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antlersarchives · 2 months ago

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𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐲𝐦𝐞 - remmick origin story.

remmick x reader

description - the earliest colonial history for settlers and immigrants alike were some of the most terrifying times to live in, somewhat considered one of the most dangerous times to be alive - famine, disease, disrupting Native American land and now... the undead reaching its ancient hand from the grave. now here you sit, beside the water just after the hot, summers sun has bid farewell, with the only person who stop by your side - the same one you had met many, many years ago.

warnings: blood/gore, vampirism, manipulation, death, 1800s and medieval Irish history mixed together - mildly inaccurate.

w/c: 9k

a/n: his took way too long to get out but here it is, so let me know if you want part two with the reader and how they met or anything otherwise! i'm going to be writing more, I had some things come up.. but I hope you babes enjoy this was hurtful to write :)

Liadan (lee-a-dan) - Remmick's younger sister. Meaning 'poet'.

Cónán - Remmick's younger brother. Meaning 'young hound.'

Is tú mo ghrá. - Meaning 'You are my love.'

1816

“Alasdair Mhic o ho / Alexander son, o ho, Chollo Ghasda o ho / Of gallant Cholla, o ho”

Under the silver glow of the rising moon, you tenderly sang an ancient Irish ballad, your voice drifting across the riverbank as your fingers delicately gathered bluebells that lay there. The tranquil night scene unfolded like a painting coming to life: your bare feet rested near the cool, rippling water, while above you, the willow tree swayed its branches in the gentle breeze. The distant bonfire smoke wove through the velvet darkness, adding a nostalgic warmth to the crisp night air.

Throughout it all, your gaze remained fixed on the delicate bouquet cradled in your palm, as you slowly turned the tender stems, admiring the moonlight on the damp, rich soil that embraced the roots of your precious midnight harvest.

“As do laimh-s’ gun o ho / Into your hand, o ho, Earbainn tapaidh trom eile / I would heroic entrust deeds”

The breeze danced against your clothes, lifting the loose fabric, you closed your eyes gently, breathing in the feeling but the sudden eruption of applause shattered the serenity, cleaving the veil between solitude. Your head pivoted sharply, muscles tensing as you scanned the landscape behind you. There, through the sea of golden meadow grass, you glimpsed him perched upside on the ancient willow, his lips already curved into that knowing smile—a face so familiar it resonated within you.

His was the kind of presence that effortlessly dismantled every fortress you'd constructed, bypassed every defence you'd established, reaching deep into the most guarded chambers of your soul and claiming what he found there. In that silent exchange lay something profound—a wordless communion.

The night’s reflection filtered through the trees, it landed on him through gaps in the brush, but the intruding dusk, gave purpose for him hanging a torch on the tree beside him. Spinning on his heel, he danced through the shadows, banjo on his back and dirtied cloth shirt wrapping his undying body, stopping just as he stands beside you, swaying back and forth.

“I always knew you liked to keep to yourself when you sang, so I was gonna say I’d only just seen you, but that would’a been a falsehood.” He brushed the dirt from his knees before settling down beside you, keeping his shoes safely away from the water's edge while gently bumping yours with his foot, his lips still curved into a warm, lingering smile.

He placed his elbows up onto his knees, looking out over the water, bathing in the open air now that he could; now that you both could, he stretched his neck in a circle before looking back at you. "I've snuck upon you to listen to you sing many times." He added, and you shook your head, hanging it in your lap, placing the scattered bluebells onto the tip of his knee.

He rested his elbows upon his knees, his eyes drifting across the water as the breeze caressed his face. There was something magical about sharing this freedom with you—the ability to simply exist in the open air, unrestrained and together. Now that you both could. With fluid motion, he rolled his neck in a circle before his eyes found yours again, warm with affection.

“I've stolen quiet moments to hear your voice,” he confessed softly, his words floating between you like a tender secret.

You felt warmth bloom across your cheeks as you shook your head, gently lowering it toward your lap, fingers gathering the scattered bluebells to place them with care upon the tip of his knee—a small offering.

"You think I haven't noticed," you remarked with quiet dignity, not yet raising your look to meet his as you moved to gather fine blossoms nestled in the tall prairie grass, a shy look gracing your features. "What are you after, Remmick?" There was exasperation in your tone, though your own passions hid between it.

”Only to engage in pleasant discourse with my most cherished woman," he replied with a chuckle.

His eyes sought and captured yours as he collected several flowers and weeds and selected a slender blade of grass from the rich soil. With practiced fingers, he began to bind the bunch, his attention alternating between his handiwork and your countenance, his movements unhurried.

"Oh, that's it, I'm your woman now, m'I?" You brushed up against Remmick, and you reached for felt through the long pieces in the grass; he watched you, the way your irises glinted when they flickered across his, all hues white and orange, like the final bit of sun he had set on his back all those years go.

The memories washed over him like a wind, reminding him of all he held dear. He recalled those sun-soaked afternoons sprawled in the meadows after long hours of labouring in the fields, the warm earth beneath him, and the scent of wildflowers filling the air. Sweat would trickle down his forehead, matting his hair, while the fabric of his shirt clung loosely to his back, taut from the day's work.

Like those golden summers when laughter rang out as children frolicked nearby by the shimmering waters of the creek, their playful voices weaving through the air like music, he would watch their spirit alive while they chased each other and splashed water. Whispers of young love drifted through the air, born from the shadows of the trees. Each moment reminded him of the strength of youth and the fragility of love lingering in his heart long after the sunset.

To him, you were something spiritual, almost holy, the only save he had left.

He cursed softly beneath his breath, shaking his head with a nod before fixing his gaze upon you.

"Do you ever miss the sun?" you asked abruptly with gentle melancholy, your mind drifting to memories of days long past when you would walk freely beneath daylight's embrace.

"Miss the old life, darlin'?" His head tilted, accent thick as honey as he smirked at you, genuine curiosity in his eyes.

"Not really. Truth is, I always preferred stargazing anyway." You rested your chin on your knees, meeting his gaze with a flush and a playful smile.

"Had I known that, I might've claimed you sooner." He moved closer, wrapping his arms around you and planting teasing kisses along your jaw. Your laughter bubbled up as he murmured against your skin.

"Funny how these folks fear witches, while a vampire walks right beside them." His whisper was soft as he loosened his hold, gently pulling you back against him. His fingers intertwined with yours as you settled comfortably against his chest, his back cushioned by the soft moss, both of you content in the shared moment.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" you asked softly. "If anyone found out, I'd simply tell them all about you too." Your head nestled comfortably against his chest, your hand resting there as he laughed—not mockingly, but with warmth. The sound vibrated soothingly through you, drawing out your own quiet laughter.

The scene around you settled into tranquility as you noticed the torch on the nearby tree slowly burning, its gentle glow enveloping you both in a warm halo of light. This moment felt like true peace—still complex and layered like any paradise described in ancient tales, yet real despite the harsh frontier lands surrounding you. In his embrace, you found something you'd been searching for all along—a sense of belonging, a sanctuary that finally felt like home.

"Do you think you can keep singing that song f'me?" His deep voice broke the heavy silence that had settled between you, causing your eyelids to flutter as you blinked several times, trying to compose yourself. He reached out, placing his warm, calloused hand on the sensitive skin at the back of your thigh, his intense gaze meeting yours with a mischievous, almost predatory smirk that made your breath catch.

His fingers gave your flesh a gentle but possessive squeeze, the unexpected intimacy of his touch sending a shiver up your spine. You froze momentarily, your thoughts scattered, and swallowed hard before clearing your suddenly dry throat.

1212 AD

Remmick had never given much thought to his fate, where he would end up in this harsh world, or how. The days came and went in the misty hills of Ireland, where ancient stones stood sentinel over lands still untouched by the grand castles rising elsewhere. Villages nestled in valleys, their thatched roofs glistening with morning dew, smoke curling from simple hearths.

Dark days descended over Ireland.

Common folk toiled from dawn till dusk beneath capricious skies, tending crops and livestock while Norman lords claimed ever more territory, trespassing darkness of conversion of their beliefs on the people . They traded wool and hides at muddy crossroads markets, bartering with passing merchants or neighbouring clans, all in desperate hope of keeping hunger from their door during the long, bitter winters that plagued the thirteenth century isle.

Its ancestry fading like whispers in abandoned stone circles.

Remmick trudged along the muddy path toward their cottage - a small and humble structure with weathered stone walls and a roof that sagged slightly in the middle, nestled on the misty outskirts of the village. Only fields of golden farmland surrounded the building, stretching toward the horizon like a patchwork quilt, now becoming barren from the winter months.

A small parcel of food was clutched tightly in his underarm, filled with the meagre goods he could manage to acquire - yellow cheese wrapped in cloth, a plump pheasant with feathers still clinging to its neck, and coarse grain for the livestock that waited in the pen behind their home.

The bundle felt impossibly light against his aching palms, a pitiful reward for fourteen hours of back-breaking labor under the merciless sun.

The same weathered path he'd walk religiously each day, a ritual etched into his existence over countless seasons. The winding trail where he'd once been with friends during those fleeting moments when being outdoors was still permitted, their faces tilted to the sky, drinking in the golden warmth of the sunlight.

Or the shadowy route he'd traverse with his first love every evening just as twilight surrendered to darkness, when the village retreated behind locked doors, and they'd exchange fervent, forbidden kisses beneath the silver glow of the moon, standing on the bridge others avoided with superstitious dread.

But those days had withered away—the present grew increasingly bleak, corroding treasured memories with its harshness.

Sunlight had become rare now, a gift that townsfolk no longer dared to enjoy, ducking between safe place to another with hunched shoulders and fearful glances, finding it best to be inside. And his beloved—vanished mysteriously months prior, alongside his mother and several villagers with them, leaving only questions hanging in their.

Questions that were answered only weeks ago when their desecrated remains were discovered—limbs scattered like discarded dolls, flesh stained crimson, and skin charred by malevolent forces beyond what was mortal.

The countryside had already surrendered to darkness, the moon barely visible through the thick, swirling mist that clung to the moor around them like a ghostly shroud. Ancient trees stood along the path, their gnarled branches reaching as he trudged the path further down the lane, looking around at every noise. The muggy air carried the earthy scent of decaying leaves and wet soil, while distant sounds seemed muffled by the oppressive fog.

And something felt amiss, a subtle wrongness that crept along the branches spines and whispered warnings they couldn't quite hear.

He approached the farm—where his father's familiar grumbling and the children's defiant shouts should have greeted him, but instead the silence that hung, raised goosebumps along his arms. Drawing closer, Remmick's pulse hammered against his ribs as his eyes fixed on the front door, swinging ominously back and forth, each gentle tap with the stone wall echoing across the empty yard. His feet refused to move forward.

A faint, unnatural gleam seeped from inside, casting an eerie glow along the path to the entrance. He stood frozen, each thunderous heartbeat threatening to burst from his chest as dread crawled up his spine like ice-cold fingers. Something was wrong.

Then he heard it—desperate screams piercing the night, familiar screams. Some emanated from nearby but he could care less, the ones that echoed from within the cottage itself sent his body into overdrive and he took off running.

The package slipped from his fingers, its contents scattering across the ground in his wake as a cloud of dust kicked out from under his feet. He turned sharply into the doorframe, pressing his palms against the hinges with such desperate force that the wood groaned in protest, threatening to give way beneath his weight.

And once he saw it, his stomach dropped, not taking his eyes off of the scene.

Everything was flipped upside down.

The table and chairs lay violently overturned, the somewhat white tablecloth and dishes scattered across the weathered oak floor, and a crystal vase now reduced to glittering shards from across where he stood. As his trembling gaze slowly traversed the room, he noticed the tapestries—family heirlooms passed down for generations—savagely ripped from the walls, their threads dangling like exposed nerves. The once cozy cottage, suddenly appeared foreign—all the heavy wooden doors stood eerily ajar, hinges moaning softly in the draft, while the stained-glass windows had been violently smashed inward, leaving jagged teeth of glass in their frames.

But his eyes then landed on something else.

Blood.

Dark, ruby red, thick blood.

The coppery stench saturated the air, clinging to every breath. What began as speckles across the floorboards transformed into a viscous stream that snaked its way into the kitchen where it collected in a dark pool. Remmick's body finally responded, his lungs barely drawing in oxygen as the biting winter air invaded through the open doorway, his shaking fingers releasing their grip on the frame as the door slammed shut behind him.

He rounded the corner and recoiled. His father stood there - slumped against the wall, one hand clutching his throat, guttural groans coming from his mouth as consciousness slipped away from him. As his father slid down the wall, Remmick moved to help but froze at a sound that pierced the air. Sobbing.

His head whipped toward the table, where a pair of trembling legs poked out from beneath. Abandoning his father, Remmick approached the hiding spot. The shoes were unmistakable—more familiar to him than his own: scuffed brown leather, with frayed laces dangling past the soles. Cónan.

His baby brother.

The room seemed to stretch, each step needing effort just to cross the smallest distance. And there they lay behind the overturned table, drenched in crimson. And yet, somehow, they remained bathed in an ethereal white. Untouched amid the carnage.

What remained of his family—Liadan and Cónán, his beloved sister and brother—sprawled lifeless upon the floor. He collapsed to his knees and crawled toward them, gathering their still forms into his trembling arms with a curse.

His forearms and hands became covered in the substance, sticking to him beyond recognition, so much so, that no longer seemed his own. Liadan's lifeless body lay slumped against Remmick's side, her once vibrant presence now horrifyingly still. His fingers tenderly brushed the matted hair from her sunken face, a broken sigh escaping his lips as hot tears blurred his vision. The weight of despair crushed his chest, making each breath agonising. Only a fire-poker remained clutched in her delicate hand—hastily snatched from the fireplace in a moment of desperate terror—its metal length now partially coated with congealing blood.

The bitter truth pierced his heart like a blade; she was already gone, her warmth fading with each passing second as his world collapsed into darkness.

The acrid tide had engulfed her body, soaking her neck and cascading down to her chest, covering her dress—like a poison—and something in his heart told him she had been aware of this. An intelligent girl, possessing wisdom beyond her years, tragically so. No one else could have committed this act; that life wasn't theirs to claim. No. So she had taken control of her fate.

"Oh lass..." The words caught in his throat as he gently cleared away the final traces of dried blood from her soft features, the truth sinking in, and he felt the slight of a touch upon his arm.

"Rem..." A voice croaked from below, causing his head to snap downward. His brother's head rested in his lap, and he instinctively clutched at his middle, drawing him closer. Tears already blurring his vision yet his eyes opened wide, straining to focus through the stinging moisture, yet tragically able to see everything clearly.

Cónán's body trembled violently in his arms, blood seeping from the wound at his neck as he cried out in agony. Remmick placed a gentle hand over his chest, trying to still the convulsions while softly shushing him. His eyes darted desperately around them, searching for help—for anyone, anything. But there was nothing.

Nobody.

His thoughts collapsed into singular focus as the boy spluttered weakly. Dark ichor bubbled from Cónán's lips as he tried to speak, the same poison that had claimed his sister now spreading through his brother's body. Remmick shifted, attempting to tilt Cónán's head to prevent him from choking, but the venom's flow was relentless. With trembling fingers, he pressed his hand over the neck wound, knowing it was already too late, blood pouring through his fingers.

The boy’s face fell pale, and whined at the touch,

"Shh, it's alright, I've got ya. I'm here." He was at a loss, the child in his hands crumpled into something smaller, reminiscent of how he'd held him as a newborn when their mother first brought him into the world.

Remmick was much older than the two, and yet no gap existed beyond the years between them. From the moment they entered this life, they were his, and when their mother was taken from them, he had claimed them as his own without hesitation. Now, he strained to hear anything—no sound, no cries, nothing remained—as the only treasures he truly cherished faded away in hi shaking arms.

With one final lament, the life in his hands ebbed away. He cradled him like a mother would, drawing his brother's limp form to his chest as he wept bitterly. "Curse you.” he cried into his brother's auburn locks, stifling the keening that threatened to escape his throat. From his wool pocket he withdrew a dagger of ash wood, carved with ancient Celtic knots, as he rocked Conan's body gently.

The spear lay heavy in his grasp, and he thought it over briefly through the veil of his brother’s unkempt hair. With blood now soaking his garments, he drove the blade into his back, piercing through to his heart from behind.

