#SO MUCH FLUFFY

[grim-faux]

X9 _ The Crooked Branch and the Bent Shadow

First – A Small Quiet

It was always raining in the Pale City. That was nearly as constant as the cycle ever persisting, with promises of the sanctuary awaiting the child once he fulfilled his purpose. Dispose the old entertainment, establish himself as the new Broadcaster, heir of the transmission everlasting and eternally. All those questions would give answers, and no more would he know the innocence of rushing into a destiny, with the reckless abandonment the only way a child could hurtle into inevitables.

The tree had fallen at last. The ancient roots could no longer anchor the mighty stump to the cobblestone courtyard, the earth splint open and the stones thrust from the crust like a dozen broken teeth. Once upon a time he had thought such things impossible in the preordained cycle, yet, as he had learned later – much-much later – such impossibilities would become law.

Now peering up at the disheveled branches, he fancied Mono would have been enamored with climbing this tree. He had always been such an avid climber, even beyond fleeing for his life or necessity to reach treasures. Why, when he was once the small and fearless boy with the name, nothing ever stopped him from clambering up into the branches of some gnarled titan. He really should have allowed Mono the same courtesy, maybe taken the boy and set him at the lowest branch to begin his play. Let the little thing fulfill his hearts content to go as high as he might, and stare down upon the unforgiving world. The Thin Man would stand below, just in case the lad slipped. But Mono was such an exceptional climber. So confident. Resolute. He just… could not keep the boy still.

The carefully stacked mound of stones was long ago scrubbed by the cleaving pellets, as if each bead was driving each rock into the earth with brutal purpose. It was a thunderous sound, repetitious, crowding his senses like the tinge of static wailing through his skull. It had been decades since the transmission had felt so omnipotent, the droning buzz threading beneath his skin and knitting his bones to muscle. His whole mind was aglow, yet he felt none of that on the surface. It was all surrounding him, embedded with his entire being, while at the same time suffocating his senses. He had not felt that way in ages, not since when he was that boy and undertook the raw current of the transmission as his own.

As if it had always been his to wield.

The wind slashed at his slacks, the force sent a wild pummel of droplets across his hat and backside. It tugged him from the revere he held for the rocks at his feet. Each one methodically lain, carefully set, as if placing a key into a lock. He had spent hours here, even if he could only stack the cobblestones so high. They served nothing, aside from a marker. For how long would that have meaning to him? How many times would he visit this place to look upon this spot? And why? Such raw questions would disturb his mind in the long moments of quiet. The endless and persisting hours upon hours of waiting, with nothing more to do than wait.

The twittering gale through glass would rouse his pensive thoughts, as if some lost boy sought aimless corridors for a tall shadow meandering in his own reflections. The faint patter of water on wood would forever mock the rap of steps, of a child making a game out of pursuing him without the stealth of hiding away. He still felt eyes on is backside warily tracking his movement as he prowled rooms without purpose, lost in a pointless quest that somehow lost all meaning.

One time, long ago, he believed waiting in the Signal Tower was a fate worse than death. He now knew there was one greater, more unsettling than pining for the lock to click and the latch to dip. A fear greater than the boy poised at the end of the road, relinquishing his hat for the final duel. More potent than the realization that despite his efforts, he had only managed to perpetuate a doomed recycling fate for a foolish child.

That boy had been so foolish. They were both fools. However, he had been the greatest fool of all. Typical.

Another wave of drilling bullets cracked across his back, reminding him of the lost jacket. Not once did he ever surrender his wardrobe, deviated from the uniform he adopted as he became the thing he once feared with every fiber of his being. But now? It only seemed appropriate to relinquish the coat that was near enough to his childish armor he one time wore with pride.

Nothing was left to do here. He could not remain, no need for him to linger and haunt this place. But his legs would not listen to his commands, and he could not compel his form to flicker or shimmer away, deliver him somewhere else - anywhere else - far from this region. The abhorrent pit of the Tower for all he cared, but any place where he could not escape the numbed sensation of gazing down at the heap of stones, which did not need to be so high or distinct but… he was afraid he might forget.

He might forget everything.

The shared transmission had long since gone cold. Colder than the drenched dress shirt he wore, making him so less imposing and distinct in the blinding downpour. He felt akin to the downtrodden tree. He wanted with everything for that tree to stand mighty against the storm, but alas, he knew no other tree in the city as impressive as it once was. Mono would have been so happy to come back here. His face would have alit in that odd little way, not smiling but bright and curious with wide eyes and his intense gaze. Always so focused, so perceptive of every little thing, all the minor noises and drab flashes in the clouds. The boy had a childish way of staring at things which made everything seem more intense, more bearable than he could recall from his youth.

Once more he reached out into the transmission, hoping to find his boy. Beseech with no glimmer in his soul that he was wrong, or the error was on his part. Though he knew where the boy was, he cannot sense such whereabouts. He has only a marker drenched in rain, gray, and cold. Only a visible marker could guide him now, give him closure and a sense of finality in an uncertain world. He despised the sight, but could not turn his eyes away. The rain pummeled him to tatters, he watched the glossy patterns roll off the stones, like wild static on the screens.

More than anything, he wanted that boy to grab his ankle and begin gnawing on him. Surprise him as he had done so often before, when he had his face buried in a pointless book.

“Have’oo.”

“Am Mono keep.”

“Y’lissen. Hey.”

“Shh…” he hissed, into the static. “No… No more.” The rain felt hot rolling down his face. “Just… sleep. I will return.” His lips tugged down, and he could not hide the breaking static in his voice. “I promise.”

He promised. He would return. He meant to. He really meant to. He just… he thought there was a lead, it had potential to give him answers he needed. The closure he sought.

It should not have been this way. It never should have been like this. And it was his fault. It would always be his fault.

Like a toppling tree, he managed to kneel low and set his hand on the icy stones. The relentless rain made it feel as if something still existed in the still soil, despite knowing better. It felt like something the longer he laid his hand there, waiting, the static buzzing through his ears. Somehow dulled without the chatter of a small child. It was time to leave, it had been time for such a long while. He was not ready. He needed more time for nothing to happen, to wait beside the heap.

“I…” He meant to say something, but he could not recall what that should have been. “I’ll bring you a gift. A hat. You always....”

Very slowly and with great care, he rose from his wounded stance and gradually turned away. As he stepped across the uneven pavement, he only looked back one time.

“You. You!”

The rain drove harder against his shirt and hat. Nothing appeared in the mist except the rolling steams of water, flowing into every available crevice. He hoped his jacket kept the boy warm enough. He hoped his sleep was good and restful. He had so much to hope for, and yet not the presence of mind to cherish any of the little things. The mindless scratching, the raspy calling, the curious stare whenever he patrolled the rooms. Endlessly. Aimless. 

“I will.” And then he turned his back, taking a fresh step into the falling pellets. Each aching footfall harder than the previous, he was abandoning him. He was leaving everything behind and closing the book. It was all over and he was lost in a world that hated him.

Except for one skittish little boy that had the gall to glare at him.

It was not a glare he left behind. No, nothing like that. The last expression Mono leveled on him was from a break in the floorboards, and that had been so bewildered and also so curious. As if he could no longer grasp the speek his Thin Man made for him. As for the man and his hat, he had not the recollection of what he was telling the child, though he could feel that he had been relating the stories the child oh so demanded. It had been important to the Thin Man that the silly child think something of him, before he wandered off to chase ghosts through the fog.

Now the only thing he wanted to chase would never flee away. He wanted to think of the boy on his adventures, searching for the man and his hat, and all the strange picture speek he carved into walls. Of birds, odd insects, a window, and some things the Thin Man had never witnessed before in his time as that small boy. He wondered if he would find more of those markings, and have a flutter in his chest that the vandal was continuing his stories out there. He was still wandering, looking for things that could not exist, in a city long expired. He wanted to believe his boy was out there, free, feral, and getting into all the trouble only a child could get into.

He wanted more than anything—

__

With a crackling pop, the bulb on the nightstand popped beside his hat. The Thin Man raised his head from his slouched posture, his arms flying out from his sides. The book he had been holding smacked into the nearby wall and flopped to the musty floor, scattering about a dozen insects rifling through papers.

Not really registering where he was or how long he was searching for, the man and his hat glitched into his imposing stature. He barely noted the stiff knit of the jacket as he clicked to the nearest doorway, his eyes barely skimming the floors as he shifted down the corridor. Despite the intense draw and proximity, he ducked into rooms picking over the floor and furniture with his glistening eyes. No shade and no crack produced the mark on his tether, but he had barely honed in on the piercing hum picking at his thoughts.

At last he appeared in the living space, right across from the kitchen. Movement in the edge of his peripheral snagged his instant focus – Aha, the child cringed aboard a desk and coiled for a spring! Right as the child dove off the desk the Thin Man was already there, his rapid distortions and demand on the current caused another light to burst. Regardless, he snared the boy midfall and cupped him in his hands. The boy gave a muffled growl while the Thin Man fortified his grip, and brought the writhing menace to his shoulder. He adjusted his grip and pressed his cheek upon the boney backside, locking the boy in place.

“I H̶a̴v̵e̴ ̴ Y̷o̴u̴.̴ ̷ Y̸o̸u̷ ̷ are M̵i̷n̶e̵.̴ I  ̸K̶e̶e̸p̶ ̷ Y̵o̶u̵,” he rattled over and over, voice barely coherent as it hitched and buzzed. He doubted the boy could pick apart the speek. This was apparent by how the child thrashed against his jacket and wriggled, to nothing gained and nothing earned.

He belonged to the Thin Man for a little while.

“I̵ ̸H̴a̷v̴e̷ the boy.̶ ̶M̸i̸n̴e̴.̷ Always mine. ̴ You are A̸l̸r̴i̸g̸h̸t̸.” It barely occurred to him that he had slumped to his knees, and his whole frame was shaking. And rocking back and forth. During this spell, the boy had gone utterly limp – aside from the erratic breathing. The child ceased moving.

The Thin Man did draw him away and gave the boy his cursory checkup, certifying he was all in one piece and no unaddressed injuries were left neglected. The child was a disaster when it came to wound care, it was a wonder how he made it this far before reaching the end of the hall. He never had issue with placing a bandage on the wrist or leg, or cleaning a particularly nasty scrap. Never. It had taken ages, but the child had become receptive of the practice. Much to the brat's personal benefit. However, there were some lesions that a clean wrap would never fix, and some afflictions that made children cease moving entirely ever after.

That would not happen to his Mono. Never, ever would he allow it.

“My B̵o̶y̸.̴ My O̷n̶e̶ and only M̴o̶n̸o̵.̸ I found you. I L̶o̴s̷t̷ ̶ Y̶o̶u̶. I couldn’t… Y̴o̴u̷  ̶W̸e̶r̴e̶--” He dipped into garbled babbling and broken speek. In all this, the boy only uttered,

“Am Mono.”

“Y̸e̵s̴.̴  ̶Y̴o̸u̴  ̵A̷r̵e̷  ̴M̷o̸n̸o̵.̵”

“Mono. Am Mono.”

“M̵y̴ ̸ M̸o̴n̵o̵.̸”

“Mm…”

“H̸m̷m̶.̷.̶.̵.”

The Thin Man did not want to let go of the boy no more than he wanted to walk away from the soggy heap of rocks he built. He needed so much to feel his breathing, listen to his grumbled murmuring, and hold the weight of that little boy.

“Mm’down Mono.”

“N̵o̸.̶ I need T̷o̸ ̷ K̴e̷e̵p̵ you a little ̶L̷o̶n̸g̷e̴r̵.”

“Uh-uh. Nah.”

“S̶h̶h̴.̴.̶.̶ and I will tell you A̴ ̷ S̶t̷o̷r̸y̶.” The boy stirred against his collar.

“T’place?”

“No.” In a laborious climb, the Thin Man carefully rose to his intimidating stature. The haunt had made him feel so small and insignificant, as if he was again a child lost in the city. Except he was not lost, he was only alone, the same as he had been for decades upon decades and decades more. He grew accustomed to it, the sanctuary and steady humming that burned deep into his bones.

“A proper story about a brave child and a callous world.” He glitched through a dank and gloomy hall, until he entered one of the rooms with a window. The glass shimmered with the flowing rain, and the nearby road glistened with the soft shimmer of sorrowful radiance.

The Thin Man stood beside the cracked frame, rubbing small circles into the child’s back. Try and try, he could not shake away the sensation of the haunt. How desolate and alone he felt in the sprawling city. The crushing failure.

“Am Mono child?” came the muffled coo.

