#All this death and for what? | Charles Smith

[wildwestwandering]

wildwestwandering is an open. selective cowboy themed oc and canon rp blog written by Forrest (He/It, 21). here is the link to my character list. this blogs fandoms are red dead redemption and billy the kid. a study in Weathered leather, cracked but well-loved, The weight of a revolver resting at the hip—always ready, but never the first to draw, Eyes that have seen death but still hope for a better tomorrow.

[heavenlymorals]

I feel like a lot of people forget that the Van Dir Linde gang was actually famous in their universe- Dutch Van Dir Linde was as famous as the real life Butch Cassidy. The gang had as much infamy as the Wild Bunch or the Dalton gang. Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Bill Williamson, Javier Esculla, Lenny Summers, Charles Smith, Sean McGuire and more were probably as famous as the real life Doc Holliday, Jesse James, Black Bart, Rufus Buck, Ike Clanton, the Sundance Kid, Wild Bill Hickock, and more.

Sadie Adler would've been just as famous. She was a gunslinger like the real life Calamity Jane and Anne Oakley and she was an outlaw at one point like Laura Bullion, Pearl Hart, Belle Star, The Cassidy Sisters, and more.

The other women of the camp would've probably been less popular but still very intriguing figures to people in the future.

In the newspapers, we see that there are songs about Dutch's boys and books too. Trelawny mentions them being on dime novels. In the future, the pieced together story of the Van Dir Linde gang might've gotten adapted into a movie, similar to "Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid" or "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford". They could've gotten biopics, documentaries, and more.

Historians and fans of the wild West era would dig up records, find pictures, and maybe even track down people who were apart of the gang, accomplices to the gang, or victims of the gang. They would try to piece together stories to figure out the mystery of what actually happened to the gang.

People would argue over things that happened in the gang and have their evidence to back it up. Letters written by gang members would become so valuable. If they ever someone come across Arthur's journal, it would probably be considered one of the most valuable pieces of documentation to ever exist for that time period.

The guns of the gang would probably be kept in museums if found. Albert Mason's portrait of Arthur Morgan would be found in history books, same as other pictures.

Dutch would probably be a very controversial figure in history- some would hail him as a failed hero and others would condemn his violence no matter the reason- they wouldn't know what the people in the gang knew- especially in the end. Same with the rest of the gang members.

They'd probably all get romanticized. Hosea and Dutch's friendship, the raising of the boys, Dutch and Annabelle and his fued with Colm, Mary and Arthur, John and his family, Javier being a revolutionary- no one would know the full story.

And then there is Jack- he may live to see the 1960s and 70s and 80s. He may have grandchildren who'd pull him into a theater to watch a retelling of the gang that he was a part of at one point. He'd be amused. He'd think that the actor playing his father was too clean looking, too pretty. He'd think that the movie Arthur was too skinny. He'd think that the man playing Dutch had a funny voice as he tried to mimic the accent. He'd laugh and make notes in his head of the historical accuracy. He'd feel sorrowful at the deaths of the characters- he knew them at some point. And no one at the theater would know that the old man with the rowdy bright eyed boys who brought him there was Jack Marston, the last of the Van Dir Linde gang.

Jack might talk about it to the public. He might do interviews. He might even write a book about his father, the infamous John Marston. Those would be priceless. Even Beecher's Hope might be kept around and visited as a historical site for history goers.

And honestly? It is such a bittersweet thing.

[kayakiki]

MINE | Red dead redemption x reader

Red dead redemption characters reacting to you getting hit on

Characters included: Arthur Morgan, Dutch Van Der Linde, Hosea Matthews, John Marston, Javier Escuella, Lenny Summers, Charles Smith (In this order)

warning(s): threatening, mention of death

Genre: fluff

Arthur Morgan

The saloon was dimly lit, filled with the familiar scent of whiskey and sweat. You were just trying to enjoy a drink, letting the warmth of the fire and the buzz of conversation settle over you like an old, tattered blanket. But, of course, peace never lasted long in a place like this.

Arthur saw it before you did—the way the man leaned in too close, the cocky grin stretched across his face as he said something low enough for only you to hear. Whatever it was, it made your fingers tighten slightly around your glass.

He sighed.

He’d been in this business long enough to recognize trouble before it started. Didn’t matter if it was a rival gang or some drunk fool thinking he was invincible—trouble always walked in wearing the same damn smirk.

Setting his glass down, he adjusted the brim of his hat and stood, slow and deliberate. He didn’t need to be loud. Didn’t need to make a scene. When he moved, people noticed.

The man flirting with you didn’t, though.

Not until there was a shadow over him.

"Step back." His voice was calm, steady. Not a demand, not a threat, just a statement. But the weight behind it carried more warning than any drawn gun ever could.

The flirter, either too stupid or too drunk to recognize the danger he’d just waded into, gave a sloppy grin. "Didn’t realize this pretty thing belongs to someone, friend."

His jaw tensed. "She ain’t a prize to be claimed. Now move along."

Something about the way he said it—the quiet steel in his tone, the absolute certainty—made the man hesitate. But there’s always one idiot in every saloon who thinks they’re tougher than they are.

"Or what?" the flirter taunted, puffing his chest out like a rooster in a henhouse.

Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He was getting real tired of this kind of stupid.

"Or," he said, finally letting his hand rest on the holster of his revolver, "you’ll find out firsthand why I don’t waste bullets on warnings."

The man gulped, eying the gun. For a long moment, there was nothing but the crackle of the fire and the creak of old wooden floorboards.

Then the flirter swallowed, muttered something under his breath, and all but ran out the door.

Satisfied, Arthur finally turned to you, expression unreadable. His eyes, though—they were searching, checking, making sure you were alright.

"You alright?" He spoke softly to you.

You gave him a small smile. "I could’ve handled it. But thank you. You're a real gentleman, huh?"

"I know you could handle it." He nodded, lips twitching up at the corners. "But I ain’t one for lettin’ fools talk too long."

He was just a man. A man who made his choices, lived by a code, and—above all else—protected what was his.

Dutch Van Der Linde

The saloon was alive with music and laughter, the scent of whiskey thick in the air. His people were scattered throughout the room, celebrating some recent victory—another step toward the future he was building, a future he made them believe in.

Dutch sat at his usual spot, whiskey in hand, leaning back with that ever-present smirk playing on his lips. A man of ambition, a man of vision. A man who owned every room he walked into.

And then he saw it.

Some poor, oblivious fool had sidled up to you, leaning in like he actually thought he had a shot. The man was talking fast, trying to impress you, and—bless his heart—he really didn’t know whose woman he was trying to charm.

A slow grin spread across his face.

Oh, this was gonna be fun.

Rising from his seat, he adjusted his coat, took a slow sip of his drink, and sauntered over like a king approaching his throne. Confidence in every step.

He placed a hand on your waist first—a silent declaration.

Then, with a voice as smooth as the finest whiskey, he spoke.

"Darlin’—imagine my heartbreak, sittin’ over there all by my lonesome, watchin’ another man try to steal you away." His tone was playful, teasing, but his eyes? Oh, there was fire behind them.

The flirter blinked, clearly confused. "I—uh—I was just—"

He cut the man off with a chuckle, shaking his head like he was genuinely disappointed. "No, no. Don’t backpedal now. You were doin’ real well—real confident, too. Almost made me jealous."

That was a lie. He wasn’t jealous. Not even a little. Because jealousy was for men who weren’t certain of what was theirs.

The flirter, now visibly uncomfortable, mumbled something and practically disappeared into the crowd.

With that little distraction handled, he turned his full attention to you, his smirk softening into something more genuine.

"Now, tell me the truth, sweetheart, was he borin’ you to death?"

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. "You could’ve let me handle it, you know."

He exhaled a laugh, lifting your hand to press a slow, deliberate kiss against your knuckles.

"Oh, I know. But what kind of gentleman would I be if I let my lady suffer through such poor conversation?"

You shook your head, amused, but he could see the way your eyes softened for him.

"Now," he continued, voice dropping just a little, just enough to make your heart skip, "how ‘bout you let me buy you a drink, and I remind you why you chose me over every fool in this room?"

Hosea Matthews

The saloon was buzzing, card games in full swing, drinks flowing like a river after the rains. Hosea sat at a corner table, long legs stretched out, hat tipped just enough to give him a lazy, uninterested look—a man who saw everything without looking like he was watching.

And right now, he was watching.

Some poor bastard had decided that tonight was the night to try his luck with you.

He didn’t get mad. No, no. Anger was for men who didn’t know how to control a situation. Instead, he just sighed, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he observed.

The fool was talking big, flashing his best smile, leaning just a little too close for comfort. You looked unimpressed—which he found rather amusing.

He pushed back his chair and stood, adjusting his coat as he made his way over.

"Now, now," he drawled, sliding into the space between you and the flirter with the effortless ease of a man who had never lost a game of poker in his life. "I do hate to interrupt, but you wouldn’t happen to be botherin’ my lady, would you?"

The flirter blinked, clearly realizing that this wasn’t just some random man.

"I—uh—was just makin’ conversation."

"Oh, conversation." He nodded, stroking his chin like he was deep in thought. "Well, I do respect a man with a love for words. Tell me—what exactly were you hopin’ to achieve with this little chat?"

The flirter frowned, clearly confused.

"Were you hopin’ she’d find you more charmin’ than me?" He tsked, shaking his head. "That ain’t likely."

"Maybe you thought you could outwit me?" He grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. "That’d be a first."

The flirter opened his mouth, probably to argue, but Hosea lifted a hand, stopping him.

"Or—maybe you just enjoy flirtin’ with taken women. Now, that’s a dangerous little habit, my friend."

His voice was still light, still playful—but there was something underneath it, something just sharp enough to make the fool hesitate.

"So, here’s my friendly advice—take whatever dignity you got left, walk away, and count yourself lucky I’m in a good mood tonight."

The flirter didn’t need to be told twice. He muttered something and all but ran out the door.

Satisfied, he turned back to you with a grin. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he plopped himself into the seat beside you, resting an arm along the back of your chair.

"Now, how ‘bout you buy me a drink for my troubles? Savin’ my lady from unwanted attention is thirsty work." He mused jokingly.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

And no, he did not let you pay for his drink. He is too much of a gentleman.

John Marston

The saloon was dimly lit, hazy with cigar smoke and filled with the low hum of conversation. You were at the bar, waiting for your drink, when some nobody decided to slink up beside you, all smug confidence and cheap cologne.

“Well now, ain’t you just the prettiest little thing in here tonight?” the man drawled, leaning in slightly.

But before you even had to deal with it, you felt a familiar presence behind you—a looming, quiet storm.

John wasn’t one for scenes. He didn’t do flashy threats or loud outbursts. But when he was angry? You felt it.

A heavy hand landed on the bar beside you, just close enough to the man’s arm to make him notice. John didn’t say anything right away. He just stared.

The cowboy hesitated, then scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “Something wrong, friend?”

John let out a slow, tired sigh, like this was the last thing he wanted to be dealing with.

Then, in a low voice, he muttered, “Walk away.”

That was it. Just two words. But damn, did they carry weight.

The man chuckled, trying to brush it off. “Relax, I was just complimentin’ her.”

John’s jaw twitched. His hand flexed once against the bar. Then, just as calmly, just as quietly, he repeated, “Didn’t ask what you were doin’. I said, walk away.”

His voice was steady, deadpan, but his eyes? Cold as hell.

The cowboy hesitated, glancing between you and the muscular, very unamused man standing beside you. Eventually, he grumbled something under his breath and backed off. Smart choice. Your boyfriend didn’t even watch him go. He just exhaled through his nose, finally looking at you.

“You alright, love?” he muttered, voice still low, still gruff, like he was still shaking off the irritation. He then proceeded to sneak his arm around your shoulders, squeezing you tightly against him.

You smirked a little, nudging him lightly. “You gonna start throwing people out of saloons now?”

He scoffed, finally reaching for his drink. “If I have to.”

Then, after a beat of silence, he muttered, “Damn idiot’s lucky I was feelin’ patient.”

And that was that. No gloating, no dramatics. Just his usual, grumpy, quiet self—like scaring the hell out of some poor fool was just another part of his evening.

Javier Escuella

The saloon was loud, the air thick with cigar smoke and the scent of spilled whiskey. Javier sat at a table near the back, boots propped up, a half-empty bottle in front of him. His hat was tilted slightly forward, casting a shadow over sharp, dark eyes that scanned the room like a hawk.

He wasn’t in a bad mood. Not yet.

But then he saw it.

Some dumb pendejo had the nerve—the absolute balls—to sidle up to you, flashing some cocky smile like he actually had a chance.

He watched. For a moment. Maybe you’d tell the bastard off yourself.

But then the man had the audacity to touch your arm.

The chair scraped against the wooden floor as he stood. Oh, now he was in a bad mood. He walked across the room, boots heavy against the floor, zero hesitation in his step.

Before the flirter even knew what was happening, a strong hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back.

"Qué carajo te pasa, idiota?" Javier snapped at the man, forgotting to speak english thanks to how angry he was.

The flirter stumbled, eyes wide. "I—"

"No, no, no. You don’t talk. You listen." Javier's grip tightened, fiery anger sparking behind his gaze. "You think you can just walk in here and touch my woman?"

"I—I didn’t know she was taken!"

He scoffed, shoving the man backward with enough force to make him trip over his own damn feet.

"Scram"

The flirter scrambled up and bolted out of the saloon, leaving behind his pride and probably a little bit of his soul.

With that handled, he turned to you, still fuming.

"Qué chingados fue eso? Are you collecting dumbasses now, mi amor?"

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. "Its not like I want to, you know. Besides, I could have take care of it myself without the violence"

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair. "Sí, sí, cariña. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit there and watch some idiota put his hands on you."

His eyes softened—just a little—before he grabbed your chin, tilting your face up to his.

"Next time, just tell me first so I don’t waste time watchin’ before I break his damn nose, sí?"

Then, without waiting for a reply, he pressed a quick, fierce kiss against your lips—just enough to make a statement.

When he pulled back, he smirked.

"I don’t like wasting my time on dead men walking."

Lenny Summers

The saloon was buzzing, the low hum of conversation mixing with the clinking of glasses. Lenny sat at the bar, his legs dangling over the edge of the stool, playing with the rim of his glass absentmindedly. His quick-wit was always sharp, and his mind constantly raced with new ideas, but in moments like these, he found himself stuck in a kind of awkward silence, observing rather than jumping into the conversation.

He liked to think of himself as someone who didn’t need to make a big show of things—but right now, his attention was focused on you. You were laughing at something one of the other men said, your smile bright, and your eyes sparkling with amusement.

But then, a man he didn’t recognize leaned in a little too close, trying to match your energy and charm.

His fingers drummed nervously on the counter. Why was he feeling so uneasy?

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen men flirt with you before. But something about this one… he didn’t like it.

A quick glance to the side showed the man was pushing his luck, inching closer, leaning in with a confident grin that made his stomach twist.

There was a brief moment where he considered letting it slide. You could handle yourself; he knew that. He’d seen you put people in their place without raising a finger. But then the thought of that man getting too bold sent a rush of frustration through him.

With a deep breath, he stood up, adjusting his coat as he made his way over.

The man noticed him just as he was about to say something else, and he made the mistake of locking eyes with him.

"Hey" he said, his voice not quite as loud as he intended, a little unsure. "I think you’ve gotten a little too close."

The man shot him a confused glance.

"Come again?"

"I said… you’re a bit too close," he repeated, trying to sound calmer, more composed.

You turned to look at him now, a curious expression crossing your face.

He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, but he pressed on. This wasn’t like him. He’d spoken to men a lot worse than this. It was just—well, it was you. He hated seeing anyone else get too close to you.

"Hey, I don’t mean any harm" the man said, raising his hands in mock surrender "but I was just talking."

"Yeah, well," His voice dropped just a little lower. He cleared his throat and tried to appear more confident. "She’s not interested, alright? So, maybe it’s time to move along."

The man, realizing there was no point in arguing, just nodded with a lazy grin and walked off.

He stood there, awkwardly, unsure whether to feel relieved or embarrassed that he’d gotten worked up over something so small.

You were staring at him now, eyes narrowed slightly in amusement.

"Well" you said, a teasing tone in your voice, "you sure look scary mister"

He flushed, scratching the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. "I just I didn’t want you to be bothered by someone."

You smiled, stepping closer to him. You placed a gentle hand on his arm, trying to steady his nerves. "You don’t have to do that, you know. But I appreciate it."

His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he almost forgot where he was. "I’m just glad I could help."

You laughed softly, the sound making him smile more than he realized.

"Yeah sure did. Thank you" you said.

He felt the knot in his chest loosen, his shoulders relaxing just a little. "You have nothing to thank me for."

Charles Smith

The saloon was alive with noise—piano keys clinking, drunken laughter rolling through the thick haze of tobacco smoke. Charles sat at the bar, posture relaxed but never careless, one hand around a glass of whiskey, the other resting near the knife strapped to his belt.

He never spoke more than he had to. Words were cheap. Actions mattered. And right now, his attention was drawn to you. Or, more specifically, the fool who thought he had the right to stand too close, talk too sweet, and try his luck where he had no business trying.

At first, he waited. Gave the man a chance. Maybe he was just being friendly. Maybe he’d realize his mistake and walk away.

