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martsonmars · 3 years ago

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Hello people! Thanks for tagging me this past week, I love your snippets always <3

Little writing rant coming, feel free to skip to the actual content, which is under the cut!

Writing is hard. I've barely written anything all month, and it's fine. Maybe I've finally made peace with the fact that writing is a hobby, and it should be fun and not feel like a chore, and that I don't owe anything to anyone. I'm getting better at not forcing myself to write when I don't feel like it, which was something I did at the beginning of the year—after years of writer's block, from last September to December I managed to write almost every day, and it felt so good that when January came and writer's block with it, I felt awful and forced myself to write more than once. It doesn't work and it just makes everything worse, so I'm happy that I'm finally being kinder to myself and to my limits.

BUT what bothers me now is that I genuinely want to write, and I'm so excited about so many projects... It's the physical act of writing that makes me nauseous, lately. I open the doc/notes app/Tumblr draft/notebook/app for recording (because I've tried many methods), and I'm filled with dread. Which makes me sad. I almost felt better when, at the beginning of the year, I simply didn't want to write. At least I didn't feel like I had too much creative energy and no way to let it out—I was just drained. Now I'm full of things that want to be written, and I can never turn them into words. But I'll get there. It's just frustrating, especially since right now writing is basically the only thing that truly and somewhat consistently brings me joy.

Having said that, I have written a whole (2.2k) fic a few days ago. You might wonder how this doesn't contradict what I said before. It's because it's a terrible first draft, and it resembles more an outline than a proper fic in more than one spot, which is what I meant when I said that “I'm full of things that want to be written but I can't turn them into words”—having ideas and outlining is easy, writing is impossible. And you might say that first drafts are supposed to be terrible, and it's true, but I really hate editing in English. I usually only write when words are flowing well enough that the first draft is pretty decent—I still need to edit it, but it's quick and mostly painless. Because when a draft is rough and ugly, editing it makes me want to cry. I can never get words to obey me, and having to change every sentence really discourages me, especially when I have no idea how to make them better. When everything feels shallow and dull and boring and ugh. Yeah. I truly hate it.

But anyway. I do have this fic that's finished, but it needs to be edited so much that the final work will probably be twice as long. But, as I said, editing is truly painful, so who knows when I'll find the strength to do it??? But that's enough complaining.

Enjoy some snippets of a new kid fic, because writing Snowbaz with child fills my heart with so much joy 🥰 Under the cut with the tags <3

Some Baz POV.

The man looks close to dropping the bag and running away, and I don't blame him. “Yes. I've got the right address and the right name. 31 cheeseburgers with no pickles.”

If this whole situation was weird before, it's veering into absurd now. I would never order a cheeseburger without pickles.

Some Simon.

If anyone asked me to describe what happiness looks like, it would be this. Coming home after work to find my husband and my son sitting at the kitchen table in front of a mountain of cheeseburgers.

And some more Simon.

Leo wins his fight against the wrapper and lifts the first cheeseburger.

“Besides, look at him. He's so hungry and cute.”

Baz snorts and tugs me to his side to hug me and press his cheek against my stomach. I run my fingers through his hair, bringing his already dying bun to its final demise.

“He is,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Really your son.”

We stay silent as Leo takes a huge bite and grins at us with his mouth full.

Tags!!!

@wellbelesbian @urban-sith @tea-brigade @sillyunicorn @mostlymaudlin @facewithoutheart @palimpsessed @otherpeoplesheartachept-2 @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @forabeatofadrum @johnwgrey @fatalfangirl @prettylightsbigcity @whatevertheweather @jbrrring @confused-bi-queer @moodandmist @bookish-bogwitch @letraspal @dragoneggo @captain-aralias @takitalks @theotherhufflepuff @otherworldsivelivedin @excalisbury @shemakesmeforget @starwarned @cutestkilla @ileadacharmedlife @gekkoinapeartree @bazzybelle @bloodiedpixie @stardustasincocaine @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @angelsfalling16 @basiltonbutliketheherb @messofthejess @ivelovedhimthroughworse @artsyunderstudy

#wip wednesday #my writing

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prismicabstraction · 2 years ago

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My urge to write ROTTMNT fanfiction grows ever stronger, yet my brain refuses to write until I can get the characters to a "T", which is why I haven't been posting at all! 😭

I HAVE MADE A WHOLE SPREADSHEET AND I AM RE-WATCHING THE WHOLE SERIES AGAIN!