The Thin Man took a long breath and exhaled. “Yes. The brave child was Mono. Is that not how the story should go?” The boy was silent, maybe dozing. Let him rest. The boy was persistent in his roaming, scavenging, his unyielding desire to seek and find.

“After wandering the unknowns of a twisted Tower and facing violent perils, the brave child found himself in a long dark and twisted corridor. It went on forever, bending and warped like the creature lurking behind the door at the end of this hall.”

“Was long.”

He stalled, unexpecting the boy’s murmur. “Yes, was it? A very long, U̶n̶n̸a̸t̷u̷r̷a̶l̸ hall.”

“Un-natch’rall.”

“Un-natch-er’all.”

“Ugh-nat’chur’en-n’rall.”

Well, he had a snicker at the bit of butchery. “My word, child.”

The boy growled. “S’not haha.”

“Try again. Un-natch—”

“Nah. No. Story. Un’atch’all hall. And door?”

Sigh. “Who is T̴e̸l̵l̵i̵n̶g̶ ̴ this S̴t̴o̶r̸y̷?̴”

“Am Mono. Make story.”

Very well. “And how does T̸h̶e̸ ̶ S̴t̴o̶r̶y̸ go, then?”

The child made no speek and only picked at his collar. He figured the boy was nesting up and might not get around to his ‘story’, or would fall into messy grumbles. “How E̶n̸l̴i̷g̴h̵t̸e̴n̵i̷n̵g̵.”

“Door. S’open and… eh’monster. Grr.”

“Oh? Of course. A T̷e̷r̵r̴i̵f̸y̵i̵n̸g̸ ̵ horror.”

“Mm! Yah. Sum’much. S’tol. Scary.”

He chortled. The child growled at his collar and gnawed at a seam in his jacket. “That must have been F̸r̸i̵g̴h̷t̶e̴n̶i̸n̵g̵ for the boy. To discover some G̸h̸a̶s̵t̴l̸y̷ monster behind T̸h̸e̶ ̴ D̵o̴o̴r̶.̵ I could not imagine....”

“Am story. Mono t'make.”

The Thin Man was trying to contain his bubbling snicker. “My apologies. Continue.” Keyword. Trying. But failing.

“Scary,” the boy hissed. “Am Mono. Best. N’monster for tol. Him chase. And keep Mono. Am Mono. Y’member?

“Hmm. Yes. I do recall the chasing bit.” With one arm, he began to outline mark speek in the foggy glass. While the child did his best to burble out his broken speek, about the things he remembered of running and televisions, of Viewers and his solitary journey across the city. How he beheld the Tower burning brighter each time he zoomed through another scorching screen, how the rain drilled harder at his shoulders, but how clearer the spire seemed. How much toller, more imposing, and impossibly breathtaking his whole adventure was.

The Thin Man did his best to scrawl out the segments he too recalled, of the floorboards where the child hid. Poorly. While the child snuck and ducked away, the man and his hat tracked the draw of the transmission through broken rooms and stairways, working against the dwindling clock struggling to mingle his foresight and intuition with that of a scared child fleeing a looming nightmare. Time was drawing closer to the hour of his dissolution; it was as foretold before he made that same journey as that small boy. The buildings rose higher, bent further inward; the child wound his way through the roads, fled from the Viewers that spilled from broken store windows. The boy was utterly lost, led only by the spire rising higher in the sky against the black clouds boiling with icy rain, flooding his eyes with their merciless blanket. Every turn he took, a long and distorted shadow haunted the end of a road. Every window he peeked into, a gloomy silhouette paused on the other side of the murky glass and tilted its head. It made no difference where he went, how far he ran, or what path he took - the fractured shadow of his future cast long and eclipsed his own.

Then the story changed.

"Boom," snorted the boy. "Crack. S'burn. Then fall."

The Thin Man paused, after sliding another symbol onto the glass. The cliff, and the girl with the coat poised above a sheer drop. At the edge dangled the shape of a boy. From a distance, maybe it would stump some other creature, but the Thin Man knew this story very well.

"And'oo," cooed the boy clinging to his jacket. "Have Mono am. Rim'amber? Give food. Big speek. Am dest'royed."

Ahha, the 'conversation' he had with that little boy forever upon a time ago.

He set the sodden scrap of cloth on a couch and pondered the comatose body. At a loss. This was not to be. The realization smashed him like a derailed trained. This was the child he so fiercely sought, who now lay in his possession and utterly defenseless. The man nor his hat had the inkling of an idea of what to do, how to proceed, let alone where to begin. All expectations had shattered and he was traipsing through unknown territory. The child was not even his to claim, since the moment the boy awoke and became mobile, the lad would evaporate like mist as was the nature of all competent children who survived to feed the Tower.

"Then..." This is where the boy stalled in his elaborate retelling. He went very quiet, fingers picking at the tweed of the Thin Man's jacket. "Um... am'go... lost. Er'ess... was. Happen. Door. Door. Sum'bright. But yu'know, it happen. Yu'there. Mono am close. Mm...hmm. Not wand'ar. But door, and.... Then sing box. Um... haha. Not funny. But fix. T'fix... am. Mono. Mono. Make loud. For trick. Hurt sing. N'trick. S'good. Hm...."

The Thin Man ceased tracing a line on the glass and knelt low to the floor. He worked to untangle the child's fingers from his suit front, but this task proved to be near impossible. Mono dug in and buried his face against his coat pocket, he made fussy, childish noises as the Thin Man worked carefully fumbled to pry one set of fingers free, then the other, then some toes, then back to a hand; over and over. At last, the child lost fortitude and slipped free, the Thin Man cupped the defensive ball in his palms as he lowered him to the dusty carpet.

The child resembled a pill bug, the ones that could tuck into a tight and armored ball. Except this little bug was made of fabric and growled whenever he prodded its ribs. The Thin Man flipped him one way then the other, working to unravel legs and arms, only too aware of how stubborn this odd creature could be. If the boy had a hat at one point (he could not recal if that were so) it was long gone now, his frazzled hair stuck out between his knees where his face was buried and hidden away.

"B̶o̶y̶.̴"

"Mon-OO."

S̸i̴l̶l̴y̶ ̴H̴e̵a̷d̸."

"MOH-NO."

"I cannot have speek with you when you are being so foolish. Where is my boy? Did he finally become some sort of puzzle?" The Thin Man stayed on his knees, satisfied to wait out the boy. Though that could take some time. Time was all he had. And wait was all he did.

The boy did not uncoil, an inch, but his muffled voice rolled through.

"What was that?" The Thin Man pulled a cigarette from his coat and stuck it between his lips. He did not light it yet.

"Forget. Am lost." The child tightened into his defensive curl, very nearly burying away his head.

"You are not lost. I have you right here." The Thin Man leaned back to peer out of the window's glass and examine the sky. The thick clouds had evaporate, and the streetlamps had since shut off. While the rain was on its reprieve, this would be the time to depart the building and seek other shelter. Somewhere.

"Forget," the boy murmured. "Story gone."

"What story is gone?" The Thin Man chewed on the unlit cigarette, and turned his eyes back onto the curled-up-bundle of child. He witnessed the child peek one eye out from beneath his knee.

"Am forget. Story." the child tucked more into his ball, a soft whimper in his tone. "Happen. It did. And flee.... "

The Thin Man tilted his head, considering the boy's distress and speek. "Some events are best left alone. You cannot recall everything." The Tower knew, he could not recall all events from his prehistory - before the Tower, his adventures. Every second of his tortured existence within those walls, waiting for that door to do something - anything - other than judge his melancholy.

This spurred the child to launch up and grab at his knees. "But forget. Am lost. Y'have Mono. Am Mono."

The Thin Man dithered carefully on the mournful noises. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, but opted to chew on the end of his cigarette. The tyke gazed up at him with such urgency, his eyes already red from prospective tears. How unbecoming.

"What have we discussed, little boy? One day you will no longer need me. You will have need for no child or any other, but for yourself." As before, he regarded the child's path going onward. The unyielding cycle, circumstances he could not contend with, and what this all meant for the little monster before him. One day, perhaps. The Tower would reach forth and rob this child away. He existed, thus that history had never been expunged. Merely postponed. The cruelest mockery of all ambition he still retained, despite it being smitten by the hand of his former friend that Girl.

"No."

"Yes." The Thin Man smiled at the strange boy. "If I could make a different story, I would do so. You always make the speek about my lies, yet I have been nothing but forthcoming with you. Which would you rather hold? The comfort of illusions, or brace for your the horrid truth." The boy looked utterly crushed, and remedied this hearsay by biting his knee. The Thin Man rubbed the back of the horrid beast.

"Why does this upset you so?"

"Have speek," growled the boy. "Speek. Y'mean n'have. Keep Mono. Am Mono keep'oo."

"A̵h̵." How nice it was to be wanted, for once. But how much of this was genuine? What did the child know of yearning and want, beyond basic survival and emotional security? It was all to satisfy child's demands, not the Thin Man's endless quest to seek a freedom beyond all ties. He had sought for countless lifetimes the opportunity to know what he had lost, what a sanctuary without malicious conditions might provide if he was not a tool foremost.

"For a short while, you can keep me."

"Min'nuns."

"Min... Nu'uns?" the man in the hat enunciated, uncertain. 

"Min'uns and min'nawts."

Minutes. Minutes and minutes and minutes. Possibly the longest increment a child could recognize chronologically.

"Y̷e̸s̶.̸ That would be fair." The Thin Man slid his calculated gaze off the child and let his view fall onto the window, where the streaks of rain formed weary patterns on the glass. He pretended not to notice the small vandal clawing up his leg. But when the child latched onto the front of his jacket, he did place a hand upon the boy's back. No sound or speek uttered from the child, he only hunkered down and held on tight. Keep him, as it were.

"I have D̷o̴n̷e̸ ̸ you W̶r̷o̴n̷g̵ and made you weak," intoned the Thin Man through a buzzing crackle. "Such crimes are unforgivable."

"Nuhh...." came the muffled retort.

"You do not know any better." Morbid as it felt, he tried to recall the features of the Man in the Hat when he faced him in the street. It may have been lifetimes ago, it may have been, but he still felt that pitying stare of the very tall man as he approached him - the streetlamps gleaming, the sparking light flashing over the washed-out colors of the shadowed face. Folding to the pavement, the man nor his hat looked as imposing or terrifying as he formerly thought; at the time, the boy had no the presence of mind to analyize the monsters features. Only one thing meant the world to him, and it was never going to be the fiend that hunted him to the cities heart. At the time, he knew nothing.

"That is why you do not know how I have D̸e̶s̵t̸r̴o̷y̶e̵d̸ you. The ways I have W̴r̴o̸n̷g̶e̷d̴ the little boy that once stood so resolute beneath my shadow." The child sniffled at last and tucked in closer to his coat.

"Not wrong. Am Mono."

"No. You cannot grasp what I have done, since you could never know how this story was meant to end." He sighed a scratchy sound. "But you are not who you were to be. And that weakness has made you someone...." the Thin Man stalled there, searching for the right speek to make, so the boy would be less likely to quake and whimper. He pried the child away from his jacket and lifted him up. "Regardless what has been, look at the mighty boy now. Such a fearless warrior. A menace that should not be trifled with."

Crumpled between his palms, face red and expression despondent, the boy did not look 'mighty' nor 'fearless'. "Are you not a force to be reckoned with?" He was a bit disappointed when this child only sagged, blank faced and gawking at him. "Nothing to contribute?"

"Dist'roy-eed?"

Ever so slightly, the Thin Man found himself nodding. "D̵i̷d̶ ̴I̴ ̴N̵o̴t̸ say it would be so?" Though he anticipated no more than further silence and gawking, the boy piped up,

"No. Am have'oo. Impor'ent."

The Thin Man gave an airy sigh and set the child on the floor beside his knees. "What sort of T̶a̵s̸k̸  ̷O̴c̸c̵u̷p��i̵e̴d̴ you before I came upon this room?" In one smooth motion, he rose to his full height; no shimmer or other manner of flashiness. The child skipped back several steps and watched; eyes cautious but not fearful.

"Am Mono. T'get scout."

He nodded, and scanned over the desk the child was formerly perched. The desk did not bare artifacts for inspection, but the smaller might have sought the vantage point for a look around. "And did anything catch your fancy?" The boy shook his head. "Of Y̵o̴u̸r̸ ̸ P̶o̶w̴e̵r̶s̵?̷ Have you utilized them in any practical function?"

The boy wrinkled his nose. "Prack-tee'ee-call?"

"Practiced? Have you made use of your abilities? Show me." He was unsurprised when the child looked away and gave the room a short inspection. "Go ahead. I would be pleased to see your progress." The gaze came back to him, head tipped to the side.

