#red's journal

[mtsilvermute]

26, 30, and 34!

90 loaded questions | Accepting!

Red's Journal - 7/20/2022

I am online-shopping for therapists again. This is wishful thinking; manifestation, even, as the likelihood that I will find a therapist worth trusting is lower than that of Focus Blast connecting. I understand that my distrust of therapeutic connection is rooted in old data at this point, but it's easier to tend to a fresh wound than it is to remove a stain.

The dialectics are as follows: My mother and my younger self were both tired of hearing therapists beg me to speak, socialize, or surrender the habits and behaviors that my mother saw as essential to me. Her exhaustion grew with each visitation until she decided to call it quits. Then, back in 2021, I had my first therapist visit in thirteen years. I knew the moment that I walked in that I was doing something for which I wasn't ready, though the journal entry following our meeting places the blame unfairly on the therapist rather than myself, a stance which I now retract. But I stand by the fact that I don't feel valued by any professional that sees my characteristics as quirks to be overcome. That same therapist—who lasted one visit before I declined further meetings—couldn't help but ask why I haven't made more concerted efforts to change.

The truth is that I feel like I know myself a little too well to need a therapist at this point. My mother and my Pokémon provide enough support as they are. Even more importantly, I feel that my life is more comfortable the less that people try to decipher it: People are more likely to accept me at face value if all they know is my reputation. My mother would say I've accomplished so much because of who I am; the professionals would counter "in spite of"; and everyone else would say nothing at all, because they have no reason to interject. I like a lack of interjection, intervention—interaction, even. Though I still wonder at times if I'm doing things right. I just want the validation that I'm normal, that I can exist in this world without requisite reform. The sad truth is that only within the confines of my own fame do I really feel realized.

This is not to say that I truly care for pushback, however. I've had incidents in which my needs for accommodation or understanding have been rejected—whether incidentally or explicitly—and it hurts. It hurts to have your movement through the world be violently ruptured and demeaned. But beyond these incidental moments of ableist impact, I can't say I've ever been robbed of the experiences that matter. I simply need the world to support and understand me. If the world does and still says no to my desires, I have no choice but to listen. (This is me convincing myself to close the tab on the telecom-therapist list.)

Now that I'm reading these paragraphs back an hour later, I've come to the conclusion that there is more to life than either contemplating my faults or hearing that "the world isn't a silent film" (to paraphrase). And any incidental moments of insensitivity to my so-called quirks barely tip the brim-filled bucket I call my self-confidence. These are the kinds of things you supposedly learn in therapy, dressed up in takes about how you're holding yourself back by avoiding verbal communication. But perhaps I should abide by my own rules, and let the life I've led do the talking after all.

[guardianofthemultiverses]

1 - 28

Fell SwapOut (c) Me

Underfell (c) UT Community

[marttapav]

and if you leave here, you leave me broken, shattered I lie.

[silverystardustt]

"you are different."

...How so?

"Look at everyone else. They are merely words while you are poetry."

-Timothy Joshua

[zae-heeyyy]

Boisterous

Summary: Arthur takes you to The Loft. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 2,095 Warnings: 18+ MDNI Tags: rough sex, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, biting

a/n: I somehow ended up spending literal hours trying to perfect this drawing. I traced a lot and freehanded a lot too, but overall, I'm happy with the final product. TYSM for taking the time to read, like, reply, and reblog; I appreciate every interaction!

Boisterous: behavior that is loud, energetic, and often unruly. It describes a person or situation that is full of noisy enthusiasm.

When Arthur found "The Loft" two nights ago, he was grateful to sleep in a bed surrounded by four sturdy walls. The accommodation would've been perfect, but you were missing from it all. Lewd images of your past escapades together infiltrated his mind as he tried to sleep, and he made his best efforts to push them aside. Your pretty face lit up his brain, and he wrapped his hand around his cock, trying his best to imitate the ecstasy only you could make him feel. No grip was as delectable as yours, though, and despite a quick release, he was more pent-up than ever. He needed you there with him and planned to sweep you up and bring you back as soon as the sun rose.

