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petalsthorns · 1 month ago

Text

Ruined pt3

RDR2 universe

MDNI!

Pairing - John Marston/ofc (no name, referred to as she/her throughout)/Arthur Morgan

Kinks/warnings/tags - 18+ established relationship/fluff/smut/creampies/so many creampies/DP/anal/squirting/mfm threesome (eventually)/nothing sexual between John and Arthur/mild angst/yearning/boundary pushing/free use (kind of, they’re all just always ready to go)/tender smut/porn with plot

PT1 here

PT2 here

Ao3

"Ya think John would wanna to join us sometime?"

Arthur asked it casually, his voice low and even, like he was only half-serious—like this wasn’t a thought that had been haunting him for weeks.

She turned her head, curious, her cheeks already burning. He watched her carefully, gauging her reaction. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, still watching her, and she could see the heat simmering behind his eyes.

Arthur hadn’t been able to shake it since that first day she’d come to him, right after John had fucked her. He’d smelled John on her. Seen his spend still coating her, leaking onto his own cock as he thrust into her greedy, soaked cunt—it had made him rabid. And he had loved it more every time since.

"Both of you? Together?" She blinked, considering it carefully, her voice breathy at the thought, as though it hadn’t even occurred to her—which Arthur could hardly believe. The image had practically taken root in his mind; he found himself scarcely able to think of anything else.

She wasn’t sure John would go for it. But then again—John had surprised her. Surprised both of them. With his willingness, his eagerness, the way he seemed to enjoy the whole situation just as much as them.

Maybe it didn’t make him as feral as Arthur—but he’d wanted it. Wanted her, soaked in Arthur’s voice, filled with his permission. She’d never gone to John with Arthur’s come still inside her, but now she wondered what he’d do if she did.

"Sure," she said softly, her body thrumming, pulsing at the thought.

"If you want to... if he wants to."

Arthur didn’t let on just how much he wanted it. Didn’t say how often he thought about John taking her apart in front of him. He’d heard them by now—just a few times, when he made sure to linger nearby John’s tent on the nights he knew they were together.

At first, she and John had only been together when Arthur was away, but after he’d made it clear he was fine with it, John couldn’t seem to stop himself—he would have her every night if he could. During the days too, if he could come up with a reason for them to go off together, although sometimes he didn’t bother, sometimes they just slipped away, and Arthur knew what they were up to even if nobody else seemed to notice.

And Arthur loved it when she came to him right after. Her body still flushed, used, her cunt still wet and open, full of John, his smell all over her.

Later that night, Arthur had her pinned beneath him, kissing her hard, not letting her move, despite her desperate little whimpers, the soft grinding of her hips, seeking relief.

"Ya like the sound of that, darlin’?" he murmured against her mouth, continuing the conversation from earlier as though they had never stopped.

"Both of us?" His fingers slid down, grazing over her slick folds, pausing at her tight, hot core, making her whimper.

"Think ya could take us both at the same time?"

She shivered beneath him, so wrecked already she’d agree to anything. Arthur’s thick cock slid along her soaked cunt, gathering her slick, teasing her without giving in.

“Hmm?” he prompted, voice tight and rugged with restraint, “you want us both, one in each hole?”

She whimpered his name, and he knew she wanted it; but he wanted to hear her say it, wanted to hear the filth from her lips.

“Yes, yes I want that,”

That wasn’t good enough.

“What—tell me what ya want, sweetheart,” he was close to snapping, his voice barely more than a growl.

“I... I want you and John to fuck me at the same time... one—one in each hole,” she burned with the shame of saying it out loud, but Arthur loved it, the heat on her cheeks, the slick spilling over his fingers as he lined up and pressed his cock into her. He fucked her then, slow and deep, despite her desperation for him to move faster. Her sitting in his lap, her back pressed to his broad chest, his strong arms holding her open, wide, her thighs spread as he thrust up into her, steady and commanding.

She was gasping, her head lolled back onto his shoulder, his name breaking on her lips in little moans, and Arthur leaned into her neck, voice low and he growled;

"Imagine how full of us you'd be, darlin'..."

She could only whimper at his words.

****

John wondered, sometimes—did she wash in between seeing them? Did she slip down to the lake, to the edge of the water, and scrub herself clean, try to erase any trace of him before going to Arthur? Because it didn’t always seem like it.

He imagined her going to Arthur flushed, worn out, wrecked—her thighs still sticky, the smell of him all over her. John thought about it, feeling possessive and proud and—turned on. He thought about Arthur fucking her while she was still full of him.

Did Arthur mind? Did he like it? Did it turn him on, the way the thought did John?

He wasn’t sure at first. Even thinking it had made his stomach twist—shame and arousal knotted together. But the more he thought about it, the more the image stuck. The more he wanted to know. To know if he was still inside her while she was being taken apart again. His spend dripping out of her while Arthur filled her all over again.

Jesus. He wanted to feel it, too, he realised. His cheeks burned at the thought—the idea of even saying it aloud made his whole body flush with heat. Could he ask for something like that? Was it too far? He didn’t know.

Arthur was away again.

Gone off on another job, another few days out somewhere dangerous and dirty, and John always looked forward to these times.

Sure, he could be with her when Arthur was around now, that line had long been crossed and burned behind them. Arthur had said it was fine.

And it was; but still, she always went back to Arthur’s tent afterward. Always curled up in his bed, tucked against his chest when the camp finally went quiet. She only ever spent the whole night with John when Arthur was away.

And John tried—really tried—not to let it bother him. But God, he loved it. Loved having her to himself, knowing she’d still be there when he woke. Loved falling asleep with her skin still warm against his, her scent all over him, her thighs still sticky with him, her moans still in his ears. He loved knowing that he could have her again in the morning.

He loved knowing that if he woke first, he could just lie there and look at her—soft and bare in the early light, breathing slow, her lashes resting gently on her rosy cheeks.

Loved knowing that he could ease the blanket back, as gently as he could, and open her legs with his big hands, slow and careful. And kiss her inner thighs. Softly at first, listening to her whimper, low in her sleep, her hips shifting. Watching her body respond, her cunt pulsing, clenching around nothing, the slick gathering between her legs.

She’d moan softly, eyes still closed, until he finally sucked her swollen clit into his mouth, and—then she’d wake. A broken gasp escaping her lips, back arching as awareness rushed in. John would move over her then, careful but greedy, dragging his heavy, aching cock along her soaked slit.

Pressing into her while she was still dazed, still sleep-warm and boneless, her body welcoming him before her mind even caught up. She’d whimper his name, the first word she could form, struggling to adjust, barely able to focus, and he’d shush her, kissing her deep, slow, loving, tender.

John had been out, away from camp all day. Nothing serious—just gathering information, something Dutch wanted. Turned out easier than expected. Funny how loose-lipped folks got after a few whiskies and a friendly game of cards.

Still, it had kept him away, and that was the part that mattered. He’d fucked her just the night before—hard and lazy, taking his time with her like he always did when he had all night to enjoy her.

But he’d had to leave early, damn early, with her still curled up in his bed, her limbs tangled in his blanket, the soft lines of her body lit by the faintest trace of morning light. He’d stood there a minute too long, aching with the want to crawl back in beside her.

To slide his aching cock between her bare thighs, press it into the slick wetness that always lingered there after he had her. To rut against her soft backside until he was spilling across her skin and groaning into her neck. But he hadn’t. He’d kissed her temple and left her sleeping.

She was at the water’s edge when he got back, twilight falling fast, the sky painted in streaks of gold and bruised purple. He didn’t say anything at first, just went and stood beside her, struck a match, lit a cigarette.

They looked out over the lake together, the silence comfortable, thick with something unsaid. She turned to him, her expression warm, lit by the soft dying light, and held herself back from reaching for him.

Camp still didn’t know. Not openly. Sure, some of them suspected. There were looks, glances exchanged, whispered words when either of them lingered too long by the fire together getting coffee or returned from the woods looking too flushed to have simply been for a walk. But nothing spoken aloud.

And they liked it that way, she, John and Arthur. This secret thing, something just for them.

"You're back," she smiled, her hand brushing his.

She caught his thumb, gently, absently, and John felt his heart swell so fast it made him dizzy. He nodded once, exhaling smoke between his teeth, and then—

"Let’s go to the meadow tonight." His voice was rough, thick with need.

She stilled for just a moment, and then she looked at him—because she knew what that meant. John wanted real privacy. Not the half-quiet restraint in a tent near too many others. Not his rough hand clamped over her mouth when she moaned too loud. Not a rushed fuck between chores. John wanted space. He wanted to make her cry out and he wanted to hear it.

Her breath caught, her grip on his thumb tightened, and she nodded.

"Okay."

****

She was waiting for him, nestled in the tall grass of the meadow, the soft hum of cicadas all around, night jasmine blooming nearby, its scent heady in the warm evening air.

When John saw her, he didn’t approach right away. He stayed in the shadows, watching her—the curve of her back, the way she leaned just slightly, looking up at the stars, her fingers trailing through the grass beside her.

And God, his heart pounded hard against his ribs. Would he ever get used to how she made him feel? Would he ever stop feeling like she had undone something inside him he hadn’t even known was knotted up? He’d almost told her—so many times now.

"I love you," had risen, burning in his throat, right there on the tip of his tongue, his heart pounding against his ribs. When she was tucked against his chest, breathing slow and safe, her lashes fluttering against his bare skin. When he had brought her to the edge twice, three times in a row and she was coming down from that mindless, teary high, as he cradled her and lavished her with kisses and praise, and she was just regaining the ability to speak and all she could say was his name over and over.

The words sat in his chest like a weight. Burning in his throat, heavy and golden like honey; he didn’t know if he would ever find the courage to say it, because the thought of her not saying it back? That would break him.

He watched her for a moment longer, the moon illuminating her, glowing under the stars, and then he finally stepped forward.

She beamed when she saw him, the kind of smile that knocked the air from his lungs. He sank down into the long grass beside her, and without a word, he took her in his arms and kissed her. Slow. Tender. He was better at that now—slowing down, savouring it, but he wasn’t any less desperate.

His need just lived deeper now, rooted down inside him, always there. John pressed her back into the grass, her hair fanning out around her like a halo in the moonlight, and he kissed her again, deeper this time. His hands roamed over her chest, grazing the fabric of her blouse, pausing at her throat, his rough fingers dragging over her skin—electric.

Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric, and he slipped his hand inside, cupping her, feeling the heat of her breast in his palm. He pinched her nipple gently, rolling the bud between his fingers, and she gasped into his kiss—her legs parting, just a little, her hips already starting to shift beneath him. Desperate to be touched there; but John could make her wait. If only for a little while.

She pulled him closer, greedy for him, one hand tangled in his dark hair, the other sliding down, palming the hard length of his cock through his jeans. He groaned, the sound low and feral, and ground himself into her. Shit, she barely had to touch him, and he was aching—sometimes he thought his self-control was so much better, and then she touched him, kissed him, and he realised he was just as desperate for her as ever.

He kissed her throat, the tender column of skin warm beneath his mouth, and she tilted her head instinctively, giving him more. John mouthed his way lower, his lips dragging down to her chest, over the curve of her breasts. He moved his hot mouth over her clothed nipples, sucking them through the material, his tongue wetting the thin fabric until it clung to her skin, translucent.

She whimpered, her hand faltering on his cock, fingers slackening as the sensation overwhelmed her, her other hand clinging to his shoulder like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

John reached down, sliding his hand beneath her gathered skirts, calloused fingers pressing her thighs apart. She gasped his name, nodding desperately, her hips shifting, chasing the promise of his touch, trying to guide him to where she needed him most.

But he didn’t give in, didn’t touch her there yet. Instead, he teased, his rough hand tracing the soft, plush flesh of her inner thighs, brushing close but never close enough, making her squirm. She tried to reach down between her own thighs, desperate, but John stopped her, one big hand gripping both of her wrists easily. He kissed her hard then, like it would burn through him otherwise.

"You want it, darlin’?" he whispered, voice rough with need. Like he didn’t already know the answer.

“Please, John,” she whimpered. He kissed her again then, swallowing her pleas, his own need growing, denying himself just as much as he was denying her. He turned into her, the weight of his body pressing down, and his cock—thick, hard, straining in his jeans—ground against her hip. He rutted there, slow and frustrated, chasing just a little relief, a little friction, as he whispered against her skin—

"That’s right, sweetheart," he growled against her lips, his voice dark and feral. "Beg."

She shivered beneath him, struggling to find words through the haze of her arousal, her breath catching in her throat.

"Please, John… touch me. Please, I’ll... do anything, I—I need you to touch me."

Her voice cracked, her hands clutching at his shirt, desperate.

"More," he said, his voice rough, commanding.

He rutted against her now in earnest, his thick cock grinding into the curve of her hip, so close, the pressure maddening—but still not there, not where she needed him.

"I need to feel you inside me—please. Please, John—"

Her voice was thick with want, barely coherent, her eyes glassy, bright with tears, the desperation spilling from her with every trembling word. God, he loved her like this.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice low and rough—thick with lust. His fingers just barely grazed her swollen, slick lips, enough to make her gasp, a broken, wrecked sound from deep in her throat. Her hips jerked forward, chasing the touch—desperate now, needing more.

But he withdrew immediately, pulling his hand back and landing a sharp slap to the soft inside of her thigh. Not too hard. But hard enough. Hard enough to send a shockwave through her, a jolt of pleasure-pain that made her cry out, her breath catching as she arched, her body already trembling.

He knew how much she loved it when he got like this—commanding, a little rough, completely in control. It hadn’t taken him long to figure it out. The way her eyes would glaze over, soft, dreamy as she looked at him like he had hung the moon. The way her body would go slack, pliant beneath him, her breath catching in little gasps, her mouth open like she’d forgotten how to speak. And her cunt—Jesus. Her cunt would be soaked, glistening in the low light, clenching around nothing, absolutely starving for him.

He could never keep it going for long, his own desperation matching hers, but he loved it; loved seeing her fall apart just from his voice—from the threat of his hand, from the way he held her down and made her beg.

In that moment, the words came out before he could stop them, without even thinking, as if it was the most natural thing in the world;

“Tell me darlin’—does Arthur ever fuck ya right after me?”

She looked at him then, blushing deeper than he thought possible, her full lips parted on the words that she could barely speak. She nodded instead, mute beneath him, and he slipped one thick finger into her, rewarding her, barely able to contain his own arousal at the thought. She gasped, her cunt soaked, the heat of her clutching around him, her body welcoming him like it always did.

“He fucks ya when you’re full of my come?” he bit out, voice ragged with need now.

“Yes,”

“Fuck—” John’s mind went blank then, the heat of his arousal snapping something in him. He moved on top of her, yanking at his belt buckle. She reached down to help him, fumbling with his jeans and her own skirts desperately, both gasping with need.

The scent of jasmine blossoms mixed with the thick, heady musk of their arousal, hanging in the air like something sacred and sinful. John barely got his cock free from his jeans before he was pressing the swollen head into her slick folds—soaked and ready. Her body welcomed him, gave way so perfectly, her heat pulling him in like she’d been waiting for him all day.

He groaned, the stretch, the slick slide of her taking him deep nearly too much to bear. His hand moved up, still wet from where he’d touched her, his fingers glistening—and then, without hesitation, he pressed them into her open, gasping mouth, slipping them inside, coating her tongue with the taste of her own need.

She moaned, eyes fluttering shut, lips closing eagerly around his fingers, greedily, like she loved it. She sucked, savoured, and John thrust into her, hard, his cock sinking all the way in, bottoming out as she swallowed around his fingers.

The image burned in John’s mind—her ruined cunt, stretched and soaked, full of him—and then Arthur, fucking into the mess they'd made, not stopping, not hesitating, claiming her right after John had. The filth of it made his whole body tremble. He pulled his fingers from her mouth then, moving his hand down to cup her full breast.

“Come to me next time," he bit out, voice strained, wrecked, barely aware of what he was even saying now.

"Come—come to me after Arthur fucks you."

She whimpered against his chest, her mouth hot and desperate, her lips against his skin like she needed it to breathe. She nodded, frantic, gasping yes, yes, anything.

And then she broke, her slick flooding him, coating his balls, her cunt gripping him tight, fluttering in waves as her orgasm crashed through her, helpless and shattering.

John groaned, eyes squeezed shut, his hips grinding into her, chasing the feel of her clenching, pulsing around him like she never wanted to let him go. He pressed his face against her throat, his mouth open, panting, tasting her damp skin—salt and heat and her. His thrusts turned sloppy, messy, hips stuttering as he lost his rhythm, chasing that final, desperate edge.

"Fuck—" he gasped, breaking as his body took over, as the heat swelled and snapped.

He buried himself deep, cock twitching, pulsing, spilling his thick seed into her in hot, aching waves. And in his mind—she was already ruined. Already soaked with Arthur’s come, stretched and wrecked, her cunt still full and slick with it—and he was just reclaiming her.

Filling her again, claiming the mess as his, making sure she carried him too. His arms tightened around her, pressed close as he fucked her through it, whispering her name, kissing her throat, his whole body trembling from the force of it. She was everything.

Afterwards, they lay side by side in the long grass, bodies still warm and flushed, breath slowly evening out as the hum of cicadas surrounded them, the night sky stretching endless above.

She nestled close, her cheek against his chest, and then she turned her face, lips brushing against the salt-slick curve of his throat.

"You really want that, John?" she whispered, quiet now, not teasing—asking. He felt her kiss his skin, soft and sweet, and his cock stirred all over again, twitching against his thigh.

She wanted to be sure, wanted to know it wasn’t just something said in the heat of the moment. He swallowed hard and nodded, shame and heat colouring his cheeks, but he forced himself to look at her.

"I do… if you do."

She kissed him, slow, tender—like she knew, like she could feel the need trembling in him.

"I do," she said simply. And then—"Arthur loves it."

John’s breath caught. He waited—needing her to go on. He could already feel himself growing hard again, just from her words, from the tone in her voice.

"Sometimes he fingers me right after I’ve been with you and—" she faltered, her cheeks flaming, but she pushed through, voice shaking—"he makes me suck it off his fingers."

John’s cock ached, straining against his jeans, his throat dry.

"He does?" he growled.

She nodded, flushed but unashamed, her eyes locked with his now, so close.

"Sometimes he just likes to fuck me though," she said, voice low and breathy, as John’s cock pulsed. "He says he likes to fill me up again… he likes to see it on his cock."

John snapped. He couldn't hold back another second. He shoved his jeans down again and rolled over her, pinned her roughly beneath him. And before she could register it, he was already pressing into her, thick and ruthless, his cock sliding into the mess he’d left inside her. Her gasp was swallowed by his mouth, but then he pulled back, needing to see. He leaned back and watched—his own come slicking his thick length as he pushed in, the stretch obscene, lewd, beautiful.

John imagined it was Arthur’s spend, dripping from her ruined cunt. His cock coated in it.

It didn’t take long.

Not with her gasping beneath him again, her legs wrapped tight around his hips, her nails biting into his shoulders, whimpering his name. Just talking about it had them both half-feral, and now she was clenching around him again, soaked and slippery, begging in broken gasps that only made him thrust harder.

John’s head dropped, his breath ragged, face pressed into her neck as she came, again, her body shaking, cunt milking him like she needed everything he had.

And then—he saw stars. His orgasm hit him hard, all the tension and hunger and dirty, desperate fantasy crashing over him at once. He moaned her name low and shattered, fucking her through it, his cock twitching as he filled her again, thick and deep.

And as they lay there afterward, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat—John felt something unexpected curl in his gut. Anticipation. Christ, he was actually looking forward to Arthur being back.

****

The next morning, she stirred slowly, her body deliciously sore, her skin still humming from the night before. John’s tent was warm, filled with soft golden light, and the familiar scent of him. When she turned her head, she paused to look at him, handsome even in sleep, his dark hair messy, falling over his brow, his broad chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of dreams.

His arm was draped over her loosely, possessive even in slumber. She smiled, curling into him and felt it. His cock. Hard. Thick and hot, nestled between them. Of course. She had never known him to wake up without an erection.

She moved gently, shifting down, careful not to wake him. Her thighs were still slick, she was still swollen, and the scent beneath the covers was heady—the mingled perfume of sex and skin and belonging.

She peeled the blanket back slowly, reverently, exposing him of him to the warm morning air. He shifted slightly, rolling onto his back, one strong arm falling to his side—perfect. She just looked at him for a moment. The strength of him.

