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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 12 days

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Things Learned and Unlearned Ch. 1

Series Summary: Y/N has spent her life trying to outrun her mother's reputation. When she meets the rich and successful playboy, Dean Winchester, how quickly can he get her to stop running?

Pairings/Characters: Dean Winchester x Y/N, Sam Winchester, Jessica Winchester, Lucy Winchester (OC)

Warnings: Each chapter will have it's own warnings, but there will be smut, seduction, virgin!reader, playboy!dean, Edwardian era BS attitudes surrounding sex and women. (Technically it's set in 1900 and the Edwardian era started in 1901, but you get it.) Angst, Fluff, all the good stuff that regularly pops up in my series. 😁

Chapter Warnings: None really in this first chapter.

Word Count: 2,656

A/N: Okay, so this is the series that I orphaned over on fanfiction.net and I conducted a poll on what people wanted me to do with it if I brought it over to Tumblr. Converting it into a Dean x Reader AU won quite handily. So, that's what I'm doing. I hope you enjoy.

Just so everyone knows, this is a historical AU set in 1900, and there is no hunting involved. (Though there is a family business. 😄)

Dean Winchester was bored; he admitted it. He was bored of the balls, the soirees, the empty conversations, the glittering jewels and the painted smiles. He needed a break. So he'd left New York City and all its glamor and come to Newburgh to spend time with his brother, Sam, Sam's wife Jessica and their little girl, Lucy.

However, now that he was standing in the quiet train station, waiting for Sam to pick him up, he had to wonder what he'd been thinking. With the sleepy ticket agent sitting behind the counter, gently dozing, and an old man sitting on a bench, lazily browsing through a local newspaper, this no longer seemed like a solution to his restlessness and boredom. This place actually seemed like the town that boredom was born and raised in!

But what could it hurt to stay for a week or two? He'd visit with Sam and Jessica, see how much Lucy had grown in the last year and maybe it would wash away the taste of sweaty, over-crowded ballrooms and smoky parlors with too much lemon furniture polish.

He shook his head. He didn't know what had gotten into him lately. That life was all he'd ever been interested in. Certainly, he'd never wanted his brother's life. Slaving away at his private law firm, saddled with a wife and child, and living in the middle of nowhere, a six hour train ride away from civilization; it had always horrified him.

In the last few months, however, the idea of breathing fresh air, of laughing with and even arguing with his brother, of bouncing his niece on his knee, and even the idea of listening to Jessica's bouncy chatter, had been growing in his mind until it was a constant disruption in his thoughts. So, he'd left the reins of his family's shipping and trade business in the hands of his very capable manager and sent a telegram to Sam that he was coming to stay, and to pick him up at the station.

But Sam was late. Dean had been waiting nearly an hour. Tired of standing around, Dean decided to wander a little. He woke up the ticket agent briefly to ask if he could leave his suitcase behind the desk with a message for his brother. The agent yawned and gave him a pen and paper, reaching over to take his suitcase.

"Thanks." He said to the agent, and set off on his quest to cure his boredom. There had to be something in this town to interest him.

Sam,

Got tired of waiting for you. Went exploring. Be back in an hour - two o'clock.

***

Y/N breathed in deeply, and let out a long sigh. The air was crisp, fall air that smelled faintly of damp leaves, spice, and wood smoke. It was a warm and inviting smell and it made the lonely chasm inside her heart widen.

"Miss Y/N, watch!"

Y/N gave her attention back to the little girl who was running down the hill, scattering the birds, and laughing loudly. She couldn't help but smile at the little hellion. It might not be very ladylike behavior, but she wasn't even four years old yet. Y/N decided to save the admonishment and let her be a carefree little girl while she could. These years of innocence and abandon were fleeting. The little one should enjoy them.

"Hello."

Y/N jumped abruptly at a man's deep voice. With a hand over her thumping heart, Y/N turned to scowl at the stranger who'd startled her. As she looked up into his face however, her scowl melted and her heart started beating hard enough to jump out of her chest.

The man was smiling at her, a smile that hitched up one side of his mouth and made Y/N's breath catch in her throat. He was very tall, towering above her where she sat on the park bench. The perfectly tailored, brown traveling coat he wore stretched across broad shoulders and narrowed in a V shape over his flat stomach. His wool pants were of very fine quality and accentuated the strength and muscle of the legs beneath them.

He was beautiful, there was no doubt, but his eyes were something more than beautiful. They were a bright emerald green, long-lashed and penetrating. They stared into Y/N, like he could see through to her back collar button. His eyes alone caused Y/N to blush and she realized she was blushing because there were promises in his eyes, promises of something dark and sensual and all consuming.

He was speaking. She tried to clear the buzzing in her brain so she could hear him.

…"Dean."

She shook her head. "What?" she asked quietly.

He chuckled softly and Y/N's stomach clenched at the sound.

"Dean. I said my name is Dean Winchester and I asked you for yours."

"Y/N!"

At the sound of her name, Y/N turned, thinking wildly for a moment that someone had simply been telling this man her name, but then she realized it was Mr. Winchester, her boss. And as she realized this, the name the man had just given her penetrated through the haze in her mind.

She looked back at the stranger. "Winchester?"

But he wasn't looking at her anymore; he was looking at her boss who was jogging slightly towards them. "Dean!" he called out. "You weren't at the station, so I thought I'd track you down. Sorry I'm late." Mr. Winchester threw his arms around the man and pulled him into what looked like a bone crushing hug. But the man simply pounded Mr. Winchester on the back before her boss turned to face her.

“You’ve met my brother?”

***

Dean closed the door of his wardrobe and leaned against it, closing his eyes so he could bring that perfect face into his mind's eye. Beautiful (y/c) eyes, soft features, and an incredibly succulent mouth. He'd immediately had plans for those perfect lips and he'd already begun imagining them beneath his own, or moving down his body, slowly…

Then suddenly, he'd heard his brother's voice and was crushed in an embrace. When he pulled away, he could see the woman (Y/N?) was blushing profusely and trying to stare a hole into the ground.

He had quickly learned this woman was governess to his niece, his brother making the formal introductions. Lucy came running over and launched herself into Dean's arms.

"Uncle Dean! What did you bring me?"

"Lucy, manners." Sam had scolded.

But Dean chuckled, and pulled gently on one of her braids. "I have lots for you, kiddo, but it's back at the station."

So, Sam had herded them all back towards the station. He'd told Lucy and her governess that they should get into the carriage as well and ride home with them, but Y/N had refused quickly, blushing again.

"No. Thank you, Sir. You're very kind, but Lucy needs to stretch her legs and wear off her energy. We'll walk back. I'll have her ready for supper at six o'clock." With that she took off with Lucy's hand in hers, walking fast enough that the little girl had to jog a bit to keep up.

"What did you do?" Sam had asked immediately, cuffing Dean none too softly in the back of the head.

"What?" Dean asked innocently. "I barely said two words to the woman."

"Really?" Sam asked, disbelievingly. "Well, two words from you and my level-headed, almost stoic, governess has turned into a blushing school girl."

Dean had just grinned. Sam rolled his eyes and cuffed him again.

Now Dean was changed out of his traveling clothes and into a fresh suit having bathed and rested. And he was bored once again. Sam had returned to his office in town to see his last client of the day and Jessica was out paying calls. He wandered around their modest, but beautiful home, reacquainting himself with the warm wood floors, expensive oriental rugs, and the smell of freshly cut flowers that Jessica grew in a hothouse in the back.

After a half hour, he was officially restless and all the signs of his brother's apparent domestic bliss had him desperate to find a distraction.

He wandered into the library hoping to find a book that might do the trick. Instead he found the beautiful governess he'd met so briefly. She was sitting on a green chair in the corner. She had her legs tucked up on the seat and one stocking clad ankle was showing as it peaked out from beneath her skirts. Lucy was nowhere to be seen, and he assumed she was taking an afternoon nap.

His body thrummed with desire immediately and he had to give his head a shake. He wasn't some green boy about to lift his first skirts. He needed to get control of himself.

Then she looked up from her book, sensing him, and her look of surprise mixed with the innocent desire that flooded her gaze took that control away in an instant. He pictured pulling her into his arms, and ravishing her sweet, lush mouth, which was now open slightly in surprise.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "I apologize, Miss Y/L/N. I seem to startle you each time I see you."

She closed her mouth and shook her head. "Not at all, Mr. Winchester. I'll leave you to your reading." She stood to go, but Dean leaned against the closed library door and crossed his arms.

"No, I'd like you to stay, please. Can you recommend a book? What are you reading?"

She took a moment before answering, swallowing several times. She held up the small book. "It's a book about biblical poetry."

"Oh?" Dean couldn't think of anything less interesting, but he moved to her side, and took the book from her hand as an excuse to get closer.

The scent of something sweet, but spicy hit him as he stood near her, making his head foggy, so it took him a moment to register what he was reading as he looked down at the page she'd been on, it was marked with a piece of ribbon.

Taking the ribbon out, he read the words again and then looked back at Y/N with an incredulous expression. "You were reading…this?" He turned the book back to her and pointed his finger at one passage in particular.

"Yes, that's right." Y/N confirmed. "I must confess, I'm not much of a poet, it all sounds fairly confusing to me. This poem talks about a man and woman who are gardening. What a mundane subject to write poetry about." She shrugged delicately. "But it is biblical, so I thought it could only enrich my mind."

Dean couldn't help the wicked grin that spread across his face. "This is the Song of Songs. It's love poetry."

Y/N looked puzzled. "Love? Of what, gardening?"

Dean's smile deepened. "It's written in metaphor. You know what a metaphor is, don't you?"

Y/N's expression became slightly annoyed. "Of course I know what a metaphor is, I'm a governess."

"Of course." Dean said and suddenly he had a wonderful idea. "Let me see if I can help you see the metaphor here. Sit back down, and allow me to read this section to you and see if you understand."

***

Y/N was trying hard to pull air into her lungs without appearing to pant. There must be something truly wrong with her that made these kind of thoughts run through her mind. She couldn't focus her gaze on anything. When she looked into his eyes, thoughts fled completely and her mind was just a rolling mass of red haze.

So, she tried to focus on his neck. But the column of his throat and square corner of his jaw, with it's slight shadow of stubble made her breath catch again. She looked lower to where his hands held the book. But his hands were large and his fingers were long and thick, with blunt squared tips. They made visions pop into her mind's eye, visions that no respectable lady would be having. She pictured those fingers taking hold of her hand, wrapping around it, she imagined the warmth of his skin on hers, and soon she was nothing but a mass of nerves again.

She was very proud of herself for getting words past her lips. But then he'd suggested he read to her and she heard herself agreeing. A part of her mind was telling her to simply leave, but she thought it might seem rude, he was the brother of her employer after all. So she sat.

He opened to her page and began:

Awake, north wind, and come, south wind! Blow on my garden, that its fragrance may spread everywhere. Let my beloved come into his garden and taste its choice fruits. I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride; I have gathered my myrrh with my spice. I have eaten my honeycomb and my honey; I have drunk my wine and my milk. I slept but my heart was awake. Listen! My beloved is knocking: "Open to me, my sister, my darling, my dove, my flawless one. My head is drenched with dew, my hair with the dampness of the night."

Y/N listened and the words themselves held no new meaning, she could find no metaphors in them. But she heard the husky timbre of his voice, heard the low rumble as his tongue and lips formed the words, and she suddenly knew that what he was saying was scandalous. She could hear the impropriety in his voice, knew it from the way it made her shiver. Quoting the bible shouldn't create such a hedonistic reaction!

She jumped to her feet, unsure of what her next move would be, but she knew she couldn't stay in this room alone with this man another minute.

Dean stood slowly, putting the book down.

"Did you like it?" He asked and his voice was rough and low, slow and drawling.

She shook her head. She definitely didn't like this feeling. Her head felt stuffed full of cotton and her body tingled. He stepped closer to her and reached out to take her hand.

It felt exactly as she had imagined. It was warm where his fingertips held hers.

"I just realized that when we were introduced earlier I was very rude. I didn't even offer a kiss for your hand."

He tugged gently on her hand and she shuffled forward until only a few inches separated them. Her breathing was rough and her mind screamed at her to pull away. But she didn't. Instead she watched as he brought the back of her hand up to meet his plump lips. They were smooth and warm, and his breath just heated her skin there.

He moved his lips slowly, turning her hand in his so he could kiss the inside pulse point of her wrist. She had to tell him to stop. He was behaving with unbelievable impropriety. But his lips…they moved again, grazing her skin as they did, up to the tip of her thumb. Then he kissed the tip of each finger, before grasping her hand more firmly and pulling her the last inch toward him, so that now she could feel the heat radiating off of him. He dipped his head and she felt his lips in the center of her palm. Suddenly she felt his tongue flick out briefly to taste her.

It was the jolt of fire that shot up her arm that brought her to her senses. She gasped loudly and wrenched her hand out of his. She stood frozen for a moment, staring at the mouth that had brought on such a feeling. Then, desperately, she bolted from the room, trying to outrun the image of the heat burning in those stunning green eyes and of the wide, sensual mouth she suddenly longed to feel against her own.

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters:

@lyarr24

@lacilou

@deans-spinster-witch

@globetrotter28

@suckitands33

@alwaystiredandconfused

@evznackles

@jackles010378

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@krazykelly

@candy-coated-misery0731

@envyaurora95

@spnwoman

@deans-baby-momma

@luvr4miya

@arcannaa

Dean Fics Only:

@roonthelittlespoon920

@slamminmine

@zepskies

@safiyas-world

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom:

@kazsrm67

@slut-for-evans-stan

@sexyvixen7

@nancymcl

@hobby27

@waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits:

@k-slla

@leigh70

@eevvvaa

@kickingitwithkirk

@foxyjwls007

@notinthislife50

@roseblue373

@mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@avanatural

@mrsjenniferwinchester

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

@deangirl96

#dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester au #dean winchester historical au #dean winchester fan fic series #dean winchester fan fic

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trumpkinhotboy · 5 months

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Chronic protective brother syndrome

Pairing: big brother!nick nelson x little sister!reader

Type: Request (thank you so much!!)

Warnings: Mention of fainting, having a chronic illness, but nothing too intense

Word count: 1900

Requests: Open! For Heartstopper, twilight wolfpack, chronicles of narnia and harry potter

A/n: honestly… i dont have much to say except that i love writing for requests and that big brother nick makes me weak in the knees. Hope you enjoy angels xxx

*gif is not mine

Summary: The reader has been living with diabetes her whole life. She's grown quite accustomed to it and manages it well with the help of her supportive family. Although sometimes, support can feel a little suffocating...

Through your 14 years of existence, you have grown quite accustomed to life with type 1 diabetes. As you grew up and became more conscious of what it meant to live with a chronic disease, you learned to accept and care for yourself quite well.

Your mother, Sarah, was a real trooper and never let you down, always carrying you when you felt exhausted and done with your condition, which did happen more often than you care to admit. Luckily, you also had someone else in your corner: your older brother.

Nick is known to be quite protective. Especially with the people he cares for. However, that aspect of his personality gained a new high when you were born, and your mother explained why you could never do everything just as he did. Of course, you would still be able to do most of them. You would simply need to be a little more careful.

Sarah remembers very clearly the look in little Nick’s eyes when she explained why you were always sick. You were resting in bed after a substantial flare-up when his eyes welled up with tears. That's when he finally understood that there was something in your own body that would always try to fight and hurt itself. That’s also when he promised himself he would do everything to protect you. Your mum still tells that story with a few tears welling up in her eyes.

Nick knew you could have a lot of complications from your disease. To avoid them, he always made sure you had everything you needed at all times. You usually didn't mind, seeing how your ADHD sometimes made it a little harder for you to remember to pack your stuff. Plus, the fatigue diabetes often fogged you with did not help in that department.

The thing is you were now 14 years old, finally starting to make new friends and explore the jungle that is social life in high school. So when your 16-year-old brother comes over, and all your lady friends swoon over him, or worse, when he comes over to baby you, it gets a little irritating. Luckily, Nick was quite stubborn about that stuff and was not about to let you get hurt just because of the image you wanted to project.

That was until you made quite a scene in front of everyone.

You had been feeling particularly irritated and moody that day. So when you saw your brother walk over to you with a backup diabetes kit, which was his creation, you felt anger boil in your blood.

It did not help to hear some nasty year 10 make jokes from a picnic table near your friends and you. "Oh, would you look at that? Diabetes Nelson still needs her big brother to bring her her little drugs. I don't understand how someone like him could be related to her."

It was stupid. It wasn't even a good insult. Plus, the people who kept making comments were not something to be impressed with. Still, you couldn't help the shame from creeping on your cheeks.

So this time, when your big brother came to check on you and offered you your safety pouch, you refused.

"I already have the normal one. I don't need this one."

"I know, but I don't think you've put the new insulin shots in. I brought you the safety one just in case."

The snickers you heard from the people behind had you gritting your teeth. You couldn't understand their exact words, but you knew it wasn't positive.

"Don't you have anything better to do than watch over me all day?" you hissed. "I'm not stupid Nick."

Your diabetes also made you prone to mood swings, mostly when your blood sugar levels were too high or low. That's why Nick usually did not make a big deal out of these outbursts, but this time felt different. Hurt flashed in his eyes, and briefly, you regretted the words.

"I never said that. I just want to make sure you have everything you need. You know the risks." His tone was soft, his gaze focused on you. He tried as much as he could not to make a big deal out of this, but your reaction had the exact opposite effect. He knew how the fear of being judged could make a person act in such a terrible way.

"I don't need you to remind me how weak and useless my body is, okay? I'm the one living with diabetes, Nick. Not you." You whispered angrily.

You grabbed your bag and left him planted there without looking back. Nick and you were usually like two peas in a pod, and to leave him there hurt much more than you would care to admit.

You got back in class, trying to act normal, but after an hour in, you felt queasy and feeble. You had indulged in some sweets some friends offered after your altercation with Nick, brushing off the risk with your ongoing anger. Subtly, you pricked your finger and couldn't help your eyes from growing two sizes when you saw the little numbers your tracker presented. You were in hyperglycemia and urgently needed to get a shot of insulin. Swiftly, you asked to be excused from the class and headed for the bathroom. The walls seemed to shake around you, and your vision kept warping up. Cursing yourself for being this dumb, you opened your bag with shaking hands, searching for your shots.

"Shit."

