#AND he's a gunslinger with long mostly white hair

[ryanthel0ser]

Alright so I'll never play gacha games, I actively dislike them.

But...lord have mercy in heaven above

#on top of the fact he's got multiple checkmarks for my type as a country girl myself this is appealing to me in ways i didnt think it would #robot aspects mixed in with some goth aspects mixed in with western LORDY #AND he's a gunslinger with long mostly white hair #in the chaps too...catch me at the saloon later #*loops She Keeps Me Up by Nickleback* #i need his voice lines like yesterday #they cooked him up just for me #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr boothill #boothill

[caxycreations]

Character Intro - David Seltz

David is a caxy, which is a hybrid of a domestic cat species and any fox species. There are many, many varieties of caxy and they can take after either parent, but David in particular is a hybrid of Russian Blue domestic housecat and Arctic Fox.

In the world of Relan, due to the lack of any Earth countries, specific breeds such as "Russian Blue" are known by other names, be it our own alternate names for them or names unique to Relan. In David's case, he's known as a hybrid between a Maltese housecat and Snow Fox.

He is five feet and four inches tall, twenty five years old, and while he is biologically male, he is unbothered by gender concepts and will answer to "he/him", "she/her", or any combination. He has a fox-like face and a cat-like tail, with a feminine figure and the slender form typical of smaller feline species.

While he prefers masculine partners, gender is secondary to him and his preferences focus more on personality and personal connection than they do on biological aspects.

He has a twin sister named Davina.

His fur is mostly grey, though he has a white underbelly that stretches from his bottom lip down his chin, the front of his throat, to the edges of his shoulders and back inward, covering most of his chest and extending further down along his belly and inner thighs. Around the lower end of his ribcage, there are two "spikes" of white fur that stretch to his sides. The white of his inner thighs curves further back and up along his backside, ending at the base of his tail.

His tail is ten feet long, a genetic mutation he and his sister share. He also bears very dark markings in addition to his lighter fur. His eyes have dark rings of fur, almost black in color, with white fur appearing similar to "eye bags" underneath the dark rings which, in combination with his typical relaxed expressions, give him an eternally tired appearance. He also bears "fingerless" and "toeless" markings, his fingers and toes being the same dark color as the rings around his eyes.

His eyes are a deep, "true" blue, and due to another mutation present throughout his lineage his eyes bear a bioluminescent compound, causing them to glow somewhat. This glow seems to brighten during periods of intense emotion, though this is just because his eyes are typically half-lidded or otherwise relaxed, and as his emotions grow in intensity he opens his eyes further, the glow becoming more visible.

It is especially noticeable in dark or blacklight environments, where his eyes seem to shine brightly. His hair is very dark brown and covers his left eye at all times. It is long and fluffy, and extremely well kept. His fur and hair are both incredibly soft and smooth to the touch, a product of his extensive self-care routines.

He also bears three noticeable, though faded, bite mark scars: A bite from a feline on his throat, the most prominent scar, and the oldest. A bite from a canine on his right trap muscle, where his shoulder meets the base of his neck. A bite from a dragon on his left shoulder, the least healed and the most recent.

David is playful and friendly, wearing his heart on his sleeve with little filter. This leads to him being a very honest and open individual. He looks for the best in others and withholds judgement as long as he possibly can.

He is quiet and somewhat shy in most situations, but doesn't let that stop him from being who he is. He enjoys talking to others, and while he may have difficulty initiating conversation, once it's begun it's difficult to get him to end the conversation unless the other/others taking part lose interest.

David enjoys old westerns like Lucky Duke, Smoking Barrels, and The Gunslinger. His favorite is Lucky Duke, and he's seen every single episode ever made at least fifteen times.

He has a love of music, and enjoys any music that gives him a desire to dance. Because of this, genre rarely comes into play with him and he can enjoy nearly anything so long as it has an upbeat tempo or a clearly defined melody to it.

Born from his love of music and dancing, he frequents the local clubs and is seen visiting them every weekend without fail. While once upon a time he was quite promiscuous, he has since calmed down and visits solely for the atmosphere and the fun of the dance floor.

His favorite scent is mango, and he always smells of it due to his favorite soaps and shampoos being lightly mango scented. His favorite food is chicken curry, and he keeps the ingredients for it stocked at all times.

He works as a barista at Coffee and Cream Cafe, known locally as "C Squared Cafe" and is one of the more popular servers due to his friendly disposition and happy attitude.

He prefers more feminine clothes, and is often seen wearing form-fitting clothing of lighter colors. The exception is his favorite outfit which differs greatly from his usual choices. His favorite outfit is a pair of tan cargo pants, a white T-shirt, and a dark sky blue high-collar zip-up bomber jacket.

He also owns a collar in his favorite color which bears a silver plate with his name on it. He can often be seen wearing it around the house, as well as to clubs and house parties.

Overall, David is an optimistic and kind-hearted soul that has little difficulty making friends. While his past is fairly troubled and painful, he refuses to let it hold him down and prefers instead to face the moment, living in the present and trying his best to be happy. His Blessing is Deep Bonding, with sincere mutual emotional connections becoming exponentially stronger over time than they otherwise would. Friends find themselves far more loyal to him than others, while those who love him and whom he loves develop a mutual sense of dedication to him.

Artwork by Presuk, found at the following: https://twitter.com/Presuk_ Telegram: @ Presuk

#relanianoc #relan #fiction #literature #oc #originalcharacter #original character #furry #fursona #anthropomorphic #anthro

[reedus-prince-of-spiders]

Character post:

(outdated)

The spider wizard now has a human form named Silky. Also is a gunslinger. Haw yee.

TLDR: six spell guns with eyes on them, four magic arms plus two normal arms equals many pew pew. Also an immortal cat(?) who functions as a magic bag

*sorry for the long post, I'd write a book if I didn't stop myself*

The Perpetuator of the Thriftless Cycle has managed to automate most of her responsibilities. With the help of many magic circles and a healthy amount of minions, dungeons are being spidered and spiders are being moneyed. With copious amounts of spare time on her hands, she needed a hobby. Luckily, she discovered Cowboy Times, so she's doing that now.

Her familiar, Goldie, was previously the Grand Visier of the Seventh Plane. Being granted immortality via a christmas cactus, he has pledged to serve Silky for the rest of her mortal life. Goldie appears to residents is this realm as a hole in reality, a dark shimmering void as deep as the sky. No less than two piercing red eyes adorn the void, always visible no matter the angle of observation. If you were blind, you could be forgiven for assuming he was a normal cat, having the physical shape and temperature of one. He is not limited to this form though, and will take various forms for stealth, utility, or intimidation. As Goldie is from the Seventh Plane, he also has the ability to displace items in directions not compatible with the Third Plane, temporarily removing them from our reality.

The spider-possessed approximation of a human appears to be a 6' woman of light proportions. Her hair is golden blond and mid-back length, kept in a neat bun beneath her hat. In addition to taking human form, she has taken a new name: Silk. Her friends call her "Silky", her allies know her as "Six Six Guns" (or "Six" for short), and her enemies call her "The Blind Bandit". The human form Silky created is not an exact recreation of human anatomy though, and will enter the uncanny valley if examined closely. For example, it has no eyes. Instead, Silky uses eight enchanted purple stones. Two of the stones are affixed as goggles that conceal her eyeless visage. The body wears boots, but has no feet. There's just more hands down there. The elbows and knees have also been observed to act more as ball joints than hinges, but this only seems to occur in emergency situations. That being said, the body doesn't raise too much suspicion if observed by a passing look or low pressure interaction.

In addition to the aforementioned goggles, Silky wears a vest and pants made from a strange leather(?). (See Monster Hunter's male Blossom Armor for reference, minus the headpiece and coat) A gothic style hoodless cloak is worn on top to protect from the elements, which can be tossed behind her for gunslinging or social purposes. A wide brimmed stetson finishes the outfit. The outfit is mostly composed of a royal purple with gold accents. The only exception being a white long sleeved shirt under the vest. (See the male Purple-gold jumping spider for color reference)

Being a spider, Silky is familiar with operating eight limbs at once. She uses a modified version of mage hand, which allows the arms to hold the same weight she can, at the cost of not being usable remotely. When summoned, the four ghostly arms start at the elbow, but are positioned as if they would connect to shoulders located below her physical ones. She uses these extra arms to wield all six of her revolvers at once.

The six revolvers are [Wizard's Wheel Guns]. Six focus crystals are held in a cylinder that can be rotated at will. The cylinder can also be replaced entirely, allowing for quickly switching to another set of spells. These allow Silky to rapidly fire a range of intermediate level spells, but Magic Missile is the default option for these guns. The other default spells are elemental options, (fire, ice, and lightning), dark or light magic (depending on the gun), and one healing spell. The revolvers are held in six holsters, two traditional side hip holsters, two mounted on the front of her waist, and two chest holsters. Though all can be drawn simultaneously, only the two hip revolvers can be used for quick draws. The rear sights on the guns have been replaced with the same stones that make up Silky's glasses, meaning there is no issue training multiple sightlines at the same time. Silky does have other weapons for heavier or long range applications, but does not carry then on her person. Instead, Goldie carries them, and can produce them on demand. For traditional spell casting (and melee) Goldie also carries a dual-headed bo staff.

As can be gathered from her apparel, Silky does not much care for doing things sneaky beaky like. This is not to say she is unreasonable, as she does prefer to understand the situation before rushing in. To facilitate this, Goldie will usually preform reconnaissance or extraction of fragile elements before being quickly followed by a broken door, hysterical laughter, and several gunshots.

Haw yee, chucklefucks.

#cowboy time #oc

[ennaku-sirri-da]

To The 5 People In The World Who Like Habbothan( me included bigtime ), With Love/

The sun goes down, the stars come out

Turn the lights out now

Now I'll take you by the hand

(Plaintext: To the 5 people In the world who like Habbothan( me included bigtime ), with love/

The sun goes down, the stars come out

Turn the lights out now

Now I'll take you by the hand)

( click for better quality!)

Plaintext: (click for better quality!)

[ ID: Digital fanart of Dr.Habit and Jimothan Botch from Smile For Me the game, in a romantic fashion, cowboy-themed. The style is semi realistic, leaning a bit more on the cartoony side. The lining is thick and colored. Only some parts are filled in with color.

In the artists AU( called Roseverse) Jimothan looks mostly the same as his game self, but with some interpretative liberties. He has a smaller square face and sports a boisterous dyed-black moustache that curls out into huge ruffles, some facial hair is seen on his chin too. His teeth are red, paan-stained. His hair is straight, a fading brown with few paler streaks. It is styled high on his head and some strands fall waving over his face. His body is of skinny build, and he is just a bit on the hairier side. His hands have calluses, and elsewhere on him are healed scars here and there, of the burn variety, bite marks on the fingers, hypertrophic ones, smaller wounds( from dealing with a very unintentionally dangerous baby).

Jimothan has on a straw-yellow Panama-like hat with a checkered band. Around his neck is a decorated dark purple bandana with a pale ram's skull drawn at the center. He wears a red denim jacket with a popped collar and rolled up sleeves, the jacket is too small for him so it shows his stomach. He has dark brown fingerless gauntlets with pale gold designs and small spikes, rings. He has on bottom grey-blue pants covered by fluffy sheepskin and its all held together by a decorated flowery mahogany belt. Across the hip is slung a long band holding playing darts, in an imitation of a gunslinger.

In the artists AU interpretation Habit has marionette features such as segmented, jointed darker green line-cuts around his mouth, hands that are visible. His hands hold red and fairly long rounded claws. He looks thin and broad-shouldered. There are white freckle-stickers on his shoulders. Also looks generally older with sagging lines, wrinkles and age spots present. A bit of a small droopy chests outline is visible. His chest is hairy, he is hairy overall. It holds the mark of magic- a pink starburst like Twilight Sparkle's cutie mark. Stitch-scarring is seen on arms. Theres a more skinlike X-shaped scar on his mouth. And autopsy-like scars over his body. He is covered in apple-green fur. His face is gaunt and freckled by white cheek-stickers with protruding furry cheeks, then red fur-ruffles and eyebags under his makeup-applied eyes, with purple eyeshadow, then a thin pencil stache with surrounding darker rose-pink chin and neck hair. Other makeup includes red lipstick. The middle of his very long neck is surrounded by a scar, and he has an Adams apple. His voluminous and rose-pink curly hair poofs out a bit. His ears appear stuffed with cotton fluff.

Here Habit wears a high black cowboy hat with a rigidly upturned brim from where his hair spills all over, loosely tied in a low ponytail that has a hairband with a golden sun. The strings of the hat loop around his neck and hang off slackly. His beard is grown out close to his face. He wears a tanktop like top fit with a plunging neckline. It is a deep sky-blue and is striped darker, with white stars sprinkled on top. Below is a big oval belt buckle with bright lily designs around a centerpiece purple jewel. The belt is also studded silver on the sides.

Habit is positioned lower to meet Jim's height. He leans over and nuzzles the other man's face, his own eyes shut blissfully, smiling in his signature slightly crooked way. Jimothan laughs loud, face scrunched up happily from the touch, head angling back a bit. He touches Habit back, resting his hands on the shoulder near him. Habit cradles one of Jimothan's hands in his much larger ones, the other hand catching a glove he's taken off from the hand of Jimothan's he is holding.

The BG is a dark, richly colored photo of a sunset overlaid with an image of the night sky, which makes it look like it is scattered with stars. The sunset image fades from the bottom, about where Habit and Jimothan are placed, into the night one, which is tinged a faded purple and has the silhouettes of trees in its BG. The colored lines of the main characters stand out against these real pictures.

A bit of dialog is written in small text that reads, with Habit's spelling quirk translated in this ID for easier readability:

" Jimbo..it's getting colder....out...I...I dont know why...but I feel you should be safe and warm with me...let Me stay tonight."

"Gawrshhhh, sure, pardner! This 5 hour TV party's gonna become a TEN hour hoedown!!! YEEEHAWWW"

" Eheh... I like you...a lot." End ID ]

--

Here's the version with Habitspeak as it is!:

Plaintext: Here's the version with Habitspeak as it is!:

"Jimbo...It's getting kolder...ou...t...i...i dont know why,,,but i feeel you shuld be safe&warym with me....let Me stay tonight."

" Gawrshhhh, sure, pardner! This 5 hour TV party's gonna become a TEN hour hoedown!!! YEEEHAWWW"

"Ehehh...I like u...a lot"

And a clearer version without the BG

Plaintext: And a clearer version without the BG

[ ID: A closeup with only Habit and Jimothan from the previous drawing. The lines are more clearly seen against the warm, pale yellow BG. End ID]

--

Talk under the cut!!! As always!! I invite you now to rejoice in the gayest of YEEHAWTYS...this town is PLENTY big enough for the both of them ://- )

Plaintext: Talk under the cut!!! As always!! I invite you now to rejoice in the gayest of YEEHAWTYS...this town is PLENTY big enough for the both of them ://- ) ( Habit smiley face with blush emote )

I've talked a bit about Jimothan in this other post(link) before...!

Hope people got the takeaway that I fucking love him TAMIL DAD RAHHHHHH AHAJSJ and yes his southern accent is F.A.K.E

OK now I gotta spread the good message of Habbothan. In my AU anyway!! But everyone, I don't object to it in ANY universe. ;) (winky face)

So basically Jimothan would have first known of Habit and his Habitat in an indirect way I suppose. You see Kamal and Mirphy(the first Habitician other than Kamal who himself is technically a co-owner, though by the way she walks you'd think she only owns the place) were assigned to get a cook for the whole thing. Habit doesn't want to go out himself because....erm....circumstances, shall we say for now. Possibly involving WANTED posters for taking a certain someone's teeth...anyway, Jimothan was their unfortunate choice to be knocked out in a dumpster, thrown in a bag, and desperately kidnapped over to the Habitat. Cuz it's Kamal and Mirphy, everyone. They're like the Buzzfeed Unsolved guys LOL.. Kamal does keep apologizing to him the whole time though. Jim's just happy to have a promised stable job and pay. He stays.

During that stay...a lot of things happen...new folks pouring in...frowns waiting to be turned into smiles....rain pouring in....onto a machine....and suddenly, Habit and Kamal are neither co-owners nor boss and assistant, but estranged best friends. Talk spreads fast in a small town-like place such as the Habitat....everyone has different theories on how those two are involved. Jim for his part just thinks they're very good bros, like they used to call each other obnoxiously 🥸( disguise emoji with big glasses and moustache indicating amusement here )

Kamal rarely comes to the Lounge itself. Or anywhere around the Habitat really...he's too overcome with guilt for the hand he played in " trapping everyone here" to really be free. Mostly he locks himself up in the ' Roses Balcony View For Two ' part of the terrace, but hey, the Lounge has got the only sink with bathroom in the whole area LMAO ( another mark against Habit on his architectural violations list )

Also that RAW blue shit in the sink but I hope he got better paste somewhere PLEASE

Still, the more frequent visitor becomes, oh ho, Dr.Habit himself! Not for very great reasons though..he has something of a problem with drinking to Forget ( I think this is evidenced by the Lounge PSA) so he comes in, in the last few hours before curfew hits and it's getting dark, everyone has cleared out. Sometimes he stays out recording his ~~scary~~ Bedtime PSA's in the dead of night, sometimes he tries to talk to Kamal, and other times....well maybe Jim's cleaning the bar for the night but leaves one glass out because he Knows and silently a very tall figure appears without his usual morning energy and they don't say anything or make eye contact because it's so routine at this point and....

Maybe some nights Habit is shuddering with anger, venting to the bartender he's come to know to trust to listen to him and let him hold him once-in-a-while in a show of support. Handle his precious coat( so it doesn't smell ), even. Completely sober, even. Yeah, Jim's pretty surprised by it too...but it's nice, when hes overcome with what to say to his son--who's finally shown up for the apparent purpose of sueing " this conman's therapy establishment" and also maybe get him for unlawful use of Miky Rat's image on flyers-- the weight of many miscommunicated difficult years weighing on his weakening bones, its nice, when Habit shows up, smiles sweetly at him, takes his hand and walks him alongside and out of the counter to meet him-- I don't want to drink tonight. Let's forget our worries another way. Dance with me?

The Doctor is a very bad dancer, wiggling in synchronized movements more than he can bust a move( though he does a decent, if chaotic squat kick) , and Jimothan finds that through the weirdness of a moment where the Doc's spinning his short self around on the tips of his claws ( after like three BOTCHed tries ), none of the times he'd danced with his guy gang in his youth were like this, he's actually glad for their combined constant messing-up, slipping, falling and cackling and trying-again. Really took the edge off.

...

Is it just him, or do the lights on them seem brighter..?

...

Post-Habitat, as part of trying to get to a better place and be where he'd like to be- Habit tries making amends with all the Habiticians. Of course, then, he can't avoid someone he feels as much for as Jim....

I haven't worked out the like. Mid-parts of this so forgive the break in the story LOL. I'll think about it later, but I hope you stay to hear this out, dear reader.

I'll summarize much of the rest from part 1, part 2, part 3 and part 4 ( all linked ) of the acclaimed (/hj) " Jimbit (Jimothan X Habit) watches a movie HCs courtesy of me and Mika " :

They end up bonding more over watching Westerns in ridiculously long marathons, I guess Habit had a latent interest in that stuff what with Cowboy Bed, him printing a 3D horse, the shitty shirtless romance novels he'd sneak and buy in high school( Wowww Roseverse Exclusive! HSJJSJS). Those Cowboy Nights put demolition cranes on steroids to SHAME with their feral whooping and cheering. Someone save Parsley, Kamal, Trencil and Nat plz.

For the first time they get to just...know each other casually you know!!! Stuff like Habit taking a frankly obsessive interest in Jimothan's family tree, which he's more than happy to blabber away about while Habit scribbles it all down to remember (bad memory) faster than a clerk on a rush day, handing it over to Kamal to typewrite neater later.

And Jimothan is over the fucking moon when he gets to pretend he knows stuff about (motor)bikes( he's more into cars and trucks ) and save his pride PLUS help and possibly IMPRESSSS the Doctor with picking out a model( Kamal offered to help Habit learn to drive a 2 wheeler for going longer distances-- he himself had a string of terrible driving instructors who pretty much destroyed his confidence to ever learn how cars work, so he sticks with his bike-- he'd rather it not possibly happen to Habit as well )

Habits wandering around enamored and asking Jim every question he can think of and Jim's sweating just making shit up--

Howw much gas does *this one release on avergauge dear?

Oh there's some FIRST CLASS fuels on this one believe me, believe me. Sulphur, Ozone, Nitrogen monoxide, little missy's got EVERYTHIN'

Eughh. That iz Disgusting!

I--uh-- COUGHyeah. Yeah I think I've seen near-death donkeys better than a bike like this. This monster's a sin t' the Earth itself

Mhmmmm

Why, Doc, I got a right mind and a half to beat the chemicals out o' this ugly metal hunk right here n' now

Oh mie goodness! That iz very bold of you but I donot believe we shuld do a violente here !! You mite go to jail darling

Hawhaw, ain't no bars going t' hold ME from helping you with your bike today I SWEAR on my precious son

:// -) ( blushing Habit smile emote )

...Somewhere far away in an office below the Earth( and in Hell) Parsley feels a sudden bad omen overcoming him🥸( disguise emoji with big glasses and moustache indicating amusement here )

Habitspeak translation for those who need!

Howww much gas does *this one release on average dear?

Oh there's some FIRST CLASS fuels on this one believe me, believe me. Sulphur, Ozone, Nitrogen monoxide, little missy's got EVERYTHIN'

Eughh. That is Disgusting!

I--uh-- COUGHyeah. Yeah I think I've seen near-death donkeys better than a bike like this. This monster's a sin t' the Earth itself

Mhmmmm

Why, Doc, I got a right mind and a half to beat the chemicals out o' this ugly metal hunk right here n' now

Oh my goodness! That is very bold of you but I do not believe we should do a violence here !! You might go to jail darling

Hawhaw, ain't no bars going t' hold ME from helping you with your bike today I SWEAR on my precious son

:// -) ( blushing Habit smile emote )

Anddd well, this parts a little more fuzzy in my mind but I think they may both have their masculinity hangups and internalized queerphobia? It would be difficult of course but I think with each other's(and other people too's) help they can be softer with each other....

