#batwing sleeves | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ominouspuff · 3 months

Note

I love rebel fox's ridiculously big sleeves

So glad you do — I dearly love them too. So many opportunities for flourishing and swishing from a man you would expect to do exactly neither and never

Also. You have given me the opportunity to EXPOUND and I’m taking it

The sleeve is not only aesthetic, but so EXTRA

CW mutilation: Fox’s right hand index-finger: “Ahsoka’s Gift” - In the arc where Fives (appears) to get shot by Fox, enraged by this and by her treatment by the Coruscant guard during her trial arc, Ahsoka takes revenge on the offending digit that shot the gun. With her teeth, btw — it gets a bit wild. Side-note: It factors in for the other clones that Fox is not right-handed, but that’s the hand he uses to shoot Fives. Then again, most clones are trained/raised/adjusted to be ambidextrous, so — it’s just odd all around, from the outside.

GAR armor: In keeping with the AU title and inspiration (Repurposing GAR armor towards the end of pulverizing wrinkly Sith — A guide by CC-1010, ecstatically-ex-marshal commander of Coruscant), Fox has kept his GAR shoulder-guards, a cutout of his chestplate, and knee-guards (plus one shin-guard), though the paint on them has been adjusted or worn.

Oversized sleeve: Beneath the batwing sleeve and dramatic flair, Fox is hiding whatever the rebellion uses instead of the Mandalorian Whistling Birds, in addition to an elbow-mini-blaster that fires a max of four shots, and extra ammo. (Also the sleeve is removable — think detachable bridal train)

CW self-destruction: On the reverse side of his chest-plate piece, Fox has an explosive device with multiple ways to rig it to explode. While it is detachable and likely could be used to explode OTHER things, the primary intent is a last resort gesture of defiance should he run out of other options.

Fox also has a replaced tooth (which he makes use of, but no spoilers here) and a metal plate protecting the surgery point for when his chip was removed. Since Fox is Fox, he prioritized speed over care at the time, so it is permanent vulnerability due to how his skull was treated and recovered afterward.

Do you see the knifes on his thigh they are small but they are important

#fan art #artists on tumblr #star wars fanart #star wars: the clone wars #fix it au #commander fox #rebel!fox #I have quite a few hcs for this design #but also it’ll be delicious when there’s negotiations between the rebels and the Republic and Cody (who is present as the ONLY Marsh. Comm)#Is the only one who knows what’s under that stupid cape-sleeve thing bc Cody would absolutely do the same thing #Cody: *slaps Fox’s shoulder giving Obi-Wan a look right in the middle of a negotiation meeting between the rebels/GAR/Republic*#Cody: This shabuir can hold so much karkin weaponry #Cw: mutilation (minor)#Cw: Self-destruction (hypothetical)#this is so indulgent but please indulge with me #the GAR symbol over his heart and that being the piece that has the self-destruct device is the only brand of symbolism Fox can do #Repurposing GAR Armor AU #OmPu Ask Hours

475 notes · View notes

pogueswrld · 2 years

Text

my brain is currently busy thinking about my graduation that's coming up in 17 days 🥴🥴🥴

#I have 2 dress options #1— a beautiful burgundy batwing sleeve self belted wrap short (aobe knees) dress with a chiffon skirt that reaches the ankles #2— a gorgeous coral pink lace up shirred waist high low hem a-line that's short on the front and long on the back #(idk if these are described accurately I copied the names off shein)#but like what do you guys think I should wear?

0 notes

ice-creamforbreakfast · 11 months

Text

Suburban Barbara - By JaviTruloveSims and Ice-CreamForBreakfast

::Download:: (Patreon - Free from 4th July )

She's the world's favourite doll. She's seen the rise and fall of many contenders, but none can hold a candle to her. To celebrate her new movie, JaviTruloveSims and I decided to pay homage to the timeless Miss Barbara Millicent Roberts with this collection inspired by some of her earliest fashion moments.

