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stusbunker · 1 year ago

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Spotless: Vivace

Chapter Twenty Five

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Bobby, Tiny, Lee, Kevin, Annie, Pamela, Sam, faceless fans and support staff

Word Count: 2900

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, jealousy, grief, musical backstory and hope

A/N: The band played on.

Series Masterlist

You held your breath as Bobby gathered the band backstage. Two dozen roadies, stage crew, and security stilled as he looked past the boys and Pam to their support staff, only Charlie and her team were missing, already in place in the booth. You shivered and waited. Jody’s voice echoed behind the bend thanking the crowd and promising a great show from Phantom Traveler to come. Andy slinked around and continued to snap pictures, despite the glare it earned him anytime Bobby caught the lens pointed toward him. The ragtag group buzzed with excitement and you silently prayed that it would go off without a hitch.

Finally, Bobby began to speak, “I know a lot of you are nervous about tonight, ‘bout this tour— hell about this band. But it means a lot that y’all signed on for another round of nonsense with these idjits. It means you believe in them, that you’ve got faith they can pull together and get it done. Well, I’m here to tell you it’s not a time to worry, because ain't no other band that can do what these guys do. It’s a time to celebrate. Let’s get out there and fuckin’ rock’n’roll.”

Lee hooted and people cheered, you couldn’t help but clap and shriek along. Then everyone crowded in for the circle of hands and chanted “Phaaaaaantom TRAV-ler!”

The band and crew maneuvered in the dark, letting the interim instrumentals keep the crowd distracted as they set up. You scurried back to where you had left Bela in the wings, under Tiny’s care.

“Everything alright?” Bela asked out of the side of her mouth, shifting in place as she tried to clock Dean amongst the many moving shapes.

“Aces,” you replied, bouncing on the balls of your feet as the crowd started to clap with an increasing beat.

You spotted Sam and Kevin’s silhouettes high five and then Lee strummed a teaser chord. Walkie talkies crackled around you as the all clear was called. You kept an earpiece in, but without much left for you to do, you turned it to the lowest setting besides mute.

It was go time.

“Bring ‘em up, Charlie,” Bobby prompted over the line and the Forum erupted.

Lights and wavelengths of sound shot off in every direction and Phantom Traveler took off.

You wouldn’t have stopped yourself from screaming bloody murder even if you had remembered you were directly beside your very posh best friend and her security detail.

It was happening. They made it back home.

“Good evening Inglewood!” Dean greeted, pointedly accurate. Plus you could tell he was grinning from where you stood, from just the sway of his head and a glimpse of his profile.

There was no other chit chat, no grand speech thanking them for coming out, it was just the band, the music, and the audience.

They started off with ‘Woman in White’, their first major single and something high energy enough to get people out of their seats. Then on to the B side of their first EP, which was a cult favorite called ‘Playthings’ that featured something affectionately referred to as ‘the beat off’ between Sam and Pam.

But at the time it was written, it was played by Sam and Cas.

Pam did it better.

It was like someone was racing up the stairs or against time itself as the two rhythm setting musicians fought for dominance. The crowd ate it up. And you could tell they both were already dripping sweat by the time the song ended and they tuned it back and finally jumped into their last fateful album.

‘Scarecrow’ was haunted and foreboding, reminiscent of early 90s metal that you knew Dean adored. It was also Cas’ favorite track off that entire album. And Kevin killed the bridge as the keyboard turned into an ancient organ chasing the crows away with the dawn. Charlie even added a cackling Vincent Price at the end that couldn’t be topped.

“How’s everybody doing tonight?!” Lee took the words out of Dean’s mouth, which earned him a kick in the ass. They were having a blast up there and it was infectious.

The crowd roared.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Dean bellowed. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’d like to bring somebody out for this next number.”

Shrill ruckus pierced the air, they knew what was coming.

“She’s our very dear friend and we just so happened to convince her to tag along with us this tour. You know her, you love her, please— give a very warm welcome to the incomparable Ms. Annie Hawkins!”

Everyone screamed and stomped, watching as the spotlight followed Annie from the farside of the stage towards the standing mics centerstage.

“Oh, she looks amazing,” Bela spoke for the first time since you’d gotten back. And she wasn’t wrong.

“The girls probably had a blast with her in their dressing room,” you tacked on thoughtfully.

“Her top though,” Bela continued. “I want it.”

You chuckled at Bela’s priorities and quickly got sucked back into what was happening barely thirty feet away.

“You sure you’re ready over there?” Annie teased as Dean adjusted his mic after rushing to set down his guitar.

The crowd laughed in unison.

“I’m ready, do you think they’re ready?” Dean asked coyly, gesturing to the crowd.

All around you camera screens glowed and flashed burst through the darkened arena. Concert security lined the stage and guarded the partitioned areas for the crew and band to navigate the area. Until that moment you really hadn’t been able to pull any single response from the cacophony. You hadn’t been trying anyway. But when Annie goaded Dean a cluster of women in the pit got your attention.

“And here I thought you were out here warming them up for me?” Annie teased.

The crowd loved it, but one catty comment made it feel like you and Bela were right there up on stage with them. “Bela needs to get her man before that cougar gets too cozy up there.”

They eyed your little corner below the VIP suspiciously. You missed whatever Dean said in response, instead watching the women glare and Bela adamantly ignore them in equal measure.

But then the song began. A slow and slinking start reminiscent of Springsteen’s Fire. Which you clocked the first time you heard it, but that was just the intro. The lyrics started up as a quick conversation, a compromise even and then they were harmonizing into the chorus.

The band hadn’t done many duets, even with such talented singers in their ranks. It wasn’t their style. But this song felt like it had always existed, it was timeless and familiar and really fucking catchy. Annie beamed at Dean when he slipped closer on stage and they belted out the final lines.

It made you feel like they were performing only for you, for their people. It was honest and intimate, but this wasn’t rehearsal or karaoke and the audience would not be forgotten.

Everyone cheered. Even the judgy bitches that kept watching Bela at your side.

Dean hugged Annie and made sure she got the reception she deserved, egging the crowd on and bowing in homage to her talent.

She rolled her eyes, did a snarky curtsy and waved her way back off stage.

“You guys seem to be digging that one. Maybe we could play some more new stuff for y’all tonight?” Lee asked. “I mean— the album isn’t out yet.”

Naturally, the crowd shouted and begged for more.

Bela turned to whisper to you. “They’re not gonna get in trouble for this are they?”

You shook your head. “They’ve got permission to do a few songs until the album is actually out and then they’ll change up the set list to cover more of the new stuff.”

“Got it.”

“Yeah, bootlegs always exist, but this way they’re building excitement but not giving away the farm.”

“Lee!” Dean admonished playfully.

“What?!” Lee spat back, smirking.

“Sam— tell him.”

Sam shook his head, always stoic on stage.

Dean kept up the ruse. “I don’t know if we should. Pamela?”

Pamela thudded the bass drum and hit the crash.

“Okay! Pammy’s in— Kevo?” Lee kept the momentum going.

And without any warning or time for Kevin to actually respond, they burst into the opening of 'Prophet and Loss'.

“I would kill for a drink—- is there somebody we could send to concessions?” Bela asked midsong. And you looked around, wondering if any of the staff could actually leave their posts without getting in trouble.

You suddenly felt like a bad host. “We’ll get you a box for Vegas. I know this isn’t as fun as it sounds standing for two hours straight.”

“Y/N, I’m fine. Promise.”

“Okay, well I’ll go after the next song. You want anything, Tiny?” you asked your silent companion.

“All good, boss.” He replied and straightened his stance, clasping his hands in front of him.

Kevin silenced the space with the burst of chords at the beginning of his solo, showcasing what Julliard training could do and how rock’n’roll could still be classy as hell. The key changed, turning the mood broken and lamenting as they stumbled into the bridge where Dean pelted out about losing Cas without so much detail.

Dean let the note hang in the air. “'Prophet and Loss', everybody.”

Whistles filled the air, keeping the mood somber but with enough reception to know that small offering was gratefully accepted.

“Thanks— uh, I, we really appreciate being here tonight and being able to share some of the new album with everybody. But we know you wanna hear the stuff you know, too. So we’re gonna hop back to it and have a kick ass night. How’s that sound?” Dean checked in.

The crowd cheered.

“Did you hear something?” Dean asked Lee jokingly.

The crowd got louder.

“I don’t know if they’re up for much more,” Lee taunted back.

You rolled your eyes and turned to Bela. “Okay, I’ll be back, text me if you think of anything besides drinks.”