Just a gay(enby) guy and a trisexual guy being cowbuddies and riding off into the sunset.

Oh, right. You don't know, do you? /lh

" I'm not bisexual, I'm trisexual. I try everything" - Shah Rukh Khan Jimothan Botch

/hj

Plain text: " I'm not bisexual, I'm trisexual. I try everything" - Shah Rukh Khan( this is crossed out text) Jimothan Botch

#jimothan botch #dr habit #boris habit #smile for me game #s4m #roseverse #au #jimbit #habbothan #jimothan x habit #fanart #my art #k adding trigger tags... #alcohol tw #Six fucking hours on ya habbothan i love ya mwa mwa #writing this all up sjsksksk the things i do #i hope theres some good food waiting for my lunch yeehaw #gay #wow like Gay capital G #wwwwwwoowwwww #5 people out there im blessing the doors of your homes for opening my eyes #long post #headcanons #my headcanons #writing

[darling-leech]

Torin Arlen Hugh’s Fallout Character Sheet

I used DarthSuki’s Fallout OC Meme 2.0 and I used this Font.

Here’s A Blank version if anyone wants to use it(Remember to credit DarthSuki tho)!:

ANYWAYS Let’s begin his background… 

Name: Torin Arlen Hugh

Race: White(Irish-Scottish American)

Religion: Agnostic

Gender and Pronouns: Trans Man and He/Him

Sexuality: Bisexual. Also is Polyamorous.

Age: 52.

Birthday: April 1, 2235

Birthplace: New Reno, Nevada

Height: 5′11 FT(71 Inches/180.34 CM)

Weight: 180 LBS(81.6466 KGS)

Hair Color: Grey(#47555E). Eyebrow/Eyelash color are a Dark Grey(#2D3130). 

Hairstyle: Azar Hair Long 4 and Azar Hair Long 2. (Here’s links to several mods I use XX(this one has both the hairstyles he’s wearing in the picture shown above in it), XX, XX, XX, and XX)

Facial Hair: Lone Wanderer

Eye Color: Green(Like #28352C). NOTE: He ONLY has his right eye, he lost his left eye.

Skin Color: I think it’s called the Pale option in Fallout 4(Like #B1937B)

Game of Origin: Fallout: New Vegas(He’s my Courier 6) and Fallout 4

BEHAVIOR/TECHNICAL:

Voice Actor: Connor Byrne

Karma: Neutral/Chaotic Neutral

Aggression: Aggressive

Confidence: Foolhardy

Assistance: Helps Friends and Allies?

S.P.E.C.I.A.L Stats: Strength 10, Perception 8, Endurance 9, Charisma 10, Intelligence 9, Agility 4, and Luck 4

Perks/Tagged: Armorer/Blacksmith/Gun Nut/Science!/Hacking, Barter/Speech, Confirmed Bachelor/Lady Killer, and Commando/Gunslinger/Guns/Rifleman/Survival/Unarmed to name a few.

Weaknesses: Chemist, Energy Weapons, Party Boy, and Wild Wasteland to name a few.

Affiliation: Mojave Express(Formerly, currently retired and living in Boston, Massachusetts)

Rank: Courier 6

Role: Player Character/Main/Major Character/Main Fallout: New Vegas Character/Package Courier. He’s my ONLY Courier 6(So you CAN tag him as Courier 6).

Most Liked Companions: ED-E, Hancock, and Rex. Honorary Mentions? Ulysses and My Self Insert OC, Eugenia Alexandra Everston “Alex”.

Least Liked Companions: N/A

Preferred Weapon Type: Submachine Guns/Rifles

Primary Weapons: Submachine Gun/Silver Submachine Gun

Secondary Weapons: Double Barrel/Esther (GRA)/Maria/Mercenary's Grenade Rifle/Lucky

Preferred Armor Type: Lightweight Leather

Primary Armor: N/A, usually wearing stuff like the Drifter Outfit/Silver Shroud Costume and Desperado Cowboy Hat/Silver Shroud Hat

Power Armor?: NO

RELATIONSHIPS:

FAMILY:

Parents: *I’m leaving this blank for now because I haven’t gotten that far into Torin’s background yet, I’ll update this when I do*

Siblings: NONE

Friends: Several. Arcade Israel Gannon, Big Sal, Christina Royce,  ED-E, Francine Garret, James Garret, Rose of Sharon Cassidy, Lily Bowen, Raul Alfonso Tejada, Rex, Robert House, Nero, Julie Farkas, Swank, The King, Nathan Ian Howard(My Sole Survivor), Leif Axel Gunnar, and My Self Insert OC, Eugenia Alexandra Everston “Alex” to name a few.

Lovers: Several.  My Self Insert OC, Eugenia Alexandra Everston “Alex”, and several unnamed lovers. 

Rivals: N/A?

Enemies: A Few? Like Caesar’s Legion for one.

Children: N/A?

Background(Note: I’m still in the process of writing this so it’ll seem like a mess til I get it finished all the way so please bear with me): Almost identical backstory to the default Courier 6. He was 46 during the events of Fallout: New Vegas, and was born New Reno, Nevada. His parents died when he was in his 20s, so then he moved to Primm and lived there until he was 46, and became Courier 6. He’s also an Engineer of sorts(Mostly with Weapons and the like). He spent alot of his time at the Gomorrah during he events of Fallout: New Vegas and shortly after the events of Fallout: New Vegas. Sorta haunted by his past, he decides to head east, and he ends up in Goodneighbor(specifically the Neon Flats Creation Club) and resides there now, during the events of Fallout 4, and is 52 years old. He also spends alot times at the Third Rail. 

Languages Spoken: English(Native Language), Spanish, Irish Gaelic, and Scottish Gaelic.

I also have a RefSheet.Net for him as well.

#Fallout: New Vegas #Courier 6 #Courier Six #Torin Arlen Hugh #Fallout Character Sheet #fallout oc #fallout #oc #long post

[mst3kproject]

Voodoo Island

Leonard Maltin thought this movie was boring, which is, honestly, kind of terrifying.  Its ostensible star is Boris Karloff, who somehow managed to avoid ever being on MST3K, but it was produced by Howard Koch, the director of Untamed Youth, and was written by Richard Laundau, who did the same for Lost Continent (uhoh).  It’s also got Jean Engstrom from The Space Children, and if the voice of the radio operator sounds familiar that’s because it’s 🎶 Adam Weeeeeest.

A hotel company wants to build a resort on a tropical island, but the scouting party they sent never came back – except for one guy, Mitchell, who has been reduced to a catatonic state by whatever it was he saw there.  Worried, the hotelier sends renowned skeptic Mr. Knight to find out if it’s true that the island is under some kind of voodoo curse.  After much wasting of the audience’s time, Knight’s party reaches the island and finds it infested with man-eating plants, coconut crabs, and unfriendly natives.  I wish I could tell you more of the plot, but that’s basically all there is.

Voodoo Island is unusual as bad movies go, in that you don’t actually realize how bad it is until it’s over.  Things that seem to be the plot move merrily along, always feeling like it’s building up to something cool… and then at the last moment it just deflates like a gas station tube man with his fan turned off.  In hindsight, the audience realizes that very little of what they just saw had anything to do with what was supposedly going on. In many ways, you never do find out what was going on at all!

The middle section of this movie is not quite as obviously padded as Lost Continent with its endless rock climbing, but almost all of it is, retrospectively, pointless.  On the first leg of their journey to the island, the party’s plane is caught in a storm and forced to make an emergency landing – only to find that the weather has mysteriously cleared right up!  After repairing their radio they set off again, and nothing much comes of the incident.  They stop on another island where they have trouble hiring a boat, and where somebody puts a curse of some sort on them.  Nothing comes of this.  Later still, their boat stalls out and refuses to start again, even after they’ve cleared a blocked fuel line.  This has no real consequences, because the tide carries them in anyway, and the movie never deals with what happens when they try to leave the island again.

Along for the ride is Mitchell, the guy who was so terrified by what he saw on the island that he hasn’t moved or spoken since. He has a couple of medical emergencies that resolve themselves without long-term consequences, and then simply drops dead before they ever reach the island.  They don’t learn anything from him or his condition.  A similar fate later befalls another character, Finch, but this time the movie ends before he has a chance to either die or snap out of it. Mitchell is only in this movie to make it longer, and possibly so it could claim it had a zombie.

With the movie already half-over, we finally reach this mysterious island.  The group are greeted by a trail of clues that make Knight thing somebody is trying to lead them somewhere… perhaps to answers, perhaps to a trap.  Eventually they’re captured by the natives, but there’s no reason they had to be in a particular place for this to happen – the natives have been following them the whole time and could have intervened at any point.  None of this stuff reads as padding because it feels like it’s going to lead to something.  Again, it’s only when the credits unexpectedly start to roll that you realize almost the whole movie was irrelevant.

Padding is not Voodoo Island’s only problem – the dialogue is awkward at best.  Most of it is on a Revenge of the Sith level, where characters just say exactly what they’re thinking in a way that might have sounded poetic on paper but just doesn’t work out loud.  The boat captain, Gunn, gets a Gunslinger moment in which he narrates his traumatic backstory in a single talking head shot.  Knight is forever going on about Rational Explanations and then suddenly declares his change of heart when confronted with a voodoo doll.  There’s no meat to this arc at all, no sense of Knight questioning his worldview or coming to terms with anything – he just says I do believe! like he’s in a Santa Claus movie and then it’s over.

The worst of both the dialogue and the supposed character arcs occur in the love story.  There are girls in this movie, so of course there has to be a love story, and it’s terrible.  The lady half of this one is Knight’s assistant Miss Adams, who is very poised and professional and doesn’t smoke or drink, and spends the first half of the movie being tutted at by just about everybody.  The other woman in the group, Claire, tells her she could just be so pretty if she’d only change the way she did her hair.  Gunn calls her a ‘machine’ and asks if she even knows how to be a woman.  This raises some hackles in the modern viewer, who wants to see Adams appreciated for what she is rather than what she has the potential to be if she changes everything about herself.

But Voodoo Island was made in the fifties, when changing yourself to please a man was what women aspired to!  Miss Adams therefore swears off being a nerd and kisses Gunn, whose main personality trait is being a stunning asshole.  He’s drunk and bitter, and earlier in the movie he tried to hit on Claire, who had to tell him to fuck off about four times before he got the idea.  Later he insults and threatens Adams because her intelligence makes him feel like less of a man.  Apparently one kiss from her completely undoes his PTSD and he’s a better person now.

These two getting together also totally dismisses the healthy and supportive friendship Adams has with Knight, who is not only her boss but has some fatherly affection for her.  He praises her work ethic and tells her that she shouldn’t listen to people who think she’s boring.  I guess we’re supposed to think it’s good that she quits working for him so she can run off with a drunk who’s threatened to slap her, because Gunn will make her life more exciting.

At the supposed climax, the natives (an assortment of ethnic-looking extras who never speak) take the group prisoner, and they are brought before the chief (a white guy in dark makeup), who tells them why outsiders aren’t allowed on the island.  The prisoners are taken to a hut where they are tied up.  One of them is possibly murdered by voodoo, and then the chief… just lets the rest of them leave.  No conditions specified, although it’s implied that the islanders have more voodoo dolls and plenty of pins.  We don’t even find out if they actually made it back.  To get to their boat, the party will have to pass back through the carnivorous jungle without a guide, and once they reach the beach, they’ll have to fix their engine.  It really feels like there ought to have been more of a climax, never mind a denouement. As the credits begin, I was just going, “that’s it?”

The actors are mostly mediocre.  Boris Karloff tries really hard to rise above the material but never gets there, which is understandable when his lines are things like, “no, you fool, they’ll slaughter us to bits!”.  All this badness really is a terrible shame, too, because Voodoo Island’s setpiece monsters, the man-eating plants, are actually incredibly cool.  They never look real, but they’re much more creative than the standard giant Venus’ flytrap.  There’s a thing that wraps long bean-like leaves around a swimmer and drowns her, another than catches its victims with a sticky bulbous stem, and yet a third that folds ferny fronds around prey and digests it!  A movie that made proper use of these monsters would be a great time. I hope the prop people went on to the better things they deserved.

(At the other end of the effects scale are the coconut crabs I mentioned.  These are not actual coconut crabs, but dead specimens of some other, much more gracile species.  This, too, is unfortunate, because coconut crabs are living crustacean nightmares capable of killing and eating seagulls.  One theory about Amelia Earhart’s ultimate fate is that she was devoured by coconut crabs.)

As for Voodoo Island having anything to say… it has some kind of muddled point about not dismissing the supernatural out of hand, but its ‘magic’ is pretty lame, and Knight’s arc is handled so badly that it passes by without making much of an impression.  The story does seem to have another possible theme, though.  As usual I can’t tell if this is intentional or not, but Voodoo Island seems to have something to say about concepts of ownership.

The hotelier has taken an interest in the island because he did an inventory of his properties and discovered he owned it. How he came to do so, we have no idea… it must have been sold to him by somebody else who’d likewise never been there, since the tribal chief tells us that Mitchell and his companions were the first white men to ever go there.  What made that person think they owned it?  Does the concept of ownership even mean anything when you don’t know that you own something?  Does owning something entitle you to destroy it?

The natives own the island in the much less abstract sense that they live there.  The chief tells the party that his people went to this island on purpose, because they thought its nasty flora would keep white people from following them there. They want no part of modern civilization, and seem completely unaware that somebody outside their community is claiming he owns this land.  Whether the idea of ‘owning’ land is even a meaningful one to them, we can’t tell. When the Lenape allowed the Dutch to live on Manhattan Island, they probably had no idea the settlers would consider the land exclusively theirs.

These are some things that still need thinking about in the twenty-first century, and if you’re going to watch Voodoo Island do it for that and for the fun monsters.  Even then, you’re likely to be disappointed.

#mst3k #reviews #episodes that never were #voodoo island #tw: abuse #humanitarian vegetables #50s

[secretadventuresociety]

Episode 27 Recap

What’s up SASholes?! I’m Bren; resident SAStorian and note-taker extraordinaire. Welcome to Episode 27: Under New Management.

The Xarus Problem

We last left off with Kess staring down her jilted ‘lover’ (I mean, if you can call an arranged husband a lover), Xarus, who had just revealed he now owns her childhood home. Well, I say home. I guess childhood MANSION is technically more correct. Anyway, as this red-headed scum delights in Kess’ confusion, a flock of guards file in behind him all dressed in black; anticipating an attack. True to form, Pearce leans over to Kess and asks if he should shoot him, and she waves him away, blowing the whole thing off as a joke. Turns out that ole Xarus lost his humor in a tragic Born-Without-A-Soul accident, so he stares back flatly and invites the group to dinner; suggesting the trio clean up beforehand.

Kess loudly announces that her mother (Norse), Zev, Kü, and Pearce are going to… help… brush her hair? And Xarus just accepts it?? So the definitely-not-suspect group file up to Kess’ bedroom, led by Norse. The party takes in their spotless lavish surroundings in a mixture of disgust and disbelief-- and then they find their destination. The room might as well be adorned with a neon sign reading ‘Messy Kessy’. The colors inside are dark and earthy, with flora and drawings of fauna littering the walls, lit by a majestic bay window. In an awkward silence, Kü compares the living space to the shit-covered walls of his cavern home, then switches gears to ask if all fathers come with so much tension.

Norse gently explains that Xarus isn’t Kess’ father, but was her husband-to-be, who recently took over the house and the super-secret ‘family business’. Surprise-- Kess’ family is a band of merry Robin Hoods who keep Mardosta eating with silver spoons. Despite being there the whole time— Norse doesn’t quite understand how the boring, ginger-haired square of a man grew the balls to overthrow their reign of thievery; but she momentarily morphs into fantasy Vin Diesel (not actually, I know it’s a little weird ‘cause technically she’s a changeling and very much COULD do that) and tells Kess they can handle it As A Family.

An Iris by Any Other Name

After assuring The Nobodies aren’t going to kill Xarus in his sleep, Mama Shadowmore pulls Kess aside and leads her to the family greenhouse. It smells overwhelmingly like smoke, and as they enter, Kess sees hundreds of her black and white flowers. You know the ones. Norse then tells her how they tried to cover Kess’ absence, the way she would go into the greenhouse to just sit somewhere that smelled like her daughter (OUCH, dude), and all about the first night she saw one of the Irises appear. From that night on, Norse and Kess’ father Arthur would sit and wait for a flower to bloom; knowing somehow it was connected to their daughter’s safety. Now, if you thought your teeth were rotting out from the sweetness already-- that’s when Kess hugs her mom for the first time in years, and sometime during the embrace, Norse drops her high elf facade and embraces her daughter in all her changeling glory before Kess grows a flower just for her. Touching stuff. You crying yet? No? Just me?

Dry those eyes, though, because now we’re on to some shenanigans. As Kess and her mom are off repairing their relationship, Pearce and Kü attempt to make themselves at home. After grabbing a drink with Zev, the pair stake out a guest bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. Pearce ushers Kü inside and offers to guard the door as he showers, which the kobold has CERTAINLY done before. Tons of times. In his underground home. Despite this setback, K�� figures out the tub quickly, but the challenge becomes when he needs to drain the water. He finds a bucket, remembers that the toilet gets rid of its own fluid, and scoops up the grimy bathwater like a scaly Mickey Mouse. But that’s not all. Getting to the bottom of the tub, he notices a chain floating in the dregs and hauls out a crowbar to liberate it.

Pearce, hearing a sudden thump and fearing a sneak attack, manhandles his way into the bathroom and finds a wet Kü who laments about the ‘necklace’ at the bottom of the tub. The gunslinger quickly realizes it’s a chain for the drain (heh, a rhyme) and shoves Kü out. He then takes a pile of Zev’s clothes he found and dresses, appalled at the deep-v tunic and skin tight leather pants he is now sporting. Being his only choice, he chastely covers his bare chest and spikes his hair, coming out of the bathroom to help Kü shine his helmet. Yes, that helmet. Pearce is making Mother’s skull GLEAM. Kess, after realizing she could just change her form in lieu of ACTUALLY bathing, brings Kü a long silk tunic to replace his dress and steals a white button-up from her dad for Pearce. Now they’re Awkward Dinner Party ready!

Evil Exes, Amirite?

In case you’ve forgotten, Kess has a Brady-Bunch-worthy family. She runs into her dad, and later all three of her brothers: Zev, his twin Voss, and Rook. However, these aren’t all of the introductions the party is subjected to. As they enter the dining room in what I can only imagine is Oh My God They’re So Hot Slow Motion (with Kess donning her owl, Tibbins, for intimidation), they lay eyes on an unfamiliar and unimpressed elven woman who Xarus introduces as Sienna-- his current fiance. Well, he sure did move on fast. Between Sienna’s eye rolls, Kü’s harried feasting, and EVERYONE’S overwhelming discomfort, Xarus describes how he grew suspicious when Kess disappeared. After a little digging, he found out about the family’s arrangement with the city’s mayor, Vendreth; how he caught her criminal parents and promised them protection if they used their forces to help his failing city thrive.

Kess doesn’t see any issue, but Xarus laments that the townspeople have no idea who is running the show. It’s a clear threat, as Kess realizes the denizens would run them out of Mardosta if they knew the truth. Happy with himself and his mind games, Xarus invites his elven mistress to retire to their chambers with him…. if you know what I mean. She emotionlessly agrees, and the two leave the family alone. The Nobodies excitedly chatter about their exploits; no adventure going untold. Kü even introduces his mother, Marrow, and spends a moment praising Norse for being a good mother too. Pearce changes the subject to their treasure map, showing it briefly to Voss. He has no idea what the X’s could mean, but implores them to keep him updated. Norse then asks how long the party is staying-- enticing them with an upcoming festival that is SURE to have stickmeat. Kess proposes they stay for a while, saying they could make use of the family library and also figure out what the X closest to Mardosta hides.

Pearce not-so-subtly asks about the family’s trading habits, mostly trying to gauge if they have any dealings with his absent father. Turns out this ain’t an arms race, it’s a goddamn scene, and with routes halted in Larsham and Evercrest, the business has slowed down to a trickle. Kess breaks the business talk with a proposal for her companions and her siblings to go out on the town, and so they all prepare for a night in Mardosta. Pearce grabs his gun, Kess raids Rook’s training room for daggers (noticing a hefty potion collection), and everyone bundles up for the biting weather as they walk to the docks.

The Return of Nice Ghost

Kü spots a stationary boat in the water, with a rumpled dragonborn climbing out of it. Sus. As they get closer, they notice that it’s not a boat at all, but a disguised opening to a meeting spot called ‘The Underfrost’. Kess leads them down the cavernous tunnel lined with torches until they reach the bottom. Once there, they feast their eyes on merchants, a bar, and an imposing fighting pit-- all teeming with figures of all races. Kü jumps on the chance to, as he so eloquently describes it, ‘fuck shit up’; racing off with Voss and Zev in tow to sign up to battle. Kess instructs Pearce to place bets for the both of them as she grabs drinks… which turns out to be a monumentally bad idea. Pearce throws down 500 gold on Kü for himself but-- without express instructions from the druid-- dumps out her bag and wagers all of her 1,275 pieces of gold.

It turns out Kü is the next challenger to face… get this… Dickius Muscular. Is it his fantasy God-given name or a stage moniker? The world may never know. In any case, fervent hands push him toward the pit-- one attempting to remove his helmet. In retribution, Kü bites the tip of the offending person’s pinkie off, keeping his adornment as he summons a flood of shadows from it to cover him in armor. Thus the fight begins, and the massive goliath Dick...ius attacks our boy Kücifer with a mace in a blinding rage. Kü retaliates with his Bonemerang-- and when that does less damage that he expected, he summons Nice Ghost to keep him company. The spectral being chases after the goliath relentlessly; booping him any time he can come close. Dickius flees from the spectre, pursuing Kü-- who wreaths himself in shadow and disappears. Out of the darkness comes two fireballs, liberated from the kobold’s dwindling necklace.

