#morgan-in-the-reaping | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rivetingrosie4 · 2 months

Text

What a Life (Morgan & Family: A Fluff Dump, Pt. 2)

credit to @foundynnel i believe for 2 of the edits above

𑁦𐂂𑁦

Summary: Part of a modern au (and post gang) fluff dump work. Just a scene in which Arthur and reader enjoy secluded family life with their very young son. Arthur is a cute and loving dad and is adored by reader.

Tags: fluff without plot, family fluff, romantic fluff, domestic setting, parenthood

Word count: 2,660

In the cool shadow of the cabin, thrown long by the late morning sun, you sit with your little son, watching him play in the sandbox. The mourning dove’s rounded, plaintive hoots are parried by the sharp, tinkling warbles of goldfinches in the nearby pine branches, and the fragrances of crisp mist and thick sod linger in the mountain air.

You watch the faint glimmer of day paint the crests of Gabriel’s cupid’s bow with light, his plump lips resting between his two rotund cheeks as he concentrates on the toys before him. The wispy feathers of his splayed lashes bow and rise with each blink. His beautiful, shimmering eyes inspect each toy, each color, each shape. Out of all the blocks, large puzzle pieces, rings, balls, and animal toys half-buried in the sand, he has landed on one. You watch the bulbous pads and segments of each tiny, clumsy finger curl to a strong, stable grasp around the edge of the object of his aim—a large block with an Appaloosa sketched and painted lovingly on the side.

“Just like your daddy,” you whisper to yourself.

Dipping your fingers into the sand and feeling its chill envelop your skin, you look up with a smile to gaze in the direction of the stables. In the distance, you catch sight of Arthur hauling a huge saddle and its accompanying tack, a moment before he disappears through the door and into the shaded interior.

You recall the quiet rustling of his rising this morning when he’d been up before the sun, as he often is. And the way he’d kept from waking the baby in his room, intentionally leaving you to reap the reward of your son’s customary gleeful smile, his bounce in his crib, and his lifting of his arms for you.

You turn back to your eleven-month-old with a burgeoning smirk. “Wanna come help Mama make some sourdough?”

“Yeah,” he immediately chirps, recognizing nothing but the lilt of a question in your voice. But he doesn’t look up at you, still captured by the blocks and puzzle pieces.

You stand and take a few steps away to prompt him. “Well let’s go!” you call.

He braces himself on the sand with his palms, a moment later lifting his tush into the air. When he straightens, his brows knot, and his lips dangle from between his cheeks as he gazes down confoundedly at the discomfort of sand stuck to his flesh.

You snort a laugh as you cover the sandbox behind him. “Just go like this, Gabe Baby.”

You show him your flattened hands and slowly brush them together.

His brows don’t budge as he looks back and forth from your hands to his own, unable to fully brush them.

“Like this,” you whisper, gently taking his wrists and swiftly brushing his palms back and forth over each other.

When the sand is removed, he toddles to follow you up towards the cabin, and you carry him when you reach the oak staircase to the back door.

As you turn onto the wraparound porch, you notice Arthur now hefting a huge bale of hay by its cords into the stable, his black leather hat shading most of his face in the distance. But you like to imagine he wears a subconscious smile, now enjoying a life of simplicity, filled with nature and horses and art and family and love, tucked away from the gnarled heartache that gang life had left in its wake.

“Sandy baby,” you mumble when you arrive inside and close the back door behind you.

You promptly remove both your shoes and strip Gabriel to his diaper, tossing his sandy clothes into the hamper.

“Are you dry?” you ask vainly as he starts to toddle away. “Wait, are you dry?” You deftly hook a finger down his back and into his diaper before he can fully get away.

Peering into his diaper, you find no present. You carefully squeeze his bottom to discover no liquid deposit.

When you release him, he immediately darts down the hall. You follow and walk into the kitchen, beckoning him to join you. When he does and you bend to pick him up, he whines to be allowed to remain standing on his own.

“Well how’re you gonna see from down there?” you lightly ask.

When he shakes his head, you half-frown. It was just a couple weeks ago that eleven-month-old Gabriel began walking. Since then, he’s always wriggling out of your arms and dashing across rooms, seemingly already excited to be as independent as he can be.

At first, it stung. With the love and special intimacy of mother and son—and with even the chemistry and well-being of your bodies both dependent on the other—the two of you had been closer than peas in a pod, glued at the hip for so long. It’s always been and still is a precious bond to you, though its daily aspects continue to gradually change. And it was hard to so suddenly feel a little unneeded. But Arthur has helped you find a comfort in the balance of realizing that your feelings are only natural, and that you’ve been raising a wonderful and healthy little boy, with this change as just another bit of proof.

As well as the fact that Gabriel still likes to cherry-pick when he’s carried and when he walks on his own. You suspect that like any human, his adamant desire for independence doesn’t do one thing to hinder his deep enjoyment and fierce need of being held.

So you turn and begin pulling ingredients and dishes from the cupboard, at last going to the fridge to retrieve your sourdough starter. You begin mixing ingredients in your big bowl atop the counter, when you hear a whimper and feel a few hard tugs at your palazzos. And you smirk.

You glance down to find him with arms outstretched and upheld for you, bouncing on his tiptoes with longing. You stoop and lift him to you, hugging him to your hip and pressing a few kisses soundly to his smooth cheek.

Describing each action aloud to him, you finish mixing, dust the countertop with copious amounts of flour, and turn the bowl with your free hand to dump the dough.

“Now we knead,” you almost sing, in hushed tones.

Perched on your hip, his plump little arm drapes with familiarity and utmost contentedness over the back of your shoulder. He watches your every gesture with a mixture of restful curiosity and heightened interest.

You push the dough away and pull it towards you again and again, tucking the edges underneath as you do, to form a smooth, rounded surface on top.

“You wanna feel it? You wanna knead?” you ask.

Leaning forward, you let him reach and press his tiny hand into the supple surface of the cool dough.

“Gentle,” you say, showing him the way you keep your fingers outstretched and softly brush and pat the surface of the dough with the pads of your fingertips. “No squeezing.”

The two of you watch his little fingers delve into the pliant mass of dough, leaving a mark of small craters. When they begin to slowly bounce back, you watch his face instead of the dough.

He releases a single cooed sigh of delight as he looks at you with a bright smile, which you heartily return.

How you love, you love, you love him.

You sprinkle the dough with flour and rest it in a basket for its turn to prove. After fetching a dough you’d left proving hours before, you carefully score it with one long slice for expansion, and several small strokes for a quaint wheat kernel design on the other side.

“Mama.” Gabriel pats your sternum and rests a couple fingers past his lips.

“You hungry?” you ask.

When he nods, you brush a hand down the slope of the back of his head and kiss his temple. You add as you set him to his feet, “Let me get this in the oven, then I’ll feed you.”