The cowboy's sonorous voice roused you from your dreams about him, the early morning sun casting a golden glow on his face as he leaned over you. His beard had grown since the few days you'd last seen him.

"Get dressed. M'taking you somewhere."

Without a second thought, you joined him on the back of his horse within the hour. Arthur spared the details of this urgent impromptu trip, keeping you in suspense for the duration of the ride.

In a few hours, you'd passed through Valentine, went by Fort Wallace, and climbed up into the mountains of the Grizzlies East. As you rode on, the clouds grew thick and gray, and the smell of petrichor filled your nostrils. Arthur caressed a hand you had wrapped around his waist, reassuring you.

"Almost there."

But you weren't close enough; the atmosphere released a torrential downpour in the last fifteen minutes of your journey, leaving you drenched. A little after noon, you reached a towering outpost that Arthur coined, The Loft. Arthur ushered you inside, futilely shielding you from the rain and promising the heat of a fireplace as he closed the door behind you.

While you stood, rubbing your arms for warmth, Arthur checked for signs of other people, climbing a ladder and peaking over the top for a second before sliding down.

You two were all alone, finally.

When he got a good look at you, he realized just how soaked you were, the layers of your clothes sticking to you and showing every curve of your body. Arthur swallowed, mouth salivating from the view of your hard nipples peeking through your blouse.

All the blood left his head and traveled south, damn near making him dizzy. Maybe he should've been embarrassed, but he was just a man, and you were the most alluring thing ever.

Two large steps were all it took to get to you. One hand found the back of your head, and the other rested on your hip as he drew your lips to his, practically swallowing you in a scalding kiss.

You could feel the groan rumbling in his chest, and you giggled against his lips. The noise crescendoed as his lips separated from yours to find your jaw and neck. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, inhaling your scent while the hand on the back of your head traveled to the small of your back.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. "I missed y'so much."

And he had you all alone, truly alone, for the first time in your relationship. He'd been waiting to make love to you the way he really wanted. Your previous rendezvous were hushed, whispered, and sneaky, your moans muffled by Arthur's lips or hand. Even when he whisked you away to a hotel, he was keenly aware of everybody else around who could hear the two of you. Turning you into a whimpering mess filled him with fervent pride, but he wanted those parts of you, especially the sounds you made, all to himself.

The thought of finally hearing all those pretty little noises at full volume was enough to rile him up, and his hand groped your breast, kneading with a force he hadn't used on you before. You shivered against him; some of it was from your arousal, but the other part was the cold.

"The fire, Arthur," you said, shoving him off playfully. Grunting, he tore away from you, grateful for a log near the stove.

While his back was turned, you peeled the wet clothes off your body and dropped your blouse on the floor. Arthur spun back around right as you stepped out of your skirt, leaving you clad in your bloomers and nothing else. His breath hitched in his throat as if it were the first time your body had been bestowed upon him.

"Straight outta my dreams," he declared, his blue eyes shining with pure avidity. And just like that, Arthur strode across the room, dragging a chair with him and putting it against the door nob, just in case. You were back in his arms in an instant, his kisses emphasized with unadulterated sounds of pleasure. A rough hand slid into the waistband of your bloomers and grabbed a fistful of your ass, squeezing, letting go, and repeating.

You sigh breathlessly as he feels you up, leaning into his touch. Then without warning, he tastes you hungrily, tongue fucking your mouth.

His chest vibrates with titillation again, and you're hoisted up into his arms just a beat later, his hands cupping your rear. You squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist and holding on tight as he carries you across the room and dumps you on blue cotton blankets. Breathing heavily, you watch under eyes saturated with desire as he promptly removes his own damp clothes.