His hair was now wet with Remmick's tears, holding the spear tight enough, air let out of Conan's body but it wasn't a gasp, more an escaping of life. He was gone too.

Emptiness.

Everything that had already been taken from him and his family, from the land, from their home from others was enough. But now? This was beyond empty—a raw, gaping wound where his heart should be. A weighted crushing feeling collapsed his chest from within, and though his mouth fell open in a silent scream, not even the faintest sound emerged. Grief had stolen his voice just as death had stolen his loves, leaving Remmick hollow.

He spent what felt like hours there, though it was only moments. He cradled his head in his hands before gently laying him on the floor beside Liadan. After closing both of their greyed eyes, he carried them one by one to their beds, as he had done so many times before.

Returning to the kitchen, he stepped over the mess without a second glance. He soaked a cloth he found in water, wringing it out and moved mindlessly back to their rooms, motions seeming to carry him like a puppet. Remmick cleaned them both—their clothes, their faces—as much as possible, though the blood wouldn't fully wash away. Stepping back, he observed how peaceful they looked, as if all the sin that had touched them couldn't reach them anymore, instead only granting them one final sleep.

"Rest now, Is tú mo ghrá," he whispered, his voice cracking with pain. He placed a final, wavering kiss to their now untouched foreheads, the skin cool beneath his lips. Singular tears carved down his hollow cheeks as he stood back up, his movements slow and weighted. For several heartbeats, he remained there, suspended in his grief, unable to tear his away from their peaceful faces, memorising every feature as if afraid they might fade from his memory like morning mist.

"Boy."

A shout thundered from outside the room, rattling the walls with its force. That same voice he'd heard every day, barking the same old command.

His father.

Remmick spun on his heel, fury bubbling beneath his skin, reluctantly leaving the kids but pulling the door nearly closed behind him as he stalked out. Protecting them still. He'd almost forgotten his father was even there, and despite everything that had just happened—what he'd seen and done—Remmick felt nothing toward the man. Nothing but cold resentment.

He came into view, swiping shattered glass from beneath his feet as he settled on his father. His eyes, as crimson as the blood on his oaked shirt, reflected both exhaustion and anguish, his shoulders hunched with each laboured step. Opposite him, his father leaned against the wall for support, one trembling hand clutched at his neck while unintelligible words spilled from his lips. He couldn't tear his eyes away, watching blood seep between his father's fingers just as it did his own. Something inside him fractured then—a final, irreparable breaking. How could his father still be standing when they lay lifeless?

What took his lover from him, what killed his mother and siblings, what destroyed the family, what destroyed him.

Everything that this evil was, that it caused, was in him. And now he was one of them.

His father turned, pushing himself off the wall, a viscous mixture of froth and yellowish drool oozing from the corners of his discoloured mouth. His reanimated corpse twisted into a grotesque smirk as he staggered forward, now connected to something more, head hanging low yet tilting upward just enough to reveal rows of blackened, rotting teeth—just enough to confirm Remmick's worst fears.

Remmick lunged forward with primal fury, driving his fist into his father's putrid cheek with a sickening thud. The impact slammed the creature against the wall, but Remmick didn't stop. He delivered blow after savage blow—one cracking against the thing's that was his father’s face, another smashing into its skull. Spittle flew from Remmick's mouth as he screamed, his vision consumed by a crimson haze of rage and terror.

Blood.

Red hot searing pain. It coated his shirt, and his palms, in between his fingers and his nails.

Not even the biting could distract his mind from the overwhelming sensation. He retrieved the gleaming blade from his pocket once more, pressing its razor-sharp edge against his neck, directly over his pulsing jugular, stretching the fragile skin until it whitened beneath the cold metal. But he hesitated at the threshold of no return, not yet piercing the surface.

"Did you do this?" Remmick demanded, observing as his father's expression emptied of all emotion, the ghostly, waxy pallor of his freshly transformed skin capturing the dying rays of light. The murderous fury in his father's countenance subsided, yet his eyes remained cavernous, ravenous, and focused—though still as lifeless as they had always been. Droplets spattered his father's face as he stood motionless amid the grotesque mangle of bodies that had once been their beloved family.

"Tell me." Remmick pressed the dagger deeper against his father's cold neck. His face twisted with fury as he leaned in, voice cracking with years of pent-up accusation.

"You have always had your mother's eyes." A cruel smirk curled across his father's shadowed face. Remmick's eyes widened, rage and heartbreak warring within him as his hand tightened around the wooden hilt. Years of abuse flashed through his mind like lightning.

"Who?" Desperation clawed through his voice as he pressed harder, but his father remained motionless, refusing to speak. This monster—once merely his tormentor and now something inhuman—would not hurt anyone ever again.

"And now they'll be the last you'll see," he spat out, eyes welling with sharp tears. His hand moved before his mind could process it. The blade plunged into his father's neck, crimson life spilling forth in a cascade. He withdrew the weapon only to drive it again, this time into his heart, pushing with both hands and twisting with savagery . His father's face contorted in agony, one hand reaching out in a final, desperate gesture as the color completely drained from his features and his body slackened into the stillness of death, restrained against the wall.

Remmick fell backwards taking in the sight. Relief should have washed over him, taken him away in a dream as it did many times before, but this was no dream. Not even the death of that man could rescue him from this damnation. They were all gone. And he was alone.

He cursed himself, he cursed everything, screaming out into the air. Every window and door that was open, allowing the darkness to creep in around him as he kneeled on the hard ground.

Hours really did pass this time, each minute stretching into an eternity as he searched through the remnants of what once was. His fingers trembled slightly as he gathered anything of significance, anything that could preserve the memory of what was gone, carefully tucking each precious item onto his person, collecting fragments of a shattered life.

The silver chain his father had worn faithfully every day caught the light as he lifted it from around his cold, still neck. The metal felt impossibly heavy in his palm, weighted beyond its physical form, only tiny crimson droplets decoratively stained the delicate links. After a moment's hesitation, he brought it to his own throat, the metal cold against his skin as he fumbled with the clasp, his fingers clumsy with grief. The chain settled against his collarbone, where it now hangs like an anchor to his past, the occasional blood spots having dried to a rust-like brown against the polished silver.

He then reached for his mother's wedding band with greater admiration. The simple gold circle had rarely left her finger in life, but since her passing, his sister had carried it faithfully in her pocket, a portable shrine to their mother's memory. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly to catch sight of the deep engravement in the gloom.

For several heartbeats, he grappled with the propriety of taking it, wondering if his Liadan would forgive the theft of something so precious to her. Eventually, sentiment overcame his hesitation, knowing this would carry with them both, and he slid the ring onto his own finger with gentle determination. It squeezed uncomfortably tight around his knuckle before settling into place, the band digging slightly into his flesh—a physical reminder of how much he'd grown since childhood, how his hands had broadened and strengthened while his mother's had always remained delicate, hands that had once cradled him with such tenderness now existing only in his memory.

And lastly, his eyes fell upon the dainty lyre that rested on his brother's rumpled bed. The small stringed instrument and its polished wood carrying years of echoes—evenings spent huddled together, their fingers plucking melodies that filled their modest home with warmth. It had once belonged to Remmick himself, being gifted by one of the free-house patrons, but after noticing the way Cónán's eyes lit up with the same passionate fascination that had consumed him, he couldn't help but pass it down.

A lump formed in Remmick's throat as he carefully lifted the instrument, his calloused and dirtied fingertips tracing the familiar curves of its frame, gracing over the strings lightly leaving a strum in its wake. With shaking hands, he found a sturdy piece of lace, long enough to secure around the ends of the cherished lyre. He tied it with care, attaching each end to his suspenders, feeling the weight of it against his side—both comfort and burden of what he was leaving behind.

And that was it. A heaviness settled in Remmick's chest as he walked through the house one final time, overlooking the mess of what was once beloved and full, was now empty.

His heart pounding against his ribs.

If he didn't force himself to leave now, in this moment of fragile resolve, he knew with certainty that he would never find the strength to walk away at all.

His hands were mere tremors, as Remmick backed through the doorway, his gaze lingering on what was being abandoned. The weight of the matchbox in his pocket seemed to grow heavier with each step. Once outside, he drew a single match, striking it against the rough edge. The flame danced before his eyes, hesitant, like his will. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he touched it to the dry thatch of the roof. The fire caught quickly, hungry fingers of orange spreading across what once was, and what could have been.

And he walked away. Into the night, not knowing what would become of him, and he didn’t care one bit.

6 Years Later

"C'mon a good word never broke a tooth, give us another." A man encouraged from the back of the dimly lit tavern, his voice cutting through the haze of pipe smoke, and a chorus of voices followed after, "Ay." They echoed back, continuing in raucous laughter over the loud symphony of music. Drinks clinked together, amber liquid sloshing over weathered mugs.

"Right well after ya chuck me a penny hey?" Remmick stood before the eager crowd, his laugh genuine despite the hollow ache still nestled in his chest. He swayed back and forth, finding solace in the numbing embrace of ale and the familiar weight of the fiddle in his calloused hands.

The music flowed through him like medicine, each note a temporary bandage over his wounded heart. Around him, a band of merrymen both sat and stood, picking up into another lively tune as the man he'd been bantering with waved him off jokingly. For tonight at least, the melodies and the drink would keep the darkness at bay.

He continued to play, moving with the music and dancing about with the drinkers and musicians alike. And he began to sing in front of the dimly lit congregation, ceiling hanging low.

“Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street” A pluck of strings here and he paused, as the raucous picked up. “A gentle Irishman mighty odd.”

He had a brogue

both rich and sweet

An' to rise in the world he carried a hod

You see he'd a sort of a tipplers way

But the love for the liquor poor Tim was born

To help him on his way each day

He'd a drop of the craythur every morn

The singing intensified throughout the tavern as Remmick's voice rose to a near-shout, sweat soaking through his shirt while his vocals remained clear. His eyes danced around the room as he sang, his face alight with smiles and laughter, his body feeling every pulse of the music.

But though his jolly, his gaze caught something at the window—shadowy figures passing by. He dismissed the first glimpse, but then it happened again, and again.

The movement was too quick to ignore—there were two figures now. Then another appeared. Three. And once more, multiple silhouettes lingered outside the tavern. Remmick tore his attention away as one of the musicians playfully bumped against him, momentarily pulling him back into the revelry inside. But just as quickly as they came, they disappeared.

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer

Partner around the flure yer trotters shake

Wasn't it the truth I told you?

Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake

They continued to sing and Remmick stopped playing, uttering protests from those gathered around as he clung the instrument to his side, pushing through the grow of people to get to the door. Sticky hair stuck to his forehead and he breathed heavily, shoving through the door to the outside.

One morning Tim got rather full

His head felt heavy which made him shake

Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull

And they carried him home his corpse to wake

The music faded away as the door slammed behind him, and he hummed to himself, singing the lyrics softly under his breath. His steps carried a telltale swagger from the drunken haze clouding his mind. Around him, trees thrashed violently against the wind, while darkness blanketed the lane and fields beyond.

Standing there, he questioned why he'd ventured outside—perhaps it was the crisp air momentarily clearing his thoughts, or maybe it was that persistent ache he tried so desperately to ignore, that knowing part of himself he couldn't escape.

“Ay, they're wondering where ya went, going to be kicked out of here if you don't play. Now c’mon." A voice shattered the stillness and Remmick turned sharply, finding one of the musicians lingering in the doorway, silhouetted against the amber light from inside.

Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet

And laid him out upon the bed

A bottle of whiskey at his feet

And a barrel of porter at his head

He dismissed him with a casual wave, "Yeah I'll be in soon, give me a minute would'ya." The door creaked shut with a dull thud, and Remmick seized the opportunity to circle the building, the coarse gravel crunching beneath his worn boots.

The night air carried fragments of sound that pierced the darkness surrounding him—whispers, shifting movements, the faint rustling of fabric against skin. An unmistakable presence hung in the air, prickling at the back of his neck as he searched the shadows, determined to identify those mysterious figures he'd glimpsed from inside.

The obscure faces—unfamiliar yet somehow important—pulled him forward through the darkness. Not fear but a compelling curiosity propelled each step, a need to uncover what lurked just beyond his vision.He froze at a weathered fence, its splintered beams marking the boundary between safety and the vast, shadow-drenched fields beyond.

Cautiously, he hopped onto the structure, fingers digging into the damp wood as if some unseen force threatened to drag him to the other side.

The trees loomed and swayed over the misty low-lying land, and the breeze penetrated his clothes with a bone-deep chill and he shuddered, the eerie silence broken only by his shallow breathing and the occasional distant rustle that seemed to follow his movements.

With trembling hands, he retrieved a small pipe from his pocket and lit it, the brief flare illuminating his features before dying down to a soft glow—a tiny beacon in the darkness.

"You've managed a long time out here. Alone." A feminine voice slithered from the shadows, each footstep cracking the ground beneath her like brittle bones. Remmick jerked his head to the side, coming face to face with the being, jumping slightly clutching his chest.

Something about her presence made the air feel heavy, poisonous. He looked past her to see where she came from, not recognizing her from inside. No one else in sight, and the shadowy figures he'd seen before had vanished—as if they had served their purpose in leading him to this encounter with something far worse.

"I could say the same for you, out here, on your own. It's not safe in these parts—there have been attacks out her for years now," he reflected back, tilting his head confused and a little shaken up at the sudden sound, sitting up straight and laughing it off.

She released a gentle laugh, a primal rumble resonating beneath it as she shook her head. Observing her presence, one could sense she belonged to distant shores, her attire speaking of bygone eras—not the traditional garments he had known, but something more elusive. She floated within delicate fabrics that whispered like silk against her form, draped as if the heavens had adorned her with scarves.

The intricate patterns sewn throughout resembled those discovered in forgotten mosaics—fragments of beauty like it was etched in stone. Ancient.

“Are you lost? I didnae spy ye in the tavern." His words tumbled forth, voice thick with both accent and smoke, slightly muffled by the clay pipe he withdrew from his mouth. Remmick squinted at the weathered alehouse from where he came, wondering if any soul within might offer aid to this woman. The mead still clouded his vision, yet he found himself oddly at ease.

Though her appearance in the misty lane was peculiar, he felt no alarm—only an unnatural comfort washing over him, like warm peat smoke on this cold night. Something in her eyes glinted like polished flint, but the sensation of peace she cast upon him pushed such misgivings aside.

She shook her head again, eyes darkening with a patience as her laughing quieted to a measured cadence. "No no, I'm precisely where I need to be. But your music... it called to me. I simply couldn't resist when curiosity beckoned." Her words carried the weight of centuries, though wrapped in disarming charm. Remmick's head quirked as her gaze held him captive, her eyes never releasing their subtle grip on his attention.

“Well I’ll take the kindness. But curiosity, what would that be of?" He leaned his head back in confusion and from the subtle flirting, brining his hand up to relight the pipe in his hand. With a smooth motion, he jumped down from the fence where he'd been perched, landing softly beside her.

"I'm merely curious about you," she said, her voice gentle yet assured. "There's something about you that drew me here.” Winding her body closer, she raised a light touch to his arm enough to make his arm stand on end.

"Drew you here?" He raised an eyebrow, standing close enough now that she could feel the comfort of his presence. The cluelessness through every bit of pain. A sense of purity still dawned on him.

She nodded, glancing up at him. "The music. I heard you playing earlier. It was... alluring. I couldn't help but follow from where it came." Her eyes met his, stroking a finger at his arm. "And here I found you."

She stepped closer, her body subtly guiding them backward into the woods, each movement drawing them deeper into the darkness. The warm lights from the tavern dulled behind them until they stood secluded among the trees. "I was watching you, from outside," she whispered, confirming the suspicions that had prickled at him earlier.

"But not just tonight," she added, her voice like silk against the night air. “And not just alone." The ember of his pipe cast an eerie glow across her knowing smiles he pulled it away just as fast, her face seeming to contort and he backed up slightly.

The last comment raised his hairs, glancing around and reaching through the darkness seeing eyes dance in the distance.

Two. Three. Four. The same as before.

“Well you and yer friends should have came on in with the rest of us if you enjoyed it that much.” He shook her touch off, brushing past her without a care, sensing something more going on. His back now to her, he realised the glowing eyes from afar came slightly closer, more figure into view.

She spun around from the tree, facing him from behind.