Amazingly, this blast does not take his opponent out-- so Kü chugs a health potion as his vision suddenly goes green. He smells smoke and hears Mother in his head, asking to take a turn. He can do nothing but stare at Dickius as the shadows leave Kü to snake around the goliath and squeeze. Though deeply in pain, Dickius breaks free and heaves one last attack at Kü-- rendering him unconscious and sending Nice Ghost back into oblivion. With that, Kess rushes in to heal her friend, momentarily pissed at Pearce for losing all her money. Back on his feet, Kü shakily requests to be taken to bed, and the gunslinger scoops him up like a child and carries him; only to be repaid with a flow of vomit down his back as the kobold recovers slowly from his trauma. Still, Pearce keeps his composure and reassures Kü that he fought well, but begs him to try to sleep.

The Scream Heard ‘Round the Mansion

The group groggily returns to the family home and branches off to their respective rooms. Pearce gently lays Kü down and tucks him into bed before searching for a piece of paper and a writing utensil to pen a short note. He slips 200 gold into it and scrawls ‘I’m sorry’ onto the page. He slips out of the guest room to try and find Kess’ door-- and the one he picks, unbeknownst to him, is her parents’. However, our boy tried his best, so he returns to Kü; watching him as he sleeps. This dad-like worry Pearce has got going on makes me SOFT, y’all. I need MORE.

Kess, however, forgoes sleep for a time and instead grabs a bottle of wine from the kitchen. She takes it to the greenhouse and attempts to grow her second flower of the day-- which she has never done before. It takes a little more effort, but it does sprout, and she pleadingly asks to speak with the friend she grows them for. She waits, but no answer comes. Kess finishes the wine and stumbles up to her room, leaving the window open for good measure. She and Kü are sleeping soundly while Pearce fitfully wakes up from his perch on the sleeper sofa every so often to watch Kü’s chest rise and fall (PASS ME THE TISSUES). During one of his half-awake moments, Pearce watches the candle in the room extinguish and simultaneously hears a scream coming from downstairs.

Leaving the passed out kobold, Pearce takes off, only to be intercepted by Kess, who we all know has the passive perception of a dog waiting for you to drop that pepperoni on your pizza, Karen. She pulls him into the stairwell and they end up at the opening of Xarus’ chambers-- Sienna standing speechless in the doorway. When she ends up being less than helpful, the duo slip into the room, immediately laying eyes on the lifeless body of Kess’ failed groom. I wish I could say I was at all upset about this revelation, but I would be lying to you, dear readers. However, we now have a murder mystery on our hands! WHODUNNIT?!

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TL;DR

Our heroes attended a dinner party more uncomfortable than all of my family reunions put together. Talk about second-hand anxiety!

Kü is the Underfrost Fighting Pit Champion in my heart and I hope he gets a rematch against… *checks notes* the Goliath’s dick.

RIP, Xarus— ex-fiancé and stick in the mud. See you in hell.

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Kess’ed Be and catch the next session over at twitch.tv/lochness on July 21st at 7:30CST/8:30EST! AND if you’d like to watch THIS episode, you can find it at the link below: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xyi5JkW-SNY

#secretadventure #dungeons and dragons #dnd #d&d #d&d homebrew #recap #stream recap #episode recap #homebrew #twitch #youtube #podcast #actual play #streaming #stream #dnd 5e campaign #d&d 5e #dnd5e #dnd 5e homebrew #dnd 5th edition #dnd actual play #kobold #changeling #gunslinger #warlock #druid #roleplay #murder mystery rp #murder mystery #combat

[nimblelizard]

I recently had my first session with the Tiefling I've been cooking up and here's some stuff about em.

Level 5: Gunslinger (4), Paladin (1)

Skin tone: Paper White

Hair: Champagne, long mostly in one braid.

Eye: White with no pupil (Right) and wears an eye patch over this eye, Champagne with pupil (Left)

Horns: Addax style, white to champagne ombre.

Gender/Pronouns: She/Her/They/Them/He/Him

Outfit: Yellow button up with high rise black pants. Black boots and thick white suspenders. Around the waist sits a white gun holster which sits a revolver. A black boater/cowboy hat is almost always being wore along with black leather gloves.

#i think thats really all? #there is some other stuff but party members follow me and i dont wanna give away secrets lol #thank you for all who gave me wonderful suggestions #dnd #dnd pcs #d&d ocs #d&d character #dungeons and dragons #d&d stuff #cr spoilers #critical role

[kindervonjupiter]

Alice-Jack “AJ” Ackerman

Only Child of Kenny Ackerman and Queen Angel

Goes by: Alice (to her parents and family) AJ (to everyone else) Aliases: “The Princess of Purgatory” “Fancy” “Wonderland’s Calamity” “Hell’s Gunslinger” 

Nicknames: “Little cousin” - Levi   “Ali” - Hanjie   “Stinky” - Sasha & Conny   “Levi’s Crazy Cousin” - Erwin   “Lil shoot” - Kenny  “Starshine” - Angel  

Birthday: November 11th

Age: 14

[Appearance] : AJ is 5′6″ and is a bit chubby. She has long brown hair that she keeps up in a ponytail. She has brown eyes. She mostly wears white tank tops and cut off shorts. She wears a black leather gun-holster around her hip. With her revolver in the holster. Her revolver has her initials “AJ” engraved on the holder and “Sorry, not Sorry” engraved on the barrel. She also wears black combat boots all the time. She’s always carrying around a backpack. What’s in it? Who knows, only AJ knows. So stop asking. She will get mad if you ask what’s in her backpack. “It’s none ya business!’ - AJ.  When it’s cold she wears a black trench coat. She’s got her father’s smile and mother’s stare. She also has the Ackerman Family RBF. 

[Personality] : Tough but tender. If you are in her close circle she will take a bullet for you. But if you are outside of her circle she doesn’t give a damn about you. She’s an absolute sweetheart to her cousin, Levi, and his wife Gio. Without them getting her parents together, she wouldn’t be here. She’s not afraid to put a knife to your throat like her father. She can be extra at times like her mama and papa but she knows when to cool it down in situations. Like she knows not to cuss around people who are not to privy to those words. She’s a respectful young lady. Her parents raised her right. Especially her father. 

[Other Information] : Even though her father didn’t think he could be a great father, that’s why he abandoned his nephew, he thought differently after meeting her mom. Her mom changed his world and he couldn’t help but to want a kid with her. He loved her to the moon and back. She was the Bonnie to his Clyde. For Kenny’s birthday Angel wanted to give him a child. 9 months later and AJ was born. Ready to cause havoc like her parents. Her cousin and his wife loves her so much. AJ loves going to Cousin Levi and Gio’s tea shop and drink some nice warm tea with honey and just a hint of mint. Going to her cousin’s shop is the highlight of her weeks.  She’s definitely “daddy’s little girl” cause Kenny taught her how to shoot at a young age and she loved every minute of it. It’ll get late and Angel will call them in for supper time. They both laugh and clean up and come to supper. She knows about the Titans, but she rather have her cause deal with those and she’ll deal with the humans like her parents. They annoy her mostly. Only cause she doesn’t really care. That’s not her forte. That’s way above her paygrade. 

#the ripper's daughter

[choco-glow]

Dance With Me Pt. 1

Traveling over the Nibel mountains, past the heartache of five years ago, the death, the destruction wrought so callously…Tifa never wanted to see those mountains again. She was glad they’d met Vincent, found a formidable ally in the dour gunslinger and his hatred for Hojo, for Shin-Ra…But she hated those mountains with a passion. She was glad when they came out of the last tunnel to find that the clouds that had been dogging their journey since Gongaga had finally broken up, sunshine pouring down richly on the northwestern coastline. The scrub-forest that had filled the mountains faded here, leading to rolling grasslands that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Green grasses, a green as bright as any materia, and full of wildflowers, Tifa paused to breathe in the aromas of a thousand blossoms, Aerith doing the same next to her. The grasses mimicked the sea, waves of soft greens and silver rolling gently over the plains under the sunshine, and for a moment, Tifa forgot about Midgar, Shin-Ra, everything… Even Cloud looked a little stunned; small wonder, they hadn’t seen this much…well, life in far, far too long, save for Aerith’s home in Sector Five. This was glorious though, and it was Barret’s voice, soft and full of longing, that brought them all back. Even Red’s eyes were closed, drinking in the aromas, and Tifa imagined that he was remembering Cosmo Canyon.

“…I could stare at this for hours…but we gotta keep goin’, guys. Sorry…” He murmured, and of all people, it was Cloud who patted his shoulder, shaking himself.

“Nah, you’re right…this is just…this is really gorgeous. Rocket Town shouldn’t be too far away; we can restock there, I think. I don’t see a reactor, which is just a plus at this point.”

“We can, I’ve had traders from Rocket Town come through Nibelheim in the past…” Vincent’s voice, dark and quiet, nonetheless carried, and Yuffie gave him a raised eyebrow, one he met with one of his own. It was rare to see him speak up, and Tifa gave him a faint smile, encouraged when he smiled back, just a tiny quirk of his lips, but it was there, nonetheless, and despite his cool demeanor, he was noticeably friendlier now that they were out of the mountains. Small wonder, given the horrors he suffered; I think being down here on the plains is healing for everyone.

“I thought you stuck to the mansion, Spooky.”

“Not as often as you might think, though I did stay there more than I would have liked. I do know this area, for all that it’s been so long; we can cut right across the plains.” He stared her down, clearly unamused by the nickname, and Yuffie threw her hands up with a sigh.

“Fine, fine…I’ll take point, but I doubt anyone or anything will bug us…” She muttered, stomping into the grasses almost as tall as the ninja herself, and the rest of AVALANCHE followed, taking their time and basking in the sunshine. There was a cool breeze off the coast, much to Tifa’s relief, and the grasses were soft and velvety, rather than saw-edged like some of the places they’d visited. The sun wasn’t too hot here, either, and with fluttery white clouds passing over, there were little patches of shade. The path was clearly a walking trail, well kept with gravel that crunched under their boots and kept free of overgrowth.

Lunchtime found them in a small creek hollow with a few willow trees overhead, a welcome bounty of shade after the trek, because even Tifa was feeling warm, and Vincent looked positively exhausted. The only ones who still looked fresh were Red and Cloud, who looked the most content that Tifa had seen him in years. They settled at the base of a gnarled, ancient willow and worked through the jerky and journey bread without a fire, taking time to test the water before everyone refilled their canteens. This close to the mountains, Tifa was glad to see that most of this was glacial runoff, which meant only one purifying tablet was needed to keep them safe.

Tifa was surprised by the quiet; no one really felt like talking, but there again too, they were all exhausted, and so she settled back in the sunshine with Aerith to nap for a little bit while the boys took care of the water. When Yuffie woke them half an hour later, Tifa felt a little more revived, and Aerith looked positively energetic, and so, they continued on. Yuffie found a road soon enough, and that made their trek to Rocket Town even faster. By the time the sun was heading into the west, they had arrived, and to their surprise, the ‘town’ was…well, less a town, more a tiny, bustling market and a sprawling Shin-Ra tourism base.

The tourists looked wealthy but somewhat vapid, and Tifa breathed a sigh of relief, because no one looked askance at them, nor did anyone challenge them for coming off the road. And they weren’t the only travelers by foot, so that helped them blend in…even Barret was keeping his head down, and Cloud had quietly removed his more obvious SOLDIER gear and stowed it in his pack, looking like a true merc with his sunglasses hiding his glowing green-blue eyes.

However, just from what Tifa could see, the base itself was clearly focused on the enormous rocket and launch pad, with technicians and engineers scuttling all over both like busy bees. Cloud was eyeing them curiously, and so the group decided to split up to get intel. Vincent and Cloud headed towards the rocket, while Barret and Aerith hit the market, Yuffie vanished with Red and Cait Sith, and with a sigh of relief, Tifa started towards the main part of town. The town itself wasn’t big, of course, but it was definitely well established, with three large dorms for the Shin-Ra techs, and a group of well-built houses that led to the main square.

There stood the largest house in town, a manor house, by the looks of things, that had clearly seen better days…But it was in good repair, with a sturdy wrought iron fence, soft blue clapboards the color of the sky, and bright white trim, clearly freshly painted. The garden wasn’t in bad shape either, if a little sparse, but the wild dusty pink roses growing over an old trellis were clearly trimmed back, and sea-irises, a trademark of this area, bloomed in bright teal and pink clusters with their long silver-green leaves all around the house, and to Tifa’s surprise, the yard was clover, rather than grass; the hardy coastal groundcover probably never needed mowing.

A sign at the fence read “Mayor’s House”, and since she still hadn’t seen an inn or a hostel anywhere, Tifa steeled her nerves and opened the gate, making her way across the flagstones to the huge wraparound porch, admiring the tall windows with their half-moon transoms and the lovely set of double doors in front, inset with stained glass in every shade of blue to form fantastical birds. With a deep breath, she raised a fist and knocked sharply on the white-painted wood, stepping back and clasping her hands together before her. Please let the Mayor be kind…

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’, hold yer horses…” A loud male voice, raspy and with a heavy drawl, sounded from inside through the propped open transoms above the front windows, and the door swung open, revealing the owner to be a shirtless, tanned, handsome blond man with an unlit cigarette between his lips and goggles holding his shaggy hair back. He froze, blue eyes widening, and Tifa couldn’t help but stare. In admiration; he was taller than her, though not as tall as Vincent, and built like a model, if a little rougher around the edges. His dark brown leather belt hung undone, which let his jeans slip low over his hips, and she blushed furiously, painting a smile on her face even as her cheeks burned because oh that V-line is too delicious to ignore…

He blushed just as scarlet as she felt, having clearly given her a once over in her short skirt and tank top, eyes lingering on her legs and hips and chest, and normally? She got angry about that. With him, though…Well, it’s not like I didn’t just do the same to him, so turnabout is fair play, she thought with a faint smile, and the Mayor of Rocket Town swiftly pulled on the blue tee shirt that had been dangling from his hand, swearing faintly as he tugged the almost too small shirt down over his chest. “Sorry, miss, I uh, I didn’t mean ta stare at ya…”

“No no, you’re fine! I didn’t mean to interrupt your day, but my friends and I just came over the Nibel mountains, and we were wondering where the best place to stay the night might be? We have camping gear, we just need food and supplies. I’m Tifa, Tifa Lockhart, by the way.” She babbled out, and to her surprise, he listened, which, honestly, was a first, and his blue eyes brightened now, lips curving up in an easy smile that made her smile right back in return, eyes crinkling a little in the soft wrinkles from a life lived in the sun. He was even more handsome with that smile, dark blond stubble softening his strong jawline, and though Tifa had always known she’d had a thing for blonds (Case in point: Cloud), this…was new. New and kinda nice.

“Well then, ya came to the right place, Miss Lockhart; name’s Captain Cid Highwind, and I run Rocket Town; we’re mostly the main aeronautics test range for Shin-Ra anymore, so we don’t have an inn since most o’ the tourists head up into Nibelheim at the end of the day, but y’all’re welcome to stay at my place for the night, Gaia knows I got the room. Our market gets a boost ev’ry Thursday mornin’, so if y’all wanna wait till tomorrow, that’s the best time ta get yer gear. Care for a cuppa tea? Ya look a little parched.” In more ways than one… Tifa thought to herself, but she nodded, happy to finally get off her feet, and as Cid welcomed her into his home, he led her to the kitchen on the left. The living room was clearly storage at the moment, though it opened nicely into the kitchen and an office area that had taken the place of his dining room.

Cid motioned to the table for her to sit, and Tifa eased into one of the wooden chairs with a sigh of relief, moreso when he motioned for her to kick off her boots. “Th’ floor can take it, an’ ya said y’all came over the mountain?” She peeled off her socks and settled her bare feet on the cool tile with a faint groan that made him chuckle, and she caught a glimpse of him tugging his jeans up on his hips and buckling his belt, only a little disappointed.

She watched as Cid puttered around his kitchen, barefoot and obviously on a rare day off, but nonetheless, a gracious and kind host. His kitchen was a little beat up, but lovely, marble countertops were clean, if a little scratched up, and the cupboards were well-made and hung right, even if they were just basic plywood. A battered wood-fired stove crouched in the corner, crooked pipe propped up by several long pieces of rebar, and the tile under their feet was faded, but spotless. From what she could see of the rest of the place, it was much the same way; built up from scratch, and pride, even if it wasn’t the prettiest. She liked that; it reminded her of the bar.

“We did, two days of solid hiking. We tried to rent a truck, but there was no hope for it, and we’re…not exactly doing this for pleasure, I’m afraid.” Cid glanced over from his post at the stove, one eyebrow quirked up, and she sighed, giving him a faint smile…and deciding in that moment to trust him. “I’m sure it’ll come out, so I want to give you a head’s up…but how loyal to Shin-Ra are you?” His other eyebrow went up at that, but Cid brought her the tea as promised, in a lovely red mug that was clearly for special occasions, wrapping his own hands around his cracked dark blue mug as he settled across from her.

“…Enough to do what I want in this life, but otherwise, not terribly; I’m sure you’ve noticed there’s no reactor here.”

“…We have…” Blue eyes, hard as steel now, burned into hers, and she swallowed. He knows who we are...but he won’t betray us. They studied one another in that long moment, Cid’s eyes peering into her soul while she did the same to him, and after a time, he nodded, sharp but resigned.

“An’ there won’t be…but I also ain’t gonna get my whole town burned up fer AVALANCHE.” She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat at the realization, and he motioned for her to drink, sighing as he took a long draught off his own mug. “Palmer’s due here tomorrow afternoon; I’d suggest that you lot get out of here before he shows up so that y’all get a headstart. Bastard’s supp’sed to get me clearance on th’ rocket…but I don’t trust ‘im. But I heard about y’all…an’ I ain’t disagreeing with ya. But I ain’t watchin’ my people get hurt fer a cause, or worse, because Palmer sees a quick an’ easy ‘get outta Heidegger’s bad graces’ card.”

“…I promise, Captain, we won’t cause you any trouble. I swear it. Thank you for being so kind, and opening your home to us, but if you’d like, we can camp outside town…?” His eyes softened at that, and Cid shook his head, settling back with a groan as he stretched. Tifa tried not to watch, but it was hard as that tee shirt crept up, showing off the golden dusting of hair on his lower belly, his jeans sliding down just a little farther…she felt a blush touch her cheeks, and busied herself with her tea.

“Nah, yer all welcome here still; Gaia knows I hate th’ bastards as much as th’ next person. Ain’t gonna make a pretty lady camp outside town just ‘cuz I’m a surly fuck.” She blushed again at that, giggling as he winked, and though she felt warm all over…it was a good warmth. A welcome warmth. Certainly, it was much nicer than what she felt from Cloud at the moment…and seizing the courage, she decided that two could play at that little game. She gave him her best flirty smile and batted her eyelashes, playing up her bartender personality a little more.

“Well, I knew when I knocked that I’d find someone here, but I gotta say, meeting a officer and a gentleman is a rare treat.” Cid paused at that, then threw his head back in an honest laugh, blue eyes glittering with delight as he toasted her with his mug.

“Miss Tifa, that’s th’ best thing I heard all week; yer welcome here anytime. Now then, I think some barbecue’ll do the trick for supper if ya wanna call yer friends.”

“Gladly, Captain. Gladly.”

#FFVII #Final Fantasy VII #FFVIIR #Final Fantasy VII Remake #Cid Highwind #HighHeart #Lockwind #meetcute #rarepair #One of my personal favorites #Bonus points if you know where the title comes from #Vincent Valentine #Barret Wallace #Cloud Strife #Yuffie Kisaragi #Aerith Gainsborough #Red XIII #Nanaki #Cait Sith #edits for readibility #sorry about the backslashes i share with friends on whatsapp and italics never cross over #Tifa Lockhart

[plcasantnights]

stands of old growth forest 
rabbit paths off hiking tails 
 - cuthbert

Liminal Spaces from this meme. || Always Accepting || @seekesotsibteadmist

When many a simple man spoke of the clearing at the end of the path, Cuthbert had always thought it very silly. Not to the point where he would tease or poke fun at such beliefs, oh no, to each their own. It was just his own thoughts about such a thing. After all he had been given in life, after all he should expect to go through, the only thing he had to look forward to was a nice little stroll through the woods. Not that he was opposed to such a thing, he was quite the outdoorsman, but when it came down to it he would prefer maybe a different sort of afterlife. 

At least, that had been his thought when he was younger. 

When he was older, of course, the sky was much more choked with smoke. The stench of far off fires and the rarity of a green trees started to become more common place than the pleasant apple orchards of his youth. War had come to Gilead and war had taken a chunk of everyone’s souls. Perhaps a clearing at the end of some path wouldn’t be such a bad thing, he thought. Maybe the pleasantries of such a small thing wouldn’t be so terribly boring after all. 

He isn’t dead. Oh, no. His face is covered in soot and wrapped in messy gauze and he’s wandered off from the camp that Roland had set out for them both, but he isn’t dead. His body was mangled and his soul was uneased but the forest was as pleasant as the ones he’d known as a child and so who is he to deny the thought of a stroll through them? As dangerous as it is to let his mind wander through such a place, through such a dream-like haze, it seems very simple. 

Despite dawn light just barely trickling through the thick canopy, heat is already settling over the nape of his neck and forehead. Although, perhaps that could be the settling fever. Soon, he expected as one might expected a buggy, chills would settle in. Perhaps he would survive the sickness, perhaps not, and he was not bothered either which way. Although, he’s sure Ka would have a thing or two to say about one or the other. His effort would go into living, of course, but either which way it would be something of a joke. 

A damn shame they had shot their Seer, their dear friend... Ah well, he suppose, that was part of the joke too. 

