#Slow life in missouri

[adaywithme]

Embracing a calm and mindful daily ritual.

[aheathen-conceivably]

In the first weeks of 1930, a slow passenger train rode through the desert hills of New Mexico. It had begun its journey in the city of New Orleans before heading north alongside the snaking brown waters of the Mississippi River.

From there it had stopped in St. Louis, Missouri before it turned back south, following old pioneer trails as it cut through the American Southwest on the way to its final destination in Los Angeles, California.

In one of the cars, the light, determined click of a woman's heels fell in line with the rhythm of the rails below her feet. The sound had defined her life for weeks, yet she found it just as droning now as the day she had first boarded the train. She made her way from her own cabin, where her niece and brother were spending the final hour of their journey, to the room where her soon to be sister-in-law was readying herself. 

As she approached the door a rail attendant appeared in the car to alert the passengers, “Next stop Strangerville, New Mexico! All passengers ready your luggage! I repeat all passengers ready your luggage!”

Josephine increased her pace and rapped loudly on the door, wanting to ensure that her arrival could be heard above the railway attendant's call in the next car. A small voice told her to enter, barely audible alongside the thundering sound from below.

Josephine entered Zelda and Antoine's suite, which was larger than the one she had shared with Violette during the journey. Half smoked cigarettes and thrice-read books clattered against opulently carved woodwork bolted to the walls. Amidst it all stood Zelda in a white silk wedding dress, preoccupied with her reflection as she pinned a final curl in a perfect curve.

For a moment Josephine forgot the rail’s droning sound or the conductor’s hurried call, “Zelda, you….you look marvelous.”

Zelda turned briefly to acknowledge Jo’s presence, self consciously smoothing down the silk of her dress before she turned back to the mirror to fiddle with the clasp of her pearls, “Do I, truly? I’m afraid it’s quite old fashioned now, isn’t it? I suppose I should have gotten something new rather than just dyeing this old dress…”

Josephine walked over to her, taking the pearls from her shaking hands. As the car rattled on, she couldn’t tell if it was from the constant movement or her friend’s nerves. She spoke to her as she fastened the necklace, “It’s perfect, ma sœur, absolutely perfect. Are you ready? It’s time to put the luggage near the door; we’re the next stop.”

When Zelda didn’t answer Josephine turned her around, softening her face and her voice, “Zelda, you can talk to me, if you need to. Whatever it is. If you aren’t ready I’ll speak with Antoine. Whatever you need.”

Zelda looked at her curiously before an immense happiness overtook her face. She grabbed Josephine’s hands and smiled, “Jo, I’m only nervous because I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life. I’ve waited so long; we’ve waiting so long, it simply feels surreal. Like it’s impossible to feel so much happiness all at once without something going wrong.”

Josephine’s heart soared for her, and then sank as she realized that Zelda had learned to expect misfortune so much that she couldn’t even truly give herself over to excitement in that moment. “Zelda, everything will be wonderful, I promise you. You’ve been through enough, okay? Both of you. Today will be perfect.”

(A very special thank you to @simtleman for creating this gorgeous train build and then sharing it with me as well as all the CC creators you used to make it so stunning ♥️)

[noe-pri08]

Peter Quill

Summary: You work in your uncle’s store and your favourite client walks in, but let’s say that today he’s not here to buy some vinyl.

I'm sorry if there are mistakes, English isn't my first language

You loved working at your uncle’s record store, you truly did. Unfortunate this was small town, Missouri, and you were selling records. When you had slow days, boy were they slow.

Normally, you'd have your favourite customer Peter Quill to look forward to seeing, but it was a Tuesday, he never stopped by Tuesdays. Of course, you'd never admit that you missed him.

On the second hour of you doom scrolling on TikTok at the register, you hear the front door bell ring as a customer enters. Completely unbothered, you continue to look down at your phone.

"Hey, anyone home?" Peter playfully whispers, suddenly appearing in front of your face, catching you off guard.

You jump in your seat, nearly dropping your phone in the process. Looking up at Peter with wide eyes, you let out a nervous laugh. "Peter! You scared the hell out of me," you exclaim. "What's up? Shouldn't you be... I don't know, saving the galaxy or something?"

Peter grins, leaning against the counter. "Nah, no galaxy-saving missions for me today. Just thought I'd come and see my favourite record store employee," he says, tapping his fingers on the counter. "Got any new vinyls in?"

You shake your head, still trying to recover from the surprise. "Nah, not today. It's been pretty slow. But hey, I'm glad you stopped by! Can never have too much Star-Lord in my day."

He laughs and gives you a playful salute. "Star-Lord reporting for duty! So, what have you been up to? Any exciting Earth adventures?"

You shake your head, chuckling. "Nah, just the usual small-town life. But hey, it's not so bad. What about you? Find any cool relics on your space travels lately?"

Peter smirks, leaning in closer. "Well, there was this one time I found an alien artifact that granted amazing powers. But, uh, I may have accidentally dropped it. It's all good, though. Just another day in the life of Star-Lord," he says with a wink.

You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, Peter. Always getting into trouble. But hey, that's why we love you, right? The charming, trouble-making space boy."

He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "I guess so. Can't help it, it's in my space pirate blood. But hey, I'm glad I found my way to this little record store. It's nice to have some normalcy in my life."

You smile at him, feeling a warmth in your chest. "Yeah, well, I'm glad you found your way here too. It's nice to have some intergalactic excitement in this sleepy town. Makes my days a little more interesting."

Peter's grin widens, and he leans in even closer, resting his elbow on the counter. "Well, if you ever want to add a little more excitement to your days, you know where to find me," he says, his voice low and filled with playful teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips. "Oh, really? And what exactly does that entail, Mr. Star-Lord?"

He chuckles, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, you'll have to find out for yourself. Trust me, it's worth it."

Your heart flutters at his words, his playful yet alluring demeanour. You lean in closer, not caring if anyone else is in the store. "Well, maybe I'll take you up on that offer sometime," you whisper, a hint of flirtation lacing your words.

Peter's eyes widen slightly, surprised by your response. But then a mischievous grin spreads across his face. "Oh, that would make my day. Maybe we can start with a dance-off in the middle of the store. What do you say?"

You laugh, shaking your head. "You're insane, Peter. But I'm all in. Bring it on."

And with that, the two of you share a playful smile, knowing that this unexpected encounter was the start of something new and exciting between you.

Peter's eyes lock with yours, that mischievous grin still etched on his face. He takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, husky tone. "You know, dancing isn't the only thing we could do in the middle of this store. We could... have a little fun."

Your heart skips a beat, feeling a rush of excitement at his words. The air in the record store suddenly feels charged with anticipation. You bite your bottom lip, matching his playful gaze with a hint of daring. "Oh, really? And what exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Quill?"

Peter leans in even closer, his breath warm against your cheek. A shiver runs down your spine as his voice turns velvety smooth. "Well, I was thinking we could find a quiet spot in the back room. Away from prying eyes. Somewhere we can explore all the sounds this store has to offer," he murmurs, his arm brushing against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

You feel your breath hitch as his words ignite a fire within you. The prospect of a secret rendezvous in the back room sends a rush of heat pooling in the pit of your stomach. You glance around, making sure the coast is clear before nodding your head, a sense of excitement coursing through your veins. "I'm game, Peter. Lead the way."

Peter wastes no time, taking your hand in his and leading you to the back room. The door creaks open, revealing a small, dimly lit space filled with old records and stacks of boxes. Once inside, he turns to face you, his eyes darkening with desire.

He steps closer, closing the distance between you, his hands sliding up your arms, igniting a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His touch is gentle yet confident, drawing you closer to him. The scent of his cologne, a mixture of musk and leather, intoxicates your senses, heightening the anticipation in the air.

Leaning in, Peter captures your lips with his in a searing kiss. It starts off slow, tender, but quickly deepens into something more passionate. His tongue dances with yours as his hands explore your body, tracing the curves and contours, sending shivers of pleasure up your spine.

You reciprocate eagerly, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him back with equal fervour. The taste of him is like a heady cocktail, like a mix of whiskey and adventure. His lips are soft yet assertive, moving in sync with yours, igniting a burning desire deep within you.

Peter's hands continue their exploration, sliding down your body, his touch setting your skin ablaze. With each caress, you feel the intensity between you both grow, the sensation becoming electric.

He breaks the kiss, his voice husky with desire. "You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do this," he murmurs against your lips, his words sending shivers down your spine.

His hands undo the buttons of your shirt, revealing the curve of your breasts. He takes a moment to admire the sight before him, his gaze filled with undeniable desire. And then, he descends his lips, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses on your skin.

You arch your back, a soft moan escaping your lips as Peter's exploration becomes more intense. His touch is both tender and passionate, his fingers tracing patterns that leave your body craving more.

With each passing moment, the heat between you both intensifies. The back room of the record store becomes a sanctuary of pleasure and desire, a place where the outside world no longer exists.

Peter's voice, rough with longing, breaks through the haze of pleasure. "I want you. Now," he whispers against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers through you.

Your answer comes in the form of a passionate kiss, the promise of ecstasy fuelling your every move. Clothes are shed, bodies entwined, and as you give in to the overwhelming pleasure, you realize that this is just the beginning of a fiery and unforgettable connection with Peter Quill.

As things heat up in the back room of the record store, there's an undeniable chemistry between you and Peter. Every touch, every kiss, sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

Peter's hands roam your exposed skin, exploring every inch with a hunger that matches your own. His touch is electric, tingling with desire and a deep longing for connection. Your bodies move together in a rhythm that feels natural and intoxicating.

You gasp and moan as his lips find their way to your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along your sensitive flesh. The sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel your pulse quicken with every nibble and lick.

His hands find their way to your breasts, teasing and caressing them with expert precision. Your back arches, pressing your chest against his touch as you savor the delicious sensations that ripple through you.

Peter's mouth descends further, trailing down your body. He kneels before you, his hands gripping your hips as he looks up at you, desire burning in his eyes. With a mischievous smile, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants, slowly pulling them down, inch by tantalizing inch.

Your breath catches in your throat as he places soft kisses along your inner thighs, teasingly close to your core. The anticipation builds, your body humming with need as you silently beg him to dive in.

And then, finally, his lips meet your most intimate parts, and you gasp at the exquisite pleasure that courses through you. His tongue dances skillfully, exploring every fold and crevice, driving you wild with desire.

You lose yourself in the whirlwind of sensations, the pleasure growing more intense with every flick and stroke of his tongue. Your fingers grip his hair, guiding his movements as you draw nearer to the edge of bliss.

In a haze of desire, you surrender completely to Peter's touch. He expertly explores every inch of your body, using his hands, lips, and tongue to bring you to the pinnacle of pleasure.

As his tongue dances skillfully against your most sensitive spot, your moans of delight fill the air. The sensations consume you, rendering you incapable of coherent thought as waves of pleasure crash over you again and again.

Your back arches, your body trembling with the intensity of the pleasure coursing through you. Peter's touch is relentless, driving you higher and higher until you can no longer hold back.

With a cry of ecstasy, you reach your climax, your body convulsing with pleasure. Peter continues to lavish you with attention, prolonging your pleasure until you're left breathless and completely satisfied.

Slowly, as the haze of pleasure begins to fade, you pull Peter up to you, your lips seeking out his in a passionate kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips as you both revel in the afterglow of your intimate encounter.

You pull away from the kiss “Peter, please, I need you” you say breathless

“You need me for what dear?” Peter says, his voice full of tease

“Peter, I need you to fuck me, please”

“Your wish is my command” he says as he rips his clothes off

Your naked body is at full display for him and his bare body hovering yours. He starts kissing and nibbling your neck as his hands roam over your body till your dripping cunt and insert two fingers.

Then he takes his cock, his tip touching your pussy

“Peter please, fill me” you say almost begging him. You’re so overwhelmed because of the feeling that you can’t think straight

Peter starts going further in you till you could see the overline of his dick in your belly. His gaze fixed in your eyes, looking for permission to move. You nod your head slightly, still looking at the bulge on your abdomen

He thrust into you deeply, touching your g spot making you moan loudly

“Right there Pete” you moan, your mind feeling fuzzy because of the excitement

He keeps pounding on you, each time further and faster “I can see myself in you my dear” he says putting his hand in your belly bulge

He tries to hide his whimpering but fails “Oh fuck”

“Faster Peter” he obeys and his thrusts becomes more rapid

You feel so overwhelmed, the knot in your belly tightened “I’m gonna cum Pete”

He keeps thrusting into you till you cum, the feeling washing over your body, but his movements don’t stop till he pounds into you so deeply and fills you with his seed

You both are breathing heavily, feeling exhausted “You okay?” Peter asks you

“More than okay Pete”

“I think we should repeat it”

“Yeah, definitely” you say panting

Skin pressed against skin, you hold each other close, basking in the warmth and connection you've found in each other. The record store fades into the background as you savor the intimacy and raw emotions between you.

You know that this is just the beginning of a passionate relationship with Peter Quill, a connection that goes beyond physical pleasure. And as you lay there, tangled in each other's embrace, you can't help but feel a sense of excitement for the adventures and love that lie ahead.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Runnin' Roughshod"

Pairing: Bucky x black female Reader

Rated: Explicit

Tags: civil war, westward expansion, homesteader Bucky, Black!Fem!Reader, slavery, historic AU, forbidden romance, interracial relationship, racism, period typical attitudes, brothel, prostitution

A Bucky x Black!fem!Reader historical AU fic that I decided to bullet point for funsies, and then wound up writing half of the damn thing that way 🙄

You're a slave living in 1860 Missouri, just outside of St. Louis.

You're the property of (and half-sister to) Master Lewis. Lucky for you, Master Lewis Senior is dead, and Lewis Jr.'s young bride Darcilla is kind and agreeable, with progressive notions that she brought along with her trousseau when she came from Maryland to wed Master Lewis.

Life is very good for you, compared to some others. You work in the house, as lady's maid to the new Mrs. Lewis (who insists you call her Ms. Darcy), and sometimes help in the shop in town.

The Lewis's own a handful of other slaves who help run their household and dressmaker's shop, but since the death of your mother you've had no family (well, except for Master Lewis, though nobody counts that). You do your work and keep to yourself. Sometimes you make a little money at the dress shop, which Mistress Darcilla lets you keep behind her husband's back.

You save up every penny, but buying your own freedom is a far off dream. Your whole life, you've never seriously contemplated running away. It isn't worth the risk.

But when tensions in the county begin to rise and you hear rumors of secession, you grow worried. You begin to squirrel away what valuables you can, gain the trust of your mistress, and bide your time.

With the uncertainty of war brewing, Master Lewis announces his plans to move the family deeper south. You can no longer afford to wait. You have to get out now, before your one and only chance is lost forever.

Your money gets you as far as Topeka, where you're forced to stop until you can earn enough to join a wagon train out West. You find work at a saloon, serving drinks and making flirty conversation with the men who come in for a good time.

In the mornings, you begin to learn the piano from "Old Freddie," and during the occasional slow afternoon, Madame Lapierre, the French woman who governs the "upstairs" girls, will play a game of chess with you whilst she tries to make headway in convincing you to "expand your employment opportunities."

Topeka is Free-Soiler territory, but there's always the fear that Master Lewis might find you. And, on the verge of statehood, the Kansas territory has tipped into increasingly violent conflict between anti- and pro-slavery settlers. With conditions worsening and all out war looming on the horizon, you have no guarantee of safety there anymore.

Desperate to raise the funds to go West more quickly, you tell Madame that you're ready to start selling more than drinks and conversation. You become her newest "poppet" prepared to do whatever it takes to get out of town before your luck - and your freedom - run out.

You've never been with a man, but you know the rudimentary facts of life, and with a little help from the other girls and Madame, you prepare to become just another "sporting girl."

Your first afternoon on the job, a roughshod rider comes into town, seeking lodging, drink, and the sort of "company" that you're there to provide.

The white girls get first dibs on clients, but the roughshod asks for you to be sent up to his room. You wish he wouldn't have. Not because you want to put off the inevitable, but because now the other girls will be nasty to you. The man is handsome, and the girls were all eager to get their hands in his pockets.

You're shaking in your boots, but Madame gives you a shot of whiskey, a spritz of her genuine French perfume, and a tiny pewter snuff case for "wetting the way," (whatever that means). She tells you to put it in your bosom and use it "when the time is right."

Terrified but determined to see it through, you head upstairs to the roughshod's room.

It does not go as you expect. First, he demands to know if you're working there of your own free will. You admit that he is your very first client - which you regret doing, because his face goes even stonier when you do. He barks out orders at you, insisting that you leave the room at once and fetch him the house's tub.

He wants a bath - a hot one! - and with soap, and a towel!! You're very happy about that, because it costs a whole sixty-five cents more, and it will also mean extra time spent with you, which leaves you with even more money in your pocket at the end of the day. You're still nervous, but elated at the luck you're having on your very first client!

The other girls are stewing in the hall with jealously and make snide comments about your race and the man's preference for you. They refuse to help you prepare the bath, but you don't care one lick. That's just more time the roughshod will be paying to spend with you, while you haul bucket after bucket of boiled water up the stairs.

Madame catches you in the hallway and tells you not to mind the other girls. She's a bit drunk on sherry, and she jokes that at this rate, you'll probably only have to spread your legs for two or three minutes! (God, you hope so).

The man is filthy, and he's hurt - as though he's been in a fight or fallen from his horse. He asks you to help bathe him, and you get started with your heart in your throat. His manners are as rough as he is, but he isn't mean to you, and he doesn't try to grab you, which is a relief. With shaking hands, you proceed to wash him.

This is your first time touching a naked man's body, and you try not to look down into the bathwater as you wash him. You're embarrassed, but it's not just nerves; seeing and touching such a handsome man has you warming as though you've downed another three shots of whiskey.

You squirm and fight not to let the roughshod see your flusterment, as your belly tightens with the familiar, but never indulged, feelings of lust.

The roughshod stays in the bath until the water's gone gray and cold. You kneel beside the tub and wring out the cloth, but squeak when, all at once, the man heaves himself up to standing, the water streaming down his body and his ... his Johnson right at the level of your face!

He grunts and swings his leg out of the tub - exposing all of his manhood jostling around not even two feet from your face as he does so! You blush and look away, but you can feel him staring at you as he grabs up the towel and dries himself off.

Surely, you think, now he will ask you to take off your clothes and join him on the bed. You know only the basics of what goes where for the act, having witnessed clandestine coitus a time or two in your life. You wait, unable to look up at him, as you expect to hear his gruff voice order you about. And it does.

"Get up."

You stand, trembling. But what he says next isn't what you're expecting: "You know how to rub a man's muscles?"

You look up at him. He's got the towel in hand, making no effort to use it to cover himself. Then again, you think, why should he? You're just another painted poppet (or, soon to be). "R-rub what?" you stammer - quite idiotically. Of course, you know what muscles are. ... You're just not sure if he's using the word as a ... a euphemism.

He rolls his eyes and brings the towel up to dry his hair. "Knew I should'a asked for the China girl," he mutters.

You clear your throat and look steadfastly at his face. "You're hurt," you say, because you've seen every part of his body now, despite your efforts to keep your eyes trained North. And you know he's got bruises all on his legs and back and sides.

The roughshod nods and abandons the towel to the floor. "Yeah." He's not a talker, but you get the impression he's waiting to hear something from you.

You struggle to think of what that might be. "I ... have ... rubbed my mother's shoulders, when they hurt her. Um. And her feet?"

If you're not mistaken, the man's mouth twitches up the barest bit, beneath his beard. "Eh," he says, then turns around, presenting you with his - very manly - ass. "How bad can ya be?" He walks towards the bed, waving you along without looking back. "Well c'mere then."

He climbs up onto the room's bed and lies down, face in his arms. "What're you doing?" he grumps. "I said get over here."

Swallowing thickly, you hurry across the room. With his back turned, you have less trouble letting your eyes rove over his naked body. His back is broad and muscled, going from impossibly wide and tanned shoulders, tapering all the way down to his slim hips and his pale ass. His thighs are hairy and---no. You force your eyes true north again, looking at the bruises that you're increasingly starting to suspect came from a beating. "What happened to you?" you ask.

His head stays pillowed in the crooks of his arms. "Get up on the bed," he grunts. "Sit on my ass and I'll tell 'ya what to do."

Your eyes all but bug out of your head, when he tells you to straddle him. You do, your skirt rustling as you move and get up on him. You're hesitant to put your weight down, but he huffs and tells you to sit.

