#im honored to be considered amongst them

[toffeebrews]

I'm glad to be considered a "color guy" but I'm so late to this party, I only got into him like... 2 months ago!

bro everyone was packing up by the time I got here.

[sadhours]

can’t believe im suggesting this…. Would you like to be the first one to write a fisting billy smut… gosh his arms are so strong and fuck-

maybe he’s read about it in a magazine and suggest it to you.

it’s late at night- you’re both up talking, Billy’s being typically horny sucking on ur neck and grinding to you. He remembered what he read and wants to try it on you. Praise and degrade? Oh and of course you end up squirting👯 his ego is so large knowing his hands could do this

In honor of kinktober….

18+ minors dni, this is filth.

He read about it in Hustler. Fisting. What a deplorable, filthy fucking action. And it’s completely captivated him since. A candidate. That’s what he needs. Perched on his lifeguard chair, he surveys the crowd. Drops his eyes amongst the row of middle aged women who would most likely let him do whatever he wants to them. Surely they can handle it, too. Each one of the ladies has popped out at least two kids. Billy looks down at his fist, clenches it and knows that a fucking infants shoulders are barely a comparison. And truth be told, that grosses him out. Labors not fun, he’s sure of that. And the article explained that this was fun.

No, a mother won’t do. Besides, maybe it’s superficial but he’s not particularly attracted to any of those broads. Could be the desperation pouring out of them. Maybe it’s the crows feet they all have. Tits sucked on by bratty kids, no where as perky as he likes. It’s not the size of them that’s important, but something grosses Billy out about lactation. And he can see through their suits, their tits are deflated. Not to mention they’re all fucking married. What a headache. No, he needs a girl close to his age.

Heather’s a good candidate except a few of his coworkers have already had her and Billy’s not too keen on that. He doesn’t kiss and tell, but he can’t be sure she won’t. And what he wants to do is something he doesn’t need Heather blabbing about. This has to be kept under tight wraps. He scans around, considering each woman until… you.

It’s so clear to him. Why hadn’t he immediately considered you, he isn’t sure. You were dropping hints all senior year. Yet, no forward enough for him to pursue it. Plus, you were the reason he even passed English to begin with. Being paired up was a blessing in disguise. You were smart as hell and even when he could’ve bent you over your dining room table, you were too focused on the project. He’s no fool, knows that you would’ve let him.

Billy had heard about you in the locker room. Knows you slept with at least five of them. You weren’t a prude, but this… this was something. You don’t just spring this on a girl. He’d have to play the long run. So he does. That day, his shift ends and he saunters over to where you’re laid out on a chair.

“Let me take you out,” he insists.

“Now?”

“Yeah, c’mon.”

The date goes smooth, Billy fucks you in the star court parking lot and is pleasantly surprised when you beg to swallow down his cum. It turns into a common occurrence. Rushed sex in the cramped backseat of his Camaro and him shooting down your throat every time.

Then, he says he wants to take you away for a weekend. He drives and drives, to the next town but to a motel.

“I’m not gonna kill ya,” he assures you before ushering you into the room.

“Lay on the bed,” he instructs as he shuts the door and you obey, like he knew you would. Billy knows you’re down bad, sees the look in your eyes whenever you rode him in his backseat. There’s desperation in those eyes. There’s infatuation. Submission. You’ll do whatever he says. It ignites him.

He slowly undresses you, nipping at your sensitive skin as he does so. He sits between your legs and displays a bottle of lube.

“I— I don’t usually need that,” you confess and Billy knows. You’re like a goddamn faucet when he’s around. He’s never been with a woman who gets as wet as you do.

“You will for what I’m gonna do to ya,” he chuckles, rubbing his thumb in circles against your aching clit.

“What?” you look at him panicked and Billy frowns as he smoothes his hands against your navel.

“You trust me, right?” he asks, blinking innocently.

You reluctantly nod, propping yourself up on your elbows, “Yes, I do.”

“I just wanna make you feel good, baby. You know that, don’t you?” he moves his thumb back down to your clit. The pad of it running against the bundle of nerves has your heart racing and your thighs tingling. His words also aide in the arousal coursing through you.

“I know,” you nod, “What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna stretch you out,” he growls, smirking down at you. Billy reaches for the bottle of lube, pops it open and flips it over, squeezing the plastic gently. The slippery liquid drips down your folds and Billy spreads it with his fingers. The sensation is almost overwhelming. Adds so many layers to the pleasure you’re feeling. It’s almost as if it makes you more sensitive and you squirm at the feeling. A breathless moan tumbles from your lips as you throw your head back.

Billy chuckles softly, playing with your glistening pussy as he tells you, “See? Feels so good already and I’ve barely started.”

“More,” you beg, squeezing your eyes shut.

He placates you, allows this bit of power to be yours as he slides a finger inside of you. It’s much easier to take with the lube. So much easier he’s sliding a second in moments later. He coos, watching the way your cunt eagerly sucks in his digits. Billy scissors his fingers as he pumps them in and out of you, stretching you out little by little.

“Such a good girl,” he praises, “I think you’re already ready for more.”

Billy adds in a third finger and you’re head is swimming, feels heavy as you rest it against the mattress. “Oh, god,” you cry out.

The sounds of his lube slick fingers sliding in and out of you fills the room, sounds just a filthy as it feels. It makes you feel sexy, especially with the way Billy groans lowly and squeezes your thigh with his left hand.

“Looks so fucking hot,” he growls, a desperate tilt to his honeyed voice.

You hear the pop of the lube bottle and then everything gets so much wetter, the squelching sounds get more obscene and Billy’s pace gets harder. He thrusts his fingers in a little faster and when you finally open your eyes to get a look at him, your whole body vibrates. The man’s focused, lips parted in awe as his lustful eyes watch how his fingers disappear in your fluttering heat.

“You gonna take another for me?” his husky voice falls on your ears and he glances up at you. You nod emphatically, spreading your legs for him even further. He growls again, sounds like he’s feral with desire and then he tells you, “Bet you can take my whole fist. Can you? Gonna be a good girl for me?”

“Fuck,” you exhale sharply at the thought. It’s a little intimidating but the sheer arousal dripping from Billy is enough to make you want it. It’s an added bonus that he’s fucking you with his fingers so good you’re seeing stars. “Yes, yes, I can. Wanna be a good girl.”

Billy adds in his pinky, the stretch is delicious and you feel so full already. He moves his thumb up to swipe quickly at your clit and the motion has your hips jolting up and your back arching. Everything feels so good, your body flooded in complete ecstasy. It feels like your drowning but in a oddly wonderful way.

“Billy—“ you gasp, “I’m gonna cum.”

You think you are. You’re not exactly sure because it doesn’t usually feel like this but the intensity of the pleasure makes you assume so. Billy stops rubbing at your clit, pulls his fingers out and you whine in frustration. You feel so empty, you slam your fists against the bed in protest as you whimper out pathetically.

“Hey, be patient,” he scolds, smacking your thigh gently before he’s reaching for the bottle of lube and squirting more on his hand. He spreads it over his fingers and fist before returning them back to your used hole. “Said you were gonna be good girl.”

You whine, squirming in frustration from the denial of your orgasm. And then he’s pushing his fingers back in, and he keeps pushing and the stretch is hot and searing. You have to squeeze your eyes shut from it and grit your teeth. But it’s like he gets past a threshold and you’re flooded with that overwhelming pleasure again, crying out his name as your chest heaves.

“Holy fuck,” he exhales, sounds like he’s in disbelief and you lift your head up to see he’s got his hand inside, to his wrist. “Does that feel good?”

You swallow hard, wiggling your hips as you tell him, “Yeah… feel so full.”

“Such a good fucking girl for me,” he purrs as he looks at the way your cunt engulfs his fist. “Fucking dream come true.”

You can forget forming words, you’re passed that as your mind empties. The pleasure it too good, too sinful, too obscene. All you can do is moan for Billy, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts.

Once he moves his free hand to play with your neglected clit, you’re a goner. Shrieking as you cum forcefully. It wracks through your body and you’re thrashing with it, squirming and seizing. Billy groans, watching with hungry eyes. He pulls out and moves up your body, kissing you hard as he’s pushing his clothes off his body. Billy gets his cock out and it’s so hard and leaking, precum dripping down the shaft. He wastes no time, slipping inside you with ease. You whine, body feeling spent as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, locking eyes. Billy snaps his hips a couple of times, sounding uncharacteristically whiny as he moans and then he’s spilling into you. Painting your used walls with his hot, sticky seed. He plants another searing kiss against your lips as he does so.

Then Billy's collapsing beside you, chest heaving. He has this satisfied grin on his face and he turns slightly to tell you, “I’ve been wanting to do that so bad.”

You giggle, “I liked it.”

He leans close and pecks your lips, “Me too. I’m gonna go clean up. Wanna join me?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, “Give me a second though. I don’t think my legs will work.”

He laughs softly, “I’ll go get the shower started and then I’ll come get you. I can carry you.”

“Okay,” you blush, stars in your eyes as you look at him.

[all-l-wanna-do]

Six the Musical?

Okay, I haven’t listened to the musical in a bit, but what are some of your favourite headcanons for Katherine Howard(Fifth one, I believe)?

YESSS OMGS SHES THE BEST SHES MY FAVOURITEEEEE HEJSKDKAKDI. AAAH

okay so she goes by kitty and kat with friends and katherine with most other people, nickname privileges are just about the highest honor she can give someone. Anna and Anne call her Kitkat a lot as well.

Shes bisexual with a preference towards girls and the idea of sex repluses her but she's not sure if thats due to asexuality or non worked through trauma

she dresses very preppy with some y2k elements, has a worn pair of pink converse she adores, constantly dyes her hair bubblegum pink and usually wears it in a ponytail or two braids. she hates her hips with a passion and cant wear leggings without a skirt over it because she'll feel nauseous and will get panicked and cry. she also can only have her boobs visible if shes wearing something that accents them. she has a pair of heart earings she wears 50% lf the time and always has a choker on to hide her scar.

she loves doing makeup and coloured eyeliner and sparkles. she often draws hearts on herself and really on anything she can. she always uses waterproof mascara just in case.

she gets phantom pain in her neck along her scar a lot especially when death is mentioned. it gets so bad shes curled up cryimg bc of the pain sometimes.

she loves sweet coffees and hot chocolate and milk chocolate and gets a caramel latte every morning from a small coffee shop. she's constantly caffinated to avoid feeling her massive sleep debt. She usually eats a large dinner and a million snacks throughout the day.

she is a gremlin with playiny games, she is the best mario kart and monopoly player amongst the wueens by far usually because they feel some level of remorse when destroying people. she doesnt. insulting people is her love language and she loves using childish insults like poopface or stupidbutt along with well timed swears.

she loves pop music especially sabrina carpenter, olivia rodrigo, maisie peters, and taylor swift. shes also the largest mysical fan youll ever meet and dreams about being a musical actress but shes terrified she isnt good enough snd never will be no matter how hard she tries. Songs like the band and i and long live make her sob because she wants that so bad it hurts. she dreams of living in nyc or london and thrives in big cities

she can and will bite people for fun

her favourite game is stardew valley especially the early game so she has about a million saves that have made it to spring year 2 and tapered off. she enjoys watching cozy stardew (and similar games like fields of mistria) and minecraft on yt.

her backpack is white with pink hearts on it snd she always carries way too many spare peirod products.