But then the flirter leaned in.

Your shoulders tensed ever so slightly. You weren’t scared—you could handle yourself, and he knew that.

Didn’t mean he had to let you.

Setting his glass down with deliberate ease, he rose from his seat and crossed the room in a few slow, measured steps.

The flirter didn’t notice him at first.

Not until a firm hand landed on his shoulder.

The man froze. Turned. Looked up into unreadable eyes.

"Step away," he said, voice quiet—but quiet in the way distant thunder warns of a coming storm.

The flirter blinked, surprised, then scoffed. "Didn’t realize she was taken."

His grip tightened—not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind the man that he could.

"You realize now."

A pause.

Then the flirter nodded, mumbling some excuse as he backed away fast enough to trip over his own feet.

Once he was gone, Charles finally turned to you, gaze softening just enough.

"You alright?"

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "I could’ve handled him."

His lips twitched, almost amused. "I know."

That was it. No gloating, no teasing. Just quiet certainty.

[rockscanfly]

Noshir Dalal’s response to my prompt “Please record Charles roasting Dutch post-refinery/Eagle Flies’ death”

Please please go throw money at @noshirdalal over at his newly established cameo. He’s such a talented and dedicated artist who really brought Charles to life and I love everything about this insane five minute monologue he made in response to my joke prompt. The pathos. The catharsis.

This is the only thing I’m going to be able to think about the rest of the week. I have so many questions. Starting with, of course: What did Charles do to his father, and what were the circumstances where Charles told Dutch about it, when that’s not something even Arthur seems to know?

(image ID and audio transcript below the cut)

[Video ID: Noshir Dalal, in the voice of Charles Smith. He is performing with head and shoulders in frame, periodically looking at the camera as if to address Dutch Van der Lin. There is a stone fireplace in the background

End ID]

[begin transcript]

He’s dead.

Eagle Flies, the boy that you rallied to glorious war who died taking a bullet for the man that you called son and then abandoned, is dead.

Relax, Dutch, I’m not here to hurt you. And if I was, you really think your pistols would save you from me?

I’m—I’m here to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry I—I didn’t see it sooner. I was so caught up in Arthur and how sick he is…that I didn’t see the sickness in you.

And you are sick, Dutch. And from that sickness, there is no medicine. How else do I explain it? Your willingness to turn your back on the most loyal man you have ever known. The welcoming of a snake hissing in your ear, how desperately eager you are to hear the worst lies about the people that love you?

That man will be your ruin, Dutch. He is no Hosea. He has you desperately scrambling after a paper crown but you’re paying for it with your kingdom. You will die with nothing and no one.

I leave in the morning. Rains Falls needs my help, and I will try, try, to undo some of the damage that you have done.

But before I go I hope that you will hear me. Arthur, the man that you left to die, is angry. Angry at himself because he doesn’t understand what he’s done to make you turn away from him. And through it all he stands with you, Dutch. He can’t bring himself to do it, because he loves you like a father.

But you know what I did to my father. So just imagine what I could do to you.

[end transcript]

[marstons-angel]

WHAT SET YOU FREE, BROUGHT YOU TO ME BABY.

rdr2 men + short blurbs about their favorite sex positions.

ft. arthur morgan, john marston, javier escuella, and charles smith.

✧ tags : SPOILER HEAVY, fem + afab!reader, unprotected sex, light angst (in the horny post is crazy im sorry fdkjjkds), very gendered language, javier says one thing in spanish (thank u @nanamimizz), a little sprinkle of plot with each (and some canon divergency), john co-parents w abigail, otherwise just horny. 18+

��� wc : about 1.4-8k each (6.3k total)

✧ a/n : sorry for making a multi character post for the cowboy game its cooking me to death. my john bias is showing rip. title is from rebel yell by billy idol but i listen to the bvb cover

sorry about charles and javiers but if i edit this anymore im going to level an entire city using hollow purple technique. please rb if you enjoyed i worked kind of hard on whatever this is.

sorry for . the THIRD repost of this i promise i wont after this. its just really bugging me. PLEASE

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ ARTHUR MORGAN + PRONE BONE ; 

It’s an odd feelin’ for Arthur. 

Wanting something, he means. Wanting anything as much as he wants you. He’s lived a less than quiet life up until now. And he ain’t the brightest, certainly, but living this kind of life teaches you many lessons. One of them being, it’s better not to covet anything. Coveting something you’re not entitled to, well—it’ll lead you places you wouldn’t want to go with a gun. 

Arthur has made the mistake of coveting love before, dreamed of a future so completely out of his reach he almost convinced himself it was possible. Dreamed of it so foolishly he’d even go visit a woman he very well ought to forget. It’s his problem, his burden to bear - always desiring outcomes unsuited to him. 

He’s just that sort of man he reckons. But he learned his lesson. He tries (tried?) to stay away from it after that. Tried not to pine too much for normalcy when such hopes had failed him twice. The loss of his child completely on his account and the loss of his love at the same fate. 

So, wanting you - well, he feels like the world's dullest fool. Really. How is it that Arthur had fallen in love with someone again? It had all just happened so quickly. You were another woman he’d saved from the O’Driscolls, though it wasn’t like you were no damsel. A lot of those men were dead by the time they arrived. That sort of perseverance would stick with you while you traveled together. Much like Sadie, you didn’t take well to housework - you liked to earn your keep. Though you’re not nearly so trigger happy. 

You’re quiet, thoughtful, well-read. Plus you’re good at making money. That’s why Dutch don't complain about you joining them, he figures. 

(Arthur tries not to pry into it too much at first, but he eventually learns that you’re gambling. Which is how you’re able to make such a fast turn around. A prim little lady like you makes for a fine poker player, and you love to play men out of their money. He thinks it’s one of the funniest and most interesting things about you. He can’t help but love you a little more for it. )

When the feelings in him start to stir, Arthur tries to overlook it. Arthur convinces himself, time and time again - that there’s no way he’ll grow more tender about you. Eventually, it’ll die down. You’re a decent woman is all, a kind one - who’s easy for him to love and even easier for him to confide in. In your time together, you often come to Arthur and you always seem to have some profound wisdom he is so sorely lacking. Someone easy to love, who does not expect much from Arthur at all. It’s only natural a lonely, covetous man like him would start to dream about you. He tells himself, it will pass eventually. Should he simply let it run by him, it will pass. But Arthurs a fool, you’ll remember. 

 Of course, by the time he understood all that - he already loved you enough that he couldn’t bear it. It was already too late and it wasn’t going to change any time soon. Especially not while everything changed around him. 

So, Arthur is undoubtedly a fool, but he’s lucky. He felt divinely blessed when you’d returned his feelings for him so politely. A coy little smile on your face, a laugh like you thought he was silly for being doubtful. Arthur tried to explain himself but you wouldn’t hear a word of it. Maybe that’s another thing he loves so much about you. There’s nothing he ever needs to explain. 

In any case, all Arthur seems to do lately is want you. Wants you when it’s inconvenient. Wants you before he wants liquor or a cigarette or some other vice. Any time anything goes wrong, you’re the first thing his mind can conjure up for relief. That pretty smile and that self-assured way of living. It’s hard to get time alone in camp. And Arthur is a man in love, so any touch could be enough to set him on fire. Last week you hugged his waist a little before giving him a kiss goodbye and he had to listen to you laugh yourself into a fit as he waited for…little Arthur to settle down. 

He don’t get many chances to be with you. Lay with you in that way that grown folk in love do. Though, if the two of you book it somewhere for a few days - the camp knows better not to ask where you’ve been. But it’s not often you get to really be together, where it’s peaceful to do that. Someone’s always hounding one of you to do something. 

Arthur is a lucky man though, like he said. Today he had time. Today he’s alone with you in a beat up little saloon and today he gets to do as he likes. He gets to be greedy. And it’s an odd feeling for him, really, to want something so bad he disregards everything else in the world for a little while. 

Feeling you, though - absolves the guilt for wanting. He’d be stupid to want you any less desperately. 

Arthur’s favorite way to have you is on your stomach. Laid flat, just barely pushed up against him as he fucks you deep. You’ll fuck like rabbits for a little while and Arthur will wear you out just like this, maneuvering you until you’re pinned all underneath his weight. You lose any fight you might have, too exhausted to worry yourself with pleasing him - and when you’re like that, you let Arthur take care of you. 

(He really ain’t talented at much, but he’s good with his hands. Being dexterous is part of being a talented shot. When Arthur has the time to spread you sweet in his lap and make you cum all over his fingers, he does so for as long as he can. At least until you beg him so sweetly otherwise. The same hands, soiled with gunsmoke, look so good so deep in you. At least in his eyes.)

Wet and pliable and helpless. Arthur loves you like that. He knows, he knows you’re anything but - but he’d be damned to pretend this don’t feel best. Tight, wet cunt so welcoming from all the pleasure he’s ripped out of you. Your bodies pressed together, your heartbeat pulsing through your skin. All sticky, honeyed need and animal desire as Arthur lets all of him sink on top of you. His heavy, lumbering form crushing you in - trapping you somewhere you can’t run from him. The curve of your spine pushed against his chest, ticklish. 

Every inch of his body that so wholly wants for you, Arthur aches to make you feel. Burn it in you lest anything happens that risks your forgetting. 

He can feel his hips meet your ass, backside squished against him - desperate for deeper friction. Whining. You’re whining to him so pretty, a pillow pushed underneath you to give friction to needy clit. 

Arthur can feel how much you want more. Maybe Arthur is greedy, but he likes that look much better on you. Your pussy is sucking him in so tight, silken walls pulsing with every shallow little measured thrust. Arthur lets his arm wrap around your neck, your face pressing into his bicep. You moan again and he laughs. 

“Arthur,” Your words come out in a messy slur. He lets his scruffy face press against your neck, a kiss behind your ear. He wants to kiss you all over. There’s not enough hours in the day. “Oh, god, Arthur,” 

“Still feels good, then, I’m guessin’,” 

“Shut up,” You huff and press your cheek into his arm. He doesn’t bother stifling his laugh. “Still feels…big. Stretchin’ me out—hicc—so much,” 

You really don’t try to rile him up - but you do a damn good job of it anyway. He groans, grunts as he pulls back and pistons himself in you. A gesture half-way between a kiss and the warning shot of a gun. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes, noisy and vulgar. Arthur don’t pay it much mind. He laughs against your shoulder.

“One of these days, that moutha’ yours is gonna get me in real trouble.” 

You giggle back at him 

“What kinda trouble is that now?” 

Even from your side glance, you’ve got that lovely little smile on you. Fuckdrunk and ingratiating, like you know he’s wrapped so tight around your fingers. And he is, like nothing else in the world could have him. A wave of possession curls up over Arthur, makes him press more of himself into you. Onto you. Another deep push of his cock, sliding against the tenderest parts of you. Staking some silent desire in you. He wants and wants and wants, and hopes that whatevers above him can forgive him for making the same mistake thrice. 

“Dunno,” Arthur comments, teeth grazing your shoulder and kissing the indentations “Got our whole lives together to find out, I reckon.” 

“I’ll hold you to it, Mister.” 

Arthur laughs. “Hope you do, Miss.” 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ JOHN MARSTON + COWGIRL ;

John doesn’t say that he loves you lightly. 

Hardly a thing he says can be said that way. Could never afford too. In an alternate universe where nothing goes wrong in his life, maybe - but he has a hard time picturing what the hell that’d look like. A version of himself so untainted, without all of the violence and blood and gunsmoke? Foreign. John can’t picture it worth a damn. 

Who John is without a deadbeat father and a dead Ma is somewhere far beyond his reach. Ain’t nothing about his life, at any point, lighthearted. 

On top of all that mess, he’s got a boy at age four with a woman he ain’t married too. And that relationship is always on rocky waters, even though John’s decided to do right by his own flesh and blood sometime ago. Most things in the world he should feel good about he doesn’t, and most things he should understand render him clueless. He’s a mess on multiple accounts, and he still doesn’t know how exactly he’s meant to approach this life of his. He knows what he should do, but nothing about how to do it. 

John doesn’t come to love you easily ‘cause he wouldn’t know easy love if it hit him in his face. Quickly and painfully, but not easily. 

Your return to the gang was an odd one. You were an old presence and your disappearance was an even older story. John thought he’d never gonna see you again for sure. You’d been a part of the gang back long before all of the nonsense that took place in Blackwater and you left about the time Arthur’s boy died. John don’t remember why you left exactly. He thinks it was a fight with Hosea, of all things.

 Dutch weren't too happy about it neither, but Dutch back then didn’t make a show. 

So you left, and John buried every feeling he ever harbored. You found all them again up in Colter, where you’d been living out your days lately. According to you, in the middle of riding, you thought you’d heard Arthur. So, somewhat recklessly, you went chasing him. Didn’t matter if he was just something your mind conjured. According to you, if it was him, it was at least worth checking to make sure. You’d reunited with Arthur and after some tears, he rode with you back to camp. 

Upon your return, the gang welcomed you with open arms. 

You’d done a lot in your time alone.You spent most of that time just like that, a ghost wanderin’ the planes. You weren’t gonna stay with ‘em, but Arthur insisted and Hosea did too. That wasn’t enough to compel, so John was last to chip in. You should stay, at least until Valentine. 

(Silently he thought, you should stay so John can trace memories of you. It was so long ago, he should’ve forgotten all of it. You were a year older than John and always on his ass but easy for him to talk to. Didn’t fuss over his failures. You just barely grew into your womanhood when you set your sights on running away. You wanted more than this life, and John never really forgave you for it. His first heartbreak, maybe - but it’s all too blurry for that. 

You understood him though better than anyone, and one day you were gone. Nothing’s really the same.) 

You changed tremendously and not at all. He missed you. God, did he ever. Missed you a long time. Didn’t realize how much until you came back and everything in him felt right again. Your return stirred up old feelings and everyone noticed. He wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, but he really wasn’t trying to fall back into anything with you. Not how he did. 

Just like you did back then, you read John like an open book. And just like he did back then, he loved you all too helplessly for it.  It was just all too easy again, to be with you. 

You stayed out of the way at first, for the sake of his family. 

But, John ain’t a half-decent man even when he’s trying to be. So he set himself on being with you. It wasn’t easy - most things with him aren’t as you’ll see.  Having you around again straightened what was left of his common sense, at least. He told Abigail before telling you. He figured you wouldn’t even reply unless that was all out of the way. That turned out as well as you’d expect.

 It was settled between the two of you thereafter. He’s lucky she didn’t toss him into the street. 

Everything works out in a way. As best they can between broken people. You make peace with each other. His boy loves you like a third parent (you’re better with him than John is). Abigail commends you for straightening out such a worthless man though she’s a little melancholy.  John just tries to stay out of the way. You’ll be together in the end. There’s a plan with the five of you. 

But until it all falls apart, he doesn’t get all that much time with you. 

There’s moments like tonight, though. Rare ones. Together out robbin’, cooped out some place in the woods where no one is around. A place so shaded by nightfall that John can absolve himself of every sin he’s ever committed in his life and pray at the altar between your hips. John is convinced he might find worship like he’s always hearing about there whenever he touches you, the marred skin of his hands and knuckles reading the scripture of your body with careful precision. 

You might turn him into a literate man yet. 

John glances up at you. Only the light of the fire and the moonlight there to accompany as he watches you over him. You’re beautiful. John couldn’t picture a single thing more perfect in his life. 

Your hands against his bare chest, nails digging into the flesh as you lean forward. Your palm dug into the dirt, John finds his own hands rested at your hips. John looks at you awe-struck, cock twitching at the mere sight. His heart settles in his throat, but he’s calm all at the same time. With you, he forgets. All of it. The worst of himself. 

Bare naked and so close, he watches your face as you strain. You feel soft. Every inch of you in comparison to him is. A bead of sweat slides down the valley of your breasts. John cranes his neck up to catch it with his tongue, licking a stripe up to your neck - letting his teeth sink into the space between your jaw and neck. You want to make it last and John doesn’t blame you. It’s so rare you get to have each other so unrestrained. John can feel all the ways you want him, can see it in your face - all pinched with need. You’re holding yourself back, trying to get it to last as long as the night will allow. It’s cute in a way.

It’s different than how he’s used to seein’ you, all cocky or otherwise. You’re needy like this. Just needy. His stomach turns with lust, jolting through him like a strike of lightning. His cock twitches against your folds, sliding against them. Pure admiration watching the sticky mess of his pre-cum and your own arousal mix together and smear on your mound. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, faint and tender as you fall forward just a little. John laughs against your neck. 

“Darlin’,” He says with a huff. Not malice. Something akin to bliss, where he can rarely afford it “Have I done something to piss you off today?” 

You pick yourself up and look down at him and frown. John kisses the corner of your mouth, resisting some crude desire to fuck up into you. 

“Just,” You grunt as the tip of his cock passes over your throbbing clit, your whole body wracking to a shiver. John looks awed. “Pent up. Goddamn it,” 

John figures it out quickly after that. It’s this part of it he likes. The proximity. The closeness. Feeling the tremble in your hands as they struggle to keep up right, muscles strained in your forearms. Being able to hold you, to keep the pace or let you take the lead. The clear view of your face as pleasure travels up through your spine and melts into you. He grabs your hips, the fat dimpling underneath his fingers as he moves you along. He can’t wait. You don’t bother to protest seeing John can’t seem to bear it anymore. You collapse into his chest, your tits pushed flat against his pecs.