“Would giving them name help you to remember?” Her voice lowered slightly, snarling in her words.

He continued looking forward, his dizzying eyes tracking down the building from where he came from and he chuckled, shrugging of whatever kind of trick this was, “I don’t care to go by name.”

“Not even for them?”

Them.

“And what is it you’re implying?" His chuckling faded and it turns into a grunt of words, stomach churning as he spoke, unsure yet certain of every word that came from her mouth. Remmick glanced around warily, brushing off his shirt and trying to sober himself up. He leaned against a tree for balance, his vision swimming.

"You crowd yourself in music, and drink yourself to stupor, and no man can return what you lost." She paused, stalking closer as he pushed himself off the tree standing straight, readying to leave thinking this as some sort of trick. He shook his head, staying with his back turned, somehow froze by her choice of words.

Even through his drunken haze, he noticed something different in her demeanour, something predatory and knowing, different to the odd and sweet one it had been.

His back tensed and his expression fell slack, eyes dilating in the darkness as he began to pick at the bark, trying to bypass the thoughts, moments and memories but he pushed them aside, collapsing under the weight.

"I'm afraid to say ye have the wrong man." His head felt heavy, and shivers ran through his body. It had to be the drink, that liquor was no joking matter. But she continued on.

"What became of them? What fate concludes you all? Your lover, your mother, your dearest brother and sister. Even your father. And yet you walk here, wouldn't you want to be with them?"

Her words sliced through him like a blade of ice. Remmick froze completely, unable to step away despite every instinct screaming to flee. Her cruel questions burrowed into his mind like parasites, crushing what little composure he had left. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he wiped his face roughly, the devastating truth settling in his bones.

This wasn't the drink's doing, wasn't some fevered dream he could dismiss. This was real—a venomous enchantment that held him there even as it destroyed him piece by piece. His feet remained rooted to the spot, betraying his desire to escape her words. Merciless.

“How..” Remmick turned, his face red and flushed from the cold and he panted, trying to calm himself as his movement staggered, he felt anger, and hurt. What he tied down for so long was being set free, and not in the way it should have. She shushed him and placed a hand at his shoulder, fingering the buttons on his cloth shirt and he didn’t move.

"You left without scratch, or any harm at all leaving the dead behind, but here you stand as one of them, but only your heart beats."

Something clicked. Years had passed and yet everything may as well have been hours ago, time seemed to still and stand where he'd left it. He hadn't seen anyone, anything, the night it happened, but the smell, the taste in his mouth that the blood left, the dirt it left that he couldn't wash off. And she reeked of it, her scent a sweet poison that clouded his judgment with each breath he took.

Her crimson lips curved into a knowing smile, her pale fingers brushing against his arm, sending involuntary shivers down his spine. Lights weaved through the trees, in the shapes of eyes, standing tall at all angles around them both and he froze, focusing in on them.

Three men with hollow cheeks and predatory gazes, and another woman with hair like midnight, dressed similarly enough in tattered finery from various eras—some wearing more recent clothing that he recognised through the dying light. Their pale faces seemed to glow with an unnatural luminescence as they watched him with hungry anticipation. A glinting fang in the corner of his eyes snapped his head back to her.

As their eyes met, he felt his resistance melting away, his fear transforming into a strange acceptance.

He understood now what she was, what they all were, and somehow knew this moment had been inevitable since that night long ago. His heartbeat slowed as he surrendered to her silent call.

"Except something can change that." She stalked closer, her face contorting with a toothed grin. "If you let it." Her hands placed onto Remmick's shoulders as she stalked around him, running her hands along as she whispered into his ear, dragging her hidden teeth around the side and back of his neck, her breath hitting it deeply.

Seductive and strong she grips him tightly, shivering under the feeling. Her fingers trail down his arm until they find his hand, toying with the ring on his finger, twisting it playfully and he shook his hand away.

She plucks at his clothing, examining the fabric between her fingertips, handling his belongings with intimate familiarity. Remmick remains transfixed, his gaze never leaving her face, captivated by her every movement. Only occasionally do his eyes flick back to the others, noting their growing impatience, their shuffling feet and pointed glances, before his attention magnetises back to her, unable to resist her pull.

"You know what we are." She declared, snaking around his body to face him. Her face was something evil, a soft spittle remained at her mouth, and her eye glowed a dark red and the mouth into a jagged curve - something unnatural. There is no restraint, no screaming for help, no pleading. He stays stood without seeming to care.

"I've known." His voice was tired and sunken as he hung his head high.

"Then you know what can set you free. No burden, no pain."

"Salvation," he whispered, a word that once held meaning in his childhood prayers. He longed for peace, that divine grace the gods had promised, though faith had taken over abandoned him years ago. "The redemption I sought in empty churches, the ones they build on broken ground.”

Her clawed fingers tightened around his wrist. "We offer a different salvation. One you can touch."

In that moment, something primal awakened within him.

“You offer no savin’.” With unexpected swiftness, he twisted violently from her grip, slamming his elbow into her temple. She shrieked, a sound more beast than human, as he bolted toward the woods.

Behind him, howls erupted from the darkness – her brethren, her pack. They would hunt him now, their prey who dared to flee. Through the underbrush he crashed, knowing they followed, their hunger intensified by his defiance but he didn’t panic. Not once.

Fate was not defied by prophecy, it was defied by choice. And this was no way to die.

Remmick winced as the sharp brushes cut into his flesh, shallow wounds appearing along his arms in delicate slashes—a necessary sacrifice. He pressed deeper into the woods, sensing the pursuing figures following his trail exactly as he intended. The sound of their movement confirmed they were taking the bait.

Suddenly, the Earth beneath him gave way, forming a crater just large enough to swallow his foot. It pulled him downward with surprising force, dragging him into the sodden dirt that scraped against his chest and tore at his shirt, ripping the material to shreds.

His face pressed into the damp ground, the taste of soil filling his mouth as he lay there, not in defeat but in calculated patience. Through his blurred vision, he watched as a quoir of shadowy figures materialised and gathered around him.

The woman caught up first, her breath a cold whisper against his neck as she circled him, crouching behind him tutting. One by one, they revealed themselves—pale faces contorted with hunger, lips curling back to expose elongated fangs.

“An unwise choice.” She teased, her voice like silk over steel. They encircled him, taking turns to slash at his flesh with razor-sharp nails that glinted in the moonlight. Blood welled from each precise cut, drawing hisses of pleasure from his tormentors. The woman knelt beside him, gripping his chin and forcing him to meet her ancient eyes, smirking at their motions. "You cannot escape what you are said to become, we all shall be" she whispered, tracing a cold finger along his jawline.

"You belong with us. Belong to." The words hung in the air like a funeral dirge. “Many years of freedom-“ she paused, letting silence fill the space between them, "and yet you are so unhappy... living amongst it like this won't give you happiness, it won't bring them back to you." Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“And debts must be paid, each one owed back to us in blood. It's only what makes you whole.” She slowly raised her hand, the dim light catching her nails one by one as they came into view, each twinkling with crimson that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

His eyes widened as she brought them closer, close enough that he could smell the metallic tang. Her lips curled into a smile that never reached her eyes. “And I intend to collect…” she trailed off, dragging a single nail along his cheek, leaving the faintest trace of red, “.. you become one of us, all of that you knew before will disappear.”

He trembled violently in her iron grip as she hoisted him upward, his battered body sagging against her kneeling form. Blood seeped from his numerous wounds, staining his tattered clothes crimson as his strength ebbed away with each laboured breath.

"No... I'd rather die empty than become like you," he rasped defiantly, his voice barely above a whisper. She ignored his resistance, drawing nearer with predatory intent, her eyes gleaming with hunger. Her razor-sharp teeth pierced the tender flesh of his neck with savage precision. He screamed in agony, his body convulsing as he desperately clawed at her arms, thrashing wildly to escape her deadly embrace. White-hot pain radiated from the puncture wounds as she drank deeply, each greedy pull draining more of his humanity.

A molten fire coursed through his veins, spreading to every extremity until his limbs grew leaden and unresponsive. His skin, once flushed with life, now took on an ashen pallor as it began to claim him.

Salvation.

And yet it struck like a vice.

The others backed away, their forms stalking around the periphery like shadows retreating before dawn, gradually fading into the misty distance as the eerie blue lights in their hollow eye sockets dimmed to nothing. She cradled him there against her chest, her once-beautiful face now adorned with crimson streaks, thick rivulets of blood dripping from her chin onto his cold skin.

His vision blurred and darkened at the edges, consciousness slipping away like water through fingers, while something else stirred deep within—a hunger, ancient and primal, beginning to unfurl in his chest as his humanity ebbed away, replaced by something colder, something darker, something... eternal...

His own thoughts that carried him now assimilated into a hundred - maybe a thousand by now, as the poison coursed gently through his veins like a warm embrace. His limbs grew weightless, each heartbeat stretching longer than the last.

"You'll soon awake," a mutter came from the air singing to him like a lullaby, carrying him as he faded. The world around him softened at the edges, colors bleeding into one another as his consciousness expanded beyond his transforming body. The pain that had anchored him dissolved, replaced by a peaceful floating sensation as his cells surrendered to the sweet toxin flowing through his blood. Reality peeled away layer by layer, revealing something vast and welcoming beyond.

A life, now ended.

But something more was beginning.

The days, weeks and months that followed were nothing short of nightmarish.

Ages passed all into one, everything that was known before was passing one moment at a time into a blur. He tore through the countryside like a tempest, ruthless in his desperation, draining every whiskey cask from Dublin to Galway, bedding maidens from thatched-roof villages to walled towns. His blood burned with reckless abandon as he plundered and pillaged his way through a changing world that cared nothing for his sensibilities - and not that he did either.

The age of knights and honour was fading, yet he clung to old ways while simultaneously destroying them, taking anything and everything without purpose - nothing giving meaning to what he lost, what he sought after. He shattered tavern doors and broken hearts alike, trying to catch up with himself, to outrun the void.

A song. A poem. A love as pure as time.

Some people came and went, stood by his side as they surrendered to the same poison he did once - some went willingly, and some put up fight. But the ones that stayed, had a purpose.

And the only one that did stay, that he had found in all of this, was you.

1816

The night deepened into a velvet stillness as your singing faded to a gentle hum, your body settling comfortably against his chest, legs intertwined beneath the star-scattered sky. Remmick's breath caught slightly as you turned to face him, moonlight silvering his features while he rested against the tall grass.

He studied you with wonder, as though emerging from a trance, and you offered him a soft smile in return. At the sight, something stirred in his chest—a warmth spreading through him that you never failed to ignite. Your eyes met, both a blue shimmer reflecting the connection between you in the quiet darkness. His fingers found your hair, gently weaving through the strands as he held you close, the gesture both protective and tender.

He lifted you up more towards him, drawing you to him as he pressed his lips to yours, it was with unhurried affection as a small, contented smile formed against your mouth at the taste of his lips.

Is tú mo ghrá.

The words fell from his lips against your own, like poetry off of his tongue, and without knowing of the language that came from it. A silent understanding instead. You bumped your nose against his, resting your hands on his shoulder bracingly.

“As are you.”

Tags: @fuckoffbard 💗

#sinners x reader #sinners 2025 #remmick x reader #remmick #remmick sinners #sinners movie #jack o'connell #jack o connell x reader

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mwinor · 3 months ago

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Sabrina

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

⌗ comf, stuffed toy, bf!TheodoreNott

word count: 641

note: first of all, it was a request from @annaisabookworm that I lost. Sorry for taking so long to respond! I didn't see it.… I'm a bit dumb. secondly, English is not my native language, and even though I wrote a project about American slang (I'm still writing it), I still didn't understand who fred was(pls help). Third, thank you for your kind words! Fourthly, I'm sorry that I didn't post for a long time, I was all in my studies. but I have written you two sketches, one of which is below this one. I love you!

You have no idea when exactly Theodore started noticing your affection for the stuffed pig. Probably back in your fourth year, when you used to sneak it into the library during particularly difficult exams. Or in fifth grade, when after a bad day you were hiding in an empty classroom, clutching a stuffed toy in your hands.

But in the sixth, he knew it for sure.

— Do you realize how ridiculous you look? — Theodore sits down on the sofa in the Slytherin living room, watching you, wrapped in a blanket, nuzzle your piggy.

You look at him with displeasure.

— I realize that it's time for you to mind your own business, Nott," you grumble, clutching the toy tighter.

It's been a long day. Transfiguration has taken all your strength, and there's still a potions exam ahead. The piggy, whose weight pleasantly presses on your body, helps you relax.

— You're not a kid, — he continues, as if it's crucial for him to be right.

— Legally, I am a kid, — you correct him, burying your face in a soft cloth.

You can hear him sigh. Then you feel movement — he settles down next to you, putting his feet up on the table.

— Does it at least help in any way?

You turn your head. There is no mockery in his voice.

—Yes, — you admit. — It's weighted. It's... soothing.

Theodore is silent, and then reaches forward and gently touches the toy with his fingers. The soft fabric feels good, forcing the phalanges of the fingers to return to this thing again.

— It's weird, but it makes sense, — he says, — Some kind of Muggle thing?

You nod.

He leans back, — Does it have a name?

You look away. It's embarrassing to show a toy, and even more so to admit that you gave it a name.

— Sabrina.

Theodore chuckles.

— You do realize that if Malfoy finds out, you'll be laughed at for the rest of the school year, right?

You just shrug your shoulders. Everyone has known for a long time that you have mumps. At first, someone really tried to make fun of you, but you didn't care. Over time, most just got used to it.

But Theo doesn't seem to be used to it. Because now he's everywhere you are, and he always notices Sabrina.

In the Spell exam, you finish your work ahead of time and, while waiting for the others, hug the toy to somehow relieve the tension. When the exam is over, you look up and meet Theodore's gaze. He grins.

— With your pig again?

You roll your eyes.

— Leave me alone.

— I'm starting to think that you love it more than you love me,— he whispers mockingly as he passes by.

You blush, but you don't say anything.

And then, a week later, you notice something strange.

Nott is sitting in the far corner of the library, poring over a textbook on Potions. And everything would be fine, but next to him, she lies completely calmly... a stuffed duck.

You stop, blinking.

— Theo…

He doesn't look up.

— Don't start.

You bite your lip, holding back a smile.

— What is it?

He sighs and still looks at you.

— It's... something that turns out to really help, — he admits reluctantly.

You sit down next to him and carefully pick up the toy. It, like Sabrina, is weighted.

— It is cute,— you say.

Theodore snorts,

— It's a duck. Ducks can't be cute.

You shake your head.

— This one can.

You're just silent for a few seconds, and then Theodore lazily remarks:

— If Malfoy finds out, he'll laugh at me for the rest of the school year.

You're laughing.

— Get used to it.

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theegyal · 29 days ago

Text

FADED [ Annie X Smoke ] , Sinners (2025)

I literally love this couple from Sinners. What I mean is that I’m literally Obsessed about them. The chemistry between the two actors so good, it makes me want them to date in real life too. Lawl.

I plan to make a long fully fanfiction name : Faded. I don’t know how many part or chapters. Will prolly let the flow guides me.

Warning : Angst, Slow-burn, Rated 18, Smut.

I want to add : English is not my native language and I can make grammar mistakes or syntax. As I’m not American descend (I’m west African) some cultural assets can be off, I tried my absolute to learn more about the southern black community and culture before making the fanfic so, it will be fine but if you feel something wrong, please do tell me.

CHAPTER 1

Chicago treated them well. At least, that's how it looked to the folks in Delta Town.

Fugitives—that's what they were. Creeping away from the North, hiding, running from the crimes they'd done to those white folks. No matter how justified it seemed, they should've gone somewhere else.

Smoke knew from the start they should've taken another direction. Was it his gut? Or just regret?

"—Damn, nigga," Stack muttered, smirking as he spat tobacco into the dirt. "Didn't know you turned pussy on me."

Smoke stared at his twin with burning eyes, saying nothing.

Afraid? No.

Skeptical—that was the only feeling that fit.

"Relax. It's gonna be fire." Stack grinned "We're home, dandy! The whole Delta's ready to welcome back the twins—Smoke and Stack!" He said, his hand dancing over the wheel.

"Shut up and drive," the older brother finally snapped. "Let's pick up Sammie on the way."

Everything they did was just stalling.

