#like mark getting up early to fish with john

[doom-dreaming]

i think what i'm having the most fun with right now re: beach house ideas/plotting is that the gammas are there. buy those kids some cute civvies. show them weird tropical fruits they've never seen before. give them a few hundred credits and set them loose in the boardwalk shops.

[sebmindbreak]

GASHARPOON! john doe x siren! you

HEADCANONS TIME!

i worked on those early and now i can publish them >:D

(i had to reread myself alot i did alot of errors , especialy spelling gasharpoon with only one o...)

IM TRYING MY BEST >:/

ANYWAYS

i got john doe coming trust me.

TITLE : stupid sea

HHEHE ALR!

Platonic Headcanons

He hates sirens. Or so he says. Especially the ones who sing sailors to their deaths. He sees them as manipulators. Liars. Monsters.

The only reason he didn’t slice you the moment he saw your fins was because you looked confused instead of smug.

You didn’t try to lure him with a song, just stared at him with tilted curiosity. That pissed him off more.

Despite his grumbling, he didn't leave. And you kept showing up. Humming softly. Splashing water at his boots.

“Stupid sea witch,” he’d mutter.

First Meeting Headcanons

He was on deck, cursing at the sea like always, when he caught a flicker of movement in the waves—you.

His instinct was to draw his harpoon. Sirens kill pirates. End of story.

You just blinked at him, half-submerged, eyes wide and strangely unthreatening. You didn’t sing. You just smiled.

“Tch. A mute one? Great.” He walked away, expecting you to disappear.

The next day you were there again. And the next. And the next. He started yelling at the ocean less.

Getting Along Headcanons

You brought him a shell once. A tiny thing, blue and spiraled. He threw it overboard. Ten minutes later, he dived in to get it.

You started mimicking his expressions. When he scowled, you scowled. When he smirked, you tried it too. That got him to laugh once. Just once.

He pretended to ignore you every time you trailed the ship, swimming alongside. But you noticed how his eyes flicked to you. Often.

He told the crew you were a “nuisance that refuses to drown.” But if any of them insulted you? He got violent.

You finally sang once. Soft, not for power, not to lure—just a lullaby. He didn’t sleep that night. He stared at the stars, wondering what the hell was happening to him.

Realizing He Has Feelings

The day you got injured by a net, he panicked. No one saw it. But he pulled you up, cursed, and tended your wounds with trembling hands.

You bit his hand once, playfully. He yelled at you. But then rubbed the bite mark like it meant something.

He started bringing you things. Not flowers he's not soft like that. But weapons, trinkets, buttons, coins. “Shut up and take it,” he'd bark.

One day he saw your reflection in the water, smiling up at him. His chest tightened. He almost slipped off the railing.

He began to hate every siren except you. And that scared him more than anything else.

How He Confesses

It wasn’t romantic. It was a growled, frustrated, “I should hate you.”

You tilted your head, like always. So he grabbed your chin and snapped, “But I don’t. And I hate that more.”

He stared at you for a long moment, eyes burning like fire against the cool ocean. Then he grunted.

“You’ve ruined me, fishy. I hope you're proud.”

He handed you his favorite blade. Rusted, old, but meaningful. “You ever leave me? I’ll dive down and find you.” It was a threat. It was a vow.

Romantic Headcanons

He lets you braid his hair now. Or decorate his hat with seashells. He growls, but never stops you.

You swim beside the ship constantly. He keeps pace with you from the deck, always watching. If you disappear under the waves for too long, he panics.

When you kiss him (on land or when you pull him underwater), he tastes salt and strangely fish-. He always ends up flustered, muttering curses under his breath.

He holds you tighter than necessary when he hugs you, arms banded around you like you might vanish into foam.

He calls you things like "my wave" , "my starfish" , or still "sea witch" but now it's more of a playful name than anything else.

CAN YOU TELL I LOVE JOHN DOE??

i love him bro he is my fav <33

[kiana12113]

Oh, Neighbor

john marston x reader

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

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

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

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

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 17.2k

February 24, 1907

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

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

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

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

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

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

February 28, 1907

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

So this is the normal life.

John paused his writing, sighing and closing the journal.

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

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

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

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

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

March 7, 1907

I got a dog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been ranching for years.”

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

Huh.

March 7, 1907

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

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

And it happened a few more weeks after.

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you still insisted and refused.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

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

March 27, 1907

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell was he doing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s just… you… look stupid, John.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

March 28, 1907

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I owe you.” You replied.

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

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

April 17, 1907

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

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

Note: gotta feed the horses later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seen it somewhere before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Papa died last year.”

“…‘M sorry to hear that, [Reader].”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John closed the gate.

“…John?”

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

“…Maybe not today, missy.”

May 2, 1907

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have I really changed at all?

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

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

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

You chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

Bullseye.

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

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

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

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course I don’t.

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

I really am an idiot, huh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course.

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

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

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

John blinked. “His name is… sir?”

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

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

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

“He already disapproves of me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell is wrong with me? John thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is stupid, so, incredibly stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You always cook?”

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

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

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

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

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

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

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

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

June 4, 1907

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do I really deserve this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled — no, not at all.

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

And damn it, he was acting like one.

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

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

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

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

He was a an idiot, still is.

Life felt nice. It felt worth it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could do this forever.

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

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

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

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

You relented, sighing. “Alright, fine.”

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

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

“Yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

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

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

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

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

October 19, 1907

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

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

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

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

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

And damn it, why couldn’t he stop?

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

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

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

And so he grabbed an umbrella, looking for you.

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

She ain’t here, you dumbass.

John wanted to punch himself.

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

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

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

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

“John?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt right to do so.

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. “I wanted to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And of course, he did not do it.

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

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

What is he talkin’ about now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No thanks.”

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

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

Maybe he was too scared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you’re… good.”

He remembers the scene without an error.

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

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

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

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

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

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

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

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

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

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

No, that wasn’t quite right.

He tried again — it was a little too crooked.

That wasn’t quite right, either.

He smiled awkwardly at himself.

Now, this was stupid. He looked stupid.

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

“Y’know what? Good enough.”

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

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

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

He catches himself staring at you, again.

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

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

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

Flowers, flowers, flowers…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s never had much experience with women anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have a point.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, John.”

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

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

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

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

John starts to see your name in the stars.

He starts to smell you in the flowers he gives.

He starts to hear your voice in every waking day.

November 21, 1907

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shook his head. “Don’t got to.”

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

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

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

“Sure, husband.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

January 28, 1908

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With the blessings of whom above, it started playing.

♪ Wise men say

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

Only fool rush in ♪

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

♪ But I can’t help,

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

Falling in love ♪

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

♪ With you.

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

Shall I stay? ♪

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

♪ Would it be

“How can you be so sure?”

A sin ♪

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

♪ If I can’t help

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

Falling in love ♪

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

♪ With you.

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

Like a river flows ♪

“You’ll be alright! Dance with me!”

♪ Surely to the sea

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

Darling, so it goes ♪

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

♪ Some things

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

Are meant to be. ♪

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

♪ Take my hand

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

Take my whole life, too ♪

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

♪ For I can’t help

“Like this?” He asked.

Falling in love ♪

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

♪ With you.

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

Like a river flows ♪

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

♪ Surely to the sea

Time seemed to slow down.

Darling, so it goes ♪

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

♪ Some things,

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

are meant to be. ♪

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

♪ Take my hand

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

Take my whole life, too ♪

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

♪ For I can’t help,

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

Falling in love, ♪

He felt alive.

♪ With you.

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

Like a river flows ♪

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

♪ Surely to the sea

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

♪ Darling so it goes,

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

Some things, ♪

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

♪ are meant to be.

And damn it, damn it all — he thought.

Take my hand ♪

I love her.

♪ Take my whole life, too

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

For I can’t help, ♪

“I didn’t know either.”

♪ Falling in love, with you.

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

For I can’t help, ♪

“Let me spin ya around again?”

♪ Falling in love, with you.

“Next song, then.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

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

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

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

I love her.

He let out a shuddering breath.

Damn it, I love her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re hot.”

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

“I feel fine, John.”

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

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

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

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

There was no denying it — you were sick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s burning up.

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

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

“C’mon, sit up,” He tells you softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, but I want to—”

It was like you were swallowing nails and fire.

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

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

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

“Turns out I really hadn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

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

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

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

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

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

What a stubborn woman I’ve fallen for.

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

His eyes glanced over you, darting over your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I hear that right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know I see ya, right?”

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

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

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

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

You didn’t look the best.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 9, 1908

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

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

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

I’m a damn coward and a fool.

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

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

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

Today, it didn’t rain.

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

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

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

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

He felt confused. More than it.

What were you asking for?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrugged. “I’ll get by.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took your hand in his.

Stay with me, please.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take the train by tomorrow.”

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

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

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

“Always.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

August 10, 1908

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

Is she gonna take my soul with her, too?

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

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

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

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

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

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

His fingertips feel the engraving on the ring.

“Home.”

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

I should’ve said it, huh?

He continues fiddling with the ring.

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

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

What the hell is wrong with me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But John swiftly dodges, finally standing up now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course right now, John. Damn idiot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was late.

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

Not this time. Please.

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

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

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

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

Who would drag him to dance?

Who would he write about in his journal?

Who would soothe the lonely ache in his heart?

Who would he love?

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

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

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

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

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

It was all too familiar, that man.

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

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

And you swore he was shouting your name.

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

“John!” You yelled.

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

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

“I can’t hear you!” You yelled.

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

“Damn it, STAY!”

You could finally hear him.

“I LOVE YOU!”

“STAY! STAY WITH ME!”

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

It all clicked.

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

“I made a big mistake.”

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

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

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

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

He exclaimed your name, grinning so widely.

“John, you idiot, you…”

“I love you too.”

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

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

You loved him back.

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

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

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

March 7, 1913

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♪ Take my hand,

“I married a poet!” You giggled.

Take my whole life, too ♪

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

♪ For I

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

Can’t help ♪

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

♪ Falling in love

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

With you. ♪

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

John the Apostle | The One And Only | Romantic

Misunderstanding an exchange between John and one of the women from the village, you feel betrayed.  John reassures you that you’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about.

Requested by Anonymous

Your fingers card through the (h/c) locks that peek from under your headscarf as you hum a melody to yourself, nearly dancing through the streets of Capernaum as you approach the docks. The scent of fish and water drifts through the air, indicating that you are headed in the right direction. There is a spring in your step as you round the corner and then another, your heart soaring as you feel excitement bubbling up within you the closer you get to the harbour of the Sea of Galilee.

This afternoon marks your weekly lunch with your childhood friend and longtime crush. John and you go way back and around your early teenage years, you developed feelings that have only grown overtime. Needless to say, these are the moments of your day that you look forward to the most; to seeing John and spending time with him as much as you can.

