17 Works by chattered
Listing Works
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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?
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“Why won’t you let me take care of you?” He asked softly, Javier’s gaze not meeting his as he picked at the corner of the heavy pelt nervously. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“It should be the opposite,” Javier tiredly admitted, startling John with what was said. “You almost died on that mountain and here you are, picking me up after I, what, get too cold? ‘s pathetic.”
“It’s not pathetic,” John argued back, “It’s freezing. Of course you’re gonna get cold.”
Javier let out a mirthless laugh, eerily sounding similar to a heavy bark.
“Layin’ down and goin’ to bed, that’ll make you happy?” Javier asked as John took the opportunity to gently steer him closer to the makeshift bed, letting him take the time to yank his boots off and settle onto it.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
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Javier's left out on the night shift and John wants him to come in and warm up, no matter what it takes
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Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed by chattered
Fandoms: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
18 Nov 2023
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He didn’t know when this infatuation with Charles even began. Might’ve been when he invited him along to hunt back in Colter, Arthur lying through his teeth about not knowing to hunt just so he would sidle up to his back just to reposition his arms with gentle touches to redirect the way he held the bow, so that he’d be so impressed that Arthur could shoot an arrow through a buck’s eye all on his first go.
He slipped John a fiver after practically begging him to keep his mouth shut, pained chuckles escaping the man on his cot as he accepted the money, knowing that if Arthur didn’t say anything, he’d be more than happy to supply years of stories to Charles about Arthur’s spectacular hunting skills.
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“It’s not about that. Charles doesn’t like fishing. Hates it.” Javier rolled his eyes, sitting up to meet Arthur’s blank expression with a groan. “You’re hopeless."
Arthur felt skepticism worm into his thoughts - of course Charles didn’t hate fishing. It’s just that they had never gone together, and never took him up on offers to go...
“Okay,” Arthur admitted, "You might be right about that. Why's he so eager to go, then? Think he’s changed his mind?”
“If that’s what you want to think.”
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“I need to focus on capturing Hassan, Rodolfo.” Alejandro shot back. “As your superior officer, as the leader of Los Vaqueros. I need to bring him to justice. What you need to do? Get rest, take a break, hell - do something to make sure that what happened with that fire? Doesn’t happen to anyone else."
He paused, the heavy speech still hanging loosely across Rudy's shoulders like rope.
“I can’t lose you to this, Rudy. I can’t.” Alejandro pleads. “If I have the chance to make sure that you return to who you are - not the hollowed out version of you that rose from that fire - I’ve got to take that risk."
**
Rudy struggles to stay himself after he escapes from the fire.
Alejandro notices.
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Arthur weighed his options over in his head; ride with Hosea and the wagon, crunched in the back with the surplus of supplies they were carrying and end up with a crick in his neck and back for the foreseeable future, or ride with Charles and fight off the roar of his heartbeat with his chest pressed up against Charles’ back, his hands wrapped loosely around his waist like a lovesick teenager
While two sides of him argued over what would seem less painful in the long run, a third side of him he barely registered shrugged and met Charles next to Taima, who offered him a strong hand up behind him in the saddle.
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They're moving camps again and Arthur doesn't have a horse oh noooooooo
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It had seemed that earlier in the night, Arthur had taken the bet from the wind blown through the trees, from the rabbits that hopped across the dirt paths, from the stars gleaming like a lamp against a wolf’s eyes.
And unfortunately for the rest of the gang, the bet challenged trickily who could get drunk quicker - the leaves on the chilled fall breeze as it swept through Horseshoe Overlook, or Arthur off of the sour tinge of moonshine?
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or
Arthur gets a lil too tipsy and confesses his feelings to Charles
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The last Charles saw of Arthur Morgan was under the light of the lanterns scattered across Wapiti land, the frail man collected in his arms, a deep hug that seemed to quietly murmur the things the two men were too proud to admit.
I’ll miss you. You’re my best friend. Be safe. Stay alive.
I love you
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“Let’s hear it for our very own Lone Wolf! Let’s hear it for Charles Smith!”
Roars erupted from the crowd as men moved towards the teller to cash in their bets and to raise another. Charles mentally prepared himself for the next fight, eyes sweeping across the crowd
Hazed brown eyes met cool blue ones as Charles furrowed his eyebrows.
There, that ever so familiar hat slung low across an ever so familiar face, shadowing the narrowed eyes that practically glared at Charles in his state, the ice cold blue piercingly burning holes into him. There stood a man - a cowboy - that same blue shirt, the same stupid bandana.