The crowd continued to take the bait, howling behind you as you made your way out of the off limit areas and up a side stairway towards the general admission cavern-like hallway. For the first time it felt like all day, you exhaled. Your pass flapped against your chest as you strutted quickly towards the concession area, bypassing the VIP lounge because you didn’t want to get distracted by Madison or any of the mid-level suits that might be milling around.

You could have stolen something from the dressing room, but that wouldn’t have taken nearly as long and you needed some time off of Bela duty tonight. Which made you feel guilty as hell. She was your best friend! She didn’t do anything wrong. And yet you were incredibly frustrated with even the thought of her.

So you waited in line, ordered two extremely overpriced and depressingly weak cocktails, and put them on your expense card.

The thing about regret is that it isn’t a one time experience. There might have been a moment in the process of you contriving this scenario for Dean’s redemption where you second or third guessed yourself. But the biting sting of seeing him play happy with Bela online and even in person had come at you in waves.

Regret was bearable if it meant it worked, if Dean could have some peace.

But this wasn’t just regret, it was petulance and jealousy and injustice.

Because Bobby had asked all the way back in the beginning, why couldn’t it have been you playing arm candy? And the fact that people could see what you had tried so hard to bury and ignore plain as day, well, it made you feel incredibly small and even more pathetic.

There was no reason for you to be the one at Dean’s side. But damn did you want to be.

And somehow you had managed to keep that from one of the most important people in your life. So it wasn’t just that Bela was getting a part of Dean that you’d never have. Or parts. You shuttered at the thought of where his mouth had been. It was that your best friend hadn’t even clocked the elephant in the room.

Like she didn’t even know you at all.

Or maybe that was on you too. Maybe you hadn’t been honest with yourself until it was too late. How could you put that blame on her too?

You slammed your drink and got back in line for a replacement, not wanting to return with only Bela’s cup like some kind of maid. You could hear the crowd singing along with Lee on ‘A Reaper’s Offering’, a bluesy cut from their second studio album.

You probably had another two songs before you’d miss anything else new. But you also knew Bela was waiting and the longer the show went on, the more drunk and ballsy random fans could get. You couldn’t leave her with the forever nonplussed Tiny for backup. You smiled at the woman working the bar cart apologetically and ordered another husk of a cocktail.

After another stream of applause, the opening bars of ‘Abandon All Hope’ started and you knew you had to book it. This was Jo’s song, you couldn’t miss it. You never left Dean to get through this one alone. Huffing down the service steps with two drinks in hand in heels was something that you managed only from practice, but you made it in time for the first chorus.

“Oh aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Bela murmured to her drink before sipping it and wincing. “It’ll do. Took you long enough,” she teased and winked, hip checking you as you struggled to get your breathing under control as you mouthed along with Dean’s words.

“Trapped by your side with no exit, we had to let you go—”

Bela quickly picked up on your shift in mood and reeled in the playfulness, for which you gave her a grateful glance before turning back to try and lock eyes with Dean on stage.

“Defending that night while trying to give comfort, we should have known—”

“To abandon all hope,” you sang out, the last lyric rising up to hover in the air.

Dean turned and glanced in your direction and then looked again once he finally saw you. He nodded and tapped his heart and you returned the gesture, you both kept her safe as you could now. He blew a kiss to the ceiling and bowed.

The crowd continued to echo around you, suffocating yet as distant as thunder.

“Alrighty, folks, we’re gonna take a short break for Sammy to find another shirt and we’ll get you one last sneak peak,” Dean explained. “Kevin? Think you and Pam can keep ‘em busy for me?”

“Aye-aye,” Kevin said and saluted, out of range of his mic stand.

Pam started in with the count and Kevin peeled in down from the upper registers, like he was sliding in from Heaven and crashing a party. The instrumental interlude was a mesmerizing feat of jumping genres and killing time while showcasing just what all each of them could do. But you weren’t even paying attention. Dean made a beeline for the back of the stage and he wound around security until he could find you.

He gripped the ball of your shoulder and leaned in. “I didn’t see you until the end— had me worried, Trouble!”

He had to talk over the crowd, his back firmly towards the nearest wedge of fans.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be!”

He stared at you, sweaty and down to a single layer, earpiece still in his left ear.

“You’re killing it up there,” Bela said, making you both stop and blink. Dean grinned and pulled her into a hug, a boyfriend hug, arms tight around her waist so her arms can loop around his neck. She even kicked a leg back for balance.

God was she good.

“You keep an eye on her, okay? She’s gonna need tissues for the next one,” Dean warned playfully down his nose at Bela about you.

She rolled her eyes. “You are a menace on the emotional, aren’t you?”

“All in a day’s work,” Dean shrugged and set her back on her own two feet.

The crackle of a nearby walkie made Dean look around for whoever was sent to find him. “Sam’s looking for you,” an unimpressed lackey of Benny’s pointed out from ten feet away.

“Yeah, I bet he is. Alright, well, see you ladies later— Tiny,” Dean stepped back nodding. He soon disappeared only to hop up on the wing of the stage, grabbing an acoustic and sliding it on.

After the chaos of the crowd dissipated from Pamela’s and Kevin’s antics, Dean and Sam walked on stage and sat down on a pair of stools that had been left out for them. They didn’t look at each other or even the crowd and you knew in that moment that Dean hadn’t been lying. You weren’t gonna survive the next song live with a dry eye.

‘Brothers Keeper’ nearly took down the entire venue.

Cell phones and lighters blazed in the dark, enraptured space as Dean and Sam sang about each other, about family, and about forgiveness.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

@brightlilith

@coldhearted93

@djs8891

Chapter 27: Polyphony

#spotless series #rockstar!dean #dean winchester/reader #dean/bela #dean x you #rockstar au #slow burn #fake dating #love triangle

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cipheramnesia · 2 years ago

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A Girl And Her Dog - A tribute/fuck you to "A Boy & His Dog," Viktor Blud is the telepathic despot of the Gravestone River, but that won't stop Rosalie and her dog Champion from going after him to take their revenge. Champ is more of a borzoi pangolin monstrosity than a dog but let's not get picky. The setting is a sort of post apocalyptic weird west on the planet where gods go to die. As seen in Lisa Frank Gulch.

Short Change Hero - Down on her luck two and a half foot ex-allotment farmer turned hopeful adventurer turned disillusioned bouncer / part time leg-breaker Obsidian Bonesplinter didn't want to rock the boat but when her old family shows up in the magical city Eliriad they get caught up in a bad way. Now she's got a dead body to explain and a murder to solve if she doesn't want the cops to pin it all on her and the only roommate she ever had with a steady job. A hardboiled noir mystery taking place in a fantasy world of magic and elves and fantastical creatures.

Saw Down Heaven - Follow up to Girl Bites God, a ragtag band of queers and superhumans try to drive police out of their local community and set up a patrol free zone outside of the reach of law enforcement and, worse, the FCC. With the help of the mutant ringworm colony and hole in reality which together animate the undead corpse of Alice Buzzsaw (aka the Suicide Gorgon) and escaped mental patient AthenA Six, maybe they can pull it off. Takes place in the disentangled world, a setting where our world is slowly being folded into a parallel reality where physical matter never existed.

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lady-forest-1142 · 3 months ago

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hello we are SO back. settle in bc I just finished young miles. my review of cordelia's honor is here.

The Warrior's Apprentice: we're starting things off with miles vorkosigan, previously seen as pod infant/accident-prone toddler at the end of Barrayar, now 18 and trying to establish his place in a society that rejects him at first sight. miles is dead set on joining the imperial military like his father and grandfather before him, but his physical differences make it nearly impossible. naturally, in a fit of pique and lovelorn angst, he sets off on a barely thought-out quest to impress the girl he likes. naturally, things don't go according to plan. this wasn't my favorite part of this book, which is entirely a me problem - I don't tend to like coming of age stories, and that's what this is at its core. miles starts out a frustrated youth trying to make his life go according to plan, who doesn't have a full understanding yet of the consequences of his own actions; he finishes it a battle-worn young adult who has experienced real loss and real battle, and seen firsthand how unpredictable life can be. as a result, this book had some genuinely dark moments and several scenes that nearly had me weeping, alongside banter, absurd situations, and considerable humor. elena is AMAZING, such a good foil to miles - a perfect candidate for the military but for her gender. she is unafraid to ask for what she wants regardless of her society's expectations for her, and a deeply important lesson, among many, for miles that his life cannot be masterminded. the dendarii mercenaries are exactly what you would want them to be: a loyal, ragtag band, tied to miles for a wide variety of reasons and not all of them particularly happy about it. the scene where commander tung sings aral's praises to miles' face is one of my favorites of the whole book. IVAN.....poor idiotic ivan. literally the definition of a himbo. also the ending had me hooked to the audiobook for two straight hours - every time you think the action is winding down something else happens and you're right back in it again. an excellent transition from cordelia to miles.

