#definitely not just me forgetting feather fall exists

[quail-in-red]

Not me forgetting potions, scrolls, and spells every time I need to jump down somewhere

[kiana12113]

Oh, Neighbor

john marston x reader

✦ strangers to lovers, slow burn, john’s pov

Synopsis: John, your lonesome neighbor, continues to pester you every chance he gets. Other than ranching and journaling, he sure seems to have nothing better to do.

Note: finished ! ! ! rdr makes me want to kill myself, but at least john exists (๑و>o<)و♡⁠ finally got this thing out of the trenches, and after requests i’ll follow-up w a jack fic. YAY <3

i kind of imagined the whole thing with a studio ghibli animation in my head. there’s only one inaccuracy: “can’t help falling in love” by elvis presley wasn’t out until 1961. let’s just pretend he was early by a few decades ~

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 17.2k

February 24, 1907

Heard there weren’t much people here, guess they were right. All of this is to retire from all of that business, and live out my remainin’ days in peace. When Arthur gave me his journal, I didn’t expect it to have so much written. He was poetic — in a way. I try my best to recreate the way he drew all those animals and people, even though I can’t pick up a pencil.

For the most part, it has been peaceful here. Not much people to talk to, though. Takin’ care of this ranch ain’t much work, either, I always find myself having spare time. And I’m sure I’ll develop a lung disease with how much cigarettes I’ve been smokin’.

Guess we’ll see, though, how this whole thing’ll work out.

John writes in his journal, flipping the pages without noise. No one disturbs, and there is no one to disturb. Mellow streaks of light from the sun mark on the paper, and from his view are the snowy trees and the ice melting on the grass.

Only faint mooing and baas of animals are heard from the distance, other than rustling of the trees — due to cold wind — that also hits him in the face like a brick.

It was quiet. And as much as John had been searching for that quiet, he found himself doubting — about all of this. About all his actions and choices.

February 28, 1907

I’m not sure if I’m capable of settlin’ down and livin’ a quiet life, at least like this. The only person I can talk to here is Uncle, and he’s a damn leech.

So this is the normal life.

John paused his writing, sighing and closing the journal.

Nothing is quite interesting here. He’s thankful for the peace, however, there’s something that’s always been bugging him since he moved here.

The stillness of everything. How only leaves seemed to fall, how no one passes by, the chirping of the birds as they flap their feathers above. John does ranch work in a systematic manner — and the more he spends time with himself, the more he notices the tiny things he used not to.

He felt alone, but he refused to call himself lonely.

He’s gone out and reeled up fish, attempted to cook — only that didn’t work out, and he found himself sweeping the wooden floors of his home.

For a person that lived alone, the walls seemed to expand without an end.

March 7, 1907

I got a dog.

He’s cute, I’ll say that. Named him Rufus. I’d rather talk to him than Uncle. Nice to have someone here who actually has a contribution in the ranch.

Damn it, I forgot to feed the chickens. John remembers, while he hurriedly walked over to the chicken pen.

“You’ve been hungry, ain’t ya? Sorry ‘bout that.” He talks to the chickens, as if they could understand him.

It wasn’t hard to manage the ranch. All he had to do was to not forget, and he had more time than he needed to do these things. There’s never been a struggle taking care of the cattle, or his horse, or lifting up the crates and sacks.

But someone looked to be having more trouble than he was.

You — his neighbor. One that didn’t talk, nor did he see much. But you seemed to live alone, and worked all day without any help.

“Hey, miss!” John calls, seeing you lift up crates with a posture that would definitely result in a broken back.

“No? Don’t talk much?” He asks softly, walking closely to the fence as his eyes followed you. He rested his forearms on the hard wood, leaning in as he raised a brow.

“That’s… you’re gonna break your back, miss.” He persists, before you finally place the crate on the ground.

You look at him, wiping the beads of sweat that dripped from your forehead. “What?”

John speaks up again. “I… think you need help.” Truly, he wanted to help you, but he couldn’t help that sheepish look of embarrassment on his face. He felt like he was being judged, hard.

“I’ve been ranching for years.”

John thought you were stubborn. But before he could say anything else, you went back to your business with clogged ears.

Huh.

March 7, 1907

In addition to this day, I met a strange woman. I should’ve met her earlier, since her home had already been here before mine — but regardless, I think she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.

I offered to help her earlier, but she ignored it and stubbornly went back to breakin’ her back. Wonder why she’s workin’ on her ranch all by herself.

And it happened a few more weeks after.

“Hey, missy!” John calls out the second time this morning.

“I really think you should let me help.” He’s leaning on the fence again, the same spot every time. He tilts his head upwards to see what else you’re doing, as he lifts up the brim of his hat slightly.

You respond, this time, which makes him have a sliver of hope.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re somethin’, alright…” He murmurs. “…that was a compliment!”

“Look, miss, you’re gonna kill yourself like that. Why don’t you let me help you?” He insists, a pleading tone seeping in his voice as he watched you helplessly.

You stopped for a moment, catching your breath as you turned to look at him.

“I’m sure you have something else better to do, sir.”

John shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck. “Not… really,”

“And it’s John. John… Marston. I mean, we’re neighbors, aren’t we?”

The silence made him cringe. He awaited your next response with impatience — not because he was irritated, but because he was getting awkward.

Then you said your name. John’s face lit up, almost immediately.

“So let me help you, [Reader]!” He sounded like an eager kid. It seemed he really did have nothing better to do.

But you still insisted and refused.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

It’s been the same since then. John coming up to the fence to stare at you while you worked. Well, not really stare — but it sure felt like he was. He tried to subtly glance over you while working on his own ranch, but John doesn’t know a single thing about being subtle. So he ends up coming off as creepy either way.

March 27, 1907

I ain’t writin’ down her name here, but she told me it. Yeah, my neighbor. That stubborn one. Told her she was gonna kill herself few days ago because of her stubbornness, yet she still insisted. I really do wonder why she keeps on persistin’ like that.

John writes on his journal with focus and his foreheads knotting slightly. His back is pressed against the wooden wall of his porch.

Every morning she’s wakin’ up to carry ‘round crates and sacks and chasing down cattle. I do commend her for that, though. I just watch helplessly from afar. I got a feelin’ she sees me as some kind of competition — which I ain’t.

Can’t help but feel bad for her, in a way, even though she’s capable. Wish I could help, since I got nothin’ better to do here. Don’t wanna turn myself crazy talkin’ to animals.

His eyes glance over to your figure, again, for about the fourth time. You’re a hard-working one. You’ve always got that hair of yours in a ponytail, and you’ve always been quite neat.

“Missy! Your chickens are escaping!” John says as he notices the open pen and the overwhelming amount of chickens flooding outside.

Your hands were full with taking care of a horse. You had no time to chase them all down before they’d fully escaped.

Seeing your alarmed expression and unfortunate position, John climbs over the fence with haste.

“These damned things,” He mutters to himself while he chased them down. “Hey! Come back!” He scoops them up while some try to protest. The chickens were flailing and batting their wings endlessly, feathers shooting up by John’s eyes in an attempt to resist.

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere,” He continues to talk to them. One by one, all of the chickens are returned inside the coop.

Except for one — which was securing a safe escape to the water.

John hurriedly chased it down, determined to hunt every last chicken.

While it happened, you stood there with awe and a certain dumbfounded expression.

What the hell was he doing?

He looked stupid. He really did. He chased down the last chicken with a tackle, his body hitting the ground with a thud and a loud grunt.

“I gotcha, damn chicken.” He murmurs, getting up as he dusted his pants and made his way back to the pen.

You stood there. “Why’d you… do that?”

He stopped in front of you, with a chicken in hand. “Well they were gonna… escape. So I chased them. I hope you didn’t mind?”

John thought maybe he should have let the chickens escape, with that puzzled look on your face. He was covered in mud and dirt, all from that tackling that he did.

“…Thank you.” You said, looking hesitant. “You didn’t have to do that. I’ve caused you trouble.”

He was surprised of how guilty you looked. John was nothing more than a bored-to-death rancher. You acted as if you took all his precious time.

“I told you, miss. I ain’t got nothing else better to do. Tackling these chickens for ya ain’t trouble at all.” He replied, once again dusting himself off in a futile attempt to get all the dirt off of him. He gently drops the chicken back in the pen.

And his ears perk up at your barely-contained snort behind him. He turns his head to your direction almost immediately, to see you muffling a laugh with your hand.

“What’s so funny?” He asks with confusion.

He didn’t know how incredibly stupid he looked right now. All because of chickens. He looked like he had gone through a storm. A real rough one — with his hair all messed up and his clothes practically drenched in dirt and mud.

“Nothing,” You say, failing to contain your laughter. John puts on a confused smile, taking off his hat as he approached you.

“It’s just… you… look stupid, John.”

He thought your comment was the sweetest thing you’ve said to him yet. It’s degrading, but you’re laughing, and you’re saying his name. Which is more than your usual ignorance — so he’ll forgive you for now.

He lights up for a moment, before he tries to dust off all the mud off of him again. He can hear your chuckles while he did so. “Alright, yeah, yeah… make fun of me.”

He can’t help but smile himself, despite all of that. He was the reason of your laughing, even though he did look stupid.

“Sorry, sorry…” You mumbled with a sigh.

“Well? You saw how helpful I am. Think that makes me worthy of helpin’ you out now?” John says with a small smile.

“I think you need to clean yourself off first.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

March 28, 1907

Made a fool of myself chasing around chickens. You know, my neighbor’s. Ran around the field scooping them up and got dirt and mud all over myself.

She called me an idiot. But I guess it doesn’t really sting much, since she laughed along with the words. Guess she ain’t that much of a stubborn woman, more of a closed-off one.

Today John is by his usual spot — resting on your fence. He’s as early as morning, awaking along the crowing of roosters. Dawn barely cracks and he’s already blabbing his mouth.

“You gonna let me help out?” He asks. You’re off to carrying another heavy sack.

“Depends. Will you?” You said with a huff, panting quietly.

John took that as a yes, and he didn’t need to be said twice. He was already up and going with a sack over his shoulders. He’s swift, already on the job without a single complain.

He already had two in by the time you put yours over the wagon.

The early morning shining on his figure didn’t help, you thought. It distracted you more than it made you work.

He wasn’t anything special. Just an average male with a lean physique, but you could tell he did more than ranching. He lifted those sacks up like they were nothing, and he was more than happy to do so.

As the action prolonged you could notice the tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. One trickled down until his chin, dropping down to his throat, dragging itself along his skin.

“I appreciate the admiration, but ain’t it rude to stare?” He says with a small smile, stopping in his tracks momentarily to tease you.

“I wasn’t.” You replied almost immediately, picking up another sack with determination and striding towards the wagon without error.

“Ah you weren’t? ‘M sorry for the assumption.” He says with light sarcasm. You rolled your eyes in response.

It was kind of fun, in a way. More on John’s part. He seemed a little too happy for lifting up sacks and crates.

“You really do have nothing to do, huh?”

“No ma’am,” At this point your work had been reduced by hours. He was an effective ranch-hand, that much was true. “Told ya I’d be helpful.”

But you were far from done for today’s work. You still had a few more things to check on.

“Well, thank you.” You replied, making your way to the pens. You did expect him to say something like another offer of help, but instead the man followed behind you like a puppy.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad to have him here.

Hours upon hours had passed since then. He was insistent in helping with every single activity you had on your list. You could swear his eyes lit up every time you said “okay”.

When the sun set in the horizon, John, who smelled all sweaty and like the sun, leaned on the wall of your porch. “We finished a lot, huh?”

He had a proud smile on his face, but you looked at him with uncertainty. “I’m grateful for your help, but I don’t have anything in return.”

John’s head snapped to you with squinted eyes and a lifted brow. “Did you seriously think I helped you ‘cause I expected somethin’ in return?”

“I ain’t that bad of a person. I helped ya ‘cause I wanted to.”

“But I owe you.” You replied.

“You don’t owe nothin’. Let that be it.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

April 17, 1907

She let me help her. All that work definitely paid off, since I slept one hell of a good night then. Maybe this peaceful life ain’t so bad after all.

I’ve learned a few things, too. One is that she does live alone, but I don’t know why. Second is that she’s got a little cat, but I ain’t that blessed yet to see her.

Note: gotta feed the horses later.

Weeks pass again, and John continues to insist on helping you every chance he gets. It’s a nice deal, honestly — he gets to do something, and your ranch gets more taken care of.

And you’ve become somewhat friends, if he could dare say that. He hasn’t asked yet — but he’s sure you two are.

Like usual, the day is slow. John stares at the blank paper in his journal, taking in his surroundings. Not a single soul in sight he found. All too quiet for his taste. Sometimes his bones still ached for that life or being rough and rugged.

Though he guessed this was better than settling down in those bustling, putrid cities. The civilians and rich politicians would kill him before the smoke and smell did. And he’d convinced himself he was not alone anymore, but the pain of loneliness lingers in his chest from time to time.

He couldn’t slide the pencil in any direction — his eyes remain stagnant on the land before him, while his thoughts move in a state he couldn’t quite describe himself. It isn’t running, it isn’t racing — but he certainly wouldn’t call it calm.

The past few months since he’d met you filled that little gap in his heart, at least, for the moment.

“Hey, Mr. Marston.” He heard you call, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?,” He tucks away his journal and he sees you leaning on the fence this time. “And just call me John — please.”

“I can’t help but notice you didn’t come?” You asked.

“You’re waitin’ for me?” He replies with slight surprise, his eyebrows lifted. A an impudent smile creeps up his lips — though it remains affectionate.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t say that.” You said with a dismissive wave, glancing at another direction.

John stood up, standing in front of you. “Do you need help?”

“No, but you’ve got that lonely look in your eyes.”

“Yeah? How’d you know?” He replied, scratching the stubble of his beard with his index, trying to appear unbothered by your reckoning.

“Seen it somewhere before.”

“It’s nothing, you know. I was just thinkin’.”

He seemed distant, without eagerness to talk about whatever plagued his mind.

There was a fence between the two of you. It was ironic — you spent all this time with him helping you out and you know not a thing about him except his name and a few niche things.

That was the same for him, too. He wondered a lot about you; but he knew asking you was off-limits.

So you opened the fence — along with your mouth, even if it was just a little push.

“My ranch… It’s family-owned,” You started. This grabbed John’s attention almost immediately. “My mama and papa worked on it. I remember them building it when I was a kid.”

With a sigh, you continued. “Papa was a smart man. He paid off his debts with what we were earning at the ranch.”

“But I don’t know, something happened. Mama wouldn’t tell me. Papa almost worked himself to death, but it wouldn’t cover our debts.”

John listened to you without distraction, eyes not breaking contact. You couldn’t help but smile — despite the sorrow that began to build in your heart.

“They told me to live a city life, to marry, and leave this place. But I couldn’t leave, and I needed to take care of papa and work.”

Hesitantly, John asked. “So… what happened?”

“Papa died last year.”

“…‘M sorry to hear that, [Reader].”

“So I know that look. I know those eyes more than anyone.”

John opened the fence a little more, and he let out a soft chuckle. “I ain’t got anybody to talk to, nor a family. Not anymore.”

“Then that makes us both?” You asked with a short laugh.

He shook his head. “No, no. You’re… I…”

“I ain’t exactly the man you think I am. I ain’t a good man.”

He was rough around the edges. He’d gone through a lot, you could see, just from the scars on his face and how he helped you without breaking much of a sweat. Though despite that, you could sense he was better than he described himself.

Your eyes scanned his face a little more, resting on the scars of his face.

He saw not eyes of judging, but curiosity instead; so he decided to open the gate a little more. “…Got attacked by a wolf a few years ago.”

He never talked to anyone about it. Well, not that he had someone to talk to. He didn’t bother to, either way.

“I used to ride with a gang,” His voice quieted down, eyes averting for a moment before they landed on you once again. “We was outlaws. Robbed people, killed people, ran ‘till we couldn’t.”

“Then it falls apart, my family. Them.”

John takes a deep breath. He couldn’t look at you, he couldn’t bear to imagine the face you were making. “I guess I was lucky. Stupidly — even though I argue some of ‘em deserved this life more than I did.”

“Guess I ain’t built for this sort of thing, ranchin’ and livin’ peacefully like I don’t have the blood of countless innocents in my hands.”

John closed the gate.

“…John?”

And before you knew it, he waved you a goodbye.

“…Maybe not today, missy.”

May 2, 1907

I don’t know why I told her about my past. Maybe it’s because she said hers, so I felt indebted to do so as well. But I know that ain’t the case.

Guess I felt bad? Maybe. I couldn’t keep on pretendin’ to be some innocent man next door, either way.

She told me her parents used to own the ranch. She’d been tending to her father before he died last year, so now she’s runnin’ the ranch by herself to pay off all her family’s debts. I guess that’s why she was so hell-bent on workin’ hard every day.

I felt kind of an ass for leavin’ her after that. Scratch that, I was an ass. I just couldn’t look her in the eye, even if I wanted to. It was like I was skinning myself alive in front of her, telling her things I couldn’t even repeat to myself.

But she just listened, I don’t know why. Maybe she was disgusted, or offended, or too shocked to speak. Though I felt as her eyes weren’t judging me at all, maybe that’s why I continued talkin’.

You didn’t think any lesser of him since he said that. In fact, you admired how he was able to bring up his past, even though he clearly looked pained at the thought of it.

He wasn’t a good man. At least he used to be.

But wasn’t it a big step already if he decided to give up on that life? You were sure it was.

Or maybe you were justifying him because you took a liking to him.

Truth be told — you did like John. His company, how he carried himself, how he talked. He made you forget about the problems you were sinking in.

“John, you’re my friend,” You admitted, while the both of you sat on hay bales. With your back hunched and arms on your lap, you continued.

“I don’t see you any lesser because you’ve got a complicated past.”

“Don’t think you understand, missy,” He says beside you, smoking a cigarette. “I killed people.”

“But you’ve quit that life, haven’t you? You’ve got no one to redeem yourself to — but yourself.”

Despite what John said about himself, he himself didn’t have a choice. In a way, to be able to live normally has set him in the right direction. He could understand you thinking that.

“…Maybe, I don’t know.” He inhales the smoke, letting the nicotine fill his lungs.

Could I really live this life? Did I deserve it?

The events of the past few years altered how his brain worked. He was reckless, and avoided responsibility — only caring about himself like the immature man he was.

Have I really changed at all?

“Is that why helping’s been too easy for you?” You asked.

“Why, you think I’m strong?” He replied with a short snort.

You looked at him, as if imagining what he had looked like years ago. He must’ve looked rough — maybe more intimidating than he was now. And now he was a rancher insisting on pestering you every chance he got.

You chuckled.

He looked confused, again. “You’re laughing at me again. You really like doin’ that, don’t ya?”

“Sorry. I just thought you looked a little silly, is all.”

“Silly? I’m the most serious man you’ve met, miss.”

It was as if you saw him for himself. You awfully reminded him of his family. In a way, it hurt, remembering all those things again.

“…Gunslinger.” You snickered to yourself, shooting him with finger guns.

“You’re makin’ fun of me.” He shook his head, resisting the urge to smile.

“So you’re good at shooting, aren’t you? My papa kept a rifle, though he never used it,”

“I keep cleaning it, though. I bet it still works.”

“Are you threatening me?” John asks with mock-offense, laughing.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

After minutes of persuasion, John caved in and stood behind you.

You aimed with the rifle, closing your right eye as you listened to John’s instructions.

“You need to relax your shoulders.” He says from behind you, adjusting your form. The palms of his hand rest on your shoulders, pressing slight pressure so it would lower. His fingers graze over the soft fabric, gliding through the wrinkles as he spoke.

“You’re really set on learnin’ this thing, huh? You know I can protect you.” John said, both jokingly and seriously.

You huffed, relaxing your shoulders under his guidance and touch. His back pressed nearly completely against you, and his breath soft by your ear.

He whispers you further insurrections, placing your hand on the grip of the gun, careful to let you know not to hover your index over the trigger yet.

“So we’re aimin’ for that rock over there. You focus your eyes near it, but not there exactly.”

“Use this part of the gun for a reference on where it’s pointing.”

You let out a sigh, eye completely still on the target. Your index finger lay on the trigger without pressure, awaiting for further notice.

“I got it.”

John murmured, behind you, closing an eye as well. He turned the gun a little to the left. You could feel his warm breath on your neck as he spoke, “Breathe in, focus.”

“And when you breathe out — shoot, alright?”

You did what he asked, taking in a deep breath. With the air out of your lungs, and with John’s words of approval, you shot.

A loud noise came echoing through the trees, the bullet hitting the target merely a few inches away. He released his hand from yours, leaning away with a small smile.

“I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side,” He chuckled. “That was clean.”

You faced him, lowering the gun. “You’re a good teacher.”

“I try, I’m far from being great, though,”

“had a friend, or more of a brother — aimed without closin’ his eyes.”

You could see the fondness in his eyes, and how his voice softened when he talked about him. You hummed, nodding your head with a slight tilt.

“Yeah?”

“…Yeah.” He murmured, looking over at the several bullet marks on the rock. “But you’re a natural, huh?”

John borrowed the gun, closing one of his eyes and attempting to shoot another smaller rock.

Bullseye.

He chuckled to himself, looking back at you with a dorky smile. “But you ain’t ever gonna beat me, missy.”

“Yeah?” You shook your head. “Maybe I will, just you wait.”

He chuckled again. “Think you’re gettin’ far too ahead of yourself.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

The next few days John had continued to teach you every now and then. He was great at it, even though he argued the opposite. You could tell he had many mentors, as he told you stories.

With his continuous help, the ranch’s been earning quite a lot more than it did, and you’ve learned to hunt as well.

John was a sweetheart, well, for an ex-outlaw. You always thought his smiles were a little crooked, and his ideas were idiotic — but it was part of his charm.

You found yourself thinking about him more often than you’d admit. This hushed ranch was becoming one of liveliness and laughs.

So, now, as John carried a basket full of vegetables and fruits, you spoke.

“You know, that’s a lot we’ve harvested today.”

John wiped off the sweat on his forehead as he nodded.

“Think it’d do nice for tomato soup,” You added.

John didn’t seem to understand what you were implying, so he continued nodding and humming in acknowledgement as he busied himself with picking tomatoes.

“Are you busy? We could… have dinner, later.”

He froze. He was crouched down with a face full of bewilderment and surprise. “You’re invitin’ me for… dinner?”

His eyes were narrowed, as you smiled. “Do you know how to cook?”

Of course I don’t.

He’d been surviving off of canned beans and fruit half of the year he’d been here. He didn’t know a single thing about the art of cooking.

I really am an idiot, huh?

That’s when John found himself in your humble abode.

Polished wooden floors, painted walls with mild cracks — it showed how you kept it all nice and well-kept. Many rooms of the house were unoccupied, void of any presence — but only remains of what used to be; represented by the paintings and pictures, with the faint smell of of you.

Corners of each room remained tranquil and solitary. It reminded him of his own, however this one had soul.

The first thing he laid eyes upon was a family picture. Not a speck of dust was on it, and it hanged on the wall proudly. There, in black and white — what seemed to be your father, mother, and you, barely a teenager.

He thought it was nice. It reminded him of his own family, as big as it was compared to yours. His eyes laid upon your young self, who grinned widely, teeth showing.

“Hey, you look cute here.” He comments without a thought, letting out a soft snort.

You gave him a look of confusion and a smile. “I looked like a dork.”

“But you were happy.” He replies, his eyes still glued on the picture.

You let out a thoughtful hum, watching him. “Yeah, I was.”

And the other thing he notices, is a menacing look — from a powerful being above: your cat.

Of course.

“Ain’t that…” He says, feeling threatened by its presence. He feels as if he’s being told to leave, unwelcomely and unkindly so.

“Mhm. He never leaves the house.” Your cat approaches you warmly, asking for a pet you generously give.

“Are you hungry, Sir?” You asked, while the cat continued to purr.

John blinked. “His name is… sir?”

“Fits him, doesn’t it? Bossy fella.” You watched the cat avoid John, again, as his tail flopped down. “He’s usually… unbothered.”

John crossed his arm, before attempting to approach the cat gently. “Sir?”

He almost gets scratched, if he didn’t dodge last minute. Your cat growled and hissed, clearly not fond of John.

“He already disapproves of me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the interaction. Clearly he wasn’t liked — he failed the first impression.

“That doesn’t make you like me less, does it?” John jokes lightly, wary of the closeness with the cat.

As Sir leaves, he gave John one last nasty look.

“I’ll think about it.” You joked back, earning a playful complaint from John.

He’d been helping you all this time, so you decided to return the favor today.

“So you said you were going to cook?” John asked, looking around the kitchen.

“No, we are. You don’t know how, don’t you?”

John stiffened, scratching his neck awkwardly. “What are you planning?”

You shrugged, washing the tomatoes. “To return the favor, of course — to add knowledge in that tough skull of yours.”

He mumbled something incoherent — presumably a weak protest. But you didn’t bother entertaining it.

“Here.” You gave John carrots, onions, and celery.

He looked at you with a confused face. “Thought we were makin’ tomato soup? Where’s the tomato here?”

“I need you to cut this, and we can put this in it, so it’ll have flavor.” You replied.

John looked at the knife for a few seconds, before hesitantly cutting up the vegetables. At least he knew how to do that.

At first he thought so too — and you quickly reprimanded him for cutting it the wrong way.

“What wrong way? There’s a right way? This is too complicated.” He said, frustrated, looking over to you for guidance.

With a sigh, you peered over his work, behind him and your chin barely ghosting over his shoulder. You grabbed the knife from his hands, holding it yourself. “Cut it like this.”

You cut the carrots up, and John tried really hard to focus on that and only that. But with you so close behind him? It was proving to be difficult.

With a shaky sigh, he took the knife again, attempting to cut the way you taught him to. He didn’t understand a single thing, but he guessed good enough that you gave him an approving hum.

But you didn’t let go — didn’t go away. You were still there, so incredibly close, and it bothered John. Not in a bad way, no, not at all.

“You’re still doing it wrong.” You corrected gently. This time, instead of taking the knife — you took his hands, and guided it with the knife. “You getting it yet?”

He nodded. “Ah… yeah, yeah, I got it.”

So when you let go if his hand, lean away — to be honest, John had felt both relief and disappointment.

What the hell is wrong with me? John thought.

You shook your head and chuckled. With a silly and impulsive thought, you draped one of your aprons over John. “Can’t have you being messy, can you?”

He grumbled, watching you put on yours, too. In a way — you matched.

A few minutes pass as you continue teaching John instructions, to which he obeys quite nicely, except for some whispers of complain.

You laugh softly at his predicament. He was stirring the filled pot with a ladle. This was unbelievable.

“I swear you’re jus’ makin’ fun of me, are ya?” John says, but he can’t help but smile himself.

“Well? I think you’ve done a good job,” You grinned, approaching him and the steaming pot. It smelled good, for the mistakes that he had made earlier. “You gotta taste it.”

You took a small spoon, dipping it in the hot soup and lifting it up to your lips, blowing it softly.

“Here.” You neared the food to his mouth.

John stared at the spoon, blinking a few times, before his lips went agape for you.

This is stupid, so, incredibly stupid.

But it tasted good. The savory taste of the soup melted in his mouth — earning a hum from John. For some moments, he let his ego inflate once more at his cooking.

He licked his lips absentmindedly as he nodded. “Yeah… it tastes good.”

You hummed, dipping the same spoon again to taste for yourself. “Mm, this is it.”

“You’re a quick-learner, huh?” You said, stirring the pot a little more.

John watched as you stood over the counter. Of course he was a quick leaner, he had the dumbest luck in history. “Yeah… ‘course, only ‘cause you taught me.”

Still, he wasn’t going to be cooking anytime soon, but it was worth the shot and the lesson. He coughed and fixed his throat, leaning over the counter.

“You always cook?”

“I guess, ever since ma died,” You said. “Had to teach myself or else I’d starve to death. I didn’t want to survive on canned goods, like… maybe you.” You chuckled, pointing the ladle at him.

He feigned offense, preparing a retort. “Hey, I’m… Well, I guess that’s true.” His voice quieted down. And it was adorable.

That night, your once-quiet home, was filled with light teasings and conversations after a long while of silence.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

John stared at the ceiling in his living room, where he lay on the couch. He rested his hands on his stomach, as the fan continued to circle around his motionless body. He didn’t use the bedroom at all — never did. Never saw a use for it.

He couldn’t sleep tonight, not after what had happened today.

Was he overreacting, or did something else happen, but so incredibly discreet that both of you didn’t notice? He couldn’t put his finger on it even if he tried — his brain would short-circuit at the attempt.

With a sigh, he put a hand over his forehead, desperate for sleep.

June 4, 1907

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Guess I kind of had to? Hell if I know. But a few days ago she invited me over to have dinner with her. Saw that devilish cat, Sir, who didn’t like me — not one bit

Saw her family pictures, too. Looked real happy then. Her home felt devoid of people, much like mine. I wonder, what’s the point of a big house with only one person living in it? Could that be called a home, either way?

So then we cooked tomato soup — tasted good. Even if I made it.

Her hand brushed against hers a few times, did I mention we shared the same spoon? This is too much, even for me. Feel like a damn schoolboy, fussin’ over small things. Why do I? It’s all confusin’ me.

Well, to be completely honest — John never slept well or had a full night’s rest in the first place. With all that’s happened, and how long it had been since then — he still got nightmares occasionally.

The guilt clawed at his chest, rising up and down in the night to keep his dreaded mind going and his tired eyes open.

The moon lit up the sky with its beauty. Outside the breezes of wind made him shiver ever so slightly, the cold passing through the fabric of his clothes. John looked up at the sight, lighting up a cigarette in an attempt to comfort his restlessness. It had become a habit for him, tapping his feet on the planks, until the nicotine filled his lungs and calmed him down.

Goddamn it, I can’t stop thinking of her.

Ever since those chickens, ever since those crates, I haven’t been able to stop thinking.

Do I really deserve this?

John felt guilty, again. With every surge of happiness and joy his heart felt, there came an equal doubt to bring it back down again.

With every waking day, he was beginning to fall deeper and deeper.

It wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t false. He knew it in himself. He had tried to deny the truth, push it down, over and over again — since he didn’t feel worthy enough to feel it.

