#deacons like if a man and a woman had a baby

[somethingaboutmint]

Hes so gender to me

#fallout #fallout 4 #fo4 #fallout deacon #deacon #art'd #deacons like if a man and a woman had a baby

[hylfystt]

wip wednesday

oops it's just past midnight here but!! it's fine. thank you @coldshrugs @myreia & @impossible-rat-babies for tagging me friends!! 💜💜💜 tagging @druidgroves @nsewell & anyone else who would like to share!

in a shocking turn of events, this one isn't for leida but for my fo3 lone wanderer turned railroad agent (codename revenant) set post-institute destruction in fo4. it's uhhhh. it's something. still early drafty BUT this scene hasn't left me alone since i first thought about her going undercover and how that might change how certain things shake up.

“It was me, Liam. It was always me, wasn’t it?” Hypatia takes a step closer and the man’s eyes focus on her. Good. She can practically feel the desperation that radiates from him, catching the wild eyed stare that speaks of a world that has been rapidly and violently shattered. Poor bastard. She understands better than he could possibly know. “Think about it—it  was only after I showed up that the messages started arriving, right?” Liam trembles in dawning horror. That’s right. Focus on me. “You used me.”  “Yes,” Hypatia says gravely. “I did. But that woman and her boy? They didn’t. They were just as caught up in this game as you were.” She takes another hesitant step forward, eyes never breaking from Liam’s. “It’s not her you want dead. She didn’t kill your friends.” Hypatia stands tall and meets his gaze coolly. “I did.” Liam’s eyes flicker between her and Shaun, the boy still caught helplessly in Liam’s line of fire. “How could you do it? We were your friends, Hypatia. We—we loved you. You were one of us!” “No, Liam. I wasn’t.” Silence hangs in the air for a long moment. Hypatia sees brief movement from the corner of her eye as Deacon moves slowly for his gun. “Don’t!” Liam barks, finger tightening around the trigger of the gun still aimed at Shaun. “Don’t you move!” “Easy pal, just stretching my arm.” Deacon says, shooting a glance at Mason and raising his arms once again. Hypatia doesn’t miss the slight hand gesture, one of their old signals that tells her careful—this one’s a few rounds short of a full barrel. “Liam.” The sound of his name brings his gaze back to her briefly, and she takes another step forward. The gun in his hand wavers towards her. Come on. Let the kid go. “I know you don’t believe me, but I am sorry it had to come to this.” “I trusted you.” A hardness creeps into Liam’s voice that freezes the blood in her veins. He looks back at Shaun. Not good. Hypatia takes another step forward. Liam meets her stare. “I trusted you…and now they’re all dead.” The shot rings through the air and for a terrifying moment, Hypatia is sure she has failed.  And then her world is an explosion of pain. She’s vaguely aware of the fall, of Shaun’s terrified face and the bullets that rip into Liam’s body.  She blinks and she is staring at the sky. “Rev!” Deacon’s voice sounds far away, though she can still pick out the terror in it. Something in her chest seizes around the bullet. She’s never heard Deacon sound so scared. “Fuck—fuck!”  Don’t be scared, D. Fuck, it hurts to breathe. Probably best just to stop. “Miss Hypatia!” “Shaun honey, go with Nick!” It’ll be alright. “We’ll get Carrington—” Deacon’s face hovers in the center of her vision, scattered patches of irradiated rain clouds overhead frame his face. It’s fitting, she thinks, that the radiation should come for her again in death. I’ve been dead a long time now. “Safe house—” Just took a while for my body to realize. “—got a stimpack.” She doesn’t feel the sting of the injector. She doesn’t feel much of anything anymore. “Don’t you dare die on me.” I’m sorry. I never wanted to leave you. A droplet hits her cheek. It seems the rain won’t wait for her to go. “Not like this.” She closes her eyes. She thinks she hears her name pass as a broken whisper from beside her temple. But I get to see you soon, Dad.

#yes her and deacon were partners yes they both had feelings no they never addressed them #oc: hypatia corrigan #wip tag #writing tag

[johnica-weeks]

Brian and Anita

Brian May (19 July 1947) 💕 Anita Dobson (29 April 1949)

Married on 18 November 2000

Children: none (Brian has 3 children from his previous relationship with Chrissie)

Brian first met soap star Anita at a movie premiere in Beverly Hills in 1986, she was widely known as Angie from Eastenders and she was friend with Freddie Mercury, who introduced her to Brian and he invited her out to one of Queen’s performances. Their friendship soon blossomed and quickly turned into love and conflicting feelings, trying to escape scandals as they grew closer and Brian grew apart from his wife Chrissie. "I was the scarlet woman. I'm not proud of it." (Anita in 2013) During the growth of their relationship, Brian and Anita had worked together on her album Talking Of Love (1988) and her following singles, while she and the relationship with her inspired many of Brian's songs, "Scandal" and "I want it All" being just two of them.

While they were head over heels for each other, their affair led also to many internal struggles within the two and Brian often recalls how the affair -close in time to his father's death and Freddie's illness, and under great pressure from the media- turned his life into hell and the trauma of the split from Chrissie still haunts him: "It was utter hell for three years. Sheer pain. To contemplate not waking up with your kids is unthinkable. Anyone who finds themselves in that position can never forgive themselves. I don’t know if I have still, really. But I know in my heart there was no other way." (2002)

The two split for a while in the late 90s when Brian went to therapy to deal with grief and depression, he also had a short affair with secretary Julie Glover, but Anita returned into his life like a storm and after a ultimatum from her they eventually they got married with a private ceremony on 18 November 2000. “She’s incredible. If I didn’t have Anita, all the therapy in the world wouldn’t sort me. If she wasn’t by my side now, I wouldn’t be in this state. She’s somehow part of me."

From Brianmay.com: "The bride wore a red outfit and Brian a grey linen suit with a red waistcoat and red buttonhole (and yes, he wore clogs!). Roger Taylor was best man, and Anita was given away by her brother in law Michael O'Niell. Brians children Jimmy, Louisa and Emily attended, along with Anita's Mum, her sister Gill and about 20 close friends (sadly John Deacon didn't attend)."

They're still attached at the hip and very much in love with each other, often reminding how their marriage is working well to nowadays despite many people (included Freddie!) believed it wouldn't have lasted. They vocally support each other's career, and Brian has also rekindled his relationship with his children, while Chrissie keeps a silent profile.

Prompts - Day 4: Brian and Anita (15th April)

I love to do everything at your side.

You're really stubborn!

Vegetarian dinner

Baby I know what my poor heart needs

Brian & Roger's ships week 2023 rules and prompts

#brian and roger ships week 2023 #brianrogershipsweek2023 #brian may x anita dobson #branita #brian x anita #queen fanfiction #queen fanfic #queen fandom #queen fandom event #queen ship week #brian may fanfic #anita dobson fanfic

[just-a-girl-who-wrytes]

Part 8 ☺️

Several months went by and the team celebrated Street and Chris’ engagement, as well as Luca finding out he was going to be a dad. They had a celebratory dinner over the weekend, one at which Nikki had drank a little more than she cared to admit. Deacon took her home that night, helped her into one of his t-shirts and a pair of his underwear before helping his girlfriend into bed and climbing in with her. The next morning, Nikki woke up hungover as hell. Everything hurt - her head, her stomach, her joints. She groaned. David walked in and chuckled.

“How do you hang with this old man,” he waved his hands from shoulders to waist with a bottle of gatorade in one hand and Tylenol in the other. “But you can’t hang with some bitch booze?”

Nikki buried her face in the pillow. “Because it’s bitch booze. You never can tell how much is too much until it’s too late.”

Nikki attempted to sit up, but was unsuccessful without the muscular torso of her lover’s body to help steady her. “I have to pee.” She mumbled. 

Deacon laughed again, “All of the things you deal with and handle like the bad ass woman you are on a regular basis and some liquor is what takes you out.” 

“Nice save, Kay.” Nikki mumbled, not bothering to look up at him as he guided her to the bathroom. David helped Nikki to the toilet and steadied her as she pulled his underwear off of her waist and sat down. He stepped away and she heard a cabinet open and close but paid it no mind. 

“Here, baby, you need this.”

Nikki looked up to see David handing her a maxi pad and then looked down to see blood stained boxers. 

“Wha-? Fuck meee.”

“When you won’t vomit all over me,” Deacon chuckled. 

“No, baby. I haven’t had a period in yearssss why the hell am I having one now?!” 

“Honey, I have no idea, but I can make it better with snuggles and a lazy day.” He winked at her. 

Nikki groaned and took a clean pair of her underwear from David. Once she was cleaned up and medicated, she joined Deacon on the couch for a lazy day. Despite taking tylenol and motrin and drinking gatorade, she couldn’t help shake the nausea that she had. She napped on and off in Deacon’s arms but felt substantially worse every time she moved and the cramping in her stomach was the worst she could remember having. By the time bedtime rolled around, she didn’t feel any better and again leaned on David to make it back to the bed. 

Nikki was bed bound for the following few days and even had to call out of work. She was cursing her uterus for making her feel so bad. This was punishment for all of the time she hadn’t had a period. 

Deacon was at work just over a week later, talking to Hondo about his girlfriend and her symptoms. 

“You think she’s pregnant?”

Deacon paused. “Of course that hadn’t crossed my mind. Man, she has been feeling bad and cramping and bleeding. We both have just thought she either had the flu or her period was whooping her ass.”

Hondo smirked, “Ya know pregnancy can mimic periods sometimes. It happened to my sister. It’s worth a thought, brother.”

After work, Deacon stopped to pick up chinese for supper. some dramamine to help with Nikki’s nausea, as well as a box of pregnancy tests. When he arrived home, he found her asleep on the couch. He kissed her forehead and made a pitcher of sweet tea for whenever she was ready to eat. After putting the tea in the fridge, he stopped and leaned on the counter, staring at her as she slept.

What if she really is pregnant… he thought. He thought about Nikki being the one to carry his baby and he started to get turned on. She would make such a wonderful mother. And it was all Deacon could do to stop himself from jumping her right then and there as he dreamed about how pregnancy would change her body - her hips, her boobs - how all of it would be because of him. It would be his little life she carried that they made together. 

He originally planned on just letting her sleep and giving them to her when she woke up, but as he thought about their future and the woman he loved carrying the baby he put in her, he couldn’t stop himself. He walked over and sat down on the edge of the couch next to her and woke her up.

The color was still gone from her face and she still looked like she didn’t feel good. 

“Baby, I brought supper home. I’ve also got some nausea meds for you and something else I need you to take….”

“Something else?” Nikki gave him a puzzled look as he brushed her hair away from her face. 

“I was talking to Hondo at work about how you had been sick and your period was weird,” Nikki chuckled. There was no conversation or detail too personal for 20-David to share. She had never actually asked, but she was positive Hondo at the very least had heard about the first time they had sex together. 