"Speck like you ain't gonna feel any more'n a feather. Sit."

He talks you through giving him - what he deems a "goddamn lousy" - massage. He grunts whenever you press on his bruises, pained, but once you get the hang of it, he at least goes quiet and doesn't complain anymore, so maybe you're not so horrible at it after all.

You rub his shoulders, his neck and back; your belly coiling tight once again, filling with a swooping feeling at having his warm skin and hard muscles underhand, at the feeling of his body held between your legs. You worry that he somehow knows how you're reacting, but you don't speak and neither does he.

When he eventually groans from pained-pleasure rather than pain, you can't help but smirk triumphantly. You keep expecting him to roll over and declare the massage over and demand for you to touch his Johnson, but that keeps not happening (though he does groan a little more).

You check the clock and see that it's now early evening. The light outside is almost gone. You worry that he's lost track of time and might refuse to pay for the hours he's spent with you, which will get your wages garnished.

So, tentatively, you slide your hands down to his thick waist, the swooping feeling intensifying at watching all the muscles in his back tense and shift underneath the skin.

"Why'd you stop?" he grunts.

"Are ... are you sure ..." You hesitate, not knowing how to seduce a man.

"Spit it out," he says, annoyed.

You lick your lips. "Well I just ... it's been awhile now and ... Are you sure this is all you want?"

"It feels good," he snaps, voice muffled in his arms. "That's what I'm payin' you for, ain't it?"

His uncharitable response should make you relieved, but instead it just leaves you worried and confused. Are you not seductive enough? Is he going to complain to Madame once he leaves here?

You need to speak up, take action, or else you may be in trouble. "Mister," you say, "I--"

"James," he grunts. "S'my name."

You pause, surprised that he wants you to use it, since he doesn't seem to like you very much. "James," you try again. "I want to make sure you're ... um ... getting your money's worth?"

He's silent and still, then drawls, "You don't sound too sure about that."

FOLKS THIS HAS BEEN OUT OF HAND FOR AWHILE NOW. LETS GO BACK TO AN ACTUAL FUCKING OUTLINE:

He has you lie down on the bed, and he regards you tenderly and seems like he's going to finally do it, but his face goes sour when you nervously reach your hand for his Johnson, and he tells you he doesn't need anything else.

"That's enough." He rolls away, comes back with a dollar bill, hands it over and gruffly tells you to go over to the mercantile and buy him a fresh shirt.

Relieved and yet somehow also terribly disappointed, you do so. When you return, his hair is tied back and he's got his pants on again.

You expect him to dismiss you, but he tells you he wants your company in the downstairs, too. He takes you down and the two of you eat and drink together at his behest. As it's now evening, the other poppets work on men nearby, shooting you jealous looks every so often.

James slowly opens up to you, engaging you in conversation over his dinner. You can't help but talk back, the conversation coming naturally and your shoulders relaxing. James is much more likeable after a whiskey or two, and the two of you even laugh and joke together. He decides to teach you a dice game, and the two of you have fun well into the evening, until he goes back up to bed -- alone.

Madame is drunk and very proud--because the roughshod actually pays for the entire time! In one fell swoop, you've made a handsome sum! You begin to hope that soon you'll be able to buy your way onto a wagon train and go West!

But the next day, your fortunes change.

A lawman shows up with none other than Mr. Brooks--Master Lewis' most trusted slave. Brooks tells the lawman that you are the one he's looking for. He has your papers to prove Mr. Lewis' ownership!

Being only tenuously free territory, the lawman has the say so on what happens to you. Just when it looks like he's going to hand you over to Brooks, the roughshod comes downstairs. He claims you're his property and that your name is Pearl. He has no proof, but says that's because he bought you from a 'chief down in Indian country' (the Oklahoma territory).

One of the white girls calls out that that's not true: you work there.

It seems that the lie won't work, but when the lawman asks Madame if that's true, Madame says your name is Pearl and you showed up with the roughshod the other day.

The marshal decides to trust the word of a white man over Mr. Brooks (who looks very angry indeed). He brandishes the papers and promises to come back with Master Lewis.

With no time to spare, you make haste. You have to leave town now, no matter the fact that you don't have the money to make it out West. You stuff your things in your bag and leave with the wages you've earned.

Outside, the roughshod grabs your arm and pulls you in. He demands you tell him the truth, since he stuck his neck out for you.

You confess everything--running away, your plan to set out West for San Francisco. You fear that he's had a change of heart and will take you to the lawman, but he gets stern-faced again and gruffly tells you to come with him back to his home with him.

You're confused, but he is bossy and all but forces you back to his homestead with him. There, he informs you that, after getting into a "scrape" with some locals himself, he has to leave. He offers to take you out West with him, and part ways in California.

You agree.

Sometime, months later, in California:

The country is at war, but it feels far away from where you are now, as do Master Lewis' chances of ever finding you again. James has hope that the North will win and slavery will be done away with, when the two of you arrive in San Francisco. You make him breakfast, and ask: "What now?"

He gets quiet for awhile. "Woman like you?" He says, chewing the last bite of a biscuit. "Sews, can play chess, hard worker, beautiful, and you cook like this?" He sticks his tongue in his cheek and looks away for a moment. When he looks back, there's false cheer in his eyes. "You're gonna make some man a fine wife someday."

You inhale deeply, fighting to keep the sting of that comment from getting to your eyes. "But not you?" you finally say, once you've gathered the breath - and the courage - to do so.

The false cheer bleeds to sadness, fond and regretful, and he shakes his head softly. "No Darlin'. Not me."

(spoiler alert: you wind up together with a happy ending anyway)

IM SORRY IT'S TWO AM WHY DID I DO THIS I NEED TO SLEEEEP 😩

(Will def be writing (more of) this fic in the future though!)

[unmaskthewriter]

You’re A Great Man, Arthur Morgan {Sean Macguire x Reader}

Summary: Arthur would always look after his younger sister, in this life and the next.

A/N: This is a first attempt at a Red Dead fanfiction. I apologize if it’s a little OOC. I just finished the game for the first time and boy, oh boy, was I heartbroken.

I do not give permission for any of my work to be copied, published and/or translated on any platform including Tumblr.

Word Count: 2092

Warnings: Angst, Implied Canon Death, Injury, Language

GIF IS NOT MINE: ALL CREDITS BELONG TO LEVITHESTRIPPER

Summer; Clemens Point, 1899

When only Dutch and Micah had returned to camp from meeting Colm O’Driscoll, you felt your heart sink to your stomach. You had been hanging the laundry out to dry when the two unmounted their horses. Slowly, you come around the clothesline and approach the two men.

“Dutch… what happened? Where’s… where’s Arthur?” You asked softly, looking between the two men. Arthur was your brother, only a few years difference in age. After your parents had passed, and the two of you had been orphaned, Arthur joined the Van Der Linde gang in hopes of procuring money to take care of you. You’ve been stuck with the gang ever since.

“We… we don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know, Dutch?” You raise your voice and take a step closer. Micah intervenes, pressing a rough hand to your shoulder and slightly pushing you back.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Micah! Where is Arthur?!” You began to yell, an aching in your chest at the grief your brother may be lost or dead to the O’Driscolls. Sean, your fiancé, appears and gently holds you from behind as tears stream down your cheeks.

“Shhhh, my love. It’ll be alright, won’t it?” He reassures quietly, his free hand gently brushing back your hair.

“Oughta put a muzzle on her, Dutch.” Micah grumbled but it wasn’t unheard to you or Sean. Sean quickly turned, letting you go and standing toe to toe with Micah.

“What are you gonna do, cowpoke?” Micah questioned, his voice low and threatening.

“What a pile of shit you are, talking to ‘er thattaway.” Sean responded, looking up to Micah from under his hat. You gently took Sean’s hand, bringing him back and centered. He slowly backed away from Micah, never breaking eye contact.

“You’re a dead man, Micah.” Sean threatened before retreating with you to your tent. He sat you down on your makeshift bed, and crouched down in front of you, holding your hands. You sniffled.

“What am I going to do,” You hiccuped and looked away, “He’s my brother, Sean… and Dutch… I don’t think Dutch has any plan to rescue him.”

“Oh, lass. ‘M sure he’s already thinking of something,” He gently kissed your knuckles before standing, “let me get ya something t’ eat. It’ll help ya feel better.” He says before leaving the tent.

“Pearson’s cooking could never work such magic.” You mumble under your breath, looking away for a moment.

As you and Sean ate dinner, you silently formulated a plan to rescue Arthur. You would wait until Sean had his nightly drink, passing out drunkenly on the bedroll of your tent. As you watched his breathing slow down, the empty whiskey bottle in hand, you quietly grabbed your weapon belt, clipping it around your waist. You tiptoed over your fiancé’s body, quietly leaving the tent and sneaking over to the horses. Swiftly, you mounted Dakota, a Missouri Fox Trotter breed you had found a little ways from camp.

“Going somewhere, miss?” A soft spoken voice interrupts the silence and you freeze, slowly turning your head to see Kieran emerge from behind a tree, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ya. I just… I was worried about you, and I-I saw you coming… y-you’re gonna go find Arthur, aren’t ya?“ He slowly approaches, patting your horse on the neck.

“Kieran, please don’t tell anyone.” You plead, gripping the reins.

“O-of course miss. I’ll think of something if anyone asks.” He quickly replies before stepping back and allowing you to ride off into the night. With nothing but the stars above to guide you, you ride forth, trying to ignore the various situations procured in your mind about what happened to Arthur.

As you’re searching not far from camp, a familiar horse approaches with someone riding on his back. Your heart skips, and you squint your eyes.

“Arthur!” You shout, quickly pulling the reins to slow your horse. Arthur slowly falls off the side of the saddle, lying face up in the dirt. He was stripped to his union suit, bloody and bruised. You dismount and rush over quickly, kneeling down beside your brother.

“Arthur… what did they do to you?” You ask quietly, tears coming to your eyes. You look around frantically before sitting up and carefully lifting him to his feet with much struggle.

“You know… this reminds me of that time.. you, Lenny and I got drunk at the saloon in Valentine. You had to carry me out...” Arthur chuckles as you help him onto the saddle, and mount in front of him.

“Only you could joke at a time like this.” You huff, grabbing his horse’s reins with a free hand and begin trotting back to camp. The sun was barely creeping over the horizon when you returned.

“They’re back!” Javier shouted, standing guard outside of camp. He quickly rushes over to help as Dutch emerges from his tent. You dismount and watch Javier and Dutch retrieve Arthur from his horse.

“I told you it was a setup, Dutch.” Arthur groans softly at the sudden movement. His feet land on the rough earth beneath him, stumbling slightly before Javier helps him stand properly.

“My boy, my dear boy, what?”

“They got me… but I got away. They were gonna set the law on us.” Arthur explains, letting out a small cough.

“Oh, of course he was.” Dutch grumbles

“Mr. Morgan, Mr. Morgan, you’re safe now…” The Reverend reassures him.

“Let's get him to bed.” You insist, helping Javier lead him to his tent as Dutch followed.

“You’re safe now, Arthur… you’re safe now.” Dutch affirms as Arthur is carefully placed into bed. Javier backs away as you pull up a chair alongside his bed, keeping him company.

It takes a few days for him to wake. You would sit at his bedside day and night, often eating and napping in his tent. Sean would often stop by, offer his apologies and what not.

“You have t’ know, I’m sorry… if I had known, I woulda went with ya, lass.. instead of gettin’ drunk and sleepin’ on the floor.” Sean spoke quietly, standing at the foot of Arthur’s bed.

“This isn’t your fault, Sean… it’s just the life we live,” You reassure him, flashing a small smile, “Stay out of trouble, my love. I’ll be with you soon,” You grab his hand gently and kiss it, “I promise.” He smiles and nods, leaving the tent.

“You’re too good for him, ya know…” Arthur groans and you quickly turn, your face lighting up.

“A-Arthur, oh thank god!” You begin to cry as you take his hand. He rubs his eyes with his free hand, looking around rather confused.

“Hell… what happened?”

“They took you, Arthur.. the O’Driscolls and his men, while Dutch was striking false bargains with that snake, Colm… I found you out there riding by yourself.. thought you were dead.” You whispered the last part, looking down.

“Ah, I ain’t going nowhere, girl… been taking care of ya for as long as I could remember.” He chuckles, slowly pushing himself up. He indulges himself with the glass of water at the bedside. A moment passes.

“Do you mean it… that I’m too good for Sean?” You question, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re too good for anyone, but I see he cares about you a lot… why’d ya ask?” Arthur raises a brow, slowly setting the now empty glass on the nightstand.

“Well.. I-I.. this isn’t how I wanted to tell you, but I’m.. I’m pregnant.”

A few months later; Beaver Hollow, 1899

You sit at the campfire in the center of the almost empty camp, enjoying its warmth as Sean sits alongside you. Closer to the northern mountains, the fall brought a certain chill in the air that was difficult to shake. Not to mention, the area surrounding Beaver Hollow held a certain eeriness to it. You were aware Arthur and Charles had to clear the campsite of Murfree men and women before the gang’s arrival. Those who escaped still lingered in the woods of Roanoke Ridge.

Beside you, Sean’s red hair was creeping out from the edges of his hat, his eyes focused on you. Since you told him of your condition, he hardly let you out of his sight. Naturally, you would still assist in chores and such as seen fit, but you couldn’t help but spend most of your time worrying about your brother. He has been rather sickly as of late, no matter the herbs and flowers you provided to help him feel better. You watch as Arthur talks to Sadie on the outskirts of camp as she practices throwing knives.

“What’s on ya mind, love?” Sean gently grabs your arm, looking at you with love and concern.

“I’m worried about Arthur is all… he won’t tell me what’s wrong, I suppose he doesn’t want to worry me when I’m like this.” You sigh softly. Sean smiled weakly.

“It’s gon’ be alright, lass. Arthur’s a tough man.” He tries to reassure you. Arthur and Sadie ride off from camp and you sigh softly. ‘I hope so.’

“Do you ever feel like… all of this,” You gesture to the camp, “… is falling apart?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t go as far t’ say that. It’ll all work out in the end,” Sean tries to comfort you, placing a hand on your swollen tummy, “it has to.”

A few weeks had passed, and tensions between the government and the Native Americans were growing. You despised that your brother had gotten involved, considering Dutch had pushed the effort in order to take some of the attention away from the gang. While Dutch and the others were assisting Eagle Flies on his final stand, Sadie rode into camp rather frantically.

“Sadie, I thought you were with the others..” You stand, folding the last piece of clothing and placing it in the basket. She quickly dismounts her horse. Sean approaches you from the tent you both shared, placing his hand on the small of your back.

“They’re fine but… you need to leave. Dutch… isn’t himself and Pinkertons aren’t far.” Sadie explains, almost out of breath.

“What about Arthur?”

“Arthur asked me to do this, please, just hurry.” She pleads, helping grab your things. You look at Sean, lost.

“Did you know about this?” You question, and he sighs, taking off his hat for a moment.

“My parents were criminals.. and I don’t only have myself to think about anymore,” He explains, placing his hand on your stomach now, “After everything dies down, we can come back for Arthur.” He reassures before walking to the tent and grabbing his packed bags.

Sean helps you onto his horse, taking one last look at the camp before following Sadie to Copperhead Landing where Abigail and Jack were. You fought back the tears, a deep feeling settling inside you that you wouldn’t see your brother again.

—

It was the following day before John had met with us and the others at Copperhead Landing. He looked… lost, and hurt, but was putting on a brave face.

“John!”

“Pa!”

On his side was a familiar item that would make you crumble to your knees.

Arthur’s satchel.

John quickly greeted Abigail and Jack before approaching you. For a moment he was quiet, unsure of what to say.

“I-I’m so sorry. I tried... I tried to make him come with me…” John explained, his own throat getting caught on his words. Sean kneels down beside you, rubbing your back.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” You grumble before throwing up your lunch, gripping the grass beneath you tightly. Sadie stood back, standing watch. Sean comforts you.

“There ya go, lass… let it out of ya.”

“I-is he gone… did you see him?” You slowly look up, wiping the edges of your mouth with a small handkerchief provided by Sean.

“I couldn’t.. Dutch and the Pinkertons.. he wouldn’t let me stay, I’m so sorry,” John told her, before reaching in the satchel for a letter, “he told me to give this to ya.” You grab the satchel from John, gripping it tightly and refusing to let go.

“I hate to break this up, but we better get goin’.” Sadie interrupts as Sean helps you stand and mount his horse. He clambers in front of you, gripping the reins. You can’t help but look to the mountains as the group rides off, holding the satchel to your chest as you all flee from your past, and into a future unknown.

[keyboardwhisperer]

Hi, Im going to like, put my writing out there now, just cause.

It's a story set in 1870 missouri about a sheriff who gets pressured into marriage by his family. Out of desperation, he took a mail-order bride for his wife.

So like, here goes chapter one I guess.

Desperate.

“From the very start, the idea of marrying a nice girl and raisin’ kids was something that i always thought I had to do. Having a family of my own, marrying a nice woman who would have my children, is somethin’ I can’t seem to ever let go. Because my mother would never let me. All I ever hear from ma and pa were questions about when I was going to get married, or if I was seeing a nice young lady right now. Every time she starts talking, it just has to end with wether or not she’s ever gonna be getting grandkids. Reckon that’s just darn more important than how I’m doing, since she never asks anymore.”

“It ain’t easy being sheriff of a town the size of Oakridge. But it gave me a whole lot of reasons to wake up every day and damn it, I’ve worked my ass off to get here since I was old enough to buy my own liquor. But as long as I’m an unwed man, my folks will never let me live it down. Phone call after phone call during working hours and driving up to business dinners just to introduce some woman to me in front of my colleagues. Honest to god, I thought I’d never do something like find a mail-order bride. But last Friday was the straw that broke the camel’s back, though if anything it should’ve been broken far before that.”

It all unraveled so quickly that he would have never seen it coming. But how could he have known that? After all, the day began in good spirits.

He was “headin’ on out” first thing in the morning. Grabbing his vest, taking his keys. He got dressed, then took off before he even went in the kitchen. Got on his horse, and rode into Oakridge. It was a beautiful morning in that part of Missouri, he thought. With wind in his hair, and sunkissed skin, it was building up to a great day. And for Devlin Mayfair, It really seemed that way.

You will meet all sorts of townsfolk in Oakridge. But you’ll never see someone complaining about dusty air or crowded streets. When Devlin made it into the inner part of town, there were tall oaks casting shade on the streets. Every morning, Devlin would smell the faint scent of oakwood caught in the soft morning breeze. Except when of course, he would pass by the bakery.

The townsfolk in Oakridge don't mind an early morning, they even run their early errands with big friendly smiles and cheery hellos. As he was riding to his office, Devlin said good morning more times than he could count on two hands. Once, to a local rancher who he once helped with business. Then to the town grocer who thanked him for last week’s delivery. Then again to father Wyatt who blessed him for oranizing the church their monthly charitable event. Sometimes the young women in Oakridge would throw their hellos at him, calling him by name with the sweetest southern drawl. But all he would give them back, was a little smile and a polite hand gesture.

It’s out in the plains, but it’s not far from the big city of st. Louis, where politics and discourse find ways into life. Still, small countryside towns are not that free from campaigns. Just as Devlin was nearing his office, there was one thing that wouldn’t bring him much joy. Myron Mayfair, running for mayor. Inked onto a giant message on the town bulletin board. If the words “Mayfair” and “mayor” meant anything to Devlin, it was enough to slow his horse down. A deep breath was drawn into a sigh, because Devlin knew he would soon have to play the perfect son for yet another mayoral campaign.

Everyone in Oakridge knew where to go to get Devlin during the day. It was a tall building in the busy part of town. It’s the only building painted ocean blue, with white wooden trims. Everyone would visit now and then, bringing in with them something. If that something wasn't in a basket with pretty ribbons, it would be something someone needed help with. And as much as he appreciates the gifts from the townsfolks, he would be more than a lot happier if they had a job for him to do instead.

One person who did not enjoy seeing people walk in with gifts for Devlin was Dawn Denson. She was already screening his calls, making his appointments, clearing his schedules, and hanging up on his mother for him. The one thing she could live without was having her desk space taken by giant baskets every day. It was cluttered the day Devlin hired her. It was cluttered the day her father’s illness had gotten worse. It was cluttered the day she came back from his funeral, and it is still cluttered today.

“Mornin’.” Dawn’s clear voice was heard first thing , “you have a basket of cheese from mr. Coltons and with it, half my desk.”

