damnedpeace

[damnedpeace]

He says, murder, he says Every time we kiss♡

[damnedpeace]

the last enemy that shall be destroyed

[damnedpeace]

Me to myself every time I finish all my replies (rare):

[damnedpeace]

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

It's not warm when she's away

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

And she's always gone too long

Anytime she's goes away

Wonder this time where she's gone

Wonder if she's gone to stay

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

And this house just ain't no home

Anytime she goes away

And I know, I know, I know, I know

I know, I know, I know, I know, I know

I know, I know, I know, I know, I know

I know, I know, I know, I know, I know

I know, I know, I know, I know, I know

I know, I know

Hey I oughta leave young thing alone

But ain't no sunshine when she's gone, woh woh

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

Only darkness every day

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

And this house just ain't no home

Anytime she goes away

Anytime she goes away

Anytime she goes away

Anytime she goes away

[damnedpeace]

@oldwcst asked: "oh , so you're a gentleman all of a sudden?"

( from Abigail , unprompted ! )

Face to the sky a hand presses to the furrow of a brow, sheltering eyes against the glare of the oppressive rays of sunlight in their observation regarding its position amidst the dotting of white clouds. Summer heat in tandem making a brow as well as arms soak with perspiration, sweltering to the point that a toe taps itself in worn leather boots. Encapsulated as much as the fluttering of a heart set to beating enclosed in a rib cage. Frustration combined together with impatience tied him in knots, anxiety never something that had really kept him immobile as it did so presently.

It vexed him how long a woman could make him suffer without her presence. How her absence alone controlled how much he had thought about her and, to a degree, coated him in a measure of fear considering their life up until this point had been rife with danger or chaos to trouble them. Some his own poor choices, in which, he supposes its right for her to take as long as she does in this moment. A torment. A taste of his own medicine bitter sweet. Or perhaps simply, his current hysteria is brought on by a matter of bravery? Anticipation weighting quite literally in the shape of a small ring box in his pocket.

Blackwater's general store at least giving reprieve through a large glass window. Abigail's form, while somewhat blurred in the opaque divots still shown forms of colored splotches making up the length of her body. He imagined on one darkened hue the gentle slope of her neck that rested plainly on shoulders as if delicately balanced. The depth of her blues like pools of diamonds glinting either with the low blue flame that always guided her actions or the care she was won't to bestow only in the prodding of insults. Fire in something so lovingly encased in her form to the point its effortless that a gloved hand opens the door upon her exit.

oh , so you're a gentleman all of a sudden?

"I have my moments.", Hes quick to correct, the residual coughing meant to adjust his tone as he ushers her out holding the doors handle in place. A sort of pouting of lips press together, fighting with the urge to bite his lower lip merely in lieu of dealing with the pressure in his pocket bid him to act sooner than later. to be done with the feeling near close to a migraine borne on this need to ask the question withheld. Her answer the only thing that could undo him for better or worse.

"Did... you want to still continue our date?", hes determined, forcing the negative thought of her potential decline to the side, focusing now on her place facing him. His own dark hues a loving caress as they take in her softened features satisfied in whatever trade offer she'd made with the store clerk. A slow descend to tension shouldered brawn that seems to sigh with relief at her return alone.

[damnedpeace]

I've got a plan, John.

"You've always got a plan, Dutch."

[damnedpeace]

𝑫𝑼𝑻𝑪𝑯

An ever tumultuous relationship that spans the near entirety of Johns life and one that makes him walk a fine line of loyalty and doubt. These two have more in connection than Hosea's careful nurturing. In fact, it's Dutch that John takes a shine to almost immediately, mostly due in part to the theatrics and albeit grandiose promises that starts the belief that this man, while not his father, is a damn near identical replacement in the boy's formative impressionable years. John in his youth is more inclined to follow Dutch at his coat tails, in hopes to replicate the sheer shadow that the older man casts or simply to catch some of the greatness unparalleled in the boy's eyes.

A savior, teacher, god that bestows some hope (or indoctrination) that he is deserved of more than a life remaining as an orphan. Growing up Dutch is the one that John learns to read and have a love of nature beyond survival, beauty that an early teen John tries to capture in rudimentary illustrations. John easily becomes a favorite apostle, often referred to as the "golden boy" of the camp. Generally having his more questionable decisions dismissed overall and earning hate if not jealousy from others such as Bill or Arthur disapproval of John's attempts of leaving the gang 1-2 times.