Every turn, every errand—it was all to keep him from facing what waited.

That place.

That silence.

Calling it home felt dishonest. Like trying to dress a wound that never closed.

The old chapel buzzed, alive with the faithful.

The Mississippi sun pressed down on the tin roofs and white hats, but it couldn't keep them from their hymns and hallelujahs.

"Hey, Sammie!" Stack called out, breezing past the old man standing at the building's white door like he was part of the landscape.

Smoke looked at his uncle for a second too long.

Then turned away, back to the road.

"Let's go," he said.

After a long ride, they reached the meeting point where they had to split.

Stack and Sammie went looking for Slim, and Smoke decided to visit his old friend Bo.

Grace and Bo's storefronts hadn't aged a day. Seven years gone, and nothing had changed. That hurt more than he expected.

The familiarity. The stillness. The way the past didn't even flinch when you came back to it.

"I need your wife to make a sign. We're about to do something big," the older twin explained.

The business ended quickly.

Smoke took a white rose bouquet on his way out.

He knew something was missing. The truth was, he'd robbed himself of it.

He'd stolen his own right to come back.

To remember.

To mourn.

Stack was right. Maybe he was a pussy.

"Daddy's there," Smoke whispered to the rocky grave in front of him.

His eyes fell on the fresh milk carefully left beside it.

She was still here after all.

He heard children giggling, coming and going, once or twice.

Then he felt something—a presence. He didn't turn around.

He didn't need to.

He knew it.

Knew her.

Would've recognized that energy among a thousand souls.

And he, the man who didn't believe in ghosts—Was suddenly haunted.

"How have you been?"

"Still alive. I don't complain," she replied, her voice deepened with muted anger. "What are you doing here, Smoke?"

He finally gathered what was left of the courage still in his body and faced her—the woman he had left behind.

"Annie," he whispered

She stepped toward him, her body shaped in godly curves, her Nubian skin glittering under the southern sun. The tattered dress she wore made him hiss in self-accusation.

He could've covered her with the most precious jewelry, dressed her up with the kind of sumptuous fabrics the northern white ladies wrapped around their feverish figures, flattering themselves.

He could have.

But the truth lay here: he didn't.

He went to war, tricked the Mobs—

And now he couldn't even hold the gaze of a woman.

Shame.

Smoke was ashamed.

"Don't tell me that Chicago vomited you ?" She shut the distance between them, stare at him with her roundish brown eyes and a disappointed smile "what are you doing here, Smoke ?"

"We about to open a juke joint, we bought a sawmill, the building quiet good."

Annie laughed.

Damn, he missed her laugh. For an instant, he got caught glancing over her lips, until she replied sarcastically without stopping her laughter.

"Oh, let me guess, it was Stack's genius idea? What did you both do to buy a white man's property, huh? Who did you steal?"

"Tch."

Annie returned her steps toward the wooden cabin shop, followed by Smoke's manly shadow.

"Thank you, Miss Annie," cheered up a little girl.

"You're welcome! And don't sell it to anyone. I don't want your momma to scold me!"

The hoodoo priestess replied before taking money from the girl. As soon as she was ready to keep her money in her pockets, Smoke rapidly took the papers off.

"What is it?" he clinched.

"Give me my money, Smoke."

"I can trade those. Why are you accepting that?"

"You somethin' else. After all these years, now you wanna act like I'm a real person, huh? Hand me my money. Now."

"Babe—"

"Elijah."

He knew better than to talk back. Truth was, he ain't had no right tellin' her what to do, no more than he had the right to show up like this.

"Come on, Ma'. Cook for us. I need you. This lil' business we runnin' now—"

"Uh-uh. Don't start that. Why the hell you here, Elijah?" she said, blowin' out the candles on her shrine.

"You know damn well why." He paused, took off his hat, and lit his pipe with a shaky hand. "I can't stop thinkin' 'bout her. 'Bout you. Don't matter where I go, it's like I'm stuck in a loop—hear her laughin', cryin'. I keep wonderin' what we coulda been... if she was still here."

"Mhm. I reckon you wouldn't've run off, vanished like a ghost, not even a word. I bet you wouldn't've let seven damn years pass between you an' her." She said arching a brow unimpressed.

"Resentment don't look good on ya, Annie."

"Cowardice wasn't somethin' I ever thought I'd see in you—'til you ran too, Smoke."

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy.

A man might be called a damn fool for feelin' a slow heat rise up through his body at a time like this. But lawd, no matter what this woman did—she got under his skin, stirred him up somethin' fierce. Most folks didn't dare talk back when he opened his mouth. But her? She stood there like she was born to defy him. Stared him down like her life hung on it.

"You best tame that thing, and do it quick," she snapped, pointin' straight at the hardened hood swellin' under his trousers.

Flustered. Smoke knew damn well his lady was. She always got like that when she was shy or tryin' not to let it show. Teasin' was more Stack's thing, but he couldn't help himself.

"Prolly just missin' a lil' ol' Creole touch to settle it down." he drawled, eyes heavy on her. "You know what they say—old pots cook the best meals."

She didn't say a word. Just turned her back to him, slow and deliberate, like she was tryna smother the flame and not feed it.

"Get outta my house, Smoke."

He let out a long sigh, stood slow, the chair legs scratchin' against the wooden floor. The air between 'em was thick, close, hummin' with somethin' that ain't been named in years. He reached the door. Suddenly she added

"I don't wanna get paid in dollars for tonight."

He paused, hand on the doorframe. Turned just enough for the corner of his mouth to lift.

"As you wish, ma'am," he murmured, "Til' tonight."

LINK TO THE OTHER PART : (.v.)

#smoke x annie #annie sinners #annie x elijah #sinners #fanfic #wunmi mosaku #michael b jordan

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crippled-peeper · 9 months ago

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American Prairie ecosystems

🤝

American Desert ecosystems

being disrespected and ignored and destroyed despite weaving the fabric of many native cultures & societies and having enormous biodiversity that is so beautiful and important for everyone’s livelihoods

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ckret2 · 2 months ago

Note

do you have any tips on fueling a hyperfixation enough to finish a long fic? specifically when the media has a smaller fandom

sure here's several tips:

1) for me, this is the most imporant one, so it's long: if you've run out of canon material and there's only a little bit of fanfic/fanart, start consuming things adjacent to the fandom that are relevant to your fic. This means doing research! Nonfiction research, even! it'll be fun, it's for fanfic.

If your main character was in the radio industry in the 1920s? then buddy, you're gonna read every book that's ever been written about the first years of radio broadcasting—and then you're gonna listen to a million early radio dramas that have been posted to youtube & old time radio podcasts.

If he was a trans man in Victorian England? Then you're emailing your library begging them to get a copy of a book about how American & British society perceived trans men & crossdressing women from 1600-1900.

If your main character ran a cult? Then you're about to get really familiar with a true crime podcast on the psychology of cults and their leaders.

If your character's an Italian theater nerd in the 1700s, you're about to watch a lot of videos about comedia dell'arte. If your character's a Japanese theater nerd in the 1700s, you're about to watch a lot of videos about kabuki. Is a character's name an allusion to a mythological figure? You're gonna read every myth about that figure possible to see whether any of it can be incorporated into your characterization. Is your character a big reader? What genres are they into and what years were they a teenager? You're googling "pre-lovecraftian cosmic horror" for your tentacle-loving goth born in 1890 and that's what you're reading for the next two months.

I've devoured books, websites, research papers, podcasts, infotainment youtubers, movies, documentaries, and whole TV shows powered purely by love for blorbo from a different show. The topics I've researched have been as varied as:

the physics & geology of volcanoes

how to make friendship bracelets

a travel podcast for tourists to New Orleans

Victorian-era sci-fi novels that preclude modern steampunk

hundreds & hundreds of real people's self-reported ghost stories

how to tie a sarong (which required digging past a billion links to white people who think a "sarong" is simply a rectangle of fabric you can knot any old way)

the history of Mardi Gras celebration practices

lockpicking

a wide variety of neurodivergencies (and do you know how goddamn hard it is to find psychology books that are sympathetic to narcissists?? goddamn. i did it tho)

the entirety of Care Bears and Rainbow Brite

the native names of islands & geological formations around the Ring of Fire

Mexican folk religion

pre-Hays Code comedy movies

how & where people consumed pop music before radios & record players

Indonesian airport locations

how much weight a battleship can carry...

and if you do it for Love Of A Character, it's fun. If blorbo loves cheesy pulp romances and you don't, you will if you're reading them with an eye to see what blorbo gets out of these books and how this reflects on their character.

Hyperfixation-tangential research can help stretch a hyperfixation indefinitely. Plus you learn lots of new stuff, and even when the hyperfixation dies, that knowledge is with you forever!

(did you know volcanos aren't hot enough to melt glass? did you know the fires built for glassblowing aren't hot enough to melt glass?? did you know magma isn't hot enough to melt itself??? i once spent a whole day frantically trying to figure out how glass & rocks melt. it resulted in two lines in a fanfic. i regret nothing.)

and a few other tips:

2) Find 3-4 trusted colleagues/partners in crime you can go feral with in DMs. A fandom with 10,000 people and a fandom with 100 people look the same size when viewed from within a ship-dedicated discord with 5 people.

3) if you rewatch/reread the source material CONSTANTLY, it's easy to risk squeezing out the last drops of dopamine it offers too quickly, so like, don't force feed it to yourself every other day. But periodically reconsuming bits of it somewhat regularly can help stoke the fire, remind you what you like about the source material, and inspire you to think over the parts that are relevant to your fic. AND helps you remember how to write the characters. (the aforementioned research is usually what I do for my fun watching/reading in between reconsuming canon.)

4) make sure the fic you're writing is short enough to be completed before the hyperfixation expires. this is CRUCIAL. i've never actually done this step.

#(and yes i can give recommendations for all of the above topics. and more!!)#anonymous #ask #about my writing #adhd

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wildbeautifuldamned · 1 year ago

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Remnant Pillow Upholstery Fabric Southwest Style 31 in x 29 in Double Sided ebay Gosia's Store

#fabric #native american

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britishchick09 · 1 month ago

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nanea, maryellen and melody's behind the scenes facts! :D

To ensure accuracy, author Kirby Larson worked with an advisory board, including a Hawaiian language professor, hula experts, historians, and Pacific Islanders—such as Dorinda Nicholson, who witnessed the Pearl Harbor attack as a child.

Nanea’s outfits and accessories were inspired by traditional Hawaiian fabrics. Her play outfit features palaka, a checkered cloth originally imported from England and worn by Hawaiian plantation workers in the early 1900s.

Nanea’s luau lei includes hibiscus flowers, which are native to Hawai‘i. The state flower is the yellow hibiscus.

American Girl sought to authentically represent Hawaiian culture by incorporating music, dance, ’ohana (family), and kōkua (helping others) into Nanea’s story.

The street names in Nanea’s story, like Fern Street and Pumehana Avenue, are real, but the house numbers are fictional.

Kirby Larson hoped Nanea’s persistence and courage would inspire readers “to give it one more try and not give up, no matter how rough things may look.”

To ensure authenticity in Maryellen’s story, author Valerie Tripp and researchers read the exact newspapers the Larkins would have received, capturing details like the daily weather at the beach and the latest 1950s news.

Maryellen’s school outfit features a charming “Peter Pan” collar, a playful reference to the novel, stage play, and the Disney film, which was released in 1953.

Valerie Tripp consulted an aeronautics expert to make sure that Maryellen’s flying machine was scientifically accurate.

The Seaside Diner is one of the largest playsets ever made by American Girl, featuring real jukebox sounds and over 30 pieces, including diner menu foods like burgers, shakes, and fries.

The product designers searched antique stores, flea markets, and vintage sewing supplies to find authentic 1950s fabrics for Maryellen’s outfits.

Valerie Tripp drew inspiration for the story from her own experiences growing up in the 1950s.

American Girl wanted to bring the 1950s to life to connect daughters, mothers, and grandmothers, allowing them to share memories and make new discoveries about the era together.

Knowing the books would be a multigenerational shared experience, Valerie Tripp emphasized how women’s roles evolved in the 1950s. She also hoped Maryellen would inspire girls to “stay true to the person you really feel you are.”

To create Melody’s story, author Denise Lewis Patrick consulted with a six-member advisory board of historians and educators who had a rich knowledge of Detroit’s history and the civil rights movement.

Melody’s accessories include a pin that is a miniature replica of the pins worn by marchers at Detroit’s Walk to Freedom.

To create Melody’s recording studio, the American Girl team visited real 1960s recording studios, including Motown.

American Girl chose the year 1964 because it was a time of heightened energy and optimism in the civil rights movement.

All of Melody’s clothing, from her houndstooth dress to her cat-eye sunglasses, is emblematic of the 1960s.

Advisory board member Dr. JoAnn Watson grew up in 1960s Detroit. When she was twelve years old, she marched with her grandparents in the Walk to Freedom.

Melody wears a Breton hat, a style traditionally worn by French agricultural workers that became a global fashion trend in the 1960s.

Denise Lewis Patrick saw Melody’s story as a way to help girls realize their individual power. She says, “Melody helps readers to understand that there is always something they can do to help change their world for the better.”

bonus- family and friends:

#american girl #american girl doll #nanea mitchell #maryellen larkin #melody ellison #it's weird seeing them in their cartoony diary forms when the others are realistic! :o #same with val and sharon!#but they're so cute! :D

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jasmines-library · 10 months ago

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could I request a batman and Damian x daughter/sister reader who has native american heritage from their mom's side and since meeting their paternal family as an adult often gifts them things like traditional handicrafts like beaded lanyards, ribbon shirts, card holders, brooches, beaded moccasins, moose hyde gloves and even a beautiful beaded hyde jacket (that she dyed black🤭) and it gets to the point where they're rooms and even the cave is full of little items made by them. Also, it'd be cute if she teaches Damian how to do traditional crafts and even shows him how to cut up & make dry meat because they never had a younger sibling to teach it too and got excited upon meeting Damian.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Note: I hope this is okay. I also hope i did my research right, but please correct me if im wrong!

⛧ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛧

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

"What you got there?" Damian asked as he entered the dining room. You were sat at the table by the window where the lighting was good, craft supplies sprawled out in front of you as your trained hands worked.

You held up the delicate fabric up to him. A handmade ribbon shirt, with neat patchwork sewn in. You had been working on the project all day, trying to perfect it. You liked to make them gifts, and they liked to receive them twice as much. Each thing you made them was intricately crafted by and and with a great sense of love and care. Weather it was a beaded lanyard to hand their bits and bobs from, or a brooch, or something larger like the ribbon shirts you liked to sew, they treasured each and every thing. You also felt a great sense of pride giving your family the things you made; it made them feel included in your culture that you were so proud of. Damian's absolute favourite was the black hyde jacket that you had gifted him.

Your family adored your gifts and culture so much that it had gotten to the point where your trinkets were scattered all over the cave, adding a homely and personal touch to something usually so dark and dindgey.

"It's for Tim." You said, placing the shirt back on the table to examine your work.

"It's beautiful." Damian said, looking it over. "You'll have to teach me someday."

your face lit up. "Really? you want to learn?! I'd love to teach you!"

"If you're willing to teach me, yeah."

you scooted your chair over to the side making room for him to pull up another before reaching over for your craft box, filled with beads and delicate feathers and strings to weave and craft with. "Come sit! i'll show you."

Damian took a seat beside you watching closely as you demonstrated how to craft something. He watched keenly, repeating your movements, though with slightly less expertise, though you were sure that in no time, you would have another set of hands to help you craft.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

BATFAM TAGS

@hearts4robs @xxrougefangxx @hell-o-kittys @harleycao @batfamsstuff @alicedawitchbish @killxz @rosecentury @lara20aral

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

#batfam x reader #batfamily #batfam #batfamily x reader #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #robin #robin x reader #tim drake #tim drake x reader #native american #crafts #fanfiction #dc #dc x reader #batfam fanfiction

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vivsinkpot · 29 days ago

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Character Diversity Done Right: Beyond Tokenism & Forced Inclusivity

Diversity in storytelling isn’t just about ticking boxes or adding characters to look inclusive. It’s about creating real, nuanced people who enrich your world and resonate with readers. Let’s break down how to do diversity thoughtfully — without falling into the trap of forced inclusivity or the “token minority” trope.

