#and rdr2 has like four

[swinging-through-the-stars]

crime doods doing activities

[hihomeghere]

Burning Love | John Marston/Reader

Word Count : 3k Summary : Set in the epilogue of RDR2. You stumble upon John in Blackwater after being alone for years. When he invites you to visit Beecher's Hope, will you be able to fight feelings that have been building ever since you were kids? (No Abigail and Jack, love them but you aren't in this episode) Warnings : Smut, cursing, unprotected piv, hickeys, oral reader receiving, just dirty idiots in love, reader has bio female parts

“John?” The word fell out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. Here you were in Blackwater, a good six or seven years since that no good river boat business, and there in front of you was John Marston.

At least, he looked like him. His head snapped towards you, his dark eyes meeting yours. You swore your heart stopped, you raised your hand to cover it before sliding off of your horse.

“Y/n?” He sounded breathless, a small smile growing on his face as you started running towards him. You threw yourself into his arms, he laughed, spinning you around. “Holy shit it is you.” He said as your feet touched the ground. You looked up at his scarred face, cupping his cheek with your hand.

“John Marston.” You chuckled, unable to stop the grin spreading on your face. Tears welled up in your eyes which you quickly wiped away. God it had been years, ever since… well it had been years.

“It’s good to see you.” You chuckled lightly, punching his shoulder.

“It sure is good to see you, too. What the hell are you doing in Blackwater?”

“Well I don’t rightly know.” You shrugged, shaking your head. “I go wherever the wind takes me and it took me to Blackwater.” You said looking around the dusty street. He grinned, shaking his head slightly. His hair was shorter than before, light stubble covering his face. 

“Well if you don’t have anywhere else to go, would you like to come see Beecher's Hope?” He said with a nervous smile on his face.

“What’s Beecher's Hope?” You asked, crossing your arms.

“It's my place, somehow.” He laughed looking down at his boots.

“John Marston, homeowner?” You laughed, “Course I do!” He looked up at you, your stomach filling with butterflies as that boyish grin crossed his features.

“Well come on then!” He said, walking over to his horse. You followed him out of town, riding close behind him. It didn’t take you very long to make it to Beecher’s Hope. Well he was certainly hopeful to call it his home. It was barely a shack on a good piece of land, that was the best way you could describe it.

“Now I know it don’t look like much now.” He said, hitching up his horse.

“You’d be right.” You teased doing the same. 

“Now who’s there?” A voice called from inside the shack. Was that?

“It’s just me, Uncle.” John called, rolling his eyes. Uncle?

“Uncle! You get your lazy ass out of that shack right now!” You called jogging over to the ‘front door’

“Y/n? Well I’ll be!” Uncle said getting up from inside. You pulled him into a hug, glad to see the old man still kicking.

“Now this is how I should be treated, John, with respect.” Uncle said as he patted your back.

“She just called you a lazy ass!” John groaned.

“What are you doing hanging around this ruffian?” You teased, pulling away from Uncle’s embrace.

“Begged for my help, how could I say no?” Uncle explained, placing a hand over his heart.

“Bullshit! I never asked you for nothing old man.” John scoffed, shaking his head.

“Alright alright, I’m starving from my ride. You got anything I could cook up for us, John?” You asked, setting your hands on your hips. 

“Barely, we could probably hunt down a rabbit or two for dinner.” He sighed.

“Lead the way, cowboy.” You said walking back over to your horse. 

A rabbit or two turned into four between the two of you. Everything turned into a competition, it had been like that since you were kids. Let’s say Uncle wasn’t upset by your catch. You cooked up a nice stew for the boys before settling down for the night by the campfire. It all seemed too good to be true, being back with Uncle and John. You couldn’t lie that your heart skipped a beat every time you caught his eye. The alcohol definitely wasn’t helping with that. 

“It seems like yesterday we were sitting around a campfire just like this, listening to Javier play the guitar. Or having Hosea give us reading lessons.” You sighed bringing your bottle to your lips.

“Yeah, you were such a tattle tale.” John teased, the glow of the fire illuminating his face, casting dark shadows along his scars.

“Was not!” You scoffed, knocking back your drink. He laughed, loud and hearty. Your heart beat wildly in your chest, a blush settling on your cheeks. 

“Yes you were! Would always get me in trouble when I’d sneak off to the horses.” He shook his head a smile tugging on his lips

“That’s because Boadicea was gonna kick your head in one day, I was only looking out for you.” You snorted, nodding to yourself.

“She loved me.”

“You kidding?” You barked out a laugh, “She used to nip at you so hard you’d have teeth marks for weeks!”

“Well not everyone can be princess Van Der Linde.” He said, rolling his eyes.

“You were Dutch’s favorite long before I came around Martson.” You quipped, the alcohol easing the pain of past gang members. You both sat in silence, the crackle from the fire and far off yips from the coyotes the only sound, along with Uncle’s snoring.  

“Shit,” John sighed, “we got into a heap of trouble back then.” He grinned, bringing his bottle to his lips.

“Still do.” You added, leaning over to bump his elbow with your own.

“Still do.” He repeated, a small smile on his face. He looked at you from under the brim of his hat. You felt your face heat up under his gaze, instead of the growing fire.

“Why’d you even buy this land in the first place?” You asked, breaking eye contact as you looked around your makeshift campsite. The shack behind John, if you could even call it that, almost falling apart as Uncle slept. He sighed, staring into the cracking embers.

“Felt like I had something to prove, I guess.” He shrugged, “I never was very smart. Never had anything to my name. I had you at one point and screwed that up too.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“John,” You started, your eyes flickering up from the fire. A blush settling on your cheeks. You two had been sweet on each other before, honestly you had never stopped being sweet on him. But he wasn’t ready for a real relationship, and you deserved better than being drug along for nothing. 

“No,” He stopped you, his hand held up between you two. “You were the only thing that was good in my life and I pissed it away.”

“We were young, and for some reason I’m still following your sorry ass around.” You said, shaking your head. Refusing to meet his eye, you leaned forward with your hands resting on your knees. “You ain’t got nothing to prove, you’re a good man John Marston.” You said sparing him a glance. A soft smile graced his lips before he shook his head.

“Guess you ain’t too bad either, y/n.”

“Well that was never in question.” You said bringing the bottle back up to your lips, John let out a low chuckle. You both stared at the fire, it was easier than looking at each other.

“Will you-“ John started, his lip in between his teeth, “Will you stay with us here?” You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. You looked up, pretending to mull it over.

“Until a better offer comes along.” You shrugged, laughing as John shoved your shoulder.

“Don’t have to be such a smartass.”

“Oh I think I do.” You grinned, raising your bottle. He rolled his eyes, a playful grin on his face. “You’re smiling.”

“Am not.” He said turning away. You shook your head, staring down at the crackling fire. 

“What did you do for all those years, were you alone?” You asked, afraid of his answer. Although you couldn’t blame him if he hadn’t been, many nights you wished you had someone warming your bed, although it was always John you were dreaming of.

“Bounced around, ranch to ranch, just-“ he let out a long sigh, “Just trying to stay out of trouble.” You nodded looking up at him.“What about you?” He said, crossing his arms.

“Nothing really, hung low for a while, a year or two.” You shook your head, you honestly couldn’t remember what it was like in the early days. You had never been on your own before then, not that you could remember at least. “It was hard for a long time, but I had good teachers.” You smiled softly, feeling more melancholy the more you spoke. “Spent some of my time trying to make an honest living but you know how that goes.” You chuckled while taking a long drink from your bottle. 

“You can say that again.” John chuckled, “Did you have any fellas in that time?” He asked, shifting his eyes from the fire to yours. You tried hiding your smirk.

“Nah, none that piqued my interest.” You smirked, unable to keep it at bay.

“Well that’s good to hear.” He chuckled to himself, taking a drink.

“And why is that?” You questioned, cocking your head to the side. Could he feel the same about you? He went silent, lowering his head so his face was covered by the brim of his hat. He let out a dry cough, clearing his throat.

“Oh, well- I just mean-“ He sighed, you giggled softly looking up at him.

“John-“

“I’m a damn fool,” He chuckled, shaking his head, “I finally got you back and I’m too chicken shit to do anything about it.” He said, running a hand down his face. Your heart started to beat faster at his small confession. You set your bottle down, walking over to him. His wide eyes met yours as you sat yourself down on his lap.

“Good thing I ain’t.” You said taking his hat off and setting it to the side. You leaned forward, rubbing your nose against his. Your breaths intermingled as you looked into his eyes. He took the initiative, leaning forward and capturing your lips with his own. His arms snaked around your waist as he pulled you closer, your clothed core rubbing against his crotch. You felt a moan rumble in his chest before it slipped out his lips. You smirked, your tongue swiping across his lower lip. He eagerly opened his mouth, his own tongue entering your mouth. He tasted like smoke and whisky, an intoxicating combination.

“Darlin, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.” He mumbled against your lips, before moving to kiss along your jaw. 

“I know John, god I’ve wanted you for so long.” You breathed, running your fingers through his dark hair. He latched onto your throat, sucking a spot that would definitely bruise. You let out a soft moan, gripping his hair tightly. He thrust his hips upwards against your clothed cunt, causing a higher pitched moan to leave your mouth.

“Shh, don’t want Uncle to hear us.” John said softly, his hands slipping under the hem of your shirt, he rubbed his thumb against your stomach. His movements shot straight to your core. You bit your lip to stop a whine, as you rubbed yourself against his growing bulge.

“Fucking take me and stop teasing.” You growled pulling him up to kiss him. He smirked against your lips, slipping his hands under your ass as he lifted you up in his arms. He walked you over to his tent, setting you down on his bedroll. You made quick work with the buttons on your shirt, working them through the eyelets. You pulled your arms out of your shirt, removing your cotton undershirt. You sneaked a peek at John, who was pushing his pants down. Your eyes raked over his body, his union suit leaving little to the imagination. You pulled off your pants, left only in your bloomers. 

“Fuck darlin.” John whispered his hands gripping your thighs as he pulled you closer to him. He dipped his head to your breast, taking your nipple in his mouth. His other hand kneaded your breast. 

You laid your head back on the bedroll, a soft gasp exiting your mouth. He sat up, sinking his fingers into your bloomers before pulling them down. His finger dipped into your wet folds.

“Mmm,” You moaned, biting down on your lip. He smirked again, pushing his index finger into your warm heat. He pumped it in and out, his eyes never leaving your face as you fought the urge to moan. His thumb rubbed against your clit, making small circles on your nub. He added his middle finger, curling it inside of you. Your eyes rolled back into your head and the coil inside you tightened. Your nails dug into his arm, as your pussy clenched around his fingers. That familiar wave of bliss washing over you.

“Yeah that's right sweetheart.” John cooed, still pumping his fingers in and out of you. 

“John-“ You breathed pulling him closer, he removed his fingers sucking them clean.

“Yeah sweetheart?” He said as he unbuttoned his union suit. Pulling his arms out, as he pushed it down his thighs. Your eyes raked over his body, scars from bullet wounds and cuts littered his body. Your mouth watered at the sight as your gaze followed the patch of hair from his chest down to his pelvis. 

“Fuck me.” You huffed, propping yourself up on your elbow as your legs fell open.

“Yes ma’am.” He smirked, taking his thick cock in his hand. Pumping it twice before nosing his dick to your opening. He pushed himself into you slowly, a groan working its way out of his chest as he hung his head. “God damn you’re tight.” He hissed, his hands gripping your hips with a vice like grip as he slowly pushed his hips forward. 

“John.” You whined, gripping his forearms as he seated himself in you fully. You had never been so full in your life, he was so deep you swore his tip was kissing your cervix.

“I know darlin-“ He rasped, slowly pulling his hips back before slamming back into you. Your breath knocked out of your chest as he picked up the pace.

“Ah- oh John!” You yelped before his hand covered your mouth. He moved your leg to sit on top of his hips and he leaned forward, resting his forearms next to your head.

“Feel good?” He grunted, squeezing his eyes close as he let out a hissed breath. 

“Fuck- feels so good.” You whispered, tears starting to well up in your eyes. His hips met yours with every thrust, the sound of slapping skin filling the small tent. He grabbed one of your thighs, lifting it up onto his shoulder. You swore you saw stars at the new position. It had been so long since anyone had had you like this, and John was playing your body like a fucking fiddle. Every thrust punched the air out of your lungs as somehow he went deeper. 

“Shit darlin-“ He huffed, his hot breath on your ear as he bent over you, “Squeezing me so good.” He groaned, nipping at your ear.

“Oh- John I-“ You cried, tears slipping down your cheeks. Your toes were curling as the pressure built inside your stomach. 

“You close honey? You gonna come?” He cooed, kissing your neck, one of his hands moved down your body to your already sensitive bud. He flicked it once, maybe twice before your orgasm came crashing down. You mewled, trying to stay quiet as John wiped away your tears.

“That’s it, that’s it.” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he strained his neck up. “Where do you want it?” He said as he sat up, still rutting his cock in and out of you.

“Inside.” You breathed, wrapping your legs around his hips as you pulled him closer.

“Oh- darlin I-“ He let out a low moan as he spilled inside of you, his hips twitching as he pumped his cum inside your heat . You let out a small sigh, letting your body go limp under him. He cradled your head in his hand, kissing you softly as he pulled his cock out of you. He sighed against your lips before laying down beside you. Pulling a blanket over both of your bodies. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him.

“I’m not letting you go this time.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. 

“Good.” You said holding his arm against you, as you drifted off feeling his cum trickle down your thighs.

-

“Jesus what is that mark on your neck?” Uncle said his hand resting on his hip as you blushed from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

“Nothing.” you said quickly, covering your neck with your hand.

“Good lord is that a hickey!” Uncle said recoiling at the sight, “Now who the hell would give you…” He trailed off his gaze shifting to John who was drinking his coffee. 

“What?” John said, lowering the mug, a smug smile plastered on his face.

“Disgusting.” Uncle cringed walking away from the both of you back to the shack. 

“Just had to mark me up, now didn’t you?” You asked, crossing your arms as you looked at John. He smirked shaking his head as he walked over to you 

“You’re mine, everyone should know it.” He shrugged, pulling you into a searing kiss. 

Maybe you could deal with a mark or two. 

[eowynstwin]

Hi everyone. It's been a while—exactly a month since I last posted to this blog. How have you been?

A month isn't really all that long, but it's enough time to be able to look at everything that happened and understand it better. In the end, the whole situation (I've been calling it The Fuckening in my head) really didn't have anything to do with me. I was unlucky enough to run across someone willing to hurt anyone they could for attention, but also lucky enough that everyone who mattered to me in this fandom went to bat for me.

So I’ve decided to come back to this blog. I'll be posting about call of duty again as well as posting my writing. I also plan to blog about other fandoms (I’d already been doing it anyway); I've been getting back into rdr2, for example, and there's some writing I'd like to do for that.

There’s more context which I’ll put below the cut, but that’s the most important part of what I have to say; I often regret how long winded I can be, so the rest is just self indulgence if you can forgive it. I’ve thought a lot about this choice and I’m satisfied with my decision. I hope none of you will mind.

So, lol, things were not great outside of fandom stuff when it all kicked off, though I didn’t mention it publicly because we all know by now that asking for any sympathy when you’re the target of a mob is more likely to just get you raked over the coals harder. I’m still not entirely sure about talking about all of this, but I have a bad tendency to clam up when I really should be asking for support. So:

I mentioned briefly before the accusations started flying that I was dealing with bedbugs—turns out it was actually something else, but leading up to a doctor’s visit I was convinced I had an infestation, and I was stripping my bed every day to look for them. I had alarms set to wake me up twice a night to see if I could catch them, so I was not sleeping all that well. I couldn’t find anything, but I had no other explanation, and it was driving me fucking crazy. Post doctor visit it turns out I had a viral infection. No idea where I caught it, and nothing to do but wait it out. I had a massive, gnarly looking rash all over my body, and to add insult to injury I developed a fever that took me out for a whole weekend. (I’m recovered now but I have a nifty new scar on my hip from getting a biopsy.)

