deacon st. amor {two} finished

[jj jenkins d7. ✨ zozo.]

Name: deacon john st. amor, your friendly neighbourhood cat-lady.
Age: 18
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 2
Appearance:

i need a minute.
or an hour.
possibly several days.

Personality:

books? and cleverness? there are more important things, like friendship and bravery like brotps and career-ing.

also cats.

History:

he's literally got business to attend to.

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

one day i'll stop making characters.
today is not that day.

www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/mumfordsons/littlelionman.html
www.colourlovers.com/palette/3061407/swish.

[jj jenkins d7. ✨ zozo.]

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[atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: f6f1f5; border: e3e2f2 solid 0px; width: 430px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 0px 0px 10px 10px;] The day starts off with a scream. A calamity of feet shuffling away and panicked voices collide, limbs hurriedly climbing over furniture to get to safety. An adult voice barks to regain your attention but everyone is frozen with fear, shrieking in protest at the ground. You say nothing but walk forward towards the skittering bug and the room falls silent, holding their breath. With gentle hands you cup the little bug and set it free in one swift movement, and the minute it leaps off the room gasps - and then bursts into applause. You don't feel like a hero, despite what they say. But you were 10 years old at the time and struggling to fit in, so you took what fake glory it came with and stumbled along to training in and amongst your peers and found that finally, you were actually good at something. Great at it, mind you. People didn't roll their eyes when you slammed a knife into a dummy the same way they did when you answered a question in class exactly the way the textbook did (your mind saw the page and you simply read it aloud from your head), nor did they scoff at your bag bursting with training gear as they would do when you piled it with books. With each passing year they all seemed to forget that you were the bookish neat-freak who sat at the front of the class as you transformed into a Career and realised that being clever didn't necessarily equal being successful. But your Father didn't let you forget it. Stocks, construction and business was your life when the Training Centre, weapons and friends weren't. "You have brains too precious to be wasted, Deacon" he'd declared at the dinner table. "Someone's got to take over this business some day, and I don't see any brothers or sisters sitting around this table to take your place." Not that you were obliged - there was something soothing in numbers, markets, organisation and business. But with responsibility pressing against your body paranoia began to set in, refusing to take risks with the money you were trusted with. You realised then that there was so much more to being brave than saving your class from a tiny little bug or throwing yourself into training head-first. You are bossy, a little arrogant at times, hot-headed when things don't go your way or when your friends refuse to listen to your best advice. You can recall the entire lists of punishments in chronological order that you've had to carry out when they're getting up to no-good at school or in training and you just happened to be there, but you'd never leave their side. Carlisle (a lifelong friend and member of your cat collection) seems to be the only person in the world who ever really listens to you. Efficient and to a schedule, you're never late to anything and come with the most polite of manners drilled into you from birth. Yet it's hard for you to admit you're wrong, and even harder to say no. If you had a dollar for every time you've been told to lighten up you'd be as rich as your father. Sensibility was fed to you with baby food following logic and reason. And as much as you enjoy being a Career, there's a nagging at your brain right next to the constant paranoia battering away in your head that all you are, and all you ever will be, is utterly inadequate. Where it stemmed from is unclear, even to you, but failure is never an option. On nights after training, you curl yourself up into an armchair (once small enough to sit cross-legged on the cushions, now sprawling from the top to the wooden floor beneath you) and soak yourself into a book. Brown eyes sit underneath bushy eyebrows as they scan the pages over and over again, your pointed chin resting against your tired hands. Carlisle sits across your jean-covered lap and purs in his temporary home, whilst Whiskers finds shelter underneath your arm and Teska sits on your shoulders. And whilst your Mother may smile at the image and your friends smirk at you and your closest pals, you scratch between their ears and settle for their comforts. Girls have called you good-looking but you're no match against Keifer. You're certain nobody notices you next to him, tagging along in his adventures and trying your best to keep him out of trouble. Your eyes crinkle into a smile at the thought of your best friend and close your book, running your fingers against the corner of the cover. Muscles ache from exercise and bones protest from their almost-breaking, but you sit in silence for awhile so as not to disturb your companions from their slumber. The day ends in a sigh, and you too drift off to sleep.

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[jj jenkins d7. ✨ zozo.]

Hands up who's finished their third of the Golden Trioooo?

[cass]

His FC, let me hug it. Love him <3

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