“Fine.” He slightly shrugged, “We’ll get you a new desk. An even bigger one.” Says Devlin, just before he saw Dawn raising her eyebrows.

“That’s real nice of you,” her expression was deadpan, “but I've been asking every day for a whole year now. I get to pick my own, right?”

“Fair.” He nodded, “You got yourself thirty bucks, pick something nice.”

“Thirty bucks? Throw in a hundred.” Dawn slapped her nail file down to her desk, her expression was not impressed.

“I could, but there ain’t a single soul in oakridge who’d ask that much for a desk.” Devlin scoffed

“Of course not.” She chuckled sardonically, “But there is this carpenter in st. Louis. And you’ll bring me there, of course.” She smiled smugly.

He was more than happy to make his secretary enjoy her working hours. But he knows he can’t get out of riding to st. Louis this time. He did owe her something very big, very recently.

When Devlin walked through his office door, he was greeted by his chief deputy, Sam. Every time Devlin would come into work in the morning, Sam would be at his desk with a bright smile. Every morning after he wakes up, Sam would skip breakfast and head straight to work. There, he would ask Dawn if he could take over some of Devlin’s paperwork. Then he would insist on getting lunch for Devlin. Whenever Devlin has duties outside the office, Sam would be the first out the door running to get the horses. Devlin appreciates Sam and his efforts, but there is one thing that hasn’t occurred to Devlin that already has to everyone else. That Sam Mcdermott was the best right hand man.

This Friday in particular was not a busy one. With the townsfolk having run out of problems for Devlin to help with, the phone has not been ringing since yesterday. With no one to hang up on, Dawn invited herself to sit on the corner of Devlin’s desk after she finished responding to all of his letters. With all the paperwork done, Sam found himself rearranging his desk for the second time. With nowhere to be, and no one who needs him, devlin made himself an early liquid lunch.

There is a small window by Devlin’s desk, one which he would sometimes find himself blankly gazing at. When he looks through this window, he would unknowingly let go of his shoulders. His breath would become sighs. His head would slowly fall to the headrest of his chair, while his mind belonged to something beyond the window. There is this look on his face, it’s a look only Devlin had seen in the mirror on bleak mornings. You could see a slight tension between his brows, you could see his lips stuck between a sigh and a frown, and you could see his drowsy gaze under heavy eyelids. Though he didn’t know it, he would have this same look every time his attention was caught by something behind the bright light. And that thing he sometimes pours himself, never seems to help.

It was unknown to himself what it was he stared at. Because everytime he looked, he saw something different. Sometimes Devlin would see his grandfather’s funeral, where he said goodbye to someone who never demanded him of anything more. Sometimes he would see the sunday dinners where he sat at the same table with his parents, but it felt like they sat miles apart from him. Sometimes, he would see himself coming home in the evening after day’s end. To an empty house, going to bed knowing that there is no one who needs hos help until tomorrow. Devlin was to busy looking that he never put it into words, but as simple as words could tell you, he was always alone in the past he so often revisits.

Devlin tried to think of a time in his life when he was content just being Devlin, and not sheriff Mayfair. He would do this with the only friend who searched with him, which was the taste of bourbon.

While Sam was out with multiple lunch orders, something loud would slap Devlin back to the present. Ring-ring. The sound blared out, the room completely filling with it. So Dawn did what she did best, and screened this call. She then turned to Devlin and gave him something to really frown about, as she looked him in the eyes and told him who called.

It was a few good seconds when Devlin exchanged glances with Dawn. And though his eyes told her to hang up, she couldn’t, because she already told the caller that Devlin was right there in the office. After a few more seconds of saying nothing, the voice from the phone broke the silence, calling out Devlin’s name.

“Sweetheart!” The perky voice from the phone exclaimed, “I haven’t heard from you at all since yesterday mornin’!” She said, so eagerly excited, yet also so fed up.

“Anything, ma?” Devlin blew a little air from his nose.

“Why, of course there is!” She couldn’t help but squeal, “Now why don’t you tell me all about that nice young lady your aunt Maryl and I went through the trouble of settin’ you up with?”

“She was alright.” Devlin held in a sigh, waiting for what he knew she has to say.

“Alright? Just, alright?” Her tone was confused, but she knew exactly what he meant. “Devlin, sugar, that’s what you always tell me about every one of these ladies and I sure as heavens don’t see you go after any of ‘em. You are turnin’ thirty-six this August. Now I know that there ain’t a ‘right’ time for these things, but people here get married in their twenties. You can’t act like this forever, Devlin.” Her tone became heavier with pleas by each sentence.

“And why not?” His pace matched her tone, “Why shouldn’t I just see how my life goes, huh? I’m just too darn busy to start a family with everything goin’ on right now. Everyone in Oakridge depends on the sheriff, and I have made a life out of helping out the townsfolk. So why don’t you give me a good enough reason to just drop all of that?”

“Good enough reason?” She huffed, “Because you’re Devlin Mayfair. Because you are the mayor’s son. Because havin’ an unwed son is not a good look for your father. It is not a good look for the mayoral campaign, and it is sure as hell not a good look for me or the rest of your family. For heaven’s sakes why can’t you ever be something.”

He replied by returning the phone to its switchhook. His brows pushed into each other. His lips barely hid gritting teeth. He sat down at his desk, his hands rubbing his temples, finishing off what he poured himself earlier.

Hearing his mother say all of that, his shoulders slumped. Because Devlin would be reminded of all the times that he had to be something. He was reminded of how he had to force himself to stop crying, because his father wouldn’t give him the attention if he didn’t. He was reminded of how much time he spent trying to get on a horse and ride it, so that he can win a race for one of many mayoral campaigns. But at the same time, he was reminded of summers he spent at his grandparents’ homestead. The only place where he could stumble and fall as many times as he could, and still feel loved once he was done picking himself back up. He slumped his shoulders, because he was reminded that no such place exists for him anymore.

Dawn who was standing under the doorframe with crossed arms didn’t know the right thing to say. She would try to cheer him up, but she wasn’t well versed in words of comfort. So she did it in a way she only knew how, and insisted he go grab a couple of drinks with her until closing hour.

When the harsh sun shied away, and birds flock back to their nests loud with chatter, the people were also prepared to leave work where work is. Even at day’s end, when the tired people head for home, they still have it in themselves to cheerily part ways. When he headed out from his office, the townspeople would always save Devlin a friendly goodbye. To which he always waved back with half a smile.

If it were any other day, he would be at home having a basket of cheese for dinner by himself in a dim gas lit room. It was like that for him every dusk, so how would he know what to do in a place where glasses are constantly slammed down on tables and the sound of cheers uproared every time the singer finishes her song. The place reeked of cologne and drunken slurring, and it wasn’t even eight then. The sounds of clinking tableware and shooting pool stayed in the background while Devlin slowly traced his fingertip around the rim of his own glass. He was just sitting there, shoulders lowered, both elbows resting on the bar island, talking with Dawn.

“You know,” She put down her drink, “it’s the boss who takes the secretary out.”

“I’m already buying you a desk.” He chuckled, for a moment.

“Still upset about what she said?” Dawn tilted her head, “Sorry, I’ll hang up next time. You wanna talk about it?”

“Nothing new you haven’t heard. But thanks.” He slightly raised his glass.

“Well, I’m gonna sing a couple of songs here.” Dawn got off her stool and tipped the barkeeper, “Take good care of him, he’s a good friend.” She patted Devlin on the back before she made her way to the piano.

When Dawn went up to sing, everyone in the bar went silent. While Dawn was hitting all the high notes, the barkeeper poured Devlin another drink.

“On the house.” The barkeeper slid him a glass. “Anything on your mind?” The barkeeper made eye contact, polishing a glass to keep busy.

“Lots.” Devlin took the drink in his hands. “Don’t even know where to begin.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” The barkeeper kindly offered. His face had a smile that wasn’t big, but not dry.

Devlin sat there, thanking the barkeeper for the offer. Taking one sip from the freshly poured scotch, he savored the woody taste on his tongue. Smooth, he thought to himself. So he took another sip, and as he took more sips, the sips themselves became gulps. Before long, he was ready to start at the beginning.

“Chin up.” The barkeeper chuckled in response to Devlin’s story, “Your troubles ain’t half as bad as this one guy from my past. House was miles away from town, lived far from family and never really had people in his life.”

“What happened to him?” Devlin looked at the bartender.

“Well eventually he was sick of hearin’ the silence. So he got himself a mail order bride. Just woke up one day and decided to look through the bride advertisements.” The barkeeper shrugged.

“Why?” Devlin looked up from his drink. “What in tarnation would possess a man to do that?”

“Desperation.” The barkeeper paused a bit. “Well, he's lonely. But he’s more desperate to stop the loneliness. You’d be surprised to know what desperation is, sheriff. That thing you have with your folks, i get’cha. But i think you’re not even close to desperate, and go thank god you’re not. I reckon you ought to worry less.”

“Cheers, I guess.” Devlin smiled. “So how’d the whole thing work out for this fella anyhow?”

“Don’t know.” The barkeeper shook his head, “I don’t know if the guy did better or worse. But at least he can say he has a wife now.”

After Dawn ended the evening on a high note, Devlin went over to say good night. The streets of Oakridge at this time of night are dimly lit with street lamps, and Devlin still had to make his way back to the old homestead on horseback.

As he made his way out of town, his eyes were laid blankly on the moonlit road, while his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t bring himself to forget what the barkeeper said. Playing the exact words in his head all over again, he was one loop away from having a broken record for a brain. Do I know desperation? He asked himself.

The answer wouldn’t matter too much. Because he would get to know it soon enough.

He never really came home at this late hour. It was the same place he always came back to, but he didn't see the fence he bumped into near the stable, or the stair step he stumbled on while getting to the door.

Standing on his front porch, the first thing he did was pat himself down at every pocket on his vest and the ones on his pants. Pull out the keys, and open the door. But Devlin found himself frozen when he tried turning his keys both ways.

Because it was already unlocked.

He pressed his eyes to his front door and looked through the stained glass glazing, and saw a dim light coming from one side of the house. He reached for the doorknob with one hand, and another steadily reached for his holster. Though his breath was slightly shaking, he pushed the door wide open. His eyes moved in sweeping motions across the empty house, pacing his way with caution towards the light which came from the dining room.

He backed to a corner for a moment to regain his breath. It was late, it was dark and it was nowhere near town. Devlin had a tight grip on his gun. His shoulder was side by side to a wall, the gun held firmly to his chest. His aim was perfect, he never had any reason to be afraid of getting out aimed. It did occur to him that he might not be so lucky tonight, but he wasn’t desperate to live.

Throwing caution to the wind, he rushed in gun first. It was locked and loaded, tightly gripped, and aimed for the head. But it all dropped when he fully rendered the other person in the room.

The person sitting at the dinner table was just his father, Myron Mayfair, to which his relief quickly spoiled into displeasure. Myron did not flinch one bit. He simply made eye contact with Devlin.

“It’s nine.” Myron slid up his sleeve to check his watch. “Sit down.”

“Why are you here?” Devlin put away his gun. “Why didn’t you call first?”

“In four weeks,” Myron clasped his fingers, “there’s goin’ to be a huge campaign dinner down there at the town square. Whole town’s invited. Word ain’t out yet, but figured you should be one of the first to know. Reckon’ you could use the extra time.”

“To do what?” Devlin couldn’t help but sigh ahead.

“To find yourself a fiancé.” Myron pulled away from the table. “You have four weeks. Bring someone nice, it’s non negotiable. Your mother tried it the nice way, but we both know how you ended that call.”

“It is negotiable, and I’m saying no.” Devlin crossed his arms.

“You wouldn’t want to say that.” Myron stood up with a grunt in his voice. “You couldn’t stand to lose the old homestead. I don’t think you’d want to hear what I might do to it. I could sell it, but it never had property value. Or better yet, I could give it to your brother. At least it’ll stay in the family, you just don’t get to have it.” He snickered.

“You can’t do that.” Devlin slammed the table, his voice raised loud. “My grandfather promised it to me!”

“You don’t get to have a say.” Myron broadened his shoulders, his voice raised in tandem. “He died when you were fifteen. The property was given to me, as it should be! All you did was spend a few lousy summers here and he promised the homestead to you while I worked my life away to make something of myself!”

“Well I am too!” Devlin clenched his fist and slammed the wall next to him. “I spent my life helpin’ the townspeople. I spent my life organizing church events, stoppin’ disputes, and every other little thing that goes on around Oakridge. If somethin’ happens, I am there. If someone needs help, I am there. I made something of myself, helpin’ out the townsfolk. All you do is throw in a charity every now and then, and you think you made something of a mayor.”

“You ain’t nothin’.” Myron clashed horns with his son. “If you think that’s enough to be somethin’ then you’re wrong. If you think what you do is enough, then you can think again. You never had it in you to be anythin’ great, cause you were always happy with what you got, you never had it in you to reach for more. I raised you better than this, I raised a winner, not someone who can live with a consolation prize! So until you find that fiancé. You. Ain’t. Nothin’.”

Standing toe to toe, neither of them said anything. Myron was standing so perfectly still, while Devlin had both hands clenched grippingly tight. The silence was more than deafening, even with Devlin who breathed loudly with rancor.

“I wouldn’t want you to lose the homestead, Dev.” Myron walked past the living room to the front door, his voice now perfectly still. “You have four weeks. Bring someone with a ring on her finger, and I’ll give the whole homestead to you and the missus after the wedding. You know what’s at stake, it’s non negotiable.”

And for one more moment, Devlin stood in silence with nothing more he could say to change the cards he was dealt with. And he would stand there long after his father shut the door on the way out, doing all he could not to punch at the wall and scream in frustration. Backed into the one corner where he was helpless to choose of his own volition, he suddenly knew desperation very well.

Where would he get a wife? Devlin wondered. He has little spare time, and a demanding career. He certainly couldn’t keep a woman happy if he gets called to work every other hour, not that he wants a woman in his life right now. He sat down with sighs at the empty dinner table. In his eleventh hour, when he was more than desperate to keep the homestead, he thought about the barkeeper’s story. The one about desperation. He wasn’t lonely, so it’s not like he was in the market for a mail-order bride. He knows it would be incredibly selfish to take a woman for his bride and not love her like a husband should. But desperation is a dangerous being, and Devlin was desperate indeed.

Note: omg idrk what went through my mimd when I wrote this. But hopefully, if someone were to read it, I hope at least they found something entertaining.

[daffodil--lament]

how to relive my experiences of this night, february the 10th in the year of our lord 2 thousand and 24

> spend 6 hours in bed watching the x files and bemoaning your situation in life

> finally decide to get dressed up and go to the church valentine's dance

> get to dance (with my parents but having driven separately)

> having a lovely time listening to my uncle explain his thesis about the missouri border wars in the civil war

> these two creepy men keep like eyeing me, trying to sit near me, etc

> mom instructs my dad and four aunts and uncles to flank me because she's sure theyre going to ask me to dance

> i am the only girl under 30 at this dance by the way, which is usually my comfort zone because i am much more comfortable around people who have fully developed brains

> one of these guys pulls my dad aside and is like getting information about me from him

> guy asks me to dance, i try to say no, claim to not feel well, etc, but he insists so i end up doing a really awkward slow dance with someone who has not showered in days and is balding

> he keeps putting his arm around me and touching my shoulders and stuff

> dance finally ends, i go to sit down

> guy sits by me and keeps touching me amiably but like gross and tells me if i want to dance again where to find him

> mom pulls me out into the hall and is like "are you okay" "uh-" "so no"

> bishop's wife from another ward tracks us down and apologizes, says that guy wasnt supposed to even be here and has been instructed to stay away from any YSA (young single adult) aged people

> i am hiding in the mother's lounge currently because it is quiet and soft

> i left my ipad in the car :(

> i feel bad because it's my mom's birthday and i didnt want her to have to babysit me at this adult dance but now the whole thing is about me

[abcwordsurge]

Sorry for bombarding you with asks, especially about the cities. i just really value ur input and i wanna here what you think.

Another thing that has been treating the mind muscle like a trampoline is Texarkana (and all the other border cities). Like, okay if we have established relationships would it be hella awkward? And if you see the cites as the states kids you have to think about the co-parenting situation. Do you think some of them would have pulled a milk and cigarettes and dipped, sending birtday cards w 5 dollars in it every other birthday?

Firstly, don't apologize, I like the asks! (and thank you, you're too kind)

So for the sake of the entertainment value, let's say that cities are indeed the states' kids, and border cities are the kids of both of the states they're in between.

As for the parenting situation, it's probably a case by case situation, y'know? Like, on one end of the spectrum, there's Toledo, who's Michigan and Ohio's kid, and is parented by Ohio because of a long and violent court case over custody. (But Michigan still loves them, and he visits when Ohio's out of town.)

And the opposite of that is Union City, in between Ohio and Indiana, and as the name suggests, the parenting situation is way more peaceful there. I mean, I don't think Ohio and Indiana are in a relationship (*cough* anymore *cough*), but they like each other as friends and their parenting styles work well together (maybe I'll make a post about that later).

But I mean, be real, most of these border cities have situations closer to Toledo's. Like, think about Kansas City, the iconic Kansas Jr, who's definitely Kansas's kid (as in, they have a lot of similar traits and interest as Kansas) but they live with Missouri, their other dad, who's very protective of them. I think Kansas was probably an absent father when KC was first brought into existence- hence, why Missouri is so defensive of KC- but he's trying to get better and be more involved in KC's life, and who is Missouri to stop him? It's a bit tense between the two, but KC's a sweet kid and they keep their dads from fighting each other. (I keep going back and forth between whether Kansas and Missouri's relationship would be platonic or romantic in this AU. Whatever your heart desires, I suppose.)

And of course I can't talk about border cities without talking about Texahoma. I mean, just imagine the nightmare that parenting situation would be. Actually, cool idea: a romcom slow burn between Texas and Oklahoma, where it's declared that they would have joint custody over Texahoma, and they're forced to cooperate so Texahoma can have a good childhood, and they eventually fall in love. That could be something.

Ok, you mentioned Texarkana specifically, so I'm gonna assume you have thoughts on them. I'm gonna be real with you, I don't know anything about Arkansas? So I don't know whether he'd be a good parent or not, or what his relationship with Texas would be. Sorry :/ If you want to talk about what you think about Texarkana, though, I'm always here to listen!

[intertexts]

HIIII ROS i am sorry i never replied to your reply to my ask from a while ago i am so bad at that ;-; in response to that kinda (bc we were talking about jhariah) i did see them live! 3rd concert ive ever been to in my life & it was life changing... i was front row n there was a baby mosh pit n i was with my best friends it was so good <3 i didn't get to see all the songs off TRUST CEREMONY live but if he tours again i will try to get tix because i must see CONTROL BABY live... my faves are control baby n fire4fun n russian doll <3 but it is my fave album ever created (except maybe Måneskin's Teatro D'Ira vol 1)

Dont wanna yap too much but other music im liking rn: Dua Saleh's ROSETTA ep; Missouri Surf Club's songs Rotten & Kingdom Come; Jean Dawson's entire discography generically but specifically SICK OF IT* and New Age Crisis; Ethel Cain's everything; and then im still consistent w the narcissist cookbook, an unkindness, sons of the illustrious father etc. I have been getting into a crazy amount of music since summer started though so there are sooooo many others but i wanna know what you're listening to! i like your music taste as ive said :3

ANYWAY I think i might just send another ask because this is ramble-y n u dont have to reply to it bc its overwhelming but!! Yeah hehe okay p. 1 - mare

HII HI HI no worries!!!!!!! all good i'm also really terrible at it!!!!!! hehe <33 jhariah concert & mosh pit is SO awesome though.. man.. thats so cool.... love that experience for u!!!! <333

checking out all of these rn they're SOO GOOD.... dua saleh ROSETTA ep literally going on the repeat playlist rn omg. ough. how have i not heard them before. holy fucking shit. missouri surf club goood i love the florence influence.... jean dawson & ethel cain WHOO!!!! hell yeag. god. u also have such good music dude. good shit.!!!!!!!

what have i been listening to!!! shit!!! this is gonna be LONG but u asked for it!!! a lot of morcheeba (big calm), de la soul (the grind date), sneaker pimps (bloodsport), tricky (maxinquaye) <- one of my all time faves, madvillainy, cibo matto (viva! la woman), yaeji (with a hammer), chai (wink)... summer to me is usually very hot & humid & sticky & dreamy to me (busted ac) so this is my laying on the floor staring at the fan vaguely dissociating rotation.

other than hip hop & trip hop-- dragon new warm mountain i believe in you by big thief!!!!!! somehow never listened to this one & i'm ill over it. & july flame (other all time fave) by laura veirs & central reservation by beth orton (<- huge recent discovery ill over her voice) & broken social scene self titled for my acoustic rotation...

heavier set: been getting BIG into creature feature they're literally so fun. i think u might like them tbh. american gothic is my fave so far!! summer is for shitty pop punk 2 me!! esp. when i actually have to Do Stuff & not lay on the floor melting. so. we the kings, fall out boy (cork tree & infinity on high), the cab, the academy is..., yellowcard, motion city soundtrack, alkaline trio :]

ALSO special mention 2 blue sky black death (slow burning lights, late nite cinema, noir) bc their instrumentals make me so insanely nostalgic & have been my writing soundtrack for the past month!!!!