You were just as taken aback by his body as he was with yours. Brown curls adorned his chest and stomach and gathered in a carnal wreath around his manhood. Touching him was like running your hands over a textured map: his scars, old and new, like rivers and valleys, while his muscles, firm and hot, were mountains and volcanoes. You could spend eternity exploring that map. Arthur would never get used to you ogling him in such a way, but now your hungry eyes lured him to you.

He climbed on top of you, pinning you under his weight. Usually, he'd ask if you were okay, but you answered the question before he'd even asked by tangling your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles to bring him closer.

His hard-on brushed against your leg, making him shudder. You helped him remove the last garment of clothes between the two of you, lifting your hips to help him pull the bloomers down your legs and off your feet.

Arthur normally took his time meticulously exploring you, leaving kisses in his wake, but damn it, the thought of the sweet grip of your pussy had been on his mind for days, and he needed it now.

His forehead leaned against yours, and he clutched your jaw, holding your face still to gawk at it. If someone saw him this way, they'd think he'd just completed a full sprint, every exhale coming out in a loud pant. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, turning him animalistic. He couldn't wait any longer.

The gunslinger dipped his head to look between you, a guttural utterance escaping him as you spread your legs, exposing your needy cunt. He held his cock, nearly discolored from being so hard, and rubbed it up and down your center, coating himself in your juices.

"Need you, woman," he bellows. The bass in his voice sends goosebumps spreading down your arms, and you nod, mouth agape, eyes staring into his. His jaw also hinges as he watches himself disappear inside you. Once wholly sheathed, he moans long and loud, a stark contrast to his regular subduedness.

You'd never seen him like this, so desperate and uninhibited. Your body responds to the unexpected but welcomed change, your pussy clenching around him, making both of you jolt. Holding himself up on his forearms, he rocks his hips into you at a steady pace, leaning down to kiss your neck.

Shy and coy Arthur had left the building, replaced by wolfish Arthur, willing to howl and snarl for what he wanted. And in the moment, he wanted to brand you with his mouth. Bruising you was defacing a masterpiece, but it was a crime he was happy to commit. He was an outlaw, after all. He nipped at your neck with his teeth, leaving a mark before moving on to another spot to do the same.

You cried out, the first orgasm of the night building within you. He knew your body well and adjusted to give you what you needed, straightening his back, digging his thumbs into your ribs, and pistoning in and out, his hand going to rub your clit. Head tipped back, he moaned, no, roared, with every thrust.

You knew this was rare: Arthur Morgan losing complete control of himself. He was lost in you, lost in your wetness, lost in your tightness, and lost in those sounds. His head snapped down, and he stared right through you, eyes wild.

"Let me hear you," he demanded, slowing his strokes to get your attention. Head spinning, you gasped, too cock drunk to pay attention to what he was saying.

Grumbling, he pulled out of you to switch positions, now standing on the side of the bed. He guided you back to him, aligning your backside with his crotch. He hugged you to his chest, your back pressed into him. Your hands instantly went to his forearm, holding onto him as he practically held you in the air.

"I said let me hear you," he growled in your ear, accenting each word of his demand with an electrifying pulse of his hips. You arched your back into him, his name coming off your lips like thunder.

"That's it, darlin’."

Perverse sounds of wet skin slapping together and boisterous cries filled the cabin.

You were starting to see stars, your vision blurring as you focused on the pressure building in your insides, wanting so desperately for it to boil over. Your toes dug into the buckskin rug at your feet, trying to keep the rest of your body upright.

Arthur was a machine, pounding into you with the goal of bringing both of you to the edge. He didn't relent—didn't show any mercy for the mess you'd become under him. It was overstimulating in the best way possible.

You just needed a second, just one, to get your barrings. Attempting to scoot forward for that break was futile. Arthur moved with you, his length plunging deeper than ever.

"C'mere," he growled as his cock grazed against that sweet spot in the depths of your core, making you holler out and lose the little balance you had left. It didn't matter, though; he held you taught against him, pinning your body between him and the bed. Keeping one arm wrapped around you, the other touched you right where you craved.

