#YEEHAW FUCK THE LAW

[thedissonantverses]

Gotta confess something about Veilguard.

I think I can firmly, unambiguously say, with my whole chest, from the bottom of my heart, the writing in Veilguard is great. Not okay, not suitable, not “fine for what it is.”

Great. Fantastic. Beautiful. Amazing Dragon Age game.

I’ve heard it’s everything from hollow to bad to “oh yeah sure the plot is okay but everything else is weak” or “the companions were better in x.” No.

The fact that every part of the story and the companions ties into the major themes of healing and regret, and what leadership really means, makes it the most cohesive of about any BioWare game I can think of. Full stop. The choices actually matter to the story you’re playing. I’m so happy they shed some of the dead weight of old choices and focused on the story they were telling. Rook is a phenomenal protagonist pitted against the Evanuris. The companions are as fleshed out as they’ve ever been while each has an important role in the story for the first time. It’s tightly written while giving a lot of room for the emotions to breathe. It’s lore accurate and gave us so much to chew on. Not here to say it’s perfect cause nothing ever is. I’m looking forward to the more critical meta as the dust settles. But damn if it isn’t well-done. The fact we got it at all and what EA put the team through makes it even more impressive.

You don’t have to like it, you don’t have to play it, frankly if you can’t recognize the beauty in front of you that’s a you problem, but you can’t convince me this isn’t some of the best writing the studio has ever done. There is simply too much in the meta I’ve seen and done lately(hi mutuals you’re amazing) to convince me otherwise.

So yeah. Here’s your aggressively positive Veilguard post for today. Also thanks to the people who hated it cause I might not have doubled down on the critical analysis so hard otherwise. Strongly encourage you to read the analyses we’ve all been doing it’s really fun.

[coolsosha]

I actually just completed Undertale Yellow on true pacifist route.. i have a favourite.

STARLO IS SUCH A SILLY POOKIE WOOKIE DOOKIE😭😭😭

HE IS SUCH A BIG BROTHER TO CLOVER, I REJECT THE ENDINGS, IN MY WORLD CLOVER BEAT THE SHIT OUTA FLOWEY AND LIVES WITH STARLO AND CEROBA AND STARLO'S GANG IN WILD WEST AND THEY LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER, CLOVER AND THEIR MOTHER CEROBA, THEIR BIG BROTHER/UNCLE STARLO AND BIG BRO/UNCLE STARLO'S FRIENDS AND THEY ALL GO ON ADVENTURES TOGETHER AND CLOVER NEVER GETS CAUGHT BY ASGORE AND EVERYTHING IS FUN AND 🥰

I love Starlo so much, hes such a silly, i wanna hang out with bro so bad, hes so fun. 😭

Im not super pleased with this art, but i think ima draw Starlo another time too.

[mayra-quijotescx]

[Image description: Tweet by Jodi Gemini that says "Some heroes wear hairnets." The attached picture, under the caption "Become ungovernable," is of a flyer that says "EBT CHICKEN: You can buy 16pc raw chicken with EBT if you want, we will cook it for free. It will take 15-20 minutes. Last order 5PM." End description.]

Solidarity

[justdiarythoughts]

I'm waiting near a friend's job for him to meet up with me in like 20 minutes, and I was gonna wait in my car but it got too stuffy so I'm hanging out next to the sign that says "NO LOITERING. POLICE ENFORCED." Lol.

[xamaxenta]

Freak city gc went fuckin crazy today over Silk’s Ace lives au and subsequently his timeskip design and alias bc he’s technically considered dead by the marines and i wish i could tag everyone involved except i actually dont know anyones @ other than @niko-rion

Not my greatest hit bc im slogging thru the low point of the art improvement graph so i worked on vibes alone despite the sketch being madly sloppy

[scriptospark]

the blog is still in "early access" because I haven't gotten around to making links and stuff, but for the record?

ashe's hsr verse is that she's a highly dangerous, wanted space pirate. her folks own a branch of the IPC, so when she went and pulled a heist on their business? they disowned her. of course she only did it because she heard they were planning to disinherit her. either way. dangerous, hot wanted criminal. a bit of a mercenary as well. the deadlock gang as space pirates.