“He said taking one of these might be a good idea.” Deacon handed her the box of pregnancy tests. 

Nikki took the box from him. 

“If you’re not pregnant, we can get you into the doc to see why you’re still sick.”

“And if I am?”

Nikki watched as a smile spread across Deacon’s face, “Even better.”

Deacon stood up and helped Nikki off the couch and followed her to the bathroom. 

He leaned against the counter with his arms folded across his belly, watching as Nikki peed on the stick. 

“Who would have thought a man would sit and watch me pee and still love me…”

Deacon laughed, “What is it you used to tell me when I was helpless and getting bathed like a baby?”

“We’re all human and it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” the couple said in unison. 

Nikki stood up, washed her hands and stepped in front of Deacon. She wrapped her arms around his torso and laid her head on his chest. She relaxed in his embrace as he wrapped his arms around her. 

The couple stood there in silence.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Nikki asked, never removing her head from his chest.

“It would be so amazing to know that the woman I love is pregnant with the baby I put in her.” Deacon groaned sensually, “To be able to watch you carry our baby, watch your belly grow, feel our baby move…”

Nikki felt herself falling even more in love with Deacon and she wasn’t sure how that was even possible. 

“You’ve asked me all of these questions,” Deacon said as he pulled her off of him and cradled her neck with a hand on either side under her jaw, “But how will you feel if it’s positive?”

Deacon could see Nikki searching for words. 

“I hadn’t thought about it, David. I mean if so, this is a complete 180 from when I was pregnant with ‘Kota. Hell, you are a complete 180 from my ex-husband. But you don’t seem scared.”

“Why would I be?”

“Well…” Nikki had a hard time figuring out how to piece words together. She never thought about it. If he loved her like he said he did - and she had no doubt about his love for her, there really wasn’t a reason to be scared. She breathed out a laugh, “I don’t know, Deac, I guess just some unresolved subconscious fear I have - the man I’m pregnant by not being supportive… but rationally, I know I have zero reason to be scared now.” 

By now, Deacon had reached over and grabbed the test off of the counter and read it. 

He spoke as he looked up at Nikki from the test, “I’m glad we’re on the same page… Mama.” Deacon smiled, his face full of nothing but love. 

“What?” Nikki said breathlessly as she took the test from him.

Pregnant

She suddenly sobbed, falling into Deacon’s embrace, “Oh, David!”

Deacon wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck.

“We’re having a baby, sweetheart!” He said. 

Nikki could do nothing except cry in David’s arms. She was exudingly happy, but her love life had been so nonexistent before David that she hadn’t given any thought to having children again - ever…. Much less having children with someone who loved her and took care of her. She could do nothing but cry for the sweet baby she lost and cry for the new baby she now had. 

“I know this baby is handpicked for you - for us by Dakota.” Deacon said to her.

#christina alonso #david kay #dominic luca #hondo harrelson #imagine #jay harrington #jim street #swat #swat cbs #david deacon kay #fanfiction #hondo #deacon #luca #tan #street #surprise #mama #dad #baby #love #daniel hondo harrelson

[heretyc]

I am in love with all of your Val content! I joined the Outlast fandom very late, which is especially unfortunate when my favs are Marta and Val, two underrated little rats. Do you have any spare Marta HCs laying around, perhaps? Maybe Val and Marta HCs about their relationship? This doesn't mean to be a request, more so a 'if you've got it, may I see it?' :)

[slams hands into table]

Anon. Baby. Babydoll. Baby baby BABY. Of course I do ;)

I 100% agree that both of them are underrated little ratta tooties and deserve a lot more attention. That tends to be a recurring theme with Red Barrels antagonists, unfortunately :( Like...come on. Y'all give Marta a badass looking weapon that can hold INCENSE [something I love irl, I ALWAYS have some on hand] and make her the worst antagonist to deal with on Nightmare/Insane, and you just...let her rot??? Nah. No. Never.

Red Barrels wasn't plentiful whatsoever with any backstories. Val was the chief deacon and Marta was Knoth's gal pal. This is all that's known. We are THIRSTY, RB. [I understand why, seeing as Outlast 2 was Blake's bitch, but still.]

Pre-Murkoff Marta 100% seems like a quiet woman who enjoys books and gardening when she isn't Knoth's guard dog, you feel? She'd love roses and cacti. Maybe she even hums to them. Flowers enjoy songs, you know.

If her garbs are at all reflective of her past, then she was a nun. She ain't got nun unless you've got buns, hun.

I wanna say they were civil beforehand. Friends? Maybe, sure. I can see that. Val tends to the children and Marta sticks to herself, though.

Going off of the assumption that Marta was a nun, she would be against sex before marriage. Post-Murkoff Val is her worst nightmare lmfao

This is 100% something that I've conjured, but I like to think that Knoth and Val were extremely close after Val became chief deacon, and this had made Marta jealous. When the whole Murkoff thing happens, Knoth worms his way into her head and lies about how important she is to him, simply because she didn't leave him after the whole orphan fiasco, and he wanted to take advantage of that. That, and because they were intimate. She's wrapped around his finger.

Remember the cut Val voicelines? The ones of them talking about how much Knoth had liked them more than he liked her? That's them trying to piss her off. She kills them out of anger, obviously

I can see Val trying to lure her over to their side, to be honest. She was just as wronged as Val, was.

She doubts Knoth sometimes. Doubts his words and doubts what she's supposed to do. She views her killings as sinful, and has to constantly reassure herself. If it wasn't for the fact that they go way back, I can see her attempt to stay out of it.

I'm just gonna say it: She deserved better. She sucks for even giving Knoth the time of day, and the murders, but in general...she was treated like dirt. Imagine this: One day your town becomes monstrous due to some towers that were spotted miles away, there's a plague, you're forced to murder citizens and old friends because your close friend thinks it's righteous, you're feared by everybody, you feel sinful, the chief deacon taunts the hell out of you and you eventually have to kill them, then you get impaled by a cross during a 'sotrm' while trying to get rid of the man who drove you batshit insane for hours. Fucking OUCH.

Get the girl a spa appointment, man. Hell, her and Val can go TOGETHER. Get matching manis.

I want Val and Marta to like each other Post-Murkoff, dammit. They can bond over things. Knoth's betrayal. Heavy metal crosses. Rosaries. Um...other things.

The Heretics are crafty. I like to think they make her custom incense if they ever became allies :)

[I hope these are a-okay for now...but now that you've mentioned Marta/Val..there are gears turning. And it's never too late to join a fandom! Welcome x]

#outlast #those cut voicelines were great #i wish they stayed #imagine hiding under a rock and you see marta and val going at it until marta eventually just kills val #would have been badass #red barrels whyyyy

[devouredher]

@wantcn cont. from here

Anna watched helplessly as her grandmother left the room without a single glance her way. She knew that the older woman had nothing to say in the matter of who became Deacon's next toy - the man had a right to choose and it was just his decision who it would be. But it would still be some kind of support if the woman offered an ounce of civility towards Anna. Instead, her grandmother pretended that she didn't even exist whenever she was being played with by Deacon. As if suddenly turned invisible. The brunette nodded her head in acknowledgement of his words, suddenly pried away from her musings about her grandmother and now once more focused on everything that was happening around her. TO HER. Anna whimpered quietly as the milking machine did not release its suction on her tenderly sore nipples, sucking on every last droplet of milk that her body produced until it'd be turned off, which did not seem to be approaching any time soon. The woman no longer put any mind to the toy in her ass, at this point already stretched and used to the constant gape of her tight and delicate hole, instead it was her pussy that was bothering her the most at the moment. The dildo sliding in and out of her, slick from Deacon's cum and Anna's juices. "Yes, grandpa." Anna nodded her head, trying to focus on what the man was telling her while all those things happened at once. "Where would you like to piss?" The brunette asked, the way she was taught to ask, offering the choice for the man to decide if he wanted her to drink it, paint her with the warm liquid or have her take it in her holes.

he figured he could have a break from his work. it has been a few hours since he has fucked anna. while she was nothing but a hole to him, he does care about his granddaughter. she was the most important person in his life. and he wanted to keep her satisfied, even if her only purpose in life was to be degraded in every way possible and to give him his future children. it has taken a few years for him to be able to get back to working after he started using anna's body. the first two years, he stepped back from his position at his complany because he had been so occupied at finally being able to fuck her that he never wanted to stop. but he eventually had to go back to work. though, he kept anna close by bringing her to work everyday with him. "you truly are the best slut out there, aren't you baby? how did grandpa get so lucky?" he let out a deep chuckle as he stood up from his chair. he positioned himself behind her, pushing her forward on the rocking chair she sat on. "think i'll use your ass for today." he roughly grabbed at her plump cheeks, squeezing it before giving her a harsh slap. "after we'll keep it all plugged up so you can feel even fuller. how's that sound, baby?" not like she had any other choice on the matter. deacon positioned his cock inches from the tunnel butt plug in her ass before shoving the tip inside. he cupped her face from behind, forcing her face to look back at him. "say thank you to grandpa for pissing in your ass." the smile on his face was never genuine in nature. always sinister even if he doesn't try. just like the times before, he didn't wait for her permission. he simply filled her up to the brim. a satisfied groan in his lips.

#wantcn #* thread: deacon #* deacon & anna

[theartistknownaslymond]

A playlist for Checkmate-era Philippa? x

mon chois et fait

A band AU playlist for Philippa pining over Francis. cf. Francis pining over Philippa, here

The final piece of the puzzle, if you will (young Philippa’s influences, Philippa’s musical evolution from DK through to RC)

Johnny Cash - Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes

Erasure - Ship of Fools

Elvis Costello - Deep Dark Truthful Mirror

Shelagh McDonald - Stargazer

Kate Bush - Never Be Mine

Deacon Blue - The World is Lit by Lightning

Queen - Scandal

Pet Shop Boys - I'm Not Scared

New Order - All the Way

Steeleye Span - Seagull

Clannad - Almost Seems (Too Late to Turn)

Donna Summer - Breakaway

Tracy Chapman - Crossroads

Anne Briggs - Go Your Way

Shelagh Mcdonald - Let No Man Steal Your Thyme

The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl - Fairytale of New York

Prince & the Revolution - When Doves Cry

Eurythmics - We Two Are One

Faceclaims: Ellie Kendrick and Patrick Wolf. Idk when or why, but I got it in my head that the music of 1989 was largely naff, but then I started digging and it turns out there are a lot of songs about the difficulty of being in the spotlight while going through private turmoil. So - I hope you all like pain!

1) Yes it’s Ben Jonson’s poem, but sung by Johnny Cash. Technically only released on a later album, but I’m going to assume there was precedent for him and others performing it live in this style - Paul Robeson made it a big hit too, but the guitar version here is more Philippa. It’s *probably* the best I can do for a band AU equivalent to ‘Tant que je vive’, for now, at least, and Philippa has been established to be a big fan of Johnny Cash already.

