¹ ✱ 𝗂 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾 . it's a part of me , it's inside of me . i'm stuck 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 , it's changing me . 𝑖 𝑎𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 , the me you know , he had some 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 . he's 𝑐𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 with scabs , he is broken and sore . 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 ? he doesn't come around much .
— 𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗳𝟰𝘀𝘁 . . . is a dependent multi muse featuring a cast of characters curated for 𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑓𝑚 . . . operated 𝑏𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑑 ( twenty5+ . they/she . pacific )
✱ 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑡𝗱𝗮𝘄𝘀𝗼𝗻 … is the fifty two year old sweet tea sin .
↳ introduction + pinterest + playlist + wcs.
there was something inherently tragic about autumn, like all that beauty really was too much to bear, and that's why it was dying. still, it never stopped ayla from being charmed by every orange and red leaf each time the season rolled around, thoughts of decay warded off by timeless traditions like baking spiced cakes and trotting through orchards in search of the ripest apples. whatever magic had been lost to adulthood had returned tenfold the moment the twins had been born until it sometimes felt like she couldn't take it. watching taylan and selin chase each other around on wobbly legs, their confidence unencumbered by the halloween costumes ayla had sewn them, seized violently at her heart in a way it hadn't last year. perhaps it was the novelty of watching them grow up and get closer to the age she was in the black and white photos of herself at the halloween carnival that her mother kept neatly pressed inside an album. or perhaps what tugged at her chest was something darker after all. because among the overwhelming joy, there was overwhelming fear, too. an undercut that lingered, that threatened to leap out every second one of the twins wandered too far from her field of vision, or nearly stumbled face first into the trodden earth.
it would be easier with burak. the thought passes through her head not for the first time that night, but certainly the most pointed as she watches selin trip over the fabric of her little cape, sending both her and taylan tumbling down. the cries follow soon after, faster than ayla can bend down, her white-tipped angel wings brushing against the dirt. "you're okay," she coos, brushing two sets of brown curls, turning tiny hands and elbows over checking for scrapes she knows don't exist, a nervous impulse she had yet to shake. ayla shakes the pumpkin bucket in her hand, the rattling sound of lollipops against plastic catching their attention, successfully thwarting their cries as they try to deduce what it was she was hiding inside. curious they were, her little ones. the thought was only mildly distressing now—she didn't want to imagine what it might feel like when they were older. she'd only just stood up, taylan now swung high onto her hip, face already obscured by grey fur now buried into her chest, when she hears it. there's trouble in that tone. selin latches herself to the back of ayla's legs like she can read her mind. but like a dog trained to follow a command, she can't ignore the call to fix a problem.
her attention follows the pointed finger, dark brows pulling in recognition, before drawing itself back to the finger's overtly angry owner. "mine can barely walk, let alone harass." she shifts her weight, adjusting her hold on her son. "but i know him. not as well as my husband does," at that her eyes dart back to the child's, who no longer seemed willing to meet her gaze at the mention of the deputy, before finding the older man's again. but somebody else catches her attention, a young girl who seemed uneasy, though accustomed to the scene unfolding, like she'd had practice anticipating what came next. "i like your costume," ayla says, offering a small smile, the mercy of acknowledgement perhaps just another way of swinging a metaphorical pumpkin bucket and redirecting a scene towards a softer outcome. "sailor mercury was always my favorite scout." she can feel selin's little red-caped head poke out from behind her, like she was testing to see if it was safe to come out of hiding. "—and what are you dressed up as?" gaze is draped over the man once more, a single dark brow arched as if daring him to change his focus.
[ ★ ] the sound of kids crying hit him like it always did. stopped him dead. reminded him of ruby mae at that age, her wail sharp enough to slice through walls and through whatever fight he and babs had been in the middle of. he stands there now, shoulders big enough to block out half the lantern light strung over the orchard path, the night breeze tugging at his jacket. he reeks faintly of whiskey and gasoline. his pulse hasn’t settled all evening; his nerves have been jumpy, raw, like an electrical wire stripped too close to the copper.
the kid bullying ruby isn’t the problem anymore — the problem is the way the young mother looks up, wings brushing dirt, twins clinging like little vines wrapped around a trellis. something about the scene makes the air feel heavier. chet feels the weight of it in his chest, an ache, a memory, a warning. he clears his throat, shifting his boots, trying to steady himself.
“ma’am,” he says first, low, steady, rough as gravel but softer than his usual bark — respectful. then he levels that whiskey wet stare at the teen he pointed out. his voice drops an octave, slurred at the edges but dangerous in its patience. “reckon ya oughta go bother someone else. these babies ain’t botherin’ a damn soul.” the kid bristles, mutters something, but chet doesn’t so much as blink. after all, he had to be no older than sixteen. when the teen slinks off, chet finally exhales and turns back to the mother. he catches the way the little girl peeks from behind her mama’s leg, the way her tiny fist clutches fabric like a lifeline. something twists warm and painful inside him.