Next to that, I was having some PTSD flareups of my own. This was (mostly) unrelated to The Fuckening. Now, I understand that that might be hard to believe, given “Myka’s” claims, and I can’t make you believe me. Nor will I provide details to convince you, other than to say there were some things going on in my neighborhood that recalled a period of time in my life that was extremely unstable, and I found myself irrationally terrified to go home every day. For those of you who don’t experience the symptoms of PTSD, I think it’s appropriate to note that it isn’t just emotional turmoil; I, personally, experience physical pain in my entire body that lingers for hours, days, or even weeks after being triggered. (Everything regarding this, too, is fine now. I have a great therapist and a supportive family.)

All of this to say, I wasn’t exactly thinking rationally when I decided to leave this blog and fandom. And I regretted the decision almost instantly.

However, I didn’t want to let grief make any decisions for me, and also I was still VERY scared Myka was going to hunt down my personal information and either dox or harass me elsewhere. I think this fear was justified; it has happened to other writers in this fandom before.* So I decided to take some time to cool off and watch the situation develop without me.

I don’t think I need to get into the details—although if you’re interested in them, @fulltacs has been keeping track of the drama. Given the most recent development with the four obviously sock puppet blogs that popped up and immediately began stirring shit up again, I realized Myka probably would have done what she did with or without me. I just so happened to give her the ammunition she needed to do something REALLY big. It was pure bad luck.

(Also—and I’m sorry if this is just stirring the pot, but after everything they did to me I feel I deserve to make the accusation—I’ve suspected for a while that the two loudest blogs leading the witch hunt against me were far more involved in this farce than anyone has assumed. I have no proof and I do not want anyone to do anything about it on my behalf, leave them the fuck alone. But I will not forget the distress they caused me for a long fucking time, and the only way for me to let this go is to say my piece. So there. Done. Let that be the end of it.)

Having this hindsight, I feel comfortable coming back. I’m still very touched by everyone’s support, which in the end was louder than the harassment. I also think it’s important for people who care about fighting racism in any community not to run at the first sign of trouble, which I did, and I feel pretty sorry for.

That’s the gist of things. If you’ve read all of this, thank you for doing so!

*I was going to add a paragraph about halfmoth-halfman’s situation but decided against it. For one thing, she wants to be left alone, and for another, talking about the experiences of fans of color, particularly black fans, deserves its own post separate from my white experience, if I should even post about it at all.

[jennydwren]

My Arthur: Some Night Thoughts

In between the cancellation of The Acolyte (there's still hope, Clone Wars came back) and the premiere of Rings of Power S2 -- and I PROMISE you that each and every dudebro I blocked in these situations on the former bird app either had crypto in bio or a timeline that was entirely focused on a sports team... I mean, why not think about RDR2? I want to think what it means that so many players speak of MY Arthur, like we all have little pocket Arthurs as pets. "I like my Arthur to be a scary bad guy so I keep him shaved bald." "Well, my Arthur looks his best with Level 7 or 8 hair and a Level 1 or 2 beard." "This time I'm making sure that my Arthur has the best satchel and the Legend of the East outfit." "I always pamper my Arthur before a hard mission. I buy him a ribeye steak at a saloon, get him a bath, and let him sleep just one more night in a hotel. I feed him up to Overweight before Guarma and Chapter 6." "My Arthur is high honor. He would never do XYZ." "Oh yeah? I think my Arthur loves being low honor and beating the crap out of people." "Weird. My Arthur's favorite missions are the dinosaur bones." All of these Arthurs are different and yet the same. All of them are doomed. You have to rewind the timeline and go back to a Chapter 2 save to have a healthy Arthur who can chat and sing with his compadres at the campfire. Nobody's Arthur, until you take him out of the game and into some of the absolutely and utterly beautiful fanart and fanfics, can succeed with Mary Linton, or Charles for that matter. The R* canon Arthur is always doomed. What does it say about us that we can't bear to let go of him, even though his own dialogue tells us he clearly sees the writing on the wall as early as Chapter 1? Is it just the natural human abhorrence of the reality that we too will someday die without accomplishing all that we wanted to? I can relate. Big mood, Arthur. In fragmenting into all of these disparate Arthurs -- Roger Clark has pointed out more people own copies of the game than live in Ireland -- maybe that's how the egregore, the Arthur conjured from the collective consciousness of millions of individual players, stays alive. Many writers of fanfics want their Arthur to be theirs. Not just a rough fuck on daddy's kitchen counter, although I've read that story too, and not just the Not Enough Beds trope, though that too was a fine story. They want to smash Arthur because who doesn't? But they want him to love them, despite R* Arthur having not one single solitary relationship skill. This new Arthur teaches you to draw (the preponderance of Arthur fics I've read involve a "you" reader). Your wish that he address you as he does a mare, "That's mah good girl," comes resplendently true. Sometimes, such are the fix-him powers of You that You and he escape the gang before the name Thomas Downes can be uttered. Arthur's heart beats for You and You alone. Sometimes he protects You from danger. Sometimes he accepts a free sample of sponge cake from You in a bakery. All of these Arthurs go out Arthuring all over the wrong but familiar RDR2 America, often with You at their side. Sometimes You even find him on the cliffside before his rattling last breath, and drag him to safety and a warm, dry climate. One Arthur I read was even saved by a doctor in Mexico with the only available treatment of the period -- collapsing part of the lung -- and recovered fully, having four kids with Sadie Adler and saving most of the RDR world along the way.

You can have your Arthur and play him too. Indeed, a fresh shot of Roger Clark's bravura performance -- combined, as he is the first to point out, with the animators' work, for example giving him the most delicious lower lip -- compounds the infatuation should it threaten to recede.

People suffer profound grief over this game. Of course, it is their own grief from non-digital life: "It is Margaret you mourn for" -- Gerard Manley Hopkins. Perhaps the loss of their Arthur and the way his surviving friends gradually adjust to the loss helps people make room for the holes in their own lives. But that's the thing. That's the comfort at the bottom of the grief pit.

Because once you find your Arthur, including within yourself (I don't just mean cosplay, but I've seen people of all genders don the stained blue workshirt, the suspenders, the neckerchief, the goddamn hat, and wear Arthur on their bodies)... you can't ever really lose him. He changes you. And that may be the strangest and most wonderful thing you can say about a work of fiction.

Keep sharing your Arthurs. The chibis, the young Arthurs cradling poor Isaac or reading to child John Marston, the AUs, the low-honor black coyotes and the high-honor 14-point stags. Marthur, Charthur, Albert Mason x Arthur. All the versions of him. Because they're also You.

[gicosmo]

Damn Those Marstons

Jack Marston x Fem!Reader.

Hey, RDR fans! I got into RDR2 a few months back and I literally binge watched play throughs of RDR1. This angsty idea for Jack popped up(because he can never be happy😔) and I just had to write it!

Synopsis: You’ve been with Jack for a few months now. When he asks you to meet his family, you would’ve never thought you would be meeting one of the two outlaws who killed your father.

Warnings: Takes place during RDR1(1914)(Jack is nineteen), alternate universe where the Marston family lives a bit longer lol, John uses his fake name ‘Jim Milton’, a little bit of arguing, just really sad angst.

“Can I tell you both somethin’?” Jack piped up at the dinner table, placing his spoon down into his bowl. Abigail and John immediately looked up at him, confusion written on both of their faces. It was pretty unusual for Jack to get all serious at random. Abigail nodded, “Of course. You can tell us anything, Jack.” She reached over, giving a gentle reassuring pat on his shoulder.

John remained quiet, observing his son. If anything, he was quite on edge, not wanting any bad news. Jack took a deep breath before a smile appeared on his face, “I’ve been seeing this lady. God— Ma, you’ll love her! She’s the sweetest, most loving lady you’ll meet.” Jack’s eyes sparkled as he went on a rant about his girlfriend. Abigail and John were shocked in the moment, but then proceeded to smile. They would be lying to themselves if they said they weren’t happy that Jack had finally found someone.

John chuckled as he looked at Abigail, “Looks like our boy is head over heels! When can we meet her, son?” Jack paused, thinking for a moment.

“How about tomorrow?” Jack answered, looking over at his mother, “If that’s okay with you, ma.”

Abigail laughed, nodding her head, “Of course it’s okay with me! I’ll cook a nice dinner for the four of us! I can’t wait to meet her.”

Jack was ecstatic! He was in his bed, looking up at the ceiling being unable to fall asleep. He couldn’t wait for you to meet his family. His mind was racing until he eventually tired himself out.

In the morning Jack was already at your front door. You opened it with a bright smile on your face, “Well I wasn’t expecting you today. Why do you have the dumb smile on your face? What are you planning?” You walked up to him, Jack leaning down to plant a sweet kiss on your forehead.

“I ain’t planning nothin’! Just… Will you come have dinner with my parents? Today?” Jack blurted out. It was evident he was pretty excited about this. You were taken aback by this. Dinner? With his parents?

You giggled sheepishly, “Geez, Jack. I wish you told me this sooner. I don’t think I got any nice clothes to give a good first impression…” Jack shook his head, grabbing your hands into his, “No need for fancy clothes no nothing. My parents don’t care about your wealth. They care about who you are.”

His words melted your heart. Jack bent down, pulling you in for a soft tender kiss. You always loved how gentle he was with you. Once he pulled away, you stepped back into your home, “Let me tell my mother i’ll be gone for a while. Mind waiting out here while I get ready?”

“Anything for you, darlin’.”

-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-)-

After getting ready, Jack helped you onto his horse and rode back to his home. The horse ride wasn’t silent what so ever as Jack couldn’t help but tell you how excited he was. All you could do was smile. It was nice seeing your lover get so excited about something.

Once you both arrive at Beechers Hope, he helped you off of the horse. He held your hand as you both walked up the step of his home. Abigail opened the door with a smile, “Why, hello! You must be the little lady Jack has been talking on and on about!” She walked up to you, giving you a friendly hug.

“Cmon now Ma— Don’t embarrass me like that…” Jack muttered, scratching his head and turning away out of embarrassment. Abigail rolled her eyes, “There’s nothing embarrassing about loving a lady! Now come on in! Dinner is almost ready!” She led you both inside the house, the scent of a good meal in the air.

“Where’s Pa?” Jack questioned, pulling a chair out for you to sit in. Abigail sighed and shrugged, “Joh— I mean, Jim went out a while ago. He said he’ll be back. He most definitely doesn’t want to miss out on this.” She reassured Jack.

Abigail sat down at the table with the both of you. She seemed like a lovely young woman. Sweet yet had a fierce aura to her. She questioned you about your home life, how you met Jack, all the basic questions a parent would ask their child’s lover.

You were honest with her. You told her how it was just you and your mother since your father was killed by some bad people when you were a kid. You spoke about how you only had some insight of two of the men who took your father’s life, hoping you wouldn’t run into them again. You spoke about how you met Jack while shopping for books, how the love for literature brought you both together.

Talking with Abigail felt so natural, both of you didn’t seem to notice someone enter the home. Jack smiled, “Took you long enough, sir.” You turned your head and immediately froze. All you could do was stare at the man with scars on his face.

“Took you long enough, Jim!” Abigail got up, gently slapping her husband’s arm. The man looked at you and smiled, “You must be the lovely lady Jack can’t shut up about! Nice to meet ya! I’m Jim. Jim Milton! You’ve already met Abigail…” You couldn’t hear his words anymore. Everything your boyfriend has told you was a lie.

There was no one named Jim Milton in this home. There wasn’t a Milton at all. The man in front of you was none other than John Marston. Jack wasn’t a Milton either. He was a Marston. They all were.

Your vision became blurry, your ears were ringing so loud. You couldn’t think straight. What could you do? What can you do?

You needed to leave.

“Hun? You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost…” You snapped back into reality as Jack held your hands gently, looking at you with concern. You gently pushed him away, shaking your head.

“I need to leave. Excuse me.” You pushed Jack out of the way, but he immediately grabbed your wrist. “Hey hey, what’s wrong? Did we do something? Did I do something?” Jack questioned, obviously really confused and concerned.

That’s when you just snapped. You couldn’t take the pain anymore.

“As a matter of fact you did do something. Marston.” You spat at him, Jack instantly taken aback by your outburst. Abigail gasped, her hands cupping over her mouth. John froze, if anything he was terrified at the fact that you knew who they were.

“Is this what people like you do, Marston!? You kill people who had families to go back to while you’re here living a great life with your family!?” You yelled at John. Jack glanced at his father, confused and utterly shocked.

Tears fell from your face as you shook your head, “You took my father from me. I was just a kid… How come you can live your best life, seeing your child grow up… But my father can’t?” You looked at all three of them before looking at Jack,

“I can’t be with the son of an outlaw. Especially to the outlaw that took my father’s life,” You looked back at John and Abigail, “If you’re worried about me telling others about where you live, don’t. I get nothing out of revenge. Just know that your actions will catch up to you. You can never leave your old life to live a new. It happened to my father, it will happen to you.”

You walked towards the front door, “I hope you all enjoy your lives. Goodbye.” With that, you left the home. You heard the front door swing up, footsteps rushing towards you. Turning around, it was Jack.

“Darlin’! Please, don’t leave. Look, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I know my Pa has done some horrible things— But I swear he’s a changed man!” Jack pulled you into an embrace, “You’re the best thing that has happened to me in so long. I— I love you…”

Jack’s words were sincere. They really were. But you couldn’t shake the disgusting feeling off of you. You gently pushed him off from you,

“Jack. I love you— Well… I loved you too. But I know my father would be rolling in his grave knowing I was dating the son of the man who killed him.”

Jack’s heart sunk. He couldn’t do anything but watch you walk away. What can he even say? It wasn’t long until John came out to check up on his son.

John reached down to place a hand on Jack’s shoulder, immediately getting rejected by him. Jack glared at his father, “Damnit old man, You’ve made my life a living hell. I can forgive you for so many other things you’ve done. But this? I don’t know if I can.”

Jack bumped his father’s shoulder as he walked back into the house. Abigail tried to comfort him, but he immediately shut that down. John and Abigail had a lot to talk about.

It took you a long while to get back home. Your mother greeted you with a loving smile, but all you could do was cry in her arms. She didn’t question nor judge you, she did what a mother does best and held you. Telling you it was going to be okay.

Damn those Marstons.

Damn that sweet loving boy you fell in love with.

And damn your heart for still loving him.

[concretevampire]

Early Morning Breeze

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 9.7k ꔫ emotionally fueled smut, icky gooey lovey-dovey stuff for thou // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is my first rdr2 fic & my first post on tumblr & english is not my first language so critique is highly encouraged

You sniffle, forearm coming up to wipe away stinging tears clinging to lashes. 

A rough exhale escapes your lips, and you can feel the sweeping glance Abigail sends you. Sniffling again, you press the heel of your palm to an eye, the other shut just as tight. 

“Guess a couple’a vegetables is all it takes to get you cryin’,” she jokes, cleaver slicing off the head of a trout; her apron stanches the briny blood, scales scattered across her forearms like small slivers of moonlight. 

“Onions,” is all you can muster as you finally allow yourself to turn away from the cutting board. You turn your face upward, cracking reddened eyes open to peer at the sky. 

Big clouds– white, ozonated mountains beyond imaginable reach– float by lazily. 

Another sniffle escapes you, but the dam of your eyes has been rebuilt, and the tears secede. Your sinuses still burn though, sending a horrible ache to the back of your throat. 

Swallowing, you return to chopping onions. 

Other than Abigail’s humming and the incessant clucking of hens in the distance (Grimshaw and chickens alike), the camp is quiet. 

Shady Belle is certainly an improvement to dirt-ridden tent floors and crickets in your pillow, but it’s rather gloomy at times. You’re sure that it’s simply the haze of Bayou Nwa and the spectral creeping of ivy along chipping, gray paint. But it would be foolish, and most of all, naive, to ignore the simmering discomfort lingering under everyone’s skin. 

Kieran’s death. Jack’s kidnapping. Dutch’s… nerves, if you were to give it a name. 

Arthur feels it, and so do Abigail and Hosea, but all four of you are unwilling to mention his waning psyche for fear that it’ll only darken the already half-lit moon of his mind. It isn’t worth it. 

And frankly, Arthur’s loyalty to Dutch is suicidal. 

He will hem and haw, but in the end, orders are followed with abandon. Loyal to a fault, you tell him. It’s all I know, he says back, gently smiling as if an inside joke has been said. This ol’ dog can’t learn new tricks, and he’ll chuckle wryly at the quip, head shaking like the sins of the world have been settled and folded into the intestines of his mind. 

You can only let him wallow for so long when he gets like that. 

