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destroyedalibis · 4 months

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『 MADELYN CLINE, CIS WOMAN, SHE/HER』wait a second! isn’t that ( ARDEN REILLY ) who just walked into jack’s bar? rumor around town is that the local is approaching their ( TWENTY-SIXTH ) year in virgin river. in the meantime, you can find the ( TWENTY-SIX ) year old working as a/an ( BARTENDER ) at ( THE RETRO BARCADE ). rumor around town is that ( SHE ) has/have a reputation for being a little ( - RECKLESS ), but they make up for it by being ( + DETERMINED ). 』

ABOUT ARDEN: Don't be afraid of wanting more, just jump.

CHARACTER BASICS

FULL NAME: Arden Sage Reilly

NICKNAME(S): Ari

AGE: Twenty-Six

GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cis Woman, She/Her

FACE CLAIM: Madelyn Cline

EYE COLOR: Blue

HAIR COLOR: Blonde

HEIGHT: 5′6″

DATE OF BIRTH: March 7th, 1996

ZODIAC SIGN: Pisces

MAJOR: Music Theory

HOGWARTS HOUSE: Ravenclaw

OCCUPATION: Drummer, Bartender at The Retro Arcade

HOMETOWN: Virgin River, California

PIERCINGS: Double lobes on both ears, Stud in right side of nose

TATTOOS: Wild flower bouquet on back of upper arm, Heart stencil on left pinky finger

CHARACTER HISTORY [TW: Mentions of a Toxic Relationship, Illness, Cancer, Death, Gaslighting, & Abuse ]

Born in Virgin River, California Arden was always surrounded by music. Her father John often kept a guitar close by, finding his voice early on in Arden’s life to provide her with the musical childhood that would mold her future. It was something to pass the time after a long day, the stress from the tireless work of building and managing clients in need of a proper defense. From the time her hands were large enough to play each chord she fell in love, her mind racing until she was able to focus on the symbols displayed on the sheets in front of her. She couldn’t help but allow it to take a front seat to her studies, music became the constant in her life while her father traveled in attempts to keep the cash flow consistent and pay off her mother's medical bills. Her mother was lost at an early age due to an aggressive form of spinal cancer, one where Arden was too young to remember, most of her days were occupied by her drum set and the neighbors next door. She met a boy named Axel when she was 17 and he wanted her in his band, this is when Arden realized she enjoyed sitting behind a drum kit and controlling the rhythm more than anything. His band took off during College, providing Ari with the desire to leave their hometown and tour around the country. Things started off great, seeming like it was plucked out of a Netflix romcom with their happy ending in reach. Axel changed, the fame and groupies caused him to nitpick every performance and blame every mistake on Arden rather than except responsibility. He would gaslight Em into thinking she was the problem, yelling at her to release his frustrations instead of dealing with them another way. One day things escalated, Arden caught him backstage with a girl who’d been following a few shows of their latest tour and he backed her into a corner, punching the wall beside her head. He wanted her to believe her actions caused his and Arden was stuck choosing between her passion and her mental health. She didn’t have to think about it for long, mid tour Axel decided to leave Ari behind in the dust by ultimately deciding to replace her and remove the female representation from his band completely. He said a manager wanted a different look for the band but it didn’t take long for the blonde to put all the pieces together — his girlfriend needed to disappear so "groupies" would fall at his feet. He needed to remove all possible competition from the stage so he’d look obtainable. It disgusted Arden beyond belief and caused the abrupt end to their relationship, but she couldn’t help but blame herself for went wrong on the flight back home. She needed a change and settled back into her hometown with a new career opportunity selling drinks to individuals that wanted to pour their souls. Since tour she was hesitant to play music again, but her desires wouldn’t let her put it down altogether; she found the perfect way to maintain some creativity with choosing the music that played throughout the bar. She’s been back in Virgin River full time for officially a year, determined to overcome her anxiety and put together a band that’ll help put some memories behind her or so she hopes.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

her first: she lost her virginity to a good friend in high school, they two were close and she didn’t want her first time to be some random hookup so the pair decided to take things to another level. they remained close until arden started dating axel who slowly put a wrench between them, not allowing arden any time to speak. they drifted apart like axel wanted, this friend keeping a close eye on her wishing he could do more. he kept up with her band, proud of her for going after her dreams while on tour and then suddenly she wasn’t on the posters anymore and she was home. (open)

like a brother: the protective friend who hates axel more than she does, even to this day she doesn’t know how that’s possible. she’s there when he needs her and vice versa, they wouldn’t let anything bad to happen to one another and are around to offer a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen...the brother she didn’t know she needed. (open)

childhood neighbor: two two grew up in the trailer home side by side, arden often seeking comfort when she was home alone and quickly being welcomed by their family as an honorary member. their mother wouldn’t let arden go hungry and sit at a dinner table alone and it just became tradition. the two could vent whenever they needed and they were always just a few steps away. (open)

the lookout: the friend that sat by during arden’s relationship with axel, seeing what it did to her and now keeps their eyes peeled for anyone who catches the blonde’s eye that could potentially hurt her the same way. they mean well, but the temptation isn’t someone they approve of. (open)

the temptation: as hard as she tries to resist him, he persists with a smirk on his face, sweet words, and hot breath against her neck. she tells herself she hates him because she wouldn’t dare to let herself get close to someone like that again especially someone with a reputation for cheating. but how long can she resist that damned smile? (open)

friends with benefits: he’s around whenever she needs, no matter the time or situation. she can’t deny loving the fact that the two of them can shut off the world and push their feelings to the back of their minds. (open)

the pseudo mom: it was no secret that arden went through most of her childhood alone, her mother’s funeral being a big thing in a small town. she met arden and instantly felt a connection to her...felt responsible for her well being, the rest was history. (open)

the lost protective: looking out for her for years didn’t come easy with her dating record, still they can’t help wanting to make sure she’s alright. she does the same and they always keep in touch whether it’s with a movie night or a random text to grab pizza. she was gone for a while, traveling and doing the thing she loved most, now that she’s back she hopes they can get back to that. (open)

one night stand

bad influence

childhood best friend

close friends

#vr. intro #illness tw #death tw #parental death tw #abuse tw #gaslighting tw #cancer tw #toxic relationship tw

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muffinrecord · 2 years

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If you have a compulsive NEED to spend but don't want to spend on gacha (which is totally understandable!! Gacha preys in the worst ways, and this is from someone who had a former huge addiction and is still battling it) then might I suggest spending it on more constructive stuff? For me personally I turned to painting, commissions, and TCGs (mainly Pokemon) because TCG gives me the same rush but I can sell the 'bad' pulls. Hope this helps, even a little! (Of course no spending is best.)

