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sissytobitch10seconds · 1 year ago

Text

Blue and White

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy Summary: Viktor Hargreeves in ordinary in everything but his love life. While everyone around him is getting pushed and pulled towards their soulmates, his world has remained shrouded in black and white his entire life. He knows that it will stay that way, too. At least he has one unique thing about him to try and start a conversation with his siblings when he attends their father's funeral. Warnings: Angst, canon-typical child abuse, and mentions of toxic relationships Word Count: 6,092 Ship(s): Five Hargreeves/Viktor Hargreeves

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A/N: So I really struggled with choosing a prompt for this one and eventually I went to my mutual ( @lovely-number-7 ) and they helped me choose one! I really liked how this turned out even if it was, once again, very long in exposition and world building and very small in actual fiktoring. I promise that one day I'm gonna fix that, lol. I hope that you all enjoy and please feel free to ask me about the AU if you want in the comments! Stay sissy and bitchy everyone <3

Year of Fiktor

Blue and White

An Umbrella Academy Fanfiction

A Five Hargreeves/Viktor Hargreeves Fanfiction

By Sissytobitch10seconds

AU of your choice - time travel - meet cute/blind date - “you’re the only one I could turn to for help” - storm - vampire/werewolf/DC vs vampires AU

At thirteen years old, Viktor Hargreeves lost his best friend and learned that he had super powers within the same twenty-four hours.

Due to both of those monumental events happening on top of each other he remembered every moment from that day with breathtaking clarity. The morning was the blurriest part, since he had always been slow to wake up and his brain was clouded with the medicine his mother had given him the night prior. He had shoved on his clothes and then trudged down to the dining room with all six of his siblings like he had done since he was big enough to get himself dressed.

They had gathered around the table, standing behind the seats assigned to them while waiting for their father. It had been before they had gotten names, each of them receiving a list of gendered names from their home countries. Ben and Luther had chosen theirs but everyone else was still poking through their list and trying out names to figure out which fit best. They still went by numbers outside of the classroom where their mother and teacher were happy to indulge them in such trivial matters, unlike their father. The odd numbers were on the right and the even on the left, with Viktor sitting at the end of the table so he was directly across from their adoptive father.

Eventually they had been allowed to sit down when Reginald took his place. He barely paid them any mind as they shuffled into their seats and began to poke at whatever had been served to them. Diego and Klaus had both been on the tail end of a growth spurt so they inhaled their food faster than should have been possible without choking. Luther and Allison were eating with refined poise, so much that it was annoying and aggravating for everyone else at six in the morning. Ben and Viktor never had much of an appetite so were shuffling the food around their plates like they were hoping it would go away if they did so for long enough. Five was toying with the knife that he had no doubt stolen from from Diego the night prior.

The silence had stretched on until their father finished his morning cup of tea. He hated caffeine, that much they all knew, but Viktor was also sure that there was no way he suddenly became awake after the murky liquid was consumed without it.

Five was the one to finally break the silence. He usually was, unable to keep his ideas from bubbling up inside of him and spilling out into the open air despite their father’s strictness about it. Viktor knew that the silence itched at a part of his brain neither of them knew enough about science to name yet, which is why he only jumped a little bit when the tip of the knife was dug about an inch into the wood of their morning dining table.

“I want to time travel,” Five had snarled as he turned towards his father. His eyes had looked to Viktor for just a moment, shining with desperation and that fire that he got when he had made a break through on their school work.

“No,” Reginald had immediately replied. There had been something in his voice other than the usual annoyance that he had when his children were speaking with him. They knew that their father was a bit of a recluse, always hiding away in his office unless he had to monitor their training or needed to be presented in front of a crowd. He didn’t like spending time with them when there were better things, his words, that he could be doing. Viktor was certain, especially after he became an adult, that was why all of their meals were taken with lessons or silently. When he spoke this time, he sounded partially annoyed but in the way that Pogo became after Klaus asked his thousandth purposefully obtuse question during their lessons.

“Why not? I know that I can do it,” Five had immediately shot back. He had removed his hand from where it had been white-knuckling around the dagger. They had snapped back and forth at each other for a while longer before Five had begun to use his power to teleport to different spots in their dining room.

Then suddenly he had stormed out of the house, leaving behind the echoing noise of the front latch bouncing around the walls.

Viktor had been distressed for the rest of the day, borderline inconsolable. He had bolted from the table to try and follow after his brother but Luther had stopped him before he had even fully gotten down the hall. He had been returned to the classroom where they were all going to be taking their lessons only to sit and stare at the desk where Five should have been, sobbing.

Grace had to give him a double dose of his medication since she had claimed that his nerves were getting the better of him. He had trusted her, he had always trusted her back then because she was the only mother that he had ever known. He had been moved back to his own room and told to wait until someone came to get him. He had known that there would have been very strong consequences if he didn’t so he listened and laid on his bed. He drifted in and out of the worst sleep of his life until his mother brought him lunch and he ate alone.

During the afternoon, he sat near the window, having moved his desk chair to do so. His eyes had felt glazed and his insides hollow in a way that they never had before. He didn’t have separation anxiety from his siblings, they went away too much for that to be the case. Something about Five leaving that morning had struck something deep inside of him that he didn’t have the words to name. It felt feral, all consuming, and overwhelmingly intense.

He had stared at every minute movement of the grass waving in the evening breeze and the leaves fluttering over the baked earth towards the corners of the yard where they would get caught. He desperately wanted to find anything that meant Five was going to come back for him or return to the house at all. Something in the very back of his mind had understood that was going to be more complicated than he originally thought. He had never been able to name it and he still couldn’t to the present day.

He had taken his dinner alone in his room like his other meal. Grace had returned around bedtime with another dose of the medication that he had been given in earlier in the morning before he realized that something was horrifyingly wrong.

Viktor didn’t know what it was. That was the only place that the memories of that day had gotten hazy in the slightest. He remembered bolting up from his chair and clinging to his mother like he was a lost toddler being reunited with his family. He had wet her skirt with tears and snot as he blabbered incoherently, apparently his volume raising so loudly that his father had to come and intervene.

Reginald was a distant man but he didn’t like seeing his children hurt. The way that he protected them was strange and upsetting to many, but comforting to them when they didn’t know any better. They were all starved for his validation and any form of reassurance that they could get from him, so his methods back then had seemed justified.

When he had realized how distressed Viktor was about with both his brother’s disappearance and what he had reported was a very vivid nightmare due to a side effect of the mild sedative he had been given, Reginald had called in Allison. She had stood shyly behind him for a while until he had given her the fateful order that still rung through Viktor’s head whenever he had the recurring dream he could never remember. “Number Three, please inform your sister that she has never seen color and simply had a nightmare. Then return to your room and go to bed as you were instructed to earlier this evening.”

After that he had turned on his heel and left the room. Viktor could remember hearing the sound of his cane matching with the thumping of his shoes. Something deep inside of him panicked when he saw the look that took over his sister’s face. They had never been close enough for him to annoy her into getting rumored the same way that Diego and Klaus were, but she had come to enjoy her power quite a lot since the Academy debuted. He knew that she was going to embellish the rumor that had just been co-signed by their father.

She knelt down in front of him and then opened her mouth to speak. That was the most vivid part of the memory for the violinist. He remembered the cool of the wood floor ebbing through his knee socks and soaking into the exposed skin of his thigh from where his skirt was just a little too short. The robotic motions of his mother’s fingers carding through his hair to get some of the strands off of his face from where they were sticking to his tear-streaked cheeks. The feeling of his shirt pulling too tight on his hips and shoulders, the uncomfortableness of the collar and blazer on his neck.

He could see Allison kneeling in front of him as she said, “I heard a rumor that you had never seen color before because you’re extraordinary enough to have dreamed about it.”

The bitterness in her words said it all. She had done what her father had said, but something about the way that she had phrased the rumor had broken something else inside of him. Viktor knew that Allison hadn’t meant to and she would have gone back to change her wording a thousand times over if she knew the importance of it, but the damage had already been done.

The end of what she had said in her second rumor counteracted the first that she had given him when they were young, which had brought back the memory for Viktor and upset him even more.

A flurry of things had happened, including a hole developing in the wall and more tears rushing down Viktor’s face. It had ended with Allison and Viktor standing in front of Reginald’s desk, then Allison being lectured for her recklessness at not doing exactly what he had asked her to. Then Viktor was alone as his father detailed the fact that he did have powers but he was a danger to society so had to keep them locked up. He had been told about what they were and why the medication he was on was so important to take.

Viktor’s life had been the same but somehow different than it had been before. He got a minute amount of training from Pogo and Reginald, mostly just yoga and anxiety exercises to try and make sure that his emotions never got too out-of-hand to the point that the medication would stop working. The formula had also changed a couple of times since he had realized that he had powers, allowing him to feel more while still making it impossible to do what he had naturally been gifted with.

---

He had lived his entire life knowing that he had powers and thinking back to that strange daydream that had caused it all to happen. The rumor had made it so that he didn’t remember what it was about, nor did he really want to since he had been so traumatized by it at the time. Some part of him was still curious about the idea that he had somehow met his soulmate’s eyes enough in that dream to see the world in color.

Now that he was nearing his thirties, he knew a lot of people that had met their soulmates and most of them had gotten married or were living with them. It was very common for the universe, or whatever higher power someone believed in, to bring them closer to their soulmate so that they inevitably met. It was incredibly rare for someone to die of old age without having met the other half of their being, even if sometimes it took up until someone was in their fifties for it to happen.

Being surrounded by soulmate pairs made Viktor wonder if he was ever going to meet his own soulmate. He had gone on all of the trips and visited all of the new stores in town, which was the advice that he had gotten from some of the people in his orchestra when they told him about how they had met their own soulmates. Nothing had worked and the world remained in simple white-and-black. He didn’t notice and didn’t mind it most days, but certain things set off the feeling of wrongness in the back of his brain that he always tried to attribute to the rumor that Allison had cast over him when they were teenagers.

Not finding his soulmate was a sticking point on that particular day, however, because he was going to be returning back to his childhood home so that he could attend his father’s wake. His siblings were all happy with their soulmates nowadays, which left Viktor as the only one who had a gaping hole in his life where another person should have been.

For the last couple of months he had been pursuing someone romantically to try and combat that emptiness that he had felt ever since his best friend left but there was only so much that he could do to try and mask the hurt it had left. Leonard was sweet but expected them to move too fast and got annoying whenever Viktor shot down his advances because he was uncomfortable with them.

He shook himself from his thoughts as he finally arrived in front of the home that had been his cage for eighteen years. It had only ever felt like a cage when Five had left, though.

Viktor paid his fair to the cab driver and then got out. He slung his violin onto his back as he stood in front of the wrought iron fence, his eyes tracing over the umbrellas as they had done every time he had come home from college for the breaks. He had even taken summer classes and joined a smaller orchestra during his college years to avoid being exactly where he was as much as he could.

There was no delaying the inevitable, however, so he pressed the gate open and then hopped up the steps to the landing. He paused for a moment there as he tried to figure out if he should knock, ring the doorbell, or just enter since it was technically still his home even if he had moved out after getting his first job. He settled on knocking and then waited as he listened to the sounds inside of the house. There was arguing coming from the closest sitting room to the door but it didn’t sound like any powers were being used, which meant that it was probably Luther and Ben talking about their newest hobby. He could also hear clanking from the kitchen a few feet beyond that where Diego and Ben’s soulmate were helping Grace in the kitchen.

The door swung open a little while after that and Viktor was met with the being that had acted more like a father than the man that had adopted him ever had. “Young Master Viktor, you’ve finally decided to come and visit us,” he said, though his tone was lighthearted and teasing.

He chuckled weakly and kicked at the ground with the toe of his chucks. “I know, I’m sorry, Pogo. I just never really felt welcome back when he was alive. I promise that I’ll come and visit you both more now that he’s not lurking around.”

“I always did enjoy your wit even if it was always directed towards your father,” Pogo shook his head the way every disappointed parent had since the beginning of time. He moved to the side and gestured into the house with his head, “Your mother just finished making lunch if you want to come and join us.”

“Who else is here?” Viktor asked as he stepped over the threshold of his childhood home. He had been right in his hypothesis, the light and love from his siblings and their respective partners made the entire place feel more chipper and lively than it had the entire time that Reginald had been occupying it. Now that the door wasn’t in the way of the soundwaves, he could hear even more lively conversation happening from another room in the house, where he supposed they were going to be eating lunch. It was one of the rooms that he had never been allowed into since he wasn’t part of the Umbrella Academy, even after he found out that he did have powers.

“Each one of your siblings and their soulmates. Miss Allison and Master Diego brought their children as well,” Pogo said as he shut the front door.

Viktor had just removed his jacket to place it over the only hook on the wall left for him to do so when the tiny four-year-old they were just talking about rounded the corner. “Uncle Viktor!” she screamed as she crossed the space between them and then flung her arms around Viktor’s waist hard enough to knock him back half a step.

Despite the melancholy that had been hanging heavy in his heart all day, he was happy to see his niece. He had only seen her once, the most recent Christmas that they had when Allison was out in New York shooting something over the holidays and thought to do a visit. Christmas was his busiest time of year so he was never able to attend any of the gatherings his siblings always held in other parts of the world. “Hey Claire,” he laughed.

He leaned down and then wormed his arms under her own so that she was hugging his shoulders and neck instead. He picked her up and situated her on his hip despite her already growing stature and his height. “Are you happy to be back in New York with your mom?”

“Yeah,” she chirped with a nod. “I got to see Uncle Luther where he makes spaceships!” her eyes were glittering with the kind of childlike excitement that Viktor could never remember having the privilege to possess. He wanted to protect that in his niece more than anything in the whole world since it was likely he would never be able to do that with his own kids.

“Claire?” Allison called before her daughter had the chance to continue blabbering to Viktor about what her trip had been like so far. He would have been happy to hide out in the hall and talk to his niece until the wake was over, but the universe had other plans.

“Sorry, she heard me and decided that she had to come say hi,” Viktor said as he carefully put the little girl back down on the ground.

“I found Uncle Viktor, Mommy! You said that he wasn’t going to come but then he did so that means you owe Uncle Klaus,” Claire blurted. She gave her mother a quick hug and then darted around Allison’s leg, most likely to go tell the information to someone else in the bowels of the house.

Hurt marred his heart, it always had, but that was adding in another scar. “You didn’t think that I was going to come to my own father’s wake? You guys were betting on me not showing up?”

“You haven’t come to a lot of the other things that we’ve had. You haven’t been at anyone’s wedding or come to the holiday stuff that we do. I don’t think that it’s that big of a stretch to assume that you wouldn’t show up to this either, especially not after the kind of relationship that you and Dad had,” Allison replied as she lazily folded her arms over her chest.

Viktor snorted, “First of all, the wedding and holiday stuff was always held in either LA, Dallas, or Chicago and I make a teacher’s salary. Second of all, none of you came to my college graduation, came to visit me after my top surgery, or attended any of the many concerts that I put on even when you were all in town. If we’re talking about fairness then I think it’s pretty fucking fair to say that I’ve given as much as I’ve taken. But, you know, I can leave if you don’t want me here.”

“I want you here,” Luther said from behind Allison. He was standing next to Ben in the doorway of the formal sitting room that they had been talking in when Vitkor arrived. He felt a bit shocked that his brothers had both noticed that he was there and cared enough to interrupt the conversation that he was having with his sister.

Things had been tense, to say the least, between him and Allison ever since the second rumor when they were thirteen. They had gotten in a lot of fights when they were younger and just barely out of their guardian’s hearing. They had been ugly and a lot of very mean things had been said but it was assumed that most of that would blow over once they became adults. When Allison had brought Claire to visit Viktor last year things had been civil, but it was clear it wasn’t always going to be like that.

“Hey Luther,” Viktor smiled fondly. That was one of the things that had made his relationship with his only sister so tense. He and Luther had gotten along very well when they were in college, before Luther transferred to a more specialized school instead of continuing on with the first major that he had picked. Allison didn’t like the idea of the brother she favored hanging out with any of their other siblings more than he did her. She had gotten better since she had married her soulmate but not by much.

“How are you doing?” Luther asked. He gave Viktor an awkward side hug and then forced him further into the house so he was closer to the rest of the family.

“Fine. Trying to figure out how to break up with my boyfriend,” he answered with a small shrug. Nothing ever really happened in his life that he thought his family would want to hear about.

Ben poked his head out from the other side of Luther and asked, “Why do you need to break up with your boyfriend?”

He groaned, rolling his eyes. He half wished he hadn’t brought it up because now he was actually going to have to talk about it. There was always a fifty/fifty chance that something he said about his life would be ignored which is why he had done it in the first place. “He thinks that we can move in together when we’ve only been dating for three months. He keeps trying to pressure me into making huge relationship decisions that I am definitely not ready for. I just need to find the right words to break it off without him flipping out and it getting messy.”

“I love messy,” Klaus grinned as he walked out of the dining room and then wrapped around Viktor like a snake coming in for the kill to hug him.

“I don’t,” the smaller brother replied, his voice muffled by Klaus’ denim shirt.

“Where have you been? I feel like we haven’t seen you in forever and ever,” Klaus whined as he wound his arm around Viktor’s back and began to steer him into the throbbing mass that was the rest of his family preparing for lunch.

“I was busy. I had a bunch of concerts that I had to do and I took on another twenty students,” Viktor explained, a little too defensively for who he was talking to. Klaus lived in Dallas with his husband, Dave, and was notorious for falling out of contact with his siblings.

“Another twenty? Do you ever get a second to just breathe?” Jill, Ben’s soulmate, asked as she walked over so that she could meet her husband. “I mean, I get busy when I take on more than five clients that have overlapping dates but never that many.”

“It’s a little bit different when its just an hour lesson every week or two. I barely work as much as the average American does. And I needed a little bit more money for the rest increase that my landlord decided to surprise me with for my birthday,” Viktor sighed.

“They’re making you pay more for that dump?” Ben asked, wrinkling his nose. He lived in Chicago with his wife but came back to The City often so that he could visit with the siblings that still lived there. Out of the six of them that were left, only three lived where they had grown up while the rest had left. Even then, Diego spent half of his time with his wife, Lila, in London with her family or traveling to spend time training other stunt actors.

“It’s the only place I know outside of here. Plus I grew up in a glorified broom closet Klaus stole from me after I left for college. My apartment is just… homey,” Viktor defended. He had been meaning to look for another place to live but some part of him, the part that had been silenced by layers of rumor, thought that if he moved around too much then it would decrease the chances of Five being able to find him.

“Don’t be mean,” Jill chided her husband after giving her brother-in-law the time to finish talking. She then ushered him over to the chairs that were open at the end of the table and Viktor was left blissfully alone for a moment.

He sat down in the single chair at the end of the table, where he had always sat when he was a child. He felt like the other again when he was surrounded by everyone and their growing families. Ben had Jill, who was a fiercely intelligent and kind lawyer who loved him to the ends of the earth but pushed him to be better. Klaus had Dave, a Jewish veteran that let him get away with just enough to keep the recovering addict happy. Diego had Lila, an international nature advocate leaning towards nuisance that kept him on his toes and happier than any of them deserved to be, and their son Stanely, who had been adopted three years ago and was just about to turn twelve. Luther had Sloane, who was a professor of physics at the university in The City that they had met at when Luther was still going to school with Viktor. Allison had Ray, who was a civil rights lobbyist, and their daughter Claire.

“Viktor, I’m so glad that you were able to join us,” Grace beamed as she walked into the room with two serving dishes grasped in her hands. Viktor stood up and took one from her so that he could give her a kiss on the cheek. There was a flurry of movement as all the food was placed on the table and then they all took their seats around it.

---

Eventually they melted back into the rhythm that they always had with each other, forgetting that they were there for what was supposed to be a somber occasion. They caught up on each other’s lives and made fun of the small things that they did, something that they had always done. They had a brief moment of respectful silence when it was time to say a few words about Reginald. No one really wanted to, not even Jill or Sloane and they were the people that saw the best in everyone.

Viktor had been the last to arrive and the first to leave when he realized that he just couldn’t bear to be around them when they were all being so happy and chipper and in love with each other. He didn’t want to bring down the joy that they had by reminding them that he had never found his soulmate, that he was still walking around in a black and white haze, but he also couldn’t endure it anymore. He said goodbye to Claire and Stan first, then sought out his mother and teacher to tell them he was leaving as well. He left his siblings and their spouses alone so that they could realize he was gone in their own time. He had spent long enough being separate from them that he didn’t really care what they would think of him leaving that early in the day.

Instead, he found his favorite bar that was just a block away from his house and ordered one of his favorite drinks. Viktor didn’t like being anywhere past the point of tipsy but he needed a small balm for the aching in his chest. It wasn’t something that he allowed himself to do often but he figured that since his father had just died he had an excuse. He sat in the back and sipped on his amaretto sour for half an hour until he felt pleasantly buzzed and paid his tab.

He walked back home with his fingers tapping out the rhythm of his most recent piece. It was the one that he was going to be playing the solo for when he auditioned for first chair again later that spring. He had been stuck playing second for almost three years, not because of his own inability to excel at his instrument but because of something going on between the conductor and the current first chair.

Thinking about Helen Cho had made him frustrated once more by the time that he had reached his front door. He was mocking her under his breath as he stuck the key in the lock to get in, “Oh I’m so cool that I can buy my way in to having the same position in the same stupid orchestra because I have a real soulmate with a job that makes lots of money. I’m so much better than that stupid Viktor and his soulmate-less life.”

He slammed the door behind him hard enough that he knew he was going to get a noise complaint from the crotchety old man that lived across the hall from him. He was glad that he was already looking for a new place to live since that man had been looking for a way to get Viktor evicted from his home for months.

“You should have locks on your window,” said a voice from inside of his apartment.

Fear shot through his body fast enough that he immediately felt ten times more sober than he had a second prior. He turned around so that he could see who was talking and then felt the air be stolen from his lungs while his heart was still beating up in his ears.

The man was at least six feet tall and he carried himself like he knew it. He had broad shoulders but a slender form that made the suit he was wearing look the best it could ever hope to be. It was a dark material with a gray vest that was adored with black embroidered flowers. The man’s haircut was long on one side so that his dark chocolate locks would fall down in front of his dazzling green eyes. He had sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline that brought attention to where his Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down in his throat.

“What the Hell?” Viktor asked, his brain so full of adrenaline and the shock of losing his pleasant alcohol-induced buzz that he could barely realize what was happening.

“I know that I’ve been gone for almost two decades but don’t tell me that you’ve completely forgotten me,” the man replied as he stepped towards Viktor.

The smaller of the two examined the way that his hands were tucked into his pockets and how his body was leaning, which only cemented who it was in his head. “Five?” he asked, utterly breathless.

