#ITS FINALLY DONE UGH this has been in the works since september

[dehydrated-turtle]

The Robin Returns to The Nest...

//warnings// mention of blood and gore, trauma, death, depictions of panic attacks

//contents// Bruce Wayne & Jason Todd, angst, fluff, bruce being a good dad, dick being a good big brother - wc: 7.4k

//synopsis// What if Jason had never wandered around? What if he was planted in the Wayne family plot which is right near the manor so he just wandered home? What if Alfred had found him and brought him to Bruce? What then?

//a/n// this is totally not what I normally post so i am sorry for that but ive been working on this for a while now and i really felt compelled to write it. its not smut so dont worry, its super fluffy and kinda sad also, enjoy!!

//on ao3//

In the midst of the night, darkness finds a home in Gotham’s crevices like it feels it’s safe there, making it all the more dangerous. And rain covers the streets and floods the grass, if there is any to be found. The harsh droplets find themselves pattering atop a gravestone in the infamous Wayne family plot that has just found its new resident, the young but late Jason Todd. That certain smell of rain filled the air and the striking sound of thunder in the distance scared off small rodents and dogs in the city, miles away. A heavy feeling of dread and yet sorrow was strewn across the city, as it normally is but in these past few months the epicentre of these feelings was Bruce Wayne himself, hiding away in his palace of bats, deep underground, away from anyone that could hurt him anymore than he already was. 

A small glimmer of hope shone purple six feet under that gave the young boy life once more. We all know how this story goes. With all his injuries still in place and no clue where he was, young Jason frantically awoke, screaming bloody murder and begging for his father to come save him only for no one to hear his pleas. His instincts and years of training came to good use, clawing his way out of his own casket with his belt buckle and bare hands, tearing away at the skin of his fingers and peeling back his own finger nails just to be free. The fresh air reached his hand and soon his face, the feeling of the cold rain was rejuvenating against his bloody and torn flesh as it mixed with the salty tears dripping from his eyes. Barely able to breathe, he hoisted himself out of his grave and tried to stand. Running off pure adrenaline from getting out, still in a daze and not quite sure what was happening, he went where he knew, home. 

He wandered the familiar path where he once accompanied Bruce on some occasions to his parents’ final resting place just to hold Bruce’s hand as he wept. He passed Martha and Thomas’ grave while getting to the gates which were conveniently unlocked, looks like the groundskeeper had been slacking. He trudged his heavy legs along the muddy path to Wayne Manor, almost asleep and struggling to stay on his feet, falling in and out of consciousness and gripping his many broken ribs. The moon’s light illuminated his path from its place in the sky just above the manor, leading the way back home. 

Of course Jason had known every way to get into Gotham’s Castle, he had his favourites as well. Finding the closest passage was not hard, for his muscle memory led the way. It wasn’t long before he had entered the manor and was met by a welcoming warmth, pleasing to the contrast of the bone chilling crispness of Gotham’s night. The low and yellow illumination from the manor’s lights welcomed him with a warm embrace and feeling of home as he walked the halls, looking for anyone to notice him and too tired and hurt to scream out for help. He eventually stumbled into Bruce’s study, hoping he’d be there but he was met with an empty room. He was trying not to cry as it simply hurt too much but the tears got the better of him as he sat on one of the luxurious sofas. He curled into himself as he bled out onto the expensive fabric, the only thing he could think before he fell asleep was how Bruce would be mad he ruined the priceless fabric on the one of a kind sofa. 

*  *  *  *  *  

The Bat cried alone in the solitude of his own making, cold tears falling on the keys to his comically large computer that served him no purpose other than to bury himself in his work. He had been working case after case with no end in sight for the past six months just to get away from the suffocating feeling of grief that he knew all too well. This time, it was worse because it was his son, a friend that he had grown to love in the four short years of knowing him, someone who he felt responsible for and legally was. There wasn’t a moment that went by where he didn’t feel like it was his fault; leaving Jason alone, trusting his mother that he knew nothing about, and thinking for a second that Jason would stay put. Bruce should’ve known better, taken the boy with him or made sure he was safe to leave alone. He was reckless and it was his fault that his son was dead. One of the very few people he allowed himself to love, was dead. 

He feared he would be alone forever, basking in his own dungeon of horrors and trapped with his thoughts. This stupendous experience had thrown any sort of solace Bruce had out the window, he even pushed away the one person whom he had known his whole life. 

“Master Bruce, I must insist you come eat or at least drink something. It’s simply not healthy. It’s late and I made tea and crumpets. Please, sir, I worry for you.” 

“Well stop your worrying, Alfred. You must know that after all this time I don’t need your help. Or anyone’s.” his cold eyes drooped with fatigue and stained red by the tears as he looked his faithful friend in the eye, “Please. Leave me be.” 

“I thought you might say something of the sort… I brought it all down for you. Please eat some, Bruce. I only want what’s best for you.” 

With that, the old man left and The Bat began to weep once more, knowing that he is just pushing away the one person he can trust and that will love him unconditionally. He can’t stop himself, he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it most of the time. He wants Alfred there to console him but he doesn’t know how to ask and thinks that pushing him away will trick his mind into thinking he doesn’t need it. He took one look at the beautiful arrangement of tea, crumpets, and fruit all laid out by Alfred with care and love for his son. Even the thought of someone loving Bruce brought him back to tears as he dropped his head on the large desk with a thud. 

“Master Bruce-” 

“ALFRED, I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME BE. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE SO IMPORT- Jason?” The Bat turned to see his supposedly dead son, bleeding red in Alfred’s arms as he rushed to put him down and find medical equipment. 

“I found him on a sofa in your study, bleeding out.” 

“He’s alive…” he whispered, running as fast as he could away from his place at the computer and to his son instead. He couldn’t believe his eyes, “You’re alive.” he muttered softly against Jason’s rain soaked hair, kissing it as many times as he could and weeping while holding his son whose heart was beating again, slow but beating nonetheless. 

“I’ve contacted Dr. Thompkins, she’s about ten minutes out. I’m sure we can keep Master Jason’s heart beating for that long.” Alfred said, confidently, taking out some medical equipment with his surprisingly steady hand and hooking Jason up to an EKG machine. 

Bruce sat, impatiently waiting and watching Alfred do everything he could to help the young boy stay alive until Dr. Thompkins got there. She entered frazzled and like she had just woken up, but alert and ready to do whatever it took to get Jason back to proper health or at least something close to it.  He paced the length of Jason’s med bay bed in anticipation and also just to be close while Thompkins does the best she can at saving what’s left of the boy’s life. Bruce stood wearing scrubs, for the first time in a long while he came out of his bat shaped shell, he was vulnerable, he had to be. He had a chance. A small glimmer of hope shone purple just as Jason had flatlined but only briefly before his heart rate skyrocketed then slowly went down to a somewhat normal pace. 

“What was that?” Bruce’s eyes darted, looking for the source of the light. 

“I’m not sure but it sure as hell saved his life.” the doctor replied, still working skillfully on patching up Jason but obviously perplexed by what just happened, “He just flatlined a second ago.” 

“Well whatever it was, it wants my boy alive.” 

*  *  *  *  *

Dr Thompkins had done all she could, he was alive and stable for the moment but he was in a coma. Bruce stayed by the boy’s side, leaving only to meet with Commissioner Gordon to make sure that the city was moderately safe and that they didn’t need him as he wanted to be by Jason’s side until he wakes up, if he ever does. Bruce ate his sparse meals on the floor beside Jason’s bed; he read books while sitting beside him, hoping that Jason could hear; Bruce cried while holding his hand, sometimes these were happy tears, just knowing that his heart was beating was enough. 

“Master Bruce, it’s been days, please come out of there, give young Jason some space.” 

“Is the world on fire? Is Joker out of Arkham?”

“Well, no-”

“Then I’m not leaving his side, Alfred. I need to be here when he wakes up. I need to make sure he knows I’m here for him.” Alfred could sense the concern and dead seriousness in his voice so without another word, he left The Bat to be with his son. 

*  *  *  *   *

Speaking and yet, no words. Voices and yet, unclear. Light and yet, no shape. 

Jason’s eyes started to open, almost blinded by the white LED lights directly above his head, shining violently in his retina. He struggled to lift his head but from his almost seated position in the hospital bed, he could vaguely see an outline of a person reading a book on a chair in the corner of the room. In his struggle, apparently he had caught the attention of this person because they had run to his bedside, not even stopping to put a bookmark in. 

A fuzzy, almost incoherent voice said to him, “Jason! You’re awake, I thought you’d never actually wake up. It’s so good to have you back, lad.” 

Must be Bruce, he thought, still not really able to see properly. He found himself at a loss for words, searching and thinking of things he would want to say but nothing came. He could think of what he wanted to get across to Bruce but no words formed. Barely an emotion arose either, he had felt nothing. Everything was all still blurry, physically and mentally for he had no clue what was going on and had no means to speak. All he did was look at Bruce with a blank stare, eyes pale and irises small. 

“Jason?” He waited for a response, “you in there, chum?” Again, nothing because he couldn’t. His normally bright and illuminated eyes were lifeless and looked right through Bruce. “Oh god, something's wrong. This isn’t supposed to happen, IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS.” 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred had heard the commotion, “is everything alright?” 

“He won’t talk… look at him, Alfred, this isn’t my boy. I should’ve known, it was too good to be true.” 

“Well let’s not jump to conclusions,” He came up and touched The Bat’s shoulder trying his best to comfort him, “We don’t know what’s wrong, maybe it's fixable, maybe it's just a matter of time.” 

Bruce took a deep breath, “Maybe.” 

“I’ll get Dr. Thompkins on the phone, maybe she knows what's going on.” 

“Thank you, Alfred. I really don’t know what I would do without you.” 

“Likewise, sir.” He replied with a warm, fatherly smile and headed out. 

*  *  *  *  *

The news had come back from Dr. Thompkins, after not being able to properly diagnose the boy, she had come in to do a full exam. She declared he was brain dead and would not be able to go back to normal. Ever. He would be in a hazy state of mind and not be able to talk for the rest of his living days, she suggested putting him in a home or even the extreme, assisted suicide because he would be in pain and not even be able to express it. It would be a horrible way to live. Of course The Bat being The Bat, he knew there was another way. There had to be. He searched high and low, researched experimental surgery that said would cure brain death, he called all his friends and his late father’s old co-workers to see if they had heard of anything that could even remotely help. Nothing. He was at a loss, very lost and not sure what there was left to do. Then it came to him. The worst possible answer, but seemingly the only one. 

Ra’s al Ghul.

He would have to call in a favour that Ra’s so conveniently owed him. He refused to tell anyone what he did that would constitute a favour from Ra’s al Ghul but apparently it was enough. It took him a lot of courage and telling himself it would be fine and gave The Demon’s head a call. Well, less of a ‘call’ per se, he showed up in his office at The League of Assassins. 

“Detective.” 

“Ra’s, I need a favour.” 

“The boy is back I see. Pity he’s still dead, no?” 

“That’s why I’m here.” 

“Ahh, you need the pit. And why should I give you access, hm?” 

“Need I remind you, you owe me, Ra’s. This is me cashing in my chit.” 

“I do this, and I will no longer be indebted to you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Fair enough. I’ll ready the pit, you get the boy and bring him here. You have two days before I change my mind so be quick.” 

With a sigh of relief and gratitude, he left out the window. Thank god that worked, otherwise he would’ve had to lose his son twice in one year. 

Once he got back home, apparently someone other than Alfred was waiting at the manor for him, looking immensely worried and more scared that he had ever seen him. 

“Dick, what are you doing here? Is everything alright?” 

“Um, You know, I’m not too sure, B.” 

“Why? What happened, chum?” 

“Well uh, some kid showed up at my apartment the other day saying he knew about Nightwing, he knew everything Bruce. Even said he knew you’re Batman, he knew I was Robin, he knew Jason was Robin and that he’s dead.” 

“Oh, um, about that; I’m not sure how I’m supposed to break this to you, chum,” He put a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “Jason came back. He’s downstairs right now but he’s not quite all here.” 

“What.”  

“Come, I’ll show you.” 

What an emotional ordeal, Bruce brought Dick down to the Batcave to show him the shell of Jason that was still alive. The amount of tears that came from the young man’s eyes could have filled an ocean, all of this being dropped onto him so suddenly. Bruce had told him exactly what happened, word for word so he wasn’t left in the dark like he usually was. Dick really had grown to love his brother and the Titans will be the first to say that he was a wreck when he came back from space to find his baby brother dead. He could never forgive himself for not being there but now he had a second chance, a small glimmer of hope, if you will. 

“So you went to Ra’s? Of all people who can heal the living you went to Ra’s?” 

“Yeah, maybe not my best decision but he owed me one. A big one,” Bruce looked over at what should be Jason and felt a twang in his heart, “Dr. Thompkins said the Joker must have bashed his head in with something because his skull was very fractured and there’s a lot of brain damage. You have to understand that I can’t let him live like this and something is keeping him alive so putting him back down is out of the question. The Pit was the best option I could find.” 

“I understand, Bruce. Do you want me to come with you to the League? For emotional support?” 

“No. I think I’ll be fine. So what’s this about the kid who knows some stuff he shouldn’t?” 

“Oh, yeah he just straight up said you need help and I should come back as Robin? It was definitely weird, he was also like 13 or something. I told him I didn’t know what he was on about but I thought I should tell you just in case.” 

“Thanks Dick, I’ll look into it.” 

“Alright, I gotta get back to Blüdhaven. I’ve got a meeting with the commissioner. I’ll call if that kid comes back.” 

With that, Dick left the batcave and Bruce was left alone with nothing but eerie silence and his own thoughts, what a dangerous place. The Bat now had a day and a half to transport Jason to the alps which should be easy enough with the help of Alfred and the BatPlane. Now physically better, Jason was easy to transport as he could walk and such so they just led him to a seat on the plane. 

After an excruciating 11 hour flight, The Bat had finally made it to the League of Assassins once more where they were met by Ra’s and Talia al Ghul. The exchange between Talia and Bruce was cold and distant and very much awkward for everyone involved. They didn't even say a word to each other, God knows what happened there. 

“I see the boy is up and moving.” 

“What about it, Ra’s?” 

“Nothing.” 

The Demon’s Head led the other three into the amazing almost palace-like building where he lived. They walked down endless hallways that were filled to the brim with stunningly beautiful, intricate designs of gold and colour along the walls giving a false sense of beauty, a red herring. Soon the colour had disappeared as they entered a small, narrow passageway that had walls of stone and a winding staircase. At the bottom of this staircase, the lazarus pit lay, glowing green and sending a sense of want within the room, the pit had that effect on people. 

“Detective, know that this may not work and the boy could die in there.”

“I have to try.” The Bat said, knowing that Jason wouldn’t die from it because of whatever this thing is that’s keeping him just barely alive. He turned to the boy and knelt on one knee to get down to his level, “Ok, Jason. We’re gonna try this and if you’re in there somewhere, just know that I love you no matter what happens.” he was met with nothing more than a blank stare as his head fell in sorrow and a tear made a gentle ‘pat’ on the stone floor that echoed quite loudly against the also stone walls. This has got to work. 

“Does the boy want his clothes on or off, personally I like to take my dips in something skimpy.” 

“Ra’s, with all due respect, shut the fuck up. The poor kid’s still a minor.” Bruce then insisted he keep his clothes on for decency. Ra’s then led the boy into the pit by hand and dunked him like he was being baptised. The eerie silence of the vast cave made even The Bat shiver, although he was scared for his son and hoped with all of his being that this would work. He watched as Jason’s head fully submerged into the green and glowing pool and stood with his heart racing. Ra’s eventually let go of the boy and backed away saying that he needs time to soak, whatever that means. Bruce could see, very vaguely, the outline of his son beneath the surface, just floating there. After a long silence, bubbles began to arise from where Jason was and there was slight movement in the water before he broke the surface tension with a splash and a scream of horror and pain that subsided quickly. 

“Atta boy,” Bruce whispered to himself, not being able to contain a smile and a tear falling into the lining of his cowl. 

Ra’s led the boy out of the emerald waters as Bruce knelt down and opened his arms for Jason to run to. The young boy’s body hit Bruce’s chest with a wet smack as he gave him a passionate hug but was still dripping from the pit. Luckily none of the pit water touched Bruce because he was still wearing his bat suit. 

“Dad…” 

“C’mon chum, let’s get you home. And a change of clothes.” He picked the boy up and carried him out into the twisting stairwell once more, now with his son actually with him. 

*  *  *  *  *

“We’re even now, Ra’s. Don’t even think about using this against me.” Jason looked back at Bruce who was talking to the demon’s head as the young boy boarded the bat plane where he had been told there would be a change of clothes for him. 

All of this was very much for him, after all he basically just came back to life fully. He had a lot to think about and a lot to ask, his curiosity definitely did not die with him. He found the change of clothes that were left out for him on one of the seats in the first row. He went to pick them up but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a note from Bruce atop the pile of clothes. He picked it up and it read: “I know this is going to be hard chum, please understand and keep an open mind. -Bruce Wayne” and signed with his signature. How ominous and very concerning, what happened while he was gone? 

He picked up the clothes and took them to the rather large bathroom for an airplane in the back of the cabin and quickly got changed as his clothes were still wet and very uncomfortable. Amongst the pile, there was also a towel, how thoughtful so he dried off and put the fresh set on. They smelt like home, like Alfred’s favourite laundry detergent and dryer sheets, like his ironing board that always broke, like something familiar, it was comforting. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw himself, perfect and pristine but that’s not what he felt like. He still felt ragged on the inside, like he wasn’t sure of what he was doing or who he was. Maybe that’s normal for someone who just came back to life, how was he supposed to know, he’s never died before. He looked down at his hands and couldn’t help but think, ‘I should be dead, I should be rotting away in a casket… and yet I’m here. Why?’. Why was he alive? Why on earth should this boy be the one to live? 

He heard Bruce call for him from the front of the cabin and he snapped out of it, unlocking the stall and walking toward the cockpit. Bruce stood there while taking off the cowl, tall and menacing yet somehow soft; his eyes followed the boy as he walked down the narrow aisle and he felt a smile creep across his face and tears well up in his eyes. 

“Bruce, you ok?” 

The large man knelt down, “Just c’mere, kid,” Jason, now a little bit taller than Bruce remembers, hugs him with a squeeze that was long awaited for, “I’ve missed you, Jaylad. Never ever even think of doing anything like that again. I don’t think I can handle losing you twice. Hell, I couldn’t handle it once. I’m supposed to die before you do.” 

“How about we deal with that once we get there.” 

“Sorry… I just love you, kid. You’re my son after all. Now, let’s get moving, I want to spend as little time here as possible, I can feel the evil sinking in already.” 

They fly back to Gotham, out of the beautifully constructed artwork that is the League of Assassins, what a shame they use it to train murderers. Jason watched as the large buildings became small and distant, like he once felt not long ago. He could still see what was happening and remembered what was going on but he had no control, like he was seeing his life through a tunnel where he couldn’t reach the end, grasping and running and trying to catch up but never succeeding. As his mind wandered, the terrain completely disappeared below him, turning into white and fluffy clouds that he wished he could live on. What a childish dream but wouldn’t it be nice to get away from all of it? Get away from the terrors of the real world and live on a cloud where no one could bother you and no one could harp on about things you don’t care about. No one would ever interrupt his reading time to do the dishes, no one would ever have to even do the dishes as they were made from clouds. 

Jason was abruptly snapped out of his daydreaming as a stewardess came and tapped him on the shoulder, asking what he would like for dinner. He told her that he didn’t care, whatever was easiest on the chef. After she had left with a smile, he took the time to look at the menu, for no reason in particular because he had already ordered but he saw on the dessert section that there was sticky toffee pudding, which he remembered was one of Alfred’s favourites. He thought maybe he could have one with Alfred when they got back after the long flight. He remembered waking up briefly in Alfred’s surprisingly strong arms before passing out again, he hoped he hadn’t scared him after all he was basically a zombie. 

After a while, the clouds started to get dark and harder to see with the lack of sunlight but before long, the stewardess came back with his food, a simple burger and fries with some assorted vegetables, nothing special at all. The young boy thanked her politely and told her to have a nice rest of the flight with a smile before she left. A couple bites into the burger, he noticed he was actually very bored with nothing to do and the only other person on the flight, Bruce, working endlessly and typing furiously in silence on the other side of the aisle. Jason looked to his left only to see what he expected, Bruce’s eyes glued onto his laptop which was perched on the tray table and the screen illuminating his face. Not knowing what to do with himself, he went back to eating in silence and looked out the window of the plane again to see nothing but darkness. 

“Oh!” Bruce exclaimed, “Jason, I almost forgot, I brought you a book. God, you must be bored out of your mind.” He continued to look in his laptop bag for the book he stashed there. “I took it from your room, I hope you don’t mind, but It’s the one you were reading before… well you know. I thought you might like to continue with it? I made sure to keep your page.” 

“Oh, B, thank you.” He took the book gleefully, hoping he remembered where he had left off in the story. Maybe reading could take his mind from going too close to what happened. He got back to his seat and took a quick glance at the cover, it was in fact the book he left, The Colour Purple. He actually hadn’t read this one before so he was still on his first read but so far, it was a really good read. 

He spent a while reading before it quickly came to 11:00 PM, in Gotham at least and Jason’s eyes were struggling to keep themselves open. He decided to use one of the beds near the back of the very bougie private plane that might as well have Bruce’s face printed on the side. He made his way down the aisle of a couple rows worth of very large–and dare I say comfortable–seats before he got to the two beds that had been set in the back. They were almost like a small room finished with a small TV, pre prepared snacks, and very comfortable looking sheets and pillows. The boy, with his book, went and laid down on the surprisingly soft and comfortable bed for an airplane. He turned on a small light beside his bed and began to read once more, however his eyes grew dreary so he put the book down and turned off the light. 

His mind soon caught up with him as it started to race. As soon as his eyes closed, the darkness behind his eyelids only became darker with images of a ghoulish grin with bright red lips and yellowy stained teeth. And that laugh. That dreadful and ghastly laugh, sure to haunt anyone’s nightmares let alone the boy of whom it killed. He could faintly hear the sound of metal scraping on stone in the distance while the haunting smirk came closer, as did the sound. He looked down and saw his disfigured body, bloodied, bruised, and broken but it all felt numb. His breath began to quicken out of fear as his eyes started to well. He heard footsteps now, growing faster, faster, faster, and the grinding on the pavement getting louder, louder, louder. 

Jason awoke with a gasp, upright, in a bed he did not fall asleep in. He looked around frantically, realizing quickly he was in Wayne manor once more. His breathing slowed once he discerned he was somewhere he knew, somewhere familiar. The room was almost pitch black, save for the dim lamps from outside the enormous window, shining in through the gap in the curtain, enlightening small parts of the room. The corners were dark and Jason was unable to see where the wall had stopped which made his heart beat just a little faster. The thought of not knowing what could be there, the possibilities were endless. His mind began to fill in the blanks for him, starting with that grin. He could just ever so slightly see the outline of a man standing in the corner and the outline of his mouth, creeping ear to ear, farther than any human’s mouth should go. He scrambled to turn on the lamp beside him on the bedside table and when he turned back, it was just a corner, perfectly normal with the pattern of the wallpaper continuing. He let out an exasperated sigh of relief knowing that he was truly alone in the room. Being able to see the entire room put his mind slightly at ease and he slept the rest of the night with the lamp on. 

*  *  *  *  *

“Rise and shine, Master Jason! Oh it is great to have you back sir, I missed waking you up bright and early. Though it isn’t really early anymore as I let you sleep in. Master Bruce said it would be best. You know he carried you in last night, even tucked you in. I’ve never seen him so affectionate.” Alfred went on, talking about nothing in particular and just being cheery which is rare for him these days. 

Jason’s eyes opened gradually as they adjusted to the light that had suddenly hit his retina so abruptly. He groaned as stirred and sat up to see Alfred walking back to the door from his window. 

“Alright Master Jason, get up and get dressed and join Master Bruce, myself, and Master Dick down in the kitchen for breakfast. Sound good, sir?” 

“Yeah, thanks Alfie.” Alfred began to leave, almost shutting the door, “Wait! Did you say Dick is here?” All the man did was smile and shut the door. 

Jason leaped out of bed as fast as he could, not even bothering to get dressed save for putting on his slippers and ran at top speed down the halls, surpassing even Alfred’s brisk gate, sliding down the banister and slipping on the newly waxed hardwood floors before he reached the kitchen, bursting through the door.

“DICKIE-BIRD!” 

“LITTLE WING!” 

As Dick got up from his stool at the kitchen counter, little Jason ran to his big brother. They’ve had their ups and downs but at the end of the day, they’re brothers and after losing him, Dick was very content to see Jason. He may be a little salty but all of that was thrown out the window as soon as he found out he was gone. Now that he’s back? He’s vowed to himself to be a better brother, a better role model. Jason’s chest hit Dick’s with a thud while the older of the two lifted the younger off the ground and spun him around a couple times before putting him back down. 

“Oh, kid you have no idea how much I’ve missed you. Not joking when I say I was haunted by you.” 

“Trust me, I know. You also cried for like 3 hours straight when I was out of it.” 

“Oh my god you remember that?” 

“Yeah. I’m so gonna use it against you, loser.” 

And they’re back. Dick brought the boy in for another hug before he went to sit down at the place left at the counter, a plate already there for him full with food. He sat down, beside Dick and dug into his serving like it was his last meal, as he does with all of Alfred’s food, it’s just that good. They talked about what Dick’s been doing in Blüdhaven and the Titans, his plans for the city and whatnot, little things. Bruce didn’t say very much but he smiled, and that’s enough from him, either way those boys know he cares, he just doesn’t know how to show it. 

“Alright, boys, I’ve got a meeting in Metropolis. I should be back for dinner, if not, I’ll be back for patrol tonight. Dick, are you joining us?”

“Well, when in Gotham, do as Batman does.” He looked over at Jason with a joking smile and they had a laugh together while Bruce left. 

“Do you think he’s going to see Clark?” Jason asked, kind of wishing Bruce had taken him along if that was the case. 

“Probably, you know, they got really close while you were gone.” 

“Like- close close?” 

“Yeah, I think so. But don’t say anything about it, I’m not sure he wants us to know. That is if anything really is going on. Anyway, since Bruce is gone… wanna take the Batmobile for a spin?” 

“DO I?” 

They raced each other down the stairs, all the way across the manor to the grandfather clock, opening the glass and setting the time to 10:48 before it opened. They ran down the steep steps of the narrow hallway to the batcave. Jason’s adrenaline was pumping through his veins as they reached the bottom, searching now for the keys to the damn car when he found the glass case with his suit in it. His heart dropped abruptly into his stomach when his mind comprehended what it was, seeing the suit he died in without a drop of blood, not even a tear in the seams. The memories came, flooding his mind with the blood and tears and fear. A ringing in his ears filled the room and everything was gone except for him and his suit, in a dark void, spiraling. He collapsed onto his knees, struggling to breathe evenly as the tears began to fall from his eyes and his hands clutching as much hair as he could, pulling out of desperation. He was brought back to reality by a hand on his shoulder and a soft voice asking if he was ok. 

“Maybe this was a bad idea. I’m so sorry.” Dick apologized, getting down on the floor with Jason, careful not to touch him too much as to not overstimulate him, just sit there with him for company until he was ready. Jason’s breathing slowed down and he wiped his tears away, thanking Dick for being there between hiccups. They both sat there for a couple minutes in silence save for Jason’s sniffling and occasional hiccup, but it was a comfortable silence and when he was ready, Jason put his head on Dick’s shoulder. 

“Ok, I think I’m good now.” 

“Maybe we should stay in then? We could have a movie marathon or something. I’m sure Alfie would play some board games with us.” 

“Yeah that sounds good. Again, thank you, Dick. You’re the best brother a boy could ask for.” He replied, giving him a hug. 

*  *  *  *  *

In the middle of a heated game of Clue–Alfred’s favourite– Bruce pulled up the driveway in one of his classic cars. He was later than he said he would be but when is he ever on time? He came in through one of the back doors and into the study where the others were planning, scheming, and thinking hard of what could be in the envelope. 

“Alright, boys, let’s get ready for patrol.” Bruce announced as he entered the room. Jason shot Dick a worried look then looked down with shame. Dick instantly got the message and tried his best. 

“Uhh, Bruce, why doesn’t Jay stay in tonight? He seems a bit tired. I’ll come with though, for old times sake.” 

“Oh, uh, ok then.” He looked at Jason with a concerned look on his face, worried his son had something else going on. Maybe he should just cut him some slack, afterall he just recovered from being brain dead. 

“Here’s my cards… good luck, little wing.” 

“Thanks, Dickie-bird.” He thanked him not only for the luck but for helping him dodge a bullet and a whole lot of embarrassment if he had another panic attack down there in front of the Bat, also saving him from having another in the first place. The two men left the room, walking down the halls that Jason had traversed with Dick earlier that day. He was now left to finish his game with Alfred, although he was certain it would end soon as he was pretty sure he knew what was in the envelope. He let Alfred have his turn and move his piece, Mrs. White, six paces forward but not into a room yet. Jason only had two paces until he was in the room he suspected, so he rolled and got a 4, perfect. He was now in the ballroom. 