I don't want to go into too much detail, but I was kind of not spending money on important things like medications in order to buy gacha pulls, so uh... I think going forward, I'm going to spend my money on things I actually need haha.

Actually, right now I'm trying to funnel my "gotta collect em all” addiction into more personal projects! I've made a huge spreadsheet with around 500+ stars to turn into characters, including southern stars which I kinda neglected in my previous spreadsheets.

I also wanna work more on my own personal art and stuff. I use to draw a lot of my ocs before getting involved in Magia Record, and I wanna get back into it!

For example, above is my oc Nicoe, the Celestial Polaris. I'd like to remake her character sheet (this is pretty old, like three or more years ago) and also make some character sheets for my other ten million ocs (only a slight exaggeration).

I'm not sure if I'll post my personal project stuff online or not though. Not sure if that's something people would actually be interested in looking at-- and also, it's kind of embarrassing and scary to share something so personal online, ya know?

Lastly though, I'd really like to make more liveblogs and stuff for MagiReco! Because the story content and characters are what drew me in the first place haha.

#Muffin Record #Ask Muffin #My OCs

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norn-knot · 1 year

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hey! since just in case my character sheet may or may not work on mobile (I’ve tested it but it still doesn’t seem to work) I’ll be making a master list of my characters!

Hey! Here’s a list of all my characters, which I’ll be tagging as such!

Ivar Alrekkin | #ivar

He/Him, 35 y.o. A norn engineer who is the life of the party! Handsome with a clever mind to boot, he makes his business in building weapons, armor, and selling stuff mildly illegally. In a devoted relationship with a friend’s OC!

Minerva Alrekkin | #minerva

She/Her, 42 y.o. Sister to Ivar, and guild leader seeking to make her legend. After a tragic accident she is left with several prosthetics that her brother tends to and upgrades.

Yunalia Sol | #yunalia

She/Her/It, ??? y.o. A sylvari woman whose pod ended up in Cantha just before the isolation period, so she’s old as heck. Co-owner of Café Enchanted, she handles the drinks and protects her family and their secrets diligently.

Mi Yong Sol | #mi yong

She/Her, 28 y.o. Canthan engineer raised by her sylvari aunties, her families are from a long line, a deep secret hidden but passed to each generation. Inspired by Lady Yu Joon and seeks to make her own jade tech.

Ayda Trove | #ayda

She/Her, 25 y.o A rebellious girl who comes from a noble family, she’s fiercely against following the rules and was sent to join the Priory by her mother. A nerd pretending to be a jock, and followed by her ghost cat Madame Dupont

Anthrala Trove | #anthrala

She/Her, 27 y.o. A norn who was adopted into the Trove noble family. Finds herself awkwardly trying to find a middle ground among her norn heritage and her human lifestyle.

Orquidea de Nyx | #orquidea

She/Her, They/Them, 29 y.o. A sylvari fashion-designer, Soundless. She has her own fashion line where she combines the nature and foliage of sylvari fashion to that of human cloth and materials. The bitch in prada, if you will.

Anwir Aurelius | #anwir

He/Him, 28 y.o. A ranger working with the Order of Whispers. Is frequently found among the sylvari and enchanted by the Dream. Has ugly pets, but loves em to death.

Hemlock Sicarius | #hemlock

He/Him, They/Them, 27 y.o. Dreamer who left the Grove to marry his human husband. Is now on search for his kidnapped children and uses his assassin connections to find them, accompanied by Percy, a friend’s OC

Zinnia Asterids | #zinnia

She/Her/It, 20 y.o. Soundless sylvari who is intrigued by cause and reaction. Always tagged along by her faulty Professor Mew golem and prone to being unintentionally insulting.

Serene Rivers | #serene rivers

She/Her, They/Them. 29 y.o. A norn woman raised among kodan, she is taken in and raised by the Claw of Koda in her Sanctuary, and as a revenant often unintentionally speaks with the Voice of Koda as well.

Séance of the Dawn | #seance

He/Him, They/Them/It, 17 y.o. Previously a Transformer OC now a leaf boi. Séance of the Dawn, a Dreamer who is just. a little stupid and Awakened. Pure himbo of sunshine and beautiful despite the everything.

Destroying Angel | #angel

He/Him, They/Them, 15 y.o. A sylvari connected to mycelium and ley lines to help his vision, he is constantly on the run while simultaneously trying to keep away from his destiny of joining the Nightmare

Eskett | #eskett

He/Him, 48 y.o. A norn who would do anything for his daughter Nepenthes, once a criminal, now still kind of a criminal but now a dilf bounty hunter who may come off as brisk but is kind if not a bit brutish.

Botanist Nepenthes | #nepenthes

She/Her/They/It, 17 y.o. An asura who keeps to herself and messes about with plants of the non-sentient kind (sometimes) she’s on the run for killing her professor and maybe scamming folks with poisons and medicinals.

Hunter Saturnia | #saturnia

They/Them/It, She/Her, A hunter and knight of the NIghtmare Court, Saturnia has ripped past what the Dream may be and now joins her fellow hunter to take down zealous Dreamers.

Mender Allonwyn | #allonwyn

He/Him/She/Her/They/Them/It, 15 y.o. Ex-lover of Riannoc. Personal mender of the Pale Tree, he slowly keeps her weakened after Mordremoth’s attack behind the scenes

MINISTRY OF SUPERNATURAL INVESTIGATION | #faction: MinSI

abbreviated MinSI, this an obscure ministry of the Canthan government. Its main focus and task is to surveil and investigate supernatural occurrences and its threats. The size of the members is fairly small, split between desk workers and the active field agents. || RP faction created by commander-winterberry and expounded on by my friend and me!

