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gweelczz · 16 days ago

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“Home”

Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore x Y/N (Sugar)

Genre: Angst, Fluff, smut (Y’all KNOW he a FREAK) MDNI

Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap your Willy!) mentions of child abuse, this fic is LONGGGG I got a bit carried away y’all I’m sorry!!!

Summary: A lover’s quarrel breaks out between the two love birds and it’s up to Sammie to choose what he goin do

The Mississippi sun had dipped low, bleeding red across the fields when the shouting started. Folks in Clarksdale knew better than to pay too much mind to lovers’ quarrels, but when it was Preacher Boy Sammie Moore and his girl Sugar — everybody knew.

“You always talking ’bout dreams, Sammie,” Sugar snapped, arms crossed tight against her chest, her voice trembling more with hurt than anger. “But you too scared to chase ‘em. Scared of your daddy. Scared of what folks gon’ say.”

Sammie’s fists were balled at his sides. Not to strike — Lord, no. Just trying to hold it all in. His pride. His shame. His fear.

“I ain’t scared,” he bit out, jaw tight.

“Then prove it,” she shot back, tears glassing her big brown eyes. Her skin, a rich dark ebony with that gold shimmer whenever the light caught her just right, looked like it belonged to some goddess out the old stories. Her coily hair framed her face, a wild crown she didn’t even know she wore.

He said nothing.

That silence — heavier than any slap — broke her heart clean in two.

Sugar turned on her heel, dust kicking up under her bare feet.

“You ain’t ready,” she said, voice small now. “And I ain’t waitin’ ‘round watchin’ you let yourself rot.”

He watched her walk away. Watched until the blue of her skirt disappeared down the road toward the woods where Annie’s shack sat hidden behind a crooked fence of bones and bottle trees.

——

Annie’s place smelled of sweetgrass and turpentine, smoke curling out the chimney like lazy fingers. Inside, herbs hung in bunches from the rafters. Jars of oil, roots, and stones lined the shelves. Every color and spirit of the Delta lived in that little shack.

Sugar slumped into a chair, head in her hands.

Annie — full-figured, dark-skinned, with a warmth about her like a heavy quilt — sat across from her, shelling peas slow and easy. She was only a few years older than Sugar, but the way she moved, the way she looked at you, made her seem like she’d lived two lifetimes already.

She watched Sugar for a long minute, not rushing her.

“Man’s got chains on his soul,” Annie finally said, voice low and knowing. “Ain’t easy breakin’ ’em. ’Specially when them chains was put there by his own blood.”

“I just…” Sugar started, but her throat caught. She shook her head. “I just want him to see what he could be. Not what folks tell him he gotta be.”

Annie smiled, soft and sure.

“Don’t give up on him, girl. Some seeds take longer to sprout. But when they do, Lord, do they grow strong.”

Outside, the night thickened. Crickets sang. Somewhere, a hound barked long and low.

And then — a knock at the door.

Sugar turned, heart thudding.

There he was. Sammie.

Hat crushed in one hand. A scraggly bunch of wildflowers in the other. Dirt smudged on his knees from where he’d fallen once, maybe twice, on the way over.

He looked at her like a man standing at the edge of a cliff. Like he knew the fall would kill him but he was ready to jump anyway.

“I cain’t do this without you, Sugar,” he said, voice raw. He dropped the flowers, sank to his knees right there on Annie’s worn floorboards.

“You hear me?” he begged, hands trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bein’ a fool. I’m sorry for not fightin’ harder. I’m gon’ be better. I swear it on my life.”

Sugar’s chest squeezed so tight she thought she might fall over.

Annie sat still, shelling peas, not saying a word. She knew some things had to be worked out without her hand in it.

Sammie looked up at Sugar, eyes wide and wet, heart cracked open for the whole world to see.

“You my home, Sugar,” he whispered. “Ain’t no point in dreamin’ if you ain’t in it.”

The flowers were crushed. His hands were dirty. His voice was breaking.

But it was real.

God help her, it was real.

Sugar knelt too, lifting his face in her hands.

“Don’t you ever make me walk away again,” she said, voice shaking.

“I won’t,” he promised. “I swear it.”

And in that little shack, under the watchful eyes of the ancestors hanging thick in the smoky air, Sugar forgave him.

——

Sammie led her back to his daddy’s house, hand in hand, heads bowed against the heavy southern night. He didn’t care if his father was sitting on the porch with a belt or a bottle.

This time, he wasn’t walking alone.

And this time, he wasn’t running from himself either.

The porch light was nothing but a flickering bulb, casting long, mean shadows across the yard. Sammie slowed his steps when they reached the gate, hand tightening around Sugar’s.

There he was — Preacher Moore — sitting in his rocking chair, a half-drained bottle of corn liquor at his feet, the old hunting belt looped lazy across his lap like a coiled snake. His face, carved rough like old wood, didn’t flinch when he saw them coming.

Sammie’s throat dried up. Every memory of every beating, every harsh word, every dream stomped down under his father’s heavy hand — it all came rushing back like a flood.

Sugar gave his hand a squeeze.

“You got this, baby,” she whispered.

Sammie swallowed hard and stepped forward.

The porch boards groaned under his weight, but he didn’t falter.

Preacher Moore watched him, slow drag on his cigarette, eyes hard as river stones.

“You finally decide to come back with your tail tucked?” he rasped.

Sammie stood straight. For the first time, he didn’t look away.

“I come back a man,” he said, voice steady. “And I ain’t askin’ your permission no more.”

The cigarette paused halfway to Preacher Moore’s mouth. A dangerous flicker lit in his eyes.

“You gettin’ mighty bold for a boy livin’ under my roof,” Preacher Moore growled.

“I ain’t just livin’ under your roof,” Sammie said, taking another step closer. “I’m buildin’ somethin’. And if you can’t see that, then maybe I need to build it somewhere else.”

Sugar stayed right behind him, her presence a warmth at his back, a shield he hadn’t even known he needed.

“I wanna sing,” Sammie said, the words dragging out of him rough and painful like pulling a thorn from flesh. “Not just in church. Not just in secret. I wanna sing the blues. I wanna write my own songs. Play my own music. And I ain’t gonna be ashamed no more.”

The porch went still. The crickets even seemed to hush.

Preacher Moore’s face cracked — not much — but enough for Sammie to see something raw underneath. A flash of fear. A flash of sorrow.

“You think singin’ them devil songs gonna feed you? Gonna save you?” Preacher Moore spat.

Sammie shook his head.

“No, sir,” he said. “I think bein’ me gon’ save me.”

He reached back, took Sugar’s hand in his again.

“I got folks standin’ with me now. Folks who believe I ain’t just some broken piece of you.”

Preacher Moore set the cigarette down. The belt slid off his lap and onto the porch with a soft thud.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just rocked. Just stared.

And then, like a levee finally giving way after too many rains, the fight drained out of him. His shoulders sagged. His chin dipped. His pride — that big, ugly thing that had ruled the Moore house for two generations — cracked and crumbled like old clay.

Preacher Moore dragged a hand down his face, voice rough with something like regret.

“You your own man now,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothin’ I can do to change that.”

Sammie felt the breath he didn’t know he was holding rush out of him.

“You sure that’s what you want, boy?” Preacher Moore asked, almost gentle now.

“I’m sure,” Sammie said. “Been sure.”

Preacher Moore nodded once, stiff and slow.

“Then go on,” he said. “Go sing your songs.”

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was enough. Enough for tonight.

Sammie turned to Sugar, who was smiling through tears, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand.

Together, they stepped off that porch — not as preacher boy and dreamer girl — but as something new. Something stronger.

The night wrapped around them as they walked into a future that, for the first time, was theirs to claim.

———

The road to Sugar’s house twisted through cotton fields and thick woods, the night air humming with the slow, secret music of the Delta. Sammie held Sugar’s hand tight as they walked, his heart still hammering from what he’d left behind on that porch.

Preacher Moore’s voice still echoed in his ears, but it was faint now, like a storm rumbling far off. What mattered was the hand in his, the steady light ahead — the little house Sugar’s granddaddy had left her when he passed.

The place wasn’t much to look at to anybody else. A two-room clapboard house, porch sagging a little, white paint peeling like old bark. But to Sammie, it looked like freedom. Looked like home.

Sugar fished the key from her pocket and unlocked the door. She didn’t say much, just pulled him inside by the hand. The house smelled like lavender and fresh bread, warm and good.

Sammie had only been here a handful of times, always with the nervous, guilty feeling of a boy sneaking into someplace he didn’t belong. But tonight was different. Tonight, she opened the door wide and left it open behind him, like she meant for him to stay.

“Granddaddy wanted me to have it,” Sugar said, setting her purse down. “Said a woman needs her own land to stand on.”

Sammie nodded, drinking it all in — the soft quilt folded on the couch, the little wooden cross nailed above the door, the framed picture of Sugar’s granddaddy smiling wide in his Sunday suit.

“You know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him, “I got my own shop now too. Folks come from all over for my oils and teas. I do good.”

He smiled, proud in a way he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“I know you do,” he said. “Ain’t nobody like you, Sugar.”

She laughed, light and low.

“One day,” Sammie said, voice almost breaking with the bigness of it, “I wanna be able to take care of you too. Not ’cause you need it. But ’cause you deserve it.”

Sugar crossed the room in two quick steps and pressed her forehead to his.

“You already do,” she whispered.

They stood there a long moment, breathing each other in, letting the world fall away.

Sammie knew he didn’t have much. A voice. A few songs still trapped inside him, scratching to get out. A heart bigger than he knew what to do with.

But somehow, standing there in the warm light of Sugar’s house, it felt like enough.

Tomorrow, there would be work to do. Songs to write. Battles to fight. Maybe even more nights spent arguing with ghosts and memories.

But tonight — tonight he had her.

Tonight they had a roof, four walls, and a world of dreams between them.

And sometimes, Sammie thought, that was more than enough to start a whole life on.

The hum of cicadas mixed with the soft shuffle of feet on the old wooden floors of Sugar’s house, and Sammie, still buzzin’ from the confrontation with his father, felt the weight of it all.

Sugar’s house was quiet now, the air in the room feelin’ as heavy as the memories. The house was sturdy and worn, like time had kissed it just right. A little faded around the edges, but still standin’, just like her. Just like him.

Sammie’s fingers trembled as he rubbed the back of his neck, still feelin’ the heat from his father’s words mixed with the pride he hadn’t known he could hold. But Sugar… she was the one who’d always seen it in him, even when he’d been too blind to see it himself.

She sat beside him, her body close but not touchin’, her presence like a balm for all his frayed nerves. He could feel the heat of her, the warmth of her gaze that was so full of pride, so full of somethin’ deeper that he couldn’t quite put into words.

“You did it, Sammie,” she said, her voice soft but steady like a slow river. “I’m so proud of you, baby. I always knew you had it in you.”

He let out a breath, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “I ain’t never thought I’d be here, Sugar. Never thought I’d be standin’ up to him like that. Didn’t think I had the strength to fight for what I wanted. Hell, didn’t think I deserved it.”

Sugar’s eyes softened, her lips parting like she was about to speak but then she just shook her head. Her hand reached out, like it always did when he needed it most, and she placed it over his.

“You deserve every bit of it, Sammie,” she said, her voice full of that calm confidence that always made him feel like maybe he wasn’t so lost after all. “And you’ve got so much more in you than you even know.”

His chest tightened, and he didn’t know if it was from the weight of her words or the way she made him feel like a man again. A real one, with dreams and a purpose. And as she looked at him, that proud smile on her face, Sammie couldn’t help but feel a pull deep in his gut. She always did that to him — made him feel seen in a way no one else ever had.

“Sugar…” he breathed, his voice a little rough. “You’ve always seen me. Always been the only one who believed in me when I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror.”

Sugar moved closer, her body just inches from his, and he could feel the heat of her against his arm. Her touch was like a spark, and Sammie swore his heart skipped a beat. She was always so sure, so confident in everything she did. But tonight, he saw something else in her eyes — something softer. Something real.

“I ain’t never stopped believin’ in you, Sammie. You’ve got this, baby. You always had it in you.”

Her words were like a lullaby, and as they lingered in the air between them, Sammie couldn’t help but draw her in closer. He wrapped his arms around her, pullin’ her to him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He held her tight, his chest full of so many emotions he couldn’t even name.

The softness of her body against his made his breath hitch. Sugar felt like home. Like everything that had ever mattered. Her scent filled his senses, and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

“You make me feel like I can take on the world, Sugar,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with the weight of what he was feelin’. “Like I ain’t never been broken, like I’m whole again. I ain’t never been able to thank you for that.”

Sugar’s hand slid up his back, her fingers light against his skin, and she pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were dark with emotion, and the softness in her gaze made Sammie’s heart ache.

“You don’t have to thank me, Sammie,” she said, her voice a whisper now, like the words were only meant for him. “I’ve always been here for you. Always will be.”

Sammie’s chest tightened again, and this time, he didn’t fight the urge to kiss her. His lips brushed hers, soft at first, like he was askin’ for permission. But when she didn’t pull away, when she leaned into him, it felt like a release. He kissed her deeper, the tension in his chest unwinding as he pulled her closer, feeling her warmth flood him.

He didn’t know how long they’d been sittin’ there, lost in each other, but when he pulled away, breathless, he looked at her with all the words he hadn’t said, all the things he still needed to say.

“Sugar, I ain’t never been more sure of somethin’ in my life. I need you. I’ve needed you since the first day I laid eyes on you. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Sugar smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and her fingers grazed the side of his face, tender but firm.

“You don’t need to say nothin’, Sammie. I’ve known. I’ve always known.”

And before he could say another word, she leaned in again, kissing him with the kind of tenderness that made him ache deep inside. He held her tighter, his hands roaming to the small of her back as the heat between them built, the air thick with need.

Sammie pulled Sugar into his lap allowing his hands to rest on her waist not going any lower than that, pulling he looked into her eyes silently asking for permission to touch her which she gladly granted. Leaning forward he kissed her once more, the kiss full of want, need and hunger. His hands moved down to grab handfuls of her ass causing them to moan into each other’s mouths, their breaths mingling together.

Sugar’s hips ground themselves against Sammie’s making him bite down onto her lip, she pulls away swirling her tongue around his ear before biting down onto it. She trails her lips lower kissing on his neck tasting the salty sweat with her tongue. Meanwhile he’s lifted up her dress with permission, unbuckling his pants afterwards letting her sink down slowly onto his cock.

They moan into each other’s mouths once again, Sugar wrapping her hand around his throat and his fingers tangled in her hair as she rides him. “Sugar? Lemme try somethin hear?” He speaks through moans and she answers with a breathy “yes”. With permission granted he flips them so she’s now under him, his hips rolling into her while his free hand protects her head from slamming into the arm of the chair.

Pulling down the straps of her dress he exposes her breasts to him, lowering his head he takes a nipple into his mouth. His free hand reaches down between them finding her clit giving it tight fast circles to match the pace of his thrusts. “Sammie… Baby…” Sugar pants out watching him angle his hips to go deeper hitting her spot without knowing.

“Baby right there” he pulls off her nipple long enough to respond in his baritone voice “right there sugar?” To which she nods gripping the back of his head when he dove back in sucking on her nipple. She gasps arching her back slightly moaning loudly into the air not caring about who heard. “Sammie… I’m gonna…” he keeps his tempo the same while rubbing her clit, pulling off to rest his forehead against hers. “C’mon sugar, cum for me, let go”

The coil in her stomach snaps and she swears she sees white as she cums around his cock, Sammie thrusts a few more times before pulling out cumming on her stomach with a low groan. They lay there for a few moments before Sammie gets up picking Sugar up bridal style carrying her down the hall.

“Let me take care of you, Sugar,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur. “I ain’t gonna leave you like this.”

He lifted her into his arms, holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body press against his. Her head rested on his shoulder as he carried her, every step slow and deliberate as if he didn’t want to break the moment. The bed creaked softly as he laid her down, his hand lingering on her side for a moment longer than necessary.

Sugar closed her eyes, her body still humming with the aftereffects of everything they’d shared. But Sammie knew there was more to do. He wasn’t about to leave her just like that.

He stepped away briefly, his movements purposeful as he went to the basin in the corner. He ran his hands under the water filling up a huge pot heating up the water on the stove, the steam rising in the small space. He grabbed a soft cloth and soap, his hands shaking slightly with the anticipation of what was next.