✨ What Is Forced Inclusivity?

Forced inclusivity happens when diversity feels like an obligation instead of a natural part of the story.

Characters might be added just to meet a quota.

Their identities are mentioned but not explored or integrated meaningfully.

They often feel out of place or like an afterthought.

Why avoid it?

Because it can feel performative, shallow, or even disrespectful. Readers want authentic stories — not characters who exist only to “check a box.”

⚠️ The Token Minority Trap

A “token” character is often the only member of their group in the story, included to represent an entire community. They usually:

Have one-dimensional traits centered on their identity (e.g., the “sassy Black friend” or ��nerdy gay sidekick”).

Are used to educate or explain cultural issues instead of being full characters.

Serve as a plot device rather than people with their own goals and flaws.

💡 How to Write Diversity Well

1. Make characters fully fleshed-out individuals.

Diversity isn’t just skin-deep or a label — it’s about who the character is inside. When you create a diverse character, ask yourself:

What motivates them? What are their dreams and fears beyond their identity?

How do their relationships shape them?

What quirks, flaws, or contradictions make them human?

This makes them feel real, not like a “diversity prop.” For example, a transgender character could be a talented detective who struggles with self-doubt, a funny sense of humor, and complicated family ties — not just “the trans character.”

2. Avoid stereotypes and clichés.

Stereotypes reduce complex people to a handful of traits. They can be harmful and alienate readers who identify with those characters.

Do your research! Read books, watch films, and listen to podcasts created by people from the community you’re portraying.

Avoid relying on common tropes like the “magical Native American,” “angry Black woman,” or “promiscuous bisexual.”

Give your character individuality that breaks expectations — maybe they defy norms within their own culture or identity.

Example

Instead of the “model minority” trope, write an Asian character who struggles with their own passions, insecurities, and family dynamics, making them a well-rounded person, not just a stereotype.

3. Include multiple diverse characters.

Having just one “diverse” character often makes them a symbol rather than a person. Real communities are rich, varied, and nuanced — and your story should reflect that.

Introduce more than one character from the same or different backgrounds to show variety.

Show how their experiences differ even if they share an identity. For instance, two queer characters might have completely different outlooks based on age, culture, or personality.

This avoids the “token” feeling and creates a more believable world.

4. Let diversity shape the world naturally.

In real life, diversity influences culture, language, food, traditions, and social dynamics. Your story world should feel lived-in and authentic.

Think about how diverse backgrounds affect worldbuilding — from holidays and cuisine to language and fashion.

Show interactions between communities, including cooperation, conflict, and blending of cultures.

Don’t just “drop in” diverse characters without integrating their identities into the story’s social fabric.

Example

In a fantasy city, different kingdoms might reflect distinct cultures with their own customs and dialects — giving your setting richness and depth.

5. Don’t make identity the only thing about them.

A character’s ethnicity, gender, or sexuality is part of who they are — but not the whole story.

Their identity can influence their worldview and experiences, but they should have other defining traits too — like ambitions, fears, or talents unrelated to identity.

Avoid writing characters whose entire personality or plot revolves around their minority status.

This lets readers see them as complex individuals, not just representatives.

Example:

A Black engineer who’s passionate about robotics and has a dry sense of humor — their race is important, but so is their love for tinkering and problem-solving.

6. Listen and learn from feedback.

No one gets it perfect on the first try. Writing diverse characters is a learning process.

Seek out sensitivity readers from the communities you’re writing about. Their insights can catch unintentional biases, inaccuracies, or harmful stereotypes.

Be open to constructive criticism and willing to revise your work.

Remember: it’s better to listen and grow than to defend mistakes that could hurt readers.

Final Thought

Diversity is about inclusion and respect, not obligation or tokenism. When you write with empathy and intention, your story becomes richer — and your characters become unforgettable.

💬 Got tips or experiences writing diverse characters? Drop them below or tag me — let’s learn and grow together!

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kenzdolls · 1 month ago

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EMBERS AND RIBBONS . 4.2k

𖤐 synopsis: when dabi encounters his native american girlfriend wearing traditional ribbon skirts and beaded jewelry for the first time, he discovers unexpected parallels between your cultural identity and his own journey of destruction and rebirth

𖤐 pairing: dabi (touya todoroki) x fem! reader

𖤐 sent in by: @gh0st-g1rll

𖤐 trigger warnings: references to past abuse/trauma, scarification, burn scars, mentions of fire/burning

𖤐 side note: sorry if it’s so long, I got help from my friend (who’s also native american) to help write with me for this. family members are all ooc btw (I made up names).

the first time dabi saw you wearing your ribbon skirt was on a day that had started like any other. you had been dating for a few months, your relationship an unexpected flame that neither of you had seen coming but that burned steady despite the chaos of your lives.

you had invited him to a community gathering, something you'd been hesitant to do given his general disdain for social events. but this was important—a celebration of your culture, your heritage, your people. and though he'd grumbled at first, he'd eventually agreed with a noncommittal shrug that you'd learned to interpret as reluctant acceptance.

"you don't have to stay the whole time," you'd assured him as you spoke on the phone the night before. "just… it would mean a lot if you came."

there had been silence on the other end, followed by a soft exhale. "fine. what time?"

you'd smiled, though he couldn't see it. "i'll text you the details. and dabi? thank you."

"don't thank me yet," he'd replied, but there was something almost gentle in his voice. "i'm still just thinking about it."

you both knew he'd already made up his mind.

the morning of the gathering, you stood before your mirror, carefully arranging your traditional clothing. the ribbon skirt had been a gift from your grandmother when you turned eighteen—vibrant blues and purples with intricate ribbon work that told the story of your lineage. your fingers traced the patterns reverently before you slipped it on, feeling the weight of heritage settle around your hips.

next came the beaded earrings, crafted by your aunt last winter while you sat at her feet, learning the traditional techniques though your fingers fumbled with the tiny beads. they dangled nearly to your shoulders, catching the light as you moved your head.

you wondered what dabi would think. in the months you'd been dating, he'd only ever seen you in your everyday clothes—jeans, t-shirts, the occasional dress when you went somewhere that required it. this was different. this was you uncovered, your true self on display.

when you opened your apartment door to him that afternoon, you were fully dressed in your regalia for the first time since you'd been together. the ribbon skirt flowed around your legs, vibrant colors catching the light as you moved. your hair was partially braided with a few traditional ornaments woven through it, and a beaded necklace complemented the earrings that swung gently with each breath.

dabi stood in the doorway, one scarred hand frozen mid-knock, his usual disaffected expression slipping just slightly. something flickered in those turquoise eyes—surprise, certainly, but something else too. something almost like wonder.

"what?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze.

"nothing," he replied, voice low. but his eyes never left you. "you look… different."

you smoothed your hands over the fabric of your skirt. "good different or bad different?"

the corner of his mouth quirked up—not his usual sardonic smirk, but something softer. "just different. i didn't know you had this side to you."

"there's a lot of sides to me," you countered, reaching out to straighten the collar of his jacket. "just like there are to you, touya todoroki."

he flinched slightly at the name—he always did—but didn't pull away from your touch. progress.

"the skirt," he said, nodding toward it. "what's it mean?"

you smiled, pleased by his interest. "it's a ribbon skirt. traditional for many native women. each one tells a story—the colors, the ribbons, the patterns. this one was made by my grandmother."

dabi nodded slowly, taking it in. "and the earrings?"

"also traditional. the beadwork is specific to my tribe. each bead placed with intention." you touched one earring gently. "they're part of who i am."

his eyes tracked the movement, lingering on the delicate craftsmanship. "never thought i'd be interested in fashion," he muttered, almost to himself.

you laughed. "it's not fashion, dabi. it's identity."

something shifted in his expression then, a recognition, perhaps even understanding. after all, if anyone knew about identity—losing it, fighting for it, reclaiming it—it was him.

"we should go," you said, grabbing your bag. "unless you've changed your mind?"

dabi shook his head. "no," he said, and you were surprised by the certainty in his voice. "i want to see this part of you."

as you walked to his car, you noticed how his eyes kept flickering to your skirt, to the way it moved around your legs with each step. you'd dated men before who'd fetishized your heritage, who'd wanted you to be some exotic fantasy rather than a real person with a complex culture. but dabi's interest seemed different—more curious than exploitative, more respectful than demanding.

"do you wear this often?" he asked as he opened the car door for you.

you shook your head. "not everyday. these are for special occasions, ceremonies, gatherings like today's. my grandmother always says our regalia isn't a costume—it's ceremonial clothing that carries spiritual significance."

dabi nodded, processing this as he slid into the driver's seat. "so it's like… armor, in a way."

you tilted your head, considering. "i've never thought of it that way, but yes, i suppose it is. armor that protects and connects me to my ancestors."

a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "i get that."

as he drove, you told him more about what to expect at the gathering—the food, the dancing, the stories. you'd never seen him so attentive, asking questions about protocols and customs, whether there were things he should avoid doing or saying.

"just be respectful," you told him. "that's all anyone will expect from you."

he snorted. "not exactly my specialty."

you reached over and placed your hand on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath your touch. "you're more respectful than you give yourself credit for, dabi. at least with things that matter."

he didn't answer, but his hand came to rest on top of yours, his thumb tracing small circles on your skin.

—

the gathering was held in an open space, tables arranged around a central clearing where dancing would take place later. elders sat in places of honor, their faces lined with years of wisdom. children ran playing between groups of adults, their laughter carrying on the breeze.

you felt dabi tense beside you as eyes turned toward you both. you couldn't blame them for staring—a man covered in stapled scars and burn marks wasn't something they saw every day. but you also knew your community well enough to know that judgment wasn't their way.

"relax," you murmured, slipping your hand into his. his fingers were always surprisingly warm, a constant reminder of the fire that burned within him. "no one here is going to care about how you look."

"that would be a first," he replied dryly, but allowed you to lead him further into the gathering.

your cousin nikki spotted you first, waving excitedly before rushing over. her own ribbon skirt was a riot of reds and oranges, her smile wide as she approached.

"you made it!" she exclaimed, hugging you tightly before turning curious eyes to dabi. "and you brought your mysterious boyfriend!"

you felt dabi stiffen slightly at the term, but he didn't contradict it. "nikki, this is dabi. dabi, my cousin nikki."

"the one with the fire quirk," nikki said, studying him with undisguised interest. "nice to finally meet you. she talks about you all the time."

you shot her a warning look, but dabi seemed more amused than annoyed. "does she now?"

nikki grinned. "oh definitely. 'dabi this' and 'dabi that.' it's cute, really."

"nikki," you hissed, feeling your cheeks warm.

"what? it's true," she replied innocently before turning back to dabi. "come on, i'll introduce you to everyone. and fair warning—the aunties are going to try to feed you until you burst."

to your surprise, dabi allowed himself to be led away, throwing you a look over his shoulder that seemed to say, "you owe me for this."

you watched as nikki introduced him to your extended family members, observing how he handled himself. he was quieter than usual, less sardonic, his normal defensive posture softening incrementally as he was met with genuine welcome rather than the fear or disgust he'd grown accustomed to.

uncle roy, one of the elders, approached him with a plate of traditional foods, explaining each one with patience and pride. you couldn't hear what they were saying from where you stood, but you saw dabi nod, saw him actually try the food offered, saw the surprise on his face when he found he liked it.

"so that's him," your mother said, appearing beside you. she was dressed in her own regalia, her presence commanding respect from everyone around her. as a tribal councilwoman, she carried herself with dignity and strength.

"that's him," you confirmed, watching as dabi listened to uncle roy's story about the origin of one of the dishes.

"he's… not what i expected," she admitted, studying him from afar.

you smiled. "he's not what anyone expects. that's part of why i love him."

it was the first time you'd said it out loud, and the realization made your heart skip a beat. you did love him—this complicated, damaged man who carried so much pain yet still found room for tenderness when it was just the two of you.

"does he know?" your mother asked softly.

you shook your head. "not yet. i don't want to scare him off."

she chuckled. "from what you've told me about him, i doubt those words would scare him. he faces down pro heroes without flinching."

"it's different," you said. "fighting doesn't frighten him. feelings do."

your mother nodded in understanding. "just remember, sweetheart—some fires need to be tended carefully if you don't want them to either go out or burn out of control."

before you could respond, nikki returned with dabi in tow, looking triumphant. "he survived the aunties!" she announced. "and he ate three pieces of fry bread!"

dabi rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression. "your family is… persistent."

"that's one word for it," you agreed, smiling up at him. "you okay?"

he nodded, his eyes moving from you to your mother. immediately, his posture straightened slightly, something like respect entering his gaze.

"mrs. __," he greeted her, using your last name with a formality you'd never heard from him before.

your mother's eyebrows rose slightly, but she smiled. "just call me kaya," she said, extending her hand. "it's good to finally meet you, dabi."

he hesitated only briefly before taking her hand. "likewise," he replied, and you could tell he meant it.

as the afternoon progressed, you watched dabi from the corner of your eye. he kept to himself, as expected, finding a quiet spot against a tree where he could observe without being approached. but you noticed the way his attention never wandered, how his eyes followed the dancers, studied the craftwork, lingered on the elders when they spoke.

the drums began, signaling the start of the dancing. you excused yourself from the conversation you'd been having with a few cousins and made your way to where the women were gathering.

"you're going to dance?" dabi asked as you passed his tree.

you nodded. "it's expected. and i want to."

something flickered in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or anticipation. "i'll be watching," he said, and the words carried more weight than they should have.

you took your place among the women, your ribbon skirt swaying as you moved into position. the drum beat resonated through your body, connecting you to the earth beneath your feet, to the ancestors whose blood ran in your veins, to the traditions that had sustained your people through centuries of hardship.

as you danced, your eyes occasionally found dabi. he watched with an intensity that might have unnerved you if you hadn't known him—his gaze steady, unwavering, taking in every movement, every detail of the ceremony. there was something like respect in his expression—not the dismissive tolerance you'd half-expected, but genuine appreciation for what he was witnessing.

later, as the sun began to set, you brought him a plate of food and sat beside him under his tree.

"having fun?" you asked, bumping your shoulder against his.

dabi snorted. "fun isn't exactly the word i'd use."

"what word would you use, then?"

he considered for a moment, eyes scanning the gathering before returning to you. "educational," he finally offered.

you smiled. "that's very diplomatic of you."

"don't get used to it," he warned, but there was no edge to his voice. after a moment of comfortable silence, he added, "they're good to you here."

it wasn't a question, but you answered anyway. "this is my family—not just by blood, but by culture and choice. we take care of each other."

dabi nodded, his expression thoughtful as he watched an elder help a child with their regalia. "family," he repeated, the word sounding strange in his mouth, laden with complicated history.

"different from what you knew," you acknowledged softly.

his lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. "everything about you is different from what i knew."

you weren't sure if that was a compliment, but before you could ask, one of the elders approached. grandmother rose, her own ribbon skirt adorned with patterns that told the story of your people, moved with the quiet dignity of someone who had seen decades of struggle and survival.

"so this is the young man you've been telling us about," she said, her wise eyes assessing dabi with neither judgment nor fear.

dabi straightened slightly, something you'd never seen him do before. it struck you then that for all his rebellion and rage, some instinct toward respect for elders remained buried inside him.

"grandmother, this is dabi," you said.

she nodded. "a fire spirit. i can see it in you, young man."

dabi's eyebrows rose slightly, but he said nothing.

"fire can destroy," she continued, "but it also brings life. it clears away the dead to make room for new growth. it all depends on how you use it."

something changed in dabi's expression—a subtle shift that most wouldn't notice, but you'd grown adept at reading the microexpressions that crossed his face. recognition, perhaps. or maybe just surprise that someone would see beyond his scars and quirks to the essence of who he was.

"your beadwork," he said abruptly, nodding to the intricate patterns on her clothing. "you make it yourself?"

grandmother rose smiled, pleased by the question. "every bead placed with prayer and purpose. like building a life—one small piece at a time, but together they create something beautiful."

dabi absorbed this, his eyes moving from her beadwork to yours. "sounds like a lot of work."

"most things worth doing are," she replied simply. with a knowing smile, she patted your shoulder and moved on, leaving you alone with dabi once more.

"she's… something," dabi commented after she'd gone.

you laughed. "that's one way to put it."

the sun had nearly set now, the gathering illuminated by firelight that cast dancing shadows across the ground. the flames reflected in dabi's eyes, making them seem to glow from within.

