#Jon sounds perpetually stuffy in more ways than one | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gwilymz · 5 years

Text

Unknown Pleasures- Brian x Reader

Summary: Buying a vintage guitar on a whim was a seemingly bad idea, until you find Brian, who agrees to teach you a thing or two about playing.

Word Count: 5,074 (my god i apologize)

Warning: ABSOLUTELY FILTHY: unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex (male receiving)

You had never been very musically inclined--you’d always been a listener, resting your head against the car window as a deep, mellow bass coursed through your body, your father playing oldies on the tinny car radio. Letting the cutting sound of the cymbals, the ferocious beat of a drum solo almost sync with your heartbeat as you listened in your room, alone. But the guitar had an unprecedented intrigue that left you in your flat, short of a few hundred dollars and staring at a semi-pristine, vintage guitar. You didn’t regret the purchase entirely, but you had definitely bought it on a whim.

You were walking through London alone--it was the first warm day of the new year and you longed to stroll through the city without an umbrella or a huge coat or soaked socks. Your feet tapped against the pavement as people pushed through you--eager to get to the train. Strangers in black coats whizzed past you, shoving against your shoulder, stepping on your shoelaces, glaring at you as you did the same to them. It was busy and stressful and you wanted to get away--so you sped to the first store you could find, jaywalking through morning traffic into a music store which was adorned with a crooked neon sign, flickering red against the clean storefront window. Vintage drum sets lined the back wall, drumsticks decorously hung on the walls. The lighting was harsh and the store smelled musty, but you felt welcome, calm. Your fingers absentmindedly strummed thick nylon strings of bass guitars leaned in a corner--and then you saw a guitar, alone in a display case, golden yellow, barely used.

“It’s a 1950 Fender, shipped in from California--she’s something, isn’t she?” A stout man said from behind you, wearing grey trousers and a formal-looking shirt. He looked out of place--but then, so did you.

“I love the color,” You admired, looking at the rustic metal, oxidized slightly, near the frets.

“Fender began in the late 40s, so this is a pretty early model. This specific sort is hard to come by in Europe, or really anywhere else. Sales of them surged at the birth of rock n’ roll in the 50s.” The man fished in his pocket, pulling out a keyring. He fiddled with a small brass key, unlocking the tall display case.

“Oh, I can’t play guitar, I was just admiring.” You blushed slightly, scratching the backs of your hands with your chipped nails.

“You could always learn. Just hold it. You’ll be surprised how natural it feels.” He smiled, picking up the guitar delicately, holding the neck with one hand, the curved yellow body with the other. He placed it in your arms, and he was right. It felt innate, warm even. The body was smooth, almost silky against your fingers, the strings rough and ridged.

“I’ll take it.”

And you bought it, without thinking about the fact you had never touched a guitar in your life. So you stared at it, sitting on the kitchen counter, still in its case--it’s makeshift cradle. You sighed, and took a bite of your toast, tying your hair back as you stood up to play with your new instrument. You lifted the buckles of the leather case--which the salesman gave to you for free, insisting you give a proper home to such a vintage beauty. You lifted the guitar, putting the strap over your body, already confused. You didn’t even know how to hold it properly. You felt awkward, helpless and stupid, unable to finger the frets correctly. You knew nothing about music notes, composition, the technical skills it took to actually play guitar.

“Y/N, what the hell is that?” Your flatmate, Janie set her purse down, it’s silver buckle clicking against the counter, where your new-old Fender once sat.

“It’s a guitar.” You mumbled, frustrated by how off-kilter the instrument sounded. It was flat--or sharp--you had no clue.

“I know, but you can’t play guitar. You’ve never shown interest in playing the guitar. How much was that?” She sat down across from you, eyebrows furrowed as she fixed her bangs, shaking her head slightly.

“I’ve always loved guitar, and I don’t want to talk about the price.” You glared up at her, your fingers splayed against the neck of it, definitely and completely wrong.

“Okay, forget I asked.” Janie rolled her eyes. “Well, speaking of music, Jonathan is taking photos of a band tonight at their concert. They’re up and coming I guess, so you can learn a few things from them maybe?” She nudged you, getting up to change her outfit.

You set the Fender down in its case, following her to her room. It was unorganized--accessories trailed around her desk, earrings mismatched, necklaces tangled. Scarves hung from a hook by her door, clothing was everywhere. She sat on her bed, pulling her boots off, sighing.

