#Metal Pail uses

[wildfaeworld]

the face of a bandit who has figured out how to use the toe kick on the bathroom garbage pail that i specifically bought bc it's metal and thus should have kept him out:

alas, the siren lure of trash is a scent too heady to be resisted by one of his level of nositude

[ujwala-hole11]

Metal Pail Market Insights Rising Demand for Durable and Sustainable Packaging Solutions

The Metal Pail Market is witnessing a surge in demand due to its durability, reusability, and sustainability. Industries such as chemicals, paints, and lubricants prefer metal pails over plastic due to their superior strength and ability to withstand harsh conditions. With increasing environmental concerns, manufacturers are focusing on recyclable and eco-friendly metal pail designs.

Key Growth Drivers Shaping the Industry in 2025

Several factors are fueling the growth of the Metal Pail Market, including rapid industrialization, increased demand for secure packaging, and stringent regulations on hazardous material storage. The rising need for high-quality packaging solutions in sectors like food, pharmaceuticals, and construction is further driving market expansion. Additionally, advancements in manufacturing processes are enhancing production efficiency.

The Impact of Industrial Expansion on Market Growth

Industrial expansion, particularly in emerging economies, is significantly influencing the Metal Pail Market. The increasing consumption of chemicals, paints, and adhesives in construction and infrastructure projects has led to a higher demand for durable packaging solutions. The shift toward urbanization and modernization is further propelling the market, making metal pails an essential packaging component.

Innovations in Material Technology and Coatings

Technological advancements in material composition and coatings are revolutionizing the Metal Pail Market. New protective coatings, such as BPA-free linings, corrosion-resistant finishes, and lightweight alloys, are enhancing product durability. These innovations ensure compliance with safety standards while improving the usability and shelf life of packaged products, particularly in the food and pharmaceutical industries.

Challenges and Regulatory Compliance in the Industry

Despite its growth, the Metal Pail Market faces challenges such as fluctuating raw material costs, stringent environmental regulations, and competition from alternative packaging materials. Compliance with safety regulations for hazardous materials and food-grade packaging requirements is becoming increasingly complex, requiring manufacturers to invest in advanced production technologies and quality assurance measures.

Regional Analysis and Emerging Market Trends

The Metal Pail Market is expanding globally, with key growth regions including North America, Europe, and Asia-Pacific. While North America and Europe dominate the market due to strict regulatory standards and high industrial demand, Asia-Pacific is emerging as a major hub due to rapid industrialization and increasing foreign investments in manufacturing sectors. Developing economies are expected to witness the highest growth rates.

Competitive Landscape and Market Positioning

The Metal Pail Market is highly competitive, with key players focusing on innovation, sustainability, and cost-efficiency to maintain their market position. Leading manufacturers are investing in research and development to introduce high-performance metal pails with enhanced durability and safety features. Strategic partnerships, mergers, and acquisitions are also shaping the competitive landscape, allowing companies to expand their market reach.

The Role of Smart Packaging and Digital Innovations

Digitalization is transforming the Metal Pail Market, with the integration of smart packaging solutions such as RFID tags, QR codes, and digital tracking systems. These technologies enhance supply chain efficiency, improve product traceability, and ensure regulatory compliance. The adoption of digital printing and automated labeling solutions is also helping manufacturers streamline their packaging processes and enhance branding.

Future Market Projections and Investment Opportunities

Looking ahead, the Metal Pail Market is expected to grow steadily, driven by increasing demand across multiple industries. The market is projected to benefit from investments in sustainable packaging solutions, advanced coating technologies, and smart packaging innovations. Investors and manufacturers focusing on these trends will likely gain a competitive edge and capitalize on future market opportunities.

How Sustainability Is Driving Market Evolution

Sustainability is a key focus in the Metal Pail Market, with manufacturers prioritizing eco-friendly materials and production methods. The shift toward recyclable and reusable metal pails is gaining momentum, driven by environmental regulations and consumer demand for greener packaging solutions. Companies that adopt sustainable practices are expected to gain market preference and long-term profitability.

Conclusion

The Metal Pail Market is undergoing significant transformation, driven by industrial expansion, technological advancements, and sustainability initiatives. While challenges such as regulatory compliance and cost fluctuations exist, innovation in material technology and smart packaging solutions is paving the way for future growth. As demand continues to rise, market players must adapt to evolving trends to stay competitive and capitalize on emerging opportunities.

[doe-eyeddreamgirl]

𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐆𝐔𝐘

Benjicot Blackwood x reader

Ben was known for his brutality, receiving the name Bloody Ben from his opponents, but in your hands, he turns to putty. 💌 Based on a tiktok I saw where Ben was shy in the books

Looking that good while swinging a sword is cruel.

It’s borderline criminal how his biceps flex when he lurches forward. The way his eyes glint when he sees the first drop of blood and the absolute beast he becomes when he strikes down on his opponent sends a shiver down your spine.

Lowly grunts fly from Benjicot’s mouth countering his rival’s loud groans. The sound of metal clashing vibrates through the open air, atmosphere. Despite the fighting happening at the moment, it is clear to see that Ben is the better fighter— his harsh blows and agility unmatched. One last exchange has Ben’s foot flying to the center of his competitors armored chest, sending him flopping backwards straight onto his ass.

Applauds were immediate from the small crowd that had formed around the sparring match.

Underneath the attention, Ben flushes, waving at those around him embarrassedly.

You grin, heart full as Ben stares at his feet, approaching the steps where you reside. Leaning against the railing, looking down at him, you can’t help the taunt that slides off your tongue, like poison disguised honey. “Good job, Benny.”

His doe eyes look up at from the steps, the sweetness of your voice easing the tremble in his bones from his post-fight high. Boys have had their jaws broken for using that nickname, but he would never do that to you. Not you. Never you.

When you say it, it makes his blood run hot underneath his skin. Just being in your presence is a thrill, ten times over when compared to fighting. Trying to respond, he clears his throat, hand clenching the handle of his sword as he tries to untangle his tongue and respond to you without making a proper fool of himself. “I— thank you, uh, my lady.”

Ben clamps his eyes shut in shame.

Hunming melodically, you take a peak at the swarms of people behind you, chatting idle. As most know, hesitation was not in your nature. Without a second thought, you snag an empty pail of water. Taking a step down to become eye level, you tilt your head innocently, shaking the bucket on your wrist. “Would you mind escorting me to the well? I’m supposed to fetch some water and I’d much prefer not to do it alone.”

“Oh,” he says, almost disappointed by your offer. At least he gets to hang out with you! he thinks. When you raise a calculated brow, your words dawn on him. “Ohh, of course, my lady,” he blushes, offering an arm.

Your hand grips the meat of his bicep as you saunter past his beaten opponents and warriors unto the path to the woods. The walk isn’t far, daylight guiding your way to the tree line rather than a lantern on your wrist.

Sneaking around with Benji was becoming commoner and commoner. His presence shifting from a want to a need.

As you grow older, the risk of you two being betrothed to another becomes slimmer, seeing as your parents had solidified their place in his court so any rumors that may circulate your virtue no longer mind you.

The silence is comfortable as the pair of you are overtaken by a forest of dark green. Branches snap underneath your feet. Ahead you see two noble women talking together, and walking your way. When they walk past you, they giggle.

One look at Ben and you can see his anticipation rising— his cheeks flushed red, finger rhythmically tapping against his steel chest, and the swift glimpses he takes at the side of your face.

“We’re not alone,” you snide. Benji’s eyebrows furrow and he shoots a look behind him. He opens his mouth to refute, but the words are swallowed by your tongue when you grip his chin and pull him closer.

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t restrain the whimper that shrivels up his throat. His hands fumble against your soft skin as your hands push his chest, his back slapping against the bark of a tree.

While your tongue fights for dominance, Benji’s fights to get the taste of you out of your own mouth.

There’s something so addictive about you that Ben doesn’t quite understand. He had felt this way his entire life yet he had only just began to have the grace of kissing you this year.

A stupid part of his thought it would dim this overwhelming feeling to be near you, sedate the heart which you had already stolen, but instead, it heightened it.

Courage, similar to the one he gets from alcohol— when he first was brave enough to kiss you — powers him to grip the curve of your waist and slam your body into his. Your moan encourages him to flip you, your back pressing into the tree.

His hand finds a way under your skirt and the pads of his fingers dig into your exposed thigh, pulling it to meet with his hip bone. He doesn’t want any space between you. He wants you two to be one. Forever intertwined. He really needed to propose your betrothal.

He smells like moon water, blood, and sweat. It only makes you tug his hair harder.

Not far from you, a throat clears.

As your heart momentarily stops, Benji’s lips are separated from yours in an instant.

A boy not much younger than you, awkwardly stands, his cheeks pink with embarrassment for coming across your endeavor.

Before you can blink and before the boy can even speak, Ben has the tip of his sword to his throat, the edge of the silver pressed onto his Adam’s apple. “Get the fuck out of here,” Benjicott sneers, “Or do I have to make you?”

Shaking with fear, the boy shakes his head, eyes wide like a deer and dashing like one when the sword is off his throat and seethed back into Ben’s holster.

Then, he turns to you, a cocky smile on his lips as his hands move to grip your hips. “Now, where were we?”

Giggling, your hand pushes his cheek away from your face, making him stumble in his footing. He pouts, watching as you step off the tree and pull a leaf from your skirt. You tilt your head at the leaf before giddily biting your lip and pulling Ben back in by the collar. His eyes light up, expecting another kiss, but when he closes his eyes, all he feels is your fingers filtering through his hair.

His eyes flutter open when you smack a wet kiss on his cheek. Ben watches you walk away, skirt swaying. Leaves crunch underneath you as you continue down the dirt path to the well, basket throttling in your arm as you disappear and reappear between trees. Dumbly, he touches the spot where you kissed him.

The tip of his finger catches a crunch by his ear. Swiftly, he grabs the object. The leaf looks small and withered in his palm. He can only imagine how much of an idiot he looked like with a brown leaf tucked in his hair— the same space where you usually bury his gifted flowers in your own hair.

“Come on, Benny!” you call out, your sultry eyes finding him from just a glance over your shoulder.

Ben is quick to follow because who is he to oppose you?

ima be honest, i don’t what the fuck this is. this shit is so bad

not edited or proofread ❌ lowkey i refuse to believe in Davos Blackwood so…

Had this in my drafts. Leave me alone if this makes you want to throw up.

[amazinglyegg]

Due to not being able to find a decent reference for Danse's room, I used this video to sketch out a floor plan!!

Along with references for what all the furniture looks like:

Details and rambling below the cut!

General notes:

The only time we see his room is after Blind Betrayal. I wonder if he brought anything from his room with him, despite leaving the duffle bag near the door?

He has a ton of storage space. Like, a lot. He doesn't even have a footlocker at the end of his bed it's just an entire metal box.

Despite that, he has nowhere to sit. Not even his desk has a chair.

Also he has a rug between his bed and his big drawer! Cute!

Pet food bowl near his door with fresh bloatfly meat in it. Not only does he manually open the door for Emmett to enter and leave (no cat door), but Emmett visits often enough that he goes out of his way to give him a bowl of fresh food! Does Quinlan even feed him!?

Has a lot of random cardboard boxes filled with papers and stuff on his floor. Given that the filing cabinet is for files, I wonder if these are books or journals?

Has a plain old bed with no pillows or blankets. Like most beds, this is probably done for game reasons (like animations or clipping) instead of canon reasons. At least I HOPE he sleeps with a blanket!!

On top of his safe is three dog food cans, maybe supposed to represent cat food. Also has a can of cram on his big drawer. I wonder if he stores more food in there!

The flag is actually a smaller one, but I couldn't find the exact model on the wiki. I find it interesting that he has a pole flag instead of a regular wall one. It just looks so sad :(

Has a lot of small blue and wood boxes around his room that I didn't include in the floor plan, they're empty I'm pretty sure

I didn't realize people outside of middle school used lockers, especially SIX of them. What do you even store in lockers?? Can't be clothes since they have multiple segments, hung clothes wouldn't fit and folded clothes would probably fall out.

No real personal stuff like holotapes or journal entries. I would have expected something unique! He also has no decorations other than that one sad droopy flag, but I guess it'd be hard to hang up paintings when the walls are made of metal. Can't just hammer a nail into that!

As a note, I think items within storage containers are randomized, so I didn't bother looking at them while making this.

Desk and filing cabinet:

Whisky and vodka bottles, no shot glass in sight. He is chugging those straight from the bottle. Not as many bottles as Maxson, at least!

Also an entire carton of cigarettes and an ashtray. He canonically smokes and doesn't even bother going outside to do it, his room must reek of cigarettes.

A food tray and mug, which is... interesting? Does he often eat alone in his room?

Filing cabinet for files, probably does paperwork at this desk as well.

Drawers:

Has like, three wrenches, as well as a tool box. This must be his workshop!

A lunch pail and a nuka cola. This table is right next to his desk so it makes sense he has food and drinks here. Surprised there's no water!

Speaking of the table... it's an institute table. Probably just done for aesthetic purposes, but I found that interesting

Let me know if you have any opinions, headcanons, or things I missed!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

"We can't thank you enough," your mother clasps her hands together, "are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner?"

"I gotta get back," Walter huffs, hooking his thumbs in his jeans pockets, "but I'll be back in the morning."

"You will?" You mom bats her lashes in surprise as you glance over from peeling potatoes.

"Yep," he nods as he looks around, meeting your gaze briefly before turning his attention back to your mother, "gonna help the kid with planting."

"What? You can't-- Walter, we... we could never pay you back," she fans herself.

"I'm not asking for anything," he shrugs, "I kinda owe Pat. He's always been good to me."

"Oh my gosh, and he will appreciate it so much," she touches her cheeks as her voice cracks, "we really can't afford to turn away help but you will be stayin' for dinner. It's the least we can do."

"Yes, ma'am," he answers, "but you don't work yourself too hard. You gotta make sure to get Pat back on his feet before you worry about me."

"Oh," she sniffles and dabs her nose with her knuckle, "I'm so sorry, it's been such a difficult week."

"Ma," you come around and offer her a paper towel from the role, your own eyes stinging.

"Anyways, I...I'll go now," Walter says stringently.

"Thank you," you eke out as you hug your mother and she buries her face in your shoulder.

He nods at you as he passes, continuing into the hallway. You rock your mother and crane to watch him go, his broad shoulders stretching the cotton henley. He peeks into the front room as he stops to get his boots on, staring in at your dad, still blank in his recliner.

You tear your eyes away as your mom pulls back and wipes her cheeks, "uh, I'm a mess."

"It's alright, ma," you assure.

"I hope so," she murmurs as her throat tightens, "I really do."

🌾

As promised, Walter returns early the next morning. You're in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee as you hear his truck. You leave the percolator to boil as you sweep down the hall, yawning into the crook of your elbow as you near the front door.

You open in and stand inside the screen, watching his headlights fade as he shuts off the engine. He steps out, grabbing a beaten metal lunch pail out behind him. It hangs from a thick leather strap; you wonder if he takes it down to the mill for his shifts.

"Morning," he comes up the steps, "Timothy up?"

"He's getting there," you say evasively, "you want some coffee?"

"Brought my own," he shows the thermos strapped to the top of the lunch pail.