More details after the cut:

Sheath Sensation Dress - A fitted, knee length sheath dress with button details Golden Evening Dress - A maxi dress with batwing sleeves and shimmer details, finished with a statement belt. Ponytail Swirl Hair - The iconic ponytail swirl style with a side-bang. Sheath Sensation Hat - A wide-brim hat with ribbon detail. Hat slider compatible. Sheath Sensation Gloves - Short, classic dress gloves. Golden Evening Bracelet - A charm-style bracelet that's the perfect finishing touch for your outfit.

Our inspiration:

I chose to recreate the Sheath Sensation look (released 1961) and Golden Evening look (released 1964).

Get Javi's part here! Items shown below:

#ts4 #the sims 4 #ts4cc #ts4mm #maxis match #download: hair #download: clothing #download: accessories

600 notes · View notes

mahoushojo-chan · 6 months

Text

Astarion x Tav || dress-making

without any strings attached

synopsis: He traces the edges of the loose, unwoven threads of fabric. He folds the muslin cloth and cuts the edges, unravelling worn patches with his knife. He patches the holes with a beautiful ladder stitch, hems the edges with a simple running stitch. He can ruffle the fabric around the arms to make a batwing sleeve for her. He holds up the chemise to the candlelight when he’s finished with it. It’s fit to the bust and adorned with a ruffled edge. It feels like something is missing—he likes to embroider phrases on his clothes, but he can’t figure out what to put.

Or, Astarion makes a nightgown for Tav.

an excerpt of ‘cause my love (is mine, all mine)

word count: 1817

pairing: astarion/tav

other tags: f!reader, hurt/comfort, sickfic, slight angst, non-sexual intimacy, romantic tension, friends to lovers, dress making, not being used to love or loving, help these idiots please

now listening: two - sleeping at last

ao3: here

concept: sickfic part 2 + dress making

All that occupies his mind is Tav. The dream he had, her blood, her songs, her tireless efforts, her pitiful trembling and perspiration, and the state of her clothes soaked with various unpleasant fluids. The realization of how powerless he is against natural illnesses.

Vampires and their spawn didn’t get sick. He had almost forgotten that was something that most people did. He can’t remember the last time he was sick—what he did, what his parents would do. They all belonged to a time before he was turned, when he was still just an elf. He knows the bare minimum, and Dalyria is ever-present to remind him: she needs food, water, and lots and lots of rest.

Still, he can’t help but think she must be stuffy with all the stagnant air in the keep and her old dusty, road-tattered clothing will help.

If he can’t get her body off of his mind, then he might as well do something with it.

He finds enough material in the wardrobes. There are a number of blankets that go unused due to their poor quality—whether it’s because of stains or tears, but he can’t let them go to waste.

Astarion would like to say that he doesn’t remember this particular skill of his. It feels menial—a task suited for peasants or handmaidens. He never saw himself as someone who fixed things, but sewing was just a small way to keep his luxuries intact. It helps him keep his life sweeter.

How many evenings had stitching, sewing, embroidering, granted him peace and reprieve? How many times had the needle pricked his finger before he could finish a pattern without staining the fabric with red beads? How long had it taken him to make knots that would endure the finest cloth?

He traces the edges of the loose, unwoven threads of fabric. He folds the muslin cloth and cuts the edges, unravelling worn patches with his knife. He patches the holes with a beautiful ladder stitch, hems the edges with a simple running stitch. He can ruffle the fabric around the arms to make a batwing sleeve for her. He holds up the chemise to the candlelight when he’s finished with it. It’s fit to the bust and adorned with a ruffled edge. It feels like something is missing—he likes to embroider phrases on his clothes, but he can’t figure out what to put.

It doesn’t need to be perfect, although he wants it to be. The red seams are a stark contrast against the white fabric and make every mistake obvious. It just needs to be fit for use when she needs it.

He figures he’ll ask Dalyria to bring it to her, since she’s been doing a well enough job as Tav’s bedside nurse when Astarion’s away. He had practically coerced her into sticking beside his companion—but if Dalyria were there, it meant that Leon would not be, which was to Astarion’s relief. It wasn’t his place to intervene, but he knows the temptation after a bite can be excessive, and Tav doesn’t have enough blood to share.

