#I have trouble with modern sayings never mind cowboy ones

[unforgivingchorus]

Biggest issue with night at the museum fanfiction is that I don’t understand cowboy lingo. What is he saying? What does he mean?

[boognish-worshipper]

Midnight City AU

it took me forever to decide where to go with this chapter and i was literally getting fed up editing it 😭 i’ve been so busy with all the chaos goin on in my life rn too so yeah writing’s been feeling delayed over all but i decided to just finalize this one for rn and uhhh sorry if it seems funky or shortttt

//Chapter 3: Vanished

The next day, Trevor went back to Sterling Lake Park, after spending the night at Wade’s. He agreed to meet up with him there later, walking around the park with his earbuds in. As he threw himself down on his usual bench, he settled on listening to his usual playlist of his favorite songs. He scrolled through nosedivr once again, taking a photo of the lake. It was foggy, and the thick air sat atop the water. He liked when it was like that. A sturdy drumbeat thumped in his ears, making him feel whole. He paused it briefly, just to change it to a different song that was even louder, but with the lack of music he could now hear the crunch of gravel not too far away. He thought he told Wade to come later on? He looked up from his phone, pulling out an earbud. It was the guy from yesterday.

“Hey.”

“Hello.”

“Where’s Amanda?” He asked, glancing around.

“Uhh she’s.. not here today. I kinda came to see if you were here. I wanna get to know more people at this park if I’m gonna hang ‘round here more I guess.”

“But she doesn’t like me?”

“She don’t gotta know.”

“Well aren’t you Boyfriend of the Year.”

“Oh uh, we aren’t dating yet.”

“Thought she was your girl though.”

“She is, she is. But it’s nothing serious. Not yet. And I don’t know what happened between you guys but you don’t seem that bad, so if I wanna talk to you that’s more of a her problem than me.”

“Huh.”

Today Michael wore an eCola shirt, which was obviously made to resemble their old logo, with blue jeans. He had on a pair of red sneakers this time to match the color of the shirt. They looked slightly newer, compared to the pair he wore yesterday. He dressed nice for such a basic style. Trevor on the other hand, threw on an old, frayed Love Fist t-shirt, and messy jeans. He wore a different pair of boots, some kind of knockoff of a popular name brand. A pair of purple lensed circular glasses sat on his head, the nose pieces caught in his hair.

“So.. uh. Mind if I sit there?”

“Not like I own the bench or anything, go right ahead.”

He cautiously sat next to Trevor, hands in his lap. Trevor started one of his other playlists up again, settling on a mix of Paramore and Green Day. He left an earbud out, just so he wouldn’t be completely rude. He mindlessly scrolled, occasionally looking back at the lake or casting a sideways glance at Michael, who was looking at him funny. Sighing, he paused his music, putting his earbuds away.

“What.”

“I.. nothin’ man. I just, I dunno. What is the point of coming here?”

“It’s a public fuckin’ park man.”

“I know, but you said that you don’t even really like the people here, so what’s the point?”

“There is no ‘point’ to it. I just like time to myself is all. These guys don’t bother me, and I don’t bother them. They only start trouble when they see fit.”

“Ah… I see? What were you listening to by the way?”

Trevor stifled a groan, not really wanting to talk to the guy when he had time to freely plot his scheme.

“Pop punk shit. Ever heard of it?”

“Uh, no? I thought punk wasn’t supposed to be popular. Or fit in. Or whatever.”

“That’s merely the ideology, which I do follow, dear Michael. I just like the sound I guess. You know Paramore?”

“Not really. I don’t listen to that stuff much.”

“Then what the fuck do you listen to?”

“Not sure if it has a genre per say, but I like that song Radioactive goin’ around? Songs that sound like that I guess.”

“You like Imagine Dragons?”

“That’s what they’re called?”

Trevor could only stare at him. Was this guy living under a rock?

“Uh.. yeah. Y’know what- never mind, what else do you listen to?”

“80s music?”

No wonder this guy was unaware of who’s popular now.

“Amanda’s been trying to get me into groups like the 1975. I actually kinda like them.”

Trevor rolled his eyes.

“Of course she did.”

“They’re not that bad to be honest. She likes that weird alternative shit.”

“Yeah, I know. By the way, there is a name for that genre. Indie rock. Can’t stand the stuff.”

“How come?”

“You know, you ask a lotta fuckin’ questions.”

“I’m just tryna understand this shit here. I ain’t in the loop of all these trends.”

“Well, for your information I just find the style to be too slow and whiny for my taste. I like fast, upbeat, wild stuff.”

“Any recommendations then? I wanna impress Amanda by at least knowing one artist off that nosedivr thing she goes on.”

He raised a brow, not really wanting to share anything else knowing he would just repeat it back to her, but he shrugged and continued.

“Alright. Besides pop punk, I like experimental songs. Underground groups. Crystal Castles are my favorite.”

“Never heard of ‘em.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Right.”

“If you want more indie rock shit though, I suggest listening to I don’t know, the Arctic Monkeys? That seems more like her taste.”

“These bands have such weird names.”

“I think bands have always been like that.”

“Hey wait a sec, I thought you didn’t like that stuff? How do you know the name of one of those groups?”

“Ugh… I guess I might as well say it if you’re gonna get with her, but we were friends at some point. She introduced me to those bands, but even then I didn’t really like it. We had a stupid falling out I’d rather not get into.”

“Oh.. sorry.”

“Eh, don’t be. Shit happens. You definitely seem like her type though, no wonder she got with you.”

“What’s her type?”

“Heh. As if I’d tell you.” He scoffed.

“C’mon man, please?”

“Nope.”

Michael frowned, slumping in his seat.

“Fine. Whatever. Not like I need to know.”

“You could at least pretend you don’t care.”

“I don’t.”

“You clearly do, bro.”

He sat arms crossed, turning a smidge away from Trevor. This was his opportunity to listen to his tunes again, but before he could Michael spoke up.

“Can I… can I listen to whatever you’re listening to?”

“Huh?”

“I wanna hear what you’re into.”

Trevor shot him a puzzled look.

“Uh.. okay.”

Wiping off an earbud, he handed one to Michael. He already had one in.

“Pick your poison cowboy.”

“Cowboy?”

“Just a nickname I give people.” He shrugged.

Michael settled on his experimental music, actually nodding along to the sound. They were closer than a minute ago, and it made Trevor uncomfortable for whatever reason. Maybe because he was never in such close proximity to strangers, but the other part of him didn’t care that much. Michael’s eyes were closed, smiling.

“You like it?”

“Yeah! Reminds me of synth stuff from the 80s, just more modern I guess.”

He smiled back at Michael, appreciating the fact there was someone else who liked the music he liked. The two listened to a couple different playlists he had, up until the moment Wade arrived at the park.

“Trevor! Hey!”

“Woah. Who’s your friend?”

“Hm?” He pulled out the single earbud, turning his head around. Wade had clown makeup on, making Trevor jump in his seat.

“Fucks sake. Hey Wade.”

“Ooh who’s this?”

He wasn’t sure if Wade freaked him out or not, seeing as the guy not only had matted locs, but many facial piercings as well. And the clown shit. He stood up to introduce them to one another.

“Wade, this is Michael. Michael, Wade.”

The way Michael looked at him was like a kid seeing a zoo animal for the first time. He looked bewildered, but not disgusted.

“Hi. What’s with the..?” He wavered a hand in Wade’s direction.

“Oh! It’s jus’ clown face. Not tryna scare ya or nothin’!”

“Uh huh… man. How have I never been around these parts? You guys are real different.”

“You got that right, Mike.”

“Seems like I’ve been missin’ out. I hangout with some dudes who would hate this place if I’m being honest.”

“I’ll have to meet ‘em sometime.” Trevor chuckled.

“They’re real cool guys. Didn’t expect our paths to cross, but anything’s possible in this fuckin’ city.”

“Oh yeah. Land of opportunities, for all types of wackjobs.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

A hand tapped Trevor on the shoulder.

“Uh, excuse me, Trevor, but are we still gonna talk about the Merryweather thingy-”

“Wade! Shut it-”

“What Merryweather thing?”

“Nothing, nothing. Not important.” He said, gritting his teeth, glare strong on Wade.

“Okay..”

“But you said we’d talk about it over icecream!”

“Later, Wade. Not right now.”

“Fiiine. Can we still get icecream though?”

“Sure. Promise. I’ll let you know.”

“Okay! Bye Trevor, bye stranger!”

Michael lifted a hand to haphazardly to wave goodbye.

“What was that about?”

“I told ya man, nothin’. Just going over some plans we’re making.”

“Is it about that special event being held there?”

“How you know about that?”

“Mandy told me.”

“Mandy… yeah. Figures as much.”

“She got an invite, and wants me to go as her plus one. I don’t know if I really wanna go though, I’m still pretty unfamiliar with all this.”

“Trust me, you don’t.”

“Seriously, what is your beef with those guys?”

“I told you, they start shit when they want. Taught ‘em a lesson and that was it. Nearly got me banned from this place, but it was kinda worth the looks on their faces.”

“You are.. quite peculiar y’know. Anyway, you mind showing more of that music? I was honestly gettin’ a kick outta it.”

“Uh, yeah.”

He sat back down next to Michael, handing him the same earbud as before. He clicked on one of his favorite Crystal Castles songs, Vanished. As they were listening, Michael furrowed his eyebrows.

“Hey wait a minute.. I think I’ve heard this before.”

“You have? I thought you didn’t know them.”

“No, I mean yeah I haven’t, but that’s not it. The lyrics. Vocals. I’ve heard them in a different song.”

“Oh.”

“Lemme think, lemme think, ah… I got it! Pass me your phone real quick.”

His fingers typed in the song title fast, pressing play right away. It was an indie rock song, much to Trevor’s dismay. But something stopped him from complaining, seeing how Michael’s face lit up.

“Yeah! This is it, Sex City by Van She. Y’know, I honestly think that’s neat.”

“What is?”

“The fact that a song you like, samples a song I like! Who would’ve guessed?” He said, eyes sparkling. Trevor didn’t notice how bright they were until now. The eye contact, along with the lack of space between them, made him feel stuffy again. He averted his eyes back to his phone, trying to loosen up a bit. As the song played, he savored in the sound, shocking himself a bit. The rock sound was there, but had an 80s sort of feel to it. The song finished before he knew it.

“So.. What’d ya think?”

“You know my thoughts on indie shit. Wasn’t for me, sorry.”

“Oh c’mon, you know you liked it.”

“Nope. Prefer Vanished.”

“Yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that, but I honestly think they’re both really good. You think that too, I can feel it.”

“Whatever you say bro.”

He switched the song over to that Grimes song he listened to yesterday, the two of them sitting silently. It was a pleasant afternoon they shared. Suddenly Michael’s phone went off, and he yanked the earbud out.

“Ah shit. I gotta take this. Mandy.”

“Gotcha.”

Trevor grabbed the other earbud, putting it back in. He saw Michael wave his free hand around, looking close to hurling his phone right into the lake. Trevor assumed he must’ve been shouting as well, from the way other people were looking at him. Hanging up not much later, he returned to the bench, as Trevor put his earbuds away.

“Fuckin’ Christ.”

“So.. how’d it go?”

“She’s finally not mad at me anymore, but demanded I go take her shopping now. I swear, she’s gonna clear out my bank account or something.”

“How? You guys aren’t even dating.”

“I know, but I just can’t say no to her.”

“Uh huh.”

“Look, I’m sorry to leave so suddenly, but I really gotta go before she goes back to being pissed at me. See ya around?”

“I’ll be here man.”

Michael stood up, storming away. Seemed like he had a short temper, huh? He wondered to himself how long he was gonna stick around, seeing how Amanda’s dating history was… an extensive list. He thought back to last night, when he had seen that post of them, remembering the fact that no guy stayed for longer than a week. It almost made him bummed, seeing as he only had Ron and Wade for friends. Lester too, but that was on rare occasion. Shit. The plans. What time was it?

“Ah, fuck me.” He muttered. How did he let the day go by so quick?

He shot a text to Wade, telling him to grab Ron and meet at some icecream place. He did promise Wade after all.

Ron ended up meeting them there a little bit later, apologizing profusely before Trevor told him to just sit down and shut up. He did just that, almost apologizing once more.

“Now, let’s get down to business. Who do we know that would help us sneak into that club to cause sheer utter mayhem?”

Ron raised his hand excitedly.

“I could get Floyd maybe-”

“Definite fuckin’ no. He would have a heart attack the minute he set foot in there.”

This was getting nowhere. He tossed his head back to look up at the sky. As he did, he saw a couple walking out of the icecream place.

“Oh fucking hell.”

Was this guy following him or something? He snapped his head forward, trying to be a little more hidden.

“What? Trevor what is it?”

“Shh! Keep your fucking voice down Ron!”

He made all three of them lower their heads as the couple walked away, peeking over his shoulder to make sure they were gone. As he did, he could’ve sworn he saw Michael looking back at him. The both of them turned away as quick as possible from the split second of eye contact.

“Trevor?” Ron repeated.

“It was nothing. Just thought I saw someone.”

“Ain’t that the Michael fella I met today?”

“Nope. Don’t think it is.”

“Are ya sure-”

“Pretty fucking positive. Now, back on topic.”

The next hour or so still went nowhere. Wade had gone through two servings of icecream, and Ron started to get restless. Trevor was just bored.

“Ughhh there has to be something we can do!”

“I don’t know what to tell you Trevor. We’ll find someone, soon. There’s enough time isn’t there?”

“Yeah, but I’m not waitin’ til the last possible fuckin’ second to get a guy to help us out here.”

“But we still have time.”

“If you fuckin’ say so Ron.”

The three of them called it a night, as Trevor tossed around the idea of possibly getting Michael involved in his head. On one hand he wanted to out of spite just to make Amanda and the other hipsters mad, and on the other he didn’t want to screw up whatever new friendship he had started with Michael. Ron did say they had time to find someone soon. They weren’t exactly in a rush, but he still wanted to make sure their plan was concrete. They all went back to Wade’s, Trevor deciding to take a walk along the beach. He threw on the same playlist from earlier, watching the sunset. As he walked, he didn’t pay much mind to where he was going, bumping into someone.

“Ah fuck, watch where you’re going-”

“Shit, sorry man-”

As they spun around from the collision, he realized exactly who he had run into.

“Trevor?”

What the fuck?

“What the fuck? Are you following me or something?”

“Huh?”

“This is the third time I’ve seen you today. What are you even doing here?”

“Uh, it’s a public fuckin’ beach man.” He said, mocking the comment Trevor had made earlier.

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“Hey, I’m just tellin’ you how it is. I didn’t purposely search for you, hell I didn’t even know you lived this way.”

“I do. So make like a tree and fuck off.” He said bitterly.

“Woah, chill the fuck out. What’s your deal? I thought we were cool man.”

“I don’t like being followed.”

“I just told you I wasn’t!”

“It doesn’t exactly seem like it. You just so happen to look for me this morning, and just happen to go to the same icecream place I went, and then I find you here? I mean Jesus-”

“I’m telling you, it’s all purely coincidence.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fuckin’ hell man..” He mumbled.

“Y’know, you’re as fuckin’ stubborn as Amanda is. I already told you-”

Trevor balled his fists, before jabbing a finger into Michael’s chest.

“Don’t fucking compare me to her.”

Michael threw his hands up defensively, not realizing he touched a nerve.

“Woah woah, easy dude. I didn’t think it was that bad between you guys.”

He exhaled loudly, unclenching his hands.

“It wasn’t. Isn’t. Just.. don’t compare me to her.”

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling hard himself.

“Look, I think you’re cool and all but you can’t flip out on me like that. I mean we are just getting to know each other y’know. I can’t have you wanting to bite my head off like that if I just so happen to keep running into you. I really am just trying to navigate the area better, so forgive me if I came off as some sorta fuckin’ stalker. Amanda went home and I had nothing better to do so I chose to walk over this way.”

“Hmph. Fine. Whatever.”

“So we good?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now, since we’re already here why don’t we just hangout or something?”

Trevor folded his arms, trying to look like he didn’t want to spend another minute with him. It didn’t really work though, because he actually did want to talk to him more.

“If you insist.”

“Alrighty.”

The two of them started to head in the direction of the boardwalk, neither one speaking yet. After finding a bench to sit on as the sun sunk below the horizon, the silence was still there. This sort of thing was bizarre for both of them in different ways. Michael never really frequented these parts of LS, and Trevor never really hit it off with any kind of stranger. Ron and Wade were exceptions if anything, and he had known Lester for a while now. Yet there was something about this guy that didn’t make him feel like he was spending time with a stranger, even though he knew jack shit about him. He might as well try to make small talk.

“So I-”

“So uhh-”

They spoke over each other while trying to start up a conversation, making things feel a little more awkward.

“Shit sorry, you go first.”

“Nah nah you go.”

“Um. Okay. So.. tell me about yourself? We haven’t really talked about much besides music.”

“Yeah.. right. What do ya wanna know?”

“I just asked you to tell me about yourself, so it’s your job to decide what to say.”

Michael gave him a sardonic smile in response to that, partly because he wasn’t sure what to bring up about himself. It seemed like they were gonna be here a while if they wanted to say the most basic shit you say when getting to know someone.

“Well, I ain’t that interesting if you really need to know. I’m guessing you already know about my whole ‘affinity for the 80s’ thing, like the culture n shit that came from it. Real sick stuff.”

“If you say so.”

“Yeah. Anyway, if you really want to know plain shit about me though, I will tell ya that my favorite color’s blue.”

Trevor snickered at that.

“Pfft, seriously? We’re talking favorite colors now?”

“Hey man, you said you wanted to know more about me.”

“Uh yeah, but that’s so fuckin’ silly.”

“Maybe it is, but what about you? You got one?”

“Favorite color? You kiddin’?”

“I’m waiting..”

“Uh huh… I’ll give. Always liked the color red I guess. Like, in variety. Not picky about something as childish as that.”

“What’s childish about that?”

“Cuz only kids exchange that whole ‘oh what’s your favorite color?’ thing. It’s like if I were to ask you what your favorite dinosaur is.”

“Hmm.. I’d probably say a T-Rex.”

“Oh now you’re just pulling my dick. And no, I’m not telling you what mine is just because you did.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask you though. That was all you.”

“Mm… shut it.”

“You got one though?”

“I’m not telling you!”

“Ah ah, I didn’t ask which one, I asked if you had one.”

“Well I don’t, so knock it off.”

“That’s fair. I won’t push.”

They grew silent for the second time that night, before Trevor mumbled something under his breath.

“It’s a pterodactyl..”

“What was that?”

He forced a breath through his nose, acting annoyed.

“It’s a fuckin’ pterodactyl. That’s mine. Okay?”

“Hah, okay. Any reason why?”

“You’re so nosy.”

“You’re the one who started this conversation about getting to know each other man.”

“Ugh, I know that.” He said, lightly shoving his shoulder.

“I think it’s cool that they could fly and shit. I like flying.”

“You like flying?”

“Loved it.”

“Wait, you tellin’ me you fly? Like, planes and shit?”

Trevor winced at the words, regretting what he just said.

“I did.. at some point. Air Force shit. They said I was one of the best they’d seen in a while but I.. left. Sort of.”

“Then why’d you leave?”

“I didn’t exactly leave on my own accord. More or less got kicked out.”

“How come-”

“I don’t like talking about it. I know we’re opening up or whatever the fuck but that.. that’s still too soon for me to want to bring up. Especially to someone I barely know.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He said, even though it really wasn’t. It’s not like Michael knew though, he really wasn’t trying to prod in a bad way.

It was almost pitch black by the time their conversation got to that point, only distant streetlight and the nearby pier lighting up their surroundings. The whole mood had shifted, and both of them decided to just break it off there.

“Hey uh, I’ll probably see you tomorrow man. If I’m with Amanda I think I’ll just send a wave or something your way.”

“Got it. See ya.”

“Bye.”

Trevor stayed put, watching Michael leave as he turned down a random one way street. This guy was tripping him out and he couldn’t pin point why. It was getting late though, and walked off himself back to Wade’s. He’ll save that vexed question for another night.

//ahhhhhh i rlly did not know what i wanted to do with this….,,., sorry if this wasn’t as good as the first two !! i alrdy know i repeated a bunch of stuff in there and i feel like it got kinda sloppy so again, soz (including typos or whtevr)

but uhhhh anyway yeah i cut it off here bc i wanted to continue some of this shit in the next chapter ig lol,, more stuff to come soon god willing

[quacka-quacka]

Do you have an opinion on Aunt Mimi? If so, would you consider her abusive?

Wow, I didn't know this fandom hates Mimi so much before you send me this. Good job, anon! I don't agree with many things she did but this fandom is too harsh on her. She's not a perfect guardian but she's certainly not an evil-minded bitch without a single virtue. Many of you love to say "see the whole picture" when it comes to Paul's dark side, take a look at other things Mimi did except for put down John's dog, can you?

I agree something she did to John were improper, which left marks on John more or less (please don't tell me this sounds so strange to you🤗). But she DEFINITELY loved and cared her nephew from her heart.

Their games were fueled by make-believe, demanding vigorous activity rather than the modern child’s sedentary trance. The favorite of all was cowboys and Indians, with the participants shooting each other and falling down “dead” with no conception of pain, and Native Americans cast as villains in obedience to Hollywood mythology. But John’s version was different. “He always wanted to be the Indian,” Mimi recalled. “That was typical John, to support the underdog. And because he was leader of his little group, the Indians always won.” Rather than white Western icons like Buffalo Bill or Wild Bill Hickok, his hero was Sioux Chief Sitting Bull. Mimi would stain his face with gravy browning and daub it with lipstick for war paint. From their local butcher’s shop she begged cock-pheasant feathers to make him a chief’s headdress. “He loved it,…he never took it off. I can see him in it now, dancing around Pete Shotton, tied to a tree in our garden.”

— John Lennon: The Life

Does this look like the one who only knew discipline and barely had feelings for her child like Livia Soprano? Not to mention the letter her wrote to John in 1970:

My dear boy, you are not the second Messiah. You are never likely to be. And that’s the way you’re behaving these last few years. Would you please understand that you are a speck in the ocean, and the only possible importance you can be is to people who are trying to get money out of you. And that’s perhaps why they’re – they’re around you. There’s no other reason, John. [laughs; bleak] None whatever. Do wake up, John. And remember the old saying: “The cobbler should stick to his last.” And your last is music.

And get out of this little – circle, that you’re in. It bodes no good for you, I’m telling you. Why do you think you’re having such trouble trying to get this permit to stay in America? It’s not for smoking a bit of cannabis. George Harrison smoked cannabis, but he was allowed in. It’s your activities there, boy, and you’re digging your own grave. And it makes me very very sad, because I know, in the end, you’re going to be hurt. Bitterly hurt.