When the water was ready, Sammie dumps it all into the bathtub before he returned to Sugar, who was propped up on the pillows, her eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. She smiled weakly, her voice soft. “You don’t have to do all this, Sammie. I’m fine.”

He shook his head, his expression serious. “You deserve every bit of care, Sugar. You trusted me, and I’m gonna show you how much you mean to me.”

With a gentle touch, he helped lift her into his arms again, guiding her to the edge of the bed. He carefully wiped her skin with the warm cloth, his touch slow and steady as he cleaned the traces of their love from her body. Each stroke was soft, as if he was worshipping every inch of her, every curve, every part of her that he cherished. He then lifts her into the tub gently washing her body. The cloth moved over her belly, down her legs, until every trace of him was gone, and all that was left was the soft heat of her skin.

Sugar looked up at him, her eyes full of vulnerability and trust. “You make me feel safe, Sammie. Like I’m the only one that matters.”

Sammie’s heart ached. He placed the cloth back in the bowl, then turned his attention to the small copper pot of warm water he’d heated. He poured it gently into a shallow basin, setting it between them.

“I’m gonna wash your hair now, Sugar,” he said, his voice low. “Let me take care of you, just like you took care of me.”

She nodded, a soft, grateful smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He was so gentle with her, so focused, his every movement thoughtful and deliberate. He poured the warm water over her hair slowly, his hands cradling the back of her neck as he worked the lather into her thick curls. His fingers massaged her scalp, and she let out a soft, contented sigh.

“Mm, that feels good, Sammie,” she murmured, her eyes closing as she relaxed into his touch.

Sammie continued to work, washing her hair with tender care, making sure every strand was clean, every inch of her body pampered. He rinsed her hair, his hands careful and slow as he ran them through the curls, feeling the smoothness of her wet locks slip between his fingers. There was something so intimate about it — the way he was taking care of her, the way she let him in.

When he was finished, he dried her off gently, wrapping a soft towel around her shoulders, letting the warmth of it sink into her skin.

“You’re perfect, Sugar,” he whispered, his eyes full of adoration. “I just want you to know that. You’re perfect.”

Sugar looked at him, her eyes full of gratitude, and Sammie swore his heart skipped a beat. She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb tracing the edge of his jawline.

“You don’t have to do all this for me, Sammie,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But I’m glad you do.”

Sammie smiled, his hand brushing through her damp curls, his heart full. “I’ll always do this for you, Sugar. I’ll always take care of you.”

He laid beside her then, pulling the covers over them both, his arm around her waist. Sugar nestled into his chest, her breathing slow and steady as she drifted into a peaceful sleep, the weight of the day finally settling in. Sammie held her close, his heart full of love and pride, knowing that, for once, everything was exactly as it should be.

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trash-druid · 4 months ago

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A Healer's Touch

Fandom: Dragon Age Pairing: Lavellan/Solas Rating: T (but there's an explicit version if folks want that. dm me and I'll share it. I ain't showing my whole ass AO3 account to the world.) AN: This was inspired by a tweet made by @brucoenthusiast. This idea ate at my brain like a parasite so I had to get it out. Note on Elven: I used the DA wiki for my source of translation as well as some other sources that I will list below. Sorry if I messed up.]

The cool winter air snapped at her uncovered ankles as she slipped through the double doors of the Chantry as quietly as she could. Lavellan had grown up in the frigid north of the Free Marshes. She knew the cold well. This did not make her hate it any less.

After hours of strategy planning discussing recruitment and movement of goods around the Hinterlands, Lavellan could no longer ignore the ache in her palm.

The mark had laid mostly dormant since the forming of the Inquisition but she found that as the nights grew colder and her nerves stretched thin, the thrumming pain began to build.

Stepping outside, Haven was totally silent. She wasn’t exactly sure what time it was thanks to the clouds in the sky, but it was late enough for her to know that she’d be unhappy in the morning. Voices echoed quietly behind her. Looking left and right, she made a snap decision. She could not afford getting caught up in more discussion with her advisors, and did not want to concern them with her current dilemma; concealing it all evening had been enough of a pain.

Hurrying left, down the path towards the tavern, a thought occurred. She knew one person who might be able to ease her suffering.

The next thing she knew, she was standing at his door. Lavellan bit her lip and rolled it between her teeth. It was late. Very late. And he was probably just as exhausted as she was. She had, after all, dragged him, Varric and Cassandra around the Hinterlands all day, sealing what rifts they could find and managing one crisis after another.

She raised her fist to the wood but could not bring herself to lower it. Her cheeks grew warm. It had only been a few weeks but she could already tell something was different about Solas. There was a wisdom that she found comforting–he reminded her of home in some ways and then of something completely foreign in others. He was a mystery and her wandering mind could not resist the call of the unknown.

Back at her clan, Lavellan had earned the loving nickname of somniari av'ahn or the questioning dreamer. Even at a young age, she was driven to learn more, dig deeper, seek answers. However, this often led to irresponsible bouts of daydreaming. As her Keeper’s first, she knew that one day the safety of the clan would fall into her hands. It seemed there was always a duty waiting for her. So while she often scolded herself for foolish fantasies of exploring the wilds and the far reaches of the fade, she was kind enough to allow them a place in her heart.

Her clan often grew tired of the constant questions. If the answers to one question were not satisfactory enough, she would find 15 more questions to follow. She had learned, in her 27 years of life, how to restrain her wondering thoughts for the sake of others.

But with Solas, she felt no resistance. He seemed to relish in her quandaries, always happy to expound upon whatever bits of lore she was curious about or hypothesis the inner workings of magic that ruled the fade.

She was growing to like him quite a bit.

She had to remind herself that, at that moment, her focus should be solely on finding allies. On bolstering the Inquisition’s forces so that they may face whatever evils await them.

But for somniari av'ahn, there was always a want she could not ignore.

She signed, a puff of steam filling the air before her as she closed her eyes tight. It’s late, she thought, I wouldn’t-

Before she could finish her thought, the door in front of her, only inches away, swung open. Opening her eyes at the sudden creak of wood, she realized she was staring directly at a bare chest.

“Lethallan?”

Glancing up, she met his blue-green gaze and nearly screamed. She stumbled back a bit, cheeks and ears red and hand pressed to her mouth as she stifled the sound.

Solas looked at her, dressed only from the waist down, as a healer would look upon an unknown ailment; intrigue and surprise.

“Ir abelas (I’m sorry), I didn’t mean to scare you,” he insisted, slightly breathless himself.

The cold air must have finally reached his senses because, as quickly as he opened the door, he swung it shut. “One moment!”

Lavellan stood deathly still, wondering if she should run. Before she could make up her mind, the door opened once again, now revealing a fully clothed elf. Her eyes flashed to his but not before catching a hint of pink on his cheeks.

“I apologize, Herald. I was not expecting anyone at this hour. I thought I heard someone at the door and-” he stopped himself, his gaze shifting to her clenched fist, now emanating a small amount of crackling green light. “The mark,” he stepped forward, reaching towards her and taking her hand in his. “This looks painful. Come inside. I believe I can sooth it.”

He did not release her hand as he led her inside. Lavellan followed obediently, immediately trying to catalogue every detail of his bedroom.

The cabin was small and bare. Only a few sets of clothes hung in the wardrobe and his staff rest against the desk in the corner. Atop it, a several notebooks lay scattered.

There was very little information to be gained here, she realized. No clues to solve the mystery. He led her to a lone chair sat beside the foot of the bed, near the fire that had burned down to orange coals. Turning it towards the bed, he ushered her to sit and then took a seat across from her on his bed, immediately taking to the task of examining her.

“How long has it been bothering you, Herald?”

She sighed, “please don’t call me that.”

His eyes peaked back up to hers, “What would prefer I call you then?”

Call me whatever you’d like, just don’t stop speaking to me until I’m drunk off your voice.

“Lavellan is fine,” she dragged her eyes away from his, back down to her palm.

Solas noticed the deep indents surrounding the mark. “Were you clenching your fist for very long?”

“Oh, just the amount of time a meeting with Cullen, Josephine, Cassandra and Liliana would take.”

He blanched at her, eyebrows raised, “I am surprised you did not break the skin.”

She chuckled softly, and noticed a small smile upon his lips.

He held her hand palm up, both of his hands below her as his fingers traced the crack down the center. “Does this cause you any pain?”

“No,” she hummed, “it actually feels quite nice.”

Lavellan bit down on her lip once more; a reminder that she needed to stay focused. But she eased up on her self inflicted punishment the moment she noticed the tips of Solas’s ears grow pink.

“Is there anything that has caused it to ache? More so than before?”

She tilted her head, eyes wandering the thatched roof above, full of holes and leaks (she would need to mention this to the quartermaster). “It’s been getting worse little by little, but I find that when it’s been a particularly long day, it aches more.”

He pulled his hands away from her, standing. She immediately missed the feeling of his warm skin against hers as the winter chill that he had let in nipped at her fingers. He quickly grabbed one of his notebooks from his desk and sat back down across from her, scribbling. “That is interesting,” he said softly, flipping between pages.

“What’s interesting?” she asked, a spike of anxiety in her tone.

He turned back to her, lips slightly parted, and smirked. “Nothing to be concerned with, Her-” he paused, smiling still, “Lavellan. I am simply surprised how much the skin around the mark has healed. When you first arrived in my care, it was not as slightly as it is now.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Solas, how long was I out?”

He rocked back turning his chin to the sky. “I would estimate… eight, nine hours?”

“And you were with me the entire time?”

He nodded, placing his pencil between the pages of his notebook and closing it up. “I feared that if I did not do my duty, they would have dragged me away along with all the other apostates.”

Shifting slightly on the threadbare linens and rough wollen blanket on his bed, Solas re-positioned himself so that he could hold Lavellan’s hand in his lap. One hand hovered above hers and a soft green light began to glow between them.

“I wouldn’t have let them do that,” she mumbled, her gaze fixed on the threads of magic being woven before her.

“You were considered guilty of murdering the Divine at the time. I doubt they would have listened to you.”

“I can be rather persuasive,” she said, shrugging.

He lifted his eyes to peak at her quickly, something she only caught for just a moment. “Is that so?”

Soon, the built up ache in her palm began to ease. She released a heavy sigh as each twist of his fingers seemed to bring a new wave of relief.

“Do not let it get this bad again, lethallan. If it begins to pain you, I ask that you come to me immediately.” He continued to shift his fingers ever so slightly, weaving the magic around her and using it to sooth whatever chaos the mark was causing.

She felt her ears twitch as a shock ran through her. Hearing him call her lethallan should not have excited her so much. She was one of the people. But the way he said it made it sound like she was one of his people.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Lavellan asked, shifting slightly so that their knees barely brushed against each other.

“I doubt anyone has ever seen anything like this. Ancient elvhen artifacts don’t often fall into the hands of those who do not know how to wield them. To my understanding, what happened to you at the Conclave should have torn your body asunder.”

Nodding, she chuckled. “I suppose the occational ache doesn’t seem so bad, then.”

As his focus seemed to sharpen, so too did the magic he wielded. The roiling burn of the mark had quieted to a dull hum, then vanished altogether. Finishing, his shoulders slouched slightly. “That should ward off the pain. For now, at least.”

Lavellan drew her hand towards her and used her thumb to inspect the scar. The ache had vanished completely. Now, all she felt was her raised skin and a slight magical tingle left behind. “Ma serannas (Thank you), Solas.”

The corner of his mouth twisted upwards softly. “You speak elven beautifully,” he sighed, his eyes still fixed on her hand, now cradled between her right thumb and forefinger.

“I didn’t think there were many different ways to speak elven.”

Solas paused, then turned back to his notebook, scribbling down a few more things. “Dialects are common in nomadic languages. The elven your clan speaks might sound very different from a clan in Orlais or Rivain.”

She had never considered that and immediately 15 more questions sprung to mind. But the hour was late and she was exhausted.

“You seem to know more elvish than anyone I’ve ever met,” she said, rising to her feet.

He glanced at her, cautiously. “I am a well traveled man.”

Noting his apprehension, she wilted, “I see…” The silence held between them until finally, she stood to leave. Before reaching the door, she stopped, spinning back around. “Would you be willing to teach me?”

Solas’s eyes snapped to hers and his brows slanted. “Teach you elven?”

“Just the things you’ve learned outside of Ferelden or the Free Marches,” she smiled, “if that would be alright.”

Lavellan had seen this look on his face before. A prideful warmth that asked as many questions as it answered.

Connection. A wall beginning to come down, stone by stone.

“I would be happy to,” he smiled sheepishly at her, before standing. She struggled to twist herself back towards the door, thinking back to that urge to run she once had and how it had transformed into the urge to stay. Her stomach felt light and her mind, somewhat drunk. She had taken enough of his time.

“Thank you, again. And sorry for waking you at this hour.”

“Tel’abelas. Halam'shivanas, (I am not sorry. These is the joys of duty,)” he chuckled as he followed her to the door. “Dareth shiral (safe travels), Lavellan.” As she stepped back out into the cold, she barely noticed the chill against her skin or the snowflakes collecting on her eyelashes. She daydreamed her entire walk back to her quarters, ten thousand questions swimming in her head.

-----

Elven sources: https://the-dalish-dish.tumblr.com/language https://lingojam.com/ElvenDAI https://fenxshiral.tumblr.com/projectelvhen Like I said above, I do have a... let's call it a sequel to this that I'm happy to share over DM because I have people I know who follow me here and what happens on my AO3 is not for their eyes.

#dragon age #fan fiction #solavellan #solas #dragon age inquisition

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friendlyrandomperson · 5 days ago

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Howdy fellas, fellays, and fellies! This fic is based off of a silly little situation I thought of: I hope you enjoy!!

Am I The Mean One?

Chapter 1: Eddie Dear Here!

AITMO? For hiding my husband’s bowtie as a joke?

Hiya folks, Eddie Frankly-Dear here. I’m feelin’ awful worrisome lately and I figured I’d get an outside lookeroo at my situation. I hid my husband’s yellow bowtie; he says that the color is danderlion? I’m not sure what that means; he said danderlions were flowers not too long ago! Anywho, I thought it would be an awful funny joke for April Fools’ Day if I took the bowtie with me to work for the day and give it back once I made it home. I do wake up awful early, so I snuck away with his bowtie before giving him a kiss goodbye and bein’ on my way. I got home that afternoon and my poor husband was walkin’ around the house, lookin’ nervous an’ real jittery. I had forgot that I took his bowtie, so I was taken by surprise when he said he had lost it. My husband’s awful smart, y’know, never forgetten’ nothin’. But I did remember ‘bout it eventually, and I gave him his bowtie back and said I was sorry, but I made him real upset and he’s still not real happy with me. What can I do to make him feel better? Any suggestions would be oh so appreciated. I’m just awful worried about him.

Chapter 2: Frank’s Perspective

Aita for being upset with my husband?

Hello. My name is Frank Frankly-Dear, and this past April Fool’s Day, my husband, Eddie Frankly-Dear, took my bowtie to work with him without informing me as a prank. I had only found out about this after going through each and every spot in the house, rechecking each area thoroughly. My husband had come home and acted just as confused as I was, and I am, frankly, very impressed with his acting skills; I had never known how well he could do such a thing. He helped me search for approximately ten minutes before informing me that it was in his mailbag, and he had taken it as a prank. Although he has apologized, I was not pleased with this information and told him as much; he knows how much these bowties mean to me. Unfortunately, now my best friend Julie Joyful is saying that I was far too mean to Eddie, and I should apologize. However, I do not understand where I went wrong. AITA?

Chapter 3: THEY MADE UP!

It had been about a week since the incident; Frank is still a bit bitter, but he still makes Eddie breakfast in the morning, just quieter. Eddie has spent a lot of time talking to Julie behind Frank’s back for advice.