To say it was awkward just staring at this small boy was an understatement. He expected anything, perhaps the child to wander away or become distracted by some activity that had kept his focus in another realm (or timeline) entirely, while he had slept. Once again, he was disappointed with the boy. He shifted his leg to nudge the little thing with the toe of his shoe, but the child scampered back several steps and gave his foot a wary glare.

"It would only benefit you T̵o̶  ̷M̷a̸s̵t̷e̶r̵ abilities which only serve Y̵o̸u̵r̸ ̷ P̵r̸e̶s̵e̸r̵v̴a̶t̸i̷o̴n̷." Another relentless span of baffling staring followed. For the Tower, he could not fathom what train of thought might hold this child's rapt focus. If any thought was going on in the boy's head. There could be moths buzzing around his empty skull for all he knew.

This...

Was the boy now. He had to remind himself of this facet. Sometimes silent, the unabating gaze exhausting on his mental fortitude - as formidable as dueling the child beneath the falling rain, as his prophesized demise. Was this not poetic? 

"Am Mono."

"I have B̵e̶e̴n̶ ̶ T̴o̷l̸d̴." Mono by speek, though not in act.

Quite suddenly the child threw his arms up high above his head, the movement so sudden and deliberate the Thin Man actually flinched and flickered. The visions he anticipated forever ago, of facing that boy in the road, feeling his entire being crumple to childish whims - all burned through his haunted thoughts. A cold ripple breezed through his form.

"Sum'much. Y'tol. Mm?"

He nodded. "This I have been notified." In return, the child nodded.

"Am Mono. Em'soft. Unner'sand?" Not this again. "Am soft t'Mono. S... get'n broke. For not soft. Am Mono." The boy stammered on his noises, before he made the, "Aeee...mm, Mono."

"Indeed. T̵h̵a̸t̴ ̴ C̶h̴i̸l̵d̶.̶"

"Best Mono."

"You are S̵o̶m̵e̴t̸h̷i̷n̶g̵."

The boy became animated with his hand gestures, or at the least clenched his fists up at him. "T'broke. Aee um'Mono not. Be'no go. Lost."

Another prolonged and exhausting stare followed. "No more Mono. T'soft. Make soft. And y'keep. But am'soft." And as an afterthought, "Mono." The boy's eyes became large and intense, as if he imparted some grand insight.

He caved and lit his cigarette with a flick of his wrist. "As prior discussed, the boy is N̴o̵t̵ ̶L̵o̴s̴t̸, he is simply confused." And as his afterthought, "and C̶o̷n̸f̵o̵u̸n̷d̴i̶n̶g̵."

The small foot thumped the floor when he stomped. "No. Y'lissen am speek. Mono t'make yu'unn'er. Stand. Not for con'fuss'egg. Aye Mono am soft."

"Uh-huh." The smoke swirled around the rim of his hat. But this was becoming entertaining. The boy pointed to his legs.

"Have break. T'not soft, for break. Am Mono soft. Y'have soft fer'Mono. Sum'much an'tol. You. That tol. But am Mono. T'soft. Und-eer stand?"

"Of course I 'U̶n̸-̵U̷r̶n̵-̴S̶a̵n̸d̶'. You are nothing but a child. And Y̸o̸u̴ ̷ A̶r̴e̷ soft." He lifted a foot, and the boy reversed several steps. The boy did not go far, and soon tumbled to his backside when his heel snagged. The Thin Man tapped said child on his chest. "But... you are M̵͔̌y̴̽ͅ child. Is that not so? Hmm?" Once he set his foot aside, the boy scooted away gawking up at him as was typical. He leaned down and scooped the small thing up and settled him against his chest as he began to click his way out of the room.

"Reluctant as you are to receive assistance when I am permitted, you are nonetheless M̴i̴n̵e̵ ̴." The Thin Man exhaled his smokey sigh tinged with misgivings. "And one day, Y̴o̵u̴ ̸S̵h̷a̶l̴l̷ ̷I̶n̸h̵e̵r̴i̴t̸ ̷this city and all its decay." And all the sorrow, the blight, that poured through the city when the Tower burned against the clouds.

The boy shuddered against his jacket. It was a welcomed sensation after the dream haunt, to know the boy suffered no ill affects from his terrors. The Thin Man fretted the many times he had shaken away the haunting images of a child lying still and unmoving, sometimes mangled. And he was unable to find his boy. The transmission was weak, and he could not reach out to sense if or not he awoken back into a nightmare of an event that transpired, but he could never accept.

"As I E̵x̴i̷s̶t̴ within these winding roads, thus you ̷S̶h̵a̴l̷l̷ ̵S̷t̵a̶y̵ the course of our D̸e̷m̶i̷s̶e̸." 

Then, he came upon the tinge of the shared transmission. The boy would either be curled up in a cuvee packed with nesting, or wandering about in his scouts. There was the child. The boy in the hat, wandering through hallways with no direction. Eyes wide and always gawking, as if this was the first time he might encounter the tall thin man who slinked out of static laced television screens. The child always hid himself away, but that was how children survived in the malicious world where all manner of creature and beast sought an easy snack. Careless children never lasted long.

"Dim-eyes."

"Y̸e̶s̵.̷"  After the fifth pass through the kitchen space, the Thin Man realized he had no specific destination in mind, and had no plans to stop wandering. He smoothed the child's hair and stroked his back, more so for his own comfort in feeling the little body shiver against him. "Our S̶t̴o̵r̸y̸ does not have a happy ending."

It was a delayed period later when the hushed, "Why?" came.

The Thin Man had no good answer to that. He had The A̴n̶s̵w̷e̷r̴, the convoluted mess of their history and prehistory and predicted history onward. He could not have been the first to have usurped the cycle, if he had managed it at all. He doubted his situation was unique at all, and merely a delayed condition.

"It is and shall always be," came his response. "We are mere M̵i̷r̶a̵g̴e̸s̸ ̵D̸e̴v̴i̷a̵t̸i̸n̸g̵ by the whim of a F̷i̸c̸k̴l̵e̵ stream." He rooted himself in one of the rooms which the child did not typically enter, and for good reason. "Regardless a streams M̵u̶t̷i̸n̴y̷ from its winding path, it always finds a way to its ̸O̷c̸e̴a̵n̵."

It was not uncommon to find the warning speek children scrawled on walls of the Man in the Hat, or the nefarious eyes glimpsed inside the jailhouse bars of static in the television screens. More commonly, they scrawled out the source of pain and suffering beaming across the skies of the Pale City - the Signal Tower, and its highest beacon. Most children knew the message and recognized the source of something... sinister, about the looming edifice. A building with no windows, uncorrupt, a constant backdrop to travelers lost within the labyrinth of the city. A labyrinth to all who could not navigate the channels of transmission, or pass seamlessly through the snowstorm whirling within the glass.

This speek had included the Viewers perched along the edge of the roof, the deflated husks faced the distant skyrise demanding all focus, unconditional adoration. It was reminiscent of his travels with that Girl, hand-in-hand and eyes fixed on the loathsome creatures teetering on dissolution. He knew that he and Her would never befall danger, since the creatures had been disposed of all sense of self-preservation - no concept of care or feeding - lingered in those bodies. It was only receiving the signal, and relinquishing their Flesh to idealistic pleasures crammed into their fragmented minds.

"But until that time. I will be here." The Thin Man turned his attention down to the small child in his arms, who refused to look at anything but a button on his jacket. "However F̸l̸e̴e̷t̵i̴n̴g̷ that time is, nothing will take it away. Not until...." He clutched the child tighter. The source of his destruction and unmaking, only took a deep breath.

Not until the boy relinquished all needs of his warped shadow. But after presented with alternatives, the Thin Man decided it could be no other way. He could not bear the search into glassy eyes for any vibrance, or hold a cold little body that did nothing but sag in all the horrible ways. It would destroy him to stumble alone through city roads and wonder endlessly, why it was he still existed if no trickle of eventual found its way to his inevitable. Nothing would exist of him but some sort of mistake in believing he had been so certain in falsities that served only as comforts, yet nothing more. He would become a sad fragment of a memory, much like the children stripped from the world and thrown into the Towers web - a ghost fluttering through roads, fading but never dissolving entirely. No release and no peace.

"Yes, you A̶r̵e̷ ̴ S̷o̴f̸t̷." He savored the creaking murmur the child made as he wriggled around in his arms. "And I want to keep that for a little bit longer."

One day, the boy would go away and he would never see him again. The Thin Man would not inquire nor pursue, and he would try with all his being to feel nothing. But there were long hours when the creaking of buildings sounded like children calling, or when the wind whispered through shredded glass and he thought the boy was seeking him. One day he would search for the boy making those hushed calls, only to recall that the boy had been departed from him for ages and ages still. But by then his self-appointed isolation would mean that the child found his way out of the halls of that loathsome Tower and had gone elsewhere, perhaps with his own Mono as company. Someday perhaps the answers he sought might provide a form of closure to his endless journey.

[friendly-neighborhood-mushroom]

frankly im disappointed in how the fluff was marred by angst *folds arms*

By Hook or By Crook

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 11.2 k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), CW guns, CW food mention, CW suggestive, CW blood, TW violence, TW death, TW abuse mention, Wild west AU, Cowboy AU.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 9 >>> CHAPTER 10

Hobie's nightmares are few and far between now that you sleep beside him. But on the rare occasion that it haunts him, it's always horrific. His own mind betrays him, the fog of a nightmarish scene unfolds like theatre curtains; where you're the star, a bleeding, screaming star of the night. It always starts off with you in place of him. Hicks has you in his iron grip, while his men, men that you've known since you were a little girl taunt you with the same disgusting words they threw at him.

He can never forget how your face contorted into a horrified expression when you see Hicks brandishing the knife in front of you. All the while, Hobie stands there, motionless, in place of the same oak tree bearing your name. As if your fate is predestined, your own tombstone carved above the shallow grave they're about to throw you in. It happens just like how he remembered it. Hicks, your own uncle, slices your throat with a cackle; while rain pelts down upon you, drenching your lace dress, mixing in with your blood gushing out of your neck in waves. Thunder and lightning cracks above, and you're thrown into the pit where they bury you alive.

You try to claw your way out, nails digging into the dirt, staining your once soft hands. Gasping for air, Hobie is unable to look away— how could he when he stays rooted on the spot of your tree?

As the storm pours down, your lungs filled with dirt and rain water, he watches as you slowly lose the light behind your eyes; falling limp, chest completely frozen as you stare up at the night sky. Hobie tries to scream, desperately uprooting himself off the soil, but it's not enough. You lay there unblinking, dead before they could cover your whole body with the same earthly soil you once stood upon with him. The last thing you saw was the leaves dancing in the wind, the last thing you saw was him, unable to save you one last time.

You hold him in bed until the trembling stops, you'll hold him forever if need be. Hobie's embracing your middle, face tucked just above your ribs, hiding his red puffy eyes from you while you knead at his nape. Your other hand cradles his elbow, fingers drawing patterns on his skin to calm him down. With every sniffle, you squeeze him tighter against you, and love filled words spilling out of your mouth to comfort him further.

You've told him a hundred times before that it was just a nightmare concocted by his mind that was caused by the trauma he has experienced. But you know that he understands that it isn't real, but you'll tell him a thousand times more to ease his worries because he once told you that it helps. You'll do anything to support him, and maybe one day his nightmares will finally fade away. Until then, you'll hold him and keep him grounded to the present.

His silent sobs have subsided, hand splayed over your stomach to feel your warmth. Dawn is peeking through the light blue curtains you've put up in the shared bedroom. You're surrounded in hues of brilliant blue, as if the sky itself presents itself inside your small bedroom.

The room is sparsely decorated, save for a large wardrobe at the other end of the room. You were too occupied to decorate the house. If you had enough time in between tending to the garden and the house, you'd decorate your home with things you and Hobie love— place photographs of you two, trinkets that remind you of the good days back home; and fill it with shared memories. You promise once everything is settled, you'd put your time and effort in making the place more homely. For now, you'll settle for filling the abode with warmth and your love for eachother.

The almost sheer fabric of the curtains does nothing to shield you from the light, but with the soft blue hue coming from the heavens above, and the cool breeze passing by, blowing the curtains around the sparsely decorated room— it helps him calm down. Hobie feels like he's floating above a cloud with you hugging him, lips pecking gently against the crown of his head with so much love he feels it in his chest. Blossoming, spreading around his limbs, tending to him and comforting him slowly.