“didn’t mean t’ spook ya,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “just … folks like him get under my hide.” the compliment she offers ruby makes his jaw twitch — he isn’t used to softness directed his way, least of all toward his kid. ruby shifts closer to him, uncertain, shy, half scared of being noticed at all. he touches her shoulder, reassuring. the mother asks what he’s dressed as. chet’s mouth pulls into the faintest, crookedest, almost-charming smirk — the kind he used to disarm interviewers with before everything went to hell.
“me?” he drawls. “hell, sweetheart, ah’m just a washed-up racecar has-been in a leather jacket too old t’ retire. ruby mae here’s the real show.” ruby elbows him, embarrassed. he lets the smile linger anyway. then, softer — the truth bleeding in despite the liquor, despite the bravado: “didn’t mean any trouble. just protective and…” his voice catches for half a second, a crack in the asphalt. “…figured my baby girl didn't need any trouble tonight.” he tips his head toward her angel wings, the dirt smudging the white. “but you? looks like you do enough protectin’ as it is.”
⸻ behind the funhouse mirror tent, 1:10am
⸻ closed for chet dawson @holdf4st
♤ there's no stopping the headache that comes when the sirens begin to flash, surrounding the fairgrounds that only moments ago were bathed in lively music and whimsical conversation. the crowd comes to a standstill, stuck where they are as deputies take control over the area. he doesn't have to ask to know what's happened, because he catches a glimpse between the uniformed officers at the scene — a pale body on the ground, blood spilling from from a gruesome looking throat slash, all too real to be mistaken for a costume.
nathan stumbles back, eyes the size of the moon. heather visser, the girl who lived three houses down from him, lies lifeless against the crimson-stained grass. 〝 what the fuck, 〞 he whispers, the image burning into his skull like an iron brand. in the humdrum town of red creek, bursts forth the most ghastly affair. a young girl has been murdered. he needs to find charlotte, and he needs to go home to his son, but he's rooted in place, trapped where he stands. he looks around, but no one else is there, and all the deputies are too preoccupied beyond the yellow tape to notice his presence.
a shift in the air catches his attention. something like a grunt, or the shuffling of feet. he whips his head around and through the blinking red and blue, he can make out their identity — chet dawson, stumbling into the area. 〝 hey! 〞 nathan calls out, barely audible through the sirens and the static sputtering of monster mash through the worn speakers. 〝 hey! 〞 he tries again, inching closer, hands coming up to shove the older man backwards. 〝 you need to back off— 〞 he demands coldly, but there's denying the way his voice quivers as he does.
[ ★ ] chet turned slow, like the world had thickened around him. every step dragged, boots crunching through gravel sticky with spilled beer and caramel apples gone soft in the dirt. the sirens painted everything red and blue — a fever dream of light, flashing across his jaw, across the sweat that clung to his collar. smelled like burnt sugar and copper and fear. his hand went to his hat, more habit than sense, thumb brushing the brim as his bleary eyes tried to focus on the figure hollering through the noise.
“...back off?” chet echoed, words slurred, vowels tangled. “hell, son, i am backin’ off. just—” he waved vaguely, nearly losing his balance. “—just ain’t sure which way’s off no more.”
the man in front of him came clearer when he blinked hard — young face, too clean, too sharp at the edges. a boy playin’ at calm but buzzin’ under it. “that you, talbot?” chet rasped, voice gravel scraped thin. “thought i recognized them eyes. always dartin’ round like a rabbit waitin’ on the hawk.” he took a step closer, uneven. “guess you seen your hawk tonight, huh? tore her clean open.” behind him, the fair looked wrong — rides frozen mid motion, lights still spinning, music choking out of the speakers like a dying thing. somewhere, a woman was crying. somewhere else, a deputy shouted for folks to stay back.
chet didn’t move. he just swayed there, bourbon sweet breath thick in the air, eyes glassy and wet at the corners. “saw you standin’ there before the sirens,” he muttered, pointing toward the taped-off grass. his finger shook. “right there where she’s lyin’ now. can’t tell if you moved too fast or not at all. maybe ghosts got a hold of you, huh?”
a stumble, a half step forward. the words were falling out of him now, unfiltered, blurred by drink and something darker. “don’t gimme that back off shit, kid. i been round since before you learned how to piss straight. i seen—” he trailed off, squinting at nothing. “seen a lotta throats cut cleaner’n that. army, pit lane, hell— even the circuit had vultures sharper’n you.”