shes always craving cuddles or touch is painful no in between

shes autistic with a special interest in theatre. she also has a lot of vocal stims and masks heavily. shes considering the fact that she may have adhd and also has rsd.

she loves reading fluff fanfic and cries at happy endings and on her birthday. she holds grugdes and is ashamed at herself for doing so. she projects a very confident persona but belives that she's unlovable and that (most) people only love her for her body. she hides her interests from most people because she thinks they dont care about them and theyll move on from her if she does.

her favourite animals are butterflies and hedgehogs and her favourite flower is dandelions.

she sleeps woth three pullows and two blankets and has a pink weighted blanket she uses whemever she's overstimulated

she has a canopy bed with string lights around the top and her floor is covered in a soft pink rug thats always covered in cat hair and she has light pink wallpaper with butterflies on iy and a plushie pile at the foot of her bed

theres more but im tired lol

[the-jordas-trials]

hi hello im so incredibly ill over ur guys (earthmovers)

genuinely fascinated with them and i have so many questions so im gonna dump them on u

but first off! obsessed with so many of them. i love their personalities and just how unique they all r. taking a basic concept then going wild with it is truly the best outcome with these guys bc i didnt even CONSIDER how unique they could be. which then leads to me asking how you came up with them?

but questions!! questions questions questions! im wondering about the classes they all have. like supreme escalation, supreme scavenger, lesser plateau, standard civilian, etc. im really curious about wut they all mean

question about pyroclastic specifically! how did people live on him if he was constantly hot? was there safety stuff that allowed people on him stay cool and not overheat?

also pompeii and pyro seem to be very similar. are they the same model? and im wondering if pompeii has a similar personality as pyro or if pompeii is different

and as i said in my reblog im already enraptured by tsunami. lil guy is just. in the water. is tsunami made specifically for being in water? are there others like it? can other earthmovers go in the water or is it just tsunami?

now with my own questions over im giving you this space to ramble more about your Creechurs freely

hello hii hello hello im glad you're liking my silly goofy war honses! however, you have just activated my trap card via asking me to talk more about them, you now have a new objective: survive this massive essay im about to launch into! The concept of Earthmovers grabbed me by the ear and dragged me directly into hyperfixation land to which i havnt been able to recover from! I personally love to take the concept of something and just pry it apart to see how i can stretch the concept to its limit. And Ultrakill has a VERY stretchable concept of everything. Mainly the fact that blood itself seemingly is what gives things a soul, free will and a drive to live. And so i thought to myself, huh, Earthmovers are filled with alot of blood! i wonder what they'd be like beyond v1 ripping them down. What's their personality line, do they have an honor code? What're their thoughts like. How do they view death? Is fighting something they do willingly or is it a calling? Do they have a culture amongst themselves? Are they viewed as gods to other machines? All theses questions, and so Whalefall spawned in almost instantly, followed by Starshine, Tsunami, Pyro and Pompeii, the rest of the gang, Cyclone and then a few handfull of others! Edit: OKAY SO TUMBLR IS BEING A LITTLE BABY SO I'LL HAVE TO ADD LITERALLY EVERYTHING I WROTE IN A REBLOG I PROMMY I HAVE ALOT OF RAMBLES

[mister-eames]

1/? I was thinking about the whole dreamshare business & how interesting it is cos while you have the likes of Arthur & Cobb who would consider themselves “gentlemen thieves” & believe in things like “honor amongst thieves” etc, obvs not everyone in the industry is gonna be like that. They’re criminals, after all, so you’re gonna have people with a complete lack of morals, people who are power hungry, or jealous of competition or who are simply willing to screw others over for the right price...

2/? So I was like: how do you even navigate an industry like that? ESP when you’re starting off. It's gotta be a whole lot of trial & error when it comes to finding out who's trustworthy, who you’d be willing to work with again & who you’re gonna avoid like the plague. & then I was like how fun would it be if when you didn't know your other teammates well you literally just went by your role. Noone would know the others' names; you'd literally just be The Extractor, The Chemist, The Architect 3/? And then i was thinking the dreamshare business is DEFINITELY a gossipy lot. Because there's gotta be so much secrecy, rumours have gotta run abound (especially if you start making a name for yourself...whether in a good capacity or a bad one.) And then I was like how do I make this about Arthur and Eames? Imagine before you met your Pointman for the first time all you know about them are these rumours you've heard: "A buzzkill," "part ninja", "quiet", "he's like medusa, one look and you're 5/5 walls the other has built around them and form their own opinions... Idk, i just love the idea of them being constantly surprised by one another. And also! Yes! I stan the idea of Arthur as having a great sense of humour too!

------

Nonnie, my darling, it appears that tumblr ate the 4th part of your ask :( :( im so sorry about that, and just as I was getting so SO into it too, damn you tumblr!!! I think I can extrapolate a little where you were going with it though <3 --- I am OBSESSED with the idea of dreamsharers being a gossipy, busybody bunch - personal knowledge must be worth a lot, anything from someones real name down to their favourite colour or preferred detergent. And the rumours that must get born and mutated through the proverbial phone tree. Not just from other dreamsharers, but little white lies Arthur and Eames must have told about themselves a) to muddy the waters on any truth about them and b) to weed out who can and who can't be trusted with 'sensitive' information. And the idea that their love story is obtaining pieces and putting each other together like a jigsaw puzzle is beautiful, never having the most complete picture, but delighted by every piece they find.

Also "like Medusa" lmaoooo oh my god I want a fic of Arthurian tall tales

Arthurs having a great sense of humour, no matter how it's written, is my favourite thing. I mean, in canon we only ever get to see him 'at work', right, where it's his job to sort of curate the fun and dose out the reality checks, but even then we sort of see a couple of cracks - the most notable being 'worth a shot' aha. And outside of work? Arthur is a fucking hoot. Under that serious facade is a playful man with a face made for smiling, for silliness. It's what makes him balanced, as a character and I cannot be paid any sum to be convinced otherwise. I think one of my fave illustrations of this, of many, is HGTV verse where Eames legitimately finds Arthur breathtakingly hilarious and no one else in their work life 'gets' why. That's how I think of Arthur and Eames in canon - as having a language of inside jokes and wry, odd, weirdo sense of humour that you have to untangle and decode to begin to 'get', as with any good relationship and/or friendship. "Merry chase" is an old joke, the words so specific I can't help but believe they're born of history and hilarity, recycled between them so often throughout the years it still makes them grin.

[bigskydreaming]

#the joker#i have a headcanon that Joker calls Dick 'Butcherbird' after this#he'd 100% taunt him with it via @nightmare-foundation

Okay but imagine if this is how Jason FINALLY finds out that this even happened in the first place, after spending so long convinced that nobody grieved him enough to avenge him when the reality was he'd just been focused on whether one specific loved one had grieved for him in the one specific way he'd hoped for that grief to take and then casually, oh so casually -

(not at all casually if the Joker - never a dumb man - had long ago picked up on the fact that Jason CLEARLY had no idea about this little chestnut and had been sitting on it for YEARS waiting for just the right time to lob this particular grenade into the conflicts always simmering between various Batfam so that he'd get the biggest bang for his buck out of it, pun obviously intended its the Joker duh) -

And the Joker just haaaaappens to drop this reveal into a 'chance' encounter with the Red Hood during an era of unrivaled calm amongst the Batfam -

Boooooring, says the Joker, so sooo dull, none of them have even tried to kidnap him to use him to win points in a morality play or 'Im right, you're wrong' war with each other in aaaaages, its like he doesn't even MATTER to them anymore, if he died, would any of them even care? Oooooh, you know who we should ask about that, Jay-jay? Nightwing! Bet the family's favorite Butcherbird probably has a FASCINATING opinion there. Y'know. All things considered. Wait. What do you mean, what things? Gasp. Why. I am agog, my favorite Little Red Hoodlum, absolutely AGOG. Are you saying - no. Do...do you not KNOW? Did no one ever tell you? Why...not even Dear Old Daddy Dour?? When he knows full well just how MUCH you longed for someone to do the Murder Mambo with me in honor of your passing? Oh, no. Oh no no no, this simply will not do. I can't believe even he would be so cruel as to keep that from you, after everything....

Then an artful pause, a deliberately timed tilt of the head, another beat to make sure the light catches his malevolent smirk's best angle before delivering the punchline....oh, who is he kidding, they're all his best angles....

"Then again, even I never expected that after everything, You-Know-Who would go so far as to bring me back from the dead. Literally give me the breath of life after Son One went to all the trouble of beating every last one of mine out of me in the first place, so whom among us really has a clue what's actually going on up in the old Bat's Belfry, right?

...wait. Silly me. If you didn't even know about that first bit, of course you couldn't have know about that part too. Oh dear. Well now I fear I've said too much. Whoopsies!

Headcanon that after Last Laugh, the Joker himself spread the story of being killed by the biggest Bat Brat, as far as he could manage. What a laugh, after all. The grandest jest of all, taking just a bit of that heroic shine. 

Of course, that was the very reason most people dismissed it as nonsense. Other heroes, they could believe it of, but Nightwing was supposed to be the nice, quippy one, the light-hearted punster, the grin to the Bat’s glower.

But the ones who actually know the Joker well themselves….have had the misfortune of working with him, for him, becoming acquainted with him beyond just his feared reputation….his fellow Rogues, his former henchmen…..they know better than to dismiss the story out of hand, and they take care to steer clear of Nightwing whenever possible. Giving him a wide berth, just to be safe.

After all, the one thing that anyone who really knows the Joker could tell you:

He’d never lie about something like that.

Its only funny if its true.

[mickgaydolenz]

one of my sources for studying degrees in-tangent gives like these little descriptors for each degree to give a visualization as to what that degree can entail. its kind of neat tbh.

but for 3° Cancer, which is what Micky's 4th house Saturn in Cancer is in - and i've already talked a lot about it so we're aware of what it already entails - it gives this description that made me sink to the floor:

"A woman seated in an altitude of grief, her clothes disordered and her hair unkempt, holding some faded flowers in her hands; among the flowers are lilies and roses"

amongst all of that, which i dont think we need to dredge over 'cause it's honestly a bit of a downer to discuss; not ideal to feeling grief on behalf of another person for today. however, because im so cool and epic with a lot of sexy knowledge, i want to discuss the lilies and roses since i am a super sucker for symbolism in all things. it's not necessary but it's what the neurodivergency is commanding me to do and i have no say.

note: both roses and lilies have sooo many different colors and varieties to them that its hard to pin down an all-encompassing symbolic generalization for them. but my sources have tried their best at it and i think it works well.

remember that Saturn slows progress, and always brings difficulties to wherever its placed and in aspect to, so it's overall going to dampen the symbolism of these plants; hence the 'faded flowers', because that's the nature of Saturn's influence.

lilies are known to be recognized as a flower of purity and innocence -- it's a flower of sympathy. it also happens to be associated with the Moon! and i think that's incredibly coincidental considering his Moon opposes his Saturn. so, a whittling away at that purity & innocence due part to his home life, either growing up in or in trying to establish his own, is a possibility. especially since he's been working in the entertainment industry since he was a child. i don't think he ever got to experience that kind of child-like innocence and purity much in life due to that and just became part of him as he got older, quite literally tending to his inner child a lot of the time. lilies also symbolize dignity and honor, in which those things can only be accomplished through hard work, and at times through his life it seemed those things did not come into play throughout his career. his Moon is in Capricorn 10th house; he's always taken his career choices very seriously and emotionally invests himself into it to which, again, can cause problems in the home (as we've discussed before), and could struggle trying to uphold those things at home.

roses are much more recognized for their symbols of love and romance, which is the usual accepted generalization, and i do agree with that too. but roses are also known for its secrecy. the 4th house is already pretty private as it is; double that with his Saturn conjuncting Juno....someone HELP HIM dios mios. roses are associated with Venus, but Juno is pretty much a fine-tuned off-shoot soooo *nervously pulling at collar*. tbqfh "faded" is an understatement for roses here.

and you can combine the two flowers + their meaning and you get a whole fuckin' mess. someone throughout life who lacked discipline in personal relationships because of his rose-tinted glasses. he fucked around AND found out. 🧠💥🤯 (other placements and aspects can back this up too, this ain't just one speculation)

now to tie this all together: 3° Cancer.

other than the one nice thing, "an ear for music", there's also: "dependence on home, possible mother fixation", "strong feelings that over-rule reason and experience", "expects support from home without effort", and "easily influenced by the opposite sex which can cause either injury or disgrace". so, y'know. use context clues for that one.