"Hm, well, why don't you come in while you wait? Tim will be up soon, I'm sure."

"I don't mind," he says.

"I hate to leave you out here," you insist, "ma's upstairs with dad," you explain, "pretty quiet in here. Not used to that."

"Mm," he grumbles and bows his head. He grabs the screen door as he steps forward, catching it as you retreat ahead of him.

He enters and you scurry back to the kitchen as you hear the percolator thrumming, the lid shaking noisily. You take out a cup for yourself and one for Timothy. Walter enters and you turn to him as he looks around placidly.

"You're right. It's quiet," he agrees.

You give a shaky smile and go to the fridge. You take out the packet of bacon wrapped in brown paper and put it on the counter.

"I'm making breakfast. Ma and dad will be hungry. You like bacon or sausage?" You ask.

He considers you. You face him, awaiting his answer. He watches you, his expression hard to read.

"You don't have to worry about me," he states.

"I'm not worried, I'm just... offering," you placate.

His blue eyes make you nervous as they bore into you. Like everything else he does, he watches you with intent. What it is, you don't know.

He hums and nods, as if agreeing with something you said. You arch a brow curiously as he tilts his head and drops his eyes to the counter. He steps up to the island and puts his pail down.

"I'll do the eggs," he says.

"Oh, please, sir--"

"Walt," he intones.

"Walt, sorry," you squirm. There's something different about him. He's just as steely as ever but much more... there. You always felt like he didn't see you before.

"No sorries," he waves you off and goes to the fridge, opening the door and searching until he sees the eggs. "You seem like the sunny side up type."

"I do?" You wonder as he plucks out eggs one at a time.

"I think so," he says softly, a grit in his throat.

"Hm," you scrunch your lips up, "I don't mind it. I usually have french toast. That's how I liked my eggs."

"Not really eggs..."

"There's eggs on the bread," you argue, "and cinnamon, and a little icing sugar."

He scoffs and his cheek dimples. It's as close to a smile as you've ever seen from him. He places the eggs on the counter before he goes back for more.

"What about you? How do you like your eggs?" You ask before the tension can grow stifling.

"I take two hard-boiled eggs to work. A slice of rye, carrots, cashews, and dried berries. For lunch, I have ham and cheese. Most days, I miss lunch. Too busy."

He speaks matter-of-factly. He does seem like a man of routine. You never thought very much about what he did beyond his visits, but it makes sense.

"I usually forget lunch too," you grin, "but I make up for it at dinner."

He snorts again, setting down another handful of eggs. "I'll do some scrambled," he rolls one aside on its own, "and some french toast for you."

"Oh, M-Walt," you stammer, "that's--"

"I like to keep busy. Keeps me focused," he says sternly.

"Oh, uh, okay," you relent, "I'll... go get Timothy," you look at the clock, "he said he'd be up ten minutes ago."

"His own fault if he doesn't have time to eat," Walter tuts. "Grown man."

"Sure is," you agree as you breeze around the counter, "be right back."

You get to the door before he responds, "I'll be here, sweetheart."

You're in the hall before you register what he said. You falter and stop at the bottom step before you can ascend the stairs. You look back to the kitchen, staring at Walter's shoulders as he cracks eggs into a bowl.

Sweetheart... you don't think you've ever heard a morsel of affection from the man. He didn't even laugh at your father's jokes. Well, there is a lot going on. He's just being nice because your dad's sick.

[randomasfuk]

Houce mates- Jason Todd

First post and I haven’t a clue what I’m doing but eh this is a Jason x fem!reader thing they aren’t together but they live in an apartment together they’re friends but not close

Jason felt the cold air gnaw at his face with each gust of wind as he wandered home to the apartment he shared with you. The two of you had an odd relationship, rarely speaking. You were always the one to start a conversation, your words carrying an odd sense of warmth he wasn’t used to. It made him feel strange—he couldn’t decide if he liked or hated the way your words wrapped around him. They didn’t even have to be particularly kind to unsettle him. That warmth made him feel vulnerable, as though you could see through him.

It was impossible, of course. There was so much he hid from you—so much you didn’t know. If you ever found out who he really was, what he really was, he knew you’d never look at him the same way again.

The keys jingled in his hand as he unlocked the door, taking care to move quietly to avoid the creaking floorboards that riddled the old building. He closed the door just as silently. By now, you should’ve been in bed, fast asleep, and he had no intention of waking you.

But as he turned on his heel, he stopped abruptly. The door to the balcony was open. A sudden alertness shook away the exhaustion weighing down his body. Quietly, he marched toward the balcony, unsure what to expect.

What he didn’t expect was you, leaning against the railing. You were picking at the chipped black paint to reveal the silver metal beneath, flicking the end of a cigarette down to the street below. In the dim lighting, you looked mesmerized by the orange sparks scattering through the city streets.

When the sparks disappeared, you turned around and nearly jumped out of your skin.

“JESUS JASON! ..I didn’t hear you come in. You’re very quiet for such a large man,” you slurred, your words thick and clumsy.

He immediately noticed your red cheeks and swollen eyes. You were drunk—and you’d been crying. That’s when something else caught his attention. His pack of cigarettes.

“Hey, was that mine?” he asked, referring to the cigarette now lost to the abyss below.

“Yes. Sorry,” you murmured, your voice small and defeated. The usual spark in your eyes was gone.

Jason hesitated. He wanted to ask what was wrong, if you were hurt, if there was anything he could do to help. But his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Perhaps it was for the best—getting too close to you would only end in pain. Everyone he touched ended up broken. He didn’t want to hurt you.

Instead, he settled for holding out his hand and jerking his head toward the apartment, silently gesturing for you to come inside.

You looked up at him, your glossy eyes stinging with the effort of holding back tears, and met his soft gaze with those piercing green eyes you loved so dearly. Standing out on his ghostly pail skin.



“Your eyes are really pretty,” you whispered, a faint smile in your voice.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, caught off guard.

The moment felt like it stretched for minutes, though it was only seconds. Then, without warning, you stumbled into his side. He shut the balcony door behind you with a sharp bang, the loudest noise of the night, rivaling the distant wail of sirens that echoed through the city streets.

You slumped onto the couch, dragging him down beside you with the unexpected movement. Before he could react, you kicked your feet up and turned his shoulder into your own personal pillow.

Jason froze. His eyes darted toward you, then quickly back again like a kid caught staring at something they aren’t supposed to. He was stunned. Meanwhile, you were already fast asleep, your breathing so soft he could barely hear it.

He knew he should move—lay you down properly, grab a blanket, and try to snatch a few hours of sleep himself. But when he turned to look at you again, he found he couldn’t bring himself to disturb you.

You looked peaceful. The way your hair framed your face, the softness of your features in the dim orange glow of the lamp by the TV—it all captivated him. He couldn’t even bring himself to breathe too loudly for fear of breaking the moment.

He let himself enjoy the weight of you leaning against him, though he hated to admit it. He wanted to keep you at arm’s length, not on his arm, yet here you were. And somehow, he didn’t have the strength—or the desire—to move you.

[juiceicicles]

Mean and Scary | Chapter 1: King of Hawkins High

AO3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48053206/chapters/121165750

Pts: 1, 2, 3

As he traipses through the woods, Eddie tries to get a bearing on what is about to happen and what his plan is for when it inevitably goes sideways.

Dealing pot to Hawkins Royalty like King Steve isn’t entirely out of the ordinary, but doing it alone at a picnic table in the middle of the isolated woods? Yeah, not Eddie’s smartest decision for a meeting place.

In his defense, he’s only a hop skip and a jump away from the high school, and he couldn’t be assed to drive any further for what’s likely going to be a one time payment of $20. $25, if he overcharges Steve (which, he absolutely plans to do.)

Eddie finally gets to the clearing and Steve jumps when he notices him, finally looking away from a tree he was seemingly having a very intense staring match with.

“Whoa, hey, hey, hey! Sorry,” Eddie chuckles a bit awkwardly, trying his best to subconsciously communicate that he is not a threat, because he really doesn’t wanna get his lights punched out right now “Didn't mean to scare you.”

Eddie sits down and his metal lunchbox clatters onto the table —Steve flinches again. Boy, Harrington is jumpy— and sits across from him. He opens up his Pail-o’-Drugs and watches as Steve drums his fingers on the table.

“There's, uh... There's nothing to worry about. Okay? No one ever comes out here. We're safe. I promise.” Eddie honestly didn’t expect Steve Harrington to be worried about being caught, considering that Steve apparently used to hold daily house parties.

He still can’t believe it. King Steve goddamn Harrington sitting there, in all his douchey glory. Or at least, that’s what Eddie expected. Instead he sort looks exhausted. His eyes keep flitting around, and he looks like he just saw a ghost.

You see, Harrington was never a dick to Eddie, specifically. However, he sure as hell didn’t treat the freaks of Hawkins High with any sort of sympathy. Hence Eddie’s original plan to act like the biggest asshole he possibly could without scaring off a rich customer. But something about Harrington’s eyes, a sort of dull terror etched into the hazel brown, is making Eddie reconsider that decision.

“So, how does this work, exactly?” Steve sort of mutters. This is so utterly different from everything Eddie heard about him. Steve always roamed the halls with a sick sort of ironclad confidence, with his two jackals Tommy and Carol following his every beck and call. The boy across from Eddie though? He seems so haunted. Like a flickering projection of someone. A puppet with its strings cut.

“Uhh just like any other old sale, except cash only, and for obvious reasons, no receipts,” he gives Harrington what he hopes is a reassuring smile, “I'll do you a half ounce for, uh... 20. What do you say? Plenty of bang for your buck. Should last a while.”

A squirrel skitters up a tree in the background, and Harrington gasps quietly and whips around to track it. And then, finally, it clicks for Eddie.

Steve’s worried about being seen with Eddie the Freak Munson. Figures. He shouldn’t have expected anything less from King Steve.

“Hey, we don’t need to do this. Just give me the word, and I’ll walk away.”

“It’s not that, I don’t want you to go.” Steve starts, tentatively. He’s still looking around, like somethings about to pop out of the woods. “It’s just…Do you ever feel like you’re loosing your mind?”

And, of course Eddie feels like he’s lost his marbles. He’s a super senior with the nickname the Freak. Obviously he sometimes feels a little crazy. He’s a little surprised that notorious cool guy Steve Harrington feels that way, though.

He makes the decision right then and there to see this out, because even if Harrington’s afraid of being caught, there’s something here that Eddie’s missing.

“You know on a daily basis. I feel like I’m loosing my mind right now,” screw it, might as well be honest, go big or go home right? “doing a drug deal with Steve Harrington, former king of Hawkins High.”

“Ah, well, I haven’t been king for a while…” Steve trails off.

Eddie remembers Billy Hargrove. Remembers how he made him want to beg every god there was for Steve to steal back the crown. Billy Hargrove was mean to Eddie. He was mean to everyone. And he wasn’t highschool-mean either, he was Larry Munson mean. He was a jackass who wasn’t afraid of anyone and wanted you to know it.

Unprompted, Eddie remembers the first time he met Steve. Before he was Hawkins Royalty, before he was a jock and a bully, before Eddie was the freak and not just a freak. Eddie had just gotten to Hawkins, his old man had been put away and the US government dropped lil’ Eddie on Wayne’s doorstep. He’d met some friends and formed a shitty garage band. They’d played at the middle school talent show, and Eddie had lost his guitar pick. A boy about his age had given it back, told him his name was Steve and he had found it underneath his chair in the seats.

“You know, this isn't the first time that we've, um... Hung out.”

“No?”

Eddie lets out a little chuckle. Of course Steve wouldn’t remember. “It’s alright.”

He clutches at his heart like he’s been shot with an arrow and flings himself off the bench and into a pile of leaves behind him. He hears Steve let out a little gasp before he hops back up.

“I wouldn’t remember me either, Harrington!”

Steve looks a little amused, and Eddie catches a light brown blob in his peripheral vision. He combs his fingers through his hair and dislodges a dead leaf.

“Honestly, do I have stuff in my hair?”

Steve lets out a little chuckle as Eddie starts to gets into his story. If there’s one thing Eddie Munson is good at, it’s story telling.

“Middle school, talent show. Carol I think did this cheer thing? You know the thing the,” Eddie mimed some pom poms. Steve was smiling a little bit, so Eddie continued his spiel, “and I- I was with my band.”

Suddenly Steve pipes up “Corroded Coffin! Oh my god!”

Eddie’s bewildered that Steve apparently remembered their weird prepubescent metal show. He claps his hands excitedly and points to Steve. “You do remember!”

“Yes, of course! With a name like that, how could I forget?”

“I dunno. You’re a freak.” Eddie’s pretty pleased with himself when his lack of brain-to-mouth filer apparently doesn’t offend Steve. In fact, Steve breaks out a smile. It’s less Harrington Charm then Eddie expected, more of a dorky toothy grin.

“No you just- you looked so-“

“Different? Yeah. Yeah. Well, uh, my hair was buzzed, and I didn't have these sweet old tatties yet.”

“You played guitar right?”

“Uh-huh. Still do. Still do.” And since Eddie is an impulsive mess and isn’t totally hating this interaction, he does something that totally spits in the face of the tried and true Munson doctrine and invites a preppy jock to a metal concert, “You should come see us. Uh, we play at the Hideout on Tuesdays. It’s pretty cool. We- we actually get a crowd of about five…drunks.”

Steve laughs a bit and clamps a hand over his mouth, like he’s a bit startled by the noise. Eddie doesn’t blame him, he’s a bit caught off guard too.

“It’s not exactly the Garden, but, you gotta start somewhere, right?”

Steve looks at Eddie with a considering gaze for a moment, like he’s trying to figure Eddie out.

“You know, you’re not what I thought you’d be.”

“What, a total freak?”

“No, no. Honestly? I thought you’d be mean. And scary.”

“Me? Steve Harrington thought I’d be scary?”

“Yeah! You’ve got this whole, I dunno, chains and leather vibe. Thought you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“Yeah, well, I thought you’d be mean and scary too.”

“Yeah?”

“Terrifying.” Eddie’s hit with the sudden realization that he’s completely forgot about the drug deal he came here for and plops himself back down at the picnic table. “Uh, so, in other good news, flattery works with me, so... Twenty-five percent discount for the half. Fifteen bucks. You're robbing me blind here, you know.”

“…do you have anything maybe stronger?”

[servantofthefates]

Leap Day Spell

The Earth takes 365 days and roughly six hours to orbit the Sun. Leap Day, occurring on February 29th, is a corrective measure to include those extra hours.

Do you work very hard but are not appreciated at your job? Do you give generously in a relationship but are not reciprocated? Have you been eating healthy without noticing any effect on your body?

As above, so below. Leap Day is the time for correcting mismatching things in life.

STEP 1: The Protest

At any time during the 24 hours of a Leap Day, write down on a piece of paper, in just one sentence, what you wish to correct in your life.

If you have more than one grievance, choose that which pains you the most. The one that, if set right, will give you the greatest relief.

Using natural paper uncoated with polymers, as well as pencil instead of processed ink, will help you connect to nearby supernatural earth-dwellers.

STEP 2: The Appeal

On the back of the paper, write with your non-dominant hand these eleven names:

Abbac, Abdac, Istac, Audac, Castrac, Cuac, Cusor, Tristator, Derisor, Detestator, Incantator

They are demons who work for the old gods. They punish the mischievous and the cruel with scorn and ridicule.

