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ahungeringknife · 1 year ago

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365: March 27

Grey was dozing when there was frantic knocking at their door. "Grey, Grey!" one of the townsfolk called. That rosed them and they got the door.

"What's the matter?" they asked.

"Skiff! A skiff flew over and it landed nearby," the man said frantically.

"Hmmm," they didn't like that. "Mr. Grey, get my stuff," they called to their Ghost and stepped out of their house. As they did Mr. Grey decked them out in their gear and Stormeater for good measure. "Which way?"

"There," the man pointed away from the village and towards an old homestead that had been cannibalized for building material except for an old barn.

"Make sure everyone stays inside," Grey told him and he nodded and ran back home. Grey headed down the road. Eyes poked from behind curtains to watch but if they looked the person went away, too scared of even being seen by their protector.

Grey saw the skiff before anything else and went invisible. They nocked an arrow as they approached and watched as what looked very much like a raiding party disembarked. Except they came out of the skiff via a doorway and not the drop rings. That stayed their hand a moment. They fired a warning shot at the barn and the arc tether hissed against the wood siding.

"Hey! Grey watch where you're shooting that!" a familiar Eliksni voice called out in Italian.

Grey lowered their nocked bow. "Preksik?" they shouted to confirm. They didn't recognize the Captain's helmet from here though. A soft feeling filled their chest when all the Eliksni waved in a very human way at them.

"It's just us, don't shoot, Lightbearer," Preksik yelled back.

Grey dropped the invisibility and approached casually. The crew was smaller than before. "You guys came back," they said.

"Just to visit," Preksik got to say before not a few Eliksni laughed when Grey was tackled in a hard embrace.

"Woah! Oh, hey there big girl," Grey said, beaming as Braldos was hugging them and purring so hard they could feel it in their chest.

"We've missed you," Braldos said.

"I can see that," Grey laughed and Braldos let them go. "Where's the rest of the crew?"

"Back home," Preksik said. "It is bigger than before and not everyone wanted to come."

"Or was allowed," Viksis said.

"Yes. Or allowed," Preksik agreed.

"Well I can't say it's not nice to see your faces. You scared the shit out of my villagers though," and they all laughed.

"That might have been intentional," Sokrar said and elbowed Viksis in the ribs.

"What's the point of living if you can't scare some humans sometimes?" Viksis asked.

"We also brought gifts," Braldos said.

"Gifts?" Grey asked.

"For your little technologically inept village," she teased them.

"Oh joy," Grey sighed. "Well no one's touched the barn since you left and you're more than welcome to stay there. But we should go to town and show everyone you're back. I know everyone will be relieved to know it's you guys and not an actual raiding party," they smiled.

"Yes," Preksik agreed. "We will not be staying long. Only a few days."

"Aww, just a few days?" Grey complained.

"It is the time we can manage before someone comes looking for us."

"Who'd come looking for you?" Grey didn't understand. No one had cared about them before and they'd only been gone a decade. What had changed in such a short amount of time?

"It's a long story," Viksis sighed.

The crew followed Grey back down the road carrying their gifts. As they got closer to town a few windows opened and heads poked out. There was pointing and excited cries as the townsfolk realized these were their Eliksni friends! Doors were flung open and just about every Eliksni was hugging two humans at once with their two sets of arms. Grey noticed Preksik was the only one who didn't but he was a Captain and 'above' that or whatever. They smiled seeing Braldos hugging a teenage girl named Rebbecca, they knew she'd been Braldos' child friend while she'd been here. Braldos even had a gift for her.

Once things were a bit more settled Viksis said, "So something else exciting happened while we were gone." There was some curious noises. The curious noises turned into delight when Viksis and Vasknir both revealed they were caring for children.

Grey had never seen baby Eliksni before and they were... unbearably adorable. And surprisingly fluffy covered in down fluff like a baby bird. They were going to go see a bit closer when Braldos pulled them aside and over to her. "Hey, big girl? What's up- Oh my god!" Grey shouted when Braldos took a child just old enough to be walking from Virnir who'd been hiding all the children in the back for the reveals. "Is this your baby?" they asked excitedly.

"Yes," Braldos said proudly, positively purring. "This is Yius, my son," she said plunking him on the ground so Grey could see he could stand on his own unlike Viksis and Vasknir's babies who were very much still infants.

"Oh my gosh look at this little guy. He's so cute!" Grey hunkered down. "And he's... green?" they asked Braldos.

"Yes. His father is Wind House," she said.

"Never heard of that House," Grey admitted.

"You wouldn't. They're all gone save for some stragglers," Braldos said. "Before we came to Earth," she added.

"Oh he's adorable, Braldos," Grey said. Yius had lost most of his fluff at this stage but still had a collar of down around his neck and shoulders. He was in a simple dress of sorts with a Devils red belt around his waist. "Can I hold him?"

"If he lets you," Braldos said.

Grey looked at Yius and said in the Eliksni language, "Hi, Yius. I'm Grey. You're very cute."

"No! I'm fierce!" he cried and he wasn't wearing a helmet, simply a nose tube to breathe from, so he could bear his little teeth at them.

Grey laughed. "Yes. You're also very fierce. I'm your mommy's friend. Can I pick you up?"

Yius looked up at Braldos. "They are nice," Braldos said.

"I allow," Yius said with the gravity of an old man.

Grey immediately scooped him up. "Oh Braldos he's so adorable. And well spoken," they added, switching back to Italian.

"Yes. Takes after his father," Braldos cooed and gently touched her son while Grey held them. "Very fierce and strong, like mother," Braldos said to Yius.

"Like mother!" Yius cried.

"Isn't that you?" Grey didn't understand.

Braldos took a moment to figure out how to explain to them. "You do not pick a gender to speak of yourself about," Braldos said in Italian. Grey nodded. They were staunchly nothing. "Yaris uses both to speak of himself. But when it is about our son he is mother too."

"Ohhh! Thats so neat," Grey said. "I'm happy for you. Is Yaris good for you?"

"... Probably not but what man is?" Braldos sighed and Grey chuckled. Then quieter Braldos whispered, "Fucks like a champ though," and Grey howled with laughter, nearly doubling over. They did hold onto Yuis though.

"Mommy, mommy," Yuis wanted Braldos because Grey was still laughing. Braldos took the boy back. "They're loud," he pointed at Grey.

"Humans are loud."

"They show their teeth. That's rude."

"Humans show their teeth when they're happy," Braldos explained.

"Stupid."

"Humans are, yes," Braldos said to Grey's detriment.

Grey beamed at Braldos once they got themselves under control. "I'm glad to see all of you. It was a lot quieter without you."

"I'm sure. Now I did tell Rebbecca I had another surprise and I can see her over there looking like she wants to ask about him too," Braldos said.

"Yes. I know Rebbecca and Stephnie have talked about you so much since you left," Grey said fondly. A lot of their people talked so well about their Eliksni friends and how much they were missed. They were glad they finally visited. Braldos nodded and left Grey to go to her other human friends. Rebbecca and her mother Stephnie were so excited to meet Yuis and Grey was just warm all over. What a good day this turned into.

#365 #writeblr #writblr #fanfiction #destiny #destiny 2 #destiny the game #eliksni #the dark ages #dark ages #original guardian #the fallen #smallen

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rpgadverts · 5 months ago

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WANTED AD | JCINK | DISCORD

ABEL WILLOWS | ESTRANGED HUSBAND + CHILDHOOD FRIEND

AGE: 189-193 • TURNED TYPE SPECIES

Abel Willows is not a man Elvira has ever expected to see again, the same goes in vice versa. Elvira and Abel grew up together in Wyoming through the 1840s. Abel was always known for taking life at his own pace and being a dreamy sort of boy, and Elvira loved him for the way he could get her to slow down for a time. After proposing to him herself, they were married when she was 18. They lived happily for a short two years before Abel disappeared without a trace. Elvira looked for him for a number of months, but in the end had no choice but to move on, but she carried him with her forever, keeping his name and even passing it on to her wife when she remarried. Ultimately I want to leave it up to you what drove Abel to leave his wife behind, but I'm thinking something changed him. Be it a vampire or some variety of lycanthrope, or something else entirely, it would only need to be something that would make him long lived. I'm wildly open to all sorts of ideas. His entire history beyond his marriage to Elvira is open, as is his face. I'm also open to his first name being changed, but his surname must be Willows since he's how Elvira got the name herself. This is not a romance plot between them, they have both since moved on assuming the other was long gone, but they loved each other deeply when they were young in a way that never would have faded. If they were to find one another again, it would most likely feel like an unexpected and welcome reunion between the oldest of friends.

IAN PORTER | THE KID BROTHER SHE RAISED

AGE: 182 • WERE-CREATURE

Sandwiched between an accomplished witch for an older sister and twin younger brothers, Ian was the oft ignored middle child in the Porter household. Elvira did the brunt of the work in raising Ian and they became incredibly close as he grew up. Elvira was a constant presence in his life until she left their family's homestead behind for good when she was 23 and he was barely 15. They wrote each other frequently in the years after, but Elvira became wrapped up in a life that demanded much of her and rarely left Penance where she settled. Ian's life beyond childhood is entirely open aside from the fact that at some point through his life he became infected by the bite of a were-creature that slowed his aging tremendously. Face claim is totally open though it'd be cool if we could find someone that makes them believable siblings (just because he's technically younger doesn't mean he has to look it anymore). I'm not overly attached to Elvira's maiden name of Porter or the name Ian, so we can definitely come up with something you may like better if the ad interests you otherwise. That said, I'm liable to be a little picky about it so forgive me. Besides that, the world is your oyster.

#jcink #rp #modern fantasy rp #original rp

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jcinktinder · 5 months ago

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WANTED AD | JCINK | DISCORD

ABEL WILLOWS | ESTRANGED HUSBAND + CHILDHOOD FRIEND

AGE: 189-193 • TURNED TYPE SPECIES

IAN PORTER | THE KID BROTHER SHE RAISED

AGE: 182 • WERE-CREATURE

#jcink #character request #supernatural rp #3 years #ch: over 40 #ch: male

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rpings · 6 months ago

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WANTED AD | JCINK | DISCORD

ABEL WILLOWS | ESTRANGED HUSBAND + CHILDHOOD FRIEND

AGE: 189-193 • TURNED TYPE SPECIES

IAN PORTER | THE KID BROTHER SHE RAISED

AGE: 182 • WERE-CREATURE

#jcink rp #character request #supernatural rp #2+ years #public #platonic plot

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therpdirectory · 6 months ago

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WANTED AD | JCINK | DISCORD

ABEL WILLOWS | ESTRANGED HUSBAND + CHILDHOOD FRIEND

AGE: 189-193 • TURNED TYPE SPECIES

IAN PORTER | THE KID BROTHER SHE RAISED

AGE: 182 • WERE-CREATURE

#jcink rp #advertisement #character request #supernatural #3+ years #platonic #familial

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allthingsroleplay · 6 months ago

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WANTED AD | JCINK | DISCORD

ABEL WILLOWS | ESTRANGED HUSBAND + CHILDHOOD FRIEND

AGE: 189-193 • TURNED TYPE SPECIES

IAN PORTER | THE KID BROTHER SHE RAISED

AGE: 182 • WERE-CREATURE

#jcink site #character request #public site #supernatural rpg

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ftb-writes · 2 years ago

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It is time!!!!

The next piece will be another fan work, a Breath of the Wild one. Also, fun fact about a name in this one! Kyryap is a Russian word for a panther!

Pokee had, for all intents and purposes, settled into life on the strange new planet well. The Exiled rather liked the hunting prospects here -- he'd have to tell the Elders about this place once he was allowed back into the tribe.

Pokee-Stick sets his weapons to the side for now and shakes his head at the sheer irony of the situation he had stumbled into -- as a Young Blood on his first hunt.

He and his hunting party had discovered a new colony of Xenomorphs. The Elite who had been leading the excursion had decided this was a bit too much of a challenge, and had called for backup to assist the Young Bloods-- during the retreat, however, Pokee had stepped wrong, and the soil under him had collapsed into an underground cavern.

The Yautja had found himself face-to-face with the Queen, and several very angry Praetorians blocking the exit. The only thing nearby was a fallen branch, which Pokee had picked up and brandished like a sword.

Oh, but the Queen had laughed. A silly, tiny, armor-clad thing, his shoulder pads were much too big, his only defense was a bit of wood. Pokee, in desperation, drove the stick into her head. And somehow, blindly, he had found a weak spot. A scar perhaps, some soft point from a previous injury. But the Queen lay oozing brains at his feet, and the Praetorians had scattered, leaderless and wild.