For years, I’ve heard you yelling and shouting about love, but it seemed to me your heart was full of hate. And it showed in your face. I had an American reporter here about three months ago, and he was telling me that you had put it out that you were never wanted, that you were never loved. And this newspaper were willing to pay me to give my opinion of you – my personal opinion of you and your behavior over these years – and told me I would be well paid for it. Since when has money healed wounds? I soon sent him packing.

I’ve been hurt. Cut to the quick. What do you think I felt like, when I’ve been with those Beatle parents, and have heard what they’ve done, for them? I was foolish enough to think, as I had you, and waited for you to be born, that I was father and mother to you. But my goodness, John, you didn’t want me. [laughs; bleak] You didn’t want anything to do with me. And a lifetime’s work was just thrown on one side as nothing.

— [x]

Actually I'm quite like someone who's willing to consider the other side of a person, but people here are going from one extreme to the other: the only thing I can see about Mimi Smith is hate, hate, hate.

Most of the posts I have viewed about Mimi are like this: no comments are positive.

But when it comes to Jim McCartney's corporal punishment, things are not so smooth. We can always see people jumping up to prevent further discussion.

I think it's pretty sensible to take Jim's growing background into consideration but I don't understand why are Mimi and Jim treated so differently. Did Jim cause less damage than Mimi? Honestly I don't think so. Mimi was even compared to Livia Soprano. Really? I never heard she had the intention to kill her nephew, thank you.

[heart-of-gold-outlaw]

Welcome Home | Chapter Seven: Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

Wattpad

Ao3

Summary: The Reader and Arthur head into Valentine; Reader has a sobering realization. 

Thankfully, Hosea doesn't mention anything about your encounter with Micah to anyone else. The last thing you need is to cause trouble within the gang. It seems like they have enough of that already. In the short time you've been running with them, you've realized that there's a constant threat looming over, well, everyone. It goes beyond getting captured by the law. These people are running for their lives, lives that society has deemed aren't worth living. 

You might be crazy, but you empathize. How many times has society deemed your life unlivable in your modern day? 

You help out with some of the camp chores for a while. The hay bales are too heavy, and you almost drop the feed sacks on Uncle as he's trying to take a nap, so you settle for hauling water to top off the wash basins. It's simple work, but it keeps you occupied. Really, that's all you need. 

As you're pouring the last of the water out, you find your mind drifting. It's strange, to say the least, how quickly you've adjusted to life in the past. You find yourself thinking back to something your friend once told you, about how if you were dropped in a foreign country, you would learn enough to get around within a month. It's not the same thing; time travel definitely isn't the same as speaking a foreign language. But they're similar, at least.

"You still got water in the bucket, ya know."

A shriek escapes you, quick and sharp, and you throw the bucket up in the air. Water sloshes all over your head. Whirling around, you see Arthur standing just a few short feet away. He's watching you, and you can tell he doesn't know whether to apologize or laugh. He shoves his hands into his pockets and whistles.

"Why're you always so jumpy?" He asks as he finds the bucket and picks it up.

Years' worth of anxiety issues, you think, but say: "It's a talent."

Arthur snorts and sets the bucket aside. "Some talent."

Your face burns, but you try to act as nonchalant as possible. There's no doubt that he sees right through you, but you keep it up anyways. 

"Did you need something?" You question innocently. You're looking anywhere but his eyes.

"Was thinking of heading into Valentine." Arthur smiles a little and puts his hands back in his pockets. "Was wondering if you'd want to join me."

For a second, your brain stops. Arthur... inviting you to Valentine. Arthur. Valentine. Arthur and Valentine. Valentine and Arthur. It's enough to make your head spin, even though it shouldn't. And then knowledge hits you, unmistakable and strong:

You've got one hell of a crush.

"Sure," you say, desperately hoping you sound casual. You try to lean against a nearby table, misjudge the distance, and almost topple over. "Valentine sounds great."

Arthur grins and shakes his head a little. There's something in his eyes, something you can't quite place, and your cheeks burn again. 

"Go ahead and ask Charles if you can borrow Taima again," he says, reaching out and righting you as you try to regain your balance. "I'll meet you outside of camp."

His hand is warm against your shoulder and lingers just a little longer than normal. Arthur smiles at you again, then leaves with a low chuckle. You watch him go, just barely managing not to sink to the ground.

Yep. You're screwed.

.

.

.

You find Charles sitting at one of the tables. He's whittling something, and the closer you get, the more you realize it's a beautiful deer. He looks up at you as you approach. Smiling warmly, he sets his knife aside and shifts so he looks more open to a conversation. You feel your heart swell. It's not every day someone would be so considerate. Charles, you've decided, is one of the nicest people in the gang.

"Hey there, Y/N," he greets once you're close enough. His tone is gentle. "Hope you're adjusting to us alright."

You nod. "I guess so. There's not really a guide on this sort of thing."

"You're right about that." Charles laughs a little and leans back against the table. "What can I do for you?"

"I was just wondering if I could borrow Taima for a bit," you say. "Arthur wants to head into Valentine, and I don't think he wants to deal with my stupid ass falling off the back of Florence."

Charles looks thoughtful for a moment, then glances toward where Arthur is carrying his saddle. You follow his gaze. You can't help but smile when you see Arthur gently stroking his horse's mane. It's amazing, really, how hands so rough and calloused can be so careful. 

By the time you turn back to Charles, he's watching you with a knowing glint in his eyes. For the millionth time that day, your face turns red. 

"He likes you, you know," he eventually says. "We all do."

For a moment, you can only stand there. You don't like the way your eyes suddenly sting, don't want to contradict anything, tell Charles that people in your time don't really care for you by default. But judging by the sudden look of understanding on his face, something tells you he already knows.

"It takes some getting used to," he murmurs. "I know what it's like."

You blink away your tears and nod. "Thank you."

Charles smiles at you, then motions with his hand toward the horses. "Of course you can borrow Taima. Have fun in Valentine."

The "with Arthur" lingers in the air, even though he doesn't say it. You blush again, turn away, and start heading to where Arthur's already done saddling Florence. 

Taima is an absolute beauty. Arthur is adjusting the stirrups by the time you walk over, making sure everything's fit for an easy ride. When he's done, he gives you a leg-up into the saddle. You're a little unsteady, still more than slightly unsure, but it's getting better every day. Arthur gives you a nod of approval. You grin at him and grip the reins the way he's showed you in the past. 

"Feelin' more comfortable?" He asks as he effortlessly swings into his own saddle. 

You try your best not to stare. No matter how many times he does it, how Arthur Morgan handles horseback will never cease to amaze you.

"Ye-ah," you eventually manage, shaking yourself out of your reverie. "Guess it just takes some practice."

He sets a steady trot toward Valentine. Taima keeps up with Florence well, gait smooth and sure. Briefly, you wonder if Dutch (or anyone for that matter) will let you get a horse of your own. Not that you mind Taima, but borrowing her every now and then has to be a hassle for Charles. The last thing you want is to be a burden.

"What're you thinking about?" 

Arthur's voice once again brings you back to reality, and before you can stop yourself, you say: "Just wondering if I were to fall from the camp's cliff, would it be enough to kill me?" 

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you know you should've come up with something better. Arthur glances at you, that sideways glance you've come to realize he only gives when he's trying to process something. You give him a tight-lipped smile. It's too late to back down now. Might as well stick to your guns.

After a while, Arthur shakes his head and sighs. You can tell he's trying to figure out what to say... not that there's really much he can say to that. 

"You know," he eventually murmurs, "Hosea told me about that kind of talk from you."

"Traitor," you mutter.

Arthur sighs again, exasperated. "Does everybody want to die in the future?"

"Uh..." You think about Global Warming, the plummeting economy, and sky-high rent prices with a low minimum wage. "No?" 

You don't sound convincing, even to yourself. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Glad to see things stay the same," he mutters. 

Taima wanders a little closer to Florence, close enough that your leg brushes against Arthur's. He's warm. And strong. And... Actually? You need to stop.

"If it makes you feel any better," you say as a distraction, "I'm just pretty vocal about the whole 'death' thing. Most people keep it to themselves."

Arthur considers this for a moment, eyeing you with that same level look that makes you wonder if you should've just kept your mouth shut. 

"That's worse," he tells you. "You do know that's worse, right?"

You shrug. "Easy come, easy go."

He shakes his head again with another eyeroll. "Just don't go an' die on me, ya hear?"

"...No promises."

.

.

.

The Valentine Saloon doesn't look like much, but with the sudden chill in the air as the sun dips beneath the horizon, it's warm and inviting to you. 

Arthur guides you toward the hitching post, then helps you out of the saddle. You long for the day you can hop down without any assistance. Not that you mind him doing it, but still. You want to be able to fend for yourself should the need arise. 

He shows you how to properly hitch Taima, then hitches Florence, murmuring a quick "you're alright, boy" into his ear before gently steering you toward the saloon. You try not to think about the weight of his hand on your shoulder. Honestly, you try not to think about a lot of the things that rush through your mind. Acting ridiculous is one thing; acting ridiculously thirsty is another entirely.

Arthur pushes the doors open to the saloon just like a classic spaghetti western cowboy. You follow him a little blindly. The room is noisy, filled with the chatter of a decent-sized crowd. Eyeing people warily, you stick close to Arthur as he makes his way to the bar. You're suddenly reminded of something that bothers you in your own time: drunken morons.

"Whiskey," Arthur tells the bartender. "And..." He looks at you expectantly.

"Uh," you stammer for a second. You've never really been a drinker, and a lot of the options you would have in the future either don't exist or are a complete rarity in the wild west. "Beer?"

Much to your relief, the bartender nods, produces a couple glasses, and pours you and Arthur your drinks. Arthur tips his in thanks, then downs the whiskey in one go. You sniff at your glass. It smells like... well, it smells like piss, but you don't want to look like a square in front of everyone. So you chug it. 

Somehow, you manage not to make a face, even though the beer leaves an awful aftertaste. It feels warm in your chest, though, and while it's not a great feeling, it's not terrible, either. You look over at Arthur and grin. It's likely you won't be able to hold your liquor. You make a mental note not to go beyond your limit.

"So," you say as you signal for the bartender to fill your glass again. This one, you're going to sip... or so you tell yourself. "Why the need to get out of camp?"

Arthur also motions for another round. "Just don't like feelin' cooped up," he admits, "and there's somethin' I've been meaning to run by you."

You watch him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

"Got a lead from an old friend about one of our boys." Arthur swirls his whiskey. "Name's Sean. We thought he was dead, but looks like some bounty hunters got ahold of him."

"Okay..." You're not sure what this has to do with you. 

"Dutch is plannin' on having a few of us see if we can grab him before... well, you know." Arthur takes a deep breath. "Was wondering if you wanted to come along."

For a moment, your brain doesn't register what he's saying. Bounty hunters, rescue mission, that part, you get. But... the way he's acting... so nervous, so unsure... It almost feels like--

Nah. You shut the thought down before you can finish it. No sense in getting your hopes up.

"Sure," you say, realizing he's waiting for an answer. "Sounds like a good time."

You want to kick yourself for that one. Yeah, it makes you sound more confident than you feel, but rescuing someone from certain death definitely doesn't call for a casual tone.

Luckily, Arthur either doesn't notice, or doesn't care, and he smiles at you. You smile back, then lift your drink toward him. He raises his in response, and the two of you drink until there's nothing left.

So much for sipping it, you think as your face starts to feel a little warm and numb. Oh well.

The next few hours pass by quickly. You stop after three drinks, and so does Arthur. Apparently, you're both on the same page, i.e. not getting wasted (and, consequently, hungover the next morning). The saloon gets a little more crowded as the night progresses, and you have to bite down hard on your growing discomfort. You don't want to ruin this. And besides: Arthur seems to be having a good time. You can put up with everything for a little while longer.

It's another hour before you feel like you're going to explode. Thankfully, Arthur doesn't bat an eye when you tell him you're going to step outside for some air, just gives you a nod with "be careful" undertones. You can't help but smile at him. How a rough and tough outlaw can be so caring... it never ceases to amaze you.

Outside, the air is crisp and clean and does wonders for your anxiety. You breathe it in like you'll never have it again. It's also dark, so you stick by the lights of the saloon. Instinct doesn't change, even when you travel through time, apparently. For a moment, you're struck with wonder at how things can be so different, but so much the same, too, in the future. People are still fundamentally people. They're all alive as well.

It's that last thought that suddenly sobers you. These people... they're all dead in your time. Dead and... well, dead and mostly forgotten. All anybody in the future will have are photographs. They won't know what these people sound like. They won't know how they laugh, how warm they are, how lovely it is when they smile. In the future, people just won't know. It'll all be lost to time.

You try not to think about what that means for Arthur and others.

You try not to think about what that means for you. 

A/N: Existential crisis? For MY Reader? It’s more likely than you think!

Accompanying Music: Hamilton | Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

[bellamyblake]

What's your favourite line/passage of a fic you've written in the past year?

That is actually really hard for me to say because I honest to god hate my writing and I don’t think I have written anything actually good this year. I would say I love the last passage of my fanfic Listen to Silence where Bellamy kind of knows that he’ll die in a few years or so but Clarke comes back to their hometown and decides to stay with him. I wrote this fic as a twitter prompt and the person who prompted it never actually read it but I don’t regret writing this fic, it was fun and I hadn’t written a modern AU like this in a while:

When he gets tired and his bones feel heavy, she feels it and pulls his head down to her lap where she runs her fingers through his curls and he watches the sun go down and get swallowed by the ocean.

“Are you still afraid?” he asks her, moving his head so that he sees her eyes “Of the ocean?”

She shakes her head.

“Not when I’m with you.” her response is a whisper followed by a soft kiss on his forehead that makes him smile. He finds her hand and intertwines their fingers.

One day he’ll ask her to take him to the water, let the waves beat in his cold bare feet one last time, but today wasn’t going to be that day and he hoped it wouldn’t have to be for just a little bit longer because as hard as life has been, as much as all the awful things that had happened to him in his short time on this earth had left him broken and barely standing, he still wouldn’t trade them for anything because he knew they had to happen so that he ends up here.

In the arms of his one love, being the small wave getting lost in the ocean that was her.

His home.

And I also like this passage I wrote for Tap my shoulder, hold my hand the cowboy AU where I explored mental health more thoroughly and while I was writing it I didn’t think it was that good but later on I kinda...thought it was okayish and I like this part of a letter Bellamy wrote Clarke at the end:

I’m all better now.” it went on and she squeezed her eyes shut, knowing full well how bad of a liar he was.

“I even got to see Gabriel today. We talked a lot, I guess I was in a mood and he complimented me on my progress.

I think the antidepressants help too, at least to some extent. I know they can’t fix it all but they are a nudge in the right direction.

Something he asked me stuck with me, though.

He asked me what is there when I take off all the layers that I put on every day, what remains?

What is at the bottom of it all?

I won’t lie, I think my first thought would be to say pain but then I stopped and got to think about it.

Pain is not who I am at my core.

It’s something like an extra limb, a lingering thing inside me.

Sometimes it’s a burning feeling that sets my whole being on fire.

Other times it’s like a tidal wave, coming in harsh and ebbing away softly.

On the best days, it’s at the back of my mind, like a tickle that never leaves you but doesn’t bother you that much either.

On the bad ones, is the chains that keep me down, quite literally.

But I am not my pain. It’s part of who I am but it’s not me.

So I answered-love.

He smiled knowingly and I looked away almost ashamed but I meant it.

Deep inside me, there’s nothing but love.

And I also kind of like that dialogue I wrote between Kane and Bellamy in a fic I haven’t posted where both of them are army veterans, Kane helped raise Bellamy, knew him since he was a boy but then he came back home hurt and effed up and now he’s taking care of him and then Kane decides that he needs the best physio therapist there is in the face of Clarke, but here’s a part where Bellamy who knows his condition is bad and thinks he’ll die talks it over with Kane so TW for death:

“I don’t want an open caskett, it’s too scary and fucked up.” he’d say as Kane adjusted his pillows “Just that nice photo from the ceremony before my first tour, okay?”

“Alright.” Kane had to swallow down his tears as he adjusted the blankets and helped him get some water. He always needed to be doing something during those conversations, because simply sitting down and listening to him would not be acceptable.

“Did you manage to get that spot next to Murphy and Miller?” Bellamy had asked for a place in the graveyard next to his team. He didn’t want to be buried with Aurora, said he’s had enough motherly love in the real life to want more in the after one and Kane had agreed.

“I spoke with the Army and the cemetery and they said if we pre-pay now there’s no problem. Usually team guys are buried in the same place unless relatives ask otherwise.”

“Good, good.” he had closed his eyes then and swallows hard-he looked worse then than he did now-half his body still had open wounds that had to be rebandaged twice a day, he could barely breathe on his own and the bad side of his face-the one that lost his hearing and eyesight was wrapped in gauzes and bandages making him look like a mummy more than a human being. “You should draw money from my account and get on it on Monday.”

“Okay.” Kane had agreed, he took it all stoically, but inside his heart was bursting into pieces. “Anything else you’d like?”

“I don’t want the flowers to be white, it ain’t a damn wedding. Get something simple, let it have blue and red, maybe orange too, Gina loved orange.” Kane nods in yet another agreement as he passes him more water after noticing he’s eyeing the glass again but not saying it explicitly-he never did.

“My truck goes to you.”

“Bellamy, can we stop it already?”

“I have to say this, we don’t know if I’ll pull through the night and I don’t want you fucking my burial up.” he says it jokingly but Kane’s struggling to keep his tears at bay and Bellamy notices it “Hey...come here.” he pats the place near his leg and Kane carefully sits up “I know this is a lot, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. Trust me, I wish I had died out there to save you all the trouble but here we are.”

“Don’t you dare talk like this!” Kane scolds him finally letting all of his emotions out “And stop saying you’re dying! You can do this if only you wanted to!” Bellamy smiles then and rests his head on the pillow, turning his good side to Kane so he can see his thoughts for himself “But you don’t, do you?”

“I’m tired. I think it’s time.”

“What if it isn’t?” Bellamy shrugs.

“I’d rather it is, there’s nothing else for me to give to the world.”

“What if you is enough?” Kane says squeezing his hand. He always hated how he never really lived for himself-always in service of someone else, his mom, his sister, then his country and his team mates, but never truly himself “What if just being here, being yourself is all there is to everything?”

[titusmoody]

It’s the end of the first quarter of 2021. Here’s a brief review of the things I watched/played/read.

Games

Donut County- pretty charming, very easy, fairly satisfying to play. I’d recommend Untitled Goose Game over this, though.

Heaven’s Vault- If you only have room in your life for one space archaeology game, play Outer Wilds instead. However, you get to translate alien writings yourself (in a simplified game way) in this one, so I’d recommend both. 

Donkey Kong Country 3 103%- so many fun level mechanics in this one. The difficulty of finding and completing everything in the game was spot-on for me.

Donkey Kong Country 2 102%- Each level mechanic in this one is explored and used in far more interesting ways than DKC3, though I honestly had more fun with 3 this time around. This one is the “dark, edgy” one aesthetically which is extremely dumb. Also, there was a lot of guesswork involved in finding some of the hidden stuff, which I didn’t enjoy.

The Room 4- I like escape room games. This one was good. It continued 3′s trend of trying to shake up the format a little, which is fine (better here than in 3, I think) but I wouldn’t have minded if all 4 stayed exactly the same, just with new puzzles.

Spider-Man: Miles Morales- Everything about it was competent. Not only was each gameplay activity fine-tuned to feel good, but the structure of the game also kept kept you experiencing a good variety of each activity. PS5 graphics are good, too. Nothing about it really got me excited to play it, it was just a good after work unwinding thing.

Cyberpunk 2077- Exactly the opposite of Spider-Man in terms of quality consistency. There are aspects of this game that are amazing, horrible, and every step in between. However, I’ve thought about it quite a bit and will probably continue to think about it for both good and bad reasons.

Yooka-Laylee and the Impossible Lair- Donkey Kong Country has better level design and controls. Well, the best levels of this were every bit as good as the best DKC levels, and maybe I’m just so familiar with DKC levels that I zone out a little during the boring bits, but had to pay attention to every moment of this game. Still, I didn’t have as much of an overall good time as the DKC games I played earlier.

Hue- Good 2D puzzle-platformer. I’m no longer surprised by these, but I still appreciate them, much in the same way as I like playing escape room games. I was under the impression for a few years that because I understood the potential of puzzle platformers, it meant I wouldn’t want to play any more of them, but that’s simply not true. I had a good time with Hue.

Shows

Gravity Falls- It’s fine. Pretty entertaining. I wish there were more low-stakes kinds of episodes, just to get more familiar with different sides of the characters. It would have made the characters and setting feel more rounded.

Cowboy Bepop- I didn’t get the hype for this show when I first watched it at 21, and now I can say that it’s simply not my kind of show. I have much more appreciation for it now than I did the first time, but it doesn’t hit me emotionally the same way that it seems to hit so many people. 

Seinfeld- It’s Seinfeld. There was precisely one episode that I had never seen before, plus confirmation that I didn’t dream the episode that’s told in backwards chunks like Memento and is set in India.

Paranoia Agent- While it was disappointing that this ended up being a more simple morality tale than every Satoshi Kon movie I’ve seen, I still enjoyed watching this a lot.

Aggretsuko- I liked the mundane, every-day storylines like a modern, more empathetic Seinfeld. Unfortunately as the show went on, there were more and more wacky situations that no one actually gets into. I might watch the upcoming season if I hear that it’s less ridiculous.

Over the Garden Wall- This was really cool and I’m glad it exists. It’s ten episodes long, which is perfect for it. I thought it was at its weakest during the more lighthearted or humorous moments--precisely the opposite of Gravity Falls. The word “classy” comes to mind to describe this show. 

Beastars- Really good when it isn’t falling into anime plot and dialog cliches. A lot of this first season is dedicated to introducing characters and the setting, which I thought was very well done. I’m curious to see what Season 2 is like.

Movies

Scott Pilgrim vs the World- It’s a fun movie to watch. It definitely makes many of the characters’ flaws seem like more fun than it probably should, but I’m more bothered by the criticism I hear that boils down to “it’s a bad movie because the characters are bad people” which I suspect is an impression you only get if you lack both empathy and media comprehension.

Big- Kinda bad. It has iconic moments that are only possible with its weird premise, but it’s just not a premise that supports an entire good movie. 

Phantom of the Opera- Way better and way worse than I remember. Has the precise right amount of horses.

Knives Out- Not really a movie I needed to watch a second time, but it sure is good.