The weight of his cock, resting thick and flushed on his stomach, already leaking, the dark thatch of hair beneath, the sight making her mouth water. She leaned forward, unable to help herself, and licked a slow stripe along the shaft, tasting the salt of his skin, the musk of the night before still clinging to him.

Her tongue swirled gently at the head, catching the bead of precum there—John stirred, a quiet sound catching in his throat, hips shifting, but he didn’t wake.

She moaned softly, around the head of his cock as she sucked him into her mouth, her hand slipping between her own legs to soothe the deep ache building there, slick fingers spreading herself open. His cock pulsed against her tongue, another drop of precum coating her tastebuds, and her own thighs trembling in response.

With one last flick of her tongue, she let him slip free from her mouth, and then climbed over him, straddling his hips, guiding him to the heat of her slick core. Slowly, so carefully. She wanted him to wake up inside her. To open his eyes and find her there, already full of him.

Her fingers wrapped around him gently, guiding him to where she was already soaked and swollen, pulsing with anticipation. She pressed the head of his cock to her heat, breathing deeply as she adjusted to the sensation of him there—right there.

John’s breath caught. Her gaze flicked up and met his.

He was awake, pupils blown and eyes heavy-lidded with lust, lips parted as he looked up at her like she was something holy. His hands rose, hesitant and warm, settling on her hips as if he didn’t want to break the spell.

Then he sat up, just enough to catch her mouth in a kiss—soft, reverent, almost disbelieving—and at the same time she let herself sink down onto him, inch by aching inch. The kiss broke with a shared gasp, his head falling back to the pillow as her body took him in, her thighs trembling slightly with the stretch. His eyes dropped to watch where their bodies met, where she took him in so slowly, so deeply.

“Ah… good girl,” he murmured, voice thick with awe.

Her brow furrowed at the pressure—she was still tender from the night before, her cunt still swollen from the way he’d taken her again and again, pushing her to the edge of overstimulation until she could barely form a thought that wasn’t his name.

John held her there, hands steady at her hips, letting her take what she needed, his chest rising fast beneath her hands. He watched her face, brow furrowed at the ache, the pleasure as she sank down, taking him entirely, and he gasped.

He pulled her against him then, unable to hold back a moment longer. The quiet morning air filled with the startled, breathy sound she made—a soft mix between a gasp and a laugh of pure, startled pleasure.

But it shifted quickly, turned into something needier, deeper. A broken moan, swallowed against his neck as he held her tight and began to move with real intent. He thrust up into her, slow and sure, using the strength in his arms to rock her body against his. She clung to him, her nails catching at his shoulders, her head tipped back.

His face buried against her flushed chest, his mouth brushing over her skin—soft, reverent, like he was whispering a prayer with every kiss.

The scent, the heat, the everything of her. And then—suddenly, without thinking, without meaning to say it out loud—

"God, I—I love you."

It broke out of him like it had been there all along, tucked behind every kiss, every gasp, every moment they’d stolen together.

There was barely a breath between them before her reply came, breathless and true, her voice trembling with feeling as she panted—

"I love you too, John."

His orgasm tore through him like a wave—sudden, unstoppable—as if her words, those three simple words, had been the final push he didn’t even know he needed. She loved him. The pleasure hit hard, sharp and overwhelming, but tangled up in it was something else, something deeper.

Relief. Raw, aching joy. It burst out of him in a sound he couldn’t contain—something between a sob and a moan, her name spilling from his lips like a prayer, like a plea, like something that had always belonged to her.

John held her like he might fall apart otherwise—his arms locked around her, his face buried in her neck, his body shaking as the last pulses of release wracked through him.

And all the while, she held him right back, whispering his name, grounding him, anchoring him to her—soft and sure.

****

John had left earlier that day, lingering at the edge of camp with her tucked into his arms, both of them hidden from view. He kissed her like he couldn’t stop himself—slow and deep, as though it might have to last him days. And then, just before he turned to go, he said it again.

“I love you.”

He couldn’t seem to stop saying it now that it had been said once. It felt right each time, blooming in his chest like sunlight breaking through fog.

And when she kissed him back—smiling, cheeks flushed, whispering the words in return—he felt like the world could burn and he wouldn’t care, not as long as she kept looking at him like that.

She’d worked hard that afternoon. A newer horse had come in wild, skittish, all hooves and fury, and she’d been the only one patient enough to coax it into stillness. By the time evening fell, she was worn out and glowing with that quiet pride she always had after calming something wild.

So when Arthur returned not long after nightfall, she was already asleep in their tent—curled beneath the blanket, her hair loose around her face, soft breaths rising and falling in rhythm.

He stepped inside quietly, removing his gunbelt and setting it aside before sitting beside her, careful not to wake her.

She stirred anyway, always so attuned to him. Her eyes fluttered open as he eased himself down beside her, and without a word, she turned into his arms. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, warm and grounding.

She looked up at him and smiled sleepily before pulling him into a long, tender kiss—one that tasted like home and safety and something deeper still.

“How’s it been?” he asked softly, brushing his fingers through the loose strands of her hair.

There was a pause. Then—

“John told me he loves me,” she said, voice quiet, steady. She never kept anything from Arthur—especially not things that mattered. Still, she hesitated, watching his face, unsure how it would land.

But Arthur only nodded, unsurprised.

He’d known. Of course he had. Ever since that morning at the lake with John, when the younger man he considered a brother could barely look him in the eye. Arthur had seen it too, in the way John moved around her, the way he softened, the way he lingered.

“And how do ya feel about him?” he asked, his tone even, without accusation.

She regarded him carefully, those wide, dark, doe-eyes of hers burning into his, so innocent yet so knowing, so full of love.

“I told him I love him too.”

Arthur listened, waiting for the familiar bite of jealousy, the heat of anger—but nothing came. He’d thought it might. Had half-prepared himself for it. But there was only a quiet acceptance, and something else blooming in its place—fondness, deep and calm. For her. And, more surprising still, for John.

“Ya still love me?” he asked then, teasing, a beat beneath it—something real, a softness never shown to anyone but her. His hand cupped her cheek, rough thumb brushing over her soft skin.

“Always, Arthur. Always,” she said seriously, her voice thick with truth as she cradled his face in both hands, kissing the line of his jaw. The words landed heavy in his chest—in a way that grounded him, steady and sure.

He kissed her, slow and reverent. Then he smiled against her lips and said low, voice just a little rough:

“Ya gonna tell me else you and John got up to while I was gone?”

Her cheeks flushed, but the smile that tugged at her lips was unmistakable. And Arthur’s hand crept higher, slow but deliberate, warm and calloused against the soft skin of her thigh. She shivered under his touch, breath catching slightly as his fingers skimmed just shy of where she ached for him most.

He watched her closely, eyes hooded and dark, and so, so blue; his attention so focused she felt like the only thing in the world. He kissed her warm cheeks, soft, chaste, and she fisted her hands in his shirt.

“So,” he murmured, voice low, “you gonna tell me, darlin’?”

She swallowed, her cheeks already flushed, her voice quiet and thick with feeling.

“He… asked me,” she began, “if you ever… touched me after him.”

Arthur’s brow arched, his hand pausing, curling gently into her hair. “Did he?”

She nodded, the memory vivid, John’s voice still raw in her mind. “He asked if you ever fucked me right after he had,” she swallowed thickly; “and I told him the truth.”

Arthur’s eyes flickered, the barest flash of something—possessive, hungry, delighted.

“He couldn’t hold back after that,” she admitted, her voice faltering slightly as Arthur’s hand moved again, brushing over her damp heat through the thin fabric of her underthings. “It turned him on—a lot.”

Arthur huffed a soft, knowing sound, his touch growing firmer, but still maddeningly slow.

“And then?” he asked, almost a whisper now, his voice rough with want.

She bit her lip, eyes bright and wide, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“He… he said he wanted it too. To have me right after you. Said he wanted me to come to him full of you—so he could...”

Arthur’s breath left him in a slow, low groan, and his fingers finally slipped past the barrier of her underthings, finding her slick and waiting. His other hand cupped her face, holding her gaze before he dipped down and growled against her skin.

“Christ, darlin’… you tell him he can have that?”

She gasped, hips shifting instinctively toward his hand, already so wrecked from the memory, from telling him, from the idea of what the two of them wanted.

“I—I told him yes,” she breathed. “If you wanted it, too.”

Arthur kissed her hard then, fingers working slow and deep, and every ounce of restraint he had was slipping fast. Because hell—hell, he wanted it.

****

She went to John just as he had asked—still full of Arthur, dripping with him.

He had taken his time with her that afternoon, pulling her apart slowly, whispering filthy things into her ear as he worked her open again and again. He’d filled her twice before he finally let her go, his voice low and pleased as he murmured, “That’s it, good girl. Gotta make sure you’re real full for him, huh?”

And now there she was—barely twenty minutes later—still aching, her thighs sticky with Arthur’s spend, her body flushed and raw from being used so well.

She didn’t even get a word out when John saw her. He pulled her into his lap like a man starved, his mouth already on hers, desperate, greedy. His hands were under her skirts in seconds, pushing them up around her hips, and when his fingers found her—hot, soaked, filthy—he groaned out loud.

“Christ,” he rasped against her mouth, his voice hoarse and shaking. “He just… he just left you like this?”

She nodded, gasping softly, squirming in his lap. She was still so sensitive, her skin tingling from the brush of his fingers, and she could feel how hard he already was beneath her, straining against his jeans.

John pressed his face to her throat, inhaling the scent of her—of Arthur on her—and he couldn’t explain it, not really. But the sight of her like this—marked, swollen, streaked with the slick mess Arthur had left behind—drove him completely mad.

The bruises blooming on her thighs from Arthur’s grip, the raw skin on her neck where his stubble had rasped over her—the evidence of what they’d done—it undid him.

And when he pushed inside her, slowly at first, he felt it. The slick resistance, the stretch, the way she trembled under him—his cock sliding through the thick, wet mess already inside her.

“Jesus—fuck,” he breathed, brow pressed to hers. “You’re so—full. So wrecked.”

And she was. Still gasping, still fluttering around him, so sensitive from earlier that every slow thrust felt like too much; her raw, aching cunt so thoroughly used that every slick thrust was delicious agony.

He fucked her slow, at first. Reclaiming her. Worshipping her.

And then he couldn’t stop.

He filled her again and again, gripping her hips, pulling her down onto him with a hunger that bordered on reverence, until he was panting her name like a confession. Like a promise.

When they finally collapsed together, tangled and exhausted, her body flushed and trembling in the afterglow, she lay with her head on his chest. And then she spoke.

“Arthur… asked if we’d ever want to do it. All three of us.”

John froze, just for a second.

She didn’t push. She simply traced her fingers softly against his skin, letting him sit with the idea.

He didn’t speak. But she could feel it—the way his heart sped up beneath her cheek, the way his cock twitched again, even now, spent as he was.

And when she looked up at him, she saw it in his eyes.

The thought had taken root.

A slow, searing kind of hunger burned there—conflicted, maybe, but undeniable.

Arthur had awakened something in all of them. He’d seen it before any of them could say it out loud—had sensed that part of her that wanted to be taken, claimed, shared. That part of John that craved to possess, to give, to belong.

And what began as lust… was something else now, something more. And they were all already in too deep to ever go back.

****

It was late when she went to get John.

The camp was mostly quiet by then, the fire down to embers, the sounds of night taking over—the low drone of crickets, the occasional rustle of canvas. She made her way to his tent slowly, her heart beating steady and deep in her chest.

John was waiting.

He sat on the edge of his cot, hands resting on his thighs, head bowed slightly. He looked up as she entered, eyes dark and unsure, and the moment they locked eyes, something in her softened. He was nervous. Of course he was.

So was she.

Arthur hadn’t seemed nervous when she’d left him a few moments before—he never did. He’d kissed her slow and deep and murmured simply, “Go get John.”

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was. Maybe it was natural now—this strange, tender gravity between the three of them.

She went to John without a word, climbing gently into his lap, straddling his thighs, her hands sliding to the sides of his face as she kissed him—soft, grounding. He let out a breath like he’d been holding it since sunset, burying his face in her shoulder for a long, quiet second.

Her chest rose and fell against his cheek, warm and steady.

“You still wanna do this?” she asked, her voice soft, but serious.

John nodded, but couldn’t speak right away. He just held her tighter, his hands gripping her thighs like he needed the anchor. She kissed his forehead, then tilted his face up to kiss him properly—slow and open-mouthed, her lips coaxing him into the moment.

They stood together, hand in hand, and walked across the camp to she and Arthur’s more secluded tent, tucked deeper in the woods. It felt like a dream, like the air had thickened around them.

Arthur was waiting.

He sat on the edge of the bedroll, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled, calm as ever—but his eyes followed their every movement. He said nothing as they stepped in. The air buzzed with quiet tension.

Then Arthur lifted a hand toward her, beckoning, and she went to him immediately, letting go of John’s hand reluctantly.

John watched as she crossed the tent to Arthur and settled between his knees. Arthur kissed her then—slow and sure—and it wasn’t for show. It was real. John could see the way she melted into it, could hear the soft, breathy noise she made against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur’s hands slid over her hips, up her sides, one stopping at her neck while the other disappeared beneath her blouse.

John’s chest tightened, his breath catching.

Arthur broke the kiss and murmured something low against her ear that John couldn’t hear, and then, with one hand on her lower back, he pushed her gently toward John.

Her cheeks were flushed, her lips kiss-swollen, and when she turned toward John again, she was glowing.

He reached for her, and she went to him, and his hands found her waist, pulling her close, and then she was kissing him—urgent, needing—like they were trying to catch up to something already set in motion.

Arthur leaned back slightly, watching.

Not with judgement, but with hunger.

Arthur moved in closer while John kissed her, until she was cushioned between the two of them—held in place, adored, devoured.

She let out a soft, pleased sound when she felt him at her back, his body warm and solid, his hands roaming her curves with practiced ease. He brushed her hair aside, exposing the delicate slope of her neck, and kissed her there—then lower, onto her shoulder, soft lips against softer skin.

She clung to John as they kissed, her hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt, but she was pressing back into Arthur too, her soft backside grinding unconsciously against his growing hardness. Arthur groaned at the contact, low and feral, and reached for the corseted ties at the back of her dress, tugging slowly to loosen them.

While Arthur worked at undressing her, John’s mouth found her neck, then her collarbones, then lower—kissing the tops of her breasts as they spilled free. Her chest rose and fell rapidly between them, already overwhelmed by the sensation of two sets of hands, two mouths—devotion from both sides. Her lips parted, a breathless whimper escaping her.

Arthur tugged at her skirts, pulling them down and away, guiding her body back against his as she leaned forward slightly, bent just enough to kiss John more deeply. Arthur’s eyes were locked on the sight of her, the way she offered herself so openly to both of them—so good for them.

He couldn’t help himself.

A sharp slap rang out as his palm met the soft curve of her bare backside, the sound delicious and shameless in the warm tent. She gasped, a little shocked at the sting—but then whimpered, high and appreciative. John groaned too, the sight of it nearly undoing him.

Arthur leaned in, his voice gravel and fire. “Be a good girl and take care of John, now.”

She moaned at the praise, already sinking to her knees between them, and her fingers went to John’s jeans immediately, working them open with the eagerness of someone long past shame. John caught Arthur’s eye as she moved—expecting something like hesitation, or tension.

But Arthur was calm. Commanding. His blue eyes were dark and steady, filled with hunger, yes, but also with certainty. His hand lingered on the fresh pink print on her skin, and with the other, he reached down between her thighs.

She gasped again when his fingers found her slickness—soaked and wanting—and John heard it, the wet sounds of her arousal as Arthur dragged his fingers through it from behind, and she blushed at the sound.

John’s head fell back for just a second, eyes squeezing shut at the intensity of his own arousal. Then he looked down again, just as she freed him from his jeans. Jesus Christ, he was about to lose his mind. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of seeing her like this.

On her knees between his strong thighs, looking up at him with those soft, reverent eyes like he was something sacred—something worthy. Her hands, so sure and eager now, wrapped around his length, guiding him toward her mouth with that same gentle precision she used for everything she loved.

She tasted him like she craved him—and John’s head fell back as her plush, wet lips wrapped around him, slowly swallowing him inch by aching inch. The sight of his cock disappearing between those perfect lips… God. It was almost as good as the feeling itself. Almost.

Arthur watched from behind, unmoving for a moment, letting himself take it in.

Her flushed body bent forward, her mouth stretched wide around John's cock, her hands steady despite the tremble in her thighs—he could see how hard she was trying to stay focused, to be good, even as she moaned around John at the weight of Arthur’s gaze on her.

Arthur’s cock was throbbing, painfully hard against the seam of his jeans, but that could wait. He kneeled behind her, one strong hand moving to her soft inner thigh to spread her open, to hold her there, wide and waiting for him. He sank one finger into the slick, velvety heat, and then another, thick and sure.

She squirmed at the sensation, whimpering around John’s cock as Arthur worked his fingers deep, curling them in just the right way, his mouth lowering to kiss the small of her back, the swell of her hips, anywhere he could reach as she began to fall apart.

She tried—God, she tried—to stay focused. To keep sucking, to please John the way she always did. But her rhythm faltered with each thrust of Arthur’s fingers, and John looked down to see her eyes fluttering, her cheeks hollowing around him as she moaned again.

“Jesus,” John groaned, his hands tangling in her hair, hips twitching helplessly. “She’s—fuck—she’s perfect.”

Arthur’s voice was low behind her, husky with praise and possession.

“She’s gonna come like this,” he said, fingers pumping into her, slick and filthy. “With your cock in her mouth. Ain’t that right, darlin’?”

And she nodded, the motion just barely there, her mouth still full, her moans getting more frantic. Arthur watched her, eyes dark, hand slick with her arousal, and he knew she was already close.

He held her steady, firm and unrelenting, his thick fingers working her with practiced precision. The small space was filled with the sounds of her soft, desperate moans, the filthy, wet sounds Arthur was coaxing from her soaked cunt, and John’s breathless groans.

She turned her head slightly, unable to keep sucking, her lips parting in a broken gasp as her cheek pressed against the slick length of John’s cock. She gripped him like a lifeline, her eyes blown wide and glassy with pleasure, and then—

“I—I’m gonna—” she whimpered.

And she shattered, her whole body jerking as her orgasm crashed over her, her thighs quivering around Arthur’s hand. Her eyes fluttered shut, mouth open in a silent cry as she came around his fingers, the sound of it—the sheer, wet magnitude of it—almost enough to finish John right then and there.

Arthur didn’t stop—just eased her through it, murmuring softly against her skin, praising her in that gravel-deep voice of his.

“That’s it, baby... so good for us.”

John could barely speak, his voice tight and reverent as he reached down and stroked her flushed cheek and whispered, “good girl,”

She was still limp with aftershocks, her breath coming in soft pants, when Arthur moved to unbutton his shirt; John eagerly following suit, before Arthur repositioned her between them—her body boneless, glowing, completely open to whatever they gave her. Arthur trailed kisses over her chest, her breasts, before leaning in and kissing her deeply, unbothered by where her mouth had just been. It made John pause for only a second—only until he saw her melt under the kiss.

His cock twitched at the sight, and he moved in closer, reaching down between her thighs, fingers gliding through her arousal, still soaked from the orgasm Arthur had drawn from her. He could feel how sensitive she still was—how raw and open. He loved feeling it, what they did to her. Watching Arthur pull her apart like that had been unreal.

Arthur was unbuttoning his jeans now, shifting so he was kneeling beside her, his thick cock flushed and leaking, already waiting. He moved forward so she could reach him—and like it was instinct, like it was routine, she opened her mouth, tongue out, and took him between her lips.

Arthur groaned low; one big, rough hand curled into the soft waves of her hair. His eyes met John’s over her flushed, gasping form.

“Get her real wet down there, Marston,” he said roughly, the command laced with pure need. “She’s gonna need to be.”

The words hit John like lightning. Of course. Of course they’d be taking her together. At the same time. He nodded, breathless, as his mind raced to keep up with the haze of lust. The reality of it—what Arthur was offering—what she wanted—it nearly overwhelmed him.

