#maggie green layouts

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ wild at heart ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ rick grimes x greene!reader headcanons

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

╰┈➤ as the middle greene sister, you possessed the fierce loyalty of maggie, the eldest, tempered by the gentle quietude of beth, the youngest. the bond between the greene sisters was as thick as the bark of an oak tree, strong and enduring. though you welcomed a few close friends into your life, it was in the company of maggie and beth that you discovered solace and understanding, a sanctuary from the world. you and beth being the daughters of your father’s second wife made no difference to maggie, all that mattered was that you were flesh and blood, a greene.

╰┈➤ when the outbreak began, your world unraveled. acquaintances and friends went missing or left the georgia countryside, resources were scarce and so your focus on your education was abandoned for the sake of your family, you could not leave your father’s farm, it wasn’t safe, despite your father’s belief in that a cure could be found. your days were spent hauling haystacks and knelt over the rich soil, your skin burning beneath the scorching rays of the sun.

╰┈➤ it had been a peaceful morning when he arrived, a man stained in his dying son’s blood and blue eyes clouded with terror. you were drinking chamomile tea on the porch with maggie when your brother-in-law, otis, came rushing, gasping for air, yelling that a boy had been accidentally shot in the chest and needed medical treatment. maggie would go find your father, you would go help the man with his son. he said nothing then as you took the pallid boy in your arms, you would briefly look into the eyes of the man. his gaze and the distress etched onto his white face told of the love he bore for his young son.

╰┈➤ you would not learn his name until later that night, the man was rick grimes, once a sheriff from a nearby county. in the spare room where the boy had been laid for your father to deal with the bullet shards in his chest, rick had been sat by his son’s side since he arrived. with his head hung low and skin drained dry of color, he would speak to you as you inserted the needle into the crook of his elbow for the blood transfusion. “when will your father begin with the operation?” rick slurred out. he had given far more than the safe amount of blood, you would not answer his question concerning the procedure as you were unsure and didn’t want to worry him any further, but you would warn him about the danger of donating more blood. as weak as he was, rick shook his head and stuck his arm out for the next transfusion, stating that carl was his son, his life was worth little without his family.

╰┈➤ when shane broke the news that otis was mauled by walkers on the mission to retrieve the necessary supplies to save carl’s life, you broke down in tears. maggie was left distraught and left the farmhouse to grieve on the porch, beth locked herself in her bedroom and wept all night, you would go on to assist in the bullet fragment removal in spite of your anguish, you had responsibilities that could not be forgotten in the name of misery. rick would come find you after the operation had been completed successfully, “i’m sorry about otis, he was a good man.” the grave weight of his tone left no doubt of his sincerity. you thanked him for kindness and expressed that you were simply grateful otis had not died in vain, but to save a child’s life.

╰┈➤ life returned to its more mundane state, only it was not only her family present, but rick grimes and the entirety of his group, living half a mile or so from the family farm. you had met some of them, but it was rick grimes who caught your interest. he was a true southern man, family-oriented and self-righteous in his beliefs, but you didn’t find that to be an unappealing characteristic. you were coming to realize that in dire times such as these, honor was something humanity desperately needed to cling onto.

╰┈➤ maggie knew you as if you were the palm of her hand, she would tease you endlessly for your little crush on the former sheriff. flustered, you would retort by bringing up her growing relationship with glenn rhee, to which maggie would toss an apple at you for your mockery. you were somewhat ashamed and tried your best to keep your affection for rick buried in your heart, as not only was he two decades your senior, but he was married to a woman named lori and had a young child. though there were times when you questioned how happy his relationship with his wife was, but you figured it was your fascination with him that clouded your judgment.

╰┈➤ you tried your best to push aside your feelings for rick, but days turned into weeks, and your sentiments toward him only became more serious. you were shy around him, a stark contrast to your usual demeanor which was lively and friendly. rick would go on to jest, saying, “you’re as quiet as a damn mouse.” the mirth in his eyes meant he was only joking, but your father would overhear this conversation in passing. when rick left to go deal with personal matters, your father would stop you, warning you that you should stay away from rick grimes. when you argued that he was a good man and your relationship with him was innocuous, your father shook his head, telling you they would have to leave sooner or later, he was responsible for his family, not for these strangers who indulged in their strained resources. you would accuse your father of being inhumane, of essentially sending them away to die, and would refuse to speak to him the rest of the day.

╰┈➤ you would come to find out that because of a botched plan to secretly meet between maggie and glenn your father’s secret barn harboring walkers was discovered by rick and his group. rick’s so-called best friend, shane, demanded with a great deal of aggression that all the walkers be slaughtered for everyone’s safety, but these were your friends and family. your father had explained these people were merely ailing, and that once he found a way to treat them, they would return to their previous state, a notion you were becoming to doubt. yet, you still held to a sliver of hope that your mother and your brother could be saved. rick came to confront you about this revelation when you were returning from the chicken coop, “you knew the entire time? and you didn’t say anything?” the question angered you, and for the first time since he had arrived, you were not so enamored by his charm. you answered that your father knew his best how to handle his affairs and went about your daily routine of chores, but you would be distracted as you picked root vegetables and swept the kitchen floor.

╰┈➤ it was the next morning you woke to the sound of gunfire and wailing, terrified, you hastily pull on your leather boots and head outside to find your father’s barn full of walkers, its old wood tattered by bullets and the rotten corpses of family and friends left on the gritty dirt. shane walsh had decided to take matters into his own hands and kill every walker in the barn. you collapsed seeing beth cradling your mother’s barely recognizable corpse. rick would rush to get you to your feet, trying desperately to reassure you, but you pushed him aside and crawled to your sister’s side. when your mother’s corpse began to twitch and her jaw hung open, growling, she reached out to grip beth with thin claws, rick would raise his pistol and shoot her in the head. you then came to grasp what a walker truly was, they were not alive nor sick, that creature who attempted to kill your sister was not your mother, your mother was dead, your brother was dead, the corpses you saw were a monstrous husk of what your loved ones once were.

╰┈➤ your father would disappear from the farm, presumably to return to alcohol to cope, and beth was left in a catatonic state. you stayed in the farmhouse, isolating yourself as you tried to come to terms with what had occurred. it was later that evening when there was a gentle knock on your bedroom door, you were surprised to open it and reveal a rather fatigued rick grimes, standing there with a furrowed brow and a slight frown. he asked if he could come inside and you let him in. you donned only a lace nightgown that fell right below your knee and your long hair was worn loose, tumbling about your shoulders. “i wanted to say how sorry i am for what went down today. i might have been wary about the barn situation, but what shane did… that was no way to handle this.” you were silent for a minute, then told him that he was right about the walkers, they weren’t sick, they weren’t alive, and you couldn’t comprehend how her father didn’t know that. you questioned if he was perhaps in denial, unable to deal with his wife and son’s passing. rick was uncertain himself, but assured you that regardless of any mistakes your father made, he loved you and your sisters dearly. with tears welling in your eyes, rick would instinctively pull you in for an embrace in an attempt to console you, an act that was unexpected, but not unwelcome by any means.

╰┈➤ when he pulled away, you bid him farewell and wished him a good night, kissing him lightly on the cheek before he left. he smiled at you, “i’ll have your father back at home before dawn.” his gaze lingering on you before he headed for the doorway. maggie happened to come to check on you as rick left, he acknowledged her with a nod and headed for the staircase. your sister cast you a harsh glare, saying while she trusted you and rick, you should be cautious in such treacherous times, that others might not see their relationship as so innocent, especially his wife. you didn’t say anything, maggie gave you one last bit of advice before leaving, “don’t let a married man in your room at night.”

a/n: i apologize if this was a little light on the romance, however if you guys to do wish to see multiple parts i promise there would definitely be more between rick and the greene sister! let me know if you want to see a certain era such as the prison arc or alexandria arc, i chose the greene farm for the setting as season two is my personal favorite from the walking dead. i also write for many other the walking dead characters so be sure to check out my masterlist and let me know if you have any requests! 🤍

[angelicyoongie]

Oml maggy I love the new banner!! 💗💗

I was actually thinking today while I was checking new updates from you that youve had your pfp and banner for awhile now and wondering that a change wouldnt hurt.

I absolutely love the green and the fact that it sort of looks like a journal page with the torn words (and cutesy yoongi) 😚💗💗

Thank you!! Isn't it so cute? 😭💖 @leithold did an amazing job as always! Lena made the previous layout I had on my blog too and I just adored it so much that it almost felt wrong to ask for a new one, lol! But the green is a nice change for the new season and you're so right, it does kinda resemble a journal! 🥺

[ulkaralakbarova]

