#me: partially colorblind

[author-morgan]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[RDR2 taglist: @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gallimaufrea / @hc-geralt-23 / @Idkjj04 / @ksziggy / @little-honeypie / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @overratedsun / @qhbr2013 / @xiakahazou ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my RDR2 taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[dirtgrubber]

but what if they started a band

can someone please color this for me before i go mad

[persimmonsimmer]

Ridge Road #3, #5, #7, #9, and #11

Five relatively affordable (because they’re unfurnished) houses big enough to accommodate growing families--all in a row!

Floorplans and some random photos of unfurnished rooms below the cut.

Some of these houses have basements, but those are boring so not pictured.

Purpley-blue house:

Lilac house:

White house:

Red house:

This was my attempt at a house with a central chimney. I think I need to dial back on the beamage, though.

Yellow house:

I know they're just basic totally unfurnished rooms, but I'm really happy with the ~vibes~. I see this house as a kind of outdated one with good bones (the first-story floor! I'm proud of that) that the future owner will probably want to update . . . but doesn't it just make you wonder who used to live there? Like, the starry pink accent wall--that had to have been in some little girl's bedroom, right?

[crowyotea]

don’t let anyone tell you video games aren’t educational. warframe made me realize i was bisexual and also partially colorblind

[chronicbitchsyndrome]

the thing that allistics talking about social skills never seem to grasp is that i do not SEE body language or facial expressions. i am not some innocent adorably stupid little darling who's never been taught what a frown means and so now i feel like everyone is hostile to me because i'm not participating in the Necessary And Unbiased social ritual that lets everyone know i'm Safe and a Real Person.

no, i spent 10 years regularly attending social skills courses. as in, weekly at minimum, for a lot of it daily. i still cannot read body language or facial expressions because i LITERALLY CANNOT SEE THEM. i am partially faceblind. my visual processing is ganked to the point that even though i am not blind i need to use IDs to understand images. these are VERY common traits in autism, this isn't a special "just me" thing. if someone makes a face at me, i can't SEE it. sometimes i can tell that some of their facial muscles are moving, but i have no idea what they're doing and very little ability to piece together what the end result looks like as a whole picture. sometimes i can see when someone is leaning away from me, or if their whole body is shaking or something, but anything less whole-body and cartoonish than that is literally invisible to me.

allistic social norms are built around treating me as scary and unsafe for not participating in them, and i LITERALLY CANNOT SEE a good portion of what they're based on. the less physical bits--implications and social context, etc--are 10x harder when you essentially can't speak half the language, and that's not even touching on how those parts can be near impossible on their own if you have a slow processing speed--which i also do. it takes me 30-60 seconds minimum to fully process a spoken sentence and understand what the unspoken and nuanced implications of it could be, and by then i have already been slotted into "unsafe creep" territory by being entirely silent for 45 seconds. and i am considered socially adept and to have very fast processing among my autistic peers. my barriers here are MINOR compared to someone very severely socially impaired.

this is why explaining to autistics the purposes of allistic social rules and nuances and giving us tips on how to navigate them is condescending and cruel as hell. you're dangling in our faces how important and necessary and integral it is to do something we literally CAN'T do and implicitly justifying us being seen as dangerous and socially undesirable for not doing it. and you're framing it as helping because you're "teaching" us. but it's like teaching a colorblind person color theory; maybe once in a while someone will be interested, but it'll always be significantly harder for them to learn than someone who isn't colorblind, and their experience with it will always be profoundly qualitatively different and produce different results, even subtly. and their existence doesn't mean that the REST of colorblind people who don't have that energy and time and investment should just put up with literally every road sign being written in red on green when you could just make signs that are black on white to begin with.

[ballad-of-birdy-lamb]

Hey so I sincerely apologize for the person I'm requesting to write but can u do Coriolanus Snow x reader? ☠️ I know we hate him but damn does he look so good in the trailer that it made all the red flags colorblind to me 🙈😭 GSHEGDGDVSHS yeah I'm in my "I can fix him era" so can u please do one where he isn't really as shitty as he's supposed to be, thank you so much!!<33

I ❤️ evil twinks.

Coriolanus Snow x Gender neutral! Reader (romantic headcanons)

Coriolanus needs to know everything you do. No, it's not a positive trait but he makes you think it is. He's just trying to protect you!

He’s the type of bitch to read through someone's diary and act like he didn't

He would have made a good male wife if he hadn't been a mentor. A boring one at that but not a killer

Coriolanus will grow a partial liking to you if you give him food. You get him a whole rotisserie chicken and he is thanking you. As long as it isn't cabbage soup, he's chill with it

But the bad part about the last headcanon is that he takes it as a challenge. You shouldn't provide him with things! He's perfectly fine on his own (no tf he's not)!

Coriolanus plans all the dates. He likes the idea of planning out the small surprises, he likes that sense of control. He also likes the fact that he has enough money to go on fancy dates with you

His need for control travels into the relationship. It was very small at first. It starts with him getting annoyed at you for not telling him where you're going. And then it travels to hatred for your ex. It doesn't even matter how awful your ex was, Coriolanus will hate them more than you ever will

He will say it's because of how terrible your ex must have been but it's because someone else had you before he did.