You flick your eyes over to him, inadvertently meeting with his own that has been searching for the light behind your eyes. “I think we need ducks.”

Hobie cracks a smile, green eyes lingering on your soft grin. “Why ducks?” His voice is still hoarse so he clears his throat as you continue to massage at his nape. Making sure that he doesn't get a crick in his neck from how he's looking up at you with tender eyes.

“They hunt pests, it'll help the farm.”

“Where'd you learn that?” He humours you, hand cupping your side; such affection could only come from him.

You chuckle while your fingers play with his baby hairs clinging to his nape. “From my books.”

Hobie cuddles closer, nose nudging your stomach. “Buck and Cherry won't like ‘em. Clover might even eat ‘em.”

You snort, tamping down another laugh as if your laughter will disturb the peace when it's the opposite for him. “If we desensitize the horses they'll like them. And I'm sure Clover won't eat the ducks.” Hobie pulls himself up, tear stained cheeks illuminated by the dwindling oil lamp; chin placed on your chest. “We can build a coop for them, then have duck eggs every morning.”

“Have you tried duck eggs before, lovie?” His knuckles brush along your jaw, emerald eyes swimming with emotion. Sometimes you wish you could hear his thoughts so you could do a better job at comforting him. Like he does to you, he's better at that than you.

“I don't think so. Do they taste bad?”

“Nah,” his voice is soft, as if he's whispering secrets only to you. “It tastes the same as regular chicken eggs.”

You reach for his nose, squeezing it once before letting go. “I'll take your word for it, farmer Hobie.”

He chuckles, cheek pressed gently on top of your chest, straining his ear to hear your heartbeat. “‘Farmer Hobie,’ I never thought I'd hear that.”

“Don't like it?” With your thumb, you wipe the remaining tears clinging on his eyelashes. “How about ‘rancher Hobie?’”

“It sounds better than outlaw Hobie. Whatever you want to call me, love.” He pulls himself up more, face tucked in the crook of your neck. You cradle his head, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “I'll be there.”

“Good, you know I don't like waiting.” You joke, eyes slowly closing while you fight a yawn. “We can go back to sleep, Hobs. It's still early.” You feel his presence above you, eyes cracking open, you see him frown. “You okay?”

“'m sorry that we lost all that time together.” He sniffs, inhaling sharply. Eyes finding your own.

You smile, helping him ease up. “It doesn't matter. We have forever now.” Hands cradling his face, you peck his lips then his eyelids as he closes his eyes. It's a simple act, a small one but it wraps his heart in silk and warmth. He feels like that lovelorn boy he left behind a long time ago.

“I need to show you somethin'” He whispers against your lips.

You quirk a brow, lips pursed into a gentle smile. “Okay, show me.” Hobie kisses your cheek before leaning away. The mattress squeaks as he leaves your side, you already feel empty and cold.

You watch as he crouches down on the foot of the bed. There's a scraping noise when he pulls something from underneath. Propping your elbows up, you crane your neck to see what he's doing. Wood scraping against wood, you see him lugging it towards the side of the bed. It's a large wooden trunk that's carved with simple patterns. There's nothing out of the ordinary about it, nothing but metal inlays and a lock where a key would go. Your heart thumps loudly, filled with trepidation as Hobie takes an old rusted key hidden under the bedside table. Crawling towards the edge of the bed, you peek as he opens it.

“Please don't tell me that's where you're hiding your millions.” You joke just as when the smell of old paper akin to weathered books hits your nose. “Oh,” you almost cried at the sight of hundreds of letters piled inside. They all bear his name and yours where the recipient would be. Your letters dwarf next to his own, yours are wrapped in a red ribbon that's placed next to his own pile. “Hobie—”

“I kept it all, I used to write everyday, but I got busy. I never forgot, Y/N. I never forgot you.” You choke back a sob whilst he roams his eyes around the contents of the trunk. His hands reached inside to grab a leather bound book. He finally looks at you, staring at your tear filled eyes. “D’you remember this?” Holding up the book, you smile at the worn out title. You remember the gold painted on it, now it has been worn down from years of it being read.

Heart stuck in your throat, you could only beckon him over back to your side. “Come here please.” You sniff, and he complies. Reaching for your hand as you help him up on the bed. Hobie places himself in-between your legs, back laying on your chest as his hands flip towards the front page of the book. “‘Candide,’ how could I forget?” You wrap your arms around him while your legs are crossed around his waist. You're his personal pillow, you've accepted the role earnestly. “I never asked how you liked it.”

“Your confession trumped how much I liked the book.” Hobie takes your hand to peck the back of it, eyes reading the three words you wrote years ago. “‘I love you,’” he reads the brief inscription you wrote on the front page. It's short, but you'd write it on every wall you encounter, on every surface; carve it on mountains and even the sky itself if you could. “I thought it was as absurd as the book itself.”

You chuckle against the crown of his head, “I remember the way you ran towards me after you saw it.” His lips felt like morning dew against your own that day. It was heaven sent for him and for you.

“This is the only thing I could grab before I had to leave. It was just this, all my savings and the clothes on my back.”

“I'm sorry,” you hide behind his shoulder, sobs wracking your body as he holds onto you tightly. You should've been there, fought harder to be by his side. All you could do now is lament on your grief and longing for time lost.

“Never mind that, it's over now.” Hobie pats your cheek, “the trunk is yours, love. If you want it.”

You peek over his shoulder, blinking at the large amount of letters that would surely have you sobbing even more. “You'd let me read it all?”

“They're all addressed to you. ‘sides, I read all of yours. It's only fair that you read mine.”

You wipe a fallen tear, sniffing while a moment passes in comfortable silence. He senses your feelings, twisting around, he cups your cheek before laying his forehead on your own. “I never blamed you for everythin’ that happened.”

A weight is lifted off your chest, a weight that you never realized was there since you've gotten used to the burden. “I–I never truly hated you for leaving.” Eyes closed, you rub his shoulders, comforting him and yourself at the same time. “I wrote it a hundred times in my letters.”

“I know, I read all of them. Now it's your turn to read all my…” He inhales sharply, letting your scent ground him to the present. “...complicated thoughts.”

“Complicated thoughts comes with loving someone.” Pulling away, you kiss him gently. Hobie has placed his whole heart in your hands, and you intend to keep it safe and tucked right beside your own. Or perhaps you've given him yours years ago.

—

After spending hours in bed, letters in hand and Hobie sleeping soundly next to you; you've only read half of the letters he wrote for you. Some made you quietly weep as he wrote about his struggles in the new world without you by his side. Some have made you laugh with his almost incoherent scribbles, notes that he has written while deep in amber liquid and under the fog of longing. It was almost noon when you two finally decided to leave the comfort of the bed to eat and go about your day to day chores.

Hobie decided to make breakfast for the two of you, or brunch is the better way to put it. After feeding Clover and both horses, you come home to a neatly set table. Bowls of fruit, bread and butter with oatmeal on the side sit prettily inside the new porcelains you bought from town. The table is complete with a red checkered table cloth, and plush roses inside a vase placed in the middle.

You stop in the doorway, watching him whistle a tune as he straightens the utensils. “I love it when you go the extra mile.”

Hobie perks his head up, sun shining on the delight etched on his face. “Can’t help it, love, you're contagious.” He eyes your blue poncho that he gifted to you a while ago. “I spend all this time with you, it's impossible not to catch your flawless manners.” He's already reaching towards you as you close the distance.

You place yourself in his arms, palms flat on his chest. “You make it sound like I gave you an incurable disease.”

Index finger on your jaw, he wipes away sweat from your heated skin. You notice the gun belt around his waist that pokes your hip, you don't mention why he started carrying even in the comfort of your home. You know why he does.

“I don't mind dyin’ from it.” He starts to peck your forehead and then he moves down to your parted lips, but you lean away teasingly before he reaches your waiting lips. With a furrowed brow, he tilts his head questioningly.

“Easy there, cowboy. We just got out of bed.” You reluctantly pull away even though you wanted the kiss as much as he did. Patting his bicep, you walk towards the kitchen to wash your hands.

“What do you mean? It's just a quick snog, love.” He leans on the table with one arm, the other nonchalantly inside his jean pocket. He clearly knows what he's doing to you. Sun rays part around him, bathing him in godly light.

You laugh, looking away before you pounce on him, hands in the water basin as you scrub the grime off your hands. “You said that last time and we didn't get anything done the whole day.”

Shrugging, he pulls the chair away from the table for you. Wood scraping on hardwood, smirk thrown your way. “It was one time. ‘sides, we finished all our chores before the sun went down.”

Drying your hand, you walk back to him. You poke his chest with a chuckle, he feigns hurt, making you laugh even more. “Bucky and Cherry were ignoring us after because their food was late.” Sitting down, you roll your eyes, “and it wasn't just that one time, Hobs.”

Hobie slides the chair back in, quickly kissing the crown of your head before sitting next to you, not at the head of the table like you thought he would the first time you two shared a meal together. You love all the subtle ways he shows you his love without saying the three words.

He gestures between you and him, “combined effort, love.”

You flick his ear, heat settling on your cheeks. “I know, I was there.” mumbling, you grab the pitcher of orange juice to pour one in his glass then over to yours whilst he spreads butter on your bread.

“You love flickin’ my bloody ear.” His arm is comfortably placed over the back of your chair, fingers brushing along the top of your head. “How would you feel if I started flicking your ear, hm?”

Covering your ear, you dramatically gasp. “It's still healing, how dare you?” Despite your words, your smile betrays you.

Hobie chuckles, “you can barely see the scar now, love.”

“It still hurts, sometimes.”

“Wait, really?” The sarcasm goes over his head until you give him a look that says ‘I’m clearly joking.’ He sighs, relief in his viridescent eyes. “You had me, I was about to bring you to the doctor.” The last word doesn't send you spiraling anymore after what happened last time with a certain doctor.

Scooping up a spoonful of oatmeal with blackberries, you bring it to Hobie's mouth. “You're a worrywart, Hobs. And I love you for it, now eat. We have so much to do today.”

Smiling, he clamps his mouth shut. “Yeah, but what if we just stay in bed instead—” he gets cut off by oatmeal gently shoved in his mouth. Laughing, he almost chokes from amusement.

He loves this, the domesticity, the shared affection and everything in between. He now sees the beauty in the mundane, the peace in uneventful days. After what seemed like decades of longing and bone aching grief, he feels like he's finally living again

After eating, you pick up plates even though Hobie told you a dozen times that he'll clean up. Once you shut him up with a quick kiss, he immediately relents and continues to drink his coffee.

You come around his seat, taking his finished plate. Before you could leave, he dips his head down backwards to look up at you. “Don't wash them yet, let me help you, yeah?”

With one hand cupping his chin, stubble prickling your palm, you squeeze tenderly. “You made breakfast, so that means I get to clean.” He starts to shake his head, but your hand stops him, making him scrunch his nose. “Combined effort, right?”

As you brush your hand along his scruff, you can see that he's surrendering. “Fine, at least let me dry it.” Beaming down at him, you can't seem to move away from him, hand still running along his jaw. “Do I need to shave?”

“No, it's growing on me actually.”

“Funny, it's growing on me too.”

“Haha.” You walk away with the plates as he hides his laugh behind his mug.

Finishing his drink, as the warmth settles in his stomach, he saunters over to you with the remaining dishes. “D’you think a beard would suit me?” Appearing next to you, he grabs a clean towel, drying the clean plates just like he promised.

“Maybe if we shave your head it might suit you.” Teasing and giggling Hobie splashes water on your cheek. “Completely joking, my love. I like whatever you decide to do. Even if it's a mustache.”

“And they say ‘m the bloody menace.” He pretends to glare at you, but you flash him with a flutter of your eyelashes, melting his façade on the spot. You shake your head with a grin, a comfortable silence settles, save for the sound of water sloshing around the basin and birds chirping outside.

Your matching rings gleam in the sun with the kitchen window in front of you that's facing the backyard. You've gotten used to this life, yet you still can't believe you're living it. It's hard to think that you were running away and starving just barely six months ago. Now you're living the life you always hoped you would be in.

You've forgotten what you were worrying about in the first place.

“What are your plans today, love?” He dries his hands before he takes yours to dry with a clean towel. Gently wiping, he waits for your answer while you think.

“Pick some tomatoes for Riri, you remember how she loved the last batch?” You love it when he dotes on you.

“Yeah, she was raving ‘bout it.”

You hum, “then maybe try again with your surprise.”

Hobie pauses from drying your hands. “You're still not goin’ to tell me what it is?”