“Hmmm… what about offering to help him with his garden? That’ll cheer ol’ Frankie up for sure!” Julie exclaims, tossing her arms up with a grin on her face. “Well I dunno Miss Julie.. I wanna make it up to ‘im but I’m no better at gardenin’ than I am at helpin’ Sally with ‘er plays, and I’m not very good at that if I’m bein’ real honest withcha, ma’am.” Eddie says sheepishly, adjusting his hat with a hand on his hip. Suddenly, Eddie’s eyes light up as his mouth goes agape. “Wait a momen’… c’mere, what d’ya think o’ this?” He motions for Julie to come over closer before leaning down and whispering something in her ear. Julie’s eyebrows furrow before her face, too, lights up in delight. “OH EDDIE, THAT’S PERFECT! You should do it as SOON as possible, go go go!!” Julie says, pushing Eddie away with playful shoves. She’s much stronger than she looks, Eddie notes. She waves towards Eddie, vibrantly yelling, “Good luck Eddie!!!” “Thank ya kindly, Miss Julie!” Eddie says, waving before freezing for a second. Well, better continue on.

Eddie manages to get through every house, leaving only his and his husband’s left. “Well, here goes nothin’.” He says, walking inside the house and setting his mailbag down. “I’m home, Darlin’!” Eddie shouts, walking into the house and peeking into the kitchen. There stood Frank, a soft classical piece playing on the radio as the pleasant smells of something sweet filled the room and Eddie’s head as the aroma danced around the room, swirling like the wind, carrying all of the leaves fallen from trees in fall. Frank looks over, half of his eyebrow raised before it relaxes again. “Hello Dear, have you finished your runs already? I could have sworn you had a little while longer.” Eddie chuckles before responding. “Nope! Got all of it done early so I could come home to—“ He freezes. “OH GOODNESS! I’M SO SORRY FRANK I FORGOT SOMETHIN’ FOR YA!” Eddie proclaims, running and grabbing his hat before bolting it out of the door. He turns and heads towards Howdy’s store. The bell to the entrance of the bodega rings, alerting the caterpillar of Eddie’s entry. “Howdy, welcome to Howdy— oh! Well, Howdy Ed! What can I do for ya?” Eddie sighs heavily, catching his breath.

“Heya Howdy! Say uh- heh.. do you have any roses?”

About twenty minutes had passed since Eddie’s sudden arrival and departure, leaving Frank to continue baking. He was making Eddie’s favorite as an apology, apple pie. Surprisingly enough, Eddie was the one that told Wally about it. Frank smiles at the memory. Frank wipes his hands off on his apron, hanging it up on a hook before a knock at the door was heard. “Coming!” Frank yelled, walking towards the door and opening it.

What was awaiting him outside of the door?

No other man, than his dear husband, holding a bouquet of roses out towards Frank that had a note attached, and a box of chocolates in the other, also extended, arm. Frank gasps in shock and delight as he stares at his husband, who would not meet his eyes. “I know this ain’t as special as your bowtie is to ya darlin’ but I just felt awful about causin’ ya so much pain an’ I remembered you said roses symbolize eternal love, so I thought—“ Eddie was cut off by a choked sob. “Darlin’?” Eddie looks at his husband in worry, before seeing the largest smile on his husband’s face as he covered his eyes with his skinny arms, tears streaming down his cheeks. Eddie immediately sets down the gifts and runs right back to his husband, wrapping his arms around him. “Sugar I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to make ya-“ Eddie was then cut off by Frank placing a finger onto his lips, sniffling but no longer crying. Frank smiles even wider as he wraps his arms around his husband’s shoulders, planting a kiss right on his lips. Eddie’s eyes grow wider the warmer his cheeks got, before slowly closing them and smiling in the kiss. Frank pulls away after a moment and places his hands on both sides of his husband’s face. “I forgive you, dear. And I apologize as well, I should not have gotten upset with you over something so trivial.” Eddie smiles, tears pooling in his eyes as he gently pulls Frank in to quickly kiss him again, before lightly pushing him away once more.

“I love you darlin’. Bowtie, necktie, er no tie; yer beautiful in my eyes.”

#welcome home frank frankly #welcome home eddie dear #frank frankly #eddie dear #franklydear #frankly dear #frank x eddie #eddie x frank

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random-thot-generator · 1 year ago

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Dirty Little Secret + pt. 3

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH x FEM READER

Summary: Johnny shows up out of the blue and gets to meet Aunt Rue. Cue the impromptu come-to-Jesus meeting.

Warnings/Tags: Angst - obviously, Profanity, Sex is mentioned but nothing explicit, Soap's POV, Rue's POV, Reader is taking a moment, Aunt Rue's a good mum, No use of Y/N

(Notes: Again, no smut. We're not there yet, folks. Wanted to get Johnny's side of the story out there, along with Aunt Rue's thoughts on the matter. Just a warning. Edited this to Kickstart My Heart on loop, so if there's a shit-ton of mistakes... my bad. 🤷‍♀️)

Word Count: 2K

Johnny felt like the wind had been knocked out of him when he heard your voice behind the counter, but when you suddenly popped into view, it almost brought him to his knees. The only thing that kept him from reaching for you was that horrible, devastated expression on your face. Tucking his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking, he took a hesitant step towards the counter, as if approaching a cornered, wild animal.

"I'm no' here t'cause ye grief, hen," he murmured, trying to make eye contact. "I jus' wanted t'see ya."

You blinked up at him, huffing a breath out of your open mouth. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again," you confessed, sounding dazed. "How did you…?"

Johnny scratched the back of his neck, feeling like a bit of a creeper. "I, uh… I saw ye on the news. Some sort o' festival 'r somethin'."

"The May Day celebration," you mumbled, remembering the news cameraman panning his camera along the row of booths on the boardwalk. "Bloody hell. So… you saw me and just decided to stop by for a visit? After six months?"

Johnny's look turned sour. "It was no' like I knew where the hell ye'd gone off to, now was it? Ye jus' took off without sayin' a bloody word," he replied, his tone low and accusing.

You scoffed, your own expression growing dark. "And how could I have told you, Johnny? It's not like you ever bothered to give me your number, remember?" you fired back.

The bitterness in your tone cooled his anger instantly. "I…" He huffed out a breath, shoulders slumping. "Yer right. Tha's on me." His contrite expression returned. "It was jus' a shock, comin' back an' findin' ya gone, yer flat empty. I was no' expectin' it. Not after…" He blew out a breath, running his hand over his mohawk. "I dinnae ken wha' t'think."

You crossed your arms over your chest, lips trembling. "I'm surprised you thought of me at all. Why did you even go back to my flat? Things not work out with your other bird?"

"Other bird?" he repeated, scowling, looking utterly confused.

Before you could clarify, your aunt pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Whatever she was about to say died on her lips as her eyes darted between you and Johnny. "Everything alright, love?" she asked you.

"Everything's fine." You dragged your eyes away from him to address your aunt, your tone softening. "I'm sorry 'bout your tea. The box was empty, and then he showed up, and…" You sighed, closing your eyes, shoulders dropping in defeat. "I— I need to go back to the stockroom. Maybe there's another box of oolong back there."

Picking up on the obvious tension and your need to escape the young man, Aunt Rue patted your arm affectionately. "'Course, love. Go ahead. I'll see t'him."

You gave a slight nod, eyes slanting towards Johnny for only a second, but then your chin gave a wobble, and you rushed through the swinging door. He called after you, taking an unconscious step forward, hand reaching out, but you didn't stop. A pained expression crossed his face before he turned and paced a few steps away, raising both hands to rub over his head, holding them there as he blew out a frustrated breath.

Rue pursed her lips, studying him before her eyes cut back to the kitchen door. "So, I take it ya know one another," she drawled.

Johnny turned back around, dropping his arms to his sides. He looked like a whipped pup. "Yes, ma'am. We were… She was my…" A myriad of emotions played over his face before he sighed, remorse evident in his eyes. "Aye. We know each other."

Rue smirked, brows lifting. "I see." She turned to the hot water urns and grabbed a couple of to-go cups. "Tea or coffee, lad?"

Johnny blew out a frustrated sigh. "Dinnae bother, ma'am. I should prob'ly jus' go. Sorry t'have bothered—"

Rue snorted, amused. "Ya ain't gettin' off that easy, lad. Been dealin' with that heartbroken lass for six months. I've got questions, an' you're just the one to answer 'em. So. Tea or coffee?"

Johnny opened his mouth to refuse but didn't have it in him to argue. "Coffee, please. Black with sugar," he mumbled.

Rue hummed in acknowledgment, making them both a strong cup, forgetting about the oolong. She needed all cylinders firing for this one. As she worked, Red finally showed, cheerful as always. He gave Johnny a friendly nod, opening his mouth to greet Rue, but she cut him off.

"No time for chit-chat this mornin', Red," she told him, throwing a couple of rolls into a bag and handing them over. She reached beneath the counter and grabbed his favorite jam packets, then rounded the counter to hand them to him. "On the house, yeah?" she said, ignoring his shocked expression. "Off ya go, then. See ya tomorrow."

Red could do little more than nod as Rue herded him out the door, casting a flummoxed look back as she shut the door and locked it behind him. Reaching for the cups she left sitting on the counter, she handed one to Johnny.

"C'mon, lad. Let's go out back an' have ourselves a wee chinwag."

She led the way to the back exit, checking to be sure you were still inside before motioning him out the door. Walking over to a pair of metal folding chairs leaned against the wall, she grabbed one, nodding for Johnny to take the other, then sat down with a tired sigh. Once, they were both seated, she crossed her legs and looked him over with a critical eye.

"Alright, then. First things first, lad. I'm Rue, her aunt, and you are…"

"John, ma'am. John MacTavish, but ye can call me Johnny."

She nodded, giving him a tight-lipped smile. "Well, it's nice t'meet ya, Johnny." She took a quick sip of coffee and smacked her lips. "Now, let's get down t'brass tacks, shall we?" She sat back and crossed her arms over her lap. "I'm goin' to take a wild guess an' say you're the reason why my girl came runnin' home with her tail between her legs. Not seen her in that bad a shape since her da dumped her on my doorstep, so it must have been serious. How long were ya together?"

Taken aback, it took a moment for Johnny to answer. "I been seein' her fer almost two years, but we were no'… I mean, it wasnae…" He huffed a frustrated breath and scrubbed his hand over his 'hawk. "It's— It's complicated."

Rue rolled her eyes, making a scoffing noise. "Bloody hell, this generation, I swear…" She shook her head. "Just say ya were fuckin', lad. Jesus." She scoffed again. "Complicated, he says…" she muttered.

Johnny gaped at her, surprised by her blunt words. His brows furrowed, an embarrassed look on his reddening face. "It was no' jus' fuckin'," he muttered, sounding defensive. "I cared 'bout her— do care 'bout her."

"Uh-huh. So, what happened, then? What would send my girl runnin' back to the one place she worked so hard to escape, hm?"

His lips parted, but he didn't have an answer. Eyes darting back and forth, he searched for an explanation, a reason why you would just up and leave him without saying anything. He thought it might have been another bloke, but after that last night together, he couldn't bring himself to believe it. So, why? Why did you leave? He had been searching for that answer for the last six months. Finally, he settled for repeating your confusing words from earlier. "She said somethin' 'bout another bird," he said glumly. "Dunno wha' the hell she's talkin' 'bout."

Rue's brows ticked up. "Sure about that? You're a handsome lad. Doubt ya have trouble pullin' the birds."

"No!" he snapped. "I'd never che—." He cut himself off, gritting his teeth in frustration. "There was no other bird," he grumbled out.

His hand clenched into a fist, the other warping the to-go cup, some of the hot brew spilling over his knuckles. Cursing under his breath, he set it on the ground, slinging the hot liquid off his hand. He glared at the back of his hand, then huffed a tired breath, his expression softening. "I dinnae want anyone else. Jus' her." He shook his head, looking lost.

Rue studied him, her head tilting to the side. "She never mentioned you, ya know? Never once spoke your name. I knew she was hurtin'— obviously, but there was somethin' about the way she looked when I'd try to bring it up, like she was... ashamed. 'Course, we've all been fools for love, so I figured some bloke had filled her head with a bunch of pretty words, promisin' her the moon an' stars, then broke her heart, but…" Her eyes narrowed. "Explain to me what 'complicated' means."

A look akin to the shamed face you would always give her now came over his. He started picking at one of his cuticles, studying it with keen interest, his bottom lip jutting out a little.

"When we first started hookin' up, it wasnae a big deal. We'd run into each other at the pub an' end up back at her place." He shrugged but then paused, his eyes growing solemn. "But then, somethin' changed. I'd catch m'self thinkin' 'bout her, like all the bloody time, while I was deployed. Then I'd come home an' find m'self goin' back t'tha' same damn pub, hopin' t'see her, gettin' pissed when she was no' there." He sighed, shook his head. "I finally gave up pretendin' it was jus' a hook up, an' started goin' over t'her place when I was on leave."

"So, you're a soldier, then," Rue said softly.

A grim look pulled the corners of his mouth down. "Aye. A sergeant in the Army. Special forces." He frowned, an inner struggle going on inside his head. "I ken 's no' the best job t'have, no' when ya got a lass waitin' fer ya at home. 'S hard t'make it work, bein' gone so much. Most birds canna hack it, end up callin' it quits. Figured I'd come home one day an' she'd be shacked up wi' some other bloke. Thought that might'a been wha' happened, but... I had t'see fer m'self." A sad expression made his eyes look luminous in the morning sun. "Tol' m'self I should leave her be, let 'er go, but I canna do it."

He sighed, leaned back in his chair and scrubbed at the scruff on his cheek. "I never tol' her how I felt, dinnae think it was fair puttin' tha' on her. Tried no' t'crowd her, dinnae hang about her place, makin' a nuisance o' m'self. Thought I was protectin' her, but it was jus' as much fer me, I guess. Dinnae help."

Rue's heart went out to the poor lad, despite how bloody stupid he was. "Could ya not tell that she loved ya, lad?"

Johnny's brows shot up, his mouth falling open. "She… She loves me?"

Rue sniffed a laugh. "Bloody hell, you really are an eejit, aren't ya?" She shook her head, amazed at how clueless he was. "'Course she loves ya, ya daft numpty." Her eyes grew shrewd as she watched him process the revelation, saw the hope bloom in his eyes.

"So, tell me, Johnny boy. What are ya willin' to do to get her back?"

part 2 part 4

#john soap mactavish #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mctavish x fem reader #cod soap x reader #cod soap x fem reader #cod soap #cod soap mactavish

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darkurgetrash · 3 months ago

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Me and @merrypaladin made the most beautiful goddess ever to be the wife of my crack dnd character Billy Joe Bob Ghost Hunter McGee.

Of course, I wrote their very first-meeting to be incredibly sweet. ☺️❤️ Beneath the cut.

Billy Joe Bob gulps, pressing his sopping wet hat to his chest as he stares up at what might just be the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on. A woman with skin like the ocean, eyes like amber, and hair shifting through more colours than the Luma Waterway themselves. She holds him in the palm of her hand, her face calm but tired as she looks him over.

Weirdly enough, he don’t feel afraid. Not even a little. Not that he ever gets scared—he’s Billy Joe Bob, after all—but this? This is anti-fear. If anything, he’s never felt less scared in his life!

“Curious…” The woman’s voice rolls over him like a gentle tide. “It’s not often I find a living mortal in my waters. What is your name?”

He grins, wide and easy. “Name’s Billy Joe Bob Treasure Hunter McGee, ma’am,” he says, placing his hat back on top of his head just so he can tip it. “BJB for short.”

She exhales, long-suffering. “Of course. A treasure hunter.” Her eyes sweep over him like she’s already decided exactly what kind of fool he is. “Should have known. Only your kind are reckless enough to venture here.”

“Reckless is my middle name!” He plants his feet, wobbling a bit but steadying himself by grabbing her thumb. She lifts a brow at the familiarity, but he just grins wider. “Billy Joe Bob Treasure Hunter Reckless McGee.”

No need to mention he ain’t entirely sure what ‘reckless’ even means.

“I’m afraid you’ll find no treasure here,” she says, her tone flat. But there’s a glint in her eye—something like amusement. “These waters belong to the spirits. They pass on to the next life, leaving everything behind. There is nothing here for a mortal like you.”

Billy Joe Bob scratches his head. He could’ve sworn that sailor in the tavern told him there was treasure hidden here. And why would the man lie? BJB had paid him handsomely for the tip! And double for his boat!

“Aw, shucks.” He shrugs, all sheepish. “And after all that trouble just to get here, too! Had to down ‘bout a dozen water-breathing potions.”

The woman says nothing.

The silence is… unfamiliar. Unsettling, even. Billy Joe Bob ain’t used to folks not responding to him. And worse—his face feels kinda warm. Like he’s… blushing?

