#* deacon / 001.

[tonibeltran]

x. status -> closed for @hairpintvrns (deacon) x. location -> somewhere in oak gardens

The room Antonio’s chosen to dedicate to his smoking is depressing. He’d thought the size of it wouldn’t matter, so long as there were sufficient windows, but as he sits on one of the armchairs he’d procured from some overly-animated guy on Craigslist (“Whoa! Aren’t you the guy from Amethyst? What are you doing buying off some sketchy site? Can I get a picture? Legend!”) and blowing out of one of said windows, he’s starting to think it might be less helpful than he thought. It’s the smallest room in this godforsaken house, but when it’s only populated by an inordinate number of bongs and unrolled joints, the size of it feels a little suffocating.

He has to do it in a room that Moon doesn’t have access to, though, because he’s many things, but he’s not someone who would endanger his cat. No matter how often she meows indignantly at him through the door. “It’s for your own good,” Toni calls out to her every time, and every time she meows back at him like a jilted teenager. He sighs, figuring he’s been locked in here getting high for long enough — he may as well come out of there and give her the attention she so desperately craves. Just as he kneels on the armchair cushion to properly close the window, his nose wrinkles in distaste at an unpleasant smell that wafts in from the outside. “What the fuck,” he mutters, closing the window in a huff. He leaves the weed room, sparing a pet for Moon before making his way out to his front lawn. 

He stands there, befuddled, taking a deep breath. The stench is not as prominent here, he notes. This may be a product of how high he is, to be honest, but the thought doesn’t stop him from following his nose like a hound, away from his front lawn and down the neighborhood’s sidewalk. He’s not sure just how far he gets into this sniffing debacle when he realizes he’s stopped smelling anything, and is instead stranded in some random house’s front lawn, probably looking insane. 

Before he can flee, his peripheral vision catches sight of a familiar figure — tall, handsome, and the architect of many nights of pleasure. Deacon Edwards, of all people, stands near this particular front lawn, looking just as handsome as the day Toni had first laid eyes on him. It’d been intoxicating, to witness such a prominent figure simply be, something Antonio had a lot of trouble with even back in those days. He thinks if he really puts his mind to it, he can probably remember what Deacon tastes like, though that seems like an inappropriate thought to be having in the middle of the day on a stranger’s front lawn.

Treading carefully, he approaches the other, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “Deacon?” he calls, making sure the sight of him is not also the byproduct of the weed. “Deacon Edwards,” he grins. “Either you don’t age or I’ve accidentally stepped through a time machine.”

[safaksoy]

SAFIYE: Hey Uncle Deac 🩷 SAFIYE: I'm sorry I haven't been great at making plans! It's been so busy! We're entering flu season and I'm just doing my best to dodge getting sick at this point 😭 SAFIYE: How've you been?? I miss you

𝐅𝐎𝐑: @hairpintvrns · · · Deacon

[cagenewman]

WHO: Cage & @dekeyz

WHERE: little old lady's house

WHEN: March, 2023

Being the boss had its perks. For example, sometimes his little brother called and said that he needed a ride, and he didn't have to worry about asking anyone's permission, or making an excuse. All Cage had to do was poke his head into the front of the shop and let whoever was working the register know that he was taking the afternoon off, that he would see everyone in the morning. That was where he was that particular afternoon, glancing at his brother's text at the next stop sign, making sure that he had the right address as he glanced out the windshield. Thankfully, it wasn't hard to find, and he couldn't help the small smirk that slid across his face as he pulled his Traverse to a stop alongside the curb, rolling down the window to yell out to Deke, cocking one brow. "Your chariot, good sir."

[jiakim]

JIA COULDN'T HELP BUT LET OUT a chuckle as the man nervously tried to backtrack, involve himself in the aging process, and she raised her hand to wave away his worries. "you're fine. i like getting older. shows that i've lived and that i've had a good life." there had been a lot of bad parts, but the older she got, the more she felt that she could put it all behind her and use the parts that made her a better wife, a better sister and a better teacher. her smile grew wider at the philosophical nature their conversation seemed to take. "i'm standing on my soap box, aren't i ?" she asked and held up her hands in surrender. "i'm sorry, i get way too involved sometimes and then i take it out on unsuspecting strangers in the most random of places." she took a quick look at her haul again. "and speaking of ethical consumption ... i should probably narrow it down a bit further, huh ? fifteen of anything seems to overdo it. i think two shirts seems like a perfect amount." jia began browsing once more before looking up at the man. "i will look for this extremely loud pattern on the streets of blue harbor. i think it will brighten everyone's day."