his gaze drifted, unfocused, to the blur of a deputy’s flashlight cutting through the dark. “— they don’t forget you for it, either,” he slurred, voice dropping to a whisper. “ghosts don’t. they follow you home. sit in your damn passenger seat. talk to you while you drive.” then his stare snapped back to nathan, sudden and sharp through the drunk, rambling haze. “you ain’t supposed to be here,” he said again, quieter, like it hurt to say it. “i saw you. i know i did.”
he swallowed hard, the liquor turning bitter on his tongue. somewhere deep in his chest, grief twisted — a name he didn’t say, a little girl’s face that didn’t belong to the one dead on the ground. chet’s breath came rough, uneven. “you best start talkin’, boy,” he muttered, shoulders heavy, eyes gone glassy. “’cause i ain’t drunk enough to pretend i didn’t see what i saw.”
chet and clementine weren’t two sides of the same coin, nuh - huh … they were a quarter and an oddly shaped rock you’d fish up while desperately fumbling for change. someone who disliked the ghoulish day versus someone who looked as if they were pushed out of it — a ghost who roamed around, bothering the townsfolk, not unlike the rest of the year. perhaps that’s what turned him from a man with harsh lines across his forehead into a mark interesting enough to track around the fair; he, an adult so different from the ones she was surrounded by growing up ( or wasn’t surrounded by ), an adult who flashed fangs and claws when his daughter showed even the slightest sign of discomfort. it was an ugly, green feeling that churned in her gut, fighting the warm, gooey one that forced a smile to her freckled face.
“ wu - hoh! ” eccentric exclaimed as she pushed away from the post she was melting against, taking one last, hurried drag from her cigarette before flicking it to the candy - wrapper - infested ground. another corpse in the trash graveyard. didn't know what possessed her — she never spent too much time thinking about her actions, always impulse — but she stomped until she was left right beside the grumpy father, looping an arm around his, smushing her cheek against his shoulder. warm, she thought, and took a deep sniff. “ sorry 'bout that. my old man gets very intense durin' big events. all the lights, sounds, people ... his lil' heart can hardly take it, y'know? ” the lies slipped from her tongue too easy; such pretty ones, too. it was tempting to believe them. having a fake parent was nice. nicer than the alternative, anyway. “ should really keep an eye on yer kids, though. y'dunno what’s lurkin’ in the shadows ... ” a step forward, “ or who. ”
[ ★ ] chet wasn’t sure what to make of her at first — this slip of a thing with firelight tangled in her hair and a grin that looked like trouble dressed up pretty. she came at him all sudden, cigarette smoke still curling from her lips, and before he could blink she had her arm looped through his like they’d known each other longer than a minute. he stiffened out of instinct, the old fight or flight bristling under his skin.
the fair hummed around them — neon lights stuttering, calliope music whining through busted speakers, children shrieking somewhere near the ferris wheel. it smelled like sugar and oil and something faintly rotten beneath it all. “now, hold on there, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice thick and rough. “ain’t sure who told ya i was signin’ up for the part o’ your daddy tonight, but you might wanna warn a man before ya go clingin’ on him like that.”
his gaze flicked toward ruby mae — his girl, all wide eyed, the one thing in this godforsaken town that still made sense — and then back to the woman at his side. her cheek pressed against his shoulder like she was taking shelter there, like she knew he wouldn’t shove her off too hard. when she mentioned the shadows, though, something in him went tight. he shifted, thumb hooking under his belt buckle, eyes cutting toward the dark stretch between the rides where the laughter didn’t quite reach.
“you’re right ‘bout one thing, though,” he muttered, quieter this time. “ain’t no tellin’ what’s crawlin’ out past them lights.” then, after a beat, he looked back down at her, something curious flickerin’ beneath the tired lines around his eyes. “so why don’t you tell me what it is you seen, darlin’? you talk like a girl who knows somethin’ i don’t.”
she crouched low on the curb, legs half-crossed, the kid she’d been babysitting wobbling around like a loose tooth teased by some invisible tongue, chasing his cluster of friends, all barely scraping four feet. nothing ever really happened in red creek anyway, and he stayed within her eyesight, plus she was sure some flustered, overcautious mom would have swooped in if anything went sideways. after all, she’d signed up for babysitting one, not a flock of them. she seized the quiet between their ecstatic, high-pitched chatter to unwrap a candy she’d pocketed earlier, letting the chocolate and caramel melt slowly, a warm pulse sliding across her tongue. eyes switched often, caught by whatever shone brighter than the rest.
halloween always got under her skin, some itch left from a childhood she’d mostly missed. she liked drinking in the dim streetlights, the orange sprouts poking through shadows, the bloody decorations, a few triumphant, some embarrassingly sad, and costumes that made it easy for her to tell which were planned, which stitched together in last minute hope of sugar. it tugged at her memory of that one october, years and states ago, when she had just left town, meeting a group of teenagers who had decided to drag her through trick or treating before she even knew what a costume meant. her dirty clothes, worn out shoes, they’d blended her right in. the squints lasted seconds before her bag brimmed with candy. she wanted that again, maybe younger, maybe sharper. she satisfied herself with small thefts whenever the kid’s attention drifted.
