#john deacon wearing rings

[packedwithpackards]

Chapter VII: The family of John and Lydia

This is the 9th in a series of articles which serializes my family history, which I wrote in November 2017, titled "From Samuel to Cyrus: A fresh look at the History of the Packard Family." Minor corrections. Below is the 7th chapter of that history:

Like the families of Zaccheus and Sarah, Samuel and Elizabeth, general histories start one with the bare framework of their lives and story. This chapter aims to expand that understanding.

John Packard was born in Bridgewater in 1695, reportedly on October 8. He was the eighth child born to Zaccheus and Sarah. He married, at a date not known, a woman named Lydia Thomson (not Thompson as some sources assert), born in Halifax, Massachusetts in April 1703, the daughter of Abigail Wadsworth and Jacob Thomson. [135]  She would outlive John by 48 years, dying on March 15, 1786, while he died on June 3, 1738, which will be discussed later in this chapter. He would buy land within Bridgewater, in 1711 or 1712 from one “Elizabeth Packard” and a tract called West Lands, which was near James Packard’s land, from John Snell in May 1719. [136]

John and Lydia had six children. Their first child was Lydia Packard, who was claimed to be born on December 27, 1726 and marrying Jesse Edson on March 26, 1754, but the gravestone of Jesse Edson’s wife shows a woman named Lydia Titus, not Packard, and throws her whole story into question. [137] Hence, nothing else can be determined about her, not even if she bought or was granted any tracts of land which are within the land records of Massachusetts which show a “Lydia Packard.”

Their second child was Abel Packard. Born in 1729, reportedly on September 8, married a woman named Esther Porter in either 1750 or 1751, likely in Abington, Massachusetts. [138] They would have four children: Adam (1758-1810), Lydia (1760-1836), Theophilus D. (1769-1835), and Abigail (1779-1781). Sometime between 1729 and 1775, Abel, Esther, and their children would move to Cummington, Massachusetts, where he would live until his death in 1804. Between 1775 and 1780, nine town meetings would be held at Abel’s house, where he, an ensign in the local militia, would often serve as a moderator. [139] At the March 6, 1780 meeting, at his house, he would be elected as a “hog reave,” the same meeting that Deacon Barnabas Packard would be chosen as a selectman, and a Lt. John Packard would be chosen to sit on the committee of correspondence. A hog reeve or hog reave was an officer/sheriff who had the duty of preventing or appraising damage by pigs (or hogs) running wild through a town, impounding such animals. [140]

Rules in many New England towns at the time required hogs to wear collars around their necks and have “rings in their noses,” to reduce the damage they would cause to gardens and crops, with punishments for not controlling such animals. If an animal got loose and became “a nuisance in the community,” then those people assigned hog reeve (there were five others also elected at the same time as Abel) would be tasked with “capturing the animal and performing the necessary chore for the owner.” [141] The owner would then be charged a small fee for this service since the hog reeve rounded up these stray animals, giving them to the pound keeper who fed them until they were “claimed by the owner, who paid set fees.” Furthermore, such individuals may have even called upon fellow inhabitants to aid them in “seizing and securing all swine going at large” which were causing trouble. [142]

Abel may have been chosen since those elected to this position were based on the marriage date of a man, so their economic status would be close to that of a town at-large. It was a “favorite jest” to appoint a newly married man to the position. Today, this position is called “field driver” in Massachusetts. Such offices, like surveyor of highways, which helped maintain and care for routes in a town, and hog reeve, were jobs within the town which were given without compensation. [143] Such civil positions had originally appeared in England but were later used in New England, showing that they were still tied back to the “mother county” in some way or another even as some of those in the colony worked to break away. As the years passed, town meetings continued to be held at his house. He would have such meetings at his house from 1780 until 1784.

At the March 6 meeting, a “Lt. John Packard” would be added to committee of correspondence and Barnabas would be elected as a selectman. Those in the latter position were magistrates “annually elected by the freeman of a town or township in New England, to superintend and manage in the affairs and government of the town.” There was usually no more than five individuals, almost acting like city council members, per town. [144] In later years, at town meetings, Barnabas Packard would be appointed to a committee talking with military generals, with other meetings acknowledging the land he owned within the town. It would not be until March 5, 1781 that he would be elected to a civil position, again to be a hog reeve. [145]

On December 26, 1781, a death likely sent ripples through Abel and Esther’s family. Their 2-year-old daughter, Abigail, had died. Her gravestone would read that she died at the age of 2 years, 6 months, and five days. [146] Abel and Esther would not have any more children after the death of Abigail. Two years later, on March 10, 1783, he would be elected to two civil positions. He would be chosen as a hog reeve and pound keeper. [147] At the same meeting, Barnabas would be chosen as a “fence viewer” and Noah Packard as a "tithingsman,” who owns land in the town. A fence viewer was a person who was “responsible for inspecting each resident's allotted portion of the common fence and any particular [individual] plots to see that regulations were followed” but was not a surveyor or was concerned with location of a property line but tried to resolve neighborly disputes. [148]

As for a tithingmen or tithingsman, they had the duty of seizing liquor sold without a license, present any person or persons who engaged in “debauchery, irrelgion, prophaness, & atheisme...or idleness...or rude practises of any sort.” A pound keeper, also called a pounder, was a person “responsible for maintaining the district or town animal pound” and was also the person who the hog reeve turned over the runaway pigs to. [149] This person would also feed rounded up animals until an owner claims them and pays a fee for the animals’ care while in the pound. In this case since Abel was the pound keeper and hog constable, he had a greater responsibility but also an easier one since he was the occupant of two civil positions which worked together on the same goal. In later years he would be chosen as hog constable (same as hog reeve), and Barnabas would be chosen as a warden. [150] The pigs within New England were likely vicious and would require several individuals to keep them under control. You could call such hog reeves a form of 18th century (and also 19th century) animal control but only within certain townships.

Coming back to Abel, there is little more to say about his life. On August 23, 1784, he had 12 pounds, 11 shillings, 9 pence on hand. [151] Nothing else is known. While his death date on March 4, 1804 is known, no more of his life can be determined. Hence, there is a 20-year gap in which no original records exist. Even so, it is reasonable to say that Abel remained a farmer in Cummington. It is possible he was related a man named Abel Packard, Jr. who was reportedly married on September 20, 1783 to Polly Brisbee. [152] This man would serve as a selectman off and on from 1786 to 1795, serve as a town clerk from 1796 to 1802, sometimes serving as a moderator of town meetings. Even so, he never had much money on hand, especially in the 1790s. [153] He would also be on a list of voters, like Abel Packard, in 1797, and would be one of the 5 Packard households living in Cummington in 1790.

The third child of John and Lydia was Abiah Packard. This person was born, reportedly on August 5, 1731, and may have married Solomon Jay in 1784, although this cannot be confirmed. [154] Little about their life is known. While an Abiah bought land from a “David Packard” which sat on Beaver Brook and was westerly from the land of Zaccheus Packard, this man is the son of David.  [155] The same year, this David Packard sold numerous tracts of lands to other Packards in Bridgewater. The rest of their life is not known. A man with the same name was a drunken laborer engaged in “excessive drinking” and had an illness, throwing his family into “suffering circumstances.” [156] Considering his drunkenness, its no surprise his estate was taken away! This man, described as an “intemperate person” had Abel Kingman, likely a relative, made as his guardian from March 1818 until July 1827, at least. [157]

Saying he was intemperate is being too nice. He was likely boisterous and hostile to his family, friends, and all those close to him. is Furthermore, his estate began to be sold off. This Abel received permission to sell off parts of the estate, which included possessions such as real estate, a house, a looking glass, plates, cookery, wooden ware, tin ware, iron ware, two tables, two chests, books, baskets, wearing apparel, 2 beds, and pewter cups, very little by Packard family standards, while other Packards administered his estate. [158] It seems that this man is the same as Abiah Packard who was the third child of John and Lydia. However, nothing confirms or denies that this is the same person.

Hence, nothing else is known about their life. The fourth child of John and Lydia was Abigail Packard. Some say that she was born on October 8, 1733 and married a man named George Packard (what is the relation?) on May 15, 1766. Certain records give the same information as was noted by some genealogists, but it cannot be confirmed or denied if the dates are correct. There is also a probate for a woman named Abigail Packard in 1774 (case no. 15028), but she is the wife of Zachariah Packard, who was discussed earlier. There is also an Abigail Packard who was born in 1735 but her mother and father are not the same. [159]

The fifth child of John and Lydia was John Packard II. Born on November 6, 1735, he married Sarah Hammond in 1763 and Hannah Vinson sometime in the autumn of 1774. [160] He was reportedly a Deacon of Bridgewater’s Church of Christ from 1792 until his death in 1807. It is evident that his mother, Lydia, granted him 17 acres of land on May 31, 1758. [161] Due to the number of John Packards, it cannot be determined if any of the other land records apply to him or to another John Packard. He likely served in the Revolutionary War. [162] Furthermore, census information shows a Lt John Packard living in Plainfield. This man is undoubtedly the same as John Packard II and was living with his wife and family as noted on the 1790 and 1800 censuses. [163] On July 28, 1806, he wrote his will. He mentioned his son John (executor of will), daughters Rachel and Rebecca, along with grandchildren, but not his wife Hannah since she was dead by this point. [164]

The sixth child of John and Lydia was Barnabas (or Barnabus) Packard I. While some say he was born in 1737, it is clear he was born in 1738, by using the information from his gravestone, but his exact birth day of March 3 cannot be verified. [165] His family will be the focus of the next chapter of this book, which will further add to the Packard’s family story.

The story ends with John Packard and Lydia. Some say that John built the first grist mill in North Bridgewater, operating it until his death. Dying on June 3, 1738, he was 43 years old. [166] Only a few months after his death, on September 22, his wife, Lydia, became the administrator of the estate in a bond signed by James and Abiel, who were John’s brothers undoubtedly. [167] Even though she was an administrator of the estate, she reportedly moved with her sons Abel and Barnabas to Cummington, Massachusetts, possibly for better farmland, while John Packard II moved to Plainfield. As some put it, she lived to an on old age, maintaining “close ties with her children,” dying at the age of 86. [168] There is little left to finish the story of John and Lydia’s family. While there is less information than the last chapter, there are many stories to tell. [169]

Notes

[135] See the Find A Grave entries for John Packard, Lydia Thomson, Abigail Wadsworth, and Jacob Tomson.

[136] Agreement between John and Elizabeth Packard, Mar. 7, 1711/1712, Massachusetts Land Records, Plymouth, Deeds vol 21-22, p. 119-120, image 383 of 495; Agreement between John Packard and John Snell, May 15, 1719, Massachusetts Land Records, Plymouth, Deeds vol 15-17, p. 99, images 577 and 578 of 709.

[137] See the Find A Grave entries for Lydia Titus Edson, Jesse Edson, and Joseph Edson. The land records referred here to in the next sentence: book 32, p. 199; book 33, p. 154; and book 39, p. 44.

[138] See the Find A Grave entries for Abel Packard, Esther Porter, Adam Packard, Lydia Packard, Theophilius D. Packard, and Abigail Packard. Massachusetts, Marriages says he married Esther Porter on Jan. 24, 1750 in Abington, while another source says it was in 1751. The Massachusetts Town and Vital Records says he died on Mar. 4, 1804.

[139] Town Records, Hampshire, Cummington, Massachusetts Town Clerk, Vital and Town Records, p. 35, 38-47, images 25, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31 of 162. As noted in Helen H. Foster and William W. Streeter’s Only One Cummington: A Book in Two Parts (Cummington, MA: William W. Streeter, 1974), Deacon Packard was given the liberty to create a forge in Cummington, and it was later called the "great Cummington Forge" (p. 255), there is also a lawsuit by original proprietor of Cummington, Abel Packard against the proprietors of plantation number five in Cummington; lawsuit in Oct. 1791, he won over 26 pounds from the court (p. 424), and notes how Barnabas Packard built an "early American colonial brick house" in the late 18th century or early 19th century (sometime between 1795 and 1821) (p. 348).

[140]  John Russell Bartlett, Dictionary of Americanisms: A Glossary of Words and Phrases Usually Regarded as Peculiar to the United States (Fourth Edition, Boston: Little Brown and Company, 1889), 289. This position which existed in New England and was used throughout the 18th and 19th centuries.

[141] “Description of Official Positions Held By The Inhabitants of Winnisimmet, Rumney Marsh and Pullen Point when still a part of Boston and after separation to become the Town of Chelsea,” Our Lady of Grace Parish, Chelsea, Everett, MA, 2007, accessed July 9, 2017. This is a good summary of what a hog reeve is.

[142] “An Act to authorize the appointment of Hog Reeves in certain Districts in this Island, and to prevent the going at large of Swine in the same,” Apr. 3, 1865, Chapter XV, The Acts of the General Assembly of Prince Edward Island from 1863 to 1868, Vol. III (Charlottetown: D. Laird, 1868), 112-114; Sy Montgomery, The Good Good Pig: The Extraordinary Life of Christopher Hogwood (New York: Random House, 2007), 46; Douglas I. Hodgkin, Frontier to Industrial City: Lewiston Town Politics 1768-1863 (US: Just Write Books, 2008), 46, 187; Alice Morse Earle, Home Life in Colonial Days (New York: Macmillan Company, 1898), 402-403; Richard Kollen, Lexington: From Liberty's Birthplace to Progressive Suburb (Charleston, SC: Arcadia Publishing, 2004), 18

[143] “Duties of field driver; taking up untended animals,” General Laws, Part I, Title VII, Chapter 49, Section 24, The General Court of the Commonwealth of MA, 2017; “Description of Official Positions Held By The Inhabitants of Winnisimmet, Rumney Marsh & Pullen Point when still a part of Boston & after separation to become the Town of Chelsea,” Our Lady of Grace Parish, Chelsea, Everett, MA, 2007, accessed July 9, 2017; Alvin Rabushka, Taxation in Colonial America (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008), 171; Anne Reiber DeWindt & Edwin Brezette DeWindt, Ramsey: The Lives of an English Fenland Town, 1200–1600 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University Press, 2006), 106. One book says that hog reeve was “for the unfortunate few.” Other positions incl constable and fence viewer.

[144] John Russell Bartlett, Dictionary of Americanisms: A Glossary of Words and Phrases Usually Regarded as Peculiar to the United States (Fourth Edition, Boston: Little Brown and Company, 1889), 569.

[145] Town Records, Hampshire, Cummington, Massachusetts Town Clerk, Vital and Town Records, p. 46-49, 52-53, 56-61, images 31, 32, 34, 36, 37, 38 of 162. This also supports the sentence saying he had meetings in his house from 1780 to 1784. This makes him an important person in the community.

[146] Massachusetts, Town and Vital Records, 1620-1988; gravestone of Abigail Packard. Also see “Deaths of Packards” on the Mills Family Tree and within pages 286 and 287 of Cummington’s town records. This record also lists the deaths of a widow Lydia Packard on Mar. 15, 1789, a Philo Packard (son of Adam and Abigail Packard) on Aug. 8, 1791, Abel Packard on March 4, 1804, Adam Packard on July 21, 1810, Esther Packard (Abel’s wife) on May 29, 1812, Sarah Packard (wife of Barnabas) on Apr. 2, 1813, Deacon Barnabas Packard on Mar. 4, 1824, and many other Packards. This is used as a source for the death of many Packards, other than their Find A Grave entries, just as an important note.

[147] Town Records, Hampshire, Cummington, MA Town Clerk, Vital and Town Records, p. 68-69, image 42 of 162.

[148] “Description of Official Positions Held By The Inhabitants of Winnisimmet, Rumney Marsh and Pullen Point when still a part of Boston and after separation to become the Town of Chelsea,” Our Lady of Grace Parish, Chelsea, Everett, MA, 2007, accessed July 9, 2017. Solving neighborly disputes means they were mediators in a sense.

[149] Ibid; John Gould, There Goes Maine! (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1990), 1244

[150] Town Records, Hampshire, Cummington, Massachusetts Town Clerk, Vital and Town Records, p. 72, image 44 of 162; Rev. William M. Beauchamp, “History of the Town of Pompey,” Past and Present of Syracuse and Onondaga County (NY: S. J. Clarke Publishing Co., 1908), 407-415. Courtesy of RootsWeb; William Richard Cutter, “Genealogical & Family History of Northern, NY” (US: Lewis Historical Publishing Company, Inc., 1910), 546-550. Courtesy of the New York Genealogy Project; Edward Miller and Frederic P. Wells, Chapter XI, History of Ryegate, Vermont (St. Johnsbury, VT: The Caledonian Company, 1913); David R. Brigham, “Painting Stories in the Land,” Common Place, Vol. 1, no. 3, March 2001. Accessed July 9, 2017; Nellie, “Enoch Lawrence - Early Colonist (52 Ancestors, week 15),” Nellie’s Basket, personal blogpost, Apr. 16, 2014. Accessed July 9, 2017; John Russell Bartlett, Dictionary of Americanisms: A Glossary of Words and Phrases Usually Regarded as Peculiar to the United States (Fourth Edition, Boston: Little Brown and Company, 1889), 139-140, 739. A hog constable is same as hog reeve, an “an officer of considerable responsibility” and one of the “lesser offices that entailed maintaining order among his townsmen.” A warden was a town officer “with similar privileges and jurisdiction within his town” that justices of peace have within their town. Also, at an April 1783 meeting , Deacon Packard, among others, were allowed to build a forge within town limits (the Packard family file at the Cummington Historical Museum says he was given permission to set up "Great Cummington Forge" in 1783 when town population was 851). The term hog constable is an interesting one since constables are town and city officers of peace. It is not known if this incorporates into the title of hog constable or not.

[151] Town Records, Hampshire, Cummington, Massachusetts Town Clerk, Vital and Town Records, p. 43, image 29 of 162; William W. Streeter and Daphne H. Morris, The Vital Records of Cummington, Massachusetts 1762-1900 (Cummington, MA: William W. Streeter, 1979), 214.

[152] Town Records, Hampshire, Cummington, Massachusetts Town Clerk, Vital and Town Records, p. 94-117, 122-123, 126-133, 136-139, 148-151, 154-155, 160-161, 164-165, 170-183, 186-193, 252, images 55, 56, 57,58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 69, 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 77, 82, 83, 85, 88, 90, 93, 94, 95, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 134 of 162.

[153] Town Records, Hampshire, Cummington, Massachusetts Town Clerk, Vital and Town Records, p. 140-141, 148-149, 152-153, 158-159, 297, images 78, 82, 84, 87, 156 of 162; RootsWeb, “Cummington, Hampshire County, MA 1790 Census Sorted By Head of Household,” accessed July 9, 2017. Packard, Abel Ens.; Packard, Abel Jr.; Packard, Barnabas; Packard, George; Packard, George Jr. are listed on the 1790 census.

[154] Town Records 1762-1860, Hampshire, Cummington, Massachusetts Town Clerk, Vital and Town Records, 1626-2001, p. 251, image 133 of 162, courtesy of Family Search; In a Packard Family History it is implied that Abiah was female, saying that this person married Edward Southworth on Dec. 15, 1750. However, this seems to be another fact mix-up as Abiah may have been male. While the birth of Abiah cannot be proven, many other Packards can be proven using this.

[155] Land Agreement between Abiah Packard and David Packard, Jan. 4, 1754, Massachusetts Land Records, Plymouth, Deeds vol 43, p. 196, images 429, 430, and 431 of 610.

[156] Estate of Abiah Packard, 1818, Case no. 15025, Massachusetts, Plymouth County, Probate Estate Files, 1686-1915, Plymouth, Case no 15016-15077, Overton, Sarah-Packard, Emma L., image 143 of 1563, courtesy of Family Search.

[157] Ibid, images 145, 152, 154, 156, and 158 of 1563.

[158] Ibid, images 140, 147, 149, and 150 of 1563.

[159] Find A Grave entry for Abigail Packard Perkins.

[160] Massachusetts, Town Marriage Records notes the marriage of John to Sarah Hammond in 1763. Massachusetts, Town and Vital Records, 1620-1988 notes John’s birth, death, and marriage to Sarah on Mar. 16, 1763. It also notes his marriage to Hannah Vinson on 3 Sep 1774 or Oct. 12 1774. The Massachusetts, Town and Vital Records, 1620-1988 notes his birth, death, and 1774 marriage. Massachusetts Marriages notes his marriage to Sarah Hammond and to Hannah Vinson. Family Data Collection - Marriages notes his marriage in 1763. Also see the Find A Grave entries for Deacon John Packard,  Hannah Vinson, and Sarah Hammond.

[161] Land Grant by Lydia Packard to her son John Packard, May 31, 1758, Plymouth, Deeds vol 48-49, Massachusetts Land Records, p. 35, image 46 of 582. The church likely does not stand today even with the large number of churches in the town. There is a John Packard who bought eight acres of land from the Reynolds family but this is the husband of a person named Lydia Packard (not out Lydia), putting all of the other entries into question, as it cannot be confirmed this is the same John Packard. The same applies for land records within book 51, specifically pages 183 and 195- 196

[162] A John Packard was a captain in David Brewer's MA regiment, 1775-1776, but this record notes a 22-year-old John Packard enlisting but our John Packard would have been older.

[163] The 1800 Federal Census notes the following breakdown of people in his household: one man 16-25, one man over 45, one woman age 10-15, one woman age 16-25, one woman over age 45. In 1790, it lists a Lt John Packard with the following in his household: one man under age 16, 2 men over age 16, and three women.

[164] Will of John Packard II, July 28, 1806, probate records vol 25-26 1807-1810, p. 63-64, images 77 and 78 of 683.

[165] Gravestone of Barnabas Packard.

[166] Gravestone of John Packard. Massachusetts, Town Death Records, 1620-1850 confirms he died in 1738.

[167] Probate of John Packard of Bridgewater, 1738, Case no. 15113, Massachusetts, Plymouth County, Probate Estate Files, image 511 of 1362. There is an entry for an administration bond for John Packard in 1741 but it is not known if this is the same person as John Packard who died in 1738.

[168] Gravestone of Lydia Tomson Packard. Some say that the family reportedly lived near Packard Bridge was “hotly contested in the revolutionary war” with Pope’s Bridge near its current location. Neither bridge can be found on a search of the area. While the story seems plausible, nothing can support this assertion that is currently known. Mitchell’s history of Bridgewater claims that the bridge was also called Pope’s Bridge and Jennings’ Bridge but this cannot be confirmed.

[169] Only One Cummington records Adam Packard as Justice of Peace, noting how a militiaman who failed to show up for training in 1809 (p. 425), and displays map of Cummington in 1831 (p. 188-189). This “local history volume” is helpful for anyone who wants to learn more about the town.

Note: This was originally posted on August 17, 2018 on the main Packed with Packards WordPress blog (it can also be found on the Wayback Machine here). My research is still ongoing, so some conclusions in this piece may change in the future.

© 2018-2022 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

[gotboredwrote]

Rings // JRD

Pairing: John Richard Deacon x Fem!Reader Word Count: 4.9K Style: One-Shot (prompt: “you can keep it.”) Warnings: Fluff (ahhh so much of it toward the end), one sexual implication in joke form Summary: Y/N is the groundskeeper at Ridge Farm and mainly keeps to herself, despite the loud presence the Queen boys present themselves with. When her usual organized demeanor falters lightly, one of the boys is there to help her get back in check. Permanent Author’s Note: To clarify, I write because I get bored. Nothing is meant to be professional in any way, nor is meant to offend, cause anxiety, cause anger, cause sadness, or promote disagreement among readers in any sort of (semi)permanent way. A/N: I finally had a day off from work, and I really wanted to write, but I had no inspiration whatsoever. So, thanks to the lovely @love-me-a-good-prompt (I don’t know your name otherwise I would give you that credit, too, hon!) and their amazing lists of writing prompts, I found the one I want to use for today! Not sure if you ever read the stories that are written inspired by your prompts, but if you do, I hope you enjoy! Didn’t carefully proofread.