District 9- I didn’t remember most of this movie and unfortunately I zoned out for most of this rewatch, so I still feel like I don’t know what it’s about.

From up on Poppy Hill- Not one of the top tier Ghibli movies, but still really good in a down-to-earth way that I like from Ghibli. 

Enter the Dragon- I knew to expect everything to be turned up to 11, which is good because it really is a lot. I liked it, though.

Shutter Island- I have never actually liked this kind of twist-reliant movie. I thought I would for many years, but I was always disappointed. At least now I am aware that it’s not what I’m into.

Soul- The premise is much too convoluted, but it does have an excellent moment near the end.

Onward- I liked this one a lot. Why don’t more people talk about this one? It’s definitely better than Coco, which itself was really good.

A Silent Voice- The kind of movie that reminds me that sometimes Japanese storytelling is more to my taste than Hollywood style, in that scenes can be more emotionally ambiguous. 

Tangled- Good in exactly the same way as Frozen and Moana. I can’t really complain, but this isn’t the same situation as puzzle platformers or escape rooms. In this case, I do get a little sick of being completely unsurprised. This movie was made first, so it’s only by chance that this is the one that I saw last.

Monsters University- A good movie, but it really doesn’t have to be about the same characters as Monsters Inc. 

Monty Python and the Holy Grail- Still funny

The Departed- Good if you want an enjoyable crime thriller to watch, bad if you want a Scorcese movie.

Titanic- Getting very drunk and watching this with Brittany might be the best time I had in the past three months. Maybe I won’t think too hard about why a movie about the overdue, violent death of a social order resonates with me right now.

Prince of Egypt- Impressive and grand, but I didn’t really care about the characters or story.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan- A good but not great (by TNG standards) concept for an episode that was made extremely enjoyable by the added budget and longer runtime of a movie.

Star Trek III: The Search for Spock- Not as good, but still watchable.

Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home- The kind of ridiculous concept you’d only make when you’ve already had three successful movies and are confident that you’ll be able to make at least another couple. The gang go back to the 1980s (present day to the original audience) and save the whales. It’s apparently exactly the right movie to watch if this is the third consecutive Star Trek movie you’re watching.

Mamma Mia- A lot of fun, but has weird problems that seem like they would’ve been easy to solve at the script level. Maybe if the conflicts had been introduced early on instead of dragging the whole pace of the movie down for much of the last 20 minutes, I would’ve enjoyed the whole thing.

Books

The Well of Ascension- The second book of a trilogy. Very competent. Introduces a whole lot of minor conflicts that really keep the momentum going and give the characters short-term goals that contribute to the overall plot and their arcs. 

The Hero of Ages- The final book in the same trilogy. Equally competent. I wish there had been more long-term payoffs, which is the trade-off you make by stuffing the books full of those short-term conflicts. Spoilers ahead, but not ones that I think ruin the experience of reading. It’s very odd that of three of the central characters, one dies, one becomes a god and then dies, and one becomes God. 

Check Please- About as pleasant as it gets. Full of the type of minor character that sitcoms end up running into the ground because they’re too one-note (Creed from The Office, for instance) but in a series with a pre-planned length, there’s no chance for it to get stale. Plus, I really liked both of the lead characters.

Milkman- Good book about “The Troubles” in Ireland. Very odd collection of characters, but the narrator had an extremely enjoyable voice to read. 

And Then There Were None- Classic mystery story for a reason. Feels more like a Hitchcock movie than Sherlock Holmes. I read it in one day both because the prose was easy and I wanted to know what happened next. Not much substance to it, unfortunately.

Homegoing- Extremely ambitous book where each chapter is narrated by the descendant of a previous chapter, alternating between two branches of the same family. I liked it quite a bit, though because I only finished it yesterday I don’t have much reflection done yet so my opinion has yet to solidify.

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

As We Meet

$10 comission! @la-vide asked for Arthur first appearing in modern!reader’s home/first adjusting to the modern world. This came out to be 2,460 words and fun to write! This actually lingered in the back of my mind for a while, but this gave me an excuse to actually write it!

The sound of fumbling aroused you from a comfortable sleep. Though still dazed, you got up immediately. Your clock flashed 7 am, and you groaned in annoyance. Not how you wanted to wake up on your day off.

“Fucking cat.” You rasped, rubbing your bleary eyes as you padded over to your door. It was ajar, and you saw the little silver kitten dart into your room. “What’d you knock down this time?” You asked her, shooting Artemis a glare as she disappeared underneath your bed.

Yawning widely, you stepped out of your bedroom, expecting to see some sort of decoration knocked over. You’ve only had Artemis for a month and she seemed to be on a mission to destroy anything on high shelves, despite the large cat tree you’d bought when you first got her.

You rounded the corner to your living room, your eyes fixed on your carpet only to find nothing indicating any damage. However, what you saw instead caused you to freeze and slowly back up.

A man stood smack in the middle of your living room. Dressed in all black and facing away from you. Your heart thundered wildly in your chest, wondering if this man was a burglar, or worse. You knew some self defense, and hoped he was slower than you.

You regretted turning down your father’s offer about having a firearm.

You glanced around, hoping that you had anything that could be used as a weapon. Thankfully, a broken floor lamp sat in the corner and you grabbed it, silently thanking yourself that you hadn’t thrown it out yet.

Gripping the lamp hard, you whipped around the corner, ready to swing. The first thing your eye caught was the myriad of weapons decorating his upper torso and his waist, secondly, how broad he was.

He seemed to be alerted by your presence and he turned around immediately. His face was partially hidden by a worn black cowboy hat, and when you got a good look at him, something struck you as familiar.

His arms raised in the air in a sign of surrender. “Easy there…” he drawled in a deep voice, his accent strong.

Wait…

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” You demanded, tightening your grip.

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. Jus’ tryin’ to figure out where I am.” He explained evenly and warily.

That voice…

“How about you get out then?” You growled, trying to keep yourself focused.

“Can you jus’ tell me where I am, ‘sides your house?” The man asked. He lifted his head, allowing you to see his face fully.

You dropped the lamp in surprise, the bar clattering awkwardly against the carpeted floor. “Arthur Morgan?!”

He frowned. “How do ya know me?”

You must be dreaming. There is no way in hell a video game character would be real, standing right in front of you. You pinched yourself, and held back a small hiss when the stinging pain made its presence. Okay, this was reality. You weren’t sure how to respond to him, every word failing to form coherent phrases. Your mouth made a couple of noises detached from your brain. “Are you real?” You managed to splutter out.

He gave you a look of confusion, and spread his arms out as if to answer you. “Last time I checked…”

You could only stare. Just last night you were sitting on your couch and playing Red Dead Redemption 2, running as Arthur through the cobblestone paths of Saint Denis. Now, that same Arthur stood in your living room. You wordlessly reached out to him, brushing your fingers against his arm. He flinched from your touch, but he was solid. His skin was warm.

“Ma’am,” he said, stepping back from you. “If you could kindly let me know where I am so I can get back home?”

Jesus Christ, he was really real. You pursed your lips and told him the name of your town and your state, only to see his confusion grow.

“Seems far from Lemoyne…” he murmured to himself, and looked around your house. “Ain’t never seen any house like this neither.” He paused when he looked at your TV. “That some fancy new mirror?”

“Uh,” you chewed your bottom lip, thinking of your next few words. You decided to avoid the question. “Do you remember how you got here?”

He looked at you again. “No. Last thing I remember is goin’ to bed. Next thing I know, I wake up on your floor.” He continued to look around the room, seemingly more intrigued by the modern technology. “You didn’t kidnap me, didja?”

“No!” You automatically answered.

“Well, ya know who I am. Can’t be a coincidence that I end up in some stranger’s home that knows my name.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed.

“I…have heard of you,” you lied quickly. “But I don’t know why you’re here either. I promise I didn’t kidnap you.”

He stared at you with scrutiny for a moment, eyes traveling up and down your body. You were only wearing a tank top and shorts, and you felt naked under his gaze. Once he realized your discomfort, he turned his head away. Even in an awkward situation like this, he was respectful.

“I think I should get goin’, you gotta horse I could borrow or somethin’?” He asked, wandering over to a window and peered outside. You caught a glimpse of your car in the driveway, and he stepped back in confusion.”The hell is that?”

How could you explain to him that he was a video game character in the future? Hell, he wouldn’t understand the concept of a video game in the first place. “That’s…a car,” you said carefully. “No one uses horses to get around anymore.”

“Anymore?” He repeated, turning to look at you. “What do ya mean by that?”

“Arthur, what year do you think it is?”

“1899,” he said, though from his expression he seemed unsure. “Ain’t it?”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s 2019.”

“Two thousand…” he trailed off, his brow furrowing in thought. He was silent for a moment, though the frown on his face deepened. “So…I somehow jumped 120 years in the future?”

“I…I think so.” You sighed, scratching your head in plain bewilderment. How in the world did this happen? Why did it happen?

Arthur seemed to be at a loss for words, the exasperated look on his face told you everything that he couldn’t form coherent words for. You weren’t sure what to say to him either.

The awkward silence was broken by the sound of your phone ringing from your bedroom, and Arthur jumped. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Relax,” you said calmly. “I’ll go get that. You don’t go anywhere.”

It was your workplace calling, asking you to come in due to being short staffed today. You were quick to lie; explaining that Artemis needed to go to the emergency vet, feigning concern in your voice as you did. In the middle of the conversation, some movement caught your eye, and you noticed Arthur stood awkwardly at your door.

You hung up, turning to catch his gaze. He seemed to be fixated on your phone. “What’s that contraption?”

“A cell phone,” you said, throwing it against your bed. “You okay?” you asked, noting the troubled look on his face.

He sighed, hanging his head slightly to remove his hat. You’d realized with a jolt that he was just as you designed him in your personal game. The initial shock of his sudden appearance caused you to not notice it previously. That short, slicked back hair was something you favored. It certainly looked much better in real life. “Jus’…worried, I guess. Dunno how to get back to my own time, if I even can.”

Your heart sank for him. As confused as you were, it was even more confusing for him. He technically didn’t exist in this world, so of course there would be nowhere for him to go. You could only hope that this was temporary, and whatever magic sent him here would send him back to the game.

Until then, he would need a place to stay. “Well…Arthur, you can stay here for the time being. I mean at least until you manage to get back.” You offered.

He looked at you, an intense stare from those bright blue eyes shining in the morning light. His lips twitched for a moment before he responded. “That ain’t necessary. I think I put you off enough by bein’ here.”

You shook your head in response. “It’s not your fault that you appeared in my living room. But since you’re here, you need a place to stay. I’m the only person you know so far.”

“Hardly,” He chuckled without humor. “I ain’t even know your name.”

You told him your name. “Better?” you said.

“Miss Y/N,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I still don’t-“

“Listen,” you interjected softly, stepping closer to him. Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, you continued. “The world’s a lot bigger than much different than what you’re used to. I can promise you that you’ll be better off staying here with me. I don’t mind, really.”

He stared at you silently for a moment, and you kept your gaze even with his. The sunlight highlighted his features; the faint wrinkles and the scar on his chin, his cheeks and jawline decorated with faint stubble.

He certainly was nice to look at.

“I…’spose that would be best.” He finally agreed, looking around your bedroom.

You smiled at that, glad he didn’t put up an argument. A movement by your feet caught your attention, you glanced down to see Artemis had left her hiding spot, and was now rubbing against Arthur’s legs.

---

That night, you went to bed expecting Arthur to be gone by that morning. Instead he was sitting on your couch, writing something in his journal. One day turned into two, two to three, a few days to a week. Whatever had made Arthur come to your world showed no indication of sending him back.

And what an interesting week it’s been.

You first started by introducing Arthur to modern gadgets. His curiosity of everything reminded you of a little kid, though you had to remind him to be gentle with some things.

“So, this thing plays anything you want, whenever you want?” Arthur had asked, gesturing to the TV.

“Mostly. Although with cable, everything is set on a schedule,” you pressed the on button on the remote. The screen came to life, and the first thing shown was a particularly gory scene from The Walking Dead. “Check it out.”

Arthur’s face quickly turned to disgust. “The hell they doin’ to that poor feller?!”

You laughed at his response. “Don’t worry, it’s all fiction. It’s just a show. That blood is all fake. And that guy – he’s undead. They gotta kill him before he kills them.”

Arthur just shook his head. “And this is for entertainment?”

He as certainly intrigued by the microwave, in complete awe that food didn’t have to be cooked over an open fire anymore. You taught him how to use it, making sure he didn’t burn the place down whilst you were at work.

He also loved the shower, mesmerized by the mere concept of having hot water on demand. His first shower lasted around 45 minutes, and you had to pound on the door to tell him that hot water wasn’t free. He walked out wrapped in a towel, as you’d placed his clothes in the wash prior to him getting in.

“That was amazin’,” he sighed, running his hands through his wet hair. “Don’t get cold after sittin’ a while like a bath does.”

You looked at him from head to toe. You’ve seen him shirtless before, for those bath scenes. You had to staunch the sudden desire to reach out and touch that scarred chest.

“Hey, my clothes done yet?” he asked, unaware of your staring.

You blinked and nodded. “Yeah, come on.”

After a few days, it was apparent that he wouldn’t be going back anytime soon. You’d stopped by a local Tractor Supply to buy him some new clothes, instead of wearing the same outfit every day.

He once asked for your phone out of curiosity.

“What’s it called again?” he’d asked, staring at it in his hand.

“A smartphone. It can do a lot more than call people, that’s why it’s called that.” You said, reaching over to scroll through the pages of apps.

When your hand moved, Arthur tried it on his own. He tapped the screen rather hard, opening up the camera that had been set in selfie mode. He let out a small yelp and dropped it in surprise. “It turned into a mirror!”

You laughed, retrieving the phone from his lap. “Nah, it’s the camera.”

He stared at you incredulously. “You’re tellin’ me…that it’s also a camera? The hell else is it, a telegraph?”

“Actually, yeah. Kinda.” You said thoughtfully, watching his eyes widen even further.

Leaving him alone the first day was concerning, however. Though he swore up and down he wasn’t going to venture out, the thought still remained in the back of your mind. You ran down a list of things he could and could not do, as if he were a child staying home alone for the first time. You tried to keep your worries out of the way while working, though it was a prominent thought up until you drove home, and you let out a sigh of relief to find your house wasn’t burned down, nor was he out and about.

After the first week, you were getting used to coming home from work to him. Usually you would find him on the couch, scribbling something in his journal or watching something random on TV. During the second week, he began to cook you microwave meals that were ready for you once you stepped in the door.

You chatted with him over meals, learning a lot more about him than you ever have in the game. He was getting more comfortable with you as well, his hands brushing against you nonchalantly, sitting closer to you on the couch. Those lingering touches would send a flicker of heat to your face, though you had to tell yourself not to get too attached, in case you’d wake up to find him gone.

Before the third week mark, you’d gone to bed with him on your mind, a whirlwind of thoughts cycling back and forth. Somehow in these past few weeks, you’d realized you began to see him in a different light. You fell asleep with his face in your mind’s eye, leaning in for a kiss…

[twelverose]

till the sun comes shining through (1/?)

It's a life of working hard and playing harder. Rose is the daughter of an old family trying to keep up with modern times. James is the boy of a family who left for easier living. It was natural for them to collide. Rodeos and events keep them on their toes, pushing them closer. All they know is they have a life to lead and it's better with two.

Rating: Teen (Some sexual implications, mild violence)

Pairing: Twelve/Rose

WC: 2.9K

TW: Mild violence, drinking.

A/N: It’s a cowboy au bc i love writing about things inspired by my own life babey. yeehaw.

Song: Cause I Love You - Johnny Cash (Title) and What Was I Thinkin’ -  Dierks Bentley (Chapter)

Read on Ao3

Chapter One: Come and Get Me Grin

What was I thinkin'

Oh, I knew there'd be hell to pay

But that crossed my mind a little too late

_______________________

Rose Tyler was the most beautiful girl James had ever seen. He decided that years ago. He was a year older but the same class as her in high school. Keeping at least an acquaintance with her for the first two years. Before their junior year where they really got to talk at a party. He’d been chasing her ever since. And she had fun leading him.

Her family bought the old McCrimmon ranch before she was born.  Her father was a cowboy legend. Raised to ride bulls and that he did. Winning enough by riding in the PBR to be able to invest in more land at the age of twenty. They raised cattle and trained horses. Her mother was a champion of her own. Training and riding horses in world class events. Rose stayed humble though. She was carefree. No restraint in her friendliness or attitude. It was a warm welcome in James’s life.

His family wasn’t a fan of the friendship. Especially once they sold their farm.

When she told him to meet her at the front gate of her property, he stumbled over his okay. It was a given. He wasn’t one of the idiots to say no to her. Or maybe he was the idiot to say yes. There was a rumor that Pete Tyler was more than a bull rider. Something to do with another guy and Jackie. James never asked about it. It was just something that came back around whenever word got around that Rose was going on a date in high school. 

But they weren’t in high school anymore. And he was glad that he wouldn’t have to hear it again. Especially since his nerves were already on fire, sitting at the edge of the Tyler property.

When she climbed over the gate, he knew he was in trouble. But didn’t really think about what it meant.

“You might wanna drive,” She said as she hopped into his passenger seat, “I think dad heard me.”

“What?”

“Wait another minute or two and you’ll see why.”

So he did. Not sure if it was because he felt the need to prove himself or to see if the rumors about her dad were true. Maybe it was both. But the sound of a shotgun made him kick the truck into drive,

“What the fuck?”

She shrugged and smiled, “It was an actual warning, y’know?”

Rose was wearing a tank top that belonged in an early 2000s horror movie. It was a size too small and showed off her midriff. He wasn’t complaining. Especially when she made an obvious move to sit in the middle seat to change the radio station. James found himself clenching his jaw. Just to make sure none of the stupid thoughts going through his mind came out. Not that there were many there at all. 

During the commercials between songs, they caught up. They hadn’t really spoken like they used to since graduating. Both of them falling into work. James was a farmhand at several ranches. Rose was working with her mom and dad. Taking care of cattle and training horses.

She talked about a new horse until she realized what road they were on. He didn’t even realize. Until her entire mood shifted slightly. Into something that made his cheeks turn red.

“What have you got planned for us tonight?” She asked, batting her eyes.

“Oh, the Amber Tree is doing somethin’ tonight. I think a band is playing? I’m really not that sure.” He tried to sound cool and confident. 

She smirked at him, “Who told you that?”

“What d’you mean?”

“I know how you boys work. You talk to each other to figure out the hottest spot. Who’d you talk to?”

He pretended to be offended, slapping his hand over his heart and glancing at her with a sigh, “You think I’m boring? Let me show you a bit of fun tonight then.”

She laughed, “You think I would’ve asked you out if I thought you were going to be boring?”

He pressed down further on the gas and grinned at her, “I sure hope not.”

The highway they had turned onto went through a forest until a railroad crossing. The music echoed back at them through the tunnel of trees. She seemed to know every song on the radio. Unlike him, he could only pick out a few. She didn’t seem to notice. Singing to him or out the window, grabbing his arm to get him to look at her. 

He tried to keep his eyes on the road. Luckily he knew it like the back of his hand. Because she was determined to make him look and keep him looking.

Once they got past the train tracks, she hung out the side window for a bit, whooping at the moon. He laughed and whooped with her. It was all so natural. It was fun. The most fun he’s had in months. It made some type of warmth pump through his veins. And all he wanted was more of it.

  And that he got. 

When they crossed the county line, blue and red lights flashed behind him. Rose slid back in with a wide smile and looked at him like she was saying, “Well, prove what you got.” So he did. Changing the gear and swiftly pulled off into a field. The wind whipped through her hair, wisps of it stinging his face. She kept looking behind them, telling him how far behind the cop was. He wasn’t worried. He hoped he’d remember to tell her that he’d done this a few times. And his best story of one of those times.

He really did try to avoid the crops. Although he heard at least one stock of corn get caught underneath him. The other side of the field was a dirt road, which he tore out onto. 

“Why don’t you go faster, cowboy?”

If he had to give an excuse or reason to go faster, he would’ve had to blame the testosterone spike those words caused. And usually, he’d try to keep in line. But if she was asking, then James would just have to do it.

The smile he got in response was worth it. A tongue-touched grin. James decided that he’d probably do anything for another smile like that.

It was another five minutes of loud music and speeding before they made it to the bar. It was already busy. Nine at night would do that to places like these in small towns. Especially when there was a promise of live music and fights. Although, fights weren’t on the posters.

He wiped his palms on his jeans and looked back at her, “Ready?”

“As long as you can keep up.”

They were both technically underage. Technically because the bar didn’t care nor did it really have enough staff to do so. The bar itself was full of old timers. The ones who were found there every night and knew everyone and their father. They were the first ones to ask what Rose was doing there.

“Does your father know?” He tilted up his hat.

Rose shook her head,  “And I hope he doesn’t find out.”

The man chuckled and went back to who he was talking to originally. James felt a wave of anxiety go through him. Afraid of what that conversation would lead to for him.

“He’s not gonna tell him, right?” James asked while he paid for their beers.

“You better hope he doesn’t. You’re already in trouble.”

Her wink told him that she was more of the trouble than her dad. Even if he knew the more trouble he got into with her meant only more from her dad.

He didn’t let that stop them from dancing though. It was a honky-tonk band. It was hot and sweaty in the middle of the room. He knew that. But he didn’t know when he lost the button down he was wearing over his t-shirt. He didn’t care. She was so focused on him that he had no choice but to return it. 

They were close. A lot closer than they’ve been when they danced at parties. Her chest against his. Her hands running up and down his back. This time, there wasn’t one of her friends to pull her away because she was busted. Or one of his to tell him he better lay off or he was in deep shit. They did what they’d been waiting to do. And she knew the perfect way to do it.

He was on fire. Because that’s what she did to him. Made him red and wild. So, he was just about to finally kiss her when someone shoved him back from her.

James knew who that someone was. They saw each other when he walked into the bar. They both realized what could happen. James figured it would. They both had a reputation that was in due time for testing.

Jimmy Stone was older. He was probably what made Pete Tyler the protective father he is. Once again, if the rumors were true, no one could really shame him for acting the way he did.  There was no question in what Jimmy was capable of, that was given to James. He was fit. He had to be for what he did. But he wasn’t much compared to Jimmy.

“Will you fuck off, Stone?” Rose shouted at him.

He shushed her, “This isn’t about you. Well, it doesn’t have to involve you.”

James took a step forward, “You can stop talkin’ to her like that.”

He saw the fist coming and he let it land. To prove he was just as tough as Jimmy. That’s what he would say tomorrow when he was at work. But right now, he would be stupid to say it didn’t hurt. He could feel the bruise forming when he stood back up straight. He felt the blood from his split lip run down his chin.