Just as he finishes folding it, he hears the door to the room creak open. He assumes it’s one of his siblings, and they usually let each other come and go without acknowledging the other’s presence.

But the scent hits him quickly. He would recognize it anywhere.

He feels warm arms wrap around his shoulders and a hot breath whispers in his ear, “This is where you were, Star?”

Her voice sends shivers down his spine. His ears are particularly sensitive, and he can’t help but wonder if she’s doing it intentionally as she continues, “Come back.”

“No need for such impatience.” He tuts disapprovingly, but there’s no bite to it. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

As he turns back to face her, he sees her hand reach out to him and he almost flinches. She brushes a lock away from his face, and tucks it behind his ear, her finger brushing his cheek. She seemingly ignores what he’s trying to tell her, and simply looks at Astarion. She bats her lashes up at him. “It was in your face,” she says, matter-of-factly, letting out a little giggle at the end again.

He sobers a little. Is this her plan to get him to forgive her little excursion out of bed? He reaches out to tame Tav’s hair. “All your hair is in your face,” he counters, trying to push it out of her face, until he’s holding her face from both sides. He looks at Tav’s serene, sleepy eyes, her cutely pillow-tousled hair, and, most of all, her soft-looking lips. She looks back at him, and he feels his throat go dry again. Damn.

When he goes to move his hands away, she reaches up and touches his right hand, leaning into his touch until she’s able to hide her face in it, until she’s all but kissing the palm of his hand.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I was saying nonsense.” She says, and Astarion furrows his eyebrows, unsure of what she’s apologizing for. It doesn’t sound like she’s apologizing for being sick—not anymore, at least—but then she adds, “Are you avoiding me?”

He’s a little surprised because he’s been doing his best to hide it. It wasn’t like he was completely abandoning her, of course, but he doesn’t want to get in between whatever she’s looking for. If she’s looking for more than what Astarion can give, he has no choice but to concede, so he explains, “I just don’t want to get in your way. I mean, far be it my place to tell you what to do, right?”

He had been very careful to sound as neutral as possible, so he’s a little surprised to hear her console him. “You’re not in my way. Why would you say that?” She seems to pout, and her eyebrows scrunch up with worry.

Because I suspect you’re going to find someone better and tire of me any day now, and so I have no choice but to mentally prepare himself, is what he wants to say.

Technically, this isn’t fair to Tav, and he knows it. The only thing she had done was allowed Leon to feed on her, so it would be easy to tell himself that this idea is all in his head and he should just get over it. Feeding wasn’t inherently romantic. She might even have done it just because Leon had been starving himself. It’s just that Leon sounded like he was… fond of Tav, and he knows his older brother is affectionate. He’s willing to sacrifice his freedom for the people he loves.

Tav deserves someone who loves her. Someone who is bound to her through thick and thin. There are times where Astarion wishes he was that kind of person; but he doesn’t know if he is. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to be. He doesn’t know a lot about himself, and surely Tav has better things to do than appease his uncertainties.

“I just…” Astarion pauses, unsure of how to word it. He turns towards the nightgown he made for her because it’s easier to look at than meet her gaze. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know how to love.”

Surprisingly, she replies, “I don’t know how to be loved.”

Astarion had expected her to say something sweet and comforting, since she always knew the right words to say. She was always so in-control of her thoughts and feelings. To hear her admission feels like it dooms them both. He realizes that her sickness has made her more honest, and she’s probably revealed something rather important with that statement, but it’s such an absurd situation that he can’t help but throw his head back, letting raucous laughter ring before settling down. “Well, fuck.”

She giggles as well, more in response to his contagious laughter than the situation itself.

He sighs, letting the electricity between them die down.