The trail leads through several twists before slowly shooting off in several different directions. Each direction was thin and mostly covered with foliage and heavily shaded by trees. Cuthbert picks one at random, smiling a little to himself as he does. It’d been a long time since he’d wanted some time away from his dear friend Roland and he wanted to be sure that he wouldn’t be found before he was ready to come back. 

It grows no darker but the trail thins further until he’s not sure if he’s walking on a trail at all. Ah, he would find his way back just fine. Perhaps that’s the cockiness of a young boy he’d never grown from or perhaps the confidence of a Gunslinger. No one save Cuthbert could truly say. 

“Ah, but it was only a few lefts and then a right, you see.” He whispers a little to himself, as if some great joke were building itself in front of him. “I wonder if I might catch a hare down this way. That would surprise Roland a good deal, I bet. God forbid I catch a deer. I’m sure the rest of his hair would go white if I did that.”

#.cuthbert thread #this week on: this is way too long #here u go... for u... #seekesotsibteadmist

[galadrieljones]

The Lily Farm - Chapter 43

AO3 | Masterpost

Rating: M (Mature) - sexual content, violence, and adult themes

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey to the north, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. They’ve been friends for a while now, but life, like the wilderness, is full of uncertainty and complications, and as they embark on their desperate search for meaning together, they endure many trials, some small, some big—all of which bring them closer to one another, and to their future.

Chapter 43: Origin Story

There was an old fence that lived in Blackwater, a man who kept a room in a boarding house not far from the lumber yard. He had known Hosea and Dutch in their old days running booze in Kansas, a lot of years before, and he came down to Blackwater sometime in the late-eighties. Since then, he had served as a fence for many unsavory years, and now he was a cobbler and he owned a pawn shop. He was sixty-two with white hair, and he did not do much fencing anymore but for with those who he remembered from the past. He was just an old broker from the plains now, named Frum. He’d been away from home for a very long time.

That afternoon, when she came through his door in a crisp blue dress, he remembered Mary Beth, from the last time the van der Lindes had blown through town. She wore a handkerchief around her hair as if to conceal her identity, but she was such a pretty girl that he would always remember for her canny sensibility and her beautiful contraband, and her Kansas roots. There had been Pinkertons in Blackwater for a long time, it was true, but he had not seen them in some weeks. He did not know where they had gone to nor why, but even still, he was pretty sure they would not remember her. She was not a gunslinger. She was not the thing they wanted. She was, to the undiscerning, despite her mild beauty, forgettable. It was an aspect of her art.

“Mary Beth from Shawnee,” he said when she came to his counter. “You're a sight for sore eyes. It's been some time.”

She removed the handkerchief from her hair and approached demurely. She looked sad. She was alone. “Hello, Mr. Frum,” she said. “How are you?”

“Old, and older,” he said, adjusting his spectacles. “Are the boys back in town? Or just you.”

She smiled. “Just me.”

“How can I help you today, my dear?”

She reached into the pocket of her dress. On his counter then, she placed a time piece—a most lovely pocket watch of the highest and most elite design, made of gold, pieces dipped in silver, jewel-crusted from here to there. It looked Italian-made, with many embellishments. It was mighty elegant. He had rarely seen anything like it.

“My word,” he said. “What have we here?”

“Just a piece of jewelry,” she said, sighing, "that I need to sell. How much do you think I can get for it?"

Frum removed his monocular from a drawer. He held it up to his eye and examined the watch. “This is not just a piece of jewelry, Miss Gaskill. This is extraordinary,” he said. There were diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. The jewels were not massive, carat-wise, but there were so many. “It is worth quite a bit."

“More than you keep on hand?”

“No.”

“Can you hock it?” she said, sounding nervous. “It’s hot. I’m not sure what can be done.”

“I can hock anything, Miss Gaskill. I been in the game a long time.”

She blushed. “That’s a relief,” she said. “For a second, I was worried the effort had been fruitless. And it ain’t Miss Gaskill no more, for the record. It’s Mrs. Morgan now. I got married.”

He removed his monocular, looked at her and her many freckles. “Mrs. Arthur Morgan?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

His heart warmed considerably. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

He took a deep breath. He put the monocular away in a drawer. The room was wide and warm and full of baubles. None of them shone as brightly as her that day. He remembered Arthur. Arthur was a good man. “I will give you $1800 for this watch, Mrs. Morgan,” he said. He set the piece back down on the heavy, polished wooden counter. He slid it toward her, and then he folded his hands together. “But I must inform you, I reckon you may be able to pull nigh on $2000 in a big city. Could be more if you get a sucker. Blackwater ain’t no cow town, but it ain’t much for glitz and glamour neither. It’s ranchers, land rich only. I’ll have to move this watch many miles. It will find sale in New York, or Boston. St. Denis, maybe.”

“This watch cannot find itself in St. Denis,” she said, serious. “I hear what you’re saying, but that can’t happen. I can’t fence it there, and it can’t be sold there. In fact I can’t fence this watch nowhere but here—well, maybe one other place but that place is a cow town and I am sure they don’t got the means for it. So I will take the $1800. Thank you, sir.”

He studied her, how she seemed a little wayward. They shook on it. It was a deal. “Where’d you come by this anyway?” he said. “You don’t have to say. I’m just curious.”

“A rich Italian,” she said, tucking the hair behind her ears. “Real dumbass, mind you. He ain’t none the wiser, Mr. Frum, but St. Denis is where he makes his home in the states, and so you catch my drift.”

“I do.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded then. He told her he would be right back. He went through the door behind the counter, which lead to a backroom where he kept his safe. He turned the combination and carefully counted and removed $1800, cash money, strapped it, and placed it in a leather envelope. He then closed the safe, came back to where she was leaning on her elbows, dreamily admiring the odds and ends of the store. When he returned to the counter, she smiled and knitted herself together. They completed their transaction. He wrapped the watch in a piece of suede and placed it in the drawer beside the monocular.

Mary Beth counted the bills. $1800. Truth be told, it was more than she had expected, but not by much. She pocketed the money. It was a heavy take, and she ultimately felt good about it. “Thank you, Mr. Frum,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“Is everything okay?” he said, placing his hands in his pockets. “You seem different. Not like the spritely girl I knew when y’all moved through here some months ago.”

“I ain’t spritely no more,” she said, shrugging. “That’s for sure. But I’m okay, Mr. Frum. I am just different. I am doing my best.”

“That is all one can hope for,” he said. “Where is Arthur? Is he here with you, in Blackwater?”

“No,” she said. "He ain't." She swallowed some air, though her throat felt dry. She placed the scarf back over her hair, tied it under her chin, put on a happy face. She did not care to elaborate that day. “Thank you again, Mr. Frum. For I will see you again.”

“I hope so,” he said. He smiled warmly, his eyes sparkling like little shells. “Give Arthur my best. And Dutch, and Hosea.”

“I will.”

She left the pawn shop. Outside, Call was leaning against a lamp post, reading the newspaper. He had his wide-brimmed hat, his face cast in shadow. The local law were all sleeping, that is mostly what she noticed that day. Nobody cared about them. It was a ghost town. She wondered, all at once, what the hell they were all so afraid of? Coming back here. This place, it was meaningless. When Call saw her, he folded the paper and tucked it into his back pocket.

“How’d you do?” he said.

“Very well,” she said.

“Where to next,” he said. “We still have an hour before the train.”

But Mary Beth did not care much about the train. She said, “I would just like to take a walk. By the water. Do you mind?”

“Do I mind what.”

“I’d like to be alone.”

This seemed to give him pause. He took a very deep breath. He looked exhausted as he glanced around. “I suppose it is broad daylight,” he said. “Where you aiming to go?”

“Just along the water, then up the road and back. I’ll meet you at the station in thirty minutes time. I ain’t a child, Mr. Call. And I know this town.”

He gazed at her pensively and agreed. “Of course. Stay alert, though. You need anything, you just scream, and I will come a-running.”

“I don’t doubt that, Mr. Call,” she said. She curtsied to him and went on her way.

She walked down the block then, past a stagecoach and the bank, and she turned the corner until she was out of his sight. The city was quiet, and all the men tipped their hats to her respectfully. She walked with her hands cupped together, trying to appear both married and above her station. It was a skill she understood, sort of. The morning was sunny. Whatever storm was moving in the night before had blown by. The rooftops were wet from it, and gleaming. She walked by the penny store where it was she had gone with Sean MacGuire many months in the past. It was where he had purchased that book of poems by W.B. Yeats and then brought it to her in secret, asking if she would teach him how to read. He had been dead now for such a time. She wished it did not have to be so. How she wished. She recalled Arthur, and how he had sounded as he read one of those poems out loud, sitting in Hamish Sinclair’s loft under the pouring rain, the night of their first kiss. It had been their origin story. She took a big breath and said a prayer for him, and for Sean, and then she walked into the Blackwater stables.

“Hello,” she said to the big man in charge. He looked unfamiliar. He was almost as young as she was but he was missing a tooth. She thought he must be running this place for his father. “I am looking to buy a horse. Maybe two.”

He put down the paper he had been reading and looked at her somewhat condescendingly. “What kind of horse,” he said.

“I am interested in only your finest breeds.”

“Such as.”

“Such as an Arabian. Or perhaps a Foxtrotter. I like unusual coats. Of course, this is assuming you got anything at all. I don’t know what kind of circus you’re running here. Have you got taste in ponies?”

“Excuse me?” he said, taken by surprise.

“I said, have you got taste in ponies. I have money, I am in town for one day only, and I am looking to buy, but not from no cub.”

He regarded her anew, in this moment, exited from behind the counter with his hands behind his back. “You know your stuff?”

“Yes, sir, I know my stuff. My husband is a wrangler, and I know my stuff.”

“Well then. In that case, let’s take a look.”

Woodrow Call was standing by, leaning outside the train station with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for Mary Beth and thinking back upon all the mistakes he had made in his life. He was a steadfast man who had come to be so predictable, even he could understand what overcame him that day. He knew it had something to do with Mary Beth, with Arthur, how young they were, her especially. Pregnant, married, new. It was like he had been tasked with delivering them safely unto the ether and though he was proud, he was also terrified. He could not remember the last time he spoke to his own son. This is what he remembered now. Was it five, six months? It’s not that they weren’t friendly, just that their lives rarely touched anymore. He had gone with a cattle drive up to Wyoming the year before and taken a wife in Laramie. She was a butcher's daughter, and religious. Call sent letters every so often, and he received letters in return, but Call had been out of Texas for some time now, and who knows how many where there, waiting for him, unread? He knew he had a grandbaby on the way, or perhaps it had been born already? Most likely not, but still. He planned faithfully to take a train to Wyoming the moment his business east of the Mississippi had come to a close, to see for himself, the baby and the wife. He missed the notion of home. He wanted desperately to get it back, though the days seemed behind him now when he could make one new, and this was a rude awakening.

He took a couple steps off the station platform now and began to scan the streets for Mary Beth. There were many men in high fashion suits waiting for the train. He knew they must have been headed for St. Denis. After some minutes of fretting and glancing at his watch, he finally saw her, but it was a surprise, the thing he saw. She was coming up the thoroughfare on a horse, and yoked to it was another horse. She had two horses. She was a sight to see. He went up to her in the middle of the street, with his hands on his hips, feeling miffed and lost for words.

“What in god’s name?” he said. “Where’d you come by these ponies?”

“I bought them,” said Mary Beth happily. He took her hand as she hopped down, and then she dusted off her blue skirt. They were lovely girls, one of them a sizable Arabian in a rose champagne, the other a hale Foxtrotter in a Silver Dapple Pinto. “From the stable, just now.”

“You bought both of these?” he said. “With what means?”

“I sold Angelo Bronte’s pocket watch,” she said. “There's a fence here in town, an old friend of the gang's. That watch yielded me $1800. And I negotiated these to a good price. Don’t worry. I ain’t been had, Mr. Call. I even got some leftover.”

“Well, I am impressed,” he said, genuine. Though still confused. “I just—explain it to me though. I thought we was taking the train.”

“I know,” she said, “and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something. But it just—I wanted to keep it to myself. These isn’t just for the ride. One of them is a gift for Arthur.”

He shifted his weight, one foot to the other. He was smoking a cigarette. “A gift?”

“Yes sir," she said. "Arthur has lost a couple different horses this past year. They died by terrible means. Bloody. His last one, Sarah, she was a Foxtrotter with a champagne coat, and she died not a couple weeks ago. Caught a hail of bullets in a shoot-out with Lemoyne Raiders on the road, and Arthur had to put her down himself. Arthur is a hard man, Mr. Call, as you well know. He has lived a rough life, losing many things, but when it comes to animals, he is soft. He has been putting off getting another horse, though he needs one. Desperately. I don’t think he knows how to move on yet. Nothing is good enough. But I thought—maybe if I give him this gift, he’ll accept.”

Call watched her, closely. The sun was high in the sky now. It must have been approaching noon. “That sounds like a very loving gift, Mrs. Morgan.”

“Thank you.” She took a couple sugar cubes from her pocket. She seemed relieved as she gave one to Call. They fed them to the horses. It was so nice to have them there. They were so alive and big and full of movement.

“Which one will you give him?”

“I don’t know,” she said, gazing upon them, looking dreamy. “They’re both fine fillies. I’ll let him take his pick, and I will ride the other. In the meantime, we can break them in a little. Ride to Valentine, instead of taking the train. What do you think? I mean, I know it ain’t close, but we can do it.”

“I reckon we can,” said Call. Truth be told, he was relieved, but he didn’t tell her that. He wasn’t sure how recognizable she’d be in the Heartlands. He was worried that with Arthur’s name refreshed in the mind of the Pinkertons, hers might be, too.

They started walking those horses down the gravel road then. They were leaving the city, leaving the sorry plains of Blackwater behind. They passed the cemetery, passed the outskirts and weeds and the sleeping homeless man in his union kepi. Now, they headed for the grassy hills, and the prairie canyons. Call didn’t know the backroads, but he reckoned they would just follow the river for as long as they could. Ride up to Cumberland Falls, then trek east past Calaban’s Seat until they hit Valentine. It was gonna be a pretty ride, and he would be glad for the distraction. They mounted up and started riding when they got to the Montana, crossed the river, and then rode till they made it to the Dakota. There, they took a short break on the banks. Call shot a rabbit, which they cooked up on a spit and ate with their fingers. Mary Beth told him about Wisconsin. He thought that sounded real fine, though he did not ask many questions.

Mary Beth had been saving that pocket watch. She didn’t know what for, but she’d been saving. It was a nest egg. It had been a symbol of all the things good that were coming for her. But as she had walked through the dusty old sadness of Blackwater that day, she thought about Arthur, and escaping, and lily farms, and it all began to feel impossible. She wondered, truly, if they would ever leave the gang. Everything, everybody they loved, including each other, was in the gang. Dutch had made them that ultimatum, and how quickly had it dissolved, become nothing? Meaningless. Poof. The same as everything, every day, every score. What was right? If they left now, it would be the dead of winter when they got there, nowhere to live, nowhere to go, in a frozen tundra. If they waited until the baby was born, then would they travel with a newborn, risk the freeze? Or would they wait? How long then, and where? They’d have to leave Lemoyne, all of them, this she had surmised based on the renewed interest from the Pinkertons, but where would they go now? And how would they get there?

Mary Beth had suddenly lost her footing for the future, but it wasn't all bad. She just needed to regroup. She had never been one for anything but dreaming, and so she accepted it was only the now she could control. The here. The things she could touch and see. So she traded in that pocket watch, and she bought those horses. The horses were real, and they had a true practical function. Unlike daydreaming, they did a job. That night, she fed the horses. She did not give them names. She called them both "Pretty Girl." As she brushed their manes and braided their tails and pet their subtle heads, she tried looking forward to Valentine, where it was she was convinced she would see him again. Her handsome husband, safe and sound, who she loved so much. They camped deep in the wooded hills of Diablo Ridge where the trees could not guard them from the stars.

Meanwhile, Arthur and LaBoeuf were a half a day ahead. They had made their swift departure from Braithwaite Manor, left straight away in the morning, before the sun came up. Penelope gifted them each a respectable steed and a set of binoculars. They thanked her sincerely for her trouble, which she waved off in her flippant southern manner and said, “Set them nags free when you’ve done with them, boys. Or sell them. By any means, I don't care. Just don’t bring them back here, for the love of god. Here, they'll die!” She was full of foreboding and mocking scorn for her family, like some gothic horror novel given to him by Mary Beth. He thought it was a bad thing, but at least she had awareness. He hoped one day that she would find a way out of her stifling existence, much like he was trying to escape his own. LeBoeuf was healing already. The wound was not as deep as it had originally seemed, and though he was in some amount of pain, he managed it with whiskey and cocaine gum. Arthur changed his dressings once, and they were able to ride at a brisk pace the whole way to the Heartlands. They did not get held up at all. For they stayed off the beaten paths, as they had nothing for artillery and no means to protect themselves. Arthur knew this would have to change fast, as there was nothing but trouble lurking in this unlucky country—for him, LaBoeuf, everybody really.

They made it to Citadel Rock that evening. It was a fine night, clear and cool, the clouds gone off to the north. They hitched their horses to a tree and climbed the uneven rock formation, Arthur leading the way and hauling LaBoeuf where the ridge was too narrow. When they got to a safe spot with a good vantage point, they laid out, and with their binoculars, took to scoping out the city. It mostly looked empty at first but for a couple of rustlers moving through to the auction yard, stragglers and locals. The day was winding down.

But then they saw some suspicious characters camping in covered wagons outside of the town. Pinkertons, and by the true love in their hearts, they had not expected this.

“Goddam cockroaches," said Arthur. He could not believe his eyes. He was exasperated. "In Valentine? What the hell?"

LaBoeuf said nothing at first. He was staring through the binoculars, chewing gum, looking fed up. He shook his head. He was calculating something. Arthur wondered what was his origin story? Where was this man from.

But instead of asking, he just exhaled. It was a setback. Just that, he told himself. Maybe they would leave. Maybe they would be on their way by morning light. He momentarily feared that Mary Beth and Call may have already been through and been found out, but LaBoeuf promised Arthur that Call would not enter the town without conducting his own recon mission, much like this. So Arthur let all the air out of his lungs and flattened out on his stomach with his cheek pressed to the cold, hard rock, and he closed his eyes and thought about his childhood for some reason, the days before his mother had died, living up in Oregon, and how she used to wash their clothes with a special formula that she mixed herself with herbs from the yard. Mary Beth, she did something similar. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it brought him great comfort as he sought to avoid any and all thinking toward the coming days and nights of this goddam longwinded journey to the end.

"I just want to go home," he said, closing his eyes.

"Where's home?" said LaBoeuf, unknowing in the profundity of the question he asked.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #mary beth gaskill #arthur x mary beth #the lily farm #<3

[emotionalcello-makefanfics]

Summary : “What happened to you Giorno, you’re not the man I’ve known from twenty years ago,” Mista hissed. Giorno chuckled, making his best friend finally looks up in wonder. “I’ve not changed, maybe that’s why.” A story of Giorno Giovanna, the past he can’t let go, a mysterious crow, and many versions of Bruno Bucciarati.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

@brugioweek

Sorry it’s a WIP, because I wanted to submit it on the day. the complete edited fic will be done soon~~

I post it on a free day, bcs tbh I don’t know where to fit this.

Clink link to read on ao3, click keep reading to read it here~

Words : 10k...

The man drenched in the crimson blood of his enemies on his Armani is Giorno Giovanna.

After years being the most feared boss of Passione, a mafia group that rule all Italy, the man is finally reaching the end of his life. Blood drips down to his leather loafers, pouring from the hole on his abdomen. For whatever reason, the thirty-five years old mafia boss did not do anything about the missing chunk of flesh he can easily replace with one of the rubble lying around with his powers.

He is standing on top the leaning tower of Pisa, looking over the horizon as the sun finally rises from the east, shining on his warrior face. Golden strands of his waist-length hair frame his solemn face of victory, while his enemies are by the foot of the tower and in the shadows. There is no telling how many bodies there, and how many he had killed before he came here.

The lights blur a little, but he thinks it’s charming that way. His feet starting to sway, from the exhaustion of defeating a whole group and the loss of blood.

In his hand, the only thing that has no drop of blood on it is a crow named Crow.

Safe and sound.

The crow hops to Giorno’s shoulder with fluttering wings, rubbing his head on the side of his face in tiny twitchy movement.

Giorno had kept the crow safe for years, and now the people that want to misuse the crow is all gone and dead, right beneath his feet.

He stands at the edge of the tower of Pisa, with the light of the sunrise hitting his face. The next step will be a step to a new beginning.

Because a step forward, just a foot below him, a portal opens, waiting for him to jump in.

+++++ Last month +++++

“Stop, Giorno, before you make any mistake,” Mista, the consigliere, held his shoulder firmly.

“We’ve been friends for how long?” The mafia boss smiled amusedly, “You know I don’t make foolish mistakes.”

“It’s just a bird Giorno!” the gunslinger finally burst, sending an unpleasant feeling shooting through his chest.

Giorno doesn’t hide his upset frown, “You’re smarter than this Mista.”

“I am, and I know the bird only does what you command. It doesn’t matter if they take it.”

After decades together, Mista always surprises him with a burst of sudden sensitivity. Of course his second in command is right, that is why Giorno chooses him to lead by his side.

“You know why I’m going Mista.” Giorno insists.

Mista looks rightfully pissed, pushing Giorno against the door. Their eyes meet, sparking electricity at how Mista glares while Giorno stands his ground on his decision.

“I will not let our men follow you, not for such a selfish cause!” Mista pushes him away, walking around his office with fingers massaging his forehead.

“I never plan on bringing my men, I’m going alone.”

Even so, the gunslinger still doesn’t look happy.

“I know your Gold Experience Requiem is unbeatable, but you’re going into the den of Stracciatella. You are going to die!”

“Perhaps.”

Both of them are equally surprised at Giorno’s resolve. Fists landed between Giorno’s face, ruining the carved wooden door. Their face only inches from each other but Mista’s eyes landed down on their feet, gritting his teeth in anger.

“What happened to you Giorno, you’re not the man I’ve known from twenty years ago,” Mista hissed.