"thank you," you said suddenly. "for coming today. for seeing this part of me."

dabi looked at you, really looked at you, taking in the ribbon skirt, the beaded earrings catching the firelight, the pride in your posture. for once, he didn't deflect with sarcasm or change the subject. instead, he reached out, his scarred fingers gently touching one of your earrings.

"i like seeing the parts of you that you care about," he admitted, his voice low. "makes me understand why you put up with me."

you smiled, leaning into his touch. "because you see me. all of me. not just the parts that are convenient or comfortable."

he let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. "yeah, well. hard to judge someone else for having complications when you've got as many as i do."

"we're not so different," you said, daring to take his hand in yours. "we're both survivors."

his eyes met yours, and for a moment, all his walls were down. "you're a hell of a lot more than just a survivor," he said quietly. "you've got something i never had—roots. a place to belong."

you squeezed his hand. "maybe you could belong here too, someday."

he didn't answer, but he didn't pull away either. progress.

—

the next morning, you woke in your own bed to the sound of quiet movement in your kitchen. dabi had insisted on driving you home after the gathering, making sure you got inside safely before heading back to his own apartment.

at least, that had been the plan.

wrapping yourself in a robe, you padded out to find him standing at your stove, shirtless, his scarred back to you as he flipped something in a pan. the domesticity of the scene made your heart clench.

"i thought you left," you said.

he glanced over his shoulder, those turquoise eyes bright in the morning light. "thought about it. decided against it."

you moved closer, peeking around him to see what he was cooking. "breakfast?"

"something like that," he replied, nodding toward the coffee pot. "made coffee too."

you poured yourself a cup, watching him work. it was strange seeing him like this—not the dangerous villain, not the angry son of endeavor, just a man making breakfast in your kitchen. his hair was mussed from sleep, his movements relaxed in a way they rarely were in public.

"you stayed," you said again, still processing the fact.

dabi flipped the last piece of toast onto a plate. "yeah, well. your couch is comfortable."

you smiled, knowing that wasn't the real reason. "and?"

he sighed, setting down the spatula and turning to face you. "and i wanted to see you in the morning. see if you were different without all the… ribbons and beads."

you raised an eyebrow. "different how?"

"i don't know. less… sure of yourself. less…" he gestured vaguely, searching for the word.

"complete?" you suggested.

dabi nodded slowly. "yeah. maybe."

you reached up to touch his face, your fingers tracing the line where scarred tissue met smooth skin along his cheek. "i'm always me, dabi. with or without the regalia. the ribbons and beads are just… reminders of where i come from. who my people are."

he leaned slightly into your touch, his eyes closing briefly. "must be nice," he murmured. "having reminders that don't hurt."

the vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache. "maybe someday you'll have those too," you said softly.

his eyes opened, meeting yours with surprising intensity. "maybe i already do."

—

weeks later, you were in dabi's sparse apartment, curled up on his couch while rain pattered against the windows. your ribbon skirt was spread across your lap as you worked, adding another row of beads to the intricate pattern. dabi watched you from the kitchen where he was making tea, his eyes following the movement of your fingers.

"how do you know where each bead goes?" he asked.

you smiled without looking up. "some of it is traditional patterns i learned growing up. some of it is intuition. it's like… each bead is part of a larger story."

dabi brought the tea over, setting both mugs on the coffee table before dropping down beside you. "what's the story this one's telling?"

you hesitated, suddenly shy. "it's about fire and resilience. about things that seem destroyed but find ways to live again."

his eyes met yours, understanding dawning in their depths. "you're making it about me."

"about us," you corrected softly. "about finding beauty in unexpected places."

dabi was quiet for a long moment, watching as you continued to work. then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in simple brown paper.

"got you something," he muttered, pushing it toward you with uncharacteristic awkwardness.

surprised, you set aside your beadwork and took the package, unwrapping it carefully. inside was a pair of earrings—not traditional by any means, but beautiful in their own right. small blue flames made of delicate glass hung from silver hooks, the craftsmanship exquisite.

"dabi…" you breathed, holding them up to the light.

"there's this quirk glass-blower in the underground market," he explained, watching your reaction closely. "thought they kinda looked like… i don't know. my fire, but not destructive. something you could wear that wouldn't burn."

you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "they're beautiful."

"figured you could wear them with your traditional stuff sometimes. if you wanted." he shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, but you could see the vulnerability behind the gesture—the desire to be part of something meaningful to you, to find his place in your story.

you set the earrings down carefully and leaned over to kiss him, your hands framing his face, thumbs brushing over the edges where scarred tissue met smooth skin.

"i'll wear them the next time we go to a gathering," you promised. "fire and beads together."

a small, genuine smile curved his lips—not the manic grin he showed the world, but something real and rare. "your grandmother was right," he murmured. "fire doesn't just destroy."

"no," you agreed, leaning your forehead against his. "sometimes it lights the way forward."

outside, the rain continued to fall, but inside dabi's apartment, you worked on your beadwork while he dozed beside you, his head resting against your shoulder, the blue flame earrings catching the light on the table beside you—a promise, a connection, a bridge between your worlds.

—

three months later, dabi stood awkwardly in your grandmother's living room, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he waited for you to finish getting ready. you were attending another gathering—this one even more significant than the first, a coming-of-age ceremony for your teenage cousin.

"you sure about this?" he asked when you finally emerged from the bedroom, dressed in your finest regalia.

the ribbon skirt you wore was new—the one you'd been working on for weeks, the one with the story of fire and resilience woven into its patterns. the blue flame earrings dangled from your ears, catching the light alongside more traditional beaded ones.

"about what?" you asked, adjusting the earrings slightly.

dabi gestured vaguely at the house around you. "all of this. bringing me here. letting me see… this part of your life."

you moved closer to him, reaching up to straighten the collar of the dark blue shirt he'd worn for the occasion—a concession to formality he'd made only after much grumbling.

"i'm very sure," you said firmly. "you're part of my life now, dabi. all of it."

he swallowed hard, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for doubt, for hesitation. finding none, he nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement.

"then let's go. your grandmother's waiting in the car, and i'm pretty sure she could kick my ass if i make her late."

you laughed, linking your arm through his. "she absolutely could. but she likes you, so you're probably safe."

dabi snorted. "she tolerates me. there's a difference."

"she made you that medicine pouch," you reminded him, nodding to the small beaded bag that hung from his belt loop. grandmother rose had presented it to him a month ago, explaining that it contained herbs and medicines to help protect his spirit. to your surprise, dabi had accepted it without his usual cynicism, thanking her with genuine respect.

"yeah, well," he muttered, his fingers brushing against the pouch. "she's a crafty old lady."

the drive to the ceremony was quiet, grandmother rose sitting in the back seat while dabi drove, his hands careful on the wheel. you caught him glancing at you occasionally, his eyes lingering on the patterns of your skirt, the blue flames at your ears.

"you know," grandmother rose said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence, "in our traditions, fire is sacred. it's a living entity that must be respected and honored."

dabi's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "that right?"

she nodded, her weathered hands folded in her lap. "fire is a transformer, a purifier. it can destroy, yes, but it also makes way for new growth. after a forest fire, the first plants to return are often the strongest, the most resilient."

you watched dabi's profile as he absorbed this, saw the slight tension in his jaw, the way his hands tightened imperceptibly on the steering wheel.

"some things should stay burned," he said finally, his voice low.

grandmother rose hummed thoughtfully. "perhaps. but from the ashes, new life always emerges. that's the way of things. destruction and creation, always in balance."

dabi didn't respond, but when you reached over to place your hand on his thigh, he covered it with his own, his thumb tracing circles on your skin—a silent acknowledgment of your presence, of his willingness to learn, to try, to see beyond the pain of his past.

as you pulled up to the ceremony grounds, you saw him take a deep breath, steeling himself for the social interaction ahead. but there was something different about him today—a kind of quiet confidence that hadn't been there before. he helped grandmother rose from the car with gentle hands, waited patiently as you gathered your things, stood tall beside you as you walked toward the gathered crowd.

when you reached the edge of the clearing, he paused, looking down at you with those intense turquoise eyes.

"thank you," he said simply.

you tilted your head. "for what?"

"for showing me that some traditions are worth keeping." his eyes moved to your earrings—the blue flames dancing alongside the traditional beadwork. "and that some things can be both old and new at the same time."

you smiled, reaching up to touch his face. "that's what healing looks like, dabi. finding ways to honor the past while creating something new."

he leaned down to press his forehead against yours, a gesture of intimacy he rarely allowed himself in public. "i'm still figuring it out," he admitted quietly.

"we all are," you assured him. "that's why we do it together."

as you moved toward the gathering, his hand found yours, scarred fingers intertwining with yours in a grip that was both gentle and sure. ahead, the drums began to beat, the rhythm echoing the steady pulse of your heart. behind you, the afternoon sun cast your shadows long across the ground—two figures moving forward, side by side, toward something new and unexplored.

you glanced at dabi, at his profile limned in golden light, and saw not the villain the world knew, but the man you'd come to love—complicated, damaged, but trying. learning. growing. like the fire spirit grandmother rose had named him, capable of both destruction and creation.

and as you walked into the circle of your people, his hand warm in yours, you thought of beadwork—how each small piece, placed with intention and care, could create something beautiful and lasting. something that told a story of resilience, of survival, of hope.

your story. his story. the one you were writing together, bead by bead, day by day.

fire and ribbons. destruction and creation. balance in all things.

taglist: [open]

mutuals: @https-bakugo @haikyuubby @va-3 @lotusstarr @tulippanes @gh0st-g1rll @luvseraphh

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zepskies · 5 months ago

Text

Outlander - Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC

Summary: Dean Winchester has been stripped of his military rank, but he’s living happier with his new wife, trying to adjust to a new life in her tribe. What will it take for her people to accept him, especially when the battle for her heart might not be completely won?

AN: Back into the saddle, so to speak. 😏 Plus, we have a very special guest joining the cast...

Disclaimer: I first got inspired to write The Honorable Choice for @jacklesversebingo after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (with a tinge of Yellowstone in the mix). I’ve done a fair bit of research for this now ongoing series, both on the Native American Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s; AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 8.1K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, blood and character death.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 3: A Warrior’s Death

Mila has never enjoyed being an early riser, but sometimes, it has its benefits. In the rare times that she wakes up before Dean, she’s taken to counting the small nicks and scares that mark his body, from his chest and arms and back, down to his calloused hands. They mark him as a warrior.

Today, she slips her fingers through his brown hair. It’s grown a little more, and it’s easy to spike wildly in all directions. His breathing shifts from the deeper, slower ones of sleep to shallower ones.

“What’re you doing?” he grumbles, despite the way his lips twitch at a smile. His eyes are still closed.

“It’s morning, and I’m lonely,” Mila teases. She leans in to kiss his chin, then slowly and sensuously across his prickly jawline.

“Can’t you entertain yourself until the sun comes up all the way?” he says, in a voice laden with grit and sleep.

“That is what I’m doing,” is her cheeky reply.

Dean releases a deep breath that’s more like a sigh. Mila continues, smoothing her hand across his shoulder and squeezing warmly as she makes her way down his neck with kisses. She takes to nibbling his skin, then soothing it with her tongue. He makes a throaty sound of pleasure, gripping her hip.

“Wake up, my love,” she whispers.

Dean feels the shape of her smile against his skin. His lips tug upwards too, before he chuckles and finally succumbs to her wily ways. He twists onto his back and takes her with him, guiding her leg to slip over his lap. She squeals in surprise to be moved, but it ends with her smiling down at him as she straddles his hips. His hands travel under her the thin fabric of her shift and squeeze the supple flesh of her thighs.

Her fingertips drag down his chest, teasing his nipples along the way. She begins to tease him in other ways too, subtly rolling her hips, rocking against his hardening length. She wears a heated, playful look he knows all too well. He smirks up at her lazily.

“You’ve been more demanding than usual,” he remarks. His hold on her hips tightens, encouraging her to grind down harder onto him. He groans in pleasure at the feeling of her bare, wet folds against his clothed erection. Still, he can’t help but tease her too. “You already got what you wanted. I got you good and pregnant.”

His knees slide up to press against her ass, angling her more firmly against his cock. She hums in pleasure at the feeling of him, nice and hard and ready to fill her. It doesn’t matter that he’s right.

She’s pregnant, and has been for over a month now, according to Eyota. Even so, Mila still craves her husband. She wants to take advantage of a good morning, one where she doesn’t feel sick to her stomach.

“Yes,” she agrees, “but you think that means your duty is done?”

She takes his hands from her thighs and moves them up her body underneath her shift, until he can palm her breasts. He obliges her, rolling the sensitive buds under his thumbs.

Dean chuckles deeply. “Haven’t you had enough?”

“I will say when I’ve had enough,” she quips back.

He smiles, more genuinely this time. “Yes, ma’am.”

He takes back control of his hands. One holds her steady by her waist, while the other drags back down her body, brushing over the thatch of hair covering her mound. His fingers slip between her wet folds, and they find what they’re looking for.

She utters a keening moan when the pads of his fingers probe gently at her entrance, pushing inside for a few pulsing beats. He gathers some wetness there and begins to circle the sensitive bundle of nerves above her entrance. She grinds her hips down as she tries to press into his hand. A shudder of pleasure tingles down her spine and throbs deliciously in her core.

She grips his arms tight. “Please,” she says, “I’m ready for you.”

“Already?” he smirks. “I’ve barely touched you.”

Instead of answering him, she drags down his pants herself and reaches for his heavy cock. He moans at her touch, demanding, but still careful as she pumps him to full readiness. Then she notches him at her entrance. Dean grabs her hips and slowly guides her over him in one smooth plunge.

Their breathing becomes more labored as they take beat, just to revel in the connection.

During the day, they both lead busy lives. They each do their part for the tribe to make sure there’s food to eat, clothes to wear, and that the tribe stays protected—but the time they spend together here doesn’t need to be rushed. This is their time.

Mila hesitates to move though, her hands flexing on his shoulders. Her thighs squeeze his hips experimentally.

“How should I move?” she asks in a whisper. “I’ve never…ridden you.”

Dean grins. He rubs her thighs encouragingly. “Trust your instincts, baby. Try just rocking on me.”

He helps her by guiding her hips in a smooth, rolling rhythm, in and out. Mila moans as the shallow friction builds a slow momentum inside her.

“See,” he pants, “you’re a natural.”

She smiles, her face warming in a blush. As she craves more, she becomes bolder, letting his cock drag out of her almost to its tip, before she pushes all the way back in. Dean utters a faltering moan, and tries not to let his eyes close in pleasure. He wants to keep watching the way she gets herself off on his cock, the way her full breasts bounce with her movements.

Dean’s hands slide up her back to feel the gentle slope. He leans up to kiss and suck at her tightened nipples, his teeth catching on them. She gasps and arches against him. Her nails scramble for purchase between his shoulder blades.

Dean chuckles into her skin. “So sensitive. Being so fucking good for me, huh baby?”

Mila nods, half out of her mind. He blazes an upward path, kissing and sucking between her breasts, along the line of her collarbone, and then at her neck. He stops there to suck hard at her pulse point, burying his fingers tightly in her hair.

She moans and clings to him as she rocks a harder rhythm on top of him. She chases her release, and tries to help him reach his. But when his fingers slip in between them to massage her clit again, she shudders deeply and gasps. “Dean.” Her inner walls clench tightly on his cock and begin to flutter and pulse around him.

He drives his hips up into her with a few wild, harsher thrusts with his own release. He grunts sharply into her neck as he spills deep inside her.

Mila holds him tightly to her while her heart races. She pants for breath, huffing because her hair has fallen into her eyes. Dean brushes the strands behind her ear as he too catches his breath. He lays back down and takes her with him, gratefully stroking her back.

“Well, good morning,” he says. His voice is like hot gravel. “Fuckin’ hell…”

She giggles breathlessly against his chest. By now she’s learned many of the English curse words. They often sound both harsh and funny to her. Though she knows that right now, it’s a compliment.

They lay together for a while, even after she untangles herself from him and grabs a washcloth to clean them both. She finds herself led back into Dean’s embrace under the warm furs. His large hand spans her lower belly, resting there.

“You want a boy or a girl?” he asks. His deep voice is still a bit coarse with sleep.