Masterlist

~

Typically, you were never one to mind if someone needed to rent out your farm house for any reason. The extra money was always helpful, and you typically got to meet some interesting characters. You had gotten a call about a semi-small group needing to rent out the space for an entire month and you lightly buzzed with enthusiasm. The money would be fantastic this time around, and having more than one or two people use the lodge meant that you just might be able to get some help around your house and keeping up with the landscaping. The person who called you told you his name was James Beach, and that he was in the music industry. He would not be joining the people coming to stay with you, but he was able to give you all the information you needed regarding your new tenants. He started with their names, and then proceeded to summarize them with one jarring sentence.

“The four make up an up-and-coming band named Queen, and they want to record an album up there. Is that alright?”

~

A band, huh? That was a new one. You had gotten everything from vacationers not wanting to spend fortunes on a hotel to honeymooners, to even that one time you had someone hiding from the law. But you never really talked about that – it makes you a little scared for your own safety. But that is beside the point. A band had never stumbled their way to your little farm, and you accepted Mr. Beach’s offer without even thinking about asking him if they would be bringing everything they needed. Typically, you never really had to provide anything for your guests, except the actual house they stayed in. Naturally, all these thoughts cascading through your mind evoked some panic, so you decided to call Mr. Beach back to ask him a bunch of questions that you had not asked originally.

Ring… ring…

“James Beach, how can I help you?”

“Mr. Beach? Hi again, this is uh, Y/N Y/L/N from Ridge Farm.”

“Oh, Ms. Y/N! I didn’t expect to hear from you again. What do I owe the pleasure?”

“Well, actually, I was doing some thinking about the group that will be coming to stay with me.”

“You’re not retracting the offer, are you?”

“Oh gosh, no, sir! I just normally only have to ask a few questions over the phone, but I’ve never actually had a band stay over before. I just had a couple other questions I wanted to run by you before their arrival to make sure I’m as prepared as possible. I know you must be a busy man, what working with rock stars and pop stars, and the like, but would you happen to have a few minutes now for me to ask a few things?”

“Ask away, my dear. My next client isn’t in for almost an hour.”

“Wonderful. Um, so I know the date the band is arriving, and I wrote down that there are four members. Is there anything specific I should know about any of them?”

“Well, Freddie is basically a drama queen that lives for the local gossip and a fancy cocktail. Mimosa in the morning kind of guy. John is shy and reserved, and if you give him cheese on toast and a pack of cigarettes, he should be content. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Brian is reserved and intellectual, but isn’t afraid to argue right back with someone if they need someone to defend them. Roger is a loud mouth, but harmless nonetheless. Might attempt to make you swoon for him, so just pay attention to him. He wouldn’t hurt you, just watch his antics. He’d also be happy with a carton of cigs. Is that okay for a basic introduction?”

“That’s perfect, Mr. Beach. Um, moving on. I have enough bedrooms and space for them, and I always keep food and drinks on hand, so I’ll make sure to buy John some cheese and bread. But one thing I don’t know is what they need for their music. I assume they’ll be bringing their own instruments and stuff, right?”

“Correct.”

“So, they are aware that this isn’t an actual studio, right? Like, I’m out in the middle of the countryside with minimal amenities. Just the necessities. I only have one space I can think of that they could use a recording studio.”

“Whatever it is you have will work for them, trust me. They’re an eclectic bunch. Be ready for some bickering, love.”

Jim was a very kind soul, and if the boys he managed were anything like him, you felt that you were going to have no trouble with them. You had a few other small things on your mind that you ran by him and got answers that suited your needs. After the phone call, you looked at the notes you had jotted down, ending on the date that the boys were scheduled to arrive. You only had two days to get what they needed, but that was plenty of time. You just had to remember a handful of things; clean up the basement and make up the boy’s rooms, buy some cigarettes for those that wanted them, and pick up some fresh cheese and bread from the market for John.

~

One thing you had forgotten to ask Jim was what time the boys were slated to arrive, so you made it a point to get up early with your chickens and hens like usual, and stay on the property all day. You had a peaceful breakfast on your porch, watching your chickens interact with one another, calmed by the quiet clucks they made. Most people found them annoying, and always made it a point to scream at you about it in some way despite the fact that you warn all potential guests about them. You, however, took comfort in having another living thing around. Your family all lived in town, and there was no significant other in your life. But you were always happy. None of it mattered. You always got to see your family when you travelled into town, but they respected your choice to remain on the property full-time. The rest of your morning and all of your afternoon was spent mindlessly cleaning or daydreaming at different spots on the farm, not really thinking about the possibility of chaos entering onto the property any minute. You walked inside, ready to prepare yourself a quiet dinner. As soon as you set your pan on your stove-top, the all-familiar sound of tires on dirt in the background over the quiet hum of your radio. Another thing to make you feel less alone when there were no other tenants on the property, a gift from your parents. Making your way through your porch door and down onto the grass, you saw the van parked in a spot it made for itself and you saw four men climb out of the back while the driver turned off the car. You walked half the distance between the houses and the car and paused until they were turned in your direction to greet them.

“Evening, gentlemen! You have impeccable timing – I was just about to cook dinner for myself, but now I’ll make six portions and you can all come join me! You can bring your belongings in my house for now, and after we eat, I will show you all to your respective rooms.”

With that, you walked the other half of the distance and approached them, all of them smiling fondly at you, except for one. He did not look happy at the arrival of your presence, but you attempted to not to pass any judgement until you got to know them. You went to pick up a piece of luggage in order to help them, when a younger looking, long-haired, skinny man approached you.

“I got it, you don’t have to help.”

His voice was a quiet, and slightly higher pitched than you imagined it would be for someone of his height. It was cute.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. It’s hot out, and I don’t want you guys breaking out into sweats before you even start playing.” You smiled sweetly at him, not really sure which member you were talking to yet, but he did not fight back. Making you assume it was not Roger or Brian. Freddie or John, though, that was still a toss-up.

Once all five of the men who would be staying on the property were inside, you told them that they could sit and chatter in your living room watching television, come and sit in the kitchen while you cooked and talk, or wander around the farm seeing and feeling the calmness settle around them. All of them, to your surprise, elected to join you in the kitchen. Either these were the most polite and distinguished of rock stars in the world, or they felt awkward just walking around your property. Either way, you were thankful for the company. Your kitchen table had one chair on either of the shorter sides, and benches accompanying the longer sides. Three of the men sat on one of the benches, and the other two took the single chairs. You never felt anxious in front of new tenants, so you just started talking to them.

“If I may, I have a few things I would like to tell you guys before I leave you to make your music,” looking over your shoulder at them while getting dinner started. “Oh, I also hope you all are good with homemade spaghetti and salad for dinner, everything is from scratch, including the pasta.” The one who glared at you the minute he got out of the van continued to stare at you, seemingly disapprovingly, while the other four smiled at you, patiently waiting to hear what it was you had to say. While you waited for the water to start boiling, you turned around to face them, getting your first real look at the men.

“So, normally, one of the first things I like to do is introduce myself and give the story of the little old farm to my new tenants. And I like to go over the boring stuff like the few rules I have and traditions I keep. If you would all be so kind as to oblige me, I would like to begin with that, and then I can leave you all alone to eat your dinner.”

You waited for a response, an auditory one, mainly, but all you got in response was more soft and small smiles and daggers from the one man. You decided that that was your cue to continue.

“Well, you should know that my name is Y/N, and I have lived on this property my whole life. Ridge has been in my family for the past four generations, and it fell onto me to keep the place going. Our family didn’t intend for it to be rented out, but extra money is always useful, and plus, living by myself out here, it’s nice to have some interesting company every once in a while, even if I don’t interact directly with them all that much. Anyway, the other house on the property is where you all will stay. Six bedrooms, so you have choices, three bathrooms, a fully-stocked kitchen, some lounge rooms. Everything you could need. Plus, I made sure that the basement was ready to go, which is where I assume you will be spending most of your time. I won’t be bothering you too much, unless something important comes up and I need to inform you all of something. I typically don’t inform my guests when I’m running errands, because I have enough faith in the people that stay to not want to break into my home. Otherwise, there are separate phone numbers for each house, so feel free to phone me if you have anything you need to ask me. Otherwise, the only other rule I have is don’t trash the place.”

You could hear the stove behind you start to boil, so you turned back around to toss the pasta in, and you began to heat up the sauce, as well. Once you were situated with that, you continued to talk to them over your shoulder.

“Continuing on, a couple small things you should know. I never mind if you want to me come cook your breakfasts, lunches, dinners, or if there is something specific you want to make and you don’t have it, I can run errands for you. I will never impose myself on your meal time or work time, and I will not drop over uninvited unless you specifically give me permission to. For the month you are here, the house is yours, not mine. Um, what else… Oh! If I ever need help with something on the farm, whether it be yard work, something with the chickens, or maybe running a particularly large errand, if no one is busy, I wouldn’t mind some help. It’s perfectly fine if you don’t want to or can’t, though. I completely understand.”

You turned back around to check on the stove, and once everything was stirred, you turned to face the boys one last time.

“I think that’s everything! I didn’t mean to talk your ear off, I just like to get formalities out of the way so you can start on whatever it is you wanted to do while you were here. If there is anything –”

“God, could you just shut your mouth and continue cooking us dinner? I would like you to do the thing that you just told us you would do.”

You stood in a stunned silence. The man’s words searing right through your chest and penetrating your heart to the point where you physically felt pain from the harshness it beat at. And from the looks on all four of the other men’s faces, you could tell that this was something they had worried would happen.

“Jesus, Paul, you really don’t know when it’s your bloody turn to talk, do you?” The blonde, seated at one of the end chairs, sounded intense and exasperated already at the man.

“Paul, she only has about two rules, and one of them is mutual respect from the tenants. You already broke that, and now I feel as though I need to apologize on behalf of all of us.” The taller man with dark curls spoke sternly at the man who you now knew was named Paul, and then turned to address you much more quietly. “I’m sorry for him, love.”

“It’s… it’s okay, guys. I’ll just keep making… dinner. Then I’ll take mine to my room.”

“Please don’t.” The man from earlier with the long hair hurriedly spoke at you. Before his outburst, he had hung his head with a small grimace adorning his face. Hearing the defeat in your voice prompted a change that was clearly unusual for the man, considering his face went a little red at the recognition of his own outburst. “I’ve… liked hearing you talk, and would like to get to know you more.”

“I’ll second that,” spoke the curly haired man. “Plus, we haven’t properly introduced ourselves yet.”

“Allow me to help you with the rest of dinner, darling.” The last person who had not spoken finally spoke up, and it was the man with dark hair to match the curly man’s, but straighter.

The four seated at the table chatted amongst themselves, three of them clearly ignoring the one named Paul, while the fifth helped you with dinner. He appeared like he was holding back on saying something, and you had barely expelled any air when he cut you off.

“I’m so sorry about Paul. He… we’re trying to rid the group of him, but he just won’t leave. It’s almost like he’s a groupie, but worse. And I wish I could tell you what his problem with you is. He just automatically became villainous when we arranged to stay here.”

“It’s not a problem, really. I’ve had worse guests.” Your mind flashing back to that one criminal.

“I sincerely hope you don’t think we’re all like that, darling, because we are far from it. Also, my name is Freddie, by the way. The blondie is Roger, curls is Brian, and our shy friend is John. Maybe you could impress them at dinner by remembering their names.”

You turned your neck to look at Freddie, who was now beaming at you, and you smiled back with a small giggle. You both turned your attentions back to dinner, and finished cooking. You brought plates for everyone at the kitchen table, and proceeded to strike up some conversations between the boys while you ate. You mainly got to know each other, and you asked them a little bit about the album they were recording. They had remembered the part where you said you would not intrude without their specific permission, and without even acknowledging Paul, they told you that you could come to the studio at any point if you ever wanted to hear some live music. You were really thankful that these guys did not seem to be rambunctious, besides in the little brotherly way they seemed to have. You had also made it a point to recite their names when you first sat down, like Freddie told you, and you got them all right. Brian and Roger just looked smug when you got them right, while John tilted and turned his head slightly, trying to hide the flush that washed over his face. Not one of embarrassment, just one of pure shock that someone cared enough about him to remember his name. Once dinner was finished, you told the boys to just throw their dishes in the sink. Paul took it a little bit too literally and you were afraid that one of your plates had been shattered. All six of you then made your way to the guest house where the boys would choose their rooms. Once rooms were decided on, you helped each of them to their rooms, ending with John. He chose the smallest room, as if to make your job easier once he left. You told him he could have had whichever room he wanted, but he was content with the smaller one. You were not one to argue. You reminded him that if there was anything he needed at any time to just give you a call, and you were about to walk out when he stopped you.

“May I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I happened to notice you wear rings.”

“Oh yeah,” you fondly looked down at your hands. “Most of them were passed down from my parents, a couple have been gifted to me from tenants over the years.”

“They suit you. I wear a few myself. Just noticed that we have that in common, sorry if that came out as strange. I don’t want you to think I’m strange, because I promise I’m-”

“John, really, it’s okay. I like that pay attention to small details like that. It shows you aren’t superficial.” John just stared back at you, at a loss for words at how well-spoken and sweet you were. “I look forward to getting to know you this month. I hope you sleep well.”

“You too, Y/N.”

~

About a week had passed by, and many breakfasts and jam sessions later, you decided it was time for you to do the first official surface cleaning of each of the boy’s rooms. They had already been in the studio for over an hour when you made your way over around ten in the morning, and you stood quietly in the doorway listening to them work for a few moments. When they finally settled down, you took the initiative to wave at them, so as not to ruin a recording they were working on. When you were sure it was safe to talk, you spoke up.

“Hi, lads. Just wanted to let you know that I am going to be floating through the house today doing a surface cleaning. I won’t rummage through any of your belongings, but I’ll be dusting and scrubbing the surfaces of the rooms you are staying in. If I happen to be in your room and you need it, or the bathroom you’ve been using, just let me know and I can leave. I’ll see you for lunch in a little while. Remember, sandwich bar today!”

As you were leaving, you heard Paul shout back that he would never let you live to see the next day if you rummaged through his room, so you just shot an okay sign through the doorway on your way out to let him know that you heard him. And you started cleaning. Once you noticed it was time for lunch, you started to make your way back to your kitchen to start the prepping. The boys had made it a habit of eating in your house instead of their kitchen, and only opting to use their kitchen if they wanted snacks or got hungry working through the night. You had told the boys that they could make their way to your kitchen around 1:30pm each day if they wanted lunch. John usually left a little bit earlier than all the others so he could help you out with meal prepping. He felt that it was the least he could do to make up for inconveniencing you, which you tried explaining to him on multiple occasions that he was the farthest thing from an inconvenience. Before heading over to your kitchen, John stopped in his room to freshen up a little bit after a particularly energetic session, and he caught a glimpse of something shiny underneath his dresser. He knelt down to pick it up, and he immediately recognized it as one of the rings you always wore. If he remembered right, you wore it on your thumb. It was just big enough, he noticed, that it fit on his pinky, so he placed it on his hand as a reminder to give it back to you. He glanced at the ring one last time, the strange feeling he got from wearing it slowly subsiding, and finished refreshing himself before making his way over to the kitchen of your home. Normally, no matter the time of day, John and the boys could always expect soft music to be coming from the small radio you had in your kitchen. The only time you turned it off was when you went to sleep. Otherwise, it was on all the time. Having the background noise eased your nerves if they ever flared up for any reason, and it was always nice to have a relaxing atmosphere fill the air of your home. Except that this time, all he heard were small groans of frustration, not accompanied by any music. Clearly, that was not your attempt at singing. He walked into your house with a quiet knock on your door, one that you never heard. Then he made his way into your kitchen and knocked a little louder on the door frame, hoping he would not startle you. Thankfully he did not, and his heart started to beat a little bit quicker when he noticed the look of relief wash over your face when you realized it was him that walked through the door.

“John! You have impeccable timing. You told me you have a degree in electronics, right? Do you think you could help me figure out what is wrong with my radio?”

Oh. You only needed him for his help. What else would it have been? He scolded himself for thinking it could have been anything else. He sat down at the table right next to you on one of the benches, and peered into the inside of the radio.

“Hmm… this is pretty standard wiring, so my guess is something came loose, or one of the wires is fried. Let me take a look.”

You watched John tinker with the radio. You had not sat in on many of their rehearsals, not wanting to interfere or receive an unwarranted and snide comment from Paul. But one thing you immediately noticed was that the way he handled a piece of electronic equipment was completely different than his bass. He was slow and careful with the radio, but he was confident and more fluid with the strings of his bass. It was interesting – how one person could be so different regarding two things. Your mind wandered a little bit, thinking of all the possible scenarios his hands and fingers could work in. You felt your face heat up, so you turned your attention back to the radio, hoping John had not caught you lost in your thoughts. John had been examining the wiring for about three minutes when he finally had his ‘aha’ moment and told you what had happened. Or rather, the radio spoke for itself when it came back on.

“Think I fixed it.”

“Oh, thank you John! Thank you so much!”

You leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, while simultaneously grabbing the sides of his face to pull him close. You felt him grab your wrists lightly in response, and you heard a small hum of satisfaction come from him. If any of the band was there, they would have pointed out how out of character that was for their friend. But you had only known them a week, so you had no real way of knowing that. When you pulled your face away from his, you noticed a new ring on his hand, one you had not noticed before. Yet you recognized it for some reason. Like you owned that ring.

“John, is that my ring?”

“Oh, y-yeah! I found it in my room just now before I came over here. I meant to hand it to you right when I walked in, but you caught me off guard with the radio. Here, let me take it off-”

“Don’t.” You stopped him by placing your hand over his. “You can keep it. It suits you, Deaky.”

You had continued to smile at him sweetly, and he just started to return it when you heard your porch door wing open and a ruckus of men swarmed into your kitchen. You and John turned to look at them, trying to hide the moment you just shared, to no avail.

“Well, what has our little Deaky gotten himself into now?” Freddie’s voice cut through the noise.

“I don’t know about now, but it looks like Y/N is the goal.”

“Roger! Don’t say that!” Brian had secondhand embarrassment for you, and the four men standing in your doorway could see the bright reds adorning your faces.

~

You would forever be grateful and owe a debt of gratitude to the man who called himself James Beach. By the end of Queen’s stay at your farm, you had earned a decent chunk of change, and a boyfriend to top it off. Ever since John had fixed your radio, you and him seemed to be attached at the hip. He wore the ring you gave him every single day, and eventually got the courage to ask you out on a date. You just had to get you guys there since he was not familiar with the area. You never minded driving him – he always looked so at peace watching the countryside scroll by. It pained you the day the boys left, but John made you a promise. Anytime he passed through the area, or needed a place to stay that was even remotely close to Ridge Farm, he would come see you. And he kept up on that promise. He came to visit more than once a month, and would sometimes stay for up to a week at a time. You had that fear in the back of your mind every time he would leave again that you imagined all people in relationships with people in the media had; was he cheating on me? But every single time he came back, he always brought you letters from the boys detailing their travels, and they all made it a point to write about how much John talked about you. There would be discussions of happy thoughts, whines of missing you, and the occasional under-the-breath mention of a special dream he had. It always reassured you in his faith. That, and how he would treat you and smile at you every time he came over to the farm. The other indicator is that he would always bring you a new ring. Everywhere he went for shows or recording sessions, he made sure to pop in a local shop and buy you new rings. They varied in design – some were simple bands, others elaborately engraved, others with stunning gems. It showed you that he never forgot where your relationship blossomed. That day on the farm when he found your ring. You were not a very material person, but you never turned down a ring from John. Especially not on the day he got down on one knee with a stunning, traditional diamond ring to give you.

End Note: I wanted to use a gif from Ridge Farm, but I couldn’t find one and I wanted one with John’s iconic™ rings in it.

Permanent Taglist: n/a

Specific Story/Character Taglist: @ziggymay

[panini-deaky-blog]

John, Freddie, and Brian wearing their wedding rings

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

72 Hours In Montreal [Part I]

A/N: Many moons ago, the incomparably lovely @im-an-adult-ish​ pitched a Montreal concert fic idea (jokingly, I think), and quite a few of my followers fell in love with it. They were even kind enough to vote on which Queen member should be the love interest, and there was a clear winner: John! 

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and at last, here is the first of three chapters of this new mini-fic. I’m going to tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy. 💜

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together...or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (not graphic). 

Word Count: 6.8k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @escabell​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​ @deacyblues​ @tensecondvacation​ @brianssixpence​ @some-major-ishues​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @youngpastafanmug​ @simonedk​ @rhapsodyrecs​ ​​​ @joemazzmatazz​​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​​ @namelesslosers​​ @inthegardensofourminds​​ @sleepretreat​​ @hardyshoe​​​ @sevenseasofcats​​ @jennyggggrrr​​ @madeinheavxn​​ @whatgoeson-itslate​​​ @herewegoagainniall​​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​​ @pomjompish​​ @allauraleigh​​  @bluutac​​ @johndeaconshands​​ 

The obnoxious British men are still laughing. The one with the mustache, suspenders, and illogically tight red leather pants is standing on the tiptoes of his equally red Adidas shoes to paw candles off the top shelf so he can sniff them. The blond one has no less than eight jars balanced precariously in his wiry arms. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing is billowing through the shop speakers.

“Oh my god, he’s gonna break something,” you moan in a whisper, covering your eyes but peeking through your fingers. Your apron is suddenly too tight around your waist; your cheeks are roaring with blood as you envision the inevitable confrontation: Sir, unfortunately you ruined some of our giant tacky overpriced candles and so now you have to pay for them. So sorry. Paper or plastic? We take Mastercard.

“Who?” Kevin asks. He’s holding a broom in one pudgy, pinkish hand and a dustpan in the other. He has surrendered.

“That one. Suspenders and moustache guy. Red shoes guy. Dorothy without Toto.”

Kevin cracks a smile. “That is frighteningly accurate. He is rather whimsical, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll click his heels and disappear back to London or wherever.”

“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” you mutter in commiseration. Actually, to be perfectly literal, you’ve never been to Kansas in your life.

“Wait, I think I might have met that guy before somewhere.” Kevin squints with great concentration. “He looks oddly familiar…”

“Hm.” You check your eyeliner wings in your reflection in the cash register screen. From what you can tell, they’re every bit as tragically asymmetrical as you remembered. Spectacular.

“Staring won’t make it better,” Kevin notes, very unhelpfully.

“I know,” you reply, miserable, toying with your bangs so you can hide behind them.

“How does that even happen? The right one is practically a 90-degree angle. The left one looks like you drew it on with a Sharpie.”

You groan. “I’ll try to scrub them off during my break.”

“If you’re not too busy helping me sweep glass off the floor, sure,” Kevin says. “I told you, I took an electrical engineering class as an elective once. I could totally take a look at your bathroom.”

“I thought you said you failed that class.”

“No, I said I got a D in that class. Ds aren’t failing.”

“Well now you’ve convinced me.” You scrutinize your reflection again, frowning. You rent a rather dilapidated one-bedroom apartment above a bakery just a few blocks from the Yankee Candle shop. The apartment always smells like powdered sugar and baking bread, which you like. What you don’t like is everything else about it: the peeling paint, the low water pressure, the windows that you can’t wrestle open, the occasional mice, the shoddy electrical wiring. On any given day, there’s an approximately 27% chance that the bathroom light won’t turn on when you flip the switch. This morning you had been on the losing side of those odds, and with the only mirror in the apartment being the one mounted over the sink—and the overcast November skies outside offering painfully little natural light—you had haphazardly guesstimated your way through your makeup routine before dashing off to work. Your guesstimation skills, apparently, are not all that great.