"Now," he groaned into your ear, fingers circling your clit antagonizingly slow. A chuckle exited him as you melted to his touch. "Want you to come undone right here. Can you do that for me?"

Droplets of sweat fell from his head onto your back, and you moaned out, "Y-yes, Arthur."

You didn't take long then; a wave of warmth crashed over you as your velvet walls contracted around him, making the man curse into the now-hot cabin air. His hips kept their steady rhythm as you came, Arthur chasing his own climax now.

"Good girl, good girl, good girl," He moaned with every thrust as you clenched around him. He folded himself in half, once again putting his full weight on you, his heart pounding against your back like a drum. More erratic now, his rhythm lost its steady cadence as his balls tightened, his orgasm coursing through his veins.

He pulled out of you, one hand still gripping your side as the other one pumped furiously at his cock. Moaning, whimpering, and whining, Arthur threw his head back as hot spurts of his lust splattered across your back.

Hand falling from your hip, his breath slowed as clarity flowed back into his eyes. Using his discarded bandana, he wiped his sins away from your back before gently rolling you over. He scratched the back of his neck, a sly grin making home on his face as he watched you splayed out and spent. Arthur had gotten everything he'd ever wanted: a bed, four walls, and you.

[daftpatience]

Kamata kun in my journal

[arthursfuckinghat]

The use of the journal in rdr1 is very different compared to rdr2, it's used more as a log of current missions/tasks in a brief form. There's no actual writing or drawing in it, just text, John cannot physically open the journal since it's simply an option you press to view from the start menu.

But from a story perspective, I see it as something pretty interesting.

Let's say that John was actually writing these brief and short sentences about his tasks, then it makes me think that maybe by 1911, he was running out of room to write in Arthur's journal.

As in, maybe there was only a handful or more pages left and he wanted to still use the journal, but still save as much room as he could. Maybe he saved paper by not drawing and doodling, by being more brief and to the point with what goes on in his day to day life, by making his writing smaller and taking longer to write to make sure he made no spelling mistakes, all little sacrifices to make sure that he could hold onto his brother's journal for just a bit longer.

So he could hold onto the memory of his brother for a bit longer.

[vaquerobuckaroo]

Mini Escuella! The gang's all here :3

[papercraft by @snuize btw!]

[sophiethewitch1]

congrats on the milestone sophie! i'm so excited to read what you have to share with us! For your 1k celbration, if it's not too much, I'd like to ask for ABXS for Jason and Dick uwu And if ur feeling particularly sharing I'd also love an L from all of them owo

Strei!!! Thank you for the kind words, here's what you asked for. I even did the L's as well for my dearest most beloved mutual <3

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, gen yandere behaviour, murder, stalking, worshipping/weirdly religious undertones for Dick, um pet play sort of?? Jason would bark if you asked him to is all I'm saying.

A = Affection (Is Their Love All-consuming, Expressed Through Possessive Gestures and Overwhelming Intensity With No Bounds?):

Jason: Spreading my Jason Todd Loyal Dog Agenda here but he’s so unbelievably loyal. Way, way too loyal. It doesn’t matter if he personally agrees with whatever your decisions are, he’s listening like the loyal hound he is. Will push and prod at you, but at the end of the day, he’s devoted. While he’d always prefer to be as close to you as possible, he’s willing to stay away if that’s what you really want. Simple guy, aware of himself, and mostly in control of his more fervent tendencies. He refuses to lose control of you, to take too much, so he doesn’t take any. Just giving, giving, giving. He only hopes you’ll take him.

Dick: Dick is probably one of the most clingy yanderes out there. While others might stalk you, or protect you from afar, that’s not Dick’s methodology. He wants to be with you all the time, and make you happy all the time, and he spends his afternoons daydreaming about sitting between your thighs for hours at a time. All the time, if it was possible. While he’s trying not to overwhelm you, he’ll stay as calm and charming as possible. But eventually, he’s going to have to start confessing his love to you because he feels like he’ll explode with it. Along with acts of service, physical affection, and verbal affection, he also really likes buying you things. He’s an all-rounder. Still, he prefers buying you experiences rather than items, like holidays or trips to the fair. He decides against buying you a private island to visit for the summer, but only after staring at the property page online for three hours straight. Like I said, he really is trying!