Shaking your head, you stare at him with a cheeky smile, and eyes sparkling. “Nope,” he doesn't know that you're trying to breed a new variant of roses that would bloom in the same shade as his eyes. It's a lot harder than you thought it would be, but you persevere especially after one of the saloon's band members lent you a book all about it. “I think I'm close to getting it.”

“As long as it's not going to blow up in my face.” His hands clasps your own, tilting his head with a raised brow.

“For the last time, I didn't know that combining those two cleaning agents would make the bucket explode.” You both chortle at the memory. “But I think it's about to rain though. So I might just help you fix the floors in the spare bedrooms.”

Hobie glances at the window, seeing a clear blue sky without any hints of grey clouds nor rain. “Let me guess, knee hurtin’ again?”

You nod, “exactly. Wanna bet like last time since you still don't trust my knee rule?”

“It’s not an exact science.”

“And yet I've been right ninety percent of the time.”

“Ninety?” He slyly wraps you in his arms, you let him wholeheartedly. “Try seventy.”

“You either bet or you don't, Hobie.”

Nudging your nose lovingly, he peppers your face with featherlight kisses. You softly smile, clay in his arms, eyes closed as he dusts your skin with kisses. “Fine,” kiss “I'll bite.” He smooches each corner of your eyes. “How much?”

“I think you're already paying in advance.” You don't blame him when you two didn't finish any chores for today. It is a combined effort as you let him in your saccharine embrace.

—

Hobie waits for you by the porch with a cigarette in between his lips, smoke wafting in the air. The sun is slowly setting, orange and pinks dancing along Clover's face as she paws on his leg. Her eyes are big and glinting in the afternoon hues. A breeze carries the smoke away into oblivion just as when Cherry and Buckeye make their way inside the barn like clockwork.

“Your treat is comin’, stop whinin’.” He pats her head briefly. If dogs could frown, Clover would be giving him the deepest lour. “You've become spoiled, girl.” His fingers scratch behind her ear, tail wagging from side to side, yet she still whines for her afternoon treat.

The front door opens with a creak, Hobie sighs from the sound, thinking that he has finally fixed the stubborn hinges. But alas, it still declares every time it opens. His furrowed brows are replaced by a gentle smile the second he sees you saunter out with two mugs of tea in both hands. Still gorgeous in your poncho that seems to camouflage you with the house paint.

He quickly snuffs the cigarette, and flicks it away from you. Waving away the remaining smoke, he holds his hands towards you, one to hold one of the mugs, the other to hold onto your waist.

“There you are.” He beams at you, palms meeting with the drink’s warmth and your affection. “Run into some trouble?”

You grin at him and his habitual sweetness. “Here I am.” Pecking his cheek, you place yourself on the porch railing, eyes never leaving his own. Hand brushing along Clover's head, petting her. “You didn't even wait that long.”

“Seemed like forever to me, love.” Hobie clinks his mug against your own, earning a soft chuckle from you. Taking a sip, he makes a face, scrunching up his nose with a groan.

“What's wrong? Shit, did I mistake salt for sugar again?” You take his mug, tasting it for yourself. His tea barely tastes like anything, if anything else, it tastes bitter and akin to dirt. You clearly forgot to add sugar and milk just like how he likes it with this tea variant. You don't blame him for disliking it, the shop in town ran out of the good tea so you both had to settle with whatever is floating in the mug. “Fuck, I'm sorry, I'll remake it.”

“Oi, oi.” Before you could leave his side, Hobie reaches for your hip, arm snaking around it to pull you back to him. “I can handle it, stay with me, yeah?”

You feign a huff, placing your own mug on the railing, bringing your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer to you. Hip to hip, you beam at him whilst his hands rests upon your hips. You two look like you're about to dance. “I appreciate the sentiment, Hobs, but I can't let you drink bland tea.” You're sure that you forgot to put honey in your own.

He shrugs while Clover watches from the side, puppy dog eyes waiting for her treat. “I've got all the sugar and sweetness right ‘ere.” Leaning down, he places his forehead against your own. He then pecks the tip of your nose, all the while never leaving the comfort of staring into your eyes.

“I knew you'd say that.” You giggle, hands balling around his shirt. His eyes shine brightly, emeralds mixing in with the soft orange.

“You psychic now?” He raises a playful brow.

“Nope, I just know you, Hobie Brown.” You slide your hands away from his shirt to his chin, scruff scratching you a bit. “And I know you hate this tea without milk and sugar.”

“I can live without it for one drink.”

“And what? You can't live without me for even a moment?” You tease, and you now notice Clover's waiting but polite stare.

Hobie smiles, tilting away to then bend back in to kiss your lips gently. His hand holds your chin in place while you smile into the kiss, eyes closed but you still see the soft afternoon glow behind your closed eyelids. With one last peck, lips brushing along your own, he gives you his answer without saying a word.

You open your eyes with a breathy sigh, warmth filling your entire chest. “Do that again when I come back.”

“Love.” He sounds like he's pleading.

“I'll make your tea better this time.” You pat his cheek. “Besides, I forgot Clover's beef jerky.” With the utterance of her name, Clover stands up, wagging her tail with her tongue lolling out on the side of her maw. You're already moving away backwards, but his hand still holds onto your arm. You take both drinks, careful not to spill and waste any. As you go, his palm slides down, still trying to make you stay. “Five minutes, Hobs. Give me five and I'll be back.” You giggle when he stomps his foot like a petulant child.

“I'll be waitin', countin’ down the seconds.” he exhales dramatically, making sure that his longing is clearly shown. You laugh as Clover follows you inside. “It's my beef jerky by the way!” He yells, earning a muffled guffaw from you.

Smiling, Hobie returns to rest on the railing, elbow propped up, leaning and relaxing on the bannister. He refrains from lighting another stick of cigarette so he could keep his promise to you of quitting smoking. Fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve, his ears perk up from the sound of hooves thumping on the ground. Hobie's heart immediately skips a beat from the sound. His hand stays on his gun as he leaves the porch to see where the horses are coming from. He's not expecting any visitors, and from how loud the sound is, there seems to be a dozen of them coming his way.

Everything screams at him to take you and run.

His worry quickly rushes to you, as he twists and turns to spot where they're all coming from, he finally sees them coming down from hills. A dozen or so of them unmistakably gallop towards the farm. They're fast, leaving everything in the dust behind them.

There's no time to run away. And there's too many of them to fight off.

“Y/N!” He yells. “Stay inside!” There's no sound coming from the house, not even your footsteps as the strangers come closer and closer within a second until they all appear from behind the farmhouse with a couple of horses missing from the line. He takes notice of them, afraid of what will happen.

Dust flies around the farm, the clover covered ground gets trampled by hooves. They stop a mere inches away from your precious plants, surrounding him. Horses huff and neigh just as when dust settles, showing Hobie all their riders faces. He doesn't recognize any of them, and none of them stands out from the crowd. Except for the one leading the party, he's clad in a white suit with a pitch black tie. Eyes as green as the grass he's standing on, hair slicked back, revealed when he took off his matching hat.

Hobie stands before them, hand on his gun, posture ready to quick draw. “You’re trespassin’”

“Sorry about that,” the man in the white suit answers for the rest of them. “We're just here to ask for directions.”

“Ask, then leave.”

He clears his throat, “You see, we're looking for a place in Scarlett Meadows. But we're all turned around.” Chuckling, he leans on his horse, the poor horse clearly looks uncomfortable from the awkward weight on its neck.

“You're in Scarlett Meadows, mate.” Hobie says the last part sarcastically.

Clapping, the strange man looks around his party before returning his attention to Hobie. “That's good! Now can you point us towards the direction of Emerald Ranch?”

Hobie's stomach plummets, “You passed it.”

“That so?” The stranger looks around the farm. “Funny, this place looks like Emerald Ranch.”

“This is a farm, not a ranch.” Hobie's eyes narrow at the man before flicking towards the front door of the house to then return at the man whose eyes stare him down without a single fear behind them. “Have you tried asking ‘round town?”

“We would, but we heard they're not too friendly.”

“I wonder why?”

The white suit man chuckles lowly, “I'm just looking for someone, mate.”

“You're like a bloody cigarette, you're draggin’ this out, mate.” Hobie unlocks the strap securing his gun, ready to shoot.

The stranger chuckles, cracking a humourless smile before his expression turns flat. “Where's my fucking wife, Mr. Brown?”

Hobie falters, hand twitching around his gun. “Wife?”

The front door slams open, and you come out with a shotgun aimed at the stranger's head. “Ah there she is—!” A shot rings out, Hobie dodges from your range, and the man has the same idea. He falls from his now dead horse, using its body for cover.

“Cross!” You scream with anger, fear laced into your tone like venom. “You motherfucker!” Pumping the shotgun, you glance at Hobie. “Run!”

“I forgot I taught you how to shoot!” Cross laughs even with bullets raining down on him and his entourage.

Hobie sees everything in slow motion, one by one, as the assailants run towards you, they get shot down immediately. Blood splattered all over the clovers and plants you love so much. The horses neigh wildly from the barn, and Clover barks desperately from inside the house. Shotgun shells fall on the porch he mended, with gunpowder replacing the honey scented home. Hobie quick draws his gun, emptying half of his chamber at the men you missed. You're in the clear as his Entourage now lies beneath your feet. Hobie aims at Cross where he has a clear shot at while the man continues to hide behind the corpse. But before he could shoot, he hears your gun run out of bullets from how the trigger clicks empty. And then a harsh crack follows as you fall loudly on the wooden deck, head bloodied, breath trembling and struggling as the man Hobie hoped never to see again stands over you with his rifle digging into your temple.

Hicks, a stout man with a pencil thin mustache, clad in gold and your supposed uncle; the one who started it all, cackles above your bleeding form. “Long time no see, Hobie! Back from the dead, eh?” He waves at him, grinning widely. “Drop your fucking gun or I'll end her right here.”

Hobie's entire body trembles just like five years ago, mind reeling from the sight of Hicks' face. Never wasting a second, Hobie drops his gun just as he feels a pistol whip him from behind the second he's unarmed. He falls on the ground not from the strike on his head but from the angry kick on the back of his knees. He gets a mouthful of grass, dirt sticking to his cheeks.

Gun punted away from him, his vision swirls, hand reaching towards you. “No,” he whispers as he hears your sobs. There's a sudden pressure around his wrists, rope tying his hands on his back. “You fucker.”

Hobie picks up the unmistakable sound of a body getting dragged across the ground. Hands and feet hogtied, he struggles to fight back. He stops his struggle when you're placed in front of him in the same position. Your hands and feet are also bound, crimson trickling down from your temple to your eyes; blood sticking to your lashes. Trying desperately to wiggle next to you, he gets a harsh kick at his side. He bites his lip to prevent a pained groan from escaping.

Your eyes try to focus on him, pulse rapidly decreasing, you're in danger of falling unconscious. “...Hobs?” You call to him despite only seeing his outline in front of you.

“‘m here, love.” He wheezes. “Stay awake for me, yeah?”

You struggle to see, black dots dancing around your vision and blood rushing in your ears. Voices come and go, victorious laughter echoing and fading. “I–I should've told you. I'm s–sorry.” Crying, you feel a heavy cheek pressed on your own.

Your sobs would haunt Hobie in his grave. A haze of despair falling over him like fog atop a mountain.

“It's okay—”

“Yeah, you should've told him. Or maybe you shouldn't have left in the first place, hm, honey?” Cross has his hands around your binds, flesh against your cheek. “You left me for him?” He yanks you up, your bones crack and creak as his hand slither up to your bare throat. “I told you, you can never leave.” You choke as he squeezes.

Hobie tries to fight back even with the ropes around his legs and wrists. “Let her fucking go!” A heel stomps on the small of his back as Hicks laughs above him. A raging pain flares, but he refuses to let you fall in the clutches of a man that you clearly never wanted to be next to you.

Guilt wraps Hobie in its familiar embrace. He should've done more, added barbed wires around picket fences, hid guns under the porch, grabbed you the moment he heard the horses— he should've been better at protecting you.

“P–please,” you mumble out despite the hand gripping around your neck. “Let him go, y-you have me. You won.” Gasping, you stare at Hobie with your bloodshot eyes. He shakes his head, eyes full of unshed tears. Even now he doesn't want them to see the sorrow that they've caused him. “Cross, please.” You beg, a trapped doe in front of him.

Cross lets you go after a moment of you desperately trying to gasp for air. You look into his green eyes that are awfully familiar that fills you with dread. You despise that colour on him and how similar it is with the only man you love.