There was only one thing worse than fighting with Nick, and it was when you realized he had been right. You mumbled under your breath, trying to stay calm and figure out a quick solution because this was becoming urgent, and you needed the care right now. Calling Nick would do no good since he was at Truham anyway. You decided to head back to class to ask for your teacher's help, but once you tried climbing the stairs, a thousand little dots started dancing around. You were able to mutter an 'I feel kinda dizzy' before everything turned black.

You awoke to a commotion. Distorted sounds and everything around you moved too fast to register. Someone was holding your hand while you felt a pinch in your arm.

"It's okay, it's okay Y/n. You're going to be okay. I'm here."

You knew that voice. You lifted your gaze with an effort and only saw a flash of red hair before darkness swallowed you once more.

This time, when you woke up, everything was silent and peaceful. You were lying in a bed, a hospital bed, with an IV drip set up in your arm. Nick was resting in the chair next to you, his worried eyes set on his phone as he quickly typed.

"Hey," you croaked.

His head whipped up in surprise when he heard your voice. He immediately dropped his phone to come by your side. His hand flew to your forehead. The coolness of it felt incredibly refreshing as you leaned into the touch.

"Hey, kid," he whispered. He tried putting a smile on his face, but it couldn't hide the worry he was truly feeling.

"So, I'm guessing I fainted? And someone found me? And they panicked ?"

"Panicked is an understatement."

He explained that Imogen found you at the bottom of the stairs. She didn't know whether you had fallen from them or just fainted at the bottom, so she immediately called for help and texted him.

"I ran to Higgs faster than Charlie ever could," he added with a smirk, his joke stealing a chuckle from your chest.

"I'm sorry for causing such a commotion. I should wear a bracelet that says fainting is normal for me so people won't worry."

His gaze hardened at your comment. "Fainting is not normal for you. It's a bad sign, and you know it."

You sheepishly dropped your gaze. Okay, he wasn't ready to make jokes about it yet. Charlie would have laughed, you secretly thought.

"I don't understand why you pulled that crap. I just wanted to help you."

You lay back in bed with a sigh and covered your eyes with your forearm. You did know Nick only wanted to help, but still. His kind gestures irritated you so much sometimes.

"It's already hard enough to be the sick kid. That was my only thing when I was in middle school. I thought now I could step away from it, that I could be someone else. Be known for other things than my messed up immune system."

You noticed Nick's expression softened once you uncovered your eyes.

"And I know you want to help and trust me, I appreciate it. It's just that sometimes it feels like you don't believe in me. Like you don't think I'm capable of doing stuff. Instead of helping me become stronger, you keep worrying me with your horror scenarios."

It was now Nick's turn to look all sheepish and guilty. You might have been right in saying he tended to get a little paranoid when you wanted to try new things. He only thought about protecting you. He never realized the effect it would have on your self-esteem.

"I'm tired of being afraid. I've looked it up, and there are so many people with diabetes who are doing amazing things. I can stay healthy and still be a badass kid who tries new stuff."

He looked up, his eyes holding so much uncertainty and fear. Though through it all, love was the strongest thing in his gaze. He grabbed your hand once again with a tight smile.

"I hear you, I'm sorry. I never thought it would make you feel like this, or else I wouldn't have done it."

"Nick." You gave him a knowing look.

"Okay, okay. I might have still done it, but only because you're my baby sister, and I want you to be healthy and have a long, long life, okay?"

You nodded while tightening your grip on his hand.

"I promise I will be less overbearing, and I will support you in whatever new thing you want to try."

"Thanks, Nick, and for school, could you maybe not come and do your big brother number in front of all my friends? I appreciate the gesture, but I'm over dealing with the dumbasses."

He sighed heavily but still agreed to your request. "About that, just a piece of advice. I've learned that sometimes the thing we are afraid will show our weakness or vulnerability only does when we allow it to. Once you reclaim your power and own it, it all switches around. Anyone who has something to say about it will suddenly disappear, or you won't care what they have to say anymore."

You nodded sheepishly. You honestly didn't care about your diabetes. I mean, it could be a gigantic pain, and you would have to be careful for the rest of your life. But all in all, you were pretty lucky. You had your condition mostly under control when you weren't a sassy dumbass, and you had the best support system someone could wish for.

"Look at me. You're going to be okay kiddo." Your brother squeezed your hand tighter in a reassuring motion.

You lifted your head to meet his supportive gaze and smiled in return. Yes, you would be okay.

#ilya writes #nick nelson #nick nelson x little sister!reader #nick nelson x sibling!reader #heartstopper #heartstopper fic #nick nelson fic #nick and charlie #alice oseman #kit connor #anon request

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deathbystero · 5 months

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 - 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐨

𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐠𝐞 (𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟗𝟑𝟔) - 𝟏𝟖 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐧 - 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖

Marko grew up in the early 1900s with his mother and siblings in a little house in Italy. He knew very little about his father for the man had died in a work related incident a little after he was born and his mother never seemed very open to discuss the topic further.

The family lived in poverty, rarely able to scrape together enough money from their meagre wages to feed everyone, and more often than not, there was no food at all. Marko did what he could to help out, but it was always down to his older siblings to bring in the money. At times, he was left feeling rather helpless, as if he was just an afterthought, an unwanted burden on his mother's shoulders. He was another mouth to feed, another being to clothe and shelter.

When there was nobody home, his siblings were usually forced to take him along when they went into town to sell their wares. As far as Marko knew, none of them ever made much money. His mother would make her own way in the world by sewing dresses and selling whatever she could find but it wasn’t enough.

Eventually, when Marko had just turned thirteen, the dreaded letter came through the post, giving the family a month’s notice to pack up everything they owned before they were evicted and forced out onto the streets. It was a cold hard truth that had been long awaited, one that everyone in the family had known was coming but which none of them had truly believed.

His siblings hadn’t stuck around, running off to start new lives just days before the eviction, while Marko was forced to stay behind, clinging to his mother like a scared child. She couldn’t afford to pay rent on even the cheapest of places and they didn’t have any relatives willing to let them stay over until they could get back onto their own feet again. So, with little left to offer, they packed whatever items they had left and ended up on the streets, surviving on the bare minimum.

Marko's mother found a job washing dishes at a small inn, spending the money she made on alcohol and drinking herself into oblivion every night. He was forced to watch helplessly as she fell apart, unable to do anything other than be there for her as best he could, cleaning up after her and keeping her safe at night.

While she was at work, Marko roamed the streets, stealing whatever he could get his hands on and eating what scraps he could find. He found himself hating his siblings, hating the idea that they'd gotten away so easily while he was stuck here with no money and an alcoholic mother to take care of. They were lucky. He wasn’t.

One evening in August,when Marko was sixteen, his mother disappeared, never returning from work. He had tried searching for her, running up and down the streets like a lost puppy, wailing and calling out for her, but it was futile. The woman was gone and he was alone.

He returned back to their pitiful shelter and wept into the night, praying desperately that someone would come for him, would care for him. That night, he cried himself to sleep, exhausted and starving, whilst he dreamt up a carefully formulated plan; a plan to flee the country and start anew.

There was a boat, Marko discovered, set to leave early the next morning, taking both cargo and passengers to America. It was his only chance and so he grasped it eagerly, leaving their sorry shelter behind in search of freedom and adventure.

He snuck his way into the storage hold where the ship was docked and hid under a blanket until dawn broke, the ship pulling away from land and taking him away from the only place he’d ever known and to somewhere entirely foreign. He held onto the hope that maybe things would improve once he found his way there, but deep down he knew he was being foolish. He was a sixteen year old boy, underfed and poor, who hardly spoke a word of English and had no family to fall back onto if all things went downhill. What could he possibly expect to find? A life amongst strangers would not give him a better chance than he already had, who wouldn't spare him an ounce of pity even if he begged on his hands and knees? What was he thinking? He had to have been totally crazy. No sane person in his right mind would risk their life like this. And yet, here he was still trying. Still trying his hardest to make something of himself.

The ship docked in America about a week after it’s departure, and Marko was greeted with a strange mix of excitement and dread. He'd been expecting something akin to Europe, but what lay before him was anything but glamorous or fantastical. He felt completely at odds with the people that walked past him, some laughing and chattering loudly, others barely sparing him a passing glance. He was surrounded by strangers and so incredibly out of place. If anyone should've noticed him in the crowd, they gave no indication of it as they continued talking and laughing and chatting around him with equal gusto, unaware of his plight.

He wandered about the bustling streets for hours, eventually finding an alleyway to curl up in and wait out his hunger pangs. He’d found very little food on the boat, taking what he could from crates and boxes without much thought, not caring if he was eventually caught. His clothes were dirty and tattered, worn thin and threadbare, his shoes covered in dirt and grime, and he was positively sure he looked absolutely deplorable. Biting his lip against his inevitable tears, he buried his face into his knees, hugging himself tightly, shivering violently. Sleep seemed like a far off thing, impossible to come by as his thoughts kept circling around how utterly hopeless he felt, how utterly alone he was.

It wasn’t until several days later that his luck seemed to change, a not so dim light appearing at the end of the tunnel. He'd found a little abandoned warehouse full of art supplies; crates of leftover paint, paint brushes which had certainly seen better days, and canvases, most of which were torn and tattered, but usable nonetheless.

Marko has gathered up everything he could get his hands on, seeing an opportunity to make some cash, and spent almost the entire day painting whatever came to mind. He was surprised at himself - he didn't remember the last time he painted, but somehow this was different. Like he was drawing for the first time, like he was creating something entirely new. There was a sense of wonder that he couldn't explain, an awe he hadn't known since childhood. This wasn't about making money. This was about finding himself.

When he finally emerged from the building, covered head to toe in brightly coloured paint stains and tired from lack of sleep, he decided he might as well try his best at selling what he had created, knowing that nothing else would provide him with any kind of income. It didn't matter that he lacked experience with art, that he was untrained. The paintings were his ticket. The only way out of this misery he lived in.

And so he set about selling everything he had, working his hardest, desperate to make every penny count. And, boy, did people pay. It was almost comical at how careless the rich were with their money, throwing it at him with no regard as to what it might go towards, as long as they got whatever it was they wanted in return.

Marko was soon able to afford enough money for food and clothes, settling into the little warehouse and sleeping on an old uncomfortable mattress stuffed into one corner, surrounded by crates of paint and brushes.

He took pride in the fact that he had made something of himself, having managed to carve out his own niche with a little bit of paint and a couple of worn out brushes. He felt good about the fact that he had managed to become somebody, somebody who had a purpose, somebody that mattered in the world.

When he turned 18, Marko took to wandering a little further into the city, searching for inspiration and finding plenty. It became routine for him; he worked late nights painting whenever he was able, waking up with the sun so that he could spend the morning wandering before returning to paint once more. He sold his creations out on the streets, bought meals and slept rough. He was happy. He felt complete. He should've been happy, content with his living situations, besides it was more than he'd ever thought he'd have, and yet he still felt as if something was missing. That loneliness still lingered, that hollow feeling that wouldn't go away.

In November of his third year on the streets, Marko met two men whilst out wandering at night, shaking off the disturbance of a rather unpleasant nightmare.

The first of the two was blonde, his hair messy in a styled kind of way, with piercing blue eyes and sharp, handsome features. The second was tall with dark hair and a strong jawline, seemingly just as striking as his friend. Both were dressed entirely in black and approached Marko much in the same way a predator would its prey, a smile adorning each of their faces.

“Can I help you?” Marko asked quietly, his accent thick and heavy, despite his best efforts to hide it.

The blonde one grinned, “You’re a runaway, aren’t you, kid?”

Marko hesitated for a brief moment, weighing up his options before nodding slowly.

The man reached out a gloved hand, offering to shake, “I’m David.”

“Marko,” Marko replied quietly, shaking his hand.

David nodded, seemingly satisfied. His friend said nothing. “Where are your parents?”

“My mother's dead…” At least that’s what he thought.

“Your father?” David pressed.

“Dead too…”

“So… it’s just you then?” David questioned, tilting his head slightly. Marko nodded, looking down at the pavement. What did these guys want? Money, drugs, sex? Who knows, but Marko certainly wasn’t too keen on finding out.

“Hey,” This time, it was the other man, the brunette one, who reached forward, his hand landing upon Marko's shoulder. “We ain't here to hurt you, kid. We're here to help.”

Help? Marko furrowed his brow. “I don't need no help.” “Of course not,” David interjected before the boy could say any more, “But that doesn't mean we can’t offer it. You're young, lost and all alone in this world. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a friend or two?”

A friend... That’s what he’d been seeking, someone to rely on. Someone to show him that he wasn't completely alone in this. But was it really possible for him to turn to these strangers, especially after everything he'd been through so far? Could he trust them? They were probably just playing a trick on him. They'd probably planned to kill him and leave his body somewhere and never bother him again. So why should he believe them?

“Look,” David began, “I know we seem shady, but I promise we'll do nothing to harm you. Right, Dwayne?”

The brunette nodded. “We just want to help.”

This was a mistake. These two men could easily kill him, leaving him to die on his own somewhere. Or they could rob him. Or beat him senseless. Either option would be equally horrible.... but something about them told Marko that maybe they were being truthful. Maybe they did actually want to help him. Maybe they meant what they said, because they weren't bad people.

“... okay…” Marko muttered softly, raising his eyes to meet theirs.

The two men smiled, sharing glances between each other before turning back to Marko. “Great! Let's get going now shall we?”

Marko stared at them for a while longer, trying to gauge if they were telling the truth or lying, before nodding slowly and following after them.

Marko became the third member of Max's family that night, and for the first time in his life, he felt complete.

A/N: This is way longer than I'd expected it to be, and, although it started of a little bit shitty, I think it got better towards the end. As I've said before, this is my own take on things; none of what I have written is canon in any way, shape, or form and is simply a silly little thing I came up with over the x-mas break!

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys imagine #marko the lost boys #the lost boys headcanon #this is my own take so please don't come for me

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thatsmzbitchtoyou · 3 months

Text

Breaking the Class Ceiling- Bucky Barnes fanfic/period piece series

NEW STORY!

Here's something I thought of. I hope you guys like it. I tried to write it as a "You" fic rather than Y/N, but there are a couple of Y/N's here and there for dialogue.

This is set in early 1900s U.S.A., during the Edwardian era with some style changes into the upcoming Art Nouveau period. I've changed history a bit for this. Pretending that America didn't have a full Civil War and trying to create a more optimistic outcome for the purposes of the story. I've also tried to research what the rules for society/socializing were back then, and tweaked some of them.

Warnings for upcoming chapters: minor character death, some sexual harassment/assault (but nothing too graphic or traumatic), smut.

Chapter 1

The year was 1904. America was in a technological boom and desperate to prove itself as a major power. After infighting and a near civil war there had finally been peace and treaties made just years before, and as everyone learned to live with each other and create equity within their communities, prosperity flourished. The World Fair was to be held in St. Louis, Missouri, that year, and the entire eastern seaboard was abuzz with excitement. As families who had been previously destitute were now doing better financially they were all making plans and investing in the finer things in life, including making the big trip to St. Louis.

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, the son of an office manager, was taking up on his father’s work under a local lawyer in Brooklyn, New York. He’d been working as a clerk in the office since he was a teenager, balancing books and ordering supplies. His penmanship was the best in the office out of all the other clerks and receptionists, thanks to his mother, so he was in charge of handling official letters and working with dignitaries in the area. It got him connections with the high class, and he was able to make good friends with business men’s sons, who were born into money. He was able to get invited to all the big parties, hitch along with the high-brow at sporting events, and court the higher class women.

His father, George Barnes, was proud of him for rubbing shoulders with the old money men. Bucky and George were able to make a good living, but nothing that compared to the types of things that Bucky had been able to experience. George encouraged him regularly to find a well off young woman to marry so that his future would be set. Bucky worked and saved to make sure he had the best clothes and accessories so he would blend in with his friends, saving for his future when he could. No woman in high society would give him a chance otherwise.

As Bucky was partying and scouting the local women, you moved back into town. A rich woman whose family had hit it big in the beginning of the oil industry, you were the only one left after a long bout of illness that took your family. All you had left was your uncle Alonso, who pretended to care for you, but was hitching his wagon to yours in hopes of a monetary gift and retirement. He acted as your chaperone and matchmaker, looking for promising young men that he felt were worth your fortune. Unfortunately for him, you were not looking for the same criteria of men he was. He wanted someone high class, also from a well off family, or someone who would add to your fortune. You wanted love, friendship, companionship, with someone who wouldn’t be intimidated by your fortune and your confidence. A rich woman with full access to her own money was few and far between in this century, and you knew it. You didn’t need a man, you wanted one. A good one.

The news of your arrival spread quickly. Your last name was plastered on many a product and business, as you invested heavily in your home state, and the idea of an American princess returning after years of traveling was an exciting change of pace for Brooklyn.

“Good morning Bucky!” Steve Rogers greeted loudly as he swung open the office door, making it bang against the window behind it.

“Jeez, Steve, don’t break the glass, will ya?” Bucky grimaced, but gave him a clap on the shoulder in greeting. “‘Morning, punk.”

“Oh, sorry,” Steve said sheepishly, checking on the glass then turning back to the front desk. “Hey, did you hear about the Y/L/N girl coming back to town?”

Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork, “Yeah, I heard.”

Steve looked at him expectantly. “And?”

Buck glanced from the papers, the pencil in his hand hovering over the stack, “And what?”

Steve snorted at his best friend. “And what? She’s throwing a party! It’s gonna be the biggest party Brooklyn’s ever seen!”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you got your invite already,” Bucky looked back down at his paperwork. Steve came from a wealthy family who had made good money after selling a number of sugar and tobacco plantations. His father had invested well and they were able to live on without needing to work anytime soon. Of course he’d get an automatic invite.

Steve sneakily took out an envelope, a sly look in his eye. “Yep, and I may or may not have bribed the mailman to give me yours, too,” he waved the envelope in Bucky’s face.

Bucky gawked at him, his eyes widening as he stared at the envelope. Sure enough, his name was written on it in pretty script. He ripped it from Steve’s hand and hastily opened it. The paper was high quality, the writing done with a neat hand. His eyes flew over the page as he tried to comprehend the words.

“I got an invite?” he wondered quietly.

“Yep, that’s all you, bud,” Steve beamed at him. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t pull any strings or make any calls. She invited you specifically.”

Bucky was having a hard time understanding. He never got personally invited to things, he was always the tagalong, the guy who had to be let in by his friends who put a good word in for him and opened those doors for him.