Blackwater's river boat heist is the catalyst to unwind the tightly held ideas that John has at Dutch's benefit. Murdering a woman in cold blood and not entirely apart of the plan that becomes the living nightmare over the duration of RDR2 and RDR1 in which the Pinkertons seeking out to silence the rest of gunslingers in the encroaching peak of the industrial age.

John starts showing the signs of doubt, typically in direct relation to or in outright questions of Dutch's conduct or displays of great violence ( example: Bronte's death, siding with Micah etc. ) something that John exhibits in the excommunication and handling of the former Van Der Linde members Bill and Javier in the events of RDR1.

John's only true break from Dutch was not only being left to be jailed and hung after the bank heist in Saint Denis, but the complete betrayal of never having been recovered once shot on the final train heist during chapter six. Something that comes to be a traumatic event that stays with him even lamenting it to Landon Ricketts.

1911

Conflicted, but having chosen to do away with the life of being an outlaw and as a failed apostle. John still isn't quite ready to shoot Dutch on behalf of the government. Similar to the ending of the epilogue 2 of RDR2, John pleads with Dutch to see reason, to give up. Wanting some part of the man he idolized to still remain rather than the crazed maniac hes become. Some semblance that's only really there in his final lecture before falling off the cliff. That speech, a warning John would come to know all to well.

[damnedpeace]

𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 & 𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐒

Reaching his middle teens to early twenties, John is conventionally attractive, though nothing special. when looking at him, the most noticeable feature has would be the three scars he sustained on his right cheek and semi-long dark brown hair. The only real differing factor being the choice of clothing and brandishing a bandolier in later years . This being a combination of personality tastes and strong tailoring to the lifestyle he leads as a result. A style that never changes throughout his life until briefly jailed or on a mission requiring a more convincing appearance. To which, he sports whatever the situation requires. However, gradually reaching middle age, John develops more refined features separate from his younger years. John Is fairly average height despite being malnourished as a child, (5′11″) and slim, physicality akin to a kick boxer than bodybuilder.

facially, John has a strong set of features; a strong jawline with noticeable cheekbones, his nose slightly long in length, but with small nostrils, slightly small full lips, thick deep set brows, medium rounded ears, narrow eyes, along with deep dark bags beneath his eyes and slight lines of age, and he often sports a scowl, but how intense of one varies. his skin tone is lightly tanned during the events chapters 1-3 of RDR2, however takes on a deeper bronze from being captured and jailed during the bank heist that effects last permanently even after his return to the gang. in general, John is incredibly smooth - having only a few patches of hair his body. Hair centralizing on the face, arms, legs and lightly on the chest. while the scars that adorn his body remain unable to form new hair growth and in general are permanently light to dark pink/red in pigmentation. However - generally the older he gets, the less he’s inclined on personal upkeep as he finds it unnecessary or has a lack of interest.

Unsurprising to many though, he’s not very on top of his personal hygiene, only when possible, but he takes little consideration into his appearance unless it is absolutely necessary - he changes clothes when prompted to, but otherwise his routine only consists of bathing sporadically and cleaning himself, brushing his teeth, and trimming his hair ( obviously not very often as his hair is usually oily ).

after a lifetime of surviving alone, battles with law enforcement or gunslingers in general, John’s skin is covered in scars - most of them are worn, faded with age or simply healed, and there’s too many to count (he’s constantly in danger and sometimes sustaining severe injuries, often unable to dodge fast enough between blows). most are from things with edges (rocks, bricks, glass - the environmental hazards of doing what he does, he’s often falling through things, into things, against things, along with various things exploding around him), though he has several from burns and the occasional scar from weaponry/firearm. His hands being fairly unblemished since he is seen wearing gloves, which takes most of the damage albeit superficially. However he is fairly resilient, having walked all the way back to beaver hollow with a bullet wound to the shoulder.

the most noticeable scars are as follows:

Head/skull: Deep claw marks that a wolf made, some along the right eyebrow and upper lip.

Back: Several puncture wounds from rocks and debris from falling off the train.

Torso: Bullet wound on his left shoulder close to the arm pit when trying to rob the train.

Legs:  scarring on the right thigh from the wolf attack, and knees from repeated scrapes in trying to stop backwards momentum.

other than that, notable features of his appearance are that he tends towards cool but dark colors ( greys, black, sometimes red or a burgundy ).

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐔𝐄𝐒

PTSD associated memories with the wolf attack, and with gang member deaths.

Frequent insomnia due to living on the run and the potential that his identity could be revealed in later RDR2 events.