Giorno chuckled, making his best friend finally looks up in wonder.

“I’ve not changed, maybe that’s why.”

Mista shuts his eyes, his deep frown shakes.

“Ah... I see. You’re right. You’re right Giorno. I... have failed.”

Mista wraps him in his arms, wonders if it’s because of pity or for a goodbye. Fingers caught his chin, and a pair of lips landed on top of his. A chaste kiss that lasts a few innocent seconds and Mista steps back, cradling Giorno’s face.

Looking at each other, they both have aged a lot since they first met. Mista, at the ripe age of 38 years old is devilishly handsome, with his harper eyes and a broad build that makes him look like a charmingly hardy man. Always dressed in a more casual suit and only occasionally wears his usual red and blue grid hat. Charismatic lines deepen within age, concentrated more on his eyes than anywhere else.

Giorno matches his build in width but loses in muscle mass. They’re the same height. And Giorno’s hair is as long as his waist when in a braid with a few strands of gray hairs showing.

The years spent together doesn’t feel that long, but it sure seems so.

“Please come back,” Mista whispered, almost begging.

Giorno gave him a smile at least,  “I’ll leave Passione to you, Guido.”

++++ 2 Years Ago ++++

Sardegna is as beautiful as ever in the morning glow. Only wearing a fur coat above his pajamas, Giorno walks up to the cliff only a few hundred meters from the small house he was staying in. His golden hair blown wildly by the wind of the sea right below this highland. It has really gotten too long, but Giorno never had the heart to cut it short.

When he finally reached the top, the sun already fully risen from the sea line. Shining brightly, almost blinding, the sun rises right behind Trish who sits at the table set by the edge of the cliff in a safe distance. Her pink hair that reaches his shoulder sway lightly from the wind so does her soft yellow long dress under her thick wool cardigan.

As soon as she meets eyes with Giorno, she smiles, and her face glowing even more than the sunrise as she rubs the bump on her stomach, carrying her third child.

“I thought you’ll wake up even later, come sit with me.” She directs her palm towards a wrought iron chair with a simple design.

On the table, already set three-tiered plates filled with sandwiches, muffins, and cakes. The ceramic pot containing fuming hot black tea matches the two mugs of bone-white color with watercolor blue and pink accents. There's a bowl of fresh fruits, another filled with bread with two jams beside it. All set on the table with woven hay yellow table cloth.

“You should’ve woke me up, I would’ve helped you set the table. You shouldn’t carry heavy things,” Giorno commented, as he sits down.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, you’re worrying too much about me,” she cheerfully dismisses, “And I can’t wake you up, you flew so far just to visit me and conked right after I show you the bed.”

“Ah, I was really tired, but I’m fine now. Let me help around the house.”

“Nonsense! You’re my guest, Giorno. Now come, eat!” She then poured him tea, and Giorno spares a word of gratitude.

Since yesterday and right now, Trish always have that soft smile on her face. Now that they’re closer, Giorno can see clearly how Trish’s eyes mellowed from the last time he sees her ten years ago.

Trish is a city girl, always loving her branded clothes and makeup, when she said she’s marrying a farmer and living in a small house in the middle of a roadless area, Giorno, Mista, and Polnareff were surprised but mostly worried.

Her letters always reassure them that she’s fine, and now Giorno sees, she really is happy.

“How’s living in the countryside?” Giorno opens up.

“It’s really calming, the folks are so kind, and I grew most ingredients I eat, my foods are fresh. I should’ve done this a long time ago.” She sighs dreamily.

“I’m happy for you Trish.”

“You’re behaving like my parents! We’re the same age.” Trish leans forward, cupping the Giorno’s hand on the table and looks at him fondly.

“How about you? How are you?” she asked.

“As good as I can be. There is no major riot within the group. I’ve been getting better at controlling the-”

“I didn’t ask about the group, I’m asking about you, how are you?”

It takes a few second for Giorno to answer, that itself, he knew is something alarming.

“I’m good, Trish.” And he is doing good. He’s rich beyond belief. Even if he retires now, he won't ever have to work for the rest of his life while maintaining a high-end lifestyle.

Trish pressed her lips, pulling them into a gentle smile.

“I’m worried about you sometimes Giorno. I never used to care, but maybe having children had changed me.” She rubs her fingers on the back of Giorno’s hand, he can feel her hard work by her calloused hands.

“You keep replying to my emails later and later. And now that you finally come see me, you’re wearing the same expression since 18 years ago... I owe my life to you, Mista, Polnareff, Fugo, Narancia, Abbacchio, and Bucciarati. Please tell me, how should I help you?”

Her words hurt, but what hurt the most is her pained voice from genuinely caring for Giorno. He never heard that kind of tone again from anyone else other than Bucciarati. Always, every little thing that reminds him of that person makes Giorno misses him.

“There’s nothing to help with Trish, I’m good, I’m doing good.”

“I hear what you said, but your face tells otherwise... are you still keeping it?”

“Him. Yes, he’s still with me, I left him at my house in Rome.”

“Him? You’ve named it?”

“Yes, I just called him Crow.”

Trish holds Giorno’s hand with both of hers now, still looking worriedly while looking for something to say.

“You don’t like him too, don’t you?” Giorno is not surprised, and he says it without any means of animosity.

“He’s not the best coping mechanism, and I hope you know he’s not a replacement for anyone.”

A bitter smile plastered on Giorno’s tired face, he had heard that from the people he care about way too much to mean anything to him.

“I still stand by what I said before, when you told me to use him,” Trish stated, “It’s not too late to try, Giorno.”

He only replies with a slight nod, but he knows, the matter was not about whether it’s too late or not. Giorno doesn’t want to.

++++ 5 Years ago ++++

A man kneels before him, taking his hand from the armchair without invitation and kiss the back of his hand. Giorno folds his legs away from the man that suddenly kneels. The crow that sits on his shoulders flap his wings in surprise and flew to Giorno’s other shoulder.

In his pristine suit of green and white stripes, he quickly falls to his knees, lowering his salt and pepper hair, a sign of age way above Giorno’s and experience even more than him. A lot of men had kneeled like this in front of the young mafia boss, and they have two reasons for it. It’s either to beg for mercy, or for a favor. And the tearful expression from the man’s face seems to mean the latter. It hides in the shadows from the afternoon light shining from the window in front of Giorno.

“Don Giovanna, I have a favor to ask of you,” the man’s husky voice humbles.

“Sit, Capo Gallo. You have done the organization an unmeasurable deed. I also have recognized your absolute loyalty to me. You have done the impossible and life-threatening mission I gave you and succeed. Now, tell me your wish, I will grant whatever it is as long as it’s within my power.”

The old man sits on the chair in front of Giorno,his hopeful but grim face accentuated by the shadow from backing against the light. The man is broad, tall, and gallant, but he shrinks in his seat as he makes eye contact with Giorno.

“I ask a favor of the crow.”

Giorno tightens his fist. Not a lot of people know the power of his crow.

“How did you know his power?” Giorno asked.

“Rumours, my Don. I take it that the rumors must’ve been true now that you’ve asked?”

“Yes, it is.” Giorno grits his teeth. People are going to target Crow more and more now the rumors of his powers had spread.

“Who else knew of the crow?”

The Capo caught the look of his Don and understood.

“I heard it from a handful of people, there is no telling how many people have kno-”

“Write a list,” Giorno cuts, “Put the names of people you’ve heard it from, I will take care of it.”

The Capo gulped at the cold look of his Don, “Does this mean you will grant my wish?”

A shadow hits Giorno’s figure. His consigliere makes himself known in the room for Giorno to look at him and the face he makes. Mista shook his head, for he had known the risk of the crow’s power. As a good Don and best friend of the consigliere, he put Mista’s opinion into account, and do what he thinks is right.

“Yes, for I have given you my word, I will not go back from it. I won't ask you why you wish to use the crow, but before you make a decision, I will make you know the risks of using the crow.”

Capo Gallo sharpens his eyes, all ears to his Don.

“When his wings tear a portal to another universe, there is no controlling where you will go. If you stay in that universe more than 6 hours, either you or you from that universe will disappear.”

The Capo’s determined face is still unfazed.

“Once you enter the dimension, there is no going back, for the only one that can command the crow to open the portal is me. You’ve done me enough deed for me. I will go to this dimension with you and we will go back together before the time is up.”

For a few second the Capo is dead silent until his low laugh breaks it.

“There is no need for you to follow me, Don Giovanna. Passione needs you here. I will go alone. My life in this world has come to an end.”

The mafia boss passes a glance towards his consigliere, who also mirror his questioning looks. Capo Gallo is the most priceless member of Passion with his unshakable loyalty and strength, and his wish is a suicide.

“For whatever reason, you want to escape this world, the other dimension you’ll find might roughly be the same, are you sure?”

“I have to try. This is for my daughter, I wish to see her once more. She had left this world, and my wish is just to see her once more, even though only for a moment.”

Giorno sighed, standing up and lang his hand on top of the man’s shoulder.

“Think of her.”

The capo looks up with hope in his eyes and nods.

The crow hops to his palm where the golden light that shines in his veins shown on his skin. The glowing strands on his skin vines through the crow’s feet and onto the Capo’s skin. Golden hue emits from the black fur of the crow, and his eyes beam with the same golden light as two tiny suns, so does Giorno’s eyes that went completely white and emits a golden shine.

Crow flies in the middle of the room, tears the space with his wings and a portal opened in the middle of empty space. Inside is a swirl of purple and black.

After a while, Crow resides on his shoulder again and their eyes return to normal.

“At the end of this tunnel, is a universe where your daughter is still alive,” Giornos turns around to see Capo Gallo staring into the portal. “Once you step in the portal will close, there is no going back,” Giorno warned once more.

The capo’s face melts into a tender smile and bows his head to him.

“Thank you, Don Giovanna. It is my pride to have served under you in all the 15 years you have reigned. I wish you long life and long reign on Passione.”

His hand took Giorno’s and he kneels once more and kisses the back of his hand, before finally stepping into the portal.

It closed right away, and Capo Gallo is not in this world anymore. What’s left is Mista, him, and Crow. That is the first time Giorno sent another person other than himself to the other universe using Crow. He had been reluctant, but the man deserves his wish to be granted.

“How did you know?” Mista breaks the silence, and Giorno gave him his attention, “How did you know it’ll make you disappear after six hours?”

It’s a rhetorical question, of course Mista already knows, he only wants to hear Giorno says it. To make Giorno hear himself being ridiculous and foolish.

Though, Giorno already knew that.

++++ Eight Years Ago ++++

The room is dark when Giorno opened his eyes. Mista must’ve turned them off, clean him up and dress him in his most comfortable silk pajamas. Yesterday was stressful, enough to make Giorno destroy half of his precious rose garden. The chill brushed against his face must’ve been a sign that it’s way past midnight and almost dawn. However, his body doesn’t suffer the same chill. He’s tucked under a thick comforter at the comfort of his own room.

Another heat source radiates from his back. Warm and comfortable as a pair of arms put him in place.

Giorno doesn’t move despite already awake. He lets himself enjoy the comfort for another few minutes until he’s too awake to stay in bed.

Carefully, he peels away the arms in his waist and stretches his back. There are a few sore spots on his neck, chest and another different sore on his lower half. The body beside him moves, rolling away from him and tuck himself into the comforter. Scratched back faced Giorno, and he slips off from his king-sized bed and covers the body with the blanket.

Winter is coming close, the dusk is getting colder. He takes his faux fur night coat and turns on the heater.

He opens the window and whistle. After a few seconds, a black silhouette came from the moon, flapping its wings and landed on Giorno’s arms.

“You’re wet...” Giorno says fondly, petting its black little head that leans towards his fingers and purr. “Where did you go, Crow? Have a good little adventure?”

Crow is a bird, of course, he never answers, but he takes comfort in talking to him, and his blue eyes that always look at him always felt like Crow is listening. Giorno never knows where Crow goes whenever he did, sometimes he stays, but often he flew away. Even so, Crow always comes whenever Giorno calls.

“Giorno?” Croaks a voice from the bed. Must’ve been awoken by the chill from the open window, Giorno almost feels guilty if not from the bad hickey he left on Giorno’s skin.

After closing the window, he sits on the side of the bed, petting the brunette head that peeks at the edge of the comforter.

“Go back to sleep, Guido. It’s still dark.”

Mista only groans in reply. Eyes crack open and immediately focused on the crow perched on the night lamp by the table.

“Thank you for yesterday, I needed that,” Giorno leans down and land a kiss on the root of Mista’s hair.

Then Giorno stands up, but before he can walk away, his arm is held firmly.

“Am I not good enough?” Mista asked out of the blue with a flat tone.

It stuns Giorno for a few seconds. He never thought that that was Mista’s goal all along. It pains him, it hurts him, but it’s also, so lovely. Maybe he has gone twisted.

“You were never his replacement in my eyes, I have too much respect for you.” Mista lets go of his grip, and Giorno catches his hand and holds it tightly. “To me, you’re Guido Mista, my Consiligier, my associate, my companion, and my sweetest friend.” Giorno lifts his hand to his face and kisses Mista’s palms affectionately.

When he lets go, Mista says nothing else and hides his face into the pillow. Something is wrong, but Giorno chooses to not comment on it. Crow flew to his shoulder before he closes the door behind him.

His mansion in Pavia is a place for him to kick back and relax. Located on the ground with lots of nature and meadow around. His neighbor is a kilometer away. A perfect house of solitude, nature, and beauty.

He walks down the outside halls that lead towards the garden. Two hundred meters worth of his healthy, vibrant and luscious rose garden burned to the ground and torn to pieces. Even the ground under it cracks.

Giorno walks through the trimmed grass with his bare feet, feeling the cold dew hits his sole.

No one will expect the mafia boss that’s known for his calm and cold demeanor to have a tendency to burn things to the ground and destroy everything he sees when he’s angry. He has a principle that showing manic anger to his subordinates will not create respect, but it will show them his weakness. Thus, he expresses his anger by destroying other living creature such as plants, because he can fix it later and they hold no grudge.

Giorno combs his hair with his hand, and a few strands of dead hair stuck between his fingers.

“Gold Experience Requiem,” the hair glows even brighter in that dark morning and when he lets it go to the ground, then grows a luscious rose plant.

He walks around the destroyed garden, picking up a few rocks, let GER destroy it and change the dust into plants of roses. As he walks, the more ground is covered in new plants, until it seems like nothing ever happened here.

His veins glow gold, his eyes beam with light and Crow slice the nothingness and opened a portal.

Giorno hops in with him, and at the end of the tunnel, is a bright blue sky above an endless sea that glimmers like diamonds. Warmth radiates through his body, and the summer wind blows his chest long golden hair. His feet stand on top of the soft sand, and waves of the sea and foam reach his toes. Crow flew to the sky right away, crowing in delight as he disappears beneath the fluffy clouds.

Suddenly it feels too hot, and it’s such a waste to not feel the fresh wind of the summer sea with his body and takes off his night robe.

Beside him in a fishing boat, perched there and facing towards the beach, means that it had returned.

“Hello?” calls a small boy, and Giorno turns around with the widest smile on his face.

“You’re not from here, can I help you?” Continues the boy with dark raven hair. He’s holding a pile of fishing net that bundled up too big for his body, and eyes sharp as if telling he’s not afraid of Giorno.

And Giorno fell in love all over again.

“I’m Giorno Giovanna, I’m a friend you haven’t met.”

The child scrutinizes him from top to bottom and taking apart his expression and his words until he finally relaxed when he finds no lie or ill will from Giorno.

“Why are you here?” The child asks.

And Giorno smiles, “Because you’re here, Bruno Bucciarati.”

Giorno can’t ask Crow to bring him to a place or a time, he can only bring him to a person.

Even though it’s way back in the past, at a place he’s never been to before, the crow always, without fail, brings him to Bruno Bucciarati.

“How did you know my name?” the child asked, with less cautious this time.

“I’ll tell you everything I know, though you don’t have to believe it. If I may, I only ask of your time.”

To his surprise, Bruno smiles sweetly. Though it’s not the first time Giorno sees the child version of Bruno, that smile always gives him joy from the depths of his heart.

“You’re a lonely man, aren’t you Giorno Giovanna?”

It was also not the first time Giorno heard that from Bucciarati.

“Yes, very much,” He finds himself agreeing.

Bruno took his hand with his little fingers, “You look very kind, you shouldn’t look so sad. I’ll accompany you.”

“Mhm, thank you Bucciarati.”

Then Giorno spends his share of time in that universe walking along the beach, making sandcastles, and fishing while hearing about Bucciarati’s day. Passing his six hours worth of time in the calming beach and the very sweet child version of the man he loves.

Whatever version, whatever age, always, he always loves Bucciarati.

++++ 10 Years ago ++++

He walks down the familiar mansion, Passione’s base. He hides what he knows is his office. He hides in the dark, waiting for the different Boss of Passione to walk in on him there. Ever since he arrived at the mansion, he knows the Don is not Giorno, but whoever the Don is, they’ve defeated Diavollo and Bucciarati must’ve died.

Faint steps gradually begin to sound clearer, then it stops right in front of the door.

“Do not disturb me until Saturday, if anything happens, address them to consigliere Abbacchio.”

“Yes, Don Bucciarati.”

Giorno’s heart jumps out of his ribcage at the name, he’s frozen in his spot. He had thought Crow did not bring him to Bucciarati, but he’s here.

Then the door opens, a slither of light enters the room before finally disappearing again from a silhouette of none other than Bruno Bucciarati that enters the room. Giorno is not prepared for this. For once he does not have any plan. When Bucciarati turns the light on, his eyes immediately darted at the corner of the room, right beside the desk, where Giorno is.

Both of them were left speechless at each other’s sight. But Giorno was taken back by the look of Bucciarati’s face. His hair is the same length, as tidy and straight as ever, with the same clips on his hair. He doesn’t know how long this universe is after they defeat Diavolo, but Bucciarati looks older, tired.

There are dark circles under his blown open blue irises. His body is skinnier than he remembered, not even the Gucci suit and fur coat can hide it.

“Who are you?” Bucciarati scorns, “Sticky Fingers Requiem.” The stand summoned. It’s Sticky Fingers is different but so much more. It has a face now, and the zipper on his neck is the arrow.

“Explain yourself!” Bucciarati growls with anger ignited in his eyes, gritting his teeth and taking a stance to fight. “How dare you use his body!”

Then Bucciarati charged.

“Wait, Bruno!”

“Don’t you dare call me by that name!”

“Gold Experience Requiem!”

Giorno summons, but he doesn’t attack. His back pressed against the wall, and Sticky Fingers’ fist almost meeting GER’s face, while Bruno’s fist landed right on the wall beside Giorno’s face. Bruno’s perplexed expression is only a finger away from his, gasping in breath as his blue eyes darts towards his GER. Watching particularly close at the arrow on GER’s head, the one on Sticky Finger Requiem’s chest.

Slowly, Bucciarati takes a step back, and Giorno almost doesn’t want him too. His eyes blown wide, alternating quickly between him, the stands and him again.

“Who... Who are you?” Bucciarati asked breathlessly, eyes in disbelieve and face so broken that it pains Giorno to see.

“I’m Giorno, Giorno Giovanna.”

“Impossible. That’s impossible... Giorno Giovanna died last year.”

“Is that what happened in this universe?” Giorno chuckled bitterly. He’s almost glad to hear he died because Bucciarati lived, but seeing how horrible his face is, and how pained he looks at Giorno, he doesn’t know anymore.

“This universe? Does that mean you’re not from here?”

“No, I’m from a universe where you died.”

They let silence fills in the gap, their stands disappearing and letting their mind digest the new information. As the silence continues, Giorno is torturing himself as he keeps his eyes on Bucciarati face that goes from stoic, confusion, then finally breaks. His heart pulsed in pain seeing Bucciarati torn apart in front of him.

Bucciarati steps forward, with palms, carefully landed between his face while Bucciarati’s ducked and stare on the floor. Tears landed on the red carpet below, and the room is so silent that Giorno can hear every drop lands.

At 25, which means he’s five years older than this world’s Bucciarati, Giorno is a few centimeters taller than Bucciarati, but Giorno shrinks under the man’s cage.

Giorno cradles his jaw and tips it up.

It tears his chest apart to see Bucciarati’s despair shown clearly in his face. For a moment, Giorno can see himself in this Bucciarati, they’re both lost each other, still mourning over each other, but the resolve in Bucciarati’s eyes is different than Giorno’s.

Giorno can’t let go, while Bucciarati is about to.

“How could you... How could you do this to me...” Bucciarati cries in woe, “Why are you doing this to me? To yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing that came to mind, “I tried at first, but I can’t.” his hand carefully holds onto Bucciarati’s face, wiping the tears with his thumbs.

“I remember the first year after you died,” Giorno continues, smiling pitifully at himself, “I had dark circles under my eyes too. I rarely eat so I became skinnier. I can’t sleep at night, so I rarely do. When I dream of you, I don’t want to wake up.”

Bucciarati’s face looks like he snapped into a realization, “How long since I had died in your universe?”

Sighing, Giorno pressed his lips into a thin smile, “Five long agonizing years.”

Bucciarati takes a deep breath, and finally, his hand narrows down to his neck and cradles Giorno’s head gently as fingertips move slowly against his scalp.

The first touch of their face was their temples as Bucciarati inhaled deeply, then their nose, slowly then to their lips as if Bucciarati is being careful and uncertain. But once they’re kissing, it only takes a few seconds before any chaste and pure feelings turn into hunger.

Their hands no longer holding each other’s faces gently, now they roam on each other’s body, relieving their longing. A knee snugly placed between his crotch, rubbing sensually as a pair of hands finally takes him away from the wall. He lets Bucciarati lifts him up and put him on the top of the mahogany office table in a loud thud.

Bucciarati hastily takes his coat off, his tie, and his suit, while Giorno who lies on the table does the exact same thing. Burning sensation crawls on the skin where Buccialati’s wanting eyes intensely focused. Giorno sits up when he’s done undressing his top ahead. Black hair messily tossed over the head of the chair as Giorno pinned Buccialati there, sitting on top of his lap.