Members:

Adonis Chrysalism | #adonis

He/Him, They/Them 464? y.o. A warden dormant up until the Jade Wind now pretending to be a sylvari. Silver-tongued and convincing, and always taking the diplomatic route instead of fighting.

Zhao Xifeng | #xifeng

She/Her, 34 y.o.Vigilante turned Ministry agent after getting arrested. Friends and raised by ghosts, often using their insight as help for missions.

Hao Shirong | #shirong

He/Him, 37 y.o. Necromancer coroner who is mildly obsessed with anatomy and how it works. Secretly a grave-robber and has a few skeletons in his closet- literally and figuratively.

Associated:

Eun-U Kim | #eun-u

She/Her, 28 y.o. A Canthan minister’s daughter who turned pirate and seeks to put her fingers in all sorts of underground dealings. Is most definitely not above messing around with the spirits in Drowned Kaineng to wreak havoc for it

#oc masterlist

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selitoxicmoon · 1 year

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COMMISSIONS & SOCIAL MEDIA

Yehe hey!!!!! As my style was updated, I created again some commission sheets with current updates, plus my social media update!! - COMMISSION RULES: - Before the start of the commission, first should be a signal payment. Then, once the commission is done, the rest of the payment. - I accept Bizum, because PayPal actually takes part of the money in transaction. - I actively bring WIPs of the commission, to make sure you agree of how's going. You can always tell me what to modify or edit, if you're not happy at the first steps, you can always refund (I won't accept it once the commission is almost done). - As prices vary depending on complexity and what you want. I recommend to be sure how much would cost your petition by asking me. - In service, I always respect the customer, I won't accept any kind of mocking or strong language (specially if I don't know you at all). - NSFW is not available yet as I didn't made any with the current style, be patient please (NSFW includes fetishes, but I'll clear it out deeper once is posted).

Adding (for Page 3): - I will create what you describe me, detailed, even palettes, I'll be showing off WIPs and concepts till you decide which is the exact that you've been imagining. - As being the one that illustrated your ideal of character or specie, you own the character but not the design to sell it to someone else (if you want to sell it, I earn half of the payment, cuz I'm the designer). - Had to update my account sharing pic, so: - Each OC controls different accounts, you will see 'em in the profile picture. - Discord is only available for job hiring or/and commission related. - The purple auras mean that those accounts contain mature content. - You can support my work donating in my Ko-Fi, Patreon and/or DeviantArt Tier section. - Twitter has two different accounts: The first for SFW stuff and actually main one, second for NSFW and already warned that NO MINORS ALLOWED. - YouTube is there for future storytimes and wip animations or animatics. - Instagram is the most active one.

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zyeer404 · 1 year

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Well, I'll try to sell it here too

I'm announcing this premade for sale!

You can make little changes on the design, and even change the colors of it!

For $1000 you get the fursuit parts on the image + character reference sheet + character badge + character rights

If you're interested, message me at any social media @zyeer404

PT-BR

Heyow, guys

Estou anunciando essa premade p venda! Funciona assim:

-Você compra essa ideia de premade (foto 1) e ganha uma fursuit + os direitos do personagem + uma referência digital

Está incluso por R$1500,00:

-Cabeça da fursuit

-Patas da mão

-Cauda

-Coleiras pontudas

-Piercings removíveis

-Referência digital do personagem

-Direitos autorais do personagem

-Badge plastificada

Frete NÃO incluso no preço!

Adicionais:

-Patas do pé (plantigrade): R$100,00

-Patas do pé (digitgrade): R$200,00

-Bandana: R$25,00

-Prop personalizado: a paritr de R$60,00

Podem ser feitas alterações no design do personagem, como cores e marcas!

Junto estou colocando exemplos do meu trabalho

Caso se interesse, envie uma mensagem para mim em qualquer rede social @zyeer404

#fursuit #furry community #furry #furry fandom #fursuit maker #premades #sell online

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csmeaner · 2 years

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The thing that frustrates me about Chowlings is they admit, right on site, that they don't own the concept and you can make one if you want. Just don't call it a Chowling or start selling 'em like hot cakes (though what can they do if you don't call them Chowlings and mix things up so they look a little different?) From the site:

While Chowlings are a Closed Species, we are in no way gatekeeping the concepts behind these critters. If you want to make characters that are similar, go ahead! We only ask that you do not call them Chowlings, or mention Sprite Festival or Saunt’s name in association with these ‘fan-made' characters. Also, while personal use is fine, please do not make 'fan-made' Sprite Festival-inspired characters to sell for profit. ("Species Specific", chowlingspecies com(/)info(/)terms)

So what are you actually paying for? That's right: the name and sketchy (literally and figuratively) work.

Ask just about any artist what 2500 Euro (2558 US) will get you in terms of a ref sheet and it'll be AT LEAST double what Saunt's willing to give and leech off her(?) sprite artist. There also won't be pressure to "use" the character "correctly" and there won't be hungry jackals following you everywhere hoping you'll trade it.

Make your own damn Chowling. Have you even been in the server? It's awful there. It's just a circle jerk of people showing off Chows, talking about finances (with a sense of unease), putting up the same Chows for swaps over and over, and praising Saunt. Why in the world would you want to pay beaucoup bucks for a Chow and join that mudhole of a community? It's worse than Grems in their heyday.

Actually, the community is worse. At least in the Grem community (when it was still popular), people would talk to randos. In Chowlings people can't be bothered.

#submission #chowlings

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castletown-cafe · 2 years

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Castletown Café Episode 2: Hearts Donut

Hearts, don’t it? A Hathy sells these heart-shaped doughnuts at the Bake Sale in the Scarlet Forest, which heals each party member a different amount of HP depending on whether or not you’re in battle. Surprisingly, these doughnuts are not filled with “clotty, red jam”, as the description states, but actually blood, if the character’s reactions are anything to go by (much to Susie’s delight). Of course, there’s no way we’re filling these doughnuts with blood, just sweet strawberry jam - perfect for Valentine’s Day!

