#angst??????? this series is so angsty lowkey like wut…..

[princessbrunette]

⊹ ᜊ(ᜊ ´ ˘)੭ ♡ … DUMB & POETIC ♡

track eight of the short n’sweet series. pairing: dbf!johnb + reader. based loosely off the song dumb & poetic by sabrina carpenter. enjoy! ໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱

word travels fast when you’re hopelessly in love with your dads best and youngest friend.

rain was starting to spit down on the crown of your head as you marched your way up the dry grass to the chateau. a storm was headed your way, and john b was probably to give you a real earful at the fact you’d even walked here so late in the evening with a storm on the horizon but that didn’t matter. it seemed a feeble thing now, too focused on the tugging of your heart strings.

“old john b’s got himself a date.” your father had chuckled into his newspaper that morning and you froze at the sink, pouring milk into your coffee. your skin felt hot, eyes prickly.

“what?” you ask quietly, trying your hardest to sound unshaken by the news.

“the guys down at the garage stitched him up. i didn’t get involved, was too busy working but… yeah. finally getting himself out there. was wonderin’ when he might. times ticking for him.”

your milk pours over the rim of your now overflowing coffee mug and you curse, lurching to clean it up.

now you’re knocking at the older man’s door, shivering from the icy droplets that are tickling your hot skin. you feel feverish, wrong, all muddled up. john b was yours.

he’s frowning when he opens the door, and you don’t let him speak.

“is it true?” you yell over the wind, voice cracking and he pulls you inside by the arm.

“uhm, did you walk here in a storm? are you— what, have you lost your mind now?”

“is it true, john b?” you don’t lower your voice even though you’re inside now, infact your words are punctuated by a harsh shove at his chest. he stills, staring down at you solemnly and shamefully.

“i assume your…dad told you—”

“so this — us, it just means nothing to you?” you go in for another push, crying now and he catches your wrists, eyes softening sympathetically as he pulls you in.

“you know that’s not true. look, listen to me—”

“who is she?” you wail and he holds your wrists tighter.

“listen to me!” he raises his weathered brow, hands loosening around your wrists just enough to swipe his fingers gently in windscreen wipers on the skin. you stare up at him expectedly — fat tears even frozen on your cheeks and his shoulders drop slightly. how was he meant to compete? it wasn’t fair when you looked at him like that. “the guys at the garage set me up.” he explains calmly and you’re quick to cut him off.

“and you agreed! you could have just said—”

“i have to! okay i—” he takes a breath, ripping his fisherman cap off to run a hand through matted brown hair, streaks of silvery grey through the sides illuminated in the warm orangey light of the chateau that made your heart clench with fondness and familiarity. “its not right that i’m feeling this way for someone so much younger than me, and more importantly — it’s not right that you’re dating someone so much older! you should… i don’t know, be out there! experiencing the dating pool! going on dates with guys that are allowed to be seen with you! not… your dads friend.” he shakes his head, defeated.

“i don’t care about all that!” you step up to him, a glimmer of hope in your eyes.

“well i do!” he bellows back, and just like that it dies.

you crumple, heels of your hands coming to press into your eyes as you lower yourself to the floor. you mewl in devastation, salty tears burning into your retinas and he watches in heartbreak, heaving out a long sigh before lowering himself to the floor with you.

“its not fair! its not fair— just because shes older than me doesn’t mean — it doesn’t —”

“i know.” he mutters into your hairline, pressing a kiss there. you clutch his shirt like he’s the only thing keeping you tied down gravitationally to earth.

you get real worked up into hysterics so soon he’s calming you down the only way he knows how, straw-feeding you water as you sit in his bed wearing his clothes, still snivelling. he shuffles in beside you with a book, pulling your head to rest down on his shoulder and shushing you when you fight.

“you think y’know everything john b.” you croak, glaring at the dumb pretentious poetry book on his lap.

he clears his throat, flipping to a random page.

“though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we'll go no more a roving, by the light of the moon—” his husky voice begins to read, lulling you into that calm safe space that only he creates. there’s a lingering sadness in your chest when you drift off, knowing it could be the last time and between his words you’re sure you whisper a “dont go”. but you’re not sure whether or not you dreamt it.

you wake up at noon somehow. all that crying wore you out and it goes without saying with the situation you’re in, you didn’t have the greatest sleeping pattern. sticky eyes flutter from the alarm clock, to the absence of john b in his own bed beside you. you hope for the reassuring sound of coffee being stirred or the tv in the living room but the chateau is deathly quiet. once your eyes focus, you’re confronted with a note on the bed side table.

his familiar scrawl, it reads —

‘I’m sorry. I just have to see for myself.

— Yours, J.B ♡’