Though you’ve learned (after too many years as friends and a few more years as something quaintly more) how to put an end to it: a routine. Artfully mastered, a precariously balanced act that includes a succinct scold paired with a slap to his shoulder before pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek as he grovels over his journal like an overgrown child. 

But another layer to the quiet and unease around camp is unarguably Micah's presence. Filthy, bastard leech of a man. Suckling away at Dutch’s good faith. 

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse: treachery.

The way he saunters about is simply nauseating— skinny fingers pricking and prying into people’s souls. And he’s always been particularly taken with you. Disappointingly. 

Micah finds sheer amusement in laying out your arteries on cork board, needles stabbing; displaying your heart like a prize butterfly, blood glittering like topaz stained glass. 

It was simply infatuation at first, back all those months ago. 

A game he had played with many women before and one you brushed aside easily. And then he discovered that you and Arthur were something— and Micah became a true savage, fueled by both contempt and his peculiar fascination with having taken women. 

Even now as he makes his rounds with the gang, purposefully adding to the gloom, his eyes linger on your figure. 

Micah veers closer, and you take a step towards Abigail. Her shoulders straighten, so do yours– a useless attempt to create some sort of fortress. He’s approaching in your peripheral and Abigail slams her cleaver down onto another trout, a singular clawed scale landing on your blouse. 

You’ve moved from onions onto potatoes, your knife cutting away skin in precise shallow strokes.

When he’s close, Micah says your name– a horrible rasp of letters strung together by cigar smoke and glowing ash– the depths of hell holed up in his esophagus. You ignore him. And in turn he grins wildly, as if presented with riches beyond King Midas’ imagination. Your jaw clenches, eyes set on the knife and the naked, golden flesh in your palm. 

“How’s Morgan’s broodmare?” 

Abigail side eyes him. Your next slice is thicker than the last, heavy handed, taking off more flesh than you’d like. A waste. 

“Or has he moved on after all these years? Got tired of the same fuck.” 

You set the nude potato aside, picking up a new one. You imagine it’s Micah’s prick: dirt ridden and calloused. You begin to skin it too, taking extra care to needle out any dark spots. 

“Been awhile since he’s been back in camp too. Makes you wonder.” 

“Oh piss off, Micah,” Abigail hisses, her cleaver resting threateningly against the dark wood of the table. A sharp, glaring warning. 

His smile widens. 

He shifts his stance, shoulders slackening as his thumbs hook on the flap of his pockets. “Hit too close to home? Remind you too much of Johnny and how he ran off?” 

“Micah,” you finally interrupt, picking up a new potato. “Shut up.” 

“So that’s how I get you to talk.” 

You stay silent, returning your attention to vegetables and other honeyed daydreams of skinning the Devil alive. 

“Ignoring me again.” His eyes linger, thinking of horrifically creative ways to dissect and tear you apart as you stand. “Wouldn’t you be worried though? He’s been gone for a week.” The statement is mocking and cruel. 

He wouldn’t know what concern was if it ate his face off, ravaged his eyeballs and devoured his tongue. 

Abigail glowers, this time pointing the cleaver at Micah. “Yer just jealous.” 

Micah sneers, the cylinder in his revolver shaking off a warning like a rattlesnake curling up to bite. “Jealous of what Miss Roberts?” 

“Jealous she ain’t with you.” 

Micah opens his mouth to retort something evil and violent, obvious in the way his pupils have contracted, gray eyes gone silver with wrath. You stab the knife into the cutting board, punctuating the air. 

Both of them have stilled, turning towards you. 

“Quit it.” You snarl. Abigail gives an apologetic look, but not before sending Micah another scowl. She’s back to chopping off fish heads. 

And Micah, damn him, always needing the last word spits out a, “Bet he got himself killed,” before he rushes away, seething and gnashing his teeth. 

It’s quiet again. 

You get through six more potatoes before speaking. “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s a gentle chide towards Abigail, one that makes her huff.

“I just hate how he talks to us. ‘Specially you. And I hate how you don’t do anything.” Her hands wring together harshly, not having any more trouts to dismember. 

“It’s best to ignore him. He gets off on it, the sick freak.” You keep your gaze fixed on your work. 

Abigail relents, fingers stilling momentarily. 

Her gaze rises, eyes trained on Jack’s small silhouette at the far edge of camp, playing in the weeds and brambles. He seems completely ignorant to such plights. What bliss. 

Abigail’s raised him well. 

“Ain’t ya worried though?” She says suddenly, spinning to look at you. You pause your ministrations, glancing into her perturbed blue eyes. “I mean,, well, Micah had a point, I guess.” She’s annoyed at the admittance, even if it is her own. “Arthur’s been gone for a while. It ain’t like him.” 

You sigh. “It is like him,” your teeth chew at the flesh of your cheek, “but you’re right. He wouldn’t leave for a week without saying something.” 

Abigail nods but her fingers have knotted and tangled once again. “Hunting trip?” 

“Yeah, but with how long he’s been gone you’d think he’s trying to take down an entire herd of angry caribou in heat.” 

She snorts. “He would try. Strong enough for it.” 

“Bullheaded, that’s what he is.” And you scowl, starting to dice the potatoes far too quickly; bound to cut yourself. Abigail sends you a sympathetic, knowing smile. 

“So you are worried.” 

“Whatd’ya mean?” 

“I mean you ain’t as calm and cool as yer pretendin’ to be.” 

You continue chopping away, somehow not having cut yourself. Years of practice you suppose. 

“Course I’m not. I’m always worried when it comes to him.” 

Abigail snorts. “Well, ya never act like it.” 

“Because if I act like it,” and you finish dicing off the last potato, ‘then that means something bad would actually be happening’, “then who would you have to talk to when you’re worrying?” And you give a knowing smirk.

She laughs, shaking her head, hands coming to a rest. You feel your own face brighten to a smile. 

That’s the way it is with her; with all the girls. Quilted conversations complaining about men and life and backaches all riddled with coy smiles. 

The breeze picks up then, and Jack comes tumbling along it, hands rusted with the red Lemoyne dirt and beaming at his mother like a little sun; too bright; seen without looking. 

His eyes barely peek over the table, but he’s determined, placing a bundle of messy daisies next to dismembered fish, yet to be fileted. 

“For you Mama,” he adds with his gift, hands clutching the edge of the table to watch her. And Abigail smiles tenderly, picking the flowers up. They drip, raw with dew and fish blood. She tries, ever so delicately, to wipe away the crimson stain on their petals. 

“Thank you kindly, Jack,” she says. And he gives a toothy grin and runs off— on the breeze once again. Abigail ponders the daisies for a moment before offering you one with a teasing smile. “M,lady,” she jests, giving a sloppy curtsy. A true country princess. You snort, but fawn delighted shock, pricking the flower from her nimble fingers. 

“Oh how romantic,” you add, putting a hand to your chest. Pocketing the daisy, Abigail does the same with hers, now fully smiling. 

And with a few giggled words you separate; the chores around camp  looming as Grimshaw’s eyes sharpen into blades, her tongue preparing to tear you both apart. 

You help Tilly with the laundry. 

Karen and you care for spare guns. 

Under the shade, you patch up holes in socks and shirts and handkerchiefs all while Mary-Beth tells you about her new book— a romance, of course— about an outlaw and upper class woman finding love. 

It makes you snort.

Amusement brewing in agitated, annoyed swirls in your chest as you’re reminded of Mary.  

You’re too smart to be reading those kinds of things, you tell her, needle pricking your finger as you push it into the cotton of Dutch’s union suit. She shrugs; tells you she likes it. 

You don’t blame her. You used to too. 

And the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows on long faces after a long day. And people begin returning. 

Javier and Bill from a home robbery. 

Lenny with a wagon of purchases from Saint Denis. 

John and Sadie each with a few rabbits in hand. 

But no Arthur. 

It’s a bit disheartening.  Like a sunshower with no rainbow. What’s the point of the rain then? 

You’ve grown anxious, your hands fussing the linen of your apron though there’s nothing to wipe away. And you don’t have the stomach to eat or the heart to make conversation— so as the gang begins settling in for the night you grab a basket, your revolver, and leave. 

Charle’s, keeping watch, eyes you like a ladybug in winter, but keeps quiet. 

You thank him with a glance. 

And you’re not stupid. You know it’s dangerous in Bayou Nwa— whether it be under God’s sun or the Devil’s moon— crawling with bipedal predators and freaks of nature beyond comprehensible understanding. Arthur has warned you. Don’t you go out, firm words with even firmer hands on your shoulders. Not without me.

But you go.

You need to, if only to catch your breath; to steel yourself away from prying eyes if he doesn’t show up for yet another week. 

And in the tall, marsh grass and bundles of cattails you’ve found something quiet and private; a place where you can crouch and pick away at plants with a frown you don’t have to hide. 

And your fingers are shaky and uncalculated as you rip apart the oleander and sage, like a newborn colt, teetering across grass. You shove the foliage into your basket as if it took Arthur away personally. As if they’ve laced their way into his veins, choking and drying him out. 

You’re upset, but you won’t cry, obviously. There’s no reason to, it’s hysterical and ridiculous, but you’re frustrated.

Because even if Arthur is painfully terrible at communicating, he at least has always told you how long he’d be gone for. 

It’s a luxury you’ve gotten used to. And out of all the silks, jewels, and luxurious baths the world offers, it is your favorite.

The promise of his return. 

“Yer mutterin’.” 

The voice would’ve made you jump if it weren’t for the far too familiar rumble of it. Too often has it soothed you and brought you to climax for it to scare anymore. 

You look at Arthur over your shoulder, glaring. “I do not mutter.” 

“Sure ya do,” he says, stepping over a log to reach you. 

His horse stands in the distance behind him, grazing and chuffing indignantly at the occasional alligator. Flighty things, horses are. Arthur’s is braver than most. 

You turn back around before said man reaches you, hands resuming to the ripping and the pulling and the tearing. 

“I told ya not to come out here without me,” he’s standing right behind you now. 

“I know,” you grunt. And it’s quiet— heavy under the screeching of crickets and cicadas— until Arthur sidles his shins up to your skirts and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning. 

“Yer mad.” 

“I am not mad.” 

“Sure ya are.” 

“I am not,” and you look up, seeing him gaze out into the bayou with a gentle smile. “I’m annoyed,” you correct. 

“Did Reverend chat ya up again?” And he chuckles, stepping aside to finally crouch beside you. 

His knee brushes against yours, a touch starved way of saying hello.  Under the golden sky, his blue eyes have filtered into grays and greens, seafoam and jade alike. 

He looks tired but that pleasant smile is still there; too happy with your presence to be bothered by such ridiculous notions as the human need for sleep. And as much as you’d love to sooth the eyebags away, you continue frowning. 

“You may be surprised to learn that Reverend was astonishingly quiet. For a week.” You add the last part roughly, hoping Arthur gets the message. 

For a second, you think he doesn’t. 

But then his hand raises, the pad of his thumb passing over the furrow of your brow. Achingly attempting to pacify you. To tell you he’s sorry. 

“What’d I do this time?” And his voice rumbles over the question, soft and sweet, a tone he takes only with you. You sigh, turning back to the plants. 

His hand retracts as you pick away at the leaves, but his eyes are heavy on your face, as if he trying to kiss you with just his gaze. 

You’re sure he wishes. 

“I just don’t like when you leave like that without telling me, or anybody really,” you say. And with Arthur, you always keep things succinct and out in the open because lord knows he won’t read between the lines. 

He’s not like you, where you can tell he’s in a bad mood just by the way he drinks his coffee in the morning. 

And Arthur takes a deep inhale, and then an exhale. “Yeah, I know.” 

You look up, raising a brow. 

“Sorry,” he coughs and you know it’s the most you’ll get out of him. It’s always that way with Arthur. Hands-on approach. Not much in the way with words. 

The only way he failed Hosea. 

“Abigail was worried too,” you add absentmindedly, finally letting yourself dawdle a bit now that he’s by your side again. 

Arthur scoffs. “She’s always worryin’ about somethin’. Jack, John, you, me.” 

You can’t argue with that, but you can’t blame Abigail either because you worry too. You just hide it better. 

And you look up, less angry this time. 

He left with a stubble and has returned with a beard. And though you’re sure his hair hasn’t grown much in a week, you notice the way the sandy blond locks brush against his shoulders— like golden willow on blue hills. 

Finally, you acquiesce. 

Your own hand raises, reaching out. And before you can even touch him, his fingers brush against the skin of your forearm. Ferns to sunshine.

You meet his cheek, wiping away at a smudge of dirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hat. 

“Your hair’s gotten long.” 

Arthur looks amused, leaning into your palm not unlike the way a puppy does. 

“Want me to cut it?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to you. But at least take care of this.” And now both hands are on his cheeks, rubbing childishly over his beard. You beam at the way his nose crinkles. 

“Wha’ I thought you liked my beard?” 

“Not when it’s this long. You’d give me a rash every time you kiss me.” 

Arthur smiles, dropping his head to laugh quietly. 

And you stand, hand reaching to pick up your basket, but Arthur already has it in his grip, rising too. 

“Oleander. Sage.” He notes expertly. You hum. “Tryin’ to poison someone?” He asks. 

“You,” is your easy reply as you step away from him and to his horse. He follows in a pavlovian fashion, well trained. 

“That mad about me leavin’ huh?” Long strides quickly bring him to you, arm brushing against shoulder. 

“I wasn’t mad. I was annoyed,” you correct once again.

Arthur makes an entertained sound as he grabs for his horse’s reins. You finally notice all the carcasses strapped to the poor creature. A doe, a fine pelt, geese and rabbits hooked here and there. “Ya missed me?” He teases.

And before you can snort and tell him off, he leans down to kiss you. His hand cups the back of your neck gingerly; giving you all the ability to pull away if you’d like. 

But you don’t. You never would. 

Instead, your eyes slip closed as Arthur presses further. His lips are uncomfortably chapped, dried from the days on the road but so incessant in their need to feel you that you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop. 

Instead your hand rises to hold his wrist loosely, a move that’s always made him melt for one reason another. 

Then just as quickly, he pulls away, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I missed ya.” And he breathes in as you breathe out. 

“Me too,” You admit, though it’s not a secret. He knows. His favorite little luxury it is; the promise you’ll be there, awaiting his return. 

Hasn’t gone a day without it since meeting you. 

Admittedly, 1891 was a bad year to meet Arthur. Grieving, and angry; Eliza and Isaac freshly dead. 

But you were there, picked up by Dutch, almost like a feral animal. Rabid enough to shut down Arthur’s (correction: everyone’s) bullshit immediately, yet organically compassionate to soothe him through bad nights. Even when you barely knew each other. 

That was you. 

Strained it all was at first. Funny, what time can do to two people. 

Unraveling knots and kinks to smoothly twist two lives together. 

And you watch as Arthur starts walking, not bothering to clamber onto his mount— even if the exhaustion in his step is obvious, like meatpie in a patisserie. 

“You’re not gonna ride?” 

He pauses and shakes his head, turning to look back at you. 

“Personally? ‘M tryna get as much time alone before we have to be surrounded by fools and degenerates.” 

You snort, strolling over to his side. “So what kept you away for a week?” 

The back of his hand brushes against yours as you both begin walking. 

“Heard about a wolf in Cotorra Springs. Wanted to check it out and well,” he eyes the pelt. “ Didn’t think it’d take me that long to hunt her down, but she was sneaky.” 

He shrugs. “The rest of this I got on the way home, knowing how Pearson’ll be if I don’t come back with somethin’.” 

You nod knowing how the man can get. Feisty about food, placid about most everything else. Sometimes he reminds you of a bear going into hibernation, and you doodle it on scraps of paper— messy, untrained caricatures of the gang. 

They make Arthur laugh. 

“Me and Abigail joked about you hunting caribou in heat. Not to give you ideas.” 

Arthur flicks a brow. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“You would if there was money in it.” 

“Is there?” 

“I’ll say no for my own sake.” 

Arthur laughs at that, and you grin, his joy infectious. A bad disease you’re willing to catch. 

“So what have you been up to then, if not grumblin’ and mumblin’?” Arthur asks, eyes sweeping your frame. 

“Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing.” You shrug. Arthur frowns a smidge. 

“You gotta get out more.” 

“I wanted to go out to Saint Denis but I got caught up with Grimshaw, I guess.” 

