chattered
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Astarion went quiet, his lips pressed thinly in a line as if they were the last line of defense from him blurting out something he must refrain from. Gale wondered idly if he learned that skill after they had parted ways, and remembering his interactions with the elf, he’d say definitively so. Though Astarion could not age due to his affliction, Gale noticed the heavy look adorning his eye, the subtle dark circles under his eye as his hands fell away from their held prayer. He clenched his fists tightly in his lap, knuckles going white as he finally met the gaze of the statue - a loathing, mirthless grin etched onto his face with noticeable difficulty.
"Your hero," Astarion snarled quite sickly, "has not been heard from since you left."
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Gale ascends. They do not.
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He hadn’t meant for it to go this far.
Higgs’ sharp breath permeated the nipping air of the mountains, cold shards of sleet piercing his skin, reddening his cheeks, seeping through his thick cloak, stinging at his chest. With trembling knuckles - more from the sub-zero temperatures or from the frozen drop of his heart, it had been hard to tell - he moved to rest his fingers right under the sputtering jugular vein of his foe. Sam Porter Bridges.
The porter lay still below him, blood from the shallower cuts decorating his warm skin barely beginning to clot, while other, deeper wounds still painted his body red and soaking his clothes a mouth-watering burgundy. An eye had been swollen shut, busted lips choking out heaving breaths.
He never thought he’d get this far. He never thought he'd kill him.
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Higgs finally beats Sam - who unknowingly can't repatriate, leading Higgs to panic.
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It had been a handful of hours since Mirage left Bloodhound on that damn bridge, his bloodied hands still clutched desperately onto their revive banner, probably staining the cool metal and most definitely dirtying the glass where underneath it, the green screen subtly pulsed a steady green.
This was fine. He was fine. And if he ever got his ass into a higher gear, Bloodhound would be fine.
He managed to end his far trek across what felt like the entire arena, spying a revive console just perfectly waiting for him. This was good - it was well out of the way, he’d suspect that nobody in their right mind would come walking just as far as he had, what could go -
He cut himself off from thinking any thought of that type, knuckles brushing by a wooden guardrail as he made his way towards the beacon, knocking a couple times in his passing for reassurance.
Now was the fun part.
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His tender touch finally stopped roaming Gale’s chest, his hands still lightly holding onto the wizard’s lower shoulder blades as if letting him go would mean losing him, a flush slowly making its way up his body.
Gale watched nervously as Astarion’s gaze finally reached his own, a tumultuous amount of nerve-induced ramblings dying on his own tongue as he tried his best to alleviate the situation with some witty remark or intellectual standoff, yet all attempts at doing so barely escaping his lips as dying whispers.
“Say something. I beg of you.” Gale managed to plead, the pace of the orb in his chest reaching a desperate thrum as he prepared so knowingly for harsh rejection, for a threatening spat, for glowering stares and hateful words.
“You’re beautiful.”
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But there it was again - the tantalizing promise of retirement. It pulled at the forefront of his mind consistently now.
It was hard to even attempt not to get too excited, too difficult to even pull himself away from imagining a life away from all of this. A calm morning to wake up to, no need to keep watch over the camp, a bed big enough to spread out in, a fireplace warm enough to spread warmth into a house. It all seemed…too above his station.
John Marston didn’t deserve retirement. Didn’t deserve that nice big bed or that cosy fireplace. But maybe for just a couple of seconds, he could squeeze his eyes shut hard enough to block out the opposition to those thoughts, allow himself to dream of that home, of that safety, that was now conceivably close. There was just one more thing he had to do.
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John Marston belongs to one of the last outlaw gangs still roaming the country, job after job and score after score - hoping tiredly for a different ending to his story than all of the ones he had seen before. Shot in the head. Captured by law enforcement. Hung. Tried. They never ended.
What happens when the key to the end of this all is found in a enemy who (at first) is unwilling to help?
Recent bookmarks
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the day you move (i'm probably gonna explode) by sinnabar (fishtank)
Fandoms: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
02 Mar 2016
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He could maybe get addicted to this, if he let himself. Or: five times Mac and Dennis toed the line between friends and lovers, and one time they crossed it for good.
Bookmarked by chattered
02 Feb 2025
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“What you got yourself into this time, Charles?” The drawl is rough, full of life and there is no trace of that horrible wheeze that haunts Charles’ waking hours. “Looks like one hell of a mess. And for what? A few dollar bills that don’t fill that hole, no matter how many bottles you pick up? And you was always on me for bein’ too risky.”
Series
- Part 6 of Make Me No King
Bookmarked by chattered
05 Sep 2023
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So draw your money, come see your honey... by pipdepop
Fandoms: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
19 Feb 2023
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Taking pity on Molly as the latest casualty of Dutch’s fickle affections, Arthur invites her to come with him into St Denis when he goes to visit Mary.
The day pans out in ways he didn’t quite expect.
Bookmarked by chattered
22 Sep 2023
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John goes to see Javier for what will be the final time.
Javier doesn’t pull a knife, he doesn’t inch his hand toward John’s neck to choke him, he doesn’t do a damn thing for a moment. Then he whispers, sounding like the words were caught inside his throat and he had to pry to get them out.
“Don’t let them hang me.”
Whumptober No.1: Swooning/Betrayal
Series
- Part 1 of Angst & Pain (RDR)
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,709
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 11
- Kudos:
- 111
- Bookmarks:
- 7
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- 1,087
Bookmarked by chattered
07 Oct 2023
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“Arthur had barely been here a month, but he thought that sound would stick with him all his life - the slamming of the screen door, bringing with it the thick, sweet scent of the woods in summertime and the feeling of the sun on his face.”
Arthur Morgan spends the summer in Bushkill, Pennsylvania with his Uncle Hosea and kid brother John.
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I took this down (for happy reasons!), but I got some requests for it, so I'm reposting the original!
Enjoy!