An orphaned boy raised by underground creatures called Boxtrolls comes up from the sewers and out of his box to save his family and the town from the evil exterminator, Archibald Snatcher. Credits: TheMovieDb. Film Cast: Archibald Snatcher (voice): Ben Kingsley Eggs (voice): Isaac Hempstead-Wright Winnie Portley-Rind (voice): Elle Fanning Fish / Wheels / Bucket (voice): Dee Bradley Baker Lady Cynthia Portley-Rind (voice): Toni Collette Lord Portley-Rind (voice): Jared Harris Mr. Trout (voice): Nick Frost Mr. Pickles (voice): Richard Ayoade Mr. Gristle (voice): Tracy Morgan Herbert Trubshaw (voice): Simon Pegg Oil Can / Knickers (voice): Nika Futterman Fragile / Sweets (voice): Pat Fraley Clocks / Specs (voice): Fred Tatasciore Sir Langsdale (voice): Maurice LaMarche Sir Broderick / Male Workman 1 / Male Workman 2 (voice): James Urbaniak Boulanger / Male Aristocrat (voice): Brian George Female Aristocrat (voice): Lori Tritel Shoe / Sparky (voice): Steve Blum Female Townsfolk 1 / Female Townsfolk 2 (voice): Laraine Newman Background Boy (voice): Reckless Jack Baby Eggs (voice): Max Mitchell Film Crew: Screenplay: Irena Brignull Director: Graham Annable Adaptation: Anthony Stacchi Novel: Alan Snow Music: Dario Marianelli Animation: Travis Knight Screenplay: Adam Pava Animation: Stephen Bodin Animation: Malcolm Lamont Animation: Matias Liebrecht Animation: Brian Leif Hansen Animation: Payton Curtis Animation: Joon Soo Song Animation: Adam Lawthers Animation: Shane Prigmore Animation: Chris Tootell Animation: Kyle Williams Animation: Mike Hollenbeck Animation: Danail Kraev Animation: Kristien Vanden Bussche Animation: Adam Fisher Animation: Anthony Straus Animation: Sean Burns Animation: Mael Gourmelen Animation: David Vandervoort Animation: Dan MacKenzie Animation Supervisor: Brad Schiff Animation: Kevin Parry Adaptation: Phil Dale Producer: David Bleiman Ichioka Animation: Jon David Buffam Animation: Rachelle Lambden Animation: Gabe Sprenger Animation: Philippe Tardif Animation: Ian Whitlock Animation: Daniel Alderson Animation: Charles Greenfield Animation: Jason Stalman Casting: Mary Hidalgo Line Producer: Matthew Fried Sculptor: Toby Froud Visual Effects Coordinator: Jeremy Fenske Choreographer: Nicole Cuevas Visual Effects Coordinator: Claudia Amatulli Sculptor: Benjamin William Adams Set Designer: Emily Greene Additional Editing: Ralph Foster Visual Effects Editor: Todd Gilchrist Set Designer: Carl B. Hamilton Sculptor: Scott Foster Production Design: Paul Lasaine Production Coordinator: Jocelyn Pascall Editor: Edie Ichioka Art Direction: Curt Enderle Editorial Coordinator: Dave Davenport Art Department Coordinator: Zach Sheehan CG Supervisor: Rick Sevy Music Supervisor: Maggie Rodford Music Editor: James Bellany Songs: Eric Idle Visual Effects Supervisor: Steve Emerson Costume Design: Deborah Cook Production Manager: Dan Pascall Additional Writing: Vera Brosgol Post Production Supervisor: David Dresher Editorial Manager: Trevor Cable Visual Effects Supervisor: Brian Van’t Hul Additional Editing: Christopher Murrie Director of Photography: John Ashlee Prat Set Designer: Polly Allen Robbins Visual Effects Producer: Annie Pomeranz Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Ren Klyce ADR Voice Casting: Barbara Harris Gaffer: James WilderHancock Modeling: Paul Mack Publicist: Maggie Begley Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Tom Myers Production Design: Michel Breton Prop Designer: Alan Cook Animation: Paul Andrew Bailey Assistant Art Director: Phil Brotherton Executive In Charge Of Post Production: Ben Urquhart First Assistant Director: Samuel Wilson Layout: Daniel R. Casey Layout: Simon Dunsdon Orchestrator: Geoff Alexander Set Dresser: Duncan Gillis Third Assistant Director: David J. Epstein Animation: Anthony Elworthy Animation: Dan Ramsay Animation: Jan-Erik Maas CG Animator: Carolyn Vale Digital Compositors: Daniel Leatherdale Digital Compositors: James McPherson Foley Editor: Thom Brennan Production Illustrator: Ean McNamara Sound Effects Editor: David C. Hughes Finance: Erin Baldwin Finance: Jason Bryant CG Animator: Jeff Croke Con...

[charliepipedesigner]

Contemporary Research into Previous UX/UI Designs - Major Project

I wanted to explore previous student's major projects in order to understand the final outcome and the process of developing the visual designs. I'm analysing UX/UI projects in particular because this is a medium that I will be focusing on in my own project. These are examples that were produced by students in 2021.

Maggi Harper - Happy Astronaut

This is an app that focuses on bringing gamified wellbeing strategies to a young audience as a way to practice mental growth and well-being. The space theme brings an explorative experience for 3-8 year olds to literally take advantage of the space they are in by playing mission and activities that are tailored to each demographic. I really like the approach that's been made by Maggi in terms of the concept because it's a real-world matter that's been resolved by a gamified service that is aesthetically joyful to look at. There is a consistency with the visual graphics, which are fun and bright to satisfy the user. It would be cool to see the animation for this project because it could boost the project's tone and feel even more. Furthermore, the hand-drawn logo for the app adds a personable feeling that makes the product inviting for a young audience. The illustrations themselves also look and feel like they've been hand-drawn by a child; something that compliments the art style choice for this app.

Katie Brown - Grow

This is a very different project in comparison to Happy Astronaut, in which the student has used social media and advertising to promote an app that persuades users to take more consideration of nature by creating a digital forest on the app. I can tell that this app I targeted to an older audience in comparison to Maggi's project because of the visual approach. I like the playfulness of the typography in the logo because it portrays the idea of growing through the thickness of the letters. The green compliments the sustainable aspect of the app's primary focus, and the colour has been used consistently in the app mockups. In addition, the cut-out aesthetic of the headers and some images brings a creative approach in the way the users reads about the subject matter. From looking at the bus stop board mockup, I believe that the layout of the visuals could've been more playful. Perhaps the white flowers could go across the top of the board so that there's no empty space on the right side. It would also portray the idea of nature being everywhere around us, and implying the brand's message involving the solidarity of our world's nature.

Conclusion

From my research into previous major projects that focus on UX/UI design, I can tell the difference between the target audience for each project by identifying the visual approaches that were made. This has also made me realise the importance of promoting the app; whether that's through a still campaign or a video, I need to sell the product in order to demonstrate my ability to produce a body of work and applying it within the necessary market place.

[eclecticicons]

lauren cohan as maggie rhee / greene in the walking dead

© must give credit on twitter (@eclecticiccns on twitter)

like / reblog if you use  ♡

[tokyocyborg]

and i'd give up forever to touch you

'cause i know that you'd feel me somehow

you're the closest to heaven that i'll ever be

and i don't wanna go home right now

[0028]

Maggie Lindemann.

[rickgrimxs]

LAUREN COHAN ICONS♡

LIKE / RV IF YOU USE OR SAVE!!!

[slytheriggs]

TWD Twitter Layouts

Rt/reblog if you use them

Twitter: @prfctsei

[pumpkiun]

MAGGIE GREENE + RANDOM HEADERS

(requested)

icons + headers are not mine.

like if you saved.

do not claim as your own.

give credit to @chersbloodline

[greysoblivion]

Maggie Lindemann. | Layout, twitter packs.

If you use, please reblog and give credits to @kindcssgomz on Twitter.

[iconsandtvshows]

Maggie Greene icons in 6x11 please credit: @cotillardscohan on twitter if you use <3

[crushbanana]

Packs♡ Headers (inspiredlara)

[isfjmel-phleg]

Thoughts on Tenthragon, Chapters 7-12

Continued from Part One, for @valiantarcher.

Chapter Seven

The children are lost in area predominantly blue, holding blue hyacinths/bluebells, foreshadowing Paddy’s visit to Other Thragoness, which is associated with blue, as Thragoness is associated with green.

Bluebells in the language of flowers mean humility or faithfulness. Is Savery suggesting something when she has Paddy bring these to Other Thragoness?

There are early hints that they’ve arrived at the wrong house. The sun is shining on windows in afternoon, but Thragoness faces east. More peaks are visible, and they can’t see the sea.

When Mary doesn’t come to answer to the door, Paddy gets frustrated and bangs on door, assuming he’s being ignored. I think this is the first time we’ve seen him so angry--and look where it leads him.

Hugh’s “fantastic” orange-red dressing gown with dragon embroidery is highly appropriate costuming. Note that when the children meet him, Maggie and Toby notice the dragons; only Paddy notices Hugh’s face--prefiguring his role as someone who will get through to Hugh’s humanity.

Savery’s use of a Narrative Profanity Filter is flawless. Hugh swears a lot, but we never hear any of it. A remarkable feat for a book intended for an adult audience.

There’s an emphasis on “the dragon” as young, but when I first read this, I was surprised to find out at the end just how young! At this point, Hugh has recently turned nineteen--still technically a teenager, which explains a lot.

The contrast of the houses’ decor is beautifully dawn. Thragoness is bare and gray; Other Thragoness is colorful, richly furnished, and rather appealing despite the “sinister light” from the windows.

The open floor plan of the wing Hugh lives in perhaps doesn’t read as quite so much of an oddity to a twenty-first-century reader, but it wouldn’t have been a normal layout for such a house at such a time. It’s meant to raise questions.

An oriel window is a bay window that doesn’t reach to the ground, and a rose window is a circular window divided into segments, often with colored glass. These features are both characteristic of Gothic Revival architecture, popular in the Victorian era but out of fashion by the early twentieth century.

I was confused by the description of “a squat silver candlestick, curiously chased.” Turns out “chased” means ”Ornamented with embossed work, engraved in relief.”

Hugh’s tactics are quite intense, owing probably to the fresh anger of what he’s just found out. He worms information out of Paddy, turns violent and threatens further violence when he asks to go home, blackmails him with threats of calling for Brendon, interrogates him further once he’s subdued, and then announces hatred for Paddy’s parents and his intention for revenge (”because you are their son I hate you”) and to get back to Brendon for concealing Paddy from him. No wonder Paddy is terrified. That’s an absolute roller coaster.

Paddy considers running away to “trust to Brendon’s mercy,” hoping “perhaps Brendon would understand and forgive.” If he had gone ahead and done this, this story would have gone very differently. But Hugh talks him out of it and threatens him with uncertainty of what Brendon might do, and that speaks to Paddy’s old nagging fear of Other Brendon and sets up a pattern of distrust that will cause all kinds of trouble--when in fact Hugh is the one who has much to fear from Brendon if found out.

Chapter Eight

The color coding of the two houses even extends to the china patterns, blue dragons for Other Thragoness, green for Thragoness.