2) The title of this is also a bit of a Renaissance Easter egg, but the lyrics don’t seem to resemble the text known as the Ship of Fools. 1988/89 were the big years for Erasure, but Pippa will probably have got to know them earlier, when she was working with charities and protest groups in London - Andy Bell having been out and proud from the beginning. I close my eyes and I try to imagine What you're dreaming Why can't you see what you're doing to me? My world is spinning The lyrics also make reference to ‘the baby of the class’, which I think plays on Philippa’s worry that Francis doesn’t take her seriously because of her age, and Francis’ own determination to prove himself outside Richard’s shadow.

3) This album features on so many of my playlists, but it’s really got it all! Philippa is again established to be an Elvis Costello fan in the AU. This is one of the most lyrically obtuse on the album, and fits with Philippa being as reticent to admit what she really feels as Francis is. It’s weird and increasingly troubling, which I do think fits Philippa’s search for information about Francis’ past, and how deep in she gets. A stripping puppet on a liquid stick Gets into it pretty thick A butterfly drinks a turtle's tears But how do you know he really needs it? Because a butterfly feeds on a dead monkey's hand Jesus wept, he felt abandoned You're spellbound baby there's no doubting that Did you ever see a stare like a Persian cat?

4) Keeping her folk roots - under Austin’s influence, but this song (from a woman who disappeared on the cusp of stardom in the 1970s - she turned up about 30 years later explaining that she’d had the mother of all bad trips) doesn’t need much explaining. The lyrics fit Checkmate so well: He was a stargazer She asks what'll the future bring Mercury and Jupiter will bring you wealth and golden rings They have climbed the hill and watched the sun go down to rest He said: "Will you be my friend? I fear that there's nothing left to give, my Lady" She said: "Let's follow the sun behind the hill To where it's hiding." He was a stranger to her His father was a poet Lead her by the hand on the hill Touch the golden sunset How did feelings die, he's afraid to know Why did she have to lie She'd only stay until it's time for her to go She said take the sun in your hands, be glad For this is love you hold.

5) ANY opportunity to put one of my all time favouritest songs on a playlist! But genuinely, it’s all about the unrequited love, the pining, the thinking that the other person is better off without you... Very much a Philippa perspective on Francis and Catherine d’Albon. Plus she could play a cover with the Northumbrian pipes instead of the Uilean pipes :’) And this is where I want to be This is what I need This is where I want to be This is what I need This is where I want to be But I know that this will never be mine

6) It’s maybe more precisely how Francis feels about Philippa, but as with the other playlist for them, I think a certain degree of overlap is inevitable. This is one of Adam’s favourite bands, so Pippa’s bound to encounter their new release on the tour bus or at a party. So maybe you're standing In some foreign town You've walked for miles Till the heat slows you down And your jeans and your curls Are bleached and split And your money and your anger Are all used up Maybe I'm sorry About the light in this place Makes my heart seem cold As the words on these pages Maybe I'm reminded By a shop window display or a decoration Like some church candle that might just burn Dancing under chandeliers and I'm telling you Caught in the headlights and I'm yelling it at you Why is it girl when the world is lit by lightning That I keep telling you that I love you

7) This one is just. Aughh. Philippa is in the midst of a media storm now, it’s been brewing ever since she came back from Las Vegas married to Francis Crawford with an adopted (sure, the world says, ‘adopted’) child. She’s trying to make the world better, trying to work out what kind of career she wants/what kind of music is ‘hers’, and in the middle of it she’s realised she actually loves the man she’s married to, who hasn’t yet managed to divorce her, but is publicly dating a huge French star and is also plastered all over the papers...papers that doubtless have much to say about both their sexuality, too. And like, yeah, this was released in 1989, it was one of the biggest albums of the year. It's only a life to be Twisted and broken They'll see the heartache They'll see our love break, yeah They'll hear me pleading I'll say for God sakes Over and over and over And over again, yeah

8) Neil Tennant, a fellow Geordie who refuses to talk about his sexuality to the slavering mob? He’s also since emerged as a big backer of Labour (prior to the 2000s anyway) and is a trustee in Elton John’s AIDs foundation. So definitely another of Pippa’s Ringed Castle contacts. They probably bonded over their shared love of Elvis Costello’s protest songs. And then there’s the lyrics. I mean: What have you got to say of shadows in your past? I thought that if you paid, you'd keep them off our backs But I don't care, baby, I'm not scared What have you got to hide? Who will it compromise? Where do we have to be so I can laugh and you'll be free? I'd go anywhere, baby, I don't care I'm not scared

9) Another album likely nicked from Adam, though they were also buddies of Neil Tennant. One for Pippa learning to find her own way between the music she grew up with (that Austin insists she should foreground) and the world she’s been involved in in London. Probably a bit of a manifesto, trying to toughen herself up for life after the divorce: It don't take no Houdini To tell me what I am Parasites and literasites They'd burn me if they can But I don't give a damn About what those people say They pick you up and kick you out They hurt you every day It takes years to find the nerve To be apart from what you've done To find the truth inside yourself And not depend on anyone

10) So, this is the kind of...folk rock that the ‘80s got. Bouncy! It’s also not actually a folk song I can identify, I think it was written by the band. It can be interpreted in light of the triangles in Checkmate - Catherine/Francis/Philippa and Francis/Philippa/Austin, plus Philippa’s own mission to find out about Francis at all costs. Penny the hero, Penny the fool The gold watch she gave me I'll treasure They say that it's only a game after all Apart from the pain it's a pleasure Seagull, seagull, three three in a bed...

11) More ‘80s folk! Clannad and Enya were getting big at this point, but this particular album again has a lot of Francis/Philippa relevant feelings. I just put this track on though, for the obvious...trying to work out if a relationship is still possible after painful revelations and public separation. Ah, Austin has no idea why she’s listening to it so much! To you I saw the sad decline A rift become a storm Stayed so cold last night This lonely heart inside me says

Almost seems to late to turn What to do if I'm to learn Almost seems to late to turn

12) Despite the mid-’80s rumours that she was homophobic, Donna Summer seems to have spent quite a lot of time and effort (in 1989 no less) on refuting those rumours (true, on the level of ‘some of my best writers are gay!’). And she is, after all, Queen of Disco. But Pippa and Danny have to have something to belt out together on tour bus karaoke nights! But I don't think she can take it And just friendship can't replace it She'll be strong enough for two Although it's hard for her to do She'll breakaway Ooh, ooh, ooh she'll breakaway

13) Ahh, someone had to make folk music cool again <3 Tracy is a gorgeous guitarist and singer, just the kind of inspiration Philippa needs when she’s feeling a bit lost at this end of the decade. What’s that? Another artist who is constantly badgered about their sexuality and refuses to talk about it? A second album dealing with the loss of privacy that comes with fame? She played at an Amnesty International set in London in ‘88, I hope Philippa got the chance to hang out with her then :) All you folks think you own my life But you never made any sacrifice Demons they are on my trail I'm standing at the crossroads of the hell I look to the left I look to the right There're hands that grab me on every side

14) Now this one ain’t from the 1980s, but Annie’s been established as an influence on Philippa (and Kate) from the start, and it’s this kind of pared-back, folk-club-friendly stuff that Austin’s probably hoping to get her back into. Bert Jansch and others helped to make this song Annie wrote big, so for Philippa there’s a bittersweet side to the fact that this song, written by a woman, not a traditional tune, was only recognised as being important when men started playing it (side-eyeing Austiiiiinnn). But she’ll certainly put it in her sets if she thinks Francis is watching :’) Friends and strangers bring stories When asked where you might be Magic stories they have brought to me You go your way, my love

15) This is like...the quintessential folksong for lamenting giving up your virginity to some useless guy who only wanted that from you and nothing more. For when your thyme is past and gone He'll care no more for you, you For every place that your thyme was waste Will all spread o'er with rue, rue Will all spread o'er with rue For woman is a branchy tree And man a clinging vine, vine And from her branches carelessly He takes what he can find, find He takes what he can find

16) I know we’ve kind of reached a point where people think it’s basic to say this is the best Christmas song ever, but actually, it is. So there. It’s perfect. It does contain the f-slur yes, as Shane McGowan says, it’s part of the persona Kirsty is singing, though he has also said he’s quite happy for it to be cut when people play it now. And we’ve had Pogues and Kirsty on Pippa playlists/inspiration lists before, too. Anyway - I propose: Francis and Philippa singing this live together, both madly in love with each other, knowing how in love they are with each other, daily pretending to be indifferent to one another, now having to play at hate-loving each other, while the whole world watches going ‘wtf is going on here?!’ K: "I could have been someone" S: Well, so could anyone K: You took my dreams from me When I first found you S: I kept them with me, babe I put them with my own Can't make it all alone I've built my dreams around you

17) Couldn’t have a Pippa playlist without Prince :’) And yeah, the album’s earlier, but I’m not sure Batdance really fits the mood here, plus it complements Purple Rain on Francis’ playlist. How can you just leave me standing Alone in a world that's so cold? (So cold) Maybe I'm just too demanding Maybe I'm just like my father: too bold Maybe you're just like my mother She's never satisfied (She's never satisfied) Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like When doves cry

18) A big bluesy ballad to finish up! Annie Lennox is from the same cut as a lot of other artists here: she’s done a lot of activism and fundraising, played the Mandela charity set in ‘88 and has been a big supporter of LGBT+ rights since appearing in an early Eurythmics video with short-cropped hair and a suit on. Per Wikipedia: ‘Lennox was viewed as the female version of Boy George. They appeared together on the front cover of the British music magazine Smash Hits in December 1983 with the headline "Which one is the boy?".‘ Stay classy, British music press. People like us Are too messed up To live in solitude I'm gonna cure that problem, baby I'm gonna fix it good...

#character: philippa somerville #playlists: period-appropriate #ship: the open sea #character: francis crawford #band au: checkmate #ficspiration: lyrics

[some27-url]

I was tagged by @twosides--samecoin ! I have done this challenge before I think ? Maybe? But idk it's been a while and I am atrocious at tagging my posts appropriately so there's no way ill ever find it

I'm gonna tag @kittimau and @possumteeths :)

Rules: We would like to ask you to recommend us 3 of YOUR fics: 1 that is "most popular" and 2 that are "hidden gems”!

1) Illusions series (most popular)

{Rating : EXPLICIT} {Graphic Depictions of Violence} {Manipulation/Gaslighting} {Rough Sex} {Under Negotiated Kink} {ADHD} {PTSD} {Bodyguard Romance}

MacCready/f!sosu. What if the sole survivor hadn't seen Kellog kill her husband and steal her baby? And what if she was pursuing a master's in mechanical engineering at CIT when the bombs dropped and decided to try and build society from scratch instead if dealing with her grief? What if Mac took a job as her bodyguard and unintentionally caught feelings, and therefore near constant fear of history repeating itself as she whirlwinds her way through rebuilding the Commonwealth? And what if they both had ADHD?