……..i……..i………i need to throw myself off a bridge…….

[ventofu]

" i know who you pretend i am. "

# (🧸) ZHONGLI ! ☆

︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑ ૮₍˶• . • ⑅₎ა currently playing .. ♡ !

washing machine heart by mitski ! ♪♫

pairing: zhongli x f!reader ♡

warnings: angst (lots of it, lots of hurting im not sorry ><) identity crisis, basically zhongli is using you as a rebound but ure okay w it bc u love him <\3), bittersweet ending, mentions of zhongli & guizhong's past, denial and acceptance, toxic relationships, (reader gets manipulated by love :<)

special note: first it was kaeya, now zhongli.. angst is jus so fun to write ig.. or maybe im evil 😄

zhongli was always searching.

you never knew what it was, or who.

if there was a single aspect you've noticed about him, was that he was perceptive. observant and agile as the falcons that would soar above guyun stone forest, carried by their dark wings and quick speed, one may blink and miss their presence. those that fly and merge with the cottonlike clouds, free of setience and worry. ones that harbor similar nature with the carefully crafted xiao lanterns that danced among the stars and the vast atmosphere of the previous lantern rite. honoring the adepti, remembering rex lapis, gracefully embracing liyue with beautiful golden lights and featherlike traces of joy within the gleeful city people, heavy atmosphere lifted as they made their wishes and prayed their silent desires to their god above.

remembering.. retracing.. recalling.. the past. 

after taking in the form of a mortal, one whomst lives in disguise amongst the other clueless humans, one bound by himself rather than a contract, to the mortal world. you've always wondered, was it not taxing for him? had he not tired himself out? not once had you seen an ounce of negligence be bestowed upon liyue, the heavy guard and watchful eye of the geo archon being the pillar that supported the society in its whole.  despite the fact that the well and organized liyue qixing never failed to uphold their business and live up to their names, lady ningguang knew that without rex lapis and his undying devotion, liyue wouldn't be as extravagant and orderly as it is in the present. 

his fingers were always so nimble, so sufficient and quick to do its work. as the blood of liyue's riches drifted in his veins, as the wisdom and fruits of his labor flourished before his eyes, observant and waiting. his words always guaranteed the good of the city that was under his care, always brought you comfort even when he was serious and stoic when dealing with serious matters. he had crafted mora, a creation he bestowed upon liyue and blessed it with wealth. one who would take it for granted, or take this privilege away would have it considered tainting his bloodstream. he was not only rich in mora, but in sentiment,  percipience and sharpness - the theory of being the eldest among the archons was very visible in the way he acted. 

morax. 

from where the currency of liyue had harbored its name, "morax," highly spoken of and respected by all who walk the land. he was occasionally mentioned in casual conversations among the residents, and you, holding the position of being the said archon's lover,  was barely accustomed to the overwhelming amount of attention you garnered simply with your presence. you would always manage to spark  up conversations and you were highly admired by many.  the status you held wasn't much of importance to you, as you truly loved your significant other for who he was. there was no dark intention or monetary gain. you simply loved him.

but along that, a detail not forgotten, was his past. an archon who has lived thousands of years, will always bring with them the pain and torment of the brute agony that was laid in their minds, connected to the heavy responsibility they lifted on their backs. their hands tainted with blood of their past battles, whether of those pledged innocent or guilty. zhongli was praised to have a sharp memory, as pointed and keen as his polearm. as he wielded his weapon,  he wielded his collection of past events and oaths made by him or individuals he met in the past. you proceeded to wonder if such promises were blessings, or a hidden curse.

"should the day ever come that we are not together, you will continue to shine like gold in my memories."

at first, it was innocent, the small and mischievous mumbles and whispers were ones of admiration, sketching you out as a beautiful and blessed woman who graced the land of liyue with her might and intelligence, one that was unique and incomparable. silent murmurs of how you gained the eye of the powerful man by your side, of how you met his standards and managed to impress  him - of how you tipped a mighty being to fall head over heels for your personality, and who you were alone. you were not only a vision from how loving and strong your heart was, but you were graced with looks and pure, unfathomable and untainted beauty, and there was simply no doubt that you beared a resemblance to a goddess. and that's how the pain, the crisis, the deep and wretching pain and grief of the swirling abyss inside you had started. 

they would always mention that your qipao was similar to hers, that the gold lining and intricate designs drastically reminded them of her presence. that the robes that engulfed your frame when you were on calm walks to help ease your mind - the long white billowing sleeves  that covered your hands from the breeze, had her signature engraved unto the soft fabric. or that your interest towards mechanics and engineering was a sign that - "i swear to the geo archon! she must be a reincarnation of  her, there is indeed no other faultless explanation that clarifies the reason his lover is the way she is.. she is her! i bet my soul on it!" 

that your gentle nature, the loving gazes you gave your partner and the subtle kindheartedness you carried - were all delicate distinctions that you were her, her and her. that you no longer were your own person, that you only served the purpose of being the placeholder of a familiar being you were not. from first glance, it seemed to be innocent admiration, honest compliments that compared you to someone at a higher position - but from your peripheral, you knew those hushed conversations were heartless gossip that plagued your brain and made you think you were contaminated with the image of someone else, filled your senses up with lies and blurred your identity, until your reflection started to obscure and a tall and faceless woman took your place. she was above you when it came to everything, above you when it came to invention, innovation, admiration. perhaps, even despite the agonizing pain the thought induced, it allowed you to gain a moment of hurtful epiphany. perhaps.. she was overhead to you when it came to morax's love. 

a higher position you could never reach. a title you could never attain. 

are you actually here?

you blinked. 

who are you?

you inhale.

"miss, are you alright? do you need our staff to fetch you a glass of water?"

oh, that's right. your own name tasted bland and bittersweet on your tounge. your nose scrunched up in distaste and your appetite seemed to shrivel. the name embroidered on your purse stared back at you, as if it were testing your patience. you felt a sickening fire lighting inside you, slowly charring your fragile heart until its pieces crumbled into an inky ashy mess before you. you could barely shake your head at the question, your ears seeming to have been sealed with water, the restaurant personnel's inquiry muffled as you slowly drown, drown.. drown. 

first, it was grief, frustration. you despised anyone mentioning the woman, the one who would haunt your dreams and stare at you and made your knees weak. until your bones hit the linoleum floor and left you to weep. you stared at the confines of your closet and ordered your maids to burn them and never have the beautiful and rich clothes return to their previous places. to be turned into crushed gravel and never find their way back to your belongings. because they weren't yours. were never yours to begin with. they were hers. 

you refused to taint your identity with a long forgotten piece of liyue's past, you refused to succumb to the rumors and meaningless gossip the people had mumbled to each other on the streets. the vendors and workers gathering in a small corner to discuss their newfound information and puzzle pieces they picked up about you. she wasn't you, ignore it, ignore it, ignore it..

no! they don't know you.. they never did.. they simply do not acknowledge your accomplishments yet.. right?

and then you remember, zhongli. he stared at you with such loving eyes, the enticing marigold luring you in and leaving you starstruck, dumbfounded by how caring his soul was. how he cared for you so gently, those same deft fingers tracing your features and softly caressing each freckle, each beauty scar. you close your eyes, flourishing in the moment, relishing in the gentle mood both your hearts shared. as his hand slowly brushed your soft skin, you hear him express, "beloved, open your eyes."

and then you see it.

were you hallucinating? perhaps, this was simply a dark nightmare you would wake up from soon. but no, your mind told you, it felt too real. too close, too near. daydreaming seemed to be a possible option too. you wanted to stand your ground, believe that you were indeed seeing things, and that'll be over soon. this sick and horrible trick your mind was deluged with will soon wither and all would be silent again. the white noise and the painful static ringing in your ears would both subside and you won't have to be engulfed with dark delusions. but at what cost? 

the same topaz like orbs were the same deliverer, the same silent messenger that sent your mind into loops. the same eyes that studied the paperwork at wangsheng funeral parlor, that shaped into moons when he was delighted.. were the same ones that bestowed your fate upon you. your destiny. 

then came, acceptance. 

the dull ache in your chest never subsided, the anguish forming a sea of dilemma and manipulation between the heart and mind. you did not feel relief when you threw out the bottle of fate's yearning, a perfume that has a gentle but lingering fragrance, similar to the dusk mist, one familiar and comforting to zhongli's past. you didn't feel utmost joy from straying away from your visits to guili plains, it only left you with the bitter feeling of yearning. refusing to look at flowers swaying in the wind, turning yourself away from seeing nature in her sweetest confines, did not do your resolve any good. 

your final moments of yourself, of the withering torch you could barely reach - was barely present anymore. you stared at your reflection in the mirror, silent. your eyes did not carry the same light it used to have, like the gems vanquished and left alone an empty and jet black orifice that matched the remaining life in your heart. the woman that you were, she gave up. the captivating and astounding woman who captured zhongli's heart. she was gone. 

you defeatedly chuckled, the glass cracking and leaving you to bleed. you've surrendered. 

you watched as your image slowly morphed into someone else. when you thought you have escaped, that's when she returns and grabs you by the ankles. muffling your distant screaming just like dust. your long hair dyed white, tied up in a bun while the rest fell over your broad shoulders. the robes you watched disintegrate now back and wrapped around your body .. yet no longer suffocating you in their confines. it felt as if.. it belonged there. was this the grueling end of your story? 

were you just someone giving back to their master? to give back in his entirety.. for loving you and caring for you with every fibre of his being.. were you simply serving him? giving your lover the rewards he deserved, after centuries of war and destruction. of duty. just like xiao. perhaps you were simply like him. you were just another vigilant yaksha who aimed to protect her creator. her master. 

maybe it was worth it, in the end, even though it felt as if a knife was piercing itself through your skin, its blade striking at the little remains you had of yourself, it was alright. 

you watched as he tucked the fragile glaze lily behind your ear, its blooming petals adding unto your never dying beauty and complimenting your dazed gaze. you sang a gentle song that echoed the slow trills of your unsaid pain, the guilty pleasure you received from the bittersweet moments you had with your immortal lover. if this was what hell felt like, it was alright. 

because in those lovely golden irises, in that ocean of longing and unread emotions, you saw him in his element. not zhongli, not the body he uses to blend in with the normal, you saw morax. you saw love. 

if you had to suppress your pain to provide his happiness, if you could give him joy and a rash escape to the decades he’s spent living among the citizens of liyue, it was alright.

was it worth it being somebody else?

who knew? maybe this isn't the end of your story. it just needs to be rewritten, but this time, with a different protagonist, a different woman, a different love story.

if you could hold his hand, saw him unfiltered in all his glory, it didn’t matter who you were, it didn’t matter whose name you carried. among the fields of guili plans, he made an oath to love you, even if it isn’t who you wanted it to be. you would pretend, you would become. you were her, you are her, and always will be.