B = Blood (How Messy Are They Willing to Get in Pursuit of Their Darling? Would They Embrace Chaos and Revel in the Crimson Tableau Painted by Their Actions?):

Dick: I’ve mentioned before that he’s pretty hesitant to kill. He’s gotten over his wild younger years, and is now more mature and in control of emotions. Now, all of that is one huge lie he tells himself that only lasts as long nobody ever tries to hurt you. Dick wears his heart on his sleeve, and then it gets even worse when you come around because his heart is just walking around outside his chest, with no aknowledgement for the dangers of the world. He does try, he really does, but when he snaps, he snaps hard. He’s not too bad of a sadist (also a lie) but when he easily catches whoever has been bothering you, he… well, he might play with them. Just a little bit. He doesn’t kill, he’s very careful of that, but honestly if I was that poor soul, I’d rather be dead. And then the next day, he goes back to being the cheerful sweetheart we all know and love!

Jason: I’ve also mentioned that Jason, unlike Dick, is very, very eager to get bloody. In canon, he enjoys punishing sinners and whatnot, and when he’s fallen for you, uh… So, basically, Jason would rather die than admit it, but he thinks of himself as your protector, your knight in shining leather armour. And along with that previously mentioned possessiveness, he totally lets it get out of hand. He’s aware you probably don’t want him slaughtering everyone who has ever harmed a single hair on your head, but unless you specifically tell him not to, he’s not going to stop. But if you do, he will. He’s loyal, he’s fervent in that loyalty. He wants to destroy anything that could ever hurt you. But he’d never go against your ruling, your will. He might complain about it, though. Loudly, very loudly. However, if you do want everyone who has ever annoyed you dead, he’s totally up for it no questions asked. Would probably consider it a date night of sorts.

S = Stigma (Can the Roots of Their Obsession Be Traced to a Dark Past, a Blend of Childhood Trauma, Twisted Curiosity, and a Skewed Perception of Love?):

Dick: Oh boy, this guy… He’s the poster child for childhood trauma affecting your perception of love. When his parents were murdered, he latched onto Bruce. And when Bruce kicked him out, he latched onto Bludhaven. And now when even Bludhaven can’t bring him any semblance of comfort, of home, you’re fucking heaven-sent. He latches onto you like a benign growth, and god help anyone who tries to tear the two of you apart.

Jason: Oh boy times two. Not the best childhood, raised on the streets. Taken in by Bruce, things are looking better and then- Well, we all know what happens then. After the trauma of literally digging himself out of his own grave, he feels a bit… disconnected from the world? He feels like a ghost, like he’s still dead, like his death never even mattered and the world kept going after he’d been gone. And that’d fuck up anybody, but someone personally trained by the Batman? Woof. We see in Under The Red Hood that Jason really does think vengeance is proof of love, at least in his case. To him, love is bloody and ruthless. It’s cannibalistic. A give and take. But since he doesn’t want to take from you, he’ll just give himself over wholly.

X = Xoanon (Does Their Reverence for Their Darling Border on Worship, Reaching Extreme Lengths to Prove Their Devotion and Ensure Unwavering Loyalty?):

Dick: He sees you like the sun. Powerful, brilliant, beautiful. And you’ll probably burn him to cinders as he loves you, but he doesn’t care. He probably enjoys the idea a little. Wouldn’t it be nice, to die in your arms? To close his eyes and disappear into you, where he’d never be apart from you again? He realises that sort of thinking is a bit creepy, but it’s one of the few things he simply can’t fight against. Not even the littlest bit. He’s self-aware to know he’s putting you on a pedestal, that you’re not some god or something, you’re just like him. Human. Maybe that makes him worship you even more. He can’t tell, it’s too blurry these days. He just knows you’re important, more so than he is. More so than anything is, really. Also, gotta mention body worship kink. Like, he’s really way too into it honestly. He’ll service you for however long you can last, and then place a hundred kisses against your exhausted body telling you how good you did, how perfect you are. When you look at him after a session like that, you can always see something a little too intense, too crazed to be called love. He knows he’s trying to hide it. He’ll do better next time, okay?