Illusions was my first experience in writing fic, and the story just keeps going. Right now I'm thinking it'll be four parts (we're two parts in) but a couple months ago I was thinking 3. When I first started, I was thinking 100k max. 😭

I wrote this story with ADHD in mind, both for the characters and for my readers. I struggle to read for pleasure anymore due to a short attention span, so my writing style prioritizes a quick pace over descriptive prose. If you struggle to read for similar reasons and don't mind having to fill in some blanks yourself, this series might be a good fit for you!

2) Secure

{Rating : EXPLICIT} {Graphic Depictions of Violence} {Rape/Non-Con} {Consensual but not Safe or Sane} {Amnesia}

Craig Boone/f!courier. A Boone fic in which Boone fucks within the first 2k without sacrificing his devotion to Carla. They also fuck in all the other chapters. It's a 25k fuck and angst fest.

3) Tit for Tat

{Rating : EXPLICIT} {Graphic Depictions of Violence} {Blood and Gore} {Gore is Sexy} {Unhealthy Relationships} {Stalking} {Older Man/Younger Woman} {Oral Sex}

Deacon/f!Sosu. Deacon and Whisper swap favors. Whisper is convinced she's losing her partner. Deacon's determined to earn his prize.

The third in a non-sequential ongoing series about a Deacon and a Sosu who aren't involved with one another, because that would be unprofessional. They're really good at playing pretend, though, and the people they pretend to be are some real nasty fuckers.

#fallout 4 fanfiction #fallout 4 #writing #fo4 #rj maccready #leonora jean arnold #deacon #elanor blysse green #tag meme

[dez78]

It’s Just you and me

-----------------------------

Fandom: Fallout 4

Pairings: Sole Survivors Oc’s (Dennis x Destiny)

Rating: Adult 18+ 

Warnings: Smut

Summary: The sole survivors have a relaxing night after a stressful week

-----------------------------

I brushed out my hair, my robe wrapped around my body. My husband walked up and leaned on the bathroom doorway, his arms folded over one another and a fond smile on his lips.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” Dennis said softly to me, I looked up with a hint of a blush on my rosy cheeks. 

“Thank you.” I replied sheepishly, even though we had been married five years and had a child together, he still made me feel the butterflies. 

“Is there chance I can steal you away for an evening?” Dennis smirked confidently, I chuckled. 

“Where are you taking me, stud?” I questioned with a childish smile, 

“Your choice, we could go to the Tipsy Brahmin, The Diner, The Cat’s Paw, or we could take the sedan and go to Starlight.” Dennis gave me a few options. I thought for a while, thinking of which we haven’t been to in a while. 

“The Cat’s Paw.” I finally replied, Dennis smiled. 

“Deal.” He nodded, he kicked himself off the wall and went into the room, he had taken a shower that morning, so he didn’t need one at the moment. I finished brushing my hair, then I brushed my teeth, and put my makeup on.  

Dennis got dressed in a nicer outfit, it’s a faded black suit with a white shirt and ribbon in the shape of makeshift bow. He fixed his hair blindly, he sat on the bed and boot his shoes on, black dress shoes. 

“Baby, I’ll be in the living room!” Dennis called to me, once he was ready. 

“Okay, I’ll be out in a minute!” I called from the bathroom. Dennis walked out of the bedroom and shut the door behind him. I finished styling my hair, it was an evening style. I fluffed it and walked out. 

My bare feet smacked against the wood floor as I walked to my dresser. I opened it and dug through it, I looked at different dresses in the tall-body mirror. I wrinkled my nose at most of my choices. 

Finally, I picked up the white dress, I looked at it and nodded. I set it on the bed and took my robe off. I picked up the dress again and slipped it over my head, putting my arm through the hole of the only sleeve. 

I smooth out the wrinkles as I looked at myself in the mirror, I smiled at the way I looked. I twirled a bit and fixed any cricks in the dress. I sat on the bed and put the matching black and white heels on. 

I stood tall and got used to the heels, I walked over to the mirror and looked at myself one more time. I was satisfied with my look, so I headed out of the bedroom. Dennis looked up, his eyes lit up, like he was seeing me for the first time. 

“Wow, you’re stunning.” He said breathlessly, I bit my lip and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as I walked up to him. 

“You look sharp, yourself.” I complimented, he smiled and held out his hand, I took it, and he led me out of the house. We walked outside with our arms locked. It was night in Sanctuary City, it was still bustling, despite the late hours. Traders were still going about with their brahmins. 

The streetlights lit our way, we used the sidewalk like we used to in the prewar era, we had it repaired, so there was no more cracks or holes in it. 

-------------------------

We got to The Cat’s Paw, just a few moments later. We walked inside and noticed it was busy. The bartender was filling drinks and making food, most of the tables were full, a few people were on stage, a woman we knew as Olivia and a man named Otto. He played the piano while Olivia sang old world tunes. 

Dennis and I sat at one of the empty tables. We looked around and noticed some of our mutual friends inside. Like Piper, Deacon, Hancock, and MacCready. They weren’t sitting together, but they were present. 

The colorful lights set the mood. I sighed a long breath, 

“You okay?” Dennis asked, 

“Yeah, just nice to get out.” I replied with a smile, we haven’t gone out in a while and with everything that’s happened this week, it was nice to have a night off. 

“I’m going to get a drink and some food, what do you want?” Dennis questioned as he stood up, 

“A beer and a sting wing filet.” I replied quickly, Dennis nodded and kissed my hand before walking up to the counter. Hancock noticed him as well as Piper, they looked for me and headed towards me. 

I tapped my fingers on the table as I watched Olivia singing. She was a decent singer; I was impressed with her. 

“Hey sunshine.” Hancock said as he plopped down in Dennis’s seat, he took a swig of his beer. 

“Hey, Han. You get any ladies tonight?” I teased with a smirk, 

“Nah, Piper refused and your taken.” Hancock replied with a shrug, Piper rolled her eyes. 

“Find Cait, she’d sleep with you.” She snorted, I chuckled. 

“I mean unless your fella wants a little action with us, I can provide.” Hancock said in a flirty tone. I gave him my knowing look. 

“Oh Hancock, you’ve discovered out dark secret!” I cried dramatically. 

“Stop mocking me, a guy can try.” Hancock snorted, I laughed, 

“He’d so much as toss you over the wall than share me.” I smirked, 

“I bet you’d like to see that, huh?” Hancock grumbled. 

“Anyway!” Piper interrupted, 

“Blue, I was wondering if you’d be willing to sing tonight.” She said as she leaned on the table, she looked at me with batting eyes. I laughed, 

“I’ll think about it.” I replied, 

“I think everyone will agree that you can sing and would prefer to hear you.” Hancock commented as he took another swig of his beer. 

“Please Blue? We love your singing.” Piper was practically begging me now, 

“Oh, fine. I’m going to eat first.” I replied. Piper nodded, seeming satisfied with my answer, she dragged Hancock away, they back to their own tables. 

------------------------

Dennis came back with our drinks and food, he sat down, handing my plate and beer over to me. 

“Thank you.” I smiled as I picked up my fork and knife, 

“You’re welcome honey.” Dennis replied. 

We dug into our meals and drank our beers. There was a comfortable silence that fell between us, I moved my leg and started to rub Dennis’s calf with my foot, he looked up at me and smirked. 

I gave him my knowing smile, my brown eyes darted around the room to see if anyone was looking, when no one was, I lifted up my dress slightly and showed my husband quite the view. 

He choked on his drink, when he saw I wore nothing under. His blue eyes shot up to meet mine. I smirked at him and put my dress down, smoothing it out. Then I continued to eat, knowing what was going to come next. 

------------------------------

We finished our meal and drinks, before heading into the bathroom. The jazz was loud enough to drown out any other sounds. We walked into a stall and shut the door behind us. 

It was a tight fit, so Dennis sat on the toilet, I lifted my dress up over my hips and sat on his lap. He undid his pants and pulled out his cock for me, I licked my lips and sat down on him further. Feeling him slip inside my slick walls. 

I sighed getting used to his immensity, when he was fully sheathed inside me, I started to rock my hips, he bit his lip as he growled. He grabbed my hips and helped me ride him. 

When I thought I heard the door open, my head snapped to look, Dennis grabbed my jaw and made me look at him, his voice was drunk with lust and his eyes hazy, 

“Don’t worry baby, it’s just you and me.” He said breathlessly as he kissed me desperately, I returned his eager kisses. I bounced on his cock and felt myself unwinding, 

“God, your cock feels so good.” I hissed, resting my hands on his shoulders. 

“So does your pussy, so tight.” My husband growled as he kissed me again, his lips were wet from our constant hot kisses. He thrusted up into me, I felt him hit my sweet spot, I pinched my eyes shut. Huffing desperate breathes. 

“Don’t hold back sweetheart, let go for me.” Dennis said into my ear, I trembled as I felt the knot in my stomach coming loose, I let out long moans, my eyes closed as I rode my husband. 

He squeezed my ass and thrusted harder, I cried out finally and felt the knot come undone at once, my thighs shook as I coated his cock with my orgasm. 

“Good girl.” He said in a strained voice, he followed shortly afterward. He painted my contracting walls with his arousal. We rode out our orgasms slowly, enjoying the feeling of each other. 

-------------------------

When we finally came down from our highs, we cleaned up and went back out, like nothing had happened, but both of us had a glow and knowing smiles. Olivia had just finished her song and took a break; I took that opportunity to walk up onto the stage. 

I stood in front of the microphone and waiting for the stereo to start playing, once it started, I went with ‘Man Enough’ by Magnolia, Dennis smirked as he got another drink and enjoyed the show, knowing damn well, he was the man of the song tonight. 

#fallout4 #fallout sole survivor #fallout duel survivors #hancock fo4 #mayor hancock #piper wright #piper fo4 #sanctuary hills #nate x nora #husband and wife #established relationship #deacon fo4 #maccready fo4 #fallout 4 fanfic #my fanfic writing #cait fo4 #flirty hancock #man enough magnolia

[warriorteam1924]

Party

John Deacon & family

Author’s note : Hi my beauties. This is a very special celebration because we are celebrating John Deacon’s 70s birthday !! A big thanks to @deakysgurl ​ for the special event !! I really hope you enjoy it. Thanks in advance for the feedback  Also, I remind you English is not my mother tongue, sorry for the mistakes….

Warnings : none I think, a slight sexual innuendo at the end, nothing too bad

Prompt chosen : Dancing Queen

Summary : Deaky showing his dancing Queen skills

Words count : 1,284 words

Permanent tag list : @reavenedges-lies  @thosequeenboys  @born-to-lose  @orionis8689  @queenlover05 ​

John Deacon was a happy father of four and even if it wasn’t easy every day, he wouldn’t change his life for anyone else’s in the world. He had a sister so he knew what having siblings could be like. As far as he could see, and thankfully, Robert, Michael, Joshua and Laura were getting along very well. Of course, there were arguments, quarrels and sometimes a feeling of jealousy, but overall, brothers and sisters were truly united.

