#and short is where you can barely see the overhang nail

[allthingsmustfall]

For @rockscanfly ‘s prompt of “charles gets to watch arthur do embarrassing shit all the time. whats one time that arthur saw charles do something embarrassing?” which ate my brain and made me cackle incoherently to myself.

This is the ‘like thieves in the night’ verse, after they get to Serendipity and before John’s in the know:

Arthur’s been loitering near the stables, avoiding Hosea’s endless dickering to make nice with some a new foal and its weary momma, so it’s only seeing Charles’ back go rigid that makes him glance up.

It’s a bright spring morning, just barely out of the grip of winter, and they’d ridden down to the Smit’s ranch to pick up a few head of cattle for the farm, something that Arthur figures should’ve taken ten minutes, but with Hosea there’s always twenty minutes of small talk and an hour of haggling over prices, so he’d settled in for the long haul while Charles inspected the herd.

Arthur leans out of the barn to get a better look at Charles, who’d been leaning against the fence, smiling vaguely as he looked out over the rolling hills. He’s not doing that now - his hackles are up and he jumps back from the fence like he’s touched a live wire, furtively casting around like he’s looking for cover in a firefight.

Doesn’t seem to Arthur that anything’s changed, really, Hosea’s still up on the porch with the owner, and it seems his eldest daughter has stepped out to join them. She’s a nice enough girl, just turned twenty with no ring on her finger, and she’s plush and soft in the way Mary was, like she’d break should Arthur so much as look at her wrong. Matilda, Arthur remembers suddenly, her name’s Matilda.

Glancing back to Charles, he finds the man has jumped the fence, making for the side door of the stable, creeping along like he’s hunting game.

“Charles!” Matilda calls from the porch, her voice bubbling with the kind of excitement that only comes with youth. She dashes down the steps, her skirts in hand. “Daddy didn’t mention you’d be coming down too!”

From where he’s leaning, Arthur can see Charles’ face through the side window as he’s caught, and his eyes go rabbit-wide, and he mutters a curse that Arthur has only ever heard him use when he’s talking about the Army or Dutch.

“Heey there, Matilda,” he says, voice strained as he turns on his heel, still backing away slowly.

Matilda is fussing with her hair, straightening her dress as she comes up on the fence. “I told you,” she teases, “My friends call me Maddie.”

Charles makes a strained noise and backs into one of the struts holding up the stable’s overhang. “I - yes. Sorry, Maddie. I was just - just going to take a closer look at the herd -”

“You know,” Matilda says, like she’s being subtle or shy, “I never did get a chance to thank you proper for seeing me home after Glenda threw a shoe.”

Charles throws up his hands, “No need for thanking,” he says quickly. “Just - being neighborly.”

“Lending me your coat,” Matilda goes on, oblivious, “Letting me squeeze up behind you on the saddle - “

Purposefully, Arthur bites down on his knuckles to stifle a laugh .Somehow, Charles has neglected to relate this particular little story of neighborly good-deeding. Funny, that.

“I just - the weather was real bad,” Charles says, still backing away. Arthur has seen him less wary around rattlers. “Just - best for all that you got home safe -”

“It was just so - heroic,” she says, wistfully. “Daddy says you’re an American? You used to be a cowboy out on the frontier?”

“Oh no I - I just - I - just ranching, mostly,” Charles lies, because if the girl wants heroic stories, then Arthur’s got a few dozen to fill her head up with. “Nothing interesting -”

Matilda sighs gustilly, fanning her chest as she positions herself in a way she must think looks enticing, but mostly seems uncomfortable. “It sounds so romantic.”

“It’s not,” Charles says, almost plaintively. “It’s really -”

“Oh no,” she says, purposefully letting an old handkerchief flutter into the muddy paddock. “I dropped my handkerchief.” She leans over the fence, making as if to grab it, but even from this angle Arthur can tell she’s just shoving her breasts together as she leans over, deepening her cleavage with a lot of creative positioning and hope. “Would you be a dear and grab that for me?”

Charles stills, looking from the girl to the pile of manure it’s landed in and says, deliberately, “I’d just as soon leave it, miss, I think it’s ruined.”

Arthur just about has to shove his fist into his mouth to silent a peel of laughter at that, almost doubling over.

The girl pouts, but goes on unperturbed. “You know, I’m a really good baker,” she says hopefully, perking up. “I’d love to come by Serendipity sometime, just to show my appreciation. Momma says no one makes pie like me, you know. Would you like a slice of my pie, Charles?”

Charles just about yelps, probably because he backed his way onto a loose, rusty nail in the side of the barn, cowering back like he’s never done for lawmen or O’Driscolls or the god damn US Army, but it’s just as well, because that sends Arthur to the ground, wracked with silent laughter, and the shout covers the noise of him sinking to the ground.

“I don’t - like pie,” Charles says shortly, which as far as metaphors goes, ain’t even a little bit wrong. “I. My. I been stepping out with Tilly Jackson for a long while now, and she makes, uh, some real nice biscuits, though -”

“You mentioned her,” Matilda says, her voice going a bit suspicious. “I saw her ‘round the market last weekend and she seems real surprised you told me about the two of you -”

I bet she was, Arthur thinks hysterically, another peel of laughter trying to claw its way out of his throat.

“Oh no,” Charles whispers to himself, quietly. Arthur claws his way back to his feet just to see how wide his eyes have gotten, and he’s not disappointed. There’s small rodents living out in the desert with less fear of hawks than Charles has for Matilda Smit in this moment.

“-and she told me you two called things quits? She said you’re a real gentleman but you broke her heart.”

“Did she,” Charles says darkly, in a tone of voice that promised later retribution.

“I think any woman would be lucky to have you, Charles Smith,” she says, earnest and sweet, blinking big brown eyes at him like a fawn in spring.

“That’s - uh, that’s real kind, but really, it was Miss Tilly who broke, uh, my heart,” he says quickly, “I’m just. A broken man about it.”

Tactical mistake, Arthur thinks. In his misspent youth, Arthur has used that line to the exact opposite effect that Charles is hoping for.

On cue, Matilda makes an anguished noise. “Oh you poor thing,” she says, hitching her skirts up to climb over the fence. “Oh, women can be so, so cruel, you deserve yourself a good wife, and lots of babies running around -”

“No, no, no, miss, please!” Charles says, pure panic in his voice, “You’ll muddy your skirts. You just. Stay over there.”

“You’re such an gentleman,” she says, almost as if it pains her, but she at least stops trying to go over the fence. “I was thinking, maybe you’d like to come around some evening,” she says, and her voice goes sly for a moment, “You know, my daddy is driving the herd down to Montreal the end of the month -”

If he was a good man, Arthur would stop this, but thank god he’s a bastard because the anguished noise that Charles makes at that invitation is one that will bring Arthur joy for years and years to come.

“I wouldn’t want to - to presume, Miss Smit -”

“Maddie!” the girl says sharply.

“Maddie! I wouldn’t - I wouldn’t want to bring you any trouble-”

“I like a bit of trouble-”

“And I just - the farm needs me -”

“You’re so responsible -”

“And I, I, uh, uh -”

“No need to get flustered, Charles,” the girl says, all sweet and understanding, “We both want the same thing-”

“Arthur!” Hosea calls jovially, striding into the barn and drawing up short when he finds Arthur doubled over, barely holding back tears of laughter. “What on earth are you-?”

“...Arthur?” Charles growls from the other side of the wall, suddenly glaring in through the window at the pair of them. “You been there the -”

“Mister Matthews,” Matilda says, sounding put out and sour, “Charles and I were just - “

“I’m real sorry, Miss Smit,” Charles says quickly, “We best be on our way. Gotta drive the cattle home -”

“Think Hosea and I could manage it the two of us,” Arthur says helpfully, palming away tears. “If you wanted to -”

“No!” Charles says, then more calmly, “No, no, I think it’s best we all three of us go, just to be sure. Sides,” he says, glaring at Arthur, “We got things to discuss when we make it home.”

Arthur flashes him a sharp, innocent smile, shrugging. “Don’t wanna get in the way of young lo-”

“I’ll go see to the horses,” Charles snaps, heaving himself over the fence and stalking away to where they’d reined up the horses, but not so fast that Matilda doesn’t have the opportunity to lean over, whisper too loudly, “End of the month!”

“What on earth was that about?” Hosea asks, frowning faintly after him.

“Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll tell you the whole thing,” Arthur says, laughing despite himself. Charles was gonna skin him alive, but there wasn’t a force on earth that could stop him telling everyone back home.

~A few hours later~

Lenny is laughing so hard he can’t breathe, doubled over on the ground, looking near to passing out, and Sean and Karen ain’t much better off, both leaning against each other to stay upright.

“I think it’s entirely fair I said what I said,” Tilly says, unrepentant. “What on earth were you thinking? You know I’m thinking about letting Beau Montreau step out with me, and he’s skittish as a cat -”

“I’m just telling her I’m an invert,” Charles says wearily, headown on the table and, taking pity on him, Arthur quietly refills his glass. “It was a nice life here, but it’s time we moved on.”

“And break her heart?” Lenny manages, weeping with laughter. “You scoundrel.”

“Now I ain’t a jealous man,” Arthur says, enjoying this far, far too much, “But if you’re leaving me for her, best you just come out with it, do it quick like setting a bone.” Arthur makes a show of marshalling himself. “Do it now, quick, while I’m ready.”

Charles’ lashes out, but Arthur ducks the smack deftly, catching his hand and pressing a kiss to his unresisting knuckles, only dropping it when the door creaks open behind them. John struts in looking pleased with himself, fresh back from town with the groceries. “Ya’ll will never guess what I heard down in town - seems Charles’s finally got himself a woman - hey, hey! What’s so goddamned funny!”

[elliemarchetti]

An Unfriendly Waste

As someone seems to have appreciated the previous chapter, here is the sixth, in which Elva, the half-elf protagonist who left together with the Fellowship in place of Legolas, and her companions begin to sail south.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Words: 2250

The Fellowship went on their long way down the wide hurrying waters, borne ever southwards. Bare wood stalked along either bank, and they couldn’t see any glimpse of the lands behind. The breeze died away and the River flowed without a sound, not even the birds’ voices breaking the silence. The sun grew misty as the day grew old, until it gleamed in a pale sky like a high white pearl, fading finally into the West, followed by an early dusk and a grey, starless night. Far into the dark quiet hours they floated on, guiding their boats under the overhanging shadows of the western woods. Great trees passed by like ghosts, thrusting their twisted thirsty roots through the mist and down into the dreary, cold water. Elva sat listening to the faint lap and gurgle of the River fretting near the shore, until her head nodded and she fell into an uneasy sleep on Haldir’s shoulder, who carried her ashore and wrapped her in his cloak, as Gimli, who had taken on the task of lightning a small fire, later brough back to her.