His cock throbs near painfully, sliding against your soft cunt before finding himself lined with you. He thinks to himself that it’s this he was looking for, as he tucks your face against his neck and lets his tip stretch you out slowly. Such a vice like grip, stretching - resisting him like your whole body can’t anticipate the sensation of fullness. You gasp against his throat. 

“John,”  

What a sweet sound from your mouth, even sweeter as he bucks himself up. Keeps you steady and lets his cock stretch you full, feel you deep. “That’s right, my angel. Didn’t think you’d remember my name when you’re all worked up like this.” 

“You’re,” You gasp and John thrusts, thrusts hard until he’s buried to the hilt. You shudder, walls pulsing around him as he bottoms out and John laughs like the terrible man he is. He fucks you again, over and over - a wicked little smile watching “Awful. Just awful, John Marston,” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” He hums against your mouth as his hand snakes between your bodies, thumb rubbing against your clit. “Wonder what kinda woman that makes you,” 

“A foolish one,” 

John laughs. 

“I sure do love you for it,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆JAVIER ESCUELLA + SIDEWAYS ;

Javier hasn’t thought about much other than surviving. 

It’s been like that. Been like that for a while, probably much longer than he cares to admit. He’s sure any sane man would suffer the same plight if they lead the same life. Anything but survival is little more than a pipe-dream, so Javier tries not to go for anything too strongly. In that aspect he’s like many of the members of the gang he’s in, perhaps that’s why he sticks to them. There’s that phrase Hosea’s always saying - that misery loves company. Javier will take any decent company he can get.  He’s desperate for it just like he’s desperate for most things - inwardly, silently. 

Some of that desperation may be symptomatic of who he is. After he killed a man in a crime of passion for a woman he loved and ran from a government who would sooner exile him than change, Javier decided to not dream anymore. Every revolutionary who dreams too hopefully pays the price in blood.

(Javier thinks there’s probably nothing in the world as true as this. A form of gospel. He remembers the first dream he ever had after his uncle passed. Not a nightmare but a dream. He remembers the exact feeling of waking up, cold and confused. What is a dream, except a memento of survivor's guilt that loyal people cling onto fruitlessly. When hope starts to feel like a debt he’s going to waste his life paying back, Javier loses sight of everything. The beginning of the end in some way.) 

His mind doesn’t occupy itself with anything bigger than that. Since Dutch found him starving, there was never a desire to try and live off aspirations. He pays his penance with loyalty and honor. Practices some form of humility and tries, not too desperately, to carve a place for him to fit. All without drawing too much attention or caring too much. If you ignore the bleeding in his fingers, his penchant for knives over guns, and his refusal to talk too long about the place he comes from - it’s nearly believable that none of it matters. 

Except loyalty. All Javier honors is that. It’s the only thing he has some part in choosing, so he choses it every time. Living like that didn’t make any difference to him. He was surrounded by mostly decent people. He didn’t hate the life he was living. 

It wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. His directionless-ness, his floating. Hadn’t since he joined the gang. At least not to anyone but him. He didn’t know what he’s meant to do or if he was meant to proceed with this forever. He was (is)  loyal to Dutch. To the gang. 

He hadn’t thought much about what comes after. 

And it didn’t matter until he met you

He’d sworn off love after seeing where it got him, at least until he could love more dispassionately. When the women bring you back from their outing from Valentine and beg Dutch to let you stay, Javier doesn’t think much of it all. He thinks you’re pretty, if it counts for anything. But he doesn’t let himself linger on you too long. 

But that’s the sequence with you two, really. The whole time.  He doesn’t linger until he does. It doesn't matter until it does. He doesn’t think about you until it’s all he can think about. 

You go for him first. And it’s in little, unimportant ways that might not mean shit to you but mean a whole lot to him. You have some kind of tenderness about you that you wear deep, runs through your blood like love ran through his once long ago. Some softness he can’t really measure with his own. It’s not that that gets him. It’s that sometimes you look at Javier like he's … someone you want to see. He forgot what that was like all together. It felt foreign to him the first time it happened. Seeing how you light up when Javier is around. 

You wanted to see him. You noticed that he’s gone. If he sang by the campfire - you’d sit by him and listen.  If he was out in the trees keeping guard, he’d hear the soft call of your voice to Grimshaw ask Where’s Javier? And sometimes the girls will make fun of you - but you wouldn’t deny anything they said. It’s so small and ordinary. He would’ve never considered himself simple before meeting you. Nothing is simple. Nothing. 

(But then, Javier thinks of the kinds of songs he sings and the way he takes care of himself and the clothes he wears and maybe Javier has some kind of affinity for preciousness that explains all of it.) 

When Javier confesses his feelings for you - he finds the affair to be like most things between you. Ordinary love, not really between outlaws but people. It’s up against a tree while you share a drink and he’s looking at the curve of your mouth and the plum color Karen’s so kindly put on you. And his head fills with kissing you so he does. A breathless confession between alcohol stains and the feeling of your hands curled in the lapels of his suit. 

From there, Javier is your lover. He’s not interested in the business of secrets, but he tries not to let it show too much. Not that he doesn’t want to. He wants to show you off more than anything - at least some part of him does. But the other part wants to keep you away from prying eyes, keep his love for you only where the both of you can see. If he could keep that pretty lovestruck face you make all to himself forever he would. 

When he gets a chance to whisk you away from everything, Javier jumps at the chance. Not often, but Javier makes time for you. Makes time to indulge in love he thought he’d  never find again. 

That’s why he’s here with you in the middle of nowhere, a ghost town where no one knows you.. A reserved room with a bed and lowlights all to yourselves. 

Javier can’t keep his hands to himself and he doubts you expect him too. 

For Javier, this sense of proximity is what intoxicates him most. The warmth of your bare skin in the slivers of yourself exposed. Javier is fond of finding you like this after a long day of horse riding. Of sneaking touches to your waist as you push back against him to sleep, only to find his desire for you - laid clearly. He likes hearing you whimper feeling his length poke against your back, the embarrassment when it dawns on you that he wants you after all. Always surprised, even though Javier tells you it so often. Whispers it along your neck and shoulders whenever you’re at camp together.

You like the feeling of his hands so Javier always starts with them. He squeezes your hips. Planes his palms over your chest before squeezing your chest, pushing the fat between his fingers. You like the way  they look when they grope you, his chin resting against your shoulder as you spoon. In the lowlights of a cheap hotel - Javier gets the perfect view of your silhouette. Your body is sensitive over the fabric of your gown, heat prickling through you. 

Javier who is always so gentle with you, rouses so deep listening to your whining as he explores your body. The suffocating closeness of a single bed intoxicates him. 

“Javier,” Your voice is sweet and thin. Plays in Javier’s head like music and makes his mouth curl up into a catlike grin as you push back on him.  You look slightly over your shoulder, lips pushed into a pout. “Please,” 

He tugs at the fabric of your nightgown. The top half pulls haphazard underneath your tits, nipples perky and sensitive to touch while the skirt pools at your waist. What gets Javier like this is the desperation. Wanting so much but not being able to look too long. A way for you to mirror him, it’s a matter of possession. In some stupid way. Bunching your clothes up, pushing the fabric of your panties to one side, letting his arm wrap around your waist to touch and tease.  All of these are imprints of his longing, tucked faithful into your side as he whispers sweet nothings into your skin.

His cock twitches as it pushes past your folds with finality, your hands curling up at your sides.  You whimper softly, let your cheek rest against the sheets as Javier takes you on your side. Terribly close, you fuss as you feel him slide every inch into you slow, your hands reaching back for purchase. It’s the fit of you against him so perfect, the silent strokes of intimacy, the hush-hush giggles between the sheets that Javier loves most about fucking you like this. Too enamored with you to look too closely, he lets his eyes flutter closed. He could get drunk just being in your space. 

He carves out space for himself inside of you, feels your cunt accommodate for him like it loves him. A feverishness breaks out as his forehead rests on the space between your shoulders, an uncharacteristic whiny quality in his words. 

“Ser mío,” Javier says - as a reflection of what he really wants, to belong only to you. “Belong to me.” 

Darling as you always are, you nod softly. 

“All yours, Javier,” You whimper, finding his hand. “Forever,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ CHARLES SMITH + MATING PRESS ; 

Wandering. 

He’s been doing it his whole life. Not something he’s proud of. Or ashamed of either, really. Just how things have gone for him until now. Charles doesn’t think his life has been any better or any worse than anyone else's. At least not when he weighs it with the same kind of pragmatism he does most things. It’s been a hard life, and a miserable one in so many ways. Still, it’s not something Charles is too keen to dwell on. 

There’s just something thematic about loss in Charles' life in a way he finds completely unpleasant. It’s more constant than anything. Loss of his home, loss of his mother, loss of his father in an attempt to find what’s best for him. It’s some overarching message that hangs over his head like a shadow. Everywhere he goes, trying to rectify his own solitude seems to come back to him. It doesn’t help that it’s an unfair world to start with, and would’ve been if he had just been black or just been native. But Charles is both, and has lived a life that reflects that specific injustice thoroughly. 

There’s not really anything Charles can do about it, at its baseline. When he left his father, the name of the game had simply been survival. He was well-equipped enough for that at least. But after survival comes trying to live and trying to live isn’t something so simple. Jumping in and out of gangs who thought they could get away with slighting him or generally being surrounded by unpleasant people. Trying to find something in pages of book and scripture, or in the way water ripples when it rains. 

He’s never felt any one way towards the gang. Even when he joined them all the way back in the Grizzlies. Lost in the cold, they’d crossed paths as Charles was out hunting. A lot of it feels like a blur. Of all the folks he’s met in his travels though, Dutch treats him fair and the rest of them (or most of them) are decent, honest folk. Charles stays in the Van Der Linde gang for such simple reasons as trying to stay alive and be somewhere that isn’t actively hostile towards him. He’s a good gunman, and a better fighter. The inner workings of gang politics and forging connection isn’t at the forefront of his mind, with the exception of the kindest few. 

The Van Der Linde gang is just a place where he can figure out what his purpose is meant to be, even if he doesn’t find it there. He’s never expecting anything to come out from his loyalties to it. 

Of all the things Charles expects of his life in the Van Der Linde gang, love is at the very bottom of the list. 

Maybe it’s about time he stops being surprised by these things happening to him one or way another.

 You were a member of the gang far before him, and someone Charles took to quickly. You’d joined the gang not too long after John from what Arthur tells him. Though the brunette speaks about you more fondly than he does his brother. A problem child at the start, according to Arthur - always getting into all sorts of trouble. Something you seemingly feel embarrassed about now and refuse to bring up. Charles has a hard time picturing it having only known you as you are. 

The woman you’ve grown into is someone else completely, and Charles sees that in you all the time. Compassionate like Hosea but charismatic like Dutch, and clever. And you’re beautiful, too, though Charles feels a little shallow admitting that’s part of what drew you into him. 

It wasn’t Charles that approached you first. You were the one who spoke to him, as often as you thought necessary but never in a way he found invasive. He doesn’t know what it is exactly about you that charms him near instantly. You’re enigmatic to a fault. It’s like you always know exactly what to say and exactly when to say it. Even more than that, you’re a terribly pleasant person to be around. Subtly warm and free of assumptions. When Charles talks to you about anything, you listen without making him feel like it’s any sort of burden to you. You don’t pry, don’t make missteps. Treat him fair, and then some. 

It’s unbearably simple, just how quickly and how easily he comes to adore you.  And, in some ways, Charles knows better than to believe that his purpose is loving someone. There’s more to it than that, surely - after everything. 

But then, he’ll watch you do something. Watch you do some kind of menial work that he could do for you instead. Thinks of skinning animals for new clothes and chopping wood and rubbing the soap off of you and all of a sudden it makes him feel anchored. Everything he could do for you. You anchor Charles easily, with a wispy smile. Make him want to find purpose in life with you. He never wants to be somewhere you’re not. 

He confesses it to you just like that, and like you do with most things - you accept and reciprocate without making too much of a fuss. 

For Charles, making love is an extension of wanting to ground himself in you. A distant siren song - the intersection of lust and bone deep adoration. Like most things, you’re the one to approach first every time. A soft hand on his forearm, a whisper that you want him. It’s with ease that he draws you away. Drags from you camp during nightfall with his horse and blankets and picks a spot with the perfect view of the stars. 

Charles watches you under the glow of moonlight, his vision adjusting to you easily. Naked underneath him, laid on your back with your legs folded at your knees - heaving deep breaths. He can see the sweat beading down your skin, your chest rising and falling - and the perfect view of your pussy. His hands and mouth are wet as you breathe out. He finds himself smiling at you, his own erection pressed against your thigh, pre-cum leaking out in a mesmerized haze. 

You lift your hands up and he leans down, surprised as you wrap them around his neck and pull him closer to you. Your mouths meet like that, and Charles laughs against your lips as you kiss him so eagerly. You blink at him, pretty. You’re always prettier than he remembers you being the last time he looks. 

“Charles,” You frown at him. “It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting,” 

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Sorry, my love. I don’t want to hurt you,” 

“Well, I’m fine with it,” You repeat, almost petulant. Charles frowns. “‘Sides, it ain’t my first time taking you, you know?” 

“Well, I’m not fine with it.” 

You pout, looking at him all endeared. Charles couldn’t help but love you even if he tried. “You ain’t gonna hurt me. C’mon. Please?” 

“Please, what?” 

You look at him aghast before breaking out into a faux-scandalized giggle. “Now you—please fuck me. Pretty, please.” 

Charles feels something tickling against his spine hearing you say it. He couldn’t imagine getting sick of you in his whole life.  “Yeah, that’s good to hear.” 

You make an indignant noise but it’s silenced quickly as Charles positions himself against your entrance. He has plenty of discipline when it comes to matters like these, but right now - he feels like he’s going to lose his mind. Not nearly enough patience to wait. He lets his hands go up underneath your knees just to have something to hold onto. 

You make a little gasp as the tip of his cock pushes into you. Your walls are so soft, likely after all the orgasms he’d given you prior. You stop him in a shocked gasp, and Charles immediately readies himself to pull out. As if sensing his hesitance, you shake your head. 

“Charles,” You gasp, the words caught in your throat and hoarse “Deep. Want it deep,” 

His abdomen tightens, cocking twitching hard at your words. He agrees silently to your desires. 

When it comes to sex, there’s very little Charles dislikes.

But this is his favorite. He’s simple but no other position lets him see you so close. He likes the way your eyes widen as he pushes up underneath your knees and folds you underneath his weight. How you look pinned down under him, the perfect view of your eyes rolling back into your head and the proximity from your face to his. He lets his cock stretch you out slowly, throbbing each time your nails dig desperately into arms trying to keep your composure. Fuck you feel so tight like that. Soft pussy, dripping and sticky. You suck him in relentlessly, and Charles groans as he bottoms out. You take every inch of him so well. So perfect like the rest of you. 

Your eyes flutter open as he stays there, buried in you in complete bliss. You’re dazed. 

“Kiss?” 

Surprise followed by adoration, he abides by your request easily. Overwhelmed with it as he presses a chaste peck to your mouth, he laughs. “As many as you want.”

Anything you want, Charles thinks, he would give to you. 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

[vivelegalite]

dear dead boy detective (especially paynland) enjoyers: have you yet heard of the biggest gift bestowed upon the fandom so far, aka jayden's charles playlist? the one he mentioned in interviews? well, he dropped it on twitter at 19th of may. and man, do i have stuff to say about it.

there's a lot of 80's bangers, for sure, great to get into the mood and character, but some of the choices...

i'm gonna focus on a few of my favourites, songs that made me go insane when i saw them. honorable mentions: - category 1 (so devoted the lines blur): ain't no mountain high enough by marvin gaye and tammi terrell, there is a light that never goes out by the smiths, inkpot gods by the amazing devil - category 2 (family life): family line and summer child by conan gray, seventeen going under by sam fender, matilda by harry styles, father by the front bottoms - category 3 (being queer in the 80s): smalltown boy by bronski beat, boys don't cry by the cure - category 4 (there's no heterosexual explanation for this one): good luck, babe! by chappel roan, yellow by coldplay, fight or flight by conan gray (is this about monty? the cat king? i need answers!), the prophecy by taylor swift, arms tonite by mother mother, sweet by cigarettes after sex, head over heels by tears for fears

this list is by no means complete or comprehensive!

and now, the songs that made me go the craziest: (they're predominantly in charles' pov as it's his playlist)

found heaven by conan gray

the only reason this song made it into the list and not the honorable mentions instead of smalltown boy is that it makes almost the same point, just so much more explicitly. i don't think i have to say much about it, it's a story of a young person griping with their queerness, being forced to leave home, a common theme of the playlist. "you're in love, you found heaven" when he chose edwin over his own afterlife, heavily implied to be heaven, and built his heaven with him on the mortal plane? ouch! (and we see this same notion repeated in another bop from the playlist, heaven is a place on earth by belinda carlisle).