“If he’s The Wizard of Oz...” Kevin points his broom handle from the snickering moustached man to the gangly, poodle-haired one who has been trying to decide between two candles—Christmas Cookie and Cinnamon Stick—for twelve uninterrupted minutes. He’s wearing a parka spotted with patches: a NASA emblem, a soaring rocket, a smiling green extraterrestrial face, Saturn and its rings. “That guy’s gotta be Star Wars.”

“Or Alien,” you suggest, clutching your chest and pretending to die melodramatically.

Kevin laughs. “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

“Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

“What about that one?” Kevin nods to the guy who has large blue eyes and bleach-blond, fried tufts of hair sticking out in every direction and a grin that is simultaneously childish and foxlike. Under Pressure comes on the shop speakers, and the British men all start cheering and high-fiving each other, leaving their candles momentarily tucked under their arms or quivering precariously on the edges of wooden display tables. You are entirely mystified. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“Bye Bye Birdie,” you decide. “Beautiful. Charming. Beloved by all. Perhaps a little dangerous. I can picture teenage girls sobbing themselves to sleep as he gallantly marches off to war.”

“You think he’s gay?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s dressed well enough for that.” The blond man is wearing a shapeless, polka-dotted sweater that has ‘NIVEA’ spelled across the front, for reasons that are difficult to fathom.

Kevin sighs, crestfallen. He suffered a nasty breakup with his boyfriend Patrick two weeks ago, and is enthusiastically on the hunt for a rebound to distract him. “You’re probably right. Okay, last but not least.” Kevin aims his broom handle at the fourth and final British stranger. “What shall we call him?”

You consider the man who has wandered away from the others. He’s wearing Levi’s, a black bomber jacket, aviator sunglasses, a mop of unwrangled auburn hair, thoughtful lines that break around the corners of his hidden eyes. He is browsing unhurriedly, perhaps even distractedly, through the fruit-scented candles. He picks up a jar of Macintosh Apple, sniffs a few times, then sets it back down precisely where he found it. He even spins the jar so it’s label-side-facing-outwards again. You warm to him immediately.  

“One of the James Bond movies?” Kevin offers. “He seems…enigmatic somehow. Esoteric. Yet still clearly leading man material.”

“Casablanca,” you say, not tearing your gaze from the stranger. “I can imagine him waving off some old flame on a foggy, night-draped airport runway, breaking hearts with sparse words of wisdom. Can’t you?”

“Oh, that’s exactly right!” Kevin sighs again, dreamily, yearningly. And whether he’s yearning for his ex-boyfriend Patrick or Bye Bye Birdie a.k.a. NIVEA-sweater man or passion or sex or love or maybe just the ineffable high that accompanies the beginnings of things, you couldn’t say.

You peer at your reflection in the cash register screen once again, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Maybe if I—”

“Freddie!” Star Wars cries, and you whirl just in time to see The Wizard of Oz, whizzing around and giggling and preoccupied with teasing NIVEA-sweater man, stumble into the six-foot-tall tower of Christmas Tree-scented candles and send countless jars crashing to the tile floor.

“I knew it!” you unleash in a rush of misery and exasperation, the biting threat of tears in your eyes and the back of your throat. And of course, it isn’t just about the mess on the floor, it isn’t just about having to tell your manager and hoping to God he doesn’t fire you. It’s about your derelict apartment, it’s about your fucked up eyeliner, it’s about everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months; it’s about the never-ending feelings of helplessness and inertia and predestined ruin, it’s about not being able to get fifteen meters down the street before life throws up another red light, another jagged sinkhole gaping like ravenous jaws. And none of that is these ridiculous British men’s fault; yet still, in that moment the fury you feel towards them is overwhelming.

“Jesus christ,” Kevin mumbles, stepping out from behind the counter to survey the damage, his hands still clutching the broom and dustbin.

“You couldn’t just mosey around and ask which candles are on sale and maybe sniff one or two like a normal person?!” you explode. “You had to come in here acting like goddamn animals and destroy like a third of our inventory?!”

“I’m so sorry,” The Wizard of Oz sputters, looking at you and Kevin with wide, profusely apologetic dark eyes. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man are helping him to his feet, albeit with very spirited chidings. Kevin is grudgingly asking if he’s alright. Casablanca is already trying to sort through which candles are broken and putting those that survived aside. And when he casts furtive glances from behind his aviator sunglasses, they’re directed not at Kevin or The Wizard of Oz but at you.

“Freddie, bloody hell,” NIVEA-sweater man laments.

“I’ll pay for them all,” The Wizard of Oz tells you. “I’m so, so, so terribly sorry, you’re absolutely right to be cross with me, and I’ll pay for everything. Here, let me get my wallet…” He digs around in the pockets of his preposterously tight red leather pants.

“Uh…sir…” Kevin begins uncertainly, not wanting to break the bad news.

“It’s going to be hundreds of dollars,” you inform The Wizard of Oz. “Maybe over a thousand. You’re really going to pay that? Or are you just going to wait until we start sweeping up and then sprint out the front door the first chance you get?”

“Hey,” Kevin warns you quietly. He wants you to keep this job probably even more than you do. You are, by his own admission, far and away his favorite coworker.

“No, no, darling, please, let her scold me, I deserve it.” The Wizard of Oz at last locates his wallet. He sashays to the counter, brushing nuggets of glittering glass off his clothes, and counts out two thousand Canadian dollars in hundreds. “Will that do? You can keep the change as compensation for the inconvenience. And we’ll help clean up as well, has anyone got an extra broom?”

As you stare down at the money, shocked into speechlessness, three hulking men dressed in black come barreling into the shop.

“Lord in heaven, Freddie, what happened?!” one asks. He has a thick beard and an Irish accent and closely resembles a grizzly bear.

“I made a complete ass out of myself and am now trying to win the affections of this marvelous creature,” The Wizard of Oz replies, flourishing a hand towards you. “Is it working, dear?”

“Kind of,” you admit, still stunned.

“Oh my god.” The broom tumbles out of Kevin’s grasp and clatters on the floor. He points at The Wizard of Oz. “I know where I’ve seen you before. You…you…you’re Freddie Mercury, right?”

In reply, The Wizard of Oz only flashes an enormous, toothy, dazzling grin.

“Oh my god,” Kevin says again, a starry, awed smile rippling across his round face.

“Please don’t make his ego any bigger,” Star Wars pleads.

“And you’re Brian May!” Kevin replies. “And you’re…” He turns to NIVEA-sweater man, snapping his fingers, trying to remember. “Robbie…no, Ronnie…uh…Ricky…?”

“Roger Taylor.” But it comes out like ‘Rogah Taylah.’ NIVEA-sweater man extends a hand for Kevin to shake, not the least bit offended. “It’s a pleasure. Sorry about the candles.”

“No problem, sir!” Kevin squeaks as he takes Roger’s hand, beaming. The men in black—the band’s security, you’ve gathered—have descended upon the crime scene, confiscated Kevin’s broom and dustbin, and are rapidly clearing glass and chunks of candlewax from the floor and discarding the mess in a trash bin that usually collects only chewed gum and unwanted receipts.

“So I guess I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you tell Freddie Mercury guiltily, all the venom in your voice evaporated. You’re no Queen superfan, true, but everyone knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody and We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions. And Another One Bites The Dust. And Killer Queen. And Crazy Little Thing Called Love. And Somebody To Love. Your thoughts are suddenly a racing, indecipherable blur. Your knees are boneless. You’ve never met a celebrity before. Well, not unless you count professional hockey players, which you definitely don’t.

“No, you absolutely should have,” Freddie retorts. “I was dreadfully discourteous. I’m positively mortified about it. I should be punished severely. Have you got anything behind the counter to whip me with? A riding crop, perhaps?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry I called you an animal.”

“I’m sorry about the candles. There, now we’re even. Wait, not quite yet.” He calls over to Kevin: “Darling, how would you and your friend like front row seats at our show tonight?”

The squeal that bursts out of Kevin is not human.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Freddie Mercury says, very pleased.

“This is really too generous of you,” you protest, although your heart isn’t in it; Kevin might legitimately strangle you if you screw this up, and you’re finding that you want to see Queen in concert too. It’s something to interrupt the powerless, unrelenting monotony; it’s like something that might happen in a movie or a dream.

“Nonsense!” Freddie announces cheerfully. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man—or, rather, Brian and Roger—are chatting with the security guys and nodding along as the bearlike Irishman reviews the day’s itinerary.

You peer over at Casablanca. Now that the floor is mostly clear, he’s migrating towards you and Freddie. You glance apprehensively down at your reflection. “Goddammit,” you mutter, manipulating your bangs again, wishing you could disappear. “I meet a rock star for the first time ever and I look like this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kevin says, obviously lying.

“I like it,” Freddie tells you, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It’s very goth raccoon chic.”

“My bathroom light wouldn’t turn on this morning and I was late for work and I guesstimated and that was clearly a poor decision.” Poor decisions are my expertise, you think instinctively, and feel a tug of something you don’t quite have the words for. Shame, grief, disappointment, a raw sting like a flame beneath your palm, a dread like a child who’s lost their mother’s hand.  

“I’ve offered to take a look at the wiring!” Kevin exclaims. “I told you, a D is passing!”

“Kev, babe,” you reply. “I really, truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably just make it worse. And then my landlord will hate me and keep my security deposit and write me awful references and I’ll have to live in an endless string of ancient, hideous apartments until I die.”

“It’s an electrical problem?” Casablanca asks, pushing his aviator sunglasses up into his unruly hair. His unveiled eyes are a blueish grey—they remind you of one of the candles, maybe Beach Walk or Bahama Breeze—and very direct. He stares at you and you stare back, and at some point you realize that everyone is waiting for you to answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes nothing happens when I flip the switch. That’s the extent of my handyman knowledge, unfortunately.”

Casablanca nods. “I could take a look, if you like.”

Not Beach Walk. Not Bahama Breeze. Warm Luxe Cashmere, maybe. “Now that really is too generous. I couldn’t possibly put a rock star to work on my terrible apartment.”

“John’s got a degree in electrical engineering, that’s right in his wheelhouse,” Brian counters.

“Yes,” Roger says, grinning, teasing in a way that has absolutely no malice in it. “He’s more of an engineer than a rock star anyway, isn’t he?”

“Seriously?” Casablanca—John, you mentally correct yourself—doesn’t seem much like an electrical engineer. But Roger’s right: he doesn’t really seem like a rock star, either. What John seems like is steady and abiding and perceptive, attentive, unflinching. He studies you like some people study paintings, like you once studied paintings; not in a passing-by-in-a-crowded-hallway type way but in a patient way, a methodical way, with the quiet that comes from knowing that vision in the frame is older than you will ever be and will still be hanging on that wall when you’re bones in a box somewhere.

Freddie lights a cigarette and puffs on it decadently. Smoking definitely isn’t allowed inside the Yankee Candle shop, but you aren’t about to snap at Freddie Mercury for the second time today. “Oh, let him tinker around in your flat, darling. It’ll make his day.”

“Is it far?” John asks you.

“No, really, Casa…uh, I mean, John, I appreciate the offer more than I could possibly express but I—”

“It’s just a few blocks north,” Kevin says, and tosses you a wily smile.

“How convenient!” Freddie trills. “When does your shift end, dear?”

“Not until 5:30.”

“She can take a long lunch break.” Another smile from Kevin. “Honestly, there’s not much to do around here now that the Great Candle Massacre of 1981 has been remediated.”

“Splendid!” Freddie says, radiant.

You shake your head, very slowly. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Then you clearly haven’t lived enough,” Freddie quips.

“Fred!” Roger presses. “Are we going to the bookstore down the street or not? That was the whole deal, we suffer through your candles, you suffer through our books.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering,” Brian says.

“Of course I’m suffering. That cashier over there almost murdered me,” Roger slings back.  

Freddie sighs and rolls his large, dark, expressive eyes. “Yes, darling, of course, don’t give yourself an aneurism. We’ll go to the bookstore, John can rendezvous with us later.” Now he turns to you. “We’ll send a car to your flat at 7 to pick you and Kevin up for the show tonight. Don’t let John leave without knowing your address. Wear something deliciously opulent. Lots of sparkle. Maybe furs.”

“I make eight dollars an hour,” you tell him.  

“Or you could just wear nothing.”

“Sparkle and furs it is.”

Freddie chuckles and turns to the men in black. “Chubby, my dear?”

The towering bearlike Irishman replies: “Yeah, I’ll go with John. Don’t wreck anything else while I’m gone. Don’t get yourselves deported before the show. EMI will have your heads on spikes.”

Freddie pretends to be scandalized. “Causing destruction? We would never.” He saunters towards the shop door, jingling the bells as he swings it open, and waves like royalty. “See you tonight, darlings!”

“Bye!” Kevin shouts after him. And then, after Freddie, Roger, Brian, and the two non-bearlike men in black have departed: “Oh my god I just met Freddie Mercury and he’s amazing and he knows I exist and he spoke to me and tonight he’s sending a car to take me to a concert and I’m going to have front row seats and what if he invites me to have a drink afterwards oh my god.”

John, evidently unaffected, prompts you: “So your place is just a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. Just let me get my coat…”

The man in black—Chubby, as Freddie had introduced him—fetches your coat off the rack by the door and holds it up so you can slip inside it. No one has ever done that for you before.

“…Thanks…?” You button your coat, feeling a little like royalty yourself at the moment.

John pulls open the door, the tiny metal bells jangling, and gestures out into the streets of downtown Montreal. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses again; the November wind gusts through his hair. You catch threadbare ghosts of cigarette smoke and cologne that the breeze lifts from his skin like pages of a book. And he smiles, just barely. “After you.”

You walk north together along the path of the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets, your breath fog in the cold, weaving through the bustling crowds of tourists and holiday shoppers, Chubby trailing not far behind and displaying his talent for keeping watch while not letting on that he is. To even your own horror, you can’t seem to shut up.

“John, this is so kind of you, this is completely unnecessary, you really shouldn’t feel like you owe me anything because Freddie already paid for the candles twice over and I was totally unprofessional for yelling at customers, even annoying customers, and Kevin and I are already getting a free concert tonight and so—”

“Okay,” John says firmly. “You have to talk about something else now.”

“I can’t talk about anything else. All I can think about is how ridiculous this is.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?” he asks, very casually, as if you’re strangers in line next to each other at Starbucks.

“My whole life.” Minus a little over three years, but you don’t need to get into that. “My parents live over in Verdun, right on the St. Lawrence River.

“Sounds scenic.”

“It certainly is.” You’re trying not to look at John, because every time you do it’s hard to stop. You look at the cars rolling by instead. “This is super embarrassing, and I don’t mean to offend you, but what exactly do you do in Queen?”

He’s not offended; he thinks it’s hilarious. “I’m the bassist.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, bassists are quiet and reliable or whatever. Bassists don’t terrorize Yankee Candle employees.”

“You’re not a Queen fan?”

“I’m a casual and appreciative listener, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I couldn’t pick any of you out of a lineup, clearly. Roger is the drummer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Drummers are feral, almost universally. Which means Brian must be lead guitar.”

“And what do you think of lead guitarists?”

“Word on the street is that they are brilliant yet micromanaging egomaniacs, but I don’t want to bash your friend or anything.”

John chuckles, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on yet. “No, please, bash away. So you prefer bassists.”

And finally you do look at him, and you regret it immediately; because now you’re caught in the thoughtful crinkles around his eyes and the barely-there stubble of his cheeks and the playful curve of his lips and how the wind ruffles his auburn hair the same way it steals leaves off of slumbering trees. You almost walk right past the bakery. “Oh, wait, we’re here.”

You lead John and Chubby upstairs to your chronically irritating apartment. John removes his sunglasses, inspects your bathroom light switch, then asks if you have a specific kind of screwdriver. You bring him the toolkit that has lived beneath the kitchen sink since before you moved in and he roots around, finds what he’s searching for, and unfastens the light switch plate from the wall.

“Please don’t electrocute yourself,” you fret, as Chubby meanders around in the living room and tries not to intrude. “If you die your groupies will never forgive me.”

“Who says I’ve got groupies?” John replies, amused.

“I just assumed all rock stars do.” Your eyes flick down to his hands as he fidgets with the wiring; and you notice randomly—or, maybe, not all that randomly—that he’s not wearing a ring. You’re still ruminating over that when he returns the light switch plate to the wall, secures each of the four screws with a few deft twists of his wrist, and performs a test flip. The light turns on immediately.

“Mission accomplished,” John says mildly.

“What?! No, no way, no freaking way.” You flip the switch again. The light turns off and on obediently. You try it at least five more times. Perfection. “…How?!”

“Just a few loose wires. No great hardship.” He tucks the screwdriver back into the toolkit.  

You gape at him. “That took you…like…two minutes.”

“Aren’t you glad my band wandered into your candle shop and almost demolished the place today?” He rests his hands on his waist; his sturdy, skillful, ringless hands. “Anything else I can fix for you?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

“Stop looking at my fucked up eyeliner.”

John laughs. It’s a delightfully clear, disarming sound. “That’s not what I was doing.”  

“I should fix my makeup and go back to work now. And you should probably go help your friends burn down the bookstore or blow up a Starbucks or do whatever else is on your agenda for today.”

“Soundcheck and dinner, actually,” John says. He slides the toolkit back beneath your kitchen sink, meets Chubby by the front door, and pauses there to give you one last lingering, laden gaze. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“In my best furs,” you purr in your most convincing Freddie Mercury impression.

“Or nothing at all,” John suggests levelly. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out better than you thought it would. Your tan, knee-high suede boots are celebratory without being too uncomfortable. Kevin brings you a faux fur jacket that he stole from Patrick during the breakup. You find a glittery black dress in the back of your closet that you once loved, then couldn’t stand to look at, then forgot existed entirely; but tonight it’s like you’re seeing it with brand new eyes. It fits even better than you remember. In the mirror, you look like a stranger and a hauntingly familiar acquaintance and yourself all at once.

Chubby arrives in a black limousine at precisely 7pm, parks along the curb next to the bakery, and honks the horn twice. You and Kevin dash down the narrow steps and climb into the backseat, finding complimentary cigarettes and bottled water and chilled champagne. As the limo rolls though Montreal under changing traffic lights, Kevin prattles on about the band, their history, their albums, their tours…and John in particular. He tries to tempt you. You resist valiantly…for the first fifteen minutes, anyway.

Finally, you sigh in capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I get it. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s divorced,” Kevin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I saw it on the cover of a tabloid a while back. Very contentious, spicy stuff. He’s got like eight kids.”

“He does not have eight kids!”

“Okay, maybe not eight. But he has a lot,” Kevin insists.

You rearrange your hair with deliberate flippantness. “What do I care if he’s divorced?”

Kevin grins. “You know why you care.”

“Stop,” you plead.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he definitely likes you. And you like him. And I haven’t seen you like anybody, ever, in the…wait, let me count…the nine whole months that I’ve known you. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend? When was the last time you got laid? Oh my god, it hasn’t been nine months, has it?! That’s way too long to go without sex. No wonder you’re so serious all the time. It all makes sense now. You poor thing. You’re in dick withdrawal.”

“Assuming that’s my problem—which it isn’t, by the way—if I wanted to get laid there are far easier ways to accomplish that.”

“Sure,” Kevin says. “But you don’t want just any dick. You want British bassist dick. John Deacon dick. Casablanca dick.”

“This friendship is terminated.”

Kevin cackles, pouring himself a glass of champagne that bubbles over the top and spills onto the limo floor. “I’m really glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we can do this together.”

You fill a champagne flute with bottled water and clink your glass against his, smiling. The limo is turning into the parking lot of the Montreal Forum. “Me too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The backstage room that Chubby escorts you and Kevin to after the show is full of chatter and heavy smoke and roadies and fans and musicians and journalists, trays of hors d'oeuvres, wine and Stella Artois and vodka and tequila and rum, the electric promise of things that will go unmentioned in the morning. There are stacks of stereo speakers in the corner rumbling out Another One Bites The Dust. You and Kevin camp out on a green velvet couch—making small talk with each other to avoid making it with anyone else—until the band arrives.

John is still wearing his concert outfit: blue pants, blue shirt, a black leather jacket that gives him an edge like a knife. He passes out a few polite nods; but Freddie and Roger are undeniably the suns in this room, and the guests their planets. Freddie is soon surrounded by a constellation of followers and whisks Kevin away with him. John, meanwhile, comes straight to where you’re sitting on the couch and stands in front of you with his messy hair and his veil of cologne and his mystery-candle-blue eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks in that calm, measured way that you’ve learned he has. “Rum and Coke? Moscow Mule? Hurricane? I’ve been on a mojito kick recently.”

“I don’t drink.” And you wait for the inevitable awkwardness that usually follows that sentence, when he says why? or seriously? or maybe just oh in wilted disappointment.

Instead, what John says is this: “No problem. Rum minus the Coke?”

You smile up at him. You can’t help yourself. “That would be perfect.”

There are innumerable drinks already poured on a table, dark carbonated liquid trembling in red plastic cups as the bass from the stereo speakers quakes through the crowded, droning, smoke-hazed room. John moves from cup to cup, taking tentative sips before shaking his head and putting them back down on the table. After each attempt, he casts you a rueful smirk before continuing on to the next cup. At last, he finds two unadulterated Cokes and brings them to the couch: one for you, and one for him. He sits beside you with one of his legs crossed over the other, a lit cigarette in his right hand, a red plastic cup of Coke in his left, and his eyes on you in a way that isn’t hungry or arrogant or restless but merely, benignly contemplative. You find yourself thinking of paintings in museums again, you even start to feel a little like one; and you wonder what colors he sees in you, what types of brushstrokes, what signatures scribbled in the corners of the canvas, what shadows painstakingly penciled in to mimic the angles of the sun.

You tell John about growing up in Montreal, about autumn strolls along the St. Lawrence River, about snowfalls and Mont-Royal and Chinatown and the Notre-Dame Basilica, about the exhilarating turmoil of the Summer Olympics in 1976. You tell him about how Kevin is in his last year at Concordia University and works part-time at the Yankee Candle shop for money to invest in his hair gel and travel fund. You tell him so many things he doesn’t notice all the parts you leave out. In return, John tells you about himself; not about John Deacon the bassist of Queen, but about the understated man who likes cars and electronics and the Beatles and tea in the evenings beside a roaring fireplace. And when his arm comes to rest on the back of the green velvet couch, and then across your shoulders, and then around your waist, it doesn’t feel strange at all. You lean into him as you exchange stories and clandestine giggles until you’re nearly in his lap, and that doesn’t feel strange either. And you haven’t had a drop of alcohol—you haven’t in almost a full year, in fact—but you feel a little drunk tonight, because your cheeks are hot and the room is blurry and the world is brimming with a pure, rose-gold, uncomplicated happiness.

The other band members periodically stop by to say hello, clutching their drinks and making stilted pleasantries as you and John smile drowsily up at them, looking nothing like the soberest people in the room. Chubby and the rest of the men in black are simultaneously omnipresent and scarce, which you are beginning to think is a requirement inked into their job description. Kevin, having been fully absorbed into Freddie’s entourage, is beaming and flushed and extremely, blissfully tipsy. And they all watch you and John not with scandalized sideways glances but with warm approval swimming in their gleaming eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” you tell John when you are alone again. “For improving my dreadful apartment. So thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I hate that I marred your time in Montreal with unpaid labor.”