Jason: You’re his master. The hand around the leash. He’s angry at the world, so fucking angry. He wants to destroy it all. Assuming here, you probably don’t want the entire world blown to smithereens, so you’re his… conscience. Whatever you say goes. If you say Joker dies today, then he dies. If you say he can never kill another soul, then he won’t. He’s sassy about all of it, but it’s painfully obvious to literally everyone that he will follow every single order you give. And of course, he wants it that way. Maybe he really should get a collar for himself. He thinks it’d be cute, with your name on it in brilliant gold letters. He certainly thinks that the reaction his goons would give would be worth the effort, never mind your own reaction. Call him your good boy and you will get railed so hard you break the bed, lmfao

L = Love Letters (Is Courting an Intricate Dance Marked by Obsessive Letters and Gestures That Blur the Line Between Devotion and Insanity?):

Dick: I can’t see Dick ever actually sending you the letters he writes, but my god, he writes them. At first, it’s just little doodles in the corners of his very important paperwork, and then he’s scribbling on sticky notes, and eventually, he just gives in and buys a fucking notebook. They’re long winded and silly and he’d absolutely rather die than share them with you. But they make it just the slightest bit easier to choke down his devotion to you, so it doesn’t strangle him right then and there. He almost finds it as addicting as you are, almost being the keyword here. It’s genuinely pretty embarrassing, from an outsider’s standpoint. It’s like what a middle schooler would write in their diary, just lots of your name and hearts and very ridiculous poetry. He’d be good at it if it wasn’t about you, okay?

Jason: Jason, in direct contrast to Dick, writes very good poetry. Especially when it’s about you. It’s the sort of stuff they’ll put in museums, that future historians will write about. Of course they won’t know half of his more demented metaphors are just… straight up things he’s done for you. It’s flowing and beautiful and it’d make you tear up if you ever read it. You probably won’t just because Jason doesn’t really care if you read it, so he won’t share it with you on purpose. However if you find him one day in the library, and you ask to see whatever it is he’s made, you’ll be so very, very lucky. And Jason will turn tomato red, so that’s another plus.

Tim: Everybody knows that when Tim starts a list again, his mental health is on the decline. The list about you is concerningly long. And I’m really not saying that lightly, for Mr ‘I stalk literally everyone at least a little bit’. It’s something at four hundred thousand words by now, he’s not sure exactly. The little note app on his phone has had to suffer through hundreds or even thousands of hours of Tim writing down the most minute details of you and your life. How do you like to sit best? Is your posture okay, or should he worry about it? When you’re hungry, what food do you go for first? What about when you’re sick? If he’s ever around, tapping away on his phone, and you think he’s not paying you any attention, you’d be very, very wrong. Would probably share it with you just to laugh at your horrified face.

Damian: Damian was raised to perfect every form of art, from martial to dance, to even the more traditional ones. He’s always had a fondness for painting, and you’re most certainly his muse. Instead of letters, he paints you. For every memory he has of you, he has at least a sketch. He doesn’t care for almost all of them, as he doesn’t think they capture your beauty properly, so he doesn’t really care what happens with said drawings. Your first meeting has been drawn at least twenty times, and your sleeping face probably double that. Yes, he does draw you in more passionate poses as well. Your face all fucked out, drool leaking from your lips, is a personal favourite of his. He’ll probably share those ones with you, enjoying seeing you squirm. Asking if you want to help him find some extra inspiration because he’s all irritatingly smooth like that. Will laugh if you crush the lewd drawing up, agreeing it doesn’t do you justice. He’ll just have to try again.