a gravelly voice cut through like the static of the old tv in the laundromat, chocolate still melting. "him?" her voice floated soft, curiosity more than worry. she straightened, eyes flicking to the boy, tracing his edges with a casual attention, crumpling the wrapper and sliding it into her jeans pocket. "nope. not mine. ------ looks a bit too old for a babysitter anyway," gaze got trapped in his stubble, "and i think you should probably start shaving too," she suggested before her eyes moved back to the grumpy looking man. she thought perhaps he'd have less wrinkles if he stopped frowning so much, and wondered if his heart had been left unsteady, racing to his own jagged rhythm, from the untamed anger he had likely left gnawing at him for years. she flicked her hues to the kid sheltered behind him. a small wave, a soft smile. then back to the mustached man. "why? is he bothering you?"
[ ★ ] chet stood there, broad shouldered and out of place against the backdrop of plastic skeletons and porch lights, the cup in his hand half empty and warm. his boots ground against the asphalt as he stared the woman down, one eye squinting from the cigarette smoke curling past his face. her voice was easy, too easy — the kind of tone that reminded him of women who thought they could talk circles around him.
he sniffed, glanced toward the kid wobbling near the curb, then back to her, jaw working slow. “ain't yours,” he echoed “good to know.” a drag of silence stretched between them before his mouth twitched, that crooked half grin that never reached his eyes. “but you’re real funny, darlin’. ‘specially for somebody sittin’ on a curb eatin’ stolen candy like a raccoon with manners.”
his gaze flicked down to her jeans pocket, then up again, heavy lidded but sharp. “an’ for the record,” he said, thumb brushing against the bristle of his jaw, “i shave when i damn well feel like it. don’t need advice from some babysitter who looks like she barely survived a hot topic sale.” ruby mae shifted behind him, and chet’s hand twitched — that instinct to shield, to move, to be between. his voice dropped a notch, quieter but edged. “just makin’ sure nobody’s botherin’ my kid, is all.”
his stare softened for half a heartbeat when the girl smiled at ruby, then hardened again when it returned to her. “red creek’s got a way of lookin’ safe ‘til it ain’t,” he muttered, eyes scanning the street before settling back on her face. “so do me a favor, sugar—keep your jokes, keep your candy, an’ keep an eye on your kid. world’s uglier than it looks tonight.”
𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝘂𝘀 : francesca + anyone , open ( 0/6? ) . 𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 : halloween night , by the ferris wheel , 1:05am .
in a town where nothing ever happened, a tragic truth that was slipping by the wayside with every hour that passed tonight, francesca admittedly was readying herself to call it a night . the anti - climatic whispers that had swirled around all night felt less like good headlines for the morning paper and more like something to make the local police department feel something for once in their dull lives . despite her desire to retire for the night, call it quits, go home and stifle through a book that could conjure up a chill that didn't stem from the smell of stale caramelized corn, she remained . finding herself by the ferris wheel now, leaned against the fence, the glow of the lights almost made her twinkle in the night the way they reflected off her barely there costume . admittedly, fembot was possibly too much for this town -- too camp, too glamorous as she watched fellow residents hobble around in those god forsaken masks, cheap rubber things, likely from a gas station . " is it just me or playing a game of hide and dont seek in that new path in the corn maze almost sounds like a good way to end the night, " she mutters, half to herself - half to the closest individual by her, fingers raised up in quotes when she mentions the unmarked path every volunteer had denied knowing anything about hours ago .
" seriously, what's a girl got to do to get a little thrill in her life, " then as if she'd manifested it, security comes by making their rounds : the grounds are officially under lockdown – a body found . while some moan and groan, other's become visibly shaken, francesca perks up for the first time all night . a questionable reaction, she'd claim came down to journalistic instinct . whatever she'd felt moments prior was replaced with something more focused, colder, but she masked it as best as she could . a look of concern washing over her face, now fully facing the other, " well, seeing as we can't leave, we mine as well check out what's going on, right ? " her brow arching, hand already digging through her metallic purse slung over her shoulder . pulling out her notepad and pen . " don't worry i wont quote anything you say or do, " a reassuring smile offered, but then almost under her breath, " unless it's interesting . "
[ ★ ] chet’s gaze didn’t settle on francesca right away. his vision was raw from what he’d seen—the flash of blue and red lights painting the carnival in garish strokes, the copper tang heavy in the air, the too-sweet bite of cotton candy mingling with something far darker. his stomach knotted, his hands shook just slightly, the cup of whatever he’d been nursing tonight sloshing in his grip. he could still see it, just for a second too long: pale limbs, torn earth, yellow tape fluttering like it had a heartbeat of its own.