2. like real people do by hozier

"i miss kissing" charles rowland, 202X romantic meaning aside, the verses show a sort of a common understanding the boys have around the manner of their deaths and their lives before it. we already know from the show they don't really talk about it, with edwin not knowing about the severity of the abuse charles suffered. it feels like one of them saying "let the past be past, we're together now, yeah?". but also, jayden: can there ever be a platonic explanation for this? ghosts can't touch, can't feel, so they wish they could just kiss like "real" (alive?) people do?

3. flaws by bastille

not the most romantic song, but i absolutely love how well it fits their dynamic. despite his edwardian brand of repression, edwin truly is the one that's more open about his feelings (recognising of course that in this case, the bar is so low it's in hell. haha, get it). edwin has worn his flaws upon his sleeve, and charles has held them buried - eg. bottling up all of his anger and resentment towards his family and his own death. the song presents a very sweet outlook, in which their flaws are brought up to the surface (for example, charles' outburst against the night nurse in episode 4), but they learn to accept them as they are, an extension of themselves.

4. a pearl by mitski

you know it's gonna get intense if there's a mitski song in the mix.

the song is about a person who finds love in their partner, someone who treats them way better than they've ever been treated - and yet they cannot bring themselves to reciprocate the affection ("it's not that i don't want you, sorry i can't take your touch") despite reciprocating the feelings themselves because of the trauma. charles is known to bottle things up ("you're growing tired of me and all the things i don't talk about"). the person in the song recognises the love the other person holds for them ("you love me so hard and i still can't sleep"), which reminds me of charles' response to edwin's confession. not a "no", but a "maybe, as time passes".

5. fair by the amazing devil

this one made me genuinely gasp when i first delved into the lyrics. it's simply so sweet, such a genuine and domestic portrayal of love. at first i thought it was way too open about being a love song (normal text instead of the subtext i'd be used to) for jayden to choose it with edwin in mind, but... there's no one else it can really be about. it's far too domestic, too "established" to refer to crystal. refers to a relationship that's laster for a longer while.

the narrator in the first verse is a person deeply in love with the other person, someone who loves to make his lover laugh and simply drinks in their presence. the "he" in the song i believe is charles, while the "she" refers to edwin. edwin promises to fight off anyone - or any feelings pulling charles down (we can see this in the first episode: "you ever think... what if death did catch us? she'd force us to go to the afterlife and split up" "i will make sure this never happens."). charles feels left behind by the world (seeing as he clings to crystal at first, refering to her as "someone their age who's still alive") and believes edwin to be so much stronger than he's ever been. i'm not going to break down the song verse by verse, but if you read it yourself while subbing out "he" for charles and "she" for edwin you'll see just how sweet (and... strangely very in character?) the song is.

6. work song by hozier

if the previous song made me gasp when i saw the lyrics, this one made me go "NO WAY" out loud when i saw the title. the first one verse is just pure toothrotting sweetness, but the chorus is what i want to draw attention to:

when my time comes around lay me gently in the cold, dark earth no grave can hold my body down i'll crawl home to her

HELLO? charles, who keeps escaping death and afterlife to be able to stay with edwin? charles, as he literally takes his last breath with edwin right there, choosing to be by his side rather than move on? charles, who keeps choosing him despite night nurse's promises and threats? charles, who literally crawled through hell for him?

verse 2, to me, can be interpreted as referring to when charles died. edwin found him at his worst, and he "woke" up with his presence comforting him. he was shivering due to hypothermia and his injuries. edwin didn't ask him about what happened or pushed him, he simply listened. the lines "i didn't care much how long i lived, but I swear, i thought i dreamed her" are pretty self explanatory.

in verse 3 we still see the same attitude of "damn the afterlife, at least we have each other" as charles portrays througout the series. they're free, and heaven and hell are simply words to him.

7. orpheus by vincent lima

i literally have no words for this one. it fits too well. if you want commentary for this one, just... i don't know, rewatch the staircase scene.

8. francesca by hozier

(cracks knuckles) this is the big one. the album francesca is from, unreal unearth, is based on dante alighieri's divine comedy, a fourteenth century poem about a man venturing into hell, purgatory and eventually heaven. the eponymous francesca is one francesca di rimini, a woman who was politically married off to a man older than her, called giovanni malatesta. francesca didn't love him, and eventually fell deep in love with giovanni's younger brother, paolo. the two carried on with the affair for years, before being murdered by giovanni upon his finding out. francesca and paolo are mentioned in canto v of the first book, inferno, as two souls damned in the second circle of hell, lust. their punishment is to be permanently locked in a hurricane, swept away by the winds the moment they manage to get close enough to touch one another.

as opposed to their portrayal in the poem, the song is from the perspective of paolo, explaining that no matter the punishment, he wouldn't change anything about his life because he got to know, and love, francesca.

the first verse brings to mind the scenes in hell, especially on the staircase ("do you think I'd give up? that this might've shook the love from me? or that I was on the brink? how could you think, darlin', i'd scare so easily?" as an echo of charles' "sorry. no version of this where i didn't come get you"). "my life was a storm since i was born, how could i fear any hurricane?" could relate to charles' tumultuous family life, an assurance that nothing he has to deal with while by edwin's side will faze him given the things he's lived through. no, despite everything he's suffered through, charles wouldn't do anything differently - because his (admittedly shitty) life led him to edwin ("i'd tell them, put me back in"). we already know charles would choose him over heaven, willingly sacrificing his own afterlife to stay with a boy he's known for hours, someone kind enough to keep him company as he drew his final breath. all of it - his father's abuse, his schoolmates' bigotry, the pain of his own death, as well as everything he's gone through since - he'd do it all again, for edwin.

"for all that was said of where we'd end up at the end of it" could be taken as an allusion to the fate the boys would meet at "at the end of it", when they're finally caught by death and separated, or as more of a general "if you sin, you will go to hell when you die" (up to you to decide what the sin itself would be - an interpretation that would work with other songs on the playlist is that one such sin would be same sex attraction). then their hearts ceased, they never knew "peace", nor did they want to find it in death. their deaths were too soon, them being ripped away from life, but even though it would break his heart: charles would ask to do it all again.

the outro, i think, beautifully pulls it all together: heaven is not fit to house a love like theirs.

to wrap it all up:

jayden, what were you cooking in there? what do you know??

[fawnwilde]

Could you potentially write a little something about reader traveling with Charles after Arthur’s death? Reader was in the gang, she is very sweet and friendly, and is good at getting people to do what she wants, while Charles is good at survival and keeping them alive. Together they travel, seemingly complete opposites but slowly falling for each other. Reader understands his need for silence, and Charles entertains her meaningless conversations. Charles is tired of being a lone wolf and finds comfort in having someone to look out for, and gains a sense of safety having her looking out for him. Maybe something about them around a campfire one night, maybe reader convinces Charles to have a drink with her and things get a little intimate for the first time, or fluffy idk! Whatever you want! Thank you very much

What Comes After I ⋆˚࿔

Charles Smith x reader

next

rating: explicit (18+)

This is such a great ask, thank you so much!! I took the prompt and kind of went crazy with it, so I hope you like it! <3

content warning: smut MDNI, angst, fluff, sunshine reader, period typical racism, friends to lovers, outdoor sex shenanigans, cunnilingus, piv sex, cuddlin n shit

word count: 4.2k

You were there when Arthur died.

The both of you had witnessed the gang’s demise, until it was only you two and John left. When it came to it, he had told you to leave with John. And you planned to, but you had a bad feeling when Arthur left your line of sight.

You found him on the mountain, beaten to within an inch of his life with Micah Bell standing over him. You tried to get in between them, willing to die to protect your friend. Micah looked ready to do that for you, if Dutch hadn't intervened.

But that brief kindness meant nothing to you when both he and Micah left, turning their backs on you.

Arthur told you not to worry, told you to leave in case Micah came back. But you refused, unwilling to leave him in his state. You held his hand as he succumbed to his injuries, his body too far gone to do anything. The both of you watched the sun rise, and you only allowed yourself to cry when you felt his hand go limp in yours.

Charles found you there, not too long later.

You were sitting beside your fallen friend, tears blurring your vision as you prepared yourself to bury Arthur. A shadow was cast over you, and you looked up to see Mr Smith, a devastated look on his face.

You weren't upset with Charles for not being there when it all fell apart. He had his own job to do, one which was personal to him. But no matter how many times you said that, you could tell he felt guilty for not being there to help when he was needed.

You buried Arthur together. Hands shaking with every pile of dirt removed from the ground, tears reflecting off your skin as you placed him in his grave. The two of you stood on top of the mountain for a while, unwilling to leave Arthur alone.

After a while, you felt Charles take your hand. You looked up at him, and he nodded, pulling you away.

You and Charles weren't close before. He joined the gang less than a year before the fall, where you had been a member since John had joined.

Charles was always kind to you. He was soft spoken when talking to you, his hands were respectful when he helped you off a wagon, and he sat silently beside you around the campfire, a calming presence. He was a friend, someone you could rely on, but only one of many.

Now, as if overnight, you were all each other had. And The two of you certainly made an unusual pair.

You travelled side by side across the plains. He atop his large steed, you driving your trusty wagon. The quiet roads between towns were only disturbed by your incessant talking. You never liked silence, and would often find yourself chattering away to an audience of one.

Charles would rarely contribute. He would hum in agreement if you asked for his opinion, or huff out an amused laugh at your retelling of an old camp incident. The most you would get out of him was when you would ask him a question about the surrounding nature, or about the type of bird that landed on your bench. You enjoyed the days where he would tell you about his culture.

Sometimes you wonder if you annoy him. He was a man of few words, while you were always known for your silver tongue and lively personality.

Whilst you had been a part of the gang for years, you were never there for your fighting abilities. You knew how to shoot, sure, but your skills were limited. You were a natural born sweet talker, and a personable aura that got people to trust you. Dutch often had you working as a distraction, or out gathering information. But you liked to think that your main job was being the voice of reason, or a friend to everyone in camp,

But while you could sell milk to a cow, you couldn’t defend yourself against a real threat. The others would protect you in danger, and now that Charles was your only companion, he was always your saviour. He would defend you from the occasional coyote, he would hunt food to keep you from going hungry, he would be by your side if a stranger got too comfortable with you.

Charles had become everything to you, but you were scared that in the days where he would be silent, he was regretting taking you with him. You weren't much use save for your chatter, which Charles clearly had no use for.

You sometimes fear you’re a burden.

Today, as the sun had started to set, you were glad to see a town on the horizon. A town meant you could get a drink somewhere, maybe a hot meal that Charles’ wouldn't have to catch for you, and a room with a bed.

You were also thankful that Charles would get a break from you.

It was a self deprecating thought, you know, but you hoped that if Charles had a night away from you, it would make it easier being on the road again with you the next day.

You look over at the man in question, noting the deep furrow in his brow, and his tight grip on the reins. He was tense, and you shrank in your seat worrying if you are the reason.

The two of you hitch your horses outside of a run down saloon. You begin climbing down from your wagon, accepting the hand Charles offers.

“Thank you.” You smile, and he nods.

The two of you walk into the saloon. It’s dim,and smells strongly of liquor and sweat, but you cannot help but feel giddy at the sight of food being served from the bar.

“I'll apologise in advance, I don’t think I’ll be too ladylike when I get a meal.” You laugh, looking up at Charles as you make your way across the floor, “I could eat a horse right now.”

“Don’t tell me you’re bored of what I get us already.” Charles huffs, an amused smile playing on his lips.

You smile even brighter at his jest. You take a seat at the bar, warily putting your hands on the sticky bar. Charles hovers beside you, surveying the saloon with focused eyes even in the low light.

The bartender wipes a rag over a glass, raising an eyebrow at the odd pair of you, “What can I get you?”

You order food and a shot of whiskey for yourself. Charles declines a drink, eyeing the bartender warily as the other man stares at him for too long. You place a couple of notes on the bar before Charles touches your shoulder.

“There’s a hotel across the street, I’ll go and get us a couple of rooms.”

“You don’t want to eat here?” You ask, confused.

He shakes his head, “I'll figure something out. Don’t feel like staying here too long.”

You nod with a sad expression. This is one of the worse areas, plenty of white patrons glaring at Charles. It makes you sick, judgement against one of the best men you know simply for the colour of his skin. You understand why he wants to leave, and touch his arm gently in reassurance.

He looks down at you with an unreadable expression, before nodding and turning to leave.

The bartender leaves you your meal, and you try to eat without feeling down about being alone. You enjoy Charles’ company, and you always feel safe when he’s around. You down your shot, feeling a prickling sensation at the nape of your neck.

The feeling of being watched.

Turning your head, you make eye contact with a man. He’s tall and gangly, face red with sun burns. He smiles hungrily at you, dry lipped and yellow stained teeth. You shudder, turning back around and trying to make yourself even smaller.

A presence appeared at your side, and you hoped that Charles had changed his mind and come back. But no, as you turn, you come face to face with the unnerving man from before.

He licks his teeth, looking you up and down with a predatory grin, “Never seen you around these parts, girly. Where’ve you come from?”

Disgust crawls up your spine.

You lean away from him, grimacing.

“Aw, where do you think you’re going, kitty? Come play with me.” The man reaches out, his fingers brushing against the bare skin on your shoulder, before his hand is snatched away.

You gasp as Charles comes into view. He towers over the other man, who’s face drops when he looks up at your rageful friend.

“Get your hands off of her!” Charles shoves the man back, sending him crumbling and cursing.

You gasp as Charles takes your hand, leading you firmly but gently out of the saloon. Patrons stare as you leave, whispering amongst themselves at the chaos.

You’re led across the street, Charles’ hand in yours the only warmth protecting you from the chill of the night. He walks briskly, a sneer on his lips. You hold onto him tighter, letting him lead you into the hotel and up the stairs.

He takes you to one of the rooms, unlocking it and gently pulling you in. Once the door is closed, he deflates slightly, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gotten so angry.” Charles says softly.

You shake your head, “You've got nothing to apologise for. You saved me again.”

He smiles sadly, shrugging as he makes eye contact with you, “It's been a long day.”

You look down at your joined hands, surprised to see him still holding it. He lets you go, almost hesitantly, before taking a step away from you.

“You should get some rest. We’ll go at sunrise, get away from this town.” Charles growls the last word, eyes flashing as he remembers the man from the saloon.

Nodding, you clasp your own hands together. He turns to leave.

“Goodnight Charles.”

“Goodnight, dove.” He says gently, the nickname he sometimes uses for you making you smile.

The door closes behind him, leaving you alone and rubbing at the hand he held, missing the warmth he provided.

The next morning, you meet Charles outside the hotel. He feeds both of your horses apples, talking quietly to them with an easy smile on his face.

You join his side, exchanging greetings before heading off.

The journey starts normally, you retell a story of when Arthur and you stumbled upon an O'driscoll hide out and had to hide in a couple of fox holes. Arthur got stuck and you had to dig him out while a mother fox almost bit his nose off.

Halfway through the story, you notice Charles looking tired and weary, and anxiety creeps up on you again, worried you’re annoying him again.

A fork in the road separates the path in two directions. You pull your horse to a stop, a sigh deflating you.

Charles halts as well, looking over at you.

“Charles… look, maybe we should..” You start, voice trembling. You can’t look at him keeping your eyes low as you try to sift through your thoughts.

He says your name softly, walking his horse closer to our wagon.

“Maybe we should go our separate ways.” You choke out, “I… I can’t stand making you feel miserable. I know you feel an obligation to me, us being the last two left, but you shouldn't feel the need to stick around. I want you to be happy, Charles.”

You sit in silence. Your eyes remain on the dirt ground, a tear falling down onto your skirt.

Charles sighs, murmuring your name again, urging you to look at him again.

“You don’t make me miserable.”

Looking up, you lock eyes with him. He looks ashamed, guilty for making you feel this way.

“Im sorry if I seem miserable. But I’m not. I like listening to you talk. You make my days happier.” He shrugs, looking away and off into the distance, “So. I don’t think we should go our separate ways. I'll be too bored.”

With that, he clicks his tongue, spurring his horse forwards.

“Now, what happened when the fox found Arthur in her home?” He asks you.

You watch him for a moment, feeling happiness rise in your chest again.

After that conversation, things became infinitely better with Charles.

Knowing that you didn’t annoy him and that he enjoyed your talkativeness made you embrace your own personality around him. Your days were filled with easy conversation, enjoying the scenery surrounding you both.

Charles made more of an effort to engage with you, but you often reminded him that he didn’t need to change himself for you, you liked him just the way he was.

You loved him just the way he was.

You didn't tell him that. You realised it while the both of you were taking a break from travelling.

A deer calf had gotten trapped on the edge of an embankment,it’s mother panicked and erratic. Charles climbed down and rescued the baby deer, moving swiftly but gently.

He managed to renite the family without causing any more stress, taking his leave as the mother cleans her young.

As Charles mounted his horse, a buck approached the doe and calf, checking over the baby and mother. The small family looked to you and Charles, before retreating back into the woods. The buck lingered, before it followed his family.

He wondered aloud about the buck, explaining to you reincarnation and how he believed that maybe the buck was Arthur, and the doe and calf, the family he lost. He shrugged off your skepticism, stating that he just hoped Arthur would find happiness in another life.

You realised you were in love with Charles Smith in that moment.

