To his credit, Freddie lets her finish her job, hanging around the bar and cringing as the band crashed to an uneven end for most, if not all of their songs.

She’s given her second break of the night at the start of their third set, having been at the bar since six, her feet killing her as it just edged on eleven, and Freddie joins her as she sits on a milk crate out the back, lighting up a cigarette.

“Enjoying it?” His eyes are closed, enjoying the thump of the bass and drums though the building without having to endure the actual song. Ash takes a long drag, pulling a notepad from the back pocket of her jeans, along with a pencil she’d swiped from the gambling section.

“It’s fun,” she admitted, sketching out an idea she had gotten when admiring a girl’s fringe skirt across the room. “’m mad that I can’t tell some of the blokes to shove it,” she let out a humourless laugh, taking another a long drag from her cigarette, pausing in her drawing to pull a few bills from where she’d had them tucked into her bra, “but I’ve made like twenty bucks in tips so,” and she shrugs instead of finishing the thought, putting the money back to her bra before passing off her cigarette to him. Hunching over for a moment, she struggles to add detail with the little pencil, but settles for what she can manage.

“Homework?” Freddie breathes in a lung full of smoke and lets it out with a chuckle as she affirms. “Still haven’t finished the ten thumbnails we need by Monday?” Again, she affirms, and he just laughs harder.

“I’ve been making my own clothes for years, it’s dumb that I need to take Intro to Fashion Design before I can get into any of the higher grade subjects.” Frowning at her work, Ash pauses for a long moment, considering her own words. Snapping her notebook shut, she shoves it back into her back pocket and takes the cigarette back from Freddie, leaning her head back against the wall as she inhaled out of frustration.

“I know darling, you’re a powerhouse and they’re holding you back.” Freddie pet her knee affectionately, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“They just want all this commercial bullshit.” Ash played up the childish whine in her voice, before leaning forward, suddenly intense as she stared off into the middle distance. “Where’s the pizzazz?” She demanded, looking back at where Freddie had his eyebrows raised. Without breaking eye contact, as if still demanding an answer, she takes another drag on her cigarette, before putting it out on the wall behind them.

“The pizzazz is with you, it’s always been with you, fuck what they think.” Freddie told her, and Ash’s expression softened from intense to fond as she tucked the half remaining cigarette in the breast pocket of her blouse. 

“Fuck what they think.” She parroted back with a nod, and Freddie smiled at her, accepting her hand as she stood, getting ready to head back inside. After stretching out her legs, getting ready to spend the rest of her shift on them, she turns to him as he leaned against the door. “Is Smile really that good?” She’d been hearing about them for weeks now from Freddie, who presently, smiled, amused.

“They have potential.” He conceded, to which Ash narrowed her eyes.

“They better than these clowns?” She pointed at him, past the door to where the band was struggling it’s way through it’s final set. That gave Freddie pause.

“Yes?” Though it sounded more like a question, which only made Ash more suspicious.

“Fredward, if you bring garbage music into my establishment-” She warned, but Freddie just recoiled, expression disgusted.

“Fredward? That’s awful, and like I said, they have potential.” After a beat, he moved, opening the door, mouth twitching into a smile. “And it’s hardly your establishment, darling, you’ve been here a day.” Which, okay he’s got a point.

Until he doesn’t. She goes home at the end of the night with almost forty dollars in tips, and Dave looks rather proud, promising that he’d have Maureen teach her how to mix drinks. He asks her to come in the next day, for the Sunday lunch crowd, and she doesn’t say no.

Ash works weekends now, starts on Friday afternoons, finishes on Sunday nights, learns her way around the bar, learns the faces of the regulars. The men who come in on Sunday, drink beer and watch the dog races, they take to calling her the Pocket Rocket, for her stature and bright red hair, and her boundless enthusiasm. She’s found the brighter she smiles, the more she laughs at their stupid jokes, the more they tip her, and as a poor uni student, she wouldn’t dare pass up the opportunity. 

The nickname carries over with Dave and Maureen, as well as the other staff, as Ash becomes known and liked for being able to put up with the uni students the best, and for being a quick study when it comes to mixing drinks. They favour the nickname, actually, they think it’s cute and quirky, and it does make her smile.

If she’s not Pocket Rocket, she’s just Ash, rather than Ashley, which was on her resume, and though she’s thankful, it’s what she prefers. She’s Ash on Friday and Saturday nights, when the uni students flood the pub and she’s the shortest one in the room, and on her second night, two different people also answered when Maureen called to her through the crowd. It’s easier, it’s less of a mouthful to yell when help is needed at the bar. 