Pokee had earned his scar, a burn from the acidic blood that had splashed onto him as the Queen fell, and his Name. And Pokee had felt very much alive.

It was on the way back to the transport, the other young bloods congratulating Pokee on such a difficult kill, that fate would intervene. They had looked like a Prowler, the rogue Xenomorph, red markings and feline grace, a long, whip-like tail clearing the brush behind them. They had scented the dead Queen on Pokee, and a simple mistake was blown far out of proportion. Because the Xenomorph had thought that Pokee was their Queen.

Upon returning to the clan, the Elders had told Pokee he was exiled until he could kill Kyryap; but Kyryap hasn't raised a claw against Pokee so far. Not to mention, Pokee sincerely doubted that Kyryap would even attempt to defend themselves from 'the Queen'. It simply wouldn't be an honorable kill.

Which puts Pokee in a bit of a predicament. This whole mess is Kyryap's fault, but it isn't like they intended for this all to happen. The Xeno had just been following their instincts, and has even been helping Pokee hunt prey big enough for the both of them to thrive, and drive off predators that could threaten the small homestead they'd somehow built together.

That is the other dilemma -- Pokee couldn't even explain to Kyryap that they were mortal enemies; the two have made frustratingly little progress on the language barrier. Xenomorph communication is largely non-syllabic, based on gurgles, body language, and pheromones. Pokee wishes he could understand, only to know why Kyryap stayed.

A year ago, yes, he'd smelt like a Queen. But now, Kyryap had to know that he wasn't. It feels like living a lie -- a misunderstanding left uncorrected. Pokee hates himself, that Kyryap is so trusting. When the Xeno had curled close, during the first cold, dark months here, Pokee had felt guilt. Now, he's just confused.

Kyryap comes in, now, rain sluicing off their exoskeleton, and gurgles as they drip on the woven floor mats. The Xenomorph offers up some berries to Pokee.

Pokee wishes he could hear someone else speaking to him again, just once, in a way he understands. It has been so lonely here, despite the near-constant companion. The rain drums on the thatch roof above, and Pokee shakes his head sadly.

"I don't know if I can eat those," he clicks, trying vainly to explain that they're so different once more. Kyryap is a Xenomorph, and Pokee is a Yautja, and the two should not be on remotely good terms.

Yet they hunt, together, and Kyryap finds little nooks and crannies in the largely rocky terrain where hardy little plants grow, worming through crags and crevices that Pokee is too broad-chested to fit, climbs the few trees with a quick agility matching Pokee's to scare out groups of smaller prey on the days that the large animals are far off.

Now, Kyryap holds out the little handful of bright green berries again, insistent. Pokee… doesn't know what to do. These little hiccups have been happening more and more frequently, and Pokee has had a recurring, treacherous desire to be a Xenomorph if only to be able to communicate with another lifeform. It is a thought stuffed away deep, not looked at except on the darkest nights, while Kyryap slumbers on the other side of the sleeping room.

But Pokee wants conversation, understanding. He's so lonely.

"I can't," Pokee tries again, tired, but soft with the one being who hasn't abandoned him despite the entire universe silently screaming at them. "You somehow eat more than me, anyway."

Kyryap holds up a berry, and their inner jaws snap out to pluck it from between their fingers almost delicately. As if showing Pokee that it is meant to be eaten. And Kyryap carefully selects a large berry from their hands and offers it up to Pokee, held between two razor-sharp nails.

"Kyryap," Pokee sighs, and the Xeno whines. It is a sound Pokee has never heard them make, and it's… pleading, almost.

Just one shouldn't hurt, Pokee supposes, if it stops Kyryap from fussing. The little green berry has thin, blueish membranes under the skin, and Pokee turns it over curiously before placing it between his teeth. It bursts sweet on his tongue.

He doesn't die, at least not yet. Pokee watches Kyryap watch him chew the gummy berry and swallow.

After a moment, Kyryap offers up another.

Pokee did… enjoy the berry. And it didn't kill him. One more couldn't hurt, and Kyryap shuffles closer as Pokee readily accepts the offered fruit.

He eats eight, each sweeter than the last.

"Alright, they are good," he concedes, after the two of them have eaten the handful together. "My gratitude." Kyryap nods, and tilts their head down and to the side to watch him from one strange eye.

'Do you… hear me now?'

Pokee flinches, so unused to words at this point, and lunges for his weapons, any one. He has a horrible, gut-churning thought that the Elders have decided not to wait any longer, and sent someone to kill Kyryap for him.

Kyryap intercepts him, as if they've done this a million times before, pushing him back to settling on the mats, patting his arms gently.

'Do you… hear me now?'

The voice is whisper soft, a breath on the wind, completely without echo. It is like it is spoken into his ear, only for Pokee to know, and Pokee -- Pokee understands.

"Kyryap," he whimpers, hopeful and terrified in equal measures. Because it can't be.

'That is what you say to know me,' the Xeno replies, smooth. 'The berry allows us to share thoughts.'

"But I'm--" Pokee starts to question, and Kyryap chuckle-hisses and shakes their head fondly.

'Works on all. Had to look all over for them. Silly, scent-deaf Queen.'

The words thrum with reverence, and Pokee feels tears prick his eyes as he kneels on the mat across from Kyryap and the truth tumbles out of him like a secret, "I'm no Queen. Kyryap, I'm not."

'You are a Queen of my choosing,' Kyryap insists. 'But I would apologize, my Queen. Your colony cast you away because of me, or that is what I think happened.' Kyryap shifts forward, close enough to bump his forehead, and nuzzles a comfort. 'But you let me stay. You named me, and you let me stay, even though it's been a bit inconvenient for you, Yautja Queen, and I chose you, have chosen you every day. Rogues need no Queen, yet I evolve again for you. I will be a Praetorian. I will be your colony.'

"I'm a Yautja, you even know it," Pokee laughs wetly. "I can't make more of you. We'll be alone, and I am meant to kill you. Yautja and Xenomorphs are always enemies."

'Then we will be a colony of two, Yautja Queen, and the only such colony ever to exist. You are no enemy of mine, and I hunt only for you. I am your Praetorian, your guard -- your Elite. Other Queens will not understand, but we will fight them together.'

"I don't understand," Pokee whispers. "You follow me to death."

'I will help you to understand, now,' Kyryap breathes, gentle, into his mind. The voice is quieter, as if coming from farther away. 'You claim I follow you to death, my Queen, but you are my life. The last Queen was weak, she did not name us. A Queen through blood, but nothing more. You saved me. My life, and death, are but yours to command.'

"It's not like I'm even infected. You would follow a Queen that shares no blood with you?"

Pokee's question goes unanswered. It seems the ability the berries grant only lasts so long. Kyryap snorts and shakes their head, before moving to encircle Pokee in the curve of their side and tail, head resting upon an armored shoulder. Pokee wants to howl, to scream. It has been so long since there was another voice to keep him company, and it's gone again.

They sit together, Kyryap providing near-silent comfort and a rumbling purr, before the Xeno nudges at Pokee repeatedly, and more insistent. Pokee allows the Rogue -- the Praetorian, if what Kyryap says is true -- to coax him to his feet and lead him out into the rain.

It's almost torrential now. The rainy season of the planet is apparently coming on fast and hard. Sheets of water buffet the unlikely pair as Kyryap winds around rocky ridges and outcrops, into the canyon-laced area the homestead abuts. This is an area rich in mineral ores and game, as prey come down into the shadowed fissures to escape the heat of the usual sunny days. The crevasses provide only moderate shelter from the deluge.

Kyryap examines small nooks and crannies as they pass, searching dutifully. Pokee shivers in the damp chill, and glances up the sides of the deepening canyons, watchful as always of predators following food into here. He almost misses Kyryap sliding, squirming, into a crack in the rocky wall too thin for Pokee to squeeze into.

It's too quiet, now, Pokee so used to Kyryap's presence after this long. He waits, dutiful, as the minutes stretch.

"Kyryap?" He calls after nearly half an hour. Immediately, he hears an echoing trill, further in and down from the sound of it. After another moment, Kyryap wriggles out into Pokee's space, triumphantly brandishing several large vine segments weighed heavy with green berries.

The next harvest is a bountiful one, baskets and baskets of bright green berries for Pokee to eat throughout the day. The homestead has grown to accommodate the small farms and a couple more rooms, carved resolutely into the unwilling rock the planet is made up of. The berries only grow in true shadow, and store best in cool darkness, so the additions are necessary for Pokee's continued communication with his Xenomorph.

They have guests, today, four members from the tribe. Pokee welcomes them inside, out of the heat of the daylight, and smiles proudly as the hulking, crested Praetorian brings a whole basketful of berries, woven from the vines the berries grew on. He feels Kyryap settle, huge and intimidating, at his shoulder, watching the guests for any sign of ill-intent.

The guests don't eat right away. They demand answers to the Elders' questions, an Elite Pokee hasn't met and three Blooded, all from the ill-fated hunting party. The Blooded, at least, are polite to him, but the Elite growls at the odd pair and complains about the long-lasting construction that's gone into the homestead. Pokee doesn't need the berries to know Kyryap doesn't like this one.

"It's a sturdy home," one of the Blooded compliments, after most of the Elite's bluster has run its course. "But the Elders are concerned. Clearly, it's still alive, and it appears to us that you have every intention to stay here, Pokee. You could be an Elite, an Elder, given the time and experience. You would throw away your honor for one of these?"

"Have a few," Pokee avoids, motioning to the basket. He pops the berries one at a time every few minutes by now, savoring the additional benefits as long as each berry can provide. "They're really very good. Kyryap found them."

"He's named it," the other two Blooded whisper amongst themselves, and it takes effort for Pokee not to frown at them.

"I will answer your questions, if you give me the time to do so," he sighs, "but you're being very rude about all this, quite frankly, and it has been some time since I've been able to get news from off-planet. Still trying to work out the bugs in the communicator I built."

Pokee gestures behind himself at the beginnings of a basic, long-range communicator, and the guests are disgusted to see a long insect with seemingly infinite legs crawl out of it.

"Literally," Pokee grumbles, and watches as Kyryap reaches over and picks the creature -- about a foot long -- up and slurps it for a snack. "Kyryap, gross, eat over the table, please! You'll get guts on the floor again, and I'm going to be the one cleaning it up!"

He turns back to the four visitors just in time to see one bite into a berry. The Blooded chews, and goes pale. "These are Shaman Berries," he excitedly tells the Elite. "Elder Salanis told me of these! Elite Kanlac said they've become rare back home!"

At this, the other three finally begin picking at the berries, missing the grin on Pokee's face. The former Young Blood had forgone his mask and armor months ago, but he's very careful in schooling his face into expressions slightly more recognizable to Kyryap. They've both done a lot of adjusting, but their abnormal bond has grown stronger for it.

"They let groups of consumers share thoughts when nearby," one Blooded is explaining to his fellows. "This is a kingly gift you welcome us with, Pokee-Stick!"

'A queenly gift, I'd say,' Kyryap interrupts, and chuckle-hisses as the other Yautja all freeze. 'Wouldn't you agree, my Yautja Queen?'

"A queenly gift, indeed," Pokee snickers, popping another berry between his teeth. "Go check on that lovely egg of ours, won't you, Kyryap? After all, we got it through such… unconventional means."

'Stealing eggs,' Kyryap sighs into their minds. 'You're a terrible influence, my Queen.'

Still, the Xenomorph turns and crosses the space to a low archway, opening onto a set of stairs that lead down into the chiseled-out incubation cellar the two had built for just this purpose. The stairs are cool, and shallow pools of water line the floor here. Kyryap brushes a careful finger along the single egg inside this small room, and smiles. Together, they are building a colony with Pokee, in rather odd fashion. Kyryap leads the Queen's tiny force, while Pokee researches ways of communicating with his colony properly.

Upstairs, Pokee turns back to the visitors and rolls his eyes. "I suppose it would be easier if Kyryap infected me and I became a Predalien, as the oomans called them," he grumbles good-naturedly. The Elite looks mortified.

'And as I keep saying,' Kyryap snips from below, thoughts curling tender and safe around Pokee's, 'I will not infect you. It would not be you after that, not really.'

"You could be the Queen, then," Pokee challenges, and smirks at his guests as Kyryap's response comes.

'YOU are my Queen,' the Xeno rumbles through the berries, firm but not harsh -- never harsh with their Queen. 'The Queen of our colony. I. Will. Not.'

"You would make a good Queen," Pokee teases, only half-joking. "I'd follow you."