It had never felt real. Some part of him, the part that was devoid of hope and full of sadness, had always known that his brother was never going to return to him like he had always wished for. Some part of him had known that Five was unable to come back to him and wasn’t even in the same realm of existence as him.

“Hello,” he replied, a sheepish flush taking over his features. “Long time no see.”

The feelings overtook him before he was even able to realize what they were. He reached up and placed both of his hands on either side of Five’s suit lapels to bring him down so that he could crash their lips together. Tears were streaking down his face much like they had been when Five had left all those years ago.

Electric rightness passed between the two of them where their lips met. Every place that their bodies pressed against the other’s seem to carry with it a shock of pleasantness that made Viktor feel like he had slipped back into the correct part of the universe. His chest felt heavy and his heart was finally beating in the proper measure. He was warm all over in a way that felt like curling up with a blanket during a thunderstorm or drinking his favorite lavender chamomile tea.

“How fucking dare you leave me?” he whispered, hiccuping out a sob when they separated from each other so he could heave in breath.

“I didn’t want to. I’ve been working to get back to you ever since, my love,” Five replied. During their kiss he had brought one of his hands up to cup Viktor’s hip and the other to brush across the rivulets of tears down his pale face. “I have worked tirelessly to get back to you, my beloved soulmate.”

“Soulmate?” Viktor exhaled like the word was somehow forbidden for him. He had been thinking about it all day since he had been around everyone with their respective other halves, but this was different. “Five, I’m not your soulmate.”

“Viktor, look at me,” he whispered as he tilted the other man’s face up slightly so that their eyes met. “You have the most beautiful hazel eyes I have ever had the pleasure of gazing upon. Your cheeks are red when you’re embarrassed but only over your nose and under your eyes. Your hair is the darkest chocolate brown. I can see color, but only when I’m with you. I haven’t been able to see color in the last seventeen years that I’ve been away from you.”

“Why did you leave me? Where we you? God, Allison really fucked me over,” he blurted out all at the same time. He was stumbling over his words because of how right it felt to be in Five’s arms, and how bright the world looked now that it was doused in vibrant colors. The way that he had lost his color came back to him, his mind replaying the memory it had lost of the tunnel of brightness slowly closing in until everything was white-black-gray.

“It’s complicated, beloved. I never meant to leave you and I don’t plan on it now. With Reginald finally gone, we can live as we were meant to. If you want me,” Five sounded a little insecure towards the end.

To assure him that his advances were very much wanted, Viktor brought their lips together in another passionate kiss. “I want you to promise me that you will never leave me again.”

“I promise,” Five murmured, pouring his entire soul into the words as he held his soulmate as close as their atoms would allow.

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residents-of-the-darkforest · 2 years ago

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Dark Forest Resident: Pigeonfang

Aliases / Nicknames: Pidge, Darling, Daddy, Papa

Gender: tom

Sexuality: polysexual, pan-demiromantic

Family: Mousestar (mother), Eelfoot (father), Katniss (mate), Swankit, Magpiekit (daughters), Grousemane, Egretkit, Starlingkit, Buzzardkit (sons)

Other Relations: Frogstreak (mentor)

Clan: RiverClan (formerly)

Rank: warrior, loner

Characteristics: lovable, loyal, goofy, caring, a devoted family man

Number of Victims: 5 (accidently)

Number of Murders: 5 (accidently)

Murder Method: crushing, suffocation

Known Victims: Egretkit, Swankit, Magpiekit, Starlingkit, Buzzardkit

Victim Profile: his kits

Cause of Death: starvation

Cautionary Tale: N/A

Story:

Anyone who knew Pigeonfang would tell you that he was a lover, not a fighter.

Even as a kit and an apprentice, he was more preoccupied with finding "the one" than becoming the best warrior ever. Other cats whispered that it was the result of his parents' influence--as the only kit of the leader and medicine cat of Riverclan, they were bound to place bad ideas in his head. But Pigeonfang didn't care--that's just how he was.

It wasn't a surprise to anyone when Pigeonfang fell in love with a loner named Katniss, who had taken refuge in Riverclan to heal after losing her tail to a monster, and left the Clan to live as a loner with her.

He missed his parents, but he was much happier as a loner, wandering freely with the love of his life at his side. Not much time had passed before Katniss became pregnant, and soon she had given birth to six wonderful kits, who Pigeonfang adored with every fiber of his being.

He gave them Clan names. Grousekit, Magpiekit, Buzzardkit, Starlingkit, Egretkit, and Swankit, so they would always have a piece of their Clan heritage with them.

The next few moons of Pigeonfang's life were the happiest he had ever been. But then Leaf-bare came around, and the blizzard hit. Snow blanketed the ground as far as the eye could see, and the chill seeped into the stone of their cave home. But he had to at least try and hunt. Otherwise his precious kits would starve!

The hunt was long and arduous, but Pigeonfang was eventually able to catch a squirrel, which would at least be enough to feed the kits. By the time he had gotten back to the den, night had long since fallen, his bones were aching, and he was just so tired.

He set the squirrel down and immediately flopped down to sleep.

He could have sworn he heard a crunching noise, but he was so tired, he decided not to deal with it until the morning. That was exactly what happened when, come sunrise. a shriek of horror echoed in his ears, and he looked up to see Katniss staring at him in horror and Grousekit hiding behind his mother's legs, staring in confusion.

Pigeonfang mumbled sleepily, asking Katniss what the big deal was. But as his body shifted, he heard a strange noise. Like crunching leaves, but not quite. He stood up and looked down, and his world immediately shattered.

The bodies of the rest of his kits were lying in a crumpled pile, fur matted with blood. Immediately the dots connected. Pigeonfang tried to tell Katniss that it was an accident, but she wouldn't believe him, and honestly, Pigeonfang knew in his heart that she was right.

With one last hiss to stay away from Grousekit, she grabbed Pigeonfang's last precious kit by the scruff of his neck and whirled away into the snow. Pigeonfang chased after them, crying out for Katniss to stop, but he lost sight of them almost immediately.

That didn't stop him from trying to find Grousekit again, though. He kept on searching, and searching, and searching, but he never could. The older he got, the more determined he became, neglected to groom himself or even eat. He became skinnier and skinnier, but still he persisted.

Finally, many moons later, the scent he had been searching for for so long finally reached him. But it was intermingled with other scents too. Pigeonfang tried to leap at the rogues, but his muscles, weak from a lack of nutrients, buckled beneath him.

All he could do was stare in horror as he watched the rogues leap at his last surviving kit's throat, and the death would be all his fault again...

But then two more cats leaped out, Shadowcan cats, one reddish-brown and one golden, and they drove back the rogues without effort.

Pigeonfang watched as Grouse talked to the ShadowClan cats--Myrtlewing and Aldereyes--and listened to Grouse agree to join Shadowclan. As he watched the trio walk away, he let his body go limp and smiled. His son would be with the Clans now, safe and sound. As long as his son was safe, he could die happily.

And die happily he did.

Additional Information:

--Submission by @starfalcon555

--Yes, Grousemane's siblings all having bird prefixes was intentional! The whole family has a bird theme, with Katniss being named after Katniss Everdeen, who has her own bird symbolism :3.

--Grousemane wasn't with his siblings that fateful night because he had a nightmare and went to his mom for comfort. Had he not had that nightmare or woken up a few minutes later, he would be dead.

--The kits were probably all around two moons old when they died and Katniss and Grouse left Pigeonfang, so Grousemane probably forgot about Pigeonfang over time.

--Had the rest of the kits survived, [Star] thinks they all would have become Clan cats, with Buzzardkit and Starlingkit joining Grousemane in ShadowClan, Magpiekit going to either ThunderClan or SkyClan, and Egretkit and Swankit reuniting their grandparents in RiverClan. Their warrior names would have been Buzzardblaze, Starlingstrike, Magpieshade, Egretfeather, and Swanstream :3

--This makes the upcoming scene of Grouse meeting them in Myrtle and Alder more interesting..

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rainbowmurderhorse · 2 years ago

Note

Do you mind explaining why this hasn't been posted yet? (At least as far as I've seen, my phone keeps glitching when I scroll too far on peoples accounts).

If you say you have a handful of Naga OC's, do they have names? Are they all based off different types of snakes? Which one is your favorite if you have one? (Bonus questions: Do you have any lore with them, or world at which they come from?) HAVE A SUPER DUPER DAY, FRIENDO!~

hello there! Thank you very much for the ask!! Plz forgive me though this might get a lil long! As for the answer to the first question the simplest answer is that I'm a mix of scared,embarrassed, a lot of low motivation levels and my mental health being quite bad as of late but I'm gonna be trying to change that this year and post more even if it's just something small like writing some lore tidbits about my OCs or if I'm feeling brave and I like a picture or two I make I'll post it!

Putting this under a read more cause it did get long!

Now onto the next question which is Yes! They do! 5 of them have names one of them sadly do not and only three of them are based off of real life snakes in a sense.

Mike is my oldest one (I.E. I made him when I was much younger) and while I need to heavily revamp or retire him he was based off a small green snake that I once saw in a picture.

Sakura and Alto meanwhile are somewhat newer and based of an albino snake that I also once saw in a picture this one wore cute lil hats if I remember correctly. Alto is pure white with red eyes Sakura on the other hand has pink eyes and splotches/markings on his tail (I need to draw my snakes more often tbh but I do have this for reference for Sakura)

The other three aren't really based on anything i iust went with what colors i thought I'd like the unnamed one's scales are red,Basil's scales are blue(they used to have red diamonds on the back but I need to redesign him a bit so idk if I'm gonna keep that or not)and for Kota I still need to come up with his color scheme.

For question Three I do love all my OCs don't get me wrong but sometimes I hyperfixate on two or three depending on my mood but if I had to Pick a favorite It'd probably be Basil as he's been the most used to RPs with my friends. He's followed Closely though by Sakura and Alto. I need to find more time to work on the other three.

As for Lore here's what I got for my boys (I'll try to keep it to a short version):

Basil: He lives by himself deep within the jungle and he works as a healer for all who need his help and can use magic (he can give himself legs if he needs too as an example). He tries his best to live a quiet and peaceful life but sometimes he does get dragged into things Depending on the universe he's in. He's an oc I that can fit into many different AUs. Basil can also be a little bit of a grump but he's really kind and you're close enough with him he'll gladly let you rest in his coils and he'll try to keep you as warm as he can.

Sakura: He is the butler/Right hand of Demon Lord/King Luna and takes care of his Master's home and affairs while his master is busy with other things. The two live in a town that mostly populated by monsters n the like and it's Luna's job to protect the town. Sakura was hired by Luna and he's been happily serving him for years, He's usually a cheerful and sweet guy who does his best to be friendly and welcoming to all their guests but he does have a hidden dark side that Luna is slightly intimidated by when it comes out as Luna is more used to the chill side of Sakura.

Alto: The Demon King of Medicine and Alchemy as a man(or well Naga) of Science he lives in a somewhat dis/gaea-esce world (aka the Netherworld or demon land) and is one of the many kings in this world. He is one of the most peaceful kings and due to him being a neutral party his kingdom is one of the largest and safest to be in because the last time someone tried to start a war with him all of the offending Kingdom's crops mysterious died and the water supply was poisoned to the point that if you stuck your finger in it you'd be dead in the next hour. That was all of Alto's doing and he threatened that he can and would do much worse than that if the war efforts persisted, needless to say all the Kings and Queens agreed that day to never go to war with his kingdom again. But don't worry he helped the offending get back on it's feet and returned the water back to normal.most of his followers and subjects are students of Alchemy,Medicine,Magic,etc and he is usually welcoming of beings of all shapes and sizes ranging from demons to humans and even angels as well.

The most surprising thing about Alto is also one of the most Ironic things about him he's incredibly shy especially around new people and is almost always internally freaking out(think Tam/aki from M/y He/ro or Sto/rk from Sto/rm Haw/ks((who I slightly based him off of)) ) People don't know this about him though unless they're incredibly close to Alto as there are very few people that work with daily with him and even fewer kings n queens who know what the true Alto is like as he almost always has a resting bitch face to put it bluntly and his glare tends to come off rather intense because of it(once he's in a safe, more relaxed environment or around his three closest friends he smiles more and he actually acts and looks quite soft). He does listen to his subjects though and does his best to fix any major problems that crop up and if his schedule isn't swamped he'll teach some classes at the local colleges plus much to his citizens surprise he's rather patient and kind when teaching.

Kota: is a captured specimen and was being experimented on by an evil corporation and that's sadly I have for him

Mike and the Unnamed Naga oc sadly don't have a sold story either but they will one day.

Sorry this got so long but thank you reading this if you did I deeply appreciate it!! And I hope that you have a super awesome day too!!!~^^

#Rainbow Unicorn's menagerie of OCs #The tired Unicorn answers #Sakura the Naga #Basil the Naga #Alto The Demon King of Medicine and Alchemy #Rain talks about their OCs #Kota the Naga

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karasuno-volley · 4 years ago

Text

HAIKYUU THIRD YEARS + SAYING I LOVE YOU FOR THE FIRST TIME

( ft. aoba johsai + karasuno )

plot: how the third years say i love you for the first time.

pairing: seijoh / karasuno third years + gn!reader (slight fem!reader implied for asahi + oikawa)

a/n: fair warning, i did google personalities for makki/mattsun so i can get a sense of how they act. :) shoutout to haikyuu wiki. liking/reblogging welcome, no reposting though! also, hmu if you want to be put on a taglist !! love, volley.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE ?

Oikawa Tooru would never admit it, but he is helplessly in love with you. He isn’t sure why, but this feeling comes in waves. One day it is subtle and stirring in the back of his mind, the others, when your lips collide and your breath is hot on his neck, it’s a tsunami. Now, with your head in his lap, the movie you had chosen plays idly in the background. Neither of you are paying attention-- you’re distracted by his long fingers from one of his hands in both of your own, and Oikawa’s distracted as his free hand runs through your hair. It is a soft moment; Oikawa feels like he’s drowning, but in a way that resembles falling asleep. He knows he has to say it now, to say it first. If he has to find similarities here, perhaps it’s breaking the surface to see the sun above. Perhaps it’s the first breath he’s ever taken, and exhaled with a soft-- “I love you.” You hear him, of course. It’s quiet and lovely and wraps your heart in velvet. You find his eyes, kiss the pads of his fingers to your lips. What is there to say? “I love you, too.” Just like that, Oikawa is drowning in you.

He does not mince words, you know this. Iwaizumi was calm and supportive, even when you decide to get ice cream in the dead of winter. He doesn’t order anything with you, but insists on paying for you. As the pair of you walk idly through a nearby park, he can feel his senses adjusting to you, for the first time in forever. It’s not like he’s never focused on you-- it’s quite the opposite. However, now, with you taking small bites of your mochi and the snow falling into your hair from the looming trees, it’s all he can do to not look at you. He’s distracted by your lips as you speak, your eyes as they convey all sorts of emotions. Iwaizumi can always read you, that’s his strength. But now, at least to you, he doesn’t seem to even be listening to your story.

You stop suddenly on the walking path, and he does, too, though obviously startled. “Are you okay?” You ask. His eyes don’t leave you. “I love you.” He says it like he’s dumbfounded, as if stumbling across an answer he’s been looking for for far too long. You only smile, picking up one of your mochi from its container and putting it between his lips. When he bites down, it’s strawberry. He can’t stop himself from thinking that it matches the taste of your lips perfectly.

It wasn’t like the pair of you were doing anything special. In fact, it was the opposite. The rain had ruined any plan you had of taking your boyfriend out for a picnic, so you were a bit down on the idea of doing nothing. However, when you walk into his house a bit later after Takahiro had offered the idea of just hanging out, you see it. A checkered blanket, a basket. A few bentos and drinks laid out. “Makki? What is this?” You ask, and you can’t stop a smile. “Uh, a picnic?” He says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Smartass.” You say, but join him anyways, happy to be doing anything other than the ordinary.

You two talk for a few hours, much longer than you had actually planned. You knew you had homework to do, but it really only felt like minutes. “Hey, I have to tell you something.” Makki doesn’t even look at you when he makes his confession, really. Only a few quick glances your way. “I love you.” You sit there for a moment, face blank. He panics, thinking he’s made a mistake. Maybe you don’t feel the same way? He’s about to backtrack horribly, but then you kiss his cheek. When he finally gets a new view of you, you’re blushing, taking another sip of water. “I love you, too.” He’s never seen anything so lovely.

You never knew how funny Mattsun could be until you started dating. Constant cut-and-dry jokes lead to light-hearted dates. It could be a walk in the park, bike rides, a trip to a convenience store: whatever the situation was, it usually led to more laughs than anything else. His teammates didn’t usually get this side of him, and you know this. It’s a savory feeling that you couldn’t get enough of. He never smiled enough, but now that you two are dating, even Oikawa admitted on more than one occasion that something had changed in him for the better.

Now, as he guides you down a cherry-blossom filled path, he’s oddly silent. “Mattsun?” You say, trying to catch up with the boy’s long strides to get a look at his face. You worry something might be wrong, until he says: “You know I love you, right?” You laugh, and then he stops, turns to you. Mattsun’s eyes are lively, bright. A new emotion. “I tell you I love you, and you laugh?” He’s incredulous, but not angry. You pause, your smile slowly morphing into something slightly more like shock. “You… You’re serious?” “Yes!” He says, throwing his hands into the air as he continues walking. You’re a half step behind him as he laughs. “God, I’ve been working up the nerve all week to tell you that!” You step in front of him, hand on his chest to force him to stop moving. You kiss his lips, smiling. “Mattsun, I love you.” You turn, high-tailing it down the sidewalk. He chases you, arms waving in the air like a madman. “Hey! That’s my line!”

“Koushi, please.” You beg, both his hands in your own. “Please? It’s been forever.” Your boyfriend only laughs. “What? We went out three days ago! Besides, we both know we have stuff to do.” “Do we?” You give him the best puppy eyes you can manage. Something in Suga’s expression alters, his eyes turning soft and melted. He sighs, a small smile appearing on his lips. “I…. uh, fine. But we’ll just get ramen or something, okay?” This changes your frown into a fast and easy smile. You kiss his cheek quickly before continuing on past your house and towards the small ramen shop on the corner before you realize Suga isn’t actually following.

His hands in his pockets, he watches you with a dumb smile on his face that hasn’t gone away quite yet. “Hello?” You say after him, turning on your heels before he finally comes back to his senses to catch up to you. “What was that? Lost in thought?” You ask, laughing. “What? No, it’s nothing. I just love you.” Before you could reply, Suga runs past you to beat you to the front doors of the small cafe. “You what?” You call after him, disbelief all over your features. “Come on! You don’t want your ramen to get cold, do you?” “Suga, it’s a restaurant! It’s not going to get cold!” You chase after him, your heart lighter than it’s ever been.

Perhaps he should have known this already, that you’d be upset. He looks at you stupidly, and you have half a mind to hit his shoulder. You don’t, but God, are you close. “Sawamura!” You whine, and Daichi seems to snap out of it. He isn’t used to you calling him anything but Daichi or any number of pet names. “C’mon, darling. Don’t be so upset. It’s just one grade.” He gently takes the exam from your hands, looking it over. In fact, he isn’t. His eyes glance towards you the whole time, watching as you pull your hair up, run your hands down your face. “What am I supposed to tell my mom? If I don’t pass this class, I…”

“Your mom will understand.” Daichi says, slowly handing the paper back to you. You take it, adding a few creases to its smooth surface. “If it makes you feel any better, I still love you.” He isn’t sure why he chooses then to say it. Maybe he wants to see the frown on your face dissipate. Maybe he just wants to hear you say it back. You look around the empty hallway, and find the pair of you alone, before you turn back to your boyfriend. “How’s that supposed to make me feel?” “Hopefully better?” Daichi asks hopefully, a dumb grin on his face.

You did not want to be sick today. That was easier said than done, however, especially with allergy season on the rise. You hadn’t told Asahi you weren’t going to school that day. In fact, the medicine you had taken early in the morning caused you to sleep through most of the day. You only wake from your sleep when there’s a knock at the door, and you rise groggily to answer. When you do, you see Asahi there, sheepishly holding a bag from Shimada Mart. “Hey, I, uh… brought you some stuff?” It wasn’t a question, but it was sure phrased like one. “Asahi, what are you doing here? How did you know?” He smiles, almost a little embarrassed. Normally he wouldn’t show without at least texting to let you know he was coming over. He’d never actually seen you in anything but casual clothes or your school uniform. Your pajama pants were covered in different dogs, a loose white t-shirt a horrible substitute to your favorite blouse.

“You didn’t answer my texts. Can I come in?” “If you want to get sick, sure.” You open the door for him, and Asahi enters, taking his shoes off at the door. He surveys the couch where you had obviously just been resting. “Go lay down.” He nods towards the living room. “I’ll go make you some tea.” You don’t have the strength to argue. When Asahi returns, two cups of tea in hand, you’re already asleep. He sets the cups down as quietly as he can manage, settling himself in by you. His hand takes your own, and you adjust for it easily, even in your sleep, the back of his hand pressed against your lips. He says it, but there’s no way you hear. Asahi doesn’t mind, though. He can always tell you again when you wake up. For now, he leans back, covers you in a blanket, and settles in for a long evening.

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amyscascadingtabs · 3 years ago

Text

the way you keep the world at bay for me

post-the set up, a.k.a jake taking care of hungover amy, hungover amy taking care of sad jake, and mac caring mostly about himself because he’s a baby 😌

read on ao3

Jake doesn't get a lot of sleep that night, and for once, it's not even Mac’s fault. It's not even due to the pizza parlor simulator game either, although he does play a couple of rounds when Amy's finally snoring next to him after ranting to herself about the babysitter’s club for a solid ten minutes, but not even that can fully distract him from the dull sense of doom that's made itself at home deep in his chest.

This is bad. Holt wants to see him tomorrow, and Jake knows there will be consequences. There has to be. There should be. He made a mistake, and he's going to get punished for it, and there is nothing he can do but accept his defeat. He already knows what he has to do; the nerve-wracking thing is the fact that it's still hours away, and his brain is spinning too fast for sleep.

He really wishes he could talk to Amy. She's sleeping on her stomach with her mouth open, arms straight out to the sides like she’s trying to push him out of bed, but he still can’t be mad at her. He hasn’t seen her this drunk since before she got pregnant, and he’s seriously worried about the hangover she’ll be sporting tomorrow, but he also knows she did it for him. Because they’re a team. Because she trusts him, sometimes even when it turns out he was wrong.

He wrongfully arrested someone. The sentence keeps repeating in his head, appears pasted in bold font on the inside of his eyelids if he tries to go to sleep, and displayed in luminescent letters on the ceiling of his bedroom when he gives up and opens his eyes again. He should have known better, has learned his lesson time and time again since his early days of constantly glorifying his job and letting his impulsivity get the best of him, and he still made a mistake.