Not that you’d ever be brave enough to face your feelings head-on. If he wants you, he’d just tell you, and as long as he doesn’t make a first move, you aren’t going to risk ruining your friendship.

You greet a few familiar faces as you ascend a small flight of stairs, the breeze sweeping through the loose hair that falls at your temples. You fix your veil a bit, smooth your hands down your dress and check your breath, ready to fetch John and enjoy a hearty lunch—

—You freeze in your tracks as your eye falls upon it. 

The younger son of Zebedee stands with his back to you, and he is talking to someone next to the pole he just tied his vessel to. Your throat runs dry; you know who that is. Showing him one of her dazzling smiles, Dorcas converses with him as if she owns the place. At least, that is what it looks like. The sunlight reflects in her eyes and her smile lights up everything around her; your heart clenches painfully inside your chest, your gut suddenly feeling like a stone has dropped inside of it. 

Their conversation concludes before her eye falls on you, something glittering in her dark irises. She gives you a small, perhaps knowing smile, and she touches his arm. Brushing past him and then past you, you can almost taste the strength of her perfume, applied in such an amount that it makes your head throb in discomfort. 

John turns to watch her leave and upon seeing you, smiles as if nothing is going on. “Oh, shalom (Y/n), I didn’t realise that you were here already. Let me just finish putting up my nets to dry so that I can join you.” 

Stepping closer, you narrow your eyes at him. “Why don’t you go and get lunch with Dorcas instead, huh?” 

There is genuine confusion in John’s eyes, but you don’t pick up on it. “What?” he asks, puzzled.

“You know what I mean. If you like her so much, why don’t you go on a date with her? You seem to be enjoying spending time with her more than you do with me!”

Before the younger son of Zebedee can do as much as defend himself, you storm off angrily, stomping through the village as enraged tears burn behind your eyes. Your heart is violently beating inside your chest to the point that it might burst out at some point. You beeline for the beach of the Sea of Galilee, not even looking at where you are going, ignoring an equally as confused Andrew and Simon as you barge past them without as much as a glance in their direction. 

A few moments later, John appears in their field of vision, obvious worry on his face. “Hey, wait one moment,” Simon halts him as the younger son of Zebedee is about to ignore them as well, “What’s happening with (Y/n)?” 

“I don’t know—” John mutters, craning his neck as he sees you turn a corner. Even though you’ve left his line of sight, he knows pretty well where you are headed. “—She just… I was going to have lunch with her and was just tidying up when Dorcas asked me where she could purchase a good vessel for her husband.” 

“Dorcas is married?” Andrew mutters, “I never knew that.” 

“Yes,” John says, “About half a year ago, but they kept it under wraps due to the attention it would bring. I mean—” 

“—It would have broken the hearts of so many men, and their fathers would have offered up insane dowries.” Andrew whispers, running a hand down his face. “Ah, I’d never have stood a chance anyway.” 

John and Simon give him a look. “What?” Andrew crosses his arms, then turns to John again. “What were we talking about again?”

Letting out a long sound of frustration, John turns to where you had disappeared. “I just— I think I messed up somehow. Did I mess up?” 

Simon hums. “I am getting from this situation that perhaps (Y/n) thinks that you are into Dorcas. I mean, having a wife myself, I know how women can get—” 

“—What?!” John exclaims, “Of course I don’t like Dorcas! Not in the way I like—” He cuts himself off by swallowing hard and generally gestures in your direction, “I need to rectify this immediately, I don’t want to lose her just because she thinks something that isn’t true at all!” 

The older son of Jonah pats John’s shoulder. “Then go after her. Adonai bless you, brother.” 

“Yes,” Andrew breathes, “Go and set things right.” 

Nodding in determination, John rushes away and finds his way towards the dunes, where he heads right for the spot — your spot — and it doesn’t take long for the sound of muffled sobs to reach him through the wind. His heart clenches in worry and sorrow, saddened by the fact that you think he has eyes for someone else…

“(Y/n)?” he asks gently, causing you to stiffen and turn away, your knees hugged to your chest. Seated amidst the grass, you’re huddled up in an attempt to comfort yourself. You don’t even want to look at him. “(Y/n), what is going on?” 

“Don’t pretend that you care, John,” you bitterly say, “Go to spend time with your girlfriend, I can eat my lunch all by myself, don’t you worry about it.” 

A line forms in his brow. “Hey, hey now. Don’t talk like that, (Y/n),” he crouches down next to you, but you scurry away a little, your cheeks damp with tears as you rest your face between your thighs, holding your knees a little tighter as you rock back and forth. 

“I’m fine,” you mutter, “Just leave me alone!” Your voice wavers dangerously close to the edge of breaking.

When he puts a hand on your shoulder, your body tenses up even more. “Look at me.” 

“No!” 

“(Y/n), come on. Look at me.”

He has never seen such an expression on your face before; a mixture of heartbreak and betrayal. He gulps hard and lets out a shaky sigh, giving you a reassuring smile to his best ability. It pains him to see you like this. “What do you think is going on?” 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” 

“What? Do you think I’m into Dorcas just because she’s talking to me?”

“She touched your arm!” 

John hums and averts his gaze, taking a moment to gather himself. “You know that means nothing, right? She was just thanking me for my help.” 

“Your help? What does she need your help for?!” 

“Because her husband is looking to buy a new boat, and she was wondering where we got ours.” 

Sudden red hot shame finds a home on your cheeks as your anger makes place for shock, your eyes blowing wide as you stare at John in disbelief. “What? She’s— No, that can’t be right, she’s not married!”

“You can verify it yourself,” John says with a patient smile, “But she got married half a year ago. They just never announced anything out loud until things were finalised.” 

You sniffle and avert your gaze, your blood rushing inside your ears as you feel your face heat up. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.” 

“It’s alright,” John says, “I forgive you for that, but… Why did it make you so emotional to see me talk to her? We were just having a friendly conversation with nothing to indicate that there was more to it… What does your reaction to that mean, (Y/n)?”

There is a brief silence as you listen to the rustling of the wind and the seagulls overhead. You barely dare to look at him, not wanting to embarrass yourself any further. Still, you know that you have no choice but to own up now. Deep down, you are well aware that John knows, but he needs you to say it out loud to make sure that his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. 

“Because I like you. A lot.”

John smiles a little. “In what way?” he wants to know, but the tone in his voice tells you that he is well aware. 

“As in… As more than a friend. Romantic feelings, John. I’ve been having them for so long, and I— I just didn’t want to ruin our friendship by confessing them to you. And now I’m doing it anyways. I—” Squeezing your eyes shut, fresh tears begin rolling down your cheeks as you await that fatal blow, to hear that he isn’t into you the same way you are into him. 

“Look at me.” 

“No, I’m already making a fool of myself by saying all this—” 

“(Y/n).” There is a certain edge to his timbre that makes you instantly look at him. He smiles softly, reaching out to gently touch your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “(Y/n)…”

When he just looks at you dreamily for a long moment, you cannot help but laugh a little awkwardly. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Because you’re so beautiful.” 

You blush and nearly choke on your own saliva. “What are you even saying?” 

He hums and averts his gaze for a moment, gathering the courage to admit to his feelings even though you had already been brave enough to do your part; there is nothing in his being that needs to still be convinced that you are in love with him, too.

“I’ve loved you for so long, you have no idea. All throughout our childhood, I always tried to be courageous enough to tell you about what I feel for you, and these feelings only grew stronger over time… And now, you are the one who made that first move in confessing, not even me… You’re still so much braver than I am, (Y/n), and I am sorry that I have never owned up to it before.” 

Letting out a small noise of disbelief, you look away as you chew your lip. “I can barely believe my ears, John,” you laugh softly, “If we had only known, huh?” 

John chuckles, also a little embarrassed at the situation. “I suppose we were both too caught up in not wanting to ruin our friendship that we forgot to truly… Well, look at one another. And be forward about our feelings. Because I’ve never…” The younger son of Zebedee shifts a little, cupping your chin and turning it up to face him, “There is no woman in this world who has ever meant as much as you do, (Y/n). Ever since girls started to become interesting to me, it has always been you, and it will continue to be you… For the rest of our lives, if you’d have me.” 

“Oh…” you choke a little sob, of contentedness this time, “You’re already making me the happiest woman in the world just by saying that.” 

He smiles down at you, locking his eyes onto yours, and he licks his lips. “Would you… Allow me to go to your parents, and… Well… Set the arrangements into motion, if you get what I mean?” 

You smile from ear to ear, your gaze flicking down to his mouth for just a moment before you look back up at him again. “You’ve got my permission,” you whisper, leaning closer to his lips. “Also to kiss me.” 

“Oh?” John’s grin widens, “Really?” 

“Mh-mm,” you hum softly, “So… What are you waiting for?” 

The younger son of Zebedee lets out a small laugh and murmurs: “I’ve waited long enough,” before closing the gap between you.

[danwhobrowses]

One Piece Chapter 1096 - Initial Thoughts

And we are back

Had a feeling this one would come early though. The Kuma flashback is in swing and we are in a very historically point of intrigue

However it is also 8 weeks since we last saw Nico Robin and it'll likely end up being double digits at this rate

Still, let's not rush this flashback, let's see what it has to offer

Spoilers for the Chapter, Support the Official Release Also

The trend of monkeys on the cover is ended by Chihuahuas beating Zoro at musical chairs XD Still though top 3

We're back into hunger games as the Celestial Dragons explain how all the inhabitants are 'rabbits' all worth points; 1 hit kills get you a bonus but there are also 150 rare kills worth more, and 13 super rare worth 10,000 points, the same amount Garling was deducted

There's also prizes apparently, sickening stuff

Garling looked a bit like Zoro and Shanks there as he talks big game

Mannmeyer family woman might be interesting, face is obscured, same for gas mask dude

The last one looks kinda like that Whitebeard Commander too

Of course, the natives of God Valley are confused and panicked by the situation, and are offered no mercy by the dragons who simply tell them to give them a good chase

At the Navy, Garp is being called for support, but he's not biting

Rare appearance from Fleet Admiral Kong too

Young Garp is lapping it up by the pool, but he thinks he's being called because of what the Navy did to the Rocks pirates

Seems they stole something, a 'crown jewel' they say

Ironic though that Garp is all 'you can't shake the hive' and then over 30 years later showing up to shake the hive

Seems like the intel was supposed to be kept on the down low though

Garp won't protect the Dragons from Rocks, but he's leapt out of his deck chair for Roger

So much Luffy energy when he's relaxing too, though I guess God Valley was when he started getting more serious

The Rocks pirates are already on the move too, having left Fullalead without the rest of their inhabitants

Ivankov narrates something more true than they realise, this will be a big moment made forgotten history

10,000 civilians hunted for sport, and Oda's not holding back despite current events

Urgh and the slaves all have target marks on their back

Ivankov has to drill home that nobody is going to survive, the idea that they'll be let go if they survive 3 weeks is just a way to satisfy the dragons

Garling has been chasing the bigger prizes and has thus broke even already

All in front of an audience in Marejois via Den Den Mushi too

Ivankov's chains are bitten off by a Shark Fishman, who Ivankov praises, I wonder if that was Arlong and Shyarly's father?