He shrugs it off. “I like fixing things. It’s what I’m best at.”

“Besides being an internationally acclaimed rock star, you mean.”

“I’m honestly not so sure I’m cut out for the rock star life.”

“You are, though. I saw you. I watched you all night.”

John just stares at you, and then he leans in even closer, inhaling deeply. You can feel the heat of his breath on your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck; goosebumps spring up across your skin like stars at twilight. “What the hell is that? Perfume? Lotion? Shampoo?”

“It’s probably sugar and baking bread, because I live on top of a bakery.”

“Does Yankee Candle make anything that smells like you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “They definitely do not.”

“They should,” John murmurs. And with the rough whirlpools of his fingertips he turns your face to his so he can kiss you.

It should be kind of humiliating, right? Making out with some guy you just met on a green couch in front of thirty strangers, your hands getting tangled in each other’s hair, your lips meeting again and again, taunting darts of the tongue and quick painless bites and stifled moans and grasping tugs at clothes that you’re starting to wish weren’t there at all. It should feel embarrassing, you should feel overexposed, here in this land of unfamiliar expectations and accents and faces. But no one seems to be watching too closely. This must be so tame in the world of rock stars, it occurs to you; almost wholesome. And you can’t remember a time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“There’s a pool table in the next room,” someone says, startling you, and you break away from John to discover Roger perched on the arm of the couch, grinning coyly as he sips his emerald glass bottle of Stella Artois. “I mean…you know. If you’re into that. John’s got all sorts of moves, we played for days at a time at Ridge Farm. You could challenge him to a round or two. Place bets. But be warned…he’s a total pool shark.”

“Is he?” you ask mischievously, clasping the lapel of John’s leather jacket. Even if you freed him, he shows no indication of retreating. He’s raking his knuckles back and forth along the length of your thigh that your little black dress leaves exposed, never venturing above the hem.  

Roger winks. “Just thought you might want to know.” Then he hops off the couch and disappears into the crowd again.

John is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours, and no lower. He’s trying to not be even vanishingly forceful. He’s trying not to sway you. But you know exactly what he wants. “Do you…?”

“Show me how to play pool,” you whisper. And you lead him through the shuffling bodies and boisterous, increasingly intoxicated laughter and cumulus clouds of cigarette smoke to the door on the other side of the room.

Beyond the threshold you find a pool table and not much else. It’s terribly unceremonious; it’s absolutely perfect. You can hear Blondie’s Call Me playing back in the packed room where the rest of the band is still reveling, the bass crawling through the walls to radiate in your eardrums, your bones. You lock the door and reach out to flick off the harsh florescent lights, but John stops you. You don’t have to ask him why. He wants to be able to see you. He asks if this is okay—again, wordlessly, with the forthright blue of his eyes—and you nod. And then he kisses you as you drag him in, breathing in his cologne and nicotine, tasting the virgin Coke on his lips that he drank just for you.

John tears off his leather jacket. You toss the faux fur that Kevin lent you to the floor. You climb up onto the pool table, and John follows you. You yank off his shirt, link your suede boots around him as he positions himself between your naked, down-soft thighs. And then John stops.

“Look, I have to be honest,” he says. His hands tremble as they cradle the small of your back, just barely. “I’m newly divorced, and I’m really out of practice, I mean really out of practice, and this is not at all my usual way of doing things, and if I’m total rubbish or only last like thirty seconds or something I just want to apologize in advance and swear that I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make this worth it for you. Because I like you. I really, really like you.”

“I’m a little rusty too,” you confess with a small, sheepish smile. But he doesn’t need to know exactly how rusty you are, or in how many ways, all those layers of blood-hued ruin that spin webs from the skin down to the marrow.

John seems relieved. “Then maybe we’re even.”

You’re not even, you’re nowhere close; but it’s comforting that he thinks you could be.

John kisses you again. His hands find the zipper on the back of your dress, and then the tiny metal clasp of your bra, and then the black lace of your panties…and then everything else as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you return together to the green velvet couch in the next room, not with bashful swiftness but with your hands entwined, your eyes satiated and calm, your clothes unapologetically rumpled. The partying is winding down. The song pouring through the stereo speakers is In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. And now you and John don’t talk very much at all; you just sit there with fresh cups of Coke, your head resting against his chest, his left arm draped around you, watching the rest of the universe spin on like a carousel as your feet stay rooted to the earth.

“So you’re the smart one,” you say eventually. “You must be, with an electrical engineering degree.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re rather erudite, as far as rock stars go.” He smiles drowsily down at you. “Freddie’s got a degree in graphic art and design. Roger has one in biology. Brian has the better part of a PhD in astrophysics. He might even go back to finish it one day. He probably will, just to be able to lord it over us.”

“Wow,” you reply, distantly, suddenly feeling very small.

“What did you study?” he asks you.

In truth, you never finished college; but you aren’t going to tell John that. “Something useless.”

John is intrigued, and perhaps a little concerned as well. His brow furrows with grooves like lines of fortune in an open palm.

“I wanted to be a painter,” you explain, smirking at the absurdity. “But the world doesn’t need painters anymore. They have pictures and videos that are just as clear as real life. They don’t need my fantasies or interpretations. They have reality.”

“I think we still need painters,” John disagrees, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy circles around your bare shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yeah. For when reality requires improving.”

You let a few moments of silence tick by. And then you put on your faux fur jacket, finish the last of your Coke, stand and find your balance on the low heels of your boots with exhausted, shaky calves.

John jolts upright, somewhat alarmed. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“This was great, John. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time. So thank you for that. But I have to go home now.”

“Okay.” He studies you, processing. “Okay, okay. I’ll have Chubby drive you.”

“That’s really not necessary, I can get a cab…”

But John has already waved Chubby over, and the massive man appears serendipitously with an impossible degree of stealth. Kevin finds you, staggering, babbling breathlessly about all of his adventures, showing you where Freddie and Roger and Brian signed his chest with a black Sharpie, repeating the same stories on an identical loop every few minutes. As you leave, you offer John a brief parting wave; and he returns it, like a reflection in a mirror, but he’s wearing a pensive frown and eyes dark with thought. Then again, maybe you are too.

Chubby leads you and Kevin outside to the waiting limousine. You slip into the backseat, ply Kevin with bottled water, open the sunroof so moonlight and cold, reviving November air can flood in like a river.

Kevin is coming down now from the high of the champagne and the concert and the carousing with Freddie Mercury. He blinks, soaking you in, really seeing you for the first time in hours. “Wow, you had a good night with Casablanca. You had a really good night.”

“Yeah,” you reply softly, resting your head against the window and watching the stars and streetlights pass by above like seasons. “And it will never happen again.”

[fictionalmenmakemecry]

Healing the Wounds

Characters: Deacon St John x Reader

Summary: Deacon is stopping by Lost Lake Camp to get his bike fixed up. You run into him noticing he need medical attention and let's just say the sexual tension between you two is thick. (Sarah does not exist)

Warnings: Swearing

I walked across Lost Lake camp, heading to the mechanic to see if my bike was close to getting fixed. It's been a week since I was out in the shit. I was coming back from burning some nests when I got knocked off my bike from a runner. I felt the panic hit me as I fell off my bike. I reached for my machete and made short work of the two runners, who were following me back. I looked over to my bike which was trashed, making me walk home the rest of the way.

I entered the mechanic looking around for my bike. When I heard a deep voice in front of me. I looked over to see a tall man with his back facing me. I noticed the mongrels' jacket he had on.

"How long til' I have her back again?" He asked

"End of the day?" The mechanic offered while rubbing his oiled covered hands with a rag.

He sighed turning around not realising I was behind him.

"Oh shit, sorry" He took a few steps back.

"Don't worry about it" I smiled noticing he wasn't bad looking

He looked down and smiled back at me. I noticed the tattoos peeping through and the numerous rings he was also wearing.

"I haven't seen you around, fresh meat?" I raised an eyebrow hoping that he was here to stay.

He chuckled bringing his hand up smoothing down his beard.

"I'm a drifter but I did stay here a long time ago" He explained.

"Deacon St. John" He introduced himself reaching out his hand

"Y/L/N" I shook his hand.

I looked down noticing a nasty burn on his lower arm just under his sleeve. I pulled away my hand bringing it up to his injury putting all my attention on that.

"Oh my god, this does not look good" I gasped automatically rolling up his sleeve to get a better look

" Oh yeah, some damn rippers got me a couple of days ago. I haven't have the chance to do anything with it " He explained.

I looked up to meet his eyes to see him with a slight surprised expression on his face.

"Sorry" I apologised letting go of his arm, feeling that I was too forward.

"No no, I don't mind. It's nice to see someone care" He gave a small friendly smile

"I'm a nurse and so it was just my first instinct, I guess" I glanced down at his arm not able to shake it from my mind.

"Would it be okay if I dressed it up for you?" I asked hoping he would agree.

"Yeah, totally, no problem. I don't want it to get infected" He pulled down his sleeve.

We both walked out of the mechanics and I lead him to my little hut. I opened the door and walked over to my medic station which was very simple but did the job.

"Hop up on the table and I'll get some supplies" I gestured over to the corner on the room

As I looked for my first aid kit, I could feel myself blush. I know that I was starting to develop a crush for him. I felt so stupid but it's been so long since I even looked at a guy the way I saw Deacon.

"So, this is you little place?" Deacon asked looking around my room.

"Yeah, it's small and plain but all I really need is a bed to sleep in and then my station so I can help people medically.

I walked over and starting unboxing the supplies I needed. He rolled up his sleeve. I looked down at the burn to see that the tattoo was enveloped in the burn. I got a cotton pad out and put some solution on it.

"This might hurt a little" I said quietly.

I heard him gasp and flinch a little under my touch as I gently dapped the burn with the cotton pad. We stay in silence for a couple of minutes as I concentrated on the task at hand.

"I can't even remember the last time I slept in my own bed" I glanced up to see him look at my bed.

"Where do you sleep?" I questioned reaching for a new cotton pad.

"Well on the ground if I'm on the road or just in a random bed when I visit a camp. I don't sleep much anyway" He looked down at me, watching.

"That's sad, nothing beats a good night sleep" I smiled realising I take my bed for granted.

"Tell me about it" He said quietly.

We both said nothing else for awhile, I was focused on his breathing. Since everything went down, you don't get much contact with people, close contact anyway.

"Well your welcome to sleep in my bed" I offered then realising what that sounded like. I heard him snort, confirming what I thought.

"That's not what I meant, I- I, Your welc-" I stuttered not wanting to look up, I could my face becoming more and more red.

"Don't worry, I know what you meant" He chuckled. "I appreciate the offer" I looked up seeing his warm smile

I started wrapping the bandage over his arm and feeling his eyes on me. I was too shy to give him eye contact. I looked over to his other hand to see no wedding ring. Not like that mattered now, most of people's partners are dead or missing.

I secured the bandage and finally looked up to see his eyes meeting mine. I released his arm from my hand and dropped it to my side, for him to catch my hand and hold it. My heart skipped a beat, it's been so long since someone has held my hand so gently.

"Thank you y/n" He whispered glancing down at my lips.

To be continued.....

Masterlist for Other Fics

[thewookieruns]

Falloutober Day 4: Cloud Nine

So... @darkwolf7-26 ​ asked me this question back in 2019 about this little story. I’m going to post this on AO3 as well, but this story gets it’s own post.

Here is @falloutober ​ Day 4: Cloud Nine

Erich Richardson cleared his throat nervously as he tried to finish adjusting his tie in the cracked mirror.

“Are you doing okay?” Nick Valentine asked. The Sole Survivor turned to the synthetic detective, who had changed out of his standard attire into a much nicer suit. However, his fedora was still comfortably perched on his bald, plastic head.. Erich chuckled nervously.

“I’m fine, just nervous as hell.” he sighed, swinging his arms back and forth to try and loosen the tension in his shoulders. “I mean… the last time I did this, it didn’t exactly end well.”

Nick snorted a laugh. “That’s one way of putting it, kid.” The synth stepped over to the younger man and helped him fix his tie. Erich felt his face flush with heat.

“Thanks.” he choked out. As Nick finally got the Sole Survivor’s tie straight, Erich cleared his throat again. “Listen, Nick… I just wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” the detective asked, one of his artificial eyebrows rising.

“Well… ever since I stumbled into Diamond City, you really took me under your wing. To be honest, you’ve really become a father figure to me. I want to live a life that would make you and dad proud. Thank you for that.”

Nick stood in silence, then wrapped the Sole Survivor in a bear hug, which was quickly reciprocated. “You’re a good man, kid. You follow that heart of yours, and you’ll never go wrong.” Nick said, his voice sounding choked with emotion. Several more seconds later, the two men broke their embrace. “Well, let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got other things to attend to.” Nick said with a smile after clearing his throat. Ruffling Erich’s hair with his right hand, the detective excused himself from the room.

Erich soon followed the detective, and was soon standing outside the home he and Nora had begun making their home before the Great War in the warm afternoon sun. He quickly followed the road down the cul-de-sac until he was standing in the clearing of a grove of trees near the bank of the river that ran along the outskirts of Sanctuary. Light filtered through the branches, giving the area a dappled look. A gazebo had been erected in the clearing, and a mishmash chair had been arranged around the structure. Codsworth, Erich’s faithful Mister Handy, was busy fussing and making sure everything was in order, a bowler hat perched atop his chassis.

“Are you ready for this?” A voice came from behind Erich. He turned to see Preston Garvey standing behind him. The Minuteman had washed and starched his uniform jacket and was wearing it over a nice pair of dress pants. Preston stood next to the Sole Survivor. “Don’t worry, man. You’re going to do great.”

“Garvey is right. You’ll do great, soldier.” Paladin Danse came up and stood on the other side. Surprisingly, he was out of his power armor and was dressed in a black suit and tie. Erich had to admit that both of his friends cleaned up really well.

“Well, then, we should get this celebration started!” Codsworth intoned from across the grove. “Guests are already beginning to arrive!” And indeed they were. John Hancock, the ghoul mayor of Goodneighbor walked into the grove, Cait on his arm. Hancock looked much the same, maybe a bit cleaner, but the three men were all mildly stunned at how well the former cage fighter had cleaned up. Her hair was tied back and was wearing a green dress. Other people were also filtering into the area. Sturges came into the area, pushing Mama Murphy in a wheelchair to a spot close to the gazebo. The handyman was wearing his standard attire, albeit with considerably fewer oil and grease stains. Curie had found a blue dress, and was sitting next to a man in a Minuteman uniform that Erich quickly realized was Deacon.  MacCready had even changed into a grubby, ill-fitting gray suit.

“Well… Let’s get this started.” Erich said, feeling the tension return. He and Preston stepped onto the gazebo, with Preston standing in the center. Erich stood to his left.

Once the guests were all seated, Preston began speaking. “Thank you for joining us today. We all know why we’re here, so I won’t stand up here and talk your ears off.” There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd. As soon as the laughter died down, there was a cough from the edge of the grove. Preston gestured to the source of the cough, and heads swiveled towards the edge of the grove, including Erich’s.

There was a gasp from the crowd, including one from Erich. Nick Valentine was standing at the edge of the grove, Piper Wright on his right arm. She was wearing a very simple white, long-sleeved dress that reached to the floor of the grove. Her hair was done in a French braid, and a veil hung to her lower back. She held a bouquet of various rad-flowers in her left hand. But the thing Erich found most beautiful was the radiant smile on the reporter’s face.

As Nick and Piper began walking towards the gazebo, the guests to the wedding stood up, murmurs of wonder passing between them. Finally, Nick and Piper stepped on to the platform. Piper handed the bouquet to Nick, who in turn handed it to Codsworth. Piper reached out and took both of Erich’s hands after brushing some lint off of the lapel of his army fatigues.

“Hey, Blue.” She said softly, her eyes bright. “Come here often?” Erich chuckled, words failing him.

Preston cleared his throat and began talking once the crowd had sat back down. “Gathered friends and colleagues, we’re gathered here today for a very special occasion. We have come here to witness the union of two individuals who have found each other across the centuries. We are here to bear witness to the marriage of Piper Wright and Captain Erich Richardson.” Light applause came from the guests.

Preston continued. “Both parties here have written their own vows, and will share them now.” Preston took a small step back, and gestured to Erich. Erich briefly let go of Piper’s hands and opened the right breast pocket of his fatigues and withdrew a notecard.

“Piper,” he began, reading from the notecard. “When I crawled out of Vault 111 and stumbled into Diamond City, I had lost everything. My world, my family, my life. I’ve been out here in the Commonwealth for a while, and I’ve found everything I lost in the vault. The world I knew before will never come back, but I found someone who understands that my world is vastly different from what it was but helps me keep a hope for this new world. I haven’t found my son, but I’ve found family here in the Commonwealth in my friends who have helped me in that search. My life ended on the day the bombs fell, and somehow ended again when Nora was killed and Shaun was taken. I thought that there was nothing to live for except to find my son. But now I’ve found someone to live for. Piper Wright, I promise to hold you and to cherish you for the rest of the time I have left on this planet.” Finishing up, Erich replaced the card in his breast pocket. He looked up to see tears beginning to form in Piper’s eyes.

“Oh Blue.” she said, her voice choked with emotion. She swallowed, composing herself, then reached over and opened the left breast pocket of Erich’s fatigues, withdrawing another notecard. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to follow that,” she stated, and there was a ripple of laughter. Exhaling, she began reading from her card.

“Erich, I would describe you as a whirlwind. Traveling with you and getting to know and eventually falling in love with you has been nothing short of a force of nature. I’ve seen every facet of you; your courage, your kindness, your honor, and your wit. You have been by my side, pushing me to be a better person, and a rock when I’ve felt like I’m lost. We have had so many amazing things happen to us, good and bad, and I can’t wait for so many more as your wife. I know that by your side we can accomplish whatever we want. I know this sounds ridiculous, but you’ve made this reporter be at a loss for words, and I can’t wait to have that happen more for the rest of our lives.”

As she finished, Piper placed her card back in the pocket of Erich’s fatigues. Sniffles were heard from the crowd, and both lovers figured it was from people crying. Preston stepped forward again.

“That was beautiful.” he stated, his own voice choking with emotion. The Minuteman cleared his throat and laughed. “First, we have an exchange of rings. If the ring bearer could bring the rings forward?” There was a happy bark from the edge of the grove, causing everyone to turn towards the sound. Nat Wright was holding Dogmeat by his collar, which had a bowtie affixed to it. Nat released her grip on the dog’s collar, and the canine bent down and picked up a basket in his mouth before coming bounding towards the gazebo. Once on the gazebo, he trotted to the Minuteman before wheeling and sitting at Preston’s feet, facing the audience. There were coos of appreciation and laughs from the audience at the dog’s antics.

“There we go!” Preston laughed again. “If you two would take the rings, we can complete the ring exchange.” Piper and Erich both crouched down, laughing at the dog. Retrieving the ring, both stood up, not breaking eye contact.

“Now, Erich, If you’ll take Piper’s left hand and place her ring on her ring finger…” Preston instructed, and Erich followed the directions. “Now repeat after me; Piper Wright, with this ring, I wed thee, and take thee to be my wife, ‘til death do us part.” Erich did as instructed. Once he was done, Preston turned to Piper.

“Piper, if you’ll take Erich’s left hand and place his ring on his ring finger…” Once this was done, Preston continued. “Now repeat after me; Erich Richardson, with this ring, I wed thee, and take thee to be my husband, ‘til death do us part.” Piper parroted what Preston had instructed her to say.

“Erich and Piper, I now pronounce you husband and wife!” Preston said, his voice cracking with emotion. Turning to Erich, he stated simply “Kiss your bride!” 

Erich did. And in that moment, with Nora’s ring on Piper’s finger, every stress melted away, leaving the newly minted Richardsons on cloud nine.

[smexyhancock-fangirl]

Nick, Deacon, Cait, Hancock and Piper were out searching for Rosie, she had been missing for almost 2 weeks.

"Guys! Over here!" Deacon shouted as he caught sight of a red and black checkered shirt, he ran as fast as he could and hugged Rosie as she turned around

"Where in Atom's name have you been?!" Nick asked her, scolding her like an angry father with a naughty child but he soon pulled her into a hug, Piper and Cait also joined in with a hug.

"John, it's your wife, why aren't you hugging her?" Piper asked, John had stayed back, holding himself back from hugging his missing wife, he was looking her up and down. He knew every inch of her body; naked and fully clothed and to him, things didn't seem right...

"This isn't Rosie, she's a few inches too tall, isn't standing in the proper way Rosie would and also," He said noticing her hand,

"She's not wearing my ring that she considers her lucky charm"

Nick looked at him like he'd had one too many chems, but shook it off.

Suddenly they all looked up as another Rosie emerged from the pre-war bookstore...

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Guardian of Creatures; AU! Queen x oc female x reader Chap. 14

*Author’s note*

Well it has been awhile since I did an update with this series but I finally took some time and finally came around to do this chapter.  Now idk when I’ll do the next chapter but I hope it’ll be soon. I really don’t wanna give up on this series and I hope you all haven’t given up either. I know the Queen/BoRhap fandom’s been almost silent lately but I hope we stand strong.

Warnings: swearing, torture, abuse, animal (in this case magical creature) cruelty/abuse

Chapter 14,

Kidnapped, tortured and broken

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things​

@simonedk​

@waddles03​

@psychosupernatural​

@ixchel-9275​

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels​

@queensdivas​

@queen-paladin​

@queendeakyy​

@glitter-at-the-panic​

@geek-and-proud​

@kinole009x​

_________________________________________________________

All you saw was pure darkness.  All you could hear was the sound of your heavy breathing and you thought you could also hear the shrill of a woman’s voice.  Suddenly your vision came back to you however you found out that you were forced down on your knees with your arms behind your back.

“So this is the so called human savior that my foolish nephew Crowley found eh?” you looked up and saw the familiar crazed curly hair of John’s mother Bellatrix Deacon.  Seeing her up close and personal was like you were looking at a rapid animal.

Her pupils were so dilated you could barely see the brown color in them, hell if you didn’t know any better you’d say she could pass off having black eyes.

“Indeed it is.” The shadow wizard wearing glasses and had sleeked back black hair and piercing cold light blue eyes said.  She scoffed. “Filthy muggles. Thinking they can learn our ways of magic! The world would be better off without ‘em!”

“Madam has such a sharp sense. Clever in every sense…..” a large fat, bald male said.

“Shut up Gollum!” she snapped at the creature.  Gollum, oh yeah you remember reading about them in the Magical creatures book.  They’re basically slaves to Wizards but never mistake them for weak.  They may look fat and slow but they are able to lift things 50x their own weight, and can snap a person’s spine in half if they are ordered to do so by their master.  The Gollum submitted and whimpered fearfully at Bellatrix’s fury. “Did you find the others?”

The man snapped his fingers and soon more shadow wizards came in, coming beside them were cocoon-like shadows.  One large one stood beside you and the other looked smaller, soon enough the smaller one revealed itself to be Roger and the taller one was Thor. From Thor there was Brian and Seraffel. And from Roger there was John and Ardeth.

“Hello sweetie, you miss me?” Bellatrix said to John.

“I could say a lot of things about you and not one of them would be anything in the ties of family feeling.” She did a slight tick.

“Is that any way to speak to your mother!?”

“I think we have very different definitions of being a ‘mother’.” Her right eye twitched then she slapped John across the face, the slap actually echoing throughout the entire room.

“DAD!!” Thor and Seraffel cried out.