Mila considers his question while pillowing her cheek against her folded arms.

“I want to give you a son,” she says.

Dean’s lips twitch into a smile. He hums thoughtfully while he slips his fingers through her hair.

“I guess that means I’ll have to teach him things. Things about the world,” he says. She turns in his arms to face him.

“What would you teach him?” she asks, with a smile of her own. She asks the question not only because she genuinely wants to know, but because she likes the soft glow of optimism and possibilities reflected in Dean’s eyes. In some ways, he’s already different from the hardened soldier she first met. Or maybe she’s just continuing to learn more and more of who he really is—layer by layer.

“Well, how to learn from his mistakes, for one thing,” he says. “How to protect himself, and his family. How to survive, but also how to live.” He thinks about it a bit harder for a second.

“Come to think of it, I’d teach my daughter all that too,” he says. “So I guess I’ve got no preference.”

And we can always try again, he thinks.

“He will be strong, like his father,” Mila says.

“Or like his mother,” Dean playfully replies. She smiles back, and she leans forward to kiss his lips. She cups his cheek with a gentle, loving hand. Dean squeezes her waist and pulls her tighter against him.

“Are you two going to sleep all day, or are you going to join the rest of the world and start working?” Šóta interrupts, loudly from outside their tipi. “The horses need to be fed, Horsemaster.”

Dean and Mila break apart from the kiss, and they share a look, hers more annoyed than his. Her cousin has taken what she said to him before about being a leader to heart, if in some unexpected (and annoying) ways.

She sighs, but unfortunately, Šóta has a point. It prompts them to get up and start getting dressed.

“What do you got planned today?” Dean asks, while he tries to find a clean shirt.

“I have some mending to do and laundry to take down. Then I will help my aunts skin the hides and prepare the vegetables for lunch and supper,” she says.

He pauses, leveling her with a warning look. “Hey, remember to take it easy, all right. Don’t strain yourself.”

She just smiles and touches his cheek. This man is a protector in all senses, and it seems, also a worrier.

Dean takes pride in corralling the horses and making sure they’re fed, brushed, and given water. Just like he suspected would happen, Mato and Baby have been getting along a little too well. She’s now pregnant too.

Ironically enough, it means she’ll give birth to her foal around the time Eyota believes Mila will deliver their child, maybe a month or two after.

Ain’t that just life, he thinks.

There’s another colt that Dean has spent the past week breaking in. He’s wily and precocious, giving Dean a challenge, but that’s what he likes about the guy.

“You’ve got spirit, kid, I’ll give you that,” Dean says.

He has a rawhide lead tied around the horse’s neck while he runs around the corral. He’s waiting until the horse tires himself out, so Dean can really begin training him, getting him used to a bridle, teaching him verbal cues, and all the rest.

Back at Fort Laramie, there were those like Colonel Sanderson, who believed that breaking a horse meant you had to break his independence, his spirit. Dean’s father had always taught him that a bond between him and an animal, a bond based on trust, will serve him better with a loyal horse rather than just an obedient one. He’s glad that the Lakota here share his views on horse rearing.

At about mid-morning, Chatan comes over to inspect Dean’s progress. His ankle has healed, mostly, but he’s allowed Dean to take over the harder work when it comes to breaking the horses. Chatan is still teaching him their ways in training them, making bridles and simple saddles, and all the other ways they care for their horses here. He inspects Dean’s work with the colt and nods.

“You’re doing well,” he says.

That’s a big improvement from all the times he’s given Dean some form of correction or instruction. Dean is about to reply, when Šóta and Takoda come over the hill on horseback. Šóta calls for both Chatan and Dean—especially Dean.

“You should see this,” Šóta says.

“Are the other men coming?” Dean says, keeping his voice low as Baby plods along beside Šóta.

“No,” Šóta replies. “We must keep the group small.”

Dean namely meant Otaktay, who still tries his best to ignore him.

Takoda has warmed up to him more though. He doesn’t call him Outlander anymore, let alone wašíču. He’s also the tribe’s best fisherman, and when they eat lunch together, he’s started to save Dean the second-biggest fish after Šóta.

Takoda even showed him how to fletch his own arrows. And when Dean broke his whet stone while sharpening his knife, Takoda gave him his own whet stone.

“I make new one,” he said, in broken English, even with a smile. “This one old anyway.”

At first, Dean used to wonder why some people in the tribe seemed to have better English, like Mila, Tahatan, and Šóta, but others didn’t. After he thought about it more, he supposed he wouldn’t want to learn his enemy’s language. He asked Šóta about it once.

“It’s the opposite for me,” Šóta told him. “I want to know what my enemy says behind my back. Then, I will be ready when he strikes.”

He now leads them away from the forest and across the grasslands. In an hour, they reach a desert valley, where Dean already hears the construction. A new stretch of railroad is being laid out, courtesy of the U.S. government. Dean even spots Benny, Jack, and Colonel Sanderson himself supervising the construction.

Shit, Dean thinks.

They stealthily crept back into the forest and returned to the village. They bring the news of what they saw to Chief Tahatan in his tipi. His wives are there, along with Chatan, Weaya, Mila, Eyota and her husband Hanska. The last two are the medicine man and woman of this tribe, but Hanska is also their wiseman. He advises the Chief.

“We should move the village again, farther north along the river,” Hanska suggests.

“And what? They will keep pushing us back until there is nothing left—until we fall of the edge of the earth!” Šóta shouts. He’s getting more and more angry as the conversation becomes a deliberation on what to do next.

“It’s the Northern Pacific Railroad,” Dean says. He doesn’t know if it’s place to speak, but he feels that he has to. “They mean to keep building until they reach the coast in the Northwest.”

“See? They will rape more and more of the land to do it,” Šóta says. “Our land. We cannot let this stand.”

Dean gives him a wary look. “This is bigger than the tribe. If you try to hit them, they’re just gonna hit back harder. And they’re going to bring the full weight of the U.S. Army on top of you.”

“So what do you suggest we do, Dean Winchester?” Tahatan says. “Sit and do nothing while they continue to carve into our home, where we have lived and died for generations?”

“I think…you should look at the faces around you,” Dean says. “Ask yourself how many of them you’re willing to lose.”

That evening in the privacy of their tent, Dean tries his best to soothe Mila’s worry, but his own trepidation and sense of urgency wins out as he paces back and forth.

“Just moving up the river won’t be enough,” he says. “We could go southwest into Montana, towards the Yellowstone River.”

Mila shakes her head warily. She sits by the fire and watches him cross the room again. He makes her anxious, and so she grabs onto his hand and leads him to sit beside her.

“The Crow people live along Yellowstone,” she says. “The Lakota have fought them for generations.”

“About what?”

“Land,” she admits. “Our tribes are proud and do not like to share hunting territory. The Crow are bitter enemies. They will not accept us there.”

That is putting it mildly. She shudders to think what the Crow would do to them if they crossed paths in their own land.

Dean nods. “Okay, well, what about if we go further north?”

She ponders the idea. Even though she doesn’t like the idea of leaving the river, where her people have settled for decades, she believes what he says is true. Her people wouldn’t win in a head-on fight against the U.S. Army.

“East of Big Cheyenne, there is a bigger territory of land. Other Sioux tribes live there,” she says. “The path is long from here to there, but it could be the answer.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Dean nods. “…I just don’t know how Tahatan and the rest of ‘em are gonna take the idea coming from me. To them, I probably sound like a coward.”

Mila shakes her head and grasps his arm. “You are no coward, Dean. I will help you talk to my father. When he understands, then we will speak to my uncle.”

“And Šóta?” Dean says wryly.

“Šóta is young and wants to prove himself to my uncle. He is brave and strong, but doesn’t consider what we could lose,” Mila says, holding a hand over the small swell of her stomach. Dean covers her hand with his.

“Whatever comes next, I’m not letting anything happen to you. You understand?” he says.

Her face, and the tension in her shoulders, relax. She doesn’t quite manage to smile, but she rests her head against his shoulder.

“Yes,” she nods.

Days become a week, and the men of the tribe begin to notice Cavalry patrols edging closer to the village. Too close.

Dean tries to convince Šóta to let them pass by in ignorance. Attacking them would not only heighten the risk of the military discovering Dean’s alive, but it would just put the entire tribe in more unnecessary danger.

It’s getting harder and harder each day to persuade Šóta to stay his hand, so it becomes even more important to convince the Chief to mobilize the tribe.

While Dean and Mila manage to get Chatan to see the wisdom in the idea of moving the village north of the railroad, Tahatan isn’t so easily convinced that they should leave the river where their tribe has tilled the land, fed their families, built their traditions and their way of life. It’s understandable, but it leaves Dean with a worry in his gut that only grows with every new day.

Mornings are no longer peaceful for him, and while he knows Mila’s beginning to notice, it’s something he can’t help.

They dress for the day in silence after breakfast. He straps his gun to his right thigh and his knife on the other—a new precaution he’s started taking.

“Don’t go past the corral by yourself,” he warns Mila, when he sees her piling up a bundle of clothes for washing. She glances up at him with raised brows.

“I’m only going to the river,” she says.

“Take someone with you,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Like your mom, or a couple of your aunts. Hell, take Šóta with you. Or at least Takoda.”

She gives him a look that says she’s trying to be patient. “I will see if others have washing to do.”

Dean stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Or you could wait ‘til I get back,” he says. “I don’t mind going with you.”

“Dean,” she replies, her brows furrowing. “I may be with child, but I don’t need a caretaker. I’ll be fine.”

Again he stops her from moving past him. “Hey. Just listen to me, damn it!”

She gives him a sharp, surprised look. He stops himself short and realizes he’s losing his temper. He takes a breath, his face tight with frustration.

Mila frowns at him, trying to keep her own temper from rising to the surface. She knows he only wants to protect her, but nothing has even happened. Cavalry patrols haven’t gotten more than a couple of miles close to the village as the railroad construction continues. She’s begun to wonder if it’s necessary to move north after all.

Dean sighs, raising his hands in apology. He gently grasps her arms and looks down at her, meeting her gaze.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just…humor me, okay?”

Her brows furrow. “Humor? You want me to laugh at you?”

At that, he actually breaks into a chuckle. It eases some of his tension, but doesn’t completely expel his worry.

“What I mean is, I know how I’m being right now. I just want you to be safe,” he says, staring into her eyes. “Actually, I need it.”

Mila softens with a sigh. She reaches up and caresses his cheek, and she nods in agreement. She reaches up for his kiss, and he holds her tighter, more securely.

Okay, he thinks.

Dean leaves her to see to his responsibilities, caring for the horses, while Mila goes her own way to resume her daily chores. But when she asks her mother, Misae, and even Eyota if they want to go with her to the river, they say they’re too busy with other tasks to wash clothes. Her mother does give her an extra bundle to do for her though.

So even though it makes her uneasy to go against Dean’s wishes, she carries the bundles by herself to the river. Honestly, she prefers to do this alone sometimes, so she can be alone with her thoughts. Dean’s being overcautious.

Sure, it takes extra effort for her to get down on her knees at the riverbank, considering her protesting back, but she manages to do it. Because in her tribe, one does what they need to in order to live and eat.

She settles into her work after a few minutes, and bit by bit, she feels settled enough to relax. She even hums a little tune to herself. It’s part of a lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was little, and now Mila sings it for her child, even before she gets to meet him…

Or her, she thinks, smiling to herself.

Her smile drops with a sharp inhale of breath.

She hears hoof falls on the earth. A horse treads nearby.

Slowly, she lowers the wet clothing back into the basin. She sees two reflections growing on the water: a horse and a man. The man gets down from his horse first.

“Hey there, miss—”

Mila swiftly turns and unsheathes the knife she keeps strapped to her ankle.

Dean finally takes the colt out for his first ride out in the open. He’s a little twitchy, but he responds well to Dean’s commands, enough that he chances leading the horse farther out of the village.

Maybe he’ll join Šóta and the rest of the men. They’re likely planting in the fields today, some of the women too, if they’re done at the river. Dean thinks of Mila then, and he hopes she’s finished her work there. He wonders if she got her mother to go with her, or maybe a couple of her friends. They’re new mothers, just a few years older than her.

I’ll just check on them, make sure everything’s on the up and up, Dean thinks. He guides the horse towards the river. He’s relaxed and focused on how the colt is behaving, until he hears a man’s voice on the wind. Dean looks up sharply and sees his wife there alone, crouched down on the riverbank.

A man stands just a few feet away and towers over her.

Dean’s gun is in his hand before he realizes it. With a small but purposeful kick, he urges the colt to a full gallop.

The man seems to be approaching her, taking meaningful steps forward. Mila says something sharply to him as she brandishes her knife and prepares to use it. He stops short.

“Hey!” Dean shouts.

He aims for the dead center of the man’s chest. His hair is long enough to brush his shoulders and obscure his face, but the closer Dean gets, a certain twinge runs up his spine and triggers his senses.

When the man looks up and raises his hands in shocked surrender, it’s like a physical blow to Dean’s chest. The man staring back at him is broad-shouldered, slightly taller than him in his dark brown duster coat, Stetson hat, and boots. He’s scruffier than usual, but unmistakable; he too stares at Dean like he can’t believe his own eyes.

“Dean,” he says, a hint breathless. His gaze drifts from Dean’s face to his pointed gun. He chuckles. “You gonna shoot me?”

Slowly, Dean lowers his weapon. He quickly moves to Mila first and slips an arm around her waist to help her stand with him. He makes sure she’s all right by the silent conversation that passes between them, through their eyes.

Then, he looks over at his brother and smiles, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Hey, Sam,” he says. His gaze roams over the younger man’s face, sporting what he’d call half a beard. “What the hell’s that ferret on your face?”

Sam laughs. It ends with a too-bright smile that’s a little teary. Dean’s throat begins to close up on him a bit as well, but feeling Mila stir at his side, grasping his arm with a questioning look on her face, he gives her a reassuring look.

“Sweetheart, this is my brother. Sam,” he says.

Her eyes widen, but as she looks between the men, her face dawns with understanding. She smiles and releases him, only to guide him towards his brother with a gentle push.

Dean needs no further encouragement. His grin widens as he goes to meet Sam, who’s already coming straight for him. They meet in a warm, solid embrace, even if they’re both still on shaky ground on the inside. Sam’s grip is just as strong and desperate as Dean’s is reassuring, cupping the back of his neck.

“They told me you were dead, you bastard,” Sam says. His laughing words have a suspect shake in them.

“Yeah, my fault,” Dean says. He chuckles too, as if that can make this easier. “Why’d you come all the way out here?”

Sam pulls back after a moment. “Because I didn’t believe them.”

Dean’s smile falls. How the hell is he going to explain this? To Sam, to the Chief and the rest of the tribe…

He notices Sam looking past him, and finally Dean remembers himself. He keeps a hand on Sam’s shoulder and beckons Mila over to them. She’s hesitant, but she trusts him. She goes to him and leans into his side while he wraps his arm around her waist.

“Sammy, this is Mila…my wife,” he says.

Sam brows raise high, his mouth nearly falling open. Dean recognizes the question in his eyes.

You married…an Indian?

Dean just raises his brows.

To his credit, Sam gets ahold of himself and internalizes most of his reaction.

“Ah, right. Nice to meet you…ma’am,” he says, chuckling awkwardly as he extends the offer of his hand. She just looks at his hand curiously.

Sam clears his throat and takes his hand back.

“So, when did—uh, how…”

Dean smiles slightly. He can’t remember the last time he saw his brother this tongue tied; maybe since the time Jessica Moore kissed his cheek when he was nine after he gave her his last juice box.

“Come on,” Dean says, tightening a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got a lot to tell you before we get back.”

“Get back? Where are we going?” Sam asks.

Dean doesn’t answer him just yet, but he wishes he had brought Mato. He doesn’t trust putting Mila up on the colt, who’s still being broken in, but he doesn’t think she’d feel comfortable riding with Sam. So they walk back together to the village while leading their horses. Dean tells Sam the story of how he and Mila met—the good, the bad, and skimming over most of the ugly. Though he does admit to killing Dick Roman. And Dean admits that he made a choice to help her based on gut instinct alone.

“I knew what I was supposed to do, but…” Dean trails, glancing over at Mila. She’s been holding onto his arm as they make their way up a grassy hill, and now, their eyes meet. “I guess I’m just not the man they wanted me to be.”