__

Not even joking, this took so long to make because when I thought of Coriolanus, nothing positive came to mind 💀

To anyone who doesn't read TBOSAS fanfics and knows how bad of a person Coriolanus is, I'm not condoning any of the stuff he does and I'm not trying to romanticize him as a person. I hate him as much as anyone else!!

[burnyourtrains]

SDV Bachelor/ette Headcanons!!

I was peer pressured by @jessibbb into posting these <3 (also I'm on mobile so if it looks bad no it doesn't.)

ALso divider credits to the lovely @thecutestgrotto and @saradika

Done in alphabetical order, because we're not playing favorites here

Bachelors:

Alex

I feel like he was into band when he was younger and in school, but he got bullied for it, so he switched to gridball instead. He loves gridball, but sometimes he wonders what would have happened if he stuck with the trumpet.

Jess thinks he's short, but I don't think he'd have as much arrogance/confidence that he does in game if he were short. I think he does the hands on top of the doorframe thing.

To me, he was one of those semi-annoying popular guys in high school who would interrupt the class of the younger grade and ask the teacher if she missed him.

Takes skincare seriously (ty Haley)

Helps Evelyn in the kitchen and around the house

Shockingly handy? He's good at fixing things (doesn't want to be a burden on his grandparents, and he knows George feels bad that he can't do maintenance around the house.)

He and Haley have matching friendship bracelets

Elliot

(To the Elliot stans, I'm so sorry, but I cannot stand his character. Initially I was gonna marry him but then he started talking and I just Couldn't. So here's how I thought he was going to be. (I try to keep it somewhat similar to how he is in game but I just,,,,,,,))

Very romantic

Comes on too strong at first, but once he realizes he apologizes and learns how to be one of your really close friends (unless you ever want to be more, obvs)

Loves the drama of a historical romance

Adores Jane Austen

I feel like the game suggests that he isn't very tidy, but in my mind he keeps himself and his space neat and clean. (He might have a depression pit when he's feeling morose or lacking creativity, but he gets it together after a shower or a walk)

He's not egotistical (I also feel the game implies some of this), but he's not entirely humble, either. Very self-assured, but that could possibly be to mask that he really worries about whether or not his writing career will take off.

Harvey

(Jess drew little hearts around my notes for this one lmao)

Actually very sickly as a child, which I think had a huge factor in driving him into medicine.

Likes when the farmer does his nails. It's nice to have someone want to dote on him. (He ends up taking the polish off when he has to work for sanitary purposes, but that just means you can do them again later <3)

Secretly had a piercing at one point, but he was relatively anxious about having it, even though it made him feel good about himself. Possibly anxious because it didn't fit his "image"; he doesn't have it anymore. (He was So crazy in college literally what was he thinking??????) (it was a bellybutton piercing btw)

His guilty pleasure food is ice cream don't tell

Podcast lover. (Mainly medical and aerospace)

Sam

Mans has a mullet. I will not be accepting arguments at this time

He doesn't have a favorite color, but he really loves bright ones

Definitely has ear and possibly facial piercings

Idk where I'm getting this from, it's kind of based solely on vibes, but I feel like he might be colorblind?

Loves having his makeup done

Wears minimal jewelry, but is always wearing at least one ring, whether that's on a chain or on his finger depends on the day.

Sebastian

He gets called emo but I get more punk vibes from him

When you meet him he's just starting on his second sleeve tattoo

He uses candy cigarettes when he's trying to quit smoking, partially because he thinks it's funny, and partially just because he likes the sugar

I think he feels very stuck in the persona the town has given him, so he kind of just gives up after living there for so long on trying to convince people otherwise

Ear and eyebrow piercings, at least. Very willing to accept constructive criticism here.

Probably has the chain belt thing

Rings rings rings

Shane

I feel like he's either very tall, or very short, and I cannot decide which one

Cleans up very nice after he gets sober

Raises Jas more than Marnie does (Concerning bc alcoholism, but I can't stand Marnie so. The lesser of two evils I guess?)

Regularly takes walks to ward off dark thoughts

Keg king back in his college days

Bachelorettes

These are more look-based, since Jess and I were trying to do a redesign situation. The men I was struck with sudden inspiration and clarity for how to flesh out their personalities more, but I'll have to update the character work for the women when the creativity strikes.

Abigail

I kind of get undercut vibes from her

I think she has gages, for sure

Facial piercings but idk what most of them are called. Specifically a lip piercing

She has a small stick and poke that she, Sam, and Seb designed together

The big overlined lips that were popular in 2020 (might still be popular now but I'm no longer chronically online God bless)

Tattoo choker that was popular in the early 2000s

Big shaggy wolfcut

Elevated HotTopic vibes

Emily

Mixed metal jewelry queen

Wears multiple necklaces

Hippie-esque style (they really did her dirty with her game design she looks like s clown but she's so sweet that it's Criminal)

Crystal girly (a given)

Definitely has some sort of altar set up. Idk much about witchcraft so very loosely assigning her as a crystal witch

Really likes incense

Alice Cullen haircut, y'all know the one

Haley

She has such pretty lashes, I just know it

Big yabos

Her nails are always immaculate. Despite thinking her sister is weird, I think Emily is the one who learned how to give her acrylics

Alex is definitely the person she's closest to

I don't really have that many ides for her I'm sorry :(

Leah

Very wispy, ethereal hair (1908s aogg vibes)

Former hairdresser. While she still lived in the city, she went into cosmetology since it had the opportunity to be a creative career, and her partner at the time didn't really support her in her art (I think the partner bit is canon). Ultimately, she came to resent her job, and she left the city for Stardew Valley. I think she still uses the skills and knowledge she acquired when doing her own hair, and occasionally the hair of some of the residents in the valley.

