#for til now I have only mourned for you now I begin to hope for you...!

[firstfullmoon]

“I need you more and more, and the great world grows wider. . . every day you stay away — I miss my biggest heart; my own goes wandering round, and calls for Susie. . . Susie, forgive me Darling, for every word I say — my heart is full of you. . . yet when I seek to say to you something not for the world, words fail me. . . I shall grow more and more impatient until that dear day comes, for til now, I have only mourned for you; now I begin to hope for you.”

— Emily Dickinson, in a letter to Susan Huntington Gilbert

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

can we stay for a while and listen for heaven?

A/N: my first fic !!!! i wrote this between the hours of 1 and 4am so i hope its not shit asjkffjkd

please please please reblog, comment and like !!! if you have any feedback please feel free to drop it too (:

"You’d told him earlier that this building was his home. You were wrong – he fights the urge to say it now. To chant ‘The four walls have nothing to do with it. My home isn’t this house, it’s you. It’s here, in my arms’ until his throat runs dry. "

desc; veteren!reader x simon riley. he comes home on leave after a (kind of) disagreement. all fluff, some non-sexual nudity (a soft little affectionate shower scene). should be fairly gender neutral!!

"Hear the storm dances outside Something set free is running through the night And the dark awaits us all around the corner But here, in our place we have for the day Can we stay a while and listen for heaven?"

Simon “Ghost” Riley, more weapon than man, almost falls to his knees weeping at the sight of you.

You stand, some thirty-feet ahead of him, holding a pistol aimed at his head with perfect precision. Hair wild and sleep-tousled, one of his shirts hanging to about mid-thigh, eyelids drooped and eyebrows furrowed in confusion, lips forming a perfect ‘O’ and he swears to whatever divine being still watching that one day he’ll be brave enough to marry you. 

He’d poetically liken himself to a man returning home from war, but the simile cuts a little too close.  

You lower the weapon, flick the safety on (he narrowly bites back the urge to praise you) before launching it towards the sofa and launching yourself at him. He ignores the burning in his injured side and returns the fervour, arms finding your waist with practised ease. After almost fifty hours awake, Simon allows himself to feel the exhaustion that permeates his bones. He sinks into you – into your warmth, your scent, your love. He fears he’ll never be able to let go again.

You somehow detach yourself enough to blink up at him, eyes still half-lidded. “You’re back,” you whisper, voice so roughened with sleep that he can only make out half the syllables, “thought you were comin’ back next week?” 

“Sorry, darlin’. Should’ve given you a heads up.” He hates how fatigued he sounds, even to his own ears, but he can’t keep up the act. Not with you. 

“Nonsense, Simon Riley.” Your nose scrunches, voice mimicking severity. The way your mouth sounds the shape of his name ringing through his head like a stricken bell, “This is your home, too. You know you don’t need permission to come back.”

He doesn’t know, not really. Especially not at the moment. He’d half expected you to shove him back out the door duffle still in hand if he were honest. After almost two weeks of not speaking, of dodging calls and ignoring texts, he figured he’d deserved it. The knot of guilt begins to twist his stomach. 

You must sense his hesitation – reading him like a book always was a favourite pastime of yours – because you press your face back into his chest, squeezing him briefly before releasing him.  He barely has time to mourn the loss of your warmth before you’re hooking your pinky with his, intertwining your fingers. 

You lift yourself onto your tiptoes, face hovering just a few centimetres away from his, before you whisper.

“You’re not getting into our bed smelling like shite, Si. ‘M hosing you down." 

He watches as the corners of your lips turn up into one of your signature lopsided grins and before he can stop himself he’s leaning in to kiss it, mask be damned. Since there are no merciful gods left, you duck out of the way before his mouth can stick the landing, letting out a squawk of laughter as you swipe out of the way of his arms. He finds his lips mimicking yours beneath the fabric. 

“You’re not kissing me til you brush those fuckin’ teeth, either. Dirty man.”

“I thought you liked the way I taste, love.”

You snort, pinky latching onto him again, leading him towards the bathroom of your darkened house. Reiterate your previous statement by muttering a “filthy man” under your breath. The radiance of dawn spills through the closed blinds as the sun begins its endeavour across the sky once more. Simon follows dutifully behind you. 

Your unoccupied hand fumbles before finding the string of the light switch. You give it a firm tug and cool light blares into the room. Simon barely has time to hiss before you’re tugging it off again, encasing the room in darkness once more. You hum softly, murmuring apologies as you lead him to the toilet seat. 

“Sit. I swear I have fake candles somewhere, I’ll find them.”

An objection rises in his throat, although he obeys instantly, perching on the lid of the toilet. He watches in the low light as you flit about the room, rummaging through bottles and loofahs and sponges before letting out a small “aha!”. 

You methodically disperse small, white discs around the room, clicking them on as you go. Warm light flickers throughout the room, much less overbearing than the beacon overhead. You turn to face him again and he lets out a sigh through his nostrils. You’re far too endearing like this; completely dishevelled, all soft smiles and teasing words. 

He can see it with a bit more clarity now, the way worry has been eating at you. In the dim 'candle' light, he notices the state of your lower lip, chapped and bitten, and the smudges of blue that frame your eyes. The knot that sits at the base of his stomach twists again, digging in, and he tightens his jaw to stop himself from spilling I’m sorry’s like a mantra.

“You planning on washing your clothes as well as your body, babes?” 

Your voice pops the bubble of his self-pity. He blinks thrice, grateful for the mask to hide the downwards tilt of his lips. He attempts to sound breezy as he replies, though it comes out with more bite than he’d like. Typical. 

“Figure it’s the quickest way to stop smelling of ‘shite.’”

It’s your turn to sober yourself as you cast your eyes over him, eyebrows furrowing. You must catch it; the way, however subtle, his body responds to his injury – hunched slightly to one side as if trying to curl protectively around it. He straightens his spine at your scrutiny. 

“You’re hurt,” you whisper, voice so tender, as you take two slow steps towards him, “your side?” Your eyebrows furrow, hands absently reaching for him. 

“It’s nowt, darls. Just some bruising. I…” He rolls the request around on his tongue. He swears it burns, to ask more of you after you’ve given so much. “I need a hand. Can’t really… bend. Sorry.”

Your reaction is immediate. You drop to your knees in front of him, hands reaching for his laces, face set in gentle determination. 

“It’s no bother, handsome.” You’re quick to soothe, to reassure. Always so quick to give him what he needs. He softens like warm butter. “Get started up there, and we’ll meet in the middle.” You toss him a cheeky wink, face still tinged in a trace of worry. 

Never one to deny you anything, he does as he’s told. Starts with his mask – easy enough. He’s too tired to have any reservations now, especially when you’ve spent so many nights devoted to tracing his scars with your lips. He unhooks the straps and slips it from his face, drops the piece of fabric onto the bathroom counter next to him. 

His shirt is… a little bit trickier. He struggles to lift it up above his head, but he manages it soon enough. On his own, despite your assurances that you can help with that, too. He’s a stubborn creature. 

Meanwhile, you’re dutifully and methodically working off his boots. He’s seen those hands broken and bruised, snaked around the grip of so many guns. He’s in awe of their softness; the duality of hands once soaked in blood, now working so gently to undress him. 

True to your word, always, you meet him in the middle. Soft hands ghost over the mottling of bruises littering his left side, shades of purple and blue deep and rich. You frown, casting your eyes up to meet his. Your teeth go to bother your lower lip again but he leans forward to intercept, covering your mouth with his own. 

You hum absently into the kiss, feel the graze of his hand against your jaw, the soft exhale through his nose. You both stay like that for a moment; making no move to deepen the kiss, keeping it light and sweet and oh-so tender. 

You disconnect, your frown banished. He watches through his lashes, eyes half-lidded with relaxation as you stand back up, hands moving to the hem of his your shirt. Simon reaches to help, you swat his hand away. 

“Ah-ah! Just sit back and enjoy the show, Riley. I don’t give ‘em out for free.” You wink, cocky grin rising to your lips. God, he has it bad for you.

“Show me how it’s done, love.”

You put him to shame. Lift your shirt off with one confident sweep of your arms. His hands twitch with the effort to keep them by his sides. The rest comes off just as easily, barring your fluffy socks. You almost end up flat on your arse, cheeks flushed as you slouch against the bathroom counter repeating ‘stop laughing, Simon Riley, or so help me God–’

A few moments later and you’re both in the shower, standing under a stream of water just below scalding. He hisses as the jets hit him, rolling down the planes of his back, slowly loosening the knots along his spine. You’re standing so close, nearly pressed against him, and this time he doesn’t stop himself from slipping an arm around your waist. Your bare forms merge and he feels like a ship returning to harbour. He feels tethered.

You’d told him earlier that this building was his home. You were wrong – he fights the urge to say it now. To chant ‘The four walls have nothing to do with it. My home isn’t this house, it’s you. It’s here, in my arms’ until his throat runs dry. 

The way you tilt into his grasp, your arms winding so naturally around him, slotting against him so perfectly makes him think you already know the words by heart.

After a few minutes, you break away. Simon is just breathing out an objection by the time he notices the loofah in your hands. You squirt a splodge of soap onto it and a wave of your signature scent fills his nostrils. His objections die on his tongue. 

You work the soap into a lather before gently taking one of his arms, eyes flicking up to meet him for a moment in a silent question. He answers with a nod and you get to work, systematically massaging away the layers of grime and dirt. You work in small circles down his arm, scrubbing his armpits and washing the grit from beneath his fingernails with precision, before moving onto his other arm. 

And so the time passes; both arms, across the chiselled plains of his broad chest, down to his navel, spinning him around so you can work your way up his back. Then you’re onto his legs, his feet, before you move on to washing his hair. 

He has to stand facing away from you (much to his despair – you look so focused, your tongue almost poking out in concentration), head tilted back to give you access to the top of his head. Still, you stand on your tiptoes, rubbing and massaging the shampoo into his scalp with firm but doting hands. You hum as you work. 

He’s flooded with warmth at the depth of your devotion. 

Hours or seconds pass by, simultaneously too much and too little time, and you’re done. You guide his form back around to face you, rising up to place a sickeningly sweet kiss to his lips. His body is sagging as the exhaustion finally drapes over him like a well-worn blanket. He blinks to keep his eyes open.

“Your turn?” He murmurs, voice a jumble of syllables. 

“Mmh, I’m okay, babs. We need to get you into bed,” you hum. His eyes close for half a second and by the time he’s opened them again, the shower is off and he’s wrapped in a soft towel. 

“Our bed?”

You huff out a breathy laugh, “Yeah, Si, our bed.”

Pinkies entwined, you lead him once more. Sunrise is fully upon you now, a kaleidoscope of peaches and tangerines spill through gaps in the curtains to bathe the bedroom in pinks and golds. You guide Simon Riley, now far more man than weapon, to his side of the bed. The man barely makes it to a horizontal position before reaching for you -- a request that you happily oblige. 

You settle against him with the same practised ease, curled against his uninjured side, head tucked against his clavicle. He hums beneath you, arms slotting into their designated space around your waist. 

A few moments pass. You’re certain that he’s already asleep when his voice, deep and full of timbre, cuts through the tranquillity. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, his large hands dragging up the notches along your spine. “‘M stupid, and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t– you don’t have to, Si. I get it.” You exhale against his collarbone, arms tightening around him. “It was a bad time. I didn’t mean for it– it just came out. I get it.”

Simon murmurs in disagreement, but he returns the motion. Arms squeezing your sides like he needs an anchor, something to hold on to. 