The Mountains of Mourning: to be honest I almost skipped this - my library didn't have the audiobook and I wasn't sure I was going to have access to a physical copy. but then I read it anyway, and man am I glad I did. at its face, it's basically like a fanfic concept - watch miles solve a murder mystery in the backwoods of barrayar. but really, it served so many more purposes than that. the community (whose name I forget, sue me) represents the lingering cost of the age of isolation on barrayaran society. the majority of society might be able to put up a good face of fitting in with intergalactic progress, but the forgotten corners of the planet are generations behind and suffering for it. at the same time, you get the sense that this is just a stripped-bare revelation of the prejudice that hides behind even the wealthier society. miles' monologue at the end (view spoiler) was haunting, and I suspect will follow him throughout the series.

The Vor Game: okay this is a lesson for future me - if a miles book starts out looking like it's going to be boring, don't stop reading it, because it'll probably change up pretty soon. I wasn't feeling very optimistic about this, and then it ended up being my favorite part of the book. miles is assigned to his first military post as apprentice meteorological officer at basically the barrayaran north pole. by the end he will have unveiled a tyrannical plot, been arrested, gone undercover, been arrested again, discovered a secret that threatens intergalactic war, regained control of the dendarii mercenaries, and gone toe-to-toe with a brilliant power-crazed woman who rivals him in absurd convoluted schemes. I love love love how this showcased miles' intellect and strategic prowess, even more than the warrior's apprentice - he is constantly plunged into situations that he has to read and react to, often in a manner of minutes. the plot is fast paced and switches up every 50 pages or so, but is never hard to follow. and again we get a memorable supporting cast. ivan's brief cameo from his bachelor pad. long-suffering simon illian. elena, my queen, who gets way more page time than her (lowkey boring) husband as she should. tragic gregor, who to be honest came off as a little less tragic and a little more spoiled to me until the end, when he became more sympathetic. commander tung, professional aral vorkosigan fanboy. cavillo was an interesting villain, because of her similarities to miles - overlooked, underestimated, desperate for power and significance. I feel certain we'll see her again. the plot got a liiittle too convoluted for me by the final battle, which perhaps was due to me listening to it rather than reading it. the reunion between miles and his father more than made up for it, though.

tl;dr haven't yet found a problem miles can't solve (no matter how much he complains)

oh fuck wait I didn't even mention that you can tell how much miles has been influenced by cordelia in the way he interacts with people and barrayaran society, even as he is desperate to fit in and be taken seriously as his father's heir. aral continues to be a slightly boring dilf but his influence on miles is clear too. also we had a small koudelka cameo at the beginning of the warrior's apprentice and I greatly appreciated it, my king.

#the forest speaks #the vorkosigan saga #young miles #the warrior's apprentice #the mountains of mourning #the vor game

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aurescentia · 1 month ago

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For the @corrodedcoffinfest Somewhere Over the Rainbow pop-up event - prompt: orange

ao3 || Song: Orange Crush by R.E.M. || WC: 2,486 || Rating: T || CW: language, possible emetophobia trigger || Tags: Eddie Munson in a Band, forming the band, Coming of Age, Friendship, Battle of the Bands, Former Corroded Coffin Members, Not Canon Compliant

"(Follow me, don't follow me)

I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush

(Collar me, don't collar me)"

November, 1983

“Dude, we suck.”

Rings. When did Gareth start wearing rings? Eddie only notices because Gareth’s index finger is jammed into his chest, jabbing a relentless barrage that started the moment he got to his locker.

They’re gaudy things, similar enough to the ones littering his fingers to make Eddie’s teeth hurt to consider. Slamming his locker, Eddie narrowly avoids two preps as he attempts to dodge Frank and Gareth, hot on his trail. Jeff follows in lukewarm pursuit.

“What part of this aren’t you getting? If we can’t find a place to practice – together – then we’re totally screwed,” Gareth says, hurrying to keep pace.

This had been an ongoing issue – freshly forged from the burning wreckage of Corroded Coffin’s previous lineup and without a place to meet. Before, when it was Eddie and his old crew, he and Derek would meet in Randy and Phil’s garage for practice, and it had never crossed his mind how difficult an alternative might be because he’d never been responsible for finding one.

He’s never had to scout out a place for practice before, and aside from two failed attempts to ‘borrow’ the music room, he’s been shit outta luck.

It’s barely been a month since Eddie waggled the Battle of the Bands poster in front of his new crew like a treasure map to high school infamy, and he already felt like their ship was taking on water, all because he couldn’t find a single decent place in all of Hawkins for them to meet.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Eddie mutters, clenching his books tighter as the first bell rings.

“You’re gonna be late for class. Get the hell out of here, man.”

Undeterred, Gareth ducks in front of him, forcing the group to stop dead in their tracks.

“We need a plan. We can’t just fly by the seat of our pants!”

He’s pretty sure he’s gotten along fine doing just that so far, but he barely has time to finish the thought before Gareth barrels ahead, ignoring him outright.

“We suck, there’s not enough time and we’re going to crucify ourselves in an incredibly public way if we don’t figure something out today,” Gareth rasps, jabbing his finger (those rings!) into Eddie’s chest again.

“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. That means we’ve maybe got tomorrow night or the morning before the show to practice, and we still need somewhere to go.”

“Alright! I get it already!”

“I’ll figure something out. Just... go home and practice alone in the meantime,” Eddie says, placatingly.

Forces himself to take a deep breath, exhaling heavily through his nose. The look Gareth shoots him in response is only borderline murderous as he brushes past, leaving without comment. Frank follows, glib in his departure.

“Even if we suck, it’s still the most exciting thing to happen to any of us. We’ll survive,” Jeff says, giving Eddie’s shoulder a squeeze before trailing off after the others.

And the rest of them might just survive, Eddie thinks as he skulks off to his fourth period, but he wouldn’t. Not with everyone counting on him like this.

As he attempts to plaster himself to the wallpaper in Calc, that’s all he can think about. How much they’re counting on him. He wasn’t sure why or how he became the de facto leader of their ragtag group, but he sure as fuck doesn’t want to be one.

No one’s ever taught him how to do any of this shit – be a real front man, lead people, arrange practices in a tangible space. That was shit the Old Crew took care of, not Eddie.

But Phil’s probably busking in Cincinnati for cigarettes, Randy’s upriver cozying up with his old man in prison, and Derek’s too busy doing track and his preppy girlfriend to even notice Eddie anymore, even though he’s still here.

Wait. Shit, Derek’s like– actually here, standing in the hallway between classes. Next to Eddie. Not moving.

“Munson. Hey.”

For a moment, Eddie wonders if thinking about someone too much can genuinely conjure them.

“Derek,” Eddie mumbles, keeping his eyes trained on his sneakers.

They didn’t talk anymore, not since the band broke up and the Old Crew became the New Crew. But here he is, walking astride Eddie, breaking convention.

“I heard you and your friends earlier, by your locker? About needing a place to practice?” he says, prompting him, but he’s too busy trying not to let ‘your friends’ hurt him to call Derek out for eavesdropping.

“Yeah, you heard right. Can’t exactly go to Phil and Randy’s place, can we?” Eddie says, silently praying Derek would just leave already.

Derek only hums, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably.

“Just so you know, my dad’s bar is closed tomorrow for Thanksgiving,” Derek adds, apropos of nothing. “Remember his place?”

Eddie sneaks a side-eyed glare at Derek. Obviously, he remembers the Hideout – Derek only promised them a million times that his dad would let them play there someday. Back when they were all friends, in the Old Crew.

“…okay? What’s your point?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Derek’s shrug. Surely, he wasn’t insinuating that they– what, break in?

“Just thought you should know. No one’ll be there until noon on Friday,” he says, not bothering to answer Eddie’s question.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Munson.”

Eddie’s out the door before the final bell stops ringing, dodging hallway lingerers as he rushes toward the bus zone where the guys will be waiting. He has like– negative time to get to them, and purposefully ignores the irritated looks as he slides past their classmates on his way out.

Thankfully, he finds them in their usual spot, and as Eddie jogs (jogs!!) up to them, panting, they squint back at him, confused.

“Thanksgiving night – after dinner – say you’re staying at my place,” Eddie begins before anyone can question his frantic, slightly clammy appearance.

“What –?”

He shakes his head, ignoring Jeff’s question. There isn’t time.

“Just do it. Bring leftovers, if you need a cover. Tell your folks Wayne’s working, that I’ll be all alone on Thanksgiving, boo-hoo, that whole sob story.”

“Wait, really?” Frank’s eyebrows pinch in genuine concern.

