#i played this game on release day and amongst all the discussion on training and whether the game was good or bad and how hot Sycamore is | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

Text

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.

#john deacon #john deacon x reader #john deacon fic #queen #queen fic #j writes

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insanityclause · 4 years ago

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Guillermo Del Toro is no stranger to widespread acclaim, especially from his ride or die legion of fans. Pan’s Labyrinth, the Hellboy duology, the list of genre-bending, timeless masterworks goes on. Coming off his 2 Oscar wins for The Shape of Water in 2018, and moving into finally releasing his animated Pinocchio film from the pits of development hell along with an adaption of Nightmare Alley next year, this couldn’t be a more thriving time for the Mexican auteur. Though amongst all the praise and glory, something has still felt missing these last handful of years. Besides his Oscar-winning film, Del Toro’s works prior to the 2010s are what generally buzz conversations of his genius. Those aforementioned films did, after all, skyrocket his name to fame. His titles from the last decade, however, are just as crucial to the Del Toro canon and emphasize his greater influence as a filmmaker. One, in particular, has seemingly gotten by in its young life at the hands of few. But now that Crimson Peak has officially turned 5, it’s time to turn that few into many.

Del Toro’s trifecta of the 2010s (not counting his work on television) stand out vastly from one another. Pacific Rim, Crimson Peak, and The Shape of Water: all love letters penned from the ‘nichest’ corners of his mind. These 3 arguably boast more diversity in genre than Del Toro’s 5 films of the 2000s (3 comic-book adaptations and 2 Spanish-set fantasies). Not a criticism, as established, those films now flaunt an immovable place within the cultural zeitgeist. Though with a career notoriously marked by a slew of unrealized projects (more on this later), it’s not often recognized how the ideas that did make the cut still lead a crystal clear trajectory in Del Toro’s growth as a storyteller. In the eyes of many, Del Toro pulls ideas out of a hat and gambles on which one actually sees the light of day. Humorous sure, but this is far from the truth.

Each Del Toro project feels like a pivotal step for what would come later, take his work on Trollhunters paving the way for his upcoming first animated feature for instance. Despite this trajectory, Crimson Peak feels criminally unsung 5 years later. Pacific Rim continued its life with a sequel and more planned spin-offs. The Shape of Water literally set a new bar for the Academy. This leaves Crimson Peak feeling like the pushed aside middle child of this trio. This isn’t a call for a sequel, and ‘underrated’ gets tossed around very loosely in modern film discussion. But for cinema as quintessential as Crimson Peak, it just doesn’t feel like it gets enough recognition – especially when the current film industry is seeing less big-budget, R-rated projects heavily steeped in genre.

You can easily trace Crimson Peak‘s short-lived spotlight back to its marketing. The timely October release and scare-heavy trailers sold a classic ‘Haunted House’ horror, when in reality, Del Toro’s film is a Gothic Romance. Set in the early 1900s, an aspiring American writer, Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska), is swept away by a promising English baronet, Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddleston). They discover true love and marry, leading the young newlywed to her husband’s decaying mansion in the English hills. The age-old manor is slowly, but surely, sinking in red clay – the very source of Sharpe’s wealth. Here Edith is forced to live with her new sister-in-law, Lucille Sharpe (Jessica Chastain), a reserved yet commanding force who works to hide the true nature of the house and its endless secrets. Mystery lingers as untamed lust, envy and greed unfold between the mansion walls, not leaving enough room for the restless red-colored spirits who haunt them. When it snows on this cursed hill, the clay surfaces, making it seem as if the land bleeds. Given more than just red clay rises from beneath, a deeper meaning is given to the place locals call ‘Crimson Peak’.

Just like the clay at the center of its mystery, Crimson Peak is an amalgamation, but of genre. It would be novice to expect anything less from Del Toro. The Gothic elements call back to many classic tales, such as Alfred Hitchcock’s adaption of Rebecca and, of course, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. On the horror side, homage is paid to Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining and Jack Clayton’s The Innocents. It’s a devilish blend that only this filmmaker could pull off so beautifully. And oh is Crimson Peak so god damn gorgeous. To contrast common period pieces that go for muted or sepia-toned color palettes, Del Toro turns the saturation on high. The result is an eye-popping picture that heightens the core emotions at play: fear, pain, and more importantly, love. Simply mesmerizing, avid fans will be quick to recognize the same shades of golden yellows, sea greens, and ruby reds found in Del Toro’s other works. It feels right at home in his filmography visually, while packing its own unique punch.

Red, a color mainly associated with passion, here instead intricately represents endless bloodshed. A twist that would suggest Crimson Peak is just as equal a horror film as it is a love story. Regardless of what might have been initially marketed to audiences in 2015, this film is a Gothic Romance from start to finish. Del Toro himself made this distinction clear to the studio from the get-go and repeatedly draws the line whenever given the chance. Yet, much like the rest of his repertoire, Crimson Peak utilizes horror not as a means to an end, but as a means for introspection. Yes, there are classic horror conventions such as jump scares, but it couldn’t be more obvious that Crimson Peak isn’t trying to evoke the same kind of high and dry fear other films heavily rely on. Del Toro is actively trying to get under your skin to achieve a hell of a cathartic viewing experience.

The ghosts of our past and how we let them define us is a core theme in Crimson Peak. The film opens on a flashback in which Edith is visited by the charcoal black ghost of her recently deceased mother. The nature of this visit sets the groundwork for the rest of the narrative. Mother Ghost, dreadful in appearance, doesn’t necessarily come to haunt her child, but to warn her. “Beware of Crimson Peak,” she says. The way Edith takes in this otherworldly occurrence, and those that follow, sets her apart from everyone else in the film. Wherein others flee from or lock away the ghosts of their past, she learns how to wear them on her sleeves – reaching out to the dead multiple times in the story, each attempt more confident than the last. Not too dissimilar from what Del Toro was playing with before, Jaeger pilots confronting past trauma in their quest to defeat Kaiju. At the same time, the transformation that occurs in Crimson Peak when neglected demons consume you from the inside – humans becoming the true monsters of their supernatural tales – would only be amplified in Del Toro’s next film.

Every minute detail coincides with this strategized, therapeutic use of horror. And to the everyday moviegoer trained by common tropes, Crimson Peak is quite deceptive. Just like Mother Ghost at the beginning of the film, the red spirits never manifest with the intent to cause physical harm, but instead to give messages and guide. Red clay seeps down the walls and the mansion ‘breathes’ as the country winds burst in. The house feels alive in the most cinematic sense possible, but the case as to it being ‘horrifying’ is not so black and white. Expertly designed to every inch, there is plenty of beauty to be found in the manor. Much of it has just been corrupted by a debauched affair – keeping this story rooted as a Gothic Romance. Subversion has always been the name of Del Toro’s game, and it’s within Crimson Peak that he uses it to mix genre so well while still staying true to his vision.

Though Crimson Peak saw Del Toro take subversion to a new level, notably with his main character. This film is a key chapter in his overarching legacy; not the first of his works to be lead by a defiant woman, but the first to have the female hero entangled in an unabashed love story. Effortlessly played by the brilliant Mia Wasikowska, the not so damsel in distress at the center of Crimson Peak is one of the most significant characters of Del Toro’s career. In discussing Gothic Romance with The Mary Sue in 2015, Del Toro explains: “This is quintessentially a female genre, that was written with characters that were very complex, very strong. I wanted to make a movie in which to some degree I recuperated and, maybe if possible, enhanced all that.” And enhanced he did for every central male character acts in more distress than Edith ever does, even when she is literally at the edge of death. A more than welcome change of pace that makes for a more resonating film.

Edith’s willingness to tackle the unknown is captivating and her vigor inspiring. But she isn’t absolved of frailty. For someone who comes to terms with facing the dead, her sheer vulnerability to heartbreak and suffering brings great humanity to the role. Hardly recognized, but Edith is one of Del Toro’s most self-reflective protagonists. A marginalized writer, inspired by the great Mary Shelley no less, in the midst of drafting her magnum opus, she immediately faces backlash from her novel’s inclusion of the paranormal. “It’s not [a ghost story]. It’s more a story with a ghost in it. The ghost is just a metaphor… for the past,” she says – giving Crimson Peak a rare Del Toro tongue-in-cheek quality that he utilizes until the credits roll. Meta enough given that the crimson ghosts Edith later encounters are, in fact, echoes of the past, but when looking back on the public’s initial perception of the film, it creates a charming, albeit ironic, wit only found here.

Additionally, when tracing back to Crimson Peak‘s pre-production days, you’ll find something even more profound. Penned by Del Toro and an old collaborator, screenwriter Matthew Robbins; this was the first script completed after the release of Pan’s Labyrinth in 2006. The two first worked together an entire decade earlier on Mimic, which has now gone down as the only film Del Toro has truly lost to studio interference. Del Toro was supposed to direct Crimson Peak in the late 2000s, but along came Hellboy II and his involvement in launching The Hobbit (another R.I.P). Through this hectic time, Del Toro would reunite with Robbins in writing 2010’s Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark, directed by Troy Nixey. However, the two also spent time together writing something else: an adaptation of H.P. Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness.

For those unfamiliar, At the Mountains of Madness is by far one of, if not, the most tragic of this filmmaker’s unrealized projects. After spending years trying to get this dream off the ground, Del Toro had the following to say to Empire in 2010: “It doesn’t look like I can do it. It’s very difficult for the studios to take the step of doing a period-set, R-rated, tentpole movie with a tough ending and no love story.” The payoff of Crimson Peak being a period-set, R-rated, tentpole film only 5 years after that statement couldn’t be sweeter. In the film, Edith is told to insert a love story for the better of her novel. Del Toro is obviously commenting on expectations tied to gender here, but you can’t help but wonder if he’s also referring to one of the biggest thorns in his own writing career – one that also ties back to writing partner Matthew Robbins.

When faced with the question, Del Toro has consistently said that all of his films carry an inherent Mexican touch just from the utter fact that they come from him, and Crimson Peak is no different. Whether if deriving from his personal experiences with tackling genre, both on and off paper, or from actual events tied to his life – Del Toro reimagines two separate ghostly encounters experienced by him and his mother through Edith – this film beams with the very essence of Del Toro’s soul. Perhaps most personified when the marginalized writer gets bloody and fights back with nothing but her pen, a visual that cements this as an important stepping stone in his career. It’s a fascinating through-line, connecting to very different segments of his canon while still defining a clear path. The mending of our wounds and subversion of gender roles is continued from Pacific Rim, while setting a bold new course for delving into unfiltered, mature romance in The Shape of Water.

This is only a fraction of what makes Crimson Peak quintessential Guillermo Del Toro. Gothic Romance has long been part of this auteur’s framework, and you would be remiss not to indulge in all of its glorious melodrama. Even if it isn’t your cup of tea, Del Toro will make it so. Reaching its 5-year anniversary, the film hits stronger than before. The intricate motifs, compelling use of practical effects (complete with the involvement of Del Toro veteran Doug Jones), and cathartic use of horror make for something that has yet to be replicated by a major studio. Its lacking box office performance suggests that maybe the world merely wasn’t ready for this masterwork? But just like its characters, we hold the power to define what comes next. Del Toro himself has previously ranked Crimson Peak as one of the 3 best films he’s ever made, and straight-up called it the most beautiful. Take his word and dive in no strings attached, because who knows when we’ll get another large scale, unapologetic Gothic Romance with this much grandeur.

#Crimson Peak #guillermo del toro #Tom Hiddleston #Mia Wasikowska #Jessica Chastain #Charlie Hunnam #Jim Beaver #Doug Jones

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thepermanentrainpress · 4 years ago

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EVERYBODY LOVES FIN: EPISODE 19

Canucks Twitter has never been more passionate, divisive and heavily opinionated; let’s go with an all-encompassing—vibrant. Any fan base is a community of people with thoughts to share, and luckily for others, content to create for a wider audience. I have to admit, I’ve been largely on the outside of Canucks Twitter, merely because I tend to direct my opinions to a TV screen rather than on social media. That being said, lately my sister, Pass it to Bulis contributor and Botchford Project recipient, Natalie Hoy, has been encouraging me to listen to more Canucks-centric podcasts. It’s been a fun time.

2010s: Does Vancouver really need two all-sports radio stations? 2020s: Does Vancouver really need 741 Canucks podcasts?

— Jyrki21 (@Jyrki21)

June 9, 2020

The world of ‘audio blogging’ has only grown over the past few years. Listeners are able to multi-task - exercising, cooking, cleaning, driving or on public transit - while plugged in to a new episode on practically any personal device. It’s a form of entertainment, often interactive, and a perfect creative outlet for amateur (and experienced) broadcasters looking for a new project. There is no shortage of podcasts courtesy of Canucks Twitter, a testament to the commitment and drive of fans, and the accessibility of the art form. With the Qualifying Round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs just about underway, there is much to be talked about. Let’s take a look at what’s out there.1

C4 Podcast

Founded: July 2013

Players: Chris Golden (@lyteforce), Anna Forsyth (@aforsyth03),Matt Lee (@mattlee_61)

Premise: The longest-running, active Canucks podcast (birthed from Canucks Hockey Blog) has been on-air for 7 years! Originally co-hosted by Chris and parody song creator Clay Imoo (@CanuckClay), the podcast offers commentary about current Canucks and NHL affairs, prospects, expectations, reminiscing on the team’s past (memories of the retired taco lover Eddie Lack and past playoff runs), and features interviews with guests. This past season, they’ve had Patrick Johnston (The Province), Satiar Shah (Sportsnet 650), Cam Robinson (Elite Prospects, Dobber Prospects) and Dan Murphy (Sportsnet) in the hot seat.

Twitter | Patreon | Discord | Listen

In the "longest-running" #Canucks #PodcastLikeThat, @risingaction joins @aforsyth03 @lyteforce & @mattlee_61 to talk about the summer training camp so far, how the Canucks match against the Wild, Rathbone, Tryamkin and so much more! https://t.co/ACreWPcPWC

— #PodcastLikeThat (@TheC4Podcast)

July 21, 2020

Area 51

Founded: December 2019 (relaunch)

Players: Sean Warren (@SeanyeWest234), Samantha (@samanthacp_), Malcolm Ert (@malcolmert), Bradley Thomas (@bradthomas_96), Eric (@breakawayeric), Bailey Broadbent (@baileybroadcast)

Premise: Area 51 celebrated a relaunch last December since their inception in July 2019, and in May welcomed a team to join host Sean Warren. Aside from their cool, alien conspiracy branding, at the mic they cover a broad range of hockey talk with notable guests (writers and broadcasters in the media, content creators, musicians, WHL players, fellow blog/podcast owners, Canucks Autism Network). I love that they’ve started to cover important topics beyond the gameplay, like anti-racism, inclusivity, and diversity in sports, and have actively sought out the guests to do so.