“Hey!” Deacon’s voice catches somewhere between a chuckle and a cough, his nerves flaring for a brief moment—wonders if he’s offended the woman. But there’s a lilt in her response, a subtle rise at the end of her words, that reassures him. She’s in on the joke, thank God. “I’m not saying you’re old. Just that... well, we’re aging.” He presses on, quick to clarify, though a little sheepish. Still, her next words makes him feel the need to explain himself further. It’s hard enough to be social on a good day, but the right balance between light conversation and a philosophical tangent? Even more so.

“I mean, yeah," he adds, “I know we’re doing our part—ethical consumption and all that. But... maybe I’m overthinking it.” These are thoughts, he thinks, best reserved in sleepovers with feet propped on the coffee table, not here, smack-dab in the middle of summer, surrounded by mismatched clothes and the faint smell of leather.  He concedes, though, that there’s probably no better place to be entertaining existential questions than in a thrift shop. That’s the whole point of the store, isn’t it? Something about the past, demanding to be recycled into new stories. 

“Fifteen tops,” he continues with a laugh, nodding at her selections, “I’d call that a success.” His own two items suddenly seem insufficient. Modest in comparison, and Deacon is anything but modest. He grins, the thought teasing at the edges of his mind, as he continues, “Now you’ve got me thinking if I should grab more than these two.”

[cliffburtonscig]

MASTERLIST

SMUT: ⁎ FLUFF: ~ ANGST: ৻

METALLICA

James Hetfield

feel it *

Kirk Hammett

Lars Ulrich

Cliff Burton

Jason Newsted

Robert Trujillo

GNR

Axl Rose

Steven Adler

Saul "Slash" Hudson

Izzy Stradlin

quiet *

Duff McKagan

MOTLEY CRUE

Nikki Sixx

Mick Mars

Tommy Lee

Vince Neil

QUEEN

Freddie Mercury

Roger Taylor

John Deacon

Brian May

NIRVANA

Dave Grohl

Krist Novoselic

CRIMINAL MINDS

Spencer Reid

Aaron Hotchner

Derek Morgan

Others

MARVEL

Bucky Barnes

Steve Rodgers

Peter Parker

Tony Stark

Thor Odinson

Wade Wilson

Others

THE WALKING DEAD

Rick Grimes

Daryl Dixson

Carl Grimes

Glenn Rhee

Negan

Others

STRANGER THINGS

Billy Hargrove

001

Steve Harrington

Eddie Munson

Will Byers (aged up)

Dustin Henderson (aged up)

Mike Wheeler (aged up)

Jim Hopper

Jonathan Byers

Lucas Sinclair (aged up)

others

HARRY POTTER

Harry Potter

Hermione Granger

Tom Riddle

Draco Malfoy

Severus Snape

Ron Weasley

Luna Lovegood

Sirius Black

Cedric Diggory

Neville Longbottom

Remus Lupin

Bellatrix Lestrange

Regulus Black

Lucius Malfoy

Fred Weasley

George Weasley

Lorenzo Berkshire

Theodore Nott

Blaise Zambini

Oliver Wood

METAL LORDS

Kevin Schlieb

Hunter Slyvester

OUTERBANKS

Rafe Cameron

JJ Maybank

John Rutledge

Pope Heyward

BTS

Kim Seokjin

Min Yoongi

Jung Hoseok

Kim Namjoon

Park Jimin

Kim Taehyung

Jeon Jungkook

[edwardsthalia]

Self Para 001 || Seat 2A || 9:30 PM

O'Hare to Charles de Gaulle. Non-stop, just under 8 hours. Clear through the night. The seat was luxurious and she felt like she was swimming in it. Too large for just her, even with the significant amount of emotional baggage Thalia was bringing. Her actual luggage was limited to toiletries and the barest essential of clothes. She'd buy anything else she needed. It was the definition of a go-bag, purely meant for emergency escape. For running away.

Thalia didn't care that it really was running away, that it was cowardice. She'd been thinking about a trip away from Blue Harbor for months and this was just an excuse, another factor pushing her forward. After sending Rory a text asking him to handle the store or just close it, telling the owner of Lotus and Light to find a substitute teacher, her phone was silenced for everyone but Deacon. The day started with the luncheon and it ended as soon as the wheels of the plane lifted off.

As she sat in her first class seat, absentmindedly balancing the stem of the champagne glass between her fingers, Thalia gazed out the window as they soared up, up, up, away from the Midwest and the tiny problems that felt so large. Maybe her feelings of calm indifference were from the extremely generous bartender who made the mistake of asking what had her looking so unhappy. Instead of acknowledging that it was just her face and cheery disposition, she answered with 'my best friend has been sleeping with my ex-husband'.

The lights got smaller as they climbed East. She rented an apartment in Paris for two weeks. Staying away longer didn't feel like an option without making more solid plans. Besides, she did have responsibilities in Blue Harbor. Her big brother was there. But also there were Saul and Leon. It was hard not to feel like a bad guy in the situation. Was it homophobic to be angry that they had to find each other? Despite being proudly bisexual, was she not being an ally because she didn't want either of her exes with the other? Doubtful, but the only person she thought she would discuss the slightly amusing conundrum was involved in it.