All he can do is press against you a bit closer. “I’ll go with you soon then.” 

An incredulous look is sent. “No you’re not.” 

And Arthur looks so genuinely offended you have to laugh. 

“What do you mean I’m not?” 

“You hate Saint Denis.” 

“I know but-“ 

You lean your cheek into his bicep. “Thank you, but you don’t have to torture yourself for me.” 

He pouts. “It ain’t torture.” 

“Mhm, sure.” 

Voices in the distance become louder, the echo of Molly’s gramophone and Uncle’s drunken singing coming to a crescendo— smashing and breaking the isolation in a gradual blunder. 

And you pull away, taking the basket from Arthur’s hand as you do. 

Charles greets as you approach, and you hand him the spoils of your anger-fueled gather with another silent thank you. He nods politely, in his own grateful way. 

And as Arthur hitches his horse— cooing with all the affection in the world— you leave him, going up into your shared room. 

You know he has to take care of a few things before you can really have him for yourself: 

Talk to Dutch. 

Contribute money and check the ledger.

Load the hunt’s catches into the kitchen. 

Help with any last minute chores. 

Say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Hosea, Jack and John; Abigail and Tilly; Sean if he’s in a good mood too. 

So you sit. Passively reading and waiting as you lean against the bed’s headboard. 

And half an hour later, Arthur pulls open the door and then shuts it tight. Like maybe if he held it closed for long enough, the walls would thicken then burst fantastically into a hot air balloon; sending you beyond reach of civilization. 

Under the yellowed light of the lantern, he seems entirely exhausted; the slope of his shoulders dooming, his usually straight back hunched. 

Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Arthur jokes at times. 

He sits down on the bed. For awhile he’s like that; just sitting and staring at the white canvas of the wall. And his eyes are flicking back and forth, like he’s sketching whatever he’s seen in the past week on the molding wallpaper. 

It’s strange when he gets like this. 

It’s not that he’s sad or upset, just caught up in his head. 

“You should get undressed,” you command gently, sliding off the bed as you undo the buttons of your blouse. 

Arthur watches. You pause. And then you deadpan. 

“Are you serious?”  But he says nothing, and neither do you, not as you come to stand between his knees. 

You take his hat off, shoving the worn leather jacket down his arms, and he rests his head against your collar bone, pressing impossibly close into the revealed skin there. 

Like maybe, just maybe, this time your atoms will combine and he won’t have to leave your side ever again. 

When you begin unbuttoning his shirt, his hands finesse to undo the clasps of your skirt and you have to momentarily brush him aside, slapping his hands like a toddler gone for the cookie jar. 

“Hey,” he protests, blue eyes pleading. But the way they blink slowly and idly tells you everything. 

“No. Sleep. We can do that tomorrow.” 

Arthur groans but listens; hands dropping, head knocking against your chest. “A week,” he grumbles. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

He’s quiet as you work, up until he catches a look at the thin silver chain around your neck. His finger notches on the ring that’s hooked to it. 

“I wish you would wear it,” he mumbles languidly. 

“I can say the same thing,” and you glance at the gold band he keeps tucked away on the rope of his hat. “Maybe if things get better.” 

“When,” he amends. “When they get better.” 

“Sure.” 

He glares, the lines of his face darkening. “Don’t be like that.“ 

“Arthur.” And you cup his face, kissing him quickly and quietly. “It’s late.” 

He stares up at you, an odd mix between enamored and frustrated. 

A huff then escapes his lips, and he unbuckles his belt as you finish with the last button of his shirt. Your hands toys with the hem momentarily as if gripping to the tendrils of his soul. 

But you let go, and turn away. 

Getting rid of your own clothes is quick work, but Arthur makes even quicker work of kicking his pants and boots away, collapsing onto the furs and blankets of the bed. And as insistent as he was, he’s out quicker than nightshade, his arousal forgotten. 

You’re sure he’ll remember it in his dreams. It’s happened before. 

And you dim the lantern, laying yourself next to him in your chemise. Even though his back is facing you, a half-hesitant hand runs through his hair. 

He’ll need a wash tomorrow. 

You’ll force him into it, chase him around with a bucket if you have to. But for now, you let him rest; let sleep capture him like a firefly cupped between two soft palms. Pleased, your cheek presses against his bare shoulder blade. 

Obviously, you wake before him. 

Already dressed before he can even become lucid enough to call for you, hand reaching out to grab your missing form. You bend down, press a hand to his forehead, and whisper for him to forget you in favor of his dreams. 

His soft snores ensue. You drift away. 

And today, like yesterday, is quiet. But it’s less gloomy, more of a peace that’s settled because, praise be, Micah is out for the morning. It is both surprising and delightful, and nobody takes it for granted. 

And you drift around the manor and camp, helping with the odd chore, saying hello, sipping at coffee. 

At some point you walk off, where the ground is more solid and less swamp to have a quick word with God in the early morning breeze. 

He doesn’t reply though you knew he wouldn’t. Still, you hope he heard. 

At your return, Grimshaw unloads a torrent of harsh words, quickly placing you on dishes duty. You accept it. 

Mean spirited, but kind hearted, that one. Always has been. You don’t have the will to complain though— not since Arthur’s come back. 

He pacifies you, Hosea has teased, a coy smile hidden by the brim of his hat. At first it was embarrassing, but soon you came to realize denying it is like looking for oranges in an apple orchard. Psychotic and pointless.

Abigail has said the same thing, John nodding along enthusiastically. 

It’s annoying and the truth, and you have no energy to argue. 

Arthur is still asleep by the time you’ve scrubbed both the cast iron and your skin raw. Unsurprisingly. You’ve seen him passed out for nineteen hours once. 

You wish you had that ability, especially with how hot and sticky the Lemoyne air is; boiled molasses in your lungs. You would sleep the entire afternoon just to avoid it all. 

But in the slowness of the day, and your boredom, you approach Dutch, reading as always. 

“Anything interesting?” You ask, readjusting the basket of laundry at your hip. It’s a conversation you have often— ever since you’ve joined the gang your time to read has dwindled— being much more preoccupied with needles and guns and terrible men instead.

He hums, flipping a page. “A collection of essays done by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I presume you know him?” 

You nod, stepping closer. “He wrote before the war. A Transcendentalist, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” and Dutch smiles. He’s always told you that you’re too smart for your own good. Smarter than he deserves— than the gang deserves. But you never indulge in his compliments (at least not too much).

And you’ve never really been sure if they’re true.

He’s kind, though that may not be the word. Merciful. Insightful. And perhaps that has fueled the compassionate part in him. 

But as of late it’s all been brought into question you suppose. His sanity. Whether or not he’s still the same old, reliable Dutch that he always has been. 

But you brush it aside for now, letting yourself pretend it’s all normal and everything is okay. A happy family. 

“Which essay are you reading?” And you lean against the doorframe, fixing your apron. 

“Man the Reformer. Do you know it?” 

“Only parts. I think. Care to read me some?” You tilt your head, tucking one ankle behind the other. 

Refined with him, always, even with his penchant for savagery. 

“For you, my dear? Anytime,” and his eyes scan the pages, flipping through to find a piece he likes. “Ah,” he says after a moment, knuckle tapping the paragraph. He clears his throat, then starts. 

“Hence it happens that the whole interest of history lies in the fortunes of the poor. Knowledge, Virtue, Power are the victories of man over his necessities, his march to the dominion of the world. Every man ought to have this opportunity to conquer the world for himself. Only such persons interest us, Spartans, Romans, Saracens, English, Americans, who have stood in the jaws of need, and have by their own wit and might extricated themselves, and made man victorious.” 

He turns away from the page, his face lilting towards yours. “Isn’t that lovely?” he asks you. “Just gorgeous, isn’t it?” 

And Dutch, like most men, has a strange idea of what gorgeous is. Finding it in bloodied knuckles and revenge. In essays about man and power. 

In hatred. In violence. 

You’re unsure why you suddenly remember this— but when you were young, still attending school, you had read that Moses was not allowed to enter the Promised Land. 

It had confused you. Hurt you even. 

And when you had asked one of the nuns: Why? What was the reason? Why couldn’t he? What was the point if his fate was to die? 

And you remember that nun, with reverent eyes and sad smile, told you: 

“For freedom to be reached, the memory of subjugation has to die.” 

And that is why Aaron, and Miriam had died as well. Zipporah too. 

You stare at Dutch. 

“Do you see yourself as Moses?” You ask. It’s a blurted question, not entirely thought through, and you’re embarrassed the moment the words leave your mouth. 

Dutch stares back, his own dark eyes swirling with momentary surprise before he laughs, hitting his knee. Shoulders slacking, your own breathy chuckles escape as you watch. 

“You’ve heard The Good Word?” he questions, almost shocked. 

“Read it.” 

“My, aren’t you full of surprises?” 

“Are you calling me a sinner, Dutch Van Der Linde?” 

He tilts his head, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?” It’s said as if it were common sense. 

“Maybe I’m not a saint, but I don’t think I’m a sinner.” 

Dutch hums, bouncing his knee. “You pray?” 

“When I’m dying,” you tell him, half joking. 

“And how often is that?” 

“More than I’d like.” 

Dutch doesn’t laugh, but a warm, hearty chuckle rumbles in his chest and he picks his book back up. 

“Isn’t that the truth.” 

Looking away, your eyes flick about the greenery outside his window. The chickens cluck incessantly, bouncing about like cotton ball clouds on grassy mountains. 

You can make out the outline of Jack, bounding around a tree with a stick in hand, occasionally swiping the trunk. Abigail keeps a watchful eye. 

And it’s all very domestic. 

A little green rectangle of quiet love, framed by rotting wood and sin. It seems so far away, you can’t tell if it’s real. But you know for a fact it is, and it makes the deep, longing pain in your chest all the worse. It’s a dream really, one you think of often and one you and Arthur have only discussed either after sex or in the early morning— when everyone is still asleep and when things are a little imaginary. 

When dreams rule the plain of existence. 

Suddenly Hosea passes by the room. His gaze stabs through you, a knowing familiar look he’s sent over the past few months. 

Like you’ve discovered a dirty secret. 

And it seems you’ve both come to a conclusion you’re both equally unsure of. Same with Abigail. Same with Arthur, even if he denies it. 

“I should get back to work,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“Atta girl,” Dutch simpers, but you’ve already walked off, head full of fears and doubts and thoughts you know you’re not supposed to have. 

Hanging laundry is one of the easier chores, one that eases the nerves. Gentle afternoon breeze, as humid as it is, drifts by, wafting the smell of soap and swamp water. Earthy and clean, rolled into a lavender clay. 

Jack hovers around your skirts as you work, and you easily indulge him in poems, songs, and stories, all with a gentle smile. 

He glances at the manor. “Uncle Arthur sure does sleep a lot.” 

“He does, doesn’t he?” 

“Where did Uncle Arthur go?” 

Clipping a bedsheet to the line, your eyes gleam, turning to Jack. “He went beyond civilization” and you crouch down, making claws with your hands, a playful grin at your lips, “hunting wolves.” 

Jack beams, grabbing at your hands, easing the claws. “I wanna hunt wolves!” 

You laugh a little, pulling away and reaching for a pair of drawers in the basket. 

“You’re still too small— they’d eat you up.” 

Jack frowns. “No they wouldn’t.” 

And you hide an amused grin with the back of your hand, thinking of John. After a moment, you nod. “You’re right. They wouldn’t eat you, you’re too skinny.” 

“Hey!” And Jack pouts, tugging at your skirts. You finally laugh, dropping a hand to pat his head, fingers sifting through soft brown locks. 

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t let them eat you. None of us would.” 

Jack seems appeased. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will take me next time?” 

And not wanting to break his little heart, you say, “I think that’s something you have to ask him.” 

And Jack seems to be somewhat miffed by the answer, reserving himself to sit by the laundry basket as he watches beetles and ants march along the dirt. 

Little brown capped soldiers. 

“Have you ever hunted wolves, Auntie?” 

You hang up the drawers, humming. “No. But one time Uncle Hosea took me hunting for a bear.” 

“A bear!?” And Jack crawls a bit closer. “I don’t remember that?” 

“It was before you were born.” You add gently. 

“Ohhh. Was it scary?” 

“Well only at first. It tried to eat me, but Uncle Hosea wouldn’t let that happen.” Embarrassment bubbles at the memory. The way Arthur had laughed when you sulked, telling him and Hosea you would never hunt again.

Jack smiles. “Do you think Uncle Hosea will take me bear hunting?” 

A downturned smile marrs your features. “I hope not.” 

Jack complains at that, and you gently assert that bears are much worse than wolves, and they wouldn’t care how skinny he is. 

And the moment is sweet and funny and utterly ruined when a horrible, rasping voice says, 

“There she is.” 

Micah’s back. 

Setting your shoulders, you gently tell Jack to find his Ma. Tell her those stories I told you, murmured by his ear. And he scurries away, an excited smile on his face. Your full attention is then granted to the laundry basket and the sodden clothes inside. 

Micah stands on the other side of the clothesline, watching you between the flaps of bedsheets and button ups. A fabric jail cell keeps you separated. 

“Heard our workhorse is back, hm? Where is he?” 

A sock is hung up, next a union suit. 

“Oh, so you won’t even talk about your darlin’ Mr. Morgan with me?” 

You’re running short on clothespins. 

“You gettin’ tired of him?” 

There’s still enough for now. 

“Mr. Morgan, running off for days on end, only comes back to fuck his little mare good and then runs off again. Ain’t that just sad?” 

You could use a new skirt maybe. You’ll head into Saint Denis tomorrow. For now though, another sock is hung. 

“I could take care of ya, while he’s gone. He’ll never have to know.” 

Two blouses are clipped on the clothesline and you’re officially out of pins. 

“So, what d’ya think? Offer stands.” 

You step away from the hanging laundry, your eyes meeting Micah’s. It startles him but turns him on just as quickly. 

And then you walk away, to the manor in search of more pins. Micah doesn’t follow, though you feel his eyes burning holes into you, gaping pits of Tartarus on your skin.

You’re surprised to see Arthur leaning against the windowsill, cup of coffee in one hand, the other scratching away at his journal in long precise strokes; a wolf. And he’s trimmed his beard and hair, his skin clean. 

Washed away of filth and stress. 

An easy smile comes to him when he turns to see you— he downs the rest of his coffee, closes his journal, and steps over. 

“Good afternoon,” you say. 

“Afternoon,” and Arthur glances around for peeping eyes before kissing you chastely. “Thought we could go to Saint Denis today like ya wanted,” he offers. 

You shake your head. “I can’t today; maybe tomorrow?” 

He pulls away, looking bemused. “Always ‘tomorrow’ with you, woman.” 

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s too late to go to Saint Denis anyway.” 

“We could rent a room.” 

“I am not spending money on a bed I have here,” you chide. 

He raises his head to look at the ceiling, hat tipping back slightly back as he does. A stiffness overcomes him, like a thousand rocks have settled into his stomach. “You always gotta make things difficult.” 

“Shut up,” and you pat his chest, stepping around him to continue your search, “I’ll see you tonight.” 

That seems to help him digest the rocks but he still grabs at your wrist, stopping you. And there’s a deep longing in Arthur’s eyes; lust and sorrow mixing to create something entirely desperate. 

“I love ya,” he mumbles quietly. 

And it’s not something you say often, never really finding the need to. You know. He knows. You’re on the same page. 

But sometimes, you’ll indulge each other with those three little words. 

And Arthur lightens when you smile and nod and tell him you love him too. It’s like he’s seen the ocean for the first time, eyes sparkling in wonderful adoration. So he lets you go, assured he has you no matter what. 

Expectantly, you barely see eachother for the rest of the day, each preoccupied with your own tasks. Small glances are thrown, like pebbles against windows, but nothing more. 

Not until night falls. 

You’re sitting around the fire with Abigail, snorting over a not so appropriate story Karen is telling when you see him in the distance, past the embers, crawling back into the manor. Admittedly, it is late but not late enough for Arthur to call it a night. 

Usually, he’d stay with the group– drink a bottle of beer and sing a tone deaf melody with Tilly and Javier. But not tonight. Tonight he’s waiting you out. 

And so when Karen finishes her story, you give one last laugh and leave. 

Arthur is sitting on the bed when you come in, writing something slowly; the clear mark of verbal constipation.