The struggle you feel while using your opposite hand is what will make them take notice of you.

STEP 3: The Judgement

Put your paper and a single banana peel in a small unpainted metal pail. Fill it up with water. Place it where the light from the Sun or the Moon can reach it.

A banana peel, though considered trash, is rife with vitamins and minerals. Your protest will be weighed by the demons against it: What has more worth, your complaint or a piece of garbage?

STEP 4: The Waiting

After exactly eleven hours have passed, use the liquid in the pail to water a plant. Respectfully dispose of the paper and the banana peel together.

If the old gods’ minions have found your protest worthy, that aspect of your life will begin correcting itself in the next few days.

If nothing has happened in eleven days, it means they have decided that whatever unfairness you are suffering is well-deserved. That it is payment for how you too have treated others unfairly before.

[imtrashraccoon]

I was suddenly hit with a burst of inspiration for this one. Like, my original idea was maybe three sentences long and then I looked into how to remove grass stains before modern laundry. That was a surprisingly interesting rabbit hole to go down.

@owl-bones

First, Previous, & Next Day

Bad Sansuary II: Horror - Stained

Word Count: 1,020

In the morning, Maul busied himself with general chores around the camp, like replenishing the firewood supply and checking the traps he'd set up a couple days ago for small game. Your mobility was still pretty limited, so you mostly stayed put, doing smaller but still important tasks like cutting up kindling. You also offered to monitor the fire when Maul decided to make a stew for later.

There had been a bit of tension in the air when you woke up that morning. With nearly dying by your teammate's hand and then having a heart to heart chat afterwards, you weren't really sure if you should acknowledge what had happened. Maul seemed equally as clueless, but talking had never seemed to be his strong point since you met him. There wasn't anything more to discuss anyways since neither of you had any answers to the obvious questions and weren't keen to go find them either.

Between Maul's trips of carrying firewood and stacking it near the fire pit, you requested a basin of water with the intention to do some cleaning. He was more than happy to help and soon brought you a bucket of water from a nearby stream.

You had noticed a grass stain on the back of your shirt when you got up, likely from getting pinned to the ground last night, and had decided to try getting it out. Now, you weren't an expert on stain removal, but you were confident that with a bit of elbow grease, you would get it out in no time.

How wrong you were. Not only had the stain already set into the fabric, but also no amount of scrubbing could remove it. You tried soap, you tried beating the stain with a stick, and you tried rubbing the fabric against a coarse stone. The trouble was you had limited supplies in the wilderness. Your mother probably would have known what to do in a heartbeat, but you really only knew what to do for blood and basic grime.

Maul returned with a pot of water and set it near the fire to boil. After checking how the stew was coming along, he glanced over at you curiously. "...havin' some trouble?" he asked.

You sighed and dropped the shirt into the bucket. "I guess, I now know why my mom would get upset when I came home with grass stains."

The giant of a skeleton let out a soft chuckle, eyeing the shirt with an amused glimmer in his eyelight. "there's a better way than what you're doin'."

"Oh? Do enlighten me then," you grumbled, crossing your arms with a huff.

He held up a clawed phalanx and went to go retrieve something from the supplies cache. When he returned with a metal banded cask, you raised an eyebrow. What could he possibly know about getting out stains? The whole time you had known him, he hadn't seemed to care if his clothing was stained and, beyond maintaining his armour, you had never seen him do anything remotely similar to laundry.

He poured out the water you had been using, leaving the shirt in the bottom of the pail. As you watched, he opened the cask and poured just enough of the surprisingly clear liquid to cover the stain. Your nose twitched as you caught the distinct scent of strong alcohol.

"let it soak for a while," Maul said as he closed the cask.

"You think that will actually work? Where did you even get spirits that strong?" You wrinkled your snout before adding, "Even if it does get the stain out, the whole garment will stink of alcohol."

He shrugged and motioned to the pot of water. " 's only to get the stain out. clean it again afterwards." He glanced down at the small cask and then shrugged, "bought it last time i was in the undercity."

Your mouth dropped open in shock. "Wait, you've been to The Undercity? And got out without being robbed or murdered?"

His permanent grin widened and he motioned to the crack in his skull. "not many are foolish enough to bother someone like me. i usually make the trip once or twice a year to buy stuff ya can't get anywhere else."

"I guess that makes sense." You eyed his sharp claws and chuckled. "With all the gang violence that goes on, I don't think I would last a second if I went there. I'd probably offend someone and get shanked, if I didn't get kidnapped by one of the local dons for being illegally adorable that is..."

Maul let out a sudden bark of laughter. It actually startled you for a second since he wasn't normally a loud person. He nearly had to brace his hands on his knees to keep from losing his balance.

"...boss would hate that," he managed to say between lingering chuckles. " 'specially cause it's true..."

You felt your cheeks grow unnaturally warm and quickly looked away to hide your blush. Since when was he so smooth with his words? You hadn't been expecting him to find your admittedly awful joke funny, as he usually only responded to your attempts at humour with a grunt or a huff.

"True, he'd tear the whole city apart if someone did that," you murmured.

"hey."

You turned to look at Maul again.

"promise ya won't tell either reven or dirk about this," he said quietly, motioning to the metal banded cask he was holding. "i mostly keep it for sterilizing bandages and they might steal it if they find out."

You pressed your paw against your chest and nodded. "I promise I won't breathe a word of it to them. They can find their own liquor to drown their sorrows in."

He gave you a stiff nod and went to put the cask away, leaving you wondering how he had figured out to use that specific alcohol for removing stains. There seemed to be a lot about him that didn't make sense, but it was fun to think about. Maybe you would ask him about his travels sometime.

[fafnir19]

Historical Values

Frank carefully folded his clothes and placed them inside his brown leather sack. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement as he prepared for the new archaeology project. "I can't believe we're actually going back in time!" he exclaimed to Professor Tendris, who was organizing his own belongings. "It's quite incredible, Frank," the professor responded with a smile. "The university's invention of the time machine is a breakthrough in our field. Now, we have the opportunity to experience history firsthand." "I'm ready for anything!" Frank zipped up his suitcase and hoisted it off the bed. "Living as Alemanni farmers in 507 AD is going to be an adventure." The time machine, no larger than a cell phone, hummed softly as they activated it. In an instant, they were surrounded by a blinding light, and then they found themselves in the year 507 AD, amidst a small Alemanni village.

Frank's heart raced as he took in the sights and sounds of the ancient village. The buildings were made of wood and straw, and the air was filled with the smell of livestock and earth. "This is incredible," Frank whispered, awe-struck. "Indeed," Professor Tendris murmured. "Now, let's blend in and experience life as the Alemanni did." As days passed, Frank and the professor worked the fields, tended to livestock, and engaged with the Alemanni people, immersing themselves in their daily activities. Two and a half weeks in, a thunderous clamor echoed through the village. Frank and Professor Tendris peered out to see Roman legions descending upon the settlement. "We have to go back!" Frank exclaimed, panic rising in his chest. "Quick, into the hut!" Professor Tendris urged, and they hurried to the tiny shelter where they had hidden the time machine. As they reached the hut, legionnaires blocked Frank's path, but Professor Tendris managed to activate the time machine and vanish, leaving Frank stranded. The terror gripped Frank as the Roman soldiers encircled him. He expected the worst, but instead, they took him captive. "What's your name, boy?" a gruff voice demanded as they dragged him through the village. "I-I'm Frank," he stammered, his heart pounding in his chest. "Not anymore, you're not," the soldier spat. "From now on, you're Flavius, slave of Rome." In Rome, Flavius was handed over to a slave trader, who sold him to a gladiator school.

His once blonde hair was now shorn, and he was renamed to fit his new identity. "Here's your new recruit," the trader announced, pushing Flavius forward. Flavius surveyed his surroundings, the harsh voice of the overseer drilling instructions into the other gladiators. The air was thick with the clinking of weapons and the grunts of the fighters. "Welcome to your new home, Flavius," a fellow gladiator muttered as he passed by. "Better get used to the dirt and blood." Flavius was put through rigorous training, his muscles bulging from the intense workouts. His determination drove him to perfect his fighting techniques, but he remained lean compared to the other gladiators. Because he was the weakest, he had to take on tasks that all other gladiators refused, such as feeding the lion. The clink of chains echoed in the dimly lit room as Flavius grabbed the metal pail and hurried to where Leon's enclosure was situated. He poured the chunks of meat into the pail and added a sprinkle of herbs for flavor. The only sound was the rhythmic clinking of chains as Flavius moved through the stone corridors, the weight of slavery heavy on his shoulders. "Such a majestic creature," he whispered, gazing into Leon's golden eyes. The lion paced rhythmically, the thump of his footfalls resonating through the enclosure. With tender, steady hands, Flavius extended the pail through the bars, the metal clinking with the rustle of chains. "Easy, boy," Flavius cooed, ensuring Leon's sustenance. The ritual of feeding Leon was a moment of trust and companionship, a symbol of their shared captivity and the only comfort in their constrained existence. Flavius ​​hoped every day that Tendris would find him and bring him home to the future. But his hope grew smaller day by day.

As the date of his first fight approached, Flavius felt a surge of fear. The overseer's voice boomed across the arena, announcing a battle to the death between 25 gladiators and a lion, with only the top four survivors. "You're going to be lion food, Flavius," the overseer jeered, a cruel smile on his lips. In the arena, the sound of cheering and roaring filled the air as the battle commenced. Flavius fought valiantly, his every move accompanied by the clash of weapons and the gasps of the audience. The lion lunged at him, and Flavius found himself pinned to the ground, the weight of the beast bearing down on him. "Agh!" he cried out, struggling beneath the lion's ferocious grip. Flavius regretted feeding the lion in the past! Just when he thought it was the end, the unexpected happened. For a moment, the arena fell silent as the lion hesitated, its low growl reverberating through the space. The lion let Flavius free. "What's going on?!" Flavius gasped in disbelief. The unexpected turn stunned the spectators, and Flavius seized the opportunity, mounting the lion and riding into battle.

The crowd erupted in a combination of gasps and cheers as Flavius and the lion fought as a team, vanquishing their opponents. From then on, Flavius had a cell to himself, which he shared with the lion  named Leon. The growls and purrs of the majestic creature became a soothing lullaby in the quiet of the night. "Leon, my friend," Flavius hummed, leaning against the bars of the cell as Leon purred in response.

As he earned victories in the arena, Flavius caught the attention of Senator Sixtus, who admired his bravery and skill. "I've purchased you," Senator Sixtus informed Flavius, a glint in his eyes. "You and your lion, Leon. You shall come to my villa and serve as entertainment for my guests."

At Sixtus' villa, Flavius and Leon were tasked with serving as extravagant entertainment for Sixtus' opulent parties, serving to the guests' frivolous pleasures. "Meet my newest acquisition," Senator Sixtus announced, a proud smile gracing his features as Flavius and Leon entered the grand hall. Flavius hesitated, unsure of the etiquette and he was morally hesitant about the frivol encounters between the guests an him.   After a while he enjoyed the opportunities and pleasured man an women alike.

"You fight like a hero, Flavius. Are you a hero in bed as well?" a lady asked, her laughter chiming in the air “I don’t need a bed to be your hero. Let’s enjoy the hero right here,” Flavius replied, a smirk forming on his lips. He became the epitome of lust and pleasure.

Senator Sixtus observed Flavius with a mixture of pride and amusement, intrigued by the newfound confidence and charm that Flavius exuded. "You are the epitome of vigor and pleasure," Senator Sixtus complimented, eyes twinkling. "Perhaps I shall find other roles for you in my household." With time, Flavius found himself adapting to his new life, embracing the indulgences and extravagance of Senator Sixtus' villa. "You've become quite the sensation, Flavius," Senator Sixtus remarked, his hand resting on Flavius' shoulder. "But I sense a restlessness in you." "I desire to engage my mind," Flavius said, surprising the senator with his words. "There must be more to life than mere entertainment." Senator Sixtus nodded thoughtfully and arranged for a private tutor to educate Flavius, recognizing his potential for growth.

The bond between Flavius and Sixtus deepened, and Flavius began to wield a certain dominance over the other slaves, echoing the authority of Senator Sixtus. "You surpass expectations, my dear Flavius," Senator Sixtus acknowledged, a sense of paternal pride in his voice. "Thank you, Senator," Flavius replied, a title of endearment that had gradually slipped into his vocabulary. As months passed, Senator Sixtus approached Flavius with a proposition. "You have proven yourself as more than a slave. I shall adopt you as my son, and you shall carry my name." Flavius was speechless, the weight of the honor settling upon him. He had seamlessly integrated into the Roman way of life, the values and customs now intrinsic to his being. "I am honored, Father," Flavius uttered, a sense of belonging and acceptance blossoming within him.

In the midst of revelry and frivolity, a house slave interrupted, announcing the arrival of a visitor named Tendris, stirring a flicker of recognition in Flavius' mind. "I shall receive him at once," Flavius declared, excitement lacing his words. "Tendris shall witness the life of a true Roman senator's son." At the grand dining hall, Flavius welcomed Tendris, exuding the confidence and refinement of a nobleman. "Tendris, you must partake in the splendid feast with us," Flavius insisted, gesturing towards the lavish spread before them.

Tendris took a seat, regarding Flavius with a mix of disappointment and concern as they dined. "I find your behavior troubling, Flavius. This is not the life you should lead," Tendris remarked, his tone solemn. At the end of the evening, Tendris took Flavius aside and reprimanded him for his frivolous behavior and condescending treatment of the slaves. "You don't understand, Tendris. This is the way of life in this era," Flavius argued, growing offended. "These modern moral concepts like human rights and wokenes hold no significance here, Tendris," Flavius declared, his resolve hardening. "I am a Roman senator's son, and this is my life."

The following day, Tendris returned, determination etched on his features as he stood before Flavius. "It's time to leave this era behind, Flavius." "No," Flavius spat, the weight of his decision palpable in the air. "You shall return to your woke future without me. I am here to stay." Tendris hesitated, his gaze meeting Flavius' defiant stare. "You must reconsider, Flavius. This is not where you belong." "I belong wherever I choose to," Flavius asserted, his voice unwavering. "If you remain here in ten minutes, I shall have you thrown to the lions in the arena!" Tendris's eyes narrowed in resignation, and with a heavy heart, he activated the time machine, leaving Flavius to his chosen path.

Flavius relinquished the vestiges of his past and embraced the decadence and extravagance of his new life, reveling in every indulgence and luxury that came his way. The sounds of revelry, laughter, and pleasure filled the grand halls of Senator Sixtus' villa, echoing the reassuring rhythm of a life firmly embraced. And as the days melded into nights, Flavius, the former  archaeology student, became indistinguishable from the Roman nobility, his laughter and gaiety resounding through the lavish estate, a testament to his complete surrender to the decadence of ancient Rome.   

[s-creations]

Crushing Reality - Fanfic for 'The Super Mario Bros. Movie'

All Luigi could do was wait. Sit in an uncomfortable cage and wait for Mario to come and save him. Knowing that his brother was out there being the only spark of hope he could cling to.