The crowds are dispersing as everyone loads up onto their buses. They’ve got a minute, if that. Eddie waves him off.

“Technically, yes, but it’s fine,” he mutters dismissively. “We’ll celebrate tonight.”

“Do you think you could manage that?” Eddie prompts desperately, trying to steer the conversation back to the plan, now that he has one. “Could you sneak out, if not?”

“Maybe…” Gareth says warily, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Why?”

“Be-cause,” he says, drawing out the word, enjoying the anticipation and their rapt attention, “I found us a place to practice.”

“Holy shit?” Jeff breathes, his eyes going wide.

“Holy shit, indeed, Jeffrey,” Eddie nods, feeling stupid with all this joy, “I’ll start picking you guys up at nine tomorrow. Have your shit ready and make sure you get some good sleep tonight, boys.”

“We’re not resting until we have this shit in the bag.”

“So, this Battle of the Bands… thing.”

Eddie nearly chokes on his traditionally-untraditional-Thanksgiving-lo-mein when Wayne slides the flyer across the kitchen island.

He’s not sure how Wayne always finds the worst time to do this shit. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for calling Eddie out right as he’s inhaling dinner.

“Were you in my room?” Eddie grumbles around a mouthful of noodles.

“No, ‘course not. You left it on the counter, for chrissake.”

“I thought you were tryin’ to be subtle,” Wayne huffs, annoyed.

“Oh.”

Wayne lifts an eyebrow, tapping irritably on the flyer, clearly expecting some sort of explanation.

“It’s, uh,” Eddie finally manages to swallow, feeling it stick in his throat. He tries tugging the flyer out from under Wayne’s fingers, but he doesn’t let up. “It’s nothing.”

Wayne levels him with the look, and Eddie realizes he needs to come up with a lie, quick.

“Promise,” he swears, crossing himself though they’re not even Catholic.

“It’s just something dumb we’re doing. If it were a big deal, don’t you think I would have invited you?” he asks, trying to distract him with the accusation.

There’s a tense second where Wayne’s mouth works, mulling him over. He can probably see right through the lie, Eddie knows, but he knows Wayne’s probably trying to work out if it’s worth the fight.

Eventually, his shoulders relax and he nods, allowing Eddie to take the flyer from him, (thankfully) dropping the subject.

A little over twenty-four hours later, Eddie’s struggling to unload the overstuffed van when Gareth shoves something into his hands.

“Here. Before I forget,” he mumbles, avoiding Eddie’s eyes as he squints at the tupperware, confused.

“The hell’s this?”

“Leftovers.”

“I didn’t mean bring literal leftovers,” Eddie mutters, glaring, even though Gareth’s stalking off with one of the gig bags, shrugging the strap over his shoulder.

“You said to bring some!” Gareth hisses, yanking the tupperware back.

“And my mom insisted, so if you’re going to moan about it, I’ll eat it.”

“Fine, whatever.”

They converge with the others, following Eddie’s lead toward the back of the building, windows dark and uninviting. Unable to take Derek at his word and eager to christen his lock-picking kit, Eddie had scoped the place out earlier that day.

Just to be sure.

“Where the hell are we, anyway?” Frank mumbles nervously, shifting his grip on his amp.

Eddie rolls his eyes, swinging the back door open and dumping his load in the entryway, ignoring the alcohol-tinged air in his search for the light switch.

“Yeah, you didn’t bring us out here to murder us or anything– right?” Jeff asks, hovering in the entrance, laughing to cover his anxiety.

Fumbling fingers find the light switch, and the room takes on a new light, illuminated. Before them is the bar, packed away for the holiday, and an open seating area replete with grimy pleather booths. But Eddie’s eyes search to their right for what they’d come here for.

The red paint is peeling, and it’s barely three feet off the ground, but there’s no denying what it is –

“Ta-da!” he announces, swinging his arms wide in a flourish.

– a stage.

Something warm blooms in his chest, watching the way their eyes light up at the sight. Gareth rushes past Eddie, running his fingers across the rough surface.

“Are you serious!?”

Jeff follows, a step behind the rest, shooting Eddie a knowing way that makes his whole brain buzz with unmitigated joy at the reassurance that he’s done it. If only for now, Eddie’s proven himself worthy of their faith in him.

“Alright, enough sightseeing,” Eddie says, clapping either hand on Gareth and Frank’s shoulders, grinning.

“Let’s get set up. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Eddie’s going to be sick.

They’re about thirty seconds away from going on, and he’s fighting the urge to sympathy-hurl at Gareth’s hurling.

“I told you not to eat that shit,” Eddie hisses away from the mic, eyes flicking between Gareth and the curtains on the school stage itching to open.

“Too late now,” Gareth moans with his head buried between his legs and his drumkit in a trashcan, waving a hand vaguely in Jeff’s direction.

“Take care of him, please.”

As much as Eddie wanted to keep tearing Gareth a new one for giving himself food poisoning from eating the leftovers, unrefrigerated and room-temp, on the way home from their all-night practice, he knew he was right. Jeff needed help, fast.

Hehad failed to deliver some arguably pertinent information – he had stage fright. Badly.

He had failed to provide some key insight on his apparently horrible case of stage fright. Which was… well. Pretty not great, all things considered.

He’s been shivering since the moment they set up, and as Eddie approaches him to (shake?) revive him, he notices the sheen of sweat dripping down his forehead, pupils dilated.

“Jeff, man. You gotta get it together,” Eddie says, tapping Jeff’s cheek, bringing him back to reality. “We’re gonna play in like– ten seconds, whether you’re with us or not.”

“I can’t do this shit,” Jeff says, voice trembling, unable to meet Eddie’s gaze.

“You can. You’ve got this. Gareth’s got his head in a trashcan, Frank’s going on zero sleep, and honestly, I’m just hoping muscle memory kicks in and he remembers to play.”

“It’s you and me; we can do this. Even if you completely whiff it, you’ll still outdo me,” Eddie says, grinning hopefully at Jeff, willing him to listen to the honesty in his words.

Their eyes meet, and for a second, Eddie thinks he’s convinced him, but then the curtains open, and the panicked look returns. Whether they’re ready or not, it’s show time.

“Focus on me. Not on any of them.”

Jeff closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath, hand reaching up to squeeze Eddie’s wrist.

“Focus on you.”

“And last but not least –” a voice booms over the crowd as the stage lights nearly blind Eddie, turning to take his place across from Jeff.

“– we have, uh. Cor-ro-ded Coffin!”

The announcer trips over the name of the band, and Eddie fights to keep his expression neutral because he knows that voice. It only haunts all his worst fantasies.

No one told him the King of Hawkins would be MCing tonight.

His stomach plummets, and he wonders if he’ll need to borrow Gareth’s trashcan or, worse, run off stage.

“It’s Corroded Coffin!” Gareth shouts, annoyed, smacking his drumsticks together. It’s the only thing keeping Eddie from running.

“One– two –!”

The drums rattle to life, loud enough to shake Eddie from his momentary lapse in sanity at the thought of Steve-fucking-Harrington listening to them play.

His fingers slide into position automatically as Gareth sets the pace, his gaze meeting Jeff’s halfway across the stage. He nods at him, and then they’re playing– actually playing! With a crowd and everything!

And the show goes… okay.

They manage to play their songs without totally biffing, Jeff keeps his cool, Frank remembers to play through his exhaustion, and Gareth waits until the crowd is politely golf-clapping to puke again.

All in all, not the worst set Eddie’s played.

And, sure, they don’t win – how could they when Harrington was on the judges panel and every other group was some Wham wannabe? But as they head back to the van, sweaty and full of spent adrenaline, Eddie feels truly happy for the first time in months.

Like the four of them have found something good in complete coincidence. Something real.

“Hey. Who’s that?” Jeff asks, weaving his arm out from under Eddie’s to point ahead of them.

His blind optimism ends at the sight of the person leaning against the back of his truck, parked beside the van. Heart leaping to his throat, Eddie has to swallow before answering.

“My uncle.”

please check out @corrodedcoffinfest for all the other entries, or to generally see what they've got goin' on over there. always tons of cool shit!

and if you want to follow along for the rest of the week, you can find my posts here on tumblr, or saved to the Spectra series // Corroded Coffin Fest Collection on ao3 for everyone's submissions.

#corrodedcoffinfest: somewhere over the rainbow #prompt: orange #corrodedcoffinfest: fic #corrodedcoffinfest #stranger things #corroded coffin #battle of the bands #eddie munson #wayne munson #gareth stranger things #jeff stranger things #freak stranger things

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thenugking · 2 months ago

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1 and 10 for the ask meme for fandoms of your choice!