he swallowed hard, tasting the acrid burn of whiskey beneath the fake cider aroma, and for the first time in hours, felt the weight of being useless. his mind snapped to ruby mae, wherever she was—he didn’t see her in that chaos, and the thought tightened his chest like a vise. babs flashed through his memory too, her laughter, her sharp voice, everything that meant something if someone—or something—decided to hurt what he couldn’t yet see, couldn’t yet reach.
that shove still burned in his shoulder, a reminder that town hall twerp thought he could push folks around. he swayed slightly, the ground tilting under his boots, and muttered low, “talbot… always gotta show off, don’t he?” half slur, half warning, but sharp enough to cut. then his eyes landed on francesca—neat notebook, metallic purse, that press posture like she was untouchable. he snorted, sound rough as gravel, swaying on his boots with the paper cup sloshing in his hand. the carnival lights threw everything too bright and wrong; deputies moved like ghosts, yellow tape snapping in the wind. his hand kept twitching toward where ruby mae would’ve been, though he knew she wasn’t here. instinct. habit.
“heh… look at you, thinkin’ you’re some kinda press angel,” he drawled, bourbon thick on every word, irritation and something sharper curling underneath. “seen plenty like you back on the circuit—vultures, every last one. pens n’ cameras, all shiny teeth and skinny bones, sniffin’ for a scrap o’ trouble so they can sell it tomorrow. you’re no different, darlin’. just a shiny little scavenger, hopin’ somethin’ bloody enough falls in your lap.” he stepped a half-step closer, boots scuffing the gravel.
then he swayed, voice breaking through the tension like a growl, drawl dragging each syllable like tar. “—heyyyy, now. ya see all that, don’t ya? don’t go gettin’ all cute with yer pen n’ yer notebook.” his eyes flicked to the chaos behind him, then back to her, trying to anchor himself. “i seen… somethin’… that don’t sit right.” he let the gaze soften, just enough to betray the knot of fear coiled beneath the bravado. “don’t think i ain’t watchin’. i got a kid,” he slurred, voice cracking. “…and i… i don’t wanna see her—no one—get… hurt. understand me?”
chet ran a hand through his hair, the rough fabric of his jacket pressing against his knuckles. he hated this vulnerability, hated being half-drunk and fully aware of how little control he had tonight. yet every instinct—father, protector, survivor—screamed, pointing, demanding attention. he jabbed a finger toward the corn maze, toward the chaos, toward anything that could threaten ruby mae.
“stay put,” he said, voice dropping low, slurring just enough to sound unconsciously unhinged. “don’t… don’t follow me into that—whatever it is. i… i got eyes. don’t test me. you ain’t… you ain’t gonna like what i do when my kid—” he trailed off, swallowed hard, took a shaky breath. “—you get the idea.”
chet let his gaze linger, half accusation, half warning, slurred and fragmented but sharp as a blade: keep back, keep careful, and for god’s sake, don’t get in the way of him protecting what he could barely even name anymore.
halloween is a holiday he never quite understood — an american indulgence. it struck him as the sort of thing invented by people who needed to be frightened in order to feel alive. where he came from, fear had no costume. it wasn't seasonal like a holiday mask or trick. it was grounded, as enduring as land itself, shaped by tradition, tempered by the understanding that respect was earned, rooted in the authority of fathers and men whose word carried weight.
still, he came. not for ghosts. not for ghouls. not even for show. but because absence in a place as small as red creek was its own loud rumor, and berkay preferred to dictate the terms of his own mythology. he stood through the sheriff's speech, watched his brother stand beside the man, nodding like a good retriever, tail curled invisibly between his legs. they were iron poured from the same crucible, cooled to different tempers: one tempered for law, the other for patience sharpened as thin as a blade. berkay’s gaze slid past him, uninterested in reflections that flattered no one, and found ayla instead, framed beneath the spill of carousal light. the twins orbited her like wayward moons, sugar-drunk, bright-eyed. he traced their small constellation with the vigilant tenderness of a wolf shadowing its own: quiet, close, fangs folded out of sight.
his real costume was the one they never saw: patience pressed into his slacks like a crease, violence folded, stored, remembered. that calm that wasn't calm at all, living one breath away from anger, and choosing — deliberately, daily — not to. no one asked what he came as, but if they had, berkay would've held up the boogeyman mask by one eyehole, let it dangle like a carcass from butcher's twine.