Finally, he shifts his chair backwards with a resounding creak, tipping back on his seat to balance the back legs precariously. “Before you distract me any more, you need to get back to resting. But before that, get changed.” He scolds, and passes her the nightgown he had made. “I’m not overly enthusiastic with the result, but anything’s better than your abused homely clothes.” He points out.

“A smock? It’s a little small for you, don’t you think?” She asks, and he sighs.

“It’s yours, actually. Something clean, for once.”

She reaches out to take it and unfolds it in her lap. He expects her to put it on and then he can escort her back to bed, but she looks down at it incredulously. She takes extra time to trace her fingers over the fabric, paying extra attention to the stitching.

Then her eyes start welling up with tears.

Astarion panics a little at this.

“It’s surely not that awful—” he starts, but then he properly sees her expression when he leans in to take it back from her.

Her tears drip onto the fabric as she looks down at it, treating it as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. “Y-You made this for me?” She chokes up, though Astarion isn’t sure whether it’s the light cough or the emotion in her voice. She continues, “Th-thank you.”

He figures the cold really must have chipped away at her senses, because he didn’t expect her to react like this. “It’s not that rare for me to do something nice.” He chides, but his hand already reaches to wipe her tears.

“No, no, it’s just—it’s your love.” She tells him, cryptically and poetically as usual, clutching it tightly. He doesn’t understand, so she continues, “It’s the shape of sewn holes, careful stitches and washed cotton, today.”

He still doesn’t know what she means, and it sounds like a bit of nonsense to him. He rolls his eyes, and tells her, “Yes, yes, you can tell me all your maudlin poetry about love once you’re feeling better. Now get changed.”

He turns around so she can do so, and she’s so amazed that she actually follows his request.

When he turns back around, he’s nearly knocked breathless at how well she wears his dress. There’s just something about her beauty, her long, disheveled hair and bare feet, the beautiful white gown fits her perfectly, and it gives an ethereal aesthetic.

“Gods, you’re beautiful.” The words slip out of him before he realizes it, and he sits back to admire her work.

She seems to agree with him, although she doesn’t say so. Her hands keep tracing the hems of her sleeves and the carefully stitched patterns at the end. All she does ask is, “How—How could you think you’re incapable of love?

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion romance #fanfic #writing #astarion x mc #astarion fic #bg3 astarion #cause my love #mahouwrites #mahoufiction #astarion x reader #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate tav #baldurs gate astarion

229 notes · View notes

hypnoneghoul · 2 months

Text

Sundown: Chapter 1

WC: 2,6k

Relationship: Pre-relationship SwissAlps

Tags: Transfeminine Mountain, AU; Cowboy!Swiss x Barmaid!Mountain, First Meeting, Fluff, Protectiveness, Discussion About Being Transgender, Transphobia (warning for that if someone's sensitive to it), not from swiss tho he's supportive!!!

Swiss has been travelling for a while. He finally gets to a place he can rest in and meets an unique individual. He's immediately enamored.

Notes: comm for @jazz-bazz, first part of our au! ty bex <3

Read chapter 1 under the cut or on AO3.

He’s been sweating his ass off for three days before something resembling civilization has finally come along. He’s half dead, his chick is half dead, and all he wants is to get a pint of cold beer and a damn bed.

The town—barely big enough to be called such—is obviously sparsely populated. Swiss doubts it’s even inhabited at first, but the closer he gets the more signs of life he’s noticing and the hope in him grows. He leans down to pat his chick’s neck and sighs at the puff of dust coming off of her.

“Soon, girlie. I’m gonna give ya a good brush, you deserve it.” The mare nickers and the pair continue their slow walk toward the town. It doesn’t take that long for them to make their way into the shadow casted by the town’s buildings. It smells like cow’s shit, but the people obviously have more water and food than they really need, which means there is a chance Swiss and his horse will get some. If not given freely, he’ll take it, but he is tired and he hopes their visit in that place will go smoothly.

Swiss doesn’t see any heads peeking out of doors or windows to look at him, neither threateningly nor curiously, as he looks around searching for any sign that would indicate where he can find a bar. He really needs a beer.