Giorno kisses him down, from the lips, down to the dip of his collar bone, leaving a wet trail. His heart beats fondly every time he hears Bucciarati sighs, moans, and whimper at his touches. A pair of hand-worked on his braided hair and soon his hair is down. Bucciarati leans forward, tipping Giorno back, but he never fell as Bucciarati’s hand is securely on Giorno’s waist, and another hand on the back of his head.

They clung to one another.

There’s a smile formed against Giorno’s lips as Bucciarati plays with his hair.

“I love your hair, I dreamt of playing with it under the sun where it shines the best, I thought it’ll always remain a dream,” Bucciarati whispered against his lips, his warm breath against Giorno’s face is everything he had ever dreamt of.

“I love you, Giorno,” He kisses the strands of his golden hair, and lifts him up easily despite being heavier and broader.

Bucciarati kicked something under the table, and one of the walls in the room opens, revealing a big and luxurious bedroom. In a few quick steps, Giorno landed on top of the soft bed with a light bounce.

Before Giorno can take the rest of his pants off, the other’s hand is already there, eagerly helping himself out as he kisses him dirty and messily. There’s want in Bucciarati’s movement, pleasure in his grunts and moans, desire in his eyes.

Most of all, there’s pain there, which Giorno also feels, but that’s okay. Tonight, for the 6 hours worth of time Giorno has in this world, he’ll finally able to share the pain with someone that understands.

“I love you too, Bruno,” His voice croaks, it’s the first time in forever he says that out loud. Kisses caught his tears before they fall.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“Do you always do this when you met me?” Bucciarati runs his hand up and down Giorno’s naked thigh. The gesture is appreciated with delighted hums because he’s too exhausted mentally and physically to react any more than that.

“I don’t,” Giorno trails the lines of Bucciarati’s lean muscles when the man moves on top of him. “Sometimes I met the child you, and when I do, it’s always by the beach, you’re about to fish or just came back, and you’ll tell me about your dad, sometimes your mom, depends on what that world’s you choose.”

“How often do you do this?” Suddenly the comfortable trance breaks when Bucciarati asked in concern.

“I’ve lost count,” he admits.

There’s a serious expression flashed across his partner’s face, open and shown and not even his messy tossed around hair can hide it. But just like Giorno, whatever it is that stopped them from enjoying themselves are brushed aside. They have no time to do anything else.

Bucciarati plays with his hair instead, despite grabbing it roughly just a few moments ago. They’re covered in sweat and other bodily fluids, both eager to continue, but they’re catching their breaths.

Giorno glances at the clock by the nightstand. It’s been roughly five hours and thirty minutes since he’s been here. He wonders what will happen when he stays more than six hours at a place where he already died. Maybe he can stay...

“What is the most memorable one?” Bucciarati asked, “You must have a favorite.”

“My favorite...  this has got to be the one so far,” His fingers slither on the firm shoulders of the man on top of him, rubbing slightly at the hickeys he left there.

“I truly am lucky. I’m sorry that I died in this world, but this is the first time I’ve ever met the Bruno that also mourn over a loss, the same as me. It’s also rare to find the you that already loves me back, the chance of finding this universe amongst the infinite numbers of parallel universes must’ve been impossibly slim, but here I am....  but, as the most memorable one is different.”

Bucciarati smiles, seems to be genuinely intrigued. It’s a long story, and Giorno would rather go back what they were doing. But the look on the man’s face is so peaceful with innocent curiosity that makes Giorno warm inside out.

So he decides to tell.

“The most memorable one will be a world where there were no stands. We’re just regular people, and to my surprise, I have two loving dads. That was the only time I spent my time in another universe with my dad, and not you.”

“Sounds nice.”

“And we were getting married in that universe.”

Then Bucciarati stops his hand, looking away with a fond but gloomy smile.

“That sounds nice.”

Giorno almost feels guilty for saying that, to make the man he loves wear such a pained expression. A pair of long lean legs straddle between his waist and Bucciarati sits right below his crotch, teasingly moving his hips. Giorno is pulled by the hand to sit up, and Bucciarati leads those hand to his waist.

“How long are you staying here? From your look at the clock, it’s not much left, huh?” Bucciarati says, seems unfazed even so, and link his hand behind Giorno’s neck.

“No, it’s not.”

Bucciarati gently touches his face with the back of his hand, then continue to play with his long hair.

“This is painful, Giorno. You shouldn’t do this to yourself. You’re not my Giorno. I’m not your Bruno. Nothing you do will ever change that. This is just a cruel peek at heaven. Like dangling a carrot we’ll never have.”

As much as it hurts, Giorno agreed, he had thought the same thing since he made a first trip to the other parallel universes.

Giorno had thought so, but his longing wins every time. That’s why he’s here. Despite so, Giorno finds himself smiling as he bumps his temple against Bucciarati’s.

“If you have this power, you wouldn’t have done the same?”

“I would.” Bucciarati replied without hesitation, “And I would hate myself for it every time. Only after I enjoyed it to the fullest, and trap myself in a sweet vicious cycle.”

Then he lets himself be pinned down as Bucciarati helps himself to kiss him however he wants, wherever he wants.

They’re abruptly stopped when Giorno’s existence starts to blur, see-through. Giorno can see the tangled sheet through his body.

He wetly chuckled, he admits defeat to the universe, “So, you still choose me...”

“What’s happening?” Bucciarati lets go immediately, eyes blown wide and breath shortens. He touched Giorno’s face, and still feel it there, but only so faintly.

“The universe is trying to fix itself like I’m a bacteria and the immune system is trying to eradicate me since I don’t belong in this universe.”

Giorno doesn’t know what will happen if he stays longer, maybe he’ll disappear. Why does the thought of that doesn’t give him fear?

He’s being pulled up roughly off the bed, “Go back,” Bucciarati commanded.

“Hurry!” he shouts when Giorno doesn’t have it in him to move, “You’re getting more and more see-through!”

Giorno shoots forward and wrap his man in a tight embrace and gave him a hard longing kiss.

“I can’t, I don’t want to, I-”

Bucciarati lands a loud slap across his face, “Passione needs you! I died for you! Don’t let my death be in vain!” Bucciarati screams, “I’ve lost you in front of me once, and I’ll be damned if I see it again.”

Giorno is in trance, but he’s right, Bucciarati is right. He’s pulled into a hug and kisses along his shoulder.

“I love you, Giorno. If I had died in your universe, it must be because I believe in you. Remember our golden dream.”

Crow cries from the window, breaking their trance, pecking the glass window resiliently. The portal is already opened, maybe Crow knew it was time.

Giorno opens the window, only dressed in his coat. He gave one last chaste kiss to Bucciarati and a few painful words whispered against his lips, “Forget me.”

Before Giorno says he can’t, he jumps off the window, and into the portal.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“You look happy today, have a nice ‘trip’?” Trish said as she sits beside him on the dining table of Giorno’s hotel room. They’re at one of the 5-star hotels in Sardegna, to visit Abbachio’s and Trish’s mom’s grave.

Trish is one of three people that know about the crow. The other two is Mista and Polnareff, who’s still on a business trip, that’s why they can’t join them for this little dinner on Giorno’s hotel room. She’s also the only one that doesn’t judge.

“I did.” And that’s everything he’s going to tell Trish, anything else would be... not dinner friendly.

“You can come with me if you’d like, I’ll take you to where your mom is,” Giorno said, feeling generous.

Though his best friend doesn’t look as happy as he expected.

“I love my mother, Giorno, but my mother died.”

Giorno nods understandingly, just because Trish doesn’t judge, doesn’t mean she agrees, Giorno can respect that.

He takes a bottle of wine and going to pour it on Trish’s glass, but her hand covered the top.

“I’m pregnant.”

Blinking owlishly, Giorno’s jaw hits the floor, assessing Trish’s expression. She looked glowingly happy.

“Congratulations! Are you taking care of it yourself? Is the father involved?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m about to tell you. I’m not going back to Rome, I’m staying here. I’m going to marry him and live here from now on.”

“I see, is he a good person?”

Trish flashes her prettiest smile, “He’s the best, the kindest, most patient man I knew.”

She rubs her still flat belly, still having that content smile.

“My mother raised me the best she could, she was amazing, and for her, I’ll try to be a good mom too. I’ll live my life happily, choosing a good man, having a happy family. I think, doing this for them is the best choice for us. To live in their memory and move on, because the world we live in, is all we get. This is it.”

She looks up from her belly to Giorno’s discontent eyes, “Don’t you think so?”

Giorno looks away, and smile emptily.

++++ 18 years ago ++++

Giorno knows he needs to stop, but his curiosity always wins. Ever since he discovered Crow’s power mixed with his can tears a portal to another universe, Giorno kept experimenting.

At first, he couldn’t believe his eyes, to see Bucciarati again. Then he did it again, and again, and again. Getting more and more interaction with the Bucciaratis that he met. Each time, more intoxicating as before.

It felt as if Bucciarati never died, there are an endless amount of Bucciarati from the infinite number of parallel universes at his disposal. The grieving him abuses this power of the crow as soon as he can master it.

And he never looks back ever since.

He’s been using this power for a year, and he already lost count how many times he had used it already. Whenever Giorno dreams of him, remembered him, or misses him too much that it hurts, he uses the crow. Though sometimes he can’t always take Bucciarati however he liked, sometimes Bucciarati is too young, sometimes too old, sometimes married, sometimes doesn’t know him at all and Giorno loves every Bucciarati the universes gave to him.

Sometimes when he’s lucky, he met Bucciarati that knows him, that loves him, and kisses him when they see each other, and sometimes more.

Now, he’s seeing if this is one of his lucky scenes.

He’s in a residential area of Rome for the middle to the upper class. Usually, if he keeps walking and follows his gut, he’ll stumble upon him.

And he does.

Yet, Giorno’s first instinct is to hide in the alley right across where Bucciarati waits. He’s not wearing his usual white suit. He’s leaning against the brick wall, wearing a simple shirt and blue jeans under a white zipped up hoodie. There’s some kind of phone in his hand, and his fingers making a sliding movement. He looks radiant under the bright day sun. His black hair shines like silk, his skin healthy ivory color.

One more thing that really differs this universe from the rest, is that he can’t sense Bucciarati’s stand energy.

He seems to be waiting for someone, curiosity takes a better of him yet again, and Giorno waits along.

Maybe he doesn’t get to have this Bucciarati, but his gut tells him to wait and see.

His gut was right, because who came out of the house Bucciarati waited on, is Giorno of this universe. Again, even he doesn’t feel any stand energy from his other self. Maybe this is a world without stands, this will be the first time.

“Ready to go?” Says the other Giorno, smiling like a ray of ray sunshine, and Bucciarati mirrors the same smile.

Giorno never saw him that way before. For a few seconds, they see each other so lovingly, Giorno also felt that.

“Don’t go out too late now boys!” Another man came out of the house, just by the gates to see the couple off.

It’s a tall man Giorno had never seen before. He has a very big build and way taller than Giorno.

“We won’t dad.”

Dad?

This is a different person from the picture Giorno has in his wallet.

“Alright, be on time for dinner! Your papa is coming for the special occasion too.”

“Then we really should celebrate this properly,” Bucciarati cheered, he and other Giorno suddenly look excited.

“We’ll bring back some wine!”

The other Giorno took Bucciarati’s hand and walk away. Again with that dreamy look on their face. Giorno barely hiding anymore, and more focused on them, just seeing their happiness, just to feel that even more.

There a twinge in his chest, he wanted to ignore it as best he can, and the best way he can do that is getting out of this universe.

Just as he was about to whistle for the crow, his eyes meet the man that’s supposed to be his dad. For a few seconds, he froze under the man’s stare, but his eyes melt into a fond expression and he waved for Giorno to come to him.

Since this is a world without stand, and his ‘dad’ also doesn’t have any stand energy, he crosses the road and approaches.

“Come in, let’s have tea,” Says the man, and they enter the house.

It’s a medium-sized house with a small garden at the front and fairly large kitchen. The decor is different than he imagined though, a lot of painting, a grandfather clock at the end of the hall, just unfamiliar than the Italian decor he used to see.

The man invites him to sit by the dining chair by the wooden oval dining table. The man quickly works up a plate of biscuit and a few sandwiches while a pot of tea is on the stove with two bags of tea in it.

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” Giorno says, uncomfortable at how much the man, who is still a stranger to him despite the circumstances, is serving him.

“It’s no trouble! You’re a bit early for an afternoon tea, but oh well. I have a feeling that you have a lot to tell me. If you don’t, well, I have a lot of question.” The man chirps with a friendly smile on his face.

Soon, plates of biscuits, mini sandwiches, and mini cakes are served on the table. A pot of piping hot tea and two cups follow.

“I hope you don’t mind telling me?” he says meekly, and something about the man’s motherly expression that makes Giorno feels at home.

“I don’t mind, sir...?”

“Jonathan, Jonathan Joestar.”

Giorno knew that name.

“And you must be, Giorno?”

“Yes, I’m Giorno Giovanna.”

“Well, here, you’re Giorno Joestar, and you are my son,” Jonathan pours himself and Giorno tea, “Do you have the birthmark?”

Giorno unbuttons his suit and unbutton two buttons from the top oh his shirt and drag his neckline to the side, showing the star on his shoulder.

“I know you’re my son!” Jonathan exclaimed cheerfully, startling Giorno a bit, “But, I take it you’re not from here?”

“No, do you believe in a parallel universe?”

Jonathan hums, looking down at his tea, “It’s... not a foreign theory to me, a bit um, hard to take... but you’re here, then it must be true.”

“I’m glad you believed me,” Giorno says, “That man that waited outside, the black-haired one, who is he here?”

“Oh, Bruno? He’s your fiance.”

Giorno felt his grip from his tea weaken, there’s a strange feeling bubbling in his stomach, a different feeling than before.

“You came here to give a few wedding invitations for close neighbors. We are all very excited.”

“All?”

“Yes, me, your papa, and your two brothers, they’re all coming home tomorrow to celebrate your engagement.”

“Brothers...” Giorno stoically echoed in disbelieve.

“Yes, look,” Jonathan stands up, taking a photo from one of the walls in the hall and came back with a framed photo filled with five smiling faces.

The only other adult except for Jonathan there is the man from the picture in his wallet, Dio, and his two brothers. All of them are standing in front of the great wall of China, all with a happy smile on their face.

“You’re a surrogate baby from your papa’s DNA, Joseph is a surrogate baby from my DNA, and we adopted Narrancia. You’re the middle child.” Jonathan looks at the photo with a content smile on his face.

Again, there’s a feeling of something unpleasant in his chest again. It bubbles and raises till it reaches his chest and manifested there.

Ah, it’s envy.

“How about your world?” He asked it caught Giorno off guard, “Are you still my baby in your world?”

Just the way he said it, the way his fond eyes look at him, and the way his massive hand is holding his so gently, it breaks something in him.

“You died in my world, long before I met you, way long. And Dio, your husband, he’s an evil man, your nemesis that wanted to destroy your descendants. Bucciarati died. Narrancia died. I never met Joseph. And I... am a mafia boss. My world is not peaceful, unlike yours.”

They paused, and the silence is giving him chills, so he holds the warm cup tight. Soon, another hand is on top of him. Both of Jonathan’s hand is holding his.

“I see, you’ve lost a lot of people in your life, but I hope no matter what the circumstances in your world, you’re loved either way... Giorno,” Jonathan called, and he finally looks up from his tea, to find his dad looking at him with so much compassion swimming in his eyes.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Oh my, seventeen?” Jonathan doesn’t look disappointed, disquieted might be the more accurate term.

“Why a mafia boss, might I ask?”

“The first affection I had ever received is from a Mafia boss. Ever since I was a child, I only remember suffering, my mother left me home alone often, and her boyfriends abuse me, and my peers are just as bad.” The memory was from so long ago, he holds no grudge against the past, because he’s in a better place now, yet it still pinches him when he revives it in words.

“I grew up where drugs, black market, crime, and corruption runs society. I was one of the people living in the dark and knows it works behind the scene,” and Giorno takes part in that crime department for a while, “Even kids od-ed, it’s getting too out of control. Then I learned that crime and corruption can’t be eradicated, but it can be controlled, someone needs to change the game, to not sell to those kids. Most money-hungry mafias doesn’t care who they sell it to, as long as it makes profit. That’s why I take over... It should’ve been Bucciarati.”

It really should. It doesn’t matter who takes over between them, they have the same dream.

“I see,” Jonathan said in a soft voice, “when you were seventeen here, you’re already winning world competitions of classical piano, so I guess your talent and tenacity is the same as always.” Jonathan chuckled.

“You really are my Giorno. My sweet, courageous, and resilient Giorno.” Jonathan cradles his face and caresses him ever so softly. “I hope, when you leave this world, you’ll never look back.”

Giorno blinks, “Why?” Because he likes it here.

“This,” Jonathan held the framed photo, “You might not be able to have this, but happiness takes different shapes. Perhaps the love you receive can no longer come from me, or your papa, but maybe from someone else. Perhaps not this family, but some kind of a family of your own. Perhaps not my love, not Bruno’s love, but still, love all the same. From someone that cares for you, someone that accepts you, someone that holds you dear through everything.

“I hear your story, and I can only imagine your suffering. It pains me as a parent to hear you’ve been treated so poorly. Come here my sweetheart,” Jonathan stood and pulls Giorno along and into his embrace.

Warmth envelopes him, and Giorno quickly clung to his dad. There's soothing rubs on his back, pleasant humming, and a kiss on top of his head.

There’s something blooming in his heart. As if something touched his heart and it finally feels a degree of warmth for the first time. A sweet filling that just too overwhelming.

Giorno tucks his head into Jonathan’s chest, clinging to his back and hugs him tightly as if not wanting to let go. This is the first time since he was left in the dark as a child, that he cried.

“My darling boy, I really do wish you’ll find happiness in your world,” His hand cradles the back of his neck and he kisses him on the temple. “And you will, I believe you will.”

“How can I padre? How can I? He left me here alone, you left me here alone.” Giorno croaks. For once, he’s a mere seventeen-year-old teenager and he can finally act like it, vulnerable.

“We might’ve left, but I believe you’re not alone, my dear Giorno, you just have to see.”

Then they spent more time just hugging each other, talking languidly about each other until it’s dark out. It feels like a happy little bubble, and Giorno really felt like he has a family, a father.

But their bubble burst at someone screaming from outside the house.

“Giorno! Jonathan, please help!” yells the voice.

Both of them hurry to the window facing the street. There, by the side of the road, Bruno is holding the other Giorno, who’s going see-through and flickering out of existence.

“Oh no, Giorno!” cries Jonathan as he hurriedly leaves the room and runs to the other Giorno, leaving him in the house.

Yes, the bubble has burst. Of course, Jonathan will choose his real son from this world. The envy from seeing them quickly turns into bitter acceptance.

It pains him to see Jonathan looks like his world is ending while holding the other Giorno who keeps losing his opacity. Giorno can’t take his son away from him. Even if that Giorno disappears and he replaces him, it’s never going to be the same. Not in this world maybe.

He opens the window from the other side of the house, and whistles to the sky. Crow flew from the dark sky and tears the space in front of him. Giorno looks back, wishing he could say goodbye... but maybe it’s better this way, or he’ll never want to come back.

He jumps into the portal.

++++ 20 Years Ago ++++

It had not hit Giorno yet when he felt how cold Bruno is when he was driving to the Colosseum. He dismissed it even. It had not hit him even when he sees Bucciarati passes onto the heavens with the golden wind. It had not hit him even when they return to the Colosseum after beating Diavolo, trying to ‘cure’ him.

Mista and Trish were devastated when Giorno had tried everything he can, and Bucciarati just doesn’t wake up anymore. They cried, they screamed, they’re in disbelieve, forgetting the one that’s the most heartbroken is Giorno.

As he held Bucciarati’s body in his arms, his mind can’t seem to register what’s wrong. He had healed every little thing. Every little bruise, wound, even down to scars. Bucciarati’s body is back in perfect health, but he did not wake up.

Mista had tried CPR. Trish tried to slap him. Giorno takes his stand’s hand, and pump his heart, but still nothing.

Trish clung to turtle Polnareff and ran while she cried, Mista goes after her.

Leaving Giorno with Bucciarati’s body.

The sun shines above their heads, hitting Bucciarati’s flawless porcelain skin. It shines like an angel as if he’s still alive.

Giorno feels numb. As realization slowly, cruelly hits him, Bucciarati is gone.

There’s a chunk missing in his chest as if something ruthlessly just takes it away.

His shaking arms can only hold this empty shell that is Bucciarati’s body, while the man he loves no longer in there.

Then, weakly, he held him tightly against him. Kissing him on the lips, while his stand also behind him, hugging Bucciarati’s body.

Suddenly, the empty shell glows, then turns into a sleek black crow, and flew to the sky, as if following his soul to the sky above.

“No!” someone screamed, and Giorno is grabbed by the shoulder.

“Giorno, look at me,” his face is held firmly by the jaw, and in front of his eyes is Mista, in tears.

“I know... I know Giorno! But you’re still here. Let him go.” A pair of arms wrap him tightly. Mista buries his head at the crook of his neck and he feels a wet patch growing on his shoulder.

“Let him go.”

And Giorno didn’t.

++++ Present Day ++++

Twenty glorious years he reigned in Passione. Twenty blissful years he had met countless of Bucciaratis. All is done without regret and without thinking twice.

Yet he wonders why he starts to do so, remembering his choices, his memories, and everything else down the deepest hurt he had. Might be because of the decreasing amount of blood in his body. His feet are slightly swaying but his vision is still together, more or less. Makes him feel the memory even clearer.

If he does this, his chance is 50-50, but if he survives, he gets to live in a place where Bucciarati lives. The portal awaits right below his feet, and the sun is already high. The lights witness his slaughter on the feet of Pisa, and their red blood is stark against the bright green grass.

This might be the last time he gets to use Crow. People had known of his power, and there’s going to be more people targetting him. His choice is to get into the portal, takes a chance.