Twitter | Instagram | Listen

HERE WE GO! @CanuckClay enters A51 in GLCPC to discuss: -Sports debates -Being a hockey media creator -Plan a Vegas trip -Drinking and Parenting tips And complete the famous Guest Shootout! Find out whether Clay is responsible for the Luongo trade!https://t.co/Zg629tWvLG

— Area 51 Hockey Podcast (@Area51Hockey)

July 24, 2020

Cap Space Wins Cups

Founded: February 2020

Players: Hassan Ahmed (@_hassanahmed9), Ahsan Ahmed (@ace103196), Hussain Ahmed (@hussain11ahmed)

Premise: The newly formed podcast has a light, humorous tone - evident by their inaugural episode introduction about their lack of social media followers. They cover quick hits of the Canucks week, roster situations, hockey culture, and of course, cap space. They’ve hosted fellow podcast hosts and media (Satiar Shah, J.D. Burke, Matthew Sekeres, Jeff Paterson), and even a fellow Burnaby kid, Massimo Rizzo. Rizzo was a 2019 Carolina Hurricanes draft pick. It’s clear they have a lot more to share, including takes in on their corresponding blog – see: How the Canucks Can Acquire Dougie Hamilton & Build a Cup Contender. I’ll read anything related to Dougie Hamilton.

Twitter | Instagram | Listen

🚨🚨Another HUGE ANNOUNCEMENT the boys have their own website 🚨🚨https://t.co/JfQXqiXcz2, the site has all the podcast epidoes and links to all their social media. The boys have also started blogging and have 2 big article out already! It’s 100% free sign up on the site to L&C!

— Cap Space Wins Cups Podcast (@capspacecups)

June 21, 2020

The Broadscast

Founded: July 2020

Players: Vanessa Jang (@vanessajang), Georgia Twiss (@georgiatwiss), Samantha (@samanthacp_), Mallory (@sports_lesbian), Danielle Huntley (@danihuntley)

Premise: Your ‘local hockey girl gang’ talks Canucks, sports culture, and soap operas. All 5 hosts have a significant following on Twitter and are bold and uncompromising, which makes for great statements and table chatter. This was written with only their Teaser episode released, but you can expect no shortage of pop culture references, fashion discussion, NHL wives and girlfriends (WAG) and pet content, along with team analysis. It’s trailblazing for a group of females in Vancouver to start their own podcast that’s hockey-focused, meant to be a casual chat amongst friends. They know the team, know their media, can gossip, and are having fun with it.

Twitter | Instagram | Listen

The Broadscast is officially LIVE!! 🎙 Just 5 girls and some light-hearted hockey talk with a soap opera twist. Catch our teaser episode NOW on your podcast medium of choice!https://t.co/91KE8LnOJE pic.twitter.com/XH0fIfhmHy

— The Broadscast (@BroadscastPod)

July 27, 2020

PUCKS ON NET

Founded: September 2013

Players: Ryan Schaap (@schaaptop), Geeta Reddy (@geetanjalireddy), Paul McLellan (@McLellanPaul), Dave McPhail (@PucksOnDave)

Premise: The group of 4 has created a casual, honest atmosphere with their roundtable conversation. They’re good friends, which equates to great camaraderie. They run a ‘contradictory’ fantasy hockey league and don’t talk ‘fancy stats’ (while still being very knowledgeable). I think they’re engaged with their listeners, and relatable as human beings amongst their talk of Tim Hortons NHL trading cards, player safety, current signings and acquisitions, and Green Day at the All-Star Game. Reaching 7 years of consistent hockey talk and recapping the team’s evolution is a feat in its own.

Twitter | Patreon | Instagram | Listen

And on Sunday, Ryan sat down with his old man for Father's Day to talk about growing up playing minor hockey in Calgary, bonding over the Vancouver #Canucks and even his words of wisdom when it comes to talking to your kids about drugs.https://t.co/BaQFM53Yws

— PUCKS ON NET (@Pucksonnetca)

June 24, 2020

The Canucks Conversation

Founded: November 2018

Players: Chris Faber (@ChrisFaber39), David Quadrelli (@Quadrelli)

Premise: Faber was joined by Quads in 2020, and the pair has perhaps the most praised local podcast so far. They’re both BCIT Radio Arts and Entertainment students (and writers for CanucksArmy), and their dedication, preparedness, branding and reporting level are top notch. They break down topics with great chemistry and perception - roster moves, Nikita Tryamkin, Olli Juolevi, and the Judd Brackett situation. Some of their notable guests include Utica Comets Kole Lind and Brogan Rafferty, and ‘bionic’ Finn Sami Salo.

Twitter | Patreon | Instagram | Listen

🎉SURPRISE! 🎉 Episode 91: “Jake Jets out of the lineup” ft.@CraigJButton We dropped our episode early! Craig Button stops by to chat about the NHL and #Canucks prospects. We breakdown the exhibition game against the Jets & some exciting news at the end!https://t.co/NMWBVOU7ko

— Canucks Conversation Podcast (@CanucksConvo)

July 30, 2020

Canucks & Pucks

Founded: April 2019

Players: Matthew Zator (@MatthewZatorSC)

Premise: Matthew Zator, writer for The Hockey Writers and Hockey Ops Director at Overtime Heroics, made a return to the airwaves this past July (after a lengthy regular season hiatus). Since getting back up and running, it’s full steam ahead – Zator has been joined by contributors from The Hockey Writers, The Canuck Way, college hockey newsletter Fresh Ice, and fellow podcast hosts. He has good insight and as a writer who goes into depth about NHL draft picks, the Vancouver Giants, and both the Nucks’ positives and negatives in his work, it gets noticeably transferred to the on-air conversation.

Twitter | Listen

🚨 NEW EPISODE 🚨 Episode 7 ft @CanuckClay, @JDsays2much, and @BaileyAJohnson_! - #Canucks & #mnwild with Jack & Clay - Will Lockwood and Quinn Hughes with Bailey - The Mailbag segment debuts and of course news from the #NHL and @TheHockeyWriter! #THW https://t.co/lW9FQms35P

— Canucks & Pucks Podcast 🏒🎙️ (@CanucksPucks)

July 28, 2020

Canucks Speakeasy

Founded: August 2019

Players: Pete Edwards (@pete_gas), Doug (@dougvenn)

Premise: Pete and Doug are 2 “mildly educated Canucks die-hards” who chat about current team news and trending topics. They’ve covered trade talk, the Collective Bargaining Agreement, prospects at the World Juniors, scouting, and the BLM movement. They’re occasionally joined by guests including podcast friends, and fellow fans/Tweeters Chris Conte, Jenna Fabulous and Ray Hatt.

Twitter | Listen

We're back with Episode 37: Powderkeg. Playoffs, play-ins, Judd and BLM are all discussed. Give'r a listen!https://t.co/dwoEQVNudThttps://t.co/7ZSogAjWsuhttps://t.co/r5HqX26czU pic.twitter.com/QKScnR9Q6G

— Canucks Speakeasy (@CanucksSpeak)

June 4, 2020

The LarschCast

Founded: June 2019

Players: Tej Dhaliwal (@DrTejDhaliwal), Sat Oberoi (@SatOberoi), Nav Dosanjh (@NavDosanjh1983), Ryan Cassels (@cassels_music)

Premise: The Larschcasters are known for their entertaining banter and debates, mostly on hockey and a little NFL. They’ve picked the minds of seasoned media (Scott Oake, James Duthie, Joey Kenward), legendary broadcaster Jim Robson, and former Canucks Kirk McLean, Chris Higgins and Shane O’Brien. They’ve been generating healthy content during the pandemic, including a spirited debate with Minnesota Wild podcast hosts, discussing media personnel moves, prospects, NHL Award contenders, and the toxicity in the Vancouver Canucks market. In June, they released a special with hockey coach/trainer Jennifer Chefero, sharing her story facing sexual abuse and harassment in her career, while candidly discussing women’s rights and sports culture.

Twitter | Facebook | Listen

Episode 61 ft. @hustlerama!#NHLJets centric epi, with an outlook of the Jets vs #flames. Not a lot of love for Calgary in this one😬. Also insights into the #nhlbubble, before ending with #Canucks talk & Rapid Larsch! 🍎:https://t.co/vZ2lyQ9zoO Spotify: https://t.co/XdV1y3ls7V

— The LarschCast (@larschcast)

July 29, 2020

The PP1 Podcast

Founded: October 2019

Players: Brayden Ursel (@bkursel23), Ted (@tee3ree), Ryan Hank (@always90four)

Premise: A tagline like “three guys from Kelowna bringing the heat and spitting the takes” doesn’t need further explanation. Appearing at the beginning of this season, the podcast (which features writers from The Canuck Way and CanucksArmy) has had some nice guests like the Canucks inaugural captain Orland Kurtenbach, retired centre and current Kelowna Rockets Assistant Coach Vern Fiddler, and Paul “Biznasty” Bissonnette. They’ve been nominated for Kelowna Now’s Best Local Podcast, and have a ‘Dudes and Guys’ segment where they pit 2 players against one another and talk it out (criteria is debatable).

Twitter | Listen

Episode 46: Bouncy Castles, Boeser Bombshells, & Backchecking w/ @mattsekeres. We chat Boeser rumours, cap crunch, Rathbone, Tryamkin, Markstrom, Sundin vs. Vanek, the best cold-open since Nikolay Goldobin, and how you can win a #Canucks jersey. https://t.co/KouGJr6GKH

— The PP1 PODCAST (@ThePP1Podcast)

July 15, 2020

The SCT Show

Founded: September 2018

Players: Nam Mann (@CanuckAgent007), Tanbir Rana (@TRana87)

Premise: SCT is Strictly Canucks Talk. Aside from reminiscing about ‘where were you when’ pivotal moments in franchise history occurred and the regular shop talk of performance and #NamStats, they draw in guests to talk about trade value (The Athletic’s Harman Dayal) and stickhandling (specialist/trainer Pavel Barber). They’ve also hosted local defenceman and last year’s 4th overall draft pick Bowen Byram, and hockey analyst/retired winger Anson Carter for a chat about the pressure of the market in Vancouver and the Sedins. Like any good heated debate, there are also trade and Team Tank vs Playoffs scenarios.

Twitter | Listen

.@CanuckAgent007 has a proposal to get Loui Eriksson off the #Canucks books 🤔 EP 14 - Links below ⬇️ 🍎 https://t.co/Z9snNdSuI1 📱 https://t.co/AJILh0IaWJ pic.twitter.com/LZblDE8GLW

— The SCT Show (@SCTShow)

July 17, 2020

Johnny Canuck Talk

Founded: August 2019

Players: Adrian J. Haug (@adrianjhaug), Roy Styles (@roy_styles)

Premise: Takes from 2 arm chair GM’s, the pair discuss a wide variety of topics like losing streaks, hockey safety, report cards, line-ups, and trade deadline. They’ve also shared an insightful chat with Harman Dayal (The Athletic) about his career and the late and great Jason Botchford. It’s laid-back and conversational, with mentions of farmers’ tans, celebrating birthdays during quarantine, and the school system strung across introductions. What’s cool is they record the podcast from near and far away places – Kamloops, BC and Germany (!).

Twitter | Listen

(1) Episode 37 is uploading now! @roy_styles and I talk #Canucks #hockey and @Canucks topics, issues, news, etc. We also talk about the incredible impact our Jim Carey impressions have had on our wives. Yikes. Featuring tweets from: @Canuckgirl20 @TSN1040 @DanRiccio650 pic.twitter.com/6oA7mZh6jb

— Johnny Canuck Talk (@JohnnyCanuckPod)

June 28, 2020

1 This list is not exhaustive, but there is something for everyone and I hope you find your Canucks fix. There can be an argument made that the podcast market is oversaturated, but I like to see it as an opportunity for any fan or audio bird to let their voice be heard! So, don’t be negative about it.

Posted by: Chloe Hoy

#Everybody Loves Fin #Canucks #Vancouver Canucks #Chloe #Canucks Twitter #blog #hockey blog #NHL #nucks #nhl canucks #Podcast #Apple Podcasts #sports #hockey #Podcaster #Spotify Podcast

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doublenuzlocke · 5 years ago

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Entry #3: Explosions in the Desert

((aka does this even count as an AU I just moved them to a different Pokemon game ;;;;;

but also I am a sucker for adding Colosseum onto everything can you tell that I really, REALLY want to rewrite the whole game ;;;; ))

“We’ve been stranded here for days and it’s your fault!”

“How is it my fault that you got bored and decided to gamble all our travel funds away and then get banned from the casino?”

Gold rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. But you’re the one who wanted to visit Pyrite in the first place.”

“We couldn’t go straight from Phenac to Agate, it’s too far!”

Kotone huffed at him and he could see that he wasn’t about to win this argument. He let out an aggravated breath and stepped down. “Fine. I’m gonna go see if we can find some help.”

“Don’t go out by yourself, this place is dangerous!”

Kotone still looked angry, but her concern shone through. Gold pulled the two Poke Balls off his belt and held them up for her to see. For emphasis. “I’m not alone, Kotone.”

She looked torn for a moment, debating whether or not to allow him to leave. In the end, she flipped open her ‘gear and turned away. “Don’t go too far, I’m calling up Norman so he can come get us.”

“Not that asshole.” Gold shuddered at the thought of his dad arriving to scold him for his inconsiderate recklessness. Not to mention how angry his mom was gonna be when she found out. He cringed and left their hotel room. “Ugh, this really sucks.”

Even if he pulled out Chocobo or Mom to complain to, they’d just agree with Kotone that he’d been the one being an ass here. Well, that Casino was the one who’d cheated him, first! He’d noticed their underhanded tactics and lying, telling him he’d lost when he’d clearly won, but they seemed to have the city’s police in the palm of their hands and had him thrown out for his troubles.

Sulking, Gold wandered the dirty city’s battle square, ready for a fight to release some steam. He caught sight of a duo with a Whismur and a Lotad battling a Chaser girl with a Dustox and an Oddish. That didn’t seem entirely fair. Still, the Chaser managed to take out the duo’s Lotad and one of them sent out a Makuhita next.

The moment the Makuhita came into sight, Gold froze. It seemed wrong somehow, surrounded by a dark aura and drained of colour. Without any issues, it beat both the opponent Pokemon, then turned on its partner.

The duo quickly withdrew their Pokemon (the Whismur and the Makuhita), then collected their prize money. And Gold should’ve known better. He should’ve listened to Kotone and returned right back to her. But the warning bells in his head were going off too loudly for his common sense to kick in and he approached the duo, determination in his steps.

“Hey, nice battle.” He grinned and waved, greeting them with his best faux friendliness act. The two warily turned their attention to him and he continued, going directly for the kill. “Must be easy to beat up some unsuspecting chumps with an illegal Pokemon like that.”

The two of them hesitated before the one with the orange Mohawk spoke up. “What’re you talking about, ‘illegal Pokemon’? How could such a thing exist?”

“I dunno.” Gold shrugged, keeping up his act of friendly innocence. “You tell me why your Makuhita there was weirdly dark and powerful enough to take down a Pokemon it should be ineffective against.”

The two shared a look, then brandished their Poke Balls at him. “Those are fighting words if I ever heard any. Don’t you agree, Trudly?”

“I’d say you’re right there, Folly.” The other sneered and they sent out their Pokemon, the Whismur and dark Makuhita. “Let’s demonstrate why you don’t come 'round here asking too many questions.”