And the lantern is lit low, warm and golden like a dying star. He only looks up from the page when you close the door, his hand pausing. There’s a droll moment where you stare at him and he stares at you– the little lift of amusement curling your lips can’t be helped. 

In a brisk moment, you’re standing between his knees; but this time it’s him who undresses you. And you let him take his time with the clasps and buttons, resting your palms on his shoulders.

“Jack asked me if I’d take him wolf huntin’,” Arthur mumbles, standing to kiss at the junction of your neck and jaw. In nothing but your chemise, it’s easy to feel the hard line of him press against your hip. “Did’ya put him up to that?” 

You laugh, hands rising to undo his own shirt. “Maybe.” 

A rough palm presses between your shoulder blades, the other cupping your cheek as he nudges you to tilt your head with his nose. 

“Yer evil,” Arthur mutters into your skin, “making me be the one to say no to him.” 

“Was he angry?” 

“Nah,” Arthur sighs, knocking his hips with yours, “just said I’m no fun.” 

And you slip his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and firm muscle, laced and sewed with scratches and scars. 

You run your hand down a particularly marred one at his ribs. Knife fight. 

“Did he hurt your feelings?” You tease. The hand at your cheek drops, bundling the hem of your chemise up your thighs. And before you can poke his ego again, the hand dips, grazing against your bundle of nerves. 

You sigh, leaning into him as he lazily dips a finger in and out, in and out. 

“John looked like he was ‘bout to have a panic attack,” Arthur rasps right in your ear. “If I had said anythin’ other than no I think he woulda killed me.” 

“Can’t have that,” you hum, and Arthur snorts. 

“Ya need me around to fuck ya, is that it?” 

Scoffing, you pull away. “You’re ridiculous.” Your chemise falls back over your thighs, covering the slick Arthur built up. And he gives a soothing smile, hands lifting yours to twine fingers together. 

“Did I hurt yer feelin’s?” And though you’re frowning, you let Arthur guide you to the bed— let him push you down onto the mattress. At your silence he runs his lips across your face; kissing at your brow, your nose, cheeks and chin. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.” 

Lifting himself on his forearms, he watches you. You’ve softened exponentially, pliant and willing under him. 

Only him. 

And the look on your face is so fond— too loving and so soft, that he feels as if you must be a figment of his imagination. A sick twisted trick his mind is playing to feel something. 

But you’re here, breathing against him, and looking like a drop of sunshine under the lantern’s light. 

He’s struck gold. 

Bending down, Arthur kisses you and in turn you breathe him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. You roll your hips, and a groan verberates in his chest— the sound makes your bones rumble— the first sign of an avalanche. 

He lifts the chemise once more and a knee comes up to sit between your exposed thighs. Arthur dips his hand again, this time spreading you open on two fingers. 

The both of you have gotten very good at being quiet after so many years of barely any privacy; a tarp or tent at most; but in Shady Belle, bless the heavens above, you allow yourself little, quiet whimpers. 

The gift of walls. 

And Arthur feels himself pulse as he edges you on, fingers increasing in speed. His thumb brushes against that bundle of nerves again and you choke back a moan, hands gripping onto the sheets. 

“Arthur,” you pant, eyes shining with adoration. And he pauses. You stir something in him, some sort of odd childlike devotion he hasn’t felt since he was in his early twenties. 

Not since Mary. 

And he remembers when you had first gotten together, back in ‘94, you had told him you wouldn’t ask him to stop loving Mary. I could never, ever do that to you. It’d be cruel and unfair of me, you had whispered. 

And you knew he never would stop because that’s how first loves are. Permanent. 

But maybe now, maybe in this moment— just like every other moment with you— he has stopped loving Mary. Perhaps not entirely, but he wouldn’t chase after her like he used to. 

Not when he has you. Not when you beg his name. 

And Arthur rises, lifting you up with him as he sits up against the headboard, huddling you into his lap. His skin is warm, as it usually is, and you can’t discern whether that’s just him or if the Lemoyne heat has to do with it too. 

It’s overwhelming and you’ve barely gotten started. 

Making a pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, you see the way it lights his eyes on fire, as if you hold the keys to enter the Gates of Hell. And it’s almost too easy for him to pull off your chemise, leaning forward to press his lips against yours. 

He’s scarily and surprisingly gentle. Always has been. But tonight there’s an underlying torture in the way he bites at your bottom lip, then soothes it, admonishing his own efforts. 

And Arthur, this sweet, sad man who has killed, murdered, and torn apart men from sanity has resorted to fluttering his fingers against your hips; as if you were a prized butterfly, ready to fly off at any second. 

For one reason or another, it makes your heart ache. 

Your own hands cup his stubbled jaw as you lean down, opening your mouth and letting his teeth gently collide with yours clumsily. 

There’s another rumble in his chest when you kiss the corner his mouth, an apology for your gauche actions. And you can’t tell if it’s a breath or a moan, but you assume that it’s something good. 

A quiet plea for you to continue. Don’t stop. 

Because if you do Arthur’s sure he’ll sob in a pitiful, defeated way that would leave him rutting into the mattress. 

To his relief, your thighs press against his hips all the more, and your chest meets his. One of his own hands slides up your side, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling of your skin against his palm.

Silk against stone. Soft where he is rough– ruined by bullets, knives and meaningless labor. And he decides then, he’ll preserve this. Preserve your warm humanity, if it’s the last thing he does. 

And he is a fool, but he isn’t insolent. He knows you’ve seen and experienced things that would have him reeling with nausea. 

You’re a woman, of course you have. 

But if he can help it, he will keep you like this. Coy and kind. Too good for him and too good for what the world has to offer. 

Arthur realizes he’d gotten engrossed in his worship when you pull away to look down at him, giving a shaky exhale. Running your fingers through his scalp, you let your hand settle at the back of his neck, peering at his face as if he were a saint. 

Arthur can only stare back. Fervently and biblically.

He follows every unspoken order you give him with a ferocity bordering desperation that only stems from his complete adoration. And you’ll never know how or where it started and you won’t ask, in fear of an answer that that any other man could give you. But this outlaw, brute, grunt; this man of all men has become an angel under your gaze and touch. 

It’s intoxicating.  

For awhile this continues. The kissing– the petting and exploration. Whispered ‘I missed you’s’ brushed across your lips, neck, breasts. At some point, Arthur wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, and you stifle a whimper against his temple. 

A hand pushes into the curve of your back, imploring and needy, making you keen. The other, brushes against your core unexpectedly and you almost yelp from the sudden contact. But he dips his fingers into you gingerly, restarting the ministrations from earlier. 

You all but melt. 

You’re panting into his neck, gripping onto him as he plays with you. It’s shameful how a week apart has ruined you so terribly. 

You’re oversensitive and overstimulated. 

When your breathing becomes more desperate (which happens quicker than you’d like) Arthur pulls away again. And he likes this game; the build up before breaking you. An annoyed sigh puffs out from your lips, and you find yourself grinding into his lap for some form of relief.

His trousers have become a hindrance. 

Arthur’s leaning into your chest, eyes half-open and cheek pressed against the space between your breasts. His mouth is hot and open, panting as you grind further into him.

And though you can feel him twitching against you, it isn’t enough. He’ll need more than the dull pressure of your core. But for now, he lets your hips roll, watching brightly as your slick coats the seam of his pants. 

“No more,” he suddenly rasps, the first words said in a long time. “Please, no more teasing.” 

You ponder him for a moment, then nod.

The trousers are off in an instant. 

And his skin against yours is a relieving sin. Hands on your hips, he rubs you against him— and all you can do is sit it out and watch with bated breath. Arthur, at the feeling, lets out a stilted, raspy whimper. 

Before he can do more, you lower a hand, pumping him up and down, up and down; a choked sound catches in the back of his throat when you do. 

He’s bigger than average, but not impressively so. The real volume of his size comes from his width, noting that your thumb and middle finger don’t and have never connected when you jerk him off. 

And you do this for some time, listening to his gasps and mumbled moans, only stopping when he begins pulsing in your palm. 

Arthur whines when you pull away, eyes gleaming almost angrily, and you have to smile at the hypocrisy of his behavior. He bites back a curse at the way you look at him, too entranced to be upset. 

Then, pushing him flat onto the mattress and straddling his waist, you kiss him. His hands land on your back once more, begging to press you closer, further. 

Wanting nothing more than to simply have you against him. 

And finally, you slide onto his length. 

It’s jarring at first, uncomfortable in the way it splits you open. And you feel his every millimeter and every movement. It takes a minute for your body to adjust, to realize it’s him. Arthur lets you wait it out, lets you take your time as you finally sink down completely. 

He thrusts, once, shallow and uncertain, brows furrowed in concentration. And your eyes close shut with a gasp, squeezing your legs even tighter around his waist. 

Then, you lift your hips off him and sit back down. And then you do it again. And again. And again. 

The pace you’ve set is slow, but it allows you to further assimilate to the stretch. Furthermore, the friction is accumulative. You quickly find that Arthur’s hands have lifted to clasp around your own shaking ones in an act to sooth you. 

To quell whatever ache has settled in your abdomen (for the time being). 

And his eyes are shining with an indiscernible emotion as he watches you; something that makes you want to cry out of sheer wonder. 

You’re so sure it’s love. It has to be. You refuse for anything else. 

You refuse to be a broodmare or quick fuck. 

And something must flip inside of Arthur because suddenly, he flips you two over, and moreover, he turns you over onto your stomach. 

“Arthur,” you mutter, as you lift yourself up on your forearms. And he bends down pressing a kiss to the vertebrae in your neck as if they were jewels on a crown. 

His hands return to your hips and bring you towards him. 

“I know,” he replies. It only takes a second for him to slip into you again, letting a deep, pleasant groan out. 

In this position he’s quicker, rougher. Less careful. 

Arthur utters the occasional incoherent word and you can only pant in reply. After a while of this— of his hips slamming against yours— your shaking arms collapse under you, and your cheek presses into the mattress. 

Arthur doesn’t stop though, nor does he slow, and the whole thing overloads your nerves. 

Yet somehow, his touch is still loving— even as he takes you so harshly. It’s an odd dichotomy. You’re not quite sure he knows his own strength in this moment. Maybe he never does. 

And you can’t help but be utterly grateful that this is the only way Arthur uses his strength on you. To fuck you into a mattress. 

And the only noises you can make are broken little gasps for air, an entire lifetime’s worth of vocabulary forgotten. He’s moving in and out of you at a far quicker pace than you had initially anticipated; and you feel yourself begin to shake, quivering for help beneath him. 

“Please,” you beg. 

“Please, what?” 

Your face flushes, hot and embarrassed even if you’ve done this hundreds of times before. “Arthur,” you whine, and he gets the message, quickening his pace as more broken, unintelligible syllables bumble out of your lips.

He brings one hand away from your hip to cup under your chin, lifting your face slightly so he can press his cheek against yours. 

A loving act that tells you this is more than lust and cum. 

Your hands claw into the mattress and his other hand leaves your hip to land on top of your own— fingers moving to curl into the spaces between yours. You’re crying now, sobbing quietly for some form of release at the absolutely brutal pace he’s set. 

And you feel yourself coming close to climax, warmth pooling and subsequently dripping from your abdomen. 

Arthur’s close too. You can tell by the way he twitches inside of you and by the way his groans have become hoarse and breathy. 

He then removes the hand from your jaw and you sink back into the mattress, his fingers reaching for that bundle of nerves and rubbing it. You leave an open-mouthed whimper into the bedsheet, your breath and spit creating a hot and sticky spot. 

Delicately, he pushes your body over the edge.

The orgasm rushes over you like a snap— quicker than lighting but drawn out like thunder. It singes and quakes as you quiver around him, moaning dumbly and begging for some form of sanity. Your back, arching, pushes him further into you, ignorant of your own overstimulation. 

Arthur’s grip is tight on your hips as he watches, having to stop himself from spilling into you right then and there. He would. 

He would if things were better. He would if he were stupid and ignorant. 

But he holds himself back, teeth gnawing at his lip. Eventually you calm, the bedsheet loosening in your grip, leaving linen hills in your wake. And as soon as you take a quiet, deep breath, he continues to thrust just as quickly. 

It’s now his turn to gasp and whimper, and you’ve never heard him so desperate— properly crying as he presses his face into your neck. 

Your own tears bead at your eyelashes as you let him use you, abandoning any and all self respect for yourself. 

But it doesn’t last long, as he’s quick to follow you over the edge. His hips begin to stutter and you know it’s over. 

Arthur pulls out, and you feel him throbbing against you as he cums into his hand. He’s practically collapsed on top of you as well, his body gone boneless and weak from the aftershock. 

He’s still for some time, catching his breath and his mental faculties. 

And you’re not sure how much time has passed until his lips press against your neck and shoulders gently; but you sigh quietly at the feeling, pleased and sated. 

He reaches under your body, cupping your waist so he can roll the two of you over to lay on your sides. And Arthur curls himself around you protectively, like he could obstruct everything evil with the slope of his shoulders. 

It’s quiet and peaceful, as the aftermath of sex usually is. 

And each time he kisses your skin indolently, you press back into him— a silent message that you want to kiss back. He seems to understand.

After a while, he mumbles your name. 

You don’t expect it, his usual preference for silence being the norm. But either way, you hum in reply, entirely lost in comfort and bliss. 

“I’ll kill Micah.” It’s said so simply, like an everyday part of his itinerary. Cleaning, hunting, murder. Well, maybe it is then.

You don’t open your eyes though. This is not a new conversation, nor is it one you like. 

“You heard him today I’m guessing.”

“When you were doin’ the laundry.” 

You want to frown. “It’s fine.” Is all you can say. 

“No it ain’t.” 

You pull away from him a little. “I don’t wanna talk about him. Ever. He doesn’t matter.” 

Arthur’s quiet again. But then he nods and closes the space you created. 

“Okay.” 

[ricky-yaps]

rdr2 tumblr simulator

🐺 rip-vanwinkle Follow

my four year old son just asked me where clouds come from so I pointed over his shoulder to distract him and ran away

( 12 notes )

🎩 nigelfrommaidenhead Follow

Has anyone seen an English bloke named Gavin? He’s my best friend and I’ve gone and lost him like the fool I am! A real charming fella— surely someone’s seen him?

( 0 notes )

☘️ irishmacguire Follow

My bovdy is a mcachhune rhat turbs beer boytles into enpty beer bottles

( 1.4k notes )

🌹 dutchsgirl-x Follow

I was a girl - until your call

Commanded me to cross the sea.

I've nothing left. I gave you all.

My darling Liffey was so small.

Your land and love are vast and free.

I was a girl until your call.

You stood so strong, and dark and tall.

You stole the heartbeat out of me.

I've nothing left. I gave you all.

Your lips enchant, your eyes enthrall,

Your empire is of ecstasy.

I was a girl until your call.

Your parasites and lackeys crawl,

Mocking a love they dare not see.

I've nothing left. I gave you all.

I sit in solitude and scrawl

These wretched words, and wait for thee.

I was a girl until your call.

I've nothing left. I gave you all.

( 1 note )

🎭 oldgirl reblogged

🥭 fuck-colmodriscoll Follow

Evil gang 😈😈

Evil gang 😈

Evil gang 😈Evil gang 😈

Evil gang 😈

Evil gang 😈

Evil gang 😈

Evil gang 😈

( 36 notes )

🫎 blacklung-morgan Follow

Gonna go collect a debt from this feller named Downes… might delete later idk

🐍 micahballs69 Follow

Kill yourself Faggot

( 216 notes )

🤠 randomnpc Follow

found this plant southwest of Lakay, should I try to eat it?

🤠 randomnpc

Word of advice, Do Not try This.

( 37 notes )

🐻 15th-williamson Follow

I’m not gay. I am not gay. Do not ever call me gay ever again. I am quite honestly one of the least gay people you have ever met. I fuck bitches, mad fucking fucked bitches. I am not gay. Stop saying I’m gay

( 3 notes )

[saintbarou]

how drunk does lamb have to be to sleep with the men of the rdr2 cast?

author's note: this is something that me and fang have joked a lot about and i am doing it now because i am procrastinating <3 all of this is all jokes and based on my own metrics. for context this is based if i saw them in a bar and wanted to flirt with them i am not considering things like backstory and flaws. this a pure what if scenario.