“But…why?” he thought out loud, looking off through the window at the people passing by.

“Beats me,” Steve said nonchalantly. “But it’s gonna be the bee’s knees. That mansion we’ve always wondered about downtown? That’s hers! The whole place is being cleaned up and prepared for a big night. You’ll need new clothes,” he finished quickly, straightening up and dusting off his suit jacket.

Bucky sighed at that. “I don’t have enough savings for a whole new outfit, Steve.”

Steve waved him off, “Please don’t insult me. When you’re done today stop by Barton’s and he’ll get you fixed up on my tab. And I’ve given him strict instructions to not let you barter him down to cheap materials, so don’t you dare try it, Barnes. You will go to that party in glad rags just like everyone else.”

Bucky wondered what he’d done right in a past life to get a friend like Steve. “Thanks Stevie, you don’t have to do that.”

“Bullshit I don’t,” Steve countered.

“Language!” a yell came from the back.

“Sorry Mr. Fury!” Steve yelled back, looking sheepish again.

“Alright, I’ll go,” Bucky quickly agreed, knowing he’d have no other way of looking appropriate for such a fancy function. He knew of you, hell anyone would have to be living under a rock to not know who you were in America and many parts of Europe. He wondered how you’d heard of him and what made you want to invite him at all. Things were changing in society, but inviting a clerk to a multimillionaire’s mansion was still strange.

***

The weeks seemed to fly by as the party approached. Bucky had been fitted with a whole new suit from Clint Barton’s warehouse. Steve bought him a new straw hat for it being the first spring party with a crimson red ribbon, a matching crimson lounge coat and pants, white dress shirt, an off-white and navy plaid waistcoat, cobalt blue bow tie and cognac-colored Oxford boots that were shined to perfection. To up the ante Steve threw in gold chain cufflinks and a matching plaid pocket square. Bucky always brought his own pocket watch given to him by his father. It wasn’t in the best condition, so it could give away his status, but it was the one piece he wouldn’t compromise on.

Bucky had seen the hustle in town get worse as the party got closer. The women were desperately trying to find new fabrics and accessories to make them stand out and be in-fashion to catch your attention. The barbershops and salons were busier than usual as people got themselves cleaned and spruced up. There was one particular day where the sounds on the street had become quite intense as a crowd followed someone. He looked out the window and could only make out the top of the hat on your head as people not-so-discreetly-whispered your name repeatedly, some being brave enough to approach you on the street and introduce themselves to try and gain favor. He wondered what you looked like, what you’d be like, what things you’d seen on your travels. He didn’t want to get his hopes up. He was getting older than most of the upper class men around him, and hadn’t been able to peg down an upper class woman, let alone any woman yet, but you had invited him to what would be the biggest party of the season, so he hoped you were a little more open to people from all walks of life rather than just the upper crust.

Party day began with a buzzing excitement over the city. Bucky could feel it himself as he finished work that day and ran home to wash up and get ready. Steve was going to pick him up in his car so that they could come in style, and Steve was desperate to show off his new 1903 Pierce-Arrow. Bucky knew he wouldn’t be able to fool you into thinking he may be in a higher social standing than he was, but he would at least show you he could play the part.

The mansion was nestled in between other downtown homes that paled in comparison to its opulence. The gilded aged home was covered in turrets and filigree detail around the edges and doors. Fresh flowers were adorning every window facing the street and the front entrance that people were filing into by the time Bucky and Steve pulled up. Pastel floral colors and shining buttons with pristine white satin gloves shone in the sunset as they entered the front hall. Traffic jams were happening every ten steps as the partygoers got lost in the decor of the mansion, craning their necks as they looked up at the paintings on the walls and the murals on the ceilings. Bucky found himself getting caught up in the majesty of the mansion as well. He and Steve had peered into the windows through the years as it sat empty, wondering what it looked like inside. Nothing in his wildest dreams could have prepared him for what it was.

The ushers herded the people along the hallways towards the middle of the house, which opened up into a grand ballroom. Seating was scattered along the walls with waiters holding platters of decadent-looking food and sparkling champagne flutes. A small orchestra was playing in an upper balcony above the party, with another balcony across the way holding a band that waited for their turn to play. The fresh flowers continued inside along the walls and pillars providing a sweet smell to waft through the room. As everyone was finally admitted and waited in the ballroom the orchestra became louder to gain the attention of the audience.

Everyone fell silent as the orchestra finished and all turned their eyes towards the doors at the other end of the ballroom from where they’d entered. After a brief pause the doors opened and presented the host of the party. Good god, Bucky thought. You were dressed in a cadmium blue evening gown that had elaborate ruffles and appliques that shimmered under the lights. The neckline was wide, the off-the-shoulder sleeves hanging on your upper arms showing off your upper body, and the front dipping lower down your chest than what was considered normal or appropriate in American fashion, displaying a tantalizing view of your cleavage. Whereas all the other women had their hair curled and pinned up on top of their heads, your hair was in intricate braids and wispy curls with pieces deliberately falling out, the rest pinned up with sapphires. Instead of traditional white pressed gloves your hands were adorned with lace gloves that matched the color of your dress. You also weren’t wearing an overly restricting corset. Everything about your outfit made you stand out. Bucky could hear a few light gasps and whispers in the crowd at your dress choice, and it made him smile. As you confidently walked into the ballroom, smiling kindly at everyone, he noticed a mark on your upper left arm. Was that…a tattoo? Unheard of. You were a walking contradiction, and he felt like he was going to like you already. Just a step behind you was an older man that was dressed more in the British fashion, looking out at the crowd and scanning carefully.

“Well, this should be interesting,” Steve murmured next to him, raising his eyebrows and taking a sip of the champagne in his hand.

“Mmhm, this should be fun,” Bucky agreed, his smile widening.

A butler walked forward from the side where you entered and cleared his throat, “Presenting, Lady Y/N Y/L/N, and her uncle, Mr. Alonso Y/L/N!”

The band now took a turn as you let people come up to you first, greeting them politely and giving customary head bows and occasional handshakes. As you glided through the people Bucky pulled Steve along to a point where you’d be walking by soon. “Come on, Steve, you gotta introduce me,” Bucky urged him.

“Buck, you introduce yourself, you got a personal invitation. You don’t need me,” Steve protested, trying to finish his drink.

As they settled in their spot, slowly pushing forward to greet you soon, you finished talking to a man who evidently thought highly of himself, a Mr. Rumlowe, who eyed you like something to eat. Bucky knew him and his reputation. Seeing the tightness of your eyes as you dismissed yourself from him, he hoped you could already see past his facade. Your eyes fell on him and Steve and you smiled politely as you walked up to them.

“Miss Y/L/N, my name is Steve Rogers,” Steve spoke up first, giving you a head bow.

“Ah yes, Steve, your father was a good friend of my late father,” you said, your eyes shining at the recognition of his name. Your uncle behind you shifted as he recognized the name as well, his mood lightening. “He always spoke highly of your family. I am planning to call on your parents at a later date, I hope you’ll join them when I do.”

Steve seemed delighted at the prospect of the meeting, “Yes of course. My father has spoken of nothing else since your arrival. You may get his card before he gets yours.”

You laughed lightly at him, introduced your uncle to him, who was very interested in Steve, then turned your attention to Bucky. Your bright Y/C/E eyes gave him a quick look up and down, as if memorizing him. Bucky knew he looked a bit more colorful than the other men in attendance, a purposeful choice that he was now patting himself on the back for making.

“And you must be James Barnes,” you offered him in greeting.

Bucky’s eyebrows raised, “Yes, Miss Y/L/N, I’m surprised you know me already.”

You raised an eyebrow conspiratorially at him, “I do, your mother was a favorite of my mother’s. I do wish I had had a chance to meet her. My mother always spoke fondly of her,” you added, a look of mourning flashing across your face. “I have a photograph of them together, and you look just like Winifred.”

Bucky’s breath hitched at the mention of his mother. She had died suddenly a few years ago, taking his father’s cheerfulness with her. She had been a bright light in the community, always looking out for others and educating the girls in the neighborhood. He remembered her mentioning your family’s name before as being good people, but nothing concrete that would have made it seem like they were close friends.

“Oh, that’s very kind. I am sorry I didn’t know they were good friends, but she always spoke highly of your family,” he added politely.

You nodded, your eyes searching his face for a moment. You then surprised him by reaching your hands out for his. He quickly met you halfway, reciprocating the greeting so as not to embarrass or reject you. Your uncle scoffed and excused himself at your actions. If his dismissal bothered you, you didn’t show it. A quick glance at your hands and arms revealed that the tattoo peeking out from your sleeve was an elephant with an Indian print inside of its shape. He could feel the stares on him as you held his hands, stepping closer to him to speak lowly.

“I hope you and your father will accept my deepest condolences. Losing a mother is…” you trailed off, your eyes growing sad as you searched for the right words, “it is one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced,” you squeezed his fingers. “I plan to call upon you and your father as well, please promise me you’ll accept? I’d like to be your friend,” you proclaimed.

Bucky was floored. It was extremely bold for a woman to ask for friendship outright from a man, and yet you showed no signs of embarrassment or hesitation at the situation you’d just created with him. He lightly squeezed your fingers back, giving you a small smile.

“Yes, of course, Miss Y/L/N. I’d love to be your friend, as long as you save me a dance,” he teased her. He knew he was pushing his luck and protocols of manners, but he was rewarded when you gave him a hearty chuckle.

“Of course, Mr. Barnes,” you answered him, letting go of his hands and lacing yours together in front of you.

“Oh please, Mr. Barnes is my father. Friends call me Bucky,” he added. Although it was incredibly informal to give you the option to call him his nickname, he could tell you were more open to a break in etiquette.

You smiled widely at that, “Hm, Bucky. I like it. Well my friends call me Y/N,” you offered him your first name back.

“Y/N,” he repeated, liking the way your name sounded on his tongue.

You gave him a quick sly smile, “I like your candor Bucky. Come find me soon for that dance.”

“I will, Y/N,” he gave you a smirk back.

As you bowed your head in farewell and moved on to the next person Bucky couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He turned to Steve whose wide eyes were gaping at Bucky in amazement.

“What just happened?” Steve asked once you were out of earshot.

Bucky shrugged as he picked up a champagne flute from a nearby waiter, “I don’t know, but I like her.”

As the night drew on and you had greeted everyone at least once, the dancing began. The orchestra and band took turns each song, playing slower European melodies and then switching to more American upbeat tempos. You flitted across the dance floor, taking short breaks here and there to speak to the groups of women in the room, making small talk and promising audiences and outings. Bucky was impressed with your ability to charm each person you talked to, ignoring the stares and sideways glances from disapproving eyes and enjoying yourself. You ate freely, which was also strange, as most women didn’t snack offhandedly in upper class dance settings, and you nursed a champagne flute between each break you took from dancing.

Bucky decided it was time to take you up on that dance, moving through the crowd until he was on the outskirts of the dance floor, waiting for you to finish your current dance with Steve. You spoke with him as you danced, your laugh ringing out periodically at something he said. As he watched he felt a hard nudge to his side.

“You’re a real popinjay,” Brock Rumlowe muttered, bumping his shoulder into Bucky.

Bucky rolled his eyes, not deigning to turn towards him, “And how’s that Rummy?”

“Don’t call me that,” Rumlowe grunted. He pulled out a small box, opening it to reveal a white powder. “Tonic?” he offered it to Bucky.

“No,” Bucky scoffed.

“Your loss,” Rumlowe shrugged, taking a quick sniff before pocketing it so no one would see. “You think you’re real big stuff, hm? Getting to hold her hand and get an invite?” He circled around Bucky’s back. “You’re nothing,” he spat. “Here among the high life, you’ve got nothing to offer her, or anybody for that matter. I wonder if she knows your clothes were bought for you, by your beau Rogers. Just go home, you mooching, freeloading, indigent bum.”

Bucky breathed deeply to calm himself. Normally he’d just sock Rumlowe, but not here. His father would never forgive him.

Rumlowe chuckled at his silence. “We’ll see who she chooses. Her uncle’s scouting for suitors. She’s getting older, needs to marry and hand down that fortune to somebody. Don’t want a spinster with that much money and a dead womb, such a waste. I think he likes me,” he added.

Bucky sighed, “A woman with her fortune doesn’t need an elder to decide her future for her, Rummy,” he chided, finally giving him a glance. “You’ll have to impress her, not the uncle. And judging from the look on her face after meeting you earlier, I’d say you’re not winning any prizes soon.”

Before Rumlowe could say anything the dance ended, everyone clapping as they separated from their partners. Steve saw Bucky on the side and led you over to him.

“Ah, there you are, Bucky!” you chimed, your eyes lighting up. “I was beginning to think you’d disappeared on me.”

“Never,” he said, placing a hand on his chest in jest. It made you giggle. “May I have that dance you promised me earlier?”

“Yes,” you answered, nodding resolutely.

Bucky offered his arm to you and led you out to the floor, giving Rumlowe a triumphant smile. Rumlowe gave him a scathing glare then stalked off. Steve laughed and pumped a proud fist in Bucky’s direction. As they got into position and the music started Bucky tried his best to look like he knew what he was doing. He’d had some practice in dancing at other parties, but wasn’t the best at remembering which dances went with which songs.

As you came together and he took your right hand in his left, then wrapped his left hand around your waist, he pulled you in a little closer than he would normally. Your eyes widened slightly but you smiled easily, letting him guide you across the floor.

“You’ve come back from some long travels, is that right?” He started the conversation, wanting to learn more about you.

“Yes, I’ve been working my way through Europe, Africa, parts of the Ottoman Empire, and then the East Indies,” you answered. “After my family passed, I was looking for an escape, so I quite literally ran away from my problems to tour the world.”

Bucky laughed at the forwardness in your answer. “Well what better way to handle grief than to ignore it?”

You chuckled at his joke, enjoying the fact that he was willing to entertain you and speak plainly without such pretense. You meant it when you said you enjoyed his candor. You were looking for someone to not only share your life and fortune with, to create a family, but for someone you would genuinely enjoy spending time with and who would let you live your life without constant chastisement about rules and standards.

“I wouldn’t say ignore it, more like work through it while working through the countries,” you explained.

Bucky’s eyes lit up, “Oh? And what did you find while you were out there?”

Your eyes glazed over slightly as you remembered your travels. “I found a new god in each place. Rejection of a god. A new way of living. A new way of grieving. Acceptance,” she trailed off.

Bucky tightened his hold on you, grounding you back into reality. You wistfully came back to the present, squeezing his arm that you were holding. “It was beautiful,” you whispered.

He smiled at your tone. “It sounds beautiful,” he agreed. “I would like to see more of the world someday.”

“I hope you do. It’s good for you,” she smirked at him.

“Is it?” he chuckled again. He then leaned in and lowered his voice, “If you don’t mind me asking, is that where your tattoo comes from? The east indies?”

You glanced at the tattoo and nodded. “Yes, India, it was amazing there. The air is filled with spices!” you whispered at him, your nose scrunching and eyes narrowing as if you were telling him a secret.

Bucky had never met a woman like you. All the etiquette and propriety that everyone else was adhering to you seemed to throw to the wayside. It was hard to get to know women in society well before courting them, and even then everything was watched by chaperones or the public around you. Finding someone with a full personality that she was unafraid to boldly show off was new. He wasn’t sure how to handle it, but he liked it.

“I’ve read about India, my father was always picking up books about far off places. He loves learning about tropical flora and fauna. He used to have quite a garden before my mother passed,” Bucky continued the conversation, not wanting to lose the momentum in their interaction.

Your eyes widened considerably. “Ooh! I have a greenhouse! In the back courtyard! I was able to bring home many tropical plant species, and I’ve had a gardener taking great care of them. I will show it to you when you and your father come to visit,” you offered excitedly.

The music died down and you both pulled away to give a proper bow. As you straightened up Bucky quickly took your left hand, and in a quick flourish pulled your glove off your hand and kissed over the knuckle of your ring finger. There were audible gasps around you at his brashness, whispers and gossip erupting in quiet fervor. Pulling off a glove was scandalous, seen as a form of undress. You gasped lightly, a look of shock briefly gracing your features, but you quickly schooled yourself and smiled widely at him.

“Thank you, Y/N, for this dance, and your offer,” Bucky held your bare hand in his for a moment longer, giving you a deep gaze before placing your glove back in your hand. “I look forward to the greenhouse tour. My father will be pleased.”

He bowed his head, gave you a wink, then walked away into the crowd. You stayed still, your right hand sliding over your bare left hand, gingerly touching the knuckle where his lips had been. A blush filled your cheeks as multiple women surrounded you, giggling, gossiping and fussing over getting your glove back on.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #smut #marvel #period piece

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mariacallous · 2 months

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In her 1996 novel, Fieldwork in Ukrainian Sex, Oksana Zabuzhko wrote that for Ukrainians, “Fear was passed on in the genes.” Zabuzhko, one of the most important living Ukrainian writers, was referring to the childhood fear of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person in the Soviet era. Anyone who approached you could be spying for the KGB, and if you let a careless word slip, the bad men would come “and put Daddy in prison.” But that line captures what Zabuzhko’s novel is about: the inherited fear of oblivion born between the hungry jaws of empire, or what she calls the “eternal Ukrainian curse of nonexistence.”

Fieldwork in Ukrainian Sex was a sensation when it was published in Ukraine, but it took 15 years for it to be translated to English. Even then, it didn’t find a U.S. readership until the full-scale Russian invasion in 2022. The book’s path is emblematic of the tough road to English translation, much less readership, for novels written in Ukrainian. Until this year, not a single novel translated from Ukrainian had been published by a major U.S. publisher.

Tanja Maljartschuk’s Forgottenness, the first to break that barrier, is a book about Ukrainian identity and the struggle against nonexistence. Originally published in 2016, when it won the BBC’s Ukrainian Book of the Year Award, it tells the story of a contemporary Ukrainian writer who becomes obsessed with Viacheslav Lypynskyi, an important Polish figure in the early 20th-century Ukrainian independence movement. Lypynskyi studied Ukrainian at university in the early 1900s, when teaching the language was scandalous; both Russians and Poles considered it “a dialect of either Russian or Polish, or both concurrently.” Printing Ukrainian works was also prohibited, “punishable by imprisonment or exile.”