He moved down between her thighs, spreading her wide. She whimpered around Arthur’s cock but didn’t stop, her body trembling as she felt John's hot breath on her cunt. He kissed her, her soft skin, the plush flesh of her inner thighs, moving closer and closer, until he was kissing her there.

Soft at first, reverent. Then deeper. Tongue dragging through her slick folds, up to her swollen clit. He moaned at the taste of her—and of Arthur still faintly lingering there, always present. He tasted her like he meant it, like he loved her, because he did—his hands gripping her thighs, holding her open as he dragged the pleasure from her, slow and relentless.

Above him, she gagged softly around Arthur’s cock, a desperate little sound that told him exactly how close she was again, already.

Arthur let his head fall back, eyes slipping shut for a moment as he let the sounds surround him. The low hum of her breathing, the wet rhythm of her mouth on him, the slick, wet sounds of John between her thighs—it filled his ears like a hymn.

She was trying her best to stay focused, he could feel that in every trembling breath, every soft, eager motion of her mouth. But John was determined, working her over with a kind of reverence and hunger that made her whole body respond—shaking, gasping, struggling to keep from falling apart entirely.

Arthur looked down and caught a glimpse of her lips wrapped around him, her flushed face, and—just beyond—John working her over between her thighs, it nearly undid him. The sight was too much. Too beautiful. Too filthy. Too perfect.

A flicker of possessive heat curled in his chest, that all-too-familiar pang. But it wasn’t jealousy. Not really. It was just more—more need, more want, more of everything.

John’s hands were firm on her hips, guiding her, grounding her, and when he moved deeper, she gasped, her whole body arching. Arthur felt her mouth falter around him, a soft, broken whimper escaping her as her control finally slipped.

“John,” she moaned, his name spilling out like a prayer—even with Arthur still heavy on her tongue.

Arthur groaned, low and rough, one hand buried in her hair. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Let go.”

She did, her body tensed, trembling with the force of it, and even from where he sat, Arthur could feel her coming undone, pulled apart between the two of them—worshipped, cherished, ruined.

John didn’t stop—his movements only gentler, guiding her through it, coaxing every last ripple of pleasure from her. His hands, his mouth, his voice soft with praise. Arthur looked down at her again, his chest aching with a mixture of love, lust, and something he couldn’t quite name.

God, she was beautiful like this, like she was made for it, like this was how she was always meant to be loved.

Arthur shifted behind her, handling her like something precious—tender, reverent, and full of hunger. Her body was soft and pliant, sated from everything they’d already given her, but her eyes were still heavy with want.

He kissed her temple, damp with sweat and heat, and murmured low against her skin, “You ready, darlin’?”

His voice was like gravel and silk all at once—low and full of promise, like he hadn’t just torn her apart moments ago, like they hadn’t both already wrecked her.

She nodded, slow and hazy, too blissed-out to speak. But she moved with him willingly, shifting as he guided her, pliant in his hands, and John watched her in quiet awe—his heart thudding heavy in his chest.

Arthur’s hand slid down, moving with purpose, gathering the wetness that coated her glistening cunt. He spread her gently, exposing the soft heat between her thighs, and John moved instinctively to help—his hand finding her trembling thigh, holding her open for Arthur. The way they worked together was seamless now. Natural. Like they’d done this a hundred times. Like they’d always been meant to share her this way.

Arthur’s hand moved carefully, his fingers slick as he worked between her thighs, returning again and again to gather what he needed. And then—so slowly it made John’s breath catch—he pressed one strong finger lower, where she was still tight and untouched, and began to ease her open.

She groaned, her body jolting with the stretch of it, and John leaned in immediately, kissing her, grounding her, swallowing the soft sounds she made as Arthur worked her open. He could feel her shaking, could taste her pleasure, and the thought that they were about to take her—both of them—had him practically vibrating with need.

Arthur murmured something low against her back, praise or comfort or maybe both, and John kissed her harder, gently holding her thigh as Arthur’s practiced touch coaxed her open, bit by bit, until she was trembling and ready.

When Arthur added a second finger and she moaned into John’s mouth again, he felt it all at once, his body taut with desire, as he reached down and gripped himself hard at the base of his cock— anything to ease the building pressure for a moment.

Arthur shifted again, guiding her with steady, practiced hands, and John was there instantly, helping her move—supporting her weight, holding her steady as they worked together to position her just right.

They eased her back into Arthur’s lap, her spine flush against his broad chest, her legs parted and draped over his thighs. Arthur’s arms around her, strong and certain, one hand smoothing over her belly while the other curled possessively around her thigh.

John swallowed thickly.

Arthur’s hard length rested against the soft skin of her inner thigh for a brief, electric moment—hot and heavy—and John watched, barely breathing, as he reached down to line himself up, the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing gently where she was still so tight, but stretched and open from his fingers.

“Easy now,” Arthur murmured into her neck, kissing her just below the ear as he held her hips steady. “That’s it, sweetheart…”

And slowly—so slowly—he let her sink onto him.

She whimpered, a sound somewhere between pleasure and ache, her head falling back against his shoulder as Arthur filled her inch by inch. The stretch, even after all their preparation, was intense—and John could see it written across her face, could feel it in the tremble of her thighs.

Arthur groaned low and rough, his eyes dark as sin, his hands flexing on her hips as he finally bottomed out.

John felt dizzy.

The sight of her like this—full of Arthur, open and panting—was almost too much. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t not kiss her.

So, he leaned in, cupping her face, and kissed her like it was the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Like he’d never be able to stop. Her lips were soft and parted, her breath catching against his, and when she kissed him back—desperate and needy—he thought he might lose it completely.

Arthur’s hands moved over her body like he owned it, his mouth trailing over her shoulder, and John kissed her like he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else in the world. And when they broke apart—

“John…”

His name left her lips in a whimper, breaking the fog in his mind like a crack of thunder. He looked down at her, dazed, and her hand reached up to touch his cheek—soft and grounding. His eyes fluttered shut at the contact.

Then, gently, she took his hand, guiding it down between her trembling thighs, to where she needed him most.

He dragged his fingers through her slick folds as he felt her there—soaked, open, pulsing around Arthur’s cock—and his mind blanked completely. Arthur wasn’t moving yet, just holding her steady, buried inside her to the hilt, his breath low and laboured against her ear.

“Fuck—fuck, okay,” John muttered, nearly breathless, his other hand fumbling to stroke himself once, twice, rough and fast, just to take the edge off the unbearable ache.

Then he pressed the flushed head of his cock to her slick folds, and—Jesus.

He eased in inch by inch, her body stretching to take him, and the sound she made—half-cry, half-moan—ripped through him like lightning. Arthur grunted low and sharp behind her, the grip on her thighs tightening as she gave way.

And then, just like that, John was inside.

Fully. Entirely.

Only the thinnest wall separating him from Arthur, and the feel of it was unreal—hot, full, pulsing, so tight he could barely think, barely breathe.

Arthur bit out a growl, barely holding himself back. She was trembling between them, her body shuddering with the sensation, with pleasure so deep it stole the strength from her limbs. She could only whimper and gasp, hands clutching at them weakly.

And when Arthur began to move—slow and deliberate, thrusting into that unbearable tightness—her body went limp with it, melting between them like wax in a flame. John braced himself with one hand, the other gripping her thigh tight enough to bruise. His breath came hard, fast, ragged as he tried to ground himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, the pressure building already, pleasure tightening in his belly like a drawn bow.

He wasn’t sure how long he could last.

John braced himself, trying desperately to hold on, to slow the flood threatening to take him under. His breathing was ragged, deep and fast as he leaned forward to kiss her again, needing that anchor, needing to feel her soft mouth against his. But she was already half-gone—her lips parting beneath his, barely able to kiss him back, her body trembling between them, utterly spent but still eager for more.

Arthur groaned low behind her, the sound vibrating through his chest where it met her back. He reached down, hand sliding over the soft curve of her stomach, fingers splayed possessively before finding their goal. His rough thumb circled her clit—tender and swollen—a few rough swipes was all it took, and the reaction was almost immediate.

A strangled sob tore from her throat, her body pulsing, fluttering around them both as her climax washed over her like a storm, white hot and blinding. Slick heat spilled around them, coating them, and Arthur nearly lost control right then.

But he caught her hips, held her there, and began to move in earnest.

John followed—there was no other choice.

The rhythm was raw and consuming, the sensation so intense he could hardly make sense of it. The pressure, the tightness, the shared heat—it was too much, not enough, everything. He let out a choked noise, his head falling forward into the crook of her neck, and he pressed his lips there, groaning into her skin like it might ground him.

She held on to John tightly, one arm wrapped around his neck, pulling him as close as possible, the other reaching back for Arthur, gripping whatever part of him she could find. Both men pressed impossibly deep inside her, their bodies locked in rhythm, in shared heat and desire.

Arthur was growling curses low in her ear now, his grip bruising, his thrusts harder, desperate. One big, strong hand was splayed across her lower belly, and roughly, he moved John’s so that he could feel it too; the pulsing thrusts of them both moving inside her, just barely detectable; he pushed John’s hand down, into the soft flesh, so that he could feel it better, and she gasped a broken sob at the sensation.

John shattered then, his hips jerking as he came hard, pulsing into her with everything he had, filling her up, moaning her name against her skin like a prayer, like a confession. Arthur followed, with a groan so low and rough it rumbled through her body, burying himself to the hilt as he filled her one more time, his climax raw and wild and blinding in its intensity; everything he ever wanted.

They fucked her through it, thrusts losing rhythm, sloppy with pleasure and slick as she gasped at the fullness of being filled by them both at the same time. They stilled, breathing heavy, pressed together—entwined, undone, breathless and spent. Arthur eased back slowly, the weight of what they’d just shared settling over them like the warm hush of dusk. They kissed her, Arthur's lips pressed to her shoulder, John kissing her flushed face, her tear-streaked cheeks, as they moved her gently.

John slipped out of her with a soft, unintentional hiss—his body still trembling, too sensitive, overwhelmed. He watched, still half-dazed, as Arthur moved with a kind of reverent tenderness, steadying her hips, easing himself out of her. The slick warmth of their shared release glistened in the low candlelight, and John stared, mesmerized. It oozed from her in slow, thick droplets, trailing down the insides of her thighs, soaking into the soft bedding beneath her, a solid, physical mark of the feelings they had for her.

Arthur’s hands were gentle as he helped guide her down onto the bed between them, his movements all care and praise. He brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek, then bent to kiss her brow, her lips, her throat, murmuring soft words against her skin as she lay pliant and glowing beneath him.

John settled beside her, his hand smoothing over the soft curve of her belly, slow and awed. He was still breathless, his heart still thudding wildly, not just from the intensity of what they’d done, but from the way he felt about her. The curve of her waist beneath his palm made his chest ache.

“I love you.”

He didn’t really mean to say it—it just slipped from him, quiet and sure, the way it so often did recently. There was a beat. Just the crackle of the candle, the rustle of fabric as Arthur sat back slightly, his gaze moving between them. John had never said it in front of him before. He swallowed, unsure for a split second—until Arthur smiled, easy and warm. No jealousy. No tension. Just that solid, steadfast presence he always was. Arthur raised a rough, steady hand to her hot, damp cheek, and gazed at her.

“I love you too,” he told her, not as a competition, not to outmatch John—but as a second truth, layered over the first. A quiet confirmation of what they all already knew.

Her eyes shimmered, wide and soft as she looked between the two of them, breathless. She didn’t say anything, she couldn’t. Her lips parted, but no words came—just a long exhale as she smiled soft, cheeks flushed, body and heart laid bare. She looked at them like they were the only things in the world that mattered.

She curled into John then, resting her head on his chest, as Arthur pressed against her back, face buried in her neck, inhaling deeply. She trembled, pressed between them, cradled by them both, anchored by the wild, aching love blooming between them, deeper and brighter with every breath.

#arthur morgan #john marston #smut #fanfiction #red dead redemption 2

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rdr2stories · 11 months ago

Text

"Betrayal" a rdr2 fanfiction.

Arthur hadn't been able to free himself, the wounds he had suffered under Colm's care had simply been too much, his faith was left in Dutch. It was with his whole heart that he had hoped that Dutch would come, after all his life had depended on it, yet Dutch never came.

Loosely based on (I remembeed the drawing not the caption):

The basement had always been a dark and sorrowful place no matter which house, which hideout or which hole they were kept up in, it would always be his least favorite of them all. The air would feel suffocating even if the sun was shining right after a cool rainfall, the walls would feel as though they were cramping in on him even if they were wider than the actual room he was sleeping in, his senses would be overwhelmed, noises, smells and feelings that weren’t actually there would crowd his mind and trap him in a night he would rather forget.

His shoulder was healed, the only remains of the wound that had once hollowed out his flesh being the tough scar tissue that had not managed to patch up the break of his heart. When he breathed it was slow and airy, the kick his former enemies had made to his chest and sides had done something to his ribs and lungs which could not be undone. He was no longer silent, he could be heard miles away by his struggling breathing, but he didn’t need to be silent any longer, his days as a desperate workhorse were over.

He had no doubt that the man in the basement who was suffering the similar wounds he had years ago could hear him, yet he would not know who it was standing there, his mind racing, considering if he was ready to get face to face with a man whom he had love and cared for for years but had not shown the same kindness to him in the end.

One step at a time he made his way down into the suffocating basement, the walls closing in around him and cutting the outside world off like the hatch over the steps had been slammed shut. It was just him, the man and the singular flame of the candle that gave just enough lighting for him to see the face he would remember to his death, that, even when aged, had not changed a bit.

The man was hanging upside down, just like he had, his face was red, his arms hanging loosely down towards the ground as the iron chains wrapped around his ankles and held him above the ground. A wound had been afflicted to his chest, a shallow knife wound cutting over the collarbones and ripping up the fine shirt and vest that he always wore. It was nothing, a mere scrape compared to other wounds suffered in the past, no matter how big the red puddle on the ground was.

His snail-like mustache looked exactly the same, except for the fact that it was no longer black but rather gray with age. The same could be said for the hair that once had curled around his nape but now was cut short as if he was scared it would run off or like he had simply grown tired of maintaining it.

He had not seen that face in years and though he had dreamt of seeing it many many times before, he could not have imagined the emotions that welled up in him. The anger that rose from parts of his core he had not felt since the death of his family, the sadness that made him feel like breaking down weeping on the cold gravel floor and the conflict that he had thought he had overcome. He hated that part of himself felt like hugging the man, embracing him and crying into his chest like a little kid, appologicing as if it wasn’t him who had been left for dead.

The upside down man looked drowsy, his eyelids halfway down his brown eyes that would make you trust him in a mere second even though he had more bodies on his back than he counld count. His lips were slightly apart as if he was simply asleep, but he wasn’t because he reacted when the boy he had left stepped into the light stream coming down from the top of the stairs. He could not yet see who it was, the boy’s features hidden, he recongized the satchel that he carried on his hip.

The man’s eyes seeked upwards to the cold face he had once known as his protegee, as his son. “Arthur?”

“Hi Dutch,” Arthur spoke as he grabbed the chair by the table that the candle stood on and pulled it over to him so that he could sit and face his old mention, his old father.

“You- You are alive!” Dutch’s deep and raspy voice sounded, confusion yet hope and glee to be found in it. “Oh how glad I am to see you! I thought you were dead! Help an old fella down from here and let’s get away! Oh how happy the others will be to know you are alive! We made a little memorial for you back in West Elizabeth since we didn’t have your body, we buried Sean next to it-”

“Sean?” Arthur asked with anger rising in his chest. His brother, his little brother was dead? “Did you leave him as well? Did you leave him for dead too?”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Whatever do you mean son?”

“You didn’t come for me Dutch!” Arthur exclaimed, standing up so suddenly that the chair behind him slammed to the ground as it tipped over. “I was waiting for you! I was waiting for you to come get me but you didn’t! You left me for dead!”

“Arthur- My son,” Dutch’s eyes were frantic and confused as he looked over the green clothing of the boy he had raised. “We thought you had gone out hunting- We didn’t think nothing of it until a few days later and by then we couldn’t find you- You were gone-”

“Hunting?” Arthur asked in irritation as he felt anger well up in him, a hand running over his eyes. “Hunting Dutch?! I told you! I told you I would meet you by the forked road!” He looked directly at Dutch, an accusing finger pointed at him. “I told you no matter what, I would meet you at the forked road! I keep my promises Dutch! I always do! I made that agreement with you so that if something happened to either me or you, you would have known something was wrong! I wasn’t out hunting Dutch! I had been kidnapped!” He took a step closer to Dutch, who’s eyes widened, for the first time being on the receiving end of the anger that was in the monster he had created, of the anger of the man who’s warrant poster said ‘do not approach’. “I had been shot! I was beaten! I was tortured! Hanging upside down as you are, left with hopes that you would come but you didn’t!”

“Arthur-” Dutch tried to cut in.

“Don’t you ‘Arthur’ me,” Arthur groaned, running a hand over his face again. “You left me Dutch, left me. I sat here, clinging onto hope that you would come back for me, like you said you always would, but you didn’t, and do you know who took pity on me? Colm of all people.” Arthur snorted as he slightly shook his head. “That O’Driscoll boy wasn’t so wrong about Colm, he has a way of making you feel special. He took me in when you left me.”

“I didn’t leave you.” Dutch spoke in a soft tone. “We searched for you Arthur, all of us did.”

“Not well enough,” Arthur bit lightly at the inside of his cheek. “Colm was expecting you to come get me, he gave you a clear trail to follow, but you didn’t.” He let out a snort. “In a way I am glad, I ain’t been a workhorse since I have gotten here. Colm appreciates me, gave me my own room and everything, doesn’t send me out to do his dirty work like you did. And your ideals? You cared so much about ideals, about sticking together, yet you didn’t come for me. Your ideals are nothing but lies that you hide behind.”

“Lies?!” Dutch exclaimed, this time with anger sweepin through his voice.

“Lies, Dutch, lies. Ideals are nothing but empty words without action to back them up!”

“Arthur,” A voice came from the top of the staircase and Arthur turned to look at the man descending, the man whom he had once seen as foe but now as friend, the man who had taken him in when he had been beat, tortured and abandoned, even if he had been the one doing half of it.

“Colm,” Dutch’s low voice sounded as he watched his enemy, the killer of his lover, stride down into the basement, the sunlight coming down the stairs highlighting the fur running around the collar of his jacket as he came closer and stood next to Arthur.

“Dutch, how nice to see you are awake,” Colm gave a big grin, knowing that the pain of seeing Arthur against him instead of with him hurting far more than any bullet wound or stab could ever do. “Look who I found.” He placed his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “The dog you threw away. You know, it is quite a pity because oh how he works, his bite is stronger than any I have seen before. You trained him well, I am not going to lie, I was surprised when you abandoned him, but then again, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

Arthur let out a low grunt but otherwise remained quiet, it wasn’t the first time Colm had explained the situation like that, but he hated it either way, he hated thinking that he meant nothing more than an empty tin can discarded after being used to Dutch, it hurt him even after all those years.

“Trash?!” Dutch’s voice sounded, genuinely sounding hurt at the way his relation to Arthur was described. “Arthur is my son. He is not trash!”

“Yet you discarded him as such, forgotten in a basement.” Colm patted Arthur’s shoulder. “Ay ay, so be, we got bigger issues, the gang is on their way Arthur, they are coming for Dutch.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, he knew it would happen, he had known it because it was the plan, but it still hurt, hurt far more than he was willing to admit. Deep inside he had hoped that Dutch would have been abandoned too, just like he had been abandoned, that it wasn’t him that was the reason he was left behind but that it was simply the gang. Of course it wasn’t like that. Dutch would always be saved, and he would always be left behind, expected to care for himself.

“Coming,” Arthur spoke in a lower voice than he had anticipated when he turned to follow Colm who had begun to walk up the stairs and out of the basement. As such, he turned his back on his father, feeling his heart plummet in his chest. He didn’t know what he had expected. Some kind of closure? That maybe Dutch hadn’t been as he had remembered him? That he was actually much more of an asshole? Whatever he had wished for, he hadn’t gained it, he merely felt more conflicted than before.

“Arthur-” Dutch exclaimed, heavily in breath and wide in eyes as Arthur reluctantly halted and hesitantly turned to look at him one last time. “You are my son, we can still fix this.”

Arthur wanted to believe it, oh he wanted to believe it more than anything, but he knew he couldn’t. He knew that what had done could not be fixed, the damage could not be repaired no matter how many sweet words were spoken, no matter how many promises had been made.