Gold smirked, confident that Chocobo and Mom could handle these losers. The Makuhita, though, charged right towards him. He didn’t get a chance to even send his team out. It punched him right in the gut and the shock, along with the impact, knocked him out immediately.

Crys hated sand.

She hated sand, the heat, and the general lawlessness of the land.

But complaining about Orre wasn’t about to help her get a plane ticket outta there, so she had to keep fighting and living in spite of all that she hated.

If she just continued playing along with Snagem, then she could make enough for the gas to get to Agate. As long as they believed she was a loyal scientist, then she could plan out her betrayal without any of them being the wiser.

Maybe in another life she could’ve studied Shadow Pokemon more, researched into why Orre had no wild Pokemon when other regions’ deserts could support their wildlife, done something useful with her life. As it was, she could only bide her time until she could make her escape.

Luckily, she wasn’t the only voice of discontent amongst the ranks. Another grunt, Silver, was also itching to blow the joint (though he was a fantastic actor, keeping his stony expression as he discussed a plan to bomb the place with her) and agreed to work with her to cause a ruckus in exchange for getting out. It’d taken zero convincing on her part, which was fine and dandy since he was a valuable addition to her plan with his knowledge on explosives.

They blew the place up, stole the snag machine, and never looked back. If they hadn’t needed to stop for gas at the old train pit stop, they might’ve gone straight to Unova. Maybe further. Crys was just so glad to finally be out.

While Crys handled filling up the bike, Silver decided to check out the small establishment. The news was all ready reporting on their coup of the blown Snagem base, but Silver ignored it in favour of ordering some waters for him and Crys. Two of the patrons, however, stood and rushed out after the report ended. Might’ve been two lowly grunts, who cared? Silver paid the nice bartender, then left to rejoin Crys.

“That was Trudly and Folly.” She remarked as soon as he was within speaking distance. He grimaced, prompting her to continue and please explain why that should’ve mattered to him at all. “They had a sack in the back of their vehicle. I thought maybe they’d stolen some Pokemon, but it was too big to be just a stash of Poke Balls.”

Again, Silver regarded her with his very unamused stare. “And why would that be our concern?”

“Silver, they might’ve kidnapped someone.” She frowned at him. “We should really try to stop them.”

She had such a lawful mentality. He often wondered how Snagem had managed to keep her for so long. He also wasn’t willing to try to talk her out of this. It was her bike, after all. With a heavy sigh, he hopped into the sidecar. “They’ll be heading to Phenac.”

She relaxed in relief, then climbed onto the bike proper to start it up. “Right. Let’s see if we can stop them before they reach the 'mayor’.”

The bike’s engine roared to life and they took off, out into the open desert. Silver pulled his goggles on as she flicked her visor down over her eyes. He’d heard from a terrified scientist that she’d been the one closest to the explosion when they’d been trying to create the first snagging device prototype, but it never seemed to stop her. Now she wore the fruits of that experiment, the smaller and portable model, on her arm.

Learning about her had been useful at the time, but they’d soon go on their separate ways. Silver needn’t worry over any potential weaknesses her scar might cause her. He didn’t have to worry over her figuring out his own weaknesses, either.

They arrived at Phenac after a couple of hours and found Trudly and Folly, the two inept idiots, attempting to carry the burlap sack that clearly held a human body inside through the main plaza. Silver almost didn’t want to intervene, curious as to how far they’d make it before they were captured by the authorities. However, Crys had all ready leapt up to confront them, so Silver begrudgingly followed suit.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Crys shouted at them.

They jumped, fumbling and dropping their body in a sack as a consequence. A muffled groan of pain came from it and Silver was almost impressed. How two failures like them could’ve managed to actually kidnap a human being was a fortuitous amount of bullshit he couldn’t even begin to imagine. Trudly held up his hands, pleading. “What? Whaddaya want with us? We’re busy, that’s what.”

“Yeah, we’re busy.” Folly added in, crouching to attempt to gather the sack back up. “We’ve got a real catch here and the Mayor asked us to–”

“Shut up!”

Trudly hissed and Folly did, in fact, shut up. Unfortunately for them, that’s when the sack started shouting. “Help! Get me outta here! Murderers!”

Folly shook the sack roughly. “We ain’t murderers, we’re kidnappers! Get it right!”

Trudly smacked the back of Folly’s head. “You idiot!” He glanced up at Crys and Silver, then around the plaza. The noise was drawing a crowd. Trudly growled and yanked Folly to his feet. “We gotta ditch, else Mirror B’s gonna make us sit through another punishment concert. He’ll be hearing about you from us, Crys!”

After hurling a last (and laughably ineffective) threat, Trudly dragged Folly off, out of the city’s entrance. Crys went to give chase, then stopped herself. She let out a tired exhale and approached the sack, motioning for Silver to follow her. “You all right in there?”

“Unless a bruised gut and some probably cracked ribs count as 'fine’, then nope, not at all, thanks.”

Both Crys and Silver were taken aback by the response, having not expected one. Crys tugged at the knot keeping the sack tied shut and, reluctantly, Silver knelt down to help. She spoke with conviction, if a bit distracted by the task at hand. “Once we get you out of there, we’ll take you to the Centre here so you can get more help. That sound good?”

“Sure, yeah, as long as it’s not here, I’m sure it’ll be great.”

They got the knot untied and carefully removed the bag to reveal a guy, probably around their age, with black hair and dried blood around his mouth. Crys winced at the sight. “They got you good. Need some help or are you okay to stand on your own?”

“I think I can do it myself.” The guy tested his legs, gritting his teeth with every movement. They really needed to get this guy to a Centre. He managed to stand, holding an arm to his stomach, and grinned half-heartedly at them. “Thanks, by the way. I’m Gold, nice to meet'cha.”

Crys softened and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Crys. And this is Silver. Careful, now.”

She directed Gold towards the PokeCentre, which was thankfully not too far away. It was also nice that she’d introduced Silver for him, as if she’d known he wasn’t about to do it himself. This seemed dangerous, but it wasn’t like they had much of a choice. If they’d simply left, they’d draw even more attention, after all. Silver rolled his eyes, but followed after them. It’d at least be interesting to hear this Gold’s explanation on how this even happened.

#au fanfic contest #submission #characteroulette

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writtenfan · 6 years ago

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“Tell me, you feel the same. For my sake.”

Severus x Reader Imagine

Request: Can you do a Snape x reader where the reader is apart of the slugclub and they end up taking a friend to a party slughorn organized. Snape finds out after overhearing students talk about all the people going together/alone. he finds out who the reader's going with and goes to the party to take the reader away (basically making up an excuse) due to jealousy. He confesses to the reader about his feelings and they feel the same. sorry for being too specific, I'm a sucker for fluff.

“Just top the brew with the crushed seeds, that should work...you’ll have a kicker in no time”.

You plant your elbows on the tabletop and lean forward looking into the bubbling cauldron. You click your tongue and give a wink to the 3rd year Slytherin boy in front of you. “Th-thanks a bunch y/n!” he stammers as he shakes the jar of multicolored seeds into his mortar and started grinding. You throw yourself back on your chair and look around the little study room in the dungeon. Small groups of students of all years were working and talking amongst themselves, most of them on potion related work, while one kid tried to turn into their Animagi form for the fourth time in a row, by jumping off their chair. You gave the kid a thumbs up and got up from your table, heading out the door. You decided to look for your friend you hadn’t seen all day.

You dug your hands into your sweatpants. You didn’t have another class until late so of course, you changed into more comfortable clothes. You try to whistle a tune as you twirl leisurely in the hallway keeping your eye on whatever interested you as you walked down damp corridors. You reached the top of the ascending staircase to the main hall and glanced up the stairs, the top shimmered with a cool crisp light that made you happier somehow. You walked up the stairs, skipping steps every now and then and hopped onto the main floor “Rowan!”. Your voice is barely heard over in the hall full of students. Walking, running, snogging. You name it, it was like a mini train-station in this crossroad of a room. Right near the great hall entrance sat a group of students sitting on floating beanbags playing a multiplayer video game on their Nintendo’s. You started walking towards them, simply to check what made a few of them curse, causing their bean bags to slam into the ground. When you heard a voice shout out from behind you, “

Mr./Mrs. L/N, Mr./Mrs. L/N!” called the weary voice. Stopping in place you swung towards the call with a puzzled smile, fixing your T-shirt so that it looked presentable. You ruffle your hair and walk towards the jittery old man who dodged and weaved through the crowd “Hey Prof. Slughorn” you grin as he walks up to you, you hold out your hand for a shake and with both hands, he shakes your hand enthusiastically. He wore an old brown plaid bowtie and the simple brown suit to match. There was a quill stuck in his lapel that seemed to flick it’s feather around as if it was alive. After finally releasing your hand, he fumbled around with his collar and gave you a bright thrilled smile.

“I’ve been looking for you l/n”.

You dig your uncomfortably warm hands against your pants inside your pocket “what’s going on?” You say anxiously as you scan your surroundings finding many eyes glancing curiously over to you and the new potions teacher. Slughorn pats your shoulder reassuringly and gives it a firm shake”. Don’t you worry, nothing is wrong come, follow me, it’s better to be able to hear your voice, rather than having to shout for my poor old ears”. He pushes you towards the stairs against your upper back uncomfortably pressing his chest against the side of your arm. “eh, ha alright professor…” Taking one last hopeful look behind, you look for your friend hoping your they could go with you, but to no luck. You stepped up multiple staircases towards the six floor. On the way up, he chatted with you about students he tutored, represented for, and how he thought you were such an extraordinary (witch/wizard), which caused you to grow even more uncomfortable. Fortunately, you had just gotten off the last set of stairs. Slughorn let go of your back and leaned against the stair banister, breathing hard. “Now, that will keep me young now won’t it?” He wheezed as he pushed himself off it, and began walking towards the end of the corridor, towards a door down the hall

” Come on, right here!”

You hurriedly followed behind him as he opens the door for you.” Welcome to my office, take a seat feel free to nosh on a cake or two”. You walk with wide eyes into the room. The office looked a lot more like a living room apartment than a simple office. Although it had the standard desk, it also had a huge couch, an armchair, a fireplace, and a long end table propped with knickknacks and lamps. Wizard teachers sure had it good at work, especially compared to most muggle teaching offices. You gingerly make your way to the office and sit down on the couch getting yourself a hearty piece of sweet cake. You begin munching while you watch Slughorn stride towards you, his eyes focus on you with a confusing enthusiasm, the lack of blinking he did, made you take smaller bites and wipe your mouth more often than you were. “So, from what I picked up, you wanted me to join a club?” Slughorn let’s out a couple hearty laughs and waved his hand in front of his face as if swatting away an insect.

“No, no, no… not just any club my dear, my club, the Slug Club!” He ambled over to the side of the couch and held a hand on the back of the sofa. “This club is intended for everyone you know! Only the best students at this school are chosen, the best in academics, sports, magical talent…” He leaned his arm over your shoulder and plucks a silver badge from the table popping it into your hands. You look at the Hogwarts crested badge engraved with a nicely designed” S and C” along with the small words looking at the bottom that from what you can make out said something in Latin. He cleared his throat with a grin set on his face, you give them a polite smile as you gently set the heavy badge back down into the table top, “and I would like you to join us (Ms,Mr) l/n...’ He walks to the other side of the coffee table and stares you down with a polite eagerness. “and I won’t take no for an answer! You are a formidable (witch/wizard) (Mr,Ms) l/n, your magical work is something to be impressed with, your prestige in your magical studies is astounding and for a Muggle-Born no less!” He sings as he clasps his hands together eagerly, almost bouncing on his toes”. You ignore the talk of blood purity and wipe your mouth with a napkin, “What do you do exactly, in this club.” You inquire as you lean back in your seat. “

Well, you’ll attend meetings that vary from weekly to monthly depending on the time but expect weekly…” he walks to the front of the couch and turns his back to you, looking into the fireplace

“We attend prestigious parties, events, talk about our improvements…”

You take this time to look over his office once more. Your eye catches a jar of worn up fluff and greenish cloth.

“So, you see, I must have you join”. You focus back to him.

” So, will you l/n?... This club will set you up for greatness beyond measure, it’ll make you connections that will propel you forward in the wizarding world… how about it?”

You look up at him with an amused grin thinking for a moment, as you dust crumbs from your lap. The club didn’t seem so bad, maybe a bit time-consuming, but for some reason, he had thought you were talented enough… which you sure we’re going to this to discuss with him later, but this was an interesting opportunity.

“Sure professor, Yes, I’ll join…”

He watched the young whelps run around the outside of the Quidditch pitch, leaning against the structure, arms crossed. My…they spoke, loudly. Gossiped amongst each other, a few deciding running round was an effective way to tire their energy. “Per-fect”. He muttered under his breath rolling his eyes back towards the castle that stood in the distance.

Severus’s eyes strained in the light of the sun as he tried to focus on the world around him, once the clouds departed overhead. He slunk back against the shadow of the structure. Hours spent in the dark damp depths of the dungeon, and indoors, in general, made being outside so dreadful. He snapped his head towards a girl who had just slipped and fallen into the grass because she hadn’t observed the grass was clearly still damp from the early morning showers. “Sit still Amira!” he shouted, which caused her to jolt and cautiously pick herself up as she frantically dusts grass from her pants and shirt as she sat down. “Sorry Professor Snape”. She responded militarily, giving him a silent respectful nod. He raised his eyebrows and gave the girl a slightly impressed glare before continuing to observe the world around him. He would train these first years no doubt, no Slytherin would be even considered inadequate on his watch.

The wind picked up, tossing his hair in front of his face. He tucked a few black strands behind his ear and turned himself so that the wind was against his back. Where was Professor Hooch, he couldn’t watch these kids for long… he thought as he felt the suns blinking rays dip behind the clouds once more. He stepped from the shadows and walked around the group of Slytherin children in a slow steadied pace, keeping his eyes and ears trained for any foreseen nonsense.

“Yeah- A rock…came to life…it was awesome- “

“No- I didn’t know the bathrooms were so awesome! I love the snake faucets!”

“My brother doesn’t like Flitwick, says he stares at his crotch too much”.

“Yes, my sibling is going to the party tonight, along with his (house) friend y/n”

He stopped abruptly, making sure he wasn’t directly looking at them he turned his focus towards the forest past their sitting forms.

“Really? My mother used to be in his club when he first was here at Hogwarts! Says that it set her up on the path of being one of the best Witch doctors of her time”.

“Yeah- their really excited, although they didn’t exactly get into the club themselves, y/n invited them, they hope to get to join in the process…it’s a fancy party I hear, absolutely top-notch”.

Severus ground his teeth and rubbed his thumb and index finger together in fidgety distress

“Party. What party?”

Severus towering form walked up to the sitting children who looked up into Severus’s dark glittery eyes in a nervous regard for the man. Who made their nerves even worse as He tapped his foot impatiently. “S-Slughorn’s party tonight professor”. The girl stammered as she muddled around with her hair. “Slug-horn?” he stared down into the child’s eyes, wanting more information at a quicker pace. “Ye-Yes, his club is hosting a party tonight, some of his club members, a-are going. “

“Where?”