Throughout history, Ukrainians have faced this paradox: a denial of their existence (Ukrainian isn’t a language) combined with brutal repression (and you are forbidden to speak it). As Maljartschuk writes, the struggle makes many “lose their minds.”

Forgottenness is full of characters shrugging, often in dramatic situations. While American critics often lament shrugs (along with nods and smiles) as lazy dialogue tags, for the Ukrainian writer, the shrug is an important gesture. Soviet-born U.S. writer Gary Shteyngart once wrote, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, that Ukraine’s coat of arms could be a man shrugging. This attitude can easily be mistaken for nihilism, but it is far more complex than that. On its most basic level, it comes from a learned acceptance that many situations are beyond one’s control. For generations of Ukrainians, this acceptance has been necessary to maintain sanity.

Ukrainians have found different ways of shrugging. In Forgottenness, the unnamed narrator remembers how her father, like many Ukrainian men of his generation, became immersed in kung fu in the 1980s, needing to feel like he could protect himself. Her grandfather, after feigning insanity to avoid military service, worked as a forced laborer, melting down church bells that were transported across the Soviet Union to be made into weapons; for years, he responded to most things with a joke, fueling himself on laughter.

She remembers how her grandmother was left at an orphanage by a father who would soon die in the Holodomor, Joseph Stalin’s terror famine of 1932-33, during which millions of Ukrainians starved to death. In an attempt to understand and connect with her family, the narrator asks her mother how this genealogy of suffering affected her. “Mom shrugged. ‘What was there to be affected by? That’s how things were, and that’s all there is to it.’”

The narrator has the opposite reaction. Her fascination with Lypynskyi, who almost lost his mind, falling into infirmity under the weight of defending the idea of a Ukrainian nation, comes partly from identifying with him. For the narrator, her inability to shrug leads to an existential crisis. She becomes terrified of the outside world. For months, she stops going outside. She begins to mop her floor relentlessly. She stands on her head to see things from a different perspective. She obsessively reads old newspapers in search of references to Lypynskyi. She is desperate to understand history. In a recurring image of the novel, she imagines time as a blue whale eating plankton by the millions. There is no mystery as to whom the plankton represent.

The historical parts of Forgottenness can be challenging, both to follow and to witness, for the simple reason that Ukrainian history is challenging. Lypynskyi lived through the early 20th century, a time when hope for a Ukrainian nation flickered before being brutally smothered.

As the narrator puts it, in the three years after the Russian Revolution, “Kyiv, like a loose woman, changed hands over ten times … and each new seizure ended in bloody purges.” Borders change, names change, empires come, empires go, and everyone dies. One reason that Maljartschuk’s is the first Ukrainian-language novel to break into U.S. commercial publishing is that so many Ukrainian writers from the 20th century were permanently silenced.

As Ukrainian writer Anastasia Levkova recently wrote, under Stalin, 500 of the foremost Ukrainian writers were executed. But she is quick to point out that Stalin was not solely responsible for silencing Ukrainian literature: For example, Vasyl Stus, one of the most famous Ukrainian poets of the 20th century, died in a Soviet forced labor camp decades after Stalin’s death. It is not just Stalin, nor is it just current Russian President Vladimir Putin—it is the Russian Empire that denies Ukrainian history, Ukrainian language, and Ukrainian existence.

Ukraine, one character in Forgottenness laments, “has so many million bodies but so few actual people.” The Russian Empire won’t even allow remembrance of the bodies. When the narrator goes to visit Lypynskyi’s grave, she cannot find it, because the cemetery’s headstones were bulldozed and used to line the floors of pigsties during collectivization. How is she to come to terms with her past when the empire has erased it?

As she’s fighting panic attacks, the narrator watches pigeons across the street building nests and laying eggs on neglected balconies. “Once in a while, the building’s owners would toss the eggs off the balconies onto the asphalt below. The pigeons would then sit on the roof and dispassionately observe the destruction of their offspring.” The pigeons shrug not because they don’t care, but because—what choice do they have?

The narrator’s inability to be like the pigeons almost kills her. But she can still think, write, and face her crisis head-on. In what might seem like an anti-climax, but is actually a triumph, she seeks out a therapist. As she puts it, in her part of the world, “the human head has one purpose—to eat.” Her mother condemns her for being a drama queen. But the narrator finds another woman, a professional, who listens and who cares. She begins to trust her. She starts talking her way out. Through language and solidarity with a fellow Ukrainian, she finds her way back to the world.

Maljartschuk, a Vienna-based Ukrainian novelist, wrote Forgottenness between the Maidan Revolution in 2014 and the full-scale Russian invasion of 2022, a period when Ukrainian art, newly liberated from colonial shackles, was blossoming. Its Ukrainian title, Zabuttya, means both “forgetfulness” and “oblivion,” and although this is not a novel about the war, no event has brought the threat of oblivion into more urgent focus than Russia’s invasion.

According to Forgottenness’ promotional materials, Norton’s inspiration for publishing the book was a March 2022 article in the New York Times about the urgency of bringing Ukrainian literature to the West after Russia’s invasion. Because of the sudden prominence of Ukraine in the American consciousness, there is the temptation for Americans to read Ukrainian literature today anthropologically, approaching it as a window into the country instead of an imaginary story about Ukrainian characters.

To be clear, this is not a criticism of the publisher: I am very grateful that Norton published Forgottenness, and I hope that more U.S. publishers will follow its lead. But how does it affect the reader’s experience to approach the book with images of rubble in mind? How does an American reader get around the trap of reading Ukrainian fiction like it’s nonfiction—of reading it for information rather than emotion—when current events are the reason for its translation into English? The narrator’s panic attacks are brought on not by missiles but by the chaos in her mind and the fear in her genes. Is it not disrespectful to read the book as a guide to understanding Ukraine in 2024?

Fortunately, Forgottenness shares a way to read itself and also to read Ukraine’s latest fight for survival. Maljartschuk personifies the statewide struggle against oblivion in the individual struggle to accept the things you can’t change while refusing to accept the things you can. The struggle, I believe, applies to both the narrator and Ukraine, past and present. The story speaks to what came immediately before the book was published: the Maidan Revolution, in which Ukrainians from every class and background risked their lives to drive out the pro-Russian puppet government, holding Independence Square in Kyiv for three months in the face of a harsh winter, police snipers, government-hired thugs, kidnappings, and torture. But Forgottenness can also speak to what will come after.

The narrator says of her grandfather feigning madness to get out of fighting: “Between a slavish existence and a heroic death, he chose the former, and only thanks to this choice did I become possible.” In her words, she is “the offspring of meekness in the face of power and fear in the face of death.”

But there is no trace of meekness in today’s Ukraine. A generation of Ukrainian writers and artists are now on the front lines of battle or in the rear guard, tirelessly fundraising for equipment for soldiers.

“Everything I’ve done in my life has only come to be by overcoming great fear,” Maljartschuk said in an interview following the 2022 invasion. Fear, as Zabuzhko wrote, lives in the genes. But fear need not paralyze. “Ukrainians are no longer victims,” Maljartschuk added, “but fighters.”

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angelicadamposting · 2 months

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Missy Misery | Overlord Of Obsession

Basic Info

Name: Missy Misery (Formerly Misty Landry) Species: Jackelope Sinner / Mortal Soul / Overlord* (Formerly Human) Physical Age At Death: Mid-Thirties (38) Gender: Trans Woman Sexuality: Gray Asexual Birth Date: est. 1900 Death Year: 1933 Height: 5'2 or 157.5 cm MBTI: ESTP * = Overlord of Obsession (&/Or Love) art commissioned from @w0nderous again !! tysm for drawing her :3

(note: this ended up much longer than I realized it would)

Likes

Acting

Music

Singing

Sewing & Crochet

Tea

Red Wine

Romance Novels

Graphic 'Design' / Art

Painting

Dancing (Swing Dancing Particularly)

Dislikes

Being Alone

Being Belittled or Disrespected

Clutter

Black Coffee

Her Schedule Being Changed

People with Poor Time Management Skills

Open Windows

Being Touched Without Express Permission

I want to preface this with the fact I myself am trans

(CW:: some tr4nsph0bi!c language/references, historical fiction, light mentions/references to d0m3st!c ab*se, references to m*rder & c4nn!b4l!sm,)

Backstory(before hell/death)

(as short form as I can manage. apologies for anything feeling empty or like its missing something due to that)

Missy was born in 1895 in Baton Rouge, Louisiana as (Marcel) Misty Landry to an alcoholic father and mother who would die shortly after childbirth. She grew up being raised by her father to be like him and work within the agricultural realm of work-- Much to her dismay.

From a young age and when radios were popularized, beginning to pop up in houses across the states, Missy was enthralled with the music and talking people from within the box. Music inspired her from a young age to go against the grain and figure out who she was- not who her father 'needed' her to be.

In high school, she began to understand that she was a woman. The revelation was jarring, and a secret she kept close. Many things were not accepted where she grew up, and being different wasn't one.

Her father, while unaware of her newfound identity, did anything but respect his child. Noticing whenever Missy had begun practicing singing and dance instead of her household chores, only to ridicule her for being a pansy and some much worse insults. When he drank, he'd somehow be nicer- and weaker. Something Missy would take advantage of when committing patricide for her first homicide after enduring his mistreatment her entire life up to said point. It wasn't done out of anger, or heat of the moment- no. It was planned, calculated, and thought over for weeks before she took the opportunity to escape from beneath his thumb. The taste of his blood was not one she'd ever forget. As bitter and horrid as it was, the satisfaction it brought her was more than enough.

Missy had been closeted the majority of her life until her father 'passed away' when she was 21. She inherited his debt and responsibilities as the "man of the house" and the last of her family line. Rather than pick up the mantle, live in the closet for the rest of her days, and die unhappy- She moved several towns over to New Orleans and began to present more femininely whenever she could, calling herself Misty when she did so that anytime she did have to present as her legal/birth identity there'd be little to no association. Essentially living a double life. As Marcel, she would work as a men's tailor, and as Misty, she'd sing from bar to bar. That is until she found one bar that regularly asked her to return.

It was at this particular speakeasy that Missy would first meet Mimzy, another performer at the bar. The two became quick friends, and truthfully Mimzy was Missy's first 'girl friend.' (non-romantic) Mimzy was the first person in life to learn of Missy's gender identity, and surprisingly the first person to accept her for who she was. Mimzy helped inspire Missy to go on as herself, giving her confidence and helping her find her own voice.

It was around this time that Missy would first hear Alastor's radio broadcasts. By total chance, flipping through stations as she sat in her kitchen preparing a pot of tea, his voice poured through the speakers and ignited her interest. She quickly began to tune into all of his broadcasts, even adjusting her schedule to ensure she didn't miss any time he was on air. To put it frankly, she became somewhat of a near-obsessive 'fangirl' if anything even without knowing the man behind the charismatic voice and fake mid-Atlantic accent.

What Missy was unaware of though, was that soon after she began listening to him- Alastor would soon see her sing at the bar after one of Mimzy's stellar performances. And while he was nowhere near as intrigued by her as she was by him, he did soon ask Mimzy about her little friend. Mimzy, being the great friend she was, was eager to introduce the two- seeing as she knew just how much Missy was obsessed with Al's radio show. Missy easily hid how she instantly recognized his voice, greeting him politely like he was any other customer. And yet, he asked her to dance in between her stage times.

After that night, Missy continued to make her efforts to listen to each of his broadcasts. And now knowing who he was behind the radio, she may have begun to take extra steps to see him more often. At the same time, Alastor seemingly dropped by the speakeasy Missy performed at more often. Several weeks of the two getting to know one another, and watching one another from afar in their own ways passed before Alastor asked Missy if she would be interested in officially starting a courtship. It was this conversation that led to Alastor learning of her gender identity, and much to her surprise, he didn't care.

The two would begin a relationship that to half of the public, looked like just two friends, but to the circle of folk who frequented the speakeasy- everyone knew the two as the happy couple they had become. Of course, there were still men who'd come and get belligerently drunk, throwing themselves at Missy or Mimzy- and most of them ended up Missy's victims.

It wasn't until Missy and Alastor moved in with one another that they learned of each other's homicidal tendencies as it grew more difficult to hide. Instead of rocking the boat, this revelation strengthened their bond because each of them had a similar yet odd moral code regarding their victims. Soon, emotionally tied the knot despite the laws surrounding marriage. Having a small, private ceremony over a victim with a ring exchange.

After many years in a near-perfect romantic partnership, in 1933, their lives were taken. Side by side while hiding a body and shot by a hunter in the distance.

Backstory cont. (In Hell to Pilot)

Alastor and Missy appeared in Hell together, and nearly instantaneously her beloved made a deal of which the details could never be shared with her. The contract gave Alastor his eldrich powers and allowed him to quickly rise to the power level of an overlord. Missy, on the other hand, struggled with her new form and powers. Feeling her control and strength wane depending on the amount of love she felt and received- on top of growing stronger by taking down current overlords. It didn't worry her, though. Knowing and believing as long as she was side by side with Alastor, all would be fine.

Eventually, as Alastor grew into his true role as the Radio Demon, an overlord in his own right, Missy had become the overlord of Obsession- and love, by her own claims. The two had a strained relationship with Vox during this period, which would eventually end dramatically. The main true 'friend' the couple shared in Hell that shared in their desire for power and rank was Rosie, the Cannibalism Overlord. She understood Missy better than anyone else in Hell, besides her beloved.

After decades together in Hell, Missy awoke one day with no sign of her beloved. No note, nothing to give her a sign he'd gone or would return. And her powers seemed to wane from the realization alone. An overwhelming panic set into her, rushing out into the streets of Pentagram City in a desperate search for him. Her search ended with no clues, and she returned empty-handed- all alone for the first time in decades.

She managed as well as she could on her own, although the other Overlords began to notice the shift in power and Alastor's absence. Putting a target on her back, and sending her into hiding.

After a year into Alastor's disappearance, Vox found the sinner. Grinning madly, he offered an outstretched hand, and deal to assist her. For her soul, he'd grant her greater powers, a job as an actress or star of the stage to attain fans and achieve a dream she didn't realize she had. Of course, Missy was fully aware Vox was likely doing this for two main reasons and neither were to help her. The little rabbit demon knew Vox likely only wished to hold something over Alastor's head if he ever returned and to have another soul to own. She hesitated to accept, but he ensured her she'd have a place to live- safe from other overlords and even the exterminations. She'd have been dumb to refuse, after all, if Alastor had the right to make a deal with some unknown being, why couldn't she make one with Vox?

Subsequently, Missy moved into a room at the VoxTek Tower to get to and from the filming sets more easily. Quickly falling into her new role as a star actress in film and stage, as if she was always meant for this. Nearly every motion picture or musical featuring the Overlord of Obsession was a hit, resulting in her fame and fans growing. As this occurred, Vox's behavior towards her became more familiar. Even teaching her more about technology, since she'd avoided much new tech due to her husband's distaste for it all. Surprisingly, she was quite skilled with graphic design, learned how to code, and became Vox's main assistant in case things went awry with him.

Velvette and Valentino noticed the way Vox seemed to favor her and kept her close. Resulting in some teasing, but mostly leading Velvette and Missy to become friends. Velvette enjoyed teaching the older woman about modern slang, technology, and social media's she didn't understand. Thinking it hilarious how she mispronounced what was common internet lingo for the social media overlord. Valentino on the other hand, tried to push Missy into trying out a different kind of acting- one she was not comfortable with in the slightest. The rabbit demon and moth had quite a frustrating dynamic, Missy making fun of him and shooting both him and his requests down, only for Valentino to complain to Vox that his 'pet' was being mean.

All in all, despite their vast differences, Missy ended up getting along quite well with the V's. Growing particularly close to Vox and Velvette, even if she felt in the back of her mind a gnawing concern for what Alastor would say if he saw her now.

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isuckatwritingsobenice · 1 year

Text

Where do I begin ?

Songfic!

Alastor x Fem! Reader

Nav !

Note : For context, Alastor & the reader are the same age. Both born 1900. The last two digits of the year is basically their age.

Warnings: Mentions of Racism, Pinning ( mutual ), swearing, 1920’s - 1930’s, Warning: sexual assault, mentions of killing, cannibalism

tags: @littlebatsimagines

Song by : Shirley Bassey

━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━ ( scene changes )

Where do I begin

To tell the story of how great a love can be?

The sweet love story that is older than the sea

The simple truth about the love he brings to me

Where do I start?

1913 : 8th Grade Lunch Date

“ He definitely likes you Y/n.” My friend says as we sit at the table eating our lunch. On one side of the field, are tables for the white kids. On the other side, are little spots of cement where the colored kids sit. In the middle, is a lot of grass, where there’s a large tree in the middle. Under said tree, is Alastor, the schools outcast, but one of the smartest kids out there. Alastor stuck out like a sore thumb, poor thing was never dark enough to sit with the colored kids, but the white kids never wanted anything to do with him because he was mixed.

White father, black mother. It was the talk of the town when his momma was pregnant. When he was born, it was all anyone would do. As time went on, he joined the local school, and studied hard. He didn’t have many friends, and everyone always stood away from him. Regardless, he always wore that lovely smile that his teachers praised him for. He was a good kid, just not with the right crowd.

“ I don’t know. He doesn’t seem like he does.” I said, before my friend rolled her eyes, taking her lunch out of her bag.

“ Well even if he doesn’t, best not talk to ‘em again. Y’know your daddy will have you at it if he finds out you been talking to a colored boy.” My friend says, giving me that ‘ don’t do nothing stupid’ look. At that , I stare over at him, watching him eating his lunch. Around him is a small blanket, napkins and forks and knives being used ad he eats his lunch, and I smile to myself as he enjoys his meal.

“ I know I know. I’ll be fine, and he will too. We just don’t need to talk to each other.” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich.

“ Or you could give that fella a chance.” She said, before nodding her head over to one of the nearby tables.

Tommy, or also known as Thomas Vanguard. One of the richest white kids, despite our economy going down in flames.

“ Uh, I don’t really know.” I said, before she laughed.

“ Well too late, he’s already comin’ over.” She said, before my eyes widened. As I turned, I saw Tommy walking over. Oh please no. I was about to get up and walk away when I felt someone sit across from me on the bench. My friend and I turned in our seats to see who was there, it surely wasn’t Tommy.

Silence. The entire courtyard went silent.

Alastor was sitting at my table. Where all the white kids sat. Where colored kids couldn’t sit.

Until now.