The sun was warm and welcoming when Arthur exited the basement and he was let out into the open world again. Normally he would let out a deep breath of relief and take a moment to get back into his own body, but he didn’t do it at that time, he didn’t feel welcomed nor as happy as he normally would being warmed by the sun.

He swallowed a lump in his throat and made his way over to his horse which stood hitched in the outskirts of camp. It’s fur was soft as it always had been, but if it had suffered with the years and patches of the previously brown color had gone gray with age. Other than the few belongings he had had on him when he had been kidnapped, most of which had been replaced over time, the horse was the one thing that remained from his years with the Van Der Linde gang. It was a constant, the one thing he trusted to never betray him.

It didn’t pain him to say that he did not trust Colm with his life, he knew that Colm did not care for him much other than the fact it gave him a leverage over Dutch, bragging rights. He knew that Colm cared for himself first and foremost. He knew that, he accepted it, he was okay with it, he had even opened up about it to one of the girls whom had been around camp at some point. She had asked him why he hadn’t cared when he had cared so deeply about Dutch’s betrayal and he had told her the truth.

Dutch had always pretended to be there for him, had spoken grand words about fellowship and friendship and such, he had spilled lies and he had made Arthur believe them, Colm on the other hand, Colm was honest. He never outright said that he cared for himself most, but never said that he cared for Arthur most like Dutch had.

He liked the certainty of the fact he was on his own more than the white lie that he had someone to rely on. It was that lie that had disappointed him the most, that had given him the heart that had yet to heal.

The repeater in his hand was new, one that they had stolen off a man who had gotten on the wrong side of Colm, it was a new model, shiny and bright, not a single flaw to be found. Arthur had determined to keep it that way.

Colm didn’t do much fighting himself, when Arthur had run with Dutch he had thought it had just been pride, but the truth was a bad hand that he could barely bend his fingers on. Arthur didn’t mind it much, he didn’t need to do a lot of fighting either, but in big cases like this, he did, and in this one he wanted to, he wanted to face his former brothers.

Hiding behind a barrel, Arthur waited, his breathing revealing his location but he didn’t mind much. As soon as the fighting began it wouldn’t be audible over the gunshots either way.

The gang he had run with was loud as always, the hooves of their horses hammering against the ground in one big storm, tearing up grass, dirt and stone with them. They weren’t planning on quieting down, they were planning on raiding in the place, like they had a habit of doing.

He heard when the fighting started, but he didn’t move, it wasn’t his job to. His job was to stay, to protect. Maybe Colm had placed Arthur so far back because he didn’t trust Arthur to kill his brothers, and maybe Arthur was happy because he didn’t know if he could either.

Ever so slowly the shots came closer and closer and Arthur’s heart twisted in his chest, he didn’t know what to hope, what to expect. Did he hope his brothers’ blood would coat another's hand because he loved them too much to kill them himself or did he hope their blood would coat his because he could not bare another taking their lives? He did not know, but in the end he would have to make a choice, he knew that when he saw Marston come near, when he saw his brother’s eyes scan the area and run closer to the basement stairs in the back of the building, away fromthe fight happening in the front.

Arthur’s brother was scarred, much more than he had been before. The marks that the wolves had left over his face were practically gone under what seemed to be burn scars which coated his face. His hair looked far more crusty, far more stiff than it had before, though it had found the strength to grow longer. His brother hadn’t even noticed him as he rose from his spot behind the barrel and drew the repeated, a click sounding as it was pointed at Marston who halted suddenly.

“Go on, shoot.” Marston spoke in an annoyed voice, though Arthur could near the slight tremble. Even the boy who now carried all the scars of being worked to the bone in a field of death still worried about the afterlife. He stood with his hands clenched around his revolver as he held it slightly away from himself, the finger off the trigger, maybe hoping it would show peace.

“If you so wish,” Arthur merely replied, perfectly hiding the conflict that made him rest his finger on the metal above the trigger instead of on the trigger itself.

Marston suddenly stiffened up, immediate recognition of the voice he had not heard for years as he turned around without a second thought, his eyes wide and face conflicted, much similar to Dutch’s. “Arthur! We thought you were dead!”

Arthur raised the gun against Marston’s head as he dared step closer. “Yeah you all did.” He saw when Marston realised that Arthur wore the green bandana of the O’Driscolls around his neck, slightly covering a scar running over his throat which he had suffered after the betrayal.

Marston took a step back, his eyes wide. “You-”

“You left me.” Arthur simply replied, though he knew somewhere that John had been restricted to Dutch’s decision not to find him.

“Dutch told me you died!” Marston defended, his free hand coming to cludge the fabric of his shirt resting over his heart.

“I always knew you were dumb, but not this dumb.” Arthur snorted, trying to hide the fact that he was terrified, the fact that he knew either he would have to shoot his brother or his brother would shoot him. There was not a chance where they both walked away unharmed, it was simply not possible, the betrayal was too big.

#rdr2 #rdr2 community #rdr2 fanfic #john marston #rdr john #rdr2 john #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 dutch #dutch van der linde #colm o'driscoll #arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur #red dead fanfiction #red dead fandom #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption two

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ghoulgeists · 1 month ago

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For Flint:

1, 3+4, 8, 12, 19

For Castor: I NEED TO KNOW EVERYTHING

2, 3+4, 5, 6, 9, 20

Please sir. May I have some more.

STARES AT U LIKE THIS!!!!!!!!!

OOOOO MY BABY MY BABYYY... my silly... my stupidhead...

This will definitely be a long one lol so everything is gonna be under the cut!! THANK U FOR THE ASK ILU ILU ILU ILU

For Flint!!

1. What was the original thought that led to the creation of this character?

I've always had an interest in 19th century history, especially in regards to the Wild West and all the crazy stuff that happened in the Western world in that time period. At the time of Flint's creation, I had just come off of finishing rdr2 and I was deep in my university archaeology courses, thinking about field school and historic archaeology, and already kind of in the mood to take the dive and make a cowboy-flavoured character- that all kind of made this an inevitability. I got invited to a oneshot dnd game and realized I'd probably have a lot of fun playing a little fantasy cowboy, and Flint 1.0 was born! Thus, too, began my descent into madness.

3. What was the first thing you decided on, the character's name, appearance, personality or their role in the story?

Name and personality came first! I needed to come up with that stuff quick to get ready for the game I rolled them in, so art and story elements weren't really necessary. After the oneshot finished is when I drew up their initial design, and then I got so attached to it I went insane.

4. And reverse, which one of the four things did you struggle with the most?

Probably their role in the story! Normally I drop the characters I make for oneshot dnd games like a bag of rocks, but I REALLY liked Flint so I wanted to make a world for them to run around in. All I had on them was their name and face, and some key personality traits (hopeless romantic, reckless, high on life with no braincells), their dnd class (celestial warlock!), and the hook the oneshot gave me of some people robbing the most haunted, undead-infested tombs in the world. I didn't want to change anything so I had to sort of contort and fit a world around them, rather than the other way around.

I ended up with a story about a troubled kid who got in way over their head, tried to run away from the grief they caused but ended up trapped as a pawn in a cosmic popularity contest. With some newfound divinely lifted powers they're trying to make ammends as best they can and claw back any scrap of redemption that might be left for them in the world, mainly by sending restless undead souls back to their resting places (and pilfering their baubles as a little bonus, to fund their vagrant lifestyle). Everything else sort of revolves around that little hook!

8. What is the origin of their personality? And let's be honest - how much of it is projecting?

MAN I wanna say Flint is maybe like... 80% me? I made the Wild Weast setting initially as a sort of love letter to material culture and all the aspects of history that got me into archaeology in the first place. Flint is very much a self-insert character for me to explore all my personal interests in a world full of new things to discover and dump lore on! A lot of their core traits resonate with me as a result. I'm won't psychoanalyze myself too deeply on main but I gave Flint a lot of the negative qualities I notice in myself, like flakiness and fear of commitment or difficulty fitting in and finding a place in the world, to explore them a bit better and try to understand my own insecurities. They have a lot of positive aspects too though, don't get me wrong! Like their positivity and laid-back, "cross that bridge when we get there" attitude, and their general lust for life are also things that resonate with me pretty deeply.

12. Do you have a playlist for the character? What songs do you associate with them and why?

I LITERALLY JUST MADE ONE YESTERDAYYY I have a generic playlist that I dump all the music I find that gives me wild weast vibes into, but I had a really slow day at work so I ended up sitting down and actually working on some character specific playlists for everyone in the setting. Here is Flint's!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/17Q076iqqolQGYQwgPXvsE?si=frwv8O3gTl-q3gAEAFdyXw&pi=AwCuyn8zQcG7N

The music I associate with them is mostly stuff I imagine them singing themselves. They fit into that "singing cowboy" archetype, so I like to imagine what kinds of songs they'd sing while they travel. It's mostly country and folk music, and there's a pretty even spread of upbeat and somber songs!

19. What is your general favourite thing about the character? What is your least favourite?

Flint is probably my favourite OC of all time, there's very little I don't like about them! I wish I could go back in time to when I had the time and energy to love them like I used to. I used to make comics to share with friends, dump lore all the time, and would draw them almost every day- I practically see them in everything. If there's anything I maybe don't like as much about them, it's that I'm specifically very inconsistent with their story and personality. It's really hard to shove all your interests and traits into one little guy and keep it succinct at the same time!!

And for Castor!!

2. How long was the process before the character reached its final version? (or a version that would be clearly recognizable as the character?)

OUGH IT TOOK LIKE A SOLID YEAR... I had the idea for a character like Castor for a really long time, but it was impossible thinking about an antagonist because I was way too wrapped up in the joy of playing with my little dolls and making them kiss.

3. What was the first thing you decided on, the character's name, appearance, personality or their role in the story?

Their role in the story! Castor is the setting antagonist, at least for this group of characters. They serve as my vessel for ruining my blorbos lives <3

4. And reverse, which one of the four things did you struggle with the most?

EVERYTHING ELSE. I had no idea what Castor's personality, appearance, or even name was going to be. All I knew is that I wanted them to be fucked up in the head, kinda cunty, and a major problem for everyone within 30 a mile radius of them.

5. How did you choose their name and why? Was it simply based on vibes or is there any specific meaning behind the name? Are the reasons behind their name different in- and out of universe?

After I came up with a design for them, I noticed I have them a lot of cosmic motifs (moon, stars, etc) so I thought it would be fitting to name them after something in the sky as well! The constellations we have in the real world don't exist in my setting, but I still thought it would be fun to name them after something from the real world. In universe, their name isn't anything linked to mythology or anything, it's just got a nice ring!

I had given them a snake familiar they were really attached to, so I ended up linking them together even further with their names (Castor and Pollux). After a bit more development the snake familiar ended up just straight up being Castor's sibling, so the names fit even better now lol!

6. What was the thought process behind their appearance? Did you go mostly for the aesthetic or are there other reasons they look the way they do?

Definitely aesthetics first! I focus on making my characters look fun first and foremost and Castor isn't an exception to that. You can pry big hats, open-chested shirts, and high-waisted flared pants from my cold, dead hands.

9. How big is their role in the story? Do they make a frequent appearance or are they a character with little "screentime" but big influence? Or are they just a favourite background guy?

In the story, Castor has little to no real screentime to speak of- the main characters (Flint, Willow, Shuteye and Prim) have no knowledge of their existence. BUT they are directly linked to most, if not all, of the hardships the characters are dealing with right now, or are at least working to make them worse. They're very much a puppetmaster pulling strings in the background! The catalyst for Flint essentially destroying their life beyond repair was an accidental death that Castor orchestrated, Shuteye's whereabouts are being leaked by Castor's informants, Primrose's lycanthropy was the end result of a series of domino's they felled, etc. Willow's problems were a bit before Castor's time, but were caused by their father so their job is to sort of keep Willow on his knees by it.

20. Bonus question: share any additional thoughts, art, favourite scenes, anything you've been waiting for a chance to ramble about

GOSH I COULD FILL A LIBRARY WITH CHARACTER LORE FOR REAL. Maybe I will go with in-world orgins? Castor is the child of a human mother and a demon which are, in my setting, powerful magical beings that were trapped underground by the current pantheon of gods. There's no real difference between gods and demons really, one side just got lucky and utterly destroyed and vilified the other. After a long period without access to the surface their appearances warped and they started looking like the pale, blind cave critters that we have in the real world, like various species of cave spiders or those blind cave salamanders (olms?). They're still sapient and can communicate with surface dwellers, and they're desperately trying to free their species from the underground but have sort of recognized that they themselves can't live on the surface anymore. As a result, they've found ways of getting it on with regular people up top to sire children and continue their species in a different form.

They love their father (who normally looks like a big fat snake creature with lots of arms/hands lol) more than anything and desperately want to make it proud, hence why they've decided to slink their way into the background of the main cast's lives and make things terrible for them :3

Normally demons have to participate in a pretty long and drawn-out courting process because they are just naturally offputting to people no matter what form they take. Castor's mom however was a freak of a woman who liked her partners creepy and wet, so Castor's conception happened in RECORD time. She died shortly after Castor was born (RIP girlies we lost a real one) and they ended up being raised by their father primarily (as much as it could take care of a baby, being trapped underground and all). Castor's upbringing makes them closer to a demon than a human in a lot of ways, which shows in their personality and general disdain for anything dwelling on the surface of the world.

THERE'S MORE, THERE'S ALWAYS MORE... but this is getting kinda long already so I'LL ZIP IT FOR NOW. Your reward for getting through my nonsense is Castor's original sketches I made on paper in like 2021 <3

They originally had both their eyes but I liked the vibes of having one constantly obscured! So now it's because oops haha they actually only really have one eye and their brother (Pollux) uses the other side of their face as a sort of portal to come and go as it pleases.

#castor uses any pronouns but mainly they/them!#their father and brother both use it/its #THANK U FOR THE ASK AND FOR LETTING ME RAMBLE THIS WAS A FUN WAY TO EAT UP MY WHOLE MORNING <3 #my tumblr app crashed on my first go at answering this when i was almost done so i lost like all of it lol. oops #my art #ghouldraws #wild weast #flint locke #castor #castor and pollux #theoutsanityshoppe #ask #oc ask #im on my phone all of today so if i have time to answer any more asks you'll all be getting silly little phone doobles as accompaniments

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lscpu · 2 months ago

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bestie doesn’t see my vision but maybe someone here will. rdr2 inspired heavy arthur morgan core

dean’s about ~19, sammy’s 16. life on the road is shitty, they have a messed up sleeping schedule, diet, constantly on the move — free real estate for shit immune system.

dean gets night sweats at first. alright, puberty’s passed but he’s a young adult so something like this was expected. he gets fatigue, he shrugs it off. he starts coughing. the first alarm bell for john is when dean takes the backseat of the impala not to nap but just to be there.

from dean’s pov, he’s fighting coughing fits and doesn’t want dad seeing him fight them all the time. he thinks he can be inconspicuous but there’s so much stealthy coughing you can do while in a car with 2 other people

john just assumes dean’s down with a flu or something. he picks a town for a hunt and to settle down for a bit, enrolls sam into school, and goes off to hunt (it’s too dangerous to take his sons, especially with dean not at his best — john’ll just work with some other hunter he knows).

dean finds a job in town. john’s gone for about a week the day sammy comes home from school to no dean. evening rolls around, no dean. small town, sam knows where to find him — and ends up meeting a bunch of burly men still working, construction or some shit like that, and dean lying down somewhere they carried him because he collapsed earlier. some guys goes yeah, prolly gotta take your brother to a hospital, he aint sounding too good.

OBVIOUSLY dean’s like the fuck, no, let’s just go home.

all the while john’s sure this is just a bad cold. doesn’t even think twice about it. calls in to check on them because the hunt might take a bit longer, and sam tells him what happened, says dean’s wheezing, there might be blood…

Anyway, vietnam war vet core kicks in. holy shit, how did john not see this before. pleumonia/tb/a bunch of other bad shit. tells sammy to haul dean’s ass to a hospital and tells his partner hunter yeah this one might not work out.

bonus points dean’s tb is caught a bit late and he loses a chunk of his lung. hunting days likely over.

i just like to think how this would change the story. would dean go to stanford with sammy? Would dean stay behind to support his dad from the sidelines?

It’s heavily dependent on how bad the lung damage would be — and how set on having his sons be hunters john is.

Like, i can both imagine john being the kind of father who’d go ‘dean needs to be able to take care of himself, needs to be strong and healthy, i’d do anything short of selling my soul to fix his lungs’ AND john kinda just. Yeah. Shit happens. Older son’s out of commission. That’s not gonna stop the yellow-eyed demon hunt, but it MIGHT make john take on a more caring, fatherly role. yeah, his oldest kid son almost died to a preventable disease on the road, yeah, he’s not gonna be a hunter anymore, but maybe he shouldn’t. maybe dean should have a dean civvie life.

maybe there’s life for john after this. not domestic, but a family that’s not a combat unit

i also think dean suffocating as he throws up blood would be neat. something about a huge menacing guy like arthur morgan losing so much weight and ending up looking so sickly and how arthur’s story can be easily paralleled to dean’s and how dean’s a but guy too… yeah… yeah i think about this a lot

#dean winchester #john winchester #johndean #deanjohn #jessio speaks #prompts #whump

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puttlefish · 2 months ago

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kcd2 thotts (spoilers: it was rly goode [+ actual spoilers])

^^^ mfw when ppl give me verbal instructions btw

ANYWAY this is long sry (18 pages 🤪)

In short: It was v goddamn good. I haven't felt so compelled and invested in a game since I played RDR2 (which I consider to be a near-perfect story & gaming experience), and I would say the world/story/characters/dialogue/questions of morality in this are 100% on par with Red Dead. I might even venture to say the emotional high of this surpassed the one in RDR2, and THAT'S SAYING SOMETHING

click more if u dare 🫵

My novella on the story & characters & Hans romance will start soon but I do wanna talk about the game play a bit.

Goode things:

I love dialogue trees and making choices & decisions, and this game is 70% that. A real conversation simulator which is extra enjoyable thanks to the voice acting being genuinely pretty great (especially Hans, whose VA was sublime, and Henry, whose VA has a unique voice & talks kinda weird--plz kno I mean in the best way possible)

There are like 500 side quests/tasks and they never felt repetitive or grindy

I admire the array of approaches you were encouraged to experiment with. I felt like very few quests could only be handled in one way and it overall did a good job of letting you pick, settle, and commit to a play style (in regards to both class fantasy & RP)

Love love love all the hats and dressing up you can do. I'm glad both you and your horse could look like clowns tho I do wish you could mix and match the horse gear

In spite of me stripping away all the nuance from the combat system (I own up to this being a skill issue on my part, but also, I Do Not Care About It) I think the way you build up your skills and learn combos by actually verbally learning about the technique is neat

Much like RDR2 this was a game with a dozen systems what made it so I never felt bored (and thnx to mods you could just remove the ones you didn't like lol)

They also did a FANTASTIC job incorporating period appropriate motifs into the UI. That was one of my favorite things about RDR2 and KCD2 did an equally bang up job. I def can see this being to medieval nerds what RDR2 was to me as a late-19th century enjoyer

- Even though this historic period has never been of much interest to me, I can see the work and dedication that went into representing it as accurately as they could. The lil lore books & scholarly tidbits were a fun way to directly engage with the historical aspects of this story & I liked that they would talk about how/why they changed things/took liberties/etc

They understandably reused the same VAs and faces & only had like 1 body type for mas/fem but idk I thought it was kind of endearing lol

- It was like the NPCs were actors who would show up to play a different role

- also it was hilarious when I would talk to an enrobed scribe/priest/nerd and then later I'd see them asleep & they would be absolutely RIPPED. Was always funny, never got old lmao

Not as goodly:

The combat felt like absolute ass and I straight up would not have been able to play this without mods

The animal AI feels dated but I don't hold it too much against them. Resources were obviously invested much better elsewhere + also RDR2 ruined all animals in all games forever for me cus their creature AI was absolutely top-notch

More of a 'not for me' than an actual complaint, but I did not care @ all about the mechanics that existed to serve immersion. You bet some of the first things I downloaded were mods that got rid of weight bearing/hunger/affected walk speed/inventory decay/etc.