“I shouldn’t have ignored you. I was a coward. I–”

His head turns, lips grazing over the crown of your head. His eyebrows furrow and he freezes for a moment before whispering, voice so quiet you have to strain to hear it. 

“I feel it, too. I can’t– I can’t say it, but I feel it. I do.”

You feel the corners of your lips twitch up involuntarily. This absolute muppet of a man – watching you all evening like you’d hung the stars one by one, like you were some divine creator, some source of eternal beauty that could make the angels quiver. You bite back the urge to laugh, and instead tilt your head upwards, graze your rough lips across the underside of his jaw. 

You whisper back, trying to pour as much love and devotion as you can fit into three words. 

“I know, Si.”

[pelorsdyke]

for til now, I have only mourned for you; now I begin to hope for you. -emily dickinson

[my-dearest-aster]

[030824]

"Do you like playing dead?"

"What?"

"Do you like playing dead?" I ask.

"You cocoon yourself in your bed like a coffin

You squeeze your eyes shut 

Until nothingness is all you can see

And you stay silent; as quiet as a mouse

As the burden grows and you begin to grieve

You grieve the person you could've been

If only you could crawl out of your own shallow grave;

If only your dreams 

Hadn't been waterboarded out of you,

A wail of missed potentials branded onto your skin.

Your room mimics a sepulchre

Darkness caves in—

Fills up the empty space 

Between the blank walls, the desk and the bookshelf

You'd have loved to hang posters 

And choose a colour other than white

Too bad no one ever really asks which kind of headstone you'd like

Marble instead of granite 

Because you'd never mourn yourself— 

It's easier to clean, anyway. 

The waters of Acheron spring from your floorboards

And you sink to the very bottom of yourself 

Your mind is a stage

But there is no audience

Other than the director and the actor himself.

But every now and again,

That heart does come to beat 

You unplug the monitor 

Because you hate the beeps

And you run from your graveyard 

Where you can ignore

How much you've rotted

From the day you were born

And you shout 'Freedom!' at the taste of your joy

Your dress and mask hiding your scars 

You hope you never have to return 

But once the clock strikes midnight 

Your stitches fall apart and burn under stars

Your skin melts away leaving muscle and bone

You were as human as everyone alone

And you wall yourself off

Hide the ugly parts of you

While your demons cheer and clap,

And call for an encore.

So I ask you again: Do you like playing dead?

Breathe in the spores, 

Stuff your lungs full of dread

Once the bear leaves the body

In that forest of your own

Could you ever make peace 

With the tyrant on the throne?

Or challenge the fact you have barely grown

From the day you were buried

'Til the day curtains fall

Hiding your pulse is all you've ever known."

"So tell me again, do you like playing dead?"

[absurdly-overpowered-astronaut]

Assigning TMCOTC OCs parties are for losers songs (now with 100% more vague yapping ^_^) (I ended up talking alot…I kinda regret it? Oh well)

(Will come back and assign them ferry songs in general like I did with deco and milgram)

Kat - PUNCH IT PUNK - personality fits really well! This is the kind of silly I was going for with his character and the story lines up surprisingly well with kat finding a ghost run away with lavation powers as apposed to a mutant one - “But, ah! Crap, no I had it coming! I got in trouble again, but now this isn't funny! I could really use a prince charming now or anyone if they could help me somehow-And a hero busts onto the scene! The cutest, coolest boy that I have ever seen! I guess not all is lost for this pathetic place Oh god okay, he's not that strong Oh no, come on guys, not his face - Hey are you okay, are you there, hey Blink three times if you hear me, alright? "Eh?" Awful, awful, it may be too late” / “I may not know anything at all And something tells me this is out of my control I guess in retrospect I could've figured that At least that way the shock wouldn't hit like a bat And spastic light specs brighter than the bluest skies Begin to dance around as panic clouds your eyes And you can call me dumb, impulsive and unwise but there's no way I'll stand here and watch, paralyzed Who would've thought! No, really, this is quite a scene The cutest, coolest boy that I have ever seen Turned out to be a monster mutant death machine! "I wouldn't call myself-“ "You will not turn him in!"”

Tory - KT’s official guide to coolness - ummm spoilers pretty much everything fits 100% from characterisation to Tory’s story and the lyrics matching up really really well I can’t go into it but essentially tory = KT and dimitri = this girl who doesn’t have a name final name (I’ve called her rin in all my drafts and notes but IDK if it makes her role in story to obvious) but I’ve drawn her few times

“But what's this you say? The merciful lie that I live til this day has crumbled to dust and there's no other way cause some things are simply meant to be contained and one of them is me…So are you happy to be proved right? I only hope he won't lose sight of his own future clear and bright.Please take this song as my goodbye”

Grey - STRIKE 3 - “and in a thousand years I’ll see a tepid autumn day and only think about its grace but blinded by the sun you spin the barrel of a fully loaded gun if there’s no winning might as well just have some fun when will you get it through your skull that I will not let you drown.”

Morgan - 100 epitaphs - morgan’s and grey could be swapped in all honesty the main reason grey got 100 is because “and in a thousand years I’ll see a tepid autumn day and only think about its grace” fit grey so well and I wanted to give morgan “What's the point of picking at your wounds,your scratches and your scars?” - “Overindulgence in grief is only immature , Forgetfulness is both the sickness and the cure. Lay your emotion with them like a mourning wreath , I chose to shut my eyes, you chose to bare your teeth. What's the point pushing back against the mill that grinds the world to dust? What's the point of picking at your wounds,your scratches and your scars? One would think so, I believed so, and it was the wiser me But the wiser you knows better,But the wiser you is (free)”

Tolver - cleave - I was so close to giving him like a dog…and like a dog does fit! Tolver has dog symbolism but I just got stuck on “come back like a dog” because…he doesn’t and cleave would reference on Tolver and Tory’s relationship which is one of my favourites in the story so my bias won…letting myself use tart pafl songs because I didn’t know if there would be enough otherwise (and I knew I wanted to give one of the characters foot note) - “And it’s in my brain deep within her holy graves…still rotting all the same” / “yet I don’t know anything (though it’d be nice to set you free) you’re no different to me (just take my hand and then you’ll see) time for my final decree (too naive I should’ve seen) you take what you want and then leave so it seems I KNOW I KNOW EVERYTHING THE LONELY BOY AND HIS ENDLESS REPRIEVE ALL I AM IS HELPLESS IT SEEMS…I’LL SAVE YOU THE WAY YOU SAVED ME SO IT SEEMS”

Alex - Parties are for losers - song doesn’t fit but none of them do even if I let myself double up…there is the odd line here and their I associate with “will you help me bare this stone never seemed to work when trade someone else’s hardship for your own was what I ment” her but mostly got parties are for losers because it was either that or cleave. She does feel the need to fill her self up and meets a monster (ghost girl) who she tries to help and that goes horribly wrong - “On a night like any other my mind started to wander, then I froze -Out from the flickering shadows She arose..The loser looks in the eyes of the monster The room is caving in it’s okay, it’s okay, I say And just like that, it turns into a girl, hey A friendly baseball bat comes to save the day Eternal rest never seemed to be closer Than in that passing moment, but quickly my fear was gone A lapse of reason, I figure, can be pretty fun And so the party goes on and on”

Cory - I ate my twin in the womb - I mean he kinda has a twin and he kinda sorta metaphorically eats them in the womb? If you look at it from one characters perspective and tilt your head at just the right angle It also means both tory and cory get kt songs - (so since his actual assignment doesn’t have lyrics heres some from like a dog I think fit him) “Like an obedient dog…So won't you tell me ,What do you know of devotion? Be grateful for the freedom of lacking emotion. Accept your future path wasn't yours to be chosen and even if it takes you decades, I know that , You will come running BACK LIKE A DOG A WOUNDED DOG RUN BACK LIKE A DOG A WOUNDED DOG” / “you’ll run back like a dog to her”

Joycie - false disposition - given to her kinda because no other song really fits and you could argue on its own false disposition is about a requited crush. I picked it because the pov idolises the other person and demeans themself and tries to hide their feelings but fails at it all of which are very joycie things to do. Pov personality is completely off tho I could potentially see morgan saying some of those yura lines but joycie is not a sanya - “Once again I was left in the dust…Destructive ones like me fold when there is nothing to bust! I couldn't see past the bright facade - layers of rust…It's not like I'm saying goodbye! Hey, why are you smiling still, cool guy?” / “Yet the walls around my sheltered heart. Begin to break and fall apart,Your smile is brighter than the most relentless sun”

Diana (formerly Juliet) - Occam’s razor - all lyrics fit her character perfectly and line up surprisingly well with the actual events of TMCOTC like pretty much perfectly - “It's a dead-end endeavor, it's time you understood ,That this whole situation won't bring you any good. Oh, I know that your heart's beating faster than it should But I can't let you in - wouldn’t even if I could ,So, I see, I found myself trying to win another inconsequential fight. Hah, my bark turned out to be much harsher than the bite.All right, sometimes life doesn’t give a damn about how hard you try But forgive my helpless spite what's the point of this self-pity? It's not pretty…”

Aidan (formerly james) - the mill - the feeling of the song fits really well and the general more experienced / jaded feeling to what the characters are doing. The characters in the song focus on a event that happened in the past that one hasn’t forgiven the other for and that is very similar to Aidan and Diana’s situation and the focus on zone work since Aidan is a character super tied to , traumatised by and experienced in ghost hunting - “this isn’t my first time sinking lower then the low…how hard can it be to not let it overflow oh I’ve gotten used to being haunted long ago…all I need to hear is a simple hello”

Nadia (formerly jayme/jaime/jamie I don’t remember how I spelled it :’) - footnote (like I said earlier I’m letting myself pull from tart pafl songs too but if you want a ferry pafl assignment convergence (but I associate convergence with Nadie at a very specific part of the story and less with her character as a whole) - chosen for toxic codependent yuri reasons sanya spends most of the song talking about yura and it makes sense that Nadie would spend most of her time talking about diana rather then herself because she is perpetually down playing herself/see’s herself as just an extension or tool for other people -“I don’t need you to take everything in your wake it’s the thought of me that keeps you run though. I don’t pretend to fake. To not know what is at stake to only give and not take not in your nature”

Madeline - message lost - her whole thing is haunting the narrative so gave her the song that is connected to dying thoughts and to abandoning some who felt close to you. The creepy vibe also just fits her really well - “day can’t break when the sun has burned to a crisp ,there must have been some supernova i missed , my ultimate snapshot - “sky overcast” go out with a whimper, not with a blast”

[the last 4 characters are in group together and I wanted to make maddie feel like she doesn’t belong there / single her out as different so I gave all the other characters j name (picked jbecause I have a j name) but then as the story changed these guys show up really early in the story and if there are like 3 characters with similar sounding names all introduced at once then it’s probably going to be really hard to tell their names apart so I changed it so now their names are anagrams]

[lettersfortaji]

I heard the first step to healing is admitting your truth

well I hate myself,

I love the person I’m evolving into mentally and at times religiously but I can’t stand looking at my reflection

It’s pretty sad because according to society’s standard I’m considered pretty for a black girl

Maybe it’s my other ethnicity peaking through, but when I move through everyday life I don’t associate my human experience with my skin.

I feel like an euphoric and ethereal being and that thought is shut down as soon as I get a chance to look at myself in a mirror

As a black girl, I was told I was royalty. I was told I was beatiful, I was told that my skin and my hair are what make me rock.

And at times I did believe it.. I never associated myself with any of it.