“When is it?” You asked, desperate to actually use your guitar; you felt guilty for buying it. Maybe you could learn a thing or two if you were close enough to the stage--and Jonathan, Janie’s younger brother--always had front row seats to take his pictures.

“Uh, I think at 8, maybe half past.” She put in hoop earrings and they jingled against her neck. “I heard the band is really good, actually.”

At eight sharp, you and Janie met Jonathan at the venue, a small theatre in west London which looked better equipped for a play than a rock concert. Velvet seats were lined before the stage, cramped together and deep red. You guys were the first in the small theatre, save for the band and stage crew. You could hear the resonating of the bass vibrating in the stuffy air as Jonathan focused on his camera, brows knitted together as he dragged on a hand rolled cigarette, tiny billows of smoke fanning throughout the immense room.

“I don’t like you smoking those, Jon.” Janie snatched the cigarette from his mouth, salt and pepper colored ash sprinkling the floor as she did.

“Oi! What the fuck, Jane? I’m an adult, let me live. I didn’t have to invite you to this. Rolling Stone said they’re the new Led Zeppelin, this is pretty elite shit.” Jonny grabbed his cigarette back, cupping a hand around the burning end of it, using his other hand to relight it as his camera hung, angled around his long neck.

A blond peeked his head out from behind the velvet curtain, the thick rope tassel swaying as did his hair. “Jonny boy, do you have another smoke?” He flashed a cute smile, holding a hand out, a white sweatband tight against his forearm. Jonathan playfully rolled his eyes, flipping open a rusted metal box to fetch him one.

“Good luck with the high notes with tar in your lungs, Rog.” Jonathan pat his back, giving him a light. Roger winked at you and Janie before disappearing behind the curtain.

“Is that the singer?” Janie yelled, scooting closer to her brother’s ears, as people began to file in as the clock was soon to strike 8:30.

“No, Roger is the drummer. He helps with the really high notes, his range is insane.” Jonny nodded his head before flicking the butt of his cigarette out of his fingers, putting it out with his leather shoes.

The music began to permeate the theatre, the thick bass rhythmic and warm, the guitar screeching, delayed, effortless. They were about to begin. Soon Jonathan was pulling you guys forward so you were flush against the stage, your necks craned up as he snapped pictures of their figures, emerging onto the stage like ghosts, nearly invisible.

“The singer is Freddie. Mercury. He’s very different, but in a good way. And he has quite the stage presence.” Jonathan explained, wiping his lens with his shirt quickly. “Roger, like I said, is the drummer. Cocky, very funny, kind of a slut.” He nodded towards the drum kit, where the blond was warming up, flipping splintered drumsticks between his fingers. “The bassist is John. Everyone calls him Deacon or Deaky. He’s shyer, but very friendly, super talented, he never misses a beat. You just have to wait for him to open up to you.” Then he nodded his head to the tallest of them all, with poofy, almost black curly hair, mouth parted as he strummed at a guitar which looked antithetical to your own. It was a red oakey color, classy and unique. “That’s Brian, the guitarist. Rumor has it he and his dad made that guitar from a fireplace and old motorcycle parts. Read in in Rolling Stone. He’s mad talented, acts like playing hard rock on the guitar is the easiest thing ever.”

Janie nudged you as you watched the band intently, their warm-up messy but somehow cohesive, communicative. “Maybe you can learn a bit from him, yeah?”

You did learn something--that you would never, ever learn to play guitar even one-eighth as good as him. His playing was relaxed, no matter how technically difficult. His fingers were assured, his face contorted in concentration, plump lips parted as he moved about the stage. Your neck hurt, perpetually craned upwards as you followed his legs around the stage, which seemed to take up more than three quarters of his massive stature.

As the concert ended, Roger cocked his head, drumsticks between his teeth as he deconstructed his kit, motioning for you guys to head backstage. Jonny raised his eyebrows, giving the drummer a thumbs up before leading you and Janie up onto the stage. It was hot and foggy and hard to see, but a beacon of light was being emitted from behind the side-curtains, so you followed it.

Jonathan and Janie beat you to the band, and he was already enthusing about the show, gesturing towards his camera, still hung around his neck. “The photos are incredible. I can’t wait for you to see them, I just have a feeling about them; it’s not often bands have such good chemistry, and I think it shows in the pictures.” He nodded, and Freddie kissed his cheek.

“I can’t wait! We don’t have many photos together.” He took a sip of champagne, clicking his class with Deaky’s who was dripping from sweat, ridding himself of his stage costume, in favor of a quite plain t-shirt.

