𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐉𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐈𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞
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Plot: Y/N'd been a friend of Damon's for a long time, which often led to rumors of a secret relationship, rumors that the two loved to feed. It was a joke, that was all there was to it. Right?
A/N: Hope the person that requested this enjoys it. I changed a few things.
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I stood before my kitchen oven, hands on my hips as I glared at it like it had personally offended me–and to a degree, it had. This was officially the fourth time this afternoon that I was placing this tin of muffins back inside the oven. Six muffins shouldn’t have taken up to three hours to prepare, yet here I was. The taste was off every time, I didn't know why. They either looked awful or tasted too salty, too sweet or just bitter. I looked over the recipe book again, as if something had magically changed in the process of the fourth batch being made, but–as expected–nothing changed. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly where I was going wrong, all I could do was wait for this fresh batch to not taste like disappointment.
I wouldn't have been so fussed over the muffins if they were just for me–they weren't. They were for Damon. Graham and the rest of ‘em too, but mainly for Damon. The band’s album was finally out after grueling months of locking themselves in the studio.
I knew how Damon got during album development–I was his best mate, or at least something close to what he and Graham were–he’d been having a rough week and the immediate press tour that was pushed today wasn’t going to do much to help. I was hoping these muffins would brighten his day, even for just or for a bit.
The timer finally dinged, pulling me out of my thoughts. I adjusted the oven mitts in my hands before I pulled down the oven door. Immediately, I was engulfed in warmth that came almost without a warning. I reached into the oven, pulling out the silver cupcake mold inside it. Even with the protective layer in my hands, I could still feel the heat of the mold, not a high degree, but still hot nonetheless.
I placed the pastries on the countertop. To my surprise, it didn’t look too bad–it looked pretty edible. Turning my attention to the ticking clock that hung on my white walls. It was twenty past ten. The conference would be starting around early eleven, with the distance the venue was to my flat, there was no time to worry about the taste.
While I allowed the pastries to cool, I went to change out of my flour and batter covered clothes.
Before I left, the muffins were packed into a small silver tin. The aroma was truly to die for.
I made my way through the large and intimidating building, lots of logos were all around, likely sponsors or partners. Hoards of lads, carrying various forms of technical equipment ranging from cameras to microphones to other things I didn’t recognise, passed through hurriedly. Asking them for help to find Blur would have been completely futile.
It took passing through, many…
Many rooms and corridors until I found a door with a “Blur” paper taped to its upper figure. It was a genuine wonder I hadn’t gotten lost through the labyrinth. There weren’t signs, nor maps, or anything.
I knocked twice on the door, before slowly pushing it open.
The band was scattered around the room in various places and doing various things. What struck me–or at least caught me off guard was the presence of three others in the room who weren’t in the band.
An average sized man in a suit was sat on a chair adjacent to the seat Damon sat in. The two of them sat in front of a crouched man in black who held a large camera that rested on his left shoulder. The other stranger stood a bit further from the three of them, holding up a microphone above Damon and who I presumed was his interviewer.
All eyes in the room snapped to me, including those of Alex, and Dave. Couldn’t spot Graham anywhere, though.
Damon’s eyes remained even when the others’ turned back to whatever was occupying them. His lips curved into a small fond-like smile.
“There’s my wife,” Damon’s voice had a teasing lilt, his smile morphing his signature smirk.
The title wasn’t anything new, it was interchangeable. One day it could be girlfriend, the next it could be fiancée, it seems today he’s chosen wife. It became something of a running gag between the band and I. Our many years of comradery had often left others with the impression that there was something more between us than we let on.
Damon and I played into it, of course. It was fun–at least it was supposed to be until a stupid feeling started flooding in whenever he called me by those titles
“Wife?” The interviewer’s brows rose, he’d clearly struck gold.”Now that’s intriguing.” his voice dripped with intrigue.
“Haven’t you heard?” Alex smirked without looking up from his hands, picking at the nails of his calloused fingers. “Those two.” He pointed at Damon, then towards me. “Madly in love.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come sit, love.” Damon gestured for me to move towards him.
I smiled, shaking my head. I took a large couple of strides towards Damon and the other two strangers. I looked around for a chair I could nick, but before I could pull one, Damon pulled me down on his lap.
“Damon!” I yelped, startled, using a firmer grip to hold on to the tin of muffins before it fell from my grasp.
“What?” Damon blinked at me, all faux innocence.
I didn’t dignify his obvious taunt with response. Damon smirked cheekily.
“So, how long have you two been married?” The interviewer asked.