"You've been lucky, if it was just my job I don't know if I would’ve managed not to get you into the water, as tall as you are," joked the dwarf. To have elven blood, Elva wasn’t particularly tall, but to dwarves and hobbits they all had to appear equally part of the Tall People. The time for jokes was incredibly short, as they started again before the day was broad, not that most of the Fellowship were eager to hurry southwards: they were content that the decision, which they must make at latest when they came to Rauros and the Tindrock Isle, still lay some days ahead, so they let the River bear them on at its own pace, having no desire to hasten towards the perils that lay beyond, whichever course they took in the end. Haldir let them drift with the stream as they wished, husbanding their strength against weariness to come, but Aragorn insisted that at least they should start early each day and journey on far into the evening, for he felt in his heart that time was pressing, and he feared that the Dark Lord hadn’t been idle while they lingered in Lorien. Nonetheless, they saw no sign of any enemy that day, nor the next. The dull grey hours passed without event, but as the third day of their voyage wore on, the lands changed slowly: the trees thinned and then failed altogether, while on the eastern bank they saw long formless slopes stretching up and away towards the sky, brown and withered, as if fire had passed over them, leaving no living blade of green, an unfriendly waste with nothing to relieve the emptiness. They had come to the Brown Lands that lay, vast and desolate, between Southern Mirkwood and the hills of the Emyn Muil. What pestilence or war or evil deed of the Enemy had so blasted all that region, even Haldir couldn’t tell. Upon the west, to their right, the land was also treeless, but flat, and in many places green with wide plains of grass. On this side of the River they passed forests of great reeds, so tall that they shut out all view to the west, as the little boats went rustling by along their fluttering borders. Their dark withered plumes bent and tossed in the light cold airs, hissing softly and sadly. Here and there through openings Elva could catch sudden glimpses of rolling meads, and far beyond them hills in the sunset, and away on the edge of sight a dark line, where marched the southernmost ranks of the Misty Mountains. There was no sign of living moving things, save birds, but they were seldom seen, small fowl whistling and piping in the reeds. Once or twice the travelers heard the rush and whine of swan-wings, and looking up they saw a great, black phalanx streaming along the sky.

“How wide, empty and mournful all this country looks,” said Elva. “When I was younger, I always imagined that as one journeyed south, it got warmer and merrier, until winter was left behind forever.”

“But we haven’t journeyed far south yet,” answered Haldir. “It’s still winter, and we’re far from the sea: here the world is cold until the sudden spring, and we may yet have snow again. Far away down in the Bay of Belfalas it’s warm and merry, or would be but for the Enemy. You are looking now south-west across the north plains of the Riddermark, ere long we shall come to the mouth of the Limlight that runs down from Fangorn to join the Great River. That is the north boundary of Rohan, and of old all that lay between Limlight and the White Mountains belonged to the Rohirrim. It’s a rich and pleasant land, and its grass has no rival, but in these evil days, folk don’t dwell by the River or ride often to its shores. Anduin is wide, yet the orcs can shoot their arrows far across the stream, and of late, it’s said they have dared to cross the water and raid the herds and studs of Rohan.”

Elva looked from bank to bank uneasily. The trees had seemed hostile before, as if they harbored secret eyes and lurking dangers; now she wished that the trees were still there, as she felt that the Fellowship was too naked, afloat in little open boats in the midst of shelterless lands, on a river that was the frontier of war. In the next day or two, as they went on, borne steadily southwards, this feeling of insecurity grew on all the Fellowship, so they took the paddle and hastened forward, the banks sliding by and the River broadening and growing shallower: long stony beaches laid upon the east, and there were gravel-shoals in the water, so that careful steering was needed. Elva shivered, thinking of the lawns and fountains, the clear sun and gentle rains of Lothlorien. There was little speech and no laughter in any of the boats for each occupant was busy with his own thoughts: Haldir’s heart was running under the stars of a summer night, Merry and Pippin were ill at ease, for Boromir sat muttering to himself, sometimes biting his nails, as if some restlessness or doubt consumed him, sometimes seizing a paddle and driving the boat close behind Aragorn’s to peer forward, gazing at Frodo. Sam had long ago made up his mind that, though boats were maybe not as dangerous as he had been brought up to believe, they were far more uncomfortable than even he had imagined. He was cramped and miserable, having nothing to do but stare at the winter-lands crawling by and the grey water on either side of him. Even when the paddles were in use, they didn’t trust him with one. As dusk drew down on the fourth day, he was looking back over Frodo and Aragorn’s bowed heads when something suddenly caught his sight: at first, he stared at it listlessly, then he sat up and rubbed his eyes, but when he looked again, he couldn’t see it anymore. When they camped for the night, certain that no one was paying attention to him, he decided to talk about it with Elva, sure she was the one who would understand the most.

“A log with eyes?” she asked, partly perplexed, partly for confirmation.

“I saw what I took to be a log floating along in the half-light behind Boromir’s boat, but I didn’t give much heed to it,” he confirmed. “Then it seemed as if the log was slowly catching us up, and that was peculiar, as you might say, seeing as we were all floating on the stream together. Just then I saw the shiny eyes, on a hump at the near end of the log. What’s more, it wasn’t a log, for it had paddle-feet, like a swan’s almost, only they seemed bigger, and kept dipping in and out of the water; that’s when I sat right up and rubbed my eyes, meaning to give a shout, if it was still there when I had rubbed the drowse out of my head, for the whatever-it-was was coming along fast now and getting close behind our friends. but whether those two lamps spotted me moving and staring, or whether I came to my senses, I don’t know: when I looked again, it wasn’t there, yet I think I caught a glimpse, with the tail of my eye, as the saying is, of something dark shooting under the shadow of the bank. I couldn’t see no more eyes, so I said to myself I was dreaming again, but I’ve been thinking since, and now I’m not so sure. What do you make of it?”

“I should make nothing of it but a log, the dusk and sleep in your eyes, if this was the first time that those eyes had been seen, but it isn’t, and Haldir beheld a strange creature with eyes climbing to the flet that night we slept in the woods, and Elves reported something like that too going after the orcs,” replied Elva, thoughtful.

“I don’t like my thoughts, but thinking of one thing and another, and Mr. Bilbo’s stories, I fancy I could put a name on the creature,” replied the hobbit, instilling a certain terror in her. She had only a vague idea of what Bilbo Baggins had been through on his journey with the dwarves, but whatever might’ve followed them from Moria was no good news.

"I'm not going to ask of your suspicions, just if we have to fear for our lives, or for the mission,” Elva said, wondering why her companion spoke of the matter specifically with her.

"According to Gandalf's thought, I believe that nothing in this journey can be considered safe, and for this I cannot be sure that what I have seen isn’t a risk, but as wise as the Lady you are in your words, since I haven’t yet discussed with Mr. Frodo about it, and I'm not sure I can divulge the details of his relative's story,” Sam replied, slightly blushing. Whether it was for the compliment just given, or for having openly admitted that he was keeping a secret from her, Elva never knew, but still advised him to talk about it with his friend, and once they came to a conclusion, to feel free to talk openly with her, since she wouldn't have mentioned anything to anyone if they didn't want to.

"For the moment, I'll just have an extra eye on it," she concluded, and no more was said that night, though Sam’s words still lingered in her mind for a long time. Was Galadriel as wise as everyone assumed and it was just her whom had misjudged her actions? Or was she a ruthless leader, devoted solely to her own lands and willing to sacrifice her people as needed? Certainly power could’ve corrupted her in far worse ways, and since the bearer of the ring was a hobbit, a being who could do nothing against an elf of that kind, if her heart had been moved by the thirst to be a worthy rival for the Enemy, she could’ve stolen it from him, by deception or by force, yet she hadn't. In conclusion, perhaps she had judged her too harshly, thanks to the fear she had towards her own King, his immense power and fickle character. If only Gandalf had still been among them, she could’ve asked for more information, as he had been the one who suggested to go to Lothlorien, certain that its Lady would offer them help and advice. With those dark thoughts lingering in her head, she fell asleep and came out of it only when Haldir shook her gently in the early morning.

“It’s a shame to wake you,” he whispered, “but it’s time.”

Sure, it was time to go, but it was time to start thinking too about when their paths would part, perhaps forever. If sleeping under the same roof and strolling through the streets of Caras Galadhon had united them, those silent journeys and those kindnesses exchanged under a black and starless sky, in a place where beauty and goodness had long been forgotten, had tightened the knot even more strongly, and Elva feared that to untie it, it would be necessary to cut something, which she was afraid, at least on her side, it would never grow back.

"You should discuss what torments your heart," Gimli said one day, when they docked to rest. After the night Sam had talked to her about the log with eyes, they had reversed their schedule, sleeping by day and travelling by night.

“It would be of no use,” she replied, while setting a rudimental camp, “for what troubles my heart is as inevitable as death itself.”

"Unheard of! A half-elf who talks about death! You will still see endless sunrises, and you will explore the world more than my long-lived race can, before reaching the sunset of your time, and yet you are here to worry about the same pains of us all," the dwarf teased, glancing sideways at Haldir. "It’s true that those who have more time don’t know how to use it.”

Elva didn’t reply, but blushed violently, and that was enough for Gloin's son.

[bxthharmon]

seven (jj maybank x reader)

words: 1230

warnings: hints to domestic abuse

summary: after a decade apart, y/n returns after the death of a family member and reunites with her childhood friend. a/n: gotta love my short, nostalgic, angsty jj song fics, its just how i roll at this point oops also folklore had me feeling some typpa way

based of seven by taylor swift

“masterlist”

please picture me in the trees

i hit my peak at seven

feet in the swing over the creek

i was too scared to jump in

but i, i was high in the sky

with pennsylvania under me

are there still beautiful things?

the forest smells sweet, like pine and honey and fresh earth. rain has fallen, the storm pulled through the barrier islands, taking life and structure and joy with it. she wonders if it was a blessing - it brought her home, to her childhood.

it has been 10 years, but she remembers the path, if not by map but by memory - hurtling along the dirt tracks in trivial races she never won, towards the swing. the swing in question was tied to a huge tree overhanging the marshes, flying high over the mud below, salt blowing through their hair, cool against their cheeks but warm enough to stop them from needing jumpers. 

her hands run along the rotting wood of the seat, and the rusting nails, and the fraying rope. she wonders what he’s doing.

“i dare you!” he shouts, watching gleefully as she swoops out over the salt marshes, pouting when she screams a refusal back, barely audible as she whistles back past him. “why not?”

she groans, 

“i don’t know what’s down there!” she replies, head thrown back as her innocent frame absorbs the wind.

“mud.” he shrugs, “i did it, just jump!” 

she looks down again as she flies over the murky depths, the swing pulling her back over solid ground. the next time she reaches peak height, she lets go, squeezing her eyes shut and blocking out the blond boy’s excited shout as she collides with the sticky mud under her, pulling herself to the surface, relieved glee filling her as she looks back at her friend.

she sits in the swing, and it creaks. where is he now? who are his friends? is he okay?