Brian was silent next to you all, an abiding smile glowing upon his rosy face. His hand tapped nervously against his guitar, white nails scratching gently over the polished, wooden surface. You made eye-contact and strode closer to him, your hair blowing by the fan which was cooling the band down.

“You’re really talented,” You said, trying to raise your voice enough so he could hear. He blushed and pointed to his ears, shaking his head as a cue for you to speak up.

“Sorry, it’s really noisy, can’t hear too well after a concert.” Brian said, straight into your ear. He led you to a back room, with backup drumsticks, guitars, and broken microphones. His hand hovered over your lower back. “What were you saying?” He cocked an eyebrow at you.

“I was just saying you’re talented.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m glad you think so.” Brian sat down on a small couch, and scooted over for you to sit down next to him. He looked uncomfortable, nervous.

“I actually bought a guitar this morning--on a whim.” You sat down, the side of your legs were touching, the velvet of his pants soft against your bare legs. “I don’t know the first thing about playing music, so I’m not sure why I bought it.”

“What kind of guitar? Do you know?” Brian leaned into the conversation, fluttering his eyelashes as he listened intently for your answer.

“I guess a Fender. 1950. It’s yellow, and I guess I couldn’t resist.” You smiled, looking at your hands which rested on your knees. His hand brushed against your knee as he gestured with his hands.

“1950? I’d love to see that, or play it! I’ve always wanted to experiment with one.” He composed himself, annoyed that he had gotten overly excited, like he always did.

“Actually, I’d love for you to give me lessons, maybe? Don’t worry about it if you’re busy. But I don’t even know the first thing about guitars.”

Brian nodded, his curls bouncing against his forehead, brushing against his cheeks. He thumbed the charm on his silver necklace, a small, abstract shape which hung from his sweaty, lengthy neck. “I’d love to. It probably needs tuned. I can help you to get situated with it tonight, if you want.”

You hesitated, taking in Brian’s face. His eyes were drooping, he was blinking slowly, yawning into his arm, covered by long bell sleeves.

“Are you sure? You seem tired.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me. I never get sleep anyway.” He flashed you a smile, getting up and grabbing his guitar case which sat up against an exposed brick wall. He tucked his coat under his arm and led you out of the small room, back where the rest of the band was.

“Um, I’m going to help Y/N with her new guitar. Don’t wait up on us.” Brian took a quick sip of water from a glass sitting atop a broken amp, squeezing Deaky’s shoulders. The boys raised their eyebrows in unison, then collectively said their goodbyes.

Brian’s hand was on the small of your back, leading you out of the theater, into the cool spring air. It felt fresh, the smell of rain was raw and wet in your noses, the sky impossibly clear, illuminated by the occasional star, and downturned street lights lining the pavement.

“How did you know my name, Brian?” You looked up at his face which was watching the sky, his jawline prominent, his nose sharp like his cheekbones. But his eyes were soft and nice, his eyebrows gave him a friendly, approachable--very handsome look.

“I heard Jonathan. My hearing’s not so bad before the concerts.” He looked away from the sky to grin at you, his canines protruding slightly from his light pink lips, slightly chapped.

“And how did you know my name?” Brian teased, lightly pushing you to the side; you stumbled a bit, giggling.

“You’re a rockstar, aren’t you? Up and coming? Why wouldn’t I?”

He blushed, looking down at his shoes--scuffed white clogs, which were loud against the street. You walked up the stairs to your flat, fresh dandelions peeking through the cracks. Brian picked one, putting it in his unruly hair, smiling at you wordlessly. You were flustered being near him, your hands a bit shaky as you unlocked the door, letting him in. He hung his coat on the rack, taking yours to hang next to his, waiting until the wobbly piece of furniture was stable before strolling into the living room. He gasped as he saw the guitar case, setting his own down on the couch.

“May I?” His fingers hovered over the buckles of the case, looking at you, his mouth slightly agape.

“You know more than I do.” You nodded, eager.

He opened the case, flipping the buckles up with his thumbs before opening the top. “Damn, that’s nice.” He commented, looking towards you again, a silent ask for permission to get the instrument out. You nodded, scooting closer to him as he picked up the guitar carefully, just like the man who sold it to you. His fingers were wrapped around the neck of it, and he pulled a coin out of his front pocket, lifting his hips for leverage as he held onto your guitar tightly. He looked at you again, a barely audible, breathy laugh emitting from his parted lips as he strummed the chords to Keep Yourself Alive. He played for only a few seconds before he cringed and turned the tuning pegs slightly, playing after every small adjustment to listen to the sound.