“You psychotic bitch! Touch him again and I’ll freeze your ass so thick that not even a blue flamed dragon will be able to thaw you!” Seraffel growled threateningly.  Bellatrix then turned to Seraffel and even gave him a slap across the face.

“You do that and you and your brother will be locked somewhere where not even the crows can land their droppings on you.” She hissed into his face.  “What of that snake beast that’s always with them?” she said as she stood back up and paced in front of you all.

“We’re taking care of him. In fact I gave him a special little concoction of my own design. He’ll be out of commission for a while.”

“Excellent. And what of little Serafina? Your brothers having their way with her?” she cackled softly with a sickening grin.

Jesus this woman….if you could just move your arms you’d sure would like to wipe that grin off her face.  How dare she speak of Serafina like that!

“She was not with us when you sent these mages to collect us.” Ardeth spoke.  Bellatrix cackled and she said.

“As if I would ever believe that, Arabic dog!” She leaned down towards Ardeth.  She stood back up and walked towards the shadow wizard wearing the glasses and continued, “Now come on enough games where is she? That little wench has been clingy to my poor excuse of a son ever since they could walk. Wherever he goes, she’s sure to follow. Like a good little puppy.”

“I’m—afraid he’s not lying.” She turned to the man.  Her facial expression in a stoic gawk.  Her eyes wide as she let out a whisper.

“She wasn’t there?” the man shook his head. Bellatrix then began to frantically pace around the nearby fireplace which was roaring with a huge fire.  

Then in a flash she raised her wand and fired a green fire blast at the fireplace which made the fire explode behind her, her hair fanning out like a deranged demon.  With a flick of her wrist with her wand, a whip came out and attacked the shadow wizard standing behind John.

“How dare you—” a female shadow witch proclaimed but she was silenced when the whip wrapped around her throat.  She was the flung out the window before Bellatrix attacked another male shadow wizard that stood behind you.  She forced him across the room, hitting the wall.

“GO! FIND HER! FIND HER YOU MONGRELS!!!!!” she roared out in pure anger.  Not even wanting to test her again, the shadow wizards disappeared all except their leader. “Corvus! Put the creatures in their cages! I want to have a little conversation with my sonny boy. Mummy to son!” She said as she went up to John and actually pulled him free from his shadow binds, pulling him right up to her face.

You as well as the others were soon being forced to walk out of the room and towards what you would assume would be the dungeons.

“Dad! No dad!” the boys called out.

“John!” you called out.

“I’ll be okay you three. I’ll be okay.” Was the last thing you heard him say to you before the last thing you saw was his mother smirking maliciously at her own son.

You were then pushed into a cage and heard it lock behind you before the shadow wizard known as Corvus walked away after sending the others into their own cages.  Already you could hear Thor and Seraffel trying to bust down their cages.

“It’s no use boys.” Brian said.

“What you’re giving up already Uncle Brian! You know who our dad’s with we can’t just leave him alone with her!” Seraffel said.

“I understand your concern for your father ice dragon. But these are not ordinary cells. These have been engraved with ancient ruins. Which means we can’t use our powers and no amount of strength can break these bars.” Ardeth explained.

“So-so we’re just gonna stay locked away down here!?” Thor asked is disbelief. ��You wanted to agree with them but upon closer inspection you saw that what Ardeth had said was true.  Ruins aligned the bars; they were small and faint but you could somehow see them carved into the iron.

You sat down with your knees to your chest and thought about John and prayed to God that he’d survive whatever torture his mother was about to do to him.  You also prayed that wherever Serafina was, she’d hear him and come save him as well as the rest of you.

*3rd Person POV*

John collapsed to the ground.  His whole body trembling after being hit repeatedly and mercilessly with the Crucio curse.  He was then spun onto his back while his mother hovered over him with the very same knife she’d use on him as a child.  He once again felt like that frightened child as she held that knife right up against his cheek, allowing him to feel the hauntingly familiar steel blade.

“That wench of yours has never once left your side and now she just pops off to Merlin knows where! You will tell me where you sent that FILTHY HALFBLOOD WENCH!!” she first started off in an icy whisper before finally screaming in his face.

“Don’t know……she went……I swear! I don’t know where she is!” John pleaded with his mother.

“Oh I don’t believe you.” Without hesitating, she held down her son’s head with her left hand and with the right, she began to carve out a word under John’s forearm.  Echoing throughout the entire mansion, John’s agonizing screams pierced the air.  Mixed in with his mother’s sadistic cackling it was like being in an insane asylum.

Below in the dungeons, everyone could hear the agonizing screams of John and Bellatrix’s insane cackling and demanding screams. Thor and Seraffel shook in pure anger before they decided to hit their cages as hard as they could with their bodies. Slamming against the iron bars trying to break free (even though it was pointless).

*2nd Person POV*

Hearing John’s screams just made your heart stop and your stomach drop.  There was nothing you could do.  It was almost too painful for you to listen to John’s screams anymore, so you closed your eyes and covered your ears but you could still hear his agonizing screams.

Goddamnit Serafina where are you!? Can’t you hear your husband’s pain? You guys are already connected so you should feel it right!?

Footsteps soon came down the corridor, through whatever light could be seen from the moonbeams that shined in the dungeons, you saw that it was the Deacon’s Gollum as well as the glasses wearing Shadow Mage known as Corvus.

“The dragons, the elf and the Nokk. You four are to come with us.”

“Oh yeah? And where’s that?” asked Roger.

“Let’s just say your presence is needed—elsewhere.”

“And just what do you mean by elsewhere?” Seraffel demanded.

“That is none of your concern dragon. Just know that if you refuse to cooperate,” that’s when you felt something beginning to squeeze your heart.  Your throat clumped up and you could literally hear your heart beat ringing in your ears, “The muggle will die.”

“You sick bastards let them go!” Seraffel shouted.

“They’ve got nothing to do with this!” Thor tried to reason.

“Oh you’re right. They do have nothing to do with this, after all—they’re nothing to us. Just another, worthless, pathetic muggle born.” Corvus’ eyes turned to you.

From what you could see, his blue eyes were nothing but ice cold as the pain in your chest continued to grow and grow.  Your heart racing even faster, pleading for air. You tried to speak but it was as if your voice was silenced permanently.

“Alright we’ll comply!” Brian shouted.  Corvus turned to Brian’s cell. “We’ll comply with you. Just don’t hurt them.” Corvus’ lips turned up into a slight grin and just as suddenly the pain was in your chest, it was released and you let out a loud, desperate inhale of air.

You began coughing and felt something warm land on your lips, you raise your fingers to see just what it was only to see the familiar thick red substance of blood staining your fingertips.

“(Y/n), you alright?” Roger spoke to you worriedly.

“I’m—I’m okay.” Soon you heard the cell doors open and out came Thor, Seraffel, Brian and Roger.  The Gollum tied up Brian’s hands with rope while Thor, Seraffel and Roger were given chains around their necks.  Soon the four of them were led out like dogs on a leash until they disappeared up the stairs.

“Ardeth?” you call out.

“I’m here.”

“Do—do you think…..we’re gonna get out of this alive?” he was silent for a long moment.

“To be honest, I do not know. But we cannot allow them to break us, Shadow mages pride themselves in their arrogance. And harming others is what gives them that ego boost.”

“But what about Brian and the others?”

“I wouldn’t worry about them. All of them are clever and strong. They won’t break as easy as the Shadow mages think they will.”  You hope he was right.

*Roger’s POV*

We were lead outside the manor and saw a bunch of other Shadow Mages outside, however unlike the ones that captured us, these guys had a jaguar brands on their arms.

“As promised, four new toys to try out.” Corvus stated.  A female Shadow mage with silver hair and piercing honey-like eyes came up to Thor and lifted his chin up.

“The dragons and the Nokken will be most useful. The elf, maybe not so much.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware of Celina, Elves are notorious for their healing abilities. Perhaps he can be used to heal some of your clan members.” Celina smirked before releasing Thor’s chin and she said to Johnathan.

“Alright Corvus, you’ve got a deal.” She gestured one of her boys to come forward and he handed Johnathan a sack of sorts.  Johnathan opened it to reveal about 200 pounds. These sick, twisted Mages, they’re selling us like cattle!

“Pleasure doing business with you Felidae.” Johnathan said with a smirk before he and the Gollum walked back towards the manor. Soon each of us were pulled by our binds and forced to walk with these mages now.

My nephews and I were the ones who tried to break free from our bonds.  Chaining us up like we were no more than human dogs to them, I especially hated the feeling of being bounded by something.  Minus Serafina’s magic, having being bound by something whether it’s magic or chains it’s like—being molested by an unknown force that keeps a tight hold to you and will never let go.

For days we trudged on the open country side of jolly ol England.  I don’t know whether they were trying to break us this way or just tire us out, either way it was a foolish way.  Once I trekked the entire land that would soon become both North and South America twice without rest.  Brian’s kind, they can last several days without rest since Elves have a slower metabolism, basically they’re super human and don’t break that easy if they don’t get food or water for a few days.

And of course with Thor and Seraffel being dragons, they’ll last since Ardeth’s people supplied with a dragon sized meal for them.  But I knew their bonds must have bothered them as much as it did me.  For the Mages also decided to bind them by their backs, preventing them from spreading their wings once in a while.

You know how you’ll see birds shake themselves out by flapping their wings, well that keeps blood circulating through their wings and keeps them healthy.  When dragons are in their human form, they have to every once in a while spread their wings out for the same reason, cause if they don’t it causes them serious back pains and can even paralyze their wings if bounded long enough.

By day 5, I could already see from the lads that their backs were starting to ache them as they would shift their shoulder blades, roll their shoulders, anything to try and ease the aching muscles in their back.

It even got to the point where Thor was so uncomfortable, he actually created a thunderstorm right over us.  Not any rain but there were definitely some thunder and purple lightning flashing the sky.

“Oi Storm dragon! Yah might wanna cease this yammerin in the sky yah?!” one of the Shadow mages spoke with an Irish accent.

“He would if you would allow us to stretch our wings out you damn eejit.” Seraffel defended his little brother.  The Irish shadow mage turned around and was about to punch Seraffel across the face when he was forced to stop mid-walk by none other than Celina.

“My husband paid good money for these beasts. If any of them are harmed, it’ll be your head Seanie do I make myself clear?”

“Yes ma’am.” She freed him which made him drop to the ground.

“Keep moving, I promised him we’d be back in 6 days with his prizes.” She ordered the rest of the shadow mages.  They obeyed her with a ‘yes ma’am’ and forced us to continue walking.

The next morning I smelt something in the air.  It smelt like—brimstone? And…..horse manure? As we came over a hill that’s when we saw it.

A fortress like structure with walls well over Thor’s dragon height, steal iron and it even had runes on them.  What do I mean by runes, well I mean magical ruin, symbols that date back to the Anglo-Saxon era of man.  Serafina told me that only the witch or wizard that cast them can use their magic.  So even if you are the most powerful creature on earth, if you’re trapped within a rune binding, you’re basically a sitting duck.

We got closer and closer to the fortress, meeting some other Shadow mages with the same Jaguar symbol branding on their arms, and even the fortress walls bared the Jaguar shadow symbol on a flag.  

One shadow mage took control over Brian’s body using his shadow sorcery, 10 men came up to handle Thor and Seraffel (five shadow mages each took care of them) while 4 handled me.

I shifted into my white horse form trying to give me some more weight for them to try and drag them down but they held my chains firm.

“Open the gates!” Celina called out and when they did, we were greeted with an awful sight.

Obviously this place was bigger than it looked.  A fight ring on one side of the fortress, a corral on the other, and a stable that went all the way around the entire fortress. Dragons from fire drakes, to the peaceful Asian water dragons were kept in cages, being whipped or forced to submit to the Shadow wizards that stood at their cages.

Elves in chains forced to be slaves as they walked back and forth making weapons or potions to probably benefit Grindelwald’s followers and maybe even harm us magical creatures.   I turned around and watched as the gates were sealed shut and lit up with the runes, locking the doors permanently.

“Separate them!” the Irish mage Seanie said and soon the boys were taken towards the East end of the fortress while Brian was forcefully escorted to the upper levels of the fortress to be put to work.  Meanwhile I was forced to walk straight ahead, and that’s when my heart dropped.

As we walked along further into the fortress, I could hear the sound of thunderous footsteps.  But they didn’t come from any dragon or giant, not these steps I knew all too well.

That was the sound of a Nokken army.

And that’s when I saw them.  All of my brothers being ridden on like actual horses, all of them walking as a single unit, looking down and obeying these Shadow mages commands. My younger brothers were now slaves to these brutes.

All of them—broken.

I let out a frantic, desperate neigh as I called out to them hoping they would recognize me.  That’s when a tall, skinny black stallion looked up and nickered surprisingly.  Tommy, my youngest brother in the pod.  Back before I left the pod to join Fred and his cause, he and his twin brother Nikki were just colts.

But now he was practically a juvenile standard of Nokken. Black stallion (contrary to popular belief, we have to earn our white coats with age and experience. We’re first born as black stallions, then slowly become brown before finally we turn white).

That’s when I saw that bumping behind him was none other than his twin brother Nikki.  No just how many of my younger brothers do they have here? What did these shadow wizards’ need us for? The Shadow Mage riding on top of Tommy gave him a whip to his behind to get him back in position.

I pleaded one more time to my brothers but this time none of them even looked up at me.  They just kept marching, and marching, and marching.

Rage boiled up inside me till I just lashed out and tried to make a break for it.  The shadow mages that held onto me, tried to pull me back but I was a true fighter, I wasn’t gonna obey them.  I bucked, kicked, reared, stomped, anything I could to intimidate them.

That’s when a Bombarda spell came down just barely a foot in front of me stopping me in my tracks.  Before me was (who to me) looked like the Shadow mage in charge.

He had sleeked back dark brown hair, piercing cold blue eyes much like Johnathan Corvus did, he wore a fancy black dress suit and tight leather gloves on his hand.  Around his neck was a silver broach with (you guessed it) the Jaguar family crest.  I huffed at this wizard as I bared my teeth at him, flicking my tail angrily telling him I meant business.

“What seems to be the problem cousins?” he spoke in a pure, rich British tone.

“We got us a wild one this time Malcolm.” Said one of the shadow mages that held me.

“Deacon and Black’s pet Nokk cousin.” A Scottish shadow mage spoke up.

“Really?” Malcolm piped in arrogantly.  He walked up towards me, took out his wand and lifted my chin with it.  “We’ve broken many stubborn Nokkens in our life time. This one will be no different.” How dare he……

I then took his wand between my teeth and snapped it in half before spitting it down to his feet.  For someone who takes their shadow abilities based off the animal of humans, he definitely wasn’t no jaguar.  Malcolm smirked at me, picked up his wand and snapped it till it was completely in two before carelessly tossing it aside.

I stomped my front right foot as a challenge for him but he looked at me as if I were nothing but a worthless dog, all bark and no bite.

“Conduct him like the rest of his brothers.”

“Yes cousin.” Just looking into this guy’s eyes alone I was thinking—sea snake.  I huffed and snarled at him, keeping my eyes on him till he left me alone with his cousins.

I was dragged towards some sort of preparation stable. They placed me between these two iron-plated gate and wrapped my chains around the poles of them.

“Alright Graham, he’s all yours.” Said another Irish shadow mage.  I reared my head downwards giving him a snarl as he jumped back trying to dodge my teeth. “Be careful though, he’s a wily one.” A deep chuckle came out from a blacksmith shop nearby.

A pudgy, fat old wizard soon came out wiping his hands of the grease and grime.  Thinning white hair and a little tache above his upper lip and he spoke with a thick Irish accent.

“See ‘ow wily he is once I’m through with ‘em.” He took out a pair of scissors.  Oh fuck no! he came right up to my mane and was about to cut a chunk of it off, but I quickly turned and bit him in the hand.  He jumped back grabbing his hand and checked it out.  I huffed and gave him my best stick eye.

No one but Serafina Deacon-Black touches this mane.

“A fighter eh?” next thing I know, my head was forced down into a bagged muzzle and I could only watch as each strand of white horse hair fell down onto the ground.  The fat bastard chuckled as he continued to cut my mane but then another idea came into mine.

They may have pinned my neck and head, but these mages sure as hell didn’t take my whole body into consideration.  So I simply just leaned a bit to the left, pinning his hand against my body and the iron cage.  The fat mage cried in pain as he tried to free his hand and fell to the ground in the process.

Once he was free, I nickered out a laugh through the bag as I looked him in the eye.  He gave me his best glare as he muttered.

“Alright.”

*3rd Person POV*

After completing their marching exercise, two of Roger’s brothers that he had seen Nikki and Tommy took notice of their older brother’s games with the old fat bastard (as all the Nokks referred to Graham).  Nikki nickered curiously as Tommy turned and followed his older twin’s gaze.

Due to that little stunt, the shadow mages now used a spell to paralyze Roger’s whole body so that Graham could continue his work.  Now taking a small knife, he picked up Roger’s front right hoof and began cleaning out all the gunk, dirt, coral, anything that could be trapped underneath his hooves.

Now he wouldn’t know at the time, but he managed to move that leg out of Graham’s grasp and quite literally, kick him in the ass. Leaving a well deserved hoofprint on the old geezer’s trousers.  Roger laughed again through his sack-like muzzle.  From their spot, Nikki grinned while Tommy whinnied out a laugh, remembering just how much Roger loved to toy with wizards, especially the male ones.

A shadow witch came and bound Roger’s leg that kicked Graham with a chain this time.

“I told yah, good ol iron will always do the thing instead of relying on magic too much!”

“And I told you yah old geezer, we don’t know how his leg got free! No one is ever able to break our shadow paralyzing spell.” The younger witch snapped at him before leaving.  As Graham went back to work, this time hammering a new horse shoe onto Roger’s hoof.  Roger nickered softly and soon felt his back foot raise up ready to kick Graham right in the face.

“Graham watch it!” another witch called out to him but it was too late.  The second he looked up, Roger’s back leg socked him in the eye sending him onto his back.  Nikki and Tommy both let out whinnies of laughter at their older brother’s games which soon caught the attention of the other Nokks as well, including Roger’s twin brother Vince.

Graham grunted and rubbed his head before glaring back at Roger who glared at him.  This was the last straw for Graham, playtime was over.

He had all of Roger’s legs triple chained up to ensure that he couldn’t escape this time.  In his shop, Graham was pumping up the brand of the Felidae family and was going to brand Roger with that very mark on his side.

“Yah bloody wanker this ‘ill teach yah to mess with me.” He muttered.  Nikki cringed out a worried nicker while Tommy lowered his head bending his ears back so that he wouldn’t hear the painful roars to come.  

In Vince’s stable he lowered his head, many Nokks, including him have broken once they’ve been branded.  Being water creatures, any source of heat is painful for them if it gets on their skin, and this guy brands this in blue dragon fire which makes it twice as painful and more torturous than any Nokken could ever take.

Graham came onto Roger’s right side, holding the flamed poker with the brand at the end, chuckling arrogantly.  But Roger wasn’t going to go down without a fight.  He wriggled and wormed his head around until finally he got free of his muzzle, his head hovering straight over Graham’s entire body.

He let out a gasp while Roger smirked at him before giving him a well-earned, hard, painful headbutt, knocking Graham out cold.

“Graham, you alright mate?” asked a shadow mage as Roger snorted at him, claiming his victory.  Nikki, Tommy and Vince all whinnied out laughter at their brother’s play.

“This Nokken is unlike any of the others. He’s even managed to slip pass our spells.” Said one witch.  “How is this possible?”

“I don’t know.” Said another female witch as they both stared at Roger, who raised his head up high, glaring at anyone who dared try to brand him next.

“Elizabeth, Robyn, you two rally your brothers and—tell them to take this Nokk to the stables.” Said a male shadow wizard.

“Not the stables James.” Malcolm’s voice soon spoke up. The three of them turned to face the head of the Felidae shadow clan.

“Malcolm?” James asked.

“The corral. It’s time we broke this beast.” Malcolm’s final command was.  And whatever the head of the house says, the others must obey.

*Roger’s POV*

The corral huh? Break me? Heh, good luck with that.  I was taken to the corral and as if I were a normal horse, they saddled me up and forcefully tried to pry my mouth open so that I was forced to feel the touch of their shadow reins.

Let me tell you it felt and tasted revolting.  Try to imagine a thick stripped down rag being gagged between your teeth that felt as hard as steel itself.  I gave them a fight but one of them just had to cheat and give me a good, hard shock to force my mouth open.

I reared and shook my head as I felt the first shadow mage get on top of my back.  All right, you Mages think you can break me? Well come on then, let’s ride!

The second that gate opened, I bucked madly which shook the young male wizard on top of my back like a ragdoll.  I made an erupt stop and he slammed right into the back of my neck making him disoriented.  I quickly spun around before giving him one final buck, sending him flying into the air and landing right on his stomach in the dirt.

I gave him an arrogant huff before turning to Malcolm who only gave me a glare.  Next in line.

The next rider was a slightly older male shadow mage sporting both a tache and beard.  Arrogantly he thought he could last longer than the other guy, yeah right.  I took him out quicker than the last one, sending him right on his arse.

Of course as I walked away he shouted a profanity at me. Calling me a ‘lousy piece of horse shit’.  And like hell I was just gonna take that lying down, I charged head on at him to which he ran for his life.  Barely making it out of the corral before I gave him a quick bite to his arse.  From the nearby stables, I could hear some of my brothers laughing out, I turned to see it was none other than my brothers Tommy, Vince and Nikki.

I nickered to them thanking them before trotting back, my tail flicking with pride and my head held high.  Once I got back to my so called ‘kennel’ I snorted out at the witch who stood in front of it, making her reel back in disgust as I got back into place, nickering arrogantly.  Next!

“This one will break ‘em.” A Welsh witch spoke as a big Scots shadow mage came at me with a horsewhip in hand.  Please like he’ll be any different.  I threw that big lug off of me under just one second.  All it took was one good leap and he went soaring through the air, even knocked another wizard who was sitting on top of the corral fence.

Even some of the witches tried to ride me but just because they were girls didn’t mean I gave it to them any easier.  In fact I made sure to buck those bitches off of my back even harder, because like I’ve said before.

The only witch who I allow on this stallion’s back is Serafina Deacon-Black.

Now to really show these bastards I meant business.  I charged at one end of the fence baring my teeth and stomping my hooves aggressively.  I then charged towards another section of the gate, scaring the shadow mages there, even knocking some of them into a trough.  Finally my eyes turned to Malcolm, I charged head on right towards him.  

The mages around him backed up but he stood firm with his hands behind his back and his eyes narrowed with hate as I growled right in his face, my breath even making parts of his short hair flow freely from its sleeked back form.

I stood face to face with Malcolm panting heavily.  My eyes piercing red at this point, my blood boiling and my heart racing.  You have proof yet you cocky little shit?  I don’t go down without a fight.

“Celina!” Malcolm called out.

“Yes Malcolm?” the woman who brought us here stood by Malcolm’s side.

“Take this Nokken down to the boiler dungeon. No food or water. 2 weeks.”

“With pleasure my darling. Plus with a little more fire power from those fire drake’s we got, the boiler room will be extra hot for this one to—cool down.” She said with a sadistic smirk.

Next thing I know I was trapped within a cell and all I could feel was hot air surrounding me.  It was also strange that I could feel that my legs weren’t chained up at all, nor was my snout or neck.  But still it was scorching hot in here.

I laid down in my cage, smacking my lips already starting to feel my mouth growing dry.  I huffed and nickered softly.

Damnit Serafina where are you? And Freddie, what happened to him? Was he here with us or was he still at the manor with John, (Y/n) and Ardeth? And just what the hell was this place exactly? Why would the Shadow mages want all of us creatures for?