After setting the parchment-papered sourdough in its cast iron dutch oven and pouring a bain marie past the paper, you place the whole thing in the oven and set a timer. You glance at the oven window with a small smile, eager to see the crispy crust on your extra-sour boule. Since you first noticed its resemblance to Gabriel’s tummy, you’ve made a tradition of kissing the top of the boule, then indelicately turning Gabriel sideways in your arms and blowing a raspberry on his bare belly, making him cackle hysterically. These days, he’s even begun giggling when you turn him in your arms and before you ever kiss his belly, already tickled by the anticipation alone.

With Gabriel in tow, you walk to the couch in the living room. Gabriel rests both arms over the seat cushion and tries to lift one leg up over the edge, but you reach your hands under his arms and pull him into your lap.

Just before you unhook your bra from its strap to nurse, the two of you hear the back door open.

Gabriel’s eyes widen, and a grin begins to pull on the corners of his mouth. “Da,” he says.

He wiggles down off the couch, and as he toddles down the hall, you listen to his bare little feet patting quietly along the hardwood floor. You smile to yourself at the precious sound, so deeply dear to you.

As you hear Arthur’s rustling, jingling presence in the doorway and the naturally firm, heavy footfalls of his work boots, you imagine him resting his black hat on the wall as his small son comes around the corner in only his diaper, bared rounded belly and all.

When you hear the playful growl and the resultant squeal and cackle, your grin splits wider.

“You’re in your nethers, baby boah!”

You can detect the pinch of a smile in Arthur’s voice and the breath of laughter with the last couple words.

More little pads of bare feet as Gabriel comes running back around the corner and down the hall. He hesitates as he toddles, turning back to ensure Arthur’s tailing, eager to play this game with his father.

Still, when Arthur leans around the corner and pulls an exaggeratedly silly face with an outright grunt, Gabriel’s little body gives a tiny jump. His squeal and adorable laughter ring out into the air. He clumsily darts into the kitchen.

When his father follows with a few long strides and the sturdy clops of his boots, he brings with him the musty scents of alfalfa hay and tanned rawhide, of trail dust and undiluted sunshine. And the two subsequently begin an elaborate game of peek-a-boo, back and forth around the island. You can’t help but laugh along at the purest sound of undiluted joy—the beauty and innocence of your own child so easily tickled and contented by life and love—as you turn on the couch and watch the pair. No matter how many times Arthur jumps out to stop him with a silly face and a low hoot or growl, Gabriel instantly screams and squeals, his body utterly racked with tightly coiled cackles.

Arthur wheezes and snickers every time.

“Oh my God, listen to him!” you laugh.

It’s always another several seconds before Gabriel totally recovers and manages to catch his breath, his laughter smoothing with each heave of air.

With the next turn of their game, Arthur lingers behind the island when Gabriel rounds it, not jumping out even when his son takes reticent steps forward, looking for him. Arthur continues to linger, even quietly backing up to hide himself, watching his son for the right moment to strike.

Finally Arthur leaps out, and Gabriel jumps with the highest squeal and loudest cackles you’ve heard yet.

You and Arthur both burst with your own laughter at his reaction.

When your son’s breathing finally evens, you call, “Gabriel, I thought you were hungry?”

“Oh, were you about to eat, son?” Arthur asks in his deep timbre. “You hungry?”

Gabriel nods and pats a hand to his belly above the rim of his diaper.

“Well, better go see Mama,” Arthur quietly grunts as he picks his son up by the underarms and sets him on his hip out of habit. Arthur lifts him over the couch back and sets him down into your lap, then remains behind the couch himself, watching over your shoulder.

After cushioning your back and adjusting him in your arms, you reach beneath your tee, unhook the front of your bra, and gently bring Gabriel to your breast to nurse. He latches on immediately, very well accustomed to your routine. A certain profound peace washes over you as you watch him. His lips flange around you as he suckles; his quiet breaths through his nose briefly pause each time he swallows; and his plump little arm rests wistfully over your chest.

Many people may look away, abashed and discomfited, unable to fit something at once both so innocent and intimate into their world. But it’s always made perfect sense to you. And maybe motherhood was a dream too quaint, one not rebellious or modern enough, seemingly not daring or adventurous enough. But it was your dream.

When Gabriel spots Arthur’s face over your shoulder, he pulls away from your breast with a growingly wry grin, clearly expecting to continue the game from moments ago. Droplets of your milk spill between you and his mouth as he voices a syllable and lifts his arm, attempting to goad Arthur into another silly face.

Arthur silently complies with cross-eyes and a sideways tongue.

Gabriel promptly giggles, and the two of you smile and chuckle at the sound.

“Don’t while he’s nursing, he’ll choke,” you lightly say.

After softly cooing and corralling Gabriel back to his feeding, you continue watching him with a contented smile. You brush your hand down over the back of his head, into the growing downy hair that curls funnily at the base of his neck. As he closes his eyes, you brush the backs of your curled fingers down over his temple, and gently trail your fingertips across the velvet flower-petal skin of his plump baby cheek.

You hear the long, relaxed sound of Arthur’s husky breath over your shoulder, a sound you know very well, especially these days.

“What a life, huh?” he quietly says.

He means to facetiously point out Gabriel’s current lot—nursing at his mother’s breast with his father at the ready to make him smile and laugh. That is, a life full of love and joy, well taken care of, and absent of a care in the world. Just as he should be for now.

It doesn’t take you a few moments, and you’re turning to look into Arthur’s cerulean-sage eyes. A knowingness resides in your gaze. Because you yourself, as well as your husband, have been given all you’d so deeply and totally longed for—and longed, a word too weak—more than you could’ve ever imagined you’d actually live to get.

“Yeah,” you quietly, pensively respond. “What a life.”

The love of your life holds your gaze, and understands.

Your love and gratefulness are immeasurable and uncontainable, filling you and stretching past the bounds of your body and being, like fragmented granules of glittering dust floating from a burst star.

Strangely enough, even with all the joy and contentment and peace, the words and the shared gaze are not without a mingling of loss and ache.

They are not gone entirely. But you both have someone now, to join you in weathering them.

You are not alone.

Arthur leans to you, and you share a few kisses, soft as breath. You turn and close your eyes a moment as he rests his forehead to your temple. And you both gaze down at your son with contented smiles.

164 notes · View notes

scarleeto · 1 year

Text

to give [arthur morgan x reader]

summary: after returning from Guarma amidst his battle with tuberculosis, you look after Arthur with a little bit of grooming when all he wants is to look after you.

masterlist

1.8k

◆ : * : ◇ : * : ◆ : * : ◇ : * : ◆

It was getting harder to deny that he was getting worse. Seeing him most days tended to soften the blow. It seemed unfair to even consider the metaphor of the boiling frog, he was the one in the metaphorical pot afterall, but the similarities were there. This life was slowly boiling him to death.

Only after he had come back from Guarma had you fully comprehended the gravity of the situation. The symptoms of tuberculosis and being shipwrecked had all blended together, but it hardly mattered, your mind was not on the cause of his state, rather the result. Arthur was going to die.