Her classmates frequent the bar, Freddie included, and so even to them the nickname spreads; no longer Ashley, as read from the roll, Ash, who might be failing Intro to Fashion Design, who’s always quiet in class, but wears a smile as big as she is at the pub. 

“Do you know when Smile’s playing?” Freddie’s almost finished his drink by the time he asks, which is a new record for him. It’s a quiet Friday, they’ve got the jukebox going tonight instead of a band, and Ash is drying glasses behind the bar and hanging them up, everyone having been served at the bar.

“Tomorrow.” She informs nonchalantly, and he actually rises from the stool he had been sitting on, affronted.

“And how long have you known?” He demanded in mock outrage. She’s been at the bar for almost a month before she realised that the band didn’t actually play at her pub. After a word to her boss, telling him about the reputation the band had for bringing in customers, basing all her information off of things Freddie had told her, he looked into them.

“I had a hunch, but Dave confirmed it for me earlier today.” She grinned at Freddie, who’s eyes lit up with excitement. “They don’t play here, Fred, why’d you keep asking me-?”

“Because I wanted to show you for a while, but you’re always working when they’re playing, my dear.” He sighed dramatically, though it was all for show, and he let up with a grin. “Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this.” He mused, finishing off the last drops of his drink, pushing the empty glass towards her. “They really are quite good.” He assured, and Ash let herself smile.

“I thought they just ‘had potential’.” She asked, raising an eyebrow at him as she washed his glass in the sink behind the bar.

“They’ve been practicing.” Freddie told her with an air of finality, and Ash chose not to pry into whatever that truly entailed, as it seemed Freddie was heading home for the night.

The next day, Dave calls her from where she’s sipping water behind the bar, where she sees three guys all standing by the stage they had set up in the corner of the pub.

“If ya need anything, Pocket Rocket’ll be the one you go to.” It’s clear by his tone that Dave’s already tired of dealing with uni students, and Ash realises he’s talking to the band, here to set up. She picks up her step, brightens her smile, and fixes the way her shorts are sitting against her thighs. There’s no uniform at the pub, and Dave is pretty much of the opinion that everyone can dress however they want, as long as there’s no high heels. 

Both Ash and Maureen wear black blouses, with the sleeves rolled up past their elbows, showing perhaps more cleavage than was strictly necessary, though it did garner more tips. Maureen usually opts for black pants, though Ash, still in uni, can get away with wearing sheer tights with very short shorts over the top. No-one’s complained thus far, and she’s pretty sure they’re not going to.

“Pocket Rocket?” She hears one of the band members scoff, and her smile gets a little stiff at the derision, but she straightens her posture, tightens her ponytail, and makes her way to her place by Dave’s side.

“That’s me!” Her usually chipper tone ringing out loud and clear as she looked over the three guys.

“Ash, this is Smile, uh,” Dave held out his hand, as if to introduce them to her, though he seemed to have already forgotten their individual names. When Ash holds out her hand to shake theirs, Dave takes that as his cue to leave, and he heads for the back door, probably to have a smoke.

“I’m Ash, they call me the Pocket Rocket ‘round here. I guess I’ll be your contact for tonight, lemme know if you need anything.” She rattles of automatically, as the first one grasps her hand, shaking.

“Well, I’m Tim, and this is-” the man with the dark hair and a dopey smile was waved off almost as soon as he started to shake hands with her.

“People who are capable of introducing themselves. I’m Roger.” The moment Roger looked at her, his smile was all teeth and the promise of a bigger bite, pretty and charming in a way that was so effortless. She knew that smile, the way his gaze dipped for just a moment, and how his eyes followed her once she had shook hands with Brian and began showing them around the space. She’d watched playboys work at the bar far too often to be blind to one right in front of her. 

This was the band Freddie raved about? Brian seemed okay enough, Tim was a bit dopey but alright, but then there was Roger. After showing them around, still smiling, as was her job, she headed back to the bar, taking a long drink of water. 

They caught her attention once more as they began a sound check later in the night, and when she looked up, she watched for a moment before Roger caught her gaze, and he grinned, sharp and mischievous. She did not smile back, just raised her eyebrows at him, which only made him grin wider; they both knew exactly the type of person he was.

So no, love at first sight isn’t real, of this Ash is sure, but as she looks away, called by another customer, her mind still fixed on Roger’s infuriating grin, she knows one thing; hate, absolute loathing at first sight, it was entirely possible.

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