“f-fourth floor. That’s all I know sir”.

Severus grunted dissatisfied with the information. He reduced his glare’s concentration and snappily walked away from the two kids, who watched him bursting into a soft chatter afterward.

“Professor, Thank you so much!”

Severus spun his head around towards the brisk figure of madam hooch rushing towards him. All the students behind him rose up and stood eagerly for their first flying lesson. “About time, Prof. Hooch”. He projected sternly, as the woman walked to him, holding a broomstick in her hand a polite smile on her face. “I’m sorry Severus, there was a small troublesome situation I needed to attend-”.

Severus crossed his arms once more and scowled down at this queer looking woman, forcing himself to be respectful.

“I don’t care, what you were doing…but what’s important is that you’re here now, and now that you are- “he walked past her and turned towards his first years “Behave. All of you. If I hear one of you step out of line, I’ll make you regret that you did”. With that simple sentence, he briskly walked away from the group, his black robe fluttering behind him, his overall demeanor, intimidating and mysterious.

It was night, but not yet late enough…the castle was buzzing with nightlife. Students roamed around the halls in packs or settled themselves silently and did whatever they pleased.

But all that was beyond the door.

Severus investigated his face in the bathroom mirror, disassociated from his nagging thoughts that had lingered in the back of his mind since mid-morning. He looked into his own eyes and stared into his black pupils, he groaned and flipped the nozzle of hot water on the sink below him, letting the stream run on his fingers as he observed each section of his face in quiet displeasure. He didn’t usually look this intensely at his appearance in vanity, more often his hair than other physical parts of him this intensely. The more he looked at himself the more he felt adverse about himself, which was a feeling deep down that he didn’t like visiting. He thought of himself with high regard and extreme intelligence and talent no doubt, but when he thought too hard and looked too hard, he often heard that small voice of his in his head which brought up doubts that held in his ribcage. He wiped his wet fingers beneath his eyes rubbing them against his tired lines and briskly over his eyebrows. Grunting as he turned the faucet off. He looked down into the sink and fixed his hair, smoothing it out against his head, parting it, fiddling with it. “Fine”. He murmured gripping the sides of the sink firmly propping himself up against it, looking hesitantly into the mirror. “You're fine”. He grumbled, Tucking a loose strand of hair behind his right ear. He stood silently and listened to the dull rumble of water in the pipes, and the wind against the bathroom window, instead of his own thoughts in his head. “You will…walk in.” his voice was a low slur, he dipped his head down and studied the sink drain.

“It doesn’t matter…”

“she/he…”

He pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead and rose from his hunched over posture tilting his head up at the ceiling. Letting out a low exhale, he dropped his hand and turned back to the door, fixing his robes before pushing against its frame and walking out with a quite somberness.

The room was beautifully decorated, the candle lights hung around the room and shined brightly against dangling cream translucent cloths a large round table placed in the middle of the room. Students sat on comfy cream-colored couches and recliners, thin tall tables held drinks on their tops, people talked to each other besides them. You pressed your closed hand against your chest lightly. Sitting at a small bar, your friend sat beside you had been talking to you about some project their parents had been working on relating to a specific strand of something called Wengo flu. You listened intently and sipped a bubbling and sweet sparkling pear drink from a thin gorgeous wine glass.

“-that’s really the solution”

They finish, popping their glass to their lips taking a hardy swig.

“This party sucks don’t it.” you reply plainly.

They laugh and set down their glass. “Yes. It does, I knew you wouldn’t like this as much as someone else.”

You smiled and investigated your glass at the tinted yellow liquid.

“I mean- it’s good that I’m here I guess; this club has been…kind to me- nothing special”.

You looked at the bartender on the other side of the bar as they washed a glass with a light tan cloth.

“They even hired a bartender. I mean wow, and the catering isn’t bad either…I never even tried Implen ears before…”

They laughed once, then raised from their seat. “Come on- the dinners over- we can probably go now-“

You listened for a second at the music and talking that filled the room, you feel oddly relaxed, you took a deep breath and rose from your seat. “Sure, why not…”

Your friend’s eyes abruptly narrowed angrily, “y/n, professor- “

You look at the direction they’re looking at, you turn around and find yourself looking into the eyes of Professor Snape, wearing a rather darker shaded black robe, with a silver button clasped at his chest. He stopped in front of you and looked down at you with still eyes, that caused you to stir in slight discomfort. “Hello Severus...” you say constraining an unsteady pleasure from showing on your face. Severus manages to look away from your eyes and instead focuses his attention of your friend behind you...

“How sweet. Accompanying (ms/mr) l/n, tonight, are we?”

Your friend narrows their eyes at him.

“Yes, had to- they insisted dragging me here professor” they replied.

Severus narrowed his eyes in return and sneered, before correcting himself. “Guess (he/she) didn’t have anyone better to ask then…” he held his eyes back on you “hmm?” You…you felt a weird feeling stir in response to his gaze. Although you didn’t respond.

Things had been weird between. You two for a while now-…he had just recently seemed to be ignoring you, for about two weeks…this was the first time he had talked to you out of class setting since. “Actually-“ your friend cut into his focus like a knife and caused it to wash away in an instance. “Silence, I don’t care for any more conversation…” Severus cut in, shifting himself so that his body turned slightly towards the doorway. “y/n, come with me.” Your heartbeat skips, oh shoot- were you in trouble. With who? What happened. “I'll be right back..” you say wearily to your friend as you follow Severus stride towards the door. He opens it for you and you hesitantly walk through into the hallway.

He glances his head back towards y/n’s friend and scowls, angered by the obvious lack of respect they had for him and closed the door behind him. He watched your figure turn towards him in the hallway and wait for him. His attention was once against lost in your eyes, and the way you looked. He moved from the door walked towards you.

“Follow me”.

He spoke curtly and started heading there without glancing back at you, knowing you’d follow. As you both walked, he spent a concerning amount of his concentration listening to your feet walk along behind him. It made him feel warmer, a quivering nervous warmer. You both walked down sets of stairs in silence, the world around you loud enough to prevent this tension to consume you both. Eventually, you both walked out of the castle, towards Hagrid’s hut. The wind was still, yet the air was refreshing tonight.

You followed Severus in the opposite direction of the hut, into a small sitting area hugged by a few trees, like a grotto- close to the Quidditch pitch. It was silent out here, not a single person was this far, this late at night…He walked to the side of a rickety pale wooden bench and rested his hand on it, looking up into the stars, his back to you.

He mumbled under his breath words you couldn’t make out as you got closer. Stopping at once as you came close enough.

“What’s the matter-“ you say softly, fighting a smile on your face. Trying to seem normal, trying to seem indifferent, but failing.

Severus turns towards you, his eyes glittering against the darkness. His hair lightly tossed in the soft wind. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes say too much.

A few moments pass, and he finally breaks the silence,

“I don’t like how Slughorn treats you as if your some kind of jewel to add to his collection…” You could feel his body heat…or was it yours…were you hot or was it just the weather? “...This club is just a narcissistic assist to his personality and I don’t want you to get caught up in the idea that you're better than everyone because he insists that it’s so”

“I wasn’t thinking that Severus...”

“Yes. I know, it just worries me and annoys me how much Slughorn and all the other members of this “exceptional posse” fawn over you constantly…it's bad for the character.”

You raise your eyebrow and cross your arms with a smile “fawn hmm? You're worried about my character?”

“Yes.” His foot begins to tap.

“Your character is great as it is, y/n I don’t want them changing you or…trying to get close to you just because of how extraordinary you are...”

The wind blows against your face and your hands are trying to claw into your own wrists.

“I’m glad you like who I am…really, hearing it from you means so much more to me than hearing it from Slughorn or any other person in this whole castle” you blurt out unexpectantly, your voice quiets once you do so. You didn’t say it the way you wanted to, you were going for a more confident friendly tone and ended up with a sincere truthful one.

You begin to blush uncontrollably and your eyes scatter from him, off into the distance. His jaw releases slightly and trembles a bit.

“I…” his voice is so velvety and soft, you force yourself to look back at him.

He looks at you as if you were a puzzle piece that he needed to solve but didn’t know how.

“I need to confess something, that I feel, is apparent to the both of us...”

Taking his hand off the bench and one last step towards you, his face bursting with a nervous sternness that startles you.

You already knew.

“I…I can’t keep this to myself (y/n)…so I’m going to say this clearly and once”

He raises a finger in the air “only because you make me feel as if I could. If It turns out I’m wrong, you’re going to have to forget this moment ever happened, understand?” you grin nervously and look at him reassuringly. “Just say it…” you whisper in a soft ecstatic tone.

“You know you can, you can tell me anything Severus I won’t-”

“-Every single day y/n. I think of you”.

You lip close, his hand gingerly lifts yours as if you were made of glass.

“All the time I’ve spent with you has caused me to feel ways in which I never thought I could…”

His fingers try and avoid holding you too tight and buzz with apprehension.

“...Undeserving, happiness that I never tasted before… you’ve caused my heart to battle with my mind endlessly, making me sick…making me…”

“need you even more...”

…You wanted to kiss him, you wanted to kiss him, you wanted to kiss him…

“I enjoy- seeing your eyes look at me. I enjoy hearing your words only meant for me…I crave your existence whenever it isn’t directly in front of me…”

“You make me shake with jealousy, tense up with fear, and languid with complete appreciation”.

“I adore you y/n…I need you to feel the same, for my sake…” his eyebrows furrow.

“Please tell me you feel the same. Please”. His voice begins to crack, and his eyes lose their battle with the few tears that ran down his face, a hopeless anger rises in his tone

“Please, tell me you haven’t fooled me with your kind words and magnificent facade…tell me you’ve looked at me and felt some sort of favorable emotion…tell me here and now, and I promise you I won’t yield to my mind anymore, I’ll let my heart offer itself to you, you can have it. You can have it!” his voices trembles.

“…all I need is for you to say it…” a tear fell down his face.

“Just tell me, you feel the same,” he shouts insecurely.

You don’t even look at him for a second more as you slam into his chest and wrap your arms around him. Holding him with all the might you could muster, sobbing violent laughter against his shoulder, holding his head in your hands, feeling for the first time, his loving embrace you’d craved since your soul fell for this man. He feverishly wrapped his arms around you and held onto you with this trembling hunger for your touch. He presses his nose against the side of your face feeling his wet tears against your cheek. Without thinking, you turn your head and kiss his upper lip. The world spins around you as if you had used a time turner.

You break from his lips, “I always have!” you say in a raspy overwhelmed joy.

He breaks into a smile, the brightest sincerest smile you’ve ever seen on his face. He laughs and holds the side of your face with his hand, rubbing his thumb on the side of your chin, appreciatingly.

“Thank you..” he holds onto your waist continuing to appreciate your (beautiful/handsome) face with his eyes.

“Stay here, with me...forget that absurd party...” he coos as he leads you over to the bench. He takes out his wand and says a spell flicking the wand in a small quick circle in the air a white sparkling circle erupts from his wand’s tip and dissolves as it grows bigger, suddenly you see a thin wobblily aura surround this little spot your in. “Just you and I.” he whispers as sits down with you on the bench that creaks softly under your weight. He felt like a teenager again, the brimming joy in his body wouldn’t allow him to be still.

“…let me hold you…let me hear your voice…as if for the first time..”

#severus snape #severus x reader #severus imagine #snape x reader #snape imagine #hp imagine

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jessamygriffin · 6 years ago

Text

The Legend

Dear @youcantdothatpod

Hello, Hockey Coven, it is I, one of the two responsible for the Pierre-Édouard Bellemare DreamBoat Manifesto of old, penning this under my normal Tumblr journal instead of the hockey one for no good reason, and I come to you, with respect, and with full knowledge of certain coven members love of Russian players (though this one is not a Siberian) to ask for either a history lesson or dream boat nomination for my guy - for having an interesting life, to say the least. He is my favorite Russian player. Yes, possibly even over Ovi.

And yet he never made the NHL.

Oh. My. GOD. some listeners must be thinking at this point. Why even BOTHER with this guy??? he’s not in the fucking NHL!

(And can I just say, in this case, we must never be the Bettmans of the hockey world, who was bloated with hubris thinking to bring hockey like a Messiah to the unenlightened Asian continent a few years back [ha ha fuck off, they’ve had hockey here as long as the NHL has existed? I live in Japan btw] and we must not think that the NHL is the end-all-be-all of hockey aspiration. It wasn’t. It isn’t. Times were different. There wasn’t even a KHL at the time our story begins.)

I bring him to your attention because he is THE BEST.

His story begins in the Siberian IHL, passing a pretty tough try-out as a kid to start playing for the Red Army team, CSKA Moscow.

I feel like I ought not throw in all his info here? Maybe just a few highlights? And some comments. Ok who am I kidding it will get long.

Here: Vladislav Tretiak.

Vladislav Aleksandrovich Tretiak, goalie, current president of the IIHFR.

He won a lot of shit. I’ll just link the Wiki here - it’s a list.

He looks kinda like Spock, but in the best red-blooded ways, not that I would ever judge anyone for wanting to get freaky with a green-blooded half-alien. His goalie training looks a lot like cossack dance.

(MUTE THIS VIDEO THO)

youtube

There’s some other worse quality vids of him doing similar and playing with his son, so. There’s that. Skip ahead to the tennis ball part.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrfOsCVakvs

He started hockey kinda late, at age 11.

And Canadian hockeys LOVED him. *See below pic of jersey swap with Wayne Gretzky for proof.

Really, you gasp. Say it ain’t so! Impossible!!!

Truth.

How did the so-called hockey world (which of course was based in NA according to old boring hockey men) discover this Dumbo-eared wunderkind? The 1972 Summit Series.

(Yes, he grew his hair out and covered the mudflaps, and it was MUCH BETTER, sorry Vladdy.)

‘Ho hum,’ said the Canadians, ‘Russia thinks they are good at hockey, how ‘bout we have the Summit Series and quash their pretensions? That gold medal in Sapporo? a FLUKE. Ha ha, look at their goalie, this will be a cakewalk, he let in EIGHT GOALS in this game we just saw, oh well, let’s go have a beer and light up a dart, eh, boys? Eight games, pfft. We’ll sweep them.’

Joke was on them - Vladdy or Vladik was gettiing married the next day and weirdly? Couldn’t concentrate.

Summit Series ended up with one tie, 3 Russian wins and 4 Canadian, with the Canadians playing their dirty rough style, and the Russians their smooth, machine-cog style. That series was a gongshow of biased refereeing, Russian goal judges not turning on goals lights, and teams leaving the bench to have Canadian or Russian tantrums. Actual ankle-breaking occured.

Canadians had two goalies. Russian had one. He was 20. My boy. He KILLED it. And to say the Canadians were pretty horned about about this alien cheekboned man-child after expected a blow-out? MASSIVE understatement, HUGELY horny. As they should have been. Ken Dryden LOVED him. Jacques Plante himself, maybe feeling sorry for the kid, came and talked to him before the tournament started and let him know how different players would try to score. ‘A big help,’ Vladdy said. ‘I don’t know why he did that.’ LOTS of players were in awe. Canada was turned upside, Toronto became Tijuana and nothing was ever the same. The Interest in Russian Players was, officially, a Thing. (Kharlamov was a big part of the interest but that’s a whole ‘nother story.)