[etherealstrike]

do you guys think that ikkan probably thought of launching ichiya like a dodgeball when they were arguing

[hobohobgoblim]

[habitgallery]

new stickers !!

[radicalgraff]

"Yeehaw, Fuck the Law"

Pasteup spotted in Fitzroy, Melbourne

[pettyprocrastination]

The Deathly Devout

Pairing: Executioner!König x Nun!Reader (Medieval au) 

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Religious themes and settings, talk of death, religious guilt, nothing much this is pretty tame. I have very little knowledge of how catholic confessionals actually go especially in a medieval setting forgive me. probably many spelling errors im sorry. 

Author’s Note: was talking to @thesadvampire about @hffhifjou fucking amazing art of the 141 as knights and now we have Executioner!König. This is mostly just a word burst from this morning but I really like this concept and wanted to share with you all 

Tagging some mutuals I think might enjoy this: @sprout-fics @humanransome-note @moondirti @fnny-bnny @yeehaw-djarin @captainsamwlsn

_______________--

     It was quite amusing to see the executioner in the confessional booth. 

     That isn’t to say that he doesn’t visit often, no. If anything it’s the exact opposite, Father Montomgery sees him more than any pious banker or self-hating gambler in the city. But the man was monstrous, broad in his shoulders with thick arms and legs to match, resulting in him having to twist and fold his body to properly fit into the little wooden booth. He could see the silhouette of the poor man’s shoulders hunched in and head tucked low. 

     It almost made up for how absolutely aggravating he was to listen to. 

     “Forgive me father for I have sinned.” 

     “May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you know your sins and trust in his mercy.” 

     König swallows. 

     “I killed a man this week.” 

     The priest, knowing this voice better than others and the hulking silhouette it belongs to, sighs. 

     “The thief, then?” He asks, voice dripping with indifference. “The little painter who was caught stealing?” 

     “Yes father.” 

     The “little thief” has been a blossoming apprentice under a most respected artist within the city, only for the truth to come out that he had been stealing funds from his mentor for months on end.  The king had suggested König simply cut off the painter’s hands and let him live out the rest of his days in poverty. “What better punishment for an artist than a life where he cannot create?” 

     But the end ruling was for the artist to lose his head in the town-square and König’s hands delivered the blade to his neck. 

     “That was simply an act of your work, my child.” 

     “But-” 

     There is a deep sigh from the opposite side of the booth and König falls silent, like a scolded child. 

     The irony isn't lost on the priest, that a man who must associate himself with the macabre so often is incredibly devout in his worship. But the humor was drowned out by how astonishingly self-loathing the poor bastard was. 

     “My child, do you believe our king is the one true king?”

     “Of course father.” 

     “And do you believe our God is the one, true, God?” 

     There’s a garbled noise that comes from the larger man, an incredulous sputtering at how the priest would ever assume he would say otherwise. 

     It makes the man chuckle. 

     “Of course father!” 

     “Then acting out the King’s law is acting out God’s law, is it not?” 

     There’s a pause, the priest can see the man shrink down into his seat even further, if that was even possible with how he contorted the bulk of his body to squeeze into the wooden booth. 

     “I’m not saying you cannot feel-” He waves his hand in the air, despite the fact that König cannot truly see him. “-conflicted, about your career. It’s not one that comes easily, I’m sure. But it is not one that makes you a monster, despite how many people would try to have you believe that.” 

     “Yes father.” 

     The man’s voice is a shred of what it should be- all but a trembling whisper that makes even the exhausted priest frown. 

     “Being an executioner isn’t an easy job. But it’s one that is needed nonetheless.” 

     König says something softly to himself, but the priest cannot be bothered to ask what. 

     “For your sins I-” 

     “Actually, father-” the wooden step creaked under his weight as he shifted on his knees. “There’s something else.” 

     “Oh?” 

     “I’ve been having impure thoughts about a woman.” 

     “Oh.” 

     The priest blinks. He had never heard the man speak of any sin aside from the violence he acted out on the King’s word. Truth be told he had begun to think the lad was so devout such a concept was all but foreign to him. 

     But this?

     “I’m listening, my child.” 

     This was far more interesting than listening to him bemoan about a town square beheading. 