There are many, many recipes out there for home-made doughnuts; since baking recipes are not something you can easily alter or make up yourself, nor do I have much experience working with yeast let alone deep-frying, so I had to settle on using a recipe that already exists that I will need to link to and credit. I went with Feast of Fiction’s Varri Cakes recipe as a base for my Hearts Donuts, because it looked the simplest and it was a small amount, which was just right for me.

Do keep in mind though, that with this small-batch recipe, your doughnuts will have a strong yeast flavor. I don’t mind the taste, but if you do, you may want to look for a different recipe. Another thing to keep in mind is that doughnuts have a VERY short shelf life, hence another good reason to go with a small-batch recipe like FOF’s - unless you’re planning on making enough for a party or bake sale! You’ll need plenty of help eating these sweet treats before they get too dry!

Lastly, the FDA recommends refrigerating anything containing raw eggs after 2 hours for food-safety reasons. So, be sure to add your room-temperature egg to your dough mixture no later than 30 minutes after you set it out, and if you want your dough to proof longer, stick it in the fridge. Refrigerating your dough won’t kill the yeast.

Now, for the recipe, go follow the link to Feast of Fiction’s YouTube video for Varri Cakes, the video description is where you’ll find the written recipe. Follow that up until we get to the part where they cut the dough into rectangles - we won’t be doing that.

Instead, we will be rolling the dough out and cutting out heart-shapes using a good-sized heart-shaped cookie cutter like the image above (I used the second biggest, which looks to be about 3 by 2 and 1/2 inches or so, my calculation’s probably way off, but somewhere around that size). I was able to cut out 6 hearts, though I had enough dough for 7. I saved the scraps and rolled those up into balls to make donut holes, which ended up being much bigger than I expected!

Lay your yeasty-dough hearts on a cookie sheet, and cover them up for about 20 minutes or so, and fill up a deep saucepan or pot with oil (I suggest canola or vegetable oil, though canola is healthier - as healthier as oil for frying can be, lol). Fill your pot about halfway with oil, turn on medium heat, and if you have a candy thermometer, you may want to use it so you can watch the temperature reach where you want it to be, about 330 degrees F. A trick more experienced cooks and bakers may use is to test how hot that oil is by sticking the end of a wooden spoon in to see if it bubbles only around the end. That’s how they know it’s hot enough without even using a thermometer. (If your oil is boiling, that’s too hot!) Personally, I prefer relying on the thermometer since I’m less experienced.

They’re risen and ready!

With your dough hot enough, and your doughy hearts all puffed up and ready to go, carefully stick ‘em in your pot and fry ‘em on both sides for about a couple of minutes. I used chopsticks to check on them and turn them over as they fried, until they were nice and puffy and golden brown on both sides. Take ‘em out of the oil when they’re done, place ‘em on a cookie sheet lined with paper towels, and wipe off the excess oil. Do the same until all your hearts are fried and give each doughnut a nice coating of powdered sugar. But before we can fill them with jam, they need to cool first.

Fresh out of the frier, needing to cool and get dusted with powdered sugar!

Once these doughnuts have cooled completely, poke a hole in the top of your doughnut heart. Any utensil works, I used a chopstick (once again! Chopsticks are a useful tool when making doughnuts). Get a nice hole size going, and using a piping bag filled with jam, fill ‘er up. Repeat this for all your doughnuts and dust with more powdered sugar. You can use whatever jam you want - red’s best for the Valentine’s season! Strawberry, raspberry, cherry, go wild!

The finished product, with jam-filled donut holes.

Cross-section!!

These go great with coffee - especially coffee served in a heart-themed mug. Share your Hearts Donuts with your friends, your Valentine, your family, or whoever you want! Happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️❤️❤️

#castletown cafe #deltarune #deltarune chapter 1 #hearts donut #deltarune hathy #deltarune food #my art #cooking #doughnuts #feast of fiction #food tw #cw food #recipe #deltarune chapter one #deltarune ch 1 #hathy #valentine’s day

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petra-creat0r · 3 years

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Petra's Commissions!

Guess who got her sh*t together and finally has started commissions! Me!!!

Alright peeps, here's how we're doing it. Also just now realizing I forgot Sketches.

Here are the Waistup examples. Waist up sketches are 5 dollars (even though they aren't on the sheet)

Waistup Sketch, $5

Waistup Lined, $10

Waistup Flatcolor, $15

Waistup Cellshaded, $20

And then you can also add a flat color or transparent background for no additional cost

Make sense? Here's the rest of the examples

Fullbody sketches are $15

Fullbody Lined, $20

Fullbody Flatcolor, $25

Fullbody Cellshaded, $30

Adding a simple background is +$5, so this would be $35

And then, adding additional characters is also +$5

So something like this, Waistup Sketch, $5 + 2 characters, +$10 = $15

Aside from the standard art piece commissions, I’m also doing Emotes,

$5 a piece

Icons, for $10

And Shipkids! For $15 a batch (so like 2 or 3 refs for 15. 10 individually)

This one was a commission I did for @aquadine (posted here with their permission)

And then finally... I’ve decided to sell some extra student slots for my student contest for AtDFF. Everyone gets 5 slots to start, but I know some people who’ve filled their slots, might want to submit more. So I’m giving them a chance by selling these for cheap, I just please don’t hog ‘em guys.

So yeah, to finish off, here’s what I will and won’t do

Pretty straight forward in my opinion. If you’d like to commission me or just have some question, then just message me and to pay, please pay full price to my PayPal, paypal.me/petracreator . I won’t accept the money until I’ve finished the commission.

With all of that! Thank you for your time and see ya later Creative Creators!

-Petra

#commission #commissions #digital commisions #furry #furry fandom #anthro #art #anthromorphic #art commissions open #art commissions

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grailfinders · 3 years

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Fate and Phantasms #169

Two builds in one day? That’s right! Today’s my birthday, and that means I get to pick the servants! As a birthday gift to myself, we’re making Caster of the Nightless City! As usual, expect spoilers in the build breakdown below the cut and in their character sheet here!

Scheherazade is a Creation Bard to truly bring her stories to life, and a Genie Warlock to create her own Bedchamber of Survival.