Ginny (they're sticking with the G) is a bit of a thief and an wiretapper it seems, leaking information to the world 2 weeks prior to create chaos while they escape

The plan requires the prizes; Devil Fruits, the Paw-Paw Fruit and the Fish Fish Fruit: Model Azure Dragon, which are at the center of the island

She makes a point in saying that Kaido's is classed among the strongest of Devil Fruits, and that the Paw-Paw Fruit is a secondary plan because it can blast things away

Kuma also volunteers to be a decoy, his strength and bulkiness being cited as increasing his chances to survive

His resolve does impress Ivankov and Ginny too

Rocks are heeeeeere!

Alas we don't see Rocks D. Xebec, but we do see all the youthful members of the crew

Whitebeard reprimands Rocks for running ahead, with Buckingham Stussy hanging off his shoulder

Seemed Stussy had competition from a Kuja, so the big surprise here: Elder Nyon (Gloriosa) was a Rocks Pirate member, not Shakky like the theories

Canon Manga Debut for Shiki as well, as Big Mom and Kaido argue with the group, also Captain John is there drinking much like he did as a Zombie

No sign of who Ochoku was though, could be the guy to Whitebeard's left (our right)

Seems Rocks wasn't here for the Celestial Dragons though, the pirates were looking for something, and they're all gonna fight even each other to get it

Ochoku could also be the 2 people underneath Gloriosa in the 3 way panel, helmet dude or the very shaded hat man

But from the other side: the Roger Pirates!

Tacheless Roger with the Straw Hat, and prime Rayleigh and Gaban, but there's also a big dude, a Viking Dude and someone in a snug coat

God look how much Roger looks like Ace, and he's been itching for a fight all year

We see a couple more God's Knights too, there's a woman and a tall dude? I dunno every time I look it looks like he's beheaded, he doesn't have the armour, but we have the woman

The chaos has earned a reprieve for the inhabitants, the farmers look a tiny bit like the Milk girl Moda from Lulusia

The younger marines don't like their chances

Until Garp arrives!

Gotta have a good reputation if Garp reassures you against Rocks AND Roger

Bogard my man is still there, the others I don't recognize though

Even more carnage leads to Kuma and Ivankov getting the fruits they want

But alas, Child Abuse, Big Mom getting that in early to knock away Ivankov and get the Fish Fruit which she will use on Kaido

Through Ivankov's encouragement, Kuma eats the fruit before Linlin can get to him

But as Ivankov rallies that saving at least 1 person will be a victory, more child abuse! This time Saturn comes to deck Kuma

Man headshots marines, Bonney and Sanji but he went for ol' fashioned fisticuffs with Kuma

There has been a lot of touching tha child here, DON'T TOUCHA THA CHILD!

"I don't understand how someone can be born to be more or less important" god what a line that is

Stood before Saturn, Kuma notes that now that he has power, he's gonna save as many as he can, just like Nika

And Saturn doesn't like that, seems that the idolization of Nika is what led to the genocide of the Buccaneers

ACOC lightning hums around God Valley as Roger and Rocks fight, it seems Rocks was trying to get to something while Roger was trying to interact

But Oda, brilliant but awful as he is, decides that's it, no more God Valley content...

Sir we needed more, we didn't even see Rocks, or why Kaido needed the fruit to survive, or Ochoku, or why it's made out that Garp and Roger were teaming up to protect the Celestial Dragons because clearly they were not

But alas, back at the Sorbet kingdom we have the aftermath

Ivankov laments that Morgans only lapped up Garp's heroics, and that he's a WG kissass

Kuma however is praying in a church, lamenting that he could've saved more

Turns out he saved 500 people though, which is a lot given how many big names were there, and that last we saw he was staring down a Gorosei

Ginny has now nicknamed Kuma the chapter's title, Kumachi, which could be written the same way as Perona's bear Kumacy not entirely sure

But Ivankov adds praise to Kuma's efforts, calling his paws the Hands of Liberation

Ivankov doesn't stick around though, heading off to sea to enjoy their freedom

"I'll never forget your face for as long as I live" oof right in the Marineford

Ginny however opts to stay in Sorbet living in a church with Kuma

Make no mistake though, Ginny's the boss, despite being a third his size she has the age factor

Chopping wood like the SBS artwork of young Kuma as they seek to feed themselves on hard work

Ginny also beats up bullies that throw stones at Kuma thinking he's lying about being 9

But Kuma as a gentle soul uses his fruit to remove the pain

Ginny is a glutton, much like her potential children/clone maybe? As Kuma offers her more of his food

They've both spent at least 5 years as a slave (since both became slaves at 4, and Kuma is 9 while Ginny is somehow 13)

But the sensation of finally feeling full makes Ginny tear up with joy, which of course makes Kuma cry too

So sweet, it's all gonna go to shit ain't it?

Well it was definitely an inviting chapter

Though I am a bit sore that we got blueballed a lot with God Valley, so many questions still left unanswered as Oda teases us. The Devil Fruits as prizes make sense though, wonder if there were more, Rocks was after something after all. Wonder if the Ope Ope no Mi was considered a prize? I doubt the Gomu Gomu no Mi was a prize though think the Gorosei would've wanted that under lock and key, maybe Doffy's fruit? or the Yami Yami no Mi? or Marco's fruit? or that Egg on Roger's Ship during the Oden flashback? Did Garling throw his son up as a prize? Answers Oda you're supposed to give Answers! We got a lot of teases though; God's Knights, other Rocks crewmates, Stussy potentially indeed being a thing with Whitebeard but atm it seems more like she was dangling off him (she was listed as a 'freeloader' in MADS, wonder if clone Stussy will have a larger role too in present because she did get sidelined quickly), also seems like Gloriosa was interested was Whitebeard the man she had love sickness for? Also got potential ancestors who were God Valley slaves. Kuma saving 500 is still super impressive too, how did he get away from Saturn? How many generations of that 500 still exist today?

But we do seem to have the blooming of Kuma and maybe a relationship with him and Ginny. It's unclear but I think the Luffy's mom bit is even lower a possibility now, still thinking that Bonney is a clone of Ginny though, wouldn't mind if she was a biological daughter it'd just make the wording of Kuma being the last Buccaneer a bit weird.

It does further fuel the idea that Kuma is gonna show up in Egghead too, but the flashback only further fuels the layer of tragedy that has befell Kuma, man has suffered so much and he continues to lose so much, this flashback has the capacity to break us.

At the least there's no break, but the wait will be long and painful regardless.

[delightfullysubatomic]

An unfinished and not fully accurate timeline of the NMJ Lads 2000-2012 (Tim-centred tbh)

Summer 2000: Alex goes to Edinburgh with 'How To Avoid Huge Ships'

Academic year 2000-2001: Mark in year ? of uni, Alex in his final year of uni year of uni, Tim has just graduated. Tim decides to do a play because he didn't do one in his final year at uni.

Alex was also doing stand up in another strand of Footlights (I think, idk how it works)

2000 (Cambridge, term 1)- Alex writes a panto of Treasure Island, Tim auditions and gets a role. Performances are late Nov-early Dec. Tim also auditioned for Bouncers by John Godber. He got both roles and fortuitously decided to do the panto.

(I don't think Alex and Tim became close yet)

2001 (Cambridge, term 2) - Tim does the Spring Review (sketch show) and starts to write a bit (was Mark in this??)

2001 (Cambridge, term 3) - Tim and Mark audition to be in the Footlights Summer Tour, which is what Emma Thompson, High Laurie et al did. They perform at Edinburgh and are nominated for Best Newcomer. It's directed by [friend who still directs plays w Tom Basden]

I don't know if the Spring and Summer sketch show / team are/were the same as each other but Tim conflates the whole year into one when telling any stories about it. Not sure either if they figured out about Tim not being a student during the Spring or the Summer.

2002: Tim and Dinky Donk contribute to an EP of Concrete Cow sketch show on Radio 4

Tim and Mark move to London. IIRC Tim moved back to Cambridge after a bit (maybe after losing his job at Hamley’s?), not sure when he moved back to London - suspect 2003/2004 as he’s still doing stuff in Cambridge at that point.

2002: Mark wins the Telegraph Open Mic Award. Tim's stand up career starts and ends in the space of 10 ok to terrible gigs

2003: Making Fish Laugh - Alex’s first solo show (Tim as assistant). Nominated for Best Newcomer

2003: Alex is on Brain Candy on BBC3 (stand up variety show)

2003: Mark and Tim direct the Footlights tour show(?) Starring some future Inbetweeners

2004: Mark's first 24 hour show (Tim as assistant). Mark gets engaged. Mark also does a show with Rhod Gilbert.

2004: Alex's second show Every Body Talks (Tim as assistant)

2004: Tim performs Luke and Stella at Edinburgh

2004: Mark's first novel is published

2004ish: Tim starts writing poems

2005: Alex gets married

2005: Mark does his first solo show and another 24 hour show

2005: Mark is nominated for Best Newcomer

2005: Alex’s third show When in Rome (Tim as assistant)

At some point Tim lives with Alex (and wife?)

2005-2007 (?): Tim performs in Cowards in Edinburgh (they also did it in London and in early days Alex, Mark and Rick Edwards were involved)

2006: Mark wins the inaugural Edinburgh Panel Prize and Time Out Critics Choice Award. He is nommed for the Barry Award (Melbourne)

2006: Mark starts appearing on Mock the Week and other panel shows

2006-2008 (+Xmas 2009): Tim adapts All Bar Luke for Radio 4

2006-2007 Alex and Dinky Donk try to meet someone from every nationality. I don't know if they get a show out of this!

2006: Mark and Tim are in Time Trumpet

2007: Mark writes 2 pilots. One stars Tom Basden and the summary sounds suspiciously like Tim's life at that time

207: Mark starts his Radio 4 show with Tim and Basden

2007: We Need Answers at Edinburgh

2007: Alex's fourth show Birdwatching at Edinburgh

2007: Tim’s first solo show Slut In The Hut in Edinburgh. It is produced by new comedy company The Invisible Dot, which is Tim’s comedy home until 2016ish.