“I accuse… Mr. Green in the ballroom with the wrench.” As his hand reached for the envelope in the middle of the board, his mind shifted the pieces in the ballroom. Mr. Green’s mouth morphed into a blood red smile and the wrench beside him became a crowbar. Jason blinked a couple times and the pieces went back to normal. His eyes flashed back to the goal at hand, being right. He opened the “classified file” and pulled out the three cards, the moment of truth. Ballroom. Check. Mr. Green. Check. Crowbar. Check. Wait, that’s not right. His brows furrowed in confusion as his breath quickened. 

“Are you alright, Master Jason? You seem a little green under the gills.” 

He looked up at Alfred then back at the cards, wrench. He was right. 

“I was right, I win.” He put the cards down on the table and tried to force a smile and suppress the feeling of throwing up. “You’re right Alfie, I do feel a little off. I’m going to go to bed.” 

“Very well, I’ll bring you some tea?” 

“Thank you, mint if we’ve got it.” 

Alfred nodded as he got up from his spot on the floor at the coffee table in the middle of the study and silently walked right out and down the halls to the kitchen. The young boy looked around the room for a second, taking in the familiarity of it all and the couch he was on mere weeks ago, dying again. Something on the corner caught his eye, against the pattern there was a splotch of brown, old blood, his blood. He let out an uneasy breath, then turned around and left the room with a speedy gate, trying to get to his room before he started to cry or throw up, whichever came first. 

He almost ran down the halls, speeding to his room and shutting the door behind him. He stood there, back against the door, for a while just trying to catch his breath and calm himself down before the tears started to fall. There weren’t many but enough to make him feel better for getting something out. There really was no reason to be having a panic attack and yet there he was, crying over nothing. He slid down the door, curling up in a ball to cry into his kneecaps, trying to be as small as he felt in that moment before he was tremendously startled by a knock on the door. He wiped his tears the best he could and got up to open the door. 

“Master Jason, your tea. Shall I bring the cart in?” 

“Um… sure.” He said, sniffling and wiping his nose with his sleeve, trying to be discreet. 

“Is everything alright, sir?” Alfred inquired as he rolled the tea cart into the young boy’s room. 

“Yeah, I’m good. I just need some sleep. Thanks Alfred, I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Good night, my boy.” and he shut the door with a light click and thwang of the old brass door handle. 

Jason obviously did not go to sleep, he instead sat at his desk, facing the window out to the yard of Wayne manor with his tea and book which was almost done by now. Every so often, he would look up from his book to peer onto the distant sight of Gotham’s busy streets and bright lights, contrasting the heavy darkness that loomed over the manor. The last time he looked up was not because he wanted to but because he heard the sound of the batmobile’s engine coming down the long and winding driveway. He saw the headlights coming closer, glinting off of the glass of his window. He went back to his book, however, after a sip of tea. A couple pages went by before someone else was knocking at his door. This time it was Bruce. He got out of his desk chair and hurried over to open the door once more. 

“Hey, kiddo. Can I come in?” 

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Jason responded, not quite back to reality yet but opening the door more, nonetheless. 

“C’mon kid, sit down.” Bruce said as he pulled up Jason’s desk chair closer to the edge of the bed where he had sat down. He spun it around and straddled it in true detective fashion, although he was trying to be funny and lighthearted, trying to show Jason that he’s someone he can talk to without being scolded or lectured. “Dick told me about what happened with your suit earlier today. Wanna tell me what was goin’ on in your head?” 

“Well, I dunno, it just brought me back. I got scared. I don’t think I can ever put that suit on again, Bruce.” 

“And that’s ok. You don’t need to. If you ever want to stop the whole crime fighting gig, that’s your choice and I won’t stop you.” 

“No, no. I still want to fight with you, I just think it might be time for some change.” 

“Oh?” Bruce sat with a puzzled look on his face, “What kind of change?” 

“Like a whole new suit, a whole new name. Like Dick did when he left. Well, when I became Robin.” 

“Well, have you got an idea?” 

“Yeah, Red Hood.”

[hismercytomyjustice]

I finally finished fixing chapter 12!!! \o/

Ugh, breaking up and filling out the last/next few chapters was a pain in the ass, but I feel like the story and pacing are better for it.

I was reading through my draft before I did that and just kept being like “wait, that happens in this chapter too?!” over and over again.

Chapter 12 was the one that needed the most meat on its bones after breaking up (I think) 7-13. Originally 7/8 was one chapter and either 9/10 (or 9/10/11?) and 12/13 were one chapter each too. Or something like that.

It just felt like waaay too much was happening waaay too fast and there needed to be a little more breathing room/better chapter breaks based on what all was going on.

I’ve tried to make sure the stuff I’ve added to round them out further boosted the story rather than felt like filler or something. Really hope that’s how it comes across and not like I’m just dragging things out. T^T Pacing is haaard.

Also greatly appreciate @theeladymystic being a sounding board for later plot stuff and convincing me to keep this story relatively self-contained and not give into the temptation to add more plot points.

My #1 goal with multi chapter stories is to tell a complete and finite story with a clear end in sight. As fun as it would be to explore some of the possible tangents that have tried to tempt me, it definitely would have come at the risk of losing the main storyline and needlessly bloating the fic.

Tbh I’ve also been working on this fic since June (even tho I didn’t start posting it until after I was done with my BG3 fic) and am starting to get the itch to work on something *new*. And I don’t want to risk running out of steam and not finishing it.

I already have a mini-rut multichapter fic I’ve been fiddling around with since September (please god let it be mini, lord knows I am terrible at guesstimating my word counts). It’s already at 9k, but has been sitting there for a while now.

I also have a modern day AU I’ve been brainstorming for that I’m itching to see whether or not it will go anywhere.

I also also need to finish up part 8 of my Radioapple series (I think it’s maybe halfway done at 8k words T^T ) and I want to write some more Radiodust, maybe making that standalone fic into a little series too.

While I’ve done a little brainstorming for BG3 Bloodweave oneshots, the spirit has not yet moved me for them. I feel bad about it since I said I was going to do some when I finished my multichapter fic, but I also know forcing myself to write something I’m not currently feeling will not end well for me or any folks who might want to read them. I don’t want to put something out purely out of obligation. That would feel disingenuous and I also doubt it would result in my best work.

I mean, I do hope the dark urge returns, but I don’t want to try to force it if it doesn’t. Because that’s a one way ticket to me not wanting to write at all and losing the momentum I’ve finally built back up over the past year. And I’d rather just have a complete BG3 fic that folks enjoy than put out a bunch of half hearted oneshots, tbh.

Time will tell!!! Ah, the joys and perils of hyperfixation…

Well I WAS fixing my kid!fic and then I got wildly distracted reading another fic and now my dog is too cozy, so I guess I am trapped for all eternity now.

It was nice knowing you all, but at some point my phone will die and I will be unable to charge it without committing the unforgivable sin of ruining my dog’s 12th nap of the day.

[pedros-mustache-main]

crayons & caresses

summary: you know it’s wrong, that pining after your student’s father is wildly inappropriate, but gosh if john deacon isn’t the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

word count: 12k+

warnings: pining to the extreme!, slight angst, discussions of parental death, health scare + medical response, alcohol, language, innuendo, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: mechanic/singledad!john is everything i didn’t know i needed in my life. also: WOW this took me a long ass time because i find john the hardest to write, but i love him so. much. so hopefully it’s worth the wait.

(photo: originally from @davidgayhan​ i think?? ugh look at him. i drool. yes i did set this during the brief short-perm-montreal moment. sue me)

september, 1981.

you love all of your students equally. each one is like a fingerprint on your heart: unique in their own way, made up of patterns and histories you will never be able to appreciate in full before they are whisked away to their next year. it is safe to say you adore the collection of twenty-four seven year olds who walk into your classroom each morning. their bright faces, some still chubby with baby fat, fill the lonely parts of your soul, and you leave your flat each morning with a sense of purpose and duty. you are their teacher, their guide through some of the most crucial parts of learning. it is an honor and a privilege to teach them—each and every one. but there is one student who sticks out among the rest. 

his name is beau deacon.

beau is remarkably quiet. he’s small for his age, both in height and in weight. at times, he appears frail, what with the way he sits by himself in the corner during reading hour, flipping through a picture book with glazed over eyes, never really concentrating on what’s before him. he walks slowly during recess, preferring to stay by himself and drag a stick along the blacktop than play a game of kickball with the other boys. he whispers when he speaks and avoids meeting the eyes of those who do try and pry a few words from him.

you try to engage him—really, you do—but nothing seems to stick. not the participation reward system you build just for him, but use for the entire class. not moving his desk closer to yours. not even coercing your best friend ami to bring in her therapy dogs one afternoon early in the year. despite your best efforts, beau remains decidedly uninterested and removed.

it bothers and worries you to the point of questioning your colleague on the matter. martha is sixty, but spry as ever. she’s been your confidant this last year. you’re new to teaching, green as ever, but she has welcomed you with open arms and a plethora of advice. you feel comfortable sidling up next to her in the car-line one friday afternoon. it’s hot outside, summer not yet allowing autumn to take root, so you hold a hand over your eyes to shade yourself from the sun.

“can i ask you something?” you say, keeping your eyes trained on the children who filter out of the school and into their parent’s waiting vehicles. 

“as long as it’s not about sex,” martha mutters. “haven’t had a good romp in so long i don’t even know if it still works the same way.”

you swallow a laugh as a trio of students pass you by. their mother waves over her shoulder, shouting her thanks, before shoving the children in the backseat of a tan mini-van. you watch the van pull away, another car rolling forward to take its place, before asking your question.

“beau deacon,” you start, hoping that, if you simply say his name, martha will fill in the gaps herself.

blessedly, martha twists and nods with a knowing smile. “i know that tyke well. had him last year.”

you release a huff of air in relief. “oh thank goodness. i’m almost beside myself. i don’t know what to do with him.” you frown as you attempt to speak as diplomatically about your student as possible. “he’s awful quiet. he doesn’t play with any of the children and barely looks at me when i speak to him. how’d you manage?”

to your dismay, the older woman just shrugs. “i didn’t really. his mum died all sudden like about halfway through the year, and he clammed up. no matter what i did, what tricks i tried to pull, he stayed completely unmovable.”

“oh.” your shoulders drop in defeat. “i didn’t know.” truthfully, your heart tugs for the child. to lose one’s mother at such a tender age? you can’t imagine the world of hurt he lives in. it’s no wonder he sticks to himself.

“you didn’t speak with his father?”

“no. was i have supposed to?”

“no, not necessarily. mr. deacon was helpful on a few occasions last year. we were sort of a united front, i’d say, when things were particularly bad in the beginning. perhaps give him a call. at least to let him know you’re in his corner.” she smiles and squeezes your bicep. “and you can always come to me, love. i may not have all the answers but i do have some.”

“thank you, martha. i think giving mr. deacon a call might be smart—” you turn at the tell-tale sound of feet dragging against the ground. in the few weeks since classes have started, you’ve grown to know the sound of beau deacon’s footsteps better than your own. he’s always on your mind, the sullen little boy with glasses, so it’s hard not to pounce on him with love when you turn around to see him in the school doorway. “oh! beau! we were just talking about you.” 

beau stops walking, and his grip tightens on the straps of his backpack. he doesn’t look up at you, doesn’t say anything. he simply stands there, as if he’s listening but doesn’t know how to respond, so you soldier forward.

“do you have any big plans for the weekend, beau?” you ask.

he shakes his head.

“none with your father?”

another shake of the head.

“well, perhaps you’ll do something fun and you can tell us about it on monday, yeah?”

to your surprise, he nods, which is more than he does most days. you can’t help the smile that claims your lips and the way your arm waves a little too hard to his retreating form. he walks to a faded old corvette and opens the passenger door with ease. you can hear a muffled voice—his father’s no doubt—and see the man stretch his arm out to take beau’s backpack. 

but then the car door is shut, and the chevy pulls out of the parking lot with too much speed to be safe when a child is in the front.

you glance at martha. she rolls her eyes and mouths men. you can’t help but agree.

a week passes before you finally find the time to phone beau’s father. you find his name—john richard deacon—and a telephone number in beau’s emergency contact form, shoved amongst a stack of other hastily filled-out parent paperwork. there’s no secondary number listed—not even a distant relative or family friend—so if the call doesn’t work, you aren’t sure what your next move will be. even so, after all the children have left and the other teachers are beginning to close their classrooms for the day, you slouch at your desk and punch the numbers into the phone. it rings three times before someone picks up.

“taylor auto-repair. this is rog.”

the voice on the other end is high and scratchy. you’re taken aback, both by the man on the phone and the blaring rock n roll music in the background. you aren’t an expert, but it sounds like zeppelin. not what you’d expected.

“hello?”

you shake yourself free of surprise, and the wheels beneath your chair scrape against the linoleum floor as you sit forward. “oh, sorry. i thought i was calling the deacon residence?”

“deacon? like john deacon?”

“yes, i’m beau’s schoolteacher. i thought—well, this was the number on the contact form.”

there’s a sigh, and the phone brushes against something rough before rog says anything more. “hold on.” when he speaks next, his voice is distant yet poorly muffled. “deaky! there’s some bird on the phone for you! what have i told ya about putting the shop’s number down instead of the house’s? fuckin’ hell, mate.”

you frown, pressing your fingers to your lips as you wait for... deaky... to take the phone from his co-worker. when a new voice does appear on the line, you again find yourself surprised.

“hello? this is john deacon.” john’s voice is almost lilting, like a song. it’s soft, comforting—though how you determine this from four simple words is beyond your understanding.

“mr. deacon, hi! my name is [y/n] [y/l/n]. i’m beau’s teacher. i thought we might have an over-due chat, if you have the time?”

“oh, hello.” there’s a pause on the other end, as if he’s considering whether or not he’ll entertain your out-of-the-blue phone call. “has beau done something wrong?”

you laugh despite the worried edge to his tone. “no, absolutely not! beau is a delight. he’s practically a model student. however, i do have a few concerns... do you have a moment?”

“yes, i can have. just give me a second.” the line goes muffled again, the only sound a fading rolling stone’s song before all goes quiet. you hear a door shut and the squeak of a chair before john speaks again. “i suppose this is about beau’s shyness?”

you choose your next words carefully, uncertain if john simply cannot accept his son’s retreat into himself or if he does not see it. you’d rather not jump to conclusions and alienate him on your first phone call, but you must admit your unease at hearing the word shyness. beau is far more than shy. despite the frown puckering your brow, you hold your concerns close to your chest for the moment.

“shyness is a word one could use, yes.”

“he’s been that way since his mum died last year.”

rolling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. “i heard. i’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

john makes a noise somewhere between a huff and a grunt and does not acknowledge your paltry offer of condolence. “if you’re calling to ask how you can fix ‘im, i don’t have any answers for you.”

“i don’t want to fix him, mr. deacon,” you say. “i simply want to help.”

“i’m sure you’ve spoken with mrs. cooper then.” he sighs, and the sound seems to rattle the receiver pressed against your ear. “look, i appreciate what you both are trying to do for beau. but he’s young, and the pain of losing his mum— i just don’t want him to rush into moving on.”

“oh, mr. deacon, that’s not my intention at all!” you wince at the high-pitch of your voice and clear your throat. good lord, this was not going as you’d planned. “i just want him to feel comfortable in the classroom, that’s all.”

“that’s kind of you, but i think it might be easier if you just let beau work it out for himself.”

you fall silent and glance down at the hem of your blouse. there’s a blue thread dangling from the article of clothing, and you pull on it, watching the thread unravel until it falls free from the shirt itself. 

in all honesty, you’re puzzled by john’s hesitance to so much as entertain your concern. anyone—student, teacher, classroom parent—who comes across beau knows he’s more than shy. it’s written in his face, in the way he holds himself, in the way he shuffles aimlessly to and fro. god, he breaks your heart. you want to wrap him in a blanket and protect him from the cruel world.

but you’re not his mother. you’re merely his teacher, and you must respect john’s wishes despite how wrong you think they are. perhaps, in time, he will come around, see the need for a little concerted effort in helping beau work through his obvious grief-stricken state.

“is there anything more i can do for you, ms. [y/l/n]?”

clearing your throat again, you sit straighter in your chair and fiddle with a pen on your desk. you click the depressor up and down, up and down. “no, there’s not. i’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“you didn’t,” john says—and his voice has that indescribable soft quality you noted the moment he first spoke. “really, it does mean something to me that you even thought to call.”

“i care for my students a great deal.” you aren’t sure what brings the words to your lips, but the second they fall past your tongue, a flush crawls up the back of your neck. you’re sure you sound like a petulant child, whining at the mere inconvenience of a rejected idea.

“i can tell.” his tone is anything but salty. in fact, the truth dripping from each word leaves you decidedly flustered. you click the pen faster, your leg bouncing beneath the desk.

“yes—well—i’ll leave you to it.” though you add, “if ever there’s something i can do for beau, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“i’ll be sure to.”

after a rushed goodbye, you drop the phone to its base. the hard-plastic clatters, the coiled wire dropping in a pile on the desk. you press your fingers to your eyelids and groan. both deacon boys, it seems, have the power to infuriate and melt you at the precisely the same moment.

this, you think, does not bode well for the rest of the year.

if you’re being honest, you have to admit that you think of john deacon often as the school year falls into a comfortable rhythm. no matter how hard you try to forget the phone call, forget the way his voice lulled you into a strange sense of serenity, he’s like a specter in the back of your mind: always there and definitely uninvited.

still...

when the children work silently at their desks, you sit behind yours and struggle to keep your mind from wandering to either of the deacon boys. when you greet beau as he walks through the door each morning, you resist the urge to drop a question about his father’s well-being. when the faded red corvette pulls to the curb each afternoon, you bite your tongue and fist your hands at your sides to keep from introducing yourself properly through the open window. 

it’s embarrassing, really, how much the phone call with john deacon has affected you. it’s embarrassing how... interested you are in his life. you’re a schoolgirl with a crush—a crush on a man you’ve never even seen! if you were to admit your undue fascination with the deacon household to your best friend ami she would laugh in your face and remind you how desperately you need to get out more. you keep your wonderings and your daydreams to yourself to save her the trouble of telling you what you already know.

come mid-november, when the students are well-adjusted to their daily routine and you’ve learned how to juggle so many personalities at once, you finally pause to take a breath. the breath comes at the end of a school-day. it’s drizzling outside—not raining, but not dry either. the sky is a wash of gray and a deep purple. there’s a storm coming, a bad one too from the looks of it. humming to yourself and contemplating whether or not you should stop by the grocery on your way home, you tug on your jacket and step outside the school into the chilled autumn air. 

you’re about to cross the parking lot to your car when you hear a harsh sniffle come from your left. you pause, keys in hand, and twist to see a huddled form on the curb. it’s clearly a student and a young one at that. knees drawn to their chest, backpack large over their back, fingers interlaced on their knees, they are the picture of a frightened schoolchild. the hood of their blue raincoat obscures any defining features, so you hustle to their side and kneel down, but not before glancing at your watch.

nearly four. someone’s been forgotten.

“hey?” you tilt your head to try and catch a glimpse of the face beneath the shade of the jacket hood. “did mum not come through the car line?”

you barely stifle your gasp when the slick raincoat crinkles as the student turns to meet your gaze. 

it’s beau deacon.

his eyes are puffy, tears still clinging to his blotchy cheeks. beneath the wide frames of his glasses, fear swims across his gaze. he draws in his lower lip and rubs his hand under his nose. his eyes flicker to the ground, his toes tilting inward.

you press a hand to his shoulder. he feels so small beneath your palm, like a fragile piece of clay, molded by tragedy and loss in such a short span of time. “where’s your father, beau?”

he shrugs. “dunno.”

“i guess he’s running late.” you look at your watch. very late. “should we give him a call?”

beau nods, and you stretch to your full height, offering your hand to help him from the curb. beau does not take it as he stands. he pushes his glasses up his nose and follows you inside the school office where he hesitates in the doorway as you borrow the receptionist’s phone to call the auto-shop.

no one answers.

lowering the phone to its base, you look over your shoulder. through the venetian blinds you can see the sky darkening as you hem-and-haw. in the distance there’s a flash of lightening, and fat raindrops dot the tan sidewalk.

you could leave beau with the receptionist. it’s not uncommon for parents to run late or completely forget about their child. normally, betty calls the child’s guardian and gives the waiting student a granola bar and coloring page or picture book to flip through as they wait for the mortified adult to speed to school. there’s nothing obligating you to stay. 

just as there’s nothing obligating you to offer to drive beau home.

you look at betty and calculate the words of your offer. “would it be wrong of me to drive beau home? he lives on my way ‘s all.” boldfaced lie—at least, you think—but what betty doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

betty doesn’t stop clacking on her electronic typewriter. “i don’t think so.” she peers over her glasses at the clock hanging over the door, still typing. “i’ve got a dentist appointment in half an hour, so i don’t have time to wait around today. you’d be doing me a favor, love.”

“alright, it’s settled then.” you slip the thin strap of your purse over your shoulder and turn to beau with a toothy grin. “i’ll drive you home. maybe your father just isn’t feeling well today and overslept?”

beau frowns, and inwardly, you cringe, your smile faltering. beau’s mother died of an illness, so it likely disconcerts him to think of his father in a similar state. in a piss poor attempt at an apology, you grab a piece of chocolate from the bowl near betty’s desk and slip it in beau’s hand as you make your way to the parking lot. the faintest flicker of a grin crosses his face as he methodically unwraps the candy. you take that as a sign of forgiveness.

once beau is snug in the backseat of your station wagon, you pull into traffic with a bubble of giddiness in your stomach. what you’re doing is ridiculous. though you feel horrid beau was left behind, there’s a sick park of you that is glad for it. it’s unlikely you’ll ever meet john deacon unless fate throws you together. he did not attend back to school night, and as a single father, you doubt he has time for any of the other parent-student events on schedule for the rest of the year. in all honesty, you’re taking this opportunity to put a face to the man behind the phone call that’s plagued you with daydreams since it occurred.

if you can just see his face, just learn what he looks like, perhaps the fascination with fade. unless, of course, he turns out to be as attractive as your mind has made him out to be and then you’ll be in even hotter water than you are now.

adjusting yourself in your seat, you glance in the rearview mirror. beau has his head pressed against the foggy glass of the window, his eyes scanning back and forth as he takes in the surrounding scenery. rain droplets create dark shadows over his face, and you wonder if that’s what he feels like on the inside: foggy and rainy and shadowy. you shake the thought free; you read too many melodramatic novels.

“so, beau, what’s your address?” you ask, your tone obnoxiously chipper. he tells you, and you shrug as you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. “gotta give me more than that, hun. do you remember how to get home? do you think you could tell me?”

beau nods and scoots away from the window, leaning nearer the space between the driver and passenger seats. there a gleam in his eye. you catch sight of it as you turn right at his instruction and see him hovering near your shoulder. it seems that with each turn you make his voice inches a decibel louder until you can hear every word with a clarity previously unknown. he’s confident when he’s instructing you, when he knows what he’s supposed to do.

he’s confident when he’s helping.

you tuck the bit of knowledge away for later as you pull into the cracked driveway of a red-brick bungalow. the house is small and unadorned, the homes on opposite sides just as plain and simple. a single spruce tree, like something out of a holiday catalog, is the only foliage in the yard. gauzy curtains are drawn to block the sunlight coming through the two bay windows framing the white front door.

you turn the car off as beau slides across the bench to open the car door. grabbing your handbag, you all but tumble after him, hastening up the sidewalk.

“wait a minute! beau!” you punctuate your call with a breathy laugh and smooth the sides of your hair back as you approach the front door. the bubble of giddiness from moments before has turned to a bubble of nerves, and once again, you realize this moment is entirely ridiculous. still, you adjust your blouse and straighten the crooked edge of your collar.

beau’s left the front door open, his shoes and backpack already tossed on the living room floor. you hesitate at the threshold. you haven’t been properly invited in, but the open door might just be beau’s way of telling you it’s alright to invade his home. at least, that’s the message you decide to take. 

crossing the threshold, you hold tight to the strap of your purse and glance around the cramped front living area. beau’s nowhere to be seen, and the home is silent as the grave. you bite the tip of your tongue when your gaze falls over a photograph of a woman holding a baby. it’s beau and his mother; has to be.

maybe... maybe you’ve overstepped your—

“beau, is that you?” the sound of heavy footfalls on stairs snaps your attention away from the photograph. before you can slip away and forget you ever had the silly notion of meeting your student’s father with the intent of something other than a professional hello, a man rounds the corner.

your eyebrows shoot up your forehead. it’s not the john deacon you’d imagined.

he’s shorter than you pictured, only several inches taller than yourself. his jaw is sharp, peppered with a five o’clock shadow, and a thick mustache almost covers his upper lip. a white wife-beater tucked into green trousers completes the ensemble, and his bare feet pad across the floor as he sticks his hand out in greeting.

���you must be the teacher!” he pumps your hand up and down, his grip crushing but his smile wide. his voice is friendly and welcoming, though you can’t be sure it was the voice you heard over the phone. so many days have passed since then, perhaps you just forgot, though it’s highly unlikely. 

“i’ve been trying to call deaky ever since i got here, but the damn fool just won’t pick up. i don’t even know where beau’s school is so i couldn’t come and get him myself. the ship we run here isn’t very tight.” he rolls his eyes with a grin. “thanks for bringing him home, darling.”

your head swims as you struggle to keep up with the man’s fast pace. so, he isn’t john deacon? and john deacon isn’t here? you open your mouth to ask the first of several questions but he beats you to it.

“hell, you look positively confused. shut the door, won’t you? the rain’s getting in, and molly was always worried about the the hardwood. i’ll put on the kettle.”

“oh, i don’t—”

he bumps your hip toward the door. “nonsense! deaky will want to thank you for driving beau home.” he’s around the corner before you can refuse, so you shut the front door against the steady rain and slip off your shoes, leaving them beside the two pairs already against the baseboard.

you’re quick to follow him to the kitchen. the walls are a muted yellow, the countertops clear but the sink full of unwashed dishes. the refrigerator in the corner is bare save for the back to school letter you gave to each student to bring home to their parents. that—and a photograph of four men in a basement. it appears to be a homegrown band of sorts, and the man behind the drumkit is shouting at the man who looks like an overgrown string bean. you’re not sure which one is john, so you turn away, feeling rather out of place when the man at the stovetop says:

“beau’s probably in his room. he always holes himself away as soon as he gets back. doesn’t come out until supper. that’s when deaky gets home.” a pair of mugs clatter against each other as he pulls them from a cupboard. “brian says it’s just a phase, that he’ll grow out of it once he processes molly’s death, but i’m not certain.” the man’s eyes flicker to you, and he laughs, loud and short. “oh dear, i’ve done it again! i forgot you’re not in the loop. i’m freddie,” he explains. “part-time nanny, full-time diva.”

you accept the mug of tea as freddie passes it to you, a smile lifting your tight mouth. “[y/n] [y/l/n]. so you’re beau’s... nanny?” 

freddie drops to the round kitchen table shoved in the space between the kitchen counter and the wall. you follow suit and stir a drop of sugar in your tea. “you could call it that. i just watch him in the afternoons, between school and deaky getting home.” he sighs. “since molly... well, things have been hard to juggle.”

“i thought mr. deacon picked beau up from school? unless that was you in the car i saw?”

“heavens no! i don’t drive!” freddie laughs again. “that was deaky you saw. he takes his break at the garage long enough to pick beau up and bring him here. i guess he and rog were overrun today. bet beau was terrified. poor dear...”

you glance over your shoulder, down the dim hallway leading to, you assume, beau’s bedroom. there’s a half-full laundry basket deposited outside another open door, perhaps the bathroom. a few mislaid toys litter the carpet. it’s reassuring, knowing that beau has a few good men in his life, willing and ready to raise him. still, there’s a pervading sense of loneliness throughout the bungalow. you saw it in the photos on the living room wall, but it’s here too: in the dead roses, brittle to the touch, in the table vase; in the index-card note tucked on a notch in the cupboard, the feminine handwriting unreadable from your spot at the table.

freddie’s voice is somber when its breaks through the thick air. “complications of pneumonia,” he says, following your gaze to a wedding photo on the hallway wall. “it came on quick but didn’t last long, thank heaven.”

unbidden, tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’ve never felt more like an intruder—and you know why.

your crush on john deacon is misplaced. you see that now. realizing what you’ve done in coming here—twist a child’s terrified moment of abandonment for your gain—makes you sick to your stomach. what kind of person are you? assuming a recently widowed father would be at all interested in his son’s pesky teacher? the thought brings a flush to your cheeks, and you rise from the table all too fast. the mugs of tea wobble when your knee connects with the underside of the table.

freddie frowns at you. “you okay, love?”

“i—” how to explain yourself without sounding a total fool or heartless woman? “i think i’ve overstayed my welcome” is all that comes to mind, and you aren’t surprised when freddie uses his foot to push your chair back out from under the table.

