#the three steps! the three dreaded porch steps!

[aypoksynasayee]

*heavy breathing*

/rp Fanart for the incredible fic greener grasses by Apocynaceae. This fic is a certifiied epic. I would describe it as: a dark Schlatt/Quackity modern-fantasy university AU... with post-apocalyptic elements... that slow-burn takes a nose-dive into being much bigger and weirder than that. You may notice the "SCP-inspired AU" tag on the fic; that's what caught my attention. The SCP inspiration is later in the fic and more conceptual and deep-cut than I was expecting; it's not the parts of SCP I expect to see in an SCP AU.

The pacing is masterful. The worldbuilding is also masterful. You know how a lot of weird-premise AUs seem like they're only maybe inspired by the source material but are kind of a platform for just writing a different fantasy story entirely? This isn't. Or, like, it could have chosen to be, the author clearly made up this intense and inspired magic system/worldbuilding for this fic and could have applied it to another story; but they didn't, and goddamn. Anyway, read this fic. (Do heed the tags.) Art is a rare tender moment from Book 2 of Schlatt braiding Quackity's hair while getting him to take a break from painting to eat a sandwich. Lord knows I'm a fluff enjoyer in general, but I cannot describe how broadly non-tender this fic is. it is dark and deeply weird. This scene is like fuckin 500,000 words in. and I like fluff at any point but like that far into this kind of story, the cheese sandwiches and the fact that Q paints for fun hit different. Do you know what I mean? It's a Total Eclipse by Annie Dillard kind of vibe.

[oh-snapperss]

creature comfort

“We won’t win today,” Cleo says, and Etho knows she’s right. Knows their time has been running out since the first secret was whispered to them in voices all too familiar, has known that this day was coming, has known that all this time, it’s not been a question of if–it’s been a question of when. 

They’re going to die today. Distantly, Etho wonders if the domesticity they’ve worked for will die with them, or if it will follow them back home. 

Will his home ever be a physical place again? Home is where the hearth is, where the warmth is, where the world is shut out and it’s just the three of them. 

Home is where Cleo is. 

“That’s alright,” Etho smiles instead of voicing all of that, wishing, of all things, that he didn’t still have that awful cough that Cleo had insisted he rest over for a few days. “We’ll be alright.” 

They’ll be dead–and what are the dead, if not alright? The dead don’t have coughs, or pain, or fear. They’re just dead. Etho thinks he might not mind it so much, this time. He’s finally learned to spend his time wisely, and he’s built a home no flaming arrow could ever take down. 

Just by the cow pen, there’s a stupid little porch Etho had built a while back. They’re nowhere near it now, but every night he and Cleo had watched the sunset, drank a final cup of tea, and turned in to sleep over gossip and giggles only they could draw from each other this time ‘round. Before, Bdubs had made him laugh like that–now, Etho wonders how long before there’s a sword at his throat. 

Even so, while Cleo laughs and watches him set Scar’s porch on fire, Etho hopes he might have the privilege of watching the sunset from the porch one last time. He’d survive the day, if only for another sunset with Cleo. 

BANG. 

Tango’s gone–Etho knows it in his heart. Surely he should feel an ache for him, should ask how he went. Instead, it’s easy to accept it. 

The wardens are fun. That’s all they are, now. Before, they had been terrors, then the answer to a desperate prayer he and Grian had made. The carnage of those terrifying beasts feel muted compared to before, but with the wind flying through his hair, the elated cries of Cleo in front of him, Etho can’t care. Not this time. They lead two clear to the middle of the server before they’ve decided to finish having their fun, and Cleo’s just stepping up some rocks when she says it. 

“You’re my favorite, you know that? You’ve always been my favorite.” 

He does know, he does know now. He’d guessed it that first sunset, when Cleo sat down with a giddy smile to recount their day. He’d thought it, when she’d wrapped a blanket around his shoulders after his failures and rested her head on his shoulder without a word. He’d lived it, when she had shouted that she would kill him if he tried to kill her–but was reassured otherwise that night on the porch again, with the curse ebbing from his bones. 

Today, he knows it in the blatant rebellion against what’s supposed to be the end, the dread, the fear. 

“You’re mine too.” Etho grins back, and knows that they’ll see his smile even through the mask–knows they’ve come to recognize it in his tone and way his eyebrows scrunch together. . 

They wind up in the sky base with Grian–Grian, who hasn’t quite reached the same conclusion they have. Etho knows by the shadows under his eyes he won’t give up, that he’ll fight clear to the end. Once upon a season, Etho had been the same. 

Not this time. Never this time. 

Around ten minutes to sunset, Etho and Cleo set down their dripstone and bows, and sit on the edge of the cobblestone wall. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it back to our base for it this time,” Etho jokes, nudging his shoulder into Cleo’s. Cleo laughs, a carefree thing, and wrinkles her nose. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it back for it any time, if we’re being honest.” She leans back, one hand half behind her to support her weight. 

“I know,” Etho says. He brings his leg up to his chest, wrapping his arms around it. Behind them, cobblestone is placed–Grian, ever the survivor. “It was nice, though.” 

“It was nice!” Cleo beams. “Are you alright with this?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Etho hums. “‘s not so bad. Dying with a friend.” 

“It won’t be,” Cleo agrees. 

Because that’s just it, isn’t it? Etho’s never died like this–he’s died at the flames of an arrow shot while protecting his king, he’s died in fights after his allies were killed. Hell, he’s died hand in hand with a soulmate hellbent on killing him now–but he’d been in a frenzy then, a rage-induced thing meant to burn up the place that had never been a true home to them. 

He thinks he won’t mind dying with someone. 

The sun sets in brilliant hues of orange and pink, and they sit together, this final tradition not lost in the face of inevitability. Just as the first star twinkles, Grian comes over, hoisting them back to their feet. 

“They’re coming,” he says. 

It’s time. 

They shoot a few arrows, break some dripstone, all to no avail–but that’s alright, he’s got Cleo, and they’ve got him. 

But oh, the games are never kind, are they? Etho slips, his foot landing weird somehow–and he’s whistling through the air towards the ground at a speed too fast. It knocks the breath from his lungs when he lands–does he hit the clutch? Stars, he doesn’t actually know, because there’s arrows shot at him, shouts of glee from the hunters, and suddenly Etho’s not Etho, he’s just prey–and prey only know to do one thing. 

Run. 

Etho flies forward, dragging his sword out. There’s not many safe spaces left on the server–stars, Grian had even mentioned their base was but a crater in the hill. 

But the porch… the porch was intact. Supposedly. 

He enderpearls, and enderpearls again, and it’s still not enough. The screams behind him are closer, and closer, and then further–and oh, Etho knows it’s time. He’s dead, he’s gone, he’ll be but a wisp of the wind in a few minutes whether he likes it or not. 

And he won’t die by Cleo. 

Cleo, Cleo, Cleo. Oh, he’d not meant it to be like this. He’d meant to die with a smile, right by her side–just as they were meant to die by his. This wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t the plan. A sob claws its way up his throat, the beginnings of the blind panic he’d never meant to feel tonight. He’s going to die, alone, without the comfort of his Cleo. 

Home. He wants to go home. 

Home is in the air, a hundred blocks above him. He’ll never make it–but he can make it back to the porch, the one place of peace. Now, he can feel the twinge of something broken in his ankles, probably from the fall–and the cuts, the bruises, the blood scent thick in his nose. He’s so tired. 

He wants to die at home, he wants to die at home. 

“Oh, he sounds like a wounded animal… let’s put him out of his misery.” A voice said. Cold fear grips Etho’s heart, and he stumbles forward–the porch is in sight!

Let him die at home. Let him die at home. 

A shadow fills his vision, and Etho’s not even had time to lift his shield before blinding pain fills his stomach, and it’s over. 

He’s not allowed that creature comfort of dying at home. 

[thatchickwiththecamera]

Hi!!

Can you write something related to Matt? I'm soooo obsessed with him lately.

Not a specific request, just Matt 🥺

Thank you!!!!

Author’s Note: Someone sent in two requests in one ask for Matt and Ruffilo. Since this wonderful anon didn’t specify what they wanted their request regarding Matt to be about, I am responding to the Matt portion of that double prompt through this request!

Check out my other writings here: MASTERLIST

Warning: Contains Smut, 18+ ONLY

The Shirt

The blazing rays of the morning sun were already bearing down on Olivia’s shoulders as she unloaded the bags of fertilizer and potting soil out of the trunk of her RAV4. Even at 7am, Texas in the middle of July was scorching and that heat would take a bite out of you really quick if you weren’t careful. 

As she was stacking the last bag on top of the pile she had made on the corner of her driveway, a truck drove up onto the concrete slab and parked next to her. The bed of the truck was loaded down with various gardening tools, cuts of lumber, and a number of plants nestled in their temporary plastic pots. 

Matt Dierkes, one of Olivia’s oldest friends, emerged from the driver’s side, his long hair covered by one of his signature ballcaps. He wore an old Bloodline tee with the sleeves cut off and a pair of athletic shorts with the name of their high school printed on them. 

Matt had the next three months off before his next set of shows with the guys and had agreed to help Olivia build her own garden and green space in her backyard. Gardening was a hobby he had picked up during the pandemic when the music industry shut down touring wise so she naturally turned to her best friend for help when deciding to start her own. 

Shortly after he stepped out of the vehicle a little blonde blur of fur hopped out as well and bolted toward where Olivia stood. She stopped what she was doing and scooped Matt’s yorkie Boo up into her arms and hugged him to her chest as he licked her face in greeting. 

She let out a laugh in response and lowered herself into a criss-cross sitting position on  the ground to continue playing with her friend’s furry child. Matt lowered the tailgate of his truck and paused, peaking around the truck to watch his best friend play with his dog. The view made him smile. Two of his favorites in one place.

They soon moved everything, including Boo, to the fenced in backyard and quickly got to work. The plan was to get as much done in one day as they could by sundown and then finish whatever was left tomorrow. The reward at the end of the project was a pair of tomahawk steaks and a twelve pack of Dr. Pepper that sat on the top shelf inside Olivia’s refrigerator. 

They finally took a break a little after noon. They had gotten the ground cleared and the three raised garden boxes built and lined with a weed barrier. Now, they laid down on the cool concrete of Olivia’s covered back porch. Olivia with a couple of pillows from one of the lounge chairs nestled under her head, Matt’s with his head propped up on the side of Olivia’s stomach, hat off, now covering his face. 

The ceiling centered above them steadily pushed warm air down over their bodies. Boo lay curled up on the elevated cooling dog bed that she bought specifically for him that she placed next to the door while they worked. 

The mixture of warm air and cool concrete made it tempting to drift off to sleep and take a nap right then and there. One of her Spotify playlists shuffled out various songs through the bluetooth speaker sitting on the edge of the porch. She hummed along to lyrics of an A Day To Remember song and found herself absentmindedly playing with the hair on Matt’s now uncovered head. She loved his long hair and dreaded the day he ever decided to cut it. 

“Hmmm, if you keep that up I am going to end up falling asleep.” Matt commented, voice partially muffled by the hat. 

He moved the hat slightly, peaking to look over at her with a smile. Her eyes were closed and a content smile adorned her face as she continued to fiddle with his light brown locks. He reached up with his right hand and poked her side with his thumb, knowing fully well how ticklish she was. 

She squirmed and tried to swat it away with the hand not currently occupied with his hair. He did it again and when she tried to swat at his hand, he grabbed it and pulled it toward him, trapping it in his own against his chest. She let out a laugh. 

“Matthew, if you wanted to hold my hand you could have just said so.” she said, now looking down at him with a smirk. 

He rolled his eyes, jokingly flipped her the bird before throwing the hat back over his face. Her hand remained in place on his chest, his right hand draped over it. She made no effort to move it. They fell back into a comfortable silence. She continued to play with his hair and eventually felt him start drawing slow gentle circles with his thumb against the back of her other hand. They remained that way until their stomachs signaled it was time to eat lunch and get back to work. 

By the end of the day, all three garden boxes were full of the proper ratios of soil, fertilizer, and mulch along with strategically placed irrigation hoses. Pre-grown sprouts had been transplanted from their plastic pots along with regular seeds into neatly organized and labeled rows in each box. In a few weeks Olivia would have tomatoes, various peppers, carrots, asparagus, sweet corn, and potatoes growing tall and green in her garden. 

They both agreed that it was too late and they were too tired, sweaty, and partially sunburnt to bother cooking and decided to hold off on the celebration dinner until the next afternoon. After loading the various gardening and power tools back into the bed of his truck, Matt turned and watched Olivia walk over with Boo in her arms. 

“Can’t he just stay here tonight since you’re coming back tomorrow anyway?” She asked, not wanting to part with the pint sized pup that she had come to adore almost as much as his owner over the years. 

“Liv, are you trying to steal my dog from me?” He accused, stepping closer to scratch the little dog's head before looking down at his much shorter friend with a smile. 

“I don’t have to try, he likes being here,” she defends. 

Yeah, he’s not the only one, Matt thought

“and besides, he lives here when you’re on tour and now that you’re home I miss him.” 

“Oh, so what you’re saying is you can’t wait for me to leave again.” He teases. 

“No, I’m saying that now that you’re home, I miss having Boo around.”

“So you don’t miss me when I’m on tour, but you miss my dog?” He asks. 

“I’m going to smack you,” she threatens, “you know what I meant asshole”

“Boo, are you going to let her talk to your dad that way?” he asks with a sarcastic gasp. 

“Boo, If I didn’t know any better, I’d think your dad is a little jealous.” She states, kissing the top of the dog's head, smirking at her friend. Blue eyes glowing with a hint of mischief. 

He rolls his eyes. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” 

“Lies,” She states matter of factly. “So can he stay?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” he replies with a sigh. 

Everyone who knew Matt knew that he was certainly not a pushover. Quite the opposite in fact. He could be an outright ass sometimes. But there was just something about Olivia that made it hard to say no, even when they were younger. He chalked it up to her just being very persuasive and good at making a convincing argument. But as they had gotten older, he knew it was because he loved seeing the way her eyes lit up with excitement when she was happy. He liked being the one that made her happy. 

When he got home, he headed straight to the shower, wanting to rinse away all the sweat and dirt that had built up over the course of the day. From the shower he lazily went through the rest of his bedtime routine before seeking refuge under the comforter. 

Despite how much his body ached and longed for rest. His mind would not allow sleep to take hold. After a while he rolled over onto his back with a frustrated sigh and stared up at the ceiling fan. His bed was noticeably colder without Boo curled up next to him. His house was too quiet. It felt odd and out of place. Like something was missing aside from the obvious absence of man’s best friend. 

He used to love the isolation being home provided after months of time spent on cramped tour buses and in shared hotel rooms, but now he was dreading the solitude. 

Before his mind could ponder further he heard a familiar notification chime from his phone. He rolled over and grabbed the device off the nightstand, the light from the screen cutting through the darkness. 

Olivia: New Text Message

He unlocked his phone and was greeted by a photo of Boo in a bathtub, hair spiked up in different directions by the shampoo lathered in his hair. The message underneath read:

Olivia: Someone knocked over the trashcan while I was taking a shower and got caught red pawed with peanut butter all over him. 🙃

The message made him smile in amusement. Boo was notorious for knocking over and digging through the garbage if you didn’t keep the trash can secured in some fashion. He had done it many times when Matt had originally moved into his own place before he finally got a heavy metal can with a push pedal lid that couldn’t be knocked over.

Before he could type out a reply another photo popped up. This one showed Boo sitting, with freshly dried fur, looking up at Olivia through the mirror on the countertop next to the sink in her bathroom. The reflection showed Olivia smiling down at her phone screen behind him as she snapped the picture, hair dryer up and ready in her opposite hand. 

She was wearing an oversized t-shirt, which was practically a dress on her short frame. Not just any t-shirt. His t-shirt. His favorite Lord of the Rings t-shirt that he thought he accidentally lost. 

But there is was, and fuck did she look good in it. 

Olivia: Pupdate: Back to his clean handsome self! 😋

He zoomed in to see that she had gathered the pups hair up into a hair tie causing the free hair to stick up like a troll doll. His smile grew wider as he typed back a reply. 

Matt: You gave my dog a ponytail? And is that my shirt? 🤨

Olivia: Yeah! You guys match now! And I don’t know what you’re talking about. Lol 🤭

Matt: 🙄

Olivia: He looks cute and you know it! 🖕

Matt: So what you're saying is you think I look cute? And stop trying to avoid the question. 🤔

Olivia: I say you match and that's all you got out of that? 🙄

Matt: You didn’t say no. 😏

Olivia: 🤐

Matt: I’m taking that as a yes until you say otherwise and I want my shirt back. 

“Boo, I think your dad is flirting with me” Olivia said to the pup curled up under her arm, big brown eyes looking at her. 

Albeit she was flirting back, but they were both arguably kinda bad at it. 

Olivia: I plead the fifth and if you want it back you’ll have to come and take it. 

Matt: That can be arranged. 

Oh shit, maybe not as bad at it as she thought. 

Olivia: You’d like that wouldn’t you? 

Well, no turning back now. They’ve officially crossed into a territory outside of the realm of just friends. 

Three little text dots popped up at the bottom and then went away. 

Shit Shit Shit. 

She felt doubt start to form like a weight in the pit of her stomach. Maybe she read the messages wrong. Maybe he wasn’t flirting? 

Twenty minutes passed with no reply. She wanted to scream, and cry, and throw up all at the exact same time. Olivia was genuinely worried that she had just royally fucked up her friendship. 

She was anxiously pacing around her room, waiting for Matt to reply, when she heard her doorbell ring from downstairs. She looked over at the clock on her nightstand. It read 11:47pm. 

Boo let out a growl at the new noise. She tried to soothe the dog before leaving him secured inside her bedroom and headed downstairs to see who the hell was ringing her doorbell in the middle of the night. She was mentally chastising herself for not investing in one of those ring doorbell cameras that she always said she was going to invest in when she moved in two years prior. 

She stood on her tip toes and looked through the peephole. She let out a slight gasp by who she saw on the other side before quickly unlocking and opening the door. There on the other side of the threshold was Matt with a very serious look on his face, his brown eyes looked darker than usual. They both said nothing, a noticeable tension filled the air as she pulled the door open wider, allowing him room to step inside. She quickly closed the door behind him and re-secured the locks. 

“Matt, wha…” she started to ask, turning around to face him. 

“Shut up.” he interjected, stepping forward and connecting their lips in a searing kiss. 

They stood like this for a moment, before he took another step and the cool wood of her front door against her back caused her to part her lips in a gasp, allowing his tongue to slip inside. His hands left her face and traveled down the seam of her shirt. His shirt. Before he reached behind her thighs and lifted her up, legs wrapping around his center, as he carried them over to the couch across the room. 

That tension felt before snapped as hands found skin and clothing met the floor piece by piece. She didn’t have time to feel shy. The desire of it all was dizzying and they both craved more. He rolled her off his lap to where she laid across the couch and he began to plant kisses along her throat. Over her breast. Down her stomach. Watching her react with each touch as he made his way to her core. 

He looked up at her as he pressed gentle kisses against her inner thigh, silently asking permission to continue. She nodded and he didn’t hesitate. Her hand quickly found its way into his hair as his tongue worked deeper. Her head snapped back into the couch pillow as he gently introduced his fingers to her folds, falling into a steady rhythm as his mouth flicked over her clit. She tried to move her hips to match his thrusts but he firmly held her in place by snaking his free arm around her thigh. 

She let out a moan as she felt herself growing closer and closer to climax. The sounds of her moans and how she breathlessly whispered his name were like music and he was desperate to hear more. She looked down at him, his eyes borderline pitch black with lust. Their gaze remained locked as she felt her body coil tighter until it snapped and she screamed out his name in pleasure. Writhing beneath him as he continued to work his fingers in and out, while kissing the overstimulated bud. 

The sound of her voice as she fell apart made his dick twitch. She whimpered slightly at the absence as he made his way back up her body and attaching her lips to his in another deep kiss. He pulled back and looked into her eyes, her pupils blown with ecstasy. 

“Are you sure about this?” He said, seeking consent to continue. 

She grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him into another breathtaking kiss. 

“Fuck, yes.” She breathed against his lips. 

She gripped his arms, nail leaving crescent moon indentions on the skin as he pushed inside of her. Sweat began to pool at the small of his back as she rolled her hips up to meet him, their bodies falling into a steady rhythm.

He placed his forehead against hers, eyes locked as he thrusts harder, deeper. Both chasing their high together. Olivia's eyes flutter closed as the pleasure builds closer and closer. 

“Look at me!” Matt demands. God the way he said that unlocked something in her. 

Her eyes snap back open to meet his. He picks up his pace with a grunt, alternating between deep full hilt thrusts and shallow ones that leaves her needing more. 

“Fuck, Liv, you’re doing so good for me.” He praises between his own moans. 

Her hands snake deeper into his mane of hair as they push closer and closer to the breaking point. He tries to hide his moan in another deep kiss. 

“Matt….” She whines, “so close..”

“That’s it, babygirl.” He praises, “cum for me, let me hear that pretty voice.”

She cried out his name in pleasure, star bursts dotting in her vision as he continued to fuck her through her orgasm. She writhed with overstimulation as he chased his own climax shortly after. He collapsed on her chest, both of them trying to calm their ragged breathing. 

Matt quickly got up and retrieved a wet washcloth from the half bath and cleaned both of them up before laying back down and pulling Olivia on top of him along with the decorative blanket that was draped over the back of the couch. She nestled her face into the crux of his neck, he rested his chin on top of her head. 

“Matt?” Olivia asks, voice muffled by how she was laying. 

“Yeah?”

“You’re still not getting the shirt back.” She says. 

He lets out a laugh. 

“Fair enough,” he replies, kissing her forehead, “It looks better on you anyways.”