2007: Herb McGwyer (nominated for Best Short Film BAFTA in 2008)

2007: Tim lives with his brother

2007ish: Cowards on the radio

2008: We Need Answers (2) at Edinburgh

2008: Alex's fifth show Wordwatching at Edinburgh

2009: Tim’s second solo the Slutcracker show in Edinburgh. He wins the Edinburgh Comedy Award.

2009: Mark does The Hotel immersive (hey there recent Taskmaster Ep)

2009: We Need Answers on TV

2009: Birdwatchingwatching by Alex and Tim's first poetry book are published

2009: Cowards on BBC4

2010: Taskmaster in Edinburgh (1)

2010: The Horne Section begins

2010ish: Tim joins the Alan Partridge world

2010: Tim is in Party by Tom Basden on Radio 4

2011: Taskmaster in Edinburgh (2)

2012: Tom start Tim Key's Late Night Poetry Programme

2008-2012(ish): Tim lives in a box room in Limehouse. During this time he wins the Edinburgh Comedy Award and is on TV quite a bit. He said during ep 1 of Taskmaster that he had no space for anything but kept the lintel(?) From his Edinburgh show. In the Taskmaster podcast Josh said Tim implied he was homeless but he would have been referencing the fact that he had a box room’s worth of living space (I included this because Josh thought Tim was lying in the show but i’m pretty sure he wasn’t).

[disappointingyet]

Variety

Director Bette Gordon Stars Sandy McLeod, Luís Guzman, Nan Goldin USA/West Germany/UK 1983 Language English 1hr 40mins Colour 

Weird but absorbing indie noir

What kind of film is this? When it begins with a conversation between Christine (Sandy McLeod) and Nan (Nan Goldin) in a locker room, it feels like this could be an early example of the young-woman-trying-to-do-something-arty-in-NYC-and-struggling microgenre, and that would be fine. Instead, a rather weirder plot is set in play when Christine surprises her friend by saying she would take the one job that Nan knows is available: working the ticket booth at the Variety, a cinema that shows dirty movies.

Christine initially seems pleased with the job, but it seems to have some unsettling effects on her. During conversations in public places with her earnest, somewhat uptight boyfriend Mark (Will Patton), she’ll break into long monologues describing erotic scenarios. 

Then she starts following the besuited middle-aged regular at the Variety who has invited her out. It’s clear he’s involved in dodgy stuff, which might be connected with the corrupt fisherman’s union Mark is doing an investigative report about. Less clear is what Christine is up to, and whether she grasps how much danger she might be in.

Contrasting with the thriller elements are scenes in the bar where Nan works, with groups of women just talking about their lives. 

So what we’ve got is part offbeat noir, part psychological drama and part slice of life. I’m not sure all of that fully gels, and there were occasionally bits where I thought I had missed something but the film works nonetheless. 

I think the thriller elements are surprisingly effective (some other reviews seem to disagree). Like the film as a whole, they gained from being shot in the real world. We get the assorted filth-industry locations of the type so carefully recreated in the David Simon series The Deuce, but these are actual working peep shows etc. We also get the crumbling boardwalk at Asbury Park, a huge fish market and even Yankee Stadium (I was wondering if they had permission to film there or somehow snuck a camera in - not easy to do with the equipment they had in those days.)

There’s an interesting mix of folks involved, some then experiencing their moment, some whose time would come later. Writer Kathy Acker – whose work was daring or notorious, depending on your perspective – gets a script credit. I don’t generally like a sax-driven score, but this one is excellent – it’s by John Lurie, who around the same time was starring in Jim Jarmusch’s breakthrough Stranger Than Paradise, which was shot by Tom DiCillo, who (yes) was one of the cinematographers on Variety.

There are a couple of character actors making early appearances here who are still busy in the 2020s. I’ve already mentioned Will Patton – the other one is Luís Guzmán, who plays Christine’s co-worker at the cinema. I’m here to report that Guzmán arrived in the movies fully formed – to say he’s easily recognisable in Variety is an understatement.

But I’m guessing it’s Goldin’s presence that meant I could see this in a cinema in 2023. Clips from Variety appear in All The Beauty And All The Bloodshed, the recent critically beloved documentary about Goldin’s life and work. She seems to be playing herself: the character is called Nan, she’s a photographer and she works in a bar, as Goldin did at the time. (I'm assuming the bar she worked at and the one in the movie are the same place, but don't know that for sure.)

Variety had a slightly strange origin – Bette Gordon was an underground New York-based  film-maker offered a chance to make a bigger film by a German TV channel (Britain’s recently established Channel 4 contributed too). Gordon came up with idea and asked Acker to write it – but three other people get a credit for the screenplay and I think I can guess which bits are left from Acker’s draft.

It’s very much a snapshot of a moment in early 1980s New York, but it’s also an involving and fascinating movie. I like it a lot.

[whitepolaris]

Pontchartrain Beach

If you take Elysian Fields Avenue in New Orleans all the way north from Marigny up to the south shore of Lake Pontchartrain, you end up at an unexplained site: an abandoned mid-nineteenth century lighthouse that seems too far inland to be doing anyone in a boat any good at all. Beyond it is a wide expanse of grass, and then a seawall with a forbiddingly high gate. If someone can give you a boost to take a peek over the seawall, you'll see another expanse of a grass, a few palm trees, and then finally, the lake itself. It's hard to believe it now, but not so long ago this emptiness contained the "Coney Island of Louisiana," Pontchartrain Beach Amusement Park.

Pontchartrain Beach opened in 1928 at Zephyr Park, next to the Old Spanish Fort amusement area on the west side of Bayou St. John, but moved to the end of Elysian Fields Avenue in the early 1930s. Before that, the abandoned lighthouse had marked the entrance to a small harbor in a fishing community called Milneburg, which had been built out into the lake on stilts. Milneburg had the distinction of being the terminus of the nation's second-oldest railroad line and the home of the world's first real train station. Smoky Mary, the black-cloud-belching locomotive that first serviced it, was a weak that the departure schedules were determined by the wind direction and sails were often raised to help move it along. Even so, the trains along Elysian Fields until 1935.

By then, the Huey Long administration had ordered the Milneburg harbor filled in and the stilt houses removed-hence the wide expanse of grass. In the era of segregation, Pontchartrain Beach was for "Whites Only," while a few miles along the lake to the east, Lincoln Beach was built some years later for "Colored" residents of the city. When both amusement parks were integrated in the early 1960s, Lincoln Beach closed. Pontchartrain Beach closed in 1983, when the amusement-seeking public was drawn toward the newer, flashier attractions being built for the New Orleans World's Fair in 1984.

Four more than a half a century Pontchartrain Beach had been one of the most popular sources of entertainment in the state. Its signature ride, the Zephyr, was among the largest wooden coasters in the South, while other rides included the Zephyr Junior, Smoky Mary, the Bug, the Ragin' Cajun, the Calypso, a haunted house, Ghost Train, Laff in the Dark, and The Monster. Bumper Cars, Ferris wheels, concession stands-it's hard to look at the emptiness of the site now and visualize all it once was. "The Beach" held live concerts with national acts like Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis, as well as special areas for dolphin, magic, and high-diving shows and a petting zoo.

If the site where all this took place seems too empty and depressing, you can see a few bits and pieces of the rides at, strangely enough, the Veterans Memorial Park in Kenner, next to Louis Armstrong Airport on William Boulevard between Seventeenth and Eighteenth Streets. Here are you can find the top of the wooden-trussed "lift hill" from the Zephyr (the first big climb that really gets a roller coaster rolling), a handful of tiki gods recused from the former Bali Hai restaurant (one of the famous eateries at the old amusement park), part of the petting zoo, and some of the abandoned signs-they've all been saved and re-erected as a homage to a time before video and air-conditioning made popular entertainment a solitary, indoor endeavor.

Pontchartrain Beach Memories

Pontchartrain Beach always had a slightly frightening air about it that made it exciting. The Rotor was a centrifuge ride in which people would stick to the walls when the floor dropped out. There were scary clown faces everywhere and creepy-looking "painted children" you had to stand next to, to see if you were tall enough to ride. And there were talking garbage cans with lion and clown faces that would suck trash into their dark round mouths with amazing vacuum force while demanding, "Feed me trash!"

But the most exciting and terrifying part of Pontchartrain Beach was the Zephyr, a wooden roller coaster that got noticeably ricketier with each passing year. An archway over the top of the tall hill had a blinking red light and a sign that said, "DANGER: 20,000 VOLTS. This left a big impression on us as we clanked up the hill to that first drop. Despite that and other warnings, legend had it that someone riding in a front car had once stood up and grabbed the arch, then tried to drop back down into the rear cars but fell to his doom. Past the peak, as gravity took hold of the cars, the ride was incredibly rough and noisy and dark. Totally out of control. The park eventually added tunnels that seemed about to decapitate you as you whipped into them. It was the best roller coaster ever.

One day in the late 1980s, after the park was torn down, I was riding through Kenner with a friend when I noticed something interesting a short distance from the road. We stopped to investigate and discovered a park filled with pieces from the demolished Pontchartrain Beach park. There was one of the hideous YOU MUST BE THIS TALL TO RIDE children, a car from the Zephyr, and, most wondrously, the top of the tallest peak of the Zephyr! There it was on the ground within touching distance-the wooden trusses, the Zephyr, the arch with the red lights, and the DANGER sign-all things that still live in my mind in the dark and the sky. -Karen

[the-single-element]

Good morning.

Last week, we heard about a huge crowd of Jesus's fans – swollen even further by his apostles' recent stumping – who managed to track him down, delaying a much needed vacation for himself and his inner circle.

We've skipped over the impromptu sermon he gave to them, there in the wilderness. Now, it's time to see the fruits of all this: of the crowd's faith, and of the willingness of Jesus and his disciples to go above and beyond the call of duty in the name of loving care.

Yes, today we hear again about the miracle of the multiplication of loaves. This was a miracle so important to the early Church, that all of the surviving accounts include it as part of their Good News. This year, we'll follow the extended version of the story: the version from John's testimony, told in his characteristically detailed style.

And, as usual, John's details matter. They give us context we might not have had, if we'd simply attributed the whole miracle to Jesus.

Instead, what do we see?

Jesus asks his disciples, his inner circle, what's to be done. They've recently come back from their own ministry; he's encouraging them to learn from what they've seen.

Philip is pessimistic. But Andrew remembers his Torah lessons. He must've had in mind, I think, the miracle of Elisha which we hear about today, where that prophet multiplied a man's firstfruits sacrifice of barley loaves to feed the people of Gilgal during a drought.

So Andrew goes and finds a boy in the crowd who's willing to share his dinner: some barley rolls and a couple fish. He then brings the contribution to Jesus's attention, being sure to mention that they're barley loaves so as to put his finger on the reference, and asks Jesus, in return, what's to be done with the boy's sacrifice.