Howl's Moving Castle earrings

Honestly Howl's Moving Castle vibes overall for her style I think

Dresses masc. but in a way that still comes off as feminine, if that makes sense. Think billowy white shirt from the male lead of a period drama

Most likely covered in some sort of art medium, (acrylics, wood shavings, oil paints, etc.), in a charming way, not an unclean way.

Maru

Minimal makeup, if any at all

She has cute little stud earrings she got as a kid (they're stars)

Has an astronomy charm bracelet, but it's only worn on special occasions. I think she'd be wearing it when she shows you the telescope and tries to confess her feelings for the first time.

She's a silver girly

Little baby hairs. Give my girl Maru better hair

Lowkey loves Hello Kitty (idk where this one came from but I feel it)

Penny

Bumper bangs. In general I get very 50s vibes for style

Doesn't think she'll ever leave Stardew Valley, so she doesn't really have any huge aspirations for herself anymore.

She mostly invests herself in teaching Vincent and Jas to the best of her ability.

Would have loved to be a teacher if she were to leave, but she worries about her mother, so she's never left

I know there are some ideas on here that seem insubstantial compared to others, but this is the best I can do currently! I'd love feedback, since I'm relatively new to the fandom and the game, but I hope you enjoyed!!

[cocoa-rococo]

Koopaling Headcanons: Larry

Larry | Morton | Wendy | Iggy | Roy | Lemmy | Ludwig

Everyone's favorite little brother and general pest for plumbers! He's just a lil' rascal.

Right handed.

His love of tennis originally started as a way to stand out from his siblings, but eventually, he really enjoyed the sensation of playing.

He became a big fan of a Horse Girl animated show after the Olympics, but is super embarrassed about it and won't tell anyone because he thinks it wrecks his ‘cool guy’ image.

Red-green colorblind.

He likes painting with Bowser Jr, and he's a decent comic artist, but he's pretty shy about showing people his work, partially stemming from feeling inferior to Ludwig.

Hypoglycemic. Combine that with his age and his tennis hobby, this boy burns through glucose like a powder trail. It's also partially why he eats so much.

Very much a visual learner, as he tunes out if people tell him things without example, and gets frustrated if asked to try and do something on his own / with his hands and zero instruction.

A frighteningly good pickpocket. He once had a conversation with Bowser and managed to take off all five of his spiked cuffs in three minutes. It's only when he returned them did Bowser even realize they were gone.

He's a big fan of milkshakes, especially chocolate ones. Also a big fan of blowing his straw wrapper at his siblings before he drinks, and blowing bubbles in his drink if he's thinking.

Favorite breakfast food is waffles, with butter, syrup, chocolate chips, and fruit.

Can beatbox almost anything, and he's learning how to breakdance, too. He likes looking up tutorials and practicing in his room for both the space and privacy.

He does gaming streams in his free time, mostly online team-based games or RPGs that let you sink hours of play into useless but fulfilling sidequests. Gaming companies love him because they’ll get guaranteed sales if they offer a trial.

Has a pretty good head for directions, but only for cities. If you tell him you need to find a building from a particular place, he'll give you precise instructions on where to go. Highways and roadmaps are a completely different story.

That said, he got lost so often as a kid that Ludwig gifted him a compass, and he carries it with him constantly.

Not really a flower person, but ever since he got an anonymous bouquet of them, he's got a small appreciation for forget-me-nots.

He's a big fan of punk rock bands, and would love to attend a concert (and be a professional rockstar).

Favorite fruit is either strawberries or pears, but one of his favorite treats is caramel apples.

He’s got a leather jacket that's got a big star bedazzled on the back. It’s his prized possession because he thinks it makes him look cool (and it does, marginally).

Saw a flyer for a new DJ at the Electrodrome and applied on a whim. He got hired (much to his surprise), and greatly enjoys his work. In fact, his time learning the electronics is what inspired his light company.

Likes watching baking and cooking shows with Morton, but while Morton watches to improve and get ideas for recipes, Larry watches to yell at the contestants, because what the FUCK, Michael!!!!! Don’t put your custard on a high temperature, it!!! Is going!!!!!! To curdle!!!!!!!!!!!!

Legitimately has a very good palate for food, and can point out individual flavors where others can't. He will also visit a five-star restaurant and order chicken tenders off the kids menu.