[warriorteam1924]

Would you....?

John Deacon x Veronica Tetzlaff

Author’s note : Hi my beauties. Here we go for Johnica week 2021 hosted by the amazingly talented Rachel @eileen-crys. This is for day 7 and I chose the prompt ‘Anniversary’. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks in advance for the feedback (but please don’t put a like if you didn’t even read the piece, that’s very rude to my pov....) Also, I remind you English is not my mother tongue, sorry for the mistakes….

Warnings : None, I guess it’s okay

Summary : A wedding anniversary for John and Veronica....

Words count :  2,421 words

Permanent tag list : @anotheronebitesthedick @reavenedges-lies​​​ @thosequeenboys​​​​ @roger-taylors-car​​​ @orionis8689​ ​ @theadorabletia @queenlover05

Johnica Week 2021 Masterlist

For some people, waking up next to the same person days after days, weeks after weeks, months after months, years after years, was a real blessing. It was the case for John Deacon.

 Waking up next to his wife every morning was a feeling he couldn’t describe. He felt appeased, safe, home. He was an early riser so would often wake up before she would, but he would not get up. He would just remain by her side, hearing her breathing and trying to breath at the same speed. He would smell her perfume, such a delicate fragrance that was a mix of soap and cleaned clothes. And he would also look at her.

 After all these years, her features had changed of course. No one had the ability to get younger as the years went by, unless it was in a book or in a movie. But the sweetness coming from her was still the same. There were many words that John could use to describe Veronica : wife, spouse, mother, grandmother for the nouns, but also kind, devoted, caring or loving when it came to adjectives.

 It always took John several minutes to recall what day it was and he smiled as he recalled that day was their wedding anniversary. John looked at Veronica, and more particularly, he stared at her hand. She was still wearing her engagement ring and her wedding ring. They were the only jewels she was wearing on a daily basis. She never took them off, no matter what.

 John grimaced a little, thinking about how his massive hands had prevented him to carry on wearing his ring after several years. He knew Ronnie wasn’t mad at him for this, it wasn’t his fault, and as he played bass, his fingers were getting bigger.

 Trying to chase this thought away, as it was not the most pleasant he could think of, John led his mind to the moment he had actually proposed. It was such a memorable story....

  “That’s a beautiful ring....”, Brian said, looking at the jewel box and what was inside.

 “I can’t believe you’re already proposing....”, Roger carried on. “Are you sure? Is it a bit too soon....? Oh no, you misfired and she’s pregnant !!??”, the drummer exclaimed.

 “For god’s sake, Rog....”, Freddie complained. “Don’t listen to him, Deaky. This is wonderful.”, the singer carried on.

 “Thanks guys....”, John shyly replied. “I hope she’s gonna say yes....”, he grimaced a little.

 “The only way to find out is to ask her....”, Freddie shrugged.

 John strongly nodded. His friend was right. Brian gave him back the ring and the bass player headed back to his apartment. He shared the place with his girlfriend Veronica, and he hoped before lunch she was going to be his fiancée.

 As he expected it, Ronnie was home, busy in the kitchen, preparing lunch. How lovely was she with her apron around her neck? She was dreamily humming the tune that was airing on the radio, stirring her casserole.

 “John? You’re home early.... Is everything alright?”, she kindly asked.

 “Yes. We just thought it would be nice to have a day off.... You know, just to be more efficient after a bit of rest....”, he tried to rapidly make up a lie.

 “Oh.... I see. You’re really pale.... Are you sure you’re okay?”, she asked again.

 “I’m good....”, he reassured her with a faint smile.

 ‘Why not propose now?’, John thought to himself. After all, he didn’t need much preparation. He just had to take a deep breath, take her hand and ask her....

 “Ronnie, would you....”, he started to say, getting closer to her. But he couldn’t finish his sentence, since the doorbell rang.

 “Are you expecting someone?”, she asked, still busy in front of the heaters.

 “Nope....”, John replied and went to see what was going on.

 It was merely the postman who had made a mistake and was supposed to deliver a registered letter, but had the wrong address. John closed the door, rolling his eyes.

 He came back in the kitchen and Ronnie was already serving the meal so he sat and they ate, randomly chatting. John’s first try was gone, but he wasn’t going to give up.

 At the end of the meal, they cleaned the dishes together and John waited to be in the living room to try again. It would surely be more appropriate on the sofa rather than in front of the oven....

 John arrived in the living room, after Veronica, pretending he needed paper to try another riff for a given song. Ronnie was quietly reading on the sofa, merely beautiful. Deaky took a deep breath and sat right next to her. She looked up and smiled at him.

 “Ronnie, would you....?”, John once again started to say, but was interrupted by the phone ringing.

 “I’ve got this....”, he said with a smile.

 He took the receiver and heard a voice he often heard.

 “What did she say mate?”, Roger said with excitement.

 “I can’t tell you....”, John replied.

 “What do you mean?”, the other carried on.

 “I mean, I haven’t worked on it yet....”, the bassist said, getting a little frustrated.

 “What the hell, mate? What are you waiting for?”, the drummer asked.

 John rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to be rude with his friend and bandmate, nor did he want to leave any clues that might have made Ronnie guess he was about to propose. He wanted it to be a surprise.

 “I’ve got this mate, I’ll let you know....”, John said before hanging up. He deeply sighed, trying to calm down.

 “Is everything alright, love?”, Ronnie sweetly asked.

 “Yes.... Yes, it was just Rog.... He wanted to know how I was doing with the riff....”, he shrugged.

 Veronica nodded and stood up. She came closer to him and hugged him.

 “It’s a beautiful day, we should go for a walk in the park....”, she suggested.

 John answered with a nod. Maybe a proposal in the parc, on some romantic bench as the birds would be singing their serenade around them.... Yes, it was perfect. Much better than what he had originally planned.

 As Ronnie had said it, it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and there was a light breeze in the trees, creating the perfect atmosphere. There were kids playing with their ball, old ladies knitting on the benches, men reading their newspapers. The young couple walked hand in hand, carrying on chatting about everything and anything.

 They eventually sat on a bench as well, resting a little. John looked around him and it seemed the weather was changing. He had to be quick. He turned to his girlfriend, putting his hand in his pocket to take the box out of it.

 “Ronnie, would you....”, he started to say. Of course, he couldn’t finish his sentence.

 Veronica raised her head, feeling some drops coming from the clouds that suddenly arrived right above them. The drops began to be more and more present and very soon, it was really heavily raining. The park emptied very quickly and John and Veronica arrived in their apartment, soaking wet, but laughing like teenagers all the same. 

 They took time to get dry and Ronnie prepared tea. She put the tray on the coffee table, ready to serve. They sat next to each other, ready to get warmer thanks to the hot beverage. Before he could be interrupted once more, John took his breath and started to say :

 “Ronnie, would you....?”.

 But this time, someone knocked on their door. Ronnie stood up and went to open it. She didn’t see John frustratingly passed his hands on his face, allowing him to silence his annoyed sigh.

 “Deborah?”, he heard his girlfriend say. “Is everything alright?”, she kindly asked.

 “No....”, John heard the other woman reply with a sob.

 Ronnie let her friend in and Deborah apologized for coming without being announced. She explained her boyfriend had just let her down and that she just needed to talk to someone.

 John rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe it. Deborah surely had many friends she could have gone to, but of course, she had chosen Ronnie. On the other hand, the bassist couldn’t blame her. Veronica was caring, listening and understanding. John had not fallen for her only because she was beautiful. She was an amazing woman, in every aspect John could think of.

 As a result, he merely gave up and brought another cup of tea on the tray. He took the notebook he had brought in the living room at the beginning of the afternoon and tried to write some riffs. It was not easy between the sobs of Deborah and his mind desperately trying to find a way to propose Veronica.

 Eventually, Ronnie’s friend dried her tears and left. Veronica apologized again for this interruption, but John wasn’t mad at her of course. He took her in his arms, kissing her tenderly.

 “Restaurant?”, he suggested.

 “Oh.... Why not?”, Ronnie replied with a smile.

 The two lovers got ready and headed to the small restaurants they loved to eat at. It was cosy and not too noisy, it would be perfect. John would propose, even if he didn’t want to draw attention upon them.

 They arrived and as usual, the waitress guided them to a table for two. They started to eat, Ronnie talking about her friend and the day she had experienced, wishing she would get better soon.

 Right before dessert was about to be served, John took Veronica’s hand. She looked at him with a smile.

 “Ronnie, would you....?”, he said, but....

 “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU !!!”, the voices started to sing in the whole restaurant.

 The two lovers turned their heads to see a young boy blushing as everyone was singing for him on his special day.

 “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU !!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR TIMMY !!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU !!!”, they carried on singing.

 The boy blew the candles on his cake and everyone applauded, including Ronnie.

 John knew she had a special affection for kids and was willing to be a mother at some point. Deaky loved kids as well of course and wanted to be a father as well. But he couldn’t deny he was a bit mad at Timmy for having his birthday in that restaurant. Or maybe the bass player was mad at his parents, he wasn’t sure anymore.

 The couple finished their diner and eventually came back home. It had been a tiring and long day, but it wasn’t over yet. Deaky still had a chance.

 They arrived home and Ronnie widely yawned, stretching. She headed to the bathroom where she put her pyjamas on and brushed her teeth before going to bed.

 John followed her. It really wasn’t what he had planned, but as long as he was able to ask his question, the place, the time, the clothes didn’t really matter.

 He arrived in the bed next to her and turned to her. The bow was ready on his bedside table.

 “Ronnie, would you....?”, he said.

 “Goodnight, John. Love you.”, Ronnie interrupted him, half asleep, putting a kiss on his lips.

 “Love you too....”, he merely replied, smiling.

 How could he not be smiling? He was standing next to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he loved her so much.

 Already sleeping, she unconsciously came closer to him, willing to feel his reassuring presence. She put her left hand on his torso. He looked at her ring finger, frowning.

 Why not?

 He took the ring from the box and delicately placed it on her finger. The size was right, it looked beautiful on her.

 Appeased he had been able to put the ring on her finger, John rapidly fell asleep as well.

 The next morning, John got up early, just like he would usually do. He prepared some coffee and toasts, making sure the two of them would start the day on the best tracks.

 He heard Ronnie scream in the bedroom and smiled. She surely had seen the ring on her finger and John opened his arms to have a hug.

 “Oh my god, John !!!”, she arrived in the kitchen in a rush.

 “Yes?”, he innocently asked.

 “Oh, my god, I’m terribly late !!”, she said, putting a toast in her mouth and heading to the living room to put her shoes on.

 “But Ronnie....”, John desperately said.

 “I gotta go !! Love you....”, she said, slamming the door behind her.

 “Love ya.... too....”, John replied behind the closed door.

 He couldn’t believe it. She had not even noticed the ring. Or maybe she had just run away after finding it at her finger?

 John sighed, once more. He turned to get back in the kitchen when the front door opened again.

 “John....?”, Ronnie whispered.

 Deaky turned to face her. She was crying.

 “What’s going on?”, he said, terribly worried.

 She showed her hand with her ring unable to speak.

 “I’m sorry, Ronnie....  You can take it off, I wanted to propose, but everything went wrong yesterday and....”, he started to say.

 “John....”, she said, getting closer to him.

 “Ronnie....”, he replied, looking at her. He understood her look wasn’t mad or angry or anything. She was just overwhelmed. John went down on his knee, taking her hand.

 “Ronnie, would you.... Would you marry me?”, he asked, not believing he’d been able to finish his sentence.

 “Yes....”, she replied in between the sobs.

 Since she already had the ring at her finger, John merely stood up and took her in his arms. They kissed and Ronnie was still crying.

 “Ronnie, oh, my love, I’m the happiest man on earth.”, he told her, still holding her very tight, not wanting to let her go.

 “I’m so happy John. But I’m still terribly late....”, she eventually told him.

 “Of course....”, he said, letting her go.

 She put one last kiss on his lips and left, gently closing the door behind her this time.

  John laughed at the happy ending of this story, where he was the main protagonist. Ronnie opened her eyes and John smiled at her. She got closer to him to share their first, but surely not the last, kiss of the day.

 “Happy anniversary....”, John said, caressing her hair.

 “Happy anniversary....”, Ronnie replied, taking his hand and kissing it.

 It had taken John many attempts to propose Veronica that was for sure. But he was sure of something else. Every single day by her sides had made it worth it.

[pedros-mustache-main]

l'oiseau chante

“au where the reader is a singer instead of a painter?” for anon

to close out sd!deaky night(s), here’s 3k words of an au of my own au. i got incredibly carried away but had so much fun writing this.

the duet reader sings is called “duo des fleurs” from the opera, lakmé. i recommend you listen to that as the song is described for the full ~experience~. thanks for indulging me the last few days! much love! xoxo!

suggestive content below (discussions of a sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship & a few suggestive moments/language). please be mindful if under 18!

april, 1985.

“no, really! i’ve got to go!” she’s laughing as she says it, pulling out of his arms to make for the door, but john is quick to catch her waist, spin her on her heels, and press his body flush with hers.

he works his mouth along her jaw and mumbles, “but we’ve only just started having fun.”

he can feel her relax against his ministrations, fight the urge to leave. she wants to stay, he knows that. why wouldn’t she? their arrangement is new and exciting, each moment a new opportunity to discover what makes the other tick. thus far, he knows she likes to dabble in gardening and running. she prefers opal over diamonds and shoes over handbags. she’s as luxurious as she is grounded, but she knows what she wants, and she isn’t afraid to go after it. he likes that assuredness. it’s part of why their arrangement works. she’s not looking for anything other than pampering and a roll in the hay, and he can give that to her in heaps, but not much else. his heart is far too guarded after all these lonely years to really hope in anything more.  

still, she’s a hell of a good romp, and he’d rather spend the evening in with her than attend the blasted party freddie planned for—what was it?—the arrival of spring.

“john, please.” she pushes on his chest with the palms of her hands and lifts her brows. “i’ve got this gig, and if i’m late the conductor will flay me alive. you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

he considers, tilting his head to the side. “i’d rather be the one to flay you but—”

aghast, she hits his chest, though bell-like laughter belies her amusement. “john!”

finally, he releases his hold and moves to hold open the front door. “fine. if you must leave me...” he swings his arm toward the crowded street outside.

she grabs her handbag from the catch-all table beside the door. “i’ll ring you in a few days, alright?” she hesitates on the front stoop, her eyes roaming over his face, lower lip between her teeth. she looks... guilty, and he knows why.

“[y/n], we’ve talked about this. i’m fine with it.” he waves to the street. “go on. you shouldn’t be late.”

the worry on her face eases, and she releases a breath. pressing her lips to her finger tips, she waves, manicured nails wiggling in the air. “thanks, love.” she’s already half-way down the steps and to the curb when she looks over her shoulder and says, “i’ll call you!”

nodding, john waves once more then shuts the door with a gentle shake of his head. 

he has his rules for this set-up. 

his number one requirement? don’t ask about queen. he doesn’t like to talk about it, not with her. that’s too intimate, and their relationship is strictly physical. in the six months they’ve been together, they’ve done little more than fuck and smoke cigarettes afterwards and laugh about inconsequential things. they are not dating, not even friends with benefits. there’s a clear line—almost professional—that neither is willing to cross, and he likes that. she makes him feel good, spoils him with attention and fluttering eyelashes, and he pays her rent and buys her expensive things. there’s no need for her to know about his life outside their moments together, and there’s certainly no need for his life outside their moments together to know about her.

like him, she has her own rules for the set-up.

her number one stipulation? no kissing. when she first laid out her terms and conditions for the arrangement, he hadn’t been expecting that. it struck him as odd originally, but the more he’s gotten to know her, the more is makes sense. she’s a professional through and through, both in her singing career and in her pleasure arrangements. for her, kissing is too intimate like talking about queen is too personal for him.

it works. they work. he’s happy, and he thinks she is too. it’s nice to have someone to spoil, someone to hold. it’s been a long time since anyone ever—

he rids himself of the melancholy and starts up the stairs. no reason to mull over it now, not with her at his relative beck and call. 

the party fred has planned for the evening is scheduled to take place at the ritz hotel. it’s the most unreasonable thing john has ever heard of—a party for the beginning of spring—but it’s freddie’s own money, and john doesn’t have the luxury of not showing up. so, he showers, dresses in a tailored suit and tie, and washes down his dread with a shot of scotch before leaving his darkened flat. 

it’s not that he doesn’t like parties. it’s just that he doesn’t like parties where he hasn’t got anyone to be his buffer, and he hasn’t had a buffer for a very long time. she couldn’t very well be his buffer. people would ask questions—fred would ask questions—and the entire thing would fall apart before it even got started.

no, he’d go to the party alone tonight. maybe he’d call her after or wait until the morning. they could go to that little shop on the corner. he knows she’s been eyeing a pair of earrings and—

“mr. deacon?” he’s pulled from this thoughts by the driver. “we’re here, sir.”

john mumbles his thanks and slides from the car. bright and flashing lightbulbs greet him, and he manages a pinched smile for the photographers. a sigh wells within him, but he pushes it down. it’s going to be a long night.

the ballroom set aside for freddie’s party is magnificent, john will concede that. the whitewashes walls are draped in faux-ivy and fresh flowers. the crystal glasses and china plates on linen-covered tables sparkle beneath the light of the chandelier overhead. a golden statue of a woman, twisting to look over her head at trumpeting cherubs, is ensconced in the wall, but fitting for the evening’s theme. at the far end of the room, a wall of frosted mirrors towers over a small orchestra playing to a lilting, classical tune. 

“oh, deaky, i’m so glad you’re here!” ever the man of the hour, freddie meanders through the tight crowd waiting to be seated at their dinner table to pull on john’s arm. “come on, we’re sat near the orchestra.”

john takes freddie’s offering of a champagne flute. he doesn’t normally like champagne, but he’s desperate for anything to take the edge off his sour mood. he feels stiff in his suit, and aside from fred, he hasn’t seen anyone he knows yet. 

“the place looks—”

“smashing, right?” freddie beams and points to an empty chair at the circular table. john drops beside roger and tries not let the fact that there was only a sole chair saved for him be a bother. it shouldn’t bother him, really. it’s just been him for a long time.

“here.” roger hands john a stiffer drink. “it starts to get fun when you’re a little buzzed.” he slings his arm around dominique’s chair and looks over his shoulder, returning to conversation with his partner and jim.

john remains quiet for some time. freddie is the perfect host, darting from table to table in his white coattails, laughing and smiling and kissing the back of any hand he can grab. he is in his element. roger, too, seems at ease. he likes the lavish lifestyle, and any party that is dripping in jewels and rich wine and expensive food is good enough for roger. even brian, who once was so awkward and gangly, leans back in his seat and chats with someone who looks much smarter than john and much more eloquent than anyone else at the table. 

not for the first time, john shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. he doesn’t have a buffer. he could really use a buffer—or a smoke.

he’s about to excuse himself for a cigarette break when freddie steps to one of the two microphones in front of the orchestra. he taps on it, and a sharp boom followed by a squeak fills the room. john leans back, close as he is to the speaker, and cringes.

“oop, sorry about that, dears. well, don’t you all look marvelous from up here? really, never seen such a group of attractive people.” after a smattering of laughter, freddie continues, “i want to thank you all for coming tonight. i know this isn’t some of your scenes—mostly you, roger.” 

more laughter; john just takes another sip of gin. 

“before dinner is served, i have a little treat. to accompany our lovely orchestra, we have two singers here to bless us with their fabulous voices. please give a warm welcome to iona buckley and [y/n] [y/l/n]. now, i’ll get my fanny off the stage to let them work their magic.”

fred slips the microphone back into its stand and scurries to the table, clapping along with the rest of the audience. well, the rest of the audience save john. his hands are occupied with gripping onto the edge of the table for fear he will fall out of his seat in shock.

trailing behind her duet partner, she takes her place behind the first microphone, the one closest to john. she—his paramour, his lover, his baby. she looks radiant, like one of the roses in the table centerpieces. her red satin gown is simple, the straps thin and back open. he swallows hard as his eyes trail to the necklace resting on her sternum. he bought her that. it was his first gift, and there she is standing not twenty feet from him, wearing it, and not a soul knows how he took her in the shower his afternoon. 

john doesn’t catch her eye before the orchestra begins to play but surely she knows he’s there. is her heart in her throat like his heart is in his? are her palms sweating? he twists to grab his drink, needing something tangible to curl his hand around lest he clench his fist to his chest like a damsel in distress. as his back is turned, she begins to sing.

he’s never heard her sing, and the clear, soprano voice that flows from her throat is not what he expected. when she told him she was a singer, that she regularly sang at different gigs, he assumed she must be one of those bar singers floating from venue to venue. never this, never this. he doesn’t understand a word that she sings, but he thinks she must be singing about love. her face is soft, devoid of any worries or cares. for her, the only thing that seems to exist are the words flowing from her mouth and filling his ears. she sings with ease, even the highest and strongest of notes. like the back of her hand, she follows the melody, the roll of the foreign tongue, and the timing of the conductor’s wand. john doesn’t even realize the song is a duet until she pauses, allows a moment for her partner to shine. in that brief pause, her eyes flick to him, and her smile widens. he loses his breath. then she’s back in the spotlight, easily shining over her partner with the clarity and force of her voice. 

tears prick the corners of john’s eyes, and he bites hard on the end of his tongue. fuck—she could be the ruin of him. he’d let her ruin him too—happily.

the party-goers sit enraptured by the singers, by her. even roger has shut his mouth, his eyes wide with interest. john has to hand it to freddie: he’s outdone himself. the decor and the setting and the song—john can practically feel the warmth of spring curl around his frozen heart, and it’s all because of her and her voice. he could listen to it forever; he could listen to this song forever and nothing else.

but the song winds down, ending on the final note of her just voice echoing in the room. there is a moment of expectant silence. john holds his breath, watches as she turns to hand the conductor something then glance over the crowd, glance at him. he starts the applause first, and he is the last to stop clapping, even after she’s taken her seat across the room.

“fuckin’ hell, they were good!” roger hits his palm against the table as dinner is brought out from the kitchens. he reaches over to squeeze john’s shoulder. “i thought deaky was gonna pass out.” 

freddie practically bounces in his chair with glee. “they’re divine! like angels!”

john nods without realizing he’s doing so. “m’yes, she is.”

“she?” roger laughs, tossing his head back. “got a crush there, john? ‘s okay. i wouldn’t blame you.”

john looks up sharply, but says nothing. maybe he does have a crush, as silly as the term is. he’s not fourteen. he’s nearly thirty-four. but, god, if she doesn’t make him sweat like a fourteen year old boy. god, if just the sight of her and the sound of her voice doesn’t send his blood pumping anywhere but his brain. it takes all his willpower not to stand up from the table, stalk across the room, and drag her into the hall. 

he manages to make light conversation with brian about some business related things throughout dinner. several different times, he feels her eyes on his back, and he’s reminded of what they did on his living room carpet two nights ago. he needs her badly, and he’s starting to worry he’ll need her in more ways than one sooner rather than later.

the orchestra strikes up more classical music as dinner ebbs into dessert, and couples begin to float on the cramped dance floor. john waits, biding his time until everyone is good and distracted before he slips across the room. 

she’s sitting alone, scribbling something down in a small, black notebook. before john can say her name, roger beats him to it, appearing as if from thin air. john clenches his jaw and resists the urge to deck his bandmate. she turns at the sound of her name and meets john’s eyes first. she stands and greets them both, accepting roger’s praise with a modest nod her head. 