The rest is famous: Jesus distributes the food, everyone eats their fill, and somehow there's twelve wicker baskets of food left at the end. The leftovers add up to an order of magnitude more than what they originally had!

…there is something very deep going on here. One might almost say it's foundational to how the Kingdom of Heaven works.

Everyone involved: Jesus, his disciples, even the boy who provided the food, were not giving of their excess. Jesus was mourning, his disciples were weary from the road, and the boy was offering up everything he'd packed for his own dinner.

Everyone had started the day thinking that this wouldn't be required of them. That at least when it was over they could rest and eat their fill.

But everyone stepped up anyway. Everyone went that one step further. And the result was a miracle. The logic of this world – which says that everything is scarce and you can't get something from nothing – was completely routed, and instead we saw a world where everyone ate their fill. Where giving of yourself increases your own weal, instead of decreasing it.

It seem the Kingdom exists most strongly – provides its realest, most powerful refuge – at some kind of spiritual rock bottom. At some moment where we feel like we have nothing left, but then the call arises, and we find one last thing remaining to put to the task. Mark and Luke tell us of the widow's mite. The TaNaKh historians tell us of another widow, who Elijah met in Zarephath. And Jesus often told parables on the topic: the Pearl of Great Price, the field with treasure buried in it, the deep root systems that allow a plant to survive the heat of the sun.

And this is not just a metaphor or parable. The bread may have a deeper meaning – the benefit we gain from donating the widow's mite might be spiritual nourishment – but (as bread often is with Jesus) it's also 100% physically literal. Those people were fed. There is something at that nadir which can sustain us in reality, and more than that, can lead to a flourishing that would not otherwise have been possible. And it was partly that promise, I suspect, that sustained the early Church through the three centuries of despair between Jesus's departure and the legalization of Christianity in the Roman empire. Our predecessors survived by building their foundations on that bedrock, having learned, by examples like this, to trust that the jar of wheat won't go empty, nor the jug of oil run dry.

May we, too, have that opportunity. At our lowest points – when we feel most abandoned – may we find the strength to act in love regardless, together, and discover the abundance that showers down upon us when the Kingdom, even for a moment, closes the gap and touches us on Earth.

[colleenhkeefe]

Well, I haven't been here in awhile.

I logged back into this account after...six years? Maybe I hopped in once to change my username, but my last post is from 2017 so.

In the intervening years I got sober, came out as trans, changed jobs, switched my creative focus to writing, and entered my 50s. It's been mostly good.

I'm getting sick of Meta throttling Palestine posts, X being X, and thought maybe I'd re-explore Tumblr. We'll see if I can figure out what I want to use it for. For now I'll post random snippets of things I've been working on.