He reaches for your face as you flinch away but with his hand around your collar, you can't escape. You wait for a hit, but it doesn't come. Instead, he pats your cheek with a gloved hand, rough leather sending shivers down your spine. For a second, he looks like he's considering letting Hobie go. Hope blossoms in your chest together with the panic.

Your husband turns towards Hobie, towering over him, his hand still on you. Hobie meets with the similar green eyes with fury. Silence blankets around the farm as both men stare each other down. Cross is the first one to break.

“Thank you for bringing my wife back to me, Mr. Brown.” Craning his head to look at you, you pray that he gets hit with a stray bullet. “Mr. Hicks,” said man hums in reply. He smiles at you, showing his teeth. “Do whatever you want with Mr. Brown, I'm done here.” Cross pushes you towards one of his men, your back hits a sturdy chest. Something gold and metallic pokes your shoulder.

You look up at the man who bears the familiar gilded star. “Sheriff Lee?” He could only look at you through narrowed eyes, anger swimming behind hazel. “No!” Heart in your stomach, heels digging in, you refuse to go. “Hobie!” Said man wails for you in agony as you get dragged away by Lee's strong grip. You ignore the sheriff's sneer as you return your attention towards the only person who deserves it. “Run! Please!”

Hobie yells your name with wild rage. “No! Fuckin' let me go, you wankers!” He fights back on the ground, teeth biting at anyone who comes near him. But there's too many of them left, they punch and kick at him. Steel toed boots hitting his flesh in a sickening squelch. Once they're satisfied, they drag him behind the house as you both fight back despite the odds. “Remember your promise!” He screams, blood coating his tongue from the beatings. “Wait for me!”

“Leave—!” A sack is placed on your head, lungs struggling to breathe, eyes flicking rapidly from side to side. Your joints are frozen in place as panic takes over your whole body. Even with massive amounts of adrenaline to keep you fighting, you feel powerless, muscles straining, fingers trembling; everything crumbles. It's an assault on your senses, there're hands touching you, trying to tie you down. Breath staggered, eyes blown out, and body trembling. And yet, his screams are the ones that truly stay with you. Him screaming your name, crying out to you whilst you try to reach him.

“Burn the bloody place to the ground!” Hicks yells as you're placed on the back of a horse. “Dig a deeper hole! I'm here to finish what I started.” You call for him desperately, throat aching, body twisting and turning on the horse as you try to fall off it.

The stench of iron is replaced with fiery embers curling around your nose behind the fiber hood. You see blurred red and orange spreading through your home in a blaze of wildfire.

The last thing you hear is his screams as you fall unconscious from another hard punch to your skull.

—

Stirring awake, head pounding mercilessly against your temple, you groggily sit up despite the throbbing pain and dazed state. Hands still tied by rough rope behind you, the skin around your wrist is angry and starting to blister. Back hitting hard oak, your eyes meet with red stained glass windows that shine underneath flashes of lightning. You sit hunched on a pew as rain batters the windows with wind howling outside while you roam your eyes around the chapel— Smooth stone walls carved all around with granite floors glinting from the candle light. Arched ceilings that seem to be taller every time you blink, and incense filtering around the air, making your nose twitch.

“Good, you're awake.” Cross’ echoing voice rumbles deeply from the altar. Shoulders straight as a ruler, white suit drenched and dirtied from his recent fall from his horse.

“Wish I wasn't.” You groan, noticing how your feet are also tied together. Glancing around the altar, you scoff bitterly. “Really? Is nothing sacred to you, Cross?” He stalks over to you, fists clenched on his side. Fear is slowly creeping up to you. Yet, you don't balk, nor flinch when he gets closer to you. “What? Are you thinking about renewing our vows?”

“What did he do to you? Hm? What did he say to get you out here in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?” His wedding ring shines, making you glare at the piece of jewelry.

“Why? I chose to be with him, simple as that. I moved forward because you weren't there to shackle me anymore.” You lean closer despite the bindings and your instincts telling you not to fight or else. You know what he's capable of, his hands still bear the shape of your throat and cheek. “Why are you even here? You should've let me go, I gave you a reason to finally be free of me!” You stomp your foot, frustrated and angry. But most of all afraid for Hobie and what has become of him when you were dragged away. “Why didn't you let me go, Cross?”

His eye twitches, the same eyes that are sickenly familiar to Hobie's. “You're my wife, of course I'd follow you.”

You scoff bitterly, “your wife? I'm only your wife on paper.” Wrists twisting, you try to free yourself just like how Hobie taught you in case something like this would happen. And happen it did. “If you forgot, my aunt chose you, and Hicks made me walk down that fucking aisle with a knife to my throat. You are not my husband. Not to me.”

Cross blinks as if he's lingering around your words. Your heart beats louder than the storm outside, afraid of what the man before you would do. Your instincts are right as he suddenly raises his hand to land a harsh slap, you flinch away on instinct, heart beating loudly from the fear. But the pain doesn't blossom on your cheek like it used to, instead, he lunges for your throat, fingers digging in your pulse as you choke.

“Make s-sure you hit me right between my eyes until I see stars, husband.” You mock him despite your crippling fear.

“Don't.” He seethes, you don't stand down, this pain is nothing new to you.

When he doesn't get the response he wanted, his hold loosens, green eyes roaming and searching for the familiar fear in your eyes. A second later, he slowly lets you go and slides his hand up to cup your chin. He smells of nickel and rotten wood.

You tilt your head back so you can leave his hold but he grips tighter. Hair standing on end, his touch is a shivering familiarity on your skin.

“W-why do you hold on tight to me? You don't love me, you never wanted me to begin with.”

He rubs your cheekbone with his thumb. “A year of marriage with you— Anyone would hold onto you with a grip.”

“You should've gotten a dog instead of a wife then.” You laugh throatily, feeling his hand clasp tighter. “Now what has become of you, Cross?” His jaw clenches. “What happened to slapping me as your greeting? All the hair pulling, and dragging me across the floor to show your so-called love for me? Fetch my aunt, she knows how to properly greet me as always.”

His eyes sparkled with brief amusement. “You didn't hear?” He pauses, thumb brushing along your bottom lip, hunger in those green eyes. “Your great aunt's dead.” You swallow thickly, letting his words sink in. Your mind can't make out how to feel about it. “Died of a broken heart, that's what the doctor said.”

“A–a broken heart?” You shove his hand away from your face. “I didn't know she even had a heart in the first place.”

You can see the confusion spreading across his face, not used to your new found fiery attitude. “What has become of you? She died because you ran away.” Cross uses grief and guilt as his weapon, and he knows what he's doing.

“I'm not the same girl you married, Cross.” You tilt your head on the back of the pew, staring him down through your bloodied lashes. “And you and I both know that's bullshit. She smoked like a goddamn chimney, worse that she had numerous enemies. Not the kind of combination you want if you wish to live long.”

“Watch your fucking tongue, girl.” Hicks’ booming voice ricochets around the chapel as he appears from a door near the altar. “That was my wife you're talking about.”

“Look at that, hello, uncle.” Sarcasm drips from your words. “Why do you like a fucking priest when you're the farthest from being one?” You gesture with your head towards his robe like clothes, he's draped in black cloth from head to toe, mourning clothes.

Unabashedly eyeing him up and down, you start to giggle. “You married her for money, you fool. You're not convincing anyone with that.” Turning towards Cross whose eyes remained on you, you falter for a second before straightening your expression. “You blame me for her death but have you asked him about it? He has everything to gain from her death.” Cross flicks his eyes towards the man before turning to leave with a humourless scoff. “Coward.” You whisper.

A strong grip latches itself in your hair, pulling at your scalp. Hicks' hot breath puffs over your cheek, you yelp in pain, reminding you of all the times she did this exact thing to you. “You and your childish whims killed her. And for what? To be with that boy?”

“Fuck you!”

“Y/N,” Cross stands in the middle of the aisle, nonchalantly taking a coin from his breast pocket to twirl it across his fingers. “He didn't kill her, Hicks isn't the one named in her will. He has nothing to gain.”

Slowly, delight spreads across your chest, wrists almost free. You grin widely. “She left it all to me.” Hicks throws your head down, skull hitting the pew with a sickening crack. Yet, you still laugh even with blood trickling down to your nape. “A-after all the shit you had to do to win her over,” you swallow down the pain. “she still didn't trust you enough to hand the company over to you!” Your guffaw echoes around the chapel. You spot Sheriff Lee standing in the corner, guarding the door, your laughter roars louder at the sight of him.

Hicks scoffs, trying to act that your words hasn't fazed him. “I always admired her, y’know, her and her resilience to punish you even though she loved you so much. With your hands bloodied and knees in grain— pretty eyes wet with salty tears. It was quite a sight. But as much as I admired her, cared for her, I can't replace you. No one can.”

Your eyes brim with tears you refuse to let go. “She could barely look at me.” You whisper the words.

He sighs, “she loved you.”

“There was a time I thought she did. That I deserved all of the pain, that I didn't know any better. But I was just a child who didn't do anything wrong but look up to her.”

Shrugging, Hicks makes a face that fans the flames in you. “Maybe you did deserve it.”

You don't feel the fear anymore, your rage triumphs over it.

“Fuck you!” Your screech could be heard above the thunder. “It got worse because of you! Only because you whispered in her ears and told her everything with your jealous sickly eyes! Married me off to some man who would hurt me more than grains on my knees!” You heave, Hicks raises an unbothered brow. “Wasn't it enough that you took him away from me?” He grins at you, papers in his hand, looking at you as if you're the one in the wrong. “The poison drips down, from her to you and then to my accursed husband.” You turn your red eyes towards Cross, the coin in his hand pauses from your heavy stare.

Maybe you should've gone with your parents on that doomed expedition.

A rustle of papers makes you turn towards the sound. Hicks spreads the crumpled paper on the seat next to you, pointing at the dotted line and placing a fountain pen beside it. “Sign your name and this'll be over.”

You lick your dry lips, the taste of your blood is bitter and acrid on your tongue. Your eyes don't even glance at the words. Wondering how they knew where you went, your mind wanders to the only person back home who knew. “What did you do to Peter?”

“We set him free. Free to roam the gates of heaven that is.”

Nails dig into your palms, leaving crescent scars atop your old one. Fury snaking along your aching body, you crane your neck towards Cross who leans against the altar, flipping a coin as candlelight flicks across his face and red windows reflecting off his skin and eyes. “The people you surround yourself with, Cross, it's astounding. You've got a dirty sheriff, a gold digging motherfucker, and me, who will take every opportunity to kill everyone in this fucking room.” Your want for vengeance spreads across the chapel, voice louder than the thunder raging outside. Cross looks at you like it's the first time he truly ever saw you. Returning your focus on the man who buried the love of your life, you utter behind clenched teeth.

“Just sign the damn papers—”

“When you buried Hobie under that oak tree, you buried me too. And you sliced open my neck just like how you did to him, that's why I'll never sign it.” Hicks tries to grab your head but you headbutt his chin before he could. He collapses on the floor, cradling his bitten and bleeding tongue. Standing above him, pen in hand, wrists now free behind you, you smile at him so it's the last thing he'll ever see. “I'm going to burn the company into the ground, and you'll be left penniless but I'll be fine; thanks to you suggesting this, how did you put it? ‘Auspicious’ marriage.”

Cross notices the sharp, shiny pen in your hands. He yells, coin falling from his hand with a clink, but it's too late as you pounce on Hicks, stabbing his chest with every clink of the coin— three times, you stab him three times as blood gushes out in a spray across your vengeful face. Lee stops you by tackling you on the ground. The blood coated pen clangs on the granite, drenching the floor with crimson. Lee has to put his entire weight on you so you can't escape, Hobie drives you to fight back with the same ferocity he would.

You need to avenge him.

“How does it feel, Hicks?! That's how I felt while you watched!” Your uncle sits up, groaning, blood slipping from his fingers as the outlaws that they hired rush towards him. You know he won't die from his injuries, you'd know— but it's enough, knowing that you caused him pain until you can finally end him with your own hands.

Laughing, arms being tied up from behind, tighter this time, you continue to try and escape from under Lee even with his knee digging on the small of your back. “I will not cleave, never again! Especially to men like you!”

Hicks stands up with some help. He leaves small drops of his blood on the granite, hands plugging the holes you made on his torso. “Now I'm glad I finished the job! I buried him again, and this time he'll stay down there for good!” He tries to rile you up further, it works from the mere mention of Hobie. You fight back, Lee's hold on you wasn't enough so Cross joins him, hands keeping your kicking legs down. “I even burned down your dinky house, there's nothing left there for you!”