A sob shakes her body, where is jj now?

sweet tea in the summer

cross your heart, won't tell no other

and though i can't recall your face

i still got love for you

your braids like a pattern

love you to the moon and to saturn

passed down like folk songs

the love lasts so long

the aftermath of the storm brought people back, returning to say goodbye to the loved ones who were lost. he heard whispers that your grandma was one of those passed, and you had returned. whispers, only whispers - he was yet to see you. his friends didn’t understand - you’d moved before he met them, shipped off to the mainland, but even the idea of his childhood best friend returning made him feel giddy. even after ten years, he could remember the hushed whispers of shared secrets at sleepovers, the loose braids you used to keep your hair from your face, the memory of the love you’d shared.

he sees you after two days, when he’s out with friends. he freezes, the world stops, and he notices your falter, a full of minute of silence. for the first few seconds, he wonders who you are, and then it hits him, like the waves of the storm, it’s you.

kiara is pulling at his sleeve but he can’t move because you’re there, you’re alive, it’s been ten years and he’s seen you again. the shock subsides and your arms find him and your both crying and the pogues have never been so confused but they don’t care because they’ve never seen him smile like that before.

his eyes are closed and he can smell your shampoo and your perfume and the undertones of sweat and your all consuming love and it’s just so you that he can’t help but cry.

and i've been meaning to tell you

i think your house is haunted

your dad is always mad and that must be why

and i think you should come live with me

and we can be pirates

then you won't have to cry

or hide in the closet

and just like a folk song

our love will be passed on

“jj?” 

“y/n?” 

“is your house haunted?”

“no, i'm not a crain.”

“but your house scares me.”

“why?”

“because your dad’s always mad and that must be why.”

“maybe my house is haunted.”

“maybe.” 

“don’t tell.”

“i won’t.”

Two pinky fingers link, an unbreakable promise that she will regret for years, the thought that she could have said something breaking her heart.

she decides she broke her own heart, by promising that. she broke his heart too, by leaving. but she was seven, she didn’t know better.

“i’m leaving.”

“What?”

“i’m leaving. we’re moving to the mainland.”

“you’re leaving me?”

“no, silly, i’ll be here every summer. you’ll always be my best friend.”

she never came in the summer, and when they caught up, they realised that they’re not best friends. he has john b and pope and kie, and she has her own friends on the mainland.

it’s not the same.

please picture me in the weeds

before i learned civility

i used to scream ferociously

any time i wanted

the memories are tainted now, the reunion distorting the faces on the swing into older ones, matured ones. the memories are no longer innocent, happy or free, because they are no longer innocent, happy or free.

she leaves on a tuesday, but not without telling him to remember her as a kid, as the seven year old she was, when she did what she wanted, before she grew up. not without telling him to call her if his dad was getting too much, or he needed an old friend. Not without telling him she loved him.

he didn’t say it back, too estranged from the concept of being loved, logic demanding that he couldn’t love someone that he only knew when he was seven. it doesn’t matter that he loves her, because their lives don’t match - different places, people, worlds. 

His last serving memory of her consists of boxer braids, a hoodie that he later realises is his own, an earplug loose in her ear, threatening too fall as she fiddles with the wires, twisting and knotting them. it consists of bright sunlight, long lashes, vanilla scented perfume, coral red nail polish, chapped lips. nike shoes (battered, old) and the brush of a thumb against the back of her hand and the tears of her farewell.

sweet tea in the summer

cross my heart, won't tell no other

and though i can't recall your face

i still got love for you

pack your dolls and a sweater

well move to india forever

passed down like folk songs

she leans on her father’s shoulder on the ferry home, eyes closed, thinking of the boy she left behind. for the second time.

the journey is familiar, a decade ago, it felt the same. she wonders if he feels how she feels.

“lets run away.” he murmurs, and she giggles. 

“where to?” she asks, biting her lip.

“I don’t know, india.” he shrugs. “or like, europe.”

“i read about this place,” she says, “in mexico. it’s called the yucatan, it’s supposed to be beautiful. like, all beaches and ruins.”

“lets go there.” he agrees.

“If we don’t get to go there soon, then when we’re eighteen, we’ll run away. i’ll meet you in the yucatan.”

our love lasts so long

Permanent Tags: @eternalangst @ultranikilove @alexa-playafricabytoto​ @iamaunicorn4704​ @yxseminx​

OBX Tags: @annmariek8 @cheshirecat107​

[pangtasias-atelier]

A Reborn World’s Anomaly

Well, my first fic after a long ass break is for a character that literally no one knows. So blame @mimisgarbage for sharing my love in this dumb whore. Also, I can never just write about fat Yuma, gotta mention the fucked up ending cause I am still emotionally scarred and hurting from that shit

“Those idiots really did it,” Nagamimi glances down at her newfound arms. Her entire body newfound, she barely marvels in her appearance. No longer in the form of a stitched doll somewhat resemblant of a rabbit, her form is now that of a person. Her black attire the same as ever, the sleeves of her rich black outfit engulfs the entire length of her arm, barely stopping at her wrists. Attached to both sleeves is a single white ruffle that nearly engulfes her hands much like her arms. The rest of the outfit is a short skirt that is much less concealing. Ending a tad bit above midway above her knees, the extra ruffling added at the bottom gives a bit more fabric to cover her up alongside her black leggings and black pumps. A rich lilac vest sits atop her outfit with a darker purple cravat right above said vest. Her dragging bunny ears are replaced with blonde hair, two flowing braids of hair parting it down the back with one being far longer so as to reach down to her knees. 

“Nagamimi!” A shrill shout sounds as Mio runs towards Nagamimi. Not quite sure as to how she knows Nagamimi or where she even came from, the innate trust she has in her and Unit 13 has in her eases Mio’s already minimal concerns. Mio no longer as sickly frail, she runs with reckless abandon despite her black boots, her long yellow-green hair flows behind her freely. Her short white top rustles from the movement but her black shorts thankfully covers her up. Unwilling to fully stop, she nearly rams into Nagamimi through forcefully grabbing her arm with glee. ‘What are you doing out here?” 

“What’d I say about grabbing me like that?” Nagamimi raises her voice yet she makes no effort in putting up the slightest amount of resistance. “I was just saying an extra goodbye is all,” Nagamimi’s eyes never once taken off from the horizon she stares at the increasingly diminishing figure. 

“They already said goodbye. The rest of Unit 13 is still celebrating! And Julietta but he celebrates for everything,” Mio tugs at Nagamimi’s arm.

“Yeah,” Nagamimi continues to stare; the tension in her jaws remain. Her mind races. The thoughts jumbled, sudden, instantaneous moments churn throughout her conscious. Flashes of the world destroyed. Flashes of everyone but a select few killed, those near the stage of a dragon spared. Flashes of Unit 13 destroying VFD and with it, a world free of dragons. And yet, Unit 13’s leader’s sudden call had raised questions. Questions only for Nagamimi as the rest of Unit 13 had been purposefully left out of the loop by their leader. With the near teary state their leader had been from such an unexpected call, Nagamimi had no choice to leave it alone. With only her and Unit 13 knowing the truth of their remade world, there simply had been no opportunity to speak about the contradiction of Yuma existing. A man-made human created for the sole purpose of destroying dragons only to instead willingly turn himself into one, his entire existence is contradictory. 

And yet, Unit 13’s leader was willingly overlooking such a strange anomaly. Yuma slain by their own hands, Yuma had refused to back down despite the two’s relationship. The deep burning shame and regret haunting them afterwards, the image of Yuma dying in their arms from the wounds they themself inflicted, properly analyzing the situation was simply out of the question for them.

“What’s wrong?” Mio staring at Nagamimi’s face, she glances between her face and the place where Unit 13’s leader once was, their entire silhouette now gone. 

Nagamimi deeply sighs. Her entire frame puffing up with air only to expel it still feels too  insufficient of a sigh. “I just don’t want to go back to where everyone is. They’re so loud,” Grumbling herself so as to sell the lie, she immediately gives herself away with her smirk. 

“You’re a terrible liar!” Mio pouts as she drags Nagamimi back inside.

“I hope everything works out for those two this time,” She earnestly wishes under her breath before she follows Mio’s efforts to get her to rejoin the festivities. 

Stepping off the usually packed trains of Tokyo, Unit 13’s leader deftly weaves through the hustle and bustle of packed foot traffic. This new world exactly the same – minus the disappearance of dragons – as their old, destroyed world, the address Yuma had given them is easy to get to. A quick search revealing apartment complexes, Yuma no longer living at ISDF with dragons ceasing to exist, he had eagerly expressed wishing to see them. The shock of Yuma somehow being alive still refuses to wear off, so they hurry through the crowd despite the angry complaints tossed their way from their rushed state.

Eventually reaching the address Yuma sent them, their prepared mental state or rushing up a litany of stairs is still high on adrenaline even when they find Yuma’s apartment to be on the ground floor. Fishing their phone out of their pocket, they double and triple check the address before placing it back. They clear their throat. Their fist shaking, their lungs refuse to cooperate with them as they hold their breath back upon knocking twice. The instant a second passes without a response, their chest seems to well up with water as the sudden inability to breath sinks in.

“It’s open!” A shout responding to their dread and panic, the prickly moist tears that threatened to protrude begin to recede. They almost slam the door open upon their rushed entrance. “I’m in the kitchen,” The soft yet smug tantalizing voice of Yuma’s penetrates their ears and sinks into their very flesh. Their legs continue on moving towards the captivating voice. They stop upon the sight that awaits them. 

The kitchen in a somewhat state of disarray, Yuma is at the epicenter of it all. His engorged figure makes it hard for him not to be, Yuma’s hefty body taking up a large swath of the kitchen area. Surrounded by cats, Yuma’s obese body seems even somewhat laughable with the tiny pets clinging to him.

No longer possessing the fit musculature for a body designed with the singular intent of killing, Yuma’s figure is instead comparable with a body designed solely to eat. Where once there was a defined outline of abs shown only in more personal, intimate moments from their dates, Yuma’s heaping gut lurches forward into a massive overhang. Tucked in neatly and safely behind the comfort of his turtleneck, the fabric surprisingly doesn’t fight back its owner’s corpulent body; instead, it conforms to Yuma’s soft curves making up the doughy mass of his gut. His overhang reaching down a bit above his knees, the end up Yuma’s gut ends in a notably defined bell shape, the curve of his stomach curving ever so slightly inwards below his navel. His stomach mercilessly pulled down by gravity due to its sheer weight, the mass of lard rests comfortably on his thighs. The inner rivulets of fat making up his thighs are hidden behind his tank of a gut. However, the sides of his thighs jut out from so much fat crammed into his figure. The edges of his thighs peeking out from behind his gut offer a sense of their own immense girth, the inner mystery of his thighs filled in by the width of his overhang. Each thigh wider than a person, and with extra width to spare for a second, the two tree trunk thighs fill the fabric of Yuma’s pants. His pants perfectly tailored to fit him just like his turtleneck, the legs of them taper to fit his body, the entire canvas of sagging puffed out fat making up his legs visible. Rolls marcating the edges of where his ass and legs meet, Yuma’s ass juts out behind him, a slight fall to them as well from its own weight like Yuma’s stomach. A cat clings onto the fabric of his pants; its nails digging into the thick fabric as it hangs off the side of Yuma’s thigh.