[ofstoriesandstardust]

but it's golden like daylight (k.c.)

a/n: kylie wrote fluff who is she?! this was my short and sweet treat to myself for grad school curb-stomping me. you don't need to read the can't take the home out of oklahoma series for this but it does pick up almost immediately after the fourth part. as always, comments and reblog fuel me :)

summary: You and Kate start the rest of your lives together.

warnings: swearing, engagement, buying a house, alcohol mentions

word count: 3k

You hum as Kate hands you your cup of coffee over the console before she turns the key in her truck. The sun is barely rising, your tour of the house scheduled for early morning. 

Kate hadn’t let you see the listing, suddenly apprehensive that you wouldn’t like the place and kept insisting that she wanted you to see her vision once you toured the physical space. 

The house is a short twelve minute drive from Cathy’s farm, eight in the opposite direction from Tyler’s small place. The country music is turned low as you sip the coffee, Kate’s hand on your thigh. “I’m excited.” You say softly and Kate chances a glance at you as she flicks her blinker on. 

She’s really pretty like this, in the early morning dawn, hair still slightly sleep-mussed, but eyes eager and bright. “I hope you like it.” She says softly as she turns down a gravel road. 

“I’m sure I will.”

The real estate agent for the sellers meets you at the front porch, an older lady with a warm demeanor, touring you through the space. 

From first glance, you could see how one could write this house off. The house, six bedrooms and three baths, sits on a 3,600 square foot lot that is mostly run down. The exterior of the house seems to be newer but instantly from stepping inside you can tell that the house is outdated. The carpet is dingy, the appliances old, bathrooms dark and dreary. Every bedroom wall is a different color with the same dreadful carpet, but every step takes you farther into what you can already sense Kate’s vision is. 

It’s the perfect off-season fixer-upper. 

The living room is vast, wide-open. The kitchen is spacey and you can already see your friends gathered around the kitchen island. The master bath desperately needs retiling and new wallpaper, but it’s huge and the master bedroom has two large doors that lead straight out into the backyard. The house all-around has massive windows, perfect to let in all the light. The lot behind the house is overgrown with weeds but nothing Cathy couldn’t help you with and you can already see a chicken coop and a stable Tyler could help you build and a place to keep cows and horses, your inner country gal really coming to life. 

At the end of the tour, the real estate agent lets you know that the owners, a daughter who inherited this place and her husband who currently live in Indiana, are willing to negotiate and she’ll sit out front for you guys to have time to talk it over, though she assures you both that you don’t have to make a decision today.

“So?” Kate asks, a hopeful look in her eyes as you turn around in the master bedroom downstairs, eyeing the space. 

“It’s definitely a fixer-upper.” Kate looks a little nervous as you grin at her. “But it could be our fixer-upper.” 

“Yeah?” She breathes out, a grin growing on her face. You nod. 

“Oh yeah, I think Boone will have a blast ripping the tiling up in the bathroom and I am dying to go pick out paint samples. It’s like our perfect little off-season project. Your Mom could help us build a chicken coop and I already know where Peaches will curl up to take her naps in the sun.” 

She steps closer, taking your hands. “We’re so redoing the backsplash in the kitchen.” 

“Oh fuck yeah.” You mutter, before pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “Talk sexy to me baby, I love it when you tell me about house renovations.” 

She lets out a loud laugh, hands finding your waist as she loops her fingers through the belt loops on your jeans. “I’m already thinking of the washer and dryer set we can go buy.” 

You snort. “We’re so adult. Like, the best adults. Like I can’t believe I’m excited to go shop for a stove.” 

“You wanna put our offer in today?” She asks softly after a minute. 

“Let’s buy a house baby.” 

-

You and Kate come home with a box of pastries and two smiles even a tornado couldn’t take from you. 

“Where’d you guys go?” Javi asks around a bite of eggs and Kate shakes the box of pastries at him.

“You are a saint.” Boone praises as he lifts the lid of the box open, already reaching for the bear claw. You snicker as he bites into it, not missing Cathy’s look from over her coffee mug. Truthfully, the pastries had been as much of a treat for you and Kate for putting in an offer as it had been a distraction from your absence for your friends. You and Kate had agreed to not say anything about the house until you had your keys in hand, afraid to jinx it or disappoint them.

That hadn’t stopped Cathy though, who finds the two of you on the second floor of the barn, tucked away as the two of you chat, making an extensive list of what you’ll need to get and what’s highest priority in remodeling the place. 

So much for not getting your hopes up.  

“It’s too damn hot for the two of you to be hiding out up here.” Cathy calls as she pulls herself up the last step. “So I’m going to take it that it either went really well or really bad.” Neither you nor Kate can hide your smiles, which only makes Cathy smile as she tugs a stool over. “Really well then?”

“I mean-” Kate cuts herself off, glancing at you. “It’s a total fixer-upper. The place doesn’t even have a stove. Or a microwave.” 

“But you like it?” Cathy asks, directing her look to you now. 

You nod. “I already have paint ideas. Do you want to come to Lowe’s with us?” 

Kate snorts, shaking her head. 

For as much as Cathy was Kate’s Mom, Cathy had also become your maternal figure, treating you as such long before you and Kate had started dating and she had been treating you as her daughter-in-law long before you and Kate ever got as serious as you were now. 

It wasn’t something you took for granted and not something you wouldn’t ever treasure, loving just how much of a role Cathy played in your lives like this. Which meant she was the perfect one to help you pick out flooring and paint and appliances for a new place, already knowing what you and Kate would both love and could afford. 

You pull your phone out, quietly explaining the vision for the home as you show her the pictures, Cathy listening thoughtfully. 

“What do you think Mom?” Kate asks quietly, eager for her Mom’s approval. 

She sighs. “I think the two of you better get real comfortable spending a lot of money.” 

“But?”

“But I can’t wait to see how this all turns out. You said there was space for a chicken coop?” 

-

In the end, you and Kate close on the house, keys in hand, two days after the Wranglers, Javi included, leave to spend two weeks in Arkansas. 

The owners had been willing to negotiate to an even five hundred thousand and between you and Kate’s savings and a loan, you and Kate had begun signing papers just three days after putting in the first offer. 

While you and Kate are both disappointed the Wranglers aren’t there to celebrate, you and Kate take Cathy by the house with a cheap bottle of champagne and solo cups you’d picked up from the store on the way over. You sipped warm bubbly as you took her through the house, Cathy watching with fond amusement as you and Kate talked over one another in excitement of what you’d do to the place. 

And then you guys get to work. 

Kate changes the locks on the door the next morning, the two of you spending far too long at the key copier at the hardware store, picking out special designs for each of your friends. 

The three of you drive out to what Cathy deems the good Lowe’s out in Tulsa and probably become the salesman, Rob’s, favorite customer of the year as you list out the new appliances you need. 

The husband of one of Cathy’s long-term co-workers at the hospital where she works as a nurse offers to install all of them for free in exchange for a night of Cathy’s barbecue, an exchange she makes happily with the assurance the two of you would help her. You set out with setting up the electricity and gas (and the wi-fi, Kate reminds you late one night after shooting up in bed in a panic, four days after you begin), calling all the appropriate places and scheduling installation visits. You and Kate make more trips to pick out paint than either of you care to admit, testing out different shades of greens and purples and blues. 

As exciting and fast-moving it is, it’s not easy either. Kate comments, a bit sadly, one night as the two of you sit on your kitchen floor with Chinese takeout that she wishes Addy had been here, because she loved to paint and would’ve done the most gorgeous artwork on the walls of the house. She says another night, atop your staircase, that she wishes Jeb could see how far she’s come. She mentions in the Lowe’s that Praveen would’ve probably been the best to take appliance shopping, since he would’ve just known what worked well in the space. 

It’s a sad bit of melancholy, a wound you can’t fix. You can’t bring her friends back and it’s all you can do to love Kate through it. Her grief is real, never-ending, no matter how much she grows with it. 

Before you know it, the two weeks (not even, Kate reminds you as she stocks the fridge) have flown by and the Wranglers are rolling down the dirt road, you and Kate awaiting them out in your front yard.

They’re only in town for three days this time, before Tyler flys back to Arkansas for a month and a half. Dexter is flying down to see his niece, one of his last pieces of family, for a few weeks in New Orleans and Javi and Boone would be in Miami for three and a half weeks to see Javi’s family. 

Dani and Lilly are all yours for the next month though before the four of you regroup with the rest of the crew in Arkansas for two weeks and it’s taken everything in you and Kate to not spill the news to them early, already eagerly awaiting their help and hands. 

“Okay, you two. What is this place?” Javi asks as he shuts the door to the van. Kate grins at him as he sticks his hands in his pockets, the rest of the Wranglers climbing out after him. 

Kate jerks her head back towards the house, letting them inside as they take the space in. The downstairs isn’t in too horrible of a state or chaos, save for the many boxes scattered throughout the place, and the two of you even have a vase of flowers sitting on the kitchen island. The upstairs… that’s a different story. 

“Kate…” Tyler trails off, eyebrows raised. 

“We bought a house.” You say finally and the group lights up. There’s various exclamations, all excited as they congratulate you and Kate. “Six bedrooms, three baths, and in need of serious work. I have specifically picked out keys for everyone and uh, Booney baby, you up for helping us pull the tile and carpet up?” 

“Oh fuck yeah!”

-

“A house, huh? All you need is a ring on that finger and you’re all set.” Dani teases you that night as the two of you drive back to Cathy’s with pizza for the whole crew. 

You take a deep breath as you climb out of the car after it rolls to a stop, crowding Dani by the drivers door. “Can you keep a secret?” Dani nods a bit, frowning as you thumb through your phone, knowing specifically what it is you’re looking for. You flip the phone around, showing her the snapshot and her eyes go wide. “Cathy helped me pick it out.”

“No fucking way.” She whispers. “You have a fucking ring?!” 

“Are y’all coming in with that pizza or what, man? I’m starved!” Boone shouts from the front porch. 

“Come get it yourself Boone!” You shout back and you can hear the man move towards the car even if you don’t see him. Dani giggles a bit, shaking you. 

“I am so happy for you guys. Oh my God, now you’re really stuck with us California. No running away from this one.”

-

You end up proposing to Kate a week later.

You’re driven a ways out from Sapulpa, an open field before you as the wind whips Kate’s hair around. An end of summer lightning storm thunders off in the distance, electric purples lighting up the sky as you and Kate watch on, laying on top of the hood of your car. 

Well, you were watching at one point but now you can’t help but watch Kate, the way her face lights up in awe, the way she squeezes your hand and asks did you see that one? 

Kate Carter loves storms, would follow them anywhere. Kate Carter was her own type of storm, blindly beautiful and ever-changing, magnetic and wild. And you loved that storm, would follow that storm anywhere. 

“You keep looking at me like that.” Kate says, turning her face to meet your eyes. A bashful smile tugs at her lips, a bit lopsided, like it always does whenever she catches you staring. Usually you tell her you can’t help it, that you’re just in awe that you get to be with someone as pretty or as kind or as wonderful as her, but today, the words tumble past your lips. 

“Kate, I want to get married.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you- are you asking?” 

In lieu of answer, you slide off the hood, opening the passenger door to the back, digging around in the pocket on the back of the seat as Kate sits abruptly, curious eyes following you. You pull out a small box before climbing back onto the hood and Kate’s breath hitches as she catches sight of the velvet box. 

“I’m asking. Kate, I want to marry you more than anything else in this world. You gotta know, my love, there’s nowhere in this world I wouldn’t follow you.” 

“Yes, oh my- yes!” Kate exclaims, hands finding your face to pull you into a kiss. You narrowly dodge it, a laugh bubbling over. 

“But I didn’t ask yet!” You giggle, feeling a few raindrops splatter down on the top of your head. 

“Close enough.” She waves off, turning her attention to the box still clutched in your hand. You open the small box, slipping the ring on her left hand and she holds it out to examine as the rain picks up, her sweatshirt dampening. 

It’s gold, small and dainty, a small pearl set in the middle of a small cluster of diamonds but it slides on perfectly (thank you Cathy, you think silently). Kate wipes away tears (or rain, you aren’t sure) from her face as she looks down at it before glancing back up, hand resting on your knee. 

“I have a ring for you. It’s back at Mom’s. I hid it behind a bunch of fabric in that closet in the guest room.” She admits quietly. “I’ve- maybe I wasn’t always as sure about us, me, as you were but I love you just the same.”

-

Kate gets three minutes back in the house, darting up the stairs to dig out her own ring, sliding it on your finger with a chaste kiss, before she darts back down the stairs to show her Mom. 

Cathy cries, Lilly screams, Dani does a little dance, and the joyous feeling that burns bright in your chest threatens to never leave, not that you’d want it to. 

You spend a lot of time the next morning looking at it, the small diamond set in a row into the small golden band, twisting it this way and that way, admiring the way it looks on your hand, intertwined with Kate’s own hand. 

You and Kate elect to wait until you get to Arkansas in a few weeks to tell the boys, knowing this is something Tyler and Javi should learn in person. And then Dani suggests through laughter that you don’t mention it, seeing how long it takes for them to notice. You and Kate both laugh, the four of you setting a bet. 

Nine days. It takes nine days of the fifteen day trip for any of the boys to notice. 

You had gone from amused, to concerned, to amused again the longer it took and Kate was starting to threaten to just drive away, shouting the news out at them as she did. 

“What is that?” Boone asks abruptly, grabbing your hand as you pass Dani the pepper. Your ring glints in the orange glow of the setting sun, filtering in through Tyler’s kitchen. “What is that?”

“Oh man.” Kate says through a snort, her own left hand reaching up to cover her mouth. 

“What is that?” Boone demands, attention now sliding over to Kate. Javi and Tyler have both paused, Javi licking his lips as they stare Kate down. Dani lets out a loud laugh, turning to hide her face in Lilly’s shoulder as you give them a soft smile. 

“Kate- is that-” Javi starts. 

“Are you-” Tyler asks, before looking to you. “Are you really?” 

“Who asked first?” Boone demands, already tugging your hand closer to examine the ring. 

“I did.” You admit as Javi’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Kate, you’ve only been sitting on that thing for seven months! She still beat you to it?” 

“Seven months?” You ask, eyes wide as you turn to Kate. 

“Hey man, when you know you know.” Boone says and your eyes flash over to Lilly and Dani, who are still giggling to themselves. You hear Tyler and Javi’s quiet congratulations, Tyler and Javi both standing up to give you hugs but all you can do is lock eyes with Lilly as she laughs, tears streaming down her face.

“I can’t believe it took you idiots so long to notice!” 

[callyourose]

match point, chapter six.

↳   masterlist

— In which Art and Patrick find themselves intertwined with the relationship of tennis superstar Tashi Duncan and her best friend, Lennon Caddel.

LENNON CADDEL DIDN'T RESENT TASHI DUNCAN. She loved her. Adored her. Sometimes Lennon was so overwhelmed by her love for Tashi that it physically hurt. When she was flipping through photo albums or laughing at one of Tashi's jokes, she would be so overcome with love that her arms would start to tingle all the way down to her fingers and her stomach would start to hurt. No matter how many times Tashi had made her cry or practice so hard she could barely stand, she was still fully convinced that this friendship is what she was made for. Even though she sometimes hated when people saw the two of them as a matching set, Lennon could understand why. She barely existed off of the tennis court, even less so if she wasn't by Tashi's side. As the two got older, and their tennis careers got more serious, Tashi had taken on a more controlling personality. Lennon essentially had two tennis coaches. Her dad and her best friend. It didn't bother her, most of the time anyway. It was kind of nice to have someone looking out for her future, even if she would rather die than play professional tennis. She just hoped that Tashi would cool down a little once school started. With a roster full of other tennis players and a new set of coaches, Lennon wouldn't need that much coaching from Tashi. She hoped that she understood that too.

The night before move in, both Lennon and Tashi were lying awake The night before move in, both Lennon and Tashi were lying awake. Both girls were in their respective beds, for the last night in who knows how long, staring up at the ceiling. Tashi was so excited for the up coming year that it was hard to sleep. The idea of having new people to talk tennis with, new coaches to learn from, and a campus full of people who didn't really know her made her so exhilarated that when she would close her eyes, she would have to stop herself from giggling. And the fact that she got to do it with her best friend made it all that more exciting.

Lennon, on the other hand, was dreading the next day. Her stomach was twisted into knots and her mind was racing with ideas on how to push off her freshman year for as long as possible. For her, it was another year of people expecting something from her. To be the best on Stanford's tennis roster, to end the semester on the Presidential Honor's List, to be the best friend and daughter and person she could be. She doesn't remember what not being stressed feels like.

The idea of sleep had left her mind a while ago, so Lennon decides to get out. Out of bed, out of her house, or just out. Away from here. As quietly as she can, she slips on her shoes and exits her house. She almost tripped over three boxes by the time she was on her back porch, to which she cringed at the thought of waking her parents. How would she explain to them why she was leaving the house at one in the morning?

In the dark, only illuminated by a few string lights and street lamps, Lennon crosses her backyard and hops the fence. Luckily for her, she lived just a few steps from the beach. For the past nine years, she had had a designated spot on that beach. When she fought with her parents, when she lost an important match, when she just needed to clear her head, that's where she went. Nobody knew about her spot except Tashi, which made it theirs. Sometimes when Lennon needed to cool down, she would walk to that familiar place on the shore and Tashi would already be there. She hoped today wasn't one of those days.

Lennon let out a breath she didn't know she was holding when she saw that the beach was clear. It took everything in her not to run and kiss the ground. She sat down like she had many times; knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, her chin on her knee. Looking out onto the water, only lit up by the moon, the weight of the world on her shoulders, she couldn't do anything but cry. Half of her was so grateful for the life she had the opportunity to live. She had the most amazing parents that would do anything for her, the type of friendship written about in novels, and a full ride to the number one university for tennis in the country. This was the life people dream of. The life she had dreamed of at one point. The other half of her was just so tired. She felt like she had been running and chasing this dream for so long, that she didn't even know if she wanted it anymore. She didn't even know if this was her dream or someone else's.

"I knew you'd be here."

Lennon didn't have to turn around to know who was behind her. After nineteen years, the smile in Tashi's voice was easy to recognize.

She sinks down beside her, resting her head on Lennon's shoulder. "You okay?" Her smile had faded, concern taking over when she heard her sniffle.

Normally, Lennon would lie. She would wipe her eyes, smile softly, and say that she was fine. That she was so excited to move to Stanford that it had brought her to tears. But she didn't feel like lying today. Tashi was her best friend, wasn't she? She should be able to tell the truth and not have to live in fear of the reaction she would receive.

"Honestly?" She started, laughing dryly, "No."

Tashi lifted her head and maneuvered her body so that she was sitting directly in front of Lennon. She looked almost pathetic in the moonlight. Her eyes were red rimmed and filled with unshed tears, her lips were raw from biting them. Tashi reaches up and uses the pad of her thumb to wipe away the tears resting in the bags of Lennon's eyes. She can't help but lean into her touch.

"Talk to me." Tashi smiles sadly. She knew why she was upset.

"I just…" Her voice cracked, "Please, please don't get mad at me." Her lower lip quivers as she sucks in a deep breath and looks away. The fear of disappointing Tashi for the second time in two days was almost enough to have her sobbing on the shore.

"Hey hey hey," Tashi uses the hand on Lennon's cheek to force her gaze back to her. Her eyebrows were furrowed and every part of her felt guilty for making her best friend feel like she wasn't allowed to have feelings. "I'm not going to be mad at you, Len. Promise."

Lennon lets out a shaky breath, meeting Tashi's eyes. She believed her. "I hate this so much, Tashi. I'm so tired." She didn't have to continue. Tashi knew what she meant. Tired of being looked up to. Tired of having to win all the time. Tired of being something she's not.

Lennon had started to stutter out an apology but Tashi just pulled her into a hug, shushing her as she started to cry again. "I know, honey. It's okay… You're okay." She whispered into her hair, pressing her lips to her hairline. Maybe I've been too hard on her, she thought. Maybe I need to chill out a little. She's terrified I'm going to be mad at her.

It wasn't as often anymore that the two girls understood exactly what the other was thinking. They still knew each other better than anyone else did, and that would never change. But as they grew older, they had started keeping secrets from each other. Both girls had parts of themselves that they wanted to just be theirs, separate from their "dynamic duo."

But in this moment, on their spot on the beach, Lennon in Tashi's arms; they understood each other completely. Like a really good game of tennis, it was like they were in love. Or like nothing else existed or mattered other than the two of them. This was the feeling Lennon had been dreaming of for so long. Not the feeling of winning or pleasing the people around her. The feeling of being loved, despite her flaws and insecurities. The feeling of being known so well that it hurt. And only Tashi could give her that.

[aliaology]

HOUSE THAT BUILT ME

summary: reader (older hughes sister) takes a small flight to toronto to say goodbye to the home she grew up in before moving to michigan.

pairings: hughes brothers x older sister!reader

warnings: just angst. part three of my older hughes! sister au so it kinda contradicts never grow up bc i almost made the michigan house be her childhood house with the childhood room line, but the toronto house was her childhood house, i just lowkey forgot they lived in toronto in the first part.

you didn't expect to be here. you didn't expect yourself to take a last minute flight to toronto and stand in the front of the house you used to call home. but you felt drawn to do so, you had to come back one last time. even if people told you you couldn't, you still did.

you felt yourself walking up the stairs. your handprints littered them, along with little quinnys, little jackys, and little little lukeys. the multi-colored handprints were a stark contrast to the white, chipped paint of the porch stairs.

they creaked under you, causing you to step slower. you now stood in front of the screen door that covered the red door. your hand shakily reached up to the doorbell, pressing it. the all-familiar tune played. it wasn't a normal 'ding!' no, your mother made it ring to a beat. one you would tap your foot to every time it was rung.

the door creaked open, revealing a slightly older woman. "can i help you?" she asked, eyes squinted from the sun.