“sit down. john will be home soon. let him thank you then you can go.”

from where you stand, you look to your right. the front door practically screams for you to politely decline freddie’s insistence and high-tail it to your car, to get out while you still have the chance. but he’s making it too easy to stay for what you’ve come for: a peek at the illusive john deacon. you know you should go, that you should leave well enough alone, but despite your best intentions, you find yourself sitting down again and allowing freddie to bombard you with questions about teaching life.

half an hour later, when your sides hurt from laughing while freddie regales you with the dramatic story of beau’s birth, the door to the garage opens and closes with a loud click. you twist in your seat, arm draped over the back, and bite your lip hard to keep from drawing in a sharp breath.

by god, he’s a stone-cold looker. better than you could have imagined.

john deacon stands in front of the garage door, his head of tight curls wet from the rain. he’s tall but not towering, his shoulders made broad by the leather jacket across his back. he hasn’t noticed you or freddie as he’s too preoccupied with wiping the grease on his fingers across a piece of soiled cloth. he turns, not towards you, but towards the hallway when beau tumbles out of his room with a shout of joy. beau races down the hall, his arms extended, and jumps into his father’s waiting embrace. john mumbles something in his son’s ear, ruffling his hair, before dropping him back to the ground. the sullen little boy jumps around his father’s feet, chattering in great detail about his day at school, though he forgoes mentioning his father’s absence in the car-line. 

you exhale, a wash of new tears covering your eyes as you stare at beau. he can be happy. you’d thought it impossible.

you must have exhaled louder than you thought because john looks over at the sound. his brow tightens in a frown of confusion, his eyes flicking back and forth between yourself and freddie, but freddie is quick to explain. he stands from the table and takes your hand, pulling you to your feet.

“deaky, this is [y/n] [y/l/n], beau’s teacher. remember you spoke to her on the phone?”

your cheeks heat at the thought of him mentioning the phone call beyond the walls of the auto-shop. warmth spreads over your face even further when he gives you a tight-lipped smile and extends his hand. you slip your fingers over his palm, and he shakes your hand.

for a moment, your hands linger as john glances at beau, who is tucked behind his leg. he cringes, groaning. “please tell me you didn’t go out of your way to bring beau home today?”

you drop your hand from his and clasp your fingers before your waist. scrunching your nose, you tilt your head to the side. “well...”

“bloody hell,” john murmurs. he screws his eyes shut and runs a palm down his face. “i’m sorry,” he says. “you shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“it was no trouble, really. in fact, you live on my way home.” the comment isn’t a falsehood. you’d realized as beau pointed his way home that your flat lie only a minutes down the road. just as it had then, the realization sends a nervous clench to your stomach now. the thought of the deacons so close...

“you must think me a horrible father.” as he says this, john reaches around to smooth his hand across beau’s back. the gesture, done mindlessly, almost makes you laugh. how could anyone find him a horrible father?

“absolutely not, mr. deacon.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward in something close to a smile. “john, please.”

you roll your lips together and blink rapidly to keep your eyes from going wide. john. “lots of people miss the car-line. it happens more often than you think.”

“well, let me give you something for your trouble.” he slides past you, the scent of cologne and car oil in his wake. his movements are stiff, hampered by beau who insists on clinging to his father’s leg, his ankles crossed over john’s foot. 

“i don’t want anything, john.” you almost trip over his name. it tastes good, strong and steady. god, you’ve got it bad. “it wasn’t a hassle.”

john ignores you as he slides open a kitchen drawer. unsatisfied with its contents, he reaches for another before meeting your eyes with a wry smile. “all we’ve got is take-out menus anyway.” he shuffles nearer, beau still heavy on his leg. “thank you, ms. [y/l/n], for bringing him home. i got sidetracked at the shop and—” he sighs. “anyway, just... thanks.”

“again, you’re welcome—and call me [y/n].”

there’s a moment where you’re simply staring at one another, the room around you lulled to a comfortable silence. john is handsome, of this there is no doubt. perhaps he’s not striking in a classical way but you’re sure someone would have killed to chisel a bust of his face during the sixteenth century. it’s regal and sure in all the right places, but soft where it counts: around the eyes. when he chuckles at something freddie says, his eyes fold around the edges, and your heart all but gives out.

“what do you say, [y/n]?”

“sorry?” hopeful no one caught you ogling, you bring your attention front and center, turning to freddie. his proposal dawns on you a second too late to be anything but obvious. “stay for dinner? no, i can’t do that.”

“why not?” freddie reaches out to pinch your forearm. “it’s our way of saying thanks, and neither of us will try to poison you with our cooking. we’ll just have brian bring something ‘round.”

you shake your head and scoot around freddie to lift the handbag hanging from a kitchen chair. “i’d like to, but i’ve stayed too long already. perhaps another time.”

prying beau from his leg, john trails behind freddie as you make your way to the front door. freddie wishes you well, reminding you to drop by any time, and john simply lifts his hand in a motionless wave. on the front stoop, hair tangled around your face by a sharp wind, you lean your torso across the threshold.

“mr. deacon—i mean, john,” you say quickly, willing your voice to sound stronger than you feel. “if you’d like, i can drive beau home in the afternoons. i live not five minutes from here, and it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

john hesitates. beau stands in the kitchen, his head poked around the corner. john looks over at his son then back at you. “that’s a kind offer, but i like coming to the school.”

your eyes flick to beau, to his round, soft face and intelligent eyes. yes, if you were his mother you’d enjoy coming to pick him up too.

with a nod, you retreat into the wind. “well, the offer still stands.”

as you slide into your car and pull out of the driveway, waving to beau who now stands in the doorway, you hope against hope that john will accept the offer one day—just so long as it means you get to see him again.

he calls during the middle of show-and-tell. you nearly forgo the call as abby sinclair insists on lifting her pet toad for all to see and you’re worried she’ll drop it, but you’re waiting for a message from the front desk—missing package again—so you pick up on the last ring.

“hello?”

“hi, ms. [y/l/n]. it’s john deacon. is this a bad time?”

“oh, mr. deacon!” you wince at the delight coloring your voice and tear your eyes away from abby, who has handed her toad off to max. “i was expecting a call from the front office.”

he snorts out a rushed laugh. “sorry to disappoint.”

you brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “no, not at all.” out of the corner of your eye you catch max squeezing abby’s toad between his palms, and you push the phone away from your ear. “oy! max, knock it off! abby, please put the toad back, dear?”

john is chuckling on the other end of the line when you return to the call. “sorry,” you say. “show-and-tell.”

“i know. beau was excited this morning.”

with a smile, you glance at the boy in question. “he did very well. everyone was impressed with what he brought.”

“brian made that for him as a birthday gift, so he can’t take any of the credit.”

“he didn’t! he explained who made the planets, but he did want to be clear about who painted the stars.” you hesitate, the sound of laughter over your shoulder reminding you not to get too entangled by the sound of john’s voice. “is there something i can do for you, mr. deacon?”

“right, yes. well, it’s a bit awkward... do you remember a few weeks ago when you drove beau home?”

you nod, the memory lifting from your heart with ease. how could you forget? you only replay the evening like a film every night before you fall asleep. “of course”

“do you remember offering to drive him home again?”

“yes.”

“i’m in a jam at the shop and can’t leave this afternoon. would you mind? taking him home, that is.”

you answer without hesitation. “i can do that. it’s not a problem.”

“you’re a life-saver. it’s just with freddie not driving... i guess what i mean to say is thanks. it helps me out a lot.”

“i’m happy to do it, john.”

“i promise i’ll make it worth your while this time. proper take-out and all.”

“you really don’t have to do that,” you say, hoping he does anyway.

“no, freddie will insist. i’ll let you get back to class for now. thanks, [y/n].”

“don’t mention it. good luck with your jam at the shop. i hope it’s cleared up soon.”

“me too. all the sooner to get back to beau—and you.”

he hangs up before you can respond, and you’re left with your jaw scraping the floor and your heart in your throat.

all the sooner to get back to you.

the words circle your head like a drug for the remainder of the day. you can barely focus as you teach, stumbling over your words and through math equations and spelling tests. 

surely he didn’t mean it like that. he probably just tacked you on at the end of the sentence in his haste to get back to work. he probably wasn’t thinking when he spoke.

but, by god, you were listening. 

you’ve never been so head-over-heels for a man in your life. each day when you wake up with john at the forefront of your mind, you wish for a morning where you can stay in bed and dream of him all day—his voice, his smile, his gentle way with beau. it all makes you crazy. ami calls your fascination puppy love and claims it will fade with time, but you wonder if it’s gone deeper. you’re interested in more than john deacon’s looks. you’re interested in what makes him tick and whether or not he’s in a band with the three other men who constantly appear in every conversation you share and whether or not he misses his wife and what his hair looks like when he wakes up in the morning. you what to know him and be known by him.

all the sooner to get back to you.

perhaps it’s wishful thinking—a dreamy idea on the part of a lovesick woman—but part of you wonders if he feels the same way about you.

driving beau home becomes part of an unspoken routine. after sharing dinner at the deacon household that second evening, john admits when walking you to your car how overwhelmed he can feel between his job at the auto-shop and his responsibilities with beau. with a tentative hand on his forearm, you promise you’ll help lighten the load. he thanks you by squeezing your fingers with his, and then he’s gone.

it begins by driving beau home every monday, wednesday, and friday. you enjoy your time with him. as soon as he settles in the back seat of your station wagon, he comes alive. the protective shell he wears in the classroom is replaced by the bright and earnest eyes of a seven year old boy, curious about the world and all it has to hold. he asks you questions and tells you stories, and you laugh as you watch the light dance in his eyes. he’s a sweet child, and you truly treasure the afternoons you spend with him.

one friday, you drop him off and find the cozy bungalow empty. beau has stopped retreating to his room once returning from school—at least, this is what freddie tells you—so you’re not completely surprised when beau invites you in for an afternoon snack. you are surprised by the empty house, however. freddie is nowhere to be seen and neither is john. what concerns you even further is when beau opens the refrigerator and slams it shut with a huff.

“nothin’,” he mutters, slumping to the table with a groan.

“what?”

“there’s nothing in the fridge.”

“what do you mean by that?” you cross the floor and open the fridge, hoping beau’s comment is nothing more than a hungry child displeased with the array of choice and nothing to his liking, but you find his statement to be true. the fridge is woefully stocked—naught but a half-filled carton of orange juice, three apples, and a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. you glance over your shoulder. “is it always like this?”

“no.” beau circles about on his chair. “but it’s happened a few times since dad and uncle rog got more busy at the shop.”

“well, that won’t do. grab your shoes, beau, we’re going to the market.”

once returned from your grocery run, you teach beau how to make spaghetti. he stands beside you on a stool, pushed up on his toes as he watches you prepare the boiling water and pasta. as you wait for the pasta to soften, you set about crafting a homemade pasta sauce. it’s your mother’s recipe, and it’s easy to make. easy enough that you allow beau to carefully slice the tomatoes under your supervision and dice the onions and sprinkle the spices.

the kitchen smells like your childhood: fragrant yet simple, sweet and comforting. somewhere in the waiting for the sauce to simmer, beau turns on a radio and draws you to the center of the kitchen. he holds your hand tight and kicks his feet to the music. you laugh and mirror his movements. he grabs your other hand and steps on his stool, forcing you to bend in an awkward twirl around his finger. you struggle but complete the movement, though he attaches himself to your shoulders like a barnacle. you whirl around on your socked feet in attempt to toss him off, but he holds tight, his fingernails digging into the skin of your collarbone. he squeals in your ear, a mixture of laughter and gasping breath and shrieks.

“mama, mama, stop!” 

he says it without thinking, his head lolling against your shoulder as you stop short at the sound of his breathless voice. he giggles against your back then releases himself and slides to the floor. you stare at him, feel his words in the back of your throat like an uncomfortable burn, and then you hear the garage door shut.

you swallow hard and force your eyes from the yellow-and-white linoleum floor. beau hops from his stool, sauce-covered spoon in hand, and rushes to his father’s side.

“daddy, look, we made dinner! miss [y/l/n] and me!” he tugs on john’s shirtsleeve, but john’s just staring at you, his face unreadable. beau turns to one of the other three men crowding the hall behind john. “uncle roggie, taste it!” he forces the spoon in the face of a mulleted blond.

eager to break the thick tension, you motion to the spaghetti. “i—there wasn’t anyone home so...” your sentence trails off, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

so many eyes on you. you feel exposed against them all, caught in a domestic moment with a child that’s not your own in a home that’s not your own.

john looks over his shoulder, eyes flashing in anger. “fred?”

freddie winces. “about that, deak.” he rubs the back of his neck and glances at beau. “i can explain later.”

“you’d better,” john mutters.

“i should go,” you say at once, hastily grabbing your things from the table. your keys jingle in your hand with the force of your anxiety, and you stub your toe against the floor in your hurry to put your shoes back on.

john’s hand on your arm stops you. you look up, stooped as you try to slip the back of your sandal over your heel. he looks down at you, face still remarkably unreadable. “no, please stay,” he says. “you made supper.”

you shake your head and rise to your full height. “i’ve intruded enough already.”

you’re embarrassed, too. the gaggle of men heard beau’s slip up; they heard him mistake you for his mother—and certainly they saw the immediate flush of happiness rise over your cheeks at the sound.

mama. you’d always hoped, always wished, someone would call you that one day. you just didn’t think you’d hear it from a student with a deceased mother and a father you pined after first.

“[y/n], stay.” john’s voice is soft, breathy, and his eyes flit back and forth between yours with a startling amount of intensity. 

how can you say no?

once the dinner has been divided, you sit beside john on the couch in the living room. the kitchen table is too small to host the gathering, so the living room was deemed appropriate just this once, to beau’s great delight. he sits on the floor at the coffee table, a tall glass of milk beside his plate of pasta, his eyes bouncing over everyone in the room with unrestrained joy.

“beau, why don’t you introduce everyone for miss [y/l/n]? she doesn’t know all your uncles.” john nods to his son in encouragement, and beau is only happy to take the job.

standing, beau crosses first to the impressively tall and curly-haired man sat beside him on the floor. “this is uncle brian. he likes space and teaches all the big kids at uni.” 

he moves to freddie, who sits on a plush armchair. “this is uncle freddie, but you already know him.”

the last man leans against the foyer table, his ankles crossed and sunglasses still perched on his nose. beau pats his arm. “this is uncle roger and he works with daddy.” in a stage whisper, he adds, “he thinks he’s a lot cooler than he really is.”

roger guffaws and lightly pushes beau’s head to the side. “oy, you twerp, take that back!”

glancing about the room, you nod in greeting. “it’s nice to meet you all. i’ve heard quite a bit.”

brian smiles at you from the floor. his legs are bent awkwardly beneath the coffee table, and you’ve noticed the way he helps beau cut his side salad and keep sauce from dripping to the area rug. “all good things i hope?”

“oh yes, of course.”

“[y/n], dear, you really must tell brian what that student of yours did last week,” freddie pipes up. “it had me laughing well into the night. i’m sure some of his twenty-year olds are much the same.”

“i shouldn’t, fred.” you look at beau, who is watching you in interest. 

freddie nods in understanding and tugs on his earlobe. “little ears, yes. maybe another time.” he pushes brian’s shoulder with his foot. “really is a riot of a story.”

as supper progresses, conversation twists and turns down different avenues. you explain how you came to teach in the area and find you used to work with one of brian’s newer colleagues. freddie tells the group about his recent run-in with an angry bird watcher in the park. his gestures are so grandiose he whacks roger in the chest, who has come to sit on the arm of fred’s chair. there’s more laughter than there is silence, and you settle back in the couch. at one point, john drapes his arm over the back of the couch—not around your shoulders, but close enough to send your heart into overdrive. it’s all you can focus on—the proximity of his muscular arm behind your head—as brian explains to beau the difference between the big and little dippers. even as roger describes the ramshackle band they four participate in on the weekends, you barely register the words because you swear to the high heavens you feel john’s pointer finger purposefully brush against your shoulder.

beau begins to yawn sometime near the eight o’clock hour, and you jump from the couch when you realize you’ve stayed so late.

“good lord, i’ve got to go!” you shuffle about the room, gathering your belongings, as john rises behind you. “i didn’t know it was so late!”

his hands are in his pockets, and he studies you as you put your shoes on. “got a big date tomorrow?”

you frown. “no,” you say on a laugh. “i’ve actually got breakfast with my mum.”

he looks away for a moment, but you can’t help but note the edge of a smile.

he grabs his jacket from the coat-stand when you’re ready. “i’ll walk you out.”

at the door you wave to the others. “good night, all! it was nice to meet you.”

roger tips an imaginary hat. “i’m sure we’ll meet again, [y/n], if deaky has anything to say about it.”

freddie kicks the back of roger’s leg, and the injured man doubles over in a yelp of pain. “you fucker!” freddie mutters. “you know that—”

john ushers you out the door before you can see or hear any more.

the night air is chilly, and you warm your arms around yourself. you reach for your keys in the depths of your purse and slide them into the lock on the driver’s side of your car. it’s dark out. you can barely make out john’s features beneath the light of the moon, but when he shuffles to the side, an automatic flood light turns on above the garage. you blink against the sudden light and smile, chuckling beneath your breath as your vision adjusts. you’re not eager to leave quite yet, and he doesn’t seem eager to send you away, so you both stand, looking at one another in the darkness of the drive.

“your friends are nice,” you say.

he hums in agreement. “m’yes, they are. we just started as a screw-around band a few years back, but when molly got sick...” he pauses, clasps his hand on the back of his neck, and shrugs. “they’ve been my lifeline, y’know?”

“i can’t imagine what that was like, losing her. i’m glad you had them around.” you suck in a deep breath. “about earlier... i didn’t know beau was going to say that, and i’m sorry it happened. i realize that my... involvement might appear to be me wheedling my way into your family, but that’s not it, really! i mean, i like you and beau—as friends—but i’m not trying to...” you sigh, shaking your head. “i’m sorry it happened ‘s all. i don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

before you know what’s happening, john’s reaching out to cup your cheek. his smile is soft in the glow of the moon and the floodlight, and your heart stops in your chest. 

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “i haven’t seen beau that happy in a long time. you’ve brought a lot of joy back into the house, [y/n].”

you’re sure you’re sweating despite the chill of night. you shake your head, but his hand holds fast against your face. “no,” you whisper. your voice sounds heady, even to your own ears. “beau’s just a good kid.”

“yes, and you’re a good teacher.” 

is his face inching closer? you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“a good teacher and a good person.”

if it weren’t for your firm hold on the car door handle, you think you might slip to the ground in a puddle of goo. 

his lips are on yours, then, and you fall into his arms as he holds you against himself. you have dreamt of this moment far too many times to count, but you never thought it would happen. really, you thought you would finish the year without ever knowing the taste of john’s deacons lips. 

but there he is, and there you are, and he tastes like the wine he drank during supper. he is more eager than you thought he would be, and soon he has your back pressed against the door of your car. you huff into his mouth and feel your eyes roll back into your head when he drags his lips across your jaw, inching closer to that spot behind your ear. your arms practically quiver around his shoulders, and you open your eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of a particularly bright star winking down at you.

he catches your lips again, and you feel hot and delicious all over.

“john,” you mumble against his mouth. “john.” 

loathe as you are to stop the moment, you do, pushing his shoulders until he pulls himself away. his hand still cradles your hip, and he looks flushed in the moonlight. you’re sure you look equally as rumpled.

you grin. “well.”

he matches your smile, though it’s fleeting. “call you, yeah?”

unlocking your car door, you nod. “please do, mr. deacon.”

he shakes his head on a chuckle and shuts the door, waving gently as you pull out of the drive. when you’re several homes away, out of eyesight, you drift to the side of the road and blast the air conditioner. then you pound your fists against the steering wheel and let out a muffled squeal of delight.

he doesn’t call you. 

when you sit down to think about it, it’s not that great of a surprise. you’ve been around him only a handful of times, and though you’ve both been comfortable in those moments, you don’t blame him for resisting whatever it is he feels for you. there’s beau to think about. you’re his teacher; surely there’s some line you shouldn’t be crossing? there’s molly too, and her memory and the years they spent together and the child they had together. 

if anything, you figure he’s using you to test the waters of romance again. those stolen touches and deep stares and that kiss in the drive—it’s all just experimentation. the conclusion drawn from those experiments? he’s not ready.

you sigh, take another sip of wine. maybe you should stop driving beau. you like john; you like him a lot. and after that kiss, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. you thought about him before, but never this much. he threatens to consume your every waking moment, and it scares you because he’s not interested. desperately pining after a disinterested man means one thing: ruin. if you stop driving beau home, put some distance between yourself and the deacons, the puppy love and infatuation will fade over time.

it has to or you’ll go crazy.

it’s early evening, and your stomach grumbles. your flat is quiet as you putter around the kitchen in search of a suitable supper. there’s not much in the cupboards and even less in the fridge. you desperately need to go to the grocery store. take-out it is. withdrawing a handful of menus, you spread them out on the counter and flip through them mindlessly.

your thoughts are elsewhere. always on john.

you wonder what compelled him to kiss you. he’s an enigma, john deacon. you’ve seen him in moments of great levity—when he’s around beau or his friends or recounting a story from his youth. he has an infectious laugh, delightful crinkles around his eyes, and a quick wit. but he can be hard, too, like an immovable stone. he’s quick to toss a glare at anyone in his way in those moments of weakness, and his biting wit can turn sour at the drop of a hat. you chalk it up to weariness, those moments. weariness, loneliness, frustration. it doesn’t phase you, though perhaps it should.

with a groan, you drop your forehead to the cool counter and shut your eyes. the kiss lingers on your lips; it has the entire week since. you want him badly—in more ways than one.

the telephone rings, and you startle, clutching a paper menu to your chest. “fuck,” you whisper. you need to get a hobby other than daydreaming. pressing the phone to your ear, you barely get out a word of greeting before someone’s shouting at you on the other end.

“[y/n]? it’s fred! we’ve got a fuckin’ problem over here.”

you frown. “freddie? what’s going on? why are you are john’s? it’s a saturday.”

“no time for that! how fast can you get here?”

“well, i don’t know. i’ve got to—”

“beau’s sick! he’s on the bathroom floor, moaning and groaning and—shit!—[y/n], i don’t know what to do!”

“i’m sure it’s just a tummy ache, fred,” you say. “i see it all the time in my class. give him some pepto and he’ll be fighting fit in the morning.”

“no, [y/n]!” something in fred’s tone—a raw, animal fear—has you standing straight, your heart stuttering in your chest. “he said he feels like he’s gonna die just like molly did!”

“okay, okay.” you begin to move toward your bedroom, but are yanked back by the phone chord attached to the wall. you stumble backwards with a grunt. “okay, i’m coming, fred. just hold tight.”

“fucking hurry!”

you slam the phone down, rush to your bedroom to change from your nightclothes, and jump in the car without a pair of shoes. as quickly as you can you race to the deacon household. the sun dips low, casting an orange glow over the suburban streets lined with family cars. you grip the steering wheel tight, your heart thumping a prayer of protection for beau. 

the driveway of the bungalow is empty, the garage door thrown open. the old convertible john toys with in the evenings is parked inside, but his everyday vehicle is gone. cutting the engine of your car, you run through the garage and into the house. fred stands in the hallway, pressed against the bathroom door. he looks ridiculous, clad in a bright yellow bathroom and bunny slippers, but he pounds his fist against the door, pleading for beau to unlock it and let him in. he turns at the sound of your bag dropping on the carpet.

“oh, thank god,” he breathes. he grabs your arm and wrenches you to his side. “beau, miss [y/l/n] is here. why do you talk with her, huh?”

before you say anything to beau, you frown at freddie. “where’s john?” your whisper sound harsh in the dim lighting of the hallway.

“at the shop. overtime. i can’t reach him.”

you jerk your head to the phone sitting on a side-table in the living room. “go try again and i’ll stick with beau here.” when he’s gone, you slide to a sitting position on the floor and press your ear to the thin wood of the door. “beau? beau, honey, it’s me.”

beau only groans in response.

“beau, can you please open the door? i want to help you. that’s it; just help.”

there’s a pause then you hear: “no. go away.”

“it’s okay if you’re embarrassed, beau. we all get sick sometimes. fred and i just want to help you feel better.”

there’s the sound of water sloshing and then a hard sniff. “i want my mommy.”

“oh, baby, i know.” you clear your throat to work past the lump rising to the surface. “come on, just let me in. i promise it’ll be okay.”

“but... what if i die like her too?”

“that’s not gonna happen, beau. i promise.” he doesn’t respond, so you plead once more. “please let me in.”

he shuffles to the door, unclicks the lock, and cracks it open. through the opening, you can see his pale face gleaming with sweat. gently, you push the door open further.

beau’s curled on the floor, his head bent toward his knees. his arms tighten around his stomach, and a spasm ripples through his body. he’s dripping with sweat, his star wars pajamas soaked through. hot air clogs the room, and you switch on the overhead fan. pressing your fingers to his forehead, you cringe and draw back. he’s burning up.

“beau, baby, what hurts?” you finger some of the sweat-matted hair away from his forehead. 

“my tummy.”

“what’s your tummy feel like?”

beau shakes his head into the floor. “bad.”

“do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”

“already did. on my floor.” he opens his eyes long enough to stare at you through thick lashes. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologize about that. we’ll get it cleaned up later. i’m just gonna go get you some water, okay?”

he groans, shifting against another spasm of pain. “okay.”

stepping back into the hall, you grab freddie’s arm before he can slip into the bathroom. you tug him to the safety of the kitchen. his eyes dance between yours, expectant.

“well?”

“did you get ahold of john?”

“no, the fucker.”

“we’ll have to go pick him up then.”

fred’s brow twitches. “what? why? what’s wrong with him?”

you throw a glance down the hall when beau whines. “i think it might be his appendix. my dad’s burst last summer and he looked a lot like beau does now.”

“fuckin’ hell.” freddie runs a hand across his mouth. “just what deaky needs.”

you nod in agreement. “i know. we’ve got to take beau to a hospital, though, before it gets any worse.���

“yeah, yeah, i know. go get the car started and i’ll meet you in a minute.”

several minutes later, you’re en route to the auto-shop, freddie cradling beau in the backseat of your station wagon. the drive is tense, your bare foot hard on the gas pedal. beau wrestles and whines against freddie’s hold, continuously asking for his parents and where you’re taking him.

no one wants to say the word hospital, so his cries go unanswered.

freddie directs you to the auto-shop, his phrases terse, and you pull into the drive with a sharp squeal of tires on gravel. with the car still running, you hurry across the parking lot, loose pebbles catching on your feet. music blasts from a stereo within the garage. it’s loud and obnoxious and keeps you from locating john fast enough.

“can i help ya, miss?” a lithe man steps out of a side office, his hairline receding and face near gaunt. 

“yes—i’m looking for john deacon.”

the man continuously wipes his hands on a dirty rag. none of the oil and grease on his fingers budges. “he’s down there.”

dirt and grime covers the bottoms of your feet as you race down the shop. cars of all varieties line the wall to your left, some stationary on the ground, others lifted towards the vaulted ceiling. there’s a handful of men at work, but you don’t recognize any of them as john. you’re prepared to start shouting his name when a familiar voice stops you.

“[y/n]?” it’s roger. “can’t get enough of our deaky, can you?” he’s chuckling as he steps out from behind a truck. “what are you doing here?”

“it’s beau,” you say, and his face falls.

“over here.” roger wastes no time in finding john beneath a volkswagon beetle. only john’s legs are visible, his knees bent and leather boots firm on the floor. he curses when roger hooks the toes of his shoes around a curve in the sliding plate on the floor and drags john out from under the car.

“what the fuck, rog? i—” john stills when his eyes land on you. his muscle tee is loose over his chest, and a line of grease mars his forehead. he swallows. “[y/n]... i...” he sits up. “i’ve been meaning to—”

though you’re curious about the end of his sentence, you cut him off. “beau’s sick. we’ve got to take him to hospital.”

the blood drains from john’s face in an instant. the wrench in his hand clatters to the cement ground, and he’s grabbing your elbow, pulling you toward the exit, before you can say anything more.

“crystal, i’m gone!” he shouts, practically shoving you in the direction of the car.

there’s either no reply or you don’t hear it because john shouts for freddie to move the fuck over and give him beau. you slide behind the wheel and pause, twisting to catch a look at the scene in the back. 

beau looks like a newborn swaddled in his father’s arms. his face is wet with tears and sweat, and he sobs in his father’s grasp. john feels beau’s forehead and frowns, muttering an oath under his breath. then his eyes flick to yours.

“what are you waiting for? go!”

you don’t need to be told twice.

it’s another fifteen minutes before you reach the hospital. your head throbs under the stress of it all: beau’s pitiful moans for help, john urging you to go faster, freddie barking directions as he slaps the headrest behind you. before you’ve pulled to a complete stop, john is out, beau in his arms. you shoo freddie after him. 

“go! i’ll park the car.”

by the time you’ve found a parking space and picked your way across the parking lot, beau’s been admitted for emergency surgery. his appendix, as you suspected. it’s a routine procedure, and he’ll be fine within the next hour. relief floods your system at the news, and you find john and freddie sitting beneath a large fish tank in the waiting room. you take the open spot beside john and cross your ankles.