As she settled further back into her seat and opened the new Jarod K. Anderson specially purchased at the airport bookstore as a treat, Thalia allowed her brain to drift. The nature-focused poetry verses eased the tension in her head and the sense of peace she felt that morning was finally within reach. It felt like the farther they traveled from Illinois, the less restrained she felt. She was back to being an independent, although a little more intoxicated than intended. Her book was quickly stowed, travel blanket wrapped around her slender frame, and seat reclined. The darkness of the cabin merged with the nighttime of the rotating earth and it felt endless.

It was the feeling of inadequacy that was causing her bone deep sadness to resurface. It started when her marriage with Saul was dissolving. She needed the all-encompassing love; the worship and worshiping. The vulnerability needed to be in a relationship left her feeling too vulnerable for there to be any wiggle room. Her love was too fierce. Her recent time with Leon was unofficial. He made it clear he couldn't provide that and she decided to take what she could get. She couldn't be mad at him. And she couldn't be mad at Saul for being who he was, as much as that still hurt. She wouldn't be mad at herself. She just needed to figure out how to reach that level of peace.

She shifted to a more comfortable position and closed her eyes. Two weeks later, Thalia flew back to Chicago with a suitcase full of impeccable vintage clothes, a new friendship with a rather famous designer, and a feeling of restfulness she hadn't felt in years.

[deviledfortune]

001.    GENERAL INFORMATION.

OFFICIAL  NAME   Cedric Rowan Sinclair.

NICKNAMES  +  ALIASES   Sinclair ( if anything ) , Ced ( rarely ), Ceddy ( never, except from his mom ).

AGE   Thirty seven.

GENDER   Cis man.

PRONOUNS   He / him.

SEXUALITY   Heterosexual.

ZODIAC   Capricorn.

PLACE  OF  BIRTH   London , England.

RESIDENCE   High end waterfront property in Riverside , Heartford.

OCCUPATION   Music producer & composer.

LANGUAGES  SPOKEN   English , French , Some Spanish , Some Danish.

002.    PHYSICAL TRAITS.

HAIR  COLOR   Brunet.

HAIR  STYLE   Short , kempt  +  stubble facial hair.

EYES   Russet.

HEIGHT   Six feet.

BUILD   Athletic / muscular.

ETHNICITY   English , Scottish , Greek.

NATIONALITY   British.

TATTOOS   None.

PIERCINGS   None.

MARKINGS   Several small scars from childhood scattered along his arms and legs + a birthmark on his right shoulder blade.

FACECLAIM   Theo James.

003.    MENTAL ANALYSIS.

POSITIVE  TRAITS   Charismatic ,  dauntless ,  incisive , resilient.

NEGATIVE  TRAITS   Evasive ,  impulsive , roguish ,  sarcastic.

VICES   Decadence , hastiness , selfishness , stubbornness.

VIRTUES   Assertiveness , imaginative , perseverance , tolerance.

ALIGNMENT   Chaotic neutral.

004.    CONNECTIONS.

MOTHER   Katherine "Kitty" Sinclair ( Née Crawford ).

STATUS   Alive.

RELATIONSHIP   Close.

FATHER   Robert Sinclair.

STATUS   Alive.

RELATIONSHIP   Strained.

SIBLINGS   Deacon Sinclair & Maisie Everett ( Née Sinclair ).

STATUS   Alive.

RELATIONSHIP   Indifferent.

005.    BIOGRAPHICAL DATA.

New year, new bundle of joy ― born on the first of January, on a blisteringly cold evening in London, Cedric brought an unyielding warmth with him into the Sinclair's lives. As the middle child, but the youngest boy, he was given a freedom others may have deemed negligent. While his older brother was prepping for the inheritance of the Sinclair's business empire, and his younger sister was being coddled like a caged bird, Cedric was gallivanting across Europe, experiencing the lifestyle his mother had formerly engaged before being chained down.

Partying in between his not so dedicated studies, traveling the globe to absorb everything the world had to offer, and dabbling in a passion that he'd developed at a young age. Always having been musically inclined, Cedric's talent was only honed by being professionally trained by the best pianist his parents could afford ― his dad's only positive contribution to the young man's life. Through connections made via countless parties and events, he was quick to make a name for himself in the music industry. What started as symphonic concerts, eventually had him branching out into his own avenue, creating his own label, further separating himself from his family's legacy to develop an individualistic one of his own.