“It’s very out of tune, but I can fix that.” He smiled at you reassuringly, holding his ear to the guitar to listen closely to the sounds. He turned each peg very slightly and with care.

“Perfect” He whispered, before getting back to his playing. He made it look so easy, his fingers gripping a rusted coin, strumming quickly, with painful precision. You looked at his face which was sinfully beautiful, eyes hooded, eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones as his hair shifted like his fingers--quickly and gracefully.

“Do you want me to show you something easy? We can go slow,” He looked into your eyes, his hazel irises sparkling. The dandelion was still in his hair, placed haphazardly, almost falling out.

“That would be great, Brian.” You watched him as he took the guitar from off of his lithe body, handing it to you as if it were your child. You held onto it as he did, looking at him through your eyelashes for approval. He gently nodded and you held onto it tightly. He handed you his coin.

“It’s lucky, I like to think.” His breath fanned over your neck, warming the skin, and you felt blood rush to your face, streaming through your ears, hot. You took the coin, your fingertips brushing his, and he brushed your hair behind your shoulder, peeking over it to see what you were doing.

“Relax, try not to hold it so tightly. You can be looser.” He looked at you from over your shoulder as he sat behind you, his socks mismatched, his hair messy, lips parted in a small, pretty smile.

“Put your fingers on the fret to the left, and a little above” He pointed to where he wanted you to have your fingers, and he lightly moved them, making your whole body tingle, like warm Christmas lights lit up throughout your limbs, your neck, everywhere. You strummed with the coin, and the sound was deep, echoic, vibrating throughout the small flat.

Then the door slammed, and the sound of Janie and the rest of the band bickering overwhelmed the robust sounds; cut the tension.

“Did we interrupt something?” Roger quirked an eyebrow, slipping his shoes off as he hung his coat overtop of Brian’s.

“I was just helping Y/N with her guitar,” He scratched his neck, looking guilty. “Hey! Don’t put your soaked coat on top of my perfectly dry one!”

Roger mocked him and moved it to a different hook, rolling his eyes before sitting down between you and Brian. As soon as the door had opened, Brian moved away from you like a reflex, like he had something to hide.

“Nice guitar, Y/N!” Deaky sat on Brian’s leg, admiring the yellow coat as Roger strummed it mindlessly. You thanked him, biting the parched skin from your lips, pushing your hair behind your ears.

Brian grabbed Deaky’s shoulders and got up from underneath him, sitting with you on the other end of the couch. “Here’s my number,” he grabbed a pen from the kitchen and grabbed a small, torn slip of paper, writing it down on the hard, bony surface of his knee. Your knees were against his; they were velvety and tepid.

And then they left, giving you and Janie small waves, their rings sparkling in the ambient light of the foyer of the flat. Brian gave you a toothy smile, slightly lopsided and thoroughly adorable.

You called Brian the next day--midday. Your fingers twirled the coiled phone cord which reminded you of his curly locks which you found yourself thinking about more than once.

“Hello?” Brian’s voice was groggy, and you heard him yawn and groan a little. Tiredness was seeped into his every word.

“Oh! I’m sorry to wake you up, Brian. I’ll leave you alone.” You apologized.

“No! No, It’s fine. I should be awake anyway. My sleep schedule is just off. I’m glad it was you who woke me up instead of Roger though.” Brian laughed softly, running a hand through his hair as he leaned against the wall, as you were.

“I’d love to learn more, if you’re up to it. Janie is out, so we don’t have to worry about bugging her.”

Those words made Brian’s stomach flip and his tongue feel much heavier in his mouth; he felt the words becoming choked, stuck in his throat, still dry from just waking up.

“I’ll come over as soon as I’m decent.” He replied, only able to utter a few words at a time. You muttered a small ‘okay’ and hung up, quickly fixing your hair and changing into a skirt and a nicer, tighter shirt. You didn’t know why you did; it was just a guitar lesson.

Twenty five minutes after your call with Brian ended, he was at your door, wearing an oversized winter coat, a hood pulled over his head. His skin was wet from the steady afternoon rain, and he apologetically handed you a purple umbrella as he hung his heavy coat up. You shook the umbrella dry and your eyes widened as you saw what he was wearing. His forearms were tanned, contrasting from a light denim shirt which was rolled up, halfway buttoned. His chest and collarbones were angular, sharp bones protruding from barely freckled skin. He was wearing slightly flared trousers and his clogs--which were already taken off and by the door.

