extollwest

[extollwest]

the lady and the cowgirl;

notes: inspired by the old west and rdr. a wlw drabble where a spoiled, aristocratic lady falls for meets a rugged cowgirl. cue the hot, lesbian sex or whatever (not actually, this drabble is very pure and super cute honestly!). let me know what you think!

The apple trees had begun bearing fruit that late summer evening when a young, well-dressed lady decided to make her home in the cool shade of their branches.

“Vivre d’amour et d’eau fraîche,” she whispered in broken French, lip curling in frustration at the sloppy attempt. 

Educated as the girl was raised to be, she despised foreign languages with a hot passion. Most attempts at learning them were futile and subsequently ended with tears of frustration.

A cool breeze swept through the orchard, kissing her rouged cheeks and mussing the bright green leaves above. They danced peacefully in the wind, rustling and crinkling in a beautiful, unified symphony.

Her back arched and hit the rough bark of the familiar tree, feeling it scrape against the soft linen of her dress. Her hand extended towards the sky, nimble fingers fluttering as the soft flares of sunlight trickled through her pale hand and down her face.

Something buzzed next to her ear, and she swatted it promptly with the back of her hand. The heat of August was bearable, yet certainly enjoyed to a lesser degree within the thick, bouffant layers of her formal dress that she half-heartedly agreed to wear that dewy morning.

In the less fortunate moments of her privileged life, she would grow painfully aware of the tight corset around her waist and how restrictive it was for her breathing. She would reach behind and untie it sloppily, letting the threads hang loosely against her back until someone ultimately reprimanded her for it. In the orchard, she didn’t have to hear anybody’s musings. Here she could forget her upbringing and legacy.

She kicked her leather boots off promptly and watched them fall into the tall grass with a soft thud. To her amusement, one of them had landed directly upright, and so she giggled loudly at the fact.

Her attention moved back to the leather-bound book resting peacefully against her tummy. She picked it up gently and skimmed through the delicate pages.

“Être né sous une bonne étoile,” she whispered hopefully under her warm breath, yet her tongue had already twisted uncomfortably and jumbled the words.

A red-hot storm began to bubble within her stomach, churning with a profound, uninhibited frustration that threatened to leap out of her lips at any moment. Instead, the young lady tucked the book closed, raised it over her head, and tossed it deep into the orchard with an exasperated grunt.

It landed within view, just between two thickets, open pages facing the azure of the afternoon sky. She sighed, eyebrows furrowed yet smiling, satisfied with her brazen impudence.

An intricate leather boot stepped out from among the rosebushes, followed by another. The lady’s gaze widened as it followed up the rugged, dirtied jeans, silver-clasped belt, leather-trimmed vest, and finally upon the worn face of an unfamiliar woman glancing down at her discarded book.

The lady froze in shock, scooting against the rough bark of the tree, deep enough for the texture to dig into her backside. Her eyes followed the woman’s movements fervently, curiously, fearfully. She leaned down and grabbed the book, skimming through the pages and smiling suddenly. It was an ugly smile, crooked and fit for a delinquent, yet earnest and uninhibited in how wide it appeared.

"Vous parlez français, ma dame?” she spoke through her grin, voice honeyed and raspy. It was a beautiful iteration, flawless and naturally flowing, yet it made the young lady’s blood curdle in horror. 

Their eyes met. The cowgirl’s eyes were sleek and cold, pupils like two oases entrapped in a sea of blue as she scanned down the lady’s vulnerable figure. Somehow, it felt like she could smell her fear, not only sense it; like a beast ready to pounce on its prey.

The girl’s throat went dry, hands fumbling with the thick skirts to reach a makeshift strap of leather on her thigh that harbored a crude, dull blade. She grabbed at the carved handle, yet her breath hitched when it stuck firmly within its holster, refusing to budge.

Suddenly, there was laughter, hoarse and gritty: a kind of powerful belly laugh that the lady hadn’t heard since coming of age.