Reaching the pinnacle of his career in his mid thirties, it could only go downhill from there, and the drop was more nauseating than the steep slopes of any available roller coaster. The illegal substances Cedric had consumed through years spent in pursuit of pleasure finally caught up to the musician. A media scandal chased his dreams down the drain and his father's fury forced him into recluse, the mock story of charity work overseas covering up his intensive stay in only the best rehabilitation villa.

A year passes and new beginnings are promised. Heartford is suggested to him, a newly appointed city still with the charm of a quaint town. With a studio built into the newly purchased waterfront home, he has hopes of redeeming his reputation, focusing on his first love in a more peaceful setting.

006.    WANTED PLOTS.

TBA

[jaceeverett]

He let out a laugh, knowing that Deacon was right, to an extent. It did feel like there had been an alien invasion in his home town, except, "I feel more like I'm the alien," he confessed. "Like someone's going to call me out and tell me I don't belong here or something," that someone would probably be his father, or someone he had left in the wind back in high school. But Jason knew that he belonged there, that Merrock was his home town as much as anyone else's, and he did want to be there, despite the hang-ups that he might have had about how absolutely different everything was. "I'd say just a little older, but I feel like it's more than that. Not in a bad way, though -- if I changed, I should expect it from everyone else, too, right?" That was the way that the world works.

Jason's hand shot out to press against the dash as Deacon pulled to a sharp stop, letting out a sputtering laugh, "truck's fault?" he asked, knowing that it probably would've happened in any vehicle that they found themselves in, but. Fun to tease. "Yeah. Sort of like a bucket list thing, the two kind of relate," he leaned back in his seat, as well, as Deacon asked about the army, looking out the window as he talked. "We used to play 'anywhere but here,' me and some army buddies. Pick any place in the world that we would rather be at that moment. I always said Wyoming. Loved the way Yellowstone looked in my old picture books," he dropped his hand from the dash to his lap. "So it made sense to head out that way when I got out, you know?" If nothing else, he could honor his friends that hadn't been able to make their trips happen.

"Oh, I can absolutely see that," he laughed, "not your brother being a slut -- just Cordelia being the kind of person to cure someone of it. She's always had a good heart," even if he hadn't known his sister for most of her adult life, he had watched her grow up into a teenager, knew that nothing would have changed her that drastically from the person that she was destined to become. "Good for her, though. Both of them."

Jason's eyes widened the tiniest bit as Deacon leans out the window, middle finger following suit. Anywhere else, it might have ended badly… in Merrock? He'd probably just get laughed at, be the talk of the next town gathering. Although he is starting to wonder if he should take back what he said about driving. Knowing how to drive and doing whatever Deacon was doing at the moment were two vastly different things, he realized. But he pulled his thoughts away from if he was going to die in that truck to listen as Deacon rattled off everything that he had been up to. High school, studying in New York, traveling construction, the loss of his dad, the farm coming back into itself… it sounded like he hadn't exactly been stagnant, had kept himself busy, moving, felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Doesn't sound so bad, the… obvious stuff aside," he swallowed, because Jason knew what it was like to lose people that you care about. Not his father, and not someone as great as Deacon's father, but the younger man had pulled through. "Did you like New York? Or is that the whole point of it not working out, the city being too big?" he asked as he slipped out of the truck, not quite as bouncing as Deacon was. Kid had energy, he noted.

"Yeah, no sweat," he stepped to the back of the truck with Deacon, picking up one of the nearest crates and lifting it with ease, stacking it carefully and turning to repeat the process until they had successfully managed to unload everything that needed to be unloaded. "I'm guessing they want them around back?" he pointed to the alley, the side door that led into the café, figuring it would be easier to go that way than haul everything through the shop front.

DEACON HUFFS, amused at jason's apology, and when he glances at his side mirror, he sees that he is being sincere. "must feel like an alien invasion in your hometown, huh?" is what he offers in place of forgiveness, which he doesn't feel is necessary to begin with. frankly, if this was twenty years prior, he might even blush at the feeling of someone like jace even looking at him this way. "everythin's the same but the people, not so much." he shrugs and makes a sharp turn around a corner, several artifacts in the backseat sliding towards the door behind them.

he almost rear ends the hatchback in front of them when they arrive at a stoplight, pulls the handbrake, and leans against his seat, arms folded over his chest as he considers jace's answer. "wyoming, huh? talk about cross-country," he says with an impressed nod. "wait, didn't you join the army? that's what your parents told my dad, anyway. how'd you go from that to working in a park?" it doesn't even cross his mind how crassly he'd phrased the question and just blinks up at jace like he's entitled to an immediate answer.