ARTHUR MORGAN

arthur goes first because that is the easiest answer and i would have to take like 2 drinks and a half because even though arthur has a much more gentle disposition with women and is kinda awkward he is so handsome and i would keep looking his eyes and getting lost in them if i was sober like i wouldn't be present at all so hopefully the alcohol keeps me on my feet enough to talk to him

JOHN MARSTON

i need four drinks minimum for this guy if im being real and it gets worse when its his epilogue ver or rdr1 ver. unfortunately i do find john to be very sexy and handsome and gets stronger as he ages so i need to be a little fucked by the drinks to be around him without running away or fucking it up bad somehow

JAVIER ESCUELLA

i would need 2 drinks to be normal. anymore im making a fool of myself any less im sitting there not being able to look at him while i talk to him. i need Something in me so i can be present and impress him somehow. he is getting me so bad no matter what though :/

CHARLES SMITH

this is one of the rare ones where i actually would only get one drink as i think i could talk to him normally without freaking out. im pretty similar to charles in disposition and in interests and it would be a successful interaction where im not sweating buckets and so nervous id feel nauseous to leave the bar with him (john and javier is where this happens to me)

LENNY SUMMERS

lenny would be probably 2 drinks we are close in age and hes very cute and he can be super charming so if i was sober id be cooked i fear JFNRHFIUE id probably write my number on a napkin and give it to him the morning after hes sooo endearing it would be so easy for him

SEAN MACGUIRE

SIX DRINKS OR MORE im so sorry to sean fuckers out there i am not one you he would yap to me and id have to be a specific headspace (sad lonely bored or extremely fucked) to bed him he is not for me

KIERAN DUFFY

lamb would have to be quite literally 12 drinks in to sleep with kieran im so sorry but he is so sad and not handsome enough to want me to do it with a clear head. i could talk to him maybe have some laughs with him sober but to sleep with him i would have to be in a State.

DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

unfortunately if i had met dutch with no context or pretext as to who he is and he hit on me i would fall for it and i would need like 3 drinks to bed him. he is an older man with swag a deep voice and canonically very charismatic yeah lamb is getting got

HOSEA MATTHEWS

3 drinks max i don't need anymore than that. be serious you already know where this is going. this is a smart and silver tongued older man who is ALSO charismatic and well read and i want him BAD he's gonna need a need hip replacement when i'm done with him

[johnmarstonisawolf]

I love both John and Arthur

“RDR1 Represents John’s Character Growth” Argument… 

I’ve seen people get blocked for disagreeing with the types of posts that complain about “Rdr fans disliking John’s characterization in rdr2”.  I’d rather just agree to disagree but if anyone doesn’t like where this post is going, please feel free to use the block button.

Also, in this post, I am repeating some things I’ve written in past responses/posts. Plus I have read other fans’ posts and opinions about this topic, which will be sprinkled throughout this post. 

Here it goes… Mainly for me, it’s the ret-con. It’s not that John can’t be this man with flaws, but in the first game (rdr1) they hint a lot at John (when he’d been in the gang in the past tense, before the events in rdr2) being this quixotic, well-spoken, “right-hand man of Dutch”, which were traits that were all given to Arthur in rdr2. Even Bill and Abigail hint at this. If you want to hear another rdr fan go more in-depth about this, read here. Plus Rockstar in so many words had explained why they made John a humiliation conga because they didn’t want John to “overshadow” Arthur. 

Yes, Arthur is older and yes, John could’ve been influenced by Arthur (but only by so much, I mean, c’mon John and Arthur are their own person). Yet the fact that Arthur is not even mentioned in rdr1 (yes, rdr2 hadn’t even been created yet. I know.) and they decided to “downgrade” John in rdr2 and give all of these admirable traits (they allude to in rdr1 about John) to Arthur is what baffles me. 

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Arthur’s character. However, it’s the high pedestal that this fandom puts him on, emphasizing his positive traits while continually bashing John in the process, that does me in.

We get it, John wasn’t a good father or a good husband, he treats his wife and kid like crap (he gets better tho), he deserves whatever criticism he gets for those horrible actions of his, but we got to remember this is the Wild West; Abigail nor John had the resources or skills to deal with their own trauma much less even raise a boy in a gang, especially Abigail. But that’s not downplaying the fact that John is a very emotionally-mentally damaged person (as a result of many forms of abuse and being raised by Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur, who aren’t the best examples) while at the same time, Abigail is a very emotionally-mentally damaged person (as a result of many forms of abuse and being raised and working in a brothel) who’s had to carry a kid for 9 months and march on through with barely having much help, aside from some individuals in the gang who helped her—I’m not gonna go with the narrative that not a single person in the gang helped. 

Listen, it’s not that we can’t handle seeing John being this pathetic version of himself that the devs chose to portray him as in rdr2 (so he wouldn’t overshadow Arthur and lazy writing) or that we can’t watch him grow from this immature and flawed human being to a man who loves his wife and child and would do anything for them… but it’s how it was done and how rockstar did it. 

They also did Johnny boy’s physical character design very poorly in the epilogue; in the epilogue (1907) he barely showcases any of the traits we see in (1911) rdr1 (a four-year difference, timeline-wise, which really isn’t that long). Although NPC John and Epilogue John might look different from each other, their personalities aren’t much different. So there’s not much of a change in my opinion.

Also, I just want to clarify that this post isn’t about the fandom preferring Arthur over John but more so about how John’s characterization was done in rdr2 compared to rdr1, which can’t merely be attributed to “character growth” rather than lazy writing.  Understandably, many people prefer Arthur over John. Hence compared to the first game, rdr2 has better accessibility, players get to go more into the protagonist’s mind, and many game mechanics have improved/developed since rdr1 was released. But rdr1 was an acclaimed game when it came out with many fans that still remain in this fandom, in spite of rdr2’s wider exposure. 

And if I was going to mention anything that the games were kind of consistent with when it came to John’s characterization, is that he has a dry and cynical personality that reflects the protagonists of old spaghetti westerns, and the unforgiving world that makes up the Wild West.

Personally, while I do like his character in both games (he’s my fave) I still feel like there’s a bit more they could’ve done with his character in rdr2, in regards to missions and stuff, I would even say the devs had put more effort into some supporting characters compared to John, but that’s just my opinion. And I was really hoping for a rdr1 remaster but more so in a Yakuza Kiwami way (amped-up gameplay, fixed plot holes, better character detail, quality improvements, etc…)

[arthur-morgans-last-journal]

RDR2 Horse analysis - Dutch Van der Linde

Hi, hi, don't mind me I'm just going to ramble incessantly into the void about the horses in RDR2 and how they reflect their riders. The RDR2 game developers and writers clearly put a lot of time and effort into designing the horses and the various breeds and choosing what horses the gang would ride specifically. There are lots of discrepancies between how the horse breeds and colors are represented in game and how they would be referred to in the real world, and I'm choosing to believe this is fully intentional. Any such discrepancies I point out are therefore not intended as a criticism, just. FYI.

This will of course contain spoilers for both RDR games.

First up is the easiest! Dutch!

Dutch rides a horse called The Count, and this is a very obvious allusion to his own sense of self-aggrandizement and import. Dutch fashions himself an outlaw prince, a king in waiting, a philosopher, and so of course his horse must be named for nobility and royalty. Dutch on The Count also just references a lot of imagery about european kings and riding noble white horses (like that one very famous painting of Napoleon on his grey horse) which also evokes imagery about man conquering nature and such.

The RDR2 wiki indicates The Count is an Arabian, which is probably the best breed of horse in the game--there's only four available to the player, one of which doesn't even show up in the game until the epilogue and therefore is never made available to Arthur. I suspect perhaps The Count's breed information is in the game data, but in game there is no way to know this. It does not show up in the compendium and the study feature only lists the color and stats. The information is blocked from the player, as if Dutch himself is preventing you from knowing The Count's breed lest you find a horse of similar quality.

The only information you get to know about The Count in RDR2 is the handling (elite), the stats (awesome) and the color, albino. Albinism exists in horses just like in any other animal, but it indicates very little about which breed the horse is, because it's just a genetic quirk. There are a couple of physical characteristics that differentiate an albino/white horse from a grey horse in real life--namely, there will be no pigment of the skin, hooves, and eyes in an albino horse. It is far, far more likely that a horse would be grey with a white-appearing coat, with dark skin, hooves and eyes. The Count does appear to be an actually albino or "white" horse as it would more commonly be called in the horse world. Dutch choosing to call it "albino" is an intentional choice and is probably intended to reflect the "specialness" of his mount and therefore himself.

This is important because it lends a credulity to Dutch and everything he says he is. He may be a narcissist, he may have delusions of grandeur, but he does have the rare, unique horse, the one that is unlike any other horse in the game, the only one of its coloration, because the other "white" Arabian horse in the game actually is grey in its coloration as you'd define it IRL (dark skin, hooves, eyes). He does mean what he says, he doesn't intend to get everyone killed, he just--can't help himself. It's not enough for Dutch to have the rare thing. Dutch has this fantasy of himself as an outlaw prince and so of course he has to ride a "white" horse like Jesus is supposed to in Revelations. That image is something Dutch proves throughout the game he'd go to any length to protect. He needs to gatekeep and protect it to maintain power, and prevent anyone else from obtaining something even close to similar.

And what's more, we learn of The Count that he's tempermental. He bucked Arthur off the one time he tried to ride him, because The Count "will take no one but [Dutch]." IRL that is very unusual behavior for a horse tbh. There's such a thing as incompatible horses and riders, especially if the rider isn't very experienced, but it's much more likely Dutch trained the horse to buck anyone else off, especially since we see Arthur is capable of working with and riding pretty much any other horse in the game including others of the same breed. And if he did train the horse to do so, it just lends more creedence to the idea that Dutch did so out of ego, to protect his image. The Count has to be the most temperamental and special of all the horses because if it wasn't, if Dutch had anything less than the best then he would feel his ego slighted.

Add to that the fact that The Count is the only horse in the group--of the gang members at least--that has "elite" handling is notable as well. These people are thieves and outlaws, they SHOULD all have "elite" horses, especially the ones who are actively taking part in all the action. But no, only Dutch. Because he has to be above everyone else. Because under no circumstance can he allow others to be faster, better, stronger, not even his allies. Arthur can't even purchase an "elite" horse until Sant Dennis, where there's a black Arabian in the stable.

And Dutch shames him for it! They have a horse race in Lemoyne to the second base camp, and he criticizes Arthur's skills as a rider, despite the fact that he's the one who rigged the deck. He tells Arthur it's "a shame he never really got the hang of riding" and it's because Dutch needs Arthur, needs him thinking he's dependent on Dutch, needs him thinking that he'll never be the man Dutch is. The fact that he knows Arthur loves horses, the fact that he is good with them and has been able to work with any horse he tries to ride except The Count, only makes the comment meaner, more effective, more humiliating. Your mileage may vary on what you think Arthur's internal reaction to this was. Mine was indignation and outrage on his behalf because Arthur has been the only reason the gang managed to stay together to this point and Dutch knows that, and is punishing Arthur for it here.

Dutch may love Arthur, may even know Arthur loves him. But he doesn't believe Arthur would stay with him and stay at his side no matter what, and he spends so much of the early half of the game trying to make absolutely sure Arthur has no thought of leaving, whether he has to use cruelty or kindness or praise to do it.

This is actually why in my first playthrough I chose to ride Bluell as soon as I got him, because firstly, he's a breed and color that actually exists (Cremello, Standardbred), and like The Count he's "elite." He also mirrors The Count's coloring in a way that's actually real and "obtainable" so to speak (Cremello colored horses are not common but they do exist in the world, you can go out and buy one if you like, you can breed for it). Dutch can have his dreams and fantasies, Arthur has something realler than that, more meaningful.

Bluell represented (to me) Arthur's blossoming into a truly redeemed man even as he died (obviously I played high-honor Arthur). And on top of that, Bluell was originally owned by a man who, imo, in this game represents the kind of person Arthur could have been, had he never met Dutch. A man who loved nature and loved living despite his suffering and struggles, who could have lived peacefully if Dutch had actually wanted that for anyone.

[justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms]

Hey! I got a matchup a while back, and lately I have been craving another one😭 so if it's alright could I get romantic matchups for tears of themis, genshin, and atla? If not that's fine ofc💕

I use She/her pronouns but I've never really cared very much, I'm Bi but I'd like Male matchups for this one if that's alright (I love women but idk none of the women in these fandoms are like my type??? Idk)

Not sure if you use looks to pick, but I'm 5'7, longish brown hair and brown eyes, kinda chubby I'd say, and I wear glasses!

Ok so for the good stuff, I'm an enfp and a virgo and I have gad and adhd so I am very all over the place lol, I'm usually very energetic and loud (got called a human pep rally once) but every once in a while I take a hard turn the other way and do absolutely nothing lol.

Taking thing seriously is kinda hard for me, idk why but I'm very much the deflect and cope using comedy kind of person.

Personal life wise I'm the oldest of four (love my siblings) so loud is kinda the default in my life so I'm pretty comfortable in loud environments, but if I get a chance at peace and quiet I am JUMPING for it.

I have a few plants, I bake quite a bit (I make BOMB brownies), I'm very much a nerd lol, I love comics (fandom request gave that away tho), I play dnd, I love video games (rdr2, mk11 and mass effect are the current ones), I watch cartoons and build legos, and I'm learning how to draw.

I'm big into flowers and flower language, and I play guitar, alto saxophone, steal drum, and I have a violin I'm gonna start working on soon.

This turned out alot longer then I thought so the speedrun of the rest is although I dont often, I really like putting work into how I look (I just got a treble cleft claw clip with some dangly thingys and I like it I just wanted to mention that), no clue how to to makeup tho, I'm planning on going into communications, and uhh my favorite colors are pink and blue.

Thank you so much if you get to this

Hi Abby! Thank you for your request! Sorry it took a while. I hope you like your matchups!

In Tears of Themis, I match you with...

If there’s one thing that drew Luke to you, it’s the fact that you enjoy peace and quiet. He loves being in your presence when it’s quiet around. He just finds it soothing.

Definitely understands you using humour to cope. He does the same so he knows when it turns from just making jokes to coping and will check in when needed.

Please invite him to do gardening together some time. He likes being able to do something where he’s creating and nurturing life. It’s a good change from what he usually does.

Flower language is a big part of your relationship. I see Luke as someone who’s well versed in flower language so every bouquet he gives you has a hidden meaning behind it.

He also enjoys drawing so it’s not uncommon for you to find a sticky note beside your bed with a little drawing on it when he has to leave early in the morning. If you return the gesture, he’ll keep all your drawings in a safe place so he can look back over them.

In Genshin Impact, I match you with...

You and Itto are both the definition of human pep rallies so when your powers combine, no one can stand in your way. You can both be a lot sometimes but you get along well.

He also struggles to take things seriously so he’s a lot more understanding in that regard than others are sometimes. You just get each other.

In a modern au, Itto would be a huge fan of cartoons. He’s a firm believer than cartoons aren’t just for kids and still loves watching all those “childhood” shows.

In the same vein, he also loves Lego. I can’t see him being a big fan of tricky sets but he enjoys all of the bright colours. He’d love to make a set or two with you sometime.

I can see Itto being a fan of D&D as well. I think it might take him a bit to get his head around the different types of rolls and doing so much maths but he loves the roleplay elements and thinks it’s great fun. (I actually wrote this while playing a D&D session!)

In Avatar: The Last Airbender, I match you with...

You’ve got to be a certain level of energetic to keep up with Sokka’s plans. And you certainly meet that criteria. Sokka loves being around someone who can match his energy.

In a modern au, he’s definitely a fan of comics. He’s the type of person who buys two of every comic, one to read and one to keep in pristine condition.

For all his self-awareness, Sokka does have a tendency to deflect so he can easily recognise when you’re doing the same. He hopes you know you can rely on him if things get too much.

When he does run out of energy, there’s nothing that Sokka loves more than relaxing while listening to you play music. He finds it soothing both because of the music and because of your presence.

Please do lots of baking for him! Sokka will never admit it but he does have a soft spot for snacks, especially if you’ve made them.

[amrass]

Fanfiction updates and excerpts 04.01.24

Guess who's back after 40 days of fast! I've tried to come up with an April's Fools joke, but nope, seems my brain is reeling from going from very little internet and then a lot of internet at once. I am currently knee deep in Fear & Hunger and Silent Hill walkthroughs, and am in a nice mood despite a tension headache.