“You afraid to fight, pretty boy?”

If it were a movie, he’d probably pop his neck. But instead, he flicked the baseball hat off Jimmy’s head. Dodging the next punch, James managed a land to the middle of the other guy’s gut. But he took the one to his ribcage. Jimmy laughed when James took a step back and groaned.

There was a crowd around them now. He saw someone step out in the corner of his eye. Then felt Rose’s hand on his elbow but he shook it off. He wasn’t one to lose a fight without good reason.

“You ready to regret coming out tonight, Stone?” 

He was cocky. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t fallen yet or that Rose was on his side. Then a surge of anger rushed through him. He wasn’t sure where exactly it came from but it slipped out of his mouth with the taste of blood. And the hardest swing he thinks he’s ever thrown.

The crowd around him gasped. Jimmy fell flat on his ass. James laughed, then he spotted the tooth on the ground and grabbed Rose’s hand. Taking off out of the bar. 

As he slid into the driver’s side and started the truck, she slid over the hood. His heart started beating a little faster. When she jumped in, she landed in the middle seat- almost in his lap. That’s when he stopped breathing. 

She gave him a kiss. One that he had been dreaming about for a while now. It was sloppy and deep and warm. It was probably a lot shorter than what it felt. Only stopping when they heard a commotion at the front door.

She slipped away from him with a breathy “Thank you.”

They tore out of the gravel parking lot. He didn’t try to speed on the way home. Wanting to keep her this close for as long as possible. But he got a glimpse of the time and worried about what would be waiting. 

She reminded him that maybe it would be worth it. Distracting him with another kiss when he stopped at the first sign of the night. And then telling him to pull off the road just for a second. Which led to a little more than he expected. 

He had a little more than one bruise now. The rest were a lot sweeter than the first. And his shirt was just as high on his stomach as hers. Hair probably is just as messy too. Though, he didn’t quite pull it off as well as her. Given she laughed at him when he pulled back. 

“You’re a mess.” She laughed, running her thumb over his bottom lip. Focusing on the cut he got in the fight.

“Your fault,” He mumbled, leaning into her hand, “What else am I supposed to do?”

He tried to kiss her again, but she giggled against his lips. Giving him a chaste one before patting his thigh.

“Better get me home before my father decides you’re the next hide on the wall.”

He cursed under his breath. Moving back to his seat and putting the truck in drive. Trying to ignore the feeling of Rose’s hand in his hair and her humming. Those things would probably be the last thing he needed to be thinking about when pulling into her drive.

Which he was against. But she coaxed him into doing it by playing the right cards. The ones he fell sucker to almost every time, especially for her.

Pete Tyler was sitting in the driveway. James knew he was in for it by the look he got when he put it in park. Instead of flying out of the drive like any other person, he got out with Rose. Grabbing her hand. 

Which was arguably the stupidest decision he made all night. Grabbing her hand in front of her father like this wasn’t doing anything for him. Pete just glared at him harder.

Rose gave him a reassuring squeeze. He hoped that her showing fondness for him would save him some skin. The instinct deep in him doubted it would.

Pete glanced down between them, “Did y’all have a good night?”

It wasn’t a pleasantry. But James treated it as one, “Yes sir.”

The two words came out as if he should’ve given them with a salute. He held back the impulse to do so sarcastically.

“You should’ve talked to me beforehand.” He said thickly.

James suddenly felt like he should’ve at least tried to sharpen up  a bit. He felt a bit bare in his untucked shirt, messy hair, and jeans tucked into boots. He held his head high still. There wasn’t any use in putting it down at this point. He would rather be caught looking scared in front of Jimmy Stone.

Rose pulled her hand from his and walked over to her dad. He didn’t fall for her scheme like James, “Rose. Get inside.”

“Why should I?” She tested him, trying to hide her grin.

“It’s nearly 3 am, you still live in my house, and you might as well and go ahead and get your trouble with your mother over with.”

Rose sighed and took a few steps behind Pete but didn’t go inside. He didn’t take his eyes off James. He had the same challenging look that Rose did earlier. James understood what it meant to inherit looks in that moment. Even if they meant different things.

“Your daughter is amazing, sir. I was lucky to get to hang out with her tonight.”

“You sure are. Where’d you get that bruise?”

James struggled for his words, “Uh, Jimmy Stone.”

“Where’d you go to run into him and get that?”

“He’s worse,” That was his attempt in defending himself, “And I’m sure you’ve got another way to find out besides me.”

Pete laughed and shook his head. James let a small smile come to his face. This was the opposite way of doing things for a first date. You meet and talk with the parents first. Not after. He didn’t really mind. Nothing really came smoothly for him. And he liked it that way.

Especially because their conversation ended with a little less of a glare. 

“I’ll let y’all say goodnight. But you better watch what you do, Smith.”

He nodded and Pete walked inside. Silhouette taking a stance by the window. Rose glanced back and tried to shoo it away. But eventually walked back towards him when it didn’t move an inch.

She took his hands, “I had fun tonight.”

“I hope so.” He felt awkward suddenly. Unsure of what could happen next.

“Sorry about Jimmy. And my dad.”

James shrugged, “I wouldn’t ask for anything else. Another great story to tell.”

“You wanna make another great story?”

He couldn’t get out his “What?” before she kissed him. Right there. In front of her dad in the window. Once again he felt like he was on fire. Every nerve in his body was ringing. He was careful to kiss her back, not that he wanted to be.

He was shaking slightly when she stood on her toes to whisper, “It’s okay, he likes you.”

James stood there for a second. Watching her skip back inside. Excited for whatever would come next.

[the-awkward-outlaw]

How would a modern au Arthur feel about a female reader who had an invisible illness that caused a lot of pain on the daily? How would he be? Feel?

Hmm, this one may be a bit more challenging. I’ve never written a modern Arthur, but I’ll give it my best shot. 

Arthur puts his grooming brush away and pats his horse affectionately. He loves his little ranch he lives on. He wouldn’t live anywhere else, especially not in the city just beyond the mountain range. Sure, there’s more work and a lot more money in the city, but a lot less happiness and love. He grew up with his uncles Dutch and Hosea after his parents died in a car accident when he was a kid, working on their ranch. Of course, they showed him a few tricks in how to make the most money out of their work and how to do it on the sly. 

Unfortunately for him, Hosea passed away a few years ago due to cancer and Dutch was never the same after that. He ended up just disappearing out of the blue one day and Arthur was never able to contact him again after that. He hoped Dutch was just off trying to find himself now that Hosea’s gone. His own life became rather lonely as he worked on the ranch alone. Since it wasn’t huge, he managed to do it just fine. 

Then he met you at the only gas station in town. You were hopelessly lost trying to find your way to one of the lakes up in the mountains for a peaceful and quiet weekend, but service was spotty out this far and you’ve never been good at reading paper maps. Arthur was there and he helped point you in the right direction. He could see you were rattled because you’d been so lost. Not only that, you were taking the weekend off in order to get away from your own troubles. Your boyfriend at the time was abusive in the emotional sense and you’d just discovered he’d been cheating on you. 

It was pretty late in the day by the time Arthur helped you get sorted and the town’s so small there’s no hotel or even bed and breakfast. It’s all just ranches and farms out here, plus a trailer park but no one goes there. He doesn’t like the idea of someone who doesn’t know the area traveling into the mountains when it’s dark. The roads are windy and several of them are dirt. Many inexperienced drivers have crashed their cars on those roads. He offers you to come home with him, have a beer and something to eat and then says he has a spare room in the barn (where he used to sleep as a boy) that you’re welcome to. Relieved to finally get some help, you accepted. 

The two of you got on so well that the next morning, you asked for Arthur’s number. He was incredibly attractive with his rugged cowboy hat and boots. You’ve only dated soft city boys before, but you always wondered what it was like living out here where no one can bother you. Arthur gave you his number and then said he’d love to go to this lake with you as he knew the roads better. 

After that, you two started dating. It was difficult at first because you lived in the city two hours away. However, you video chatted with each other almost every night and grew incredibly close. Every weekend, one of you would drive to see the other and spend the weekend together. Arthur was a perfect gentleman. Kind, thoughtful, rugged and rough in just the right places. One time your ex even barged into your apartment and accused you of cheating right in front of Arthur. He went home with a bruised jaw and split lip. 

Arthur smiles as he thinks about the last time he saw you. It was nearly a year ago he bumped into you and he’s never been happier. You ended up getting a remote job that allowed you to work from home mostly, so you moved into his ranch home. You’ve never been happier. Sure, the drive to the local grocery store isn’t as convenient as the city and if you want to do anything fun, there’s always at least a thirty minute drive to the largest town, but you love the quiet, the peace. Arthur’s a huge bonus too, of course. 

Arthur finishes filling the troughs with water and then goes to turn off the hose. You left this morning to go to the city to do one of your monthly days in the office. Your job requires you to come in once a month for paperwork, attend meetings and so forth, but it’s not too bad. Arthur hates the days you’re gone. You’ve brought a new light to his life to fill the absence of Hosea and Dutch. He couldn’t imagine being happier than he is now. 

Just as he finished rolling up the hose, his cell phone rings. Since the weather’s clear, service is actually pretty decent. He pulls out his phone, expecting to see an unknown number from a likely scanner. Instead, it comes up as the number for a hospital three towns over. His stomach drops and he picks it up. 

The voice tells him you’ve been in a serious accident. A driver suspected of being on drugs hit you head on at high speed and totaled your car. You’re in critical condition and the person on the phone asks he come see you. Of course, he doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the keys to his truck and drives as fast as he can to the hospital you’re at. 

When he sees you in the bed, tubes all along your body and scratches on your face from the broken glass, he breaks down. He’s so frightened about what’s going to happen. The nurse explains you suffered a concussion but they doubt you’ll be out more than a day or two. You’ve suffered a broken hand, wrist and a fracture in your sternum, but luckily they don’t think any of your organs were injured. Arthur stays by your side night and day, fretting over you. 

When you finally wake, he’s overjoyed. He wants nothing more than to hold you, but he knows how much pain  you’re in and how broken your body is. Of course, because of the pain killers, you don’t feel much. After another day in the hospital, the doctor deems you well enough to return home but orders you to bed rest for the next several weeks so your sternum can heal. 

Arthur’s the best caregiver with you. He comes and checks on you every hour in the bed, making sure you have enough to eat. He even moves the TV into the room so you can watch something if you want. Anything you want, he’ll get it for you. He checks his phone constantly as he works in case you’ve texted him. He’s so gentle and loving, you don’t even feel scared anymore.

After a week has passed though, you start feeling horrible pain in your chest. It’s not from your sternum either. Instead it feels like someone is grabbing your lower ribs and trying to crush them. It’s a horrible pain and Arthur, fearing the worst, takes you back to the hospital. Tests are run and scans are taken, but unfortunately the doctor can’t find any explanation for your pain. An exploratory surgery is even done but still, no answer. A few more screenings are taken and then they send you home with more painkillers and promises they’ll try to find what’s causing it. 

Weeks go by and nothing. Arthur has called the hospital and even yelled at people trying to find the answers, but nothing. Your injuries have all healed but the pain in your ribs is still there. It fades though, allowing you to do work around the ranch and your own job, but at least once a day, a wave of horrible pain will slam into you, forcing you to sit down wherever you’re at and clutch your midriff. It often causes you to cry. 

Arthur almost seems to have a sixth sense for when you’re having an episode. He finds you every time. He sets down whatever he’s doing, sits down next to you and pulls you into his arm. He lets you cry into his shoulder, pets your hair and whispers promises that the answer will be found. He wishes he could do something, anything, to help you. Unfortunately, there’s nothing more he can do other than support you like this and he hates it. He does everything in his power to make you feel better. 

Sometimes he can be a bit of a pest with how protective he’s become since the accident. Occasionally you’ll try to get up on the horse he lets you ride, but he’ll try and argue with you about it, stating if you have an episode, you’ll fall off. You know he’s just trying to protect you, but sometimes it comes off as if he thinks you can’t do it. 

Finally the doctor calls and explains they still can’t find an answer to your pain. They’re sure it’s some kind of injury, but they believe the episodes will begin to fade over time as your body heals. 

Another year passes and while the episodes are not as common, only every couple of weeks, you still have them. The doctor prescribed medicine for you to take during one of these episodes that will help the episode pass sooner than they used to.

Arthur’s been so good to you since the accident. He’s not as protective anymore, but if he sees you start to have one, he’ll grab you and help you sit down. If you’re on your horse, he’ll help you off and just hold you until it passes. He always makes one of your favorite meals after you’ve had an episode. He just wants you to know that he cares about you. He’s easily the best boyfriend you’ve ever had and there’s no doubt in your mind you’ll spend the rest of your life with him.

Thanks for sending this one in! It was definitely more of a challenge but I really enjoyed it! 

[until-we-fall-in-love]

Into the Hush: Chapter Two

-Chapter One-

-Into the Hush Masterlist-

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader, a little Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: It’s only ever been you and the rugged wilderness; both unkempt and undomesticated. Until it isn’t anymore.

(1870s Cowboy AU. A/B/O AU. Gothic/horror.)

Warnings: Violence, gore, dark themes, A/B/O dynamics, smut in later chapters, a touch of it in this one.

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: hey guys!! sorry for the wait on this, i’m just finishing up finals so i should have more time to write!! it got a little long, so i would love any feedback or comments you might have!! enjoy!!

***

Spring grows thick and unruly in the coming weeks, crops burst through the ground and unfurl their leaves to the sun. The days grow longer once more, the sun lingering on the horizon. It’s become warmer, too, slowly creeping into the beginning of summer. You start wearing lighter dresses, less layers, try to keep your hair off the back of your neck when you work. 

Steve and Bucky have been helping you on the farm for the past few weeks. Despite your initial reluctance, they’ve done good work, helped you out a great deal. They listen to you respectfully, work hard, and treat you like an adult. Not a girl, not an Omega. It’s refreshing for once, it’s made you a little more friendly to them, in the least. They’re careful of your boundaries, they don’t near spaces that seem to be yours; your bedroom, the corner of the settee in the living room that’s got a cozy, knitted blanket curled around it and a pillow that smells of you, the loft in the barn that you like to read in, the spot by the creek where the grass is worn from you setting out a blanket to lounge there. They’re careful not to get too close to you unless you step near them first.

For awhile, they work in the new summer heat with their shirts on. But eventually, Steve sheds his when you’re off doing another chore, only for you to come back and see him and the broad, strong muscles of his chest and torso. Though you’d flushed and averted your eyes, you hadn’t said much, so he grew comfortable working that way.

Bucky was more reluctant, though, and he still kept a single glove on his left hand. He remained in long sleeves, even as the sun burned brighter. You never dared ask about it, but the curiosity did nibble at the back of your mind. You walked along the prairie grass with it, wondering what he was hiding, if anything at all. You meandered back to the farm after your lunch break by the creek and as if your mind was read—

You catch sight of Bucky shirtless. 

He’s chopping wood beneath the sun, sweat on his brow, dampening his neck. Your eyes trace over his broad, bare shoulders, one of which is--

One is made of metal. It cuts silver, gleaming under the sun. It’s made of moving gears, which churn and rotate at the joints. Metal plating surrounds pipes inside of it but it moves like a normal arm. Like a small engine, a small machine attached to him, one with him. 

It reminds you of all the new trains and factories in big cities; raw, open creations of machinery. 

He picks his head up, notices you, and immediately goes still. You near him as if nothing is different, however you can smell the change in his scent-- the worrisome burst of pine that sharpens into the smell of winter, of metal. Is he nervous? 

You are careful to keep your face neutral, your eyes away from his metal arm. You try to keep your features the same aloofness that you always hold with him and Steve, however you do glance into his eyes, dark and midnight blue. 

And your voice is softer than you’d like it to be when you ask, “Do you want water? I’m going to get some.” 

He blinks, as if he’s surprised by this, his face searching yours. You think maybe he inhales slow to grab your scent, to give him any clues as to what you’re feeling. You bristle a little, become suddenly self-conscious.  

But he inclines his head, dips it a little lower, purposefully submissive or thankful, and his voice is rough and quiet when he responds, “Yes, please.” 

You nod and quickly turn away from him to find Steve to ask the same question. Steve is in the stables usually by this time, taking care of Clover, and he’s been working on repairing the door, which nearly falls off its hinges. You step into the cool shade of it, Clover huffing as she sees you enter. You find Steve around the corner, fiddling with the hinges of the door once more.

He picks his head up when he sees you, straightening to his full height. There’s a flicker of surprise in his features, “You’re back from lunch early,” he says, a little too casually.

You only respond, “I’m going to the well to get water. Would you like some?” 

Steve nods slowly, “Yes, ma’am. If it’s no trouble.” And then he fidgets, shifts from foot to foot, “I’ll ask Buck if he wants any, too—“

Steve moves to leave, but you speak up, “I already did.” 

Steve pauses, “You saw him already?” And there’s a note of worry in his tone. His scent becomes thick with protectiveness suddenly, and he turns back to face you, his blue eyes shadowed slightly in the low light of the barn. Sunlight breaks in through the cracks of the wood, cuts across his face in a thin line, like a lightning strike.

You’re certain this protectiveness comes from Bucky’s arm, you’re sure others have been far less kind about it. And Steve, so loyal, is already ready to do anything for him.

“Yes,” You say calmly, look into his eyes and don’t back down from the squaring of his shoulders, “I’ve already seen him.” 

With that, you turn on your heels, about to rush out, but Steve snags your wrist. You stop with a jolt, his grip tightening. He keeps you rooted in place and you round on him quickly, eyes blazing as you snap;

“Let me go.” 

“Are you gonna rush in and tell your father?” Steve asks, and there’s a sternness to him, a hardness in his eyes that you know is unshakable. It’s all Alpha, the hard cut of his jaw as his teeth grind together, the pheromones that sharpen the air. 

You blink, surprised. “About Bucky?” 

He nods, slow, tight.

“No.” You say, “Why would I?”

You pull at your wrist again, irritated by his hold on you still, and this time he drops your wrist like it’s burned him. 

“Not many have taken kindly to him because of his arm.” Steve says carefully, still eyeing you, the eyes of someone trying to discern if you’ll be a threat or not. “Most people think it’s an abomination.” 

“The contraption is curious,” You admit, “It’s—“ You search for the right word, “It seems so modern, especially in this small town.”

“It is advanced, even for big city standards in America. A friend of mine had it made for him. He’s from a far more advanced country than ours.” Steve explains and he’s still eyeing your face, trying to discern your reaction, so you fight to keep it as neutral as possible. 

“Does it move with him?” You ask tentatively.

“More or less. It struggles sometimes, slow, and the metal is heavy. The gears can overheat; sometimes it’s easier to go without it.” 

You nod, eyes flickering away from Steve once more. You don’t dare ask it, but your mind wanders to how he might’ve lost his arm in the first place. There’s a pang from within your chest, a bruise that blossoms at the idea of Bucky in such pain. Perhaps you look upset, perhaps your scent has changed because when you glance back up, Steve’s imploring eyes on your face have softened. 

“Confederates took him, while we were fighting in the Civil War. He was gone for weeks.” Steve says slowly, quietly, “Most thought he was dead but--” Steve shakes his head, tilts it a little, begs you to understand, “I couldn’t give up on him.” 

You realize, faintly, that your heart has stopped ticking, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. You’re looking at Steve with wide eyes, unsure if you want to hear this story. Maybe not from Steve. 

“Sam and I,” Steve continues and you know Sam, you’ve met him in town, too. Sam, who travels with Steve and Bucky, and the red-headed Alpha, Natasha. He’s friendly and warm and funny, smelling of amber and the warmth of a bonfire. “We went after him. We got him back. But he’d lost his arm and he was different after that.” Steve explains gently, as if this still twists at him, too. “He was changed.” 

You don’t ask what they might’ve done to him. You don’t want to know, can feel the sinking, sick feeling slither low inside of you. Perhaps you don’t want to hear it from Steve, at least. And he doesn’t go on, he settles into a restless silence, fiddling with tools around him. You think he’s trying to keep his hands busy suddenly, trying to push the thoughts of his friend being captured away. But the shadows and darkness seem to grow larger for a moment, around him, around you. 

You gnaw at your bottom lip until it’s raw, until you can focus on the cracks of light spilling through the barn rather than the reaching, tall shadows.

Before you leave to fetch water, your fingers twisting in your skirts, you pick your head up to find Steve’s eyes finally. And without quite knowing what you mean, but like your heart wants to spill over, you tell him;

 “I’m glad you got him back.” 

***

You drag tired and heavy feet up the stairs of your porch as the evening settles into the darkness of night. You’re exhausted, but warm with the flush of laughter from Wanda. You’d been racing in the forests, where the trees grow massive and towering, reaching up to the sky as if they might grasp the sun. You’d climbed the trees with her, too, scraped your palms and knees and laughed until your sides hurt when branches broke and you had to hold onto each other. 

You’re tired, but you’re happy and sated. You’re about to hollar for your father, let him know you’re home and you’re gonna prepare warm water for a bath to sink into before tumbling into your bed for the night.

But something gives you pause. 

The front door is slightly ajar, hanging there, creaking in the suddenly unsettling wind that whispers through the old wood of the house.  

Your father would never leave the door open like that. 

Your breath comes in quick and before you can rationally think, you rush forward and inside, shove the door nearly off its hinges as you half-expect to find Steve and Bucky in the entrance with your father once more. 

You almost enter excited, excited to see them, to see him--

But when you burst through, you’re met with Rumlow’s scarred face, shrouded in writhing shadows. Your father sits at the dinner table, the candles at the table flickering and trying to fight off the darkness. 

The fireplace is losing, the flames withering and dying into ash.

“Ah,” Rumlow says, turning to you, “There she is.” And the way he says it,  makes ice slip down your spine and drop into you. You shiver, despite the warmth of the early summer night. 

You look to your father, who looks pale and angry. He looks shaken. 

You grow agitated, bristling, bunching up your shoulders as if you might make yourself somehow bigger. As if you could arch your back like a vicious cat, unsheathe claws and bare teeth.

“Mr. Rumlow.” You say coldly. 

“We were just talking about you.” He muses in that raspy, hissing voice, like the sliding of a snake’s scales against stone. The rustling of brush before something lurches out to strike. 

“Were you?” You ask flatly, lingering in the doorway. Your shadow spills out across the floor and towers over them. 

He hums in affirmation, leisurely, as if he has all the time in the world. As if this house belongs to him. You want to force him out, snarl something nasty and make him leave. You feel invaded, seeing him stand in your home. With your vulnerable father. His rotting scent permeates the air, makes your nose wrinkle. 