He pointed an agile finger to the couch you sat on the day before with him, and you got him a glass of water, watching him chug it down as you bent down to pick your guitar from it’s temporary home on the floor, against the kitchen counter in it’s tattered case. He gulped as you bent down, looking away, feigning interest on an arbitrary book in your bookcase--something about painting. You sat down next to him, perched at the edge of the couch, a few inches away from him. His legs were spread as he leaned back against the cushions, watching you intently as you strummed the chords he taught you. Your tongue poked out slightly.

“I think it would be easier if you sat between my legs. So I can show you more easily.” He clarified, his hands ghosting over your hips. You nodded and he pulled you back into him, easily. Your breath hitched as his fingers ghosted over yours. You could hear the blood pulsing through your extremities, flooding to your heart and away from your brain. He pressed his nimble fingers over yours, pulling them over the frets, making your other fingers strum gently, fingering the tough strings slowly, with expert precision. His fingers left yours to pull your hair behind your shoulder, and the soft ends of his own hair stroked your shoulder, moving across your exposed collarbone. His forefinger and thumb titled your chin, turning your face towards his. And you looked at his mouth, peach lips wet, his chin was peppered with day-old stubble. He leaned in, still holding your chin as his tongue entered your mouth, warm and gentle, massaging yours with a confident, tender control. He pulled the guitar strap over your shoulder, and then your head, gently setting the instrument in its case, which sat open on the floor by the couch. You leaned back into him, your back flush against his hot chest, his heart beating against your shoulder blade as he kissed you passionately, his teeth lightly clicking against yours as he deepened it even more. Your hand squeezed his narrow thigh, just above his knee. His hand left your chin and you leaned your head back as he kissed the junction of your neck and your shoulder, nipping softly at your collarbone. His hand massaged your thigh, just under your denim skirt. You whimpered slightly as his hand inched upwards, clean nails scratching gently against the inside of your soft thighs. He stopped kissing you and looked up at you with innocent eyes, dilated and fluttering with anticipation and lust. You kissed his neck, a silent command for him to continue. He unzipped your skirt, rubbing his hands over your hips as he pulled it down your legs which were moderately shaking, ready. He looped his fingers in your panties and pulled them down too, tossing them by the guitar case; they caught on the end of the neck. He kissed you again, moaning into your mouth as his thumb massaged your thigh more. He brought his fingers to your mouth, parting your lips. His incredibly long fingers entered your warm, wet mouth pressing down on your tongue. You closed your mouth around them, sucking his digits. He whimpered and your eyes fluttered closed.

“Look at me, angel.”

You opened them again, tilting your head back to make eye contact with him. His brows were furrowed, he was watching you intently. You could feel him harden against your bare lower back. He tapped your chin, signaling for you to open your mouth and you did. His fingers left from between your lips, a string of saliva connecting his beautiful fingers with your bitten, kissed mouth. He rubbed at your entrance and your hips bucked up, he held them down with his other arm, veins protruding, pulsing under his tanned skin, dark against the light denim shirt he was wearing. You held his wrist as he fingered you, pumping two long digits into your heat, slowly, deliberately. Your other hand held on to his necklace, gently tugging the delicate silver chain between your fingers.

“Brian,” Your grip tightened on his wrist, you could feel his pulse racing against your fingers, and still against your shoulder, where his chest was.

He pumped faster, curling his fingers, tickling a spot inside of you that made you scream, pulling on his necklace harder. Your knuckles were white as you moaned.

“Do you want another one?” Brian whispered against your neck, before kissing your neck gently.

You nodded, unable to form words, you were too aroused, too close.

“Use your words.” He commanded, tilting your head back again.

“Yes, Brian. Please, one more.” You pleaded with him, scratching your nails down his forearm. He was rock hard behind you, leaking onto his trousers which were becoming increasingly tight. He pulled his fingers out and you groaned in protest, feeling empty, disappointed. He sucked his own fingers and you turned around so you were face to face. Beads of sweat were dripping from his temple, he was panting. You looked down at his crotch. The outline of his cock was staggeringly obvious, thick, and long.

You sat on your feet in front of him on the couch, the rough rug scratching at your knees. You unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down his thin legs, until they pooled at his feet. He was going commando; his dick slapped against his toned stomach which was visible, as he had unbuttoned his shirt during the process of you undressing him. You smirked at him and he shrugged his shoulders.