"i love you,

my guizhong."

in those few moments, you knew he found what he was searching for all this time. what he didn’t find in you, he found in somebody else.

morax and guizhong.. zhongli and the love of his life. 

among the grass and the blooming glaze lillies, they were reunited.

[borom1r]

IM OFF THE CLOCK AND THAT MEANS I HAVE. THOUGHTS.

I threw it out there briefly but I am in fact a Heathen which means like. this is my religion!! historical-reconstructionist Norse pagan!! hello!! And I think Rohan having similar religious practices to the old Norse makes sense considering what we see of Rohan itself + I want to. throw some things at the wall

I think the Rohirrim being an animist culture especially compared to Gondor makes SO much sense, and if we are continuing with this Gondorian views of Rohan 🤝🏻 Christian views of the old Norse parallel then it absolutely adds fuel to Faramir’s whole “I fear we’re sinking to Rohan’s level” spiel. Because the land has spirits that are worshipped, ancestors are worshipped; everything HAS spirit in some sense, in that nothing can be sacrificed freely. Everything has value to something, even if not directly to you.

It also like. makes Théodred’s death that much more upsetting, if we extend the Norse concept of the multi-part soul to Rohirric culture as well. Like, not only is there the inherent layer of “no parent should have to bury their child,” no parent should have to honor their son’s spirit, but there are parts of the soul which are shared and eventually inherited down the family line, passing from parent to child when the parent dies. What’s lucky about a hammingja that cannot be inherited? Or perhaps the hammingja had already died, and Théoden was too poisoned to see the portent of doom, the part of his own soul his son would carry with him to the afterlife.

and on the lighter side, there is something very liberating about sharing space with the gods and spirits. Having a hearth-cult in the sense that worship is warm and inviting and personal. I’ll track it down and add the link to Arith Harger’s video on heathen holidays, but historically there were only like, three major “public” holidays— most of what could be considered a holiday would be practiced privately amongst a family/household. There were sacred groves, sacred parts of the landscape, but no churches. The gods, your ancestors, the landvættr; they exist around you. They’re there! And the Valar are a different case obviously, in that they are quite literally Not There, but dísir and landvættr and ancestors very much were.

Éowyn and Éomer setting plates for Théodred and Théoden during feasts. Riders honoring fallen steeds in the hopes that the horses’ spirits may return as their children’s fylgjur. Rohirrim leaving some crop unharvested, returning some fish to the river as thanks to the land spirits— and telling the weather to kindly fuck off when winds from the mountains turn bitter and icy or the waters of the Anduin turn wild. Éowyn and Éomer dividing their altar because they've always left offerings together; Éomer letting her take more of it because he's always been out riding and she was more attentive to it anyways, he knows the spirits like her more because the last time he asked Théodred for help he got bucked off his horse into a puddle (and he knew Théodred was laughing, he was laughing too; message received, he'll remember to share his ale more).

Éowyn getting into philosophical debates with Faramir about where Men's spirits go when they die and she doesn't back down from her stance of "they're here with us so long as we honor them." And maybe Faramir starts leaving a goblet out for Boromir whenever he drinks, and maybe he does feel a little better to think that some part of Boromir's soul is with him and knows that Gondor is flourishing, that he's happy, that Merry and Pippin are alive. Maybe Éowyn makes a little space on her altar for Boromir, alongside her idols of some of the Valar and tokens for Théoden and Théodred, and maybe Faramir is more grateful than he knows how to express, to see his brother honored in their home.

WAIT HANG ON. WAIT. Éomer old Norse winter garb is conceptually so important to me actually. you KNOW his winningas would be sooooooo pretty

chewing on things gnawing even. the potential for patterning significance in tablet-woven belts like the Birka examples too………

I also need to be deranged abt all the potential of Rohanese culture pulling from old Norse and the perception of gender at the time. Sorry it doesn’t help that I’m a Heathen and a reenactor AND lotr is my main special interest rn so I’m especially deranged about this intersection

[darabeatha]

/  -thonk- You know how in Maya culture, h.uman s.acri.fices were a thing, these being performed as offerings to the gods under the circumstances of enthronement of a new ruler or when an enemy ruler was taken or when major buildings were made amongst other reasons; however the root of these sacrifices were mostly a form of religious expression, (as in to honor the gods). Putting besides the diff methods in which sacrifices were carried, I wanted to mention the one that involved the extraction of the s.acrificed individuals’ still beating heart; and what suddenly crossed my mind at one point right now under my lil readings and research;

you see, I was reading through one of the many versions written of the Popol Vuh, the part where it explains the origins of the twin heroes and how their mother came to bring both of them to the world (she was the daugther of blood gatherer, one of the lords of the underworld (Xibalba) ) ; and how she was going to be sacrificed (bc of reasons that I won’t get to describe bc it would make this too long) and how the lords of the underworld wanted her heart to be brought in a bowl to them; long story short, she tricked them by putting a fake heart which was a fruit on a bowl, and the lords of Xibalba believed this to be a real heart, so when they put the fake fruit-heart on the fire, this naturally released a nice sweet aroma which they were surprised of and enjoyed; now all of this lead me to think about something (which pls take in mind I am no historian so it is merely just a thought); how h.uman s.acrif.ices were often a reenactment of past tellings, and the idea that;; what if the thought behind blood being enjoyed + being a strong source of nourishment to maya deities and being offered to them was based on this telling of when they tasted what they believed was a heart soaked in blood only to then realize of the sweetness and taste of it which as a result could have lead them to believe all hearts tasted like that fake heart they received-

SO LIKE; in conclusion (bc im not sure if my wording made any sense); b.lood was considered to be a strong source of nourishment for the gods and was offered when h.uman s.ac.rifices were held, this is currently a fact paired with the view that s.acri.fices as a whole took place as reenactments of tellings and had its roots as mostly a religious expression; so by following this train of thought, i was thinking (which pls take in mind I am no historian so it is merely just a thought x2) that what if the offering of b.lood has it roots on the telling of Blood Moon and the origins of the twin brothers Hunahpu & Ixbalanque, and how with Blood Moon switching her real heart with a fake fruit heart, this could have lead the gods to think that the taste of all human hearts were actually all as sweet as fruit, which would explain why they enjoyed it and why it was offered to them

[whomst-art-thou-whomst-whomst]

Texts from the Lost Tomb, part 5.4

I swear folks once I get this and the last part up I’m gonna condense it all

But yeah couldn’t resist some <3

Zhang and Wu Chat

Wu Xie: Um. I’m all done with the shower if you want a turn.

Zhang Qiling: I’m alright without one.

Wu Xie: sooo are you pissed at me still?

Zhang Qiling: ? I have not been angry with you since the ladder incident.

Wu Xie: you’ve barely said anything since the necklace thingy

Zhang Qiling: I believe it is a long-running joke amongst my friend group that I do not, in fact, say much.

Wu Xie: okay but there are multiple gouges in the tea house walls that would suggest you had somewhat strong feelings today

and I kinda caused the events that sparked said feelings

so just checking in you know

Zhang Qiling: I was not angry so much as I was afraid. More afraid than I’ve been in a long time.

Wu Xie: ??? But it has worked out fine??? Everyone made it out alive and Uncle Erbai gets to feel morally superior to the Zhang family for a while so today was a win overall

Zhang Qiling: I heard you scream. I didn’t know what had happened. I couldn’t get to you right away. Therefore, I was afraid.

Wu Xie: ohhhhh. oh, Xiao Ge. It’s alright now—hey the necklace was actually helping u look out for me:) It’s not like those ppl were actually trying to hurt me, really. Your family isn’t so bad, at least you don’t have any uncles you know of

today was just some big misunderstandings wrapped in some poor life choices. Tbh my memoir title

I feel kind of stupid for screaming but when a glowing necklace wraps itself around your neck it’s a little uhoh moment lol

I did like the design tho def my aesthetic.

Zhang Qiling: I am pleased that it was able to protect you when I was not.

Wu Xie: Uh no you are not allowed to get all emo abt this it’s only like 3pm

damn time flies when it’s flashing before your eyes lol

Are you on the roof? You’re def on the roof. I thought I heard the tiles moving over my head. Come down or I’m coming up.

Zhang Qiling: I will be down in a moment. Do not come outside, it’s cold and raining.

Wu Xie: you know, Zhang Rishan said he thinks the necklace might be linked to you, somehow

something from long ago, even though you wouldn’t remember it.

It’s lucky that it liked me, huh:)

Zhang Qiling: Yes. Quite lucky.

Babysitters Club Chat

Wang Pangzi: AWW LOOK AT HIM NAPPING ON YOUR SHOULDER SO CUTE. BEBES HAD A BIG DAY. YOU TWO ARE PRECIOUS. BE GOOD AND POSE FOR THE PICTURE NOW.

Zhang Qiling: No. Also, I am considering what steps I should take with Zhang Rishan. Regardless of his concern for the Zhang family line, his actions were unacceptable.

Wang Pangzi: HES DROOLING A LITTLE ON YOU WHICH IS LESS CUTE BUT I CAN CROP THAT PART

LOOK I KNOW YOURE STILL PISSED. IM NOT EXACTLY CALM MYSELF, I JUST HAVE WAYS TO SKIRT AROUND TIANZHENS BULLSHIT FILTER THAT YOU LACK

GET ON MY LEVEL

WU ERBAI WILL HANDLE IT, THINGS HAVE SETTLED I THINK

BUT ABOUT THAT NECKLACE

SO INTERESTING HMMM

Zhang Qiling: I am the patriarch of my family. The necklace behaved as I would, apparently, to protect a vulnerable family member. Wu Xie’s bad cold last week activated it, and it responded to a perceived danger to him today. Simple enough.

Wang Pangzi: UH HUH

A FAMILY MEMBER

THE NECKLACE REALLY SAID LOVE WINS

TOLKIEN COULD NEVER

Zhang Qiling: It protected him on a technicality. But I will not allow him to bear the burdens of my family ever again. It has taken so much from him already.

Wang Pangzi: YEAH SURE BLAH BLAH DESTINY BLAH BLAH ANGST

“A TECHNICALITY” WOW WHO SAID ROMANCE WAS DEAD

ANYHOO IM SCREENSHOTTING THIS FOR UR WEDDING RECEPTION SLIDESHOW

YA KNOW DURING MY SPEECH

Friends of Wu Xie Support Group Chat

Hei Yangjing: you’re welcome for everything today<3 I accept PayPal, although of course it is always my honor to assist my friends:)

Wang Pangzi: WE ARENT PAYING YOU SHIT

Zhang Qiling: You did absolutely nothing.

Hei Yangjing: whoa whoa maybe I wasn’t threatening family members or busting up load-bearing walls like some undying divas I could name but I totes helped

or at least I was there for moral support maybe?

Zhang Qiling: The only reason I knew you were there at all was that as I lowered my blade from Zhang Rishan’s neck, I heard the camera click and saw you were taking a selfie making a peace sign, angled to have the two of us in the background.