One of his favorite things to do when he was a kid was hiding around the castle and pretending he was a spy; listening in on conversations and writing them down, coming up with codes, always carrying a walkie-talkie, the works. It started his earlier pictographic babble, and what lead him to being such a sneakster later on.

Can and will cheat outrageously at any card, board, dice, or wheel game. Not at video games, though. Those are sacred. That and laser tag.

Looooves chocolate, especially fudge. Do not let him get anywhere near fudge.

He was a shark kid growing up. He dreamed of visiting the aquarium for his birthday, and when he finally got to do so, came home with an armload of various shark plushies and memorabilia.

A big fan of giving and receiving nicknames. Bowser once called him ‘blueberry’ and he cried about it for like seven minutes.

He’s got an admiration for Princess Daisy, for both her fearless attitude and tennis skills.

Favorite candy is gummy worms, but is really fond of sour stuff, too, along with super sugary energy drinks.

Loves sci-fi books / comics and mecha anime with Iggy, but personally loves the adventure genre with pirates and treasure hunters and wild westerns.

Has a private stash of snacks he keeps hidden in rotation for both late night munchies and keeping away from his siblings.

Genuinely likes cooking, but baking feels too precise for him. That said, he's more then happy to taste the end results of both.

Likes going skating with Wendy and Lemmy. He keeps trying complicated moves and keeps running into the walls.

Runs a recipe blog that doubles as a restaurant critique and rating site. It's gotten surprisingly popular.

[griddleharkbrainrot]

visually impaired scotty content needs to exist for real! here’s some canon scott stuff that you probably already know but makes me so happy, and then a couple little hcs of mine :3

- scott has bad eyesight anyway without the glasses and stuff — he has super bad eye strain that he never got glasses for before his powers developed in a way he was aware of and it made his migraines worse (his migraines affected his ability to see at times!)

- he is colourblind With the glasses and labels things so he knows what he’s got in front of him

- he prefers black and white movies because of the fact he can’t see colour properly!

- he loses an eye in uncanny a few years back and just���adapts to it like nothing happened which is partially bad writing but also i think he’s just over it atp LMAO

- back in the…70s…? he took a break from the team and became a radio host, he lived alone and his disguise for why he always wears sunglasses is because he’s blind and finds it such an easy lie to keep up with!

okay now quick fire here’s some hcs because I’ve said too much already!!!!

- in an ideal world he has a label maker (it was a gift) and labels all his pens and has little handwritten tags on his clothes (he usually asks jean, storm or warren to help him)

- he probably does have some sort of colour blindness but he also just struggles to recognise colours because he’s had so long of not needing to?

- i think his eyesight has progressively gotten worse and he has a lazy eye from it that he tries really hard to find training solutions to and that’s part of why he’s uncomfortable when people hold his beams with their telekinesis so they can take his glasses off — nobody else knows but him!

- he’s photosensitive as hell, he prefers working in dark spaces but that in term makes his eyestrain worse :/ cycle!

okay that’s all bye!!!! (@harvey-dent)

Thanks!! This is exactly what I was looking for!/(serious) I really hope to see more of this in comics and shows, but for now I just hope for some good fics and awesome head cannon like the ones you've shared. Personally I hc that alongside being colorblind, he has pretty bad depth perception and that it hurts to put his glasses on/take them off because of the sudden extreme change in light level (like the slight headaches you can get if a room goes pitch black then bright again)

[0luna123]

HEAR ME OUT: ATSV DnD AU:

Miles: tiefling rogue. Mostly joined because of Gwen, not knowing what's really in store.

Miles G: tiefling hand-to-hand warrior. For the sake of clarity, most call him Gonzalo. Dragged into this by his twin.

Gwen: half-elf drummer bard. Could be considered a leader. Ran away from her home, after her dad, a head guard, found out who she is: a vigilante (wrongly) accused of murder.

Hobie: elf bard? rogue? warrior? artificer? SORCERER? DRUID?! Who knows. Wields a lute. Partially lost the left side of his face, half of his left fingers and almost both his legs in an explosion. Deaf in one ear (gee I wonder why?). Joined to look after his drummer, stayed to look after the others. Makes most of the equipment his teammates wield, from grappling hooks to explosives.

Pavitr: human warrior. Joined out of support for his friends, unaware of the horrors.

Other characters, you may add things here if you want:

Miguel: once human, now cursed, more known as a "vampire" under the name of Black Widow. Actual Sorcerer.

Peter B: Traveling family man, merchant. Knows Black Widow's situation the most, but rarely anyone takes him serious. Mayday is also here.

Benjamin: human, ranged fighter, wields a gun Peni made. Private eye. Also colorblind.

Peni: human artificer, wields a mecha. Adoptive daughter of Benjamin.

The Spot: once human, mutilated in an accident and became a threat to time and space. Nobody takes him seriously as well

[the-apology-dance]

Crowley Can See Stars (Part 2)

I am furthering the idea of Crowley’s vision and have a headcanon I am in LOVE WITH and that he is partially colorblind due to his snake eyes, and has deuteranopia. He has two cones in his eyes that are able to define primary colors. This would be unlike a human, who has three functioning cones in their eyes allowing them to see THREE. Red, Green, and Blue.