- RDR2 has all those elements as well but it was not as ingrained as a core system so was more manageable for me (who historically doesn't give a shit about survival in games)

Obvs mods make a lot of things optional but then there are other QOL features which do not exist because they were never gonna be part of the program.

I would have killed for a mini map (I HATE COMPASSES) and I wish there was an official toggle for 1st/3rd person view. Riding a horse feels floaty and bad but the moment you switch to 3rd person (mod) it feels very natural and like you can actually navigate around ppl in the big city & towns.

ENOUGH OF THAT NERD SHIT story time 😏

^^^ immersive RP'ing

Don't actually wanna write a novella but I know me, so praying to god (like henry from kcd2 does) for bulletpoints to save me.

SPOILERS: THEY DON'T!!! FAILING TO BE AS BROAD AS POSSIBLE, here are some highlights I liked (in great detail:)

I liked that ppl would accuse you of being a wizard/sorcerer/warlock and Henry could 100% go along with it and watch them freak out. I loved the random encounter where the priest shows up (in all black) with a squad of inquisitors from Italy??? to hunt the demonic warlock that's been spotted in the area??? and Henry's just like, "So. You found me. What now?" and then you kick all their asses. Excellent encounter. Also he makes this smug face:

I adored that quest where there's the stinky Hell pit and the villagers + local church guy are arguing about it being either superstitions and/or 'something actually from hell' but then when you go down there there's a knight in plate that is so so so rusty/dirty, is speaking in Latin, and is running around the tunnel REALLY FAST and ur just like um??? WHAT??? prolly my favorite side quest

- + the fact that all his armor is at like 0 quality + you get to see the absurdity of what some ppl with do in the name of God & Faith

- Glad this game didn't shy away from those instances

- O also and the fact that you couldn't pry off his helmet was neat

Even tho the world & the characters are very Christian given the historic precedence, there were a lot of opportunities to explore folklore and old beliefs. I liked that you could be curious about it and were not forced to be like 'um actually' and dismissive w/ a Christian outlook (direct contrast w/ how some NPCs would do this).

Adored that Henry could get caught up in the moment/drama of ppl's stories. They be like, "Ya I think a vampire is haunting my barn??" and Henry will be like "WHAT! omg??" and then you both get to learn that it was just like... some dude from the town w/ beef who was grieving the quest giver

It was good to see Henry be thoughtful and considerate whenever something would challenge a world view he had. RP-wise, consistently indulging that kind of curiosity made Henry more interesting & complex; you def come into the start of the game as a Good Christian who knows how the world works, but then you are consistently meeting people/cultures who do not fit into that mold

- The nomads challenged what life is 'supposed to be like'

- The cumans you befriend challenged Henry's condemnation & biased preconceptions of an entire ppl based only on his personal experiences

- Talking to folks from small villages that were not as roped up by the church (and therefore held on to some old beliefs & customs) challenged the Irrefutable Truth of the church's organized interpretations of faith

- Seeing humble people do noble things & nobles committing acts of selfishness/greed/savagery/etc challenged the status quo & questions the structure of society as a whole

- And obv these + others paved the way, stone by stone, to broaden your perspective. It allows for something personally significant and potentially existential (like falling in love with Hans) to not only be possible, but something you could allow yourself to pursue

I swear the fireflies are manifestations of this?? Sometimes they are just around (just as many things can be around without an obvious purpose) but they did often lead you to treasures and POIs that were death related and/or pagan in nature. Also they show up when ur parents come to scold you for looting corpses, so there u go: proof

Sigismund surprised me. They did a good job of showing all the council members shitting themselves when he showed up to the convention, but I was like 👀 when he looked at Henry (who was specifically told not to look the king in the eyes since he wasn't worthy of it, etc etc) and told him--almost kindly???--that he had nothing to fear (and then looked up @ the council and was like UNLIKE THESE IDIOTS sigismund has surprise good humor surrounding him).

- They did a good job demonstrating his intimidation & terrifying reputation yet still managed to humanize him in very small but impactful ways.

- Like, clearly he told Vavak to increase the miner's pay to stop their rebellions so that they could mine more silver for him, and u kno he ain't advocating out of the goodness of his heart, but he still improved the lives for every miner in the region with just 1 command (rather than taking it out on them violently/ruining them to teach a lesson/etc)

- And then he offers to share wine with Henry as a mark of appreciation, even tho he's just a lil waiter boy, but idk it shows that he isn't blind to the existence of common folks like how a lot of lords and nobles tend to be

Istvan was v good. It really stuck with me when Henry has the nightmare after standing his ground & refusing to burn Malechov, where Istvan shows up and is like, "Good job you did it, you upheld ur honor and saved the ppl and all it costed was the lives of half your men. Was preserving your good conscious worth their deaths?"

- And like, yes, obviously! Big difference between villagers being murdered vs soldiers dying. But still, it makes Henry question the price of honor and I am always a fan of that kind of scrutiny being applied to things we have a tendency to blindly uphold as 'something good'. Even if the answer is 'no,' the ability to question it is what's most important.

- You set your own code of honor and the things you do will feel easier to live with so long as you didn't betray your ethics

- That being said, it can be seen as an incredibly selfish stand to make. Honor can be a moral guide as much as it can be an excuse, and that is such an important concept to weigh on Henry's shoulders

Van Aulitz scene was SO GOOD!! I didn't play the first game (yet) so I don't have like a narrative hatred for this dude who has been in the game for like... maybe 10 minutes total before this scene, but I cannot believe this was a missable conversation. I have complaints about how the game classifies your choices for it (more on that later) but I will just say that they did a good job delivering the argument of 'beneath the name, titles, armor, and deeds--there is just a man.'

- I think this is a core concept that Henry has to come to terms with (for enemies and allies, and himself ofc) and adds a lot of complexity to his motives and drives

Ok obviously there is more I liked but MY GOD that's enough for now

Disappointments:

Ok Hans just miraculously getting over his trauma was weird?? Idk maybe there is precedence for that happening, plus you could argue that the claustrophobia was representative/adjacent to something else relating to his headspace/growth/arc/gay thoughts/ etc, but idk I felt like things were building up to a potentially very big confrontation w/ that fear but then it just didn't.

Actually, his rescue from Malechov I thought would be a lot different. Mostly because:

-A few things made me aware of a 'tunnel scene' and lo, here was that tunnel

- The entire time you're traversing it, Henry's like "This is so cool. X will come in handy when Hans and I are escaping," | "Oh! So all Hans and I will have to do it pull down this beam to collapse this stone in front of the door!" "When me and Hans, as two conscious and able bodied individuals--" like his whole plan doesn't even consider the possibility that Hans would be anything other than completely fine

- And why wouldn't he?? Every time Henry would express concern about Hans & how long he'd been captive, everyone would brush it off and be like, "He's a noble, he'll be fine, don't worry about it," and ofc Henry would have no reason to doubt this after so many ppl say it

- So all that (plus a few other things I saw out of context) I thought for sure when you got there that things would be worse than you assumed and that you'd p much have to carry him out.

- And I ESPECIALLY thought this because one of the first things you come across in the tunnel (re: tantalizingly close to the exit but not out of the thick of it yet) is the ladder, which you will need to scale up the steep drop, and would be trapped/cornered without. As soon as you step on it there's even an audible CRACK sound and Henry's like, "lol I hope it can hold at least ONE invader (:" so imagine the drama if it had to carry the weight of two ppl, least they both be captured :/

- WHATEVER lmao all the right details fell in exactly the wrong order here I guess

Zizka airing out all of Kathrine's dirty laundry after she all but begged Henry not to pry. AND this directly proceeded her romance scene?? Like I get the intent behind it I just wish they did not feel the need to lay it all out.

- Zizka could have easily just skipped the story and spoke to how she feels about Henry (which would be gratifying to ppl who are pursuing her) but now it's like... why did I hear that all from him? Why wasn't that a special scene that was only unlocked if you got a certain reputation with her?

- Also idk learning that she is a widow who also grieved for a lost child, with their doomsday clock @ 5 minutes til midnight, felt like either:

1) They didn't give such trauma the space it needed to be handled well

2) A last minute injection of drama to sweeten the deal?? Which I didn't think they needed to do.

- Katherine is a strong character on her own, they did not need to pull the rug from under her feet like that lol

Speaking of ladies and how they go hand-in-hand with romance: Rosa felt like a... weird option, to say the least. I am fully prepared to chalk this up to timing on my end (I paced my game by doing a shitton of side quests and then sprinkling in a MSQ as an occasional treat) but I felt like she was kinda too young LOL

- TO BE FAIR I think Henry and Hans are like... 20 y/o MAX so it's not like there's an egregious age difference (historical precedence for girls getting married young non withstanding) but I feel like every time I talked to her or learned anything about her, it happened to involve recalling something in her childhood/youth/etc so idk I started to associate her with that age??

- She also feels like the most wish-fulfillment option of the main 3 so idk maybe that's subtly putting me off. For the record I do like her character (more on it later) but I did not like her as a romance option @ all

As I mentioned earlier; never played the first game, so a lot of the personal enemies/vendettas Henry has aren't super familiar to me. But as Denny pointed out Istvan & Erik being something of a foil to Hans & Henry (noble & peasant orphan, similar power dynamic, guy with inherent political power/intuition & guy immense physical power, and rounding it out with a relationship that isn't easy for anyone else but you two to understand) had the potential to be an interesting parallel to draw.

- Obviously this is complicated by the nature of Hans/Henry being a choice and not canon (arguably lol even if you play Henry as straight I still feel like at least one or both of them has feelings, they would just be more unspoken), but I would've liked to see this explored more

Also, all the ppl Henry built up in his mind as irredeemable monsters keep showing him layers of humanity he either refused to believe or didn't know existed. Especially since the main three each reveal something different??

- Sigismund is a cruel butcher --> He is the only one in that room who treated you like a person

- Von Aulitz is a blood thirsty murderer --> He remembered ur father and understands the moral cost of war

- Istvan is a heartless monster --> He and Erik loved each other

So idk what I would want, but I can feel an absence of something. Like, idk, maybe if you had picked a few of the care/romance options with Hans (cus you get a few throughout the first half of the game) Istvan could have called attention to the difference in power dynamic or status to try and turn Henry's affection for Hans against him, since that seems to be the low blow/pain point whenever he & da boi are in contention with one another.

- Especially cuz Henry himself kept accusing Istvan (and then Erik, later) that their relationship was a farce, that as the powerful noble Istvan must have had ulterior motives for seducing Erik's loyalty, etc.

- These kinds of accusations could easily be reflected back at Hans in order to try and plant the seeds of doubt for Henry's devotion to him

- Would have been interesting to see what kind of humanity Henry could glimpse/learn from Erik, since they both occupy a similar role, but his book hasn't been closed yet so I suppose there's still a chance

^^^ me & my beloved sack of flour <3

Aight so the entire conversation with von Aulitz was fantastic. Some genuinely thoughtful & engaging deconstructions about all kinds of relevant and topical themes for Henry and KCD2's themes. I don't remember them @ all rn but they are good!!!

ANYWAY since Henry entered that room ready to stab & kill & murder him, but left it feeling disquieted and somber, I feel like von Aulitz's words rang some amount of truth & clarification to him, leaving Henry to reflect honestly on who he is, what he's done, and how it's different (or not) from what Aulitz, Zizka, or anyone else does things.

You walk away feeling like you put all your eggs in the basket of killing this guy and feeling gratified, but instead, he's given you a new perspective which does not attempt to excuse or justify anything he's done, but it helps Henry to understand a great many things.

- Because of this, I gave him the honorable death of dying on his feet, but the game classified that as a Bad Ending choice???

- To imply that I gave into darkness by indulging vengeance?? Which feels contradicting to Istvan's suggestion of honor being a mess that you've already forgiven yourself for???

- 'Let [them] live' is not always the good choice. Von Aulitz was just another piece in someone else's game. He did not condone or condemn Sigismund, he just did what he was asked to given the circumstances he was in. This isn't said to defend his actions but it is established to show him as a complicated human being who was living in complicated times.

- If anything he said spoke to you, even just as the dying words of someone who didn't have anything to lose, idk how letting him live and thus succumbing to a slow & painful death is the GOOD choice?? The nice thing to do??? The thing you look back on and have no regrets about???

- EVEN MORE SO cuz he specifically requested that you kill him??? You literally select 'Give him an honorable death' but then it reflects dishonorably in the end. How???

Again I don't have the full history of this dude with Henry's past traumas, but if you let him speak I feel like Henry is objectively moved by what he said by the time he gets to make this decision.

^^^ Do u ever come home in the middle of the night after an exhausting couple of days only to find that ur precious platonic best friend has claimed the second bunk in ur room and u cannot help but to take a moment to stare longingly @ his sleeping face (with an oddly low-quality jpeggy eye and from a masculine distance) knowing that he's finally safe??? #DUDEthings

Anyway 💅 characters time:

I feel like most of this is already a tribute to what I like about Henry, so I'll just say he has a pleasantly surprising personality in a game that has the potential to go full edgelord. He's very endearing and I like him a lot <3

I adore Hans. He's such a brat but ya boi gets humbled in major ways during the events of this story and that's great. I fell in love with him when you get to Troskowitz (??? every town in the Trosky region has Trosk% in the name lmao) and you can have a really long back-n-forth argument trying to convince him to move sacks of flour with you. It just keeps going and he keeps fighting you about it but then you also keep clapping back almost infinitely.

- And then you get to do this with him again when you're locked up in the pillory <3

- It's an excellent start to their dynamic cuz you do get to catch (a few) tender words/moments before that happens + he seems genuinely amicable and friendly in conversation with others, so you know there's something more substantial beneath his fancy nobleness and spoiled behavior.

^^^ Also he sat comically slumped in this chair for like two minutes

I love Zizka 👏👏👏 literally has the best first impression I've seen from a character in a long time. Much like seeing the general from Akira for the first time, I could not help but to think, 'This dude's a real motherfucker, ain't he?" and that's great. Also I love his cinched waist silhouette and big silly mustache and also things about his character but who cares about that

Katherine was really good too. I didn't like her at first because idk feisty lady who says rude things is like the most cliche archetype for a female character in predominantly male casts, and that's how she came off at first. But I ended up enjoying her personality once it was able to breathe and move past that initial first impression.

- Tho I do think they kinda stopped knowing what to do with her once you leave Sigismund's camp?? Or maybe they just transitioned her to being worried and frustrated a lil too quickly??

- Anyway her dialogue was refreshing cuz she's like one of the few characters who ain't always praising jesus (I made a deliberate effort to never click the dialogue options that looked godly but I'd get jump scared by em every now and then and it would make my pp go soft)

- Thought it was funny that NPCs kept referring to her as "the woman with the black hair' even tho it's clearly brown

- I can definitely see the appeal of romancing her but regardless of me going into this knowing I'd be a Hans enjoyer, I actually legitimately like her & Henry's friendship as a platonic thing???

- The game really really wants you to be flirty with her (as the most emboobled person in the game) but I never clicked any of them since idk I feel like Henry wasn't that kinda dude in my playthrough, but there was a bit of dialogue that slips in no matter what when you check up on her for the first time after transitioning to the second region (and I think it implies there's a time skip??)

- It's v simple but it endeared me to their friendship immediately. Henry has a big smile on his face and is like, "How are you, my lovely?" and then she snickers and kind of teasingly responds like, "[idr what she said], love!" and something about that sarcastic-but-not-in-a-mean-way dynamic hooked me.

- Also, I want to see more men & women being able to have meaningful friendships without it having to be flirty and/or inevitably romantic

^^^ Bathes u platonically & in friendship

Ok so Rosa LOL I fucked up bad. I had 0 intent on romancing her but I wasn't gonna be like... explicitly rude or anything, but then I made The Wrong Choice in Malechov and she was PISSED at me forever. But TBH??? I think that actually gave us a fun and pretty interesting dynamic??

- Rosa is 100% fulfilling the traditional princess/knight fantasy (u even rescue her from a tower for goodness sake) which can let you live out your interesting & unique dreams of rescuing a princess, being chivalrous to her in a dank nasty tunnel, and then being rewarded with sex after you valiantly rid her wealthy property of the nasty poors

- BUT since I had no reason to maintain rep I decided to stick with my poor choice and, as I said, she never rly forgive me for letting Zizka suggest burning the tower, even when I said (truthfully) that it was only ever gonna be a ruse.

- So then we had a Shrek & Fiona (pre-montage) dynamic and that was great. Instead of me being gallant and offering to carry her through the flooded part of the tunnel, she sarcastically said that I had to do it and then Henry was like UGH and carries her very ungracefully. Then I got to call her out on all her BS about wanting me to slaughter all the beggars w/o even trying to sue for peaceful resolution, which she did concede on eventually.

- Anyway, Rosa and Henry were almost constantly butting heads and it was pretty refreshing. She was Big Mad™ and I was Didn't Care™ and it lent itself to a different kind of friendship dynamic. Just taking turns being absolute brats to each other

- I still think the pacing for her is weird, especially as one of the three main romance ppl, you get like barely any time with her or her father. If the game was 15% longer they could have developed their role in the story more which would've made their relationship feel less transactional

The Devil pack was fun, especially Kubyenka & Janosh. Dry Devil himself was pretty rough at first (bro, clear ur THROAT) but boy did they use him effectively when they needed to. The lead up to Malechov was the first time you really get to see how he got his name, and it worked

Was meh about Godwin at first (he also felt pretty archetypal) but he really grew on me too. More than any other character, Godwin made me wish I played the first game before jumping into this one so that I could have understood his character better from the start

^^^ Apparently he's not meant to be shirtless in this scene??? I didn't think anything of it until I saw other ppl's screenshots LOL

THIS IS TOO LONG LET'S GET TO THE GAY ALREADY (quote by me as I was nearing my 150th hour and still going [not rly tho u kno i was savoring this moment)

It was really goddamn good. I legit don't think I have seen a better payoff for such a meticulous slow burn between two people who got to build a friendship without any expectations for it to become something more.

SMALL TANGENT but I feel like it's so goddamn rare to see a m/m relationship that gets to blossom from a friendship genuinely and in its own time. I also like??? That they are the same age and as equally capable as one another?? IDFK WHAT HOLLYWOOD'S DEAL IS that if there's a gay romance they cannot help but to find ways to still make it as hetero as possible. There's always the gendered dynamic of the more masculine/feminine one; if not that, then there's an UNCOMFORTABLE age difference???? Two beautiful men can both be muscular and in love and attend lunch during the same time period as kids, it is indeed possible

ANYWAY The best part was that if you had asked me what I thought the scene was gonna be like, even as I progressed more and more through the story, I would not have expected this

I think maybe cuz I'm used to being let down I had tempered my expectations to only hope for the minimum

Like an exchange of dialogue; something topical & something flirty, then a kiss that would lead to weightless rolling around on the bed w/ romantic music (Mass Effect style)

But oh my goodness??

The way it was framed by the story of the two knights leading to an indirect confession from Hans, which eventually leads to a (Kiss Him) prompt, was all nice but pretty par for the course so far.

I had assumed Henry would be the one to confess since you were (from his perspective) the one gently leading their relationship toward something more, but was like "Oh ok, Hans confessed first (mostly) so now at least we know it's mutual. Then Henry will get to initiate the first kiss. /is very smart and perceptive"

Even Hans kissing Henry wasn't too out of left field, but then Henry pushes him away?? And has such a nasty scowl on his face??

So many unspoken things are conveyed by Hans here. I cannot add anything that has not already been said, but even just the body language and the way he delivers his lines is so... devastated and scared. Like he fucked up real bad, and Henry didn't do anything to assure him otherwise, which lead to even more ]: from him

I liked that Henry was about to leave and that he was going to do it with that scowl still on his face, but then ofc he turns around instead and make this one of the the most heartbreaking & then suddenly tender expressions of love I'd ever seen.

I'm glad their romance checks weren't flirty. You can tell that they were already in love each other but had each been holding it back for any number of good reasons, until suddenly those reasons didn't matter anymore

- Also wtf the little smile Hans does as Henry lowers him to the bed was so sweet

^^^ mfw my #bestbud kisses me before heading off to battle while I hold down the fort and as we fight for another day we both think about that poem of the knights who loved each other so much that they succumbed to grief & sorrow when they thought the other dead

Imagine seeing this scene and accusing it of being woke pandering. Imagine hearing the way every word is said by both characters and thinking it came out of nowhere & was done to appease DEI (which, ok first of all, LOL). Imagine closing yourself off from getting to witness something that is so unique to these two characters specifically. Life is so boring for u lmao

ANYWAY the scene was sublime and had this been it, I would have been more than happy with what we got. But I was genuinely surprised by how much it got referenced by Hans & Henry, but subtly by other characters, too.