“Talking about how you’d make a fine wife.” He continues, eyeing you in a way that makes your heart suddenly drop like a stone in the deep pits of you. “A fine Omega for an Alpha.” 

Your cheeks prickle with heat and for some foolish reason, embarrassment. Or perhaps it’s because you’re suddenly deeply uncomfortable. You stare with wide eyes shining in the last blaze of evening light. 

Your father stands suddenly, even on his bad knee, leaning heavily onto the table but squaring his broad shoulders. “Rumlow, I told you she’s not much interested in marrying anytime soon.” He says, voice gravelly, like there’s a warning in it. A flash of his eyes that indicate another word from the other Alpha and there will be trouble. It’s too bold of your father, with his injured knee and age. 

You brace yourself to fight Rumlow, to protect your father as his scent becomes almost choking with irritation. 

“How forward of you, lettin’ her pick when that is.” Rumlow says slow and this time you feel the anger prick inside of you like a thorn, striking you so suddenly that you almost lurch forward to--

To do what, you don’t know. 

But you grind through your teeth, “I think it’s time for you to leave.” And you aren’t being polite, you’re giving an order. 

His eyes flash to you, bright in the darkness, a flame that’s suddenly sparked. Alphas like him aren’t used to taking orders, especially not from Omegas. He bares his teeth at you, steps forward and into your space. He tries to make you cower, growls like it might make you back down or bare your neck or lower your eyes submissively. 

You know it’s what he wants. 

But you bare your teeth back, tip your chin up. 

“Get out.” You say lowly, feel the trace of your own growl around the edges. It’s rooted this time deep inside of you, not the light sounds you made with Wanda, but something guttural and raw. Like maybe you could roar if you tried. 

“You’ve been given a little too much freedom, Omega.” He says into your face, glowering down at you with such horrible eyes. “And that won’t last forever.” 

With that, he moves past you, and out the door. He slams it, let’s the sound rattle throughout the old house until you can feel it in your bones.

Your father falls back into the chair wearily. 

You go to him, “Are you okay, Pa?” 

He nods, a slow, drooping of his head. And then he picks his eyes up to look at you, to assess you. A rasping laugh falls from his lips as he then shakes his head slightly. His laughs turn into coughs. 

“Christ, I thought you were gonna kill him where he stood.” He gets out.

A surprised laugh bubbles up and out of you, too, a bark of it, “I would’ve,” You joke, but a part of you thinks you would. For you, Pa, I would’ve, a quiet, overprotective part of you whispers. 

“Be careful,” He says after a moment, as if he can see your bravery laid bare before his very eyes. As if he can see that fierceness in you. “Please,” He then says, “For your old man.” 

You offer a wavering smile, feel another chill descend upon you, but nod your head and promise anyways, “Of course, Pa.” 

***

That night, you dream of a meadow with a blank, grey sky. You can hear the summer cicadas, the high humming of them that sings in your bones. The air feels thick with tension, like there might be a storm approaching. Maybe there’s thunder in the distance, rumbling and soft. 

But when you turn, it is your mother you see, sitting on the heather hills as if she was alive and well and as bright as ever. 

“Ma,” You breathe and you walk towards her, pick up your skirts to walk faster. She smiles at you, her form shimmering in pearl and gold light. She looks healthy again. She looks remarkable. 

“There’s my hellcat,” She smiles and opens her arms the way mother’s do, the way you have missed with every part of you. You rush forward and embrace her tightly. Hold her there even though it feels like trying to hold the wind. 

She pushes the hair from your face and strokes your cheeks. Tears glimmer in your eyes. 

“Ma, I miss you.” You whisper and she smiles sadly, as if she knows. 

“I miss you, too.” She says, touching her forehead to yours, “But I have little time to speak with you, so let me speak.” 

“You have to be careful.” She says before you can even respond and she squeezes her eyes shut, “Danger is coming.” She warns and her voice grows strange and faint and withering. Her form flickers.

You try to hold tighter to her, try to grasp at her so she doesn’t slide away from you again. 

In the distance, someone moves. You look over her shoulder, at the horizon, where Bucky walks along a sloping hill. He’s framed against the sky, a peak of gold trying to burst free from the dense grayness. It falls over him in luminous rays. He’s shirtless, his metal arm cast in gold. 

You flush darkly at his lack of clothes. Your mother turns to see him, which only furthers your blush.

“You need to trust him.” Your mother says as if it is gravely important to do so. 

“I-I do.” You stammer. 

She takes your face between her cold, dead hands again, “No, when the time comes, you need to trust him.” She repeats, holding you tight. “Don’t be stubborn. Don’t turn from him.” 

You blink, mouth open, unsure of what to say but her form flickers again. And this time it begins to turn grey and mottled, too. 

“Ma!” Your hands fly over her, too, now, desperate to try and keep her and--

And maggots begin to skitter from her mouth, suffocating any last words that she tries to give you. She begins choking, her skin now sagging and sloughing off, and you scream. You scream all hoarse and raw and untethered as you scramble away when maggots begin to rush after you, following as you shove yourself backwards.

You wake with tears in your eyes and your heart hammering, thinking the darkness only seems to get more and more lonely with each cursed dream. 

The morning brings the light, but it seems faint and waning. 

***

Your father catches Steve and Bucky in that red dawn, the sun hanging like a warning sign. You’ve already begun your chores, off in the fields.

Bucky looks at you all alone against the open sky, your silhouette against the darkened, vermilion hills that frame you. He thinks something inside of him is unthawing, awakening from that place in his chest that seemed so dormant and dulled for so many years. He feels newer, softer than he ever has before. 

“I have a favor to ask you fellas.” Your father says slowly, drawing Bucky’s eyes away from you reluctantly, and to the man that rocks in his chair on the porch. It creaks softly, old and worn. 

“Yessir?” Steve asks, respectful and expectant. 

“Watch out for my daughter for me, will ya?” He says and there’s something in his voice that is thick and choked. It makes Bucky wary. He glances back out to you, so alone against that blazing sky, then to your father. 

“With all due respect, sir,” Bucky starts, “I don’t think she needs us much.” 

Your father shakes his head and when he meets Bucky’s eyes again, his eyes are glistening. There is real fear there, the hopeless kind, the horrible, overpowering kind that Bucky knows in the very basest part of him. The kind that is a hungry dog, howling and crying and begging.

It frightens him, too, Bucky thinks. Because it’s about you. Why is he scared for you? 

“Rumlow stopped by last night.” He admits, his voice raspy and quiet. Bucky feels his shoulders raise instinctively, he can feel the surge of aggression at the simple mention of the other Alpha’s name. “Asked for my daughter’s hand.” 

Bucky’s heart stops altogether now.

“I denied him.” And now he looks back up at Bucky again with those eyes, “But I don’t think he’s going to give up, you understand?” 

His eyes are pleading, cloudy with age. 

“I’m scared for her.” He tells them and his strong voice wavers. 

Bucky feels his breath waver, too, feels the same fear creep through him like a serpent. It coils around his chest, right along his heart, and threatens to squeeze until he can’t breathe any longer. The idea of anything happening to you—

His teeth grind together. He blinks hard. 

Steve speak for him, “We’ll watch out for her.” He says, earnest and like he means it. Bucky knows he does but it’s not the way Bucky feels. Steve cares for you, deep and sure and strong but Bucky, he— he feels half wild at the thought. 

He thinks, for whatever reason, he’d do anything for you. 

And your father nods, so Steve steps down from the porch to begin his own morning of work. Bucky lingers, wood creaking beneath his feet as he shifts. He doesn’t know why he stays, but he feels he has to. He releases a shuddering breath.

Your father seems to know why Bucky stands before him more than even he does. The elder man regards him evenly, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

Like your father knows something the rest of the universe doesn’t, he says, “Take care of her.” 

And Bucky nods, slow, certain. 

“With my whole life, sir.” Bucky promises, feels it down to his marrow, his very being. 

Your father releases a breath now, as if he can finally rest easy. 

***

Summer takes hold quickly and the days grow longer, warmer. The sun is high and burning in the sky, white-gold and shimmering down in wavering heat. You finished your share of work this morning, which was significantly less with Bucky and Steve helping out. You’d slipped off to meet Wanda at the creek near your farm, wandered down the well-worn path you’d created over the years until the tall grass became sandy and speckled with smooth pebbles that catch in the high sun. 

Wanda is already there, sitting beside the bubbling creek, the water shimmering under the light. It’s the clearest water you know of, crystalline, like beautiful glass. You’d built a small dam with some of the rocks some summers ago, captured a small, perfect pool of it. 

Mountains surround the place, hide you away, shelter you against the rest of  the world. The breeze is rich and sweet as peaches, honeyed and warm.  Wanda lifts her fingers from the water, which drip and sparkle, cause little pools to ripple out from the surface. 

“Took you long enough.” She teases with her lifted, lovely smirk. She begins undressing then, stripping her layers down and some days, she’ll leave her knickers and camisole on, but today she sheds those, too. Until she is bare beneath the sunlight, her auburn hair shimmering like a flame. There is, you think, something about Omegas in the spring and midsommar, brighter and opening like the petals of flowers. Her scent is thick, seductive and sweet and mysterious. 

And then she wades into the creek, hissing at the coldness of the water, which come straight from the broad, high mountains that protect you. 

You follow after her, quickly unlacing your dress, squirming out of it and dropping it in the sand. You strip until you are naked, too, until the heat is on your skin and you feel as if you can finally breathe without all of your clothes. Your feet on the bare earth, digging into the sand, the wind on your flushed skin. It’s freeing, makes you roll your shoulders back and smile. 

You rush into the water, inhaling quickly with the sudden shock of the cold. You dive beneath the surface, though, dunk your head and hair and feel clarity, feel as bright and cool as this bubbling creek. 

Wanda still stands in water up to her calves, her arms now wrapped around her midsection, shivering slightly. 

“Chicken,” You call her, dipping low in the water so that it covers up to your shoulders. You swim to her, until you can stand and walk and you grab her wrist, haul her in as she squeals with laughter and fear.

“Don’t!” She laughs brightly, “I’ll come in on my own!” 

You dig your heels into the pebbles and sand, pull harder and send you both backwards with a splash. 

Wanda gasps when she resurfaces, startled by the cold, but she turns mischievous, auburn eyes on you. Then she splashes a large wave at your face, which splatters with another cold burst. But you laugh, too, and splash back.

You begin wrestling and climbing over each other then, throwing each other down into the water until your hearts are pounding and your eyes are shining and lively. Until, eventually, you crawl back onto the bank, lay out on the sand and in the sun to dry. Your toes are still in the water, brushing your feet through the pools, the sand soft beneath you. You’re both still bare, leisurely and comfortable in your privacy. Your chest is warmed by the sun, your stomach and ribs expanding wide and free with every breath. You think no one knows about your little oasis, you feel safe in your little area of comfort, in your corner of the world.

But then you hear voices on the sloping hills, heading towards the creek. 

And you know those voices. You and Wanda both sit up so fast that your head spins and you see sunspots dance in your vision. You lock eyes, just as you hear Steve and Bucky’s voices carrying towards you, nearing you. Both your eyes go wide, before Wanda starts laughing, and you’re both up faster than you blink, running around in search of all of your missing garments.

Wanda won’t stop laughing at your predicament, and you’re hissing at her, telling her it isn’t funny, as you scramble to put on your bloomers, on your camisole at the least. Wanda can barely get her clothes rightened before they round down the last slope and find the pair of you, only in your underwear. 

You try to hold up your dress to cover more of you.

Steve makes a startled noise and quickly looks upwards. You and Bucky lock eyes for a heart beat, a flash of heat suddenly striking you. A wildfire that sparks, catches, and jumps into a sudden flame inside the pits of you. The sun feels too warm on all your exposed skin.

A breeze rustles past him, sweeps his scent around you, which has grown muskier and darker. Your lips, shining and wet, part slightly. 

He blinks and his eyes quickly drop to the ground.

“Sorry,” Steve says and you can tell his cheeks are pinkened, “We didn’t know anyone was down here.” 

Wanda stifles her giggles behind her hand.

You clear your throat, feel heat at your neck and your cheeks. “Well, we didn’t know anyone knew about this place.” You get out as you scramble to get the rest of your clothes back on. Mortification overcomes you, bears down on you. You barely get your dress laced up. 

“We can leave.” Steve suggests, but you roll your eyes.

“We’re fine, now.” You say, but your hair is damp and free from any braids or updos. You both still look improper, bare feet still in the sand and clothes disheveled. 

Both men peak at you tentatively, as if you might be lying, before discovering you’re both fully dressed. 

“We’ll be quick, then.” Steve suggests, moving to the clear, sparkling water. But they aren’t quick and the sun begins droop beneath the mountains. The sky is brilliant orange and spiced pink berry, lavender and creme clouds that linger in the high sky. It’s a dream, you think, as the evening begins to cool and Wanda’s bright laughter is in your ears and Steve is smiling and--

Bucky looks relaxed, for once. 

He sits beside you on the bank, while Wanda wades in the water, hitching up her skirts to her knees. Steve leans against a nearby tree, watching, happy-eyed and gentle. There is contentment in this little oasis, guarded by the peaks and valleys of the land, contentment in your beings.

You can tell Bucky wants to speak, can feel his eyes on you. Silently, you dare him to, your eyes glittering in those final rays of sun.  

So he says, gently, with the barest hint of a smile upon his lips, “You belong here, in this wilderness.” 

You blink; at the fondness of his voice, at the observation or compliment or-- you don’t know what it is. But it warms you, settles inside of you. And you smile, too, wider than him, fiery little slip of a smile that seems to set his whole world aglow. 

You smile unabashedly, and he smiles wider, too, like you’re teaching him how. 

And you tip your face up to those jagged peaks of mountains and the bursting, colorful sky, at the running water, and trees that hang overhead. The wind brushes past your collarbones and you agree, “I do, I think.” 

You turn to face him then, so suddenly that he almost pulls away. You’re closer than you thought, your noses nearly touching and his shoulder brushes against yours. The hard, metal one. It doesn’t scare you, even if he holds incredibly still. 

You lean more into it, just to watch the breath tumble from him. Relieved. 

“And where do you belong?” You ask him, tipping your chin up a little, a slight challenge, a glint in your clever eyes. 

Bucky laughs, quick and short, just a burst. It’s rasping, small, like he needs to relearn the sound. It makes Steve’s head turn because he doesn’t know the last time he’s heard it.

“I don’t know.” He tells you but his eyes are sparkling, sapphire and heaven blue, as if he might find where he belongs in your eyes. “I don’t know anymore.” 

“The wilderness welcomes all untempered and lost things.” You say with a smile, just before Wanda splashes over to you, grabs you by the hands and pulls you back up into the bubbling, joyful creek. 

You kick around in it, the bottom of your skirts soaking through, even as you lift them to reveal ankles, the curve of your calves. And you keep looking back at him, smiling and tossing your head back to laugh. 

Like you’re trying to show him what happiness looks like, what mischief and play looks like with your fox-quick and cunning remarks. Like you’re trying to show him how to shed the heavy weight off his shoulders. 

But all he’s thinking about is how if he could, he’d keep you here, where you’re happiest, where you’re safest and warmest and most free. Where you can scream and shout and kick and the whole world doesn’t have to know, just you and him, the ones who love you, and that ferocious wilderness. 

***

He dreams of you that night, in peach light, sugar sweet and soft. You lay him down in the lush grass, the birds sing overhead, flying in circles. Your head is crowned in a wreath of flowers, strung together and tangled into your very being. Your eyes are fever bright when you crawl atop him.

You’re bare and rose-damp, petals sticking to your skin. Your lips are bee-stung and pouting, your nails digging into his shoulders, “Bucky, it hurts.” You whimper, your hips sliding over his. And he can feel you, slick and wanting and aching--

He coos to you, touches your inflamed cheek, brushes a petal from your skin. He thinks you look like one of the old goddesses, when the land was free, his feral spring angel. Burning too bright, too hot. He knows what you need, what he can give you. 

You shudder and your petals wilt and fall and flutter down around him. They rot, and fall apart. You grow pale in color to his eyes, waning before him. 

You lean over him and you’re cold now, shaking, “Are you going to lead me into the cold?” You ask him, soft and shivering. You’re trying to warm yourself but he’s all ice and metal and winter. 

No good for a summer child, for your wild-spring heart. 

“Into death?” You ask, your lips turning blue. He tries to grasp at you, to keep you together. Begs you not to cry, even as your tears freeze to your cheek. But every touch that he gives worsens you, makes you sick and frigid and rotting. 

“You told me to follow you!” You cry, “You took me away and I trusted you!” 

“I-I’m sorry--”

Blooming, brilliant red suddenly slices across your neck. A cut, quick and small, but you--

You start dripping sizzling hot blood onto his bare chest, gagging, choking on your final words, “You were supposed to take care of me!” 

He wakes with a start, a gasp. Nightmares are not new to him. But still, this one shudders through him, makes him curl tight to his pillow, bury his face there and wish he could find peace in the darkness once more.    

***

The bonfire roars, dancing high into the plum evening. You sit between Wanda’s legs, leaning back against her chest, with her arms tight around you. You’re warmed by the flames, content on the quilt you’d brought. Natasha and Sam pass around moonshine in a jar, share it between Bucky and Steve and each other. 

It’s not lost on you that you and Wanda are near the center, surrounded, guarded by the group of Alphas. But they’re in good spirits, and you are, too. An evening of leisure and talking and laughing. You like their kind eyes, you like their attention. You like the way the evening sky begins to bloom into darkened blue, peppering the sky with wonderful stars. 

Which makes you jolt upright, right out of Wanda’s arms, stops her from combing through your hair. “It’s getting late.” You say suddenly, “I need to get home for my father.” 

“I’ll take you back,” Bucky offers, offers his hands to help you stand. His metal one is ungloved, gleaming gold from the flames of the fire. 

You take it easily, slide your hands into his and realize you don’t want to let go. “What about Wanda?” You ask, your fingers brushing his palms. 

“I’ll take her home.” Natasha offers and you look to Wanda, who nods her acceptance as well. Wanda stands then, too. Brushes her cheek and lips to yours in a parting kiss before you are guided by Bucky to his own horse.

He hoists you up easily, even though you don’t need his help. His fingers digging into your waist, palms rough and soft on the curves of you. It makes you flush darkly, just as you tell him, “I don’t need your help.” 

He hoists himself up now, too, settling behind you. He’s a strong presence, warm and sturdy. If you wanted, you could lean back into him, into his muscled chest and arms. You think about what he’d do-- if he’d fit you closer, let you rest while he carried you home. You feel tired, sated and exhausted in a good way. It’d be easy, so easy, to lean back into him. 

Maybe if you were a different girl. 

Regardless, his scent is strong and surrounding you now, pine and evergreen. The hint of metal and lower notes of musk and cotton. It’s a comfort, lulling and soft, whether you want to admit or not.

“I know,” He says, huffs a little, “Just trying to be a gentleman.” 

He kicks his horse into a trot, easy and simple and in the direction of your farm. You’re careful to keep any distance that you can between you two, which is difficult, with his arms around you, holding the reigns. But you lean forward slightly, keep your hands in front of you. 

“I’m not some damsel.” You counter, “I’m not some proper lady you need to be polite with.” You say as you glance back at him, over your shoulder and he’s right there. His nose could brush your cheek, you can see each of his lashes. 

And the moment you’ve said those words, you realize how they might be taken. Heat overcomes you, burns through you. 

“No?” He asks and his eyes have gotten darker, hypnotizing. You should turn back, face forward and try to get your heart to stop beating so hard and quick. 

But you don’t and your eyes glance to his lips, the briefest flash, before you blink, and realize the way he’s looking down at you. Like he’s hungry and waiting, wolf’s eyes, raw and dangerous and ready to sink teeth into the vulnerable place of your neck that would forever then mark you as his. 

Panic seizes through you and you quickly face forward, become hyper aware of the bareness of your throat to him. “No, and I’m not some Omega that’s gonna go all soft for you, either.” You snap, even as embarrassment floods through you, your cheeks and neck growing warm.  Your shoulders raise defensively, as if you could keep him from all those bare, vulnerable parts of you.

Bucky cocks his head slightly, studies the back of your head, your defensive posture. He sighs and shakes his head slightly, the breath fanning onto your nape. He thinks of his dream, of you soft and crawling atop him. And to temper it, he quickly thinks of the rest, of the blood and rot of it all. 

“Never said you were.” He gets out and it’s tight, unsure. He doesn’t know how to talk to you.

“Then don’t--” You start, slam your mouth shut, take in a sharp breath. “Don’t look at me like that.” You hush back and you look over your shoulder at him once more. 

“Like what?” Bucky asks, but he knows and he can smell the pungent flowery scent of you now. He ticks an eyebrow, suddenly curious, suddenly wishing he could just bury his nose in your hair. At your neck. 

“You know what,” You hiss back, but for some reason your scent only gets more honeyed. It emboldens him, then, knowing that you’re not scared of him. Not at all. And it’s just you two and the soft trot of hooves upon the earth. All the world seems to be slipping into sleep, the night creatures stretching, shaking off their sleep to wake. 

“No, I don’t.” Bucky says then, slow, measured, “Why don’t you tell me, honey?” 

You bristle now, though, and even if there’s not a change in your scent, he knows he’s pushing it. 

“I’m not your honey.” You tell him and there’s this little growl in your words, this little temper that really makes his blood pump hot and wild. Some part of him croons, some part of you does, too. 

And he shouldn’t, he absolutely shouldn’t, but he murmurs all low, “But you smell just like it. Like flowers and honey and sticky citrus.” 

Your stomach swoops low, dangerous and tantalizing. Your pupils have gone all wide, like little dark moons that he gets lost in for a moment before he looks back up at the horizon. You don’t know what to say, and he then asks, soft, unsure, “You want me to stop?” His hands tighten slightly on the reigns, the metal one moving slow, one finger at a time. “Say the word and I’ll shut it.” He tells you earnestly. 

You blink again, unsure, dizzy. You know you shouldn’t continue, you know you should snap at him and you want to, but in some new and foreign way. You want to bare your teeth and growl, just not in anger anymore. 

You want him to give chase, to work harder. He’s gotta earn this. 

“No,” You say quietly, and the stars are twinkling down upon you now with all their inferno. And then you say with a little bit of bite, a challenge, “But it’s gonna take more than some pretty words, Barnes.” 

A slight smile curls at the corner of his lips. 

“I don’t know,” He muses now, feeling lighter than he has in ages, feeling like himself finally, “You seemed to like it plenty just now.” 

Your elbow sharply jabs backwards, into his abdomen. He yelps slightly, which turns into this choked little laugh that sets your heart fluttering. That makes you laugh, too.