“your feet are disgusting,” fred says. he points to the bottoms of your feet, dark with dust, dirt, and grime. 

you shrug. “forgot shoes.”

the quiet of the waiting room is both a comfort and annoyance. a clock on the wall ticks loudly, and the fish tank bubbles at an uneven rate. every breath you take feels too loud, and the antiseptic smells cling to the inside of your nose.

still, the quiet gives you a moment of rest. you catch your breath. you let the knowledge of skilled and capable doctors working on beau ease your heart-rate. it will all be okay; he’s going to be okay.

you glance at john. his fist is pressed against his mouth, his eyes shut. his leg bounces, and you dare to reach over and lay your hand against his knee. he stills, his eyes flashing to you.

“he’s going to be okay, john.”

on the other side of john, freddie jumps to his feet. “i’m going bananas just sitting here.” he rubs the side of his head. “might burst. i’m gonna give brian a call.” he stalks away, his bunny slippers slapping against the linoleum floor.

you shake your head, biting back the urge to smile.

but then john’s fingers curl around yours, and you can’t help but give into the grin.

you look up, meet his eyes.

“i didn’t call you,” he says.

“no, you didn’t.”

he shifts in seat and looks to the floor. “you should be wearing shoes.”

at the turn of conversation, you frown then follow his gaze. “yes, i suppose.”

“take mine.” he releases your hand to bend down and undo his laces.

“no, john, don’t be silly. i’m fine.”

“please, [y/n], take the shoes.” he slides the boots toward you, and you begrudgingly slip your feet into the warmth of his shoes. 

you look silly, the pair of you—your ill-fit mtv t-shirt, loose jeans, and oversized leather boots; his muscle tee with the aptly faded word muscle scrawled across the chest, his faded jeans, and socked feet. one of his toes pokes through the end of his sock, and his exposed arms look cold in the frigid air of the waiting room. you laugh.

“we look like a pair of bikers or something.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “not much of a biker. that’s crystal’s territory.” he doesn’t look at you when he continues speaking. “i’m sorry i didn’t call.”

on a sigh, you drag the boots across the carpet. though it pains you to do so, you let him off the hook. “it’s not a big deal, john. it was just a kiss. no promises.”

“i know.” his head tilts to the side. “but i wanted to call you. nearly did twice, but i chickened out.” he turns, then, and meets your eye. “i like you, [y/n].”

you smile, but know it doesn’t reach your eyes. still, you reach for his hand again. “i like you too, john. i’ve enjoyed getting to know you and your family.”

he shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is firm. “no, i like you. that’s why i kissed you and that’s why i didn’t call. because you make me so bloody nervous.”

your shoulders drop, as does your jaw.

“ever since you dropped beau off that first time, i’ve been thinking about you and about you and him together and then he called you mum and i saw the way you acted with him and—” he pauses for a breath. “molly was different with beau. i mean, she loved him, but she was always so fragile and worried and—and that’s not the point! the point is that you make beau happy and you make me happy. and i want to be happy again.”

“john...”

his grip on your hand tightens as he leans closer. “make me happy, yeah? i’m stubborn as a mule and shy, too, but i want you—badly.”

the fire in your heart spreads at his words. it spreads throughout your body until you feel like you could burst and shine a light into even the darkest corners of the earth. a laugh bubbles forth from between your lips. you lift a hand to stifle it.

“you want to know something?” you ask.

“what?”

“i’ve been pining after you, john deacon, ever since i heard your voice over the phone. i was content to just wallow in my daydreams, but this seems better.” you lift your fingers to brush his chin. “a lot better.”

“i can’t promise i’ll make a good boyfriend. i’m pretty rusty.”

“me too. we can be rusty together.”

he grins, leans forward further, his nose brushing yours. “can’t promise there won’t be hiccups. i’ve got baggage.”

“i can carry it.”

he kisses you, his hand on the back of your head, keeping you firm against his mouth. you grin, your teeth knocking his as you laugh. his curls are soft against your fingertips, and you hold on for dear life when he chuckles into your smile.

“mr. deacon?”

john kisses you once, twice more, before pulling away to look at the doctor. “yeah?” he doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed to be caught in such a position in the middle of a hospital waiting room, but you hide your face against his neck. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide.

“beau’s ready to see you now.”

john stands and extends at hand. “comin’, dove?”

your footfalls are hard against the ground, the boots heavy around your ankles, as you walk with him hand-in-hand to beau’s hospital room. you lean against his side, breathe the comfort of him in, and smile.

yes, this is much better than your daydreams—baggage, boots, beau, and all.

[hobicomeholla29]

Cuff me if you can - Part 1 - KTH

Pairing: Dad! Street Racer! Taehyung x Judge! Reader

Genre: Fluff/ Slight angst/ Crack

Word Count:5k

Warnings: Mentions of domestic violence/ Cursing/ Mentions of bribing/ Probably incorrect use of legal terminology/ Incorrect legal procedure/ That’s all for this chapter. Oh! unedited!

Rating: PG13

A/N: Well hello again beautiful people! Thank you for taking the time to read this! This sieres are part of BTSghostie writer event for the month of september. Dynamite Dads!

Summary: Kim Taehyung and yourself, live your lives on the opposite side of each other. Yet that doesn’t mean that you can’t meet in the middle.

Masterlist

Getting out of your car, the cool morning breeze caressed what it could of your exposed skin. The walk from the parking lot to the courthouse wasn’t long, but the chills that ran through your body made it feel like it took a little over the usual 5 minutes.

The sun shined like every morning, yet today it felt different somehow.

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it felt as if today would be the beginning of something new or different, and that was a lot to say for someone like you.

“Morning judge y/n!”

“Morning”

Your job placed you in a position where you were always in the eyes of criminals and felons that were either angry, moody, violent, sad or careless  ­—and any other word you can come up with, when thinking about wrongdoers who are finally facing the law­­— forcing you to try seeking for positivity in other aspects of your life.

 Since you were a child, you always had an itch that annoyed you every time you had to be in the presence of an unfair or unethical situation and couldn’t do anything about it.

 It is positive to say that you got it from your mother's strong moral views on righteousness, honesty, and integrity.

 And so a dream came up to you, a dream you had expressed to your parents at the tender age of 5 while watching cartoons one cold morning, your parents discussing the latest incident on that morning's newspaper on the other side of the room.

 "I want to put all those kwiminals in jail"

 There was something fulfilling about being able to help people get justice for the wrongs that were done to them, something about making the corrupt, nefarious, and unlawful pay. Your dream never wavered, the sole thought of what the future would hold made you buzz with excitement during your teenage years and still did now in your adulthood.

 It was present during your entire life, you weren't afraid of speaking up when a witness was needed in an unfair situation in school, whether you were putting yourself in a position against a classmate or a teacher, all that mattered was that the problem was solved in a fair manner.

 Yet, even though you kept steadfast loyalty towards your beliefs, it sometimes got you in trouble, as not everyone sees good in someone openly voicing their wrongdoings. Leading you to sometimes being labeled as a snitch —and no one wants to befriend a snitch—.

 Nevertheless, you pushed through, finally meeting people that shared your views in college.

 It was nice to be able to have a conversation with people with the same mentality and strong feelings towards justice as yourself —not saying that you didn't encounter people who were walking this path just for the money.

 And finally, after graduating from law school with two of your closest friends by your side, you decided it had been way too long of a peaceful ride for the evildoers and it was time to get with it.

 "Good morning Y/n!" A voice spoke loudly from behind you.

 "Morning Guk! How was your weekend?" It was always nice to see Jungkook 1st thing in the morning. For some reason, his cute bunny teeth always gave you life.

 Jungkook was one of your friends from college AKA best friend #1. He had the face of a baby with the wisdom of a 70-year-old man –who would have thought.

 His words towards you were always of encouragement or offerings of helping you with anything you needed –just like in college.

 He was methodical with his work, always studying his cases with a careful eye and with discipline. Some hated it, stating he took way too long to make final judgments, however, there wasn't a ruling that Jungkook had ever issued where the victim had been left to suffer the mischief without the guilty paying the price.

 "Pretty calm actually, taking into consideration that I had the Kang case on Sunday" The younger of your friends exhaled "That man has got to get a grip on his life, this is his 3rd showing" He made a pause as if bringing up some memories from the case, however, he quickly returned to the present "How was yours?"

 "It was quiet; abnormally so, thus my wild guess is that this week I'm going to be assigned as many cases as possible."

 "I know that feeling. The impending doom crawling towards you in the shape of Jimin dropping them on your desk."

 “Yep…” You sighed bracing yourself for the upcoming day.

 Briefly talking about other uninteresting subjects and your mundane lives –like, when was Seokjin going to invite both of you out for lunch— you both eventually parted ways to your own chambers.

 "Good morning Judge Y/n"

"Morning Jimin, you look refreshed!"

 Jimin —your perky judicial secretary— was the earthly version of an angel mixed with a dutiful fairy, you sometimes wondered how he even managed to hold up that 1,000-watt smile all day while dealing with you.

 You had been working together for 3 years now and every year they decided to rotate the secretaries, you prayed they wouldn't change him for someone else.

 "I am! Thanks for the days off, they really helped!"

"Don't mention it bubs. What do you have for me today?" You asked as your heels clicked on the tile making your way behind your large rectangular Victorian style oak desk, Jimin quickly trailing behind you with a stack of folders in his arms.

 "These four are for today and these four are for tomorrow" he said as he divided them into two groups in front of you. "I'll have the ones for Wednesday and Thursday ready by tomorrow" he concluded with a small nod and a smile of accomplishment on his plump lips.

 "Thanks, Jimin. What would I do without you?" you smiled up at the younger man, who smiled wider and turned to leave to his own desk a couple of feet away from yours.

 Finally, mentally prepared to start your day —after mindlessly scrolling through your phone for 20 minutes— you unlocked your computer and began reading through the files that Jimin had left on your desk labeled ‘Monday’.

 "Another asshole, who thought he could get away with a hit and run..." you muttered to yourself, as you reviewed the first case.

 The following trials were for a domestic violence case and 2 robberies.

After reviewing the files, you began transcribing some of the information on your computer, adding personal notes based on the evidence that had been collected for each case and saved it all for its intended use in the next 2 hours.

"Since no one likes a slacker, I might as well go through the ones for tomorrow as well."

As expected, there was another case of robbery, one for theft, a case for assault and last but not least a misdemeanor for street racing. 

After an hour of transcribing that called for a well-deserved break, you stretched your arms above your head, sighing softly as the tension was released.

 "Judge... would you like some tea? I'm on my way to the Cafe"

"Ugh Jimin, I love you, why are you so sweet, I'll come with." As you both picked up your belongings and were about to head out to the small cafe across the street, an unforeseen visitor arrived abruptly, startling both you and your secretary.

"Oh, so you're both slacking off now. I thought that was a Y/n thing?"

"I- No judge- we-" Poor Jimin couldn’t even complete a sentence, his mind still in a jumble as a result of the sudden barge into your chamber.

"Seokjin, shut up.” You cut your eyes at his comment. “We are going to the café. You either come with or move out of the way." You laughed a bit while pushing past your best friend #2, making your way out.

Oh, how lucky were you to be able to have them working near you.

 Back from the cafe and ready to face all cases for the day, you walk to your chamber accompanied by Jimin who helped you wear your black robe, both quickly headed to the courtroom for your first trial right after.

Monday had gone by smoothly; all cases being addressed as they should and all sentences set in place.

Tuesday was a better day, the morning had been less chilly than the day prior and you could read a bit before your hearings of the day, since you had proactively  reviewed the cases of today, yesterday.

After the third time hearing it today, a fourth was just unnecessary, however entering the courtroom for the fourth time on that day, you heard the bailiff announcing your arrival.

 “All rise. This court is now in session.” Shuffling could be heard, a sign of everyone in the room getting on their feet. “Honorable judge Y/n L/n Presiding.”

You took your seat and announced to everyone that they could do so too. You took the files that the bailiff handed you and began reading the case.

 “Good morning everyone. Today's hearing is for case 3476, the city vs Lee Simon, Kim Taehyung and Jean Reynolds” you announced.

 “Lee Simon, Kim Taehyung and Jean Reynolds, all three of them, age 26, accused of trespassing private property, injury of a third party and driving over the speed limit, while being timed against each other. All of it initiating from 25th avenue to Map of the Soul street.” You concluded.

“How do you plead?”

“Innocent” “Guilty” “Innocent”

 Internally, you wanted to laugh, but you knew your position required for you to remain serious and focused. It wasn’t the first time a group of friends split due to being involved in a situation they weren’t expected to be in, and it wouldn’t be the last.

 “Seeing that you have different views, let us review the information presented.”

Videos and pictures from street cameras were shown, as well as footed from a dash camera in a hidden police vehicle.

 “Evidence shown so far, seems to portray all three of you as guilty, and the witnesses are yet to come in, excluding the owner of the vehicle you crashed into while running against each other as well as the owner of the private property you drove through.”

 You watched all three of them carefully as you gave them a run through of how this case was going on for them. Two off them looked indifferent, like someone who has done it before, did it this time and will probably do so again.

A chance was soon to be given to all three of them to express why they believed they were innocent, however another piece of evidence was brought in.

“According to this report sent in about your record, you are all repeat offenders, meaning that your options are limited; paying for the legal fees and community service, paying for the legal fees and 1 year jail time or paying for the legal fees, suspension of your driver’s license, a fee of $10,000 and a possibility of impoundment of the motor vehicle used in the crime.”

 "I am going to admit I was there, but I did it for a specific reason, your honor."

"And what reason could that be?"

“Can I approach the bench?”

“Permission granted." The man in question slowly approached you, eyes never wavering from yours.

"I needed the money your honor. I have a daughter..."

"Says here, that you have been detained before and gave out the same reason, so why should we let you off easy Mr. Kim?"

 “So… there is no way we aren’t paying the legal fees -I take it?” the one with the tiger-like eyes spoke up, a small smile playing on his lips as he did so.

“No” the frown on your face was so pronounced, that no area was left for more of his attempt to banter.

“Do I get the easier outcomes if I plead guilty.”

“That’s a possibility...” Now you know why he pleaded guilty. He’s not new to this.

“I have a daughter your honor… I can’t go to jail” He said before you were able to add to your previous sentence.

“That’s for me to decide, however, can’t she stay with a family member?”

“She only has me…” his eyes turned gloomy as he directed his gaze to the floor Infront of you. Should you even trust that action. It could be staged for all you know.

It annoyed you the way how the immediate mention of a child felt like a tool he was using to soften the blow of your possible verdict. However, it still got under your skin and you felt your hard-exterior crumble, allowing your feelings to take over and think about the poor child that would have to deal with an uncomfortable situation.

“How old is your daughter Mr. Kim?”

“four” His demeanor changed entirely the moment he found more time to speak about the hypothetical child he had.

“Who is she with at the moment?”

“A friend”

“Everyone back to their seats…”

You were so predictable. Jungkook would have never softened for something like that.

He would have given him 2 years in jail, taken his car, taken his driver’s license and custody of the child as well, for not being a suitable parent. But no, you had to be like Seokjin, soft hearted and taking people’s feelings into consideration. Bleh.

 “Based on the evidence collected. I am ready to provide a verdict for this case. Lee Simon and Jean Reynolds you are sentenced to serve 6 months of county jail time, pay a fine of $5,000 plus all legal fees and your license will be suspended for 6 months. Kim Taehyung, you are sentenced to a fine of $3,000, suspension of your driver’s license for 6 months, paying the legal fees and community service for 6 months.” You stated re arranging the documentation on your desk and setting them aside.

“Please take them. Mr. Kim shall be escorted to the officer’s department in order to have his rules set in place.”

“Thank you.” A voice said to you right after. You didn’t have to turn to know it was Kim Taehyung, however you did so. He was flashing you a large square smile. It wasn't 1,000 watts like Jimin’s but it was still warm and different, even a bit playful if you looked at it for long.

“That daughter of yours better be real.” You muttered before collecting the final documentation and exiting the room.

But not before hearing.

“Didn’t know they had such pretty judges in here, I should get arrested more often.”

You should have put him in jail. Or maybe not.

It’s funny how you haven’t been able to get your mind to stop remembering his cheeky squared smile and that aura of a playful child in a large man. It's been 2 weeks now.

Yet you can’t forget him walking up into your courtroom with all that confidence, as if he owned the place.

“Ugh”

“Everything ok?”

You gasped loudly, not having heard Jimin enter the chamber as you mindlessly rolled your mouse around and thought about the man who you sentenced to community service a couple of weeks ago.

“You nearly killed me Jimin!” you voiced a little louder than you should have, the fright still showing in your tone.

“I'm sorry" poor kid, all he did was be nice all day.

“You're fine, I just didn’t hear you come in” you answered, returning to aimlessly move your mouse and stare at the open word document on your computer screen.

“Oh! I see. Well in your favor, I was trying to be quiet. Anyways, what are you doing here so early judge y/n?” leave it to Jimin to always worry about others.

“I thought I could… focus on something else by working a little, but the chambers triggered my distractions even more…” You tried internally to not bring it up, but you knew you had to tell someone about it.

About the fact that maybe you might have an itty-bitty tiny crush on a man you barely saw for a span of 40 minutes and convicted for a crime. You are so lame.

Jimin moved around his desk -you assumed- arranging all of his documents for the day and bring his computer to life.

“and what is it?” he asked you after a couple of minutes of comfortable silence.

“What is what?”

“The distraction that's caught your attention, what is it?” his eyes stared at you widely, they looked so earnest and kind. Just wanting to help you with whatever inconvenience you were having.

“Um… well… you’ll probably think it's dumb"

“I promise I won't” he answered so fast, it felt like he was expecting you to decline opening up to him.

“Well…. I… kinda-have-a-small-crush-on-a-man-I-barely-know-and-could-be-a-scofflaw.”

Your sentence had come out abruptly and in such a rapid fire, that you could see the cogs turning in Jimin’s head as he connected all the things you had said and laced them together.

“Did you just say scofflaw?”

“Is that all you caught from my sentence?” flabbergasted, that's what you were with his reaction.

“No, but… really? scofflaw? Not even judge Harry who's 78 uses that term anymore.”

“Not the point Jimin…" frustrated at the weird turn the conversation had taken, you pinched your nose bridge, trying to figure out the young man's train of thought .

“Ok, ok. But is it one of the guys from a couple of weeks ago. The street racer ones?”

“How do you-"

“Eva from the reception said that, Joyce from finance told her that, Hyerin from chamber 5, saw them being called in on their hearing day and that they were all —her words, not mine— as hot as a super-sized bag of flamin hot Cheetos.”

 Now that’s stuck in your mind. Jimin was definitely not helping.

 “Curse you, procrastination!”

 Grocery shopping should have been done weeks ago. But you were tired, and sleepy and distracted and everything in between that could keep you from doing the boring task that  buying your own food was.

 Walking through the aisles in the grocery store, you could hear a little girl talking her —probably parent's— ear off.

 Not paying too much attention to her, you were barely able to catch a couple of words here and there as you walked around picking up what you needed.

 "Fishies would be a good pet because I can't hu't it if I hug it awound his house"

"Why can't I see my own eyes?"

"Can we get vanilla this time, stwabewies we'e yuck!"

"How do clouds float? Why don't they fall?"

"Look! Look! A toy!"

 She sounded so excited and the little lisp with her R's was the cutest, you thought.

 You were almost done with your list, only missing some meat or poultry and a pound of potatoes, —'cause you've been craving gratin potatoes for a while and you were done living a life without them.

 Making your way to the missing items, you could once again hear a conversation going on between the little girl and the other person, but this time the adult with her spoke. It was a grave voice, very deep and somewhat familiar, yet not enough to put a face to it.

 "You are not having a pet, until you understand the responsibilities that come with taking care of an animal" The voice answered the little girl sternly. You could imagine the man's face voided of any emotion and trying to maintain a serious visage. Probably trying to teach his daughter a lesson.

Again, the voice sounded familiar, giving you a tingling sensation in the back of your mind. However, in your distraction, the links that attempted to connect in your mind remained ignored.

 You continued rolling your cart, hastily turning around each corner; ready to pick up what you were missing and bolt home to make the delicious meal you have been craving for.

 However, you were suddenly stopped by another cart that crashed right into yours as they rushed towards you from around the corner.

 "Oof, My bad" - "Oh no! I'm so sorry!"

 You both said in unison.

 “Oh...” Came the immediate reaction from both of you, as you noticed who the person you had bumped into was.

 "So, the whole you having a daughter wasn’t a lie after all"

 "You offend me your honor." Was his reply as he chuckled a bit to himself "But I guess I am not a good example of what a decent human or father should be like..."

 "Oh Hush! We all make mistakes. Even some that land us in Jury or court" You giggled a little trying to soften whatever thought had him thinking he was the worst human ever to walk on this earth.

 Of course, he had made a mistake —a couple of them at that—   but it wasn’t murder, and he was attempting to make an income for his family.

 "What's her name?" You asked him as you both watched her eyeing the fish tank you assumed she saw the fish at before.

 "Yoonah. But she prefers to be called Nah-Nah" His voice mellowed. You looked at him with a smirk on your face, but all you got was the sight of a man watching his daughter with the fondest of gazes. So much love could be found in his eyes, he was proud and filled with warmth. The small smiled that decorated his features said it all.

 “Is she your only daughter?”

 Your question brought him back to the present.

 “Oh, yeah – she is” Was his curt answer. The tone he used made you feel a bit guilty, as if you were way too into his business, so you decided to cut it short.

 “Well it was nice meeting you outside of court Mr. Kim –and little miss Yoonah as well.” Were your final words as you waved your hand swiftly and left to finish your shopping, missing entirely the smile that graced his lips when he heard you address his little girl.

 For some reason, you hoped to see them one more time before you left the store, just to make sure they were ok —even though there was nothing dangerous at a grocery store.

 --

After so much fussing and so many tantrums, Kim Taehyung was finally tired out.

It could be seen from a mile away, just by watching his shoulders slightly slump and Yoonah grinning up at him with a content expression.

 Naturally, the best view of your day was Kim Taehyung walking out of the grocery store with four bags on one shoulder and a small plastic bag in his right hand, filled with water and two gold fish swimming peacefully.

So much for the sterned voice he had back there.

 You lingered a little more on your way to your own car, head turning slightly to your left, just to watch him interact with his daughter. You are sure you look like a creep, but it was so endearing, you couldn’t help yourself.

He kept her close by while he loaded the trunk with groceries and tickled her sides while placing her in her car seat. N sight of a father that didn’t care for his daughter or an irresponsible parent. Yeah, that was going to be your excuse for staring longer than needed.

 Yet what was a little more time for you, was enough to give him a full view of you watching them both with something in your expression that he couldn’t read, but whatever it was, had his heart racing a little more than it should for somewhat of a stranger that could put him in jail.

You’re not sure if it’s one of those times where once you meet someone one time, you end up seeing them everywhere.

How is it possible that on a chill evening in the park, while you were enjoying a slow-paced stroll and a hot chocolate in your hands, you see him again. You are about to start thinking that maybe he is following you and in addition to committing his past crime, he is also a stalker.

But he couldn’t be. He’s not even looking at you. From your short distance from him, you can see his eyes trained on something else. A fond smile decorated his lips as if whatever held his attention was above everything in this world.

From this angle you could appreciate his profile. A very handsome man you should say.

His eyes slowly crinkle into smaller half-moons in favor of his now growing smile taking more space. His teeth now baring and the apple of his cheeks flexing.

Oh! what a sight.

What would it feel like to poke them? you thought to yourself.

Yet, your legs had other plans and were already in action. Your brain had already sent signals to your arms and fingers to poke all soft parts that it came into contact with.

You are a judge, for goodness’s sake, touching someone without their authorization is battery. What are you doing?

 Yet right before you were able to do so you heard her.

“Daddy!” The soft giggles that followed filled the air that surrounded you. You turned your head to the direction of the sound and just in time you caught the sight of a little girl running from the playground into Taehyung’s arms.

Before you even turned to him, he was already catching her, squeezing her tightly in his embrace.

“Did you see that daddy? I did it!”

“Yes, you did princess! And you were amazing! Best cartwheel I have ever seen!”

The little girl giggled and squealed as Taehyung blew raspberries everywhere around her.

 When she finally calmed down, her eyes met yours and her head tilted in questions.

“It’s the groceries lady daddy!”

Turning to look at who his daughter was pointing at, he met you, only 3 steps away from him.

“Jud- Judge Y/n?”

“Hi again Mr. Kim, seems like we keep bumping into each other.”

“So it seems.” Today his smile was a careless one or was it a content one. Either way they were still that remarkable boxy smile.

“Nice to see you again miss Nah-Nah.” You greeted the little girl that had noticed you first and a hearty giggle left her body in return.

“What brings you here?” Asked the man that you had somehow forgotten was by your side or maybe you were just trying to ignore the strong tiger eyes that bore into you by entertaining a conversation with his cute daughter.

“Daddy, can I go to the big slide?”

“Not, without supervision Nah-Nah.” He answered so seriously, it reminded you of the voice in the grocery store.

“But daddy, I am a big gu’l now”

“Nah-Nah…”

“Daddy…” he sighed so loudly; you couldn’t help but laugh at his odyssey.

It was Deja vu from the grocery store and fish all over again. All that big father talk for nothing. He was so whipped for his daughter.

“Ok, let’s make a deal…”

“Yes!”

“You can go to the big slide, but if you get an ‘owie’, I want you to get up and dust off just like big girls do. Ok?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Ok, princess. Go on”

Not a second went by after his sentence and little Yoonah was already off to an adventure with the rest of the kids in the park.

“She is so precious”

“Thank you”

You both stayed in a comfortable silence, staring into the distance in the direction Yoonah had left of. However, that peace was cut by the man standing near you.

“So, are you following us now your honor?” That playful smirk of his was back, alerting you quickly that he was just attempting at a friendly banter with you.

“Hmm, maybe I am, but I’ll never let you know.” You said winking at him.

He laughed so loud at the action, that you could not hold back a laughter of your own.

“So you do have a sense of humor” He stated after calming down.

“I do, when I am outside of my line of work.”

“Understandable…”

Once again, a comfortable silence fell between you both as you watched his daughter running around filled with glee, playing with other children.

“So, who were the ugly judges you encountered before me?” Now it was your turn to start the conversation and again he laughed. Who would have thought you were this funny.

“So, you did hear that.”

You definitely did and deep within you hoped he meant it. Even though it wasn’t the time or place for his flirting.

“Maybe…”

“I meant it… just in case you were wondering.”

Yes, you were!!!

“Oh! I- umm… Thank you.” You could feel your face heating up, however you refused to end the eye contact you were keeping up since your conversation began.

“Anytime… Like honestly. Any. Time. And every time. I’ll repeat it every time I find it necessary.” He said his smile growing with each word that he sent your way. And you, well you weren’t one to back down on a flirting challenge.

“And how is that possible, if we don’t see each other all the time?” you asked, acting coyly.

“I might have a solution for that, your honor.” Welp. Now you got yourself into something.

Two weeks had gone by since that day.

Two weeks after Mr. Kim had asked for your number and invited you for ice cream with Yoonah, under the excuse of a thank you for not sending him to jail. Needless to say, you quickly corrected his statement to not have him think this was a favor you had done for him, but a decision you had made based on evidence and circumstances surrounding the case.

It had also been a week since Mr. Kim changed from that name to Taehyung.

The mocking that came with you saying his given name for the first time was endless.

“Awww, so no more Mr. Kim?”

“Shut it Taehyung!”

[myownprivate-johnnyutah]

If Found (Chapter 1)

AN: A Fluff-as-Fuck Penpals Story because we’re in a fuckin’ pandemic and I want to write about yearning, goddamnit. I have no outline, no plan and am just going wild with it. 

Synopsis: After losing a notebook in a Brooklyn bar two years ago, Alana Miles has lost a few more things and gained some others. Lost? Her tiny Brooklyn apartment, her first love-turned fiancé, their shared cat. Gained? A small rental house in her hometown, a second book deal, a rescue bulldog and a facelss email pen pal she may or may not be falling for. (AO3)

Wordcount: 1,530

September 2020

It’s a little early to be up for a Saturday, but she cracks open her laptop anyway— careful not to jostle the sleeping bulldog deep snoring across her legs. Alana has tried to let herself sleep in on weekends, lately. With the weekdays full of deadlines, interviews and long calls with her editor normally kicking off before her morning coffee’s kicked in, the few blissful hours of no screens and light-blocking blinds on Saturdays were usually her favorite thing. Usually.

It’s not her fault, though. Because of stupid timezones, there was a message waiting for her that she’d be itching to see and even after years (plural) of back-and-forth emails with her accidental pen pal, the little rush of seeing where the conversation would go next was enough to make her a bit more of a morning person (even when she doesn’t have to be). 

To: Miles2Go@mail.net.

From: KCR@mail.net

Subject: RE: RE: RE: The Not-Divorce is Finalized! 

A, 

Sure, okay, I believe you.

I know you said you were fine and I understand I’m maybe half-obligated by the terms of our friendship to take that at face value and instead pivot to asking you about your day or the book proposal or whether you got around to reading that book I sent you (it’s a chapbook, honestly, and you pretty much read for a living). And I will ask those things. 