My family is mixed with a lot of different ethnicity like native Irish German English and Brazilian

Sometimes I wonder if I view my outside world from those glasses or point of views

Even when I embrace my black heritage and culture I feel like I’m putting on a show for everyone in the room

That side of me was my best friend when I was a kid, she allowed me to use my voice and speak up for what was mine

Now that I’m an adult, I feel like a walking stereotype whenever I tap into that side

So yeah I hate myself

Part of me doesn’t think that’s a bad thing

Considering how so society is going down hill now a days, I’d probably be doing myself a favor adapting into the cultures of my other heritage

But it’s not just my stereotype that I hate

I hate my fashion

I hate my hair

I have a passion for fashion that I’ve never been allowed to express

Growing up whenever I tried new styles I’d have to deal with others teasing me or making fun of what makes me unique or different

I learned to pay them no mind and still do my own thing and later on I guess you can say I begin to become an influence for fashion in my hallways

It wasn’t til I had Fabian that I really started hated my style

I no longer wanted to wear the same thing, I felt like I had to hide my style behind pictures and I couldn’t where the same clothes in public due to stereotypes as far as what a mother should wear what a girl my age should wear or just a girl that looked like me in general

It never seems to fail, whenever I change my style there’s always someone pointing at me and claiming I’m only going through a phase

I actually mourn for the younger versions of me that weren’t able to express her self to her full capacity due to trying to fit standards or not wanting to deal with shame

This new season of my life I’m gonna wear whatever she wants to wear. And not restrict myself to judgment or stereotypes.

I just hope I still have the same passion and know where to pick up where I left off

[sednonamoris]

teeth

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: John never returns from his scouting trip. You, Arthur, and Javier seek him out through the snow.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, animal violence/attack/death (pretty brief), strong language, description of wounds, mild angst, snow storms, gratuitous horse content

Word count: 2,646

A/N: I like to think John made squeaky toy sounds when the wolves tried to eat him :) In all seriousness, though, Enter, Pursued by a Memory is one of my fav missions!! Really hoping I balanced the actual events with Ghost's presence well, but don't anticipate a rehash of every single mission like this. We had to establish a major plot point for John, but the rest of the story will mostly have the feeling of stranger missions as we see what Ghost got up to during the timeline of the game. My hope is to only 'redo' a handful of the really major missions - after all, RDR2 is Arthur's story!

Series masterlist • AO3

—

John is missing. 

He’s a grown man and he can handle himself and he was sent out to scout and surely he can follow your tracks here but it’s been days now and he’s missing. No one else seems to have noticed but Abigail. Maybe because the two of you are the only ones fool enough to care.

Everyone else is too focused on their own survival here at the frostbitten end of civilization. Colter, as someone recalls its name to be, is just as beat to hell as the entire camp feels. Its remaining walls provide shelter, but only just. The few threadbare blankets that made the journey aren’t enough to keep everyone warm, and the handful of cans of salted offal Pearson snagged for the journey are hardly food enough to keep everyone fed. The wagons are stuck until the spring melt begins, and it’s looking less and less like you’ll all make it ‘til then - already you’ve buried Jenny and Davey. You swear you won’t bury John, too, much less mourn an empty, snowbound grave, so on the second day you give in to your restlessness.

“I’m goin’ out looking,” you tell Abigail with a grim shake of your head. “He’s run off before, but… not like this.” 

“Thank you, Ghost,” she clasps your hands, and you hesitate only a heartbeat before squeezing back. “I’m— I knew you would understand.”

“Sure,” you try to offer a reassuring smile before heading out to tack your new mount.

Moonshine was Davey’s stud. He’s a stunning blue roan color with a powerful, compact build. He’s always been tough to handle, as wild and savage as his rider, but since Davey passed he’s been especially mean. That’s how you landed him; out of everyone in the gang, you’ve got the keenest horse sense. Already he’s bitten Charles in the short time he’s spent tending the mounts while his hand heals. Ever since, you’re the only one allowed to handle him. And still he’s a menace.

True to form, he pins his ears when you approach with the saddle and lifts a hind leg in warning. 

“Enough of that,” you chastise. 

“Sure that’s enough horse for you?” Arthur’s voice sounds from behind. 

You turn to face him and raise a brow when you see he’s got his own tack at the ready. The big painted bay he took from the Adler’s barn snorts softly. 

He shakes his head. “I still say Marston’s run off again, but Abigail asked me ‘n Javier to come with.” 

“Hosea’s worried, too,” Javier chimes in. He flashes an encouraging smile over Boaz’s back that offsets the sour look on Arthur’s face. 

You mount up and tilt your head towards the wilderness. “Let’s ride, then.”

—

Javier picks up the trail first, a set of hoofprints just past the stream that heads up further into the mountains. There’s an abandoned camp there still smoking, only a few hours old by Arthur’s reckoning. The embers in the fire have gone cold with the freeze, but you allow them to light a spark of hope in your chest all the same. 

John is alive out here somewhere. He has to be. 

The going is slow through snowdrifts and steep inclines, but the horses take on the challenge gamely - except Moonshine, who squeals and kicks out when Arthur rides up too close behind you. A quick spur forward redirects the stallion’s outburst. He prances and arches his neck before settling once more, and you pat his neck with murmured praise. 

“Jesus, that thing’s mean,” Arthur says.

“So is Ghost,” Javier teases. His eyes glint with mischief when he looks back at you, and you scoff a tired laugh. 

“So was Davey,” you say. “Still hard to believe that bastard’s gone. Everything happened so fast.”

“What did happen?” Arthur presses. 

You glance up at Javier, who lets out a breath. “We had the money, everything seemed fine, then suddenly they were everywhere.”

“Bounty hunters?”

You shake your head and grimace. “Pinkertons.”

“It was crazy,” Javier says. “Raining bullets.” 

As you climb the winding mountain path he explains how Dutch killed a hostage - a young girl, he says, in a bad way. You think about the blood on Dutch’s face as he dragged John to shore. The cold look there. Determination, not regret. You think about the feeling of a body going limp in your arms so many years ago. The eardrum that still doesn’t hear as well bursting with her head at the gunshot. The guilt you waited to feel that never came. 

“Bad business,” Arthur says with a weary sigh. 

You stay silent, staring past the falling snow. Bad business, alright. 

There’s little time to dwell on it as the storm picks up. Javier leads everyone higher and higher into these cursed mountains. A wolf cries in the distance. The sound rakes a chill down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. As snow starts coming down thicker you urge the horses to pick up the pace. In weather like this it won’t take much to lose the trail. You brace against the wind, tugging your coat closer around your shoulders. It does little to keep the biting cold at bay, but it’s better than nothing. This high up the wind is even worse, and the path only gets narrower.

Soon the horses begin to flag. You pat Moonshine’s neck and the palm of your glove comes away damp. He’s steaming with exertion. It won’t take much for him or the others to catch cold this way. 

“Tough going,” you say. Your voice is laced with the worry you’re trying so hard to keep in check. 

“Lots of fresh snow,” Javier agrees. “I don’t see the tracks anymore.”

“We can’t follow nothin’,” Arthur says, and your hackles raise. He and John haven’t gotten along for years, but his reluctance still rankles. 

You turn in your saddle and open your mouth to snap at him when Javier makes the decision for you all that it’s worth pushing just a bit more. The trail could pick up again. John could be close. 

Arthur sighs, but without another word you dig in for the climb. 

A dark shape in the snow not too far ahead has your heart in your throat. When you canter up to it, vultures take off. You’re about to send up a prayer that it isn’t John when you realize it’s not a person at all, but a horse.

Dead in the snow. 

“Missy,” you say, but they both know. 

John’s faithful red mare lies frozen, petrified with death and cold. Something other than vultures has started to eat her as well, belly ripped open and guts strewn. The snow around her is stained red. You turn away with a sigh. 

“Oh… that’s…” Arthur trails off. You pointedly ignore his glance towards you, laden with sympathy. 

“John could be close,” Javier reasons, and raises his pistol above his head to fire off a single shot. 

The sound cracks and echoes off snowy peaks. You swear you stop breathing when you hear a faint cry for help from a scratchy voice you know better than your own.

“Hey! Help! Here!”

You canter a little further up the path, but all too soon it narrows enough that taking the horses further isn’t an option. The three of you dismount and ground tie your mounts before continuing the journey on foot. 

Arthur clutches his shotgun a little tighter as you climb. Your rifle is thrown over your shoulder, just in case, and even Javier loosens his revolver in its holster. Anything could be waiting for you; these mountains are not made for kindness. 

Crouching beneath stone and scrambling up rock shelves you make your way towards the sound of John’s desperate pleas. He seems scared. A stab of fear pierces your own heart for him. 

A narrow walled pass allows brief respite from the wind, and you all pause for a moment to breathe. Javier passes his flask around, and you let the whiskey sting warmth into you as it goes down. When you emerge on the other side the storm seems even worse. 

“John!” you shout over the wind. “Hold on, we’re almost there!” 

“I’m here! Out on the ledge!” he calls back. His voice sounds closer than ever, hoarse and desperate but alive.

“There,” Javier points, then raises his voice for John’s benefit. “We’re coming!”

You sprint through snowdrifts to the edge of the dropoff. 

“I’m here!”

When you reach the ledge and look down to see him you curse under your breath. He looks… bad. Some predator got to him - wolves, if you know anything. Tore up his leg and made a mess of his face. The entire right side has been slashed through, nose, cheek, and mouth. He’s lost plenty of blood. The remaining skin is red and inflamed, like it’s infected already. He’s lucky it didn’t catch his eye. He’s lucky to be alive.

“Jesus, John,” you finally say, because you can’t think of anything else. “They chew you up and spit you out? Can’t taste that bad.”

“Nice to see you too, Ghost.” He tries to smile but only winces in pain. The relief in his voice could make you cry. 

 “That’s quite a scratch you got there,” Arthur observes when he catches up only a moment later.

Despite his heckling he’s quick to jump down and hoist John up to you. Javier helps pull him upright and he sags between the both of you. 

“Never thought I’d say this, but… it’s good to see you, Arthur Morgan.” 

You want to squeeze tight and never let him go, but he’s hurt, and even moving him from leaning on your shoulders to thrown over Arthur’s is enough to make him groan. 

“You don’t look so good.”

“I don’t feel too good neither.”

“Hang in there, compadre.”

It isn’t a long trek back to the horses, but it certainly feels that way. You have to keep reminding yourself not to hover. All that pent up worry and fear has nowhere to go now that John is safe with you. Maybe a good cry later will get it out of your system, but for you just have to worry about making it back to camp.

Javier notices your hypervigilance and offers a smile. “Tranquilo, my friend. Not much farther now.”

You try to smile back at him, but your expression drops when you spy movement over his shoulder. Wolves. On the ridge ahead. Three of them. Their coats are mangy and they look thin, which scares you a hell of a lot more than it would otherwise; they must be as desperate as you are. A bone-chilling howl looses from the throat of their leader when its yellow eyes meet yours.

“Shit,” you say. “Fuck. Goddamnit. Arthur, you and Javier get John to the horses.”

“No,” he puts John down and shoves him into your arms. “You take him. I’ll hold them off.”

You have no choice but to nod your thanks and hobble as quick as you can to where the horses stand spooking. Moonshine’s eyes roll back at the wolves as they stalk toward Arthur, growling. He dances in place, but stands still long enough for Javier to help you hoist John behind your saddle, even when Arthur starts shooting. Two gunshots ring crisp and clear, and you wait for the third but hear a cry of pain instead. You whip your head over to Arthur and see one of the wolves has him by the forearm. Without thinking, you grab your rifle from your back and take aim. On the exhale you squeeze the trigger, and with a yelp the wolf falls to the ground.

Arthur looks up at you, eyes wide with shock and thanks, before running to meet you and scramble onto his horse.

“Nice shot,” he pants.