Hugh’s “uncanny mirth” is jarring to Paddy, who has spent a year with somber, detached Brendon and picked up those mannerisms. In contrast, Hugh is intensely emotionally expressive and volatile. (This and some other things suggest to me that Savery intends us to read him as having some kind of mental illness--more on that in the next post.)

Hugh almost gives it away the secret of the other half of Brendon’s relationship to Paddy. ”...he feels he has no right to his proper title while he is playing the part of a wicked, fairy-tale--Oh yes, he’s your cousin!” Perhaps just enough for the reader to be able to guess?

“...a night when it was necessary to pray that a certain dragon might die suddenly before five o’clock on the following afternoon.” In his fear Paddy’s greatest hope here is the same one that his father will have at the end of the book. But this is as close as Paddy ever gets to taking after Quentin.

Paddy wants to believe that this Brendon who is kind to him will not punish him harshly if he confesses, but he’s too convinced of the dragon’s cleverness and power over Brendon and too used to having someone else’s word be against his. He almost confesses when Brendon kisses him good night but Mary’s presence scares him out of it--the last time he told Brendon the truth about an encounter with the dragon, Mary called him a liar. She then makes it worse by insisting one can’t disobey by mistake; there is no room for grace in her worldview. Paddy assumes since Mary and Hugh know Brendon better, they are right about assuming he will be harsh, despite what Brendon has explicitly told him about not being afraid to come to him.

(I can’t help thinking that this is Savery’s Christian perspective coming through. This whole situation is a lot like being afraid to approach God for forgiveness because sin and legalism insist He won’t give it to you, despite everything He’s said. The characters, of course, aren’t a perfect parallel, but the theme is still there.)

So Paddy resorts to self-protective deceit before trusting honesty, and it will have a cost.

Chapter Nine

“Did you lose your tongue as well as yourself among the bluebells yesterday?” In a way, yes.

The baker tells Maggie and Toby that Hugh is “never seen outside [his house’s] grounds.” But how true is this? A couple of chapters later, Hugh refers to going for a drive with Brendon and seeing fish he then purchases (presumably from a shop), as if it’s normal. And of course the brothers have done a lot of traveling too. 

Paddy goes from not daring to disobey Brendon to not daring to disobey Hugh. This intense fear of authority figures is a lingering effect of early childhood with his father.

“And when you wear that anxious look you remind me of some one else I liked.” Who? Robin perhaps?

Hugh can’t believe that Yates kept quiet about Paddy simply because Brendon asked him to and not because he was bribed. That’s much of his problem; he can’t fathom that people are capable of good, honorable motives and behavior. (Understandable, given his experiences.)

“I’m very seldom in the same mind for two days running. I’ve changed it two or three times since I saw you last.” Another hint, maybe, that something is off about Hugh’s mental health.

Hugh’s hatred of being shut in likely stems from the trauma of being locked into the schoolroom during the ring incident.

Brendon’s emotionally distant dismissal of Paddy when it’s clear he’s lying/hiding something reawakens fear. There’s fault on both sides here--Paddy for not being honest, Brendon for shutting down and coming across as hostile.

Ellen as the voice of reason! “I know Mr Brendon’s stern-like, but he’s just as good as Mr Hugh is bad. It’d be better to be punished by Mr Brendon than kept in bondage by Mr Hugh, who is just as cruel as the deep sea itself. I know what I’m talking about, for I could tell you scores of the bitter revengeful things he has done.” And then she goes on to indirectly tell Paddy his own history, which is quite a brave gesture. 

“Don’t you be deceived by gifts and sweet ways. He can be like honey for sweetness and gentleness when he chooses, but you keep clear of him as you would of a snake.” “Snake” was last connected to Quentin during the overheard ring story. Hugh’s vengefulness has resulted in him becoming like the man who hurt him.

The dragon’s treasures of art and antiques--are they inherited, or has Hugh spent his teenage years amassing luxuries? He has a Stradivarius, for goodness’ sake! I suspect what’s going on here is Hugh’s trying to make up for a childhood of deprivation and neglect by denying himself nothing now that he has money and freedom. This apparent self-indulgence contrasts with his disdainful description of Brendon as “half an anchorite and half a Puritan, with a mixture of Spartan and saint thrown in.” The brothers have developed radically different coping mechanisms for their traumas.

Chapter Ten

Paddy’s increasingly obsessive fear of the dragon is painful to read about. It’s likely he has full-blown anxiety by now, if he didn’t already.

“...he would make those he loved go through fire if he thought the process would be to their lasting benefit. I fear--I greatly fear--he may think it necessary to be severe to-night!” Although Hugh is trying to scare Paddy, this line betrays that the fear he’s ascribing to Paddy is really for himself.

“So Bren will tell you to put on your red dressing-gown and those pretty little red woolly shoes--what a lucky little spoilt Patric you are to possess such things!” ...says the man who first appeared in a red silk dressing gown and lives in a room surrounded by countless luxuries.

After the threats get particularly horrific and cruel, that’s when Paddy’s pleas start getting uncomfortably familiar. Hugh can brush off “I didn’t mean to disobey you--indeed I didn’t, please” with “Why, I remember hearing almost those very words spoken years and years ago by another little boy every whit as scared as you are yourself.” But when Paddy inadvertently repeats his own words back to him, “only just once, just once,” there’s a clear emotional reaction, but not enough for Hugh to back down.

Paddy assumes that Hugh’s leaving just before Brendon returns is a stroke of good luck, when it’s actually an act of fear! 

Chapter Eleven

This is the first sign of the superficially kind and charming side of Hugh that Ellen has mentioned. He’s in a good temper and giving gifts but also blaming for Paddy for his response to being terrorized and excusing his own behavior without apology--not a good sign.

What happens to the poor fish? I don’t think they ever come up again.

All of Hugh’s meals are set for two--the brothers are close. And Hugh seems to have some degree of fear of being alone.

“...the world had become for the nonce a fairy bubble place, sweet, gay, and shining, albeit very frail.” Beautiful line!

The prayer that’s supposed to be in the middle of the copied missal page is omitted--representative of the artist’s internal state.

The poem Brendon reads with Paddy is “Peace” by Henry Vaughan. It’s also a hymn; a choral rendition can be heard here.

Brendon quotes the clause of Ephesians 2:14: “For he is our peace, who hath made both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us;” The unquoted part of the verse is also thematically appropriate to the book!

The poem reflects the book’s theme, and the characters’ responses to it are indicative of worldview. It makes Brendon and Paddy feel “quiet”; Hugh claims “it jolly well makes me feel as though I had fallen into a thorn-bush.”

By the end of the chapter, Hugh has realized that he enjoyed working on a project with his nephew and had almost forgotten that he must hate Paddy for Quentin’s sake. There’s some potential for growth there, but he’s fighting it, and the dragon persona returns.

Chapter Twelve

There’s a mention of holidays during time Paddy is learning violin--Easter?

“Mr Brendon would never be unkind to you--surely you love him well enough to trust him? Just you ask God to make you a better boy--and then try hard to be good and please us all the way you used to do.” But Paddy is too deep into his double life to fully accept this.

When Paddy enters the room with the portraits of the brothers, their eyes are looking at him "as if they saw something that displeased them.” Is this some unconscious guilt on Paddy’s part of his connection to Quentin?

“‘How dreadful to have a mother and not be let to see her! I’m so sorry, Hugh.' ‘That’s kind of you,’ said the dragon in a strange voice.” Paddy has no idea what irony is in those sympathetic words.

Not everything about Hugh is the product of Quentin’s treatment. He admits to being “a most unscrupulous little cheat” even as a young child.

“Hugh’s stories were all laughter-filled, save for that strange menacing undercurrent that he did not care to hear. There was nothing grim or tragic about any of them.” An unwillingness to deal with unpleasantness outright? A deliberate censoring for Paddy’s sake?

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, Kevin’s enlisting could have been related to WWI. The timeline seems to match up.

It’s very likely that Quentin caused Guy and Tremadoc’s deaths, whether through intent or neglect. Carron’s traumatic experience seems to have left him with some kind of intellectual disability; I don’t know if this is likely in real-life, although this sort of disability can come about through head trauma in childhood or exposure to toxins, either of which are not impossible to have happened in the “haunted” room. The cause of Robin’s death is unclear; Hugh’s theory is that “he fretted for mother.” I wouldn’t be surprised if it were due to neglect.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Paddy--some people don’t mind dying.” What a heartbreaking line.

Robin’s blue eyes and brown hair are similar to the bits of description we get of Paddy. This resemblance establishes a connection between them. Two suffering innocents: the first casualty of Quentin’s cruelty, and the most recent victim. Both separated from their mothers, which contributed to Robin’s death and is in a different way harming Paddy.

Hugh’s voice has become like the devil on Paddy’s shoulder.

There’s an emphasis on Paddy’s blue eyes just before the moment of caning, which ties him back to Robin.

[teshadraws]

Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Seekers of Soul

[Chapter 3] (15 Pages)

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Riolu goes to the guild’s archives to figure out what to do next, and maybe find a name for herself along the way.

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Riolu has been in the Pokémon world for two days when she decides she needs to pick a name for herself.

After her first stressful day at the guild, she spends the second day recuperating. She wakes up with tears in her eyes and a longing ache in her chest, still surprised by the strange reality of a giant orange lizard sleeping a few feet away from her, his tail flame casting a warm glow in the alcove they now share.

Tobias clearly isn’t happy about that arrangement. No matter what Riolu does or says, he seems determined to hate her. So on the second day, she avoids him as much as possible, staying quiet when he’s in the room and trying not to feel hurt as he dutifully ignores her in turn, going about his business like there’s a rain cloud over his head.

Instead, she spends most of the afternoon hanging around Maggie’s office, still feeling too out of her element to explore, as much as she wants to. She focuses instead on becoming accustomed to her new body, trying to keep her mind off of the painful gap in her memory. She practices moving her ears and tail voluntarily, and bats experimentally at the tear-drop shaped appendages on either side of her head. She tries to let her nose adjust naturally to the unusually strong scents of well, everything—from Maggie’s soft lavender smell to Tobias’ scent, sort of like sun-baked concrete—but she still has to poke her head out the room’s window a few times when the overwhelming tang of herbs makes her nauseous. 