I feel like romances in RPGs are typically contained to the scene where they consummate it, which is why you gotta savor it so much

But this one got to breach containment and came up in nice little ways, and at some point, much bigger and more deliberate ones.

Something I forgot to list in the Disappointments section that's 2 miles up this post, was I thought the wedding being revealed to Henry would be a bigger scene?? But then Rosa just casually mentions it, and so do other NPCs, and Henry also kinda is just whatever about it.

I wasn't even assuming it would be a scene because of the romance, but more because it was such a BIG DEAL as it was announced to Hans so I assumed it would be worth mentioning to Henry more explicitly, but it wasn't

But then it is! They talk about it late and what they (as two bros in love) are gonna do about it, and like?? Their future actually seems... not completely doomed? Which is amazing.

Not sure if they're gonna make a 3rd game or if the wedding will be a DLC, but I am much more confident now that Hans/Henry will can beyond its relevant scenes. Will be interesting to see how they handle it (seeing the wedding was pretty heavily foreshadowed) but I still feel like, even without romancing him, there's still something there to build off of.

in short: KCD2 was good and now I'm gonna draw boys kissing because it has also inspired me to get back into art LMAO

#kcd2

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rpfisfine · 1 year ago

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how about 2, 5, 11, and 16 for the video game asks?

HEYYYYYYY BUG thank you so much!!!!

2. top 5 games of all time

THATS SOOOOOOO HARD.....ZAMN....okay... i wanted to be like "in no particular order" but unfortunately i think these do need to be ranked it just has to be done so:

rdr2 (very boring answer)

gtav

assassin's creed 4: black flag

subnautica

machinarium

5. most memorable gaming moment

holy shit....probably playing spore when i was like 9 or 10 and finally Finally making it into the center of the galaxy....i remember my mom was vacuuming or sth and i was just genuinely fighting for my life transporting my shitass falling apart spaceship from planet to planet being shot to pieces from every single direction by the grox teeth clenched face 2 centimeters away from the monitor pc mouse drowned in my palm sweat and then finally getting sucked into the endless psychedelic wormhole and like finishing the game technically. i remember literally nothing else abt the cutscene but getting awarded with the thing that let you terraform planets with one single click was like the closest a 9 year old could ever get to some kind of cosmic comprehension experience in my eyes....

ALSO!!!!! riding the wagon through this oak alley leading up to the braithwaite manor in rdr2....i first did the mission during sunrise and it literally wonked my world clean off......every time i replay the game nowadays i always shave and bathe and put on my best clothes (and then i shave and bathe arthur and put on his best clothes too i guess) bc its such a special milestone to me but it never rly gives me the high that the first time did......sigh......but yeah definitely this

11. favorite game genre?

answered!! probably too extensively LOL

16. singleplayer, multiplayer or both?

singleplayer!!!!!!!! always always singleplayer which might stem from the fact that i'd never had any friends and therefore no one to play video games with growing up but its mainly just my personal preference like i just want to do my own thang alone and in peace and not worry abt anyone else........i do mourn the fact that some games are at their core designed to be strictly multiplayer like gta online or tf2 because i would like nothing more than to play those the way they're intended but alas.. and also nothing makes me angrier than game studios deciding to completely flip out of nowhere and make their game that has always been singleplayer into a multiplayer just to profit off of it like if they make subnautica 3 a multiplayer i will genuinely kill myself and film the whole thing and send it to unknown worlds entertainment to change the trajectory of their lives but restore the trajectory of the game forever

gaming asks

#asks #thank you so much!!!!!!!! also i apologize for the long long long long long wait

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sapphic-outlaw · 2 years ago

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Part 1/2 Long text ahead and a mixture of cringe RP stuff and "two stoned friends with way too much time on their hands" stuff. Be warned lol. I had kind of an internal monologue while doing this trail ride. Probably because I was inebriated, but regardless I took some mental notes and wanted to put it in writing before heading to bed. Everything is perfectly optional to read, of course, since I'm mostly writing this all for myself, but more power to you if you're interested! This post is kinda randomly peppered with screenshots I thought were pretty, and then some that are actually written about. I did my best to place them accordingly! The devs of the mod menu I use, Fortitude, recently added a slow motion feature which I've been having an absolute blast with! So tonight, accompanied by a lovely friend (whom I'm just going to refer to as Charles for simplicity's sake), I went on a nice long digital trail ride with Charles and took some screenshots. This was a whole ordeal lol. Started out rather normal, no issues whatsoever as we were in a private server and had all the time in the world to just take our time and take pics. We listened to music, smoked a bowl, just got comfy and prepared for a LONG journey because I wanted this whole thing to be in slowmo. Charles hasn't really played RDR2/RDO before, much less with mods, so I had to teach him a bit. But I digress! Early into the ride I started playing Angels and Airwaves, a band that I grew up with and love dearly. Turns out… Charles hates them lol. But he DID agree that they fit the Charles and Blair aesthetic really well with both sound and lyrics, plus helped me pick out the best song to put some clips to, so there's that. Then we ran into the red coyote. I tried my hardest to ignore it, truly. But my ADHD got the best of me. I think we spent the better part of 30 minutes in a constant back and forth of "Where is it?!" "THERE!!" "WHERE?!" "RIGHT THERE!" "I CAN'T SEE WHERE YOU'RE POINTING, YOU'RE IN A DIFFERENT ROOM!" Let me tell you, chasing a coyote with cinematic mode on and in slow motion is HARD. I wish I had gotten some better pictures. Oh well though, the experience was worth it. And then I killed the poor thing. I didn't mean to, but I ran it over a couple of times and that did it in. I was actually gonna let it go after taking pics, and just let it despawn, but I guess little coyotes are no match for two stomps of an Arabian's hooves. So after selling the little cutie to Gus and getting my garment (that's my fave legendary and I somehow hadn't gotten it yet; I only let myself get legendaries when I see them in game and won't spawn them for myself), we continued south. More screenies, ofc, and I wanted to hurry through Armadillo (that town gives me the creeps. Also, I waved to a cop once and immediately became wanted) but Charles insisted we stop so he can buy some food (I told him how to fill his cores but he was immersed at this point lol, brave soul had been riding almost entirely in first person). So while he went to the general store, I chilled out with Johnny and Taima (Johnny is my horse, the brindle Arabian) and took some more pics. I caught a glimpse of Charles sprinting his big ass out of the shop when I said I was doing so, he immediately came running and said "Wait! I wanna see what [Charles] looks like on Johnny!" As if I was about to let that photography opportunity slip by lmao. Seeing Charles sprint is HILARIOUS btw. He's got kind of a naturally bow legged stride, and he honestly kinda runs like it's heavy. Iykyk. I gotta break the post off here bc Tumblr isn't cooperating, but I'll post part two in just a second. ♥

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead online #rdo #red dead 2 #red dead oc #charles smith #oc x cc #the bison and the bear

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mygtadiary · 1 month ago

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GRAND THEFT AUTO VI IS ONE YEAR AWAY

I CAN’T BELIEVE THATS A REAL SENTENCE THAT I GOT TO TYPE JUST NOW!!!!!!

JUST ONE YEAR LEFT TO WAIT FOR……

•THE MOST ANTICIPATED ENTERTAINMENT PRODUCT EVER!

•MY LIFELONG FAVORITE GAME SERIES GETTING ITS FIRST NEW ENTRY IN 12.5 YEARS!

•THE BIGGEST, MOST IMMERSIVE EVOLUTION OF THE GRAND THEFT AUTO SERIES TO DATE!

•THE SPRAWLING STATE OF LEONIDA THAT WILL BE THE HOME OF A LIKELY ALL TIME, LEGENDARY VIDEO GAME!

•A GAMING EXPERIENCE UNLIKE ANY OTHER, HAND CRAFTED & METICULOUSLY DETAILED FOR YEARS, BY THOUSANDS OF EXTRAORDINARY GAME DEVELOPERS ACROSS THE PLANET!

•AN ENDLESS PERSONAL MOVIE, ONE A KIND… FOR MILLIONS TO ENJOY FOR MONTHS & YEARS AHEAD!

•THE FIRST NEW ROCKSTAR OPEN WORLD SINCE THE INCREDIBLE RDR2 IN 2018. WHICH WILL BE HOME TO THE MOST INTERESTING NPC & AI & SO MANY DETAILS & ACTIVITIES, THINGS TO SEE & DO!

•THE JASON & LUCIA LOVE STORY

•THE FIRST GTA BUILT ON MODERN CONSOLE HARDWARE IN 15 YEARS (05 HARDWARE —> 2020 HARDWARE)!

•THE BEGINNING OF THE NEW GTA ONLINE!

•LIKELY THE ONLY NEW GTA WE WILL SEE IN THE NEXT 15 — 20 YEARS!

•THE BIGGEST & MOST UNIQUE EVENT IN VIDEO GAME HISTORY!

In conclusion,

One year from today will be a truly special & unique day in my life. A core memory.

I truly can’t believe we have made it to this point. After so so so many years since GTA 5, and so much anticipation & hype…… we are simply just one year away from getting to play this one of a kind game. It’s going to be a journey unlike any other, as well as the lead up to it! Thanks for being along for the ride!

May 26th, 2025 ✏️

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maximuswolf · 4 months ago

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Hot Take: Gameplay is not the most important

Hot Take: Gameplay is not the most important Alright I'm not 100% sure about this take, but I think I'm onto something, please let me know your thoughts. Also this is more of an opinion than a statement. What is important for a game to be good is different from one person to another.Story, Environment, Worldbuilding, Music, Sound, Art style: All of these things are more important to making a game memorable than gameplay.Memorable not necessarily fun but memorable. That's a key distinction.If you ask me to describe my favourite games, what comes to mind isn't the gameplay, but the world, the story, the characters, the *feeling* I get from playing it.I'll illustrate with a widely praised game that is also one of my favourites: Red Dead Redemption 2What makes Red Dead Redemption 2 so great? It certainly isn't the core gameplay at least for me. The shooting is fun at times but I wouldn't call it that memorable or "great", it's even repetitive at times. What makes RDR2 so great is the world, the realism, The atmosphere, The graphics, The music, The story, the Characters. Riding back to camp from a mission and stumbling upon a KKK gathering or helping a man who got bit by a snake by sucking the poison out of his leg. Randomly having a friendly couple invite you into their house only for them to be two crazy brother and sister incest nutjobs who killed their parents and plan to murder you too. Getting connected to Arthur as he tries to redeem himself after contracting tuberculosis from beating a man to death. The passionate hatred you develop for Micah whilst still loving every second that he's on screen. Or the plan, gosh the plan, Dutch is still talking about "The Plan" rent free in my head with his raspy voice.When I look back at all of my favourite games, what stands out is rarely the gameplay, but everything else about it. In fact, my favourite game of all time is The Witcher 3 and I find the combat in that game pretty mid. It's fun at times, but it's definitely not why I love tw3 so much. I'm so connected to the world, the story, the characters that it stuck with me since I played it. These kind of games that just live rent free in your head, the ones where you listen to the soundtrack years after playing them, where you still think about certain things that happened in them or a certain feeling you felt whilst playing them. The ones that make you cry or tear up even when you're not someone who usually cries at videogames or movies. These games usually are more focused on delivering an "Experience" rather than being fun.On the other hand, I have so many games that I played, that I had so much fun with, but then I finish them, and I kind of forget I even played them. An example of this I could give for me is Hifi-Rush. Really innovative gameplay where you time your combat to the music and I had so much fun with it but man, I just completely forgot what happens in that game.And don't get me wrong, I love good gameplay and really fun games, I just recognised this pattern in the games I remember the most and wanted to share it. Thoughts?TLDR: Gameplay is not the most important aspect to making a game memorable. Everything surrounding it such as Environment, Story, Characters, Music...etc serves more to make a player connected and remember their time experiencing the game. Submitted February 24, 2025 at 08:50AM by PriMed77 https://ift.tt/nzjfhKb via /r/gaming

#reddit

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astrxealis · 3 years ago

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i really really REALLY want nier oh my god

#replicant and automata both but esp automata rn ... im rlly glad that tho ik some things that are spoilery #i dont know most of it !! similar to my experience w p5 !! tho w p5 atm im a bit sad i spoiled myself more than i wished but also #idm bcs like. tbh im just rlly excited and scared WHDHWHDBWJSJAJ i kind of mind but also not really #my opinion w that when i finish p5r yes yes uhhhhh but moving on from that yeah nier ........ AGGGHHDHHDHDHDHDGDGWGSH #i dont know most of it still which im rlly glad abt ohtjehdjsj i really want to play it so bad tbh #i think rn it is my top game i want ... specifically automata ... euehehwhdhdhdhshdh holy sht #im kind of sad bcs yk. back in like 2020. dad asked for 3 games jodi n i wld want. in that like... that timeframe #we got ghost of tsushima aka one of our choices. ff7r too bcs dad noticed we were watching the whole of crisis core on yt LMAO #ac odyssey bcs it was on sale ... rdr2 sometime before too ... i know nier was one of our other choices out of 3 games #but ghost of tsushima won out !! n ac odyssey we got soon too iirc but idk if that was our other choice #kts kund of funnt/sad bcs the game i do sincerely genuinely rlly want and think ill enjoy a lot is nier WHAGAHSHABSJ #but im still vv grateful and happy hehehe #⋯ ꒰ა starry thoughts ໒꒱ *·˚

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nitewrighter · 3 years ago

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The Knight of Frost, Part 2

Been playing a lot of Elden Ring and RDR2 and wouldn’t ya know it, it got me really inspired for this AU.

Thinking about the inherent eroticism of running away hysterically screaming from Elden Ring bosses...

CW: For some Horse Body Horror.

Continued from The Knight of Frost

---

Mercy grew up as most girls from her time and place grew up--much as the people in her grandmother’s story grew: she knew long, harsh winters and bright, precious summers and springs, and autumns that seemed to cascade all at once in just a few short weeks. She grew taller than most girls, and with an odd grace and delicacy about her, unbowed by the drudgery of her day to day life. But there was a kindness at her core, perhaps fueled by that constant wrestling with the end of the story, the idea that out there was a knight trapped by a curse for no reason other than the strength of his heart and loyalty. She grew up cleverer than most in her village: with an excellent head for memorization that made her an ideal apprentice for the local midwife and apothecary, and steady hands that allowed her to learn to lance buboes and quickly take over the task for her teachers when gout gave a shake to their wrists and unsureness to their fingers.

All this was paired with a no-nonsense personality that prompted little frustration from her teachers--they recalled beating her only three times--once when her daydreaming lead to idleness, another time when she directly contradicted them in front of a client, and a third time when they found she had been advising and examining in back alleys when her training was not yet complete but their clients had no coin for the apothecary’s consultation. The impressiveness of her fury and passion in defending herself in each case was only rivaled by the impressiveness of her stoicism as the birch met her backside. She was strong, and tall, and always just a little bit angry, like a lone evergreen in a dry place: needs that were not quite being met, but doing her best regardless.

All the while as she grew, the winters seemed to get longer and longer, and leaner, as they started biting into what would have been planting time and wiping out seedlings with harsh spring frosts without warning. Mercy was 11 when most of those that farmed only grain and vegetables left their village in hopes of farming warmer climes, and when the grain left, the alehouse quickly went quiet and mean. Still the village stumbled on. For a while Mercy and her grandmother managed--the sheep of their farm still managing to find gorse and dried grass amid the frost, but even they grew leaner, gave less milk, birthed fewer lambs. The village was valuable enough to travelers going through the mountains for them sustain themselves on trade for a bit. They traded cheese and wool for wheat and barley, and Mercy honed her craft healing travelers’ injuries and even acting as midwife for a birth or two. But soon those creeping winters discouraged more and more travelers from their pass, soon, what reserve supplies there were in the village dwindled, and what few people remained were more or less planning out their own timelines of leaving themselves.

Eventually Mercy and her own Grandmother had to plan for their own departure from the village, and Mercy’s grandmother’s plan amounted to “leave me to die here, I don’t care.” which of course Mercy would not accept, and that’s how Mercy ended up furiously pushing her grandmother in a wheelbarrow down the mountainside, her shepherd’s crook strapped to her back, with the entire flock of sheep in tow, bellwether bells clanking. Still determined, still just a little bit angry, and bright as a flame, her scarlet cloak billowing and pale hair whipping in the wind, and their very own snowy cascade thundering and baaaa-ing down the mountain.

They settled in a new town in the valley, sold most of their sheep for a new house, even got their footing by reuniting with some of their old neighbors. Mercy found work bonesetting, boil lancing, pulling teeth, mixing medicines, and midwifing, her grandmother focused on spinning wool from the three sheep that remained and keeping their little garden in her old age, and for a while, they were content. Mercy found even more business as more people settled into the town, driven out of their own remote villages by the cold same as her and her grandmother. She got a few offers of marriage, but her grandmother ended up scaring most of them off demanding a higher dowry, and eventually her own age got people to muttering and the offers quickly died down. She didn’t mind. Mercy was pleased to hone her skill more, and it was all she could do to let the busyness all her new customers lent her keep out the dread of more people pouring into the valley all the time--her apothecary jars and shelves getting barer and barer as she struggled to treat the influx of people. Also, deeply, quietly, Mercy and her Grandmother missed the grand vistas of their mountain village, and this town was decidedly smellier than that wide open mountain air, but it was a good enough life.

Until the winter found them once again. Curling around the mountain peaks that framed their little town and sinking slow and cold into their valley with every sunset. Nervous mutterings rose up around town as frosts wiped out seedlings and travelers spoke of more routes through the mountains closing up and becoming too dangerous to traverse. Whenever the door would open at the ale house a freezing wind would rip through.

“It’s not right. Not natural. Something has to be done,” someone would mutter into their ale.

“How is wind unnatural? And how does one expect to do anything against wind and winter?” another would reply.

“It’s the old empress’s curse,” another would murmur, “The one from the legends.”

“Well how does one expect to do anything against the long-dead and consigned to legend, Bartleby? Answer me that!” said the second. And that would usually be the end of it. But one night, when Mercy was drinking away the memory of a particularly nasty boil-lancing, a new voice spoke up.

“You could investigate,” the new voice drawled, and Mercy’s eyes flicked away from the foam of her own ale, her eyes falling on a tall figure in a wide-brimmed brown hat, “You head into the cold, you might be able to see what’s causing it. I’ve a right mind to gather several men and do just that.”

Mercy rolled her eyes and sipped her ale.

“And waste food and supplies on what may very well be a death wish?” the second villager, one of Mercy’s own displaced neighbors, scoffed a chuckle, “You travelers are always mad.”

“Maybe,” the man in the wide-brimmed hat conceded, “But... here’s the way I see it-- We go off on this trip, maybe we find out what’s making the winters the way they are, and we stop it, not promising anything like that, but if such an opportunity arises, you can be damn well sure we’ll take it. But ultimately, the goal here is to break through the old main pass to get to the capital city. From there, we re-supply, and come back here with food, more warm clothes, and, if everything’s gotten too bad... a safe way through the pass to greener pastures.”

Mercy’s mouth quirked at this. She hadn’t really thought of what moving again would look like. She could push her grandmother downhill in a wheelbarrow but finding a way out of the valley? When every path would be uphill? She sipped again, tentatively. If they made it to the capital city, she could re-stock on all the items she couldn’t forage here. Could she really trust such a retrieval to some errand boy?

“All I’d need is a handful of volunteers..” the man in the wide-brimmed hat said slowly, but everyone in the tavern gave him a visible cold shoulder.

Mercy gave a short huff into her mug before turning around to look at him.

“Would you be willing to pay for such a trip yourself?” she asked.

“It is in my interest, just as it is in everyone else’s interests, that those trade routes reopen. I have a bit of coin, I’ll pay for what supplies I can, but I know I can’t do this alone.”

Mercy thoughtfully drained the last of her ale in two gulps and set her mug on the wood of the bar. “I have need of supplies that can only be found out of this cold,” she said, not looking at him, “Is your expedition to be exclusively men?”