The two of you had set up camp in a small clearing, a winding river surrounding you and giving you somewhere to fish.

You got you both dinner, and helped Charles start a fire.

Once dinner was eaten and the sun had set, you sat back and watched him as he stoked the fire. The flames lit his face stunningly, his strong brow and full lips casting moving shadows, his dark eyes tired but focused on the task at hand.

You reach into your satchel, looking for your journal to do a quick sketch of him. Your fingers brush against something glass, and you almost exclaim in glee when you pull out a bottle of whiskey you bought a few weeks back. It's unopened, the opportunity to pour a glass never appearing.

Tonight would have to do.

You unscrew the lit, nose wrinkling slightly at the harsh odour immediately released. Taking a quick swig, you wince at the burn, but grin at the warm feeling it immediately provides.

Charles looks up, and you wave him over.

“Come on, come drink with me.” You smile, shaking the bottle gently.

He raises his eyebrows, looking between you and

“I don’t think so.” He chuckles, grabbing his knife and a block of wood to whittle.

You sigh, frowning.

“I don’t understand you sometimes, Charles Smith.” You say, exaggerating your disappointment to guilt him to join you, “We’re safe here. You can relax for a night.”

Charles huffs through his nose, glaring at you half-heartedly “And if tonight is the night we finally get attacked by a pack of hungry wolves?"

“Then I will defend us.” You say with faux stoicism.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” You giggle, grabbing both of your tin cups.

He laughs, eyes crinkling with a large smile, “Fine. One drink.”

One drink turned into two, which turned into three, and… you lost count at six. The two of you were lay on the grass a few feet from the fire, laughing at a story you were telling about when Sean tried to do a heist alone and somehow ended up getting chased all the way back to camp by a pack of hungry dogs. Your side hurt from laughing, and Charles’ own laugh echoed around you.

While you sighed and stretched, you could feel Charles’ eyes on you. He's silent for a moment, and you open your mouth to ask him what's wrong, before he speaks.

“I’m in love with you.” He murmurs.

You giggle, turning to look at him. He’s already watching you, his normally serious face relaxed with the effects of the alcohol.

“Really?” You ask, turning over fully to lie on your side.

Charles turns too, nodding. He reaches out, tucking a piece of fallen hair behind your ear. He watches your face, his eyes travelling over your features before landing on your lips.

“Could you love me?” He whispers.

You smile, “I already do.”

Who moved first is anyone's guess, but it doesn't matter as is hips meet yours. They’re warm and firm, and better than you dreamed.

You sigh against him, and Charles deepens the kiss, your tongues meeting in a pleasant battle.

He rolls on top of you, settling between your thighs and dragging his hands over your body. Charles is careful with his touches, feeling your skin with reverence and affection.

You wrap your arms around his neck, winding your fingers in the thick hair cascading from his scalp and fanning around both of your faces. He groans appreciatively as you tug on his strands, his hips pressing flush against yours.

Your gasp breaks the kiss, feeling his large, solid member pressing against you. Charles grunts, kissing along your neck while he shallowly thrusts against you, seeking pleasure only your body can provide.

“Charles…” You moan, spreading your legs further and gripping onto him harder.

“Fuck, love.” Charles sits up on his haunches, admiring the sight you make. His eyes roam over you, his pupils dilated and lips swollen from your kisses.

His thumb rub soothing circles on your hips, his eyes locking on yours once more.

“Do you want this?”

“More than anything.”

A deep rumble emerges from his chest as his hands fly to your shirt, unbuttoning it before growing impatient and tearing it in half. You gasp, then whine as his hands drift to your breasts, caressing your flesh lovingly before pulling your chemise down to expose the skin to his eyes. His lips descend upon them, nipping and sucking marks and taking your nipples into his mouth.

Writhing beneath him, your hand return to his head, dragging your nails across his scalp and gripping his hair when he sucks on your sensitive skin.

His mouth travels lower, tugging your chemise down along with your skirt and bloomers, leaving you naked beneath the moon. Charles inhales sharply as he admires you, groaning as he kisses every inch of skin accessible.

With a swift motion, he pulls your thighs over his shoulders, looking up at you for permission. You nod and whine down at him, “Please, Charles-”

He needs no further invitation, plunging his face into your cunt. Gasping, your neck arches as he latches onto your clit, rolling his tongue and teeth over it thoroughly. Stars appear behind your clenched eyes as Charles worships your pussy, devouring you like a man starved.

One of your hands grips his hair, while the other claws at the dirt below, feeling your orgasm approaching embarrassingly close. Charles alternates between plunging his tongue into your slick hole and sucking your clit into his mouth, making you pulse and writhe against his mouth. He groans against you, his own eyes rolled back in enjoyment.

As you reach the precipice, your hand clenches in his hair, sharp enough to possibly hurt, but he doesn't cease his task. He knows you’re close, and puts pressure back on your clit, his teeth dragging across it.

You cum with a cry of his name, back arching and cunt leaking like a faucet. Charles kisses your cunt as you come down, murmuring praises against your thighs.

“Are you alright, my dove?” He asks, crawling back on top of you and cupping your face, eyes looking over you with love and pride.

You nod, a tired smile on your face. “Mhm.” You reach down, cupping his bulge and causing him to groan, “Want you.”

“Think you can handle me?” He's not cocky with his question; you can tell he is sizable against your palm, big enough to rip you apart if he's not careful. But you trust him, and need him in this moment.

“I can. Made for you.” You smile, kissing him again softly and unhurried.

Charles groans, sitting up to pull off his shirt. Your hands wander over his firm chest. His skin is warm, muscles rippling with his haste to get undressed. He's littered with scars, and you admire them, caressing your fingers over them. He can see the love in your eyes, and it makes him swell with happiness.

He shoves his trousers down, tossing them away to land with the rest of your discarded clothes. Your eyes widen at the sight of his cock. It’s above average in length, but as thick as your wrist and curving upwards. The tip is an angry red and leaking, eager to fill you up.

“I’ll be gentle.” Charles says, noticing your awed expression, “I'd never hurt you, my love.”

“I know.” You smile, taking his face in your hands to pull him down for another kiss. It's slow and meaningful, as he leans back over you with your thighs around his waist.

You can feel him nudge against your entrance, rubbing against your clit as he gets comfortable. One of his arms holds him up beside your head, while the other reaches down to grasp himself in hand.

The both of you look down as he lines himself up, twin groans escaping you as he pushes the tip in. You’re wet enough for him to slip inside easily, inches disappearing inside you agonisingly slow. It’s a tight fit, and your hand grips onto his forearm beside you at the fullness.

Charles curses as he bottoms out, his other man grasping yours as he takes a second to bask in the feeling. You watch his eyes roll shut, his chest heaving. Leaning forward, you kiss his jaw, nudging at his flushed skin.

He presses his face into your neck, pulling out only to fuck back into you, pleasure shooting through your whole body. You grasp onto him, moaning out as he repeats his shallow but hard thrusts.

The alcohol mixed with your joint yearning brings you both to the edge quickly, your knees against Charles’ chest as he moves faster and faster, the wet sounds of your coupling with your gasps and his grunts.

“Fuck, feels so good…” Charles grunts against your shoulder, speeding up his thrusts as he chases his climax.

The cord inside you winds unbearably tight, your own end getting closer with every time his tip bullies your g-spot. His hand leaves yours to disappear between you, pressing rapid circles against your clit.

“Need- need you to cum with me, my love… please, please cum with me.”

You cry out, locking your legs around him as you shake beneath him, your cunt squeezing him tighter. A harsh thrust has you falling over the edge, biting down on his shoulder as your vision blurs and you ride wave after wave of euphoria.

Charles groans, hips suffering, “God- where, my love?”

“Inside. Please, Charles, inside me.” You mewl.

Barely a second later, Charles shoves himself fully inside you, grunting out your name as he empties himself within you. He collapses against you, being wary of his size and not lying on you too long, falling to his side beside you.

Exhausted and sated, you lie boneless and ready to sleep. With your eyes closed, you can hear Charles move around, and can feel him pull a blanket over you both. He pulls you to his chest, kissing your hair.

You fall asleep as he murmurs how much he loves you.

The sun rises on a new day, and you lie awake nestled in Charles’ arms.

His face is peaceful, mouth set in a small smile. You wish you could capture the image and keep it with you forever, never wanting to forget how beautiful he is now he's yours.

The hard ground presses into your hip, and you squirm slightly to get more comfortable. Charles huffs, eyes fluttering awake to see why you were moving out of the cocoon of his arms.

“Morning.” You whisper, brushing you hand over his cheek.

He smiles as his eyes focus on you, turning his head to kiss you palm, “Morning.”

“Any regrets?” You ask, though you know the answer.

“None. You?”

“Only that we didn't do that in a bed.” You joke, grimacing at the hard ground below you.

Charles chuckles sleepily, pulling you over and on top of him. His body is infinitely more comfortable, and you sigh contentedly.

“We’ll have a bed. In our own home, one I’ll make for us.” He murmurs, kissing your head

You drift off again, warm and safe, wrapped in Charles’ arms as he softly talks about the life you will have.

Both of you can't wait for the future.

AN/ Like I said, I went crazy. I really hope you liked it!! Mwah x

[marstonsboy]

had another evil thought that spiralled out of control. indulge me for a moment:

over the years, people start arriving on a near empty plot of land west of blackwater. it’s uncertain who got there first: bessie matthews, beatrice and lyle morgan, eliza, isaac morgan, etc.— but more and more people show up until it’s something of a community. jenny kirk, mac and davey callander. then soon after, jake adler, sean macguire, kieran duffy, hosea matthews, lenny summers, molly o’shea, eagle flies, susan grimshaw. more and more in such a short amount of time. arthur morgan is the last, and suddenly the deaths stop.

after a sudden stretch of years with little newcomers, a house starts taking shape. soon enough the house is a home, and peculiar things can be found all over: a dog barking where no one can find it. echoes of campfire songs going late into the night. photos of john and abigail’s wedding, attended by what remained of their family. a taxidermy squirrel that appears back on the mantle no matter how many times you throw it out, wearing a very familiar hat. in just a few years a heartbreakingly young girl comes home, bearing a strong resemblance to one abigail marston.

then, gunshots. john marston and uncle are the next to arrive.

in the next few years, the house is eerily quiet. the residents see it falling into disrepair, but they can’t do anything about it. the dog stops barking, the campfire has gone cold and won’t relight. abigail marston is next, and though they’re happy to see her, the arrival brings up a question. what happens to jack now?

the livestock are gone, and the house is dusty, all but stripped of the knickknacks and personality that built up over the years, like someone found it all too painful to look at. john’s hat and guns, once tucked away inside a box beneath the bed, vanish the night after abigail arrives. newspapers come to the door, announcing the death of former government agent edgar ross.

soon after, a wanted poster, bearing the name “john marston jr.” and a sketch resembling the boy’s namesake so much that it has john himself stumbling back. jack was only a boy when he left, and now he’s wanted dead or alive, with a price over his head that could rival some of his uncles and aunts back in the day.

every year that passes without any sign of jack is a relief. the house doesn’t change much, still abandoned, but letters come in. mary-beth gaskill, tilly jackson, simon pearson, sadie adler, charles smith— old friends and family, checking in on him. none of them reach the recipient, as he is not home, but they’re filled to the brim with love, letting him know that he isn’t alone. that he always has a home with them, if he wants it.

one day, john spots a book he doesn’t recognize on the shelf by the piano, and he stops. “Red Dead” by a J. Marston. it doesn’t take much to figure out who that could be. he opens it, flips through, and reads it to abigail. the kinder parts get read to their daughter, ecstatic to learn about how her older brother is doing. their son did become a writer after all, even if everything he’s written speaks volumes of his grief, his anger. the loneliness he’s endured since losing his family, and killing edgar ross.

arthur morgan opens his old journal to find several entries and sketches from john, but also many new ones from jack. his handwriting is just as clumsy as his father’s, but his drawings are more refined. little portraits of the gang members that lived and scribbly sketches of what the world is becoming in their absence decorate the pages. war, cars outnumbering horses, and a very detailed drawing of a revolver none of them have ever seen before.

he’s all grown up, and good lord is he angry. he’s mourning, and hurt, and he’s lost so much, but he’s still undoubtedly jack marston. he draws dogs and writes about missing rufus, slipping strays some food from his bag whenever he sees them. sometimes he’ll write a dry, sarcastic joke that speaks of his father’s influence, or mention missing his momma’s cooking, “even though it was hardly edible,” which makes abigail roll her eyes. he hates fishing and prefers to lose hours of the day with his nose in a book. the best maintained part of beecher’s hope is the graves on that hill, which gain new flowers every week. sometimes, if they listen close, they can hear him talking, telling his ma and pa what he’s been up to, though he saves the grisly details for his book.

and when jack marston finally does walk through that door, much older than when anyone he knew last saw him but far too young to die, he is welcomed home with open arms. because no matter what he’s done, and no matter how much he may hate himself, he will always have a home here with people who love him, and who can’t wait to get to know him all over again.

[hihomeghere]

Baptized by Fire Masterlist

Summary : After running from your past you find yourself facing certain death out in a blizzard. Thankfully you’re rescued, but what happens when you have to ride out the rest of the winter with the two men who rescued you?

An RDR2 AU where Arthur followed Charles to Canada.

Pairing : Arthur Morgan x reader x Charles Smith (Reader is female presenting and referred to as 'Sweetheart', no use of Y/n)

Warnings/tags : Abuse, bruises, blood, guns, death, religious themes, nudity, oral m!receiving, unprotected piv, cursing, allusions to sex, skinning animals for meat, smoke inhalation, dead body, mention of gunshot wound, reader has female genitalia and is referred to as ‘she’, cursing, Arthur had TB but survived and now has chronic issues because of it, Check the tags on each chapter for specific warnings

Status : Ongoing

Let me know if you would to be added to my taglist!

Winter

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five

All the Chapters combined

Spring

Watch, Lessons, The Meadow, Snowdrop, Nightmare

Asks/Headcannons

Post TB domestic Arthur & Charles

Mood boards

Bottom!Arthur

[petalsprompts]

Dame Margaret Natalie Smith, CH, DBE 28th of December, 1934 — 27th of September, 2024

She received  numerous  accolades,  including  two  Academy  Awards,  five  BAFTA  Awards,  four  Emmy  Awards,  three  Golden  Globe  Awards  and  a  Tony  Award,  as  well  as  nominations  for  six  Laurence  Olivier  Awards.  She  was  one  of  the  few  performers  to  earn  the  Triple  Crown  of  Acting.

“ Do  not  be  stilled  by  anger  or  grief.  Burn  them  both  and  use  that  fuel  to  keep  moving.  Look  up  at  the  clouds  and  tip  your  head  way  back  so  the  roofs  of  the  houses  disappear.  Keep  moving. ” — Dame Maggie Smith in her memoir; You Could Make This Place Beautiful (2023)

"My  wife  and  I  were  deeply  saddened  to  learn  of  the  death  of  Dame  Maggie  Smith.  As  the  curtain  comes  down  on  a  national  treasure,  we  join  all  those  around  the  world  in  remembering  with  the  fondest  admiration  and  affection  her  many  great  performances  and  her  warmth  and  wit  that  shone  through  both  on  and  off  the  stage." — King Charles III

"The  end  of  an  era  of  the  sheer  definition  of  what  it  means  to  be  an  actor.  You  created  characters  that  clung  to  us,  moved  us,  entertained  us  ......  made  us  look  within.  You  defied  the  expectations  of  age....  crossed  generations.  You  were  greatness  personified  Dame  Maggie  Smith.  'A  lady  always  knows  when  it's  time  to  leave'  [...]  Godspeed  ♥️"  —  Viola  Davis

"She  was  a  fierce  intellect, a  gloriously  sharp  tongue,  could  intimidate  and  charm  in  the  same  instant  and  was,  as  everyone  will  tell  you,  extremely  funny...  The  word  legend  is  overused  but  if  it  applies  to  anyone  in  our  industry  then  it  applies  to  her."  —  co-star  in  Harry  Potter,  Daniel  Radcliffe

"Maggie  Smith  was  a  truly  great  actress,  and  we  were  more  than  fortunate  to  be  part  of  the  last  act  in  her  stellar  career.  She  was  a  joy  to  write  for,  subtle,  many-layered,  intelligent,  funny  and  heart-breaking.  Working  with  her  has  been  the  greatest  privilege  of  my  career,  and  I  will  never  forget  her."  —  Downton  Abbey  creator,  Julian  Fellowes

"Maggie  Smith  was  a  great  woman  and  a  brilliant  actress.  I  still  can’t  believe  I  was  lucky  enough  to  work  with  the  “one-of-a-kind”.  My  heartfelt  condolences  go  out  to  the  family  …  RIP."  —  co-star  in  Sister  Act & Sister Act 2: Back In The Habit,  Whoopi  Goldberg

"When  I  was  younger  I  had  no  idea  of  Maggie’s  legend  –  the woman  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  share  space  with.  It  is  only  as  I’ve  become  an  adult  that  I’ve  come  to  appreciate  that  I  shared  the  screen  with  a  true  definition  of  greatness."  —  co-star  in the  Harry  Potter film series,  Emma  Watson

"Heartbroken  to  hear  about  Maggie.  She  was  so  special,  always  hilarious  and  always  kind.  I  feel  incredibly  lucky  to  have  shared  a  set  with  her  and  particularly  lucky  to  have  shared  a  dance."  —  co-star  in the  Harry  Potter film series,  Rupert  Grint

"Anyone  who  ever  shared  a  scene  with  Maggie  will  attest  to  her  sharp  eye,  sharp  wit  and  formidable  talent,"  on-screen  son  in  Downton  Abbey,  Hugh  Bonneville

"I  had  the  unforgettable  experience  of  working  with  her;  sharing  a  two-shot  was  like  being  paired  with  a  lion.  She  could  eat  anyone  alive,  and  often  did.  But  funny,  and  great  company.  And  suffered  no  fools.  We  will  never  see  another.  God  speed,  Ms.  Smith!"  —  co-star  in  Suddenly,  Last  Summer,  Rob  Lowe

[nthspecialll]

I don’t think we talk enough about the fact that Charles buried all his friends. He might not have known them for a long time but he still had some affection towards them, even if he hadn’t, imagine how traumatising that is.