“Any time,” you tip your hat. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

You spur the horses down the mountain and don’t look back.

—

Apart from the initial excitement, it’s a quiet ride into camp. John is in rough shape, but his grip at your waist never falters. It takes three people to get him off the horse once you make it back, and even with the extra hands they catch his bad leg at an awkward angle. You flinch when he cries out. 

“Careful, idiotas!” Javier scolds.

Hosea steps out to thank the three of you for a successful rescue, but you don’t stay to talk. Arthur can handle that. Instead you linger in the doorway, watching Abigail fret over John. Besides dressing his wounds he needs to get warm, so you pull yourself out of your stupor enough to close the door. Just before you turn away he catches your eye and mouths a thank you. You manage a sad smile and leave them be. 

For the rest of the day you make yourself scarce, cooling the horses out and chopping firewood and even lending Pearson a hand with the stew. Only once night has fallen and everyone else is long asleep do you allow yourself to sneak back into the cabin to see John.

It’s easier than you’d feared to tiptoe around everyone’s sleeping forms and into the empty chair at his bedside. The hard part is ignoring the pang of guilt that comes when you spy Abigail’s beautiful, moonlit face asleep without that pinch of worry between her brows you’re so accustomed to seeing. Jack is snuggled in just as peaceful at her side. A family. John’s family.

But when you reach him, everything else fades away.

They did a good job cleaning him up, given the circumstances. Thick strips of cloth bandage wrap half of his face, even the eye. The other half has been sponged clean so the blood and grime is no longer caked frozen on his skin. His hair is still unwashed and limp, but no longer matted to his face. They even wrangled him out of his shredded clothes and into some of the few spares lying around. 

He’s dead asleep. The exhaustion must have finally hit once the adrenaline and fear faded away. You settle into the chair at his bedside and just watch him sleep. Each steady rise and fall of his chest reassures you that he’s alive. That he’ll stay that way.

Before you realize what’s happening tears begin to wet your cheeks. You sniffle quietly to muffle the sound but can’t stop. He could have died up there. All alone on that mountaintop with only the snarl of wolves and the snap of their teeth to send him to the other side. This life you lead is dangerous, always, but you haven’t had to look mortality in the face in a long time. It stares at you with an open maw and hungry yellow eyes through John’s torn flesh, and you shudder in spite of the fire. 

It should make you want to confess. To lay your heart out and speak the love that’s laden your tongue for years uncounting - before it’s too late. But when you glance over at Abigail you can’t bring yourself to say a word. Instead you grasp John’s hands as gently as you can and raise them to your chapped lips.

You press a soft kiss there where your hands are joined and smile down on him past the heartbreak. When you go to leave he closes his fingers around your wrists. You stop dead in your tracks.

“Knew you’d come for me,” he rasps. His unbandaged eye opens blearily and shines up at you. You squeeze his hands back. 

“Of course,” you say. Whether he means the mountain or this room tonight, it doesn’t matter. The answer is the same. “Always.” 

Still, you leave before he can convince you to stay.

[jj-babebank]

Room 107 // chapter II // JJ Maybank (smut)

The story picks up where season 2 leaves us.

TW: Contains mentions of drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, sex and violence.

CHAPTER ONE can be found here.

Chapter 2 - La Realidad

The lobby was surprisingly big and it matched the interior of the diner to a T. Everything was rustic and cheesy-looking, mimicking what Americans imagined people in Spain’s houses to look like. The black and white tiles from the diner went on into the foyer, covered in plants. The ceiling was very high and you could see the roof from the middle of the lobby. Four sets of sofas and tables were spread around, but all of them were vacant, much like the ones in the diner.