But I wanted to add, RE: your point on “closure not even being a fuckin’ real thing” that I’m not sure if I agree. Provided you’re giving yourself the grace to step away and close the chapters, relationships, painful memories in order to open something up, it’s as real as you want to make it. 

But what you’re going through (all of it), it’s draining and exhausting and you’re carrying a lot. Closing a door doesn’t mean everything’s resolved behind the door, just that you’ve resolved to let yourself be on the other side. 

I think you’re brave and good, if that helps. And I hope you’ll read that goddamn chapbook so we can talk about it.  

Yours, 

KC

Welp. That’ll need coffee to respond to, she thought, slowly inching her legs out from under Bruce (who let out an insulted snort before snuffling back into the duvet) and heading out to the kitchen. 

Mug in hand, she made her way out to the porch and took in the fall morning: the lake’s got the beginning reflections of red and orange showing through and the smell of burning leaves (they still do that out here) is already making its way to her door. The tiny one bedroom house she’d been renting is about five minutes from where she grew up (where her parents still live). It’s modest (if maybe cramped) but has big windows, a monthly rent that doesn’t drain her bank account beyond recovery and lets her be close to her mom for doctor’s appointments and long meetings with specialists that she trades off with her sister and brother. 

She leaves the door open a crack, since Bruce is unlikely to last long in the bed alone before stumbling out to his sunny porch bed, and takes a seat on her own “grown-up porch couch” — an oversized wicker basket chair her little brother salvaged from a friends’ student house and spray painted white to look less wretched, paired with some overly fluffy pillows her twin sister bought her. She cracked open her computer again and tried to figure out how she’d respond.

She tried, not infrequently, to picture KC. She was sure he was good looking, despite that name feeling so deeply undignified and childish for a man in his forties. (Or is he fifty by now? A funny thing about surprise pen pals is you never really exchange birthdates or A/S/L — and, in their case, they just went for the emotional jugular). She imagined a doe-eyed John Cusack-type (maybe a bit more “High Fidelity,” actually) or, of course, a Tom Hanks “You’ve Got Mail” has crossed her mind but neither really ever felt right. 

She knew a lot about him, after nearly two years of correspondence. He’s told her about the long scar going up his stomach that he got in a motorcycle accident (how he’ll forget its there even after 20 years); she knows he works in film but simply says “I help people tell lies for a living” when she asks for specifics; she knows he fell in love a few years back, after thinking he was never going to fall in love again (and that he has a gift for emphasizing the sweet of a bittersweet ending) and she know she’s a Virgo with a Cancer moon. He knew a lot about her, too: He knew birds freaked her out, that she was in the middle of final proofs of her first book and the proposal on her second; he knew she broke off an engagement (and thus a relationship spanning nearly all of her 20s) in the last year and reflexively performed being cavalier about it; he knew her mom was sick and that she left the life (the one she secretly wasn’t all that wild about) in Brooklyn to be closer to her.

It’s funny the way these little stories and pieces of ourselves can be assembled to make a person feel so whole and so close, even if they’re thousands of miles away and you’ve never seen their face and you probably wouldn’t have met if it weren’t for the right amount of happy accidents flowing in succession. 

He was her happy accident and, if she were the fate-believing type she’d believe it was some of that kismet that brought him to that Fort Green bar on that rainy afternoon. She’d been transcribing some notes in one of her many junk-ish notebooks (full of story ideas, a few email addresses and phone numbers for sources, a scribbled quote, some ticket stubs and a lone piece of gum between the back pages (whoops) — all organized by chaos) and got a call from Brandon, her then-fiancé reminding her that they’d need to leave their Greenpoint apartment for his department chair’s dinner party on the Upper West Side (a thing she’d forgotten she’d agreed to do) shortly and if she was still stopping to grab the wine. 

In her rush to settle up her tab, scamper to the liquor store next door and procure a fancy-ass bottle for the academic circle jerk, she left the notebook behind. Luckily, she’d remembered to scrawl her email in the front cover that time —she wasn’t going to let some rando find her address!

KC, as he told her later in one of their subsequent emails, found it and “began trying to decipher its many, many mysteries (the gum, for example).” 

She couldn’t be mad, she 100 percent would’ve done the same thing if fate, kismet, the universe’s funky algorithm, who knows, left someone else’s brain-dump to her doorstep. Between that confession (and the charming apology that came with it), the emails just didn’t stop — long after he’d sent the book back. 

Despite this two year friendship, she hasn’t seen his face — and only recently heard his voice. She knows he’s older than her 34 years by a not-small amount.  (He doesn’t have an instagram or a Twitter and when she asked him why he responded “Oh, that. What would I do with that stuff, really?”) And 95% of the time it doesn’t bother her. But then she sees emails like that and thinks of his deep, thoughtful voice (the calm, intentional pauses when he speaks that make everything go soft and quiet over the phone line) and something in her twitches. 

It’s been a long 18 months of being very single and maybe, just maybe it’s messing with her head to have such careful, considerate attention 4-8 (depending on how much they write and how busy they are) times a week. 

To: KCR@mail.net

From: Miles2Go@mail.net.

Subject: Doors Open & Closed — moving on.

KC, 

That poet soul of yours is working overtime today, bud. It’s too early for my icy heart to thaw the way it needs to if I’m going to adequately respond, so take this: I know. You’re right. I’ll try. Thank you. 

And try to let it be the end of this for now. 

I’m digitally and spiritually cleansing this space and cracking open this sad  pamphlet of a book you sent me. Stand by for my thoughts. 

Chilliest regards (with a gooey center), 

A

P.S. You promised me that shortlist of “films I need to watch now that I work from home and can watch movies all day.” Keep in mind, my attention span is like my love life: short, sad and ridiculous. 

She hits send and quickly checks in on the few dangling work emails that couldn’t wait until Monday. It’ll be a few hours before her West Coaster pen pal is up and a few more before he’s near a screen. He’s an early riser, but more of a yoga, outdoors-y, going jogging (ugh) kind than a feverish AM emailer. But she’ll forgive him that one (admittedly well-adjusted) flaw for now.

[nerianasims]

Billboard #1s 1974

Under the cut.

Steve Miller Band – “The Joker” -- January 12, 1974

It always throws me when I remember how old this song is. Two years older than me, and yet I associate it with my own mid-20s partying. Okay, my "partying" was pretty mild. One of the things my friends and I often did was go to a dueling piano (really keyboard) bar, and they always played this song. I can taste the rum and Coke now. We had tipsy discussions about what "pompatus" meant. A guy tried to pick one of my friends up with "really love your peaches." Anyway, I love this song, but it's also so embedded into my life that I can't judge it fairly.

Al Wilson – “Show And Tell” -- January 19, 1974

1970s Philly R&B is great music. This is a pretty typical example of the genre; lots of strings, lots of horns, an adult with a voice he uses like an instrument to impart strong emotions. It's a love song, and the lyrics aren't anything spectacular, but they do the job. Very good.

Ringo Starr – “You’re Sixteen” -- January 26, 1974

GAH. Next!

Barbra Streisand – “The Way We Were” -- February 2, 1974

I was tempted to write, "GAH. Next!" here too, but I'm determined to save that kind of thing for songs that have elements to them that I don't want to discuss because of moral issues. That's not this. The problem is: I hate Barbra Streisand. Or I should say I hate her singing; though from what I've seen of her personality, I don't like that either. Every song she sings, she sounds like she's singing to the glory of the greatness of the only person who matters to her in the world: Barbra Streisand. I once read an article that called her singing "masturbatory," but that's not strong enough. It's full-on self-worship. I hate it.

The Love Unlimited Orchestra – “Love’s Theme” -- February 9, 1974

This is Barry White's orchestra, but sadly it's an instrumental, without his glorious voice. It reminds me so much of the Love Boat theme that now I'm wanting to watch it. Absolute kitsch, but as kitsch goes, there's worse.

Terry Jacks – “Seasons In The Sun” -- March 2, 1974

The singer is dying and saying goodbye to everyone. That kind of sentiment may be made to work in pop, I suppose, but I've never heard it done. It belongs in opera. This is schmaltz.

Cher – “Dark Lady” -- March 23, 1974

As one of only a couple dark-haired dark-eyed girls in my quite blonde high school graduating class, people used to call me "exotic." Apparently my high cheekbones had something to do with it too. I was asked where my family was from pretty regularly. I wasn't offended --  more bemused. The answer is "Europe," though I guess the dark hair and eyes are probably by way of France. It's rather tough to say, considering my mother's side of the family has been here since the 16th century (indentured servants), and were not the rich types who stuck to their own ethnicity. Anyway, this is to say that I feel some kinship with Cher, and how drawn she was to songs like "Dark Lady." Though in this case, the "dark lady" is someone Cher's character murders for cheating with her boyfriend. She kills the boyfriend too.

This song is dated ("gypsy music") Las Vegas cheese, and yet I like it. It's wildly melodramatic and fun.

John Denver – “Sunshine On My Shoulders” -- March 30, 1974

Bleeeeeh. I like big melodramatic songs. This is the opposite. Now, I do like small, sweet songs often too. But I just can't with this one. It's too slow, too simple, and feels aggressively, shallowly cheery.

Blue Swede – “Hooked On A Feeling” -- April 6, 1974

I learned from the Todd in the Shadows video about this song that its stupid "ooga chaka" thing was inspired by 1960's "Running Bear." Now I hate it even more! The original of this song is a nice, simple love song. Blue Swede made it shouty and dumb.

Elton John – “Bennie And The Jets” -- April 13, 1974

It's Elton John. Therefore I don't like it. I feel like it's too slow maybe? I feel like most of Elton John's songs are too slow maybe. I don't know. I'm bored.

MFSB & The Three Degrees’ “TSOP (The Sound Of Philadelphia)” -- April 20, 1974

An instrumental disco track. It is one I find danceable, so there's that. Not bad.

Grand Funk – “The Loco-Motion” -- May 4, 1974

A rock cover of The Loco-Motion. Sure, why not. Though this version is not very good. It feels like they slowed it down, and they definitely made it extremely loud. I don't really see a reason for this song to exist.

Ray Stevens – “The Streak” -- May 18, 1974

Streaking was a fad in 1974. This is a comedy song about it. I had never heard it before this, and I hope never to again. It's deeply dumb.

Paul McCartney & Wings – “Band On The Run” -- June 8, 1974

The wee-oo-wee-oo-wee-oo thing at the beginning of the song sounds neat, but then it goes on too long. That's my feeling about this entire song: It goes on too long. It does change up substantially multiple times throughout, but it's no Bohemian Rhapsody. Bohemian Rhapsody is, imo, perfect. The pacing of "Band on the Run," otoh, is a mess. The second section needs to be a lot longer and the final section needs to be a lot shorter. Paul McCartney needed an editor for this.

Bo Donaldson And The Heywoods – “Billy, Don’t Be A Hero” -- June 15, 1974

A young woman tells her boyfriend to not "be a hero" when he goes off to war (probably the Civil War.) Because she wants him to come home alive. As anyone who knows this kind of song can predict, he decides to be a hero and dies. Cliche and weirdly bouncy for the subject matter. Still, at least songs were acknowledging that dying in war was not a great thing. Unlike the putrescent "Ballad of the Green Berets."

Gordon Lightfoot – “Sundown” -- June 29, 1974

The singer is jealously obsessed with a woman. He knows this isn't a good thing, but he doesn't seem able to -- or be trying to -- move past it. This is about something real; Gordon Lightfoot was obsessively, violently jealous over Cathy Smith, the woman who was later convicted for injecting John Belushi with the heroin that killed him. The lyrics are mean, but the music doesn't go hard at all. Except, compared to the rest of the stuff I've looked at for 1974 so far, the music does sound a lot harder -- it's minor key and there's a distinct bassline. It still feels like a mismatch.

The Hues Corporation – “Rock The Boat” -- July 6, 1974

A disco song I can dance to some. Not entirely. It's a song asking you not to "rock the boat" of your perfect love with the singer. It's incredibly schmaltzy -- schmaltzy disco. Ugh.

George McCrae – “Rock Your Baby” -- July 13, 1974

The singer is telling you, "woman," to take him in your arms and rock him. I.e. fuck him. I have perfect pitch. George McCrae is no Ella Fitzgerald. When he goes to the high note, he does not hit it right, and it's like nails on a chalkboard. I can't listen to this song all the way through.

John Denver – “Annie’s Song” -- July 27, 1974

Ugh, 1974. This is a simplistic love song to John Denver's wife. Not just simple, which is fine, but simplistic, which is not. They divorced years later, and Denver became violent during it. (Denver's the one who brought that to light and he obviously felt terrible about it.) The Stereogum guy was shocked by this. I'm not. For one, celebrity is horrible for people. For another, I can't think of any of Denver's songs that have depth or complexity. Trying to live at the surface is also horrible for people. I do like a lot of simple love songs, but John Denver's songs have always made me go "ick," even when I was a child. I feel like there's nothing in them.

Roberta Flack – “Feel Like Makin’ Love” -- August 10, 1974

The music to this song, with the calm but interesting percussion and romantic guitar, combined with Roberta Flack's whispery vocals, is lovely. It gives me asmr feels and makes me want to lie down and drift off to sleep. So, uh. Not exactly what I consider a sexy song. I do like listening to it, as it's nice and calming, but I don't think that was the intent.

Paper Lace – “The Night Chicago Died” -- August 17, 1974

And I will definitely need some relaxation after this garbage. Okay so, this travesty was by Brits who: 1) Thought there was an East Side of Chicago. That's Lake Michigan. 2) Thought it would be cute to write a song in which Al Capone tried to literally take over Chicago by killing all the cops (he bribed cops, he didn't kill them, and he was a criminal, not an insurrectionary.) 3) Sing "glory be" because they obviously think that's a super American thing to do. "In the land of the dollar bill." WHAT? This song makes me want to punt Paper Lace into the East Side of Chicago.

Paul Anka – “(You’re) Having My Baby” -- August 24, 1974

Notoriously one of the worst pop songs ever. The singer thinks "you" (that makes it worse) are having his baby solely and only because you love him. Monumental narcissism, just completely heinous, plus it's musical glop.

Eric Clapton – “I Shot The Sheriff” -- September 14, 1974

This is not Bob Marley's version. Bob Marley's version is so much better, and it's the one I've heard a lot, so when I turned this one on I was confused for a second.

Barry White – “Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love, Babe” -- September 21, 1974

Oh thank god. Barry White is one of my favorite singers, and this is one of my favorite songs. This is a sexy love song by a great artist.

Andy Kim – “Rock Me Gently” -- September 28, 1974

Andy Kim's voice sounds incredibly mid-70s. What's with men asking their lovers to rock them this year? The chorus is pretty good, and has a real beat. He's asking his lover to be gentle, and "I have never been loved like this before." That's nice. It's cheese, but it's fine.

Olivia Newton-John – “I Honestly Love You” -- October 5, 1974

A lot of the time when someone says they "honestly" something without prompting, they're lying. So this song sounds weird to me. "I love you/ I honestly love you" -- um, you sure about that? Though the singer has no reason to pretend she loves the person she's singing to, and every reason not to, since they're both with someone else. She just wants to tell you she loves you and leave it at that. Yeah, that's likely. Olivia Newton-John is a good singer, and she's especially good at acting a song. I feel she should have been on Broadway. In any case, while this is a slow soft song in an era with way too many of those, it's one of the better ones. It's not overly slow or particularly goopy.

Billy Preston – “Nothing From Nothing” -- October 19, 1974

If there's such a thing as vaudeville rock, this is it. He doesn't want to be your hero or your highness, so it sounds like he wants an equal relationship. He also says "I'm a soldier in the war on poverty," which makes it sounds like he's saying you have to have money if you want to get with him, but maybe not. He sings "you gotta bring a little something, girl, if you want to be with me," which may or may not be monetary. It's bouncy and all, but Billy Preston's done better.

Dionne Warwick & The Spinners – “Then Came You” -- October 26, 1974

A song about finally finding love. Plenty of good orchestration, a good beat, and of course Dionne Warwick's voice. I like it.

Stevie Wonder – “You Haven’t Done Nothin'” -- November 2, 1974

The "you" in this song is Richard Nixon. Stevie Wonder is one of the most love everyone, let's all come together artists in existence. But here, he was angry. "We would not care to wake up to the nightmare/ That's becoming real life/ But when misled who knows a person's mind/ Can turn as cold as ice." The Republican Party is still Nixon's party -- they love him almost as much as they do Reagan. This song is funky and good and the only reason I don't feel it more is that it's not angry enough.

Bachman-Turner Overdrive – “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet” -- November 9, 1974

They were goofing around in the studio, and lead singer Randy Bachman wanted to make fun of his brother's stutter. When this song became a hit, Randy was mortified. But even with nasty, juvenile intentions behind it, this song is good. It also sounds happy and not mean at all. It's a rather silly song about first experiencing sex, and it's fun.

John Lennon – “Whatever Gets You Thru The Night” -- November 16, 1974

John Lennon's voice was always kinda nasal, but it's really nasal on this song. Anyway, this song may as well be called "you do you." It's a song that in theory I should not find boring, but in practice I do. I have finally found out why: Elton John helped him with it. It sounds very Elton John-ish. Which means I don't really have anything else to say.

Billy Swan – “I Can Help” -- November 23, 1974

Some old-fashioned rockability is a nice change. The singer sees that the woman needs some help, so "let me help." "I got two strong arms/ Let me help." I immediately think of a romance between a farmhand and a widow woman. "It would sure do me good to do you good." That's a pretty concise description of love. Billy Swain's voice is kinda thin; Elvis did a cover of this, and it's a lot better. Billy Swain's version is sweet and all, but Elvis' is irresistible.

Carl Douglas – “Kung Fu Fighting” -- December 7, 1974

This isn't a song about actual kung fu; it's about kung fu movies. It's a fanboy telling you all about the cool movie he just saw, though not telling you a thing about the plot. Just the "expert timing" and stuff. Trying to analyze "Kung Fu Fighting" feels really silly. It's a rare enjoyable novelty song by an actual musician.

Harry Chapin – “Cat’s In The Cradle” -- December 21, 1974

A cover of this song by Ugly Kid Joe became a hit in 1992. And it was massively overplayed, so I hate this song. This father/son stuff bores me anyway, speaking of overplayed.

Helen Reddy – “Angie Baby” -- December 28, 1974

This song is deeply strange, which is a mark in its favor. It's a story song about a girl who has no friends and had to be taken out of school because she's "a little touched." She lives in a world of make-believe, listening to the radio all the time. A neighbor boy comes along to rape her. But as soon as he walks into her room... "Toward the radio he's bound/ Never to be found." He becomes her "secret lover," trapped in the radio. "It's so nice to be insane/ No one asks you to explain." Is Angie really "insane," or is she a sorceress whose rock n' roll powers everyone looks away from? Both? I'm not sure what I think of this song, but it is interesting, and that's always good.

BEST OF 1974 -- "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe" by Barry White WORST OF 1974 -- "(You're) Having My Baby" by Paul Anka

[giveuplife]

ITS BEEN A WHILE BUT IM BACK

So, it's been a while and the only reason I'm back to writing is because I am bored afff and my life ain't going the way I wanted it to. So let's do a bit of recap on my life.. I am now officially graduated from uni and I am SUPPOSED to be living me life and working the Dream Job i WANTED in the UK !!! But, here I am typing my feelings away as CORONA HAPPENED AND took away what was suppose to be THE YEAR for me... 

Lets just say ever since I moved to the UK for my education, yeah it was a slow and rough start, as I have never left home before and I was in a different continent but EVERyTHING eventually went well, as I got used to the lifestyle, made the BEST friends and enjoyed the independence and freedom. Uni life has really taught me to grow my ass up and be an adult and even take up responsibilities I have never done which was defo an obstacle at first but I have slowly overcome it. 

Its 2020 where I was suppose to live life, as it was the final year of uni and just make the most of everything. However, only enjoyed the first three months of the year and its fking September now.. LIKE HOWWW IS THAT POSSIBLE ?? i was suppose to have the best vacay with my mates, graduate with them, and get a job there and somehow find a way to settle in London. Haih but now I'M back home home with fam and yes I am very thankful and blessed to be spending time with them rn during this fking pandemic, but like my dreams and what I actually wanna do have been put to a pause till further notice.. 

Being away from home for about 4 years now has really made me think about what I want in live and who I wanna become in the future. Plus omg I miss having the privacy whenever I want. Yea i do have ma room but like you just never know when my sis or me mom walks in to check up on me. 

WHAT I REALLY WANT RN - to get on with my life in the UK. The fucking problem is- COROOOOONAAAAA !!! Like ugh if only corona didn't happen, I would have been enjoying me life not worrying about nothing. Now, everyday I wake up, I do the fking same thing over and over again and I'm just so tired of this.

I love my family so much and I love my home home but I just don't see myself progressing forward here without proper freedom and the working culture. It just wouldn't work for me. 

ALL I ASK FOR RN IS FOR A CHANCE TO GO BACK TO THE UK AND START MY DREAM !!!! I really hope this happens so I can wake up feeling myself again. 

[bbrandy2002]

The Breakfast Club

Chapter 10B-Final

The Royal Romance AU

Warning: Profanity

Thank you to everyone who has read, liked, commented and/or reblogged. I have appreciated each one.

@ladyakwardness @ao719 @dcbbw @carabeth @romanticatheart-posts @emceesynonymroll @pedudley @stopforamoment @choiceslife @burnsoslow @gnatbrain @lovemychoices @timothygorgeous

Drake sat at a table in the back of the ballroom, he dreaded the next few hours of mind numbing boredom. There were at least two hundred people there to celebrate Liam's birthday and betrothal. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver flask, throwing it back, relishing in its escape.

His eyes scanned the room, adorned in gold and glitz, it looked like every other ball at the palace, rather than a birthday.

"Ugh, who let you in here?", he heard, looking up to see Olivia glaring at him.

"The same dumb fucks who let you in", he replied, matching her tone.

She slumped down in the chair next to him and hid her glass, filled with punch, between them, " Don't hold back on me Walker".

He relunctantly pulls out his flask and pours some of the liquid into her glass."So, what're you doing back her with the exile?".

She downed her entire drink, then motioned with her empty glass at Madeleine, "I just want to slap her smug face...she's been hanging all over Liam since she arrived."

Drake sat back in his chair, "Any word on Brooks, yet?".

"Not that I've heard, Liam's been quiet all day, and, of course, I have been busy preparing for my return to Lythikos".

He looked at her intriqued, "I thought you weren't leaving until September?"

She huffed, "My plans have changed," she said as she moved her gaze to Liam, "...there's no reason for me to stay any longer...besides, I really do want to get a start on helping my people and showing them what a true Nevrakis looks like".

He clapped her shoulder, "I'm scared for your people then because you can be a major pain in the ass".

She shrugged and nodded in agreement. "So, what's your plan? Continue brooding around the palace, hit up a few more liquor stores, maybe waste away in your filth of a bedroom?".

Drake took another swig of whiskey and offered it to her, "Naw, me and Savannah are leaving for Texas tomorrow".

She looked surprised, "I thought....".

He rubbed a hand over his forehead, "yeah, I know...mom has been calling lately and usually I don't talk to her, but, I did last night...she's doing real good and wants us to come stay for a while...it'll be nice to get away from here and spend some time with the family".

She smiled at him, then stood from her chair. "You know, you're still an asshole, Walker".

He raised his flask to her in tribute with a half grin, "Touche".

She winked at him, then made her way back to a table at the front of the room.

The ball carried on as guests danced and mingled. Laughter and the sounds of chatter filling the room. Servants brought out the finest displays of culinary art they could create. The court, as always, pretentous, wearing fake smiles and glistening jewels.

Constantine stood on the dais with Regina beside him. He raised a champaign flute, and called for the attention of the room.

As the noise tapered off, he proposed a toast to Liam, the future King of Condonia.

Liam raised his glass, giving an appreciative nod to his father, then the attendees, before taking a sip.

Constantine cleared his throat, "Now, if my son would join me here, we will announce his choice for our future queen".

Liam placed his glass on the table and walked stoically to the position next to his father, turning to face the crowd. Liam's heart was pounding, his anxiety was trying to get the best of him, but, he was holding it together....he had to.

Constantine placed a diamond encrusted engagement ring in Liam's palm, then motioned for Madeleine to join them, "Countess Madeleine of Fydelia".

As Madeleine stood, half of the room applauded approvingly, the other half stunned into silence. The younger nobility had disapproved of her prior betrothal to Leo; her family was knowingly corrupt and lining the pockets of evil factions in and around Cordonia. The older nobilty turned a blind eye to these practices, it helps when you are blackmailed by the crown or given special favors.

Madeleine gracefully made her way to the royal family, curtsing before them, then holding her hand out to Liam.

Liam took her hand and kissed it, standing upright again with her hand tightly gripped in his.

The room was silent and all eyes were at attention. Liam held the ring, breathing heavy, his senses heightened. He had placed the ring just at the tip of her finger, then peaked, expectantly, to the back of the room... everything stood still.

He met Madeleine's starry gaze, with a wild glance, his blue eyes beaming. He looked down at the sparkling ring, barely on her finger, slowly pulling it back off. Madeleine gave a bewildered look, shaking her ring finger, waiting for him to place it back on.

He turned to face Constantine, who was slowly losing his stoic facade; confusion written all over it. Liam motioned with his head to the back of the room, where Constantine followed his lead.

Constantine watched in horror as his oldest son saluted him from a doorway, with his middle finger and a wide, arrogant grin. The King took a small step forward, sneering in perpetual indignation. The audience began whispering to one another in wonderment; they could sense the rising tension.

Liam faced Constantine, reveling in his father's fury.  With the ring pinched between his fingers, he held it up to Constantine's face before throwing it randomly into the audience.

Madeleine gasped, covering her mouth, she was completely stunned by what was taking place. She grabbed Liam, forcing him to face her, "What are you doing?".

He pursed his lips, and faced Leo again, stating simply, "I'm leaving". He took a step forward and Constantine, embarrassed, whipped in front of him, speaking in a hushed tone, "This ends now...you and your damn brother have had your fun, now stop this immature behavior and do what we're here to do!"

Liam shook his head in acknowledgement, "You're right father, this ends now", he said as he stepped around him.

Chaotic chatter was starting to escalate. Constantine pulled him back by his arm and held him in place, his voice now raised, "Stop this!....You're ruining everything Liam!"

Leo casually walked towards the two and braced himself in front of Liam. He pulled out a smart disk, cocked his head and held it up to his father, "do you know what this is dear father?".

Constantine replied with a sneer, "what?".

Leo placed the disk in his fathers hands, "You taught me everything I know about ruling Cordonia, I've worked with you for years....I know all your secrets, your dirty deals, the people you've conspired with and how you worked with a terrorist group to take out the late King of Monocco...all of it right here on this little disk....I guess you could say I've been saving it for a rainy day..so...welcome to your rainy day father", he said with glee.

Constantine was speechless, he looked out at a sea of angry council members and dignitaries, scattered throughout the ballroom.

Liam peered out from behind Leo with a proud chuckle, "...and I've taken the liberty of ensuring every news outlet in Cordonia has a copy of it". He then placed  two fingers over his mouth, feigning shock "...oops..was I not supposed to do that?"

Leo laughed out hysterically and placed his arm around Liam's shoulder, "Good one little brother".

Constantine took a hard swallow, he wanted to kill both of them, right then and there. If he weren't in public, he would have done so. He put in a fake smile and gritted his teeth. "You're finished Liam....you and your brother, both, will never wear the crown...are you satisfied".

Liam pretended to ponder his threat then spoke sarcastically at him, "So, I suppose the bloodline dies with you....would you like me to congratulate Olivia now, as a Nevrakis will be the next monarch on the throne".

Realization of his words suddenly hitting Constantine, he pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, nearly in tears. His knees were going weak and his entire body was working against him. He couldn't strip Liam of his title or he risked his perceived enemy becoming his heir. With his secrets being aired, scandal and council hearings would soon follow. He felt like his entire world crashed down, face flushed, eyes widened.

Leo grasped Liam's shoulder, "You ready to go?"

Liam started to feel free for the first time in his life, it was exilerating. He looked, seriously, at his father one last time, "You can't hurt me anymore."

He stepped away, walking shoulder to shoulder with his brother, out of the ballroom.

Drake, still sitting in the back with his feet propped on the table, took another drink of whiskey and said to himself, "I thought this party would be boring....man was I wrong."

*****

Liam grabbed a bag he had packed earlier, that he left in a closet near the door. He got into Leo's rental car and they drove to the airport tarmac.

Liam stepped out of the car and grabbed his bags. Standing at the bottom of the stairs of the airplane was Maxwell and Riley. He immediately ran over to her, dropping his bags and lifting her up in his arms, "There's my girl".

Maxwell had called Liam late, last night after finally finding her home. Her step father had been arrested the night before for domestic violence against her mother; he wasn't home when Riley returned.

Leo, Liam, Riley and Maxwell boarded the plane and took their seats.

Liam held her hand and gave her a soft kiss, "You ready for New York?", he asked.

She smiled brightly, "As ready as I'll ever be."