Crowley’s color-blindness would make his vision sensitive to the colors Blue and Yellow. He would possess an insensitivity to green light, therefore making it very difficult for Crowley to differentiate greens, reds, and yellows.

Example:

The top would be what Crowley would see as an Angel. The bottom would be what Crowley sees in the present with his snake eyes. Browns, yellows, and blues would be his spectrum when it comes to colors.

He would pretty much see Aziraphale in full color, as he dresses in beige clothes, has very light hair, and blue eyes. Crowley would in fact, see WHITE in the rainbow. I personally love how nebulae look in Crowley’s eyes as a snake. The stars are still visible to him, and even being colorblind, the stars are quite beautiful.

This couples in with my headcanon of Azi having star shaped pupils.

I would honestly LOVE to see fanart of Crowley with his color blindness. Him believing he has curly brown hair, and yellowish eyes which are around the same shade. Aziraphale having the prettiest periwinkle eyes to him and almost blinding white hair. (Pls credit me for the idea if you do decide to draw this❤️✨)

(I plan on writing a fanfic about this very topic so if any of you do write fanfiction and would be interested in this, let me know. Crowley would see the stars as a pretty periwinkle shade and believe that they are just slightly purple-ish. Which I think is precious.🐍💫)

[ultra-raging-ghost]

Cucuhalo is so interesting, whats your take on their dynamic?

My personal take as someone who believes cucuruchos feelings are genuine is that their dynamic is "Aggressively affectionate" vs "Blissfully unaware"

To me cucuruchos feelings being genuine dont stop him from being a toxic little shit, but we love that about him!!! The vultures made bad colorblind so he doesnt mind red flags!!! All flags look the same to him now!!!/j

Cucuruchos got this very much push and pull manipulative attitude, they like to test the limits with bad which we see esp so recently. Giving bad a ton of love and outward affection and then RIPPING it away and then doing it again and again just to see if he'll still be upset, how much of an attachment bad has to him. Also with recently, cucurucho putting bad to work!! I like to think he just finds bad hot but also its a good test of what exactly bad's willing to do for him - like for instance cucurucho caught him in an obvious lie but instead of punishing him outwardly, he'd see if bad would rather just partially win while obeying than fully admitting and losing all his stuff (cucurucho let him keep 2/6 of those nukes!!!). However alongside this i believe cucurucho destroying that block of netherite was on purpose, to see if he could once again make bad bend to his word. And honestly he did!! He called cucurucho out but still conceeded to paying cucurucho back somehow (shout out to that nude calendar)

As far as bad goes, he's always been someone who forms unnecessary attachments to people, he literally is a magnet for any man around him in every universe we've seen so he takes affection readily and (as we've been told) is oblivious to anything too romantic or sexual innuendo-y (See: him being oblivious during that date with cucurucho, and also saying "oh no its alright but thank you!" when cucurucho was watching him shower and turned away apologizing, seemingly unaware of what cucurucho was so sorry for), so hes very go-with-the-flow with relationships and acts chill but falls hard and fast. While he may not have a romantic attachment to cucurucho (he does, but lets say he doesnt for this point) he definitely has some sort of emotional attachment and sees cucurucho as a companion he prefers to live with for this time.

Like for perspective, hes fresh off a reset and has been told skeppy (his soulmate) is either unable or unwilling to get to him and nobody knows why, and the only two other people he remembers (foolish, cellbit) havent been around. Cucurucho is a constant and ready emotional well for him to attach himself to, and to have it ripped away so suddenly would DEFINITELY be a blow to his emotional wellbeing. To prevent this i can see him bending to cucuruchos wants and orders just so that he isnt alone anymore, he's got a social battery that cucurucho just can never seem to fill up or exhaust so that relationship would be something he values subconciously if not explicitly

tl;dr cucuruchos feelings are genuine but his nature is to be manipulative, bad is vulnerable and has an emotional attachment to cucurucho (romantic or platonic) and puts up with the manipulation willingly to prevent being alone :D

[ohnomyhooves]

Thoughts on the headcannons that doffy is colorblind and that’s part of why his fashion sense is Like That and that corazon is so unbalanced bcos he suffered a traumatic brain injury in the same event where doffy got an arrow in his eye and cora was only normal kid levels of klutzy before that and got much worse after

Firstly I'm so sorry if it took me ages to reply, I didn't get notified of this in my inbox at all!🥹

Also, I do like both of those theories– in my opinion there is definitely something about his eyes that Doffy is deliberately hiding, whether a natural 'flaw' or an injury.

On Doffy's eyes;

I think the arrow to the eye was quite clear, it's hard to imagine he could get away from something like that completely unscathed. The only question though if this is the case is why he was wearing glasses before any of that happened. My guess is either:

- he had some kind of eye defect from birth, something that he possibly saw as this huge flaw for a high and mighty Celestial Dragon. Perhaps colour blindness from birth, or heterochromia, or partial blindness etc.

- this is self-indulgent and unnecessarily cute (sue me!) but I also like to think that maybe he was just attached to the glasses themselves as an item, the way small kids get overly attached to things and just don't let them go for a long phase I.e a favourite piece of clothing they insist on wearing everywhere or an impractical accessory.