Either him, or the other him.

“I hope, when you leave this world, you’ll never look back.”

Why? Giorno had asked. Why shouldn’t he? He wanted that world. The world filled with love. With his parents. With Bucciarati.

Because here... he feels empty here.

Unlike Trish, who glows with her new family.

He still feels the sorrow of that day twenty years ago. He couldn’t forget.

Unlike that other Bucciarati.

“I love you, Giorno. If I had died in your universe, it must be because I believe in you. Remember our golden dream.”

He wonders when was it that he forgets it, blinded by the sorrow. It was their golden dream, not Giorno alone. He was 15 years old when he died, taking a piece of Giorno with him. He’s was the one showing him the first sliver of trust, believing in him, and loves him.

They promised that one day after they reach their dreams, they’ll be together.

Giorno had been holding onto that unredeemable promise. Thus he stays as that mourning fifteen-year-old boy.

He wanted that happiness. He wanted that love. He wanted that family.

Isn’t that why Crow is here? To let him obtain all of that, to visit those universes, to be there. To know there’s a better world.

“My darling boy, I really do wish you’ll find happiness in your world.”

“But how can I padre? When my happiness is in yours.”

He’s starting to feel dizzy. Why is he remembering all of this? Was he that close to bleeding to death?

“We might’ve left, but I believe you’re not alone, my dear Giorno, you just have to see.”

“Giorno, look at me,” his face is held firmly by the jaw, and in front of his eyes is Mista, in tears.

Mista had looked at him in fear, sorrow, but he realized now it was not because of Bucciarati. It was for Giorno, and most of all, he looks at him so fondly with love.

How long had Mista looks at him like that? He remembered last month. When Mista kisses him for what he thought was their last time. He looks at him like Giorno is his whole world. The hands that clung to him were weak but desperate.

How long had Mista clung to him like that, like how Giorno clung to Bucciarati.

“Giorno!”

He had chills run down his spine hearing the familiar voice and that familiar scold. Slowly turning back, lo and behold, it’s Mista gasping in breath and covered in sweat.

“Use me!” He screams, carefully stepping closer.

“I don’t know how you still so hung up about him, I don’t understand, but use me as you like. That crow can’t bring him back, but I can mend your pain here, if you just let me! If he’s what you need, let... let me be him for you!”

His eyes desperately reach his. Black onyx orbs glisten under the lights.

As if on cue, the crow cries and flaps its wings. He perched on his forearms, and Giorno looks down again to the portal.

“He’s gone from you, Giorno,” Mista called once again, his voice firm and rightfully angry, “Please, don’t be gone from me too.”

Mista’s voice breaks, and somehow, something inside his ribcage broke too. He leans his face to Crow’s body, holding him close while staring at the portal below. He made eye contact with Crow, and he looks at him like he really did. Like he heard everything, like he understands.

Smiling to himself, Giorno swings his arms. Crow extends his wings and flew to the sun, becoming one with the light, then slowly turns into dust.

He’s instantly pulled from behind and caught in a tight embrace. He had laid with this body for years, and his smell, the feature of his body, so familiar and comfortable it feels like home. How could he forget? How could he sees past Mista’s cherishing arm around him.

With a tearful smile, Giorno holds him back. Laying his face on Mista’s shoulder, while holding onto his back.

“You’ll never replace him, Guido,” Giorno whispered, tilting his held back and hold Mista’s face in his palms. Looking at how broke his expression is, but so patient.

Since when did Mista become the adult? Become this mature, beautiful man before him... Giorno has no right to have him, but Mista had given himself. He’s ashamed that he had turned down the honor for twenty years because of his sorrow.

“You’ll never be Bruno Bucciarati, but you’re Guido Mista, and... I'll look at you from now on.”

Mista smiles, grinning from ear to ear. Giorno had forgotten when was the last time he ever sees Mista with such carefree smile.

“There you are,” he says, closing his eyes and Giorno witness his tears fall before he closes his own eyes when Mista lands a kiss for him.

His languid movement, his arms holding him close. Since the first time he did so, they always say ‘I love you’.

Now, Giorno will listen to all of it. To the love this universe has given to him.

#brugioweek #brugioweek2019 #brugio fanfic #brugio #bruno buccerati #giorno giovanna #Kono Giorno giovanna niwa yume ga aru!

[hazel2468]

Light Like Water from the Sky

Okay, here goes! Chapter 2 of my Jojo fic is ready to post. Hope y’all like it. As usual, I’m putting it under a cut.

No content warnings for now, though in the future there will be for violence, and as of yet undetermined not sfw content.

Chapter 2 (…If I am Anywhere to be Found)

 It was easy to follow the man with the silver hair. He towered over most other people, and his attire meant that he stuck out like a sore thumb amongst locals and tourists alike. How he wasn’t baking to death in all that black on such a sunny day, Ruby didn’t know- nor did she really care. It was possible that tailing him wouldn’t lead to Bruno at all, and she entertained the thought that she would end up walking right back into danger. But her gut told her otherwise, and her gut was rarely wrong.

She ended up back on the main street, weaving amongst the crowd, being careful to stay out of sight. Ruby was rusty- it had been a long time since she had to follow anyone, but this man seemed too sure of himself. Without so much as a backward glance, he turned a corner, and she jogged to catch up. Maybe he thought he scared her off. While the thought irritated her, it was working in her favor. She peered around the corner, taking acre not to jostle her groceries too hard-

And she froze. Standing next to the jerk who had accosted her was a man in a blue and white sweater, wearing a hat (and it looked like it was made of wool… In this heat?) and with a poorly concealed revolver in his waistband. And beside him…

Was Bruno.

He looked the same as she remembered- well, almost the same. Somehow, his suit jacket had gotten even more low cut, and she could see the black lines of a tattoo swirling across his skin. He was frowning at the man in the hat, arms crossed.

“Hey, Bucciarati.” The man with the silver hair raised a hand, waving.

“You’re late, Abbacchio.” Bruno said sternly. Abbacchio, the asshole, shrugged.

“I ran into a bit trouble. Some chick was looking for you. I took care of it.”

“Oh, really?” the man in the hat elbowed Bruno in the ribs lightly, grinning. “Well aren’t you popular.”

“Mista, shove it. And please tell me you weren’t rude, Abbacchio.”

Ruby ducked back behind the wall, stomach tight. He was right there. She should just walk up and say hello- would really show that Abbacchio a thing or two. And while the idea was tempting… She was nervous.

It had been three years. Four, if she started counting from when she left Italy. And four years was a long time, especially in Bruno’s world. She chanced another peek, and it seemed her luck had run out, because this time when she stole a glance at Bruno’s face, their eyes locked.

She nearly dropped her bag, fumbling as an onion tumbled to the ground and rolled away. Cursing, she reached for it, aware that all three of them were watching her now.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Abbacchio rumbled, and she knew that he would be giving her a murderous stare when she looked up. “I told you not to-“

“Ruby?”

Bruno was pushing past Abbacchio, eyes wide, as if he was looking at a ghost. He might as well have been, Ruby thought bitterly- she had basically disappeared on him.

“Hey, Bruno.” She managed, straightening up and tucking the wayward onion back into her bag. “Long time no, see, huh?” What else was she supposed to say? Trying her very hardest to look as casual as possible, she started down the sidewalk towards him. He met her, taking long strides, and he reached for her before hesitating and drawing back.

“May I?” he said, and Ruby broke into a smile.

“Do you even have to ask?” she laughed, before placing her groceries on an unoccupied table and wrapping her arms around him. He responded in kind with a warm chuckle. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too, bella.” He murmured, the little term of endearment sending a shiver down Ruby’s spine. He smelled like cologne and summer, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, willing herself not to cry in front of three Mafiosi. Opening her eyes, she caught a glimpse of Abbacchio over Bruno’s shoulder. He looked decidedly displeased, scowling at her, and she winked at him. “Where have you been?”

“Poland.” She replied, leaning back to fully take him in. His hair was longer than it had been the last time she saw him, and he had half of it done up in a braid at the top of his head. It suited him. “I spent some time in Spain, and Germany, too. But mostly I was with family.” His blue eyes turned sad, and he ran a comforting hand up her arm.

“I heard about your mother… I’m so sorry, cara.” She shook her head.

“It’s alright, really. She was ill. I just… I couldn’t come back so soon after. I should have kept in touch, I’m s-“ he placed a long finger to her lips.

“It’s okay, Ruby. You’re back now. That’s what matters.” Bruno was beaming again, and she gave him an appraising once-over, raising an eyebrow at his eccentric suit.

“I see you’re still a fan of polka-dots.” She said with a smirk. “You look good, bello. And what’s this I hear about you being some kind of big-shot now?”

“That’s a long story.” Bruno said, wrinkling his nose at her. “Besides, I hardly think I’m the one who looks good. Stunning, as always.”

“Tu provichi!” Ruby swatted lightly at his arm and he laughed again, the sound echoing down the street. “There’s so much I want to talk about… But it would seem,” she gestured over his shoulder at the other two. “That I’m keeping you?”

“Ah…” his face fell. “I’m sorry, bella. I don’t-“

“Bruno, really. Don’t worry about it. You have to go do your capo business, and I have to get the groceries home for dinner. Tell you what.” She rummaged in her purse for a pen and then tore a scrap of brown paper from her grocery bag. “I’m back. I got an apartment, and I’m working with Papa in the shop again.” She bent over the table, scribbling her number down and then thrusting the paper at Bruno. “Call me anytime. Or text me. I always have time for you, caro.” He took it, and she gathered up her shopping. “I’ll leave you to it- I think Bela Legosi is about to blow a fuse.”

Bruno snorted as Abbacchio huffed indignantly, turning tail and stalking into the restaurant. “I’ll be in touch.”

“You better. Ciao, Bruno.” She grasped his hand, entwining their fingers for a moment before spinning around and making her way back towards the main road, smiling and feeling lighter than she had all day.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Bruno had been staring down at the scrap of paper in his hands for the last ten minutes, transfixed by the curly numbers and scribble of Ruby’s name in the corner.

“Earth to Bucciarati? Hello?” Mista was waving a hand in his face, and Bruno jumped. The gunslinger was grinning at him, eyes wide and bright. “So… Are you going to explain what the hell that was?”

“…I don’t know what you mean.” Bruno said. Abbacchio was glaring at his glass of wine, clearly irritated.

“Can’t believe she fucking followed me. What a little…”

Narancia and Fugo, who had been pouring over some equations when the other three entered, were now watching with curiosity as Mista continued to prod Bruno.

“Come on, Bucciarati! Who is she? Don’t leave us hanging!” Bruno frowned as Mista dropped back into his seat, pulling his gun from his pants and snapping open the chamber. The Pistols clambered out and over his hand, squabbling as he held out a piece of cured meat to them.

“She’s… an old friend.” Bruno said, rubbing the paper between finger and thumb. “I… I should just throw this out.” Mista choked on his water, coughing until Abbacchio leaned over and thumped him heavily on his back.

“Throw it out? We were both looking at the same person, right?” he said when he finally recovered, throat gravelly. “Shit, if you don’t want her number, I’ll take it!” Bruno chewed his lower lip, sparing another glance for Abbacchio. He was angrily swirling his drink now, eyes dark.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Abbacchio.” Bruno said. “That’s just Ruby.”

“What kind of…short person follows a fucking gangster around?” Abbacchio snarled in response. “Is she trying to get herself killed?”

“What does being short have to do with it?” Narancia interjected, leaning over the table to glare at Abbacchio, who scoffed.

“She’s even smaller than you.” He said. Mista chuckled, squinting at Narancia.

“Damn. And she stood up to you, Abbacchio? She’s got guts. Didn’t you say she pulled a knife on you?”

Bruno gave Abbacchio a firm pat on the shoulder, suppressing a chuckle as his teammate glowered up at the ceiling. “Yeah, she did. Slippery little thing.”

“She sounds it-  But you’re avoiding the subject, Bucciarati.” Mista said, and Bruno bit back a groan. Damn, he was persistent. “So, she’s an old friend. And you sure seemed happy to see her… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you hug anyone.”

“He hugged her?” Narancia said through a mouthful of food. “You can’t just HUG someone and then ditch their number!”

“I don’t think that’s how hugs work, Narancia.” Fugo said. “Still… He has a point, Bucciarati. That would be a little rude.”

“What’s the harm in texting her?” Mista asked, pushing Number Three away from Number Five as they tussled over a grape. “I mean, she asked you to.”

“The harm,” Abbacchio said, before Bruno could answer, “Is that she clearly has no sense of self-preservation.”

“I think you’re just mad that she got the best of you.” Narancia said, ducking behind Fugo as Abbacchio snarled in his direction. Bruno looked back down at the paper, and then pulled his phone from his pocket. Mista cheered.

“I’m just saying hello.” Bruno said, before he could go on another tangent about pretty girls and dates. “When I need your advice, I’ll ask for it.” Mista grumbled, and Narancia began craning his neck, trying to get a look at the little screen until Fugo pulled him back down into his seat.

Bruno wrote and re-wrote the message three times. It was only when Abbacchio, who was watching him, made an impatient sound that he bit the bullet and sent it.

‘I would love to catch up sometime, bella.’

The fact that she clearly didn’t have his number anymore put the ball squarely in his court. Bruno didn’t want to come across as too pushy or eager, no matter how excited he was to see her again-

His phone pinged before he could even place it on the table.

‘I’m free evenings and weekends. If that works with your tough-guy schedule.’

He laughed, and then Narancia and Mista were hanging over him, shoving one another as they tried to read the message over his shoulders. Turning his back on them, he replied-

‘Coffee and a walk Friday evening?’

This time, he managed to get his phone into his pocket and gave his two rowdy subordinates a look and a short lecture. Mista kept grumbling about his lack of ‘romantic undertones’ and Narancia peppered him with questions about Ruby. When Fugo interjected that he doubted Mista knew anything about romance and they dissolved into debate, Bruno felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He smiled- he didn’t need to look now.

He knew what her answer would be.

#my writing #fanfiction #jojo #jjba #jjba part 5 #poly bruabba #light like water #i'm having a LOT of fun writing this #like #a lot of fun #also you know #i'm self-quarantined so not much else to do #also #please forgive my shitty italian #i spent like a full day looking shit up #but i'm not sure if it's right #my search history is now full of just #italian curses and terms of endearment

[semicolonthefifth]

CROSS Ch4 - You Rascal You

A couple hours had passed since then. The music-player had been cycling through several songs and had eventually settled on “Run’ Em Off” by Lefty Frizzel - a moderately cheery Old Earth Western tune. Charlie recalled hearing Jason groan quite audibly when it played.

Charlie had never seen a man drink seven full, large glasses at a bar in one sitting - especially not without losing control of their higher brain functions.

Yet there he was - the man he’d come to know as Jason Cross. Gunslinger; bounty hunter; one of a two man team, part of a famed group that would take down raiders through skill and knowledge of the land. He was a man he only knew as a wondrous tale of wasteland justice; and there he was, chugging alcohol as if he was competing for the world’s biggest drunkard. Yet at his 8th glass in the man stood. At least that was something worth admiring.

Frankie, meanwhile, was all too busy admiring the book - his nose deep into the pages cataloging the history of Aurora. He gazed with sheer joy in detail of every photo, sometimes turning back a page just to re-admire it some more. He let Charlie and Jason be, all while he was content with catching up on the knowhow of the world.

Charlie coughed a bit before asking politely through some discomfort, “Um, Mr. Cross?”

Jason held a finger up, silencing Charlie while he finishes his latest order. After a few large gulps does he finish, letting out a long and heavy sigh. A quietness comes after, with Jason staring off into space. Charlie almost gets a word in before Jason then speaks up.

“Fuckin’ genetics, I swear to God.” He softly complains. “I should be dead now, or at least hammered. Why am I always drawing the worst luck?”

“Yeah… was about to ask about that.” Charlie wonders aloud with a worried tone. “How are you still talking, or in fact… standing?”

“Call it a curse.” Coldly replies Jason. “Let’s just say my body ain’t built like most others if my height ain’t a strong hint by now. Don’t want to get into it though… way too personal.”

“And what I just learned WASN’T personal already?”

Jason groaned more, head brought down with a thumb squeezing at his temple. His injured hand was deep into a plate of ice, half already melted at this point - all while his free hand tends to the headache. His brain was ringing a bit, but it wasn’t the alcohol that was running deep in his body. Repressed memories kept clawing out, and trying to bury them further was hurting his head more than it was worth. With a strong flavorful exhale, he picks his head back up and looks at Charlie.

“Alright, what do you want to know?”

“Y-... You serious?” Charlie asks, a bit concerned for his own safety as he was for Jason’s.

“More than I’m not.” Jason states, with hints of a tired slurring in his speech. “I’m half thinking of running out of here, but considering how shit my luck has been I don’t want to run the risk of something worse happening out there. So… ask away. Might as well ride this newfound awfulness till it ends.”

“Ok, ok…” Charlie collects himself, doing a couple of deep breaths before taking a professional, presentable angle to speak with Jason. “You are Jason Cross. Brother to Frederick Cross. Member of the Crimson Crosses, one of the most famous militia groups on the Black Road, here on on Aurora. Aaaaaand you’ve druken enough ale in one sitting to knock out a man.”

“Yup, unfortunately yes, absolutely no, and not even close.” Answers Jason with a tired look. “Fred and I haven’t been brothers for about… 5 years now. Not a word said to each other since, that I’m certain of. I’ve also not been a member of that damn group for the same amount of time - all entirely my choice. As for the drinking, I’m not close… not a little. I think I can handle some more.”

“But why?” Charlie asked, genuinely concerned - the wideness of his eyes like a boy hearing that his childhood hero was fake all along. “You two were fantastic. I’ve gotten so many stories collected about you guys. All the adventures you’ve taken, and the good you’ve done.”

He quickly snatches his collection book from Frankie, turning a large chunk of pages to a chapter highlighting the many achievements of the Crimson Crosses. There were stylized posters and photographs, all of them singing praise upon the Crosses and their exploits. Charlie began listing them off, all with a sense of innocent pride in his voice. “Here - this one’s about you guys facing off against a crook known as the Silver Stallion. And look here! ‘The Cross Brothers, and the Attack of the Screaming Mimmies!’, a widely-seen classic. Then there’s this one where you fended off a swarm of Kodvacs from ravaging some farms. You guys were heroes!”

Jason takes a glance at the photos, the memories coming back again. With it comes that tremble behind his eyes, a sharp pinch he tries to ignore before stating coldly, “Yeah, but that was long, long ago. Told you: Fred and I ain’t brothers no more. Those adventures don’t mean anything, not when things are so fucked right now. The Crimson Crosses weren’t meant to last with how they operated.”

“Why’s that?”

With a harsh cough, Jason continues. “All Frederick was concerned about was tradition, that’s it. He wanted to keep everything like it was in the old west days. How we lives; how we operated; how we even talked - if, again, you hadn’t noticed. Meanwhile, I wanted to have us improve and modernize; he thought I was ‘ruining things’, and said I had no respect. Eventually I said ‘fuck it’ and left. Left him and that group to rot.”

“That’s it?” Charlie asked softly, yet still curious. “Couldn’t talk it out?”

“Nope, and I don’t care anymore to ever return to it. I got my own thing, and he’s got his. Out here I’ve been handling myself fine these past years. Sure, there've been some… rough parts.” Jason pauses, out of the alcohol in his system or his own emotions is unclear. “Still, I can survive. Can’t say the same thing about the Crimson Crosses, but that don’t matter.”

“That’s unfortunate to hear…” Charlie said softly, looking rather devastated. Jason noticed, but he didn’t much care for it. Suddenly then, Charlie thought of something and proceeded to ask, “Well, it wouldn’t be so bad to talk to him again, right? Maybe catch up on some things? Make amends?”

“Oh to hell with that noise!” Jason shoots back. “I got better things to do.”

Frankie slides the book back to his reach, getting back into his reading as he chimes in with, “Yeah, Jason’s his own man now. Riding around, bounty hunting for the government. Last I heard he got a lead on some guy for a high price - Sid was it?” He shoots a toothy smile at Jason, exclaiming, “Ain’t that right, Jason?”

His smile suddenly weakens once he’s face to face with the sheer, utter misery emanating from Jason’s sour expression. Frankie moves away, chuckling nervously, “I uh… take it that the job didn’t go so nicely?”

Then, a THUD!

Jason’s head slumps onto the table - his face directed down, all the while he admits to his company, “Nothing’s been going nicely. Killed the bastard, but didn’t mean - then I just embarrass myself and get my fingers fucked over when I turn in the bounty. I didn’t even get a single cred for all that trouble. Seems like my luck has just about run out. Everywhere I turn to, everywhere I go… something goes wrong. Sometimes it feels like the universe is just making me out to be a joke. Sometimes… I just wish I weren’t me.”

“Now, come on Jason.” Frankie softly replies, lending a comforting hand upon Jason’s shoulder. “You ain’t unlucky. It's just some bad circumstances. You’ll pull through in no time, I’m sure of it.”

Jason tries to feel a little better, though by now it was a feat that felt harder to get over than any mountain along this cursed world. The reassurance does not last though, as a couple new guests come in through the back of the bar to join in for the night.

The two men were broad in shape, and both quite physically intimidating. One man was quite fat, with a big bushy, coal-black beard alongside a long length of hair from his pinkish head, and a slew of tattooed flames along his muscular arms. The other was far more fit and tall in appearance - white skinned and clean shaven, with dark blonde hair shortened to a buzz cut. His lower jaw jutted outward, often times showing a small row of yellowed teeth. Despite their differences, they dressed very similarly: black leather jackets; dark-red colored shirts with white horizontal stripes; brown, dirtied pants that tucked into their black boots. Each man had a knife prominently sheathed at their belts on one side, but the fatter one has a sawed-off shotgun in his hand.

Jason’s company immediately took notice of them, with Charlie quickly collecting his book back into the backpack while Frankie remains mostly still in his seat. Meanwhile, Jason was too mentally exhausted to even see them; he kept one hand one the ice and the other on the table, all the while groaning every now and then.