Samara was leaning against one of the many columns supporting the arches on which the upper parts of the walls were resting, waiting for the group. JJ smiled at her but she didn’t smile back, only turned around and motioned for them to follow her up a wide set of stairs. “Seeing as we’re almost fully booked tonight, you’ll be staying on the first floor,” she said, stopping at the first floor’s landing where a hallway of doors revealed itself, “With me.” The sound of that excited JJ a little too much for his liking. “Fully booked?” John B mumbled under his breath, “Yeah right,” he scoffed. “Don’t jump to conclusions too quickly, friend of JJ,” Samara said, obviously having heard him regardless of the fact that she was a good few feet ahead of them, “There is more than meets the eye down here in La Guardiana.” She stopped in front of a door, placing a key inside the keyhole, “Room 103,” she said, opening the door to reveal a scarcely furnished small room with hideous red wallpaper on the walls and a double bed situated between two Spanish windows, “Obviously only two can sleep here, so who’s it gonna be?” Sarah volunteered first, “Me and John B can have it,” she said, quickly adding, “If that’s okay with you, of course…” “Alright,” Samara said, turning the lights on in what JJ guessed was the bathroom, “This is your bathroom, there’s shampoo and soap in there, I’m guessing you’ll need it, enjoy.” She said, leading the others out of the room and down to the next one, 105. She unlocked the door, revealing an almost identical room to the previous one with the only difference being in the wallpaper colour - it was blue. Kiara and Cleo agreed to share this room, which left JJ with Pope. “And room 107,” said Samara, unlocking the second to last door down the hallway, “It’s right next to mine, how lucky,” she said sarcastically, handing Pope the keys. He ran into the room, laying on the bed with a look of pure bliss on his face. JJ turned to Samara, “Hey, uh, thank you so much again, I-“ “Meet me in the lobby at midnight.” She interrupted him, turning on her heel to walk away, “Don’t be late.” JJ’s pants suddenly felt awfully tight with excitement as he nodded, “Okay!” He said enthusiastically, “But… What time is it now?”

~~~~~~

The good thing about 100 degree temperature was that everything dried quickly. Whether it was hair or clothes or underwear - it dried up in no time. This was exactly why after taking what felt like the best showers of their lives, JJ and Pope washed their clothes and let them air dry on the window sills. Both boys were currently laying in bed in their towels, staring at the ceiling with only the sound of the big wall clock ticking away in the background. “She wants to meet up, you know?” JJ suddenly broke the silence. Pope snickered next to him, “You know what, JJ? I’ve gotta give it to you, man. Even smelly and dirty, you still manage to get the girl. How do you even do it?” JJ smiled proudly, “What can I say? I guess I’m just irresistible.” Pope laughed at his friend’s words. “So what time are you going to her room?” He asked. “Oh, she wants to meet me in the lobby. Probably wants to have a couple of drinks to, uh, you know, break the ice. Little does she know that JJ Maybank is more than just a pretty face and a man of few words,” JJ said cockily, “Come here, baby, I can recite you the whole dictionary” he wiggled his eyebrows. Pope was laughing hysterically at his friend’s cockiness, “What would we ever do without you, man?” “I’ll tell you one thing you wouldn’t have done without me,” he said, sitting up at gesturing towards their surroundings, “Sleep in a bed, at a hotel, for free,” Pope nodded, “Dude, I still can’t believe this is happening, this girl’s practically saving our asses,” “Yeah and you just wait ’til I get a hold of hers,” JJ wiggled his eyebrows once again. Pope scoffed, “What time are you meeting?” “Midnight,” JJ responded, looking at the clock. It was currently 8pm. The sun was still out and oddly enough, the street was beginning to sound a bit more lively. JJ and Pope peaked through one of the windows to have a look at what was happening outside. Sure enough, as the sun began to set, the streets of La Guardiana began to fill up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One positive about being a castaway - ending up in a cool new spot where a hot girl was practically giving herself to JJ.

One negative thing about being a castaway - having nothing to wear to impress said hot girl.

JJ was known to be an attractive guy and he knew it. Pulling girls never posed an issue for him back in the Outer Banks, yet here he was, standing in front of the long rectangular mirror in the hallway of his and Pope’s shared room, sighing at his reflection. He tried combing his sandy blonde hair back with his fingers, failing miserably as the soft strands just wouldn’t cooperate and stay in one spot. He looked down at his clothes, the same set of clothes he’d been wearing since that day, and rolled his eyes, throwing his head back in annoyance. “At least they’re clean…” he sighed to himself, tugging at his top. Pope was sitting on their bed, smirking at JJ’s reflection through the mirror, “Is it just me or do I sense nervousness?” JJ turned around to face him, his face expression both sad and annoyed, “This is all I’ve got, it’s not like I can do anything about it.” Pope shrugged his shoulders, “I mean, look at it this way - if she offered to help all of us after having a five minute conversation with you, then she must like you a lot.” Pope’s words made JJ’s lips curl into a small smile. Maybe he was right, why else would Samara willingly offer to house not only him, but his friends too, in her family’s hotel, for free? She must have liked him, right? Right?

The blonde boy sighed as he turned to look at the clock. In 10 minutes he would have to make his way downstairs to the pretty lady who asked him to meet her there, and to say he was excited would be an understatement. He took a seat next to Pope on the bed, keeping him company in watching some baseball game currently playing on their little TV, engulfing the room in light. JJ was tapping his foot on the ground nervously, checking the clock every few seconds, not focusing on the TV programme at all. Time seemed to be passing dreadfully slow all of a sudden. The street in front of their window was now full of people chattering and laughing, there was music playing from several different spots, one melody overlapping with the rest and smells of all kinds were filling the boys’ room, the one of marijuana particularly tickling JJ’s fancy as all he could think about was how much just one, not more, drag would help him ease his nerves before his much anticipated date. Was it even a date? He was so nervous at this point that he decided to just head downstairs without wasting any more time.

The short walk down to the lobby was filling JJ’s already nervous brain with even more nerves. What was he even nervous about? He was never like this around girls. Although, he had to admit he hadn’t really flirted with anyone in a while now, even before the day of the incident. He was so engulfed in mourning his best friend and Sarah, whom he believed to be dead, that he had completely neglected his own needs and fantasies, sex being the one he had pushed to the side the most. The past few months were hard for JJ, what with everything going on in his life - from John B to his dad, to the gold, and now the cross; almost being tossed in jail on more than one occasion, getting into numerous fights, hiding on numerous occasion and not to mention all that running that him and his friends somehow always had to partake in, being chased by anyone and everyone wherever they went. JJ had been so busy doing all of this, he had forgotten how to be a teenaged boy, how to fix his hair, how to talk to girls - hell, he was sure that if Samara took him up to her room, he’d have to have at least three of those whiskeys he drank earlier, just to know where to touch her - that’s how much he had neglected his sex life.

Making his way down to the lobby, he saw her. She was sitting on one of the couches, not yet aware of his presence there, a glass of wine resting in her delicate hands and another one sitting on the table in front of her, presumably for JJ. Her silky chocolate hair cascaded down her tanned shoulders, covering her voluptuous breasts, making JJ gulp. She was wearing an off white dress that seemed to hug her in all the right places and the contrast between her dark hair, bronze tan and the light coloured material made her appear even more alluring to the young boy, if that was even possible. Samara was truly a sight to behold and JJ couldn’t believe his luck quite yet. Somehow all of this seemed too good to be true. People never usually just gave stuff away, it wasn’t in their nature. Being from the cut, JJ was used to only receiving things that he was expected to work for. Good things never came cheap, and the girl sitting before him who had put a roof over his and his friends’ heads for the foreseeable few days, definitely didn’t look like the type who just gave things away. JJ was simply hoping that the wine she had prepared for him would be enough to soothe his nerves before what he imagined would be a night of hot, raunchy sex. He wanted to rip her clothes off and make her whimper beneath him and he was so set on that, that he had turned it into the only logical thing that she could ask for in return for the massive favour she was doing for him. It only made sense, right? She knew he had nothing - what else could he possibly offer her?

“Hello, JJ,” Samara spoke when she finally saw the boy approaching her. He sat down on the sofa next to her and picked up the glass of wine that was waiting for him on the table. “I heard about a certain gold you have,” she simply said, her plump lips twisting into a smirk and her black eyes boring into JJ’s blue ones, “How about I help you get it back and in turn,” she reached for his knee, “- you share some of it with me.”

Uh-oh.

[writingwithacupoftea]

Comfort Blanket

Summary: It is up to Tommy and Y/N Shelby to keep the family together after their Mother’s death. They discover along the way that sometimes a comfort blanket is an object and other times it’s a feeling...

Word Count: 1891

Prompt: “There’s no place for us to sleep at night.” (part of @smallheathgangsters​ 1k followers party 💜)

A/N: This ended up being way more festive than I anticipated but, hey ho, it’s less than 3 month til Christmas now! I’ve also definitely taken some liberties with the whole pre-series story and ages and stuff but oh well. I’ve wanted to write a piece based on the blanket in this gif for a while now, so this prompt just worked perfectly for it! 

Congratulations again, Leah, on the 1k milestone - it’s so well deserved, and here's to 1k more 🥳 I hope you and everyone else enjoys my little contribution to the celebration ❤️

(gif by @nofckingfighting​)

The Shelby clan had never known darker times than the months following their mother's death.

Their father was more absent than ever before. Arthur Shelby Junior was still hopelessly trailing around after him. John had fled to Martha's house, seeking comfort in her arms. Ada was distraught, and everyone had given up trying to guess what her next move would be, for entering her teenage years had made her even more unpredictable than ever anyway. Between looking after Finn and working as much as her brother would allow, Polly was permanently exhausted.

Tommy felt like he was drowning alongside his mother, burdened with the responsibility of trying to look after his family as best he could whilst grieving.

That left Y/N. Born just a year after Tommy, she was the one he turned to when he needed a break. Whether it was to cry and mourn the loss of his beloved mother, or taking charge when all Tommy wanted to do was sleep after a long day's work, Y/N was always there. She picked up the pieces for all of her siblings, and was the oil that kept the cogs of the machine turning.

One night, Tommy and Y/N found themselves alone in the parlour, relishing in the moments of quiet that had fallen after the rest of the family had gone to bed. It was at these times that the pair confided in each other, whether it was their own news or that of their siblings.

Tonight, so far, they had sat in silence. But Y/N knew that Tommy would tell her something soon, and also knew that Tommy would be able to sense that she had something to tell him. It was all a matter of who would speak first.

"I don't know what to do, Y/N/N." Tommy had taken the leap this time.

"Don't know what to do about what?" Her brother's confession had surprised Y/N: Tommy always had a plan for everything.

"I'm doing everything I can to provide for us all and it's still not enough, even though I've taken every fucking job I can find. The lock on the door is still broken from when Dad came home drunk the other night, and the window next to Finn's nursery hasn't been mended yet from when John accidentally smashed it with his ball. Polly's had to take all of the spare blankets for him so that he doesn't get sick. We can't afford to buy any more. There's no place for us to sleep at night. Not somewhere that's safe and warm, anyway."

Y/N sighed. "First of all, Tom, and this is important, so you'd better fucking pay attention to me." Y/N was pleased to see that he let out a slight laugh at that. "You're doing an amazing job at all of this. We're all so grateful for everything you're doing, even if I'm the only one that will actually say it out loud. We couldn't ask any more of you, Tommy.

"Secondly, I may be able to help you – now, don't get mad!" Y/N added this last part hurriedly, having seen Tommy's eyebrows quickly shoot up. Taking a deep breath, Y/N broke the news. "Harry has given me a job...as a barmaid in the Garrison."

"What?!" Tommy jumped out of his seat, looking down at Y/N in disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? If you think I'm going to let you work there with all those drunk idiots every night, then you'd better think again."

"If you think you can tell me what I can and can't do, then you'd fucking better think again, Thomas," Y/N retorted, as her brother began to pace up and down the room. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm an adult now and can make my own decisions. Anyway, I've worked everything out and I have a plan to put to you."

Tommy sat down again, not taking his eyes off his younger sister.  

"You're working yourself into the ground, Tommy, and quite frankly we can't afford for you to be ill, so you need to get some more rest." The man in question opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off immediately by Y/N. "I want you to give up a couple of your jobs – some of them only pay a pittance, whilst my wage alone would cover that and a little more. I want you to put more time and energy into building up our Dad's business. I've got this feeling that it could become so much more, and you're the one that will make it happen, Tommy, I just know it!"

The second eldest Shelby brother sighed, his head falling heavily into his hands. He had to admit, Y/N's plan sounded incredibly tempting. But still, doubts invaded his thoughts, namely his concerns over his sister working in the Garrison of all places and the question of what if it all failed? What if they ended up in a worse position than they were in now?  

With two words from Y/N, however, he was convinced: "Trust me."

"Fine. We'll give it a go on one condition – if any of those fuckers at the pub ever, and I mean ever, give you any bother whatsoever, you tell me straight away. Alright?"

Y/N smiled softly at her brother, pleased with the outcome of their conversation. "Alright," she whispered in agreement, reaching over to grab his hand.

"Thank you, Y/N." Tommy's voice broke through the silence, his sincerity as clear as day.

"We're going to be alright, Tom. One day, we won't have to worry about everyone being safe and warm in their beds. It might take some time, but we'll get there eventually."

Tommy nodded, almost imperceptibly, before slowly getting up to make his way to his own bed, only stopping to place a gentle kiss to his sister's forehead.

All they could do now was pray that Y/N would be right once again.

***

About a year later, their prayers were beginning to be answered.

Business at the betting shop was flourishing, and the Shelby's were gaining more respect by the day. It was all illegal, of course, but all that mattered to Tommy and Y/N was that enough money was rolling in to look after the family.