He was here.
OR
Arthur survives and watches Charles win a fight in Saint Denis and is understandably upset that his friend has to resort to violence to be able to live in the world after Arthur tried so hard to make sure that wouldn't happen
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Falling asleep wasn’t a wise idea now, he knew. He was too cold and too sluggish, and that meant there was a chance he wouldn’t wake up.
“Arthur?”
Charles was standing outside his tent, the same coat he had worn so perfectly in Colter wrapped around his body tightly. He held a lamp, shining a light onto Arthur’s face, the flame meeting cold blue eyes.
Arthur had stopped pretending awhile ago that anything he felt for Charles was platonic.
It was silly to try and act like everything was normal when Arthur’s heart thrummed in his chest around the man, when his face flushed red whenever the man so as managed to brush his knuckles, or fix his bow positioning with a simple hand guiding his arms in the right direction - always too close to leave Arthur not flushed a deep color afterwards.
“You’re freezing.” Charles worried, peeling his gloves off to better feel his face.
Arthur huffed out a laugh, "Well of course I am."
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a blizzard hits Beaver Hollow and Arthur comes back way too cold to spend the night alone
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John symbolically met Death at two hell-torn gates, neither of them pearly enough - Oh no, the ones that John deserved were sculpted so graciously from all the blood he had spilled. From the lives he had ruined. From the death he wrought.
One gate would open when John met his death at the hands of his family. If Javier shot him where he stood. If Bill’s gang would get the best of him. If Dutch got the upper hand.
The other would open at the end of the rope that awaited so tantalizingly should he fail. Should he want to relish the time he had with the men who left and betrayed him. If he should refuse to kill the only family he had left.
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John meets Javier before they find each other before officially meeting in Nuevo Paraiso and reflect on what could've been
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“Dutch.” Arthur argued. “Charles’ been sacrificin’ his time to make sure this camp is safe. Hell, he was up a full day before the job - least you can do is let him rest awhile,” Dutch’s eyes blazingly meeting his at last with a ferocity Arthur was hurt at seeing aimed right at him.
“Mr. Morgan,” Dutch spat, “I do properly suggest that you keep your longing for other members of our gang less obvious to the rest of us.”
Arthur’s heart scrambled up his chest straight up into his throat, not daring to meet Charles’ eyes.
No way did his reaction do anything but confirm to the other man that indeed, it was a desperate longing that kept his eye out for him. But more was it a defense of decency for him to speak up to Dutch’s rude gesture. In the gang, all Arthur had was pushed around by Dutch on the daily - did that mean that Charles was destined to the same fate as he?
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Dutch reveals that, no, they aren't being too inconspicuous about it, and yes, everybody knows about their damn crushes on each other.
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Snake fell back on his plans of Zanzibar, of FOXHOUND, of everything Kaz didn’t want to follow - but hell, he didn’t even want to stay for Diamond Dogs, but every night without fail, Kaz would sit on the edge of the base, swinging his legs off over the warm ocean of the Seychelles, waiting patiently for his Boss to come back.
He finally understood why Ocelot hadn’t been sitting next to him for all of those years.
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"He shouldn’t be this affected by a simple slip up. It was a slip up, right?
If Hal hadn’t been so fixated on the burrowing feeling of disgust and discomfort worming his way into his stomach, he would’ve been flattered to even be considered a partner to David
Yet, he heard the waiter call him David’s “girlfriend”, he heard her call him “she”, something that Hal had been sure to shed years ago.
Maybe it was because he had let his hair get too long, it sticking uncomfortably to his forehead. Maybe it was because the nail polish he had worn to feel nice - David watching earnestly as he painted his cracked nails carefully - was too much of a dead giveaway. Maybe it was the surgery scars that peeked only slightly out of his tank top.
He didn’t look like a girl anymore, though. He had cut his hair when he had begun his transition. His voice had dropped because of the hormone replacement. His chest flattened from the surgery. He was everything he needed to be, but as each passing comment hit, doubt settled in between the cuts of each “she,” each “her” like rubbing alcohol dripping into a wound."
(ps hi otasune ao3 feed tumblr bot, ily)
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Big Boss comes back to Motherbase, but Kazuhira Miller knows it's not really his Boss and attempts to cope.
ft slow dancing, inaccuracies about david bowie, and struggling to understand walkmans