HI HELLO SORRY this has been sitting in my inbox for almost a month now. From this post from whatever ago.

1. What OTPs in your fandom(s) do you just not get?

I’m not sure I can think of a ship I don’t get at all. I mean, there’s some where I feel like people only ship it because it’s canon, or made up of two conventionally attractive white men, but at least that’s a reason to ship it.

That said, I am continuously fucking baffled by the decision to have Jaheira be a romance option in BG2, and the fact that she’s apparently the most popular and ‘canon’ one?? I mean, I fancy her, but this woman was a friend of your father’s who he asked to raise you, should he die while you were a child. It’s… a weird fucking vibe. And then I had her romance start less than 24 hours after finding her husband’s dead body?? Girl you should NOT be flirting with me within a week. I quickly took her out of the party until Viconia’s romance had fully got going because my god that was uncomfortable.

But yeah I just… her husband literally Just died. I can’t see how romancing her is anything other than being a rebound, even leaving aside everything else. Even if you want a messy relationship, you have options other than whatever the fuck is happening here. Why. Why is she so popular to romance? Why do people keep suggesting this as an answer whenever someone goes, “wow BG3 Jaheira’s such a milf (and her husband’s been dead over a century), I wish I could romance her”? Whyyyy?

10. Most disliked arc? Why?

Okay sticking with the og Baldured Gates here, I am not a fan of any of the Enhanced Edition companion questlines. It’s hard to decide whether I dislike Neera’s or Dorn’s more. (I wasn’t a fan of Rassad’s in BG1 either, but I never got the motivation to recruit him in BG2 so idk maybe it gets better. But I doubt it.)

Dorn is disappointing, because I kind of liked him in BG1. His personal quest was less of a slog than Neera or Rasaad’s, and he had dialogue to challenge my character. Dorn telling me I should embrace my Bhaalspawn heritage while I argued that I don’t want to be some sort of Awful Murderer while literally in the middle of murdering Rieltar Anchev was the funniest moment of the game. In BG2 he’s just… so fucking evil. I mean I know he was always evil, but a revenge quest against people who attack us first is easier to justify than, “hey do you want to come and murder a temple full of innocent people with me?” I regularly hang out with evil party members but Dorn was just so much more actively evil than anyone else. And all of this for the only mlm romance option?? I do like Hexxat and will do anything for a lesbian vampire but I still think it’s kind of gross that both the queer love interests have the Evil alignment.

I probably dislike Neera’s more though, taking both games into account. Neera I think is the worst victim of Enhanced Edition Dialogue, which doesn’t help her case, or make me ever enjoy spending time with her. Her BG1 quest felt as cliched and annoying as expected from Enhanced Edition, but it was fine I guess. BG2 though. While in theory I enjoy “ragtag band of misfits band together to make a home for themselves in a world that doesn’t accept them,” they are unfortunately also written with Enhanced Edition dialogue, so I hate them all.

The real problem though is the lack of pacing--pretty much every mage at the hideout gives you a side quest to do in the city, but you’re also given a main quest to do in the city. And unless you travel from the refuge to the city for side quests, back to the refuge, to the city for the main quest, and back to the refuge again, and then back to the city again (which takes up five in game days), you don’t actually get to complete the side quests and a bunch of the mages kill themselves. Which is kind of a downer. I’d say the quest needs to give you more time to get to know the wild mages, but again, I hate them all, so maybe it’s better this way.Also I had to play through the fight in the Red Wizard Quarters twice, because the first time an enemy cast Sphere of Chaos and teleported Hexxat behind the bar and I could not get her out. I had no way of teleporting her myself, I tried killing her but she couldn’t even get over the counter as a cloud of mist, and I couldn’t leave the building with her there because I couldn’t gather my party. I was playing on story mode at that point because I already wasn’t enjoying myself with this quest, but having to do it twice did not make me like it any better.

#treesinspace #asks post #salt so it doesn't get tagged #godddd though i miss when tumblr only put the first five things tagged in tags other ppl could see #hate not being able to tag things for my own archival purposes #baldur's gate critical

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the-damned-and-divine · 1 month ago

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Power-scaling is always a contentious debate, especially when there's a lack of information or the information's contradictory

We also have to acknowledge that things happening in the plot aren't because of immutable laws of the universe (i.e. x always wins because x is stronger than y), but because the writer(s) wanted a certain result and made everything happen accordingly

Looking at Helluva Boss, Striker is able to fully incapacitate Stolas because he had a magic rope and nearly killed him with a single stab to the shoulder with a magic knife. In order for Striker to appear as a legitimate threat (despite all the jokes at his expense), for M&M's rescue mission to seem urgent, for Blitzo to realize "Oh shit, Stolas can actually get hurt" and for the episode to end on a dramatic note, Stolas needed to be unable to fight back, had to be critically injured, rushed to the hospital and have the screen fade to black as he sleeps in a hospital bed. Without that rope, Stolas would've simply looked at Striker and immediately turn him to stone---but that would've been the end of everything, so that couldn't be allowed to happen

By the same token, Adam's fight with Alastor was one-sided and Charlie struggled against him. While the lead exorcist being able to take-on an overlord is more believable, Alastor was effectively removed from the battle to create a sense of danger. If Alastor was thought to be the strongest among the Hotel Gang, then Adam overpowering him, wounding him and forcing him to retreat would raise the stakes. Meanwhile, Charlie had to be cut, bruised, cornered and at Adam's mercy so that Lucifer could rush in and save her. Yes, Charlie is supposedly highly inexperienced in combat, but she's the literal daughter of the Devil (from, you know, THE BIBLE) and has the same potential as Lucifer (since she's there to replace him if shit were ever to happen). But when Lucifer got involved, Adam was Yamcha'd and Adam's epic hissy-fit distracted him long enough for the bouncing giggling murder-maid to sneak behind him and strike the killing blow

If we're to believe that absolutely no one is safe from an angelic weapon---not sinners, not overlords, not goetic princes, not the princess of Hell or the angels themselves---then why haven't ANY of the Sins or Goetia been attacked by exorcists before? Why is Heaven focused on killing sinners rather than removing the very agents causing humans to sin (Barbie, Verosika, the Goetia with cults or the Sins themselves)?

Why haven't the Sins ever tried to hit back, since the exorcists apparently DROP THEIR PRECIOUS ULTRA-RARE SOUL-DESTROYING PERMA-DEATH WEAPONS like trash to such an extent that one overlord is able to wander around and pick them up? Why is it that Stella---someone infamous for not thinking, instead acting on impulse and anger---is the first Goetia to think "Oh hey, there's a whole industry dedicated to reforging soul-killing angelic super-weapons. Maybe I should buy a rifle, a pistol, a knife and a rope, give them to an imp and hire him to kill my arranged husband"?

Ultimately, the answer to all these questions is "because that's how it had to happen for the show/characters to exist"

As much as fans of Star Wars and even Star Wars writers have tried to logically explain why Stormtroopers somehow can't hit the broadside of a barn (even when they vastly outnumber the enemy and the probability of 100 guns shooting 25-50 bullets in the same general direction eventually hitting SOMETHING important), the simple reason is that if Stormtroopers were competent soldiers, then our Brave Ragtag Bands of Underdog Heroes Fighting Impossible OddsTM (and don't ever tell them the odds!) wouldn't stand a snowflake's chance in the molten iron core of our very planet

#ooc nonsense #dash commentary

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spiderscribe · 1 year ago

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soundrod, roleswap, enemies to lovers, political alliance, happy ending

When the Quintessons invade Cybertron, famed killer Decepticon Hot Rod and compassionate Autobot Soundwave form a shaky, temporary truce so they can free everyone from the Loop. It’s up to them and their ragtag band of clowns enemies to get past the multiple murder attempts on each other and save the planet.