That simple fact was the only thing running through your head as you watched him; sat on his cot, keeled over himself, forcefully expelling a gut wrenching cough from his throat. It put up a fight, stuck in his lungs like a fly in honey, and it took a while for him to battle it out. You blinked away the tears brimming in your eyes. It was one thing to kill a man, in this life it was commonplace enough, but to watch a man who had lost the ability to fight back fade away was different.

Once his thunderous cough had diminished into wheezes, he regained his composure and was able to claw his way back to reality. “Sorry,” his voice had returned to him in rocky mumbles.

You would have pinned his demure tone to embarrassment if you had not known him better, if you had not known that it was down to nothing more than genuine guilt. He knew how much it hurt you to see him like this. Your whole life you had been prepared for his death, as he was for yours, as an occupational hazard, but this was not to merely die, but to creep out of existence as a ghost. It tore you up that he knew that was how you felt; a brave face could only go so far with a man you had known for the better half of your life.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him as your hand reached for the razor for a second time.

Much to your relief, he had finally let you tame his beard that had grown so much in his absence. It was not pride that had stopped him from allowing you sooner, it was his priorities, and he had decided, once again, that the gang took priority over himself. If it were not for the fact that he looked like a walking corpse, this unconscious decision of his told you his fate.

As you lathered the soap onto his beard, he said nothing, instead he leaned into your touch, letting out a shaky exhale with drooping eyes. You tried to be as gentle as possible, your touches perhaps much lighter than they needed to be as you carved the lather from his gaunt cheeks, reaping a small relief of folded soap and bead trimmings that you promptly wiped from the blade before going in for a second time. Each pass whispered the familiar scrape of a blade that, accompanying the broken scrapes of his exhales, took on a much more domestic light than either of you were accustomed to.

Just as your third swipe of the blade closed in on him once more, a course, yet overpoweringly gentle, hand grasped at your wrist as he once again sunk into a rhythm of misshapen coughs. This episode was easier than the previous, though just as hurtful; even the mere gasps he took in between his hacking spoke of a pain that went beyond his coughing, a pain that, quite selfishly, you seemed to feel in your own chest and up to the tightening of your throat as you turned you wet eyes away from his view.

“It’s okay,” he reassured you this time.

What he had intended to be a comfort made everything so much worse. Trust him to be holding you up while he crumbled to the ground. His unadulterated selflessness was something you both loved and hated about him; a gentleman through and through, yet a bonafide door mat for the world that was beginning to see the long overdue signs of wear.

Bringing his fingertips to your chin, he brought your face up until your eyes met his. You both stared at each other for a second before you reprimanded him through the biting sensation in your throat of held back tears: “Stop it, Arthur… Please.”

As his palm shifted to encapsulate your cheek, he brushed a lock of stray hair from your forehead, shaky hands and all, tucking it behind your ear, “I love you,” he whispered.

You buried your face into his palm, your response implicit, as you finally laid a single kiss on his wrist before dragging yourself away and the blade closer once again.

In all the gentleness you could sum up, you tried to finish as quickly as possible. Each wipe of the blade revealed a starkly polished edge that, upon bringing it back up to his face, was a just as stark juxtaposition with the man in front of you, battered and broken. As you stripped the lather from his face each individual hurt seemed to scream at you; he looked like a bruised apple at the bottom of the basket on market day with eye bags that not even a wagon could carry. You do not think he could manage to look bad even if he tried, not to you, though he looked undoubtedly worn in a way that you had never seen before.

As you finished up, wiping the remnants from his face with a towel that had seen better days, his eyes affixed to you. It was hard not to feel scrutinised under the rumbling discontent of his shimmering eyes, though you know he would have hated to have made you feel as such, to feel as though he were looking straight through you and into the pitying thoughts that shamed you, and would have done to him, to no end.

“Listen,” he started with much effort, “I want you to do something for me…”

Putting the towel down, you held your palms up to his hollowed cheeks. His hands found their place on yours so quickly it must have been unconscious; there was no grand romance to it, just simple comfort of two people who had been around each other far too much. “Anything,” you replied sincerely.

“When I’m gone–”

“Arthur…” you hated to talk about it. Hated it. And though he had indulged you as to avoid it so far, all things must run their course, his strong sense of duty would not let him forget that.

“Listen,” he started once again, “when I’m gone, I don’t want you around here anymore, there’s nothing here for you.”

He looked desperate, his pleading eyes and downturned mouth matched his downtrodden state in a way that, if he could see himself, he would rebuke himself to no end.

“My whole life’s here, Arthur,” you exhaled deeply, “I know you mean well but, it’s just… this is my life. I can’t just go strolling into civilisation like it’s not the very thing I’ve spent my whole life fighting.”

“I know, I know it,” he squeezed your hands, “believe me. But you ain’t a fool, you know this can’t last: us, the gang, we’re done for. Staying around’ll get you killed, you know it.”

You nodded, sniffling away all the while. “Then let’s go.”

Any brightness in his eyes that had followed your agreement fizzled, his whole body, the newly exposed muscles of a working man starved, deflated with a sigh. “You know it’s not that easy… I want to, I do, I really do, but I need to see this through to the end.”

“I don’t want you to see it through to the end,” you replied, all too aware of the bleak double entendre.

“I have to, I hardly have a choice.”

That was not true, of course, not in the literal sense, but you knew the twisted cocktail of duty, honour, and loyalty that compelled him to believe such a thing. Dutch had really done a number on him. You said nothing, there was nothing you could say.

He continued, “I want you to go. John and Abigail, they’re starting anew, go with them. Please.”

You had not realised you were crying until he wiped away hot streams of tears from your cheeks and gently pulled you into his chest.

“They’re going to build a life, a real life. There’s so much you can do and I won’t… I won’t drag you away from it, drag you down with me. I can’t.”

“It doesn’t feel that way… like you’re dragging me down,” you mumbled from your place in his arms.

“It is that way, it is,” he responded, and without the look in his eye, he seemed much more stern, perhaps the sternest you had ever heard him.

You leaned back, unwrapping your arms from him, slow and unwilling as molasses. Brushing a strand of hair from his face, as he had previously done to you, you smiled, “You’ll let me cut your hair next?”

He gave a weak smile, “Of course.”

You ran your hands through it, easing out the tangles you encountered with deft fingertips as you brushed it away from his face, revealing the damage that it concealed. It mentally winded you, like being thrown from a horse, it was something that you would not have time to get used to. But for now, it was his hair that called to your attention, that was one of the few things you could help with.

“You’ll go?” he asked after you had delayed him as much as you could with your fiddling with his hair.

“I’ll go,” you affirmed, letting your hands drop from his hair.

He leaned forward, in his weakened state, exerting himself far too much for an action that, only a few weeks ago, he would have thought nothing of. You met him more than half way, catching his meaning, and bowing down to kiss him where he sat. As simple as it was, you smiled, as giddy as a youngster, the novelty of love had not worn off, and you were scared that it never would.