Yuma’s legs slowly shift in clear, deliberate motions. Moving obviously a challenge with so much girth in the way, his pendulous gut sways from the movement. It slaps against his thighs. Turning to face towards Unit 13’s leader, he lets out a sigh – half from spotting his partner and half from exhaustion. “You’re finally here,” His face is puffed out from the extra bits of flab piled onto his cheeks and chin. No longer so angular, it’s instead rounded out to give a more soft and welcoming aura, The apron attached to him offers an even more welcoming aura, the width of it only covering half the width of his expansive gut. Even his breasts splay out the sides of the apron. Both heavy tits rest comfortably on the shelf of his gut, each sploying out somewhat to the sides. The apron lacking a knot, it instead has a collar to fit around his doughy neck. Two cats vye for Yuma’s attention, one on each soft shoulder. Yuma’s doughy looking arms rest comfortably on his plump love handles. Too much effort to hold up the two burdened arms despite each only holding a bowl of cat food, his fat bunches together. 

“Yeah,” Unit 13’s leader is at a shock – partly from Yuma’s mere existence yet mostly from his newfound weight. “I made it,” Releasing a radiant smile as the edges of their lips upturn, their feet glide along the floor as they step forward with zero hesitation. Their fingers gingerly wrap around both bowls in Yuma’s hands. The cats meow at them as they walk back. The cats circling their feet, they take great care in placing the bowls down, yet they do so quickly before the cats can prematurely grab them while still in their hands. The cats content with their food, Unit 13’s leader saunters back to Yone. They press a hand on Yuma’s stomach, their fingers sinking ever so slightly into the warm mass of fat. “Sorry about the wait, big guy,” Immediately accustomed to Yuma’s strange reappearance and even stranger figure, they loop an arm around Yuma’s, the warm pile of pudge encases their arm on all sides. 

Yuma lets out a small huff of breath before shaking his head at the nickname; his near shoulder length gray-brown hair swishes from the motion, bits of his green eyes momentarily hidden behind his hair. “I guess I’ll never get you to stop calling me that,” A twinkle in Yuma’s eye, he follows their steps as they slowly lead the way. 

“It’s hard to not call you what you are,” They give a couple affectionate pats against Yuma’s wobbling stomach. Leading Yuma out of the kitchen, they make their way past their cats that are preoccupied with eating. “Plus, you seem to get a kick out of it too,”

“Oh, I get a kick?” Yuma counters. His personality much the same, he continues his rebuttal. “I’m not the one insistent on using such a nickname, am I?” His fatigue starting to get to him, he huffs afterwards. 

“We’re almost there, big guy,” They ignore his rhetorical question and instead lead Yuma further back into the living room. Yuma merely rolls his eyes with a scoff thrown in for good measure. 

Upon reaching the couch, they reluctantly remove themselves from Yuma. A wide permanent indent marking his spot, Yuma gratefully lowers himself down on it with only minimal creaking from the loveseat. His bulk finally resting, his fat bunches up together. His thighs take up nearly the entire expanse of the loveseat. His gut rests on the wide pedestal that is his thighs. “Make yourself comfortable,” Yuma challenges. 

Without a pause, Unit 13’s leader sits in the tiny crevice left available between Yuma’s fat and the armrest. However, they lift up Yuma’s gut, the mass of fat barely lifting up despite their best efforts. Shifting around, they place their back on the armrest as they sit on Yuma’s lap. Most of their body smothered under Yuma’s gut, they let go of his stomach with a grin. “Got the best seat in the house. Even comes with a personal heater,” They rub Yuma’s gut with their right hand; their hand goes in slow counter-clockwise motions. 

“Glad to be of service,” Yuma suddenly blushes as his stomach growls. 

“Now it’s my turn to be of service,” Opening up their phone, they start ordering food without waiting for any input on Yuma’s end. Tapping and scrolling away, they smile as Yuma simply starts searching for something to watch. 

Deciding to simply take this newfound world without question, they let out a contented sigh as they place their food order, ready to enjoy their first date with Yuma in this world.

[queenmicky93]

Hello again

This is a piece I wrote when I was going through some stuff. It's a bit dark and contains a little bit if danger. If you don't like that, then don't read. I'm proud of it and it helped me work through some stuff. Enjoy.

(Update: Went through and fixed a few mistakes. Hopefully it reads better now.)

Fear

You stood at the edge of the forest, watching as fog seeped out of its clutches. You contemplated whether to head inside or not. The sunlight was beating hard against the bare skin of your shoulders. If you entered the forest, you doubted any sunlight would reach you, given how dense the tree coverage was.

Suddenly, you heard something behind you. You were afraid to turn and see what it was. You had two choices. Either stand there and face whatever demon might be after you, or enter the forest.

In a rush of adrenaline, your feet had begun to take you forward into the forest. As you entered, you saw that you had been right. There was not much sunlight coming through the dense overhang of trees. In fact, the cover got so bad that it seemed to blot out the sun entirely. You weren't sure if it was a trick if the eyes, or something else, but you could have sworn it was much too dark for broad daylight, even under the thick layers of leaves.

You kept moving as much as you could. It was proving to be more difficult the further you went. It kept getting darker and the terrain seemed to become more treacherous with each step.

You could still hear the sound behind you. Something was definitely chasing you. What? You weren't sure, and you were not about to stop to find out.

Then all at once, the world tilted up, and the ground reared up to meet your face. You groaned in pain from the fall. You turned your head to see if you could make out what you had tripped over. You blanched and scurried back a bit at the realization that it was a dead body.

You tried to get up to keep running, only to cry out at the pain in your ankle. You must have twisted or sprained it when you tripped. Panic started to set in as you realized the situation you were in. The noise you heard earlier was a lot closer and closing in fast.

You tried to think of something to help you. You looked around in the murky darkness to see if you could find anything that might help. You thought you saw a pouch or pack of some sort sticking up a little ways off and to the left. You hurriedly started to inch toward it. You almost touched the strap of it when you heard a low growl in your ear. You yelped and turned quickly to face your stalker.

You were not prepared for the yellow eye that stared directly at you, straight into your soul. It seemed to pick apart every piece of you and lay you completely bare for all to witness. You had never felt so vulnerable before in your life.

You took in the familiar waves of slate gray that covered his right eye and framed the other half of his face perfectly. You realized he was still in his favorite lab coat as the tails of it were trailing the ground as he slowly crept toward you. You backed up as best you could, until you felt your shoulder rub against the rough bark of a large tree. You were trapped.

He smirked before slamming his hand against the tree next to your head. He leaned into your space, staring you straight in the eyes. You were frozen in place. There was nothing you could do. He noticed your still frame before leaning in further and running his nose along your cheek. He slowly moved back until he reached your ear.

You turn away as you hear his raspy voice whisper in your ear. "Hello, Y/N. Are you surprised?"

You felt him run his hand up your thigh as he spoke, and you shivered involuntarily out of fear. You didn't know what he had planned, but you didn't think it would be pleasant.

"Say my name, Y/N."

You refused to say it even as you felt his nails dig into your thigh.

He pulled back and looked at you with a murderous rage that stilled your heart. "I said, say my name."

You violently shook your head and bit back a yelp as he dug his nails in further.

His expression changed suddenly to one of endearment and his hand was gently caressing your cheek. It would have been a relief if the yellow in his eyes didn't remind you that he was no longer himself.

He gently leaned in and kissed your forehead, a normally sweet gesture, turned to something manipulative and sadistic. "Please, Y/N. If you love me, say my name."

Your eyes widened as you realized what he was trying to do. Your heart broke knowing the decision you would have to make. You wet your dry lips and opened them, letting your reply come out firm and clear. "No."

His demeanour changed again as he pulled back, dropping his hand from your cheek. This time, it was one of exasperation and seeming  disappointment. "And here I was planning on sparing you. All you had to do was say my name."

You said nothing more as you watched him closely to see what his next move would be.

He sighed heavily, lifting his free hand into the air and holding it in position, ready to strike. "I guess you leave me with no choice." His hand plunged directly at the spot on your chest that held your heart.

Your eyes widened as time seemed to slow and his hand sailed closer and closer toward your most precious organ. You felt pain as it seemed to rip through your chest to the spot that held a treasure he had already possessed.

You screamed.

---------------------------------------------------

Your scream echoed through the room as you shot up into a sitting position. Sweat poured down your neck and back, and your breath came out in short quick spurts.

"Y/N?!"

You looked over at the sound of your name and the rustle of bed sheets. Your heart leapt to your throat when you saw the messy head of slate gray hair sticking up from the pillow next to you. You slowly trailed your eyes down from the top of his head to meet his one eyed gaze. The sigh of relief that left you when you saw the familiar and welcoming blue staring back at you had him raising a brow in concern.

"Y/N, I thought I heard a scream. Is everything alright?" He looked up at you with a questioning and worried expression.

You reached down to where he was still laying and gently curled your hand around his cheek, your heart melting at how he instinctively leaned into your touch. "Ienzo."

Ienzo smiled at the sound of his name on your lips. Though he still held concern in his gaze. "What happened?"

You shook your head. "It was just a nightmare. Nothing to be too worried about."

He took ahold of your hand and sat up before fixing you with a hard stare. "I would hardly call something that wakes you up screaming, 'nothing to be too worried about.'"

You looked away and used the hand not being held to fiddle with the bed sheets. "I don't want to cause any unnecessary worry."

Ienzo used his free hand to gently place two fingers under your chin and turn your head back toward him. "I'm already worried, Y/N. Might as well tell me. Then maybe I can help with whatever it is that is troubling you."

You looked him in the eye and remembered what it was like to see a yellow iris before you conceded. "You were under Xehanort's influence, and you chased me through a dark forest before going to rip my heart out."

His shoulders slumped a little since his past as a nobody was still something he was not incredibly proud of. The possibility of Xehanort controlling him had been very probable at the time, and he had not been fully aware of that fact. It was something he was fairly certain that he wouldn't have to worry about in the future, but he had taken precautions just in case. "That won't happen. I will make sure of it."

You nodded avoiding his gaze. You knew that the chances of him being controlled were almost nothing, yet it didn't stop fear of him showing up one day with yellow eyes from entering your heart. You felt a slight pressure on your lips and your eyes widened before they slipped shut, and you were kissing him back.

It was a short kiss, but he poured all of his love and devotion to you in that sweet simple gesture. "I love you, Y/N. I would do anything to protect you."

You smiled at his declaration and kissed him again. When you pulled back, you looked at him endearingly. "I know you will, and I love you, too."

He nodded before gently pushing you back down to lay on the bed and wrapping his arms around you. You felt your eyes almost instantly grow heavy, and you began to doze off. Just as the clutches of slumber were reaching you, you thought you heard him whisper something to himself.

"I love to hear you say my name."

[alitheamateur]

Harley & Heat Lightening

A Tommy Conlon/Reader Imagine

This is just my own little guilty fantasy....

Warnings: NSFW. Language. Mentions of night terrors. I mean, I just feel like Tommy Conlon in general is a warning.