They landed several hours later, staying with Leo and his wife for a few days. Riley would move in with her friend Daniel, while she and Liam got to know each other more, though, they rarely spent time apart.

Maxwell wanted to go with her to New York, they had come so far, he had to make sure she would be okay....she had become his best friend.

As Maxwell waited for his flight to be called back to Cordonia, Riley sat next to him.

"Maxwell, you know for all of that talk about failing the Beaumont name, you sure know how to make things better."

He looked at her inquisitively, "How so?".

She crossed her arms on her lap, "Well...it was you who made Olivia see things differently, and it was you who gave me a place to stay when I didn't have one, you introduced me to all these new friends and you're the one who rescued me from a bad home....you're very special Maxwell...never forget that."

Maxwell smiled at her thoughtfully, "Thank you Riley."

They hugged one another as Maxwell made his way back to Cordonia.

Due to excrutiating stress, brought about by several council hearings and foreign inquisitions, Constantine's health declined. Six months after Liam left, he had a stroke and was left bedridden, unable to speak. Regina acted as head of the state, as well as, several key figures of Cordonia politics....including Duchess Olivia Nevrakis of Lythikos.

Leo worked with Liam, prepping him for his eventual elevation to King. He would fly to Cordonia on occasion, to learn from Regina and check in with the court. He, however, never visited Constantine again.

Riley attended university and received her degree in counciling; she wanted to work with children who had come from traumatic backgrounds.

7 years later-Coronation Ball

Constantine's death had been inevitable, however, most people hadn't expected him to suffer so long when he was alive, without speech and very little movement.

Liam and Riley stood at the entrance of the ballroom, having been married for just over a year, the young couple had just attended their coronations earlier that day.

The herald made the announcement, "Thier Majesties, King Liam and Queen Riley of Cordonia".

They made their rounds, shaking hands with people excited to usher in a new, more positive face to the monarchy.

They sat down at their table preparing for the meal. At the table with them, Drake, Olivia and Maxwell. They had stayed in close contact over the years.

Olivia took a sip of her champaign, "So, are you ever going to pop that baby out...it shouldn't take them so damn long."

Riley clutched her growing tummy, "Olivia, I still have three months to go."

Liam laughed, "Yeah, our little Ellie needs a little more time."

Maxwell chimes in, "And as soon as my new app takes off, Uncle Maxwell will be reporting for babysitting duty."

Drake sighs, "Im afraid to ask....what app?"

Maxwell gets giddy with excitement, "Its a story about all of us, and you can make choices about what you want to happen in the story. Each one of you are a character."

Drake shakes his head, "Leave me out of it...no one wants to see me as character in some damn app."

Maxwell leans up, "Not true...My focus group says you're one of the more popular love interests, of course, they keep forgetting about me."

Drake sits a little taller in his seat, trying to hide his growing smile and ego.

After the ball has ended, they all say their farewells. Maxwell walks out the front of the palace, places his sunglasses on, raising a fist into the air as he crosses the palace lawn to his car.

[folerdetdufoler]

sunday was like…a half day. i woke up for breakfast but then went back to bed. i went back through my tweets and apparently i was woken up in the middle of the night by girls being loud in the hallway, so maybe i was just trying to sleep off my grumpiness. i didn’t wake up again until housekeeping came by, and that was enough to knock me out of heaven (bed).

i went to meet haidee at KB for second breakfast. it was one of my grosser walks, because it was raining and warm out, so i was either getting wet from the outside or sweating through my layers on the inside. on top of literally dripping on my stool at the cafe, i was trying to save a seat for haidee too, and that was making me sweat double time because i always feel like no one believes me when i say “i have a friend coming.” like, i have friends? really? hmmm. anyway, she arrived and we got caught up.

and phew, i thought my saturday was rough with all of the walking? haidee’s saturday, starting late friday night, was…not good. ugh. i felt so bad that she went through so much, and that i couldn’t be there to help fix it or let her escape from it. it’s frustrating that she was subjected to a lot of very bad decisions made by other people, and doubly so that my first instinct was to try to fix it, even though none of it was my fault. i wanted to publicly rant on her behalf, shame others for their bad behavior, but that wasn’t going to fix anything either, so we just unloaded and commiserated for a few hours, and tried our best to figure out how to handle that sort of thing going forward. in the very least, it was good to talk, rather than let the disappointment fester in silence.

since i was in the neighborhood i had wanted to make a quick stop at nissen to see the bench in the light, and make haidee take another picture on the bench with me. but siv actually walked into the cafe and chatted with us briefly, explaining that the convention was still running late and the safaris hadn’t wrapped up at the school on time. i was relieved then that i hadn’t dragged haidee up there, nor gone on my own, so we stayed inside and waited for her other friend (i want to call her vee but i also know that that is wrong) to arrive. i ordered an iced mocha and cinnamon roll, which, because i’m obsessed with myself, seemed cute since it was isak’s regular order in mondays. i started drinking iced mochas when i kept seeing kaylee rave about them, so that’s what made me choose it for isak, and a cinnamon bun is a cinnamon bun. [bread pun]

at some point nadège was walking past with her tour group and she ran up to knock on the window and in that moment i understood how isak was feeling right here:

haidee’s friend showed up and we all crowded into isak’s window for a bit. then i excused myself to go meet jenn in grünerløkka. i can’t remember who told me about it first, whether it was mo back in january or haidee in june, but retrolykke came highly recommended, so we met there. on the barista’s recommendation jenn had tea and i had water, because my “caffeine headache” wasn’t going away so i was probably just dehydrated. we sat outside because it was still kind of warm and i’m glad we did because i probably would’ve spent all of my money if we were sat anywhere near a shelf in that joint. we traded stories about our saturdays and i got the run down on the movie i missed. then, unable to hide it any longer, i let loose my deep desire to ride the ferris wheel at the christmas market. maybe i played it cool, but that’s unlikely. we had a small window before we had to meet haidee for dinner, so we cleaned up and zipped over there.

cheers to the people who let you indulge in your secret wishes, who help you buy a ticket and climb into the bucket with you. cheers to the young girls in our bucket (is there a different word for it? gondola? whatever. it felt like a bucket swinging from a giant’s hand) who probably thought we were weird but weren’t too afraid to ask jenn to take their picture. cheers to oslo and its shit weather, which it still wore beautifully. this bitch looks great from any angle.

after the ride we wandered around the market because haidee reported her event was (newsflash) running late and they were still waiting outside. i was getting another low, so i had to stop to get something to eat. what i should’ve done was just stop and chomp some tablets, but my mind was foggy and i was with someone else so i was like obviously we need to get gløgg first. i stared down the candy apples by the register, which would’ve been the next smartest choice for fast-acting sugar, but i ordered a goddamn pølse instead, and we proceeded to make dick jokes for another fifteen minutes while i housed it in like, five bites.

now, i need to explain something that i think has just been rolling around in the back of my mind since february, but i’m mildly obsessed with the idea of pølse as a party food, a common snack. i don’t know why, of all the norwegian things i’ve encountered, this sticks out for me, because…it’s a hot dog. americans eat hot dogs all the time. it is not an unfamiliar concept. but after seeing marlon eating one at the club i’ve projected that onto every possible party situation in my head, from a tiny gathering in a home to a giant dance floor with lasers shooting out across a crowd. and it just makes me laugh? and i feel like i need to explain why or how, but i actually can’t. just…dick jokes aside, ordering a hot dog was funny to me, and i wanted to experience that hot-dog-in-da-club feeling, so maybe that’s why i went with protein and slow carbs instead of straight sugar. i prioritized my sense of humor over my health, and while it was dumb it made me laugh and tasted good. that doesn’t explain my obsession with pølse but i think it tells you a lot about me.

okay so after that…we took shelter in a KB because it was still raining and we were still waiting and i was still low. then i finally got smart and started eating my tablets. we made our way over to ett bord where we were picking up haidee, but they were still finishing up. jenn sat at the table outside and narrated what was going on inside because i refused to turn around. i was hoping, like a child who hadn’t learned what object permanence was, that if i didn’t see anything, then nothing was happening. or if the people inside didn’t see me, then i didn’t exist. but i don’t think it worked. ragnar came out to say hi to jenn, and that was cool to see him again. we scooped nadège and haidee and i tried to escape unseen, but fuck…like a minute later we ran into three italians and walked with them up to the intersection. that’s what the blurry photo is, nadège and rocco, federico and jenn in front of them. at that point i was ready to just give up, because like, of course i was going to intersect with these people eventually. i was literally visiting places related to the show and convention. i don’t know why i thought it was avoidable, why i had shaped my trip around trying not to see these people, while also putting myself directly in their line of fire. i’d met henrik and lisa and there were the italians and i had a goodie bag in my backpack and you probably wouldn’t actually believe me at this point if i said i didn’t attend the convention. my desire and my shame shuttled me around the city, working together, telling me you can’t have your cake and eat it too. so i took a picture of it.

i was able to relax though, through dinner with jenn and haidee at olivia. we ended up at the wrong location (tjulvhomen instead of aker brygge) because i decided to ignore jenn’s directions (nice) but they were pretty empty so we just stayed. since i had already caught up with both of them i took this opportunity to let them talk to each other, which left me free to shove every strand of linguini known to man into my face. you only get a photo of my dessert, which marks the first point in time that i stopped eating long enough to actually take a picture.

it was interesting talking to both of them about the movie because they were literally in the same room, watching the same thing, but had such different interpretations and responses to it. on top of that, being in a room filled with the skam fandom must have shaped their viewing as well. even though i didn’t experience any of it, the discussion alone was a great reminder of the variety of perspectives in the fandom and what happens when a fandom is the lens through which you view the world.

we of course talked about skam and fandom, but we also got to talk about our personal lives a bit more, and i think this was the first time i was in a completely non-skam-related place, which seemed to free us a bit from reference points that kept your subconscious attached to the show or cast (at least it did for me). i had spent my day avoiding it, and but now i was actually distanced from it without any effort, and it felt like a really positive development. especially as i’m attempting to be a better person in general, able to establish and maintain relationships that aren’t based precariously on a singular, mutual fixation. i want to be able to be friends with people because they’re good people and a joy to be around, not just because there’s this one thing we can talk about. now here’s a joke line because i always undercut my serious emotions with humor: look ma, we talked about something else!

then jenn had to get to a party, so we had another navigational ~experience~. we dropped her off there and haidee and i decided to head home. our days were short but like, emotionally very long, so we were done. that didn’t stop us from standing on the sidewalk in the rain, talking for another hour though. we kept hugging to say goodbye and then talking some more and hugging again and talking and ok for the last time now because there are puddles inside my shoes kiss kiss squeeze i’m not crying it’s the rain i swear. i’ll see you in september, okay? promise.

i finished the day as it started, with a very wet walk. the market was empty, so i let myself take the kinds of photos that i am too embarrassed to take in public, the ones where you stand wherever you’d like for optimal angles and don’t care about anyone else around you, don’t worry about being in their way, or worry that they can tell how many pictures you’re taking, or worry that they’re judging how poorly your shots are turning out. ugh, it’s amazing that i can function as a tourist full stop. please sir, would you mind emptying out the city so i may experience it without the anxiety of my human existence? tusen takk.

whatever. i got to the hotel, asked for a new room key (at some point that evening i lost my room key and my ruter card, rip), returned to heaven (bed) and promptly shit my pants again when i saw the announcement on twitter about the bloopers.

the motherfucking bloopers. the man, the myth, the legend. the rumors were true.

[evotter]

jan, march, sept + one of your choice, love. have a great day, u icon

thank u kyra i adore u

january: what was the first fic you posted this year?

the first fic i posted this year TECHNICALLY was the epilogue of a different path. the first standalone was chewbacca (aka my introduction to the jily world once again and i have such a soft spot for it)

march: do you listen to music whilst writing? 

yes! pretty much always; if it’s not music, it’s a TV show.

september: share a comment or review which still warms your heart?

quite literally anything you’ve left on any of my fics BUT there are a few that i hold dear to my heart. i’ll post them under the cut cause they are LONG :’)

ancient: the first fic you ever posted online?

hahahaaaaaaa. it was my own version of rick riordan’s the son of neptune before the actual book was published. it was on ff.net, and the first chapter got 7 reviews, and i felt so good about myself after that lmfao. who knew i’d still be writing 8 years later?

ask me questions!

OKAY so i have 3 top favorites:

from a different path:

okay so i had seen this in someone else’s bookmarks the other day, thought it was an interesting concept—especially since i too love slytherin!percy and strongly subscribe to ofswordsandpens’ headcanons about it—but didn’t give it another thought until i was listening to a video about the cursed child and went: wait, there’s a percabeth hogwarts au that i saw somewhere. and immediately i hunted this down and i’m just in awe? i tore through it. belatedly, i realized that i made a mistake: i didn’t write down my thoughts as i was reading, which is definitely a disservice to you. however, here are a generalized list of things that i loved.

first of all, with hogwarts au’s, there are three main aspects that i look for: plot, characterization, and quality of writing. normally, fics of this size lack one or more of these key factors, but i was astonished to find that the plot is tremendously tight and intriguing (my lip bled from biting it so much because i’ve been stressed to the max), you write these characters with such distinct voices i can easily picture them saying everything—except, of course, now in a little british accent—and your writing flows so well, it feels almost like i’m reading an actual harry potter book, just with percy and co. you also do a masterful job of weaving together aspects of the pjo universe with the established canon of hp.

and there are so many specific things that i love. primarily, the way you write the relationships in this story; not just concerning percabeth (though i will get to that in a minute), but also with each of the interactions between all of the characters. i applaud you for how you handled luke/annabeth and rachel/percy, and the friendship among them all is just incredibly well done. i especially love how well you wrote connor and zoë and just, a lot of characters that i don’t often think about when i think of pjo. grover and percy’s friendship especially is heartbreaking, i just. he’s so protective because he loves his friends and holy fuck i also love how you wrote grover in this. but i just adored how you wrote annabeth/percy—the love between them, both platonic in its early stages and the romantic all throughout, was doubly apparent. i ached when they kissed each other’s cheeks, and i inwardly cheered when she kissed him in the locker room. there was just such a natural progression, to me, of their relationship. and man did i dig it. i’m excited (and maybe a little scared) to see where you take their relationship in the future.

boy, this is getting long. sorry. but some more just little quick things: loved the b99 reference, with both of their competitive natures playing out in a similar way to jake and amy’s. i kind of want to go back and see if i can find any other references that i missed because i was just too engaged in the story to catch them. also, zoë’s death killed me all over again, thanks for that. i like how you’re working the kronos plot in, and i can’t wait to see how the Final Battle plays out. what else? oh! professor hestia? beautiful. eventual maybe professor percy? outstanding. percy kissing the top of annabeth’s head? breathtaking. rachel being a quidditch commentator? earth shattering. (truly i cackled when i saw that.) mrs. o’leary being a cat? incredible. how you incorporated percy’s water powers? stunning.

ooh, this exchange was beautiful and had me cackling it was so in-character:

“None of us are dying.” Connor clarifies. “Not you, not me, not Annie, not the rest of us.”

“I might have to dispute that.” Annabeth says, from Percy’s other side. “Call me ‘Annie’ one more time, Stoll, and I’ll kill you myself.”

Connor only grins at her. “Sorry, love. No more ‘Annie’. Can I call you Beth?”

“No.”

“Anna?”

“No.”

okay, so i just finished chapter nine and i am blown away. sorry for how long this comment was, but a fic of this magnitude truly warrants it. i can’t wait to see what happens next.

i leave you with just two words: “holy shit.”

from a different path: 

god, oh my god, am i the only dumb bitch who didn’t get what the prophecy was??

anyway, i stumbled on this fic last year, patiently waiting for its completion, and now that i’ve rediscovered it, i’m so glad i finished it all in one go! i couldn’t imagine the tension of waiting for the next chapter, especially since the tension is so well-crafted!! i hardly noticed the tonal shift even as the story got darker and darker as it led up to the war, and in that way i was reminded of how extremely similar it felt to reading the hp books for the first time! you nailed percy very well i might say, and the awkward-yet-caring relationship he has with his dad. i daresay you gave connor and zoe more characterization than rick riordan himself, and the percabeth you wrote is perfect to the nth degree. i appreciate that you didnt bother with all the love triangle and unrequited feelings nonsense as well.

but i have to say, even as i cried at sally and paul’s wedding, or at dionysus’ quiet mourning for castor, what really struck with me most was the way you handled silena. for that, i have no words. that was a job extremely well done. thank you so much for blessing us with this fic.

from chewbacca (a comment from u!): 

A girl in a bright yellow hooded raincoat stumbles into the cafe on one of the slowest nights James has ever seen. Her coat is dripping all over the floor he’d just cleaned (but it’s fine) and when he leans over the counter he sees that her boots match the coat.

First of all!!! Thats the best opening line in the world and nobody can convince me otherwise. I want to become a publisher just so that if you ever write a book, I’d be able to publish it. ( like omg, what an honor??? )

She looks like sunshine, standing there with the amount of yellow in her wardrobe. Briefly, James wonders if that’s her favorite color. It’s got to be.

Im going to quote this whole fic but I really love these lines? Like, you have this distinct style of writiting that I aim to acheive and you’re literally such a rolemodel!!! These are my favorite kind of fics to read. Funny story but I was going through a ‘no thanks Jily’ mood (  a horror, i know !! ) but your fics are just,,,,exceptions? You could write about trash and I’d love it and ask for you to sign me up.

 “Say it again, but convincingly this time.”

ooof this dialogue??? let me breathe

This is the longest he’s stood still since he started working. It’s actually a miracle.

and the funniest person award goes to YOU. also, the most talented and cutest but thats neither here nor there.

james taking care of fleamont, switching off the lights gives me just a nice and realistic vibe? its so simple but i love how you added it.

honestly at this point, ive been sucked again by the fanfic. it feels less like a fic and more like a masterpiece that belongs in a museum but anyway.

“James is supposed to be helping.

James is on his phone.”

ugh i love ur mind. im rereading and its so nice and lovely. even if its like 1am and im exhausted, this fic is sustaining me.

“Do it off the clock, would you?”

PEAK HUMOR

have i mentioned how much i love that scene with euphemia? she seems like such a lovely mom. i love ur euphemia the most. and ahh, both of them just rushing to the hospital ? another 100% good scene.

“Euphemia smiles too, but looks at Fleamont rather than at her son. “Yes,” she says. “It really does.””

fic? or shakspeare? HMMM

A girl in a bright yellow hooded raincoat stumbles into the cafe on one of the slowest nights James has ever seen // “Get fucked.”

the fic!! has made a circle!!! i love how it begins and ends along the same lines. I really want to know how??? are you so talented im in love.

i just really love this fic, okay? i love how james is just the kindest, lily is allowed to have feelings, its just so soft and warm. and it makes someone feel loved, want love anyway.

the dynamic between the characters are just so real and great and im astounded, in short.

your sirius is everything. so many fics potray him as a dick??? which is first of all #rude and also, not at all true. you made me love these characters even more so i sincerely hope you never stop writing.

you’re such a beautiful writer and the way you string words together is just poetic and gorgeous and all the other good adjectives you can think of. i read your spiderman x reader too and i was a goner for you. EVERYTHING YOU WRITE IS SO GOOD. i read it so long ago but i can vividly remember peter whipping the mask off and she just going wtf stop on the window ledge. what im trying to say is that you leave this lasting impression on people that make them remember random scenes and words / prose long after they’ve read it which is a remarkable feat, i believe.

and im so sorry im not on tumblr rn bc i cannot keep recing this fic but i have told my friends about your writing and they loved it too. you’ve got like a million fans. when i do get back from my hiatus, im going to keep recing your fics and people will cry because their universe will shift thanks to the newfound joy of your presence in their life.

lastly, im more of a dog person and that, more than anything, should tell you how much i love this fic. i love u. and basee on your writing, i want to hug you, be your best friend and make you cookies bc again

WOW

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Deliverance [1]

Careful when you’re swimming in the holy water.

SERIES: Far Cry 5 WORD COUNT: 4,931 SHIP: Quinn/John Seed CHARACTERS: quinn leonis, john seed

She hates Hope County.

Quinn Decides on it firmly, right then and there, that she hates Hope County. If someone asked her why, they’d probably think her answer should be something along the lines of, “well, it’s controlled by a bunch of fanatical psychopaths,” or, “the resident superstars in the local cult are kind of assholes,” or even, “ow, let the fuck go of my arm, you prick,” but it wasn’t.

No, the final nail in the coffin for Quinn’s patience with Hope County wasn’t the doomsday cult, nor the family that ran it who all had nasty reputations for freaking the shit out of the sane half of the population, or the current state of her physical health.

It was the fucking weather.

It was mid-September, for fuck’s sake. Northern Montana had no business being this fucking hot in mid-September.

Or was it late September? Fuck, she didn’t know at this point—she’d lost too many Goddamn days with the eldest Seed to even know how much time had passed since this whole clusterfuck had started--and there was no way in hell she planned on asking the owner of the hand clamped tight on her upper arm whether or not the thunderstorm that had rolled through last night was typical for the area at this time of year.

Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a filthy mouth, kitten?

She snorts out a humorless laugh as Jacob’s voice filters through her tangled knot of frustrated thoughts, wishing she could point him to her current situation and stare at him, infuriated, like: See this? This is why I swear so fucking much, asshole.

But that’d require her either returning to him or him coming to her and neither thought was very comforting in the slightest, sending shivers up her spine. She’d escaped from the Whitetails mostly unscathed, far weaker and wearier than she had been when she���d initially set foot on the County’s soil but whole and alive, and she didn’t want to risk whatever obvious mind fuckery he was toying with sinking its claws further into her. It was bad enough that even as she shivered at the thought of Jacob, a whisper of come home hissed through the back of her mind.

Only three weeks and she didn’t have to struggle to see how fucked it was that there was a piece of her being pulled back in the direction she’d fled from a little over two days ago.

The hand around her arm tightens with enough sting to rip her out of her thoughts and she’s shoved forward, forced to twist her body quickly as she falls forward to keep herself from biting it in front of half a dozen captured civilians and resistance members, a dozen cultists, and God himself since her hands were bound behind her.

And now her shoulder aches. Great. Awesome.

“Boy, you guys sure know how to treat a lady.” She snaps, lamenting that her current state--exhausted, hungry, and in pain—left her without a whole lot of verbal bite to work with. As she’s struggling to wiggle her way up and out of the mud the same hand clamps around her arm again and yanks her upright, then slams her back against a really jagged, really uncomfortable stone surface. Add a migraine to her list of grievances with the Seed family. “Son of a bitch.”

“Shut your mouth, sinner!” The cultist—what had Jess called them? Peggies?--barks back at her, throwing a stern point at her like she was a particularly misbehaved child. God fucking damn but she was well on her way to thoroughly despising religion and the pompous assholes it churned out like clockwork.

Jacob hadn’t seemed particularly religious, nor had he struck her as very arrogant; the arrogance seemed more like a smokescreen, with him. She might’ve just been pissing in the wind, though, since he’d kept her dehydrated and starved and subjected to training sessions that mainly pissed her off and gave her headaches; she hadn’t exactly been in top form, and her observational skills were more than likely impaired.

She still was. It had been three days since the ambush that had seen her and Jess separated and put them both on the run in opposite directions, Jess being driven somewhere up north and Quinn forced south.

She’d thought it strange that the hunters that had been dogging her steps relentlessly in that timeframe, keeping her from sleeping more than a few hours at a time if she was lucky or giving her hardly any time to inhale whatever poor excuses for meals she could scrounge up or find, had suddenly stopped their pursuit.

It made a bit more sense now that she knew she had bounced dividing lines right into John Seed’s territory. Apparently the brothers’ followers didn’t play well with each other.

She spares a few seconds with closed eyes trying to will back the budding migraine behind them and wondering whether that contention extended to the siblings themselves or if it was just limited to their cronies, thoughts interrupted by a car door slamming nearby. The two men bound on either side of her both jump at the sound; one of them begins to shake and quietly plead for it to not be him, no, why him, why him.

Now her thoughts drift onto whether or not the brothers got off on this little power trip of theirs or if they really were just that off their rockers, putting these people through so much shit that they were terrified at just the sight of one of them.

Between the screen of Peggies standing along the line of captives she couldn’t even see who had exited the vehicle, but it was hard not to guess. C’mon, she thinks to herself, make it two for two. Lady Luck hadn’t exactly been kind to her since they’d first landed that helicopter in Joseph Seed’s compound and proceeded to rip hell loose all over the County, so she might as well send her from the clutches of one of the Siblings right into another’s.

Ugh, whatever. “Hey,” she says, shifting forward and struggling to ignore the pounding that had settled firmly within her skull, trying to get the attention of the cultist that had thrown her down, “hey, dipshit!”

The man next to her hisses for her to shut the fuck up. She ignores him, attention only wavering when the waning sun briefly peeks through the overcast clouds and shines off something sitting atop someone’s head over by the car.

“D’you want a fuckin’ bullet?” The cultist demands, stomping towards her as though it might threaten her into silence.

She was too fucking done with all this shit to be threatened—it was making her reckless, and she files away this fact for later self-pity when her current plan inevitably gets her shot, beaten, or otherwise harmed. “Actually, I was gonna ask for the time. Y’see, I’ve got an appointment to keep and I--”

He backhands her. Her head snaps to the side with the blow and with her head already a jumbled, aching mess her vision swims from it.

“Ow.” Jaw working and eyes blinking the blurriness from her vision she has to fight to keep her voice as neutral and unaffected as possible. It has the desired effect—the guy looks even more pissed off at the lack of fright and subservience he’d probably expected her to fall into after receiving such abuse. “Listen, I’ve got something I need to tell you. To pass on to your boss.”

He stares at her and doesn’t move.

“It’s important. You know, Resistance secrets and whatnot.” She tries, ignoring the sudden affronted balking of the men next to her.

Finally, the man slings his rifle over his back and crouches down in front of her, staring at her expectantly. She sits up just a bit taller, but he’s still…

“Little bit closer?”

He looks irritated, but he shifts forward just enough for her to—

The cultist rears back with a howl of pain when her forehead slams into his nose with a satisfying crack, stumbling and very nearly losing his footing in the slick mud underneath; it made her migraine that much worse, but she grins wickedly at the flood of red that immediately streams from his now broken nose.

She’s lost her Goddamned mind from the stress and abuse and exhaustion, must have. Whether it was from some Molotov cocktail of those issues or the terrifying absurdity of the tangle she’s unwittingly gotten herself stuck in or even the overpowering rage at the bullshit these monsters were putting people through, she was snapping.

“You little bitch—" He lunges for her and all she can do is laugh wildly at the stuffy, undignified way his words leave his mouth.

Someone jumps between her and the aggrieved man. “Woah, woah, woah! Hey, easy. Easy.” The voice of the one that intervened is aristocratic and smooth and amused as hell. Score one for Quinn. She didn’t have a lot of ticks in her win column, so she’ll take what she can get.

The cultist doesn’t by any means calm down, stopped only by the hand on his chest and two of his fellows holding him back by the arms; Quinn resists the urge to childishly stick her tongue out at the bastard.

Then her—gag—savior turns slowly to face her sideways, one hand still planted on the cultist’s chest and the other lifted at his side, elbow bent and fingers curled just shy of a point in her direction. Slicked back, dark hair, a full beard, aviators perched atop his head. She definitely recognized him from the Church, and since she’d already met Jacob and knew for a fact this wasn’t Joseph, she’s now confident that she’s face-to-face with John Seed.

He’s missing the long duster he’d been wearing the night the proverbial shit had hit the fan, and she decides with absolutely nothing upon which to base it that he must’ve been wearing it that night to keep from stealing his brother’s ridiculously shirtless thunder, ‘cause the blue silk shirt, waistcoat, and dark-wash jeans he was currently wearing cut one hell of a figure.

Yep, definitely losing her mind.

Unfortunately with the way her vision kept doubling on her from the splitting pain in her head, she can’t really linger on appreciating the sight. Probably a good thing in hindsight because ogling one of the men causing mass amounts of grief in the County wasn’t terribly kosher.

Blinking, she lifts her eyes to meet his and finds herself frustrated to note that they were really pretty. A bright, striking blue, even from a handful of feet away.

He’s smiling at her like he knows where her mind had wandered, and she narrows her eyes in response, telling herself it has nothing to do with the fact his form keeps multiplying into indistinct blurs in between blinks. He looks at the cultist she’d attacked, gives the man a few pats on the chest, then steps away from him as he’s gently steered away by his fellows.

“ ‘But I say to you people who are listening to me, love your enemies.’ “ He says, striding toward her with assured, languid steps. “ ‘Do good to those who hate you.’ “

His eyes wander over the other people bound as she as he speaks, but she gets the distinct feeling that his recitation was meant exclusively for her; she was, after all, the only one who’d dared to attack one of their captors. Understandably. She can’t blame them.

She lets out an exaggerated groan, closing her eyes not only because the pounding in her head seems to intensify with every step he takes towards her. Indicative of whatever future relationship they were about to begin, probably. “You mind bringing the guy with the gun back? The bullet sounds a hell of a lot better than being preached to.”

