DEAD POETS SOCIETY x READER [ONE SHOTS]

Poetry and Places - Drabble (Knox)

There are a million other things Knox Overstreet could write about; that the rapid romanticisation of everything he sees had been translated onto paper with chicken scratch writing and riding a stolen biking in the middle of the night, ripping through the quiet neighborhood at midnight. All the good things, he felt, since he had let go of the calm, and romance came at the exhiliary of living and movement. Rhythm, and beat, and spinning wheels, the sound of the gears turning as he speeds through the familiar downhill that leads to your house. In the moment, he is there, tossing his bike in a bush somewhere a yard away, hiding traces of his eagerness as he tossed pebbles to your window in hopes that you are awake. And you are, anticipating his very visit, quietly sliding your windows up as you tell him to climb up the tree that leads to your bedroom. The coast is clear, and everyone is asleep, he is here.

Knox greets you with a chaste kiss. "I wrote you a poem." He says through bated breath when the climbing had exhausted him so. "It took me all day but..."

He fishes for the paper tucked away by his heart.

"Knox, it's dark." You chuckle.

"Nevermind that..." He waves away, tucking the folded paper back into his pocket. "I thought the moonlight would be enough but I guess my expectations got the better of me."

"Too romantic."

"Too much?"

You smile, pulling the boy into your bedroom.

"You being here is good enough."

Though that was a lie, when holding him in your arms for so long made you realize how much you craved him in a sense that left you desperate yet listless. This was what you needed, and the soft reciprocation of his arms around your waist, and the soft sighs that left his lifts upon letting you go. It has not been long, but it felt so. You wished Welton had less of a hold on their boys.

"Would they notice if you had left?" He asks in a low whisper, cautious in the quietness of the night.

"To where?" You asked him.

"Outside. Anywhere. I'd like to be free with you. Just for tonight."

You look in his eyes, and the same spark was there of when he would write his poetry, and it was a warm feeling that pulled you in.

"You could ride the bike. I'll bring you back home before sunrise. We could walk in the park or something, anything."

You smile.

"Then take me to your places." You tell him. "And read me what you've written."