"im so sorry to bother you, i know you dont know me but, i um- i used to live here." you awkwardly laughed. "me and my brothers are actually the kids who did those handprints on the stairs." you informed.

she opened the screen door, stepping out. she had a soft smile on her face and waved you over to the small swing that was on the porch.

you two ended up sitting and talking. "the back bedroom, that was mine. i did my homework on a dainty desk and that room is where i learned to play guitar." you spoke.

a fond smile was on the womans face. "i've never once changed anything in this house since me and my family moved here." she told.

"i couldnt. i actually hoped one of the kids who did those handprints would show up. i like learning of what this place used to be. plus, whoever did that kitchen was amazing." she chuckled.

"my dad helped my mom do that. it was a dream kitchen for her. he helped a lot of her dreams come true with this house." you said.

you looked over the property. the green grass, the live oak, the trees that surrounded the house. you looked back at her.

"do you- do you think i could come in? i just want to look around. i swear as soon as im done, ill leave. i wont take nothing, just my memories." you smiled.

she let you. you found yourself tracing the walls as you walked upstairs. the same texture was there as it used to be. the steps still creaked twice with every step. the air was still cold, as it used to be.

you walked into your old room. the walls were still the dark purple they used to be. it made you remember who you used to be. the happy-go-lucky little girl whos only care in the world were her three younger brothers.

you weren't done looking around, but you already dreaded the idea of leaving. leaving home wasn't what you wanted to do. doing it once was hard enough. you could see yourself, your younger self, sitting at her desk.

feet kicking with a pencil in her hand as she hummed to some random song that she heard on the tv. she would smile every once in awhile as she did her math homework, realizing she understood something.

you could see young jack running in, a water gun in his hand, and shooting you with it, ruining your mood and your homework. you could see little luke rushing in behind him, tackling jack to the ground. little quinn would pin jack down and little you would tickle him as payback. luke and quinn were your little sidekicks.

after awhile, you walked back to the porch. "thank you again, ma'am. this meant a lot to me. it helped being able to see and feel the house again." you told her.

she smiled. "of course dear." you gave her a polite nod and walked down the handprint-filled stairs. you got to see the house that built you, and instead of leaving with tears, you left with a small smile.

tags (perm); @slaythehousebootsdown13 , @um-mads , @outrunangelss

[0vergrowngraveyard]

Surprise villain au oneshot

———

It had only been about three months since he took the little fox kit he found on some rich folk’s porch under his wing and Sonic had already heard the little guy apologize to him more times than he could count.

Most of the time it was for no reason, like if the kit dropped something and Sonic looked back at him. Just little things that required no apology but he always got one anyway. The hedgehog always waved it off, telling him that there was nothing he needed to apologize for.

Sometimes, however, it was due to how Sonic himself responded to him.

Sonic tended to experience pretty extreme mood swings, going from practically bouncing off the walls to the bottom of the barrel to being ready to kill someone who looked at him wrong all before a moment's notice. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be pleasant to be around one second and then suddenly snapping at anyone who breathed too loudly the next.

He knew it happened, he just didn’t know what to do about it. It was like he was stuck and could only watch himself slowly fall apart.

And worst of all, he’d begun to snap at Tails.

He didn’t mean to — he didn’t want to scare the little guy away, not when this was the first friend he’d ever had and they’d just started getting closer — but he couldn’t stop himself.

Sometimes the kit’s crime was asking a question at the wrong time or simply talking to him. It’s not like he ever knew when Sonic would suddenly get mad at him, the little guy was just trying to communicate with his new friend and was being punished for it.

Everytime it happened, the fox would get quiet and walk a few steps behind him. He’d only speak when spoken to until something got him excited the next day.

But he never left, he always stayed somewhere behind him and was still there in the morning.

It was a cycle.

They were walking down the street during the later hours of the evening, trying to think of somewhere to settle that night. Today was slow, Sonic usually got their money by pickpocketing off random people and he hadn’t been able to find anyone with more than $5 on them. It’s like all the richer mobians stayed inside today or people were starting to realize that money was being stolen and got smart.

Don’t get him wrong, $5 was great and he’d take it but deep down, some part of him was still used to the lavishness of Eggman’s bases…

They’d made it near the outskirts of Station Square. There’d been nowhere in the city for them to sleep with all the anti-homeless shit they’d been putting up. Spikes on benches, blocking off alleyways, the works. Sometimes, he considered just getting the two of them arrested so they could sleep in the juvenile detention center for the night or two.

But then they’d be separated and Tails could be sent back to his so-called parents.

He didn’t understand why they even bothered to file a missing person report and hung up fliers, they obviously didn’t care about the kid like he did. If they had been good parents, then Sonic wouldn’t have found the kit sitting on a porch in the rain, saying that his parents had kicked him out of the house for the night.

If they didn’t want to take care of their own kid, fine. He’d do it for them.

As they made it to the train station, Sonic put his hands on his hips and hummed. He looked back, “Hey, kid. What do you say we camp out in the Mystic Ruins tonight? Y’know, sleep under the stars and all…that…” His words trailed off as he looked at the kit.

He was holding one of the missing person posters.

Now, you wouldn’t be able to tell he was the kid in the flier unless you squinted and maybe turned the paper on its side. It was a terrible picture and the description said nothing about his twin tails. As long as the kid kept his hood on, he was in the clear.

But that wasn’t the problem.

An indescribable fear gutted him, dread opening up a pit in his stomach as his breath hitched. It was irrational, he knew it was irrational, but that didn't change anything.

“Why do you have that?” He asked

Tails blinked at him and looked back down at the paper, “Oh, uh- I found it yesterday. I meant to throw it away earlier but I forgot-“ The kit tried to explain before Sonic cut him off.

His body moved on autopilot as he snatched the flier right out of the kid’s hand, completely missing the way the kid flinched. Sonic’s gaze narrowed, glaring down at the wide blue eyes now full of fear staring up at him. He looked down at the flier again and ripped it into four pieces with an annoyed tsk.

“Forgot to throw it out, huh? You sure you weren’t just planning on going back to your folks and leaving me in the dust?” He practically spat out.

Tails’ eyes got wider and his breath hitched before he frantically shook his head, tears building in his eyes as they squeezed shut. “No! No, I wasn’t!” He cried out, “Honest!”

Sonic stared at the kit as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his paws to stop any tears from falling in public. Self awareness suddenly barreled into him full force as he remembered that they were, in fact, surrounded by people. He could feel their eyes on him.

He anxiously clenched his fists and turned around, “Good...” he simply said, “Let’s get going.”

The kid nodded and scurried behind him, still willing to follow him.

The train ride was quiet. It was pretty late so that wasn’t too surprising. Sonic looked out the window behind him, watching as the city lights faded into deep greens as they approached their destination.

Instead of leaning against his shoulder as he usually did, Tails sat a little bit away from him, namesakes curled around his legs as he stared at the floor. His ears were down, resting against the back of his head. His eyes were covered by his hood, Sonic could only see the small frown on his muzzle.

He sighed. He could only imagine what his little outburst looked to random people walking by. A thirteen year old scolding a six year old for holding a piece of paper. What a great look.

It’s not like anyone did anything about it anyway. No one ever did anything about it.

“I’m sorry.” The kit mumbled.

“You’re good.” Is what Sonic should’ve said, because it was true. He was all good, he didn’t do anything wrong.

But instead Sonic just hummed, unable to bring himself to speak. He didn’t know if it was embarrassment or if part of him was still unreasonably mad at the kid. He felt his heart break all the same when he saw the kit make himself smaller.

The kid didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve any of this. If Sonic knew what was good for him, he would’ve dropped him off somewhere with nice people who didn’t randomly snap at him and push him away only to love bomb him a day later.

Tails didn’t deserve any of it and yet Sonic couldn’t let him go. He didn’t want to be alone, the thought terrified him.

Eventually, they made camp near a cliff overseeing the ocean in the Mystic Ruins. The stars were shining overhead and the waves crashed against the shore beneath them. The wind rustled the trees and danced with their little campfire that lit up their faces.

Neither had said a word to each other since the train station, but that was normal.

Sonic looked at Tails out of the corner of his eye. The little kid just sat there, his blue eyes were still downcast as the fire’s warm glow reflected off of them. While his ears weren’t pressed against the back of his head anymore, they were still wilted, not quite standing up to full height.

The hedgehog sighed before looking back at the campfire, “You…you weren’t lying back there, were you?” He asked, ��About not leaving…you weren’t just saying what I wanted to hear, right?”

Tails shook his head, “I wasn’t lying”

Sonic stayed quiet for a moment and just watched the fire dance, listening to each crackle as his words from earlier echoed in his head.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“It’s okay, Sonic.”

Soon they would go to sleep and wake up the next morning. Everything would go back to how it was. Sonic would spoil the kit as an attempt at an apology and they'd be fine until the next time he lost his temper. Maybe it would take a few days, maybe a few weeks, maybe even a whole month, but it would happen again and the cycle would repeat.

That was their normal.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

VI ║ Mustang

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 5: Appaloosa | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: On the fifth day, you leave the Halfway House behind, and the conversation turns homeward.

Warnings: Angst, feelings, flirting, insecurities, sexual innuendoes, oral sex (m and f receiving), dirty talk, language, no use of Y/N

Word count: 4.3k

Notes: I toyed with the idea of shortening the series by one part, but then - why would I? I want to give these two as much time as they deserve on this trip, so we have three more chapters after this. Enjoy my darlin's!

Mustang: An American feral horse which is typically small and lightly built.

It hits you a bit belatedly the next morning over breakfast - wholewheat toast with Poppy’s own churned butter and homemade jam - that it’s your fifth day on the trail. 

You dread to wrap your head around what that means. Today is the penultimate full day on the road. On the seventh, you head back to the ranch for your final night, and the next day, you fly home.

The realisation steals your breath for a second, and you sip pensively on the fresh orange juice that Jack squeezed by hand. 

You know he senses there’s something on your mind. You feel his eyes on you as you wash up the dishes while he does a final sweep of the house to make sure everything is in order, pausing every time he passes through the kitchen to press sweet kisses to the side of your neck.

Running out of excuses to linger, you make your way to the front door, the sound of your boots echoing hollowly in the living room, as empty as it was when you stepped into it two days ago. 

Except - it’s not really empty, is it? When so much has happened since?

You trace a finger on the kitchen counter where Jack made you dinner, drag your feet past the fireplace where you shared cake and confessions, and now you stand on the porch where he made you cry out his name into the dark of night.

The door shuts behind you with a heavy finality that physically weighs down your feet as you trudge towards the horses. 

Does any of this mean as much to him as it does to you?

Can it mean anything? You have three days left before you’re thousands of miles away, back to a crowded downtown studio apartment that barely has space for just you, let alone a cowboy, and a life that has no time for horses.

And here? There will be another rider in Scotch’s saddle next week, someone else taking your place by the evening fire and the bed you slept in - you bite the inside of your mouth to stop yourself from extrapolating any further than that. 

Jack looks up at you. ‘Got everythin’, darlin’?’

You put on a brave smile. ‘Got everything, cowboy.’

Scotch nuzzles you affectionately on the shoulder as you watch Jack finish up securing the last of the bags on Bourbon. Frowning at your forlorn expression, Jack He chucks you under the chin and  reassures you, ‘The house will be here when you come back, darlin’.’

When. 

Not if, but when.

It makes you smile.

While the shortcut is a less spectacular route as Jack forewarned, it’s still beautiful. Alternately cutting through swathes of flat land and dense forest, it’s certainly a less travelled path. There are parts of the track where Jack has to dismount to clear the overgrown vegetation, hacking away at wayward branches, so that you can go through.

After a whole day in the house - albeit a very good day - you’re happy to be in the open country again. You revel in the sun, your body loose and relaxed in the warmth, filling your lungs with the fresh scent of grass, trees and wildflowers.

Jack watches you from under the brim of his hat with a smile as you reach up while passing by a low-hanging tree, picking a bunch of flowers to tuck behind Scotch’s ears under the browband.

As much as he wants to push it out of his mind, his body is precisely finetuned to the schedule on the trail. Day five is when guests start to look back and reminisce, and he usually leads the charge with questions such as, do you remember what we saw on day three? Wasn’t that a treat?

Except this time, he doesn’t.

Instead, he holds his tongue, and the two of you ride quietly, side by side, letting the gentle rippling of grass in the wind and chipper birdsong do the talking.

And he watches you. No more furtive glances and stolen moments. He watches you openly and freely, catching your eye with a grin. 

He wants to remember you in the sun. Your back straight, but hips swaying to the rhythm of the horse. How gently your hands hold the reins, softly attuned to the horse’s mouth. The way you chatter to Scotch, and the punch he feels in his gut when you turn over your shoulder to smile at him. 

He’ll make damn sure he remembers all that.

Over a simple lunch - a much needed respite after the relentless feasting at the Halfway House - Jack mentions that the two of you will have to keep up the pace in the afternoon to get to the next camp by sundown. 

A bit fresh from the unexpected lieu day, Whiskey and Scotch keep trying to one up each other, nipping competitively for the lead. Bourbon, laid back as ever, is content to trail behind.

On a particularly flat stretch of land, you turn to Jack and ask, ‘Since we’re on the clock, how about a little race?’

He arches an eyebrow at your suggestion. ‘A race? So I get something if I win?’

You put on a coy smile and drag out the syllables teasingly. ‘Maybe.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

With a lopsided grin, you lean towards him and answer, ‘If you win, I’ll suck your cock, cowboy.’

His mouth parts at your unexpected proposal, his grip on the reins tightening, but he otherwise keeps his composure. Running the pink tip of his tongue across his bottom lip, he rasps, ‘And what do you want if you win, darlin’?’

‘What’s your best offer?’

Nudging Whiskey straight into Scotch’s side so that he can hook an arm around your waist, he purrs in your ear. ‘If you beat me, I’ll eat your sweet pussy.’

Turning to press your lips to his in a messy kiss, you grin. ‘You’re on, cowboy.’

There’s something magical - almost sacred - about galloping at full speed on the open prairie. 

Born and bred in the city, you’ve only done this maybe once or twice when you were younger, on family holidays in the rural backwaters. But damn, it never gets old.

The wind whistles in your ears as Scotch zooms across the plain. Despite the adrenaline of the competition, you are mindful to keep your contact on the bit soft, following the movement of his head so that he can move comfortably at full stretch. As it turns out, it’s surprisingly easy to sit in the Western saddle in the gallop, and you let your hips sway to the smooth gait. 

Ever the gentleman, Jack does give you a headstart, but not by much. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him level with you already. Catching your gaze, he gives you a cheeky wink before yelling yeehaw - at the command, Whiskey switches gear and starts to effortlessly overtake you.

Jack ends up beating you by a few comfortable horse lengths. Miffed as you are, you appreciate the fact that he doesn’t condescend you by letting you win.

He’s jumped off by the time you arrive at the designated finish line, the beginnings of the forest that you’ll be crossing through to get to tonight’s campsite. Both man and horse are panting from the effort, and Jack doesn’t bother hiding his smugness when he flashes you a grin.

‘Good try, darlin’,’ he winks, passing you a water bottle when you dismount.

You snatch it from him and take a big gulp, before tossing it onto the grass and grabbing him by the deep, open V of his plaid shirt. 

‘Shut up, cowboy,’ you gripe and yank him in for a frantic kiss.

He groans, clearly taken aback when you reach decisively for his flask-shaped belt buckle, opening it with a clink, no hesitation in the way you unzip the front of his jeans and snake your fingers beneath his boxers. Pulling back, he hesitates, ‘Wait, darlin’ - now?’

‘Yeah, now,’ you insist breathlessly, feeling him harden in your grasp.

‘I should probably clean up first,’ he protests weakly, but lets you back him up against a tree a safe distance away from the horses.

‘Uh-uh,’ you tut with a shake of your head and sink to your knees, the leather of your boots creaking as you settle onto your haunches. ‘Want you like this, cowboy.’

He hisses at the drag of your nails against his skin as you pull his jeans down, his cock bobbing heavily when released from the confines of his boxers. You breathe him in - leather and sweat - and his eyes smoulder at the sight of your fingers wrapping around his length, something feral in the snarl on his lips. 

‘Fuck, darlin’, so desperate for my cock, aren’t you?’

You nod and a shiver chases down your spine. ‘Want you in my mouth so badly.’

Sliding his grip into your hair, he instructs, ‘Open those pretty lips for me. Wide.’

You do as you’re told, your pussy clenching at the tone of his voice that veers on dominant. Gripping the base of his cock, Jack guides the swollen, leaking tip between your lips, letting out an unsteady exhale. The sound swerves into a whine when he meets resistance halfway in.

‘That’s it, darlin’, feels so good,’ he praises you, a deep furrow on his brow as he draws back slowly. ‘Will you let me fuck your mouth? Hmm?’

You hum in acqueise, digging your nails into his naked thighs and hoping he gets the message.

‘So good for me,’ he growls as he pushes back in, inch by torturous inch. He fills you so completely that tears begin to sting the seam of your lashes, and with each smooth roll of his hips, one deeper than the last, you choke as you try to breathe around his girth.

‘Relax, darlin’,’ croons Jack above you, stroking the hinge of your jaw with a tender thumb, groaning when it unlocks and he slips in unexpectedly deeply. ‘Oh fuck, that’s it, beautiful. So gorgeous with my cock in your mouth. Look at me, darlin’.’

Peering up at him through your lashes, you decide that you like this view - a lot.

He’s still wearing his cowboy hat, which casts half of his face in shadow, but there’s no missing the flush on his cheeks, his jaw hanging open in panting breaths. Sweat has soaked through the front of his shirt, gaping open down to the middle of his sternum. Dappled shadows filtered through the treetops dance across his tanned skin, his chest rising and falling quickly.

His narrow hips buck as he slips in deeper, almost too deep, and you start to really feel the burn on your jaw as his cock stretches your mouth again and again, hitting the back of your throat. Drool begins to leak from the corner of your lips as you try to take all of him, struggling for air when it gets too much. 

Tears blur your vision and you gag, retreating with a wet pop, whining at the loss of his weight on your tongue.

Seemingly jolted back to himself, Jack thumbs your cheek apologetically, shaking his head. ‘I’m so sorry, darlin’. I got carried away -’

‘Don’t, I liked it,’ you smile up at him almost drunkenly, pumping his length in languid strokes, so soaked in your spit that your grip nearly skids off him. ‘But now, I want to suck your cock.’

Basking in the sight of him biting his bottom lip and nodding frantically, the dynamics swing right around the very moment you slot your mouth over his length, and you swallow him whole.

Jack’s body language changes immediately, slumping against the tree behind him, choking out a low groan as you simply hold him there for a long beat. ‘Fuck, darlin’. Yes. Please.’

If you’re not already wet, you definitely are now from the muttered words of desperation that fall from his lips as you bob your head up and down his cock. You pace yourself, keeping a steady rhythm while Jack stammers incoherently above you, knowing that it will keep him on edge but not enough for him to finish. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re enjoying the way he’s begging you to take him harder, deeper, far too much.

‘Darlin’, need to cum. Fuck, need it,’ pants Jack, shoulders almost hunched over, as if in pain. ‘Just a bit harder, please, suck me harder, oh god -’

When his knees start to shake under your fingertips, and when his begging tapers off to disjointed whimpers, you finally look up at him.

Oh, but he is wrecked. Your cunt leaks as you take in his flared nostrils, lips pulled back into a pained snarl, pupils blown beyond recognition. Cupping your jaw in one big hand, he slurs, ‘Please darlin’, can I cum? Let me fill your mouth?’

A shudder runs through you and, holding his gaze, you hollow out your cheeks and suck, drawing a shout from Jack as he scrabbles for purchase, his fingers twisting into your hair almost painfully. Tightening your grip around the base of his cock, you fist him firmly while swallowing as much of him as you can, up and down, until you feel him swell on your tongue, just as he starts to tremble above you.

‘Oh god, oh fuck that’s it, I’m gonna cum, darlin’,’ he rambles brokenly, head falling backwards and opening up his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he babbles. ‘I’m gonna cum for you, I’m gonna - fuck, fuck, fuuuck -’

The first spurt almost takes you by surprise, hitting the back of your throat thick and salty. You moan around him at the taste, chasing him when his hips jerk and writhe as he empties himself on your tongue, until he has nothing left - your name on his lips as he catches his breath.

Jack stares down at you with dazed eyes, a groan deep in his chest when he spots the cum that pools white and sticky between your swollen lips.

His voice is surprisingly steady when he orders, ‘Swallow, darlin’.’

You do, before he hauls you up onto your feet to kiss you.

The stars look different from where you sit nestled between his legs, head tucked under his chin, leaning back against the steady beat of his heart.

Jack’s zipped the two sleeping bags together to make a double, a log behind him to prop himself up. One blanket he wraps around his shoulders with the ends draped over you, and the other you’re tucked under cosily.

Having done this job for nine years, he knows there’s a natural rhythm to the pack trips. On the fifth night, inevitable as gravity, the fireside conversation turns to home. But with you ensconced snugly where you are, like the space was made for you, Jack can’t bring himself to ask you that.

Turns out you’d ask him first.

‘So, do you get time off after working a whole week?’

‘Yeah, I get three days off after each pack trip.’

‘What do you do?’

He rattles off his usual to-do list. ‘Catch up on sleep, go into town for a haircut, fix my bike -’

With a bark of laughter, you sit up and toss him a look of incredulity over your shoulder. ‘Your what?’

‘My bike. My motorcycle - Silver Pony.’

‘You have a motorcycle? And you named it Silver Pony?’