[b-afterhours]

Avenue of Sins: Neon

A Sequel to Avenue of Sins

SUMMARY: ‘90s. It’s the aftermath. Jaded, Bill and Alma navigate their new lives as they try to drag themselves out of the dark debacherous trenches they had once ensnared themselves in. It’s easy to forget their evils when a silver lining introduces itself into their lives but can they create a less hedonistic life that would be just as satisfying?

WARNINGS: adult content, mature readers only.

The completed first series can be read and found here.

Chapter Twelve

February 1993

He arrived in his lonely penthouse in New York City after a nonstop flight. He left Seattle near 11 a.m., but because of the three-hour time difference between there and New York, he didn’t get home until almost eight-something in the evening. He had locked the door behind himself and stood there briefly. The place felt cold.

“Hello.” He said to no one as his voice echoed, and he just sighed to himself. 

He took the back staircase, strolling down the long hall and peeping into the empty rooms on his way up to his bedroom. Walking the length of his bedroom, he dropped his duffle bag by the couch in the loft area and riffled through bills and junk mail he had grabbed from the residential postal room on the building's first floor. One piece of mail Alma had sent was large and thin. Something in it was being supported with a piece of cardboard to keep it from bending, but he was looking for the other piece of mail she had told him should be there. Once he had found it, he tossed them on top of his bed and went to the bathroom for a shower. 

His travel went smoother than when he went to Seattle. The only hiccup he had run into happened in Alma’s apartment. He had lost the keys to the rental. Alma was the last person with them until they both realized it was actually Echo who had them last, jingling them in her hand without a care. They looked under the couch cushions, and he even tilted the couch back to look for them. While they tried to look thoroughly, they were also somewhat slow about it, whether they knew it or not. It was as if neither of them wanted the visit to end. Alma was looking in the bedrooms while he took Echo’s toys out of the small chest in the living area, but even after he cleared the whole thing, they still weren’t found. As he put everything back, he jostled a shape-sorter toy of hers. Inside were block shapes, but he heard a jingle from inside and opened it, finally finding the keys. Echo was close by, playing with the toys he hadn’t put back in the chest yet. 

“Did you hide these?" He asked, turning to her and picking her up. It seemed like she also didn’t want him to leave. “I got to go, honey,” he said, hugging her after announcing to Alma that he had found the keys. “I would take you with me if I didn’t know you’d miss your mommy so much.” Alma stood there listening to him before he turned to her. 

“Call me when you land?” She asked, hugging him tightly. 

While he held it together, it was hard when he saw that Alma wanted to cry. It didn’t ever feel good to watch him leave. She had never liked it since the day he left Missouri. However, she also felt bad because she had done it to him so many more times now. She bit her quivering lip after he had kissed her deeply. He reassured her that he’d be back soon, and off he went, feeling empty again as soon as he left. He waited until he reached the stop sign at the end of the block and sank in his seat, harshly rubbing his eyes as tears stung them.

After his shower, he decided to call Bianca, and he looked at his clock. It was early in the evening, at least early for him.

“Surprised you didn’t pack your whole family back,” Bianca said to him over the phone.

“I thought about it,” he lightly chuckled, rubbing the hair on his thigh as he was only wearing boxer briefs. “Should I come in tonight or…” 

“Just relax, sweetie. What’s one more day? Everything has been fine while you were gone. You must have been busy over there. You didn’t call me a single time. Unless Alma forbade you from even thinking about work while you were there?” 

“Nah. I know you have a handle on things there.” While work would come to mind, he decided for himself that if anything happened, he would wait for a call instead rather than pester Bianca. 

“I love that you said it with confidence, because I do.” He could picture her with a beaming smile over the phone. “I gotta finish getting ready, but–”

“You’re getting ready in the loft?” He lightly laughed.

“Well, I have it to myself. Why not? So tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow. Alma sent me back with a gift for you, by the way.” 

"Well, if that’s the case, I wouldn’t mind you coming in tonight. That’s so sweet of her.” She paused for a moment, thinking about how she missed Alma, but kept it to herself because she knew Bill did on a whole other level.

Once he was off the phone, he pulled on a sweater and sat against the headboard of his bed next to his daughter’s stuffed bunny that he had balanced on top of it. Sometimes he secretly cuddled with it. He called Alma at the airport once he landed. She reminded him to check his mailbox, instructing him to open the large yellow envelope first. He did as he was told, and inside was a gel print copy of Echo. It was a portrait stylized with yellow and hot pink ink, of her smiling and wearing his Rayban sunglasses that he remembered Alma photographing on her visit. He smiled to himself, realizing that she must have made it during Gregory’s event, which he saw advertised at the record store. It would need to be framed, but it was a nice, thoughtful gift and was similar to the styles of old tour posters he used to display in his adolescent bedroom. 

After putting the print away for safekeeping, he crawled into bed again and opened the other letter. He pulled out something that was wrapped in pink and red tissue paper, and as he peeled the paper away, his heart skipped. The smile on his face just kept spreading across his face as he flipped through ten black-and-white photos of the boudoir photoshoot Alma had shot for him. They were beautiful, sensual, sultry, and sexily enticing. He liked them all, but one in particular made blood rush to his member. It was a low shot of her bottom, her thumbs hooked on the straps of a g-string as she looked back at the camera over her shoulder. He was familiar with the sight, but having hard evidence was exciting to him. He spread the photos over the bed to see them all together while his hand reached down into his underwear.

As he pleased himself, he could feel the ghosts of Alma’s hands or her full lips that had touched him all over the past week, and he missed them. His mind became clearer after he finished on his sweater and pulled it off before he collected the photos back together. He paused for a second. Who developed these?

“Hello?” Alma said on the other end of the phone. After he had left, she loaded her Jeep with laundry—his included—and was currently sitting on her living room floor, folding it all after spending time at the laundromat with Echo. “Oh, so you finally got them?” She bashfully laughed when he informed her. “Um, did you like them?” And then laughed again when he admitted to already getting off to them. “They came out nice, but really that fast?” 

“Don’t laugh,” he said, chuckling as he looked at the photo on top of the stack of her elegant nude silhouette in soft focus in front of her bedroom window. With his thumb, he flipped it up to look at the one below, of her pulling the hem of a small white shirt so that it was pulled tight against her breasts and hard nipples. The phrase ‘God’s Favorite’ was scrawled across it. “Send me more.”

“Any requests?” 

“Only about a hundred of them. But where did you get these developed?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Only you and a girl from the place I go to get all my stuff developed have seen those. I asked that she only deal with that roll of film, and I think she understood why once she saw them.” 

“Well, I hope so…” 

“What’s the worst that could happen? I end up in Playboy?” She joked. 

“These pictures are fucking beautiful—you're fucking beautiful. But don’t start getting ideas,” he said, which made her laugh again. 

…

March – Spring Break Week 1993

It was early in the morning—nearly 4 am—but he was a bit restless after his shift. He was going to have a very busy week ahead of him with all the college kids who couldn’t make it to a sunny beach coming to his club for some fun instead. Bianca was leaving for Miami with her sons the next day, so he'd be manning the ship solo like old times. Bianca would be gone for the week. It was Lorenzo’s 18th birthday gift and an early graduation gift. Looking at his clock, he thought about calling Alma, but she had told him earlier that she’d be working late herself. If he could see her right now, he’d have seen her balancing on top of a down-turned tin trash bin behind the crowd, giving concert photography a shot. 

On his back, he decided to rest his eyes, hoping he’d drift to sleep that way. When he came back from Seattle, he slept well for a couple of days until his body went back into the same shitty sleep cycle that plagued him. Sometimes he’d call Alma and ask her to speak about anything. Just to fall asleep to the sound of her voice made him feel less lonely. Once, she just read him a pamphlet from the pediatrician's office. If he didn’t call her, he’d jerk off, which did help, but shockingly, he was starting to get tired of that after so many consecutive nights in a row now. After lying there with his eyes closed for so long, he figured he might just have to rub one out anyway. 

There was a knock at his front door, and he sighed. He’s hearing things now, he thought. As he tried to get more comfortable in bed, he heard it again. He took a deep breath and reached into his nightstand for his gun, which lay right next to the bundle of nude photos of Alma. No one should be there at this time. Absolutely no one. His mind raced as he quickly pulled on gym shorts and a t-shirt he had set aside to wear to the gym later that morning. 

He crept down the spiral stairs, and there was a knock once more. At the very least, he was glad it didn’t sound like someone was trying to break the door down from its hinges. The rhythm of the knocks sounded a bit urgent and even erratic at times. 

“Shit,” he grumbled under his breath as he cocked the gun slide back. 

He looked through the peephole and saw the back of someone's dark head of hair in a men's-styled cut. When they turned, he saw Giancarlo with a busted nose and bruising eyes, along with a bloody lip. He looked distressed, and while he knew this was Bianca’s son, he was weary of opening the door immediately. He decided to crack it open, leaving the chain lock in place. 

“Mr. Skarsgård! Could you let me in?” He pleaded. 

“What the hell, G’? Who’s with you?” He said, looking out past him skeptically. 

“It’s just me, it’s just me. I promise,” he said frantically as he blinked back tears. He looked genuinely scared and shaken up. “Please…” 

Bill closed his eyes as his jaw clenched tensely. “Hold on.” He said, lowly closing the door to unlatch the chain lock. 

He opened the door wide enough for Giancarlo to get in and quickly locked it. Purposefully, Bill took the live round from the gun out and then tucked the piece in the waistband of his shorts as Giancarlo watched. Realizing he was so close to being shot, he shrank further into himself. He knew that his mother had a gun, but she never brandished it around him or his brother. 

“So what the fuck is this? Why aren’t you home?” Bill asked sternly. 

Giancarlo took in a shaky breath as tears escaped his eyes. Bill sighed at his condition. His clothes were even a bit tattered and dirty, as if he had been dragged around. He had gotten beaten up, but for what he wasn’t sure. 

“Go,” he pointed to his couch, “sit down.” He left for his kitchen to get him a glass of water. As he handed it to him, he noticed him wiping his bloody nose with his sleeve. 

“Sorry,” he said when Bill came back with a dry dishrag. “Thank you.” 

“What are you doing out this late? Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready to leave later?” Bill asked, clasping his hands together as he sat on the edge of the couch opposite him.

Giancarlo cleared his throat. “I was just out with my friends at the Cherry Hill fountain.” 

“In Central Park? This late?” 

“It’s where all us kids go… but I don’t know what happened. Some people started to fight, and it started a whole brawl, and… I got jumped.” 

“I see.” He said looking at his state up and down.

“I didn’t even do anything, but then the cops showed up, and I just started running. You’re the only person I know here in Manhattan.” 

“The cops aren’t looking for you right now, are they?” 

“No, they were just hemming up whoever they could.” 

“How’d you even get past the doorman here?”

“I just ran straight past him… He’s a heavy guy.” 

Bill nodded. He didn’t like that it was so easy for someone to get by during these hours. Now he was going to have to complain later. “Okay… Well, do you want me to call your mom, or do you want to?” 

Giancarlo looked like he wanted to cry again. It was obvious to him that she had no idea he wasn’t home right now. Bianca didn’t have time for stuff like this and had raised her children to have sense, but Giancarlo liked to push it. Before he had owned the club, Myrna had said she didn’t want to pass it on to Bianca, who he felt should own it before he should have been considered. Myrna thought she should focus on raising her kids first, but Bill felt they were grown enough by now to partner with her. He wasn’t regretting his decision, but it seemed like her youngest son was going to need some extra guidance. 

“She’s going to be so pissed,” he said, wiping a tear from his cheek with the dishrag.

“If you call her, maybe she’ll respect that more than you having me do it. You keep wanting to grow up so fast… but I don’t think you understand what that means yet, Gian. Did you try to fight back?” He didn’t want to be rude, but he looked a bit pitiful. 

“Yes… but there were too many.” 

“You stay at the edge of a brawl, if you must, not in the middle of it. Just call your mom. That's the grown-up thing to do.” 

Bill turned away from him as he called home, trying to give him some semblance of space and privacy. Giancarlo explained what had happened to him with a shaky, terrified voice. He was still such a little boy compared to how he was at his age, but he also grew up too fast compared to most kids his age then. 

Bianca, while somewhat strict, overly doted on her sons more than an average mother would, but she meant business when the time permitted. Bill could hear her yelling on the other end of the receiver, and he glanced over and saw him crying again. Poor kid. 

“M-Mr. Skarsgård? My mom wants t-to talk to you,” he sniffled, holding out the phone to him. 

“Oh Bill, I’m so sorry,” Bianca said, exasperated. 

“It’s fine,” he sighed. 

“No. It’s not, but… does my boy look bad?” She said with concern.

“He doesn’t look too great, frankly.” He said, glancing at him. He had his head bowed in shame.

“Oh my god… I’ll come get him.” 

“Later. He can sleep in my guest room. And yes, I’m sure. There’s probably still cops out looking for stray kids on the street.” 

Bianca reluctantly agreed, and Bill passed the phone back to Giancarlo. Once again, she was yelling on the other end. He could make out her warning her son to not touch anything in his home, and after a few more words, Giancarlo hung up. 

“How long are you grounded for?” Bill smirked. 

“Until the end of the school year,” he frowned. 

“Mhmm. Well, go wash up in the bathroom down there,” Bill pointed down the hallway. “Just dig in the cabinets for some bandages. I’ll meet you in a minute.” 

Bill went up to his room and grabbed a tank top from a new pack and some old sweats of his for the boy. When Bill found him in the bathroom, he was shirtless, leaning into the mirror inspecting his battered face. He had been having trouble bandaging the cut on his brow because his hands were too shaky. 

"Um, Mr. Skarsgård, do you think you can help me?” He asked sheepishly, holding the butterfly bandage out to him. He was still used to his mother mending his cuts or scrapes. 

He set the clothes on the counter and grabbed it. “Your mom’s not here. I don’t care if you call me Bill,” he said, tilting Giancarlo’s head down. He pinched his cut together, which made him wince, and quickly bandaged it. “Your eyebrow is going to scar,” he warned. 

“Is my nose going to be fucked up too?” 

Bill chuckled. “Let me see." He lightly felt the bridge of his nose, and it felt fine enough. “Nah. You’re going to Miami with black eyes, though.” 

“Damn…” He said, shaking his head at his reflection in the mirror.

“Clothes,” he pointed at them. “Bed,” he said, walking out of the bathroom with Giancarlo following. The guest room had been rearranged. The configuration was changed to create a little office space. Taking the computer out of Echo’s nursery so she’d have the whole space for her things now. “You can help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen. If you need me, just go up the back staircase. Knock first.” 

“Okay,” Giancarlo nodded, looking around the room that was illuminated by the red neon marquee across the street. “Thank you, Bill.” He said misty-eyed. 

“You’re a good kid, G’. Just don’t get caught up in shit, alright?” Bill was just about to turn to leave him but was caught off guard when Giancarlo hugged him. He stiffened at first, but then he hugged him back. "Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?" he tried to lightly joke, but inside he was thinking about the times he had felt like this at his age, but there was no one there to hug.

Giancarlo pulled away and sniffled. “Sorry, I woke you up with my bullshit."

“Just get some sleep. You have a long day of travel ahead of you,” Bill said as he walked out of the guest room. 

He made a detour to grab a bag of frozen peas to give to the boy, and then he took the back staircase to his room, shut the door, and locked it. Until tonight, he had always kept it open, and while he didn’t think Giancarlo would do anything to him, he still took precautions. The mezzanine area, where the spiral staircase took you before opening to the rest of the room, he wasn’t too worried about. He would hear anyone coming up that way. Yet he took his Glock from his waistband and rested it on top of his nightstand. He’d sleep better that way. 

He had managed to sleep for a few hours when the phone rang, and he lazily got up to answer. It was Bianca informing him that she was on her way. He laid back in bed, just relaxing and stretching his body a bit. Downstairs, the sound of a light switch turning on and the fridge opening could be heard. At least he didn’t have to wake the kid up too. 

He thought to himself that if his family were there, he would have never opened the door for him. Probably, Alma would much to his dismay. She’d have the mother's intuition to help another woman's child, but he had the father’s version of protecting his. It didn't matter who it was. 

He cracked open his eyes just to check the time. It was too early to call Alma, but he also missed the gym workout, meaning he’d just go jog then. He got out of bed and joined Giancarlo, who was eating cereal at the dining table by the spoonful. His face was fairly swollen, but the frozen peas certainly kept it from looking a lot worse.

“Um,” he said, chewing. “I can make you a bowl.” 

The corner of Bill’s mouth went up in a smirk. “You’re fine… for now. Your mom’s on her way.” 

Giancarlo lightly grumbled at the thought as he watched Bill put a single slice of white bread in the toaster. He thought Bill was about the coolest grownup he’s ever known. He had a nice place, a cool car, expensive clothes, and a hot girlfriend. He also worked at a strip club and got to see boobs every day. It sounded like a dream, and for a 14-year-old boy, it all still glittered and shined for him. 

“Does your mom ever give you grief sometimes?” 

Bill leaned on the kitchen island and crossed his arms, biting his lip. “Mm… no. She passed away.” 

“Oh… I’m sorr-” 

“It was a long time ago,” he cut him off, giving Giancarlo a pursed smile. “So listen to your mother and all that, right?" He said, catching the warm toast as it popped out of the toaster. He hardly buttered it and held it between his teeth as he reached into his fridge for a few eggs to hardboil. 

There was a knock at the door and Bill could hear the boy gulp loudly in fear. He quickly got up to take his bowl to the sink as Bill went to answer it. He paused, turning around to see him hastily trying to wash it. 

“Just leave it. I know your mom’s old school, but you don’t have to do that.” 

Giancarlo nodded and then braced himself when Bill opened the door. Bianca was dressed in a pink velour tracksuit with her hair wrapped in a silk scarf in a similar color. Bill greeted her but stepped aside to let her go directly to her son. She took off her large, buggy sunglasses when she saw the state of her son's face. He stood there uncomfortably, wishing he could disappear. 

“Come here,” she said, pointing at the floor below her sternly, and when he approached, she reached out and held him as relief washed over her. “My god,” she said, trying to cradle his face in her hands, but he flinched. “Your handsome face…” she shook her head. “Don’t ever do this shit again! Go down to the car. I’ll be right behind you.” 

“I’m really sorry, Ma’.” 

“And apologize to Mr. Skarsgård for putting him out with your foolishness.” 

“Bianca I–” Bill began to say, but she held a hand behind her to stop him. 

“Now. Apologize.” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Skarsgård. And thank you.” He said, with his head held straight and making eye contact, that he knew his mother expected of him. 

“I’ll accept your apology this one and only time,” he said, putting on a stern tone to match Bianca's, but he discretely winked at the boy. 

The boy left, and Bianca eased once he was gone. Bill had her follow him to the guest bedroom to help her collect his tattered clothes, and they paused back at the front door.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with him,” Bianca sighed sadly. "Like, this is just beyond!” 

“Hm. Well, I think he’s learned his lesson. You didn’t raise your sons to be out in the street like he was. He was here shaking and crying,” he lightly laughed. “He even hugged me, too. He’ll be alright, though,” he lightly shrugged.

"Oh, so he got a real scare, huh?" She said, pleased by the fact. 

“Big time.” 

“Good. Well, I’ll see you in a week, honey. The family vacation photos are going to look insane with the state of Gian’s face, but we’ll be in Miami nonetheless, right?” She said hugging Bill. “And thank you. I owe you one.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Have a safe trip.” He chuckled. 

