#Modern day Outlaws

[queen-diamond-serenity]

Another thing I'd like to clear up concerning Dutch. Clearing up the identity of his style of attire.

Understanding his appearance. Now people have described Dutch as having drip and yes indeed he does have drip. LOL

The but the thing about that is that they have Associated his attire with that of the upper Entourage of the society that we all know he's against. And that's the thing I need to correct people on. It's because they associate his look with being up there with the type of people of Leviticus Cornwall that's what I got out of what they said. Or somebody of higher stature. Like Angelo Bronte we see what his attire look like.

But that isn't the case at all Dutch dress like a bad boy with swag. When you look at Dutch think of the bad boys who are in the hood that know how to dress and put on an impressive look.

What is the one thing about bad boys that good girls like about them? Its the way they dress! They dress with swag. When you look at them they look like they smell like Cool Waters or old spice. Or some other fancy Cologne that bad boys like to rock.

Rather it be good boy or bad boy not every man knows how to put on a good look . Not every man is colorful and creative when it comes to his appearance. Look at all the money Angelo Bronte have and there was nothing appealing about him. Look at Leviticus Cornwall one of the richest man but couldn't put on a look. Dutch is an outlaw but has the look that could make a woman that probably usually isn't attracted to his type he could probably talk her out of her panties. That's what we call bad boy swag.

Dutch don't dress like the higher ups that he's against they wouldn't be caught dead in the attire he wears because they think it's beneath them. But yet he looks well put together than they do.

The other two pictures I have posted next to Dutch was to use as an example. And you know I'm definitely going to have to put Tupac up there as a comparison. Simply because Tupac was in fact a modern day outlaw.

Dutch dress like the bad boy he is he's a bad boy with Style no different than the modern day Outlaws we see walking around.

Which I always started was funny how people tried to associate his attire with the higher ups.

Men like Angelo Bronte and Leviticus Cornwall got all that money but when you look at their attire comparison to Dutch you can't compare their attire to his. But you can compare it to bill gates. You see where I'm going? That's my point some of the richest men in the world don't have no real fashion sense and don't have flavor. The only thing that get women calling is their money. But men like Tupac men like Snoop Dogg and men like Dutch who can put a look together we'll have a woman sniffing LOL. As much crap people give about Jay Z's face he can pull women because of how he carries himself. And he got money. And before he was making it big he was still getting women because it was the way he carried himself. No one is checking for a Leviticus Cornwall over a Dutch van der Linde.

Look at how Dutch was able to pull Molly o'shea. And she was from high society. My point proven LOL 😆 😌

[thequeenofsastiel]

Watching Wandee Goodday and honestly the only thing I can think while watching it is just how terrible boxing is for you and can lead to chronic pain and illness later in life, not to mention brain damage. I just want to grab Yoryak, shake him, and tell him to do something else with his life.

*Sigh*

But I'm also aware of how common poverty is in Thailand(and the US) so I can understand doing what you feel you have to do to avoid it, however ill advised.

[thewildones]

me thinking about the sons of anarchy but ... make it a western .

[tossball-stick]

do i have any mutuals in the rdr2 fandom that have some accounts for me to follow (preferably analysis/discussion posts and fic authors tbh) or will i have to just wade through the fandom blocking people i disagree with until im actually seeing anything that means something to me. every meaningful non drawing post ive seen from this fandom has solely been from the kieran fans or the micah fans and that is an INSANE thing for them to have in common actually

[fatehbaz]

was thinking about this

To be in "public", you must be a consumer or a laborer.

About control of peoples' movement in space/place. Since the beginning.

"Vagrancy" of 1830s-onward Britain, people criminalized for being outside without being a laborer.

Breaking laws resulted in being sentenced to coerced debtor/convict labor. Coinciding with the 1830-ish climax of the Industrial Revolution and the land enclosure acts (factory labor, poverty, etc., increase), the Metropolitan Police Act of 1829 establishes full-time police institution(s) in London. The "Workhouse Act" aka "Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834" forced poor people to work for a minimum number of hours every day. The Irish Constabulary of 1837 sets up a national policing force and the County Police Act of 1839 allows justices of the peace across England to establish policing institutions in their counties (New York City gets a police department in 1844). The major expansion of the "Vagrancy Act" of 1838 made "joblessness" a crime and enhanced its punishment. (Coincidentally, the law's date of royal assent was 27 July 1838, just 5 days before the British government was scheduled to allow fuller emancipation of its technical legal abolition of slavery in the British Caribbean on 1 August 1838.)