“ AHH! Alastor sat at my table!” My lunch mate yelled, grabbing her lunch and running from our table. All the other kids gave the same reaction, running away to our fancy school building. I sat still, staring at him as everyone else ran away.

“ Hello.” I say, extending my hand out to shake. His eyes brightened, before he shook my hand eagerly. “ Momma says not to let people sit alone. “ I say, as I pick up my sandwich to continue eating.

“ Your momma sounds nice.” Alastor says, fixing his glasses. His skin is a caramel color, his brown hair swooped neatly to the sides and out of his face. His cheeks give a light blush, likely from the Louisiana heat.

“ I like to think she is. She can be mean sometimes though.” I say, chewing my food. Alastor smiles, before he continues his food as well. The lunch period goes smoothly from there out.

Even though the day after all the kids stood away from me because I was ‘dirty.’

Like a summer rain

That cools the pavement with a patent leather shine

He came into my life and made the living fine

And gave a meaning to this empty world of mine

He fills my heart

1915 : Highschool Newspaper

News: Black boys 12 and 13 lynched and hung at local park.

It’s all anyone’s talking about. Mainly because their brother’s been raging to the police since the whole thing happened. My best friend Mandy told me. Of course she would know, she’s his girlfriend. But no one knows.

It technically isn’t even allowed. A white girl with a black boy? It’s completely unheard of. But Mandy keeps it strictly secret. They’re never caught with one another, and even add extra arguments in public here and there to add some belief.

But I know it isn’t true. I also know that Alastor is gonna write an entire report down on it, and talk to me like if he’s one of those big fancy radio hosts I heart Tommy talk about during lunch.

“ My Daddy got my momma this cool radio, and it has this guy talking in it. It’s so cool, he sounds like a yankee.” Is usually what Tommy always says, and then he tells everyone what the radio guy says about the North.

━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━

“ Oh M’ so sorry miss.” I hear, as I bump into someone. I stumble back and blink, pulling myself out of my daze.

“ Oh no no it’s alright. I wasn’t really paying all that attention.” I say, bending down to grab my fallen books. The boy in front of me does the same, to help me.

“ Y/n?” I hear a few feet away from me. I turn my head to find my teacher.

“ Are my cheaters cheatin me or am I seeing a colored boy with one of my students?” She asked, clearly confused. I felt my blood race, before my books were shoved into my hands.

“ I was just going to the principals office miss. Please don’t mind me.” The boy said, before my teacher rolled her eyes at him.

“ If you people would’ve been raised better maybe I wouldn’t have a problem with you.” She said before pulling a cigarette out from her pocket and lighting it. The boy lowered his head before quickly squeezing between the two of us to get by.

“ M’ sorry Misses, really was my mistake.” He said quietly as he left. When he was gone, she blew out the smoke from her cigarette.

“ Now you listen to me girl, and you listen good.” She said, pointing at me. “ Stay away from those colored folk. You never gonna be on their level so don’t try to be. Now get to class.” She said.

Oh how my blood boiled.

He fills my heart with very special things

With angel's songs, with wild imaginings

He fills my soul with so much love

That anywhere I go, I'm never lonely

With him along who could be lonely?

I reach for his hand, it's always there

1917 : High school Dance

I don’t know if this is good enough. More importantly, I don’t know how I’m gonna be able to get into the dance without my parents finding out. Would they even let me into a colored folk dance? I don’t see why not.

“ Y/n are you ready to go?” Mandy asks me from my window. She’s hanging on for dear life while I scramble to find the lipstick I need. The lipstick he likes the most.

“ Yeah just a minute.” I said, going through my vanity as quietly as possible.

“ Aw, trynna get all dolled up for Al~?” She asked, wiggling her brows. I rolled my eyes and almost jumped out of my skin when I found the lipstick I needed.

“ Okay, let’s go.” I said, before she grinned. Off we were to the dance.

“ We made it!” Mandy said as she hugged her boyfriend, who despite having a rough year, was happy to be with her.

“ Thanks for comin’. Sure they won’t have a problem?” He asked Mandy, before she shook her head.

“ No they won’t. Right Y/n?” She asked, before I shrugged, looking around the courtyard for Alastor. The party for the colored kids had been in a more quiet side of town. But that didnt mean it was easy to find someone.

“ des fleurs pour la fille?” I heard, as flowers were placed in front of me. Red roses. Wrapped in a tight red ribbon, with white fabric holding it together.

“ I didn’t know you knew french.” I said, as my eyes widened, gently taking the flowers from his grasp. I was greeted with a kiss to my temple, and his hand resting on my lower back.

“ Of course. It’s in my mothers nature after all. I hope you do enjoy tonight.” Alastor said, before offering me his arm. I took hold of it and we began to walk to the party.

“ I love the flowers by the way, they’re beautifully wrapped.” I said, before he smiled.

“ Perfect. Saved up just enough." Alastor said with a wink.

" How much was it?" I asked, before Alastor laughed, pushing the door open to the run down barn, which was where the dance would be held.

" Oh don't worry about that dear, we're here to have fun not to worry about expenses." He said, before handing our tickets to a teacher, who eyed the both of us curiously.

" Honey you sure you in the right dance?" The woman asked, taking our tickets. I nodded with a smile, before Alastor led me to the dance floor.

It's two in the morning, and the street lights are dim. All the lights on the street are out, everyone's sleeping. The flowers are still in my hand, shoes in my other as Alastor and I walk down the street to my home, the dance ending after hours of fun.

" Did you enjoy yourself?" Alastor asks, before I nod, smiling wide.

" I've never had that much fun in my life. Thank you for letting me go." I say with a smile as we approach my front steps. I walk up the first few, as Alastor stands on the pavement. I turn, waiting for him to follow.

" Can I...?" He asks, gesturing to the steps. I nod, as he steps up to walk with me to my front door.

" I hate that things are like this." I say as we stop at my front door. Alastor smiles, a sad smile, as he fixes my hair.

" Things will get better. Promise." He said, before bending down to kiss my forehead. " I'll get a real fancy job, we'll get a nice house with a pretty little yard, and we can dance as much as you want." He said, smiling. I knew that smile, that smile that he gave when talking as if he was on the radio, or when he was talking about something good that had happened with his mother at work.

" You sure?" I ask, before he nods.

" Of course. We'll get away from here, far away. New Orleans, just us." He says, before he pulls me in for a hug. " Don't ever doubt it." Alastor says, before I hug him back, ignoring the teardrops that fall on my shoulder.

How long does it last? Can love be measured by the hours in a day? I have no answers now, but this much I can say I'm going to need him 'til the stars all burn away And he'll be there

1919: The first bite

Twelve stations. Twelve stations that said no to him. All giving the same answer.

" You think people gonna wanna hear a colored boy on the radio? You best be trynna trick me if you think for a second you comin' in here." Was what they would say, and every time Alastor would come home with that smile on his face, despite the break in his heart.

" Any luck?" I ask, as his mother sets his food on the table, which I hand him his glass of wine.

" No, not today." He says, before he cuts a piece of his steak. His mother and I share a look, pity of course, but she's also hurt.

" Baby those people don't know who they just said no too. You're a man full of talent." His mother says, reaching over to fix his hair. " Now you just keep trying, someone outta give you something." She said, before he just nodded, his smile faltering for a moment before he sighed.

" Thank you for the food.” He said, as he took his napkin and put it around his neck, tucking it into his shirt.

“ Of course honey.” His mother said, before she stood up. “ Oh I almost forgot.” She said, before walking out of the kitchen. I began to eat the food she made, while Alastor stared at the door in confusion.

“ How was work today dear?” Alastor asks, his usually smile appearing again. I smiled to him and took a sip of the wine.

“ It was alright, some people weren’t exactly happy with their food choices.” I said, as Alastor nodded.

“ I found it!” Alastor’s mother says as she comes back into the dining room. She smiles as she sets down a small box in front of Alastor.

“ You might wanna open it.” She said to Alastor, who stared at the box with a confused smile. He lifted the lid to the small box, before his eyes widened.

“ What’s this?” He asked, before she smiled and took her seat.

“ It was your grandmothers. I found it this morning.” She said, before he smiled. Alastor looked up at me, before turning the box to face me. Inside was a ring, a gold ring with a ruby in the middle, surrounded by little diamonds.

“ She took it from a family she was working for. Her contract was up but they hadn’t given her half of what they promised. So she took that as compensation. She really meant to sell it but she liked it so much she kept it.” His mother explained, before Alastor turned the box so he could look at it again. “ Well? What do you think?” His mother asks, before he turns to look at her. The two exchange a look I can’t quite place, but he shuts the box and puts it in his mothers hand.

“ It’s beautiful.” He said, before smiling to her, and then looking at me with a smile.

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“ Y/n, someone’s here to see you.” Mandy called to me, before I took my apron off. Working at the towns diner was not an easy job. But I was finally on my break.

“ Comin’” I said, before I pushed the door that led from the kitchen to the restaurant, walking around tables and people. “ Someone needed me?” I asked, as I approached the front desk, before Mandy pointed to the door. I turned around to see Alastor, standing there with a bouquet of flowers.

“ Oh, Alastor these are beautiful.” I say, walking over to him as he smiled. When I do reach him, he bends down to give me a kiss, before handing me the flowers. There are all sorts of flowers in the bouqet, some Asters, Carnations, Roses of course, Camellia’s, a few Calla Lily’s.

“ I'm taking you out for lunch.” He said, tapping the edge of my nose. Quickly, he helped me put my jacket on, and off we were to have a lovely lunch together, where I later found out, he had finally gotten a shot to have his own radio studio.

1922: Consequences

It all happened so fast. There was nothing I could do to stop him, to stop it from happening. One moment I had been in the bathroom at work and the next I'm on the floor in tears trying to get Tommy off me. Yet nothing worked.

" Mandy I don't feel so good. I'm going home." I say, grabbing as Tommy grins at me from his table with his friends. Mandy looks at me concerned before she just nods silently.

" Feel better Y/n." Mandy says, but it's too late. I'm already pushing the glass doors and out I am onto the sidewalk of the busy street walking myself home as quickly as possible. My legs are shaky, and I can barely breathe as I open my front door, and shut it behind me. I couldn't stop thinking about it, about what he'd done to me. I kick my heels off, sobbing as I throw my jacket to the ground, letting my hair down and making my way towards my bedroom.

How dare he? How dare he do this to me? Why couldn't I stop him? Why didn't I do something? Why didn't I say something? I should've fought back harder, done something, been stronger. I turn and shut the door to my bedroom, before finding a corner near my window to curl up in, hugging my knees to my chest as I feel myself collapse on the ground, the only thing I can think of being Tommy's words.

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( Events before leaving )

" If you were with me, you wouldn't need to work in this shitty diner." Tommy said, before I hear a click. I look up, staring at Tommy in the mirror.

" I actually like working here thank you very much." I say, before I move to dry my hands with a towel from my apron. Quickly, his hand grabs my shoulder to turn me around, before his hand is cupping the bottom of my chin, squeezing the sides of my face. He's angry.

" Don't give me an attitude bitch. Word's been flying 'round you been with that mixed guy. How's he treatin' ya' huh? Bet he beats you,-" Tommy said, before shoving my face to the side so hard I fall to the ground, putting my hands out to support me. No lunch, my wrist breaks. I cry out in pain, before Tommy grabs my hair to pull be up just enough to see my face.

" What? Not used to it? Those colored folk's aint got nothing better to do than beat their women. You ain't nothing special." He said, before he slapped me. I pushed myself up with my other arm, trying to hit him back, before his knee came in contact with my stomach, airing me out. " Now you just sit there and look pretty while I show you how a real man feels. Maybe then you'll get your senses straight, 'stead of bein' dirty." And then it happened. Bottoms torn off my legs, no matter how hard I kicked or tried to hit him, nothing. I couldn't do a damn thing. All while he had his way with me. Stupid son of a bitch.

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( author's POV )

Alastor opens the front door, sighing as he takes a step into his home, finally done with the day he had at work. It only when he steps on Y/n's jacket, that he realizes something is wrong. He takes a moment to stop, staying quiet. He hears something, and when he finally realizes what it is.

He. Is. Livid.

Alastor sets his belongings down on a nearby table, before he makes his way upstairs, as calm as he can possibly be. The closer he gets, the louder Y/n's sobs are.

" Darling? Are you alright?" Alastor asks, approaching their bedroom door. No response. But the sobs don't stop. He frowns, his body beginning to shake, his nerves getting the best of him. " I'm going to open the door." Alastor says, waiting a moment for a response, before he turns the handle to the door. He looks around for a moment, before he spots her sitting near the window, on the floor in the corner. She's holding the curtain in her hand, her face stuffed into it as she sobs. Alastor begins slow, walking towards her, studying her frame. It's only when he notices the harsh color of her wrist that alarms begin to go off in his mind. He kneels down, now in front of Y/n, before he speaks again.

" Y/n?" He asks. No response, just sobs. " Dear what happened?" He asks. At that, Y/n lifts her head to stare at him. It's then Alastor realizes that whatever did happen, was very serious. Alastor doesn't speak as his hands reach for Y/n's arms, slowly pulling her as he stands, before he brings her in for a hug. " Whenever your ready, I'm here to listen." Alastor said, before he felt Y/n's hand hold onto his side.

" It was e-earlier." Y/n said between breaths, obviously struggling to speak. Alastor pulled back and stared down at her, before he saw how red her neck was. Not just red though, there were hickie's. All over her neck, and a large hand print in the middle. Like if she was being choked. The sides of her face were bruised, harsh black and blues appearing on her skin. As Alastor continued to take her state in, he saw bruises on her arms as well.

" Who did this to you?" He asked, stern. She stared, unsure of what to say. There was this look on his face she couldn't describe. His aura grew darker the longer she took to answer, as Alastor began to trace over the marks on her skin with his fingertips lightly. It had taken her a second to register what he was doing.

He was securing it. Like reassuring himself they were real, that this, what was happening, was real.

" Y/n, Dear, who did this to you?" He asked again, losing his patience. His mind was running through all sorts of things, his mind focused on the amount of rage he felt.

" ... Tommy."

That was it. Y/n stood, unsure of what to do as she watched Alastor frame shake, like a shiver. As if he was cold. He wasn't. His skin was burning hot, and as he pulled Y/n into a hug she could feel the anger seeping off of him as she cried into his chest.

" Alastor I'm so so so sorry. I tried to stop him, I really did." She said, before she pulled away from him as Alastor looked down at her, shaking his head.

" Don't be sorry. This isn't your fault. He is disgusting, and you are beautiful. He wanted to ruin you, and you didn't let him." Alastor said, wiping away the tears that continued to fall from her eyes. " How did this happen?" He asks, his tone softer now as he pulled Y/n to sit on the bed as he walked towards their bathroom. Her wrist was swollen, Alastor had pretty much guessed it was either sprained or broken. Either way, Tommy was definitely going to be his next victim.

" Your arm dear." Alastor said, as he sat back down next to Y/n, an ice pack in one hand while wrapping her wrist with the other. " Now, tell me how it started." Alastor said, before Y/n took a deep breath before she began explaining.

" I had went to the restroom at work, some customer had spilled water on me, it was an accident though. I was washing my hands, and when I looked up in the mirror I saw Tommy there. He locked the door to the bathroom and started talking. He said something about me being with him and if I was I wouldn't have to work in that diner." Y/n said, before Alastor let out a 'mhm', signaling her to continue.

" I told him I actually liked working there, and he grabbed my face and told me not to disrespect him. He called me a bitch." Y/n said, before Alastor looked at her, stopping his motions.

".. continue." He said, before moving to press the ice pack to her wrist.

" T-then, he said that word had been goin' 'round that I was with a, as he put it, 'mixed guy', and then asked how that was going for me. Then he said he bets you beat me, and then he pushed me to the floor. That's how I hurt my wrist." She explained, before Alastor nodded at her to continue, moving to check for any cuts he might need to treat on her. " After he did that he was all like, 'What? Not used to it?' and then he said colored folks don't have anything better to do than beat their women. Then he said I wasn't anything special, and he told me to sit there and just look pretty while he showed me what a feels like. He said maybe then I would get my senses straight and stop being dirty..." Y/n said, leaving out the portion of him airing her out, to not get Alastor upset.

Alastor was silent for a moment. His mind mulling over the information he had just been given. Y/n had assumed he'd been calm enough to receive the extra information.

" While I was on the ground, he also hit me, with his knee... in my stomach..." Y/n said, nervous of Alastor's reaction. He didn't say much. He was quiet.

" I'll have a talk with him tomorrow. Take the rest of this week off, I want you here, and if you go out I want you with someone so you aren't alone. You need medical help right now, I'll talk to my mother since she isn't far." Alastor said, as he stood up, quickly putting things away.

" W-wait, can't we talk about this first? I don't want him to get in trouble he might try to hurt you-"

" Y/n, I don't give a damn about what he wants to do to me! It's the fact he's gotten to you, he's hurt you, and I wasn't there to stop him. No one was!" Alastor said, stopping in front of the bed. He was upset, so much so that a tear fell from his eye, before he wiped it away. Y/n stood from the bed, but never moved to Alastor.

" I can heal from this, we can move on. I just don't want this to be a big thing." Y/n said, before Alastor stood quiet.

" It won't be. Just, let me deal with it. Stay here, relax." Alastor said walking over to Y/n to run his hands down the sides of her arms. " I promise I won't make this a big ordeal. My mother should be by shortly after I speak wit her. Until then, get yourself comfortable, be careful with your write, and wait for me to get back, alright?" Alastor asked, before Y/n nodded.

" Alright. I love you." Y/n said, looking up at Alastor, waiting for him to say it back.

" I love you too darling."

1923: Fresh Start in the French Quarter

Tommy had opened his big mouth to the entire town about Alastor and Y/n's relationship. The entire town had shunned the both of them for it, Y/n's parents officially cutting her off for good, their suspicions being correct. After that christmas, Alastor and Y/n had began to take trips to New Orleans regularly, looking for a house to by. Alastor had gotten a better job, with much higher pay. Alastor had let Y/n choose whatever house she wanted, and when she finally settled on one, he also made sure to higher movers, and of course there's the paint job and furniture.

Though the cost was something Alastor would never allow her to see, the house made her happy, and that was more than enough for him. As he had told her, " Whatever my love wants, my love gets."