Nah! Must be the pressure of the deep water. Ain’t no person in the whole world that could make BJB turn red.

“Ain’t no matter, though,” he says, filling the quiet and shuffling his feet. “Reckon it’s time I change my name anyway. Gets boring once ya already found the greatest treasure there ever was.”

That gets her attention. She tilts her head slightly. “Oh? You did?”

“Yessiree!” He winks. “And I’m lookin’ right at her!”

For a moment, she just stares, like she’s waiting for him to crack a joke. Then—something shifts.

And she laughs.

A roaring, belly-deep laugh that shakes the sea itself. The waves tremble beneath her joy, and before Billy Joe Bob can so much as blink, he’s flying backwards, flipping through the water like a barn door in a hurricane.

The world spins; bubbles exploding around him as he tumbles out of control. He fumbles for his axe—he ain’t sure how, but he’s certain he could find a use for it—but his hands catch only more and more water—

Then, something snags his shirt.

The chaos halts.

Blinking through the dizziness, he finds himself dangling between the woman’s thumb and forefinger, her vast, shimmering eyes filled with something suspiciously like concern.

“Oh—I’m so sorry!” she says quickly, before setting him gently back onto her palm. “I haven’t laughed like that in… well, in a long time!”

Billy Joe Bob squints up at her, still a little dazed. “…Since when d’you have six eyes?” His vision swims. “Not that I’m complainin’—suits ya.”

She laughs again, but softer this time—gentler, like the tide rolling back instead of crashing in.

“You are a strange human, Billy Joe Bob Treasure Hunter Reckless McGee.”

BJB steadies himself, allowing the blush to fully take his cheeks as he slaps his hat back on, and flashes her his best wink. “So I been told, ma’am.”

The woman smiles. A large, beautiful one that achieves the rarest thing of all:

It renders him speechless.

“Please,” she says. “Call me Luma.”

#character illustration #original writing #🌊🤠#dnd homebrew #dnd oc #dnd art #bjb #eldebroake #myart

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thelastspeecher · 7 months ago

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Ehhhhh fuck it, here's some self-indulgent angst in my Olympian Falls AU.

——————————————————————————————

Mearl parked the truck in the driveway and looked at his youngest son in the passenger seat.

“Don’t forget, we’ll tell folks ya fell from the loft in the barn again,” he said. Lute scowled.

“I know. That’s what we told the hospital,” he spat.

“Look, tellin’ the truth is important, but in this case-” Mearl started. Lute threw the passenger door open.

“I know,” he ground out. “We can’t tell the truth ‘bout how my arm got broke. Folks can’t know it happened ‘cause a monster attacked the farm. Again. No, we have to tell ‘em I got hurt doin’ somethin’ stupid.” Lute stormed out of the truck, slamming the door behind him. Mearl sighed. He knew that it would be an adjustment to have Angie living at home again, after years of her staying in New York. But he didn’t expect Lute, whom had been raised as Angie’s twin, to be struggling the most.

Tensions had been high when Mearl returned from New York with Angie. Specifically, tensions between Angie and Lute. Angie’s other siblings had been happy to see her, but her twin dodged her constantly, refusing to be alone with her as much as possible, leaving the room whenever she talked about camp, and even avoiding talking to her altogether.

It came to a head that morning, when a monster attacked the orchard where Angie and Lute were harvesting apples. Lute was slammed into one of the apple trees, breaking his arm, before Angie was able to kill the monster. Angie brought Lute to the house, near hysterical. Sally stayed home to calm her down while Mearl drove Lute to the hospital. The entire drive there and back, Lute had sulked, staring at the floor like it personally offended him.

Mearl suddenly felt a sense of foreboding.

Lute was awful upset at Angie. It might not go well when he sees her. Mearl grabbed the keys from the ignition and sprinted after his son. He could hear Angie frantically apologizing the moment he stepped inside.

“I’m sorry, Lute, I- I can’t heal like some of my siblin’s at camp,” Angie’s voice sobbed. Mearl made a beeline for the living room. Lute stood in front of the couch his mother and sister were sitting on, visibly seething. Tear tracks shone on Angie’s cheeks. Sally gently rubbed circles on Angie’s back, trying to soothe her.

“Then why’d ya waste time tryin’?” Lute snapped. Angie bit her lip.

“I thought- I thought if it’d work fer anyone, it’d work fer my twin. I mean, Dad is a twin, so-”

“Yer not my twin.” Lute’s voice was full of cold anger. Angie let out another sob. “Yer not even my full sister!”

“Lute,” Sally scolded.

“How can you defend her? She ain’t yer daughter, Ma!”

“She is.”

“No, she ain’t! She’s some- some Greek myth what came to life!” Lute said furiously. “And she can’t even protect us from the monsters what come here. The monsters what come here ‘cause of her!”

“I- I killed the one today,” Angie said weakly. Lute’s eyes blazed with fury. He leaned in.

“You ran away from it!”

“I had to get- get some distance so’s I could fire an arrow. I ain’t good at melee fightin’.”

“Then why’d you run without me?” Lute’s voice broke. Angie’s eyes welled up with fresh tears. “You left me!”

“I didn’t-”

“No, you did! You left, just like ya did years ago to go to that- that camp!”

“I-”

“You should’ve stayed there,” Lute spat. Angie’s head drooped. “Better yet, when ya showed up on our doorstep, Ma should’ve divorced Pa ‘n sent the both of ya far away!” Mearl’s heart plummeted. Sally gasped. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Angie jumped to her feet.

“I didn’t ask fer this!” Angie screamed. She ran out of the living room, nearly colliding with Mearl on her way. The front door slammed. Angie’s sobs gradually grew fainter until he couldn’t hear her anymore.

“Lute Everrett McGucket, that was completely unacceptable,” Sally snapped. Lute glared at her.

“I’m only tellin’ the truth. And Angie knows it. I’ve read those books ya got on Greek mythology. Her- her father-” Lute’s face contorted, as though he had tasted something sour. “-is the god of truth. I bet she knows a lie when she hears one.”

“Ya might feel like that’s the truth, but it don’t make it,” Mearl rumbled. Lute looked over. His eyes widened in panic.

“I- I didn’t know you were there, Pa. I didn’t mean-” He let out a large sneeze. “I didn’t mean-” He sneezed again. “What in the-” Lute sneezed three times in a row. “What’s-”

“That sounds like when Harper gets hay fever,” Sally said. Lute sneezed. “But ya ain’t never had it ‘fore, and the pollen count ain’t high right now.” Mearl stifled a groan.

“It was Angie.”

“What?!” Lute squeaked. He rubbed his suddenly red and watering eyes. “But- but-”

“When I visited her fer Thanksgiving last year, one of her camp friends told me she accidentally gave hay fever to someone she was upset with. Feller was sneezin’ fer over a week ‘fore Angie realized she was the one what done it.”

“Of course she did it,” Lute muttered. He sneezed. “It- it weren’t enough that I broke my arm, were it?”

“She didn’t mean to make ya sneezy,” Sally said. “And she certainly didn’t intend fer ya to break yer arm.” Mearl looked over his shoulder. The front door had some damage to its hinges; Mearl had noticed Angie breaking things more frequently than she used to, particularly when she was upset.

If she messed up the door and got Lute sneezin’ already, there ain’t no tellin’ what else she might do in her state. A surge of fear pulsed through his chest. And there ain’t no tellin’ what attention she might attract.

“We need to go after her,” Mearl said.

“Sure, go after the one what keeps causin’ me grief,” Lute said. Mearl frowned at him. Lute backpedaled. “I mean- I-” He sneezed. “She just needs to cool down. She’ll come back.” Sally looked at Mearl.

“Lute’s got a point, darlin’. Angie might just need some time to herself.”

“But-” Mearl started.

�� “She can take care of herself,” Sally said gently. Mearl hesitated. “She’s been on quests, ‘member? She’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know…”

“If she ain’t back in an hour, we’ll go lookin’,” Sally said. Mearl sighed.

“Fine.” He gave Lute his most disapproving look. “In the meantime, yer goin’ to yer room,” he said firmly. Lute stomped off, sneezing intermittently the entire way. Mearl walked over to the couch and slowly sunk down on it. Sally rubbed his back. “When did things get so complicated?” he moaned.

“The moment ya found our daughter in a golden cradle on the doorstep,” Sally replied. Mearl looked away. “Mearl?”

“Sometimes I think the same thing as Lute,” he said quietly. “That I should’ve taken Angie and left y’all. Then- then none of this would’ve happened.”

“True. But what would’ve happened would be worse,” Sally said. Mearl looked at her. Compassion shone in her eyes, a far gentler blue than Angie’s. “Our children would’ve grown up without a father. You ‘n Angie would’ve struggled to get by. No matter what those negative thoughts might say, it’s fer the best we didn’t tear the fam’ly apart.”

“Yer right,” Mearl said. He gripped his knees. “I just- I hate seein’ the twins like this.”

“Lute never really addressed his complicated feelin’s after we told him ‘bout Angie. He tried to hide ‘em away. But he can’t hide ‘em anymore, and they’ve twisted and turned after years of bein’ shoved down.” Sally sighed. “It don’t help they’re both teenagers. Their age is dif’cult without dealin’ with Greek mythology monsters ‘n whatnot.”

“True,” Mearl conceded. Sally leaned against his shoulder. He looked at the clock above the television. “One hour. Then we go lookin’ fer her.”

-----

Max was idly playing with a dagger when the butler knocked on his bedroom door. He quickly shoved the weapon in a desk drawer.

“Yes?” he said. The butler opened the door.

“Young Master Hillcrest, you have a visitor,” the butler said primly. Max stood up.

“A visitor?”

“Miss Angie McGucket.” Before Max could get too excited, the butler cleared his throat, looking a bit uncomfortable. “She seems to be in some distress. Your grandfather is with her.”

Grandpa Stanley? Max’s blood ran cold. Oh, shoot. It must be a Greek thing.

“Thanks fer tellin’ me. I’ll go down to see ‘em right now,” Max said. The butler nodded. He stood to the side so that Max could rush past him. Max sprinted down the hall and large staircase to the first floor. He paused in the foyer, which was empty of demigods. He looked up at the butler, watching from the second floor.

“They’re in the sunroom,” the butler called. Max nodded.

Should’ve figured as such, with her father. Max headed for the sunroom. When he arrived at Camp Half-Blood last summer, the last person he’d expected to see there was his best friend’s twin sister. He’d been told Angie McGucket was staying at a fancy boarding school in New York City. But the lie fell apart the moment he saw Angie sitting at a picnic table with a group of other mostly blond kids.

Angie was a demigod, like him. And like him, her parentage was a closely guarded secret. If the truth ever came out for either of them, it would have dire consequences for their families.

“He wasn’t thinkin’, sweetheart,” Grandpa Stanley’s voice said as Max approached the sunroom. He was like Max, a demigod, though while Max had yet to find out his mother’s identity, Grandpa Stanley had known for decades his father was Hephaestus. When Max questioned why there were multiple demigods in their family, Grandpa Stanley merely shrugged.

“Some fam’lies ‘re favored by the gods,” he’d said.

“That’s a good thing, right?” Max had asked. Grandpa Stanley’s face had darkened.

“It very rarely is.”

Max cast aside the memory when he reached the sunroom. He stood in the doorway, watching Grandpa Stanley comfort Angie. The sunlight that filled the room seemed drawn to her, shining like a spotlight.

“Angie?” Max asked. Angie looked up. Max felt his heart do a backflip. When Angie first went away to camp, they’d been children. Too young for Max’s fondness for her to be much of anything. But now, his affection had surged into infatuation. Angie was the perfect girl: smart, powerful, beautiful, and kind. Any room she walked into grew brighter. Any song played by her was more lovely. Any person she spoke to was the better for having met her, no matter how brief.

It was no wonder she was one of her godly father’s favorite children.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Angie whispered. She rubbed her eyes. Max walked over to the couch the two were sitting on. He grabbed a nearby wooden chair and sat down. “I- I didn’t know where else to go.” She took a shuddering breath. “I need to call camp, but I can’t- I can’t risk drawin’ more monsters. I know- I know Grandpa Stanley made a- a monster security system, so’s I figured I could use yer phone…”

“Why do ya want to call camp?” Max asked. He had a feeling. It had taken some convincing before Angie agreed to try spending a school year at home, instead of at camp.

“I need- I need to ask Mr. Chiron to send someone to bring me back,” Angie mumbled. Max’s heart sank at the confirmation of his fear. “It was foolish fer me to think I could stay here.”

“What makes ya say that?” Max asked. Angie looked down at the floor.

“I- a monster attacked the orchard this mornin’, while Lute ‘n I were harvestin’ apples.”

“But you got the monster, right?” Max asked. Angie nodded. “So, it’s fine!” Angie burst into tears.

“No, it ain’t!” she wailed. “Lute got hurt! And- and he was so upset, he- he said he weren’t my twin and- and he didn’t want me here!” Max scowled. Lute was his lifelong best friend, but that didn’t mean he could look past something like this. “It’d be safer ‘n- ‘n better fer everyone if I weren’t here.”

“Don’t let this single instance sway ya,” Grandpa Stanley said gently. Angie sobbed. “It’s growin’ pains, that’s all.”

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt ‘cause of me.”

“And they won’t,” Max said. Angie shook her head.

“Lute already did.”

“That’s ‘cause he don’t know how to protect himself,” Max said. “If we teach ‘im and the rest of yer fam’ly some fightin’, that’ll be enough fer ‘em to avoid gettin’ hurt.” He looked at Grandpa Stanley. “Right?”

“It would definitely help,” Grandpa Stanley said. Angie sniffed loudly. “I’m sure Lute didn’t mean what he said. He’s just adjustin’. All y’all are.”

Don’t give him the right to make Angie cry.

“Think about it, Angie,” Max said. “Do ya really want to go back to camp? Spend the rest of the year in a mostly empty cabin?” Not many half-bloods were too powerful to prevent them from staying with their mortal families. There would only be a handful of people still at camp right now. Including the person Max wanted Angie to bond with the least: one of the co-head counselors of the Hermes Cabin, Stan Pines. Angie’s knee bounced anxiously. “Or do ya want to stay here in Gumption, with me ‘n yer fam’ly?”

“I want to stay,” Angie whispered. Max beamed. “But- but I ain’t ready to go home just yet.”

“Take all the time ya need,” Grandpa Stanley said. He got up. “I’ll call yer folks to let ‘em know where ya are.” Angie nodded mutely. Max waited until Grandpa Stanley was gone.

“If ya want me to beat up Lute, let me know,” he said. Angie chuckled weakly.

“He’s yer best friend!”

“Yeah.” Max reached out and rested his hand on Angie’s bouncing knee. It gradually slowed down. Angie met his eyes. Max smiled at her. “But us demigods have to stick together.”

#hhhhh I have a backlog of writes I need to crosspost to my writing blog #I'll do that tomorrow #Olympian Falls AU #Angie McGucket #Lute McGucket #Pa McGucket #Ma McGucket #McGucket Family #my writing #speecher speaks

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prismaticpichu · 10 months ago

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Hi! How are you? Also, umm, can you make Zack Seph, like Zack does vlogging with his friend Seph, like add Funny, angst, happy ending, Protective Zack, please? I'm sorry if I bothered you. 🥺❤️♥️✨

Heya!!! I’m doing great, my friendo!! Hope all is well with you!! 💕

Ooooh vlogging???? Absolutely!!!

(BIG jumbo shoutout to @rottenpumpkin13’s series of SOLDIER vlogging shenanigans for inspiration!!!! Those things are frigging hilarious <333)

Nibelheim Fix-It: Vlogging Edition!

[the camera flashes on to reveal two Mako-blue eyes gazing steadily into the lenses, their electric glow all the more accentuated by the dismal blackness of his backdrop, his footage jostling up and down slightly as the spiky teen makes his way through the corridor in which he is recording.]

“Heyyyyyy, world and all who inhabit it! Zack Fair here, and I’m coming to you RIGHT from the basement of some screwed up manor in Nibelheim!”

[the young First glances around a bit, ensuring that he’s still going the right way.]

“It’s very very very VERY, dark, as you can see… Just trying to make sure I don’t bump into anything here. Already bumped into three rats, eight cobwebs, a whole buncha coffins. Spooky stuff. But don’t worry!! This isn’t your boy’s first trip down here…”

[there’s another quick turn over his shoulder, this time spotting a very vague rod of light floating in the distance, some nebulously victorious sound escaping his lips as he eagerly starts toward it.]