As Christmas drew nearer, their house was beginning to feel more like a home again for the first time since their mother passed. Fires roared in the hearth at night, they had finally been able to make the repairs that the house so desperately needed, and the family seemed to be happy.  

The future looked brighter for the Shelby clan, and it was a sight that Y/N was overjoyed to have before her. Her plan had worked, the dark circles beneath Tommy's eyes were melting away and her Christmas present for him was finally ready.

Despite Tommy's arguments that she didn't need to stay on at the Garrison anymore, Y/N had decided to keep her job there. Surprisingly, she'd discovered that she was rather good at bar work and had been immensely satisfied when her brothers had entered the pub on one of their 'check-ups' on her to witness her chucking a couple of drunks out onto the street by the scruffs of their neck. Y/N liked earning her own money, rather than relying on Tommy, and it meant that no questions were asked about how she was spending it.

Most of her wages had gone towards Tommy's present, and Y/N could only hope that he liked it. The closer and closer that it got to the big day, the more Y/N began to doubt it. But she'd put too much work into it to turn back now.

She had decided against leaving it under the tree, not wanting anyone to be ridiculed for it, and instead kept it a secret in her room. So, on the night of the 25th, Y/N padded down the stairs to meet Tommy alone in the parlour.

"I thought you'd be in bed by now." Tommy was smiling up at her from his seat on the sofa.

"You know I'm always too excited at Christmas to get much sleep." Her brother rolled his eyes fondly at Y/N's reminder. "Anyway, I have one more present to give out."

Tommy's brows furrowed in confusion. "But we all opened your presents earlier, Y/N/N?"

"Yes, yes, I know – you don't need to make this any more embarrassing for me than it already is!."

The man in question chuckled, holding his hands up in surrender.

Y/N sat down next to her brother, and handed him the carefully wrapped package. "Happy Christmas, Tommy," she said, gently. As he began to open it, Y/N's nervous rambling automatically began. "Now, if you don't like it, just tell me. I won't be offended! I can find something else to do with it. It's not really your colours, now I think about it, and - "

"Y/N do you want me to open this or not?" Tommy snapped, but his eyes were full of fondness for his younger sister.

"Yes," Y/N replied, meekly.

Tommy pulled away the last of the wrapping to find a thick patchwork blanket, which was clearly handmade. Speechless at the thought and care put into the gift, he asked the only question that was running through his head:  "Why?"

"I wanted to give you something special to say thank you for everything you've done for us since Mum died. Also, I'm not stupid, you know." At Tommy's confused expression, Y/N elaborated. "Nearly every morning before we got the house fixed up, I used to wake up with double the amount of blankets on top of me compared to how many I went to bed with. Your blankets, Tommy, when we barely had enough to share between us all in the first place. So I wanted to make you one myself that is yours and yours alone.

"You said to me once that we had nowhere to sleep at night that was safe and warm, but you created that place for us, for me. I know we've got plenty of blankets in the house now, but I just wanted to try and give you that same feeling of comfort that you gave to me." She stopped talking at that, suddenly aware of how long she had been going on for.

Tommy held the warm fabric in his hands, his thumb tracing the messy stitching which held each patch together, trying to blink away the tears glazing his eyes. "I love it, sweetheart. Thank you."

A relieved smile lit Y/N's face, but it was quickly replaced by a loud yawn. She gently rested her head on Tommy's shoulder as she curled her legs up on the sofa, and he wrapped his arm around her.

"Happy Christmas, Tom," Y/N mumbled sleepily.

"Happy Christmas, Y/N/N," Tommy replied with a smile.

Moments later, Y/N's breathing had evened out and she had fallen into a deep slumber. Tommy's eyes flitted between her sleeping form and the beautiful blanket on his knee.

Maybe he could share his blanket with his sister just one more time...

[thedeviljudges]

Do you think Yohan always planned to fake his death and join Elijah in Switzerland, or did he originally intend to really die with the rest of the 'villains'? Part of me thinks that would fit with his pre-Gaon conception of himself, as a monster, not deserving of love, not necessarily seeing a role for himself in Elijah's life beyond getting revenge for her/Isaac, and financing an opportunity to help her recovery. Or do you think regardless of that, he'd still never plan to leave her on her own?

i didn't mean to put off this ask for so long. i was busy, but i also wanted to wrap my thoughts around this before i tried answering. not bc i didn't have an answer to begin with but yohan and death is a subject i'd like to approach, but i'm not entirely sure how i'd like to make the analysis of it, and i'm not sure i ever will.

so that leaves me to answer it here in the best way i can because point blank: i do believe yohan intended to die by the end. i do think he had two plans in place since the beginning (dying or not dying and helping elijah), but of course, until that final moment, he wasn't ever going to know the truth. that end scene of him blowing up the court was a 50/50 shot. he had a plan to make it out, but it wasn't a guarantee.

but lets also back up a bit because before we get to that point, i think it's necessary to point out that the reason yohan gets away and does all of the shit that he does is because he knows that he might not make it out alive. it's why he's reckless. it's why he bends the law the way that he does. yohan's actions prove, over and over again, that he does not care for himself. he does not care to live except to protect elijah. there are so many small moments of this. we call yohan unhinged out of fun, but i think there is truth in it because i've mentioned this casually before (and part of my words above in terms of not necessarily knowing how to approach this just yet) is that yohan is almost...... suicidal himself.

he's reckless. he's said that he does not care about the actual law. his goal has always been getting revenge for his brother, especially for his niece who grew up without her parents. yohan never truly cared about the bigger picture until gaon came along. if we leave out gaon and think of the plot as such, yohan would've been able to prevail much quicker, i'd say. he had a plan and was going to follow through with it no matter what, regardless of the ending. and he knew going into it that there was a chance he wouldn't make it out alive.

which is why i think he partially also allowed elijah to blame him for her parent's death because if she hates him, it will be so much easier for her to forget him. she won't mourn him or miss him. she will be able to move on with her life and live it any which way she wants. but because yohan doesn't really understand kids, let alone elijah, what he fails to realize is that elijah doesn't actually hate her uncle. she's looking to get rid of all of the pent up hurt and frustration bc she never had an outlet to let all of that out. yohan fails to see that elijah cares for him and would miss him, to a degree, if he died.

so now, if we think of the plot with gaon, it twists everything on its head bc gaon has no need to be there within yohan's plans. yohan doesn't need gaon to do anything bc everything was already planned from the beginning. if anything, gaon came in and crashed some things, leaving yohan to pick up those pieces and continue pushing forward. biggest case in point, gaon's stubbornness and his arguments against yohan with the law and what he's doing.

see, gaon eventually comes to realize yohan's reasonings for doing what he's doing for his brother, but i feel like gaon thinks that even if that is part of yohan's plan involves revenge, how much does he think yohan is also doing this for the greater good and wanting to fix society? we know that yohan has no intention of that, but does gaon? and so no wonder gaon protests because if he thinks yohan is trying to fix a broken system (plus get revenge all in the same plot), no wonder gaon continues fighting yohan - he's under the belief that yohan is trying to make things better. but he's NOT.

which circles back to the idea that yohan had every intention of either making it out alive or dying. gaon opened his eyes that yes, maybe things could possibly be good. gaon made yohan question a lot of things along the way, especially his own humanness and realizing that he is worth something and not the monster he let himself believe he was, and what others told him he was. that wasn't part of the plan either, which is why it made it so much harder for yohan to go through with bombing the court because yohan's at a conflicting place of finally understanding gaon's hope but knowing that he only ever had revenge as an intent.

yohan's plan is derailed a bit by gaon being hope and introducing concepts yohan has lived without for so long. before then, yohan lived isolated with one clear goal in mind until gaon showed him he had a reason to live. i also said in another post that while gaon stopped yohan because he didn't want to see yohan going down a path he couldn't come back from, it was already too late at that point. yohan had already set his path long before gaon came into the picture and nothing he said or done would've changed that. but it DID given yohan more perspective and more heart, possibly being at peace even more so with dying knowing elijah would have gaon.

but instances within the show - of course, his two fake deaths. him steering gaon and himself off the road on the middle of the highway. him chasing after the minister's son. yohan asking soohyun to save gaon despite him literally bleeding out.

yohan does not care for himself. he does not care whether he lives or dies, as long as his plan is completed. we can talk til we're blue in the face about how yohan was wrong manipulating the law like he did and various other things, but the reason why? is because he did not care. and it wasn't because of him being a sociopath by any means. it was because he numbed his emotions, lied to himself, and used his love for his brother and elijah to propel him to a desired end with the possibility of his death involved. and quite frankly, that speaks volumes about who he is and just how much he actually cares, how much he actually has emotions.

yohan, to love his niece so much he decided to manipulate the law, to serve his own agenda and purposes for an outcome that wouldn't actually give them that much peace, but would at least position the country in a way they could grow and give elijah a life where she wouldn't have to grow up into that kind of destruction. this is why yohan "leaves" gaon behind and why gaon is the hope of the show because in going along with his plans, yohan realized that if gaon wasn't going to follow him through til the end, if he was going to do everything in his power to stop yohan, then the biggest apology yohan could give gaon was the world - the entire judicial system to make things right, to do better. that was yohan's gift to gaon and his apology because yohan had no intention of making it better. but maybe gaon could with him gone.

i've seen a few comments about how if yohan was someone in irl, we'd all steer clear of him, well, there's a lot of characters out there like that, but i wouldn't stay away from him for the reasons everyone typically lists (like the choking and manipulation) because they think he's that way just bc. yohan's actions mimic those of someone who simply doesn't care because they're depressed and not because they're psychotic. there is a DIFFERENCE. like yes, are some of his actions shitty? and his gaon right to mistrust the things he does sometimes, also yes.

but understand that there is a difference in people's behaviors depending on the underlying mental health issues involved. i don't fully believe yohan had any intent to hurt elijah or gaon maliciously. it's part of yohan being oblivious and not recognizing his own actions mixed with the entirety of his plans to be followed through til the very end. we've seen how oblivious yohan can be (the classroom bird story is a classic example; they all thought he was the devil when in reality, this kid only hurt the bird because it was scaring the girl he sat next to. logically, that mean eliminating the threat. he didn't purposefully kill the bird and enjoy it. it was a practical response within his own personal world).

i feel like i'm missing parts of this discussion, which is why i said this was a difficult topic for me to approach just to get all of my thoughts about it out there. and long story short to answer your question: i think yohan intended to die (just like he had a plan in case went to jail, for example). that possibility couldn't have been ruled out. but i think he had the plan to escape with elijah so that she could get better. either way, whatever happened happened, even if he died. elijah would be taken care of regardless.

gaon throws a wrench in his plans just a little bit, makes him realize his emotional capacities but gaon's not enough to stop yohan from seeing his plans out until the very end, even if that means losing gaon, too, because even if gaon has shown yohan that he is worthy of love and family and affection, it is not enough to forgive everything he's done, and he needs to make right what was wrong. yohan's death in that courtroom, if it had happened, wouldn't be the thing everyone needed to forgive him for his actions but it would be a start in eliminating himself as part of the problem.

another thing to keep in mind, is that we know yohan is not a sociopath, even if that's what everyone wanted us to believe. everyone thought he made sunah jump out the window, but what he was actually doing was protecting isaac and his mother's necklace. sunah made the choice all on her own, set up yohan and framed him despite yohan reaching out time and time again. isaac didn't even understand what had happened and focused on the fact that this girl jumped because of yohan without listening to the truth of it. yohan has always been shown to be fiercely loyal to the people he loves. he's never directly done anything bad (at least as a kid) unless he was provoked.

what people need to understand about yohan as a character is INTENTIONS. and i hope i'm making myself clear on this. everyone thinks he's born a devil, but that has never been the case. yohan's actions just come from a place from blind revenge. if he never needed to get revenge in the first place, if isaac was alive and well, would yohan make these same decisions? would he still be this kind of person who needed to use these methods to work around the law? i don't think so.

i think i remember getting an ask awhile back about whether yohan would eventually turn into who he is now had isaac lived because we see him livid and upset during that flashback to one of his earlier court cases (where we find he's ripping the paper with the pen) and whether or not isaac's death just fast forwarded the process. i don't feel like trying to go dig that post out, and i can't remember what i said on it either, but i feel yohan would have his family as a moral compass to keep him in line, and he wouldn't have succumbed to his present-day tactics. i think he could've worked his way up into the system and made real change. i think his heart could've been there all long, but again, was derailed by isaac's death and of course, plans changed.

this was a mouthful, and i hope what i'm saying makes sense because you can probably see what i mean about how difficult it is trying to organize my thoughts about this subject. but i am under the full belief that yohan had every intention of dying at the end or even before that. i think he's a depressed individual who learned to slowly open back up with gaon's help, but gaon is no doctor and no amount of his kindness would help someone that depressed either. it helped, certainly. but yohan saw himself as a monster/devil until the very end, and was more than willing to kill himself to make gaon and elijah's life so much easier. as penance. as justice. as love.

[babbysquid]

Not A Whiskey Drinker Pt. 2

Author’s Note: Oh my goodness thank you all for the positive feedback on NAWD! I’m really enjoying writing this and living out my own fantasy. The DRAMA begins in the part after this so prepare yourself for that!

Warnings: mild cursing

------------