“You aren’t a bad man,” Your words echoed in his ears. “At least, not to me, and at least, not anymore.”

Maybe he did wake up early and help you because he wanted to see you. Maybe he did all of that work so he could hear your words of thanks. Maybe he did like your smile, too much than he would like to admit.

And the world seemed to revolve around you. It seemed to only move when he was with you, it only seemed to exist when he was beside you.

The next day he stared at his journal, once again. The past few months have only been about you, mostly, aside from irrelevant things that he had been doing himself.

“I always see you writing around in that journal,” You curiously tried to peek over his shoulder. John quickly tucked it away and closed it, leaving you no room to steal even a single glance at it.

“Ain’t yours,” He says, hiding it away.

“I know, I know. You’re always in it, and I suppose I can’t help but be curious. Are you a poet?” You asked, sitting beside him.

He chuckled — no, not at all.

Every time he was with you he felt like a teenager. He felt something indescribable, something so unfamiliar, yet familiar at the same time.

And damn it, he was acting like one.

It never struck him, but he could have sworn someone by your age should have already had someone already. He isn’t complaining.

“No, I ain’t. I just like writing down my thoughts, that are private, and I don’t need ya readin’ ‘em, missy.” He shoos you away.

You weren’t deterred by his actions at all. Instead, you only leaned in further. “Why not?”

“Just because, alright? Don’t get all pouty like that. I’m bringin’ this to the grave.”

He was a an idiot, still is.

Life felt nice. It felt worth it.

If he could describe it, in the best that he could — maybe it was akin to winning the lottery, except even more. Maybe it was the peace of mind. Like he had thought he couldn’t feel anymore better at one point in his life, that he had hit the meter — but you proved him wrong, time and time again. It was like the comfort of a warm blanket on a cold, raining night. It was the feeling of satisfaction in a right after numerous trials of wrong.

It was the clasp that perfectly fit with one try, that click, that feeling.

Everything made sense. Everything had reason, and everything fit together in the complete essence of perfection.

You tried to grab his journal playfully, hands reaching down with haste. Of course, John didn’t let you. “Hey—!”

His other hand grabbed your arm, and your free hand made an attempt to snag the journal again.

With a grunt and a laugh, he let go of the journal, only for his other hand to take yours.

You pulled back, and unexpectedly John’s body followed your force, which resulted in your back hitting the grass.

He supported his body upward, as he was on top of you, and his hands still held your arms. You laughed, persisting still and squirming under to escape his grasp. “Hey, let me go!” You yelled playfully.

John huffed, shaking his head with a goofy grin. “No way.”

His grip was tight, but not too tight to hurt you — just enough to keep you pinned down. “Ain’t you gonna give up? I swear, you’re a pain.”

He looked down at you and saw your flushed face, due to how hard you were laughing and chuckling. You panted, making an attempt to escape once again. “You’re no fair!”

He laughed dryly. “Ain’t nothin’ fair in life.”

As you continued to laugh, John shook his head, eyes still glued on you.

I could do this forever.

Just watching and hearing you like this made him feel giddy.

Of course he noticed he was on top of you, of course he noticed his hands on yours — how could he not? He tried desperately to shake the thoughts off, before his eyes locked with yours once again.

Despite his heart racing, he could swear everything went slow-motion, like a movie. The sun hit your face in the best way possible, it lit up your eyes, it reflected his own face.

It felt like an eternity, and when it ended, it felt like merely a second.

You relented, sighing. “Alright, fine.”

He snapped out of his trance. “That’s what I thought.” and lightened his grip, beginning to sit back up.

You huffed, crossing your arms, still laying on the grass. “One day I’ll get a peek. Mark my words, John.”

“Yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

In a sense, nothing was ever safe. Nothing was ever free of the threatening presence of danger. Nothing was, at least, that’s what he had thought.

But you? You were different. He had yet to find out why, but it just felt so right, and so undeniably safe.

More months pass by like speed. He could barely count the days before fall came.

Leaves turned into hues of orange, every time he walked on piles of them it would leave that crisp sound. Warmth drifted around, the tepid temperature accompanying the falling petals.

October 19, 1907

Feel like I need to bang my head in a hard, rock-wall. I’ve gone crazy, haven’t I? Things have been the same, kind of. No, I can’t say they have been, truthfully.

Guess I’ve always been wrong in the head, talkin’ to myself. But when I say I feel like a fool, I really do. Tell me why do I start smellin’ her scent? Tell me why I picked these flowers up? Damn crazy, I am.

And I went to get stuff in the town today, still reeks of smoke ‘n shit. Just went in and out.

John left the messily-picked flowers by the windowsill in his house, not planning to show it to you.

He kept looking at it. He kept glancing at it. He kept squinting his eyes, he kept thinking about what you’d say.

And damn it, why couldn’t he stop?

Rain fell heavily; it had been, ever since this day started. He wondered what you were doing — he always did. Maybe particularly more today.

He glanced at the window again, his eyes landing on your quiet home — the constant and distant flickering thunder making deafening clamor.

You didn’t need help, did you? And yet he stood up anyway, stuffing the flowers right in his pockets. He tried to rush it, but his hands still gently shook, either way.

And so he grabbed an umbrella, looking for you.

But you weren’t there, at least, not where you usually were.

She ain’t here, you dumbass.

John wanted to punch himself.

But before he turned around and left, he heard a quiet sob.

Just outside by your backyard, there you were, kneeling down in front of two graves.

You were soaked in the rain, completely wet. The rain was particularly harsh today, and John couldn’t fathom at all why the scene before him hurt him, himself.

Without a second thought, he put the umbrella over your head. The feeling of the droplets ceased, and a shadow by you was cast, but you didn’t bother looking at him.

“John?”

“Am I that obvious?” He replies, his gruff voice turned soft and quiet. He looked at you with eyes of worry.

“Are you alright?” He follows up, kneeling beside you. “You’re… wet.”

“I’m fine.” You murmur quietly. “Just…” You took a deep breath, composing yourself before you faced him. “It’s their death anniversary.”

“…After mama died, papa followed a year later. Quite romantic, isn’t it?” You said with a dry chuckle — a forced one, a futile attempt to light the mood.

He didn’t find it funny at all — but if it was how you coped with the matter, how could he blame you? “I’m sure they were great.”

“They were.” You say, facing the tombstones once again.

A long pause passes, and he speaks again. “You can let it out, you know. I ain’t here to judge ya.”

His words echoed in your ears like a ring unable to escape.

John’s voice had always been comforting to you, at least, it grew to be.

So before you even knew it, tears were falling down your cheeks again.

And you did that, for a long, long while — even going silent for what seemed to be half an hour.

John knew you had many things in your mind, just too much to leave your mouth in a way that could be clearly understood. He knew the feeling, and he understood.

And it puzzled you, it confused you. You’d expected him to leave after the first few hours, though even after the rain had hailed, he stayed still beside you and hung that same umbrella over your figure.

He didn’t know exactly why either — he only knew one thing: that he’d stay there for as long as it took, even if rain fell all over again, even if the sun returned to rest.

It felt right to do so.

It was all stupid. He wasn’t a patient man, no, not any of that sort. He much preferred to get things over with and get to chase.

But with you? It was different, somehow. Somehow he’d wait, he’d learn, he’d stay.

In the silence that ensued, you asked him a question. “Why’d you stay?”

Even if you hadn’t uttered a word for those hours, even if he was treated like some ghost — he stayed, like some statue watching over you.

He shrugged. “I wanted to.”

“Y’know, my pa, and my ma — I ain’t had nothing of a close relationship with them like you had, but I understand what it feels like losin’ family.”

Sometimes he felt like he was treading this Earth without any meaning and direction — and truth be told, for some time, he really was.

He was quite glad that he stayed for a bit more, though.

“Thank you, John. Really.” He heard you say, sincerely.

He was never a man so soft. But you made him feel different, and he found himself not minding it at all.

His hand reached for his pocket, where the small flowers are tucked. He brings it out with a slight shake in his hands.

He knows that it isn’t perfect, with it all battered and messed up.

But with it tucked by your ear, he swore he hadn’t seen anyone this beautiful before.

“I don’t like seein’ you cryin’, is all.”

He felt an overwhelming urge to wipe away your tears, to shield you away — to hold you in his arms. He wanted to hold your hand, for his thumb to caress yours, for his hand to cup your cheek.

And of course, he did not do it.

“If I have to keep watchin’ you drool, I swear I’ll load a gun and shoot myself,” Uncle dramatically says, chugging another bottle of beer as his back laid by the porch.

“What do you mean?” John questions, stopping in his tracks as he looked at uncle with a judgmental and confusion-filled stare.

What is he talkin’ about now?

“I got some insight for ya, as a person that’s got many experience with the ladies.” Uncle wipes the remains of beer on his mouth and beard, with a shit-eating grin.

“You’ve experienced everythin’. You sure you ain’t immortal?” John retorts.

“And it ain’t like that, Uncle,” He declines right after, shaking his head with a sigh.

“I ain’t drooling, either. I’m just… simply admiring.” He adds, shrugging, stealing another glance at you.

“Uh-huh. You look like a man beggin’ to be unleashed. A man chained.”

John stutters. “It-It’s not like that. And what the hell does that even mean?”

“Sure it ain’t. I can see smell it from a mile away — you smell like hormones. Disgustin’, but I understand.”

“You’re disgustin’.” John grimaces. Uncle still spews out the most out-of-hand things, despite all’s that happened; he claims it’s knowledge.

Well, to some extent — it is; but most of the time it isn’t.

The man attempts to sling a hand over John’s shoulder, as John swiftly dodges. “You get the girl flowers, and listen to when she talks — and you look at her eyes. ‘S gonna be sparklin’.” He chuckles lowly — eyeing John with a knowing look.

He was sure Uncle was going to say something incredibly dumb, but this time, it was plausible to do.

“I’ll take it, but that don’t mean I’ll do it, alright?” John says, and Uncle pats his back with a laugh.

“This old man’s got a lot more to offer, if y’wanna get right into that action—”

“No thanks.”

That night, John talked to the stars, and himself.

He couldn’t help but keep replaying Uncle’s words in his head. He surely didn’t feel that way, did he?

Maybe he was too scared.

You were something pure. You were like life and light itself. But he? He was the complete opposite. He could taint you and your goodness.

He put a hand over his head, ruffling and messing up his own hair in annoyance.

I’m so confused. I don’t know what to feel.

One part of me wants me to let go, wants me to acknowledge the truth.

But the other part is nagging me, yellin’ at me to keep quiet and push those thoughts away — since I could never even begin dreaming about it.

Feels like I have to cut my body and soul in half. Feels like I already have.

Being with her makes me want to smile, but I’ve always felt bad for doing so.

With another, quieter sigh — John closes his eyes, with an attempt to calm down his thoughts.

And before he knows it, he drifts into sleep; and this time — his mind does not think of nightmares.

It’s a warm, mellow feeling. He feels like he’s being coddled, and he feels the warmth of the morning sun on his skin.

He breathes, and it feels fresh, it’s not of smoke — but freedom.

He hears voices. Faint, muffled ones. It was all too familiar.

He could still hear them. The voices of what he had done, and what people see him for. They are distorted, low, some more recognizable than others as his brain continued replaying and racking itself for that taste of sweet taste of guilt.

But one voice overpowers them all, coming into a clear tone.

“I don’t see you any lesser because you’ve got a complicated past.”

“But you’ve quit that life, haven’t you? You’ve got no one to redeem yourself to — but yourself.”

“I think you’re… good.”

He remembers the scene without an error.

You were beside him, sitting on those hay bales. It was barely a few months ago, and yet it was stuck in his mind.

It was beautiful, that day — he was just too blind to notice it. To notice how deep your words cut through him.

He bled, and he covered himself back up. And somehow, while you continued prying away his ribs, one by one — it felt as if his heart was close to beating again.

How can you look at me and see good, when I’ve looked at myself and only known bad my whole life?

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

He awakes the next morning with Rufus licking his face, barking and panting excitedly.

He groans, wiping the saliva of his face. “Good morning, boy,”

“Ain’t you excited…” He rubs his eyes. “What for? You hungry?”

He too, was strangely excited. He fed Rufus, undoubtedly in a good mood as he combed his hair, looking at the mirror.

He showed his teeth, wiping it quickly and flashing an attempt at grinning.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

He tried again — it was a little too crooked.

That wasn’t quite right, either.

He smiled awkwardly at himself.

Now, this was stupid. He looked stupid.

He sighed, fixing his hair and trying a softer smile this time.

“Y’know what? Good enough.”

And then he sets off, after tidying himself up, working on his ranch, with a light-hearted tune — humming around.

For once, he doesn’t mind cleaning up the horse’s manure, or any other animal’s — to be exact. He goes about his early morning without a care. No complaint leaves his lips this time, even as the stench hit his nostrils hard.

Today was a normal day. It should be, but it felt different. Like he’s made some kind of breakthrough; and yet he doesn’t know exactly what it is.

He catches himself staring at you, again.

And Uncle’s words repeat in his mind again, even while John busies himself with sweeping off the fallen leaves on his courtyard.

When your eyes meet his, he feels like he’s been caught red-handed. So he coughs to himself, quickly snapping his head back down and pretending that he wasn’t doing anything.

Then afternoon comes — he rides his horse, trotting over nearby fields and rivers with his mind in the clouds.

Flowers, flowers, flowers…

And before he knew it, he’d made himself a bouquet of flowers that looked… alright — to say the least. He tried his best to make it look presentable.

They did remind him of you. Surviving out here in harsh winds and weather, and yet being able to bloom ever so beautifully.

In that moment, he thought: maybe he was a poet.

And his hands picked them up softly, with attention to how the petals could fall off if he did it any harsher.

Now, he didn’t have an eye for these things. Not at all.

He knows you aren’t easy — not that he thinks you are, not that you ever were. And that’s just another compelling part of you.

But he was willing to go through this whole unfamiliar thing. And damn it, Uncle was right.

He’s never had much experience with women anyway.

So when evening came, and he knocked on your door — hell, he wanted to bury himself in a hole right then and there.

You opened the door to a John that rubbed the side of his neck, attempting to smile — and obviously hiding something within his back.

“Good evening, John,” You said, hands on the doorknob.

“Good… evenin’,” He greets back, standing up straight now as he fixed his posture and his hand grasped by his own collar.

“I just… I…” Now he was trailing off, stuttering and stumbling over the words he so religiously practiced earlier. He decides to simply put out the bouquet, or if you could say it was even one — right in front of you.

“…‘S for you. Thought you’d like ‘em. Picked up a few, it doesn’t look much — but I hope it’s still by your taste.” He added, pushing the flowers closer to you.

If you squinted your eyes, you could see how shy he looked. His hands shook, unable to stay still as his eyes darted frequently away. He definitely was not made for this.

“I don’t believe there’s an event?” You said softly, taking the flowers with a small smile.

He smiled back sheepishly. “Do I have to have a reason to give you flowers?”

“You have a point.”

“And I got this for Sir, too.” He says, grabbing a fish he had gotten earlier by the river. “Thought I’d try to get his approval, this time.”

Giving fish after a flower was certainly not romantic — but it was the thought that counted.

It looked like the mention of his name alerted him, as Sir climbed over your shoulder and peered over the fish in John’s hands — carefully, as if examining it.

You looked at your cat with a smile. “Is it good enough for you, Sir? Or should we send him back?”

“Please don’t do that.” John playfully quips back.

Sir meowed in response. He seemed to approve of it, this time. “Looks like he likes it. Lucky you, huh?” You laughed quietly.

While chuckling back, John’s gaze continued to glance over how your fingers clutched the flowers. It was of delicacy. Despite it being in a less-than-fortunate look, you handled it with care and fragility.

“Thank you, John.”

He’s getting all sweet on you now — not that he wasn’t already in the first place.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

He couldn’t stop himself. Not after he saw how your eyes twinkled. Shortly after he gave you those flowers the both of you indulged in conversations that lasted hours — despite feeling like minutes.

He notices the little, seemingly unimportant and specific things about you. He notices the touches, and how he finds his own mouth tumbling out excuses just for it to prolong.

John starts to see your name in the stars.

He starts to smell you in the flowers he gives.

He starts to hear your voice in every waking day.

November 21, 1907

I did follow Uncle’s advice, even if I said I wouldn’t. I did see sparkles in her eyes, and how she lit up when I looked at her. I don’t know why I’ve been trying so hard to impress her these days. Hell, I’m lookin’ in the mirror every time I go out.

And I’ve been giving her flowers when I see some on the way. Is it so wrong for my fingertips to linger a little bit? It probably is. I realize I’m even more of a fool than I thought I was, stumbling and stuttering with my words the moment she looks my way.

It’s changed, the way I look at her. I know it has. But I ain’t sure if I can admit it to myself yet.

He doesn’t look at you with hearts for eyes, does he? He prays you couldn’t tell.

For this afternoon it was a simple supply run. Of course, he had offered to take you there with him — the reason of some company you might like.

The road stretched out until it reached the outskirts of the nearby town, and while on the journey — you two talked casually about how your days have been.

He tells you stories of fellers he occasionally meet, all the while he remains seated on next to you on the wagon, with your hands gripping the reins.

But most of the time he is quiet. Not that he was a talker in the first place — with comfortable silence ensuing on the way, you repeated your checklist internally.

You did visit Blackwater occasionally, as he did. Most of the streets are covered in cobbled roads, lamps littered by the sidewalk. You looked over to the river nearby, as the slightly salty air hit your nostrils.

Civilization had truly improved — with all of these shops and restaurants lurking about, standing tall with pristine designs and walls. Although it was definitely more busier at this time, the distant chatter and business of people heard throughout each corner of the town.

You stopped the wagon, facing John. “I’m gonna stop by the store, I assume you have something to get, too?”

He nods, helping you off. “Yeah, I’ll just check sumthin’.”

With one last look, you made your way to the general store as you bought supplies, food, and fertilizer.

“That’ll be ten dollars and fifty-two cents, miss.” The cashier says, looking at you while he opens his palm.

“Ten dollars?” You repeat. Had the prices gone up? You didn’t remember it being this high — not since the last time you came for a supply run. With a sigh, you grabbed money from your pocket — looking at the cashier with doubt.

“Sir, it can’t possibly be that high. I got a ranch to handle. If every supply run is this expensive, then the debts would—”

He sighs. “Ain’t nothin’ you could do about it, miss. If you want to, you can lessen some of the things you bought.”

“But I barely bought anything,” You replied, biting your lip in worry.

That was when a voice came from behind you — a quite unpleasant tone. You could smell the booze coming off from him, as he stumbled across the plank floorboards with a grin of a bastard. “You havin’ trouble payin’ there, sweetheart?”

The drunk man leaned over the counter — while the cashier grunted in distaste.

“Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout it, I could lend you some money, yeah? A woman like you…”

“I don’t need your money, sir.” You interrupted, not wanting to hear anything out of his nasty mouth. You stepped backwards, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Awe, don’t be like that now,” He stumbled ever so closer, trying to put his hands on you before you swat him off and give him a glare. “Feisty, huh? I love it when ya women do that, playin’ hard to get.”

Looks like you were going to have to stab someone today.

Although, someone had probably done it for you already. “Hey! Get your hands off of ‘er, you Goddamn creep.” John snapped, walking in the store closer and closer to the man.

With every closing step, the drunk man raised a brow higher. “Ain’t doin’ nothin’ to her. Who’re you, huh?”

“I’m your old friend amnesia.” He answers both seriously and sarcastically.

The man avoids him and tries to look at you again with a smile. “I don’t see a ring, miss.”

“Not yet you don’t,” John says, cutting him off. “She’ll punch you alright, but not before I beat you the hell up.”

“You her husband or sumthin’?” The man kept pressing, hissing and slurring his words.

“Yeah, hands off. Stop botherin’ my wife.”

The man stumbled over his own feet — trying to keep himself uptight as his legs wobbled. “I don’t see why I can’t borrow ‘er.”

“That’s enough!” That was when John landed a punch straight to his face — which was enough for the man to land on the ground.

You stopped John before he could kill the guy — seeing as he’s just about prepared himself for another punch, rolling up his sleeves.

He sighed, getting up as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth — result of the man’s broken nose.

Bastard.

All sorts of condescending nicknames he muttered to himself, looking at the body on the floor. “You alright?” He asks softly.

You nod, as the man behind the counter sighed. “You gonna buy this or not, miss?”

You shook your head, counting the money you had on hand. “…Just lessen the food, sir. We’re sorry for the trouble.”

He stood beside you, looking at what you had bought — confused. “What do you mean?”

“No, we’ll buy it,” He answers. “I’ll pay.”

Walking back to the wagon with him, you spoke, thanking him. “I’ll pay you back.”

He shook his head. “Don’t got to.”

His tone left no space to argue. But you were starting feel like he’d done too much for you. “I’m not a maiden in distress. I can pay you back.”

“Just treat me to a game of poker later, then?” He looked at you with a charming grin as he helped you up the wagon.

Idiotic, reckless, and unnecessarily charming: that was what you’d describe John. You were sure some of what happened earlier — although impressive, were his theatrics and bravado. You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Sure, husband.”

He choked on his own saliva, as his confidence simmered down.

God, he truly was an idiot, wasn’t he? He argued it would’ve been more effective that way — but the words that left his mouth were indeed satisfying.

“Yeah, wife.” He replied, looking elsewhere.

When you played poker with him, he saw you stealing the chips sneakily. You both would erupt in a fit of laughter and chuckles once he called you out, but his hand that captured yours would linger, reluctantly pulling away.

There are times when his thoughts get ahead of him, when he would think about crossing a line. Impulsive thoughts make his mind a home, thoughts that he wouldn’t dare to do. Even though his hands itched to capture yours, or to simply stare at you.

Every subtle and accidental touch he was aware of. Every time you’d say his name, every time you were there.

January 28, 1908

There was this bastard from the day before. Reeked of alcohol. Tried to touch her. Men really are damn fools.

Wish I could’ve beat that piece of shit, but he went unconscious from one punch. Still irks me when I think of him.

I didn’t mean to agree when he asked me that question, but somehow it just left my mouth. I called her my wife. She teased me ‘bout it after. Was it a bad thing that I enjoyed doing so?

Now I can’t stop thinkin’ about it. Have I really lost all logic and reason?

There never was a need for the two of you to talk. Sitting beside each other, on some rocks — perhaps by the riverbank, were enough words spoken.

The wind whispers to him all thoughts of impulsiveness and irrationality. By then the cold water smoothly laps against his skin, feeling your knee brushing next to his.

Quiet fills the atmosphere. Thoughts run adamant, hesitation wins over.

Perhaps by the grass, laying down and looking at the stars. You point out and tell him of the Big Dipper, of the stars — but the only thing his eyes rest on is you.

Breezes of wind compose songs, melodic harmonies that murmur in his ear. Blades of the pointy grass tickle his skin — the moon above peering over his pathetic figure.

Or another could be by home, simply discussing over things that don’t matter. Chuckling over the smallest things. Telling stories that get lost in night.

“You have a phonograph?” He asks, looking at you with curiosity, his hands behind him.

“That? Was my mama’s. She liked to dance, my papa would dance was with her even if he didn’t know how.” You chuckled at the memory, trying to see if the thing still worked.

With the blessings of whom above, it started playing.

♪ Wise men say

He hummed to the tune, as he spoke with a small smile. “We used to have one of those, too. My family.”

Only fool rush in ♪

“So you know how?” You let a smile curve up your lips.

♪ But I can’t help,

He huffed a short, quiet laugh. He saw your eyes twinkle with hope — but he shook his head. “Hell no. I don’t know a single thing ‘bout dancin’.”

Falling in love ♪

“I don’t believe you.” You mused, smiling fully now as every step of yours synched with the music.

♪ With you.

Soft, slow, piano played, a sweet melodic tune ringing by his ears. The voice continued to sing out, in a slow manner, as smooth as dripping honey.

Shall I stay? ♪

“Well, I’m no good at it,” He shrugged, shoving his palms in his pockets.

♪ Would it be

“How can you be so sure?”

A sin ♪

He froze, watching you start slowly approach him, as your feet swayed with the music.

♪ If I can’t help

He heard your soft query, that rendered him speechless the moment he heard it. “Dance with me?”

Falling in love ♪

John refused, shaking his head as he waved his hands. “I ain’t good at it — I got two left legs.”

♪ With you.

But to no avail was his pleadings. You took his hand in yours, dragging him gently across the living room — now filled with easy swaying. “Don’t complain when I step on your feet!”

Like a river flows ♪

“You’ll be alright! Dance with me!”

♪ Surely to the sea

With a reluctant sigh and the tiniest hint of a smile, he took his hat off, placed it somewhere he wouldn’t remember before your left hand interlocked with his.

Darling, so it goes ♪

It was so soft — he thought. Palm to palm — fingers wrapped around each other. If he wasn’t going to step on you, he’d fall down instead.

♪ Some things

He feels heat rise up his neck, feeling your hand gripping his shoulder languidly.

Are meant to be. ♪

And without a single thought left in his head, his shaky hand twined around your waist.

♪ Take my hand

“Now follow me. Just sway.” If you hadn’t had your head faced to your feet, he would’ve sworn you’d saw his embarrassing predicament of utter inexperience and bewilderment.

Take my whole life, too ♪

He followed your footing, merely swaying back and forth along the tempo of the music. Slow and steady he went, although his heart was otherwise.

♪ For I can’t help

“Like this?” He asked.

Falling in love ♪

You lift your head up, eyes meeting his in an endless gaze. “Mhn. Hey, you aren’t stepping one me yet?”

♪ With you.

He snickered, face all scrunched up with emotion. “Not yet I haven’t. Don’t trust me too much.”

Like a river flows ♪

You hummed with the melody. John couldn’t fathom the situation — hence his quietness, as he needed to absorb the fact that you were holding his hands, your hand placed on his shoulder, and his own rested around your waist.

♪ Surely to the sea

Time seemed to slow down.

Darling, so it goes ♪

He thought to himself, now that he could formulate one.

♪ Some things,

You looked happy. Your grin was most wide as he’d ever seen — almost reaching the ends of your ears.

are meant to be. ♪

He wished this moment would last forever. He wished he could see you smile like this every waking day.

♪ Take my hand

All the while the music continued to play in the background, John finally let a smile slip on his lips.

Take my whole life, too ♪

A long time it was since he’d met you. He couldn’t imagine a day without interrupting your day, without thinking what to pester you with each time.

♪ For I can’t help,

As the chorus came by, you swayed with him with more emotion, almost as if you were in synch.

Falling in love, ♪

He felt alive.

♪ With you.

With a large grin, he tightened his grip on your hand, letting go of your waist as he spun you around.

Like a river flows ♪

You let out a brief laugh of pleasant surprise, as your body dipped down — his hand back on your waist to support you.

♪ Surely to the sea

While stagnant, eyes were locked onto each other, breaths were kept. With close and suffocating proximity — you jested lightly. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

♪ Darling so it goes,

John, at first, couldn’t reply at all.

Some things, ♪

In that moment — the way you laughed, the way you felt in his arms felt so incredibly right — he never wanted to pull away. He didn’t.

♪ are meant to be.

And damn it, damn it all — he thought.

Take my hand ♪

I love her.

♪ Take my whole life, too

That was when John Marston realized he truly had been an idiot, all his life — even until now.

For I can’t help, ♪

“I didn’t know either.”

♪ Falling in love, with you.

You smiled, watching his dumbfounded expression fade into one of calmness and content.

For I can’t help, ♪

“Let me spin ya around again?”

♪ Falling in love, with you.

“Next song, then.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

John Marston, turned lover boy — was sat on his porch, with his cheek on his palm and his elbow on his knee.

The realization shouldn’t have hit him as much as he did — but here he was.

He feels the weight of the world fade from his mind and shoulders, words ever the clearer now in his mind.

I love her.

He let out a shuddering breath.

Damn it, I love her.

Now, like all things — he didn’t know what to do about it. These feelings, once more confusing, it seemed as if after solving them there would arise more problems.

The thought of you made his heart beat a million times. Did you love him back? Or perhaps he was merely holding onto a weak, unsupported thread of delusion.

Even if months passed by, his eyes would dart to you, his hands would shake near yours — but that was all it was.

John knew he loved you in the spring — and until by late summer, he couldn’t quite get the words out of his chest the way he wanted it to.

Rain fell heavily, as John had just come back from errands — saddled up on his horse — wet from the rain.

“Damn this rain…” He mutters irritatedly, hitching his horse by the stable, rushing a dry cloth over his wet hair, entering his home with small puddles building up on the floor.

Thunder clapped roughly, a reminder of the terrible weather outside. After he had dried himself up, he had to go outside once again to herd the cattle somewhere drier; the slippery and muddy dirt and the loud noise of lightning a reason.

Then he caught a glimpse of you, working still, even under the heavy rainfall. Covered in wet clothes, hair all soggy — and stubbornly walking around even with exhaustion prominent from far away.

When he approached you, he yelled out, “Why are you workin’ out in this rain?”

“You’re wet as a hen! You’re gonna get sick.”

“I have to.” You replied, not indulging in any more talk.

He saw how red your nose was, how you shivered under the cold.

“Alright, you stubborn woman, come on. Let’s go inside.”

“I have to get this done,” You protested weakly as he stopped you from continuing any further, his hand gripping your arm.

He let go of you momentarily, pressing the back of his hand on your forehead.

“You’re hot.”

“I mean, temperature-wise.” He adds after, looking at you with concern.

“I feel fine, John.”

“You could’ve had me fooled,” He says sarcastically, lightly flicking your forehead. “Ain’t stoppin’ the workin’ to death business, huh? That can wait.”

You let John drag you inside your house, as you took off your coat and he went rummaging for a clean cloth to dry you off with.

You sat on a wooden chair just by your door, afraid walking in more would make a mess. With a sneeze, you let out a quiet groan, as your eyes followed John’s figure — who slowly approached you.

John kneeled down on one foot, getting on your level as the cloth lightly dabbed around your face. Although focused on the task, he couldn’t help but notice how tired you looked, how warm your skin was.

There was no denying it — you were sick.

After drier hair and drier clothes, you sat on your sofa, watching John struggle but pretend not to.