He just wants someone to tell him it doesn’t make him a bad person. If only Amy wasn’t so drunk he’s scared to wake her up right now, Charles wasn’t so devotedly biased in all questions involving Jake’s role as a detective, and Mac wasn’t, well… so completely unable to grasp any of the concepts involved in the question.

Amy lets out another mighty drunken snore, and Jake hopes she will consider it a testament to his love for her that he doesn’t voice record it. He turns his head instead and picks up his phone to go back to the pizza game. Maybe just a few more virtual customers will be able to lure him to sleep.

He must have fallen asleep eventually, because when Mac does start babbling to himself over the monitor, the morning sun is shining through the windows, and Amy’s stopped snoring. She’s only moaning uncomfortably to herself now, and Jake’s guessing from her strained grimace that the headache has kicked in hard.

“I’ll get you coffee and aspirin as soon as I’ve checked on Mac,” he whispers to her with a kiss to her neck, and he thinks he sees the hint of a smile as she reaches out for him in what’s probably an attempt of a pat on the back, but ends up more of an unintentional slap to his butt. Or maybe she’s still drunk, and it is intentional. It’s hard to tell.

Mac may have no clue about what’s currently going on with Jake, but at least it’s impossible not to smile when he hauls himself up and rocks back and forth on unsteady feet in excitement over the fact that someone’s coming to get him. He greets Jake with that wide grin that shows off all of his four teeth – two up and two down, and they’ve kept everyone up at night for weeks, but they’re so pearly white and cute so maybe it was worth it – and a laugh that’s been Jake’s favorite sound on Earth since the first time he heard it.

“Good morning, bud,” Jake tells his son as he lifts him up in his arms. “What do you say we get you a bottle and mama some coffee? Hmm?”

“Bah,” Mac repeats. Jake decides to give him the benefit of the doubt and say it means he agrees on the bottle.

“Bottle, exactly. You're so smart,” he says, booping his little nose and smiling as it makes Mac giggle. “Let's try another one. Dada.”

There's a tense moment of them both just staring at each other, and then finally, his son goes,

“Bah.”

“One day,” Jake says with a sigh as he carries Mac out of the nursery. “As long as you say me first, okay? We’ll get there. We’ll practice.”

He puts Mac in the high chair while he tries his best to work the coffee machine and the bottle warmer at the same time. It's trickier than to be expected on almost no sleep, but at least he manages to pour the breast milk from the freezer bag into the bottle and not into his coffee this time. He's only made that mistake once (fine, maybe twice, and he kind of liked how sweet it tasted but he's never gonna tell anyone), but he suspects Amy's never gonna let him live it down. He gets Aspirin from the medicine cabinet while he waits, and puts a couple of slices of toast in the toaster. His own day feels already pretty much beyond saving, but at least maybe he can improve Amy's.

Though, when she stumbles out of the bedroom, still in her pajamas with her huge glasses and hair on end and looking like she's either seconds from being sick or going straight back to sleep, he worries whether she might just be beyond saving, too.

“How are you feeling?” He asks as she gives him one drained look before walking up to the couch and face-planting on it with another pained groan.

“I think I might be dead.”

“That's called a hangover, babe. I think you used to be familiar with the concept once upon a time, but I guess it's been a while.” Jake grins at Mac, who only reaches his chubby hands out for the bottle out in response. “Toast?”

“Do I have to?”

“It's going to help.”

“Fine.” Amy pushes her head off the pillow to look at Mac. “He's not drinking the milk I pumped yesterday, right?”

“I poured that out for you. I know they say moderate amounts of alcohol are fine, but, well, you were speaking British.”

“Good call,” Amy mumbles as he puts the coffee, aspirin, and toast down in front of her. “See, this is why I married you.”

Jake just hums, but he does smile to himself as he goes to grab his own cup of coffee.

“I wish I could call in sick to work today,” Amy says between bites of toast, and Jake looks up from where he’s absentmindedly brushing crumbs off the countertop while finishing his own. “My head feels like it’s going to explode.”

“I mean, you did very much go through contractions while managing an entire precinct during a blackout once. You could think about that?”

“No, this is worse than giving birth,” she states confidently, and Jake has to try very hard not to laugh. “Don’t tell my past self I said that. Or my future self if I ever give birth again.”

“Yeah.” He grimaces. “I’m pretty terrified to go, too.”

“Why?”

“Because yesterday? All of it?”

“Ohh.” Amy sighs. “Right. Maybe we should both just stay home.”

Jake’s about to tell her how much he wishes that was an option when Mac drops the finished bottle against the tray, immediately starting to twist in his seat. Jake unclasps the belt and lifts him out before he manages to rock the chair – that kid’s shockingly strong – and Mac immediately crawls away towards the walker. He doesn’t use it to move yet, but he’s been pulling himself up with it for over a month, and the anticipation is high every time he lets go with one hand only to sit back down on his booty the next second. Sometimes Jake could swear his son does it for attention. At least Mac doesn’t seem to have inherited his impulsivity, Jake thinks, and then he’s back to beating himself up in his head.

“I just don’t know why I did it,” he mutters as he sits down on the floor next to Amy’s head on the couch. She nods slowly, and Jake takes it as a sign she might actually be able to listen to him now. “I should know better, right? These are, like... the kind of mistakes I used to make. I thought I’d gotten better at this kind of stuff. Smarter. Less impulsive. Less of a bad cop. But instead I arrested and tailed an innocent man, all because I thought I had a gut feeling and thought I was being set up.” He shakes his head. “I guess that FBI jerk was right about gut feelings.”

“You’re a great detective,” Amy says without missing a beat. “A lot of the time, your gut feeling is right.”

“That doesn’t excuse it. I still shouldn’t have done it.”

“No.” Amy sighs. “You shouldn’t have.”

“It sucked.”

“Yeah. It did. But there’s nothing you can do to change it now.”

“Do you think I’m a bad person for it?” The question comes flying out of him, and Amy frowns.

“Why would I think that?”

“Because it was a shit move! And because I’m definitely gonna get suspended for it, and that’s going to lose us money. And then we’re not going to be able to save as much for Mac, or pay for his baby music class or baby gymnastics. And then he’s going to end up broke and untalented and it’ll all be my fault, and then you’ll be ashamed of me and leave me and I’ll die sad and alone in a ditch.”

“And you don’t think you’re spiraling just slightly right now?” Amy asks. The smile on her lips is one of amusement, and it humbles him, bringing him out of his cycle of self-pity.

“I don’t know. I didn’t get a ton of sleep last night.”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” she says, and that does make him feel a bit better. “I think you made a really stupid mistake. There's no getting away from that. I’m not happy about it. But… I know you'll take responsibility for it. That’s already a whole lot further than a lot of people care to go.”

Her fingers brush through her hair, calming him as she speaks. The hangover has made her voice a little scratchy, Jake notices when she's this close. It reminds him of mornings after long evenings out before they were parents, a time that always feels far longer ago than it was. Sometimes he thinks everything before Mac might as well be another lifetime.

“And we'll work it out if you do get suspended,” Amy continues, talking over the obnoxious melody playing from a toy Mac has found. “It's not great, of course. But we can save lots of money on daycare if you stay home with Mac. That helps.”

“Like a paternity leave,” Jake says. He does like that thought.

“Oh yeah.” Amy laughs. “You’ll be just like one of those hip Scandinavian dads who get to stay home with their kids because they live in countries where they don’t hate people for having kids. And you two can go to all of the cool classes and playdates together. You’d be the sexiest dad at baby swim class for sure.”

“Wouldn’t I also be one of the only ones?”

“Good point. Make sure to mention your wife a lot. But hey, Mac’s going to love it.”

As if wanting to confirm Amy’s point, Mac crawls over to Jake and tries to climb up on his knees to sit in his lap. He does this sometimes when he’s playing on his own; retreats to their arms for a hug or a quick cuddle, only to try and wriggle out of their grip and go back to whatever it is he’s doing in the next moment. Jake thinks it might be one of their son’s sweetest qualities. Mac rests his head against Jake’s chest, almost hugging him like that, and he wonders, not for the first time, how a person that’s not even one year of age can make every other issue in the world seem so insignificant. Even if it's just for a moment, it's a pretty damn good moment.

Fueled by the most powerful motivation of all – their son’s love and attention – Amy sits down on the floor too, patting her knees.

“You want to come to mama, Mac?”

Mac squirms for a moment in Jake's arms, and Jake lets go of him. Using the couch as support, for a second it looks like he’s almost about to take a step toward her. Both parents gasp in anticipation, and it must confuse him, because he reacts by giving Amy a shocked look and sitting right back down on his butt. Jake laughs as their son crawls away again, heading for the soft building blocks outside the playpen.

“He's such a tease.”

“He gets that from you,” Amy says, and Jake huffs in mock-offense. “Are you sure we shouldn't just stay home from work?”

Jake thinks of his upcoming meeting with Holt. He's been fearing it for so many hours now, and he's starting to wonder if the anxious anticipation might just not be worse than the meeting itself. He already knows what he has to do; the only thing left is to rip off the band-aid.

“I don't think it will make anything better if we don't.”

“Yeah.” Amy sighs, closing her eyes and leaning on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“Love you too. And you should probably shower and put on makeup unless you want everyone to know exactly how hungover you are.”

“I know you're right, and I hate it.”

Jake grins and strokes her hair before getting up from the floor. “I’ll go get Mac ready for the day.”

“Jake?” Amy calls out before he can leave for the nursery with Mac in his arms, and he turns around. Her voice is still a little hoarse.

“Yeah?”

“It's going to be okay, babe. We’ll figure it out.”

Jake brushes his fingers through Mac’s already unruly curls. He thinks of playground dates, the storytime for toddlers their library holds every Wednesday, and how much time he’ll have to make sure Mac says his name first now. Then he thinks of the bigger image; of daring to set a good example for this child, even when it's hard. If he wants the world to be a better place for his son, he's going to have to start by taking responsibility for his own actions.

“Yeah. I know.”

For the first time that day, he dares to believe it.

#my writing #b99 #b99 fic #i put / bc tumblr doesn't do line breaks anymore clearly #anyway. this is late and not my best it's been a Week but i really wanted to write something so. here is Something <3

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mashiraostail · 4 years ago

Note

Hi I'm soft, can I please have a fix of Aizawa's S/O taking care of him after the USJ attack?

soft is the mood!

“Shouta, pick your head up.” “it’s up-” “No, it’s not, look straight ahead.” A pause as he shifts, then you huff, “thank you.” You comb careful fingers through his tangled hair. Normally you’d really be on his case about letting it get like this, but given the current circumstance..you supposed you couldn’t hold this against him, he was in practically a full-body cast, after all. You spray some more detangler into it. “How do you feel?” You ask quietly, running a comb through the newly wet strands. “The same.” His voice is indifferent, if he was in pain he wasn’t gonna tell you. You just hope he’s not lying. “Not better or worse?” “Just the same.” He nods again and you hum pulling all his hair back off his forehead and temples, away from his ears. “I’m sorry.” “It’s not your fault.” He deflects you. “I know. But I’m sorry you’re in pain.” You retort and he mutters something before saying louder, “I’m not in pain. The medicine is fine. And recovery girl is doing her thing. I should be alright in no time.” “Shouta. It doesn’t matter how you’re going to feel it matters how you feel now.” He can’t see you from his seat between your legs, but he can tell your frowning from the hardness in your voice. And you’re right. “Yeah. It’s alright. Sorry I know I shouldn’t do that. It’s not that bad really. I get a headache sometimes, but for the most part the medicine works. ” “It’s okay.” You kiss the back of his head and he slumps a little bit forward, you can tell he’s done talking about it. “Do you have the elastic?” He nods at it where it rests on the bedsheets by his leg. He can’t help but feel a little useless right now. He can’t do anything, not a single thing. He needed you or Hizashi for everything, he couldn’t even bend his fingers. “Shouta Aizawa I am not going to tell you to pick your head up again.” You say it meaning to sound stern, but there’s a little laugh underneath it that makes him grin under all the bandages. In all fairness he appreciates your usual prodding, if you handled him like glass he’d honestly simply feel worse. “It just feels good.” He picks his head up again anyways, he couldn’t help it, you were effectively putting him to sleep, your fingers carefully slowly pulling through his hair, wrapping the strands around each other. You just hum at him affectionately, pulling him back lightly by his hair to kiss the crown of his head again, “push that elastic over here.” He does his best, it’s probably not as close as you wanted or much at all to really be helpful but you reach it anyways. “Thank you.” He just hums back at you. “How is it?” You pull away after wrapping the tail of the braid in an elastic a few times, “not too tight?” Aizawa shakes his head as much as he can. “It feels better this way, thank you.” “It won’t get too tangled now either.” You hum, leaning back into his pillows and letting him follow, resting his tired frame against your chest. “Are you exhausted?” You hum and he nods, he’s always tired sure but he can stay up usually...but right now...just sitting up for a few minutes while you cleaned him up was enough to put him out of commission, he’d only gotten up for the day a few hours ago and he already wanted to call it a night, it was hardly even noon. “Why don’t we take a little nap? I’m tired too honestly.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders gently, “and then when you wake up we can take off some of the bandages, recovery girl said she’d stop by as soon as she could this afternoon so we can leave them off for a little bit until she gets here, let everything breathe?” “That sounds good.” It feels stupid to be so upset. he wasn’t mean to get like this, he was rational, level headed, but all he wanted to do right now was cover your arms where they rounded his shoulders, he wanted to hold you back. “You know for, a guy who isn’t allowed to shower you still smell pretty nice.” He feels you press a long kiss to the skin behind his ear, one of the only places exposed. “Take a deep breath Sho.” You lean into him, “it’s alright.” He falls asleep with relative ease after that. When he wakes up again you aren’t behind him anymore. A first aid kit is on his nightstand, and he can hear you pattering around. It takes about 5 minutes for you to find your way back in there. “Oh! You’re awake!” You sit beside him, “recovery girl came while you were asleep. Feeling any better? You could have called when you woke up.” He did, a little, and he felt worlds less swollen, though the looseness of the casts on his arms should indicate that to be a reality rather than just a feeling. “I was gonna, I just woke up so it’s fine.” He shuffles a little bit and you nod. “You really did yourself no favors going back to teach so early.” You scold him, sitting before him in his bed. “I had to.” “No, you just let Hizashi talk you into every hair-brained scheme he comes up with.” You beacon for him to sit up, “you need to be more careful. I know you probably don’t want to hear this from me...” You start removing the casts on his arms, “but you seriously had me worried.” You’d held off giving him this speech until now, he supposed he should hear you out. “When I saw you all wrapped up in the hospital..” You carefully slide one off, “I thought I was as good as on my own again.” You start wrapping his arm in some tough feeling bandages, he guesses Recovery Girl healed the break, now it was just a crack, a sprain maybe. Either way, he probably had about 2 more days of these slings. “I’m proud of you for keeping your kids safe. I can’t say I would have done anything differently.” Your voice gets quiet, “but how would you feel if it were me sitting there like you right now?” He nods curtly at that, not even really wanting to imagine it. You pull him toward you by his jaw and press a long kiss to his forehead, covered in bandages. “She said we could take these off now.” You add and he hums gratefully, “thank god.” You unfasten the wrapping and slowly unwind it until his face is exposed. You’d seen his face a few times since the incident, taking bandages off to change them, it was only for a few minutes but still it was nice to see your boyfriend’s face instead of a mummy man. His nose is wrapped up in a splint and there’s a row of stitches under his eye but at least it’s still Shouta. A couple of extra bumps and bruises sure, but Shouta nonetheless. “I’m so proud of you Shouta.” You take his jaw in incredibly tentative hands, unsure of what hurt or felt tender without the support of the bandages. “You’re really strong..” Your voice is somehow softer than your hands on his skin. He clears his throat, you’d been together a long time and he always knew you loved him sure but it was palpable right now. “I just did what anyone else would do...” He’s really not used to all the priase, part of being an underground hero he supposed. You chuckle at that. “I should have guessed you’d say something like that.” You tuck a loose strand of hair back into it’s braid, “either way, you’re really brave. Those kids are lucky to have you...I’m lucky to have you too.” “It’s been 10 days since we kissed.” You can tell he’s trying to slink out of the spotlight, despite the only people in the room being the pair of you. “Maybe that’s why you haven’t started feeling any better.” You laugh as you move to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. “That’s a pretty good theory.” He agrees leaning forward a bit, of course you oblige him, you hated to sound selfish but you missed him like this, you didn’t mind taking care of him and you always would be there to do it whenever he needed you but he got broody about it...well more broody than normal. Getting to feel him relax into a kiss was nice. “well now that that’s out of the way, we really could use a shave. Stay there.” You stand up and he groans, “I could just go into-” “No way mister tough guy.” You shake your head at him, “you wanted to go to the sports festival, and teach so bad even with all your broken ribs? Well this is the price you pay. Until Recovery girl says the breaks are all healed you aren’t getting out of that bed when I’m around, do you hear me?” You sit back down, “save your energy for the kids. I’m here and I wanna help, so let me.” He supposed he couldn’t argue with that, and your hands felt mesmerizingly nice on the sides of his neck and jaw, his eyelids are heavy by the time you’re done with him, carefully patting his newly shaven skin dry. “Thank you.” He lets his head drop back into the pillows and you hum, “my pleasure.” You say it like it’s nothing, it rolls off you like water, he can’t put into words how much that puts him at ease. “No, seriously, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He opens his eyes and looks up at you, “I’m really lucky to have you.” He turns your words back around on you. “I’m glad I’ve got you worrying about me.” “Make me worry like this again and you’re dead meat, Shouta.” He huffs out a quiet laugh at that, “I don’t know, I think some broken ribs, 2 broken arms a broken leg, broken nose and a fractured orbital plate was well worth it for all the extra attention I’ve been getting.” “If you want more attention just ask! Don’t break every bone in your body you maniac!” You wanna wack the back of his head but you stop yourself. He just looks really happy with himself, “but it’s sweet when you worry.” “I can worry about you without you almost dying!” You can’t even pinch his nose because of the splint, “seriously Shouta!” “Alright, alright I’m kidding.” He insists, “come relax a little.” You don’t argue, instead you just climb into bed beside him. “How’s it feel?” You reach out and brush your hand over his jaw, “I didn’t shave it all, you’d look naked.” He laughs as you lean back against him, “I appreciate that, and It feels better, thank you.” You hum and turn his head toward you. “It’s good to see your face.” You thumb affectionately at his cheeks and he clears his throat as you continued, “I missed it.” “Yeah I...guess it’s good to be seen.”

#aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa x reader #eraser head x reader #bnha x reader #bnha request

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tallstars-rewrite · 3 years ago

Text

Chapter 25

chapter list / previous / next

Tallpaw was the first to leave. Woollycloud’s story came back to him. Sandstone was still here, under the moor somewhere. Tallpaw never understood all his life what his clanmates meant when they said their lost ones were still with them. They were so far away. But for just a brief moment, even if it was probably in his head, he started to feel it. Sandstone was looming over his shoulder now, watching him sit there next to his mother and wallow. How could he do this to him again? The longer Tallpaw stayed there with her, the more he wanted to succumb to the despair that pulled him down, down to where she was, where the time would slip by as he lay there wasting away. That was what his father meant when he said that dwelling on your emotions never did any cat good. Palebird couldn’t help him.

Tallpaw gritted his teeth. Of course Palebird couldn’t help him, it had always been his father, not his mother, telling him where to put his paws. Now that he felt more unsure than ever of every movement, he was willing to let anything create a clear path for him. It didn’t matter how afraid he was, or how heavy his feet felt with each paw placed in front of the next. He needed to start doing what was best for the whole clan. And in that moment, there was only one clear choice.

As Tallpaw looked out over the moor on his quiet trek back to camp, he couldn’t remember what it had felt like on that first day with Dawnstripe. The wonder of the world stretching out, or the breeze catching his whiskers and pulling him along, light as a feather. He saw frivolities that he should never have indulged in. There were many cats who would run the moor, and do a much better job of it than he ever could. But there was another place to fill now, and he had to finally stop being so selfish and do what he should have done from the start. The open moor was never really his, and it was unfair to Dawnstripe to waste her time training a hopeless apprentice. But how do I go about telling them?

Hawkheart called him to his den as soon as he arrived back at camp. He answered the usual barrage of questions. It was just another set of motions they both had to go through. “Did any of the wounds reopen?”

“No.”

“Any additional pain?”

“No.” Well, that one was a bit of a lie, but it didn’t matter.

“Have you started feeling feverish or hotter than normal?”

“No.”

“Good, now wait here for a moment and then you can get out of my fur and back to your own nest.”

As Hawkheart went to the back of his den, to Tallpaw’s surprise, it was Briarpaw who approached him. The medicine cat apprentice looked worried, which Tallpaw supposed was a little better than stricken or blank, as he usually looked as of late. Briarpaw sniffed at him.

“You weren’t lying about the pain, were you?” he asked. Why did Briarpaw always have to be good at catching him on that?

“You don’t have to worry about me," was all Tallpaw said. It was true, he didn’t want to fuss over a bit of pain, but he also didn’t want Briarpaw to feel obligated to care for him after what had happened.

“It is my job to be concerned...I need to return to it. You seem troubled. I suppose that doesn’t take much intuition...” Briarpaw gave a small humorless laugh. “Who isn’t troubled? Nearly all the clan knows the pain of losing a parent, but...are you alright? You look...distracted.”

“I’m going to ask Heatherstar to let me train as a tunneler instead.” Now that Tallpaw had said it out loud, it felt more real. He was sure now, at least he told himself he was. It was the only right thing to do.

To his surprise, Briarpaw nearly jumped back and stared at him with wide, fearful eyes. “You’re...b-but why? I thought you’d taken so well to moor running. It seemed to make you happy!”

“There are more important things. Tunneling is my legacy.” Tallpaw replied firmly.

“But...this is surely a rash decision--n-not that I’m saying you can’t make your own choices of course. I’m only suggesting...maybe you should think about it before telling Heatherstar.”

Tallpaw was taken aback by the sudden pitch of Briarpaw’s voice. Hawkheart returned with a bundle of herbs. He caught Briarpaw’s gaze, and some wordless agreement passed between them because Briarpaw simply gulped and said “It’s your choice, of course...” He didn’t say anymore as he helped Hawkheart chew the leaves into a pulp to slather on Tallpaw’s scrapes.

The injury from the tunnel was probably going to leave a scar across his shoulders. Tallpaw was almost glad of it. He wanted a reminder. Once he left, feeling Briarpaw’s anxious gaze on his back the whole way, he tracked down Dawnstripe and Woollycloud. They should know first.

“You look a little more perked up today,” Dawnstripe said encouragingly when they sat down. “I hope you were able to find some peace in the ceremony..”

“I think I have.” Perhaps peace was not exactly what he felt, but at least he felt a drive.

“So what is this about?” Woollycloud asked.