Maggie works in their quarters most of the day, talking to her in encouraging tones and leaving only to pick up food. By time night falls and the room is lit only by the moon, Tobias’ tail, and a few of the crystals from the underground caves sitting in a jar on Maggie’s desk, Riolu is ready to collapse into sleep again.

Today, she’s determined to stop hiding away and to actually accomplish something. She’s going to become a part of this guild while she figures out how to get back home, so why not start by picking out a name? She doesn’t really like being called “Riolu” when she knows it’s just her species’ name. What if another riolu shows up and then everything gets confusing? She’s determined to leave the safety of the medicinal quarters and find the archive floor to look up information, and maybe some name inspiration.

If she can find the place, that is.

The guild doesn’t have that confusing of a layout seeing as it’s built within a giant tree, but she quickly realizes that she has a terrible sense of direction. That would’ve been great to remember before she wandered off on her own. She walks down one of the staircases circling the tree, checking rooms as she goes. She’s already poked her head into a training room, a cafeteria, and some sort of administrative-looking floor?

Every time she does, she’s fascinated by the Pokémon she sees.

A drooling, sleepy-eyed Pokemon with a red flower on its head gives off such a sharp scent that Riolu gags and stumbles back into the staircase. A fierce, bipedal cat-like Pokemon with claws rivaling Wolverine’s and a streak of red jagging through its white fur gives her a casual nod. A small, slimy purple ball of a Pokemon trails by one of the doorways, antennae twitching and green cheeks lifting into a friendly smile. A brown fox creature with a build similar to Fen trots past with a satchel like Maggie’s thrown over its back. They’re all solid and real as can be and, frankly, it’s a little overwhelming. Riolu’s still half-convinced she’s dreaming. When she squeezes past a mass of blue vines wearing adorable red boots on the stairs, she tries not to gawk.

...And in doing so, trips over a trailing vine, rolling forward and down a few of the steps. Okay, this is how she dies, tumbling down a giant tree staircase.

“Oof!” She jolts to a stop as she rolls into something soft but solid. Dizzy and feeling bruises blooming under her skin, Riolu lifts her head to see a large...cat? Lion? Looking down at her worriedly. He has blue face fur framed by a mane of black, and when he gently rolls her away from him and into a sitting position, she sees he has stripes of gold on his forelegs.

“You okay? That was quite a fall,” the Pokemon says, a friendly smile playing at his muzzle. Riolu’s surprised to realize that human or Pokémon, an attractive voice from a guy probably somewhere around her age remains equally flustering. Is that weird? It’s probably weird.

“Y-Yeah,” Riolu says, sheepishly rubbing at her elbow. “I’m really sorry for, uh, rolling into you.”

“It’s no problem. Happy to help,” the lion says, sitting down on the step below her and still managing to reach her height. A tail tipped with a star-shaped tuft wraps around his paws. “The stairs can be brutal if you aren’t used to them. You new here?”

“In more ways than one,” Riolu replies, relaxing at the easy conversation. “I’m, uh...Riolu.“

The lion’s ears perk up. “Would you happen to be the human staying with Maggie?”

Oh man. How many Pokémon around here know about her?

“That’s me,” she says weakly, shrugging.

“No wonder you’re falling down the stairs. You probably aren’t used to your body yet, right?”

“You believe me?” Riolu asks, surprised. With the suspicious way Tobias eyes her every time she mentions something about being human and the warning she’d gotten from both Maggie and August, she’d figured she’d have more push-back than this.

“Of course. If you say you were human, I have no reason to believe otherwise.”

Riolu smiles gratefully, immediately deciding she likes this Pokemon. He seems nice.

“Oh! Sorry, I’m Xander,” the lion says, offering a small bow of his head. “A luxio.”

“I wish every Pokémon would introduce themselves like that,” Riolu says, voice light. It would certainly make learning the different species easier.

“Where are you off to anyways?”

“W-Well, I was trying to find the archives, but...”

Xander’s eyes flick behind her. “You don’t have anyone to help you around?”

Tobias is supposed to be guiding her through the guild’s many ins and outs today, but he made it more than clear that he wants nothing to do with her. This morning when she woke up, he was already gone. She didn’t bring it up to Maggie because she didn’t want to get the charmander in trouble. He clearly dislikes her enough already.

“W-Well, uh, sort of,” she says. “But I thought I could find it on my own?”

Xander purrs a quiet laugh. “Independent type, huh? Well, I have time to take you there. Come on.”

 Riolu jumps to follow him as he turns and makes his way back down the stairs. “A-Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s really no problem. We’re actually pretty close.”

They travel two more flights down, chatting amiably, before Xander turns to a new floor. This level is like a magnificent library, taken up by an organized labyrinth of tall shelves, filled to the brim with books and documents. It’s hard to tell where the room ends, and it looks like it might even wrap all the way around the tree’s trunk.

“Wow,” Riolu breathes, having only caught a glimpse of the space when she’d first entered the guild. 

“Like it? We have a pretty nice collection,” Xander says, looking proud. He nods past her, and she turns to see what looks like a front desk area. Behind it sits a willlowy, almost humanoid green and white Pokémon, along with a tiny, fairy-like bug wearing a brown scarf. The two of them are in quiet discussion together.

“The tall one is Alistair, a gardevoir,” Xander whispers. “The little one is Tawny, a ribombee. They’ll help you out if you need to find anything in particular.”

“Thank you so much. Really.”

“Sure! I’ll see you around, okay? No more falling down staircases.”

Riolu laughs and waves goodbye as Xander turns to head back up the tree. She hopes she sees him again.

Then, she gets to work.

With the help of Alistair and Tawny (who argue only briefly about what “critical texts” she should read as a human before Riolu tentatively asks for some child-level legends or fairytales), she ends up at one of the tables made for Pokemon around her size, although she still has to kneel in her chair to not have to peer over the edge of the table. A huge stack of texts sit on the table at her side. She smiles when she realizes that some of the books are almost too big for her to handle, and others too small to comfortably read without squinting. Guess the range of Pokemon sizing makes a “standard” book size a bit hard to pin down. She takes a moment to admire the table, too, growing as a tangle of roots straight up from the floor and with bioluminescent leaves adding some extra lighting to the sunlight already pouring in from the nearby window.

Then, she focuses, picking through the books and finding the one Tawny had told her was a book of common Pokemon legends. Not the most academic angle to take, but she’d like to ease herself in with something like a story. She flips to the first page and furrows her brows as she realizes that...this is not English. In fact, it doesn’t look like any language she’s ever seen, all rune-like shapes. Wingdings comes to mind, funny enough.

So why can she read it?

Feeling some sort of self-doubting panic settle over her (Oh my God what if she’s wrong, what if she’s not actually human?), she realizes that she’s also been speaking with and understanding all of the Pokémon she’s met so far. There’s no logical way they’re speaking English. Maybe she’s a fraud. An accidental fraud? Is that a thing? Maybe she really is dreaming, or—or she’s in a coma, or—

“Okay, deep breaths, hold on,” Riolu mumbles, trying to calm down her spiraling thoughts.

So far no one has mentioned it being odd that she can speak the language here. So maybe it’s normal for people like her? Heck, maybe one of the books will tell her something. Otherwise she can talk to Maggie or Fen about it later instead of panicking uselessly on her own.

You came down here to be productive! She reminds herself.

She swallows down her emotions and goes back to the book of legends, immediately awed by the images accompanying the short stories. They’re beautiful, painted in bright, geometric hues and depicting all sorts of Pokémon. How many species of Pokémon are there? She feels like she’s gotten glimpses of at least twenty different kinds at this point.

Riolu reads through the first story, revolving around the Mother of All Pokémon, Mew. It’s oddly…cute? Like a pink cat!

Idly, she wonders how seriously the Pokémon take these legends. Are they real Pokemon, or more like religious stories or myths? August did say something about “the gods” being silent, which sounds pretty…real. Hm. She flips through a few more creatures, skimming the words for any mention of humans, and quickly decides to check out the book to read later on. It’s all super fascinating, even if it isn’t really that helpful.

Riolu’s pretty sure that she always liked reading.

She scans through different tales, about trios of elemental guardians and a little sprite who can time travel and even an evil Pokemon banished from the entire Pokemon dimension. Honestly, a few of them sound like bedtime stories made up to scare little kids. Surely not all of these “legends” are actual Pokemon, right? Could something actually be powerful enough to travel through time? 

Then she thinks again about Tobias, breathing out embers, and can’t quite convince herself that these are just stories.

On the next page, the illustration depicts a bright yellow rabbit Pokémon with red cheeks and a long lightning bolt tail, surrounded by a bubble of bright blue...energy? It looks like it’s defending itself from a great plume of fire raging on all sides. Below it is a line of sad, skinny black creatures, with long arms and teary red eyes, holding masks of gold. The faces on the masks almost look—

Riolu gasps, yanking the book off the desk and into her lap. At the top of the next page sits exactly what she’s been hoping to see: The Myth of Humankind. This is it! The information she’s been looking for! She begins to read, and realizes that this story in particular is more of an informational blurb than a fairy tale. Even better.

For as long as there have been Pokémon, there have also been legends of another kind of being: Humans.

While no one truly knows the origin of these tales and there are no documented sightings of such creatures, a variety of stories focus on them and their supposed co-existence with Pokemon.

The facts regarding their world, and how Pokemon fit into their lives, change from story to story. In some, Pokémon live side-by-side with humans as partners. In some stories, Pokemon are hunted and feared by Humans. In some, Pokemon are little more than myths and children’s tales, as Humans often are in our own world. A few tales fail to mention Pokémon at all.

Riolu’s brows rise. Well, she’s in that last category, she supposes. She certainly doesn’t remember any mention of Pokémon when she was human, not that that’s saying much with how little she does remember. She continues reading.