[majubengel]

Shanks Sticker Set

[mtsilvermute]

Red's Journal - 1/13/2023

I have neglected you again, my dear journal, for multiple weeks now. So I shall pick up where I left off: On December 28th, I went sledding. Perhaps sledding is not the first activity that comes to mind when one thinks "Mt. Silver," as the rocky terrain leaves much to be desired unless one loves danger, but there are a few trademark spots on the mountain that are just ripe for ripping through. I'll leave their locations to myself lest one find this journal and make a resort of them, but believe me when I say that there is much fun to be had on Mt. Silver should one know where to look.

The reason I went sledding a few weeks back was twofold. Firstly, the snowfall packed perfectly upon landing; it had that unparalleled texture of "light and fluffy" yet "consistent and solid." Secondly, the temperature spiked to 25 degrees Fahrenheit, which is unheard of for snowy weather. Upon reading this passage over again, I'm all too aware of how heavy with autism my prose has become... One of these days, my creative side will return to me, but until then I will merely document my life without regard for rhetorical rigor. That's the only way, after all, to truly "loosen up."

I also wish to document why I have been so attached to typing in recent days. I understand that writing by hand is better for both my memory and for my attachment to the activity of journaling itself. In spite of this knowledge, I have been typing my journal entry files in text documents and saving them to my "journal entry" folder on my PC. I have two reasons for this as well. Firstly, I am enjoying a recent addition to my PC setup, namely a refurbished model of an old keyboard reminiscent of the 90's PC from my childhood bedroom. Typing on it is such a joy that I refuse to pick up a pen in its stead. Secondly, I find it easier to find words in front of a computer screen at this time: Perhaps it is the warmth of the screen itself, its glow as inviting as a seasonal-affective sunlamp, that calls me to sit before it, but I highly doubt it. It is likely just the keyboard, hahaha.

What more shall I say? Maybe I should remark on the lateness of the hour, and what has prompted me to journal in the first place. Well, firstly, I would question why I need a reason to journal at all - as it is that precise trap that caused me to compulsively drop journaling for so many weeks on end. It is so much more important for me to remain consistent and present amongst my own thoughts than it is to request that they meet some arbitrary standard of quality. Yet I do, in fact, live a life worth journaling, so I shall not slight that either. It has been rather warm this month for reasons unknown - though we are no stranger to zero-degree evenings—so I have begun training again for the fun of it. Thoughts of performing before crowds have consumed me once more, and some of my Pokemon have picked up on the urgency of my recent methods. Blastoise once met my gritted teeth with a knowing nod, while Espeon comforted my ankles mid-practice upon sensing my adrenaline. Fantasies rack my body. In dreams I drown. And this dream—in which I am gilded and glittering beneath a spotlight all my own—is no exception. I will have to flesh out this fantasy further, though my bed is calling my name.

Or perhaps that is Pikachu, peering around the bedroom door frame, pondering my return to the sheets. I can hear a slight "piiii..." in the cadence of a static hum. Maybe I should meet him there, hmm? Good night, journal—or rather PC. I would love to see you again tomorrow, on schedule this time. Please wait for me in the meantime, as I have a meeting of all things—but rest assured I will be seeing you again soon.

[evercornelias]

the category is all the things pre-epilogue john marston would rather do than take responsibility of his family

[marttapav]

i love him so much HELP MEEEE

[skittlesandham]

would they be friends? fr tho everytime a game has a little journal the protagonist fills with sketches and musings, my ass is THERE. I keep a journal like that too :)

[strawberrinoz]

he is the himbo ever

[phantom-of-the-501st]

Arthur: I'm an awful human being. I'm mean, I'm ugly, I'm the worst person alive, I don't deserve happiness

Arthur's journal: Doodle of a bunny, doodle of a chicken, "hey I found a cool tree!", A♡M, another doodle of a bunny