With a playful growl, he tightens his grip around your waist, making you squeal. ‘Why are you laughin’?’

‘It’s just such a cutesy name.’

‘It’s a very sexy bike, I’ll have you know.’

‘Do all the ladies swoon when you roar into town on it?’ you quip dryly.

He chuckles. ‘You bet they do.’

Shifting in your seat, you probe, ‘So - what’s in town?

‘Not much. Even less for a city girl like you.’

‘Where would you take me? Give me the whistle-stop tour.’

‘Well,’ he pauses and considers. ‘I’ll take you to the diner for dinner. Then we can go catch a movie at the cinema. We can make out in the back row, ‘cause no one is ever there.’

You give him a sidelong glance. ‘Done it before, cowboy?’

He grins. ‘Jealous?’

To his surprise, you answer evenly, ‘Not particularly - I don’t think anyone’s ever had you to themselves like I have these few days.’

His chest swells at the easy surety of your tone. Where has that confidence come from? Sure, there’s always been flashes of that boldness under the tentative surface, even from day one. But this is something else. Now that the shyness has lifted, a knowing assurance has taken its place - one that’s making his jeans uncomfortably tight.

He nuzzles the column of your neck, making you squirm as his moustache tickles your sensitive skin. ‘That’s right, darlin’, ain’t you a lucky girl.’

You pause. ‘And - do you ever go on vacation?’

‘I take Whiskey out to the mountains every year in the fall. Sometimes Teak tags along with Jameson.’

‘But what about a city escape?’

He hums noncommittally, but a smile tugs at his lips as he rests his chin on your shoulder. ‘Can’t say I have, darlin’.’

‘Would you like to?’

‘Depends,’ he teases. ‘What is there for a country boy like me to do in the big, scary city?’

You tick off each option on your fingers. ‘Museums, galleries, shopping, music -’

‘Don’t know. Sounds loud and crowded,’ he grunts.

You roll your eyes. ‘Fine. We could just stay in and order takeaway. There’s the best Thai takeaway round the corner from my apartment.’

‘Alright. Keep going.’

Peering at him from the corner of your eye, you add, ‘We can have lots of sex.’

At that, he perks up. ‘Really?’

You smirk, winding one arm around his neck and brushing your nose against his. ‘So much sex, cowboy. I probably won’t let you leave the bed -’

Your squeal trails off into a bark of laughter when Jack flips you onto your back, but your breath is quickly knocked out of you when his soft lips latch onto the spot behind your ear, the one that he’s noticed you always tremble at. His blunt nails scrape their way up your inner thighs, and he senses the tremble rippling under your skin.

What he says next catches you off guard.

‘That night on your birthday, you hesitated when I asked to taste you. Why?’

Jack smiles when you don’t stiffen like you did that night at his question, but still, you dither, teeth worrying your bottom lip.

Freeing it with a swipe of his thumb, he smiles down at you reassuringly. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me, but I gotta tell you - fuck, I want to eat your gorgeous pussy.’ He pauses and smirks when he feels you shudder at his words, your eyes darkening. ‘I want to know what you taste like, want to slip my tongue deep into your cunt when you cum -’

‘Jack,’ you whine, hitching your knees around his hips in search of friction.

‘You’ll like that, won’t you?’ he teases, tonguing your earlobe. ‘God, I want to suck on your clit, see how wet I can make you with just my mouth.’

‘Touch me, cowboy,’ you plead, shoving your sleep pants and underwear down to your knees. ‘Please.’

He rips the bottoms off impatiently and opens you wide with hands on your ankles, groaning at the wetness he sees between your legs. He doesn’t want to push you, but he has to know. ‘Gotta tell me darlin’ - you want me to use my mouth?’

Vulnerability lurks beneath the frenetic glassiness in your eyes, and you swallow thickly in a confession. ‘I - it’s hard for me to cum from oral sex. My ex - he always got frustrated when he tried and well, it was just easier to not do it.’

You jump when Jack’s rough palms smooth over the outside of your thighs, a question in his soft eyes. ‘Would you like me to try, darlin’?’

You shift. ‘But - what if I can’t cum?’

‘Well, luckily, I seem to be able to make you cum in other ways,’ he replies with an easy wink to diffuse the tension in your body. ‘You don’t have to cum from oral sex, darlin’, and I won’t get frustrated if you don’t.’

You blink up at him. ‘Promise?’

‘I promise,’ he says, leaning his forehead into yours. ‘And I promise, it will feel good even if you don’t cum from just my mouth.’

Running your nails through the dark strands of his hair that brush his eyes, you take a deep breath and nod. ‘Okay, Jack.’

Catching your hand and pressing a sweet kiss to the heart of your palm, he says, ‘You can tell me to stop anytime, okay?’

You can’t help adding with a quirk of your lips, ‘Yes, sir.’

The fire paints the cowboy in orange and shadow as he makes himself comfortable in the cradle of your thighs. His hair glistens when it catches the light, still drying from his shower earlier. You watch the reflections of the flames flicker over his serious eyes, down his straight nose, past his tidy moustache and to his wickedly curled lips. 

Your breath hitches of its own accord.

He really is beautiful. This is beautiful. Having this man all to yourself in the open wilderness, so eager to please you, under the blanket of inky darkness with only the milky way as witness - you’ve never known anything like this.

Jack starts slow. His breath skates over your sensitive skin as he presses leisurely kisses to your inner thighs, some with a scrape of teeth, some chaste, but with just enough heat behind them to draw you into rolling your hips in search of his lips.

‘Cowboy,’ you berate him half-heartedly, burying your hands into his brown locks and pulling.

‘Patience, darlin’,’ he murmurs, but he moves upwards so that his exhale brushes over your bare folds. Gently, he ghosts a finger over your slit, the almost contact making you cry out. ‘How much more soaked can this pussy get without me actually touching it, I wonder?’

‘Don’t tease, Jack,’ you seethe, fists hitting the sleeping bag underneath you in frustration.

He tuts, an insolent smile on his lips, before carefully pulling apart the outer creases of your folds with the tips of his index fingers, opening up your cunt to his gaze. He groans at the sopping squelch of the movement. ‘Fuckin’ drenched already for me already. How?’

‘Jack. Please.’

Slinking onto his front unhurriedly, as if he has all the time in the world, Jack hooks your knees over his strong shoulders, nudging his nose against your weeping seam and breathes in deep. He way he moans has you clenching around nothing in anticipation. ‘Fuck, you smell so sweet, darlin’.’

‘Jack!’ you can’t hold back the pathetic sob that bubbles up from your throat, trembling so hard you need his solid weight to anchor you to the ground. ‘Please, want your mouth, now -’

Your words morph into a mewl when Jack’s lips, wet and cool, finally make landing with a gratuitously loud suckle of your clit, which has your back arching clean off the pillowy sleeping bag underneath.

He takes it slow - so slow, almost too slow - his broad tongue (is there any part of him that isn’t?) questing deep into the pliant ridges of your cunt, tirelessly discovering nerve points that make you keen and wringing needy whimpers from you. His shoulders under your knees hold you open as you shudder and squirm beneath him.

‘Jack,’ you pant, the stars above you blurry one second and sharply focused the next as he laves your clit studiously.

‘Yes, darlin’?’ he slurs against your pussy, not really expecting an answer. Instead, he pushes up the sleep shirt you have on, baring your tits to the cool night air. He moans into you and reaches up to squeeze them before teasing the tips, which only makes you push your hips into his face harder, earning a satisfied grunt from him.

Fidgety fingers curl into the fabric of shirt on his back, the air wrangled clean out of you as you watch his eyes flutter shut, a deep frown of concentration creasing his brow when he drags the flat of his tongue over you again and again, patiently building a rhythm that has you writhing. The blankets twist into knots between the gaps in your fingers, patches damp with your wetness cold against your skin. 

Slippery with Jack’s spit and what he coaxes from you, your thighs quake when he rubs his moustache on the soft flesh. You watch the sodden bottom of the dark hairs smear the slick over you, sticky and messy, and that’s when you feel it - a crest rearing its head deep within you. Slack-jawed, you hold on for dear life, clinging to it as it swells. Air leaves you in shallow pants as his palms tighten their grip on you, anchoring you to his mouth so he can lap at you with unwavering intensity, a solemn determination to chase that high that has long alluded you.

When you do break apart on his tongue, the first time in too many years to count, it’s with a spine-shattering scream of his name that rips apart the stillness of the night, your gasps and pleads riding the evening breeze.

The echoes of your voice sail across the empty grasslands, carrying in the thin night air, and ring into the open arms of the mountains, where Jack wishes - no, where he prays - he could keep you.

Notes: These two have earned this filth, haven't they? I'm having the best time just writing them being horny AF for each other on the open plains, while weaving in the angst as the clock ticks down. Thank you everyone for your patience, I hope you enjoyed this update, and as always, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🧡

Horsey notes: I galloped for the first time just a couple of years ago (no such opportunity for a city girl), in the shadows of the magnificent Pyramids of Giza first thing in the morning on a gorgeous Arabian horse. It was a magical moment that has stayed with me, and truly one of my favourite memories ever. I have never been so grateful for our four-legged friends than I was in that moment, flying over the golden sands.

[thecoffeelovingfreak]

𝒔𝒐𝒘 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚

sequel to eyes of the ranger

pairing: boothill x gn!ex-undertaker!reader

genres: western!au, angst, domestic fluff, bits of hurt/comfort

word count: 8.6k

warnings: spoilers for boothill's backstory, death, heavy angst, explorations of grief, gun violence, blood, implied suicidal thoughts, unhealthy coping mechanisms

notes: I've only seen the bare minimum of his story leaks, and they've been spinning around my head ever since. Some details of the timeline might be tweaked, or imagined/added, but that's just for the au. Still, please enjoy this sequel, and what more I've added to this world! Here's some flowers again :) 💐