“I just figured only men were mad enough to go,” the man in the hat shrugged, “Is this volunteering?”

Mercy pressed her lips together. “Would I be the first?”

“The fourth,” his hat flopped a little with the conceding bob of his head, “But I can’t afford dead weight.”

“Do you have a healer among you?”

“There’s Baptiste, but he’s a sellsword. I fear his knowledge of healing comes from just as much as what kills you.”

“You wound me, my friend!” a dark man with a bright smile called from the other end of the bar.

“Miss Mercy, surely you aren’t considering traveling with this vagrant!” one the tavern patrons touched her sleeve.

“Supplies are dwindling,” was all Mercy could reply. She looked back at the stranger in the wide-brimmed brown hat with a stern determination. “I’m trained in herbalism, midwifing, bonesetting, and several disciplines of barber-surgery. I don’t eat much and I have a strong back. Is that good enough?”

“Eh--” it took a moment for the man in the hat to regain his composure, “Y-yes, It’ll suffice.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” she stuck a hand out, “Mercy Goatsrue, at your service.”

“Cole Caisede, miss,” he clasped her wrist with his opposite hand and shook it, “At your service.”

In truth it took some convincing for her grandmother to let her go. And even then it was like “Go ahead, leave me to die!” and Mercy could only respond with, “You won’t die so long as there’s any opportunity to spite me further,” and her grandmother replied, “So you’d better not die then, you damned foolish girl!” And that was about as warm a goodbye as either of them would get. It was dark and very early in the morning when the party departed up the main path out of the valley. Mercy in her scarlet cloak, Cole Caisede looking every bit the rugged mountaineer in his hat and cloak, smiling, knowing Baptiste donning a veritable hodgepodge of clothes from different lands, and a towheaded man with wind-blistered skin who only tersely introduced himself as Bayless who provided two scrawny mules and a wagon for their supplies. It was far too early in the morning for there to be many people seeing them off, and much of the village thought the expedition was too mad to see them off with fanfare. It was quiet and gray, with slow-drifting flakes peppering the air. The path out of the village lead to an incline that started reasonably, but soon had to split into rocky, tedious switchbacks that took some convincing to move the mules along. It took them a day to reach halfway up the bowl of the valley, and they spent the first night trying to find and point out their houses and farms and the different landmarks below.

Finally, when they crested the lip of the valley, Mercy drew in a breath of the still and sparkling air. It was brighter up here, with the valley so prone to the shadows of its own walls and all the sinking cold and darkness that came with it, but that brightness did not mean warmth. Still, it was heartening for the party to feel such light as they had not known in some time. Baptiste scanned the skies, the seeming endless void of blue, the light itself rendered strange by a dazzling ring of light around the sun.

"...no birds," he said, as they pushed on through the snow.

"No seeds or bugs to eat," Mercy huffed. Her skirts had been kirtled and kilted to just below the knee, covering the tops of her boots and further insulating her wooly leggings, but the weight and wind forced her towards the back of the party. For several days the party trudged on, saying little, putting all physical and mental energy towards the seemingly endless trek forward, making camp and eating thin soups of barley and dried mushrooms by night, with their own exhaustion prompting little conversation. Eventually the gradual lightening of their packs, the long hours together, and their own adjustment to the toil of their journey prompted more words.

"Do you give any credence to those 'curse' whispers?" Cole asked as he poked at their campfire one night.

"My grandmother told me the story all the time when I was small," said Mercy, scraping up the last now-cold dregs of her soup, “It always frustrated me that it... always felt unfinished... but it feels dangerous to walk into a story that isn’t your own.”

"My logic has always been, the more thought one gives to a curse, the more power a curse has," said Baptiste, running his knife along a whetstone.

"But it ain't natural, we're in agreement there, right?" Cole propped his forearm up on his knee.

"Wasn't this whole expedition your idea?" Mercy set her bowl down and drew up her flannels around herself.

"Well if the curse is real, that doesn't mean I'm just going to sit down and take it," said Cole, "But the quality of the light up here...the stillness, I must say it lends itself to queer thoughts and fancies."

"You are already naturally given to queer thoughts and fancies, my friend," said Baptiste, not looking at him but giving a lazy wave of his knife in Cole's direction.

Cole gave a wry, smiling huff at that, his breath fogging in the firelight.

There was a braying and nickering and the three of them all glanced at Bayless, who was tending to the mules. Bayless was muttering things to them, not audible over the wind and the crackle of the fire.

“Everything all right over there?” Cole called.

“They mislike it here,” was all Bayless said, coming over to the fire.

“Hm...” Cole poked at the fire, then glanced up at Mercy, “Goatsrue. You said you know the story?” he glanced up at Mercy.

“I can’t tell it like my grandmother,” Mercy shrugged.

“Tell it anyway,” said Cole.

“Cole...” Baptiste began warily.

“What? Maybe we oughta know what we’re walking into.”

“And sometimes to know a thing is to call its attention to you,” said Baptiste.

“You know, when you travel, you’re supposed to just nod politely at the local superstitions and move along--not carry them with you,” said Cole.

“It’s just a children’s story,” Mercy waved her hand, “It’s really not so terrible. I mean the giant spiders scared me but--”

“Giant spiders? Well now you can’t not tell it!”

Mercy snorted and glanced at Baptiste, who simply gave a resigned shrug, and then she told the story. The mules fell silent as she spoke, and she told herself it was just that their own tiredness had finally overwhelmed their unease. Mercy scanned the faces of her not-quite companions, then. Bayless had finished his soup and tucked into his own blankets, Baptiste kept sharpening his knife as the fire died down, not heavily indicating that he was listening, but giving her a careful glance here and there. Cole rubbed at his stubble and listened intently, sometimes popping in with the odd question as she had done with her grandmother in her childhood. The fire had settled down to embers and Baptiste and Bayless had tucked into their own sleep rolls by the time she finished.

“There weren’t as many giant spiders as I thought there would be,” said Cole.

“I said it had spiders, I didn’t say the whole thing was giant spiders.”

“...not exactly a happy ending, is it?” Cole was wriggling into his own sleep roll.

“My grandmother said it wasn’t really about having a happy ending,” replied Mercy, watching the embers, “It was about doing your best even when all hope seems lost.”

“Sounds like a cheery lady,” Cole shrugged.

“I like to think the princess grew up and came back to rescue the knight,” Mercy murmured.

“Hmm... But if she had... do you think we’d be having these winters?” Cole waved a finger at her.

Mercy pursed her lips at him a few seconds before muttering, “It’s just a story,” and getting into her own sleep roll. She watched the embers as sleep closed up around her like flower petals she had not seen in well over a year.

Cole was right about the land lending itself to strange thoughts though, as her dreams were troubling and just a little too clear to simply be dreams. She dreamt of a blue-skinned hand with blackened, claw-like fingertips crushing a little corn husk doll in its grip. She dreamt of frost bristling along spider’s webs, of spikes and twisted spires of ice, growing, growing, closing in around her. And the sounds--she could hear those uncanny sounds, the low thundering, the cracks and zips and high-pitched creaks of water freezing over. Of icicle stalactites quivering above, threatening to fall as a distant chant grew louder and louder.

The cold keeps the flesh.

In her dream she was walking through that cave, the spikes and spires moving, as if leading her on through the tunnels. Her eyes fixed on the quivering stalactites above, the chant moving through the ice, echoing off the walls too strangely for her to gauge where it was coming from. They quivered with the chant.

The cold keeps the flesh.

She couldn’t quite bring herself to react when that first icicle fell, much like anyone’s reaction time in a dream. A part of her was thankful that shatter and spray of ice in all directions was a shock enough to spring her back to consciousness, jerking awake in her sleep roll, her breath fogging as her chest rapidly rose and fell. Her eyes flicked around the camp--there was still the faint glow of embers on their fire, and the faint snoring of her compatriots, and just beyond the camp, the white landscape tinged blue by moon and starlight. She scanned the hills surrounding them, the way their crags had been buffed away beneath a blanket of snow, and that snow had been swept into smooth, curving, sometimes spiked looming shapes. She breathed as she looked around, trying to place herself in the moment.

You are on a quest. You have to cross the mountain pass and bring word of this winter to the capital city and plead for help. You need supplies to bring back to the valley. Yarrow and betony and hyssop and--

Her thoughts fell dead silent as her eyes fell on a distant figure on a hill, and she knew, in that moment that the figure was looking at her. She knew her own face as lit up in the dying embers of the fire, her head covered by that hood of scarlet for warmth, and she looked at this figure, distant and cold in all ways. They were in armor, dark and glittering and complex, taking on a bluish tinge in the moonlight much like the snow. Far too tight on them to glance off blows like normal plate. She wondered how they had even managed to get such armor on. In fact, there were ridges on the side that looked almost... skeletal. She could not see their eyes, but she could feel them, and her breath shuddered in her throat.

They seemed to be on a horse. An unusually large and oddly muscled horse, to be sure. Nothing like the tired but reliable old farm horses she knew in the valley. The eyes of the horse seemed off. She knew of the way animal’s eyes could be lit at night but there was a dullness to their paleness that made her stomach turn. The coloring of the horse seemed off as well--it seemed a piebald at first or perhaps that was the manner of tack in these parts? No, they weren’t so far from the valley for it to look so--

The horse shifted slightly in the moonlight and a sound of horror fell out of her as she clamped her hand over her mouth on instinct. But what was the point? This figure already saw her. And she herself could not break her eyes away from them in turn. But the horse--the horse was not made of all a horse should be made of. She had read enough medical texts and done enough surgeries on suppurated flesh to know it when the horse’s flank caught the moonlight. This was a horse whose flank and back left leg had been reconstructed from the corpses of men. The chant echoed in her head:

The cold keeps the flesh.

Bile burned the back of her throat and tears welled in her eyes but she knew she could not spare either so she kept her hand clamped on her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut and silently begged what gods were watching to wake her up once more.

“Goatsrue?!” Cole had jerked awake at the sound she had made, “What is it? What do you see?!”

Her hand flinched away from her mouth shaking and she moved to point at the hill, but the figure and their horse were already gone.

#I can't TELL you what a goddamn relief it is to be pumping fics out again #Gency #Ice Wraith Genji AU #CW: old-timey use of queer (as in 'unusual') that is also kind of a double entendre but not really #you know that situation where 'strange' just doesn't hit quite the way you want to and 'queer' has a certain intimacy to it? Is that just me #good bye fucked up deer fall it's time for fucked up horse winter

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fanfiction-inc · 4 years ago

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Can I get Arthur Morgan

But of back story having met a sweet but wild woman let’s say they meet during Colter. She’s literally lived in the mountain and survived and ends up with the gang.

First meeting hmmm he’s just like oh what in the heck is this crazy woman and she’s so nice to me and snuggly and sweet and wtf she just decked a man flat on his ass?!

ONTO REQUEST with back story in mind.

But they end up sweet on one another And the letter from Mary comes.

Reader ends up tagging along due to reasons and she can’t stand when Mary basically is tugging at Arthur’s emotions. He’s never seen the reader looking at anyone so angrily.

But they end up having first NSFW time and Arthur is a mess of I’m not worthy snd reader is like I say you are and if I gotta F-squeak toy sound-ck it into you I will.

DONT feel the need to go with everything I said I just like to give prompts and let people fly free! Love your writing!!!!

Feel free to ask back for anything RDR!

I had so much fun writing this request! 😍 I hope you enjoy!

(AN: As always, smut is under the cut!)

You have had enough of this woman, her very presence and mannerisms sickening you as you walked along behind your love interest and his former girlfriend.

This woman was working him through every emotional attachment that was left lingering, and she tried to play on the fact they used to have a relationship to persuade him to do this or that for her.

What finally had you huffing and puffing, glare like pure daggers towards the woman with every emotion spawned from the fires of Hell, was when she tried to convince him to run away with her.

To change him into an "honest man".

A "good man".

Arthur Morgan was as good of a man as he can be!

He was kind, smart, caring, and if this woman couldn't see it then it was her loss.

Arthur lost attention at times from Mary's woeful story, catching the gaze you gave to the woman as you walked on and helped him with the task he had been asked to do.

The rage in your gaze, the balling of your fist, and how your body was tense.

He's never seen you like this, always such the charming and sweet little thing when you two are together.

All giggles and smiles, kind gazes and warm embraces.

He didn't know what to make of it, even when you two return to camp and you haven't spoken a word to him.

It wasn't his fault that Mary was like this, he had no part expect being a passenger among your anger train towards the woman who didn't deserve him.

His mind went to ways he may have upset you when with Mary.

Did he stay too close?

Did he not make it known enough that he was taken in some form of relationship with you?

He followed you back to your tent, seeing how your hands were shaking at your side, his taking yours and causing you to turn quickly and face him.

The moment those big blue puppy dog eyes met yours, you melt, calming in his presence.

God, you loved this damn man.

"(First name)-" He was cut off by your words when your form pressed in against his own, lips brushing his in a gentle lip lock.

It took him a millisecond before he was returning the kiss, hands letting yours go in exchange for coming up to cup your cheeks and hold you closer.

It was like fire between you two, the kiss heating up even without words needing to be exchanged.

He only pulled away when your fingers looped in his belt, eyes catching your own.

"(First name), darlin'... What if m'not enough for ya?" Your questioning gaze meets his own and he swallowed thickly. "I don't deserve a woman like ya. So sweet on me, stealin' m'heart each time y'smile and that damn contagious laughter.."

He stopped speaking the moment your finger placed against his lip, watching your expression shift to a far more sweet and loving demeanor.

Yet lust still stayed in those eyes that left him dreamy, lost in thought as he stares.

"Arthur Morgan, if I have t'fuck it into ya that y'deserve me, I will." He felt his cheeks warm when you began unbuckling his belt, the audible gulp sounding in the air making you pause.

"Are y'sure?" He questioned in a breathy whisper, licking his lips when your hands move up his chest, grabbing the collar of his shirt to pull him against you so your lips rested against his ear.

"Absolutely, Mr. Morgan." He visibly shivered, melting when feather like kisses trailed along his jaw and down to his neck, now being hyperaware of just how you make him feel.

His hands come down to grasp your rear, soon hiking you up with a squeak from your lips so your legs wrapped around his waist.

So he could grind his growing hardness against your pants covered core and let you feel what you do to him.

His fingers came to the buttons of your shirt, working to get them undone ad yours worked on his vest, letting the article fall off his form unceremoniously to the dirt below.

He catches your lips following a tilt of his head, humming in satisfaction when your shirt is off and your bare breast are exposed to the humid air of the camp.

Arthur Morgan was savoring every second of this, loving how hot and needy your form grew when he laid you on the cot and busied his mouth with a perky nipple, earning the most delicious of noises from you.

Each breathy sigh when his tongue flicked over the bud and how his teeth just barely grazed the sensitive flesh earning a hitch in breath.

It was pure music to his ears.

Soon enough it was his turn to groan, the sound a low rumble rising from his chest when your hand snaked its way into his trousers, taking him in hand.

"My God, woman. You're drivin' me wild." He huffed out, motions pausing as his eyes flutter shut and savor the slow rhythm you had set with each pump of his member.

"Isn't that the point, Mr. Morgan?" You joked sweetly, giggling when his eyes open to send you a playful look, his lips moving from your breast to kiss down your abdomen and pause at the trousers blocking him from your drenched sex.

Your hand had to pull away from the way he lowered himself, his fingers looping in the waistband of your pants and gaze flickering up for a single second.

A silent question was posed.

"Go ahead." You cooed, body shivering in pure delight at the way his gaze shifted to something more...needy.

He has waited so long to do this, and now he was gonna savor every second of it.

He reveled in the view of you once your pants were off, a verbal moan leaving his lips when he stole a lap at your core, hands moving to catch your shifting hips.

He kept his gaze locked on your own, not giving a damn who heard your lewd noises that spilled out with each suckle and lick at your sensitive bundle of nerves and needy hole.

Savoring the way your chest raised with each quickened breath and how your eyes fell half way when he found the right pace to bring you closer and closer to the edge.

Each hungry lap led you closer and closer, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging with a sweet, delicious moan as the levee broke and he was flooded with your slick, cleaning you of every drop he could.

He rose up with a chuckle, your blissed out expression making his heart flutter.

It encouraged him, made him happy to know he could make you feel so good.

His tongue darks out, licking at what was left on his lips and back of his hand wiping at his chin.

God this man looked sinful doing such.

"Sweeter than honey." He commented, grinning at the rising blush decorating your cheeks.

Your fingers grab his pants again, pulling him in for a kiss as he moved to get his shirt the rest of the way off.

His pants soon followed, now nude to you for the first time.

Of course, you've seen him from the waist up when things got too hot for multiple layers.

Bare chest exposed and slickened with sweat from whatever activity he had been doing.

Your fingers traced over the flesh, resting over his heart to feel it racing as he positioned himself between your legs, gaze seeking your own for approval once more.

"Arthur, please just fuck m'like ya mean it." You pleaded with him when the tip of his cock brushed over your slickened folds, hitting your clit and making your thighs tremble.

He gave a smirk at your words, hips moving so he could sheath his length within you.

He's slow, savoring the way your core accepts every inch of his shaft until his hips are against your own and face pressed against your neck, delivering tender kisses to aid in the process of you adjusting to him.

You're like a well oiled machine, moving in sync to advance the process.

Breaths shared between open mouthed kisses and noises silenced by the other, excluding the wet, skin hitting skin noises that begin to overtake the tent.

Raw, needy, he fucks you like a man desperate to never lose you, to never be without you in his life.

Each pump brings him closer and closer to the edge, just like the feelings building like wildfire in your core.

"Arthur!" Your tone is breathy when it reaches his ears, the only warning besides the sudden clamp of your walls around him and the new octave your tone takes to your release.

He groaned out when he finished within you, your walls stealing everything he has and weight resting on his arms as he tries to combat the high and not crush you.

"I told ya y'drive me wild." He chuckled out, breathless and moving to his side, bringing you with him so he stays buried inside you for the time being.

"Do y'still feel unworthy of me, Arthur?" You questioned gently, fingers tracing designs along his chest, head resting against his shoulder.

"No, all because ya reassured me." He admits, kissing the top of your head.

"Good."

RDR2 TAG LIST:

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #ns/fw ask #ns/fw hc #sothisoutlawwalksintoabar #Thank you!!

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12timetraveler · 3 years ago

Text

Suddenly I'm Holding the World in My Arms

Summary:

Hosea and reader have been together for years. Neither ever expected children, but then again, life doesn't care what we expect.

Notes:

I have been thinking about this fic for a couple months now. In December I had dreams about it at least once a week. Finally I've been able to sit down and write. it. It turned into quite a beast, but I'm absolutely in love.

I tried to stay mostly within canon, placing this before the events of rdr2, but I did add Charles to the gang earlier than he actually joined. No Micah though which is kind of nice, seeing as there are enough lunatics in the gang between Sean, Bill and the Callander brothers. Nice to have one less crazy to write, as fun as he can be.