His knees crack when he jumps down from his mare. The ground is dry and a cloud of dust arises as his boots touch it. He finds something that could be a spot for travelers’ horses and as he leaves his chick there he hopes nobody will shoot her off if he was mistaken. It’s a solid roof over a spot covered in a thick layer of straw, with buckets full of fresh looking water hanging off of wooden beams and cubes of hay under them. Inviting enough.

Swiss pulled the reins over the mare’s neck and pulled the bit out of her mouth before tying her to one of the beams by the water. He hopes she won't be too picky. “Drink, girlie, I’ll be back soon.”

He pats her on the ass on his way and walks away, heading into the adjoining building. The batwing doors’ hinges squeal loudly as Swiss walks into what indeed is a saloon. It’s nearly empty, only two men are sitting in a corner and talking quietly over drinks. Swiss scans the space and even though it’s empty, it seems nice. The men from the corner don’t acknowledge his presence, but he doesn’t crave attention this time, so it is fine by him. It’s a bit colder there than outside and he already feels some relief.

Swiss goes straight to the bar and just as he’s sitting down on one of the squeaky stools the barmaid walks out from behind a dark brown curtain hanging between the shelves. A gorgeous, tall wo…man? They are a very pretty man, if that's the case. He shrugs, though, it’s none of his business.

They are wearing a long, light green dress—a little old fashioned in style, but it’s a good piece. Little dirty-white apron covers the dress from their waist down to where their knees are under the skirt. The dress doesn’t have sleeves, only straps digging into their shoulders and going down to create a laced neckline that makes their tits look very compelling. Their hair is long and wavy, a beautiful shade of dark amber flowing down their back and over their shoulders.

Their eyes, though…oh, their eyes are what makes Swiss’ belly swoop and his mouth go even drier than it already was. Big—adorned by thick and long lashes—and in the color of the healthiest, most fresh, summer grass ever. Swiss haven’t seen grass as green in years.

“Anything to drink for you?” They ask, picking up a rag to wipe the bar. More to busy themself than because it’s dirty. If anything it’s dusted over from unuse.

“Well, ain’t ya a pretty thing?” Swiss winks, his head tilted to the side. He knows he most definitely looks like a creep, but he can’t stop staring.

“Oh, me? Uhm–thank you?” they stutter as blush creeps up their cheeks, coloring them a light rosy pink. Gorgeous. “What…what about that drink?”

“Get me a pint of some good ole beer, sweetheart. Pretty please.”

“Mhm,” they nod, obviously flustered, and turn to disappear behind the curtain again. Swiss sighs—he really is exhausted—as he rests his chin on his fist, his other hand scratching at his stubble. Well, more like a beard, he didn’t have much time or opportunities to take care of it, so it’s a bit unkept now.

Soon enough the bar…person returns with Swiss’ beer and hands it to him with a light smile. “There you go.”

“Thank you kindly,” he mutters, nodding, before pressing his lips against the chilly mug and tipping it back. He moans at the refreshing feeling washing over him the moment beer pours into his mouth.

“Is it that good?” the person chuckles, leaning against the wall with their hands crossed over their chest. Their beautiful, full chest and it’s–Swiss shakes his head. He ain’t seen no tits in ages but he isn’t an animal, damnit.

“Nah,” he snorts before taking another gulp. “It’s piss, but I’ve been dry as a desert, sweetheart.”

The person curls their lips into a little amused smile and turns, grabbing the rag and starting to wipe the bar again. Swiss tries to not be obvious in his staring—looking from under the rim of his hat. The stranger is so captivating, he can’t tear his eyes away.

“Listen, I don’t mean any disrespect, sweetheart, but I’ve gotta ask–” Swiss starts after clearing his throat, but gets cut off. The other probably expected it to go that way.

“You’re the nicest person I’ve encountered in a long time,” they say with a smirk and Swiss bows his head, grinning. “Phrase your question as nicely and there’s a chance I won’t take out the revolver from under the bar and shoot your hat off.”