“This is actually my second time down here. First time I was kinda totally kicked out. Not at all rudely though! Guy just needed some space… I think. He’s been getting that for like four days now, anyhow. ‘Bout time he took a break.”

[as the glowing belt approaches, Zack mindlessly pads around for a bit, pawing and groping through the thick basement gloom.]

“C’mon, where’s the knob….”

[the faint sound of palm meeting metal is heard echoing through the dark.]

“Ah, sweet. Okay okay okay… So you folks are probably wondering right now who I’m even talking about. Well, lemme tell ya. Ever hear the name ‘Sephiroth’ before? You know, quicksilver hair and bare chest and pupils that go all upppppp like that? Yeah, well! He’s in there. In a library right here, devouring books like free samples at a superstore. And he’s been there for days. Been in there ever since—“

[he pauses for a beat, cutting himself off, a look of confliction cracking the teen’s cheerful masquerade]

“Well, uh… for Purposes, I don’t think I’m going to say what happened when we went to investigate the reactor. Doesn’t really matter, anyways. It’s more about how it affected my poor bud—uh, Sephiroth! Shoot he’s gonna kill me for using that silly nickname on this. Anyyyywaayy! I’m here to get him some fresh air, tell him what he needs to know and, most importantly, get it all recorded so he’ll never forget it again.”

[the camera hobbles as Zack presses his ear to the door, listening intently.]

“Alright… he’s definitely in there. Can hear his boots walkin’ around. Okay. Okay, you got this, Zack… Alright! I’m going in. On three, two, one…”

[and the door to the library is pushed open, his camera’s eye capturing the shift in backdrop as Zack makes his way across the threshold, the young SOLDIER traveling down what looks to be some narrow corridor that abruptly pools into an eerie candlelit opening.]

“Ooh. There he is.”

[the camera blearily pans around to capture a slender silver shape with a book in his hands, leather coat dancing with faint orange hues from the casting candlelight, silver hair appearing almost copper under the ghostly illumination as he paces back and forth across the floor without so much as a flinch.]

“Gaia… does he not even know I’m here? Okay, okay! Let’s do this, guys. Let’s get this man outta here.”

[there’s a deep, centering inhale from behind the camera.]

“Hey! Sephiroth! Seppphiroth! Sepppphiiroth! Put down the book.”

[a heavy silence dogs as Sephiroth continues to pace the floor in silence.]

“Shit…”

[the camera pans back to Zack.]

“Okay, so… He seems really out of it. Really engrossed in that book there. We gotta get through that noggin of his.”

[the camera pans back to the catatonic SOLDIER.]

"Sephiroth! Hey! Sephiroth! Sepppppphiroth!! I'm talking to you, man. HelloooooOOO?? Holy Ifrit... HEY! SEÑOR SEPHIROTH! STOP READING FOR A SEC, would'ja???"

[there's another bout of silence.]

"Dear Gaia... What’s going on with you?? Why aren't you responding? Sephiroth! Sepppphirottth.”

[following yet another wordless stretch, Zack swings the camera back around, rubbing his neck with an expression of both frustration and hurt.]

“Alright… guess he left me with no choice. Time for extreme measures.”

[the camera hobbles a little as Zack approaches the soulless SOLDIER.]

“Ah, screw it. Who cares if I don’t stick to the formalities…”

[an inky splotch of black momentarily covers the lenses, not wanting to capture the horrid images and texts that had seemingly possessed his friend, leaving only the teen’s gentle voice to provide any content.]

“…Hey. Bud. It’s me. Hey—yeah, I’m gonna put my arm here if you don’t put that thing down. I miss you… alright? You have any idea how long you’ve been down here? Gaia, pal… those bags… Look… you need some rest. Okay? We can talk alllllll this out in the morning. Let’s just go, okay? You’ll feel better after a good snooze…—“

“—I… c-ant…”

“You can, pal. These books aren’t going nowhere. I’m not going nowhere. Not without you.”

[another swath of silence stretches over the two SOLDIERs, the blackened smudge shifting slightly against the lenses.]

“Look, bud. Look. I know what he said is screwed up. I know what you saw is screwed up. But it doesn’t change anything… okay? You’re still my friend… you’re still Sephiroth. You’re still my old pal. You’re still…”

[even through the inky smudge, shards of blue are seen dancing across the camera, a cursory glance being cast toward the lenses in consideration.]

“…Y’know what. Fuck whatever they hear. You’re human, Seph… Not some alien. Not a monster. Not anything but the kind and lovable person that you are. And… and I’ma jerk for not telling you that sooner. I shoulda told you that the moment Genesis said those horrible things in the reactor. I shoulda told you that day of being here… okay? And I never ever ever ever want you to forg…—“

[suddenly, smears of black and silver flash across the camera as it plummets to the ground, cutting out instantly upon impact.]

[and it cuts back in a nebulous amount of time later, titled sideways, unknowingly capturing the sight of General Sephiroth slumped in the sheltering arms of his best friend.]

“Shh… it’s okay, pal. It’s okay… let it out. Let it out. I’m not going anywhere…”

—————————————

[the camera flashes on to reveal a smiling Zack leaning against his headboard at the Nibelheim Inn, happily accompanied by a freshly-showered Sephiroth, tresses of golden sunlight streaking in through the open window beside them.]

“Heyyyyyy, world and all who inhabit it! Zack Fair here, and I’m coming to you RIGHT from the Nibelheim Inn! Today I got my best friend and ex-commander here, Mr Señor Sephiroth!”

[Zack slings an arm around his buddy’s shoulders, earning himself an amused grunt from the mercury-haired man.]

“Yes. Hello, inhabitants of the world.”

“You wanna add a littttleeee bit more cheer—?”

“No.”

“Okie doke. You wanna at least tell ‘em the news?”

[the camera pans so that it is completely facing Sephiroth, green eyes well-rested and gleaming under morning’s warm embrace.]

“Hnph. Fine. As of this moment—“

“Say ‘breaking news!’”

“I will eat you whole.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just say it!”

[silver bangs sway against the lenses as Sephiroth shakes his head.]

“…Fine. Breaking new: as of this moment forward, both I General Sephiroth and First Class Zack Fair officially resign from SOLDIER. Cadet Cloud Strife will also be discontinuing his duties and is currently staying with a beloved family member.”

[Zack’s euphoric cheer is heard behind the camera.]

“Heck yeah!! Oh, and! For the record: all future episodes of ‘Zack Tracks’ will be recorded with my new partner here! Woooo!”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“Bummer, ‘cause you’re doing it.”

[before an utterance of protest can be made, Zack takes the camera back from his pal.]

“Anywhoooo! Anything you wanna say to the people before we sign off, pal?”

[the camera lingers on Sephiroth’s face for several beats following the question, capturing the traces of wistfulness that flicker through his emerald eyes, the almost pensive pulse that ripples through those celestially human pupils as he contemplates an appropriate closure for Everything.]

“…Yes. I do.”

[and the camera zooms in, focusing on his sincere expression, aged and weathered from all the ravaging storms that have opened up to what he calls his life.]

“Hojo, you can disrespectfully burn in the deepest and most incandescent stoves in Hell.”

[a simple click, and the footage goes black.]

#ffvii #sephiroth #crisis core #zack fair #ff7 #nibelheim #pichu writing #asks #ty!!#randomness #floof #ff7 fanfic

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scribblertown · 11 months ago

Text

Fates of the Fateless Ch.9: Outlaw's Staple

ao3

wattpad

Arthur startles awake, the culprit being his own snoring pulling him out of a hazy dream and into the consequences of drinking a bit too much in one night.

“Ouugh…” His hands cradle his swollen and sweaty face, a throbbing headache just behind his eyes that peaks each time his heart beats. At least he was sober enough to find his cot last night. “Goddamn…” He forces himself up albeit a bit too fast, vision blinded with white and his head swimming. Stumbling until his hands find the familiar lip of the water barrel’s open top, heaving a great handful of icy water into his face, banishing the remnants of his hangover at least for a time. He takes a moment to just rest over the water's surface, staring at his reflection on its rippling surface.

Good Lord, you're an eyesore…

Bags under his eyes, red splotches on his face, and his hair cowlicked to high hell. His eyes then draw to the sight of his right hand resting partially submerged in the water. His knuckles were split, red and bruised. A slight dull pain, yet he had no memory of how or what caused the injury. He was so curiously absorbed in the mystery he nearly missed the call of his name.

“Huh?” He hums, eyes wandering aimlessly until he spotted Grimshaw.

Her face twists with amusement, “I take it you had fun last night Mr. Morgan?”

“Uh-hehheh-course.” He dives back into the barrel, rubbing another handful of water to the back of his neck, the cool droplets trailing down his back. “I always go a little overboard.”

“You put on quite the show, best entertainment we’ve had in a while!” She chuckles.

“Uuhh… yeah?” Arthur mumbles out a confused reply.

“Anyhow, I was goin’ to ask if you’ve seen our little stowaway?”

“Uh…” His mind reels back to the night before, playing poker with her at the table, maybe a brief memory of her at the fire pit but other than that… “No, sorry I haven’t been awake very long.”

“Hmph. Alright then, but if you do send her my way.”

“Will do.” Grimshaw skirts away leaving Arthur to stumble back to his tent, leaning over his little mirror. “Might be time for a shave.” He ponders, rubbing the course hairs that have grown especially long. He takes to trimming the length of hair with a pair of shears before slathering his face in shaving foam. Carefully dragging the sharp blade of his steel straight razor across his skin. There stood before him the bare face of Arthur Morgan. Somehow even sadder looking than usual.

Maybe shoulda kept the beard, cover up this ugly mug.

“Looking very sharp Mr. Morgan!” A bright faced Jie approaches. “You’re much younger under all that hair than I thought you’d be.”

“Hehheh, suppose my permanent scowl doesn’t help much.” Arthur pats his face down with a damp towel. “Whatchu’ need?”

“That obvious?” the young man tilts his head with a smile, “I was wondering if you’d take me and some of the others out on a job.”

“Got one in mind?” Arthur adjusts the leather tie on his hat, ensuring its security before depositing it upon his head, shrouding his face from the harsh sun.

“Well, uh not-not really.” Jie fumbles.

“Alright, follow me.” Without missing a beat Arthur leads the way, an idea already in mind. “Hey! Joseph!” He whistles, pulling the red head out of a book he’d been digging his nose into. “Come on kid!”

As the boys saddle up Arthur can’t help but notice one horse was missing, the big and burly bastard the stowaway had taken to.

“Where we goin’ Mr. Morgan?” Joseph asks excitedly. “We robbin’ some folk!?”

“Course,” Arthur leads the way out of camp giving Boadicea a reassuring pat. “Bout time you boys start learning the ins and outs of the outlaw life.”

“Boy howdy! Who we robbin? A train maybe?” The boy was eager. Very eager.

Arthur chuckles to himself, “A train ain’t a job you want to take on without plannin’, no we’re going for the outlaw’s tried-and-true stage coach.”

“You get much cash from those?” Jie inquires, a little doubt in his voice.

“You’d be surprised what you stumble upon. What you don’t find in metals or cash can easily be made up at a fence.”

“How long you been doing this sort of thing?” Joseph asks.

“Long.” Arthur quips quickly. Maybe a little harshly. “Now I doubt we’ll be seein’ a bank coach out this way. Maybe if you’re real lucky, next best thing is the real flashy kind. Fools dumb enough to advertise how much cash they got with a fancy coach driver dressed up in suit. Maybe some velvet trimming along the carriage. Passengers preened and plump with more than what they need.” Arthur chuckles, they settle on a ridge overlooking an obvious road paved down by years of use. It doesn’t take long before they spot someone using it. Arthur whips out his binoculars.

“What about that one?” Joseph asks.

The coach itself was small, dingy looking with one of the wheels a color off from the rest. Pulled along by a single horse and a hunched skinny man wiping the sweat from his eyes.

Arthur can’t help the puff of a scoff come out his mouth, “That your idea of fancy?”

“Well I-I don’t know! I ain’t done anything like this before.” Joseph rubs his neck bashfully. “ ‘sides, couldn’t see ‘em very well from up here…” he mumbles.

The two young men wait anxiously as Arthur scans the road slowly.

“Hold on now…” Arthur mutters, a trail of dust coming down the way revealing a much larger carriage pulled forward by two healthy and bulky shires. “This might be somethin’…”

A moment passes in silence as Arthur watches transfixed on the target. Slowly revealing itself with a heavy load of luggage strapped down tightly to the body. The bright paint while faded still vibrant in the sun. Maroon curtains drawn to hide the passengers within.

“Yeah? We got somethin’?” Joseph pipes up again.

“I think so.” Arthur smirks. Pocketing his binoculars. “Get yer faces covered, now follow my lead and let me do all the talkin’ understand?” Arthur leads Boadicea down the slope, trailing the road towards the approaching carriage. Joseph and Jie on either side of him.

“When we’re close, each of you pick a side.”

“Yes sir.”

“Got it.”

The driver clearly spots them, his posture straightening up in alarm as he slows the horses.

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

“Yes, we was wonderin’ if you could point us in the direction-“ Arthur quickly unholsters his gun and whips it trigger ready at the drivers face. “-of any and all the money you’ve got.” The sound of surprise that escapes the driver is comical, his hands shooting straight up eyes wide switching back from the gun to Arthur’s piercing gaze. Jie and Joseph are quick to draw their weapons as well, aiming their sights on the driver.

“D-don’t shoot!” The driver shudders.

“Now we don’t want trouble. So ‘slong as you and your passengers behave, my bullets will stay where they are.” Arthur makes eye contact with Jie and nods his head towards the coach. Jie in turn quickly hops off his horse, approaching the door cautiously before whipping it open. A bout of screams follows.

“Money!” he shouts, “Everything you’ve got!”

“Watch the driver.” Arthur speaks to Joseph as he dismounts and circles to the other carriage door. Inside are 4 people. A woman and 3 men. All agitated and desperately throwing out all their valuables onto the dirt ground in haste. The woman struggling to pull her earrings off with shaky hands. The men emptying out their pockets of bills and coins. A pocket watch flying ungracefully out of one’s hand and bouncing off the carriage step into the dirt with a thud. Jie crouches down to gather the goods as Arthur stands guard.

“Keep them hands up!” Arthur commands. Observing each member carefully before his eyes drift toward to a carpet bag nestled between one of the men’s legs. “What’s in the bag?” The man whom cradles the case visibly pales at the question.

“N-nothing!” The man speaks with a strong accent.

Arthur whistles to catch Jie’s attention, he’s quick to lean in and grab the handle and pull. But stalled by the stranger’s desperate attempt to keep his cargo from being taken.

“Nē, nē, nē, nē! Lūdzu!” he cries in a foreign language. Pulling vigorously, “Please, you take enough!”

Arthur steps in quickly, taking the butt of his pistol and ramming it into the man’s nose. “Well now I’m real curious.” The others cry out in alarm as their friend whiplashes back into his seat.

“Henriks, Dieva dēļ, vienkārši ļaujiet viņiem to paņemt!”

“Vai jūs labprātāk zaudētu savu dzīvību?”

Whatever they say seems to keep his protests at bay allowing Jie to snatch the bag out and nestles it onto the ground, rustling about its contents. Some papers, a horse bristle brush, smelling salts. He stalls at a tied balled up handkerchief.

“Dzīve ir izšķērdēta jums, zagļu zvēriem!” The man grovels past his fingers that cradle his nose, blood pooling out past the digits and dribbling crimson onto his white collar. Jie looks to Arthur with a face of confusion.

“What is it?” Arthur inquires.

“An egg?” Jie shrugs in confusion, holding up the prize of a pure white chicken’s egg.

“This man was so up in arms over his lunch?” Joseph utters in disbelief.

“Just a moment…” Jie inspects the egg further, giving the surface a few good taps. “I think it might be porcelain.”

“Looks like your tea set will be a piece short. Now put your head down and count to 100.” Arthur urges with a thrust of his gun, causing the inhabitants to flinch. But they do as they’re told quickly. “Same goes for you.” Arthur threatens the coach driver.

“1.2.3..” He begins shakily.

“I can’t hear you!” Arthur yells as he and the other two men saddle up quickly.