Your voice came out hoarse, hardly familiar to even yourself, “I’ll miss you, Arthur.”

Bringing his hands up to your shoulders, he embraced you. Your chin rested on his shoulders and your hands wrapped delicately around his torso so as to not aggravate his cuts and scrapes. Though he did not say it, he would miss you too for the time he had left, which, looking at him now, was not long. All he said was, “Thank you,” and that was enough because he had already given all that he could give.

◆ : * : ◇ : * : ◆ : * : ◇ : * : ◆

thanks for reading <3

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan angst #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2

241 notes · View notes

reality-detective · 1 year

Text

💥💰 Revealed: The Secret Empire of the Rothschilds, Rockefellers, and Morgans 💰💥

Prepare to uncover the shocking truth about the world's most influential families and their iron grip on the global economy. The Federal Reserve Cartel, comprised of the Rothschilds, Rockefellers, and Morgans, holds unparalleled power that extends far beyond the realm of oil.

Picture this: The Four Horsemen of Banking, including Bank of America, JP Morgan Chase, Citigroup, and Wells Fargo, join forces with the Four Horsemen of Oil, such as Exxon Mobil, Royal Dutch/Shell, BP, and Chevron Texaco. But their domination doesn't stop there. They have extended their reach to encompass the music industry through an intricate network of private banks. These behemoths, along with Deutsche Bank, BNP, Barclays, and other European old money giants, control the strings of the music industry, enabling them to dictate its direction and influence.

The nefarious deeds of the Rockefeller dynasty are far-reaching, starting with their military-commercialization of music in the early 1900s. They orchestrated a diabolical plan to shift the world's standard tuning of music to 440 pitch. This insidious frequency was known to provoke greater aggression, psychosocial agitation, emotional distress, and even physical illnesses. Behind the scenes, this manipulation led to financial gains for those complicit in the monopoly, including agents, agencies, and companies connected to the North American Rockefeller crime cartel and elite organizations.

Fast forward to the late 1980s, when the Rockefellers summoned the top music executives and talent to a highly secretive meeting in Los Angeles. Their sinister agenda? To usher in the era of Controlled Rap Music, tightly linked to the privatization of U.S. prisons. These privately owned prisons, operated by the Rockefellers, Rothschilds, Bush family, and other influential figures, served as money laundering operations, tax exemption schemes, and pyramid scheme operations.

The Rockefellers devised a cunning plan to control the rap industry and target black communities by promoting violent music that fueled oppression and civil unrest. They brought together top executives and leading black artists, binding them with confidentiality agreements. Their objective was clear: coordinate the violence within the rap music movement, while major record labels gained exclusive rights for production and distribution across the United States. As a reward, they would receive shares and points within the private prison systems.

The Masonic plan unfolded with precision, resulting in over 1,500 private prison systems housing more than 1 million black teenagers by 1990. These vulnerable youths, expressing the generational trauma imposed upon them, unknowingly contributed to the Rockefellers' malevolent scheme. The private prison systems reaped billions annually from the government, creating a vast money laundering network through inflated products, such as ramen noodles priced 8 times higher than their actual value. The flow of hundreds of billions from government funding, pyramid schemes, and insurance companies transformed the privatization of prisons into a multi-trillion-dollar venture.

Local courts and judges mercilessly sentenced petty criminals and first-time offenders, filling the ever-expanding private prisons. As a result, the United States now holds the dubious record for the highest number of incarcerated individuals in the world, with an unprecedented number of prisons. This was not an accident—it was a meticulously orchestrated plan by the Rockefellers.

But their influence doesn't end there. These silent thieves also manipulate elections, ensuring their grip on power remains unbroken.

Unmasking the true face of those who control the world, the Rothschilds and Rockefellers find themselves in the crosshairs of military alliance operations aimed at dismantling the Rothschilds' deep state power in Europe, the UK, Russia, and China.

Are you connecting the DOTS? 🤔

#pay attention #educate yourself #educate yourselves #knowledge is power #reeducate yourself #reeducate yourselves #think for yourself #think for yourselves #think about it #do your homework #do your own research #do some research #do your research #question everything #ask yourself questions #connecting dots

149 notes · View notes

the-silver-chronicles · 3 months

Text

5 Songs and 3 Outfits

Tagged by @g0dspeeed @nightbloodbix @voidika @onehornedbeast @inafieldofdaisies and @strafethesesinners

Tagging @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @softtidesworld @adelaidedrubman @strangefable @turbo-virgins @cassietrn @carlosoliveiraa @corvosattano @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @afarcryfrommymain @megraen @minilev @starsandskies @deputyash @deputy-morgan-malone @dephellseed @derelictheretic @chazz-anova @snake-in-the-garden @cloudofbutterflies92 @florbelles @foofygoldfish @fourlittleseedlings @gaeadene @henbased @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @skoll-sun-eater @shallow-gravy @thewanderer-000 @titiagls @trashcatsnark @vampireninjabunnies-blog @shellibisshe @wrathfulrook and @aceghosts + anyone else who wants to join.

RULES: Post 5 songs associated with your OC(s), followed by 3 outfits they would wear.

Gathered Silva Omar, Kamski Neon and Ernesto Stallone for this one. Read under the cut:

SILVA OMAR (FAR CRY 5)

Dream -Bishop Briggs

"I wanna break down where your heart gets So torn it's almost breaking mine I wanna lay here, lost and bitter So long, I feel like I could die I wanna tell you what my truth is But it's buried down inside."

Last One Standing - Skylar Grey ft. Polo G, Mozzy, & Eminem

"Now you see me standing in the lights But you never saw my sacrifice Or all the nights I had to struggle to survive Had to lose it all to win the fight I had to fall so many times Now I'm the last one standing."

Safe And Sound - Capital Cities

"I could lift you up I could show you what you wanna see Take you where you wanna be You could be my luck Even if the sky is fallin' down I know that we'll be safe and sound."

Heat Waves - Glass Animals

"I just wanna know what you're dreaming of When you sleep and smile so comfortable I just wish that I could give you that That love that's perfectly unsad Sometimes all I think about is you Late nights in the middle of June Heat waves been fakin' me out Heat waves been fakin' me out."

Somebody That I Used To Know - Gotye ft. Kimbra

"Now and then, I think of all the times you screwed me over But had me believing it was always something that I'd done But I don't wanna live that way Reading into every word you say You said you could let it go And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know."

Note: The women in the images below are not Silva's faceclaim and I unfortunately could not remove them. I had done my best at removing their features but if you notice a difference between the women and Silva's faceclaim, please ignore it and focus on the clothing instead. Thank you for your understanding.

Below is Silva's dress which she pretty much only wears at home, a longer version of the deputy uniform, and her casual clothing (plus that of which she wears during the Reaping). Yeah, she doesn't like to show off a lot of skin.

Another note: These are not the right colors.