In either case, I can see that after his injury he started wearing glasses all the time for a totally different reason; to hide an injury that was now a bigger flaw than anything else because it was definite proof of weakness. Whatever he's hiding behind those glasses I refuse to believe he's not touchy and secretive about it. I think the HC that Doflamingo actually has perfectly normal eyes under there and is just an Extra Bitch is hilarious!! BUT considering that he got to keep them even at Impel Down, and I believe the wiki says that Tsuru got him a new pair before he was tossed in jail, they must be pretty important to him/ the Marines who arrested him for that little while his eyes were bare probably saw something that they knew Doflamingo would get Touchy and Dangerous about so they wanted to cover it right back up and pretend they hadn't seen anything.

BUT I'M GOING ON A TANGENT! To answer your actual question, I've never considered that his sense of fashion is so atrocious because he could be colourblind. Like, I just thought it was atrocious because his personality involves being the centre of attention all the time– sitting on the fcking table at warlord meetings, crowning himself King of Dressrosa and throwing massive celebrations in his honour, his behaviour at Marineford– but now that you mention it I like that possibility! I would have to look up how people with colourblindness perceive colours, I think, to get deeper into it; for example, if he doesn't perceive his horrid feather coat as being pink the way other people see it, what colour does it look like to him, what aesthetic exactly is he going for? Doflamingo would 100% not care if other people's visual senses were assaulted in his quest to look good to himself so that's fascinating.

On Cora's clumsiness;

I totally REFUSE to believe he was exaggerating this or playing it up for the sake of his cover. His accidents are too inconveniently timed for that to be the case, like when it got him in trouble when he was stealing the Op Op Fruit...(ouch😭)

He says he's always been clumsy since birth but his klutzness is simply next level, so it really makes sense that it's the result of some traumatic injury. If it was simply a childhood trait I think it would get better with time, not significantly worse; AND, I know we didn't see much of him as a child, but there wasn't any time child Rosi was depicted as being that clumsy. I believe the only time he ever showed clumsiness was when he tripped and fell into a treasure chest one time(?) in one of the very first scenes of their family before they moved out of Marie Jois, but that's like. On a totally believable level for a child. His clumsiness is such an integral element of his character as an adult that I think they would've highlighted it in his younger self.

So! Yes, I agree with that headcanon ;-; poor Rosi...

Thank you for submitting such a fun ask! I do enjoy yapping about them XD

[haveyoulistenedtothisalbum-poll]

Tracklist:

When I'm with You • Colorblind • Lala • Can You Blame Me • My Skin • Small Talk • Right All Along • Don't Call Me a Catch • Let's Fall in Love • Someday Everyone Who Hurt Me Will Be Dead

Spotify ♪ Bandcamp ♪ YouTube

[revlischarm]

what are some of your favourite one piece hc's :?

Sorry this took so long I was jotting them down as I went. I’m sure I missed some of them because a few weren’t coming to mind but uhhhh. The list turned out way longer than I thought it would be!!

• All of the ones you listed because they’re great

• Transman Crocodile

• Transman Ace

• Sabo has a tattoo like Ace’s except on his right arm, and it says “SABO” but with the “A” crossed out. heheheheh ‘SBO’ lmao

• Sharp teeth Zoro supremacy

• Ace has narcolepsy

• Luffy has a tattoo of the dawn that doubles as a Strawhat on his forearm!! I saw that idea somewhere and I’ve just. Amassed it into my horde.

• Zoro getting the Strawhat Jolly Roger tattooed on his back after Luffy is King of the Pirates,,,my beloved,,,

• Luffy has a bracelet of beads like Ace’s after Marineford!!! So does Sabo :)

• Zoro instinctively likes doing things in sets of three’s. Has a thing when it comes to numbers and counting. I’m inflicting him with a very specific brand of OCD/Autism. I saw this stuff with him counting certain things in this one Lawzo fic?? Fucking amazing, highly recommend. I’m gonna link it here just for how incredible it portrays Zoro.

Seriously, even if Lawzo isn’t your thing, I recommend it alone just based on that particular Zoro trait.

• Robin can do an impeccable horror girl scream. You know the one.

• Zoro can do math in his head insanely quickly

• Zoro knows how to garden a bit after time on Kuraigana

• Luffy is super knowledgeable about bugs, actually! His favorite kind of insects are Atlas Beetles

• Sabo is fucking unhinged. Good for him. Would crush the skull of anyone who so much as looks at Luffy the wrong way.

• I’m partial to the idea that Luffy has a super high metabolism

• Zoro’s got an oral fixation (Luffy might too, actually)

• Colorblind Crocodile

• Zoro is agender!!! Mostly uses they/he, but honestly, I don’t think Zoro would fucking care what pronouns you use for them

• Luffy has a bad habit of gnawing on things, especially fingernails, when he’s hungry. Which begs the question, are his fingernails rubber as well? When they fall to the ground like rubbings from an eraser, do they too retain their elastic properties? Who can say. Do Luffy’s teeth fluctuate between solid and rubber. Is Luffy capable of breaking any bones at all. I have so many questions about the physics of devil fruits sometimes you have no idea

• Sanji smokes because it can stave off hunger; he’s also always the last to eat, waiting until everyone else has their meal before eating himself

• Law is a fucking nerd and I’ll say it. He’s absolutely the type to try and act/look cooler than he actually is and I think most of the fandom has fallen for that ruse. I love him still, tho. Pathetic wet meow meow. You are sad and depressing and a genuine freak. Good for you.