“You have to wash it.” You say, voice slightly groggy.

John groaned softly, nodding. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just sit there, alright?”

What the hell was he doing, trying to cook soup?

After learning that you had no medicine, but rather herbs, he tried to cook something up with his prior knowledge.

He boiled the water, standing over the counter with a hand on his hip. He was determined, even though he had made a mess of your kitchen — much to his own dismay — but he was going to clean it. He promised.

With a sneeze, you stood up, approaching him. “Here, let me—”

“Hey, didn’t I just tell ya to rest? Uh-uh. Get back.” He said, stopping you before you could even got close.

“You’re always helping me,” You murmur.

Your voice quieted down. “I swore I could take care of myself, but I’m still as useless as I’ve always been.”

“You ain’t… useless, alright? You’re sick.” He says, watching you stumble, holding your head that throbbed. “Come on. Go rest.”

He wish he could’ve said more, but the words couldn’t leave his throat. With a hand on your shoulder, he guided you back to the velvety cushions of the sofa — to which your body sank in when you laid quietly.

She’s burning up.

The soup tasted like shit — after a reluctant taste test. He grimaced at the flavor; bitter, harsh, and unforgiving.

With a bowl of piping hot soup in his hands, he approached you slowly and sat beside where you lay. The putrid smell hit your nose, but you knew this was how it normally was.

“C’mon, sit up,” He tells you softly.

He stirs the spoon in the bowl as you did so, blowing out air from his mouth.

“It tastes awful, but you’re gonna have to take this so you get better,” He says, inching the spoonful by your mouth. “Say ah.”

If you weren’t going to die from exhaustion, you’d die from food poisoning. “This is terrible.”

“Yeah, it is. Ain’t nothin’ we can do ‘bout it, though.”

You grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around yourself as he continued to feed you. With every passing second, you’d get colder, and your head would continue to drill inside you.

“Don’t be difficult,” He sighs as you tried to minimize the amount of soup you’d drink.

“You don’t have to do this.” You protest.

“No, but I want to—”

It was like you were swallowing nails and fire.

“—‘cause I care for you.” And I love you.

He confesses, a little too quick. He coughed right after, rendering himself speechless.

“I thought I was doing pretty well by myself,” You mumbled. “I thought had it all under control.”

“Turns out I really hadn’t.”

He furrows his brows lightly. “If you push yourself more, you won’t be able to do anythin’.”

“Grief’s swallowed me whole, then.” With another spoonful of soup, you grimaced.

“Look, I don’t want ya to kill yourself, workin’ so hard,” He looks at you with empathy. “Why were you out in the rain? You knew you’d get sick.”

“Maybe I…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “The debt collectors came to visit a few days ago.”

Hearing this, his eyes narrowed slightly, the words ringing in his ears.

“The money I had wasn’t nearly enough. I-I thought I’d been doing well, but even with all your help, it wasn’t enough.”

Your words were barely above a whisper as you continued. “Am I really that weak?”

“No,” He answers — quicker than he could think. “You ain’t weak, no. You’re…”

“You’re more than you think you are,” He adds, clutching the now-empty bowl in his hands as he looked straight in your eyes. He could see how you shook, how you looked so hesitant to talk — but you did, anyway.

“You’re the strongest woman I’ve met. You remember that.”

You stole my heart, that’s what you did. You brought me back from the dead.

You looked away briefly, as his hands came to softly graze over your cheek. “Look at me.”

The words poured out of his mouth involuntarily, though it felt so good. “You’ll get through this, alright? I’ll help you.”

“Why are you so insistent on helping me?” You asked. “I don’t deserve even half of what you’ve done.”

“Hell, I don’t deserve what you’ve done either.” He replies.

He wanted to say more — he wanted to say how much you meant to him. How much he’d done to you. You took his rotting heart and nursed it back to health.

He wanted to say how much he loved you — but he couldn’t.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

Now, he sits beside your sleeping figure, running a cold cloth over your forehead and neck.

The bags under your eyes weren’t getting much better, either. You were sweating, as his fingers swayed over the wet strands of hair on your forehead.

Without much thought about his actions, his fingertips continued to caress the strands of your hair.

I swear, she’s gonna work herself to death.

I wish I could do somethin’ about it. If she keeps this up, I don’t know what’ll happen to her.

What a stubborn woman I’ve fallen for.

You were soft, so much so. He could keep caressing you like this until he couldn’t.

His eyes glanced over you, darting over your lips.

It wasn’t a good time to let his feelings get ahead of him.

And suddenly, the words “I love you” threaten to leave his mouth. Even as an inaudible whisper, he hoped he could let it escape, fade into the never-ending rain.

Inside him were two different people. He wished he could let himself go, let those words leave his mouth — but he couldn’t help it. He was a coward, he knew that.

Even until now, where you couldn’t possibly hear anything he could say.

He couldn’t keep watching you beat yourself up like this.

His fingers trace down your cheek, down to your jaw, as your chest heaved up and down slowly in deep slumber.

When the cold cloth traced down your warm arms, you shifted. “Hold me.”

Did I hear that right?

He froze when your fingers intertwined with his. “‘S cold.”

He let a warm smile creep up his lips as your antics. “Yeah, alright.”

His thumb grazes over yours, slowly tracing small circles on the skin, watching you fade back into unconsciousness. Hell — you probably weren’t conscious when you asked for that, too.

Hours pass by until then — John falls asleep next to you, sitting down on a chair, with his hat draped over his face — and his hands still intertwined with yours.

You got better a week after, though John told you to lay off working for a bit — promising you he’d do your work instead.

But he noticed it — he noticed how despite he told you to rest, you were counting coins in the night. You were barely eating — buying provisions only for the animals.

He sat by your porch, watching as you hid and flicked away a cigarette.

“You know I see ya, right?”

You huffed, placing your chin on your palm. “I’m just… stressed.”

He plopped down beside you and sighed. “I know,”

“But I don’t…” He trailed off, taking a moment to gather his own thoughts and words before he said something stupid. “Look at you.”

He tucked the loose strands of hair covering your face behind your ear.

You didn’t look the best.

“You need rest, and you need to stop thinking about it.”

Your feet tapped against the wood rhythmically fast. “I can’t.”

“‘S hard to not think about, John. One day, they’re gonna come, and everything I’ve fought so hard for will disappear like nothing.”

You considered taking it all, running away, leaving your problems there in that ranch. But you didn’t; you stayed, and you worked so hard to bring it all back to life — to make the most of what was left.

The only thing your family left for you was that ranch, after all. And other than that, what was your place in life? What was your identity — your reason?

Even while the day, it seemed so gloomy. Clouds hovered over the place, all dark and moody.

“But it won’t. Trust me, it won’t.” John said — even though he knew nothing about comforting, he knew not of what was going to happen.

He could tell, any more of this, and you’d spiral back to a hard shell. Back to when you’d push everyone away.

August 9, 1908

Things ain’t goin’ good. I don’t know. She ain’t doin’ good — as far as I could tell.

Debt’s a nasty thing. I fear she might work too hard these days and somethin’ bad’ll happen. Am I worryin’ too much? No, I think I worry just the right amount.

She was sick the other week, I had to take care of her. Still stubborn. Wish I could tell her.

I’m a damn coward and a fool.

It’s been raining more than ever. The clouds are constantly dark — along with the moist air.

And you’ve been worser than ever, as well — much to his dismay.

Only weeks after that whole ordeal, it seems the debt collectors finally had enough.

Today, it didn’t rain.

When you sat next to him, he felt something somber.

“You alright?” He asked softly — almost immediately, upon noticing your quiet nature.

You’ve been more quiet then usual, of course, but today was different.

With a deep and sharp breath in, you spoke. “Can you take care of Sir?”

He felt confused. More than it.

What were you asking for?

“Sure I can, if he doesn’t claw my face off. Why… do you ask?”

“Can I ask you a favor? Just one.” You asked, hesitant. “Can you take care of him? When I leave.”

Cold, unforgiving breezes of wind brushed against the both of you — filling in the silent and palpable atmosphere.

You added, when he went quiet. “It’s alright if you can’t.”

“You’re leaving?” He asks — the mere idea of you doing so made his entire world go still.

You looked at the clouds. No sun, no light — just shadow and fullness. You were afraid of what he would say — so you looked in front, you kept your eyes glued away when you nodded.

“They came back. And… I was still short, so… I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

He looked at you, no he had been looking at you, with confused eyes and furrowed eyebrows. “Where will you go?”

You shrugged. “I’ll get by.”

“Do you have to leave?” He asked. It was a stupid question. He knew you were set on leaving, and he knew you had nothing else to stay here for.

In his heart, he really meant, “Do you have to leave me?”

Which, once again, was a stupid question. He was only your neighbor. Only a friend — only a man.

But he did see it in your eyes. You had to leave — but you didn’t want to, either. He knew how much the ranch meant to you — and now after inevitably losing it, you had no other choice.

Could his words mean anything to you? If he tried — if he held your hand, if he pulled your arm, if he told you, with pleading eyes “Don’t.”

For some time, he thought he could. But in the end, he couldn’t.

He took your hand in his.

Stay with me, please.

You intertwined your fingers with his — looking at him with warm eyes. “They… took everything,”

Not even in a physical way. Memories, they took. You wanted to say more — to cry in his arms — but you wanted to make your leaving clean and short.

You didn’t want to regret it all. Except you already did, in a way; could it possibly be worse?

“Here, John,” You took something from your pocket. “It was papa’s ring.”

He put the gold material between the tips of his index and thumb, looking at it briefly before his eyes landed on you again.

“I’ll take the train by tomorrow.”

“Will you—” He shifted, squeezing your hand. “Will you write to me?”

Right now, he wanted to kiss you. He wanted to push his lips softly against yours, and murmur prayers of denial.

He felt bittersweet. All about this. It didn’t feel right, and yet he couldn’t do anything about it. This time, he was truly helpless.

“Always.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

August 10, 1908

Did she enter my life and fix me just to leave me broken and helpless?

Is she gonna take my soul with her, too?

It’s like… I got all close to her, and life rips her away once she’s close enough for me to hold. Goddamn cruel.

With Rufus on his lap and Sir on his shoulder, he couldn’t seem to write anything that night.

With a woof from Rufus, he patted his head. “I know, boy. We’re back to zero.”

And a meow from Sir, he sighed. “You ain’t the only one missin’ her. Hell, she hasn’t even left yet.”

You smell exactly like her, Sir. That’s a problem.

He lets the pen fall from his hands. The journal is tucked away by his side. He stares at the ring you gave him — drowning in his own thoughts.

His fingertips feel the engraving on the ring.

“Home.”

The thought of her leavin’ sickens me. My stomach churns, and I feel like I might drop dead the next second.

I should’ve said it, huh?

He continues fiddling with the ring.

That’s it? That’s what happens? That’s what happened?

It ain’t her fault she’s leavin’. Maybe I could’ve done somethin’. Hell, I know I could.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The ring in his fingers continue to jog around, as more of his relentless come to attack him.

Even if we weren’t all of that, I believed we were at least somethin’. It ended so suddenly, like all things. I was a fool.

With everything now so quiet, his thoughts are loud again.

God, I don’t deserve anything good. I don’t.

But if You believe I’ve redeemed myself, even just a little bit — could You bring her back to me?

I know… I’ve done bad things. But I don’t want to lose her. I can’t lose her.

The ring drops to the ground — the clinking and clammer echoing in the empty room. For a light ring, it was loud.

God, I can’t.

He doesn’t sleep that night. Morning showed itself — roosters howled, light cracked from his window, rain fell heavily. And yet he still rotted in the comfort of his couch.

His heart felt heavy, it felt like it was dragging down every inch of his body. Like his flesh had turned into weights, like his lungs were under water.

He was the rain himself — sulking around the walls of his house.

He was beginning to truly drown in his own guilt and regret — until Uncle slapped him in the face.

“Ouch! What was that for?” He asked, sitting up straight and nursing the pain with his hand.

“You get up, John,” Uncle says, unamused.

John wanted to say something snappy, or poke fun at him — but he wasn’t exactly in the mood. John grumpily retorted with a “What?”.

“I can’t stand you sulkin’ ‘round here.”

“What do you mean?” John says, confused.

Uncle fumes, slapping him a second time. “Don’t ‘what do you mean’ me, dumbass!”

John let out a yelp of hurt, as Uncle continued, with a mocking tone. “You’re lookin’ at me with a face that says ‘it’s all over’,”

Uncle tries to slap him a third time, “Of course it is! And it’ll be, if you don’t do anythin’!”

But John swiftly dodges, finally standing up now.

Uncle continues. “You try to use that brain of yours, or it’ll rot.”

“Hell, maybe we could use it as horse-food so it’d be used,” He just kept going.

“I’ve seen children with greater will. Hell, I’ve got more will than you!”

“Point is, I could run after her m’self. And I can’t even run.”

John looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. He was getting what Uncle was pointing at, but he didn’t have to be that cruel, did he?

“I can’t… do nothin’ ‘bout it. She’s probably left already.”

Uncle interrupts him. “She is gonna be gone, if ya don’t try! Get your head outta the gutter, John!”

“It’s embarrassin’ and all, but ain’t nothin’ gonna happen if you do nothin’!”

Despite being quite hypocritical, John still felt attacked. “I get it—I get it,” He raised his arms up in surrender. “What d’ya want me to do?”

“I’m tellin’ ya to go after her before that damn train leaves.” Uncle shakes his head, looking serious for once.

John finally realizes. He did have one last chance. Uncle made sense. Instead of sulking around all day, he could do something one last time.

“Right now?” He asks, before answering the question himself.

Of course right now, John. Damn idiot.

“Right now! I’m—going—you’re right!” John hurries away, putting on his coat and hat — which he knew was ineffective against the heavy rain, but he’ll be damned if he let that stop him. He’s already let too many chances pass.

When he leaves, he can hear Uncle yelling one last time — faintly now. “I’ve always been right — you just been too dumb to comprehend!”

With every second passing, he swore he could hear the honking of the trains get louder. He didn’t want to hear it at all.

If he doesn’t do this right, he might just be lonely for the rest of his damn life.

He murmurs an apology to his horse for riding out in this ridiculous rain. “Real sorry for this, boy. Won’t take too long, alright?”

Already completely soaked from the downfall of rain — he didn’t care. At this point, the sun was about to set — and he wouldn’t make it.

Damn it. I should’ve done this a long time ago.

He’d go faster than ever. Like his life was on the line. Because truth be told — it is — to some extent. His horse understands that this is urgent, its hooves clacking along the dirt and mud without stopping.

Please be there, please be there. He repeated internally, gripping the reins so much his knuckles had gone white.

Still on his horse, he sees the train just about departing — slowly picking up the pace against the rails.

He was late.

He cursed under his breath. Desperation filled his very being.

Not this time. Please.

“Hey! Stop!” He shouts at the train — even though it’s useless — with the loud honking and rain. It muffled his voice.

It wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t slowing. But he wasn’t going to, either.

He’d never see your face, your smile. He’d never hear your laugh, your voice, your taunts and sweet voice again.

So, without you, who the hell would he wake up for in the morning?

Who would drag him to dance?

Who would he write about in his journal?

Who would soothe the lonely ache in his heart?

Who would he love?

He couldn’t live with the thought that you would be gone. That you would just disappear — like thin air. Like you had never existed at all. Like he wasn’t in love with you.

John was right by the tail of the train — but he had yet to catch up with it. He yelled out again, louder, this time. “[Reader]!”

Of course, he had foreseen that he would look like a lunatic. Like he’d lost his mind.

Inside the train, passengers seemed to have noticed his chasing figure outside the train. Some of them sticked their noses by the window — murmuring amongst themselves — who was this man yelling for?

With all the fuss and talk, you looked outside the window of your seat.

It was all too familiar, that man.

Your heart raced, along with your feet that stepped outside the moment your heard a faint calling of your name. Running to the outside of the last car — with the many passengers you bumped with — with every sorry — you could feel your heart beat faster.

There he was, John Marston, chasing the train on his horse — wet by the rain.

And you swore he was shouting your name.

Your hands gripped the railing, watching him struggle to keep pace. But he was yelling, and you knew he was saying something incredibly important — but you couldn’t hear it.

“John!” You yelled.

He yelled out again, muffled by all the noise. “Don’t go!”

But you couldn’t hear him. You tried to — but it seemed everything was against the two of you at this very moment.

“I can’t hear you!” You yelled.

You couldn’t hear what he had just said — you could only attempt to make out the words he was saying with his mouth.

“Damn it, STAY!”

You could finally hear him.

“I LOVE YOU!”

“STAY! STAY WITH ME!”

He could only watch as you froze, before you ran back inside the car. Just then, while John’s heart seemed to explode — everything made sense for you.

It all clicked.

“Ex—Excuse me, sir!” You ran to the conductor, panting heavily. “I need you to stop the train, please!”

“I made a big mistake.”

When the train slowly stopped, you thanked the conductor profusely as you made your way out. People’s eyes followed your steps, they watched as you ran outside in the cold rain right to John.

In that moment, he quickly got off his horse, running to you himself.

You jumped right in his arms — he caught you. He always did.

With his arms supporting your weight and your limbs wrapped tightly around him, he spun you around like a princess.

He exclaimed your name, grinning so widely.

“John, you idiot, you…”

“I love you too.”

When you settled down, he still held you up in his arms.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But was he complaining? No.

You loved him back.

You soon followed with a light scoff. “Chasing a train… who does that?”

“Who wouldn’t?” He asked, before leaning in and capturing your lips in a kiss.

He never thought he’d be able to do that.

March 7, 1913

In honor of our marriage anniversary — I decided to transfer all those journal pages to a new one. It’s been years since then. I never thought I’d actually use Arthur’s ring.

I still remember the moment I met her. Still remember that whole dramatic process. If you asked me, was it worth it? It was worth every damn penny. It was worth the universe.

I love her so much. I really do. I wouldn’t change a thing. Despite everything that happened, sometimes, even to myself — I can’t believe that she’s here with me. That she stayed — that she accepted my offer — and even married a man like me. I’m the luckiest man alive.

I’m right here, makin’ tomato soup. Rufus and Sir are fightin’ for the food. Ain’t nothin’ separates the two. And th—

“Oh, darlin’, please,” John sighs, watching you steal his journal from his hands.

“What, John?” You said coyly, reading it in front of him as you flipped the pages.

With an over-exaggerated gasp, you spoke in disbelief. “Are these love letters? Oh, you poet, John Marston,”

♪ Take my hand,

“I married a poet!” You giggled.

Take my whole life, too ♪

John tries to take back the journal — was he blushing? Yes. Like a schoolboy that had confessed to his crush. “Shut up. Stop readin’ it.”

♪ For I

“And your first impression of me was strange and stubborn?—” You followed up.

Can’t help ♪

He shrugged after, attempting to steal it back with a light lunge forward. “Of course. And hey—give it back!”

♪ Falling in love

“You try!” You chuckled, watching him fail miserably — before kissing you instead.

With you. ♪

[cherrycrvsh]

☘︎ FIGHTING FOR CUSTODY ୧ featuring : MICHAEL TOWNSEND . ━━━━━⠀⠀.⠀ est. relationship.

syn. you and your boyfriend are fighting for custody.

୧ ׅ 𝙳ear readers ⊹ ۫ . 🕯️ ♡ ׂ  ۪ ੭ been losing motivation to write lately, so this is def like -800 words( made this days ago at ,,, 2 ish am lol )💔💔 grammatical errors & possibly ooc bc i forgot that michael can read emotions & is too lazy to rewrite( hey now........ JUST PRETEND I DIDN'T FORGET. ) also this was meant to be for a anime character which explains how,,, much moremoremoremore expressive they r... petition for the naturals fandom to expand

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" you ask, slowing down the words like a someone from a musical, arms folded as you lean on the doorway of your bedroom.

two heads spin around to see you. your boyfriend and your cat. they both are snuggled under your comforter like they pay rent. fur is scattered around the sheets like party confetti, but you're not even upset about that. not the issue at hand. very much not.

"laying?" michael am slowly, like he's checking to see if saying the word sounds fishy out loud.

"with milo. and he's my cat."

michael sits up slightly, eyebrows furrowing as if you just accused him of treason. he clears his throat as if getting ready to plead his case in a court drama. "milo is not your cat. he's ours."

you walked closer, heavy steps causing the floor to creak because you're being cranky on purpose. "last i checked, milo had one guardian listed, and that's me."

michael left his hands up in the air, one of them clutching milo's paw like he's constructing his argument on a rock-solid foundation. "you signed no papers. no papers existed! no official paper that said you had sole custody of the cat. which, by the way, is very suspicious behavior for someone who 'owns' a cat."

you narrow your eyes, leaning in. "oh, so we're doing this now? legal definitions of pet guardianship? next you're gonna call your lawyer and file for partial custody."

"wouldn't have to if someone didn't keep calling herself 'milo's one and only.'"

"because i am."

michael slouches back on the bed like he's posing for the cover of a perfume commercial, all smug. yeah, he's definitely having fun. reading your emotions and such( he doesn't really need to, though ). "babe, i feed him. i brush him. i purchased the toy he refuses to stop killing in the hallway. i'm basically the cool parent."

reaching over to grab said toy. a tattered feather doohickey that once was so,, colorful and now is just a survivor of the battle of the toybox. "yeah? well, fun parent or not, he picked me. he sleeps on my pillow every night."

michael arches an eyebrow and softly moves milo towards his side. the cat lets out a happy purr, obviously betraying you for the warmth of your body and firm hands of your crazy but utterly charming boyfriend.

"he's sleeping on my hoodie at the moment," michael boasts, as if he's introducing exhibit a. "this is a war of civility, and i am victorious."

"don't make me pull out laser pointer," you say.

his eyes widen. "you wouldn’t."

you reach into the drawer beside the bed, milo's ears perk up at the metallic click of the drawer, the primal sound of betrayal━━talk about dramatic━━about to scream your name through the radio. michael's arms instantly curl protectively around the furry traitor.

"this is unethical warfare," michael mutters, holding the urge to laugh, maybe. "you’re corrupt."

"no," you coo softly, tapping the pointer once and observing milo's head snap up, eyes fixed on the small red dot that moves about on the floor. "i'm a strategist."

in two seconds, milo is out of michael's grasp, racing towards the dot with the fervor reserved only for cats. you smile.

michael observes milo jump off the bed with betrayal in his eyes. "seriously, milo?"

you lounge on the edge of the bed, self-satisfied, as milo leaps around the room. "guess he's figured out who the real parent is."

michael let out a melodramatic sigh and falls backward onto the bed, arm thrown over his face like a victorian drama victim. "i lost custody because of a red dot."

you plop down next to him, bumping his shoulder. "don't worry, you can still have visitation rights. maybe. if you're nice."

p.s ━━ ❪ all rights reserved to cherrycrvsh. these works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. mwah ! ❫

[okartichoke]

I FORGOT TO SEND MY RESPONSE LOLOLOL

id never heard of chickens being seen as cowards, interesting! they mostly have a reputation afaik as the “dont mess with my friends” birds, so the thought of a very friendly orpington adopting people into its flock and becoming VERY defensive of them seemed right for fulbright. then again a “cowardly” bird species on the opposite personality type would just be some fun irony, especially then bc the phantom could be considered a “coward” based on how they act in the finale. i straight up forgot eagles exist tho

i also straight up forgot owls exist! that would definitely work for athena, i think a golden masked owl could be cool bc theyre in the tyto family with some of the best hearing plus Yello :] (and totally not because “masked” is anOtheR PARALLEL)

I HAD THE SAME THOUGHT ABOUT THE FEATHERS i was like i could see clipping their flight feathers and shit to fit, and having to make excuses why theyre not flying/target flightless/near flightless covers. you could sorta handwave it and do some sorta. wing mask? similar to their face masks just with faux wings, and it would DEFINITELY mess up their real flight feathers. another thought, that the distortion of their feathers and stress bleaching (similar to how u said dahlia poisoned herself to bleach her feathers) would add to the breakdown where they dont even remember what bird species their wings are meant to be 😭😭😭 ( <- number one phantom stan here remember).

blackquill slashing at the phantom and theres just an EXPLOSION of feathers as the wing mask tears and their bent and molted feathers florf out of it, and they just deadpan “oh look. youve ruffled my feathers.”

also yes steal my ideas they are made to be stolen >:3 (/gen) im just very into the aj trilogy (mostly dual destinies lol)

LOL DW. after you asked if im cool with long responses and then didn't follow up for a day i was like "HOW LONG IS THIS GONNA BE"

yeah, i guess chickens as a bird don't really have a reputation for being cowardly,, but like calling some a chicken is calling them cowardly. but yeah 100% chicken give off a familial energy 100%%%. I def think I like it over an eagle (especially cuz, aside from the justice thing, bobby is not a bird of prey there's no way)

yeah bet !!! the golden masked owl seems to me like a good fit ! might go with that one when i get to her

omfg forgetting what bird he is is fucking crazy i love that fheaofja after the explosion of feathers, when he finally gets to his true breakdown, the stress of it all could cause the feathers to slowly fall out one by one until he's shot.

also "oh look you've ruffled my feathers" is so comical and ace attorney and i'm now imagining all of the culprits throughout the series saying it LOL

dambbbb mate i wish i had more time to draw I WANNA GET THESE IDEAS ON PAPER there are so many characters fejdsalfjeiawo

[werinvariably-koward]

They weighed my soul like a feather before laying their hand upon my shoulder, placing every burden upon my back, as though it were their task to undo me. How foolish they were to point their finger at my essence, to command my body to sit beside the graveyard where the stone bears the name of the deity I’ve longed for, the one I’ve grieved in silence. I was not meant to endure this agony—this searing burn, this stripping of skin—nor was I meant to feel the eternity of disconsolate. I was to embrace the fortune of claiming my existence, to love without the price of consequence, to revere the one I adored without falling prey to the weight of fear.

It was always meant to break free from the history that shackles us, from the conservative beliefs that demand love be weighed by all’s favor. Love, that ineffable force, should not adhere to such boundaries—no corner, no structure, no definition. They think that love must be contained within their silence, that by holding their tongue, they could immortalize it as a sacred gesture—an offering written in the divine ledger. But can they truly suppress it? Can a feeling so dear and profound ever be fleeting, so easily dismissed as if it were nothing more than a passing whisper?

Love exists in the divine, untouched by the mortal grasp, defying those who hope but refuse to revere the God within. We, the lover, are no more gods than shadows, ephemeral in our yearning. We reach for something higher, not realizing that the heaven we foresee was never meant for those like us—never meant for lovers such as I.

Even when our souls falter, when we teeter on the brink of despair, love remains a gift freely given—yet only to those who call themselves gods. Prophets and poets may claim that no mortal can resist love, yet in its wake, it brings us to our knees, bowing in submission to its impossible grip. Even the gods themselves falter beneath its weight, for it is a force that can bring even the greatest to repentance. In a moment, we can be poets or destroyers, shaping words that wound as deeply as any blade.

I, too, was tempted.

As a mortal, as a poet, by love itself.

In every letter, the sins my skin wrote considered you the dearest.

And should the divine find that love a threat, let them seek their judgment upon me—let them strike me down for my defiance. I would welcome it, let their sword pierce me for the betrayal of a love that dared to live within me. Smite me, for I often forget my place, torn between being her lover and an ordinary soul.

I would offer my blood to their feet, let them declare me the betrayer. I would bear any sin, any consequence, just to intertwine her soul with mine.

What am I, if I am merely mortal and not a God?

A lover.

A poet.

MORELLI, Lehozier.

[ask-emily-em-emmy]

*Emily has never experienced whiplash before. She thinks that if she had stayed in hell after the fall from the promenade and not immediately went back to the safety and comfort of heaven that perhaps then she would have, but as it were, she had never had the displeasure of experiencing it. The way Shamira had shifted, a strange sense of control that wasn’t like her at all, made her feel a lot, but not as much as when she threw herself away to fall to the sand in a ball not far from Emily’s feet*

*At war with herself, at war with Ass, at war with Emily. The guardian of peace was a lot like the joy bringer had been, bringer of peace, but never able to find it for herself*

*Emily stepped over the sand cautiously, as if trying not to spook Shamira. Her wings were pulled close and she made sure to walk carefully to not fall in any sand pits suddenly*

*She laid next to Shamira and Ass, just as much sand getting in her feathers as she stared at the sky*

*Emily didn’t want to touch her when she was panicking like this, it might just make things worse since touch seemed to be what started it. She let a wing touch hers lightly though, a show of her presence*

“The clouds. They’re all different shapes, mortals find items and people and animals in them.” *She pointed up at a particularly large fluffy one* “I think that one looks like a bunny. Oh and that one! That one looks like a cat!”

*Emily held out her hand for Shamira to take if she wanted to* “Existence in any form is scary. Heaven makes it easy to forget that. It makes it easy to forget that the virtues are not everything. Not every winner was perfect, in fact, none of them were. But they got here anyways and they’re still imperfect. Why do we heaven-born have to hold ourselves to a standard above that? I understand setting a good example, but why do we have to be perfect? Why do we have to choose between heaven and happiness? What’s the point? When did heaven choose lawfulness over goodness?”

*Emily sighed, her hands flexing* “What I’m trying to say is, you don’t have to be perfectly virtuous to be a good person. I mean you’ve seen my photos. That’s definitely not virtuous and yet you and almost everyone else still seem to believe I’m a good person. Or at least I hope you do.” *She turns her head and looks at Shamira* “You’re allowed to want. Me, Ass, heck, if you wanted someone else even, I wouldn’t judge you. We should probably talk it out, but it’s okay.”

*She gave her a warm smile* “I love you and I want you. I can’t think of anything more heavenly than that.”

A: *spotting Emily with the kite kit, she darts down and lands behind the seraph, fluttering long enough to press a kiss to Em's cheek* "Okay, next time, no darting off before we've agreed on a place to meet up, alright babe?"

A: *she holds out a little cup with vanilla ice cream and sprinkles on it* "Here's your ice cream and, if you'll follow me, Shamira and I cooked up a little surprise for ya."

How well do you expect this to go over?

I think it's the thought that counts.