“For the time being I’ll ignore your blatant disrespect for the word of God and the Father,” he says to her, crouching down before her like the cultist had before. Difference being that he knew better than to get close enough for her to strike out. Even with her legs. Damn. “This is a pleasant surprise, Agent Leonis. I’d dare to say the only other person in this County more desirable than you right now is your friend, the Deputy.”

He put some kind of emphasis on that word—desirable—and she knows in her gut it’s for a reason other than the obvious, but her head hurts too much for her to think on it for long. She lets out a snort of a laugh “Interesting word choice considering all your people seem pretty intent on riddling us with bullet holes on first sight, unless you desire us dead.” He had used her title, so she doesn’t have to guess that Jacob had already shared whatever intel he’d gotten from Burke with John and she doesn’t ask.

“Dead? Of course not. We want to show you the way through the gates of Eden. We want to save you.” John replies, and in her current state Quinn is finding that in spite of the handsome face that fond little smile on it is quickly getting on her nerves.

“Sorry, preacher man, but I’m not interested.” She’s beginning to regret using her head to attack that cultist; it’s getting harder to keep her words from slurring from the dizziness clouding her thoughts. Was it the migraine or was it the weeks of constant strain and abuse? It was probably some fucked up mix of all the above.

“That’s a shame.” He says, not sounding like he cared overmuch about her opinion on the subject. His tone was thick with a kind of faux compassion that she’s heard far too many times in her life from people that thought her bad mouth and physicality and headstrong attitude were traits that any self-respecting woman should have muted by her age.

Fingers suddenly brush across her cheek, pushing strands of muddied hair away from her face, and she flinches back. A sharp glare of warning settles on John, telling him to back the fuck off, and it’s a warning that he fails to heed.

“We all need to be saved from our sins. We need to accept them and allow ourselves to atone for them. To atone for the ones we will commit. Sin is pervasive, and none of us are ever truly free of it—consequence of being human.” He says.

“Fuck’s sake—the only sin I’m gonna commit in the near future is planting my foot up your ass if you don’t knock the choirboy shit off.”

He lets out a huff of air that’s too soft and quiet to be a laugh; it was pitying, almost. He was sad for her, and she feels a bud of petulant anger rise within her just as it had when Jacob had insisted he would teach her to behave. His fingers snap over his shoulder and he gestures around her at the other hostages. “Get them loaded up.” He says, watching as the bound men and women were led into a pair of waiting, nondescript vans at gunpoint.

She doesn’t like the look in his eyes when his focus returns to her. It’s open and accepting and could almost be mistaken for kind, but there’s an intense undercurrent to it that she can’t identify, something she feels rippling over her skin like she was standing next to an open flame rather than sees outright. “My brother did warn me of your Pride, my dear. Don’t worry, we’ll absolve you of it in due time. It may take some...coaxing given how sharp that tongue of yours is, but you’ll see the truth. One way or another.”

One of the Peggies finally reaches out to grab her and drag her up from the ground, and she grimaces at the twinge of pain from an already forming bruise. “Joy.” She says, sounding anything but cheery about it.

As she’s loaded into the van along with the other captives, she wonders if she should’ve stayed back up in the mountains with Jacob.

The sun has fully set by the time the van stops at its destination and as though to spite her the temperature quickly drops even within the confines of the van; she was beginning to sorely regret abandoning the jacket she’d nicked from a ransacked store up in the mountains due to the heat earlier. Her open-sided tank top was doing little to ward off the rising chill, and as she sits in the unmoving van waiting for something to happen she sits forward to keep her back and shoulders off the cooling sides of the vehicle.

She can hear voices outside and footsteps, but no one comes to open the back of the van and snatch her and the other captives out of it. Her eyes narrow at the doors.

“How the fuck are you so calm right now?” One of the men across from her asks. She spares him a glance, notes the dirtied, pale skin on his face and scruffy hair tucked under a ball cap and barely concealed fear in his words.

If he was looking for a way to keep from freaking out, he was gonna be disappointed. “Lots of practice and a hereditary predisposition,” she answers before turning her full attention to him. “Why? I get that the Cult’s scary and all, but there’s bound to be a chance we can cut and run. They’re not military.”

Well—maybe not. Her brow furrows as she thinks back on her time in the Whitetails. How far did Jacob’s brainwashing psycho-bullshit go, as far as discipline went? And had he applied that ‘training’ to everyone in the Cult, or just those in his own region?

“Seriously? You haven’t heard the kind of shit John does?” Is his response, and she frowns.

She’d seen the video Stevie had looked over while on the flight over, and she was well aware of the bastardized ‘baptizing’ the man performed, but aside from cold murder she can’t claim to have any knowledge of his methods.

The outright fear of the others in the van was pretty telling, however.

A woman a few seats down the line on her side of the van leans into the conversation. “She’s the FBI Agent that was with the Deputy, Sheriff, and Marshal that night. She hasn’t been around long enough.”

“And she’s here with us? Shit.”

Any dry comment she could have said is halted by the doors of the van finally opening, allowing a fresh chill from the outside in. Eager to not be manhandled again, Quinn ignores the gun that’s immediately pushed into her face and without prompting leaves the van, hopping to the ground and standing straight to stare the man with the rifle in her face dead in the eye.

I’m not afraid of you, her eyes say, and whether or not he got that message she could see his fingers flexing around the gun. As their staring contest continues she feels another Cultist unbind her, but before she can think to attempt an attack or escape her wrists are instead pulled to her front and rebound.

Her gaze lingers, icy, as a motion in her periphery directs her forward and she moves before someone else can grab and drag her away.

They’ve been brought to the foothills of the mountains at the edge of a lake or a river, the path she was being led down well-traveled by vehicles if the grooves in the dirt were anything to go by. There are banners strung up in the trees around, pure white and gently flowing in the night breeze. Stacks of green barrels sit off to the side and she can smell the Bliss on the air even before the tell-tale sparkles begin to tint the edges of her vision.

Ahead of her the rest of the captives from the other van were being led into the water as John spouted off some kind of sermon from the book held open in his hands, and she watches as they’re all dunked under the water. They come up blinking and gasping, eyes wide and dazed; she gets the distinct feeling that it has nothing to do with simply being held underwater.

The Cultists stop her before she reaches the water, but the rest of the captives she’d traveled with continue on—all coming out of this fucked up baptism compliant and quiet.

Only when the rest of them are finished, led quietly back to the vans past her, is she brought forward. John snaps his book shut and hands it off to a waiting Peggie, looking at her with an easy smile and reaching his hands out for her.

She’s not fond of the thought that she’s being handed off, here, nor is she happy with the one that follows: why was she special enough to warrant John himself performing the rite?

“The Atonement is a process, Agent, and this is your first step towards it,” he says, either still under the impression that she was happy to be here or not caring. When they stand waist-deep in the water—with her fighting back shivers—he stops and turns her to face him. “Here you will be cleansed of the filth and the dirt the world has been heaping on you from birth, and only then will you be ready to bare your sins and free yourself from them.”

She blinks slowly at him, unimpressed.

“Are you ready?” He asks her, sounding slightly less upbeat than before.

“Sure, if it’ll make you happy,” she replies.

His eyes flash at the irreverent response, his hands moving from her shoulders to fist in the front of her shirt; she sucks in a breath and then holds it as she’s tipped backwards. Water rushes over her and stings her eyes.

By the time he finally pulls her back up she’s left blinking and gasping for air, staring up at the night sky above. It was clear of the clouds that had overcast the land earlier in the day, leaving it open and bright with a near-full moon and millions upon millions of stars.

Quinn’s not sure she’s ever seen so many stars in her life, in fact.

There are a lot of them. A lot. Way more than the light pollution back east had ever allowed to show; it was an amazing, awe-inspiring sight, all of them blinking and twinkling through Earth’s atmosphere like diamonds that she wonders if she can reach out and touch.

She’d try if her hands weren’t bound. Still, it was brilliant. Almost enough to make someone reconsider a disbelief in the presence of God.

No, wait—she blinks again, finally seeing the shimmering behind her eyes that told her she’d figured out where, exactly she’d been smelling the Bliss from.

Inhaling sharply as awareness of her surroundings returns to her and the shock of chilly night air hits her now thoroughly soaked clothes and skin, she feels herself begin to shiver violently, no longer able to fight them back.

John’s hands are on her shoulders again, holding her upright as she swayed on suddenly unsteady legs. His touch was firm but gentle, and warm. She decides she likes it even as she chastises herself for it.

“Ah, there it is. The wide-eyed wonder of clarity,” His voice, smooth like honey and so, so nice to her Bliss-addled senses, speaks to her from somewhere in her periphery. Should she look at him? She decides not to—the stars were nicer. “Are you ready to confess? To say yes and atone?”

Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth and it takes her a moment of struggling to string some unfortunately unintelligent words together. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I’m just stoned off my ass.”

There’s a single laugh disguised behind a cough from a handful of feet away, but otherwise silence surrounds her after the semi-lucid response. She counts out one heartbeat. Two. Three—

Her world tilts abruptly, dizzyingly, as he shoves her down with more force than the first time; she barely has enough time and reaction speed to cut off her breathing before she inhales any of the water and makes her whole being Blissed out situation even worse.

Not that it does much. It’s becoming apparent that even physical proximity to the drug was enough to screw with your head.

Black begins to creep around the edges of her sight before he hauls her upright again, and once more she’s left gasping and blinking the water and blurriness from her eyes. She looks at him this time, breathing heavily, taking in the sight of his barely restrained frustration and wondering what had happened to the kind, gentle demeanor he’d projected only moments before. She’ll think about it when she’s not drugged to high hell.

Jesus, his eyes were blue. “Your eyes are pretty.” She says breathlessly before her brain can catch up with her mouth.

The stark observation actually catches him off guard, his expression wiped clean of anything but startled bafflement, and she lets out a short, airy laugh at the sight. She’s not sure why it’s so funny, but it is.

When a smile breaks across his face she finds herself mimicking it, thinking to herself: This is my enemy. This is a man that was kidnapping and torturing the residents of Hope County. She should not be smiling at him. “The Cleansing is meant to wash away your sins, Agent, not give you the opportunity to feed mine.”

“I dunno about sins,” she coos in response, a voice in the back of her incredibly foggy head that sounded suspiciously like her perpetually vexed father telling her to shut up and stop poking the bear, “but d’you mind dipping me one more time? I haven’t danced in ages and I’m starting to feel like I’m back at my high school prom.”

He stares at her.

Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up. “Just with a shittier dance partner that’s also kind of a prick.”

That same edge appears in his eyes, sharper and deadlier and ooh but it actually sends a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold air down her spine. It looks like he’s actually considering it, and she thinks that whether or not he’d actually bring her back up again was a complete toss-up.

His jaw clenches.

Too much poking. She’d spent weeks prodding at the eldest Seed brother while in his caring hands and she hadn’t had any success in provoking something useful for her to latch onto and pry open, but John was proving to be far more mercurial even within the short span she’s known him.

She was beginning to wonder if the natural analytical chops she’s prided herself on were enough to even start unpacking this guy—and she had been confident enough in those skills to have been gunning for the BAU.

Suddenly he leans closer, the intensity of whatever roiling fire underneath his skin that much more visible with his face only inches from hers. She sucks in a startled breath, her wide eyes blinking and transfixed by his.

One of his hands settles along her jaw, thumb brushing the underside of her throat in a caress that’s both intimate and threatening. “You hide your sin behind your wit, and as amusing as I’m sure you find it, I promise you: I will pull that curtain aside and you will confess to me every sin that blackens your spirit.”

A shaky breath leaves her at the feeling of his fingers on the sensitive skin of her neck, unable to come up with some kind of dry quip in response to his words and for once thankful for it. She’s sure by this point that she’s already pushing her luck, and the thought is occurring to her that Jacob wasn’t, in fact, the most dangerous member of the Seed family.

He’s pacified by her silence, leaning away and moving around to her side. His hand on her shoulder slips around her back to the other shoulder, guiding her forward on shaky legs out of the chilly river water; the one that had been on her jaw drifts down to settle flat along the hollow of her throat instead and the warmth that radiates over her cold skin from his touch gives her another phantom shiver.

“God brought you to us for a reason,” He says as he leads her towards one of the vans flanked by two of the cultists, open doors revealing the other captives sitting inside, all soaking wet like her, “and I’m taking it upon myself to help you realize that purpose.”

Isn’t presuming to know the intent of God a sin, pretty boy?

She says nothing as she’s loaded into the van, fighting against the haze of Bliss to fume at the fact that two of four Seed siblings had now deigned to patronize to her like a wayward lamb. She was no lamb, damnit, and her last name proved that. Leonis. Lion.

She would have to save her roaring for later, because between the Bliss and the acute exhaustion she was feeling she finds herself asleep quickly, somewhere on the way to wherever they were all being taken.

[drewstew-art]

Tuesday, 7:41pm

I've reached that point where I'm just done and my body is just too freaking exhausted.

I have been on the implant birth control for about 7 years now and I've finally had it. It has treated me really well, for the first like 5 or 6 years, I didn't have a period and when I did it was like years apart and super light with hardly any cramping. It was perfect. I think I gained weight but that could have either been from the BC or just that my diet and lack of exercise was so bad.

Since I got my second round of the implant, they have extended it from 3 years to 4 years and this is my 4th year. I triple checked with my gyno to make sure it was safe and I wasn't going to get pregnant or have any issues and she assured me, I would be fine. But this last year has just been hell on me.

Since September of 2021, when I started my 4th year with the implant I had two absolutely massively horrible periods. I'm talking emptying a large menstrual cup like every 3 maybe 4 hours. Its awful. Plus my cramps are back, I'm super hormonal and I have zero idea if it's just me, the week, my period or my birth control so I've decided to just get off of the BC.

I asked my husband his opinion, since we are not at the having babies stage yet and he informed me that it was up to me and we can just go back to condoms or another form of birth control that works for me and it's completely my decision. (I seriously love this man)

So I think I'm just ready to go back to condoms and get off this bullshit. Here's the issue with being on BC, any menstrual or vaginal issue you have, can never really be pinned down to anything specific because the reasoning will always be, "Oh that's normal for women on that birth control" and to me that's just plain bullshit. I have having something be an excuse even though I feel really off and just...miserable.

I just want to know if it's me, or there is some other explanation, and I really fucking hope there is because I am seriously over this shit.

UGH.

[suchastart]

If it isn't too personal, what happend with your husband? (feel free to ignore this if you aren't comfortable, sorry!)

sigh

real talk, I guess?

very long answer behind the cut

So. I got got married to the guy I loved in college, and we’d been together for a few years, and I was 22, and that was the natural progression of things? Graduate and then marry? I’d graduated with my mostly-so-far, STILL to this day ugh useless degree in Creative Writing and English, and we both had jobs and an apartment and were happy? I think we were happy. I thought we were. We were doing Life together and you know, we were living, but. But I think I was struggling with things even then; drinking a little almost every day, not as much then, and for two years we were okay, and then we moved to GA to be closer to his family–while mine was far-flung, in PA and England and Washington state and then Germany.

I missed them. It was hard. It was so hard. I grew up with the super-close unit that was my mom, dad, and brother for my whole life, because my dad was in the military and we moved around so much and they were all I had, so like, I am my family? I don’t feel myself if I don’t have them, I guess. Long distance from them was terrifying and hard and debilitating. But I was married now! So I had my husband, and his family was my family now so, naturally, of course we would move to be closer to them. 

So I found a new job when we moved to GA, and it was like 30-35 hrs a week and I had a lot of time at home and I am Shy and self-deprecating and I always think I am awful and I was in a new place and felt alone and so I had absolutely no friends where we were living, and absolutely no family around–it was just me, and my husband, and his family. Which was okay–his family are (still, I’m sure) such great people, and we got along great, but. It’s not the same? “What’s mine is yours” and all, sure, but it wasn’t my family, who know me inside and out, who raised me and grew up with me and just. know me, to my blood, to my bones; I didn’t have anything that was MINE. And you need that, I think, as a person???? You need stuff that is yours. Even when you’re “in Love” and married–you still need stuff that’s yours?? And everything seemed to be his? We moved there for him and his job and his family, and we hung out with his sister and his brother and his friends, and drove his new car, and travelled his roads, and visited his family, and just. 

I felt like I was drowning. I drank more. I drank so much. I went into work hungover, and I pretended to be “sick” or cramping and went home early because I was aching in my heart and my head and my whole body, and I was dehydrated and depressed and fucking just kind of dizzy and wanted to puke and sleep forever. I got into bed and cried. I drank so much. I worried about absolutely everything. I didn’t go anywhere. Secretly I resented him for taking me away from my family (which wasn’t fair to him, or to me, or to anybody). I don’t think we communicated any of this well. I cried so much, and told him that I hated myself, and I wanted to go home, or to die.

I just very, very much wanted to die. 

We grew distant? It felt different than when we both lived in NC and away from our families, both of us together. Maybe he knew. He tried to help, I think, how he felt like he could–he was so nice to me, and I never doubted his kindness, and he tried to get me to hang out with his family and friends, and to go do things, tried to pretend I was still his Dream Girl who liked video games and his favorite shows and was really chill, but I think I made it worse by preferring to stay home and cry. I just didn’t have the energy to pretend, and I was sad and angry and exhausted. I wanted to die. I was suffocating, and I missed my family. I never tried to restrict him going anywhere–it was truly so great that he was visiting his sister, or his mom and dad, or going out of state to visit his college friends. I was genuinely happy for him, I was always supportive of him and encouraged him to go, because I wanted him to have fun and I was happy that he was happy, and I never wanted my issues fucking up his good time. Sometimes I would go, too! But sometimes he would ask that I go, and I just–couldn’t. I physically couldn’t make myself. Once, we drove a whole hour and a half, maybe, to his sister’s place, and we were going to play some board game and I had a panic attack and he drove me all the way home an hour and a half there in Atlanta traffic, and then drove back. And I felt like such a terrible burden, and a terrible wife. And he told me, once, that he cried on the way there, that he was so upset when he went to visit and I didn’t go with him, that he wanted a partner and it was supposed to be me–and that was just… I know it was probably hard for him, having a wife who was depressed and anxious and lonely and. Well.

We didn’t really communicate any of this well. He was always kind to me–he was supportive, and made me my first doctor’s appointment when I felt like I couldn’t call, and I started my antidepressants because of that, and I’m still alive. Sometimes that in itself still feels like an achievement. Like: hey! At least I haven’t killed myself yet! Even though it’s come close a few times? Like, listen. Once this year I called the suicide hotline everybody posts about? Because I was just done. And it’s a fuckin’ automated system????? And just. That was so disheartening, like–the last thing I want to do when I truly am just miserable and Ready to Go is like, fucking go through a god damn automated machine system to press 2 if I wanna die? Like?? Jesus. Why am I going to call an automated system when I’m ready to just down my whole bottle of pills to press through fifteen buttons of a machine?

Anyway. So that didn’t work out well but. I don’t know. I just really don’t know. I still have a lot of feelings about everything. I felt like things were (slowly, very, very slowly) getting better after I started taking medications. I had future plans with my previous job (at the next year! the next two years! it was such a novel thing, making career plans for actually building my own place in a company, I would’ve had a Place, I would’ve done something that mattered in a company that I believed in), I was talking to my mom again, I was feeling like I could breathe, just a little, taking antidepressants and medications that might help my anxiety and sleeplessness. I knew things weren’t The Same with my husband, but I thought we could work toward it? We were rarely physically intimate anymore. I was miserable, and he was trying to help. I was trying to live, and to pretend that I was alive. I was raised to think that we shouldn’t Give Up on my promises, that marriage has its ups and downs and that things can go way south sometimes but you can keep going, keep working, not giving up.

We were growing apart. I know it, and I knew it. He came home one day in September, and I was washing the dishes and asking him what he wanted to do that day, or that weekend, and he told me that he just couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t love me, and he hadn’t loved me for the past two years. He left that night, and took our dog, and left me alone in a state by myself with my mom, my dad, and my brother, my whole heart family, in Europe. I had literally nobody. He was my person, and he left.

So that’s what happened.

I called my dad, and he booked a very fuckin’ expensive immediate ticket from England to come help me pack up my stuff. I was sick for days until he got there. I was vomiting, and couldn’t sleep, and lost so much hair. I couldn’t eat. I called my husband and told him that I was sick and didn’t know what to do (because who else was I supposed to call?? any semblance of family that would help me being literally hours away from me at that point), and he told me that he was at his sister’s house an hour and a half away and that I should just go to urgent care?? So I just. Waited. I waited for my dad, my best friend, to get there. I hired a lawyer. My husband wanted to just do everything Online and get rid of me easy–but my parents helped me hire a lawyer and my father and I went to meet one while we packed all my stuff in a U-Haul. We drove all my stuff to PA, and they renovated the whole attic to give me a little suite up here. I haven’t talked to my ex but maybe once since then. I’m still friends with his family on Facebook, which most days still feels a little weird. We don’t talk at all, or comment on each other’s posts, and it kind of feels like a stalemate? It’s very awkward. I still love them? And miss them?? But it feels a little displaced, like–I’m still super angry at him, but his family has been nothing but kind and welcoming to me, so–?

I don’t know. I don’t know? I’m angry, and sad, and accepting, and thankful, and tired. I want this to be over. My parents and I have spent so much money in attorneys fees. I am tired. I am terrified of being alone. I am terrified that I am broken, and unlovable, and unfixable. I don’t want to see his last name on mine anymore. I am mad that he gave up on me, and silently accepting that he did, because of course he did, why wouldn’t he give up on me? I am bitter. I don’t want to believe in love, mostly because I don’t believe I will ever have it again. My new friends at work are getting married. I keep telling them that it’s not too late to turn back–poking fun while torn between being happy at their happiness and bitter about it, too. I’m jealous, and angry, and scared.

People grow apart. Maybe we weren’t meant to last forever. Maybe I still have a person out there. Right now I feel hopeless. I had an email from my lawyer this morning about sending a final decree to the judge. We’re approaching the last stages of this divorce. 

Maybe this is a learning stage? Maybe I’m supposed to learn things about myself. Maybe this is meant to be. Maybe everything happens for a reason. 

But I’m still terrified. I don’t want to be alone. I am terrified of being alone. I want somebody to love–I want to make a family with somebody, to join theirs to mine, to share myself with someone, to make a family. I don’t want to feel so torn, or regretful, or resentful, or angry. I want to have someone.

I want to feel love. And I am so, so scared that I won’t ever get another chance.

So that’s the story. And I just–I want you to be careful? Whoever is reading this. Please be careful with your heart. And despite how bitter and angry I am, and how much I hate saying it–I want you to believe in love. 

So maybe do both?

And if you need someone to talk to, please remember that I’m here, and I believe that you are so great and beautiful and worthy of whatever your heart desires ♥

[notspoondere]

The End of an Era - September 2017 Banlist

Longform analysis of the previous format and banlist under the cut.  I haven’t read any other analyses of the banlist prior to writing this, so the material underneath is all original.  It’s also my first impressions, so bear with me if I forgot a few details here and there.

The past few formats of the Yu-Gi-Oh TCG have been extremely diverse and creative, with a great number of decks competing for the #1 spot... of being the second best deck after Zoodiacs, who, according to Yugiohtopdecks, are now the most represented deck of all time in terms of topping tournaments. It would not be an understatement to say that it is possibly the strongest non-FTK deck ever created, and by far the most consistent. In case you missed that somehow, here's a list of just some of the ways Zoodiacs have impacted the metagame (Take a shot every time I mention a unique support card for an entirely different archetype if you want to get wasted really quickly):

It was figured out fairly quickly that any Rank 3 engine would be able to summon any Zoodiac from the deck through M-X-Saber Invoker. There are a few good 1-card Rank 3 engines in the game right now, but all of the unlimited generic ones use a normal summon--because the only one that didn't, Speedroid Terrortop, got limited as a result of its use in this deck.  (Note that Speedroid Taketomborg, the monster which Terrortop searches to make a rank 3, is not a “Garnet” in the sense that the entire engine fails if you draw it. Drawing both still makes the Rank 3 without eating your normal summon.)

In addition, Fire Fromation - Tenki could search any monster in the deck, since Zoodiacs were also all level 4 Beast-Warriors. This got the card briefly Limited in the OCG.  (Note that the deck already had three copies of Ratpier and three copies of Barrage, which could pop itself to summon Ratpier from the deck, so in effect, the deck ended up with 12 cards that searched or summoned Ratpier before Ratpier was Semi-Limited on the next list after the archetype’s release.)

Upon release, a Rank 8 spam variant was discovered with Coach Captain Bearman. Zoodiacs had access to an 8-axis and it turned out to be suboptimal.  Keep in mind the once-per-turn 1-material summon for each of the Zoodiac Extra Deck monsters does not mention Level; it only has to be a Zoodiac monster.

Elder Entity Norden was used in most decks (including Zoo for a time) as an Instant Fusion target to make a quick Rank 4. Later variants after Chakanine's release used Zoodiac Broadbull to search Lunalight Black Sheep, which you could discard to search Fusion Substitute and repeatedly Fusion Summon Elder Entity Norden in order to repeatedly make Daigusto Emeral, which, in so many words, allowed Zoodiacs to draw 5 cards off of one Speedroid Terrortop (or plus similarly hard off of Barrage), which would surely include powerful hand traps like Maxx “C”/Ash Blossom/Ghost Ogre/etc. This was finally the tipping point for Norden in the TCG, as he was Forbidden on the June 2017 emergency banlist soon after. Note that the OCG had already banned him by the time Zoodiacs were released. (Also note that this would not stop players from griping about drawing Speedroid Taketomborg.)

Even after Norden was banned, the deck was by far the most powerful deck in the format. Paleozoics had a decent matchup, but fell by the wayside as True Draco appeared, towering over Zoodiacs in terms of raw power but not in terms of consistency (and eventually a hybrid of both took first at the NAWCQ). Forgotten cards like Shuffle Reborn and My Body as a Shield saw serious play in preparation for the Zoodiac mirror, while cards like Dimensional Barrier and Ghost Ogre & Snow Rabbit fell off and quickly reappeared once people figured out the deck wasn’t going anywhere. Targeted destruction was considered powercrept until this deck appeared. They even started appearing as engines in rogue top decks like Lightsworn and Pendulum Magicians. Even after getting banlisted twice, even after people started maindecking Droll & Lock Bird, and even after Links, the deck prevailed. (In the OCG, it still managed to appear after Barrage and Drident got banned and Ratpier got Limited by abusing the card advantage off of Broadbull to work as a stun deck. Or so I heard.)  Eventually, and without question, Zoodiacs created a Tier 0 format.

Until today, that is. Took them long enough! Let’s get into the cards.

Forbidden:

Dinomight Knight, the True Dracofighter

I’ll mention this alongside Ignis Heat, the True Dracowarrior since they both have similar effects, although the latter was Limited. This is a fairly straightforward hit to the True Draco deck’s access to quick and cheap card advantage on the opponent’s turn. Ignis and Dinomight were not the strongest cards in the deck, but they added a lot to the deck’s consistency.

Grandsoil The Elemental Lord

This card creates a bunch of FTKs off of Firewall Dragon and is played in virtually no other decks. Dino FTK got Top 32 at YCS Toronto recently, and Konami has never been kind to FTK decks ever since they let Frog Burn win worlds. Ugh.

True King Lithosagym, The Disaster

The True Kings were not exactly the new-age Dragon Rulers people expected them to be. In fact, they (mostly Lithosagym) only saw play in one deck: True King Yang Zing Dinosaurs, which eventually won Worlds this year. And we all know how Konami feels about decks that manage to win Worlds.

There was a pretty long combo that let you consistently pop two Babycerasaurus to summon this thing, letting you banish cards from your opponent’s Extra Deck for doing something you would have happily done already. It also made up half of the materials for True King of All Calamities, a boss monster that actually has no hand trap counter short of Psy-Framegear Gamma, which saw play for partially this reason (and for other handtraps, but...). I’m glad to see this gone.

Denglong, First of the Yang Zing

Denglong was usually the other part of True King of All Calamities, since you could change his level to 9 by dumping any of the True Kings into your Graveyard. He also led to a 1-card double Quasar negate combo off of one Souleating Oviraptor (or Fossil Dig, or basically any way to summon Oviraptor). I really doubt Yang Zings will be playable after this, but Yang Zing Dinos needed to get hit for sure and I guess this is one way to do it.

Daigusto Emeral

Wait, what the fuck?

...

Seriously? Gusto have a banned card now? Who thought they had it in them.

The Gusto archetype has never made much of a splash competetively, but they eventually got a generic Rank 4 (that they can barely use) in the form of Daigusto Emeral, which was a key part of the Zoodiac Fusion Substitute combo... which was totally wiped out last banlist. The deck still ran two copies for a while after, but eventually once Link Summoning came around, the space just wasn’t there. Few decks run it at all nowadays.

Which makes its appearance here all the more confusing. Seriously, Konami, what the fuck?

Zoodiac Broadbull/Zoodiac Drident

The era is over. Broadbull was a free +1 and Drident added another threat to any board. The best cards in the best deck ever are gone. Or so we hope.

Limited:

Ignis Heat, the True Dracowarrior

See Dinomight Knight.