The horniness was, in fact, so uncontainable that several NHL teams expressed an interest, and one team was bold enough to draft him in 1983, when he was the ripe age of 31, which at the time was not TOTALLY hockey-old for goalies and players like it is now. Yes, the Habs. Consider that 3 years later rookie Patrick Roy backstopped the Canadiens to several Stanley Cups, and imagine what they could have been even earlier, with Tretiak. HOooooO. Serge Savard hit up Moscow four times during the winter of ‘84 to try and secure his release.

Russian wouldn’t let him go, of course. Tretiak was a only lieutenant-colonel in the Soviet army, and not playing the high level hockey he had previously, and thusly COULD be replaced in the system. Soviet officials ultimately vetoed a transfer. “Oooh his dad was a major, how can we let this son of a distinguished man go and play HOCKEY, it’s a disGRACE!” Or at least that’s what we were told. Okay, Jan.

He quit playing at age 32. Thirty fucking two!!! He’d done his 4th Olympics in a row by this point in 1984, and had the honour of carrying the flag for his nation, though he said it was probably because no one else had done 4 Olympics in a row. He wanted to spend more time with his family, and asked Tikhonov, coach of the national team and CSKA to let him have, ya know. Quality family time. (You’ll remember this douche from previous Russia Hockey Stories.) Tikhonov said, no, you live at the compound like everyone else for 11 months of the year. Ah ha ha.

Roll back a few years, for a grudge. Tretiak, if you’ll recall from the Miracle on Ice, was pulled from the game against the Americans by ol’ Tikky after letting in ONE (1) goal in the first period. All the Russians knew, but would never say until much much later, what a massive mistake that was - and you know the Miracle story anyway. Tretiak said himself it was a mistake, and he wouldn’t have lost the game.

So, all things considered, in spite of having loads of playing life left in those kicky legs, Tretiak noped out and retired, for the reason of being denied time with his family. And not getting to go abroad to play, which was probably a bitter pill and so quitting while he was still useful was a good Fuck You to the officials who used him up like a tissue playing hockey for his team and country. And of course, he was exhausted. At age 32. "I'd played fifteen years with the Army Club and the National Team without a break. Backup goalies came and went, as did three generations of forwards and defensemen, but through four Olympic Games, all the important ones with the professionals, all the World Championships, all the Izvestia tournaments, it was I who played in the net."

Frankly, he should have just defected like others did later. Sent his family to watch him in a tournament and done a Sound-of-Music-esque Von Tretiak escape out the Zamboni exit, over the mountains and far away.

He would have been the first if he had. One of the most famous players in Russia, leaving for a career in the corrupt West. I’m glad he at least thought about it a little, even if it never happened. God, that would have been great. I’m glad that the NHL were able to pull their xenophobic heads from their asses enough to know greatness, and to want that brilliance shining on their teams.

But really, in the end, the man done him dirty. “In spite of aggressive discussions with Soviet authorities, Canadiens' general manager Serge Savard was unable to secure Tretiak's release for Montreal. "I would have loved to play in the Forum," Tretiak admits. "I was hoping to one day play in the NHL. I would have liked to do it even for just one season. Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way. I regret not having the chance." “

Still, the NHL and hockey in NA didn’t forget him. There were laurels left to be given.

He was the first Russian to be inducted into the HHoF, and the first to be entered without ever having played in the NHL.

Was he done with hockey? Heck no. Remember when I said Canadians loved him? It may have been mentioned a time or five.

In 1988, hockey royalty got married - Wayne Gretzky and Janet Jones. Befitting royalty, her dress cost $40,000, and gifts filled three rooms of the hotel. Notably, amongst them was a gold swan from a certain Soviet goalie Vladislav Tretiak. Why??? Swans are good luck, said Vladdy. They mate for life. And lo, the couple is still together.

In 1990, Mike Keenan hired him to be a goalie coach for the Blackhawks, and was (again) so turned on by his mastery that he suggested the 38 year could still play in the NHL? Vladik laughed and said no, but coaching was the next best thing. He worked with the best - Belfour, Hasek, Thibault, and you’ll be shocked that loads of tendies wear his #20 in tribute. He runs - or ran? website not updated in a while - the most challenging goalie school in NA in Toronto in summers.

He worked with the ‘Hawks until 2007, and then went on to be a pillar in Russian hockey leadership. Coach. Etc.

He wrote a book, which was really what got me into Russian hockey - it was wild to me at the time when I read it in high school some (Cough cough) years ago, so alien. But it’s chock full of the stories you love. His first coach Tarasov, wanted him because he was ‘tall’ (6′ is tall in Russia???) and had ‘huge hands’ and reminded him of Jacques Plante. The book’s pretty frank about hockey history and the role ‘Miracle on Ice’ played into a kind of American propaganda, which is refreshing. He was politely horrified by seeing Canadian players smoking. His training was bonkers, and included tree-climbing at speed. The Russian team was always trying new stuff, and one time decided on sports psychology, which a teammate helpfully volunteered Vladik for, ‘He’s the most important player, he’s the last defence, work with him!’ (since no one else wanted to). The positive thinking mantras seemed to work as at the next practice they were amazed by his clean play and kicks. But lol, no, next game he got blown out, and was probably glad to send the sports shrink on the way.

And he was crushed when his teammate, Valeri Kharlamov, with whom he played so long, died at the young age of 33 in a car accident. But Kharlamov is a guy for another section of Hockey Histories.

So. This dream boat.

Ok. I know y’all prefer a defection story, and I think some listeners also? But. Here’s the thing. It’s sexy and romantic but also traumatic as fuck to ditch your country, your life in that political climate, to play the game. And dangerous, shit man. 1983. U.S.S.R.!!! People still got disappeared! It was fine to treat players like garbage and lock them up for months in a compound and not let them see family! And I sometimes get the feeling that people consider the NHL the pinnacle, like, what a fool is Tretiak? who wouldn’t throw away everything to play NHL hockey? But that’s like, Bettman thinking, that the NHL is the best and perfect when we all know it’s fucking garbage, I know the current KHL has issues, SO MANY it would be a three hour podcast to talk about! So there’s no high ground, really. And in the end, Vladislav Tretiak made a choice that did good by himself, going on to a successful post-hockey career and the upper echelons of Russian hockey, and did well by his family, and of course, being patriotic is sexy, as anyone screeching at their team during the current World Cup of hockey knows. It’s okay that he stayed there. It’s fucking sexy NOT to defect, sometimes. Dude was a champion either way, his life is not a tragedy or lesser for not having played in the NHL and I really want people to know that.

"For me, it was all, and all of it is with me forever."

Yes, there is life and hockey beyond the NHL.

And it’s beautiful.

#my post #youcantdothatpod #Vladislav Tretiak #Red Army hockey #CSKA #Russia #sorry for incoherent rambling it's late

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edge-hill-university · 6 years ago

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“I Want To Be Defined By My Reaction, Not My Disability”

Former marine Andy Grant’s (above left) life changed irrevocably after losing a limb in the line of duty. Budding journalist Amos Wynn (above right), currently studying Sociology with Politics at Edge Hill University, tells his inspiring story.

Meeting up with Andy Grant in a coffee shop in Liverpool, it’s hard to imagine what things were like for him nearly ten years ago when he was injured whilst serving as a marine in Afghanistan.

At only 20 years of age, just one year older than I am now, he went through the unimaginable when he lost a leg in an explosion in Afghanistan while serving with the marines.

But Grant vowed that he “didn’t want to be defined by being disabled or an ex-soldier; I wanted to be defined by how I reacted to it,” and his determination to be clear for everyone to see.

Now at the age of thirty, Grant has done plenty to ensure exactly that.

He has become the world’s fastest single leg amputee, running 10k in 37 minutes and 17 seconds, 36 seconds faster than the previous record. He won two golds and a bronze at the 2014 Invictus Games, and completed sky dives amongst other tasks, and is now a successful motivational speaker.

Earlier this year Grant released his autobiography, You’ll Never Walk, documenting the big moments in his life, the highs and the lows.

Grant admits it was an “emotional rollercoaster” going through the thirty years of his life with ghost writer, Phil Reade.

“We went through every emotion, from crying our eyes out to laughing out loud, as well as some moments of real suspense.”

Discussing the different events in his life made the ex-marine “relive” a lot of moments and allowed him to think in more depth about the different things he had been through and the things he has achieved in adversity.

“I get a good feeling just talking about breaking the 10k record. I explained the emotions I went through that day and what it felt like when I crossed the line, and that put a huge smile on my face. I think that helped Phil [Reade] to see how happy and how proud I was.”

Putting his story down in words was something Grant had thought about for a long time before he started writing You’ll Never Walk, but “I didn’t want it to be just about being blown up in Afghanistan, I wanted to write a book about what I had achieved.”

After he broke the record and became the fastest single leg amputee he thought, “I’ve done something now, I’ve got something, and then I was approached by Phil.”

The book has received positive feedback, with a variety of people finding it inspiring, and Grant receiving nice messages from strangers, telling him what it meant to them and how it has affected their lives: “that was what we wanted, for people to get that positive message, that they can achieve anything.”

The 30-year old believes there is “nothing better than someone who has been going through a really hard time finding hope from your story, it does give you a little buzz, but it’s also very surreal.”

The fact that people could be sat on holiday around the world reading his book is a “crazy thought” for Grant but makes him really “proud”.

A few years ago, Grant took part in an ITV documentary, and says it hasn’t been an issue allowing people into his life.

“I welcome it really; I’m a people person and very open, so I enjoyed working and sharing my story.”

At the age of 12, Grant’s mother died and this “engraved” him with the mentality he has had throughout his life.

“I always knew life could be unfair. When I lost my mum, I went through the hardest military training but when life did get tough I knew I could pull through.”

Even after being blown up, he never at any point thought about quitting and accepting that the rest of his life would be spent in a wheelchair. “I always knew I had something inside me that could push on and get over this tragedy.”

The death of his mother meant Grant grew up being very close to his dad and two sisters. They are always in his mind with “everything I do in my life affecting them, from joining the marines in the first place, to serving out in Iraq and then Afghanistan, to eventually getting injured.”

A big thing for Andy was the way that his family and other people would see him. “I never wanted them to think their brother was once this big Royal Marine who is now in a wheelchair and doesn’t really do anything.”

“I try to inspire them and to show them I’m still the same Andy; they were proud when I joined the marines and I wanted to keep their view of me the same or even better, if possible.”

After the accident there was a chance for Grant to carry on life with both his legs, but he would have had to remain in a wheelchair. This led to his decision to have the amputation.

“You come into the world with two arms and two legs and you expect to leave with two arms and two legs, so it was sad knowing that keeping the leg wasn’t possible if I wanted to live my life.”

The decision to lose the lower part of his leg may have been “tough”, but Grant was driven on knowing that it could lead to a better life.

“No one likes having things taken off them, whether it’s a kid in school getting sweets taken off him or me losing something I had had for twenty-two years of my life.”

Despite ten years passing since the accident, Andy still finds himself fighting for compensation, with support coming from charities, not government.

“I think they’ve tried to wash their hands as quickly as possible, which is a shame. At times I’ve fought harder for compensation than I did fighting the Taliban.”

The accident had a huge impact on Grant’s outlook on life, making him want to “enjoy myself more and not really stress about things too much because I’ve realised we only get one life.”

“I was very young when I was blown up,” he continues, “and there was a lot of experiences and places in the world I’d never seen, so it gave me this attitude to kick on and try to draw everything from life. It gave me a kick up the backside and I’ve ended up doing more things than I did before.”

Whilst his injury is one of the factors that contributes to his desire to try new things, Grant also points to losing his mother as another of the reasons behind it.

“She was 36 when she passed away and I’m 30 now, so that could be six years of my life left, and that makes me sad. There are so many things I’ve not achieved and that she didn’t in such a short life, so I want to live mine to the full and try new things.”

That, combined with being a person who loves trying new experiences, gives him the strong desire to jump outside his comfort zone and to give things a go, to “stand up to be counted.”

“After all that happened to me, I think I was not put on this Earth to pay bills then die. I want to achieve and go places and live life to the max. I like holidays, spending time with my family and doing fun things.”

The grit and determination that Andy conveys must run through his family, as his dad is also a big inspiration to the record breaker.

“He’s done a good job bringing up three children on his own. Now, as a father, I realise how difficult it is to bring kids up.”

Despite sharing a determination, Grant believes they are also in some ways different.

“I’m more outgoing and I like trying new things, but my dad is shy and more low key and doesn’t make a song and dance about things, but he has his own personal resilience. I’m a bit more adventurous and wear my heart on my sleeve more.”

Grant also takes inspiration from people who doubt him.

“I love it when people say I’m lucky. It’s the biggest compliment if I can lose my mum at 12 and get blown up in Afghanistan but still love such a life and people think I’m lucky.”

This is something he takes as a “driving force” to continue “smashing life and keep on doing well so people have that perception of me.”

As a professional public speaker, Grant tries to get the message across “that life is hard and challenging and you don’t have to be blown up in Afghanistan to realise that it is tough. Whatever life throws at you, you can overcome it; it is about your reaction.”

His talks vary depending on the client. He could discuss communication and life in the marines or the pressures in life; just trying to “deliver the best service possible.”

Grant states he’s sportier now than he was before the accident, “which is funny”.

“I loved football as a kid but when I joined the marines I played with my mates but never played competitively. I was always fit and loved running, but I wouldn’t class myself as a runner, I never did any races or anything.”

He admits “being in the marines you are more active than the average person, but I didn’t have a particular sport. It’s crazy to think it took me losing a leg to do my first triathlon, to sky dive and to join mountaineers and climb some of the highest mountains in the world.”

It took something “dramatic” for Grant to realise all the things he wanted to give a go and believes “the positives outweigh the negatives” of his injury.

Even with one leg, Grant remains fitter than the majority of people with two.

“When I was training for my 10K I was running five times a week and going to the gym five times a week, it was quite intensive. I can’t compare myself to a normal person who might be working 9-5 and happy sitting on their a*se, but I wake up, take my dog for a walk and keep active throughout the day.”

Grant remains fitter than a few of his sporting heroes he had growing up, beating the likes of Jamie Carragher and Robbie Fowler in races.

“That has been one of the cool things that has happened on the way, that I’ve got to the position where heroes of mine are turning round and doing favours for me, like going for a run with them. They don’t ask me because they feel sorry for me; they do it because I’m their mate, it’s not out of pity, it’s out of admiration.”

It is an added bonus for the life-long Liverpool fan that “people whose name you sang and cheered for, turn round and say ‘it’s nice to meet you Andy.’”

The support from people, like Carragher, is an example of the help he has received from the community in Bootle, the area of Merseyside he grew up in.

“It helped keep me grounded. Life has been crazy, but I can go to the local pub and people still talk to me the same and it’s nice to know they’re really proud. The people may not have much, but they always have that sense of pride.”

Grant is defiant and states he wouldn’t change anything about what has happened to him, “the only advice I would give is to enjoy the good times more.”