The neighborhood was nice, a lot of land was also nice too, aside from the grass growing extremely fast, but the man who would mow the lawn every week was nice so there was a plus. Y/n didn't need to work anymore, since Alastor made enough for the both of them to live comfortably. The lifestyle the two had changed over too had went from simple and comfortable, just barely making it by, to lavish and extravagant.

Since moving to New Orleans people had been kinder to the two of you. As well as the two of you getting married. It was a small wedding, consisting of Alastor's mother, Mandy and her husband Clarence. A few coworkers, Alastor's uncle who was just happy to be there. The people from his mother's church who had a great time at the afterparty.

Alastor never did tell you what he did to Tommy, but that was alright. He wasn't your problem anymore.

He fills my heart with very special things With angels' songs, with wild imaginings He fills my soul with so much love That anywhere I go, I'm never lonely With him along, who could be lonely? I reach for his hand, it's always there

1925: the first letter

(Y/n's POV )

" Honey could you get the mail for me? Hand's are all covered in dirt." Alastor said, before I nodded. I had walked to the front of the lawn to open our mailbox, pulling the papers out.

"Hm. Bills, bills, more bills, bills, and, a letter?" I stop. It's addressed to me. But the address is unfamiliar. I take the mail inside and walk to the dining room to open the letter. Alastor is in the mud room, removing the gardening equipment and dirt. I open the letter, before taking the pages out from inside. There's three pages, but all are covered in black ink. Except for the second page, with the words in the middle of the page reading.

Your Husband murdered the love of my life.

Silence. I don't know who this person is. I don't know where this letter is from. I don't know who this letter is from. They must have the wrong house. My husband would never kill anyone. As upset as he gets, he wouldn't hurt a fly.

" I think we can start on dinner now." Alastor said, as I slipped the letter back into the envelope.

" What do you wanna make tonight?" I ask as we both walk into the kitchen. Alastor moves to the freezer to grab out meat while I go through our cabinets to see what we have.

" Hm, what about Chili? Never hurt anyone, haven't had any in a while." He said, before I sighed.

" Chili is the worst thing to make though." I whine, before Alastor chuckles and sets the mean down on the island in the middle of the kitchen.

" Why don't we go out then? I get my chili, you don't need to help make it. How does that sound?" Alastor asks, before I smile.

" We can go see the band right?" I ask, before Alastor nods.

" If that's what you wanna do." He said with a grin, before I smiled and kissed his cheek.

" Get your dancin' shoes. Date night!" I say as I practically sprint out of the kitchen as Alastor laughs from his place in the kitchen.

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2 weeks later : Letter two

This letter is different. The first two pages are covered in black ink, the third page being the only one that has writing. It reads.

" I know you got my last letter. Your husband is a killer. Don't deny the truth." Right in the center of the page. My hands shake as I read it, before I shut the front door, locking it tight. I begin to walk around our house, the house we bought together. The house that we danced in together, cooked together, had gatherings together. Everything.

I came across his study, where I never really entered much, since I allowed it to be just him, his personal space. Like my own study, which was really more like a library since we had shared books in there. I opened the door, but never stepped in, curious as to what he would have hidden away. The door opens fully to reveal a minimalistic room. There are papers on his desk, a desk lamp, newspapers on the side, file cabinets, a radio, a journal. Wait, a journal? I never knew he had a journal.

I step into the room, making my way over to his desk, and reaching for the journal. I flip through the pages, skimming over the words, before something catches my eye.

Tommys name.

I continue to read, reading the journal and the pages that follow up until the very latest entry. I learn all sorts of things after reading this journal, and when I place it back down on the desk I want to run out of his study. But I don't. I put it down, exactly where I found it, and exit the room. Shutting the door tightly, and leaving the house all together. Just to walk. To clear my mind. After reading his journal I learn a number of things.

First, that Tommy is dead. Alastor killed him after Tommy assaulted me at work, and took the liberty of dismembering him and even cooking some of his intestines. Second, the meat that is stored in our freezer, the meat I've been eating for years, is from actual people. Their dead, cut up bodies are the things I've been preparing every night like it's the best thanksgiving turkey anyone's ever gonna eat. Third, his mother has been getting a good portion of his check every month. There isn't a problem with that, she's a lovely woman.

But, it was the most recent entry that made my spine tingle the most.

Alastor and I had never been intimate with one another. We both had our reasons, I had been saving it till marriage, but after Tommy I hadn't been comfortable with anyone ever potentially seeing me like that again, and Alastor had never tried so it just mutually never happened. There wasn’t an easy way to put it really, in some pages of the journal he had stated he wanted to show me how to kill, to take me with him for these murders. That it would get him, excited, to think about.

I guess this is the part where I call the cops. Tell them my husband is a cruel heartless killer, that he stores remains of these dead bodies in our freezer for us to eat.

But I won’t. I can’t. Because despite knowing all this. I still love him.

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That night: Dinner

( Author’s POV )

“ Dinner is served.” Y/n says, placing Alastor’s plate of food in front of him. He smiles as she leans down to kiss him on the cheek, fixing his handkerchief around his neck. She moves to her seat, across from him, and situates herself. Immediately, he begins to dig in, cutting away at the meat with a bloodlust look in his eye she had never noticed up until now.

“ I hope you enjoy it. Took a long time to season it properly.” Y/n said, as she began to eat as well, never once touching the meat on her plate.

“ Really? Did we not have enough spices? I can run out tomorrow and get some more if you need some.” Alastor said, before taking another bite out of his food.

“ No, we had enough spices. I just wanted to season it enough so I’m not distracted by the fact it’s from a human.” Y/n says, before putting a spoonful of food in her mouth. Alastor stops, frozen as if she was crazy. He’s silent, they both are. Alastor sits there tense, expecting police officers to round the corner of his home, he thinks this is it for him.

“ What are you talking about?” Alastor asks, before Y/n looks up at him from her seat.

“ I found your journal.” Y/n says.

“ You went into my study?” Alastor asks, trying hard to mask the annoyance in his voice. He fails.

“ Yes. I’ll tell you why.” Y/n says, before she pulls out two envelopes from behind her, tossing it towards Alastor as it slides across the table to him. He stares at them curiously, before he reaches forward to open it.

“ When did you get these?” Alastor said, losing his usual smile.

“ I got the first letter maybe, two weeks ago.” Y/n says, before Alastor’s eyes flicker to her’s for a second, before back down to the letters. “ I got the second one today. I’m sure there’s going to be a third.” Y/n says, not failing to notice Alastor’s grip on his knife tighten.

“ Why didn’t you tell me about this?” He asks, sternly.

“ I didn’t believe them. There was no reason to tell you if I didn’t believe it.” Y/n said, standing from her seat.

“ Y/n, did you… tell anyone?” Alastor asks, his eyes pleading with her. As if he was sorry. She knew he wasn’t.

“ Don’t look at me like that .” Y/n said, the pain in her voice obvious.

“ Did you?” He asks.

“ No. I didn’t.”

Silence. Neither one of them say a thing. Alastor stands from his seat, putting his knife down.

“ Do you hate me?” Alastor asks, refusing to look at her now. No response.

Y/n isn’t sure what to do. She’d figured he’d kill her by now.

“ Do you still love me?” Alastor asked, and the crack in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. Y/n hadn’t even realized she had started crying, and he was too. No response.

Alastor didn’t say anything after that. He left the letters on the table, before he exited the dining room. Y/n sighed, letting the tears fall. Y/n also exited the dining room, not sure where he could have gone. The house was huge, big enough to get lost in. Room by room, Y/n checked for him, now desperately trying to fix her mistake.

When Y/n made it to their bedroom, she found money sitting on their bed, all of his belongings gone. Was he leaving? Now the panic had set in.

“ Alastor!” Y/n called, running through the halls, checking for him where ever she could. practically jumping down the stairs when she saw him at the front door.

“ Alastor where are you going?” Y/n asked, panting wildly. Alastor didn’t answer. “ Alastor please.” Y/n said, before Alastor took his coat off it’s hanger.

“Y/n please, stop.” He said, pinching the bridge of his nose, his glasses moving upwards slightly.

“ No. Don’t you dare tell me to stop.” Y/n said, before she began to walk down the stairs.

“ Yes dear.” Alastor said, allowing her to continue, because he knew she would.

“ I don’t want your money.” She said, putting it on one of his suitcases. “ I don’t care about that. For Christ’s sake I don’t care about our house, or our cars or anything!” Y/n said, crying again. Alastor frowned.

“ Then what do you care about?” Alastor asked.

“ You! I care about you Alastor! Not the stupid front you put up, no, I care about you! Even if you are a killer, so be it I don’t care!” Y/n said, before she moved closer to him before reaching into his pocket. She was right, there it was. The knife he wrote about. The one he always had with him. She also knew he had one strapped to him under his shirt, on his arm. “ If you think I don’t care then shut me up.” Y/n said, putting the knife between the two of them.

“ Are you asking me to kill you?” Alastor asked, confused.

“ No. I’m telling you if you don’t like what I’m saying, or don’t think it’s real. Shut. Me. Up.” She said, putting the knife to his chest.

“ I thought you didn’t love me anymore.” Alastor said, head hanging low.

“ I do. I do love you.” Y/n said, as the knife fell to the ground. Y/n hugged him, and he hugged her back with just as much force, if not more, than she did. “ I will always love you.” Y/n said, gently running her fingers down his back.

“ You wont tell anyone right?” Alastor asked, before Y/n shook her head.

“ No, not ever. I promise.” Y/n said. “ Thank you.” She told him.

“ For what?” Alastor asked, mind going blank for a moment.

“ Getting rid of Tommy.” She said.

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1932: ‘Till death do we part

She knew she could’ve told the police. She knew she should’ve. But she didn’t have the heart to tell.

Even as she watched every night, accompanied Alastor on his hunts, as he liked to call it, she still loved him.

Even when they were both all bloody, screams of a victim trying to get away, you could still feel the love between them. As odd as it may sound.

But neither one of them cared. Even when Alastor had gotten caught, when he died, she still loved him even in death. Everyone had assumed she’d taken her own life because she was devastes over him being a killer.

Oh no. They couldn’t be more wrong.

She died because she couldn’t live without him. Even in their final moments together, the only thing either cared about, was each other.

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1935: Caught

Despite them both being dead, it was only in 1935 that Y/n had finally been caught as his accomplice. Police had went through their entire house, searching through their personal items, bibles, food. Asking the help of their co-workers, house keepers, friends, family. Anyone, if they had any suspicions.

Now, they’re graves lay near one another, flowers being brought every few weeks by only Alastor’s mother, who still loved them both dearly.

“ I always knew he was a troubled child I just, thought it was because of the kids at school, and the stress of the finances.” Alastor’s mother told the police.

“ What about Y/n?” The officer asked, before his mother shook her head.

“ Oh no. She was always such a sweet girl. I never would’ve thought she would do something like that. I always knew she loved my son, but I never thought they would do that.” His mother confessed.

“ Do you have an idea as to why Alastor took the fall for the whole thing? I mean, he could’ve easily put it on Y/n when he found out the we would be searching for him.” The officer said before Alastor’s mother sighed.

“ Well, my son was in love with her, goodness. That boy would go on and on for hours about her if he could. He probably didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.” His mother said.

“ Do you think if he would have had too, he would’ve sacrificed himself for her?” The officer asked.

“ Oh yes. Of course. He would do anything he needed too to keep her safe. Why do you think he killed Tommy? He beat Y/n.” Alastor’s mother said, before the officer went silent.

“ So your saying, Alastor killed for her?” The officer asked.

“ Well, I don’t know if that’s exactly why. But I could assume so. She knew all the victims, and he’d tell me how much she’d dislike them. He was clearly trying to make her happy.” His mother said. The officer nodded, writing everything down. Now it all made sense.

How long does it last?

Can love be measured by the hours in a day?

I have no answers now, but this much I can say

I'm going to need him 'til the stars all burn away

And he'll be there

218 notes · View notes

hanaotaku95 · 2 months

Text

Alastor’s little Nightmares:

So I was scrolling through YouTube when I came across a small but very interesting video:

youtube

It’s an edit video of Alastor and the song used is “Nightmares Never End” by JT music, which is a fan song for Little Nightmares 2.

So this got me to thinking and my brain plotting: what if Alastor was a child of Nowhere that never crossed the threshold fully? I’m here to explain why this could be an interesting topic to explore and how it could fit with Alastor in a crossover fanfiction or alternate universe.

(Spoilers ahead for Little Nightmares 1, 2 and The Sounds of Nightmares. I will also be using some fan theories to help support this.)

The Nowhere is described by Noone in the Sounds of Nightmares to be a place that “is…and isn’t”, a place existing in its own realm that manifests from the nightmares of young children. But not just any child will be targeted by the Nowhere. These kids are often mistreated and taken advantage of by adults in the waking world in some way, shape or form. Thus the Nowhere will slowly and surely lure these fearful and traumatized kids into a nightmarish cycle fed by the fear and trauma they experienced within the realm itself.

In an analysis video about Nowhere, it is theorized that the children are lacking in one or more categories of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. I recommend you go and watch it (link down below), but long story short, one or more of these needs are not being met and these kids escape to this realm which seems to meet those needs, only for them to be twisted overtime.

https://youtu.be/ZiY_OH8An2c?si=ksz1YsV5_na2A1mP

youtube

In regards to Alastor, if we use the time period he grew up in (southern America in the early 1900s), who he was born to (a white father and Creolan mother) and the headcanon of an abusive father, we can paint a clear picture as to how Alastor may have been a target of Nowhere at some during his childhood years.

He would have appeared in many places in Nowhere, from the Pale City to perhaps even the Maw, being spirited away. Despite how terrifying the world was, there was something about it that kept luring him in as it had with many children before and after.

But when it came time to cross the Threshold, he refused. For one simple reason. His mother. His rock and emotional anchor in his rather tumultuous and lonely childhood. He couldn’t leave her behind, and resisted the Ferryman, closing that door behind him.

As an adult and even in his time in Hell, he cannot fully recall his experiences in Nowhere, only that he had extremely vivid nightmares as a young boy. But there is always a nagging in the back of his mind and odd visions of ever seeing eyes that bring forth memories he cannot immediately recall.

Some of my headcanons regarding who Alastor was in the Nowhere:

1) He went by Lie while in Nowhere.

2) His urge for flesh later in life came from his experiences in the Maw.

3) Lie was one of the “winners” in Nowhere (similar to Mono, Six and Low), manifesting in the ability to shadow walk. This ability would resurface after he died and went to Hell.

#Hazbin Hotel #little nightmares #Alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #little nightmares 2 #Pale City #Maw #crossover #Lie #sounds of nightmares #Youtube

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lacrymatoryao3 · 4 months

Text

Redemption Was Just The Beginning

Chapter 7: New Year’s Eve, 1899 and Day, 1900

[1][2][3][4][5][6]

To the world, Arthur Morgan is dead. As he tries to face the idea, in a lush valley in Ambarino he comes face to face with a woman from his past, and they must reckon with an era long gone. Especially when she has secrets of her own.

(Rated explicit simply because eventually there’s smut in this.)

Tag: @photo1030

4,410 Words (AO3 Link)

“Gettin’ real good at that.” Arthur said sitting on an old barrel, watching Arthur Francisco blow the bottles apart off the nails hammered into the beaten and pellet scarred section of fence. Now and again he would pull out his pistol, taking a shot from his hip to impress the boy despite his fingers starting to go numb even in gloves after a couple of hours in the cold.

Ana had given Arthur Francisco some instruction. He was better for his age than he imagined most boys were. Like his mother his focus was incredible. His stance was solid, his feet apart to match his shoulders and his left foot slightly ahead of his right with its knee facing the targets. He had a decent grip on the rifle, the stock at his dominant shoulder but far enough so it wouldn’t strike his collarbone. He knew not to hold his finger on the trigger unless he was ready to fire. He aligned the barrel with the eyesight and checked it with the attached scope. Arthur made some minor corrections with him over the past week. He had gotten comfortable enough rather quickly.

Arthur remembered an instance when his father tried to teach him to shoot. It didn’t go well. In fact, none of the memories he had of Lyle Morgan were positive except when he died. It wasn’t long after his mother was buried, Lyle trying to give him some semblance of survival kills. He wasn’t going to live forever, after all. A fact Arthur began to savor at one point. In the end, like any time he tried to be a parent, it ended with his hand striking the back of Arthur’s head and the young boy shedding hidden tears after. The only thing he learned from the miserable son of a bitch was using violence to stay alive.

Then he met Dutch and Hosea. It was the first time men had shown him any sort of care, rather than tolerance. The marksmanship he came to depend upon came from their patience. They didn’t lambaste him when he didn’t hit the target, they didn’t lay a hand on him when he needed more instruction, they just kept at it until he was good to handle it on his own.

He had made a promise to himself when Isaac was born and he saw the baby for the first time. He was going to be the opposite of what his father was to him. He tried to balance his two lives, one with the family that had accepted him and gave him love he didn’t have after his mother was gone, and the one consequence thrust upon him to build until it was torn away from him at the cost of two innocent people’s lives.

Looking back, he wasn’t the father he could have been. He’d show up every three months or so, stay a week, and ride back off leaving Eliza to fend for herself with whatever support he could give to her. Though he was always happy to see him, Isaac barely knew him and Arthur didn’t learn enough about him either. Somehow, for some twisted reason, he was given the chance to try again. He could be the father he pledged to be the first time, without the responsibilities of a gang to distract him.

He didn’t know this one either… At all. He didn’t get the glimpses of him as he grew. Arthur Francisco had no idea about him in return, or the fact Arthur was the father he asked about. It had never come up for anyone. Arthur and Ana hadn’t spoken about if or when or how to tell him, and his namesake never said anything. As it stood, this man that suddenly appeared in his life was just a friend of his mother’s from a long time ago. Arthur wondered if he had some sort of inkling. It wasn’t impossible to put the pieces together. They had the same first name, the same color of eyes… Whatever he thought, he was keeping it to himself.

Ana had only given her son a small ration of ammunition to practice with. It was even smaller on New Year’s Eve. There was a schedule they had to follow. Once it had ran out they started walking back to the nice, warm house where Arthur talked the boy through how to use gun oil. Arthur Francisco got most of it on the rag and as a result on the rifle, but his hands were still coated in the greasy fluid when it it got put away. It took him several tries to wash it off.

“What you thinkin’ about huntin’ anyway?” Arthur asked, holding his hands over the stove to take the chill out of them.

“I’m not sure yet,” Arthur Francisco said, “I’d like to at least get a deer. If I’m lucky maybe an elk or moose someday.”