A: *she flies up and leads Em to a little section of beach away from most of the festivities, where she and Shamira had hurriedly carved out a giant heart in the sand with Emily's name written in the center, an A up in one loop of the heart while a S sat in the other, and six little wings surrounding it* "I know it's... kinda messy- wasn't tryin' to keep you waiting too long."

((@askthefivefallen))

*Emily smiles wide at the sand heart in the ground* “You did this for me?”

*She summons her hellphone and snaps a picture before anything can be ruined by wind or waves*

“I love it! Look at the cute little wings! And it’s so symmetrical! I always have trouble getting the two sides to match but you-”

*She turns and looks at them, swapping her ice cream to her other hand so that she can grab onto theirs* “Thank you, I love it. And you two.” *She leans over and presses a kiss to their cheek and lightly bumps their foreheads together*

[dragonologist-in-the-making]

Paper Rings

Pairing: James Potter x Reader

Summary: On his first ride to Hogwarts, James befriended the girl who was obsessed with shiny things. Over their schooling together, their friendship turned into so much more.

A/N: lmao I suck at summaries. Also I’m back sorry for the random hiatus (and sorry that posting will almost definitely not be consistent after this either). I had this idea months ago, inspired by Taylor Swift’s Paper Rings, and I only just got around to writing it asdfghjkl. Still obsessed with James though rip me I just want someone to love me like this.

Warnings: Mentions of eating (briefly), otherwise just a lot of fluff.

Wordcount: 4k (wow)

...

Little James Potter waved goodbye to his parents as the train took off from the platform, nervous about his first journey to the infamous Hogwarts, but excited to discover all the great things his parents had told him for himself. First though: finding a carriage.

Trying not to show his nerves, he wandered along the corridor, peeping into the carriages to see if there was one he could join. For the most part, he found them all too full, too loud to juggle his nerves, or the students too old and intimidating. The days would come where James would rule the corridors of the castle, but the eleven year old boy on the train was just hoping to make a friend he could share this new adventure with.

As fate would have it, he found just that and so much more. In a carriage to herself sat a young girl, his age, her face turned away from him looking out the window. The only thing he could see was a petite sparkling bow, sitting neatly in her (y/h/c) hair.

Without thinking about it, he knocked gently on the compartment door, sliding it open as she turned to look at him inquisitively. Her (y/e/c) eye’s glittered as her lips pulled into a smile, creating a complete sense of comfort for James to ask. “Do you mind if I sit?” She nodded eagerly, gathering up a few books she had dumped on the opposite seat and dropping them into her lap. “I’m James.” He smiled.

“(y/n). It’s nice to meet you.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a short while, listening to the laughs of older students, friends reuniting after a summer apart, and watching the landscape whip by them out the window.

“I like your bow, by the way.” James spoke up, feeling glad he did when an excited smile broke across her face, looking as if he’d told her she’d won the lottery.

“Thank you! I love the way it sparkles.” She said, gently pulling it from her hair and twisting it in the sunlight, showing how rainbows danced in the glitter and were thrown across their compartment. Satisfied, she used it to clip back the hair that was now falling into her face, and their conversation moved on, following each and every thought they were having, becoming fast friends. James didn’t think the journey could get any better until two boys showed up at their door and asked if they could join them, setting everlasting friendships in stone.

As the train pulled up to Hogwarts, any nervousness James had been feeling was gone. Instead, the only thought he had was that he couldn’t be more glad he sat in the compartment of the girl with the sparkling bow.

…

Their first year passed in a blur, and the Marauders spent the majority of it in each other’s company, laughing their days away.

Now, summer had come and gone, and their second year at Hogwarts was in full swing. They walked into their charms class together, laughing about a joke Sirius had made at James’ expense. (y/n) sat next to the curly-haired boy at their desk, as Remus Sirius and Peter sat at the one adjacent to them.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I didn’t make the team last year! No first year has made a house team in like 80 years! I’m telling you though, I’ll make it on this year, and I’ll be the best chaser this school has ever seen.” James protested, huffing as he put his textbook in the middle of the table for him and (y/n) to share. She laughed at him softly, hand patting his shoulder as the other boys got lost in their own conversation.

“I know you will, Jamie. And I’ll be there cheering you on every step of the way.” His cheeks redenned at her words, but luckily their attention was turned away by Professor Flitwick.

“Now students, the charm I’ll be teaching you today is more of a fun one to start off the year than anything you’ll likely need in your everyday lives. As always, I don’t expect you to create chaos by using these charms” – he turned his gaze to a particular group of students at this point who were all busily looking elsewhere – “but simply to enlighten yourselves and to show you what magic can do. So, the charm we’ll be learning today is how to make things glitter.”

James heard an almost inaudible gasp next to him, and he could feel the excitement radiating off (y/n). He chuckled, expecting nothing less; he’d known her for a year now, and if it wasn’t the bow in her hair there was always something shiny on her at any given time.

Flitwick talked about the details of the charm, how it could be applied subtly, only giving a faint sheen, or how it could be made much more obvious. Finally, he gave them the charm and told everyone to repeat after him. “Now, like I said, just because this is a fun charm doesn’t mean it’s an easy one, and I don’t expect you to get it on your first attempt. Just keep repeating the charm and-oh!” He broke off suddenly, just as James’ vision went hazy. Once he’d focused, he saw he was surrounded by a cloud of individual glitter specs floating around them, almost as if they were in their own galaxy. His gaze shifted to its centre, shining most brilliantly of all as her proud and excited smile dazzled him, making him forget entirely they were still in their charms classroom.

“Well done Miss (y/n)!” Flitwick’s voice broke through their bubble, and slowly each star seemed to fade out of existence, until they were back in their regular old classroom, thirty pairs of eyes trained on them. “You certainly felt the spirit of the charm and went above and beyond. 10 points to (y/h). Now, if you could help Mr Potter whilst we all get back to it!”

Chatter burst out the classroom almost immediately, partners working together trying to enchant an object of theirs to take on the glittery effect. Sirius turned to her, rolling his eyes half-heartedly.

“Becoming a teachers pet now are we, (y/l/n)?” She rolled her eyes back, waving her wand to produce a cloud of glitter that settled in Sirius’ hair, contrasting sharply against its darkness.

“It’s sparklesSirius, what did you expect? Now c’mon, this is the one lesson I won’t let you not do the work in. Make some glittery greatness and I’ll bake you all some cookies when I next steal James’ cloak to go to the kitchens.” With those words, the three boys turned their entire focus to the task at hand, while James still seemed slightly awestruck next to her. “You alright, J?”

“That was amazing (y/n/n). I had no idea you could do that.”

“Well I guess you can’t know until you try.” She shrugged, picking up her quill and placing it in front of him. “Charm my quill.”

“Why me? You could just do it yourself.” James asked, confused why she didn’t do it herself since she was clearly more than capable. Once again, she shrugged, looking into his eyes as she uttered the words so nonchalantly that would stick with him for years to come.

“Well, Flitwick said you needed to practise. Plus, it’ll mean more to me if every time I look at my quill I know that you’re the reason it’s shining.”

Within a heartbeat, James had uttered the incantation and a subtle shimmer had settled over the feather, imperceptible until it was moved and caught the light. The smile he saw when he looked over at (y/n) made him vow to himself that as long as he was around, she would never have an ordinary quill again.

True to his word, every time she brought out a new quill, he was quick to snatch it from her and place the simple charm on it. It became an unspoken promise between the two of them, and every time James saw that sparkle from the corner of his eye, he couldn’t help but smile to himself.

. . .

True to her word, (y/n) was there for all of James’ games, cheering him on from the side of the pitch, always the first to reach him when the game was over. High or low, win or lose, she was always there to remind him that he had played amazingly, and that she was proud of him.

After one such game in their fourth year, Gryffindor narrowly losing to Slytherin, she was at his side so quickly that he would have thought she had apparated if he knew this wasn’t possible. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly, feeling the slight shaking of his shoulders. “Oh, James.” She quickly ushered him off the pitch before he attracted eyes, assuring him that Sirius and Remus would collect his things from the changing room and bring them back to his dorm. Once they reached his dorm, she sent him to shower, promising that she would be there for him once he was back.

Sure enough, he came out of the shower in fresh clothes and damp hair, and she was still on his bed, patiently waiting for him. She held her hand out to him, a silent invitation, and as soon as he took it she pulled him to her side and once again enveloped him in a hug.

“I’m so proud of you, Jamie.” She whispered, squeezing him momentarily before drawing back and looking into his glassy eyes.

“Shouldn’t be.” He murmured, avoiding her gaze. “We lost.”

“And yet you scored more goals than anyone else the entire game.” She pointed out, sincerity lacing her voice. “It’s just because the snitch is worth a stupid amount of points, honestly the game has a lot of flaws.” James smiled weakly, they often had these debates about Quidditch and it always ended in some silly way.

“I did hit Malfoy in the head with a Quaffle.” He admitted, and (y/n) could see the weight falling off his shoulders.

“The highlight of all our years.” She laughed, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a little box. “I got you something.” She handed it to him, and he pushed it back to her, head shaking, doubt returned.

“No I didn’t do anything to deserve it. Keep it.”

“We already had this argument and I’m not taking no for an answer.” She shoved the box into his hands and folded her arms across her chest, waiting for him to open it.

Reluctantly, he pulled the lid off the box to reveal a snitch, the snitch he normally kept on his person at all times, now shining with a slight iridescence. James looked up at her, thankful but a little confused at the present.

“I’ve actually been saving it for when you lose a game. Which has been hard because that’s hardly ever.” She broke off to give him a playful glare along with her words, quickly broken by her soft smile. “I know you play with the snitch when you have a lot on your mind, and when you start to doubt yourself. I wanted to remind you that you’re incredible and you should believe that yourself. So, when you see the snitch and you see it sparkle, you’ll think of me, and you’ll remember how great you are.” He was speechless, and in the silent air, she did what the two of them did best, and started to nervously babble. “Well, that’s assuming you think of me when you see sparkles, and quite frankly after all this time I’d be slightly offended if you didn’t-oof” her rambling stopped when James tackled her into a hug, knocking them both back onto the bed.

“Thank you.” Was all he said, but she could hear the emotion behind each word, everything he was trying to communicate. All she did was hold him tighter.

It was then that Sirius and Remus walked into the dorm, carrying all of James’ equipment from the game, causing James and (y/n) to jump away from each other. Blushes arose on both their faces, not that the other would have noticed, each too busy looking at opposite walls of the dorm. Sirius and Remus exchanged a knowing look, but decided to let it slide, knowing there was an inevitability to it anyway.

…

Once again, (y/n) was boarding the Hogwarts express for another year of school. She knew this year would be a stressful one, with their OWL exams coming up, but she also knew that as long as she had her boys by her side, she would be absolutely fine.

Speaking of her friends, she was currently walking along the train trying to find them. She knew that Lily and Remus were prefects now so they’d be at the front of the train, but she was struggling to find anyone else. Eventually, she found James, sitting in a carriage by himself, absentmindedly watching the view. She chuckled to herself at the situation, the reverse of their meeting all those years ago.

She slid the door open, catching his attention and his ever-so-addictive smile. “Got room for an old pal?” She asked, sitting next to him when he patted the seat, his hand enveloping hers as soon as she had, a silent communication. I missed you.

“I was starting to think you’d gotten cool and forgotten about me.” He joked, nudging her playfully.

“Piss off Potter, I was always cooler than you.” She teased back, glad to see that nothing had changed despite their time apart. It never did, they were always James and (y/n), inseparable no matter how hard anyone tried. “Where is everyone?”

“Lils and Moony are doing prefect duties, and Sirius enlisted Peter’s help to try and sneak into their carriage and get the insider information.” He rolled his eyes light-heartedly, forming air quotes around Sirius’ words as (y/n) laughed, eyes closing in amusement. “What’s that on your eyes?” James suddenly asked, stopping her laughter short as she tried to figure out what he meant.

“Oh!” She remembered. “I went to see Lils in the holidays and she was showing me this glitter eyeliner that muggles wear! Why, do you not like it?” She suddenly felt self-conscious, wondering if it really was too much despite Lily’s reassurances. It was a subtle white, but still, it was glitter on her face.

“The opposite!” James was quick to answer, rushing so much to not hurt her feelings that he wasn’t thinking about what he was saying. “I think you look really beautiful (y/n/n), with or without the makeup. Besides, the glitter brings out your eyes.”

At this point, they were both blushing furiously, and James was still holding her hand, neither of them willing to let go. (y/n) couldn’t help but smile to herself, and remembered to thank Lily for the recommendation the second they were in the dorm together that evening.

…

James climbed the last step into the astronomy tower, seeing (y/n) leaning against the railing already, gazing into the night sky, a blanket and an array of snacks out on the floor behind her.

It was a ritual they’d started who knows when, a chance to wind down and escape the chaos of everyday life, to enjoy each other’s company and to feast away on whatever snacks they had managed to stow away for these evenings. Tonight’s selection looked to consist mostly of cauldron cakes and chocolate frogs, with the occasional sugar quill hidden amongst the rest. “Heavy on the sugar tonight, I see.” He broke the silence teasingly, settling himself so that he was sat at (y/n)’s feet, still able to see the clear night sky above them.

“If I don’t consume my own bodyweight in sugar I think I’ll pass out I’m that exhausted.” She commented back, sinking down next to him. Automatically, his arm wound around her shoulder, pulling her into his side and resting his chin on top of her head. There weren’t words to describe the feeling of pure content as she melted into him, completely at ease.

She reached out and grabbed a chocolate frog, unwrapping it and handing the card to James with a sigh upon seeing it was one already in her collection. She bit into the chocolate, her gaze on the night sky as his was unable to break away from her, the way she settled so peacefully against him.

“The stars sparkle too, you know.” She broke the silence, voice quiet but still holding its signature melodic tone. James finally broke away from looking at her, joining her eyeline and looking at the constellations above them. Even though he wasn’t taking astronomy as a NEWT, spending so much time in the tower with (y/n) as she mapped the sky meant he knew precisely what he was looking at, and traced the constellations with his eyes.

“You know, six years of friendship and I don’t think I ever asked you why you like shiny things so much. I always just accepted it as a part of who you are.” A smile graced her face as she unconsciously twiddled her fingers.

“Don’t laugh.” She warned, and he solemnly shook his head. “I think there’s something so entrancing, so beautiful about them. I think it serves as a reminder that even the most seemingly dull thing,” she picked up another chocolate frog box at this point, waving her wand to create a light sparkle over it, “is wonderfully brilliant if you just remember to look at it in the right way. It’s a lesson we should all carry with us, and I try to remember it whenever I can. Everything is beautiful if you give it a chance.” The sparkles on the box faded in the moonlight, as (y/n) finally looked up at James, only to find him already staring back at her.

Body thinking quicker than brain, seeing her (y/e/c) eyes glimmering up at him, James leant down and pressed his lips to hers. She stifled a gasp, quickly moving her lips back against his as her hand wound gently around the back of his neck. He poured all of his admiration into the kiss, everything he had been feeling for her since he didn’t even know when, feeling his heart soar to be here with her in that moment.

Eventually, they broke away for air, and a breathy laugh fell from (y/n)’s lips, blush rising on her cheeks as she turned her face away. James reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers and gently rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. “I’ve been drawn to you since the day I saw you in that train carriage. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, your soul. I didn’t even realise the outside matched until we came back from that summer you spent with Lily. But god, every day since then I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I like you, (y/n/n). I really like you.”

Around them, a shimmering cloud exploded simultaneous to a wide grin spreading across (y/n)’s face. It was their own galaxy, just like all that time ago in the charms lesson, but she was still in the centre, still giddy with excitement. “I like you too, Jamie.” Her smile turned a little sheepish. “And sorry, I think my emotions got a little out of control.” The star-like sparkles slowly dissipated around them until there was nothing left, and this time it was (y/n) who leaned up to James, connecting their lips one more time.

“You taste like chocolate.”

“I’m sure that must be awful for you, Potter”. Nothing had changed, and yet nothing would be the same either.

…

James was sat on the floor of his dorm, textbooks open in front of him, although this late in the day he was struggling to pay any attention to them. What he was focused on instead was his girlfriend, tucked into the alcove of the windowsill, absentmindedly writing away on a piece of parchment.

Her (y/h/c) hair was in plaits down her back, and in the candlelight the silver threads that James had helped her braid in this morning were casting light across the room that shifted with every little shake of her head or shrug of her shoulders.

“You’re staring again, Jamie.” She chastised, although the humour was clear in her voice. He pushed himself up from the floor with an exaggerated groan, making his way over to her and pulling her gently into his chest, pressing a soft kiss into her hair.

“Can’t help it love, you’re an actual angel.” He didn’t see it but he knew she’d be rolling her eyes as she buried her face in his chest to hide the blush that was forming on her cheeks.

“Stop being so cheesy.”

“As if you don’t love it.” She pressed a kiss into his chest, resting her head against him as she went back to her writing. He tried not to pry, but he couldn’t help but catch notice of his name and his interest piqued. “Who are you writing to?”

“Euphemia.” She replied nonchalantly, not pausing her actions as he took a step away, face scrunched in confusion.

“My mother?” she paused at this, looking up at him with false exasperation.

“Do you know many other Euphemias?” She deadpanned. He shrugged, admitting her fair point, moving back to her side where she immediately snuggled back into his warmth.

“How long have you been writing to my mum?” She paused for a second, contemplating.

“Since the start of term I think. She sent an owl, I responded, we haven’t really stopped talking since. Oh, I’m coming over for Christmas by the way, she invited me. Said it wouldn’t be Christmas without the whole family there” (y/n) looked up at him, flashing a mischievous grin, expecting him to whine childishly like he normally would, complaining that he was supposed to ask her. Instead, looking more solemn than she’d seen him in a long time, he crushed her against him, holding her so tightly before he leant down and connected their lips. The kiss was bruising, but it was packed with adoration, and it left (y/n) slightly breathless. He broke away, leaning his forehead against hers as she tried to catch her breath back. “What was that for?”

“I love you. So much. You’re absolutely perfect, and I swear, I can’t wait until the day I can put a ring on that finger and make it official, make you a Potter for real. I promise, it’s going to be the most sparkling, dazzling gem you’ve ever seen. It’ll shine just as brightly as you, and it’ll always remind you that you’re beautiful, in every way, and just how much I love you.” Her hand had come to rest on his cheek, smiling throughout his little speech, parchment cast aside and forgotten about at this point.

“Don’t be silly, James.” She laughed, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “I love shiny things, yes, but I don’t need one to be reminded of how amazing you are, or how much I love you. Hell, you could ask me to marry you with a paper ring and I’d still say yes in a heartbeat. I’m saying yes to you, to a life. You don’t need to win me over with some ridiculously expensive piece of jewellery.” He nodded slightly, pecking her lips before moving back to where he had been sat on the floor.

(y/n) picked her parchment back up, continuing on to the letter she had been writing to Euphemia Potter, unable to help themselves from planning the Christmas festivities despite it being early November.

Deep in concentration, she startled slightly as she noticed movement coming from the corner of her eye. She looked to the side to see her boyfriend once again, although this time he was knelt before her, holding up a piece of parchment that he had hastily fashioned into a ring, coupled with a sheepish smile.

Laughing merrily, she hopped down from the windowsill, pulling him up by his jumper and kissing him passionately as she slid the piece of paper onto her finger, looking forward to the day when they were older, when they could promise this for real, knowing that they had the rest of their lives ahead of them to love each other unconditionally.

When James first stepped on that Hogwarts train, he was hoping to find a friend he could share every moment with for the next seven years. He had found that in her, a best friend, now a lover, for seven years but for so much longer. The girl with the sparkling bow turned out to be his soulmate, and he sent a prayer of thanks to the stars every day.

[hlizr50]

Leathers (NSFW)

I wanted to have this ready for Gwynriel week, but I haven't written smut in probably 10 years so I was on the struggle bus for a bit.

Read on AO3

Gwyneth Berdara was a devious creature. A true menace.

Everyone thought she was sweet and innocent. But Azriel knew better.

She was cruel and secretive and conniving.

He’d realized her scheme as soon as she entered the High Lord’s study with the other two Valkyrie leaders, all clad in the leathers that marked them as such. And he knew, he knew, that this had been her plan all along.

As he gritted his teeth and worked desperately to quell the heat churning in his gut, his own tightening leathers, and the scent of arousal, he saw her soft pink lips spread into a knowing, satisfied smirk.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

He had seen the leathers before. He remembered the day in the house when Nesta emerged into the dining room with them on, squealing to her mate. The shadowsinger recalled that he always thought white was a terrible color for fighting garments, but even he could admit that the Valkyrie leathers were exquisitely designed and painstakingly constructed. They weren’t so different than the Illyrian leathers, overlapping scales over most of the torso, but the gold accents over the trim and feather-stamped panels over the shoulders made them look less like warriors and more like angels. Angels of death and light.

Azriel had wondered in that instant what Gwyn would look like in hers. He’d fantasized about it, seeing her standing tall and confident, a warrior in all areas of life. But she had never let him see them. She never talked about them, barely acknowledged their existence. She didn’t even keep them in the bedroom they now shared. He’d never mentioned it, never pushed. Perhaps it had been a bit odd, but the female never did anything without a reason.

And now, with his jaw practically on the floor, the musky scent of his arousal filling his nose (luckily he could tell he wasn’t the only one), and shadows twisting and writhing around him, he knew exactly what that reason had been.

Gwyneth Berdara – cruel and calculating and tantalizing Gwyneth Berdara – had waited for this moment, so she could see the practiced calm of the spymaster unravel before her eyes. One of the most powerful males in all of Prythian, absolutely undone, for all the powers of the Night Court to see. Cobalt siphons flickered.

This challenge would not go unanswered.

Luckily for the shadowsinger, this meeting was nothing deeply serious and more of a discussion about expectations for the three as leaders and members of the High Lord and Lady’s inner circle. As if anyone there had any doubts about their capability or dedication. And it was a good thing that his attention wasn’t particularly important, because he could not remove his gaze from the former priestess standing with hands on her hips as she listened intently to Rhys.

He’d always admired her body in leathers, though in the beginning he’d found it a source of shame rather than pride. Gwyn had been through too much for him to be casting lustful glances in her direction. But things had changed quite dramatically since then, in regards to her body and their relationship. Where once stood a relatively scrawny girl, now was a strong woman. The leathers – Azriel thanked the Cauldron for how tailored they were to her – showed off the definition in her arms, the muscled thighs and powerful calves, and the swell of that perfect ass. Every inch of her was sculpted from hours upon hours of training, then extra training, then training to escape nightmares or to work through feelings.

And that process was how their relationship had developed as well. The more time they had spent together, the more the spymaster had craved it. It was always easy with her. She always made him smile and laugh, things he didn’t often let others see. His shadows had been quite taken with her, and she had never shied away from them.

Nor from his hands.

He couldn’t be sure when it had happened, but she had firmly planted herself in his heart. She was beautiful and kind, irreverent, bold, and relentless. He respected the hell out of her, and that only made him want her more. But he hadn’t wanted to make the move, concerned about his own demons, concerned about her comfort and choice.

The Blood Rite had changed everything.

He had been as confident as he could have been, under the circumstances. He’d had to lean into that, keeping Cassian from falling into a pit of despair or, even worse, from doing something incredibly reckless that would’ve resulted in a death warrant on both his and Nesta’s heads. But the storm had raged inside Azriel then, a stark reality settling heavily in his stomach that he may never have another minute with Gwyneth Berdara. And since then he’d never made it a secret what she meant to him.

So he didn’t care that his hazel eyes slowly roamed her body, clad in white leather painted with gold, over and over. Memorizing every rise and fall and curve of her. He didn’t care that it was obvious to everyone in the room that he was immensely distracted. He didn’t care that his eyes had nearly popped out of his head when she walked into the study on swaying hips. He didn’t hear the amused chuckles or see the raised eyebrows when he’d nearly dragged her out through the double doors when their meeting had concluded.

The only thing on his mind now was that she would pay for her scheming.

“You seemed a bit distracted, Shadowsinger,” Gwyn giggled breathlessly, trailing behind him, tethered by his hand on her wrist. He rounded on her, releasing her wrist only long enough to cradle the back of her head as he pushed her against the wall. His body pressed into her, they breathed the same breath, her eyes bore into him with intensity and desire.

“Seems I fell right into your trap,” he whispered gruffly, sliding his cheek down roughly against hers and letting his tongue dart out against her jaw. He felt her inhale against him and he smiled wickedly against her skin. “You’re a menace, Berdara.”

“I won’t forget that look on your face for a long while,” she breathed, her fingers crawling up his chest, around his neck, and planting in the thick dark locks at his nape. It wasn’t a full confession, but it wasn’t a denial. And it sure as hell wasn’t a damned apology.

“You don’t know what you’ve started, lovely Valkyrie. I think you need to be taught a thing or two about decorum.”

Her giggle was more like a shaky rasp. Azriel could feel her heart beating as he dragged his lips down the column of her throat, feel her chest heave as her breathing quickened at his touch. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe I was not the one gawking and distracted while the High Lord was speaking.”

A growl rumbled through his chest, and he knew she could feel it reverberate through her, as well. He let his hands slide down the leather scales over her sides and traced them around to her back, fingers trailing ever downward until they cupped the muscled swell of her ass. After a rough squeeze he reached just a little further down to lift her thighs. Gwyn didn’t require much prodding, crossing her ankles behind him and effectively holding herself up against him. The shadowsinger lifted his head from her neck, turning his attention to the roses blooming under those freckles. One might think they made her look innocent, but he was no fool. Those cheeks were flushed with desire and satisfaction, teal pools darkened lustfully. He captured her lips in a demanding kiss as he pulled her from the wall, their grip on each other firm and unyielding. He stalked toward the door, anxious to get outside the wards of the estate so he could winnow them home.

So he could show her exactly what she did to him.

“You’re going to pay for that, Berdara,” he whispered huskily, voice coated in want. He could barely see, barely focus on getting them out into the cobbled street. The only thing in the world was her, the maddening heat of her skin and her warm breath hitching against the shell of his ear. And then he stepped into the darkness, emerging just a few paces outside the door to their seaside home with the conniving Valkyrie and heavy shadows still wrapped around him. The locks and hinges on the door took care of themselves as he stalked into the foyer, finally in the privacy of their home.

And that was all he needed.

Azriel set her down – not as gently as he probably should have – on top of the cabinet in the foyer and crushed his mouth over her soft full lips, long fingers immediately working at the ties of her leather pants. He felt her laugh against his mouth and took the chance to push his tongue between her lips. Gwyn’s fingers curled into his hair, grasping at him desperately. He grinned against her mouth as he loosened her leathers enough to reach a hand down over the lower part of her toned stomach. His Valkyrie’s hands drifted down around his neck and over the front of him. But he knew that her aim was to loosen his now very tight breeches, and there would be none of that. He pulled away for just a moment, grabbing her hands and then forcing them above her head. He covered both of her alabaster, freckle-speckled hands with one of his, holding them against the wall as he looked straight into her eyes and traced his other scarred hand down her front.

“Did you enjoy the sight of me coming undone before your eyes, Gwyneth?” She moaned as his knuckles disappeared beneath the leather, into the heat between her legs. He pushed a finger into her, relishing the wetness that had already built there. Azriel chuckled darkly, leaning in so his lips brushed her jaw. “It appears that you did. Very much.” He dipped a second finger in, his palm rubbing against her clit and eliciting a gasp.

“Az!” Gwyn breathed. His tongue darted out right under her ear before nibbling on her soft skin. “Oh Gods, Azriel.” Her voice, usually strong, was breathy and labored.

“Yes, Love?” His mouth continued to move over her neck, nipping and sucking and licking, as he plunged his fingers into her core. Satisfaction rumbled through his chest as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over that bundle of nerves. Her hips bucked against him. “Tell me, Gwyneth, was it your intention to drive me mad with arousal? In front of the entirety of the High Lord and High Lady’s inner circle?” Her head tipped back, mouth open and gasping, giving him even greater access to that elegant neck of hers. His thumb kept rubbing, fingers pumping, her body writhing under the mastery of his powerful hands.

“Did you want them to scent my need? Even as they could see it plainly on my face? In my fucking pants, stretching and struggling to contain what the sight of you did to me?” He pushed his thumb down and she cried out.

“Gods, Az, please!”

“That’s not an answer, Love,” the shadowsinger crooned against her throat as she bucked and rolled against him. “Tell me, Gwyneth. Yes or no? Ride my fingers and tell me.” He curled the two fingers inside her and pulled them nearly out of her before plunging them back in, pressure ever present on her clit. Her moaning and keening were music to his ears. He loved that he was the one she trusted to give her pleasure, that she would let go for him.

“Y-y-yes! Yes, Azriel!” She was almost there. He could feel it, feel her clenching around his fingers and hear her impending release in the cracking of her voice.

“I’m going to unravel you, lovely Valkyrie. I will undo you with my touch, just as you undo me. Just as you unraveled me in that study. I told you that you had no idea what you started.” He lifted his head and grew impossibly harder as he studied Gwyn’s beautiful face, flushed with pleasure, expressive eyes lidded, strangled cries escaping through parted lips. “Look at me, Gwyn. Look at me when you cum for me.” The wicked smile that curved his lips could not be stopped, not when those clouded teal eyes found his. They were deep as the sea, dark as the night with ecstasy. He curled his fingers inside her again and ground his thumb into that sensitive bud, driving her over the edge. She howled her release, tense muscles firing through her legs and core, making her twitch and buck. His touch was relentless, extending her orgasm as her wetness soaked his hand.

“That’s it, Love,” he praised as he leaned in to press his lips to hers and pulled his hand out from between her legs. He pulled her hands away from the wall above her head and draped her arms over his shoulders. “Hold onto me,” he whispered, kissing her again. He grabbed her thighs, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him. Then he pulled her off the cabinet and carried her down the hall, navigating the corridors to their room. Her breathing had only just begun to calm as he stepped into the bedchamber. He released her legs and she allowed them to straighten as he lowered her toes to the ground.

When she looked up at him, arms still around his shoulders, her smile was languid and content. Azriel flashed a crooked grin. “How do you feel?”

“Hmmm,” she murmured. “I feel… very good.” She giggled at her lacking vocabulary. The shadowsinger let his hands slide over her, finding their way to her back – to the buckles of her leathers.