Fandom: Super Mario & Related Fandoms, The Super Mario Bros. Movie Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Relationships: Luigi & Mario (Nintendo) Warnings/Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Some fluff and mainly angst, Happy Ending, Happy Reunion, Spoilers for the 2023 Movie!, I need more warm brotherly moments.

First lesson learned from this place, metal cages aren’t comfortable. The sturdy material didn’t make for a good sitting or sleeping experience. Luigi needed to constantly shift to try and find somewhat of a comfortable position. 

Second lesson learned, lava produces a lot of heat and metal is a wonderful conductor. There were a number of burn marks on his wrists and ankles, with a few on his neck. Basically anywhere his outfit would unintentionally raise up and Luigi wasn’t paying attention. His bare skin brushing against the heated metal. A hiss escaping from him every time. Adding to the issue of trying to get an even semi-comfortable position in the cramped, hard space.

Third lesson learned, there were truly some heartless people out there. The human was convinced that Bowser was the worst that could possibly be. Uncaring that his prisoners were being melted alive. Water was a luxury that was only given once a day. Carried by the guards in pails and handed out by the ladle full. Literally. Luigi was almost embarrassed at how desperate he’d become. Uncaring that his lips were touching the same ladle that others had just used. 

His immune system was no doubt working double time in trying to keep him alive.

Food was nothing more than stale bread (which Luigi was a little surprised and very happy to learn they had that here). Two chunks of it given each day that made the human’s already dry mouth that much worse.

The guards at some point began to taunt him. Giving updates to what his brother was doing tied together with a clear threat. 

“Apparently the princess thinks your stupid brother is useful to her in some way. Wonder if she’s told him about Bowser? Wonder if he cares that you’re stuck here?”

“Your brother is really upsetting Lord Bowser. Better count your blessings in hopes that your end is quick. But I think it’s gonna be slow to help Lord Bowser get rid of some pent up rage.”

“Don’t know why we need to keep giving you rations. Maybe if we drop your unmoving body in front of your brother, he’ll just surrender. Make our jobs easier.”

Luigi did his best to ignore it all. Attempting to show that the comments meant nothing to him. But the words constantly pounded against his head. Heart hurting more and more as time moved on. Unsure how long he’d been trapped in here and how much longer he had to cling to the last few strands of hope.

“Don’t fret,” the little star called out one ‘evening’, or just a time when the majority of the prisoners were asleep. Luigi lifted his head slightly to indicate he was listening.

“Our end will arrive soon enough and your sorrow will be nothing more than a dull memory.”

“What happened to you?” Luigi asked weakly. Throat sore from under use and being overly dry.

The star merely giggled before claiming, “Time is an illusion, as is hope. Hoping for a change amounts to nothing.”

“So, doing nothing and surrendering is better?”

“At least then you can accept the crushing reality for the black hole of emptiness that life truly is.”

Luigi decided he really didn’t like talking to this guy.

As time marched forward, the human became further despondent. Falling quiet, not casting fearful eyes up to the guards when they passed by or when they delivered their ‘report’ to him. Taking his rations with indifference. Curled on his side at the bottom of the cage and staring at nothing. 

What else was he supposed to do?

He hadn’t been able to find a way out.

His fellow prisoners were either mentally gone or had surrendered to their new way of life a long time ago. 

Luigi, on his part, could barely find the energy to move.

The one thing keeping him going was the thought of knowing that Mario was still out there. Still trying to get to him. Luigi could always count on his brother to come to his rescue. 

The monotony of day to day life was interrupted at some point. Luigi’s head lifted slightly, hearing screams of fear. Starting off low but quickly rising in volume as numerous cages suddenly dropped down. All looking around frantically. No doubt having the same thoughts of looking for freedom that Luigi had felt when he first arrived. 

Before Luigi could ask the closest ape, who was wearing a rather impressive headpiece, what was going on, Kamek appeared. Proudly floating before them, uncaring of the fearful faces that peered back at him. 

“I have wonderful news for you all!” the magic user announced, “You’ve been invited to the upcoming royal wedding. Where you will all be ceremonially sacrificed in the princess’ honor! How lucky for you.”

And with that, Kamek disappeared as quickly as he appeared. Leaving a moment of stunned silence before there was an eruption of screams in fear and panic. Minus the little star, who let out a cheerful ‘Hurray!’. As well as Luigi who was too numb to do anything. Eventually leaning his forehead against his hand that was gripping the bar. 

Was this it? Was this the end? It couldn’t be, it just couldn’t. 

Eyes shut tightly, Luigi thought about his brother. About how he couldn’t give up on Mario. Eventually choking out, “Mario…please… Please, you need to get here faster. I don’t have much time…”

“Lad…did you say Mario?”

A new voice called out. Luigi lifted his head to find the crowned ape staring at him. Eyes wide with slight panic.

“Y-Yes? I mean, yes, I-I did.”

The ape strokes his beard in contemplation for a moment, peering Luigi over. “You’re human… I’m guessing that you’re Luigi, the brother he kept blabbing about. Yeah, I’m seeing the resemblance now.”

Luigi perked up at this. Fully standing for the first time in what felt like ages. Heart hammering furiously in his chest. Not out of fear, but for hope. 

This was the first being not tied to Bowser and his army to know about Mario. To say his name and not have their voice filled with venom.

“You know him?” Luigi desperately asked, “You know Mario?”

“Ah yeah, very impressive work done in the arena. Made for an interesting show. Also gave my son the humbling beat down that he needed.” The ape laughed fondly, shaking his head.

“Your brother is a mix of stupid and brave. But, I suppose that would happen if you’re fighting for your family.”

Luigi couldn’t help the smile that slowly formed on his face. Mario was coming to save him. Even going so far as to fight apes apparently. But it didn’t change the fact that Mario was coming for him. 

“Where is he?” Luigi asked, “Do you know where he is? Is he here? Mario, can you hear me! Is he not here?”

The hope he’d felt building up slowly started to deflate as the ape’s face fell. The smile of fondness he’d just carried slipped from his face to a defeated frown.

“I’m sorry lad, but he’s not here.”

“...Do you know where he is?”

The ape gave a short huff, eyes becoming glassy as he briefly turned away from Luigi. “Mario is… I’m sorry to say this lad. But your brother and my son… They’re not with us anymore. They’re gone.”

It was the first time since stepping into this fortress that Luigi felt cold. Wide eyes desperately searching for some sign that the other was wrong, was lying. But the ape didn’t take back his words. Merely gave Luigi an understanding pained look as reality took hold.

“No… N-No, what, h-how?”

“We were trying to get back to the Mushroom Kingdom. We were ambushed and… Look, Rainbow Road is treacherous enough on a normal day. But add a Blue Shelled Koopa with nothing to lose and…”

“So…h-he’s gone? J-Just like that?”

“I’m sorry for your loss son…”

“I warned you,” the little star called out, “Hope does nothing for you.”

There were outcries from the other with a desperate plea for the star to just keep quiet. But it was all just noise that meant nothing to Luigi. Who could only take in his crumbling world. 

Mario was gone.

His brother, who’d always been there to chase the nightmares away. Who cheered him on through all the tough times. Who did everything to make sure Luigi was safe, was gone.

Mario was gone. 

He was gone and…

And…

“It’s my fault…” Luigi felt his throat close. A little surprised he had enough water in him to produce tears.

The ape frowned at that. “Now lad, you weren’t even there-”

“N-No, no, you don’t understand. I-I fell into the p-pipe that brought u-us here. I-I saw it a-and was s-stupid a-and walked in a-and-”

Luigi was full on sobbing at this point. Kneeling in his cage as all the fight he had left him. Uncaring at how quiet everyone else had become. Even the guards feel their hearts tearing apart from this.

“H-He’s gone,” he wailed, “H-He’s gone and I-I couldn't d-do anything. I-I ruin… I-I ruin e-everything… I-I didn’t d-deserve h-him as a b-brother…”

Exhaustion was slowly claiming him. Causing him to quiet down to small choked sobs as tears continued to flow. “I-I’m sorry… I-I’m sorry I-I can’t do a-anything right…”

He was temporarily jolted out of his state when his cage was rattled. Thinking for a moment a guard had come over to quiet him. Finally having their fill of the noise.

Only to see it was the aged ape clinging to his cage. Apparently he’d swung his way over to reach Luigi. Still a little stunned by this, the human barely flinched when a padded thumb reached in to gently wipe a tear away.

“Such thoughts will give you nothing in return. I know nothing of your life or what brought you to this world. But I do know your brother would not want you to think like this. Nor would he put any blame on your shoulders.”

While the words did very little to quell the storm in his heart, Luigi did feel some comfort in them. Merely giving a small nod to what had been said. 

“There's not much that I can offer. But…we can mourn over our losses together.”

“...Thank you.”

The aged ape merely replied with a weak smile. Both closing their eyes to silently grieve over their respected loss. The rest turned away to allow them as much privacy they could create.

Far too soon for anyone’s liking, all prisoners were moved. Luigi was more than a little startled when the ceiling of the entire building started to move, to pull away from the main structure. The multiple cages follow along against the prisoner’s wishes. Transporting them all to where Bowser’s fortress was currently resting.

Given the decorative rooftops looking like mushroom caps, Luigi could only assume this was the Mushroom Kingdom. 

The break from dangling over a lake of lava came to an end when the prisoners arrived at the proper wedding venue. Or, Luigi supposed that’s what it was supposed to be. It was the only part of the dark fortress that seemed to be even semi-presently decorated. 

The seats were completely filled. Bowser was already standing at the altar, along with a blonde-haired human beside him. 

“He’s marrying Princess Peach?” Someone called out in disbelief. 

Peach, on her part, looked absolutely terrified upon seeing the prisoners. Whatever Bowser was saying to her offered no comfort, even though he looked absolutely pleased. The princess was clearly further distraught by the situation.

Then her eyes landed on Luigi. Peach’s face had a flash of surprise over it but it fell once more. Slowly shaking her head, eyes carrying one message. 

I’m sorry…

Luigi wasn’t quite sure what she was sorry for. The loss of his brother? Of not being able to free him? Of having it all end like this? Whatever it was, Luigi felt no ill will directed towards her. She was as much of a victim in all of this as he was. Offering a weak smile and small nod in understanding. 

The moment passed when the cages started to be lowered. Heart rising slowly. Luigi sweating from the heat and fear. An uncomfortable realization hitting the human.

His cage was lower than everyone else's.

He was going in first. 

“No, no, no!” Luigi panicked, wide eyes frantically looking around as if a sudden miracle would appear. Only to find Bowser staring directly at him. The smirk on the large Koopa saying everything. Luigi was deliberately going to be killed first. 

The cage suddenly tipped to one side, lava starting to flow in quickly. The bottom soon disappears into the molten liquid. Luigi climbed onto the lower rungs of the cage to avoid his end for as long as possible. 

“No, please, n-not like this… Mario…”

He wasn’t sure why he thought saying his brother’s name would fix anything. As if thinking that would make Mario appear out of nowhere to get him out of the situation. But it all resulted in nothing, Luigi left to press himself to the top of the cage. Limbs shaking as the lava continued to get closer. 

Just as he thought this was going to be his end, the cage jolted to a stop before slowly moving back up. The bottom of it had completely melted away. 

While he was free, there was a new issue. Namely that Luigi was one bad slip from still falling to his death. He let out a yelp as his left foot slipped from its perch, followed shortly by his right. Both kicked uselessly as if it would help lift him up in some way. He decided quickly that his best option at the moment was to get to the top and sit on the ceiling. Just hoping his shaky arms would be able to hold out for that long.

He swung himself out, grabbing onto the outside of the cage and slowly pulled himself up. His grip shifted to the lip on the ceiling. Still unable to give himself a foothold to help in the situation. Just as he was reaching for the chain, the entire thing shifted harshly. The sudden motion caused Luigi to lose his strength. The younger brother now barely hanging by his fingertips, the metal slowly slipping away. He tried bringing his other hand up, hoping to prevent this inevitable. 

Luck was not on his side.

Luigi’s stomach stopped as the smooth metal finally slipped away. His other arm not fast enough to grab back onto the rung of the cage. His mind seemed to blank.

This was it.

He was done for.

No one was watching as he fell.

Even if they noticed now, there was nothing they could do.

He was finally going into the lava he’d been hung over for so long.

Perhaps this was the universe's way of punishing him for what happened to Mario.

Even then, he didn’t want it to end like this.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to see his family again.

He wanted-

Luigi let out a yelp as his descent was cut off. Desperately reaching up to grab onto whatever was now carrying him. Wide eyes seeming locked onto the bubbling lava that had been taunting him for so long.

“Lu!”

His heart beating furiously hearing the familiar nickname. From a voice he thought he would never hear from again.

Luigi quickly turned his head to find Mario smiling back at him. Currently dressed in some bear looking costume, with a striped tail twirling frantically, apparently the thing that was helping them fly. Eyes and smile wide with glee. Solely focused on his younger brother.

“Mario!?”

Luigi couldn’t believe it. After living out his worst nightmare, it had finally ended. Mario had come to save him, protect him, see to it that Luigi was rescued. 

It wasn’t a graceful landing on his part. Somersaulting onto his feet, Luigi gave a slight pause to keep himself upright before looking back at Mario. There was another beat, Mario looking as if he was about to cry before he pulled Luigi into a tight hug. Luigi gave a weak laugh, melting into the hold, wanting to be as close as possible to his brother he could be. 

Mario pulled away slightly to check his brother over. Seeing that Luigi was shaken but okay, he pulled his brother back in, pressing their foreheads together. Eyes shining brightly. Hands gripping onto Luigi’s arm and gently onto the back of his head. 

“See, I told you!” Mario choked out, “As long as we’re together, everything’s going to be okay!” 

Luigi only nodded, sniffing weakly. Uncaring as Mario’s grip seemed to tighten further, as if the younger brother was going to be ripped away again. Luigi didn’t care about the pressure. He never wanted to let go again. They were finally back together and nothing could ruin it.

So…fighting Bowser was intense.

Luigi was surprised he was still standing after it all, but he supposed adrenaline was a strong chemical. When everything had started to calm down, it was Toad who had called out how horrible the brothers looked. Apparently, even though the Super Star had made them invincible and able to do incredible things, the moment it was over they were back to their original self. In every sense of the way.

Mario carried heavy signs of damage. Bruise, bleeding, and leaning to one side while he slightly cradled his right arm. Luigi was pale, shaking, and clearly not able to focus on his surroundings. His left arm supporting old cuts and his upper lip a little red.

They had clearly been through a lot.

That, however, didn’t change the fact that Mario immediately went into older brother protective mode. Turning to Luigi the moment Toad had said anything with eyes wide and worried. Now that the thrill of finding Luigi again, he was able to really see how the other was holding up.

“Are you okay?”

Luigi laughed softly. “You’re the one who took Bowser head on. I’m fine! I just-”

Moving was a bad idea. His first step was a wobbly one. Knees buckling, black creeping in from the corner of his vision. There were a number of hands on him at once, helping Luigi to slowly sit down on the ground safely. Mario stayed directly in front of his brother the entire time. Sitting down as well.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay? You gonna stay awake for me?” Mario gently asked. Someone calling for medical help. Luigi had the brief thought that it sounded like their mother’s.

“Yeah… Yeah, no, I’m okay… A little lightheaded…” Luigi mumbled weakly, “...I’m tired…”

“Try and stay awake, yeah? How about you lean against me?”