Also, when it came to birthdays, Veronica and John always made sure each one of their kids was treated fairly, but also with special attention. If one was allowed to have a party, the others could have one as well. As a result, at the Deacon’s, there were usually two parties. One celebration with family, including the grandparents, and then, a celebration with the child’s friends. This way, it was also easier to control everything.

The celebration with the family was more or less formal, with presents and a beautiful cake, with adults chatting while the children would be quietly playing in the living room. On the other hand, the party with friends was a truly different matter. Respect was the number one rule of course, but it was important to have a lot of fun.

It was Joshua’s big day this time. He was going to be 10 and it was a really important celebration. Being the youngest was not the easiest status for him. And being born in December wasn’t the best either. But John and Veronica made sure to make it work for him.

Robert was the oldest and already at uni so he was already on campus most of the time. They had found a nice compromise for Michael, suggesting he could visit his older brother and maybe find out more about his future higher studies. As for Laura, she was always surrounded by her brothers so she agreed at once to spend the afternoon at her best friend, making sure she could also spend the night there, enjoying some time between girls.

Everything was thus set up, and even if his parents would still be around, Joshua would have the house for him and his friends only, enjoying games and music and food and laughers.

In the middle of the afternoon, as the kids were still enjoying themselves in the living room, John was quietly sipping his tea in the kitchen, while Veronica was softly humming, adding the final touches to the birthday cake. Once it was ready, the two of them interrupted the party for Joshua to blow his candles and make a wish.

As husband and wife expected, the kids devoured their piece of cake, thanking their hostess all the same. Once back in the kitchen, John pulled up his sleeves and started to wash the dishes. After all, there was no task for a man or a woman, it just had to be done.

Ronnie came back soon after with the rest of the dishes, frowning.

“John. I think Joshua isn’t having much fun today.”, she sighed.

“Well, if it was sunny, they would have enjoyed the garden, but it’s raining cats and dogs”, John replied, complaining.

“I don’t know what to do. I really want him to enjoy his special day.”, Ronnie carried on, truly worried for their son. “And I don’t want to go and suggest something…. It’ll look like Joshua is still a baby and cannot handle his how party.”

John looked at his wife, frowning as well. There was surely something they could do to liven things up, without anyone noticing. Deaky considered his options and eventually came up with something.

He took his smart phone and quickly logged in. He rapidly found what he was looking for. He got closer to the kitchen door, making sure not to be seen, but attentively listening. There was now sound coming from the connected speakers.

“Let’s hope it’s going to work….”, Deaky whispered.

“John, what did you do?”, his wife anxiously asked.

“You’ll see.”, he replied with a wink.

Veronica frowned, a bit suspicious, now very curious about what was going on in the living room and hoping John hadn’t ruined it all for their son’s birthday party.

After the dishes were clean and put back in the cabinet, John suggested they could go back to check on the kids, pretending to be bringing more drinks. Ronnie agreed. They arrived in the living room where the music was still playing and both smiled at the scene for them.

The kids were all dancing their hearts out to the music that was playing. Still feigning to be cleaning the coffee table and putting more drinks on the table, Veronica got closer to the speaker and creased her eyes to see what her husband had been playing. A genuine smile appeared on her lips as she read the playlist’s name. Once they were done, the parents came back to the kitchen.

“You had a very nice idea, John.”, Ronnie said, smiling at him.

“When will you admit all the ideas I had are great?”, John joked.

“That’s funny you say that because, I think I recall your attempt to heat a sealed box full of tomato pastas in the microwave in the middle of the night wasn’t a resounding success….”, she grimaced.

“I was hungry and forgot to slightly open the box. But I cleaned it all….”, he reminded her.

“You did.”, she laughed, recalling the mess it was in the kitchen after the box had blown up in the microwave. “But your ‘Dancing Queen playlist’ was a very good idea.”, she carried on a bit more seriously.

“Mom, Dad !! Have you seen that?”, Joshua arrived unannounced in the kitchen. “This music is so great, we are all dancing like in a real party !!”

“That’s so cool !!”, Ronnie energetically replied.

“You got this buddy !!”, John said, and father and son high-fived.

“Thank you !!”, Joshua said before leaving the kitchen, heading back to the living room with his friends.

Husband and wife silently giggled, making sure not to be heard. They were glad this party didn’t turn into a complete disaster.

“I hope this playlist will be long enough….”, Ronnie pointed out.

“Don’t worry, it’s supposed to last for hours. They’ll be all asleep when it ends.”, John affirmed.

“Do you have other playlists?”, Veronica asked, curious.

“Of course….”, John replied, giving her his phone for her to check it out.

She looked at the screen and started to scroll through the names John had given the playlists. Some were very random, like ‘reading atmosphere’ or ‘to get to sleep’. Some others were not really surprising given they had been created by the musician, such as ‘bass inspiration’.

She carried on opening some playlists to check the song titles and thought about stealing some of them. She eventually reached out for the last one. She frowned and looked up, a smirk on her lips. John stared back at her, surprised.

“What?”, he asked.

She came closer to him and put her finger next to the playlist title, smiling.

“Oh….”, John heavily blushed, passing his hand in his hair. “Well…. Y’know….”, he stuttered.

“I want this one for our next romantic moment….”, she whispered to his ear.

“Okay….”, John replied, his mouth suddenly dry.

“And make sure it’s long enough, Mister Misfire.”, she winked at him.

John loudly swallowed, his cheeks getting even redder, if it was possible. He stared at the playlist and checked its length according to the songs he had chosen. He had to add more.

After all, with a playlist called ‘love to love’ and his wife by his sides, the longer also meant the better.

#warriorteam1924 writes #party #deakys70event2021 #happy70thdeaky #queen #john deacon #john deacon fanfiction #john deacon fanfic #john deacon fic #john deacon imagine #veronica tetzlaff

[prokaryotics]

- Lone Wanderer -

Pairing: Deacon (Fallout) x Amelia (OC) 

Rating: M - Eventual Explicit 

Summary: Deacon has a vested interest in our Sole Survivor. Or alternatively - Deacon’s attempt at remaining a distant observer doesn’t go as planned. 

A/N: hi this is v short but i’m excited to share it! many thanks to @masakoadachi who encouraged me to make an oc :’) & @satincowboys whose ‘vested interest’ in my dumb deacon ideas threw me back into the fallout fandom love y’all sm !

It is unbearably, mind numbingly cold. 

The kind of cold that makes it hard to breathe, and for a moment that seems like it stretches on forever, Amelia can’t. The muscles in her chest refuse to contract - her diaphragm pinned, her lungs empty, her entire body paralyzed and weak. There’s a bright whiteness in front of her. It’s piercing and sterile and she cannot tell if her eyes are open or shut. It’s all encompassing; all she can see, endless. If she could think, really think, she’d figure that this is what oxygen deprivation is - what it looks like, anyway. Nothing and something simultaneously, strangling her brain into an ivory extinction.

There’s a sudden rushing noise, like roaring water, and she realizes mercifully that what she’s hearing is the release of air in what had been a vacuum seal. When she finally inhales, it stings. Her lungs, unaccustomed to moving on their own, inflate in a series of wheezing and crackling movements. The back of her throat burns. Amelia coughs, hard and repetitively, so forcefully that it nearly makes her gag. It is at this moment that she notices that she can move and hear and see. Muffled through the door of her cryopod is the blunt, insistent breedle of the vault’s alarm system accompanied by a woman’s computerized voice. She is reiterating something, over and over, but nothing makes sense yet - her head filled only with fog and a primal, intense fear driving her to get out as quickly as she can. 

She is less than weak. Each movement is close to wading through wet cement, her arms filled with static as she pounds feebly at the glass until it opens. It rises with a hiss. Water drips from its sides and pools on the hallway floor. Everything is wet. Her skin, the walls, the other pods. The atmosphere feels semi-solid, murky - thick like a bog filled with weeds and she pushes through it slowly, fighting against an invisible tide. The announcement hasn’t stopped. 

CRITICAL FAILURE IN CRYOGENIC ARRAY. ALL VAULT RESIDENTS MUST VACATE IMMEDIATELY. 

It had all been a lie. This was never going to be what the representative had promised. He had been a nervous man hiding it poorly behind a chipper sales pitch and the desire for something - she couldn’t figure it out, too focused on what he was saying (and implying) to get the details, something meaningless and arbitrary that didn’t matter then, either. He was trained to speak fast and to stay positive. A smile never left his face. He got through more than half his speech before he realized he was at the wrong house. She was added to the list anyway. 

She falls and catches herself on her elbows with a sharp smack of soaked skin on concrete. Pain blooms in her wrists and races down her arms. She wills her legs to work, and use them to pick herself back up. She touches her chin and her fingers come away crimson with fresh blood. When she looks up, she is met with the thawing corpse of the veteran that lived across the street. He had a baby. A little boy with him around six months old. She had watched him die. 

Unease settles in her gut like a large rock jagged around the edges - serrated, causing her stomach to churn, acidic and volatile. She needs to leave this place. The beeping still hasn’t stopped. 

The building is a series of tunnels that open into rooms similar to the one she just left. None of the pods will open, and every single person within them is dead. The same digitized voice explains that there is a malfunction in the cryopod manual release override, leaving them all trapped within the devices, semi-frozen coffins. The door marked ‘exit-zone’ does not open, either, so she takes a right and heads down a set of stairs. The wall directly across from it is stained a rust color from the water - trails of burnt orange and brown slide down the concrete, following the drips of the burst pipes. On the window, directly adjacent, is a massive, shrill insect. 

Another hallway, another door. Her entire body trembles, clammy and freezing cold. A second bug, smaller than the last, is on the floor leading to a decrepit cafeteria. Weaponless, she freezes with her hands curled dumbly into fists. She’s never seen an insect this big. It almost doesn’t look real. To her  right is an aluminum folding chair that had been knocked onto its face. She glances at it, then back at the roach, unsure if she’ll be able to manage the weight. In the distance, quieter now, is the alarm. She can no longer hear the woman’s voice. The roach moves and she lunges for the chair. It takes flight, its massive wings buzzing. The noise is enough. She picks the furniture up, then smashes it down onto the bug blindly, over and over again until it squeals and stops moving. When Amelia stops, her entire body sways, faint with overexertion. The chair slips from her hand, and lands onto the ground with a sharp clank. She closes her eyes and sees dots, but she has not fallen. 

The recreational room is small. There are lunch tables in the center that had been brought together to form one, long seating area. In the left corner is a desk with a singular, blinking terminal on it. She is unable to count the amount of folding chairs. On the desk are four beer bottles and a ceramic coffee mug. Amelia presses a button on the keyboard. The computer awakens to a standard message from ROBCO Industries. She clicks the first link: OVERSEER MEMO. 