• I like thinking that Doflamingo is partially blind in one eye from getting hit by an arrow during his whole backstory as a kid, that’s why he’s always wearing the glasses. Yes I know he’s also wearing glasses as a kid, leave me alone, it’s between that and the idea that maybe he and Rosinante have some sort of light sensitivity, since they both have their eyes covered when they’re younger.

• Crocodile’s eyes are the most gorgeous shade of lavender I’ve ever fucking seen, I swear to god

• Goth family. Goth family. Goth family!!!! I don’t care how unlikely it is I FIRMLY believe that all three of them keep avid tabs on each other, and would 100% do frequent calls on den den if they weren’t affronted by the idea that it would seem needy(Idk if that’s the right word but. You know what I mean. They’re embarrassed to admit they care.)

• Zoro picked up a mishmash of behavioral traits from both Perona and Mihawk after the two years. Man knows how to do hair and paint nails now. Picked up a smidge of fashion sense from them both, too (and by that I mean goth)

• Law and Robin get along insanely well, they have the same sense of humor.

• Law loves anything even slightly bear-shaped. He has so many items that go along with the theme. Fucking loser nerd.

• Law also gets super moody on winter islands; I read a fic once where he tends to go to the local church whenever he visits one and. Yeah idk that felt right to me. Law’s got an overall SOMETHING of a relationship with religion (just based off some of what we saw with his childhood I think) that I’m not complex or knowledgeable enough to do a justified analysis of

• Sanji makes recipe books, and labels them with notes on what’s easiest vs more hard to make in case the crew ever needs that. Dude also absolutely has a notebook somewhere on how to prepare human meat should it ever come to that. The ideal way to mourn his passing. Consume the flesh of the fallen. Become feast.

• Sanji’s hands don’t have a single blemish on them, and he moistures them frequently, actually.

• Luffy gives platonic kisses to all of his crew mates!!! All of the love

• Franky sacrificed a lot of the feeling left in his body during the two year skip in order to get stronger for everyone :(

• Law has golden eyes, Zoro’s is silver, Luffy’s are an abyss of darkness. Like a bug!!!! Bug-eye luffy. He’s a creature to me.

• Luffy likes to walk up stairs on all fours

• I think another reason that Luffy’s built up such an immunity to poison is because he puts his mouth on literally EVERYTHING. Consumes so much that should be inedible and takes it in stride.

• On that note, I think that Zoro would deliberately ask Sanji to poison his meals sometimes just to build up his own resistance. Because that’s also the safest way to go about it honestly.

• Sanji burns really easily in the sun actually I think lmao. And he always has one part of his face that’s perfectly off-color

• The arm that Shanks lost was his dominant one :) that’s part of the reason Mihawk was so disappointed he lost it. He would sword fight with that hand. Any letters he tried to write to people came off as shaky and uneven for the longest time

• Zoro is ambidextrous. He can also write shockingly well with his mouth and his feet if need be. Fucker is absolutely planning to go multiple different sword styles one day. Cut off his legs, replace them with blades.

• Luffy will bite Zoro a lot just because. It’s Zoro. Why would he mind. Captain is just releasing pent up energy cause he got excited.

• Luffy is immune to getting acne—as well as most other skin conditions—since he’s made of rubber. Lucky bastard.

• Kidd has a ton of piercings that he can and will use as projectiles. He’s also 100% had tetanus and rabies as a child. It just fits.

• I think that—Zolu or not—Zoro was Luffy’s first kiss. Just based on principle. A captain and his first mate, sitting in a cramped dinghy for who knows how long together?? Listen, all I know is they must have talked about some weird shit. And Luffy probably mentioned that he’d never kissed anyone before if it was brought up, before going suddenly silent and then asking if he could kiss Zoro. Just because. And who’s Zoro to say no to his new captain?

• Sometimes Sabo will sit and just. Let himself be on fire. Just to see if he can feel Ace.

• I firmly believe one of the reasons Zoro and Sanji don’t get along is because of their differing views on woman—or more specifically, how Sanji acts with them that pisses Zoro off to an extent. And that’s due to the whole Kuina thing. The fact that Sanji would not only treat women like they’re glass, so capable of breaking and delicate, to the point where he refuses to so much as lay a finger (or toe in this case??) on them—it really fucking grates Zoro. If a person is demanding you to fight them on equal grounds, regardless of their gender, you shouldn’t disrespect them just because they’re female. Just feels like an insult. Cant fucking believe I gotta argue in defense of hitting women here because of you, Sanji

• Usopp has the second best observation haki on the crew—and I say second only because of the whole Luffy and Katakuri thing. Yeah. Third best would be either Zoro or Sanji, because we see Zoro specifically training with haki during the timeskip, and after losing an eye I refuse to believe that Mihawk wouldn’t give Zoro a pretty decent training in observation haki to make up for that. And Sanji just. Idk man he gives me the vibes, plus he always seems adept at being able to know when someone’s in danger (even if that’s only catering specifically to the female sex)

• I think that Zoro postures a lot whenever Luffy compliments Sanji or talks about how cool someone else is because he doubts his place on the crew a lot. Like. He’s just the swordsman, right? He’s a lot more replaceable than the other members of the crew, a swordsman isn’t totally needed to survive in the New World. Y’know. Stuff like that :)

• Zoro has a super high alcohol tolerance, so it takes a lot to get him drunk. He’s also got a high tolerance to most heavy sedatives.