“4!5!6!” The driver shrieks. The echoing of “10,11,12” could be heard on the wind well after they’d left them in the dust.

“Jie how much we get?”

“Close to a hundred at least. And that’s only the paper money!”

“That more than 2 months pay!” Joseph excitedly exclaimed. “I could buy Agatha a new dress and shoes and and-“

“Don’t go counting yer chickens yet kid, the camp gets its share remember?” Arthur jumps in before Joseph can continue on his shopping list.

“Oh-uh- right right. But it’s still beats the mines I’ll tell you what!”

“Not coming home with a bad cough and an aching back.” Jie says, “And money in our pockets in the matter of minutes!”

“To think no one else thought to join up, even after all that money Mr. Van der linde distributed from the treasury.” Joseph recalls with a shake of his head, “Hell! To think I almost didn’t!”

“Still plenty of time to regret that choice.” Arthur teases. Soon enough the camp site fell into view, the men making one last look around before descending home. Upon arrival Agatha cheerfully approached welcoming Joseph with a smile and a tight hug.

“Where’d you go you silly man!” She playfully scolds, “I was gettin’ worried!”

“Oh, Agatha you won’t believe how much money we made!” Joseph pulls down his stained bandanna. Face sweaty and red from being in the sun, a toothy smile as he beamed with excitement. “And from just one job!”

“Hey, Jay let me see that egg.” Arthur motions his hand in a “gimme” motion. Jie complies opening the kerchief and depositing in his hand. The thing fills out the majority of his palm, significantly bigger than any chicken’s egg. The surface is shiny, and smooth to the touch. The pearlescent surface appeared almost pure white, but upon closer inspection the barest etching could be felt and seen in a certain light. Depicting a country side, a homestead, and various livestock. All framed by Victorian escue floral patterns. “You said this was porcelain?” Arthur asks Jie as he turns the odd treasure in his hand, inspecting the many intricate details along it’s surface.

“By the feel and look of it, I’d wager its enamel. Especially the way it reflects the light.” Jie points out. Confident in his assessment.

“You know a lot about this kinda thing?” Arthur asks curiously.

“I had family in Jingdezhen.” Jie answers, only to receive a confused look. He rolls his eyes slightly, “I’m from China. I know about china.”

“Aw of course!” Arthur nods, his attention turning back to the egg. His brows furrow. “How’re your repair skills? Looks like there’s a crack in the-“ before he can finish his thought, the egg splits down the middle in a perfect line.

“Shit! You broke it!” Joseph cries out in disappointment.

“No! I didn’t do nothin’!” Arthur denies defensively.

“There’s something inside!” Jie excitedly points out. Along the perfectly split seam something larger gleamed out at them. Arthur delicately pries one side away to reveal the prize inside. A gleaming solid gold chicken nestled inside a crimson velvet nest.

“I guess we know which came first then.” Agatha commented, bewildered by their discovery.

“My God.” Arthur delicately plucked the bird from its luxurious resting place and held it up in all its glory. The eyes sparkling gems, the feathers varying shades of precious metals.

“Ain’t that somethin’?” Hosea had sauntered over, arms behind his back as he also admires the small trinket. “You go robbin’ some giant at the top of a bean stalk?”

“Stage coach.” Arthur replies, carefully depositing the golden chicken back in its container. Handing it off to the old man. “These boys did good; job went without a hitch.”

Hosea delicately twists and turns the egg in his fingers. “Curious treasures people carry these days.” He turns to the younger men, “And worth a pretty penny no doubt.” He shakes the egg at them, they smile excitedly. “Oh, and did you boys happen to see our little stowaway while out on your little egg hunt?”

“Stowaway? Who’s the stowaway?” Agatha asks confused.

Hosea speaks her true name, “It’s quite a story-“ He stops himself, “Not important, but have you seen her?”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her all morning…” Agatha replies.

“No, m’fraid not.” Arthur shrugs his shoulders. “Grimshaw was asking earlier today. She still missin’?”

“Hm.” Hosea hums, “Thank you boys, you’ll be sure to get your fair share.” He dismisses the others.

“Everything ok?” Arthur ponders.

“Probably.” Hosea replies, his attention drawn by the sight of Tilly approaching hurriedly.

“Arthur!” Tilly calls out, her voice cracks slightly. “Arthur, have you seen (y/n)?”

“No, no I’m sorry but I haven’t.” Arthur peers out over the camp, no sign of said woman. “She been gone long?”

“No one’s seen her since the party. I’ve searched high and low. John went out to search up by the water but he hasn’t come back yet.” She squirms in place a moment. Fidgeting with her skirt nervously. “I’m real worried.”

“I noticed that horse she’s been usin’ was missin’ too…” Arthur mutters. Tilly perks up, her gaze looking past him to John freshly dismounted from the saddle, alone.

“Did you find her?” She urgently asks.

“Nothin’.” John shrugs. Tilly’s fidgeting worsens.

“Now let’s not panic,” Hosea says, a hand on Tilly’s shoulder. “She’s a grown woman, I’m sure she’s fine.” He smiles.

“But-“

“I’m sure she’ll turn up.” Hosea interrupts, patting her back as he saunters off.

“Would you boys mind-“ Tilly starts.

“We’ll keep an eye out.” Arthur assures. John nods in agreement.

“Thank you.”

Hosea’s no doubt right, he’s almost always right. But Arthur can’t help the sense of suspicion he has at the timing and strangeness of the stowaway’s disappearance. Hosea’s probably right. His feet carry him to the resting place of Samson. One of his shoes are missing, bottles that once held booze lay empty around his unconscious body. The only tell that he was still (unfortunately) breathing was the slow up and down motion of his pot belly stomach.

Arthur’s eyes draw to the bloody, swollen split in Samson’s lip. The lower half of his face puffy and red. Arthur unconsciously rubs his thumb over one of his bruised knuckles. “He been up at all?” Arthur interrogates Abadiano, whom sits nearby rolling a cigarette. The old man chuckles as he deposits the cig between his lips. He digs around in his jacket before pulling out a match.

“Been out since you put him down.” He puffs, “Maybe he rolled over in his sleep and crushed that girl you’re looking for.” He grins, kicking his boot into Samson’s shoulder roughly, whom twitches but remains unconscious.

Arthur huffs. A shake of his head, turning to leave. Hosea’s probably right.

#fates of the fateless #oh arthur #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #reader insert #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 #x reader

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the-faramir · 1 year ago

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"Greetin' to ye Midori. Name's Doofox and am a kitsune from a *very* far away village called Inazuma. Am writing ye because the bards around here keep singing 'bout yer tale and it's pissin' me off to hear other kitsunes have troubles! Anyhow, I'll be travelin' again soon. Think I can stop by to yer circus and check it out? See if it's worth all the singin' and all-at... See ye soon!"

Midori sat in her trailer at the Circus of Wayward Wonders, going over some paperwork for the week. Without warning, a sprite appeared, wearing a brown shirt and shorts with a brown cap bearing the letters "FWPS" in gold letters. She hovered over Midori's desk, inches from her face, holding out a letter. "Delivery for Ringmaster Midori."

"AAAAAAAAH! WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS?!?" Midori leaped to her feet, papers flying off of her desk and scattering across the trailer. A second later, she caught up with the situation, wide-eyed, breathing heavily and clutching her chest. "Ha ha! Sorry 'bout that. I've been a li'l high-strung lately. A letter for me? Why, thank you!"

Midori took the letter from the sprite's hand. Right away, she noticed that it smelled...familiar: almost like family, but not quite. And, as she sniffed it again, a bit like burnt fur for some reason. She opened the envelope and read the letter.

"Oh," Midori commented to herself, "fan mail! And from a kitsune!" She grinned, then looked up from the letter. The delivery sprite had not left. She continued to hover over Midori's desk with her hand outstretched expectantly.

Midori's grin dropped. "Oh, sorry. You want...a tip." She rummaged around in a pouch and pulled out a copper piece for the gratuity. The sprite shook her head curtly and gestured with her fingers for more. Midori pulled out a second copper, but the sprite just glared back at her. Midori sighed and handed over a silver piece.

The sprite smiled widely and accepted the silver. "Oh! Thank you very much for your generosity!" She disappeared into thin air.

Midori shook her head and composed a reply to the letter:

"Greetings and Salutations, Doofox!

"I am delighted beyond belief that news of the Circus of Wayward Wonders has reached your far-away land!

"Yes, please feel free to come see our circus. We are currently in Willowside, on the north side of the Isle of Erran. We have a performance scheduled for tonight, [current date], if you're in the area. I will gladly give you a private, behind-the-scenes tour if you're interested, as well.

"What tales have the bards been singing about me? Have you heard about the ongoing battle against the demons and xulgaths as they are trying to put an end to life on the Starstone Isles? I believe that we are getting close to defeating them and their dastardly plans!

"Anyhow, thank you very much for reaching out to me. I hope to meet you soon!

"Sincerely,

"Niji-iro Midori

"[虹色緑]"

Once she had sealed the letter and written the return address on the envelope, a different sprite in a FWPS uniform appeared over Midori's desk in a puff of smoke with a loud "bamf" sound. "First World Parcel Service," he announced. "May I deliver that for you?"

Midori exclaimed, "Cayden H. Cailean on a pogo stick! Don't you folk ever knock?" She took a breath. "Uh, yes. Please deliver this. How much do I owe ya?" She handed the letter over to the delivery sprite.

"One gold piece, please," the sprite replied.

Midori muttered under her breath, "Ooh, ya get us comin' an' goin', doncha?" She cleared her throat and continued, "Well, sure, here ya go." She handed a gold piece along with the letter to the sprite, who promptly disappeared with both items.

Midori mused to herself, "Huh. A kitsune. Don't see many o' us around these parts. It'll be nice to meet them. Wonder where Inazuma is? I don't remember hearin' about that place name in Minkai...."

@doofox1

#ic #oc rp #pathfinder #pf2e #extinction curse #kitsune

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sliptohk · 2 years ago

Text

Prompt #21: Grave

At first glance the young man was certainly an appealing enough fellow, well-suited to the acrobat's mood of the day. Nicely muscled and tanned from work beneath the burning star. They even lacked that sense of superiority, or at least hid it well, that many others seemed to display when dealing with the traveling performers whenever they set up outside a village for an evening or two.

"Caught your performance, miss Revel."

She did not hold the painfully obvious comment against them. Not all people could be effortlessly personable without a bit of practice with strangers. Hells, her uncle was proof enough that even those with it may not have truly learned the lessons. It may have been unkind, but she offered little more than a nod of understanding in return. Leaving the burden of conversation on them as the woman peeled back their skull-hugging mask and began to roughly dry damp hair with a threadbare towel.

"And, well, were just wondering if… you see." He was fidgeting. Some might find that charming. Someone else. "Were just thinking if you were of a mind and I were of a mind. Well…"

Interest was already beginning to dwindle, so she pushed things along the way, "Ask like I were."

It helped, slightly, even as the fellow rubbed their forearm with the opposite hand, "Then I would ask if you were of a mind for a bit of fun?"

She wished the mask were still firmly in place. It would have done a better job hiding the unimpressed expression crossing her face. Bad enough that she would need the man to clear off before slipping out of the sweaty costume she had just finished performing in, but now there was a need to send the lad scampering off. Though when the fool opened his mouth next it took all the difficulty out of that particular task.

"Figure you would enjoy it, Lindi. Maybe even convince your sister to come by as well? Heard you were more the… fun type."

Being mistaken for one another was common enough. No shame in that. But having the audacity to insult her sister directly to her face? Snatching for the collar of his shirt, Katja yanked him down to her eye-level, a furious scowl on display as she hissed into his face.

"Get gone before I break your jaw! No bloke says shite 'bout my sister!"

It would have been too much to ask for the matter to have happened with any degree of privacy. Already her father was descending upon the pair, neatly unfolding her fingers with a little twist of the wrist before things could escalate further. Not that it seemed likely when the red-faced boy was stammering out some combination of excuse and apology.

"Sorry, friend, girl gets a bit protective! Heard an insult where I'm sure it weren't intended!" An easy smile crossed Wazo's face as he worked swiftly to smooth things over.

Simple enough rule at the Grand Revel, never start trouble with the locals. At least not unless it were the last day and you were awfully confident the trail would lead you away long enough for hot blood to settle. It was a happy coincidence that the family had plenty of gregarious sorts that were capable enough at smoothing things over.

"Of course not, mister Revel! I would never!"

Shooting the man a final glare, Katja turned away. An indignant tug of her hand proved unnecessary when there was no effort to hold it in place. Muttering something under her breath about needing a wash, she left the two behind to fall into whatever little banter her Da was likely to subject the other man to. More pressing matters were at the front of her mind.

Things were getting worse, seemed more folk were approaching with more lust than perception, no doubt the twins' age driving that behavior. Which, truth told, would hardly have been of concern to the performer so long as things were to her taste. She found being mistaken for Lindi was not. And having them disrespect her with such slanderous lies turned everything sour. Not that much could be done about that matter, given they were a mirror image of each other.

That absent thought gave Katja pause. Mind drifting to the cracked old glass her gram used to tote about in their wagon. Spidery lines scattered across its face gave the aged thing character, might be something to take a lesson from. Plenty of means of adding a charming little mark about the wagons.

It was a bell or two later when the acrobat found herself a blade, and the courage, to drag the tip of it down from the forehead across one eye. Unpleasant, between the searing pain of cutting flesh, and the unmistakable scrape of its razor sharp tip carving its way down the bone. It was too deep, that much was certain. A shallower slice would have done the job all the same, but just because other Highlanders may well practice ritual scarring it did not mean she had any familiarity. Only once the deed was done, blood running down one side of her face, did the full realization of that impulsive act dawn.

The cut burned. It stung. It ached. It… was oddly numb. Strangely, the last sensation was the least pleasant as Katja stumbled off in search of someone to help. Seemed the decision was unpopular with those kin she came across, not least of all Lindi. She already felt bad enough from the injury, having her weeping sister shake her so roughly while screaming in her face only worsened the experience.

But what brought tears to Katja's own eyes, was the heart-broken whisper at the end of Lindi's deserved tirade, "How could you let them pull us apart?"

Doing something stupid was a part of life. Who had not made their fair share of mistakes? But hurting those she loved most in the process cut deeper than any wound. It would have been easy to try and push it off to others, those customers that confused the two so often leapt to mind first. Yet nobody else held that knife so unsteadily to the skin.

Being sown up was near as bad as the gouging, Uncle Gerlach taking the time to make the ragged edges close up as neatly as he could manage. A silent swoop of that hooked iron needle, pinching through skin and only on occasion tapping its own little mark against her skull. After one was used for a few passes, he unknotted the thread and drew a fresh needle from the boiling pot beside him. Letting it cool before tying it to the line and continuing the process. It was difficult to speak when he worked, struggling to keep still and not move the skin and muscle with careless motions. But upon a pause to attach a fresh hook, Katja managed to squeeze out a mumbled question.

"Ain't gonna tear into me, unc?"

Gerlach said nothing for a moment, just continuing his work. Face giving nothing away, as the motion of his fingers were all that separated him from the stone statues in the old temples. Finishing the pieces beneath her eye, he scooped a thick aloe paste with his thumb to gently coat the stitches. An almost immediate relief, though shortlived as he began to thread a new hook for the remaining injury splitting up through one of her eyebrows.

At last he spoke a simple, "No."

Not like anyone could expect more from the man. Words were like actions, only done with purpose. So it was with some surprise that he actually continued after a stretched silence between one thought and the next. Practically a speech pouring from his lips.

"Your vessel. Will disinfect the knife if another mark pleases. Long as its your choice."

How had that managed to make her feel worse?

#FFXIVWrite2023 #FFXIVWrite #Katja Revel

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gweelczz · 13 days ago

Text

“Weight of gold”

Bo Chow x OC (Rosetta)

Genre: fluff with a hint of angst

Warnings: None

Summary: Bo is a green flag who is the only man that handle Rosetta Mae

The screen door slammed against the frame, shaking the house with the force of Rosetta Mae’s temper. Her cheeks burned hot, curls bouncing wild around her shoulders as she stormed into the parlor, breath short, eyes gleaming like storm clouds about to split the sky.

Bo stood near the table, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight.