“They’re tight pants,”

You leaned forward on your knees and looked up at him as you spit on his tip, before you swirled your tongue around the head, sucking on it gently. He pulled on your hair and whined.

“Oh--my god,” He stuttered, his hips doing the same.

You stroked him as you took him into your mouth, as deep as you could take him, his length pulsing at the back of your throat. He guided your head, pulling your hair into a messy, makeshift ponytail. It was sloppy and your eyes were watering from the pressure in your throat, but you moaned around him, before licking a stripe on his shaft and focusing your attention on the head again, rubbing your thumb against a sensitive strip of skin on the underside of him. His eyes were heavy, his eyelashes fluttering as he whimpered quietly.

“I’m gonna cum, baby,” He announced, and you halted your movements, payback for him doing the same to you. You took him out of your mouth with a pop and he rolled his eyes, leaning forward before pulling you up on the couch, sitting you on this lap. Your hands rested on his chest, fidgeting with his necklace as he kissed down your neck and pulled your shirt over your head. He took your bra off with one hand, laying you down on the couch. He rubbed down your chest, licking at your nipple as he tweaked the other one, your back arching at his touch. His curls tickled your sternum, and you moaned as he rubbed himself against your entrance, teasing you.

“I don’t have a condom.” He realized, looking up at you with widened eyes.

“I don’t care.” You threaded your fingers through his hair and pulled him up, kissing him deeply, pulling his locks. He was putty in your hands as you massaged his scalp, whining as he thrust into you, his forearms resting by your head as he stared into your eyes, his mouth open, jagged, uneven breaths leaving his bruised lips. He was so deep, and you scratched down his back, whimpering as he thrust into you forcefully, moaning into his mouth.

His hips stuttered as you clenched around him, pulling at his hair swiftly.

“Fuck,” He cried, slowing down his thrusts to savor his approaching orgasm. “You’re so tight,”

You grabbed his face and wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles, encouraging him to thrust faster. He did, and all you could hear was panting, strangled moans and his skin slapping against yours. You felt him pulsing inside of you and he groaned from deep within his throat, still scratchy from just waking up. He was about to pull out, but you pushed your heels into his back and shook your head, permission for him to do exactly what he wanted. He came immediately, and you felt full as his seed oozed down your leg, thick and hot. He collapsed on top of you, panting, and you stroked his hair. He was still inside of you for a few minutes, catching his breath. When he pulled out, more of his cum leaked out of you, and it covered him, sticky and semi-dried. His chest was blotchy and fiery hot.

He grabbed a kitchen cloth and soaked it with warm water, cleaning himself off before he wiped you down, you flinching from overstimulation. You both were in bliss, until you saw a massive wet spot on the couch that would be impossible to remove.

____

Taglist: @silencedleviathan @alexfayer @ledger-kaos @ma-ntequilla @discodeakky @richiethotzierz @thisloveisreal1 @heartsarecompatible @thelondondreamer5 @brian-may-brian-may @okqueenie @gailymlee @trickster-blr @bubblypenguin123 @queensdarlingg @soloosunflower @dvndermifflinassociate @fredthelegend @miez-lakatz @arrowswithwifi @mouse507 @mespetitestortues @yourstateofdreaming (sorry if i missed someone! message me if you want to be added)

#brian may #brian may fanfic #brian may smut #brian may x reader #smut #queen #gwilym lee #john deacon #joe mazzello #rami malek #freddie mercury #roger taylor #ben hardy #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #fanfiction #fanfic

800 notes · View notes

nyangibun · 7 years

Text

Little Wolf: Part VI

@jonsa-countdown

PART I | PART II | PART III | PART IV | PART V - AO3 LINK

PART VI: REINCARNATION

The cool breeze coming in from the open window helped alleviate some of the stuffiness of the small nursery. Jon would have to buy a fan for Chloe when it got hotter. He read somewhere that children at her age were more vulnerable in the heat. At least the room looked much nicer now with the blue and yellow chest of drawers and white painted walls. Sansa even had one of her friends come in and paint cartoon clouds and fairytale creatures on the wall overlooking Chloe’s crib.

It had been just over four months since the funeral. Time didn’t seem to care for the grieving; it continued to tick on blind to those it left behind. Sometimes Jon still felt trapped in his tiny flat in Barcelona, perpetually reliving that phone call over and over again, unable to hear anything other than, ‘Jon, they’re gone. Robb, Margaery. It was a car crash’ for four long months. How easy it had been for a minute to completely alter the course of his life.