It is a useless reminder about rec area privileges for a game called Red Menace and for an instant in her fried, overstimulated and confused brain, Amelia is indescribably angry. Her lip curls back and she has to physically step away from the machine, her face hot and her eyes burning. She brings a pair of pale hands blue with hypothermia to her cheeks and takes a deep, shaking breath. 

“This can’t be happening…” She mutters to no one in particular, sounding foreign and far-off even to her own ears. “This can’t be real.” 

The second area is useless - filled with bunk-beds, lockers, and a set of wooden dressers. Amelia returns to the room with the dead bug and is hit with the smell of sharp ozone as the doors to the reactor core open. A line of sparking electricity dances on the floor every three seconds. There are more bugs. A skeleton is laying on its stomach and Amelia forces herself to move past it, refusing to acknowledge that at some point it was a fleshed out human being. Another hiss. Roaches, again. Amelia climbs the steps as they fly at her, registering dazed that she’s been bitten. 

A second desk, different from the one in the lunchroom, is filthy and covered in old blood. The rest of the room matches; toppled over shelves, oxygen tanks, clipboards, and boxes filled with files litter its surface. Behind the desk, on its back like it had fallen backwards from the chair next to it, is another skeleton lacking the other skeleton’s get-up, instead wearing a white shirt branded with the Vault-Tec logo.

There is a 10mm pistol and some ammunition on the desk and Amelia picks it up despite knowing nothing about how to use it. There’s a computer and this time when Amelia opens it, there are more entries. She skips all of them save for the last named ‘open evacuation tunnel.’ When she clicks it, the aperture slides open. 

Dozens of roaches line the hallway. Amelia considers counting the number of bullets in the clip, but does not know how to release it. She holds the weapon awkwardly as she pushes forward, aiming and shooting blindly. Three go down, others scatter from the noise. The rest follow her down corridors that start to fill with the sharp, sour scent of spent gunpowder until she reaches a lobby. With each kill she grows marginally more confident - her gaze steadier, her pace reassured in small increments until she is no longer shaking and her jaw no longer tight. 

There’s a third corpse, in a lab coat and dress pants that Amelia finds laying near the command console. Detached from the rest of the body is a pip-boy and she picks it up, shaking the bones from the wrist cuff. She fastens it to her own, then presses the small ‘on’ button. It’s bulky and uncomfortable. The screen flickers to life. It’s dirty, covered in two centuries worth of grime and dust, but she can make out the green animation of the company’s corporate mascot, Vault Boy. He gives her a thumbs up. She clicks through it until she finds the map. There’s nothing - not even a layout of the terrain is depicted. 

She toggles to another page. There is a small set of instructions explaining how the device works. Amelia glasses the control panel, then looks back at her wrist, and puts two and two together. 

This is her way out.

-

When the Sole Survivor finally leaves the vault, Deacon is half asleep hunched over crumbling planks of wood with a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. 

He’s had no way of knowing when or if it would happen, only a sneaking suspicion that it might. Desdemona’s been indulgent of this side project of his, but he knew that her tolerance for it had been waning as their efforts against the Institute seriously started to pick up speed. Soon, she probably would have asked him to abandon the thing entirely. “It’s never going to happen, Deacon,” she would have said. “Let it go. You’re needed elsewhere.” 

So this? This is an interesting development. 

He would have missed it if it weren’t for the obnoxiously loud grating of the vault doors opening. Sitting for the last two and a half days in a rickety desk chair he pilfered from a nearby surveillance trailer hasn’t been great for his back and neither has looking down the scope of a rifle, pinging bloatflies. Deacon got tired quickly, decided to rest his eyes. He’s got to hand it to Vault-Tec, they knew how to build things that last. 

Deacon picks his head up and grabs his binoculars. He settles them on a blue and yellow jumpsuit. “Peek-a-Boo, Wanderer. We’ll be seeing each other very soon.”

#fallout 4 #fo4 #deacon x sole survivor #deacon x oc #deacon x original character #deacon x amelia #deacon (fallout) #deacon (fallout 4) #deacon fallout #deacon fallout 4

[forever-rogue]

Halloween Decorations

A/N: Enjoy a little requested drabble (requested by @shantyf99)! Also, while not totally necessary, I couldn’t help but picture this as Javier and Reader from A Good Man in the future 🥺💕

Prompt: “There’s blood on your shirt.” “Oh, babe, don’t worry, it’s not mine. I’m not hurt.”

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Warnings: this basically mentions PTSD without naming. Not much, but its in there, just so you’re aware.

»»————-　♡　————-««

“Daddy!” Javier was almost bowled by the little girl clinging onto his legs. Immediately he dropped his briefcase in order to scoop her up and hold her in his arms. She beamed at him, an almost carbon copy of him, down to the dark eyes and curls, save for the softness in her features that he swore were from you.

“Hi mi alma,” he kissed her chubby little cheeks as she giggled and wrapped her small arms around his cheek. She was the definition of a daddy’s girl, something that had surprised Javier immensely when she was younger, but something that he had grown to adore, “how are you? Were you good for your Mama today?”

“Mhmm,” she nodded eagerly, her dark curls bouncing wildly, “we baked cookies and brownies and put the ‘ween decorations!”

“'ween decorations?” he repeated as he picked up the discarded briefcase and tried to figure out what she was talking about. But then he looked around the yard and noticed that it was looked entirely different than it had when he’d left for morning. Gone was the quiet suburban front yard that fit in the quaint Texas neighborhood, and in was a spooky mess of skulls, bones, and tombstones, “ahh, Halloween.”

“That’s what I said Daddy,” she insisted firmly, sighing heavily at him, a funny little habit she definitely inherited from you, “the 'ween decorations! Mama said I did a good job. Its my favorite holiday! We get all sorts of candy!”

“Just like your Mama,” he snorted as he observed a particularly gruesome skeleton. He barely got the door open before Deacon, followed by his senior compatriot Stevie, made their way to the door to greet Javier. The dogs sniffed up and down, making sure ther no other dogs had gotten attention whilst they didn’t.

He gently set Lucia on the ground before sitting down and greeting the dogs, offering them the best pets and scratches.

“Javi?” your voice called out to him and he felt all the stress and worry from his day lift from his shoulders, “is that you, my love?”

“Be right there!” he called back to you before slowly standing up, offering the dogs one final pet for the moment, “Lucita, why don’t you take the boys out back and play with them for a little bit? Judging by the smell, dinner will be ready soon.”

“Okay Daddy,” she beamed at him, suddenly taking her task from him very seriously. She marched towards the patio doors, dogs, who were loyal and protective over her, following close behind. He left out a soft sigh, feeling so much warmth and love in his chest. Some days he was sure that none of this was real, that he couldn’t possibly deserve any of this. But then he’d come home and you’d kiss him and tell him you loved him or he’d roll over in bed and you’d still be in his arms, or Lucia would come and find him when she’d had a bad dream. And then he knew - this was all very much real. He’d done something right in his life, something that had brought you to him, and in turn created this wonderful life for him. He never thought he was a good man, a worthy man, but you always reminded him that he was.

“I’m in the bathroom,” you called to him as you heard his footsteps approaching. You were currently under the sink, a wrench in one hand and almost hidden the cabinet underneath the sink. It had sprung a leak earlier and instead of calling a plumber or handyman, you’d taken it upon yourself to fix it.

“Hey baby,” he said softly as he walked in and started to loosen his tie. He made a small sound of amusement when he spied you on the floor, tinkering away etc the faucet, “you realize we can afford a plumber?”

“Yes,” you held the wrench and waved it at him, “but I am a very capable woman. And I wanted to prove to myself I could fix it.”

“You are the most capable of women. One of the many things I love about you,” he promised as he tossed the tie off and started to unbutton his shirt. He looked back at you and that’s when his heart stopped. His mouth opened and closed a few times as he stared at the red spot on your shirt, covering a decent amount of the white shirt you were sporting.

Blood.

His vision started to get hazy as he tried to keep calm and not panic.

“Javi?”

“There’s blood on your shirt,” he managed to stammer out as he sank to his knees next to you. This had to be his worst nightmare; it was often the stuff that made up the few nightmares that he experienced now and then. He’d seen that same wound plenty of times in the past, the past he had buried and left behind in Colombia, long before he met you. But no; this couldn’t be happening to you, “there’s blood…”

“What?” you asked as you crawled out from under the sink, looking around for what he was talking about. It was then you realized - your shirt was covered in faux blood from your earlier exploits in decorating the house. Lucia and the dogs had kept you so busy, and then the fiasco with the sink happened, and you’d never gotten the chance to change your shirt. Javi was pale as you scooted over to him, taking his face in your hands as you shook your head, “oh babe, don’t worry, it’s not mine. I’m not hurt.”

He tried to even his breathing as he realized you didn’t appear to be in pain, and you weren’t panicked in the slightest. He nodded slowly as you held him closely, “whats it from?”

“Its fake,” you promised, “from decorating earlier. I swear. Its okay, Javier. I’m right here, baby.”

As if to prove your point further and keep him from worrying, you stripped off your shirt and tossed it to the side. His dark eyes scanned your frame and he was relieved when he could see no injuries, “thank God. I don’t know what…I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I am,” you promised, nuzzling your face against his and pressing a soft kiss to his nose, “its okay, Javier. I’ve got you. Nothing will ever happen to you, or me, or Lucia.”

“I love you,” he said softly as he started to calm down. He let you hold him as you hummed softly under you breath, murmuring soft words of love and reassurance in his ear, “I’m sorry…I panicked.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you whispered, “you’ve been through so much, Javier. Sometimes these things happen. But you have nothing to be sorry for, or amashed of. Yes?”

“Yes,” he agreed quietly as he wrapped his arms around you, “I love you. Con todo.”

“And I love you to the moon and to Saturn,” you murmured as you buried your face in his chest, “we’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” he echoed, “well, if it means anything, you’ve got some amazing decorations and a great costume idea.”

“I told you I was going all out this year,” you laughed, “its our first year here and I want to go all out.”

“That you did,” he agreed, “the real question is though, did you want to get the sink fixed.”

“Umm,” you admitted sheepishly, “perhaps I might need some help after all. Know any good, sexy, mustached plumbers?”

“Hmm,” he mused as he pressed a kiss to you, “I just might. Let me see what I can do.”

“Deal,” you agreed as you slowly stood up and offered him your hand, “in the meantime I’ll go and finish dinner. I even made your favorite for dessert. Well, yours and Lucia’s. You’ll have to play nice and share.”

“Anything for my girls,” he promised, his heart softening and lulling again as he realized that this was reality. It was his life and nothing, no more bad things, would come to it. Not to you, him, or Lucia. He deserved his own happy ending - and this was it.

“I love you, Javier.”

“And I you,” he agreed, “do me a favor?”