Kyryap's thoughts go all tangled and jumbled, so even the berries can't help, as they only do when the Xeno is embarrassed at Pokee's warm, honest compliments.

"My Praetorian," Pokee rumbles, proud, and feels through the thoughts they share a swelling of pride from Kyryap's end as well. "Never leave me."

'Never.' Kyryap agrees, unflinching, as they return to their Queen's side, and the two fix unwavering gazes on their guests.

"Well, Elite? I believe this answers your questions."

The Elite shakes his head. "Yet leaves even more. You will not kill it?"

Anger, then, hot as fire, bleeds across the table from Pokee. He's frowning now, and stands, pulling a weapon down from a shelf on the wall. It is the very same branch that earned him his name, sharpened still. "Kyryap has shown time and again that they mean no harm -- to me, at least. They have been an invaluable assistance here, after you all cast me aside, and have been nothing but respectful -- even to you, who come demanding their death. It would be a dishonorable killing, and I will not endanger my Praetorian by bringing them back to the clan with me to prove this before the Elders. I know you all hope my promising skill would someday return to our home planet, but my clan -- my colony -- is here now. The hunting will sustain us, and my colony, small as it may be, will not just survive but flourish on this planet. I will not abandon Kyryap."

"Then you will die here with it," the Elite pronounces, just in time for the Facehugger clinging to the ceiling above him to slap onto his shoulder and worm up under his mask.

"There are three more for you," Pokee warns, as the Elite crashes to the floor, spasming. "If you do as I say, you'll leave this place yourselves."

The three Blooded clump together, terrified for maybe the first time in their lives, staring up at Pokee and the enormous Praetorian shadowing him.

"You will leave this planet untouched, and allow my colony peace to grow. If you do not come after us, we will not come to Yautja Prime." Pokee replaces the weapon and motions to the basket. "I will allow you to take these. Perhaps, with continued good relations such as this, peace will come between Yautja Prime and us. Tell the clan you killed us, if it will help at first, but that the Elite sacrificed himself to bring down Kyryap." Pokee opens his arms, and a Chestburster drops into his embrace to cuddle into his face and brush careful legs against his flesh-braids. They purr as they get comfortable.

"Yes, Yautja Queen," one of the Blooded whispers. Pokee smiles, feral. The three can see now, eyes adjusted to the dark inside the building, that the ceiling is crawling with Facehuggers and Chestbursters, and one solitary Runner perches just above the stairs to the incubation chamber.

"Oh, and one more thing," Pokee mumbles, turning to look back at the communicator. "Once I get this up and running, feel free to let us know about any… abandoned eggs you may come across. After all, if you help my colony grow, I'll want to keep you around, yes?" Pokee's feral grin softens as he turns his gaze onto Kyryap. "You and Bryg see them out, please?"

The Praetorian nods once, and they and the Runner flank the three trembling Blooded. "Safe travels," Pokee clicks, turning to examine the Elite's still body.

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cc-xinxin · 9 months ago

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I love this analysis… agree over 90% of things said here. Well put!

Something I disagree with: (1) in epilogue, it is obviously implied that Dutch just showed up not long before John. Micah said ‘all manners of folks paying social call these days’, implying Dutch only be there for days, if not hours. He was there to kill Micah and nothing else. I can imagine being alone after the gang collapsed surely was uncomfortable for Dutch, but there’s nothing in canon showing that he cannot be alone. After all he was there on his own from 1899-1907, and to 1911 before he formed the gang in rdr1.

And (2) in rdr1 Dutch is one of the few ‘villains’ that already has lots of depth. He did not show up on the screen much, but ppl talked about him a lot. In a conversation between John, Ross and his assistant, his assistant said something like ‘I know it’s easy to sympathize with Dutch. The guy makes sense.’ And proceed to discuss an analogy of a beautiful flower of something (sorry I forgot). But the point is even at this point, Dutch’s utopia dream still has hell lot of appeal. One of the rdr writers when explaining why they decided to spend lots of time on Dutch in rdr2 said, ‘in rdr1, Dutch’s shadow looms over everyone’s head, and we decided it’s a good idea to explore more in the second game’. In comparison, Bill and Javier in rdr1 are … well, basically plot devices, which is a shame.

Besides from those two I agree with most of other stuff said in the post. Something I wanna add is, some ppl accuse Dutch of ‘having the money to make a safe escape all the time but refuse to bc he wanted to be an outlaw for life, and thus cause lots of unnecessary death’. And this assumption is incorrect in two ways: (1) they don’t have money for a safe escape all the time. Player’s money is not gang’s money (rdr2 has a real fuck-up economic system) and all the gang money is recorded in the first page of Arthur’s journal. Before the final train robbery in chapter 6 when the gang has already split beyond repair, there is around 19k, and even Arthur said this is not enough in the trolley station robbery in chapter 4. And (2) Dutch being an outlaw after rdr2 while having all the money in the world (black water money 150k) doesn’t mean he has planned to do this in the very beginning. I’m sure he indeed considered settled down cuz there’s an entry in Arthur’s journal “Dutch seems to struggle between his dream escape and to prove something, as for what Idk, not sure he does”. BUT the theme of the game is that there’s no utopia. Tahiti or the virgin land in the west, they’re all gonna be conquered by ‘civilization’. It’s not Dutch doesn’t want to escape. It’s that there’s nowhere to go.

Bonus: in a conversation between Sean and Arthur on their way to rob a homestead, Sean said ‘ppl should stop giving Dutch shit about the ferry job. The man ain’t a fortune teller.’ And Arthur replied, “Well ppl always want to find someone to blame when things go wrong.” It bizarrely echoes what happened in real life, in rdr2 fandom: when things go wrong, ppl simply want to find someone to blame. Even when the game tells you EXPLICITLY, ‘our time is passed’. Said TWICE in both games, once by Arthur and once by Dutch.

What really destroys van der linde gang is not Pinkertons, or Micah, or Dutch. It’s TIME.

About Dutch van der Linde

Hello tumblr rdr space! I do not go here, but I post on tiktok sometimes and have a dear buddy of mine who ive been talking to about some posts on here!

I will post a proper introduction at a later date, but for now I would like to put my own two cents in on some stuff ive been seeing recently, about Dutch.

Dutch is an incredibly COMPLEX character, and I feel that some people really horrifically miss that point sometimes. whether it be "Oh, he bonked his head!" or "Oh, this man is a monster!" both points are on opposite ends of the spectrum, but I believe they greatly miss the overarching theme of his character and who he is, and was, as a person. To merely dismiss all of his actions by saying "oh, hes just a monster, abuser, groomer, thats why hes the way that he is" shows nothing above a surface level understanding of his character, nor the characters of the people around him and those who choose to work with him. These characters were designed to have depth, to be studied, and understood on a deeper level. Why take such a basic explanation? I am not here to say Dutch is not without flaws (because he has alot of those), but I AM here to say that calling dutch a "groomer" or some sort of "cult leader, master manipulator" is just, factually incorrect.

Firstly, with the grooming point. This is an incredibly stigmatized word nowadays, so its crazy to use in general here, but by no means were people "groomed" into being outlaws. These people had flaws of their own, took bad paths, and ended up crossing paths with Dutch. Why did they cross paths with him? Well, I went through every "how they joined the gang" story I could find, and its about a 50/50 split between they tried to rob or kill dutch, Or that they were on the run and dutch gave them a safe place to stay, with some exceptions. The odds of these people bumping into someone far worse, in all cases, are exceptional. Most of the gang were in bad places when dutch found them, and they were getting desperate. Its incredibly possible they wouldve bumped into someone who wouldve killed them instead. John was saved from being hanged. Had Dutch and Hosea not been there, he wouldve died. Arthur outright says "dutch saved me, saved most of us." and although things did not turn out right at the end of the day, to believe that dutch was nothing more than a power-hungry manipulator is shown to be incorrect in the media itself. Colm exists. Hes literally right there. An antagonist who; doesnt know the names of the men in his gang, is shown to hit Kieran, who cares more for numbers than connection. Their feud goes back YEARS, and it all seems to stem from a fatal disagreement about how things were being run. When they split paths, Dutch keeps a tight knit gang of people who he considers family, Colm continues to grow his gang in numbers. At the very start of the game, dutch makes it clear that hed prefer the gang doesnt split up, that they stick together so *he can be sure everyone is okay.* He shows sympathy for Sadies situation, and takes her in to help her. Not once is it stated shes obligated to be there, in fact, its stated that she can stay as long as she needs to, to get back on her feet. She has the final say on whether she stays in the gang or not. The reason so many people stayed in the gang until it was actively collapsing, is not because dutch was forcing them to stay. They saw him as family just as he saw them.

Its why his character arc is so interesting. Its why watching his downfall is impactful. he ISNT a bad man, he does bad things out of desperation towards the end of the game, just as other gang members did in the very beginning. Dutch had bad tendencies, but he had people there to help him stay on the right track. His beliefs were good, its why he had people who stuck with him. They believed in what he taught. He had incredibly intelligent people in his gang, I'll use Lenny and Hosea as my examples for now. Lenny was taught by his father to judge peoples character, and even if his time with the gang was short he absolutely wouldve picked up on dutchs behavior if he was hiding behind some sort of mask. and HOSEA, has been with the dude for 20 YEARS. You cannot fake something for that long, and hosea is far from stupid aswell. He is a conman by nature. If dutch was trying to con everyone, surely he wouldve noticed. Arthur still regards dutch incredibly highly for a good majority of the game. He sees the man as a mentor and is clearly deeply affected watching dutch spiral and do bad things as the game goes on. At the beginning, when told Dutch had shot a girl on the blackwater job, his first response is to say that it "doesnt sound like him". Dutch is shown to have remorse for his actions, although he chooses to rarely talk about blackwater, and avoids the subject when its brought up, he explains to hosea, with shame, that he "really messed up" in blackwater. Micah had egged dutch on (as stated by John in a camp interaction) and dutch is shown to be regretful, that job really put everything in motion, but I truly believe micahs manipulation is what changed dutch.

Micah fed into his impulsive side, and tried to reassure him when things went wrong. When Arthur was kidnapped by Colm, Micah explained that Arthur was the type to wander, and surely, theyd see him back at camp. Dutch, ONCE AGAIN, shows regret. He shouldnt have put Arthur in such a position, and knows it. Dutch has impulsive tendencies, he has paranoid thoughts. This is shown in multiple camp interactions and even stated in one of the games first journal entries about the land they were going to settle on before the ferry job. To simply blow off all the depth of his character by saying "oh, hes bad" is so,, lame? Why focus on dutch specifically to say he did all of these bad things on his own accord when micah is, right there. Dutch literally goes crawling back to him in the epilogue. Partly for revenge, since seeing arthur on the cliffside was able to briefly break him out of the funk hed been in for the last few months (albeit far too late), but also partly because I dont think he knows how to be alone. I dont think he can handle it. Hosea and Arthur had been by his side the longest, and he had to watch both of them die. Late game conversations between dutch and arthur have always been fascinating to me, and even in Guarma dutch is still set on going back to keep the gang together. Thats his family, and he cannot lose them too. He outright states he'll do whatever it takes to make sure they survive. Arthur is startled by this, as dutch has been shown to be deadly and irrational, he isnt processing things well, and cannot handle the pressure on his shoulders, and it certainly doesnt help that Micah is in his ear telling him that Arthur and John are betraying him. He clearly doesnt want to believe it, but he cannot wrap his head around hoseas death, and assumes that the only way it couldve happened was if someone ratted, completely overlooking micah.

Dutch is not a smart man, and truthfully, he should have never been in a position of power, but he is not evil. He was desperate, and he was trying to keep his family together. Although I do not agree with the "Trolley Theory" for reasons stated above, I highly doubt him bashing his head like that helped with his mental state either. Dutch is desperate. Dutch does bad things, but he is far from a bad man. He helped the people in his gang, and although the found family turned sour in the end, they mattered to him, and it mattered to the gang. Dutch, CANONICALLY, was not always "bad" either. Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea robbed a bank, took what they needed, and gave the rest to the local orphanage. Dutch scolded Arthur for robbing someone who was "too poor" and said that doing that made them just as bad as the system they were fighting against, Dutch helped Hosea get on the right track and stopped him from stealing just about anything he could get his hands on. Dutch is a man who had good ideologies, and wanted to help people in his own way, but the pressures kept adding up and it broke him. Dutch, in RDR1, is a more objectively "bad" character, But look at how they fleshed him out in rdr2. Was the cliff scene nearly as impactful before the release of rdr2? absolutely not! Playing as john, we were thrown in with a baseline knowledge of their history, and now knowing the full story makes the cliff scene quite the harrowing experience if youre able to grasp the intricacies of dutchs character, to look at him as more than "just a villain".