“I think we need to get these off.” He started fingering the buckles, pulling straps with an impatience that wasn’t typically his style. But when it came to Gwyneth Berdara he could never get enough, soon enough. “I am not nearly finished with you yet.”

[martasaur]

My Over Analysis on Miraculous. Part 3.

Season 4

“Truth”

“Now that I’m the guardian, I have to keep my secret now more than ever.” Marinette says. I find this line hilarious because both Alya and Luka know her identity now and I wouldn’t be surprised if more people find out (we know bunnix knows her secret, who else is going to find out?).

CN is upset that LB forgot about their patrol and she tells him, “I promise I won’t ever forget our patrols ever again.” It’s all downhill from here.

Now Ivan knows Marinette is in love with Adrien. Besides Nino, I don’t believe any of the other guys in class knew about it.

“Don’t worry! I’d never claw a secret out of you, M’lady.”

LB to CN, “What do you think of my new role as Guardian?” “As long as it doesn’t change things with us, then I'm good.” :(

Hawkmoth at the end of the episode says, “Truth is underway, Ladybug. And nothing can stop it.” The reveal is going to happen soon (I hope).

“He can change his name as much as he likes, he’ll still never win.” “You can count on me and my jokes, Bugaboo.”

“Lies”

When Plagg tells Adrien to sample different cheeses (in the love department) we cut to a scene where there are two different cheeses in front of him. He isn’t just explicitly falling for Kagami. He was always falling for Marinette as well!

When Kagami is trying to sketch Adrien and he makes the Chat Noir pose, she says;“You’re not at all natural.” “Yes I am. I promise this is me!” She can’t accept the other side of him, she doesn’t even acknowledge that it exists. Marinette will! I’m sure of it.

Adrien was hesitant to kiss Kagami. In Truth, we see Marinette and Luka are both on the same page, but Adrien with Kagami looks very uncertain.

“And what if everything in our world is just a lie?” Why would Hawkmoth say that? It could be nothing, but it feels so out of place I can’t help wondering what the writer's intentions were?

That’s the second time Marinette’s lucky charm has been akumatized.

CN to LB before he falls into the beam “No, don't do it! What if I fail?!” “You know what? I trust you.” This show really does make sure to let us know that no matter what, Chat Noir always believes in Ladybug.

LB to CN after she fixes everything, “Seriously! You have got to stop doing this to me!” “Yeah, but I can’t resist this angry little pout of yours when you bring me back.” Aww, definitely feels like foreshadowing.

“We keep secrets, and lie. But we always trust each other.”

“Gang of Secrets”

When CN says “Pound it!” She’s distracted and doesn’t right away. This is the start of them becoming more distant.

“You know, if you ever want to talk about anything I’m here for you.” CN says to LB as they leave the theater and she completely ignores him and ditches him.

The girls have a “Rabbit Check”. That’s interesting.

Alix is also the only one that doesn’t immediately give up. She says “It cannot end like this!” while all the other girls gave in. Might be nothing, just find it interesting.

“You’ve made mistakes before, Ladybug. And you’ll make them again, and then I will discover your secret.” There’s a heavy motif of mistakes and choices in this season. This is the beginning of it.

“Mr.Pigeon 72”

Adrien is specifically allergic to pigeon feather in this episode. Previously he was allergic to all feathers. Could his allergy to feathers be a red herring in the series?

Alya’s Grandma always says, “Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning how to dance in the rain.” When things go aerie, we have to learn to overcome them.

Ladies and Gentlemen, there it is! Finally! Adrien, Marinette and a red rose all on screen at the same time. As Adrien and Marinette are falling into the pool together, there is a pigeon carrying a red rose. It’s framed so that the pigeon is behind Adrien, signifying that he loves her, he just isn’t aware of it yet. I really hope this is the season Marinette reveals her true feelings for Adrien!

Plagg and Alya both tell Adrien and Marinette that they're insane. I just think that’s a cute parallel.

I'm starting to notice a motif of Adrien flying. It’s pretty constant throughout this season too.

When Marinette is helping Kagami meet Adriens gaze, it’s stated that Adrien thought he saw one of his friends from school. Kagami goes to a different school, he was looking at Marinette.

Marinette says to Kagami, “It’s because you're too far apart! It’s when you’re really close that you feel it!” Is this a metaphor for the wall between them?

Marinette to Kagami, “We haven’t gone back far enough in time to the moment you fell in love!” Hmmmmmm. When Marinette is able to give back the umbrella, will Adrien too realize his love for her? Or is it more literal than that?

“Yes! Create. The only limits are the ones you put on yourself!” Oooo.

When Marinette is offering back the umbrella she says, “I can finally give it back.” But Adrien isn’t ready to accept it yet. The umbrella is a symbol of love in this show, so once he gets it back.. “Keep it, you’re going to need it to get through all of this.” I know in the scene he’s referring to the rain, but there is definitely an undertone of something much bigger. Not only that, he could have easily said, “Keep it, you're going to need it to get through the rain.” But he doesn’t. He says ‘all this’ referring to the storm that’s coming. But they shared the umbrella for a brief time. She’s going to need him too to get through everything.

I think there’s going to be a moment where Adrien has to choose between his father, and Marinette, but the next time he’s going to choose Marinette. However as LB and HM, he might just start by choosing HM (as indicated by him getting in the car). The fact that he looks back though, means he’d rather be going with her.

“Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, but learning to dance in the rain.”

In the end card, Adrien has Marinette’s scarf on for 3 of the 4 pictures. While Ladybug’s eye’s look lovingly at them from the background, and Marinette dancing in the rain. Will the scarf come back and play an important role? Maybe the scarf to Adrien will become what the umbrella is to Marinette.

“Furious Fu”

When Marinette is telling the Guardian she doesn’t know who the owner of the cat miraculous since they are, “supposed to keep our identities a secret”, the Guardian looks at her confused but says nothing. That rule must have been implemented by Master Fu, and not a core rule of the Guardians. We know both Alya and Luka learn that Marinette is Ladybug, so maybe we will continue to see her open up and trust others with her identity too.

CN says to LB “Trust yourself, Ladybug. Like I do.” He really always does believe in her.

CN is so afraid of losing LB, he’s willing to stand up to the Guardian. Hope he show’s some of that same when he faces his dad.

HM says to his butterfly, “A scorned authority, a confused man defeated.” Is this foreshadowing to Adrien standing up to his dad, as well as CN standing up to HM?

CN cataclysms the soccer ball. The miracle box has had a lot of parallels to the soccer ball in this episode. Hope it’s not foreshadowing.

HM says, “Be careful with that box, you wouldn’t want to lose it again.”

The Guardian says, “Your natural instincts tell you who you can trust.” Even if CN goes rogue in this season, I think she will always trust him. He will always be a good guy.

The Guardian tells Marinette that he cannot imagine what would happen if the miracle box were to fall into the wrong hands, but that he’s trusting her to take care of it. A lot of allusion to Marinette losing the box in this episode.

“Sole Crusher”

“Sorry, Chat Noir. I got held up.” LB says it so nonchalantly that I didn’t understand it was a pun until the second time I watched it. Good writing.

The end card hints at Chloe becoming Queen Banana.

“Queen Banana”

The colors of the costumes immediately stand out. The green one for creation, and the red one for destruction. The colors are opposite to that of LB and CN. So which one does Marinette see herself as? In the next scene we get our answer. When the reporter is talking about costumes it pans to Alya (who is holding up the green costume) and Marinette who is holding up the red costume. The play that pans out directly parallel that of LB and CN, even if they say it’s not (as Marinette tell’s the kwamis it’s a movie, make belief).

(Alya holding up the green costume might signify that she’s on equal footing to CN and she’s going to be equally as important to the events. But I’m not as certain of this as the other stuff. Thought it was an interesting point regardless.)

Zoey says (as she is in the green costume) while practicing her lines, “You may hate me, but I will always love you.” This line is said four times throughout the episode, making it very important. The line is very Chat Noir in nature, and the fact that we have already seen Marinette holding up the red costume (to signify her role in the events) we can conclude that this is what Chat Noir is going to be saying to Ladybug regarding this big event. There is another hint at this in another episode we haven’t talked about yet. But I will point it out once we get there.

“You may hate me but I love you, and I always will.”

In the film, the entire population has been put into an enchanted sleep. But why? The only other time we see a character in "an enchanted sleep" is Emilie. Could this foreshadow that in order for Emilie to be brought back, everyone else will fall asleep?

When Chloe is getting mad about her role, Nino says, “But those two roles are equally as important.” We can’t forget there would be no LB without CN.

Marinette is the one who puts Adrien in the cage after Chloe orders a better challenge for her. “My father said it was for the good of the film.” So once again Adrien is trapped thanks to his dad. Marinette also takes charge and says “The first thing we are going to do is get Adrien out of that cage!” Foreshadowing? She may have led Adrien into his fathers grasp, but ultimately she’s also the one to get him out.

Zoey hits Mylene with a beam and Mylene drops to the ground (I also want to note that the sound that is made when Mylene is hit by the beam is the same sound that is used for Hawkmoth’s transformation. It’s also another allusion to LB getting cataclysmed, we've seen this hinted at a lot but whether it actually happens is another thing. The sound used to revive Adrien is different.) It’s interesting that Adrien was brought back by his movie counterpart. I wonder what that means for Adrien and Chat Noir?

“You may hate me, but I love you and I always will. Even if the whole world hates you.” Big foreshadowing.

The end card still shows Chloe in a purple aura, no one else has any other color change. Hinting at another akumatized Chloe, possibly the finale?

“Mega Leech”

Gabriel says to Andre, “When one fights for a good cause, one always finds a solution.” Gabriel believes his cause is good so maybe he will succeed?

“Buy us some time, Kitty!” “How come I’m always the one who has to buy us time” He says it with a smile, but that distance between them is growing and CN is showing it.

CN may have been possessed, but he did try to take her miraculous. This is a running theme in the show (It might not be hinting at anything bigger, but I'll put it here as a note anyways).

CN says, “Hey guys, wait up! Group pose!” He’s the last one in the frame, he’s being left behind.

This episode is also particularly interesting as it is the first time LB was able to defeat an akuma WITHOUT the use of CN’s powers. Not a good sign.

Gabriel and Adrien talking at the end of the episode, “Adrien, you took a stand against me today.” “I didn’t take a stand against you, father! I took a stand against a project my friend said was bad for the plane--”. Gabriel raises his left hand to stop Adrien. It completely engulfs Adrien and we get a good glimpse at Gabriel's ring. “Adrien. Go to your room.” Adrien obeys without any arguments. Gabriel plays with his ring behind his back while staring up the stairs squinting ever so slightly. There is obviously a connection between Adrien and those rings.

“Guilt trip”

When Gabriel is talking to his akuma he says, “Oh how well I know that feeling of loneliness. That anxiety no one else can share, and that only an Akuma can ease.” That’s so sad. But Gabriel does it to himself.

Marinette falls into Adrien and they stare at each other for a moment while the background changes to pink bubbles (signifying love) and he smiles softly at her. I’m starting to wonder if Adrien likes how clumsy Marinette is. If Adrien’s love language is touch, then he sure does get to touch her a lot, haha!

“Don’t feel bad about telling us, Juleka. You held out as long as you could, but it was just too much to bear alone.” This line parallels Marinette and Alya, but I wonder if it will also parallel Ladybug and Chat Noir by the end of the season?

When the gang is able to help Juleka overcome her loneliness, HM says; “Impossible! How can an abyss of loneliness just vanish?” It cuts to a wider frame so the audience can see just how alone HM is…

When the class goes to find Juleka after she runs away to the bathroom, Chloe, Sabrina and Lila are the only ones that don’t get up. Not really a surprise but i’ll note it anyways.

When Nino is inside the sentimonster he says, “I can’t even help my best bud stand up to his old man.” I think he will though, in the season finale. With the help of Marinette, of course!

CN says, “We should just give him our miraculous”. Then LB says, “Chat Noir, you have to think positive! You’re the greatest partner anyone could have!” She means it, but has a hard time showing it via her actions because she’s so afraid of revealing her identity to him. “Ladybug, do you really mean that?” “Yes! I probably don’t tell you this enough, but I couldn’t do this without you! And it would be a lot less fun too.” Chat Noir is able to break free from the bubbles and start cracking jokes. But. There is still. One. Purple. Bubble. Left. On. Him. He still has his doubts and it’s going to show later on in the season.

“Pigella’s powers shows the person it affects their hearts greatest desire.” I didn’t think much of Pigella’s powers the first time I watched this episode. I wrote it off as lame. But now rewatching and overanalyzing the series, I think she’s going to play a big role in the future. Whether she uses her powers on Gabriel, or Chat Noir.

“We don’t always need a spectacular fight to succeed.” LB says to CN.

“Crocoduel”

Shadowmoth says, “A group of friends are surprised to find out that ‘two’ of them have been keeping secrets.” This is 100% in reference to Marinette and Adrien keeping their identities. However, when the group finds out it’s a very positive reaction. They’re fears are for not!

“A young girl whose biggest fear has come true! What could be worse than not being loved by your own father?” Is this in reference to Chat Blanc? Or maybe CN turning on LB?

“Bugaboo, promise me we won’t be a couple like that when we get older?” “In order for that to happen we’d have to be a couple first, Kitty Cat.” She’s not full on rejecting him anymore.

“Optigami”

Adrien keeps smiling sweetly at Marinette when she’s being weird now. It’s really sweet and shows how fond he is of her now.

Style Queen to Shadowmoth “And I’ll get you the two trinkets you’re so obsessed with.” They're not the only two trinkets he’s obsessed with.

When Marinette and Adrien get stuck in the elevator, Marinette very sure of herself says; “I’m sure Chat Noir will be along to save us!” He replies, “Yeah or… Ladybug.” He however, doesn’t sound nearly as sure of himself, again showing the distance growing between them.

Even though we know Adrien is afraid of being trapped, he seems okay in the elevator because Marinette is there.

When Rena Rouge comes to save Marinette, she quite literally removes Chat Noir from the picture.

LB and CN banter, “To know me is to love me.” “On second thought.” She laughs. She doesn’t fully reject him though!

When CN asks LB how she knew the Akuma was in the miraculous she says,“Thanks to my lucky charm, Kitty Cat. It always shows me the right way. Except this time, I had gotten the villain wrong.” This feels like foreshadowing.

On the end card, it show’s Rena Rouge basically engulfing the screen, while CN is tiny in comparison. LB is pushing CN off to the side, not on purpose but it’s clearly happening.

“Sentibubbler”

In Marinette nightmare, it reveals all her biggest fears. Alya betrays her trust, Shadowmoth with the miracle box, Chat Blanc. What if all these things end up happening? Chloe is there too talking about how ridiculous keeping secret identities are. Could she be the voice of reason for once? Haha.

When Marinette goes over to Alya she says, “Not even Chat Noir can know” (in regards to secret identities). She needs to open up and trust Chat Noir more. That’s one of her biggest mistakes, and this whole season's motif is about mistakes and how to fix them.

“You were right to give me a miracu--grr!” Alya doesn’t finish her sentence. This gives me ominous vibes.

Tikki to Marinette, “ Trust Alya, Marinette. She’s never let you down before.” Yet! “ You’re right, plus I'm sure Chat Noir will show up soon.”

Marinette to Tikki once she sees Alya needs ‘help’, “Then Chat Noir is our last hope.” I think so. It reminds me of the movie they made earlier in the season, and how Zoey (in the green costume) saved everyone.

Alya’s Illusion “I’d never betray you, Ladybug.” Hmm.

Ladybug to Chat Noir, “This could have been the end of Shadowmoth.” “ You know, I really thought today was the end of Chat Noir, but you guys had it under control.” He doesn’t just mean the end because his miraculous was taken. He feels like it’s the end of their teamwork.

Gabriel talking to Natalie, “Ladybug never makes a mistake!” “Don’t give up. Everyone make’s mistakes. One day, she’ll make one too. And when that day comes, your wish will come true.” There’s the motif of mistakes again. I think Natalie is right. Ladybug is going to make a mistake, but how she fixes it will be important too.

“Rocketear”

In the movie theater Nino and Alya are watching the LB and CN animated film. There’s a particular line that is said between LB and CN, “Chat Noir, come back!” Is this a hint that he’s going to leave the team? “I’ll always love you, Ladybug!” And there it is! The line that confirms what I speculated in Queen Banana. “I love you, and I always will.” I think they make these moments very missable on purpose. If you’re not paying attention, you miss it really easily. I know I sure did before this over analyses.

When CN and Alya are talking on the rooftop and Alya laughs at CN she says, “Besides, I don’t know your real identity. I could never fall for someone I didn’t know.” This might be a slight at Marinette and Adrien. Until they know who the other really is, they’ll never be able to fully give themselves to one another.

When Nino tells Adrien that Alya and him know each other's secret identity, Adrien looks so hurt. “Ladybug would never allow that.” “She’s the one who gave us our miraculous at the same time.” “No that’s… Impossible.”

Alya and Rocketear, “I can’t believe I ever doubted you..” “I can’t believe I ever chose to do something over spending time with you.” “I’m so sorry..” He said as he cries a tear. Alya wipes the tear, paralleling the scene in Chat Blanc. If Alya can help Nino overcome being Rocketear, then LB can help CN overcome Chat Blanc.

“Love and secrets don’t mix, Ladybug. I’m sure you have many secrets too.” Shadowmoth says at the end of the episode. She has to be honest with Adrien if she ever wants a chance of being with him.

“Everyone has doubts now and then. Even me...” Chat Noir says as a huge poster of Adrien is staring at LB, almost disapprovingly. When CN and LB depart after, he looks so sad. I really feel for this boy. Everyone he loves is keeping him in the dark at this point.

“I can’t hide it from you, Nino. Because I love you, and we share everything.” Alya and Nino embrace. That’s how it should be. Ladybug has to find the courage to be honest with Chat Noir too, or she will never overcome Shadowmoth.

The end card is foreboding. With Chat Noir looking up at a bubble that looks like the moon. One of Marinette's biggest fears may be closer to coming true than she realizes.

“Wishmaker”

The art teacher tells Chloe, “ You know, Chloe. People are defined by their choices, and what they do with their lives.” This goes pretty hand in hand with the mistake motif of this season. We might make mistakes but it’s how we choose to overcome them that makes us who we are.

Plagg and Adrien talking, “Don’t you want to continue to be a model?” “I don’t think so, Plagg. I’m only doing it now because my father asked me to.” We all know how obedient Adrien can be when it comes to his father… “I realize now I don’t know what else I want to do. I never asked myself that question.” :( “Since Ladybug keeps handing out miraculous, the day will come where she won’t need me anymore.” There is no Ladybug without Chat Noir.

As Marinette is struggling with figuring out what she wants for her future, Sass begins floating in front of her and says; “Marinette. What is the real important thing that will bring meaning to your life?” He asks her as he hovers in front of a photo collage of Adrien.

When Luka is talking to Marinette and Alec by the beach, Marinette tells Luka, “You definitely have a gift for finding the right words at the right time.” As Adrien sutley enters the background behind her. She too will find the right words for Adrien when the time is right.

Not really a note, but can we talk about how romantic and amazing Luka is? Too good for this world, haha!

Adrien while talking to Luka and Marinette, “If I don’t figure it out, my father will decide for me once again.” “I thought I’d be content doing whatever my father wanted me to do.” “My father arranges it all for me, but if I think about what I want to do… Nothing! My mind’s empty.” These lines really hurt my head. He’s so clearly being controlled by his father, but something along the way has changed. He is no longer satisfied doing what his father wants him to do.

Luka tells Adrien, “Your song, Adrien, sounds like it’s being muffled by someone playing a sad piano tune. But your true melody is a happy one.” Once Adrien can overcome his father, his true nature will be revealed and he will become the happy boy we all know and love him for.

Alec gets sad and says, “I’ve been making the wrong choices all my life.” There’s that motif again.

“He’s mistaking dreams for reality.”

LB and CN bantering, “The knitting fairy? Seriously?” “What about you? What did you wanna be when you were young? You’re making fun of me, but you’re too embarrassed to tell me.” “Actually, I don’t know what I wanted to be..” “You probably wanted to be a fireman, or a magician.” Trait she sees in CN. Having fun, and being brave. But I can’t help but think, didn’t Felix also want to be a magician?

CN to Wishmaker, “Don’t waste your breath. I didn’t have any (in regards to dreams).” “Every child has a dream.” Unless… he skipped that phase of his life?

When CN gets hit, he goes directly under the picture of his mother. “When I was a kid, I always wanted to be what my parents wanted me to be!” And then it’s just Adrien. So who is Adrien Agreste? Is Adrien truly Adrien? Or is he modelled after someone else?

Adrien is going to start looking forward to the future and forget about the past. This reminds me of a famous quote, “I see now that the circumstances of one's birth are irrelevant. It is what you choose to do with the gift of life that determines who you are.” -Mewtwo from Pokemon the First Movie.

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[jasontoddiefor]

Summary: In a world where the different Jedi sects co-exist, Ahsoka Tano and her Master Obi-Wan Kenobi are waiting for a stranger in the desert.

AN: I have started a new WIP.

Ahsoka had learned quite a lot since she had become her Master’s Padawan. Mostly she had been taught how to fight, take down opponents twice her size, how to defend and protect others by building walls higher than anyone could climb, and not get lost in the screaming, tear-stained horror of war. Perhaps it was not the padawanhood that Ahsoka had imagined, but she wouldn’t trade Obi-Wan for any other Master. He was patient, kind, and never lost his temper with her, even when Ahsoka made a foolish mistake, and the day had been longer than a week.

Her Master always kept busy, running around organizing one thing or another. The evidence of his exhaustion was visible in the bags under his eyes he didn’t quite manage to hide behind meditations anymore. He was relentlessly trying to find a way to end this war earlier, to save more people, to lessen the burden on each and every person he loved. Ahsoka would be glad if they could cease fighting within just a few short months, but even she knew that the chance of peace was dwindling with every life lost on either side.

And they certainly weren’t on Tatooine to talk about peace. At most, they were hoping to negotiate non-involvement from the Hutts – at least superficially, of course the Hutts would continue with their underground dealings, even the GAR relied on it – and use of their hyperspace lanes.

“General, if you don’t mind me asking, who are we waiting for?”

Ahsoka was glad that Cody had spoken up. She wasn’t sure if she would have been able to keep her silence much longer. She hadn’t wanted to pester Obi-Wan with questions, but she was curious why they had landed in the middle of the Force-forsaken desert in the middle of the night and not anywhere near Jabba’s palace.

“We are waiting for an informant,” Obi-Wan said. “An old friend, if you will.”

Ahsoka opened her mouth to ask what kind of friend Obi-Wan had on Tatooine of all places when she saw a figure approaching on a speeder. Immediately, everyone looked up. When a few of the more blaster-inclined clones of their small squadron reached for their weapons, Obi-Wan gave them the hand sign to lay low. They exchanged curious looks but dropped the guns, trusting him completely. Ahsoka hoped that she could inspire such trust in her someday.

The person parked their speeder just outside of their camp. From what Ahsoka could see, they were dressed entirely in dark robes, cut not dissimilar to those of a Coruscanti Jedi, while their face was covered by a dark scarf. Various trinkets hung from their belts and arms, as well as twin blasters, making the barest of noises when they approached the camp. Golden jewelry glinted in the light of their fire, feathers, pouches, bells, and something that could be bones chimed sweetly with the wind. The figure stretched, then they took notice of Obi-Wan. Quicker than Ahsoka could have stopped them, they had crossed the remaining distance and thrown themselves at Obi-Wan.

“Obi-Wan!”

Her Master just barely managed to keep his balance as he accepted the hug of the other person. They embraced tightly, an eternity passing in which dark leather-gloved fingers dug into her Master’s back, then let go of each other. The figure removed the dark scarf from around their head, let it fall around their neck, revealing tanned skin, a human face, and dark blonde hair that was framed by little golden feathers tugged behind his ears.

The person smiled openly, rolled forward on their toes and only then spoke. “It’s been a while.”

Their voice was surprisingly soft, melodic almost.

“That it has,” Obi-Wan agreed, smiling just as welcoming, the Force lighting up in reciprocal. “It has been too long since we last saw each other, Anakin. Thank you for meeting us here, even if the circumstances are not ideal.”

The newly named Anakin just shrugged. “I was in the area and really, making an extra stop at Tatooine for you is no trouble.”

The two looked ready to forget about just everyone else still standing around the campfire, watching them, and so Ahsoka decided to do her duty and coughed. “Master, would you be so kind as to introduce us?”

“Ah, yes, of course. Apologies, Ahsoka.”

“Ahsoka,” Anakin mumbled, then snapped their fingers, alight with recognition as they faced Obi-Wan. “Your Padawan, correct?”

Obi-Wan nodded and Anakin grinned, pointing at Cody next. “And then that must be Cody. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Anakin Skywalker, he/him.”

He bowed formally with both his feet firm on the ground, one hand clasped over his heart, the other on his back. Delighted, Ahsoka copied the gesture. It had been ages since she’d been at the temple and someone had greeted her with all the respect Jedi usually gave each other.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Ahsoka returned his greeting, still trying to figure out who this Anakin was that her Master had decided to talk to him about her.

“Anakin here is a Teepo Paladin—”

“Sort of,” Anakin interrupted Obi-Wan, tilting his hand and shaking it in a so-and-so matter. “I haven’t been back to our temple in years, so I’m still not technically a Paladin, but still a Knight on their Search…”

He stopped talking when he realized that nobody had any idea of what he was talking about. Ahsoka didn’t know much about the Teepo Paladins. They were a relatively small group, and unlike the Altisian or Corellian Jedi, they hadn’t joined the Republic Army and stayed mostly on their own, following the Force. Ahsoka had learned about them, and all the other groups the ordinary sentient threw under the header Jedi, in her classes, but she’d never actually met a Teepo Jedi.

“Doesn’t matter,” Anakin said, shaking his head. “How can I help you?”

“We need to negotiate with Jabba,” Obi-Wan said, not wasting a single minute. “Do you think you can tell us something that would be useful?”

“Uh,” Anakin put his head in his hands. “Yeah, he’s a bastard and gates my guts. If he sees me around you guys, it’s definitely not going to be pleasant.”

“What did you do to him?” Ahsoka asked, curiosity taking ahold of her tongue before she could stop herself.

Anakin didn’t seem to mind the interruption; he only eagerly continued his narration. “Decided to steal his latest shipment of slaves and then some. With Coruscant, Corellia, and the Altisian bores—”

“Anakin.” Her Master’s voice rang out sharp, reminding Ahsoka of the times he scolded her.

Anakin rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine, the Altisian Jedi all running the Republic army, the rest, who hasn’t sworn allegiance to a planet or a system, is just doing damage control all around. I’ve wrecked a couple dozen pirate ships already, or so it feels, at least. But yeah, long story short, I won’t be able to help with Jabba, but I can provide backup if it goes sideways?”

Obi-Wan sighed, but even so, he still felt happy and comfortable to Ahsoka’s senses as he hadn’t in weeks. “We’ll take what we can get. I’ll call the Council. Do you want to stay with us for the night?”

Anakin gave him a thumbs up. “Already told my mother I was staying. And I brought my own food, so you don’t have to spare your rations. I think I might even have some sweets.” He glanced at Ahsoka and winked conspiringly, making her giggle.

Obi-Wan’s expression softened. “Alright, alright, I see, you’re set for life. Get comfortable then.”

He turned around to walk a little away from the camp, but from the way his shoulders twitched, Ahsoka assumed that he definitely heard Anakin’s shouted: “Not without you!”

As her Master had ordered, everyone who wasn’t on watch gathered around the campfire and broke out the rations. Anakin did, indeed, share his candy with her and handed out more of the local food to the clones.

“My mother packed it,” he said when he shared more of the salt-covered blackberries. “It would be a waste not to share it.”

Sitting around the fire with them, he fit right in despite not looking much like a warrior. If anything, his attire, decorated with trinkets that had to stem from various planets, reminded Ahsoka of a traveler. But if she were to believe his stories, he must be quite the fighter. Ahsoka knew that more and more pirates were growing powerful and influential without Coruscant’s oversight, but she hadn’t known that the other sects had stepped up to deal with it. She wondered if the Council knew. Though, Obi-Wan hadn’t seemed surprised by it, so they were probably aware.

“So, do you not carry a lightsaber?” Ticker, one of the younger clones, asked. “I only see your blasters. I didn’t know Jedi carried those.”

“The Coruscant sect doesn’t,” Anakin agreed and then turned to Ahsoka. “Though, I think you’re still all taught how to? I know Obi-Wan’s wickedly good with a sniper rifle.”

“Of course,” Ahsoka replied quickly. She got her blaster sessions with the best marksmen of the 212th, who all ensured she should be fine if she ever lost her lightsaber.

Not that Ahsoka was planning on it.

“Right, my Order carries blasters additionally to our lightsabers.” He moved his robes and revealed his lightsaber. “I just keep it a little more hidden away. It makes it easier to work sometimes if people don’t see from a mile away that you’re a Jedi.”

Ahsoka found herself agreeing with him. It made sense and she knew that there had been at least five missions that would have been easier if their target hadn’t immediately spotted that she was a lightsaber. She knew that her Order carried the blades openly purposefully so that they could be easily identified, they had to be as they were an officially recognized member of the Republic, but Quinlan and Aayla didn’t. Most Covenant Jedi actually didn’t, ensuring they could do their work in the shadows. Occasionally, Ahsoka wondered whether she was supposed to know so much about how they operated, or if that was just a benefit of Obi-Wan being close friends with Quinlan.

“And where’s the difference between your… everything and the General’s?”

“Don’t ask me for details,” Anakin said. “Haven’t had one of those discussions in a while, but our differences aren’t that huge. Most of the differences stem from the Republic backing of the Coruscant sect, I think. The members of my Order just also carry blasters and fight entirely submerged in the Force. We also don’t really do missions, which sucks for budgeting because we still have to get funding, and just go wherever the Force takes us. We don’t really have the numbers to provoke the big changes, that’s more up Coruscant’s or Corellia’s alley. We try to help the small people on the ground and hope the big guys make sure we can leave one planet in safe hands and travel to the next.”