Imagine seeing young Sean with a whole life ahead of him, his head shot open, blood running out, visibly being able to see the inside of his skull. Loud mouthed Sean who could be annoying but who was a joy at parties and lit them up, dead.

Kieran, his body mutilated and holding the signs of torture he experienced before death. Kieran who had escaped the O'Driscolls and whom Charles was slowly starting to warm up to, the man who really just wanted to be with his horse.

Hosea shot through the chest whom he knew was a father figure to many. Hosea who was a stablizer in camp, the one teaching Jack to read, the one helping Dutch plan, but still had enough silliness in his old bones to create Felton.

Lenny, young Lenny, who was just trying to survive, Lenny who finally felt like he had found a home but was shot on the top of the roofs and whom they had to leave.

Molly O'Shea who really only wanted love, who wanted affection from a man who had none left to give, shot mercilessly through the chest. Charles would be smart enough to know that there was truly no reason he was torching her body and not laying it in the ground.

Miss Grimsaw, who although a bit aggressive, truly only wanted what was best for the group and who always made sure that they took care of themselves.

Eagle Flies who fought so hard for what he believed in, for a world where his people could live, but who ended up victim to Dutch's manipulation just like Charles had.

And Arthur, Arthur Morgan who was the only person that had helped Charles actually try to save the natives. Arthur Morgan who had gone out of his way, who had disobeyed Dutch Van Der Linde, a criminal so filthy he is in songs and novels, to help Charles Smith, a man who was looked down upon for the mere color of his skin, help his people.

I want you to bury you friendgroup, your support system, one by one and act like it doesn’t affect you.

[phantom-of-the-501st]

Arthur's death and the collapse of the gang: How did it impact Charles?

Time for sad(ish) rambles!

Content warning for mentions of alcoholism and death.

A while ago I saw a post on this app from someone who said that Charles grieved Arthur longer than he knew him and while I was aware that that was the case, seeing it so bluntly stated has forever altered my brain chemistry and I have not emotionally recovered since. So now I’m going to go on a ramble and make you guys bear the brunt of that pain with me! (Including you @the-bi-space-ace )

Now as a big Charles fan, I always get excited seeing him again in the epilogue, but there’s always been a part of that story that has stood out to me, and that’s the fact that out of everyone in the gang, one of the people who is hit the hardest by it’s collapse is Charles, a man who had only been a part of it for several months. And in my attempts to understand why, it has always taken me down an interesting exploration of Charles as a character, one that I want to share my ramblings on. Welcome to my TedTalk on the story of Charles Smith.

Charles’ Background

We're gonna start near the beginning because it's important. Charles has not had the best life: his mum was taken when he was young, he lost his mother's tribe which he used to be a part of (and now has no idea if it even still exists), his father turned to drink, and Charles ran away as a young teen, subsequently spending much of his life alone. For over half of his life he's been running as a lone ranger, living as a black Indigenous man in the late 1800s, a time that was far from accepting. He lost everything and as a result, has never really fit in anywhere.

And all of this is the basis for why Charles was hit so hard by the events of the game. It underpins his entire story arc.

We don't know the full details of Charles’ past, but he certainly never had it easy. He's spent his entire life on the end of racist abuse, will have been no stranger to what people thought of him as an afroindegnous man, and has likely experienced many of the awful things that happened to people of colour at the time (and while there's never any confirmation in the game, it isn't entirely out of the realm of possibility that Charles ended up in a reform school at some point in his life).

He would have been treated as an outcast. And part of this plays into why he's so reserved. Charles has to be incredibly careful about who he opens up to and about who he trusts. Even within the gang there are people who view him negatively because of his heritage and so he has to be incredibly careful within the group as well. He lives in a society that deems him as someone that has no place and it is one of the key things that underpins Charles’ struggle to find a sense of belonging.

Charles’ Struggles with Finding a Place in the World

Charles himself admits that he struggles to understand what his purpose is: where he's supposed to be what he's supposed to do. He finds it really difficult to find a place where he fits in. And honestly, it's to be totally expected.

This is a man who has had everything taken from him. His family, his home, his childhood. Charles lost everything. He's someone who had to grow up too quickly in a world that stripped him of every part of his life that gave him any sense of belonging. He has no family, no friends, he's an outcast in society, he can't open up to people out of fear for his own safety. How can a man who lives in a world like that feel like he belongs there?

Charles on the outside seems like someone whose incredibly competent and confident, someone who won't back down in a fight, who will help those who need helping, who isn't afraid to defend those who need defending, and can stay calm in the face of it all. And he is all of those things. But he's also someone who is incredibly lost.

He's incredibly competent, but likely doubts his ability to protect people because of how many people he has lost. He appears confident on the outside and yet he has lived a life where he always has to be looking over his shoulder and be very wary of everyone. He won't back down in a fight but he carries the emotional weight of those choices and actions deep within him. He will always help those who need helping, but likely feels he can never help enough, that there's so much suffering that is entirely out of his control to fix. He'll defend those who need defending but has also found himself defending people he realises he probably never should have (Dutch for example). And he's not calm all the time, he's angry and frustrated and has a short temper but works to keep those emotions under control as much as he can because letting those emotions burst free rarely results in good outcomes.

I've never understood the argument that Charles is emotionless or stoic. He's far from it. He's a man I believe feels very deeply and very strongly, who holds the weight of the world on his shoulders in a way that's far heavier than I think any of us will ever truly understand. He's reserved, keeps many feelings close to his chest. He doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but as mentioned earlier, why would he? In a world that has driven him to loneliness, why would he be so open with people?

Finding the Gang

So where does the gang (and in a more focused sense, Arthur) fit in to all of this?

Well, for Charles, this is the first time in many years where he's felt a sense of belonging. No, not everyone welcomed him in with open arms, and he does tend to keep many at arms length with his walls kept firmly up, but he has a purpose, and a group of people who have (to a certain extent) taken him in. The gang is the closest thing Charles has had to a family in a very long time and it likely felt like things were starting to fall into place a little bit. I don't think he ever felt completely comfortable and at home, but it was somewhere for him to belong after spending most of his life being cast out by society. They're a group of people who exist in a world that doesn't want them, and part of that resonates with him because that's what his life has been for so long.

(SIDE NOTE: That's not to say that they're all treated the same way by society. Charles does not share the privileges that many of the other gang members have and as a result has to he more cautious about things than some of the others. For example, Charles is fully aware that Arthur is more likely to be able to have some influence over what happens to the Wapiti Tribe on the basis that he is white and far more likely to be listened to. It will never be an even playing field, no matter how understanding members of the gang may be).

And among all of those is Arthur. I've rambled before about how much these two trust each other and how insane it is in some ways. Arthur became someone Charles trusted enough that he was willing to share his concerns about Dutch with a man who had been raised by him and stood loyal to him for over twenty years. Charles went to Arthur about the Wapiti Tribe because he was the person he trusted most to help. They had each other's backs through incredibly tough times.

“Charles, will you ride with me?”

“Always.”

Despite spending most of his life pushed out by society and living for many years alone, Charles not only had a family, but a close friend he could trust. There were others he grew to care about too: Lenny, Hosea, Sadie, John, Abigail, Jack, just to name a few. Yes he was closer to some than others, but they were still his family in a way. But Arthur was the closest Charles had been to anyone in a long time (as far as we know) and one of the people he had the strongest connection with (in whichever way you view it because I'm not going to try and put labels on it).

Not only was Arthur someone Charles could trust, but he made sure to let Charles know that he was appreciated: letting him know how much the gang needed him, telling him he was glad to have him around, expressing his thanks about Charles having is back. Arthur always made it clear that Charles had a place with them and that was something Charles had not had for much of his life. For someone who has always struggled to work out where he's supposed to be in the world and whether he's even supposed to belong, having someone say “I'm glad you're here and I don't know where we'd be without you” is so important. Through all of it's messes, the gang was Charles’ home.

Which is why it's such a tragedy that it didn't last.

The Collapse of the Gang and a Loss of a Best Friend

Charles, a man struggling to find his place in the world, finds a home ans a family, somewhere where he might finally belong.

And then he loses it all.

Charles’ whole life has felt like the universe telling him he doesn't belong. He lost his mother, his tribe, his father, his home, all by the time he was just thirteen years old. He was alone for years, in a world that never wanted him. And then when be finally finds a place to belong, all of that is taken from him too.

I always wondered why Charles was one of the people who struggled the most after the gang collapsed because he's one of the people who has been there for the shortest amount of time. Many of the others manage to find their way; Tilly got married and was starting a family, Mary-Beth became an author, Pearson found a job at the general store, and John, Abigail and Jack finally started to settle down into a life (we're going to ignore the events of the first game for the time being). And then there's Charles, who is throwing fights for money.

For Charles, the collapse of the gang must have been confirmation that he didn't belong. If he truly had a place in the world then why was everything always being taken from him?

And to lose Arthur in the midst of it all. Charles found someone he could trust, who he could rely on. A man that, despite everything that the group was going through, would hopefully have his back for years to come. Even without the Van der Linde gang, Arthur was likely someone Charles could rely on after it all. But that was never to be.

As I said earlier, Charles has always had to be careful about who he opens up to and who he expresses his emotions and concerns to because the wrong person would weaponise them against him. But Charles found someone he could trust, someone he was willing to share his vulnerabilities with. He began letting his walls down around Arthur only to lose him within just a matter of months. And Charles was the one who buried him.

Think about this for a moment. Charles lost his best friend, made the decision to go all the way back and bury him somewhere he knew Arthur wanted to be (bearing in mind the man has been on top of a mountain for (at least) several days and is going to be in horrendous shape), went through the effort of carving out a proper gravestone for him, and then also makes sure to tell Mary where Arthur was buried so that the people in Arthur's life could mourn him properly and get closure. Charles put himself through what would have been an incredibly traumatic set of events to make sure that this friend got the burial he deserved. I don't even want to imagine how difficult that would have been for him.

(I'm also going to quickly throw in an idea that Noshir himself has mentioned before, which is that Charles’ mother used to sing him lullabies, which he then sung to himself as he buried Arthur. It's a possibility that has broken a piece of me into many pieces that I don't think I will ever put together again but it just encapsulates how tragic this whole experience was).

The collapse of the gang and the loss of Arthur once again left Charles alone in the world, unsure of his place or where to go. A feeling of hopelessness so deep that he was still struggling to find his place in the world eight years later.

Rekindling Old Friendships and New Hope

Thankfully, Charles’ story does not end (as of right now) in complete tragedy. Throughout the epilogue, we begin to see Charles find stability again. Working on John and Abigail's ranch gives him a sense of purpose. He forms stronger friendships with the Marstons, Sadie, and even Uncle, once again giving him people to trust, a place where he feels he has a right to be.

But what I find even more moving is Charles’ acceptance that that isn't where he should stay. His place isn't at the Marston's home, it's out in the world somewhere with his own family. After having everything torn away from him for much of his life, and after being repeatedly thrown out into the world with no clear sense of direction, Charles is finally in a position where he has the agency to make that decision for himself. He takes that step not because he's forced to but because he understands that that is what he needs to do. It's on his own authority and while we don't know exactly what happens to Charles next, seeing him finally have that agency over his life and that understanding of where he needs to go after feeling so lost for so long is honestly the best place I could hope for Charles to be at the end of the game.

I'm sure he thinks about the gang a lot and the people who were a part of his life, even if only for a brief time. Hosea, Lenny, Arthur of course. People who have shaped Charles into who he is now. Do I like to believe that Arthur's unwavering belief in Charles is something that the man holds with him to remind him that he really does have a place in the world? Yes. I do. But I do also think that Charles’ growth is down to much of his own learning, understanding and reconciling. Though only knowing each other a short time, Arthur was an integral piece in the puzzle of Charles’ life.

[bluecanvasshoe]

I Still Miss Someone

Chapter 4 of Everything Eats and is Eaten (Time is Fed)

platonic Red Dead Redemption x teen!reader

Summary: Acquaintances and feelings from times passed pop up again.

Warnings/content: angst, descriptions of grief, alcohol poisoning mentions, descriptions of alcoholism and underage drinking (don't drink underage!! i do not condone this!!!!!), big reader backstory drop, talk of death and self-deprecating thoughts

Word count: 2.1k

Title from the song 'I Still Miss Someone' by Johnny Cash

Previous chapter | Next Chapter

a/n: backstory drop!!! wow!!! i had a lot of trouble writings this one, so apologies if it's not great; i’m sick and stressed out from school. i promise we'll have more interactions with people in the next chapter! also........ farewell Guy :¨(

ps… late merry christmas and happy holidays! ❤️

want to be added to the taglist? drop a comment!!

--

“John?”

You asked with a tone of incredulity, grinning nonetheless.

“Goddamn. Look at you! You’ve gotten taller!” He laughed in that raspy voice of his, pulling you into a hug, and patting your back. 

“Why’re you here?” You asked, leaning away a bit with a smile. You were much more on his level, able to face him without craning your neck. 

“Well, Abigail, Jack and I have been uh, movin’ around. We ended up here.”

“Abigail and Jack? They’re here? Where are-”

“Well, not- not right now.”

“...What?”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head a bit. 

“Yeah, uh, Abigail and Jack aren’t here right now. I kept causing trouble with the law, so she took Jack and left. She won’t come back until I’ve sorted myself out.”

“Abigail… left you.”

“No, at least, not for long. I’m looking at a place down near Blackwater-”

“Blackwater!?”

Your chatter had drawn some attention, his coworkers turning their heads and looking up from their tasks. Your vision almost seemed clearer after seeing John; if that made any sense at all.

“Our bounties have been lifted, probably, and the property is far enough away. It’ll be fine, kid. …Anyways, what are you doin’ here?”

You grinned, “I think I found Charles.”

“Charles Smith?” John repeated, his eyes wide.

You nodded, crossing your arms. “In Saint Denis.”

He let out a breath, his hands on his hips. “I always wondered where he went. How’d you know?”

Your confidence faltered, and you grimaced lightly.

“Well, I’m gonna be honest, uh, I found a passage in the newspaper. It just… it included a bit about someone who sounded like Charles.” You replied sheepishly, the faults in your plan suddenly seeming very clear.

John cocked his head, eyes narrowed. “So, you aren’t sure?”

“Not- not really. But I’m still gonna head on out there, just to… make sure I ain't passin’ up a good opportunity.”

He nodded slowly, the smile returning to his face as he patted your shoulder. “Good luck then, kid. I really wish I could go with you, but… I’m working towards getting Abigail and Jack back here at the moment. After the gang and Arthur, things have been… difficult. I’m trying to keep out of trouble, get myself back on my feet. Look, I’ll join you in your search as soon as I can. The place I’m looking at in Blackwater, it’s called Beacher’s Hope.”

You nodded along, the reminder of the gang and Arthur’s subsequent passing sending a pang of hurt to your heart. You understood why John wasn’t coming; the lead you had wasn’t solid and you were taking a huge risk. Yet despite that, it hurt nonetheless. However, you were smart; you understood why going alone would probably be a bit safer.

See, you could take said risk. You’re younger, childless, and with much less to lose compared to John. Making dangerous, riskier decisions is easier when you don’t have much fiscal or sentimental value to yourself or your name; losing money or getting yourself into stupid situations is easier to get out of when you have more potential and life than someone older.

“I understand, I-” “I got you a new bedroll!”

Guy shouted, walking back to you with a crooked grin. His teeth were yellowed, lips cracked. 

He walked up with a rolled-up piece of fabric. John raised an eyebrow, smiling in amusement as he looked from you to the eccentric old man. “...thank you kindly.” you nodded, taking it from him. 

You turned back to John, giving him a lackluster smile. Your mood was quite dampened; both from the fact that John could not join you and the reminder of Arthur.

“I suppose I’ll see you around, Jim,” You slurred the new name, catching yourself before you said ‘John’. “I’ll write to you about updates.” 

“‘Course, kid. I’ll cya. It was great seein’ you again.” The older man pulled you into a brotherly sort of hug, patting your back once or twice before letting you go. 

With a lonesome kind of reluctance, you pivoted on your heel and walked back to your horse waiting patiently for you.