Sunday had passed by quickly and it was now Monday at 8am. Your interview was at 9. You studied your reflection in the mirror. You were wearing the outfit that Parker had helped you pick out but had the shirt buttoned all the way up. Grabbing your bag you and throwing on your shoes you looked at yourself one more time. Chewing the inside of your cheek you took a deep breath.

“Fuck it.” you whispered to and you unbuttoned the top two buttons of your shirt, just as Parker had done previously.

You stood outside a tall office building and looked up. It looked modern and new, but not imposing. Swallowing hard you pushed your shoulders back, raised your head up, and strutted through the front door. Fake it til you make it as they say.

“Hi I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” you said to the receptionist at the front desk. “I have an interview with Mr. Daniels.”

“Ah yes Mr. Daniels has been expecting you. Give me one second and I’ll take you to his office.” said the receptionist.

“Ah it’s okay Sara, I got it.” said a voice from behind you.

Turning around you saw a gorgeous woman. She wore a white button down and black slacks. Her short haircut was modern and cute. It suited her face really well. Thick glasses sat on the edge of her nose. She gave you a kind smile. Looking at her outfit and her appearance in general you suddenly felt self conscious. Maybe you should’ve stuck with the fully buttoned up shirt.

“I’m Ginger.” she said, extending her hand.

You took her hand in yours as you introduced yourself and the two of you walked to the elevators.

“So you have an interview with Jack?”

You nodded.

She laughed a little and it almost seemed like she was taking pity on you.

“He’s a good guy, but he’s definitely a character. He means well though.”

You smiled back. New York City was definitely filled with interesting and strange people. Your mind quickly thought back to the cowboy you met on Friday.

The elevator dinged and stirred you from your thoughts. Ginger guided you to a pair of mahogany doors.

“Well. This is where I leave you. Good luck Y/N.”

“Thank you.”

Taking a deep breath you knocked on the door and waited. A second later you heard some footsteps and you mentally prepared yourself for whoever was inside. The door swung open and your jaw dropped. You couldn’t help it.

Before you stood the same cowboy that had prevented your fall. Quickly you snapped your jaw shut. He was just as handsome as you remember, if not more handsome. He was still wearing his black stetson. Instead of the long camel coat he wore when he was in the park he was wearing a blazer with matching slacks. The blazer had a classic cowboy look but was still somehow modern. You flicked your eyes down to confirm your guess, he was wearing cowboy boots. He was wearing a pair of simple wire glasses and they looked good on him.

“Well isn’t this a coincidence?” said the man, “Come in, please.”

He stepped aside allowing you to enter the office.

For as modern as the building appeared, Mr. Daniels’ office felt lived in and warm. It was covered in mahogany and leather. An old globe sat on a shelf and other bits and bobs decorated the office, including what appeared to be a cow skull. You didn’t realize you were staring until Mr. Daniels’ honeyed voice made you blink.

“It’s real if that’s what you’re thinking.” he said.

You turned and realized he was much closer than you thought, practically close enough to touch you. You swallowed hard. He smelled good.

“Well let’s get started, shall we?” he said, stepping back and motioning to a chair that sat in front of his desk.

Wordlessly you moved to the chair and sat down. The whole act of confidence you had suddenly vanished. Mr. Daniels was slightly intimidating and holy hell was he attractive.

“Now Y/N — you don’t mind if I call you that?” Mr. Daniels asked.

“Y/N is fine yes.” you said, slightly unsure about the familiarity. Your previous job you were never addressed by your first name, it was always Ms. Y/L/N.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked, swiveling in his chair to grab a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from behind him.

You smiled, appreciating the offer but politely declined.

“I’m actually not a whiskey drinker.” you said. Mr. Daniels laughed loudly as if he knew something you didn’t.

“I know it’s odd that I’m here interviewing for a whiskey company Mr. Daniels—

“Please, call me Jack.” he interrupted.

“…Jack,” you said slowly “but I promise I’ll be dedicated even if it’s not my drink of choice.”

Jack smiled and poured himself a glass of the amber liquid. Leaning back in his chair he studied you. Feeling his gaze on you, you gave him a small smile, trying to convince him that you really would work hard.

“Well Y/N,” he said after a second, “you got the job!”

Your brows furrowed. There was absolutely no way he was serious. He only asked if you wanted a drink, the company’s drink no less, and you said no. No interview questions, no asking for documents or recommendations. Nothing.

“I know you might be surprised but here at Statesmen we like to do things a little differently. And don’t worry about not liking whiskey. Who knows though, you may warm up to it.” he said, giving you a wink.

“This certainly was the easiest interview I’ve ever done.” you whispered under your breath. But according to the booming laugh that came out of the man sitting in front of you, your whisper wasn’t quiet enough.

“I assure you Y/N that you’ve already gone through an extensive interview process. The company has contacted past employers of yours and done copious amount of research and background checks into your resume. It may have been easy on your end, but not on ours.”

‘Certainly the weirdest interview I’ve ever done too.’ you thought.

“Well!” said Jack, clasping his hands together and standing up from his chair. “You start tomorrow. Let me give you a quick tour so you can settle in easy tomorrow.” In a flash he was around the desk and holding his hand out to you, a million dollar smile on his face.

Letting out a short breath you pushed away your anxiety and trepidation. If this was gonna be your new job you may as well start acting like your normal self. You grabbed his hand with assurance and stood up from your seat.

Neither one of you moved.

Standing there your eyes were glued to the sight of your hand being dwarfed by his. Slowly your eyes moved up to meet Jack’s. They were the most gorgeous shade of brown. Dark but still with a warmth and spark that drew you in. The glasses he wore framed them perfectly. Subconsciously you lightly bit your bottom lip. You blinked and the trance was broken. Slowly you removed your hand from his, but your palm was still tingling from the skin to skin contact.

“Thank you by the way.” you said breaking the silence.

Jack gave you that smile again and it felt like your internal organs had been turned to soup.

“Don’t worry about it darlin’. I’m quick on my feet and happened to see a beautiful young woman in need so I helped.”

You almost choked at the words he spoke.

“Let me show you to your space.” said Jack, his hand moving to lightly sit on the middle of your back.

In any other professional circumstance if someone did this to you you’d immediately call HR. In this instance however Jack’s gesture felt comforting and gentlemanly, not creepy and an intrusion of personal space. To summarize, you enjoyed his touch.

The two of you strode out the doors and walked a short distance down the hall to a door. Leading you inside Jack explained how this would be your personal office. You had never had a private space just for yourself in your workplace. You laughed softly.

“Something funny?” said Jack, looking down at you, hand still on your back.

“Never had my own space before. This place is almost bigger than my apartment.” You looked up at him with shining eyes. Jack swallowed thickly. Your big eyes were something else and certainly affecting him.

“Hah. Well I just hope you don’t move in here! Gotta have a separation between work and play.” said Jack, winking at you.

You could feel your face heating up at the comment as Jack led you out of the room and your heart was beating faster than it should’ve. Unbeknownst to you, so was Jack’s. He wasn’t expecting his new PA to be the gorgeous girl from the park. Admittedly he had thought about you a couple times since, beating himself up for not inviting you to coffee or something.

Outside of your new office stood Ginger.

“Ah sweet Ginger!” said Jack, removing his hand from your back. You silently mourned the loss of contact.

“This is my new peach of an assistant Y/N.”

“I know Jack.” said Ginger, rolling her eyes. “How do you think she found your office?”

“Always one step ahead Miss Ginger.” said Jack, flashing his smile again.

“Come with me Y/N and we’ll get you put in the system.”

“Pleasure meeting you darlin’ and I cannot wait til tomorrow.” said Jack, winking one last time before turning on his heel and sauntering back into his office.

“Is he always like that?”

“He’s always been a ladies man. You may be his assistant but make sure he knows who’s in charge. Keep him on a short leash.”

------------

“So how was it?” Parker asked, taking a bite out of her pizza. She had come over to eat dinner with you and get all the juicy details about the job interview.

“Weird. I mean I got the job, but it was still weird.”

“First off yay! Secondly, what do you mean weird?”

“Well the building was way more high tech than I expected but the thing that was the weirdest was the interview itself. The only thing he asked me was if I wanted a glass of whiskey.”

“To which you said no.”

“Yeah…” you trailed off.

“I know that look Y/N. What’s on your mind?”

“Jack Daniels is the cowboy from the park.”

Thankfully Parker had swallowed her bite of pizza before hearing this, otherwise there’d be a chewed up wad of cheese on your floor.

“WHAT?”

“He was acting kind of flirty too.”

“So you did unbutton the shirt!” Parker said, a look of pride on her face.

“Parker that’s not the point. Afterwards when I was talking to the head of networking and media she explained that Jack is like this with every woman. The hat I need to show him who’s in charge, even if he is my boss.”

“That’s hot.” said Parker taking another bite.

“Shut up he’s my boss.” you said, pushing her shoulder. “I get what she’s saying though. I’ve dealt with guys like that before. Admittedly they were in their 20s and went to the same college as me and weren’t actually adults who I worked with.”

“How old does this guy look anyways?” Clearly Parker had a different agenda than you.

“Parker…” you gave her a glare.

“Okay okay message received.” she put up her hands in mock defense.

You looked down at your pizza slice and picked at the bit of cheese that had slid off of it.

“So how’re you gonna fend him off while still creating a good relationship?”

“Guess I gotta use that stubbornness you were talking about earlier.” you said giving her a small grin.

taglist: @absurdthirst @space-daddy-owns-me @agentwhiskeypussyindulgence

[blondedaustin]

"When I look around me and find myself alone, I sigh for you again; little sigh, and vain sigh, which will not bring you home.

I need you more and more, and the great world grows wider… every day you stay away — I miss my biggest heart; my own goes wandering round, and calls for Susie… Susie, forgive me Darling, for every word I say — my heart is full of you… yet when I seek to say to you something not for the world, words fail me… I shall grow more and more impatient until that dear day comes, for til now, I have only mourned for you; now I begin to hope for you".

Excerpted from Emily Dickinson's letter to Susan Gilbert

[cadykeus-clay]

Would you mind sharing your thoughts about vex and Beau being cross campaign foils?

so!!!! first things first: apologies for taking weeks to answer this, finals + having adhd sometimes makes my brain turn to mush and forget every ask ive ever recieved. second of all, i’m assuming you sent me this bc of what i said in my vm vs. m9 how they view the world meta. and i’ll be real with you. i have exactly 0 memory of what was going through my head when i wrote that line, so i am simply going to type out a bunch of thoughts that i have on the similarities and differences between beau and vex and i hope that lives up to what you were expecting jsdflksjdksld

I'll detail some specifics in a moment, but overall, I think beau and vex share a very similar kind of trauma of exclusion in their formative years, that's caused them to have a lot of similar traits that manifest in different ways - for vex, she maintains control through her material posessions and beau finds an emotional control in her asshole-ness. I've broken this down into 5 points on which I think comparing the two really emphasizes that claim:

1. daddy issues: both beau and vex have awful no good terrible very bad dads. both syldor and thoreau can suck my ass. they both raised their kids with little love and impossible-to-meet expectations, alientating them and leaving them with lifelong feelings of inferiority and unbelonging. If beau and vex were to meet, i think they would have a very friendly toast to shitty dads, and then have a good drunk vent about it an hour later.

but, at the same time, the actual minutae of their trauma and the ways it manifests are nearly polar opposites. syldor wanted nothing to do with vex, or else wanted her to somehow become a full elf. her issue was that she would never be able to belong, despite her desire to, and as she grew up it lead to her being overly protective and even possessive of the people she found who DID accept her as she was. 

With beau, rather than exclusion, her father created an environment of toxic inclusion. He created a role for beau to belong in, disregarding her distate for actually fulfilling it. And, as such, she ended up making herself into someone who could have no expectations and pushed away anyone who tried to set them up for her. In the end, they both came to love themselves by abandoning the woman their father wanted them to be but for vex it was the laying down of an impossible dream and for beau it was the picking up of a mantle she had feared to wear.

2. brothers: now, on the topic of family, I also think its really interesting how their interactions with their brothers play out. We've got vex and vax, tied at the hip til the very end and then some; and then we've got beau and TJ - decades apart and with beau barely acknolwedging TJ's existence. But, even that distance between beau and TJ didn't stop her caring for him when they actually met. She gave him lucky Jade, and she entertained the idea of kidnapping him to get him away from her stinko dad. 

And I'd espeically like to talk about what she said outside the hag's hut - "I think Luc and TJ could be best friends", in comparison to the way Vex reacted when Vax told her was going to Zephrah with Keyleth for the year break. There's an aspect to the way they interact with their brothers that lets them slip back into those bad habits they formed growing up (NOT that i'm claiming vex and vax were like toxic for each other. but even good relationships can have unhealthy moments). 

With Beau, when she offers to give her happiness so TJ can grow up safe, she's trying to take on the role she's ""supposed"" to fill - the big sister, the protector - because she failed to fill the one her father set out. And with Vex, when she grows jealous of Vax, it's because she's afraid that his leaving with keyleth is a sign that she no longer belongs in his inner circle, and she falls back on that childish, desperate desire to do anything to be accepted unconditionally. 

3. romance: spoilers for 5 or so most recent m9 eps (115-120)  if you haven't watched them ahead!!!! at this point, both vex and beau have an endgame romance - percy and yasha respectively. Obviously as the m9's campaign is still playing out, that could change, but like. yasha wrote her a love letter and they're officially going on a date so i'm counting that as at least endgame-track rather than just random flirting. What's interesting to me is that they both seem to flip between the SAME roles between their (in-game) general perception and their actual pursual of romance. 

Vex gets characterized as a pretty big flirt, right? She's got the winks, the casual "darling". She's flashed grog her boobs on multiple instances with little prompting. Beau, similarly, has easily the most game out of anyone in the m9. She's slept with two guest characters and at least one more npc in the events of the game. Caleb made her a fuck mirror in her room in the mansion. And yet, in both of their actual romantic endeavors, they became the shy, uncertain type. 