“Hmm?”

“Pick any shirt but the bloodied one.”

“Deal,” you promised, “anything for you, mi amor, Javicito.”

#Javier peña #javier peña x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #narcos #requests #a good man universe? 👀 #i like to think so 🥰💕

[queen-hospitality]

Radiant Glow / Finest Hour

John walked into the auditorium to the introduction from I Want To Break Free.

He waved to the crowd as he went, and he shook hands with the emcee before sitting in the plush armchair at the centre of the studio floor.

"John, it's wonderful to have you on the show. Thanks for coming in. You know, we've been inundated with requests for years so we thought it was high time we did something about it and brought you on."

"Yes, well – ought to give the people what they want, I suppose."

"Quite. Well if you're ready, let's get started. Studio audience, you know what to do..."

There was a rustle and rumble of movement as everyone in the crowd put on the pair of sunglasses they'd been handed on the way in.

The emcee handed John some sunglasses too, before putting on a snazzy pair of his own and looking down camera 2.

A drumroll started. Everyone turned their attention to the huge screen above their heads. The emcee cleared his throat.

"Here we go then! For the first time tonight... John Deacon... This Is Your Smile!"

The crowd erupted into "ooh" and "ahhs" of rapture at the photo displayed on the screen and the riff from Misfire blasted out of the speakers triumphantly.

The sounds of appreciation grew and grew. An elderly couple in the front row clasped one another's hands, shaking their heads in wonder. A woman held her baby aloft to bask in the glow from the screen. A grown man had torn off his own shirt and was now sobbing freely.

A recorded voice came from the speakers, "please do not remove your protective glasses."

Someone had started a chant.

"John! John! John! John!" the auditorium rung with joyous shouts.

"Please do not remove your protective glasses."

"John! John! John! John!"

It felt like the stage and the stadium walls were shaking and humming.

The emcee caught John's eye and winked. "You're doing it again."

"Hm?"

"John, come on, this is the third time this week."

"Wha–"

"John. John. John!"

"Oh shitting hell, I'm getting the water."

John opened his eyes just in time to see Roger launching the contents of a beaker at him.

"Singing in your sleep again, Deaks," said Brian grimly.

Freddie chucked a hand towel to John from across the aisle before settling back into his seat and crossing his arms, grumbling, "Veronica is a bloody saint, I'm telling you."

A/N: I can't sleep because my arm hurts from the vaccine (I'm now in the second dose club 🎉) but I must've been drifting off and starting to dream because I did not ask for this. I have no idea where it came from. I promise I am working on a serious contribution to @deakysgurl 's event too.

#deakys70event2021 #queen fanfiction #is this crack? #idk #mine #queen fic #john deacon fic #i might put this on ao3 in the morning if I'm not too embarrassed once I've had some sleep

[pedros-mustache-main]

crayons & caresses

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

word count: 12k+

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

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

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

september, 1981.

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

his name is beau deacon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you didn’t speak with his father?”

“no. was i have supposed to?”

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

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

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

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

he shakes his head.

“none with your father?”

another shake of the head.

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

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

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

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

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

“taylor auto-repair. this is rog.”

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

“hello?”

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

“deacon? like john deacon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i’ll be sure to.”

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

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

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

still...

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

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

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

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

nearly four. someone’s been forgotten.

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

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

it’s beau deacon.

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

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

he shrugs. “dunno.”

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

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

no one answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s confident when he’s helping.

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

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

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

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

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

maybe... maybe you’ve overstepped your—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh, i don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“absolutely not, mr. deacon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what do you say, [y/n]?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

“i know. beau was excited this morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes.”

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

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

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

“i’m happy to do it, john.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

all the sooner to get back to you.

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

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

but, by god, you were listening. 

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

all the sooner to get back to you.

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

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

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

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

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

“what?”

“there’s nothing in the fridge.”

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

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

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

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

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

“mama, mama, stop!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you’d better,” john mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

how can you say no?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh yes, of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“your friends are nice,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

“yes, and you’re a good teacher.” 

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

“a good teacher and a good person.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

you grin. “well.”

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

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

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

he doesn’t call you. 

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

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

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

it has to or you’ll go crazy.

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

your thoughts are elsewhere. always on john.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“well, i don’t know. i’ve got to—”

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

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

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

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

“fucking hurry!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

beau only groans in response.

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

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

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

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

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

“but... what if i die like her too?”

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

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

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

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

“my tummy.”

“what’s your tummy feel like?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“well?”

“did you get ahold of john?”

“no, the fucker.”

“we’ll have to go pick him up then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes—i’m looking for john deacon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what are you waiting for? go!”

you don’t need to be told twice.

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

“go! i’ll park the car.”

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

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

you shrug. “forgot shoes.”

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

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

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

“he’s going to be okay, john.”

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

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

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

you look up, meet his eyes.

“i didn’t call you,” he says.

“no, you didn’t.”

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

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

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

“no, john, don’t be silly. i’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your shoulders drop, as does your jaw.

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

“john...”

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

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

“you want to know something?” you ask.

“what?”

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

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

“me too. we can be rusty together.”

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

“i can carry it.”

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

“mr. deacon?”

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

“beau’s ready to see you now.”

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

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

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

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

[queenofthefullmoon]

An exhaustive list of Dark Souls 3 bosses I would or would not date

Iudex/Champion Gundyr

We’re starting off this list with a strong yes. Our boy Gundyr has had a hard, difficult life, and he deserves some good company. He’s tall, strong, and I trust him to protect us as we set a lovely camp site outside of the fire link shrine.

Vordt of the Boreal Valley

Vordt is big and he is feral which are truly the only two qualities I look for in a man. Together we’d be unstoppable. I mean, think about how easy it would be to go around with him: just climb on his back and let the rodeo begin, baby. This argument alone should be enough to convince you that Vordt is a suitable boyfriend, but here’s another one: if you get too hot in the summer, worry fucking not for your gigantic man can hold his equally gigantic hammer over you and cover you with snow like an italian man covering his pasta with parmesan.

Cursed Rotted Greatwood

Now while I’m certain it would be a perfect partner for some people, the Cursed Rotted Greatwood isn’t for me. For one, I am not fan of curses, or rot, or weird sticky balls, or strange orange acid, or pale white and slightly viscous hands bursting through a living tree. Secondly, I feel like the crowd of Hollows who group up around the tree would be a big impediment to our intimacy, and I’m not ready to be the mother of 20 Hollows.

Crystal Sage

No offense but you’d be an idiot for not wanting to date the Crystal Sage. All wrapped up in one package, you get a super competent sorcerer bf, who wears the coolest hat in the galaxy and an equally cool cape, and who overall looks like the upgraded version of a plague doctor. In addition to that he also has a pretty rapier so you can both engage in some sparring (which we all know is the most romantic couple activity).

Deacons of the Deep

Probably one of the worst options on the list, they’re all crusty, rotting men moaning around a biggass coffin. There are many technical questions. If I dated a deacon, would I have to date all of them? Can we go out on dates or are they obligated to stay next to the coffin at all times? Can I even date them at all?? Not that I would, because I have standards. The only pro to entering this relationship(s?) would be that I’d probably get one of their robes for free, but the cons are so numerous that I’d rather buy it myself.

Abyss Watchers

Let’s be real and honest even if it hurts. Would I date an Abyss Watcher? Yes. Maybe I’d even date two. However, would an Abyss Watcher date me? No, because they’re all in love with Artorias, and I can’t blame them for that.

Old Demon King

At first I considered dating the Old Demon King like a Russian Instagram model dates an old, rich American man: with a great deal of fake love but above all great patience in order to be the only person on the will. But then I thought about it more, and what does the Old Demon King have to offer, really? A big firework show that will leave him exhausted like the old creature he is, and maybe some pyromancies. Truly, it is not worth it, especially since I’d have to take residence where he lives, in a big old room filled with the corpses of his kin.

High Lord Wolnir

I’ve got nothing against Wolnir personally, but I have no interest in skeletons, nor in his army of skeleton children. As stated above I’m not ready to be a mother. I feel like if we got in an argument and he sighed, he would poison me with his awful breath and I would die a horrible death. Also, living on the brink of the Abyss doesn’t appeal to me that much. However I would like Wolnir to be a good friend I can talk jewelry with because let’s be honest, the man (skeleton?) is blinged the fuck out even in death and I respect that.

Yhorm the Giant

Yes, I would date Yhorm. He was nothing but a sweet, misunderstood giant who always tried to get people to trust him and he convinced me. I would put my life in his big hands. Think of the possibilities. Just like with Vordt he could carry you everywhere but in a less reckless way if you prefer proper manners. You’d never have to worry about not seeing anything at a concert. Also, may I add that waiting for you to show up while sitting on his biggass throne is an absolute power move? Yhorm is a Lord of Cinder, but above all, a Lord of this heart.

Pontiff Sulyvahn

Would I date him because of his appealing aesthetic? Yes. Would I date him for anything else? No. Sulyvahn is absolutely terrifying, completely unhinged in the most frightening way, which is that he doesn’t look bat shit crazy. I could be thinking that everything is going well in our relationship then suddenly he’d lock me in a dungeon then would feed me to his weird friend because I put a fork in the knife drawer. He could pretend to propose and give me a weird fucked up ring with his eye in it and the next thing I know I’d be running in a field on all fours. I don’t trust like that.

Aldritch, Devourer of Gods

I’m so sad about Aldritch because literally everything about him is completely unappealing, unacceptable, unnatural, unholy, abhorrent, but he has the delicate and beautiful face of Gwyndolin. While our lovely Gwyndolin looks gorgeous as ever it doesn’t make up for the fact that Aldritch devoured people and probably wouldn’t find love to be a good reason to not eat his partner. The only reason I can find to have a friendship (not even a romantic relationship) with him is if you really like experimenting with cooking and you really, really need someone to taste your inventions.

Dancer of the Boreal Valley

I feel attraction, which means that just like any other being who feels attraction, I would date the Dancer. She is beautiful, graceful, a bit feral, and would not hesitate to put a flaming knife to my throat, which is the description of my dream woman. Imagine walking the streets with her, trying to hold her hand while it dangles 3 feet above you and she insists on holding her sword, actually, so she might slay anyone who tries to approach you, which she communicates through icy breaths and murmurs. The date of a lifetime.

Oceiros, the Consumed King

Another awful choice on this list, Oceiros is RABID and also, as far as we know, still a married man. You really want to date a man that hasn’t even gone through his divorce but already looks like this? Me neither. I’m already not big on dragon fucking but the fact that he’s all viscous and has weird growths all over him is not helping. Also, he has children, and we know how I feel about that — although, given how he treats them, he probably won’t have kids very soon (too far?).