“Would you need a ride home, Guy?” you offered the man, voice faltering when you turned to see he was walking back to the house. With narrowed eyes followed by a sigh, you shrugged your shoulders and returned to your trek towards the hitching posts. 

A few workers looked up briefly before continuing their work, sheep bleating and crows cawing in the distance.

You strapped the new bedroll to your horse’s saddle, giving him a pat on the rump before hosting yourself onto him. 

—

The trees that surrounded you seemed, yet again, endless. It was suffocating in the dark, and repetitive in the light.

The gang, for some reason, plagued your mind. As much as you tried to ignore the nagging, it kept returning. You wanted nothing more than to go back to the gang, even if it was hard back then as a young teenager. 

You wished you screamed a little harder, kicked with more force, hadn’t discarded your gun in fear. Maybe the lawmen wouldn’t have caught you.

Or, maybe, if you didn’t even get found by the gang, things would be better. No, scratch that, things would definitely be better. Maybe you could’ve been taken in by a nice family instead of a group of outlaws. 

But things would never really be different, would they?

See, your mother died during childbirth, and your father passed soon after; the details of which had never been disclosed to you. 

Thus, you were taken in by your grandparents. You hardly remembered the time leading up to their deaths, but the memories you did have were clearer than most. Your grandmother hardly remembered you in the days leading up to her passing; to her, you weren’t her granddaughter. Your grandfather was taken by consumption, or Tuberculosis, as the doctors called it.

When they were gone, your uncle and his wife were the only two left in the family. You were stricken by grief, a child of nine who had spaced out far too much and carried a deep distrust in many due to a conclusion she’d drawn long ago. Said conclusion being that she was a bad omen, something made obvious by the fact that she’d taken a life even before her first breath.

It took a year to finally become comfortable with your aunt and uncle, but it didn’t take long for their relationship to become rocky soon after. Florence never envisioned herself as a mother, the responsibilities of being one to a child who demanded so much aid dragging on her mind. It wasn’t her fault and it wasn’t yours, but it couldn’t be helped.

Your uncle, Ernest, could hardly stand her nagging, as he called it. He changed, becoming irritable and annoyed by her upset. 

They argued a lot. Over you, over finances, over small things that turned into screaming matches.

They divorced, and you never heard from Florence again. Ernest turned to alcohol, hiding his feelings at the bottom of a bottle.

One snowy morning, you woke up in an empty, quiet house. After an hour of mucking around, the town’s sheriff knocked on your door. He delivered the news of your uncle Ernest’s demise: alcohol poisoning in the wee hours of the morning.

You were alone, and you didn’t want to be sent to the orphan trains or, god forbid: an orphanage. So, you took to a life of crime. That brought you to the gang.

And now, you’re here.

Alone again.

When Arthur died, the only news you’d heard of it was in the papers.

In the front of your mind, you’d say you understood Arthur’s death, that he wasn’t around anymore. However, these messages of understanding were laced with a parasitic sense of denial.

Then, you became irate; just like Ernest. 

You’d sneak whiskey from your foster parent’s alcohol cupboards, trying to stomach bourbon and forget your woes. However, they soon noticed the stench of alcohol in your small room and the dwindling supply on the shelves, landing you a harsh punishment and new rules. On top of that, you were reminded of the death of your uncle by Anne and David, your panic and fear being enough to dump the budding habit surprisingly early. 

Without booze, you’d beat yourself down in your room, sobbing night after night until you didn’t have the energy to cry anymore. Tears refused to fall from your eyes, and the most you’d get out were pathetic sobs into your thin pillow.

The process took almost a year, but things began to look up.

One day, you were sitting against a tree with a sketchbook in hand. Nothing came to mind and you lacked inspiration, so you turned your head towards the sprawling fields and oak trees.

Amidst your staring, a deer wandered into your line of sight. 

He stood, staring at you.

He was young from what you could remember from Charles and Arthur’s hunting lessons, but surprisingly not skittish.

You felt a sense of odd comfort wash over you, one of familiarity and yearning. It took a few seconds, but he soon wandered off.

This inner peace didn’t come from a deer looking at you a second too long, though. If anything, it was hard to explain; but the deer was relevant.

Arthur would take you out hunting, teaching about deer and other common game. They were scared, easy to frighten, and would run at the snap of a twig because you were looking for food, meat, a meal. You were a threat because you were their killer. Even since birth, death followed you. 

For some people, grief was something they never had to experience, but an experience they looked upon with pity and sympathy. In your case, it dragged on your mind nearly every day since childhood, coming and going in various forms.

But in recent years, things have been different.

Your stupid foster brothers laughed with you and watched you do things with awe. Anne and David encouraged growth and learning within you, and you began to be impressed by things you learned, no matter how small.

You were given a chance to become more.

They proved you weren’t a bad omen, because good things really did happen. You were able to be seen as a big sister, a role model. In your foster parents, you were seen as a soul saved from the clutches of despair. 

In yourself, you saw that things truly did get better. That you were capable of healing, of moving on. That you weren’t just a bad omen; that you weren’t one at all. Because if you were, why did the old farmer smile at you at the market? Why did the woman from town thank you profusely after you offered her a free product, and since then greet you happily every day? Why did your brothers hear your voice and come bounding down the stairs to talk? Why didn’t the deer run off immediately after seeing you?

Since then, the thought that maybe you weren’t unlucky or the cause of death helped you overcome the majority of your grief.

However, memories still haunted you and a feeling of yearning still gripped your heart.

You’d wake up in the morning, alone in a room. You wouldn’t sit around a campfire and joke with Sean. Lenny wasn’t around to read to you; you had to read to yourself nowadays. Ms. Grimshaw doesn’t tell you what to do anymore, and Karen wasn’t around to complain with you. Now, you go to town, alone nearly all the time. You’d see other people your age hanging out and wonder ‘What’s wrong with me’ because you miss outlaws more than you yearn for a normal life. 

You stopped asking yourself that question.

Because instead of that, you wondered what went wrong.

You still do.

–

You miss the gang.

The trees around you closed in on your mind, evergreen appearing black in the evening light. They isolate you from the outside, from the noise of the world. It was just you.

And maybe you aren’t an omen of death, but if you’re being honest, you once again feel stupid. A dumb plan to find someone who is probably dead, leaving your foster family, abandoning a better chance at life, and now finding yourself alone. And this time, no one’s here to listen.

You forgot how desolate the wilderness is. It’s calming by a lake, but right now, you can't help but get lost in your thoughts. Trees cast daunting shadows overhead and at the moment, a person to talk with would be nice. You miss hunting lessons and bad stew and stories told by people thrice your age.

You miss your bed and the fields. 

You’re cold and hungry; you miss fire stoves. 

You miss your family.

You still miss Arthur.

Taglist:

@gallantys, @justsomereaderwholikesanime, @shackspossum

[windssong]

wind song // logan(2017) x fem mutant reader

(mini series)

synopsis : you dream of a life without your powers. logan needs them to help locate some dead guys cash. a roadtrip to the Nevada desert with your ex was always bound to be a mistake. but, maybe it wasn’t.

Chapter 2 - heavy metal

chapter summary: you and logan start your journey. a man you meet starts a chain reaction for the events to come.

warnings: 18+ ONLY // MDNI - suggestive content, mature themes/subject matters, death, swearing, violence.

word count: 2k+

tag list: @freythecrazyfae @ayamenimthiriel

wind song masterlist // my main masterlist //previous chapter

“Just one suitcase?” Logan said, closing the side door.

You noded, wiping your eyes of the dust in the air and lack of sleep. You didn’t think you were going to end up on some roadtrip with your ex. So of course you didn’t bring much. It was just supposed to be a funeral and then a one time conversation. But now you were sitting in his passenger seat, watching a fly dart in and out of the car.

Logan never acknowledged the dress you were wearing from the day before, and you never acknowledged his suit he wore from the day before. There was that familiar understanding between the two of you. Still there, despite the way things had ended over a year ago. Those cold eyes stayed with Logan.

You could see them in the rear view mirror while he finished a repair on one of the truck's tires. Maybe he saw the same eyes looking back at him. It was hard to remember what they looked like before a heatless fire stole yours both away.

The motel sat to the right. The pale colors that painted brick walls seemed to crack underneath a silent weight. You thought you would still hear the static from your neighbors TV.

The truck rocked as he sat in the driver's seat. All that metal in his body was heavy. It was slowly killing him. Logan never talked about it. You only found out one night when Caliban told you over the phone, pleading for you to come back.

What must it feel like, for the thing that once made you invincible, be the thing that would one day kill you?

You had to force yourself to not dwell on being the one to find his dead body once the inevitable happened. Even with your work connections, you found there was no known cure for him. Didn’t stop you from looking still.

“Didn’t think I’d enjoy the limousine?” You said.

He huffed, turning the engine on. “That's for work purposes only.”

“And this isn’t work?”

“Nope. This is personal.” He pressed the gas pedal, taking you and the truck out of the rocky parking lot.

The air was hot. Salt rippled through the sky. You could taste it on your tongue. Competing motels marked both sides of the road. Signs pointed you in either direction. An employee stood by one of them, holding one advertising free car washes when you checked in. That made you chuckle imagining a freshly washed car driving back onto the street, dirt clinging to the water faster than it was cleaned.

The weather demanded filth in this small area. No one can make good money off something clean here.

It was quiet riding with him. It was always quiet with him. Logan kept his gaze forward, one hand on the steering wheel and the other in his lap. You caught the flask hiding between his thighs. This one looked older though, unlike the one from the diner yesterday. Scotts initials peeked out from the back of the metal. The same flask you remember stepping over when you found his body on the floor.

The dress was suffocating you all of a sudden. Instead of the static of the TV, you heard an old friend trying to get to Charles before he got to him.

You needed a distraction, like Logan needed the bottle. The notebook you fiddled with your hand flipped open as a breeze flew by. “Christopher Smith. 49. Assistant of Ceo David Fisherman who founded the nationwide bank Silver Well. 5’5. Fair skin. Brown Hair. Blue Eyes. Current residence, New York, New York…” You shut the notebook. “What the hell were you doing driving a millionaire banker from New York around anyways?”

He looked at you and back at the road again. The sun was sending rays of light through the windshield, occasionally obstructing his view. “You’re the private detective here. What do you think?”

“Well, we still haven’t completely ruled out you two sleeping together.”

Logan rolled his eyes, holding back a smirk. “Then rule it out now.”

You grinned. “I think you were driving around a man already dead who knew that and had nothing left to lose.”

His eyebrows lifted, fingers tapping on the wheel. “Impressive.”

“Now, can you give me a clearer picture without the guessing games?”

Logan stopped at an empty stoplight. It was still green as he turned to face you. “Look. I didn’t want to work for the fucker, but he wouldn’t stop calling me and demanding the agency to hire me. Didn’t know why, until a black van started following us around.”

The light flashed yellow and then red. “Chris was a gambler. I'd take him every weekend to some new den or high profile client. Most of the time he’d come back with nothing. But one night, he came running into the car screaming at me to floor it. He had a suitcase of cash he said he won. Bullshit. Clearly stole it.” He gripped his flask.

“A black van chased us down all night. They blew one of my headlights and tires out with their guns. When we lost them and got back to his place, he promised that next time he’d give me a tip. Haven’t heard from him since.” The light was green once again, but no one was around.

“He couldn’t give you any of the money he took from that night?”

Logan shook his head. “He told me he needed it. I don’t know what for.”

“Maybe he was in debt with someone far scarier than whoever was in that black van that night?”

“That’s what I was thinking.” A honk from behind forced him to continue driving. “Did you pick anything else up from his pen other than a direction?”

You rolled down the window even further, preparing yourself. “Not yet. I could sense his body somewhere in Nevada. I could taste blood. Whoever he was scared of, got to him. Maybe his money too.”

“My money.” Logan said. “And I sure as hell will be getting it back, like he promised.”

The words felt hollow coming from him. Like an empty pool during the summer. Since when did money become his sole motivation? You thought about Charles' medicine and the place that they lived.

“Our money.” You corrected, turning your face to the open window. “You might want to close your ears. I’m going to see if I can get a clearer picture of where he is and where we are going.”

You licked your lips, forming them in an oval shape. The air rushed out of them, a sharp whistle piercing the wind. It took you many years to master your mutant abilities. The glass surrounding the vehicle didn’t crack around you. You knew you had your powers under control.

Little clouds began to form in the wind. Like someone had reached up into the sky and pulled them down to visit those who lived below. Only you could see them, unless you decided to show another. If the ear piercing noise wasn’t enough to have Logan scrunched up in pain looking away, then maybe he was staring at the clouds starting to form a person.

The outline of Chris was limping away, carrying something in his hands. It looked like the briefcase Logan mentioned.

The fake Chris kept getting farther and farther away before the cloud disappeared, and your whistling had ended.

“Anything?” Logan said.

You turned to see blood dripping from his ears. It was like a punch in the gut. You knew he’d heal quickly, but it still hurt to see. “Looks like whoever shot at him, didn’t kill him right away.”

Logan contemplated that, seemingly ignore the fresh crimson running down the side of his head.

Without thinking, like it was second nature, you put your hand against his rough cheek. Thumb wiping the blood away as it slid into his gray speckled beard.

He didn’t move, eyes still on the road, hands gripping the steering reel harder than before, white popping from his knuckles. It looked like he stopped breathing. It felt like you did too.

The moment ended as quickly as it came. He grabbed your wrist, holding onto it for a second too long before pushing it back.