#don't mind me inventing a shattered glass cyberverse continuity just for this fic #“is this really a political alliance?” you ask. it is after the wall goes up #and hot rod goes “fuck that i'm going to date soundwave and kill anyone who tries to stop me” and soundwave is not opposed #so megatron bargains with optimus about letting soundrod be the exception so more ppl see autobots/decepticons getting along #this trope isn't usually my thing but ahhh this particular fic would be super interesting :DDD #soundrod #ask meme #noodleblade #multifandom soulmate

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listen-to-the-inner-walrus · 5 months ago

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music shuffle game 🎶🎶

rules: shuffle your 'on repeat' playlist and post the first 10 songs, then tag 10 friends to do the same

tagged by @dandelioncasey <33

Let Me Entertain You - Robbie Williams

The Slur Slong - @bigfoots-biggest-fan

Not Like Us - Kendrick Lamar

Trátame Suavemente - Soda Stereo

She's The One - Robbie Williams

Jackboot Jump - Hozier

Frobisher Bay - Miranda Mulholland ft. Joe Philips

De Música Ligera - Soda Stereo

The Legend of Loco Chanel (and the Blood Red Dress) - Phil Nichol (from Everybody's Talking About Jamie)

Angels - Robbie Williams

i am once again perplexed yet unsurprised by the music i apparently listen to most often

no pressure tags: @teapunks @bottlesandbarricades @stellewriites @delilah-briarwood @ragtag-band-of-murderers @vagueconfusion @fromkenari @vaellusvitutus @queenofthequillandink and @awkwxrdapple <33

#kai rambles #tag games #its the way it starts and ends with classic robbie williams but number 7 is FROBISHER BAY that gets me #number 11 was stormy weather by etta james by the way #just to put that out there #also i have too many mutuals #i want to tag you all :(

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twola · 2 years ago

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Devil's Backbone - Owanjila IV

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila IV: The Open Wound

The band heads northward, into the Grizzlies, to find John. Braving the inhospitable weather, they find more than just him.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Whoever they were in Strawberry talkin’ of a blizzard rolling through the Grizzlies were right. Very right.

Hell, as soon as the ragtag crew of outlaws crossed the state line into Ambarino, the dusting of snow on the ground grew and grew as the horses hiked northward and upward in altitude. You’re thankful for the woolen coat and shawl Abigail insisted on wrapping your head in, and the gloves she gave you as well. The snow blanketed the ground once the shadow of Mount Hagen was reached.

“You gonna keep that old boy?” Dutch calls over to Arthur from his mount, buried under a large, dark woolen coat.

“Haven’t had a chance to find another one - once we rescue the fair princess, I’ll probably go on over to Valentine and get a new horse.”

Dutch chuckles, amused at Arthur's irritation at John. Beneath him, The Count steps high through the growing snowbanks, the trail barely visible under the blanket of white snow that has settled. Three horses climb northward, up, up into the mountains.

While the snow isn't actively falling, a cold, bitter wind sweeps across the white landscape, trying to force the group away from the accursed mountains, as if warning intruders to stay back and seek refuge in more hospitable lands.

Micah, bundled tight atop his horse Baylock, spits on the ground and blows out hot air through his nose. He snarls, rolling his shoulders, whilst looking at you as you ride behind Arthur in his saddle. "I hope you know where you're going, missy."

You glance over Arthur's shoulder from your seat behind him, and lean up to point over his shoulder with one hand, the other one around his ribcage to keep you on the horse. "There, that's Lake I-Isabella," Your teeth stutter as you raise your jaw from the scarf wrapped around your neck, "F-follow that c-creek to the right - C-Colter should be just a bit further n-north."

You huddle closer into Arthur’s back as the wind gusts more snow directly down the valley as it opens over the large partially frozen lake. He turns his head slightly, “Y’okay back there?”

“J-j-just peachy.” You stutter, shivering uncontrollably. You’ve turned your body into Arthur’s back, trying to use him as a shield against the biting wind.

“Alright, enough of this.” He pulls on the Walker’s reins, and the horse whinnies, and comes to a stop. You back off him slightly, as he moves his leg over the saddle to get off the horse.

Arthur points to the saddle. “C’mon, up you go. I’ll ride behind you.”

You nod, slowly. Pulling your skirts in front of you, you slide yourself into the saddle, throwing your leg across the horse’s back. The cold wind chafes your legs, only partially hidden by your skirts and the heavy woolen stockings Abigail also forced upon you.

Arthur swings back up on the horse, shaking snow off his boots, and settles in on his saddle behind you, flush to your back. You're glad for the scarf that was given you to bury your face into as a blush overtakes your cheeks, heightening even more when one of his arms wraps around your belly, pulling your frame tightly against his as he retakes the reins in his other hand and spurs the horse forward.

Though the rest of the ride was made in silence, by the time the men reached the old mining town, with its dilapidated buildings and lack of life, you will admit, you aren’t as cold anymore.

The valley in which the mining town lies loses the sun quickly to the peaks in the west, prompting Dutch to proclaim that the group would rest there for the night, and at dawn, the men would go out searching for John.

You sit on the cold floor of the cabin, wrapped in the blanket stuffed between your bedroll, next to the old hearth, which mercifully, Arthur was able to clear out and get a fire started.

Only one or two of the buildings in this old town was habitable - and that was stretching the truth. The large cabin the group had huddled in barely kept out the cold, but it would have to do. The horses were stabled and there was at least a semblance of a roof over your head.

Dutch wrings his hands within his gloves seated on an old chair in front of the hearth. Micah and Arthur have gone to smoke outside as the darkness of night sets in.

“What in God’s name brought you to this hell hole?” Dutch asks, blowing into his hands while staring into the fire.

You swallow the spoonful of beans you’ve been nursing from the can warmed over the fire. “We traveled through from the north and spent some time in Colorado. Wasn’t snowing when we came through though.”

“Mhm,” Dutch nods, placing his elbows on his knees as he leans closer to the hearth, “What was it that you said your husband did?”

Your eyes narrow as you stare into the flames, and you try not to flinch and keep a straight face.

Here’s the thing, you didn’t say. And you certainly weren’t going to open yourself up to Dutch asking further probing questions that would lead to Limpany and Leviticus Cornwall.

It's warm enough, at least next to the fire, for you to unwind the scarf from around your head, your blonde hair frizzing messily from the low bun you've pulled it back into. "He worked in Saint Denis for years... but then we left to pursue our fortune and lives in the west."

Dutch nods, staring into the flames, the answer at least enough to satiate him for the moment. An awkward silence settled as you scrape the last bits of food from the can before setting it down next to you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a beaten-up tin bucket in the dark corner of the cabin - dirty, but looking like it's not broken, you shrug the blanket from your shoulders and crawl over your knees to grab it, shaking dust and dirt. You stand up, moving closer to the hearth to see clearer, inspecting the bucket for holes. Once you see none, you look back toward Dutch for a moment.

"I'm going to go gather some snow to boil for water."

Dutch nods, reaching his hands out toward the fire for warmth, "Stay warm."

You grit your teeth to the inevitable gust of freezing air once you push out the rickety door of the cabin and stomp through the shin-deep snow away from the road - to where the white powder was undisturbed - virginal. You swear under your breath as a breeze makes your ears sting - you left the scarf on the cabin floor and your hair was doing little to nothing to keep your head warm.

Stooping over, you place the bucket on the ground and start scooping snow into the bucket, filling it halfway before an arm grabs you around the waist and you're roughly hauled against a man's body, yelping in surprise.

“C’mon now sweetie, it’s gonna be a cold night, you should spend it in my bedroll.” Micah hums in your ear, arm tight around your waist.

“Get off of me.” You hiss back, trying to pull yourself away, knowing the precarious situation you find yourself in. If you scream, who are these men going to believe? Some woman that was just brought back to the gang, or one of the money-earning established guns? Arthur, maybe, but certainly not Dutch. Not Dutch who seems to leer at you at times with the same dark-eyed stare.

“Breakin’ my heart here, little Ruth.” Micah’s fetid, whiskey-addled breath pours over your ear and you whip your head in the other direction.

Fortunately, you gain some courage and dig the heel of your boot into his foot and he lets go enough for you to break his hold, stumbling forward as he curses, snarling at you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a lantern at the next building over, the open awning where the horses are stabled, the blue of Arthur’s long coat moves in the orange light.

You hitch your skirt and run, gasping aloud as you pray that Micah doesn’t run after you - there’s no way you can outrun him, he’ll catch you in the twenty feet between you and the building. He’ll catch you and drag you and you don’t want to imagine further what he’ll do to you.

You can hear him curse behind you and your heart tries to claw out your throat as you struggle through the snow, the drifts halfway up your shin, soaking your stockings under your skirt and pouring into your boots.

If you can just reach…

“Whoa there!”

You collide with Arthur’s back, gasping and throwing your arms to wind around the trunk of his waist. He turns in surprise, and you bury yourself into his coat, praying for salvation. One of his arms settles loosely on your back as he turns fully, facing you as you clutch desperately at him.

“R-Ruth-?”

You’re gasping for air against him, your face buried in his coat, and it’s then that he looks up and sees Micah scowling halfway between the buildings.

“Don’t let him-” you mumble into his coat, and upon hearing your fearful tone, he winds the arm braced across your back firmer, drawing you against him.

Micah slinks away in a lizard-like fashion under the weight of Arthur’s glare.

You open your eye slightly and see him head back into the main building, but for a moment, you do not move.