KAMSKI NEON (FAR CRY 5)

[No Faceclaim Acquired Yet]

Enemy - Imagine Dragons ft. J.I.D

"Oh, the misery Everybody wants to be my enemy Spare the sympathy Everybody wants to be my enemy Look out for yourself!"

Whatever It Takes - Imagine Dragons

"Whatever it takes 'Cause I love the adrenaline in my veins I do whatever it takes 'Cause I love how it feels when I break the chains Whatever it takes You take me to the top I'm ready for whatever it takes 'Cause I love the adrenaline in my veins I do what it takes."

Some Nights - Fun.

"Some nights I stay up cashing in my bad luck Some nights I call it a draw Some nights I wish that my lips could build a castle Some nights I wish they'd just fall off But I still wake up, I still see your ghost Oh, Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for, oh."

All The Stars - Kendrick Lamar ft. SZA

"Tell me what you gon' do to me Confrontation aint nothing new to me You could bring a bullet Bring a sword Bring a morgue But you can't bring the truth to me Fuck you and all your expectations I don't even want your congratulations I recognize your false confidence and calculated promises All in your conversation I hate people that feel entitled Look at me crazy cause I aint invite you Oh you important? You the moral to the story? You endorsing? Motherfucker I don't even like you Corrupted mans heart with a gift Thats how you find out who you dealing with."

Spirits - The Strumbellas

"I got guns in my head and they won't go Spirits in my head and they won't go I got guns in my head and they won't go Spirits in my head and they won't go But the gun still rattles The gun still rattles, oh."

Kamski's clothing mostly consists of a worn doctors uniform, however he does use a pedestrian disguise with a mask if he's going to do something illegal or a regular casual clothing (in the habit of dressing up for winter and refuses to break habit even in the worst of Summer) when going to do legal groceries.

ERNESTO STALLONE (FAR CRY 5)

[No Faceclaim Acquired Yet]

Bad Feeling - Jagwar Twin

"They say! Everything's perfect here And the sun is shining Hey! Hey! Everything's perfect here There's nobody crying Oompa loompa doompety do I got a bad feeling about you Oompa loompa I don't know, dude I got a bad feeling about you."

Hot Girl Bummer (slowed + reverb) - blackbear

"Fuck you, and you, and you I hate your friends and they hate me too. I'm through, I'm through, I'm through."

I'm A Wanted Man - Royal Deluxe

"They didn't know it when they turned me loose I shot the sheriff and I slipped the noose The law ain't never been a friend of mine I'd kill again to keep from doing time You should never ever trust my kind I'm a wanted man I got blood on my hands Do you understand? I'm a wanted man."

Bad - Royale Deluxe

"I'm bad As bad can be So bad That it's hard to believe Oh what they say about me I'm bad, I'm bad As bad can be I'm bad Take a look and see So bad That it's hard to believe I don't care what they say about me."

Bloodshot - Sam Tinnesz

"I'll take another hit to the backbone I'm picking up the heat Like an atom bomb No time on the clock It's a bloodshot 3, 2, 1 You got me bloodshot Maybe I'm a good guy Standing on the wrong side Maybe I'm a sweetheart Trying to make my own scars Don't know what it looks like Just know what it feels like Scared to let it outside Scared of what I just might find."

Stallone doesn't have that much change in clothing besides two changes in his dark blue Courser Guard/gunslinger uniform and his disguised Chosen clothing (for when he infiltrates Eden's Gate).

#far cry the silver chronicles #far cry 5 #oc: silva omar #fc: mina el hammani #oc: kamski neon #oc: ernesto stallone

31 notes · View notes

windsweptinred · 6 months

Text

So I'm reading 'In the Court of the King in Yellow' alongside listening to Malevolent. It's a collection of short stories all focusing on the Unspeakable One himself.

In one story the author, Christine Morgan continually describes the king's eyes "glittering eyes like dark jewels", "blazing as black as the stars". And now that's all I can picture for John's eyes. The black stars of Carcosa blazing on burnt yellow skies.

(Ps. Morgan's story is actually full of the madness and horror you'd expect when the feaster from afar is involved. Monks tearing out their own eyes over what they have inscribed. Hoards of dead eyed Norsemen reaping the land, all bearing his ominous yellow sigil. Just every so often we all get to stop and take a moment to admire his beautiful sparkling baby... Blacks?)

#john doe #malevolent #malevolent podcast #What can I say #The king in yellow #Bringing madness despair and the overwhelming urge to blorbo him

36 notes · View notes

deputy-morgan-malone · 1 year

Text

Picrew

Going through some old tags I missed, and I was tagged by @marivenah to make my OC/s in this picrew, thank you! I was sure I’d done this one, but I don’t have anything saved so.

I genuinely have no idea if this made the rounds back in the day, but if not tagging @adelaidedrubman, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @direwombat, @aceghosts, @corvosattano, @i-am-the-balancing-point, @fourlittleseedlings, @hopelesscounty, @inafieldofdaisies, @somethingclich8, @poetikat, @d-vx, @unholymilf, @detectivelokis and @josephslittledeputy - no pressure whatsoever, and anyone can consider this an open tag too, and feel free to tag me in your results :)

Morgan Malone (FC5 OC)

A fairly basic Reaping look, and she’s not even bloody yet, so she must just be setting out for the day.

#picrew #tag games #style #pictures #morgan-in-the-reaping

24 notes · View notes

freddys-kineria · 3 months

Text

UNDEAD/DEATH ID PACK 4 ANON !

names : grave , morgan , morganna , victor , edward , morticia , ambrosia , priscill , valentine , kilian , nox , casper , plague , myrtle , bones , perseus , mara , damion , ciaran , grim , thorn , lurk , maggot , vamp , brains , angel , marion(nette) , claud(ia)

pronouns : gore / goreself , grave / graveself , zomb / zombself , fang / fangself , brain / brainself , rot / rotten , morbid / morbidself , death / deathself , vamp / vampself , holy / holyself , decay / decayself , reap / reapers , thy / thyself

titles : rotting (zombie/corpse) , (prns) who is rotting , graveyard keeper , risen from the grave , #1 bloodsucker , #1 brain eater , morgue dweller , (prns) who lives in a coffin , the undead , ghost of ____

identities : felimortic , ghouldogial , royalvampic , vampfem , vampneu , vampmasc , zombin , aldercormangic , genderverval

#🍕 * . id pack / name / prns / etc.#🍕 * . order up !#id pack #undead id pack #zombies #vampires #kin help #kin blog #request blog #death #death id pack #anon request