Race and Background

Wildly, Scheherazade is a Human, giving her +1 to all abilities. She’s also a Guild Artisan with one of the most demanding patrons in the world, giving her proficiency with Insight and Persuasion.

Ability Scores

Your Charisma better be as high as possible, you’re literally famous for your storytelling skills. After that is Wisdom. Anyone can read a story, but to tell a story you’ve got to be able to read the audience. Your Intelligence is also pretty good, because let’s be honest, remembering over 1,000 stories is pretty goddamn impressive. Your Dexterity isn’t awful, because we need to be able to go from standing to dogeza in seconds. This means your Constitution and Strength are rather low. Sadly, telling stories doesn’t make you all that battle hardened.

Class Levels

1. Bard 1: Being a bard gives you proficiency with Dexterity and Charisma saves to avoid fireballs and being banished to other dimensions. (Though I guess banishment is better than death?) You also get proficiency in three bard skills, that is to say, three of any skill. Performance for storytelling, Acrobatics for faster dogezas, and History for more story material.

You can use Bardic Inspiration to give a d6 to an ally Charisma Mod times per long rest, and these dice can be added to pretty much any d20 roll to make it a bit better. (Not yours though, heaven forbid you have to get out there and... attack things.)

Speaking of not attacking things, let’s talk Spells. You cast em with Charisma, and get stuff like Blade Ward for taking less damage and Friends for convincing people to let you live in the first place. You also get Charm Person for a similar reason, Bane to weaken their offense if they still want to try anything, Feather Fall to avoid death by heights, and Silent Image for the first of your storied illusions.

2. Bard 2: Second level bards become Jacks of All Trades, adding half their proficiency to ability checks they’re not proficient in. By becoming more useful, you’re less likely to get killed! Probably. You also get a Song of Rest to boost healing during short rests. Healing is good, healing helps people not die. Finally, your Magical Inspiration lets allies add your inspiration dice to damage or healing caused by spells. Again, healing is good, and I guess doing more damage can be nice sometimes.

Speaking of doing damage, we’re not doing that. Instead, grab Sleep for a bedtime story.

3. Bard 3: Graduating from the college of Creation will help you bring your stories to life thanks to your Performance of Creation. As an action you can create a nonmagical object once per long rest or by spending a 2nd level spell slot. The item must be medium or smaller, and can only be worth at most 20 times your bard level in GP.

You can also help your allies star in legends of their own with Stories of Potential that add extra effects to your bardic inspiration depending on how they’re used. Ability checks get advantage on rolling the inspiration, attack rolls deal thunder damage to nearby creatures if they fail a constitution save, and saving throws add temporary HP to their users.

You can also cast Calm Emotions to keep the king from beheading you in the morning.

4. Warlock 1: Now that that’s taken care of, let’s get some help from a Genie. Picking this patron gives you a Genie’s Vessel, a tiny object like, say, a scroll case, within which you can find a Bottled Respite that you can hang out in for up to 2x your proficiency bonus hours per long rest, but you can only enter once per long rest. Any items you leave behind stay in the respite until the vessel is destroyed or you take them out again. Also, I gotta remember to point out the inside is bigger than the outside, space isn’t an issue for you.

You also learn to imbue your attacks with a Genie’s Wrath, adding thunder damage equal to your proficiency bonus to one attack per turn. You don’t really attack that much, but it’s nice to make every bit count.

Speaking of attacking, you can actually do that with your new Spells! You still use Charisma, but you have Pact Magic, so these slots don’t mix with your old ones. The plus side is they recharge on short rests instead of long ones, and you can still cast bard spells with warlock slots and vice versa.

You get Minor Illusion for cheap lifelike stories, as well as Eldritch Blast for the ever-present caster balls. For first level spells, you get Detect Evil and Good and Thunderwave for free, as well as Comprehend Languages because copyright doesn’t exist in D&D, and Protection from Evil and Good. Some kings are evil, some are good, but very few are neutral. (WARNING: does not actually protect against good or evil aligned humanoids)

5. Warlock 2: Second level warlocks get Eldritch Invocations, ways to customize the selling your soul experience. Armor of Shaodws gives you free mage armor to avoid dying, and Eldritch Mind makes it easier to concentrate on your spells, which are keeping you from getting killed.

Speaking of spells, Sense Emotion lets you read the prevailing emotion of a nearby creature as an action, and you can repeat the action each turn. Good storytelling requires you know what your audience wants.

6. Warlock 3: Third level warlocks get a Pact Boon, and Pact of the Tome gives you a super cool magic scroll that gives you three cantrips from any spell list. You get Guidance and Resistance for added protection, and Mage Hand. Handling hot objects can be dangerous! Now you don’t have to do that.

Besides that, you get second level spells here, like Enthrall. Being the center of attention is dangerous, but you’re the most personable member of the party, so this might be less dangerous than letting them talk. You also get Phantasmal Force and Gust of Wind for free, letting you attack with fictional characters and just make things a bit more dramatic.

7. Warlock 4: At fourth level you finally get your first Ability Score Improvement, which will be used to round up your Dexterity and Constitution for a higher AC and higher HP. Not dying’s good, you should try it out.

You also get Prestidigitation to add minor effects to your stories, and Flock of Familiars to summon background characters.

8. Warlock 5: Fifth level warlocks get third level spells, like Major Image to make larger effects for your stories. You also get Create Food and Water and Wind Wall for free.

On top of that, the invocation One with Shadows lets you turn invisible as an action in dim light or darker, and lasts until you move or take an action. When a truly good storyteller gets going, the story takes on a life of its own, and they just sort of... fade into the background.

9. Warlock 6: Sixth level genilocks get an Elemental Gift, giving you resistance to thunder damage. Like Cursed Arm always says, you can’t travel the desert without protection from wind. As a bonus action, you can now fly for 10 minutes Proficiency times per long rest. Admittedly you don’t really do that too often, but I’m sure you can illusion up a big genie hand or something to lift you up.

You can also summon a main character now thanks to Summon Fey. You can create a small fey creature in one of three moods that can teleport around and fight for you. Fuming fey get advantage on attacks after teleporting, mirthful fey can charm creatures, and tricksy fey create magical darkness which you can use to turn invisible.