"aw, yeah, no, rosalyn's not his. he's got a son, though. believe it or not, my brother's a recovering slut. who knew it only took cordelia to do that?" and pauses, dramatically, with his hand on his chest like he knows he's said something vile when he adds, "it's okay, i can say that."

the car behind them blasts their horn, the sound grating to the ears that instantly wipes the devilish grin off of deacon's face. the stoplight has turned green, but deacon doesn't care, instead rolls his window all the way down until he can stick his head out and flip two middle fingers at the driver. "get dicked, man!" and quickly pulls himself back inside, disengages the handbrake, and speeds across the intersection, across a sloping road of residential buildings and small homegrown shops before making a turn at a one-way.

"exciting stories, let's see..." seamlessly, he returns to the conversation, a finger pressing at his bearded chin as he tries to curate his experiences from the last twenty years, memories muddied between things that happened and things that didn't, that he has to carefully parse through them just to confirm if what he's about to tell jace is indeed true. "uh, well... i guess you don't wanna hear about what i was up to in high school, so we're gonna skip that." he smiles sheepishly. "but yeah, graduated in '09, then i went to study in new york for a year. didn't really work out for me. then i did this traveling construction thing with cage, but i kinda was just flippin' between jobs for a while there. then dad died, and everyone came home, we started pitchin' in to help build the farm back up when it got kinda neglected when dad started to get sick, you know? we're back on regular operations, as you can see," and he glances over his shoulder to where the crates are sitting in the back, "and we have chickens now, too, which is great, honestly, i love 'em. so if you need eggs..." he lifts his hand from the steering wheel to do a little wave. "so... yeah, i guess that's what's been goin' on with me lately." whole life events distilled into bullet points, details kept behind a barrier should jace even want to ask, but he tries to cram everything in the seconds before they arrive at the cafe, pulling over by the curb, and immediately jumping out when he's killed the engine like he's about to run into a burning house.

"hey, mind helpin' me out, man?" he calls out to jace from the other side of the truck as he starts to unload the crates.

[un1dentity]

random headcanon generator. this was so fun that i had to do it again i'm sorry </3

001. deacon would succumb to the fog. (deacon vc: like... on far harbor or????)

002. deacon uses the word "dude" like a comma. (HE DOES!!!)

003. deacon sucks at saying tongue twisters. (yeah probably)

004. deacon has a diary that he writes in with a glittery gel pen. (LMAO THIS IS PROBABLY TRUE he hides away in a corner & writes whenever desdemona or dr. carrington are mean)

005. deacon believes in santa. (he loves telling people that if they're not nice they won't get a visit from santa even if no one post-war knows what he means. it's Fun)

006. deacon doesn't say what he wants directly. (he both does & does not at the same time, sometimes you have to read in-between the lines)

007. deacon is a great artist. (hm.. may actually take this as a true headcanon & say he can sketch really well!)

008. deacon is oblivious to any & all romantic interest someone may show him. (actually he's not... he just pretends like he is because it's less trouble. he catches pretty quickly & has (kind of) learned how to pivot the convo away)

009. deacon is great with kids. (ACTUALLY CANON!! there's a line from shaun (if you save him) where he says: deacon's cool, and tough. but then there's another line where he goes: deacon's not really a synth, is he? which implies deacon did the whole "i'm a synth!" thing with him too LMAO

010. deacon desperately needs a hug but refuses to ask for one. (saved the best for last... sighs)

[flamesbetween]

Tags:

Misc.:

Rides (vehicles)

Memes/Shitposts

Inspiration

Fashion

My Art

Not My Art

Magical Girl Transformations

Costumes (Initial) (Upgraded)

Powers

Logos

My Words (ramblings, text posts etc.)

PsykoFactor (ship)

[tba]

Superhumans:

Seth / Scratch

Annie / Electrojet

Naomi / Geckonyx

TJ / REfactor

Diana / Dr. Wormwood

Angel / Novaglow

Tama / Le Grand Chevalier

Subject #03-001 (Gemini)

Subject #02-001 (Taurus)

Micaela / Veritas

Sonam / Various Transformations Thereof

Nekromantis

Lilith / The Psykopomp

Cyberstorm

Miserychord

Luce / Arcana Royale

Instachill

Unnamed Mushroom Lady (tba)

Daniel Saint-Fleur / The Harvestman

Geoff Rust / Ozymandias

Civilans:

Casey

Deacon

Mei

Madelyn

Mar

Tama's Mother

Tama's Father

Soundview Ballet

Mark

Saleha

Irma

Bijou

Lilith's band (Mistress After Midnight)

[tba]

For a character rundown, you can read this post on my main.

[ghostspot]

open starter !!

     𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊. this is the seedy underbelly of new york dipped in satin, wrapped in leather, rolled in diamonds. shined and flossed so they glisten with the chandeliers. they are beautiful and they are brand-new, straight out of the factory where they manufacture vicious intents, and deacon needs to breathe air that isn’t contaminated with imported eau de toilette and corruption, so he slinks away to the back of the building where the grass is freshly painted and the flowers stuck-on. he walks a little further. the landscape is bigger than it looks from the outside and the farther he gets, the more he sees the cracks in its perfection -- caution tapes from unfinished construction, weeds growing in the balding ground, a small gazebo with holes in its roof and debris of its destruction scattered across its once ivory-white seats. deacon ducks under the tape, already with a joint and a lighter in his hand ( the vintage type, the one that still uses fuel ) and the flame it produces nearly melts the edge of his mask off. 

and he’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there, zoning out at the invisible particles of his chosen nostalgia, when he hears the shuffling of footsteps against the untamed gravel. he coughs, his hand quickly working to part the cloud of smoke surrounding him. “hey, this is area is restricted,” he announces, doing his best impression of someone who holds a grain of authority. “party’s over there.” and with the joint still in his hand, points to the direction from which they came.

[saulweissberg]

saul spent over twenty-five years in courtrooms and office meeting rooms, arguing his case and fighting for his client. it had been easier than breathing, and he could probably cross examine in his fucking sleep. so, typically when it came to his personal life, the wind was usually out of his sails. fighting outside of his career exhausted him, though he often got roped into them anyway due to whichever ex-wife had been pissed off at him, whether he disappointed micah somehow, or the general petty squabbling of white-collar new yorkers. the point being: in his personal life, he just wanted to relax and maybe have a little fun. case in point: the joint in his hand, slowly burning, the red end of it glittering in the night. deacon was the intruder here, ruining saul’s high before it even began.

again, he didn’t understand the need for such hostility. even fucking thalia had moved on with her florist shop and teaching yoga classes. deacon was holding onto a grudge that saul and thalia had dropped, coming to a tentative peace after a run-in at a local baseball game and then a charity gala in chicago last month. they weren’t exactly friends, but they weren’t enemies. deacon had every right to be protective of his younger sister, but thalia was a grown woman. she didn’t need protection to this degree. she didn’t need deacon to defend her honor and stare after her ex-husband like some broken heart’s vigilante.

“no.” he responded simply, but his thoughts elaborated: you don’t deserve my fucking lecture, you puritan. then a crack about his weight! saul fixed deacon with an indignant stare. “deacon, i am in no way out of shape and you know that.” he was too vain to let himself go, as deacon was implying. he preferred to use his peloton bike a few times a week, and play a few rounds of golf (somehow, he found it within himself to ignore how it was deacon’s chosen sport any time he played) or tennis a few times a month. beyond that, he admittedly didn’t do as much as he probably should’ve. he just had never been a gym hound, so he did what he could and didn’t worry about it often. the lines on his face and the gray in his hair was more worrying than his body, anyway.

he was inhaling another hit off of his joint when deacon informed him of his sobriety. damn, saul was just cracking a joke about how they both weren’t young anymore. their days of clubbing were far behind them, that’s all he had meant. he nodded, lips rolling together as smoke evaporated out of his nose. “oh. good for you, man.” because what else was he supposed to say? haha, you quitter, or, i wish i could get through the week without some sort of substance? there was no other response that wouldn’t give deacon leeway to paint him further as some sort of machiavellian villain. just like everyone else in his life, he always said the wrong thing. always misconstrued. sometimes, it was easier to play the villain when that was what everyone had expected out of him. this time, however, he was tired already and didn’t feel like having every word he said torn apart for some hidden, acrimonious meaning.

you just gonna stand there or what?

the fuck kind of question was that? his face screwed up, brows furrowing. “this isn’t west side story. i’m not going to challenge you to a rumble or some shit.” he took another hit off of the joint, just to occupy himself. “you’re welcome to keep moving on, deacon. despite what you may think, this town is big enough for the two of us.” the three, if thalia was to be counted.

All memories of his, as far as Saul Weissberg is concerned, is ancient history. Whatever nights they’ve shared in New York City—now, thankfully, none of the carnal kind for which Saul is notorious at least in-between marriages, just your standard cocaine-laden nights in dank bathrooms and bodegas variety—feels so displaced to unravel here in Blue Harbor. It doesn’t make sense for him to be here, especially after the divorce. It doesn’t make sense that he ought to be in the running for Mr. Blue Harbor when he’s got no real ties to speak of, save for a boutique firm he claims to have established from the ground-up but in truth just feels like another extension of the Weissbergs’ many legal careers, and, well, his broken marriage. 

Part of Deacon, of course, can’t help that the rift in their marriage is partly his own undoing. He hasn’t exactly made it easy, over the years, for Thalia to say no to him and to their shared family as a consequence. After all, it had been at his behest that Thalia should move back to Blue Harbor, all those years ago, when he’d been fresh off another attempt at sobriety and their mother had begun bearing the worst of her illness. What happened thereafter, however, was entirely Saul’s—and, sure, partly, slightly, teensy, Thalia’s—undoing. And as juvenile as it sounds to take sides in the termination of a relationship, both parties of which he holds close to his chest, ultimately the defense had been stronger for Thalia. That is his sister, after all. They may not be bound in blood, but they are bound by commitment, and that is precisely what makes all the difference. . 