“I don’t want no trouble, little lady. Just felt curious as to who would treat a book with so little respect like that,” she spoke calmly, seemingly unaffected by the girl’s attempt at defending herself. 

“And what’s it to you? It’s just a book,” the lady responded defensively, the grip on her knife loosening and falling to the side. She watched as the cowgirl’s honey-brown locks fell upon her sweat-slick forehead, peeking from under the wide-brimmed hat perched on her head. She smiled again, revealing a row of crooked teeth.

“A book’s never just a book. It comes embedded with a piece of someone’s soul, see?” she spoke brightly, raising the open book and tapping two fingers against the text. “Hand-printed, glued together, too. Someone out there took time outta’ their day to make this for you, blood, sweat, and all that.” 

She took a step forward, glancing at the discarded boot in her way, and kicked them to the side with her own pair. Then, she looked back up, a glint in her blue eyes. “Toss one of these away, you’re tossin’ out a piece of someone's soul with it."

[extollwest]

twinkling;

notes: inspired by detroit: become human, as you might guess from some of the hints within the text. started writing this as a oneshot, but figured it might become a longer fanfic in the future ;) btw back on my hyper-descriptive writing grind. let me know what you think!

Thick crystals of white obscure your vision, resting upon the delicate parapet of lashes viciously protecting your glazed eyes from the tumultuous, unforgiving cold. You blink once and feel the blood within your fingertips gelatinize and thicken, scrunching your digits and attempting to feel your nails dig into the soft flesh of your reddened palm.

With a second blink, the glassy image of a sliding entrance echoes in your brain. The metal framing scrapes against the concrete floor, lapping at the shallow waters of a murky puddle below. Your gaze focuses on the image trapped between the enameled glass, bright blue and white, and flashing with unfamiliar logos and slogans that burn into your mind from the scorching hot LEDs.

Join us for a better tomorrow.

“Miss?” rings from behind you, in front, right, and left. The tenor surrounds your hazed bubble, dipping into your cerebral cortex and drawing your eyes into unfortunate focus. The ambiance emerges clearly, assaulting your perception with the metropolitan symphony of motor engines and public chatter. A sharp pang within your brain urges you to groan, pink mittens grazing at your sore temples as a face emerges beneath the surface of your milky white breath.

“Is everything alright?” the young man in front of you speaks with a bureaucratic concern, his forehead forming even folds whose detail somehow sends your head into another frenzy of pain. However, there is a charm to his mannerisms, and you haven’t failed to notice how his eyebrows scrunch and release when met with the cold, white crystals. They melt on the slope of his forehead, cascading droplets down the cheeks. Is he smiling?

“Yes,” you reply squeakily, forcing your dominant arm to flex and fix the tote hanging off your puff coat. You congratulate yourself on the impulsive purchase you made years back as a side-thought. “Yes. I’m alright, thank you. I’m just tired, just here to do shopping. Do groceries, y’know.”

His skin is milky white and carefully speckled with brown moles. They rest upon his temples, cheeks, and nose like little constellations, and the visual makes you think of your last summer in Texas, right before you moved to Detroit. The sky was clear the night you received that call, and the wet grass tickled your calves.

The memory, albeit warm, makes you wince and suddenly you realize that the greyish sunlight behind the stranger’s head begins to vanish behind the tall city horizon.

The cold starts to seep through your thick layers, nipping at your skin harshly as you squeeze the linen in your palm. You need to get home.

“Thanks for the concern,” you nod politely, and the man mirrors your mannerisms. You catch a glimpse of his fading smile as you cross the street, and when you turn around his outline disappears behind the white flurry, overpowered by the fluorescent colors of the ‘24/7’ sign of the supermarket.

As you navigate through an unfamiliar neighborhood with the weight of this week’s groceries resting upon your shoulder, you’re momentarily overcome with serenity.