     “She is-” König chews on the inside of his cheek, chipped teeth digging into the formed scars he has had since childhood from the nervous habit. “Promised to somebody else.” 

     The priest hides a snicker behind a well placed cough. 

     “Married?”

     “In a manner of speaking, yes.” 

      “I haven’t…acted upon them.” The man who has killed week after week fiddles with his hands, face turning bright red as simply speaking of his attraction toward the woman. The priest couldn't help but wonder who she was. Whether it be a kind tavern girl who ignored his gaze each day he walked by or a local prostitute that urged on his affection as long as he could afford her time. 

     It’s no secret that few women would concern themselves with the local executioner, if not even look him in the eyes. 

     “She’s a good woman of proper virtue, I would not sully her name in such a way.” 

     This poor bastard. 

     “Is she beautiful?” 

     “I’m sorry?” 

     “The woman you speak of, do you find her attractive?” 

     König swallows. “Yes, incredibly. Her smile rivals that of the sun and-” 

     “That’s more than enough.” The priest grins into his hand as the airy tone the executioner’s voice took on, like a poet reciting his latest venture. The man was properly lovesick, how charming. “I do not believe you have committed any sin in appreciating a woman’s beauty.” 

     “I haven’t?” 

     “Admiring a woman’s beauty is like admiring a piece of art, is it not?” The priest offers. “You are simply taking in the art that God has created with his own hands, my child.” 

     Before König has a chance to respond, through the lattice he sees a flash of white through the corner of his eye. A soft voice humming a tune fills the air, echoing through the church hall like a well-respected hymn. In a panic, König begins to stand his full height before he is halted in his tracks as the top of his head slams into the confessional roof. 

     “My son?” 

     “Ah, apologies father! But I have to leave because of-” 

     The priest nods. “Yes, yes of course.You are absolved of your sins, give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.” 

     The final word is drowned out by the slam of the confessional door opening the man’s thundering footsteps receding from the booth. 

     The executioner stands to his full height as he exits the church. He shields his eyes as he steps outside, suddenly overwhelmed by the burst of sunlight. 

     In his haste, he did not see the figure at his side. 

     “Good morning to you, König.”

     The man jumps, twisting around to face you where you stand at the bottom church steps, broom in hand and a smile on your face. 

     “Ah! Yes! Good morning to you as well, sister.” 

     “A lovely day, is it not?” 

     Heat creeps up the back of his neck and he struggles to find the words he wished to speak to you. But you, ever patient and kind, wait without judgment. 

     “Yes, quite lovely.” 

     As König stares down at you, his heart beating as he watches the sun shine on your figure and your smile, he finds himself thinking of the Holy Father’s words.

     “You are simply taking in the art that God has created with his own hands”

     What beautiful art indeed. 

[thedissonantverses]

Some tips for writers today:

1. Uh don’t emulate my word count if it doesn’t come naturally to you. If you don’t write 20,000 words in a month GOOD I have carpal tunnel for a reason. It’s ADHD not skill. (I mean yeah there’s skill involved but really it’s okay if you only wrote a sentence today really we all have those days including my hyperverbal ass)

2. KEEP YOUR OLD WORK no matter how much you might hate it. I haaaaate reading older stuff but seeing how much progress I’ve made even from what I consider my “best” work has been amazing. I know for a fact I’m a better writer than I was even a year ago let alone ten years ago.

3. Save positive comments. Keep a folder. Break em out on a rainy day. For those of you still leaving comments on ten year old fics bless you I adore you.

4. It’s supposed to be fun! So have fun! Break shit! Write the weird thing! Write the corny thing! Write what you want to read trust me other people want to read it too. Like statistically at least one other person does I guarantee it and it’s probably me I’m am odd duck.

5. Yeehaw fuck the law.

[coolsosha]

GDHSIXIZKKXMAMD

[mothandpidgeon]

The Outlaws (Outlaw!Joel Miller x f!reader) - Chapter 2

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Outlaw!Joel Miller x f!reader

rating: T (eventual E 18+ MDNI)

wc: 1.7k

summary: Wanted for murder with a bounty on your head, your only hope of escaping the Pinkerton detectives is an outlaw named Joel Miller and his sidekick Ellie. But Joel has other plans for you.

tags: old west au, enemies to lovers, grumpy Joel, handcuffed together, period/genre/canon typical violence, alcohol, morally grey characters, reader has backstory, no use of y/n

authors note: Posting this today in honor of act ii. Yeehaw. As always, thank you @ezrasbirdie for the beta and support in this (you really need to tell me to stfu about these two) and in life.