I'll start with a passage from a novel I've been picking up and putting down for the past few years, called Diving into the Ocean. This is actually a passage from a book one of the main characters discovers in the town library.

~~~

Sea Shanties and Ghost Tales: an Anthropological Treatise on Maine Maritime Myth By Charles Demuth, Esq.

Chapter 18: Selkies in Downeast

1888, Rock Harbor

In March of 1888, Lawrence Troy, a Sailor attached to the ship Bright Horizon, was ashore for a fortnight while the ship’s riggings were being mended down at Hawke’s Shipbuilders. Most times the Bright Horizon anchored in the bay, it was just long enough to unload catches and load fresh provisions, but a few times a year, work more in the nature of repairs was deemed necessary, and this was one such occasion.

Now on shorter shore leaves, young Larry would do what most sailors did, which was to wreck himself in one of the many dockside bars that catered to his sort, but during the longer periods ashore, he had a woman north of the village by the name of Mary Bight, whom he would visit.

Mary herself was the wife of a captain named John Bight, whose ship went much further than the local fisher boats or clippers used for messenger service to ports south, like Boston and New Bedford. So Mary was often alone, and young Lawrence could quite easily take the woods way uphill to High Street, where her house sat by the pond, the Widow’s Peak overlooking the village and the bay. Larry would slip in through the servant’s entrance, up the back stair to the Master Bedroom, where Mary waited. We need not detail the particulars; but needless to say that this arrangement suited both Larry and Mary very much, and it went on for some years, even as Mary and Captain Bight brought five children into the world.

Four of the children were ordinary young souls, two girls and two boys - Sarah, Ruth, Paul and Mark, all with reddish-brown hair that recalled the Captain’s once bright red hair, now gone grey.

The fifth and youngest child was a girl named Grace. She had a big head of curly blonde hair, green eyes and a round face that, in a small village like Rock Harbor, made clear for anyone to see her true parentage lay not with the Captain but with the young sailor.

This tale would perhaps be in the mold of so many others, a story of infidelity and its aftermath, if it were not for the sudden disappearance of young Larry and Grace one fine spring day in early March.

For the Troys were an old family in Downeast, long working in the fishing trade, rarely if ever straying from Rock Harbor. An old family but not a reputable one. For as long as anyone could remember, the Troys had a propensity for sudden disappearances and equally sudden and mysterious returns, years later, in the worst of weather, showing up naked ashore without a boat in sight.

The Troys mostly stuck to themselves, and when asked about the oddness of their comings and goings, would keep their silence. About as talkative as stones, some of them.

Young Larry had been the first of the Troys in living memory to woo anyone in town. The Troy spouses typically came and went without so much as an explanation for where they came from and where they were going.

Now March 1888, Grace was then fourteen years old. Larry still came to see Mary oftentimes, but after Grace was born, he began to come in through the front, as the Captain and his wife’s invited guest. There was much speculation in Rock Harbor Village about this arrangement. The Captain was too important and wealthy a figure in town to challenge, but it was clear that the manner of living he had chosen, in accommodating adulterers in his home, was not the correct way of things.

Things can go two ways in a village like Rock Harbor. Either a scandal results in the besmirchment of all concerned, or for reasons only known to themselves, the townsfolk decide, without even really any debate, that the particulars of the unusual situation are just going to be accommodated without further comment, and then the arrangment simply becomes a part of the local landscape - not discussed, and all conversation around the subject swiftly redirected.

The good, honest folk of Rock Harbor had decided in favor of the second option, being the simplest and most expedient. Gossip is quite a natural thing in a small village, but in coastal communities it competes with the naturally taciturn nature of fisher folk, so in truth the thing could have gone either way. Whatever the reasons, Rock Harbor had, since Grace’s birth, pretended not to notice the bright flaxen hair or green eyes that marked her so obviously of Troy blood.

What your faithful narrator tells you now comes from several reliable sources who were present on the morning of March 14th of that year.

That morning was sunny and clear, having been the day after a blizzard hit all of New England, which was later called “The Great White Hurricane”. The winds and surf during the storm had been strong enough to knock over boat houses at the piers, and several boats took damage.

So when Larry Troy and Grace Bight were seen coming down out of the woods to step onto the north road out of the village, Larry still in his fisherman’s gear, and Grace in the tan work apron she used when gardening, there were not a few folk out in the village, repairing shutters and windows, or drawing boats up onto the sand to fix masts, and there were a few work crews puzzling over how to pull the boat houses back together with the parts remaining to them.

All of this is to say that there was an audience.

One reliable witness has told this narrator that the pair looked as if in a spell. They walked with purpose, without speaking, holding hands, bright green eyes only on the road north. Both were barefoot. And Larry was missing his cap.

One could spin a romantic yarn around their departure as the father finally come to claim his daughter. Indeed, some have, and in some tellings of this tale that’s how the story ends. You may have heard the most common telling: that the two stepped into Larry’s little punt and rowed off into the fog, and were seen years later settled in Nova Scotia, out of Bridgewater.

There is also a version that goes something like this: Captain Bight rode on horseback to cut them off north of the village, and killed the both of them. It’s a popular enough tale; being one that taps into folks’ not incorrect belief that with power comes abuse of the common people.

The truth, as told to this narrator, is stranger.

For the odd couple’s behavior was so disturbing that most of the townsfolk present followed them north. In the wintry aftermath of the storm, Larry and Grace walked at an even, slow pace, their bare feet crunching in the wet snow, but they seemed not to notice the cold.

There were quiet, unsettled murmurs as the village folk followed, bundled up in their coats and scarves and mittens, but mostly those present were as quiet as those they trailed behind.

A mile north of the village, Larry and Grace turned into the little cove that sits in front of what is today the Harris house, but back then belonged to the Wyatts. The sky was bright against the rolling sea as they walked down to the shoreline, their bare feet pushing through the snow into the black sand. Grey seals swam about in the cove, as they often did, it being a natural shelter, but when Larry and Grace put their feet into the surf, the seals all seemed to swim closer. The ones on rocky ledges dove in to follow the others.

The father and daughter walked straight into the water. Up to their knees. Up to their waists. Up to their chests. Up to their necks.

They walked straight in until their heads were completely submerged, and then they were gone, with only the circling seals remaining, and the gulls diving and darting above.

Why, you might ask, why didn’t anyone rescue them?

It is, dear reader, a perfectly sensible question, if this were the only time in the history of Rock Harbor that folks have been Called to the sea.

But it isn’t.

And it isn’t the end of the story, either.

On November 14, 1898, after the Portland Gale, a farmhand by the name of Glenn Fontine came south to Rock Harbor on horseback, on his weekly trip to purchase sundries from the general store. On the way he found a woman, wrapped in seaweed and bracken, laying naked on the very same black sand beach where Larry and Grace had disappeared some ten years before.

Glenn found one of the Wyatt boys, and together they carried the woman up into the Wyatt house and laid her out on the guest bed. She was alive, to be certain, but not aware of the world around her. Her skin was pickled all over, with a mottled grey color that over the course of the day began to fade, as if her blood were warming and the skin tinged ever pinker.

The natural and first conclusion, if you hadn’t heard the beginning of this tale, might be that the poor woman was a shipwreck survivor. Those do happen from time to time, though less often than you hear in stories. Once in a long decade you might have survivors from a wreck swim to shore alone; most commonly, though, survivors come in on dinghies and life boats.

You have to take into account that this was after a November double storm, a blizzard and hurricane. The water was frigid. No one survives the sea in those conditions.

Except the woman who washed ashore that cold November day.

It wasn’t until Mrs. Wyatt arrived - she came hurrying home from the village at the news - that a name was put to the young woman. For ten years before, Mrs. Wyatt had seen this woman - who now laid on a bed in her own home - walk into the sea.

The woman was Grace Bight, no doubt, but no longer a girl now. Her hair was long, tangled about her, as if it had never been combed, and there was seaweed wrapped about her head almost like a scarf. The woman’s face was unmistakeable.

Mrs. Wyatt cleaned Grace up as best as she could, dressed her in one of her own nightshirts, and laid her under blankets. She put her oldest daughter on watch to check in on the woman often, and then she borrowed a horse from a neighbor and rode to Machias for a doctor.

Grace slept for three solid days, seemingly needing no food or water or care, though steadily she seemed to come back to health.

On the fourth day, she opened her eyes.

[episodicnostalgia]

Star Trek: The Next Generation, 101 (Sep. 26, 1987) - "Encounter at Farpoint"

And so begins my first official beginning-to-end viewing of TNG.  My introduction to Start Trek was through the movies, and then Voyager, along with reruns of whichever other Trek show  happened to be airing whenever I turned on the TV.  During that time I would semi-regularly watch episodes of TNG, but I seldom sought it out.  The show never drew me in quite the same way as the others, because it always felt a little cheesier, and I was fond of the more “modern” (lol) serialized format commonly found in DS9 and other shows of the late 90’s and early 00’s.  Over the years I’ve meant to go back and properly watch the whole series, and this blog serves as a nice catalyst to justify doing exactly that. With that in mind, let’s get on with it!

Written by: D.C. Fontana & Gene Roddenberry Directed by: Corey Allen

The Breakdown

Captain Picard is on his first mission to check out a nifty new trade station named Farpoint, when he’s confronted an all-powerful being who calls himself Q (of the Q-continuum), and insists that humanity is to be judged for reasons that seem pretty arbitrary and petty, but the show needs stakes so we’re going with it.  Basically Picard has to prove that humans aren’t the brutal savages they once were several hundred years ago, and Q has decided that the Enterprise’s mission to Farpoint should serve as an adequate test.

It turns out the locals at Farpoint are pretty low tech, but this giant space-faring creature (which is capable of manifesting basically any object, and also, somewhat conveniently, making itself look like a station) crash landed on their planet a while back, and has been made to serve as their personal slave-genie.  Everyone figures out what’s going because a) a massive flying saucer arrives and starts blowing shit up, and b) Q pops in to drop a bunch of obvious-to-deduce clues. 

Eventually Picard figures out how to free the captive creature by bathing it with energy from the ship, which allows it transform into a giant-space-jelly-fish (of course).  Now free to leave, the Jelly fish joins their flying saucer friend, who, naturally, also transforms into a giant space-jelly-fish-mate.  The two fly off holding each other’s tendrils, and the crew of the Enterprise are left to ponder how beautiful-and-totally-not-ridiculous this moment is.  Oh and Q agrees to leave the humans alone for now, because they passed the test by not violently slaughtering the anyone, but promises to come back one day with even trickier tests.

The Verdict

On the one hand this ages only slightly better than milk, on the other hand the writing is tonally pretty consistent with the original series, and by that standard ‘encounter at farpoint’ is not unsuccessful. I’ll give high marks for the model work shots of the enterprise, which holds up pretty well when you consider this was released in 1987. But as I’ve indicated, the writing is melodramatic and cheesy, which can be entertaining, but it just goes a little too far here for my tastes. I’m a fan of John de Lancie’s Q, but my familiarity with the character (and the series) lies in the later episodes, and I find that he’s one-dimensional and obvious with his first appearance. I feel similarly about most of the characters, but I’ll cut the cast some slack since the script lays on so much camp that I think virtually any actor would be hard pressed to deliver a 3-dimensional performance; indeed even Patrick Stewart seems unsure of himself.

2 stars (out of 5)

Additional Observations

Comparing it to the DS9 Pilot I see a lot of similar devices being used. The Captain/Commander must convince beings of great power (who aren’t bound by a traditionally linear existence) the merits of their existence, ending with the promise of further encounters. Not a criticism, just something I hadn’t noticed before.

Lots of jerky camera movement (pans, tilts, and zooms alike).

Cameo: The Dr. McCoy cameo is nice, if somewhat obligatory.

HOLY CRAP Picard is an asshole. I’ve only seen a handful of episodes from the early seasons, so it’ll be interesting to see when it was that he became less surly. I wonder if it’s a transition that will be marked by distinct character beats, or if it just kind of happens. - Wesley IS annoying though. I know bullying is wrong, but I laughed when Picard yelled at him to leave the bridge. I’m so sorry Wil Wheaton.

[ferno-does-random-shit]

oh hi

- Names: Ferno/Sky online, i don't wanna give my irl name

- Prns: they/he

- Star sign: capricorn

- Siblings: none

- Pets: 2 cats, 5(?) fish, and a snail

- Fandoms: I'm not much of a fandom person, but the closest are hollow knight, undertale/deltarune, zelda (specifically botw/totk), occasionally sonic, and sometimes star wars. and i used to be obsessed with mega man.

- Fav color: indigo

- Fav song: uhh. I'll divide this into genres.

Classical: Lachrimae Pavan by John Dowland

Jazz Combo: Dat Dere by Bobby Timmons, specifically the Art Blakey recording. either that or Equinox by John Coltrane

Big Band: Road Song by Wes Montgomery

Rock & Roll: uhhhh. Drive my Car by the Beatles. i guess

Classic Rock: Roll With the Changes by REO Speedwagon

Prog Rock: Dance on a Volcano by Genesis

Jazz Fusion: Scorpion by Derek Sherinian

Videogame: Ultimate Final Boss from Spark the Electric Jester

Fav Lyrics: Masters of War by Bob Dylan. really, any of Dylan's early stuff. it goes so hard.

The only pop or hip hop song I've ever genuinely liked is Industry Baby. props to lil nas for showing me how hard hip hop goes

Anyway.

- Fav Author: I don't read nearly as much as I used to, but I've always been a fan of, in fiction: Erin Hunter, and nonfiction: Mark Rosenfelder