This turned out to be far more ranty then I wanted, but I am so tired of seeing so much mischaracterization and demonization of a character with literally days worth of content to look at and study that shows some of the points I see from people to just be blatantly wrong. Lol

#dutch van der linde #rdr2

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needleanddead · 3 years ago

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rabbit

you’re the last one left.

mason/reader, 3.6k.

cws: explicit non-con, blood, gore, knives, mentions of hunting and animal death. big spoilers if you haven’t unlocked mason’s full bio. cult themes, religious themes, gender neutral reader, a lot of weird pseudo-religious overtones idk where i’m going with any of this i’m basically writing my own backstory as i go. takes place probably quite a bit before the events of the price of flesh.

There is nowhere else to go, the night when you realise that you’re going to die. You think about the houses of the community; you think about the main building, the building of your community’s Father and Prophet and Leader, where there are phones and electricity and maybe you could let someone know and maybe they could help--

But it all seems too obvious, and in the end blind faith wins out.

The cliche of seeking sanctuary here would make you laugh if you weren't so terrified.

The floor here is polished to a shine; even in boots, your feet slide across it and you feel like you're profaning not to have taken them off. You've never been in here alone; you're not supposed to. Only here for worship, only here under people who know more than you do, only here to kneel and pray and give thanks. Your whole life has been played out in the same expanse of the wilderness; the same carefully settled little homestead, the same community of people who love their creator and love their land and love each other.

Love each other. Ha.

That seems very funny now, as your hands shake in the absence of any kind of weapon – as you wait for him.

It’s only a matter of time.

You’re not sure how you’ve lasted this long – all you know is that the people you care about (people you’ve grown up with, people you’ve looked up to and respected, people you’ve venerated and adored) have methodically been hunted down.

You’ve seen the bodies. You’d seen too many bodies, even making it here – some of them done cleanly, some of them . . . done less so.

The ones with the snapped necks and the wide bulging, staring eyes and swollen mouths are the luckiest, you think. You’d stepped into something, running here, and looked down and seen that you were ankle-deep in somebody’s innards. If that had been a goat or a rabbit, the elders would have told you off for wasting food. But when you see the face, you realise that there are no elders left to tell you anything.

The whole point of the community is to take only from the earth and give back to it; worship your God, listen to his word through the Father and the Prophet - shy away from the electrics and the heresy and the sin present out there, in what they call ‘civilisation’. Learn to do everything yourself. Learn to make use of everything.

He’d been good at it. Everyone had loved him. Everyone had covered for him, when that nasty business had come to light – insisted he must have done it for the right reasons. Protected and coddled and revered and venerated him. Everyone had been devastated when he’d left--

You feel his footsteps before you hear them; slow and certain and sure as he draws unrelentingly closer. They seem to shake the wood beneath you, though you know that he’s capable of walking quieter than a breath of air against the grass – so quiet that a doe would never see him coming until there was a crossbow bolt buried in her haunch. You’re the deer, now.

“I’m the last one left, aren’t I?” You say, quietly.

He’s got good hearing; he always has.

They’d brought you out hunting, once, before it had been clear that your talents laid in other directions. You’d found your legs restless, your mind wandering and hazy, staying in one spot for so long – but he had been perfectly still and silent. When you had turned to him and made to open your mouth, he’d raised one huge hand and whispered, quietly;

“Listen.”

You hadn’t heard the snapping branches beneath anxious paws, the rustle of leaves as the rabbit had poked his nose out just a little too far. But he certainly had.

“Yup.”

Not much for talking. You already know that. He didn’t exactly need to be; as soon as his prowess had become undeniable, anyone who might once have had something to say about his lack of . . . interdependent skills were told, in no uncertain times, that some people did not need them. Some people’s talents were simply too much to deny; some people provided too much to the community for that to be a problem.

And oh, Mason had provided plenty to the community.

You turn around, helplessly, so that you’re not facing the makeshift altar. There are still woven wheat crafts on it, tied with red ribbons, from the last celebration that the community had. Nobody has much felt like celebrating, recently. There are precious few of you left to celebrate, anyway – well. Were precious few of you left.

Mason is standing silhouetted by the door, blocking out the waning sunlight almost entirely and casting a huge shadow across the floor. Your heart beats wildly against your chest and you think, somewhat stupidly, that this is what they meant when they talked about the Father, wasn’t it? Someone big and strong and flushed hearty with life.

He’s smiling.

This is what people mean, when they talk about meeting your death head-on, you’re sure of it. The last time you and Mason were in here together--

The last time you and Mason were in here together, he’d decided he was going to leave, and the entire community was in uproar. The prodigal son’s departure; at the time, you hadn’t been sure if Mason had realised he’d been being groomed for taking over, eventually – but looking at him now, smiling and at ease and certain, you think he must have known. And he must not have wanted it.

There’s a crossbow tucked into his arm, bolts ready to go. You think about him readying the bow; think about him shooting you directly through the palm and pinning you against the wall like some echo of a stigmata, and it makes your hands itch. There’s a knife tucked into his belt, the handle shining white even in the dark.

“You’re going to shoot me?” You ask, your voice only quivering a little. Trapped animal; hunted down, pressed into a corner. Prey in front of a predator. You wonder how blown terrified wide your eyes are. If Mason can tell that you’re desperately trying to think of how to get out of this. “Like . . . like a deer?”

“You sure look like one right’n now,” Mason says, but he puts the crossbow down on the closest chair as if in a sign of surrender. You cannot stop staring at the knife. It’s shining so brightly. So prettily. Stark bright against the dark, like a beacon. What is it made out of?

(Mason had proved surprisingly adept at handicrafts, you remember. Big fingers delicate as they’d twisted and carved and whittled, face drawn into intense concentration as if he could see something that nobody else could and he had to force it out of the materials before him. Wood, fabric, wheat, weave, tanning, leather – unfair, you’d thought. He’d given you a carved rabbit, once, long before all of this had began – gruff and almost embarrassed when he’d told you he’d done something wrong with the ears. You’d put it on your windowsill, where it remains. Sun-bleached but whole, and you’d never noticed whatever it was he’d done wrong. He’d made a perfect rabbit, a few days later, and you know that he’d given that one to Sandy--

Oh. Sandy. It hits you with startling, frightening lucidity exactly what the handle of his knife is made of.)

“Rather be gettin’ a little more hands-on with ya,” Mason says, still smiling – but his green eyes are sharp and bright and sure, pinioning you exactly where you are. “On account of me savin’ you for last n’all.”

You think, there was a time in your life that the thought that Mason was thinking about you would have made you fair giddy with pleasure. Now, though, all it does is make a cold pit of ice in your stomach, lodging there heavy and unmelting.

That time was before you’d seen your community gutted like animals, strung up to dry, snapped and broken and hunted down.

The surprise clearly shows on your face, though, because Mason’s expression softens a touch as he walks towards you.

“Always thought you were nice t’look at,” Mason says. “Nice hair. Pretty skin.” The door behind him is open, promising freedom. He’s getting closer. “Thinkin’ ‘bout everything I could do with that--”

“I don’t want to be an art project,” You say to him, breathlessly, as you screw all of your courage to the sticking place.

One eyebrow raised just a touch, his smile crooked.

“Oh, I’ve got other plans for ya first.”

You don’t think you can both outrun and outlast him. But if you can at least get away from him, you might have a chance. He’s so huge, he can’t be that fast! His face is still soft, as if he’s wistful for something that never happened, and perhaps you can take advantage of that – take the element of surprise.

You launch yourself forward, hoping you can hurtle past him, run through the doors and into the evening light and away from everything--

But you’re not so lucky. You’re trapped in Mason’s grip before you can take another breath, tightly clamping you against him.

“Ain’t this supposed to be a place’a refuge?” Mason says to you, and you know he’s mocking you. “You’re the one who chose it.”

“Please,” you say, breathlessly. Now that death is here and staring you dead-on with a gaze the colour of leaves in sunlight, you find that the idea of facing it with dignity is much more terrifying than the idea of simply running away and pretending it isn’t coming for you in the end. You squirm against his grip, fighting it as best you can. “Let me go--”

He’s too strong, and he has you cradled too close to him. Your heart is beating applause in your chest, threatening to claw it’s way out of your throat. You don’t stop squirming for a moment, desperately trying to move your head, or get your arms free from where Mason has them pressed to your sides--

“I won’t tell anyone anything,” you babble, helplessly. Your voice is pitching hysterically. “Not where I came from, not where you are, not anything, I promise--”

Quietly, Mason breathes directly into your ear, deep and gruff and dark.

“The strugglin’ is real cute.”

Mason pushes himself against you, so that you can feel him entirely. He’s big, but he’s not soft in any shape of the word – and one part, in particular, you realise is very much hard. Fear rushes in at you from all sides like a dull roar in your head. He’s not going to . . . he wouldn’t--

He sighs in pleasure against your ear as you don’t stop fighting against him.

“Y’think you’ll scream for me too?” He asks. “Nobody to hear ya’ anymore, rabbit. Go ahead’n let it out.”

He drops you onto the floor. You don’t have time to react before he’s kneeling down, reaching for you – his hand fastens around the side of your head and knocks it hard against the wooden floor. He’s practised, though; all the blow does is disorient you, keep you from being able to pull yourself up, keep you from moving when he pulls your shirt up and reveals the unmarked expanse of your stomach.

(You might have a concussion and you ought not to go to sleep for a while, you think, wildly, as if there’s any chance of you waking up at all after Mason does whatever it is he wants with you).

He whistles, pleased, as he looks down at you.

“Pretty skin,” he repeats. Thick fingers ghost across it – and then, higher, to your chest, and your face heats with embarrassment of it all. His other hand reaches for his knife. “Soft as anythin’.”

He’s going to gut you. Split you right down the middle, take out all of the parts he doesn’t need. Right here, in the chapel – the same place that you knelt across from him and thanked the father for all of this bountiful land, for things to hunt and eat and grow, where you both promised to do no harm and be holy and pure and good--

You don’t think there’s ever been a more accurate way to define desecration of the sacred

The tip of the blade presses into your stomach, just enough that a rivulet of blood swells to the surface, dark red and viscous. Mason smiles down at you. You’re trembling, your breathing incredibly loud in the silent room. Mason hasn’t made a single noise – if you didn’t know better, you’d think the man wasn’t breathing. He says, deliberately, those eyes locked onto yours as he carries on pressing.

“Thought I told ya’ to scream.”

You don’t have anything to lose. You’re going to die here. And if you do what he wants, maybe he’ll make it quick. You open your mouth and close your eyes and scream.

Mason chuckles, his breathing heavy. The pressure of the knife disappears – but it’s replaced with the feeling of hands tugging at your bottoms and your underwear together. The rasp of denim against your thighs makes you wince.

But not as much as the sound of jingling; of a belt buckle being undone. Your scream peters into nothing, your eyes snapping wide open.

Mason doesn’t like that. He man-handles you roughly, forcing your thighs apart, so wide that it makes your hips ache, and not stopping. A cry of pain is forced from you as he comes dangerously close to dislocating it, to snapping your bones apart – a raw show of strength that does nothing to quell anxiety rising in your gut. Mason chuckles gruffly again.

“That’s right. Don’t stop squirmin’ or screamin’ on my account, now--”

You want to scream again when you look down and see just how big he is.

He’ll break you in half. He’ll tear you up inside. You struggle uselessly as he moves on top of you, as he settles his own knees between your forced-apart legs and uses one arm to effortlessly lift your hips high enough that his cock presses against you, hot and hard.

He’s smiling again. There’s a fondness in it, still – but there’s also the look of a predator, pleased to have finally have his prey helpless to do anything but be captured. Tears have risen to your eyes, hot as they spill down your equally warm cheeks and splash onto the chapel floor like holy water.

“Please don’t,” you hiccup out, in between sobs. “Please!”

He pushes in dry and you feel like you’re being split apart; torn up, fiery hot between your thighs, as Mason forces the shape of himself inside of you against any and all resistance. You sob and beg and scream, but all it does is make Mason press deeper inside of you. Every time you think he cannot possibly be any bigger, he cannot possibly stretch you any wider – you find yourself proven wrong with the ceasless drive of powerful hips.