Selfishly, you try to hold on to this feeling of being protected, clutching at the fur lining of Arthur’s coat, extremely mindful of the small circles his thumb is making against your lower back.

The morning breaks and you’re huddled in the corner of the room, having not slept much at all overnight - the thought of Micah was enough to keep you awake. The sounds of the men getting up and getting a pot of coffee started pulls you into a sitting position at least, feigning a yawn as you move to stand up, rewrapping the blanket around your shoulders.

“Missus Shaw,” Dutch clears his throat - “The boys and I are gonna go scout around for John. You’ll be okay here by yourself?”

“S-sure,” You nod, shivering slightly. Dutch hands you a cup of coffee and you smile back at him, he nods in reply. He takes one of the polished, glinting revolvers from his belt and places it in your free hand, “You take this if there’s any trouble.”

You stare at the gun, engraved with swirling lines, for a long moment before looking back up to Dutch. In the man’s dark eyes, you can sense weariness - perhaps the first time you’ve seen it.

You nod, sheepishly, as if you were a child. He gently clasps your shoulder before turning back toward the door.

They leave, high on their horses, into the mountain passes, and once the sounds of them galloping away fade, you are left in the cold cabin, staring into the fire.

Hours go by. You scuttle around the cabin, trying to stay warm and keep the fire lit. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the sounds of horses outside make you hurry over to the door and whip it open. Clouds have rolled into the afternoon sky, darkening the valley as the wind grows even colder.

Three horses return to Colter - and you see behind Dutch a fourth man leaning limply against him.

“Missus Shaw!” Dutch calls out as he brings The Count to a stop on the icy road, Arthur and Micah following him. They dismount and go to pull the bleeding body off the back of the horse.

“John’s in a bad way - ” Dutch states as he slides out of his saddle, Arthur and Micah wrap their arms under Marston’s and slowly drag him into the cabin. He groans in pain, his feet stumbling along the way.

You cannot hide the cringe on your face when you look at John - his face is nearly torn open, huge gashes across his cheek,

“Bring him here, lay him down by the fire.” You say as you follow them inside the old cabin. Dutch lumbers behind you.

“Had a bit of a run-in with some wolves,” Dutch says as John is laid out on the floor, and you hurry to the sparse supplies that were packed before grabbing the bucket of snowmelt and getting down on your knees next to the fire and where John lays.

John winces but blinks up at you with a groan as Arthur and Micah step away, ostensibly to smoke outside. Dutch follows, allowing you to work.

“God, John - You almost got eaten there…” You say with an air of pity as you reach toward the gashes on his face.

John grimaces as you lightly brush over the broken skin of his cheek. “Jesus, woman.”

“I have to stitch these shut, it’s gonna hurt, I’m sorry,” you apologize in a pleading tone, “can you lay your head on my lap here?”

He groans, using the last bit of his strength to scoot himself closer to you and lay his head on your lap, closing his eyes to ward off another wave of pain. You brush back the locks of his tangled hair, tucking it behind his ear. “Turn a little for me.”

John groans again, cursing under his breath as he turns on his shoulder, facing toward you. His marred cheek continues to ooze blood.

“Here we go,” you whisper gently, holding the ridges of the wound in place as you pierce the skin for the first suture.

A hissed curse escapes John’s mouth, and as you pull the thread through his skin, his eyes squeeze shut in pain. He has the wherewithal to wait until your fingers start pulling the thread through his cheek and the needle is away from his face for his hand to swing forward and grab the meat of your thigh, digging in. You try not to jump, noting how white his knuckles are as you move to pierce his skin again.

“Goddamn.” He mutters, his fingers grasping your thigh painfully. You haven’t the heart to take his hand from your leg and decide to simply allow the man some comfort, however small it may be.

You work, as quickly as you can, but the stitching is still slow on the two long gashes on his face. As you tie off the last suture, John grimaces, trying not to move his cheek, his fingers pulsing on your thigh again.

You put the needle down, grab your stained handkerchief again, and pour more whiskey on it. Glancing back down, your expression is pained as you brush his hair back again gently, not wishing to cause this man more pain. “Last thing, then we’re done,” you say softly.

Dabbing the alcohol-soaked fabric against his face, you pass gently against the black sutures crawling up his cheeks like spiders burrowing into his skin. John swears, loudly, as your other hand moves to his brow, dusting your fingers over his skin in an attempt to calm, "Shh, shh.”

“Why’d you come to find me? Dutch said it was your idea to come up here. I ain’t been nothin’ but short with you since you joined us.”

“Abigail begged us to come find you. I value her friendship. And she values you, despite the volume of your arguments.”

John stares up at you, for once, at a loss for words, a guilty look in the one eye that remains uncovered by bandages.

The injured man shudders and groans as another wave of pain radiates through him.

“Here, hold my hand. Takes your mind off it. Just make sure not to crush my fingers or the stitching on your shirts is gonna be a lot less straight.”

He snorts softly, taking your outstretched hand somewhat meekly. A grimace works over his face again and he squeezes your fingers. Your other hand brushes his hair back from his forehead, taming it somewhat as you gently stroke the crown of his head.

You begin to hum, trying everything possible to help to comfort this man. If there was one thing you couldn’t stand, it was seeing someone in agony.

The door opens and shuts behind you, but you give it little notice, continuing to run your fingers lightly through John’s messy hair.

There, sitting in front of the fireplace with John Marston’s head in your lap, humming a soft song and holding his hand, is where the gruff enforcer of the group finds you.

And for some uncontrollable reason, some flare of emotion long buried, Arthur Morgan takes in the scene and scowls.

The howl of the icy wind through the valley rattles against the rotting wood of the cabin. John has finally fallen asleep after several gulps of whiskey from a bottle that the men had brought, laid out on a blanket in front of the fire.

“Ain’t got anything else to eat here,” Micah grumbles, “We need to leave in the morning.”

You look up from the linen bandages you’re washing in the lone bucket. Scowling, you pipe up, “John can’t ride like this. He needs at least a day or two before he could make it all the way back to the lake.”

Micah rolls his eyes, about to spit out something sarcastic when Dutch stands from his seat, rolling his shoulders. “She’s right. We need to hunker down here while John recovers for a few days.”

“And eat what, boss? Ain’t anything left around here.” Micah spits on the floor, and you purse your lips in disgust.

“I… I don’t know. Maybe you and Arthur should go hunting...” Dutch trails off as he moves toward a broken window, night falling early in these damned mountains.

“What about that ranch John was looking for? I know there’s one to the northeast of here. May have been the same one.” You interrupt, fully cognizant of Micah’s glare under the rim of his white hat.

Dutch stares at you for a moment, until the hint of a smile appears under his mustache.

“Quite the industrious one, aren’t you, Missus Shaw?”

You suppose that’s how you wound up huddling under a small awning, next to a wagon with a dead man inside as gunshots ring out from inside the cabin. Opening your damn mouth, that’s why. The ranch you recall passing a year and a half ago on the way south was indeed here… but someone had found it before you did.

Specifically O’Driscolls.

The door to the cabin swings open, light pouring out into the night, as Arthur yells for you to come inside, you pull the scarf wound tightly around your head to hide your face as you trudge through the snow, trying to ignore the bleeding bodies of dispatched O’Driscolls that you need to step over to come inside.

Dutch looks around the large cabin, nodding to Arthur and Micah to look for supplies. “Ruth, how about you check over by that cabinet and up in the loft?”

You nod, pulling the scarf down and laying it across your shoulders as you follow his instructions, passing empty bottles and cans that the O’Driscolls had left from their own ransacking of the cabin. Moving toward the opposite side of the cabin, you pause shortly in front of the roaring fireplace, warming your hands in your gloves for a moment.

You look at a photograph framed on the mantle. The man outside, dead in the wagon, in this photograph smiles, flanked by a blonde woman in a white dress, who also smiles.

God, a pain pangs at your heart, these poor people. This could have so easily been you. You wonder if that poor woman was forced to run as well - out into the blizzard, and cold wilderness. Was she dead also?

You grasp the frame of the photo and place it face down on the mantle before frowning and continuing your search for anything you can take - canned food, matches, alcohol. Not finding much that hadn’t already been plundered, you climb the ladder up to the loft, straightening your skirts as you reach the top, and start looking around for anything of value. You open a chest and start rooting through it.

“Now look what I’ve found!”

A screech from below jolts you. Notably feminine. There was a woman here?

You peer over the loft's edge to see Micah turn over the table onto its side, Dutch yells at him, shoving him backward and away from a half-feral woman, screaming and looking for items to throw at the outlaw. The poor woman was half-dressed, her dark blonde hair wild. Glass breaks from where the table was overturned, obscured from your view.

“You fool, Micah!