Dread started to creep up Tallpaw’s spine at the commitment he was about to make, but he shoved it down. He needed to do this. He took a breath, “I want to become a tunneler.”

Dawnstripe and Woollycloud both blinked at him, clearly startled.

Woollycloud spoke first. “But...you don’t like tunneling at all. What could have changed?”

“This is what I was born to do.” Tallpaw forced himself to sound confident “I want to follow in my father’s footsteps. It was what he wished for me. After everything...I don’t think I could run on the moor again and feel right. I will get past my fear, and you could teach me!”

He hoped Woollycloud would seem excited, but he wore more sadness on his face than enthusiasm. “Tallpaw...I want you to decide your future for the right reasons. You can’t only tunnel for your father's sake.”

“I promise I want this!” Tallpaw pressed, “I must try.” He turned to Dawnstripe, who seemed unsure of what to say, and bowed his head. “I couldn’t have asked for a better mentor. You have done so much to teach me, and I won’t forget anything. I loved our training sessions together, but I’m not meant to run on the moors. I feel like StarClan is telling me that I’ve been hiding from my real path. You deserve an apprentice who can truly live up to your skills.”

“You’ve only ever made me proud, Tallpaw,” Dawnstripe said. “I’ve always believed you could become whatever you wanted to be. If you stop, I can’t deny I’ll miss having you as my apprentice. But this is your path, and if you truly feel called...I won’t be the one to forbid you from it.”

She looked up at Woollycloud, who still seemed hesitant and unconvinced. Tallpaw willed the tunneler to agree, to just give him another chance to prove himself. He needed another chance.

“I think this conversation should be had with the leader. This is...a bit unexpected.” Woollycloud said.

Together they went to find Heatherstar, who was just leaving her den. She had been speaking with Hawkheart, who gave Tallpaw a brief look before returning to his den. All three cats dipped their heads respectfully to their leader.

“Good morning,” Heatherstar said, nodding to Tallpaw and Woollycloud. “I’m glad to see the two of you on your paws again. Is there something you need?”

“There is,” Tallpaw said. No timidness, no hesitation. This was the final step. He would force himself to do this if he had to. “Heatherstar, I….” His tail curled anxiously around his back paw. Spit it out. Just say it. “I want to talk to you about training as a tunneler. Some cat needs to try and fill my father’s place, and I know I never can exactly but...I want to try.”

Heatherstar looked at him in quiet surprise, and then over to Dawnstripe, who only nodded. “I’m willing to do what you agree is best.”

Heatherstar hummed, and Tallpaw could see the discomfort in her eyes. “Well...Tallpaw, I understand fully why you want to do this. But I don’t think I can allow it.”

Tallpaw felt his fur begin to bristle “What? But, you said that you’d allow me to change my training later if I decided to! I have to do this Heatherstar, my father always wished for Woollycloud to be my mentor.” When he raised his voice, several cats in camp began to stir from their quiet conversations and morning naps.

“Circumstances have changed since then.” Heatherstar said.

“I can do it,” Tallpaw insisted “I know I messed up last time I tried to tunnel, but it was only the first time. I didn’t know what to expect, but I do now!”

“It’s not just that Tallpaw,” Heatherstar said calmly. “It has nothing to do with your potential ability.”

“Did I hear that right?” came Crowfur’s voice. A couple cats were starting to inch closer. “Tallpaw is interested tunneling now?”

Hazelnose looks anxious “But should we take more young cats to be tunnelers while so many of our systems are so unstable? Woollycloud, you said that yourself, didn’t you?”

Woollycloud looked from Hazelnose to Tallpaw and sighed. “It’s...true. This has come on a bit quickly...Heatherstar may be right. I don’t know if it’s a good time.”

“But it has to be now!” Tallpaw began to feel frantic. “I can’t wait around for moons more! If you can do it, so can I!”

“Tallpaw, I must be honest with you, I don’t know if I’m in a good place to take an apprentice. With everything that has happened recently....” he trailed off, his gaze drifting down. “I’m not confident I can give you my full attention.”

“T-then some other cat. Crowfur perhaps.”

Heatherstar raised a paw for attention. “No, I’m afraid that won’t be necessary. I suppose now that we have so much of the clan's attention anyway...There is something I have been needing to discuss.”

She leaped up onto the meeting rock and called for the clan's attention. It didn’t take long, and most had come out of their nests at the commotion already. “I have conferred with my council,” Heatherstar announced. “This is not an easy decision to make, but there must be a change in WindClan. Our skilled tunnelers have been part of our clan for countless moons, and WindClan owes much of our past prosperity to them. But our territory has changed. The ground has become weaker in many areas. Our ambition to expand below has started to create unrest with the other creatures on the moor we depend on. And worse, the amount of accidents and loss we’ve experienced weighs heavily on us all. Our land is a gift to us, and we cannot demand too much from it. And so, I have made the decision that tunneling as an official rank must be abolished. WindClan will not pursue complex tunneling projects any longer.”

Tallpaw stared up at her, mouth agape. “N-no. No, you can’t do this! I need to be able to do this!” he looked towards the elders, "You can't have agreed to this!"

Flintfoot looked impassive, he'd expect as much from the old moor runner. But Whitetooth sat with his proud old shoulders hunched, gray eyes clouded with grief.

Fennelpelt just shook his head sadly. "We had the same meeting last time this happened. We hoped for better outcomes then too, and now... we cannot deny it any longer."

“I’m sorry, Tallpaw." Heatherstar said, "We have a choice, and we must carefully weigh the benefits of an old tradition against the costs. I cannot in good conscience choose the former. You will continue your training as you have been.”

“You can’t get rid of the tunnels!” Plumclaw cried “Tunneling is our life! T-the plans that Sandstone made--”

“Heatherstar is right.” Hazelnose said. “The project can’t be done. It was a dream, but all our attempts to plan proved dangerous.”

“What do you know!” Plumclaw snapped

“I know as much as you do! I value our skills, but we’re asking too much.”

Crowfur glared at his son “You’ve always been a tunneler, how could this have changed?”

Hazelnose sounded bolder than he ever had before “It changed when I knew I’d have kits, and I had to think about what kind of life they’d lead and how safe it was. Mistmouse agrees with me. The more we push our projects, the more dangerous it becomes. I don’t want to risk my kit's lives doing something that we can find other ways to do. I cared for Sandstone as much as any of the tunnelers, he was the best of us--and if even he could be caught in such an accident...We must accept that what he wanted was too much. Let us not lose anymore than we have.”

To Tallpaw’s horror he heard voices of agreement from all around. He looked desperately at Woollycloud. “Woollycloud, you must say something! W-WindClan’s legacy--”

But Woollycloud’s defeated look said everything. He simply looked away with a heavy sigh.

“This decision is final.” Heatherstar called out. “WindClan will never forget our burrowing skills, we will keep the short tunnels that serve as escape routes from predators on the open moor, but we cannot split ourselves into opposing groups anymore. We must be one clan, and share our skills, not divide ourselves into factions. Tunnel running and patrolling long stretches underground takes too much time and risk to maintain. Without those long tunnels to keep, there’s no point in designating tunneling as a separate rank. From today, no cat is permitted to go down into the tunnel systems while the wet weather remains. And when the ground dries, the longest and unstable tunnels must be abandoned and have their entrances blocked. Tunnelers will be assigned normal patrols with the moor runners rather than going on separate missions. That is all. This meeting is finished.”

Tallpaw sat there in shock. Heatherstar had hardly allowed any debate. It was exactly as his father had feared, and he didn’t know what to say to stop it.

He hardly noticed Woollycloud coming to sit beside him. “I understand your feelings perhaps better than any cat. I have lost loved ones to the tunnels but...I always wanted to go on, in their name. I thought it was what they would have wanted. If they were still here, they may have the chance to agree to this change. But they aren’t, and that’s just the problem. Even if it feels wrong, perhaps the best way to uphold their memory is to make sure old mistakes and accidents can’t be repeated. Stone Claws and his children prided themselves on their ability to adapt to new threats. Perhaps this is how we must adapt again.”

Dawnstripe brushed her tail against him. “I’m sorry you’re disappointed, Tallpaw. I understand, but you must continue your training with me. You’re an excellent runner, and you will make your clan proud. What more could your father have wanted?”

He wanted so much more…

“What can I do?” Tallpaw’s voice was hollow. “It can never be better now. I've already failed...”

“Tallpaw…” Dawnstripe began, but he turned away from her.

“I need to go.”

Without further explanation he ran from camp, ignoring Woollycloud and Dawnstripe’s voices calling after him. How could this have happened? If he hadn’t gotten scared in those tunnels, Heatherstar wouldn’t have started considering shutting them down. If he hadn’t messed them up, maybe they wouldn’t have been so unstable when Sandstone went in for all he knew! Everything was falling apart. Heatherstar and Dawnstripe and Woollycloud all looked at him with such pity. Pity he didn’t deserve They’ll let you get away with it, but never forget how this has hurt me. Sandstone snarled in his ear. His paws thudded against the ground and he heard his father's outraged growl continue. You just let her do this. Everything is ruined now. Everything we ever hoped for.

He couldn’t stand it. He ran without direction. He thought he knew how he could repair this horrible pain, or at least how he could make it lessen but now...now there was no chance of relief. Tallpaw was running through open air and still felt like he was suffocating underground.

He slowed his run to a fast walk, and found himself heading north. Did he want to go back to the burrows? No. He needed some relief from this, to get it out of his head if only for the briefest of moments, before it crushed him completely. His paws directed him to the treeline. Jake? How could he think to look for Jake now? Dawnstripe was probably right behind him. But Tallpaw couldn’t think about that right now. He just wanted to be anywhere else but WindClan. Even the blistering wind itself picked up suddenly, whipping at his ears, as if scolding him. He had never felt so exposed and helpless on the moor before. He needed to go as far as he could reasonably allow himself to go--and right now, to Jake was all he could manage. What would he even say to him? Probably nothing. Jake would be able to tell he was upset, Tallpaw would decline talking about it, so the barn cat would start rambling aimlessly about a bird he saw that day or a really great beetle he found. And Tallpaw would be fine with listening to him ramble about anything if it succeeded in distracting him even a little. Just for a moment. A moment was all he needed.

But the wind blew a scent towards Tallpaw that stopped him dead in his tracks. A short dark brown tabby stood some fox lengths ahead. Tallpaw had been so oblivious of his surroundings he hadn’t smelled Shrewpaw until he almost ran into him. He would have given his former friend a wide berth if he’d known. The bristling apprentice wasn’t supposed to be out here alone, but then, neither was Tallpaw. He had not so much as smelled Shrewpaw since Brackenwing died.

Shrewpaw just glared at him through narrowed cold yellow eyes. That sharp hatred shot another claw of guilt into Tallpaw’s chest. For a moment, he wondered if he’d be attacked again, but Shrewpaw didn’t come closer.

“W-what are you doing out here?” Tallpaw didn’t know why he bothered asking, what Shrewpaw did was hardly his concern anymore.

Shrewpaw held his glare. “Don’t feel like being hounded by my mentor right now. Probably the same as you. Unless you’re just running away again for good this time?”

“No. No, I was just--”

“Looking for that kittypet?”

Tallpaw stared at him and anxiously wound his tail around his back feet. “What? H-how do you--”

“Briarpaw and I both saw you half a moon ago. What a shock to see you not doing what you were supposed to be doing and running off. You didn’t always get the kittypet stench off completely when you came back. Briarpaw didn’t want you to get in trouble, and I guess I liked you enough back then, so we didn’t say anything. Figured it didn’t matter if it wasn’t technically on the territory. Not that I care what happens to you.”

Tallpaw wasn’t in the mood for a fight. He turned to walk around him.

“That kittypet’s gone anyway, you know.” Shrewpaw called after him.

Tallpaw turned back. “What are you talking about?”

“It was the mouse-brained orange one, wasn’t it? I saw him poke his nose past the treeline. I was going to chase him off, because I don’t make friends with twoleg pets. But a monster stopped on the side of the road and a twoleg climbed out of its belly. The stupid kittypet went right up to it, and the twoleg picked him up and put him in the monster. Then it took off. So, sorry to say your kittypet probably got fed to the monster. That’s what you get for trusting twolegs.”

“You’re lying.” Tallpaw hissed.

“Why would I bother lying?” Shrewpaw spat. “I was half hoping you’d do us all a favor and go join him. There are less things to mess up being a twoleg play toy at least. It might suit you. Go run all the way to the barn if you want. He’s not there. Hareflight told me nearly all the cats born there disappear eventually. But by all means, go see for yourself. Get yourself into all the trouble you want. I’m not going to protect you anymore.”

“I never needed you to protect me!” Tallpaw hissed. He couldn’t help it. “You just decided that I should be treated like a kit because it made you look better in comparison! If you leave me alone from now on, it would be the best thing you’ve ever done for me!”

Tallpaw started to run without giving Shrewpaw a chance to respond. He kept going to the trees, but then turned in the direction of the Thunderpath. Shrewpaw had to be lying to upset him. He opened his jaws to taste the air as soon as he’d touched the shade of the woods. He caught Jake’s scent. It was recent. He followed it through the bushes, noting small clumps of long orange fur caught on sharp sticks and brambles. Dreadful certainty began to rest in his belly the closer Jake’s trail went to the Thunderpath. It always stunk of monsters, but behind the sharp acrid smell was unmistakably what he’d been taught to recognize as twoleg. And Jake’s trail ended. Tallpaw stood staring at the empty black stone path. Of course Shrewpaw hadn’t been lying. Why would he? He would be ecstatic if Tallpaw ran off to share Jake’s fate. Could a cat even survive being in the belly of those stinking monsters? He couldn’t even imagine it. Tallpaw wanted to wail in despair.

There was nothing here for him. He was alone. For a while he paced as the cloud cover overhead began to darken the sky. Small drops of rain dribbled through his thin coat, stinging the dried poultice covering his scars. He couldn’t be bothered to shake them off. He listened to the wind begin to howl as it carried in heavy clouds, imagining Sandstone’s growl in the distant rumble of thunder. Of course Tallpaw was trying to run away. He should never have come here. Should never have spoken to Jake. This is what he got for it.

Down the Swift Step Hills, Tallpaw found himself back at the muddy clearing where the collapsed burrows lay. He hardly even knew what he was doing anymore as the angry dark sky roared above and opened up a downpour on top of him, turning the soil to sucking mud. He was digging. Digging as fast as he could with no direction.

Some part of him knew this was irrational, but the urge had taken control anyway, insisting that maybe maybe the others just hadn’t dug far enough, maybe there was a pocket in the earth, maybe Sandstone wasn’t even gone! Or at least if he could find him, find whatever was left, then his spirit could be free. Sandstone wouldn’t be trapped on the ground, wouldn’t have to wander unrested and angry. Tallpaw couldn’t get away from the image of his infuriated gaze.

“I’ll make it up to you, I’ll find some way to help,” he said under his breath, already panting from the effort. “Just tell me what to do, I’ll listen this time. I promise I’ll listen!”

His paws squelched into the earth, he was aimlessly tearing up the shallow ground and every pawful scooped out was immediately replaced with oozing mud. But then his claws hit something more solid that squished under his paws. His breath caught in his throat when he saw matted fur, and he thought for a hazy second he’d found what he was looking for, and he yanked it up without thinking as it gave way. Tallpaw shrieked so loud he hurt his throat at what he’d snagged in his claw. Under the mud was a misshapen furry face attached loosely to a small filthy rotted corpse, leftover from the abandoned warren. Probably a rabbit, but it was so decomposed it was almost hard to tell. Half of it left behind in the mud, the frail body tore with sickening ease. Its eyes were sunken in, indistinguishable from the dark muck, and earthworms crawled through its fur. Tallpaw flailed, shaking mud from his paw, hardly even aware he was still yowling until he heard Dawnstripe calling over him.

“Tallpaw!” Dawnstripe’s voice made his heart sink. She’d found him after all. “Tallpaw, you can’t be here! You must come back with me.”

Tallpaw finally looked down at himself. Standing in a pit of mud, soaking wet, dripping poultice, scared senseless out of his fur at the sight of old buried crow-food. He looked up at her pathetically, and he saw the depth of her concern. I wonder if she thinks I'm losing it, Tallpaw thought dimly. He wondered too. Could grief do that to a cat? He spent a long time staring at the muddied ground, while Dawnstripe tried to coax him out. She insisted they had to get back to camp, the coming storm would be bad and they needed to take shelter. Tallpaw would have preferred to just stand there through it. The prospect of going back to camp to sit with his thoughts and hide was awful. But, he thought, what does it matter how awful it feels?

What exactly happened if a cat was so weighed with grief they couldn't stand anymore? They broke. Maybe he’d broken. An image of his mother flashed through his mind. Her empty eyes, her distant voice, her frame thin and frail. How she couldn’t bear to get up most days. And with his paws sunk into the dirt, he heard his fathers disapproving snarl and flinched. You're going to become like her after all? Another promise broken. The water soaking in the mud let him see a faint dark smudgy outline of his reflection. Dripping and miserable. If he tried to go on like this, he might as well bury himself here and now. He wasn’t strong enough to detangle this grief. But...maybe he didn’t have to deal with it. If he couldn’t cure it, maybe he could just turn it all off and walk forward like this, a husk with claws. Claws were all that was needed for their borders, right? However broken he was, he could pick up the pieces in his jaws and make himself keep going anyway. A new resolve planted itself deep inside, one that would cover up everything else. Tallpaw looked up to his mentor again.

“Ok Dawnstripe,” he said.

“O-ok?” she was taken aback by how calm he sounded.

“I’m coming. I’ll go back with you.”

He silently let Dawnstripe herd him out of the pit and followed her through the pouring rain. He sensed the discomfort in his mentor as her tail swished. Surely it was too easy… Well, Tallpaw would make it that easy. She was stuck with him, but he vowed not to trouble her for it anymore.

Every paw step didn’t feel like his own. But as long as he was moving them, he didn’t need to feel better. That was what his father had been trying to teach him. It was ridiculous of him to be out there trying to placate his grief when such a thing was impossible and pointless.

He would do his duties, like every cat else. He let the grief that wound tight around his chest like thorns get pounded down by the heavy rain, and focused on the new burning feeling in his belly. That’s what he would do. He would make himself dangerous. And then he’d know how to make up for his weakness before. Action, Sandstone had said. That’s all he would think of. That was how the dead were best respected. Tallpaw would just keep walking and doing as his mentor and his clan asked. Perhaps seeing that small bit of usefulness could help Sandstone find peace. And perhaps it is for the best, he thought, that I've lost so many cats all at once. I can’t make my problems into their problems. They don’t need to be troubled with me anymore. No one does.

chapter list / previous / next

#cw depression #cw dead animal #cw decompisition #theres another rotten animal description #chapter 25 #FRU25

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abluescarfonwaston · 4 years ago

Text

Shapeshifter Au -3

Part 1 Part 2

He is not a fighter. He does not particularly want to be one either.

He thinks sometimes- when he is forced to duck under the table of a bar after a brawl has broken out clutching his lute and repeating the chorus of whatever song he’d been singing last over and over again to keep himself from shifting- that people have forgotten the dangers of violence.

How the extra scrap of land one might force from the neighboring pack will never be worth the life of your cub or brother or mother and that every time you engage beyond the snapping of teeth you risk losing them forever. Risk burying your loved ones or at very least seeing them hurt.

He thinks- sometimes- that people with their medicine and magic and often overly abundant food forget the price of violence. Picking fights for no good reason and hurting just to feel something. To make others feel something.

He is always grateful when Geralt yanks him out from under the table and hauls him outside. Carries him clear of the senseless violence until the adrenaline stops pulling him towards different shapes.

There was, of course violence with sense. He always thinks of the wolf pack he’d run with during one summer break at Oxenfurt. He wasn’t a good hunter. Didn’t know the first thing about tracking or being stealthy or taking down elk. He didn’t want to. He’d been a deer before and would really rather not know what being caught and eaten might feel like from the other side.

But he was a good raven, finding them their meals. And they shared with him- wolf or raven- perhaps in part because he promised not to stay for the winter when the meals grew thin and far between and counted him as friend, if not pack, at very least.

Their violence had sense. He’d been a deer before but he also been hungry and he couldn’t blame them for eating. A wolf couldn’t live off of grass. Couldn’t blame them for trying to drive off the stray dogs that passed through or fighting back when monsters came for them. Protecting their home and family.

Geralt’s violence had sense, unlike the tavern brawlers. He did not hunt monsters that stayed out of people’s ways, did not initiate bar fights or kill unnecessarily. Geralt understood the cost of violence when some days it felt the rest of the world forgot.

He loved him for that. That he’d not let his profession of violence make him violent. That he’d chosen and fought to stay gentle.

He did his best to soften the word for Geralt. Reduce the senseless violence he faced. Protect the gentleness in him the only way he knew how- through story and song.

Well not the only way.

He’d stumbled blindly- human eyes were terrible in the dark, not the worst, but still terrible- into the woods to relieve himself when he heard them chattering.

Horse. Dinner. Food.

Wolves.

The shape came to him with barely a thought. He loved this form- the thick brown fur that kept him toasty at night. He loved all his forms to be fair. They were all him and he was wonderful so he loved them all. Couldn’t take a form that wasn’t him. A form that he didn’t love.

They reacted with suspicion, fair, when he called out a greeting to them. He’d won over plenty of folks who’d thought him suspicious.

But as they shoved past him towards the seemingly easy meal of a tied horse, he wasn’t sure he had time for that.

He told them they were mistaken- this was not an easy meal but one that would have them slaughtered. The human was a Witcher- a hunter of the greatest beasts- and he’d show no mercy if they bared their teeth at what was his. Specifically the horse. Offered to help them find something less dangerous to eat.

Still they advanced.

Why didn’t anyone ever listen? He ran in front of them barking his protests.

Distantly he heard Geralt shift, woken by the noise. They bared their teeth at him, circling. His hackles raised fluffing him up bigger.

Not big enough.

He shifted bigger, his irritation and protectiveness spilling into a bigger and bigger form until they hesitated.

Wolves didn’t mess with grizzlies bears.

He growled. Slammed a paw for emphasis.

He honestly couldn’t have taken them, even in this form. But they didn’t know that. Didn’t want to risk their brothers and sisters and parents and cubs. Their family. Not for a meal they’d been told was nothing more than a honey trap.

They retreated just as Geralt stepped into the space, steel ready.

He took a nervous step backwards as Geralt surveyed the trees with his peripheries.

Looking for?

“Jaskier?” Geralt called into the dark canopy.

Oh.

Looking for him.

If that didn’t have him wanting to pop down into his wolf form and wag his tail well-

But. But he couldn’t do that. Even as he felt the shape collapsing around him- he didn’t want to be a bear right now and that made it hard to be a bear.

He took another step backwards as Geralt’s nostrils flared. Too reflective eyes locking on his.