Read it on ao3!

~~~

Candles cast their glow brightly across wood panels as you hummed a lilting melody. Hands played with your hair, tugging on the strands to draw your attention away from the swirling pot of stew.

“Papa?"

"He'll be back soon, sweetie."

Your daughter shifted on your arm as you placed the spoon back in its resting spot. Her head fell against your shoulder, no doubt growing bored as crackles of fire echoed across the cabin.

You resumed the tune, bouncing slightly from side to side. She perked up once more as you took her hand over your first two fingers, thumb covering its small size. Her eyes began to crinkle as her first few teeth were revealed by a smile. She always loved dancing and music, likely because of her "silly papa".

When he left for town in the afternoon, he tripped over the porch's last step – on purpose, you suspected. She quickly laughed from where she sat with you in the rocking chair, calling him the nickname as he straightened up again. In just a couple strides he was back in front of you, fingertip meeting her nose before she swatted at him. He chuckled, leaving another kiss on both of your foreheads and embarking again.

As you gently spun, her gaze drifted to the window. She lit up, brighter than any heavenly body, and pointed to the door.

"Papa! Papa!"

The sound of approaching hooves met your ears softly, leading you to peer through the glass panes. Unfortunately, your vision was greeted by the furthest people from Boothill.

The National Hunter's Agency had grown to infamy everywhere you went. They had been given many pardons, and bought off plenty of sheriffs and their higher-ups to be able to operate as they pleased in numerous states. It seems now, after two years, they had caught wind of your bounty and wanted to cash in.

You carefully set her down on the floor, hands staying at her sides in case she lost balance. With some support, you walked her to your shared bedroom, guiding her to hide in your shaker wardrobe.

An anxious hand rotated the knob on the front door, leaving you face to face with a row of five men. Two in suits at the center, and three dressed more rugged at their side.

"Good evening." one greeted, smoke flowing from his mouth. "I assume you know why we're here."

The reverberations of your boots ceased before the steps as you stared at the lineup. "Naturally."

He hummed, throwing the remains of his cigarette to the dirt.

The agent at his right spoke up, "Why don't you walk down here, then."

“Isn’t it your job to capture me?”

“Continue resisting and you don’t have to be the only one we take.”

Your resolution faltered, and the hunters closed in. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Are you sure?”

Glass shattered behind you, followed by heavy thumping. Tendrils of dread inched in, their freeze creeping over your bones.

“Step down.”

Despite every instinct screaming for you to move, to follow their commands, denial and fear kept you in place.

“You’ve got about one minute before we force you to.”

A glaze fell over your surroundings, the situation tumbling to the wayside as your thoughts and blood rushed in unison. It was five against one, and each of them were armed – you were not. They had more information than they were letting on. Someone was searching the cabin for your daughter, likely their sixth. She would be weaponized if she was caught, stuck in the crossfire of your bounty.

Was there a way out of this? To prevent what seemed increasingly inevitable?

Well, yes. You could give yourself up.

But there was no guarantee of her safety afterward, or that you would remain alive.

Still, you and Boothill had made a promise when you first took her in, just one year ago. If danger ever presented itself, you would lay down your lives to protect her.

One of the hunters drew his pistol as your boot hit the first step.

Another dismounted, his dirtied white shirt twisting, then straightening once more as he approached you. A rough grip captured your arms, dragging them behind your back. Something hard hit the ground at your right, a rope thrown by one of his partners. It was wrapped and tied around your wrists, the friction beginning to cast a light burning sensation over the skin.

A foot met the back of your knees as he tightened the restraints, dust rising at the impact. One of the agents joined you, the scent of smoke lingering on his fingers as he brought your head up to meet his eyes. They returned to his side a moment later as his gaze turned to the cabin.

A hunter had your little girl in his grasp, her steps short, frightened, and struggling as she was led down the stairs. She looked at you, searching for answers or what to do.

The saddled agent’s voice sounded from behind, “The NHA seeks to rid these ranges of their impurities. When you wish to uproot an evil such as yourself, no trace must remain.”

He gestured toward the four hunters, and his fellow agent disappeared from your view.

Then the brutality they were known for reared its unforgettable head.

The low flat heel of a dress shoe met your back, staying there as you writhed on the ground, watching up at your daughter.

A metallic barrel crept to the rear of her head.

The tendrils of dread became horrible claws, sinking into every organ and twisting.

Warm ruby droplets cascaded over pale brown and flesh, as the shot’s echo dulled your senses and her body crumbled to the ground.

The claws dug open a void as a defeated cry exit your lips. You were released from under the agent’s foot, flipped over to stare at the cloud-stricken dusk. Voices yelled around you, the words fading into one persistent cacophony. A hand pressed itself down onto your shoulder, before a pain blossomed in the other. A rugged face peered down at you, contempt rising in their features. A new flower of sharp ache grew in your left thigh, tears finally stinging at your eyes.

A fresh splattering of blood flowed over your face, shocking you out of despair. Their body went limp over yours, and you quickly brushed them to the side. Now free from the hunter’s reach, you sunk your hands into the dirt beside you, slowly turning yourself back to your stomach. The hilt of a knife hit the ground as you did so, veins coming alight with panic from its twist in your wound.

Despite every injury, you only had one focus – to see your daughter one last time.

Sharp gravel digged uncomfortably underneath your legs as your restrained hands inched forward. Blood thrummed in your ears, yet the unmistakable sound of gunshots broke through. Within a matter of seconds someone rushed to your crawling form. They called for you, voice breaking at the scene as a hand brushed through your hair.

“Darlin’?”

Your head rose at every emotion kept within that one word, asked by a husky voice you could find in any darkness. Anguish cast itself over his face when he finally saw what you were headed toward. He sank to his knees next to you, a wrecked sob reaching into the evening only to be greeted by no comfort.

Reluctantly, you gazed at your daughter’s corpse, journeying silently past Boothill to finally touch her.

A sticky scarlet liquid mocked you, revealing your sorrow-stricken features coated in its kind within the pool. Your fingers rose to her, a warmth lingering below as she was turned. You summoned any last inkling of strength you had, smiling down to her and speaking softly.

“You were my pride and joy, sweetheart. I’ve had no greater honor than being your parent.”

You leaned down, a soft kiss landing on her forehead before you cried a chant of apologies. When any words you could conjure finally entered oblivion, your eyes looked back to Boothill. He hadn’t moved an inch, rendered paralyzed by the gravity of what he arrived home to. It seemed as though he had been ripped apart, every wire inside of him fraying.

This was your fault, and you were sure he knew that too.

Regret became a well in your heart, rising from the depths and overflowing onto its dying grass. Your head ached, thoughts swirling until each one sinked in grief’s whirlpool. In resignation, you lie beside her, holding her chilled hands between your fingers. If you closed your eyes, you could still see her smile as you danced making dinner.

It would feel best if you never opened them again, but you couldn’t leave Boothill to carry this weight alone. He didn’t deserve such a fate.

A hand swiped over your stained cheek, drawing you back to miserable reality. Tears descended from silver, embers kindling beneath their despair. You lifted your hands from hers, closing her lifeless eyes. Boothill’s hat rested at his chest, head downturned from where he knelt.

Together, you mourned.

—

PART I - Fatherhood And Other Dreams

"Papa! The moo-moos!"

"I see them!" Boothill chuckled, watching a finger point at their pasture.

Rena wriggled against his side, wanting to move closer to them. He complied, jogging to the wooden fence as she smiled.

Her small hands reached past the log fence, petting along one of the cow's heads as it grazed. She had such an affinity for the animals here, something you always joked she got from him.

Every morning like clockwork, she would point them out, longing to go and sit with them for a while. He would join her, occasionally teaching her things about their diets or hair as she would get close and stare into their big brown eyes.

Today she angled back against his leg and smiled at her altered reflection in them, before you tousled her growing hair. He hadn’t heard you approach, too absorbed in the scene to hear your boots kick up dust. His hand rose to rub against the back of your neck as you leaned into him, sipping on your mug of black coffee.

He had noticed your odd positioning on the pillow, no doubt leaving you with some pains when you woke. Quiet snores filled the room; something he would laugh with Rena about, her high-pitched giggles overtaking the silence of the night as her hands pat against your cheeks. Your light snoring would cease, and your face would scrunch up at the unexpected disturbance before you recognized the poking of your daughter. He watched as you tickled the side of her neck, placing a hand on her back when she fell on your chest and wiggled around in joy.

He’s never felt more love than in those little moments, witnessing his entire world as two shining stars amidst the murky midnight.

“In!”

“Brush first?”

“Yeah!”

He was brought back to you after a quick shake of his head, two gazes of the same color waiting for him. One enthusiastic, the other fond and patient as he bent down to pick up Rena. She played with his low braided hair, pulling a few small strands free. You ventured to the stables, likely fetching a brush that she had dropped on one of the chairs yesterday.

The grass was fresh with dew, shining under the morning rays. He opened the gate with ease, feeling a breeze run over his cheeks as he shut it behind him. The pasture was wide, yet filled with only ten cows. Each one would be brushed daily by Rena, starting with one patterned in brown and white. It was an activity she had adored since the first time you had brought her out to help just a couple months ago. Seeing how much she enjoyed it, he joined the two of you only a week later.

You came to his side, handing the brush over to her as you sipped on your coffee. He gestured at you with his chin as bristles met little hairs. With a smile, you turned the mug in his direction, a warm and bitter liquid flowing over his tongue.

A gentle laugh left your lips when the cow’s head moved, rising up into the brush and slightly twisting into it. Rena turned to you, beaming as she moved the brush to another spot. The cow reacted in turn, and you laughed again.

~

The wood ceiling of the barn came into view as Boothill’s head was tugged backward. A light chuckle echoed through the space, falling in time with the noon bird's chirp. His hat tumbled to the hay and dust riddled floor, yet it didn’t remain for long. Little hands left the ends of his hair, snatching the hat instead. He watched, bale in hand, as you scooped up Rena. In a swift motion, you placed his hat on her head, one arm wrapped around your neck and the other reaching for the large brim.

The bale crashed onto the floor, beginning a new stack by one of the stables. The sound brought Rena's attention to him, her head tilting backward to spot him from underneath the hat.

“Like papa!”

“You wanna be like him?"

"Yeah!"

"Then we're gonna have a lot to teach you."

He grinned, the brightness of the sun’s rays and his daughter’s admiration seeping into his smile. With her now distracted by one of the horses, he wrapped an arm around your waist, leaving a kiss on your lips before continuing his work.

~

The orange and golden rays of sunset beckoned your gaze to the large window overlooking the front porch. Rena slept peacefully on your chest, a combination of a full stomach and boredom likely the cause. You brought the book in your right hand to the other supporting her, flipping the page carefully.

The slow thumping of boots echoed through the door, prompting Rena to stir. She had always been a light sleeper, though she didn't always fully awaken. It seemed that this evening she would, leaning backward into your hand as the door opened. Boothill's figure emerged, lit by the bright horizon. She shuffled as her eyes opened to meet his, slowly laying further backward against your hand. Letting the leather-bound book fall from your lap, you wrapped both hands around her. She whined, leading one of your brows to raise.

Boothill inched closer, stopping at the edge of the rug in your little living area. You set Rena down, your hands staying at her sides. She watched the floor intently, gaze shifting between it and her papa. Quickly you picked up on her intentions, standing behind her and holding her hands just above her head.

Her foot moved forward slightly, and excitement blossomed on both your and Boothill's faces. He knelt down, holding his arms out for her. Feeling encouraged, she moved faster, taking her first few steps with your support. When she finally reached her papa, he lifted her up, cheering at her along with you. She beamed, her feet kicking back and forth in the air as she giggled.

~

The stars twinkled in the growing twilight, contrasting with the auburn and violet hues on the horizon. Cool grass stood between your fingers, the tranquility of the coming night bleeding into your spirit. The hill provided a lovely view of the valley below as crickets began to chirp. A thin herd of deer moved like whispers just a few feet before you.

One startled in your direction, the sound of Rena picking at strings increasing its paranoia. She was transfixed by the instrument, plucking as she sat in Boothill’s lap. His affectionate gaze watched down at her, adjusting the blanket over her legs.

There were many nights over the past few days you would wake to find Boothill absent from your bed. Rena would stir at your side, face scrunching further into the pillow as she murmured. After returning her stuffed bear from the other side of the bed, you would walk to find him at the kitchen table. The fire lit various scenes; some filled with brushes and varnish, others with whittling tools and etched knobs. Sometimes he would be passed out against the table, shavings coating his cheek. He wanted to complete the gift as soon as possible, his wish of sharing and passing on melodies and lyrics from his life fueling his craft.

Feeling fingers brush through his hair, Boothill would awaken to your soft gaze. Wordlessly you wiped his cheek, taking his hand in yours and bringing him to bed.

Gentle singing met your ears, skilled strumming of a guitar accompanying it. One large hand shifted up and down the strings, holding, shaking, and lifting to change the tune. The other encased one of Rena’s guiding her through the song.

The sun completed its descent underneath the horizon, and the herd of deer found their way back into the forest. Hints of light hung in the sky, now joined by colors of dandelions and the deep sea. The high-pitched babbling of your daughter chimed in during certain sections, forming a heart-warming duet. With your head on Boothill’s shoulder, you hummed along.

—

The town of Iris Creek was blissful, wilted blossoms gathering on the path's edges from the growing heat. The watery flow of its namesake echoed through the grand trees, calming your mind as you approached with Boothill at your side. After your most recent hunt, a week of rest was well-deserved.

Leaning down, you let the velvety liquid rush between your fingers. Its chill permeated your flesh, a content smile on your face as Boothill toyed with your hair.

“I enjoy seeing you this way.” he whispered, staring at you lovingly.

You turned, removing your hand from the water and laying back on the grass.

“At ease?” you questioned.

He nodded, resting down beside you, hat on his chest. You brushed aside his lengthening bangs, turning the strands together before running a thumb over his cheek.

He leaned into your touch as you asked, “Do you watch me sleep then?”

Embarrassed, his face angled toward the ground.

“Gettin’ shy on me, cowboy?”

He gave no response, simply meeting your eyes with a tender silver. Your lips met his cheek, feeling the bashful warmth gracing his features.

“I like it.” you spoke softly in his ear, leaving a little bite along the lobe.

One hand came up to your waist, holding tightly as your focus shifted to his neck. The other fell into your hair, gripping after a bold lick to the revealed skin.

“Can’t help but be at your mercy, sugar.”

“Such a charmer.”

“Around someone like you, it’s only natural.”

A nibble at the edge of his jaw led his fingers to rub underneath your shirt.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, look at you. One conversation and I was hooked.”

“All it took was one challenge for you to love me?” you chuckled.

“Sugar, all it took was one glance.”

A cry reverberated down the creek as you finally kissed Boothill’s lips. It was panicked and small, drawing you almost entirely from the moment.

Pushing off of his chest, you sat up to survey your surroundings. Boothill rubbed your thigh, looking at you curiously. Just a minute later the two of you stood, spotting a tarnished cloth amongst the bank’s brush.

“Do you see that?”

He followed your gaze, walking ahead of you only to kneel down and lift the sullied fabric. His eyes widened as he beckoned you over. The crying intensified, a tiny head turning from side to side.

A baby.

Boothill was the first to move, cradling them gently in his arms. You brought a finger to their grabbing hands, brushing another one over their forehead.

“What should we do?” you wondered aloud.

“Take them in?” he uttered.

“Are we ready for that, though? We’re wanted criminals, Boothill. That’s no life for a child.”

“Then we settle down.”

“There’s still no guarantee we won’t be hunted or ambushed.”

Your hands fell back to your side, unsure eyes watching the gears turn in his mind.

“We would be their parents, together we can take anybody. Lay down our lives if necessary. We could find somewhere more isolated, maybe even further out of this state. Teach them some of our methods as they get older.”

A heavy sigh left your lungs, the weight of dozens of questions slowly dissipating. There were many details to discuss and new plans to craft. Nonetheless, your head landed on Boothill’s shoulder, two adoring gazes on your child.

~

Butter-colored rays bore through the train car’s windows, wide mountains of tan rock and green bushes waiting outside. A bundle of blankets lay in your arms, encasing your daughter in comfort and warmth.

Boothill had left for them not long after you brought her back to the hotel, returning worriedly with them in hand. They were soft and luscious, leading you to wonder who he had stolen them from. “Only the best for our little girl” – it wasn’t just a statement but a promise.

Another was sworn that evening, your daughter finally clean and sleeping in your arms. Boothill rest behind you in the bed, shielding your small family from any danger while wrapping you in care.

“What should we name her?” he asked quietly, warm breath fanning over your neck.

You pondered silently, letting your head lay on his shoulder. “How about Rena?”

He hummed, a thick finger running over her forehead. “From that play of Effie's, right?”

“I think her story was admirable. Live freely, out on your own road, never waste your time with what you can’t change.”

“Now I like the ring of that.”

“See?” you smiled, a teasing slant to it. “When I wrote to her a few days ago she added in a thought or two about the characters. She said Rena also meant melody, at least according to what she could find in Thatcher's library.”

“Then it's settled.”

His chin landed in the crook of your neck as he simply watched her be, absorbed in thoughts of the future. It wasn’t until she stirred, eyes opening and hands seeking, that you witnessed him take on a gentleness formerly reserved for only you.

His eyes began to water as she held his finger close, staring up in his direction yet unable to pin him down. When she finally did, he sat like a spooked deer, only releasing a low, happy chuckle after your own.

A cough down the car broke you from idle reminiscence. Boothill read a crinkled paper, the letter sent from the ranch you were seeking out. He had come back one evening with the result after days of asking around. Down near Iron Springs, there was someone with plenty of land – could provide decent wages and a cabin to stay in. A suitable place to settle down, with much for Rena to learn and experience.

Taking his cheek between your empty fingers, you pinched and watched him grumble. Despite your lifestyle, you could only hope that this would be a lovely and safe life for her.

—

PART II - A Luminous Star, Ephemeral

Murky skies cried chilling droplets, harshly soaking your bloodstained shirt. The evening had to be setting in, but any hope of seeing the sun finally fade had long since dissipated with the storm’s onslaught. A frayed splinter dug into your palm, the weight of the shovel increasing as the hole in the ground deepened. The dirt was malleable, easy to unearth and pile up.

Many graves were dug by your hand, and you prayed this would be the last.

Boothill wept only a few feet away, Rena’s corpse in his arms underneath a sturdy tree. Ashamed, your gaze fell back to the emptying plot.

Heavy throbbing found its home along your left side, yet still, you had to dig. The pain was deserved – a punishment that fit your crime. Crusting edges tug and bent at the surrounding skin, the quickly cauterized wounds only growing more irritated by the rainwater.

Trickles of pink traversed down your cheeks, blood washing away slowly with your tears. Leaning on the shovel, your eyes rose from the ground. A strong and steady breeze cast the rain in sheets, carving figures in the mist. Discerning who they were was useless, you could remember them anywhere.

Your father, the Weston family, and your daughter.

The mud and soil coating your fingers shifted to a deep scarlet, beads falling from their tips and hitting your boots. Trees morphed into tombstones, and you found yourself paralyzed. Mr. Whitfield’s gravelly voice rang in your ears, drowning out any natural melodies.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn a pure soul, lost too soon. Rena Blackwell was an adored child, and she will continue to be so in our thoughts, and all the way to the depths of our hearts. Her smile could dispel any darkness, and her curiosity persisted to the ends of the earth. Her fascinations lie with animals and music, her greatest friends a pony and her papa’s guitar. May she find eternal peace amidst these mountains and plains, their windy song carrying her gently to the hereafter.”

Lightning crackled across the sky, an omen of your judgment day. Boothill’s shadowed figure stand illuminated by the last ounce of daylight breaking from the clouds. Rena lay delicately in the grave, eyes closed and hands folded, his hat just beneath their union. Wordlessly he took the shovel, leaving you to kneel at her side as dirt cascaded over her corpse.

Stars found their stages in the wisp-struck night sky, their beaming light mocking. If they were tangible to Earth, you would have left plenty of rounds in them. Mourning was an act displayed to you since childhood, but it never came easily. Perhaps that was part of the point. Loss would never be simple, and humanity is far too complex to handle it so. Death was an odd thing, and despite working so intimately with the inevitable specter, it had yet to reveal every one of its forms.

Every body you would prepare never revealed its secrets. No amount of soap and water could cleanse it's invasiveness. No number of incisions and blood drained could release the agony. The fluids injected could not provide life, and clothes would only emulate. Death was permanent, and excruciating to all.

You could shoot a man without hesitation, but being along the receiving end of that cruelty, you could only resign yourself to regret. You killed bad men, yet they still had lives. Friends and family they found or created.

The grating sound of a knife on wood reached your ears, breaking into your thoughts. Boothill sat opposite to you, a neat piece of bark in his hands. Raging thunder rolled, sending a chill down your spine. Paranoia created the shattering sense that you would be reunited with Rena by dawn. Either by your own hands or someone else’s; perhaps the heavens would shoot back, sanctioned by some higher force that heard your monologue.

You watched him work, one tainted hand of yours rubbing back and forth over the dirt housing your daughter. His actions soon faded to oblivion as the song of the storm played on.

When a new bolt of lightning crashed, you became privy to her tombstone.

Rena Blackwell

Beloved star

1892 - 1892

Boothill stood, utterly dejected and tear-stained, before extending a hand down to you. His head met your shoulder once you rose, and one of your hands reached his hair. Strength was needed of you, not misery. The only comfort you received was a fact – no harm would befall you in Boothill’s arms, unless he pointed the gun at you instead.

—

Cheers ascended from under the floorboards, filling your pitch-black room with taunting joy. Your eyes remained on the ceiling, hands at your sides as you lay still – attempting to sink into the hard mattress while the hurricane to your left continued. It was the sixth night ending like this. Boothill had yet to find slumber, his journey to it only filled with suffering. He never reached out, always keeping his back to you and his face toward the pillow.

Despite the stinging urge to run your fingers through his hair, not once could you ever. Conflicting instincts wanting nothing more than to soothe him, but craving an escape.

You rubbed your eyes, throwing the sheet off of your body. The night chill creeped in, the sensation a welcome dissipation for your tenseness. A sniff echoed before a heavy sigh, and not even a moment later the bed resumed its light shaking. Stomps came in unison from the bar below, startling you to jump. With a worn exhale you sat up, feet touching the rough floor. In just a couple quick movements, you were dressed well and ready to face the ruckus below.

A saddened silver gaze finally revealed itself in the sliver of light from the doorway, but yours focused only on the ground, afraid to face him.

Instead, you would find solace in a bartender’s hands, the liquor he poured leaving a delightful blaze in your throat – easing the pain one sip at a time. It was only now you could understand why Isaiah Weston made the choices he did. Too cowardly to navigate his emotions, much less his son’s. The vulnerability intimidating, and any words gone with the wind. A weight too heavy to hold, but various fears preventing you from ever sharing it.

Getting lost in the bottle was a romantic escape, then, even if you would come to regret it. That blossomed the vicious cycle, when your method of coping only added more guilt – defeating the purpose of this night to begin with.

A hand placed itself on your shoulder, bringing your gaze from empty shot glasses to a familiarly styled head of black hair. Tears rapidly welled in your eyes, spirit feeling despondent when their hand returned to the counter.

“Jasper?” you whispered, feeble hope fueling your delusion.

They shook their head at you, “I’m afraid that’s not my name.”

“My apologies.” you nodded, downing another round as they began talking to the bartender.

He was dead, the first to meet the end of your revolver. There was no place to find him besides six feet under, at the very cemetery you first met.

Perhaps a visit to Fort Talia was what you needed. It had been four or five years since you left that fateful night with Boothill, never to look back. Although now, after everything, maybe looking back is the right thing to do. Return to, and learn from the past in order to glance forward. Walk the deck of the funeral parlor, stop by your old house. Finally speak to your mother again.

It was decided. Talk to Boothill come morning and see if he would join you.

—

Bright noon rays lit up the dusty buildings of Fort Talia, its peaceful people walking past Boothill with nods and greetings. Under any other circumstance he would respond, however words failed him now. The brim of his new hat hung low, obscuring his features and providing a bit of comfort. The less others saw of him the better.

He was fractured, too many pieces scattered across the range for him to find. Conversation would not come easy when he could hardly even handle a talk with himself. Your hotel rooms had become suffocating as of late. Silence reigning and gazes only ever in opposing directions. It was cold – a sensation Boothill had become unfamiliar with after all these years. That only served to make your icy temperament feel like a burning hell. No words exit your lips, eyes focused out of windows, on the ceiling or the floor. It was unbearable, the shunning that leaked from your figure.