Vex only confessed her feelings when Percy was laying dead before her, and not an hour of game play before percy kissed her in the woods, she had a talk with vax about how she was pretty sure he didn't like her that way and she didn't want to pursue it. Beau, similarly, spent a very long time convinced that yasha wasn't looking for love after zuala, especially not in anyone like her, asked everyone in the party if they thought yasha ACTUALLY liked her, just to be safe, and then still terrified to ask her out after recieving a literal love letter. I'd argue this shift comes from that same sense of unbelonging - they're very good at pretending they fit a role but doubt their actual right to take it when the opportunity is presented. This time, the role is the lover rather than the daughter.

4. authority: Both vex and beau grew up shunned by the upper crust of society, and grew to mistrust those kinds of people. And yet, both of their arcs result in them assuming such a position. Vex, thrown out of high society gets her place as a baronness, and Beau, running from leadership of her father's business ends up a top member of the Cobalt Soul. There's not a lot here, but I find it interesting how both of their stories involve them shedding their baggage regarding authority and power and assuming it in a way that they feel comfortable in - invitation by someone she trusts for vex, and a promise of freedom of will and control for beau.

5. their deadliest sins: this is the point at which their similarities culminate and transform to a fundamental difference. despite everything they share - shitty childhoods, the small piece of family that's still good, flirtiness masking shy love, and a mistrust of those in power - vex and beau are such different characters because of their biggest vices. Vex, both in game and out, is "the greedy one". She's stingy with money, she haggles for everything, she mourns the loss of physical objects. Beau is "the mean one". She cares little for people's feelings if they're not in her immediate circle, she focuses on her tough guy image, she laughs at things she knows she shouldn't. 

And, over the course of the campaign, as they find unconditional acceptance, they grow away from these traits (I won't say they grow out of them) because they heal from the things causing these vices to begin with. I've always been vocal about vex's greed being a manifestation of her class insecurity, and beau's asshole-ness stemming from her fear of being forced back into another position of complacency. And I stand by that now - all the similarities in their backstories are what tally up to these different women.

Despite her careful tally of party funds and her reflexive bargaining, vex is not cruel. she is not angry on her own behalf. She saves two boys from the market in the city of brass at great personal cost, she relinquishes an entire dragon's hoard to the devastated city of Westruun, she took the time to save a baby bear from a cage when she could have just cut and run after escaping her own. She's the first one most people go to when they need a shoulder to cry on, and she's devastated when they don't (thinkin about when Scanlan left). She carved "forgiveness" into the bow she stole from a man after killing him by proclaiming how much she loved someone, because she knew anger had no place in her heart.

And Beau, Beau is a bitch and she's harsh, but she doesn't hoard or protect like vex did. she spends her money without much of a second thought. She pitches in to help her friends buy a ton of glowsticks, and she loves to indulge in material desires like drink and good food and the nicer inn room. She's a member of an organization that's about making knowledge public rather than guarding it. And, though this may be controversial, I think her position with bowlgate of "its not our problem what cali wants to do with it", her long-standing mistrust of their alliance with the bright queen and  and more recently with the tomb takers of "i want to go in and talk, rather than assuming they're antagonistic, even if it puts us at a disadvantage" are both examples of this non-possessiveness too - she has no need or desire to get involved in controlling what other people are doing.

so, i guess the general conclusion here is: vex struggles to let go of things, of money, of people. beau struggles to let herself be known in case she gets wrongly interpreted again. they both fight feelings of inadequacy, they both fight the feelings of not belonging, of 'doing it wrong', they fight the perception of them as shitty people because of the shells they hide in despite their absolute hearts of gold.  but at the end of the day, vex's story is one of having to lay down what could never be hers so she can carry what is, and beau's story is one of allowing herself to be known so a place can be made for her.

[kaminobiwan]

soft sorrow

pairing: obi-wan kenobi x jedi!reader

summary: In the final year of the Clone War, you receive devastating news.

warnings: Your friends be dyin :-(

a/n: Phew, lots to cover here. So, this is part of my follower milestone celebration, prompted by the word “hush” by @leel-lol. But, I thought it tied in with an idea I already had planned for my jedi!reader continuity, so I decided to go ahead with this release earlier than expected! The story will be fleshed out in later fics, but this is still in line with my other jedi!reader inserts. Basically, I introduce your Padawan then immediately take him away (eek). But like I said, this idea was in my head for a long time! We’ll get to know him after already knowing his fate so it’s kind of like The Clone Wars?? Anyways, this was also my first time attempting angst. I had an...interesting time trying it out. Thanks again for submitting requests and riding along!

taglist

He doesn’t know what to call it. Fate. The will of the Force. It’s not luck, not by any measure. He knows you’d never call it luck.

But for whatever reason, you’re alive and in his arms right now thanks to a crash landing that had exploded your starfighter post-firefight. One that had broken several bones and bought you a week in a bacta tank two days before you were scheduled to ship out with your troops to reconquer Felucia, and Jado Jissard, eager to be reunited with his former legion, had happily assumed substitute command in your absence.

Your former Padawan. Freshly knighted and kind to a fault. War had taken the waning years of his childhood, but his youthful innocence was unyielding despite the hardships — much like his Master.

You hadn’t been conscious when they’d departed, but Jado had caught Obi-Wan before he’d left and asked him to pass on a message:

“Tell her I’ll take care of the guys. This’ll just be like old times for us.” The excitement on the young boy’s face resonated with a fatherly affection within Obi-Wan that had reminded him of his own beloved student. “We’re gonna make her proud!”

That had been a month ago.

Long before you’d been pulled out of suspension and had since accompanied Obi-Wan on the Vigilance, making a speedy recovery while still assisting him with the attack plans for the rest of the Outer Rim Sieges. You’d been awaiting news anxiously ever since Jado had failed to check in.

The call had come in the middle of you and Obi-Wan poring over defense strategies with Cody, a flickering holo humming to life in the middle of the room. He’d felt your Force signature flicker in distress as the information broke.

Your entire legion, your old Padawan — they were gone, confirmed dead by Aayla Secura after she’d been sent to reinforce them.

Not just dead, but gone — wiped out. Aayla hadn’t elaborated much about what remnants she’d found of the 182nd before you’d turned on your heel with frightening calm and walked out of the briefing room. But Obi-Wan had known what his fellow Master had meant by the grim declaration.

There would be no bodies for you to bury.

He’d followed your retreat to his quarters without a second thought, trailing far enough to give you space but still close by in case you fell over from the onslaught of despair he could feel palpably surrounding you.

It wasn’t until you’d reached the privacy of his cabin that you feel to your knees, hands scrabbling at the floor for purchase. Obi-Wan was at your side immediately, his proximity to your grief choking him.

For a moment, you’re too shell-shocked to make a sound, but once the first tear escapes past the dam behind your eyes, you finally let out several sobs of bewilderment and he reaches for you as you begin to break.

“I should have been there,” you gasp, hot tears streaming down your cheeks in rivulets, and Obi-Wan tries to wipe them from your face with his thumbs before giving up and cradling your head into his aching chest. “I should have — should’ve stopped them — no, no, no!”

He clutches you tighter to him as you begin to wail, hearing the unspoken question humming amidst your sorrow. Why? Why them?

Why not me?

Obi-Wan’s heart pangs, but for a different reason. He forces away the minute relief that he’s holding you and not mourning you, willing the loud agony of such a great loss to leave your body and transfer to his. He wishes he could carry the weight of this burden for you, but he can’t.

He can only rock with you as you endure the assault of the anguished reality, and pray to the Force that your heart — warm, loving, and willingly vulnerable — will recover.

Names fill the air, but he’s not sure if you’re speaking them between your cries or if your thoughts are materializing in his own mind. He listens, recognizing them in your strangled voice, and it sinks into his bones that these are people he’ll never see again.

Pax. Marrt. Locke. Zed.

Jado.

It doesn’t feel right to quiet you. You should deservedly release your misery out loud, given that your endless compassion has always been forcibly subdued, no matter that the walls of the Venator wouldn’t be enough to muffle it. But he can feel you slipping, and he won’t let you descend into hysteria. He can at least give you that.

“Shh,” he hushes you, gently stroking your hair with his lips to your crown. “I’m here. I’m here.”

A hand finds yours and your fingers are a vice around his, but it gives him a spark of hope. If he can be the tether to ground you, he will.

“I’m so sorry.”

Obi-Wan knows he can’t take your pain. But he’ll cradle you until you exhaust yourself from crying, and let you wallow in your sadness even after.

Once you leave his room, you’ll steel yourself into the image of a perfect General, one the Order expects you to be. You’ll carry on with the weight of your responsibility, hiding your heavy heart from everyone, including yourself.

But he hopes that now, as you subside in his embrace, you’ll let him ease the strain ‘til it’s bearable. That you’ll allow yourself the freedom to feel, just as you have shown him to do.

He wants to be that for you.

“I’m here,” he chants again, and you hold on to his words like a lifeline.

[yixxes]

Don’t Fear The Reaper | l.p.

Warnings: mentions of Death (like actual death and the horseman) 

Summary: You’re a servant of the powerful horseman, Death, and Luke’s time on Earth is up.

Word count: 950

.

.

Unofficial rule number one of serving Death? Never, under any circumstances, fall for your subject. 

Honestly, Death didn’t care either way. He figured that his servants were very similar to the mortals and in that way, he expected them to make unwise choices and unnecessary mistakes. Either way, though, he made it a point to stay out of his servants’ private life. No matter what happened, who they got to crushing on, or who they fell in love with, Death knew that the subject would pass when they were meant to with no exceptions. The subject would pass and the servant would remain a servant. Forever. It was as simple as that. And that was fine, you understood the unofficial rule perfectly...

And then you met Luke.

In the back of your mind, you understood that he had an expiration date and that you would continue to be a servant of Death, forever, but forever was exactly what it felt like when you were with Luke. 

He was everything that you had always hoped for in a partner, should you ever actually find one, which never seemed likely given your current... occupation, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she? 

Luke was charming. He always seemed to know how to make you laugh, or at the very least, crack a smile that only grew the more that you stuck around him. Easy on the eyes, and so incredibly talented, something that you found out quickly that had you in awe at first. Awe turned to smitten when he’d strum random little songs just for you on his guitar or when he’d invite you to one of Sunset Curve’s shows and you effortlessly held his attention the entire show. He watched you with a huge smile on his face and it made you feel so important. Like every single word of the love songs were meant especially for you.

“You know, you almost made me miss my solo,” he told you after one of his shows. 

“Me? How?” 

“You just looked so beautiful tonight, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you, and believe me, I tried,”

He wasn’t without his vices, but you couldn’t deny that you loved the way that his stubbornness came into play when he was begging for five more minutes with you because he was,

“...just gonna miss you so much ‘til I get to see you again,”

“Luke, I’m literally seeing you tomorrow!”

“So!? That’s tomorrow, we’re talking about right now, those are two completely different things!”

For some reason, he always seemed to think that endless handholding and forehead kisses would result in him getting his way. Also, he was right.

The two of you hadn’t been going together for a super long time, but you were already undeniably certain that you had no idea what you’d do without having his cute smile in your life. His smile, his laugh, his everything. 

That’s how you found yourself begging Death to divert Luke’s path. To change his fate, to save him, for his family, for his music... for you. You begged without dignity or pride as if it were your own life on the line, but you were met with a no. 

“There are some things in life that you must simply come to accept. You cannot run from me, nobody can. No matter who comes groveling at my feet.”

You should’ve expected this. You never should’ve come here, you should’ve just accepted things for what they were and settled for spending extra time with Luke.

“Darling?” He called out to you as you headed towards the door. “Perhaps you should’ve spent the day with your subject rather than coming to me. It appears that we’ve made it to his final moments.”

You wished more than anything that that wasn’t true, but when you popped into the alley, the scene before you was undeniable. This was it. The reapers that were assigned to Luke’s friends stood in the wings, waiting quietly. They were lucky. To them, this was just another day at work. To you, this was the day that you would always remember and dread. The day that would haunt you and continue to break your heart over and over again. Forever.

His life was on the brink of failure and there was no help that you could offer him. There was no ambulance that would get there in time, no medical attention that would save them just in the nick of time. You were exactly where you needed to be. 

With tears already spilling down your cheeks, you dropped to your knees and took his hand up in yours. You knew that he wouldn’t be doing very much talking, so you did it for him. You wanted to comfort him, but deep down, you knew that your words weren’t just for him. 

“It’s gonna be okay. Don’t be afraid.” You’d said these words so many times in your life and you never could imagine how the subject was feeling in that moment, but the look in their eyes usually gave you a pretty good idea. “I’m gonna help you cross over, okay? I’m gonna make the pain go away.”

You started to cry even more because you knew that when you took his pain away, it would be the very beginning of your own. 

“Don’t be scared.” You told him, bringing your joined hands up to your lips and pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. 

You could feel your heart drop and your stomach squeeze unforgivingly as soon as his heart stopped. The other side just gained something great while you began to mourn the loss of your Luke.

.

.

A/N: I wasn’t really sure about this one, but I’m super excited to give writing a try for this fandom. I would love feedback!

Thank you sm @myrandom-fandomlife​ and @peterspideysstuff​ for your support and your encouragement to post this here. I hope you guys enjoyed it! Much love. (: <3

[gmyoungwrites]

for til now, I have only mourned for you; now I begin to hope for you.

-Emily Dickinson