Ancient Wyvern

So I’ve stated that I’m not very big on dragon fucking. With that said, do I think the wyvern is sexy and beautiful? Absolutely so. You’re probably like « Blue you’re sending mixed signals, are you gonna date the lizard or not? » and to that I say, date? Perhaps not. I would however like to form a lifelong bond with this wonderful force of nature and fight by its side, live a long and fulfilling life travelling along with it, only to die at the same time atop the tallest mountain in the world, where our skeletons will be discovers hundreds of years in the future by brave explorers, who will confirm that the legendary songs that were written about us were in fact not just a myth.

Nameless King

You’ve just read what I said about the wyvern. I feel like the Nameless King really understands me and would respect me for that. We could bond over our love of dragons and other flying scaly beasts and perhaps share some chaste kisses while soaring the sky on our companions. It’s nice to date someone who loves pets as much as you. I feel like he would be a fun guy to hang around in general, maybe he’d let you braid his hair or try on his crown. He can arrange personalized fireworks shows for you with his lightning powers. I don’t think you’d ever be bored around him.  

Dragonslayer Armor

Dating an empty suit of armor has never bothered me (see: ds2 Ruin Sentinels), however I have beef with the dragonslayer armor. Is it a beautiful armor? Perhaps a bit worn off, but the reply remains affirmative. However, it is controlled by Pilgrim Butterflies, which basically means I’m dating one to multiple of these things in the shape of an armor, and I’ve gotta confess that I’m not down for that.

Lorian Older Prince and Lothric Younger Prince

Here comes the delicate moment where we have to make a choice without offending anyone. I personally, speaking for myself, in my own opinion, would rather date Lorian. Reason: he is big, strong, and a bit rabid, which I’ve made very clear is my type. I don’t dislike Lothric, but I feel like we’d be better off as best friends who have a really snarky group chat where we shit talk the entire kingdom. That’s pretty good because if I even just slightly disliked Lothric I’m pretty sure Lorian would sense it and would not hesitate to murder me on sight.

Champion’s Gravetender and Champion Greatwolf

Well the full name is just a formality here, I’m not completely insane so I don’t want to date this rabid wolf. I feel like the Champion’s Gravetender is just a normal dude who’s a bit in over his head and it’s not his fault but he just seems a bit boring compared to all my other options. Instead of a date I think he’d be more of an awkward flirt I had when I was bored and then I came to my senses but didn’t know how to disengage, but in the end it worked out because he was more interested in his work anyway.

Sister Friede and Father Ariandel

Again a choice has to be made and I will have to be predictable and say I’d date Elfriede. Just like Dancer she’s what the woman of my dreams is made of. She’s graceful and could easily take my life and I think it’s awfully sexy of her to be like that. I think I’d be accepted into the family pretty easily, which is important since Father Ariandel cares about Friede so much. I’d go visit him sometimes, play chess with him, bring him his flail, normal interactions with your girlfriend’s dad.

Soul of Cinder

I’m gonna be a tiny bit freaky here and say I’d date the Soul of Cinder. Dating it is just like opening a Kinder Surprise egg, you never know what you’re gonna get (sorry Americans for excluding you here). That makes life exciting and doesn’t let routine stall your relationship. Every day you can wake up with the question « What weapon will my darling walk around with today? The flaming sword, or the sorcery staff? » and be surprised by the answer. Truly ideal, but I understand it’s not for the faint of heart.

Demon Prince

I’m gonna go with a maaaaaaybeeeee? leaning towards no. I mean yes, the Demon Prince is a weird fleshy flaming demon, and that may be a bit gross, but I’ve gotta admit I admire his style, the drama of it all. The care he puts into his entrance, the attitude in his moves. If we don’t date I’d at least want to be friends so he can teach me his ways.

Darkeater Midir

I have very intense and contradictory feelings towards Midir. In one hand, holy shit, absolutely epic dragon, the spirit of companionship is growing in me. On the other hand, this beast is RABID and pretending I could tame him is foolish, and pretentious. I guess in the end the answer remains that I don’t date dragons, I just want to adopt them as my extremely exotic pets.

Halflight, Spear of the Church

Yeah I’d date Halflight, I know it’s the easy answer but look at him. I mean shit he’s walking around like a little thotty with his shirt open and you mean to tell me I’m not supposed to wanna date him because he looks pretty much like a regular dude? My boy Halflight WANTS me to date him or else he would not show up with his tiddies out to a sword fight, which as an activity already has enough erotic implications on its own.

Slave Knight Gael

I’m gonna say it unashamedly and I’ll say it again: I would date Gael. He’s been nothing but helpful and when he tries to attack you it’s to help his little lady that he’s adopted as his niece. We love a chaotic parental figure. Maybe he’s a tad bit old and dirty but there’s nothing a good bath can’t fix and I’m sure he’d appreciate having someone taking care of him for once. Again, he’s got that slightly unhinged quality to him that makes him delightful. When I walk around with my partner I want us to instill both fear and fascination in people which we would be able to accomplish perfectly well.

Dark Souls 1: Remastered date list // Dark Souls 2: Scholar of the First Sin date list

#long post #dark souls 3 #ds3 #dark souls #soulsborne #iundex gundyr #champion gundyr #vordt of the boreal valley #cursed rotted greatwood #crystal sage #deacons of the deep #abyss watchers #old demon king #high lord wolnir #yhorm the giant #pontiff sulyvahn #aldritch #dancer of the boreal valley #oceiros #consumed king #ancient wyvern #nameless king #dragonslayer armor #lorian #lothric #sister friede #father ariendel #soul of cinder #demon prince #darkeater midir

[fallout-drabbles-n-stuff]

Romanced Companions Caring For F!SoSu While They’re On Their Period

Cait:

Knows the pains of the certain time of the month and tries her best to help you out.

Offers you some strong liquor and maybe some med-x occasionally to help numb the pain.

She gets angrier during her time of the month so she understands if you do too and becomes more tolerant if you lash out at her.

Ummmmm...period cramps have a fun trick that helps soothe the pain. Ever heard of orgasm relief? Well she has and she has found that it makes all the difference so she is more than happy to help you out. After all, as a fighter she isn’t worried about getting a little bloody.

Curie:

She always knew about the menstruel cycle and what it entails but..she didn’t really comprehend how bad it was until she got one herself after being transferred into her synth body.

After that whole fiasco, she becomes extremely concerned with your well being as soon as you tell her what’s going on.

As silly as it sounds, she actually charts it out months in advance and tries to prepare for the both of you. Might be kind of gross but she thinks it’s sweet if you both sync up.

Thank goodness she actually has some medical background.

Danse:

He has little to no idea on what to do, but he wouldn’t dare leave himself ignorant for long. Sure, he’s had plenty of women under his charge but he didn’t know any of them intimately as he did you. Haylen would’ve been the closest but she kept all that “period” talk to herself and soldiered through.

He hates seeing you in pain, especially if it’s something he can’t do anything about. However he’ll badger Captain Cade for pain relievers until he finds something that makes you feel better.

It’ll probably be gross as hell but he’ll swipe you some of the field ration candy bars after he learns that chocolate usually makes cramps feel better.

More than anything, he’ll be there for you to cuddle for as long as you want. And yes..as strange as it is, he’ll make sure to put in for an official temporary leave of duty for the both of you so he can be there for you and you can rest up.

Deacon:

Asks Glory and Desdemona what they’d want their significant other to do for them during their time of the month...which resulted in him getting a glare and questioned.

He’ll do his level best to satisfy your cravings if you have them, knowing just the right spots in the ‘wealth to score some halfway decent grub.

Probably the worst idea he ever had but he often times ask Tinker Tom for help...instead of the actual doctor..poor Carington.

Gage:

If you happen to be the kind that gets pissy, he’ll know to back tf off. Come on, he’s been in close work with Nisha..and that’s not a woman that you want to piss off even on a good day.

Because of his experience with these kinds of things, he’s shockingly empathetic.

Makes comments about how “badass” you are for being able to bleed out so much and still hold your own in combat and lead the parks.

Once he discovers that orgasms can significantly reduce pain...expect to be “bedridden” for a while until you feel better.

Hancock:

Period pains? Say no more, Sunshine. He’s got you covered. Be it meds, foods, or sex- he’ll give his all to you.

Macready:

Given the fact that he was married before, he knows the ins and outs of period pains and how to help out.

Though he might moan and bitch about it later, he’ll happily do the mundane chores around your shared abode to keep you happy.

If your pain is really bad, he’ll physically stop you from trying to go out and about the wealth. Look, he loves you so much, but you aren’t about to go walking miles all while trying not to double over in pain.

Maxson:

Okay..he’s a 20 year old man who likely can recite and teach the most intricate of military tactics and know little to nothing about the female body and what goes on during “that time”

However, if you take out the time to let him know what’s going on and how it affects you- he’ll be receptive and considerate to what’s going on. Just tell him what to do and he’ll do it.

He can’t exactly take leave of his duties every day so instead, he’ll perhaps leave you his beautiful coat so you get the feel of cuddling with him even when he’s on duty and away. (The only time Maxson is seen without that coat on deck..)

Is lowkey kind of freaked out that you can bleed out like that without passing out.

Nick:

Really sweet...but then again, he usually is anyways so why would you expect any different?

Somehow manages to provide you with a heating pack to help the pain.

Is the type of boyfriend that is unashamed to buy you tampons and does so like a boss.

Old Longfellow:

He’s an old man, so he is a little rusty when it comes to romantic care in this respect.

Will some booze suffice? Helps him feel better when he gets shot so surely it should do something to help you out...right? He sure hopes so because that’s his go to, sweetheart.

Preston:

Those settlements can wait for now.

He takes your comfort and well being very seriously, especially in times like this where those two aspects can actually be altered. So you so much as say that your back is aching and he’ll tell you to sit your ass down and give you a sweet massage.

Might even be a little annoying with it, but he will baby you. Nothing too extreme, but he might offer to feed you or just other peculiar act of services in general.

Piper:

Also happens to own a uterus and experience the hell of a period, so she knows what’s up.

The house is stocked with power noodles just for this type of event.

Offers to just stay in for the duration for your cycle even if it is a little absurd. Shit, she usually does for her’s so she doesn’t get why youre laughing when she proposes it.

Come on, blue. Flat Nuka-Cola, some Power Noodles, and a typewriter never been so alluring. Give in.

Sturges:

He tries his best to stay on his toes, not wanting to piss you off in anyway shape or form. So, for once..he won’t walk into the house with his Grady gloves and dirty boots messing the place up.

Honestly wishes that he could just make it go away for you....well, at least in a way that wouldn’t result in you getting pregnant..............unless...

X6-88:

“Can’t you just remove your uterus? We have a plethora of surgeons back at the Institue that would be able to competently go through with the procedure and eliminate this pain.”

#fallout 4 #fo4 companions #paladin danse #fallout companions #fallout #elder maxson #danse #porter gage #curie #arthur maxson #cait #deacon #hancock #x6 88 #macready #piper wright #brotherhood of steel #nick valentine #fo4 #preston