You barely notice when he starts to really move; to thrust in and out instead of mercilessly in. You’re too busy screaming yourself hoarse. Too busy still trying to get away from the invading part of him inside of you. You know, now, that he likes the struggling – but how could you do anything else but struggle, when it feels like this?

At some point, you realise that where you were once dry is slick and wet.

Bleeding, you realise, dimly. I’m bleeding inside. And you know that it should be abhorrent; that you should be disgusted. But all you can think is that you’re glad it doesn’t hurt quite so much, as Mason continues to use your weakly squirming body.

(Thinking of the knife keeps you moving and struggling and fighting, even as your energy saps away. You don’t want to be a sacrificial lamb, spread open in a place of worship, bleeding as an offering to a God who you don’t think has really been listening or watching. Maybe he never has been. Maybe everything you’ve ever been told here, about his will and his benevolence, has been a lie.)

He’s finally making noise. Panting softly, in between the slap of his hips against yours. It doesn’t compare to your moans of pain, your little helpless cries. They stopped being words long ago, though you can no longer pinpoint when.

When did it start getting so dark? How long have you been here, trapped underneath Mason’s bulk? You stare up at the ceiling of the chapel, where there’s a crack that leaks when it rains that nobody ever repaired after Mason left. Lots of things changed, then.

Mason changed the most, maybe.

He’s getting deeper with his thrusts. Your body weakly pulsates with each one. You cry out weakly once more as his hips stutter, as he drags you even closer against him, and he comes inside you with the loudest grunt so far. You’re shivering violently, fluid dripping down your thighs as he pulls out – whether it’s your blood or his come, you don’t know. You can’t bring yourself to care.

“Still look so scared,” Mason murmurs, big hands almost tenderly reaching up, brushing your arms until they’re hovering almost lovingly beside your throat. “Still got some screamin’ in you, huh? Still got a good chase fer’ me, rabbit?”

What he’s saying doesn’t make sense to you. You’re going to die here, in a pool of blood and come, and the community dies with you – Mason’s past dies with you. Everything he was, once. Everything that your elders worked for, that all of you once said you fervently believed – you don’t know if you believe any more, not really. It’s clear to you Mason doesn’t; that his belief paradigm has shifted to something you don’t understand.

Something that meant that every single one of you needed to be hunted down and eradicated, like animals. A chicken coop unlocked by a too-clever wolf.

They say he settled not too far away from all of you. You wonder if that’s true as Mason’s big hands (so big; the hands of God, comforting, coming to relieve you of mortal pain--) fasten about your neck and begin to reverently choke you out.

You wake feeling groggy and tired and aching. Your thighs feel like you’ve been running for days, though that can’t be true. The world swims back into reality around you – and you make sense of the trees pointing up towards the heavens. Your memories return; but only in small flashes of what transpired last night. Mason. The chapel. The knife, the feel of it dragging over sensitive skin, the choking and the pain and the blood - and Mason’s smile not leaving his face for an instant.

Your face floods hot as you realise exactly why your thighs are burning so, and as the other pain makes itself known and you drag yourself onto hands and knees.

“Wondered when you’d come back round.” Mason is stood in front of you, a little way away. He’s still smiling – but it’s nothing like how he was before. This smile is genial. He looks every inch soft, kind and capable – like a teddy bear in green flannel and wool. One of those huge hands (the ones that you’re now far, far too familiar with) comes to rest on your head, tugging you up onto your feet, disorienting you.

He drops a backpack into your arms.

“Thought I’d try somethin’ new,” he says you. “Thought you’d help me out.”

You’re bewildered. You’d . . .

Honestly, you’d expected never to wake up. Mason had made it very clear by his actions that what he wanted was to make sure not a single trace of the community remained, and you are a loose thread. You’d thought your body would be in pieces by now; that if you were lucky, you might live on in the handle of a different knife or as a furniture piece or whatever art project Mason felt like doing. You hadn’t thought that you’d be given another chance.

“I like huntin’,” Mason continues. You force yourself to pay attention. He’s not usually verbose; he’s surely got something to tell you that will bring all of this into relief and make sense of it. “Hunted a lotta things, not all of ‘em . . . ordinary. Lotta experience.” He flashes his teeth at you. “Y’know what gives the best hunt?”

Oh no.

You don’t say anything. Mason takes a slow, leisurely step towards you. You briefly peek down into the open backpack. There’s a sealed bag of what looks like nuts and fried fruit and granola, a knife that will be no match for Mason’s, paper and a pencil, flint and steel--

You don’t answer him, and he chuckles under his breath.

“Outta words, rabbit? We’re startin’ to be alike, you’n me. I’ll show you, then.”

He levels the crossbow that you’d so narrowly escaped last night.

Your legs are aching from how he’d forced them apart. You feel torn up inside. Your throat is bruised from having his hands around it, your head hurts, your mind still churning at the knowledge that you and Mason are the very last members of the community standing.

But prey animals have a flight response; flee the danger, no matter what.

As your feet hit the ground, you suppose perhaps you are a rabbit.

#🦇 pip writes #tpof #tpof spoilers #non con cw #thats the big one

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insomniamamma · 3 years ago

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Safe: Ezra x f!reader w/Cee

A/n: What can I say? I'm hormonal and all my shit hurts and if I cannot get snuggles IRL then I will write something super soft and self-indulgent to make myself feel better. Part of the Prickle AU. Set sometime after Sacellum.

Warnings: Oh no! There's only one bed. Soft!Ezra. Language. Cee's best friend on The Pug is non-binary and also named after my little boy's favorite stuffy. Maybe the slightest bit of angst. But mostly super soft.

"You did this on purpose." "Right hand to Kevva, I did not. I asked for double occupancy and they must have misunderstood and--" "You don't have a right hand," "Let's go back to the reception desk," says Ezra, "We may be able to negotiate more appropriate accommodations." "Errgh," you groan. Reception had been a nightmare, three freighters worth of traffic trying to secure berths all at once. It was a lot of people. Too many for your liking. Cee was staying with Kit and their family. Kit and Cee had practically tackled each other right there on the dock, everyone else forgotten, walked away arm in arm. "We shove off in three cycles," Ezra hollered at her retreating back, and she flapped a dismissive hand at him. You had to smile. For three cycles Cee gets to be a normal teenager hanging out with her best friend without worrying about points and pulls and overhead costs and fuel margins. "I don't wanna go back down there," you say, "Too many people. I think twice the population of Falnost was waiting in that fucking line." You brush past him and into the suite. The ceilings are low and slightly curved and it feels strange to be under this much grav. The outer rings of Puggart Bench have something close to terra-normal gravity, but after so much time spent on little moons and worldlets, this much G feels weird and you have no desire to trudge back down to reception. "You sure?" Asks Ezra. "Yeah," you drop your day bag and press a hand to the mattress. "Look at the size of this thing. It's, like, five crash-couches wide. This seems above our pay grade." "They're overbooked," says Ezra, "We're paying the same points for the berth we should have gotten. I made sure of it. I can sleep in that recliner if--" "No." "No?" "Kevva, Ez, we're both adults," you say, "I think we can share a bed for a night without exploding."

Your suite has a real, honest-to-Goddess shower with a generous 15 minute timer. You scrub as fast as you can and then just let the water hit you, let the pressure pound on your tense back muscles until the chime sounds and the water cuts off. You towel off and dress, soft clothes you sleep in, and pad out into the main room. Ezra is reading, face far off and serious, and you just look at him for a minute, illuminated in the warm lamp-light, absorbed in his book, little furrow between his brows and then he looks up, all knowing smirk and dancing eyes, he's caught you staring. "Your turn, Ez," You say and turn your face away. Kevva. This man. You've been trying to keep things professional, but it's a losing battle. His flirtations make you flush, but he's never tried to push you, never tried to leverage the fact that it's his name on the ship's title, that you signed a contract, that you are junior-most crew. You feel safe with him. And, from your limited experience in the fringe, that is a miracle in itself.

Ezra sets his book aside and heads for the bathroom. You peel the sheets from the other side of the bed and settle in. There's a media player bolted to the wall, but you just want quiet. You switch off the lamp on your nightstand (we both have lamps, we both have a nightstand, how weird is that?) The sheets feel deliciously cool against your skin. To be clean and sleeping in clean sheets...if Heaven isn't like this Kevva's got some answering to do. Ezra sings in the shower. You're barely awake and you smile. Ezra can't carry a tune in a bucket, singing fringeling songs and reels, stories of mercs and pirates and ghosts and you drift off to the sound of him, the sound of the water running.

He sees you soft and loose and asleep. No rail-gun, no body armor, no thrower under your pillow. Your face slack, snoring slightly. You've kicked out of the blankets and lay curled as if chilled. "Hey Artichoke," he murmurs, pulls the blankets up and tucks them around you, "Let's get you warm, yeah?"

Ezra wakes. Bleared red numbers of the clock saying that this is still the deepest ditch of local night. Ezra is warm and confused. He feels you pressed against him, your chest to his back, an arm hooked around his middle, your legs entwined with his. You've sought him out in your sleep and folded yourself around him, your breath slow and steady against his nape. Ezra's eyes prick with tears. He can't remember the last time he's been held like this. He's had lovers. He has payed for sex on the less reputable Benches of the Great Arm, but for someone to hold him? For someone to touch him without payment, without trying to press some advantage, gain some kind of leverage, without priming him for the inevitable backstab? He is overwhelmed. He tries to wriggle away from you, but your arm just tightens around him. "...fixed the transponder," you mutter against his neck, "told you we didn't need...told you..." He pats your arm and relaxes against you. "Okay, Artichoke, okay, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."

You wake enfolded, Ezra's good arm wrapped around you. You feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the slow sussurration of his breath, the snores that catch in his throat and turn to murmurs, the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. You've tucked yourself against him in your sleep. Your hand rests on his sternum. Oh Kevva. What are you doing? You go rigid. Your first impulse is to wrestle out of his hold, take one of the blankets and install yourself in the recliner that you wouldn't let Ezra take, but part of you wants to stay right here in the combined warmth of your bodies, feeling his breath, his heart, his calloused palm spread against your shoulder. You shift, making the smallest effort to pull yourself away and his arm tightens further, a low, sleepy chuckle reverberates through his chest. "Hi Ez," "Hi." He strokes the pad of his thumb along the exposed curve of your shoulder. "I'll get up," you say, even as he shifts and cups the back of your head in his palm, tucking you closer. "You don't have to," he says, voice rough with sleep. This gesture pricks at your heart. Coming up on Falnost has made you hard, guarded, there has been precious little gentleness in your life, pulling rocks out of the parched ground since you were big enough to lift a shovel. Learned to fight and shoot to chase water-thieves from the homestead. He strokes the back of your head like one might pet a skittish cat and your heart squeezes. "Ezra?" You hate how small your voice sounds, you hate the uncertainty you hear there, "Are we okay?" "Of course we are," he says, "Why wouldn't we be?" "I wrapped around you like a Bueller's world python and I did it in my sleep-" "The wrapping was mutual-" "You're not mad or uncomfortable or anything?" He laughs again, gentle huff of breath against the crown of your head. "Mad about waking with you in my arms? The day I'm mad about that you can just shoot me in the head and send me to Kevva because I will surely have lost my ever-loving mind." You smile against his skin and relax some, your hand unfists and you curl your arm around his soft belly, feel his breath hitch. "Tickles." "Sorry." You feel yourself drift, skirting the edge of sleep. He is warm and solid and you let yourself relax against him. “This feels...safe..." you say, so close to sleep that you're not sure if you've said it aloud or if you've just thought it. And you're not sure if you hear his response or dream it, one word. Always.