Thank you to those who have supported my work in these weeks, it means a lot, especially during dopamine withdrawal 💙

Here is the list with the works I am focusing on in the coming month(s). So much Micah lol ... And blanket warning for NSFW.

Main works:

Salt.

Colm/Micah, sugar daddy precanon AU, dark content. Currently at part 9, in Arc 2, soon to go over in arc 3. Ohh this SOB of a fic ... Not because it's hard to write, quite the contrary, it just grows and grows. I'm having fun with it though. Part 10 should be up this weekend :) It's going to be like 80% smut. Here is an except from it:

"Last round. Your fourth, yeah? Remember to keep it in."

"I can't," Micah said like an amateur ventriloquist, cum tricking out of his mouth.

"You wished me good luck," Colm said, faking disappointment. He dug his nails in where shaved skin ended and unshaven skin began.

Micah visibly steeled himself; he seemed to expect another harsh handjob. He ceased breathing when Colm bent down between his legs, face hovering above his poor, half-erect cock. 

"Tell me no," he said slowly, his grin opening, mouth filling with spit.

Micah could only stare.

xxx

The Damned and the Redeemed

A motorcycle gang AU set around 1990-2010, like in GTA 4: The Lost and the Damned, with the RDR2 main cast as bikers and their horses as smaller pets. While out riding, Arthur gets tasked with recovering Micah, who has been missing from the clubhouse for a few days. /// I am currently sulking because it's kind of hard to recreate Fast & Furious in text form, but about half of this is written.

"Easy, boy. Easy. It's just me," he said as he put his helmet down on, and carefully opened the door. "You remember me, don't you?"

About a third of the orange lamps inside the RV worked, but he saw the shadow of the Pitbull, the muscles breathing under thin black and white fur, like a miniature motorcycle no less vicious in its ability to break bones. The dog stood still, quieter than the police radio, sounding like ghosts due to the RV being far underground. If Arthur hadn't had experience with Baylock, spending time in the clubhouse kennel, he might've mauled him through the MC protection. 

"I'm just here to check up on Micah. Easy, easy," Arthur kept on repeating, keeping his voice friendly, moving into a crouch. He removed his glove and presented his hand.

Baylock did not move to sniff it.

xxx

Cata Doxa

Set in the same AU as TDatR, as a kind of epilogue. My attempt at a realistic, redeemed!Micah/Arthur. The motorcycle gang has disbanded, and Arthur and Micah live together in an old safehouse with a dog named the Duchess and a cat named Patrick (Bateman). Part 1-2 is filthy domestic Morbell smut, but ends on a bittersweet note. Part 3, which is unwritten, is hurt/comfort, and includes the cookies actually getting baked in a nonsexual sense, more Duchess & Patrick, and a talk on how it is like to grow older when one did not expect to survive. OLD MAN YAOI ALL THE WAY --

"You stirring?"

Arthur tried. There was something laughably pathetic about those small jerks of the wooden spoon against the wet dough and bowl. He laughed at himself, his shaking hands. "Shit," he said.

Micah pulled away, and the air was cold on Arthur's ass. Biting his lip to stifle a needy sound, he looked over his shoulder. Micah was still on his knees, looking up with a lewd grimace. "Shit? I sure hope not."

Arthur frowned, then did an intense eye roll. "Are you four years old?"

"Point blank range," Micah said, giggling, "But I guess," he drew out the words, savoring them, "I like to live dangerously …"

When Arthur rolled his eyes again, they stayed up, vanishing beneath his lids. The mouth had returned with a vengeance, thumb fucking into him while Micah licked around it. It slid deeper, and Arthur nearly dropped the bowl.

xxx

Slug

Same universe as TDatR, but is standalone, and far darker. NONCON & VIOLENCE. Four parts, O'Driscoll Gang/Micah, Colm's brother/Micah, Colm/Micah. Includes foursome, duct tape, spider gags, drugs, vibrators, gang rape, forced feminization, circle jerk, bukkake, boot worship, overstimulation, watersports, mindfuck ...

Micah is caught when robbing a O'Driscoll Gang hideout, disguised as a derelict gas station. What follows is six hours of horror, varying in intensity and depravity. He tries to manipulate the power structures within the gang in order to survive - when he's not screaming, that is.

Micah reached for his guns, only to be pulled backwards until he was flat. Leather fingertips dug into the hair roots and the swollen flesh beneath as more men swarmed him. They held his arms and legs down using thick gloves and thicker boots, applying pressure until he stilled. He swore his bones creaked under their combined weight. He looked up like he was stargazing among neat hills, and not in a ditch surrounded by helmets and with the stars hidden by city smog. 

"Let me," said a second voice from above him, and another face came into view, so pretty it was near angelic, covered in a halo of reddish blonde corkscrew curls. Upside down, he looked to be smiling, friendly if not for the baseball bat hovering between them, covered in rusty nails. "Let me kill the little thief."

"Not yet. Bosses are near. Wanted to have a look."

xxx

And that's what I'm focusing on! But other fics might appear sporadically, like my Morbell fic Anhedonia did.

Hope everyone is having an alright Easter, if they celebrate, or otherwise just having a good time :)

Of all the seasons I dislike spring the most, so sending some extra love to those going through a tough time, April and May can be cruel.

[prototypelq]

if i may ask, what's your favorite fictional horsie? (ask inspired by the recent darksiders posting, which btw has some awesome-looking horses :D)

MUTUAL YOU HAVE STEPPED ON A LANDMINE. or more like a pressure plate that is wired to a nuclear landmine under Me.

oh no I am forced to confront my sins over unhinged animal obsessions now, okay

(MAGIC HORSEGIRL TRANSFORMATION SEQUENCE)

sidenote: while writing this I realised that the ask implied any kind of fantasy horse, but I'm now shoulder-deep in gaming horses tangent soooooo lol sorry not sorry. as for fantasy outside of games I really like the idea of Sleipnir, or any other kind of multi-legged horse, Ghost Rider flaming spirit horse is also super cool. Any horse-like creature that is predatory is freakishly awesome. Additional points for adding horns, scales, or swapping hooves for split-fingered/artiodactyl-like legs.

To be honest, I wish this ask was harder to answer than it is, because truth be told, there are very few games with horses. Decent horse animation is even less common than actually good horses, which is another factor that makes me very sad and harder to enjoy these mounts. Additionally, most of the games use horses as... 'car stand-ins' basically, there's very rarely anything uniquely Horse TM about the mounts, and usually they feel like glorified speed booster with questionable animations.

(spoiler: no, rdr2 does not have good horse animation, I have looked with literal scientific lens at thas game, consulted with different horsegirl enthusiasts about it, saw literally every available to public lecture on everything-horse-developed for it, and have concluded that, horse animation is overly complicated with little to-no noticable results, as are most things with that game. more on this later)

I'll obviously be forced to come back to RDR2 topic, but shelf it for now. Here be some of my fav horsies in games, not in any particular order (except RDR2 which will be discussed below).

Darksiders is pretty much a DMC-cousin series but with horses and this makes it so cool. The designers of horses for the Riders of the Apocalypse have gone out of their way to make all the Riders and their mounts look absolutely stunning. Despair looks both awesome and riveting and is my personal fave, Rampage has Mane Magic TM same as his rider Fury, Mayhem looks really cool in that armor, but, of course, Ruin is the posterchild for the series, and rightfully so!

Ruin is built absolutely true to his name. This horse looks like it runs on V8 infernal engine and pisses nuclear monster energy. He has fangs. His hooves scorch the ground underneath. This horse has the muscle mass of a red giant sun about to go supernova. He looks absolutely insane, the only thing you could fear more than this horse in a room is the person who is controlling him. So yes, an extremely fitting mount for War. (Ruin also has awesome mane physics, much appreciated)

Sadly, out of four Darksiders games, there are horse levels only 2 of them - those being the first two games (3 and Genesis are good, Genesis especially, but they both distanced themselves from 'big maps with dungeons' style maps, so horses are not really needed. Genesis has levels you can ride in, but the horses are not really needed in it, still, they are a welcome addition, especially with fans getting the final fourth horse design). Darksiders I and II are very much horsegirlgamer games, as both have Mounted Bossfights, which are BADASS, the Guardian fight in DS2 especially. Both really make you feel like the mythic Rider of the Apocalypse, they are amazing.

Darksiders II also gets an important mention from me for having The Best Trot Animation In Gaming To This Date. The horse trot is fluid, looks very expressive and it's clear Despair slows a lot of this, so it's not his preferred gait for riding, but the main highlight is Death's animation.

Most of the games are lazy with trot, as one of the riding techniques for handling it is just...sitting in the saddle aggressively (I mean it literally, as horse movement on trot is designed to throw you off, so technique number one is basically pushing yourself back into the saddle to counteract this). So the games are usually lazy and just glue the rider to the saddle to show this. However, the second, easier really, way to ride on trot is posting, which is standing up and down in rhythm with the horse's leg movement. Problem with trot is that you need to relearn it for each individual horse, as they all have different builds, leg lengh, breed, etc. With one horse it's easier to stay sitting, with another it would be impossible, but posting will be easy to do, and with some horses you can't do either, so your only hope is holding on until you change speed and gait.

Death's movement in this trot animation is so fluid, so minimal and effortless - it's natural for him. He is in complete harmony with Despair, and the way he posts shows exactly that. 10/10 best trot animation ever, fight me.

Okay so, from a very much deserved highlight, to a not really deserved one - Dragon Age Inquisition. I'll say from the get-go, the mounts in this game suck, they don't even alter your speed of movement! They are completely useless. You could rip a minecraft horse in their place and it would feel better to control, be more useful and have better animation than DAI native mount system. That said, their designs are so cool, Dracolisks especially.

Fun fact, even the game's Horsemaster pretty much throws hands at seeing these things. You know how a normal horse when mean transformes into a 400 kilo beast with immense bite force and body mass that can crush you? Well, dracolisks don't look that heavy, but they also seem to be ready to hunt you for sport and giggles. 10/10 intense factor, they look awesome and as a supposed leader of a world-saving institution you look very impressive while riding them (and frighten 99% of the population). (it's also hilarious to imagine a Maximus-Flynn situation from Tangled between these temperamental beasts and your poor party members or love interest)

Thankfully, most of my mutuals have been acquired pretty recently, meaning, after my Big Horizons Phase xD I really love HZD, and one of the neat things about it is actually horses!

Horizon ZD is the game that has the best controlling horses out of all the games I've played (yes, even rdr2 loses to it for a big reason I will elaborate later on), and the formula of it's success is very fun to look into: it lies in three very important factors: horse brain, player controls and animation, all of which have been solved simply, yet with grace.

HZD has made sure that your chosen mount has it's own pathfinding system, which does not turn off when the player starts riding the creature, so you can, and I almost quote the devs here - you can ride into a patch of woods on high speed, leg go of your controller, and the horse will avoid collision on its own. Isn't it just great when your supposed animal has it's own pathfinding made to simulate brain activity and their feeling of self-preservation. Point two: controls. The most important aspect of HZD mount controls is that - you keep controlling Aloy, the moment she starts riding there is no magical control transition in favour of your mount. There is no 'go forward' button, even pushing the stick forward works only for walk. You keep controlling Aloy, who is now riding on top of a horse-like-machine, so to go faster you press the button for her to kick the horse into next gear. To stop or slow down, you don't use sticks and don't let go of 'go forward button', that will actually do nothing, instead you need to press the button to make Aloy hold the cords of the machine closer. Under the surface, every game's horses are just 'reskined cars', but details like this make the player feel different, make you feel like your controls don't magically transcend to the animal your controlled character is on top of. This detail is small, but it's impact is very big, I assure you. Point three: animation. HZD devs did an awesome animation trick for the running cycle of Aloy and the horses, as those two are the ones players see the most of, and they are the first ones to get repetitive and boring for the player. Basically, animators did three variations of run cycle with different weight distribution (model veers sideways and steers back into weight neutral position), then coded in a system to randomly blend bits of these run animations together. The result is a partially randomised run animation, made out of fleshed-out hand-made ones, so it always looks good, quite diverse, and is not as repetitive. (I wish I remembered the specific talk where devs explained this, but there are so many of them, all fascinating btw, and its been a few years so sorry no source for you)

Two honourable mentions for the games I have not played myself, but they really deserve it when we're talking about horsegirlgames: Zelda BOTW and Shadow of the Colossus. These games have horses right out of every horsegirl's dreams - they are big, their manes long and gorgeous, their run animation so cartoonishly expressive yet graceful, it's mesmerising. Certified horsegamergirl games.

Honestly, it's impossible to not fall in love with them (unless you don't have a platform to run either of these, ahaha, fuck console wars).

And now. Now for the black sheep of my horsegames list. RDR2.

Disclaimer: I have spent way too much time in this game. 'got Zoologist' kind of too much time. While I will be critical, the game is certainly an acquired taste, and there have been enough people singing praises to it and never having the issues I got after putting hundreds of hours into it. I had a great time, which turned very sour after these hundreds of hours. Some players keep loving this game forever, some despise it from the start. Play on your own to formulate a personal opinion and don't defer to any of these camps.

RDR2 is a western movie through and through, and by that I mean that the game is extremely pretty on the outside, but has nothing substantial on the insde. This illusion held for me for long enough, but I was much saddened by peeking behind the curtain, and seeing what I found there. Again, this is a personal issue, it doesn't mean the game is bad or good, but my dissapointement is tied pretty much directly to how the game handles horses, since, y'know, this is supposendly 'the ultimate horsegirl game'.

The sad truth is that RDR2 horses are exactly 'reskinned cars', which is the trap that renders most of gaming horses so so so boring, but the illusion the game creates holds strong for a long while, plus the personification of your horsie (saddle, mane customisation, etc.) actually strenghtens that illusion big time.

I have pointed out what HZD did right for horses to feel so good thoroughly for a reason, said reason is: RDR2 got every point on that list wrong.

Let me show you some examples of RDR2 horse pathfinding.

I chose these two specific clips for a reason - both are prime examples of exactly how lobotomised RDR2 horses are, but in different ways. First clip is user error (besides the fact that no horse could ever run on railways but I digress) - I have been enjoying the scenery too much, and the stick angle proved too much, so me and my beloved horse fell straight to our deaths off the side of that railway. I think it's pretty self-explanatory that irl horses are very self-preservation centered animals, and they don't just fall down random pits. If the RDR2 horses had kept their AI pathfinding running while the player controls them, this simple user error could have been negated - as the pathfinding system would quickly flash a 'don't fucking run into a pit', keep input from registering and the horse would just follow the side of the road without tumbling down. Which, in gamer's eyes would also roleplay as horse having it's own brains. The second example is even weirder - I've been using the 'cinematic mode', which means I put down the controller, and the horse is following the road to my chosen destination on his own, so, y'know, this should be a prime example of horse pathfinding. Wrong again! Granted, that weird woman is some sort of random event, she is not usually there, nor are there barrels, but if the object has a collison parameter it should have been freakin registered and the horse was supposed to jump over it.

So yeah, RDR2 horses are completely lobotomised to any sense of navigation, this has been likely done in favour of more direct player control and easier cinematic setups.

Point two: controls. This one is actually mixed, and I'll start with the good thing for a change. The good thing is RDR2 is literally the only game to allow for lateral movement for mount, in short, this allows you to turn around your horse clockwise while remaining in one place, basically spinning, on trot and gallop too no less! If you try the control inputs for this in any other game, you will end up circling around a set point, and not spinning in place. Which, very cool actually, and yeah the opportunity to do this feels good. Another great detail is Handling stat - which is, how responsive is your horse to your inputs (ex. more or less maneuverable, time to turn after input, how much you mash X to speed up to another gait), which all feel very distinct. Arabians are known for having exquisitely tight handling, you need only to lightly tap the button for them to listen to you, in contrast, work or draft horses will make live for your big thumb a living hell, as they need to be kicked a lot of times to do literally anything. This idea of changing character controls for each horse is very very good, and this I will gladly praise.