“I done told you I ain’t gon’ let Smoke talk to me like I’m one of his boys,” Rosetta snapped, spinning ‘round to face him. “You just sat there, Bo. Sat there like I ain’t worth defendin’!”

Bo’s voice was low, but thick with warning. “It ain’t always about jumpin’ up and hollerin’, Rosetta. Sometimes it’s ‘bout lettin’ folks talk and show who they is.”

“Then maybe I oughta show you who I am,” she said, voice shaking.

She yanked off her wedding ring—the gold band she once looked at every morning with a smile soft as dew—and hurled it across the room. It bounced off the table, spun once on the floor, and landed near his boots with a hollow clang.

Bo stared down at it, like it was a piece of his soul lying there.

“Rosetta Mae!” he barked, his voice slicing through the air like a whip.

But she didn’t turn around.

She was already halfway out the door, skirt swishing, hands trembling.

He caught up to her before she reached the garden gate, long strides closing the space. His arms wrapped around her from behind, strong and warm, pressing her back to his chest. She fought a little—only a little—before her hands sank against his.

His breath fanned her ear, low and thick with something that cut deeper than the fight.

He held out the ring between two fingers, voice rough as gravel.

“I don’t care how mad you get at me, baby… you don’t ever take this off, ya hear?”

She stood there, her back still against him, her breath catching.

“That ring’s me, Rosetta. That’s us. You throwin’ it like it don’t mean nothin’—that damn near killed me.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit down on her bottom lip hard, tryin’ to hold ‘em in. His voice softened, melted almost.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say nothin’ when I should’ve. I ain’t always gon’ get it right. But I love you. I love you so much it makes me stupid sometimes.”

He turned her around gently, cupped her cheek with a hand that trembled just a little.

She looked up at him, tears finally spilling, but her eyes were softer now, the fury gone.

“I ain’t never gon’ stop wearin’ it again,” she whispered, and he slid the ring back on her finger slow, like it was the first time all over again.

Bo kissed her hand.

Then her cheek.

Then her lips, slow and deep and right.

And in that kiss, they folded the fight away—buried it under love and memory, beneath the weight of every vow they made and every storm they’d weather.

Because love like theirs didn’t break easy.

Not even when the ring came off.

———

Do y’all want their wedding???

#sinners movie #sinners 2025 #sinners x reader #sinners film #sinners fanfiction #sinners imagine #sinners #bo chow x black fem oc #bo chow x reader #bo chow oneshot #bo chow imagine #bo chow sinners #bo chow #yao

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furys-mercy · 2 years ago

Note

What are the most notable ways in which each of your OC’s relationships is different?

"I could prolly go on 'bout this all damned day, but I'll try ta keep it short an' sweet." He kicks his feet up on the desk and tucks his hands behind his head.

"Khala'n me've been together wha' feels like forever. He's m'longest relationship. An' I don't just mean of m'current ones. I mean ever. Folks thought we were an odd pairin' an' they still do, but I don't give a shite. He's bright an' shinin' an' full'a life. I don't rightly know how, given how his childhood an' mine're... more similar than ya'd think. But, I ain't here ta talk 'bout tha'. We work cause we challenge each other. He prods me inta talkin' an' I do m'best ta check 'im on thin's like wantin' a pet goobbue." His lips tug up into that goofy grin he reserves for his partners. "I think we work cause we ain't afraid. Not tha' I'm afraid with m'other partners, but... he was tha first person that was safe. He was home. An' he's stayed tha' way." A soft chuckle escapes his lips. "Sorry jus' talkin' 'bout feelin' safe reminds me'a how Tai an' I met. Can't says I felt particularly safe in tha' moment, but... he decided he wasn't gonna kill me, so tha' worked out jus' fine, really. Better'n fine. He's m'partner in more'n jus' tha romantic sense. We work together. We adventure together. We get inta trouble. There's somethin' in 'im tha' calls ta me. Like calls ta like, I think. Folks say tha' right? Well, even if they don't, tha' don't make it any less true. I see m'self reflected in 'im an' I'd wager it's tha same on his end, too. An let me tell ya, we make a mighty fine pair on tha battle field. Ain't never really found someone tha' I jus' fit with tha' easily."

"As fer Stari, well tha's... it's complicated. We're still figurin' thin's out. An' I think we prolly will be fer a good bit. An' while I'm pretty damned sure wha' m'feelin's are fer 'im, I also know tha' he prolly ain't ready ta hear 'em. An' I ain't gonna go pushin'. So, I'm jus' enjoying our time together. Gettin' ta know 'im. Showin' 'im tha' it's safe an' tha' I ain't leavin'. Tha' I've got 'im. Ain't sure he really knows it, but he's got me, too. Whether it's books full'a complex math puzzles or a tin'a salves fer m'achin' hips. He notices shite most wouldn't. An' it's... real fuckin' sweet."

((Thanks for the ask, @thefreelanceangel!!))

#asks #ask me anything #asked and answered #ic ask #the polycule

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ivoryminitower · 2 months ago

Text

Echoes of Home: 98 - Tsu'na ("Natasha")

Echoes of Home: FFXIV AU OC – WoLs on Earth

It has taken two days to make a window for Tony. Husband will be installing it tomorrow, as it seems I should not be seen at Flying Tigers again. If we continue training we will need to find a new place.

I read that more and longer strings make for stronger plastic, so I started with the protoplastic recipes that were the stringiest. I worked to make plastic that was clear and hard, and made small pieces that I then tried to break. I was not sure how my strength compared to a bullet, but a bullet cannot lift a truck and I can, so I assumed a plastic I have trouble breaking would be strong enough.

I needed to make more protoplastic recipes that were stringier still before I came up with a plexiglass that resisted my strength. I made three larger sheets of this in different thicknesses: one a quarter-ilm thick, one a half-ilm thick, and one a full-ilm thick. The full-ilm thickness seemed a bit much, but I did not know how a bullet would work against it.

Testing the sheets was more difficult. I needed an Earth gun, and there were not too many people I knew who had one that I wanted to ask.

"Hello, Sam. May I borrow your gun?"

"My shotgun? Why?"

"I am making plexiglass that bullets cannot break. I wish to test it."

"...Okay, first off, no, you can't borrow my shotgun same as I can't borrow yer rings. I don't just loan out my gun."

"I understand."

"Second, you don't just go shootin' off a gun just anywhere. Sure, everyone's got one, but they don't go usin' it all over. Makes people nervous, brings out the deputies an' all."

"I see. Then how and where can I test my plexiglass?"

It was early in the day, so Sam closed up the bar and went out to his truck. I brought my sheets of plexiglass out from the workshop and placed them in the back. Then we rode out into an emptier area outside of town and stopped at a small building with a large fence behind it and a sign that read, "Liberty Shooting Range".

Inside the building a man behind a counter greeted us. "Mornin', folks. How can I help you today?"

Sam gestured for me to speak. I told the man, "I have some plexiglass I would like to test against bullets. Can I do that here?"

The man blinked at me, then grinned. "Why, sure! We got folks here who'd be happy to shoot at anything you want! Bring it on in and I'll let people know."

I got my sheets out of the truck. When I came back in the building Sam held a door open for me in the back. Beyond the door was a large yard with what looked like a command pavilion tent close to the building and large mounds of dirt farther away.

At the pavilion were people dressed in baggy clothes that reminded me of Filibuster armor, colored green, brown and black, sometimes in uneven patches. Most were men, though there was a woman too. All had guns, of different sizes. They were gathered to watch me come in with my plexiglass.

The shopkeeper smiled and gestured to me. "So…this little lady here…Sorry, I didn't catch your name…?"

I simply smiled.

"...Right, uh, this little lady here has some windows she'd like y'all to shoot at and test out for her. Who's up for that?"

Most of the people chuckled and raised their hands.

"Okay, then! Miss, how 'bout you set up your windows against the dirt mounds back there?"

I carried the sheets across the yard and set them upright side by side, about five fulms apart. I tried to remember how far the car with the guns had been from the Flying Tigers window, and walked about six yalms out from the sheets. "From here should be good."

The gun people approached. Two of them aimed their small guns at the thinnest sheet and shot. It broke after five shots. The half-ilm sheet was stronger against the small guns, but broke after two shots from a larger gun like Sam's, which he called a shotgun. A shotgun seems to shoot more than a bullet, or perhaps many small bullets.

The ilm-thick sheet was sturdier.�� The small guns could not break it. The shotguns could make it bounce but not crack. One person tried a longer gun that looked something like a Garlean weapon; he stood farther back and tried three shots. The sheet's surface was damaged from all the bullets, but it did not break.

The gun people were impressed with the thickest sheet. They were starting to congratulate me for it, but there was a man who had not shot. He stood staring at the unbroken sheet after everyone else was done. People got quiet when he said, "Let me get Natasha."

He left through the main building. The other people talked quietly with each other. From what I could hear, they had not seen Natasha for a long time. I wondered who Natasha was.

The man came back carrying a long case, from which he took a long gun. I guessed this was Natasha. He made the gun longer by attaching a piece to the end of the barrel, and added another piece to the top. It reminded me a little of the weapon used by Mustadio in the Orbonne Monastery. It hurt a lot to be shot by that.

The man set up a small stand on the ground for the gun and laid down behind it. Everyone was silent as he inserted a bullet into the gun, aimed at my sheet, and fired.

The sheet did not break, but the bullet entered the sheet and lodged within it. A crack appeared above and below the bullet.

The man loaded another bullet into the gun and fired again. It looked as if the bullet hit the same spot as the first bullet. The sheet split from top to bottom and nearly fell apart, with a hole in the middle where the bullets had been.

The man seemed satisfied with the result. The other people chuckled some and said sympathetic things to me; I smiled and thanked them for their help.

I collected the pieces of my plastic. The man who ran the shooting range gave me a plastic bag to carry them in. I thanked him and said I might be back with better plexiglass. He said I was welcome any time.

As Sam drove us back to Wyatt, he asked, "So why're you tryin' to make bulletproof glass anyway?"

"Someone we know had his front window broken from a drive-by shooting. I am trying to replace it."

"Huh. They weren't shootin' at you, right?"

"We think they were, yes."

Sam got more serious. "Why'd someone be shootin' at you?"

"There are people who lost money betting against me at the fight club. They seem to still be unhappy about that."

Sam did not say anything for a while. He simply watched the road and drove. Then he said, "Ya know, I think it's been ages since the diner had any remodelin' done. Might wanna see if Joel wants an upgrade for his windows."

I thought about the large windows at the front of the diner.

I thought about how visible we must be through those windows as we worked.

I thought about the children that often came to the diner when we worked there.

"That is a good idea, Sam. Thank you."

I will need a lot more corn.

Husband met me at the workshop when he came back from Flying Tigers. I told him about the shooting range. He told me about his hostile encounter at the school.

"What is a peking duck?"

"That'll be what we have for dinner once we're through with this mess." He picked up my broken thick sheet and peered through the hole in the middle. "So what happened here?"

"Natasha."

"Hah! Who touched my gun?"

It was one of his jokes, perhaps from a video. I simply looked at him.

"...Yeah, so, how many shots did this take?"

"Two, though there were many before it that did not make a hole. I do not know what the difference was."

"Eh, just force, maybe the jacket. Average handgun bullet isn't really made to penetrate. Looks like Natasha found your grain."

"Grain?"

"Yeah, like wood. You've talked about your plastic being stringy?"

"Yes. My reading said long molecules are stronger, so I tried to make plastic with long strings."

"Sure, but if you make all your strings go the same way it's like wood. Wood's sort of made of strings too, and they all go in the same direction. That's the grain. Try to cut across the grain and the wood's strong. Try to cut with the grain and the wood can split, just like this."

"Even though the strings are strong?"

"Yeah, because the force is going between them. Maybe you can make layers of strings going in different directions? Or, even better, weave them like cloth?"

"Weave them like cloth? I cannot see the strings, Husband! How can I weave them?"

"I dunno. How do we weave cloth?"

"...I…"

"I mean, it's not like we're moving the yarn around on a loom, right? We just have a supply of yarn and we transform it into the cloth. Your plastic is a supply of strings, so maybe you can do the same thing?"

"...I…need to think about this."

"Of course, my love. I'll take the diner tonight."

"Thank you."

I think this was part of what Husband calls "paradigm"...that we do not think as much about how we do things as we do about simply doing them. I had learned creating cloth using my tools and my aether shards and my yarn, and I had not thought much about the actual process. It is how we crafted anything, from butter to barbuts.

There are some things, though, that Husband does without aether first before writing a recipe for them, particularly things like food. I think it helps him hold the idea in his mind while he tries to create the thing. Yet he is then able to create the thing with aether.

I researched looms and watched videos of how they worked. I understand now how cloth is made without aether shards. No, we do not move yarn around to make the cloth; we simply transform yarn into cloth.

Which made me doubt. Husband had worried about us trying to hold two ideas about how to do a thing in our minds. I began to understand why. I suddenly started to worry that our way of making cloth could not work because we were not using a loom. I had to use a lot of cotton to make a lot of cotton cloth to reaffirm I could do it the way I had always known. I will need to think about this doubt later.

I thought about my plastic. Yes, it is a mass of strings; I had made it to be a mass of strings. Each time I made plastic I did it with the idea of the strings in mind. But I had only thought about more strings or longer strings. I had not thought about how those strings laid.

Which meant what I needed to do was no longer alchemy. It was weaving. I set aside my alembic and drew my needle. I put away my water shards and selected wind shards.

It was not easy to think about weaving strings I could not see. When the recipe worked at all I had gone from having a mass of plastic to having a sheet of plastic with no true way of knowing if my strings had arranged themselves.

Sam had said I should not use a gun "just anywhere", so I tried testing the sheets with the level 30 bow we used for gator hunting. One sheet shattered into many pieces. One allowed an arrow to go through and then trapped it. I needed to use camp lanterns to light my target by the time I made a sheet the arrow did not break but also did not enter. I had apparently woven strings the right way.

It was ready to meet Natasha.

"natasha who touched my gun": "video: team fortress meet the heavy"

Today Husband went off in the morning to once again protect Flying Tigers, and I asked Sam to drive me out again to the shooting range.

There were different people at the range today, but the man who owned Natasha was there again. I told him I had a new sheet for him to try. We spoke to the range manager, and he cleared away the gun people who had been practicing with targets. I set my sheet against a dirt mound.

The man fetched Natasha once more and set up. Everyone was quiet as he took his first shot.

The bullet hit the plastic and fell to the ground. It did not bounce as bullets did when they hit my armor. It simply stopped moving and dropped.

The man looked up from his gun, then loaded another bullet and fired again. That bullet was stopped as well.

The man considered for a moment, then got a bullet out of a different box in Natasha's case and loaded it. He took a bit more time making that shot.

The noise from the gun was slightly louder than before. That time the bullet hit the plastic and stuck.

We walked out to see. The bullet had changed shape after hitting the plastic, looking slightly thicker, but had not gone very deep into the sheet. I was able to pull it out very easily.

Everyone cheered for me. Natasha's owner was respectful and offered me his hand. Shaking hands is not something we commonly do in Eorzea, but I had seen Husband do it and so I shook his hand. Remembering arm-wrestling with Sam, I tried to not squeeze too hard.

The man asked, "So, where can I find some of that plexiglass?"

"I am sorry, I am not selling it right now. But I think I will call it Natasha glass."

"Heh. Thanks."

"So why do you call your gun Natasha? Is it from Team Fortress?"

He looked less happy with me. "No, that's a chain gun. This is a sniper rifle."

"Oh. Then why do you call it Natasha?"

"Because sometimes I hunt moose and squirrel."

"natasha hunt moose and squirrel": "Rocky and Bullwinkle is an American animated television series that originally aired from November 19, 1959, to June 27, 1964. The main antagonists in most of their adventures are the two Russian-like spies Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale."

It seems making jokes like Husband is an Earth people thing.

#ffxiv #ffxiv echoes of home #ffxiv writers #ffxiv fanfiction #final fantasy xiv fanfic #ffxiv writing #writeblr

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checkoutmybookshelf · 7 months ago

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Rereading The Fellowship of the Ring for the First Time in Fifteen Years

Hey, Hi, Hello. It's been a hot minute since the last chapter, because my summer got completely lost to illness and recovery, and now it's mid-October and we're literally just now getting back to this reread. I've literally read this chapter like six times trying to get back in the headspace for rereading Tolkien, and uh...yeah. We're here? Mostly? So if the tone or vibe of these last few chapters are a little different, that's because it's been like three months and a bout of shingles later. So here's the original intro, and uh...we'll go from there.