“Hellcat,” He laughs, hunching close to you, “Wild thing,” He calls you and you finally lean back into it, into that warmth of him,“Sly girl.” He murmurs and his arms settle around your hips more. 

Your farm settles into sight, becoming larger with each moment until Bucky is helping you off his horse, setting you back onto your feet. He walks you to your door, hands respectfully behind his back, ducking his head to show you he’s done playing. And you’re about to turn around, maybe give him another feisty remark, when you notice the front door open once more. 

You stop and Bucky nearly runs into you before he pauses and notices, too. He grows wary, his scent sharpening into metal and winter. Cold. Distant.

Something is wrong. You can feel it down into the horrible depths of you.

And you rush forward before you can think, rush right into the darkness. You shove open the door, let it fly so it slams against the door and the sight before you doesn’t quite register for a moment.

There’s blood; on the floor, on the walls, it’s everywhere, dripping like red oil on the old wood. It’s shining in that hollow moonlight, in the cold, empty starlight. Your eyes trace the trail of it, your heart dropping, stomach rolling painfully until they follow it to the source.

Your father sits in his chair in the kitchen, bent at an odd and horrible angle. His throat is slit, the cut opening up all the innards of his throat. He’s limp and pale and staring endlessly at you with wide eyes, with a wide, crooked mouth that gapes open. Slack and empty and lifeless. 

You stutter, a scream bubbling, clawing its way from deep within your gut and into your throat. It starts as you stumble forward, into the blood, towards him like you might put him back together again. 

But before a sound can even come out, a hand is wrapped tight around your mouth. Bucky’s body is shoved against yours, his other arm coming down hard and quick to band him to you, to drag you backwards. 

“Don’t look,” He’s hissing into your ear, his fingers digging into your cheek, “Don’t look, don’t look, just shut your eyes!” But you’re sobbing behind his hand already and he knows you saw, he knows he didn’t spare you from that trauma. He hushes you quickly, sharply, dragging you backwards because he knows--

He knows who's here. He can feel it the same way he can feel a storm brewing. 

He hauls you, kicking and fighting and sobbing and screaming in his arms back outside. “We need to go,” Bucky says to you, low and repeatedly, trying to get you to hear him through it all. 

“C’mon, c’mon, I’m gonna get you out of here.” He says and he can feel the bone deep sobs of you, feel them splitting his heart, tearing it seamlessly. He can feel his voice getting choked, grinding his teeth together as he says, “I promise I’m gonna get you out of here.” 

And the moment he does, a shadow slithers from somewhere in the house and into the doorway. 

Rumlow’s face is illuminated with a cold cut of moonlight. 

Your sobs turn into howling, into screeches of anger and violence and pain. 

“Barnes,” Rumlow says, “I believe you’re taking what’s mine.” And he leisurely steps onto the porch. He’s covered in blood, your father’s blood, glinting crimson and black in the night. 

Bucky’s eyes go cold and hard, his muscles tighten around you instinctively. But he says in your ear, hard and stern. A command, “Go to the horse. Get out of here. Get to Steve or Sam or Natasha.” 

And then he shoves you in that direction, behind him. He stands between you and Rumlow and you can barely think, can barely get passed the way your body shudders and wracks with more sobs. You breathe hard, ragged, stumble slightly. 

“Go!” Bucky shouts, jarring you, just as Rumlow pulls out a gun. 

You scream again, hands flying to your mouth, just as Bucky rushes forward and collides with Rumlow’s stomach. A shot is fired into the air, loud and cracking and horrible. It misses, somewhere behind you, and then goes clattering onto the ground, skittering through the dirt.

Bucky and Rumlow start grappling, the violence of bare, raw fighting. Of bone to bone, until there’s the sickening crunch of metal on bone. 

You hear it break something in Rumlow, hear him howl before getting a burst of anger, of strength, and shoving Bucky off of him, sending him tumbling hard into the earth. 

You and Rumlow look at the gun at the same time. Then at each other. 

You race for it, fast, nimble, desperate. 

You slide in the dirt, grip it firm in your hand and take aim, fire quick just as Rumlow nears. 

It clips his shoulder. The bang making your teeth sing. Your ears ring. Bucky hauls you up once more, drags you fast to the horse as Rumlow stumbles up, too. But he gets you on the horse, swings himself over, too and doesn’t wait to be situated when he kicks his horse into a gallop. 

He presses on hard and fast, one arm banding tight around you, as if you might fall right off if he doesn’t hold you. 

And he takes you from your farm, from the place you’ve grown up your whole life and leads you into the darkness.

Into the black of night, the shadows you’ve dreamed of, with your stomach sick and your throat shredded raw.

[artdjgblog]

Innerview: ​Sonya Baughman​ / Review Magazine​

July 2008

Image: DJG's "Live & Let Die" Record by Paul McCartney & Wings

Note: Interview for a magazine feature.​

01) Where did you grow up and where do you live now? My young cloth diapers treaded a lot of dirt, dead animal and doggy acres in the North Central stick regions of Missouri, Mid-West, USA. Currently, adult plastic diapers drag and sag me in mid-town Kansas City, MO. The first six years had me bucking bales, falling off hay wagons, piercing my cheek on a hay bale stinger, assisting with the old cow stuck in the mud, designing elaborate tunnels and forts from tomato cages, watching “The Muppets” and “Star Wars” a lot, hearing scary stories of Leopard Man, posing for many pictures with dead and live animals, rocking out in cowboy boots to “Live & Let Die” on my Papa Smurf guitar, and crying at night to my raccoon wallpaper…among many other early formative brain tattoos. Act Two had many dry summers and the bank repossessing the farm and moving us to the home and acres where my Dad grew up. The new place had a blacktop in front of it and a gravel lane with a bridge/creek. The blacktop was a reservoir for leaving behind summertime shoe and bike impressions and for popping tar bubbles in the blistering heat. I also was of age to really explore and build many forts and treehouses in the ditches, barns and woods. Also, I started to go hunting and spend time in the fields with my Dad. We never had a shortage of animals and pets too. A lot of spare time was also spent in the sandbox or in the bedroom designing and building things based on what I saw and experienced. There was also a massive in-take of drawing and pop-culture from comics, books, music, television and movies. There wasn’t much of a cap on what my siblings and I could devour. Oh, and loads of sugary sweets and cereals. Go thr​ough the yearly motions and I end up at Southwest Missouri State University in Springfield, MO. There I got some very formal education and incredible interaction with students and design professors from the great making thing ways of Eastern Europe and Russia. I pretty much maxed out my art and design class card and was even making a ton of design work on the side for musicians. I then received a higher calling to drop out of school and make my guts out in Kansas City, MO which is where I’ve flopped around now for the past seven years. 02) Talk a little about your artistic background. Are you self-taught, did you go to college for art (if so, where)? My background is painted with loads of pop-culture from the 1980s and ’90s mixed in with the soil of farm life. I also designed and built many elaborate tree houses and forts up until the age of eighteen and spent most any spare minute in the sandbox or locked in my room drawing, reading, studying, video game playing, movie watching and just playing in general. I’ve never understood people’s ability to get bored or to not use the creation within them to ooze life out. I’ve enjoyed drawing comics, sports mascots and WWII battle scenes with my Dad at a young age that involved aircraft carriers, tanks and flags of those involved in conflict. My older brother would also draw a lot with me. He was better though. My younger sister and brother were pretty solid too. We have no idea where our creativity came from other than a great uncle, maybe? Also in my youth I would make giant collages out of magazine clippings and lots of mix tapes of Dr. Demento’s bizarre radio program and recorded and memorized many a variety of cartoon episodes and cool shows like Pee​-w​ee’s Playhouse. I’ve also been a constant collector all my life. Back in the day I was all about the whole spectrum of toys, comics, ball cards, cereal boxes and loads of other junk…even kept dead animal parts under my bed. In the fifth grade I won a county wide logo contest for a skating and bowling fun center and it was the first time I realized disappointment with design as my logo was butchered by those higher-up. In middle-school up until my junior year of high school I studied more comics, logos, sports architecture and wanted desperately to design new-vintage baseball stadiums until the realization of my poor math skills hit like a ton of collapsed buildings. I even won a Kansas City Royals baseball essay contest. Getting made fun of daily in high school stunk, but it really fueled my work ethic, dreams and caused me to lock up in my bedroom at night. Though, I still wish I would have worked harder in my youth. I still really enjoy working hard and being alone to this day. In the summer of 1996 I was selected to attend the first ever Missouri Fine Arts Academy and learned that I had more to offer with my insides and got a chance to interact with more likeminded minds. I came back to my senior year of high school with notebooks of typographic graffiti designs and a whole new language of what I thought was the art world. There was also a new art teacher at my school and he was serious and seriously cool and recognized that I had something to offer. I also came back to my senior year with more confidence in expressing myself and decided to dive into the world of graphic design for my post-high school studies. I had no idea what I was going to really do with it, but I knew I just wanted to use my gift of making stuff for the rest of my life. And graphic design somehow promised a bit more security in money than going the fine art route. Though, I’ve now managed to merge the two and to still not make any money. My high school scores had me at number 12 out of 24 in my class and I scraped the bottom of the test barrels to get me into college. Southwest Missouri State University in Springfield, MO said I could come and so I did. They were the only institution I applied for and I had liked it from my three week stay at Fine Arts Academy the previous year. College was great, but I could tell quickly that I wasn’t a top art pup like I was in my small school way back down the line. I was with the bigger dogs now. I struggled with drawing classes because I realized that I wasn’t as good as I had been told I was for the previous eighteen years. That was a set-back and I still wish to this day I would have worked harder at drawing. But, mostly I have trouble drawing in a cramped room with a ton of people breathing down my neck and at certain times of the day. The introduction and foundation art classes were more my calling and I could take the stuff home and work alone and all night. Most of my friends complained because they couldn’t wait until sophomore year when we would be on the computer for design. I didn’t really understand what I was getting into with graphic design. In fact, one day I exclaimed to my friends that I was taking the graphic design route that didn’t use computers and was entirely hands-on. They thought I was pretty insane for saying that and pretty much called me a fool. It’s kind of funny now though. I was so naïve at 18 and 19 to what the formal graphic design world was and I think I still am ten years later. Back when I was more bushy-tailed, I just wanted to make things and cut stuff out and not chain up to a computer…and I guess I’m still bushy-tailed, though I have a computer and use it mostly as a tool. When I finally did get placed in front of a computer, it was a struggle and I just couldn’t get into it and past the screen barrier. It almost stopped me from majoring in graphic design. But, we weren’t on the computer all the time as we were taught to conceptualize and to think and to be hands-on too. But, we needed to know the computer too. I just couldn’t get along with the computer for the longest time. Of course, the computer whiz kids just couldn’t wait for the next semester that involved a wordy world called typography. Which, naively enough I thought was about the art of map making. I liked maps, so I was excited too. But, I soon found out it was a whole new world that would poison the ABCs in me forever…good and bad. At least in type class we were still taught to think and do things by hand before messing with computer fonts. That first year or two of official design school was just terrible for me as I felt I wasn’t really “getting” it and didn’t think I would be happy as a graphic designer. I was just fulfilling project requirements and with zero heart or much care. It wasn’t until I haphazardly signed up to duel major in illustration that things started to make music inside of me. I began to really pour myself out and realize that I could approach things in a similar light as to when I was a child and be happy. Illustration saved me and I found my voice with it and my classmates and instructors started noticing. The energy there was great and everybody fed off of each other and helped each other see in new light(s). I also began to understand the valuable importance of the experience of my schooling as the instructors not only had a unique style of teaching, but they also had interesting backgrounds and culture from Eastern Europe and Russia. I could mildly relate to them as I was a transplant from the foreign farm world of North Missouri. After many design trips to studios I began to feel a very empty feeling with the profession I had chosen to represent my working life. It was not what I wanted to do with a “career”, or my time. I didn’t wish to work in a factory of fried monitor goo-lash. I wanted to just make stuff and at my own pace and pleasure. I was also very protective of my work and wanted parental rights and not for it to belong to another man’s name or dream. My love for music started to fuse with design and I began to start making many things on the side for musicians, which spread to other types of word-of-mouth work for me. An eye-popping lecture by modern rock poster designer Art Chantry sealed my personal deal for wanting to do my own thing. Shortly after that I decided I needed to change many gears in my life and secretly drop out of school following my final design class in the fall of 2001 and live with a band (and some) in a big old dilapidated orange house behind the original Lamar’s Donuts in Kansas City, MO. While some senior students had trouble looking for one real world client to work with for their final projects, I had close to 10 off the top of my head and whole bunch of future blank pages to fill. 03) During the time you have been making art have you always been drawn to this type of graphic expression? Did you “find” a style or did a style find you? I’d say a bit of both. I’ve never really gone for a set “style”. I’m sure that I’ve got one that has become recognizable to my thumb prints. Honestly, I never really think too hard about what I’m making or the why or how of the making until I have to answer questions like this. Then I start to over-think things. Also, whenever I’m told that I’m a good collagist or good at hand type or so-and-so rendering, then that is the only time I really make an effort to switch gears. I have boiled the majority of my output to be relational to the immediacy of my moods, thoughts, tickles, inclination and whatevers. Though, sometimes life can get in the way and I’ll have to slide down a small sliver of time and energy depletion, like I am with trying to get this writing out on time! But, I’m a big fan of cranking stuff out no matter what. Life is pretty darn short to sit on my hands. It seems that style can be a bit of a drag for some people and/or a hole. I’ve always been more in-tune to the folks who just follow what their gut, heart, hands and eyes speak instead of creating a set template. Some people never stray too far from that and only a few can truly get away with it. Edward Gorey is perhaps one of the few who could really make it work for me. I would certainly love to draw and think as well as he did, but I might be quite miserable doing the same thing over and over even if I was able to do it for a living. I think that a lot of people get confused and think they need to have a style and either invent one or pick other people’s noses instead of sniffing what they’ve been wearing all their life. Style to me is a lot like decorating or something. Though, at the same time that decoration might marriage perfectly to what somebody thinks they need. I don’t know though. Sometimes I think it’s funny when we as people think we need something to look or feel a certain way that’s already been communicated or visualized. I think that sometimes we are too caught up in what’s done before instead of thinking for ourselves. I’m guilty too. What’s really confusing to me, on a personal level, is when I get a request like, “We like all your work so make whatever you want!” and then the client ends up being really disappointed because it wasn’t in their “style” and then it’s awkward. Style is just an odd thing to me. But, most things are. I try to just trust my gutty heart and just make. 04) Do you see your work as communicating your identity or as helping to communicate the identity and message of others? … or both? I see it as me communicating what I’ve gathered from being on the Earth for 29 ½ years and spreading that manure the best I can. It’s a heaping helping to tell the story of others by telling my story. Most of my work fits into fine art and design, at least I’m always told that. I’m not really sure. Of late I’ve been pushing into more of the fine art bin. But, I’m not a big fan of labeling things and I would like to do many things with this thing I do. With design, one does have a role to play with helping somebody else tell their story, and at times, sell their story. There is also a responsibility to the venue the product is in or where it will eventually end up, whether a fine package on a shelf or a poster in the gutter. I feel it can be easy for a designer to lose perspective of the role playing. With leaving behind an identity…well, I like the idea of a paper trail, time-line and bruising thumb prints on this life. However, I don’t necessarily have the intent to say “Hey, look at me.” I am just another human, and one who happens to make things. If the work speaks or inspires (probably frightens and confuses on occasion), then that means a lot to me, especially in these fast-paced and flashy “everyone’s a designer-decorator” times with millions of images and advertisements everywhere. I think it’s great to recognize and at times celebrate gifts and achievement. But, I feel there needs to be a healthy balance. It can be a dangerous thing to play with at times. Some artists I feel become the work of art themselves and end up playing God with the gift and this saddens me as it usually ruins them in the long run. 05) Is there anything about your geographic location that has given you a unique perspective on design and the art you create? Certainly, growing up country might have my visions at a stranger advantage, and a howling merge to that with the city life now. You might see a lot of wonderfully strange things on the streets of the city due to the amount of activity by varieties of people and culture. But, only in small town Missouri do the deer pile up outside the meat locker and blood runs next door to the Baptist church as the high school band splash-marches through it. Growing up it was easy to take my lifestyle for granted. I enjoyed it immensely, but when I was 15 to 18 I wanted to get out a bit more. I was hungry to explore, and not just the many acres we lived on. I wanted the rest of the world. I became a little disgruntled with growing up country and I think that there is a certain stereotype placed upon people anywhere they are, but country folk get it pretty bad. I definitely ate from both sides of the fence, but also didn’t want to be hung up in it for a living. As I grow older I appreciate my roots a lot more and celebrate them and am very thankful. I enjoy going back home. And some day I’d like to move outside of the city to a small plot of land with a making things shack out back. But, my family home isn’t too far down the road for a getaway weekend visit to sit with the stars, coyote yips and fish. 06) What do you consider influences on your art? (this can be other artists, music, philosophy, nature – anything. this question is not just limited to “I’m a big fan of Banksy”) First thing, I believe in the compiling of all days in life to influence an artist’s output (horse apples or clean streets). Our walks tell a lot about who we are in the present prints. I feel that one would be lying to me if what they created was not in their full vision. But, I too think that we all wear and share influences as witnesses to what we’ve seen and where we’ve been. We all help shape each other. I’ve rattled off my early influences of popular culture. I think I’m more in-tune with my child’s self now than I was then as I sit alone and make things and pull from all my days. It’s also easy to feel that I was really moving and discovering more back then with naïve, childlike faith that I’m trying to get back now. I have some good days though and mostly when I’m not thinking too much. I’m still a fan of absorbing lots of things and from many angles. Of course I have my artistic influences. One of my big influences as a child was my Grandma Gibson. She is from the old school of the country and a very hands-on person with making many things like clothing, dead animal backpacks, blankets, pillows, fridge magnets and game board pieces. I still have a lot of the things from those years. I think a lot of my approach to making things came from her. My “professional” art world as a kid had an outside knowledge from trips to museums and PBS specials, though I felt a little detached from that world and still kind of do. My heroes were at the movies because they were more immediate to me, guys like Jim Henson, Stan Winston, Dr. Indiana Jones, Rambo and Han Solo. But, it was Henson’s world that opened me up to the first idea of an artist’s legacy, vision and spirit and glimpse of another world. Something big-time ached in my decade old gut the day I found out he passed away. Musically speaking I was very much a child of my Mom’s Beatles records, “oldies” music and a ton of television theme songs, novelty sing-alongs and old church songs. I still put a lot through my ears now and my biggest influences in music in my older years are Bruce Springsteen, Jeff Buckley, Elliott Smith and Bob Dylan. Also, I am still a big fan of tons of picture books and just anything really. I just know that I’ve never had bare space on the walls and shelves of my home and head. Oh, and wherever I am I’m usually distracted by the stuff on the ground. I’m a big collector of found notes, writings, scribbles, addresses, children’s drawings and good-bad-silly-stupid-smart designs. I like to collect ‘em all. I’ve also collected stamps since I was 10. I’m a big nerd. Here’s a listing of some names in the art and design canon who have made things that either attracted, influenced or moved me in some ways (in no particular order): Saul Steinberg, Seymour Chwast and Push Pin, Lester Beall, Edward Gorey, Ray Johnson, Art Chantry, Henryk Tomaszewski, Vaughn Olver and V23, Raymond Pettibon, Paul Klee, Stanley Donwood, Stefan Sagmeister, Cy Twombly, Saul Bass, Ivan Chermayeff, Ralph Steadman, Robert Rauschenberg, Jean Michel-Basquiat…most anybody who has something to say and develops a bad back carving out their paper trail. Movies are also a giant influence on my work and I study them almost daily. Some of the filmmakers who capture a certain craft of unique spirit that I enjoy include P.T. Anderson, Wes Anderson, Michel Gondry and the Coen Brothers. Folk Art is another big mind-blow and one of my favorite areas to study and get ticked by the of-the-moment heart, purity and passion. I love the idea of somebody just up and making something for the heck of it and not for art’s or ego’s sake. That’s the childlike thing I miss the most. The makers and shakers that move me the most from the folk art movement are Henry Darger, Bill Traylor and Robert E. Smith. And sometimes I get more out of the work on display in county and state fairs by everyday arts and crafters than so-called “professional” art and design work. 07) What is your perspective on the place of poster art here in the Midwest (or KC specifically) as it interacts with the rest of the art community and how the poster art coming out of this community may be perceived on a more national level? I’m curious about this because of the recognition Kansas City artists in general have been receiving lately on a national and international scale and how the art world tends to waffle between interest and disinterest in artists in this region. The music scene here is very interesting to me and a lot of times I think that it is just like 20 people all making it happen. Though, there is a lot of talent, diversity and genre-bending for a small town like this. There are a lot of groups making a mark here and down the highways, same with the people making stuff for them. Though, I get a little strange sometimes because I sometimes feel that the small scene mixed with the internet’s social networks and fewer record stores (oh, and most of my posters take up a whole bulletin board!) makes the poster almost secondary information and so-so decoration. In the same thought though, most of the stuff I see on the internet passes by me in a two-second window like that of highway advertising. Though, some do stick out to me because I’m always on the look to get tickled. And I don’t feel the art of the printed piece will die any time soon. Anyway, the scene just works here in Kansas City somehow and everybody takes care of and appreciates each other’s roles and contributions. I’ve had some great response to what I’m slapping up, but at the same time I think that a lot of people don’t get it. What’s not to get, it’s not too special? But, that’s fine with me. I’m not sure where I am in the scene. Maybe more-so in the “seen” department with my meager budgeted work hanging above a stool in the blurry-eyed late hours. I still think that toilets are one the best places for information gathering. Poster art in general in the last ten years alone has received a great breath of fresh air. Many of the makers are respected within a small collective, and have also been breaking through to represent on a national level of design aesthetic, as well as a well-rounded view of the printed timeline to life and culture. It’s also something that anybody can do and a lot of bands still just make their own stuff, which I’m cool and whatever with it. Everybody has their own style, agenda and empty pockets. But, the personal computer has saturated the landscape with a lot of “samey”. Then again, if it works, it works. In the end if it gets people interested and enthused, then what is there for a bum like me to complain about? And sometimes I really get a kick out of unskilled design stuff(s). I try to stay out of design politics for the most part. There is more to life than design dogma. Though, there is design all around us as we interact with it in every way from the tip-top of a tree to a paper scrap for this article. I enjoy the simple act of creation and inspiration that comes from something that seems like nothing, yet has always been a “something” growing and building and will continue to grow if the viewer lets it do so. You just have to add the proper mix of ingredients, I guess. And I guess my brain isn’t one to formerly function on the full realization to what it’s thinking. So, I’m babbling right now. I do know that something I’ve always enjoyed about the concert poster is the relatively short life span it has and how that can be used to the advantage. I just want to encourage people out there, designers/artists, non designers/artists or even church secretaries, to really push things and work harder. I don’t really care if everyone isn’t versed in design and art. In general I just encourage more to experiment with poster art, find your voice(s) and find new ways to spread the good word. Even if it’s not for a concert or an event, just make something and get it out there. Throw your junk off the overpasses if need be. 08) How has your work been received within the arts community here (and also in other geographic regions if you have been branching out)? For seven years now I’ve somehow managed to remain fairly anonymous and at the same time have sparkled a bit of attention…maybe just a glittering. Life and day job dwindle my hours to where it’s hard to even pay attention on my own stuff sometimes, so I don’t get out much here in the city. Though, I guess it is easier to keep up with things on the internet, papers and here-say. I think Kansas City is making her own dent right now with a wide variety of things going on in the arts landscape. The town is kind of booming and bustling right now. Being that we’re a small town, it’s easy for a small fish to get more wet feet. Though, I’ve never put my whole foot into anything. I just do my thing. Some days I’m not really sure what that thing is, but I do it despite my muck. When I first started on my design quest, like when anyone tackles something head-on, I was head-over-heels and not sleeping much. I was also living with bands and interacting more and actually going to shows several times a week. I don’t know how I did it without exhausting my ticker, but for some reason it all worked. I started to garner a little bit of buzz here that seemed to spread quick outside the state and international borders. Many people contact me from all over and slap my stuff alongside some of my design favorites in magazines and books. It’s a hoot. People are always interested in my story and creations. It’s all still really odd and blushing to me in some light that the little things I make are reaching a selective audience on a much grander scale. Anyway, I’ve certainly learned now that sleep is important and that it’s better for me to work smarter, not harder. Though, that’s not entirely the truth as I still work pretty darn hard and I believe in it greatly. Still, I’ve struggled with my own brand of discontent since I fell from a slide and blacked-out at the age of five. It’s something that I’m working and wrangling with. But, with any kind of actual work you’ve studied, worked hard with and duct taped up the switch with 24-7, you learn to just not think and rather DO and the moves become mechanical. I just have to put to use different types of oil to keep from rusting. It all becomes a fluid thing, or something constantly coming down on me in the grocery aisle, tree leave holes and side walk crack scribbles. It can be challenging when life stuff gets in the way, but I shouldn’t see it as getting in the way. I easily get confused, but then I realize that the things I experience and see and do (good-bad) all go into my design pot mixed with my past and then I just have to do the upchucking as I move forward and I tend to feel better. Recently I’ve definitely stepped back on my massive production of concert posters and I’m sure that many people reading this will think, “Geesh, I don’t think I’ve ever even seen this idiot’s work?” Not only has my life changed in some ways, but I also had to give myself permission to take a time out and to learn to say no to some things. A break was needed before burnout and bitter rotted my worms in the apple, among other things. I had a year of little activity and practiced sitting on my nest. I still made a bunch of stuff, but a lot just for me. I’ve also been involved in various group art shows around the country, design books and special art projects with friends spread about. Another thing I did, and still do, is just to see what other avenues I’d like to take my one man show. I’m learning to use the internet for the medium that it is too. Anyway, I’ve always got some stew samples back burning, but my biggest competition is myself…on top of time, energy and money. Mostly myself, as I’ve always been extremely hard on myself. Though, I’ve been told I make it look easy. I’ve never been good at math, so you go figure. I get exhausted from trying to figure this out. 09) Is artwork your main profession and, if not, are you intending to make it so? It’s really flattering and kind of sad when every spring I get more and more inquiries from freshly plucked and talented college students about a possible internship or job with DJG Design. In general, due to what most think to be a large and varied output of work, people who don’t know what I’m about think that there is a D, a J and a G making things. It always excites me to be contacted by enthused students and other design people (any walks of life, really) who saw something or connected to my work and got a spark. It makes me rosey, but it also keeps me a little down as I don’t make enough money to do this full-time. But, it all keeps me at my little basement bay working on my bad back and poor eye sight, keeps me (under)grounded in some ways. I’ve always worked full-time jobs and have been married now for three years. So, certain responsibilities come with walking hand-in-hand with another. For now I just spin the day job blues and try to stay content and disciplined, burning the fuel before and after work. But, age is setting in a bit and I’m getting antsy. I also grow tired easier. Good things do come out of day jobs, good design work does too. For the first four or five years I was a janitor and groundskeeper. So, loads of perks came from great finds, discards, dumpster dives and lots of free food and more time to read and study and draw. Heck, I even designed a few posters between clock punches. Currently my position has me staring at a computer doing data entry. The health care, artificial air and hours are great and I can walk out my back door and be there in seven minutes. But, it can be difficult to know that I’m sitting and squandering something back home. I do take it with me everywhere upstairs, and I do a bit of networking during the day time, but there is still that itch to make things full-time and not have a full plate of non-stop. It’s all hard to balance. But, making things is the only thing that I’m told that I’m somewhat good at. Well, other than eating junk food, watching movies, being confused and petting my four kitty cats. I am fast approaching thirty and the visual of time stacking is more evident than ever. Each space between second hand clicks is another scratch of tiny pine box to me. I am slowly checking off my list of “Before 30 Goals”, but I’m usually several cars back and sometimes it’s a pileup. Life takes a different course too. But, I have caught back a hold of a torch of some sort. I am constantly tacking up side boards to the wagon. After eight years of looking at Gigposters.com, I finally have ALL of my poster work up on there. It’s a great way to generate exposure and get my work out some more. I also have my new website up and an extensive volume of imagery on my Flickr.com account. It can be a bit odd to put one’s self out there in such a reservoir fashion, but I do like the idea of the timeline and personal file cabinet. And if my house burns down, it’s all digitized and makes it easier on my friends when they have to move me. So, day jobs…they are both blah and bling in my mind. My sling shots just point back at me on certain days. Sometimes they change direction with every sentence. At least I’m now under a thousand dollars on my student loans. I don’t make a thousand dollars in most years on design. 10) Tell me a story – have you had any strange poster requests? A project where you just about lost it? A poster that succeeded beyond expectations or failed in a way that took you totally by surprise? A project-situation-chaos that always sticks out when I’m asked a question like this happened to me back in June of 2002. It’s not a poster, but it’s pretty whacky and ended up being one of the best things that I think I’ll ever make. It was a special run of 250 homemade CD packages for the band Elevator Division. I’ve had many projects that demand more production time than my little brain imagines, but this one was the worst. Actually, the finished piece is a lot tamer than my initial idea. Though, the final image’s concept married to what the band was communicating on the disc inside is way better. The following true story I’ve released for a previous interview, I just tweaked a few glitches… The idea came at the night I started printing. Well, actually it was spray paint. I had an image made for a month or more and then changed it at the last stroke of inspiration. It married the themes for the album “Whatever Makes You Happy” perfectly. With reflections of war and relationships in the songs, I made an image of a hand shooting off its index finger like a missile. It was the idea of shooting off one’s options and making decisions. It was aggressive, inviting, serious and humorous all in one. It was not only fitting for the band/music but also to the national/world agenda and climate. I went to war that night with many cans of spray paint and the idiot mind to do two-hundred and fifty all in one massive sweep, and in my basement, which is something I will never do again because I could have died. I will probably also never be involved with another package like this again (take that back, I have been). Anyway, each one was hand-cut from cardboard and handmade stencil sprayed and rubber stamped. Inserts were cut, folded and glued. At the last mist of red spray a crack of thunder shook the massive turn-of-the-century home and I bolted from the basement and out the front door to a down poor fit for Noah himself. I was like a much less cool version of Dr. Frankenstein though. I leapt off the front porch and slid head first down the embankment and into the street turned river current. But, like a taxidermy nightmare, I was born again. The drug dealing squatters across the street were on their front step perch per usual summer evening, looking at the fire in my eyes and the red paint streaming from ears, nose and mouth. It was a high much higher than that of chemical substance. Well, maybe a three pack of design, life and paint fumes. 11) What is it about the poster as an art form that you feel is unique among other art forms? What purpose does it serve in your mind that can’t be served by another type of visual art? I’ve hinted at this in a previous question. I like the idea of the poster’s life-span being short, relative to the date and time…event, whatever. But, if it connects in the right way, and it can be different for everyone as art-design-whatever, is all relative to the viewer, I think that even a concert poster’s impact can last a long time. Since my first year in Kansas City I’ve had people find me out and say that they had a bedroom wall filled up ​with​ my work. It really moved me that something so simple (and sometimes stupid) that I squeezed out caused somebody else to be moved enough to hang it above their dreams at night. It means a lot to me when others get something out of something I’ve made. I know from child to adult, I myself have gotten something out of the stuff I’ve collected and tacked to my walls. It’s odd, yet a really nice feeling to know I’m somehow contributing to a landscape in some way. Making things is an act that I’ve always needed to do and has helped me get the best out of many days. I’ve always had difficulty with contributing in many forms of communication and on some days it’s terribl​y​ hard even just to be out and about. Making things has served as my calling with communication. It’s nice to know it can help others too in whatever way. -djg