After his jog, he felt more awake, but when he took a hot shower, he felt tired again. His muscles relaxed yet ached at the same time. He lay in his bed in just a pair of boxers and a tank top and felt his eyes getting heavy. Unexpectedly he fell asleep. The phone woke him up again a couple of hours later. He had been procrastinating with moving the phone from the loft seating to his nightstand, and right then he cursed himself for it. He got up reluctantly and picked the whole thing up to bring by his bedside, but in the time it took him to do that, it stopped ringing. The phone downstairs began to ring, which signaled to him that Alma was calling. He let the one downstairs cut off first before dialing her apartment until the dial tone on his line went off and he switched calls. 

“It’s Alma.” 

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat, still raspy from sleep. “Sorry, what time is it?” 

“Um… It should be almost 1 p.m. over there. Are you okay?” She said with worry. She didn’t receive a call from him that morning. He called twice a day, but especially in the morning, he never missed those calls, and the evening calls would come too, even if sometimes they could be brief because he was usually at work or on his way when he called then. Currently, she was at work in the office with her feet up on the desk after helping clean up the mess from the show the night before. 

“I’m okay. I had a long night. I went for a jog, and I guess… took a nap?”

“Long night?" She questioned. 

Bill went on to explain what had happened with Giancarlo, and Alma was surprised the boy would even think of Bill’s place to go, as he can sometimes come off a bit cold, let alone that he would get into trouble like that knowing his mother. 

“It’s good you didn’t blast him through the door with your gun, at least. I’m glad he came to you, though.” 

“Eh. Kinda weird, but everyone else he knows is in Brooklyn, so.” 

“I mean, yeah, but he kind of looks up to you too.” 

Bill grimaced. He didn’t feel like someone anyone should look up to. “Lorenzo has a crush on you,” he deflected. 

“Those boys are funny, aren’t they? But really, I am glad he came to you. You’re such a dad now, Bill.” She giggled.

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled.

“Plus, Echo might get into shit when she’s a teenager. So this was a good glimpse of things that may come. Hopefully not, though.”

“More like, not at all. She’s not going to be running around Central Park during hell hours.” 

Alma laughed. “Bill, we used to be teenagers. Those late-night field parties, remember? We even left town two hours away to Kansas City without anyone knowing. Central Park is closer at the very least.” 

“Central Park is in the middle of a metropolitan city. We were in the middle of fucking nowhere. That’s the difference.” If Alma could see him, she’d see him speaking with his hands like he usually did when he was trying to make a point. 

“It’s not like it’s any better.” 

“Sure,” he grumbled. “Shit happens wherever you’re at. That’s why you and our daughter need to be here already.” 

“Oh god. Okay, yeah…” she digressed. “Are you ready for Spring Break Week at the club?” 

“Same ol’ shit, right?” He groaned, scratching his head. 

…

That week at the club was hectic, but it wasn't anything he hadn’t seen before or couldn’t handle. Of course, there were a few fights between college rivals, but that was to be expected. What he didn’t expect was firing the head chef for passing out drunk in the kitchen. The poor sous chef working back there looked terrified when he promoted her on the spot, but she knew the most, so he wasn’t worried that she couldn’t cut it. She just didn’t expect to start her new position during such a busy week. When Bianca comes back from her vacation, she can fix the arrangement with the kitchen employees. She liked it a certain way, and Bill didn’t mind that. The kitchen was a responsibility they both shared while they split the bar, his main duty, and the girls, her main duty. The DJ was the only employee they hardly checked on; he just needed to be there or else. Either way, they took care of anything should they have to. 

Luckily, it was the last day of such a lively week, and he was in the loft, sitting in the lounge area with Theo and his brother Damien, laughing about some situation over a drink with them. Damien had come to speak with Bill about some properties after he had lost the Brooklyn property to another buyer, but he also looked over the paperwork for Alma’s childhood home. His advice only served to confirm what he already knew himself. The phone on his desk rang. At first, he thought about ignoring it, but something in him told him otherwise. 

Alma was in her apartment in Seattle, feeling sorry for herself. Her daughter was asleep and finally settled next to her in bed. She had a hell of a day, and dread kept building in her heart as the phone rang over and over. The anxiety she was keeping at bay was wanting to break from the edge of her psyche. 

“Bill?” Alma said once the phone was answered, “Are you alone?” 

His brows furrowed with concern. The way she sounded on the other end of the line unsettled him. “Alma? One second.” 

Her heart was thrumming hard in her chest as she heard Bill ask his guests for privacy. She knew he wasn’t going to be happy with her, and she wasn’t ready for his reaction. She didn’t want others to have to feel it too. Maybe she should have called much earlier, or at least until she let the anxiety attack that was looming above her pass. 

“What’s wrong?" He asked nervously, sitting in his office chair. 

“Echo had an accident. She’s okay,” she said quickly before he started questioning her. “We got home from the ER about an hour ago, and she’s going to be fine.” 

“Fuck. Alma? An accident,” he bit his cheek and took a deep breath to settle himself. "Okay, she’s fine,” he reiterated to keep his mind from thinking of something tragic. 

“Yes.” 

“What happened?” He asked, rubbing his forehead anxiously. 

“I was making dinner, and she was playing in the living room… and I swear I looked away for just a second, but she got on the couch arm and jumped off it. Her lower teeth cut inside her bottom lip, but they didn’t go all the way through.” Alma's stomach sank again, just as it did when she heard the blood-curdling cry that erupted from her daughter, just as she was able to take in a breath because she had also knocked the wind out of herself. The sight of her with blood coming from her mouth still made her queasy. 

“See,” he said angrily. “This is exactly what I was telling you! Shit happens! And I’m not there? It probably wouldn’t have happened if I was there, Alma!” He chastised. There was a long pause on the other end of the line. For a moment, he thought she had hung up the phone. 

She had dropped the receiver on the bed and cupped her mouth to keep the sob that had been waiting to be unleashed since the accident had happened. There wasn’t time to cry or freak out, only time to assess and get her daughter to the ER to be seen. Even that was an ordeal, waiting in the lobby holding a rag to her daughter's bleeding mouth and making sure she didn’t choke on her blood while they waited. It felt like forever to be seen, but soon enough, she was receiving two stitches inside her mouth. Just as she felt it would be over soon, a social worker came in to speak to her. 

“Are there times you become frustrated taking care of your daughter?” The social worker tried to ask with empathy and concern, but Alma knew exactly what she was trying to ask. 

While she wished Bill was with them, at the moment she was glad he wasn’t. He’d lose his shit completely with that line of questioning, and then they would actually take their daughter away then. Alma kept it cool with the last bit of it that she had left in her. The social worker took the last bit of it when she asked about the whereabouts of Echo’s father. Seemingly trying to find blame where there was none, pissing Alma off on his behalf. However, her cool, even answers satisfied the social worker that it was just an accident after all because it was. 

“They’re rambunctious at this age,” the social worker said, still clinging on to the feigned lightheartedness as she left. “I hope she heals well.” 

Alma sneered at her once she left and picked up her irritable daughter carefully to finally get the hell out of there.

“Hello?” Bill said into the receiver. The sobs Alma was trying to swallow back escaped, and he could hear her choke on her tears. His face fell now, feeling like a dick. “I don’t know if you can hear me… but I’m sorry… Alma?” He felt remorseful when he heard fresh sobs coming from her. He, too, would have been a mess had he been there to witness the accident. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” He sighed, leaning back in his office chair, and looked up at the ceiling feeling helpless where he was. “Alma, please pick the phone back up.” There was some rustling on the other end, and then he could hear her sniffling. 

“I don’t need you to tell me that shit like I don’t already know,” she indignantly snapped back. “I feel like a piece of shit mother for taking my eyes off her already!” She cried, and tears began to spill afresh. This time, she didn’t care if he heard. 

"Shhh, baby,” he tried to softly soothe her. He hadn’t ever been too great at it. “Okay. She’s okay, alright. That’s all that matters.” 

“Yeah…” she said, wiping her face with the collar of her t-shirt. “It was just… scary.” 

“Did she need stitches?” 

“Yes, just two. I finally got her to sleep, but she still kinda looks uncomfortable.” She glanced down at her, noticing her swollen lip jutted out. It looked painful and she wished she could take it away. 

“Mhmm. Could you call me whenever she’s up?” She assured him that she would, but that she was probably going to sleep the rest of the night. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that alone,” he frowned. “You’re not a piece of shit mother. I don’t like that you said that.” 

“I just feel so bad…” she said with a quivering voice. The social worker’s accusatory questioning didn’t help with how she felt about herself either. She wouldn’t tell him that detail for his sake. As much as it would anger him, the accusation would break his heart.

“I love you, Alma. Three weeks,” he said, reminding her of his next visit. “And some change.” 

“I need you.” 

Bill felt his heart strain from the sincerity with which she said it. “I need you.” He said, closing his eyes and picturing her. “Now, why did she jump off the couch like that to begin with?” He lightly joked. 

Alma scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Fucking beats me. She’s crazy.” 

…

April 1993

Alma and Echo had been waiting at the Sea-Tac Airport for an hour before she knew Bill’s plane should land. They were taking rides up and down an escalator to pass the time when she heard the airline announce his plane's arrival. Alma happily smiled, pushing her long soft curled hair back as she picked up Echo, and hastily they made their way to his gate.

“Papa’s here, E’.” She said, kissing her cheek. 

Her injury had healed quickly, only the bruise lingered longer than the laceration. Her babysitter, Yolani, was in nursing school to catch anything if there were any issues but luckily there weren’t any. Once the stitches dissolved, Echo was back to her usual self: happy, free-spirited, and at times a little wild. 

They watched passengers file out the gateway, and suddenly he appeared. He was easy to spot, being taller than the group of elderly nuns in front of him. He fixed the strap of his duffle bag on his shoulder as he looked around for a pay phone to call his girlfriend. She was standing right by them, and he took off his sunglasses and smiled brightly, seeing his family waiting for him. Alma set Echo down as he approached them and coaxed her to run towards him. He scooped her up and planted a succession of kisses on her cheek.

“My baby girl,” he said, peering down at her, and then he ran his thumb along her bottom lip, inspecting it. "Ah, like nothing ever happened, huh? Silly girl,” he punctuated with another kiss on her cheek. “Come over here,” he said to Alma, putting an arm around her waist. "Fuck, you look good,” he said, looking her up and down before kissing her. 

Alma giggled, and so did their daughter, seeing them kiss, but she giggled because she didn’t think her outfit was particularly remarkable. Just a halter top and a short, tight skirt with sheer pantyhose, of course, all in black. She thought he looked good too, especially with his new haircut. The sides were shorter than the hair on top, which he had styled forward. 

“I need to get my luggage before we go,” he said, taking her hand and leading them to baggage claim. 

“What happened to ‘packing light’?” 

He looked down at her with a smirk. “I did. I brought you stuff. It’s your birthday week.” 

"Bill, you didn’t have to-”

“Don’t start,” he chuckled, shaking his head. 

Once he had gotten the largest luggage she’d ever seen him with, they went to her Jeep. After putting it in the back and with Echo securely situated in her car seat, Alma began to walk to the driver's seat when she noticed Bill following behind her. 

She looked up at him. “I’m driving?” 

“Eh… Just give me the keys.” 

“I know how to get back to my place the fastest.” 

“I… don’t like how you drive, Alma.” He said, scratching his brow.

“The fuck?” She sneered, offended.

“You drive like we’re still on country roads.” 

“Bullshit,” she said, getting into the Jeep. “I drive fine. You’re insane to think I’d drive like an ass with your daughter as my passenger." As she tried to close the door, he held on to it to stop her. “Rent a car then,” she said stubbornly. “Don’t fight me. It’s my birthday week.” 

He clicked his tongue in resignation. “Give me another kiss then I’ll let you drive.” 

She grabbed his face as he leaned in, and they began feverishly kissing, hungry for each other. When he felt her hand cup him through his jeans he moaned into her mouth. Before succumbing to her touch, he pulled away, and they laughed at their haste. 

“You know the fastest way, you said?” He asked, buckling himself into the passenger seat. She nodded. “Just drive the speed limit.” 

“I always do,” she said, backing out of the parking space. 

"Or, if it’s clear, just go a little over.” He said ready to be alone with her. 

When they arrived at her apartment, Echo had fallen asleep on the car ride. One moment she was melodically babbling and screeching along to a pop radio song, and then the next she was asleep. Alma carefully got her out of her car seat and, once inside, she gently laid her down in the playpen in the living room while Bill went on to the bedroom to leave his luggage. A moment had passed before he harshly whispered for her, not wanting to be too loud, and wake up their daughter. 

After she kicked off her boots, she appeared at the end of the hallway and smirked when she saw him standing in the door frame, undoing his belt buckle, looking like a scene from an erotic movie. He nodded his head back, motioning for her to join him. 

“You don’t want to take a shower first,” she asked, shutting the door behind herself, but he placed his lips on hers as if to say that it could wait. 

Not knowing how much time they would have, Alma took it upon herself to bend over, placing her hands flat against the bed in front of them. Rubbing her bottom on the bulge in his fitted Levi jeans. One hand pulled the jeans button open, and down his zipper went as the other pushed her skirt up over her bottom. He took a tantalizing moment to run his fingertips over the sheer hose stretched tight against her bottom before reaching the band to pull them down. Once they were pulled down to the middle of her thighs, he hooked a finger around the simple black thong she wore and plucked it aside as he freed himself. 

His eyes fluttered closed as he pushed inside her warmth slowly to feel her velvet walls encompassing him. Gripping her hips tightly, he sighed, feeling the tension and the stress of travel fade into the background. The sound of Alma’s breathy moans as he watched himself thrust into her was dizzying. His jaw went slack as he felt her getting wetter around him. She pushed back, righting herself and turning her head just so that their lips could link. With her arm reaching above her, she held onto the back of his neck as he kissed along the curve of hers. 

“Look,” she said breathlessly, as his hips never ceased. “Look at us.” 

Peering from under his brow, he followed the direction of her gaze. In front of them was a full-length standing mirror in the corner of her room, facing her bed. A new purchase. He grinned at their reflection, connected just as they were. He felt her pressing her face against his stubbly throat, leaving whispering pecks, but in the mirror, he could see it too. His right hand went up to cup her chin and redirected her gaze back to the mirror. 

"Fuck," he groaned. “Look at you. So pretty with my cock inside you.” She flashed a lip-biting smile full of lust at their reflection. 

He unhooked her arm from the back of his neck and gently pushed her back into position on the bed, taking back control. Seeing her in front of himself and the mirror just to the left of his gaze was undoing him. Just as her pussy tightened around him as he pounded her into her undoing. Leaning back, his right hand took hold of her thong like a rein. The ferocity of his thrusts made her arms give and her chest hit the mattress just as her face buried in it to muffle the loud moans she could no longer hold back. His hips snapped inside her as he came and collapsed on top of her, holding her close as they both caught their breath. 

Alma turned slightly to kiss him with thankful fervor before they had to disconnect to steady their breathing once more. Their foreheads were pressed together as they did so, and they started to chuckle at themselves. Their eagerness and impatience to be with each other this way made them feel adolescent. Lately, Bill had been feeling like a vagabond, traveling coast to coast but being with her in this way anywhere was home. 

[themusingsofafanficwriter]

The True Meaning of Family - Chapter 7

Summary: A found family Supernatural AU. Ophelia Humphries is an English 19-year-old who is just trying to finish her online history degree when she receives a letter from two brothers she never knew she had.

A/N: Chapter 7 is here! Sorry for the little break, life got in the way. If you want to keep more up to date, I'd suggest heading over to AO3. If you didn't see the previous chapters, you can find the master list here. Let me know what you guys think!

T/W: Death of both adults and children.

Dean was right, this seemed like a simple haunting.

A 53-year-old woman went missing, and then another, and then another.

“Did anything happen in this town?” Ophelia asked Sam eventually.

“Uhhh not much can happen in a town the size of Reeds Spring, Missouri. So if we look through old records, we might find something that stands out.” Sam said with a smile.

Hours passed.

Ophelia made lunch. Then she made dinner. Then she went and found a sweet treat. Soon enough it was almost midnight when Sam quickly turned his laptop around to face her.

“A girl went missing… 40 years ago.” He said slowly enough so Ophelia could connect the dots herself.

“These women would have been 13? Did they know the girl that went missing?” There was a slight tone of excitement in her voice. “Do we know what happened to the girl?”

Sam’s face was soft and nurturing, like a teacher who was proud of a student.

“Okay, slow down, we’ve not solved it yet. If I give you the girl’s name, can you look at any records about her and I’ll work the angle that these women may have known her.”

He paused as he turned the laptop back to face him and skimmed the rest of the article.

“Okay, it looks like her name is Ruby Evans and yeah, she was 13 when she went missing after not making it home from a friend’s party. They found her body 13 days later near where she went missing.”

“Does it say who her friend was?”

“Yeah, and….” Sam paused as he checked the recent missing women articles. “The friend whose party it was, Amanda-Rose Jameson, was the first woman who went missing.”

“Okay, so the ghost is 100% Ruby then?”

“Most likely. I’ll go let Dean know that we’ve found the ghost’s details. Do we know if she was buried or cremated?”

“Does it matter?”

“Oh big time.” Sam paused slightly before explaining. “If she has been buried then we can go find her grave, dig it up, burn her bones and then that usually does it. If she has already been cremated then we have to find any small mementos that she could still be tied to like baby teeth or a locket of hair.”

“Gross.” Was all Ophelia could muster to say.

Sam just nodded in response. Ophelia scanned the old newspaper obituary.

“Looks like her parents just buried her in the local cemetery. They asked people to come wearing purple as it was her favourite colour… How sweet!”

A slight wave of sadness crept into her chest as she pictured a family grieving the loss of their child

“That's definitely a start. Nice work ‘Phelia, I'll talk to Dean and we can get Ruby to the other side soon.”

Then the waiting began.

Her brothers left early that next morning, hoping that they could dig up Ruby’s bones and get back within the day.

When they weren't back by midnight that night, Ophelia began to worry.

‘I’m sure everything is fine. They do this all the time, it is quite literally their job.’ She thought to herself. But the waiting and not knowing was excruciating.

She had done everything she could to keep busy.

Cleaned the kitchen, bathrooms and other communal areas. Wrote a paper, started writing another for university, and attended a meeting with her personal tutor.

“Oh, a new background Ophelia? Have you moved again?” Her tutor asked from her Zoom window.

Dr Ahn, a plump British-Korean woman with a speciality in Asian mythology and a love of loud printed clothing, seemed genuinely concerned for all of the people under her tutelage. She had made it known to Ophelia over the last term that she always could talk to her about Ophelia’s home life.

The Docter cocked her head prompting Ophelia’s reply.

“Yeah… I have. Umm, some family from my dad’s side reached out and I’m now living with them.” She said cautiously.

“Oh well, that’s good!” Dr Ahn replied with enthusiasm. “And how are your studies?”

Yet, after all of that, Ophelia hadn’t heard from Sam or Dean since they had arrived at Ruby Evans' parents home.

Not knowing what else to do, she reached out to Cas.

A whoosh of wings and the angel was standing in the doorway of the library.

“Is everything okay Ophelia?” He asked.

“Uhh.” She started. Not wanting to make a big deal out of nothing.

“I can read your mind if you’re unsure how to tell me.”

“Oh no. It’s okay.” She took a deep breath. “Have you heard from Sam or Dean…?”

“They have not reached out to me”

“Is that normal?”

“Quite normal.” The angel had a quizzical tone. “Are you okay Ophelia?”

“Oh yeah, I’m sooo fine.” She said, trying to convince herself.

“I can tell when you are lying, even when you try to cover it with sarcasm.” Cas said as he crossed the room towards the couch Ophelia was sitting on.

“Right, yeah.” She sighed. “I guess I was expecting more updates? They said they’d be home by now and I’m trying to be so chill about it.” Ophelia’s head was in her hands, hiding her face and the cringing that she was now experiencing.

“That is understandable.” The angel replied as he sat next to her. “Would you like me to check in with your brothers?”

“That seems weird. Like they are obviously good at this and I know nothing about any of this.” Ophelia gestured to the bunker around them.

After a long pause, Cas placed his hand on Ophelia’s back and gently rubbed in small circles. Ophelia had not realised how anxious she was about this until the small kind gesture of Cas.

“They are not used to having someone that would want them to check in with.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She said with a sigh.

“You should eat and get sleep. They will be home soon.” Cas said finally as he stood.

Taken aback by his abruptness, Ophelia just blinked in response. Another second passed and when she opened her eyes again, the angel was gone.

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

“Hello.”