Xie Yuchen: I saw it on social media just now. The caption is “#greatdaycatchingupwiththelads #blessed”

Wang Pangzi: TBH KIND OF JEALOUS I DIDNT THINK TO DO THAT

Hei Hangjing: okay yeah you see Xiao Ge that is a modern kind of help I should’ve known you wouldn’t be aware

It’s called performance, you wouldn’t understand

it’s a ‘Gram thing

Also it means I’m a great person

Bc letting you handle the situation was my gift to you

Zhang Qiling: Wu Xie mentioned there is something called “blocking ppl” that gets them out of my phone.

Hei Yangjing: nah

Can’t trust that Wu Xie, bae can’t tell a coffin from an urn amirite

it’s not a thing, blocking

Xie Yuchen: It is a thing. I’ll show you later, Zhang Qiling.

Wang Pangzi: YOU BOYS GO GET CLEANED UP AND COME BY AROUND 9 I SNAGGED SOME OF ZHANG RISHANS BOOZE ON THE WAY OUT

Bonnie and Clyde Chat

Hei Yangjing: you looked pretty comfortable in those handcuffs earlier ;););)

Xie Yuchen: Go to sleep, idiot.

Hei Yangjing: You’d have to do something to tire me out ;););)

Xie Yuchen: Are you like this around Wu Xie? Not that I care, I’m just asking.

Hei Yangjing: uh that’s a big nope

First off all Idk when I’ll die but Id prefer it to be on my terms and not at the hands of those other two

Secondly there is a part of me that remembers how adorable he was when he was younger and that makes it weird

(No offense but u were not adorable. He was bebe luke skywalker, you were bebe princess leia I am obvs Han Solo 4lyfe)

Also I’m a little scared that if i flirted with him and he flirted back he’d be better at it.

Xie Yuchen: All valid concerns.

Hei Yangjing: as cute as he is I don’t really wanna tap that.

Xie Yuchen: I see.

Hei Yangjing: do you tho

Main Chat

Wu Xie: okay folks who wants cocoa to top the evening off? I picked some up today:D

Wang Pangzi: UH YOU SPENT YOUR DAY BEING KIDNAPPED AND PLACATING A SENTIENT NECKLACE WHEN DID YOU HAVE TIME TO GET GROCERIES

FRANKLY THATS INTIMIDATING

Wu Xie: the tea house gift shop:)

Wang Pangzi: …YOU BOUGHT COCOA FROM YOUR KIDNAPPERS. FROM THEIR GIFT SHOP. DURING YOUR KIDNAPPING.

WU XIE

WU XIE WHY

Wu Xie: I mean we were there the whole day, it felt impolite not to buy anything.

Wang Pangzi: OH RIGHT GREAT POINT ID HATE TO BE RUDE TO THEM AFTER THEY WENT TO THE TROUBLE OF ABDUCTING US

LISTEN WHEN PPL STEAL YOU IT BECOMES FREE REIGN ON THEIR SHIT

UGH YOU PROBABLY GOT A RECEIPT AND EVERYTHING

WAS UR LITTLE SHOPPING TRIP BEFORE OR AFTER THEY STUCK U IN A DUNGEON TO EXPERIMENT ON YOU

WAIT NVM I DONT WANT TO KNOW THE ANSWER TO THAT

Wu Xie: look, let’s focus on the positives/ we are all okay, and we learned something new, that necklace is still active! It’s really quite nice-looking when it isn’t moving of its own volition.

Wang Pangzi: YOU AND YOUR RELENTLESS DUCKING OPTIMISM

ZHANG QILING ARE YOU SEEING THIS

Zhang Qiling: I would love some cocoa. I’ll come to the kitchen.

Wu Xie: I have special marshmallows for you!!

Wang Pangzi: I SEE

WE ARE SUBSCRIBING TO THE PRESTIGIOUS “FUCK IT WHY NOT” SCHOOL OF THOT TONIGHT

LOL SURE LETS GO COCOA IT UP

IVE GOT SOMETHING STRONG TO POP IN IT

Wu Xie: Still thinking about that design… I’d love another chance to examine that necklace under less Zhangy circumstances.

Kinda sad we couldn’t borrow it to use for illnesses and dangerous missions :/

ah well it’s for the best, a family heirloom should be treasured, preserved and protected<3

Zhang Qiling: I put it on your dresser.

Wu Xie: ???????

Wang Pangzi: AND THATS WHY YOU AND I ARE FRIENDS, XIAOGE <3

Wu Xie: I—

Zhang Qiling: Are those bunny-shaped marshmallows for me?

[pedros-mustache-main]

crayons & caresses

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

word count: 12k+

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

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

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

september, 1981.

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

his name is beau deacon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you didn’t speak with his father?”

“no. was i have supposed to?”

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

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

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

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

he shakes his head.

“none with your father?”

another shake of the head.

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

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

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

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

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

“taylor auto-repair. this is rog.”

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

“hello?”

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

“deacon? like john deacon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i’ll be sure to.”

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

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

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

still...

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

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

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

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

nearly four. someone’s been forgotten.

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

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

it’s beau deacon.

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

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

he shrugs. “dunno.”

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

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

no one answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s confident when he’s helping.

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

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

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

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

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

maybe... maybe you’ve overstepped your—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh, i don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“absolutely not, mr. deacon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what do you say, [y/n]?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

“i know. beau was excited this morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes.”

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

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

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

“i’m happy to do it, john.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

all the sooner to get back to you.

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

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

but, by god, you were listening. 

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

all the sooner to get back to you.

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

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

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

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

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

“what?”

“there’s nothing in the fridge.”

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

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

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

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

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

“mama, mama, stop!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you’d better,” john mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

how can you say no?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh yes, of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“your friends are nice,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

“yes, and you’re a good teacher.” 

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

“a good teacher and a good person.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

you grin. “well.”

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

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

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

he doesn’t call you. 

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

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

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

it has to or you’ll go crazy.

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

your thoughts are elsewhere. always on john.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“well, i don’t know. i’ve got to—”

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

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

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

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

“fucking hurry!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

beau only groans in response.

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

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

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

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

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

“but... what if i die like her too?”

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

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

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

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

“my tummy.”

“what’s your tummy feel like?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“well?”

“did you get ahold of john?”

“no, the fucker.”

“we’ll have to go pick him up then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes—i’m looking for john deacon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what are you waiting for? go!”

you don’t need to be told twice.

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

“go! i’ll park the car.”

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

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

you shrug. “forgot shoes.”

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

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

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

“he’s going to be okay, john.”

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

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

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

you look up, meet his eyes.

“i didn’t call you,” he says.

“no, you didn’t.”

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

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

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

“no, john, don’t be silly. i’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your shoulders drop, as does your jaw.

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

“john...”

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

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

“you want to know something?” you ask.

“what?”

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

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

“me too. we can be rusty together.”

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

“i can carry it.”

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

“mr. deacon?”

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

“beau’s ready to see you now.”

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

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

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

[heavenlyborne]

Anonymous asked:

How is Mariejois' education system? Do Celestial Dragons get to study in college (even when they probably do not have jobs since they're paid by the World Government)? How are Charlos and Shalria's study schedules?

Even if they don’t necessarily ‘need’ to work, a good education is still considered of utmost importance amongst Celestial Dragons.

While Im-sama and the Gorōsei (otherwise known as the ‘Five Elders’) hold even greater authority than the rest of their heavenly kin, matters concerning individual family households are normally left for them to decide however best they see fit. Noble blood is sacred after all, and few things are more important than those meant to continue these most precious of lineages - their children. Education starts early for every child in Mariejois. Boys and girls are both considered equally important having their own roles to play amongst heavenly society, thus everything starts off much the same as it does with regular children, albeit much more luxuriously than any mere human child could ever hope to experience. The process of learning to read and write comes first which is normally handled one-on-one by the finest tutors money can buy, be they hired, enslaved or born within Mariejois having descended from a long line of established professionals before them. Each tutor is quick to determine each noble’s potential and act accordingly, doing their best to teach them as much as possible so they can better handle the lessons their own family will teach them later on - some ancient knowledge is known only by Celestial Dragons, parents who will pass down said information to their own brood regardless of how loved and trusted any family tutor may be. From there on, education continues as ‘normal’ until a dragon has reached their thirteenth birthday; they will have learned to read and write exceptionally well, having learned the history of the world both old and new as well as gained a proper understanding of mathematics on top of any hobbies or interests they may enjoy such as art, hunting and music, but with adolescence comes new changes as well as new challenges and expectations... Young males typically go on to become the ‘public face’ of the Celestial Dragons, performing deeds such as appearing at important social events and collecting heavenly tribute in person. Normally this process is very safe; few beings would dare attack the most influentual elites of the world but on rare occasions, Sea Kings (and other natural disasters) have been known to strike, such entities not sharing the same respect for their ‘heavenly gods’ as ordinary mortals are expected to show. Compared to their menfolk, young females take on roles similar to historians or scholars between juggling the duties of childcare and acting as her husband’s advisor; the wrong remark or decision could be regarded as a terrible faux pas by others of their caste, lowering a family’s social standing or worse, inciting blood feuds that could last for generations. What humans think about Celestial Dragons matters as much as what flies think about lions - it’s what other lions think that counts, and it’s down to the womenfolk to keep things peaceful within the Holy Land and hot tempers under control. Celestial sons and daughters are typically expected to undergo their traditional roles, the men free to venture around the world given that the potential loss of a female has far greater consequences for these most ancient and noble bloodlines - a woman can bear only a few children within her lifetime and is essential to maintaining blood purity, whereas the loss of a male matters far less so long as there’s another man she can marry should she wish it so. When the occasion of taking over a family household finally arrives, that honor normally goes to the firstborn child, especially if they are male but there are occasions where a family only has daughters or one child has proven themselves far more capable of wielding that role than an older sibling regardless of age or gender; Saint Charlos is one such example, older but significantly less intelligent than his younger sister not to mention the man is as notorious for being lazy as he is lacking in mental fortitude. Saint Charlos is still undergoing his studies but he is considerably behind schedule, and may not even bother finishing them at all since Rosward has announced that his younger sibling is to take over their family household one day - Shalria is therefore learning both ‘male’ and ‘female’ roles; she’ll become the ‘face’ of her bloodline, acting as both primary lord and caretaker on top of looking after any children should she get married and nobody, not even a male noble from another family name can ‘take over’ her position within her own rightful domain. It’s not the usual way of Celestial Dragons; most females would normally go to live in their husband’s home but as her own master, Shalria holds the greatest authority in her household after Rosward, then her children, then her brother, foolish he may be before her would-be husband is allowed any say regarding the future of another noble family. Such decrees help keep the ancient bloodlines pure, ensuring that no particular dragon gets too ‘ambitious’ trying to gain power where they have no authority to do so.

”Sometimes it’s all such a chore. If I needed to sleep, I’d never have any free time to pursue my own personal hobbies and interests.”

[cuyanir]

// im taking disney mando lore and im taking legends/eu mando lore and SMUSHING them together by saying that mando wedding vows are still a thing but they’re considered... a rare kind of knowledge if you know what i mean. mandos don’t learn them until its time to learn them, these vows are known only by the mandos who got married or by community leaders (like the armorer !!). this is to prevent unwise decisions (like legends/eu boba!! rip!!! who got married at age of 16 bc he was a dumb traumatized kid!!!) and is also a way of paying respect to the elders in your tribe, you’re asking them for a piece of tradition and you’re also pledging yourself to keep it alive by honoring it every day of ur life.

also if i had it my way, i would cut out the last part of the vows bc its very army wife of karen tr*viss lol so like: 

Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde.