10. Warlock 7: Congrats on your fourth level spell slots! Your freebie spells are Phantasmal Killer and Greater Invisibility to put less focus on yourself and more focus on the terrifying monsters you can summon. You can also use Hallucinatory Terrain to reshape the world into the world of your story. You can also use Trickster’s Escape once per long rest to cast Freedom of Movement on yourself to get the hell out of dangerous situations.

11. Warlock 8: Use this ASI to bump up your Charisma for better spells and better stories. You also learn how to Charm Monsters to avoid even more danger by just... getting along with everything.

12. Warlock 9: Ninth level warlocks get fifth level spells, like the freebies Creation to make even more nonsense out of nothing and Seeming to again, avoid danger. On top of those, you can use Modify Memory to retcon your stories to prevent your audience from getting too upset. You also gain the Gift of the Protectors, allowing you or another creature to write its name on part of your scroll. The scroll can hold the names of Proficiency people, and once per long rest the first creature to drop to 0 hp sticks around at 1 hp instead. You can also erase names if you have a falling out, but since it’s first come first served you might just want to keep this to yourself.

13. Warlock 10: Tenth level genielocks get a Sanctuary Vessel, allowing you to take up to 5 willing creatures into your Genie’s Vessel with you. You can eject creatures as a bonus action, by leaving yourself, dying (don’t do that one), or by destroying the vessel.

On top of all of that, creatures that stay in the vessel for at least 10 minutes get all the benefits of a short rest, plus they add your proficiency to any healing they get from hit dice. That’s on top of the d6 they were already getting from your song of rest.

Oh right, you get another cantrip too. Grab Blade Ward again. You can never be too careful.

14. Bard 4: Yeah, did you think we were done with bards? Nope! This level of bard gives us another ASI that’ll max out your Charisma for the best spells possible!

You also learn Message, because miscommunication can be deadly, and Lesser Restoration. You never know what kind of status effects might doom your party, after all...

15. Bard 5: Fifth level bards get their inspiration bumped up to d8s, and they finally become a Font of Inspiration to recharge their inspiration on short rests. I wanted to get sanctuary vessel as quickly as possible for the sake of getting your bedchamber of survival, but it’s awfully tempting to put these two levels earlier, ngl.

You also learn how to Feign Death, because nobody’s going to bother killing you if you’re already dead, right? This spell makes you or the targeted creature effectively dead by the reckoning of anyone around them. They can’t take actions, are blinded, and can’t move. They get resistance to all damage except psychic, and any diseases or poisons they’re affected by are frozen until the spell ends an hour later.

16. Bard 6: Sixth level bards can use Countercharm to protect their party from effects that would charm or frighten them, giving them advantage on those saves for a round.

You can also put on an Animating Performance to turn a large or smaller object into a Dancing Item, which follows your orders, given by your bonus action. You can do this once per long rest, or by spending a third level spell slot.

Your last bard spell is Catnap, putting up to three creatures to sleep for 10 minutes. If they stay asleep the entire time, they get the benefits of a short rest. Dying of overwork... what a horrifying concept.

17. Warlock 11: At eleventh level, instead of getting your spell slots made bigger you get a Mystic Arcanum, allowing you to cast a sixth level spell once per long rest. Guards and Wards is very useful if you’re paranoid, creating wards to protect up to 2,500 square feet of space (a.k.a. 100 5′ squares). You can specify creatures that are immune to effects, or a password that does the same thing.

In corridors, fog fills the area, and forks in the road have a 50% chance of forcing creatures down the wrong way.

Doors are magically locked, and up to 10 doors in the area can be covered by illusions.

Stairs are covered in Webs that regrow when destroyed.

You can also place: Dancing Lights in four corridors, Magic Mouth in two places, Stinking Cloud in two places, Gust of Wind in one corridor or room, and Suggestion in one five foot square.

Casting Guards and Wards in the same place every day for a year makes it permanent.

18. Warlock 12: Use your last ASI to bump up your Constitution for better concentration and health. You also learn your last Invocation, Minions of Chaos! Once per long rest you can cast Conjure Elemental using a warlock spell slot. It is a little bit risky, but even you have to be willing to stick your neck out at some point. Might as well be level 18.

19. Warlock 13: Your seventh level Mystic Arcanum is Mirage Arcane, allowing you to reshape reality in a square mile, altering the entire terrain to your story and even making entire structures out of nothing. Even creatures with true sight will still feel the illusion, so feel free to recreate the tower of babel and hide out on the top of it.

20. Warlock 14: Your capstone level gives you a Limited Wish from your patron, recreating any spell of fifth level or lower once per 1d4 long rests. Sometimes your story just needs a Maelstrom, and nobody’s going to wait for you to take 9 levels of druid just to finish a story.

Pros:

If your DM rewards creativity and you’ve got the mind thoughts to power this build, this build will treat you very nicely. This whole thing is basically an excuse for the roleplayer inside of you to ham up your acting, chew the scenery, and distract everyone from the rogue rifling through their pockets.

Speaking of distractions you can make some really good ones. Show up to the BBEG’s lair, butter them up with some stories, then trick them into entering your vessel, and then they’re trapped in there for up to 12 hours. If you can trick them into allowing you to catnap them, that gives the rest of your party a full 10 minutes to ransack the place before they even know what’s happening. You can always kick them out if they’re being unwelcome guests, but there’s no way for them to leave on their own outside of killing you. And that’s easier said than done, because...

You’re really hard to fight. Between all the illusions, summoning creatures to fight on your behalf, the invisibility, and the altering reality in a mile radius, landing a blow on you is an ordeal, especially if you know they’re coming.

Cons:

If you’re actually stuck in a cage match with an enemy it’s gonna take a while, because you really aren’t built for damage. You have a negative strength stat, and your first damaging spell doesn’t show up until level four. Just bring them into the vessel, help them relax, and put them to sleep with catnap, that’s way less work than actually fighting them.

On a similar note, anything that can see through your illusions is going to cut through you like butter, because you’re pretty squishy. Only 15 AC and just shy of 150 HP means you should avoid fights like... well, you do in canon.