“Castiel! What are you doing here?” Sam asked with a start.

Sam was sitting on a single bed in a motel, papers strewn around him and his laptop propped up on a stack of books.

“I am here about Ophelia.” He replied.

“Is she okay?” Dean asked cautiously as he came out of the bathroom.

“Have either of you contacted her?”

The brothers glanced at each other. “No, why? Is something wrong?” Sam questioned.

Cas sat on the second single bed and studied the two men.

“She, in her words, is trying to be ‘sooo fine’ and ‘so chill about it’.” Castiel said, mimicking Ophelia’s likeness. “But she is simply worried about you both.” “Oh. Is that it? She’s worried about us?” Sam questioned further.

“Yes.”

“She knows we know what we are doing right?” Dean replied.

“Yes.” Was all Cas responded again.

“I’m confused.” Dean stated.

“Oh shoot, is that the time?” Sam said with a start as he checked his phone. “We told her we would be home hours ago, Dean.”

“Right but she knows that this sort of thing takes time. And… and cases can evolve and become more complicated right? Like, she knows that?” Dean gestured to the papers.

Sam looked guilty. “How would she know that Dean?” he replied.

A flash of guilt crossed Dean’s face too. “I’ll call her.” He replied.

“It is best that you do not mention that I told you about this. Remember she is trying to be ‘so chill about it’.” Castiel once again mimicked the Winchester daughter.

Ophelia had not been asleep long when her phone rang.

Dean’s name flashed across the screen. She sat up as she clicked the answer button.

“Hey kiddo, sorry for not getting in touch earlier. The Ruby case took a little bit of a turn.”

‘Remember, you’re so chill.’ Ran through Ophelia’s mind. “Oh, no worries!” She said in as chipper tone as she could. “Uhh, how is it going?”

“Ahh well, you know how these things go.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“I quite literally have no idea how these things go.”

“Oh, yeah right.”

The phone went silent for a moment.

“Well, we found her grave, dug it up and lit it on fire.” Dean started explaining the case. “We thought that would be it but another one of the women who was at that party went missing.”

Ophelia nodded absent-mindedly as Dean continued.

“So, probably some baby teeth or something kicking about at her parents' places, we thought.”

“So we were wrong about it being Ruby? Ophelia asked.

“Oh no it’s definitely her, kiddo, you and Sam did solid work.” Relief filled Ophelia.

“We’re thinking it’s an object that’s keeping her here. We saw her bedroom, her mom has kept it as a shrine to Ruby. It could be anything in there.” Dean explained.

“Did she have a childhood toy she loved? Or maybe a diary?” Ophelia asked as she looked around her new room that was already filled with mementos of her childhood. “This is a teenager, not a young child, ‘Phelia.” Dean replied softly.

“I am almost 20 years old and you have seen my room both here and at my mum’s place.”

“Point taken, but this is a shrine to her, where would you start, you know, as a teen girl and all that.” Dean said with a sigh.

Ophelia slouched back into bed, racking her brain for what she would love so much as a young teen that her spirit could attach itself to.

“What was Ruby like? A girly girl or more masculine or what?”

“She liked lots of things, horses mainly by the look of it.” Dean said.

“Did she compete?”

Dean looked over at Sam and repeated their sister’s question, there was a pause but eventually, Sam nodded.

“Look for her first big win ribbon or trophy.” Ophelia said. “I danced as a kid and the way I was obsessed with winning those medals and for a while I slept with my first place medal on my bedside table every night.”

“That’s a great place to start. I’ll let you get some sleep. Thanks, kiddo.” Dean said.

“Yeah, no worries Dean.”

“Oh and kiddo, We really are sorry for not calling earlier.” Dean replied with a genuine tone.

“It’s really not a problem, Dean. Don’t worry about it.” Ophelia kept her voice even as she picked at a hangnail on her thumb.

The phone went dead and she was alone once again. Eventually, Ophelia fell back asleep and hours passed.

She didn’t hear when, almost 10 hours later, Sam and Dean re-entered the Bunker and started debriefing with Cas.

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

Later that morning, Dean walked over to Ophelia’s room and gently knocked.

A groggy Ophelia woke to Dean pushing the door to her room open and poking his head around it.

“Can I come in?”

She hummed a reply and gestured for him to sit on the end of her bed. She flattened her curls as Dean made his way across the room.

“Your thinking was right, Ruby’s spirit was tied to a first-place dressage medal she had won earlier that year.”

“Oh, nice.” Ophelia finally said. “Did you find those women?”

“We found one of them alive.” Dean paused. “Ruby had killed the others by the time we got there.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Why did she do it?” Ophelia finally asked.

“Well, they killed her.”

“Wait? Really?”

“Yeah, those girls weren’t her friends. They only invited her to that party to make fun of her and, I don’t know kiddo, they ended up killing her.”

The siblings were silent.

“So this was revenge?” She said.

“Yeah. Those women are the real evil if you ask me.” Dean said casually.

“I suppose they are.”

“Why don’t you come sit with us, ‘Phelia.” Dea said as he stood.

She nodded and threw back her covers. Her bright PJs instantly brought a smile to Dean’s face.

The morning was filled with the brothers recounting the final fight with Ruby’s spirit and similar fights that they had had, as well as the promise that they would be better at keeping her in the loop.

“You could always take me with you. Not on the hunt as such but, like, I could stay in the hotel or wherever you are staying and just do research or my uni work… or whatever.”

The two brothers looked at each other.

“Yeah, maybe, kiddo.” Dean said finally. The hesitation was clear in his voice.

“It could be helpful Dean.” Sam said finally.

“Okay, if you two are going to be like this, I want you,” He pointed at Ophelia, “trained in how to fire a gun and basic hand-to-hand combat before we take you out of this bunker and to the location of a case.

Sam and Ophelia looked at each other in astonishment, not believing how easy that had been.

“And I will determine when you’re ready.” Dean quickly added.

There it was, the caveat that made his relenting make sense, but at least they had made progress.

[flamencodiva]

The Frog Princess 7

Description: The life of a prince is never easy, unless you are Dean Winchester, crowned prince to the Kingdom of Lawrence. But when an encounter with a frog changes his world, what will he find on his adventure? And what happens when an Evil Queens curse sends them to a land without magic and no memory of what he’s lost?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Amaya Campos

Warnings for entire fic: Angst, Slow Burn, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Idiots to lovers, Language Violence.

Beta: @colereads and @jensengirl83

A/N: This fic coensides with a fic written by @defenderrosetyler on Tumble titled A Prince and His Swan. Make sure you guys check it out!

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

<< Chapter 6

Enchanted Forest 

Deep in the swamp, Dean looked around the inside of Missouri’s house. The woman’s house was full of odds and ends that Dean wasn’t sure what to make of it. He continued to observe Amaya as she hopped around the one-room shack. He could tell she was thinking about something. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” he let out. “Going out on your own is a bad idea, Amaya,” he hopped over to her making her stop her movements, “I understand you want to find your father. If it was me, I would do the same. But I also know that charging in without a plan will only get you killed.” 

Amaya stayed silent, contemplating his words. Why was he saying this? He was resistant to helping her from the beginning, and now he was offering advice? 

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” she hissed, “but I am going to warn you. If you get in my way, I will kill you. Prince or no Prince, I will kill you in ways that will make your blood run cold.” 

Dean huffed, “This, Sir Trenton,” he let out, pausing to meet her eyes, “he really did a number on you. If you want to believe that I have a motive for helping you, by all means, go right ahead. My motive for helping you is keeping my promise.” 

Amaya’s eyes went down to the five-pointed star surrounded by fire on his chest. Giving Dean a nod, she hopped around him towards a large pot that Missouri was hunched over. 

“What is she making, a potion?” Dean asked, following behind. 

“Hush up,” Missouri scoffed, “This is my gumbo.” 

“Now Missouri,” a voice called, followed by a light buzzing sound, “don’t go adding what shouldn’ be in da gumbo!” 

“And what do you think I would add in here that shouldn’t be?” Missouri huffed back, hands on her hips as she looked up at a firefly buzzing around her head. 

“Cinnamon,” they said matter of factly. 

“Boy,” Missouri said, “you are lucky I am too kind-hearted to knock you with a spoon because of your size.” 

Dean knew the voice sounded familiar. He had heard it many times before.

 But Benny was back in Castle Winchester. So then, who was the mysterious firefly? 

“This curse is more complicated than you realize, Young Prince,” Missouri said, stirring the pot. “Since you’re here, you must be feeling a sense of familiarity.” 

“Are you a witch?” Dean asked, “I don’t trust witches.” 

“Not all of us who dabble in magic are evil, in fact,” Missouri shook her shoulders, revealing wings. “I am the fairy of this land. My magic couldn’t stop the curse Abaddon concocted. A curse so powerful that she used the darkest magic we’ve ever seen.” 

“Missouri,” Amaya sighed, “he doesn’t need the details. I just need to know how to get back into the castle.” 

“And how do you know that? He’s affected by this too,” Missouri sassed.

Dean tilted his head in confusion. What did she mean by the curse affecting him too? 

 “Do you have a plan? I mean, you must have? Then again, you got caught by one of the shadows trying to go after your father,” Missouri huffed out. 

“What can we do? There has to be something? Maybe there is a potion or a book with spells that can give us a clue?” Dean let out, trying to come up with a plan.  

“I think I have a way to break through the spell Abaddon placed on Lawrence,” Missouri said, taking Dean into her hand. “Abaddon’s curse also erased the memory of anyone close with the royal family of Aviria.” 

“I don’t understand,” Dean let out. “I mean, I know I’ve felt like I’ve been here before. I remember Amaya being young, but --” 

“Just relax, your highness,” Missouri said as she picked up a spoon, dipping it into the gumbo and scooping it up. “Take a taste and let the gumbo work its magic.” 

“I don’t know how--” before Dean could finish the sentence, Missouri pushed the spoon past his lips and swallowed. 

As the spices hit his taste buds, Dean felt a warm sensation fill his body. Flashes of memories began to fill his head. His webby hands held his temples as he groaned in pain. The pressure built as more and more images filled him. Until there was one last one that had his heart stop. 

‘Do you think we can be friends forever?’ a girl around age eight said as she looked up at him with brown eyes full of tears. 

‘I’ll write to you every day, Amaya,’ a ten-year-old Dean said as he kissed her forehead. 

Dean looked at Amaya, who turned her head away from him. How could he have forgotten her? How did his family forget them? For that matter, how did an entire kingdom forget the royal family of Aviria?

“How?” Dean asked, looking at Missouri, “how did Abaddon make us forget?” 

“On the day your family went back to your Kingdom, a pendant was given to a young squire,” Missouri explained. “That pendant was cursed to make anyone within the border of the castle forget the Avirian family.” 

“But Amaya remembered her father. So how--” Dean stopped when Missouri shook her head. 

“Child, the pendant was to work for those who resided in the palace. Amaya didn’t reside there. You did.” Missouri explained. 

“How does that explain me?” Amaya let out, “I didn’t recognize him! We were told he died!” 

“Child, you’re the Princess of Aviria. You didn’t think I was going to send you to Lawrence without protection?” Missouri sassed. “It made you forget that you knew Dean but not who you  are.” 

Amaya stayed silent as she watched Missouri speak to Dean before hopping off towards the porch. As she sat on the banister, a slight buzz came from her right. 

“You know, Cher,” a voice called from beside her, “It’z hard to see someone you care abou’ not know who you ah’” 

“Thanks, Ty,” Amaya huffed, “But I don’t need this. Not now. I just want Aviria to be free of this curse. It’s all--” 

“Don’t chu dare say it’z your fault,” Ty growled as he buzzed his way to fly in front of her face. “None of dis iz on you. This is on Abaddon and Trenton. Doze two need tah pay for what dey done to us!” 

Amaya nodded, a small tear falling from her eye. 

“No, Cher,” Ty soothed, “don’t cry. We’ll find a way. We alwayz find a way outta trouble.” 

“Like the time you guys, Benny, Sam, and I all went exploring in a cavern outside the bayou?” A voice called from behind them. 

Ty and Amaya watched as Dean hopped his way over. The green frog made a few jumps before finally landing on the banister. 

“Knew I would get there,” he said to himself. “Now that I remember,” Dean paused and looked at Ty, “Your brother’s safe, Ty. He’s still my best friend, and he’s captain of my personal guard.” 

“Daz good to hear,” Ty said, chuckling. “I’m captain of her guard,” he threw his thumb out to point at Amaya. “Lot’ta good that did.”

“Hey!” Amaya called out, “If I can’t take the blame for this curse, you can’t take the blame either, come mierda.” (colloquial expression for asshole. Literal translation shit eater). 

“I remember that word!” Dean chuckled. “Maya,” he sighed, turning to face her. “I’m--” 

“There is nothing to apologize for,” she let out, swallowing the small lump that formed in her throat. “You had a spell cast on you. This was all planned from the beginning.” 

Dean cleared his throat before producing a flower from behind his back. Missouri helped him conceal it to keep it a surprise. In his hands, he held a rare purple rose that only grew in Aviria. He knew they were Amaya’s favorite, but the thorns themselves were hard to avoid. 

“Dean,” Amaya let out, her eyes darting from the rose to his eyes. 

“Let me help you fight this, please,” Dean pleaded. “Our kingdom made a promise. Let me make sure that promise is kept.” 

Amaya could feel her little frog heart pound in her chest at his words. She could tell he meant it just by gazing into his green eyes. Looking at the rose in his hands, she let her eyes trail up to his frog form and gasped. 

“Estas sangrando,” she muttered, giving the flower to Ty and dragging Dean back inside. 

“It’s just a bit of blood, I’m--” 

Dean closed his mouth as she glared at him. A small part of him felt a slight sense of pride that she was taking care of his wounds. Now, if only he could fulfill his duty and help her save the realm. 

Storybrooke

Amaya awoke the following day sore and tired. Working in the Queen’s Court wasn’t as easy as she thought it was. Her muscles hurt in places she never thought they could. 

Making her way towards the kitchen, she noticed the purple rose on the counter from the night before. Her thoughts went to Trenton. Who else could have given it to her? They were dating, and he knew the kinds of flowers she liked. She figured this was his way of showing his affection on the most romantic day of the year. Even if she didn’t hear from him. 

Glancing up at the clock, she cursed softly and rushed to get her breakfast. She knew she had a lot of work to do at the Emporium. Amaya was devastated when her windows were broken, and the newts she had collected for Gold were missing. She knew making the newt deal was too good to be true. Not to mention it was weird that Mr. Gold wanted newts as payment. She couldn’t help feel a sense of dread at what the day would bring. 

As she got dressed, she felt good to have more clothes on. She missed having her layers. Her boot-cut jeans, band tee with flannel and leather jacket, and her boots were comforting to her. 

Making sure she had everything she needed, Amaya locked her door and made her way to her bike. She only imagined what she would find and the work she would do to fix the shop. That alone had her thinking about the cost of repairing everything. As she parked her bike in the back, she could tell something was different. Walking inside from the back door, she found the glass was cleaned up. 

Walking to the front of the store, she gasped upon seeing the fixed glass. She didn’t know what to think. Yesterday the last thing she remembered was glass everywhere. The windows were smashed in, and now, the store was clean, and the windows were replaced. Moving to the front of the store, she gasped, seeing another purple rose. 

'No one deserves to have something they've worked for destroyed. Just remember that your smile sparks life. Your amphibians need you, a kind and wonderful soul who sees more than just a slimy animal. You see the royalty inside the frogs.'

Amaya laughed at the words. She had always joked that one of these amphibians was a royal in disguise. Amaya had to thank Trenton for doing this. He is the only one whom she could think of that did this. After all, Trenton loved her, right? 

Placing the flower in a vase she had lying around, Amaya went about her morning feeding and taking care of the Amphibians in their habitats. As she was on the last glass tank, she heard the bell jingle as the door opened. 

“Hey, babe,” Trenton’s voice filled the shop. “How did you fix up the place so fast?” 

“I found it like this,” Amaya let out. “I guess Mr. Gold decided to fix up the glass.” 

Well, it looks like Trenton wasn’t the one who fixed it. And Amaya knew Mr. Gold never fixed anything. Then, who was the purple rose from? And why her? She spent some time with Trenton until he had to go to work. She found out he worked at the docks and knew his reason for being out so late. Sometimes, working at the ports was late night work. 

Once Trenton left, Amaya began looking over inventory. Her mind was on the purple rose and the mysterious person who seemed to be watching out for her. 

Meanwhile, Dean had woken up and made his way to the garage. All morning all he could think about was Henry’s book. Something about it seemed mysterious. Hell, it said he was good at archery. Dean wondered what else was in it. Looking at the clock and the list of customers, he sighed. There weren’t many, to begin with, and Dean found he had free time. 

Running to the office, Dean announced he would end his shift early and made his way to Mayor Mill’s house. He saw the young boy making his way out of the sidewalk and towards town. Dean jogged a bit to catch up to the boy. 

“Henry!” he called, but his voice wasn’t the only one to call for the mayor’s son. 

Dean saw Sam making his way towards Henry at the same time he was. 

“Sam? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be working?” he asked, raising his eyebrow at his brother. 

“Could say the same about you,” Sam huffed. 

“Slow day at the garage,” Dean snapped. “I need to speak to Henry. Why don’t you go off and get lost in bliss? You’re good at it.” 

“Why don’t you go on and drink your life away? You’re good at that,” Sam snapped back. 

“Um,” Henry reminded the boys of his presence, “are you guys okay?” 

“I need to read your storybook,” the brothers said at the same time. 

“You’re not reading it,” they synced again. “I am. Stop that!” 

Both brothers let out growls of frustration. Dean ran a hand across his face while Sam ran his fingers through his hair. Green eyes met hazel in an angry staring contest. 

“Why are you two fighting? You’re brothers. You used to get along,” Henry pointed out. 

“Why don’t you go back to Ruby, Sam? Seems like you don’t want to get rid of her that bad if she’s still at your apartment.” Dean growled, glaring at his brother. 

“Shut up, Dean. You know she had her name on the lease, and it’s--” 

“And who told you to not let her do that? Huh?” Dean pushed at Sam, “I’m getting real sick of having to clean up after your sorry ass.” 

“Um, guys,” Henry tried to get the brother’s attention. 

“You know what, Dean,” Sam huffed, “I’m sick and tired of you looking out for me. I don’t need you! I never needed you!” 

“And whose fault is it that we’re indebted to Rowena instead of Gold, Huh?” Dean barked, “It sure as hell wasn’t me! I wasn’t the one who got her mixed up with us again after the first time. So this is all on you!” 

“Oh yeah?” Sam challenged, standing toe to toe with Dean, “Fuck you, Dean. You have this savior complex that gets you in trouble. You know that. I don’t need you to save me. And you know what, Maya doesn’t need you to save her!” 

“At least I’m trying to fix things!” Dean said, “you ruined this family, Sam. The minute you made a deal with Rowena and started seeing Ruby, you broke us, man.” 

“What about you, Dean? You broke promise after promise. Not just to Amaya, but to me!” Sam cried. 

“What? No, I--” 

“My birthday,” Sam breathed, “you promised me we were going to have this amazing brother bonding trip, only for me to find out you and Benny went off on your own! You treat Benny like your brother and me like a stranger!” Sam accused. 

Dean stayed silent as he looked at his brother. Had he been so selfish that he abandoned his brother too? Had he really broken his promises not just to Amaya but to his family? 

“The night Dad had his heart attack,” Sam let out, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You promised him you were going to help him fix the room for mom. Mom, who’s still in the hospital and is in a damn coma!” 

“Sam, I--” 

“No,” Sam sneered, “My turn. You get to stand there and hear everything you did.” Sam poked at Dean’s chest, nostrils flaring in anger, “you always treated me like a god damn baby! News flash, I grew up! I grew up, and you treated me like it was my fault mom got sick!” 

“You’re the one that gave her the damn candy some stranger gave you!” Dean countered. “So yeah, it’s your fault that mom is in the hospital in a coma!” 

“What if it was me, Dean?” Sam asked, eyes filled with tears. “What if I ate it instead of mom? Would you be happy then?” 

“Sam,” Dean said, his anger calmed by Sam’s questioning, “you know I would be worried the same way. You’re my brother.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, “but you still blame me, and nothing I do can ever set things right.” 

“Look, let’s just--” Dean ran his hand across his face again before rubbing the back of his neck, “Henry, we need to know about us, in your book.” 

“Okay,” Henry agreed, “But not here. We need to go somewhere quiet.” 