“i think someone’s fancies you a little,” roger says, squeezing both of john’s shoulders this time. “never seen him so shocked as when you started to sing.”

john openly glares at roger. he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels then meets her eyes. “you are very talented,” he says.

she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, looks away, as though bashful. “thank you, mr. deacon.”

“john,” he says—and his voice is throaty, deep.

she looks up, smiles, licks her lips.

“well, i can sense sexual tension as good as the rest of ‘em. i’ll leave you to it.” smirking, roger slinks away, surely reveling in the match he thinks he’s made.

john speaks first. “i didn’t realize this was your gig.”

she shrugs. “i didn’t want you to feel obligated to come.”

“i was obligated to come.”

“i didn’t want you coming for me.”

he hesitates. “i meant what i said: you are very talented.”

“thank you.” on a chuckle, she adds, “i’ll warn you next time if i’m to sing at another one of freddie’s parties.”

“after tonight? i’m sure you will sing at them all.”

they stare at one another, eyes searching, hands twitching. it’s all john can do not to grab her wrist and slam his mouth against hers. he wants to taste her, taste the mouth that can cast such a spell over anyone who hears her voice. he wants to claim that mouth as his before everyone, before the world.

but she has her rules, and he respects that.

“come with me,” he says and takes her wrist.

he leads her to a darkened hall near a coat room and, wasting no time, presses her against the wall. he latches his mouth to the exposed skin of her neck, sure that if he doesn’t kiss something—anything—he will go insane. his hands roam her curves, her back, her ass. likewise, she runs her hands along his back, his shoulders, his arms. she’s gasping, even though he is the one kissing and sucking her sweet skin.

“i thought—oh my god, don’t stop—i wasn’t sure if—if you would like seeing me here,” she confesses. her voice is thick, and it drives him wild.

he pulls away long enough to meet her eyes. “everyone is inside the party talking about you,” he says. he presses his palm against the side of her face, runs the pad of his thumb over her lip. “and i’m out here about to fuck you senseless. i’d say i liked seeing you up there.”

she laughs, and the sound is almost as nice as the sound of her singing. winding her arms around his neck, she draws him closer, pressing her hips against his. “why don’t you take me home, then?”

he doesn’t have to be told twice.

later, when she is asleep, naked beneath his sheets, he lights a cigarette. the embers glow in the darkness of his room, and he sighs. this time, he sighs in contentment. he reaches over to rub his hand along her back, feeling the ridges of her spine. she’s good for him, and so long as she’ll have him, he’ll be hers. even if this is all they are—a shag here, a present there—he’ll be happy. just so long as he can worship at her feet.

he’s got it bad. he knows that now. he’s on the verge of losing himself to her, and he doesn’t even mind. it just makes him smile into the night, happy for once not to go to bed alone.

[ineloqueent]

I’m not sure who else you write for but I keep thinking about enemies to lovers with Deaky. 😉 He kind of gives off those vibes, ya know? hehe

hello lovely! sorry this took me so long. i can literally never write anything short

hope you enjoy this!

As a roadie, it was generally considered important to get along with the band.

And you did. For the most part.

On your first day, Freddie had clucked in dismay at the sight of your overalls and a washed out t-shirt, paired with scuffed Doc Martens.

“You’re not working as just anyone’s tech, darling. You’re working for Queen, and you’ve got to look the part.”

“Uh, Mr. Mercury—”

“Freddie, please.”

“Freddie,” you’d reiterated. “This is really the most practical thing to wear around here.”

“Hm. I suppose we do make more messes than we clean up,” Freddie conceded. “But surely, you can find something else to wear on show nights.”

“Um. Not really.” For most of your life, money had been tight, so fashion had not exactly been something that you could afford to prioritise.

Freddie looked horrified. “Well, we’ve simply got to do something about that, dear.”

And then he’d taken you shopping.

And paid for your new clothes, and insisted you come along on his future shopping trips.

You got along with Freddie.

A week into your employment with Queen, soundcheck had been an utter mess, because Brian’s guitar couldn’t be heard through any of the sound equipment, until you’d scaled a shaky ladder, crawled across some rickety scaffolding, and fixed a lead that had got loose and had disconnected everything else in the process.

Below, the other roadies and Brian had looked on in petrified silence. The rigging really was quite high above the stage, and you’d almost slipped and fallen more than once.

When you’d made it back down in one piece, Brian had called, “Drinks all ‘round!” and you’d been his most trusted sound tech from that day since.

You got along with Brian.

A few months ago, Roger had come running out of the dressing room screaming bloody murder about having put two much peroxide in his hair, the same mistake he’d made before a concert in Germany, in 1979. He’d been virtually hysterical when he’d realised that showtime was in less than an hour.

Around the room, laughter had been stifled, and no one had known what to do, but your cousin had once pulled a similar party trick, so you’d hurried down to the shops and bought a box of hair pigment stripper. You’d then had spent the better part of the remaining hour prior to the show working the stuff into Roger’s hair, because he was still in too much of a frenzied panic to manage it himself. You’d tried not to laugh, but it had really been very funny, how quickly he’d gone from behaving like a normal person to a petulant child.

Thankfully, Roger had laughed with you.

“I’m laughing in relief. This is definitely not in your job description. I owe you a drink, Y/N.”

You got along with Roger.

But you did not get along with John Deacon.

You didn’t know what it was, but he barely spoke to you, and when he did, it was out of necessity, and always in clipped tones.

You could only guess at what it was in you that repulsed the bassist so acutely.

Brian said he was just sore about Queen’s previous sound tech having left the job.

Roger said John was just overly finicky about his sound, and didn’t trust anyone but himself to get it right.

Freddie said that Deacy was just quiet, that you shouldn’t take his behaviour personally.

But though you tried, you couldn’t ignore it.

He was everywhere, because he was in the band, and because you worked for the band, you were everywhere that he was.

There was no avoiding him.

Even when you could avoid him, on your breaks, on the nights after the shows, on your days off, out of sight was not out of mind. You couldn’t shake the thought of how much he disliked you, because you had never given him reason to. And to be honest, you had never before encountered anyone who didn’t like you. It irked you that John was the first.

You’d started out by being as polite as humanly possible.

After that had fallen on deaf ears, you’d started to go out of your way to be kind and considerate toward him, offering to buy him a drink when you and the band and other crew headed for the local pub, to get him the missing lead at soundcheck, to run upstairs and grab the jacket he’d left but meant to wear. He always accepted, but he never softened toward you.

At first, his coldness had upset you, given how good friends you were with the rest of the band, but as time went on, you slipped into reluctant tolerance.

Tolerance didn’t mean acceptance, however, and the uneasiness that arose when John entered a room already occupied by you was palpable, felt by everyone.

He’d walk in, all quiet and composed, and his gaze would flick over you. Where his face remained expressionless, his eyes made up for it in their intensity, their green-grey tone casting shadows over you that could have eclipsed the sun in its entirety.

You always stared right back at him, daring him to ask you to leave, but he never did. He just stood there, twisting the diamond shaped ring he often wore, at once both hostile and pensive.

He’d break your gaze and go and sit with the others, and you’d exhale quietly, because you could never breathe when he stared at you like that. It felt as though a weight were pressing down on your sternum, your shoulders turned rigid, your skin prickled.

It was damn near unbearable.

You were unloading half a ton of equipment in Montreal when John walked past, uttering a quiet ‘good morning’ to a few roadies, nodding to others in greeting. You paused in shifting one of Brian’s many amps from the lorry, pushing your hair, matted with sweat, off your forehead.

You happened to look up as you caught your breath, your eyes accidentally drawn to John in the process.

He met your eyes briefly, but swept past without a word.

“D’you need help with that amp, Y/N?” Ratty, another tech, asked you, reaching out to brace the amp against his arm.

But you were distracted. “What the hell is his problem?” you muttered, still staring after John as he disappeared around the corner.

“Who?”

“Oh, come on, Ratty,” you set your hands on your hips. “John, obviously.”

Ratty let go of the amp, crossing his arms. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

“Ask him?”

“Yeah?” Ratty frowned with a look of puzzlement.

You scoffed. “Walk into the lion’s den, yeah, no thanks.”

Your retort was met with a shrug from the other roadie. “You’d never believe me if I told you, so I think you need to hear it from him.”

“Hear what from him?” you pushed. “What could he possibly have to say to me?”

“Many things, I’d say.”

“Well,” you said, hoisting the previously abandoned amp onto your hip, “I have nothing to say to him.”

With that, you took the amp and made for the stage. Vaguely, you could hear Ratty laughing as you left, and then his mate Crystal telling him to stop arsing about and actually help shift equipment.

Onstage, you stacked the amp amongst the others, careful not to set it too close to the floor where the bass would be overboosted.

“Y/N!”

You turned toward the sound and found Freddie joining you, smiling as always.

“Hello, Freddie,” you returned his smile. “What can I do for you?”

“Well for one thing, darling,” he said, clasping your hands in his, “you can come to my little after-show party tonight.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You think you’ll have the energy for that?”

Freddie waved his hand. “Of course, of course,” he assured you enthusiastically. “Never worry about my energy supply, dear, it’s practically bottomless. Just worry about what you’re wearing tonight, because it bloody better not be those overalls.”

You laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of wearing these outside of my working hours.”

“Good. I should think I’ve taught you something.”

“Not at all,” you grinned.

Freddie shook his head at you. “Anyway, bring your lost-cause self to my hotel suite at midnight.”

“Will do, Fred.”

The rest of the afternoon passed with an uneventful round of soundcheck, and in the evening, the show went smoothly. Of course, this was Queen, so smoothly did not quite do the show justice. Magnificent might have, though.

When the show had finished and a hefty amount of clean-up had been done, you made your way to Freddie’s as promised, knocking politely on his hotel room door.

Someone called, “I’ll get it!” and you rubbed your hands up and down your arms while you waited, a little on edge about going inside. John would likely be there. There would be no way of avoiding him.

And then, in one heartstopping moment before the door swung open, you recognised the voice that had called out.

But it was too late to turn around and flee in the other direction.

John opened the door, and almost as though on cue, the brilliant smile that had illuminated his eyes, his mouth, the whole of his face, faded.

He still was dressed in his concert outfit— a bright blue from head to toe that brought out his eyes in stark contrast— and his permed hair sat in a gorgeously soft bundle atop his head, looking like he’d just run his hands through it.

“Hi,” you hazarded.

“Hello,” he replied flatly, not moving from where he stood in the doorway. His standoffishness nearly made you squirm, it was so overbearing. “Oh,” he said after a moment of motionlessness, “come in.”

“Thanks,” you murmured awkwardly, as it was Freddie’s hotel room and Freddie’s party, but it seemed the only thing to say.

“May I take your coat?”

You whirled around to find John holding out a hand, his expression oddly gentle in temperament. Almost as though he were trying to be friendly.

You frowned in confusion, then realised how this must have looked and nodded in response to his question.

You didn’t expect him to help you out of it, but that he did, his fingers curling around your collar and skimming down your shoulders as you shrugged the coat off into his hands. His touch was light, and yet it made the little hairs of your arms stand on end, a shiver passing down your spine.

You turned around as he took the coat from you, but you’d misjudged the distance between the two of you and nearly collided with him.

Nearly. But maybe a collision would have been better.

You found that now, your palms resting on his chest, was definitely the worser option.

He’d breathed in sharply, and his hands hovered at your waist.

You pulled back your hands, a blush fanning over your cheeks as you stepped back, glancing away. You were mortified.

“Sorry,” you apologised quietly, and in your peripheral vision, John looked equally embarrassed, one hand resting over the back of his neck as his eyes bored into the floor.

“It’s okay,” he said, then walked past you into the next room. “Y/N’s here,” he told the others.

You followed John and found Freddie, Roger, Roger’s girlfriend Dominique, Brian, Ratty, Crystal, and a couple of other girls assembled around the radio that sat on the coffee table.

Hellos were offered to you in greeting, and Freddie grinned at you.

“Y/N! Just the person we need.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not here to work, Freddie,” you joked.

“Nor is the radio, it would appear. And what’s a party without music?”

“You’re a band, play some,” said Crystal, and Roger elbowed him in the ribs.

You folded your arms as Freddie eyed you pleadingly.

“Can’t John fix it?” you asked, and John glanced over, seemingly surprised that you remembered this aptitude of his. “Haven’t you got a degree in electrical engineering, or something?”

John nodded, “I have. But all those years of studying and exams wasn’t enough, apparently. I can’t get it to work.”

You smiled bemusedly. “The legendary John Deacon can’t fix a radio?”

John crossed his arms. “You fix it then, smarty pants.”

“Look out, Y/N,” Brian laughed as oooohs were chorused by the others, and John stared you down.

He was always staring you down. But for once, he was the one daring you to say something, not the other way around. And say something you would.

“Alright, then. Hand it over,” you beckoned to Freddie, and he passed you the radio with a glance between you and John.

You picked up a screwdriver from the coffee table, then tiny pliers and electrical tape.

Moments late, when you switched on the radio, pop music blared loudly and clearly.

They all erupted into cheering and clapping, with the exception of John.

“Impressive,” he said but it sounded like sarcasm. Then he left.

He just left.

The others quieted, and you stared after John as he opened the door to Freddie’s balcony and went outside.

“Am I really so detestable that he needs to leave every place I go?” you demanded of the silent onlookers.

Freddie frowned in sympathy, Roger looked uncomfortable, and Brian winced as though you’d told him that he personally was at fault for John’s behaviour.

“I think you should talk to him,” said Ratty, for the second time that day.

You surveyed the room, feeling your anger grow thicker, creep up your skin in a flush of acrylic-paint red. “You know what,” you said, “I think I will.”

“Y/N!” Dominique called after you, and you turned back. “Be kind.”

You frowned in puzzlement. “Okay…” you said, without fully understanding what she meant.

Dominique nodded, and you made for the balcony door.

Outside, John was leaning his elbows on the railing, looking out over the twinkling skyline of Montreal. Tonight, the moon hung high above in a waxing crescent, like a shard of light bleeding into the sky from a rift in the universe where night was day.

The wind was cool, and you wrapped your arms around yourself in an attempt to retain some warmth.

John had yet to realise your presence; he was fully immersed in gazing out over the view, lost in thought. The lights of the city reflected in his eyes, and up above his curly head, there was a whisper of starlight. He seemed dreamlike in the way the light caught on his face, the outline of his nose and mouth rendered soft by the dimness of the balcony.

You could almost pretend that there was no hatred between you, that his presence did not turn your insides to mush, that yours did not cause him to turn away, to leave.

“John.”

He startled, pressing a hand over his heart. “You nearly gave me a heart attack,” he said, straightening up slowly.

“Sorry,” you apologised.

John only shook his head in response, and returned his eyes to the view of the city. Before he’d noticed you, you’d been content to let him stare off into the shadowy sky, but now he knew you were there, it was just plain rude of him to ignore you.

“What is your problem?”

John twitched, turning to face you. “Excuse me?”

“I asked what the hell your problem was.”

His brow furrowed. “With what?”

You couldn’t stand his confusion, the feigned innocence. It was enough to make you want to yell at him.

“Christ, John,” you said exasperatedly. “How can you ask? You hate me, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”

John blinked. “I hate you? You’re one to talk.”

“And you never are!” you exclaimed. “You never say anything. You just— you just stand there.”

And stare at me. Like if you stared for long enough, I’d disappear. Like you want me to.

“Oh, so it’s wrong to stand still now, is it?” The easy sarcasm in his voice baited you. It was infuriating, how calm he was.

“Why are you defensive?”

“Why do you have to know everything?!” John threw up his arms, finally fighting back.

“This isn’t everything,” you protested, “this is just me asking why it is you can’t stand to be around me when I’ve never been anything but nice to you.”

John fell quiet. His voice was mild when he spoke again. “You really think I hate you?”

“Yes!” you cried.

“I don’t mean… I don’t mean to be that way.”

“Then what do you mean, John?”

“I don’t…” he drew a heavy breath, his hands going to his hair. “I don’t know. I’m just—”

You folded your arms. “Just what?”

“I’m just sick of this!”

“And this,” you muttered, “is why we can’t have a civil conversation.”

“I’m sick of you!” he shouted, before his eyes widened, like he’d said too much.

He had. You were affronted.

“Excuse me?!”

But whatever swell of anger had previously possessed him had subsided.

“You make me sick to my stomach,” he whispered, and if the wind had blown at that moment, you wouldn’t have heard him. But there was no wind, and his words hung suspended between you, curled through the air like smoke. You breathed them in, you didn’t speak.

“You’re really making me say this?”

The thoughts in your head had gone suddenly quiet. “Making you say what?” you asked slowly.

Across from you, John bit his lip. He looked at his shoes, then back up at you.

“I get fucking butterflies all the time, and god knows I don’t need them when it’s already hard enough to talk to you.”

You sucked in a breath. “Are you— are you intimidated by me?”

“Intimidated?” he laughed. “Congratulations, Y/N, you’ve made the greatest understatement of the year.”

You couldn’t believe it. John Deacon, intimidated by you.

“But… how?”

“Everything,” he said, and you noticed that his hands were shaking. “Every goddamn thing about you is so intimidating. I— I have no idea how to speak, how to move, how to breathe.”

“John,” you murmured, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he sighed shakily, “you’re rivetingly smart and you always seem to know what to say—”

“I never know what to say!”

“And there you go again,” he shook his head with a fond little smile you’d only ever seen directed at Freddie or Roger or Brian. “You’re honest. It’s so refreshing, when everyone I try to get to know just plays up their charm because I’m a bloke in a band.”

Your face twisted. “You’re saying I’m charmless?”

“No, no, not at all. You’re charming. Very charming.”

“I—” You’d opened your mouth to speak, and realised you had nothing to say.

But then he was staring at you again, for the thousandth time, only now, his eyes were soft and his head was canted slightly to one side, and his breath rose and fell in his chest shudderingly, as though he were fighting for air as much as you.

And then he leaned forward and touched his lips to yours.

Your breath caught.

Your heart rose in your chest as his hand rose to your chin, holding onto you gently, pulling you closer, kissing you in a rush of warmth. His mouth was soft and his fingers were light on your skin, and you sank into his arms, feeling the steady hum of his heart reverberate through you where your hands pressed against him.

He smelled of fresh air and soap, and for all the resolute firmness he had always treated you with, no one had ever touched you more delicately than this, with such care that you might have believed yourself a flower, blooming beneath his caress.

He paused, and when you opened your eyes, you found green-grey gazing back at you. He ran his thumb softly over your lower lip.

“You’ve charmed me,” John whispered, and his smile could have rivaled the sun.

[natromanxoff]

Queen live at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit, MI, USA - September 20, 1980

(x)

Freddie stopped the show part way through Love Of My Life because the rowdy audience was drowning out Brian's guitar.

Around this time the Detroit Lions football team had adopted Another One Bites The Dust as an anthem. When Queen performed it as an encore with Freddie donning a Lions' cap, the arena exploded.

(x)

Fan Stories

“It was September 20th, 1980 and it started just like any other day for me. I was upstairs playing my favorite 45 record for the millionth time it seemed... at least to my mother that is. The song was Another One Bites The Dust by Queen, I had already worn out 3 or 4 of the 45 record which was released just a short time ago. My Uncle had stopped by and asked me if I wanted to spend the night and see a late movie. At first my mom was rather reluctant to let me go but being a Saturday and no school she gave in and off we went. As we were driving I noticed that we weren't going to his place so I asked him what the movie was, he just smiled and said we weren't going to a movie but to a rock concert, He KNEW my mom would forbid me to go to such an event so he used the movie as a ploy to get me out of the house. I asked him what concert, all he said was it was a surprise. By the time we entered Detroit Michigan I was all excited as this was my first concert ever, we weren't even allowed to listen to rock and roll. We got to the Joe Louis Arena and that is when I melted into the seat, on the Marquee in BIG letters "QUEEN". That is when I melted in my seat and repeatedly thanked my uncle, he later told me the look on my face was worth the tickets. We made our way inside and found ourselves about in the middle of the floor, we had General admittance tickets. I remember jumping up and down a lot during the support bands set. In case you are wondering the bands name was Dakota, and I have never heard of them. Well after they had finished we tried to make our way forward knowing we would NEVER see Queen where we were, we were young and short, I was 14 and my uncle was 18. Well it seemed like an hour, but must have been a couple of minutes when 2 security guards told us to follow them. My first though was "oh no, we are in trouble and are not going to see Queen". Well, That was NOT the case, in fact they took us ALL THE WAY UP FRONT, just off center stage, we were on Brians side.

No sooner did we get there when the whole place went dark. Then this sound that seemed to come from everywhere started. It got louder and louder and started to rise in pitch. I kept looking at the stage to see if I could see the band, nope.. but I did see something above us moving. by now the sound was reaching a peak and then it happened, a LOUD explosion and Lights that blinded us. It happened a couple more times but now I was ready... the crowd were going nuts, I WAS going nuts, then the guitar. Out walked Brian May playing this song that would literly plague me for years as I was certain it was NOT a Queen song, but no idea, of course it was Jailhouse Rock. Then Freddie came out. He was wearing a black leather jacket and orange pants with blue kneepads. I can't remember if he was wearing a hat and sunglasses. By now the crowd was so loud I could not even hear my uncle next to me, he later told me that during the first 2 songs all he could say was YEAH.... @$!* Yeah... Of course the second song was the fast version of We Will Rock You but to be very honest at that time the only 2 songs I knew were Another One Bites The Dust and Don't Try Suicide, so EVERY song was a new experience. After We Will Rock You Freddie spoke to us for the first time, he said something like "Hello Detroit... " he may have said more but I can't remember. Hearing bootlegs from that tour I would assume he added "Lets Rock and Roll Huh" or something like that. I remember when they went into Play the Game everyone went nuts, of course I didn't know it was new to me, ALL the songs were new. He then spoke to us again telling us that they were happy to be back in Detroit and that we were in for a treat.Then came Mustapha, That was my first taste of their diversity, this foreign language. but what confused me was just about everyone knew that language. again, I didn't know the song and had no idea what it meant but it was cool. I think Freddie took his jacket off around Play the Game or Mustapha not sure, to be real honest I was amazed by the guitar player, Brian made everything seem so easy. I can tell you that pretty much the whole night was a sensory overload and that I could not take in everything. The Get Down, Make Love section that was lights, smoke, Freddie and Brian was too much, If you never saw Queen live when they performed this then you truly missed a WONDERFUL experience, Video does NOT do this song justice, Freddie really sets the mood when he starts his vocal teasing. Aside from Another One Bites The Dust the only song I could NOT get out of my head was oddly enough another John Deacon gem, You're My Best Friend had a beat that just could not be dismissed. Then the moment I found to be the most humorous, Freddie asking us if we liked his new moustache, He informed us that he grew it just for US, then he said, You Fuckers will believe anything. When I saw a book some years later By Judith Davis mention the same scene I wondered if he said that at all the shows or just ours, after listening to various bootlegs I could not find any other one that mentioned that. Now You remember I mentioned that I was just 14 right. When Freddie announced Fat Bottomed Girls he dedicated it to all the ladies with huge tits, for a 14 year old boy that was WAY COOL, in fact there were a couple of women near us that actually flashed him, I wonder did he even notice. During Love Of My Life Freddie stopped the show because we were too loud he could not hear Brian, The rest of the night was a blur aside from Brians nifty guitar work on his solo. That moment right there convinced me that I wanted to be a guitar player. I remember yelling a lot ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST!!!!..