We are one whether we are together or apart and we will share everything and we will raise our children as warriors.

because , like, yeah, mandos are very family and children-raising oriented but my heart constantly goes out to mando kids who do not vibe with the mando lifestyle at all dfhgihfgi so i hate this, this unspoken kind of pressure that every child has to be a Warrior... i wouldnt mind if it was rephrased to smth like ‘and we will teach our children to protect themselves’ bc thats essentially what mandos really believe in but u know, whatever, maybe the vows are just very ancient.

also i do not believe these vows are for outsiders/non-mandos. not that it’s ... taboo?? for a mandalorian to marry an outsider but i think in that case, they take the customs of the other side. if they can be convinced of course fhgifhgi i think mandos would balk at like... idk... at the concept of a wedding with a party or whatever because it would seem VERY overproduced to them. all they need are these words

AND FURTHERMORE, after the Purge, marriages amongst mandos become a very very rare bc they simply grow more isolated and, frankly, kind of disillusioned with the mandalorian future u_u not to mention, having two mandos traveling together attracts unwanted attention and is very dangerous to people who are on the brink of extinction.

this entire post was an excuse to remind ppl that boba and din @djaryn​ are married and exchanged the vows in jabbas palace <3 but before that they separately tracked down the armorer to ask for the wedding vows, showing up 5 minutes after the other one left, which she found very funny but also on brand for din.

[meow-bebe]

Love Comes Naturally

The second installment of my Neo Classics collection, Love Comes Naturally is set in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet."

“You've always thought that you could learn to love the husband your parents pick for you, but after sneaking off during a masquerade you realize that with Kun everything just falls into place."

Pairing: Kun x reader, tiny bits of Jungwoo x reader

Genre: fluff, Romeo and Juliet au

Warnings: nothing as far as im aware

Word count: 4.3k

Tonight's soundtrack: Check Yes, Juliet - We the King's, Collar Full - Panic! at the Disco, Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy - Queen, Dancing’s Not a Crime - Panic! at the Disco, Mother Tongue - Bring me the Horizon, After Midnight - WayV

A/n: hello! so this may be a romeo and juliet au, but its pretty toned down, theyre not about to die. im pretty happy with how this turned out and i hope you will be too! as always, i appreciate feedback so much, so if you liked it, reblog it! enjoy!

“And yet I wish but for the thing I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep. The more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.” - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

You have never really been one for social gatherings, much less the large parties that your family liked to throw whenever they could come up with a half decent excuse to do so. One would think that considering how you’ve been attending them for as long as you could remember, you would grow used to the recurring events that would without fail make you miserable every time. The men constantly doing their best to win your affections, the heavy and often uncomfortable formal wear, the ghastly summer heat that would often settle over the ballroom, the hours of dancing with people you don’t care for.

Of course nothing goes the way it should logically, and as a result you still couldn’t find it in you to enjoy them. Yet you suffered through, as there really wasn’t all that much of a choice involved.

Tonight your parents were hosting a relatively large function in honor of your sister’s birthday. It was to be held outside on the grounds of your residence, and at the direction of your overly giddy sister (who liked to make everything as dramatic and unnecessary as she possibly could), everyone was to be masked.

Each of these things made the night easier for you to tolerate, and so you weren’t quite as opposed as you usually were to attending this time around. Spending the night outside meant there would be no stifling heat or restricted space, which always greatly improved your attitude towards the time you were forced to spend chatting meaninglessly with every person who just so happened to cross your path. The attention would be on your sister for the night, which meant it would be much easier for you to disappear into the crowd or slip off to get away from all of the excitement if necessary. Being the eldest was not ideal, as it was your job to marry off to a nice and wealthy man. Balls and parties were always used by your mother and the several men who wished to become your suitor to try and match you off with one of them. It hadn’t worked yet, as you couldn’t stand most of them. And of course wearing a mask always made everything a little more enjoyable. It would help you to hide yourself a bit better, while simultaneously letting you enjoy the air of beautiful mystery that came with wearing your favorite mask. A deep blue in color with white detailing, it was quite beautiful and there were rarely any others in attendance with the same colors. And just to top off the list of things that make tonight more tolerable, as you stand by the edge of the garden with one of your more clingy suitors hanging off your arm, a flash of a familiar blue mask that matches your own catches your eye. You smile softly to yourself, and think that perhaps tonight would be better than you had thought.

The main garden, where the night’s dancing would take place and where most of the guests would mingle around the edges while not dancing, was while sparsely decorated, beautiful. Torches lined the edges, with lanterns hung here and there to cut through the darkness that was just beginning to settle in with their friendly golden light. Spirits were already high amongst the guests gathered around the garden, the upbeat tempo of the musicians’ song keeping those who had already taken to dancing churning in a chaotic yet perfectly measured rhythm. Dusk was steadily pulling her blanket of night across the sky, and more people arrived every minute, joining the crowds and chatter.

You found yourself to not yet have moved away from the house, arm looped through one of the young men who often found you during nights like this. Jungwoo was polite enough, however he was very clingy and quite obviously completely enamoured with you. You didn’t mind him, though his constant presence could get tiring, but your mother, as it of course would happen, loved him. If it were up to her, you would have already married him, and you really weren’t thrilled with that idea. You weren’t sure if he was actually just incredibly boring or so flustered by your presence that he couldn’t make conversation about much other than “hello”s and “how are you tonight”. Either way, you wouldn’t want to spend your life with someone you can’t even talk to.

You chatted politely with a group of girls in masks that were absolutely gaudy, not particularly paying attention to the interaction. They were mostly just discussing the male population of attendees, and you didn’t miss the nervous look that would cross Jungwoo’s face every time you would add a comment of your own. You weren’t too bothered by it, as you didn’t say much to begin with and could hardly be expected to do anything except respond. You only had eyes for one, and unfortunately for your suitor it wasn’t him.

As the girls continue to giggle amongst themselves, you let your mind and eyes wander, searching for something interesting to look at or perhaps another flash of the other blue mask and its wearer. Jungwoo, who could be surprisingly intuitive for someone who had never picked up on your disinterest, nudges you gently with the elbow tucked around your arm.

“Perhaps we could wander around for a bit?” he suggests, and you had never appreciated him more than in this moment.

“Yes, I think that’s a wonderful idea.” You give him half a smile, and red paints his cheeks as you turn to the girls who had occupied you so far. “It was wonderful talking to you, perhaps I’ll see you again later tonight.”

They chorus their own goodbyes as Jungwoo leads you away, and silence falls between you as you wander. You let your thoughts drift as you scan the faces in the crowds, hoping for something to cure the restlessness that was already settling in even after just this much time spent around people whose presence you didn’t particularly enjoy. Or perhaps something that would distract Jungwoo so you could make your escape.

More of the torches have been lit now, and night has almost fully settled upon the grounds. The air is warm, and the atmosphere of the party is light and cheerful. For some reason you’re not yet quite sure of, you’re enjoying yourself more than usual, not letting the usual downsides bother you. Perhaps you were just beginning to care less. You meander alongside Jungwoo, staring up at the stars twinkling in the perfectly clear sky.

“Jungwoo!” The cry of your suitor’s name jars you out of your stupor as Yuta, an old friend of Jungwoo’s, approaches you from the side. Jungwoo’s face lights up when he sees him, and he lets his arm slip out of yours as he steps forward to clasp Yuta’s hand. At the same moment you finally see the blue mask you've been searching for again. Yuta sends you a wink and you smile gratefully, slipping away into the crowd. He had always picked up on your discontent, and though you had never truly talked to him you considered him a friend, or at the very least someone you thought you might like.

“You remember Y/n, my–” Jungwoo turns, but you’ve somehow managed to disappear in the few seconds he wasn’t looking at you. Yuta drapes his arm across the shoulders of an extremely confused Jungwoo, and pulls him away into the small groups of people scattered about.

“That’s alright, my friend. They were never interested in you anyway.”

“What?”

~~

Walking away from Jungwoo felt like a weight lifted off your shoulders. If you had been feeling as though the night wasn’t oh-so-horrible earlier, perhaps you were almost enjoying yourself now. Free to pursue whomever you wanted, to blend into the crowd, to not be the eldest―ready to be married off―for just a second. And so, a smile set upon your face, you slip around a couple of boys laughing to themselves and set off into the crowd of people.

You don’t limit yourself to searching for the wearer of the other blue mask, knowing that your paths will cross eventually―they always do. But one eye is kept on the people on your sides at all times. The music floating over the garden, almost drowned out by the laughter and talking, changes to something you can recognize, and you let your hips sway a bit as you dodge through the meandering guests, humming along to the melody.

You wave hello to Yuta as he passes by, a sullen looking Jungwoo not noticing you as you breezily sidle past. You almost feel bad for him, but you had made it obvious from the start that you had never thought of him as a possible husband. And not having Jungwoo hanging off of you at all times when he’s in your presence was most definitely a good thing. You couldn’t stand being constantly attached to someone as he always did.

A hand on your shoulder interrupts your thoughts, and you spin around with a gasp of surprise, a scolding for startling you on your tongue. But the one who startled you wears a blue mask and a happy grin, and anything you feel other than delight dissipates upon seeing his face.

“Kun!” you greet.

“Hello my love,” he responds, dramatically snatching up your hand and pressing an obnoxious kiss to the back. You let out a little giggle and draw him forward to press a kiss to his cheek. As soon as you pull back you replace your lips with the palm of your hand, thumb stroking along the ribbon edge of his mask.

“We match,” you point out.

“Well, would you just look at that,” he takes your hand in his and brushes another feather light kiss across the knuckles. “What a coincidence.”

“Indeed,” you laugh, “a coincidence. A wonderful little coincidence.”

You tuck your arm through his and give him a dazzling smile before beginning to walk around the edges of the garden, pulling him along as you drift amongst the other guests, finally feeling as if you were truly having a good time now that you had found Kun.

As you approached the crowd of pairs twirling and dipping, dancing and laughing, Kun pulls his arm from yours and falls into a bow before you, eyes sparkling with mischief, and offers his hand, palm up.

“May I have this dance, my dear?” he asks, and you pretend to have to think about it for a second before placing your hand in his.

“As there are no others who have offered a dance tonight, I suppose I will have to accept.” The corners of eyes crinkle up into a smile, even though the both of you knew there was no way you would ever decline him.

Kun sets his other hand on your waist and pulls you into the fray, a startled laugh escaping your lips as he seamlessly joins the rhythm of the dance. He had always been a much better dancer than you, and it's obvious as his feet move in time with the beat and he matches the others dancer's movements perfectly. It takes you a moment to find the pattern of motions, and even when you do the way your steps are clumsy and they way they don’t match Kun’s precise steps would be obvious to anyone watching. You barely notice though, too caught up in the moment and the happiness shining in your lover’s eyes.

As Kun spins you around, one hand suspended over your head, you catch your first glance of your mother since the beginning of the festivities. She has a sour look already on her face, as though someone had worn a dress that was just a bit more spectacular than hers. She roves her gaze over the dancers and locks eyes with you―dancing with the son of the family yours has quarrelled with for generations―and her nose wrinkles in obvious disappointment. You have never adhered to the standards of your family the way they wished you did, but this was perhaps your most offensive act of rebellion yet.