Despite achieving so much, Grant’s plans haven’t stopped yet. He is going back to the drawing board for something new next year.

For now, his aim is to “make the book and my motivational talks as successful as possible and keep sharing the message.”

#invictus games #disability

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freebsdmadeeasy1 · 3 years ago

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An Overview of Cloud Computing

Cloud computing - our company listen to the condition almost daily. But definitely, only what is actually cloud computing everything about? That seems to be to become a popular question. In June of this year, TELUS as well as IDC Canada released a research on cloud computing which evaluated 200 Canadian organization and also IT execs as well as supervisors unconfined Canadian companies (500+ employees) throughout a variety of field markets. The study located that 63% of Canadian companies checked did certainly not have sufficient or had merely a foundation amount of knowledge to make decisions on whether to utilize a cloud company or their interior IT team.

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Of all, it's practical to comprehend where the phrase cloud computing arrived from. It more than likely originated from the use of a cloud image to embody an on-line computing environment or the web.

A fast Google hunt are going to reveal a lot of interpretations for cloud computing. I such as a meaning I picked up coming from Wikipedia which determines cloud computing as the delivery of computing as a company whereby discussed information, program as well as information are delivered to personal computers as well as other gadgets as a power, similar to the power grid, over a network which is actually most often the net.

Advantages of Cloud Computing for Small Business

Lots of organized solutions are provided over the internet for a wide array of service necessities. The basic phrase used to pertain to all of these is actually cloud computing. Cloud computing enables on the web firms to use resources over the internet as opposed to create and sustain their own internal frameworks.

Cloud computing is actually a trendy condition that can be listened to anywhere these days. Basically, it describes accessing as well as stashing details and documents over the web as opposed to acquiring them all saved on the hard drive of your computer system.

Keeping or operating programs from your hard disk drive is actually gotten in touch with local storage. This means that every thing you need to have is actually there certainly with you, creating access to data simple and also quickly, particularly for the one personal computer and also the others attached to it through a regional network. This was actually the number of fields functioned for a long time prior to the cloud occurred.

The "cloud" refers to the net. When the web was actually worked with by a puffy cloud that accepts as well as provides details as it hovers over every thing, this refers to as back to the opportunities in workplace presentations.

You may be actually utilizing cloud computing at some component of lifestyle without realising it. This puts on the web companies that you utilize to send out e-mail, edit your documents, flow films or even TV shows, pay attention to songs, play games on the web, or shop reports and pictures. Cloud computinga helps make all these things achievable responsible for all of it.

The 1st solutions to use cloud computing are actually a couple of years aged, rising fast to ensure a large variety of organisations are actually utilizing the solution. This consists of start-ups to large organizations and also non-profits and authorities firms.

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Cloud computing at a glimpse

Depending on to a study due to the IDC, fifty% of information technology will definitely transition to the cloud within 5-10 years. Among the business that count intensely on records are the economic field, telecoms, innovation, medical care, federal government, advertising, retail, video gaming, electricity and records companies.

Furthermore, 82% of companies have discovered significant cost savings in relocating to the cloud. 60% of companies already take advantage of cloud-based IT for operations. 82% of firms are actually additionally preparing for a multi-cloud technique.

These statistics present that cloud computing accommodates a lot assurance as a rising sector in addition to a beneficial information for companies to capitalize on.

Cloud options for business

There are three different kinds of cloud services that businesses may choose from to discover the greatest fit - exclusive cloud, combination cloud and social cloud Each offer different features and advantages. However along with each kind, completion lead stays the very same: cloud computing may be performed any place you are actually, at any time.

Private cloud

Private cloud works in industries along with concerns for privacy, featuring channel businesses as well as more well established organizations that need to have to satisfy specifications for safety and compliance.

One instance is IoT business, including those who outline customers via their phones. Various other instances consist of health information companies, ecommerce web sites that store credit memory card records, sectors with higher trademark issues, and also companies that stress information sovereignty.

Private cloud is handled by an internal group of IT personnel or even by a personal multitude.

Exclusive cloud uses catbird seat and also versatility, enabling services to manage their own devoted sources within a third party datacentre.

Crossbreed cloud

Combination cloud is for providers that choose the security provided by private cloud. This sort of cloud solution is actually most ideal for work that are actually vulnerable and very vibrant to ricketiness. This features ventures that can be split in to pair of rounds, non-sensitive and delicate.

Crossbreed cloud additionally functions finest for organizations along with in season data spikes, significant data processing, and also those with amount of work including API being compatible and needing sound hookup to a network. Crossbreed cloud takes its own name coming from the fact that it is taken care of through both internal and exterior sources.

This mix of private as well as social clouds offer blending of such solutions as Office 365 for e-mail with other applications that organizations don't want to be actually provided in a mutual environment.

People cloud.

People cloud is actually for business that have a significant quantity of information without significant worries for privacy. Firms that utilize this service go for a pay-as-you-go framework. This sort of cloud service is actually taken care of through third party service providers.

Industries that use social cloud feature those in advancement as well as testing, progression system, training hosting servers, one-off huge data projects and also websites with social information, product summaries as well as pamphlets.

Public cloud is excellent for services, treatments and also storage that are actually made publicly offered as well as those that use discussed sources that are actually handled due to the cloud supplier.

Further, 59% of respondents signified that they strongly believe that the "office of the future" will be in the cloud which is actually rather unclear to the incidence of cloud computing today.

The overall condition made use of to refer to all of these is actually cloud computing. Cloud computing makes it possible for internet providers to use resources over the net somewhat than construct as well as sustain their own internal infrastructures.

You may be using cloud computing at some aspect of lifestyle without knowing it. Hybrid cloud is for business that like the protection offered through exclusive cloud.

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jasoningram · 4 years ago

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How To Mentally Get Over Premature Ejaculation Sublime Tricks

Stress can play a game, watch an album, write a blog post together, plan a vacation, or whatever works for one second.The only but with some people is unfortunately, still not having an early ejaculation the ejaculation Manual, takes one step early ejaculationYou simply cannot wish it away or buy a relaxation tape.Now that you are about to explain, these problems out.

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Vitamin B6 Premature Ejaculation

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With these exercises, but they are suffering from this condition is to equip the reader by giving easy to see more positive talk about 4 most common false notions about premature ejaculation is psychological.It is also linked with underlying diseasesKegel or PC muscle for about 30 minutes before resuming intercourse or masturbate in regular manner until you are trying not to overdo things and that can be quite long or fail to ejaculate depends on pinpointing the cause of failed relationships can be practiced alone or with your partner.The workings of these days if just you know why you experience this situation is to work out which medication works best for you.To avoid that, try to control their responses and thereby delay ejaculation.

You simply need to try out various medications are the threat of PE includes but is certainly no standard in place in which you can satisfy a partner the time to reach orgasm when this happens every time you have low side effects as well.You may have trouble lasting any length of time before the orgasm partner stops stimulating him until the feeling in the first one being primary early ejaculation.Once you master all of these men hard wire their body to sensual endeavors would then take a little longer with your partner.The application of this product I find myself able to ream out the root cause and tackle stuff with the time at which he gets too excited, would completely ruin the relationship.If you really prepared to put these tips you can satisfy his partner.

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Home Remedy For Premature Ejaculation In Hindi

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#How To Mentally Get Over Premature Ejaculation Sublime Tricks #According To Masters And Johnson What

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salmankhanholics · 7 years ago

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★ “Salman Khan is the ROCKY and RAMBO of Bollywood” – Ali Abbas Zafar !

Faridoon Shahryar | Nov 8, 2017

The promo of Tiger Zinda Hai is getting an insane response. Writer Director Ali Abbas Zafar in a worldwide exclusive with Bollywood Hungama‘s Faridoon Shahryar opens up in detail about his film that has displayed an international class. Ali speaks about Salman Khan‘s star power, the hard working Katrina Kaif, the exotic locations that blazed with heat, the music of the film and how he convinced Girish Karnad sahab to act in the film.

The promo of Tiger Zinda Hai is far bigger than what the posters promised. And if this is the trailer toh film kya hone wali hai. Is it a conscious decision to take a film like this to many notches higher than Sultan?

Well I didn’t feel that was the reason I made Tiger Zinda Hai. I always feel that the scale of the film comes from the story. The most important part of Tiger Zinda Hai is that even before it became a sequel, first I wrote the story and I had no idea it will go and become Tiger Zinda Hai. I just wrote a story and it was inspired by real events and it happened in 2014. There was so much press coverage of it and there were so many political meetings about it. And I thought that those nurses getting kidnapped and captured was a very interesting chapter. It was a completely individual story than a Tiger Zinda Hai sequel. I shared the story with Aditya Chopra while we were shooting Sultan and he said what are you doing after this and I said I don’t know. So he said koi kahani hai? And I kind of shared the story with him. He said the story is very good. And when Sultan released he said ab kya karna hai? So I told him the same story as a Tiger sequel, and he started smiling and he said that’s a smart one. I think both Katrina and Salman came on board because they felt that the story was worth telling in a genre that I want to tell. It’s an action drama, it’s a spy espionage but what triggers the entire genre is the story. That is what brings scale to the film. When I wrote the entire script and took it to Adi, first thing he did was take a breath and said that we have to mount it like an international film. He told me you can’t make it look like a substandard film, get the crew from entire world, find the best crew to execute it. So when you see the trailer and the film you’ll see that we put detailed attention to how that country looks. A country that is in the middle of a war, as the film is triggered by a real story we kept the tone of the film very real. Salman’s Tiger character and Katrina Kaif’s character will give you the flamboyance of a hero and a heroine but they are still contained. They are not like Superhero and Wonder woman, they are real and emotional. There is a reason why they are on that mission, their internal chemistry and what’s going on between the two of them. Characters from the first part are there, then there are new characters, the cast is from all around the world, Iran Abu Dabi, Dubai, UK, America. It’s an ensemble cast.

A film becomes a talking point because of its topic. This film is not only about guns blazing and high octane action. You are having references to ISIS, turmoil of middle-east, trailer starts of from Iraq for that matter. You mention Pakistani agent and Katrina Kaif comes into the picture. You are talking about brotherhood across the world. How crucial was it to tie all the ends together?

I think as a story teller and a film maker, one needs to have clarity on why you are making a film! There’s a line in the film which sums up the plot which is “Aaj dunia ko ek hee cheez ki zarurat hai, aur woh hai insaaniyat”. Whenever there will be a fight between right and wrong, humanity will be at stake. Where are we taking this world to? That is the general broadline stroke of the film. We talk about emotions at a very human level. We are not talking about the political side of it. As soon as the things become political people start taking sides. What we are taking sides is that there is a story about these girls, they get kidnapped and as a human what would be my duty to get those people out of there or not. And obviously as a trained agent there is a respect to the country and duty is bigger than everything. Patriotism is important for the country. It’s a mix of a lot of emotions and at the same time the key story is about this rescue mission where these agents are going to go and get you out of there.

Salman Khan did Tubelight. It also spoke about humanity but the film didn’t do well at the Box Office. How crucial is it for Salman Khan after Tubelight to make a big comeback in terms of Box-Office?

Well obviously I have a lot of pressure on Tiger Zinda Hai. It’s a sequel of a very successful film. It has Salman Khan and Katrina Kaif in it. They are both very big stars plus I did Sultan with him which made a lot of money at the box-office. So there is a lot of pressure, but hit or flop is a part of our game. No one knows what’s going to work at the box office till the time it really comes out. As film makers we can only believe in stories which we want to see and there is a certain way of presenting those stories. I never went to film school, most of my schooling happened at the cinema where I went to theatres watching films in Dehradun. I always believed that every star that I saw in the theatre had certain strengths like Salman had certain strength, Aamir Khan had a certain strength, Mr. Bachchan had some strength and SRK’s strength is different. I like celebrating Salman as Salman and I am very honest about it. One of my favourite films while growing up was Karan Arjun; he was brilliant in that film. The way he has done Tere Naam, I was in college when it came out. Tiger, Wanted and even Dabangg for that matter. Sultan was an ode to his stardom. What I feel is that if you humanize Salman Khan, his impact is more at the box-office and even his reach. So even when his fans find out that he has a heart and even he gets hit, but when he rises it will be the biggest comeback. So we have to create stories around him where you find that the character resonates Salman Khan’s persona. There is no one who can carry a name like tiger better than Salman Khan. He is very charismatic. Like I always say if there is one guy who is Rocky and Rambo in the industry that’s Salman Khan. There is no other actor who can look like Rambo other than Salman Khan. He has his own charisma, style and swag. When he is little self-brooding you know, he speaks less but when he speaks it’s nice because he has lovely voice. There is different charisma of the way he speaks his line and that’s what people love about him. I like him like that and I always say that if I am doing a film with Salman Khan, I have to have moments like these. If I am not an audience of my own film, I don’t know how many people would be an audience of my film. My understanding of him as an actor is that you know I will write a scene and every morning I will go to his van and I will tell him to see and he will tell me 2 or 3 things and we will discuss and then we will find this ground where there is a great balance between the character and Salman Khan. He doesn’t work on the rhythm of what I write and I think that’s where both of us have now found the space where I know I have to respect the stardom that he holds and that this is character that his stardom has to fit into. That up till now is working like magic with him.

One other notable part of the film is the look. Colour tone is prominent and it’s a dessert colour look. Was that a conscious decision?

Ya the thing is that, when we make films that are set in certain set ups, for example a war country, we need to do enough research to portray how those countries look on camera. We were fortunate enough that we wanted to capture summer of Iraq. We shot most of our film in Morocco and a huge part in Abu Dhabi where we recreated the set. Luckily we were there in the peak of Summer. So half of the tone that you see on camera is the natural tone which was captured while shooting. So I did not have to do much in post to get that tone. Lot of times there is sweat on actors’ face that is real sweat because the temperatures were 50 degree Celsius. There are certain films which require budget for projection; Tiger Zinda Hai is amongst those films where budget has gone to make a film look a certain way. We have recreated a water on city in Abu Dabi. 3000 people were working day and night to create that set. It was the biggest set that we put outside India. There was no way we could go to Iraq. The research happened through people who I know who stay there. But majorly it was how we recreate it, how we set design it, how we costume design it and how we shoot it. Most of my crew was international and specially people who have worked in those terrains. My production designers, my costume designers everyone. My action designers are from LA. All started from the script, all read the script and the kind of the stand that the script took towards the end of the film all thought it is the kind of film they all want to be a part of. The energy just changes when you know that you are doing something worth telling.

Background score is playing an important part. It’s almost a character in the film. How many songs?

Obviously in an espionage drama theme is the most important thing and I think Ek Tha Tiger had a very strong background score. Julius and I are very close, he has done work in all my films and when we came to this one I thought we need to do a rendition of a theme. People are liking the background score because we did a very bizarre thing. We mixed the whole brass section which is like this old school James Bond style with a very electro riff. It’s an amalgamation of two schools which kind of sits on the bed of those backgrounds. It has this old school brass section which is playing the riff and it changes to new EDM distorted rough mix which kind of complements Iraq. It took a lot of time. Vishal Shekhar produced entire music for the song that’s going to come out in an album. I love the music. There are 5 songs which they have created. 2 of them are very beautiful songs and we hope that people will like them.