That sounded familiar to Ahsoka. The Coruscant sect was the largest, so they had the most influence, even if too many Senators only played pretend at listening to their suggestions. At least the Chancellor trusted them.

“What do you mean, fight submerged in the Force?” A different clone, Storytime, ever the curious, spoke up. “Is that different from the General and the Commander?”

“Oh! Right.” Anakin laughed. “So basically, we cover our eyes and ears during a fight?”

“You do what?” Cody’s alarmed tone made Ahsoka only snort. She still remembered his attempt at getting Obi-Wan to wear a little more armor by pointing at the Revanchist folks that had accompanied them on one mission.

It had been an absolute train-wreck, but they had managed to succeed. Somehow.

Anakin only grinned in reply and reached for the golden feathers behind his ears. He took them off, revealing that they were not, in fact, feathers, but electronic devices with small buttons. 

“I tap these, and they block out any and all noise and cover my eyes. Then I trust the Force to keep me safe and tell me where I need to pay attention.”

“That sounds… risky.” If Ahsoka didn’t know better, she’d say that Cody was having a heart attack. His assessment of that fighting style had been exceedingly polite given that he looked as if he wanted to cuss it out.

Anakin shrugged as if it were no big deal to him and, having grown up in such a way, it probably wasn’t. “It wasn’t that difficult to get used to. I grew up here on Tatooine. The sand and the heat steal away plenty of your senses already.”

“You weren’t raised in your temple then?”

Anakin shook his head. “No, not really. We do have a temple, a rather small one, not even a tenth of Coruscant’s size. We raise children there, but most of the time, everyone is just on their Search.”

He emphasized the last word so that Ahsoka concluded it must be a special ritual that wasn’t like their Search for younglings.

“My Master was on his Search when he found me and since the Force didn’t call him home, he continued to travel with me.”

That sounded like a strange childhood to have. Ahsoka hadn’t known anything of the galaxy but the temple walls and Ilum until Obi-Wan had accepted her as his Padawan. Since then, she had seen plenty of other planets, even if she hadn’t had too much time to appreciate their beauty. She wondered how Anakin had gotten his education. Ahsoka had attended many classes of dozens of teachers in the temple. His childhood didn’t appear to resemble hers a lot, but she could easily picture a small human boy trailing after another masked Jedi, chatting with just the same cheer he was talking now.

“Sounds fascinating,” Storytime breathed. 

“Once the war is over, feel free to come to visit us. I know of at least one other Paladin who has attached himself to a Clone squadron and is planning to take them home for a visit at least once.”

“That would be very kind,” Storytime replied.

“No problem.”

Anakin then suddenly turned his head, his motion so rash that the clones instinctually reached for their blasters. Thankfully, they recognized Obi-Wan quickly enough that nobody got hurt accidentally.

Obi-Wan only blinked at them and then sat down next to Anakin. “What a lovely greeting.”

Some of the clones sheepishly packed their blasters away while others just shot back a look that was as dry as Obi-Wan’s words. They were on Tatooine; it made sense to be even more on guard than usual.

“And? What did your Council say?” Anakin asked, handing Obi-Wan a plate with food.

“Coruscant is not taking any responsibility for any outside agents who might get involved in this mission,” Obi-Wan replied, the flow of his words so steady that he had to be reciting the words of another.

“That’s council speak for ‘let him do whatever he wants’, right?”

Obi-Wan paused with his meal to confirm his question. “Yes, Anakin, that means you can do whatever you want. But if you get invited by the Republic for a hearing, we’re not backing you up either.”

“Yes, yes, I had expected nothing else from you sticker-to-the-rules Coruscanti.”

“Says the head-in-the-clouds Teepo,” Obi-Wan retorted in the same manner, matching Anakin’s intonation, quoting old stereotypes that used to be hurled as insults but have since only become something almost akin to terms of endearments.

“So, when are we going to leave?” Ahsoka asked. She wanted to know if she should go to bed early or prepare herself for a long night.

“Tomorrow before the sun rises,” Obi-Wan said, glancing at Anakin for confirmation.

“Yes, best to leave early on Tatooine. I’d also suggest trying to get some sleep. Negotiations will be exhausting.”

Obi-Wan hummed in agreement. “You know what that means, Ahsoka.”

“Yes, yes.” Ahsoka stood up. “Bedtime for me. I’m not a little youngling anymore, Master. I know when to get my sleep.”

She bid them goodnight and headed back towards the ship, ready to sleep curled up in the small med-station of their transport that was as close to a proper bed as she could get. She didn’t know how much longer her Master and his friend stayed up, but both looked well-rested when she got up the next day. Her Master, perhaps, even a little less exhausted than usual.

[cloud9in]

Encounter (Mc x Veronica)

Summary: Veronica goes out for drinks one night and finds herself in a situation where she needs saving. Good thing Bea exists right?

This fic was highly inspired by my boo @fundamentalromantic. Thank you so much for the idea and I hope you enjoy it.

Word count: 2,300

Warnings: Violence, implied sex, but 80% banter 

Tags: @samanthadalton @satrinadia @clowneryme @thedaft1 @alccaddsccup @penda-bear (tagged some people who I thought would like to read)

 A day before moving into Belvoire, Veronica decided she should get a feel of the area. New York was far different from the usual quietness of her small hometown in California. But on the bright side, the vlogger would get a ton of content for her Youtube channel in the buzzing city where people never sleep. The first few days of exploring involved bar hopping and recruiting Chloe to help her film in Soho and Chinatown for beauty week. Poppy took part in Veronica’s tour as well, and on Thursday the girls decided to check out the newest night club that opened up.

 Veronica stepped out of the car in a sparkly thigh-length dress with a slit, and black Louboutin heels. It definitely caught the attention of people standing outside the club, a few guys even attempting to approach her in their drunken state. Chloe basked in the attention, flirting with a blonde-haired guy who was clearly overdressed (in her eyes). Poppy dragged Chloe with her and the three girls walked swiftly past the long line of people and up to the bouncer. It didn’t take much effort to have him open the door for them, being as they were the three hottest people on the block, but Veronica also did have a killer reputation at just about any place she stepped foot in.

 An hour into partying and Veronica held her phone up as her livestream watched them all do a round of colorful tequila shots. The vlogger definitely felt the warm buzz of booze swimming through her veins as her muscles started to relax. New York was the place to be right now and more eventful than all of the years she lived in Cali. Veronica was excited to continue her career and studies in a place like this, but her peaceful thoughts are quickly cut off when someone approaches her, the smell of cheap alcohol invading her senses.

 “What’s a tigress like you doing in a raunchy place like this baby?” Veronica rolled her eyes at the hideous effort of flirting by a man who reeked of “just got divorced and into younger women”. His friends (who were probably part of the same club) seemed to laugh around him, encouraging the unwanted behavior. She shook her head and turned away from him in her chair. Don’t let some idiots ruin your night V, have some fun.

 She immediately stiffened when he wrapped his arms around her from behind, the wet feeling of his alcohol soaked beard grazing against her cheek. Veronica  jerked up abruptly, shoving the man away from her and placing her arms up in defense. “Get the fuck off of me.” 

 At this point people started to stare at them, Poppy and Chloe already standing by the Zeta’s side with anger. Veronica had left her phone on the table but the stream kept going, capturing the voices of patrons in the bar getting increasingly louder. The bearded man watched her with a predatory look on his face, well aware of the crowd that was forming around them. He grunted and turned away after realizing he probably couldn’t take on three women at once, atleast not in the way he imagined. Chloe scoffs loudly, crossing her arms, “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’re scared of us. Pathetic piece of garbage.” 

 Yeah....bad idea Chlo.

 When he whipped around to face them, Veronica finally noticed just how large his muscles were, and how they were straining against his shirt. Oh shit. 

 “What did you say to me bitch?”

 Veronica shot a nasty glare at Chloe before facing the stranger once again, her arms slightly trembling. “Look, let's just forget all of this and move on with our night. Don't mind my friend...she’s just..” Veronica leans closer, mocking a whisper, “it’s that time of the month.” The guys laughed at her comment and she silently breathed a sigh of relief, hoping this would make them back off. The last thing Veronica needed was to get her ass handed to her on live, with thousands of people watching. Poppy stood there eyeing the men, her hand already on the tip of her phone, ready to speed dial her dad, or the cops...or her therapist if things went awry. 

 Chloe sneered at Veronica, her awful balance making her stumble as she stepped closer to the men. She clearly had too much to drink. “Oh please, I’m not sorry for anything that comes out of my mouth, even if it includes vomit!” She points a finger in their direction, “give me your best you motherfuc- mmh!”

 Poppy clamps one hand straight onto the blonde’s mouth before she can spit out any more profanity. Her face a mixture of annoyance and fear as the men start to lose their smiles. Veronica can see the bearded man getting ready to lunge at her and her flight or fight instincts seemed to kick in at the last second. She dodged the hand that tried to grab her, but he caught her leg as he was spent sprawling down on the ground from something behind. She yelped and kicked free of his hold before catching the gaze of a woman who stood a few feet away from her. Their eye contact was immediately broken as the stranger glared down at the man, “hands off the lady.”

 Two men from the group with buzzcuts tried to grab hold of the brunette’s arms but she spins easily and kicks one right in between the legs, making him fall in pain. The other guy tried to knock her down from behind but she locked his arm in an odd and excruciating position, “do you really want to do this?” His persistence led her to pull on his elbow, eliciting a scream from the man until he surrendered and scurried away, along with the rest of their crew.

 The brunette swiftly kicks the bearded man in the abdomen after seeing him trying to get up, “stay down you asshole.” 

 She wipes a trickle of sweat from her forehead and huffs out, “I’ve wrestled pigs bigger than these guys, but damn that was a workout.” Unbeknownst to the woman, it was all caught on tape and would be everywhere, including Belvoire’s hottest gossip blog the T. But she doesn’t have to worry about that because she doesn’t go there, right?

 Veronica gapes at the girl who single handedly became her hero, in tight leather pants. The curly-haired woman noticed the speechless expression on her face and smirked. “Well if I were you guys, I’d leave this place before the cops miraculously show up.”

 “Somebody should call the police! These- these bimbos tried to kill us-”

 Chloe earns another hand on her mouth as Poppy starts to push her towards the exit, “Oh yeah the only bimbo here is YOU, go and sit in the car before you end up in a jail cell.” 

 Veronica turns away from the chaotic scene and notices that the brunette has gotten closer to her. She can feel her throat starting to heat up, and it was enough to take her mind off what just happened. The Zeta girl tries to take a step and immediately feels her heel slip sideways, but the woman captures her hands and steadies her before she can fall. “Woah- careful there. Maybe we should walk outside? This club is starting to get crowded.” 

 They step around the man sprawled out on the floor. Yeah someone will probably come get him, no worries. Veronica lets her lead the way until they both step out to the curb. The brunette helps her sit down on the edge of the sidewalk before taking a seat next to her. “You know, I can’t keep living life without knowing the name of my savior.” 

 The mystery girl barks out a laugh as she siddles closer to her. She holds out her hand, hoping that Veronica would grab it, “Bea, Bea Hughes. And you?”

 Veronica stares at her wide-eyed, a not so sarcastic gasp escaping her lips, “You-you don’t know who I am?”

 “...Should I?”

 Bea scrunches her eyebrows in confusion before snapping her fingers, “Oh wait! You’re a Kardashian..!” That earns her a hard smack to her leg but she can only laugh teasingly. 

 “I think that was the most disrespectful thing someone has ever said to me....You’re very lucky you’re cute. Oh and it's Veronica.”

 Bea bites her lip shyly, “You’re too beautiful to be one of them...Veronica. And you definitely look all real to me.”

 “Okay if you’re trying to seduce me, this is NOT the way to go Hughes.”

 They both bust out laughing and Veronica wraps her arm around Bea’s, letting herself sink into her side. “Thank you by the way...I mean, not like I couldn’t handle it myself.” She shrugs and looks down at their entangled arms, squeezing tighter, “I owe you one.”

 “You don’t owe me a damn thing Veronica. I’m just grateful I was there as well. This ain’t the first time those goons have harassed women in the area.”

 “Judging by that southern accent and fighting skills, I’m guessing you’re not from here?”

 Bea smiles down at Veronica, studying her bright hazel eyes and luscious lashes. “No I am not, but….if you want to know more about me, how about over a drink? If you want to.” 

 The Zeta girl laughs softly, nudging her, “Oh so you do know how to flirt Hughes. Let's do it! But um..it might be a little difficult to do that because my heel is broken.”

 Bea peers down at her stilettos which seemed to be way past 7 lives now and smiles to herself. In one swift motion she scoops Veronica up in her arms bridal style. The vlogger gasps in surprise before wrapping her arms around the brunette’s neck. “Our problem seems to have disappeared already. And you are incredibly light like a feather.” Bea teases the Zeta, lifting her in an up and down motion.

 “That’s because I’m 40% alcohol right now, but do keep me in your arms, perfectly convenient for me.”

 “You mean I get to carry a stunning woman in my arms free of charge? This must be heaven..”

 “Okay Ms. Flirt, keep walking I’ll direct you where to go.”

 Bea fought the urge to tease her about trying to be dominant but the voices of Poppy and Chloe caught their attention. She approached the car where Chloe sat…wailing hysterically..?

 “I don’t want to go to prison! Don’t let them take me Poppy please!” The blonde grabs Poppy’s dress and doesn’t let go, desperately looking around. When Bea finally stops in front of them, Poppy looks over at the two women and rolls her eyes, clearly fed up.

 “Poppy what the hell is happening with Chlo?!” Veronica breathes out, even though this is the last place she wants to be.

 “Chloe thinks I called the cops on her and she said she doesn't want to sleep on a concrete bed with two other women in a prison cell.”

 Bea raises an eyebrow as she watches the two Zeta girls stare at each other like they’re used to what was happening right now. Veronica gives Poppy a stern look, essentially telling her “leave me alone, I’m trying to get laid”, and the strawberry blonde catches on quickly. She turns away, sighing heavily, “Go, I’ll deal with this. But be at the house tomorrow, it's our first day back.”

 The Zeta grins and blows her a kiss, signaling for Bea to carry on down the sidewalk as she lays in her arms barefoot. Poppy watches them walk away and roll her eyes.

 “So, should I ask?”

 “I think you would appreciate it if I didn’t tell you.”

 The brunette laughs easily, crossing the now empty street. The more she walked the direction that Veronica guided her to, the more quieter it got. “Um… V. Where exactly are we going..?”

 “You’ll see. It’s a secret spot. Kind of like a speakeasy, except it’ll just be the two of us and we can do whatever we want.” Veronica flips her hair seductively, catching Bea’s gaze as she bites her lips and winks. The brunette can feel her heart starting to beat faster, her breath hitching in her throat. She barely can move her gaze off of Veronica’s hazel orbs, her cheeks reddening at the girl’s shameless comment. 

 Lucky for Bea (or maybe not), their night was just getting started, and Veronica would have her blushing again, but this time on her knees. 

 ***

 Veronica saunters confidently into the gates of Belvoire on move-in day, watching as others run around campus with luggages and bags. She sips on the iced latte in her land, eyes glued to her phone on the other hand. She eventually finds Chloe yelling at some assistant girl and immediately turns around, not wanting to deal with it. A woman with a suitcase and a grey Henley shirt approaches the blonde, reprimanding her for her rude behavior. The video of the fight last night appears on the T just as Veronica looks at her phone again. Bea’s leather jacket appears on-screen and knocks the man down. Veronica smirks as she watches the woman take on 3 men effortlessly. People around start to point at the brunette while looking at their phones, and Veronica doesn’t look up until two voices that appear to be arguing, get louder. She nearly drops the cup of coffee in her hands when she sees the same face that was between her legs the previous night. 

 And as Poppy approaches Bea, the brunette catches a glimpse of familiar hazel eyes and ombre colored hair and her eyes go wide. “...Veronica..?” Oh shit.

[dreamiesdotcom]

tw: implied death, implied suicide

[9:29] There's an empty seat in this classroom, and Renjun has always felt drawn to it. He can't help but wonder about who used to sit there, if they shined brighter than the sunlight that grazes it every morning at 10 o'clock.

"Why don't you hang out with our classmates?" Renjun asks one day as you eat at the rooftop, some place hidden where people wouldn't see you. You don't want them to be mad at Renjun, too.

"They don't need me." You shrugged, "I'm... not like them, Renjun. I don't fit in."

"Y/N..."

"I don't matter."

"You do."

"That's okay," you say with a smile, "You don't have to lie."

Because maybe Renjun is a liar just like them. Maybe he would've hanged out with you as a punishment, even as a dare. Maybe he's not so much of a savior, not a hero — heroes don't exist, after all. Renjun might just be another liar. It will do you good to not trust him so much.

"But you do! I'm not a liar and you know that, Y/N."

"You're just saying that because you don't know me," you whisper slowly, painfully, almost as if an afterthought. Then, you smile, "Once you know me... the real me... you'll forget me, just like everyone else."

And for once Renjun doesn't quite know what to do. He doesn't know what to say, or if he wants to say anything at all — it pains him to be like this, to be sad and scared of what unknown unfolds infront of him.

"No," Renjun whispers just as slow, just as painful, just as much of an afterthought. If he could, he would've cupped your cheeks, but he was too weak to move a limb.

He's never even touched you, not a strand of hair. He finds himself unable too.

He was far too in love to understand why.

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"You're the moon, the stars, and the sun, Y/N," he blinks, tears in his eyes falling. "You're my entire universe, and you matter."

Heartbeat. Mayhaps he's a liar. Maybe he's better off a liar. He might be an actor, someone good at pretending; no one can make you feel so important, and you know you'll never be.

Still, you'd like to fool yourself a bit and accept his words, true or not.

"I shouldn't be," you leave a kiss on his cheek, as gentle as a tickle from a feather. "I shouldn't be, but thank you.

"Can I ask a favor, though?" You smile at him, moving away. You don't wait for him to answer, "Don't... tell anyone about me, alright, Renjun?"

It's an odd request. Basically everyone knows everyone in this school. It's a small place, warm and sweet, sweeter because of this person; someone standing right in front of Renjun, plucking petals from a white flower.

"Why?"

"No one would believe you, anyway," you say again. "I'm an outcast. I'm afraid they'll... do the same to you."

"Y/N..."

"Just..." You sigh, "Promise me, Renjun."

And he does, hesitantly, but he does — "I promise."

"Thank you."

And that's how the story goes.

Renjun changes schools, finds love and a person that exists in a spring that can never be replaced.

Y/N could never be replaced.

Here's one regret, though: Renjun broke one promise.

Donghyuck knew his best friend has been in love for a while. He saw stars in his eyes and moonlight in his hands, he heard him humming love songs. He has the shine and the happiness of someone who just fell in love.

"Well, what's the name?"

Renjun sighs, all dreamy and definitely in love — "Y/N."

And he didn't know what he quite expected, but it definitely is not Donghyuck's shocked face, or the utter silence that follows. His heart thumps weakly against his chest.

"Y—Y/N?"

"Mhm!" He smiles from ear to ear still, although what fills him is fear more than delight. "Y/N from our class. C'mon, Hyuck, why do you look so surprised?"

But mad was the proper word. Donghyuck seemed angry, seemed like he was hiding something; he seemed sad and... is that what people call nostalgia? Yearning? So far yet so near... the look that flashes on a person's eyes when they see something unreachable.

"Y/N?" Donghyuck raises a brow, and tries to smile patiently, "There's no Y/N in this class, Renjun."

His head hurts. Renjun feels memories fading and coming in, flashbacks forgotten racing in his thoughts. His heart beats and stops and he feels like death, like dying.

From behind him, Jaemin laughs, something dark and unlike his normally tinkling giggles. Renjun has that feeling of sharp stabs in his back again, and maybe this once, just this once he regrets being curious.

He's lying. They're lying.

Liars! Liars, all of them.

Y/N is real... Y/N...

Y/N...

Who is Y/N?

"Y/N doesn't exist," Jaemin mutters darkly, "or more like, Y/N doesn't exist anymore."

[writeblrfantasy]

born from the prologue of the way of kings, some old school supernatural inspiration, and my entry into the hannibal fandom, i give you cyril's hell! all the characters in this are gods of actium state and urkon, and this happens well before acogs takes place. nikolai and katya tell this story over the fire over the course of the book. it's a mythology story.

cw blood, very vague descriptions of pain and torture and injuries, everything you can think of about someone being tortured in hell basically

word count about 7000

thank you guys for all the love on the summer of seret ashling, it definitely inspired me to write another short. i love writing shorts--you get the serotonin from finishing a wip and seeing people's reactions to it much faster. lower stakes. i have plans to write many more :)

enjoy! <3

Cyril wakes to burning pinpricks of agony seared into his arms. Unfortunately, this is perfectly normal.

The ghost of Alabaster’s laugh echoes in his ears, slowly fading out, but never completely. He never leaves Cyril alone, whether he’s sleeping—if you can call it that—or widely, excruciatingly awake. He’s dropped Cyril back in what has become his home, a room brightly lit with distant fire and a musical background consisting of the screams of the damned.

This place, out of all, is probably the safest for him, despite the metal piercing his arms, the chains connecting him to the ceiling. His arms went numb from the angle minutes ago. He tries not to jostle them, as well as his collection of new wounds, only healed enough not to kill him.

What does Cyril have to do to prove he knows he can't escape?

It’s not about that, he knows.

Alabaster's hell is more than pain, more than agony. It transcends anything Cyril has ever experienced, and yet every week Alabaster finds ways to show him something else new.

How long has it been?

Does it matter?

Alabaster’s cologne lingers on Cyril’s skin, one more layer of invisible pain. The worst thing is perhaps how he’s unable to wipe away the sweat dripping into his eyes. It only takes minutes after Alabaster deposits him back in here for his whole body to become soaked again.

Cyril naively thought, when Alabaster first brought him here, that it wouldn’t be so bad. That everything he’d be made to endure would be softened or cushioned in some way, more about drama than actual pain.

How wrong he was.

Alabaster, or perhaps just his own mind, has trained him to be relieved when he comes to unlock Cyril’s door every week. Freedom, he thinks, respite from the endless heat and sweat and reprieve for his aching arms. For the first few seconds, Alabaster’s smile looks pleasant. He’s undoubtedly excited to see Cyril, but Cyril somehow manages to forget every single time that smile means nothing good for him.

“Hello, beautiful,” Alabaster always says, in such a familiar tone it’s imprinted in Cyril’s dreams. “Let’s go.”

Reprieve turns into regret quickly.

Cyril has learned how to manage this, somewhat. Stay very still, don’t trigger anything, don’t tense up, try to sleep. Doing nothing but sleep for the whole week until Alabaster comes still won’t do enough, but in sleep, he has relief for a bit longer, a chance to see Damokles’ face again.

Tonight, when he closes his eyes, it’s not just Damokles’ kind eyes waiting for him, it’s Thea’s dark ones, clearer than usual, almost like they’re calling out for him.

He opens them and jostles himself a bit by accident, groaning in agony. He searches the shadows in the corner of the room for her face, and he could’ve sworn—

There’s nothing there but the sweat in his eyes.

***

As he drifts through sleep and wakefulness, Thea’s dark eyes return to him. He sees flashes of her through the haze of flames and screams, a striking dark clarity and a sense of peace.

The days just before Alabaster collects him are the worst. He finally has his strength back, or as he much as is possible down here, and it’s a new kind of agony to feel so glorious the day before his feet will be knocked out from under him. In the early days, when he still believed he could sway Alabaster by repetition alone, that if he begged just enough, Alabaster might listen, he pled to be left alone for just one more week.

“Not this time,” he’d sob, back when he still sobbed, when he gave Alabaster the pleasure of savoring his carefully crafted creation. Let him see, let him have it, he once thought. If he gave Alabaster what he wanted, he’d get a reward, because that’s how fair people work. All it did was make Alabaster hungry for more of his tears.

“Thea?” he whispers, low, as he swears her face appears in the shadows again. She’s exquisite, and she’s not real. if he’s not just seeing things, she’s one of Alabaster’s new experiments designed to drive him out of his mind.

Cyril will not fall for it.

“Thea?” he asks, still, hopeful and naïve despite everything.

The darkness in the corner moves, too clear to be a product of the shadows cast by the flames. Cyril stands straight so that his feet are supporting his weight instead of his arms, alleviating the perpetual ache in his back for a precious moment.

Theadora, in all her glory, walks out of the corner, dripping darkness and shade. Her long dark hair flows behind her, and her skin shines under the straps of her long dress. She doesn’t seem to walk on solid ground—her feet and the bottom of her black dress melt into shadows before his eyes.

Cyril loses his breath. She’s just as beautiful as he remembers. Most wonderfully of all, she’s clean, her face free of sweat and her arms free of blood and age old wounds.

She rushes over to him immediately, cupping his pale, ashen face in her dark hands. “Cyril,” she whispers, perhaps afraid of disturbing nonexistent peace. Cyril would be more afraid of drawing Alabaster’s attention.

“You’re not real,” he murmurs as she presses their foreheads together. She smells like their garden in the clouds, sweet and fresh, not a trace of smoke anywhere on her. She kisses him, and Cyril melts into it like liquid, imagining he can sip freezing water from her lips. She’s so refreshingly cold. Her heart is the only part of her that’s warm, and pleasantly so. It burns for him.

“He fabricated you to taunt me with for his pleasure. You’ll be gone in a moment, and I’ll be screaming for you because I still haven’t learned after all this time, and in a few days he’ll come in to see the results.”

“No. Cyril, I am real.” She touches one of his hands, clearly resisting the urge to squeeze it but knowing the ramifications. The way she stares at the chains holding him to the ceiling makes him shiver. He’s almost forgotten any type of power existed other than hot, burning, prodding pain.

How he’s missed the icy power of the moon.

“I am here to get you out,” she insists. He closes his eyes—they’re the words he’s dreamed of thousands of times, exactly in her sweet, desperate voice, but it’s too good. If he concentrates hard enough, he can see Alabaster’s grin in Thea’s eyes.

“You can only open the door from the inside, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let you in,” he argues. Anything else pleasant would tear him apart when it inevitably crumbles down on him. “You—you wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you?”

“Of course.” She brings out a jug and raises it to his lips. He drinks eagerly, the water sweet and cold, probably from the Pelia, her favorite. He doesn't care if it's poisoned.

Her silver bracelets sparkle in the firelight, and his eyes follow her fingers as she wipes the swipe off his face with a velvet cloth. He jerks his hands towards her as she begins to pull away on instinct, remembering his chains with a sigh. She’s still close enough for him to press his lips to her dark wrist, light as a feather.

He jerks again when something wet hits him, but his heart lurches when he looks up and sees that it’s her tears. For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire lining the walls and the distant screams of Alabaster’s victims.

Cyril has never wanted his hands back as much as he does now. He wants to wrap his arms around her, whisper assurances in her ear like he used to when she grew worried. Instead, she wraps her arms around his torso and buries her face in the hollow his neck, crying quietly. The slight twinge of pain her salty tears bring to his hundreds of wounds old and new is more than worth it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

She gathers herself enough to say, “What? Why?”

“I’m sorry for getting caught. I never should’ve left you. I should’ve been smarter, shouldn’t have let him anywhere near me, I knew what would happen—”

For a moment he's back in that seedy human tavern with both of them, intrigued but not alarmed by Alabaster's sudden presence and mischievous grin. What a fool he was to let Alabaster take him outside. Before he knew it, he was here.

“I would slap you," Thea says. "This is no one’s fault but Alabaster’s.”

He raises his eyes and smiles at her through his lashes. Thea makes him feel young again, as free and painless as if he’d never been dragged down here.

She pulls back, dries her eyes, and says steadily, “Me and Damokles have been waiting outside the door every night. Alabaster has been greedy, going out more often to collect new victims. He’s been careless. He leaves the door open enough for me to slip in through the darkness. He’s bright enough to take up all the light, he doesn’t notice me.”

Cyril’s heart pounds. Damokles. He resists temptation to ask about him—Thea would tell him if something was amiss with him—and instead asks, “How long have you been trying to get in here?”

“Too long. I’ve only been able to set foot inside some of his maze before he comes back or locks the door. This place is convoluted.” She swallows. “Do you even know where you are?”

He doesn’t care about where he is, he cares that she is actually starting to sound real, which is the worse option. If she’s just Alabaster’s creation, she’ll be ripped away from him. if she’s real, she’ll be ripped away from him when Alabaster discovers them together, and that will hurt ten times as much.

“Yes,” he says, smiling. “The eighth ring of hell. I’ve been through them all. The misconception is that each gets worse the further up you go, but that’s not true. Each sector of hell is just as bad as the last, just in different ways.” He licks his lips.

“Alabaster has spared nothing spared nothing in my tour of his domain. He’s shown me every piece of what he calls art. I have become so intimately familiar with the beauty of hell, the beauty of pain, the purity of it. He says it reduces us to our most basic needs again, tears down our walls and erases our dignity. He loves watching the change.”

Her mouth drops open. “He—” A distant creak draws her eye, whipping her hair into his eyes.

“That’s nothing,” he says. “I hear that ten times a day.”

“Nothing for you, maybe. That’s the sound of Alabaster opening the door.”

“Really? It’s that quiet? That’s a bit anti-climactic.”

She hasn’t taken her eyes off the door. “I need to go.”

“No,” he says, rattling his chains, which is more likely to draw Alabaster than their voices. He seems to have a sense for when Cyril is struggling or in pain more than when he’s talking to himself. “Please. Don’t leave. I won’t survive it.”

I won’t survive it? He’s survived far more corporeal pain than Thea’s absence. Moreover, where is this panic coming from?

“I’m sorry,” she echoes—now she’s the one with nothing to apologize for. The last thing he wants is her getting trapped down here too. He’d sooner endure everything Alabaster has done to him again than let him touch her. “I’ll be back, I swear. Damokles and I miss you more than you know.” She feeds him the rest of the water and kisses him one more time, a break from the endless heat. He takes it greedily. He’ll take everything he can get.

“That one’s from him,” she says, longing eyes raking him over one last time, before disappearing into the shadows of the corner. He knows she’s gone—the flames flicker, almost going out, before returning in full force. The sweat she wiped away from his forehead returns quicker than he would’ve liked, but at least Alabaster doesn’t come running.