Luigi didn’t argue. Happily allowing himself to be pulled forward until he was fully laying against Mario. Head resting on the crook of his brother’s neck. Eyes half open. The world around him becomes blurry. 

He thinks his body was slowly shutting down. He was exhausted, dehydrated, hungry, and was finally able to relax knowing that he was back with Mario.

“Lu… Hey, Luigi?”

“Mmm, yeah?”

“What happened to your arm?”

Luigi felt his brother’s hand run along the damaged arm. It’d felt so long ago he’d been thrown down to the ground by the large Koopa.

“Oh… Bowser did that… Threw me to the ground… He was mad…”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah… After he pulled part of my mustache off…” Luigi felt his brother shift. Arms being tightly wrapped around him with Mario’s hand gently gripping the back of his head. Cradling him closer. 

“Okay, good to know.”

It was really easy to hear the heavy tone in the older brother’s voice. Luigi immediately being put on edge. Somehow thinking, for some reason, the anger was directed towards him. Starting to pull away to try and look Mario in the eye. 

“Hey, whoa, don’t move too fast Lu.” Mario worriedly kept his hands on Luigi’s shoulder. Their foreheads pressed together again. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry…” Luigi mumbled weakly.

That confused Mario, “What are you sorry for?”

“It’s my fault…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But it’s my fault… I fell into the pipe…” The days of being trapped in that small cage, of all the unknown worries weighing on him, the moments of learning of what he that was Mario’s passing.

In the back of his mind, Luigi knew they were still in the middle of a crowded and destroyed street. That some high powered people from the other world were nearby and no doubt able to see and hear everything. But at that moment, he didn’t care. He didn’t try to hold back the heavy sob that dropped from his mouth. Tears falling again, breathing harshly as he felt close to fully breaking.

Mario immediately pulled Luigi back in close. To the point where Luigi was practically sitting in his older brother’s lap.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mario whispered gently, “We’re okay.”

I-I thought y-you were g-gone,” Luigi whined out, “Y-You were g-gone…a-and it was m-my fault… I-I’m sorry… I r-ruin everything…”

“You don’t ruin a single thing. You make everything better! I wouldn’t be standing here if you hadn’t swooped in with that cover idea! That was so clever.”

Luigi sniffed weakly. “R-Really?”

“Oh yeah!” Mario smiled, gently rubbing Luigi’s arm. “...Can I tell you something?”

“Y-Yeah?”

“I’m really to be blamed for this, if we’re going to be honest.”

Luigi’s eyes widened at that. “B-But I fell in…”

“And I couldn’t hold onto you,” Mario’s voice wavered, “I told you we’d be okay, that we just had to stay together… But then you were ripped away and- …It ate me alive. All I could think about was ‘what if I had a better grip?’, ‘what if we had swapped places?’, ‘what if I was a better brother?’.”

“Y-You’re a great brother.”

“Not if I could have let you go that easily.” Mario let out a slow breath, eyes closing slowly before he continued. “There were a lot of things I wish could have been changed. But that’s not what matters now. What does matter is that we’re here now and we’re okay! We’re okay…”

“Yeah… Yeah, we’re okay…” Luigi smiled back weakly.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. His body finally giving up and decided against this want, he needed to sleep now. “‘M tired…”

“I know, I know you are…”

“Can I sleep now?”

There was a bit of a pause before Mario responded with, “Yeah, you can sleep now.”

“Okie dokie…” Luigi let out a yawn, every part of him relaxing back into his brother’s hold. Hearing a few mutters from someone else, Mario giving a quiet reply. But he wasn’t able to tell what was being said. 

But he didn’t care. His brother was here, they were together again, and that’s all he needed.

[devout-of-the-elder-scrolls]

Bumori Cail Quick Start Guide

Note: This is an unrecorded/non-canon Prince I worship. You're not gonna find them in canon.

A guide for beginning with Bumori Cail, intended to help you begin your practice. I highly suggest asking the Prince in question or Hermaeus Mora for more information before beginning a relationship proper.

Keep in mind this whole post is UPG, based on my personal experiences with this entity. It may directly contrast the experiences of others. I am no authority on these Princes, so while I am open to questions, I shouldn't have my voice put above others and especially not the Prince in question.

* Banners are by saradika-graphics.

BUMORI CAIL

( boo-more-ee cail ) (cail is like pail, but with a cuh sound) aka. Bumorz ◦ Cail prns. it / ze ( ze / zym / zeyr / zeyrs / zymself ) domain. Cullslaire date. December 23rd

Bumori Cail is the Daedric Prince of Death, Rebirth, and Magick. It rules over magicians and the dead, being a haven for both. It also claims ownership of the stars to a degree, mostly of the constellations in the sky.

Bumorz has a rough and tough personality, being quite calloused. It would not describe Itself as caring or soft, and acts like a tough-love, but still genuine love, teacher. Ze will not abuse followers, or generally treat them with cruelty, as It means well for followers, but It can be quite harsh. 

Working alongside Cail is a sometimes harsh affair, with many tests and tribulations for followers to test their strength and capabilities. It guides well, being clear and concise, with a good understanding of Zeyr followers and what they need and are capable of, and never oversteps these.

Bumori Cail is a difficult Prince to begin the Daedric Path with, due to a very rough and calloused personality. It can be hard to get to know and begin worship of, and the tests and tribulations can be hard to adjust to out of nowhere if you’re not already used to the Daedric Path.

🜚 terms of respect . . .

Term – Prince • neutral or otherwise non-gendered terms Prefix – Liege • Great • Powerful • Strong Titles – The Prince of Death and Rebirth • The Magical Prince • The Great Magician • Monarch of Autumn • The Travelling Prince • The War-Forged Epithet – of Magic • of Souls • the Powerful

🜲 rulerships . . .

death • rebirth • magic • constellations • art • power • enchanting • alchemy • astral journeys • gemstones • precious metals • weapons • warfare • the dead • autumn

. . . HELPS WITH . . .

casting spells • being reborn

🝰 commandments . . . This part especially is bound to be different from person to person.

Embrace your end, and then be reborn.

Understand the power of magic, and use it well. You don’t have to do magic all the time, but you should acknowledge its power and what it can do for you at the least.

Face trials with a strong face.

Be strong, be powerful, and be destructible. As in, don’t aim to be completely undefeatable. It’s okay to be defeated, it’s okay to get hurt. But be as strong as you can be while acknowledging you can’t be indestructible.

Be ready to fight when necessary.

When on astral journeys, respect where you are.

⛯ main tarot cards & other signs and associations . . .

Tarot Cards — 

I the Magician • XIII Death • XVI the Tower

V of Cups

III of Swords • V of Swords • VI of Swords • VII of Swords • X of Swords

V of Pentacles

V of Wands • VII of Wands • X of Wands

Other Signs & Associations — 

soul gems • constellations, esp those of warriors

vulture • asphodel • rotting flowers • fungus • mold

❂ devotional acts . . .

create art

become powerful

embrace your pain as a crucial part of life

enchant your jewelry or other items

use a wand or athame in spells

perform alchemy

sleep with gemstones under your pillow

talk to and honor the dead

perform ancestor work

talk to spirits in cemeteries (don’t disturb them rudely!)

visit graveyards

get a grave cleaning license 

invite It to magic you cast

honor Zym on the autumn equinox

sit under the warrior constellations

grow asphodel

keep freshly cut flowers and permit them to wilt and die

use beans in your magic

invite It to divination and other forms of -mancy

meditate

go on astral journeys

develop emotional strength

develop spiritual strength

donate to vulture conservation

embrace the autumn season

make a graveyard-in-a-box (a way to get graveyard dirt and honor the dead from your own home)

talk to wandering spirits

visit haunted places (safely) and talk to the dead

help the dead move on or find peace

. . . offerings ❦

↘ natural ; 

clear or purple gemstones

flowers in general, real only. they have to be allowed to wilt and die. don't need to be fancy, a dandelion counts too

fungus

alder

asphodel

yew

↘ foodstuff ; 

red meat

beans of all sorts

ginger

salt

apple

↘ items ; 

wands and athames

star shapes

art pieces, esp ones you make yourself

fake gravestones

fungi figures

art of the constellations, be it the stars themselves or things drawn around the stars to show what the constellation is

↘ music ; 

breakcore

noise

melodic stuff

↘ etc ; 

black and orange candles

autumnal colors

charged gemstones

soul gems, gems that are used to contain a soul, either literally or metaphorically

🜾 altar building . . .

This is all suggestions. Please build it however you can, if a physical altar is even possible.

As always, you can use offering items to build an altar.

nearby where you honor the dead

black candles

a gravestone themed altar cloth

autumnal colors or decorations

fake gravestones

🝊 identity . . .

Bumori Cail has a rough personality, deeply calloused. Ze is harsh and tough. It is just generally more aligned to be serious, more rough and tough. 

However, Cail never really directs this towards followers very much. It's still very obvious, but followers are safe and won't be harmed or hurt by Cail, not on purpose anyways.

Ze typically presents Itself as a tall AMAB individual, with long, flowing black hair that reaches the small of the back. Ze has bright golden eyes. Ze presents as clean-shaven.

It is usually seen dressed formally and cleanly, well groomed and neat. Sometimes, the scent of cologne follows Zym.

Cail has a deep, rough voice. It speaks cleanly and clearly, putting thought behind every single word. There is a monotonous twang in it, though it isn't completely monotonous.

☉ domain . . .

Cullslaire (culls-lair) is Bumori Cail's domain and realm, where Ze lives and thrives.

It's a mostly wasteland, with Lymix City being a giant oasis full of fauna and flora. The city is quite large, providing everything that any visitor or resident would require.

⛮ working with . . .

Bumori Cail is a difficult thing, because of all the trials and tests that Ze puts followers through. However, It can be a freeing Prince, who understands Zeyr followers very well and their limitations and needs. It makes followers strong and powerful.

Benefits are that Ze helps a lot with magic and casting, being present during the spells that followers are performing.

Slighting Cail is not an easy thing to do, but Ze is vicious and harsh when enraged or deeply slighted. 

It can be mended with a proper apology and offering.

⚜ holidays & festivals . . .

Bumori's summoning day is December 23rd.

♡ prayers . . .

⛤ 01 . . . Bumori Cail, Prince of Death and Rebirth,  Great Magician, War-Forged, I worship You, I revere You.  You who protects me, You who aids in my spells, You who fights for me. I revere You, I worship You.

⛤ 02 . . . O Liege Bumori Cail,  I call upon Your spirit now,  to join me here and present, for I require of Your presence.

⛤ 03 . . . Bumori Cail, Travelling Prince! I leave this humble offering upon You, and I hope and pray You accept it well.

⛤ 04 . . . O Bumori Cail, great Cail,  I honor You and revere You! Blessed be, You, great traveler of the spirit realms,  great magician and magickal Prince.

⛤ 05 . . . Cail, Monarch of Autumn, I honor You this season.

⚿ evoking, invoking, summoning . . .

EVOKATION &&° 

wear autumnal colors

— ☆ — 

Things in [] are for making it a summoning. This is just a suggestion, you can do it any way you like.

WHY AND WHEN &&° 

when you're about to do a spell

when you feel in danger from a cruel spirit

when you’re about to visit a cemetery

INGREDIENTS AND OTHER TOOLS &&° 

black and/or orange candle(s)

autumn leaves, fake count

clear or purplish gems

flowers

Bumori's name written in Daedric Script

IDEALS &&° 

Time – nighttime

Location – near where you honor your ancestors, or conversely, where you sleep

STEPS &&° 

[Carve the word Cail into the candle, this can replace any other written form of Its name.]

Set down your candle(s), autumn leaves, and gems.

Light your candle(s), and recite: Bumori Cail, great Daedric Prince of Death and Rebirth, I call upon You and Your spirit now, to join me here and present.

Do your business.

Blow out your candles.

NOTES &&° 

Like all others, Cail might come to just Zeyr name being called.

𝌁 other vettable information . . .

When meditating on Its presence and name, Cail brings:

visions of: rotting flowers • vultures • mold

smells of: asphodel

sounds of: vulture calls

feelings of: someone looming over your shoulder

❡ notes . . .

As an aside, Bumori Cail seems especially drawn to living humans who believe they have died and/or been reborn in any way, including metaphorically.

Unlike Azura who is associated with astrology and the Zodiacs, Bumori Cail is simply associated with the constellations and art among the stars. 

Cail quite likes Samhain and the Samhain season.

[soupygremlin]

found two buckets and im trying to paint them with a heart and a spade and it turns out painting metal thats curved is Really Hard Actually

this is NOT the best thing to say to a troll guyz my first immediate reaction wwas to stare at my screen in abject horror before realizing not everyone here is wweird about buckets but good luck anon. only question, are you going to use them as pails or just havve buckets lying around and scare the soul outta any trolls wwho come into your residence.

[blood-mocha-latte]

stormy - a luztoye drabble

for an ask from @malarkgirlypop || request an edit/drabble || i loved loved loved writing this, thank you for the ask <3 <3

The apartment they've found is all brick, sturdy and warm, but George can still feel the shaking of the thunder under his feet.

He sighs down at the metal tin that holds rapidly cooling water and dissipating bubbles. The sad, soggy lump of washcloths in his fist serves as a makeshift mop, because for some reason, they don't actually have one. 

They were in the middle of painting the walls of the kitchen blue – a (hopefully) better colour change from the dark orange it was when George, of course, dropped a good half quarter of blue all over the tile floor.

The thunder rumbles outside again. George groans, like it's a queue, and bunches his ‘mop’ together better before dunking it into the pail.

Leaning his knees on a rolled up towel, avoiding the harsh tile of the kitchen floor, he scrubs rather absently for a while.

He likes menial tasks, like this. Turning his brain off, George feels, is something that is both long and far between as well as just. Absent.

When he thinks — always, always thinking, and talking even more — it’s almost always about the now. About needing to clean the floor, about when they’ll need to water the plant on top of the fireplace again, about how they need a new bedspread, because George got blood all over their old one when he accidentally sliced his palm open with a razor.

(A mishap, with shaving. Joe had dropped something in their bedroom, and George had jolted so badly he’d needed fourteen stitches.)

Sometimes, though, he thinks of everyday and it blends into what used to be everyday; disjointed thoughts that he’ll need to call Lip down in West Virginia and ask about confirmation for blasting a house in Hagenau, that he’ll need to get new running shoes because Currahee tends to get muddier with the rain, this time of year.

This time, he thinks about Joe. Who, admittedly, consumes the majority of his thoughts, now. 

He thinks of a joke, and thinks about telling it to Joe, and realises he’s already told it to him, because he’s the only one George tells anything, anymore. He wonders vaguely about something that existed when he was a kid, and has to go and find Joe to ask him if he remembers that thing too, just to listen to him talk. He walks by a shop window with all sorts of jewellery in it, and wonders what Joe would do if he brought home rings.

As he scrubs at the tile, blue paint chipping off and into the cloths and George’s hands, he wonders if Joe’d like it if he could find Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe. Maybe they could watch it. Maybe they’d watch it for two seconds and get bored. Maybe, if George talked through it enough, he could get Joe to shut him up with his mouth, anchor a hand in his hair—

“George.” Joe says from the other side of the room, voice almost frustrated. George looks up from the mess on the floor; made no better by his scrubbing, and drops the ‘mop’ back into the soapy tin.