Miscellaneousaurus

A monster that gives Dinos protection during the Main Phase, recursion from grave, a free engine to summon a level 1 Tuner from deck, and an easy way to build up a huge Tyranno Infinity when needed. Miscellaneousaurus did all this and more. The OCG hit Oviraptor instead, so I’m surprised this got hit, but either one hurts the deck a lot (although I think Oviraptor is the stronger of the two).

Zoodiac Ratpier

A card that summons itself as an engine was just a great idea, wasn’t it? Now the material effect is completely unusable, so Ratpier is just an archetypal Foolish Burial on legs. How the mighty have fallen.

Dark Hole/Interrupted Kaiju Slumber

This is an interesting one. Slumber was obvious because it was another two copies of Dark Hole that synergized with the Kaijus that everyone would have run regardless, but Dark Hole at 2 has been a thing for a while. For what it’s worth, getting hit by this hurt a lot if your board consisted of the only Link Monsters your deck had the space for, but if that was that huge of a concern, they’d have hit Raigeki too. Hmm.

Gateway of the Six

Six Samurai managed to top at a Portland regional some time last year. I don’t know how, but the guy who did is an absolute hero. Otherwise, the deck has done nothing for years, and this card is at 3 in the OCG and Six Sams are doing nothing there.

True King’s Return

Archetypal Monster Reborn on a deck that seriously didn’t deserve it.

Semi-Limited:

BLS Envoy of the Beginning

It is weird to say that this card is now completely irrelevant, but here we are.  BLS Envoy has been power crept. What a game. (It’s probably still fun to play around with, though.)

Luster Pendulum, the Dracoslayer

Luster Pendulum was a free reoccurring +1 after a Pendulum Summon, but that hardly matters now that Extra Deck Pendulum Summons are restricted by the new format. He’ll probably still turn up in Pendulum decks, though; do not take this to mean that the card is bad now.

Mathematician/El Shaddoll Fusion

This got limited because of Shaddolls a long time ago, and that deck has been dead since they hit Construct.

Brionac, Dragon of the Ice Barrier

I have literally only seen this card played in Mermails since its errata. It’s doing nothing at 1 and will do nothing at 2.

T.G. Hyper Librarian

Synchro spam is also more-or-less dead, so this is probably fine coming back as well. Level Eater is still creeping in the distance, however...

Brain Control

Same story as Brionac, has seen no play since its errata.

Burial From a Different Dimension

This has been at 1 for a long time, hasn’t it? I think it was hit because of Zombies or DAD or something.

Keep in mind that Zombies are still quite good right now. This is flirting with danger, Konami... I say as I order two copies for Zombiesworn.

Preparation of Rites

Nekroz hype? That’s the deck that got this limited, and they’re almost playable now that nearly every other deck has been nerfed. We’ll see.

EDIT: This is for Vendreads, don’t know how I didn’t realize this immediately.

EDIT 2: Vendreads don’t use this card, what am I saying.  This is for other decks.

Unlimited:

Debris Dragon/Dragon Ravine

Remnants from the Dragon Rulers banlist. These haven’t seen play in a while at 2, probably won’t at 3.

Honest

This used to be quite the hand trap, but battle hand traps, much like battle traps other than Mirror Force, have fallen by the wayside.

It’s still worth considering for the surprise factor, IMO. Who still runs Honest in 2017!?

Rescue Cat/Witch of the Black Forest

More cards that have seen no play since their erratas.

Rescue Rabbit

Holy shit.

This card is still way too good.

I think this is supposed to tell us to go buy World Chalice, but this is the nuttiest way to go about doing that I could possibly imagine.

Konami, are you feeling alright?

Summoner Monk

Rank 4 spam card that’s seen less and less play lately.

Charge of the Light Brigade

This has been Semi-Limited for a long time due to its use as a mill engine with Lumina/Raiden. Putting it at 3 helps Lightsworns, obviously, but it also helps Infernoids, too. Not significantly enough for either of them to become tier 1 again (probably), but still, it’s appreciated.

Wavering Eyes

Hardly relevant, since Pendulum mirrors don’t happen much and decks aren’t so focused on popping their own scales. Back in the day, though, Konami made a huge mistake printing this as a common.

EDIT: I could not possibly have been more wrong. This card should not have been unhit, holy shit. Pendulum mirrors are actually everywhere since the deck’s only expensive card is Duelist Alliance and this card is too fucking good.

EXTRA:  Cards That Did Not Get Hit, Somehow

Master Peace, the True Dracoslaying King

The True Draco boss monster, often cited for his poor design, is still obscenely powerful.

Dragonic Diagram

The True Draco Field Spell, which let you pop a card in hand or on field to search a True Draco spell/trap once per turn and gives Tribute Summoned True Draco monsters battle protection once per turn. This card seriously does too much.

Did you know that Diagram dropped to $20 per copy in anticipation that it would get hit by the banlist? It used to be $60.

EDIT: There is currently a listing for a $1 copy of this card, but you have to buy a $420 Ghost Beef in order to get it. Now that’s value.

Maxx “C”

This card is the sackiest card in the game right now. It singlehandedly wins games going second, and has done so so many times in high-level tournament play that I was sure it’d get hit. Even the OCG put it to 2. It looks like it’s still around, but who knows for how long.

Card of Demise

A key draw card of some Chain Burn and some True Draco variants, Card of Demise is a nearly free +2 for any deck that doesn’t Special Summon during their turn, or any deck with a lot of backrow. Many players, myself included, are frustrated with this card’s design and the playstyle it promotes, but Konami didn’t hit it at all here.

Trickstar Reincarnation

Independent of any synergies with the rest of the archetype, comboing this with Droll & Lock Bird makes your opponent banish their entire hand and draw nothing in return. This is still legal; Konami has decided that this is totally okay.

Kill me.

EDIT:  Extra 2:  Cards That Did Not Get Unhit, Somehow

Ritual Beast Ulti-Cannahawk

Please, Konami, my family is dying. This deck’s opening combo is a hard draw of two cards and it only goes +2.

El Shaddoll Construct

#FreeHim

Evilswarm Exciton Knight

Why did you even reprint this if you weren’t going to unban it?

Shurit, Strategist of the Nekroz

Hahaha just kidding. Fuck this card.

That about wraps it up. This next format is going to be crazy. Or maybe it’ll just be True Draco again, who knows.

The next set, Circuit Break, comes out in the TCG on October 20th (Sneak Peek on 14th/15th), and the next banlist comes in November at the soonest.  If True Draco doesn’t come back from this, it will be an interesting month until SPYRALs take over the meta entirely (as is likely to happen, given their results in the OCG.)

Until next time.

[bienstockonnativ]

Week 1

Week 1

Monday

It was right after fall boards. I was on the train with Zach, Noah, and Jeff on our way to Newark airport when I realized that I was actually doing it. I was really going to another country for a whole nine months. Now that wave of “what the hell” would continue on for at least another four days, and I don’t think will ever fully go away, but that was the beginning.

Once we got to the airport, Noah, Jeff, and Zach went off and I stayed to try and find food and then chill until the rest of the group would get there. Because I was so early I was in no rush. I ended up stumbling around for a few hours before I finally found where everyone was to meet before leaving for the gate. Noah and Jeff found me first, we waited a few hours, ate some pizza, and then finally Zoe and Deb from the office arrived and the Nativers started to trickle in.

There are 87 people on Nativ this year, the biggest group since 2013. In terms that one can understand, that’s about three USY on wheels busses- which is all of wheels basically. What they do in order to make it easier is they split you up into three tracks based on your second semester group. So I’m part of the Kfar Yemin Orde group which is composed of 32 Nativers and 3 staff members. Our little group is sort of like a mini family within the whole and a lot of what we do this year is done with them.

But back to the airport, I’m sitting there and thanking the lord that I know a lot of people going. Now it doesn’t really matter anymore, but at that first little bit- if you don’t know someone and you don’t like being friendly you just kind of sit there until you get on the plane. Eventually we all checked in and just as we were about to get through security I got this wave of what the fuck am I doing get me out of here. Having been here for a little while now, I know that everyone was thinking like that on the first day.

We met all those people who had connecting flights at the gate and started the second phase of waiting. I was still super tired from fall boards and I figured I had nine months to get to know people so I just got some food and started eating. Eventually I started being more friendly with everyone and by the time we had to go through security phase 2 (in order to get into the plane [an iIrael thing]) I had meant a bunch of new people. Deb and Zoe gave us all Siddurs and sent us off. Once we got through to the real gate we were alone, no more adults. Just us. That was a pretty weird moment.

I git on the plane and ended up sitting next to Max, a guy I went to high school with. We had the same sweater and were even listening to the same music which was pretty funny. The plane we were on was a brand new 777 on United so it was really nice and the screens were super sleek. I watched a movie or two, slept a little, listened to music, and before I knew it- 9 1/2 hours later- we were in the holy land.

And just like that, we’re onto Tuesday.

Tuesday

Once we get to Israel its already the next day. All of us are exhausted. Its 4 PM and we just woke up basically. Once we get of the plane and to customs we are put in a giant line. Eventually some lady comes over and tells us to go to the express line since we all have Visa’s. We get a pass to get out of customs and finally get to baggage claim. We collect all our bags and find our way outside where the Nativ staff are waiting.

All of this took almost 2 hours (ugh).

Keep in mind that all of us still barely know each other- its pretty terrifying being in a place you barley know with people you really don’t know, being told what to do by people you really really don’t know. Anyways I knew it would get better. We got all our bags out to the busses and through them all into a giant truck (because 3 bags per person is not going to fit underneath a regular coach bus). The ride to Beit nativ was sufficiently long so between talking to people sporadically, I fell asleep, and when I woke up we were stoped at a random place right outside Jerusalem.

We all gather around and Yossi, the Nativ director introduces himself. He explains that he stopped us there to show the differences between the old and new Israel. Jerusalem vs. Tel Aviv. And he asks us our first question “where do you fit in between this, if at all.” As you may have guessed, I don’t have an answer for that yet. Maybe I will by May 22nd, maybe I won’t. I guess we’ll find out.

We got back on the busses and eventually arrived at Beit Nativ. Otherwise known as the Fuschberg Center, otherwise known as the fuckberg centre, otherwise known as Agron, otherwise known as the home of conservative judaism in Israel, otherwise known as just plain old home for us Nativers. It also houses the pilgrimage groups when they are in Jerusalem and since I went two years ago, I was already pretty familiar with the campus. From the outside it doesn’t look so big but once your inside, you realize how much actually goes on here. There is tons of room for sessions, people to study, to pray, to live, to have fun. Its great. And not only that, its relatively central in the city. So if you want to get to the Kotel or Ben Yehudah or the shuk its no more then a 20 minute walk. Also nearby is a nice park, some pretty good pizza, a place where people often protest, the PM’s residence, the US consulate, a supermarket, hair dresser, bank, and a ritsy shopping area called mamilla.

We didn’t do much that first night. I live in the older building, 2nd floor, with 3 other guys on my track; Sam from NJ, Jonah from Portland, and Josh from St. Louis. Besides lugging our luggage all the way up to our rooms, some people went out but most stayed home. The minute after I got my bags settled and we did our mini orientation, I got to my room and passed the fuck out.

Little did I know what was to come in the days ahead.

Wednesday

Wednesday was our first real orientation day. When we woke up we did our first schacharit with our track. The Yemin Orde staff, Ethan, Cassie, and Julia explained that we would pray together for the next monthish during the mini mester and holidays seasons (More on the mini mester later). Tefilot were pretty standard and similar to USY so all good there. Later, after breakfast, we did some icebreakers with our track and finally gathered with the whole group with Yossi for our initial orientation.

Yossi explained how Nativ was about many things, leadership development, finding a connection to Judaism and Israel, becoming a better person etc… We talked about how each of us will come out of this year not with answers, but better questions- which is really what we need. There is no curfew on Nativ, but if there are outside visitors they aren’t allowed to stay on the premises past 12. We talked about drugs and drinking. Since the legal drinking age here is 18, Yossi has no problem with it outside of campus but doesn’t want anything on campus. He basically wants to make Beit Nativ a safe place where we can all come when we are tired of the outside world. Drugs are a big no no though.

I never realized how much freedom we actually had until we sat down and talked about what we do on a day to day basis. If we aren’t in school, or at a mandatory service or program, we don’t need to be anywhere. That means we have a ton of free time- or in Yossi’s terms: opportunity time. I’ll learn what that means later.

After lunch, we got in a giant line to buy and order our phone plans. It took 2 1/2 hours but I finally got to the front of the line only to discover that my phone was in fact locked still. No worries though, after getting my SIM I called my dad to sort it out and in no time at all (or some time, depending on how you look at it) I had a phone that worked in Israel! I have 20 GB of data on this plan per month as well as international calls for only 99 shekels, which is like 30 bucks.

After waiting for so long I finally had some time to start unpacking but before I got a chance to finish I went down to storage in order to pick up some stuff past Nativers left for me. Both Batya Feder and Jack Lawson left me drawers (thanks guys) which were super helpful in unpacking. Then we went on a walking tour of the neighbourhood; the staff wanted us to get acquainted with what was around us. When we got back I basically finished unpacking before dinner. And finally we got on the bus to Tel Aviv to see a Eurobasket game between Israel and Ukraine.

I was actually full blown sick at that point, from fall boards and all the travel etc… And concidering the game wasn’t so exciting I wasn’t so happy. But it was all good in the end, I ended up chatting it up with a new friend named Rachel and spoke to an old friend, Jacquie, on the bus back. And again, once we got back, I passed the fuck out.

Thursday

For the first 4-6 weeks of Nativ, the 67 members of the Hebrew U track during 1st semester take a coach bus to school every day at 8:30 am. Each of us chooses between 2 classes for our first block, and 2 classes for our second block. The third, afternoon class, is pre chosen for us as it is a tour based class that takes place all over Jerusalem. This was all explained to us by Linor, our academic advisor at the rothberg international school at the Hebrew U campus on thursday.

After Shacharit, we got on the bus and took the 20 minute ride to the university for our orientation. Once we all sat down, Linor explained how the mini mester was created just for Nativ to transition us from high school into university life. After October 15th, we will be starting our real semester with much more flexibility in terms of classes and choices but for now we’ll be doing this intensive mini mester. Every day we take the same classes until the end of the semester. Think of it like university summer school, but in September. Since we are at Hebrew U’s international school, for now we’ll be with just Nativ kids, but in October we’ll start having classes with people from all over the world.

After orientation we were given a tour of the campus buy this cool guy named Ira and then taught how to get food at the Frank Sinatra cafeteria (cool name right?). You basically get a tray and wait for the Israeli behind the counter to yell at you, then quickly yell out the main and two sides that you want with your salad and drink. After lunch, we got back on the bus to beit nativ and had the afternoon to unpack more and go do anything we needed to do.

Once I got back, I napped for a few hours but I knew that I needed to do a whole lot of stuff so I made myself wake up, got dressed and journeyed out by myself for the first time. I walked across the street, where I met Moshe the hair dresser. Since I didn’t get a haircut before hand, Moshe was kind enough to fit me into his schedule and charge me only 60 shekels for a cut. Almost half of his regular price and about $20. Once I got my haircut, I went over to the supersol to buy a kettle and a bunch of other essentials for the room. And finally I found a pharmacy so I could buy Echinacea for my cold.

A successful first day as an adult out by myself I must say.

That night was the only free night we would have before school started on Sunday so after dinner 12ish of us decided to go out. We were out until after midnight and it was super duper fun. It was around then that I first felt like I was truly finding people to talk to that were real and that I enjoyed conversing with like Aviva, Talia, Aaron, the Zachs, and so many more people. And not only that, I was finally feeling as though I wasn’t just on vacation in Israel- I finally felt like I was actually living and growing here. Once I got back, I didn’t end up getting to bed until pretty late since we were talking for a few hours. That was ok though, Friday was next and in Israel- its not a week day.

Friday

On Friday morning we woke up at 8:15 (SO LATE) for Shacharit and soon after breakfast, left Beit Nativ for the Jerusalem Hills with bagged lunches in hand. I was pretty tired but so down for a hike. Once we got there Yossi gave the safety shpiel and we were off downhill. On the way we saw naked Israelis, hot springs, and caves. This lasted for a few hours until we got to the end of the hike near the Hadassah Medical Centre. Finally, we found a place to eat lunch while waiting for the buses to take us back and then arrived back at beit nativ.

I went out Friday afternoon with the intention of doing productive things but ended up putzing around Jerusalem while walking a whole lot. I went to ben Yehudah, the shuk, got lost a little bit, and finally back at Beit Nativ just in time to get ready for Shabbat. What I didn’t know then, that I now do is that most stores close really early on Fridays (who knew lol?). Once I got back I put my empty bags into storage and ran up to my room to get dressed for shabbos.

Shabbat was magical, let me tell you.

After we took pictures at beit nativ, we walked over to Yemin Moshe, a really nice area overlooking the old city for Kabbalat Shabbat and Mincha. I stood next to Casey, a girl in my track, who I helped follow along in the siddur. As she came from an orthodox background, our conservative tunes were super confusing to her but it was all good in the end. I love Kab Shab so I was singing my heart out the whole time. As the sun went down Yossi explained the value of a community and how Nativ will not only give you a community, but a place to discover where you fit in the great tapestry of Israel.

When we got back to Beit Nativ, we had a beautiful shabbat dinner and sicha with our staff. Then, we had our first Nativ Tisch which was a beautiful experience. Think of Tisch as ruach but less weird and high schooly. Later that night, I was planning on just chilling with friends but a bunch of people wanted to go to the Kotel. I didn’t really love the idea of traversing the old city at night, considering I have no idea where I’m going in there. But due to some quite persistent friends I was on my way with joggers, a flannel, socks, and sandals in toe.

It takes about 20-25 minutes to get from Agron to the old city and another 10ish minutes to find the Kotel. I almost turned back at least three times, but thankfully my friends brought my through and got us to the Kotel. Once we got there, Louis gave an inspirational speech that wasn’t really inspirational but made us look cool. The 3 boys and 6 or 7 girls split up to get to the wall where we all had a few moments.

I was stunned.

I mean, I had been to the kotel three times before- But as you walked closer, you could feel the power and history of the structure, the area, everything about it. I close my eyes, and felt thousands of years of history reverberating through my whole body- a feeling so indescribable that I’ll just have to leave it at that.

The kotel was relatively quiet at 12 AM but there was at least two circles of guys singing in their respective tischs. Once we met back with the girls, we were joined by Cassie and Noah and ending up chilling in the plaza. We sang songs and even took off our shoes and lay on top of each other. While singing a random Israeli came and lay next to us and later, a different Israeli came to teach us a song with his friend (who happened to have went to Ramah in America [yay jewish geography]).

There was one sour part of the night. The guard on our way into the kotel complex made my friend Emily take off her Kippah as he said that it was dangerous to aggravate the orthodox. She reluctantly took it of but such an event definitely goes to show you that there is so much work when it comes to the government and Rabbinate accepting different denominations in Israel, especially at such universal places like the western wall. Just some food for thought.

Anyways, once we were done we walked back to Beit Nativ but instead of going straight to bed (because who does that) I spoke with Cassie until 2:30 am.

Saturday

Yesterday was less magical then Friday but still pretty cool. First of all, I woke up only 5 minutes before we had to go so I had no time to shower, to put on different clothes then the other day, eat anything, or wake up. So 10 minutes later, when we were on our way to shul I was feeling pretty crappy. Keep in mind I was still sort of sick at this point.

I chose to go to Shira Hadasha, which is an Egalitarian Orthodox Synagogue in the German Colony about 20-30 mins walking distance from beit nativ. How can it be Egal and Orthodox you ask? Well they have a mahitzah because they believe that men and woman distract each other during prayer. BUT, both women and men wear talitot and lead the service. There is a table right in the middle of the mahitzah where both women and men can lead as well as read torah. Its a little strange, but in a more traditional country like Israel it makes more sense then what we are used to.

Shul ends at 11/11:30ish but we couldn’t stay that long so our group left at around 10:50 in order to get back to beit nativ for a program before lunch. In Yemin Orde’s program, Yossi led us in a discussion about our relationship with Israel. By going around the room we answered questions he asked but did not discuss with each other, for the conscious and intentional purpose of making sure we don’t have time to respond to the people around us; that way we are only worrying about ourselves and our own answers.

After a much needed lunch, we had free time before the rest of the day. I took that opportunity to sleep, which I did for 2 1/2 hours. After that we did Mincha, Seudah, Maariv, and finally Havdalah with the occasional Yossi rant in the middle. On Nativ I’m finding payer services more boring and purposeless then I ever have. I honestly don’t understand why we do it the way we do- I don’t really connect with it at all and I know there are better ways that I can connect to Judaism and God. But what do I know… I still have another 9 months to figure out my place. 
When shabbat ended, me and a bunch of friends went to find Pizza and Icecream so we could chill at Beit Nativ and watch a movie. After some work, we found Pizza and although we didn’t end up watchning a movie we did chill until 12ish. it was around then that I went to find some other friends before sleeping at 1:30. After all… Tomorrow would be our first day of school!

Sunday

Today was our first day of School! From here on out, night time fun will be at a minimum as mini mester is pretty intense. This morning I was introduced to my first two classes.

The first one is all about Jewish philosophy in reference to our relationship, or lack there of, with god and the land of Israel. The teacher has clearly been doing this for a long time, he knows his teaching style and how to communicate his ideas. It may be hard to grasp but boy was it interesting. Apparently I was so into it that I was making verbal noises and bothering people around me (sorry guys).

The second class wasn’t as good as the first partly because the teacher was less engaging and partly because the subject, jewish history, has been mostly covered at CHAT over the last four years. In this course we focus on the early modern period between the dark ages and modern times.

Later that day I regesitred in the library so I could take out my first book for readings while trying to figure out how the hell my 2nd teacher wants us to get the readings. She mentioned something called a moodle? Whatever that hell that is; and thought that we knew exactly what she meant, which was annoying. Its fine though, we have every day for the next month to figure everything out.

University is pretty cool so far, but at the same time 1. I can’t count the credits, 2. The classes are so small that it feels like high school, not to mention we can ask a lot of questions randomly, and 3. its only been one day.

Tomorrow is our first FULL day of school which includes our afternoon Jerusalem course. That course will take us all around Jerusalem with a teacher so that we aren’t just sitting in desks all day.

Anyways, the day isn’t over yet but besides doing some homework and chilling around the neighbourhood- I don’t have too many plans.

__

Nativ has been pretty cool so far. Like anything in life, its simultaneously strange, amazing, annoying, lovely, freeing, and constricting. Its a whole new experience in a land that I know only so well with people Ive just begun to scratch the surface with.

If I can learn this much in a week, I don’t even know what the next 9 months have in store. All I know is I think I’m ready now so lets go!

And tune in next Sunday for next week’s review!

[yourbolderswedish]

A mistake & an update

A recent celebration of life after Cancer 2.0, complete with Spanish cava, delicious fish, and lots of laughter. 

I made a mistake.

Yesterday, in an effort to be painfully factual in broadcasting my checkered health history, I downloaded my complete health record.

It was far easier than it should have been. I visited my healthcare provider’s website. I entered my Medical Record Number — a number I now have memorized like my address, phone, social security, European jeans size and other codes of important numerical knowledge.

I then clicked on ‘Download Health History.’ Within seconds, I was looking at a zip file containing far too much data. There were notes about weight gain, weight loss, PTSD treatment, sinus infections, urinary tract infections, breast cancer treatments, pneumonia … Volumes of Ugh.

Let me back up … And apologize. I am sorry. The last time I wrote on Tumblr, I announced Cancer 2.0 and disappeared because I was too shocked and too scared to really talk about anything for a good long time. My last post was more than a year ago and many medical procedures ago.

To sum up the past year or so:

> July 18, 2016 — Breast cancer 2.0. Three years to the date since my first diagnosis with the original breast cancer. This is a new, different cancer. The doctors shake their heads and apologize because it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

> Aug. 23, 2016 — Surgery. Fourteen lymph nodes removed from beneath my right arm. Seven tested positive for cancer. Two new masses also located beneath my right collarbone. Cancer has come calling again and now made camp throughout my breast. It’s called Metastatic. Fuck. I hate that word.  

> September 2016 — I rant and rave to my medical team about the fluid drain still in my armpit after the surgery. For weeks, the drain puts out volumes of fluid and causes me much angst. Eventually, stitches around the drain insertion tear loose (really gross) as I try to fix my backyard fence after a Colorado wind storm. This convinces the surgeon and nurse that it’s time to lose the drain. It’s pulled. Hallelujah!  

> Oct. 11, 2016 — I start chemo. (Two days before my birthday.) Four rounds of Adriamycin, aka The Red Devil. This sucks. Not going to lie. When the nurses injecting this drug have to double glove their hands, wear medical gowns and masks, and carefully time the rate at which they push the red fluid from a large syringe into your port, you know there is some toxic misery going into your body.

> Nov. 29, 2016 — PET scan to see if the Devil did the business. Scan results show I am in remission. The Red Devil has, indeed, done its job in knocking down the cancer cells in my right axilla and the masses beneath my right collarbone. (The masses were not removed at surgery because it would have been too difficult to get around the collarbone.) We continue with the original treatment plan with more chemo and radiation on the horizon.

> Dec. 23, 2016 — Begin months of weekly Cytoxan and Taxotere infusions. These drugs aren’t as scary as The Red Devil. Still, my blood counts plummet. I miss some treatment dates. I’m bald. My toenails turn black. I have gained weight. The same drill as last time. Chemotherapy is difficult. Draining. Doable.

> March 1, 2017 — Final infusion of Cytoxan and Taxotere. Begin pestering oncologist and nurse about having the port removed.

> April 3, 2017 — Port-removal surgery. On this day, as I’m being prepped for the simple procedure, someone in the clinic burns microwave popcorn. The entire clinic is evacuated, even those of us wearing not very many clothes and already angry about having a port in their chest. Surgery eventually happens. It hurts more than I remember. My husband tells me my pain tolerance is zero. Awesome.

> End of April to End of May, 2017 — I begin daily radiation treatments. The beams are focused on my right axilla (armpit and down through my ribcage) and a 360-degree scan across my upper chest/back to just below my chin. The daily grind of radiation is difficult. Still, it’s doable. One day, the beams are misaligned and my right lung gets nuked. No one can say why it happened. No lasting damage, however.

> June 20, 2017 — Meet with oncologist. He suggests since my cancers have been hormone fueled I should have my ovaries removed. I am heartbroken because I thought I was done with everything. I know it’s necessary. We start the ball rolling for another procedure.

> Aug. 9, 2017 — I undergo an oophorectomy and full hysterectomy during a robot-assisted laparoscopic surgery. This is my eighth cancer-related surgery. The surgeon is pregnant with her third child. After, she tells me there was so much tissue around my uterus there is no way I would have ever gotten pregnant. Still, there was a robot involved in the surgery. I continue to tell everyone I was cut open by a Battlebot. People don’t know how to respond to that. In looking back, neither do I.

So, there you have it. Cancer 2.0 was treated. Things seem to be going well. I have recovered from the Aug. 9 surgery to the point that I am able to go for daily runs.

The only real issue is the start of lymphedema symptoms in my right arm, back. Some days, this isn’t a big deal. Other days, it’s difficult to lift my arm above my shoulder. I am working on this by doing stretches and trying to stay as active as possible.

Ohhhh … Also, any little itch, bump or twinge makes me think I have cancer again. I am slowly trying to work through that, telling myself I am too toxic to have cancer yet. So, I have that going for me.

Now that we’re caught up, back to my original thought for this post: My complete health history.

I now know why some physicians are so keen about keeping all these records from their patients. Boy howdy, there’s a lot of information packed into the files. For me at least.

I downloaded the files to have a record of my diagnosis dates, medical explanations and treatments. I am trying to put the past few years and my experiences into a book.

In truth, I have tried this before. I had a pretty good start on this project before Cancer 2.0 showed up. When that happened, I went radio silent.

After writing and sharing so much about Cancer 1.0, I feared I had angered the Cancer Gods, given them reason to strike me down. So, I stopped writing. I stopped researching. I basically went on my way along the treatment path.

In some ways, I am glad I did. In others, I wish I had said more, shared more.

I guess that’s what I’m trying to do with my current project. In addition to it being cathartic to put these words to paper it also, I hope, might help someone.

I’m told being diagnosed with a new primary breast cancer after treatment for another is pretty rare. In all honesty, the doctors shook their heads when talking about this second diagnosis. They were as flummoxed as me, I think.

It has been an uncomfortable, confusing time. Through it all, though, my husband — The Weed — has been a mensch. I recently remarked to a friend: ‘If you had told me 25 years ago that the guy I hung out with because he made me laugh and listened to Redhead Kingpin would become my emotional rock, I would have thought you quite mad.’ That’s the truth. Yet, here I am, and I’m so effing thankful to have him standing by me and still listening to Redhead Kingpin.

I hope to be writing more again. I need to get this out. Get it recorded. I need to start wrapping my head around an outline for the last several years.

For anyone still reading after my long silence, thank you! I hope we can stay in touch. And, if you have any suggestions for giving birth to a book, please … Oh Please! … help a sister out.

Peace. Love. Good to talk with you again.

~Kelley