She smiles a little at that, squeezing his hand.

Sam watches them together. He’s unable to stop the wonder from crossing his face, along with his smile. But his smile fades.

“You let us believe you were dead, Dean,” he says. Anger creeps into his voice, earning Dean’s sigh.

“It’s not like I could mail you a letter, Sam. It was…easier this way.”

“Easier?” Sam scoffs. “You think it was easy for me? Easy for Mom?”

Dean looks away. This chips open every part of his grief.

“We had a funeral for you,” Sam says. “Not that we had anything to bury.”

“Okay, I get it,” Dean says, rubbing at his eyes. “Maybe easier was the wrong word…safer is. For you, for me, for my wife, and for her people.”

Sam glances at Mila, who stares back at him with reservation in her eyes. She understands his anger, but she’s grateful to Dean. She knew what he’d done to protect her all this time. However, faced with part of the family he let go for her sake, she now feels guilty. So she doesn’t speak as she walks beside Dean.

Sam also stays quiet for a while. The gentle plodding of the horses and their boots on the grassy earth are the only sounds for a while, along with the wind in the distant trees of the forest.

“So, her tribe just…accepted you?” Sam asks.

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, it hasn’t been that easy.”

“He has worked hard to earn the Chief’s respect, and the respect of everyone in our tribe,” Mila says. It’s the first thing she’s contributed to the conversation, but she feels that this is something that must be said.

Once again, she and Dean share a meaningful glance. He’s going to need all of that respect and goodwill if he’s going to bring Sam to meet the Chief.

Dean is actually glad Šóta is gone on a hunt with most of the other men. Tahatan, Chatan, and Hanska are enough of an audience when he brings Sam to the Chief’s tipi. He and Mila explain why his younger brother came to find him, and Sam fills in the rest of the blanks from his point of view.

Apparently, he and their mother, Mary, received a letter from the U.S. Cavalry that Dean had been killed in the line of duty, but when Sam reached out to military personnel through his law connections, no one could tell him specifically how Dean had died.

So Sam took a train out of Lawrence, Kansas and headed to Wyoming. He travelled the rest of the way on horseback to Fort Laramie. There he requested to speak to Colonel Sanderson, but the only one who would talk to him was Captain Benny Lafitte.

“Captain now, huh?” Dean remarks. He smiles to himself. “Good for him.”

“He’s the one who told me that you had fallen into the canyon…in pursuit,” Sam says, tactfully when he glances at Mila. “But I looked all over that canyon. I never found your body, or your horse. So I just kept looking.”

Dean sighs. He can’t fault Sam for not leaving it alone, because he knew if he’d been in Sam’s shoes, he would’ve been searching all over the state for his little brother too, even if it was just a body to bring back to his mother.

“What if they followed him here?” Chatan speaks up. It reminds Dean that it’s not just him and his brother here. In fact, his father-in-law and the Chief are wearing similar grim looks while they seize up the younger Winchester. To see if he’s a threat to their tribe.

Dean meets his brother with a firmer look. “What did you tell them, Sam?”

“What do you mean?” Sam asks. “They lied to me.”

“Yeah, but what did you say to Benny? To Sanderson. To anyone. Did you tell them you didn’t believe I was dead?” Dean asks.

“No, I didn’t even talk to Sanderson. He couldn’t be bothered with me,” Sam says. “All I told Captain Lafitte was that I was going to find your body.”

Dean breathes out in relief, but the feeling is short lived. Šóta and Otaktay bring in a wounded Takoda into the tent. He’s bleeding and groaning in pain, clutching at his chest with a hand covered in scarlet. Blood drips to the ground where they lay him before Hanska. Tahatan calls for Eyota, the healer. Mila and Dean go to help Takoda.

“What happened?” Tahatan demands to know.

Šóta can’t look his father in the eye at first. He opens his mouth to reply, but Takoda groans in agony. Mila pillows his head in her lap and brushes her half-cousin’s hair from his face. She feels someone’s gaze on her, and she finds that it’s Otaktay. He hasn’t spoken to her since his fight with Dean several weeks ago, and she’s certainly not gone out of her way to speak to him. But there’s no time for awkwardness right now. Takoda writhes in pain while Hanska examines his wound.

Dean recognizes what it is right away. Takoda has been shot twice—once in the shoulder, and once all too close to his heart. Dean looks up at Šóta with furrowed brows.

“These are bullets, not arrows. Where did it happen?” he asks.

“I warned you not to engage the White Men!” Tahatan reproaches angrily. “Now look at what has happened!”

Šóta looks like he wants to bow his head, but he holds stubbornly to his convictions.

“They’re starting to build closer to the village. We were just watching them at first, but we were spotted,” he says.

“You got too close!” Chatan growls.

Eyota arrives with more supplies to help stem the bleeding. Dean is no doctor, but he knows a gunshot wound better than the others do, even Eyota and Hanska. The problem is, they don’t have the tools to get at the second bullet in his chest, and he’s bleeding out fast.

“I gotta dig it out,” Dean tells Šóta in English. He translates to the others. Dean looks down at Takoda and tries to reassure him. “This is gonna hurt like hell, brother. Just hold on.”

Takoda nods. He literally holds onto Dean’s shoulder and pleads without speaking. Help me.

His jaw clenching tight, Dean tries his best to find the bullet with the thinnest utensil Eyota has for him. Takoda attempts to keep still. His writhing is too much though. Even Sam comes to help hold him down. He’s a lawyer, not a doctor, but he knows what Dean is doing is the man’s only chance.

It just takes too long. Dean eventually does find the fat piece of the bullet and pulls it out, but the fight has drained from Takoda along with his life blood. His sweaty chest stills in its movements. His grip on Dean’s shoulder and Šóta’s knee become lax, and then limp.

His dark eyes stare up at the ceiling of the tipi, now unseeing as the light drains out of them.

Takoda. His name meant Friend to Everyone. And so he was.

After Hanska and Eyota clean his body, they dress him in his best clothes and wrap him in robes. Then they bring his body to the highest point near the village, at the top of the grassy hill. Under the night stars, it’s the closest they can bring him to the heavens, where the Lakota believe his soul will ascend to the spirit world. They won’t bury him in the ground, but instead will give him an “air burial” for a warrior’s death.

When a member of the tribe dies, usually the night is spent telling stories, laughing at old jokes, and food passed around. But this isn’t a night for joke-telling. The whole tribe is gathered in mourning at the foot of the hill.

Tahatan sings a somber song for his second son, and his voice rises high over his second wife’s wails. She kneels beside her son and cuts her long hair jagged with a knife while she weeps. Mila grieves more quietly, but she tells Sam and Dean that hair cutting is part of the custom, and even cutting at their own bodies if their grief is that great.

Eventually, the tribe disperses for the night. Tahatan leads his wife away, but Šóta and Otaktay stay with his body. They will sit in a vigil with him all night.

Meanwhile, Mila and Dean take Sam to their tent. She finds bedding and furs for Sam to sleep on, and Dean helps her lay it all out.

“Thank you,” Sam says to her sincerely.

She offers him a small smile, then she prepares to sleep herself. Dean stops her by taking her hand. He leads her into a comforting embrace. She lets out a shaky breath as her fingers curl into his clothing.

“I’m sorry…I couldn’t save him,” Dean confesses quietly.

Mila shakes her head. “It was not your fault.”

In her mind, she can’t help but put that blame on Šóta. It hurts to have that anger in her heart, but it’s there, no matter how hard she tries to let go of it. She clings harder to Dean, pressing her face into his chest while her body shakes with silent sobs. He caresses her hair, kisses the top of her head, and then her cheek.

After a little while, she pulls away from him and rests a grateful hand over his heart, before she goes to bed. Dean helps her settle down on the ground and pulls the fur blanket over her form. He squeezes her shoulder one more time before he joins Sam on the other side of the room.

All the while, his younger brother has been watching him, admiring the way he’s always been a protector, but also a man who takes care of the people around him. Sam remembers it well, when they were kids.

Dean gives him some bison jerky to snack on, and for a few minutes they eat in silence while a small fire burns in the coals piled in front of them.

“You’re all in danger here, Dean,” Sam says, breaking the silence. “It’s only a matter of time before the Army finds this place.”

Dean nods slowly. “I’ve been trying to convince the Chief to move the tribe up north. Other Sioux tribes have been able to settle there, but more and more, they’re being forced out of their land.”

Sam considers that with a slow nod. A grim realization dawns in his eyes.

“It’s not fair,” he eventually agrees. He falls into his thoughts for a moment, trying to decide how to say what he wants to. “You should come home, Dean. Come back with me.”

Dean sighs. He knew this was coming. It might as well be now. He glances over at Mila, who finally seems like she’s sleeping peacefully. He rests an elbow above his knee and looks back at his brother.

“You’re asking me to leave my wife?” he asks. “She’s pregnant, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes widen. That news probably shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did, but he’s a little hurt that Dean would think he’d suggest leaving her.

“No, Dean, of course not,” he says. His frown fades, turning into a smile. “Congratulations.”

Dean lightens, his lips curving slightly into a smile as well. He nods in thanks.

Sam sighs. “Look…ask her to come with you. With us. You can live out with Mom on the farm and raise your kids there.”

“You forget that I’m supposed to be dead? Hell, for God’s sake, you already had my funeral to prove it.” Dean rubs tiredly at his face. “Lawrence is a small town, and Mom has, what, fifteen, twenty people working that farm? Word’s gonna get out, one way or another. If the Army hears it, I’ll be court martialed for desertion, not to mention all the rest of it.”

Sam opens his mouth to argue back with that earnest, determined look in his eyes. Dean expects nothing less. It’s what makes his brother a good lawyer, but Dean raises up a hand against whatever he’s going to say. Again, he glances back at Mila.

“Sam…this is what she knows. These are her people, her family,” he says. After a hesitant pause, he adds, “They’ve become my family too.”

Sam’s jaw clenches. He glances down at the ground between his feet, before he’s able to meet Dean’s eyes again. There’s hurt and anger in his own.

“And me?” he asks. “What, I’m not your family anymore?”

He doesn’t know just how deeply that hurts Dean. He shakes his head, drops his jerky into the dirt. He reaches out and grasps Sam’s shoulder.

“Sammy,” Dean says. For a moment, he can’t speak. His throat constricts, and no matter how tight he presses his lips together, he can’t stop the slight tremble in them. “You don’t know how hard it’s been…to convince myself that I wasn’t ever gonna see you again. But I’m happy. I’m so fucking happy that you found me.”

Dean tries and fails to blink past the way his eyes burn with tears. Sam’s eyes are getting just as red and shiny. He lays a heavy hand on Dean’s knee, and they sit like that for a while in silence, until the embers on the coals dim from red to black.

Šóta hasn’t slept. It’s evident in his red-rimmed eyes and unkempt, dirty clothes, but he’s still adamant about hitting back against the railroad construction.

“Father, they stand at our doorstep!” he argues to the Chief. “They take our horses, run off our wild game with their machines, cut down the forest, and now they build iron tracks through our lands. You went to war against the Crow for less!”

Tahatan seems heavy in his thoughts as he listens. The words of his eldest son, and from his first wife, have weight—not just with him, but with the entire tribe as they sit together in the place where they typically have group feasts. Otaktay stands behind Šóta in support.

Dean is reluctant to single himself out, but after sharing a look with Mila, he stands.

“Chief, what happened yesterday was more than just a tragedy or a crime. It’s a warning,” he says. “We need to leave, before the Army finds this village.”

“You suggest we run like cowards,” Otaktay says. His tone is icy and angry.

Dean shakes his head. “I’m not doubting your courage or your skill. I’m not doubting any warrior here. But this ain’t a fair fight.”

He shifts his gaze, addressing Tahatan directly.

“We’re out-manned and out-gunned, literally. Arrows and knives against bullets—pistols and rifles,” Dean says. “They’ll tear through this village until there’s no one and nothing left. We have to go north. It’s the only way we’ll survive.”

Chatan sides with Dean, and Mila stands with him too.

Tahatan thinks hard. After a long, silent moment, he stands from his chair of whicker and wood.

“We will pack the caravans today and move out tonight,” he says.

Then he commands Šóta and Dean to start preparing the horses. Šóta shoots Dean a hard, angry look, but Mila steps in and pushes at her cousin’s arm.

“Don’t look at him,” she warns tersely in their language. “This is the cost of what you have done.”

Šóta is affronted by her words, but he doesn’t answer her. He just turns away with a sharp pivot on his heel. Otaktay glances back at Mila and Dean impassively, but he follows after Šóta, his friend and his leader.

Dean understands what she said; he’s spent enough time here that he’s able to follow every word. He gives her a look that’s mostly resigned, but he holds her to his side in comfort. He knows this isn’t easy for her either.

“I will start packing,” she says.

Dean nods. “I’ll come help you in a bit.”

He watches her leave his side to make her way back to their tent. Sam approaches him, and together they walk to the horse pen, where his horse is grazing with the others under the great sycamore tree that shields them.

“We’re leaving tonight,” Dean says. “You should head home.”

“What if something happens to you on the road?” Sam says.

Dean smiles ruefully. “I could say the same thing to you…but it looks like you don’t need me to protect you anymore.”

“Yeah well, doesn’t mean I won’t always need my brother.”

They share a smile, followed by a strong embrace. Dean thumps his back.

“Take care of yourself, Sammy,” he says, a coarse whisper.

Sam chuckles weakly. “You’ve got a harder road than I do.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s gonna have to face Mom.”

Dean says it as something of a joke, but all it does is sober both of them. Sam pulls away reluctantly.

“I’m not going to get to meet my niece or nephew,” he says.

“I’m sorry about that too,” Dean says, meeting his brother’s glassy eyes. “Hell, I’m sorry about a lot of things.”

Sam jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”

Another beat passes between them. He clears his throat.

“I’ll tell Mom…”

“Take care of her,” Dean says.

Sam nods his agreement. Dean finally releases his brother’s shoulder, and there below the sycamore tree, the brothers part ways. Sam straps up his provisions and climbs up on his horse. Dean opens the pen for him, long enough for Sam to ride through.

He stops at the foot of the hill and looks over his shoulder at Dean, who gives him one more lax salute. Sam smiles, nodding back at him. Then he keeps riding.

Dean watches him cross the grassy plain until it becomes too hard to look straight into the afternoon sun. Distantly he hears Šóta’s voice behind him, giving out orders to other men. Dean looks away from the sun.

He has work to do.

He locks up the rest of his grief to begin with the horses, not knowing that Otaktay watches him.

Dean doesn’t want to load up Baby with too much cargo. She’s still early in her pregnancy, and he could even ride her if he wanted to, but he can’t help but want to protect her more. It’s going to take days to move the tribe across the state, maybe longer. So instead, she can help pull one of the caravans with the colt and a couple of the other horses.

He saddles up Mato to ride. Hopefully he actually cooperates with Dean this time.

Mato begins to stamp nervously though, like he senses something coming. Dean perks up and notices the way the horse’s ears flick back and forth. Baby makes an anxious sound as well. Dean turns his head in the direction of the village with furrowed brows.

Šóta draws near to find his horse, who’s just as unsettled as the rest of them.

“The horses are spooked,” he says.

“Something’s wrong,” Dean nods in agreement. His gut tells him so, while a spark of unease licks up his spine.

And then he hears it. A warning blow of a buffalo horn on the air, followed by screaming, shouting, and gunfire in the village down below. His eyes widen.

Mila.

AN: 😬 Sorry about the cliffhanger, but we're almost to the end! What did you think of Sam's big entrance into the story? 😉

Coming up, the grand finale...

Next Time:

Gritting his teeth, Dean brings Mato to a short stop in front of the Chief. Dean aims his gun at the Colonel. By now, the man is clutching his bleeding shoulder and staring at his former captain in disbelief. Benny is maybe a little less shocked to see Dean, but there’s conflict in his eyes—happiness mixed with turmoil.

The other officer is Jack Kline. He recognizes Dean too, with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

“You…” Sanderson trails. He blinks, his brows furrowing. “Dean Winchester.”

Pronunciation Guide:

Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew") Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Otaktay ("ogh-tac-tay") Weaya ("we-ayy-ya") Takoda ("ta-koda") Mato ("matt-toe") Misae ("mee-sah-eh")

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