He didn’t say anything as you two drove onward, finally entering the main highway. He sped up. You turned to look up at the clouds surfing an endless, blue sky.

~~~~~~~~

It was around 11pm when you stopped for gas.

The drive the rest of the day was spent in silence, except for the occasional directions you gave. He mumbled quick thank yous and you wondered if he even missed you all that much. Given how things had ended. But, this was just business to him. At least that's what he told you. But a more hopeful spirit bubbled within you. You quieted it with a swig of water.

Logan pulled out his worn out wallet. He cursed under his breath. “My goddamn card isn’t here. I swore I had it with me before I left this morning.” He ran his hand down his face leaving a fading red streak. “Charles sometimes likes to steal it if he gets the chance.”

You recalled the Professor getting sicker. Before he killed your teammates, your friends, it was noticeable. In the way he talked or acted. How he treated everyone, how he felt, then came back to himself. It only seemed to be getting worse.

You pulled out your own money. “Don’t worry, I got it. We shouldn’t be gone more than a week anyways.”

He took the offer, noting he still had some cash on him.

The gas station welcomed you with a punchet smell of old meats and sticky sugar.

The employee at the front counter swept behind the counter. No one else was there except for a large black car you noticed pulling into one of the parking spots at the very side of the building.

Logan was in the restroom while you checked out your items. A case of water, some alcohol you knew Logan was going to fill Scotts flask with, some snacks, an over cooked rotisserie chicken that was clearly the last on the heated shelf, and the gas pump.

As you put in your digits, the bell to the front door rang from behind you. You took a quick look back, not thinking anything of it. He tipped his cowboy hat toward you, winking. You noticed one eye was green and the other red. The man strolled to the alcohol section, shifting through cases of beer.

“A mutant?” You thought, grabbing your bag, waiting for Logan to come take the case of water to the truck. “He looks like hes in his late 20s.” It was a sad reality. Mutants dying. 25 years since the last one was born.

But for some reason, your gut told you this man was not to be trusted. His eyes lingered on you the entire time he shopped. Something was off about the man in the cowboy hat and boots.

Logan finally appeared, the dried blood on his ears gone down the sink. You still felt terrible about the whole thing. Even though you knew he would heal, it still hurt to harm him. Even with years of harnessing your abilities, The Whistle was something you could never fully control. As soon as it left you, it was in the wind's hands.

“Your bathrooms smell like shit.” He told the cashier, taking the bottles of water in his rough hands.

The employee nodded, not wanting to meet Logan's stare. He had that way about him. As much as you wanted to get close to him, you wanted to be as far away from him as possible. He was both an unmovable object and a force you couldn't stop. It reminded you of all the things you loved about him. And all the things you didn’t.

You pulled Logan by his arm, eyes on the man making his way to the front counter after you. “Lets go.”

“You okay?” He said once you got back to the truck. He still needed to fill it with gas.

“That man back there,” You pointed behind you. “Another one like us. But theres something off about him.”

Logan placed the water in the back seat next to your things. “Wait here.”

He stood with his hand on his hip, filling the gas with the other as he kept an eye on the man in the cowboy hat and boots. As the man carried his beers out to his car, he sent a wave and smirked at the two of you.

Logan's eyebrows knitted together. His body stilled for just a second. He didn’t even let the gas fill up half way before putting the pump back quickly, and hoping back into the car.

“Get the fuck down!” He shouted, turning the keys in the ignition.

“What-” Before you could ask the question, a bullet came soring through the back window, grazing the tip of your ear before it shot through the front windshield.

“Fuck!” Logan pushed your head down and hit the gas. Your hand shot to your ear. The warm, crimson liquid dripped down your fingers and onto your dress. All you could think of in that moment of adrenaline was Jean gifting the dress to you for your birthday.

Logan took off into the night. Headlights shining almost blinding and weaving between cars that were going a normal speed limit. He kept looking in back of him. Back to the main road. Back to you. Curses left his mouth. You could barely hear anything past the ringing in your ears.

The crack in the windshield was small. The bullet ran clean through. But, sooner or later it would spread through the entire piece of glass. Like a spider building its web from one center point.

You could finally make out what he was saying as the fog in your head slowly faded. But that meant the adrenaline was wearing off, and you started to feel the sharp pain running along the left side of your head.

“Did it hit you anywhere else!?” Logan demanded. He was having a hard time focusing. He wished all his attention could be on you. But there was a car gaining speed from behind, and it didn’t take mercy on people who cared. “Please answer me!”

“It grazed my ear.” You struggled to get the words out. Guards stood at the front of your tongue. Every time you opened your mouth, they stabbed their spears into whatever flesh they could reach. You sucked in a breath that felt like razors. “It fucking hurts. But I’ll be okay.”

Logan was able to breath for a moment. He pulled himself together, maneuvering through the cars ahead of him. “Just hold on. I’ll lose the bastards.”

You didn’t dare look up. You kept your head low, hoping the pain would subside soon. The throbbing in your skull grew. It beat with a hellish beat. Something was wrong with this bullet. Whatever had hit you, it was doing something to your body.

Flashes of memories, of the dead you found, the families you consoled, the friends you once had, raced through your mind. It was like an endless book of millions of words and pages turning before you. Faster and faster they went. The world spun. The blood was pumping through your ears, trying to break out of your skull.

He was calling your name by the time you snapped out of the feverish dream.

You looked up to find those warm and inviting eyes that you first saw when he showed you around the mansion for the first time.

Logan motioned to your ear. Your hand shook as you took it off the wound, noticing Logan was off to the side of the road now. No cars were around, not even the one that had chased you down. Logan must have felt that it was safe enough to stop. The clock read 1:19am.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, holding back tears. You didn’t know why that was the thing you said. You didn’t know what you were thinking or saying at all.

He stared at you, lips trying to form words. But he decided not to say anything.

Logan took out a cloth from the first aid kit in his hands, and gently brought it to your ear. You could feel the sting of the antibiotics. But the pain had died down thankfully. The worst of it was over. You could see in the mirror where the bullet had taken a small piece of your ear off.

Panic shot through you. Your eyes widened. “Wheres the pen?!”

“It’s alright.” He pointed to the pen sitting in one of the cup holders. There was blood on it. “Just focus on this. Focus on me.”

You looked down and frowned at the red stains on the black fabric. “Jean bought me this dress.”

Logan's fingers found your chin, bringing your head back up to face him. You noticed your blood was on him too. Dotting his white shirt and gray and now red beard. He wiped at the dried blood on your cheek with this thumb, making small circles in the cold skin. Every move he made was gentle, caring, the epitome of warmth.

The tips of his fingers danced across your skin, and the painful throbbing slowly died down. You didn’t know how long it took him to bandage and clean the wound, you never bothered to check the time.

The sun was rising when you woke up to Logan getting back onto the main highway. The Welcome to New Mexico sign greeted the two of you not even 30 minutes later.

[rockscanfly]

Noshir Dalal's (Charles Smith's VA and the man who largely shaped Charles into the singular character that he is, found here on tumblr @noshirdalal and on Cameo [in case you have your own questions you'd like answered]) beautiful response to my cameo prompt:

Q: You’ve mentioned before that Charles likes to read. What is his favorite book? Also, you’ve talked some about cowboy poetry and how you think it’s something Charles might have connected to. Can we get a favorite poem of his in his voice?

Besides the fact that this reading of "The Men That Don't Fit In" was just plain fantastic and moving as all get out, I really admire Noshir's choice of poem.

Similar to the poem’s author and his simultaneous celebration and castigation of the prototypical outlaw, Charles always came off to me as someone who loves his fellow gang members deeply but who didn't share their illusions about themselves or how they function within the larger context of the world around them.

Charles makes several remarks throughout the game ('Unpleasant? How do you rob and kill people pleasantly?' 'All this death and for what? Just so we can have enough money to be able to run from what we've done?' 'The amount of hell we raised, we’re owed some back') that indicate a high level of self-awareness about what it is the gang ACTUALLY does and how they're perceived by the outside world. 

Arthur makes some gestures at this understanding throughout the game, but his moral musings are undercut by his inability to stand his ground against Dutch throughout the numerous acts of outright cruelty his found-father perpetuates in Chapters 4-6 (Arthur barks, but he never bites).

Arthur and John have their gripes and moans, but ultimately the two of them stick it out until the bloody end. Charles is the first person to really break free of the fate the gang is hurtling towards.

In a tragedy built on the back of it's main cast's inability to cope with a changing world, Charles is arguably the character who exerts the most agency. He makes the decision in Chapter 6--when the circumstances that once tied him to the gang have dramatically altered--to cut loose.

Because of this choice, he lives.

To me, at least, this poem--and Noshir's brilliant delivery--isn't about Charles himself. Or at least not just about himself.

Its him talking about the Van der Linde gang. Arthur and John, his second family. Wild, brilliant, bold, true, free--and gone. With nothing but graves to show for the lives they lived.

Charles isn't reciting a poem--he's reciting a eulogy.

Transcript:

Hey Rocks. Um, thank you for your patience with all of this. 

Yeah, so we know that Charles reads and I know that we’ve talked before about a scene that apparently didn’t make it into the game, where after Charles’ interaction with Micah—and you know, yeeting him across the camp—Arthur comes upon him reading a book. 

That uh, that scene affected me in a major way and I think it's probably the reason I portray Charles the way I do. 

A guy who can physically manhandle pretty much anyone at camp having the mental and emotional maturity and self-regulation—if you can’t tell I’m a new dad [laughs]—to find a way to deal with his anger that doesn’t involve acting out and breaking stuff? 

Told me a tremendous amount about Charles, especially because what I’d been introduced to was the idea that Charles was a really violent, really angry maniac. 

And I love the idea that he’s really into poetry. I like poetry a lot. Actually when I was working on that latest skin for Yone (spl?) for League of Legends, I learned from the writing team that cowboy poetry is, like, a thing. 

And so I decided to look some up. And I like to think that maybe that this is a poem that Charles would have had in that book he was reading. 

The poem is called “The Men That Don’t Fit In” by Robert W. Service. Fitting, I think, especially for Charles for a number of reasons. I hope you like it. 

[Noshir goes into Charles’ voice and recites below poem by Robert W. Service (British-born Canadian Poet, 1874-1958), published in his book Songs of the Yukon (1907)]

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in, A race that can’t stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain’s crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don’t know how to rest. If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true; But they’re always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new. They say: “Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!” So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake. And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead, In the glare of the truth at last. He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half. Life’s been a jolly good joke on him, And now is the time to laugh. Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win; He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone; He’s a man who won’t fit in.

[daincrediblegg]

I need all the lore about Lamb and Standish too. When did they become so dependent on each other? Did they ever get drunk together back in the day? Did they ever sleep together? We know he cares about her a lot and feels guilty AND protective over her since Partner, but does he actually love her and is he in denial about this? I have so many questions

OK OK OK SO. I just finished the first book (woohoo) and. I am honestly so thrilled to say that what little lore we got from the first book at least aligned a lot with some of the stuff that I had come to my own conclusions about from having watched the show... way too many times now. And I have to say- real credit to Saskia and Gary and Will Smith for putting it together in the show the way they did because man. I feel like they give us so many subtextual clues and they really capitalize on each and every one of them that it makes doing my job as a film scholar just super fun.

Anways- on the Standish and Lamb situation? I have lots of thoughts. Most of which I wrote down last night in a complete stupor because this is what keeps me up at night thinking about this character dynamic. So buckle up. We're gonna ramble our way through my own thoughts and ideas about all this.

Like to start, to me it seems that they really never had much contact at all back in the day, and that makes sense: considering Jackson's mostly in Berlin playing Moscow rules in the field while Standish is at home holding the fort for Charles, there's not a lot of overlap with each other physically but they did know each other as much as they needed to know at the time: Standish was Partner's drunk PA, and Lamb was the Joe of All Joes (can I make it any more obvious?). What little contact they may have ever had was certainly mostly through Charles, and the show gives us some insight to that giving us that little flashback that Catherine has where she seemingly meets Lamb for the first time after "Berlin's blown" (which could mean either the wall came down as Lamb says to Catherine in his half-confession, or that he's referring to the incident that he describes to Katinsky in season 2, and of these two options, my money is on the latter). That looks like a woman being very confused meeting someone she's never really seen before in her life to me (or perhaps has seen while drunk at one time, but doesn't much remember).

I mean most of the rest I feel like I can glean from the incidents themselves. Both of them getting relegated to Slough House after Charles' death seems natural- Catherine with her near miss of a treason charge and Lamb with the fact that he literally assassinated First Fucking Desk of MI5. And it's easy to see how the co-dependency came from there. Catherine as an alcoholic going through AA specifically, seems to revolve around structure to keep herself in check- the way she talks about Charles Partner in Season 2 helps with this. The fact that he payed for her treatment and in return- probably partially because of this need for structure- she latched onto her job as a way to compensate so that she doesn't end up in the same dark place again. So, then being Lamb's secretary, it's still the same kind of structure that she needs, even though this time it doesn't feel as rosy as it might have done with Partner.

- And this is a point that I think about a lot. She does view her whole relationship with Partner with rose colored glasses, even though if you listen to what she's actually saying in those flashbacks from season 1, she's done his laundry, is planning his outfits, put out his flowers- she was doing nothing more than some kind of glorified paid house wife kind of shit for him (and in FACT! I was fooled my first go around season 1 like I genuinely thought that she was deadass his WIFE or something. I think that misconception on my part says a LOT). And Lamb in parallel to that is a great come down from that mountaintop-that she sees herself and Partner as this idylic Q and Money Penny type of thing that she's romanticized in her head for the last 20 years- an illusion that Lamb on every level shatters and is - at least to his credit- honest about. As much as he inconveniences her and as much as he's his raw unfiltered self around her (which- he certainly is more of that around Standish than anyone else he knows. River gets a lot of brutal honesty from Jackson, but none to do with emotional sincerity- like the way Lamb tells Standish the half-truth of Partner's death, and why he *chose* slough house), as much as he's a bully he's still doesn't give her any illusion of what their relationship is or isn't, and no one would see that as a mark of respect on account of him being an "utter bastard", but is all of that really worse than Charles pretending to be her best friend and all the while planning to have her take the fall for him behind her back? (Personally? It's a different kind of bad but Charles is definitely the worst). And it's extra funny situationally because then all of the things she says about how Partner treated her is much more close to the mark to what Lamb did for her, and things that weren't superficial either. "I know that unlike you, he respected me" ("christ, Standish was right", always updates her on what he knows when appropriate and always has her sit in on debriefs when it's safe), "he showed me friendship"(he always pours out a drink for her that he ends up drinking himself, always when things are going to come down on her deals with it *himself* rather than relegate it to the fuck-ups, always has her up to date on things -unless it means blowing cover), "and he believed in me" (he gave HER the gun and let her delegate the hijacking of the MI5 car from Duffy and Webb, let HER do the cool agent stuff, also lets her do some of the investigative work- especially in season 2 when he doesn't interrupt her at ALL when she keeps up with the camera trail on- but also knows her limits, especially in the house of hell where he stuffs her in a closet knowing she can't be of more use because *he* knew he could kill Hobbs, but "now I won't shoot you dead, Mr. Webb,"), "and he kept me on, when anyone else would have thrown me to the wolves."(which is exactly what he did when Partner died, and all the information came out that Partner was going to peg it on her. It wouldn't surprise me if he took the hit for that too in some way. If him getting her treason charge dropped might also be part of why he ended up in Slough House - which if the op was sanctioned initially by David Cartwright might hold some weight. Maybe that was David cleaning up and covering arse like Taverner would do. Maybe Catherine *was* supposed to take the fall, but Jackson refused to let that happen? But that's just a theory. A Slough House Theory).

But the bigger question in this is of course: why? Why on god's green earth does Jackson Lamb give a shit, and why is he so dependent on Standish?

The solution to this feels multi-pronged. First: I think that he has a bit of a chip on his shoulder about innocent people getting caught in the cross-fire of the things that MI-5 get up to, and Catherine fits that bill better than anybody he knows. In season 2 when he talks about the women agents whose deaths he was directly responsible for, he describes it as something he "wishes [he] could unsee"- which for Lamb is saying a lot, considering that to most things (heads on tables, faces blown off with shotguns) he doesn't bat an eye, and even says he's seen worse. What happened to those women and the fact that what he said made that happen I think affected him more deeply than he lets on in that scene, because even though Charles Partner didn't know who they were at all outside of a codename, Jackson did, and probably knew them very well. And Charles as their shadowy overlord who was just moving them like pieces on a chessboard never had to pay the emotional price for that, nor did David Cartwright. But Lamb did. Because as much as he denies it to keep people looking the other way, Lamb does have a heart, and it's hard to earn but it's not impossible.

And he always does take the emotional fall for things! He says in season 4 that he "had a heart until he worked for [David Cartwright]" whom he also said "gave [him] a job once". The way those lines conflict in tone but also reveal a lot about how he views his own fall from grace says so much. David Cartwright got him into this business, but under his direction he hardened for it (something that I think connects him to River more than that boy will ever understand. Also is what makes Lamb a better mentor than Peepaw Cartwright, but that's another story) not to mention that for all intents and purposes, Lamb and Partner were actually good friends, and that this betrayal and the fact that he had to do it himself (even though maybe his feelings were mixed on the matter- that maybe he even loved Partner too in a similar way that Standish did at one point in time, but the lives lost from his betrayal weighed on Lamb more- and as we all know, from Catherine's own mouth, he'll do anything to get even for his Joes).

Which brings me to my second point: Jackson Lamb wants to be the hero just as much as his protege River Cartwright does, but the reality of their whole line of work is that there are very few instances in which anyone gets to be, but Catherine is one of the rare exceptions where he did, and all told, it doesn't feel good. Because there's a couple things at play here right? On the one hand yeah- he did save her from being thrown to the wolves after Partner died and framed her for his crimes! Yes he kept her from facing a treason charge, yes he covers her arse time and time again. But she still is the person who had to find the body. And as we know with Lamb, he knows how bad it is to have found the body better than anyone (I mean- I point to how he reacts to Min's death, and then to Bad Sam's in season 4- so enraged he storms out but also so depressed he steals his last bottle of booze). He didn't get to spare her from that, but he is trying to spare her from the rest of it too(an impulse he couldn't help but let go in the last episode of season 3- while still not incriminating himself, mind you), and that's hard! Because he's not supposed to have a heart ("What goodness? What heart?", "Oh have a heart, Jackson!") but he DOES! And he's taken it upon himself to break it time and time again just so he can keep himself at the top of his game- even though, and here's the secret: it's his heart that makes him the best at what he does! Because he does get involved! "I think your attention has been split between finding [Hassan Ahmed] and burning me!"- he does on some level actually give a shit about lives lost! Something Lady Di and Tearney and Duffy and even Cartwright Sr. don't consider when THEY play the game. And he cares about the kind of people that have everything to lose from the actions of the people at the top! And he'll martyr himself about it over and over again because he's got the skill better than anyone to do it and he knows it! And to make sure Standish stays right where she is- out of harms way- he'll fucking go to the ends of... idk England. Probably. To make sure she stays out of harms way where she belongs. And as a thread running co-current to that: I think he understands how much having found Partner's body haunts her every waking moment more than she knows- from his own experience, though he's definitely got a higher body count. They all weigh on him just the same ("By the time I was your age, I'd lost a baker's dozen. It was bad enough when the wall was up, but once they reduced it to bricks and rubble, everything went to shit. Whole networks of Joes, rounded up, blown. I haven't forgotten any of them. And I won't forget Sid.")

And then, on the other side of the dice, I think there's also a bit of a self-torture mixed with sadism that's a part of why he keeps her around too. I mean in a lot of ways it seems that it is absolute torture to him to keep Catherine around, considering she's always harping on about cHaRlEs PaRtNeR (who as we have established- it grates on Jackson that in Catherine's mind Partner is a knight in shining armor when really *he* did all of that way more than Partner ever did for her- though I don't even think Lamb would give himself the credit for that he can't stand that she sees him that way when he was disenchanted and knew all these horrible truths about what he did to his own people for money), and part of that co-dependency is (and I hate to say it) is that he needs to torture SOMEONE other than himself externally for his own friendship with Partner and literally Catherine is the only person with a shred of shared history that he can really do that to. And at the same time, she gets to do it to him. He gets to let her torture him also just a little bit ("What did your last servant die of?" "What did your last boss die of?"). He thrives off of that push and pull of torturing others while actually torturing himself. It's his own fucked up emotional bdsm basically.

Now of course to the biggest question of all: Is it love? Who's to say? Can Lamb ever cut the bullshit and admit to himself that his feelings about the whole Partner situation haunt him like his own shadow? Forever attached to his being? Can Standish ever see beyond her rose-colored glasses about Partner and give Jackson some forgiveness before he farts himself into an early grave for it? I don't know but they're on the fucking clock and I tend to swing back and forth like a pendulum on the notion (like I wouldn't say I ship them, but I wouldn't say that I don't either. Secret third thing: they're just really narratively fucking interesting and that gets me off just as well as anything else so? Yeah I guess).