• Zoro does the boob-grab thing to himself sometimes when he’s thinking. You know the one. I sure do. Hold the titty for comfort and serotonin.

• Law is an EXTREME control freak. Just in general.

• Zoro and Usopp are part of girls nights. Just because. They are.

• Transmac Usopp my beloved also—this is UNRELATED TO THE PREVIOUS HC. Usopp is part of girls nights because of his chill vibes!!!! Don’t get it twisted. I’ll bite you.

• Everyone is autistic. Not just the Strawhats, but like. Everyone in the One Piece universe. Luffy is the most autistic. He’s going to be King of the Autistics. His hyperfixation is pirates and he’s collecting crew mates like plushies at the end of his bed

Idk if I have more, I probably do just stirring around in my brain somewhere

[n7punk]

So I know in a lot of your fics Catra is red color blind and you’ve explained it in the fic notes but do you have a place where you’ve fully explained what she can and can’t see?

very bad question to ask me because i am not a Science Person, but my understanding is that our color vision is made up of three cones, red, green, and blue. the more cones you have (and also the more you study names for different shades, i wish i was kidding but Learning Words actually improves your vision), the more shades of color you perceive (generally). in humans you get red-green colorblindness as the most common type and blue-yellow (yes i know i didnt mention yellow cones. it's complicated) as the second one.

this varies wildly for animals. for instance, we used to think mantis shrimp saw colors we couldn't hope to distinguish because they have 12 color receptors and we have the aforementioned 3, but now we think they actually see less than we do and they just have so many different receptors because their cones suck. so like, while we may be able to see many shades of blue and green with one cone, they need a Light Blue cone, and a Dark Blue cone, and a Turquoise Cone.... etc etc. and again, this is just where we're at with shrimp right now! we actually have no clue what cats see - if it's reduced shades due to a generally lower number of cones (they definitely have at least this), red-green colorblindness like in humans, just red colorblindness (something speculated for both cats and dogs), or monochrome colorblindness. different studies and resources have come to different conclusions, so in the end i usually pick just red because it's pretty unique and she's a fantasy species.

all the colors we see happen by wavelengths of light entering our eye. If a color is picked up a ton by our red cones and a little bit by the blue, we would see that as purple, right? except sike, the wavelengths of light do not work like our usual understanding of colors and what cones purple belongs to is not red + blue. i watched a video on this and then decided i wasn't going to understand it and moved on with my basic understanding of color mixing for what she can and can't see, but that didn't stop one Very Annoying Reader from trying to correct me and completely missing the point even after i explained it to them that disability representation is not to mimic any one person's Exact Situation, but to instead represent their overall struggles. literally none of the experiences i give catra apply to humans but just because it's her tail that makes some chairs really painful for her rather than scoliosis, that doesn't make it any less relatable when she finds the world hostilely designed for her body.

lmao can you tell its a sticking point for me. anyway, i often (although not always in AUs, partially because of not wanting to deal with annoying commenters when it Does Not Matter for what i'm trying to convey) write catra to have either very few or no red cones in her vision, which gives her a visual experience that is unique to us and very difficult to simulate due to that wavelength thing being more complicated than just removing red from an image. I don't know what colors catra would really be able to see if a human did have her specific kind of colorblindness, but i do get more specific in this fic about what my general take was early on. Slowly i've shifted to lean more towards her just having generally reduced cones more densely clustered on missing red cones, which would mean she would see fewer shades of color in general but would be able to see all the base colors we do, even if the variation and strength she gets is weak, especially heavily in red (this is kind of what i'm working with for modern AUs. if i mention adora's red jacket, she can kind of see that, just not nearly like we do, and maroon just wouldn't exist for her). this is the type of colorblindness my mom has (cannot tell navy from maroon from black, but easily tells red from blue from black. she leans slightly more towards deutro in her weakness) and is one of the speculated color perceptions for cats.

so i guess to answer your question: it depends on which fic you're reading LMAO.

also, because i can't not mention this: those colorblind correcting glasses (enchroma, etc) are not real, do not give you the ability to perceive things you literally do not have the receptors to, and actually work by filtering out wavelengths of light to make the colors that you see more potent, but it doesn't change the actual colors there, it's just like applying a filter to photo on fucking instagram. it actually limits your color perception even further and you cannot "train" your eyes with them just like you cannot train a limb to grow back. its a scam, and at three figures for a pair of glasses, it really hurts people and their families when they fall for it.