Joel once took Sarah to see PT Barnum’s Greatest Show on Earth. Each ticket cost him two quarters. She pulled him by the hand past the tents with Tom Thumb and the giantess, straight to the exhibition of wild animals. There were all sorts of exotic animals in the menagerie– giraffes, elephants, snakes. You remind him of the tiger. Beautiful and cunning. Fierce. Dangerous unless it’s kept under lock and key. 

Which is why he’s grateful he kept these old shackles in his saddle bag. 

You’re in a friendlier mood once camp is set up and a rabbit is roasted on a spit. He knows it’s a rouse, that you’re still spitting mad and hoping to slit his throat in the night. On that train, you were the demure damsel in need of a rescue. Soon as he put that cuff on your wrist, you turned into a fire breathing dragon. 

You can be as mad as you’d like. You’re no match for his strength or his revolver. 

They sit around the fire, Joel and Ellie propped against their saddles. It’s a cool evening, a steady breeze blows off the river. The stars paint the purple sky and the cave is illuminated with the orange glow of a fire. There’s plenty to celebrate. Though, even when they score a good amount of money, gold pieces, and get away without a scratch, Joel never feels much satisfaction. Despite his personal quandary, it would be a beautiful night, really, if Joel weren’t sitting there waiting for you to do something foolish. 

He can tell you’re meditating on some new escape plan, knows better than to look at you too long. A girl like you, pretty and with that sharp mouth, is the type that knows how to use her womanly wiles. You’re desperate enough to try just about anything and he’s not giving you the chance. 

You must think he’s stupid enough to fall for it too. He reluctantly passes you his flask and, after you drink, you wipe your wet lips with a seductive  finger. 

Ellie’s being a real chatterbox, recounting each moment of the robbery as if she’s writing her own nickel weekly and peppering you with questions. He’s not surprised she’s taken a liking to you. There aren’t too many of the female persuasion out here. Maybe she can see some of Tess in you. He doesn’t. Tess was always calm and controlled. And when she was angry, she never fucking spit at him. In fact, he resents you for making him think about Tess at all. 

“Ten thousand dollar bounty, huh?” Ellie asks you. “What’d you do?”

Joel’s seen more than a few people running from the law but none of them look like you. You’re no Annie Oakley. 

“My sweetheart was fooling around with my sister so I killed em both,” you say. 

“Really?” Ellie asks. 

“No,” you say. 

“What was it really?” she tries again. 

“Leave it,” Joel says. 

He’d be just as cagey about his past. Outlaws don’t live by any code but if they did, questions like that would be frowned upon. 

Ellie grumbles at him. 

“I’ve got ten on me too,” she tells you. 

“Your daddy must be proud,” you say, looking to Joel. 

They respond in unison— “He’s not my Pa,” and a “I ain’t her daddy.” 

You do a lousy job suppressing a smile. 

“So this is the infamous Miller gang? Ain’t much of a gang if you ask me,” you say. 

Joel grinds his molars. 

“We used to be a proper one. Most of ‘em are in prison now. And then we lost Tess to a bout with fever. And Tommy left,” Ellie recounts. 

“Who’s Tommy?” 

“Nobody,” Joel says same time as Ellie tells you, “His brother.”

You look Joel up and down. 

“That’s enough yakking for tonight,” he says. “I’m turning in. C’mon.” He pulls the chain. 

Ellie laughs. “I should warn you. He snores something awful.”

You scoff. “Is this some kind of ploy so you can wake up on top of me?” you protest. 

Joel’s patience is wearing thin. He’s got half a mind to turn you loose and let the wolves deal with you. 

“You can quit the belly aching, missy. I ain’t taking that thing off til you’re with the sheriff in Jackson.”

“You’ll wear him down eventually,” Ellie encourages. 

“Ellie, go to sleep,” Joel orders. 

She rolls her eyes. 