“Jaskier?”

He was running. All he could hear were cages and door and locks slamming closed. Don’t shift in front of people- do you Want to spend the rest of your life in a cage Julian?- echoing in his ears as the form collapsed under him.

That was fine he- he could be a wolf instead except- except he couldn’t. Except that form collapsed under him too and then then the fox and the lark and he just wanted to shrink and hide but the squirrel and the mouse wouldn’t hold either and and-

And he was crying. In the woods. In the middle of the night. He couldn’t hold a shape because none of them felt right and there were cages with collars and shackles closing in around him. Crying and shrieking and bleating and bawling and and-

“Jaskier?”

Only some of his eyes could see Geralt in the darkness. Shifting too rapidly to do anything more than paw himself backwards.

Geralt shifted something off his shoulder and a plaintive whine escaped him.

Geralt wouldn’t hurt him. The rational part of his brain knew Geralt wouldn’t hurt him.

That was not the part of him that was in control. No part of him felt in control.

“Jaskier. You can’t play like that.”

His eyes shifted and he could see the lute in Geralt’s hands.

Paws to hands reached out and took it. Cuddled it to his chest. Fingers running down the strings and soundboard.

His fingers settled into a chord. Strummed it once.

Geralt gave him a small smile.

He set the lute gently down and hopped into Geralt’s chest who caught him. Held him to his chest, petting his long brown ears flat against his head.

Geralt hooked the lute over his shoulder before holding him against his chest and standing.

“Let’s go back now.”

He nodded and Geralt carried him back to camp, large calloused hands gently smoothing his fur until he fell asleep.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt #jaskier #shapeshifter au #shapeshifter!Jaskier #writing #he shifts into a bunny at the end there if that's not clear #Jaskier just wants Geralt's big strong hands to hold and pet him gently #but sometimes we have panic attacks and run through the woods instead

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mallowstep · 3 years ago

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(Reed anon again)

Just--wtf did Riverclan do with Reedpaw when everyone was rescued? Even in Canon? Like, poor fucking Mistyfoot--two of her kits are with her, but her third and final kit is still in enemy territory, still underneath Tigerstar's paw, Blackfoot is still his mentor. If even a *hint* of Reedpaw's true parentage got out, he'd be fucked. He and Leopardstar would both probably be dead, Leopard carrying Tiger's legacy or not. Tbh I wouldn't doubt Tigerstar'd be petty enough just to kill all of Riverclan itself. Like...Greystripe, you fucking LIVED in Riverclan for a few fucking MOONS. How do you forget or at least NOT recognize/remember the queen that nursed your kits' own kits? You told Firestar you visited them every chance you had. Like...Grey, I get you were worried for you daughter, but dude...you left a child who you saw as a baby to a toddler (thereabouts) under a war criminal. Someone you KNOW had a subordinate who was not against poisoning kits with deathberries. Someone who tried to kill his OWN apprentice. Then, in the Leopard AU, this kid is stuck in the apprentices den during the rescue. Leopardstar and Mudfur cannot get him out without alerting Shadowclan Apprentices. They chose Mistyfoot and Featherpaw's heath and safety (which, at this point it's better than nothing.) And Misty has to choose Feather when Mudfur leads them out of their prison. He then gets to see the absolute horror of his LEADER, murdered, loose a life, to this Monster, see her go through what his mother did, only that IT'S far, far, worse than anything that'd been done at this point. He sees his clan's medicine cat turn against their leader, verbally agreeing and harassing her...just... this poor boy.. In Canon, Misty Au, Leopard AU it all sucks. Dark AU, not so much--still horrific, but Blackfoot is Reed's father in that one, so as his mentor Reed's safety is somewhat assured had Tigerstar not realized Reedpaw was Misty's kit, and that Misty's kits had not all died.

oh my god anon why r u so Damn Good at making me feel things

okay okay okay hm. i'm just gonna -- yeah i'm just gonna put the whole thing under a cut bc i'm a lil too tired to do the thing where i start with the pg-13 and below stuff and then do a cut.

cw: sexual assault, parent being involved in sexual assault of child

heck if i know. i'm like. 100% sure mistyfoot's kits were forgotten about. they were nameless characters for a Long time. reedpaw isn't in any of the allegiances for riverclan in tpb. i...like. i've read tpb how many times? and i honestly didn't know mistyfoot had kits until i checked out the warriors wiki and was like. oh. she had kits? with blackclaw? what the fuck?

i wouldn't put money on it, but i have a feeling the scene involving mistyfoot and her kits could be read as riverclan kits in general. again, wouldn't put money on that, it's just a hunch.

anyway, i kind of just. mistyfoot could have had another litter in the year between tpb and tnp, or during po3, or literally any other time and then we wouldn't have the reedpaw problem (tm).

WAIT

WAIT WAIT WAIT I WAS LOOKING AT THE WARRIORS WIKI AND

HE'S AN APPRENTICE IN TNP

what the FUCK

he's fucking like. several YEARS old. he's 2 and a half years old and he's a fucking apprentice oh my god just give mistyfoot a second litter it is not that hard.

actually. since mistyfoot's litter isn't named...new hc that reedwhisker is a different litter? hm. anyway.

my tangent on the reedpaw problem aside;

oh yeah, he's so fucking dead. imo prob not him and leopardstar -- riverclan would Riot if their leader was killed, and tbh, so would part of shadowclan -- but him and blackclaw. damn.

and yeah? idk? god. i don't know. tbf he's not in prison i don't even know. altho. actually, to give greystripe some credit -- the fact that mistyfoot doesn't ask to go back for him and how risky the riverclan rescue is, i think "not going back" is actually a reasonable choice.

honestly do we have an erin statement that reedwhisker is part of the same litter as prim and co. it's not on the wiki. i want to know. because i think everyone just assumed he was and -- maybe there is a statement but i want to see it.

because mistyfoot is not the type to abandon her kit. like. what? no. mistyfoot? mistyfoot? my brother just died but i am fucking fine get me the hell out of here mistyfoot? no i know i'm starving but like hell you can apprentice featherpaw to someone else mistyfoot? you're telling me SHE would leave a kit behind without so much as a word about him? fat fucking chance.

in conclusion, unless someone can provide evidence an erin said reedwhisker was part of mistyfoot's first litter, i'm going to assume the intention was that he was a second litter.

and back to the actual topic, now that i'm done for real hopefully.

yeeep. he can't be rescued. and -- mistyfoot has very few choices here. featherpaw is dying, reedpaw is safe for the moment, she won't get another chance. she's not happy about it -- she misses him so terribly much -- but she doesn't. yeah. god. that angst. i hope like. someone somehow just Tries to let reedpaw know it wasn't voluntary.

(i'm not Much One for "you left me you didn't love me" angst if you Can't tell. a pinch of it for flavour, but not as a main plot line, y'know? nothing wrong with it it's very good i just don't like writing it.)

god -- god. in my mind tigerstar takes the life from leopardstar privately bc riverclan would fucking riot but just. reedpaw realizes what's happening. so he follows bc of course he does. he's not the reason tigerstar knows what's going on, but he thinks he is.

and he's there hiding and he sees tigerstar kill leopardstar and hears him tell mudfur what's going to happen and he's sitting there in a bush or something just trying not to so much as twitch because he's so dead if tigerstar finds him. he's so fucking dead.

so he just sits there until long after tigerstar and leopardstar and mudfur have left and when he gets back to camp everyone wonders where he went and he can't explain.

and it feels terrible but he realizes tigerstar is still gloating over everything because as pissed as he is that he lost mistyfoot -- now he's truly taken out every thread of riverclan's leadership.

(frankly no i still think tigerstar's most effective control method for riverclan would be to tell stonefur that if he messes up, he'll kill the apprentices and/or mistyfoot and/or rape mistyfoot, and do leopard au on leopardstar, therefore getting all 3 riverclan leaders in blind obedience to him. he'd have to be much more discrete about leopardstar, maybe convince the clans it's a political thing, i'm not sure. the point is, nothing would Visibly be wrong, all three leaders are just going for this, and so of course riverclan would go along with it. but tigerstar's too much of a prideful asshole to appreciate another culture in enough depth to manipulate them effectively.)

anyway. so reedpaw realizes like -- ah yes. i'm escaping punishment because tigerstar is distracted. and -- god. yeah. oh my god.

and at first like -- he doesn't like. witness anything. tigerstar has some sense of subtly. not a ton -- but enough. direct evidence would be a problem. so no, reedpaw is just sitting with this knowledge in his head. mistyfoot escaped and she was carrying tigerstar's kits (was she? he hadn't seen her he misses her so much he hopes prays she's safe), so now leopardstar is going to.

and the thing about letting things sit like that is that the brain is very, very powerful.

(He called my mother a whore, Reedpaw thinks, and he wants to throw up when he remembers it.

Tigerstar and Leopardstar and Mudfur are having a conversation again and Reedpaw thinks of how Tigerstar would wrap his tail around Mistyfoot, like they were mates, and he wonders what Tigerstar would say if he didn't have to pretend.)

so. you know. yeah. good angst oh my god.

and now mudclaw has flipped from -- one of his best protectors to a great enemy. see, here's the thing. tigerstar only tells mudfur he's going to make him watch. leopardstar ain't dead that long. so reedpaw doesn't know what shadepelt knows and shadepelt would tell him but if shadepelt tries to talk to reedpaw...bad for the both of them.

and reedpaw is around blackfoot and blackfoot is a good guard and how long until -- reedpaw is asked to tell blackfoot something while blackfoot is on guard and he hears mudfur say, "You're a slut like your mother" and he -- can't. maybe he freezes, can't remember what he was supposed to tell blackfoot.

("Spit it out," Blackfoot says, but Reedpaw can't remember why he's even here.

"Even your own father thinks you're just a useless whore," Tigerstar says. He's not speaking loud -- Reedpaw would have to strain to hear the words if his entire world hadn't narrowed down to them.

"Reedpaw," Blackfoot growls. "Spit it out.")

hm. yes. god. bad. good. damn.

and yes the dark au seems like. once again "the angst is very different so i don't know how to rank its magnitude because emotions don't work like that" but. on one hand -- his dad. protection. safety. good. on the other -- his dad really did let two of his siblings die and his mom get raped, huh.

hm. good stuff.

#ask #anon #reed au #misty au #leopard au #dark au #yeah we hit all of them #mine

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seriouslyhooked · 4 years ago

Text

The Bast Bad Idea (Part 2)

Three-part CS AU where Emma and Killian are doctors working at the same hospital (world without pandemic). They’ve yet to meet, but Emma has definitely seen the sexy Dr. Jones in her travels at Mist Haven Medical. It’s generally a bad idea to get involved with a colleague, but a little fantasizing never hurt… right? Inspired by the song ‘Bad Idea’ by Ariana Grande and a TV couple who set the bar for true love stories.

Part One Here. Story available on FF Here and AO3 Here.

A/N: Hello everyone! First and foremost, I want to start with a huge thank you to all of you who have reached out about this story. The response was so far beyond what I was expecting, but I am thrilled to know that all of you enjoy a CS Doctor AU as much as I do. As someone who grew up watching Grey’s Anatomy, it’s essentially engrained in my DNA to love a medical romance, and this story is one I have wanted to write for a long time. I’ve had more than a month away from writing thanks to my busy schedule, but finally my muse came to play and add a bit of fluff to this sweet short story. Chapter two picks up with a critical question – what was Dr. Jones going to propose to Dr. Swan…? Without further ado, here is our answer. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

“This might be presumptuous of me, love, but I find I’m helpless to resist. I was wondering – that is, I was hoping that perhaps, you and I, we could…”

His eyes strayed down to her lips, and Emma wet them absentmindedly. She heard a low growl, and realized it was coming from Killian. She shifted in her seat, turned on in a way she had never been before. Instinctively she moved closer, sensing the sinfully sweet current between them, like lightning just before it cracked across a summer sky. The instant attraction was breathtaking. It felt almost out of time and space.

“We could…” she continued, nudging him along and hoping he would elaborate. She wanted so badly for him to say aloud what she herself was wishing for.

Yet where Emma expected words, she was instead met with action, tantalizing and surprising, but inspiring something in her she never expected. Before she knew it, Emma was in Killian’s arms, aching for this moment, kissing him and knowing she was positively senseless. All that existed was this kiss, this touch. It was electrifying and invigorating, a blaze rushing through her blood stream that emboldened a part of her she’d always held back. Desire. That was what this was, and it was luscious and intoxicating.

Following his lead, Emma broke away from the kiss only to gasp for air as he crowded her body against the wall. The hardness of the cement blocks behind her, coupled with the heat and definition of Dr. Killian Jones was too much to handle. She arched into him, striving for contact, and reveling in the feel of his skin on hers. The only problem was these damn clothes between them. Never in her life had she been irritated at this doctor’s coat she’d worked so hard to earn. For years she studied and poured everything she was into medicine, all for the authority this coat portrayed, but she practically purred when Killian stripped hers off and tossed it to the ground. Pushing his off of his body in return made her mind race. The muscles of his chest and arms were driving her to distraction. Then they flexed, and she swallowed harshly, earning a deep, decadent chuckle from this man who drove her crazy.

“See something you like, Swan?”

God that cockiness. They’d never had any kind of real conversation before now, but the way he smiled spoke volumes. His air and his persona were dripping in assuredness. Emma used to think that she hated so much confidence, but when it came to Killian, she craved it something fierce. It was somewhat infuriating, the way his eyes shone with mischief and conceit, but it was also hotter than anything she’d ever known. Still, part of her would rather die than admit that aloud. She had her pride, no matter how wrapped up in this moment she may be.

“It’s hard to say,” she replied, her voice sounding out with a shredded silkiness that she’d never heard before. “I haven’t seen much of anything yet.”

“My apologies, love. Allow me to rectify the situation.”

Emma watched as this ridiculously attractive man purposefully teased her. With deft fingers he reached for the base of his scrub top, inching the material higher up his body. The trail of dark hair he revealed was evocative, but it held no candle the shape and tone of those abs underneath. Sweet Jesus, were those real? Emma bit back a groan at the sight, her lip pressed tight between her teeth. It took everything in her to keep her hands from reaching for him. She lay them flat on the wall behind her at her sides instead, but they balled into fists unconsciously as Killian eventually tossed the shirt away.

His black hair was mussed now, both from removing the scrubs with that always-present swagger, and from her fingers having run through it during their never-ending kisses. His eyes were dark navy blue, but still they shone with hunger and delight. His grin was a mix of charming and predatory, but instead of inciting a fight or flight response, Emma only wanted to surrender. This was a man who knew he was in complete control. He had hooked her, totally and beyond any shadow of doubt, and all she wanted was for him to have his way with her.

The curses he whispered while helping her shed her own scrubs were like prayers on high, a sweet song to her ears that only added to his allure. Killian’s eyes never strayed from her, but his reactions were so open and transparent. He hid nothing, allowing her a glimpse to the world inside, and it caused the power between them to shift. If Emma was being hunted, then she was also hunting in return, and Killian seemed ready to be caught.

“Emma, I -,”

His voice faded out, and she struggled to hear him. Instead, there was a blaring alarm. Was this a fire drill? Why had the light in the room gone hazy? Still, Emma heard herself whisper his name.

“Killian?”

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The screech of the sharp, incessant chiming by her ears wrenched Emma’s eyes open, and immediately she groaned in disappointment. All of that – every exquisite moment – was a dream. Ugh, of course it was! Because this was her life now: fantasizing about a hot trauma surgeon ceaselessly and wishing that her memories of him were more than mere imagination.

“Damn it,” she muttered aloud, covering her eyes with her hand in frustration. With her vision blocked, Emma was more aware of the feeling that her body was wrapped up in her sheets. She’d obviously been tossing and turning through the night, restless in ways she rarely was before seeing Doctor Jones. These freaking dreams just felt so real, and they’d only gotten worse since officially meeting him.

That was three days ago now, but things had been chaotic in the meantime. The level four trauma that came in when they’d been formally introduced totally swamped the ER. Emma was called down for consult on multiple patients, needing to give life and death assessments and treatment plans for half a dozen people. While down there, Emma had the chance to see David and Killian in action. She was struck, even in the grips of adrenaline, by their cohesion and capability. They were cool and collected, battling odds that were dire to say the least, but they prevailed. Emma had worked for years to hone her craft, to heighten her skills, and to meet the moments of medicine that her work provided. But the energy in the ER had shifted, and she felt her own abilities elevated by the camaraderie and collectiveness of everyone in the hospital.

That shared experience only lasted a short while, for after initial inspections and emergency consults, Emma was quickly rerouted to the surgical wing. For 16 hours straight she worked to save the lives of four people, and through something that felt like magic, or maybe divine intervention, she was successful each and every time. That good fortune held, not only for her, but for all of her colleagues as well. The hospital had managed something next to impossible – they had saved every victim of the horrible accident, but the work had been backbreaking. When she’d finally scrubbed out of her last procedure, Emma admitted defeat, heading home and sleeping for twelve straight hours.

Her next shift was markedly slower, and Emma had the chance to see the progress of her post-op patients, and to connect with the others in her unit. It was critically important that the doctors, nurses, admins, tech teams, and other staff were all feeling strong and secure. Patients needed everyone working as a collective whole, and Emma took it upon herself to monitor that. It was unusual for a Doctor, especially one who wasn’t overseeing daily operations, but it mattered to Emma. Saving lives took so much more than her medical degree and steady hands. She needed each and every person in the cardiac wing to be successful, and she valued every one of them for what they brought to the team.

Unfortunately, while Emma’s day was slower and steadier, there was also a favorite element now lacking. She wasn’t too proud to admit that she’d willingly joined Ruby on the daily trip to the coffee cart. Actually, she’d been the one to page Ruby this time, earning more than a bit of teasing from her best friend, but Killian and David never showed. Only later, when Emma was at the tail end of her workday and helping with a consult in the ER, did she learn why.

“He was here for sixty-eight straight hours,” David said bluntly, after having confirmed his diagnosis for a patient presenting with a blood circulation issue.

“I’m sorry?” Emma asked, confused for a moment at David’s turn of topic.

“Killian,” David said, prompting Emma’s face to heat. Here she was, hoping it wasn’t totally obvious that she was looking for a man she hardly knew beyond imaginings, but David had seen through her in a matter of moments.

“Oh, um – that’s, well that’s… crazy. Sixty-eight hours?” That beat even her record, and she’d been called a workaholic on more than one occasion.

“Mhmm. We were on the end of a twelve-hour shift when the call came in and he stayed, until every last patient in the trauma department was seen and attended to. I left for eight hours and was dead to the world the entire time. Still felt laggy when coming back. Meanwhile, he caught maybe four hours sleep total interspersed between rounds, crashing in on call rooms. You’d never know though. He was totally unfazed. Brilliant as ever. It was like being back in the field again.”

“Seriously?” Emma asked, amazed at that. She was no stranger to long shifts, but to work that hard for that long was a herculean feat. Somehow, though, she wasn’t surprised to hear Killian had pulled it off.

“Yup. I had to force him to go back to his hotel. Actually, Regina had to. I tried, but until the Chief said something, he wouldn’t budge. She had to spew all sorts of protocol and legal jargon at him to get him to go. Even then, I could tell he was debating whether to stay or not.”

“He has a real connection with his patients,” Emma commented, vocalizing a fact she’d ascertained by watching him in action. Killian cared deeply, and while his main job may be all about stemming the flow of crisis, and bouncing around from one case to the next just to keep people holding on, he kept track of all those he helped, and invested in each patient no matter what.

“Maybe. I think it had more to do with the fact that it was only eight am and you wouldn’t be at the coffee stand yet.”

Before Emma could respond, David was paged for something else. He’d left her with a polite goodbye, but also a knowing smile. Another time, Emma might have tried to fake that she wasn’t interested or deny that there was something between her and Killian, but instead she was too busy fixating on what she’d just heard. Emma carried David’s assessment around with her for the rest of the day, well after leaving the hospital and heading home. She spent the night wondering if what David said was true. Was Killian as interested in her as she was in him?

“This might be presumptuous of me, love, but I find I’m helpless to resist. I was wondering – that is, I was hoping that perhaps, you and I, we could…”

“We could what?” she whispered, getting out of her car, heading inside to her next shift. “What was he going to ask me?”

“Did you say something, Emma?”

Emma jumped at the unexpected question, senses on high alert as she stood before the elevator in the parking garage. When she found Mary Margaret only a few feet from her, and clearly the orator of the previous question, Emma relaxed slightly. She tried her best not to show her embarrassment, but it was difficult. Now she was talking to herself? Jeez, she was truly losing it at this point.

“Oh, uh, nothing. How are you today?” she asked her friend. Mary Margaret smiled widely. Her excitement was palpable, filling up the elevator car as the two of them stepped inside.

“I’m great! Just eager to get to work.”

“Any interesting cases on the schedule?”

“Oh, uh, sure, there’s a few, I guess. Well really most of my day is going to be in consult with the Chief’s office.”

“Wait a second, you have to spend a prolonged period of time with the Evil Queen and you are smiling? Who are you and what have you done with Mary Margaret?” Her friend now looked flustered, clearly trying to grasp at an explanation and then it dawned on Emma. “This is about David isn’t it?”

“David?” Mary Margaret asked, her pitch higher than it had been just moments ago. Emma laughed at her friend’s terrible play acting. Trying to pretend that this wasn’t about David Nolan was a lost cause. Eventually Mary Margaret realized that, and she sighed, releasing the tension in her shoulders as she exhaled. “Okay, yes, I am seeing Dr. Nolan today.”

“Let me guess, he’s also going to be at the admin meetings.”

“They’re about coordinating long term therapies better with our emergency protocols and treatments. So yes, the head of the ER is likely to make an appearance.”

“I see,” Emma said, biting back a smirk so as not to make Mary Margaret too uncomfortable. In the end though her curiosity won out, and she had to ask. “So, any movement there?”

“Movement?”

“Has he asked you out yet?”

“Not exactly.” Emma waited for her friend to explain herself. Mary Margaret held off for a few seconds before blurting out the truth. “I actually asked him.”

“Really?” Emma was shocked. Not because she thought any less of Mary Margaret. In fact, quite the opposite. She was proud of Mary Margaret for going for what she wanted. She just had never ever seen Mary Margaret step outside of a comfort zone like that, and certainly not with a hospital colleague. “Good for you. And he obviously said yes.”

“Why is it obvious?” Emma rolled her eyes, but in a teasing way.

“Come on, you know you two were making heart eyes at each other the other day. There was a definite spark. We all saw it.”

“I’m honestly surprised you noticed since you had your own, what did you just call them? ‘Heart eyes’? Well, you definitely had heart eyes for a certain trauma surgeon.”

Now it was Emma’s turn to blush, and what perfect timing, because the elevator doors had just opened to the lobby. They exited the quiet of the elevator to a hustle and bustle found only at a top tier hospital. It felt like a swarm of people, buzzing every which way, on their own individual paths.