“Did you make sure that he stayed buried this time, uncle?!” You yell at him, a sound akin to primal fury. His eyes widen, and you grin bitterly, “You didn't. Don't bother running away because he's already coming after you.” Lee yanks you up, and then places the same hood on your face. “He's coming after you!” You get dragged away towards the small room behind the altar.

Your grief has grown teeth. “If he doesn't then I'll do it for him!”

As Lee ties you to a table, closing and locking the door behind your screaming form; Cross' entourage looks at him with trepidation.

“We'll leave the second the rain is gone.” They all agree immediately.

—

Dread spills over him like a flood, incapable of saving you, watching your unconscious form ride away as Cross carries you on his borrowed horse. Hobie had to gaze upon the agonizing pain of you being taken away.

Outlaws set fire to the house, razing it to the ground as smoke immediately entered his senses. Flames spread in the home you two built together, angry orange hues devouring the same place he promised to live the rest of his life with you. The light blue paint starts to melt, glass windows cracking in the heat. He watches as his home turns to ash.

Men drag his screaming, writhing body towards the back of the house as he hears the awfully familiar sound of soil falling from shovels. His entire body hurts, cuts and bruises marring his flesh, clothes torn, and teeth coated in crimson. Trying to fight back, his nails digging in on the men's wrists yet it doesn't faze them. He sees Buck and Cherry run towards Hobie, neighing angrily with every intention to kick each of his assailants.

Hicks takes his guns out, aiming at both horses before they could reach him. Hobie yells at his horses, pleading with his broken voice. “No! Get away, Buck!”

Hicks shoots, gunshot echoing around the farm, bullet missing Cherry's hoof by an inch. Both horses rears, neighing loudly. “Fuck, I missed.” Hicks looks back at Hobie, who's on his knees. Hicks pulls down the hammer again to shoot. “Good thing I have more than one bullet.”

Hobie sneers, turning towards both terrified horses. “Buckeye! Leave! Get!” Bucky seems to shake his head in protest, but one look from his rider has him understanding what he meant. He runs away in the direction with Cherry in tow, who looks at the place she last saw you in. Hobie's glad he listened, he can't lose them too.

With dust clearing, Hicks returns his focus on Hobie and the outlaws that are digging behind him. “Dig deeper, make sure he doesn't get out like last time.” An idea passes by his eyes. “Or maybe I should just strap your hands and feet to my horse and gallop away while I drag you around in your shitty farm?”

“Fuck you, Hicks!” Hobie kicks dirt at his direction, soil landing on his shoes, completely unbothered. “Where is he taking her?”

Hicks chuckles while he takes out a cigar from a golden case that Hobie recognizes as your aunt's cigar case. He cuts the cigar before lighting it up with the same fire that eats away the farm. “Why bother asking? She's married, boy, taken and all that.” Crouching down, he blows smoke at Hobie's face. Eyes flicking towards the hole behind him. “Besides, you'd be six feet under.”

Thunder roars overhead, followed by a spark of lightning and petrichor. You were right, it's going to rain.

“It was all arranged wasn't it? Was it you?”

“No, it was her aunt. God rest her soul.” Hicks points at the sky as droplets of rain trickles down.

“Good.” Hobie grins, teeth threatening to snap at the man. Hicks clenches his jaw, sneering with a scoff.

The fire continues to burn behind him, and the men carry on with digging Hobie's grave right behind him. “Well, technically, I was the one who suggested it but she's the one who did most of the work.” He huffs and blows smoke, “you should've seen Y/N at her wedding, so gorgeous in white.”

Hobie tightens his jaw, lunging at Hicks but the men holding him down stops him. “No matter how deep that hole you put me in, I'll dig myself out and I'll come and cut your neck this time.”

“Let's see about that, Hobie. Pity, if only you didn't chase her, you'd be fine. Hell, maybe a manager at the factory by now.” He takes a peek behind Hobie, sucking in his teeth when it's not deep enough. “Shame, you had talents. I gotta hand it to you though, you've built yourself quite a reputation over here.”

“Whatever you heard,” Hobie leans closer, but a hand stops him. “It's all true, especially what I did in the east. And once I get my hands on you and that prick you married her to, I'll make sure what happened back then was child's play.” For a brief second, Hicks wavers.

“It's six feet,” someone says behind Hobie, still heaving from the labour.

“About time.” Hicks stands up, instructing the men to lift Hobie up on his feet. He gets yanked up, shoulders throbbing. “I'm supposed to say some nice parting words to the departed,” Hicks takes out his gun, pressing the barrel on Hobie's forehead while he glares with a bitter smile— “But I don't want to waste my breath.”

“Make sure you don't miss.” Hobie leans closer to the metal as Hicks then digs it into his neck as Hobie taunts. Moving a few paces away with his free hand pressed on his ear, he knocks the hammer down and aims it at Hobie's head.

He braces himself.

Hicks shoots, lighting strikes a few ways from the farm, lighting up the bullet heading right at Hobie's head. Blood spills over the soil below. He falls into the grave with a thud. Hicks Looks from above, seeing Hobie limp inside the hole in the ground, right next to the writhing worms. Satisfied, he tells his men to cover it back up just as the rain starts to pour in.

“Meet us at the rendezvous.” Hicks says above the sound of rain and thunder as he makes his way towards his horse, already galloping away while soil drops on Hobie's motionless face.

—

It rains, just like that day five years ago.

Hobie's nails are coated in dirt and grime, face covered by his own shirt to protect him from falling soil. Yet it doesn't save him from slowly suffocating. Soil in his lungs, breath ragged, he remembers the panic in your voice, how you screamed so he could be let go. He's living his past once again, but this time, he's not a frightened boy, he'll rise from the dead over and over again if he has to. With a raging heart that feels like imploding, his thoughts are on you.

Your worst fear is him dying. Even with the threat of a gun to your head, you still chose him.

Did he deserve any of these? To see you cry for him desperately, to hear you call for him with blood spilling from your lips— is he cursed? Is this karma for all the things he has done? That he deserves all of it because he was molded into this, a weapon he never wished to become but had to so he could survive. He doesn't want to linger on the thought, all he knows is that he needs to survive this.

But will he survive long enough to see you again?

Grunting, his temple has stopped bleeding a few minutes ago, skin grazed by the bullet that he dodged covertly. Hicks was never known for his aim even if his target was just a few steps away from him. Or perhaps Hobie is incapable of dying.

With his belt buckle in hand, he digs upwards. While he laid there ‘dead’ he heard about the new factory settled in the south— That after your aunt's death, they changed the main location from London to the heart of the new world's south. He knows where to find Hicks now, and in turn, you too.

He's not going to lie down and bleed.

Hobie hears the pattering of rain just outside the grave, thankful that the idiots Hicks tasked to bury him gave up halfway after they thought him dead. Still, Hobie's having a hard time digging himself out when the soil has clumped together because of the water and became heavier because of it. But he won't give up until he gets to see and hold you again. He still needs to tell you that he forgives you, that he understands why you didn't tell him. That he loves you despite it all.

Yelling in frustration, he still can't feel the breeze from below. Seemingly not making any progress. Arms thrumming from fatigue, he inhales and exhales, remembering why he keeps fighting, why he wants to survive it all.

You. The image of you drives him to dig himself out of his own supposed grave.

Hobie digs and digs, calculating his breathing so he doesn't waste what little air he has. He lists all their names, all the people he has to cut through to get to you. Hicks is a given, he has to end that man to avenge his younger self. Sheriff Lee, whose asshole son he had to shoot or he'll continue to commit unspeakable crimes that his own father lets him do without a single reprimand. And Cross, your husband, a marriage you never wanted, your shackle that continues to drag you down.

“Fuckers,” he whispers, renewed energy making him dig faster and faster.

There's a metallic twinkle from outside, for a moment, he thought that he suffocated and is now being taken by death. His worries subsides when he hears frantic barking outside, paws digging and whining sadly.

“Clover.” Hobie is in disbelief, lucky that Clover returned. “Good girl, Clover! Keep diggin��!” He helps, tunneling together in tandem until he sees her snout sniff at the ground. “Atta girl!” Petting briefly, Clover digs as Hobie gets his hand out from the depths of the soil.

Lighting pierces the night, he rises from his grave once more.

Death can't stop him from getting back to you. This time, he won't leave you to be eaten by the coyotes.

Dragging himself out, Clover helps him by biting at the hem of his jeans, pulling him up by her teeth. Rain pelts against his skin, mud sticking to his flesh, and blades of grass clinging to him. Shakily standing up, he screams the moment he's fully out of the grave.

Hobie brushes his hand along Clover's head, scratching just behind her ear. She scampers off, running towards somewhere, maybe a dry place where she can rest after a job well done.

He lets Clover run away, taking out his cigarette and lighter, he drags the stick across his dry lips before placing it in between. Lighting it, he inhales deeply, the glow from it illuminates the fury on his face. Promising himself that he'll save you, that he won't abandon you this time. And If you're still willing, rebuild the house in each of your visions like it was supposed to be.

Staring at the farm house, its burnt, but remnants of it remains thanks to the unexpected rain. The structure still stands tall, darkened wood falling apart, ash mixing in with the rain, turning the floorboards into a muddy sludge. He can't think about all the letters that you didn't finish reading, all those words forgotten in the wind, nothing but ash flying away with the breeze.

Even the garden you worked so hard for is burnt to nothingness, not even a single leaf has survived. All the flowers and produce you've painstakingly kept alive are now cinders.

The familiar calmness that comes after a brush with death sits in his chest. A wave of pain seizes him to a pause, gripping the chest, his mind imagines the worst. That they've hurt you, that you're sailing halfway across the world by now; that they've killed you and dropped you into a shallow grave to let the rain inevitably wash you away. He shuts the thought out, tears pricking at his eyes. Uttering your name softly, he exhales. You're his peace.

Still standing in what remains of the farm, Hobie hears hooves rushing behind him, and a familiar bark running next to the pair of horses, whose shadow looms over him when lightning strikes and lights up the barren land.

“I'll get her back, I promise.”

—

The saloon is in full swing, patrons dance around the band, people rambunctiously play poker upstairs while Riri is arguing with Miguel after she told him that she's leaving to go and check the farm.

“I'm telling you, Miguel, something doesn't feel right. Morgan told me he saw fire blazing over there!” She unlaces her apron, tossing the empty whiskey bottle right next to other empty ones.

“Their place is far away, how could Morgan even see that?” Miguel chomps down on a slice of cake, rain continues to pour down as Riri takes her coat and hat from the closet beside the bar. “Where are you going, Ri? It's pouring outside!”

“To check on them—!” The saloon doors open with a bang, spooking the band, the music screeching to a halt when they see Hobie standing there drenched, bleeding and covered in weapons. Everyone stops to look, the brim of his hat covers half of his face, scar in full display, ring glinting in the light. Silence hangs, not even a whisper can be heard. “Holy fuck.” Riri pushes past people to get closer to him, hands reaching out to him, eyes seeking you from behind him. When she doesn't see you, she presumes the worst.

“They found her.” Lightning strikes behind him, briefly showing his red eyes.

Riri nods, hiding her shaking hands with a fist. “I've got your back, just like I said.” Miguel stands dumbfounded, frowning, eyebrows knitted in anger.

Hobie glances at the customers he knows, half of them were from the gang he used to run with. The other half are afraid of him. He turns his heed towards Miguel, eyes boring into the man. “Remember that bounty you never got?” Miguel smirks, already placing his hat on his head. “Any valuables you find, it's yours and the gang’s. Time to get even, Miguel.”

He hears ear splitting cheers before he collapses into Riri's arms.

[heartorbit]

figure skating set right now please. thanks

[delicourse]

i miss them a little if im gonna be honest

[koipepo]

That omake of little Kabru not being able to show off his howetown sweets because of Misril gets to me a lot so...

Here's a happier Kabru (and Lairu)

[xitsensunmoon]

My first ever comic con! And first cosplay too. Of course it's gonna be my boy :] Ramblings about the process are under the cut(Let me know if?? You would want me to elaborate with process images for any of the steps?)

The costume took me forever to make, as I've never done any machine sewing, sculpting, fabric dying or spray painting before but learning all of these was so fucking fun!! I never realised just how many different skills go into making a cosplay but it was so worth it!!!

Almost all of the clothes(except the hat) were purchased first as bases, but all of the detailing was added by me. All of the fabric used was originally just scraps that I was given for free so I needed to learn how to dye and dye all of the stars, they were originally white.