“You gonna lecture me on vanity now or somethin’, Saul?” Deacon says, rolling back the sleeves of his jacket and crossing his arms. Part of him thinks that they should just jostle in the middle of the street to reconcile the assortment of their differences, petty slights that have managed to accumulate over the years, but it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Saul may cut an imposing figure in the legal offices or in the courthouse or in any other establishment in New York City, but here, smack-dab in the middle of his hometown, he’s 6’0 and nothing. Even Micah, his ex-step-nephew, cuts a better silhouette, what with his youth and reckless confidence though he wonders if either one would appreciate the comparison. “Nothing wrong with wanting to be in top physical condition. You can do with a little exercise yourself.” Frankly, it takes a lot of fun out of the fight and—well—the murder scenario from five minutes ago. In all fairness, why should he desecrate his sacred weapon—his beautiful golf clubs—when he could very well just snap Saul Weissberg like the overgrown twig he is? 

Anyway, he’s forgetting himself. Being in the proximity of The Labyrinth is unnerving to him, and he walks a little further down the street, wondering whether Saul might follow. “Druggie days are over?” The chuckle that escapes his lips is grating against the air. A bit like disbelief, a bit like mirth, even a bit like regret. Yet another reason why he can’t deal with Saul’s presence in town. “Yeah, dude. I’m sober now and everything,” Deacon replies, echoing his former in-law’s own gesture and lifting his shoulders, attempting to derail the weight of the confession with a half-shrug. It still feels intimate to disclose, and admittedly, he doesn’t really know what he expects as Saul’s response. Doesn’t really know whether there’s a right one that he’d feel unconcerned with coming out of Saul’s mouth. Notwithstanding Deacon’s own strange hangup: that pride in his sobriety feels like the worst part.

 “You just gonna stand there or what?” And, he supposes, therein lay Deacon’s own hypocrisy. However hard he tries to convince himself that Saul is a horrible, horrible person, he might also be one of the few people that he knows longest, a strange revelation in and of itself.

[contrariian-archive]

      he’d thought he’d mostly recovered from the ambush she’d rescued him from, but given his current position—clearly not. his intention had been to shave, but he only got past the doorway of the bathroom when wooziness overcame him and he collapsed. must have made quite the clatter, considering sheila’s now standing over him.  he adjusts his sunglasses and grins, ready as always with a joke:  ‘ don’t you think i look pretty curled up on this bathroom floor ? ’

        deacon strikes an exaggerated pose, tossing his head as if to re-situate the ginger ( and gray, though he’ll never admit it ) stubble on his scalp.

@mojavc​ liked for a lyric starter (accepting)

[cxllardgrxxns]

@sundayybest​​

CLOSED

Oh Fiddlesticks!

Pale glitter-covered fingers twisted feverishly with the ball of yarn; the more Billie yanked her hand free, the more forest green hued strands jerked from the knotted sphere. The remnants of the prior abandoned project clung to the wool of her brightly colored sweater and seemed impossibly caked into strands of the hair escaping the dual buns atop her head. When she begun she’d forgotten how difficult it was to knit anything let alone a garment, for her at least. She couldn’t say what it was about the ostensibly peaceful notion of twining bits of yarn that was so laborious, yet she managed to muck up the process worse with each passing second. It was Laney who suggested knitting her father a sweater whilst they were in the midst of a rather chaotic crafting session that involved all the glitter in her makeshift project box. Billie hadn't the heart to tell her a pullover in Mississippi's infallible heat was unnecessary. Instead she escorted the twins into town and bought a slew of oddly colored yarn from a neighborhood fabric store.

The issue was that Billie wasn't the best knitter. Her Grams could crochet enough scarves to keep all of Mississippi toasty in a single night, but Billie had a habit of turning even the most mundane jobs into an exercise in suppressing her accident-prone tendencies. But darn it, she'd always give it her all. The twins lasted approximately half an hour before she noted their sleep ledden gaze and sent them to bed with the promise she would somehow produce the most spectacular sweater their father had ever seen. So well made he'd never want to take it off. To be fair, Billie got off to a good start. No missed loops, no snags, just the sound of Elvis crooning softly from her phone and the soft clattering of the knitting needles. She imagined they were having their own conversation with the wool. But in true Billie fashion, her thoughts began to stray from the task at hand, unable to remain on track and veering into side tangents. The prick of her knitting needle jabbing into her open palm jolted her to the present and the tangled mess she created-- she’d begun to amuse herself with yarn themed anecdotes.