20 notes · View notes

them4lware · 5 months

Text

opened ; death/grim reaper npt pack ! target ; anonymous user . . . ⚠︎ loading file, please wait . . . ⚠︎ ⚠︎ names azrael ; morgan ; cain ; macabre ; persephone ; lucifer ; perdita ; mara ; dolores ; mel ; coraline ; lily ; mortimer ; lola ; mallory ; achlys ; vendetta ; draven ; bellona ; blair ; mortis ; murdock ; abaddon ; morena ; casimir ; pyre ; blaise ; ran ⚠︎ pronouns dae/daem ; dead/deads ; bo/bone ; reap/reaps ; scy/sycthe ; grim/grims ; gho/ghost ; mort/morts ; skull/skulls ; tomb/tombs ; dea/death ; mourn/mourns ; dust/dusts ; ci/cir ; lo/loss ; gri/grief ; crow/crows ; wilt/wilts ⚠︎ titles prn who deals the final blow ; the hooded (noun/one) ; the reaper of souls ; the angel of death ; the eternal (noun/one) ; prn who is waiting patiently ; the friend of the vultures ; prn who is adorned with black roses ; prn who brings death ; the silent (noun/one)

⚠︎ end of file ⚠︎

#⚠ a new infection ! ⚠#🛈 virus #npt #npt pack #npt list #npt suggestions #name ideas #name suggestions #pronoun ideas #pronoun suggestions #neopronouns #neoprns #title ideas #title suggestions #⚠︎ npt pack ⚠︎

43 notes · View notes

noxspluto · 21 days

Text

a heart’s heavy sorrow

summary: it wasn’t long that she had been a part of the Van Der Linde gang, she learned the ways quickly, though a dark past still loomed over her, closing in on her faster than she realizes.

tags: slow burn, trauma, eventual smut, eventual fluff, violence, medium to high honor arthur morgan

chap. 1/?

The horses nose was cold, nuzzling into her hand as she pet and brushed the soft light mane, her mind focused on the dirt washing away, eyes tired.

The days have been hard and long, with extreme weather change from blistering heat to the hard downpour of rain, with the skies finally breaking through the dark clouds and allowing the moon to shine down on the camp, with minimal lighting surrounding her and the entire area, yet still giving a relaxed view of the stars.

She finished caring for the horses and began to store the supplies, her chores finally ending for the day. Now what remained was the bliss of peace and stew that sat in the pot, giving off interesting smell. At least it was food.

Walking over to the pot, she poured herself a ladle full, and sat by the now dimly lit fire that warmed her cold hands. The sky was lit with tiny white stars, constellations forming and the bar of the galaxy ripping through the sky. She basked in the view, considering her fondness of outer space. It wasn’t often she had time to appreciate the stars above, nor read and study each and every spark in the sky, but she would gladly admire them. Her body had never felt more stable with the moon comforting her from above, though the night is the least of her worries, it’s whats found in the dark that scares her the most.

She let her mind wander as she ate slowly, ignoring the tangy taste of the stew, too tired enough to care, happy enough to stay alive, the feeling enveloping her in a hug. Even though each day was a never ending cycle of chores, and each night was a consistently made stew of barely any ingredients that offered any flavor, she was grateful for the life she had, though it was repetitive. Anything was better than the life she shed before joining the Van Der Linde gang.

A horses trot and cheers caused her to snap out of her trance, causing her to turn her head in curiosity. A man entered the camp on his large horse, with what seemed to be the new meals for the next couple of days.

Arthur was back.

He greeted everyone, lifting a huge deer off the back of his horse, while young Tilly and Sean happily thanked him for gathering more edible food, other than what Pearson had cooked in the stew.

She put the bowl down and hesitated, before giving Arthur a small wave, though was ignored by his busy hands as he hauled the deer over to Pearson’s station. She was too tired to gather any courage to greet him as the others have done, so she instead closed her tent and lied down, letting exhaustion take over.

—

Arthur set the deer on Pearson’s table, it hitting it with a loud thud.

“Now, you can cook somethin’ worth eatin’, right?” Arthur commented, gesturing to the animal with a raised eyebrow, eyeing the other man who rolled his eyes. “If you had gone out sooner, we would’ve had a better meal!” Pearson replied, causing Arthur to laugh. “In case you haven’t noticed, which you must not have, ‘cause i ain’t been here, been busy.” Arthur remarked, turning to walk off to his tent, leaving Pearson mumbling some other excuse, he chose not to listen.

Arthur sat on his bed with a groan, loosening his sore muscles, rolling his shoulders. Everything ached in some way or another, he just usually brushed it off and continued on, reaping the consequences when he has a chance to relax. His eyes narrowed, searching the camp, ensuring everyone was as far away as he wishes them to be, before pulling out his journal to begin a light sketch of the scenery he had encountered while hunting earlier that day. His pencil moved smoothly across the paper, capturing the trees that shaded above an old shack he discovered, quickly shading the area before writing a short passage about his time away from camp. Once finished, he closed the book and let his mind rest, eyes closed for the night.

—

Her breath was ripped from her lungs, a barely audible scream emerging between her lips as she sat up in cold sweat, frantically searching around the tent. The voices looped through her head as she gasped through her panic, hand on her tight chest, feeling as if she were to die right then and there. Her shaking legs pushed helped push her further back against the small cot, her eyes trying to process her surroundings while her body was determined to tell her she was in danger. It wasn’t until she noticed a tall figure standing outside her tent that she was able to collect herself, tears streaking down her face while she hurriedly brushed them aside, covering her mouth in attempts to keep air in her lungs.

“Miss? You all right miss?” The voice outside the tent became audible, her ears letting noise in slowly, vision becoming more prominent.

“Yes! Sorry, woke up, could’ve sworn i’d seen someone next to my cot!” She replied loudly, hoping her shaking voice wouldn’t give her away as much, praying for him to stay outside the tent.

“Screamed loud enough, thought you were in danger,” The voice laughed a bit.

Hosea.

She wiped her eyes and stood, meeting him outside the tent, putting on her best smile. Hosea looked her up and down and had a slight frown of worry written on his face, the lines on his forehead displaying concern more than she would have asked for. “Perhaps you had a bad dream, then?” He questioned, looking you in the eye.

“A bit, nothing to be concerned about,” She murmured, shaking her head. Hosea didn’t push further, but still watched her closely enough.

Hosea had always made her feel welcome, since the day she was picked up by the gang. He taught her valuable wisdom and kept an eye on her through the harshest times, especially the night he had found her half dead in the snow up in the mountains, and panicked he was, hovering over her cold body, yelling for help.

She inhaled deeply and pushed the memories away, following Hosea as he explained the trip they were about to take together.

“Reckon once your horse is ready, you come with me to town, yeah? Gonna pick up a few things, and get you out of this camp for a little while,” Hosea said, his tone cheerful enough to put her at ease.

“Here,” He handed her a saddle for the horse they’d picked up in town a few days back. “Get her ready.”

She did so, saddling the horse up and tightening the straps, checking the bags and ensuring her needed items were where they should be. She patted the horse a few times, looking up at her shiny mane and curious eyes, she felt a sense of calm with her horse.

“Seen how you’ve been lookin’ lately miss,” He turned to her as he prepared the saddle on his own horse. “If there’s anything botherin’ ya, allow me listen, alright?” He said, strapping down his rifle to the bag.

She smiled a bit, thankful for his kind words. “I will, thank you mister Matthews.”