Another side effect of your squishiness is that your concentration saves aren’t that great, which is really bad for an illusionist/summoner. Neither your animated item nor your invisibility use concentration though, so you can actually get away with more than you’d think, it’s just a complicated juggling act. And trust me, you do not want to drop them in the middle of combat.

#fgo #fate grand order #D&D 5e #DND #Caster of the nightless city #warlock #bard

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shootybangbang · 3 years

Text

[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ‘em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

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imaginesbymk · 3 years

Text

“Call in Sick Tomorrow.”

Reservoir Dogs One Shot

Summary: During his final moments, Freddy recalls the events from the robbery and the night before, where you find out who he really is, and because of your job as the retail jeweler at the same store the criminals plan the heist at, you showed up at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Pairing: Mr. Orange/Freddy Newandyke x Reader

Tags: swearing, angst + violence, guns/shooting, robbery + blood

Non Requested

Word Count: 2,289

Author’s Note: not me simping for a young tim roth lmfaksmwksksksk ugh</3 hope y’all like it - leave a like/reblog + feedback!!!

THE cop who was covered in his own pool of blood from his gunshot wound, was now practically sticking to the dusty warehouse ramp. He laid there for a good fifteen minutes, maybe more or less, who was there to count? His company wasn’t making things better, either. “Listen to me, Marvin... listen to me, Marvin Nash, I’m a cop.”

“Yeah, I know.” The other bloodied cop, Marvin Nash, was tied up and had his ear cut off by Mr. Blonde, all he could do was bicker and moan in pain and rage.

“You do?” The first cop asks.

“Yeah, your name’s Freddy something.”

“Newandyke,” he said. “Freddy Newandyke.”

“Frankie Ferchetti introduced us about five months ago.”

Freddy shakes his head. His wound definitely didn’t cause him memory loss. He was just too clueless to acknowledge colleagues, that was something he was aware of and he needed to work on it. “Shit, I don't remember that at all.”

“I do.” Marvin Nash coughs a bit of blood. “Freddy. How do I look?”

Freddy winces out a chuckle. “What? I don't know what to tell you, Marvin.” How do you look? If I told you, I’d be lucky you’re tied up.

“That fuck. That sick fuck! That fuckin' bastard!”

“Marvin, I need you to hold on. There's cops waiting to move a block away.”

“What the fuck are they waiting for? This fuckin' guy, he slashes my face… and cuts my fuckin' ear off! I'm fuckin' deformed!” Marvin cries out.

Freddy clenches his jaw. How the fuck do you think I feel over here, asshole? “FUCK YOU! Fuck you, my love of my fucking life is gone! I’m fuckin’ dyin’ here! Y/N is gone and I’m fuckin’ dyin’!”

Marvin Nash, a bloodied cop who was now “fucking deformed”, really had no idea how bad the fellow cop’s current state was. Both of them were in pain, but one of them was gonna die first.

Freddy calms down a bit to explain the upcoming events he hopes to happen anytime soon. He was bleeding pretty bad, and it hurt like hell. “They're not to make a move 'til Joe Cabot shows up. I was sent in to get him. Alright? You heard 'em. They said he's on his way.” Marvin lets out a soft breath. Relief was touching a bit of his soul, now all is left is to wait it out, and listen to the sounds of rattling bullets and yells from cops out of one ear.

“Don't pussy out on me now, Marvin,” Freddy says. “We're just gonna sit here and bleed… 'til Joe Cabot sticks his fuckin' head through that door.”

Marvin whimpers, then takes a long pause. “Freddy?”

Freddy looks up at Marvin Nash once more, lying on his arm for support, his body feeling like a throbbing stubbed toe. “Freddy?” Marvin talks about the giant elephant in the room. “What even fucking happened?”

THE last thing Freddy needed was to end up falling for you while he’s undercover. While he’s good at hiding his true identity from the recruits, he was also good at hiding it from you, but it wasn’t what he wanted in the first place.

Freddy would never lie to you, but you don’t know that your boyfriend is actually a cop and not a cool bad boy that took care of weed for customers. It pained Freddy to lie to you about who he was. He never even told you that his name was Freddy, only to refer to him as his alias, Mr. Orange, but you paid no mind to it. You loved the mysterious thrill he had, even if that meant calling him a color most commonly known in a fruit.

To this day, he still wonders why you would want to date someone with such a dangerous persona. You made a living working at the same store the recruits were planning the heist at - Karina’s Wholesale Diamonds, and you were allowed to wear the jewelry that was sold and refined there. You never came to think Mr. Orange was ever gonna steal from you, holding you at gunpoint? Rob your store while his face is covered then he kisses you goodnight hours after?

And so, Freddy’s confession and his first and last fight with you happened the night before the heist. A stressful twelve hours, and it all started with you throwing his police badge on the coffee table, right on top of his Marvel catalog.

“You’ve been staring at that thing for a whole minute now,” you said, standing stiff as a statue, towering over him on the couch.

Mr. Orange scrunches his nose. “It was from a cop back in Torrance. The fucker most likely lost his job for carelessly leaving it on a bench.”

“You’ve visited Torrance?”

He nodded. “Y/N, I kept that badge in one of my stashes. You and I agreed to not go through each other’s shit like that - y’know, outta respect?”

“I know that, but you asked me to get your TV guide from one of the drawers. You said you keep it next to your stash, I may not have found pot but I definitely found that.” You nod at the badge.

Orange shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, babes, but that ain’t mine. Also I ran outta weed, that’s why I haven’t been making any sales lately.”

“You must suck at reeling customers in,” you took out your other hand hidden behind your back, now throwing four poorly folded sheets of paper stapled together right next to the badge. “Otherwise why the hell would you have this; an annotated script about you delivering weed to people, the same words you told me about how you walked into the men’s room with a big bag of weed in front of a couple of cops and a dog?”

Orange was silent. You knew he was lying. Silence was as painful as spewing out another lie. Not once has there ever been a close call, but now he was trapped with no words to come out his mouth. Even if he did have something to say, each lie he told you felt like he was throwing daggers at your heart. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Orange, is there something you’re not telling me?” Orange merely frowned and got up from the couch, eyeing you up and down. He looked tired from whatever he did the whole day and resting on the couch while watching a movie on the TV was well needed. That, but he was tired of sleeping next to you while a police badge was taunting him in one of the drawers.