“Where?” Sam and Dean echoed. 

“Just follow me,” Henry said, shaking his head at the two men. 

Enchanted Forest 

“You sure you want to do this?” Dean asked as they neared the cave with the secret entrance to the tunnel. 

Ty was using his butt, for lack of a better word, as a way to light their path. Dean still couldn’t wrap his head around how a fairy could curse not just one kingdom but two. 

Following behind the gator, Dean learned was named Garth. They reached an area with a waterfall. 

“This is it,” Amaya said. “Behind the falls is a secret cavern to a trap door.” 

“What do we do once we get inside?” Brandy asked. 

“You guys don’t go inside,” Amaya breathed, “I go in,” she clarified, “alone.” 

“You are not going in alone!” 

“No way! We’re coming with you!” 

Everyone in the group voiced their opinions. Dean staying silent as he looked at Amaya. He could see how determined she was. 

“You’re going to what?” he finally spoke after everyone quieted down, “You’re going to trade yourself for your dad? Then what?” 

“I don’t know,” Amaya sighed. “But I can’t let him be captured. At this point, Abaddon has won. There is nothing else we can do.” 

“I can help you fight,” Dean insisted, “you want to be bait, okay, but not without backup. We can get your dad out safe, and you won’t be trapped.” 

“And how do we do that?” Amaya asked. 

Dean had laid out the plan, Amaya would go in with Dean. Two tiny frogs would be easy to overlook. As they hopped through the palace, Dean could feel the memories of running around after Amaya come to him. He had to make this right. Had to make sure that he destroyed Benny’s pendant when he got back home.  

As they neared the end of the hall, neither frog noticed the shadows following them. They got captured, Abaddon laughing as she stood by Trenton’s side, a cage in the center of the room holding another frog. 

“So glad you could join us!” Abaddon said as she had the shadows bring Amaya and Dean towards her. “If only you’d just handed her over to me, Your Highness, you’d be your handsome self.” 

“What are you doing? Running two kingdoms, you’re a fairy! You shouldn’t be doing things like this!” Dean croaked. 

“Who made the rules? You?” Abaddon mocked, “please. I know fairies who are tired of living under Blue’s thumb.” 

“And you’re one of them,” Dean huffed, “you’re just greedy. Magic comes with a price Abaddon, what you’ve done, you’ll have to pay for.” 

“Have you been talking to Rumplestilskin? He’s such a know it all,” she sighed, walking up to Dean and grabbing him. “Young Prince, you have a lot to learn before you realize you won’t be king.” 

“I don’t care,” Dean said, struggling against Abaddon’s hold on him. 

He could feel his body secreting mucus, smiling at the abundance of it. He could see the moment Abaddon was disgusted by what she was feeling, releasing him and shaking out her hand. 

“Ewwww, he got slime on me!” she howled. 

“Not slime,” he called out, hopping between the shadows and making his way to the King’s cage, “It’s mucus!” 

As he yelled out, he used his legs to kick the cage over, freeing the king. 

In the flurry of confusion, Dean led the king to Amaya, all while dodging Abaddon’s spells. As he was making his way toward Amaya, he noticed Abaddon aiming her wand at the king. It was all in slow motion for Dean. He pushed Amaya out of the way as he shielded the king’s body with his, Abaddon’s spell hitting him right on his family’s crest. The wind knocked out of him as he slid to the floor of the throne room. His whole world going black. 

“No,” Amaya whispered before screaming it in sheer terror. 

Storybrooke 

“So Amaya is cursed,” Dean let out as he skimmed through the book. “She’s the Frog.” 

“Yup,” Henry smiled. “You made a promise, and it bound you guys together. It’s why you both share the crest! The pentagram in a circle of fire.” 

“Pentagram in a circle of fire? Dean, that’s--” Sam began but shut his mouth when Dean sent him a glare. 

“Henry,” Dean sighed, “this all seems… far-fetched. I mean, Amaya doesn’t even like me. Not to mention I--” he wasn’t sure how to finish his sentence. 

“You could always go talk to Missouri,” Henry said. 

“Where did you hear that name?’ Dean asked. 

“Well, she lives in the forest,” Henry pointed more profound into the woods. “She lives by the old lake that leads to the swamps. Amaya and I visited her when Amaya was looking for newts and tadpoles.” 

Dean nodded, taking all the information he received into consideration. He drifted to an image on a page. A froggy Amaya was holding on to a froggy Dean, the froggy Dean’s body emitting light. 

Something about the picture called to Dean, making his head flash with small images. Amaya calling for him, Dean jumping as a frog in front of what looked like a flash of red light. 

“Okay, I need to head into town. Thanks for the info Henry, I appreciate it.” Dean gave Henry’s shoulder a firm pat before he walked towards his brother. “Whatever is going on, I hope we can solve it. These dreams we’re having… I got a feeling.” 

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, “Me too. Dean,” Sam continued, his eyes pleading with his brother, “be careful working for Gold. Please. I’m going to work on my end and move in with Dad. Get as far away from Ruby as I can.” 

“Yeah, psycho bitch needs to go bye-bye,” Dean huffed. 

Sam nodded, pulling his brother in for a hug. 

“I hope this means we can stop fighting, right?” Sam asked, his voice full of hope. 

“Yeah,” Dean answered, “I think so. You’re my brother. And as annoying as you are, I got your back.” 

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam said, letting Dean go. 

Dean left Henry and Sam, making his way towards town. He had to report to Mr. Gold. 

Dean entered The Rabbit Hole. He needed a drink, maybe four. Working for Gold had him moving around town doing things Dean knew weren’t right. But if he didn’t, he knew Amaya would be in trouble. After taking Mr. French’s delivery van yesterday, Gold had him going around collecting debts from people who’ve been hiding. It wasn’t easy, and he knew it would make him an enemy, but he’d hope that people would realize he was being used as a pawn too. 

Then there was hearing about Sam being engaged to Ruby. No wonder his brother wanted to live with their father. Dean would have run for the hills too. At his lunch break, Dean had found a way to talk to Y/N. But she seemed to dismiss his questions, claiming Sam was a grown adult and could marry who he wanted. But he could see how heartbroken she was. 

As he sat at the bar, thinking about everything that happened, he couldn’t help but pick up a conversation that was happening near him. 

“Man, the new girls in Queen’s Court, are hot,” he heard someone say. 

Dean raised his eyebrow, adjusting himself so he could listen closer. 

“Yeah, one of them seems to play the shy innocent act,” another customer commented, letting out a chuckle, “but it’s the brunette I would love to have a private dance with.” 

“The brunette?” their friend asked. 

“I mean, they say the brunette has some amazing tits. Perky and supple,” Dean could see the man pause to lick his lips. “Makes you want to bury your face between them. Think her stage name is Calla Lilly.” 

Dean pushed away from the bar, signaling to the bartender that he would move to Queen’s Court. With his glass still in his hands, Dean made his way into the court. 

“Gentlemen,” the DJ’s voice echoed through the speakers, “that was White Swan.” 

As the performer was collecting her money, Dean tilted his head, recognizing the woman. 

“Y/N?” he let out, “Sam’s not gonna be happy about that.” Dean grabbed his drink and turned back towards the stage. He watched as Y/N walked down and made her way off the stage. 

Dean shook his head when he noticed Crowley ogling Y/N. Dean was surprised to see Y/N flirting with the weasel. That meant something must have happened between her and Sam again. Dean shook his head, wondering what had to be fixed now. Why couldn’t his brother just get rid of Ruby and fix things with Y/N? It shouldn’t be that hard. Then again, he was having a hard time with Amaya.

Turning his attention back to the stage, he decided Sam was going to fix it. He had no time to help his brother. Dean had his own shit to deal with. And if he couldn’t fix his own mistakes, how could he help Sam? 

The whiskey was smooth as it flowed down his throat, Dean letting out a slight hiss before licking his lips. He could see many men trying to get a spot closer to the stage for the next performer. 

“Gentlemen, welcome to the Queen’s Court,” the DJ began his announcement, “Calla Lilly!” 

The cheers that erupted in the room were deafening. Dean was curious about the woman who was performing. His eyes focused on the opening in the back of the stage. The music began to play. Dean recognized the song as The Stroke by Billy Squire started to play. 

Dean liked Calla Lilly’s taste in music. He asked for another whiskey, wondering what Calla looked like. 

Dean sat up straight as the performer brought out one leg seductively, her hands on either side of the door frame before pushing out onto the stage. His breath caught in his throat as he saw a pair of familiar brown eyes and brown purple highlighted hair. 

“Amaya.”

Chapter 8 >>

Tag List

Dean (Female Pairing Only) 

@440mxs-wife

@virgosapphire79

@deans-spinster-witch

@sandlee44

@waynes-multiverse

@cookiechipdough

@magssteenkamp 

@akshi8278

Dean Everything 

@sexyvixen7

@kickingitwithkirk 

@deandreamernp

@holylulusworld

@roseblue373

@stoneyggirl2

@hobby27 

@stixnstripesworld

[fleckcmscott]

Tiny Sparks

Summary: On a beautiful night in Gotham, Arthur and Y/N enjoy a long awaited date.

Words: 3,441

Warnings: Swearing

A/N: @sweet-nothings04 requested a story that covered the date night mentioned in Ch. 5 of Way Back Home. Never had I thought that writing something relatively simple would be such a challenge! 😂 Thank you so much for the request! I hope you all enjoy. 😊 Much appreciation to @forever-fleck​ for allowing me to use one of her lovely edits for the intro-pic.

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The refrigerator's glow beckoned like a distant star.

A salad packed for Y/N's lunch tomorrow. One inch of Five Alive orange juice in a plastic pitcher. An open can of Heinz baked beans sealed with plastic wrap. No, no, no. He scanned the door. Universal Foods ketchup, poppy seed dressing, mustard that dated back to 1982...

"Ah ha." Arthur ripped the jar of green olives from the shelf, twisted the lid with the urgency of a man opening a bottle of nitroglycerin. He shoved a spoon into the jar, shoved it in his mouth. The night out would delay dinner by three hours. By quarter past seven, his stomach had gotten loud enough to be picked up by a microphone.

Tummy tided over, he went to the bedroom to finish getting dressed. Though summer, a cold front had rolled in, settled over the city since Tuesday, a refreshing sixty-two degrees. He slid a short-sleeve dress shirt up his arms. Slipped a navy sweater off a wooden hanger, the cardigan with red, yellow, and pink stripes along the placket. A sheer knit out of one of Mabel's catalogs, perfect for layering, according to his sister-in-law. And the splashes of color fit the image he wanted to present tonight.

This would be his first performance since Y/N's and his return from Missouri. He'd written and rewritten, practiced his stance and body language, studied his facial expressions and showbiz grin. Done everything he could to make his material work. Whether it was confidence that spiraled upward or the urgent need to get onstage, he couldn't tell. But he had an inkling it'd all go swimmingly. Would've bet his last dollar on it.

As he folded back the sweater's cuffs, Y/N breezed through the doorway. She swooped to snag a pair of sandals from the closet floor and sat in the corner chair.

"Don't forget to tuck in your shirt," she said. Ankle crossed over knee, she secured a beige strap around her heel.

His movements slowed while he observed her. Since coming home, their emotional connection had deepened to a depth that rivaled the Mariana Trench. She'd seemed to strike an accord, both with him and herself. Revealed an openness she'd hidden behind a disarming smile whenever dodging the rare inquiry about her former life.

Now when she shared recollections, her face brightened more than it darkened. They browsed her photo album a couple times a week, getting through a few pages here and there. Some days only one. There were moments she'd cut herself off, maintain the border she'd built within her heart to banish the bad.

"Old habits are hard to break," she'd say, front teeth shoved into bottom lip, the pressure turning it waxy. But more and more, she pushed forward. Gave space and voice to her experiences. Interlinked their pasts and paths, the roads crisscrossing between them.

In therapy, he'd talked about their trip, what Y/N had told him. Disclosed what was sufficient for Dr. Ludlow to get the drift. "It's hard for Y/N," he said. "I wanna be there for her. I don't want her to be sad anymore." Fourteen years of sadness had been enough.

"I think it's wonderful you want to help her. That many years of caregiving takes a toll. But she loved her father deeply, and sadness is a typical reaction to those types experiences. Let me ask you: if something happened to Y/N, what would your response be?"

His heart became a cannonball that plummeted to his stomach. "I'd die."

"No," Dr. Ludlow said, uncrossing her legs. "You would not die. You'd come to my office, and we'd work through it together. My point - we come back to this a lot - is that no emotion is negative. It's what you do with your feelings that matters. Sadness isn't a bad feeling. Unpleasant, yes, but necessary. It's a wave we all ride, just like happiness or anger. Let her ride those waves and be her lifejacket when she needs it. You'll know. Trust yourself to know."

He'd followed that guidance to the letter. The other night, they'd gone to bed at the usual hour, lain in the mottled blackness of their room. Soft snoring was the usual lullaby that sung him to sleep, but her repeated sighs continued well past midnight. He'd turned to find her on stomach, forearms shoved beneath her pillow. He'd pressed a kiss to the velvety valley between her shoulders. Placed a protective palm on her side.

She'd rolled onto her back. Spoke with a smile and wet eyes. "You give me a lot of strength by letting me be weak."

The inclination to argue had twisted his tongue. He'd gnawed the tip to stop himself. There was no way he'd say what he wanted at half-past lights out, anyway. Plus, he understood what she meant. Weakness was a hard-won refuge, third nature and allowed only with him. Still. During the decades they'd spend together, her characterization would be one they'd never agree on. It went right on the list alongside the greatness of Gotham and the entertainment value of Milton Berle.

Adjusting her champagne dress's petal sleeves, she swished past him to pluck gold earrings from her jewelry box and stepped to the vanity on the opposite side of the bed. She stuck a post through her left earlobe and screwed on the backing. "Mabel wants a tape of your set."

His great inkling suddenly shrunk to a pinpoint. "Why?" Recordings and he had a sordid history.

"She's dying to hear your material. That's a direct quote."

"Well... Would she accept a picture? I can write a joke on the back."

"How about this. I'll bring my recorder, and if you're happy with your performance, we'll send a copy. A lot of comedians record their sets."

"Oh yeah? A lot of comedians who? How do you know?"

"I've been to a show or two by now." She lined her eyes in the usual sable. "It might be good to hear the audience's reactions without the pressure of being on stage. What worked and what didn't."

"But that's why I have you," he said. When she smoothed a thin layer of silky rose shadow on her eyelids, he slinked up behind her. Traced a line down her bare arm and murmured in her ear. "You don't need all that."

"Uh huh. You don't say that when I'm wearing lace." The applicator dabbed his nose, leaving a pale circle in its wake.

Chuckling, he wiped the powder into his sleeve. "Okay. We can tape it. I think I'll be all right. I practiced a lot."

"You'll be more than all right." She spun to wrap her arms about his waist. "Just trust yourself."

A familiar directive, an encouraging echo. Her chin rested on his shoulder, warm breath on his neck. Tender hands followed the curve of her back, the zippered seam of her dress. His wedding ring gleamed in the mirror's reflection. "I will," he promised.

~~~~~

When Arthur had told her he'd signed up for an open mic at a new joint, Y/N had assumed it'd be the usual smoky nightclub, the kind frequented by couples who ordered one too many drinks. She was overdressed for a casual dining restaurant. And what were these kids doing here at this time of night? She would've tucked her nephews and nieces in by eight on the dot.

The microphone stood in the corner, a lone figure lit by the same recessed, sixty-five-watt bulbs as the tables. Behind it was a man in a faded purple t-shirt and rainbow suspenders, telling jokes about the shapes of jars. The ukulele he strummed was missing a fourth string. It struck Y/N that he was the perfect lead-in for Arthur's newest material. Family friendly and a little left footed.

No spotlight was in sight, so Y/N claimed the nearest two-top to be Arthur's spotlight. She retrieved her cassette recorder from her purse, set it in the center of the table, and scanned the crowd.

A man with lush, brunette hair picked his nose. Studied what he'd found while the woman next to him rolled her eyes and cried Oh, Harold. He stuck the golden nugget in a handkerchief. A grandmother wiped spaghetti sauce from her granddaughter's hands and asked for a doggy bag. One pair, in their fifties and looking as fish out of water as Y/N, shared a pitcher of cloudy beer.

Without a drink list on offer, Y/N had to forgo a Tequila Sunrise. She ordered plain seltzer for Arthur and a diet cola. After the show, they'd have Mai Tais at Traffic Light. Enact the plan they'd made surrounded by sunlight and strawberries.

Their vacation remained fresh in her mind, persistent as water flows shaping sandstone. What she'd assumed would be a search for reconnection and amends had turned into the mirror she'd avoided. The parts of herself she'd shielded Arthur from, the wounds she'd submerged in her marrow had flooded outward. A fountain of broken dreams and regrets, deep enough to drown in.

Her husband was a good, kind man. He'd been the first man she'd dated who'd lived her plight. The first chance to share what eight years of caregiving had done to her. Yet, she'd denied herself that comfort, convinced doing so would dismay him. And make her soul hurt all the worse.

And it had. Sometimes it still did. She'd spent too long trying to move on from it all. Yearning to forget. But the haven of Arthur's heart (and not a little prodding) allowed her to let go. Opening herself to him lightened her load, lessened her fear. The moments she felt small, protected by love and acceptance, brought an unexpected bliss. Turned the Shit She Refused to Talk About into the Shit She Could Talk About on Good Days.

Despite her relief, she'd had trouble sleeping when they'd returned. He'd made her chamomile, brought her along to the fire escape. Pulled her to his lap and guided head to his shoulder. Gently, he'd teased that it was nice to have company that late at night.

Puffing a cigarette, he'd shared past mistakes. A sampling of his notions after Penny had had her stroke, the ones that'd made him question if he was a bad person. If he had the capacity to love within him. He'd adopted the formal posture of a licensed therapist. "The doctor says we all them. Those thoughts. It's okay that you've had them, too."

Revealing his shadow self, the trust he granted her even after her confession, fertilized the seed of grace he'd planted at the cowboy bar. Vine by vine it grew, winding itself through each rib, weaving between her collarbones, wrapping around the facets of her neck. Every touch, every glance was an imprint of a promise. That no matter what had happened, no matter what would happen, he would love her.

He was helping her paste her dreams back together.

Rainbow Suspenders ducked out. Arthur emerged from the restroom alcove to the right. Diners seated along the wall offered a smattering of applause, breaking her out of her reverie and into a wide smile.

Nervous sweat shined his forehead, slender fingers played with one cuff. He began with a long breath and exaggerated bow. A trick he'd developed to hide that he was gauging his condition, the likelihood of ill-timed laughter. Once he'd straightened and caught her eye, he gave a little nod, more of a chin bob. She winked and pressed Record on the tape deck.

"Hello," he said, the start of his typical introduction. "I'm Arthur. It's good to be here. You know, growing up in Gotham was like staying in one place. There's a lot to do, but when you're a poor person it's hard to pay attention."

A cackle from the rear, a hearty guffaw to her left. The din of cutlery and conversation lowered. The press of everyone's attention turned to center stage.

With a flourish, Arthur took his journal from his pocket, presented it as a prop instead of an aid. He thumbed through its pages and leaned into the mic conspiratorially. "I've heard it's not nice to talk about someone behind their back. But what if you've talked to their front, and they want to walk all over you?"

~~~~~

Traffic Light was one of Gotham's best deals. Four dollars for an overflowing mound of Thai delicacies, one self-service plate stacked as high as GCR's Twin Towers. Available after nine o'clock Tuesdays and Thursdays. No sharing, please. Avoid waste and take plenty of napkins.

Just beyond the glass entryway, a praying Buddha statue greeted them, the tip of its ushnisha taller than a stupa. Golden elephants marched along sequined tapestries, plastic greenery hung from the ceiling, cradled in beige macrame. Behind the register, floral garlands topped royal family portraits. And facing the bar was a spirit house the size of a fax machine, where green tea and coconuts were offered for protection. Warm, woody incense merged with the pungent smell of curry to make Y/N's mouth water.

Arthur's long strides beat her to the buffet. He grabbed a scalloped plate, held it parallel to his chest. Drummed the bottom while he studied the unfamiliar cuisine. Grinning, she stepped forward to be his guide.

Chicken satay and steamed jasmine rice found an immediate home on his dish, peanut sauce cuddled up to dependable crispy wings. Scallion pancakes were deep friend, making him an instant fan. On her advice, he added a scoop of vegetable tempura, just to get a vitamin or two in his system. When he poked a squid's suckers, his expression was a mask of alarm. The seafood stir fry was a firm pass. Y/N ordered the yellow curry - two star spicy this time.