Word Count: 2,149

(Photo from Google)

The beaming white glow of a notification on the chipped screen of your phone face-up on the nightstand seeped through your closed eyelids. The chime notified of you the facts you already knew regarding a warning for heat-lightening throughout this blazing summer night. You praised the heavens for the air conditioning blaring from the vent in the corner of the bedroom you shared with your boyfriend, who was seemingly missing concluding from the cool sheets on his side of the queen bed. 2:53 in the morning by the looks of the alarm clock, which meant Tommy was probably up with a nightmare again, and was roaming the house somewhere, most likely clutching a sleep aid in the form of a whiskey bottle. He had those relentless demons under control for the most part. But, you always kept a single bottle of his favorite brand tucked away for emergencies. You didn’t understand what he went through, and you certainly couldn’t cure him. So, you’d love him amply, and if he needed a swig to knock back a terrorizing flashback here and there, so be it.

You squirmed and rooted amongst the tangling wad of sheets, fluffing and flopping your pillow to seek a comfortable position in the empty bed, but it was useless. You’d worked yourself into a restless, irritable tizzy, so you decided to mosey downstairs to investigate Tommy’s state. The ribbed, white tank top belonging to the man in question fit your frame loosely, and the lightweight cotton kept you cool on nights like this. And of course, he never complained about your skimpy preference in sleep attire. You tied your hair into a floppy muddle at the top of your head so the ensuing sweat on the nape of you neck could drink in some breeze, as your bare-feet padded down the four stairs leading into the tiled kitchen. 

The hanging light above the sink which Tommy usually flicked on when he escaped the bedroom for a night cap wasn’t on, and the entire span of the lower level was pitch dark aside from the thin lines of moonlight coming thru the blinds to paint the floor.

“Tommy?” You whispered. Truthfully a bit alarmed at the bleak silence around you.

When receiving no answer, you tip-toed stealthy to the side door leading into your garage, peeping around each corner like a scared cat along the way. When you gripped the handle to pull open the door, and the yellow, dingy light of an overhanging bulb dilated your eyes contrasting the darkness, and you saw Tommy twisting a wrench somewhere on the motor of his bike, you sighed with relief.

“Hey you. I didn’t wake ya’, did I baby?” He turned at attention when the metal hinges squeaked upon your opening. Tommy sat shirtless on a scuffed stool, the wheels attached to its legs rolled him towards a toolbox to exchange out his wrench. His torso glistened in the light just so subtly, and his top lip beaded barely with sweat, which told you he must’ve escaped the bed much earlier than you discovered.

“Not at all. I just noticed you weren’t in bed, and I thought I’d come check on you.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to conceal the noticeable peak of your nipple raising through the shirt you wore. It was teetering 96 degrees, and there wasn’t a single waft of wind outside, but you knew it was simply a reaction to the sight of Tommy, basted with perspiration, and smudged with motor grease. As he clanged a hammer onto some unknown piece of the motorcycle, the muscles of his back crawled and stretched beneath his suntanned skin, and the heat at your center could make this July night in Pittsburgh seem like the North Pole.

“Yeah, I uh… I couldn’t sleep. I was tossin’ and fuckin’ turnin’, so I came on out here so you could rest.”

You felt proud, and at ease that he’d chose to tinker with his motorized toy, rather than turn straight to the liquor as an outlet. The dreams, and the panic had become less present since you’d moved in permanently, and you thought maybe there was a sunny horizon in the near future. Peace for Tommy, and less worry for you.

“I know the feeling. That A/C is nice and all, but on a night this hot, nothing really keeps you comfortable enough to rest really. Whatcha workin’ on?” You inquired, lazily approaching to look in on his little project. Before you reached Tommy, you sidetracked to his work bench in the corner, clenching onto a stained, but clean rag to wipe down his dripping neck. When you patted his back, and blew cool, airy breaths under the hair that rested on his ears, Tommy huskily sighed and leaned further into your feather-like feminine touch.

“Nothin’ you’d be interested in. Just tryin’ t’ distract myself. Idle hands, y’know?”

He reached backward to clench your hand from where it rested on his hard shoulder and pulled it closer to his mouth where he could kiss your soft palm. His always moistened lips lingered, and you ran your fingers through his disheveled, musky-scented hair to relish furthermore into his touch.

“Seems like I got anotha little distract that needs my attention though, hm?”

He slothfully laid his head back to rest on your standing form behind him, and the crown of it settled perfectly between your barely shielded breasts. Tommy turned his cheek into you, nuzzling into your pert, pink bud. He remained planted in the mobile seat, but suddenly decided to roll the wheels around, circling a 180 to face you.

Your fitful, whimpering squeaks of approval made him grin callously, and he continued his works to have you panting and damp like a shameless nymph. There was nothing Tommy didn’t put his whole mind to when he wanted it, and making sure your screams were louder than the time before, was no exception.

You sat willfully onto his open lap, straddling and grinding heartily on the pulsing member inside his flattering track shorts, eliciting Tommy’s strong hands to claw at the teasing, cheeky exposure from under the hem of your nightshirt.

“Did this hot little pussy wake up lookin’ for me, huh? Had to come ‘n find me so I could help her sleep? Is that it, baby?” A thumb ghosted between your legs so he could damped it with your wetness before sliding in between his own lips.

You hadn’t come in search of a night cap in the shape of Tommy Conlon, but judging by the drenched crotch of his shorts below you, it was something you needed and didn’t know it until now.

“T…. Tommy. Wait…” you words barely resembled your own voice as you attempted to briefly protest. “The door. We should close the garage door, Tommy.”

Doing polar opposite of your request, the seething man boldly scrunched both fists around the neckline of your white tank and ripped it brazenly in half to discard onto the mud-stained, dirty floor of the garage. Leaving you fully exposed, and speechless.

“Let ‘em see. Once you go yelpin’ and beggin’, they’re gonna have a good idea what’s goin’ on anyway, baby.”

Your nails were digging into his pecs, and you tensed your legs tighter about his waist as Tommy stood from the stool to place your naked cheeks on the padded seat of his iron horse. Tools, and gas cans clanged and toppled to the floor as he roughly kicked off his clothing, kissing you with sensual, and raunchy purpose as he did so. You were already substantially aching, and prepared to take him in, but even still Tommy squatted to greet your southern lips with his tongue.

He gently tasted you, lapping from your entrance, up toward the bundle of nerves between the apex of your thighs. One hand squeezed all too tightly in his now knotted hair, and the other gripped around one handlebar of the bike you writhed atop of. The two-wheels, and kickstand didn’t seem too comfortably stable in your opinion, but you trusted Tommy always in his spontaneous sexual tendencies. The pair of you may wind up crashing on the concrete below if he thrusted too hard, or your legs quaked too swiftly, but he’d still have you blushing with release regardless.

“Taste me, Tommy.”

His sucked, and spit, and nipped with his teeth cautiously at your center, moaning satisfactory curses about how you always tasted so sweet. Never in your life, could you ever imagine a man who enjoyed the oral pleasuring of his mate as yearningly as Tommy did. Your closest friends pouted, and resentfully congratulated you for finding a man as such.

“I’m gonna lose it if I don’t get inside you, Y/N.” A concoction of your own arousal, and Tommy’s saliva dribbled down his chin, and he greedily caught the liquid with is tongue upon standing to line himself up with you. You could see in his lustful, now black appearing eyes that he was a glutton for your flavor.

The deeper he slid in, the higher your orgasmic daydreams took you. You were full to the hilt, and nearly to the throat as his eager tongue explored your mouth upon a hard, knee-quaking kiss. Crickets sang outside sporadically, unbothered by the bursting connection of skin on skin echoing from inside the garage where Tommy was currently kneading your breast with his fight-scarred hands. The jet-black motorcycle rocked with his thrusts, but he held you dutifully in place, keeping his balance to ride you out to complete, blissful release.

He tried to politely, and teasingly shush your amplified pleads for more by placing his index finger over your gaped lips, but it was utterly ineffective. Not that he indeed wanted you to hush though. He got harder, and crazy with desire the louder your pitch rang out, and the more he heard his name choke from your raspy throat.

“Tommy! Yes, Tommy. Ahh, more!”

You felt every ridge and ripple as he pulled himself from your insides, then ruthlessly, and enjoyably a bit painfully drove in again. His hand massaged and trailed down the stretch of your silky throat, and his chewed his lips watching you take every steel inch of him.

Unexpectedly, just as your peak of release danced upon your tongue, a jolting rumble of thunder pulsed over your ears, following a crack of erratic heat lightening. One by one, an abstract pattering of rain drops began to peg the rooftop, bringing forth a gust of lukewarm, thunderstorm breeze. Tommy’s arms broke out into goosebumps as he watched your hair blow loose with the wind, and your insides clenched and pulsated around him.

“Drown me, baby. C’mon… can you come for me?”

The filthy demand shoved you dangerously towards the cliff of orgasm, and you whimpered airily watching his taut abs flex as his own breaths hitched and hiccupped. His brows didn’t furrow in bliss when in the cage. And a good workout didn’t make him shiver and come unwound like this. No, it was only you who could claim the title of vicious Tommy Conlon’s one and only weakness.

Your hand sought blindly a reliable, unwavering surface to grip onto as you prepared for the storm raging outside, and the one rising forth from your insides. Looking solely and focused into your boyfriends’ mysterious blue eyes, you began to smile and shake your head wildly signifying he was yet again about to render you spent and fulfilled. Tommy tilted his head and patiently waited for his queue that you had indeed finished, and he had to green light to spill inside of you.

“Lookit that. The whole city owes us a ‘thank you’ for coolin’ it down out here. We worked up a damn thunderstorm out there, baby.” Tommy joked as he easily slid your tiny, manicured feet on the ground underneath you, wiping the outpour of sweat from his face with his tattooed forearm.

Inside your mind, you compiled a list of secluded locations, and parks he could take you on the bike tomorrow morning once the rain had moved out. After that exchange, you suddenly desired nothing more than to bounce harshly on the bare lap of Tommy, gripping and scratching at that perfectly weathered and beaten leather jacket he always wore.

You strained on tiptoes to kiss his puffy lips before nervously darting towards to house, now afraid to be seen by the neighbors since the overflow of adrenaline and spontaneity had worn off. Tommy flipped off the garage light, and chased you down the hall towards the bathroom, pinching at the most ticklish corners of your body along the way.

“Good idea. I think you need a cold shower. Oh, ‘n if I ain’t in bed when you’re done, please feel free to come and find me again.”

TAGS: @torialeysha @ea91935

[lostinfantasies38]

Sun Touched - Chapter 2 The Tower of Fuck All

Dragon Age Origins

Rating: Explicit for violence and language

Sirra Brosca/Alistair Theirin 

They returned to the same part of the ruins where she met Alistair earlier, but they moved further back to the overhanging tower that would send someone tumbling into the canyon, if they happened to slip over the edge. Everyone was somber: subdued, anxious, ready for it to be over, yet dreading it at the same time. She had subtly observed Alistair on the way over and his mood was very telling. Sirra steeled herself – she may be a duster, but she wasn’t a coward.

Her time on the surface hadn’t been anything like she’d imagined. She knew nothing about the customs or the people or even the animals. Duncan made sure on their journey to Ostagar that they didn’t encounter any hostile wildlife, so the wolves earlier were a complete surprise. Their viciousness reminded her of stories of the tezpadam – deepstalkers – in the Deep Roads, but she had never actually fought off a pack of hungry predators before. Not counting the Carta thugs she and Leske escaped from after the cock-up in the Provings. But they were back-stabbing lackeys and deserved to die slow for working for that bastard. Too bad she’d been on a timeline and had to kill them quick.