Chapter 1: Summer 1897

As always below is just a little snip. Read the full thing on AO3

~~~~~~

“Damn. Shit. Hosea,” you panted, arching your back against the soft grass beneath you. Your fingers were tangled in your lover’s silver hair, probably tugging too tightly as he expertly worked your clit, though he didn’t seem to mind. If anything it only spurred him on, alternating between licking and sucking, all while two long, deft fingers stroked your insides, with a third occasionally teasing at your entrance, just enough to make you whimper and wail. “God yes. Just like that. Please don’t stop. <em>Please</em>,” you tugged on his hair a little harder for emphasis, knowing your lover enjoyed teasing you relentlessly. You were already approaching your sixth orgasm for the evening - a feat you’d never accomplished before falling into bed with Hosea but that he loved doing to you time and time again as your relationship had grown - and he hadn’t even unbuttoned his trousers yet. Not a single one of those orgasms had come easily to you, Hosea teasing you right up to the edge before pulling away.

A deep chuckle vibrated against your folds, and you moaned in both pleasure and fear, certain he was going to pull back and drag this out even longer. To your pleasant surprise, he grabbed your thighs tighter, squeezing the ample flesh there, and began working with even more fervor, pushing you closer and closer to number six.

“Yes. Yes. Please. Yes. Hosea. So good. Yes,” You babbled, clutching at the grass beneath you as you felt that coil in your center winding up, ready to snap. You bit your lip, trying to suppress your moans and wails, knowing that even in the middle of this meadow away from any roads, you were still at risk of someone stumbling upon the two of you.

Hosea hummed, letting the vibration tickle your clit, and you were practically sobbing in pleasure. Your hips ground up against his face, urging his fingers deeper into you. He circled his lips around your clit and rubbed his fingers against your g-spot at the same moment, and that was all it took for your orgasm to have you floating amongst the stars with a soundless cry. Your body twitched and jerked against Hosea's grip, but he held on tightly, lapping at your core, gently egging your orgasm on without causing too much pain from overstimulation.

You mewled as you came back to earth. The cool grass beneath you felt incredible against your burning skin. Hosea's careful lapping at your core sent shivers up your body, just enough to light your nerves without causing pain.

"Hosea," you whispered, untangling your fingers from his hair and pressing your hand to the side of his head, trying to guide him up to you.

Hosea lifted his head, pressing sloppy kisses across your abdomen before he obeyed, moving up to hover over you. His shirt was unbuttoned, hanging open and nearly tugged out from his trousers, though you’d been stopped from your earlier attempts at undressing him when he decided he needed to taste you. Again and again and again and–

“Lookit you,” He chuckled fondly as he took in your disheveled state. You could feel how your hair was ruffled and tangled from you squirming against the grass. Your lips were parted as you panted for air. You must look absolutely wonton laying in the grass, dress bunched around your waist.

You whined and grabbed his shoulders, guiding him to lay on top of you, needing that grounding weight of him for a moment as you regained your surroundings. Hosea obliged, gently lowering himself down onto his elbows so more of his weight rested across your body. You wrapped your arms around his neck and snuggled close to him while he kissed along the side of your head and face.

"My God," you sighed against his neck. "Hosea the things you do to me,"

"I could say the same about you," he teased, rolling his hips down against you so you could feel the hot, hard line in his trousers and the small damp spot on the fabric, wet with precum. You groaned as he rutted down against you roughly, unable to stop himself.

"Damn," you whined, fingers quickly tugging his shirt out of his trousers and pushing it off his shoulders. "Hosea, I need you in me. I need you in me <em>now</em>."

Hosea sat back on his heels and you chased him up, attacking his gun belt and setting it aside before frantically undoing the buttons on his trousers. You pushed them and his drawers down his thighs until his bent knees stopped you. Hosea quickly shifted his legs out in front of him, kicking off his boots so you could yank his trousers off the rest of the way.

You easily pulled yourself onto Hosea's lap, grinding down on his hot member. He groaned and pulled you flush against his body, nipping at your neck as your hips ground against each other.

Hosea pulled your dress up over your head and tossed it aside. His large hands came up under your breasts, cupping the heavy weight, the hard peaks of your nipples brushing against his palms as he kneaded the soft flesh. Your lips found his jawline and you nipped and sucked along the skin there, making sure he'd have at least one mark to match the necklace of love bites he'd already given you.

Hosea reached out and grabbed a blanket, which he'd brought for you to lay on and had been promptly forgotten as the two of you ravished each other. Carefully he wrapped the blanket around the two of you, holding it in his hands behind your back. The two of you were curtained, shielded from the world, but fully visible to each other.

You released his neck to capture his lips in a desperate kiss. You gently chewed his lip, making him gasp.

"Come on, sweet thing," he cooed breathlessly. "Ride me,"

#hosea/reader #hosea/f!reader #hosea matthews #f!reader #pregnancy #papa Hosea #dad hosea

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anboringday · 5 years ago

Text

A Morning With Lenny | Part 2

Summary: After a long, hot night of passion, Lenny and the woman he loves spend the following morning sleeping in...and things get heated again.

Pairing: Lenny Summers x f!Reader/OC

Word Count: 3.2k

Rating: Explicit/NSFW

Tags: Smut, lots of oral, foreplay, dirty talk, face humping, fluffy feelings sprinkled in, doing the usual kinky stuff with the cutest cowboy outlaw ever

Note: Being relatively new to the rdr2 fandom, I wrote this for myself because there just wasn’t enough Lenny fics out there and I HAD to change that. I love him so much and I hope you guys enjoy this!

Read on ao3

Part 1| Part 2

I woke the same way I’d fallen asleep, cuddled up to Lenny’s warm, gloriously nude body, his arm draped over me. His hazel eyes were glued to the pages of a book. My all-time favorite romance book!

“Lenny!” I snatched the novel away from him. “That’s mine!”

“Hey!” He tried to grab it back, but I rolled to the other side of the bed. “I was reading that, you know. It was getting good too, they were about to kiss—”

“Really now?” Giggling, I stretched my arms over my head. Through the sheer, linen window curtains, the gray dawn streaked the sky. “But you’re an intellectual, the harshest critic of the written word I know. I thought silly love stories were beneath you.”

“Nah, that ain’t true. Not all literature needs to be a thought-provoking masterpiece. Sometimes it’s all about the way it makes you feel, if you can relate to the context, and whatnot. Honestly though, I was just reading it ‘cause I knew you did. Can we…” He paused, a rush of red stained his cheeks. So cute. “C-can we read it together? From the beginning?”

“Yes!” Warmth flowed through me at the proposition. I handed Lenny the book and snuggled against him, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin, my head propped on his hard chest. “Are you going to read to me, Mr. Summers?”

“Sure. Anything for you.” He clasped my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm before opening the book, raising it to an angle suitable for the both of us to easily view the pages.

Lenny began reading aloud, his soft-spoken voice cultured, smooth, the long vowels of his words was damn near mesmerizing, sensual as sweet melted chocolate. Playing with the ends of his thick, curled locks, I drank in the beauty of his darkly stubbled face as I listened. His chest rose and fell with every breath, the crisp hair against my cheek tickled. I ran my palm down the rigid planes of his stomach, gently caressing the well-exercised muscles. His lean body was a work of art designed purely for female pleasure, and I enjoyed every moment of touching him.

We remained connected throughout the morning, his fingers threading through my hair soothingly as he spoke such lovely sounding words. I yawned, closing my eyes, my body lax in his embrace. Through the haze of sleep, I felt his weight and heat come down on me, his full lips brushed over my cheek.

“Hey,” Lenny said. “Dozing off on me already?” His fingers brushed over my sides, tickling me.

“Lenny!” I squirmed and threw my arms around him, burying my grinning face against his shoulder. “Stop that!”

His sensuous mouth twitched with amusement. “Sorry, it’s just so tempting. You’re so ticklish, it’s cute.”

“Shut up.” I pecked the tip of his nose. “Can’t we sleep in today?”

“I wanted to take you into town, catch a show, browse some of the stores, have a nice dinner at the saloon…” He planted a quick kiss on my lips. “But I reckon that can wait if you rather stay here. A day of rest and relaxation with my favorite lady sounds like a mighty fine idea to me.”

“I’m your only lady,” I corrected, raising my hand in a proud display of the platinum promise ring he gave me.

“The one and only. Since the day we met, you were all I ever wanted. All I could think about. All I could see. It’s always been you—my everything.” He caught my hand with his, our fingers intertwined. “Sometimes I look at you and wonder how I got so damn lucky.”

My heart thumped with a tender ache in my chest. Lenny could say such sweet things, wonderful things.

“We can’t go into town,” I said. “What if someone recognizes you from Blackwater? I just got you back. I won’t lose you again.”

His amber gaze drifted over my face, searching. “Running with gang kept me away from you for a long time. We lost everything in Blackwater, and I got so caught up in Dutch’s blood feud with the O’Driscolls—lying, cheatin’, and robbin’ fools from Valentine up to Saint Denis, trying to get the crew back on their feet…I wish I came back to you sooner.” Sighing deeply, he grew silent.

“You’re here now.” I stroked his cheek. “That’s what matters.”

“Maybe so. My dad used to say dwelling on the past is something like beating on a dead horse, ain’t no good ever come from it.”

“Your father was a smart man.”

“Sure was. An educated negro like him, good and kind, ain’t long for this world. It was only a matter of time.” His eyes glittered, wet with a deep-rooted pain for a split-second before he blinked it away.

My heart clenched. My poor, sweet Leonard…

He had suffered so much tragedy throughout the course of his life. Most of the time, he seemed unfazed, strong despite the pain lingering in his heart. But I knew better. He lived in a world that didn’t want him, didn’t accept him. His color didn’t suit their fancy and the scars of rejection ran deep, the hurt and loss probably ate at his soul on the daily. Wounds like that will never fully heal, but there were ways to lessen the sting.

“Lenny Summers,” I cupped his chin. “You’re gonna stop thinking those bad, silly thoughts right this instant. Look at me.”

He complied. Our eyes locked.

“You’re a good man,” my voice were clear, and distinct, without a shred of doubt. “Do you understand me? You are good. Perfect. You have every right to be here, to live freely, to laugh, to love—no matter what anyone says, no matter what they do—you’re a goddamn human being and that’s the end of it. You’re important. And I love the hell outta you. I always will.”

Blush deepening, muscles tensed, his mouth gaped open like a fish out of water, visibly struggling to find words. He was speechless, reeling from my praise. His shaken reaction was probably the most adorable thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life.

“Say something,” I urged softly, brushing over his cheek with the backs of my fingers.

Lenny took my hand and held it to his chest, his heart thumping, racing. He was apprehensive and impassioned. But why? What was he thinking?

Finally regaining his composure, he asked, “Do you feel that?”

“Yes.” The speedy rhythm of his heart didn’t let up.

“This is what you do to me. You have power over me, a hold—it’s like a snare I can’t escape, like a spell I can’t break.” He chuckled dryly, bitterly. “I never felt weak a day in my life until I met you.”

“You’ve been a wanted man for a long time, struggling to survive, fighting an endless war with the world around you. But you don’t have to be on the defensive with me. It’s okay to let your guard down. There’s more to life than being an outlaw.”

His eyes brightened. “Oh yeah, of course. There’s strong whiskey, fine music, good books, an oiled gun, gold nuggets and silver bullets.”

“Lenny…”

“But regardless of all that, you’re the best part.” Sweetly, he nuzzled my nose.

I giggled. “Well now, aren’t you charming?”

“Ain’t that the reason you love me?”

“One of the many.”

His full lips curved into a slow, breathtaking smile, dazzling against his deep brown skin. Sunlight dappled over his face, illuminating that strong, flawless jawline of his. Goodness, he was so very good looking, impossible to resist, and my love for him intensified by the day. I was helplessly addicted to Lenny Summers, the hours we spent together felt like minutes. I could never get enough.

My cheeks heated. “God, how do you manage to turn from cute to sexy in a matter of seconds?”

He smirked. “It’s a gift, part of my charm.” His hand touched my waist, sliding downward along my thigh. A curse hissed out between his teeth once he reached my lace garter belt. “You’re still wearing those?”

“You didn’t take them off me last night.”

“I don’t plan to.” Lenny rose to his knees, hovering over my scantily clad body, eyes smoldering as he stared down at me. “Keep them on. You look so, so, so pretty just like that.”

“Don’t you mean fuckable?”

“Hey, language!” He mocked me with a lopsided smile. “That’s no way for a lady to speak.”

“Oh, forgive me, Mr. Summers,” I said, my tone laced with sarcasm. “For a lying, thieving outlaw, you’re quite the prude.”

His nose wrinkled in protest. “Me? A prude? No, I’m more of a hopeless romantic with a love for dialect and vocabulary.” He drew close, his tongue traced the shell of my ear. My breath caught in my chest. “If you say things—the right things—you can put anyone in the mood.”

I shivered, hot and bothered, a heated ache between my legs. It wasn’t particularly the context of Lenny’s words that turned me on, but the sound…the huskiness in his voice, the way he dragged the vowels, sensual and rich with passion. His voice was smooth as velvet, unbearably sexy in my ear, sending vibrations deep into the core of my body.

He could talk any woman out of her clothes and into his bed without much effort. Not that he would though, he was much too tenderhearted, too sympathetic to be a womanizer.

He was truly one of a kind. And all mine, by some miracle.

A distinct warmth flooding my core, I shoved my hands into his hair and kissed him. I loved how soft his lips felt against mine. His arms enveloped me as he kissed me back, his tongue glided over mine with hot, savory licks that left me breathless and yearning for more. I could only imagine how amazing that firm mouth of his would feel in other places…

I moaned, feeling the prod of his impressive erection against my thigh. I wrapped my fingers around him, and he bucked his hips on contact, thrusting into my hand.

He groaned into my mouth, still ravaging my lips. The scent of our lust was heavy in the air, the heavy weight of his tense, magnificent body pinning me down. He was hard as stone, and hot. I stroked him from root to tip, my palm slick with precum.

“Ah, damn…” he uttered between kisses, lazily fucking my hand. “That feels good.”

“It feels better inside me,” I murmured against his lips.

He broke the kiss, parting me with his finger. “Not yet. You ain’t ready for me.”

With a feeble sound of protest, I buried my face in his neck.

“Hey, no pouting,” he clasped my chin, forcing me to look into his beautiful hazel eyes. His voice softened. “You’re so tight. I’ll bruise you if we don’t take it slow, okay?”

My gaze glued to his fiercely handsome face, an abrupt gratitude filled my soul. “I love you.”

He beamed, kissing my lips one last time before his tongue seared a path down my neck to my breast. Once he caught my nipple between his teeth, I flinched.

Lenny quirked a brow. “You’re sensitive.”

“I still haven’t recovered from last night,” I said.

“Relax, Sugar. I’ll be gentle.”

I blinked, perplexed by the endearment, although I adored how sweet it sounded from his lips. “Sugar?”

He uttered a soft assent, and returned his attention to my breasts, wrapping his mouth around my nipple, sucking lightly. His finger circled the other, the tantalizing caress brought a mist of perspiration to my skin. His tongue moved slow, exquisitely tender over my swollen flesh, soothing like a healing balm. Relishing the sensation, I closed my eyes.

I combed my fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. “Is there anything you can’t do with that tongue of yours?”

Lenny flashed a wicked smile. “That sounds like a challenge.” His palms slipped under my hips, he yanked me to the edge of the bed, and dipped low. I slapped a hand over my mouth, smothering a gasp as his tongue fluttered over my clit. Two of his fingers inched inside me and I clenched eagerly around him, my leg draped over his shoulder. Heat swept over me, my heart slammed erratically in my chest.

The delicate rhythm of his stroking, curving fingers was wonderful, but it was his mouth that drove me crazy. The tip of his tongue lapped at my throbbing clit tirelessly…relentlessly. My hips churned, a violent shiver moved through me. He knew my body so well, exactly how to please me, everywhere he touched left a blazing trail of warmth behind.

I bit back a cry at the sweltering heat and lash of his tongue, my core convulsing with every tender lick. Dizzy, drugged and near mindless with sensation, my hands ached for his touch, gliding over his sweat-damp skin, tugging at his hair. He captured my palm with his free hand, our fingers laced together.

“Yes, Lenny, like that,” I urged. “Make me come.”

And he did, with the soft suction of his lips and measured thrusts. I shuddered, tingling, pleasure pulsated through me. Lenny didn’t stop. His tongue continued to work my clit as I rode his fingers shamelessly, my limbs trembling, my climax rolling on and on. I was melting, drowning in sensation. Tears stung my eyes, the walls that kept my emotions at bay breaking at the seams. Swept away by the ongoing waves of ecstasy, I wept silently.

Licking his lips, Lenny rose, lifting my sweaty, limp body along with him. His gaze searched my face with concern. “You okay?” I heard his question just barely past the blood rushing in my ears.

I managed a nod. Carefully, he set me down on the center of the bed, my head hit the pillow. He crawled in beside me, wiping the tears from my cheeks with a light sweep of his knuckles. “Was it too much?”

“No.” Pleasantly aching, I sighed. “You were perfect.”

His eyes studied me for a few beats. “Promise?”

“I promise.” Dazed from the toe-curling, spectacular climax he gave me, I shut my heavy eyelids for a moment. “It’s your turn now.”

“We have all the time in the world to make love. Why don’t you get some rest?”

My gut kicked. I forced myself up to face him. “No, we need an equal exchange. I don’t want you to feel used—”

He pressed a finger to my lips, silencing me. “I don’t feel used. That ain’t what this is. It’s just…I don’t wanna push you—”

I swatted his hand away. “Well, I’m not going to sleep until you come.”

His brows rose. “Okay, fair enough. I got an idea.” He shifted to his knees, the blunt tip of his throbbing cock nudged my lips. With a toothy, iconic grin smeared across his face, he requested sweetly, “Lubrication please?”

I gladly drew him in until he hit the back of my throat and was rewarded with a sultry burst of more precum. A pleased murmur escaped me as I savored the taste. He swelled, growing thicker and larger under the flat of my tongue. His balls were big, heavy, a bold display of potent virility. I played with them, rolling the weighty pair in my hand, feeling them tighten.

My eyes were riveted to Lenny as he tipped his head back, muscles rigid and breathing ragged. A deep groan of delicious agony rumbled in his chest. “Goddamn, your mouth…fuck.”

Lenny was the most calm tempered, well-composed man I knew. Watching him unravel like this, face flushed with lust, cursing, the pleasure threatening his control—it was so very satisfying. And sexy.

He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. “Okay, I-I reckon…that’s good enough.” He pulled out, altering his position, his knees came down at my sides.

I stared at him quizzically as he knelt over me, his slobber-coated cock stood erect above my heart. “What are you doing?”

“Something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time. Since the day I laid eyes on you.” He cupped my breasts in his hands, kneading them, rolling my nipples into tight points between his forefingers and thumb.

I whimpered, arching into his hand, unbearably sensitive. His rigid length slid between the valley of my breasts, and I gasped, squirming. Why not use my mouth for pleasure instead? “Lenny—”

“I need this.” His eyes were heavy-lidded with desire as he began moving his hips, his big cock gliding between the softness of my chest. “I love you.”

The tender words rolled off his tongue with a quiet, yet passionate intensity. A bubbly sensation struck my heart. “Feels that nice, huh?”

A wry smile pulled at his lips. “I might have an unhealthy obsession with…you know.” He smacked my breasts playfully. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me, handsome.”

His blunt crown brushed my mouth with every stroke. I kept my lips puckered, kissing the tip, loving the unique taste. The rhythmic slap of his balls against my tits had my clit aching for attention once again, but I didn’t care. Right now, nothing in the world mattered more than satisfying him. I wanted to do this for him, he deserved it for being so good to me.

The arousing sight of his sharply sculpted abdomen and lean, pumping hips was enthralling, his sweaty, beautiful brown skin shined and glistened like priceless jewels beneath the light. He was stripped bare to the primal desire where only the race to climax mattered and still, I was spellbound by his beauty. Swooning. He was divine. Heavenly. Fitting of worship.

“I’m close,” Lenny trembled, his voice was a guttural rasp.

“Give it to me.” Grasping his straining thighs, I propped myself up on my elbows and opened my mouth.

I took him in, hungrily sucking his solid length, my cheeks hollowed with the strength of my all-consuming need to pleasure him. He gripped my hair, frantically thrusting—punishing my throat with his big cock. My eyes stung and my lungs burned, but I was too turned on to give a hell. The sounds he made and the loving praises that slipped from his lips made it all worth the effort.

He emptied himself into my greedy mouth, the first spurt of his load so thick, it was a hassle to swallow. His entire body shuddered as I eagerly drained him of everything he had.

I licked him clean afterward. He curled up next to me, pressing tiny, appreciative kisses to my shoulders and neck. “I’m gonna need you to do that more often,” he uttered, and then added sweetly, softly, “Please.”

The vivid blush on his cheeks warmed my heart. “Of course I will, but first, I’m going to need some real food in my tummy.” My stomach rumbled. “As scrumptious as you may be, I can’t live off you alone, Lenny.”

“Your wish is my command, Sugar.” He pulled away and reached for his satchel on the nightstand. “Luckily for you, the last stagecoach I robbed had all kinds of goodies—”

I clutched his stubbled chin, drawing him back in. “Forget that canned slop. Wouldn’t you prefer a homecooked meal?”

“Cook?” His brows scrunched up. “Uh…I’m not—I can’t—”

“Sure you can. I’ll teach you. We can whip something up in the kitchen together.” I cupped the side of his cheek, looking into his eyes. “As long as we have each other, there’s nothing we can’t do.”

His gaze sparkled, the golden flecks wildly radiant and alluring as always.

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