“Something wrong?” He asks, wiping his hands awkwardly on the fabric of his pants as he makes his way over to where Joe sits on the couch, holding the paper against his good leg, pen in his left hand.

“No.” Joe says, too quickly, almost sharply. He huffs, once, through his nose, and shoves the paper up roughly when George comes to stand over the couch, bracing the palms of his hands against the back of it. “Just. I can't— fuck.” 

Joe gets like this, sometimes. Usually when it’s cold and it’s been a while since he last ate. Frustrated, sharp. More impatient than usual, maybe a bit clumsier.

George kneels behind the couch, grimacing slightly at the pop of his knees, and fights down the cushioning of the sofa to rest his chin on Joe's shoulder, skimming through the messy handwriting that Joe held up.

It's been easy enough to get settled in. The apartment is a decent size, both bedrooms are nice. George seems ecksausted

exosted

exausted

exaustid

“I don't know why the fuck I couldn't just say tired.” Joe says, dropping the paper back into his lap when George pulls back and noses absently against the shell of his ear to show he was done reading. His voice is strained, like he’s trying to make a joke.

“Well, you've got a big vernacular. Might as well use it.” George says lightly, using Joe’s good shoulder to push himself back up, grunting. “Christ, call an ambulance. Who let an old man get down on the floor?”

“You're only twenty-seven, George.” Joe says absently as George rounded the side of the sofa. “And I don't have a big fucking vernacular. Can't spell for shit. It's not like I use fancy goddamn words all the time.”

“You use fancy words all the time.” George retorts, plopping down onto the couch and slipping his hands under his legs. Joe’s eyes, dark against his skin and framed by even darker lashes, glare down at them. “You just said vernacular.”

“Because you just said vernacular.” Joe says darkly, posture slouched. “I can't even spell vernacular.”

“Well, neither can I.” George says amiably. “There's probably a ‘j’ in there, somewhere.” 

Joe frowns down at the paper. “Can you even read the damn writing?” He asks, flipping the pencil clumsily between his fingers. George leans further into him, jostling his ribs with his elbow. Outside, the rumbling thunder seems to make the glass in the panes of their windows vibrate.

“Well, sure.” He says. “Could tell that you kept misspelling exhausted, couldn’t I?” Joe doesn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s not legible.” He murmurs. George sighs, and gently pulls the paper out of Joe’s grip before he crumples it into a ball. 

“Well, it’s not easy on the eyes.” He says lightly. He tries not to lie, but he doesn’t like being any sort of unkind. “But you are, so it makes up for it.”

“George.” Joe says, same way he always does. Like the beginning of a prayer, or a story. George just shrugs. He lets his head drop to Joe’s bare shoulder, fingers smoothing across his wifebeater.

“‘S fine, Joe.” He says. He’s leaning against Joe’s bad shoulder, and he can feel the lines of scarring and tissue against his temple and cheek like streaks of lightning. He taps his index finger against the deepest scar; one that runs from the crux of Joe’s neck and shoulder and wraps around his bicep to halfway down his forearm. “I can read it fine.”

Joe’s quiet. He shifts against George, and dry lips press to his forehead. 

“I can’t write so good, anymore.” He says. George knows. George was there when Joe couldn’t even use his right arm without it hurting, could barely keep a grasp on a tennis ball. George also knows that Joe tends to get inside his own head, tends to think that things are worse than they actually are, that every event is the start of a chain of bad ones.

That’s alright, though. That’s what he’s got George for, whether he likes it or not.

“Writing doesn’t matter.” George says. “I heard somewhere that Mark Twain couldn’t hold a pencil. He just said stuff and had other people write it down.” Joe snorts.

“That’s bullshit.” He mutters. George spreads his fingers against Joe’s forearm, pressing his palm to the scar. 

“Yeah.” He agrees easily. “Who gives a fuck, though.” Joe huffs. The thunder rumbles, as if in agreement, and they both turn their heads towards the window.

“Still stormy outside, I’d guess.” Joe says. George hums, turns his cheek to press a kiss to Joe’s shoulder. Fuck the kitchen tiles. They can be blue. It will probably come into fashion at some point, anyways.

“Yeah.” He says. “Who gives a fuck, though.”

[slowd1ving]

[✦IV. WEEP FOR HIM, I BID OF THEE] SNIPPET • . DR RATIO

I promise I'm still alive just swamped with work almost done with chapter 4!!

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

It didn’t matter, not when the light had faded from the ink on your body and blood bubbled from your dry mouth. Dimly, you registered your metal pail floating on its side just near the blond; and your eyes could only flick feebly upwards to meet his own, widened ones. Your heart pulsed, sticky and metallic on your tongue: and it clouded the words forming on your tongue weakly. 

“To… umiro.” The syllables coalesced into a clumsy string in honey tongue; a futile attempt to be reassuring, when your clothes were stained with blood and charred marks and your fists still palpitated with small pulses of electrons. ‘It’s dead’. You staggered, pressing your fingers into the tree you hid behind only minutes prior to this—digging your nails harshly into the bark while you fought to stay upright. 

The profile was right—transferring energy into another form was far more efficient than turning it into a material object. But that didn’t do any good when you could feel the unfamiliar energy; you were due to collapse any time soon from the fatigue that had built up—ignoring the energy sacrificed. 

Still, you thought drowsily as you fumbled the thin, cold handle of your pail (the clay, miraculously, had stayed half in the bucket), the combat experiment had been extraordinarily useful to gauge how far you could push yourself in a fight. Casually, you wrung out your shirt and the rolled-up bottoms of your trousers, before you glanced at the massive snake one last time. Just like a minute ago, it was still dead. 

Whatever. It no longer concerned you; as someone who dropped Lament of Ouroboros an hour into playing, you had no concept of the value of the beast, nor how rare it was. Objectively, it was a fat snake. Perhaps you could take its massive skin for yourself, or find a market for basilisk meat, or even carve its massive teeth into more suitable weapons than the damn stick you’d found to walk with. 

Like a cracked pomegranate, the lightning had pierced through its body and spilled its innards onto the banks, while a fang lay chipped nearby. 

“Wait!” Ah. In all honesty, you’d forgotten about the blond man who now scrambled to his feet with a stricken, almost-panicked look in his eyes. While he was in the throes of adrenaline, his pinprick pupils had allowed you to observe briefly the vibrant turquoise and magenta rings in his eyes—blue spreading into the purple in a shade you’d never quite seen so bright. Though now, they had dilated back to a healthy size; similarly, his irises were almost completely purple as he held your wrist in a slight daze. You frowned. 

“Yes?” A headache began to form.

In the end, you took the stranger home. 

“Sorry,” he’d murmured with his teeth worrying at his lips, a habit you used to have back on Earth. Maybe that was what had made a shred of pity dampen your wizened old heart, or maybe it was the countless wounds that needed treating as soon as possible. You didn’t know what he was doing all the way in the deep of the Borderlands (you also didn’t particularly care), but it was particularly commendable to stay alive so long when he looked like he sucked at fighting. Perhaps he just had some insane luck, some you could’ve used a life ago. 

Though, you thought while flexing your fingers, this life had certainly made up for its shortcomings, present just a few months ago.

His name was Aventurine, he’d told you, eyes searching your face as if you were meant to react. Great, you’d replied, but you hadn’t given him your own in return as you half-carried, half-propped him up: his arm flung over and secured firmly in place by your hand over your shoulders, while your other hand gingerly clasped his side with a metal pail bumping against him. You win some, you lose some, you’d sagely surmised. Judging by the ornate clothing, which still wasn’t given as a convenient window of your system (seriously, you had to do some serious guesswork with that massive snake!), it was evident that he could be someone important—though you lacked both the knowledge and the shits to give to treat him with whatever courtesy he ought to have been owed. 

No, his name was actually Kakavasha, he’d amended hastily as he sat down in your bathroom. Maybe it was simply the brief security he felt when, upon seeing the long stairs in your house (and his face becoming a tad more palloured at the sight), you’d gently picked up his too-light body and merely climbed the rest of the way to the large bathroom that gazed out onto the forest and distant horizon. You said nothing. Neither did he, but when you held down his shoulders to wrangle him onto the wooden stool that clattered against cerulean tiles as you dragged it over to the cabinet where you kept medical supplies, he'd decided to break his silence. Alchemy, to your annoyance, could not directly be used to heal—at least not yet, when the finer points of anatomy eluded you. 

Cool, you replied once more, in that same impassive tone. For someone you were going to send away in a few business hours, he sure was chatty. Peeling off the long, dark coat that had been stuck to his body by blood, and the subsequent quality shirt (that was damn near unrecognisable with how much it had been torn and bloodied), you missed the faint pink on his face whilst you surveyed him clinically. 

A long gash from left pectoral to right clavicle. Bruising around the rib area. Lacerations on his lower abdomen. Bruising on his lower back, as well as many smaller wounds on his upper. Grazing on his arms with a more serious abrasion on his left bicep. 

“...No broken bones, right?” It was the first sound from you that hadn’t been monosyllabic. Really, almost dying together made you practically amicable. Buddies, even. These paltry words were the most you’d spoken to anyone in weeks. 

“No.” He was quiet as you pressed a ball of gauze soaked in cold spirits against the shallow wounds with nary a hiss. “...Thank you for saving my life.”

“Don’t sweat it. It was going to eat me too,” you returned. Gratitude that wasn’t mere platitudes came rarely. Gratitude was what you should’ve gotten by shouldering your runaway mother’s debts, but that never happened.

His sincere, earnest gaze prickled your skin with discomfort; too used to perfunctory nods and smiles.

“It was the most terrifying sight I’ve seen.” And for a brief moment, you didn’t know who he referred to—that basilisk, or the you so carefully wrapping his arms up with bandages. Your scent was that of blood and saltwater, tearing into his senses with an acuity that only reminded him of how easily you felled that beast. 

He didn’t elaborate. 

You didn’t ask further. 

[author-morgan]

Title: Ghost of Days Gone By Rating: M Pairing: John Marston x fem!Reader Summary: Running from the past can only get you so far —but there's a chance the past holds the keys to your future. Or in which Jim Milton shows up at Pronghorn Ranch, and you're both visited by the ghost of days gone by. AO3 link

Do you ever cry for the ghost of days gone by?

“FOUND YOU A new milkmaid,” Tom Dickens announces, leaning on the fence as he watches you milk one of the cows. Used to be that Pronghorn Ranch kept half-a-dozen milkmaids, but that was before the lot of them got ideas above their stations and went chasing fame and fortune. Didn’t much matter to you, though. Your days of infamy are passed, and despite a coffer filled with the remnants of that life, working day in and out for David Geddes was enough to keep you content. In exchange for keeping the livestock, you had three meals a day, a roof over your head, and fair wages for fair work —more than could be said for those girls who ran off a few months back.

You place another bent metal pail under the cow’s udders, continuing your morning routine. “This one ain’t gonna run off for the circus, is she?” You ask, rising from the stool and brushing off the straw and dirt clots from your shirt and pants ‘fore turning to greet the newcomer.

“Don’t think so.” You recognize the rough voice instantly —even after all these years. And if your ears are trying to deceive you, then your eyes confirm what you already know. He’s not as skinny as when you last saw him, and instead of wiry scruff, there’s a dark beard on his chin and jaw, patchy where two long scars cut 'cross his cheek —new additions. “Jim Milton, ma’am,” John Marston says, extending his hand and snapping you from a far-off place filled with distant memories. He masks his surprise better than you do, but you know the look in his dark eyes.

It's less of a handshake and more of clumsily fumbling while trying to hold on to his hand —Tom casts an odd glance, but at least you can blame the awkwardness on milk and mud-slick hands. “Nice to meet you, Jim,” you tell him, smiling through the newfound ache in your chest. “C’mere and give me a hand.” You nod in the direction of old Bessie in her stall, knowing John Marston doesn’t know the first thing about how to milk a cow. “Thank you, Tom!” You call, waving to him as he heads back to the main barn to help Abe with the horses.

But then your attention snaps back to John —no, Jim. It’s been years since you last saw John Marston —more than that, it’s been almost twenty years. He and Arthur Morgan left you to your whims in a little livestock town in the middle of nowhere California after a successful stagecoach robbery. Pronghorn Ranch is the last place you ever thought you’d see him again, but it’d been the last place you thought you would’ve ended up too. “What the hell are you doing here?” You don’t know whether to hug or slap him, so you do neither, just gawk at him like you’d seen a ghost. “Thought you was dead.”

“Heard the same about you,” he says, remembering the day some of Colm O’Driscolls’s boys said they’d put a bullet between your eyes for making off with one of their scores. John had been enough of a fool to believe them —especially when the months started to pass and your paths never crossed again.

TOM DICKENS COMES to fetch the new hand after the day’s work is almost finished —to formally introduce him to David Geddes. Afterward, John goes to your cabin, knocking on the door, awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot as he waits. You motion him in and close the door. There’s a moment’s pause when you both stare at one another as though not quite believing the other is real, but then you surge forward, arms twining around his neck with little hesitation. John Marston stumbles back, stiff as a bonefish at first, but he quickly caves into the warmth of your embrace, arms wrapping around your waist and cheek pressed into the crown of your head.

You step back first, hands lingering on his shoulders for a fleeting moment before turning to sit in one of the rickety chairs at the table in the center of the room. “What are you doing here?” You’ve already asked him earlier, but now he can’t use the guise of working to avoid answering. 

John sits next to you and shrugs, staring at the rough floorboards under his boots. “I don’t know” —seems like nothing made sense anymore, not since he shakes his head— “I thought maybe…” he fumbles for the words and knows he’s making a fool of himself. John Marston lifts his dark gaze, finally settling on a piss-poor explanation for why he’s turned up at a small ranch in West Elizabeth.

“I’m trying to do better...be better,” he finally ousts. “Got a son now.” It’s a quiet admission and it strikes something deep in your heart. “He’s still in Strawberry,” John tells you, knowing that’d be the next question —his boy was helping the doctor prep tools and clean between patients for twenty-five cents and two meals a day. A better life than he’d had for the past eight years. “Wanted to make sure this arrangement was gonna work out.” 

“And his ma?” You ask, almost timidly. 

He shakes his head, eyes downcast. It won’t nothing pretty that night when the Van der Linde Gang fell apart. Abigail. Susan. Arthur. “She…” John takes a deep breath, remembering how he went to Copperhead Landing to find his family, but only Jack and Tilly were waiting for him. “It was a mess,” he tells you. “Dutch came full undone. Lost a lot of people.” Left me for dead too. 

You hadn’t known everyone in the Van der Linde Gang, just John Marston and Arthur Morgan from the few times you’d run into them on the road and in towns. But you remember how they both used to talk about Hosea Matthews and Dutch Van der Linde and reading about the train and bank robberies and all the murders —all seemed out of place given the two men you knew. “And Arthur?” But somehow, you already know the answer —doubt John would be here in the first place if Arthur Morgan was still around.

He just shakes his head again, not wanting to talk about that night on the mountain, about what Arthur did for him in the end. And how it feels like he’s wasted his life since then —chasing gold in the Yukon, still on the run at every turn, unable to raise his boy right on his own. “Never thought I’d see you again,” John says, the rasp in his voice turning to a crack.  