Yet, there was something exhilarating about being topside. None of the humans gave a damn about her caste or lack thereof. When she asked Duncan about it, he explained that humans might have racist sentiments, but they did not have a caste system. It dawned on Sirra then that she could start over. She was free to live a life without worrying that she would be told to “know her place” and keep her head in the dust where she belonged. Sirra smirked to herself when she recalled the uproar she caused in the Provings; besting all the warriors of the Warrior Caste easily like she was one of them. If she could upset centuries of tradition underground, just imagine what she could do up here…well, as soon as she stopped getting nauseous from staring at the sky for too long.

Even though she missed the security of a ceiling, Sirra did love the sunlight. It stung her eyes after a lifetime underground, but Duncan assured her that would pass with time. Even so, she loved the way the light changed colors during the day and played through the leaves on the trees, seeming to dance on the ground. The Warden-Commander had patiently explained the flora to her on their two-week journey to Ostagar from Orzammar. And with stone being in short supply on the surface she had taken to occasionally touching a tree, sensing the strength and rigidity in them during times of insecurity. She may be casteless – doomed to live and die without honor or returning to the Stone, but on the surface, trees didn’t reject her and she took some solace in that. Maybe it was stupid, but it made her feel like she belonged topside. Or maybe she was simply sun-touched and her brains were addled by exposure.

It was full dark when Duncan approached them, interrupting the squabbling between Daveth and Jory that she had tuned out. He was holding a large goblet and Sirra’s blood ran cold as pieces began to fall into place. She could see that the men hadn’t caught on yet. Flicking her gaze to Alistair, the warrior quickly turned his head to avoid her pointed stare.

 Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, nug shit!

The Warden-Commander explained to the men what she had already figured out and Sirra clamped her mouth shut, willing herself to keep the lunch she ate hours ago down. She didn’t want to find out if the stew was just as disgusting coming back up as it had been going down. Her ears pricked up when Duncan informed them that drinking darkspawn blood could either kill them or leave them “forever changed” – whatever that meant.

Sirra was a dwarf. She’d heard stories of men exiled to the Deep Roads and left for dead, only to be discovered years later by Lord So-and-So on an expedition as tainted, twisted versions that could never be returned to the Stone. It was the closest thing to a dwarven nightmare that the castes could imagine. Sirra had never put much stock in the stories, mainly because she was casteless, but she knew that the other castes could not imagine a worse fate than being denied the Stone’s embrace when they died.

Yet, now she was here, about to drink darkspawn blood and either die like a worthless duster or prove the shits in Orzammar wrong again. She was determined to do the latter.

Sirra was tempted to ask for the goblet first after Alistair’s melancholic Grey Warden intonation, but Duncan passed the chalice to Daveth first. She held her breath anxiously when her fellow rogue took a big gulp. He shoved the cup back to Duncan with a grimace, forcing himself to swallow and blinked back tears. Within seconds, his hands flew to his throat scratching with his blunted nails down his neck, gasping for air until he fell to his knees and keeled over. Sirra stepped back in horror, covering her mouth with a shaky hand. Alistair stood against the wall almost folded in on himself wearing a pained expression, still refusing to look at her. Her blood ran from cold to ice instantly.

Ser Jory was no better, scrambling to get away from the body of their short-lived companion, until he found himself backed against the wall. He argued with Duncan and refused to partake of the ritual. Sirra squeaked in spite of herself when Duncan unsheathed his sword and solemnly declared, “There is no turning back.”

Jory tried to fight him off, but Duncan was faster with his longsword than the knight was with his two-handed one, and ran the younger man through. Ser Jory’s blood pooled quickly on the stone heading straight for her boots from his slumped corpse on the ground and she leapt out of the way, only to come face to face with the stern glare of the Warden-Commander.

Thrusting the goblet at her, she tried to ignore the bright red stains on his normally immaculate white armor. Flicking her eyes to Alistair, he finally met her gaze and she saw the hope that swirled in his amber eyes that she would be the one to see it through. Steeling herself again, Sirra calmed her trembling hands to take a sip of the foul concoction without getting it all over herself. Her eyes burned with tears as the blood scalded her mouth and left a blazing trail of molten lava down her throat and dropped into her gut like a hot stone. She could feel the flames licking through her veins, burning away what was there and replacing it with something darker. It traveled to her heart and seared her like a brand, then it pumped the new substance from her heart to the rest of her body. Darkness descended as the fire stormed the gates to her brain and flashes of darkspawn raced through her mind.

Sirra screamed.

*~*

When she jerked awake, she had no way of knowing how much time had passed. Sirra only knew that her head felt like it was going to explode and there were lingering visions of what might be an urtok – a dragon. Duncan and Alistair were both leaning over her, concern etched on their faces as Alistair helped her stand. Their lips moved, but she was having a hard time making connections and Duncan merely patted her on the shoulder in understanding. After a little more time on her feet clinging to a nearby pillar, she felt strong enough to walk around and the movement cleared the shadows that still clung to her mind.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, halting in surprise almost immediately. Her voice was hoarse and jagged, more so than usual. She clasped her throat, resisting the urge to clear it, somehow knowing it wouldn’t help. Duncan smiled gently and shook his head.

“It’s not permanent. The blood always burns the vocal cords. In a couple of days, your voice will return to normal or you can drink a healing potion, if you don’t want to wait.” Glancing back at her pack, Alistair beat her to it and passed her a red potion bottle with an understanding smile. Yanking the cork out of the bottle she chugged it and sighed happily as it went to work healing her raw voice.

“Thank you,” she murmured to both of them when she felt it was safe to speak. They nodded and Duncan asked her again how she was feeling. “I’m…fine now.” Sirra wasn’t able to meet his gaze, aware he knew she was lying and too proud to admit that while she was trapped between life and death she had done nothing, except scream in her mind as the change took place. The older man sighed heavily, his eyes full of pity and he looked like he wanted to say something, but he curbed his tongue with a weary shake of his head.

Alistair broke the weighty silence and passed her a pendant on a leather cord full of blood from the Joining chalice and explained that it was worn in remembrance of those who didn’t make it through. He’d obviously wrapped the wire attaching the pendant to the cord himself – she could see the indents in his forefingers and thumbs from bending it repeatedly to make sure the pendant and its contents were secure. With a teary nod at the heartbroken expression on his chiseled features, she clutched the necklace to her chest and listened to Duncan explain that she was wanted at a strategy meeting with the King. With a sorrowful smile, Duncan passed her a new set of leathers to replace her damaged ones before he took his leave.

Sirra grabbed Alistair by the wrist when he turned to go and she swallowed hard. “I want to wear it, but I don’t trust my hands to put it on right now.” Raising her hand, Sirra showed him how unsteady she remained after the events of the night and he nodded as she passed him the cord. He towered over her when he was this close, her head barely coming up to the center of his broad chest, but his height didn’t put her on edge like some humans. Gingerly he laid the pendant in the hollow of her throat, shifted her braid over her shoulder, and tied the leather in a tight knot at the nape of her neck.

He didn’t touch her, but he lingered in his position behind her and whispered solemnly. “They will be remembered, Sirra. I-I am glad you made it through. You had us both worried that…well, just goes to show I shouldn’t doubt you.” Alistair chuckled mirthlessly in the dark and she turned around to peer up at him curiously. His warm hazel eyes were captivating and lit within with something she couldn’t put her finger on, but it buoyed her nonetheless.

The taller man seemed unnerved by her scrutiny, no doubt bewildered by her ability to see in the dark, another feature Duncan informed her that humans did not possess. Sirra read every minute facial tick for signs of deceit and couldn’t find it. Surprising, she mused. Relenting at last, Sirra let her mouth relax into a light smile. “Thanks. I’m not used to people having positive things to say about me.”

Alistair scoffed, his eyes widening. “You-you’re serious? I just watched you take down at least fifty darkspawn and wild animals today. In my books, that qualifies as a massive accomplishment and definitely deserving of recognition.”

Sirra shrugged and hoped the shadows hid the flush on her pale cheeks. Praise was indeed rare, but sincerity was rarer still. Where she came from, praise was only given when someone wanted something in return, usually paid in money or sex and she wasn’t sure she’d ever been on the receiving end of genuine sincerity. She didn’t even know how to respond to that. What did you say to people when they were being honest and kind without hope of reward? When they were simply nice for the sake of being nice?

“Alistair, I-I –“

The warrior smiled softly, patting her shoulder awkwardly as he skirted around her smaller frame with a reminder that the King awaited her presence. Sirra nodded dumbly and waited for him to leave the tower before quickly changing and dashing down to the strategy meeting. Duncan flashed her a minute smile at her arrival and she gave him a clipped nod as she focused on the battle plans.

King Cailan hailed her and congratulated Sirra heartily on joining the Grey Wardens, which she had the presence of mind to only acknowledge with a short bow, catching Duncan’s nod of approval beside her. Sirra was surprised when the king requested that she and Alistair be the ones to light the signal fire. Yet again, she inclined her head at the leader of the human lords and left the meeting with Duncan who waved Alistair over from the far end of the camp. The young man clapped a fellow soldier on the back with a warm laugh and the sound of it caught Sirra off-guard. It was too bright and comforting to fit in with the oppressive darkness that held the promise of rain for the coming battle. More than that though, she was surprised by how it wrapped around her like a blanket and lifted her lagging spirit.  

 Bleeding Ancestors.

The warrior stood on her left as Duncan filled them in on the plan for the fight and Sirra was more aware of him than she’d been before. She tried vainly to ignore the heat that radiated off his larger body and the dulcet tone of his voice as he argued with Duncan. Alistair was not happy with their orders, but he grudgingly accepted them, like a good soldier. Unlike them, however, he couldn’t resist a teasing jibe about wearing a dress if the King asked him to dance and Sirra couldn’t help snorting at the absurd mental image.

“I think I’d like to see that.” Sirra smirked at her fellow Warden, raking her eyes down his body and trying to visualize him in a gown. Alistair grinned broadly and her stomach flip flopped at the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, knowing she’d been caught ogling him.

“For you…maybe. But it has to be a pretty dress,” the warrior teased. Duncan groaned, but Sirra was outright chortling now and Alistair chuckled lightly beside her.

Duncan rubbed a hand wearily across his forehead. “Head to the Tower of Ishal. Alistair will know what kind of signal to watch for.”

Having laughed away some of their battle nerves, Alistair turned serious again. “Duncan! May the Maker watch over you.”

Their Commander looked at them, almost sadly, for a moment before he replied. “May He watch over us all.” His eyes turned to her. “And may the Stone guard you, Sister.” Sirra’s eyes widened in surprise and she inclined her head, too stunned to answer. She was casteless and he knew it, but he still treated her with respect and afforded her the traditional words of honor for those with a place in the Stone.