- Hobbies: Music composition is the biggest, but I also conlang obsessively as well as playing drums, piano, and ukulele. i am also kinda not terrible at traditional art.

- Fav fanfic type: anything fluffy and sweet, really. I don't read much fanfic, but when I do, I go out of my way to avoid anything even vaguely resembling angst.

- Fav holiday: Halloween, by far.

- Partners: none, romantic or otherwise.

- Fun facts:

I'm a former band kid.

I have no idea what gender i am. nothing. As for orientation, I'm pretty sure I'm acespec, but I got nothing else. I've been questioning both since at least 2020 and it's getting really tiring tbh

I'm a furry but I'm entirely uninterested in getting a suit

I've kinda made it my job to be my friends' shoulder to cry on.

I have a friend that I know would be a lot worse off if I had never met him, and knowing that helps keep me going tbh

I dated a guy exactly once. The only date we went on was a chrismas lights show. We never really broke up, we just fizzled out went back to being friends. Apparently this is Not how things usually go.

My parents named me after a US president.

My mom is famous on here.

I talked my way into playing in a bar on bourbon st within hours of landing in new orleans for the first time. i don't how the fuck it happened, but i did.

i have anxiety that i very recently realized is not seasonal. fun

that's all i can think of rn

no tags, im bad at remembering or sth

I got bored so here's a little get-to-know-you tag game I think could be fun :3

Name(s)

Pronouns

Star sign

# of siblings & fun facts about them (if you have any)

# of pets & their names

Fandoms

Favorite color

Favorite song

Favorite author (of anything readable-- books, fanfics, zines, webtoons, whatever!)

Hobbies

Favorite fic type

Favorite holiday

Do you have any partner(s)? (romantic, qpp, anything!)

Fun facts about you / anything extra you wanna share!

────────

Name(s): Loki (highly preferred), Elye

Pronouns : they/them mostly, he/she okay too

Star sign: Pisces

# of siblings: I've got 2! An older sister and a younger sibling. The fun fact about them is that they're also both queer; in fact, my mom is too. The only non-queer person in my immediate family is my dad.

# of pets: 4 cats! Phoebe & Frankie are our girls, Lenny and Murray are our boys :3

Fandoms: MCU (kind of), BSD, OFMD, Ranboo (does his fanbase count as a fandom?)

Fav. color: Don't have one

Fav. song: Aurora Borealis by Lemon Demon

Fav. author: Alice Oseman

Hobbies: singing, acting, drawing, writing, procrastinating

Fav. fic type: Fluff, definitely. I am a sucker for well written coffee-shop and flower-shop aus, too. Smut's fine, but only if it's romantic. I can't do angst if there's no comfort.

Fav. Holiday: Hanukkah or Halloween! I love autumn and winter

Partners?: Yes! I have a girlfriend (queerplatonic) who I love very much, and a boyfriend (romantic) who I love very much :]

Fun facts:

- Even though I'm a cat person, I really, really want a dog.

- I actually used to play sports. Because I don't do gendered leagues anymore, I don't play, but I've been looking for mixed/gender-neutral/queer sports teams. Baseball and basketball specifically!

- I started questioning my identity in 2019; I'm no closer to finding a label now than I was then. The difference is, now I don't want a label. I just am. :]

tags: @neonganymede @cha0ticlesbian @x-chiara @exceleo @brinnybee @autistic-katara @gandalfthemorallygrey @ohboyanotherlokiblog @roachandrenfri @ourflagmeanslokius @exceleo @edettethegreat @swiftlyspidey

[daincrediblegg]

OKAY BUT

A FAUX BUZZFEED UNSOLVED ON CROCKETT SOUNDS FREAKING AWESOME????

DOESN'T IT JUST????? I mean god FUCK I can see it so clearly:

Like... "The Curious Case of Crockett Island" would be such a gas. Start off with a lil exposition on the Island about how it's a small community of a little over 100 people, and that the population was so small because of an oil spill that basically killed the fishing industry there a few years earlier. Over the course of a month however all but 2 of 127 residents were found dead on the island. There's probably precious little information about it in the aftermath but what is available is this (listed chronologically for the rough timeline of things):

Bill (aka Bowl)'s mom knows he went missing on the island and I don't think she was herself an islander- and that Hassan filed missing persons reports for both him and Joe Collie (not for Riley though he was just starting it before the blackout) before the big mass- so there's missing persons involved

Probably a flyer about Leesa's miracle got off island, but it's likely that whoever has it kept it under wraps- or they're building a conspiracy theory around it that Ryan would believe but that Shane wouldn't (this includes multiple "sightings" of an odd creature with leathery skin and wings and glowing yellow eyes- mothman-esque cryptid shit)

The whole island was burned to the ground on easter sunday- the fire started in the early morning and burned through part of the day until rescue crews arrived (likely that people would rush over from the mainland in the morning bc a lot of smoke like that is probably hard to miss), and fire department would probably be able to tell that it was started by molotovs in several of the houses. The only body that would've been found completely undamaged is Sheriff Hassan's (being that he was on the beach at time of death), although it's likely that they would've found Erin and Sarah's remains relatively intact too

Leesa and Warren would've been catalogued as the sole survivors of the incident but would probably not tell the cops anything about the vampire shit when they pick them up- so their story will probably seem believable (i.e. the island caught fire so we just booked it on the canoe) but won't be able to explain shit like: scorch marks on the sand from where Bev burned up isolated from the rest of the fires- and the fact that the ashes there are likely going to be tested and find evidence of human remains and scraps of clothing. Also in the church they'd probably find all those bottles of poison emptied and that will be a heavy point of contention.

The ONLY islander who remains unaccounted for is Riley Flynn (being that he was in Erin's little row boat when he died- which was on a beach so it's likely that would've caught and his ashes were swept out to sea)

6) possible the cops found out about Bev's money laundering scheme posthumously.

So with that fun reverse engineering in mind, the isolated theories they have left are these:

Cult shit that resulted in the whole island setting themselves on fire. (the strongest theory)- to which Shane once again breaks out the "too much church!" joke. They pin it on Bev Keane because she had motive to get rid of everyone if they found out about her money laundry- "but like hOW DO YOU CONVINCE A WHOLE TOWN????" "Too much church!"

Riley the convicted criminal set the island on fire. (Nobody is buying it but it's a theory that's out there because of Cop bias- Ryan and Shane wouldn't buy that as a motive bc he was catalogued as having gone to his AA meetings and following the terms of his parole to the letter).

Ryan would of course JUMP on the idea of some supernatural cryptid being at fault for all of this somehow- but it wouldn't necessarily explain everybody being set on fire- and there's not enough evidence to corelate the two (unfortunately for him bc he's right).

Goofs and Jokes include:

DNA evidence proved at last that Sarah Gunning was John Pruitt's illigitimate child- since her DNA along with Mildred AND John's would be found in the same spot- and Shane goes absolutely ape shit about it. He is very invested in the idea of a hot priest saga.

Shitting on Bev Keane for laundering church money. "Such Karen behavior" "She's very Sus". At this point Shane is astounded by how many fucking angles this thing has. Holy Moly.

Shane probably meets the winged cryptid theory with something like "it's an albatross move on"- "Now hold on." "Have you seen how big those things can get? They're huge!" "Person sized?" "Yes!"

Being very upset finding out Sheriff Hassan died bc they've been following his whole shit from the beginning. Immediately blame Bev.

Suspect that she was also taking advantage of the old priest assuming the cult theory is true (and they're right!) and they feel bad for him. Shane immitates ol' peepaw pruitt being clueless about cult shit happening at Bev's behest.

[rubyone]

let’s discuss deans bi agenda actually bc ive decided he was in love the whole time. i’m sorry mr winchester for previously thinking you were stupid enough not to know but anyway heres my timeline

so initially i think that dean’s suspicious of himself early on, but it’s the eighties and he’s only ever around sam and john and theres all the OTHER fucked up stuff john put on him to deal with so he IS going to be avoiding that thought forever probably. except then he meets lee and falls for him and thinks oh. of course i would be. lots of self hating irony and so on

by s1-3 dean is out to himself and doing a couple of clandestine hookups so he probably worked through some stuff during stanford era. a lil rebellious streak like im not what my dad wants me to be but he ditched me so i am going to be WORSE and do it on PURPOSE. ash and victor and cassie and lisa etc

s4-7 he meets cas but cas is an ANGEL and there are definitely feelings of intimidation mixed in there with Whatever The Fuck Else he’s feeling so he simply decides not to think too hard about it. also its the apocalypse and hes stressed and then cas is dead so it doesn’t matter

s8 is the first turning point bc purgatory is removed from society so there’s no right or wrong. i think benny is the first relationship dean has with a man where he isn’t also hating himself for it, and so then when aaron hits on him dean thinks— well, maybe. maybe i could come out. and he doesnt but even then i think dean still sees cas as this, like, separate category in his head. bc deans feelings for him are so MESSY!! they’re wrapped up in love and betrayal and need and awe and fright. i don’t think he has an oh moment so much as i think he comes to a quiet understanding that he loves him and needs him (hello 8x17)

obviously the mark happens in s9 and that’s just a HUGE can of worms and so dean stops analysing his feelings for cas bc he has bigger fish to fry. is just sort of purposefully like well i’m not looking at that maybe if i dont think about it it will go away. it just sort of quietens down to this background noise that isn’t as obvious as lust and just simmers away beneath the surface

s11 my beloved im a “dean has the oh moment in 11x11” as per this post bc it’s literally... i see it i perceive it it’s an inherent truth to my supernatural. this is deans “oh fuck cas is the love of my life im in love with him im STILL in love with him and im not gonna love anyone else. cas is it for me. fuck” moment plus also the realisation that he actually wants it and he wants cas to love him back

of course cas is possessed by lucifer at this point so that’s a snag. i also like this reading bc then i watch them say goodbye when they think deans going to die facing amara with the soul bomb and i get soooo sad. terrible to think that he just figured this out and he wanted to act on it but now he can’t bc he’s going to die. there’s no point telling cas so he just hugs him instead and lets his face fall where cas cant see. delicious

once mary comes back there’s like a billion and one things going on hence why nothing ever gets done about it and then cas dies and jack kills mary and it is a literal fucking nightmare for a guy who just wants to tell his buddy he loves him

i have also recently decided that i like them both knowing they’re hovering on the edge of something in s14/15 but making a mutual decision not to act on it for various reasons. except then of course dean decides to tell him in purgatory bc WHY NOT and cas doesn’t let him say it but he DOES acknowledge it and they have this very soft unspoken understanding between them in the following eps. dare i say hopeful even. which is unfortunate given how this ends but i just think. god. like at the end of the day it just comes down to the fact that there’s love in deans eyes but it was there the whole time. he loved him from the start. and then they killed him closeted at forty

[sun-undone]

You definitely reminded me of some key points in season 3 that I definitely didn’t consider.

The château being burned down by topper seal the deal of him becoming an enemy. It would be EXTREMELY hard to see topper having a redemption story after that with some corny BS line like “ hey John b no hard feelings with the château, right?”💀💀💀

But just a warning 👀 if you hear Sarah’s voice starting off a epsiode with a reflective monologue of confusion and indecisiveness, then You know what’s coming 😂 let’s see if the pates intentionally screw us over with her character growth.

I agree with Jarah B being the stable couple as the other couples are still fresh and have some more exploring to do with their dynamic. I would love to see a bond created between JJ and Mike maybe closer to the end of season 4 to show Mike he can be the guy for kie and mike should give him a chance just like he was given one before he got accepted into the kooks.. we’ll seeeeee

NOWWWW

MR COUNTRY CLUB HIMSELF

Mark my words if Rafe does not become a Pogue by the end of season 4 he will die sacrificing his life for them with his final words laying in Sarah’s arms saying

“ I finally did something right”

( if I am completely wrong just forget I ever existed 🤣🤣)

LETS BE HONEST Ward created a monster with rafe. But rafe mistakes EAT HIM UP ALIVE which is why he is heavy on drugs. I still remember him crying because Barry didn’t have any coke for him one day and he freaked out. Rafe is a lunatic but not a serial killer. Which is why he went back to save Ward after putting a hit man on him. Rafe wants real acceptance! His problem is he always tries to fix his mistakes last minute.

Rafe isn’t a kook because of the luxury lifestyle. He’s a kook because of power and validation. Unlike topper who is a silver spoon fed kid with no siblings. Just a spoiled single child.

If the JJ and rafe fight happens. I think it’s early in the season. I don’t think they’ll make it a big ordeal. I feel like the Pogue gang will have bigger fish to fry by the end of the season if they’re on a new treasure hunt.

OK, please rip my response to shreds with your thoughts, I’m all ears.

Look at what this stupid little boat show has done to us 🥲

oooooh okay this is such an interesting topic, Rafe is such an interesting character to begin with, so i think his storyline in s4 is the one i'm most curious about. especially since we got nothing from him in the s3 finale for whatever dumb reason.

this is a very complex conversation to have, but to start, i don't think i want a redemption for Rafe! and i think they kind of closed the door on him sacrificing himself for the pogues or Sarah in particular by having Ward do it in season 3. i truly don't know how far they're gonna go with him seeking revenge on the pogues for Ward's death, or what they plan on doing with his character after this season, but whatever it is, i just don't see him turning a new leaf by the end of it. the ending for Rafe i'd most like to see is him going to jail and losing all of his assets and possessions, including Tannyhill, so Pope can snatch it up and make it a museum that tells the true story of Denmark Tanny. but i'm getting ahead of myself, let's talk about the really juicy stuff