But looking at Chloe in his arms, was it so awful for him to feel like this was where he was always meant to be? Nothing had ever felt as easy as loving her. It hadn’t even been a question when Jon was told about the will. He would adopt Chloe; he would raise her as if she was his own, and that was simply it. From that moment on, nothing in Jon’s life mattered as much as this little girl’s happiness.

The door creaked open, forcing both Jon and Chloe to look up. Sansa stood, showered in the morning sunlight, wearing a too-big-for-her jumper that Jon suspected was Robb’s and a pair of black trousers. Her hair was down, longer than he’d ever seen it, and she was beautiful. It didn’t matter that he’d known her twenty years. Jon would never stop thinking she was beautiful.

“Morning,” he said, smiling tentatively. Things had been strained between them for awhile now. He wasn’t sure why either, but there was an ocean of history between them and neither of them were willing to cross it. Jon wanted to, but he’d drowned before and it wasn’t an experience he’d like to relive.

Sansa trailed her hand along the doorframe as she swept her eyes around the room. “I heard you singing earlier.”

Oh. Warmth spread quickly from his neck up to his cheeks. “Sorry. You weren’t home so I thought –”

“She really liked it.” She moved to stand before them, brushing back one of Chloe’s stray curls. “Even if…” Sansa paused, glanced up to meet Jon’s eyes, and smiled. “Even if her daddy is an awful singer.”

The gesture was small, but he knew it meant a whole lot more for Sansa. Losing Robb had torn her up more than she was willing to show. Where Arya screamed and cried and threw furniture around her flat, Sansa’s grief was quiet. She internalised everything, more than she should, more than she needed to. But this was monumental for her. For him too.

“I’m a far better singer than you at least,” Jon said easily, trying to downplay her words, even if it made his heart swell in a way he hadn’t felt in over a year. “I still remember the karaoke catastrophe of Arya’s eighteenth.”

Sansa’s face pinched together. “Well, whose bright idea was it to bring absinthe to the party!”

He laughed and raised his free hand. “Your brother and Theon’s. Don’t blame me. I had nothing to do with that.”

She huffed and tossed her hair over her shoulder before bending over to pluck Chloe from his arms. She cradled the little girl and kissed her all over her face until Chloe started squealing with laughter. “Who’s my little wolf? Are you?” Sansa landed a big smooch to Chloe’s nose. “Oh, I think you are. Yes, my lil’ Chloe.”

Jon watched them and felt both affection and fear rear up inside of him. He had loved Sansa once, more than he had ever loved anyone else, and being here and raising Chloe with her was dredging up old feelings he suspected never truly went away. If he knew running away to Spain would be such a futile endeavour, he might have stayed and tried to fight for her. But Jon had to remind himself that she didn’t want him in the same way. She didn’t reply to his letter for a reason and he wasn’t going to bring it up. Neither of them needed their past to complicate this arrangement.

“Have you had breakfast yet?” Sansa asked suddenly, as she balanced Chloe on her hip. “I can cook us up something.”

“I think it’s more brunch than breakfast now,” he said, as he stood up to face her. “Let me help.”

With Sansa carrying Chloe, he went and grabbed some of the little girl’s favourite toys to bring to her playpen downstairs. Thankfully, Sansa’s house had an open floor plan that allowed them both to be in the kitchen while still being able to watch Chloe.

It was the kind of Sunday he never thought he’d ever have. Being here with Sansa, listening to Chloe’s laughter and basking in a rare bout of sunshine, Jon was content. He’d never had anyone to come home to before. When he was growing up, his mum was always working double shifts to pay the bills. And as Jon got older, there were the odd flatmates here and there, but they were strangers under the same roof. It never bothered him. His job made sure he worked unpredictable hours, and after a gruelling shift, all Jon wanted was to spend time by himself. Since he moved in with Sansa, he found that he needed to be near them, to know that they were in the next rooms safe and sound, to sleep. Just their presence was enough for him.

Last night especially had been tough. His team spent hours searching for a missing boy and then very nearly lost him in the loch when the boy fell in. These jobs were always challenging. No one ever wanted to deal with the anxious and terrified parents – and god forbid if something were to go wrong. But that was simply a part of the job. You couldn’t save everyone. It was a lesson you had to learn early on. Since becoming a parent himself, however, Jon now felt those fears as if they were his own. The very thought that that boy could have been Chloe made his heart speed faster than a freight train. It didn’t matter that she was only ten months old; none of it mattered. In the dark of night, it was her life that had been on the line and nothing had ever terrified him more.

