A/N:  Uh…so this is…not my best work, shall we say?  Any turn of phrase that sounds particularly good probably comes from the original story.  Idk why, but I just couldn’t get my back into this one; I’m sorry.  Anyway, Ppyeo means bones.  If you read the original story, that will make more sense.

Original Sleepy Hollow  (Read it and see what literature is actually supposed to be.  It’s only 13 pages.)

Park Chanyeol was always hungry.

That was the first thing you really noticed about the spindly schoolteacher.  Other than his size, that is. Chanyeol was monstrous tall, true, but that glorious height was all to waste, as he was also possessed of the spindliest body that you had ever seen, with rawboned wrists poking out of rusty black sleeves, and knock-knees barely constrained by their stockings.  His impossibly long arms and legs ended in hands and feet large enough to resemble shovels--the knuckles of his thick fingers perpetually red with cold, even on the hottest summer day--and his ears constantly looked as if they were about to take flight. On top of that his large, shining, dark-circled brown eyes made him look like nothing so much as a poor starving waif, full-grown.

Townsfolk often muttered that, seeing his clothes fluttering about his lanky frame on a windy day, one could easily mistake him for an escaped scarecrow.   

That wasn’t to say that he didn’t hold his own, peculiar charms.  Indeed, he was the closest approximation of a personage of learned elegance to be found in your drowsy little town, and there were plenty of the sisterhood of your fairer who found him downright urbane, for not only did he have his vocation to recommend him, but he also taught singing, as well as the finer points of partnered dance.

In fact, if you weren’t already half in love with Do Kyungsoo, or Ppyeo Kyung, as the town liked to call him--as much for his brash, and rough and ready ways, as for his thickly muscled arms and thighs--the  peculiar charms of Park Chanyeol may have almost spirited you away. Yes, if it weren’t for your heart already having been half stolen by Kyungsoo--though you would certainly never tell him that!--it’s possible that you would not have noticed that the shining eyes, and flushed cheeks that Chanyeol always displayed when around you were not quite directed toward your own illustrious person, but more toward your mother’s autumnal tea table.  

Yes, Chanyeol’s true desire was an open book, and you could see in his eyes that, while he did find you well enough to look upon, he would easily abandon his visual tete a tetes with you to picture the culinary end of almost every edible he saw.  To Chanyeol, every pig running about became a roast, with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth, or a sleek side of bacon, or juicy rotisserie ham; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese swam in their own gravy; and the ducks paired cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a thick blanket of onion sauce. Not a turkey he saw, but he envisioned it daintily trussed, with its gizzard under its wing, enrobed in a necklace of savory sausages.     

His eye, ever sensitive to culinary promise, ranged with delight, not over your own fair form, but over your father’s treasures of jolly autumn. Instead of looking into your eyes, he gazed at the vast store of apples, some hanging in opulence from the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market, others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Instead of admiring your temptingly ripe figure, he only gawped at the great fields of corn--with their golden ears holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding--and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies.  

One Sunday afternoon Chanyeol accompanied you on your post-church constitutional.  You were talking about your ideas for expanding the school, when you both passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, surrounded on all sides by your father’s beehives, and as he beheld them, you saw that all attention to you was lost, as soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle. 

If Chanyeol had given you half so melting a glance as he had given the doughty doughnut, or the crisp and crumbling cruller--the sweet, and short cakes, ginger, and honey cakes--the apple pies, peach pies, and pumpkin pies--the quivering slices of ham, and stout sides of smoked beef--the delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces--not to mention the broiled shad and roasted chickens--yes, if he had given you half so much a lambent look as he gave the table of dainties, you may well have lost your very heart, indeed!

However, inoculated from his bookish charms by the rowdy ways of your own country swain, you were able to view him with a clear eye, and what you saw didn’t please you in the least. What you saw were his eyes roving past you to lovingly caress your father’s rich fields of buckwheat and corn, rye and creeping beans, his orchards of ruddy apples, juicy figs, and plump pears.  