"She's late," says Ezra. "We still got a sixteenth to button up and board," "Still," says Ezra, "Yon freighter will leave with our pod wether we're strapped in it or not." You see Cee and Kit, trailed by Kit's parents, weaving through the crowd. Cee is beaming, her blonde hair has a brilliant streak of blue, and Kit has a matching streak in their hair. "Hey guys!" Cee hugs Ezra and then hugs you. "How was your shore leave, Little Bird? I like the fancy hair." "Isn't that cool? We've got matching streaks," says Cee. "It's semi-permanent," says Kit, "We'll pick a different color next time!" You have to smile. Cee looks revitalized. Three cycles spent with her friend, just doing normal kid things has been good for her. "Check this out!" says Cee and pushes a laminated drawing towards the two of you. Ezra makes a show of looking carefully. "I recognize you and Kit," he says, "I am not familiar with these other people, though." "They're from The Streamer Girl, dumbass," says Cee, "Here's Clo and Reive and Lily and Auri. See? Kit put us right in the story." Ezra gives Kit his best smile. “You drew this? You are very talented." Kit smiles big. "Thanks!" says Kit, "I'll put you guys in the next one! Maybe you could be professors at Bowsun Academy or something." "I look forward to it," says Ezra. "Time to go, Cee," you say and Cee and Kit exchange one more enthusiastic hug. "Later fringeling!" Calls Kit. "Piss off, stationer!" Cee calls back. Ezra curls his fingers around yours and squeezes. Cee tells you all about her three cycles with Kit, the movies they watched, the Real Food they ate. How Kit's little brother wanted a blue streak in his hair too and Kit's parents said no and how mad he got. I wanna be cool like Kit and Cee. "I told him he's got plenty of time to be cool," says Cee, "And he told me that I don't understand how the world works. He's like, four." Ezra laughs. "Wise for his years." Says Ezra. And the three of you fall quiet. You find the pod much as you left it, towed to the Polly Jean and clipped in, transferred by the station's tugs. You settle in and do a full systems check. Calling out the checklists and making sure everything is good for transit. "What are you guys so happy about?" asks Cee. "Whatever do you mean?" asks Ezra. "You been all smiles since I hit the dock," says Cee, "Both of you. Did we score a really good job? Did we win the Puggart Bench lottery or something? What aren't you telling me?" "That," says Ezra, "Is for us to know and you to endlessly speculate about." "Hmph," says Cee.

Tagging: @oonajaeadira, @grogusmum , @honestly-shite, @writeforfandoms, @ladyvengeancesposts, @the-blind-assassin-12

#ezra x f!reader w/cee #ezra prospect x f!reader w/cee #ezra and cee #soft!ezra needs his own warning #don't look at me #this is so soft

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shireness-says · 4 years ago

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Coming Soon: Seeking Shelter, Seeking Solace

1895. Emma Swan answers an ad in the paper from a man looking for a wife in order to flee Boston - only to arrive in rural Storybrooke, Minnesota and discover that her intended husband is dead. Left with no other options, Emma takes a position at the local tavern alongside the sullen, dark-haired barkeep with demons of his own. But what will she do when the forces she’s worked so hard to escape reappear in the new life she’s building, forcing her to turn to this unlikely savior for aid?

Presenting my contribution to @csjanuaryjoy! Which, true to form, has spiraled from an anticipated 15k for the whole fic to 10k for one chapter, and the other two unfinished. I promise some delicious marriage of convenience, pining, and even some action. This will begin posting in a few days, so let me know if you want to be tagged! In the meantime, enjoy this preview:

Emma can’t help but fidget in her seat as her train tears across the Midwestern landscape. Though this was her choice, she still can’t help but be nervous; after all, this is a very different world from Boston, the only home she’s ever known. She’s used to bustling streets and the lap of the waves against the docks at the harbor, not these miles after miles of plains and crop fields. It’s almost enough to make her second guess this whole thing.

It’s not a mistake though, she knows. She’d needed to get out of Boston, as quickly as possible, and this had been the best of a variety of bad options. Emma has never been particularly romantic, even as a little girl, but in the few imaginings she’d allowed herself of her future, answering a newspaper ad for a wife had never factored in. Then again, her fantasies had never anticipated the particular situation she’s trying to escape: a man who wouldn’t hear no, who was willing to pursue her relentlessly, from city to city, always a threat on her tail. The security of marriage, and of distance, had only made sense. And then again, she’s never been sentimental ; true love isn’t something she anticipated in a union, or even particularly believed in, for that matter.

The man she’s travelling to meet seems kind, she consoles herself with knowing. Emma hadn’t been particularly picky in selecting a man from the handful of querants in the paper, but Graham Humbert seems to be a good one. He’s the sheriff of a small town in Minnesota, who found himself lonely and wanting companionship.

I can darn my own socks and cook my own dinner, though neither with any exemplary skill, he had written. I’m not looking for someone to look after me in that way, regardless of what my friends’ wives think; I’d hire a lady to do the cleaning if that was the issue. I’m searching for someone to speak with at the end of a long day, someone to listen and to laugh with. I don’t believe myself to be a sweeping romantic, but I will be happy to give and receive a kind of gentle affection. Maybe we can come to love each other in time; I would be happy with that too, though I am not counting on it.

She’d liked that about him, that amiable practicality so evident even in his letters. It’s what had made her agree to travel to Minnesota with the intent to marry him, really - the feeling that they viewed a union in the same way. There will be a trial period, of course, a month during which to decide whether the two of them will suit each other before anything is formalized - but Emma is determined to make it work. What other choice does she have?

The train will be pulling into Storybrooke soon - a tiny dot on the map, where Emma doubts anyone else will be alighting. All of her belongings have been tightly packed into two measly carpetbags in order to, hopefully, start a new life. Maybe it’s foolish, but Emma had splurged on a new, sleek jacket before she’d left the city, a cheery blue to pair with her navy skirt and white blouse in an attempt to impress. Mostly, she wants to look neat more than anything else: a capable woman, one who won’t be afraid to adapt to a new life with a minimum of fuss, one who won’t make Sheriff Humbert’s life more difficult. Pretty is of secondary concern.

She sees the town coming long before the train pulls into the tiny station, roofs and chimneys rising above the flat landscape and copious corn fields. Somewhere in this state, she knows, are hundreds and thousands of lakes; however, they’re nowhere to be seen here. Storybrooke itself is a bare cluster of buildings seeming to group around a single main street, with homesteads and farm plots doubtlessly stretching out to the surrounding area. It’s a whole different world from what she’s used to, but that’s the entire point, really; no one will think to look for her here, in the rural midwest as the wife of a sheriff.

When the train finally pulls into what passes for a station, a single cramped building with barely enough room for a ticket office and a luggage closet, a man is waiting on the platform, sheltered from the late-spring sun by an awning off the station roof. The star-shaped badge on his coat and the way he shifts nervously from foot to foot make Emma think this must be the anticipated Sheriff Humbert. His hair is rather more golden than the sandy blonde-brown color Mr. Humbert had tried to describe in his letters, but Emma supposes that’s to be expected. She likely didn’t give a perfect description of her appearance either.

Quickly, she gathers her bags and alights to the station platform with the assistance of a young porter. The man waiting quickly doffs his hat, playing with the brim in another nervous gesture. “Miss Swan?”

Carefully, Emma arranges her face into something she hopes passes as an amiable smile. “Yes, that’s me. And you’ll be Sheriff Humbert, I presume?”

“I - well, no,” the man who isn’t Graham Humbert stutters out. “I’m David Nolan, actually. One of the deputies here.”

Unexpected - but there are countless excellent reasons that Deputy Nolan might be sent instead. Trouble can happen even in a small town, dozens of minor disputes that can somehow only be settled by the sheriff himself. “In that case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nolan. I must admit, I was expecting Mr. Humbert. Pardon my mistake.”

“About that —” Deputy Nolan cuts himself off, looking curiously uncomfortable. It sets Emma a bit on edge, but there’s no way to dance around it - not when she doesn’t have all the information.

“Yes?”

Deputy Nolan swallows heavily, visibly, his fingers tightening around the brim of his hat again before he drags his eyes to meet hers. “I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Swan, but Graham - Sheriff Humbert - died two days ago.”

Of all the things she thought he might say, all the ways she imagined this might go, that certainly wasn’t one of them.

#cs ff #cs january joy #cs fanfiction #captain swan #Seeking Shelter Seeking Solace #my writing #marriage of convenience

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prettywordsyouleft · 4 years ago

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The Cowboy - Part 5

Summary: Leaving the city for a rural area called Blayne seemed simple enough. Your task was to convince the people to agree with selling their land for a resort redevelopment. But once there, you soon realise that your city ways are entirely different to theirs. Winning their trust was going to take some effort, and when you start to fall for a local cowboy, you wonder if you really needed Blayne more than the city life after all.

Pairing: Jung Jaehyun x female reader

Genre: cowboy au / drama / romance / if you squint there’s some enemies to lovers up in here.

Warnings: Jung Jaehyun is a cowboy, need I say more? (a bit of angst and drama, and it sometimes might feel like you’re reading a Nicolas Sparks book, so I’m told lol) — if you aren’t a meat lover, there is a scene at the end that involves talk about meat.

Word count: 2093

This series will be updated every Thursday and Friday.

Preview | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

It was dark out by the time you reached your homestead, and you frowned when your headlights shone against the back end of a truck. Shutting off the engine after parking beside the unwanted vehicle, you got out and approached the man leaning against the veranda handrail.

“Here to see whether or not I’d skip town?” you accused with a dry tone, walking passed Jaehyun and straight to unlock the front door. You didn’t stop for his sake, flicking on the lights and went into the kitchen.

Jaehyun followed you in. “No.”

“Then what brings you around here, Cowboy? You made yourself clear enough last night on your stance. I’ll stay out of your way as best as I can. I’d appreciate if you did the same.”

He had removed his cowboy hat and held it in front of himself, his grip tightening when you turned to look at him. You witnessed the remaining sincerity get squashed by a hard look instead. “Well, I shouldn’t have bothered. It seems you’re just fine, Y/N.”

“Perfectly.”

“I won’t keep you then. Goodnight.”

You followed Jaehyun back to the front door where he stepped over the threshold and turned to look back at you. He seemed to want to say something more, and you waited with bated breath before he turned for his truck. Closing the door, you re-trailed your steps into the kitchen in a daze.

Why had Jaehyun come if it weren’t to check on your plans to leave?

You glanced back at the door in surprise. Was he going to apologise for last night?!

“I ruined it!” you whined and stomped your foot, rapping your knuckles gently over your head, berating yourself. “I waited so long for that apology too!”

Looking out the kitchen window, you watched as the truck roared down the driveway until his taillights were no longer visible.

That apology was long gone now.

The following morning, you heard several new noises outside and blearily shunted a window up and leaned out it to see what was going on. Blinking slowly, you focused on the barn out back where the sounds were coming from. You watched as more of the scene started to make sense to you, the two men throwing hay bales out of the loft of the barn onto the back of a truck.

The same truck that left your drive last night.

“Morning Y/N!” a cheerful Avery suddenly greeted, and you shrieked, knocking the top of your head on the window frame as you ducked back inside, your hands covering your chest. Looking down at the sheer chemise you wore, you then stared at the mirror across the room in horror.

Did they see anything just now? Darting over to your wardrobe where your dressing gown hung, you threw it around your body and thumped down the stairs, slipping your feet into the gumboots Avery had gifted you that you kept at the back door and walked over to the barn.

“What are you doing?!” you exclaimed and both men stopped transporting the hay.

“Oh, sorry, did we wake you?” Avery asked with a friendly grin. “Around these areas, we’re up long before now. We should have realised it might not be the same for you.”

“It’s the crack of dawn!”

Jaehyun snorted. “It’s seven-thirty. You’ve missed dawn entirely.”

“Ah. Well, it’s still early for me.” Both men stared at you, and you started to feel awkward. “It’s fine… I just… waking up to men…”

“Ahhhh,” Avery concluded sheepishly and came down the loft ladder to your side. “We needed hay. We stock the barn up down here since no one’s living here to utilise it for livestock with our excess hay. Although we have plenty of grass now with it being spring, we’re preparing for summer when the grass dies off, and we need to feed out again.”

“You don’t need to explain it to her. This is our land, and we waited until a sufficient hour,” Jaehyun stated, throwing down another bale onto the pile they were making.

You stared up at him in the loft and then turned back to Avery. “Sorry, I over-reacted.”

“Seems to be a trend.”

Avery glanced at his cousin and then rolled his eyes, pulling you aside. “Did something happen between you two?”

“N-No. Not exactly.”

“Huh. He’s been exceptionally irksome over the last day. He even cut off early from work yesterday, saying he needed to meet with someone to settle a problem. I had thought it was with you.”

Grimacing lightly, you shook your head. “Don’t worry about it. I get that a lot of people don’t like me here.”

“I don’t mind!” Avery countered, and you grinned at him. He mirrored your expression and then pointed at your head. “But uh… is this what you look like when you wake up?”

“What?” Feeling the top of your head and then clamping your eyes shut at the evident mess of your hair, you heard Avery chuckle heartily. “It was nice seeing you again Avery!”

“I can’t wait to see what other looks you’ll sport whilst you’re here in Blayne, Y/N!” he called after you as you dashed back inside the house, whining outlandishly at looking so ridiculous in front of them.