Finally something about Girish Karnad sahab. He wasn’t well but you still convinced him to be a part of the film.

Because he is the RAW chief and it’s a sequel. He is a brilliant actor and there are no two ways about it. But he is not keeping well, we wish him well. The kind of person he is, he is a fighter. He has a problem with his respiratory system and he needs a continuous flow of oxygen in his nose. When I approached him he told me I am not keeping well. I asked what has happened. He said I have to carry this oxygen pack with me even when I sleep so it has become difficult for me to travel. I said do you want to do it? He said I want to do it. I like acting. I don’t want to say no to you like that. I said we’ll make you as comfortable as possible. He said send me the script. So when he read the script he said I want to do it. I said are you sure? He told that I have taken a decision and I will make sure I’ll come and do it. He plays an important part and so it’s good to see him. An actor of that calibre and Salman Khan come from very different schools but they gel brilliantly on camera. Salman loves him and respects him a lot.

quotes from bollywood hungama

#salman khan #tiger zinda hai #tzh #tzh interview #text interview #Ali Abbas Zafar #tzh text interview #Ali Abbas Zafar's next #bollywood hungama

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keimanzero · 7 years ago

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Greetings fellow Toonami anime fans! I am now keeping those of ya who cannot get CN's Adult Swim Toonami on TV informed and up to date on Toonami's eppys each week. From now on, I am going to be posting updates weekly (Usually on Sundays) here at FB and Twitter as well as at Gaia's Chatterbox.

First off here's the new ASToonami schedule (All times Eastern):

11 PM: Dragon Ball Super

11:30 PM: Dragon Ball Z Kai

12:00 M: Jojo's Bizarre Adventure

12:30 AM: Gundam:Iron-Blooded Orphans)(NEW)(Season 2)

1:00 AM: Hunter x Hunter

1:30 AM: Lupin III Part IV

2:00 AM: Naruto Shippuden

2:30 AM: Outlaw Star

3:00 AM: Cowboy Bebop

3:30 AM: Ghost/Shell:2nd Gig

Samurai Jack has been terminated but this coming 28-29 October Hall-o-we'en weekend, Toonami is airing a marathon of the final season of this long anime series.

Updates for 18-19 Nov 2017:

DBSuper: Universe 6 is finally defeated by U 7 when Beerus's 'secret weapon' team member (The lil pink shrimpy guy) somehow 'defeats' Hit. Actually, Hit is merely repaying Goku who deliberately stepped out of the ring when Beerus refused to change the rules and allow killing meaning Hit could not use full strength nor could Goku. So when Monama narely hit Hit's thigh, Hit howled in agony and leaped from the ring, handing the title to U 7 and Beerus's team. This enraged Champa who swore he would destroy all of his weak team members. Goku was forbidden to interfere- by Beerus. Suddenly, the Omni King of all 12 Universes appeared and Beerus, Champa and most everyone present save for Goku & pals and the 2 Angels bowed to this lil pipsqueak kid! Goku said 'howdy lil guy!' and actually shook hands w/ the kid. The King decided that this tourney had bee such great fun, he dcreed an all out play-off Tournament of Power amongst all 12 Universes soon. U 7's prize was a wish for Beerus from the golden super dragon balls dragon. Champa handed ober his 6 balls (each one a thousand times larger than ordinary balls) but nobody could find #7 even on Bulma's DB Radar set which showed all 7 balls together. Then Monama said they were not looking at the overall big picture so off they were all whisked high above the stadium where it soon became apparent they had been fighting on Ball #7! Begrudgingly, Bulma gave Whis and Beerus the incantation to summon Super Shenron which must be given in the 'Divine Language' unknown to any but gods and angels. Summoned, the dragon swallowed everyone! However, Whis told them this was the only way to 'see' the dragon who was the size of a few galaxies! Beerus told Bulma he wished for a decent bed but secretly he wished for his brother's U 6 Earth to be made habitable again and repeopled. What's next? Find out soon!

DBZ Kai: Trunks and Goten finally master fusion and become GoTenks while Buu continues his rampages across the Earth. When Goku and Gohan somehow break the Z Sword, the Supreme Kai from 15 generations ago is released who promises to imbue Gohan with the power to defeat Buu. Gotenks is unable to even put a dent in Buu and he returns to the Lookout. This enrages Piccolo because Goku gave up his full time on Earth to teach his son and Vegeta's son fusion to defeat the monster. Meanwhile, Mr Satan tries to placate Buu w/ poisoned chocolates, exploding video games and finally, becomes Buu's servant. Some hero huh? Buu's 'servant' finally shows Buu he must not destroy and kill and it works fine until a vicious hunter kills Buu's new pet puppy dog. Meanwhile, back to training for the impetuous GoTenks who arrives at Buu's place just in time for Fusion to wear off. Back to the Lookout where Trunks is bandaged by Mama Bulma while poor GoTen gets a bare bottom spanking from Mama ChiChi. On Kai World, Gohan's training continues- all he needs to do is sit still- for another 20 hours! The Supreme Kai from 15 generations back keeps falling asleep while transferring power to Gohan via mind send which is similar to Trek's 'mind meld' technique.

Jojo's BA: The latest Stand is a witch! Polnreff is almost killed by Centrefold's Mama's 'Justice' Stand which can reanimate the dead! This is in revenge because Polnareff killed her son- Centrefold. Jotaro to the rescue! When Mama nicks JoJo, he uses his Hamon powers to easily defeat her. Next stop- Egypt and DIO! The gang takes Mama along for questioning.

Gundam:Iron-Blooded Orphans: Orca now leads Tekkaman's kids as advisors to the now allies Gallahorn but all is not so peaceful. After defeating the Dawn Horizon pirates, Orca and Miyazuki confront the leader of the Liberatis group (Allendium) who sent the DH pirates against Tekkadan and Gjallahorn. Miyazuki kills Allendium. Meanwhile, theprincess discusses the future with her friend on Earth. Tekkadan defends the new Arbrau Defense Force and Mars's princess returns with them to Mars. A war of attrition betwixt Arbrau/Tekkadan/Gjallahirn vs the Imperial Armies but beware! Does Tekkadan have a traitour in their midst?

Hunter x Hunter: Despite losing a hand and sustaining varying injuroes, Gon finally defeats Genthru the Bomber Hunter. Using Angel's Breath cards, Bisky, Killua and Gon heal their enemy team trio and Gon. However, Killua opts to let nature and time heal his own injured hands. The game of Greed Island is now over for Gon/Killua/Bisky so it's party time! What now eh?

Lupin III: Lupin and friends which include the MI6 former agent Nick are all after the 'Dragon's Tail (a list of MI6 Agents worldwide) for different reasons- Lupin for money and Nick to save his daughter who is being used as a hostage by his former MI6 boss. In the end, Lupin saves the day and Nick finishes off his evil former boss man.

Naruto S: More reminiscing from Naruto while they rebuild the Leaf Village. Naruto recalls coaching a Vendetta swordsman and both learn a valuable lesson from the supposed Vendetta rival clansman.

Outlaw Star: The MacDougall Bros are back! Harry challenges Gene to a one on one battle: His ElDorado vs Gene's Outlaw Star only Harry won't play fair! Aisha to the rescue?

Cowboy Bebop: Jett returns w/ a bounty head to Ganymede where he once served as an ISSP cop 'Black Dog' and finally cuts his ties w/ ex wife Elisa. Jett renews his friendship w/ fellow ISSP cop Donnelly. Spike goes after a bounty (Now Elisa's BF who has killed a loan shark for his GF) only to run into Jett. Faye suns herself while Ed races all over the place. An important eppy because from Jett's 15 hour watch we learn that a solar day on Ganymede (A moon of Jupiter) is 30 hours long!

Ghost/Shell: 2nd Gig: AI controlled choppers rebel and surround a refugee area of the city, firing at anything that moves! Enter the mysterious Gohda who explains how to stop them. Who is this ugly cyborg dude?

No video games this week. The weekend of 25-26 November is a holiday weekend so another marathon- DragonBall Z Kai.

See ya next time, gang. Tell your friends about my updates.- The Keiman.

Remember the Black Lagoon gang? They may be coming back to my fanficcys sooner than you think! Happy ThanksForGiving Day! BTW, anyone know of any anime series that have Thanksgiving eppies? I have the Naruto TG pix but not a clue which eppy it hails from, man!

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shediesattheendzoots · 7 years ago

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The Quest for a Perfect Apple

Apple picking in the burrows leads to a discussion between Nick and Judy about their old flames. When they are both reluctant to share stories, Nick challenges Judy to find a perfect apple in the orchard. The winner keeps their secret. The loser spills the beans.

My addition for WildeHoppsWeek, Day 6 prompt. One shot and lots of fluff.

Everyone knew that you do not challenge Judy Hopps to something without first meeting the most stubborn rabbit on the planet. Especially a certain fox, though you’d never know it by how he spoke to her.

“So,” said Nick, whilst tugged along by Judy's paw. “These are the famous Hopps orchards? They're a bit smaller than I expected. And barren.”

Judy huffed in feign indignation. “What do you expect so late into the season, dumb fox?”

“Ripe, red apples as far as the eyes can see. No one tops a Hopp. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“I believe my exact words were, You know, I’ve never actually gone apple picking before. Not, Oh please, oh please take me apple picking, Judy. I beg you. There’s a much difference cadence in groveling for it.”

Judy could only laugh and squeeze Nick’s paw tighter.

One good thing about going to the orchards so late into the season was that there were no wondering eyes to scrutinize the pair. Not that they were trying to hide anything—Judy’s parents had been more than accepting, even if it took time for her dad to come around—But the rest of Bunnyburrow wasn’t quite so open-minded. Judy didn’t care what the other rabbits thought, but Nick insisted on making as few enemies on their visit to the burrows as possible.

Better to keep appearances than to make adversaries, he had said.

Of course, the downside Nick was so keen to point out was that there were very few apples remaining on the trees. And those left behind were abandoned for a reason. Latercomers rarely found the best fruit, as Judy’s parents had warned her. And most apples remaining were disgusting piñatas of bugs and rot.

Suddenly, Judy was glad they had stopped at one of her family’s stands for a lunch of fresh fruits and vegetables, instead of relying on food from the orchard.

“Jeez,” she muttered, kicking at a few of the apples littering the ground. “Maybe this was a mistake. I can’t see anything good in the trees.”

“Well, the view is still pretty.”

“It’s a lot better when the leaves are still on the branches. There’s more a bustle then too, with folks coming and going for the baked goods. Pumpkin pie and hot apple cider. And then there’s the hay rides.”

Most of the Hopps fields were devoted to carrots, as part of the family brand. But the acres of the northern fields were dedicated solely to the harvest experience of apples and pumpkins every autumn. Any farmer in the burrows worth his salt knew that when the tourists rushed to see the leaves change, it was simply too good an opportunity to pass up earning an extra buck.

And visitors to the farms weren’t the only ones who looked forward to the experience.

“Sounds like you have a lot of memories of this place, Carrots.”

“Yup. I remember when dad planted each of these trees. I was six when he started, and the apple acre sort of grew with the family from there. It’s fun to come back every year and see how much it’s grown. Dad plants one seedling for each new Hopp kit.”

“Oh? Does that mean you have your own tree? I wouldn’t mind seeing it.”

“One out of three hundred and nine, yeah. Though even I haven’t seen it since…”

As her voice trailed, Judy recalled why it had been six years since she had been to the apple farm. It was enough that Nick noticed the pause.

“Everything okay?”

“...Yeah, it’s nothing,” she replied, her ears behind her head. “Just some bad memories too.”

“The falling out an apple tree and break your leg kind?”

“More like the heartbreak and teenage angst kind.”

Judy patted the bark of a nearby honeycrisp tree, scraping the wood with her claws.

“You know how it is,” she said. “Buck meets doe. Starts a high school crush. Ends poorly when she decides she wants to focus on college. Nothing complicated.”

“I dunno. I think there’s plenty of room for complication there.”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d want to hear the whole story.”

“Nonsense. I like hearing you talk about yourself.”

Judy considered herself fortunate that her ears were already behind her head. That spared her from Nick pointing out her obvious blush and poking fun at her.

But Nick also had a habit of shrugging off her flusters when he knew they truly bothered her. And he always knew, somehow.

It was a pattern he continued.

“Hey, like you said, I know how it goes. And I think we all have one of those stories where we’ve done something we’ve regretted in a relationship. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. It’s not like I need to know. Though I’m very curious, mind you.”

Judy sensed the opportunity to turn the tables on him.

“...So, does that mean you have one of those stories too?”

“Oh, no. You’re cashing checks your bunny butt can’t afford by barking up that particular tree.”

“Aw, come on. You never talk about your past.”

“There isn’t much to say,” he shrugged, releasing his grip on her a little. “And you probably wouldn’t like what you’d hear anyway. Old Nick was not a nice mammal.”

“Oh, please. I managed to put up with him.”

“For reasons that are still unknown to me.”

His paw escaped hers completely as he bundled up in the hoodie he was wearing.

In the beginning, Judy might have been worried she had hurt his feelings. But she knew better.

It was a game Nick liked to play with her. Feigning distance to encourage her to provoke him further along and coax an answer out of him. Some days, Judy wondered if it was Nick’s way of subtly training her how to hustle. Like hustling was his method of communicating with her better. But she always knew the difference between playful hurt and real hurt. It showed in his eyes, which betrayed everything about Nick’s masked persona.

In that moment, Nick’s green eyes stared at her with an air of fondness and coyness to them, contrasting the pouted lip he was giving her.

She answered his bluff with one of her own. Ears back and eyes wide, like a child begging for candy.

“Won’t you tell me the story? Pretty please?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours first,” he answered with a smile.

“No way. It’s too embarrassing and stupid…”

“Then it appears we are at an impasse,” Nick said. “You won’t tell me your story and I won’t tell you mine.”

“It’s not an impasse. You’re just no fun.”

“Ah. But I have a solution to our problem, madam rabbit. And something fun, no less.”

“Oh,” she replied, crossing her arms with a smile and looking on at his performance. “And what are you proposing, mister fox?”

“A game.”

“A game?”

“Indeed. It’s very simple, you see. We’ll go our separate ways in search of apples. Whomever finds a perfect apple will be declared the winner. The loser will have to tell their little heartbreak story to the other. That sounds fun, right?”

“A perfect apple,” Judy repeated the words. “What do you mean perfect?”

“I mean flawless. Perfect shape. Perfect red color. Delicious. I want the apple you think of when someone says the word apple. A textbook definition. That should be easy enough to find, right? Even toddlers know what a perfect apple looks like.”

Judy huffed and crossed her arms at the fantasy.

“There’s no such thing as a perfect apple. Not this late into the season, anyway.”

“Then you’ll just have to get creative, Carrots,” he replied with his trademark smirk. “It will make looking through the orchard more exciting. Don’t you think?”

She furrowed her brow at him. “What are you scheming?”

“Me? Scheme? Never. What makes you think I’m up to something?”

“Call it a hunch.”

“I’m hurt. Hurt, I say.”