“Jon?” Sansa covered his hand with her own. Lost in his revery, he didn’t realise how tight he was gripping the wooden ladle. His knuckles had turned white and there was cold sweat matting his curls to his forehead. Sansa peeled the ladle from him and placed it on the counter beside her. The back of her palm came to rest over his head. “Are you poorly? Did you catch something last night?”

He shook his head and hated himself when he leaned into her touch. “We were searching for a boy,” he confessed. “And the entire time I kept thinking, what if this is Chloe? What if I lose her too?” He choked back a sob. “I never thought being a parent would be easy, but this fear – it’s horrible.”

Sansa exhaled slowly, a shuddering sound. He could tell she was imagining the scenario too. He could see it in the way she tensed and the slight crease between her brows. Even after all this time, Jon knew her. That should give him some semblance of comfort, but there was still so much distance between them.

“We’ll protect her as best as we can,” she said, thinking through her words one by one. “We can’t shield her from everything, but we’ll try. That’s all we can do.” Sansa hesitated before she took his hand again. “And I know you, Jon. If she was out there, you wouldn’t sleep till you brought her back home. Safe and sound.”

“You put too much faith in me,” Jon snorted.

“Because you’re the best person I know.” She smiled so earnestly it took his breath away.

He moved closer to her, holding onto her hand as if it was his lifeline. To his surprise, Sansa didn’t move away. “Sansa, I –”

“I’m sorry,” she said at the same time.

Jon inclined his head in confusion. “What are you sorry for?”

“My behaviour,” Sansa admitted, looking chagrined. She dropped his hand and pulled her hair to one side to plait it. She was nervous. “I’ve been distant with you the past month and you don’t deserve that.”

Of course he’d noticed, but Jon had come to expect that from her. They hadn’t exactly left things on good terms when he moved to Spain. Distance was practically a given when it came to them these days. As much as it pained him, he understood too.

“Yeah, I figured it was because of…”

“It was,” she cut in. “And it wasn’t. I don’t know, Jon. I guess I got jealous –”

His pulse sped up, hope flaring through him.

“But it’s selfish of me to expect you to devote your entire life to just Chloe and me,” Sansa finished. “If you wanted to date or something, that’d be… It wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

And just like that, it was gone. Jon shook his head, trying to force a smile when his heart felt like lead in his chest. “Sans, I don’t want to date. My entire life right now is you and Chlo.”

“I don’t want you to give up your life for us either. You shouldn’t have to –”

“Are you going to date?” he asked, wondering if this was why she brought it up.

Sansa blinked, perplexed and surprised. “No. Of course not.”

“Okay, then we don’t date,” Jon said firmly. “And we focus on Chloe.”

“No dating,” she repeated, nodding, and then smiling at him. “Okay. That’s… That’s okay.” She made to turn around when she faltered. “Actually, there’s one other thing.” Sansa pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth. Another tell. She was still nervous about something. “I don’t know if I have any right to ask, but what happened between us last year, can we just forget about it? I want to go back to us. You were my best friend, Jon.”

Forget?

“You were there for me when Petyr began harassing me at work. You were there through everything,” Sansa continued, oblivious to the warring emotions inside of him. “I just want us to be that close again, but I’ll understand if it’s not what you want.”

It’s not, but what he wanted wasn’t what she wanted and he’d rather have Sansa in his life as a friend than nothing at all. He had nothing for over a year and it’d been hell.

“Sans, you’re still my best friend,” he chose to say instead – the truth yet so far from what he really wished he could tell her.

It almost didn’t matter though, because when Sansa threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly and burying her face into his neck, it was like finally coming home.

“I told Chloe that we were starting a new life,” she whispered, her breath tickling his neck. “That this would be our rebirth. Shedding away our past and beginning fresh.” She nosed the collar of his shirt. “I think this is ours too, Jon.”

He didn’t answer. He just held her and hoped to god he was making the right decision.

For him; for her; and for Chloe.

Jon really couldn’t afford to mess this up again.

#jonsacountdown #jonsa #jon x sansa #jon snow #sansa stark #game of thrones #my fics #jonsa fic #jonsa countdown #little wolf fic #day 6 prompt #jon pov #this shit is geting more and more difficult #lmao #long post

21 notes · View notes