The next two weeks went by with research inside and out. You took down detailed accounts of the families in Blayne and met with some of them when you went into town. You familiarised yourself with the map of the area and went out on afternoon excursions to discover where best would suit development. You spent your evenings in the town modelling software on your computer, transferring data you had taken down during the day. It was still early days, but you were excited to show your progress to Pierce in a Zoom call on Monday.

But for now, it was the weekend, and it was your first one here where you felt that you didn’t have to work overtime and could officially relax.

Back in the city, you used the weekends for recreation after a busy week. You would sleep in and lounge around your house until you were ready to head out. You’d get your weekly groceries, hit up the gym and then meet with friends in the evening.

You’d already done the lie in part of your usual routine and had lounged around for as long as it took you to eat your breakfast. Without the internet being so readily usable, you couldn’t catch up on current affairs, or the latest social news on Instagram.

You had come to realise just how often your phone had been in front of your face back home.

“Well, I guess it time to get some supplies,” you announced, going upstairs and putting on another of your new casual dresses. Although you still didn’t like the countryside, you did enjoy dressing down a lot more than you expected. You wondered if it was a waste bringing all those pencil skirts and pantsuits with you.

Humming along to a song as you drove into town, you were surprised when a couple of the people you crossed paths with waved. It was a contrast to when they would simply stop and stare, which brought a wider smile to your face.

“Maybe they’ll start to like me soon,” you hoped and pulled up in front of the small grocers on Main Street. You grabbed your reusable bags from the passenger seat and got out, locking the door out of habit. Walking up to the entrance, you pushed on one of the doors to enter.

Except it was locked.

“Huh?” you said in confusion, reaching for the other handle. It didn’t budge either.

“Don’t you know how to read?” a familiar voice asked and you glanced to your left, inhaling a deep breath at the sight of Jaehyun.

You were still too bothered and humiliated by him that you wished to meet with anyone else than him. Still, Jaehyun stepped closer and pointed to the closed sign. “It’s shut until Monday.”

“Who closes their shops on the weekend?”

“Blayne does. You should have come during the week. You’ve been here for almost three weeks, and you didn’t know it closes on the weekends?”

“I was working.”

“That you were.”

“Must you always turn up where I don’t wish for you to?” you asked honestly and then tapped your mouth when you realised you had said that out loud.

Jaehyun smirked. “I guess so.”

“Sorry. I just… whatever. Are the shops open in the town nearby? I need milk.”

“I can get you some milk.”

“It’s fine. I need a specific kind.”

“The grocers won’t be open there either.”

“Really?! Then I have to travel two hours to the closest city for my groceries?!” you wondered hopelessly, flapping your bags around with frustration. “Why is everything closed?!”

“Can I talk now?” Jaehyun questioned humouredly, and you nodded once. “We close the shops on the weekends around here, but the market’s open.”

“Market?”

Jaehyun had gestured for the keys to your car, and without much thought, you offered them to him, climbing into the passenger seat and staring at his side profile as he drove. He glanced at you before looking back at the road. “Am I that handsome?”

“You’re full of it,” you responded weakly, snapping your eyes onto the road. “What kind of market is this?”

“A fresh produce kind. Have you never attended one?”

“Ahhh, an organic shop. We have a grocer three streets down from my apartment where they get fresh produce and meat from the growers on the outskirts.”

“Seriously?” Jaehyun shook his head. “Just you wait.”

“This is amazing!” you enthused an hour later, thanking another seller for the fresh fruit you had just purchased from them.

Jaehyun took the bag from you again and shrugged. “It’s just a market.”

“Just a market?! Can you smell what I’m smelling?! Oh my god, we have to stop for lunch here.”

“Do we?”

You pointed to a burgers sign and nodded eagerly. You bounced up to the counter of the food truck and then gasped. “Avery!”

“Y/N! You finally found out about the produce market!” He looked over your shoulder and then nodded. “So that’s why you bailed on me.”

“Huh?” you asked, looking between the cousins as Jaehyun rubbed at his neck. “I want to try something delicious!”

“Are you opposed to lots of meat?”

“No! Load me up, Avery!”

Once seated at a picnic table with your bacon and beef burger, you beamed across at Jaehyun. “This is totally what I needed.”

“You’re like a kid in a candy store.”

“You’ve been to a candy store before?!” you teased with feigned surprise, and Jaehyun laughed.

“You’re different today.”

“This is me normally.”

“Then how come I haven’t met this version of you, Y/N?” Jaehyun wondered, and you frowned, wiping your lips when you felt sauce from your burger on them. Jaehyun merely watched you, and you coughed lightly, reaching for your juice.

Once composed, you shrugged. “You never really give me the option.”

“I’ve given you plenty of options,” he remarked, and you shook your head. “You turned me away first, remember.”

“I’m really sorry about that. I’ve never had someone speak to me so blunt like that. At the time, I was annoyed with you. But I get why now. I am a stranger with bold ideas, and none of you asked for me to turn up.” You let out a little laugh. “I waited for an apology, but I realised it’s me who owed you one. You’re right. I showed up with little knowledge. But give me a chance. I’m ad-”

“Adaptable,” he finished off with a grin, nodding lightly. “I know.”

“This is amazing, though. The produce markets out here are an entire affair. There’s music and pony rides for the kids, and it just has a general festival vibe. Does this happen every weekend?”

Jaehyun nodded. “We celebrate life a lot out here. We work hard, and at the weekends we try to have fun as best as we can. We might not have fancy technology or-”

“No, this is loads better than the city. Believe me.”

“It is?” he asked earnestly, and you nodded.

“And you thought I wouldn’t last more than two days,” you told him with a laugh and Jaehyun joined you.

“Maybe a month isn’t so hard to imagine with you around, Y/N.”

You stopped laughing then, staring at the man in confusion as your stomach erupted into flutters.

_________________

Part 6

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staranon95 · 3 years ago

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DinCobb Week Day 3: New Experiences (SFW)

for @dincobbweek a lil bit of ENBY!Cobb

AO3 Link

see me not as i am (but who i wish to be)

The first time they felt envy for another was when they were eighteen—still an owned individual, still a slave, still a man in a sense.

Their owner’s wife had returned from shopping in Mos Eisley, in the richer districts Cobb themself couldn’t go to.

They watched as the lady’s handmaids took her dresses out to hang them properly, and for a moment then, Cobb wondered what it would be like to feel that fabric against their skin, to see how the dress would drape over their body. How it would hide their broad shoulders. How it might make them seem smaller and more dainty. Just everything that wasn’t them at that point in time of their life.

They would never go anywhere near the lady or her dresses. That wasn’t their purpose in the household at that time. They wouldn’t have any time to explore that part of themself until years and years later. After they fought for their freedom and fought for the lives of others. Until the story of their life showed on their body in rigid muscles and myriad of scars and scar tissue.

They live the life of Mos Pelgo’s Marshal. A beloved and feared figure who means to protect and serve the citizens who call this dusty little place home. They seem to know, however, that their Marshal is more than just what they appear to be. It’s easy for them to see that outside of their role as Marshal, that Cobb Vanth is a soft spoke individual. Who smiles easily and dotes after the kids in town like they’re their own. Who holds themself not like the Marshal in their off hours, but someone approachable.

What the town comes to realize is that their Marshal is not a man. Cobb doesn’t think of themself as a man. They know themselves as Cobb first and foremost and then the Marshal. The Marshal has required them to be more than themselves. More imposing. Louder. Stronger. And they’ve enjoyed it. Being the Marshal has given them a sense of strength and power in a way. But when the Mandalorian arrives in town, things begin to change.

The deal is worth it. To trade the armour for killing the krayt and brokering a peace agreement between Mos Pelgo and the neighbouring Tuskens. But even then, it’s not the Mandalorian’s ability to delegate that draws Cobb to him. It’s his openness, his accepting nature.

“Town’s people think a lot of you,” he says in that soft timbre of his.

“Been their Marshal for a while now.”

“They think highly of you. I’ve also learned that they refer to you as they. Do you prefer that as well?”

Cobb looks to him, partially in shock because not many people ask. For the town’s people, it’s habit. For outsiders? Cobb hasn’t really cared to explain that part of themselves to outsiders. They don’t see the point in it, and most don’t care to know, but the Mandalorian, he’s different.

“I do,” is all Cobb says on the matter.

The Mandalorian nods once, then says, “I never introduced myself properly to you.”

“Wasn’t exactly a situation where introduction were required.”

“Still, I’d like you to know me. My name is Din.”

Cobb nods. “Nice to have it.”

They work well together, Cobb thinks. They move in sync. They’re able to anticipate what the other is thinking, and through it all, Cobb thinks about how they’ve never connected to someone else so well before.

But then it’s all over. They’re handing over the armour. Din is heading away with the Child, and Cobb will be left in Mos Pelgo to put everything back together.

Without the armour and now with the established peace between their people and the Tuskens, Cobb finds their workload to be significantly less than what it once was. They realize they’re spending more time helping out in homesteads, filling in for the school teacher, and less of the patrolling they used to do. They have more free time on their hands. They can relax and think of themselves for the first time in a long time.

They find themselves looking in their bathroom mirror running a hand over their beard in the mirror. It’s overgrown some. They haven’t considered touching it in days and now . . .

They grab their razor and begin to shave it off, leaving their face clean shaven for the first time in years. They’ve forgotten how sharp their cheekbones are and the point of their chin. It makes them look different without facial hair. Like a new person almost.

Jo notices when they meet up for coffee later that morning. “Shaving accident?”

They smile wryly. “Nah. Just needed a change.”

“Might want to double up on sunscreen then.”

They settle into their life more as Mayor of Mos Pelgo rather than Marshal these days. They start growing out their hair a bit. They start looking at new cuts of clothing whenever they happen upon a seller in Anchorhead or Mos Eisley.

And then one day, the Mandalorian Din shows up on his doorstep looking for a place to stay.

Cobb can’t deny him, and so ends up with Din sitting in their living room after being gone for months.

“I had nowhere else to go,” he says. “I figured . . .” He looks to Cobb with a certain naked vulnerability without his helmet on. His eyes are impossibly brown, deep and warm.

“You’d always be welcomed here.”

Din nods. “Thank you.”

The build up of their relationship is a slow and gentle affair. They’re both older people, Cobb pushing into their fifties and Din edging further into his forties. But they know each other and they know what they want, so it’s easier to fit together, to bring their lives together.

“I like your hair,” Din says one night when they’re in bed together. He raises a hand to tuck a lock behind Cobb’s ear. Then his fingers drift down Cobb’s jaw. “It looks good on you long.”

“I’ve always wanted to try it longer,” Cobb muses. “Never had the space to.”

“It’s nice.” Din presses a kiss to their forehead, and Cobb falls asleep with Din’s fingers in their hair.

It’s with Din’s constant and gentle support that Cobb garners up the courage to say one day, “Do you think I’d look good in a dress?”

Din looks up from where he’s repairing one of his vambraces at the table while Cobb finishes dinner. “Do you have one?”

They shake their head. “I’ve thought about it, but.”

“We should head into town tomorrow then. See what they have.”

Din is looking at them from the table, nothing but that open and accepting look he always has when it comes to Cobb.

“Okay.”

Mos Eisley hasn’t fallen into disrepair like Mos Espa has, and now as a free person, Cobb is free to visit those higher end clothing stalls and shops like the lady of the house once did decades ago. There’s a lot to look through and choose from. Different colours, different textures, different cuts. They choose something that’s practical for their day to day life. It’s long, down to their ankles, but of a flowy material that won’t trap any heat. The sleeves cut just above their elbows. There’s a vee cut in the front, and the colour is a soft cream. They buy that for themselves and notice that Din makes a purchase himself, but won’t tell them what it is.

“Later,” he says, so they trust him.

They first try on their dress at home when it’s just them and Din ad they’ve seen to their work for the day.

Din is back up on the bed, looking at Cobb in admiration as they strip down to their briefs and pull out their dress. It feels like relief as the fabric falls over their shoulders and down past their hips until it hangs around their ankles. They run their hands down over their chest and torso and down to their hips before looking in the mirror.

“Oh.”

The dress sort of shifts their shape a bit. From how it hangs on their hips it pulls away from their broad shoulders. It makes them look more feminine, makes them feel it as well.

Then they turn to Din, feeling how it swishes at their ankles.

Din is wide eyed and speechless at first, his eyes roving over Cobb’s body and the dress. “You’re, you look.” He runs a hand over his mouth and then sits up on the bed. “Can I . . . touch you?”

Cobb nods. “Please.”

Din stands and moves in to gently set his hands on Cobb’s waist. He’s always had big hands, but like this it makes Cobb feel even slighter, like he could pick them up easily.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

They hum and run their hands over his shoulders. “I feel good. Nothing different, but good.”