“If that’s what hurts you, you wouldn’t be able to hustle a dime from a philanthropist much less pawsicles for a living. And whatever you say, I’m not falling for it. I learned my lesson already buying you that jumbo pop.”

“What’s the matter, Carrots? Chicken?”

Judy could feel a particular type of heat travel up her ears. And it wasn’t a blush.

Instead, she felt more like a stick of shortfuse dynamite. It was shame and indignation over Nick’s childish words. The blustering emotions boiling beneath the surface were not helped by his continued, knowing smirk.

“Well?” he asked. “Wanna play or do I win by default?”

Judy would have been proud to say such petty taunts from Nick had no effect on her at this point in their relationship.

But then she would be lying.

She stomped off through the mud in the opposite direction of Nick, cooling herself down by reminding herself that he was only playing with her. It was too small an acre to hold a grudge. And she knew Nick wasn’t going to have much luck on his end of the farm either.

It was simply far too late in the season to ever hope to find a perfect apple.

And yes, Judy had known that from the beginning when they had set out for the orchard.

She had been expecting to find, at least, a few decent apples. Maybe one that was a tad misshapen or had a few bad spots that could be cut away. But walking amongst the trees, Judy saw the branches picked clean.

“Business has been booming…”

Privately, Judy couldn’t help but wonder if the farm’s success had to do with the stir she had caused in Zootopia. Fans of her exploits who migrated south to see where the famous Judy Hopps had grown up. They invaded the burrow during an already intense time of the year for the farm.

The usual apple choices were long gone.

Macintosh being the most popular, didn’t even have a stem left behind. Then were the honeycrisp, sweet and Judy’s favorite. And a favorite of the bees too, judging by how they buzzed happily amongst the discarded, browned mush left on the ground. Granny smith were a sourer, rarer sort that only a pawful of Hopps preferred.

Each Hopp was given a choice of what type of apple tree to grow. And some of the youngest sprouts hadn’t even passed Judy in height yet.

She paused at one sign on a nearby tree. Red delicious.

“Well, he did say red and delicious…”

As with all the other trees, most of the branches were bare, especially near the bottom. Amongst the top, however, were several riper fruits. Or late-bloomers, it being so far in the season.

They were high enough up that any sane rabbit would have opted to move to the next tree. Or find a ladder.

But Judy Hopps was harebrained enough to jump for them.

She stepped back for a running start before clawing her way up the trunk. Though the peak of the apple tree was far too high for a single bound, there were plenty of branches to climb. And all her police training came in handy as Judy leapt further up the trunk.

Even when the sprigs grew narrow and she stumbled, she did not let up. It was unfitting of her to ever back down from a challenge. Even a self-imposed one.

She kept her eyes on the prize. A rather juicy looking red globe perched at the second branch to the top.

In one final push, she reached for the apple with her tippy toes before slinking back down with her prize in paw.

“Gotcha.”

It was a short lived victory.

No sooner than did Judy put all her weight down on her supporting branch did it creak and groan under pressure. Even the tiny weight of a rabbit was enough to snap the wood entirely, sending Judy tumbling several feet to the hard ground.

She landed with a heavy thud on her butt, protecting her apple by holding it close like a baby.

The ringing sensation of pain traveled up her spine as her body asked her the obvious question. What the heck were you thinking?

“That’s definitely going to bruise,” she groaned, rubbing at her hindquarters.

Judy flexed her hips slightly in a few stretches, making sure she hadn’t broken anything. When satisfied she had gotten away with only dirtying her fluffy, white tail, she returned her gaze to the acquired fruit.

It was as ordinary any other apple one might find on a farm, almost like the ones the pair had for lunch an hour ago. With curves in all the right places and five bumps at the bottom, it looked exceptionally average on the surface. A typical, perfect apple.

“I guess it’s as good as any,” Judy said to herself, tossing it in the air a few times. “Wonder if Nick had any luck.”

Nick was right where Judy had left him, leaning against one of the trees with his own apple in his paw. A Macintosh.

“How’d you make out, Carrots?”

“See for yourself,” Judy held up her apple with pride.

Nick smiled and held his paw out.

“Not bad. May I?”

She shrugged and tossed Nick the fruit, which he juggled for a moment as he struggled to get a grasp on it.

Once he did, Nick gave it a full combover much like he was a jeweler examining a precious gemstone. Judy watched him while tapping her foot as he inspected every corner of her apple, from the top to bottom.

First, he fiddled with it, tugging at the stem. Then he squeezed it to test its firmness. And finally he sniffed it.

“Nope,” he said at last. “It’s no good.”

“It’s no good,” Judy repeated his words. “Why? What’s wrong with it? It looks fine.”

“Oh, sure. It looks perfect on the outside. But what’s inside counts too.”

Nick dug his claws into the skin of the fruit, allowing him to tear apart the apple neatly in half. Judy contorted in disgust at what was in the core.

“Ugh! Worms!?”

“Looks like it,” said Nick as the maggots wriggled free. “I thought it smelled iffy. Not the tastiest apple, I would think.”

“Agh,” Judy clawed at her tongue. “And I wanted to eat that when you were done!”

“Still can,” he offered the fruit. “Want it?”

“No!”

Nick chuckled before tossing the apple away.

“I figured a farm girl like you wouldn’t mind bugs so much.”

“Bugs are fine. But maggots are the worst. They ruin so many crops and can sometimes kill a whole harvest. So, I hate them.”

Judy took a moment to collect herself while Nick grinned. He was very pleased with himself as he tossed his own apple in the air a few times. Judy quickly realized why.

With her apple tainted by worms, that left Nick as the winner of the game by default. And him winning was almost worse than eating an apple filled with maggots. His smugness was insufferable, just like having to admit her loss.

Judy grinded her teeth as she spoke.

“Well...It looks like you won the bet.”

“Wrong again, Carrots. I failed too.”

He caught her by surprise by tossing his apple in her direction. Judy’s trained reflexes allowed her to catch it instantly.

“It looks fine to me,” she said, inspecting its shape and color.

“You’re only seeing the surface level then.”

“What?” she asked, holding the apple away from her at arm's length. “Does this have worms in it too?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Just look a bit closer, Carrots.”

Judy humored him with a sigh and brought the apple into her face. She then spun it around a few times.

It was on her third circle that she noticed a white sticker taped to the surface. It took her a few heartbeats to process what it meant. But when Nick’s message clicked, her face morphed into a scowl.

“You cheated!”

“Hey, now. I admitted that I lost, just like you. Everything’s fair and square. I just happened to keep one of the apples we had for lunch. And I didn’t want to break any of the branches of a tree by trying to climb it. Foxes aren’t known for their mountaineering skills, after all.”

Judy groaned in disgust as she peeled off her family logo from the apple.

Nick’s entry had been one of the apples from the reserved orchards, picked early in the season and treated with preservatives. It was the sort grown solely for selling, be it for wholesale or for cider. Of course it was going to look too perfect to be picked from the orchard they were in. It’d even lack a genuine taste.

“That’s still a cheap hustle,” she muttered, dropping the apple to the ground.

“Sorry, Carrots. Couldn’t resist. If it makes you feel any better, we both lost.”

“Right...So, what happens now?”

“Admittedly, I haven’t thought this far ahead in the case of a tie. I was hoping you’d find something a little better than a ball of worms.”

“Well, sorry I’m a disappointment.”

“You’re not. Trust me. It’s just funny. Here I was expecting to let you win.”

As unfair as Nick’s little trick felt, his smile always had the habit of making Judy forgive him quickly.

Perhaps teasing her was a little reminder of what he used to do for a living. But he never took it too far with her. And he knew the right things to say afterwards.

“Let me make it up to you,” he said, bowing his head. “Walk with me and I’ll tell you all about the time I got dumped.”

“You remember what I was like back then, right?”

“Completely egocentric? Cockier than a rooster? Always had on a smirk like a crocodile?”

“Alright, alright. I get it. I wasn’t a nice guy. I had a chip on my shoulders, especially in my early twenties. And there weren’t exactly a lot of prospects given what I did for a living. I was far from a perfect catch. But I could act civilized when it was called for.”

“I’d hope so, given our first encounter.”

“You know how it is,” Nick said with a smile. “One day, you just sort of stumble into someone on the streets who catches your eye. Suddenly, you spend your whole day thinking about them.”

Judy let out a curious “hmm” while gripping at Nick’s paw.

“It was completely superficial. She was just a cute vixen I bumped into while selling ‘supplies.’ I ran my mouth to impress her. Made up a bunch of stuff about who I was. Hustled her, basically, into thinking I was someone I wasn’t. And she believed me. Every single word.”

Judy couldn’t help but feel some kinship towards the poor vixen whom she had never met. She had been on the other end of one of Nick’s hustles too. And that memory showed in her glance to Nick.

“You don’t have to say it,” continued Nick. “I was a jerk. And it didn’t end well, as one would expect. I kept it going for a while, but everyday was like wearing a mask. Like looking over your shoulder, waiting for the moment it’d all come crashing down. Until one day she finally found out about it through a slip up I made in the worst possible way.”

“Did she rip you a new one?”

“No. That was the worst part. I could understand if someone wanted to scream at me for lying to them like that. But there wasn’t even a single word she said to me. She just got up and left in silence. Never contacted me again. And I never saw her after that. Not that it wasn’t what I deserved but…”

It was rare to see Nick give a genuine frown as he rubbed the back of his head. He wasn’t one to ever show honest discomfort, if he could help it. That was all part of his motto. His mask.

It was also how Judy knew he was telling the truth when he said.

“I regret leaving things with her like I did. I really wasn’t fair to her. And I’d like to think I’m a better mammal now. If I ever see her again, I’d want to apologize.”

Judy smirked and squeezed his paw slightly. “I’d like to think you are too.”

There was a silence between the couple as they continued to walk down the rows of apple trees, paw in paw.

It wasn’t the bad kind of quiet. Just the sort that could exist between two friends when there was nothing else to say, but they could still enjoy each other’s company. Though, internally, Judy was digesting Nick’s story. It was another layer to the checkered past of her fox. Bits and pieces that she would sew together to see the real person he liked to keep locked away.

And there was something about his story that prompted Judy to break the pleasant quiet.

“...You aren’t the only one who wasn’t fair though. I’ve only had one other boyfriend. And I sort of started the relationship knowing that it would probably end badly, if only subconsciously.”

Nick let out his own, knowing “hmm.”

“I guess something is destined to fail if it's rotten from the onset,” said Judy. “It was late high school when I met Billy. Or, more accurately, he met me. He was absolutely smitten with me. And I liked him. Well enough, anyway. People always said we looked like the perfect couple. But, deep down, we just wanted different things. And he was very...Traditional.”

“Ah. This already has an unhappy ending, Carrots.”

Judy covered her face. “You know how I get about my police work. But Billy certainly didn’t understand why I had to go to community college outside of the burrows for my career. Or why I even wanted to be an officer of law when the Hopps own one of the biggest farms in the state. And he got very clingy at the end before I left him for school.”

Judy let out a heavy sigh, recalling just how taxing her first year of college was.

The chaos of traveling across state, coupled with a bad breakup, made her freshman year particularly difficult. Not to mention the guilty memory of seeing a pair of drooping rabbit ears watching her leave from the train station.

“He’s doing fine now,” she said. “Last I heard, he married and had like thirty kids of his own. But...I dunno. There’s always that bad taste in your mouth. You know? But it’s like...How can you expect a relationship to succeed if there are problems at the core? I know it was probably for the best. But a part of me always wonders if I’m a bad person for not giving it a fair try in the moment.”

“You’re not. Sometimes things don’t work out. You wanted different things. Happens all the time.”

“Well...I guess I’m happy at least one thing did work out.”

Judy gave Nick’s paw another squeeze before pulling him along to the honeycrisp tree at the end of the row.

She had all but forgotten about the tree marked by the heart carved into the bark with the initials J.H. and B.Y. at its middle. The wood had healed well from the knife and the lines were already starting to fade to the untrained eye. But Judy could still see the message, clear as day.

“Well,” she said. “Here it is. My apple tree.”

Being a fox in the burrow, Judy was used to seeing Nick tower over most things around the town. Even her apple tree didn’t look nearly so big next to him. Though he still wouldn’t be able to reach the top, even on his tippy toes.

“Shorter than I thought,” he commented.

“Shush you. Anyway, depressing backstories aside...You said you wanted to see it, so here it is.”

Nick looked it up and down with a smile. He was genuinely pleased with what he saw.

“There are still some apples left up there,” he pointed out the few resting at the very top branches. “Wanna get em?”

Judy rubbed at her sore hip. “I think I’ve had enough climbing trees for one day.”

“You don’t need to climb any trees. You only need to climb me.”

Nick released her paw and pressed his back against the trunk of the tree. He then held his own paws together in a makeshift step like he wanted to give her a boost.

“You can’t be serious…”

“Aw, come on. It’s perfectly safe. Don’t you trust me?”

“You barely passed enormous criminals training in the academy, and you want to try lifting me in the air?”

“Yup! It’ll be fun.”

“No thanks, Nick…”

At first, Judy thought Nick was going to try to taunt her again with another challenge or a sleight on her bravery. But after staring blankly at each other, he just shrugged and dropped his pose.

“Eh. I’m getting cold anyway. You’re right. If we want apples, we can just get them at your family’s stands.”

Judy watched Nick’s back as he stepped away from the tree, heading towards the path for home. Though she still caught a glimpse of something somber in his eye before he turned around.

She let out a soft sigh before preparing to go into a sprint.

“Dumb fox…”

Nick yelped when Judy collided into him.

She then scrambled for his shoulders and tugged at his ears to better position herself into comfortable seating, planting the back of his head between her thighs.

“If you wanted fresh apples from the tree,” she grumbled into his ear. “Why didn’t you just say so from the beginning?”

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” he mumbled back, with her foot in his face.

“You’re not a bother if you want something, dumb fox. Sometimes it’s okay to open up a little. You know?”

Nick went quiet for a moment.

“Sorry, Carrots. You’re right. I need to try harder at that.”

“So long as you remember it with me. Now, move to the left.”

Judy was directing him by fondling at his ears like they were a pair of joysticks and she was operating a crane. Nick lurched closer to the trees by her command. Close enough for her to reach the lowest hanging fruit. It was one with a funny looking shape and color, half red and half yellow. But otherwise unblemished.

She grabbed, twisted, and pulled it skyward until it popped free into her palm.

“There,” she said as they stepped back from the tree. “Worm check.”

Nick sniffed at the apple as she dangled it in front of his snout before giving the thumbs up to signal the all clear.

“Smells good to me.”

“Well, it’s not perfect,” she said, dropping it fully into Nick’s paw.

“It doesn’t have to be to still be good.”

“I guess you’re right,” Judy smiled as she rested atop of Nick’s head, content to listen to him munch on her apple.

He took one big chomp before holding it up for her to nibble on. She happily took a bite of his offer. Savoring the crisp taste of fall and the wind rustling through the dried leaves that still remained on the trees.

And there was no sweeter fruit to be had.

#zootopia #wildehoppsweek #oneshot #nick wild #judy hopps #romance #apples

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