Anxiety/depression when his family is taken away or when agent Ross denies him seeing them in RDR1.

Mild aquaphobia, due to the fact John has trouble with swimming. Lacking natural buoyancy to keep him afloat.

Despite the sacrifice of Arthur, John suffers bouts of night terrors. Only able to manage 1-2 hours of sleep at a time in the later events of RDR2, conversely, a very light sleeper able to awake at the slightest sound due to living for the vast majority of his life as an outlaw (needing to be ready from an attack from anything). along with this, he suffers auditory hallucinations on the occasion which he has trouble differentiating from reality, leading to chronic headaches. Usually the voices from old memories replying in his mind given that hes close to or experiences something that triggers them.

Since his promise to remain hidden as "Jim Milton", John has slowly been recovering ( With Abigail's careful watch ) and is much more stable, though the combined effects of trauma, ptsd and anxieties for the violent life he's led have unfortunately taken it’s toll on him. the recovery process is a difficult one, of which, he is somewhat resistant too, with Abigail becoming increasingly frustrated at the slow rate of recovery and the feeling that despite this he will never be the person she expects him to be post RDR2. Memories that he once holds dear, he abandons in lieu of a clear thought process and extremely focuses on blocking them out entirely, causing mild amnesia.

[damnedpeace]

"Bill, ever the observer. You really should take up a job in minding your own damned business from time to time." hes chews on the thought just between mincing whats already on his back molars. the cheek itself protruding to the side in a small ball, shifting around in one pained swallow that drags its way all the down his throat in one slimy gulp.

He wanted to say more to the credit of Abigail's dotting having more of a lasting effect and genuine appeal than whatever bill offered. tongs or otherwise. Then a second thought that he'd best choose his next battle wisely -- he'd already pissed off one species of dumb animal. Still, calling wolves, dumb felt more like an insult to the wolves in comparison.

"I'll go, if anything, I don't want to miss watching the lecture you'll get for abandoning patrol when we get back.", digging heels into freshly moistened soil that stuck dew drops to a pant leg, John rises to leisurely collect his gun belt, then the repeater nestled at his tents entrance.

"You remember where this place even is?"

"Well I asked for Arthur but he's busy doing other things. Seems you're the last one on the list." Bill may come off as brute, big and dumb but sometimes he can word things to have the better hand. Not that these choices of words are to that degree. He doesn't care that John's eating or that he looks like shit. Suppose anyone would if they let themselves be attacked by wolves. Maybe he was looking for an out, to avoid Abigail and honestly, Bill probably would have to. Not that he'd be lucky enough to be with Abigail. She not once offered him her services. "You coming or what or did you still need someone to hold your hand and feed you stew?" He chuckles, hands resting on his stomach as if that's the best joke he's come up with all day. "You and I both know you need a break from camp. Could do some time away from your damn woman opening her mouth."

@damnedpeace

[damnedpeace]

@unshakcn asked: "you think this is rest?"

*: ･ﾟ✧   red dead redemption 2 ( part 4.) || X.

Puffs of cold, heated and curled to form semi-opaque clouds in front of scarred lips amidst the pre-dawn. Tilted, but mostly scrunched up against bark did a form conform to the slight bend of an old pine, withered and mostly having discarded all needles beneath the structured boot partially tied. John's using an arm to prop up the drooping of a head on the blink. Lids fluttering with each heavy breath exhaled in near beat to the slight hushing of crickets.

In determination or rather stubbornness had led him to reject the change in camp patrol some hours prior, and, to the reluctance of Lenny. Something in the way that silence held his space since the trek from the frozen precipice of Colter had somehow made wanting to remain awake more important. Perhaps, the need to separate from the constant dotting and lectures from all, motivated and propelled to a body to act despite its injuries. He'd attempted to be deserter and yet, worried tones, fast hands that wrapped bandage after bandage and bound him in its embrace. It's comfort near suffocated.

Slight breezes that found its way in to the corners of a cotton fold, singing its winters kiss upon an exposed length of scarred cheek came to alight, stinging what remained of the exposed muscle underneath and reawakening pain and eyes alike to hiss between clenched teeth at the former's presence. Repeating the cycle of fatigue and alertness everlasting.

"Didn't realize you'd become Miss Grimshaw?", past the point of emphasis and near collapse rendered a mind fruitless to a comeback more substantial. Corners of eyes filled with dark orbs peering sidelong to where Arthur stood. Half lazy, half open a glazed appearance to only the observer noting his decline in energy. A willing participant to the conversation by circumstance, numb to the outcome of a response.