For approximately the past thirty years, there has been increased documentation of Pokémon appearing in our world, claiming to have once been Human. Most of these Humans-turned-Pokemon regain their memories, but often refuse to elaborate on their past.

Well, that sounds familiar. But thirty years? Riolu’s stomach clenches, something afraid and sad welling up in her throat. Maggie had mentioned before that humans have been coming to this world for decades and haven’t found a way back yet, but it’s only really starting to hit her that that means the humans continued to live here their entire lives. Some without ever recovering their memories! Tears sting hot at the back of Riolu’s eyes at the thought. She doesn’t remember her human life, but she does know she wants to go back. She has to have people she loves, to feel this heavy longing in her chest.

She shakes her head, takes a deep breath, and moves on to the next paragraph.

They appear to be regular, healthy Pokémon in every way aside from lost memories. The one consistent oddity with their kind is their ability to use the move “Protect” regardless of species. In native Pokémon, only a small handful of species, typically those with shells, can learn such a move. There is no apparent cause for such an anomaly.

Riolu frowns and turns back to the illustration, looking again at the yellow rabbit (or mouse, maybe?) Pokemon. Is that what that bright blue bubble is? A...”move” called protect? So it’s like a shield? Definitely sounds handy in a world where Pokémon can breathe literal fire. She turns back to the next page.

The only species of Pokemon consistently connected with Humans is the ghost type Yamask. Unable to breed and with incredibly long lifespans, the Yamask and Cofagrigus line are most well-known for being born exclusively from supposed “Human souls.” They always retain the memories of their Human lives, and their Human face is reflected in the molding of each individual’s mask. They are often withdrawn and emotional after the rebirth into their Pokémon forms. Most refuse to answer questions regarding their transformation into a Pokémon, and as such how it is done remains a mystery. They cannot appear to change back.

Riolu doesn’t know whether to feel excited or despair even more at the mention of these...yamask. They remember their life as a human, but refuse to talk about it? Why? It seems like of all the people turned into Pokemon, they would be the ones with the most information for how to return to the human world!

Riolu shakes her head and turns the page, disappointed to see the section about humans end. There are a few more fairytales following it, but she hums and skips them to read later.

Riolu sits back into the chair that’s almost too big for her, gaze floating around the giant room and its many, many books. The longer she’s here, the more Riolu realizes she has only seen the tip of the iceberg regarding exactly how vast and nuanced the Pokémon world is. She hopes she won’t be stuck here long, but she can’t be running around looking for answers without knowing a thing about the world around her. She’s gonna have to start reading some books about Pokémon themselves—basic biology, types, these “moves” she’s heard about, and definitely about the calamities that started happening when humans began showing up.

For now, she picks up a book filled with significant figures in Pokémon history, flipping through the pages and scanning the names listed next to different species and their accomplishments. Some of them are illustrated in beautiful watercolor. Man, she’s going to have to check out so many books. Hopefully Tobias won’t get too mad about her bringing them back. He probably will, but—

Wait. Riolu’s finger, running down a paragraph of historical Pokémon, stops on a single name, and she feels like someone just punched her in the gut.

Antonia.

Riolu swallows, breath shaking out as tears flood her vision. She suddenly feels homesick, and she’s certain she knows this name. She knows this name. Is it...is it hers? She definitely feels connected to it.

“Antonia,” she murmurs, voice thick with tears. “...Nia.”

She smiles a wobbly smile. The name makes her feel terribly vulnerable, but obviously it meant something to her, in her human life. Maybe...this should be her new name.

“Nia,” she whispers again, trying it out on her tongue. “My name is...Nia. Nia.”

The more she says it, the more certain she feels. It doesn’t come to her as naturally as she would hope, but...she likes it. She looks at the entry of the Pokémon itself, and sees that it belonged to a Pokémon called audino, who discovered new forms of mental healing. It’s a cute thing, pink with fluffy ears and bright blue eyes.

“Nia it is, then,” the riolu says decisively, wiping her eyes. She closes the book and looks down at it gratefully. Nia. She is someone now.

For the rest of her time in the archives, until the sun begins to set and casts long shadows across the floor, Nia peruses through her stack of books. There are so many types of Pokémon, and so many moves! Moves that Pokémon apparently use to battle each other? For fun? Looks like Tobias wasn’t kidding when he mentioned battling being a normal thing back in the mystery dungeon.

It’s all so strange and foreign to her, but she supposes that makes it all the more important for her to know. If she’s going to find answers about her past and how to return to her old life, she’ll need all the knowledge she can get to properly navigate this world. Better check out some maps too, while she’s here.

Borrowing a burlap backpack from the two guardians of the archives, Nia checks out three or four of the books to read through later. A geography and mapping book to help familiarize her with the area, a tome detailing Pokemon types and moves, the legends book, and one other book that seems to be an explanatory guide for children. When they’re sitting heavy and reassuring against her back, she turns to the two helpful archive Pokémon one last time.

“Would you mind answering one more question for me?”

Alistair, the beautiful...uh...white and green Pokémon smiles patiently. “Of course. What is it?”

Tawny flutters closer, looking eager.

“I, uh, found some of the career paths that Pokémon tend to have here at the guild, but...”

“Yes?”

“Wh-What kind of, uh...jobs would you two recommend I look into to find out more about humans? And maybe my past? Sorry, you two just seem to know a lot so—“

“Don’t apologize!” Tawny chirps, bouncing in the air to convey her excitement. “This is our job!”

Alistair nods. “As for your question, you could look into becoming a researcher.”

“But if you want to do that, you’ll need to travel to lots of different areas to talk to other Pokemon and investigate. That might be difficult if you haven’t had much training to protect yourself,” Tawny says.

“True. And escorts are quite expensive.”

“Also, you’d probably be asked by the guild to do research on subjects other than humans, too, if you’re using their resources.”

Nia looks back and forth between the two as they build on each other’s points. Research does sound right up her alley, curious as she is about the Pokémon world, but...

“S-So it might be a while before I would really be able to do research specifically on humans?”

Alistair and Tawny exchange a reluctant look.

“Unfortunately,” Alistair says. “It usually takes a while for guild-affiliated researchers to be able to travel so independently, due to the potential dangers and their lack of credibility.” He glances at Tawny again, sounding unsure about his next words. “There is one other option that comes to mind, but I’m not sure it would be to your liking.”

Nia perks up. “Yes?”

“You could become a Seeker!” Tawny cheers. Alistair and Nia wince at her sudden increase in volume.

A…Seeker? Nia remembers hearing about those in passing yesterday, and maybe in the dungeon with Tobias. Maggie had pointed out a few of them on their way to the cafeteria for supper. They were all strong-looking groups of Pokémon with heavy satchels and notable scars, either heading out into the forest or returning from it looking weary.

“What do they do, exactly?” Nia asks.

“Quite a lot of things,” Alistair says, leaning forward against the desk as he thinks. “They explore new areas and look for resources, rescue injured or lost Pokémon, track down and capture outlaws...”

“Really exciting stuff!” Tawny says. “Dangerous stuff, but still! They always have the best stories. Especially the ones about mystery dungeons!”

Nia slumps. There’s no way she could handle all of that. Willingly throwing herself back into a terrifying mystery dungeon? That just sounds like a death wish.

“So I’d have to fight,” Nia says, unable to stop the disappointment from creeping into her voice.

Alistair nods. “Yes. Even if you focus entirely on rescue work, you will have to be able to defend yourself from aggressive Pokemon if you get caught in a mystery dungeon.”

“Yeah, the guilds have laws and procedures so no one gets sent out unprepared. Too many deaths happen that way.”

Nia looks at Tawny, wide-eyed. Deaths? Sure, in hindsight it makes sense that Pokemon could…die. Fantasy creatures or not. But still, it’s not something she had thought much about yet.

“B-But it’s rare for Seekers to get killed on the job!” Tawny hurries to add at Nia’s stricken expression. “They’re required to work in teams of two or more, and they get these nifty little badges that can transport them out of the area if they get in serious trouble! There’s a group of psychics at each guild that control it.”

Still, even knowing that safety net is in place, a career as a Seeker sounds so dangerous. And not to mention terrifying. No way could that path be for her. She doesn’t want to fight anyone. Or die, for that matter.

“So those are the only two paths you think could help me?” Nia asks.

Alistair hums. “They’re certainly the first two to come to mind.”

“A Seeker would really be the best option, because you go to more places quicker and get to talk to a wider range of Pokémon,” Tawny says, tilting her head at the riolu with a sympathetic smile. “But it’s also much scarier.”

Nia nods, mostly to herself. So a Seeker would definitely be the most beneficial career for looking into her human life, but she could never actually do it. She’d have to find a team first, people willing to partner with someone who knows nothing about the Pokemon world, and she’d have to learn to defend herself, too. Learn to fight. That’s way too tall of an order.

“Well, I’ll think about everything you’ve told me,” Nia eventually says, thumbing the straps of her backpack and trying to smile up at the two Pokémon. “Thank you so much for all of your help.”

“You’re very welcome, Riolu!” Tawny chirps as Alistair simply smiles. “Feel free to come back any time. We love the company!”

“Oh! I almost forgot! Would you mind calling me Nia now?” The riolu asks, feeling oddly bashful about the correction.

“Of course,” Alistair says, his pretty red eyes sparkling. “Good choice.”

“Thanks!” Nia says, turning and heading back into the stairwell. “Have a good night!”

Tawny waves until she’s out of sight, and then Nia begins her trek upward, hoping she’ll be able to find the medical floor before nightfall. She learned so much today—about this world, her potential future, and even herself. Even if it wasn’t all great news, she can’t wait to talk to Maggie about it! Maybe even Xander if she bumps into him again. Just…not literally this time.

Nia isn’t exactly sure where to go from here, but she feels better now that she’s gotten a start. Becoming a Seeker sounds like the most efficient option for discovering her past, but there’s no way she could handle what they do. A researcher is really much more her style.