“What if I got to use the privy?” you ask. 

“Hope you like company,” Joel says. 

You huff. 

“You at least going to give me a blanket? Cold out here,” you say. 

Joel’s only got one in his bed roll, a beautiful Pawnee blanket he bought off a trader from Kansas woven with geometric patterns. He knows it would be gentlemanly to let you sleep with it but you’re no lady. 

He sighs as he hands it over. You wrap it around your shoulders with a self-satisfied look on your face. 

“Anything else I can do for you, missy?” he says with mock cordiality. 

“You can stop calling me missy,” you say. 

“G’night, missy,” he says. 

It’s not your best plan. But just because it’s simple doesn’t mean it won’t work. 

First step, you wait for Ellie and Joel to fall asleep. The girl takes a while. She’s got a dime novel with a cowboy on the cover that she flips through as the flames die down. You watch her through your cracked eyelids, pretending to have already drifted off yourself. 

It’s hard to tell if Joel’s out. He uses his saddle as a pillow and you’ve positioned yourself on the other side of it, your arm outstretched so you don’t have to be too close to him. 

He murmurs to himself. You strain to catch what he’s saying. At first, there are words you can understand. The name Sarah passes his lips. But then you hear him make a sound you can only describe as a whimper. 

It gives you pause. You’ve never been a nurturing type but it pulls at your heart strings, almost makes you want to put your arms around him. You imagine a hurt puppy inside that big, snarling dog of a man.

His sharp silhouette is highlighted in the amber glow of the campfire. It’s a shame he’s such a mean son of a bitch because he really is easy on the eyes. Then he rolls over. His unexpected motion nearly twists your connected arm out of its socket and you bite your tongue to keep from swearing. That bastard has you chained up like a dog. You do all you can to control your temper, swearing soundlessly. You can’t afford to wake him. 

You wait a long while, listening to him grunt and snore. Once you’re sure he’s good and asleep, you move. 

It’s a process. You begin by flexing your wrist. An innocent gesture that could be explained by sleepy twitches. He doesn’t stir. 

Eventually you feel bold enough to inch towards him, pulling the chain carefully along the ground. You crawl on your belly until you’re in front of him, then you dare to lift your hands up. 

The chain clinks against the buzz of the night insects and you swear it’s so loud you hear it echo off the mountains. You hold your breath, wide eyed, every muscle in your body taught. 

Joel doesn’t wake. He might be pretending but his chest still rises and falls slowly. Either he’s a hard sleeper or he’s deaf. Might be a little of both. You’re always tired after the rush of a big score. 

Ellie hasn’t woken up. Her eyes are closed, mouth hangs open. Down for the count.

You flex your fingers before you begin the next step, lick your lips and take a steadying breath. 

You’ve picked pockets before. Never tried it on a sleeping man, though. You keep your touch light, delicate, unbuttoning his waistcoat with one hand. It falls open for you and you can’t help but smile. 

The key to the handcuffs is tucked in the inner pocket. You saw him put it there. All you have to do is lift it out, unlock the cuff, and you’re a free woman. What you’re going to do after that, all alone in the middle of god only knows where, you’re not sure. But that’s not of material importance until you have that key. 

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip and you move slower than molasses in January, easing your first two fingers into the little pocket. Your fingertip connects with metal and your heart jumps. Pinching the ringed end, you hold on and pull. It’s awfully heavy. 

Because it’s not the key at all. You’ve fished a pocket watch out of Joel’s vest. Damn it. It’s a dainty little thing— fine gold with intricate scrollwork engraved on the back. The face is all busted up and it doesn’t seem to be ticking. Most importantly, though it’s not a key. You need that goddamn key if you want to get— 

The unmistakable click of a gun being cocked makes you freeze. Joel’s awake, dark eyes shining in anger. You’ve had guns pointed at you on a number of occasions but still it makes your blood run cold. 

“The hell are you doing?” he asks. 

“You’re dreaming,” you tell him. 

He doesn’t think that’s cute. The scowl on his face just deepens. 

“Alright,” you say, raising your hands in surrender.

You put the watch back in place and crawl back to your spot. 

“Gimme the damn blanket,” Joel growls. 

You toss it to him, cowed. But what did you expect? This had never been a very good plan.