What had he done to make you feel so? Was he even to blame?

Silver watched the clouds drift over the sky, a horrible longing to join them occupying his mind. A nearly impossible fate for him, now feared more than ever.

“Papa!”

A small, light voice shouted excitedly, followed by the pattering of boots on the deck.

Boothill turned expectantly, arms shifting and ready to pick up his daughter.

Instead he was made a fool.

He quickly returned to a regular stance, leaving down the nearby alleyway to lean himself against the wood. That was somebody else’s child, not his. The title he came to love most would never be used again, abandoned amidst the Iron Springs forest. “Papa” was her first word, and possibly even her last.

He recalled the tears you shared when she spoke, listening to her babble about him. Her voice was that of angels, as if he was finally worthy of speaking to the heavens.

Now he lost that angel, the most vivid star in the sky.

~

Three moss-coated tombstones lay before you, names that you first came to know at fifteen.

Isaiah, Callie, and Jasper.

Ellis must rest in Warren, then. Forever separated from his family.

A couple desert marigolds grew along the path to the cemetery, and you left one at each of their graves. Six in total gathered in your hand – one for each person you were to visit, as well as two extras for whoever you saw fit.

Boots trudged through the dry ground, avoiding stones that shaped plots or decorated the base of a tombstone. Rocks of grey and tan sat below your father’s and the one now beside it.

Upon reading the inscription, the marigolds fell to the dust.

Your mother was buried at his right, her death only one year ago.

With your forehead to the fine wood of said tombstone, your resolve finally crumbled. Any strength you wished to hold forsaken for the misery you denied. Tears flowed and fell frenzied, patiently creating a mud where your fingertips dug into the ground.

All of this loss, but why?

Why cherish anything if it would only be ripped away?

Holding your precious little girl one moment, only for her blood to splash over your face the next. Befriend a lonely boy, one who you found a kinship with, just for him to be shot by your hand.

Your mother, who despite her own mourning, still silently reached out to you, giving you what support she could muster. Your father, who robbed and killed unbeknownst to you, still provided and taught you things he knew about the world that would never be shared at the old schoolhouse.

They all had one common thread – loving you.

Burden, plague, curse. All words that could describe what a detriment you were. If they never loved you, never met or created you, perhaps their fates would be different.

What of Boothill, then?

—

Droplet-stained windows displayed a wagon of bottles stopping outside of the saloon. One of the drivers lept from its front, unlocking the back panel and pulling out two jugs. He lifted them in each hand, a big smile on his face as he cheered through the doors.

The crude and familiar scent of cigarette smoke curled through the window as you cracked it open, the stale quietude of your hotel room grating your nerves. Boothill observed you idly from the bed as you inhaled deeply, palms on the framing. The smell was lovely now, soothing almost. His gaze bore into you, seemingly trying to decipher your inner world.

"What is it?" you spoke softly, head turning toward him.

He sighed, eyes shifting to the ceiling. "I… You've just been so… cold I guess. I try not to take it personally, but I can't help it sometimes."

"Our daughter died, Boothill."

He sat up, "You think I don't know that?"

With a heavy exhale, you faced him. "Of course you do, but I just…"

"Every day begins and ends with her. Not a second goes by where that scene ain't fillin' my head."

"You assume it isn't the same for me? I watched them shoot her – her blood was on my face for hours! Do you think I can forget that?"

"I'm not askin' you to!"

"It sure sounds like it!"

"I just want some answers and for you to recognize that you're not the only one hurtin' here. Shutting me out hasn't been doing any good."

"Shutting you out? I recall you doing that to me. Any time I reach out, you leave or move away from me, and I get no words, nothing! You've got no love or respect for me anymore!"

"Don't you go there." He stood, inching closer to you with every word. "How dare you say that I feel nothing for you. If anything, you've been giving that treatment to me. Do you know how it feels to lay there cryin', wishing that your partner would just run their fingers through your hair and share that pain with you? No. Instead they go out for the night doin' who the heaven knows what, and then return at dawn like nothing happened. Like they didn't just abandon you to return reeking of alcohol or bruised and bloodied. Do you know how powerless that makes somebody?"

"I'm handlin' my own pain my way. I'm tryin' to be strong for you!"

"I don't want you to be strong for me! I want to know that my partner is here, and never leavin'! You remember what I said? I take care of you and you take care of me. That was the promise!"

"Well how are you takin' care of me exactly?"

"How am I supposed to begin if you never let me in!"

"Rich comin' from the likes of you."

"Why're you talkin' down to me? Do you think that helps?"

He paused before you, staring down into your eyes with a mixture of fire and love – an undertone of concern and fear. His hands came to hold your shoulders, and you hesitantly accepted the touch. One drifted up to the side of your neck, his thumb tracing your jaw and the edge of your cheek. The way he'd always comfort you. A guilt began setting in, tearing and biting at your throat, preventing any words from leaving you – likely for the better after your childish retorts.

"I don't wanna fight with you, darlin'. Please, just talk to me."

Wordlessly, you placed your arms around his neck, hugging him cheek to cheek. His own came to encase you when you finally whispered everything in his ear.

"I miss you… so much it hurts. I'm so sorry for all of the turmoil I've given you. That was never my intention. I just… I felt like you hated me. Blamed me for her… death."

"I never could."

"And I know that now. I didn't mean to be so cold, and I understand how you need me. I must admit I'd like to be selfish and have you do the same."

"That's not selfish."

You sniffed, "My… my mama died a year ago."

"Darlin'..."

"I didn't know." Fresh tears welled in your eyes. "She had no way to write to me. I have no idea what could have happened to her. She was all alone, lost to the world in our little house."

His hands descended to your hips, carefully stepping backward as you clung to him reluctant to move. He turned, setting you down on the bed before walking to get a blanket off of one of the chairs. The soft wool came into your hands before a weight settled behind you.

“Lay down.”

You shifted up the bed, throwing the blanket over your legs and resting your head. Boothill shuffled up next to you, his cheek to your chest. He stared up at you, eyes closing when your fingers finally ran through his hair. A sigh filled the room, mingling with gentle neighing from the street below. Silver was revealed to you once more, a low and husky whisper reaching your ears.

"We had this huge tree, back on the farm down in Redhawk. Its branches were wide and overflowing with leaves, but on a windy night you could see the stars through them. My fathers, they were always dreaming -- planning for our future. We'd sit out there and they'd talk for a while, answer any of my questions and teach me some life lessons. Eventually, one would get to strummin' on the guitar and we'd sing and cheer along – it was the most fun when some of their friends would come to visit or we'd host some guests from the road.

One was more pragmatic than the other, though they both had sharp minds. He could talk to anybody, find out anything he wanted to know. More caring and gentle, but still very strong. My other was a great gunslinger, and charismatic to a fault. He was a little rough around the edges, but I loved him anyway. They were my idols; taught me nearly everything I knew before I started goin' on the round-ups. Wasn't until I went back to our farm just a couple years later that I found it tore apart, two letters on the dining table for me. They were gone -- one captured and killed by the NHA and the other off to get revenge. He left me one of his revolvers, the same one I still use today."

Your fingers ran over his exposed cheek, noting the brimming water in his eyes matching your own.

“They raised a brilliant son.”

Your voice cracked as you finished speaking, watching him cry into you as you released your own burdens. The euphoria of budding forgiveness and the grief previously set aside catching up to you. It seemed that nearly every pain of yours was one he shared at some point or another, and it only emphasized the resolution of your argument.

You needed each other now more than ever.

—

“Are my eyes playin’ tricks on me?”

“Well I don’t believe it either.”

A man shook hands strongly with Boothill, hitting his other down on his shoulder. He had a confident glint in his hazel gaze, a boisterous air around him.

“How’ve you been, you beautiful piece of scrap?” he chuckled.

“Times have certainly been better.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, friend.” was his somber reply.

You extended your hand, feeling a calloused one against your palm.

“I see you’re his partner in crime, undertaker.”

“You got one of your own yet?” you asked, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

“Of course! You’re more than welcome to come by tonight and meet her, our kids as well! We’ve got two of them raisin’ hell all over the place.”

“Thank you, but-”

“We’ll be there.” Boothill interrupted, a sharp smile contrasting with his sullen eyes.

“I’m happy to hear that!” Lee beamed, “Some supper'll be ready for you.”

His hand hit your elbow playfully before he focused on Boothill.

“What liquor do you like now, ‘Hill?”

~

Lee’s porch was well-lit, a small garden out front with bright flowers and a structure of twigs resting alongside the stairs. It was likely built by his children, or whoever got distracted while watering and left puddles on the steps. A light knock reverberated through the door, summoning a figure that stood as tall as the knob to open it.

“Hello!”

Quick steps came from behind them, before the door was tugged open further.

“Come in, please!”

You were the first to cross the threshold, a large fireplace and a set table coming into view. Chairs were gathered immediately to your left, some books and a half-built pyramid of empty cans decorating the scene. Blankets were gathered against the wall, dark brown eyes meeting yours as a shaggy dog rose from its bed.

Lee carried a pot to the table, a white cloth protecting his hands from the hot handles. He uttered warnings of the heat to his kids, the same ones who greeted you at the door. Another figure, just slightly taller than him, followed behind with a pitcher of water in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other.

While they continued preparing the food and adjusting the ambience, one child tugged on the ends of Boothill’s coat. The other peppered him with questions, looking excitedly at his gun and even more so at the chamber kept in his arm. A small smile grew on his face at their attention before they returned to Lee, wanting to know stories about his “heroic” friend. He followed them to the table, pouring two cups of water from the pitcher and handing it to them. Joyfully, they thanked him and resumed their conversation with Lee.

Seeing what he had raised mixed feelings. You were happy that he had found somebody of his own, that they seemed to love each other and work well together. That joy still couldn’t bury the tinge of envy sinking in, created from how it hurt to be reminded of what your family could have been had Rena simply been allowed to grow.

Scratching behind one of the dog’s ears, a tap landed on your shoulder and grey fingers came into view. They held a glass out to you, filled with clear liquid.

“For you, darlin’.”

The undertone of his words were not lost on you – avoid drinking tonight. Let me take care of you.

“Would you like some stew?”

The welcoming voice of Evelyn sounded from the dining table, a bowl and ladle in her hands. You accepted her offer, watching her gold wedding band glint in the light as you approached her. Their dog followed just behind, its nose occasionally bumping into the back of your leg.

The stew was warm in your hands, making a soft thud against the counter as you sat beside Boothill. A savory broth coated your tongue, the heat of a home-cooked meal comforting amidst the chilly desert night. Conversation flowed easily between all of you, as if you were playing back at the saloon years ago. It wasn’t until there were scraps in bowls and empty glasses covering the table that it took a more serious turn.

Evelyn dismissed their children, Emmett and Mable, from the table. Begrudgingly they went to the living area, playing with the dog and continuing to build their pyramid.

"What happened, 'Hill?" Lee questioned lowly.

You placed your hand along the back of Boothill's neck, meeting his somber gaze. “Let’s talk about it.”

He sighed, his eyes leaving yours and looking at the couple on the opposite side of the table. "Just eight or nine months ago we found a baby up in Iris Creek. We took her in as our own, raising her at that ranch I was tellin’ you about in Iron Springs.” He paused a moment, and you brushed your thumb against his nape, your focus remaining on the wood floor. “About… About three weeks ago the NHA came knockin'. They killed her right in front of them." His gaze turned to you momentarily. "I arrived shortly after."

"I'm so incredibly sorry to hear that." Evelyn spoke gently, placing her hands over one of yours and Boothill's. "I won't pretend to know that pain, but we're here if you need anything."

Lee reciprocated her action, a grit in his voice that was vastly different from hers. "Those cruel bastards will get their judgment day." He exhaled after a glance from his wife, solemnly looking at you, then at Boothill. "She's right, though. A room, food, company, whatever you need. There'll always be a warm fire ready here for you."

—

Bidding farewell to the McHale’s was difficult. They wanted nothing more than to continue catching up, but the night was passing and grogginess collectively set in. Emmett and Mable shouted their goodbyes from the porch, accompanied by the waves of Evelyn and Lee. You returned their gestures, slowly riding off from their home. Boothill’s gaze turned to the stars after saying his own goodbyes, watching the sky as he shifted back and forth. There was much to ponder after that visit, especially for him. The two of you hadn’t talked much in the past few hours, occupied by your own worlds and memories of the past.

Life had been fulfilling thus far, though one world-altering regret weighed heavily on that idea. A certain finality came with it, a need for eventual acceptance lest you meet that finality yourself. In time you would arrive there, but for now it was best to let the pain run its course – feel it and share in it. Boothill had no expectation of you than to simply be there for him as he is for you. Rena had two parents, and lived the best, most beautiful life you could provide for her.

There was one thing you had learned about death -- all that it claimed were eternally benevolent, either in life or the hereafter. If your parents, or Boothill's fathers were here right now, made of flesh and blood, they would want the best for you. For you to live another day and find your place in this wide and bittersweet world. They strived the same as you, to give their child the life they deserved. Perhaps Jasper's notions in the face of death's door were correct. Family would reunite, free of burdens and earthly matters. Spirits would live on in bliss, their memory preserved by each generation.

When you picture all that you've lost, you see a beautiful ranch -- just like the one you worked in Iron Springs. There would be a grand tree, housing Boothill's fathers and little Rena giggling and tugging on one's hair just like she would with you. Your parents would exit a cabin with various drinks and a bowl of apples, stopping to share one with a horse on their way to the meeting spot. Maybe even the Weston's were there, Isaiah smiling from a rocking chair on the porch. Callie would be happy, free of sickly features and whistling a tune. Ellis, cleaning his guns right beside his father. And Jasper would walk from the door, giving each of them a hug before running over to your parents and helping them carry their goods.

If the day ever came, when you would face that reaper with your boots on, that was the life you craved to return to. One where you could drink, laugh, and settle things with your large family -- everyone you ever held dear gathered 'round to celebrate the day. You would wait for Boothill, the inevitable fact being that he would outlive you. It was an idea accepted long ago. Confronting reality was necessary for the life you lead.

Yet that was the other thing about death -- love surpasses it. No matter what kind that love was, it would dance across the edge into the realm of departure. While it may alter itself, those living would still hold its fondness.

If the day ever came that Boothill joined you, either as he is now or as Jesse Blackwell, you would greet him with arms wide open. That very same love remaining with the dead, living in their own peaceful way at your little ranch.

"What's on your mind, darlin'?" he whispered, gazing at you now, instead of the night sky.

"You, and our dreams." you replied with a small smile.

“How romantic of you.” he chuckled, a contrasting and heavy look in his eyes.

Silence rode along between you for a moment until you spoke up, “Where do we go from here?”

He exhaled, a defeated yet promising sound. “Let’s just start with our hotel room. Take it one day at a time from there.”

[codfishing]

Part 2 of outlaw 141 gang

You weren’t sure how long the ride was; all you knew was that you had ridden through the night and at some point you had started to nod off. You caught yourself leaning back into Price’s chest more than once from sheer exhaustion, and every time you had shot back up you’d hear a chuckle from close behind you.

It wasn’t until the darkness began to give way to the deep purple start of sunrise that you spied a lone house in the distance, and a mixture of relief and dread filled you at the sight. You could have been imagining it from the exhaustion but the remaining stint of the ride seemed to both drag on and fly by at the same time.

“Home sweet home,” Price muttered fondly behind you as the group neared the home.

If you hadn’t known who the home belonged to, you would think it was a sweet little house. Two stories of sturdy wood accompanied by a barn just visible on the one side and plenty of space; everything a housewife would want.

But you scowled at the building, silently cursing it and the occupants as Price had reigned in his horse to a stop.

“Boys, put the horses away,” Price ordered, looking back at the other three before shifting to dismount.

He offered his hand to you, as if he were a gentleman. Scowling at his gloved hand, you instead slid down from the other side as he gave a hearty laugh in response.

Price held the reigns of his horse out to someone and one of the other men, the one you narrowed down to be Ghost, took them as he eyed you with an indiscernible expression hidden by his trademark half-skull bandana.

A chill ran down your spine as you held his gaze until you felt Price’s hand rest on your lower back. “Come on, lovie; inside.”

The command sounded gentle but it was still a command nonetheless, and you had no choice but to follow as he led you up the porch steps and into the house.

Well, you would’ve called it a house if the name ‘pig stye’ hadn’t been more fitting. Piles of clothes and dishes stacked on chairs and tables, empty shells and unused bullets scattered here and there; you avoided looking at the random stacks of coins and other treasures that were on a far table, wondering if they were proud of the loot or just idiots for leaving it out in the open.

Price’s voice brought you out of your thoughts along with the hand on your back gently steering you through the minefield of laziness.

“I’m sure you’re tired after the journey, considering you wouldn’t let yourself sleep,” He started somewhat smugly. “But I’m sure you’ll get plenty of rest in our bed.”

A chill went down your spine as you kept your eyes on the stairs that he was leading you towards. “Our bed?”

A deep chuckle sounded in his chest as he looked up towards the second floor. “The rooms are all spoken for, and I’m sure you don’t want to sleep on the couch, do you?”

Your nervousness turned to resentment and anger but you bit your tongue as he gently guided you up the stairs, refusing to say that you’d rather sleep in the barn than with him. Once on the second floor, he led you across the landing and towards a closed door.

“Here we are, lovie.”

The room was surprisingly tidy, and you couldn’t help but pause in the doorway as you took in the small room. There was hardly a thing out of place; barely anything on the dresser on the left wall and even the bed against the far wall was neatly made. The smell of cigars hung heavily in the air though; you recognized it as your father smoked them on occasion. But he smoked the cheap kind, and these reeked of stolen luxury.

He gently moved you further into the room and you reluctantly complied, your head on a swivel as you took it all in. There was a chuckle behind you followed by him asking amusedly, “Like what you see?”

You huffed, refusing to look at him. “It’s better than the rest of the house, I suppose.”

“Yes well, you can tell the house has never had a woman’s touch, unfortunately,” John smiled, eyeing you up and down. “But you’ll take care of that, won’t you, lovie?”

This made you look at him finally, an incredulous look on your face. “So that’s why you took me then?”

He chuckled deep in his chest, crossing his large arms against his chest while shifting his weight back and forth. “Let’s call it a perk.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach at that and you watched him, muscles tensing in preparation to run if needed. The look in his eyes sent a chill down your spine and you straightened slightly, refusing to be intimidated.

He shifted again before looking and nodding towards something behind you. “There’ll be new clothes for you by evening. There’s some water in the bathroom so you can wash up if you’d like as well; supper’s usually on the table around seven.”

You blinked, tilting your head slightly but keeping your eyes on him. “Am I expected to cook supper?”

The corner of his mouth twisted up into a grin. “Not tonight. I’d prefer the rat poison be hidden first before I let you near the kitchen.”

As much as you hated it, that elicited a small laugh in the form of a puff of air. “You’re smarter than I took you for.”

“Wouldn’t’ve made it this far in life without being somewhat smart, lovie.”

Your eyes rolled at that and you sighed, looking around the room again. The feeling of his eyes on you was unsettling but you were starting to get used to it, and you reluctantly looked in his direction again.

“I’d like to rest now,” You said somewhat firmly; you didn’t exactly want to tell him to leave, especially since you weren’t sure he’d actually listen.

But to your surprise and relief, he nodded and started to turn away. “Rest as long as you’d like; we’ll be around.”

It sounded more of a warning than probably the reassuring gesture he meant it to be but you didn’t say anything and he left the room soon after, leaving you to your thoughts.

With a small sigh you walked slowly towards the bed, not wanting to admit that you were actually exhausted from being awake all night. After drawing the curtains to prevent the rising sun from disturbing you, you crawled onto the bed, not even drawing the covers back as you laid down, ignoring the admittedly nice scent on the pillow as sleep overtook you.

[itsgrimeytime]

Maneater (Part Two) || Rick Grimes (TWD)

Part One, Two

Taglist: @fuseburner @beltzboys2015-blog @gabrielleisalanastan @starkstiless

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Inspiration: Christmas Kids by Roar or 'You'll change your name, or change your mind and leave this fucked up place behind. But I'll know, I'll know-'

Summary: You and Rick Grimes had a backstory, one no one knew except you and him. It's one you refused to share, you never really wanted to get into it. All anyone needed to know was you hated the man. When you're in a rough spot, and you could use the shelter the question is... does he hate you?

TWS: Blood, gore, mentions of death, gun violence (just violence in general), family death, identity crisis, a panic attack, disassociation, crying, a touch of abandonment, swearing, grudges, and all things typical of TWD.

[[A/N: THERE WILL BE A PART THREE!! I feel kind of iffy about this one, but I think the story is nice buildup. Just for a more conclusive kind of story. And I tried to make it as realistic as I could.Thanks for reading !!!]]

You still hadn't cut your hair -it had to be all deadends at this point, no matter how heavily you washed it... it still seemed dirty.

It wasn't not on your mind, but you felt like it was a symbol. The longer hair, the torn clothes, it meant you weren't here for long... it meant you would move on, you wouldn't stay.

And yet, each morning, you woke up and chose to stay.

Part of you would say it was because of Carl, you'd missed out on so much -when was the last time you cared for someone so much?

The rest of you, though, knew it was deeper than that.

That's the thing, when you were abandoned that fateful night you weren't particularly guided. But you were. You wanted to belong -to be somewhere where there was a spot carved out for you, where you were missed.

And here it was.

It was here, as Carol came up to your door with an extra serving -not staying any longer than that, she tried so desperately to be in tune with your feelings. Or Maggie would offer her hand with anything -even offering to go get clothes after finding you didn't have anymore. On her tail, Glenn would offer you a place in whatever would come to mind -dinner parties, game nights, just some sort of campfire, anything. Daryl was the quiet one, simply leaning on the outside your porch as you sat on the steps; he didn't say it, but you always found him nearby when the world was too much.

And you hadn't asked for any of it -hadn't even thought to.

That night you don't know why it happened, but it had. It was like a switch, as you sat up straight in your bed. It wasn't like you could sleep anyway, you'd been particularly stuck that night. Memories flooding through your head of times when safety was so far... you didn't even think that it existed.

You were quick to the bathroom -taking your weapon with you, you wouldn't go anywhere without it. And stared.

The mirror was pristine, in a sort of way that made you wonder if it had ever been used. You had the urge to make it feel more lived in, distant flashes to an apartment. It was the first one you'd ever had, it was messy and colorful, and it was home.

Maybe you could make this house like that.

Your thought process was cut off as you detailed the changes in your face -scars and lines where they hadn't been before. It was odd, looking in the mirror, you'd expressly avoided it upon arriving -a dread of how long it had been inkling up your arms at the mere thought of how you looked.

It was an impulse, as your fingers carded through your longer hair -it didn't feel like you. Looking in the mirror, you didn't recognize yourself.

Maybe that was why, you'd begun chopping. Using your blade, which was covered in something you shouldn't be exposed to, probably, but there was something about you that just couldn't stop.

The hair was falling to the floor -spread all along the tile, and it felt like something you couldn't describe as you watched your appearance change. It was a mix of something you'd yearned to be, yourself, and all at once, everything you'd been through came to the forefront.

Remembering your family, the sad smile, and the thrashing of a jaw in place of you. You'd stepped too close, you hadn't known... The others hadn't lasted much longer, stress and broken hearts sent a sort of emotion that they could never get over. No matter how hard they'd tried.

You didn't know when you started crying, as you cut at the mess of hair on your head. The only way you'd even known you'd started was the blur of your vision -your face getting fuzzier in the reflection but at the same time more familiar.

Your scars weren't clear through your tears, and you saw a face you saw in family photos. In the cheesy school photos, you saw that person -not weighed down by things you'd thought would never come.

And here you were, you stopped. Your hair was shorter than before -littering the floor to prove it, and it looked like you again. Even though it was sloppy and there was a red tint for your poor choice of blade, you found someone familiar staring back.

You thought it would soothe everything -stop the sobs that racked your body, the memories that fluttered behind your eyelids.

And yet, as you played with the crooked ends, it somehow made it much worse.

You don't remember leaving the bathroom, much less the house. Your feet lead themselves, down the street and to the doorstep of an unsuspecting house. Initially, you'd been struck with the idea of Carol -she was kind and would help you with ease. But still, you somehow did not end up there.

You knocked.