Din smiles. “I’m glad.” And he leans in for a kiss.

They don’t learn about Din’s purchase for a while yet, and they nearly forget about it until much later when they’re stepping into the bedroom after a long shower and seeing it on the bed.

They come up to Din as he cooks in the kitchen, hugging him from behind until he asks, “What’s brought this on?” And as he looks over his shoulder he sees it. Sees the red strap of it where the silky dress hangs off of Cobb’s body with its slit up the leg.

“Saw your little gift,” they say.

“I just, it’s not like.”

They kiss his cheek when they see his blush on their cheeks. “I love it.”

Din turns in their arms so he can fully see the dress on them, the thin straps, the thin material.

“You look good in red,” he says.

“Don’t I know it, darlin’.”

#dincobb #din djarin #cobb vanth #dincobbweek #dincobbweek2021 #dincobb week #mandalorian #star speaks #star writes

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ultraintrovertedgryffindor · 4 years ago

Text

Sweet Pandemonium - Gally (The Maze Runner) Part 3 of 16

Happy (late) Thanksgiving if you celebrate it! 🦃

~~~~~~~~~~

Yet another restless night and strange dreams had you up and atom as soon as the sun started to come up, and you managed to notice Minho going into the maze...with Alby.

Strange...Alby wasn’t a Runner.

You quickly got dressed in your usual Builder attire, wincing as you tried to get around your sprained arm, and headed over to Newt, who was walking back from the maze doors. “Dude, what the hell? Why is Alby going into the maze?” You asked hastily.

Newt sighed, keeping up with his pace back towards the Homestead. “He’s gone to retrace Ben’s steps. See why he might’ve been stung in the middle of the day.” He explained. “He’ll be fine, Y/N.” He said, sensing your apprehension towards the situation.

Gally didn’t take the news of Alby too well when he found out. He thought it was stupid, and understandably so. But he tried not to let it distract him from doing his job. Although, your obvious distraction caused him to get a little hotheaded.

“If you’re not gonna focus, then just go do something else.” Gally scolded.

“What? I-I’m not...distracted.” A lie, but not for the reasons Gally thought. You knew Alby could take care of himself, it was the newfound information that Thomas felt just like you is what was insanely distracting.

Gally chuckled bitterly. “Yeah...right. Just go hang out with your new buddy or something.”

Your heart seemed to clench at Gally’s hurtful tone, but you chose to wear a bored expression and listened to his petty request. “Fine.”

Newt smirked when he saw your scowl as you walked over to their little group, clutching you machete tightly. “Trouble in paradise?” He teased.

You held up your middle finger, proceeding to kneel down beside Zart to help him cut down a tree base with your good arm, which was thankfully your dominant one. “Never been paradise.” You muttered. “He’s upset about Alby.”

“Don’t bring it up, please. Tommy and I just had a lengthy conversation about it.” Newt sighed, giving an irritated glance over to the Greenie who was sitting on a log with Chuck.

Thomas rolled his eyes, getting up to help cut down the last of the tree. “There ya go, Greenie.”

You looked up towards the sky, noticing the darkening of the clouds and the cooler air, soon feeling the cool water raining down. “Great.” You mumbled, gathering your tools and heading to the Homestead along with everyone else.

You and Gally met each other’s gaze while walking towards cover from the rain, he seemed remorseful, but he looked away and continued forward. “You alright?” Thomas asked from beside you.

“Oh, uh, yeah. I’m fine. What about you?”

Thomas sighed. “I’m worried about Minho and Alby. Shouldn’t they be back by now?”

You shrugged, trying not to think about losing even more Gladers, but Thomas was less than satisfied with that answer and went to Newt.

Instead of following after Thomas, you went deeper into the Homestead, heading towards her hammock just to rest your feet while you could, also trying to ignore the aching in your arm.

You didn’t know how much you could take of this. Spending your whole life in a prison, constantly watching your new friends die one after another. It was sickening. You didn’t want this to be your life. It couldn’t be. You felt like Thomas felt the same way, but you couldn’t be sure just like you couldn’t be sure if he felt the same way about your “connection.”

God, you were so tired.

“Y/N?”

You sighed when you saw Gally looking to you with a face of slight concern. “What is it?” You asked, not exactly trying to sound polite.

Gally scratched the back of his neck and took a step forward to you. “I just wanna say...I’m...sorry.” He said, sounding like just saying the words were painful. “I’m just worried, I guess. About Alby.”

You nodded, understanding as you felt the same way. Though, being worried didn’t cause you to be overly mean to someone, but you didn’t feel that saying it out loud would get the conversation anywhere. “I get it. I’m worried too.”

“Can I sit?” Gally asked, pointing to your hammock.

You blushed slightly, but nodded anyway, scooting over a bit to give him room to sit comfortably.

Trying not to blush was extremely difficult as it was, so trying not to blush when Gally sat right beside you, his body slightly leaning against yours, it was damn near impossible.

“If I hurt your feelings, Y/N, I’m sorry.” Gally sighed. “The whole thing with Ben...”

“It’s okay, Gally.” You gave a reassuring smile, gently taking a hold of his larger hand. You almost grinned when you saw his face flush red. “Ben didn’t deserve to be stung. He was a good guy.” You said, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

“All he wanted was to find a way out...look where that got him.” Gally huffed, making you frown. “These shanks just gotta realize this is our home now.”

You shook her head. “This isn’t our home, Gally. Someone put us here, mostly likely against our will. This will never be our home.”

Gally scoffed. “Come on, Y/N.”

“We shouldn’t have to settle for this. We don’t belong here.” You sighed, getting up from your hammock as you heard the rain stop thumping against the building.

Everyone gathered at the maze doors, waiting to see if the two Runner boys were alive, if they make it back before the doors closed.

Newt was visibly on edge, as was Thomas. The rest of the Gladers basically had the mentally that Minho and Alby were goners. Gally stood beside you as you were biting your nails nervously. You weren’t particularly close with Alby, but hanging around Newt meant hanging around Minho, therefore you were his friend by association.

As the doors groaned loudly, you let out a quiet whimper, running your fingers through your hair furiously as the doors started to close. Gally placed his hand on your shoulder to try and comfort you in some way, but it didn’t do much when Thomas pointed out two shadowy figured at the end of the entrance passage of the maze.

“It’s them!” Thomas yelled.

But something was wrong.

Minho was dragging an unconscious Alby by his arms. The doors were still closing rapidly, all the Gladers yelling words of encouragement toward Minho...he wasn’t going to make it.

“Thomas, no!” You yelled along with the rest of the Glader boys, watching in horror as he made a run for it before the doors closed completely.

If it weren’t for Gally keeping a firm hand on your shoulder, you would’ve absolutely ran after Thomas, probably getting crushed to death in process. “No! Fuck!” You yelled, shoving Gally off of you and storming off towards the woods.

“Y/N! Wait! Goddamn it...” Gally called out after you, trying to jog to catch up with you. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He yelled when he finally found you.

“What?” You yelled.

“You were gonna go after that slinthead! Why the fuck would you do that, huh?” Gally fussed, making you groan and roll your eyes. “Answer me!”

“I know him!” You let out in a rage, immediately sighing in frustration.

Gally furrowed his brows. “What...what do you mean you know him?” He asked, almost accusatory.

“I...I don’t remember him. I just feel like I know him, or knew him. Before the maze, and I don’t know why. It’s confusing, I know. But it’s something I can just feel in my gut.”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

You sighed. “I know...trust me, I know. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Even if you did somehow knew him before coming here, that doesn’t mean you have to risk your life for him. It was stupid. And if I wasn’t there, you’d be dead right now.” Gally scolded, and then he sighed. “Do you...have feelings for him?”

You snapped your head up towards Gally with a look of shock. You definitely never expected to hear that come from his mouth. “What? No!”

“Don’t lie to me, please.”

“No! I don’t, geez. I like you, shuckface!”

Gally paled. He wasn’t exactly expecting that either. “You do?” He stuttered.

You rolled your eyes for, probably, the tenth time that day. “Yes, you twit. I thought that was obvious.”

Gally seemed speechless for a moment, placing his hands on his hips while looking to the ground. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You chuckled bitterly. “When would I have had the time?”

He shrugged. “You did now.” You sighed yet again. “I’d kiss you, but you seem to be in a state of distress...”

You gave him an incredulous look. “And you’re not distressed? I know you don’t like Thomas, but Minho and Alby?”

“I do care, okay? But they’re gone now...there’s nothing we could’ve done.”

“There was though! We could’ve sent someone to find them!”

“It’s against the rules, you know that.”

“Just something! Not just stand there and wait...” Your voice wavered.

Gally sighed, taking some steps toward you until he was right in front of you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry...that we couldn’t save them.” He said, pulling you into a hug while you just let tears fall freely from your eyes.

“They could still make it...” You whispered, making Gally huff and release his hold on you.

“Y/N...you can’t be this dense. You know no one-”

“Survives a night in the maze, I know. But Thomas is different...”

Gally rolled his eyes, running his hands over his face with a groan. “I can’t listen to you drive yourself crazy over this. They’re gone, okay! They’re probably already dead. So just stop trying to convince yourself that they’re not. It’s the best, for you and the others.”

“Gally-”

“Drop it.” He deadpanned, turning and storming off towards the Homestead.

You didn’t want to believe him. You couldn’t. You couldn’t believe the first person you felt you might’ve known outside the Glade was dead after just days of meeting him.

So you kept telling yourself Thomas will survive. Minho can survive. And Alby.

You didn’t speak to Gally at all after that conversation.

A lot of the Gladers thought you were insane, believing that there could be any hope for the three boys. Some of them were just curious, them all sitting scattered around the maze doors. But Chuck was standing right beside you, just anxious for those large doors to open.

You were grateful for Chuck.

You definitely felt a bit protective of him, since he was the youngest. It made you wonder if you had any siblings in the outside world, if they were even alive. If you did, you hoped that at least one of your parents were alive to take care of them if they were on the younger side.

But you probably would never know.

You and Chuck’s ears immediately perked up when the doors started to groan, signaling that they were about to open for the day.

Newt was anxious to see if the boys made it as well. He didn’t want to lose any more friends. Even if he did go out to the Deadheads to cry out his frustration, he pretty much had already come to terms with the losses as soon as the doors closed yesterday evening.

You nervously starting biting off some of the rougher skin around your nails as the doors slowly parted open, just hoping that you’d see those three boys waiting to come back inside the Glade.

You winced when you accidently bit too much skin off, looking down to see crimson already start to bead at the surface of your thumb.

You sighed.

It felt like this was the longest time it’s ever taken for the doors to open. Probably because your anxiety was in overdrive, basically on the verge of a panic attack, but you didn’t let it show. You couldn’t, not when Newt would absolutely send you off to Jeff to do those stupid breathing exercises that you hated when you first came up in the Box.

Gally wasn’t at the doors, obviously. You knew he wouldn’t, not even for you. He was adamant that his fellow Gladers were already dead. God, you never wanted someone to be wrong so bad.

And yet, the doors now fully opened...there was no one on the other side.

You felts tears burning your eyes as Newt placed his hands on you and Chuck’s shoulders, but you refused to let them fall. “I’m sorry...but I told you, they’re not comin’ back.” Newt said sadly.

“Come on, Y/N.” Chuck sighed, dejectedly turning around to head back towards the middle of the Glade.

You almost did too...until you heard the shuffling of feet from inside the maze. So did Chuck.

You gasped when you saw Minho and Thomas carrying Alby. “No way...”

“Yeah!” Chuck cheered, while you ran into the maze corridor to help the two boys carry a still unconscious Alby, while all the other Gladers came back to witness this...a miracle really. It was against the rules, but couldn’t care less.

“How?” Was all you could say, in shock and awe.

“Just help us get this shank inside, will ya?” Minho grunted, while Thomas gave you an exhausted smile.

“Easy, easy.” Thomas said while lowering Alby to the ground, the Gladers surrounding the three boys.

“You saw a Griever?” Chuck asked, seeing that Alby was stung when Jeff looked over him.

“Yeah, I saw one.” Thomas panted.

Minho seemed to smirk, making you furrow your brows in confusion. “He didn’t just see it...he killed it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

My computer is basically dead and off at a shop but probs won’t be fixed soon due to Thanksgiving. So, I’m writing this on a friend’s laptop and the keyboard is so small lmao. So I apologize for any misspellings because of my fat fingers.

#the maze runner #gally x reader #tmr gally #gally #sweet pandemonium series

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