You nudge his side lightly, offering a fleeting smile to cut through the suffocating despair. “We always did have a habit of finding each other.” Even as ghosts, John thinks though he doesn’t say as such. 

“So, what happened to you?” He asks, not about to let you come away from this conversation unscathed. “How’d you end up here?” A ranch in the middle of nowhere West Elizabeth won’t where he expected to find you, either. 

It’s both a long story and a short one. “Left it all behind.” Living like a criminal wouldn’t carry you through life much further, especially not with the law and the Pinkertons rounding up the last of the outlaws. Was a surprisingly easy choice to make after you met the man who’d eventually call you his wife. “Got married.” The memory is enough to make you smile in earnest. You glimpse John, his dark gaze focused only on you, lips slightly parted to take a slow breath as he realizes.

“Had a little homestead further east.” It was a small two-room cabin in the woods, warm and welcoming. A home. “Quiet life. A good life,” you muse. But it didn’t last long enough. “Then I got a visit from Colm’s boys,” you tell him, still not understanding how they found you that far east. “Came to settle a debt from a score I stole off ‘em.” There’s a certain apathy in how you say it —cold and matter of fact, as though to say such is life. You stare out the window on the opposite wall, eyes nigh devoid of emotion as you recall that night. “Buried them and my husband six feet deep,” you tell John, and he grips your hand —the rough pads of his fingertips pressing into your palm.  

“Guess I had it comin’, in the end.” You’d long been afeared that your sins would return to visit. They had, and the cost was almost more than you could bear. In the days and months afterward, it seemed your punishment from the Almighty was to keep living and try to make amends for past misdeeds. “Don’t get to have good things happen to you after the things I did.” John doesn’t say anything, just nods —it’s a sentiment he knows well enough.

Ain’t much more either of you can say. Life hadn’t been kind since you last saw one another, but fate or some high power must have a warped sense of humor to lead you back to one another after all these years. Sighing, you slip your hand free of John’s and reach for him, fingers following the new scars on his cheek and jaw —the one cutting across his thin, cracked lips too. “How’d you get these?”

His dark gaze flits across your face, and he lets out a trembling breath when you pull back your hand. “Wolves tried to make a meal out of me,” he answers —won’t a pleasant week between getting shot in Blackwater and mauled by wolves in the Grizzlies.

“Too rotten for ‘em?” You ask, teasing. “That why they spat you back out?” And John laughs, lips twisting into a ragged smile as he leans into you, resting his forehead against yours.

AFTER A FEW days of adjusting to the routine, John heads back into Strawberry on a late Sunday morning to fetch his son. Mister and Misses Geddes assured him there’d be a place for his boy on the ranch, and so long as he did his share, he’d even earn a few coins to fill his own coffer. If nothing else, Jack Marston would have a score of people to help look after him and teach him a thing or two about animal husbandry.

You’re starting a fire in the kitchen stove when you hear the wagon jostling to a stop and horses whinnying. Setting a pot of water on the burner, you turn to the door, wading into the cool spring evening air —equally excited and nervous to meet John’s son. The boy sitting next to him in the wagon seat climbs down with a book tucked underarm and glances around the ranch —to the big house and barns, the horses in the corral, and the ranch hands enjoying their day of rest on the porch with a bottle of whiskey.

He looks like his father, that’s for certain, but you imagine he must have his mother’s eyes. “Jack?” You greet softly, knowing John told the others his boy’s name was Lancelot.

The boy looks surprised that anyone would know him in this part of the country —especially given who his new persona is supposed to be. There’s a question budding in his bright eyes. “She’s a real good friend of mine from long time ago,” John explains before you can properly introduce yourself, wearing a little smile as he steps around his boy to grip your shoulder, a silent thank you almost for being so understanding —accepting of his sudden appearance back in your life. Jack’s gaze flits between you and John. Even he knows it’s been a long while since his pa’s looked this happy.

You step closer and extend a hand toward the boy, and he gives a timid but firm handshake. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack,” you say with a smile, but then your attention shifts to John. “How about you boys stay with me?” You suggest, pointing over your shoulder to the women’s cabin —empty for the past few months save for you. “Be easier to keep an eye on him that way.” It’s better than staying in the stuffy bunks with the other ranch hands and one he won’t pass up. After living on the road for so long, it’d do Jack good to have a motherly figure back in his life.

Jack starts to the cabin with his bag, and you fall back to keep stride with John, nudging his side with your elbow. “Least we know he won’t turn out like you.” There’s a hint of laughter in the way you say it, a twinkle in your eye, too.

“What’s that supposed to mean, missy?” John asks, knowing good and well what it is you mean, and he's unable to hide his own amusement. But you don’t say anything else —just smile for him.

IT’S A SLOW life. Routine and almost boring compared to always running, always having to have one eye trained over his shoulder, but to be a decent man working for his keep every day is enough to keep John Marston happy for now, especially knowing what it means to his boy. It’s the first time Jack’s ever known the same place for more than a few weeks or months at a time —first time he’s had a whole bed to call his own too. Despite the hard work, day in and day out, the ranch starts to feel like a home —like maybe he’s found his calling in life. Or at least Jim Milton’s calling.

The rooster crows at the break of dawn, but you’re already awake with a pot of coffee brewing and bacon in a frying pan. It’s the scent of the bacon that draws both John and Jack from their bunks and to the table. Taking breakfast and supper together every day is bittersweet —makes you think of what could’ve been had Colm’s boys never found you, but there’s no point dwelling on the past like that. John won’t ever be the man you buried, and Jack won’t ever be your boy, but for the time being, you’re content with this mismatched family. “Mornin’ boys,” you greet, cracking half-a-dozen eggs into the leftover bacon fat. “Coffee’s ready.”

John mumbles his appreciation as he pours himself and you a cup before sitting at the table with the most recent copy of The Blackwater Ledger. 

It’s a quiet life, too. Until shouts and gunshots break out in the night — until flames rise from the barns to lick at the night sky. John’s out of bed before you, pulling on his boots and starting to the door. You peer out the window above your bed, recognizing the men and their horses.��The Laramie Boys. They’ve already set the cattle loose and the barn ablaze —another attempt to drive David Geddes off the land to make way for Abel Atherton. “Stay here with Jack,” John tells you. 

But you’re already throwing open the lid of an old trunk tucked away in the corner, pulling out a worn Lancaster repeater and bandolier of ammunition from a life you meant to leave behind for good. “You forget who I am, John Marston?” You ask, pressing a round into the loading gate. “Been dealing with this lot longer than you have” —you cock the handle of the rifle, starting toward the door, pushing past him— “and I’m tired of this bullshit.” 

Hanging Dog Ranch isn’t a long ride, but on a moonless and starless night, it feels like it’s miles and miles away. The shadow of the windmill rises from the landscape, almost blending into the backdrop of tall trees. Lanterns pock the stables and tents —and in one of the corrals is David Geddes’s stolen cattle. The Laramie Boys were there, all right. John lifts a hand, a silent gesture for everyone to stop and dismount. You’d go in on foot from here. He directs Tom to the windmill —a good vantage point to keep an eye on anyone and do away with any of them who try to flee— and Abe to the opposite side, near the ranch house.

You crouch behind one of the boulders next to John. He watches as you pull the rifle off your shoulder and reload it, cocking the handle —ready to go. John Marston knows you can handle yourself, knows your skills with a gun are on par with his, if not a little slower, but he doesn’t want to chance you getting hurt. Not when you and Jack are all the good he’s got left in this world. “Ain’t letting you just walk in there,” he says.

Had you been younger and more ill-tempered, you would have argued with him, but now there’s no point in it —one way or another, this whole feud would end tonight. “I’ll flank the backside then,” you tell him. Between the four of you, the whole place would be surrounded. You turn to cut through the grass and the tree line, but he grips your forearm ‘fore you can head off. He means to say something, but all he can do is offer a curt nod and let you go.

Once the first shot rings out in the night, you move in. Part of you thinks after putting up your guns for so long, it should be harder —killing folk— but it’s just as easy now as it had been when you first met John Marston on the road. You ram the butt of the rifle into the back of a man’s head, and it doesn’t take much to pull the trigger when he goes to his knees, dazed. All that’s around you are corpses. The rest must be holed up in the barn or around the front. You sidle your way along the back of the barn, then stick an arm through one of the barn windows at the back and wave it ‘round, but no one shoots.

The barn is quiet —seems empty, too, but you know it ain’t. Crouching behind a stack of hay bales, you reload your rifle to finish the job. Couldn’t be but a handful of them left after that. But one of them is the gang’s leader. Caleb Hensley. A vile man who didn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer. Dried straw crunches underfoot, the sound coming from the loft above. “Can’t hide forever!” You shout, tracing the footfalls above. There’s a lull in the gunfire outside when you step out from behind on the wooden posts, thinking you’d have the leader of the Laramie Boys cornered for an easy shot, but there’s no one there.  

Caleb Hensley steps out from one of the stables and swings a rough-cut piece of lumber. It’s a narrow miss, and you pull the trigger before he can strike again, but the shot goes wide, and he’s on you again. “Always thought you were a real hard woman, didn’t you?” He mocks, wrestling the rifle from your grasp. You duck around him, making for the discarded gun, but Caleb Hensley kicks the rifle away and grabs you by the hair, hauling you back up. 

Off me! You aren’t sure if you shout it or if it’s just a scream in your head. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warns, twisting your arm behind your back. You can feel the bite of cold and sharp metal against your neck. “Hate to slice such a pretty neck.” It’s an acrid whisper as he runs his nose along your shoulder, inhaling a mix of smoke and flowers. 

John pushes open the doors to the barn, his gun drawn, but he lowers his revolver when he sees you —and the glint of the knife pressed against your throat. “Let her go,” he says —cool and collected. 

Caleb Hensley twists your arm tighter, a new rage building in his gut. “Won’t give me the courtesy, but you’ll fuck some piss-poor farmhand?!” It’s a venomous sneer, but the accusation doesn't get to you the way he thinks it will, not when your fingers brush against the hilt of the throwing knife tucked into the back of your bandolier. John sees the shift in your breathing, the slight nod of your head as though telling him to get ready.

Breaking one arm free of his hold, you drive the knife straight back into Caleb Hensley’s thigh, deep as it’ll go. The sudden shock is enough for his grip to slacken and for you to slip free entirely. “Bitch!” He shouts, unholstering his pistol, but John’s there before he can fire a single round —and it’s over with the blast of a shotgun.

John tosses down the sawed-off shotgun and turns to you, half-blocking the mess of blood, bone, and brains splattered across the dirt and hay. “You alright?” he asks.   

“M’fine,” you answer. But there’s a slow red flower blossoming on the white linen of your nightdress. He reaches for you, hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head to the side. “Shit,” John breathes, pressing his hand against the cut and the slick warmth of blood —it spans from the base of your neck and across a collarbone to the edge of your sternum. It’s not deep, at least, and it doesn’t hurt —or maybe the pain hasn’t settled in yet.

The ride back to Pronghorn is quicker and John dismounts his black bay Thoroughbred and turns to you, still astride your speckled Appaloosa —he scarcely lets your feet touch the muddy ground before sweeping you up in his arms, carrying you from the hitching posts and back to the cabin. “M’legs still work, Marston,” you mutter into the crook of his neck, and he shakes his head at your stubbornness. There’s even a hint of laughter in his deep sigh too. All these years and a moment like this makes it seem as though nothing’s changed.

“Jack!” He calls out, nearing the steps of the cabin, and his boy opens the door. Jack stumbles away, his eyes wide and full of fear as he looks between you and his pa. John eases you down onto the bed and glances over his shoulder. “Bring the wash basin, son,” he says, and Jack does, fumbling over his own feet.

“I’m alright, Jack,” you assure the boy with a feeble smile when he places the basin bedside. You can see the color fade from his round face when he looks at you and the blood soaking through your night dress —it reminds him too much of the day he lost his ma. “Just a bad scratch.” John huffs as he wrings out the wet cloth. It’s not exactly a lie, but it ain’t the truth either. He tilts your head to the side gently and starts wiping away the drying blood on your neck.

Under different circumstances, you might’ve laughed at the tinge of color on his cheeks as he silently asks permission to help you undress —poor timing to suddenly become a chivalrous man. With a grimace, you shrug out of the shift and quickly bunch up the stained cotton to keep your modesty intact. John’s gaze flits between the cut and your face, trying too see if he might be able to decipher the far-off look in your eyes, but then he presses too hard, and you wince. “Sorry,” he mutters, redoubling his focus. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a taut line —and he misses your hazy smile.

"Need to bandage it,” he says, voice dropping to a low rasp. You nod, turning to face away from him before offering up your shift to make crude dressings —he'll buy you a new one. The feel of his rough fingertips against your skin sends a chill down your spine and sets your heart to racing again.

John ties the strip of cloth off at your shoulder and lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then he offers one of his shirts in place of your ruined night dress —a faded black flannel with colored patches at the elbows. He holds it up for you to slip your arms into, and you quickly do up the buttons, turning so you can face him.

“Thank you.” It’s a tired whisper, and John doesn’t say anything in turn, only kisses the back of your hand before returning to his bunk on the other side of the cabin.

THE WAGON’S PULLED up to the front of the barn, loaded with crates and other sundries to be sold at the market in Strawberry and along the path there. Most times, Jack goes with John to make the deliveries and pick up new supplies, but this time the boy is headed toward the stables instead of the wagon seat. He and Duncan Geddes had been getting along quite well, especially when it came to helping work and train the foals.

You lean against the split-rail fence of one of the corrals, watching Jack Marston longe a nine-month-old filly named Llamrei, after one of King Arthur’s horses —Mrs. Geddes had even been kind enough to let Jack name the new foal. “Not goin’ with your pa?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “Thought I’d stay and help with the horses, ma’am,” Jack answers, then he clicks his tongue to help Llamrei keep her gait.

“If you think you’ll be okay,” you start, “I’ve got a few errands to run in town myself.” It’s been a month or two since you made the trip to Strawberry, and your list has steadily grown to include fabric, sewing needles, and a new kettle for coffee.

“I’ll be fine, ma’am,” the boy assures you. Nodding, you head to the main barn, where John and Abe are finishing loading everything.

Coin purse tucked away, you climb into the wagon seat next to John. “Afraid you’ll have to suffer me today, Jim Milton,” you say, adjusting the brim of your sunhat and brushing down the creases of your canvas skirt. The corner of his lips twists into a smile as he takes hold of the reins and gives them a quick snap, setting the horses in motion toward the road and down the path to Strawberry.

It's good to get away from Pronghorn for a little while. Strawberry ain’t much, but it has everything simple folk could ever need for a good life. John pulls the wagon in front of the depot and waves you off to tend to your errands while he unloads everything and picks up the post.

You leave the general store with a ream of calico fabric tucked underarm and a small basket stuffed with linen and wool cabbage, new thread, and fresh sewing needles. It was almost time for autumn to set in, and wouldn’t be much longer 'fore the hands started bringing their coats and thicker denim to be patched up for the colder seasons.