The Bartender also saw them - doing a table-take before moving himself away. As the two men slowly made their way to the trio, he observed carefully from where he stood.

Once the two men reached the others, the fit one of the pair looked over them with a brutish scowl - all the while his fatter friend circled over in a slow pace so as to flank the group. Frankie, nervous though smiling, tries being civil, “Hey there uh… friends. You needin’ something?”

Charlie wrapped his arms tight around his back, sticking extremely close to Frankie. The fit-bodied brute unclenches his jaw, cracking it as he adjusts it before speaking in a thick drawl, “Name’s Jessup, ‘friend’... and he’s Burk” He adds, nodding to his partner. “We here juss’ to be lookin’. No issue in’at, yeah? Juss’ a couple guys coming in for a drink is all.”

He leans close from where he stands, while his hands are kept to his side - very close to to his knife where it’s plainly seen. His mouth hangs crooked at times,with lips dipping down obnoxiously. Jessup continues, “Have been runnin’ down the road and back all nigh’ long. Going down the ways and makin’ our mark cross the dunes. We juss’ abou’ looking fer’ someone who’s causing us some problems up on ‘dere road. Wen’ in and murdered a friend of ours… and ‘den carried him off.”

A nervous chuckle escapes from Frankie’s lips, which he fails to contain as the goon Burk completes his slow round. The man gets closer to Jason, examining as best he could. Meanwhile Frankie insists, “Hadn’t seen anyone like that, sir. How do you even know your friend was killed anyhow? Maybe he ran off somewhere?”

Jessup doesn’t flinch or change his expression, instead adding, “Oh, we know he killed him. Supposed to come meet us back, and gave us some warning ‘case any problem were to come his way. ‘Course he never came back, so we checked on a bar he said he were goin’ for. ‘Course we found his body by ‘dere road - put away by his killer. Followed on over ‘tword’s dat bars he mentioned, and then soon enuff one of ‘dem squealed about who done it.”

He slowly rises back, cracking his neck and jaw as he towers over everyone. The knife by his belt tapped by his muscular hands, tense and ready. “Roughed up the owner pretty good - probably hurt his friends just as fierce, I reckon. ‘Ventually he gave a name and some general idea on where he gone on and fled. About put us through a good couple’a hours, but we got the run on the man. Man were described as a blonde, big fella - red bandanna ‘round his head, and got a vest ‘longside some goggles. Name were…. Jason Cross. That soundin’ familiar?”

Charlie was fiercely shaking in his seat, while Frankie had lost all the color and optimism in his face. The corners of Jessup’s lips curled up a bit upon seeing their reactions before he slowly turns his gaze right towards Jason. He asks with a soft intimidation, “Him, eh? Am I gettin’ right?”

Before either could answer, Jessup starts moving over. Frankie attempts to stop him by getting in front, but is quickly stopped when Jessup snatches his arms and slams the man against the table. Pinned, Frankie struggles as Jessup steals the man’s sidearm, keeping it away while his friend Burk makes his move. The Bartender can’t do anything to help, as Jessup aims the stolen gun right at the owner.

“Don’t be gettin’ any bright ideas, fella.” Jessup growls through gritted teeth. “We only wantin’ one dead man today, so don’t push us to make room for four. Keep yo’self out of our business if you know what’s good for ya���.”

All the while Burk holds up his shotgun, tapping Jason on the shoulder with a free hand while the gun was aimed. Jason stirs, looking lazily at the two as his mind starts to catch up on things. When he finally puts two and two together, he winces and groans, letting out a slow, tired, “Oh, damn it. It’s me, right? Of-fucking-course it’s me… it always got to be me.”

“Get up!” Shouts Burk, striking the butt of his shotgun at Jason’s back. Jason barely reacts, not even out of pain. His head is giving him all sorts of ringings and fog. It’s like an ongoing fireworks event is bouncing around in his head, and it ain’t letting up anytime soon. There’s enough awareness to get him to hold his hands up slowly, though he still groans in doing so.

“I’m coming, I’m coming… just give me a second ok?” Jason slurs in his remark. “My head’s a bit fuzzy.” He lightly shakes his head, not so much to push the intruders into making the problem any worse than it should. Afterwards, he suggests, “Mind we take this outside? I’d rather not die in a bar, personally speaking. I think that’s not gonna do me any favors for me after I’m dead.”

“No chance there, friend.” Jessup chimes in. “Boss wantin’ you dead. Right here, so nobody be goin’ and messin’ with us again.”

“Yeah!” Adds Burk, “So pipe down! Else, we make this a slow one.”

Jason blinked, his expression a mix of confusion, intoxication, and grumpiness. Some of it brought by the situation, part of it by the music. Just as his whole world was turning upside down; just when it seemed he was about to be done in at the worst possible way - the universe throws another wrench at the burning tractor that was Jason’s life.

Blaring from the radio like an insane bastard was about the worst song that could play at that moment: “Paraylized” by the Legendary Stardust Cowboy. It screeched with a mix of unintelligible lyrics screamed aloud, alongside a set of banging drums and cymbals. All that noise turned the fireworks in Jason’s head into a lineup of air horns playing simultaneously. It woke Jason’s sense quick, but at the cost of knowing that this song would be what followed him into the afterlife. If disappointment could kill, it would’ve done him away three times by now.

He held a finger up as he stared back between the music-player and the two goons. Then he begged, meaning it when he says, “Listen… if I’m dying, can I make one last request?”

Jessup pursed his lips, sighing gravely, “Yeah?”

“Please.” Jason pleaded aggressively, “Can I please change the song? I’ll die, alright, but it shouldn’t be to this. It can’t be to this. Anything but that piece of crap.”

All of them glanced towards the music player, to which even Jessup and his partner looked troubled at. Eye-twitching, it almost seemed heartless to make THAT the last thing for someone to hear before they die. After a moment he stepped aside, nodding to Burk to let Jason move ahead - though to keep his gun aimed still.

Slowly, on the death mark, Jason Cross makes his way to the player. He twitched and frowned at every incomprehensible shout from the singer, but prayed and gave thanks to the universe that - at the very least - he could change it before he died. For a moment he thought how easy it would be to run out through the hallway at this point, then out the back - but he knows that was his fear talking; were he to leave, it would only put his friends in danger in his stead. After a long, slow walk he made it to the music-player, studying it for a moment.

It was a neat little invention, inspired by the more modern techs made in the 21st century of the Old Earth. The player was a small rectangular box with a screen monitor that, when touched, would respond to the users action. It had a series of wires going into the walls, likely into the several speakers hidden throughout the saloon. The box was a brown color, to better match the area, but also dusted with age. The screen lit up past the dust, a sign that few ever come to change the music themselves. When Jason scrolled through the selection, he found it to be near infinite, thanks in part to the incredible storage this little box held. As he scrolled, he cycled through what music was available - as he couldn’t afford the time to be picky.

There were all sorts of songs, most of which had a country feel. There were variations of grunge, rock, and easy listening throughout the pre-selected library. Jason recognized some names: Eddie Arnold, the Larks, Dick Dale, along with some Van Morrison. He felt the clock ticking - he had to find something, anything.

If Jason Cross were to die today, he ought to die to something different.

He hovered his fingers to the monitor, closed his eyes, and picked a song at random.

Then, silence.

Nothing.

Soon, a screech - Jason’s ears perk and he cringes.

A guitar strums. The drums follow. There’s a beat that hits hard.

Jason’s eyes slowly open, and then his body eases. He turns away from the music player, and right there simply lets the music hit him. The lyrics come, sung by a dry voice that speaks of a rascal to be made dead. The song hits Jason in the way he needed, as if it woke him up - and pointed him on a path right back to those men.

For the first time in a long while, though he cannot say how, Jason felt good. A sensation crawls up his spine, and a light breathless chuckle erupts out softly.

The two men look confused, but Jessup is quick to shout in a pissed off tone, “Alright ‘den! Get on back ‘ere, Cross! It’s about time you died!”

Jason looks at them, and after a look around he slowly makes his way back. Being careful, he grabs something off the hallway wall and keeps it right close.

He moves further towards the two, stopping just right before them. Jason’s friends are unable to do much at this time, and the Bartender is just as stuck. His attention is immediately drawn to Jessup, whose lip twists into a grin - his bottom lip still sagging, enough to show his browned gums. Burk’s shotgun is aimed at the ready, and Jessup asks,

“Any final words?”

Jason doesn’t nod or shift for that moment, instead staring intensely right back at Jessup as he answers back, “Yeah…”

“...Draw.”

Quick as a flash! Jason flips his hands and produces a revolver, aimed right at Jessup’s throat. Both men were taken by surprise - the gun was too quick to register before it had already pinned close to his jugular. Jessup chokes a bit out of reflex, but he keeps his cool. He looks at Jason, right into his eyes - through the goggles he can see pure anger daggered right back with an odd greenish spark.

Rob is left surprised, holding the shotgun as he tries to get what had just happened. For a moment his eyes concentrate on the gun Jason’s holding.

“You be goin’ and making a big mistake.” Jessup scowls, spitting at his t’s and k’s.

Jason doesn’t give. He returns in kind, fierly. “I’ll be the fucking judge of that.”

Rob looks closer at the gun. He squints, and thinks aloud, “Is that a--”

SMASH! Shards of white porcelain and half-melted ice fall everywhere. Frankie is risen off his seat, holding a broken plate while all the other pieces are spread about or wedges into Burk’s head. The fat brute recoils in pain; the shotgun is lowered before it’s finally dropped.

Jason takes the opportunity, smacking the revolver upside the brutes head. Hard. Jessup falls to the side, also dropping the gun he’d stolen from Frankie before it slides far away.

Angry, Burk gets up and charges at Jason - he tackles him against the bar table and begins to lay down a series of heavy strikes against Jason’s face and body. Pinned down, Jason tries to fight back against the blows, by kicking against his fatter opponent. All the while the Bartender finally gets the chance to join in and tries to push Burk off Jason - as well, Frankie and Charlie try their best to smack at the man.

Not content with just punching, Burk ignored everything before pulling his knife from off his belt and goes for the stab.

The blade swings wildly, causing everybody around the two to step back to dodge. Burk’s hand raises high for the moment and he strikes down, landing a deep stab into the table - near Jason’s neck.

Jason keeps moving, but the man pulls and goes again for the kill - close enough to nick him on the cheek.

After a couple more swings, and a hefty shove to push everyone away, Burk slams the knife down. A hard scream is heard! Blood shoots up as the knife pierces Jason’s left shoulder!

It twists, and suddenly Jason’s adrenaline hikes up enough for him to launch the man away with a fierce kick - pushing him off and onto the floor.

Jason gets up, breathing harshly as his pained growls start to sound like a pained beast. He doesn’t have time to register the knife stuck on him, but instead his attention is immediately directed at the goon that put it there. Through the tinted goggles, all Jason could see was red.

Before Burk could even move an inch or utter a word, he’s quickly overcome by Jason - who starts to beat him with the gun he picked off the wall. Fierce blow after blow is unleashed upon the man, fueled by pure, unadulterated anger.

The others are frozen in terror. Jason goes mad with his beatings. With Burk on his ass and against the wall, there was nowhere to turn to to escape Jason’s pummeling. He’s beaten down by the gun; slammed in the face by Jason’s knee; his head kicked in by a downward stomp. In between the pain he could only catch a glimpse of how bull mad Jason was, and nothing more. Even when Jason loses his grip of the gun through the blood, he still keeps at it with his fist.

Blood splatters, against walls, tables, and chairs. The bar echoes with violent thuds and hectic breathing. Frankie, Charlie, and the Bartender watch Jason beat the man down - too shocked to get in the way. It’s hard, at this point, to even recognize the intruder’s face… or to know if he was even still alive at this point.

Meanwhile, as Jason keeps hitting, Jessup recovers and wakes from his blow. He spits some blood and a couple teeth onto the floor, before noticing the bloodied revolver that Jason struck him with - on the floor and within his reach. Struggling, he makes the grab and picks it up before aiming it right at Jason.

Jason finally notices, as does everyone else who all stare down at the grinning Jessup. Breathing hotly, and with his arms exhausted and blood-stained, Jason doesn’t do much, nor does he react strongly. All he does is look down at the injured brute aiming the gun.

Jessup lets out a pained laugh, with blood dripping off his lip. “All ya’ll are so dead. Every las’ fucking one of ya! Ain’t gonna be a soul alive once Boss Lars is done with you.”

He cackles and bleeds before pulling the trigger!

Nothing.

Not even a click.

His expression instantly sours into utter shock as he then turns the revolver - it is a replica. A fake.

Then he hears something getting picked off the floor. Looking up, he sees Jason holding Rob’s shotgun with one hand - aimed right at Jessup’s face.

Jason glares down at him, then, with barely restrained rage, states, 

“I’d like to see you try.”

Click.

BANG! Ca-click, BANG!

The bar is showered by a large mist of blood. From where Jessup’s head once was, there is now only a mess of gore splattered all over the floor. Two walls are covered in blood and brain matter, and much of the bar table is colored in similar red. Trickles of it hit everyone, but not as much as it hits Jason.

Frankie, after a long pause of shock, lays against the table as he pants and wipes the blood off his face. He tries to look for his gun, but mentally puts that off for later.

Charlie stares on like a deer in headlights. He stands completely straight, as he looks on. Frightened, shocked… amazed, though he doesn’t say.

The Bartender is the least emotional or reactionary of them all. He takes a deep breath before slowly making his way to the back closet at the end of the bar.

Then there was Jason, standing there. A shotgun in one hand, and a knife wedged deep into his shoulder. He stands tough, breathing heavily as he finally has time to register all the wounds inflicted upon his face and body. It hurts, and it’s going to hurt even more.

As if on auto-pilot, Jason starts walking out of the saloon’s front door and doesn’t say a word. His friends take notice and start moving after him.

Right outside, the people of Blondie gather around the bar. They’ve since been woken up from the commotion in the saloon, and everyone from the craftsman, the traders, the local priest, the carers and the watchmen come to see what had happened. Even the Mayor has come out, dressed in his nightly finest, as he stands front and center along his people - men and women, young and elderly alike.

They had just come once the gunfire caught their attention, and were debating amongst themselves on who would be first to enter before they see Jason exit out from the building. They stand, shocked in seeing the bloodied Jason Cross walk out from the saloon - sporting a shotgun in one hand, and a knife jutting out his shoulder. Then, coming right after him was Frankie and Charlie, who both start to stare with uncertainty in what to do now. Frankie’s first instinct is to calm everyone, but he isn’t able to get a word in… not before Jason.

Crazed thoughts run through Jason’s mind alongside a constant ringing - a ringing that felt like it never left him, and he can’t remember a time where it wasn’t following alongside him to begin with. The pain is too strong, it’s catching up to his brain now. The drinking has finally come to the station, and it’s not kind to let the pain have its way on his senses. There’s nothing but noise, and through it Jason can only think sparse thoughts.

‘Can’t say my name.’

‘All I get is trouble.’

‘All my name brings is trouble.’

‘Have to say something.’

‘Have to say something now.’

‘Sometimes… I just wish I weren’t me.’

Jason drops the shotgun, and with that he then holds both his arms up as best he could. Then, with a crooked grin, he announces aloud, “People of Blondie. My name… is Frederick Cross… and I just saved the day.”

The crowd murmurs, and some look outright shocked. Shocked… and excited. The Mayor looks outright pleased.

Jason grins some more and chuckles, all before proceeding to fall backwards onto the unforgiving ground.

The last thing he sees before blacking out are the crowd of people coming to his body. As well, the concerned looks on both Frankie and Charlie’s faces.

The people of Blondie never stopped talking that night: of the man who saved their town from a couple of gun-toting hooligans, and the very name he bore.

Frederick Cross.

#CROSS #my writing #eyeofsemicolon #the5thsemicolon #semicolonthefifth #KRONOS #western #science fiction #sci fi

[cole-tudor-blog]

Character Profile

First Name: Cole

Surname: Tudor

Age: 19

Gender: Male

Height: 5'2

Weight: 120lbs

Sexuality: Homoromantic Asexual

Likes: Cole likes sweet things, whether it be normal food, healthy or unhealthy. He also enjoys adventurous activities, though not if it is potentially dangerous. His favourite type of people to befriend are definitely people who don't just echo him or others, as in copying their actions/words, and can rely on themselves as much as relying on others.

Dislikes: Sour things more than anything, and he can't handle spicy food either. He hates being bored with nothing to do, along with having too much on his plate to complete. It makes him very stressed. He can't deal with people who tease him about every little thing he does, such as height, his looks, clothes, things like that. It makes him feel insecure.

Personality: He sees himself as a pretty average guy, aside from the few combat abilities and skills he has. So he doesn't think much of himself. He is naive, gullible and sees the best in everybody, no matter what wrong-doings they did in the past or what they have done to him. He is optimistic to the point where it actually becomes worrisome to people around him, but his optimism can also kick in at very inconvenient times or when it really isn't appropriate for the situation.

Is seen by others as: Similar to how he thinks of himself, a pretty average guy. His friends describe him as great to be around and uplifting, and a great source of comfort. Also sometimes compared to a puppy - as several features of him could be described with the word "small".

Personality quirks: Almost brutally honest, and can't even bring himself to say the smallest lie. This presents itself as a flaw in multiple situations, especially when he has to go through with a lie in a dire situation. He also has a knack to separate lies from the truth rather easily. And, if he isn't spotted lost in a hallway or doing something, he's asleep. That's that, he takes constant naps but never sleeps at night when he's supposed to.

Casual outfit: A green hoodie (usually has the hood up) with a plain black shirt underneath. He wears dark blue jeans which are a little too big for him, as they become looser at the ankle area and cover his foot slightly. He wears black and white trainers underneath them, with smaller white socks.

Hair colour, style: His hair is brunette and messy, rather spiky but surprisingly soft. He jokes that his hair fights back against brushes and combs because every single time they are used, they get tangled and it just doesn't work out.

Eye colour: His eyes are brown, and they tend to turn a more orange colour when in direct sunlight or outside.

Facial features: Freckles, a small "button" nose, and his cheeks and ears are naturally tinted red against his slightly paler skin.

Physical quirks: He's short, and gets teased about this a lot. Though he has become almost immune to the "haha, you're small" tease because he literally just grew up with it. His hoodie is also a way to tell it's him, because he almost never takes that thing off, aside from when he's going to sleep or if it needs washed.

Background: He was raised in a containment facility along with other children around his age, most of them at least a couple years older than him. The leader/boss of the facility went by the name of Lewis Sandoval, and the name of the facility was "RTA". It was an abbreviation for something. For what? He doesn't know.

There, they would be trained in mostly gunslinging and hand-to-hand combat throughout their lives, getting more and more difficult as they grew or, went up the "ranks". They would not compete against each other - they were taught to trust each other. But just to trust the people they grew up with. Nobody else.

They used the fact that he was pretty average-looking to their advantage, using him as an assassin at the age of 14. He would have gone through around 8 years of actual training at that point. He was given a target list, along with the location, and a way to get there the quickest. He would also be given a time frame depending on how they wanted the job done.

Sometimes they wanted the job done quickly. The time he would have for that would be around 4-5 hours. Sometimes they wanted the job to be done right, especially if it was going to be difficult. Then maybe a few months, if he kept in close contact of course.

When the deed was done and the person was killed, he was to report back with evidence of the murder immediately. If he forgot the evidence or didn't do it within the time frame, he would be punished with isolation and starvation for around a week.

There was a specific room he can remember, a very small enclosed space and he could hardly breathe in there - it constantly felt like he was running out of oxygen. He wouldn't be able to see anything or hear anything. He was sometimes left in there for a day or so when they gave him just the right amount of sustenance for him to crave more, but enough for him to at least live through it.

When he grew and was no longer foolish enough to believe the obvious lies they were being told, he tried to make a plan with the rest of the group to escape. He did get a few people to help him with the plan. Others refused because the punishment would be unbearable, or they thought that even if they did escape, they would have nowhere to return to.

With the help of others, he was able to escape when he convinced the leader to let him have a mission with the people who agreed to escape with him. When they were sent off to find the target, they never did the job, and they never returned. Although that was clearly the right option, he was raised in that place. And he was taught to trust that authority. That very, very bad authority.

He was found when he was set on his own, the others having also went off on their own to seek shelter themselves. They didn't want to stay as a group in case they were all discovered, it would be more discreet if they just went off by themselves instead of staying in a big group.

Target sheets were spotted by some members of SHIELD, and so as a result of them worrying about some kind of bigger organization, which in the end, there was - he was taken in for questioning. He refused to answer any questions at first, but when he did open up, they allowed him to stay there. He isn't trustworthy, they have to keep an eye on him, but he would at most be useful if this organization sends people to try and kill the Avengers, or if the entire organization is sent.

Tickling info-

Lee: His laugh is notably high-pitched and squeaky. It's very loud, too, squeals turn to snorts if he is tickled for long enough. He doesn't flail, surprisingly - though he does grab onto the ler's wrist hard enough to cut off circulation. He lets go if they say it's bothering them though and just turns to gripping onto whatever surface is around him as he tries not to hurt the ler. No, he will not defend himself or fight back. Verbal teases get him the most. He will use his arms to cover his face though if that happens. He can't take it. It's so embarrassing to him.

Ler: Very teasy, he can't take what he dishes out. He's a fan of pinning down the lee or immobilizing them as much as he can, because he's small, and he can easily be pushed away. Raspberries are his favourite weapon, and he becomes ruthless if the lee is cheeky or stubborn. Respectful of people's boundaries, though. He's also very willing to do anything the lee wants him to. Like, if the lee wants him to tickle them in a specific area or if somebody has a favourite spot, he'll definitely focus on it. Despite being ruthless, he isn't too mean as a ler.

Worst spot(s): Belly, feet and hips. Worst out of all of them has to be his feet, though.

Favourite spot(s): Belly with softer tickles.

#tw starvation #starvation tw #tw isolation #isolation tw #character profile #hopefully i got everything i needed in here #oc profile #marvel