THank THE PIZZA-SUPREME IN THE SKY for all the wonderful ROTTMNT fans that have noticed little details and consistencies, you have inadvertently maintained my sanity during these troubling times (I plan to hopefully put all my sources at the end when I finish the doc).

Here's a sneaky peak at my doc.

This is just DONNIE. HELP ME. I'M NOT EVEN DONE! (I will most likely post this once it is complete along with visual references for any ROTTMNT fan that needs a easy access to resources in terms of cannon and design).

I have been brainstorming fanfiction plot points and AUs I could write, but it will be a long time to finish. I kinda wanna have the chapter outline and summaries done first because I deal with motivation issues that not even coffee can help.

Here are a couple of my ideas for fanfictions I have had (inspired by many fanfics I have read and ideas I have seen in comment sections):

Donnie's Misadventures - a series of events where Donnie does the most absurd, mad scientist shenanigans as his brothers attempt to keep him from dying. Very light-hearted and silly, I don't want this to be angst.

Leo's Escapades - a fanfiction with emotional hurt/comfort. I don't think there are enough fanfics with Leo having a sort of "secret life" away from his family. Those (alleged (I forget if this is true or not)) two years between the last season and the movie have such potential for Leo development 😤

A "Life as We Knew it" (by Susan Beth Pfeffer) inspired fanfiction - I want to make an AU based on this book because it has really good plot points between family during an apocalypse and the hardships they suffer during the extreme weather conditions and their own home as people they knew slowly die, only having each other to stay safe. This has a LOT of potential, especially with their turtle traits.

I hope I manage to see this through because I really do feel passionate about this!

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #fanficion ideas #rottmnt leo #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt raph #rottmnt mikey #I MUST HAVE MAXIMUM ACCURACY #my post #abstraction's text posts

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years ago

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]

Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜

Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.

Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!

Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.

I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.

Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!

That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.

And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.

He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.

When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.

On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.

And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?

Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.

The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.

“How’d you know it was me?!”

“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”

That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”

You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”

“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.

He sighs. “I did not.”

“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”

He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”

Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?

“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”

“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”

He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”

You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.

Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.

Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?

And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?

“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”

You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one option.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”

That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”

“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.

John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”

“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”

His brow furrows. “You will?”

“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.

“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”

He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”

“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”

He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”

You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”

“Will you be their godparent?”

“What? Me?!”

“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”

“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”

John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”

“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”

Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”

“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”

Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”

“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.

“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.

“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”

“That sounds made up.”

Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”

Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”

Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”

“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.

“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”

You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”

“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.

Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”

You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.

You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”

He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”

“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.

“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”

“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”

“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”

“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”

“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”

Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”

You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”

“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.

“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?

He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”

“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”

For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.

The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.

“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”

Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”

“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”

Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”

Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.

Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”

“Roger—!”

And then you see it.

Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.

#but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave series #but you can never leave #roger taylor fic #roger taylor x reader #queen fic #queen fanfic #queen fanfiction

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hydrospanners · 7 years ago

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archiban frodrick’s kennel He was a vet, she had a ginx, could I make it any more obvious? Or the one where Doc is a vet and Rea has a late night pet emergency and things go the way they always do no matter what universe they're in. SWTOR Vet AU. F!Jedi Knight x Doc. Much fluff, a little sin, a lot of absurdity. 2600 words. AO3. I’m so so sorry.

He’s refilling his caf when he notices the snow. A rush of white flakes, tinkling like bells as they slant against the lobby window. It lays in drifts nearly half a meter deep already and building fast.

Looks like it’ll be another night spent at the office.

Doc wraps his fingers around the warm mug and tries to talk himself into shoveling a path out to the pens in the back. They’re heated and usually unsupervised at this hour anyway, but since he’s already here--

A flood of blinding white light pours through the front window. Gilded plaques and framed holos rattle on their hooks as the walls around him start to tremble, a sound like thunder rumbling overhead. He raises his arm against the light, trying to squint past it to the source. He can’t see anything but the snow, blowing against the window in impenetrable sheets of white.

