Think you could throw some angst-filled Deacon headcanons out into the void for me?
Here you go! Finally got around to making some more Deacon
headcanons for you! ^.^ I tried to do angst like you wanted, but I think I’m
better at the fluffs ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh well, I
FYI guys, The next few updates might be headcanons because I’m
pretty busy until Thursday night, and headcanons are quicker to write! And I’ve
got some Cait and X6 headcanon requests to work on. Yeah, I didn’t forget about
you two sweet people, I’ve just been waiting for the right time ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Deacon loves carding his fingers through Sole’s
angel soft hair. The Old World has left it a lot smoother than native
wastelander tresses, and since he’s constantly shaving his head and covering it
with ratty wigs, the silky texture between his fingers is a foreign but
welcoming sensation. Deacon especially enjoys sleeping with Sole’s hair resting
against his face at night; it’s the closest he’ll get to a pre-war pillow he
supposes. Plus, Sole’s hair smells really nice.
Deacon is a loner. Always has been ever since
Barbara passed, and as a result his relationships within the Railroad are strained.
Glory humors him because they’re on the same side, Desdemona tolerates him
because he does his work well, and Carrington obviously could not give two
cares if he bit the dust. Honestly, Tinker Tom is the only person that
genuinely likes him, but likes everyone; plus, he’s a little crazy. Deacon
refuses to acknowledge it, but the seclusion had eroded his connection with his
emotions. He’s trained his face in the mirror for so long that the vacant eyes
staring back at him feel like an accurate reflection of his soul. However the
reality is that he’s not empty, just hurting, but he won’t let anybody get close
enough to tell him so.
Sole finds time between voyages to visit their
deceased spouse in Vault 111. While they grieve, Deacon reclaims his old post
at the top of the hill overlooking Sanctuary with a cigarette and a lukewarm
drink. He likes to believe he’s watching over them, providing security, but
really, he likes reliving the best moment of his life whenever Sole reemerges
from the earth.
Deacon sleeps alone. Always. Period. Except for
that one time a snowstorm trapped him in a shack with only Sole and a single
sleeping bag. He was so, so ready to
sleep on the floor, but it was winter, there was snow climbing up the walls
outside, the wooden floor was back-breakingly hard, and Sole practically forced
him inside the bag with them. Something about sharing body heat or whatever. He
grumbled but ultimately compromised. Curling up, he wedged himself deep into
the seams of the bag and reluctantly drifted off.
Deacon never told Sole, or anyone else for
that matter, about his nightmares. Luckily he wasn’t a screamer, but he did
jerk awake that night. He was surprised Sole hadn’t woken up already with him gasping
in their ear and clamping his arms down around their waist. Wait… Damn, tear
stains blotched up the back of Sole’s shirt. He hoped they would dry by
“Woah! What’s so wet on my back Deacon?”
“Sorry boss, should’a warned you that I
drool in my sleep!”
It’s taped underneath a pew in the Old North
Church: Deacon’s journal. He writes poetry in the Sanctuary because the place feels
sacred, safe. He enjoys when the sunlight trickles through the holes in the
roofing tile and dapples light across his ink. Before Vault 111 released its frozen prisoner,
Deacon scribed his hurting soul onto the coffee stained pages, forever begging
for relief. But now his poems are lighter. Now his poems are hopeful.
a knife’s edge, a fist, a fire, a bottle, brake lights, ravens, ravens, ravens, scars, sharp teeth, knuckles, almost crashing, smoke, nightmares, tossing and turning at night, the heat of a kiss, black ink, the vaulted ceilings of a cathedral, deep blue eyes, silence, the countryside at night, the heartbeat of a mouse, words you can’t get out of your mouth, want, need, the pull at the pit of your stomach, a kick drum heart, war, worship.
Next time you call out: “Hey sexy!” And expect me to act Like you gave me the world, I will happily remind you, That I am not sexy.
I am a goddess , Placed on this earth To tear down the walls society builds And cover the sky with my name, I create infinities in my mind, And with brush strokes long enough To surpass time, I paint a self portrait, Of Cleopatra and Joan of Arc reborn.
I create firestorms with my name, And with my breath I set ships on adventures And dash them against rocks, I am made of the stone of the earth, And the shine of the stars.
And when you look into my eyes, You should see angels and demons At war with themselves, Over battlegrounds strewn With the bodies of legends.
Because I am not sexy, I am not merely sexy, And I owe you nothing. No matter how you address me.