do Rafe's actions eat him up anymore? i definitely agree that in the first 2 seasons, he was an absolute wreck trying to hold himself together with coke and by desperately seeking Ward's validation to keep himself occupied. but what about in season 3? he has that scene with Kie in episode 2 where he tries to paint himself as the victim for killing Peterkin, and i think that his denial truly runs that deep at this point. through spinning the story in his own mind, he's convinced himself that he did the right thing so he doesn't have to feel all the complicated emotions that we saw him feeling at the end of season 1 and even into season 2 in the aftermath of the murder. but in terms of Sarah, he does actually get emotional when he explains that he knows it was wrong, which is incredibly interesting to me. he clearly hasn't done the same mental gymnastics in trying to defend himself for that, so i could definitely see him genuinely feeling remorseful, which opens up that same incredibly complex dynamic that he and Sarah have had for a while now. there's a part of him that will always resent her for being Ward's favorite for so long, but now we can see that there is real guilt about trying to kill her. i think that scene really captures the pure instability of Rafe's mental state that still exists in some capacity, mainly in terms of Sarah, which we unfortunately don't see a ton of moving forward in the season since he barely has any scenes with the pogues. in general, he actually seems pretty confident and secure, maybe the best we've ever seen him, in terms of his mental and emotional state. so is the guilt really bothering him that much? the coke doesn't seem to be a coping mechanism for him like it had been before, like he was constantly using for the majority of season 2. but we just didn't see him struggling with his past actions in season 3, it was much more about his present and especially his future.

but for season 4, i'm definitely expecting a return to the more unstable side of Rafe as he plots revenge. who will he target in particular? who does he think is most responsible? will he choose to leave the other pogues out of the crossfire? if he gets the chance to kill Sarah again, would he take it? if he really was remorseful at the beginning of season 3, has that been overtaken by rage by the beginning of season 4? the year and a half time jump makes this much trickier cause maybe he's been trying to keep his mind off of it and do his own thing and resist the urge to get revenge but when he hears about the pogues getting recognition for their findings, it sends him off the deep end again? or has he been stewing the entire time? has the time given his rage the chance to simmer down a bit or has it only boiled over into something worse? now that he has the blessing of his father, which is the only thing he's ever really wanted, what are his motivations? how will he shift his way of thinking now that there's no more Ward to aspire to or to spite, and how will his mental state fare now that he believes that the pogues have taken away any opportunity he might've had to mend his relationship with his father?

there's truly so many things to consider and countless different avenues that his path could take, and i really do not know what is most likely at this point!! Drew hasn't even gotten to set yet so there's absolutely no bts to speculate about either. personally, i love Rafe as a character and i don't wanna see him killed off, and like i said before, although he expresses remorse in 3x02, i'm not sure if it's gonna be enough moving forward. i've always been interested in his character and have never shied away from the fact that Ward absolutely aided in fucking him up for life, BUT i just don't know if Rafe himself thinks he needs redeeming. and i especially don't know if he'll be thinking in that way in the aftermath of Ward's death.

but really, who knows???? i'm voting squarely against a redemption or any kind of sacrifice, but god, i am so so so intrigued to see where the pates take him.

this was really fun to think about and i could probably ramble on for way way way longer, but this is long enough already!!! thanks for sparking up the discussion! ☺️

[ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm]

water, water

after a major outage in his neighborhood, harry potter sits in front of an old painting and thinks about water.

i hate being cold or wet. i will go to any lengths to avoid it, including, on occasion, drinking water. i wanted to write about harry's relationship with drinking water and the various tributaries of things that may have resulted in it being skewed or painful. the painting in this fic exists - it's called flowing to the river by john everertt millais. how did that guy get up there?

also on a03

Harry didn't drink water often. If he did, it had to be from his little filtered pitcher, or bottled, when dining out - but never, ever straight from the tap, never conjured. No one really noticed, not in the many (oh dear) years since it started. The act of drinking water, in social settings, usually required offering or asking, and neither happened often enough to cause concern for any one of his friends. It wasn't like he was actively doing any damage - he drank plenty of tea, and little cups of sweet juice Arthur pressed in winter, and Luna's strange infusions that cycled with the moon. His kidneys were fine, please and thank you, not that he'd checked recently, but that's just the sort of thing you can see for yourself thrice daily. Long story short, it was just a little thing, it didn't impact him or the world around him, and there wasn't anything to further discuss.

Then life swerved as it does and dozens of Thames Water pipes froze and burst the night before boxing day, right by Grimmauld place. And Harry was fine, if a little miffed, to stand naked on the cold tile of the shower with no water coming out, and was a bit irked to see that the watering cans held barely enough to sate the babbling ferns in the hall, so he used the last of his BRITA on the orchids and that was that. He went about his day, catching up on unopened cards and contemplating Netflix choices. But by the time the dreaded early winter night descended, the television stayed off, the cards lay strewn about the study, and the evening found Harry sat on the floor by the fourth floor landing, staring at a painting of a stream.

Back when he was in the cupboard, water was sparse and hard to come by. He could steal sips right from the tap when he did the dishes, ducking his head under the stream while pretending to clean out the sink strainer. He had a cracked china cup that sat under his cot, but it was often too dirty to drink out of - it was where he spat his toothpaste out, since only Sundays were shower nights, in the bathroom with the sink. In school he would slip off to the toilets during class and gulp as much as he could, standing over the sink to catch his breath in intervals, bleach wafting sharp and cloying from the tiled walls. He could never taste it properly, as though it passed his throat but not his tongue. He wished for the taste, knew it had to be there, but he was too greedy, too breathless with it. Like wanting heaven and standing at the gate. They once made them read a book about an old man lost at sea, left to eat raw fish in the storm. He described fresh dolphin flesh as sweet, and the word made the whole class gag. But Harry thought he understood, despite the distance, the faith that something would be sweet, despite what was between your teeth right now. But anyway, he got by, and if grey marks skid across his skin when he ran his nails over it in the dim light of his candle, well - no one could see it but him.

There were very few landscapes amongst the paintings at Grimmauld. They were all mostly portraits, a few still life pieces of cindery fruits and overfull pitchers. He'd never noticed, before he moved in, never got to ask Sirius about it, but it occurred to him that it was likely an act of protection, against the hope of other places beyond the townhouse walls. But there was the lemon tree in the kitchen, the painting of a castle on a hill, and this. The river.

It was dim in the way of summer mornings, a soft yellow light emerging from behind a house in the woods. The water seemed to flow steadily in three prongs through the brush. In the middle - an ait, bright with overgrown grass and a sprawling shrub and right in the middle of it all, a man dressed all in white. It wasn't enchanted, but it seemed to move nevertheless - the logs and the reeds by the edge always seeming, for all their painted stillness, as though they were just about to slip through the frame. And Harry was just sitting and watching it.

His head felt a little fuzzy, if he really thought about it. He steeled his sit-bones, let his hands sink to his sides and into the plush carpet. Tried not to think about mites.

Of all the things that bothered Harry in the weeks after Fawkes pulled them out of the chamber, it was that the basilisk had been inside the pipes. He remembered expiring on the floor next to Ginny, trying to keep his eyes kind, his voice steady. He remembered the big, stone face of Salazar Slytherin gaping at him from the rock above, the water and blood that soaked his trousers. And still somehow, the last stupid thought that flickered through his mind as he thumbed at his wound was: it'd been in the pipes. It'd slithered through their water. Its skin had only just shed. The wave of nausea that rolled through him was quickly quelled by Fawkes' tears, which healed not only the wound but, as Harry later discovered, several little issues that Harry never gave much thought. Cuts from chocolate wrappers, a slightly curving spine. But the thought remained, somehow more insistent and compelling than the dangers he'd faced at school thus far: the snake had been in the water. The water wasn't safe. Hogwarts wasn't safe. Having to speak to the dry, embossed tap to gain entry seemed like a perversion. Somehow this drove the point home more than trolls in dungeons, vengeful spectres, the things in the Forest. So he ordered a stick of charcoal off an ad in the prophet, and drank only from the bottle by his bed. And then all was well.

The air in Grimmauld place was dry and warm. Harry's spit felt viscous on his tongue, the roof of his mouth distant and dry. In the painting, the man in white was looking at something in his hands, not at the river. Why not at the river? Why not at the house?

Somehow all of Harry's growth spurts hit him during late summers at the Burrow, when the heat and sun pushed against your hair, your eardrums. Sometimes he would faint from standing - "all the blood's just learning new places to go, dear," Molly would tut, spelling little gusts of wind at the back of his neck that led him back from unconsciousness until its vignette receded from his sight. Sometimes he would retch yellow bile onto the doorstep, never quite making it to the loo on time. It soured his mouth, it dried him out - but. But. Arthur cleaned the Burrow's fixtures with vinegar alone, some fanatic muggle hangup, and Harry just - couldn't. He couldn't drink the water that came out of mesh he knew had been unscrewed and dipped in little pungent cups, left overnight on various shelves and tables. Could pour it, in braver moments, sometimes even let it pass his lips - but could never swallow. The smell lingered in his nostrils long after he'd gone to bed, in Ron's orange room, breath stilted under covers, trying to to burn it out, oversaturate his senses. On his last mission abroad with the Aurors, they shipped them off to Norway, to a ski lodge in the Lyngen Alps. He remembered standing on the terrace at midday, watching a crowd of young people dressed in all white by the lake. A slim, short man was holding up a blonde teenage girl just over the surface of the water, reciting something to the rapt attention of the gathered teens. With one last word, he dunked her in the water. When she emerged, her head cradled, coughing and crying, everybody cheered. He hadn’t felt any different when Ron pulled him out of the lake, came back for him, broke them through the ice. He never felt more like himself. Saved and given life - did salvation count if it the life given was the same one from before? He wondered if the baptised ever opened their mouth under the water. There was too much of it, down there, too much of it to taste.

He started at what must have been firecrackers, then the sound of laughter from out back where the bins and gardens were. His breath was slow and loud. The inside of his nostrils seemed blocked, somehow, tightened, like a mouth set to whistle.

In 6th year, finally, they learned Aguamenti, and Harry's heart soared with relief. It was like learning to read a new language in a foreign land, giving way to things and places previously inaccessible. Harry thrived in class that week, all thoughts of pensive drops and blonde hair pushed aside as he cast jet after jet of cool, perfect water, aimed at cups, and flowerbeds, and straight into his mouth, with the curtains on his bed drawn tight. It was like heaven, like he always wanted. It tasted different depending on his moods, on the room he was in, but it was never less than perfect. He remembered riding the trains that summer, the ragged woman who mumbled to herself over her bags, whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. Surely, he thought, this is the closest someone could ever feel to being God.

He didn't feel, in contrast, godly when he cut Draco open all those months later. Violence was dry and blunt and human, no matter the weather, no matter the place.

Harry's eyes were heavy in his head. He hadn't blinked in a while, but he didn't want to close them. He felt like the white-clad man in the painting would go off if he did. His fingers felt swollen, their cuticles tight, and he leaned harder on them to snuff out the feeling.

"Water, water."

That was the last thing Dumbledore really said to him, the last thing no one heard, just for him, away from sentient castle walls and trojan horses, too low for the ears of the living dead. And the fucking shell wouldn't fill, wouldn't hold a drop. And the lake was filled with corpses. Dumbledore died thirsty and no one knew but him. The thing that made him feel holy didn't mark him in its glory and abundance, but in its refusal to perform. When he went round Ron and Hermione's, he always praised their snack cupboard, raided it with the kids. "Why don't you just keep some at home,"Ron would grouse, but they didn't understand. it wasn't that he didn't deserve it, it was that once you had something you liked, it only stayed until it didn't. Sweetness never grew, only dulled, with time. In all things, except - well. No matter. Now he was alone.

He was alone with the man in the painting. He would have cried if there was anything to make tears from, but he just let his eyelids shut over his burning tightline, and swallowed congealed spit. When he closed his eyes, the man in the painting was gone too. It was just Harry and his little desert floor. He was alone -

- and then he wasn't.

A body, pressing against his. The unmistakeable, impossibly silky spill of hair.

Draco, soft and warm from the floo. He'd once been cold, surely, when Harry left him to bleed into the grout. But here, now, long and insistent fingers ran along his neck, the backs of his ears. A flat chest pressed against his shoulders and pulled him backwards gently. Tipped Harry's clouded head onto a bony clavicle, let him inhale citrus and vanilla in small huffing breaths. The indelible sweetness, the thing that never choked.

"Harry," whispered that dear, deep, precise voice. "Darling."

Draco leaned away slightly, right arm cradling Harry to him, gentle in the sway of low blood pressure. Harry let his gaze track silvery eyes with some other thirst. Draco's left arm moved to the floor, then up, and then cool, ridged plastic pressed against Harry's lips. The mouth of a bottle. Grey irises danced hemmed in by the happy little lines on the corner of Draco's eyes, as though the colour could splash and pour right trough them. Harry's let his lips part slightly against the plastic by his mouth. The water in the painting was still there, when he looked, still following its path.

"Drink."

----