This might be one of the tamer places he’s settled, but Doc hasn’t made it this far in life by being stupid. He drops to hands and knees and crawls behind the receptionist’s desk, pressing his palm to the safe hidden below. The blaster inside is a cold, familiar weight in his hand.

Someone pounds at the front door and he clicks off the safety, letting his finger rest on the guard as he peeks over the desk. The snow outside has settled, and he can see the outline of a ship idling in the parking lot. An honest-to-stars cargo freighter. In the parking lot.

Squinting, he can make out a figure at the door cast in shadow by the ship’s lights. A humanoid figure, cradling a pretty big bundle of something in their arms.

It’s a posture Doc knows pretty well.

He leaves the blaster on the desk.

A wave of snow and piercing cold rushes through the doors as he keys in the code for release. A human woman stumbles in after, brown hair blowing in the wind, trembling from head to toe and clutching a creature in obvious respiratory distress tight to her chest. She isn’t dressed for the weather, wearing only a light, beat-up jacket and some fingerless gloves, but she’s taken better care of the patient. Whatever it is, it’s wrapped tight in layers of thick, protective blankets.

“Please tell me you aren’t a fucking janitor,” she says.

Doc would laugh if the creature in her arms wasn’t actively choking on its own throat. “With hands like these?” He displays them--they are excellent hands--in a gesture something like supplication before reaching for the patient. He hasn’t failed to notice the blasters on her hips, and he knows better than to startle someone upset and well-armed. “Who do we have here?”

“Pooper,” the woman says, completely straight-faced. “I don’t know what happened. I mean, he’s always had trouble breathing when he gets excited, but this time--I don’t know. It’s different. He isn’t calming down and it’s getting worse and I--Can you help?”

She lets him take the hyperventilating bundle from her arms, and when he peels back the blankets he finds the four red eyes of a barbed ginx blinking back at him.

Huh.

“We don’t see many fellas like you in these parts,” Doc hums, holding Pooper more firmly as he starts to wriggle in the stranger’s hands.

“I picked him up on Makeb,” the woman explains, reaching out to stroke the ginx’s forehead. It changes the tone of his choking, like he’s trying to respond with some particular kind of noise. “Found him sleeping in my cargo bay. I must’ve put him out five or six times but he always found a way back on board, so I let him join the crew.”

“Hard to say no to a face like that,” Doc says. “Let’s go in the back and find something to calm him down.”

“You can help?”

“Never met a living thing I couldn’t. You have the very good fortune of dropping your ship on top of the best vet in the galaxy, Beautiful.”

After a beat of skeptical silence, she huffs. “Well the last two laughed me out of their offices, so I don’t have much of a choice. But you aren’t going to like what happens if you’re as full of hot air as you sound.”

“I promise my ego is very well-founded,” Doc says, grinning despite himself.

# # #

The problem, it turns out, is actually several problems. Congenital gland failure forces Pooper to rely on his underdeveloped amphibian lungs since his skin is too dry to keep his blood oxygenated. The strain on his trachea is creating lesions and inflammation that closes the airway to his lungs, so he isn’t getting enough oxygen there either. Plus he seems to have pretty severe anxiety. And he’s fat.

Very, very fat.

“It’s my brother’s fault,” the woman—Rea—is explaining, draped over the metal stool on the other side of the exam table. “Rhese gives him crickets just for existing. Poops just looks up at him with those big red eyes and he folds like a wet tissue. It’s embarrassing, really.”

Doc indulges himself in a nice, long look at her while her attention is on her extremely sedated pet. She’s a very distracting presence back here, looking the way she does in those tight pants and that thin, clingy tank top, her jacket long abandoned on the floor.

It’s not a distraction he minds.

“So it’s just you and your brother on your ship, then?” Doc asks, oh-so-innocently. “No one else I ought to know about? Spouses? Romantic partners?”

Rea snorts, but there’s a smile on her lips and a spark of curiosity in those sharp blue eyes. “Very subtle,” she says.

“Subtle isn’t really my style.”

“Mine either.”

“So that’s a no to the committed, monogamous relationship?”

“I’m allergic,” she says, and Doc can feel a tiny sliver of his heart plummeting fast and hard into love.

“We have so much in common.”

