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[daikon-dishes]

The Burnt Rose

Prompt:  

Imagine you’re a Victorian woman and somehow end up betrothed to Sherlock. It was not your doing, but you are not unhappy about it because he seems respectful, polite and rather gentle, on top of being incredibly handsome.BUT as soon as you get married and you are his, he changes completely and he becomes a dark, primal beast with you.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader (2nd person pov)

Word count: 1k

Warnings: 18+, smut, Dub!Con, deflowering, rough possessive primal sex, biting, arranged marriage, breeding kink, creampie.  

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

A/N: Thank you lovely anon for this amazing prompt. I was having an emotionally stressful day and writing this one-shot helped me deal with my pain. I do love writing about the darkness in Sherlock, so this was great to work on. Many thanks to @agniavateira​ my close friend and muse who beta’d this story.

Title: The Burnt Rose

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javier escuella has such a lethal face card

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Uh, wtf. What's wrong with rdr1 Javier?

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A Trojan Horse

Arthur Morgan x F! reader

Content: 18+ mdni, very low honor Arthur, angst, referenced/implied sex, canon typical events & violence - cw gen / substance abuse Type: second pov & rdr2 spoilers (wc - 1067) / pc: my PS5 a/n: wow, me uploading og written content?? crazy. this was in my drafts since summer lol, hi!

Summary: low honor Arthur navigating his skewed mental state, he could never put his guns down.

Heavy with burden, the man slouched after each strike. A sharp burn that prodded into his biceps made his knuckles turn white against the pine handle. Yet he continued against the ignited flames, sweating out the sin needed for a good night's rest. 

With a rather vicious strike, the logs would send echoing cracks across camp, his dull eyes meeting yours in between pent up visceral. 

The rings beneath them said more than any words. You hadn’t slept, and maybe he hasn’t either— God only knew that Dutch would eventually kill you all. The lucky few would leave with their lives, their permanent scars casting them out from society. But Arthur was always too much of a fool to realize. Blinded by promises and loyalty, he wasn’t sure what he owed the man anymore. 

The routine of wrath replaced the debt Arthur kept on an altar, only leaving traces of a corrupt man gone off the deep end. His sinful deeds engraved a trench over time, then eventually a six foot hole beneath his feet, there was no escape now. 

On his good days, Arthur would feed into a rare glimmer of hope he found in your eyes. 

His search for the same feeling would be fruitless, and inevitably led to you every time. The man could never control his gluttonous urge, ravishing through you and taking what his cruel years had pried away. 

Your optimistic proposal of fleeing would dance around his intoxication. The words sloshing around in his weary head, they never quite made sense against the view of your body. 

“Alright, darlin’,”

A shallow rasp would spill out and be followed by depraved hands reaching for your hips. His dismissal would temporarily appease you— he knew it would. 

Arthur’s blasphemous lust would momentarily be broken. Both your moans and prior offers of redemption digging deep into the scratches left on his back. 

Despite Arthur Morgan's decline, his skewed world rapidly moved on. The last ditch attempt of a changed man would often peek from the floorboards, but a day vowed to start with coffee would always end with whiskey.

The tinge of hope was worn on the outlaws shoulders, it was foolish to show vulnerability, the men he once called his brothers would use it against him. But maybe Arthur could still rewrite his wrongs, redeem himself in the time he had left. He just needed to leave, that’s what you always said. 

You nearly convinced him that solitude would fill the gallows of his soul, a home to embrace closure after years of running. A resentment of your words created war within, a part of him hated you for being right. He never did apologize after lashing out at you, the words were lost in the translation of his mind, which he only sank deeper into. 

The home he envisioned would manifest in the pipe dreams, created by the drugs for the pain brewing in his lungs. A home with you would eventually contort into a lone wolf on the vast prairies, still he hung onto the tenderness of your very first days together by the lake.

Maybe the window of his soul would soften with time under your presence, the cold blue dog eyes suited for killing would crack by the grace of yours, and settle into a warm sea that smiled off the sun. A more boyish look that still withheld some wonder, never to be tainted again.  

Only when your eyes fluttered shut is when his guard would lower, just enough to kiss the skin he scarred under the sheets. It wouldn’t make it go away, but help keep his guilt at bay. The dirty little sin of lust would be tucked away in a locked closet, separate from the rest. 