“Kun,” he pulls you out of the spin, unoccupied hand landing back on your waist. “Perhaps we could find somewhere a bit more secluded?”

Kun, ever so attuned to your thoughts, notices the slight discomfort that always comes over your face when the two of you are noticed together and without missing a beat or interrupting the dace leads you swiftly to the edge of the makeshift dance floor. “Your mother is staring?”

“My mother is staring,” you confirm, and as soon as you escape the churning dancers, you leave your hands attached and lead him away from the crowd of the party. Having attended many a social gathering you didn’t particularly feel like spending your whole night at, you knew all the best spots where none of the guests would ever think to wander off to.

One such spot was located beyond the path that snaked around the main garden where most of the guests were gathered, and through the break in the walls of shrubbery that separated all of the different sections of the grounds. There was then another layer of bushes to go through, where there was only a small, slightly overgrown path. Each barrier you crossed or path you traveled along brought a little bit more quiet, until the noise of the party had faded to a low hum in the background as you finally came to the much smaller garden you loved more than anything else on the property.

A little open-top gazebo stood in the middle, where you had hidden from your parents and the men they wanted you to marry for years. Barely anyone ever came to this place, you were almost certain it was just you and the groundskeeper. You never saw your sister there, and no other guests ever made their way to the secluded little garden.

"This is it," you say, stopping and taking in the full beauty of the place as Kun’s hand slipped from yours. It wasn’t decorated at all like many of the other gardens your family boasted, full of perfectly shaped hedges and tastefully designed flowerbeds. No, your little garden was simple. There were moonflowers crawling up the terraces that stood next to the bushes that closed it in and up the posts of the gazebo. It was small and square, with a little stone bench being the only other decoration. It was wonderful during the day, but it's true glory was after moonflowers stood proud and open and their namesake was bathing everything in her delicate white light.

"This is beautiful," Kun says, slowly wandering around the gazebo to see all of the flowers, marveling at the way they seemed to glow under the moonlight.

"I know," you sigh happily, reaching behind your head and tugging at the ribbons of your mask, "I've always loved it back here. It's kind of a safe place for me." A comfortable silence falls between you as you set the discarded mask of the bench and continue to drift among the flowers before finally slowing to a halt after making a loop and settling down in the grass. Kun was still standing next to the gazebo, so you turned to look in his direction.

"Come join me, love," you say, laying back in the grass. "Let's watch the stars.” Kun smiles, coming over to you and sitting down. You reach up and undo the strings to his own mask, pulling it off and setting it to the side. He smiles as his whole face is revealed, and you pat eagerly at the grass next to your head, hoping he would get the hint and lay down next to you. He does, and you lace your hand with his, head rolling to the side so you could look at him.

Kun squeezes your hand, fingers tangled with his and carelessly laid between your heads. "The stars may be beautiful, but nothing could compare to you, my love," Kun says, and you burst out laughing, rolling your love filled eyes and pulling your hand out of his just to gently let it fall on his shoulder.

“Oh stop it,” you say half heartedly. Though you always acted like it didn’t amuse you, you loved the way Kun would layer compliments and sweet little sayings on you. It was just one of the many charms of his you’ve fallen completely in love with.

A comfortable silence falls between you, the moon illuminating your features as you stare up into the sky. A beautiful wonder sparkles in your eyes, the same that Kun always saw when you first caught his eyes from a distance. As he stares at you, he wonders if it was him or the stars you were thinking about.

“I’ve never brought someone else here before.” Your voice was quiet, barely disturbing the crisp summer air.

Kun didn’t respond for a moment, but your eyes never left the sky, leaving your guessing as to what he was thinking.

“Really?” he asks suddenly, and you let your head fall to the side again to see the glow of happiness and moonlight on your lover's face.

You nod in affirmation, unsure of what to say. And as it turns out no words were needed. Kun unlaces your hands and quickly turns on his side, free hand coming up to cup your jaw.

“I love you,” he whispers as he dips down to kiss you. The familiar weight of his lips is warm on yours, and you melt into the comfort of the kiss.

“I love you more,” you reply as he pulls back for air, forehead pressed against yours. You lean up to give him a small peck on the mouth before laying down again.

“I really don’t think that’s possible,” Kun says, and the look in his beautiful eyes tells you more than words ever could.

You hum in assent. “I never brought anyone back here because I’ve never had anyone I wanted in my little garden. Sometimes I feel like this garden is the only place I can truly just be me. Just exist as I am…” you trail off, eyes drifting back towards the moon and her entourage of twinkling little pricks of light. “Most everyone in my life wants me to be someone else, someone I can only pretend to be. Mother wants me to find a good husband, my sister just likes that the attention is never on her, and Jungwoo, poor boy, is hopeless lost in what my mother presents to him….you’re the only one who doesn’t want me to play some part or another.” You sigh heavily, and Kun’s fingers find yours once again, giving them a comforting squeeze.

“I’m glad you feel that way, I like you better when it’s just us and you’re not glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one’s watching.”

“I’m not done,” you say, holding your hand up and Kun quiets down, a crooked grin on his face. That was perhaps the best part of your relationship, even when serious feelings were being shared you still felt that beautiful weightlessness in your chest, that want to laugh all your worries away and spin in circles till you fell over from dizziness.

“I’ve always thought that love was something that could be learned, something you could coax yourself into. And I suppose you could, but that’s not love, that’s just living as a player in the grand production of your own life. I always thought that when the time came I could love Jungwoo―or whoever else, I suppose―as my husband, my life partner. He’s nice enough, I always thought, isn’t that enough?” You shift around and nudge one of your shoes off with the toe of the other.

“But I don’t think it is. Not after you. Not after everything I’ve felt. Sure, perhaps there have been little sparks here and there over the course of my short few years in this world that we call life, but nothing like the inferno that roars inside me for you.

“I think that before I forced myself to try and feel something, and it was just that; forced. But with you, I feel like love comes to me naturally. Like it has always been there, I just hadn’t had a reason to unleash it yet. Like water filling up a dried-up creek bed after heavy rains. It courses through my body like the blood in my veins.” You shove the other shoe off and wriggle your toes around, appreciating the freedom.

You finally look over at Kun, and his eyes are transfixed on you. He looks at you with such adoration, one would think you had created his whole world and hung the stars in the sky for him to see by. (And perhaps to him you had, you know he had lit the way for you.) You wonder if he had been looking at you like that the whole time you spoke.

“You’re absolutely wonderful, you know that?”

“Only because you tell me at every chance you get.”

“Well I mean it,” Kun says, “you’re truly such an amazing person. There’s so much going on in your mind, but you hide it all away and you just blow me away every time you pour everything out like that. Emotions are usually such a mess but it's just poetry flowing from the deepest little nooks and crannies of your heart and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.”

“Oh, Kun,” you sigh, “I love you.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” he professes, and a small, somewhat melancholy smile quirks at your lips. Though you wish you could continue to live in your fantasies, you know that the both of you would have to learn to live without one another.

“Maybe we should just run away together,” you tease, dreamily letting your gaze roam across your lover’s handsome face.

Kun huffed out a little laugh at the notion, laying his head back to look up at the sky and dream a little daydream, just you and him forevermore. As you watch on he seems to mull it over before shooting his head up, and hauling himself up onto his elbows.

“What if we did?”

“What?” you ask, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“Run away!” There's a wild and delighted look in his eyes, and in that moment you know that for once he’s not teasing.

“Kun...” you say cautiously, trying to keep yourself grounded despite all the sparking little ideas of the freedom you would have shooting around in your brain, “don't you think it's a bit….well, extreme?”

“No,” he says, simply, “you’re not happy here, and when you aren’t happy neither am I.”

“But that would mean completely starting over, love,” you say, though your voice holds none of the reluctance your words do.

“Exactly!” Kun says, eyes sparkling. “Think about it! We wouldn’t have to be a Qian and a Y/l/n―families always at odds―it would just be us. Just Y/n and Kun.” His voice softens as he continues, and you find yourself imagining little snippets of what life would be like if you took this risk. “You’d be free to just be you….”

You lock your gaze on his, thinking about all the possibilities. No arranged marriage, no mother hanging over your shoulder, no role you’re always forced to play. No more having to hide your love for Kun….

“Just imagine―” he continues enthusiastically, but you cut him off.

“Okay.”

Kun stops mid sentence, eyes widening as he looks over at you. “What?”

“Okay,” you repeat, a giant smile beginning to crawl across your face. “Let’s run away.”

“Really?” Kun asks, and you giggle at the bewildered look on his face.

“Yes, really.”

“Wow,” Kun runs a hand through his already somewhat messy hair, making it stick up even more. “I honestly didn’t think I would even get this far. You’ve always been so restrained about us, I thought it might take a while to convince you.”

You tilt your head to the side, slightly taken aback. “Qian Kun, have you been planning this?”

“Maybe,” he says sheepishly, but you just grin even wider, if that was possible, and lean over to ruffle his hair.

“I love you,” you say, sliding your hand down to his cheek and drawing him in for a sweet kiss.

“I love you more,” he laughs before rolling away from the hand set on his cheek and springing up. He grabs your hands and pulls you to your feet as well before latching his arms around your waist and spinning you around in a giddy circle. “Put your shoes on my love, tonight we leave this place.”

You slip your feet back into your shoes, saying, “I should grab a couple of things before we go.”

“Of course,” Kun says, twining his fingers with yours. “If you go in the front I’ll wait for you under your balcony, can’t have anyone seeing you sneak off.”

And with that, he gave you a beautiful smile, all of the love he held shining through. You beamed right back, giddy and riding the rush of leaving everything behind and starting afresh. Perhaps running off into the night was the stupidest decision you had ever made, but you had no qualms about it. You were absolutely, completely in love, and maybe love made you blind to reality. But perhaps in the end a little blind and a lot in love would be enough.

@kpopscape​

[gerberbabey]

debut | one | pope heyward w/ filipina!reader

the idea of the pogues in a high school setting is actual so fun so i kinda got carried away. i rlly hav a thing for writing the character pining for the reader rather than the other way around.

im basing this off of how my high school was cus idk shit about any other high schools lmao. also excuse volleyball terminology, i also very much miss volleyball

masterlist | previous | next

warnings: cursing, like terrible writing, just filler stuff

one - ♫ I THINK by Tyler, The Creator ♫

It was already two weeks into your senior year and you were settling in nicely. At two weeks people were still switching around their classes making sure they wouldn’t regret the class they decided to settle into. You were satisfied with your schedule considering you only had 3 actual academic classes. 

For your last year you’d opted out of taking one least year of math or another year of science. You were a good student sure but you’d never been the best at maths or sciences. To the Pogues’ surprise Pope had a similar schedule, yet the only reason he wasn’t packed with AP classes was because he was signed up for dual enrollment with online college courses. 

“Dual enrollment helps clear GEs better than AP classes. I’m not saying I wouldn’t pass those AP tests but this way is easier,” Pope explained to JJ as they walked through the crowded halls of Kildare County High. Kooks and Pogues alike littered the hallways, separated in their own little groups and yet standing amongst one another. 

“Whatever you say Pope,” JJ shook his head. He and Pope had one class together this year and that was Intro to Drawing in the very beginning of the day.  