Rea laughs, leaning her head against her hand, elbow propped against the back of the stool. She’s looking at him with a strange sort of intensity that leaves him tingling everywhere. “So talk to me about this shrine,” she says, and gestures to his tech’s station in the corner, surrounded by posters and scale models of swoop bikes. Mostly just the one swoop bike.

“It’s my tech’s,” Doc explains. “Some swoop jockey he’s obsessed with.”

“You not a fan?”

“I’ve been to a few races, but I’m more of a gambler than a gearhead.”

She nods. “Wouldn’t want to ruin those pretty hands.”

“Need ‘em for work.” And with a wink, Doc adds, “Need ‘em for play, too.”

Rea laughs, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the color rising in her face as she shakes her head. “You fix my ginx, and maybe we find out if they’re as good as you say.”

“Your skepticism is starting to hurt my feelings, Gorgeous.”

# # #

Pooper is happy to return to his perch in the corner of Rea’s quarters, croaking approval as he settles his considerable mass onto a wide log under a heat lamp. He’s breathing easy now, his skin slick with artificial mucus that doesn’t stop his companion from dropping a kiss to his broad forehead.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and hooks a finger into the lapel of Doc’s jacket, leading him back out to the lounge. The gentle wheeze of Pooper’s snores follows them down the corridor.

A weird pet, but Doc likes him.

“So let’s talk payment,” Rea says, whipping out two glasses and a bottle of midtier Corellian whiskey. “You want a mixer?”

Doc shakes his head, clinking the glass she hands him with hers before taking a generous sip. Something about the blizzard outside makes the heat of it all the more welcome in his belly.

Rea tosses the whole thing back in one swallow.

“Here’s the thing,” she goes on, pouring herself another two fingers. “I don’t actually have any credits. But I’m not gonna leave you with nothing, so don’t worry about that. A Corellian always pays her debts, y’know? I’m sure we can work something else out.”

Honestly, he forgot about the money. It isn’t usually his responsibility. Doc shifts uncomfortably, swirling the liquor in his glass as he tries to think how to put this. “If you’re suggesting sex--”

“Sex? What?” Rea shakes her head emphatically. “No way. I mean, I’d definitely like to fuck you, but not as payment. Just for fun.”

Doc visibly sags in relief. “Oh, thank the stars. I mean, yes to the fucking for fun part. But you really don’t need to pay me. We can just call it a favor to my favorite ginx if you want.”

“Hold onto that charity until you see what I’m offering,” Rea says, smirking. She downs the rest of her whiskey and strips out of her jacket, leaving her in that thin tank top that clings to every plane and slope of her sculpted figure. He doesn’t try to hide his captivation. “Follow me.”

Like he could do anything else.

He trails after her into the ship’s cargo bay, fixated on what has to be the most exquisite ass he’s ever seen. His fingers itch to dig into it, to feel the shifting of all that muscle for himself.

She stops in front of a speeder--No, a swoop bike. A very familiar swoop bike.

“No way,” he breathes.

Rea leans back against the bike, looking unbearably smug as she props her hands against the chassis. “I thought you might recognize it.”

He’s only seen it a billion times, at a billion different angles, immortalized in the revolving collection of holos and figurines covering Terek’s station. He’s seen it enough that even he can recognize the sleek lines and unique thruster configuration hovering before him. “When you said your name is Rea,” he says, still gaping a little in bewilderment, “is that short for Nirea Velaran?”

Her smile only widens, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

“Whaddya think?” She says, patting the hood. “Will this hunk of junk be a fair exchange?”

“Fair? I don’t know much about swoop racing, Gorgeous, but that bike is worth a million creds, easy.” Doc glances around the cargo bay, quickly realizing there are a dozen other bikes and a few speeders crammed into the small space. “They probably all are, just cause they’re yours.”

She shrugs. “Well I don’t know much about biology, but I’m pretty sure Pooper would’ve died without your help. His life is worth every credit and more. So just take it, will you? Give it to your tech or something.”

Terek might literally kill him if he refuses.

“I don’t even fly this thing anymore, Doc. It’s just gathering dust in here.” When he still doesn’t agree, Rea adds, “The sooner you say yes, the sooner we’re done with business. And once the business is done, we can start having fun.”