They pulled themselves up on their horses and begun the way down to town, grateful for the cold air and slight breeze that blew through her hair. Better than the boiling hot weather they’d suffered through just a few days back.

“So, miss,” Hosea spoke up, bringing your attention forward. “Have you taken a likin’ to the group? Getting along with everyone okay?” He asked, his light tone meaning nothing more than an enthusiastic conversation, something she’d only witnessed from him.

“Everyone’s been just lovely Mister Matthews, just fear i’d be bringing them down sometimes,” She spoke truthfully, thoughts overrun by the lack of efficiency she has compared to each member. Chores seem to take longer than they have to, and Miss Grimshaw already yelled at you twice, once for her lack of ability and the other for her own lack of patience she had for the poor girl.

“Oh, nonsense, young girl! You’re doing just fine,” Hosea waved her thoughts off, relief washing over her only slightly. “You’ll get the hang of everything in no time, you’ll be huntin’ with me or Arthur soon enough!”

Her eyes widened at the thought of Arthur. “Oh, I don’t think he likes me very much Mister Matthews,” She replied lightheartedly, laughing as a shield of her undoubted worry. Hosea only laughed.

“He’s like that with everyone, he’ll come around.”

She nodded, one hand running absentmindedly through her horses mane, attempting to allow herself to believe his words.

—

It wasn’t until later that evening did Hosea and the woman return to camp, the man leading them up the path to the hitch, settling the horses in for the night. She removed her saddle and brushed her horse, telling Hosea she’d do the same for his horse. He didn’t protest.

Soup was cooking in the pot above the campfire, Pearson stirring cautiously, examining the pot with intensity she didn’t understand. A few of the gang members surrounded the fire, breaking into song, Javier strumming delicately on his guitar while others danced. Such a peaceful group, a calm night.

She walked to her tent, spotting Arthur across the camp in his own, sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over what seemed to be a journal. She found herself staring for quite too long when he looked up, watching the others around the camp, then turning and seeing her standing in her tent entryway. She quickly opened the flaps and shut herself in.

It wasn’t that Arthur scared her. She was just scared of what he could do. As a person, as an outlaw, as whomever he was at the moment that him and the gang had discovered her, his actions spoke louder than himself. Seeing the absolute anger in his eyes that night was terrifying, him finding out m what the raiders did—what they wanted to do, sent him in a fiery rage that instantly murdered the people that laid a hand on her, even without him knowing her at all. At that moment, it was only him, him walking into that cabin, the place suddenly aflame with screams of terror and shots ringing out, while Hosea and another man—Dutch, she remembered—aided in her safety, covering her in the softest coat, shielding the scars from the rest.

Tears formed, instantly pouring down, air ripped from her lungs as she found herself struggling to breathe, hands coming to her throat, no, no, they were hers, she tried to open the imaginary restriction around her neck to no avail, heart pounding, head screaming as she tried to regain her composure.

She wanted to yell for help, she felt them closing in, crawling over her, prying her open, yet no one came.

No one is here to save you.

—

Arthur hummed along as he wrote.

Peace was something I ain’t experience much, but tonight was a particularly welcoming night, whole camp is in a good mood, puts me right in one too. The new addition seems a bit…withdrawn, don’t blame her though, after all she’d been through. I wish nothin’ but hell on all those involved that night, wish i could’ve been there sooner. Poor woman doesn’t deserve any of that. Hoping she comes ‘round soon, want her to have a better life, though not sure the best life is a life with a group of outlaws.

He looked up, smiling a bit to himself as he wanted the gang members pour their souls out into song, and pour alcohol down their throats, happily enjoying themselves. He glanced to see the woman looking at him, with seemingly fearful eyes, before darting into her tent. He titled his head in curiosity, debating whether or not to see what that was all about.

“Arthur! Arthur, come join us, big man!” The Irish man goaded, approaching Arthur with two bottles in either hand. “Have a drink ‘n’ let loose, live a little!” Sean slurred, while Arthur gave him a demeaning glare.

“I ain’t takin’ part of your, shenanigans, “Arthur mumbled, standing up to push Sean the other direction, the ginger protesting as he did so.

“Ah, yer no fun Arthur!” Sean waved, strutting away, off to pester another camp member, Arthur presumed.

It wasn’t for another couple hours later, did the camp calm down, allowing Arthur to finally close his eyes. He wasn’t the party type, and was exhausted enough to feel irritable about the commotion outside his tent. He felt himself drift off, sleep pulling him away to utter darkness.

—

She woke, eyes heavy, breathing ragged, body feeling numb on the cot. She stared at the ceiling of the tent, throat dry and hurt, her eyes feeling slightly wet. She wasn’t sure when she’d fallen asleep, or if she had only passed out.

Regardless, it was morning, and she had responsibilities. She refused to let the events of a couple months ago get the better of her, she despised the thought of becoming weaker, of feeling more fragile, her mind and body breaking under the pressure.

So she stood up, though shakily, and quickly changed clothes for the day, ready to face it as if it was a new challenge.

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption arthur #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #rdr #fanfic #rdr2 fic #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 fic

12 notes · View notes

tadpole-apocalypse · 6 months

Text

Working out how Astarion’s act 2 confession goes in my head. I always pick the non-araj confession, the one that’s locked behind killing Yurgir now. I really like that he’s beside himself with guilt enough to approach Tav about this, and I prefer how he confesses his sexual insecurities. Also just the fact we even get two different act 2 confession scenes is crazy to me.

Under a cut for length:

Morgan didn’t really know what a vampire was when she met Astarion because of her sheltered cult upbringing. Her only reference was vampire erotica she likely read at some point after she got out, which definitely glossed over the horrifying monstrous aspects of vampirism in favor of the sexy ones.

Their early sexual encounters were fun and satisfying but she wasn’t overly impressed. It was very standard romance novel level sex with little of his own personality. But he was attentive and thorough and technically very proficient and she liked that. She gave him a lot of leeway for being so hot…he has pretty privilege for sure. She writes him off as a fuckboy, brats it up in bed to poke him for reactions because it’s funny to her. He shows his personality more when he gets pissed off and when he gets blood and that gets her attention. It impresses her, to see him acting selfishly in bed when she is able to goad him into doing so.

She’s blindsided when he confronts her. She is someone who generally knows what’s going on with most people she interacts with; gentle prodding with detect thoughts to test their mental defenses, then peeking into their surface thoughts and intentions. She’s extremely good at doing this undetected to all but those experienced in mental magic. With Astarion she can’t do that, not without brute forcing her way into his head with the tadpole, anyway. But detect thoughts doesn’t work on undead, and she didn’t think it mattered because she thought she had him figured out; he wanted sex and her blood. Easy.

She totally fell for his seductions if not his cheesy performance and was only just starting to put together that wow…he was actually a bit more fucked up by what happened to him than she realized at first. This his slavery wasn’t hyperbole and he hadn’t living an existence that allowed him to reap any benefits from his condition. That his slavery included mental, physical and sexual torture that lasted longer than her human perspective can really comprehend.