the hour passed away like that — guarding what he desired, until the word problem snapped through the dusk like flint against stone, small sparks leaping into the dry brush of instinct he kept tamped down. he knew that tone, had heard it in locker rooms, on sidelines, and in bars where men tested the air with their pride. a question curled at the edge of a threat. berkay's attention tore from family and locked on chet and his little daughter, the scene catching in his sightline before thought could follow. everyone was guarding someone tonight. “ not one of mine, ” berkay answers, giving the teenager a brief, assessing look before turning back to chet. “ if the kid was on my roster, he'd be three steps back, spine straight, mouth shut. before someone had to remind him. ”
𝗰𝗵𝗲𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗮 𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵, 𝗹𝗼𝘄 chuckle — the kind that came from somewhere near the bottom of a bottle — and shifted his weight, boots grinding against gravel. “that right?” he said, voice carrying the kind of lazy drawl that could sound like humor until you realized it wasn’t. “hell, maybe you oughta give his daddy a few lessons, then. ’cause from where i’m standin’, looks like the whole damn town’s raisin’ boys who don’t know how to keep their mouths shut.” he took a slow sip from his cup — cider, or what looked like cider — and tilted his head toward berkay with a wry smirk. “don’t get me wrong, though. i like your style. bet you keep your roster real disciplined, huh? bet they jump when you whistle.”
a pop song filtered through the cheap speakers — tripping through the night like a ghost in polyester. ruby mae stood just behind him, clutching the edge of his jacket, her crescent tiara slipping down her forehead. she kept her eyes fixed on the ground, lip caught between her teeth, not wanting to draw attention, not wanting to see her daddy get mad again. chet reached back absently, his hand brushing her shoulder like a wordless stay put.
“anyway,” he said, dragging his gaze back to berkay. “ain’t lookin’ for trouble. just don’t like seein’ some punk mouthin’ off near my kid, is all. you get that.” his tone softened a fraction — just enough to sound civil — but there was steel under it, the kind that came from too many fights and too many hangovers. “world’s got enough ghosts without makin’ new ones outta dumb boys.”
❝ you think i'm good enough to empty out your wallet? i'm flattered. ❞ one hand presses to her heart, the other is already reaching for her desk of cards. a gentle push sends them face down, into the shape of a fan and she gestures over it. ❝ which one's speaking to you? go ahead & flip it, this one can be on the house. ❞
𝗰𝗵𝗲𝘁 𝘀𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝗮𝗻𝗱 amused as he rocked back on his heels. "on the house, huh? now that's a first — usually when a woman says that, it ends with me buyin’ dinner and her disappearin’ before dessert.” his grin was crooked, lazy, cigarette still tucked behind his ear. he eyed the spread of cards like they were something alive, dangerous, maybe even mocking him. “ain’t none of ‘em speakin’ to me, darlin’. cards don’t talk. people do — usually right before they take your money.” still, his hand came down anyway. rough fingers tracing the edge of the one near the middle. "guess if i'm gonna get fleeced, might as well be by someone pretty." he flipped the card over with a flick of his wrist, adding under his breath, “what's that one mean, somethin' good?”
dramatic sigh leaves meticulously glossed lips, chin resting on her hand as she watches people filter through the area. ❝ are you gonna let me read your cards, or are you gonna keep hovering around my table like a scared animal? ❞
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ 𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗮 𝗱𝗿𝘆 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗲, “cards, huh? lemme guess—one’s gonna tell me i drink too much, one’s gonna say i scare women, and the last one’s gonna say i’ll die alone in a bar bathroom.” he smirked, tongue pressed to his molar. “ain’t gotta be psychic to figure that out, sweetheart. hell, i could read my own damn cards—just draw three budweisers and call it destiny.” he leaned forward a bit, the ghost of a grin tugging his mouth. “so, what do yours say? that i’m cursed, or that you’re just tryin’ to hustle me outta what’s left of my wallet?”
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ 𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗺𝗻 — 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗺𝗻 , not the shit you bought in a can. the air had that sticky sweet burn of cinnamon brooms and cheap cider, jack-o’-lanterns drooling wax down porches while some boombox a few houses over blasted “thriller.” vincent price’s voice rolled through the neighborhood like fake fog. chet hated it. all of it. the store-bought masks, the plastic cobwebs, the parents pretending they weren’t miserable. halloween, to him , was just another excuse for people to act like fools and eat too much sugar. the cup in his hand smelled like cider, but the way he swirled it — lazy, careful, a little too practiced — said there was something else mixed in. he wasn’t hammered, though. not yet. shockingly alert, even. his words only slurred at the edges, the way old records hiss when they’re worn down.