[dregstrash]

Modern/college AU drunk Nikolai confession?

Amazing. Brilliant. I love. This is the follow-up to This Part. Thanks for the ask!

There was this one time Nikolai got so drunk that he had woken up on the floor of his friend, Kirgin’s, apartment with his shirt drenched in spiked cool-aid and curiously wearing goggles and flippers. 

Zoya didn’t let him forget about that when she went and picked him. She further held it over his head when Kirgin showed him the videos that someone had sent him. 

That was by far the most drunk he had been. Or at least that was until tonight.

He was on his third (fourth) Old Fashioned when the world started to tip and the buzz of the alcohol started making him feel happier than he should be. 

“Genyaaaa….” He drawled throwing his arm around his friend who just laughed uncontrollably for no reason. David didn’t even notice. His eyes never leaving his book, but his hand still holding onto Genya’s.

“Nikolaaiiii….” She responded drunkenly, “We should do karaoke. That sounds like a great ideaaa…”

“It does.” Nikolai agreed loudly. He could picture it now. He’d storm up the stage and wrench the mic away from the guy in the cowboy hat doing a really bad version of Mariah Carey, and he’d sing. He’d sing with all his heart–what was left of it anyway. “I’m going to up there and dedicate a song to you!” 

“Nooooo….” She said, “David would get jealous, won’t you, David?” Genya separated herself from Nikolai and instead rested her head on David’s book, making him look up at her. Nikolai burst out laughing at the exasperated expression on his roommate’s friend. 

“If I say yes, will you go be drunk somewhere else?” David asked not unkindly.

Genya grinned. “Yes.”

“Then yes. I would be very jealous if Nikolai decided to dedicate a song to you.”

“Don’t be jealous, David.” Zoya snorted from across the table. She was driving tonight, so she was still nursing the beer that was brought to her an hour ago. She was looking at him and Genya with bright amusement.

Nikolai’s scattered attention was now brought into focus. She met his gaze and raised one perfect eyebrow, as if to challenge him, as if to say “What are you looking at?” He got that expression a lot if he really thought about it, and he loved it. He loved a lot of things about Zoya. He loved the fact that she didn’t apologize for who she is. He loved that she had this crinkle in her brow when she was angry about something. He loved that she sometimes bit her lips when she was trying to stop a smile. He loved all of it– and his earlier intentions came roaring back in his mind.

He never got to say what he wanted to say when he invited her and Genya out. Now was the perfect time.

“I like you Zoya.” Nikolai said it so suddenly that he wasn’t sure if he had said it aloud. So he said it again, “I like you, Zoya. Zoya Nazyalensky, woman of my heart. The best thing that has ever happened to me since high school. I like you sooooo much that I bought you your favorite flowers. I’ve liked you way before you kissed me on graduation.” 

The confession fell in an awkward jumble of slurred words and rushed breaths, but it fell all the same. Nikolai was looking right at Zoya, his mind having trouble reading the expression on her face. He cursed the alcohol for a brief moment, his thoughts were getting more muddled and he wanted to know what that small secret smile on her face meant.

Genya squealed loudly beside him, but didn’t say anything to them. 

Zoya leaned forward and more than anything, Nikolai wanted to grab the hand that was clutching her beer bottle.

“Are you saying this because you’re drunk or are you saying this because you mean it?”

Through the haze of his mind Nikolai gave a sloppy grin, “I always say what I mean, Nazyalensky.” 

She leaned in further and Nikolai followed suit. Her arms were crossed on top of the table, her face starting to inch forward.

“Then let’s hope you remember this and say it when you’re sober.” 

“Remember what?” Nikolai barely had enough time to ask the question when he felt her hands grab the lapels of his jacket and crash her mouth with his. She moved methodically and too quickly for Nikolai to respond properly, but he was breathless all the same. 

She let the kiss go on for a few heartbeats then she let him go. Leaning back into her chair and a dazzling smile on her face. 

Nikolai’s face was warm from the alcohol, but it was practically burning with the memory of Zoya’s lips moving amply against his. 

He’d remember this. That he was sure. And as soon as the inevitable hangover was over, he’d march back up to her dorm and say exactly what he said tonight.

[deputy-sarah-sux]

can i be a psycho and your worst nightmare by asking ALL the writers asks?

You are a demon omg. I love it though this was so much fun to do.Since you didn’t specify fic specifically for some of these questions I’m just gonna write about The Devil Has Come for all of the “in xxx fic” asks.

Answers are below since this is such a long ask :):):)

1) How old were you when you first starting writing fanfiction? 12/13 it was between 7th and 8th grade and it was all anime fanfiction

2) What fandoms do you write for and do you have a particular favourite if you write for more than one?Far Cry 5, RDR2, Assassin’s Creed, DC, Marvel, Fallout, Skyrim, Preacher. Far Cry 5 is definitely my favorite to write for though

3) Do you prefer writing OC’s or reader inserts? Explain your answer.Personally, I prefer OC’s, with OC’s I can build their character, give them a personality and growth. I like shaping the character as the world changes based on their actions

4) What is your favourite genre to write for?Action or romance unless I totally misread that question

5) If you had to choose a favourite out of all of your multi-chaptered stories, which would it be and why?The Devil Has Come!!! It was my first in the Far Cry fandom and it’s my baby. I love all the characters and the world that I’m building. It’s got action, romance, some twists, it’s exciting

6) If you had to delete one of your stories and never speak of it again, which would it be and why?If we’re talking things that I’m currently writing and enjoy writing then I guess Bridges only because it’s the same characters as TDHC just in an AU form so I’d survive without it.

7) When is your preferred time to write?Night, 10pm on basically.

8) Where do you take your inspiration from?Everywhere really? TV shows, movies, video games, other fics

9) In your xxx fic, what’s your favourite scene that you wrote?So far my favorite scene that I wrote in TDHC that has been published was either the confrontation with Rook in Chapter 11 or Jacob finding Sarah in the hotel in Chapter 8. They were both really fun to write.

10) In your xxx fic, why did you decide to end it like that? Did you have an alternate ending in mind?Well it hasn’t been ended yet, but there were two possible endings that I was originally considering. I’m not saying much more other than the ending that I went with is gonna hurt me when I eventually get to it.

11) Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it?Not after posting but I have amended stories due to criticisms. If I’m a bit worried about a particular scene I’ll share the doc with my best lady @farcryfuckmeup and get her opinion. She usually points out things that aren’t great and I go from there. She’s the closet thing to a beta reader that I have.

12) Who is your favourite character to write for? Why?Sarah!!! She’s my best girl and I love her personality and attitude. In terms of canon characters though I’ve been writing some stuff from Arthur Morgan’s pov and that’s been really fun too. I really love playing around with his sense of self and morality.

13) Who is your least favourite character to write for? Why?I don’t have one yet? We’ll see how the future plays out there. It might be Ethan Seed but I’ve never written stuff for him so I’m not 100% sure.

14) How did you come up with the title for the xxx? - You can ask about multiple stories.Almost every fic name is from a song. The Devil Has Come is from Blues Saraceno’s “The River”, Icarus is from Bastille’s “Icarus”, and I’m not sure where Bridges is from but I’m 90% sure it was a song. The series that TDHC and it’s connected stories are a part of is called Bottom of the River from Delta Rae’s “Bottom of the River”.

15) If you write OC’s, how do you decide on their names?I use name generators for modern characters or look up names with a specific meaning. If the character is from the past (ie cowboy times or pirate times) I look up names popular in that century. Sarah’s name I got by looking up popular names with religious meanings and Sarah was on the list.

16) How did you come up with the idea for xxx?I came up with the idea for TDHC by playing co-op with @farcryfuckmeup. It was originally supposed to be a crackfic based on the dumbshit we did in-game. Then in my desperation to pretend that the game didn’t end the way it ends I started coming up with ways it could have gone differently and thus my fic was born.

17) Post a line from a WIP that you’re working on.I have so many wips! I’ll do a few because I’m in a sharing mood.Fallout 4 WIP: “‘You don’t even use power armor, why did you steal so many?’”RDR2 WIP: “Valentine was a crap town with crap people and even crappier whiskey. It was tiny and smelled like mud and horse shit and something else that she was pretty sure was vomit.”Another RDR2 WIP: “Trouble was the bastard was clingy apparently as he was hot on Arthur’s heel.”

18) Do you have any abandoned WIP’s? What made you abandon them?Yes, a few. I got bored or I decided to focus on other things. I do intend to one day finish them but who knows

19) Are there any stories that you’ve written that you’d really love to do a sequel to?The Devil Has Come!!! I can’t wait to write a sequel and I haven’t even finished the current fic.

20) Are there any stories that you wished you’d ended differently?Sometimes I wish I’d written a follow up to my judge fic Joseph and his Judge. I’m not totally sure if I like how it ended.

21) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?@farcryfuckmeup first and foremost, she’s amazing. I also love gwennolmarie and OutlandishWhalesharks on Archive of Our Own.

22) Do you have a story that you look back on and cringe when you reread it?My anime fics from middle school. It’s still posted and I won’t tell you what it’s called but every time I remember it a little part of me dies.

23) Do you prefer listening to music when you’re writing or do you need silence?Music mostly but it sometimes depends on the scene. For certain scenes I need silence but for the most part it’s music music music. I have playlists for all sorts of scene types.

24) How do you feel about writing smutty scenes?I love it, idk if I’m any good at it but I do like writing them.

25) Have you ever cried whilst writing a story?Yes, I’ve been writing some future parts of TDHC and I have cried a bit writing some of it.

26) Which part of your xxx fic was the hardest to write?The smut scene in Chapter 10 of TDHC, it was the first smut scene I’d ever published so I was really worried about that and kept rewriting it.

27) Do you make a general outline for your stories or do you just go with the flow?Bit of both I guess. There is a vague outline in my head but only for like the big events, everything in between is go with the flow shit.

28) What is something you wished you’d known before you started posting fanfiction?It’s not going to be an instant hit. When I first started posting works back in the day I was always so upset when I’d check the next day and see only like 12 people had read it.

29) Do you have a story that you feel doesn’t get as much love as you’d like?Icarus :(   It’s only a baby fic and it’s in a mostly dead fandom but I love it.

30) In contrast to 29 is there a story which gets lots of love which you kinda eye roll at?No, I love all the attention my fics get.

31) Send me a fic recommendation and I’ll post it for my followers to see! (The asker is to send the rec not the answerer)I’m gonna recommend one myself. Since this is a Far Cry blog I’ll recommend a Far Cry fic: come a little closer by lowtides on AO3Also here’s a Fallout 4 fic that isn’t finished but I absolutely love: RAIDERHEAD by TaraTargaryen

32) Are any of your characters based on real people?No real people no. Thomas is a combination of a few fictional characters though.

33) What’s the biggest compliment you’ve gotten?I’ve gotten a few comments of analysis on chapters I’ve posted and honestly I love that so much. Nothing warms my heart more than seeing that someone not only read my fic but sat there and actually thought a lot about it.

34) What’s the harshest criticism you’ve gotten?Like I said before I haven’t gotten a lot of criticism, but I guess the harshest for me was when I was discussing a character that I had really started to like and my friend (who I was ranting at about him) asked me to honestly think about what he brings to the table. Like is he actually necessary or just a throwaway character that won’t bring much to the story? I ended up scrapping him and putting a nameless character in his place to fill a few of his scenes.

35) Do you share your story ideas with anyone else or do you keep them close to your chest?I share them with one (1) person and that person is my irl best friend @farcryfuckmeup. Everyone else has to wait until I post stuff I don’t want to spoil any big surprises.

36) Can you give us a spoiler for one of your WIP’s?It’s a chapter very far in the future for a fic I’m sure you can guess but I won’t outright say.“Against his better judgment, he reached out and grabbed the hysteric woman, tightening his grip against her struggling and pulling her into his lap. He wrapped her in a tight hug until she finally began to calm down, humming softly and running his fingers through blood-soaked hair.“

37) What’s the funniest story you’ve written?I haven’t written a lot of funny stuff. I mostly do angsty. But when I was in middle school a wrote a novel where I spent two paragraphs talking about my MC’s hair color and current outfit and I cackle every time I read it. 70 pages or pure cringe, it’s hilarious.

38) If you could collab with any other writer on here, who would it be? (Perhaps this question will inspire some collabs!) If you’re shy, don’t tag the blog, just name it.@farcryfuckmeup hmu bitch!also you @onl-you

39) Do you prefer first, second or third person?Third, every now and then I write in first but idk I just don’t like it much.

40) Do people know you write fanfiction?My close friends do

41) What’s you favourite minor character you’ve written?Thomas Moore, he’s a lot of fun to write for.

42) Song fic - What made you decide to use the song xxx for xxx.I don’t actually have any song fics in the traditional sense. I do however have some fics inspired by songs. I listen to music almost constantly, sometimes a song comes on that gives my fic vibes and I add it to my prompt playlist.

43) Has anyone ever guessed the plot twist of one of your fics before you posted it?@/farcryfuckmeup has but I don’t try too hard to keep secrets when she’s around

44) What is the last line you wrote?“John rolled his eyes and finished unbuttoning his shirt.”

45) What spurs you on during the writing process?This is cliche probably but the readers. I don’t want to leave someone waiting around for the next update forever. I also want to see how things play out myself so my own desire to see the finished product also helps.

46) I really loved your xxx fic. If you were ever to do a sequel, what do you think might happen in it?Again, going with TDHC for this. I am writing a sequel currently (I know it’s not done). It’s going to focus on a different character but Sarah will make appearances. I’m also working on a standalone sequel for her but that won’t be posted until the first sequel fic is complete.