“Ever hunted them before?”

“I’ve tracked them. Couldn’t shoot them. Only animals I’ve killed have been rabbits and turkeys.”

Arthur Francisco began to explain the movements of several deer in the area. He knew exactly where they grazed depending on the season and snow cover. He learned one herds schedule so well he looked at the clock in the kitchen and told Arthur where they were. He also knew the general territories of the elk and moose in the mountains up north according to the roving hunters and trappers who would come and go from Canada. The boy was on his way to being an expert hunter, something Arthur never felt he’d been. He improved a bit after Charles showed him the methods he used. He never was able to master a bow and arrows until then, though he had to admit he still preferred a gun. Either way he hoped he’d be a little bit useful. He had taken down plenty of deer, a few elk, a couple of moose, and other animals in his time. Pearson never went without meat, at least. Arthur used the opportunity to tell the story of the one thing he was proud of: killing that massive and nasty, scarred and half blind grizzly bear above O’Creagh’s run awhile after he and Hosea practically ran from it.

As the time ticked by Ana had finally appeared from upstairs, carrying a the overnight bag she packed for Arthur Francisco. She had been running around the house all day. She cleaned the house top to bottom, mopped the floors with cinnamon and water, made everyone bathe, she put a candle on a white plate surrounded by grains and spices to burn out and buried the waxy remains. On the stove for dinner she had a stew with salted codfish and olives. In the oven was two pans of Mexican styled cornbread, one for them and the other for the Liang family who Arthur Francisco was going to spend the night with since Mrs. O’Hogan was expected to give birth any day.

They finished dinner with a spoonful of lentils. Something that apparently a token of good luck for the coming year. After cleaning up Arthur and Ana accompanied Arthur Francisco to the inn, along with the corn bread. As soon as they went back to the house, Ana disappeared upstairs again to get ready for the party.

She envied men at times. The ordeal getting dressed for any formal occasion was less time consuming for them. They didn’t have the expectation to be as beautiful as possible. Just her hair was a time consuming process. She split the layers in half, braiding the top much like she normally did but more elaborately and higher onto her head. She left the bottom loose and flowing, allowing it to curl in its natural profusion. To think other women envied her for that thick mop she had to care for. She wasn’t a whore anymore, and hadn’t been for over 16 years. If it wasn’t so socially unacceptable she would have cut at least half of it off years and years ago once she had escaped.

One thing it had taught her was how to do her face up without making it too obvious she had product on. She massaged her face, neck, and chest with a soothing cream that was intended to keep her complexion youthful and even… well, as possible. She was getting old and there was only so much she could do about it. When it dried and absorbed she covered it with a fine powder that she had to mix with cocoa and cinnamon to match her skin tone. She covered her eyelids with a subtle dusting of charcoal, then wetted a tiny brush from one of her son’s old paint sets to apply a darker line along her eyelashes. She added some blush to her cheeks and stained her lips with a waxy rouge.

Ana removed her robe and stepped toward the clothing laid out on her neatly made bed. Her stockings and the Combination – an assemblage of the top of a thin strapped chemise sewn to the drawers which made the waist less clumsy – was a heavy knit wool for the cold weather. She slid the low heeled pumps that matched the color of her dress onto her feet, then put on her corset. It was much more rigid and slightly tighter than her normal one, partially for vanity and making the gown’s bodice fit better. She covered it with a ruffled front camisole. The idea was it would keep the dress from being too tight around the breasts, but it really only seemed to give the illusion that they were bigger than they really were. One petticoat was heavy, lined with glazed cotton quilted into black satin. The second petticoat was much finer, a sheer underskirt to cover a back padding that supported the dress’s train… or make her ass bigger, she didn’t really question American fashion anymore.

“You almost done there, Anie?” She heard Arthur’s voice on the other side of her door after a soft knock. Perfect timing.

She opened the door and motioned him inside, “Good! Can you help me with the back of this?”

Arthur had seen women in various states of undress. Whether it was the women in camp, the working girls in whatever town he was in, he’d seen her in a lot less layers than she had on. Yet, he still couldn’t be casual about it. It still felt indecent of him to be there. He obliged, of course, standing behind Ana and focusing of fastening the back buttons of her gown’s bodice and only that. He turned away from her to let her put on the skirt, a shy attempt at maintaining her modesty around him.

Ana shook her head, muffling her laugh with a smirk. She put on her gloves and a set of pearl jewelry she received as a wedding gift before ending the charade, “Well? I think you can look at me now.”

She didn’t look like the same woman. She was regal in her champagne yellow gown with irises draping down the fabric in delicate golden silk threads. The train made her appear smaller, delicate, the most feminine she had ever looked. Her rigid stance still dripped with the same wild pride she had since he met her.

Arthur smiled, one of the few genuine ones he could recall over the last few years, “Almost don’t recognize you. Didn’t think you could seem dainty.”

“Oh, I could still take you down if I needed to.” She replied keenly.

It made him laugh. The girl he knew was still in there. Just waiting for the moment to resurface.

Ana folded her jacket over her arm, a closely matching black opera coat overlaid with yellow lace and lined with black fur. Arthur held the door open for her, “I have no doubts you could.”

The Grange hall was a nondescript structure, built like an oversized double shotgun house. It could have been easily passed by, even with the sign hanging from the porch roof that wasn’t readable until they were right in front of it. The entryway had a strong scent of oak from the wall panels. Arthur underestimated the population of the town. People came flooding into the hall with them in droves to the point it started to make him nervous.

A young man who was a member of the Grange fellowship took their coats. They entered the main meeting hall to join the throng of people. It certainly wasn’t a high class affair like the ball that wretch Bronte held in Saint Denis. It was much looser, less focus on formalities and more on the locals having fun. What people wore ranged from simple evening wear they could afford, to just what they put on when going to church on Sundays. On the stage was a volunteer brass band. It was immediate that they weren’t professionals, but while they didn’t play well it was enough to dance to without being grating.

Lounging at the end of one of the benches that spanned the walls underneath the windows was a man. He was about as tall and built similar to Arthur, though clearly several years older. His face was much more weathered, with a default expression of solemnity and seriousness. His heavy horseshoe shaped mustache and eyebrows where an ashen white, as was most of his hair except his long muttonchops and ends swept behind his ears that reached his shoulders which still retained traces of auburn. He seemed to be studying everyone who crossed the gaze of his oddly piercing dull gray-green eyes. The simpleness of his wool blue-black suit stuck out or the occasion, until Arthur noticed the overly polished brass six pointed star sheriff badge pinned to his chest.

Ana approached nonchalantly him, “Good evening, Sheriff! Even working on a night like this?”

Seeing her, his eyes lit up and he stood to greet her, “Ah! Mrs. Gardener! It’s good to see you! You look lovely as you always do!”

Something about how they talked didn’t sit well with Arthur. He couldn’t entirely place why, but there was a twinge in his chest. Maybe the fact he was the Sheriff that caused it, or how suddenly warm he became to her. He quietly reminded himself, regardless of what once was, she was no longer his. It didn’t stop the simmering instinct to get her away from him, protect her from whatever he was eyeing her for.

Ana motioned to Arthur to join them, delicately leading him by the arm, “Sheriff Strange, this is Mr. Arthur Callahan. He’s been staying and working with me for a few months now. Arthur, this is Sam Strange, Cain Valley’s sheriff. Mr. O’Hogan told you about him if you were interested in maybe helping with some bounties or whatever else.”

“Sir.” Arthur acknowledged gruffly.

The Sheriff looked him over, “You look tough enough. Could use more strong men in these parts. Especially once the thaw starts. With the lower states pushing back against ‘em, we’ve been getting a lot of gentlemen hoping to cause mischief like they used to. If Mrs. Gardener can give you the time, stop by the station.”

A few more pleasantries were exchanged before they moved on to the banquet table in front of the stage. The centerpiece was a large crystal bowl of spiced punched that had cherries and orange slices floating in it. Behind it were bottles of rather cheap wine and champagne and carefully arranged glasses. On plates to the side were dainty snack foods like crackers and cheese, small fruit tartlets, and different kinds of finger sandwiches. Ana poured Arthur and herself some wine. She identified the eligible women in attendance. Many of them she knew and she narrowed them down to an acceptable age.

“Have you seen anyone you think you’d like?” Ana asked innocently.

Arthur had forgotten about Ana’s plans on finding him a woman, “Can’t say I’ve been paying much attention.”

Ana started subtly pointing out she settled upon, “The really tall blond lady over there in the pink dress? That’s Ingrid Svensson. Her sister Astrid is the school teacher, because of that she’s not permitted to attend events like this. Astrid is 25, Ingrid is 27… Over on the other end, the two women chatting in the corner in red and green? One is Nina Weimann. She’s also 27. Her father is the barber. The other one, her friend, is Zofia Grabowski. She’s 28, came here from Poland to marry a miner. He apparently died before she arrived and she wandered up here. She works as a milk maid and a laundress… The woman next to Sheriff Strange is his daughter, Louise. She’s 30 and her surname is still technically Covey. She was married for a while, but moved to Nevada for a year and got a divorce… Just walking in, in that bright purple is Margot Lambert. She’s a bit more closer to your age, 33. Her grandfather was a French trapper to staked a mine claim here. Even after it dried up they remained. They’re good people. Run the bank now. Just… Pick out whoever you like and I’ll introduce you. Or all them, we can make a circuit.”

Arthur followed her gesture. There was nothing about any of the women, not that they weren’t attractive and he was sure they were nice, that piqued his interest.

“What makes you think I’m keen in any of them?” He muttered.

Ana playfully poked his back, “Oh come on, Arthur.”

Arthur jumped away from her and laughed, “Why you so determined to get rid of me?”

“I’m not trying to get rid of you!” She defended, “But you need someone. My god, when was the last time you even bedded anyone?”

His eyes widened in surprise at the question, sputtering out in reply, “When was the last time you did?!”

Ana swallowed down the last of her wine and poured another, “Too goddamn long, that’s when.”

Arthur sat down on one of the long benches as Ana joined the Contra group dance. Just watching it overstimulated him. For one so fast paced he’d have made a complete clown of himself if he had tried. Ana stuck out, a jewel among them in her rich dress. Her skirts billowing about as she glided from one partner to another. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, striking a match with the sole of his shoe. He took a few hard puffs. Jealousy reared itself in his emotions again, especially with the men who became her momentary partner. Being unable to quell it was further frustrating him. What the hell did he want? Even more, what the hell did she want?

Ana had much more to drink by the time she rejoined him. Her face was rosier with the amount of alcohol in her blood, her eyes sparkling, and a wide smile on her face. She dropped beside him heavily and joyfully wrapped her arms around him.

“Don’t sit there with such a sour face!” She teasingly chided, “You used to know how to have fun! Come on, the next dance we have!”

She led him hand in hand to the floor. Her steps weren’t as graceful as they were at the beginning of the party. Arthur himself had a bit to drink, but he didn’t indulge as heavily as Ana did. He had to be on his best behavior, after all.

When the waltz began Ana had brought herself closer to him than the usual. She led at first, a comical sight for a woman whose head only reached his chest. Once he was refamiliar with the movements she let him. She sighed and laid her head on him. In her deep brown eyes was a deep affection that was always in the background of her gaze towards him. Something that came to the surface once her inhibitions were thoroughly suppressed. He hadn’t seen it in so long. It was pure and unconditional, unashamed and not awkward or close to ashamed like he had with Mary the last few times she and Arthur had crossed paths.

He didn’t know how deep it went for her. How safe she felt with his arm around her, his hand resting on her back. It was the same when they were young, like his presence was where she felt the most right and where she belonged. If she could tell him, she would. Instead she simply savored the brief moment, rather than the endless ideas of what could have been.

The champagne began being passed around as it grew closer to midnight. The band stopped when another member of the Grange came onto the stage. With his watch in hand he began announcing the minutes to midnight. Once 10 seconds were left the crowd joined in, counting down from 9 until the new year finally arrived.

It was 1900. A new century. Everyone was cheering. The church bell began to toll in celebration and the band played Auld Lang Syne with some singing loudly along and other throwing small pieces of food or coins at the door to the entry hall, a superstition to prevent hunger or poverty in the coming months. There was another tradition Ana had wanted to fulfill, one that caught Arthur off guard. She turned to him, standing as tall as she could and kissed him on his cheek.

It lingered on him on the way home. He didn’t understand the messages she was sending him. One moment she was trying to find him a bride… The next she was pressed against him and she had her lips on his face. He was considerably less drunk than Ana was, who spend the time gushing about their shared memories, but he was enough for the contradictions to annoy him.

Ana felt his mood shift. His energy was always so strong when his mood changed, comparable to the air when a sudden storm rolled in. Another thing her son had in common with him. It sucked the mirth inside her, replacing it with cold and anxiety. She waited until they were inside where it was warm to confront him about it.

“What’s bothering you now, Arthur?”

“It’s just…” Arthur grunted, pausing and slamming his fist on the capped post at the bottom of the bannister, “What you want from me, Ana?”

She blinked, his image swayed in her foggy vision, “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Bullshit!” He barked, “You get all nice and cozy to me, then you act like you don’t want me!”

Knowing him, how easily he felt rejected, made what he said painfully sear through her. Her instincts to hide weakness made her straighten, to fight the regretful tears starting to string her eyes, “It’s… It’s not that I don’t want you.”

That only further agitated him, “THEN WHAT THE HELL IS IT?!”

“BECAUSE I WILL NEVER BE MARY!” Ana shouted back. She covered her face. The dam had burst and she couldn’t allow him to see it. She softened her voice, “I accepted, ten years ago, that you would never love me the same level as I loved you.”

She started to laugh at how ludicrous she sounded, “That’s it! The truest form of love I can show you is a path where you can actually enjoy life. It doesn’t matter if it involves me. I’ve had a good life, I want the same thing for you.”

No matter what she said the result was still the same. While Arthur’s anger was gone, the self loathing that haunted him filled every fiber of him. He just stared at her, remorse etching the lines in his face deeper. He reached out to her, “Anie…”

“No. I just can’t…” She stumbled passed him up the stairs.

He heard the door slam. He just stood there. He’d rather she had just called him names, confirmed what he already knew about himself. What did happen made him feel worse. Something clicked as his silent chastisement paralyzed him. He didn’t know what it was, but it was enough for him to follow. Ana was probably undressed by now, in her nightwear. He just hoped he didn’t totally miss the chance to make something right. He hesitated at her door. From the other side were her muffled sobs.

He didn’t knock. Ana didn’t react to him entering and softly closing the door behind him. He sat next to her on the bed, only able to muster a weak “Ana…”.

“Will you at least try?” She said weakly, staring at him with red and watery eyes, “For me? For our child?”

Arthur rested his palms of Ana’s cheeks, using his thumbs to wipe away the tears that stained her face, “Yeah. I can try.”

He pulled down the blankets of her bed. She wearily obeyed, allowing him to help her lay down and tuck her in, “But, for now, you need to rest. You had a lot to drink tonight.”

He lowered the flame in the kerosene lamp on the side table to a dim glow. Once he was satisfied that she would be okay, he got up. Before he could get too far away from her, Ana grabbed his wrist.

“Please don’t leave me…”

Her hold on him was strong, desperate. Ana knew it shouldn’t be. She was the one who left him. She was no more worthy of it than any common whore. In her state, she just couldn’t be alone, away from him.

Arthur couldn’t say no, not with her despondent mood and woeful expression of heartbreak. He nodded. He did, however, instruct her to let him undress. She closed her eyes as he quietly stripped himself of his confining clothing, making sure his union suit didn’t show too much. The innocence of it aside, he did have some apprehensions sharing a bed with her. He hadn’t done anything of the sort in years, to the point he couldn’t really remember exactly when. Still, he crawled in on the empty side next to her. He put his arm around her, where she instinctively rested her head and hand on his chest.

“Since the party didn’t seem to go well,” Ana whispered as sleep came, “Do you want help finding Mary? I’m still willing.”

Arthur pulled her closer, covering her more, “You don’t need to worry about her no more.”

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 posting #rdr #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 community #red dead 2 #red dead redemption arthur #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan rdr2

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wickedsrest-rp · 1 month

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Name: Ashton Taylor Murphy Species: Muse Occupation: Writer / Former Publicist of Margot Fisher Age: 95 Years Old (Looks about 30) Played By: Lashae Face Claim: Perry Mattfeld

"Death doesn't wait on the living."

Ashton Taylor Murphy was born to an Irish immigrant in the late twenties. She enjoyed the recounting of her family's rich and tragic history.

Her mother, Maeve Murphy, was aboard a steamship headed to America in the early 1900s, the last of her family, a survivor of what she could only describe as a massacre. The Murphy family had coexisted with humans, inspiring them to their full potential for years without harm. The hunter didn't seem to care because the human was a victim regardless of the beauty they created, the type of beauty that could move one to tears.

The States provided a vast pool of untapped potential and the ability to wade among the waters almost unnoticeably. This flexibility allowed Maeve to fall in love many times over, but never to the point of taking the life of a wordsmith. Every relationship had an end until she found herself with a child. Ashton Taylor Murphy was born in the late twenties. Maeve spoke fondly of her father, telling little Ashton Taylor about his work and reading his poems with tears in her eyes.

Maeve kindled a love of reading and writing for young Ashton. She devoured poetry and novels at unprecedented rates, and when the time came, she found herself craving more than the words on a page. Maeve explained it all to her then, which was what Ashton needed as she approached her teenage years. One rule: Don't get attached; leave before they give everything because they will give you everything if you let them. Maeve showed her how to respect and feed potential without taking the artist's life. As her mother, Ashton preferred artists who weaved their words across the page to invigorate the mind and soul to passions they otherwise could not ascend.

The rule was easy for a time. Ashton would leave one to pursue another, inspiring provocative poetry and novels. She found work as a publicist for aspiring authors and kept her residence near her mother and other muses, who banded together to preserve their charges and create beautiful works. Their aos sí was formed in Wicked's Rest.

Ashton understood the warning, but then she met Margot Fisher, a budding novelist living in the town. She radiated talent like the sun, and Ashton was Icarus in flight. Maeve saw where it was going, a spiraling disaster, but Ashton could not leave it. There were so many stories swimming in Margot's head. When she grew concerned for Margot's life, she told her mother there was only one more book, one more, and Ashton would find a way to leave her.