In short, Park Chanyeol was covetous.

Park Chanyeol was also...presumptuous.

Surprisingly, considering his propensity to ignore you at every gustatory turn, he was seemingly quite confident in his ability to turn your head.  Bewilderingly--given his lack of attention to your own little person--certain of his capacity to engender a tender penchant in your , he plied his suit, not for you, or to you, but at you.  Soon, you could hardly turn your head, but he was there at every turn, offering his expertise as a vocal master, displaying his prowess as a dancing pedagogue, declaiming Byron, and Shakespeare, and Shelley!

However...after overcoming your initial irritation, you found that that suited you just fine.  Ppeyo Kyung had become quite complacent of your affection, of late, and if you had to play the coquette to rekindle his ardour, well...it certainly was no hardship to dance and flirt, to charm and be charmed.  

Soon, seeing that Kyung no longer held preeminent place in your esteem, suitors flocked to you, each more smitten than the last.  As for Kyung, you watched him seethe, watched him realize that you were not a surety, and you revelled.  

***

“It was in and about the Martinmas time, when the green leaves were a falling, that Sir John Graeme in the west country/ Fell in love with Barbara Allan. O Hooly, hooly rose she up, to the place where he was lying, and when she drew the curtain by, 'Young man, I think you're dying.'”

“Very good, very good, young lady, but, I’ll think you’ll find, if you lift the soft palate, and tighten the diaphragm just --here-- that you’ll produce a much rounder, stronger sound!”

Nodding obediently, you made the corrections, and began to sing once more.  

“Excellent!  Just splendid!”  Chanyeol waved his long arms about, as if directing an entire choir instead of just you, and your sleepy-eyed black cat.  

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Kyung peeking through the window, and smiled to yourself.  “Oh, Chanyeol, I’m afraid I don’t quite remember where my diaphragm is,” you simpered. “Could you show me?”

“But, you were just--”

“I forgot!”

“Indeed,” he said smoothly, delicately touching the bodice of your dress to indicate where you should concentrate your attention.  

You heard a growl from outside the window.  

“Ah, Chanyeol, I fear I just can’t seem to remember how to breathe interstitially…”

“It’s fine, dear lady, here,” he took his other hand to place it on your lower back, “just breathe into my hand.

“Now, see here--” The door burst open to admit a red-faced Ppyeo Kyung.

You looked up with an innocent expression on your face.  “Why, Kyung! Wherever did you come from?”

“I think what’s more relevant to the situation at hand is why this scarecrow has his hands around my girl!”

Chanyeol quickly snatched back his hands, blushing to the tips of his prodigious ears.  

“Now, Kyung, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”  You took Chanyeol’s hands and placed them firmly around your waist.  “Here?” you asked him.

“Uh, uh, um, no, dear lady, not quite,” he stuttered, moving his hands to their former position.  “This is actually where you want to place your concentration.”

“Just so!”  You could hear Kyung’s knuckles creaking as he tightened his fists, and you smiled to yourself.  “Kyung, would you be a dear, and close the door? You’re going to let in a draft.”

He growled.

You jumped at the sound.  “My word! You gave me a such fright, Kyung!  My heart is racing so--here, feel it!” At this, you took Chanyeol’s hand, and pressed it firmly to your bosom.  

Both he and Kyung turned the very same shade of purple.  

“Now, see here--” Kyung ground out, starting forward.  

“Is something the matter, Kyung?” you asked, blinking up at him innocently, while still pressing Chanyeol’s hand to your fluttering heart.  

“Pedagogue, I will give you two seconds to remove your hand before I remove it from your bony wrist!” Kyung rumbled, his normally full lips thinned in impatience.  

As if just now realizing the place on which his hand was still resting, Chanyeol snatched it back, as if he had been burned.  Swallowing nervously, he scrambled about, trying to gather his things, but mostly making a dither of the entire process.  

Internally pleased, you nonetheless put on an exasperated front, hands on hips.  “Now, Kyung, just who are you to give orders in my house?” He grabbed for your wrist, bu