“tired?” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like it offended him. the teenager next to the cider table had said it with a yawn when he’d asked how the night was going. chet squinted at him. "from what?” he shot back before the kid could answer. the boy blinked, then fidgeted with his fake vampire cape. chet grunted, muttering mostly to himself. “kids these days. christ.”
he took another sip and turned his gaze back to the street, where ruby mae darted from porch to porch with her little plastic pumpkin bucket swinging. twelve years old, all elbows and determination, dressed as some japanese cartoon girl — sailor mercury, or space angel, or whatever the hell her name was. her mama had sewn her costume: a bright blue sailor getup she’d begged for after seeing a vhs at blockbuster. the pleated skirt bounced with every step, the silver boots a half-size too big. dorky, adorable, and way too much like her mama for his peace of mind.
he spotted her laughing at something, and his shoulders eased — just a little — until he noticed someone stepping a bit too close. some older kid, tall enough to have stubble, standing near the candy bowl and saying something ruby mae didn’t seem to like. chet’s body moved before his brain caught up. the cup was gone — left somewhere on a fence post — and his boots hit the pavement with that heavy, deliberate rhythm that meant trouble was coming. “problem here?” he asked, voice low and even, stepping between ruby mae and the stranger like a wall made of denim. his eyes cut sharp beneath the streetlight.
ruby tugged at his sleeve, voice small beneath the din of monster mash and laughing kids. “daddy, it’s fine.” maybe it was. but “fine” didn’t mean safe, not to chet. his jaw locked up tight enough to ache, that muscle near his temple ticking steady as a metronome. he didn’t blink, didn’t move — not until he’d sized up the stranger and found something he didn’t like. he jerked his chin toward the nearest adult— “ hey. you,” he said, rough as gravel. then his finger swung toward the kid beside them, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “you know this one? he yours?”
— a list of wanted connections & plots for 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗱𝗮𝘄𝘀𝗼𝗻 ** common tropey connections ( drinking buddies , neighbors , etc ) are always accepted. these are just detailed little plot blurbs !!
﹟ 𝗿𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗰 ( note : these connections , if left unfilled may be sent to the main after a certain amount of time !! )
★ the ex-wife. [ TW TOXIC AS HELL !! ] once upon a time , chet and barbara ( name can be changed, but i like barbara tbh, chet calls her babs , ew ) were the couple on the circuit. loud , loyal , and a little bit legendary. she was his ride or die. the shotgun queen , the pit lane princess. the one he dedicated every damn daytona cup to. called her his “fine thing,” his “wifey,” like they were living some southern fried fairy tale. it was all fast cars and faster feelings. they got hitched damn near overnight — vegas drive-thru, pit crew in tow, 2am, no rings, just motor oil and adrenaline. chet’s pit boss threatened to beat him with a tire iron when he found out. didn’t matter. they were fire and fumes from the jump, burning hot and heavy until it all just… burned out.
the honeymoon didn’t last longer than a set of bad tires. one minute they were making out behind the hauler, the next they were throwing wrenches and hollering over engine noise. the divorce came quick, messy, and about five races too late. but the universe ? it’s got a real mean streak. no matter how many times they walk away, it keeps dragging them back together. it's always the same fight, just a different day. chet swears he can’t stand her, and babs spits his name like it’s a curse. she’s loud, dramatic, always showing up where she don’t belong ( “babs, i can barely take a piss without you findin' some reason to come yellin' after me.” acting like she still owns a piece of him, calls him darlin’ just to piss him off, rolls her eyes like it’s a sport. babs has a damn talent for crawling under his skin and setting up shop.
they bicker. they argue. sometimes, they fuck. it’s a cycle. toxic, tangled, and damn near impossible to quit. but one thing came outta that wreck that chet won’t ever regret: ruby mae. she’s twelve now. got her mama’s fire and her daddy’s eyes. stubborn as a mule, sharp as a tack, already bossing grown folks around like she owns the ranch. chet calls her his little booger. says she’s the only good thing babs ever gave him … and the only reason he still picks up the damn phone when she calls.
★ the "girlfriend": [ TW: TOXIC RELATIONSHIP, AGE GAP (CHET IS 52 Y/M IS 33+) ] [ obama vc: let me be clear ] chet doesn’t have genuine feelings for y/m. not the kind you build a future on. what he’s looking for is a warm body, someone to keep the loneliness at bay. he has deep rooted dependency issues and leans hard into toxic patterns: he’s emotionally unavailable, drinks too much, and blames most of his financial problems on his ex wife. this connection is messy by design. it’s not about healing or growth, and definitely not about fixing him. chet doesn’t want to be fixed. he doesn’t believe anything’s wrong in the first place. all interactions will stay within ethical boundaries and won’t dip into anything heavily triggering. that said, if your goal is to create a redemptive, romantic arc or to save him from himself — this isn’t the right fit. this is a story about damage, codependency, and two people using each other to survive the parts of life they can’t face alone.