I was very very close, I KNEW Freddie could hear me, well I got my wish, he came out after a brief break and I was just in heaven, I heard MY song, now I could go home happy, but wait, Queen and Freddie had another surprise in store for me, I am a Star Wars Geek, and when he came out on Darth Vaders shoulders I was just freaking out, I ACTUALLY thought it was the same guy that played Darth Vader. of course I had no idea what that song was, funny how songs work into your subconscoius, a few days later I was just drumming the beat to We Will Rock You, NOT knowing what it was. Anyway, the last song was odd, I THOUGHT COOL they are playing My Country Tis of Thee.. Well, I know now that is was NOT that song... hehe. I left the concert just amazed, my ears ringing, just going on and on about what just happened. My uncle told me to calm down, there was no way my mom could know we saw a concert he would be in trouble, so he kept drilling me about the "Movie" we saw, the next morning the first words I said to mom were "Mom I saw QUEEN!" she was furious, but the damage was done, the next few weeks I bought every Queen album I could, I even stole money from my paper route just to by the next LP, and when I found Live Killers, it was so close to what I saw, BUT, there were differences. The date was September 20th, 1980 when my life changed forever. I would be completely OBSESSED with Queen, I would do anything I could to get their latest LP. Thank you for reading this and I hope you found it as enjoyable as I did writing it as I actually started to remember things that had been locked away. I found out that John had nearly brought down the cymbles nearest to him, Crystal had to dive out to catch them, I had the pleasure of chatting with Crystal Taylor (Roger's drum roadie and no relation by the way) and asked him if he remembered that and to my surprise he said that John did that often, but he DID remember our show because of Freddie stopping the show during Love Of My Life.” - Mike Preston

[lothioriien]

richie tozier and his zoomer teen: headcanons

A/N: I tried keeping this as gender neutral as possible, but idk it’s a lil implied that the kid’s a girl. i’m trying to learn how to write gender neutral stuff :”)

By teenager, I mean around 16-17! High school age!!

Enjoy!

Sometime in the early 2000s, famous comedian Richard Tozier went to a party and came home with a woman.

oh yeah they deffo got it on that night

But that was a one night stand kind of thing, and Richie didn’t have any contact with her until about a year later.

He got up the couch one early evening to the ringing of his doorbell, and found a basket and a bag filled with baby food, diapers, and clothes perched on his doorstep

And in the basket? A small child, an apology note from the mother, and a birth certificate with his name listed as the father.

Oh boy did his life completely change after that.

It was him and the child, against the world.

but let’s skip the details on him struggling to take care of an infant first and move on a bit to when the kid’s older.

You, of course, are the baby that was left on his doorstep, and Richie tried to be the best father he could be despite his touring career as a comedian.

He’d bring you to the shows, even if you didn’t understand a thing that went on, though eventually when you’d help him write some material when you were older.

Constantly touring with him as a kid meant you were homeschooled. But that didn’t stop you from having a social life. You’d be friends with a lot of his fellow comedians, and John Mulaney was your ultimate favorite friend of his.

you just loved the very tall and gangly twelve year old looking man named uncle john.

Your academic life though was not too bad. You’re pretty intelligent, but when it came to maths, oh boy.

As a kid, you’d ask Richie constantly about math. He’d hate the school curriculum you had because math was different back when he was younger. He’d always help you, but it was mostly the internet just teaching you both.

You’d introduce him to vines (through iconic vine compilation videos), but mostly because he was so confused with this new language you were speaking.

Eventually he’d say some vines back to you and it’d come off so weird cause he’s a 40 year old white dad. You love him, nonetheless, and appreciate the effort

A lot of your instagram stories or snapchat stories are you filming him as you sing “You are my dad! You’re my dad! Boogie woogie woogie!”

He found it cute at first, where he would smile at you hiding behind your phone and hug you after cause dang he loves his kid so much and would die for you

then later, he’s evidently so annoyed because you do it constantly. As in he takes off his glasses, puts his head in his hands and just sighs so loudly.

When tiktok became the new vine, you were on the app every single day, making it a goal of yours to become tiktok famous.

You’d force your dad to do tiktoks with you

“I love my daddy. he is my superhero”

“Famous relative check!”

BUT THE PERFECT AUDIO

“Don’t look at me like that.” “YOU’RE MY DAD. BOOGIEWOOGIEWOOGIE!”

Gaining some clout because he is a pretty famous comedian 👀

Saying “ok boomer” to him when he’d annoy you

But then he’d clap back by being like “What the fuck Y/N. I was born in 1976, i’m not that old.”

“Yeah but sometimes you think like a boomer.”

“Ok, zoomer.”

“Dad. No. Get out.”

He’s really chill with you swearing. You definitely got that habit from him.

“What the actual fuck, Richard.”

“At least have the fucking decency to call me dad, Y/N.”

He got you into video games at a young age. Every time there was a new console or a new interesting game out, you’d both be up early to go out and get the said console/game.

And in each game you’d play, there would be hilarious commentary.

it’s basically that video with bill hader playing god of war with conan but imagine that and a zoomer’s feral energy combined.

He also got you into becoming a cinephile. Though unlike him, you read the books before watching the movie.

Marathoning a bunch of tv series together and you can never watch any new episode without him. Friday nights were reserved especially for it.

Richie can’t fucking cook for the life of him. Growing up, it was always take out, pizza, instant noodles, or mac and cheese.

He tried learning how to cook, he really did. But it was just so bad that eventually you’d learn how to do it. Then you’d try to teach him how too.

But did he get better as a cook?? Not really.

He once accidentaly set almost the whole kitchen on fire when he tried making pasta when you were 15.

“DAD, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO PUT WATER IN THE POT FOR PASTA.”

“HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT? I JUST WANTED TO DO SOMETHING SPECIAL FOR YOU!”

“I APPRECIATE THE GESTURE BUT PLEASE DON’T EVER TRY TO COOK AGAIN.”

The following morning, he got up and learned how to make pancakes with sausages, bacon, and eggs.

It was damn good, and by far the best thing he ever made.

So his pancakes became a regular thing.

On casual dinner nights at home, he’d let you have a drink with him and be drinking buddies. He taught you how to drink and be safe with drinks (cause we stan a protective father amirite)

Speaking of protective father, he’d be so picky and open about the people you’d date

“Really Y/N? That person? They’re fucking trash and you know it. You deserve better, sweetie.”

“But dad. They’re hot.”

“That’s still a no from me, kiddo.”

Having the most random, yet somehow meaningful conversations with Richie, yet roasting him at the same time.

“Y/N, do you think I would be classified as a papi by people.”

“No. You still wear hawaiian shirts over a t-shirt. You’re too tacky for that. You’re a papa, not a papi.”

But somehow, you also adopt his fashion style?

Cause hawaiian shirts are pretty cool? Very John Deacon ala 80s aesthetic?

And then he roasts you back from the time you called him tacky.

“Respect the drip, Richard.”

Even though you always poke fun at each other, you guys are actually so open with each other and just talk about anything and everything.

Oh no when you first got your period, he was panicking and nearly bought the entire aisle of pads and tampons because he was so clueless

Meeting the Losers Club was exciting and nerve-wracking at the same time. You didn’t know what to expect of them or what they’d expect from you.

You clung to your dad the whole time, watching him reunite with his childhood friends. Each one of them had a look of surprise and confusion the moment they laid their eyes on you.

They found you to be like a mini-me of Richie, as both of you were clad in printed/hawaiian shirts and glasses.

“Jeez, Richie. Why’d you decide to bring a fucking clone of yourself?” asked Eddie.

“That’s my kid, you dumbass! Eddie, this is Y/N.”

“No shit, you have a kid! You got married, dipshit?”

“No, uh, it’s just them and me.”

You decided to butt in jokingly, “Joe was in the picture for a while too,”

“Joe? Who the fuck is Joe?” The minute Eddie asked this, Richie knew what was coming next.

“Joe mama.” Thus receving a high five from your father and a groan from Eddie.

at first, everyone else would not believe Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier had his very own kid, but the minute you started to get comfortable and joke around, it really clicked for them.

“There’s no doubt they’re Richie’s kid. Look at them! They’re basically a carbon copy of him!” Eddie would have exclaimed.

You‘re very liberal and open-minded, supporting the LGBT+ community and such, but you didn’t really know Richie’s stance on it.

Perhaps it was because he’d been surpressing his feelings for a specific boy from his childhood for almost his entire life, and he didn’t really talk about that topic so much.

But when you saw the chemistry between your dad and Uncle Eds, you sensed a little something there on both ends.

always saying a specific vine under your breath when you see them “two bros, chilling in a hot tub, five feet apart cause they’re not gay” (thank you to for this hc)

OKAY UNCLE EDS LIVES IN THIS AND HE’S DEFFO A BIG PART OF YOUR LIFE AFTER ONE SPECIAL TRIP TO DERRY, MAINE.

You’d say the vine so much, Richie eventually heard it and pulled you aside.

“Y/N, I- how did you know?”

“Know what dad?”

It took a little while for him to come up with the proper words to say. How was he gonna break this to you?

“Y/N..honey, I’ve had feelings for your Uncle Eds ever since we were kids. I-i don’t know, it really scared me as a kid to feel that way so I never talked about it. I guess what I’m trying to say is, kiddo, I’m gay.”

“Huh? I thought you were American?”

the man was basically on the verge of tears. He was so tense, he almost forgot to breathe. But the moment you hugged him and told him that it’s okay, that you love him so much, and that you’re so proud of him, he wrapped you in the biggest bear hug and cried. You cried too.

A/N: Imma end it here for now :)

So sorry it took forever!! I hope you enjoyed!!

Let me know if you want a part 2! 🤪

[roryeu]

                       depression but make it fashion as presented by rory kinnon

01. what’s your muse’s favorite piece of clothing in their wardrobe?

it’s not really in his wardrobe anymore as he outgrew it around sixteen but his boyfriend’s hoodie is his favorite thing. it was the only thing he could convince parker’s siblings to give him. (it’s a nasa hoodie)

02. what are your muse’s favorite colors to wear?

generally black but a lot of neutrals. he doesn’t care enough to match but at least he won’t look like a trainwreck. 

03. do they prefer summer clothing or winter clothing?

winter. the more he can wear coats and sweaters, the better.

04. how has their wardrobe evolved over the years?

it’s matured. he wears a lot of pieces more for fashion than he had for comfort in the past and now that he has the money, he can afford to buy both.

05. do they have any style icons or anything else they’re inspired by?

not really. he enjoys john deacon’s style but it’s nothing he would wear for himself.

06. do they like to accessorize? if so, what do they usually wear?

he has a few piercings and keeps jewelry in them at all times, but most of them are retainers, like the one in his septum, but he keeps an industrial bar in and usually wears a few rings that he’s made for himself, along with the earrings noor made him. (each one has one of her initials.) 

07. where do they usually shop? specific stores, a specific kind of store (ie. thrift store vs designer), or do they make their own?

he shops designer but doesn’t buy clothes enough to warrant shopping a lot. the pieces he has last him forever.

[assembledherethevolunteers]

Right Where I Need To Be

A/N: Hello again! I’m sorry this took so long, I had 2 Secret Santa stories to write and then went out. But! This is the next songfic. This time it’s ‘Right Where I Need to Be’ by Gary Allen (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_78F4MvVZT4) with John! This is based on the song and one of my favorite Queen stories, so I hope you guys enjoy.

Pairing: John Deacon x Reader 

Summary: You and John are stressed out and need a break.

Warnings: Smoking, fluff, cursing, implied sexy times (super subtle, but it’s there)

Taglist: @queenlover05 @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @madamsledge

 John rested his forehead on the table for what felt like the umpteenth time that day.

“…and then there’d be the guitar solo, obviously,” Brian finished matter-of-factly.

“There. Is. No. Guitar. Solo.” John told him through gritted teeth, his head still down on the table.

“Why no through? You still haven’t given me a good reason.”

John lifted his head, glaring at the guitarist. “Because it’s my bloody song and I don’t want one! I don’t insert bass solos in the shit you write, so why do you INSIST on putting guitar solos in every song we do?”

Brian, and the other two members of the band for that matter, stared at John.

“He’s just…” Freddie tried to begin.

“He’s just trying to throw ANOTHER guitar solo in a song that doesn’t need one.”

“Deaky,” Roger said gently.

John stood up abruptly, not listening as Roger continued. “I’m going out for a smoke,” he announced, sweeping out of the room.

“We should probably take a break.” John heard Freddie say to the remaining members of the group as he dug his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He got outside and realized that he’d left his lighter inside. He didn’t want to go back inside. He leaned against the wall of the studio, his unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, and closed his eyes.

“Mind if I join you?”

John opened one eye at the voice to see Roger. John just shrugged.

“Need a light?” Roger offered his lighter.

John took the lighter and lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply. Usually that helped a little bit with his agitation, but not today.

“Rog, let me ask you something,” John said as he handed the lighter back to Roger.

“Alright,” Roger replied, lighting his own cigarette.

“Do you ever get…tired of this?”

Roger squinted at John, clearly confused.

“The arguing? The whole,” John gestured vaguely with his cigarette hand. “Thing. We just argue, throw out an album, argue, tour, argue ON tour, don’t speak for a few weeks and then we’re right back at it.”

Roger was quiet for a few moments, puffing on his smoke. “Honestly? No, I’m not. I think that keeps us…I don’t know, current? We each have our own views and are willing to fight for them. What’s so wrong with that?”

“You just saw what’s wrong with that!” John sighed deeply. “I don’t know, maybe I just need a break from all this.”

“What do you mean ‘all this’? You don’t mean…?”

“Not forever,” John clarified. “Just…a little bit of time.”

Roger watched John, not saying anything.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Look, mate, just…try to get through this recording, yeah? Maybe we can talk about taking a bit of a longer break.”

John finished his cigarette and flicked it away. “Yeah, maybe,” he sighed and then looked at the studio doors. “Let’s just through this day.”

Meanwhile, you were at your desk, rifling through paperwork.

“Y/N,” your boss’ voice came through the intercom.

You had to hold back your eyeroll as you hit the button to respond. “Yes?”

“Could you come in here?”

You took a deep breath to calm yourself and then walked into his office. “What can I help you with?”

“Do you have those contracts yet?”

“No, like I told you earlier, they won’t be here until tomorrow.”

“Well that is entirely inconvenient. You should have thought of that before you sent them to that slow solicitor friend of yours.”

“You actually chose the solicitor this time, sir,” you gave him a tight smile.

“Don’t act smart,” he snapped at you. “Just call them and get it taken care of.”

You nodded and walked out of the office. You wanted to cry. You hated your job and wanted nothing more than to quit. But you couldn’t. You were making good money for a secretary and living in London wasn’t cheap.

At the end of the day, after getting yelled at three more times for things that were outside your control, you stopped by the store and got some wine for yourself. You had earned it, damn it.

You walked up the stairs to your flat, hoping that none of your neighbors came out because you were not in the mood for any discussion. You walked in and started to prepare dinner when you heard your phone ring.

“Y/N Y/L/N’s residence,” you sighed.

“Sounds like you had about a good of a day as I had.”

“John,” you breathed out. You didn’t even try to fight the smile that was coming onto your face.

“Hello, love,” John smiled into the phone too.

“How’s Munich?”

“The city is fantastic. It’s beautiful and rich in culture and the people are lovely.”

“That’s so good to hear. And how’s the recording going?”

John hesitated. He didn’t want to burden you with his problems. Especially since you’d heard him make these complaints before.

“Oh fine. Getting some things done.”

“Like arguing?” You knew that John was probably not telling you everything. He tried to hide how frustrated he often was with the recording process, but you could usually tell when things were getting difficult for him.

“Sometimes. Nothing too terrible. How was work for you?”

You tried to hold it together, you truly did, but hearing the voice of somebody that you loved asking you that made you break. The tears came to your eyes before you could fathom that they were there.

“Difficult. He’s such a bastard. I do everything he asks of and I do it properly and he still isn’t happy! I don’t know how to make it better!” You heard your voice getting higher as the tears started to fall.

“Oh, darling, sh sh,” John’s voice came through the phone, trying to soothe you. It broke his heart that you were hurting and he was so far away from you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No! It’s not your fault! I just…” you tried to slow your breathing. “I just want to quit so badly. I don’t want to work for him anymore but from what I’ve heard others aren’t much better and the pay is much worse, so what can I do?”

“You could move in with me and let me support you,” John offered quietly.

You closed your eyes. John had been suggesting that seemingly since the two of you started dating. The longer you had this job, the better it sounded. However, you couldn’t do that. The two of you had only been dating for a year and a half. You weren’t even living together yet. The two of you had talked about it, but nothing had actually come of it between your schedules. What would happen if he was paying for you and then the two of you broke up? What then? You didn’t want that kind of uncertainty.

“John, you know I can’t let you do that.”

“But you could.”

“Can we talk about something else?” You knew that if he kept asking you, you would eventually break down.

“What would you like to talk about?”

The two of you stayed on the phone while you made dinner. John told you more about Munich, the places he’d gone, the people he’d met. Listening to John made you feel better. It always did.

You laid down on the couch, the phone wedged between the arm and your ear, listening to John talk. It was comforting. You could listen to him speak for days on end.

“Are you still awake?” John whispered. He could tell that you were drifting in and out of the conversation.

“Barely,” you muttered back. Your eyes were closed and you’d caught yourself nodding off more than once.

“You should get some sleep, my love,” John kept his voice low so that it didn’t wake you up.

“Nooo,” you whined, half asleep. “I want to keep talking to you.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’ll call you around the same time.”

You whimpered, letting him know you heard him, but you didn’t want him to go.

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you,” you responded before you gave in and let sleep take you for the night.

John listened to your breathing even out after about a minute. He put the phone back on the cradle and stared at it, almost hoping that you would call him back. He knew you wouldn’t. He knew that you were asleep, but he missed you. He hadn’t seen you in close to four months. He missed hearing your voice in person. He missed being able to hold you and kiss you and sleep next to you. He wanted to be with you. He wanted to get away from the nonsense of recording.

Maybe he could find a way to do both.

You heard a knock on your door. You weren’t sure what time it was. You weren’t sure if you were late for work or not. You sat up and blinked. You noticed that it was still dark outside, so you weren’t late for anything. You glanced at the clock on your wall. It was just past three AM.

A sense of terror gripped you.

Who on Earth would that be at three AM? Most of your friends would have just called. Your parents didn’t live close enough to stop by like that.

You looked through the peephole and gasped. You threw the door open and saw John standing there, with a small bouquet of your favorite flowers. You watched the smile on John’s face grow as he took you in.

“Hello, lovely,” John offered you the flowers. You took them from him and once you did, he put his hands on either side of your face and pulled you into a kiss.

You kissed him back and pulled him into your flat. Not a lot of talking happened after that.

“We should go somewhere,” John whispered in your ear hours later. You had your back pressed against his chest and he had his arms wrapped around you. He kissed behind your ear and then underneath it.

The sun was starting to rise and you could see the sky had a pinkish glow to it now.

“And just where do you suggest we go?”

“Some place warm, where we can just wear nothing all day, maybe some place near the ocean,” John had pressed a kiss to you after each description of where he wanted to go.

“Hm…sounds like you have a place in mind.”

“Well, we’ve always talked about Bali.”

“What about the band and your album?”

“It can wait. I need to be with you.”

The next day, you called in for vacation (which sent your boss into a tirade) and then you and John were on a plane to Bali. Once you arrived, the two of you made your way to a villa that was right on the beach.

“John,” you gasped at the view from the bedroom. “You didn’t have to do this for us.”

John walked up behind you and snaked one arm around your shoulders and one around your waist, pulling him towards you. John never felt better than when he was holding you.

“Yes, I did. We both needed this.”

The next week, you and John spent on the beach. You fell asleep in each other’s arms and woke up even closer. You talked under the stars in the sand. It made you wish that the two of you could just stay there forever.

One of the last nights that you were there, you and John went for a walk along the beach.

“Y/N, thank you for coming with me,” John brought your intertwined hands to his lips.

You giggled, tipsy on the wine you’d drunk at dinner. “Thank you for inviting me. You could’ve just come here by yourself.”

“I could have, but I wouldn’t have enjoyed myself nearly as much. I needed you here with me. I…I need you with me all the time, if I’m being honest,” John’s voice had started to trail off. He cleared his throat to cover up the nerves that had started. He pulled you both to a stop.

You looked at John and raised an eyebrow. “Are you alright?”

“Well, I…I hope I will be.”

You turned to completely face him and you noticed how nervous he looked. His face was red, and you’d thought that it was because of the heat but now you were thinking it was anxiety.

“John, what are you…?”

John grabbed your other hand so that he was holding both of your hands and he kept his eyes on them.

“I…Y/N, I think…I’ve been thinking about this…well, since the day we met if I’m being honest,” John chuckled slightly and then looked up at you. “And we’ve only gotten better since then.”

You beamed at him. “I think so, too.”

“And I think we’ll continue to get better, don’t you?”

You nodded and felt tears because you were pretty sure that you knew what was happening.

“And I…if you’d let me…I would love to be a part of your life for the rest of it,” John cringed. He knew what he’d meant, but it hadn’t come out right. “That sounded much better in my head.”

You slid your hands up to John’s cheeks and gently pulled him closer so you could give him a chaste kiss.

John smiled into it. Happy that you, once again, understood him better than anybody. He rested his forehead to yours, his smile growing. “So? Is that a ‘yes’?”

“You technically haven’t asked me a question. Sometimes I just like kissing you,” you teased him.

John pulled back a bit so that he could drop to one knee in the sand. He pulled out a small box from one of the pockets of his shorts and opened it, presenting you with the ring. It was gorgeous and simple. Exactly what you wanted for your ring. 

The tears had started to fall for both of you. 

“Y/N, I’ve never been as happy as I am with you. You make me forget everything bad happening, no matter what’s going on and I…” John struggled to find the words that he wanted to say. He wanted to tell you how much he loved you and how much he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. Spend the rest of his life making you happy. Everything that came to mind just didn’t seem to do it justice.

“John,” you told him gently. “Just ask me.” 

John cleared his throat and smiled up at you. “Y/N, will you marry me?” 

You nodded enthusiastically. “Of course!” 

John slid the ring on your finger and jumped to his feet, pulling you close to him, and pressing his lips to yours. Everything fell into place at that point. The fighting with the band, the fighting with your boss, the stress of everything that had been going on, none of it mattered. John had you in his arms and your entire lives for you to be there. 

[sunflowersunshinevol6]

Hello Harry

OC introduction

Name: Prudence Marie Bulsara Hutton

Face Claim: Frances Bean Cobain

Tagging @found-wonderland who has always loved and hyped this OC of mine💕

Birth Mother: Mary Austin

Fathers: Freddie Mercury,Jim Hutton

God Father: John Deacon

God Mother: Montserrat Caballe

Uncles: Roger Taylor, Brian May ,Elton John

Birthday: September 16 1990

Personality: Prudence is very sassy and independent. As a child she would watch Queen music videos and interviews and picked up several mannerisms of her late father. She did this on purpose because she hoped it would make Jim happy as he dealt with severe depression after Freddie's death. She is extremely gifted musically and artistically. She is caring and can be quiet and reserved. Very protective of her private life and family

Sexual orientation: she is openly bisexual

What happened before 'Hello Harry': Prudence is not famous and is unknown. As per Freddie's wishes for her to have a normal childhood she took his last name and Jim's and moved to Ireleand after Freddie's death with her father. She grew up on a farm there. After graduating from college she went to pursue art and became an escort to help support her dream. Jim's death hit her hard and she has not fully recovered. She wears his wedding ring around her neck and never takes it off, it's the only jewelry she wears. Her relationship with Mary Austin is strained due to her jealousy and possessiveness of Prudence. She is close to her uncles, especially her God Father John, who she visits as often as possible.

Prudence's Playlist: (coming soon)