“David and I going to dinner tomorrow,” Mary Margaret said quietly, looking around and finding no eavesdropping colleagues. When the coast was clear, she smiled, looking back at Emma with excitement all over her face. “That’s all I know though. I may have asked him out, but he made it very clear he had plans for how our first date was going to be.”

“I have a good feeling about this guy,” Emma said, referring to David. She had known Mary Margaret for a long time, and she knew how much her friend wished for a real and solid love in her life. Few people desired and deserved that kind of connection like Mary Margaret, and for Emma, there was a real satisfaction in seeing her friend’s instant connection with a stand-up man. Based on past experience, there weren’t too many of those to go around.

“Which one?” Mary Margaret asked. Emma stammered something non-committal out, causing her friend to laugh once more. “And that right there is all the answer I need. See you later, Emma. Oh, and when you see Killian again, just go for it. Believe me, it’s so much better than waiting and wondering.”

With that, Mary Margaret headed towards the wing of the hospital where the Chief and her admins worked. At the same time, Emma turned her attention to the cardiac unit. She had a ways to go to get there, but while still in the main entrance of the hospital she was stopped short by a gruff, and somewhat uncertain voice.

“Excuse me, Doctor Swan?”

“Yes?” Emma replied, looking to the young man who approached her. Taking in his features, she realized she knew him peripherally. He was one of the new interns cycling through the hospital this year, but he hadn’t worked in the cardio wing or in a surgical capacity. Taking in his lanyard, which bore his ID card over plain clothes, she saw he was an ER intern. Interesting. “Can I help you?”

“This is for you.” The young man offered her a paper box. Emma accepted, thoroughly confused before the intern elaborated. “Curtesy of Doctor Jones.”

“Oh,” Emma said, suddenly incredibly interested. Unable to resist, she opened the box. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but what she found made her smile widely. “These are flowers. Paper flowers.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m not entirely sure of the significance, but Doctor Jones told me there is a note inside as well. He wanted me to be sure to mention that.”

Emma was more than excited to read what this astonishing man would write to her, but something the intern said reminded her of the awkwardness of this situation. Had Killian used his authority over the interns to have this delivered? It wasn’t a crazy assumption. Many of the residents and attendings here saw interns as the low rungs on the ladder. They were meant to be learning and training, but often they were sent on coffee runs and foolish errands. Emma never believed in that though. She found it unkind and unnecessary.

“To be honest, it was hard to convince Doctor Jones to let me bring these,” the intern said, perplexing Emma further while eerily reading her mind. “I had to offer about a half dozen times. My shift was ending, you see, and I’ve been looking for a way to thank Doctor Jones since he got here. You know he created extra hours in the ER skills lab? He’s working with first years too. We get very little access usually, because the third years are prepping for exams and stuff, but he convinced Doctor Nolan to extend the hours. He’s even hosting classes himself. Cool right?”

“Very cool,” Emma said with a nod, and another smile. She breathed out a sigh of relief, genuinely happy to realize this man she’d been thinking of was good to others. It also made accepting this thoughtful gift so much easier.

From there, Caleb said goodbye, heading out for whatever interns did with down time these days. Oh, who was she kidding? Sleeping. That’s what she’d done, and no doubt that was what all interns still wanted most of all. Emma though, felt more awake now than she had in a long while. She found a quiet corner in one of the corridors leading to the cardio unit and took a seat, opening the box away from prying eyes.

Inside the box there were six different types of what looked like origami flowers. They were beautiful and delicate, and she wondered where he could have bought them. Only when she opened the note did she realize the truth.

Emma,

As you know, I’ve been away for quite a while, out in the field in a completely different world. In the desert there’s not really that much to do, except survive and keep as many of your people as well as you can. The downtime is long and hot and quiet. I picked up these tricks from a fellow soldier. It kept my hands at the ready and my mind clear, and there’s an honest beauty in them that reminds me of you.

Truth be told, there’s a flower for each time I’ve tried to catch you at the coffee cart since our meeting. Clearly my missions have been unsuccessful, so this calls for a change in tactics…

Emma smiled at the thoughtfulness and felt the pull of butterflies low in her chest. He thought she was beautiful, and he said it without fear. Had a man ever said so much? Had it ever mattered? Certainly not like it did now. Reading on, Emma laughed at the lightheartedness of the note and the bit of cheeky humor that accompanied it. His easygoing candor and transparency enchanted her, drawing her in even more than she already was. Then she memorized the time and place he suggested that they meet at the bottom of the page, knowing nothing and no one was going to keep her from this meeting.

Only after reading through his handwritten thoughts three or four times did she realize an added layer of perfection: these flowers weren’t just handmade and crafted with intention. They were also safe for her to take with her to her ward of the hospital. Being in and out of the ICU and cardiac units, Emma couldn’t bring real flowers into her offices without putting some patients at risk, but she could have these. From within the box she selected a bright yellow blossom, beautiful and intricate and folded to perfection. Wordlessly she tucked it away in her pocket. The others were deposited for safe keeping in her office as soon as she arrived back in the East Wing, and displayed on her windowsill, brightening the space.

The hours between the start of her shift and the time she was meant to meet Killian passed by slowly. Her rounds usually distracted her, but not today. While she still gave all due attention to her patients, Emma had that sense in the back of her mind that this afternoon would bring so much more to the forefront. The promise of seeing him again kept her heart pattering faster than it should be, and by the time the clock was minutes from their meeting, she was positively bursting with anticipation.

“Okay, usually I would give you a hard time and pretend to tag along, but even I can’t mess with a smile like that.” Ruby’s words snapped Emma’s focus back to the hallway where she was standing, pretending to read a chart. As she looked to her friend, however, she would never be able to recall what was on the screen in front of her. Ruby grinned when their eyes met. “He gave you the flowers, didn’t he?”

“You knew?” Emma asked and Ruby nodded.

“Yup. Ran into him at the cart a couple of times. He was really starting to piss off the kiosk guy with all his loitering. Had to give him a hundred dollars just to shut him up.”

“He didn’t!”

“No, I wouldn’t let him. I told Boris to shut it unless he wanted a hospital wide nurses strike. Guy knows better than to cross me. He just acts tough for clout.” Emma laughed, knowing her friend truly ran this place in most ways. But then the apprehension of the moment caught up to her again, and Emma’s brow furrowed in worry. “Oh no you don’t. No doubting this, Ems. I’ve vetted this guy. Run all the background, checked all the sources. He’s a good one, a one in a million, needle in a haystack, diamond in the rough kind of man. And, to top it all off, he’s crazy about you.”

“You think?” Emma asked and Ruby nodded.

“I know, but that’s all I’m saying. Let Killian speak for himself, okay? And, even though it’s hard, try and trust this.”

“I think I already do,” Emma whispered. “Trust him, I mean. But that’s crazy, right?”

“Love tends to be that way.”

“Ruby.”

“Emma,” her friend parroted, taking her hand and squeezing gently. “Just go for it. Go for it and see for yourself.”

With a nod, and the validation that she needed to hear from a trusted friend, Emma headed off. It felt natural and expected to make her way towards the center of the hospital once more. This time though, she passed the coffee cart, with only a fleeting glance. Killian wasn’t meeting her there today. In fact, she wasn’t entirely sure where they were meeting. She followed the directions he’d given her, up a few more flights of stairs and through the wing with pediatric patients and newborns. She had been here many times before, for consults and comfort. It was a draw here in the hospital – the cuteness of babies just starting their journeys in the new world. Emma looked at them today, noticing the vibrancy inside the nursery, but didn’t linger. Instead, she followed the last of the route that Killian had given her and ended up somewhere she’d never been before. A place that must have just finished being renovated.

“Wow,” Emma whispered, walking into the sunlight on the open terrace.

With the glass surroundings and the plant life everywhere, this place was beautiful. There were pergolas and hanging vines, topiaries and flowering plants, daffodils and tulips, all breathing in the spring. It felt like a park, floating in the air, with the sounds of the city barely audible below. Emma could imagine the kids and the families who would come here someday. She hoped it would be a space for them to find some peace and happiness while staying in this unfamiliar and often stressful place. Hospitals were rarely any fun for patients, necessary as they may be, but this space was beautiful enough to distract from that.

“You made it, love.” The deep rumble of that familiar voice sent a shiver through Emma’s whole body. She cast a glance over her shoulder, finding Killian, leaning against the stone façade of the building behind them. In his hands were two coffees, and as he moved towards her, he offered her one with a boyish smile. “This is for you. Didn’t want you missing a routine caffeine fix for my sake.”

“Thank you,” Emma said automatically, feeling his fingers brush across hers, sending a zing of awareness through her. Her eyes flashed up to his, and she knew he felt it too. Suddenly she had no want or need for this coffee. She cleared her throat slightly before continuing on. “Where exactly are we? And how, might I ask, does the new guy know about it before I do?”

“It’s the Hubbard Family Wellness Gardens, gifted by one of the hospital’s most loyal benefactors” he said, full of knowledge. Emma was shocked that he actually knew what this place would be but then he smiled, gesturing to the plaque bearing that information. She bit back a laugh. “And as for how I found it, that’s easy. I never leave well enough alone, and I’m curious by nature. I’ve been nearly everywhere in the hospital now, but this place seemed the best for what comes next.”

“What comes next?” Emma asked, her voice hitching up as she repeated the words.

“Aye,” Killian murmured, his tone dipping sensually low. She swallowed harshly as he entered into her space, and he tracked the motion. She felt the heat of his closeness, and caught his scent in the air, clean, and male, and with a hint of spice.

“I’m afraid I didn’t think this through,” he said, close enough to kiss her. God, how she wished he would kiss her. Emma vocalized her first thought.

“Really? I did. Like a lot.”

His smirk told her she’d said that aloud even though she never meant to, but before she could react, he took hold of her cup once more.

“I meant these,” he gestured to the coffee in her hand. Oh, right. “May I, love?”

Emma nodded, and shakily let go of the cup she forgot she was holding. With deft hands, Killian placed their drinks back on a table beside them with far more poise than she could muster at the moment. When that was done, he stepped towards her again, looking at her with a glint in his blue eyes that made her heart skip. His hands came to her body, one to her hip, the other to cup her cheek. The rightness washed over her, and so did the realization that none of her dreams could actually prepare her for real intimacy with Killian Jones.

“Last time we spoke I intended to ask you something. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from wanting this so badly. Without thinking, she wet her lips, and he caught the action, letting out a groan that mixed pain with passion and pleasure. Then he cursed, a totally British ‘bloody hell’ falling past his lips before dipping his mouth to hers and giving them both a taste of temptation.

The kiss was… beyond incredible, but Emma was so deep in it she had no ability to comprehend anything at all. She was consumed with the moment, arching against Killian, feeling the silky strands of his dark hair and the scruff of his beard. His kiss was assured and passionate, dominant and indulgent all at once. She succumbed to the sensations, and let the rightness surge within her, not caring at all that they were outside or at work or that they’d just met. Instinct took over, and her gut, which Emma had always trusted, was telling her that this man was even more than she imagined, and someone she should choose to let in.

Pulling back from the kiss, Emma and Killian stayed close, and Emma took stock of all the places they were touching. His hold on her was firm but caring, like she was precious, and he wouldn’t let her slip away. In his eyes she saw so much emotion, and again she was struck by his transparency and trust. He wasn’t shying away from her or the moment. He was in the depths of desire with her, and their kiss, that perfect, sexy as all hell kiss, had left him tongue tied. The quiet wasn’t awkward, but assuring, and Emma felt secure here, safe even, while also being filled with more unknown wonder than she’d ever been before. Like someone at the start of a glorious adventure, she took a next step born of passion and hope.

“I’m off at six tonight… so, you want to pick me up at seven thirty?” she asked, referencing a date he hadn’t actually asked her out on. She feigned ignorance even though she could read him like a book. “Unless you were going to ask me something else…”

His hold on her tightened, and he shook his head immediately. She was right. He wanted a date – and she saw no reason to wait when she wanted one just as badly. She grinned at him, loving how the tables had turned. This time he swallowed harshly, and she was oh so tempted to kiss him again and see if he’d stay shy or rise to her challenge.

“It’s a date, Swan,” he said dazedly.

Emma hummed out her agreement, going in for one last fleeting kiss. But where she meant to only tease, he took the reins again, kissing her senseless and leaving her breathless when they finally broke apart. Only when her pager beeped with an incoming call did they end their inevitable interlude, and as they did, Emma felt a pang of longing, wishing this moment could last so much longer than this.

“Tonight, love,” he whispered, running his thumb against her lips. “Far away as it may seem, I promise the wait will be worth it.”

“Good,” she replied, nipping his thumb ever so softly, and bringing the fire back in his eyes, before taking a step back. And with that, and just enough presence of mind to grab her coffee, Emma headed off, back through the hospital to the work that awaited her, knowing she could and would get through anything today for the promise of tonight.

Post-Note: Ah!! Finally!! I got the words on the page!! I did the thing!! I wrote the story!! And honestly, it’s such a relief. It felt, at some points, like I may never get this chapter written, but finally today it came. I know many of you were waiting, and I cherished every comment and review and message along the way. I hope all of you who wrote me, and those who read along with chapter one, all enjoy this installation. I write these stories for me and to brighten my world ever so slightly, but also in the hopes that they’ll spark joy for others too. In a time like this, a little joy goes an awful long way. Anyway, thank you all for reading, sending you the best, and hope you’ll join me next time for the final chapter of this CS AU! xE

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

Text

baby, it’s cold outside

summary: for too long you’ve been cooped up. perhaps they will be the ones to change that...

word count: 12k

warnings: mostly tropey-wintery goodness, however: accident related trauma and nightmares, language, innuendo, brief suggestive content, absolute timeline inaccuracy but i don’t care!!!!, could also be described as queen x reader but we’ll ignore that

a/n: this is a little different from my normal, but i hope you enjoy this slow and gentle fic as much as i do. happy holidays, dear ones!!

also thank you to @dancingdiscofloof for your help with this one! (if you aren’t reading rove’s deaky fic, you are sincerely missing out.)

december, 1981. montreux, switzerland.

day zero.

in the aftermath of the accident, the cabin in the alps has been your saving grace. though the home is overly large for just one person and a cat, you cannot imagine living anywhere other than here. it is a balm to your weary soul, having nursed your broken bones and shattered spirit better than any modern medicine. it is here you began again, rising like a phoenix from the ashes, and it is here you will remain—happily.

you cherish the cabin and all the memories etched within the handcrafted walls and sturdy pine beams. each morning as you make your tea and scratch behind marmalade’s ears, you hear the laughter of your childhood echoing through time and space to reach you in the here and now. each evening as you shut off the lights and secure the doors, you smell your grandfather’s pipe smoke, though the artifact is tucked away on the fireplace mantle, now cold with neglect.

your mother, father, grandfather—they’re all gone now. it’s just you and marmalade. you’re content, though, even as you crawl in bed and snuggle beneath the covers night after night and wake up morning after morning with the promise of another solitary day.

truly, the isolation does not bother you. after the accident, it’s people—crowds and gatherings and meetings—who have become the irritant. wherever people congregate, so too does danger. you’ve experienced your fair share of hazardous situations, so you prefer the quiet mountainside now. there’s less peril, less chance for heartache.

each year, after the last of autumn’s leaves have fallen and snow begins to blanket the alpine hills, you tuck yourself away in the cabin until the end of winter. the larder in your basement remains well-stocked with all the essentials—human, feline, or otherwise—and the weeks come and go without issue. you play your records in the afternoons to fill the silence and watch the television as you eat your suppers. marmalade makes for a good conversational partner when the loneliness creeps in—and it does on occasion. still, the orange tabby cat, fat with laziness and all the love you have to offer, tilts her head when you speak and meows softly when you lift your eyebrows in expectation of a response. she’s all you need, really; but the infrequent calls you have with your boss do make up for your lack of human interaction. editing manuscripts can be done anywhere, and, so long as you meet your deadlines, your boss doesn’t care where you get the work done.

early in december, on a dreary evening, the radio encourages all listeners to batten down the hatches in preparation for a nasty snowstorm due to sweep through the mountain and the valley overnight. you look away from your mug of steaming hot cocoa and shoot marmalade a grin.

“sounds fun, yeah?” you ask her, wiggling your eyebrows.

from her place on the yellow laminate tabletop, marmalade pauses her grooming session. her paw hangs midair, the tip of her tongue hanging over her small chin. she drops her paw as you move to curl your hand beneath her stomach and lift her to your hip.

“i know you like snowstorms just as much as i do,” you say.

leaving the kitchen in favor of the open living room, you nudge the overhead light off with your knuckle. it flickers before shutting off, but soon leaves the cabin illuminated solely by the lights of the christmas tree in the corner. the cocoa trembles along the lip of the mug, so you step gingerly. your socks snag against the faded carpet, but you make it to the sofa in one piece. marmalade hops from your arms and curls herself on the far side of the couch, her tail tucked snug around her body.

knees against your chest, you sip your cocoa and bounce your eyes between the christmas tree and the bay window overlooking montreux’s city-center at the base of the mountain. both the lights of the tree and the lights of the city twinkle in the darkness, rivaling any of the brightest stars. tree branches scrape against the roof, following the path of the wind, and, if you squint hard enough, the first of the snowstorm’s flakes are visible through the pale beam of the floodlight outside.

a sigh rattles your chest, and you smile.

it’s a quiet life. some might say a lonely one. but even if they’re right, you wouldn’t change it.

not for anything.

day one.

you wake up late.

normally, you rise with your alarm and keep to a consistent schedule. it helps with the monotony of your life and stops you from wasting time lounging in the comfort of your bed. some days, though, you allow yourself a few extra hours, and the morning after a snowstorm seems the perfect day to sleep in a tad longer.

it reminds you of childhood—the mornings you listened to the radio beneath your bed covers, fingers crossed your school would be announced as closed due to inclement weather. when the inevitable joy came, you would snuggle back in bed; though by then, the glee of a surprise day off of school was all too much too bear, and you were up and moving within moments.

you smile to yourself at the memory, at the way your mother made pancakes every snow day, without fail. you miss her pancakes.

when marmalade pounces onto the end of your bed, meowing sharply, you sit up. “what? are you hungry?” twisting, you glance at the analog clock across your bedroom. “it’s only nine, marmy.”

she presses your foot with her paw, meowing again.

“fine.”

slipping from bed, you cross to your dresser and drag a brush through your sleep-rustled hair. as always, a sliver of cold seeps in through the skylight overhead, and you lift your face, smiling at the sight of snow obscuring the heavens. your smile only widens as you hurry down the stairs, elbows fighting against the arms of your robe.

the world is drenched in snow. you trip to the bay window, press your hand against the cold glass, and grin. a layer of fluffy white powder clings to every nook and cranny of the mountainside. hints of evergreen peak through as the only spots of color in an otherwise white world. even the sky reflects the dazzling brilliance of the snow, and you have to blink rapidly to keep from going blind.

marmalade’s bell collar jingles as she makes her way down the stairs. she stretches at the bottom step, meowing again when she sees you.

“okay, okay, miss impatient.” you shake your head as you turn from the window. “we have the whole day, you know? ‘s not like there will be much else going on around here.”

you turn on the radio as you enter the kitchen. a soft melody—“merry christmas darling” by the carpenters—sets you to a gentle sway as you pour marmalade’s food and set about making your own breakfast.

karen’s warm voice distracts you from the first knock on your door.

keeping marmalade away from the bacon in the cast-iron skillets hinders you from answering the second.

the third, though—the third knock makes you scream.

it’s not so much of a knock as it is a hand slammed against the outside of the bay window, dark eyes peering into your sanctuary, winter cap pulled tight over any discernible features save a thick mustache. you screech, dropping the spatula in your hand to the floor. marmalade drives for the grease-covered utensil, and you trip over her in your haste to hide in the narrow closet beneath the stairs.

perhaps he hadn’t heard you? perhaps he hadn’t seen the streak of multi-colored fabric as you rushed across the living room in your purple robe and bright yellow socks?

who are you kidding? the bay window offers a glimpse into the majority of your home: the small living room, equally as small kitchen, stairs leading to the bedrooms on the second floor. he probably even saw you fling open the closet door and close it. if he did make it inside, he wouldn’t have to search for long in order to find you.

you press a hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut, at the sound of another bang against the door.

this—this was why your aunt in sheffield had pleaded for you not to take the cabin after the accident. she was so afraid you’d be murdered by a crazed hiker or wayward bear. you’d laughed at the thought back then.

but here you are now, cowering in your closet between a hoover and a winter coat, preparing to make her worst fear a living reality. you only hope marmalade enjoyed the bacon grease as a parting gift.

a muffled voice drifts through the walls after a beat of silence. “for god’s sake, we know you’re in there!”

we? your heart rate triples at the simple, two-letter word. we!

drawing in a deep breath, you root around in the darkened closet for a makeshift weapon. this is your home; you will defend it. or at least do your best to scare off the intruders with whatever fake bravado you can muster.

finding nothing, you inch out of the closet and crawl on your hands and knees toward the kitchen. you pause long enough behind the sofa to peer over the arm. another man has his face pressed against the window, his eyes narrowed as he looks over the room. he looks to his right, long curls bobbing with the motion. his mouth moves, but only garbled sounds meet your ears. while he’s distracted, you crawl into the kitchen and grab the cast-iron skillet. it feels hefty in your palm, and you judge the weight with a turn of your wrist. it could do some serious damage if handled correctly. flicking the oven off and dumping the burnt bacon in the trash, you curl both hands around the handle of the skillet and slink toward the door.

no one stands before the window as you make your way through the living room. no one bangs against the door. yet you can feel their presence on the other side of the flimsy piece of wood separating you from them.

you swallow hard as you grasp the cold doorknob, twisting the lock to the side.

steeling yourself, you grit your jaw, and, in one quick motion, throw open the door, brandish the skillet overhead, and roar like a lioness.

“oh fuck!” one of the four men on your front porch stumbles backward in surprise. his arms pinwheel as he loses his balance and drops to his backside on the snowy ground.

the one with the cascading curls can only stare at you with wide eyes and parted lips, stunned to frozen. for his part, the one with the mustache shields himself behind the one with the curls, shouting for someone named deaky to get her to understand.

it is the one with the straight, grecian nose and storm cloud eyes—deaky, you surmise—who speaks to you first. he holds his arms out in defense, his long fingers splayed wide. he glances between the skillet over your head and your face.

“we’re not here to hurt you,” he says. his voice is even and calm, though more unique than you would have originally guessed. you thought all bad guys had deep voices. his voice is too pleasant, and it sets you further on edge.

you deepen your frown, drawing in another breath. “isn’t that what they all say?”

he frowns. “i don’t know who they are.”