‘This wool is so gorgeous; it comes from Wales.’ ‘You’re so silly, whales don't have wool.’

The attempt to extricate her limbs from the nefarious strands distracted Billie enough that she hadn't heard the front door open nor the sound of Deacon's footsteps coming down the hall. As soon as his visage came into view she immediately forgot about her jumbled state and smiled in greeting. "Oh good, you're back" rising from her crossed legged position she waddled towards him with the essense of her poorly thread sweater. "I wasn't sure how large to make it. I've never made men's clothing before" straining on her toes to match his height, Billie held the yarn against his torso. "Hmm, I'm going to need more yarn" with a slight pucker of her pink lips she released a huff. 

“I wanted to have at least the sleeve done before you got home but the naughty yarn decided to retaliate. I’m afraid I’ve been bested” she held up her tangled fingers with a laugh to prove her point. 

[rorysanderson]

Just coffee. He’s right, by all accounts. Rory’s just out of practice. The other man offers his name, and Rory commits it to memory. Mostly because he’s going to Google him the second he gets home, to make sure his story checks out — though he doesn’t think people really lie about being professional golf players. Maybe a more exciting sport, he figures. But not golf. Still, you can never be too sure, and he’d be setting a terrible example for Annie if he takes someone at face value. Even if he is about to go get a coffee with said someone.

“Rory,” he introduces himself in return, taking Deacon’s offered hand and shaking it. “Scottish, not Irish. I won’t tell my ancestors, but,” he takes his hand back, shrugging cheekily. “I can’t promise they won’t come down and curse you about it, anyway.” Nodding toward the coffee place, he gestures for Deacon to go ahead, mostly so he can blush in peace. “After you, then.”

> END OF THREAD.

“Ah!” His hum of realization was only ever meant to be a hum, but the exclamation escapes his lips, anyway. He laughs at the gaffe, before continuing—“Scottish. Right.” He might not be the smartest person in Blue Harbor—not even the smartest person in his house, on a good day, because he’s pretty sure the poltergeist haunting his Oak Gardens home is a mad scientist in a past life—but the golfer, at the very least, knows where his sport has originated. “I was trying to place your accent. Could’ve sworn it was Irish. But don’t let your ancestors know that,” he adds with a chuckle, and that’s about the limit of his knowledge of the United Kingdom. That, and the whole football-soccer thing.

Deacon’s eyes flicker over the stranger—was he a brunette? Or a redhead?—and the way the light catches his hair, how it flickers in-between, like fire at dusk. He hadn’t been paying attention earlier, too caught up in his pettiness. As they stand negotiating the terms of casual coffee, he notices the blush creeping up the man’s neck. It’s a nice color on him, he muses, but there’s a tentativeness to his words that weren’t there, earlier, and he struggles to pick up on why—

—a daughter! That explains the nerves. Single fathers don’t phase him, though. It’s not a dealbreaker by any stretch. Still, he figures it’s best to keep the coffee short and sweet, maybe lighten things up. For a fleeting second, his thoughts skim over Leandro, but he pushes the thought aside. “Look, man, this is just coffee. No need to get your knickers in a twist. Am I using that right?” He tries on the phrase, but, as with most things, feels ill-fitting on him. Another laugh, light, quick, just a ripple on the surface. “But, oh! Before I forget—” He clears his throat, straightens his posture a bit, and extends his hand. “I’m Deacon. Dick, if you like.” His smile turns cheeky, eyebrows lifting in mischief before he adds, “Figured I should know your name before I treat you to coffee, huh?”

[deathrazed-aa]

𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖  𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛  𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖  𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚊  ➝  @trageadies​  /  deeks

          CROSSWORD   PUZZLE   LAYS   HALF   DONE   ON   HER   LAP,    pen   tapping   lightly   against   her   bottom   lip   while   her   mind   wanders.    eyes   settle   on   Deeks’   profile   then   she   NUDGES   her   knee   against   the   papers   on   her   to   get   his   attention.    ❝  i’ve   been   thinking  .  .  .  ❞    the   blonde   PROPS   herself   up   higher   against   the   cushions   of   their   couch    &    tosses   the   newspaper   aside.    ❝  we   haven’t   had   a   date   night   in   a   while.  ❞    a   SOFT   POUT   pulls   the   corners   of   her   mouth   down.    ❝  i   remember   we   quite   enjoyed   them  ;  getting   dressed   up,    eating   at   nice   restaurants,   getting   dressed   down  .  .  .  ❞    Ravenna   gives   her   beast   a   KNOWING   GAZE,    dainty   fingers   brushing   up   the   sensitive   inside   of   his   forearm.    ❝  you’re   not   busy   tonight,    right ?    Lizza   told   me   about   a   place   that   we   could   go   to    &    i   wouldn’t   mind   a   NIGHT   WITH   MY   MAN.  ❞