Instead, you stood at the door of what you faithfully knew to be the Grimes house. It was easy to know which one it was -people circulating all throughout the day, and even more than often it was left unoccupied. Carl was off somewhere and Rick doing something to help Alexandria -the only one left was... the baby.

You didn't know much about her, and no one had taken it upon themselves to explain, you figured Rick wanted to. If he ever had the chance. You weren't sure you wanted to hear.

It was one thing to be confronted with Rick, but Lori? The woman had been one of the sole reasons you were set off, she'd lied to protect herself.

Well, you assumed she was Lori's. You guessed you truly didn't know, did you... did you want to?

Before you could answer that, the door creaked open and there was some part of you that hoped it was Carl. You'd have to explain much less-

He wasn't who you'd come there for, though. You knew that, deep down you knew that.

"What the hell is-" his voice was groggy and sleep-slurred -a pleasant sort of rough, you thought for a second before pushing that far away.

By the time his eyes connected with yours, he'd abruptly stopped speaking -an unsettled shock bright behind his eyes and a sort of worry in the crease of his brows.

"Y/N?" Rick questioned, his eyes trailing to the red-tipped edges and widening, "-Is everythin' alright?"

His hand was extended out like he wanted to reach out but hesitated. It was terrible to hate a good man.

You'd say that was why you started crying again, but you weren't sure. The tears felt as easy as breathing then, the blood dripping down onto your shoulder -your face was probably scrubbed red, and yet...

Without any more hesitation, his arm wrapped around you -ushering you inside, to safety. You hadn't even realized that you were shivering, the tank top and thicker pants were only really suitable for sleeping.

"Breathe," his voice was slow, and reassuring, and there was a part of you that felt scared (that you should run), but it slipped your mind as his fingertips brushed your shoulder -when was the last time you'd been touched?

"You're freezing."

As soon as it came, the touch left as he disappeared around the corner -muttering something close to stay. You couldn't feel enough to move, your mind anywhere except where you were. You felt like you were somewhere else -your life on the line, knives at your throat, guns at your temple, so close-

"C'mere," Rick spoke, hands on a heavy flannel -one you'd seen him wear a few times before.

For once, you didn't argue. The woodsy smell envelops you in a sort of grounding way -a voice screaming so distantly to get away, not him. Anyone but him.

You didn't listen.

He easily guided you to the couch, the living room.... his living room, and you could tell it. Ever so slightly. There was a worn picture in a too-big frame - a family photo, familiar faces, and on the corner of the rug a few toys. They were washed, but still somehow comfortably used -as if the baby had just been playing.

Rick sat next to you -respectfully, with a questioning look in his eyes that only made you think more about why had you come here of all places. He didn't speak the curiosity, merely brandishing a rag, "You mind if I...?"

You exhaled, your hands shaking at the expense of emotion you'd just been chasing, and shook your head. There was something safe here, in the hushed voices and dead silence of the night -even with Rick.

He was careful, scooting on the couch and decisively running the rag over your cheeks -despite tears following still, he cleared the stains. Thumb trailing after, skin-on-skin contact making you wonder once again how long it'd been. You were breathing deeply, watching the focus of his face -blue eyes intent and lips in a purse of determination. He was so close you could see all the differences, all the wrinkles and the bumps of his skin -it had been so long.

And after being sure he'd done what he could, his fingers moved to your hair. Taking the sections between his fingers and wiping away the red that stained there, still a soft touch that you could barely feel.

"There," he finished, still a little off-center with the fact that you'd come here but sitting back to scan over your face -eyes shining in a way you'd seen a few times, "-you gonna tell me why you're 'ere?"

"I don't know," you answered, wiping away at your eyes, "-I don't know why I came here."

"No, not-" he started, motioning to your tears, "-Although that's a good question, I mean why are you out at all? Why are you... It can't be anything good."

You fell silent, wondering exactly how comfortable you could be telling Rick Grimes what you'd gone through. What he'd inadvertently put you through -if he hadn't sent you away would you still be so-

"Nightmare?" he posed, not intimidating -not expecting an answer, not forcing you to speak a word.

You responded, voice hardly there and a bit curt, "Kind of."

Rick was quiet for a moment, before settling on something -almost a debate in his head, "I... I don't know if this is the right time for this, but... I've been thinkin' about it, and I'd like to hear about after I... After I kicked you out."

"What...?"

"I think," he exhaled, brushing his hand over his forehead -like he was frustrated and you stilled at the idea, "-Well, since ya told me you didn't want an apology, I've been tryin' think of a solution."

You didn't respond, but he apparently didn't need you too.

"For you, not-" he clarified, before sighing -seeming to recenter, "-Let me explain it better. You need closure, I can tell. Your shoulders are always hung so low from how much you carry-"

You softened at the fact he noticed that, against your will. There was still something fiery in the back of your head -clawing up to try and get its opinion back in place.

"-and I just thought... Well, what if I took it?"

"You..." you began, a little stunned at the idea, "-Rick, this isn't. That's not fair to you."

Rick replied, a deep regret seeded in his tone, "I wasn't fair to you that day. You know that."

You hummed in thought, the shaking of your hands slowing, and the blur of the world around you dispersing.

He huffed out a breath, a sort of defeat fizzling onto his tone, "I was the reason you were out there, it comes back on me-"

There it was, the heavy-laden guilt -so deeply rooted that you wondered if it had not shown up exactly when those words came out of his mouth all those years ago. There was a part of you that was glad to see it, a sort of twisted, broken person sat at the base of your stomach -agony for no one to hear. Relentless in the revenge of those who started your downfall.

Had he not lost too?

It wasn't quite like forgiveness, the way your mind settled upon it. It was more so that you were equals, in a sort of pain only this world could deal out. Your eyes flickered to the picture with Lori smilingly as beautifully as ever, and the empty space where you imagined she might be.

And that was only what you could gather. What else had he endured? What else had he lived through?

You thought maybe it was something similar to your own tale.

"Rick," you began, your voice was scratchy and your nose runny, but you remained confident, "-you don't have to do that. I think we've both suffered enough."

He opened his mouth to respond -slow and assured like he was choosing his words ever so carefully, "I want to. Really."

You looked at him then, there was something sincere in those blue eyes -something so honest and open and vulnerable. He really wanted to help.

"Okay, we can-" you started, voice soft against the cool night air, "-We can do that."

"Yeah?" He questioned, careful as if you were an animal who would scamper away and you kind of felt like one then. Afraid of the ginger closeness he was offering you, a listening ear. After he...

You exhaled, a big breath flooding through your chest -it was a peace offering, "Yeah."

The silence there was comfortable like the heaviness had shifted -maybe it was still there, but it was different now. You felt lighter already, even just at the idea.

"Hair looks good," he suddenly muttered, a quirk of a smile on his lips and you couldn't tell if he was teasing. The smile biting at his lip didn't help -it was something casual and friendly, something you yearned for.

It couldn't all be fixed in a night, but you were willing to try.

You rolled your eyes, unconsciously smoothing it on your head -a sort of hesitant grin biting up your lips, "Don't push it, Grimes."

[edgessunflower]

Faceless man

Pairing: Edge x Fem reader x Test

Description: The boys confront your daughter's biological father when he tries to come back in her life

Follow up to Two dads

The moment your brother called and told you that Sawyer's dad Quentin had been at his workplace and found out he was in the apartments downtown you knew how sawyer would likely feel about it. "Baby I got something to tell you" you felt dread and guilt as sawyer sits beside you seeing all the emotions of resentment, anger, confusion, and hurt in her eyes before she told you that she wanted to see him as she held your hand pulling her into your arms knowing she wanted to confront him and finally heal from the pain he caused her but what she tells you next surprises you, "I want dads to come with me to see him" you look at the boys as they hugged her and promised you that she would be safe with them leading to that next week when they went to the apartments while you stood on your back porch smoking a joint to calm your anxiety and nerves wondering what could be happening to the three. You jumped off the couch when you heard the front door open seeing the three walk in watching sawyer go to her room and change with a look of relief and maturity on her face, "She went straight to the point and called him out on his shit, he tried to lie and she had enough" hearing how sawyer not only asked for answers and called him out for lying but even defended you made your heart swell and break all at once hearing the boys tell you how she broke down and quentin still tried to blame anyone but himself made you angry for trying to lie to her face but you were filled with love at the boys being by her side and sawyer telling you later that night how they jumped in and said what had been on their minds for the past twelve months of growing a bond and being in your and sawyer's lives, "All kids deserve parents but some parents don't deserve kids, DNA doesn't always make you a parent, actually stepping up and taking that role seriously makes you a parent" tears formed in your eyes hearing what they said showing just how much they truly loved you and her. A smile forms on her face when the boys come home from being on the road for three weeks feeling your heart float out of you seeing her squeal and jump in their arms making them smile while smothering her in affection watching the sweet moment, you pulled both of them into a hug and kiss later on before telling them that she had told you what they said to quentin six weeks back that made you fall and love them even more than you already did ever since all of you got together and you knew in this moment as you all hold each other that you had found not one but two people you wanted to spend the rest of your life with and who loved and supported your daughter just as much as you did from the moment they came into your lives.

[extocancer]

Winter Coat Hymnal

Eddie Munson has never been good at goodbyes. 

 Then again, what is he supposed to do when looking his uncle who is none the wiser in the face on the front steps of the rickety porch of a not-so-brand new trailer just on the outskirts of Hawkins with a threadbare bag of minimal necessities slung over his shoulder? 

 Does he try to explain himself? 

Does he simply trust Wayne to understand and let him go easily? 

 Does he cry? 

Does he… hold it in? 

 Part of Eddie wants to make it hurt - give it enough pain so that Wayne tears himself from the overbearing habits that have been formed since he got out of the hospital. Checking in multiple times a day, calling from work even more at night, staying up on his days off sat on the porch with a carton of cigarettes and a case of beer lest he fall asleep – lest something happen during his accidental fifteen minute naps. 

 Wayne's eyes are tired, he’s tired. 

 But he can still tell, can still observe the bag over Eddie’s shoulder and take a hint when they move behind him and linger on the shiny BMW parked on the gravel driveway just by the mailbox, back packed sparsely with old reused boxes from the diner labeled ‘frozen meat’ and scribbled over in illegible handwriting that belongs to the other man standing beside the car. 

 Steve leans against it. 

 Arms crossed, eyes on the ground, lips downturned into a heavy frown like he’s been dreading this day for weeks. 

 And it had been…weeks. 

 Weeks since they’d made this promise to each other, weeks since Steve begged him to at least say goodbye even if it’s the day of – but he didn’t know it would be taken so literally.  

 To be fair, neither did Eddie. 

   “You got something to say, boy, you better say it.”

 There’s no heat behind it, only the shaking voice of someone who’s probably seen this coming. Guilt fills Eddie’s shaking hands, steadied only by the hardened grip on the strap of his bag. 

Wayne's shoulders square like he’s preparing to take a hit to the gut – he’s always taught his nephew to be truthful. To be comfortable saying anything, come to him with everything. 

 It’s easier said than done. Hell, how was this harder than being in eighth grade with a snotty nose rubbed face down along the cushions of the couch because he didn’t want to be.. 

 A queer. 

 An outcast? 

Fearing the worst with a bag packed almost the same as this resting by the door but receiving only acceptance. 

“I’m leaving.” He says, and it comes out strangled despite his best efforts – it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Eddie was supposed to just go, run away from the face of family like a coward after he’d faced a hoard of interdimensional demon bats because his pusillanimity knows no bounds. 

 This isn’t a monster or a hoard of angry hicks. 

 This is Wayne. 

 This is the man that taught him how to ride a bike even after his knees had been skinned over and over again until they left scars he still has today, how to unhook a fish and fear not it’s sharp gills cutting along his fingers after the first time he’d yanked them away in shock — big brown eyes fearful in the middle of that boat in lovers lake at seven years old. 

 More fond memories replaced with impossible horror. 

 Smallmouth bass are no easy feat. 

 But this hurts a lot worse than a bloody hand - sinks his heart into the pit of his stomach like he’s swimming down into a slimy portal to hell after the very cause of that snotty nose all over again. 

   If he’s thinking anything specific, Eddie can’t tell, with his eyes never leaving Steve even filled with as much pain as they are. Glazed over with what he thinks is tears. 

 He’s only ever seen Wayne cry once. 

 “Where to?” He asks, gripping the door handle with as much force as Eddie does his own bag. 

 “Colorado.” Eddie says. 

 One thousand fifty three miles. 

 “Near winter park. The Rockies.” 

 Wayne finally pulls his eyes from Steve who’s still scuffing his shoes along dirt and rock as he waits and returns them to Eddie. His boy. 

 With a sharp inhale he tries his damndest at a curt nod, at quick acceptance. 

  There’s a cabin up in the mountains there, Eddie tells him, tucked into the woodiest parts just at nine thousand feet above sea level. Cheap. Needs fixing but has all the potential in the world, just far enough away from people that they wouldn’t have to worry about anything at all. 

 The we is what snags Wayne’s attention the most – and Eddie knows that he knows from the look in his eyes, the tilt of his head. 

  His eyes are still misty, though he blinks them back with another nod and steps out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. 

 “You gonna come say hello, son?” 

 Steve’s head shoots up from where he stands, his own face full of exhaustion, dark circles dipping into sorrowful eyes. He does approach, hands shoved into his pockets as he ascends the stairs and stops beside Eddie. 

 They’ve met before in the hospital a multitude of times – Eddie knows this, so when Steve refers to Wayne as sir this time he can’t help but break his own tearful expression for the sake of a sad snicker behind his fist. Like a nervous new boyfriend meeting the folks, he sticks one hand out to shake but it lingers untouched for so long that he almost puts it down, opens his mouth for some kind of preemptive defense before Wayne pushes his palm into it and tugs him forward into a tight hug. 

 Steve doesn’t hesitate because they’ve hugged before. 

 Eddie’s seen that too, from his blurry just awakening eyes, the shadow of Steve comforting his uncle just outside of the hospital room. 

 He still doesn’t know how long it had been between his arrival and his awakening – didn’t want to. 

 But knew they both of them had been there the whole time. 

  Wayne pulls away but keeps Steve in a tight grip at arms length, face stone serious. 

 “You gonna watch after this one? Keep him outta mischief?” 

   “Planning on it.” He replies, forcing a small smile onto his lips. 

 “Jus’ make sure he gets a good winter coat..gets cold up in them mountains and I never could get him to wear one, even as a kid.” 

 Eddie snorts against his fist, flattening his palm against his mouth and drags it downward with a shake of his head. 

 Wayne isn’t angry. 

 The only thing he’s worried about is repeating the same thing he’s always said every single time he’s left the house since he was fifteen. 

 ‘Just wear a coat.’ 

  ‘Drive safe.’

  ‘Call me when you get to a stoppin’ point’ 

 The last one is new. It stings just a little. 

 ‘Don’t go forgettin about me.’ 

 Eddie promises not to, offers him a spare room sometime in the future with a hopeful look on his face but Wayne shakes his head. 

 He’s gettin too old, prefers stayin put. 

 They’ll visit for holidays and birthdays and bring back gifts. Send postcards from their slice of heaven in the mountains. 

  Eddie never sees a singular tear escape his uncle's eyes until they’re walking back to the car, hidden behind a sleeved wipe of his nose any would mistake as just a product of the cold air around them. 

 He just can’t take it, swigs his bag into the backseat beside his baby and plops into the passenger seat alongside Steve, waves one ringed hand out of the window at him while the other one splays out across the center console to intertwined tightly with Steve’s – gentle squeezes making for just enough reassurance. Comfort. 

 “He loves you, you know.” It sounds like he wants to say something else completely, couched out and strangled between words. 

 Even he had teared up a little. But Eddie thinks that may be one of the only things left in the world that he knows for a fact, dwindles on the others for a long while until they’re only three hours into their long drive, palms still clasped even though they’ve become uncomfortably sweaty in front of the vents that produce scalding heat to combat the winter air. 

 “I love you.” He says, because it’s the only other thing. 

 And Steve smiles, big and genuine for the first time since they’d shared a shy and fearful kiss. 

 “Does that mean you’ll wear a coat?” 

[trulybetty]

october | 09 x ravens

pairing: frankie x f!reader word count: 719 warnings: smoking, as always unbeta'd summary: it's been over a week since Frankie was supposed to be home, an ominous sign brings news. ao3: linked

{ x. series masterlist }

author note: prompts are not in chronological order, the story is told throughout the life span of the relationship. once all are posted, I'll post a list of the prompts in chronological order.

09 x Ravens.

The cigarette felt foreign between your fingers, its weight wrong, like it didn’t belong to you. You didn’t smoke, in the past maybe the odd one here and there, but never a habit. You took another drag, feeling the harshness of it in your lungs—it wasn’t even one of your own. It was one of Frankie’s. His secret stash he thought you didn’t know about. He’d promised—sworn—that he was done with it, quit finally for good. However, the pack remained a quiet lie tucked away. It felt fitting somehow. 

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, casting the yard in the dim hazy light of early evening. Everything felt thick—the air, your head, the suffocating silence that had grown louder with each passing day since Frankie left for Colombia. 

Your hand shook as you tapped the ash against the side of the porch, staring out at the yard, hoping the nicotine would calm the anxious pit in your stomach. But nothing could settle the gnawing dread that had taken root there days ago.

Three days. That’s how long this ‘consulting’ trip was supposed to last. Maybe four, tops. But now it had been over a week. You hadn’t heard a word from Frankie since his plane touched down in Colombia. No calls, no texts, nothing. It was like he’d vanished off the face of the earth.

You flicked the ash again, biting down on your bottom lip as you remembered how casually he’d mentioned it. Just some quick work with Pope, babe, it’s nothing. In and out. A week, max. You’d been through this before, but something about this time had felt different. Maybe it was the fact that Santiago had managed to get everyone involved, including Tom, or maybe it was the way Frankie had hesitated before kissing you goodbye, like he knew something you didn’t.

The smoke curled from your lips as you exhaled slowly, your phone buzzed in your pocket startling you. Without even checking the screen you knew who it wasn’t. You’d been ignoring Molly’s calls for days. She was desperate for answers like you, but you couldn’t face her—nor the others, not when you knew no more than any of them did. Every call from each one of them felt like salt in the wound. None of you had any information. What would it do to talk to them when you were all in the same boat, stranded without a word?

It was supposed to be a simple recon mission, in and out, nothing dangerous, but the silence spoke volumes.

As you took another drag, holding the smoke in your lungs, like it’d fill the void in your chest. Your eyes caught movement at the edge of the yard. There, perched on the fence, was a raven. Its jet-black feathers gleamed against the setting sun, a stark contrast to the greenery of the garden. You froze as it stared back at you, its beady eyes locked on you.

You blinked, momentarily confused. Ravens weren’t supposed to here—certainly not in Florida. They were rare, seldom seen. And yet, there it was, staring at you as if it had come with a message, its head cocked slightly, watching, waiting. A shiver ran down your spine, your pulse quickening, a chill creeping over you despite the sticky warmth of the evening.

You took a step forward, the cigarette forgotten between your fingers, as if to confront it and if its presence had some significance. It tilted its head, watching you. But before you could even take a full step forward it flapped its wings with a loud rustle and took off. The sound of its departure was unnerving in the stillness of the evening. 

You exhaled slowly trying to settle the unsettled beating of your heart as you took a final drag of your cigarette. Just as you started to stub it out on the railing, your phone buzzed in your pocket in quick succession. Notifications pinged one after the other in rapid succession. You pulled it from your pocket, the screen lit up in your hand, notifications still buzzing though as an incoming call waited for a response. Your heart skipped a beat and the nicotine that once served as a quiet buzz now made your stomach churn as you read the caller ID.

Frankie.

[topgun-imagines]

Day 1: Beautiful Sorrow

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x wife!reader

Warnings: mentions of death, panic attacks, plane crashes, funerals, & cemeteries.

Word count: 2.0k

Walking this path never got any easier. No matter how many times he made the familiar trip, the heavy weight remained, crushing his lungs until it was hard to breathe. Of course, that didn’t stop Bob from making that same trip, year after year. The black, iron gates were always open, inviting, yet intimidating at the same time. Short, green grass lined the cobblestone pathway. It was always trimmed meticulously, purely out of respect. Each white stone was always clean, the engravings perfectly legible as people passed them by. Every fifth stone, the cobblestone path would branch off to both sides, creating a grid pattern in the soft-looking grass. But despite the overwhelming serenity, there was a war waging in your husband’s mind.

Robert Floyd, a normally calm and composed man, found himself seconds away from breaking down. He wasn’t even through those familiar gates yet when the first tear fell. It was routine by now; walk through the gates, down the cobblestone path, take a left and walk for about five minutes before stepping onto the manicured grass. Those were the same steps Bob followed every year on this day.

Bob had never really thought about cemeteries until you passed. Hell, he had only ever been in a handful. Once when his grandfather passed and once last year, at Admiral Kazansky’s funeral. He had never visited his grandfather’s grave after the old man was put in the ground, choosing instead to leave the past in the past. Three years ago, visiting the cemetery became a regular occurrence. He always pictured them on rainy days with grey skies and black outfits everywhere. Honestly, the thought of cemeteries was slightly frightening to the man.

After all, once he buried the love of his life, a number of things became frightening to him. Dropping your girls off at school was no longer a fun, exciting experience, but instead a daunting one. When you weren’t there to sit in the passenger seat and laugh along with your children's knock-knock jokes, the innocence of the task seemed to no longer exist. Driving home from work was suddenly something that Bob dreaded. Of course, he loved his children, but when his wife was no longer going to be there when he got home, he found himself wishing that he could stay at base forever.

On the other hand, he hated walking through those halls, knowing that only a few years ago you were there with him. And yet now, those walls would never see the beauty of your smile again.

Your husband could still remember that day crystal clear. The girls were at school, your son being babysat by Amelia at Penny’s house while Bob took advantage of some much-needed me-time. He was in the shower when his phone rang. The second he stepped out of the hot stream, there was a loud knock on the door. Rushing to get dressed, Bob opened the door with a large smile, ready to see your elderly neighbour delivering cookies as she’d promised the day before.

Instead, he was met with the sight of Phoenix and Hangman standing on his porch. Phoenix had tears in her eyes and Hangman’s jaw was hard set. Both of them were wearing their dress uniforms. Just as he was about to ask what they were doing there in the middle of the day, his eyes landed on the folded flag in Jake’s hands. That smile fell within seconds, the thought of his wife passing filling his mind. His knees buckled and Jake surged forward to catch him. Sobs racked through his body and Phoenix finally let her tears fall. You may have been Bob’s wife, but you were her best friend and Jake’s wingman. They missed you the same as he did.

Later that night, Maverick and Penny offered to watch your kids for the evening. Bob thanked them profusely, not ready to sit his young children down and explain to them that their mother was never coming home. Rooster, Phoenix, and Hangman stayed with him that night. They didn’t want him to be alone.

Your funeral was two weeks later. Robert Floyd wasn’t a big cryer, but on that day, everyone could easily say that his eyes weren’t dry once. The girls understood what was happening more so than your son did. After all, he was only two. The straw that broke the camel's back was when your son kept asking when mommy was coming home. That night, Bob spent the entire night at the cemetery, Phoenix offering to watch the kids. When the dark sky of the morning finally turned into dawn, Bob knew that it was time to go home.

Every year on that tragic day, your husband would make the same path that he was now, a bouquet of white roses clutched tightly in his grasp. Now, Bob found his mind wandering back to the last time he saw your smile, the last time he told you he loved you, the last him he heard your beautiful laugh. It was all he could do not to burst into tears. The kids were with Maverick and Penny, as they usually were on this day.

Years in the Navy taught him how to deal with high-stress situations. But this, this was something that no amount of teaching could ever make easier. No amount of warnings or advice could ever prepare Bob for just how difficult walking that path was going to be.

He turned left, passing the headstone of a woman by the name of Elizabeth Brown. After three years of walking the same, tedious path, Bob memorized the names on more than a few headstones. It seemed as if he was walking in slow motion, the familiar cobblestone stretching on and on for ages as if it were a nightmare. The silence of the cemetery was so loud that the sound of his heels on the stone was all that could be heard. Not a single other soul could be seen standing on the soft green grass. Bob couldn’t decide whether it was comforting that he was alone or intimidating.

Growing up in the middle of nowhere, Bob had never been in a cemetery of this size until the day of your funeral. That was the hardest day of his life. Not only did he have to stand in front of your friends and family and pretend that he was okay, he had to hold it together when Iceman handed him a folded-up flag. Later that day, the older man tried his hardest to comfort your children while Bob broke down, hiding behind the cars and collapsing against Jake.