***

“Hello, beautiful. Let’s go.”

Alabaster sweeps into the room in a ray of light blocking out the darkness of the hallway behind him. The clank his lantern makes when he sets it on the floor is a noise Cyril hears in his dreams.

Cyril stopped speaking to him long ago, and he ignores Alabaster while he reaches up, spreading his sweet smell everywhere, to free his arms. Through gritted teeth and a stifled shout, he lowers them, resisting the familiar temptation to shake them out.

“You know you don’t have to hide your sounds,” Alabaster says. “They’re like music to me, the finest lutes and cellos all at once.”

“That’s exactly why I do.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in a week, and his voice is hoarse and dry with thirst and underuse. “No water this time?”

“I have something better.”

“Better for you, maybe.”

Alabaster grins, showing sharp white canines, running a hand through white blond hair. He’s always chosen a wickedly tall body with long, pale fingers, skinny as a stick. The sleeves of the crisp white shirt under his brown waistcoat are always rolled up above his elbows, ready at a moment’s notice to get elbow deep. Black trousers are always stainless and black shoes are always shined perfectly.

He never wears a hint of the filth that lives in his mind, the grime that’s often under his fingernails. The only light he gets is that of the flames—he’d never go near Cyril’s sun if he could help it, just in case it might hurt him. He only leaves to draw in more victims, never under Thea’s moonlight. Cyril has been around him long enough to know that he’s not invincible, not mentally, at least. He does have fears.

To be fair, Cyril can’t think of many who wouldn’t be terrified of Theadora.

Alabaster rests a hand on his lower back as he escorts him out of his little room; Cyril jerks out of the way.

Alabaster is a whole head and slim shoulders above him, and Cyril hates having to look up at him, but his power on this place prevents Cyril from changing his own appearance. He’s been stuck with white skin, plain blond hair and sea blue eyes for however long he’s been down here, a short body with a bit of fabricated muscle—Thea liked that. He hasn't seen his own shirt since he got here, and his pants are somehow still clean.

Gods don't need to eat, so Alabaster never feeds him. Just one more pleasure he can deprive Cyril of.

After this, when he gets out, because there will be a when, Thea will come back—he’ll never be able to stomach wearing a toned body again. Perhaps the strength Cyril gave himself improved his endurance a little bit, but he stopped counting his blessings long ago.

He and the others are the ones who give the blessings. They shouldn’t be able to take them from each other, but Alabaster has taught him with not just words that anything can be broken if you try long enough, human or god.

The only thing Alabaster doesn’t have control of down here is his eyes, orange like his flames. Every master of hell has to don them while they’re down here.

The orange glows and dispels all hints of innocent gold. That gold fades every time Alabaster sets foot here in his heaven, and returns when he mingles with normal humans, enticing them with his beauty to follow him to the point of no return.

“So,” Alabaster drawls as they walk out of Cyril’s little prison room into the darkness of the hall together, the screams louder and everything dirtier, “you’re in a rather good mood.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re glowing. I work hard to make sure no one glows except me.”

Cyril rolls his eyes. Let Alabaster psychoanalyze him all he wants, that won’t change the fact that for the first time, Cyril has hope built on fact. Hope is something Alabaster can beat out of him, but not if he doesn’t know why Cyril has it, and he’s already exhausted the Thea-and-Damokles-aren’t-coming-to-save-you angle. It’s a novelty now.

Alabaster shepherds him to a room Cyril could easily find on his own now, hell’s elevator, or as Alabaster likes to call it, the hellevator. The box of iron bars is decorated with skulls. Cyril started naming them a while ago to occupy his mind. Tiana stares down at him from the top corner, Alis from the outside looking in.

He waves at them. Alabaster doesn’t keep him in chains outside his room, since there’s no hope of him escaping hell. Only the master of hell can open the door, and only from the inside.

The elevator takes off with a lurch that knocks Cyril backward. It's nothing more than a cage, and no more stable, but Alabaster is convinced of his own invincibility, that nothing will ever befall him in his own domain. Cyril is determined to prove him wrong.

As the elevator finally stops, he lands with another lurch that ends with him face first in the filthy ground. It’s far from the first time, and he picks himself up with what dignity he has left while Alabaster strides out upright.

Alabaster brings him past room after room, cell after cell of unfortunate people like him who have endured Alabaster’s abuse like him. They stop in front of a pair of bone decorated double doors that stretch up toward the sky, shadows licking at the walls. Screams seem to come from within, or perhaps that’s just Cyril’s mind.

The doors open slowly, apparently triggered by Alabaster’s presence. “Welcome to my newest creation,” Alabaster says with a grin, spreading his arms. The room is large and shiny and new, not yet tainted with bloodstains and misery. Cyril is here to break it in.

Cyril lays on the table where Alabaster asks him to, doesn’t try to run. He’s tried, so many times. It gets him nowhere. It’s easier just to submit.

Alabaster probably likes this best. Not the physical pain, the scars, the blood, but rather watching all the joy and hope fade from Cyril’s eyes.

Alabaster loves nothing more than inflicting pain, but he has too many unwilling participants to get to. He only personally tends to a handful of his favorites, but he’s made it abundantly clear that Cyril is his ultimate favorite. “I’ve managed to capture a god,” he said when Cyril asked. “An equal. How could I not treasure that? I will find time to visit you personally every week however long as I keep interest in you.”

Alabaster will never lose interest.

What gets Cyril through it this day is the memory of Thea’s icy hands on him, her tear filled kiss, her promising words. Hope. Hope will get you killed here, or it can sustain you if you’re lucky. If you hide it well enough.

Hope is the memory of the natural warmth of his sun on his chest instead of the harsh heat of hellfire. He thinks of one day in particular, laying in a field north of Actium, flowers arranged in his hair by Thea, the wind threatening to blow them away while Damokles’ fingers carded mindlessly through it.

They had so few worries, then. They are gods, what do they have to worry about? They are eternal. Nothing can hurt them but themselves and each other.

The irony of that, as Alabaster does what he does best, is striking.

***

The next time Thea visits, she brings Damokles.

Damokles has no control over the shadows, the darkness, hell, and especially not keeping silent, so Cyril doesn’t know how Thea managed to sneak him in, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that in seconds, Cyril has Damokles wrapped around him for the first time in who knows how long.

Thea stands to the side, her eyes brimming with tears but letting a weeping Damokles have his moment. Not much except pain can bring Cyril to tears, but the deep, chest wracking sobs Damokles lets out nearly do. “Oh, Cyril,” he cries, clearly unafraid of drawing Alabaster’s attention the way Thea was. “Sweet, sweet Cyril. My love. What has he done to you? I will rip him apart with my bare hands.”

Cyril smiles. “I’ve always loved your passion, but I think Thea’s iciness will be more lethal. You are nothing but fire, and while it is beautiful, Alabaster revels in it. Is resistant to it.” He looks over Damokles’ shoulder at her, the way she crosses her arms and passively admires them both.

“Fair enough.” Damokles kisses him with salty tears trapped between them, igniting the fresh wounds on Cyril’s face, but it doesn’t matter. His lips stretch his wounded cheeks into a stinging smile.

“Cyril, have you seen yourself?”

His smile fades. “No. Why?”

Damokles slicks back his black hair with his hand, and Cyril gets to admire the way the firelight dances off his olive skin. Cyril has a love hate relationship with the flames and the light they paint onto his lovers’ faces.

“Thea, can you get him a mirror?” Damokles asks, now decidedly not looking at him. Cyril’s heart begins to sink.

“I’m ugly to you now?” he asks quietly.

“No, no,” Damokles predictably says, cupping his cheeks. “Nothing could ever make you ugly in my eyes, or hers.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Damokles.”

Thea passes Damokles a mirror, who holds it up in front of Cyril’s face.

The sight there takes his breath away.

Alabaster never gave him a mirror down here, ever, and for good reason. What has to be months and months, maybe even years of abuse and torture is shown on his face in lines of scars like claw marks. There’s an x over his right eye—he doesn’t even remember that one. What Alabaster does to him sometimes bleeds into mindless waves of pain.

“Tilt it down,” he breaths in a voice deep and full of grief that’s not his own. Thea takes in a sharp breath, and Damokles searches his face uncertainly before complying.

Cyril has never been vain about his looks—how could he when he could just change them anytime? But Alabaster’s hell is different. He can’t just wave away his scars. Anything etched into his skin down here will remain, which is probably why Alabaster has been so thorough in marking him.

The first time Alabaster brought him out of his little prison room, freed him from his chains, Cyril attacked him. Alabaster would’ve hurt him regardless, but the fire in his eyes increased after he pried Cyril’s hands from around his neck. He gave Cyril his first scar, a slash across his palm that cut deep and bled deeper. Before Alabaster put him back in chains, which effectively cut off his powers, Cyril tried to heal himself. Alabaster’s laugh afterwards still haunts him.

“That won’t work,” he said, smiling. “Hell’s scars cut deeper. They can’t be wiped away by anyone but me. I am going to enjoy making a canvas out of you, beautiful.”

Cyril spat in his face, but that didn’t change the outcome. Now, Alabaster’s masterpiece is unveiled to him for the first time. The body looking back at him in the mirror is unrecognizable in its horrors, faded pink lines wrapping around his torso like a rope, a collection of slashes over his heart, one long cut from his jaw to his collarbone.

He remembers that one, remembers wondering how it didn’t kill him. Of course, Alabaster would never let him die. He has utter control of every piece of matter in every circle of hell, from the worst torture rooms at the top, to the sixth ring where Cyril’s prison lies, to the door leading to the outside world at the bottom.

Cyril is strangely fascinated by his new appearance. A wave of panic that he’s stuck with this now washes over him, but he stubbornly pushes it back. He’s survived so much worse than vanity.

“Please, be honest,” he begs, hanging his head, letting his arms hold his weight like he does when he’s alone. “You truly don’t think differently of me?”

Thea and Damokles are silent for a long time, exchanging uncertain glances, which does nothing good for Cyril’s esteem. Finally Damokles turns to him and says, shaky and angry, “Of course I view you differently. I view you as someone who’s gone through pain and horrors I can’t even imagine, with scars he would probably love to get rid of but can’t. Cyril, I’m pissed.”

Cyril swallows. Thea murmurs Damokles’ name and lays a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off. Damokles never hides his emotions. There isn’t enough space within him to contain everything he feels—it’s the reason every human looks to him for guidance with the head and the heart.

“I’m pissed that Alabaster did this, more pissed than I could ever express. I’m a little pissed at you for not being pissed at us, for thinking we’d ever abandon you, that we haven’t been trying to find you. Don’t deny it, I know that look on your face. Most of all, I’m pissed that we took so long to get here. I’m pissed at myself for not doing more.”

He pushes his hair back again, long curls always falling into his eyes, and seems to get some of his sense back. “Thea will attest that she had to hold me back every time we watched Alabaster leave hell. I could barely keep my hands to myself, I wanted them around his pale little throat. His unmarred, unscarred throat.” Damokles’ fists clench. Cyril shivers under the burning rage in both their eyes, boiling—or in Thea’s case, freezing—just under the surface.

“Cyril, you are the bravest thing I’ve known. I love you. Nothing could ever change that. How could I ever be anything but horrified for you?”

“I don’t want you to be horrified,” Cyril says. “I want you to treat me the same way you always have. I just want to go back to how things were before I was abducted.”

Thea’s sad eyes tell him what he already knows: things will never be the same again. But Cyril can shut his eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that they’re back in the field under the sun with Thea’s flowers and Damokles’ fingers in his hair.

“Can you hang in here just one more week?” Damokles asks. “We’ll get you out. I have a plan.”

Cyril’s eyes dart to Thea, raising an eyebrow. She’s staring at Damokles like she’s never seen him before.

Cyril swallows all his questions and nods. “Okay. I trust you.”

Damokles breaks into a blinding white grin and kisses him again, sweet and hot in the way Cyril needs. Thea is wonderful, and sometimes is the break from reality he needs, but Damokles is the dose of truth no one else will tell him.

Thea’s icy kiss comes next, with both of them their arms around him to follow. “When you’re out and completely free of pain,” Damokles says, a promise burning in his eyes, “I’ll show you exactly what I think of your scars.” Thea hits his arm, calls him inappropriate, but Cyril’s grin reassures them both.

They disappear into the shadows, Damokles holding tightly to Thea’s arm. The heat of the flames doesn’t feel so intense, now. When Alabaster comes the following week, Cyril is almost grinning, and no question Alabaster poses in between cuts and bruises can make him give them up.

***

It’s not Alabaster’s abuse or declining sanity that will kill him, it’s the anticipation, the waiting. When Thea and Damokles finally melt out of the shadows, after an eternity of waiting, Cyril’s stomach is in knots. Even stranger, both of them are empty handed.

“How are we going to get me out of here if you have nothing to do so?” Cyril demands before noticing the expressions on their faces. Damokles’ mouth is set in a grim line, and he tries to force a smile that just doesn’t stick. He’s uptight and determined about something, or, more accurately, stubborn.

Thea is furious. She’s perfectly composed and neat as always, but her fists are clenched and the air in the room is more frigid than usual. Cyril isn’t complaining about the latter, but they’re obviously withholding information. “What’s going on?”

“We’re here to get you out, like we promised,” Thea says in a far stiffer tone than he pictured her saying those words, glaring at Damokles’ back. Cyril has tried getting her to budge when she shuts herself off before, and it’s a fruitless effort, so he doesn’t even try now. He’s always been the calm force keeping those two storms from destroying each other. Without him there to separate them, who knows what they’ve gotten up to.

“And how are you going to do that?” Cyril asks again, shaking his chains. “Only Alabaster can get me out of these.”

“Oh, love, is that what he’s been telling you all this time?” Damokles asks with the pain of the heartbroken. “We can’t open the doors of hell, we can’t remove your scars, but gods have more influence in hell than you would think.”

Cyril’s blood begins boiling just under his skin. “Are you telling me I could’ve freed myself somehow this whole time?”

“No, those chains are as anti-god as I’ve ever seen. We didn’t free you before because we didn’t know—we just found this week—but it’s probably a good idea we didn’t. I would’ve hated causing you the pain of replacing them before Alabastard got back.” Damokles closes his eyes and breathes slowly, fists clenched at his sides. The fire flutters in the room, and a pop of air follows.

The breath is knocked out of Cyril as the chains abruptly break and drop his arms from the ceiling. Much like the elevator, he falls to his knees with the force of it. Thea is there immediately to hug him while Damokles deals with the noise of the chains. Cyril leaves the possibility of Alabaster in their hands, they’re not stupid. He allows himself to bury his face in her neck and shake, weak with relief.

“It’s okay now,” she murmurs into his hair. “You’re going to see your sun again soon. My moon.”

He begins quietly sobbing.

He told himself, all the times he foolishly dreamt of freedom only for Alabaster to drive the dream out of him, that he wouldn’t cry. He’d stay strong, he’d pretend he was fine. Damokles and Thea are too perceptive, too sensitive, he didn’t want to upset them any more than he knew they would be.

So much for that.

“Please,” he begs, a word he’s used so much, but never like this. He’s shaking all over, bleeding from his lip, bleeding inside, burning. He’s always burning, always bleeding, always pleading. Alabaster thrives on it. “Help me. Get me out of this place. Can't you just take me out through the shadows?”

“We will get you out,” she says shakily, dodging the question, cradling the back of his sweaty, bloody head against her. She’s on the verge of tears. Damokles drops to the floor to join the pile, wrapping chiseled arms around them both. They sit there in silence for a moment, grieving and celebrating and fearing and hoping. Cyril’s heart is so full of love for both of them he could burst.

“What about Alabaster?” Cyril has to ask at last. They can’t avoid him forever.

Damokles stands and suddenly shouts, “Alabaster! Come out, you bastard. Face us.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Cyril hisses, but Thea holds him down. "Let's just go out through the shadows." He'll leave Alabaster behind, he'll leave it all behind without revenge if it means he can just be safe.

“He’s an idiot,” she says, “but you have to trust him. He has a plan.”

“I know how hell works, Thea. I know the limits of Damokles’ stupidity.”

She just cradles him closer. He should've known Damokles wouldn't be able to leave without revenge.

After a few minutes of nothing, a great rumble begins shaking the room. If Cyril still hides his head in Thea’s neck, who’s to judge?

Alabaster has never made a dramatic entrance like this before, which must mean Damokles is onto something.

Cyril hears the moment Alabaster enters the room, firm boots on stone, Thea’s inhale. Cyril raises his head and sees Damokles standing tall and strong, his favorite handmade sword stashed somewhere else. It wouldn’t do anything against a god—Thea begged him not to include that in the list of things it could slice through like bread, and he loved her enough to agree.

Quick as Thea’s lightning, Damokles lunges forward and wraps his arms around Alabaster from behind. He is the patron of soldiers for a reason, his strength is unmatched, his grip sure. Alabaster struggles to no avail.

Cyril studies the contrast in them with pleasure. Damokles meets his eyes, panting, and smirks. Alabaster isn’t struggling, bucking Damokles off like he did so easily with Cyril. Perhaps it’s Damokles’ natural strength, maybe Alabaster is more afraid of him than Cyril.

“Oh, Alabaster,” Cyril says, smiling. “You spent so long trying to teach me the beauty of your ways, but you never believed I’d start agreeing with you. Well, here you go.” He raises his arms, trying to hide a wince and stifle a groan of pain. Thea’s hands on his waist help steady him—though that might just be her calming powers. “Here is the result of your hard work in all its glory. Are you happy now?”

Alabaster looks at him through long, pale eyelashes. He manages a manic grin through the grimace breaking out on his face, licking the sweat off of his lip. He’s blinking and flicking his hair like that will do anything about the sweat. Cyril is looking forward to watching him realize nothing will work.

“This won’t work,” Alabaster says. “Keep me as long as you want, but you’ll never leave. Only the master of hell can open the door, and from the inside, and I swear I’ll never open it for you as long as I live.”

“Good thing you’re not going to be the master of hell much longer,” Damokles says, lowering Alabaster to his knees in front of him, hands held behind his back. His eyes meet a breathless Cyril’s. “Shall I place him in your hooks?”

Cyril, open mouthed, is speechless even for that question. He can only manage a small shake of the head. “Keep him low, where he belongs. Don’t give him the dignity of meeting your eyes.”

Damokles nods in approval. Thea helps Cyril to his feet to avoid that exact issue, and Damokles ties Alabaster’s hands more securely with some rope. “What the hell do you mean?” Cyril asks.

Damokles meets his eyes without fear, a dark, intense stare. “I mean, I’m going to kill Alabaster and take his place.”

The whole room freezes. Even the fire seems to still.

Cyril looks at Thea for help, but her arms are crossed and her face set in that same muted furious expression she arrived with. He understands the fierce determination in Damokles’ eyes now.

“You’re not.”

“I will. That bastard doesn’t deserve to live, and you two deserve to get out.”

“Why can’t you just take both of us through with your shadows?” Cyril demands of Thea.

She’s crying now, silent and strong, even with her cheeks shiny and wet. “The moment Alabaster places his mark on someone, like a scar, they are bound to this place and its rules. No shadows for you.”

“Not even after his death?”

She shakes her head and squeezes his waist. “I tried so hard to talk him out of it,” she says, gesturing to Damokles. “His mind can’t be changed.”

“Damokles, no,” Cyril says. This can’t be real. “Don’t do this to us. I can’t lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you, either,” Damokles says, his own eyes shining. He’s smiling, though. “If we could, I would have you kill him.”

Cyril breathes out. “I don’t want you to get trapped down here! At least, uh”—he rubs his forehead— “you be the master only until Thea and I can find someone to take your place. We’ll find a way to do it without you having to be killed.”

“You would involve a human in this mess? An innocent?”

“I won’t lose you.”

“It’ll be preferable to what you went through,” Damokles counters, though Cyril sees his hands trembling. Cyril’s lower lip begins trembling.

“I’m not sure it will be,” he chokes out. “You’ll be without the physical pain. The rest is the same. I never had to manage the eight rings of hell.”

Damokles shakes his head, turning his eyes back to his prey. He sighs, then his hands are moving.

“Damokles, no!” Cyril yells. Thea’s hands hold him back, but it’s too late—rather, Damokles ignores him. He wrenches Alabaster’s head to the side with a crunch as satisfying as it is agonizing to watch. Thea squeezes his hand and lets out a harsh, shuddering breath, as Alabaster’s pale head falls limp.

The room begins shaking again. Thea falls to her knees and presses her forehead to the ground, Cyril is rooted to the spot. Damokles stands tall and breathes in, embracing his new role. When he opens his eyes, they’re bright, flame orange.

“You idiot,” Cyril hisses, shoving him back. “You didn’t give me any time to input. You never think. We could’ve worn him down in one of the hundreds of rooms alone I was sent to. We could’ve gotten our revenge and our freedom. Instead, you decided to become the master of hell instead. We’re split up again.”

“Better me than you.” Damokles yanks open the door of Cyril’s little room and walking with purpose. Cyril follows him. “Tell me where the door to this place is. I don’t know this place from the inside yet.”

“West,” Cyril says automatically, then curses himself. “You can’t just leave with us. Too long away and you’ll start to wither away, and I’m not coming back here if I can help it. This isn’t a solution. Far from it.”

“Hell no you’re not coming back here. Never again, for you.” Damokles takes a deep breath as Cyril guides him to the elevator. Thea is hot on their heels, shadows licking the ground. “Cyril, I did this because I love you and Thea more than I’ve ever loved anything. I would set fire to our Actium in a day if it meant protecting you. I didn’t care what it would take to free you, I just didn’t want you to suffer you anymore.”

“When you described how we’d spend our time when I was free, had you made up your mind then? Were you lying through your teeth?”

“No, dammit,” Damokles growls, turning around and pushing him against the wall. It burns Cyril’s back, but not as much as his kiss. “Don’t worry about me.”

“What if I love you, too?” Cyril yells back. “What if I never wanted us to be apart again? I will find a way to fix this. We will get you out.”

Damokles doesn’t argue.

When they reach the door Cyril tried to break out of so many times, tall, white, and uncharacteristically clean, Damokles kisses Thea goodbye. Tears begin filling Cyril’s eyes again as Damokles presses both hands to the door and murmurs something under his breath. It opens as easily as a human door.

“There you go,” Damokles whispers. Cyril can smell the fresh air, and it almost brings him to his knees, but he doesn’t look yet. He stubbornly looks back at the aching oranges and blacks, the smell of smoke that’s ingrained into his soul now, the blistering heat they’re leaving Damokles behind in. Thea’s hand snakes into his, and Cyril squeezes it like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

“We’ll meet again,” Damokles promises, before the door swings shut and locks with a boom. Cyril misses him immediately in a wave of incredible grief.

He turns around.

The sky is so very black, the stars so very bright, the air so very cool. Cyril closes his eyes and breathes in, long and slow the way he dreamed of for so, so, so long. But his right hand is painfully empty, the pains of hell too fresh. He needs a thousand baths, a thousand days in the sun, but he’ll never stop wishing Damokles was there.

Cyril breathes, closes his eyes, and with barely any effort changes his hair to a dull, mousy brown. It's an immediate relief, enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Cyril says, “but I already want to go back.”

“Yeah,” Thea murmurs, thick with tears. Cyril lets her cry, too in pain and exhausted to do anything but hold her hand and stand in solidarity.

In his mind, he’s in the field with flowers and fingers and laughter in his hair, the sun warming them all.

It's so peaceful at night.

It's wrong.

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tag of interest: @aelenko

[spookyheaad]

Haphephobia talk

BIG TRIGGER WARNING: brief mentions of rape/coercion, mentions of suicidal ideation, self harm, physical and mental abuse, as well as dehumanization. This one is kinda heavy.

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Hi again! Currently horizontal on my couch because I have full body aches from the second covid shot and my head is killing me, but I expected this to happen as it’s normal for the second vaccine to knock you out for a day or two.

Anyway, I had a realization earlier that I write both Gild Tesoro of “One Piece”, as well as Death from “Darksiders” with Haphephobia - which is “a fear of touching or being touched”. While I write them with this phobia, it manifests within them differently, and I figured I would share some differences, and headcanons for both characters (it’s been so long since I’ve talked about my sassy depressed Nephilim husband; I miss you, Death ❤️❤️). Also with Death, I ship him with an OC I created, named Zemira. I don’t think I’ve shared a lot about her on tumblr, but I’ll be making a whole post about her another time; just know I’ll be mentioning her occasionally.

So I’ll be talking about Death’s haphephobia first, it’s a little more heavy (deadass trigger warning here for the brief mentions of rape. Skip this part if you need to):

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So I must start out with the obligatory mentioning of that accursed chapter from The Abomination Vault:

Death and War have to seek out Lilith and gain information from her. Death is viciously adamant for War to stay outside & away from that woman, but war protests and wishes to come in with him. Death, nearly resorting to beating his brother into submission, demands him to stay outside, and War finally relents.

When the eldest Horseman goes in to see Lilith, one of the first things she says to him is something along the lines of “this isn’t a social call, is it?”. I truly forget what else is mentioned, but there are a few times where Lilith tries to mention things of a (supposed) sexual nature towards Death, and he abruptly and angrily cuts her off. The one thing I remember Lilith saying to Death was her saying that Death was always a “sensitive boy” which makes my stomach fucking churn.

What is heavily implied in this scene, to me, is that Death and Lilith at some point in the past, had sexual encounters with one another that Death is very much extremely embarrassed and ashamed of, and with Lilith’s ability to seduce any being regardless if they want to partake or not, it’s safe to say that Death could have possibly been coerced into said sexual activity. Lilith’s ability to seduce is described almost like a date-rape drug to me, it causes people to fall under some kind of spell or go into a trance; what is a big uh-oh to me is when Death describes that War would be weak to Lilith’s wiles, or her tricks. So she is definitely capable of coercing people in any way to get what she wants. Also fucking keep in mind that Lilith refers to Death as her SON, which adds a whole new level of “what the fuck” to that situation; it’s just icky.

I feel that Death, because of this run in (or run-ins) with Lilith, developed a massive fear of being touched, which is backed up in canon in Darksiders 2. He does not allow anyone to physically touch him under any circumstance; when Death arrived in the Makers’ realm, Eideard touched his chest where the amulet pieces are embedded. Death recoils quickly and with a venomous growl, states: “Don’t touch me!”

Then of course when he goes to visit Lilith, she touches his chest as well, and he physically pushes her hand away from his body. She also refers to herself as Death’s mother, and Death angrily states: “You are not my mother!” Also from the moment Death sets foot in Lilith’s domain, he is not thrilled to be there, and acts very different towards her; more defensive, more on guard it seems.

So this headcanon stems from all of that; he will not let anyone touch him, it’s just that severe. Where my OC comes in, I actually have a story on AO3 titled “Haphephobia” and it shows how Death & Zemira try to get past this aversion to touch, so 1.) Zemira can give him affection and 2.) Death can allow himself to be loved. I’ll link it here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860320/chapters/73476759

Death cannot even bring himself to hold her hand in the very beginning. So Zemira started there, holding his hand, physical closeness, and very slowly, started working to larger forms of touch. Obviously this gave Death massive amounts of anxiety, so this is why the process is extremely slow. It makes it even more important to go slow because Death tries to hide any weak emotions, so the physical and mental stress he puts himself under is tenfold.

I think that’s all for Death. His Haphephobia is extremely severe, from the specific traumas he has experienced, possibly being forced into sexual activity with his god damn “”mother””, as well as hiding his sensitivity and kindness (my headcanons for why he does that is a whole other post waiting to be written) and just not believing he is deserving of such love and care.

Ok, now for Tesoro (specific Trigger warnings here for mentions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, physical/mental abuse)

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So I just recently realized that I wrote Tesoro with symptoms of Haphephobia; also compared to Death, it isn’t as severe or debilitating, but no less harmful to the person going through it.

For Tesoro I think it was sparked by a mix of guilt and insecurity, obviously as well as his past abuse from both his mother and the Celestial Dragons. But in Film Gold it’s obvious that he doesn’t have an issue with being touched, I’m referencing the scene with the pool girls. I think in canon, he’s on high alert when someone goes to touch him, especially if it’s someone he is not familiar with, or does not like. It’s more of an automatic thing that he learned to suppress over time, especially because he absolutely craves attention and affection, and his fear of touch gets in the way of that.

So in a way, he did learn how to work through it, but it wasn’t proper or healthy, and because of that it’s still there in the back of his mind. I also believe that he doesn’t like people pinning him by the wrists/hands/arms or holding him down in any way, or being bound (sexual or non sexual, he does not like it). It triggers severe panic and flashbacks, so, it’s a big no.

In terms of if he were to be around Stella, it becomes heightened. It’s not that he’s afraid of her; he knows her well. He is afraid for her sake, that he would hurt her in some way simply by allowing her to touch him. All through his life, Tesoro was made to feel like he wasn’t worth the space he took up in his existence. His mother did not love him, the one person that could have given him some form of gentle gesture. She instead hurt him, screamed at him, made him feel worthless. Then we all know about the celestial dragons; they didn’t even see Tesoro as a human, and that mixed with the beatings from both the celestial dragons and his mother, he is weary to allow others to get close.

After Stella died, In his heart of hearts Tesoro genuinely thought that he was unloveable, mainly because of his mother. The one woman who brought him into this world didn’t care about his dreams or his well-being, so then how can anyone else? Then, when he found the single person that cared about him, she was whisked away from him without a second thought. Tesoro feels doomed to observe yet never experience the love and kindness that the world had to offer.

That mixed with Haphephobia makes him very cautious of others, and in the case of Stella, vehemently afraid. He loves her, and she loves him in return; Tesoro knows this full well, (we’re headed to the “if Stella survived” AU) after they reunite he is so afraid to touch her and it’s painful to him when she touches his body. It’s another source of frustration and anger because he knows that he is still in love with her, but his own body is trying to push her away. He would tear open his body for the apprehension to leave, to finally feel the comfort he yearned for within Stella’s embrace. No more fear, no more being brought to tears because he felt he didn’t deserve her kindness, no more guilt.