Arthur Morgan, a Trojan horse filled to the brim with wickedness, and you his pacifist. 

You would always be forgiving in return, accepting the trophy of a changed man; sparing him of judgement and disgust— he’d received a couple lifetimes worth already. 

But please, don’t stare for too long, he can't hide behind the half-baked smile like he can apathy. 

the walls within his temple are cracking. 

Tattered drywall would cover the insecurities and structural flaws, he wanted the walls a baby blue, but they would be painted black as sin, only to cover the hideous stains a lighter shade could not. 

You would live within these walls, protecting his inner peace while chunks of flesh and wood crumbled around you— but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed, don’t worry, he has tools and that soft smile of yours.

The lock to his temple would be neglected, and eventually the door would be left ajar. You didn’t close it on your way out, Arthur didn’t see you as a forgetful one—  

and his black walls would bleed a brief shed of grief. 

An unwanted solicitor would slip back through the open defenses he spent years building, and the devil would sell him a product he didn’t want to buy. 

That’s okay— no harm, no foul. He had to keep going, like he always does. 

But his focus would always conclude on your hands. Small and dainty wherever they touched, cuticles pure from the dried blood and countless deaths he accumulated over the years. He always appreciated them most on his chest before welcoming you into his embrace, he never did tell you that. The sickness had taken too much, blurring both the bliss and agony.  

He’d try not to focus on the way his palms encircled your back, or how your legs brushed against his lap, if he did, the walls would turn to glass. 

a soft answer turns away wrath… even if it’s just for a breath. 

Each touch you left on his body, the lips on his jaw and neck, the hushed affirmations that would give life to the tent, all would be scrubbed off by the blood of more enemies. 

gut, skin, consume, repeat, 

everyone knows a good hunter uses every part of the animal. 

An honest perspective would be regained as a violent cough rattled through Arthur’s frame, stinging his throat on the way out. 

The soft candle light flickered as a gust of wind whistled through the canvas, causing the man’s attention to fall onto your abandoned bedroll, soiled in mud by his boots. 

Tomorrow, he vowed to be a changed man. But tonight he would get lost in the bottle, the candle lit at both ends. 

~

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BAM!!! 🩸

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If you look in the mirror and don't like what you see,

You can find out first hand what it's like to be me.

Arthur Morgan 𑁦𐂂𑁦 The Saints Hotel

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I did a little practice drawing to test a new method of colouring, so have some Charles!

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guy from cowboy game

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我支持小哈豹塑

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When the breeze shifts the branches next to him he sees the sunlight glint off of the water beyond- a tiny pond, barely more than a puddle, but in the midday light it shines. He can’t help leaning towards it, driven by that instinctual need for a cold relief to a summer’s day, but he recoils before he can make contact with the water. His eyes catch sight of a skeletal dead thing below the surface and he falls back onto his ass, shivering suddenly despite the heat. Recoiling hasn’t helped- every time he closes his eyes a pair of sunken ones stare back, set into a gaunt face on a too-thin frame. It’s been a long time since he has been scared of dead people, but the man in the pond is not a dead person.

The man in the pond is Javier Escuella.

Wrote another backstory !! It’s pretty short this time (rip the Tilly fic which ended up at some stupidly long wordcount) but this one involves a lot of my fave jmarston and also poker only I don’t really know anything about poker so it’s probably not too accurate. Anyway give it a go if you want!

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What Charles Would Do To Micah

I sent @noshirdalal the following question on Cameo: "Since Charles was denied the chance to flatten Micah's face in the Epilogue, I would love to see him roast the hell out of the rat. Be as mean as you would like. (All in good fun, Micah is my favorite villain and I love Peter too.) Happy holidays!"

This was his response (transcript below the video.) Y'ALL. I was not ready for how amazing this was. Rather than roast Micah, he opted to burn him to a crisp and scatter the ashes. Very cathartic. It is very, very lucky for Micah that Charles wasn't up there on the summit beside John, because neither Micah nor Dutch would've even been able to open their mouths before it was just over.