Finding her tongue at last, Sirra gave him a traditional farewell. “Atrast tunsha, Duncan.” His lips curved into a smile then, which she returned as they all separated to their places. His on the front lines – theirs as supporting roles in the battle. She followed Alistair to the bridge that she crossed into the ruins earlier that day and he pointed out their destination, yelling over the sound of the catapults that they needed to reach it quickly.

Sirra didn’t need to be told twice. She ran across the bridge as fast as her short legs would allow, barely reaching the other side when a fiery projectile from the enemy plowed into the bridge and killed a couple of sappers where she had been standing mere seconds ago. Alistair steered her gently away from the carnage, his face twisted painfully in an expression that surely mirrored her own.

A Circle mage and a solider almost bowled them over, explaining that darkspawn claimed the tower, having dug through the lower levels. Sirra shared an uneasy glance with the warrior and they grabbed their weapons simultaneously, recruiting the mage and the soldier to join them in retaking the tower so they could fulfil their duty. The mage enchanted their weapons with fire and the flames warmed her hands in the freezing rain allowing Sirra to keep a firm grip on her daggers. She was thankful for the heat and the additional damage it did to their foes as they fought through a couple bands of darkspawn before they even reached the base of the tower.

She wasn’t adept at feeling them in her mind yet, but there was a sliminess thrumming steadily in the back of her mind whenever they were near. When the shrieks erupted from stealth at the doors of the tower, Sirra shouted and leapt back, letting a throwing knife fly, not even bothering to aim in her terror.

“Sorry! Damn, I forgot you can’t tell them apart yet,” Alistair yelled over the sound of his shield slamming into one of lanky creatures.

“’S okay!” Sirra shot back while burying her daggers to the hilt in the back of one preparing to rake the mage with its jagged claws. Whirling, twirling, sidestepping her way through the new darkspawn, Sirra covered the more vulnerable party members, knowing that Alistair could hold his own. Until a hurlock alpha charged towards him with its massive greataxe raised, heading directly for the warrior’s unprotected flank.

Growling in anger, Sirra tossed a shock bomb, temporarily blinding the hurlock and ending his single-minded charge at her fellow Warden. Alistair turned around as his foe fell under his blade and focused his attention on the hurlock that was denied victory. Ganging up on the alpha, Sirra slid along the wet stones and sliced up from the darkspawn’s Achilles heel into its calf. With a roar it collapsed on the ground and Alistair’s sword whistled through the air, cleanly removing the head from its shoulders and sending it flying.

They were saturated in black blood. The rain rolled the congealing blobs in between the seams of their armor, but neither of them cared. Panting heavily, Alistair froze and stared at her still on her knees next to the hurlock corpse and she returned his frank gaze with her own. She should not feel this strongly about a random human she met that very day. Normally, she wouldn’t, but today was turning out to be anything but normal. Maybe she was losing her damn mind now that she was topside. But she knew that wasn’t true – it was him.

Sirra may be a dwarf, but she wasn’t blind. Alistair was incredibly handsome with features that were so perfect they could have been carved by the finest stoneworkers in Orzammar. Long, noble nose, strong jaw dusted with stubble, hard panels of pure muscle making up his torso and arms that she had been all too aware of when he’d collapsed earlier. And Ancestors, he was tall! Taller than Duncan, taller than most of the men in the camp, and for some reason that was incredibly attractive. Even more than his Stone-hewn good looks though, was the kindness that precipitated his every action and the surprising gentleness in a man so large. Not to mention his humor and penchant for teasing. She swallowed hard as his golden eyes bored into her.

Breaking their staring contest, she tried to stand, but the slick flagstones kept her from getting purchase and she was forced to accept his arm to regain her footing. When she continued to slip even then, Alistair slid his arms under her armpits and easily lifted her out of the slippery goo she’d been trapped in and deposited her carefully a few feet away.

Once back on her feet, Sirra dashed up the ramp and pushed the heavy wooden door of the tower open, hoping the gloom would hide the furious blush that stained her cheeks. The men followed her silently, Alistair taking up the rear, and she tried to concentrate on what they were doing. They crept slowly around the curve of the room, but she raised her fist and indicated with hand signals that there was a trap ahead. An obvious sheen covered the floor and Sirra saw the wire in the flickering torch light that would ignite the barrels and set the grease on fire. Alistair asked the mage a question that she couldn’t hear and the mage nodded with a small smile. Sneaking a little closer, the mage cast a layer of ice over the grease and Sirra carefully disarmed the trap, so the four of them could finally rush the unsuspecting darkspawn.

“Emissary!”

“I got him,” yelled Alistair and Sirra focused her attention on the archers. They moved quickly through the lower level, even cutting down the rather surprising gang of darkspawn by the ballistae with ease. Sirra realized that she and Alistair were becoming more in tune with each other’s fighting styles while the mage with his fireballs was a welcome addition for taking out large groups.

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair panted when they reached the second level. “What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the horde?”

Sirra shook her head and hissed, “Weren’t you complaining that you wouldn’t get to fight?” He chuckled at her teasing.

“You’re right, there is a silver lining to this after all. But don’t forget we need to reach the beacon.”

She lifted two fingers to her temple and flicked them in silent salute. He smiled even as he jerked his chin toward the next room and flashed his hand twice to indicate the number of spawn ahead of them: ten. Sirra nodded at they crept as silently as possible to maintain the level of surprise.

Five spawn were in the main room lined with cages holding back the war hounds Alistair told her about. He pulled a lever in the room that opened all the cages and she involuntarily shrank back, remembering her encounter with the wolves and still not a hundred percent sure of these ‘hounds.’ But she needn’t have worried. The dogs headed straight for the darkspawn, knocking them over and shredding them with claws and teeth, while the humans stabbed and burned their way through the rooms in the hallway, flushing out the remaining darkspawn.

Another room at the end of the hall held three more guarding the staircase. Once dead, they climbed to the third level and repeated their annihilation of the disgusting creatures, clearing the floor. They reached the next staircase and Sirra stopped to catch her breath.

“For the love of all the nugs! Why do humans insist on climbing into the sky? Please, tell me this is the last floor?” The shorter woman wheezed from her bent position while kneading her fingers in her quivering thighs.

Alistair shrugged guiltily and sucked in a deep lungful of air. “Andraste, I hope so. Come on, let’s find out and light the beacon. I’m sure we missed the signal.”

They barreled in, but Alistair’s arm grabbed her shoulder almost instantly and reeled her back a few steps, his hazel eyes wide as saucers. Sirra followed his gaze and threw a hand over her mouth to swallow the squeak that almost spilled out at the sight of an ogre sitting on his haunches. It was eating…something. Human or darkspawn, she couldn’t say, but she didn’t really want to know, either.

The room was completely circular and there was zero cover. The beacon was just behind the giant darkspawn. There was no hope for it – they would have to fight him in order to achieve their goal. Alistair squeezed her shoulder quickly before he hefted his shield with a dark glint in his eyes. At the last minute, he bent down and breathed in her ear, “May the Stone guard you, Sirra.” She jerked at him, mouth agape. What was it with humans surprising the shit out of her today?

Gathering her scattered thoughts, she managed to stammer quietly, “May the Maker watch over you, Alistair.” Sirra had heard the phrase many times already during her two-week journey with Duncan to Ostagar. Yet to see the way his amber eyes shone like polished bronze when she repeated it flawlessly, was the first time she was grateful she’d been paying attention to human pleasantries.

Ducking into stealth, Sirra crept close to the ogre, trying to avoid the slick blood and crunching the bone fragments that littered the floor. She hoped to land at least one solid hit before it realized it was not alone. It was not to be. Something caught its attention and it whirled angrily on the three men huddled near the stairs. She tried to follow after it, but it moved too quickly with its massive legs and she watched helplessly as it raked its meaty hands along the ground, sending them careening in opposite directions.

“NO!”

Sirra screamed when Alistair landed hard, his head snapping up and cracking back down on the hard stone, leaving him splayed out like a broken doll halfway across the tower. Her stomach fell like a boulder to her feet; a repeat of the dread that descended on her when he collapsed hours ago with blood spewing over his lovely lips. The ogre turned when she yelled and charged her next, but she dove to the side avoiding him. A movement by the stairs revealed the Circle mage standing on shaky legs and attempting to sneak through the shadows to Alistair’s side. His cool blue gaze met her determined one and she nodded imperceptibly.

“Well, a duster’s gotta die sometime. Might as well be today,” Sirra muttered.

Reaching into her pouch on her belt, she pulled out a fire grenade and threw it directly in the beast’s face. It roared in anger, rubbing a giant hand against an eye, she smirked to see that it was damaged. Of course, that only pissed it off more. Its good eye zeroed in on her and it slammed the ground with its fists, throwing her off balance and almost causing her to lose her grip on her blades, but she ducked into a roll to move out of range of its hands. It bellowed angrily when she stood and yanked a section of the ruined stone floor to hurl it at her.

Sirra’s eye widened and she disappeared in a cloud with half formed prayers to any ancestors that might listen for help, as a casteless girl tried to fight an ogre on the surface with only two daggers and her wits. The creature tossed the stone easily, the force shaking the entire floor and knocking her teeth together with a clack. She managed to sneak behind it, but she had to act fast – its eye had landed on the mage and Alistair. She couldn’t spare more than a glance to reassure herself that her fellow Warden was alive before she launched herself from the shadows to slam her blades deep in the ogre’s sides, twisting them with a snarl for extra damage.

It reached for her, furiously trying to snatch her in its massive grip and crush her like a Deep Roads beetle. Using her daggers as climbing holds, Sirra slowly crawled up the middle of its back, just out of its reach; taking pleasure with each bite of her honed weapons into its thick skin, finding courage in its screams of rage. If she could just get to its neck, Sirra planned to rip open its jugular and send the Blighted creature back to the Void where it belonged. She kept up with her ascent, ignoring her exhausted arms and the burn in her lungs from the exertion.    

“Sirra! Get down – I’m going in!”

Thank you, Ancestors, she thought and her eyelids fluttering shut for an instant in gratitude. With the last of her strength, Sirra made sure the hold on her daggers was secure and yanked them out with an upward swipe when she backflipped off the ogre and rolled halfway across the floor. Glancing up from her position on the ground, time seemed to slow as she beheld the warrior in amazement. Alistair flew through the air with a snarl of pure hatred, sword arm cocked and shield back, while the ogre roared at the new opponent with streams of blood coating its backside.

The strike was true, burying his sword deep in its neck and the momentum of the large human sent the ogre to the ground in its weakened state. Alistair didn’t lose his hold on his weapon, locking his legs around the creature’s neck to ride out the fall with ease. Alistair ripped out the blade, sending a rush of blood across the stone and slammed it to the hilt through the ogre’s open maw and twisted the blade until its arms stopped moving. With a satisfied grunt, he yanked out his sword from the mangled mess of the darkspawn’s head and jumped nimbly off the massive carcass.

Sirra managed to push herself up on her knees and breathed slowly as blood returned to her arms in a rush of pins and needles. Alistair sank to the ground in front of her and lifted her head, his mouth moving with questions, but her fuzzy brain was unable to process anything besides the fact that they were miraculously alive. Her companion paused his torrent of words; instead, he gripped her by the shoulders and squeezed – reassuring and strong, like the Stone. Sirra smiled as she stared into the gore smeared face of the crazy human who took down an ogre and chuckled. His eyes widened, his large hands fluttered across her form again, checking for hidden wounds or blood loss that would explain her hysterics. Which only made her laugh harder until tears of relief and mirth mingled with the thick layer of blood coating her features.