It’s very hard for her to deal with at first. The revelation leaves her feeling humiliated, panicked (how could she have read things so wrong?), anger at herself and at him for making her feel like a fool. Shame, for teasing him as a poncy fuckboy with a blood fetish.

However she is emotionally mature enough to handle those reactions appropriately and recognize the severity of him revealing this to her face and it forces her to examine her own feelings and motivations. Him admitting he wanted their fake relationship to be real, that she deserved something real, was a gut punch.

They have some similarities in that they were both controlled in their own ways by powerful men with delusions of godhood and dealing with having their own autonomy for the first time, she’s just much further along in her healing. She’s had ten years to adjust and also the benefit of therapy (the cleric that rescued her started a counseling service for adventurers in Baldur’s Gate ☺️)

She feels bad that their relationship up until this point was the best relationship he’d ever had. His only one! She wants to be nicer and be better to him. They stumble over boundaries a bit until they get it settled by act 3 when they are firmly in their ride or die phase for each other.

#bg3 #astarion #astarion x tav #bg3: Morgan #if I were able to i would write this out in fic #but I am not so stream of consciousness thoughts it is

21 notes · View notes

snowrassa · 7 months

Text

Now that I've read the original 1960 Camelot book, it's wild how much Joshua Logan fixes in the movie only seven years after the stage production opened on Broadway.

He cuts out the Morgan le Fay side-plot, which improves Arthur's story so much that the stage versions also started cutting her out (at least from what I understand of the timeline of events). I'm actually surprised to see she was in the original Broadway show.

He actually lets Lancelot and Guenevere have an affair — somehow not every production remembers this is important to the plot???

He fixes Merlin's character by having him disappear before the story begins, instead of having him introduced to the audience and immediately get trapped in the tree — I've talked about this more somewhere else.

They don't act like Lusty Month of May isn't about sex. Seriously, this song does not work when it's sung all sweet and innocent, read the assignment.

The scene of Arthur, Genny, and Lance discussing Mordred. HUGE moment for the trio. I honestly think you shouldn't be allowed to stage Camelot without including this scene.

This part of the original book really pissed me off: when Genny is agonising that one day Arthur's face may show forgiveness for her again but she won't be there to see it, she finishes off by looking up at him and saying he is showing forgiveness she wished for. NOOOOOOOO this is so wrong. The whole point is that she is reaping the consequences of her actions. She has lost Arthur, lost Camelot, and she will not be with him on the day that he forgives her. The movie fixes this scene, with a phenomenal performance from Vanessa Redgrave, retaining the sense of loss that makes it so powerful.

And, for the previous point and for her entire arc, Joshua Logan was right to make Genny more active participant in her own affair. (and I am not just saying that as a Lance/Genny truther!!!) For me, productions that don't show her pursue Lance at all, or only have her show disdain for him on stage, feel like torture porn. Like here is this woman being relentlessly pursued by this man and now she is the one that will be punished. In the movie, Genny and Lance participate equally in the affair, allowing her own choices to decide her fate.

Anyway, this is longer than it was supposed to be, and I remain the target audience of my own posts, but I adore this movie and genuinely believe it's the best version of Camelot out there

#this has been in my drafts for two months #posting it now that ive finally read the souvenir book too #camelot #camelot musical #camelot 1967

29 notes · View notes

reality-detective · 7 months

Text

Exposed: The Secret Dominion of the Rothschilds, Rockefellers, and Morgans 💥

Prepare to uncover the startling reality behind the world's most influential families and their immense control over the global economy. The Federal Reserve Cartel, consisting of the Rothschilds, Rockefellers, and Morgans, wields unprecedented power that extends well beyond the realm of oil.

Imagine this: The Four Horsemen of Banking, including Bank of America, JP Morgan Chase, Citigroup, and Wells Fargo, unite with the Four Horsemen of Oil, such as Exxon Mobil, Royal Dutch/Shell, BP, and Chevron Texaco. Yet, their dominion doesn't stop there. Through an intricate web of private banks, they have expanded their influence to encompass the music industry. These colossal entities, along with Deutsche Bank, BNP, Barclays, and other European old money giants, hold the reins of the music industry, allowing them to shape its trajectory and exert their influence.

The Machiavellian machinations of the Rockefeller dynasty reach far and wide, commencing with their commercialization of music in the early 1900s. They orchestrated a sinister plot to shift the world's standard tuning of music to 440 pitch. This insidious frequency was known to provoke heightened aggression, psychosocial agitation, emotional distress, and even physical ailments. Behind closed doors, this manipulation resulted in financial gains for those complicit in the monopoly, including agents, agencies, and companies associated with the North American Rockefeller crime cartel and influential organizations.

Fast forward to the late 1980s when the Rockefellers summoned top music executives and artists to a highly clandestine meeting in Los Angeles. Their sinister agenda? To usher in the era of Controlled Rap Music, intricately linked to the privatization of U.S. prisons. These privately owned prisons, operated by the Rockefellers, Rothschilds, Bush family, and other influential figures, served as money laundering operations, tax exemption schemes, and pyramid scheme enterprises.

Crafting a deceitful plan, the Rockefellers aimed to control the rap industry and target black communities by promoting violent music that fueled oppression and civil unrest. They brought together leading executives and prominent black artists, binding them with strict confidentiality agreements. Their objective was clear: orchestrate violence within the rap music movement while major record labels secured exclusive rights for production and distribution across the United States. In return, they would receive shares and points within the private prison systems.

The Masonic scheme unfolded with precision, resulting in over 1,500 private prison systems incarcerating more than 1 million black teenagers by 1990. These vulnerable youths, expressing the generational trauma imposed upon them, unknowingly contributed to the Rockefellers' malevolent plan. The private prison systems reaped billions annually from the government, establishing an extensive money laundering network through inflated products, such as ramen noodles priced at 8 times their actual value. The flow of hundreds of billions from government funding, pyramid schemes, and insurance companies transformed prison privatization into a multi-trillion-dollar enterprise.

Local courts and judges mercilessly sentenced petty criminals and first-time offenders, filling the expanding private prisons. Consequently, the United States holds the unfortunate record for the highest number of incarcerated individuals in the world, with an unprecedented number of prisons. This was not a coincidence—it was a meticulously orchestrated plan by the Rockefellers.

But their influence doesn't stop there.

As the true faces of those who wield global authority are revealed, the Rothschilds and Rockefellers find themselves targeted by military alliance operations aiming to dismantle the Rothschilds' deep state power in Europe, the UK, Russia, and China.

- Julian Assange WikiLeaks 🤔

#pay attention #educate yourselves #educate yourself #reeducate yourself #knowledge is power #reeducate yourselves #think for yourselves #think about it #think for yourself #do your homework #do your own research #do some research #ask yourself questions #question everything #wikileaks #julian assange #news

65 notes · View notes