Doc laughs then, nodding. “You drive a hard bargain, Beautiful.”

# # #

They watch the sun rise from the cockpit, their bodies glistening like the snow in the wash of soft, golden light. Rea is collapsed against him, boneless and sighing, her head tipped back against his chest and her body still slick against his thigh. He suspects she isn’t quite as thoroughly spent as he is, but she must be satisfied enough since she isn’t asking for more.

Doc has learned a number of things about infamous swoop jockey Nirea Velaran tonight, namely that she isn’t shy about asking for what she wants.

It’s the most fun he’s had in ages.

The silence is comfortable as they bask in the afterglow, hands still lightly caressing, coming down from the last of many highs. It’s the undemanding kind of quiet that grows out of people who understand each other, even if they don’t know one another that well yet.

Finally, Rea yawns. “You want a lift home?”

“I don’t think my neighbors will appreciate a freighter in the street,” he says, toying with the ends of her short, tousled hair.

“I could grapple you down.”

He would laugh, but Doc has learned enough in the last few hours to know she isn’t joking. Rea is both very athletic and exceedingly eccentric with her solutions to commonplace problems.

“I’ll be fine. I met this fascinating woman today who traded me a swoop bike for taking care of her ginx.”

“She sounds great,” Rea says, and he hears the smile in her tired, syrupy voice. “But I’m not letting you take a swoop out in this snow. It fucks the repulsors all to hell. You’ll end up nosediving into a drift, and then who will I call when Pooper needs help?”

He doesn’t mention how she told him earlier they probably wouldn’t cross paths again. He just laughs, sneaks a kiss to her temple and shifts her off of his lap. “Fine,” he says. “Any idea where I left my pants?”

# # #

Doc holds tight to Rea’s waist as she lowers them onto his roof. More than one of his neighbors are standing on their stoops, staring dumbfounded at the ship and the woman dropping out of it, wrapped only in a heavy blanket and a very tired veterinarian. The snow swirls around them in a storm, shimmering like diamonds in the morning light.

She must be freezing, but he can’t see any sign of it on her face.

“Thanks again,” she shouts as their feet touch the heated roof, straining to be heard over the rumbling of her ship’s engine. “I really don’t know what I’d have done without your help.”

“It was my pleasure,” he shouts back.

“Don’t I know it!”

Rea pulls him in for one last, searing kiss before she shoves him away, both of them laughing like idiots. Like senseless fucking teenagers who don’t know anything else. “You can get down from here, right?”

Doc just nods, too breathless for more shouting.

The light flashes on her grappling gun as it changes directions, lifting her slowly back toward the warmth of her waiting ship. He can see that Pooper is waiting at the top of the ramp, watching her eagerly with his big red eyes, his skin slick and shining like it’s meant to be.

Finally, after watching just a little too long, Doc turns and lowers himself to the edge of his roof. He’s about to make the jump into the snowdrifts below when she calls out.

“Hey Doc!”

He pauses, craning his neck back to look at her, almost within arm’s reach of her ship now.

“If you’re ever on Corellia,” she shout, “look me up!”

Then, she lets loose the blanket wrapped around her body. It catches in the wind kicked up by the engines, whipping and swirling its way to getting stuck in his neighbor’s hedge. Doc hardly notices where it lands. His eyes are fixed on the tight, sculpted body of the woman he’s just realized he’s never going to forget.

He whistles loudly in appreciation, watching the laughter he can’t hear dancing across her face. Then she’s grasping onto the lowered boarding ramp, vaulting herself to her feet in one smooth, exquisite motion.

Rea walks backward as she disappears into her ship, blowing him a kiss and giving him a little shimmy to remember her by. He doesn’t move from the spot until she’s long gone, nothing more than a dark speck streaking through the sky.

Doc doesn’t know when and he doesn’t know how, but he knows with every bone in his body that he has to see her again.

And her little ginx too.

Quick shoutout to @meonlyred for the concept and genuinely horrifying title of this, and to Winter Storm Diego and my beloved, yet fucked up dog, Cooper, for inspiration.

#swtor #swtor doc #archiban kimble #jedi knight #docember 2018 #nirea velaran #the velaran legacy #my fic #i have never been more sorry #for anything i've ever done

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