[rovewritesit]

Angel Of My Dreams (Chapter 5) John Deacon x Reader Series

GIF: @johndeac​

Apologies for the delay! Work has been an absolute shit fest. The big show I’m on got canceled, but we still have to finish the season at some point so oof. Also, my boss is moving to Italy? Pray for my sanity, folks.

Series Summary: After reluctantly joining a band with your childhood best friends, you are thrust into oncoming stardom with no sea legs and an overwhelming sense of anxiety. But you just might find your way, thanks to some seasoned pros by your side. And the interest of one particular bassist.

This series is a work of fiction and is loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4

Pairing: John Deacon x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Strong language. Feelings of anxiety. Angst (oooo!)

Chapter Notes: I've rewritten this chapter so many times that I don't even know what it is anymore. Angst is hard, my dudes! Why can't it all be flirty glances and quick banter?!

Song/Title Inspiration: Angel - Fleetwood Mac

Songs Mentioned:

Moonlight in Vermont - Frank Sinatra

Blues Run The Game - Jackson C. Frank

Taglist: @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @brianmays-hair @deacyblues @squishy-geckboye @hae-bee @aprilaady @theresalexis @uglipotata72829

- - - - - - -

September 1982 - The Music Inn, New York City

“Bri, get a load of all these fucking maracas!”

Brian makes his way over to where Roger is gazing at a massive wall adorned with shaker-filled shelves, dipping his head low to avoid the sea of guitars hanging from the ceiling above his long frame. 

Queen was back in New York for their first-ever appearance on Saturday Night Live. Finding time in between the intensive rehearsals during the week had been hard, but Freddie insisted they would make the time for his favorite New Yorkers. When the time was finally found, he, of course, was unavailable, off antiquing at some of Manhattan’s luxury spots but promised to meet up with the group later on. 

The Limbs managed to snag the other three men for a trip to the historic Music Inn. Nestled in the heart of Greenwich Village, the dingy treasure trove was located a stone’s throw away from the city’s most prominent folk clubs that boasted discovering the talents of Bob Dylan and Simon & Garfunkel. 

You were quite confident that your newfound English friends would love it. Every visible space was stuffed or covered with an abundance of musical paraphernalia. So much so that you had been in the store dozens of times without ever finding out what color the walls were. Its layout was always changing to fit the ever-growing amount of items displayed, the familiar specks of dust that sparkled in the sunlight being the only constants.

“Hey, Jeff!” Steve calls out to the eccentric owner. “Where are these from?” 

The aging hippie shuffles over. “Mostly South America,” he explains in his usual gravelly drawl. “A customer brought back some new shekeres from West Africa last week that have a nice sound to them.” Jeff motions up the sprawling wall. Roger immediately grabs a few, testing the sounds out against the ones Steve is already playing with - the two of them like kids in a candy store.

Jeff had been a good friend to The Limbs since their early teen years, having let the group spend hours on end attempting to learn every exotic instrument they could get their hands on. Anyone who entered the shop could count on him as a spirit guide of sorts to a wealth of worldly music. And while The Limbs had kept their first album fairly plain in context, they were already itching, particularly Steve, to experiment on the next album. Whenever that would be.

Now that a few more of their singles were moderately successful hits, Columbia Records was focused on milking it for all that it was worth. The execs were currently setting up an extensive American tour of the Mid - West Coast part of the country, all the major cities they hadn’t hit on their first tour. 

“Y/N,” Jeff gestures for you to follow him, probably excited to show you a new find seeing as you were always eager and willing to give them a test run. You make your way down the staircase lined with large balalaikas to the musty lower level filled with various sound equipment and electronic instruments. 

“What on god’s green earth would you use that for?” you hear Rich’s deep voice implore. He rolls his eyes as Eddie moons over an ornately engraved mandolin.

“It worked for Rod Stewart, didn’t it? That mandolin solo in Maggie May shredded,” he retorts. “Plus, look how pretty she is!”

You watch your feet as you carefully maneuver around the amps and pedals haphazardly strewn around the floor, following Jeff to the back of the room - taking special care to step around John, who is crouched low looking over the wiring of a particularly grody-looking amp.

Upon entering the store, he had taken off on his own right away, immediately entranced by the sprawling selection all about him. But you had caught the worn, far-off look in his eyes when he greeted you with a short wave earlier. You try not to let the lack of attention bother you as you pass him without so much as a glance up. The heartfelt conversation you had the last time they were in town had rooted itself in your memory. Spilling your guts like you did that night wasn't a common occurrence for you- figuring you were already easy enough to read due to the panicked expression often etched onto your face. 

Why him? Even your bandmates weren’t privy to the babblings of your intimate thoughts. It couldn’t just be his boyish tooth-gap or the pleasing line of his straight nose. Maybe it was the confusing mix of nerves and comfort you felt whenever in his presence. It was unlike the persistent butterflies you were used to when around attractive humans. Feeling instead like a gentle humming that you somehow sensed everywhere at once.

You’re brought out of your swimming thoughts as Jeff clears his throat loudly to get your attention. You must’ve been staring blankly at the floor for quite a while. He gestures to a bulky item draped in a tarp, as you give him a small apologetic smile.

“Oh yes, very pretty,” you smirk at him.

He rolls his eyes as he attempts to sweep the tarp off in a dramatic reveal, but in reality, it gets stuck. The man scrambles to uncover it, and as soon as it peeks out, you gasp.

“A theremin!”

You gaze at the ordinary-looking wooden cabinet in awe. It must be old, seeing as they were mostly compact now.

“You haven’t had one in ages,” you marvel, locking eyes with Jeff.

“Which means it’s been a while since I’ve heard your ambient screeches plaguing these walls.”

Your finger points to him in protest. “Hey, I was getting better until you sold the last one on me!”

“Well, I didn’t see you making a bid for it,” he playfully shrugs.

“Let’s hear those screeches!” Eddie yells out. Rich claps his hands excitedly beside him. You poke your tongue out at them, but your eyes catch John’s, and you quickly close your mouth. Still crouched, he looks on with mild curiosity wrinkled on his brow. He lightly raises them at you in silent encouragement.

You slowly make your way behind the instrument as Jeff plugs it into the wall. Turning one of the knobs, it hums to life as you check the metal attachments protruding from the wood frame. It really is old. You have no idea how to even begin to calibrate it. Taking a deep breath, you timidly bring your hands up in position.

It lets out a high pitched wail that burns your ears from being so close, and you yank your hands away from the field of current. Eddie and Rich erupt into cheers while John slowly stands, moving a bit closer to see the mechanism properly.

Jeff lightly pushes you back towards it in a gentle coax. This time you slowly bring your curled hand a reasonable distance away from the pitch antenna, keeping your other low on the one for volume. Squeezing your eyes shut to focus on the tone, you slowly move until you find your starting note. It was all about sense memory and your ears to fill the gaps with nothing to physically touch. 

Uncurling your fingers, you begin the opening notes of Moonlight in Vermont - the one song you had somewhat taught yourself through hours of painstaking practice. You fumble a bit, eliciting a squeak or two while trying to remember the hand placements that produce the proper notes. While you might “play” many instruments, you were middling at many, master of none. You make it through the first verse before your head starts to pound from your jaw-clenched concentration.

“Fuck the mandolin, let’s get that for the next album!” you hear Rich tell Eddie.

“Ah, yes, you’ve heard Pet Sounds. Now prepare your ears for The Limb’s sophomore attempt, Ghost Sounds,” 

Their banter is drowned out as John chimes in. “How on earth did you learn that?” You meet his struck expression and shrug lightly.

“Don’t downplay it, Bun. It’s pretty fucking cool,” Rich assures you. “And her knowing ASL also helps,” he explains to John.

“Sign language?”

“Oh yeah, Y/N’s mom is deaf,” Eddie reveals bluntly. You shoot him a look.

“Sorry, hard of hearing,” he holds his hands out in defense.

John is silent for a moment as he mulls the information over, causing a speck of tension in the room.

“Your mother’s never heard you sing?” he asks incredulously as if he can’t possibly imagine it.

You give a small smile. “No, I guess she hasn’t. But I was in the car with her the first time I heard us on the radio. I turned the treble down and the bass all the way up and she bopped along to the beat pretty well.”

Rich chuckles lightly at the story. “She’s always been hoot, hasn’t she?”

You nod gently. “Aptly put. That’s how she describes herself as a matter of fact.”

John shoves his hands deep in his pockets as he takes a look around the room, his cheeks a light pink. You're unsure of why.

“I’m gonna head out for a quick smoke,” you decide, patting Jeff on the shoulder. “I know how you hate it.”

He gives your hand a light squeeze before you make your way upstairs, hoping to catch John’s eyes, but he avoids yours yet again. 

A pleasing blend of harmonies can be heard as you hit the landing. You peek your head around a large assortment of bongos to find Brian strumming a small acoustic on the other side of the store. Roger, Steve, and Lawrence all crammed around, the four of them singing a rendition of Blues Run the Game. 

Your heart warms at the sight, remembering the times when you and the boys would sit around a campfire and croon out the same sad tune. Eddie and Rich will be pissed they missed this. Steve notices your presence and silently ticks his head for you to come join. You hold up your pack of Marlborough’s in response to him before finally slipping out the front, trying your best to not jingle the adorned bells too much.

A cool breeze promptly passes through the knit of your sweater. It’s late September, and New York has begun to really cool off. You pull down the sleeves to cover your hands as you light your cigarette, wincing a bit on the first inhale. It was a leftover habit from your college days- scarcely used, only in social situations, or to get out of awkward ones.

Taking in the familiar street, you can’t help but giggle at the day you were having. To be showing Queen around your old hangout still felt absurd. No matter how genuinely they seemed to like the company of your band, you couldn’t fathom them wanting to spend the day with you all. Weren’t there bigger and better musicians in this city to be hanging out with? 

The sound of a lighter flicking to life comes from your left, and you turn. John leans against the faded wall as he takes a drag, his eyes trained on the dirty sidewalk. 