The sewing machine was its own beast that brought me tons of frustration from the lack of skill and knowledge (it was devastating to find out that 95% of fuck ups were my fault and not the machine's lmao). But as a result, a hat sewn from scratch, all of the fur trims, embroidery on the corset, stars and the collar(which is very hard to see on the pictures unfortunately) was all added manually. The stars and the stripes(on the back of the cape) were attached using heat-and-bond adhesive (I WISH I knew about such thing just when I started working on this. It would save me so much time and nerves.)

Then I found out about polymorph(mouldable plastic) and it has become the next thing I wanted to learn, to sculpt the claws and the fangs(yes, they're handmade jfksjs). The claws I then primed and painted in trillion coats because I wasn't satisfied with the colour of the spray paint. The fangs I moulded to my own teeth and then stained with tea to match the colour of my teeth :)c

As for makeup, I used Mehron Paradise water activated paints. At first I wanted to try to save money and bought myself Snazaroo instead, which unfortunately turned out to be a waste. Snazaroo didn't hold on my face for longer than 2 hours, cracking and peeling awfully. Mehron on the other hand survived 11 hours of me smiling, talking, emoting and such and didn't even crease at the smile lines(I'm actually shocked about that). It obviously works like any other makeup which means your skin texture and wrinkles won't go anywhere but Mehron's elasticity pleasantly surprised me. It did obviously smear from sweat and saliva(if you're eating and licking your lips) but if you don't touch the skin it just dries again, self setting. But if it's dry it's fully smear-proof. Highly recommend!

And last but not least, I've decided against painting my hands as it was very risky that I will stain everything I touch at the smallest hint of sweat. So instead I got myself gloves-tights(? Not sure how they're called but it's made from the same fabric as tights) and painted them with normal acrylic paint(did you know you could dye fabric with acrylic paint? I personally didn't), then heat set with an iron and voilà, they're reusable, my hands are not stained after an exhausting day and I don't stain everything I touch. It worked wonderfully which honestly was a surprise as I was really sceptical that acrylic paint will somehow stay in place.

I think this whole thing took me minimum of 6 months with big-big breaks for my school and life in general. But I'm really proud! This project taught me so many new skills and I couldn't have been happier about learning new knowledge, even if it sucked to fail in the meantime.

Everyone at the con was really nice and gave me a large confidence boost even tho it was my first time and I had no idea what I was doing. Taking photos with other people was really awkward/new for me as I hate cameras so I really had no idea how to pose/behave in front of one. But that's okay I think. This whole experience definitely made me want to do this again, so I think that will come with experience. Thank you for reading this far, hope you enjoyed this little summary :)

[wtfforged]

boy why you so legs

[vhvrs]

part black mask practice page part redesign of minor elements that i wanted to do differently bc i draw them differently as is... leaning into, like, dark court jester opposed to joker. straight jacket belts. feeling encased in their suit. etc.

[fl00mie]

you get how much it means that ERROR makes a DRAWING of INK????

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 215

Danny has found himself as a cat. And there’s good news and bad news about it. The good news is that he’s a magical cat or something similar, seeing as he has two tails and can go Very Big if he wants to. Bad news? He’s pretty sure they’re in a different dimension now. 

Cute news, both Ellie and Jordan are itty bitty kittens and utterly adorable, he would murder for them. They’re so tiny! Like, yeah they got physically de-aged before all this so they could properly pass as his kids- along with part of Dan’s parole- but this? He could hold them in his hands if he still had them! 

Alright! First things first, find a shelter and avoid the destroyed buildings along with whatever destroyed them in the first place. Then he could figure out if this is an accident or some sort of forced vacation. But shelter first. 

[moonilit]

I read some NTT and don’t think comics books are for me but i had fun as i was exploring, I have accumulated bunch of doodles and sketches as i tend to draw them while reading and thought i could stack them together and post it as thanks for these characters. they were very cute 💙❤️‍🔥

[aratribow]

Jingnyan, aka the husband-replacement cat that renheng adopted

Sesame cake and rice dumpling are respectively called renyan and hengnyan btw and this shit has a whole ass au behind it (with a Mafia origin but that's not important)

I STAN jingnyan being the MOST affectionate nyan ever

Ps: this is renheng getting all the cuddles b4 the renheng-nyan invasion..which...doesn't bode very well for them

[windydrawallday]

WING HOLD

[Part I] & [Part II] And that's it! Extra fluff happy ending 💙✈️❤️️

Even if recycling panels, for my first sequence done with TFs characers is quite an achievement on its own!

Shame to say though: I probably can't make new art in time as planned (I got recent important stuff to deal with irl) but you know what? I enjoyed a ton sharing and looking back at old art. And remember that it can be old for me but fresh for all of you who have never seen it before! And I'm super happy it brought smiles to each one of you: thanks for the support 💞💞💞

And please: if you are still hungry for MORE art of this pairing, I suggest checking @skystarweek 's tumblr blog, socials, and tag. There's lots of amazing art poured for what lasts of the event (and even cool art from past events you can support) so, go on and give them some love!!

[luna-loveboop]

I find it funny that Wild, who has basically a couple years ish of full life experience, comes up with the most insane theories for everything

He assumed that the only other explanation to Four being able to split in Four was. That he was quadruplets who'd been hiding this whole time???

Also apparently he believed that his wolf companion Twilight in botw was a diety (and felt very uhh shocked upon finding out that he was not)

Malon made things worse, telling him about her aliens theory

What's even FUNNIER is that every time Wild expresses any sort of confusion at magic stuff that he's never seen before, everyone else in the chain acts like it's crazy for him to be weirded out by it

Honestly maybe Wild's the only one with his head on straight, rather than everyone else who are just like 'it's magic bro' like no he's right this is weird

I appreciate this because it's very considerate of the fact that he woke up with no memories not too long ago, so he doesn't have much experience to explain the stuff that's 'normal' for the chain. Plus the explanations he comes up with are funny.

:)

.

Art and comic and adorable character by Jojo @linkeduniverse au :D

[imaredshirt]

Give me a Stan who thinks Fiddleford doesn't know how to throw a punch, much less defend himself in a fight with your average goon, so one morning he takes it upon himself to show the nerd a few basic jabs and hooks and maybe an uppercut or two behind the cabin, because let's face it, there's gonna be a time when Stan can't be there to take a hit for the guy or defend his nerd butt. So he's gonna teach him some stuff for his own peace of mind.

Fiddleford just kind of genially goes along with it, following Stan around the back of the cabin and watching with hands on his hips and a smile as Stan gets into position.

"This is one of the most basic punches in the world, so pay attention, 'cause I'm not gonna show you again," Stan says, knees slightly bent and fists up.

Fidds nods. "You've got my full attention, Stanley."

Stan isn't sure if he's imagining the way Fidds is eyeing him up and down, but he automatically flexes his arms a little more than he needs to. Up ahead, Ford is sitting on a tree stump and taking samples of the air or something (Stan had stopped listening to Ford's explanation once his words went from interesting to Big Science Shit that Stanley Does NOT Care About) and he's watching them with this amused grin, rolling his eyes skyward when Stan won't stop flexing and showing his arms off.

Stan ignores him and rolls his shoulders before jabbing his fists forward in a quick one-two. "There - you catch that?"

Fidds has got his arms crossed now and gives Stan a thumbs up. "Sure did!"

"See, just like this," Stan says, and shows him again despite saying earlier that he wouldn't.

He shows him a few more punches, going over each one a couple times before telling the engineer to mirror him, even getting in close to adjust the guy's scrawny arms and balled fists. He's being real professional about it and everything and doesn't understand why Ford keeps grinning and shaking his head at them, which is making him a little incensed but he stamps it down because Fidds is watching him with this nerdy, dopey smile while letting himself be maneuvered around and he's gotta learn to defend himself 'cause Stan can't stand the thought of some jerkwad wiping that smile off the nerd's face.

"See," he says near the end of the lesson, tapping his fist right against Fidds’s chin. "Do it right and your fist'll hit right here."

Fidds tilts his head a fraction at the touch. "Well alright then, seems easy enough."

"Yeah, like I said, if you do it right. Gimme your hand-" he takes Fidds’s wrist and taps the guy's balled fist against his own stubbly jaw. "Right here. You got that?"

Fidds nods. "Sure do!"

"Good." Stan drops Fidds’s wrist and gets into position again. "Then come on - lay one on me."

Fidds pulls back and blinks at him. "Come again?"

"Hit me!" Stan taps his jaw. "Right here!"

The guy suddenly looks nervous and galnces over at Ford for help. "Hit you? Stanley, I don't think-"

This is what Stan means. Fidds isn't always gonna be able to look to him or Ford to save him. He gets this weird, uncomfortable feeling in his chest at the thought of Fidds facing off against some asshat on his own, and that alone is enough to keep him from letting the guys off easy, if only to get rid of the weird feeling. Maybe a bit selfish but he doesn't care.

"Ah, come on, one little punch ain't gonna hurt ya, Fidds."

"I'm not worried about me," Fidds says, and then frowns when Stan barks a laugh.

"You think you're gonna hurt ME?"

Fidds is still frowning when Ford calls over in an amused, warning tone, "This is not a good idea, Stanely!"

"Just worry about your air test or whatever and leave us alone," Stan calls back. Ford shrugs and scribbles something in his journal, and when Stan turns back to Fidds, Fidds is finally getting into position.

He looks unsure, watching Stan nervously as Stan stands before him with his arms crossed.

"Hey, not bad form - you ready?"

"Well, I suppose so," Fidds says, accent coming in a little thicker than before. "Stan, if you're sure, I should probably warn ya-"

"Don't tell me nothing, just punch me!"

Fidds presses his lips into a line and throws his fist - and jabs Stan on the chin just hard enough to tilt Stan's head half an inch to the side.

"That's it?" Stan guffaws and shakes his head. "That was barely a tap!"

"I don't wanna hurt ya!" Fidds says, sounding so conflicted that Stan gets this urge to pull him into a headlock and ruffle his hair and drive the worry away.

Instead he riles him up.

"Please," he says. "Fidds, look - one of these days I'm not gonna be there to take a hit for you, and then what're you gonna do? Just let some jerk punch ya around?"

Fidds looks slightly perplexed. "Where is this all comin from? No, Stanley, I am NOT gonna just let some jerk punch me around."

"Good! So you gotta learn to defend yourself!" Fidds still looks unsure, so Stan tries a different angle. "Okay, how 'bout this - what if some jerks are beating up on me and Ford, huh? You're just gonna let em?"

Fidds looks up. "What? No, I am not!"

"You're gonna defend us?"

"Dangnabbit, Stan - of course I am!"

"Not gonna let us get our teeth kicked out?"

"What!? No!"

"Then show me!" Stan slaps a hand against his own chin. "Right here, come on! I'm some jerk who just threw your friend Stan to the ground and I'm about to kick him in the gut, what're ya gonna-"

The blow lands hard. Stan's head jerks to the side and he's thrown off balance, and he sees actual stars before his vision clears again and he realizes he's crumpled on the ground. His head swims as hands pull him around onto his back.

"Mother o pearl!" Fidds gasps. He's got his hands on Stan's face, careful touch at complete odds with the punch he'd just landed in the same place. "Are you alright? I am so sorry! I hit ya and you weren't even ready and - you just got me so riled up and I tried to tell ya and I shoulda said earlier instead o just lettin ya show me all those moves, but I just wanted to, well - goddangit, Ford, this ain't funny."

Ford's laughing as he comes up behind them, looking down at where Stan is staring kinda dazedly up at Fidds, who's kneeling by his side in the cool grass. "We did try to tell him, Fiddleford."

"Tell me what?" Stan demands. His jaw is already aching but Fidds’s hands feel kinda good so he doesn't tell him to move.

"Fiddleford was a boxing champion back back in his hometown," Ford says.

Stan blinks. "Bwuh-?"

"Not much of a champion," Fidds says with a wince, but he's blushing a bit as he goes on, "It was never anythin official, but - well, I did win more than a few matches at some backyard parties, see, and - well, people usually don't think I got any hittin power or can defend myself, but my Ma's been all too happy to teach me since I was little, and-"

The guy's rambling, and Stan quits being able to understand what he's saying half way through cause the accent is coming in thick and Ford’s chuckling and standing there looking proud of his best friend and Stan’s a little worried that he's still jarred from the hit, cause when he looks at Fidds kneeling there, one hand one Stan's chest and the other bashfully rubbing his neck while he rambles on - he's still seeing stars.

Later, while Stan sits in the living room with an bag of ice in his jaw and Fiddleford sitting next to him, still rambling about all the times he'd knocked a few guys into the mud in some backcountry hoedown get-together or whatever, Stan can lean back and relax and grin, knowing Fidds is gonna be just fine.

He can't wait to teach him wrestling.

[cyellolemon]

sillies.....