They settled on brown wicker bar chairs at the counter, which ran along the front window, facing the street. People hustling to work, to a relaxing night of dozing in an easy chair before the television, to fluttery first dates.

"So." Arthur dipped sliced carrot in her curry sauce, speaking and sipping his cocktail. "What did you think? I couldn't really hear the crowd. I was too nervous."

"No one could tell. You were a real professional out there." She nibbled the last vestiges of meat from a chicken bone. Wiped her fingers and pulled a folded tissue from her purse. "I just had a couple ideas."

"You took notes?"

"You can compare them to the tape later."

His set had started off strong and ended on a high note, bridging a lull that'd sagged the middle. He'd only been a beat off at times, a pause post-setup a split second too long. "The crowd got quiet about halfway through," she said.

"Maybe they were listening?" he asked. She didn't have to look to know he was somewhere between a squint and a grin. His tender tone held a challenge.

"It's possible. But I think they anticipated your shtick, the 'why' and 'what do you get' format of your jokes." Her fingertip followed the points on her paper. "Instead of asking, 'Why is marriage like fine wine?' you could deliver the whole joke as a sentence or two. What about, 'Marriage is like fine wine. The more it ages, the rarer it is.' And than make it personal by mentioning your favorite."

"Like, 'My wife and I are a fine Moscato?'"

"Merlot ages better."

Crossing his arms over his chest, he swiveled on his stool in mock offense. "Well, it is my joke." A truth and a tease.

She popped the last bite of spring roll between his lips, followed the gesture with a peck. He caught her jaw and brought her back for another. Head hazy, she dropped her lashes. Leaned into the warm palm cradling her cheek.

He wasn't the funniest comedian she'd ever heard. But he was the one she loved the most.

Just as he dug out his wallet, a couple halted on the sidewalk, breaking their stride directly in front of them. The man wore a pastel, plaid sportscoat, the woman a blue sweater embroidered with a white Scottish terrier. Y/N recognized them as the older pair from the restaurant, kindred guppies in need of a pond.

Plaid Jacket pointed through the window, waved the wave of the overexcited, and darted through the door.

He wiped his meaty hand on his trousers and extended it to Arthur. "Hey, weren't you that guy at Laughs Lots?" His breath stank of shitty casual dining beer.

"Yes," Arthur said, taking the offered hand. His smile started off disbelieving but then crinkled his entire face. "Yeah! That was me."

"Well, I'll be. Always wanted to do an open mic night, never had the guts, though. I play harmonica. I'm Bob."

The woman on his arm gave a swift nod. "Bob's real good, too. He's got 'The Entertainer' down pat."

That wasn't the first tune Y/N associated with a harmonica. But Arthur's style of jokes wasn't what she expected out of comedy, either.

"And that must be the little lady," Bob continued, nudging Arthur's arm. Then his eyes popped. "I've gotta take a leak." On that note, he jogged towards the back of the restaurant, fists at his side like he was running a race.

Y/N snorted and patted her handbag. She hushed her voice and leaned towards Arthur, upper arm brushing his bicep. "See? You can mail that tape tomorrow."

~~~~~

With the brisk night air and clear, velvet skies, they decided to skip the train and walk home. They threaded around trash bags, hopped over sidewalk cracks, ran the last block to Sheldon Park. It'd closed an hour after sunset, but the iron gate's chain remained unlatched, either as an oversight or because the lock was broken. Likely the latter.

Y/N glanced over both shoulders. Pushed the gate ajar and slipped through the opening. Squeezed Arthur's hand and pulled him to follow.

Camping tents were set off from main entrance, tucked behind a dirt trail. Four or five, a number likely to grow given Gotham's continued stagnation. Flames licked the edges of a metal barrel, where men in ragged jackets warmed their fingers. Along the main path, two teenagers sat with a boombox, blasting the latest Run D.M.C. hit Arthur hadn't heard. Their sunglasses must've been to protect their retinas from their sneakers. Their shoes were so white they glowed. The two clinked Tab bottles and swigged.

Cinching the belt of her spring coat, she continued towards the center of the park. For being smack dab in the middle of the urban landscape, it was surprisingly quiet. No horse hooves clacked, no skateboards whizzed past. Hip hop was out of earshot now. About a minute later, he recognized where they were headed.

Ducks busied themselves on the rear side of the pond, chit chatting and grooming one another. Others slept with beaks buried under their feathers. The nearby bench was a recent addition, grass hadn't yet sprouted around its legs. Y/N sped ahead of him and took a seat. Leaned against the backrest and looked up.

It was six seconds before she spoke. "See that?" she asked and pointed at the sky. "That's the North Star."

"It's the bright one, right?" He settled next to her on the edge of the bench.

"In the tail of the little dipper. My father taught me where it was in case I ever got lost." A light laugh left her. "He tried to show me other constellations, but I was terrible at finding them. But on clear nights, we made our own. The Kite. The Tablespoon. The Stethoscope - though I think that's Orion's club or something." She folded her hands together in her lap. "The stars are hard to see here, with all the skyscrapers and lights. They're the one thing I miss from back home."

Arthur studied her face, all the details he'd memorized. Her brows remained relaxed, her eyes dry, cheeks flushed a subtle pink. He laced his fingers through hers. "I'm sorry you can't see them here."

"Don't be." Her gaze locked with his, eased into a smile. "You're the brightest star of all."

Happy roiling whirled his stomach, his pulse skipped a beat. He felt a sudden, indefinable feeling of rightness. He brought her knuckles to his lips, kissed them and kissed her mouth. She tasted like curry and coconut milk.

Scooting away, adjusting as he went, he reclined to rest his head on her shoulder. Look towards the stars and dream.

"Which one's The Kite?"

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @ithinkimaperson @sweet-nothings04 @stephieraptorr @rommies @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1 @another-day-in-chuckletown @hhandley80 @jokerownsmysoul @rafaelbottom @ralugraphics @iartsometimes @fleckficgirl

[drowning-inmysleep]

love me while I leave. my persona yours to keep

“Maybe someday your 'maker' will come…haul you away, take you apart, and announce the recall of a defective product. What if all that's left of the 'real you' is just a couple of lonely brain cells, huh?”

[edit: 9.26.23] this has since been edited and updated a month post initial release, edits will be notated in red, feel free to skip them to read the original writing. [/] August 20th, 2023 I played my last show in a town (Austin, Texas) I moved to to be with my at the time girlfriend. We're separating now, as I'm returning home (Saint Louis, Missouri), the place I left behind. During my stay in Texas I had a hard time making friends, though that's not to say they weren't readily available. I intentionally avoided making them, partially because I was afraid of leaving them behind if anything were to change and call me back home. I have a crew of friends (Materia) in Saint Louis - the best I've ever had. When I moved, I wanted to take a leap and leave the place I'd spent my entire life, and try to fix my relationship by moving closer to them.

Leaving behind those who loved me so much was something that affected me in a way I wouldn't understand until much later. Saint Louis is one of the top rated most violent cities in the United States. Growing up there I normalized a lot of the things I saw and a lot of the trauma I gained from being in that environment. It's shaped me as a person, both good and bad. I got good at existing there, as I spent most of my teenage years in the inner city going to DIY shows.

Most of the shows were Emo / Screamo revival, and eventually that's where I started as a musician. I think Emo / Screamo music is so prevalent in the Midwest because the Midwest is a comfortable but at times very bleak and sad landscape. In the city you can see someone get murdered in front of you, and in the plains farmer's kill themselves because the world moved on without them. The veracity and unrelenting emotional outpour of these genres is some sort of ancestral representation of growing up somewhere like that. Paired with the ignorant approach to song writing / sound engineering, it represents the lack of educational opportunities whether it be due to generational financial issues or dismal public schools, paired with familial trauma from living here. It's pure.

I always dreamed of being a musician as a child, if anything it's the only dream I ever had. Once I started working on my solo project, I was having a hard time being booked in Saint Louis since there wasn't a scene for the music I made. So - I decided to make one for myself. That's how Materia came to be. I wanted to bring as many different people together as possible, so we formed the crew in a way that each member represented a different aspect of the Saint Louis music / night life community. Our first shows were in peoples basements, or shitty bars in the bad parts of town. Just like the DIY shows I started out in when I was 19. Over time Materia got big enough to where I finally became recognized as my solo project in my own city, but by the time it took hold I fear I was too jaded to appreciate it. Before Materia, I had been playing shows all over the country, and was recognized globally for what I made and what I was involved in. Even with that being said, playing shows out in places like LA and NYC revealed a dark reality to the dream I had. That reality being that even if you do blow up, the lifestyle of being a internationally recognized musician doesn't create a long-term sustainable lifestyle. What it can / inevitably will create, is a perception of you others hold based on your art and performance of it. At first it felt really cool to have people think I'm a celebrity of sorts, that I am the dark persona I portray in my music. Over time it felt less and less genuine, that being others opinions of me. As I got bigger I built up a slow poison of being paranoid people only saw me for my plays on soundcloud, follower count, or pre packaged brand I created for myself. Eventually that paranoia showed itself as not just being paranoia, it was partially true. A lot of the music and art I make is representative of the difficulty I've endured mentally. I spent most of my childhood/teen years disassociating and hiding away in MMORPGs. I felt more able to genuinely express myself in these digital worlds. In the real world I was being made fun of for looking like a girl, and being forced to fight others to just be left alone. I had to survive, and eventually I started fighting myself. I tried to kill myself multiple times.

These experiences alienated me in a way that my friends that did experience my breakdowns eventually distanced themselves from me, and I don't blame them for it. It's a lonely feeling. I try to replicate that in music, both that feeling of yearning for lost times / feelings of comfort felt in a video game, while knowing that those times are gone and they weren't that good of escape to begin with and - the feeling of knowing the damage you've caused. I can't listen to a lot of the music I've made in the past because it hurts too much, it's like reading a suicide note from a failed attempt. Jumping back to me now, a 28 year old DnB / Trance musician, I am pretty consistently swarmed with people praising and celebrating me. On one hand I really appreciate it, on the other it is the actualization of the paranoia mentioned above. My fans enjoy my music because what they earn from it, they have no idea what I was going through when I made it. I've been told I've helped people going through similar things that I went through as a teenager, and I love that. Last night at my final show in Texas, a genuine fan of mine expressed that I was a good example for them to follow as a trans woman. This is the case in which that paranoia I mentioned is not true.

As I had a hard time making friends in Texas, I also had a hard time getting booked or respected for who I am as an artist. Even though I'm arguably one of the biggest contemporary electronic artists in this city, a city in which there's so many shows it's oversaturated, I was hardly ever booked. This is similarly due to why I did not have friends, as I didn't want to have to put the work in again. I felt like I didn't need to, and that's my fault.

The show we threw last night in Texas was with my crew of people gathered semi randomly through hilariously unplanned circumstances. This crew is called Unreal.

Two months ago, someone on instagram hit me up and told me they had a generator, asked if I wanted to do a show. Through my jaded eyes I almost laughed at the idea, like sure, lets try and throw a show in 2 days. That person became one of my best friends almost immediately. It's like we were meant to of always known eachother. [edit.9.26.23] This friend has gone on to completely isolate themselves from me along with my ex, as they started to hangout only two days after I left. I guess that paranoia mentioned above bleeds into more than just fans right? These are two more people that proved to me they loved me for the caricature presented in my music more than the person I am in real life.

I will do my best to not let this further validate my paranoia of getting close with anyone who know me only as Manapool. [/] I grabbed a friend from a failed show in Texas, my girlfriend and lastly another who arguably was the only friend I had during the almost year I lived here. The first show was a success and we decided to do it again when my girlfriend returned from her trip to Europe. Last night was that show. I'd been working on a album that represented the dark place I'd been in for the past few months, mainly stemming from preparing to leave my partner. This project is called Mana no Uta, or The Song of Mana. While a genuine portrayal of the dark place I'd been in, it was also my attempt of taking a semi ironic genre (Nightcore) and making it painfully authentic. Nightcore is a genre that mainly takes pop songs and speeds them up, with the lyrics usually being romantic or broken hearted in subject manner.

Every now and then I come across a Nightcore version of a song that hits in a much more graphic way than it's origin. I have attempted to bottle that lightning into six songs, pushing their Maker to their nightmarish limit. In a way this circles back to my taste for being punishingly nostalgic. To me, real art not only moves you but haunts you. [edit: 9.26.23] While I genuinely loved my partner, this year I had spent living with them ended up doing an immense amount of psychological damage. I'm doing my best not to write about her in a negative light, but I consistently felt neglected. I wanted things to work, all in all that's why I sacrificed the life I had in Saint Louis in the first place. That feeling of neglection and failure to recognize the effort and love I'd given led to deep rooted feelings of resentment. Eventually this resentment bled into my perception of self, and in a way it poisoned me. I felt guilty for being unable to rid myself of these, regardless, I was constantly in a state of accepted defeat paired with anger at myself for leaving Saint Louis behind just to end up unhappy.

These feelings are what I wanted to represent in this album. Isolation paired with wishing you could salvage the love you have for someone while knowing it's already too deep.

It's part of you. I often felt sick. [/] I wanted people to feel sick listening to it, like you're at the club and you took too much ketamine but you can't go home. Or you're about to play a set but in a fight with your girlfriend. Everyone around you is having so much fun but you're not and you won't. Both the ketamine example and the ladder are things I've experienced in achieving the dream mentioned above. I don't want people to relate to this album. I want it to hurt them. Last night, I played the album in it's entirety as a parting gift to fans like the ones that said such sweet things to me last night. Me and my (now) ex-girlfriend got into a fight on the way to the show. It went over very well, and by the time the live performance phase of my set (Mana No Uta) was over, I began to cry as I transitioned into djing for the last portion of my set. I finished the set and tried to escape to go clear my head. On the way out someone gave me ketamine, I took some and went outside to be alone and get myself together after performing my most emotional piece yet. I wasn't really able to decompress, I kept thinking about how I'd be moving away from here and leaving everyone behind. As this is happening, I'm getting swarmed by people telling me they loved my set, complimenting me, celebrating me. I appreciated it but I wanted to be left alone. Performing that album felt like a instance of public self harm. I was literally going through what I wanted the album to represent. I was the character I created in the screenplay I wrote.

As the night ended the sadness I felt for leaving these new friends and my girlfriend overtook me. It scared me. I'm scared right now. But the worst part is it felt familiar. It felt exactly like leaving Saint Louis. These people will never leave my life permanently, but i'm leaving them behind. [edit: 9.26.23] I will most likely never engage with my ex-partner nor the friend mentioned in the last edit ever again. [/] To reiterate, as I'm realizing this and being consumed by it (at the show) people are coming up to me celebrating me. They're telling me how cool I looked. Telling me how amazing my set was. Telling me how much they love the character I play. I had just played the one of the most genuine sets of my life, and still at the end of it I didn't feel like they understood. My emotion was on my face, my true persona on my sleeve. My eyes were red from crying, my hands were shaking from amphetamines. Still I'm seen as the persona I sold them. Once you release your art to the world, it is no longer yours. The experiences people have listening to it are something I'll never fully understand, as they will never understand me. If they actually knew me, would they still be so impressed with what I've done? Who I've become? [edit: 9.26.23] Looking back on this writing and the album now that's it's finished, and now that i'm no longer in the heart of it's conceptual storm - I can truly say I am proud of what I made. I am most proud of being able to create something that had the emotional relevance that it could even put me in a situation mentioned at the end. In a way creating such a dark piece punished me and I will always love this album for that. I spent a lot of energy on making something that'd make the listener uncomfortable, and being the person to perform it made me just as uncomfortable. That's pure.With all that being said I don't feel as if I won't be able to listen to or play these songs out post release, as while it was based on the miasma I was in, I also wanted to make some dark club friendly Nightcore for the girls to grind to. Without:Me is my favorite song I've made in a very long time. I made it in one sitting on Umami's computer the day of Materia XX. The final song will most likely be the most difficult to revisit, however. I finished the song and then two hours later broke up with my girlfriend. It's titled: In Goodbye. [/]

[benjamindennis]

It's been stated that I've led a pretty interesting life and with that comes the propensity to be a relatively engaging storyteller. Admittedly, many of these experiences seem somewhat unlikely, if not outright preposterous. But, I assure you, everything that I will share in this blog is absolutely true. Or, at the very least, it is the truth as I remember it. So, let's just go with it.

When discussing some of these memories, it will be necessary to indicate certain details about those who were there with me. However, rather than stating their identities outright, I will use initials. Although, if the details are overly sensitive or embarrassing, I may simply redact the names altogether. Also, I assure you, many of the stories that I tell will indeed be embarrassing or, very likely, inappropriate. If that's not your thing... sorry.

So, with all of that having been said, let's begin at the beginning.

...

My name is Benjamin Scott Dennis from West Plains, Missouri. That was not my intended name, by the way. I'm not even sure what my intended name was. It probably should have been something amazing, like Stud, or Buzz, or maybe even Brute McManly. But, whatever.

You see, when I was born, my mother was what some might generously refer to as a "free spirit". Though, as an educated adult, I may be kind enough to chalk-up some of her lesser qualities to the experience of having lost her firstborn child, at five years of age. I have no doubt that there was a significant amount of trauma stemming from that event.

All that to say, she still made some seriously questionable decisions. Not the least of which was to abandon me in the hospital on the day of my birth, without having so much as named me.

Fortunately, it was 1978 and a very different time than that in which we currently live. The hospital willingly released me into the care of my aunt and uncle after a mad scramble to attempt to locate my wayward mother, who was long gone. They had transported my mother to the hospital to give birth, but had no idea that she had split shortly following this not insignificant event. The only requirement of my release was that I had to be named for the purpose of documentation or some such thing. So, my aunt, who was a delightful combination of sweet and insane, christened me Benjamin Scott Morris. The surname being that of my mother's estranged husband. My aunt knew that I did not belong to him, but in fairness, no one but my mother rightly knew whose progeny I actually was. So, it was basically a roll of the dice.

As the story goes, it would be some two weeks before my mother would once again make an appearance. At this time, my grandparents sat her down and firmly asserted that she needed to start acting like a mother and not like a floozy. I assume that this was not well-received, as I would be raised almost exclusively by my grandparents and my aunt and uncle (who lived just down the road) for the next three years. During this time, my aforementioned sweet and insane aunt asserted that my mother spent time with a "warlock". But that's a story for another time.

It was around this period that my mother seemed to slow-down, at least slightly. I have a smattering of memories from this time in my life, but none of them seem to be terribly appropriate. For instance, even though my mother had returned home and made some minimal effort to begin to parent her son, I clearly remember waking up in the homes of strange men on a somewhat regular basis. In fact, there were times I would never even see the face of the man who owned the house that I was sleeping in. He would be up and gone, presumably to work, before we would ever leave. I'm not sure when or how I got there to begin with.

I also remember helping my mother heft beer into a house full of loud, raucous men and being made to stand against the wall with a full beer can on my head. Why? I have no idea. I guess a fat kid with a beer can on his head is funny... and maybe it is.

It was during this timeframe that the seeds were planted for my love affair with attending concerts, as I was presumably in the role of awkward baggage for one of my mother's many dates with seemingly nameless individuals, which happened to involve attending an Ozark Mountain Daredevils show. I'm led to believe that my mother was heavily influenced by the mantra of, "If you want to get to Heaven, you've got to raise a little Hell." Or, so it would seem. I wonder how that panned-out for her.

By way of additional concert-related debauchery... my mother swore that I was conceived in the parking lot, following an Alice Cooper concert. Interesting, but not necessarily information that an adolescent child should have about their mother.

Shortly after this, somewhere around early 1983, my mother introduced me to the man that I would eventually come to consider my father on a rather dark, if not ominous, dirt road, in Pomona, Missouri. They would marry rather quickly, or at least, so it seemed. Within the next couple of years I would start using the name Dennis as my surname, as that was his.

It never occurred to me that I couldn't just assume a name and make it my own legally. So many years later, as I was preparing to marry my now ex-wife, my dad would pay to have my last name legally changed to Dennis as a wedding gift. Additionally, he purchased matching burial plots. Because, what says "wedding day bliss" like a discussion about dying and being tossed into a previously purchased hole in the ground? For the record, I intend to be cremated. But, I digress.

And so, there you have it. That's how it all began and how I became who I am, figuratively. Although there is so much more!

Come back soon for more real-life nonsense.