On the other hand RDR2 horse controls (dreadfuly). First off - your horse works based on a 'go forward' button mechanic, also the gait change is tied to it, and if you, for some reason, just 'let go' of your 'go forward button' you will after slowing down. I remember seeing a meme where the trigger and the X buttons were duck-taped to be constantly pressed on their own, and I can tell you it's not a joke. You just might need another controller after all the X mashing this game requires you to do. Just for horse controls - you mash X to go faster, you keep pushing X to remain at current speed, and the only time you let go of that button is to either mash it again, or if you want to slow down for a stop.

If you look at HZD controls explanation again, you might see just how damaging this control scheme is to the feel of your horse being an actual animal with their own head and brain, pair this controls madness with nonexistence of pathfinding, and well, RDR2 horses are justt lobotomised to a point of being a 'reskinned car'.

Last point, might be our saving grace here - animation. And, ehhhhhhhhhh, this one's positive but mixed. RDR2 devs did a great job at recognizing how different gait speeds for horses work, as well, gait is just the type of movement horse uses, it is not as strictly tied to speed as you might think. Just as you can hop down the street, or walk down the street at the same speed, trained horses can gallop at practicaly walking speed for shows (this does not work in reverse though - you cannot reach gallop speed while trotting). Game animators did their best to recognise and implement this, so the game is calculating leg movement and is blending animation when the gait-change is happening. However, what I ended up with in game, a lot of the time, is this:

I am not sure what this is caused by, I interpret this as the animation engine shrugging and going for a coffee break. This mistake is not uncommon at all, and there will be a lot of time when you see your horse 'hopping' like this with both front and back legs for a couple of seconds.

Let's just say, this is not how horses run. This is not even how they could run if they want to, or are trained to do this. Horses' entire anatomy revolves around their movement, which is built on a foundational truth that legs move in a set pattern, if that pattern is broken - horse will damage itself.

Again, this is likely just a technical issue, it appears often enough, but unless you know this is an error, you will likely sleep soundely at night. As you can see, I am not one of those people. I did not sleep soundly at night after looking into this. I have also consulted with all my horsegirl friends and a horsekeeping student over this and all of them confirmed this as an error. Still, it is very strange, that a game that bragged it has horse testicle physics down, has this blatant and frequent animation error in it.

Okay, I've thrashed RDR2 quite enough I think, the last bit I wanted to list here is another positive one. Muscle animation and animal sounds is this game are certified clinically insane. All the breathing muscle movement after cantering has been noted and animated to a golden standard, head muscle, snorting, leg muscle, all of these look insanely good. I mean literally insanely good, the animators that worked on this deserve awards.

Also, you could never say no to horse customisation. So, I wanted to wrap this monster of a post with a compilation of my RDR2 pretty horses photomoding.

[melodyssolarsystem]

do you ever get in a writing trans and realise you’ve written a whopping four hundred (400) words of just. character A gushing over character B and realising they are madly in love with them.

anyways i’m coming out of hiding !! hi rdr2 community hi charthur community take some charthur crumbs from a fic im working on. i’m cooking. you’ll have to read the fic for full context once i’m done cooking.

It’s dark by now, and Arthur isn’t having a lot of luck.

He went in the general direction of the arrow, tried to follow those dried up and scuffed horse tracks, but it’s pretty much futile. He lets out a frustrated sigh, engulfed by the night for no one to hear, and slides out of the saddle.

Ironically enough, he sets up camp. He’s not getting anywhere in the dark, and as much as he wants to keep looking, longs for it, he knows it only puts himself in danger, and then who would look for Charles? Know the clue he’d found?

He lays reluctantly in his bedroll, staring up at the stars. They twinkle and shine, and he tries to make out shapes; he’d heard there were specific ones in the stars, like patterns, but he hadn’t looked much more into it.

Sounds like something Charles could tell him about.

Arthur all but scowls harshly at himself as he finds his thoughts forever trailing back to that man, one way or another. It’s damn near frustrating, how, ever since he joined a few months ago, there was always a way he could connect Charles to his current thoughts, current conversation.

“Yeah, and I like Karen.”

He thinks back to his conversation with Sean; hardly a conversation, but certainly an exchange of words. Kid’s no where near a romantic, that’s more of Mary-Beth’s thing, so he’s not sure why he’s considering his words. Has been, ever since they left his mouth, turning them over and over in his head.

Was that really it?

Was that just it? Was he really just liking Charles the way Sean likes Karen? The way John likes Abigail?

(Well, he’s not so sure about that one, but it’s his closest reference right now.)

He scowls, thinking the answer can’t be that plain and simple. In a subconscious motion, his hand reaches for his journal. The moon provides him with enough light, and he looks over his sketches.

There’s general logs of his adventures and travels, yes, but among them all is just Charles. Hell, as if he’s only just realising, he has two pages of nothing but sketches of Charles. Two pages that could’ve been used for anything else, anything useful.

And yet…

And yet he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Then his thoughts are trailing; stolen brushes of hands, knocked knees in tight places, glances from afar that were occasionally met with dark, deep eyes that seemed to hold a thousand stories.

His hair, which Arthur thinks is so beautiful, that cascades down his back and glimmers in the sun, camouflages in the dark. Hair that he’s seen Charles take so long in the morning to care for, to make sure it’s healthy and gleaming for the day. Hair that he’s only seen out of the confines of his usual ponytail just a few times, that Arthur thinks should be let free like that just a little more often.

Hands. Gentle, calloused hands that he’s had in his only a few times, on rare occasions, like passing a cigarette or grabbing the same bottle and simply laughing about it after. Hands he sometimes found himself wishing, dreaming of holding his for just a moment longer, that trail up his arm and go to clasp the side of his face-

Oh.

Oh.

‘Well, shit.’

[blackinquisitors]

Are there any characters or story beats that feel weak in rdr2 to you? Also, things you wished there'd been more exploration of, characters or ideas or themes

oh my god so much. I love red dead and its absolutely the best game ive ever played - and probably one of the best games ever - but its definitely not without flaws

Blessed are the peacemakers makes no sense in the plot. It does a few things: makes arthur doubt dutch, illustrates dutchs decline and his apathy (perhaps for the first time for the player), and shows that colm odriscoll is working with the pinkertons, possibly doing foreshadowing for micahs betrayal by showing you its possible for outlaws to become rats. BUT I think this could have been done in a billion other ways than "Lets torture arthur and never bring it up again!" bc he doesnt mention it, his shoulder injurt doesnt hinder him, he doesnt have ptsd from it. theres not a reason why that in particular had to happen. arthur could have been captured, but not tortured and shot, for example. maybe they could have drugged him and thru his haze he overheard colms plans and then managed to escape when he came to, only to find that it had been several days that he was missing and no one came to look for him. that sort of thing. same prinicple but without the ridiculous glossing over of TORTURE

Guarma. This one sticks in my craw and I get more annoyed every time I play it. R* originally was going to have villages and stranger missions on the island but abandoned it for some reason? time I guess? But I really would have liked to see a more personal look at the people there and how cornwall and fussar have hurt them. PLUS it would have been a very good opportunity to show how the way the rich men rob from the poor isnt too different from what dutch and the gang does. It would give arthur a really good image of how far they had fallen, that they were similar to these awful men, when they originally started off as robin hood-like men that gave back the money they stole to shanties. but no its just 3 missions of endless combat which can be fun but isnt really bc I dont even have my favortite gun with me. Also it didn't do a good job of showing Javier's sudden loyalty to Dutch/Bill/Micah. I would think that Arthur being stuck w these four, who eventually betray him, with nobody else would be a good opportunity to show how they all grow to hate him for some reason, but its not there. SIDE NOTE guarma is also glitched for me and this is a common bug. The time stays at 9am and half the guarma-exclusive animals dont spawn so I didn't get to fill out my compendium. R* never fixed this

I think all the girls could have been expanded upon. Tilly's role in the gang especially bc she was raised the same way as john and views dutch like a father, yet if you never heard her camp dialogue explaining this, you would never know. Molly especially needed more detail. She was supposed to be on the mission to go to the saint denis mayors party, and was cut for SOME REASON. but she would have done wonderfully. She should have had a part in it

The timeline of the gang and their relationships makes no fucking sense. Abigail says she always liked Mary, but Abigail joined the gang in 1894, and Mary and Arthur talk like they were in their early twenties when they were together. Theres a dialogue w Abigail and Uncle where they reminisce on her working girl days (bc Uncle was her pimp - very weird) and she says it was ten years ago. but that would mean she was working two years after she gave birth to jack which 1. didn't happen and 2. COULDNT happen bc I dont think men would want to pay for a night with a mother who had children fairly recently. the stretch marks and loose skin would give that away. Arthur has an antagonizing line to Jack that he looks like a williamson or an escuella- Javier didn't join the gang until about 1895, a year after abigail, and presumably when she was already pregnant or had given birth to jack. Theres other examples but these are the main ones I can think of

That encounter with Sonny in the swamp had no reason to be in the gang aside from R* thinking male victims of SA are funny

I wish they had more detail with Isaac. I mean clearly I wish that, ive got a 130k+ fic exploring arthur and Isaac's relationship, but within red dead I wanted just a bit more than a couple of lines. Originally Isaac and Eliza were both supposed to be in the game and Isaac was a newborn that would have frozen to death in the prologue, and I think Eliza would have ran away. Instead they went with making them a footnote in Arthur's story. On one hand, I understand why Arthur would rarely talk about them bc it would be too painful, but I also think if it was more overt, it would color his interactions with Jack/Abigail/John differently. Plus it would lean more into the themes of cycles of violence, and breaking out of it to be a father. Arthur didn't and he died childless, John tried to but he couldnt manage it and doomed his son to follow in his footsteps

THE EPILOGUE. Oh my godddd the more I play the epilogue, the more empty it feels and the more I realize why few people like it or finish it. It feels very tacked on. There needed to be a scene between the saddest video game death in history and John and Abigail arguing. The fact that there is no break inbetween like 2 hours of arthurs story wrapping up and another hour of John's story starting. Farm chores are fine but tedious if youve played it before. John being desperate for money and risking his life w sadies bounties makes no sense when Ive just done a treasure map and have $1000 in my inventory. "The gang needs money" is an endlessly attainable goal, moreso than "I need money". John's player model is just Arthur's reskinned- But they originally planned for you to play as John's npc model. You can see this in the pictures they have in the menu of John in the missions. The fact that there are NO NEW STRANGER MISSIONS aside from evelyn miller which is really nothing. They unlock new austin, but theres NOTHING to do there except collectiables and sight seeing and a couple bounties. Why even bother? When you compare how dense New Hanover is with Stuff To Do compared to New Austin which is HALF THE TOTAL MAP, its ridiculous!! I think it was just rushed and needed either more fleshing out, or cutting out completely bc John doesnt even live in new austin, and doesnt visit it until rdr1. Doesnt Bonnie give him a tour bc he doesnt know where things are? I may be misremembering that

Money. Money is so inconsistent and the values make no sense. Right its 1899. I rob a stagecoach and get $40 for it. This must be like $1000 in todays money. Wow Arthur beat a man to death for $40. This must be a lot of money. What do you mean a pair of jeans is $15. Thats how much they cost now! Wait why is this can of bean $1.40? I can buy them now for 40cents! Not to mention the Valentine bank robbery gives you $2000, essentially making money completely useless. Add on all the treasure maps as well as random gold bars lying around, which is 24 accoring to gamerant. $12,000 for all of those. So once you have this much money, all the fun outlaw stuff of robbing stagecoaches, mugging people, robbing stores and trains, is completely irrelavent. I never do any of it bc its not worth the bounty for 50 bucks. And paying off bounties isnt a big deal either bc its barely a dent in your pocket. Basically it takes the difficulty away, and the need to engage in these criminal activities for afford anything in the game. Its hard to take dutch seriously w his "We need more money" when I have a cool 8k in my man purse. Its also hard to believe Arthurs lamenting about his behaviour "I'm a bad man I rob and kill and am so terrible to people" no you aint but I dont make you do anything criminal unless the game makes me in a mission

Theres a lot of cut content and I wish almost all of it was back. Most notably, roulette tables, boat to guarma for John, more stranger missions, more companion activities in camp. I think they were orginally going to allow come sort of companion mechanic where people from camp could accomanpy Arthur on his adventures. I understand why they didnt bc that would require 10x more voice acting and would be really complicated with stranger missions, but I would have loved it all the same

Okay. I was going to add another one but tumblr said I reached my limit. my last thing is I wished they didnt play the native american flutes every time anyone in the wapiti tribe came on screen. silly.

anyway NOW I'm done. I think. Ill probably think of more but this post is already very long

[enders-redemption]

some rdr2 advice i wish i’d had when i started playing! ♥️🏜

no major spoilers, but if you haven’t played yet and want to go in blind, don’t read!!

one: first off! if you’ve never played before: savor it. don’t feel like you’ve gotta go fast, there’s tons and tons to do besides the main storyline, and rushing through will make you miss lots of little details and fun side quests!

two: without spoiling too much, i will just say that how high/low your honor is does affect the story, so be aware of that. high honor also gets you discounts at stores, and will give you more money when you loot corpses!

three: even if you’re playing high honor, it’s almost always worth it to free the prisoners from any prison wagons you see. they’ll often give you tips on places to rob, or businesses that have shady things going on, etc.

four: pay!!! attention!!! to!!! your minimap!!! i can’t tell you how important that is!! enemies, hostile animals, npcs you can meet; they’ll all show up on your minimap when they’re near.

five: pay attention to your horse too! when hostile animals are close your horse will let you know, usually before you see it or before it even shows up on the minimap. there’s also little tells in your horse if you’re about to be ambushed: if you’re at a gallop, and your horse slows down without reason in the middle of nowhere and won’t pick up the pace, it’s likely that you’re about to be ambushed by a gang.

six: save manually often! the game doesn’t do a good job of telling you, but if you pause, go to ‘story’, and then ‘save game’, you can manually save instead of relying on autosave. this is helpful if your horse dies and you want to reload a save, resetting hunting spawns, etc.

seven: i personally wish i’d known this sooner; for the dino bone quest and the carved rock quest, both the bones and the carvings show up when you use eagle eye. they appear as a little patch of yellow particles (like legendary animal clues), which puts them aside from the normal white particles of plants and animals. so, while you’re out exploring, it helps to occasionally do an eagle eye check just to see if there’s anything in the area!

eight: be, and i cannot stress this enough, careful in the bayou at night. especially if you have your horse with you. save manually before you go in and after anything important you do, and make sure you have your gun ready to go. don’t trust any animal noises you hear there at night; they ain’t always animals.

nine: not all animals are the same quality when hunting! use your binoculars, focus on an animal, and hit ‘show info’ which will tell you whether it’s poor, good, or perfect quality. the perfect animals are the only ones who will yield perfect pelts, and that’s only if you use the right weapon to kill them (show info will also tell you what to kill them with) and get them in one shot. i recommend going for headshots.

ten: even if you’re doing a low honor playthrough, i recommend always helping the npcs off the side of the road who are injured. ie, there’s a guy who gets bit by a snake, a guy who gets stuck in a bear trap, etc. just give them a health cure- it’ll pay off, promise.

eleven: when choosing a weapon to fight with, everyone has their own preferences, but here’s mine; i find that the springfield rifle loaded with express cartridges kills most humans in one shot, and it’s a very accurate shot too. bad thing is the reload time is a little long, but if you fight from horseback on a horse who can take hits (like i do, i use a shire) and stay moving it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. i’ve raided hideouts with 20+ enemies at a time like that, just watch you and your horses health!

twelve: for the love of god, keep!! your!! cores!! full!! i can’t tell you how many youtubers i’ve seen who just ignore their cores and wonder why health/stamina regen is so slow! feed yourself and your horse often; the canned foods are meh, they mostly just take up space, cooked meat is the best. as for horses; oatcakes, hay, and beets are some of the foods that fill up their cores the most.

thirteen: horse health and stamina amounts matters more than speed, but honestly, just play with the horse you want. (you can always roid em up with health/stamina cures, anyways). people talk about what horses have the best stats, which ones you should be using- don’t worry about all that, because it really doesn’t make a huge difference. like i said, i use the black shire horse you get from hosea, and it’s got one of the worst looking speed stats, but that boy can move. the difference between him and my brindle thoroughbred (one of the fastest horses) is only slightly noticeable, if i’m being honest. just use whatever horse makes you happy!

that’s all i can think of for now; there’s definitely more, and i might come back and edit this, but i’m tired and can’t think rn😞 hope this helps!!!