PERFECT. Poignant. Believable as hell. As much as Charles cautions John against seeking vengeance on Micah, I don't think he'd reserve any of that same caution for himself. I think, like Sadie and Arthur, he considers himself more ghost than man. In another universe (where John didn't have to make a decision that would lead the Pinkertons to kidnap his family in RDR1) I can definitely see Charles and/or Sadie striking out on their own to take down Micah. John had more to lose, and Charles wouldn't (and didn't) want him risking himself when Arthur's dying wish had been to keep John and his family safe.

Thank you as always, Noshir. Your takes on these questions always exceed anything I'd imagined!

Transcript:

Zana, hey. You always ask interesting questions. "Since Charles never got to beat the crap out of Micah in the Epilogue, how would he roast him?"

I'll always be honest with you guys, so I think, uh... I'll just be as honest as I can be. If at any point in the Epilogue Charles encountered Micah, there would be no roast. There'd be no jokes, there'd be no games. He killed my best friend, and broke apart the only family I've ever had. And maybe that would've happened with or without his push, but he was definitely a big part of it.

I would hunt him. If he tried to go to ground, I would give him no ground to go to. If you're a friend of Micah's and you come to his aid, you are a dead man. If you have family, then at some point you walk off into the woods and disappear and your family never sees you again. But if you're a snake like Micah, well then the... The local sawbones probably rates that they died of fright, or from asphyxiation from the rat feces shoved in their mouths.

It would become known that Micah is hexed, that anyone near him for any period of time comes to a horrible end. And I would keep this up for a long time, until he has absolutely no one. And I would slowly guide him away from civilization and into the wilds.

I would liberate his horse, and then from there on in, he would never get a peaceful night's rest. His fires would always go out in the middle of the night. His food would spoil. He'd hear people at the edge of the campfire but find no one. And I would keep that up until he really started to break.

And then, I'd make myself known, carrying nothing but my bow, arrows, and my hatchet, and we'd play a game of cat and mouse, until he expends all his ammo. And then I would close on him, subdue him, but try not to hurt him. And I would take an arrow and push it between his ribs, and puncture his lung. 

And then I would let him go. And I'd give him bullets. I want him to run, and gasp, and drown on dry land, like my friend. And then I'd watch him waste his rounds trying to keep the wolves away, and let them tear him to pieces. And I'd let him see me watch.

That's what I would do to Micah Bell.

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Red Dead Redemption 2 was so real for creating the most in-depth, realistic clothing system I've ever seen in any game, and exclusively using it on burly, unhygienic men.

You choose every layer, every accessory, with dozens to hundreds of each to choose from. You can go in and fine-tune minute details like whether or not to roll up the shirt sleeves, or button the collar, or whether to wear your pants under your boots. These clothes get dirty in real time depending on what you do in the game. Mud, dust and blood linger unless washed off. Every garment has a warmth rating based on its material, and the game calculates what temperatures an outfit is suitable for based on the combined total. Dressing too cold or warm for the weather causes health debuffs.

You can choose which way he parts his hair, and whether he gels it. If you eat too much he gets bulkier and gains a double chin, and if you eat too little he can go underweight and get all bony and sallow. Both of these states come with stat changes. His hair and beard grow in real game time, and you need to routinely style and shave his facial hair if you want any style other than a full Santa. You need to bathe him regularly or people will start commenting on his BO, and he'll start visibly appearing filthy long before that. He sunburns in the sun, and in the heat he becomes slick and glossy with sweat.

This shit is IN DEPTH. It blows the customization systems of actual fashion-centric games like tf2, Monster Hunter and Splatoon out of the water in every regard. They honestly look basic in comparison. It's a paradigm shift for sure once you experience RDR2's level of customization. Everything else starts to feel smaller.

The player character all this customization is applied to, and I simply cannot stress this enough, is a 36 year old, 6'3" smoker weighing well over 200 pounds, with facial hair thicker than a sheepdogs, forearms like gnarled tree trunks and a dark, dense forest of body hair covering every reasonable surface. His skin is pocked and marred with scars from a rugged, nomadic lifestyle, and his teeth are the colour of cornbread. He has a thick southern accent, is a known mean drunk and knows how to skin pretty much any North American animal. He has never worn deodorant, flossed or moisturized. He eats canned beans, fruit and the like by simply pouring them into his mouth and gulping, often while walking or riding a horse at full gallop.