As the years passed, living with the painful reality became easier. Day after day, Bob slowly began to stop noticing the little things. Like your make-up spread across the bathroom counter. Or your fruity shampoo and conditioner sitting perfectly next to his on the shelf in the shower. The pink lipstick stain on your favourite coffee mug and the smell of your favourite perfume on your clothes.

Now, as Bob sat on the neatly trimmed grass, the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon. The tears running down his cheeks didn’t cease, even as he sniffled and blindly wiped his face with the back of his hand. The flowers were set carefully onto the ground before your husband rose up onto his knees. For the past three years, It felt as if there was a gaping hole in his chest. It seemed even worse now.

People expected Bob to just move on; act as if he forgot all about you. Never in a million years could he do that. You were the light of his life, the mother of his children and the one person that he would give his life for without a shadow of a doubt. Bob wanted nothing more than to be able to switch places with you. The day that Phoenix and Hangman showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the day, he begged, pleaded, with anyone or anything that would listen that it was some cruel joke. That you would come home at the end of the day with that same comforting smile on your face.

When you didn’t, that’s when it all became real for your husband. That's when he realized that you were never coming home again.

His forehead pressed against the cold stone, sobs racking through his body. Robert Floyd was raised as a Christian. He was taught to believe that God has a plan and that in the end, so long as you believe in God, everything will be okay. The night he found out that you were gone, he found it awfully hard to believe in God. Hours were spent with him on his knees as he wondered what he had done to deserve this. He loved you so much. The two of you had a beautiful family. Why had God taken you away from him?

To this day, Bob still didn’t understand why. For the most part, he had come to terms with the new reality. You were gone. His wife was buried in the ground and his children were left without a mother. And yet, he had found a way to keep on living his life. Bob liked to think that you were watching over him and your children. He knew it would kill you to see him like this, a snotty mess as tears streaked down his face.

That was how your husband spent the next hour. The sun was long gone, and if Bob had lifted his head from the cold stone, he would have been able to see the bright stars shining overhead. The grass was damp under his knees, creating dark, wet patches on his jeans. No matter the discomfort he was feeling, nothing could have pulled him away from your grave. He missed you. He missed his other half. The woman that he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with. As his tears splashed onto the white stone, he was reminded for the millionth time that he would never get that chance.

So, your husband collected himself and stood on shaky legs from the cold ground. Ever so slowly, he kissed his fingertips before pressing them to the cold stone. His eyes slipped shut and one last tear rolled down his rosy cheek.

Bob still hadn’t found closure. But that was okay. He knew that he loved you so deeply, it was going to take him longer than everyone thought to come to terms with what happened. And even if he did find closure, he would never forget about you. He could never forget the woman of his dreams.

As Bob dried his eyes one last time, he began walking back to that familiar cobblestone path. This time, as his heels clicked against the stone, it didn’t feel so hard to breathe; there wasn't a thousand-pound weight on his shoulders as there was before. This time, Robert Floyd reminisced of sweet memories with his wife as he turned the corner at the headstone he knew all too well. The next few steps didn’t create a sinking feeling in his stomach, knowing that once again, he was walking further and further away from the woman he promised the world to. And as he walked through those black iron gates, Robert Floyd wanted nothing more than to be able to hold you in his arms again, to kiss you one last time.

Fate was a funny thing. Everyone that had ever seen the two of you together would have sworn that you were destined to be together for eternity. You were the perfect couple. Bob never would have imagined that he would only have a few short years with you before he had to say goodbye forever. And yet here he was, walking out of the now-familiar cemetery and wishing that fate had never played this cruel, twisted joke on him.

a/n: Hope you enjoyed! Join the whumptober taglist! ☺️

Tagging: @xoxabs88xox @ohtobeleah

[twilightdetectiveagency]

TWILIGHT HOUR - ??:??

A CERTAIN MANOR

The Twilight Detective Agency, serving humans and yokai alike.— Have you ever seen a shadow in the corner that wasn’t a shadow? Felt a feeling of dread walking into a room, an invisible force with eyes on you, or seen strange creatures you couldn’t possibly explain? If so, the TDA is ready and waiting for you. Please contact the number below, or visit our office at 426 Center Dr. Open 24 hours.

About | Cast and Clientele | Schrodinger's Poet | Patreon

A black haired woman hums as she strides down the street, not sparing a glance back at the people staring at her as if she was some sort of oddity, dressed to the nines in a full length corset gown, holding two to-go containers of coffee in either hand. As she walks, she passes a sign that reads, The Twilight Detective Agency, serving humans and yokai alike.— Have you ever seen a shadow in the corner that wasn’t a shadow? Felt a feeling of dread walking into a room, an invisible force with eyes on you, or seen strange creatures you couldn’t possibly explain? If so, The TDA is ready and waiting for you. Please contact the number below, or visit our office at 426 Center Dr. Open 24 hours.

Her journey stops in front of a red building, climbing the steps of the porch and unlatching the gate. She shuts the gate behind her, and pushes open the front door, calling, “Detective! I got—” She stops. 

Cornelia, the primary investigator of the Twilight Detective Agency, is staring down Vivienne with her arms crossed over her chest. Vivienne watches Cornelia’s eyes go from Vivenne herself, to the coffees in her hands, to the clients sitting across from her that Vivienne had fully interrupted the consultation of. “My assistant,” she says, “Vivienne.”

“Hi! Welcome in,” Vivienne says, course-correcting as she glances between their clients. They appeared to be two women, one with glasses and scarlet hair cut into a long bob, the other black haired with moles dotted across her face. Glasses looks anxious, and Moles looks between curious and annoyed. “Um, I was out getting coffee for you both. Here. It’s just the shop’s regular,” She offers the coffee to both of them, and they take it, although Glasses for a moment doesn’t seem to want to. “Detective, I’ll get ours ready.” Slightly dejected, Vivienne starts their coffee maker and prepares a mug for herself and Cornelia.

Once she sets them both down on the table, the consultation continues. 

“As we were saying,” Moles says, “My name is Katherine, and that’s Robin,” She gestures to the woman sitting next to her, “And I think there’s something odd going on with our house. We just moved in, and all sorts of strange things have been happening.”

“You think your house is haunted?” Vivienne asks. Katherine nods her head, and Vivienne can’t help but feel a trace of sympathy at the anxiety in Robin’s expression next to her. She leans in to speak in Cornelia’s ear. “Do we do ghosts?”

Cornelia raises an eyebrow, “Yes, we do.” She turns back to the clients, “Can you describe what kind of things have been happening? I understand it may be difficult or frightening, but if you could provide as much detail as you can…”

“Of course,” Katherine says, glancing back at Robin, who gives her a nod of permission. “There’s a lot of things, but the particularly intrusive ones are… in the kitchen, it always smells like something’s burning, even if the stove isn’t on. When walking through the halls, or making peace in another room, we can hear footsteps; even when the house is empty, doors slamming, even though when we check, they’re still open.” 

“I’ve noticed the sound of the water running, too,” Robin chimes in, “Particularly in the first floor bathroom, about three times a day.”

“Speaking of strange sounds,” Katherine continues, “Sometimes, wherever we are in the house, we’ll hear these ghastly noises coming from the living room. It sounds like people talking, but I can never tell what they’re saying; I can only hear bits and pieces of the conversation, and it sounds muffled, as if it was inside of the walls. And I’ll hear laughing, too, this garbled laugh…” She shudders. Shaking her head, she says, “Robin mentioned the sound of water, but there’s something worse about the bathroom. Late at night, I caught the eye of the mirror. It wasn’t my reflection.” 

“Someone else’s reflection was in the mirror? That’s crazy.” Vivienne asks, taking an interested sip of her coffee. Cornelia elbows her lightly in the side. 

“There’s a variety we see, but they’re always too blurry to make out. Like it’s blanketed in some sort of fog,” Katherine says, warming her hands on her coffee. She sighs, “The strangest of all, though, is that we can hear crying. It seems like they’re struggling to breathe, and it always comes from the same place: the smaller bedroom on the second floor.”

“It certainly sounds like you’ve got something particular on your hands.” Cornelia concludes, setting her now empty mug down. 

“Do you think you can do anything about it?” Robin asks, anxiously rubbing her thumb and pointer fingertips together. Cornelia slowly nods her head.

“We’ll have to go and see the situation for ourselves, past your descriptions,” She begins to stand up out of her hair, tilting her chin up at Vivienne, who nods her head and disappears upstairs for a moment, her footsteps light against the hardwood as she gathers her bag. 

When it takes longer than anticipated, both Katherine and Robin having risen out of their seats, waiting awkwardly by the door, Vivienne is greeted with a frown from Cornelia at the bottom of the stairs. “What took you so long?” 

Vivienne readjusts her bag over her shoulder, “Oh, nothing~”

Cornelia gives her a suspicious look as she closes and locks the door behind them.

Robin and Katherine’s newly bought house was on the far end of the town, nestled within a cluster of trees. A small pond and waterfall audibly rushed in the background. It was five minutes to three-thirty, and the sun still hung in the sky, peeking behind grey clouds. 

Cornelia finds herself sizing up the three story house, with its vast lushness all around them. She straightens her vest, looking around. There seemed to be three entrances: the garage, the front door, and based on the concrete path around the vicinity of the house, a backdoor. She and Vivienne follow their clients to the front door, and Cornelia watches as Robin fumbles for the correct key on her wristlet keychain.

The lights are still on when they enter, and the first thing Katherine says is, “See?” She turns to Cornelia, gesturing to the overhead light in the foyer. “Even if we’re sure we’ve turned off the lights when we leave, when we come back, they’ll have switched themselves on again. Just like this.”

“That’s definitely a problem,” Cornelia muses.

Vivienne chimes in, “Yeah! For the electric bill, too.”

Her comment goes unacknowledged as Katherine and Robin conduct a tour of the house. On the ground floor was a living room, dining room, the kitchen, a bathroom, as well as what appeared to be a shared children’s bedroom, sporting an attached bathroom with Jack and Jill sinks. Down the hallway by the childrens’ bedroom was the door to the garage, evidently once used as an extra storage space.

The stairs in the center of the ground floor led upwards, and directly across from those stairs as another, leading up to the third and final floor. The second floor was just as impressive as the first. To the right was another bedroom, although based on the suitcase and objects scattered across the room, it seemed that Robin was the current occupant. There was an attached bathroom, as well.

If you went left instead, you would find yourself down a corridor, facing a hallway lined with bookshelves. Cornelia opens the cracked door wider, peeking her head in, “Is this the bedroom you said you heard the crying you mentioned?” 

“It is,” Robin says, shutting her door. She gestures to the balcony beside her bedroom, “I’m not sure if you’d like to check out here. There’s several amenities, a grill, a hot tub, as well as an outdoor dining area…”

“Seems like whoever lived here before had it totally stocked up, huh?” Vivienne asks, peering out the balcony windows. They take a cursory look around, and Cornelia’s expression tragically cues Vivienne in that she’s definitely not going to get to use the jacuzzi this time around. 

“Speaking of,” Cornelia says, “Do you know anything about the previous occupants? Were they there at the time of the sale?”

“No, I don’t, and they weren’t. Actually,” Katherine trails off, waving them in closer, “Apparently, something happened to the previous owners of this house. They did a lot of renovating, so all of this is their own design. It’s not, well,” She pulls away with a laugh, “It’s not a murder house, but it certainly has some sort of history. It seems that every member of the family died in a plane crash, but one of their children survived… the crash, at least. Shortly after, it seems he couldn’t cope, and took his own life. He was…” She looks over at Robin.

“He had just turned 19 when they died. They were coming home from his birthday vacation.” 

Vivienne’s expression is one of horror; Cornelia’s is more tempered. She breathes out a sigh. “That is quite tragic. Houses with a history like that are more predisposed to supernatural happenings.” 

“On his birthday?” Vivienne asks, shaking her head in fearful disbelief. She rubs at her inner elbow, the stitching rigid underneath her ice cold hands, “That’s horrible. If there’s a God out there, I’m sure it’s a cruel one.” 

Robin and Katherine say nothing to her comment, although they exchange a glance that Cornelia feels in her temples, like a pebble in her shoe; something irksome, some sort of white noise wrongness in the background. “Was it because of the house’s history that you chose it? I imagine you must’ve gotten a fairly good deal on it. Otherwise, it wouldn’t make a lot of sense for two people to occupy a house meant for six people.”

“Well,” Katherine says, and her smile has a particular lilt to it, “We’ve just got a lot of plans for it. Right, Robin?” 

“Um,” Robin replies, fidgeting again. Vivienne gets the sense that she isn’t much of a leader. “We do. She might not act like it, but really, Kathy’s very social. We have enough social gatherings that we needed to up-size our space.”

“The price really was convenient, then.” Cornelia says, with a nod, tucking her suspicion back in her pocket. 

The tour continues, up to the third floor. It was half the square footage of the others, and held primarily the master bedroom, complete with a large attached bathroom and a walk-in closet. It seemed to belong to Katherine, at least, judging by the way she let Robin lead as she stood by the door. 

“Does much happen in here?” Cornelia asks, pointedly ignoring Vivienne’s stifled laugh. 

“I’ll sometimes see reflections in the mirror, and the water running sometimes comes from the master bedroom.” Katherine answers. Cornelia doesn’t reply, stepping into the bathroom and exiting shortly after, still glancing around. “So, what do you think?”

“Is there a particular time these occurrences happen?” 

“It doesn’t happen in the daytime. At least, not when we’re here, like with the lights. Most of the other occurrences are at night…” She trails off. Cornelia furrows her eyebrows by a mere millimeter, Vivienne glancing her way, watching each minute change. 

Cornelia says, “We aren’t exactly prepared for an overnight stay, so we’ll have to go back to the Agency first to pick up our things, if that’s what—”

Vivienne’s huff interrupts her, brandishing the bag she’s kept on her shoulder and unzipping it, revealing a variety of clothing, toiletries, snacks, and various other items. She seems awfully proud of herself, staring at Cornelia with an expectant smile. 

“Thank you, Vivienne. Good work. If you’re comfortable with us staying overnight, we’ll investigate the cause of the occurrences. Come back in the morning, around nine or ten. I’ll try to have some answers for you by then.” 

Katherine and Robin exchange a glance, and then nod. Katherine says, “Alright. That works for me. I trust you.” 

“Ah,” Cornelia says, locking eyes with Katherine, the tension between them hanging in the air like hail, “If there’s anything else that you think we should know about, you’re free to tell us now.” 

Katherine stares at her for a moment. Vivienne, watching, can’t help but think she appears to be sizing Cornelia up; her conclusion she can’t tell, but eventually, their client shakes her head, smiles, and offering the house keys from her pocket, says, “Of course. I don’t believe there’s anything I haven’t said. We’ll leave it to you, capable detective.”

If Cornelia senses any trace of malice in her words, she doesn’t let it show on her face. The pair lead their clients to the door, Vivienne enthusiastically waving as they disappear, climbing into their car, Robin backing out of the driveway as they disappear into the distance. Cornelia sighs when they’re out of sight, and locks both the top and bottom lock. 

“We’re going to stay up for the night keeping an eye on the house.” She says, sternly. Vivienne cheerfully nods her head.

Cornelia blinks herself awake. She looks up at the clock in the living room. It hadn’t even been ten minutes, she must’ve just dozed. She shakes her head, chastising herself under her breath. Some detective she was being. She pulls herself up, slipping her shoes back on as she wanders through the halls. She finds Vivienne after a mere moment of searching. She turns when she hears Cornelia approach, “Oh, hey, detective!” She puts down what she’s holding. A loaf of bread she’s pretty sure Vivienne didn’t pack in her bag. “What?”

“We shouldn’t steal their food.” She crosses her arms. “Did you not bring any?” 

“I did, and I’m not stealing! I just want to look! Besides, what if I, like, wanted hot chocolate or something?” 

“Did you bring hot chocolate?” 

“No, but I figured they might have it.” 

Cornelia’s about to retort, when a sound from down the hallway makes them both still. She raises a finger between her lips, the universal motion for, quiet, as she peers around the corner. Two shadows dart across the walls, laughter a reverberating echo ringing in her ears. She plugs one ear, shuts one eye, and waits. Footsteps, slight at first and then as violent a rush as a horse’s stampede; she draws herself back as it all ebbs. She returns to Vivienne. 

“That’s certainly something.” 

“That’s so fucking scary,” Vivienne says, shoulders up to her neck. “I hate this so, so, so much. I’m never doing an overnight stay again. Ever.” 

“You’re a ghost too, you know.” 

“That’s different!” Vivienne snaps, “It doesn’t mean I can’t be scared! Being dead has nothing to do with it—”

Their eyes follow the same path. A mirror propped up on the wall. Vivienne screams under her breath, Cornelia just roots her feet into the ground and watches. A wavering patch of black appears in the mirror, in and out of focus until they can see the hazy outline of two children in the mirror, their hands held together. A row of teeth drawn into a smile greets them and then disappears as quickly as it came. 

“I hate this,” Vivienne mutters.                                    

Cornelia takes her hand and pulls her up the steps to the second floor. As she climbs the stairs, she breathes in the scent of smoke and turns back to the kitchen on the first floor. It’s empty, as expected, but the smell hasn’t faded. It’s more than just smoke, it smells like—

“Burnt toast,” She says, as they step onto the second floor. Vivenne takes a cursory glance around, looking uncomfortable. The balcony door is closed. The lights are off. The space is empty. The hot tub light is on. They didn’t turn it on, and it wasn’t left on. “This isn’t all that scary,” 

“Says you,” Vivienne replies, clutching Cornelia’s arm. They walk together, as Cornelia examines the bookshelves. “What is it? Something off?”

“There’s something odd about this. Look,” She gestures to the expanse of bookshelves. “There were several on the first floor, too. They were clearly a family that valued reading, which is why the scarce amount of books left behind makes no sense. And there doesn’t seem to be a commonality with the ones left behind. Not author, not genre… not anything.”

“Do you think they were just picking their favorites?” Vivienne asks. Cornelia shakes her head.

“No. They went on vacation, remember? And I don’t think Katherine and Robin have anything to do with it: they live here, however truthful they’re being about the reason. There’s no point in discarding such a large amount of books like that, when they’ve kept all of the other furnishings,” She swipes her finger across empty sections of the shelf, “And look? No dust, but there’s dust on the remaining books. Which means it must’ve happened recently.”

“Someone took a ton of their books?”

“Seems like it,” She wipes her hand on a handkerchief, which she slips back into her pocket. “I’m not sure why, though, but I get the feeling it doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on here. I’ll ask Katherine about it when morning comes.”

They step into the center of the second floor, still as statues as they await the unknown.

It comes, at first, like the rumble of thunder, and then a crackle. A voice, and then another; they’re laughing, or are they arguing? The tones of their voice were like sharpened pieces of glass, and Vivienne squeezes Cornelia’s arm tighter. 

“Don’t… y… … …easier… … … to… … … g…ood…by..e…”

Cornelia narrows her eyes and listens closer. There’s something familiar about the sound that she just can’t quite place, not yet, at least; she strains her ears as a butchered melody fills the room. She steps away from Vivienne and up to the TV, pressing her face to it and closing her eyes. Static burns in her ear; she pulls away, and checks the wires. “Vi,” She asks. “Do you remember that kid’s show, with the ghost? She was a ghost girl with a flower in her hair…”

“T-The Misadventures of—?” 

“—Macula, I remember now. You watched it when you were still alive, didn’t you? Listen.” She puts a finger up to her lips. Vivienne’s pressing her fingertips into the stitching on her wrists. The voices return with that rumble. A bassline. A foundation. A melody. And then,

“Don’t you know that it’s easier to say goodbye than face the problem head on?”

“Wait,” Vivienne says, her eyes going wide with childlike joy, “I remember this episode! Macula and Kabochan had an argument. It was the first season finale… I cried so hard.” 

“It sounds like a rerun to me, then,” Cornelia says, with a grin. “Vivienne. You really don’t have a reason to be afraid. This house isn’t haunted.” She takes her hand and guides the two of them down the steps, “At least, not by ghosts. This is our jurisdiction now.”

Katherine and Robin return to their house at exactly 8:59. When they unlock the door, Cornelia and Vivienne are already waiting in the foyer. Cornelia welcomes them in, and gestures for them to sit down. 

“I have good news and bad news.” She starts, “The good news is that I know exactly what the problem you’re having is. The bad news is that there’s nothing I can do about it,” Cornelia ignores their shocked expressions and continues, “There aren’t any ghosts in your house, but it is haunted: by memory, that is.”

“Memory?” Katherine asks, incredulous. 

“It wasn’t a figment of your imagination. The sounds you heard were very real, because they were. They were memories—the house’s memories, good and bad. They were just echoes. Some objects,” She picks up a trinket by the entryway, “Here and there, over time, can develop a soul. Whatever you’re planning with this house…” Cornelia trails off, fixing the two of them with a suspicious gaze, “Remember that it had its family taken away from it. It needs to be loved, like anyone else. You have to overwrite the house’s memories with new ones; ones full of love. Otherwise, the strange occurrences—the house’s grief—will continue.”

Katherine’s expression softens, and she says, quietly. “We understand. Was there anything else?”

“I just had a question,” Cornelia starts, “The bookshelves in this house are pretty bare. Do you know the reason for that? You don’t seem the type to sell random books for profit, and it wouldn’t make much sense for you to downscale just the books.” 

“Ah,” Katherine says, nodding her head, “While the house was still on the market, it was a fairly common target for break ins. Apparently, one day, someone broke in and took nothing but the books off the shelves. They even left a few. It was odd that they moved that many without anyone noticing.”

“Plenty of unseen things happen in the darkness of the night.” Cornelia responds. 

Katherine nods her head, and extends her hand. “Quite so. Thank you for your help, detective.” 

They shake hands.

As Katherine steps back inside from seeing the detectives off, Robin peers over the stairwell on the second floor and calls, “They must’ve gone out onto the deck. They left the door unlocked.” 

“The deck’s door?” She asks, climbing up the stairs to see for herself. She tries the door, and Robin’s right; it was left unlocked. “Neither of them seemed like the hot tube type. It’s not even currently usable, is it?” 

“Well, it hasn’t even been a decade since they died. It might still work,” Robin taps it with her foot. It stays unresponsive, and the pair look at each other. Katherine turns her head, staring into the open door; scanning the empty bookshelves with narrowed eyes. “Kathy?”

“We aren’t the only ones looking for him.” She shakes her head, and pulls Robin into the house, shutting the deck door behind her and locking it with frustration bubbling away in her chest.

A pair of women quietly exit the house. One of them is a shorter, anxious but determined looking woman. The other seems more composed, her lips drawn into a line, dyed hair drawn into a ponytail at the base of her neck. They keep their eyes on the windows until they’re out of sight. 

“It’s too late. He’s already gone.” The second woman says, resting her hand on the other’s shoulder.

“He took all of the maps in the house, too. There’s no way to know where he might be now. Even—” 

“—I saw. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to find him.” 

She reassuringly squeezes her arm as they stand in the street. The second woman breathes out, and reaches her hand forward, pulling space apart, time stretching like taffy pulled taut; a door appears, and the cosmos greet them when she opens it. The pair walk through the door, and disappear in a blink.

Vivienne offers Cornelia a mug of hot chocolate, the pair of them sitting upstairs in the second floor of the Twilight Detective Agency; their home, a small two room space, but neither of them seemed to need more than that. She laughs, pushing Cornelia’s glasses up with her pointer finger, “Your glasses are fogging up.”

“Ah,” Cornelia replies, pulling them off and setting them aside. She closes the case file she’d been documenting and waits for Vivienne to sit down to sip at her drink. Her assistant keeps sneaking unsubtle, curious peeks at her. “What?” 

“You seemed pretty suspicious of them. Robin and Katherine,” 

“I was.” Cornelia says, easily; she takes a sip of her hot chocolate. “There was just something off. There’s no reason for two people to buy a house that size.”

“You never know~” Vivienne hums, spooning sugar cubes into her mug. “Maybe they love house parties?”

“I sincerely doubt that, but there really isn’t any way to know. Regardless, I don’t think I want anything to do with them, whatever it is that they’re doing.” She sighs, Katherine’s gaze still burning. “I suppose everyone’s in search of something.” 

Vivienne laughs, “What are you searching for, then, detective?”

Avoiding her gaze, Cornelia replies, “Well, I don’t know.”

She peers over at the detective, who simply looks in a different direction each time. Vivienne hums, biting a sugar cube into pieces, cuspids like daggers as the sugar dissolves on her tongue. She pops the rest into her mouth, “Okay, I’ll just ask Charon!” 

Cornelia turns to face her, huffing, “That’s cheating!”

“So there is something!” She continues to laugh, even as Cornelia shakes her head and swats at her, trying to wave her away as she rests her chin in the crook of Cornelia’s neck. The detective continues to ignore her, but Vivienne isn’t deterred. 

The sun begins to set on Crepuscule, and golden cast shadows seep through the windows. 

“Ah,” Cornelia says, as the pair of them look out the window, transfixed by the sight, “It’ll be Twilight Hour soon. We should get ready for work.”

When the clock strikes twelve, the barrier between the world of humans and the world of spirits disappears, and Twilight Hour blooms.

Twilight Detective Agency, run by Cornelia and her assistant Vivienne, take on cases at the behest of human and yokai alike.

Whether it be a trick of the light, or a stray sound in the melancholy of the dark…

Blink, and you’ll miss it.