“I’m sorry, i- if I offended you with my comment about your mother,” he professes quietly. 

Your brows shoot up in confusion. “What?”

“We have a friend whose father is deaf. A lovely man. I shouldn’t have been so insensitive.” He sighs, finally turning to face you. “It’s just that the memory of hearing your voice for the first time isn’t something one can easily shake. I mean that in a way that- it’s just a shame really. For her to not be able to share in it when it’s something so...” he looks as if he’s racking his brain for an appropriate word. “Well, singular.”

You suck in a breath at his words. In all your years, you had never gotten that as a response to your mother’s disability. It was mostly a polite, “Oh, really? I’m so sorry to hear that.” His honesty and consideration for your feelings knock the present hum of your body up to 100. 

You flinch as gentle burning hits your fingers, and you look down at your forgotten cigarette, quickly flicking it to the ground before crushing it under your heel. John shifts his weight from side to side, never taking his eyes off of you while he waits for you to collect your thoughts.

“I write out my lyrics for her so she can read them as poems,” you state simply, smiling up at him. “Sometimes she makes up her own melodies and sings them around the house. It’s not the easiest on the ears, but she’s pretty inventive.” His eyes crinkle as he returns your grin - his first genuine one of the day.

“So she’s heard music before?”

“Oh yeah. She has nerve deafness, which didn’t start till her late twenties. She actually spent a lot of time around here when she was younger. Bitter End and The Gaslight are just a few blocks away.”

He hums lightly as he stares at you- like you’re a puzzle whose pieces are just beginning to fit together.

“Can you teach me something in sign language?”

Once again, your brows shoot up, shocked by his response. You blink a few times, trying to think of what to say. Going with the only thing that pops to mind, you sign out a phrase as he watches your hands intently.

“And what does that mean?”

You smirk, “You are a cheesy cow.”

“I’m sorry?” he laughs out.

You repeat it back slowly while signing along. “You. Are. A. Cheesy. Cow. It’s the first thing my mother taught me how to sign.”

He runs his hand over his jaw as he chuckles. “Rich was right. A hoot she must be.”

“I’m pretty shit, to be honest, and she read lips, so it’s mostly used for snide comments during extended family gatherings.”

You watch as he puts out his cigarette and carefully takes a step closer to you. “I’m assuming your colourful vocabulary extends to those instances as well.”

“Right you are.”

“Freddie will love that,” he snickers. “He always seems to collect vulgarities in other languages wherever we go.”

Your attention is torn away as a sleek black car rolls up to a stop at the curb. It’s out of place in the middle of the street filled with old and worn buildings, which can similarly describe the people who mill about.

“Speak of the Queen herself,” you laugh as a sunglass-clad Freddie steps onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, isn’t this quaint!” he exclaims, peering into the shop window. He straightens as he turns to you, hands-on-hips.

“Deacy. Thumper. Are we fans of freezing our tits off, or shall we go inside?”

You give John a small smile and push yourself off the wall, making your way over to Freddie, who immediately pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. The bells against the door ring out as you all enter the shop.

“Ah, Deacy,” Brian pokes his head out from one of the narrow aisles, still in a constant crouch to avoid the instruments above his head. “I was looking for you. Found these adorable teeny guitars I thought might be good to bring back for the kids. What do you think?”

“Kids?” you mumble to yourself as John makes his way over to inspect them.

“Brian has two, and John’s already up to 3. Maybe we should’ve nicknamed him Bunny.” Freddie laughs, nudging your arm. “You know… fucking like rabbits,” he expands due to your lack of chuckling.

He leans into your field of vision as he studies your statue-like expression, eyebrows knit in confusion. His eyes take in your ashen face and your lifeless expression. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing. When you lock your eyes with his, you know he understands from the sheer size of how big they become. He straightens up, glancing around quickly as if looking for something to put out a fire.

“Freddie!” Steven dances over, clicking a pair of castanets in his hands. “I wanted to show you thi-”

“So sorry, love, we can’t. Y/N promised to come to a fitting with me, and we’re already late," he announces loudly, pulling you by the arm and out the door before anyone can react.

- - - - - - -

You blankly stare at your reflection in the long mirror. Freddie had instructed his stylist to pull some outfits for you to parade around in as he tried on a bevy of metallic coats.

“You’re an idiot,” you tell the girl staring back at you.

Freddie sashays over, a shag jacket swaying with him as he places his hands on your shoulders, surveying the strappy dress you were currently squeezed into.

“Oh yes, this will do for the after-party,” he instructs.

“I’m not going.”

He heaves a deep sigh. “Darling, you already refused the ticket I got you for the show. You’re coming to the party,” he declares, turning away to look at more options.

“This isn’t really me…” you mumble, gesturing to the dress.

He regards you with a small smile. “Exactly. I say this with love, but you need a look, Y/N. Something that makes you feel unstoppable,” he gestures to his body as he twirls towards you. “Don’t you want to shock them?”

You chew your lip as you ponder that sentiment. Dawn usually just shoved you into whatever ensemble she had picked for you - leather jackets, monochromatic sets, tight jumpsuits. She kept hoping you’d find a style you fancied, but you had yet to find anything remotely likable under the lights of the stage.

“To be honest, I just want to be able to feel comfortable out there," you sigh. "But I can’t strut around in flashy outfits or conduct a whole crowd like you do." Huffing as you collapse onto one of the white couches around you. He perches beside you, throwing an arm around the back of the sofa.

“Then don’t,” he says simply.

You snort a response as you cross your arms over your chest.

“I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but have you tried showing them a bit more of yourself?”

“I can’t do that.”

He turns to you now, grabbing your attention with his eyes.

“And why not?” he questions.

You gaze down at your hands, which you’re now wringing together in your lap. “What if it’s nothing spectacular?” you whisper out the criticism that you'd drilled into your mind for the past year.

Freddie laughs lightly as he stands. “Let’s not start lying to ourselves, shall we?” He moves in front of you and kneels, now at eye level, making so you can’t look away.

“Sometimes people go to a concert for an escape. A big bloody show with dazzling lights and petite men galavanting around a stage in spandex tights,” he smiles. 

“But most of the time they just want to find a piece of themselves in it, don’t they? Commonality. They want to hear you, see you, and feel just a little less alone than we all know we are. I saw just a slice of it at your concert, and it was indeed something spectacular. So take that as you will.”

You’re not one to cry much, but your eyes soften as you take in the icon of a man in front of you. A man loved by millions, who was currently filling in as your personal rock n’ roll fairy godmother.

“You’re a fantastic person, you know that?” you tell him genuinely.

“Yes,” he quips as he gets to his feet. “Now, are we done scurrying around the real problem at hand?”

You sigh as you look away, firmly willing yourself not to break the dam of bottled emotions threatening to spill out. Why couldn't you just feel numb? It would be better than the wave of childish self-pity you found yourself in.

Freddie huffs at your reaction. “Oh, you brat. Sorry to tell you, but you’re an open book, my dear. And not one of those big pompous things Brian reads. A bloody children’s book. One filled with pictures.”

You're sure you’ve now bitten through the entire top layer of your lip as you contemplate how to even begin.

“I’m an idiot,” you shrug to yourself yet again.

“No,” he points a finger at you. “You’re decidedly not. Though I am curious as to how someone who’s as big of a fan as your friends say you are, missed out on that detail.”

“I’m not sure either. I mean, I listen to your albums and go to your show, but I guess I didn’t pour over the tabloids or press interviews or anything like that.”

Freddie nods along as he sifts through another rack of jackets, choosing an incredibly tight white leather number.

“I assumed you knew,” he answers while glancing at his reflection. “And I would say Deacy should know better, but he’s not quite himself at the moment.”

“What do you mean?” you press, suddenly much more interested in the conversation.

He turns to you, palms up in explanation. “It’s not that he wouldn’t normally be charmed by your shy presence and occasionally crass mouth… But I’m a bit worried he’s finding comfort in your smiles for the wrong reasons.”

“Huh?”

Sighing heavily as if debating if he should keep skirting around his words, he holds your gaze. “An impending divorce is crippling lonely, even if it is somewhat amicable.”

His mouth is brought into a pout as you suck in a sharp breath. 

Divorce. All your previous interactions play through your head from a different angle. Pity sneaks up on you as you remember John’s advice he’d given you. The concept of home is a funny thing. You scoff out loud at how your childlike crush had skewed your interpretation of your relationship with the man.

“I’m usually the one singing his praises,” Freddie muses, breaking you out of your inner monologue of resentment towards yourself. “But he seems more lost than usual at the moment.” 

He gently lifts your chin. “I don’t normally meddle in- well, actually I do. Just don’t want to see you get hurt, Bunny. Not when the world is soon to be at your feet.”

"I'm fine," you lie, gently brush away his gesture. "I barely even know the guy. I was just shocked to have my silly fascination with him interrupted. Stupid, really."

"Don't do that," he exhales. "Don't put it on yourself. You'd have to be blind to ignore the fact that he's quite taken with you."

"I'm fine," you repeat, making your way into the back to change out of the ridiculous dress that suddenly felt even tighter now.

Shutting the door slowly, you let out a deep breath. It's all good, you tell yourself. Of course you got caught up in the attention of a world-renown musician. Who wouldn't? It's nothing special. As Freddie said, he's not even acting like himself. Although you were indeed in true form- getting caught up by the slightest of interactions. Unconsciously playing them as a loop in your head. You can't help but cringe at your own escalation of the situation.

Squaring your shoulders, you take in the image of yourself in the dress again. Perhaps it was time for you to shock them all.

- - - - - - -

“And so my grandfather goes out to the alley and sees her just wailing on this scrawny man. I mean, really going to town. So he pulls her off him, and the dude’s got a black eye and a bloody nose. And he’s like, “Thanks mate, thought she was gonna kill me there.”

Roger ruffles your hair in response to your poor attempt at a British accent. The group of cast and crew around you chuckle at the gesture. 