Instead, Margot proposed at the book launch. One book turned into another series, and Ashton found it more challenging to control her needs. After the marriage, Ashton and her mother's relationship drifted apart, every conversation ending in an omen of impending doom. Ashton would not have that negativity, though her mother only tried to protect her from the coming pain.

On October 26th, 1997, Margot Fisher passed away; she left a legacy as a best-selling author and her loving partner, Ashton Murphy-Fisher. There should have been an obituary for Ashton because part of her died alongside her lover.

It's only been a handful of years, and Ashton has yet to speak to her mother or anyone involved with the aos sí out of shame and guilt or selfishly blaming her mother for not doing more to stop her. Her mother tries to keep in touch, but it only causes Ashton to react negatively. She exists now as a shell of what once was a muse.

Character Facts:

Personality: Selfish, impulsive, cynical, perfectionist, dramatic, personable, sophisticated, confident, dedicated

Ashton Taylor Murphy-Fisher was born July 30th, She is a Leo.

After Margot's death she dropped the Fisher name and goes my Ashton Taylor Murphy or just Murphy.

Ashton considers herself a lesbian. However, she keeps charges of all identities and indulges in varying degrees of relationships with them all. The only lasting relationship was with Margot. She treats her love affairs like flickering flames that burn bright and hot for a very short time.

Ashton used to be very different. Some may remember her before Margot, those old enough to. Ashton was optimistic and loved written art, poems, novels, and lyrics. Words held so much passion and beauty. There was an apparent change after losing her wife. She doesn't allow herself to get attached to anyone now.

Ashton keeps a list of writers she has kept as charges. She sees Margot in all of them and their ultimate early demise as little more than the price of fame. Each one detaches her further from the guilt.

All charges she keeps now are fully informed, and understands the risks and agrees to a formal deal. It does a little to ease her conscience.

Ashton has distanced herself from her aos sí. She is not ready to face her family, as they had urged her against getting too close.

#bio #taken #muse #taken muse #fae #taken fae #better half #perry mattfeld

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dragbunart · 5 months

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Fiadh's new look. Her previous design was very red-heavy and blended into itself a lot. So I changed her hair back to mainly orange and made her eyelid stuff yellow to give her that 'deer' look. LORE below

I changed Fiadh a bit.

She's a Cambion, Daughter of the Count/Ear Furfur. She was raised on Earth during the Early 1900's, which reflects on her style and mannerisms, Not knowing her birth father till after her death.

Her life was mostly spent in Ireland, raised by her mother and the man she thought was her father. Her 'Father' wasn't good to her mother and her. Her mother had made a deal with Furfur. He used his powers to make her love the man she was to marry, in exchange for her soul and her firstborn child.

Furfur had always wanted a child but had been too busy to settle down. Once Fianait was born he thought she was too small and delicate to be raised in Hell so he left her with her mother. This is a mistake he still regrets.

Fianait spends her summers in Louisana with her Cousins and their stepmother, who live by a forest. She met a young Alastor in the forest and they became fast friends.

Alastor more often than not would end up speaking for the quiet girl, and the pair would spend every moment they could together.

As they grew Fianait fell HARD for Alastor, and Alastor felt a duty to protect her, especially after his mother died.

The two ended up marrying in early adulthood. Fianait had a small-time detective business and this had helped her stumble upon Alastor's murders. She decided to turn a blind eye as Alastor was the only person she trusted.

This ended up being somewhat found, as she was abducted in her mid 20's. She ended up taking her own life as to not betray her marriage to Alastor, ending up in Hell (for various reasons).

She was inconsolable at first, so Furfur let her mourn her lost life and love at home for a couple of years before sending her around to the other rings as a tour of sorts. She was so young when she died and didn't get a chance to discover who she was.

When she returns to the Pride Ring she keeps to herself for a while.

She and Alastor run into each other by chance in Hell.

Alastor realizes who she is before she realizes who he is.

He feels very awkward because he died closer to his 40s and she died in her 20's. So now there's at least a decade age difference in their appearance.

Alastor likes it when Fiadh dresses in early 1900's-1920's clothes, feels they suit her and Fiadh likes dressing a bit more fantastical when she can.

The pair are very comforted by each other's presence. Although Fiadh has more power than most sinner's she still is very skittish, so she relies on Furfur and Alastor for protection. And Alastor can control his temper better around Fiadh. Even if he knows she knows the horrors he's caused, he still fears scaring her. He often has a hard time seeing her as anything other than this innocent woman who is a victim of circumstance, no matter how many times he's proven otherwise.

Rosie adores Fiadh, and finds her company delightful. The two often meet for tea.

Fiadh believes in the Hotel, but doesn't believe EVERY sinner can be redeemed. Often punctuates this point by using Alastor as an example.

Vaggie: Why are you with Alastor if you think he's just as Awful as he appears? Fiadh: He has a nice voice and make me laugh. Vaggie: How low are your standerds Fiadh: *shrug* I didn't have other courters before Allie. We got married shortly after i turned 18. Charlie: Thats so sweet

#hazbin hotel oc #Hazbin hotel

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apersonwholikeslotus · 5 months

Text

May 16th, 1900

Notes: technically a repost but the original is part of a chapter fic that i don't want to advertise right now because i don't have the energy to edit the whole thing

Warnings: None

Names bc i confuse folks sometimes

Liesl - Liechtenstein

Edith - Austria-Hungary (oc)

Evžen - Slovakia

Marika - Czechia (bohemia in this fic)

no ao3 link sorry :(

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Roderich, can you get Liesl and Edith?" Erzsébet yelled to her husband from the kitchen.

"Yes liebling," He responded back, getting up from his piano bench. Roderich made his way to the second floor where all the bedrooms were, last he had checked both his daughters were in Liesl's room playing. Before Edith was born Liesl had already started claiming she was too old to play–Ludwig had started to as well–but by the time Edith had grown to three years neither had any problems with the most trivial childhood games anymore.

He opened the bedroom door not expecting... "Papa! You can't move that it is holding the castle up!" Edith, five-years-old now, had immediately popped out from under a makeshift tent of blankets; held together by an array of chairs, the bedposts, and formerly the door handle.

"I'm sorry Mäuschen," he tried to sound as sincere as possible, "can I be forgiven?"

She pursed her lips, looking over her father intensively as if she were considering, "You will have to ask the queen for a pardon" she said the last word as if it were something she had just learned, and had been waiting to use.

"A pardon?" Now the amusement was hard to keep away from, "And where is the queen?"

"In the castle, where else would the queen be?"

"Preparing for the visit of her brother perhaps?" He said it as a reminder that Ludwig was coming today, both girls had been excited as their brother came around less and less as time went on. He was quickly becoming one of the most powerful nations in Europe and that was leaving him with less leisurely time. "Now come, we have things to do"

"No." Edith was extremely stubborn, took after her mother Roderich always said "You have to come in and get Liesl"

He looked over the blankets that took up most of the standing room in the bedroom, there was never a time when he would have done anything close to climbing across the floor to get a child out. Roderich remembered when Feliciano had first come to live with him, the Italian had only been twelve at the time and still had some of his childhood left; games were not a thing Roderich participated in.

He looked down at his second daughter, and sighed. "And where pray tell is the entrance?"

Edith smiled, quickly getting down on her hands and knees and crawling through a small opening; obviously expecting her father to follow after her. Roderich sighed, mumbling to himself about how he was getting too old to do things like this. The girls either didn't think about it, or obviously weren't expecting anyone bigger than a nineteen-year-old girl–and a petite one at that–to come through.

Once getting to what appeared to be the main part of their tent he found Liesl sitting cross legged, a paper crown, that he now recalled seeing the girls making earlier that morning, sitting on her head. "Hallo Papa"

"Hallo Schatzi" Roderich smiled, "I was told I had to come ask for a pardon for knocking over part of the castle"

She tried not to laugh "Is that what Edith said?"

Roderich nodded as Edith reappeared, now sporting her own paper crown. She sat down on a pile of pillows that he could only assume was serving as a makeshift 'throne' in their castle. Edith crossed her arms, looking as serious as a five year old is able to be; "What do you need from us?"

"Well" Roderich sat up a little straighter, which wasn't much considering he was trying to not knock his head into the roof of the tent. "I was sent by your mo-" He stopped deciding the best way to go about this would be to play along with their game, "I was sent by the queen Erzí of the neighboring kingdom, she invites you both to an outdoor banquet in honor of the visiting..." he trailed off trying to think of a title for Ludwig, "of Duke Lutz Von Beilschmidt"</p>

Edith turned to her older sister, "Do we have ties to Von Beilschmidt?" She asked, still acting very serious.

Liesl knowing what her father was doing nodded, "Yes very serious ties" the younger of the girls pursed her lips, thinking it over very seriously.

Roderich not wanting to have to drag this out any longer tacked on, "The viscountess, Marika of Bohemia and her Lover Evžen of Slovak with also be attending"

She considered this, then nodded, "We will come" She stood up, small enough to stand in the tent without knocking it over completely. While Liesl and Roderich still had to crawl to get out of the tent, Edith kept her crown on, but no longer bothered with keeping the tent up and she opened the door rushing downstairs to check for what must have been the seventh time to see if Ludwig had arrived yet.

"Are Marika and Evžen really coming?" Liesl asked, looking back to the mess that was her room with all the blankets and pillows dragged off her bed.

"They are, don't worry you will still spend plenty of time with Ludwig" she nodded, setting her own paper crown on her dressing before going downstairs; Roderich followed not far behind while dusting at his pant legs and muttering about how he might have to change now.

Roderich stopped in the hall listening for a moment, he could hear the creaking of floor boards, that he knew was caused by Edith jumping up and down to be able to see over the top of the counter at whatever her mother was making. He heard his wife scolding the small girl, telling her she had just had breakfast, and 'these sandwiches are for lunch you can have one later'. Liesl, quiet as ever, was asking if there was anything she could help with; it was a normal routine for him to hear from his family. But it never became less endearing.

He went into the kitchen, walking quietly up behind Edith. He knew Erzsébet saw him, it was close to impossible to sneak up on her. Roderich winked at his wife, using the fact that their daughter was still distracted begging to have a sandwich right now instead of waiting.

Just as he went to grab Edith, Erzí flipped around, "Roderich Edelstein, what are you doing?"

He feigned ignorance, holding his one hand to his chest, setting the other on Edith's head "I wasn't doing anything. I was just going to note that her braids are falling out"

The Hungarian woman rolled her eyes at her husband, knowing that is absolutely not all he had planned, "I think I left a brush in the sitting room, if you want to redo them"

"Oh I don't think I need it" Roderich picked Edith up, taking her over and setting her in a chair at the kitchen table, he took the now slightly crumpled crown of her head, and undid the ribbons on her braids, running his fingers through her hair to get the braids completely undone. Erszébet had never learned how to braid, and when Liesl was little she had tried to learn but always got them mixed up, and if they were done they fell out quite quickly. Roderich however took to doing it quite easily, and therefore almost always did the girls hair.

"Why doesn't Lutz come as much anymore?" Edith asked as she winced from the pulling on her hair.

"We've told you Mäuschen," Roderich answered "He is a big country, and is very busy"

"And uncle Gilbert doesn't like us anymore"

"Liesl!" Erzí responded quickly to her daughters statement, "That isn't true, your uncle likes you and your sister plenty" she stopped momentarily, a small smirk on her lips "He just doesn't like your father"

Roderich tried not to act too offended at his wife's amusement on the subject, "When you get older you'll be just as busy, then you will understand"

"I don't want to be busy" she crossed her arms, "Mama can I not do work when I get big?"

Erzsébet hummed in thought for a moment, turning to look Edith up and down, "Hmmm, I don't know, ask your Father.

"Papa?"

Roderich shook his head, "You won't have a choice, Mäuschen. You are Austria-Hungary, meaning many people will depend on you in the future just as they depend on your mother and I now"

"I don't want to be Austria-Hungary," the five-year-old stated it very seriously, her arms still crossed a determined look on her face, "I'll be somewhere else"

"Like where?" Liesl asked, from her spot where she sat on the counter across the kitchen,

Edith's face lit up, "I'll be Liechtenstein! And then you can be Austria-Hungary!”

There was a decision to be made now, Edith was stubborn and if she was insistent they could switch lands; they would switch lands. "Bébi," Erzí ventured carefully, "That has never been done before"

"Then we'll be first to do it!"

Roderich, Erzsébet, and Liesl gave each other a look, the tone said she wasn't going to be convinced otherwise. Two options, let Erzí argue with her over it–she is the only one capable of doing so–or let it go, and let her eventually figure it out herself. If they weren't going out as soon as Ludwig arrived, the first option would have been the usual, but since they were and wanted her to be at the very least cooperative, for now they would let it go.

“When will Ludwig get here?" Liesl asked, she hopped off the counter, now just realizing there was something that had now gotten on her skirt. Before anyone could answer, the front door was heard opening; Roderich thanked God he had already finished her hair as the moment Edith heard it, she jumped down and ran to the front hall. Ludwig never knocked as he had spent half of his childhood in Vienna; you don't knock at your parents house.

Edith came back in looking upset, "It's just Dražen"

"I thought he already left for the day?"

"He forgot his jacket" she slinked over to Erzsébet, burying her head in her mothers skirts.

Erzí tried not to roll her eyes, "You're going to pout now?" she looked up at Roderich and mouthed 'this comes from you'; he tried not to be offended by it. He knew she was right though, even he could admit he was more... prone to being upset when something small didn't happen like he wanted it to. Meanwhile, his wife was much better at adjusting, or making things go as she wanted them to, and thankfully Liesl had inherited that.

The door opened and closed again, and footsteps quickly started nearing the kitchen. "Edith, why don't you go check if that's your brother?" Erzsébet asked, trying to get her daughter to let go of her.

"It's not, it's probably Evžen, or Dražen forgetting his watch or something" she mumbled, not moving from her spot.

Erzsébet tried not to sigh too heavily, it was true they had so many people living in this house it could be any number of people. Not to mention Dražen was known for forgetting things and coming back to the house four times before he finally had everything.

Ludwig walked in the kitchen though Edith didn't see him due to her continued pouting streak. Roderich smiled at him and said quite loudly "Mäuschen, would you look who is here?"

"It's a trick" she said, still not moving. "I don't believe that Lutz is here yet, you're just being mean"

Liesl meanwhile rolled her eyes at her little sister, wiping her hands on her dress and going over to hug her brother; "Hallo Lutz"

"It's nice to see you, Lise," he said, hugging her back tightly. Edith hearing his voice pulled her face away looking over, "Hallo Ditte"

She stood there for a moment, looking up to her mother with a sheepish expression, and it took everything in Erzí's power to not give her daughter a 'I told you so' look. Edith let go of her mother and quickly went over to her brother, Ludwig let go of Liesl to be able to pick her up. "No hello?" he asked jokingly, when she didn't respond instead holding on to him continuing to pout, he shook his head "Okay, I missed you too"

"How are you doing Lutz?" Roderich asked after his nephew,

"I've been well, I-"

"Well? My goodness you look more than well!" Erzsébet came over, her usual motherly ramblings already starting, "Have you gotten taller since we last saw you? You're definitely older; you must have passed Liesl by now."

Liesl huffed from where she had sat next to her father at the kitchen table, nations and people didn't age the same and sometimes younger could pass the elders in age: Liesl hadn't taken kindly to her baby cousin getting older than her. "He's still younger than me"

"Of course I am," Ludwig added, he had found that he preferred being Liesl's younger. Being older than her just made him feel odd, and odd was the last thing he wanted right now.

"How are Gilbert and Reiner?" Erzsébet asked about the two men now in charge of Ludwig after her husband had been removed from the union.

"Papa is well, and uncle Reiner is..." he laughed a bit and shrugged, "he’s in a mood about something though no one will tell me what.”

"Good good,” Roderich clearly had not listened to the second part, or maybe any of it “now can we not bring them up again? The last things I want to speak of on such a lovely day are Prussia and Brandenburg" Roderich butt back into the conversation at the mention of the two men.

"Of course Vati, sorry" Ludwig said, trying to set Edith back down but she was refusing to let go.

Roderich waved his hand in a dismissive motion, "No need to apologize, Edith Stefania let go of your cousin”

Edith finally let go, just as from the hall came, "Evžen, I am aware you're 'trying' but I need better than 'trying'!"

The room shared a curious look, Marika and Evžen fought a lot so it was no surprise, just curiosity at what he did wrong this time to earn another scolding from her. It was only eleven thirty, and hard to think of an offense that could have been made already. The bickering continued as the came into the kitchen, "Would both of you please shut it"

"He didn't wake me up in time this morning!" Marika quickly responded,

You looked so peaceful láska–"

"How many times have I told you not to call me that!"

"You didn't mind so much last night-"

"Children!" Erzsébet snapped at them, gesturing particularly to Edith. The two had an absolutely horrid reputation of forgetting where they were and whose company they were in when in the middle of their arguments; and more often than not needed someone to remind them where they were before it got too heated.

Marika finally looked around the room noticing who all was there, she stopped at Ludwig, "You."

"Me?" he questioned, obviously confused at what he had done to upset her this time.

She groaned, "That's not how you're supposed to... I miss Adelheid"

"We all do, but now is not the day to reminisce over what's gone. It is a day to make new memories for the future" Roderich stated getting up from his chair, "Marika would you mind?" he half gestured to Edith.

She sighed, "No I wouldn't" and held her hand out to Edith "Come, lets go get your jacket and shoes on"

"I'll show Lutz where he's staying" Liesl quickly volunteered, getting up from her chair.

"I know where the room is" Ludwig always stayed in the same room, there would be no reason for anyone to show him where it was.

"No, something happened there, so you're staying somewhere else." Erzsébet and Roderich looked just as, if not more, confused by that statement than Ludwig was. Liesl must have noticed her parents' confusion and not wanting to answer questions pulled him out before any could be asked.

"Do we want to know what Liesl and Edith did?" Roderich asked his wife, as they were the only two left in the kitchen.

Erzí shook her head, "No I don't think we do, at least not right now"

"Then shall we go Frau Edelstein?"

She tried not to roll her eyes at him, but still had a smirk on her lips, "You know I don't like it when you call me that"

"I waited for centuries to, I'm going to do so as much as possible. Unless you divorce me for it"

#hws austria #hws hungary #hws liechtenstein #hws germany #hws czechia #hws slovakia #hws austria-hungary #hetalia #apersonwhowrites #aushun

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