“I don’t sell weed, y/n. And the police badge wasn’t from Torrance.”

“So all of that... you smuggling weed in a bowling bag?” you scoff, feeling your blood boil. “You just made that up?”

“Y/n- baby” he starts.

“What the hell? Why would you make that up?” you ask.

“It’s what I had to do,” Orange says.

You scoff. “Right. That was your way of making friends or to get free drinks, or even getting me to sleep with you?”

“It’s not like that, it was never like that.”

“This is so fucked up!” Hearing you say that made Freddy’s heart fall into a thousand pieces. “Tell me the truth, Orange, if that’s even your fucking name. Who gives birth, looks at their child and goes, ‘Your name is Orange’? As if your kid won’t ever get bullied from that.”

“That’s because that isn’t my fucking name. It’s an alias.”

You shook your head. “Okay, then. Who the fuck are you?”

He clenched his eyes shut, and opened them, wishing you disappeared out of his sight. “Look at my badge.”

You slowly hunched over the table, picking up the badge. You raised a brow at him.

“I want you to hold it while I tell you. My real name is Freddy Newandyke. I’m working undercover for a diamond heist formed by Joe Cabot... the group of criminals he hired are gonna rob your store, stuff a briefcase full of diamonds worth a college tuition, and they’re gonna break it apart, pawn it, whatever fulfills their need.”

“You’re a cop,” you say, confirming what he said was true. Otherwise, that could have been another lie.

He nodded. “I work for the LAPD.”

“What else?”

A pause, then he traces his finger on your hand before curling it with his. “I love you.” His face softens. “My name’s Freddy Newandyke. I’m a cop. The gang I’m undercover for is gonna rob your store tomorrow, and I love you.”

You slowly nodded, looking down at the badge in your other hand. There were no signs of a lie in his tone of voice. His name seems legit, and of course, you loved him, too. “Why didn’t you tell me... Freddy?”

“Because you go after guys that would do the things I told in my story, fellas who you fantasize of having a fucking Bonnie and Clyde ride or die bullshit with, and not me - a cop who geeks out over Marvel.”

“You’re saying my work is being targeted for a heist?” you said. “And you’re part of it?”

Freddy nodded. “You think I’m ever gonna rob you, lie to your face like that? Then walk out of your life, take off just like that - and never see you again?”

“You’ve been lying to me.”

“I’m sorry for lying to you, and whether I told you about who I was or not, I don’t want you involved. Crime gets you in trouble, being undercover puts you in danger,” Freddy kisses your forehead. “You can get caught stealing and smuggling drugs, you can get caught slipping out of character if you’re not careful. You can’t win.”

You tried walking around the couch to disperse into the kitchen, but Freddy stopped in front of you. “I wasn’t born yesterday, asshole. I know what an undercover cop is, if your cover gets blown, you’re fucked.” You crossed your arms. “So what else is gonna happen?”

“We planned this; cops are gonna show up on time, as long as a gun doesn’t go off, we’ll be okay, and the men will be in cuffs as well as Joe Cabot. But listen to me, I don’t want you to show up to work tomorrow, I don’t want you there, I don’t want to have a man in a suit point a gun at your face, and I definitely don’t want you to be a hero,” Freddy says, cupping both your cheeks. “That’s my job.”

“I’m freakin’ pissed at you, but I’m not gonna stay home.” You took his hands off your face.

“I’d rather let myself get caught by a bunch of criminals than have your life threatened by criminals.”

“You’re willing to do that?”

“Anything for you.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Getting hurt is part of the job. Y/n, you can’t be a hero. Not like that.”

“Freddy-”

“Y/n, please.” Freddy begs, his face tightening. “If you can’t forgive me; if you can’t trust me anymore, then you can hate me all you want. But for fuck’s sake, at least call in sick tomorrow.”

Yet, you were so stubborn, that was something you needed to work on. Freddy knew it, too. You didn’t listen. The day came, and you showed up, anyway, not wanting to live knowing the guy you loved no matter who he claimed he was. He was in charge of standing at the door, not allowing anyone access inside or out. But upon seeing you behind the counter through the glass window, you saw Freddy’s face drop. “No…”

The deafening sound of the alarm goes off by one of the retailers, forcing Mr. Blonde to shoot everyone he saw, including you.

Freddy cried out this time, “No!”

People inside- the employees and customers, all screamed together. Freddy slammed his hands against the display windows, watching you as you fall back onto the floor, bleeding out from your shoulder. Mr. Blonde nearly shot everyone in the room, even almost hitting Mr. White in the process. He spotted your foot sticking out, and you attempted to crawl away, but he pointed his gun at you again.

Just as planned, the police break in, prompting him to run away. You collapsed in your pool of blood, realizing how this was straight out of a crime movie scene, and the pain of your wound was inexplicable. How could you feel it with every inch in your body and still manage to move ever so slightly?

You looked back, realizing you were all alone, the only one left alive. Freddy didn’t do what a hero would have done, and escaped with the men, holding back his tears with his dear life behind the dark shades of his sunglasses, fighting to stay in character.

He had to assume the more logical conclusion; you were treated at the hospital, or you bleed to death back at that jewelry wholesale, and you died hating him.

Whether you knew him as a criminal or an undercover cop, you were going to show up, anyway, because you want to protect him, like any kind of Bonnie and Clyde you’d expect from movies. Except Bonnie and Clyde were both shot to death. In this world, Clyde escapes - Bonnie was left to bleed out.

FREDDY stared up at Marvin Nash. Does Freddy regret accepting the undercover mission? A brave young man like him took such a dangerous job, but he knew he was better off without it. The last thing he said to you swarmed his mind like bees; “Call in sick tomorrow.”

THE END

taglist: @locke-writes

#freddy newandyke #freddy newandyke x reader #freddy newandyke one shot #freddy newandyke imagine #mr orange imagine #mr orange x reader #mr orange one shot #reservoir dogs one shot #reservoir dogs x reader #reservoir dogs #reservoir dogs imagine #reader insert #one shot #imagine #mk's faves

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