“thieves. murderers. criminals!” you lift your skillet slightly higher, and he flinches backward, hands raising a fraction. “i’m not afraid to use this!”

“i don’t doubt it!” he shakes his head, and his eyelashes flutter when a wayward snowflake catches in his vision. “really, though, we just want to use your phone.”

“my… phone?”

with an exasperated sigh, the blond who’d fallen to his rump in the snow shoulders past deaky. “yes, your phone. you do have one, don’t you? we need to get down this godforsaken mountain before our tits freeze off!”

deaky twists and scowls at his friend, hissing, “roger!”

roger waves him off with a dark look. “deaky, i nearly broke my ass with that stunt she pulled. i’m cold, my trousers are wet, and i want to go home. you’ll have to forgive me if i’m a little terse, you twat.”

the one with long curls and sharp facial features gently moves roger out from under deaky’s increasingly cold stare. he places himself between the pair, towering over the other two. despite his height, he holds his shoulders in a noticeable hunch, as though attempting to make himself smaller. he offers you a wry grin.

“sorry for startling you,” he says. his voice is soft and decidedly unthreatening; your tight hold on the skillet goes slack. “i’m brian. these are my friends—roger, john, and freddie. we’re kind of in a bind, and we’d really appreciate it if you lent us your phone. just for a quick call. then we’ll be gone.”

you glance between the foursome. though roger’s face is still shadowed by frustration, they seem harmless enough. maybe a little cranky, but mostly harmless.

unless, of course, that’s what they want you to think.

your aunt’s warning that you trust too easily plays in the back of your mind, and you consider that she might be right. you bite your lower lip, prepared to turn them away, when marmalade jingles her way into the conversation. she curls around your ankle, head lifted to stare at the four men on her porch. the bell around her neck sounds as she turns from side to side around your leg.

“you didn’t say you had a cat!” the one with the mustache—freddie—coos in delight. he crouches, clicking his tongue to gain marmalade’s attention. after a beat of hesitation, she inches forward to sniff the proffered hand. you watch, and when marmalade nuzzles her nose against freddie’s palm, the tension in your shoulders dissipates.

you sigh with a conciliatory smile. “well, if she trusts you, i suppose i will too.” stepping to the side, you nod to the living room. “come in and warm up.”

the men mumble various forms of gratitude and shuffle past you, sure to stomp their snowy boots against the welcome mat outside the door. they crowd around the low fire in the fireplace, and you hurry to toss a few logs on the dying embers. deaky takes the fire poker from your hand when you grab it from its place nestled along the extra pile of wood. his fingertips skim your knuckles, and you’re struck by how warm he feelings despite the weather outside. you meet his gaze, your eyes wide as you wait for him to explain.

“i can do that,” he says. “maybe you can show brian the phone?”

now that he’s shed his overcoat, you note the way his pale blue sweater brings out the pale blue of his eyes. he really is quite handsome. they all are, and it’s been a long time since you were in the presence of a handsome man, let alone four. who can blame you for being a little tongue tied?

you blink when you realize you’ve stared a bit too long. heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn away, scanning the small room for brian. “right, yes. the phone.”

you find brian stood between the living area and the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, stiff while his counterparts make themselves comfortable. roger lounges on the sofa, his legs spread toward the fire. freddie sits at the kitchen table, marmalade snuggled beneath his chin. and with the fire now flooding the cabin with warmth, deaky drops to the single armchair facing the kitchen.

you motion to brian’s wet coat. “would you like to take your coat off, brian? you look awfully damp.”

he shakes his head. “i’m alright.”

you decide not to press and instead point to the phone attached to the wall. “the phone’s just there. do you need a number? or do you have what you need?”

“actually, do you have a number for the gondola lift?”

“yeah, of course.”

you step past him to pull open a junk drawer. apart from a winding, perilous road, the gondola lift is the only way down the mountain for the few people who live mountainside year round. you’ve gotten to know the owner and operator��jimmy schmits—well after your several years living in the cabin. he or someone on his staff is only a phone call away should you need travel assistance, and you prefer the gondola ride to taking your beat-up car down the rocky, poorly paved road.

you hand brian a small, cardstock business card. “that’s the number there.”

he glances down then gives you a tight smile. “thanks.”

turning to allow him what privacy you can in the cramped space, you glance around the room at the three pairs of eyes staring back at you. the laugh that escapes from behind your lips is decidedly nervous, wavering and forced. “sorry. i just—this is a bit weird for me. i would have dressed the part had i known people were coming over.” you suck in a breath and nod to the refrigerator. “have any of you eaten?”

roger opens his mouth to say something, but deaky hurries to speak first, leaning forward in the armchair. “yes, thank you. we ate early this morning.”

roger’s face contorts to a frown, and, in what you assume is supposed to be a surreptitious move, deaky kicks his friend’s shin to silence any further protest. you look away when deaky’s eyes find yours again, his gaze apologetic.

“i’ll just make some tea, then,” you mumble.

the quiet in the room is thick, save for brian’s soft voice coming from the hall as he talks on the phone. you keep your back to the three men as you prepare a kettle for tea.

you spend much of winter in solitude, and truly, you like it that way. this sudden influx of company has you on edge, especially considering your less-than-becoming attire, bedhead, and sleepy eyes. you don’t know what to say to alleviate the discomfort in the room, aren’t really sure if it’s your job to make them feel comfortable.

really, you aren’t sure about anything this morning.

as you wait for the water to boil, you lean against the kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. the fuzzy neck of your robe rubs against your chin as you duck your head, and you study the worn tile floor beneath your long socks.

“what’s your cat’s name?”

you look up. it’s the one with the mustache—freddie. his brown eyes are warm, and he scratches beneath marmalade’s chin as he waits for your answer. for marmalade’s part, she purrs happily in his arms, seemingly more comfortable with your guests than yourself. “marmalade,” you say.

freddie grins, and you can’t help but find yourself smiling back. “perfect name. yet we seem to be missing one important thing…”

“what’s that?”

“your name. if we’re going to intrude upon your cabin and make you uncomfortable, i think we should know who to send the gift basket to once we’re rescued.”

your brow pinches slightly in confusion. freddie speaks with a certain air that you can’t quite place—one of regality, you think. you glance at deaky across the room, and he moves his eyes to the fire as he gnaws on his lower lip.

you look back at freddie, give him your name, then say, “and you’re not making me uncomfortable.”

“please,” freddie deadpans. “i know discomfort when i see it.” he lets marmalade go, who jumps to the floor, padding her way from the tiled kitchen to the carpeted living room. he stands from the table and points to the stove. “the kettle is ready, love.”

you hadn’t heard the sharp whistle, so engrossed were you in your own thoughts.

“oh!” spinning on your heel, you flip the stove-top off and remove the kettle, the whistle dying to a light trill. freddie arranges a ramshackle collection of mugs along the counter, pulled from the spinning rack in the corner. “thank you,” you whisper, as you divvy out the hot water and he drops the tea bags into the mugs.

freddie gathers the milk and sugar, making himself both useful and right at home, which you find you don’t mind too much, though it surprises you how he moves with such ease and command around a home not his own. he must be comfortable anywhere and with anyone, and you envy him that.

he carefully sets the tea tray on the low coffee table in the living room. “how do you take your tea, darling?” he asks you, bending over, his ass pointed near the fire, as he makes to prepare your cup.

you skirt into the living room, shaking your head. “oh, you don’t have to—”

he arches an eyebrow, and his voice is firm when he speaks. “how do you take your tea?”

with a small smile, you lower yourself beside roger on the couch, careful to keep a large space between you. “more sugar than milk, please.”

freddie prepares your cup then passes you the steaming mug. your smile widens in gratitude as you take the warm ceramic from his hands. he prepares his own tea before dropping to the brick ledge of the fireplace. he waves his hand in dismissal at roger and deaky.

“you two make your own,” he quips. “you’ve thoroughly pissed me off this morning.”

from behind the lip of your mug, you pull your mouth into an amused line. your eyes dart to deaky, who is bent forward, frozen as he reaches for a mug of tea. he skewers freddie with an unamused look.

“this isn’t my fault, fred,” he says.

from beside you, roger’s deliciously high voice pipes up. “nor mine!”

“no, of course it isn’t your fault, roger. we wouldn’t dare accuse you of—”

before freddie can finish his sentence, brian returns from the side hall. you shift, turning your head along with the others to hear what came of his conversation with the gondola lift owner.

brian rubs the back of his neck, his eyebrows tilted upward in apology. “well, the gondola is down today.”

“all day?” you speak a little too quickly, and you wince, dropping your eyes to the pale liquid in your mug.

brian nods. “yeah—at least until tomorrow. i guess a tree fell after we were dropped off this morning and struck a line on the lift. and the road isn’t clear, so… we’re stuck.” he glances between his friends, the hunch of his shoulders growing as the weight of their predicament sets in.

“well…” you start. you lean forward to place your tea on a worn coaster. “i certainly won’t turn you out with nowhere to go.” for what feels like the tenth time this morning, you draw in a deep breath through your teeth to steady yourself. “i suppose you lot can stay the night, then. that is, if you want to...”

there’s a beat, a moment of heavy silence, before brian says, “we couldn’t impose like that.”

you frown. “where else would you go?”

roger snorts. “brian would sleep beneath a tree if he thought it might make your life a little easier.”

you glance at roger, uncertain if his words are more jest than jab. the half-smile on his face fades under your questioning gaze, and he shifts. “i just mean,” he continues, “that brian is the most chivalrous out of all of us. not that we have any ugly intentions—”

“roger.” it’s deaky this time, and he sounds more than a little perturbed. “stop talking.”

you hesitate before explaining your offer further. “it’ll be a squeeze,” you say. “but we can make it work. i would rather you spend the night here then wander around in the cold and freeze to death. my closest neighbor is four kilometers off, and she doesn’t have electricity. you won’t be able to find her cabin if it gets dark.”

freddie shivers, though you’re sure his backside is nice and toasty from where he sits close to the fire. “oh good god,” he mutters, bringing his tea close to his mouth. “you people are insane.”

deaky catches your eye, and his brow arches. “if you’re sure…”

you nod. “i’m sure.”

“thank you. honestly, you’re a life-saver.” brian’s shoulders seem to straighten as a smile eases the lines on his forehead. he offers you his hand, which you shake, as he says, “and i’m sorry, but i didn’t catch your name while i was on the phone.”

you give him your name, and he grins, nodding to his friends. “in case you forgot: i’m brian may, and that’s roger taylor, john deacon, and freddie mercury.”

there’s something vaguely familiar about the names, particularly freddie’s, but you can’t quite put your finger on where you’ve heard that lineup before. frowning, you glance between the four men, who stare back at you with expectant sort of faces, as if they’re waiting for the lightbulb above your head to illuminate. you run through the rolodex of names in your brain, but come up short.

“are you performers or something? i swear i’ve heard your names before.”

“we’re in a band,” roger says.

you cringe in apology. “i’m afraid i don’t know bands very well. my radio—i only get one station up here, and it’s mostly yodeling. christmas is the only time of year i can pick up anything worthwhile. got any christmas songs?”

“no, and i’m not sure we will.”

“what band, then? maybe i’ve heard of you on the off chance, but don’t take it to heart if i haven’t.”

freddie leans forward in expectation. “we’re called queen. ring any bells?”

you consider before nodding. “i think so. there’s only one song that comes to mind, though. another one bites the… something? dust, maybe?”

with a laugh, freddie slaps his hand against deaky—john’s knee. “that’s deaky’s song!”

you find yourself smiling—and easily—for the first time since waking. “really? i like it!” shrugging your shoulders in time with the bassline, you do a poor imitation of the song’s opening. beside you, roger laughs, shoving john’s shoulder when a flush creeps up his cheeks. “it’s fun!”

john nods once, mumbling, “thanks.” he drops his cheek to his hand, eyes falling to the carpet, and your smile softens.

you look away, sparing him further embarrassment. “so, i’m in the presence of royalty, i guess, but all i have to offer you is my parent’s old bed, which can fit two, a trundle mattress in my bedroom, and a military cot in the basement.”

brian squeezes your arm in reassurance. “anything will suit us fine. we’re just glad we found you.”

“i’m glad i can help,” you say, and even if it were for this moment alone, you’re glad you never listened to your aunt in sheffield.

day two.

you wake the next morning with a gasp, panic shooting straight to your heart when you roll over and see a man lying on the floor next to your bed. your first instinct is to scream, to call for help, but then the fogginess of slumber lifts from your mind. you recognize the man on the floor, and your defenses drop in relief.

you’d forgotten.

the previous day’s events seem more like something out of a dream than reality. four men—four famous men—appearing on your doorstep? getting stuck in your cabin after a technological malfunction? challenging one another to a game of rock-paper-scissors in order to determine sleeping arrangements? surely you’d made that up, a dream produced by an overactive imagination and too much time alone.

but no—the presence of one john deacon, asleep on the trundle bed extended from beneath your mattress confirms your current reality. you run your eyes over his sleeping face and note the stillness with which he softly snores, one arm tucked behind his pillow. he looks peaceful.

you hope you didn’t disturb his sleep during the night. ever since the accident, nightmares tend to plague your dreams. at least twice a week, you shoot out of bed, drenched in sweat and crying out in the empty darkness of your room. you can’t remember if you’d dreamt at all last night, but you’d shrivel up and die of embarrassment if any of your frantic kicking or mumbling had woken him.

“do you always stare at people when they sleep?”

“shit!” you crash backwards against the wall in surprise at the sound of john’s sleepy voice. your head connects with the paneled wood behind you, and you curse again, rubbing the sore spot on your skull.

“do you always have such a dirty mouth too?” he’s propped up on his elbow now, eyes gleaming with a mischief you hadn’t seen yesterday. his curls lay askew on his head, and his shirt—a flannel pulled from the depths of your grandfather’s belongings—swallows his torso.

continuing to rub your head, you frown. “do you always insist on asking so many questions this early in the morning?”

“only when people stare at me while i sleep.”

you drop your hand, wrinkling your nose in embarrassment. “sorry.” although the tip of your nose is cold, your cheeks feel warm with a flush. “i didn’t think you were awake, and i was… thinking. i wasn’t really staring at you.”

half-truth. maybe a quarter-truth. your four guests are handsome—each of them in their own right—but john… he has the potential to make your knees go wobbly should he flash you one of his secretive and elusive grins.

but, in all truth, you were thinking of other things as you’d looked down at him: thinking about the day and your work and how soft his hair looked and the strength of his nose and—

john rolls off the trundle bed. when he stands, he swivels his arms back and forth, stretching his back muscles. “’s okay. i’m getting used to it.” before you can ask him what he means, he points to the skylight in the middle of your room. “i’ve got a feeling we’re in for a rude awakening.”

your gaze follows his extended finger, and you huff when you see the skylight entirely darkened by a heavy layer of snow. yesterday afternoon, you had still been able to make out the sun’s rays through the unmelted snow leftover from the recent storm. now, the skylight serves more as an extension of your stippled ceiling than an opportunity to glimpse the night sky.

“must have been another storm last night,” you say, slipping out of bed.

you don’t miss the way john’s eyes immediately flit to your legs and your exposed thighs. your nightshirt falls to the middle of your thighs, a long pair of socks pulled over your knees your only leg coverings. his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, his lips slightly parted, but he looks away when you shift uncomfortably with the hem of your shirt. damn your mother for passing on her penchant for hot sleeping!

he gathers his clothes from a chair in the corner and nods to the door. “i’ll just go… change downstairs.”

your nod is too enthusiastic to be anything but embarrassed. “yeah, okay. i’ll be down in a moment. help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen.”

john, holding his clothes to his chest, leaves the room in a hurry, his head down and eyes averted. when the door shuts, the lock giving a soft click as it slides home, you drop to your bed with a groan.

it might be a long day.

after fixing your hair and pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and sweater, you make your way down the stairs and into the living room. a chill hangs in the air, one much deeper than the general winter cold. it goes straight to your bones and makes your teeth chatter in your skull. shivering, you circle your arms around your waist, prepared to go start a fresh fire in the hearth, but something in the corner of your eye stops you.

your guests—all four of them in a line, their mismatched heights on full display—staring out the bay window.

“what is it?” you ask, bending to lift marmalade from the floor when she jingles her way over from the kitchen. “did it really snow that much?”

roger looks over his shoulder, and the disappointment shadowing his face gives you pause. “come see for yourself.” he drops to the couch with a defeated groan, cradling his forehead in his hand.

holding marmalade against your shoulder, you tiptoe to the window, the floor beneath your feet unusually frigid. you exhale at the sight of the fresh snowfall, and your breath clouds the windowpane. a thick layer of white powder covers the mountainside. as far as your eye can see, there’s nothing but pure white. it’s blinding in the morning sun, and you blink against the glistening snowflakes.

“it’s got to be at least one meter,” brian whispers. “maybe more.”

freddie shakes his head back and forth, gesturing to the side. “i can’t even see the bloody porch steps. they’ve been swallowed!”

john shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “no power either.”

you twist to stare at him in shock. “what? no power?”

he gives you the briefest of glances then returns his gaze to the window. “i checked the breaker. it’s all out.”

from the couch, roger groans again. “which means we are stuck for the foreseeable future. brian called the gondola and they couldn’t even pick up, so that’s out of the question.” he slumps further down the couch cushions. “i had a fucking holiday party planned for next week.”

“now wait a minute.” brian turns from the window and reaches over to give roger’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “the snow will clear up before then. it’ll just be a few more days. that is”—his eyes slide to you—“if you’ll let us stay?”

you glance between your guests before laughing in indignation. “you didn’t really think i’d turn you out, did you?” marmalade hops from your arms when you plant your hands on your hips. “honestly, i might be somewhat of a recluse, but i’m not completely rude.”

freddie skirts around john to place both hands on your shoulders and steer you toward the kitchen. “no one thinks you’re rude, darling. we just didn’t want to assume.” he jerks his head toward john. “now, john will start the fire and we’ll all get cozy and perhaps play a game of scrabble. roger found the board downstairs last night. how does that sound?”

you meet john’s eyes over freddie’s shoulder, and he smiles—ever so slightly, but enough to drop your defensive stance. you nudge freddie with your arm and nod. “scrabble it is.”

after breakfast, you are quickly bested in the shortest game of scrabble you’ve ever played. it seems your guests are quite the experts, so you leave them to their fun in order to complete a series of edits on your latest manuscript. from the kitchen table, you can hear them bickering over whether or not freddie’s addition is a dictionary defined word or whether or not john can go twice in one turn because roger knocked his letters from the coffee table.

the gentle hum of conversation—of life—warms your chest. it’s been a long time since your home felt lived in. for so long you have simply subsisted, moving from room to room to change the scenery, leaving the mountain only when necessary, never truly engaging with the outside world. it’s easier to live alone—there’s less risk in it, less wondering if today could be the last day you interact with a loved one because fate has some cruel trick up its sleeve.

but, damn, if having roger and john and brian and freddie grace your living room doesn’t remind you of how irritatingly necessary other people are to living a truly fulfilled life.

brian asks if he can prepare a light lunch, and while he does, you gather your work and set it aside. you have a deadline—the first of the year—but for the moment, you’d rather engage with others instead of shoving your head deep within the made-up realms of your novelists.

with a dramatic stretch, you raise your arms above your head and groan as the muscles pop in your back.

“all done, then?” freddie asks.

“for now,” you say.

he pats the open spot of the couch between himself and john, and you squeeze between them, tilting your socked feet toward the roaring fire. you find yourself still shivering slightly, despite the extra layer beneath your sweater and warm wool socks. if you remember correctly, your father had complained of poor insulation in the attic. you wish, perhaps a bit selfishly, he’d gotten that fixed before his passing.

“here.” john shimmies one side of the blanket draped over his shoulders around yours. “we can share.”

“thanks,” you whisper, grabbing the corner he offers and pulling it around your back. the movement draws him closer, the outside of his thigh pressed tightly against yours. he feels warm, though, like your own little space heater, and you resist the urge to lean into him for further comfort. instead, you focus your attention on freddie, who explains how he and his bandmates came to be stranded on a swiss mountainside.

“so, really, it’s roger’s fault that we’re in this predicament,” freddie says. “he was the one who wanted to go skiing.”

you tilt your head to the side, confused as you glance toward the front door. “where is all your gear, then? you didn’t bring any in.”

john sighs with a shake of his head. “we forgot that in the hotel.”

“no one is brilliant at five am, dear. except for maybe brian, but even he failed to remind us that the first rule of skiing is you need skis.” freddie shrugs his shoulders. “oh well. it brought us to you, didn’t it?”

smiling, you nod. beside you, john shifts a little closer. his free hand rests on his leg, but his pinky finger extends outward, brushing along the outer seam of your jeans. your grin widens.

“yeah, i suppose it did.”

day three.

it’s just past midnight when you tumble from the depths of your nightmare.

the accident—replaying—over and over and over. the twist of the car over the edge of the ravine. you, powerless, helpless as you watch from the safety of your grandfather’s truck. the crunch of metal against rock and tree and—

—and the ultimate knowledge that there was no way your parents could survive such a fall settling over your heart like a three-ton brick.

you jerk awake with a barely-contained screech. clamping your hand over your mouth, you squeeze your eyes shut, willing away the images that flash through your mind like some sort of cruel slideshow. blood and guts and screams and—

a warm hand on your shoulder, soft voice in your ear saying your name, pulls you back to reality. “hey. hey, wake up.”

your eyes flutter open, sleeve of your shirt caught between your teeth where you bite down hard. in the dim light of the room, you can make out the angles of john’s face, the line of his nose, pout of his lips. a soft glow—from the nightlight in the corner, you think—shrouds the curls on his head, giving him the curve of a halo.

your ribs shudders as you exhale. he looks like an angel, an angel sent to save you perhaps. never in your lift have you so badly wanted to embrace someone in relief.

instead, you drop the hand from your mouth and lean closer to the wall at your side, away from him. “huh? wha—oh… john, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to wake you.”

his grip on your shoulder tightens, and he ignores your apology. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing. just a nightmare.”

“some nightmare.” john’s hand slips from your shoulder to your elbow, and he rubs his cheek with his opposite hand. “you hit me.”