47) Here’s a fic title - insert a made-up title. What would this story be about?I used a title generator: Hidden Midnight. It’s about a pair of idiots in love, one is a vampire so they can only meet at night and it’s very secretive. The human dies at the end.

48) What’s your favourite trope to write?Forced partnerships. I love it when two characters are forced into a partnership. One of them can’t fucking stand the other but slowly grows to like/love them in secret. If the chill one is in danger the annoyed one freaks the fuck out and does everything they can to get to their partner and afterwards claims they couldn’t care less what happened.

49) Can you remember the first fic you read? What was it about?I don’t remember the name of it but I’m pretty sure it was a Supernatural fic. I think it was Destiel (don’t just middle school me) and a high school AU. I’m not 100% sure. It was either that or a Fairy Tail fic and I like to forget my anime days.

50) If you could write only angst, fluff or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?Angst. I love fluff and smut but in the end, I always go back to angst. It’s so much fun and there are so many ways to do it.

[ulfwolf]

The Ego Battle -- Musing 179

It alone against the world, the ego —its illusory life 

It’s a grim scenario, this; grimmer still for being utterly real to the poor Ego, all the while struggling to keep up (and out of trouble), or keep down (and in trouble).

Ever thumping its own chest in defiance of all alien forces or scurrying for cover hopefully ahead of them, the Ego (in its heart of hearts) knows that it’s him (or her) against the rest of the planet: unfair odds to be sure, but what’s a poor Ego to do.

The Buddha Gotama was very specific. And all his spiritual offspring (the many different Buddhist strains that sprung up after his death some 2,500 years ago) that while disagreeing on many petty (in my view) details do agree. There is no such thing as Ego.

There are no sentient beings, only sentience.

Which, as the ultimate aside, naturally begs this question: how on earth did the One Ultimate Sentience (some named it Emptiness or Brahman or Tao or The One Mind) manage to fragment itself into a trillion trillion trillion trillion trillon trillion (et cetera) little bits, each called Ego and each with its own unique viewpoint?

And how is it that this fragmentation still seems to hold water?

I guess the answer to that question is that clear light at the end of the Samadhi Tunnel, to be reached one beautiful day by one and all.

Meanwhile, however, back to the Ego and its Illusion.

Concluding Herman Hesse’s “The Glass Bead Game” you will find “The Three Lives” written by the book’s main character Joseph Knecht (Magister Ludi). The last of these lives is “The Indian Life” which is as great a rendition of Maya (the illusion of Life) as I have ever read.

 While the Buddha spoke of Samsara, the Upanishads spoke of Maya. Same concept: the illusory life we’re all trying (and mostly failing) to come to grips with, starring: yes indeed: The Ego.

But one thing when it comes to Maya or Samsara: it is a zero-sum game.

On this Earth, for you to live someone or something else must die. This is obviously true of food but also of much else. Their bad luck, really, all those critters (and fish and fowl) that fall prey to our appetites daily to keep us strong. But, lucky for us (far too many maintain), the Bible specifically tells us to lord over all things non-human, so that’s all there for our taking (and digesting) then, isn’t it?

Indeed. It would seem that, according to Scripture, the Ego game is very much rigged in our favor.

Christianity, for one, views animals without much compassion and has held human beings as greatly superior to all other animals, and, has, in a word, held all lives non-human as food.

This being the amazing case, let me digress a little to illuminate this human-supremacy fallacy with the views of some celebrated Christians; after all, human beings were made in the image of God, and God chose human form for his (Jesus’s) earthly life and God has decreed that human beings shall lord it over all animals.

Yes, indeed.

First, let us turn Sain Augustine, who (for all his virtuous attributes) taught that animals existed entirely for the benefit of humanity. Why? Because:

·       Human beings are rational;

·       Rational beings are entitled to rule irrational beings;

·       Human beings can tame animals—animals can't tame human beings;

·       Animals are not rational;

·       Animals don't even know that they are alive.

So there. Though the strain in his somewhat simplistic (sleight-of-hand) logic echoes even today.

Another church father, Thomas Aquinas, was equally unconcerned with the welfare of animals, and taught the following:

·       Animals were created to be used by human beings;

·       Animals do not have the ability to reason, and are therefore inferior to human beings;

·       The status of animals is demonstrated by the fact that the punishment for killing someone else's animal is a punishment for despoiling that person's property, not for killing the animal.

(Excepting, of course, the Old Wild West, where they hung you for stealing a horse, while for killing some other cowboy in a brawl one might get a night in the smaller and a fine).

Thomas Aquinas taught that the universe was a hierarchy with God at the top. Each layer in this hierarchy existed solely to serve the layer(s) above it. Humanity came above the animals, so animals existed to serve humankind. Point proven.

Again, I’m not overly impressed by the water-tightness of this logic.

Aquinas also stressed the view that animals do not have immortal souls, whereas man, naturally, does.

In modern times, Karl Barth, some say the greatest theologian of the 20th century, towed the dogma line and taught that God's choice of human form for his (Jesus’s) incarnation showed that human beings are more important than non-human animals—a wild assumption, if you ask me, but I’m not a great theologian.

The Good Book itself weighs in on this, naturally.

As follows:

Genesis 1:26-28: Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.” So, God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. And God blessed them. And God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth.”

And Genesis 9:2-3: The fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon every beast of the earth and upon every bird of the heavens, upon everything that creeps on the ground and all the fish of the sea. Into your hand they are delivered. Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. And as I gave you the green plants, I give you everything.

And who can argue with God.

This, in essence, is a cart blanche for humanity to do with the Earth as it sees fit and pleases—and it does. And it is good. God said so.

So there. The meat industry, for one, clearly and heavenly justified by the Holy Book and its many masters.

Ever seen the wide-open, wild eyes of a cow lead to slaughter in one of these meat factories? She knows she’s going to die. She knows.

I really don’t believe that this was God’s plan, no matter what the Bible says.

Now, William Blake, on the other hand—a more compassionate soul, if you ask me—has this to say about his fellow animals:

A Robin Red breast in a Cage

Puts all Heaven in a Rage

A Dove house filld with doves & Pigeons

Shudders Hell thro all its regions

A dog starvd at his Masters Gate

Predicts the ruin of the State

A Horse misusd upon the Road

Calls to Heaven for Human blood

Each outcry of the hunted Hare

A fibre from the Brain does tear

A Skylark wounded in the wing

A Cherubim does cease to sing

The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight

Does the Rising Sun affright

Every Wolfs & Lions howl

Raises from Hell a Human Soul

The wild deer wandring here & there

Keeps the Human Soul from Care

The Lamb misusd breeds Public strife

And yet forgives the Butchers Knife

The Bat that flits at close of Eve

Has left the Brain that wont Believe

The Owl that calls upon the Night

Speaks the Unbelievers fright

He who shall hurt the little Wren

Shall never be belovd by Men

He who the Ox to wrath has movd

Shall never be by Woman lovd

The wanton Boy that kills the Fly

Shall feel the Spiders enmity

He who torments the Chafers sprite

Weaves a Bower in endless Night

The Catterpiller on the Leaf

Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief

Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly

For the Last judgment draweth nigh

Let me state for the record that I come down firmly on the side of Blake; very, much so. His contemporaries, interestingly, completely ignored him while History, that 20/20 hindsight wonder, seems to hold Blake in much higher esteem, and for good reason.

::

But then (let’s get back to the Ego), but then, someone else’s survival—someone who is far bigger than you and far more powerful than you (be it man or animal)—suddenly hinges on you losing, on you taking one in the minus-column, and here comes scurry time.

Oh, please, please not me. I’m just an innocent little ego who wouldn’t hurt a fly (you lie, scurrying), while the survival needs of the greater than you don’t give a damn, arranging their napkin and cutlery just so.

I sometimes wonder if Karma is not this zero-sum game’s official scoreboard.

::

I have read more than one account of Buddhist (both Pali and Zen) meditators reaching the point in their practice where the Self dilutes into a virtual nothing and with it (naturally, since they’re one and the same) the Ego. And they all agree: there is no sense of relief more profound.

Stepping out of the zero-sum game.

Shedding that little beast.

Good riddance, Ego.

 ::

P.S. If you like what you’ve read here and would like to contribute to the creative motion, as it were, you can do so via PayPal: here.

[daveyjacobss]

neverland | crutchie morris

inktober day ten

reader x crutchie morris

[newsies modern day au]

summary: Neverland is like heaven, isn’t it?

a/n: so apprently i used up all my good writing on cold coffee bc this sucks but it’s fine bc i need to do stuff and i’m really tired so i’m done trying (just to clarify: no they do not sleep together but let your imagination run wild i guess)

__________

Crutchie had never been the biggest fan of party environments, because the crowded spaces made it hard for him to maneuver his way through and he tried to stay away from alcohol. That didn't stop him, however, from attending a Halloween party with his friends, held by some guy in their grade that only one of them actually knew. He loved the idea of dressing up for the holiday, and was ecstatic to have fun with his friends in all of their costumes. When he got into Jack's car, he grinned at the cowboy hat on Jack's head.

"And what are you supposed to be?" Elmer called from the backseat.

"He's Peter Pan, dumbass," Jack answered for him, smiling.

"Hey, watch your mouth! There are children in the car," Race smirked, only to be attacked by Romeo, the two of them trying to roughhouse over their seat belts. Jack reached behind him to stop them, only to have his hands smacked away by Spot.

"Hands on the wheel and eyes on the road Jackie boy," Spot taunted. Jack sighed, annoyed, as Elmer laughed. Crutchie smiled fondly at his friends' antics, straightening the green hat on his head.

__________

The party was in full swing, and had been since the boys arrived. Crutchie had been playing a game of truth or truth with some of the less wild party-goers before he had excused himself in search of food and a drink. Eventually he found the kitchen, which was relatively empty, as all of the beers were in a different room. He found a box of Capri Suns, smiling happily before grabbing one. He was halfway done it when a girl walked into the kitchen, a blue bow in her hair. He blushed slightly at being caught drinking a juice box at a high school party, but when she saw him she smiled.

"Is there enough to share?" She asked, reaching up to tighten the bow in her hair. He nodde in response, going to grab one for the girl.

"Fruit punch or strawberry kiwi?" he asked, looking back at her.

"Fruit punch, please," she responded. He picked one up and handed it to her, their hands brushing slightly. Her face seemed to flush at the contact, which resulted in a blush on his own face. "So, enjoying the party, Peter?" She asked before taking a sip of her Capri Sun. He tilted his head in confusion, furrowing his eyebrows. She laughed slightly, gesturing at him as a whole. "Your costume," she reminded him. He looked down at his clothes, suddenly remembering his Peter Pan get up. "Guess it was meant to be," she joked. He realized only then that she was dressed as Wendy Darling, the blue bow in her hair complimenting her blue dress. She hoisted herself up onto the counter, sipping on her juice box as she watched him with a curiosity he couldn't quite identify.

"Yeah, guess so," his smile grew. "Looking to get away, Wendy?" She raised an eyebrow at him but grinned, making his confidence grow infinitely.

"Depends, you planning on taking me to the second star to the right?" She smirked, leaning toward him playfully. Crutchie hadn't quite expected to meet a pretty girl whose costume had been accidentally coordinated with his, but he wasn't going to complain. Plus, how often did he get to flirt with girls the way some of his friends bragged about? Perhaps he'd finally have a fun party story to tell.

"Only if you wanted me to." Despite the flirtatious atmosphere between them, he felt the need to reassure her that if she wanted him to stop, he would. She laughed kindly, lightly shoving his shoulder.

"Do you mind if ask what happened to your leg?" Her tone was not unkind, but the question made him slightly uncomfortable, as it always did. But she didn't seem to be taunting him, in fact, she actually seemed to be genuinely interested.

"I had polio when I was younger," he explained, still deciding if he wanted to delve further into the explanation. Then he caught sight of the way she was looking at him - not with pity, like most people did, but instead with admiration. He kept talking. "It was before I was adopted, so I never really got to go to the doctor for it."

"I'm sorry," she spoke up. "That really sucks." He snorted at the statement.

"Yeah, guess it does." But he was grinning when he said it. She smiled sweetly back at him, and he was starting to wonder if she was just a figment of his imagination. She was almost too perfect to be real, as if she had truly come from a fictional world like the one they were both dressed for.

"So, Mr. Pan," she teased, "what was it we were saying about going somewhere?" She pretended to think as he stared at her in wonder. "Something about seeing stars, right?" A small smirk made it's way onto her face as she slid off her perch on the counter so that she was standing right in front of him. He was having sudden troubles breathing with her face so close to his. He didn't even know her real name, and she didn't know his. He kissed her anyway.

Grabbing her hand, he dragged them out of the kitchen, moving into the hallway with their lips still locked. They broke apart, panting, only when they reached a door - which was quickly opened as they stumbled into the closet.

Crutchie was pretty sure that if Neverland was heaven, he was there.

__________

It was a little while later when the boys all found each other and piled into the car, ready to go home. Crutchie sat in the passenger seat listening to his friend bicker with a satisfied smile on his face.

She had almost laughed when he had told her his real name was Crutchie, not quite believing him until he explained that it was a nickname, and his real name was Charles. Immediately, she had opted for calling him Charlie. She had responded by telling him her own name - Y/N - and he had been repeating it in his head all night.

He didn't bother interrupting the boys' chatter, there'd be time to tell them in the morning. Plus, he was a little preoccupied with his phone, texting Y/N as she sent him as many Peter Pan jokes as she could find. He grinned at each one, almost laughing out loud at her most recent one.

from: y/n do you think neverland is like wonderland?? like are they just two different versions of the same world?? mayBE THE AUTHORS WERE SEEING SOME OTHER PLAIN AND THEY WROTE THESE LANDS BASED ON WHAT THEY SAW

to: y/n actually, i was thinking neverland was a bit more like heaven

from: y/n DUDE YOU RIGHT THEY BOTH TOTALLY WENT TO HEAVEN BUT THEN CAME BACK AND WROTE ABOUT IT HOLY SHIT

He laughed, ignoring the looks and questions from his friends. Peter Pan had found his Wendy Darling, and, yeah, they were probably in Neverland. __________

tag list:

@isarants @tomanybandstolove @seriously-ceci @tommyboyneedshercoffee-blog @bens-platt @ohblue @sorryyouroutofmyleague @tumblogbykarapaloma @earlyjunes @broadway-trashh @interwebseriesfan24 @whatacatchdxnnie @returnoftheborle @cozykleinman @timesarehardfornewsies @jackclyde @last-an-eon @annabethgranger123 @musi-xals @notyouraveragegryffindoor @magic-made-by-melody @i-also-miss-our-talks @linfuckingmirandaaa @shatteringinprogress @storytellersun @psych-stereo @books-cats-sprinkles @me-andthe-sky @connor-is-my-sunshine @merediths2003 @papesfordavey @larryisinfactnotstraight @casifer-is-cute @gem-evieve @actually-lizzy @broadwayobsessedteen @broadway-trashh @interwebseriesfan24 @onemorebookidontneed @impractical-impala @mels-an-angel @no-one-suspects-the-moo @liyahisdabomb

(ask to be added to my october tag list or any tag list !!)

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Horses and Hard Labor

Summary: Another request from a few months ago! Arthur magically gets a job and reader becomes a concerned mom about it.

“I got a job!”

You froze your action, blinking incredulously at Arthur. Did you hear that right? “What?”

“I got a job, Y/N!” He replied with just as much excitement as before, beaming at you.

Got a job? A job? “Whoa, w-wait,” you stammered, holding your hands out in confusion as you stood back to look at him fully. “What do you mean you got a job?”

Exactly as it sounds,” Arthur responded. “Now I can help with providin’.”

This didn’t seem possible, really. Any type of job these days would require paperwork and proof of identification. Arthur had no such thing, and you were lucky no one was able to recognize who he really was. What the hell was he doing all day while you were at work? “Uh…how, exactly?”

“I found some stables just outside o’ town,” he explained. “Saw some fellers leadin’ the horses around and complainin’ they were short-staffed. So we got to talkin’.”

“And you…got a job there, just like that?” You asked.

“Well,” he folded his arms in thought. “They took me to meet the owner o’ the place. Nice lady. She asked me a few questions n’ I demonstrated my skills, and she hired me on the spot.”

The more of the story unfolded to you, the more in awe and confusion you were. It certainly didn’t sound real, especially if the process was that quick and easy. “Arthur...” you began.

“I know, I need to be careful,” he finished. “Can’t let nobody know about me n’ all.”

“Not even that,” you huffed. “Arthur, getting a job isn’t as easy as it used to be. What you’re telling me is…far-fetched at best. Hiring someone nowadays is an extensive process, and you technically don’t exist! All that paperwork- how can you even-”

“They ain’t ask for no paperwork,” Arthur interrupted, holding his hands up as if to calm your outburst. “Nothin’ of the sort.”

You stared blankly at him, unable to process what exactly he was telling you. Disbelief clouded your mind. It didn’t work like that, it couldn’t. It was never that easy in your lifetime. “Are you sure they hired you? Like, they didn’t just ask you to come in for another evaluation or anything like that?”

Arthur shook his head. “Nah, just told me I’m startin’ tomorrow mornin’ at 7 am sharp.”

Sighing, you flopped onto the couch, pinching your eyebrows in thought. You weren’t sure what to think, actually. This whole ordeal felt like a weird dream. “Arthur…” you began, unable to come up with any type of statement or argument. “I just don’t know…” you managed to say.

He frowned slightly, moving to take the spot next to you. “Y/N…I’m bored just sittin’ here day to day. Meanwhile ya bust your ass workin’ all day to provide for us…and I know it ain’t easy for ya.”

“Arthur-”

“Lemme finish,” he interrupted. “It’s an easy job…ain’t need any type of trainin’. This is stuff I know already, horses n’…hard labor,” reaching for your hand, he entwined his fingers with yours. “You don’t gotta work so hard.”

You pursed your lips, your eyes gazing down to your hand in his, and then to his face. He seemed so genuine with his words, and the soft easy in his face masked the slight pleading that lurked beneath his gaze. In a way, you had to admit he was right. Paying to eat for two people was more difficult than you’d let on. You wouldn’t tell Arthur, knowing he’d probably go hunting again without a second though despite your warnings about the laws.

Part of you had to give him credit for having that concern, yet another part of your mind screamed no, unsure what would happen. Someone may find out about his origin, or he might land himself in a dangerous situation from a misunderstanding. You knew he could be volatile under the right conditions, or wrong…

“Y/N?”

Your mind had wandered with thoughts, and you snapped your focus back to him. “Arthur,” you said slowly. “It’s a big decision…a lot to think about here. I know you mean well, but I’m just worried.”

"Worried,” he repeated. “’Bout what?”

“That…someone may find out who you are, that you technically do not exist in this world,” you emphasized with counting on your fingers. “That you may get into some kinda trouble that I can’t get you out of.”

“Sweetheart,” he said suddenly, his tone somewhat sharp. “You know me, I ain’t the one lookin’ for trouble. Trouble…finds me.”

“And that’s the issue,” you moaned, “I know how you get when you’re provoked.”

He gave you a bewildered stare. “You think I’d beat someone?”

“I don’t know, Arthur!” you exclaimed, jumping back to your feet and beginning to pace. “The problem is I don’t know what could happen to you. You’re still not fully adjusted to the modern world, you still have habits from your old life. I know you want this, but-”

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, catching you mid-pace. His fingers were wrapped around your wrists firmly, yet gentle enough to not harm you. He gazed at you evenly. “Y/N,” he spoke slowly to you, not breaking eye contact. “Give me a chance. Please.”

Those blue eyes could break you, that intense stare that sent your heart into a tizzy each time. Your breath hitched, your mind at a loss of any comprehensible words.

“I know you’re worried, I don’t blame ya,” he continued when you stayed silent. “But I promise I won’t cause no trouble. I’ll do what I need to do, and be back to greet ya at the end of the day. And you’re right, I still ain’t used to your world, don’t think I ever will,” he released your wrists to instead cup your cheeks. “But I know horses, and I know barn work. I wanna help out ‘sides cookin’ you food. It ain’t pretty or ideal, but I can’t rob no stagecoaches or kill a rival gang for money. You said I have habits from my old life? Ya know Dutch always made sure every one of us contributed. I know this ain’t like that, but let me contribute to you. Ya done so much for me already, s’only fair.”

At that moment, you weren’t sure whether to curse him out or completely agree. He described himself as such a simple man, yet presented so much more. Your mind whirled for a moment, unable to form a response. You were caught in an argument with yourself, silently battling his small debate against your concerns. You would always worry about him, but he was a grown man and fully capable of handling himself.

And it wasn’t fair of you to keep him cooped up, even if you did give him permission to wander.

Though no other counter argument was enough incentive to continue refusal, you finally gave a defeated sigh. “All right, you can keep your job.”

Arthur was beaming so brightly as if the sun itself had rested on his face. He kissed you briefly. “Thank ya, darlin’.” He murmured to you before releasing you entirely.

You gave him a small smile, yet your head was swimming. You hoped you didn’t make a bad decision.

--

You’d been used to the sight of Arthur being up earlier than you. Next morning, he greeted you with breakfast as usual, though the reminder of what was to happen today caused your stomach to twist in knots. Awkwardly you swallowed your breakfast, trying to inhibit the growing nasty feeling in your guts. He requested that you drop him off, and you obliged, thankful that you could at least see this place up close.

The horse farm was on the edge of town, as he did note. You’d only driven by it a handful of times, not paying much attention to it aside from admiring the pretty horses that grazed in the pastures lining either side of the long, dirt driveway. Though they were empty at the moment.

As you pulled in, a dust cloud trailed behind you. It didn’t take long to reach the parking lot, observing a few other cars parked already and a few of the workers beginning to bustle around with hay bales and buckets, no doubt starting the morning chores. Even from inside the car, the whinnies and snorts of the horses within the barn echoed.

“I’ll see ya later, Y/N. Dunno if I’ll be back ‘fore ya.” Arthur said, leaning over to kiss your cheek.

Taking a deep breath, you managed to muster a smile for him. “Then work your ass off, cowboy. So you can be home earlier.” You joked, trying to hide the concern that wavered your voice.

He must’ve caught that, as he tenderly took your chin between his thumb and finger, pulling you in for a sweet, lingering kiss. “I’ll be alright, sweetheart.” His tone was gentle and reassuring.

You nodded once, silently. His voice did soothe slightly, the nerves that ravaged your insides began to calm. He gave a smile of his own before exiting your car. You watched him as he walked up to a small group of workers, engaging in their conversation for a moment before they disappeared within the barn.

You breathed slowly, turning your car back down the driveway. The next nine hours were going to be interesting.