John’s securing the last crate into the wagon from the post office and tying down the waxed canvas tarp, but you’re looking westward through the tall pines. “Those clouds don’t look good.” The sky’s gone dark since arriving in the early afternoon —smell of rain's on the wind too. He looks up, too, frowning. “Roads go right hell ‘round here in a storm,” you tell him. “We’ll break an axle tryin’ to beat it back.” Last thing you needed was a stuck wagon and ruined supplies, and the last thing you wanted was to be caught in a squall like the one brewing.

All Trackers can offer is a warm meal, but the innkeeper, Bartholomew Bogue, points you and John to the Welcome Center just up the road; they usually had a room or two to spare when the rest of town was booked. The fringes of the storm have already arrived as rain and howling wind. You start through the muddy street after John, holding down your hat to keep the wind from ferrying it away. “Room for the night, please.” He slides a dollar bill across the desk to the concierge, who quickly hands over a room key and motions toward the stairs by the door.

The room is simply furnished —a single four-poster bed caddy cornered, a dresser and vanity, and a table next to a cast iron heater. It’s warm and dry and almost more inviting than your cabin at Pronghorn. You drop your hat on the table and lay your shawl out to dry near the heater. “I’ll take the floor,” John offers —an attempt to be a gentleman— toeing off his muddy boots near the balcony door and setting his gun belt on the dresser.

It's a ridiculous suggestion. “Bed’s big enough for us both,” you counter, stepping behind the dressing screen, stripping off your wet outer clothes and corset. Wouldn’t be right to have him sleeping on the floor on a night like this —cold and wet. He doesn’t argue, and you’re glad for it. You slip between the sheets and quilted blanket, watching as John goes to add another log or two to the heater. And the bed dips with his added weight when he lays beside you. “G’night, John,” you tell him, turning onto your side.

“Night darlin’,” he echoes, reaching over to dim the oil lantern on the end table.

The steady rain turns into a deluge permeated by the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder. It’s a jagged bolt that seems like it cuts through the window and a deafening clap that first wakes you in the middle of the night. You stare up at the ceiling, a knot rising in your throat as your heart starts to pound. John’s still asleep —dark hair falling in front of his face—and it makes you feel a fool for acting like this. After all these years, a storm can still send you into a panic. You roll onto your side and stare out the window, but the shift in the mattress and tug of the blankets is enough to stir John Marston. “What’s wrong?” His voice is a grating rasp.

You run your hands over your face, wiping away budding tears before they fall, shaking your head. “Can’t sleep,” you tell him, fighting the tremble in your voice. “The storm.” It’s a poor explanation, but John has mind enough to piece together why the thunder and lightning have you acting like this. Was on a night like this Colm’s boys came for you. Was on a night like this, you had to bury Bo and watch your home burn.

John sits up, reaches out, and wraps an arm around your waist, then pulls you back to him —closer now than you had been before the storm picked up. You settle back down, head resting on his pillow, noses almost touching, and breaths mingling.

“Spent years hopin’ we’d run into each other again,” he admits. You first ran into John Marston on the road. He and Arthur Morgan were planning to rob the same stagecoach you’d been scoping out for well over a fortnight. A fake limp, crocodile tears, and a little womanly charm stopped the driver easily enough —all according to your plan. That was until two hotheaded outlaws came kicking up dust and firing their revolvers into the air shouting about it being a holdup. At least they had half a mind to share the take when it was all over.

And somehow, after that, you and John found yourselves running into each other —at saloons, on the road, planning a heist or two. Arthur always told him he was a fool for not bringing you back to camp. Given your talents, the three of you probably could’ve walked into the New York City Assay Office or the Philadelphia Mint and made off with enough gold to buy a small country or two.

It was a good few years, but then John and his gang wandered off too far, and you’d decided it was time to hang up the illicit lifestyle ‘fore the law finally caught up with you. “Be lyin’ if I said I didn’t miss you a little too,” you tell him, eyes tracing the scars on his cheek and across his nose.

“Only a little?” John teases, hand moving from your waist to cheek —the rough pad of his thumb tracing a line beneath your bottom lip and over your jaw. That gets you to smile for him, even if it’s fleeting, and he’ll count it as a small victory.

“What was he like?” Curiosity gets the better of him —all he knows is it must’ve been someone special to handle you. You close your eyes, picturing the small cabin tucked away in the eastern mountains after a new dusting of snow —can still see Bo splitting wood to bring in for the stove and hearth. But it’s been so long, and now you can scarcely recall the color of his eyes. John almost regrets asking when he sees the new tears welling in your eyes, but then you smile and reach to fiddle with the ends of his hair.

“Good. Honest. Kind. Hard-working.” Bo had been a logger, a working man from a decent family, had even built his house with his own two hands. A stark contrast to how you had lived for all of them years —always on the move, robbing people, and killing folk. “Didn’t deserve him, I know that.” You didn’t deserve Bo after the life you’d led. And John knows he hadn’t deserved Abigail, either. Not really. But maybe, just maybe, you deserved each other and the chance to atone for past sins together. “John,” you whisper his name, and he can hear all your heartache, despair, and longing —it damn near breaks his heart and scares the hell out of him, too.

He acts without warning and without permission, settling his scarred lips on yours —something he’s wanted to do for years and something he should’ve done sooner. His kiss is achingly slow and painfully tender. And you sigh into his mouth, hand sliding from his chest to the back of his neck. It tugs at the corners of your heart, leaving you to shatter when he draws you closer, hand straying from the curve of your back to rest against your neck —his thumb finding the proof of your racing heart. John groans softly against your mouth, and it brings you both to part, breathless. “Sorry,” he mutters, resting his thumb against your lips. It’s the same one he’d stroked across your pulse.

You part your lips, just slightly, not enough to take his thumb into your mouth but enough to suggest. “You’ve always been a bad liar, John Marston.” And he kisses you again, his thumb sweeping up until his hand is cradling your cheek, then further still until his fingers are threaded into your hair. It’s not soft as his first kiss, nor as gentle —it’s keen and desperate, an attempt to chase away the years of loneliness and yearning. You graze your teeth across the flesh of his lower lip, catching it at the edges, and the sound that rumbles from him is sharp-edged, not unlike a warning. But you aren’t willing to retreat. There won’t be any running this time.

John pulls you close until his chest is pressed tight against yours, and the hem of your linen shift is rucked up at the waist, a leg lazily draped over his hips —and the thunder rolls.

The old bed frame groans under your combined weights when you both start shifting, fumbling with the ties and buttons of both your underclothes —a wordless understanding that you both want, no need, this. He’s quick with the buttons of his faded scarlet union suit, ridding himself of it as you shrug off the plain linen shift, letting the thin nightdress fall to the floor next to the bed. 

“Darlin’,” he breathes, tugging you into his lap as he starts pressing a short line of kisses across your clavicle, following the path of a new scar —thumbs brushing against the underside of your breasts and tracing sweeping lines across your ribs. His hands wander around your body. From your thighs, hips, waist, whatever he can reach —like he needs to touch you to stay grounded in this life. 

“John,” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair, holding him against you. His lips twitch against your warm skin, halfway between a smile and smirk as his nose trails along your neck and over the swells of your breasts, leaving warm kisses here and there. The gentle shift of your hips pulls a low rumble from his throat. Nestled between your thighs, you can feel his cock twitch. 

The rough pads of his fingers trail from your sternum, across your belly, and lower still, slow enough to give you time to object if you wanted, but you don’t. You press your face into the crook of his neck, fighting to regain your breath when he parts the seam of your cunt. He pushes two fingers in, and you cry and sigh and keep whispering his name like a prayer. John slides them deep enough to stretch you good, to let his palm grind against your clit —then he moves them, slow and gentle at first, then quicker when you start to sing like one of those pretty songbirds in the early morning mist.

He bites his lower lip, curling and scissoring his fingers deeper inside you, making you squirm. Then repeats the same motion, this time achingly slowly, ensuring you feel the torturous drag of his scarred knuckles. But impatience wins out this time, and you let out a low keening sound as John pulls his hand away, palm giving one last squeeze to your hip —leaving a slick dampness behind.

Reaching between you, John takes hold of his cock, stroking himself thrice over with his slick hand, and when he pushes in, he does so slowly —impossibly gentle, too. Your legs quiver and tremble from strain and desire as John finally eases your body against his. He trembles —it’s heaven— and he gasps like the sound is wrenched out of him against his will, eyes closing tightly, and distress written over his face as his hands fumble over your body, finally settling an open palm to your back when your hips meet his —tight and flush.

Your hands grip his shoulders, palm pressing into one of the scars there. One day you’ll ask him about that one and the one on his thigh and bicep too. Some you know the story of —the wolves, a more crooked nose from defending you in a bar fight, the silvery line on his calf from getting tangled up in barbed wire cutting through grazing land running from the law.

John doesn’t move, not yet, and you don’t either. There’s something about this moment, being like this. His dark eyes gleam as he looks up at you with something akin to adoration. But the mounting heat in your belly is too much to fight against, and you rock your hips against him, and it shatters him. You sigh, soft and sweet between pants and heaves of breath. All you can focus on is his face —flushed cheeks, mouth drawing out impious noises mixed between grunts and moans, a slight quiver in his bottom lip. You cup John’s face in your hands and kiss the curse from his lips.

A calloused hand slides over your ribs, stomach, and up to your breast, kneading it gently as he rubs slow, teasing circles around a taut nipple. You gasp his name, clinging to him, moving in unison as John lowers his mouth to your neck —soft lips skimming your pulse, moving to suckle a sensitive patch beneath your ear.

You ache and burn, and it's one of the most beautiful feelings you've ever felt —like maybe you should have stayed with him all those years ago. John’s grip on your hips tightens, almost holding you still as his hips thrust up into you. The warmth. The rhythm. It’s almost too much for him to bear, and John Marston isn’t willing to let this moment fade so quickly. “Darlin’,” he chokes, and then it’s a breathy groan that sounds like your name.

He rolls to the side, taking you with him, and nestles himself between your thighs again. John rasps atop you, groaning, moaning in pleasure as your cunt takes his cock deeper with each thrust. His cock twitches. His lips shape your name. You warm every inch of him, and the aches in his bones from the last months of work thaw with relief with each movement. It’s soft at first, but his mouth is at your ear, and you can hear it. John is coming apart inside you, and your name is the one on his lips. You smile and turn your head, catching him off guard in a kiss, legs parting wider and drawing up his sides to pull him deeper.

Clinging to John, you think there’s nothing in the world you'd trade this moment for. Everything else means nothing compared to the weight of his arms around you, the feel of his cock buried deep inside you. His hand shackles one of your ankles, then runs up the length of your calf, over your thigh, and your stomach bunches up in knots as his fingers drift back to your calf, hooking his hand behind your knee and drawing your leg up around his waist.

“John, please,” you plead softly, and he will deny you nothing, if only for selfish reasons. He fully relents to the passion and desire —letting himself love and be loved. His thrusts are deep and slow, yet quick all at once, and you find your eyes already stinging with a sheened wetness from the way he feels buried inside you. John’s breathing intensifies, his lips finding yours. He needs your kiss, has gone too long without, and gladly swallows the little gasps and whimpers you make —savoring his hot skin pressed against yours. You feel everything. Each ridge and vein, the weight of his swollen cock striking the place which unravels you.

His hand slides down between your breasts, across your stomach, and still further until he reaches where you’re joined —his thumb pressing against your clit, starting to rub slow, uneven circles. You tense at the jolt of euphoria, walls clamping around his cock. John bares his teeth, almost growling as his thrusts became faster, desperate. There will be no coming back this time. A grounding touch of his lips at your ear, a hoarse —nigh silent— plea for you to relinquish into his touch. His arm slides around your waist, lifting you against him, bodies flush and trembling.

Before long, he feels the rhythm of your breathing change to short, sharp gasps and your body tensing under his hands, back arching, hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders and back. Fingers digging into his flesh as you cry out his name on a great, sobbing breath. Seeing you undone like this is enough to finish him off. He pulls his throbbing cock from your heat, and you almost protest at the empty feeling, but John shushes you with his lips as he presses himself tight against you —cock twitching, coating your stomach with his sticky seed.

John settles, bracing his weight above you on bent arms. Wearing a hazy smile, you reach up, tracing his brow and the scar cutting through it, and urge him to rest atop you completely. He gives in, pillowing his head on your breast, listening as the frantic beat of your heart returns to normal. His own slowing in sync as you trace constellations across his shoulders, finding new scars and old ones, too. It feels like he should say something —a quip about being grateful for the storm, but you’re both content in silence, only listening to the thunder roll on outside.

TIME IS A fickle thing, and before long, John Marston’s been a ranch hand for David Geddes for over a year. After supper one evening, just after Jack’s settling into his bunk, John asks you to ride with him —to the wildflower meadows and burbling creek just down the way. Twilight drops her curtain of orange and red, fading to indigo in the distance and pinned in place by the Moon and stars.

John glances at you and feels that warm tingle rise in his chest again whenever he sees you —whenever his fingers brush against yours while doing a chore, whenever you tuck your head under his chin at night, whenever your lips touch his cheek for a chaste kiss. He didn’t think it would be possible to feel this way again…and yet. He leans forward in Rachel’s saddle, arms crossed atop the horn.

“I, uhh–” he’s thought about how to say it all day, rehearsed it in his head since the crack of dawn, but now the words evade him. Always did have a way with words, you think, smiling as you dismount your Appaloosa and bend to pick one of the wild bluebonnets. “Been thinkin’ bout maybe gettin’ a place of my own,” he finally admits. 

It’s the first time you’ve heard the idea, even if you’ve noticed how he lingers with the newspapers when they come in —looking over the parcels of land for sale around the state and across the Montana River. “Have you?”

“Yeah” —he nods, as though assuring himself, too— “near Blackwater, maybe. Or down in New Austin.” But saying that’s the easy part. “Was–” his voice trails off and takes off his hat, scratching the back of his neck nervously “–was wondering if you wanted to come with me and Jack?” John asks. “If it works out,” he quickly adds. Won’t like he had many dollars to his name, after all. There’s still a bounty on his head, too, even if no one’s come looking to collect on it in a good while.

You go oddly quiet, and John sees the hitch in your breathing and the tears gathering in your eyes as you think about having a life like that again —like the one Colm O’Driscoll stole from you so many years ago. He slides from Rachel’s saddle and looks at you, surrounded by the golden light of a setting sun and violet wildflowers —a dream. “Will you come?” He asks again, doing well to hide the tremble in his voice, the fear of rejection.

But it’s the way John looks at you, eyes dusted with love, that does you in —the same way he looks at every new sunrise and sunset—body relaxed, mind at ease. You’re the spring flowers blooming and the snow falling, the gentle rain that pitter-patters against the roof. He looks at you the way you would look at the simple things in life so often forgotten but reminding him why the world is beautiful —why life is truly worth living again. “Only if you’ll have me.” You tell him, stepping to him, heart pounding.

Seems a silly thought to him to entertain —of course, he’ll have you. You’re probably the only person in the world who’d still have him, especially knowing the life he used to live. John reaches for you, his rough, warm hands settling on either side of your neck, thumbs affectionately running across your jaw. “Course I will, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning toward you —a kiss to your forehead, nose, cheek, a delicate peck to your lips, lasting just long enough for the scuff of his beard to start tickling. 

And that’s when you know this is another chance for a simple, good life and that wherever John Marston is, is the only place that’ll ever feel like home. 

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