“fuck, did i? oh hell, john.”

scrambling to your knees, you frown into the darkness, searching for a welt or bruise blossoming on his cheek. it’s too dark to see clearly, though, and you sigh in defeat, hanging your head. embarrassment swells in your stomach, wrenching it side to side, and you turn your face away, hoping against hope that he can’t see the evidence of your fluster.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

more than anything, more than the embarrassment roiling through your system and the nerves wracking your chest, you find yourself feeling frustrated. two day—two days with queen in the house, and two days you’ve felt a magnetic pull towards john. maybe you’re just lonely and maybe you’re just reading too much into the stolen glances and brushes of his hand against yours, but having him here in the house with you? tossing your sideways looks when freddie says something that makes you laugh and helping you pull the biscuit tin from its place on the top of the shelf? you’d thought that maybe—just maybe—he might see something worthwhile in you, too.

but no rockstar could put up with you. surely, he must see that plainly now. your fear of crowds and loud noises and your night terrors—that’s not made for the high life. he would go once he got the chance, forget about you and you cat in the cabin on the mountainside. why you ever considered for a moment he would do otherwise further stokes the shame threatening to consume you.

you fiddle with the sheets and blankets gathered around your knees. “you can sleep downstairs, if you like,” you say in a rush. your grip tightens on the quilt binding, and you rub your thumb back and forth across a frayed string. “i won’t mind.”

john remains still and quiet for so long you think he must’ve fallen back asleep. but then he stands, and he gently nudges your shoulder.

“scoot over,” he urges, and you find yourself inching closer to the wall without a second thought. john slides into bed next to you, his body warm and strong. “is this okay?”

you nod because, truly, yes, it is okay with you. very much okay.

“when i was little,” he starts, adjusting the quilts around his chest, his ankle brushing your leg. “i had this dog, and any time i had a nightmare, he would crawl into bed with me, help it all go away. i know i’m not as fluffy as a dog, but… well, i thought maybe we might see if this helps it go away.” he pauses for a breath and asks again, “is that okay?”

“yeah, yeah, it’s okay.” your voice is a puff of air, and if it were any colder, you’re sure your breath would crystalize.

“good.” he settles deeper into your shared pillow, and you catch a whiff of your shampoo in his hair. it makes your stomach clench, not from embarrassment, but an entirely different emotion. beneath the covers, one of his hands slips over the curve of your wrist, and his fingers tangle with yours. he gives your palm a squeeze. “go back to sleep.”

you do—easily.

john’s heartbeat is steady beneath your ear when your eyes flutter open for the second time. you’d rested without struggle for the first time in a long time. your shoulders feel loose, your eyes free from heavy circles.

and it’s all because of john.

your cheek is firm against his chest, and the fabric of your grandfather’s flannel still smells like his cigar smoke, but there’s something else, something distinctly john, and it’s all you can do to not turn your face further into his chest and snuggle closer to his side. he’s warm, and you’re still cold despite the heavy blankets cocooning you. his arm is slung over your back, drawing you tighter to his chest, his face turned to the side as he breathes softly in sleep.

you should get up, go downstairs, and find something to eat, check to see if the power has returned. you’d rather stay here, in this quiet, still moment, until the rest of the world fades away and you are left with him and him alone. your wish isn’t meant to be, it seems, because just as you are prepared to lean further into john’s warmth and return to sleep, freddie bursts through the door.

you jolt upwards at the sound of the door slamming against the wall. john is right behind you, and his arm instinctively tightens around your back.

the grin on freddie’s face is positively shit-eating, and he puts his hands on his hips as he looks between you and john with something between pride and amusement. “oh! well, well, well, what do we have here?!”

“fuck, fred.” john releases his hold on you, moving to run a hand down his face to cover his yawn. “damn near pissed myself.”

“yes, i’m sure.” freddie chuckles to himself then cocks his head toward the open door. “make yourselves presentable. we’ve got decorating to do.”

he exits without further explanation, leaving a ball of confusion and uncertainty in your stomach and a proverbial elephant in the room. you fiddle with the end of your sleeve, wondering if john thinks the silence is as thick as you do.

“you seem to have slept better,” he says at last.

you turn, and his face is so near yours you could kiss him. instead, you just nod and say, “yes, i did. thanks to you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “i’m a selfish guy. i didn’t want to get hit again. seemed the easiest way to spare me the pain.”

somehow you know he’s joking. you know he slept as well as you because of your body pressed against his. you know he feels the spark, and he’s waiting for the moment to light the flame.

perhaps it’s the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, or the quick wink you nearly miss, that tell you you’re not crazy, that he feels it too. or maybe… maybe he’s the other half of the string that’s tied beneath your ribs. the string is no longer stretched and pulled taut, but relaxed, made light by fate and nature conspiring to bring you together.

or maybe you’re reading something that isn’t there again.

you look away first, but can’t keep the giddy smile from your face. he makes your heart feel weightless. and after being weighed down for so long, you feel as if you could do anything.

john gathers his clothes and changes downstairs while you get dressed for the day. by the time you make it to the living room, brian hands you a warm-ish glass of orange juice and a bowl of cereal while roger tends the fire and freddie sits on the floor, marmalade sniffing around the open boxes of christmas décor at his feet.

unbidden, tears spring to your eyes, and you tighten your hold on the glass in your hand.

three christmases you’ve been alone. three christmases you’ve avoided the tried and true rituals of your childhood. three years you’ve missed this, the warmth of friendship and togetherness.

your heart gives a painful lurch at the thought of all you’ve missed out on, all you’ve neglected in order to save yourself from pain. only, perhaps you’ve driven yourself to much more pain, shutting yourself away on the mountain as you have.

john appears at your side, and his hand comes to rest on the curve of your neck, his finger tracing the edge of your jaw. “what is it?” he whispers, low enough so only you can hear.

clearing your throat, you grin up at him. “i’m just happy.”

his eyes scan the room before he dips his head and presses his lips to your temple. his grip on the back of your neck tightens as he lingers against your skin. your eyes flutter shut, and you lean closer to him, warmth spreading from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet. he releases you after a moment, nudging you forward with a hand to the small of your back.

you drop to the carpet beside freddie and take a bite of your cereal. “where did you find all this? i didn’t know i’d kept it.”

“i found it, actually,” roger says from his place in the kitchen.

“and you found the scrabble board too… if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you were snooping around my house.”

“so what if i am?” roger shrugs. “i’m bored as hell without the tellie. there’s loads of stuff downstairs just waiting for me to snoop through.” he finishing tacking something to the archway of the kitchen before stepping into the living room, hands in his pockets.

“roger, stop your griping and sit down.” brian nods to the open armchair. “we haven’t had this much time off in ages. enjoy it while you can.”

“really, why do you keep all this marvelous stuff downstairs?” freddie asks. he sifts his hands through the box on his lap, filled with tinsel and ribbons your mother collected over the years. “you have a tree, but that’s it. your entire cabin could be dripping with christmas cheer if you wanted.”

“it’s just me,” you say. as if understanding, marmalade gives a petulant meow. you smile and scratch behind her ears. “and marmy, i guess. there’s no reason to go above and beyond if it’s just me.”

brian’s brow furrows in concern. “your parents? siblings?”

“my parents died about five years ago, my grandfather shortly after. there’s no siblings. just me.” rising from your place on the floor, you gather your empty breakfast bowl and the leftover plate sitting adjacent.

it’s quiet as you deposit the dishes in the sink. the story of your parent’s tragic accident and grandfather’s health decline has never been a mood booster; this you well know. still, you feel obligated to tell your guests. no—not obligated. willing. you love your parents and your grandfather, but you’ve neglected their memory too long.

you turn from the sink. “why don’t we put the decorations up? in their memory.”

freddie’s smile is soft, affectionate. he nods resolutely. “a lovely idea.”

brian puts a christmas record on the turntable, and the house seems to sigh in relief as life, happiness, and festive cheer fills the rooms after so long. roger tosses handfuls of tinsel upon the sparsely decorated tree, his hips swaying to the beat of the music, and freddie directs brian in hanging garland over the mantelpiece and around the staircase banister. you sit beside john on the floor, stringing popcorn along a piece of string. your hands are salty and warm from the popcorn, and his shoulder brushes yours as you work.

“you know,” he says. “my dad died when i was young.”

you pause, an unpopped kernel between your fingers. “really? sorry—i don’t mean to sound so surprised. i just—you didn’t say anything, so…”

he brushes your hurried apology away with a shake of his head. “i was eleven. changed me forever. i don’t really remember much of my childhood, you know, ‘cause of that.”

“oh, john.” though your fingers are slick with salt and butter and grease, you cover his hand with yours. he looks up from the half-filled bowl, and leans closer, his shoulder pushing against yours. “i’m sorry. that—no child should have to lose their parent at a young age.”

“i don’t tell you to feel sorry for me.” he removes his hand from beneath yours and continues to string the popcorn, but there’s no malice or hostility in his words—just truth. “i’m just saying it because i know how it feels to lose a parent early. it’s… devastating.”

you nod, twisting your mouth to side and looking away from his searching gaze. “yes, it is.” drawing in a deep breath, you face him again. “i think i dwell too much on the sadness, though. there’s happiness in their memory, and i forget that. but you lot helped me remember. you helped me remember.”

john ducks his head on a shy grin, his cheeks pink with blush.

heart tripping in your chest, you stand and return to the kitchen to refill the popcorn bowl while he drapes the first completed string around the tree. as the popcorn pops, you tuck your face near your shoulder, smiling to yourself. three days ago, you’d gone to bed thinking you knew what christmas would look like this year: desolate and lonely, with only your cat by your side and work to fill your days. how could you have guessed? how could you have known what nature would bring your way?

when you turn, the freshly filled bowl cradled in the crook of your arm, you stop short. roger, a sideway grin on his face, stands in the doorway of the kitchen. he jerks his chin upwards, and you follow his eyeline to the sprig of faux mistletoe tacked to the ceiling.

you roll your eyes. “so, that’s what you were doing. you really are a trouble-maker, roger.”

“come on, it’s tradition, love. just one kiss?” he opens his arms slightly, beckoning with a wave of his fingers.

you huff with mock indignance, but your cheeks warm at the thought of roger taylor wanting to kiss you of all people. the little you know of queen and their stardom is knowledge enough to tell you that roger has kissed far worthier people. they all have, probably. you—you’re just a country bumpkin, hardly interesting or captivating enough for his—or any of their—attentions.

that, at least, is what you would have told yourself three days ago. today, the thoughts tumble through your head, but you push them aside with a newfound sense of confidence. it doesn’t mean anything, anyway. it’s just a mistletoe kiss. and you think you’d regret it forever if you turned him down.

before you can stop yourself, you step forward, and roger rightly takes the movement as an agreement. he kisses you soundly, one hand feather-light in the center of your back. you don’t let the connection linger too long for fear you will lose yourself to the moment. roger is kind and charming, but he’s not… well, he’s not john, and the thought of john and whatever it is he means to you makes you pull away after a few seconds.

from their place in the living room, freddie and brian cheer, clapping in response to the good-natured fun. you duck your head, but smile all the same and drop to your spot beside john. you hand him the bowl of popcorn, but he doesn’t start stringing the new line. he just looks at you, his eyes roaming your face, barely so much as a frown pulling his brow tight or downward tilt of his mouth wringing his lips in a scowl. he just… stares, openly, without pretense, and you suddenly wish you’d turned roger down. though the feeling of roger’s lips still lingers on yours and the kiss wasn’t unpleasant in the slightest, john’s arms around your waist while you sleep leaves much more of an imprint on your skin. his soft breath when he sleeps, the perfect rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear—it all is so much better than a silly mistletoe kiss with roger.

a muscle ticks in john’s jaw, the only evidence of possible frustration. you look away and continue stringing popcorn along the line.

“i wanted to be the one to kiss you.”

at the sound of john’s mumbled words, you trip over a mislaid shoe in the middle of your darkened room. he’d gone to bed earlier than everyone else, leaving you and the others to play another round of scrabble until well after the sun disappeared. you’d considered following him when he made his exit and explaining your kiss with roger, but you’d decided it against it.

neither roger nor john could stake any claim over you or your actions, and you’d wanted to kiss roger. not to piss john off, not to push him away, but purely because you’d wanted to. maybe you wouldn’t do it again, not after seeing the crestfallen look on john’s face. but you’d done it, and there was no shame in it.

you grip the edge of the bed frame, bent at the waist, frozen in the way you’d tripped. “what?” the word is a sharp exhale in the already tense room.

“you heard me: i wanted to be the one to kiss you.”

you aren’t sure what to say, so the first thing that comes to mind slips from your mouth. “well… you didn’t.”

john huffs and hops off his spot atop your bed. the snow covering your skylight has started to melt in the last day or so, allowing slim rays of moonlight to pierce the darkness of your room. the moonlight coupled with your nightlight illuminates only the sharpest features on john’s face, and while any other evening you might think the line of his jaw or definition of his nose might be alluring, tonight, coupled with the scowl on his brow, you wish you could see him clearly. he stands in the center of the room, hands on his hips, and you straighten, run your fingers through your rumpled hair.

“you could have,” you whisper. “but you didn’t.”

“beneath the mistletoe?” he scoffs like the mere implication is an offense. “no. that’s not what i meant.”

“what did you mean, then? you can’t just say you wanted to be the one to kiss me with no explanation. i’m not some plaything, john. you boys might be used to that, being famous or whatever, but—”

“no.” his voice is stern, commanding, resolute. you shut your mouth with a snap. “you drive me crazy, you know that?” he steps forward; you step back. “you think you’re so insignificant, that you’re not good enough for anybody.”

your frown and retreat another step when he advances. “i don’t know what you’re—”

he cuts you off as though your protest went in one ear and out the other. “you’re shy, sure, but you’re brave. i mean, dammit you live all the way up here by yourself, and you nearly fought us off with a fuckin’ frying pan.”

he sighs. but then his arm extends, his fingers hovering over your cheek. when you don’t flinch, don’t so much as move a muscle, he covers your cheek with his palm, his fingertips tracing the edges of your hair. “you’re a lot like me. we have a lot in common.”

your heart lurches—not out of pain or regret, but anticipation. a lump of excitement clogs your throat, and it’s hard to swallow, hard to think, hard to breathe, with john so near and his words so intoxicating.

“john…” your eyelids flutter shut, your head tilting into the warmth of his palm. “i—”

“i wanted to kiss you because i like you, not because you’re the only bird here, but because i like you and i think we have a lot—”

you surge forward on a burst of assertiveness. grabbing the edges of john’s night shirt, you drag him forward and slot your mouth over his. his lips are smooth, and once he registers what you’ve done, he responds with equal parts ferocity and tenderness. one hand bunches the fabric of your shirt at your waist, the other grips the back of your neck, holding you against him like you might be blown away by the wind at any moment.

after a moment, he pulls away, rolling his forehead over yours. “tell me to stop and i will.”

you kiss him again, chaste and fast enough to draw back and murmur, “don’t stop,” before losing your nerve.

john circles his arms around your back, then, resuming his careful but hungry attack on your mouth, your cheeks, your neck. you wind your arms around his shoulders, drawing him tight, and you don’t make it to the bed before collapsing to the floor in a heap of passion.

day four.

the power comes back on the next day, and by late evening, jimmy schmits from the gondola service calls to tell you everything will be back up and running by morning. your guests are pleased. they’re eager to get back to the comforts they’re accustomed to, and you don’t blame them. four days in an unheated cabin with rapidly spoiling food in the fridge is not typical rockstar accoutrement. still, they tell you they’ve thoroughly enjoyed their break from reality, and you respond in kind. it was as much as break for you as it was for them.

on that last evening, the lights are kept off for the final time. the fire in the hearth permeates the room with its light, though you don’t need its warmth as much now that the heater is back on. the christmas tree sparkles in the corner, and a few candles flicker in the kitchen and hallway. brian sits in the armchair, your father’s old acoustic on his lap. roger, of course, had found it buried in a spare closet, and he suggests brian play to close out the night.

you lean your back against john’s chest where he sits on the couch. his arm is draped around your body, his fingers running nonsensical patterns over your waist. the back of your head rests against his shoulder, and you feel like you could walk on water you’re so light. all the stress, the aches and pains you’ve carried for so long, have melted like the snow. john is to thank for that, as are the others, but mostly him. he’d pegged you quite right with his speech the night before: shy and unsure of yourself and entirely unconvinced of your own worth. but you’re on the mend, you think.

insignificant? you? no, not anymore. not when he looks at you and holds you close.

brian cringes when he gives an experimental strum of the guitar and something akin to a high-pitched whine hits the air. “oh wow. this hasn’t been played in a while.” he looks up, pulling his mouth to the side in a wry grin. “sorry,” he says when he meets your eyes. “i just have to tune it some.”

“go ahead,” you say. “do what you have to.”

brian adjusts the tuners at the top of the guitar before plucking and pulling the strings in time to a gentle rhythm. when he opens his mouth, he begins to sing. “have yourself a merry little christmas. let your heart be light.”

freddie joins him, scooting forward on the other side of the couch, marmalade snug in his lap. “from now on our troubles will be out of sight.”

when roger jumps in for the bridge, the trio’s voices mingle together in the air like pieces of a puzzle. each part is distinctive and unique, but no less important to creating the larger picture. you snuggle closer to john and feel the vibrations of his chest against your back as he hums, his finger tapping along your shoulder.

“once again, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore. faithful friends who are dear to us will be near to us once more.”

tears cloud your vision, and you tighten your grip on the arm draped over your stomach.

tomorrow your guests will return to their normal lives, lives of fantasy and extravagance. you will return to your hum-drum existence, and the holiday will come and go with little fanfare. but if this is the only gift you will receive this christmas—this time with the hodge-podge musicians that make up queen, this time with john—you will take it with no expectation for anything more.

you’d forgotten what it was like to live with joy and freedom, some semblance of your life prior to the accident. john, freddie, roger, brian—they’d helped you remember, and for that you are forever indebted to them.

clearing your throat, you twist slightly in john’s arms, enough to tilt your head back and let your eyes roam his face. he looks down at you, lips caught in a serene smile. you brush your fingers along the line of his jaw.

“merry christmas, john,” you whisper.

he hums in approval, grinning, before lowering his mouth to kiss you softly. “merry christmas, darling.”

six months later.

it’s hot out, the summer sun roasting you through the thick glass of the gondola. you could drive your car down the mountain, but you prefer the gondola. the gentle sway of the hanging car, the way the buildings in montreux slowly grow taller as you inch closer to the city—it’s all a part of the journey, and you enjoy it, find a comforting rhythm in the predictability.

today, you have an empty basket on your lap, your ankles tucked beneath the bench, as you make your way to the farmer’s market that pops up once a month. it’s a simple little thing, and you often only leave with a few ripe fruits and handful of fresh-cut flowers, but ever since your christmas with queen, you’ve been venturing out more. not enough to truly consider yourself a social butterfly, but you enjoy the odd afternoon at the farmer’s market or dinner in one of the pubs where you listen to the local bands play. you’ve made a friend—your first friend in ages—and heather only further helps to draw you out of your reclusive nature.

then, of course, there’s john. he helps too, always does.

when he’d left in december, he made no promises, and you didn’t expect him to. after all, you’ve only really been with him in person for four days; that’s hardly enough time to build a lasting sort of connection.

still, he calls when he can, and you catch up, but there’s no real agreement between you both. yet he continues you to encourage you to get out more, going so far as to ship you a bicycle you can ride the mountain trails on. he promises to come ride with you one day, but you won’t hold him to it. it’s the thought that counts.

for the first time in years, you’re happy, sincerely happy. you once thought that living by yourself, away from the world so you couldn’t be hurt, was enough to be content, and for a time, you were content. but then you’d been forced to remember, to remember how much you need others, and now that you can accept that, loneliness no longer pervades your home or your person. you walk with purpose; your smile comes naturally; your shoulders sway with ease.

it’s still a quiet life, but a much happier one.

you disembark the gondola with your eyes scanning the small list of items it would be worthwhile to buy—a new vase, a bouquet of flowers for the dinner party you’re hosting for heather and her siblings in two days, a necklace to replace the one marmalade broke—and you barely noticed when you bump shoulders with someone boarding the gondola car. you startle, though, when a hand wraps around your wrist and someone says your name.

you turn, lift your eyes, and gasp, your heart leaping to your throat. “john deacon!” it’s practically a squeal, and john shushes you with a fast hand over your mouth.

he glances around to see if anyone heard you or cares, and it seems the world is too busy with their own affairs to study john deacon and the girl he has pinned against his chest, his arm around her back and hand over her mouth. his eyes sparkle when he returns his gaze to you. “hush! don’t blow my cover!”

you swat his hand away, but don’t move out of his grasp. “what are you doing here?!”

he nods his head to the gondola car, now filled, the doors shut and prepared for departure. “i could ask you the same thing.”

you flush unwillingly and shrug your shoulders. “i actually leave the house now.”

“really?!” john releases his tight hold on your back, giving you breathing space, but doesn’t move his feet. when he speaks, his breath—recently freshened with a mint—fans your face. “i was actually on my way up to surprise you, but it looks like you’ve beaten me to the surprise.”

your heart, still lodged in your throat, skips a beat. “you were coming to see me?”

“’course i was.”

“i didn’t know you were in montreux.”

he nods. “we’re recording. should be here a month or two. just got here yesterday.”

you grin. your cheeks pinch in a slight ache, such unrestrained joy still uncustomary to your muscles. “and you were coming to see me?”

while you grin and reach forward to toy with the edge of john’s shirt, he frowns. “’course i was,” he repeats. “you say that like you’re surprised.”

“well, it was your intention to surprise me, right?”

“of course i would come see you if i was in town.” john nudges your shoulder with his hand then covers your bicep with his palm, squeezing lightly. “you’re my girl.”

you tilt your head to the side. “your girl?”

he nods, steps closer, and holds your other arm. “yeah,” he says, his voice gone deeper, gravely. “my girl.” this thumb brushes along the exposed skin of your shoulder, tanned by the sun. “i told you in december: i like you. the last six months have been… hectic, but i was always going to come back.”

tucking your lower lip between your teeth, you narrow your eyes as you wind your arms around his neck. the hair at the nape of his neck is soft as you play with it. “i would say really and not believe you. but i seem to remember someone telling me that i’m a lot more significant than i give myself credit for.”

john laughs, and the sound pierces your heart like cupid’s bow. “what genius said that?”

you shrug your shoulders, rolling your eyes. “i dunno, but i took it to heart.”

“did you? good. then maybe you’ll be more inclined to say yes when i ask you to come on tour with me, with all of us.”

“oh, you were going to ask that?”

“part of my surprise.”

leaning forward, you feather your lips over john’s. “ask me, then,” you whisper, grinning even further when you feel a shiver run down his back.

“come with us. come with me. let me take you around the world.”

the you of six months ago flares in your chest, telling you to say no, to stay home where it is safe. the you of six months ago tells you that john is just being nice, that he doesn’t see you as anything serious.

but the you of today…

the you of today just smiles and kisses john soundly. you move your mouth over his like he is your dance partner, like you were made for one another, and maybe you were. he tastes sweet, feels even sweeter against your body, and you wonder if this is what your parents felt like when they first fell in love. as your mother tells it, she thought your father had hung the stars in the sky, and when you pull back to look at john, the same thought comes to mind.

“so is that a yes?”

you nod. “i’d go anywhere with you, john deacon.” another thought pops to the forefront of your mind, and you fist your hand in john’s shirt with a frown. “but wait: who will watch marmalade?”

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

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