[damnedpeace]

@gcdlight asked: “ oh, don’t worry. I’m real nice.”

*: ･ﾟ✧   red dead redemption 2 ( part 4.) || X.

A painted sky colored in oranges, pinks, and encroaching shades of a blue line and caress the rays of dying light -- evening waning into dusk to settle what things that bask in heat now cooling into silence. All except the glow of gaslight lanterns set to cut through the dark and invite those willing to brave the night. A sea of stars that dot and speckle, the only witnesses to what lie beneath its cover of twilight.

Armadillo, now at the peak of its occupancy and free of the cholera that long plagued the desolate town now thriving for such wanderers that still longed for the untamed vigor of what the west used to be. In this, came the unwanted attention of vagrants seeking to claim a piece of it. New Austin now overrun with its seemingly endless problematic personalities sook with equal degenerate ideas of how things should be run.

All that akin to what became his current standing mirrored seamlessly, in the faces he passed -- a general clinging to something that would eventually evaporate into nothing the moment it became obsolete. He, now like them, a relic stuck in a past with no future but now in the present a mere symbol of what times were. And so, resigned to himself, John simply bides time amidst the bar of Armadillo's saloon - drinking to and in the hopes of find the next move somewhere at the base of a glass decanter. A collection of wanted posters spread out in front of him each curling to the damp condensation trickling from his cup.

A certain Gene "Beau" Finley had caught the attention of many in recent weeks. How a rich man became infatuated with the idea of turning into outlaw, to the point of following through with the transformation entirely had captivated a small audience. Either stupid or merely a moron playing at cowboy sat ill in John's mind. How one could have necessity but waste it was beyond him, however, if there was excess - John would relieve him of it. Only the issue of where to find the man at large.

Humid, hot was the breath at a neck uncovered by the leather coat that adorned the shoulders and draped halfway down the stool of his chair. Languid and also dulcet were the notes that flooded his ear in a request of the stool beside him. A form coming to view that near shadowed him in the sheer height. Feminine physiques rarely stunned him, yet, eyes wide as saucers as a pair of dark hues traveled from foot to head engulfed a mind to near awe. Blonde strands swayed as her body readjusted, bi-colored eyes almost hauntingly keeping his own gaze transfixed. What came next had only been her interest in the bounty paper of Beau of her own that an olive hand produced from some hidden pocket. A question of where, followed by an almost promise of niceties.

oh, don’t worry. I’m real nice.

It was no secret that he was the resident bounty hunter of the area, no doubt something that could've been told to her in passing he supposed. Otherwise, the tension brewing in this moment had turned his mood and drink sour.

"I'm sure Beau will kindly put a bullet in your head for your hospitality, Miss.", the words no less irritated than the intent on the furrowing of his brow. whatever 'nice' she had truly intended.

"You his woman, is that it?"

[damnedpeace]

@wildlcck asked: “ is that any way to greet an old friend?” / rdr1 reunion mayhaps?.. 👀

*: ･ﾟ✧   red dead redemption 2 ( part 4.) || X.

Yellow gravel had become a blanket to the point of blotting out the killing rays of light that scorched earth to a close boil. Humidity billowing flecks of debris over and over creating visually a depiction of mass brown and grey mist to cast its effects on eyes peering between the fibers of a Pancho. Sand storms becoming something of a trend at tumbleweeds edge. Dust, like an old guest, invited to a town equally without its host -- emptying and filling at the same time to the echo of the rushing wind caught amidst the cracked fissures of darkened oak walls abandoned long ago.

Sweat like tiny gemstones, dot and fleck a brow in mute silence to the scowl focused at seeking shelter. Drops pooling together and running down the length of leathery skin adorned with etches of the past that still clung to the very flesh it had carved out in jagged edges. Gloved leather reached out straight forward as the dark shapes grew bolder, finding purchase at the solid foundation of a structured wall. Time and patience that waned at finding a handle sook with equal determination until getting it right - only by hearing the faintest click of a handle in motion to its turn. A rush of what clouded visibility to blindness followed behind, deafening winds coating surfaces with the stuff until a final strong slam of a door shuts out all of this.

Audible breaths, gulped down air between coughs - drinking in the sheer difference of semi-filtered respite. Gloom consumes in its stead to chaos beyond the threshold welcomes his presence, hands brushing off clinging clumps of sediment and adjusting to affix the fabric appropriately flush with his shoulders. A sound, a groaning of pressure applied as weight shifts into place draws out the iron of the revolver attached to his hip in the blink of an eye.

is that any way to greet an old friend?