young, reckless, and exactly the kind of guy you bring home just to piss off your parents…that’s chet. they met at a speedway. your muse was in the stands , obsessed with some polished, new nascar driver. chet found her out back. cocky grin and oil-stained hands, and offered to show her what real racing felt like. one wild night turned into a years-long on-and-off spiral — breakups, makeups, late-night phone calls that blurred the lines between lust and loneliness.
now? he calls when he can’t sleep. when the silence gets too loud. the booty calls turned into something else. slurred confessions, chain-smoked memories, broken thoughts dressed up as casual talk. he doesn’t always want sex. sometimes, he just wants someone to hear him. your muse is the kind of woman who used to have it all figured out. career path, five-year plan, the whole thing. but then thirty came and everything she’d built started to crumble. now she’s stuck reliving the years she skipped — chasing chaos, chasing some kind of feeling of comfort and stability.
and chet… he’s the worst kind of comfort. a bad habit dressed in denim and danger. he tells her school’s a waste of time, that one more drink or one more pill won’t do any harm. and feeds into the version of her that stopped growing the minute everything fell apart. and yet, there’s still a part of him she can’t reach. chet has an ex-wife — the kind he claims to hate but somehow always answers the phone for. they’ve got a daughter together, ruby mae. and though he barely talks about her, your muse knows she exists. he’s never introduced them, never even let their worlds overlap. he keeps ruby mae locked away like some fragile part of himself he doesn’t trust her with. two broken people clinging to each other, not because it’s healthy or good — but because it’s familiar. because being apart feels colder than staying in the wreckage together.
﹟ 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗹𝘆
★ unexpected friendships: a local who runs a small, quirky business—maybe a gas station, diner, or craft shop—and immediately befriends chet because he’s a legend in town or just fun to have around. they trade gossip, share long drives or road trips, and act as a sounding board for chet’s occasional bursts of frustration or ideas. their dynamic is playful but sincere; they might push him to engage more with the town or subtly call him out when he’s being reckless. this relationship provides warmth, community grounding, and opportunities for small-town hijinks.
★ the annoying mentor: someone who frequents the pit stop could become a friendly rival to ruby mae — or even to chet’s attempts at fatherly competence. they challenge him in d&d, tcg, or board games, laughing at his mistakes, dragging him into game debates, or giving unsolicited advice. chet’s brash ego bumps against their enthusiasm and sharp intellect, leading to both comedy and subtle growth. over time, they might even teach him patience, humility, or empathy, especially in his efforts to bond with ruby mae.
★ the bartender: the dive bar chet occasionally stumbles into when he wants to drink or vent. they’ve known him long enough to tolerate his antics, but they also know exactly when to cut him off—or when to let him ramble into the wee hours. the bar owner might exchange stories about chet’s past races, egg him on in harmless ways, or occasionally serve as a confidant when the nostalgia hits hard. their dynamic is a mixture of camaraderie and begrudging responsibility: they want chet safe but can’t resist his larger-than-life presence. over time, this relationship could evolve into a subtle anchor for him, someone who sees both his reckless exterior and the softer father side with ruby mae.
★ the quirky neighbor: knows everything about everyone, but she genuinely likes chet and ruby mae, often bringing over pies, unsolicited advice, or small-town gossip. she teases chet about his drinking, his “chaotic dad” energy, or his garage collection, but she also protects ruby mae in subtle ways, like keeping an eye on her after school or offering a safe place when chet gets too reckless. the dynamic is comedic, nurturing, and occasionally tense if chet resists her interference. she’s a way to show chet’s softer side without him actively choosing to open up.
﹟ 𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗻𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰
★ the rival: runs a garage in red creek and has a love-hate relationship with chet. they respect his mechanical genius but can’t stand the ego, the shortcuts, or the brash attitude. every chance encounter—at car meets, gas stations, or town events—turns into a mix of competition, one-upmanship, and thinly veiled admiration. there’s tension, humor, and occasional grudging collaboration if a car really needs fixing, but the rivalry keeps both on edge. this dynamic allows a mix of conflict and comedic relief while also reminding chet that he can’t always dominate the room with charm or skill.
★ the social instigator: this person thrives on stirring drama, especially about chet’s past—his fame, his benders, and even ruby mae. they might spread rumors about him being an unfit father, exaggerate old fights with babs, or suggest he’s still drinking too much. their goal isn’t outright harm but social leverage and chaos, often forcing chet to engage or ignore to protect his daughter’s reputation. the tension here is psychological: chet must navigate gossip without letting it define him, which gives opportunities for conflict, clever comebacks, or subtle retaliation.
★ the town snob: a local who looks down on chet’s blue-collar, “messy” reputation and sees him as an outsider despite his racing fame. they might critique his garage, his parenting style, or his hobby store, viewing him as a threat to social order or class hierarchy. the tension here is social and cultural—they clash over values, traditions, and town respectability, giving writers a way to create nuanced conflicts that aren’t purely personal