Both he & Death feel unloveable but for different reasons:

Death feels unloveable because of the atrocities he has committed, specifically the Nephilim Genocide & the creation of the Grand Abominations. He feels knee-crushing amounts of guilt for taking part in such events, and he puts up a facade of being an uncaring monster, when he is very much the opposite. He has kindness to give, yet is afraid to show it because of that idea that he is to be seen as nothing but an attack dog for the Charred Council. But this is also the same Nephilim who was so tired of making things that took life, and chose to make something that gave life instead, and gifted said item to his sister, Fury. This is the same Nephilim who took his own life to prove that his youngest brother War did not start the apocalypse. He cares so deeply, has insurmountable love to give, yet feels incapable of doing so.

Tesoro thinks he is unloveable because the world conditioned him to view himself as such. The extreme abuse he suffered told him that he is trash; an afterthought whose only use is as a punching bag or a wasted body to rend flesh from. Ants had more worth in this world than he, and Tesoro knew it. All it took was Stella, one person, for him to see that he is worthy of such a thing, that nothing that went on in their pasts was his fault, and that he does deserve to be given gentle touches, soft reassuring hugs, feather-light kisses, and that he is able to be loved.

[refriedweeb]

IN THE END, WE’RE FALLING (HAWKS X PLUS SIZE READER)

A/N: refriedweeb here! had a couple of ideas for some Hawks fluff/angst, one being a plus sized reader and one being a sad reader who can fly and let herself free fall. @myherotrashbin​ suggested combining the two! so here’s some comfort for all you babes like me out there in the world, I hope this brings you some comfort and love (I also made y/n an adult just bc hawks is an adult)<3

Prompt: You’ve always been insecure about your weight, what people thought of you, what it would mean for your ability to become a pro-hero. It’s been something that has been gnawing at you more often than not lately, and to try and quiet all the voices telling you, you aren’t good enough, you take to the sky. Little do you know that there’s a Hawk mesmerized by someone possibly even knowing what it’s like to feel what he feels.

Warnings: body insecurity, body negativity, self-hate, sadness, depression

Word count: 2,852

You look at yourself in the mirror of your bedroom, eyes attached to the part of your body that shows your hips, the belly that you run your hands over as you stare. The way a gap is non-existent in between your thighs, full figured and then some being what you’d best describe yourself. Your hands roam up higher over the pooch of your stomach, to where fuller breasts that look nothing like Midnight, or Mount Lady’s are settled. Growing up you’d always idolized the women pro-heroes, how amazing they were and how strong they were to be able to fight in combat. It’d always been something you’d wanted to do, that you aspired to be because they were just so incredible. They were your definition of perfect, of everything that could be good in the world. As you got older, however, there was one thing that you realized. You didn't look like any of the pros. You didn't have that fine sculpted body, so small and narrow it was impossible for you to wrap your head around how they could pack so much muscle in their body without even looking like it. At one point, you were sure you could have broken them over your knee with little effort they were that small. 

And thus...your dream of being a pro hero started to fade away, eaten away at by insecurity and doubt. Because if you couldn't look like them, then there was no way that you could be what you wanted to be. You’d done the awful diets that made you feel sick, feel starved throughout your childhood and teenage life. You’d worked yourself to the point of exhaustion where your parents begged you to just stop and nurture yourself. There wasn’t any dream in the world that was that important that it required practically killing yourself. You’d been born with the quirk of wings, expansive white ones that stretched longer than you were tall. They came from your mom’s side, while you seemed to inhabit your father’s side of being able to retain weight like a camel retained water. No matter what you did, you couldn’t meet that over sensationalized standard of pro-hero women beauty standard. Which meant...you didn’t think that you could become a pro-hero. It was a dream you’d had since the first female pro flashed a peace sign to the crowd after saving people. Who would want to be saved by someone who looked like...you?

It’d been years since you’d thought about your teenage dream that you’d eventually given up. There’d been the flickering of thoughts where you’d considered applying to attend UA, but your own insecurities pushed you down. You weren’t quite sure why they were coming back to your mind now, years later, but there they were. Fresh in your mind and rearing their heads. Sparking years of forgotten insecurities about the dip in your belly, the dimples in your thighs. Your expression dropped as your arms came to rest at your side, hating the way that you looked standing in that mirror. So lonely. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in and tried to silence all the negative thoughts about yourself that you were having. It was easier said than done, of course. After having spent a lifetime being called awful names like pigeon because of your plump status and your feathered quirk, it was hard to just forget those awful things. You never felt like you were going to be good enough to the public, so how could you possibly be good enough for yourself? These thoughts ate away at you as you stood in the mirror, telling yourself that you were stupid for having ever thought you could be a hero. 

You sniffled, opening your eyes to blurry vision as tears crept in the corner of your eyes. You needed to get out of your place or you felt like you were going to combust. The sky was what you needed. Free falling after racing high, high, and higher still was the only thing that could make the world feel at peace around you. It eliminated all of the bad things in the world around you, all the pain that you felt nestled so tightly in your chest. You just wanted to feel nothing but the world racing around in that moment, the comfort of harsh wind flying past you as you fell the only thing you could want in the world at that moment. Peace. Free falling like that brought a peace you hadn’t known at any other point in your life. It was comfort when you didn't know how to comfort yourself. 

Shrugging on a weighted and lined jacket because of how cold it got up in the higher parts of the sky, you snuck out your balcony window. Not really sneaking out, though it never felt like you were doing anything good when you leapt from the edge. Your wings, bold and beautiful, unfurled around you, snapping into a steady beat as they lifted you higher and higher. You closed your eyes, comfortable in the cold chill of the air as you rose higher. Soon enough the buildings started to look minuscule around you. When you looked down you couldn’t even see your place anymore it was that blended into the background. You took a deep breath in, lifting your head towards the approaching clouds, letting the mist of them coat your face in a soft dew as you moved through them. The world was so quiet up here. There was no sound. No thoughts. Just you and the open air and the chill that made you grateful for the jacket. The awful things you’d been saying yourself what felt like a lifetime were nothing more than indiscernible background noise. They didn’t matter. Up here in the clouds, you felt free. You felt beautiful and powerful, like there was nothing that could possibly stop you.

And there wasn’t.

Your wings beat steadily, holding you in your position as you tipped your head back so that it came to rest along the curve of your shoulders. With your eyes closed, you just breathed. Deep breaths in and out, repeating positive affirmations that your body was fine the way that it was. That the extra bits around your stomach, your dimpled thighs, a backside that you’d always felt was too much, were just fine. Just because you looked different, didn't mean that different was bad. It just meant that you were a human being living in a different body. That wasn’t a crime, and it wasn’t something that you would have to pay for. You were just you, and you were beautiful.

With that, you relaxed your wings, pulling them in just slightly against your back so that you could coast on them on the free fall down. The smallest of smiles, a smile of contentedness slipped over your features as you felt the weight of the world start pressing down on you. That drop in your belly as if you’d just gone down the hill of a roller coaster with nothing but gravity keeping you in your seat. The smile on your face grew, your hair whipping up past your face, the unseen world flying past you. This feeling, this freedom, it made everything that made you feel wrong for just existing simply fade away. Your eyes had been shut as you passed through another dewy cloud on your way down, unable to help the giggle that escaped you as it tickled your skin. 

But you’re not alone in that great expanse of sky, you find out soon enough. The sound of something sifting catches your attention, and your eyes pop open expecting it to be a bird avoiding your plummet. Instead, you open your eyes to see none other than pro-hero Hawks diving towards you through the same cloud you’d just popped out of. The look on his face is one that’s determined, focused. From where you’re falling you can see the glint in his eyes that makes him look terrifying and beautiful at the same time. That expression shifts into one of confusion as he looks at you. The smallest look of happiness that hits somewhere deep inside Keigo that he doesn’t know how you know.

The first thought in his head is that you look like a falling angel. The length of your wings, the way they practically shield you from the world even though you’re free falling. There’s something in your eyes that shimmers and reminds him of stardust he’s only seen on the nights that he hangs out amongst the clouds. For a moment, Keigo is entirely breathless at the sight of you falling through the sky, looking like a Michelangelo painting with the dazed and peaceful expression on your face, the way your hair is reaching out towards him, the curve of calves into thighs into hips. And then he remembers that he’s a pro-hero and that he has to save you and not just admire you.

“Kid!” Keigo shakes himself out of his daze. When he’d first saw you starting to fall through the air, he thought you’d flown too high and had lost consciousness. He’d thought that you needed having because you’d pushed yourself past your limit but now that he’d seen you face to face, he knew it was more than that. This was something that he did, too. To silence the world when the pressures of being a hero and the trauma of his childhood had gotten to be too much. To think that there was someone out there, that you were out there and knew what the desire to feel nothing but freedom was... “Kid, are you out of your mind?!” He shouted above the rush of the air. 

It hits you then that he’s talking to you, and your breath catches. Hawks is still racing towards you, not sure what to think of the situation, when it’s his turn for his breath to escape him. Your wings expand out in their entirety, taking up his line of vision for a moment. He’s convinced then that you are an angel, that you’re not of this world. Your body catches the weight of your winged support and suddenly he’s just not darting towards you, you’re moving towards him. Your back is arched up, hands extending out towards Hawks as you’re about to collide. But he’s trained for this, this is his whole job. Gloved hands reach out to your waist, his fingertips skimming along the lush, smooth skin he finds under the shirt jacket you’re wearing. The sensation sends a bolt of electricity from where he’s touched you. You come together as one for a moment the second Hawks’ has wrapped his arms around you, your bodies spinning wildly until he’s set you upright. Keigo still isn’t quite sure he knows how to breathe yet, staring down at you with your hands clutched to his chest. Your own breathing labored as you look up to him. He doesn’t think he wants to let you go. And the thought, as fleeting as it is in the moment you start to open your mouth to speak, is still one that stuck with him.

In a world that was so hardened and cruel, feeling how soft something beautiful could be sparked an emotion he couldn't remember feeling once in his lonely, empty life. He doesn’t know what to say, so he watches you through bird-like honey golden eyes, perplexed by everything you are in that moment.

“Why would you...” your eyes move back and forth between his gaze, still not quite sure why he thought you were in danger. You don’t know what else to say, so you say the first thing in your mind. “I just wanted to fall.”

Those words hit like a load of bricks in his stomach. Keigo knows that feeling all too well, and to hear it coming from someone else’s mouth, to know that someone else felt that sensation of hopelessness and loneliness, someone like you, it left his brain empty. “You could have...you could have gotten hurt.” But he knows that’s not true the minute it comes out of his mouth. His eyes drift to the wings behind you, so stark in their color. He knows the strength behind those wings, envied by his own. In that moment, without knowing you at all, he knows how strong you are. Not just physically as he found out with how quickly you snapped out your wings and caught yourself on the wind. But he knows the  mental strength that you hold on your shoulders just by what he caught you doing. 

Suddenly, he feels embarrassed having caught you in the act. If someone had ever found him free falling through the air like that and tried to save him, he would have been furious. “Are you okay?”

You look up at him, the confused expression on his face. You swear you even see a faint wetness behind his visor. Slowly, you nod your head. “I’m fine...I was just sad.” you smooth your hand down the lapel of his lined jacket, and his wings ruffle. 

Keigo’s hands move down to your lower back, still fully supporting you. Your wings are dancing around one another with each beat that keeps you high in the sky, all away from the bullshit in the world. “Sad?” His throat feels constricted. “Why?”

It’s your turn to blush, and you look away from him for a moment. “I don’t...I don’t think you’d understand.”

“Try me, kid.”

Something in his voice causes you to look back at him, and that look he sees in your eyes makes his heart ache for that familiar feeling. “I felt...alone. Wrong for being the way that I am...that I wasn’t going to ever be good enough.” You swallow, dipping your head down so that it’s nearly resting agains his chest. “That...I was so wrong that it’s impossible that I could ever be great...ever be wanted.” Keigo’s eyes close at your words, his own head bowing so that it presses down on top of yours. He smells the sweet scent of your shampoo, a gloved hand coming to cup the back of your head. He knows that feeling all too well, that desperate loneliness that could make a person do anything. You freeze for a moment until you realize he’s not doing anything to hurt you. The pro-hero, Hawks, is comforting you. His hand is smoothing through your hair, and you let your head come to rest against the defined plains of his chest. Whatever remaining thoughts of self-hatred, of self-doubt, evaporate like clouds.

“Come on, kid.” Hawks murmurs, glad to have your head resting against his chest so you can’t see the same broken expression he’s wearing that mirrors your own. “How could the world not need you when it gave you a view like this?” Hawks tips your chin up, and at first you catch the setting sun hitting his profile. The defined point of his nose, the stubble running along his jaw. The way that the setting sun sets his eyes on fire, turning them into a replica of the sun settled in his eyes. You, like many others, had always thought Hawks was the epitome of attractive. But there’s a difference between the cocky smile and tone he usually takes, to the unspoken vulnerability you’re seeing right in front of you. 

And then you look out to where he is, and you see the painted sky. Visions of purple and orange blending together, thin clouds stretched out for as far as you can see. Skyscrapers and buildings of various heights dotting the landscape, it’s a picture that not even the best artist could recreate. Your breath catches in your throat once more, and you tighten your grip on Hawks’ jacket. For all the times you’d fallen through the sky in order to silence the world around you, you’d never thought to look at the scenery around you.

Hawks takes comfort in the soft pull of your skin, a pillow he’d do anything to rest his head on and finally sleep through the night. He isn’t sure what it is about you, but that look on your face as you fell through the air is one still painted fresh in his memory. He doesn’t think there’s ever been anything else in his life that’s resonated to quickly as that look. Keigo certainly doesn’t want to let you go, to lose that warmth in his hands. “You see, kid,” Hawks starts again, looking out at the landscape the world around them.

“We’re the lucky ones. With this kind of view...” Keigo chuckles. “How could the world not want us if it didn’t want us to look at this view.” But Keigo wasn’t looking at the outstretch of blended colors anymore, no. He was looking at you. The transformation of awe of the roundness of your cheeks, the way your mouth hung open as you took it all in. The words he said were true, regardless. How could the world not need you if it didn’t want him to look at you like that? 

[doitwritenow]

IronStrange Starter Kit - Master Fic Rec List for all Y’all Because You’ve been Asking and I’ve been Avoiding

Hi! All you anons and askers, I made a list!!! Hopefully some of these are what you’ve been after. :D

(Please reblog this, lol, I spent too much time on it...) 

General rules: These are complete unless indicated otherwise, and end happily unless indicated otherwise. There’s a variety of ratings, as I have no qualms against smut, but I don’t usually read it outside of a larger plot. So I don’t think there’ll be many explicit stories on here. Word counts vary; I indicate general length but don’t go into specifics. What else, uh... Bold stuff is the headers and general subjects. I link the titles. Block quotes are author summaries. Enjoy!!

- 

Okay so first off, there are a couple of Fandom Staples who just have leagues worth of good short stories, and if you haven’t read them, then definitely treat yourself to the array:

A Thousand Futures of Me and You - VisionaryGalaxy (Vishanti, what a legend, ily so much). This is a series of unconnected one-shots, each their own and covering a variety of tropes and moments and themes and AUs. They’re so fun (and/or painful and/or thought-provoking and/or tense and/or sexy)! In-character and amazing, consistantly. 

Prompt Collection -  amethyst-noir (Arbonne). (Also a legendary human). This is exactly what it sounds like: a series of prompt fills in all sorts of tones. You’ll almost certainly find something here that feels like it was just made for you!

Alright, onto the individual stories and series!

Long fics/series:

The of overqualified hands and pi figures series - lantia4ever. (This was my first Ironstrange story, and it is no less magical now.)

A series of one-shots, all set in the same alternate verse in which Tony and Stephen first meet following the events of the first Avengers and then continue to meet after that throughout the canon up until Infinity War and eventually beyond it. Becoming friends - and more along the way.

Time After Time - fancylances. (I love love LOVE this one. Highly recommended.) 

Tony Stark is unstuck in time. Stephen Strange might just be the only person in the universe qualified enough to help.

Citizen Erased - Imagined. (This author. Just... such a wonderful, talented, stunning person who makes wonderful, talented, stunning works. This story is masterful.)

What do you do when no one in the world ever manages to remember you?

Anyone who sees Tony Stark promptly forgets he ever existed after mere seconds. When everyone he has ever cared about has lost their memories of him, he goes to Stephen Strange, possibly the only one who can help him lift the curse. But a terrifying danger is coming, and saving the world isn’t an easy job to do when no one can remember who you are.

if only the gods had mercy on us and it’s sequel a soul too deep - orphan_account. (Vishanti, this series...  It’s so beautiful and emotional and heart-breaking and heart-warming. And it has so few views for so many words! One of my absolute favorites, VERY highly recommended.) 

Tony Stark loved Stephen Strange. He loved him more than anyone could ever imagine. But then a terrorist group attacked the convoy. Then there was a car accident. In the middle of it all, there is tired, battered love. (And, maybe, a little bit of genius)

From the Top - lucifersfavoritechild. (Everyone reads this fic. Written by the blogger Monarch Of The Ironstrange Ship, it’s an MCU rewrite around the relationship. Very fun.) 

“Stephen, if you’re . . . there somewhere . . . when I drift off, I’ll be with you again. I can’t wait.”

|| Personally, I think the MCU would be much better as a love story between Stephen Strange and Tony Stark. Don't you?

Starting from Iron Man, and going all the way to Endgame, with all the appropriate stops in between. Let's take it from the top.

UNFINISHED: Skin Deep - Mystical_Magician. (Super cool premise, and super interesting to read! The dynamic here is very fun.)

A battle that should have finally killed Stephen instead launches him into a parallel universe. Exhausted from centuries as Sorcerer Supreme, he chooses instead to explore this new world in any animal form except human. Having hoped for peace at last, he can't stand to be looked up to, to be responsible for others, to have the world on his shoulders.

If he'd hoped to avoid excitement, however, he really should have stayed away when he noticed an enormous explosion and a falling metal suit of armor as he passed through Afghanistan.

UNFINISHED: The End of Infinity - FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls. (Self rec. Very long, very slow-burn. Canon-compliant Endgame fix-it. I’m trying so hard, lol.)

In 2023, the battle for the universe has been won. At a cost no one can forget, the fight is over—for all but one. Stephen Strange has an idea. An impossible idea spanning dimensions and timelines, life and death, and the lines of good and evil. But he's played impossible odds before—perhaps he never stopped.

All that Loki wanted was to fight, one last time, for the fate of his universe. So when he finds himself fighting for another, crashing into the past, he has a few intended words for the wizard that forced him there. But not before he finds a boy. Or, more accurately, before the boy finds him.

Peter Parker had been waiting for the next mission. He just doesn't expect it to come from the future, armed with a ridiculous story demanding a ridiculous quest. And he doesn't expect not to be able to tell Mr. Stark.

Tony Stark is trying to rebuild from the Civil War, knowing that someday, something will come that he needs to be ready for. And he doesn't know it yet, but two universes are trying to rebuild around him, and that something is already here.

Seven Stones. Five dead. Two universes. And one impossible quest to tie it all back together.

UNFINISHED: Sunrise in Exile - Ragdoll (Keshka). (Another fandom favorite! And for good reason. This is really really good!) 

Tony does the math and realizes their best chance to save the universe is by... not confronting Thanos on his own turf.

So he steals a wizard and a spider and a space ship. And he runs.

(Three humans and an A.I in space, the alien friendships they make along the way, and discovering how science and magic might coexist in a universe where they can be one and the same.)

Shorter plotty ones: 

Out of Suffering - Mystical_Magician. (So this author??? THIS AUTHOR??? Very very good, much yes, very good.) 

Stephen Strange does not like people, but 14,000,605 lifetimes of fighting and dying alongside this small group have worn down his walls. He likes them, gods help him. He might even consider them friends. It’s really for the best that they all go their separate ways once Thanos has been defeated. In their eyes, he’s barely even an acquaintance.

Now if only Tony and Peter would stop surprising him.

moros - spookykingdomstarlight. (Almost got a spot in the angst section. Very good). 

There were fourteen million universes Stephen had birthed into existence and let die and, in far more than he cared to count, the visitor standing before him had become something… dear.

Shaking is Caring - mariadperiad20. (This is just STUNNING. Highly loved.)

5 times Stephen's hands would shake, +1 time they didn't.

It's Kinda Chalky - DestielsDestiny. (This one’s pretty short, but definitely worth it.) 

You can live an entire lifetime by looking into someone’s eyes. His sister used to say that all the time. Stephen never gave it much thought back then. These days, he can think of little else.

Something Magic - Imagined. (Beautiful!)

There is only ever one rule that matters:

do not fall in love with the enemy.

An Idiotic Theory - FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls. (Self rec! I tried to be funny.)

His wizard has been cursed, again, and Tony's already used up his luck for the day.

(Stephen says it's not a curse. He says Tony's whole daily-allotted karma-based luck theory has minimal merit, citing the fact that Tony had come up with it while he was drunk.)

Tony really should have saved his miracle.

Love Through Time - babywarg (morphaileffect). (I love this one. It sticks with you.) 

Tony discovers an old drawing of, and finally remembers, his invisible friend Stephen from when he was a child.

Alternates - doobler. (Super cool!)

After being punked by a lowbrow magician, Stephen finds himself falling through doors to otherwordly dimensions. How will he ever get home?

132 - 28ghosts. (Soulmate AU! Very fun, incorporates Stephen’s time-loop with Dormammu.)

Ninety-nine point eight percent of humans have a soulmate mark that tells them the age their soulmate will be when they meet them. Tony Stark has a mark. It's just that his is...different than most people's.

(Or: six people who aren't Tony Stark's soulmate, and one who is.)

and when the world falls (I will fall with it) - HeavenChild. (Another multichap soulmate AU. Absolutely lovely.)

Tony will give anything to those he loves.

People will take everything he gives before leaving him in shambles.

Rhodhey, Pepper and Vision have had enough.

Or the five times Tony had his heart broken and the one time he didn't.

i saw the end of the world - JumpToConclusions. (Why has no one read this fic??? It’s so good!!! Stephen knows the future since he saw it on Titan, and things grow more complex from there.)

Tony and Strange are trying to make this work, this being remaking The Avengers. ...And maybe they'll stumble into something else along the way.

Tiresome heart, forever living and dying - Mystical_Magician. (R e a d  t h i s  p l e a s e. The mythology is so cool and the symbolism is so beautiful and the prose is so satisfying. One of my absolute faves.) 

As a fledgling crane, Stephen was too curious for his own good, and it was this curiosity that led to Eugene Strange finding and stealing away his feather robe. Trapped in human form, cruelly forged into the perfect son, not even his father's death freed him when his robe was so well hidden. He only managed to break his father's mold after breaking completely in the aftermath of his accident, and slowly gluing those broken pieces back together at Kamar-Taj, but not even magic could find what had been hidden. Enter Tony, after the defeat of Thanos.

Fluffy ones:

From The Outside - Live. (Hilarious.) 

Being a sentient life-form surrounded by humanity can be hard. Especially when said humans just can't admit their feelings for each other.

Sleeping Iron Man - Golden_Asp. (Another fun one. Perfect balance of ridiculousness with a touch of angst to make it interesting.) 

Stephen Strange stared at the Avengers on his doorstep, Tony Stark flung over Steve Rogers' shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "He touched something, didn't he?" "Yuup." or The one where Tony touches Sleeping Beauty's spindle, is put into an enchanted sleep, and everyone, even Rocket Raccoon, take their turn kissing him. But Tony only has one prince charming.

Doctor Ob(li)vious - lantia4ever. (One of my very favorites. So cute.) 

Stephen starts getting some weird looks from the Avengers, spanning across disturbed, confused and even scared all the way to curious. He dismisses it at first until weird turns into knowing.

And knowing turns into realizing...even if the scheming teenagers had to all but paint it on the walls for him to do so. Oh wait...

Applied Combinatorics in Two-Player Games - 28ghosts. (Short and fun and full of snark.)

After a battle, Tony Stark and Stephen Strange argue about games.

-

“Chess is not a solved problem.”

“Has been since ‘97, Kasparov versus Deep Blue. Kasparov, 1; Deep Blue, 2; three draws.”

“Chess is a game, not a problem.”

The Courtship of Peter Parker's Father (Figures) - flyingonfeatherlesswings. (Peter plays matchmaker! Adorable.)

Peter couldn't stand to sit by while Tony and Stephen danced around each other any longer. Something had to be done.

Speaking Eyes - Vrishchika. (Not Steve Friendly. Tony is amazing in this. And Stephen is so fantastically dramatic.)

Tony has always had expressive eyes.

The Signs of Sleep Deprivation - FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls. (Another self-rec. <3)

"Tony said to put the potato in the dishwasher, so that's what I did."

Sometimes, Avengers just show up to say hi. Sometimes, they all show up at once, and Tony makes an party out of it. Sometimes, he invites the snarky, oblivious, somewhat insecure wizard because, and Peter quotes: "everyone else is coming".

Sometimes, something needs to be done.

Show Me Your Scars (And I'll Show You Mine) - Imagined. (Adorable. Lovely. Imagined does it again.)

The worst part is that Stephen keeps tucking his hands away, just as Tony wants to hold them. He keeps hiding them, surreptitiously, no matter what they’re doing. It’s only when Tony kisses Stephen, or hugs him, that he feels the hands settle on his back, uncertain, ready to pull back within seconds.

It only makes him want to cuddle up to Stephen even more, but he backs away, not sure if it’d be welcome.

Promise? Promise. - sharonscarters. (AU, kidfic, absolutely adorable.) 

A four year old Tony Stark runs away from home and finds his Guardian Angel.

What The Doctor Ordered - wakandan_wardog. (Post CW. Kind of not Rogues friendly? So fun, makes me smile. I re-read this one a lot.)

The Rogue Avengers are called back to New York because the heavy hitters are going to be needed against Thanos. Of course, there are some truths that Steve Rogers will need to accept sooner rather than later. Tony Stark has moved on and Stephen Strange will not suffer fools lightly.

Hurt/Comforty ones:

Among The Chaos of The Stars (You're My Safe Harbour) - ShootMeDead. (Oh my vishanti. OH MY VISHANTI. So so so so SO good.) 

Stephen has always been able to hear the stars. Tony is the only one who can silence them.

each night like a white noise frequency - Phierie. (I ADORE THIS FIC. OKAY. I LOVE IT. READ IT.)

Stephen is no stranger to making hard choices. He doesn’t regret his actions on Titan, but months later they weigh on his mind heavier than ever; the cracks begin to show.

Just An Accident - CucumbersInGold. (I really like fics with Stephen’s hands and the difficulties thereabout. Idk, just one of my favorite things. This is beautiful). 

Stephen's hands act up.

Learning, Unlearning - Caaaaaaas. (More character study than anything else. Really good.)

Whatever Stephen wanted with life, life just didn’t seem to know what to do with him.

In which Stephen learns and unlearns some very important lessons.

your eyes have their silence - doctortwelfth. (Oh look it’s another scars fic. I told you I liked them.) 

Tony is gentle with Stephen’s hands even when Stephen forgets to be.

Burning Lines Into The Snow - petroltogo. (Not very Steve friendly. Short and sweet.)

Post CW: It's not just the team that's so broken they are barely able to comprehend how many parts they're missing now, how many have been ripped and twisted and torn. It's Tony as well, right down to the core, the damage so far-reaching even he doesn't know how to fix it.

And then there's Strange, who has his own way of covering the cracks.

Old Bones - CJtheWeeb. (Owch. Dumb geniuses trying to be invulnerable.)

Sometimes Stephen Strange has great days, where he was nearly pain free and his hands still enough to where he could pick up a cup of water and barely spill a drop.

Today was not one of those days.

something taken, something new - meowrails. (So in-character. The premise was a little off to me, but I’m so glad I decided to read this one. I really really like this fic.)

The ChronicConnection implement and app allows a person that lives with chronic or illness-induced pain to transfer their burden temporarily to a willing loved one.

Tony and Stephen sign up as beta testers.

Angsty ones (happy ending unless otherwise mentioned):

day one - days4daisy. (THIS IS SO GOOD OKAY IF YOU READ NOTHING ELSE ON THIS LIST READ THIS).

Three days in Stark Tower. Stephen must be in bad shape if he just agreed to this.

His Merlin - babywarg (morphaileffect). (This author keeps showing up on this list because they are A LEGEND. A LEGEND I TELL YOU.) 

As a child, Tony imagined himself a Knight of the Round Table. Little did he know he would grow up to be a king. And that he would have a wizard by his side to lead him to either glory or destruction.

there is no heart for me like yours - turtle_abyss. (Soulmate AU! Wonderful. <3)

Being able to feel your soulmate - a phantom touch, a bone-deep awareness - is a divine torture. To know, but not see. To seek, but not find. To feel someone holding your hand and not be able to hold theirs.

Grace - StrangeMischief. (*cries in beautiful fic* Happy ending!)

“Pain’s an old friend.” 

Us...Me - StrangeMischief. (This will hurt you. So melancholy. Pepper and Tony live their life, and Tony remembers. Not a happy ending.) 

“I don’t believe in happily ever after.” 

One-Thousand Cranes - FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls. (Self rec, sorry. Hopeful ending.) 

After it all, a man with shaking hands makes a wish.

courtesy - deathofglitter. (Dealing with the fourteen-million futures. So good.) 

Stark looked at him like he looked at the amulet that rested on his chest like a steady promise - dutiful, a bit burdened, and trying to hold a profound lack of personal emotion whatsoever, still personal enough to protect as anyone would a precious object.

La Douleur Exquise - BananasofThorns, StrangeMischief. (More pain. Pepper and Tony, and Stephen watching and trying not to wish. Very good, no happy ending.)

The before was easy. There were fewer boxes in their minds and no chains around their hearts. There was no hurt. No tears. No dreams.

But those days were long gone.

Stigmata - babywarg (morphaileffect). (AU! Soulmates again. Very interesting, beautifully done.)

Since Stephen was little, mysterious wounds have appeared and disappeared on his body, leaving mysterious scars. His mother says it's because he's one of a Pair, and he's absorbing pain meant for someone else.

*wipes brow* PHEW! That gotta a little more in-depth than I first intended... Have fun, my MysticIron friends. Happy quarantine.