You had decided that if you were going to be forcibly dragged to this after-party by your bandmates, you would at least aim to make it worthwhile. A debut of your new mentality.  One where you weren't just acting the part of a rising rock star, but living it. 

Which is why at the moment, you found yourself the center of attention, surrounded by the cast and crew of SNL laughing along to your amusing story. But this was all hinged on you carefully, avoiding the presence of John Deacon at all costs. Which, in reality, wasn't very hard to do- you had yet to see him since arriving an hour ago.

“Oh my god, who was it?!” the young cast member beside you presses. You think her name is Julia, but the sheer amount of people you'd been introduced to was dizzying.

"That's exactly what we asked him when he told us. All he said was that it was some man with big lips who was in a fur coat and looked like he hadn't eaten in a month..."

The cam op across from you gasps, "It was MICK JAGGER? God bless your grandfather, I would've wept if she murdered him."

"So would my mom AND grandmother," you laugh. "Give us each a glass of wine, and it's basically a Mick fan club."

"Who else?" Brian taps your leg, surprisingly urging you to divulge more gossip.

You can't help but smirk as the group leans forward intently.

"Robin Williams?" you tease as their eyebrows all raise.

"Horrible tipper, but he makes up for it by performing dirty puppet shows with the napkins."

"Sounds about right," funnyman Brad Hall confirms, offering you another drink.

You politely decline, determined to keep your wits about you this evening. "I'm gonna go grab some water. Anyone want anything?"

The group shakes their heads, but Lawrence jumps up to join you on your trek to the crowded bar.

"Wouldn't it be insane if this was us one day?" he exclaims as you weave your way through the mass of bodies littering the Capitol Grill. 

You smile up at him, "Dream big, buddy."

"Oh, I intend to," he confirms you as you spot Eddie and Rich waving you over from a spot at the bar. 

Rich promptly wraps his arm around your shoulders as you join them. He always had a stoic way of letting you know he saw through the cracks in your poorly constructed armor. Taking the role of a caring older brother, more so than your own.

"Have we lost Steve again?" Lawrence asks the group.

Eddie nods across the room. "He's exactly where you think he'd be," he scoffs as you catch a glimpse of Steve, trailing Freddie like a lost puppy.

"Um, excuse me?" a short girl mumbles from behind Eddies' denim-clad shoulder. He turns, glancing down.

"Hiya," he regards her casually, causing her a deep blush to creep across her cheeks. She shoves a napkin and pen at him.

"C-could I get an autograph? Please?"

Eddie smirks at her flustered appearance, making sure to brush her fingers as he grabs the items out of her trembling hand.

"And what beautiful name should I be making this out to?"

She lets out a jarring high pitched giggle as she stumbles over her words. "Oh, uh, Shelley."

"Well, here ya go, Shelley," he hands the napkin back to her, now adorned with his messy scrawl. "Maybe I'll see you later."

She squeaks as she hurries back to her shrieking friends who are huddled conspicuously off to the side.

"Gross," you state. "She's a child. Probably one of the executive's kids." 

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "Gotta keep em' interested, Bun. As the heartthrob of the group, it's my sworn duty."

"Slow your roll there, Rob Lowe," Rich interjects. "I think Y/N's giving you a run for your money in this dress."

You glance down at the Freddie approved ensemble. It was eye-catching for sure, precisely what you were going for. It's black suede straps crisscrossed strategically against your body, giving peaks of the skin underneath.

"It looks good, Bun," Rich assures you.

“Guys,” you all turn your attention to Steve, who has just joined the circle clumsily. His pupils are blown wide from his current blood alcohol content, and he sways slightly on his heels.

"I- I have something to say," he announces to the group, getting your attention. You all wait patiently as he hesitates, clearing his throat twice before lowering his voice. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m gay.”

You glance around to the other boys whose expressions mirror your own warm smile. You’d all known Steve was gay since high school, not that any of you had talked about it. You had just assumed it was something unspoken. That he’d tell you whenever he was ready or met someone good enough to introduce to you all.

Steve gapes at your expressions. "Where is the shock? I was expecting shock and awe, people!"

"Steve, please don’t take this the wrong way. But I’m assuming we’ve all known for a while," Rich says gently. You all nod lightly in agreement.

"How?"

"Do you remember the types of girls who used to throw themselves at you? Like Becky Whale? Man, I would’ve killed for Becky Whale to throw something at me. But you never took them up on it," Lawrence elaborates.

Steve smiles around at all of you, his shoulders visibly relaxing.

“I had a crush on Eddie in high school,” he confesses.

Eddie pumps his fist lightly. “Fuck yeah.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Lawrence exclaims. “You just had to boost that ego, didn’t ya? I know pretty boys are great and all, but I’m the one with the big soft cuddles. People love big soft cuddles!”

Rich expands his arms as he brings you all in for a hug. 

You kiss Steve gently on the cheek. “I’m proud of you, bud,” you whisper.

"Thank you guys, I just felt like it was time. And now that that's out of the way," Steve grunts as you all untangle yourselves. “I’m gonna go find Freddie. He said he’s taking me out to a club after this!”

He skips away with a grin, back towards Freddie, who catches your eye with a knowing smile and winks. It seems you weren’t the only band member who had found a fairy godmother in Mr. Mercury.

You all lightly laugh affectionately at your friend until Eddie and Lawrence wander off to scope out the food situation. You lean against the bar next to Rich, glancing around at the loud laughter erupting from the outgoing crowd. One person noticeably sticks out. A sullen John Deacon sits at the end of the bar, hunched over what looks like a glass of whiskey.

"Looks like he's in need of a friend," Rich surmises.

You tear your eyes away from the sorry sight to look at him. "They're around here somewhere," you shrug.

He rubs your arms up and down lightly before slinking into the crowd, knowingly leaving you alone. 

You sneak a peek over at John. He runs one hand through his curls as the other absentmindedly stirs the straw of his sweating drink. You watch him sigh, bringing the glass to his lips and gulping down the spirit without so much as a wince. 

Hesitantly making your way over to him, you rub your clammy hands over the expensive material of your dress. This is the opposite of avoidance, you scold yourself, silently willing your feet to change direction. But your willpower has seemingly left the building.

You carefully perch yourself on the stool next to his, as not to disturb his brooding. He glances over quickly, doing a double-take when he realizes who it is.

"Oh, hello there," he greets you with a small smile. "I didn't know you had arrived."

You nod your head lightly. "How could you? It seems you set up camp over here."

"Ah, yes," he breathes, straightening his posture. "Wasn't our best tonight, I'm afraid. Not much to celebrate."

You take a sip of your water as you continue to nod silently.

"Actually," he begins, angling his body towards yours, almost slipping off his stool as you notice his apparent intoxication. "I was thinking about that conversation we had. When I met your spritely grandfather."

"Oh?" you question. Keeping your face neutral even though your heart was already buzzing at the fact.

"Yes. Mostly about how naive I was—all that bloody nonsense about finding a home. Do me a favor and never take my advice, will you? You'll end up completely wrecking yours."

This was a bad idea.

"It's just- you draw these lines for yourself in the sand," he drawls, waving his hands about in front of him. "A stupid phrase, really. Where did it even come from?"

"The Bible," you tell him quietly.

He lets out a big sigh, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"Well, it's gotten it wrong before, hasn't it?"

You simply hum an acknowledgment, too scared to probe for fear of where this was going.

"Anyway, you draw these lines. Moral, physical, promises you make to yourself, things you swear you’d never do, dreams to accomplish," he lists out. "But sand moves about, dunnit? It blows all over the place. Makes a mess. Gets in your sandwich. And those lines blur. Or fade away. And all of a sudden, you've crossed them without even knowing! Broken those promises. Skipped right over those dreams."

He's too far gone in his rant to register the growing panic sweeping across your features.

"You were right. Sometimes you look in the mirror, and it's just a complete stranger staring back at you, isn't it?"

Trying to keep your breathing steady, you stare at the crumbling man before you. He runs his large hands along his face before ducking back into his former position, signaling for the bartender to bring him another drink.

This is precisely why you should've stuck to your original plan. What were you supposed to say to the man who was so obviously hurting from his failed marriage? So much so that it was pouring out of him. You know that if it weren't for the alcohol, he wouldn't be confiding any of this to you.

But there was a reason the boys called you the mom of the group, and it wasn't because you were the only female. You feel a pang of need to comfort him. You gaze at him, not with pity, but an overwhelming sense of empathy for the man and make up your mind.

You clear your throat to answer, brushing away your own warnings about how it would only sink you deeper into your fascination with him.

"I was wrong, actually," you start as he brings his head up to look at you. "And you know what phrase I hate? That people don't change."

He furrows his brow but remains silent as you continue.

"Maybe we're not made up of lines in the sand. Maybe we're the wind?" You try not to cringe at yourself and your poor use of metaphor. "And winds sometimes blow in different directions... but that's okay because it's where life is supposed to take them." Falling silent, you decide to quit while you’re ahead. 

You're not ahead. You're not even out of the gate. What the fuck was that?

A slow smile inches onto his face as he holds your stare. "How did you get so wise for someone your age," he teases.

"And what age would that be?"

His mouth opens and closes as he studies your face. "Twenty?"

"Mm, close. Twenty-four."

"Really?" he ponders. "Freddie mentioned you dropped out of university."

"Ah, yes. The university I could only go to after working to afford it," you explain. 

He continues to stare, the look in his eyes shifting slightly as he takes you in. A look that matches the color and intensity of uncharted, open water. You need to get out of here.

"Well, that explains your extraordinary use of analogy then."

Dragging your eyes off of his, you glance around at the party you were missing. Gladly missing, unfortunately. 

"I should go check on Steve. He's having a bit of a night," you tell him as you stand. "Try not to drown yourself in those," gesturing to the new glass of whiskey in front of him.

"How can I drown myself? I thought I was the wind," he points out with a grin.

Before any more banter can ensue, you simply smile and make your way back to your friends. Thinking to yourself that maybe lines in the sand weren't so bad. And that perhaps it was time for you to start drawing some of your own.