You pull back, stepping away from the loft’s edge, watching in horror as Micah snickers, lascivious, at the woman clad only in a chemise, she holds out a knife shakily to try and defend herself.

Defend herself against this man. Who would rape her or worse - you know he would. She’s not safe. You’re not safe.

You keep stepping backward, heart racing, cold sweat dripping down your back, and catch your boot on the corner of the rug, falling to the floor and hitting your head on the open chest - and all goes black.

The cabin quickly goes up in flames as Dutch ushers the poor woman out, and Arthur has half a mind to throw Micah back in there and lock the door - the damned fool. He follows Dutch as they reach his stallion, and helps to lift the woman onto the horse.

“Where’s the other one?” Micah yells over the roar of the fire as he mounts up on his steed.

Arthur stops, staring at Micah, then looks around to find no sign of the other woman with the small party. He curses under his breath, handing the lantern back to Dutch as the new one is settled atop The Count’s rump.

“Go on - I’ll catch up!” He yells as he storms back toward the burning cabin.

He heaves his shoulder into the heavy door, nearly breaking it off of its hinges as he presses inside.

“Ruth!” Arthur yells, throwing his arm ahead of his face to shield himself from the fire. “Ruth!”

You’ve awoken from your fall to the heat of flames, coughing as your watering eyes try to focus. As you gain some semblance of bearing, you stumble back from the edge of the loft, against the wall as you scream in terror. You’ve backed your way into a corner to fall huddled on the floor, coughing violently as the flames lick closer. Blood trickles from your temple down your cheek.

A rafter crashes to the ground across the house and suddenly you’re back in your cabin, your little abode along the Dakota, watching your life burn to pieces around you.

You curl yourself tighter against the wall, shielding your face with your arms as uncontrollable tears burst forth from your eyes - paralyzed by the sight of the encroaching flames.

Frederick wasn’t coming to save you this time.

“Ruth!”

Your eyes dart toward the ladder a few feet away, where a black hat bursts up from the floor, Arthur’s blue coat covered in soot emerging up the ladder.

“Ar-Arthur-!” You cough, the smoke quickly overtaking the loft as the fire builds and builds below. Arthur scrambles up the ladder, covering the lower half of his face with his arm as he coughs. “C’mon, Ruth -"

Another rafter crashes down and you cry out in fear, curling into yourself again as Arthur moves closer. You see him look back over the loft quickly before starting back toward the wall, where a small window seems to be the best route of escape.

He throws his elbow against the glass windowpane and it shatters. Turning back to you, he holds his hand out for you to take, but you feel like you’re stuck in molasses, unable to move, stricken as orange and red light takes over your vision. Arthur steps closer when you don’t move and stoops down toward you.

“You gotta - you, Ruth-” Arthur grabs your shoulders and shakes you as you hyperventilate, “C’mon, honey - you gotta get it together. We gotta go.”

You shake, a coughing fit overtaking you as the vision of him blurs behind your tears. Arthur mumbles something before grabbing you by the waist and heaving you over his shoulder. He heaves himself up, dragging the both of you through the broken-out window, tumbling to the raised awning roof a few feet below the sill. Arthur hacks, spitting on the snow-covered roof, pulling you down from his shoulder and dragging you to the edge of the overhang, where you struggle to stand.

He grabs your waist, moves your frame with complete ease, and slides you both over the edge, falling several feet to the ground, cushioned by the several inches of snow. You land a few feet away from him, sprawled on your back, groaning slightly before you devolve into another coughing fit from the smoke. Your hair has spilled out from the scarf you used to keep your head warm, lost somewhere in the fire - a mess of wavy curls spread out over the snow.

Arthur grunts, rolling to his knees as he rasps, grabbing his hat from where it fell from his head, shaking it off before replacing it as he struggles up.

“Arthur! You two alright?” Dutch calls out from several feet away, holding the lantern high.

“Yeah - heh -” Arthur coughs, stepping to where you’re still crumbled on the ground wheezing, “We’ll catch up.”

He pulls you up, and you’re still unable to find your feet, allowing him to nearly drag you further away from the burning house in a blur.

Before you know it, he’s somehow gotten you astride his horse, you grasp blindly at the saddle pommel as you continue to breathe heavily, the wet track of tears on your cheeks stinging in the freezing wind. Arthur swings himself up onto the horse behind you, drawing you up against him with an arm around your stomach.

You close your eyes tightly, shivering, trying to calm your breathing, but in the blazing light of the fire claiming the building behind you, it’s near impossible for you to choke back a sob.

Instantly, Arthur’s other arm winds around your shoulders, as he curls himself around you.

“You’re alright, you’re alrigh’…” he drawls in your ear, his breath hot on the side of your face.

Your hand, shaking, moves slowly from the pommel to grasp his forearm above your chest, warm even through the layers of fabric of coats and sleeves and gloves. You feel yourself recline into him, the fur trimming at his collar soft against your cheek.

“I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you, Ruth.”

He’s going to keep you safe.

The crashing of the roof of the burning ranch house jolts you, the horse stamps beneath the two of you, as Arthur’s hand snaps down from your shoulders to grab the reins. “Whoa there, c’mon now.”

His arm around your waist remains, his hand splaying across your stomach, holding you tightly against him. He circles the horse, glancing back at the fire. The house’s frame begins to collapse into itself.

“Let’s get goin’, gotta get back to Colter,” Arthur mutters and clicks his tongue as he pulls on the reins, turning the horse back toward the path away from the ranch. He kicks his spurs gently into the horse’s side, and the animal moves forward through the snow, following the path already worn by Dutch and Micah’s horses.

Your gloved hands clench the pommel of the saddle, but slowly, one of them shakily moves up, up, up to cover his across your waist. Your fingers find his, feathered out against your coat, and you interlace them, squeezing his hand gently. He curls his fingers slightly in return, his leather gloves sticking against yours.

He leans over you again as the horse trudges on, the motion of its gait swaying you into each other. Arthur’s cheek presses into your temple as you feel his grip tighten at your waist.

“Y’alright?”

You feel it, rather than hear the question, the low rumble of his voice against your skin. You nod, a soft sound coming from your throat. It’s not the first time you’ve ridden away from a fiery death. A rush of familiarity comes over you, a dread settling in your chest like a shot to your heart.

“Yeah,” you cough slightly, your voice hoarse. “Y-Yeah, I’m okay.”

He’s going to keep you safe.

Arthur sits up straight again; but keeps that hand on your waist, keeps your fingers interlaced, as you trudge through the cold, blustery night away from the burning ranch, away from the blazing fire.

He’s going to keep you safe.

You sleep fitfully that night on the cold floor of the cabin, exhausted. The widow Adler sleeps as well - likely even more exhausted from her ordeal. The morning sun has risen in a cloudless sky before you awaken, the men had already made their coffee and making moves for the day.

John sits up against the wall, bandages wound tightly across his head, covering one eye, which mercifully wasn’t torn out by the wolves.

The widow stares into the fire, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders.

Your gaze lingers on her - the poor woman, Sadie, she’s just as pitiful as you were - possibly more so, dark splotches of bruises on her skin that she tries to hide. Lord only knows what those men did to her.

Dutch decides to saddle the horses and head south, back to Owanjila. Two extra people mean that all three of the horses would have to ride double - Micah rolls his eyes as you and Dutch help John to stand from where he lay. Arthur resaddles the Walker under the awning of the building, the door open as the group gathers bedrolls together and prepares to leave this blasted down.

Baylock whinnies next to the Walker.

“Y’gonna take this one too?” Micah sneers, nodding inside over to where you stand next to Sadie, wrapping another blanket around her shoulders as they continue to ready the horses.

“The hell you talkin’ about?”

“I see the way you look at that little widow Ruth. The way she runs to you at the hint of trouble. Maybe that’s your type, I don’t judge. Sad little needy widows.” He shrugs, “But maybe you should leave some for the rest of us.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, glaring.

“Oh, cowpoke. I strike a nerve? So you ain't makin’ her squeal at night? If you ain’t, I would be more than happy to.”

“You best walk away, Micah. Before I make you.” Arthur growls, clenching his fist, the leather of his gloves whining as it stretches.

Micah throws a hand up in defense, snickering, “You ain’t different than any of us - rotten to the core. And all you want with her is her sweet little cunt.”

Arthur scowls, but Micah flicks his cigarette into the snow, walking past with a dismissive chuckle. He continues out from under the awning of the old house to where the horses are stabled.

He looks back and sees you watching, a concerned, frightful look in your eye, even as you lean next to the widow Adler, rubbing her back as she openly sobs into her hands.

Setting his jaw, Arthur glares daggers at Micah’s back as he finishes saddling up Baylock.

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