“Damn, sweetheart.” He recoils dramatically, raising his arms defensively. “You’re too pretty for me to offend, don’t ya worry.”

“So?”

“Are you a boy or a girl?” The question lands, but no offense shows on the person’s face. Swiss continues. “Cause if you’re a boy, then you’re the prettiest one I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a lot—and if you’re a girl, then…well, then you’re the prettiest one of those.”

“I’m a woman, kind sir,” she laughs, fully this time, and the melodic sound of it goest through Swiss’ ears right to his heart, “you haven’t proven yourself worthy of permission to call me a girl. Yet.”

“Understood. I'd love to try and prove my worth.” He winks and lifts the mug nodding, as if in a toast. “You’re a gorgeous woman, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I do understand the confusion, though, even my own body didn’t get the memo.” She sighs, fidgeting with her hands and worrying her lip between her teeth. Swiss gets a sudden urge to gently pull it free, lest she breaks the skin and paints her mouth with blood, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, they’ve just met. Swiss doesn’t know what possessed him.

“Huh, that’s so…” He mumbles, staring holes into the already rugged wood of the countertop. With the corner of his eye he sees the barmaid pull up a chair on the other side of the bar and sit on it, right before him.

“Unnatural?” she finishes for him, but her guess of his thoughts couldn’t be falser.

“No, I wanted to say it makes you unique. It’s amazing,” Swiss says—confident—looking up at her again. She is so much closer now and so many more details of her beauty are visible to the man, and if she’d let him he’d count all the golden freckles adorning her face a hundred times over.

“Oh…” she whispers. Swiss doesn’t count her freckles, but he does follow the path of a blush crawling up her cheeks. “Well, uhm, I don’t know. It doesn’t feel amazing most of the time.”

“That must be tough,” he replies, wondering. “Is it like…like you don’t feel right in your body? Like it’s not yours?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” she has no idea why she’s suddenly spilling her innermost thoughts to a stranger she has met not even half an hour prior. There is something about him, though, that makes her feel safe and maybe carries a chance of finally being understood. Even if just a bit. “And sometimes I just feel…wrong all around.”

Swiss hums in acknowledgement and leans down to his mug, swallowing down a few gulps. Once his mouth is unoccupied again, he asks, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“It’s Mountain,” the barmaid says, “but I prefer just Mounty.”

Swiss snorts at that, but immediately regrets it upon seeing Mounty’s brows furrow in confusion and her eyes fill with a tiny bit of hurt. “Sorry, sweetheart, I ain’t laughing at you! My horse’s name is Monty, that’s why!”

“Oh. Oh, okay,” she relaxes and chuckles, too, a bit embarrassed by her immediate defensiveness. “Yeah, that is funny.”

“Nice to meet you, Mounty.”

“Won’t you give me your name?” the barmaid’s eyelashes flutter and Swiss wouldn’t be able to refuse or lie to her even if he wanted to.

“Swiss, sweetheart,” he says, lifting up the mug again. “My name’s Swiss.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Swiss,” Mounty replies, her face lighting up with a soft smile, and if Swiss was standing it would make his knees buckle. Still, his insides warm up and twist and he’s never felt like that; so stupid and…vulnerable.

Swiss feels himself blush and he quickly hides behind his mug.

“Would you–” Mounty is about to ask him something, but a squeak of the doors and heavy steps interrupt her.

“Afternoon!” a stranger calls out, walking into the saloon as if it was his own ground. Swiss looks up at the barmaid and sees her tense up—her lips turn into a thin line and her brows furrow. She knows the man and she isn't fond of him in the slightest.

Swiss doesn’t like that look on her.

“Afternoon, sir,” Mounty mutters, standing up. The man doesn’t reply, just walks over and sits down by the bar next to Swiss. He is alert after Mounty’s reaction, one of his hands close to his gun.