Once you hear the hammer of Joel’s gun go back into place, you breathe a sigh of relief. It’s quiet for a while as Joel gets under his blanket and you know he’s laying there waiting for you to fall asleep. 

You try to settle down, wrapping your arms around yourself. The night air bites at you now that you’ve lost your blanket privileges.

“Sarah a sweetheart of yours?” you ask him. 

His head snaps your way so fast you think his neck might break. 

“You was talking to her in your sleep,” you explain. 

“Say that name again and I’ll wring your neck,” he says. 

He sounded like he meant it before but you feel like he’s looking forward to putting a bullet in you. You shiver. You’re smart enough not to say another word. 

---

Chapter 3

I'd love to hear from you! Comments and reblogs appreciated. My asks are always open!

[rynnaissance]

ok so for future reference, if i ever do continue working on my fic, how do we think bell’s hells would be at driving cars in a modern au? i’ve got ideas, but i want to hear other people’s input.

here’s what i’ve got:

chetney: DO NOT GET IN A CAR WITH CHETNEY WHATEVER YOU DO. that senior citizen is batshit insane and he WILL road rage. if someone cuts him off then wherever he was going is forgotten because he has to tailgate that person now while yelling at them to pull over so they can “talk.” i can’t decide if he would have a really nice car or a really shitty one because honestly both fit. maybe a fancy truck for hauling wood?

orym: he’s your safest bet out of the hells if you want to get somewhere on time without fearing for your life. bro is a law abiding citizen of the road. he never loses his cool (unlike chet) and his car is always clean and smells super nice. he mostly listens to meditation style music, but he’ll let the other person have the aux because he’s genuinely curious to hear what they listen to. shout out to orym.

laudna: okay back to the insanity. ALSO DO NOT GET IN A CAR WITH LAUDNA! girlie pop should not be on the road. she’s blasting the weirdest fucking genres of metal imaginable, she can hear nothing else. the music only somewhat drowns out the horrible keening noises her car makes, as if it’s begging to die. that thing hasn’t been to the shop in decades and omits the occasional plume of black smoke that smell like burnt hair and buttered popcorn for some reason? i saw someone else talk about how she’s a crazy driver with everyone except imogen who she drives very well for and never blasts music, and i like that idea a lot.

imogen: it was her dad’s truck before her’s, a farm vehicle meant for rural roads with four wheel drive. it’s pretty beat up, but it’s reliable. imogen hates driving though, as it can be super overwhelming in the city, and prefers to go with laudna. outside of the city, on rural roads where you won’t see another car for miles, she finds it almost as relaxing as horseback riding. she likes to cruise around with her widows down, shamelessly listening to country music. yeehaw.

ashton: should you get in a car with ashton? depends on the day, as they are kind of a wild card. one day, it might be a chill drive with you two causally exchanging stories, like sober “what the fuck is up with that?” other times you better hold onto your seat because you are getting to your location regardless of how traffic is flowing. ashton is the person who cuts chetney off. it may be on purpose, no one knows for certain, but he always seems to manage to find the old man and make his day a little more difficult. if they see someone they know, they’ll lay on horn and yell, “hey asshole!” with a wave and a grin. the car itself is covered in stickers and sharpie graffiti, interior and exterior. you’ll always know it’s him.

fearne: does she have a license? she would say yes. the truth is no. fearne was never taught how to drive, she just kinda figured it out as she went along. because of ashton, she used to think honking is a friendly thing, but had to be informed by fcg that those people are not just saying hi, but are actually mad at her. she didn’t like that very much. she doesn’t seem to be aware that there are any dangers to driving. she’s almost always getting into crashes, which she responds to with a giggle and a “whoops(:” it’s a marvel she hasn’t been arrested yet. there’s also an angry possum that’s sometimes found in the truck of her car, so it’s best not to open it.

fcg: much like orym, fcg is a very safe person to drive with. although maybe a little annoying, as he’ll let everyone go before him at a four way stop regardless of if it’s actually their turn. sometimes though, when they’re under a lot of stress, they resemble chetney more. they won’t tolerate any bullshit from other drivers and yell at pedestrians to get out of the way. he’s been getting better about this though, but still.