"I seem to have a bad habit of meeting 'old friends' like this.", astute that words are slung in the same fashion as the weapons he brandishes with such ease. The silver glinting in what shafts of light peeked through slits of the small space. A mind warring, struggling to form the name that's just out of reach. the lines that etched her face now an aged reflection that shimmers distorted in memories somehow similar but can't quite place whats been forgotten deliberately.

[damnedpeace]

White hot pain shot through him despite there being no contact, not even hand raised -- simply from the jerking movement of a feint in anticipation of blue eyes narrowing was enough to illicit a strangled low groan that quickly was bit down on and silenced through a clenched jaw. He squints suffering not only the residual waves of ache that cracked scabs now reopening but also the correction in words so passionate that shut him up. Depth of fatigue in this conversation had lasted years, he had known. not quite deciding where he stood on its finale. A coin tossed, yet lands on its edge. Never fully present and yet never far away. But to hear the desperation, pleading in the lines she is so convinced in. belief on an imaginary narrative shes chosen to fatigue herself with to near exasperation. It turns his stomach inside out -- her fire being what attracted him to start with now reduced to begging.

He would have given anything to go back before the Calendar boys had put the idea in his head that Jack wasn't his -- before the pregnancy when they'd spent hours chatting, unaware of the time that passed. Easy and natural it had felt to be with her not just entangled in each others heat but at its base, living in a shared space.

How, at one point, they'd joked at already being married. how deep down it didn't matter to him how many she had slept with. That she'd care for him almost absolute was more important than the outcome of Jack's patriarchal line. The words choked trapped just before reaching past vocal cords strangling more on the loss of forming that even now, in their darkest hour he still loved her deeply, never spoken. as if to communicate this by slow blinks alone.

it was hard to make a choice when the outcome wasn't something he truly knew he wanted. If it was something he was even capable of. However, a tugging grasped and pulled in moments atop the grey crest of maintain called to some part of him he couldn't quite place, unable to distinguish the difference between survival and the need to return to where he was desired most.

"You said so yourself, Abigail. I ain't no father figure. Hell, I barely even know what a father is.", a sigh forced through gritted teeth, he was the problem, it was evident somewhere within a part of a mind unwilling to accept the truth verbally. to say the words to full completion.

You both deserve better than me.

"And it ain't like that...You and the boy. Well it- it just ain't the right time.", his head shakes slowly in methodical sweeps that accommodate the throbbing of one half of his features set to making the rest of his day a living hell.

It took a lot of her to not slap him. To not let the hand hit the wound of his cheek to remind himself that maybe he should have just let the wolves devour him. Would it be better than dealing with a woman he once cared for? Or was that just like everyone else in this camp. A moment shared. She didn't have plans to get pregnant, it just happened, a mistake who became a reason for her to life. If only it was enough for him. "You damn well know you're the only one who matters. Is it truly too much to bother with? You ain't no father figure but at least show the boy something exciting. Take him out to see the deer or pick some damn flowers. Get to know him like everyone else in the camp has. I ain't.. I ain't asking you to be his father, John." Least not now.

She's trying a different approach. Heck even her body language shows it. Arms not folded but at her sides, opening up for whatever he's willing to give her. Sure she still had her walls but it was different with John. She'd take anything, just not another argument. Wasn't he tired of it? "I'll.. I'll do whatever you want in return. Avoid you for weeks if you want, months.. just.. give the boy a chance." Sounding desperate along with the tiresome in her voice. She'd do well to keep quiet, not wanting anyone else to hear. Tired of them knowing their business too. Not as if they could just pack up and leave.

@damnedpeace

[damnedpeace]

@ludopossum asked: "don't hurt me, please."

*: ･ﾟ✧   red dead redemption 2 ( part 4.) || X.

"And why the hell not?", his speech is slurred, evidence of the cause leads to a brown bottle held betwixt a combination of an index finger and thumb, dark liquid swirling as the glass tips to meet lips, emptying and in a way refreshing, its self down the throat in one gulp. His other hand works to loose the revolver weighted against his leg, twirling it effortlessly despite the clear growing intoxication - as if acting on instinct.

There was something in the way that the brown of her eyes and hair had mixed together, awash to make a new face entirely in what blurred vision allowed. It vexed him slightly, trying to focus to a near squint as the features doubled then became one repeatedly until something seemed too familiar, more personal. A boy crying, searching for a father never present. John winches at the thought glancing at the bottle in hand before casting it aside in mute silence.