I can think of NO better use case for such customization. Not some fresh-faced little twink, not some busty anime babe. Just a gross, hairy, unwashed homeless dude with crippling self esteem issues and a chest broader than a barrel laid lengthwise. A non fashion-centric game, certainly a non-fashion centric character, but for some reason the best clothing and customization system ever concieved, bar none. What the fuck.

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Miss Anyaaaaaaa is here YAAAAAAAAAAY

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Can we talk about how gentle and soft Charles voice is??

Like, even when he's angry his voice is soft like

I could literally fall asleep to just him talking to me about random stuff.

I love him man, I really need to write about him more.

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can i req for a little crumb of low honor arthur x hyperfem reader. . . a little he's vile and horrible to everyone else except to the reader. . . ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

i got a little bit carried away while writing and still couldn't fit something romantic, but i hope you would enjoy your read anyway, dolly!

arthur morgan is a vile man, so you suppose, because that's what they call him all around the west, a quiet, scared whispers stuttered frantically under their noses, either some of those people encountered him themselves, or just seen the result of it, painted red over the face of some unlucky guy, made out by the hands of the big dog of van der linde gang, and you start to think all these stories are true.

in the camp, it's different, since you don't often leave the area out to stroll in the town, and for sure, don't go around for a missions, arthur flashes before your eyes here and there, when you pull your eyes up from some romance book held open in your hands, sitting in the circle of girls that read as well and giggle to each other, missing how you take a wide, curious glimpse aside.

studying arthur, from a distance, you trace every new cut he comes back into the camp with, bruised, bleeding knuckles, rough skin split open after what seems countless blows, thin cut over his bristled, rosy cheek, beading scarlet, must be stinging, but he has so many of them it's looks like he's a man made of steel, a horrible, violent man, but it's doesn't sticks together in your pretty head.

how he can be described as vile, if he keeps you a plate of breakfast when you miss waking up in the early morning hour, you've been up late lately, deep in your silly books, he called them like that once, voice low, hoarse with lingering grogginess and tobacco, and you thought it annoyed him, yet, arthur kept doing this almost every morning, should you miss the breakfast, decide to pass on the meal, or just don't feel hungry, he kept you a bite.

there was a glimpse of something softer inside of arthur, buried as deep as it can be, but sprouting out each time you encountered, turning so, you found out that he notices the way you dress up, how you try to get a new life to these worn out dresses, adding some cute frills, lace trim on the sleeves or collar, a bow to the back, perhaps, and the only thing he understands about it all, is that they look quite fancy, and he gets a little bit protective over them.

even over you, arthur doesn't let any person out of the camp touch you with their dirty hands, first wash, then hug, ain't no way anyone out of them would make your pretty dresses stained, those men need to learn some manners, after all, they also don't get to chuckle over the books you read, because he starts to linger at your side, barely listening to your shy, giddy babbles about the romance plot, busy glaring off those who try to stick in with their smart jokes.

in the end, instead of trying to gather as much information of his bad decisions as you can, you memorize each act of heart arthur does, in taking care of you, protecting, when micah get's too handsy, his tongue sharp and spitting venom, sharing, when you get too cold during nights in your tent, and he gives you some of his warmest furs, comforting, when these days, where you feel like a burden, come back, and he reassures you, gruff and awkward, that you're a delight to the eyes of everyone around you, and it's makes you giggle.

seems like arthur's not the type of a man people around suppose him to be, or, he's being nice and considerate only towards you, but it's doesn't really matter, since you don't look too deep into this, and he wouldn't tell you, happy to proceed on this new patch he embraced, alongside your charming self.

main masterlist. quidelines.

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I’m sorry but I will truly never get over Ekko who lost his mentor and all his friends at a young age, then spent the rest of his childhood building a beautiful and strong community that helped get shimmer addicts off the streets and give them a new life that thrived off of trust, respect, and loyalty while slowly watching the girl he loves lose herself to her psyche and become an unhinged suicidal terrorist who he is unable to save despite repeated attempts at it. And THEN gets booted into an alternate reality where he learns he could have had EVERYTHING, the beautiful and thriving community, the education, his family, and the girl he loves and he heartbreakingly leaves it all behind because he knows he doesn’t belong there and he has to go back to save his people which he DOES multiple times at great risk despite knowing what overextending his z-drive could do only to end up completely alone in the end. The most selfless character in the entire series. That’s my boy savior.