“Heeeey guys,” Kie greeted as she walked up to them, hiking her bag up her shoulder. Kie had opted out of a backpack this last year and had instead started using a tote bag which was only filled with her laptop, a single notebook, her pencil case, and other small personal belongings that had nothing to do with school. 

“You guys going to the game on Friday?” Kie questioned and Pope cringed as JJ groaned. 

“No Kie, we are not going to the football game this Friday-”

“Guys come one, first game of the season! Plus the environmental club is planning to work snack bar. All the money goes toward the Turtle Habitats and the Save the Ocean Foundation,” Kie plead. 

“As much as I love the turtles Kie,” the group stopped at Pope’s locker, “Our football team is garbage. Why would I subject myself to that?” 

“Ok I know that, but don’t go for the team,” Kie raised her eyebrows at the two of them, “Go for the turtles!” 

JJ shot her an “eeeh” sort of look and Kie huffed in annoyance. 

“Come on, if you could give me a whole other way to fundraise then please do,” Kie crossed her arms as Pope shuffled around the belongings in his locker. 

“You need help fundraising Kie?” 

The three teens turned in the direction of your voice and you grinned as you walked up to them, your teammate and other best friend Isabelle walking with you. Isabelle was tall, one of the tallest girls at school actually, and though they saw you two together frequently it was still kind of amusing to see one of the tallest people they new walking around with one of the shortest people they knew. 

“Yeah well, my club’s planning to do the football game snack bar but nobody goes to the game’s anyway so,” Kie shrugged. 

“You could fundraise at the volleyball game,” Isabelle suggested giving Kie a smile. Kie smiled back sheepishly as she shifted on her spot. 

“Are you serious?” she questioned, turning to you and you shrugged. 

“Well, why not? Wouldn’t hurt to ask our coach,” you stated and Kie watched as Pope closed his locker and turned as your hands reached up to fix the collar of the button up he’d worn over his t-shirt. 

“We have a game tomorrow, and then there’s a workshop on Saturday. If your club wants to try and fundraise during those, we can try and figure something out,” Isabelle spoke to Kie and Kie flushed for a moment before she nodded frantically and began talking over a few ideas that were already coming to mind. 

“And people are guaranteed to show up to the girls volleyball games,” JJ wiggled his eyebrows at you and Pope and you laughed as Pope reached up to whack JJ in the chest. You couldn’t help but note how weird JJ looked without one of his usual hats on. You figured it was because the teachers lost their minds over hats being worn inside the building. 

“So (Y/N),” Pope started and you and JJ looked at him. 

“So Pope?” you smiled and missed how JJ glanced between the two of you with a knowing look in his eye. 

“Am I gonna see your dress anytime soon?” Pope questioned and you rolled your eyes. 

“Pope I literally already told you that no one’s allowed to see it until my party,” you leaned against Pope as he shook his head.

“But I’m not just anyone,” he insisted and you laughed as the first bell of the day rang overhead. 

“Ok whatever dude,” you shoved at Pope and he playfully slapped at your arms, “Me and Isa have to go, I’ll see you guys later,” you bid and you gave Pope a hug and a kiss on the cheek before you waved goodbye to JJ and Kie. The three of them watched you two join the sea of students and JJ turned to Kie and Pope.

“Was I seriously just fifth wheeling?” he scoffed and Pope glared at him as Kie flushed at his insinuation. 

__________

“Ok can I just get like...the color? Oh my-you never even told me the color!” Pope stared at you with wide eyes and you shook your head as you covered your mouth to try and keep your laugh from coming out. The two of you were in your second to last class of the day (You were both TA’s for the Intro to Film teacher and that usually meant goofing around in the back as the class watched movies all day), and Pope had not let the topic of your dress drop. 

In fact he had asked you about it for the past three weeks. 

“I can’t ruin it,” you whined and Pope leaned forward and groaned into your shoulder. 

“Telling me the color won’t ruin it,” he mumbled and you reached up to rub his back. 

“Yes it will,” you whispered back playfully and Pope groaned again as you laughed, “Oh by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you...” 

Pope sat up and motioned for you to continue. 

“I don’t need to have an escort or anything, but I was actually wondering if you’d like to be my escort? For my party?” you weren’t sure why you were so nervous but you couldn’t get yourself to look Pope in the eye. You watched as your fingers played with the end of his shirt. 

“(Y/N).”

You looked up at Pope through your lashes and he flashed you a wide grin. 

“I would literally be honored,” Pope pulled you into a tight hug before pulling back, “Also I would’ve been extremely offended if you didn’t ask me and I probably would’ve just been your escort anyway.” 

You laughed and quickly brought a hand up to cover it up as a few of the students in the room shot the two of you looks. 

“I wouldn’t even go through with the party without you,” you told him softly and Pope could feel his heart skip a beat. Sometimes he wondered what it would’ve been like if he had gathered up the courage to ask you out ages ago. Despite the bullshit he told his friends he knew that he was in love with you. He would always love you, but being in love with you was different. It meant so much more. 

“So that means I get to know the color of your dress right?” Pope whispered and your mouth dropped open in shock as a wide grin stretched across his face. You tried to stop yourself from smiling as you reached up to whack him on the shoulder. 

“No!” you whisper-yelled. 

“But how am I gonna coordinate with you-” 

“Drop it Pope,” you laughed as the bell rang to indicate the end of class. 

________

“Where’s Kie?” John B questioned as JJ and Pope walked up to him. Today was the first girl’s volleyball game of the year and they had planned on going to watch together. They only really did it out of support toward you but that obviously didn’t stop JJ from his usual flirting. 

“Her club’s doing snack bar or something, to help fundraise for turtles. Did she not tell you?” Pope asked as they walked into the gym together. There was music playing through the gym’s speakers and there was chatter and noise from every point. There was the sound of shoes squeaking against the gym floor and the sounds of volleyballs coming into contact with the floor, hands, the walls, etc. 

“Nah, I didn’t see her that much yesterday or even today.” 

“Yeah, where the hell were you anyway?” JJ questioned as he led the way up the bleachers. It was definitely crowded but the boys weren’t at all surprised, Kildare County High’s volleyball team was actually good, meaning they usually garnered a large audience of spectators. 

“I was at the counselor’s like all day trying to figure out how I’m gonna get enough credits to graduate,” John B sighed and JJ and Pope cringed. After John B’s dad disappeared in their sophomore year, the boy had taken a half a step back from his academic responsibilities to try and keep himself together and afloat. Then after Big John’s body was found at the beginning of their Junior year, John B had considered dropping out entirely. He missed a majority of that school year as a result of his grief, deciding that he felt there was no point for school any longer.

Yet with the surprising help of Sheriff Peterkin he had pushed himself back into finishing school. The school understood of course, but that didn’t mean it didn’t take a toll on his academic record. 

“I’m sure it’ll work out in the end,” Pope encouraged and JJ nodded, before the blonde clapped and looked around, eager to get John B’s mind off the matter. 

“Oh shit look there’s Quincy,” JJ pointed out and the trio made their way over the where a large group of other Pogues who had gathered up on one side of the bleachers. While some schools may have had senior sections or something of the like, their gym was separated by Kooks, Pogues, parents, and then any visitors from the opposing school. 

“Hey JJ what’s up man?” 

JJ dapped up Quincy and the two of them began talking about something or another as John B and Pope were greeted by the people around them. 

“Yeah (Y/N)!!” someone near them yelled, “You dig those balls!” 

The three boys turned to the court and watched as you shook your head and laughed but kept your focus on the court. You squatted down low once more and they watched as you warmed up, passing dimes for your setter to set. 

“Woooh (Y/N)!” JJ’s hands were cupped around his mouth as he yelled.

“Yeeeahhh!” John B yelled and was followed up by the student section of their gym, Pogues and Kooks alike, cheering for their team despite it only being in warm ups. 

Soon enough people had settled into the bleachers as the Varsity game came to a start. (Pope, JJ, and John B had yelled their hearts out at your introduction - “Number 10, Libero: (Y/N) (Y/L/N)!”. And JJ had pointed out where Kie was bustling over at the snack bar, charming people into buying whatever she pointed out to them). 

“Oh shit hey, I’m gonna go say hi to (Y/N)’s parents. I totally forgot,” Pope told his friends and the two nodded, waving him off. Pope mumbled “excuse me’s” as he maneuvered his way by people’s legs and tried not to knee anybody in the back of the head. He jogged down the steps of the bleacher and made his way to where the parents were all situated, watching the game intently. There was a bout of cheering and Pope glanced over to the court to watch you jump up in excitement as your team scored another point. 

“Hey Pope!” Pope looked up at that and smiled as your mom waved him over to where she was sitting with your dad.

“Hi!” he greeted, and leaned over as your mom stretched her arms up to give him a hug in greeting. 

“Your parents not here tonight?” your dad questioned and Pope shook his head. 

“Nah they couldn’t leave the store. They really wanted to come though. (Y/N)’s last first game and all.” 

“Ah well that’s alright, plenty of games after this one.” 

“Of course. Uh Mrs. (Y/L/N) how’s the party planning?” your mom rolled her eyes though he could tell there was no ill intent. 

“Stressful. All (Y/N) focused on was her dress and her guest list. Finding a place to even have the party was almost impossible,” your mom explained and Pope chuckled. 

“(Y/N) won’t even let me know what the dress looks like,” Pope told them and your mom laughed as your dad nodded. 

“She’s hid it from her dad too.”

“Won’t be able to see it ‘till the party,” your dad shook his head at that as Pope let out a surprised chuckle. 

“You ate that (Y/N)!” someone yelled and Pope and your parents glanced over at the game and watched you get picked up by Isabelle as your team cheered over winning the first set of the match. 

“Well I’m gonna head back to my friends,” Pope pointed over to where John B and JJ were sitting, now with the addition of Kie. 

“Of course, of course. We’ll be seeing you at our house later?” your mom teased and Pope shrugged as he laughed. 

He waved your parents goodbye and by the time he’d gotten back to his friends Kildare was already ahead in the second set. 

“Not working anymore Kie?” Pope questioned as he took a seat beside her leaving her between him and JJ. 

“Yeah we made shifts so it’s Marco’s turn,” Kie explained pointing over to the snack bar. 

“Was our volleyball team always this good?” JJ questioned and Pope scoffed. 

“Yeah you were just too busy staring at their asses to watch them play,” he reached around Kie to shove at the blonde and JJ batted his arms away. 

“Hey, you can’t exactly blame me!” 

“Gross JJ,” Kie rolled her eyes and the boy looked at Kie with an offended look before turning to John B as if to say, ‘are you hearing this?’. John B only shook his head at his best friend. The 3 Pogues chuckled at JJ’s expense before they turned back to the game. It was your turn to serve now and as you waited for the referee to blow his whistle John B reached up and cupped his hands around his mouth. 

“Do it for Pope, (Y/N)!!” 

Pope whipped his head over to John B as the students around them “oooh’d!” some of them shoving at Pope playfully. From the court he missed how you glanced up at where they were sitting, a grin on your face as the referee finally blew the whistle to let you serve. 

“Shut up John B!” Pope hissed and the brunette only laughed it off as Kie mentioned how Pope should’ve been used to this by now and JJ yelled. 

“For Poooope!!!!” JJ yelled as you served the ball. 

The Kildare supporters all cheered as you aced your serve and Pope flushed in embarrassment as you turned and pointed to him, riling up the crowd of students as those closest to him shoved at him once more. 

“Yes King!” someone yelled at Pope and he couldn’t help but grin as he pointed back at you.