“Get me some whiskey, girl,” the stranger grumbles, spitting the last word out like it burns his tongue, like an insult. Swiss realizes it is supposed to be one and the knot inside him tightens, this time with something resembling anger. How can someone treat such a gorgeous, brilliant and kind creature without utmost respect?

“Hey, she ain’t your girl,” Swiss hisses as Mounty disappears to get the man’s drink. He won’t sit there and pretend he is okay with what is happening right next to him. “Bark orders at your wife like that. If you even have one, it don’t seem like you’ve got a lot to offer.”

“Why do you care?” the stranger scoffs, “he’s a freak.”

One second Swiss is sitting relaxed, sipping on his beer, and then in the next he’s up with his back straight, looming over the other man and staring down at him with fire in his eyes.

“I suggest you either apologize to her when she gets back,” he growls, reaching behind himself, to his revolver, “or get out now so neither of us have to see your ugly face any more. Or else…”

“Or else what!? Ya one of them, too, hm?” the man—clearly an idiot—snarls, craning his neck to look up at Swiss, pretending to be brave. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had no balls on you.”

“Oh, I’ve got enough balls, asshole,” Swiss laughs and that seems to hit. He pulls his revolver out from behind his belt, twists it on his finger and watches the other man hesitate about his next words. “You wanna lose yours?”

The man scoffs as if there wasn’t fear in his eyes. He’s a coward and he storms out accordingly, because it’s unlikely he knows better than to actually challenge Swiss. He doubts he knows who he was.

Just as the man disappears outside, Mounty returns with a glass of whiskey intended for him. There’s no smile on her face and her rather neutral expression turns to confusion as she sees only Swiss by the bar. “Where did he go?”

“Oh, he realized he left something at home.” Swiss shrugs, returning to his stool.

“And what would that be?”

“Respect for women,” he says with a smirk and Mounty returns it, knowing and thankful. She sits again and looks at the glass in her hand before pressing it against her lips and cringing as she tips it back to drink. “Not a fan?”

“Not at all,” she coughs and Swiss chuckles. She is adorable. “All I drink is tea.”

“Tea is good,” he says and looks into his mug—there was still some beer left. He lifts it again and silence falls for a moment.

“You really are nice to talk to,” Mounty speaks after a while. “I get called a freak and other names all the time, usually the moment I come into someone’s view. It’s nice to be treated normally, have my feelings acknowledged…and be protected. You know?”

“I can only imagine.” Swiss smiles at her fondly. It must be hard living like that. Trying to live right by yourself and offending others by simply existing, just because they are too thick-skulled. If he could, he'd sit on that creaky chair every damn day and chase off every single man who'd as much as look at Mounty wrong.

It’s quiet again, Swiss finishing up his beer and Mounty drinking her whiskey—frowning at every single sip. They have just met, but the silence is comfortable. It feels like not only did they know each other for ages, but that they have a…special connection, of a kind.

Swiss snorts at his own thoughts. He’s stupid for them, for thinking this is anything more than…than what, exactly?

“A’ight, sweetheart,” he sighs after a moment, breaking the dead silence. “I should get going, find somewhere to sleep.”

“We’ve got beds,” Mounty perks up, immediately shying away as she realizes she might’ve been a bit too enthusiastic, “if you want…”

“I’d love a bed, but I don’t have much money,” the man shrugs. He’d rip anyone off without any remorse, but not her. He’s never gotten a soft spot for someone as fast as he did for her. “And I’d rather get a place for my horse than myself.”

“And if it’d all be on the house?”

“What, like me so much already you don’t want me to leave?” Swiss laughs, winking.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mounty scoffs, but her own wink says something else. “You’re clearly exhausted, who would I be if I let you go back on the road without a proper rest?”

“Will you at least accept my help in here and in the stables as a payment?”

“I can consider it,” she mumbles, smiling softly as she stares at Swiss through her lashes.

“Alright, then. I’ll stay, sweetheart.”

#hypnone writes #the band ghost #nameless ghouls #swiss ghoul #mountain ghoul #swissalps #hypnone's commissions #swissalps' sundown

110 notes · View notes