“You…you…” Sirra wheezed through her laughter, her hands tight on his forearms for support as she struggled to speak through her chortling. “You killed an ogre! It was…ogre-kill!” Alistair’s brow furrowed slightly and she breathed deeply to be understood. “Like overkill, except it was really ogre-kill!”

The dwarven woman crowed as all of the stress of the night leeched from her body. Alistair laughed softly, gradually increasing in strength along with hers until they were clinging desperately to each other, laughing and crying through the myriad of emotions that crashed over them. The tension finally shaken from their bodies, Alistair pulled Sirra to her feet and waved the mage over to light the beacon while he pulled a couple of rags from his pack so they could remove the evidence of battle from their faces. Now, they just had to wait for the battle to end. Afterwards, she planned to meet the other Wardens and maybe get something better to eat than that stew she had earlier.

[ronaldbosieyiii]

Tiny House: Part Two

Things I Used:

IsoTunes Bluetooth Hearing Protection

Circular Saw

Framing Nailer

Custom Tool Belt

Slap Stapler

In my previous video I covered the building process of a Tiny House up to the point of applying house wrap. Check the description if you’d like to watch the first part and get caught up. In this video I’m picking up right where I left off. 

As I mentioned in the last video, we skinned two walls with siding before standing them up but didn’t skin the other two because we were worried about taking the chance of placing the siding without the walls next to each other, as these two pieces should mate up flush. So we started with attaching siding to these two bare sides. 

If you look at the foundation, you’ll notice that we attached some 2x material temporarily to give us a lip to set the siding on and make attaching it easier and quicker. Also, it’s worth noting that this siding is overhanging the foundation by about an inch and this is so when it rains the water will run off to the ground instead of having access to the bottom plate of the wall. 

We wrapped around to the front and repeated, by first placing the 2x material to the foundation then setting the material in place to be attached. However, you with building experience probably already caught our mistake��..see the windows need to be installed before the siding so that the window flanges are behind the siding. We knew this but simply got caught up working and moving, and forgot. Unfortunately that meant we had to take down the siding we just put up, pound the nails out, then set them aside. 

To install the window we first cut the house wrap. This is similar to the big double door in the previous video but on windows you cut in a capital I, slicing horizontal along the top and bottom then a vertical slice in the middle. You can wrap the side excess around and staple it to the inside of the window framing but then for the top you cut two diagonals from each corner to create a flap. I’ll show you why in just a few seconds. 

Next was to prep the windows. Anne salvaged these windows from somebody throwing them away so we first did a little bit of cleaning then placed a heavy line of Titebond Weather Master Ultimate Sealant along the left, top, and right flange. You want to have a continuous bead here but you want to leave the bottom clean so that if water does find a way in, it has a way to run out. 

We then placed a few wedges on the window sill then being careful not to get sealant all over our hands, we placed the window inside the opening and ontop of the wedges. 

On the inside, Anne centered the window in the frame, then on the outside I leveled it up. Once everything looked as it should, we attached it with a few nails through the flange then used tape to seal off first the left then the right side. Now you can see where that flap we created earlier comes into play, it’s folded down and over the top flange of the window then the tape is applied. This is so if any moisture does get behind the siding, it will be guided to stay on top of the window and house wrap instead of behind it.

Alrighty, now that we corrected that, we once again applied the siding. We still used the temporary blocks on the foundation to make it easier, but this time we had to cut out for the windows before placing the sheets up. To do this we would grab some measurements, make the majority of the cut using a circular saw, then finish off the corners with a reciprocating saw. 

We would set it in place then tack it with a few nails then while I was finishing the nailing, Anne would be making the cut out for the next sheet. Getting into a system, this step goes quickly, you just want to make sure to pay attention to the tongue and groove orientation as you are making yours cuts so that the sheets line up properly to each other. It’s really easy to get things flipped so just a step you want to take the time to double check things on. 

Moving around to the front we repeated the steps for the house wrap and installing the window but once we got the window to a stage where one person could handle it, we took measurements for the cut outs so Anne could be working on the siding while I finished the window. 

Working in this manner is how we were able to complete so much in just a few short days. Where we would divide up tasks so that as one of us finished up something, the other would be starting/prepping the next thing.

Up next was starting on the roof, as you saw from the finished build the tiny house has a lean to style roof with just a single pitch. To create this, we started building what I know to be called a pony wall. Where we build up a small wall in the front that the rafters will rest on but the backs will rest against the double top plate. We built this pony wall using all the cut offs from framing the building, as all the pieces needed are short little guys. I not only cut the pieces to length but also cut the roof pitch angle on the tops.

Since the rafters will be placed 16 on center, these are also placed on 16 centers. Pulling a tape across the top plate in order to mark their location first, then attaching them with the nailer.

Once making it to the end and getting all the cripples attached, we placed a single 2×4 across them all and attached it. This will create a solid resting place for the rafters in the next step.

Next up was to cut all the rafters, which is made from 2×6 material. The backs of the rafters will have a birds mouth cut in so it sit down onto the top plate. This cut is made with a circular saw but then finished off with a reciprocating saw. 

The front of the rafters will have a seat cut but it is also made with a circular saw for the majority of the cuts then finished off with a recip saw.

Anne and I worked out the system where we first made one board to act as the template for the rest. After testing this template we used it to trace the cuts needed onto all the other rafters. We are working with limited space as we only have the door way to utilized as a workbench, so instead of flip flopping around to make all the cuts needed, I would make the long seat cut with my saw, pass the board to her and she make the opposing cut with her saw then finish it off with the recip saw. This allowed us to work quickly but not be in each others way. 

Now to attach the rafters. To make things go quick we first marked off the 16” layout on the back top plate as well as that pony wall top plate. This way we could get a rafter in place and very quickly see where it needed to be aligned in the front and back then attach it with the nailer. 

You’ll see that instead of relying solely on the back birds mouth cut to line up these rafters, I’m pulling a measurement on each one from the front and using that measurement/mark to line up to the front top plate. I didn’t know if this was really needed, but I can tell you it worked like a champ as when we went to attach the sub facia, it was incredibly straight and in line.

Just a side note: By placing the rafters in line with these cripples, then also in line with the studs of the wall below, it just gives the whole structure a little more integrity.

We repeated the process all the way down. Another system tip to work quickly is after I got my end stuck, I would pass the nailer to Anne, but while she was working on sticking her end I would be grabbing the next rafter and setting it in place. It’s little things like this that combine into a lot of time saved at the end 

Next up we added a few cripples to both of the side walls then starting attaching the sub facia. We were working with just a single ladder tall enough to get to the roof so we attached a temporary block so Anne could pass up the facia, have something to set it on, and something I could pivot it on, while I aligned it to the rafters and nailed it in place. You can see I’m using my speed square to line it up to the top of the rafters. Anne would push or pull it until it lined up. 

We repeated the process along the back, and I don’t know if you can see it or not but we left an overhang on both the left and right side because up next we will be making the fly rafters. Which is what creates the roof overhang on the left and right of the building to match the front and back overhang. Anne would cut then pass all these pieces up to be attached. 

And that my friends is the bones of the roof complete. Now we just need to deck it. 

Since it’s just the two of us, getting the full sheets of OSB up to the roof was a little bit of a challenge but Anne came up with a great way to make it happen. She first laid a sheet on the tractor bucket and attached two feet on either side. We strapped that down to the bucket and used it as a platform with a shelf for the rest of the boards to be loaded onto. We very quickly unloaded then loaded the sheets from the back of the truck.

Yes, we took the time to carve a path wide enough for a truck to get to the job site because we were tired of carrying everything back there. 

Now the bucket could be lifted as high as it could go then Anne just had to rotate one enough for me to grab it then pull it the rest of the way up to the roof. 

Being resourceful is just as good as being strong. 

Anne isn’t a huge fan of roofs so I did the high work while she stayed on the ground to make all the cuts needed. I would recommend this system instead of making cuts up on the roof because the sawdust creates a very slick surface.

I started off at the back so I could create a walking surface as I worked towards the front. The first sheet was ripped down so that it landed center on a stud then the next sheet could be a full one. On the second row, we made sure to stagger the seams by one stud then continued on the same until the entire roof was decked. 

With that complete, we then started laying down the roofing paper. We started at the back because when you lay down paper, you want to overlap it so that if waters finds a way in, it won’t be able to get to the decking. 

If you start at the front, the overlapping row will look like this and water running down hill will flow right into this seam. However if you start at the back, it will flow right over the seam.

The paper comes with printed lines on it to indicate where to place the overlap, so we laid down row after row. Using a slap stapler to attach it and pulling it tight so there weren’t any wrinkles in it.

The last thing we were able to do on the roof, because we were waiting on the roofing material to be delivered was apply the drip edge. This is a quick step as you simply nail it on all four sides, using a pair of tin snips to cut the corners so it can wrap around it. 

Like I said, we were waiting on the roofing material to show up, so we moved back down to the body of the building to finish it up. First we applied house wrap to the pony wall we built earlier. You can see we left a flap of house wrap on the lower walls, and we made sure to tuck this behind the new layer then staple it at the same time.

Next we placed Z Flashing down on the lip of the siding before placing on any upper siding. This has a profile where a part will tuck behind the upper siding but then lip over the bottom siding, and this will guide water out and away from this seam instead of it being a potential spot where moisture could get in. 

After taping the top part of the Z flashing, we filled in the rest of the pony wall with siding. 

Alright at this point we only had a few more hours to go so the last thing we tackled was all the trim work. Well not all the trim work as we didn’t get to install the soffit so the top trim was left off, but everything else….the corners, the windows, and the bottom trim was cut and attached. And isn’t it funny how much of a difference trim makes on the entire look?

The last thing we did was install the door. We held off on this as long as possible because the floor of the house was our main work area. After we threw the door in, we also did the little bit of trim work around that to call it complete!

The last thing we did was install the door…which turned into a mini project because apparently I modeled the size of the reclaimed door Anne had wrong. So the opening was about a foot too large. 

It was a pretty awful feeling, but I will say that at least the hole framed was too big vs too small as too big is a much easier fix. We centered the door then filled in the sides with some extra 2x4s. It’s one beefy door frame. Then to get a really clean line to patch in a piece of siding, we set up a straight line fence and used a circular saw to rip a clean edge on both sides. This allowed us to almost seamlessly extend out the siding and cover up these 2x4s.

And honestly, even though it was embarrassing to make the mistake, it was a simple fix that can’t even be seen now that I’ve seen the building caulked and primed. I’m taking it as a lesson learned –  and I learned to measure twice and to not go into a project thinking you won’t make a mistake. Instead, go into a project with the attitude of any mistake can be worked through. Because it happens to everybody.

Stay tuned for the third part to this tiny house build. Until then, I hope y’all enjoyed this one, I hope you learned something, and I hope you’re building something of your own. See you soon.

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