"you ain't worth it....",a gaze casts itself downward, almost pondering the feeling that troubled him to own the bottle to begin with . The revolver returned to rest at his side -- ever the loyal companion.

Blackwater's saloon the one place that kept any excitement now that emptiness carved a space in his heart where his family would've been. If they had ever would return, beyond memory, beyond the images that kept what little piece of him still kind. "Beat it kid. This ain't no place for you."

[damnedpeace]

@american-spines asked: "John ..I.." Abigail's voice is calm, sweet even and almost shy. She reaches up to him wanting to say something but nothing comes out. "Oh, nevermind." I miss you. Better to just leave him be. Better to just move on.

Warm are the red skies that awaken to dawn starting out as slivers of light emerging to allow strands to become fully sunlight rising as ball, illuminating, casting out what hides in the dark of the previous evening. All that sleep under this cover of comfort awake to the cry of roosters. A new day of tilling unsalted earth made amidst bird song to any that care to simply bask in the reprieve of a once thought dream.

A body already prepared in this makes efforts of rising, reaching stretching, as if instinctual tandum of limbs reflecting the motion as longer slowed strides that reached then come together to repeat opposites already conscious to what lie in the interlude of dressing. Clearing stalls, milking, feeding chickens nothing that befitted an outlaw but certainly a farmer.

Rolled sleeves of a white button down collide with the dappled brow drenched in sweat, soaking the white to an almost similar translucence that pools across a weathered brawn chest rising and falling with labored exhales. A sharp breath in as muscled biceps strain to lift an axe another time working against the heat of high noon -- finally dropping down to split a wooden cylinder. Shoulders shrugging off the tension digging from taut suspenders close to leaving an indent from hours of exertion.

Soft and breathy, longing and yet stilled does she stand at arms length never truly without space -- caught between some decision prevented from uttering. John had always known the sound of her footfalls long before she had ever approached, typically rushed to set him straight or in reprimand. But now, utter baited gasps withheld tightly somewhere in her. As if time itself teetered on languid.

"I don't think I've ever seen you blush, Mrs. Marston. Or maybe you're just flushed from the heat.", a head tilts slightly as if to almost touch the hand that hovers just out of reach. Tones borderline teasing, as dark hues narrow slightly searching her blues - relaxing, leaning now on the axe fashioned as a cane.

[damnedpeace]

@warsiren asked: “ that’s a bad idea. ”

*: ･ﾟ✧   red dead redemption 2 ( part 4.) || X.

Cool enough, refreshing in a way does clear water cupped as a puddle hugs inside the walls of fingers rising to be brought to lips swallowed repeated until satisfying a thirst in desperate need of quelling. tiny ripples that result as the droplets escape through imperfect seams of space through digits cascading to a once mirrored reflection, now a collection of blurred shapes and distorted images ricocheting off one another endless as the ringlets expand the length of the small space John inhabits. Mindful of the waters depth, choosing the shallowest peak at one point of the river he begins to take off a coat before disrobing a thin night shirt. Hes been neglecting personal hygiene or so told through stark remembrance held at the barrel of gunpoint. Miss Grimshaw kindly enough to direct him with the twelve gauge pressed to his back in the direction of a trickling stream. its path winding northwards, in which he follows. Soft splashing, bubbling a reply in a tone that warns him to the caution hes in. Whether or not something this person, creature? hopes to inflict is only a guess made in a spur of the moment flicker that eyes quick to identify the location of said voice just at a reflected surface some where directly in front of him. All the while muscles tense, heeding the this statement offered freely.

"Why not? I don't see your name on it. Ain't nobody own water.", hes aware that he can't swim. one wrong pull and hes finds out that drowning is only the beginning.

[damnedpeace]

The soul, despairing, an abyss that doesn’t know what to do with itself, where to put its mouth to stop the bleeding. you, a combination of them, standing on the white precipice of an ending that seems so very final.

It’s all in tatters, hope and reason both gone under, and the things you tried to bind have disentangled and god, they’re famished, out for blood.

Calm doesn’t keep storms at bay; it just makes them that much more destructive. you should’ve known.

Indie JOHN MARSTON from RED DEAD REDEMPTION 1 & 2 . Source content and headcanon based. Non-selective and open to AU, OC, and crossovers. Discord given to mutuals only. Personals do not interact.