Ok, this chapter went down MUCH easier than the last one, and we got some A+ vibes, some Sam stuff to talk about, and just generally a chapter I enjoyed. So without beating too much about the bush, let's talk "The Mirror of Galadriel."

We are finally in the city of the Galadhrim! And I have got to say, the city comes off WEIRD. Like, really, really weird. Like almost horror movie levels of weird. I'm just going to let the book tell you this bit:

Haldir knocked and spoke, and the gates opened soundlessly; but of guards Frodo could see no sign. The travellers passed within, and the gates shut behind them. They were in a deep lane between the ends of the wall, and passing quickly through it they entered the City of the Trees. No folk could they see, nor hear any feet upon the paths; but there were many voices, about them and in the air above. Far away up on the hill they could hear the sound of singing falling from on high like soft rain upon leaves.

Like...I'm sorry, but a giant, empty city with no sounds BUT voices? Even if this is perfectly normal for elves or if they're just...IDK, hanging out in the unseen world? I'm speaking for the hobbits and Boromir (and probably Gimli?) when I say that this gives CREEPY. It's an empty elven city filled with disembodied voices. I'd lose my damn mind pretty fast.

It gets less creepy when we get to the big ladder and the guards, and climbing the ladder while seeing the talan really does a lot to dispel the creep factor. I appreciate the worldbuilding here, and the diversity of what Galadriel and her people have built. It speaks to every "tree house but make it bougie" instinct that five-year-old me ever had. I suspect this is also how I as a reader am supposed to feel about the weirdly empty city, but...well, as a writer, you win some, you lose some, and I got creep from the city and delight from the bougie tree house. It happens.

Ok, so this is where I come clean and admit that I've been watching season 2 of The Rings of Power, and some reviews--which include some lore stuff. So you'll forgive me if I spend a few minutes here comparing and contrasting Lothlorien-era Galadriel with Amazon's Tolkien fanfic. Tolkien gives us this introduction to the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien:

On two chairs beneath the bole of the tree and canopied by a living bough there sat, side by side, Celeborn and Galadriel. They stood up to greet their guests, after the manner of the Elves, even those who were accounted mighty kings. Very tall they were, and the Lady no less tall than the Lord; and they were grave and beautiful. They were clad wholly in white; and the hair of the Lady was of deep gold, and the hair of the Lord Celeborn was of silver long and bright; but no sign of age was upon them, unless it were in the depth of their eyes; for they were as keen as lances in the starlight and yet profound, the wells of deep memory.

This is...a far cry from the gung-ho battle Barbie that Amazon's fanfic gives us, but at the same time...I can kinda see it? You don't get those wells of deep memory and keen lances without having lived life and seen much of it--good and bad and everything in between. So even without the battle Barbie, Galadriel gives the sense that she's seen some shit and can roll with pretty much anything because she's seen it all before. And once we get to the mirror, that just gets even more cemented, because she's not seeing time necessarily linearly. But the sheer impressiveness of the first impression hits on the page, and I really like that.

I don't have anything for Celeborn, I'm afraid. He has the same description, but I have zero background on him, so other than "He's probably also seen some shit" and "He's married to Galadriel, so he's probably HEARD some shit from that mirror" he's just...kinda there? Basically generic Elf King. Which I'm sure if I had more awareness of the lore would horrify me to say, but we work with the information we have when we have it.

Oh I guess we do get Celeborn's welcome to Gimli:

Welcome Gimli son of Gloin. It is long indeed since we saw one of Durin's folk in Caras Galahon. But today we have broken our long law. May it be a sign that though the world is now dark better days are at hand, and that friendship shall be renewed between our peoples.

I appreciate the attempt, but seriously, renewed friendship doesn't fix the racism and "renewed friendship" is doing a lot of heavy lifting there. Pretty sure we are gonna need to address the process a little, Celeborn. I know we're about to be at war with Sauron, but like...allyship and friendship are two different things and we might start with allyship here.

And so the fellowship meets the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien and we have to catch everyone up on the deets of the trip so far because mail service in Middle Earth is rather famously sketchy. *Stares in Bree Innkeepers*

Gandalf being missing is a bit of a sticking point, with Celeborn being a bit of a dick to Gimli about waking up a Balrog and to Gandalf for going into Moria at all, but Galadriel cuts that shit off at the pass (Thank you Galadriel for having some goddamn perspective).

I also appreciate that Galadriel is over here going, "I'm not going to stand here and give you unsolicited advice and I'm not going to explain at you. Have some context and hope and go get some rest, kids." Because the Fellowship really needs rest, and they need time to process and grieve. Hauling ass to a safe space is all well and good--as is surviving Moria--but then you need a little time and kindness in that space to process. I also appreciate that Tolkien takes the temperature of the group at this point, with Galadriel giving each member of the fellowship the choice to continue or to turn away. Sam once again gives us the most, along with Gimli, since Frodo and Merry keep their experiences with Galadriel behind their teeth.

Then we spend a little hand-waved time mourning Gandalf and even Frodo and Sam get in on the "write your own lament" action. It's actually really sweet, and I love the contrast between Frodo's perspective and scope and Sam's choice to highlight the happiness of the small things. I mean. If you call a giant firework that becomes a dragon small. Point is, Sam is highlighting happiness and I love that Tolkien gives us this little almost meta-commentary of the difference between memory and memorializing.

Then we finally have Galadriel taking Frodo and--very intentionally--Sam to her mirror, and I just want to take a second to admire the lawyer-level preface she gives and the importance of consent in this scene:

"Many things I can command the Mirror to reveal," she answered, "and to some I can show what they desire to see. But the Mirror will also show things unbidden, and those are often stranger and more profitable than things we wish to behold. What you will see, if you leave the Mirror free to work, I cannot tell. For it shows things that were and things that are, and things that yet may be. But which is it that he sees, even the wisest cannot always tell. Do you wish to look?"

Girl has pretty fully laid out the terms and conditions here, and I appreciate her candor about the "Controlled" or "Uncontrolled" options. Like, given that choice, I'm thinking REALLY hard about whether I want to look at all, and whether I'm up for letting the mirror show me what it will. The other key thing is that she STILL ASKS. This is not a thing Sam and Frodo have to do, there is a consent option. Which would also give me pause in this world, because if the Lady of Lorien looks and me and goes, "This could be epic, but you absolutely have to agree to this," I'd be over here like...There is a dark side here, isn't there?

I appreciate that Sam is over here like, "Well, I asked for magic and here is magic, so I guess I'm in." I appreciate the recognition that magic is awesome in the classical sense; it inspires awe and awe can be a whole-ass spectrum of emotions, not all of them uncomplicated or inherently positive.

And then Sam gets his test, which is REALLY telling. His priorities are simple: Frodo and the Shire. And while Frodo was IN the Shire, that worked beautifully well. But when Frodo has to bail and Sam's old Gaffer is in trouble...well then it gets complicated, and Sam's choice to prioritize Frodo I think absolutely had to be harder than it looks. Because what we get from Sam is...quite brief:

Sam sat on the ground and put his head in his hands. "I wish I had never come here, and I don't want to see no more magic," he said, and fell silent. After a moment, he spoke again thickly, as if struggling with tears. "No, I'll go home by the long road with Mr. Frodo, or not at all," he said. "But I hope I do get back some day. If what I've seen turns out true, somebody's going to catch it hot!"

I adore that we get a little bit of a sense that life won't be ok when they do finally get back to the Shire, but despite the tears and the...well, magic...going out of magic for Sam, this choice is relatively quick and decisive. Frodo will always be Sam's priority, but the sense that he cannot be everywhere and protect everything he loves is a really hard realization, and...I kind of wanted more. I wanted this moment to feel weightier. And I know it's not Tolkien's style, and I know that ultimately the choice is simple and not simple, but...I want to linger here for a moment. I want to take the time to really play with the idea of conflicting priorities and HAVING to make a choice and knowing that such a choice involves sacrifice and knowing that you're choosing to help one thing by abandoning another. I know, I KNOW this isn't Tolkien's style. But we can do literal PAGES on trees, so I feel like more than generously two paragraphs on Sam's choice would be appropriate.

This is just one of those places where I personally as a reader sometimes have trouble meshing with Tolkien's style. I'd like to be in characters' heads a little more than we get to be, and I'd like a little more weight on some of these moments. This is a me thing though, and I know this resonates for lots of readers. Your girl is a Shakespeare scholar for a reason. I want To Be or Not To Be, so "I'll go home by the long road with Mr. Frodo, or not at all" kind of...doesn't do it for me in what is such a key moment.

Frodo's experience with the mirror is a combination of foreseeing Gandalf the White, getting a crash course on the Middle Earth History Relevant to Him Specifically, and finally getting a glimpse of Sauron's eye hunting for him. That's definitely a lot to take in, and we get a really interesting connection between Galadriel and Sauron. They have a one-sided brain connection that is DEEPLY interesting and so of course is not followed up on in this book. We also get Frodo's realization that Galadriel is a ring bearer herself: He can finally see Nenya. (Sam can't, it just looks like a star on on her hand. Which honestly is a really lovely image and I love how it enhances the inherent magic of the elves.)

And Galadriel is over here low-key oversharing about the philosophy of elves and the fact that they're in a no-win scenario: Whether Frodo succeeds or fails, Lothlorien will fade away and the elves will either die in Middle Earth or leave it. Which...is a bit grim, not gonna lie, and were I Frodo, hearing all that and then "For the fate of Lothlorien you are not answerable, but only for the doing of your own task" would not make me feel any less culpable. I, like Frodo, couldn't DO anything but my own task, but again, I differ from this Tolkien-esque philosophy wherein if I hyperfocus on my own task, everything else will take care of itself because I'm a little type A and I need more control than that because SYSTEMS, PEOPLE. Everything is connected. (Again, this is JUST ME. I know this resonates for lots of people, it just doesn't work for me.)

Frodo gets a little of his own back in a case of what even Galadriel acknowledges is "turnabout is fair play." Frodo just straight up offers her the One Ring, and we get Galadriel's test of the heart. She knows that she would start using the Ring for good and ultimately slide harder into Dutch Angles than her scenes with Adar in Rings of Power did.

We're going to leave it there, because frankly I'm tired and this is already late. But what I will say is that this is one of the chapters that STUCK from my first read. I remembered the Mirror of Galadriel, and overall this scene still hits hard. It encapsulates the idea that duty and right in the long-term ultimately matter more than our personal desires, and it really highlights some interesting sneaking in of Fae rules with the elves and Frodo: Mind your manners because everything is a test, and don't touch the water.

Catch you next time for the next chapter!

#reread #lotr reread #the fellowship of the ring #the mirror of galadriel #books and reading #books #books and novels #books & libraries

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gunslinginnhogtyin · 5 months ago

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On the house? Well.., he couldn’t complain about that, but he does plan on tipping the kind fella, if not for his bartending skills then for his pretty face.

Following his suggestion to treat Blondie to a drink later on, he watches as he fumbles that rag he holds and then drops behind the counter out of view to pick it up, oblivious to his moment of overflowing excitement. The most he does is chuff in amusement as it’s flung from his hands, finding the nervous blunder a little endearing. He pops back up only moments later with an expression that’s just as hard to read as the one before but his answer earns him a delighted smile.

“Shit, I’ll hop b’hind th’ counter an’ help ya out f’ya want.” It’s a playful offer but an honest one. He didn’t view himself as above anyone else really, as cocky as he could be, and a little hard work never hurt nobody! Especially if it made the night fly by faster.

—-

A snicker escapes Butch as his new acquaintance gives his manager the cold shoulder right off the bat; if it wasn’t clear before that he shared the same sentiment as him, it was crystal now. And boy does it feel like triumph not having a stranger view him as some kind of deviant for being so subtly thrown under bus. In fact, he feels a bit special when he chooses to make him another drink over dignifying Darlene’s cheap attempts with a response.

Despite the blonde man’s obvious reservations, Darlene’s expression remains unmoved and she maintains that smile even as he brushes her off and ignores her question. “Well,” she starts, fingernails drumming against the counter top as she ponders a different angle. “I understand if that sort of lifestyle sounds… stressful to some.” She chooses her words carefully, not wanting to sound too pushy (though she really wants to). “But if you’re ever interested in having someone who’s experienced in the industry make your life a little more interesting, well, you know how to reach me.” She emphasizes this by moving a hand to tap a nail against her card. Then she turns to Butch with the same calm smile before her fingers nails dig into the cloth covering his shoulder and she forcibly guides him a little ways a way.

The cowboy stumbles in his boots a little at first before shooting her an irritated stare. From afar, their voices can’t be heard over the chatter coming from the large room of attendees, but Darlene looks awfully excited about something. She pulls away to clap both hands upon his shoulders with an even wider smile than before, her mouth moving a mile a minute as she rambles on about something. Butch’s brows raise some and he shakes his head. Darlene nods in response and he shakes his head again, a little more adamant this time with furrowed brows. Her pleasant demeanor shifts rather quickly and her eyes dart around the room before she appears to take on a more demanding expression. The sandy blonde stands there for a moment after she seems to tear into him, his lips not moving and just as long, neither do Darlene’s. They curl into a smile again as he rolls his eyes, peering past her and over at the fella he had just met. His eyes linger for a moment before, with an obvious sigh, his shoulders slump and he seems to concede into something. A hand moves to rest at his hip and she gives him a condescending cheek pat which is met with him jerking his head away. She moves past him with her finger tips grazing against his shoulder as she does so, leaving him to his devices and then she disappears into the crowd from whence she came.

Butch makes his way back over to the bar counter, taking to leaning both arms against it now. He tries to manage a smile but it’s more apologetic than anything. “…Sorry ‘bout her, she’s, uh… somethin’ else.” He shakes his head. Another eye roll.

“Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah! What’s yer favorite drink, anyhow? Or d’ya only drink ‘round other folks?” His elbows prop against the counter now and he rests his cheeks in his palms. Atleast he had a momentary distraction.

He notes the twitch of a smile on Butch's pretty face even from his peripheries, but he doesn't comment. Somehow, addressing it made it feel like it'd become worse. It does still of course, skipping a beat at how focused he is after so long without talking to... .anyone really. And that lingering touch over his knuckles and digits are sparks he can feel like static in his fingertips. "T--- t'best part'f servin' t'drinks is gettin' paid fer it." He quips, but a little more wobbly than before. He wishes he was wearing tinted lenses so he was less obvious in every way. But this is Outlaw, who sings his music that reaches him and made him like music again and-- and he's just very handsome. he's sure there's many a heart he's broken with a smile like that.

It makes his own stretch just a little further at the compliment. "Mm, exactly right.... 's on t' house, too. First one, at least. Consider it a gift aft'r a long day." And if one thing came out of this, he wanted to at least walk away knowing he'd said thanks in his own, subtle way. It didn't have to matter to anyone else but him.

After the question, his fingers bare down on the rag just a little harder, and his eyes flick to Butch, hand slowed to a stop. Had he just....?

"A-ah...." It's hard to hold back now, and his hand fumbles, dropping the rag to the floor. He quickly stoops behind the counter to pick it up, eyes going wide and cheeks puffing with air when he's out of view. He pats his face a few times, sucking on his lips until they pull into his mouth. Then he snags the rag, fixes his features, and stands up just as quick. "I suppose if yer keen t'stick around 'till I'm off t'clock, I wouldn't complain 'bout takin' a drink wit' ya."

He chuckles at the complaint, one with a sentiment he shared. But before he had anything of his own to add, a woman he--- didn't know, but recognized made her debut. They were all recognizable. The bad vibes, the greed on their face. He knew some sleazy agent by the way they smiled. His entirely disappears. A frown deepens instead, when she pulls the rug out beneath Butch, and then-- approaches him.

His face is expressionless as he looks at her. "Charmed, I'm sure." His voice drips with just how untrue that is. He does not take her card, nor her hand. The card on the counter is given the briefest flick of a glance. He takes Butch's glass instead, and turns around. "Comin' right up, love." He does not address Darlene, instead dumping the old ice and staring to whip up a second Old Fashioned.

#lionheartair #80’s rockstar au;;#(HES SO VALID THO)#(also… THE PLOT THICKENS >:3c)#q.

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