“Since last year.” Damon grinned, his arms draped over my lower waist, keeping me in place. “Had a secret wedding, right, love?”
I said nothing, only raising my brows.
“And how’s that married life treating you?” The interviewer persisted, crossing a leg over his other one as he stared at the both of us.
“With her, it’s amazing.” Damon’s voice was laced with affection, his fingers toying with the hem of my shirt. “Right, love?”
Damon didn’t give me a chance to answer before he switched the topic.
“Whatcha got there, love?” He inquired.
I proudly held up the tin box. “Muffins.”
I opened the box and handed him a pastry.
Alex looked over, frowning. “Oi, I want one too.”
“No one’s stopping you, Alex.” I shook my head.
Alex stood up, coming towards the two of us. He placed his hand in the tin and pulled out a muffin.
Dave, who’d been smoking a cigarette, turned his attention to me, exhaling a puff of smoke. He gave me a nod of acknowledgement.
“You want one?” I held up the muffin tin.
He shook his head, politely declining.
Damon took a bite of the pastry and for a sliver or a moment, his face contorted before it fell back into that easy smile. It was a blink and you’d miss it moment, one that made my brows furrow. I was about to mention something, but Alex’s coughing and spitting out of the muff interrupted my train of speech.
“Ugh,” Alex gagged, spitting crumbs into the floor. He picked up a napkin, wiping his tongue onto it “What the hell is in this?”
“What the recipe book had.”
Alex placed the muffin back in the tin, shaking his head.
It couldn’t have been that bad.
I bit into one of the uneaten pastries, trying to disprove Alex’s dramatics, but I ended up spitting it out. The taste was indescribable. It tasted like expired soy milk. The taste–it hit me. The expired milk. I’d forgotten to throw out.
I threw the muffin back in the tin, rubbing my mouth with the back of my hand.
Damon, sighed a relieved sigh that turned to a small laugh. “I agree.” He tossed his muffin into a nearby tin. “You reckon we can give one to Graham?” he added.
The last of the questions were asked by the interviewer and Damon answered them, while I remained sitting on his lap, trying not to make a fool of myself. Damon’s hands toyed with my fingers as he answered, as if I were the key to access all of his profound responses.
When the press conference finally began, Damon didn’t sit down without causing a bit of a ruckus by pointing and blowing small kisses at his “wife”.
From where I sat, I was sure my flushed expression was very much visible to Damon. The question started normal enough, about the band, what made this album different from the other ones, and why it was worth a listen. Each of the members did their fair share of answering, but was mainly the frontman of the band doing all the talking. Unfortunately, it didn’t take too long for most of the questions to shift entirely to his “relationship” with me rather than the album the band had spent the past year working on.
That was English journalism for you.
Going out for drinks was basically mandatory, a celebratory unwind after today. Damon and I sat on the barstools in front of the bar, the others chose to do their evening drinking towards the back of the bar.
Damon laughed at his own joke, which for the most part was unfunny, but he was too pissed out of his mind to care. His drunken antics had me laughing more than I really should’ve.
“Another round for my wife, then?” he slurred.
“Your wife, uh?” I shook my head, my own drunkenness omitting a giggle from within me. “I don’t see a ring on my finger.” I flashed my hand in his face.
“You’ll get one soon. A big one.”
I smirked, leaning close, my knee brushed against his. “Oh yeah?” I egged on.
Damon nodded, “Can’t have anyone thinking I’m a shite husband.”
“Too late for that,” I said. “I already think so. I don’t recall when you last took me on a date.”
“Are you saying you wanna go out with me?” Damon leaned close, one hand rested on my thigh.
Damon chuckled.We were close–closer than we probably should have been, his warm breath pecked at my skin. He tilted his head, studying me with a fascination that could only be described as boyish.
“You’re bloody beautiful, y’know that?” He muttered, his voice held sincerity. He gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You are too.” I didn’t know why I said it, it was almost involuntary.
My response seemed to have evoked something within him. His gaze darkened; his aura was magnetic. Before I could process it, his hand cradled my face, his calloused fingers stroking my cheek in a manner that was rough with an edge of carefulness. As he pulled me close, a soft shiver ran down my spine. The way we moved, it was something we couldn’t understand. His lips met mine halfway. Tender, soft with a sliver of certainty. A small part of me knew there was no guarantee that I’d remember this by the time the hangover hits tomorrow morning–I wasn’t certain Damon would either, but honestly, I didn’t care. That was tomorrow me’s problem to deal with.