---

"Vagrancy" of 1860s-onward United States, people criminalized for being outside while Black.

Widespread emancipation after slavery abolition in 1865 rapidly followed by the outlawing of loitering which de facto outlawed existing as Black in public. Inability to afford fines results in being sentenced to forced labor by working on chain gangs or prisons farms, some built atop plantations.

---

"Vagrancy" of 1870s-onward across empires, people criminalized for being outside while being "foreign" and also being poor generally.

Especially from 1880-ish to 1918-ish, this was an age of widespread mass movement of peoples due to the land dispossession, poverty, and famine induced by global colonial extraction and "market expansion" (Scramble for Africa, US "American West", nation-building, conquering "frontiers"), as agricultural "revolutions" of imperial monoculture cash crop extraction resulted in ecological degradation, and as major imperial infrastructure building projects required a lot of vulnerable "mobile" labor. This coincides with and is facilitated by new railroad networks and telegraphs, leading to imperial implementation or expansion of identity documents, strict work contracts, passports, immigration surveillance, and border checkpoints.

All of this in just a few short years: In 1877, British administrators in India develop what would become the Henry Classification System of taking and keeping fingerprints for use in binding colonial Indians to legal contracts. That same year during the 1877 Great Railroad Strike, and in response to white anxiety about Black residents coming to the city during Great Migration, Chicago's policing institutions exponentially expand surveillance and pioneer "intelligence card" registers for tracking labor union organizing and Black movement, as Chicago's experiments become adopted by US military and expanded nationwide, later used by US forces monitoring dissent in colonial Philippines and Cuba. Japan based its 1880 Penal Code anti-vagrancy statutes on French models, and introduced "koseki" register to track poor/vagrant domestic citizens as Tokyo's Governor Matsuda segregates classes, and the nation introduces "modern police forces". In 1882, the United States passes the Chinese Exclusion Act. In 1884, the Ottoman government enacts major "Passport Nizamnamesi" legislation requiring passports. In 1885, the racist expulsion of the "Tacoma riot".

Punished for being Algerian in France. Punished for being Chinese in San Francisco. Punished for being Korean in Japan. Punished for crossing Ottoman borders without correct paperwork. Arrested for whatever, then sent to do convict labor. A poor person in the Punjab, starving during a catastrophic famine, might be coerced into a work contract by British authorities. They will have to travel, shipped off to build a railroad. But now they have to work. Now they are bound. They will be punished for being Punjabi and trying to walk away from Britain's tea plantations in Assam or Britain's rubber plantations in Malaya.

Mobility and confinement, the empire manipulates each.

---

"Vagrancy" amidst all of this, people also criminalized for being outside while "unsightly" and merely even superficially appearing to be poor. San Francisco introduced the notorious "ugly law" in 1867, making it illegal for "any person, who is diseased, maimed, mutilated or deformed in any way, so as to be an unsightly or disgusting object, to expose himself or herself to public view". Today, if you walk into a building looking a little "weird" (poor, Black, ill, disabled, etc.), you are given seething spiteful glares and asked to leave. De facto criminalized for simply going for a stroll without downloading the coffee shop's exclusive menu app.

Too ill, too poor, too exhausted, too indebted to move, you are trapped. Physical barriers (borders), legal barriers (identity documents), financial barriers (debt). "Vagrancy" everywhere in the United States, a combination of all of the above. "Vagrancy" since at least early nineteenth century Europe. About the control of movement through and access to space/place. Concretizing and weaponizing caste, corralling people, anchoring them in place, extracting their wealth and labor.

You are permitted to exist only as a paying customer or an employee.

[mesetacadre]

how do you feel about a heavy portion of communists being ableist? sending disabled people to prison for being physically unable to work and then acting like that didn't happen doesn't make disabled people confident that communism won't hurt them just as bad as capitalism (I'm not saying billions of trillions dies from communism I'm just saying ''those who won't work won't eat'' is fucking evil especially when I see that rhetoric in modern day! You can say 'oh a wheelchair user can do teaching or archiving' but that ignores how many disabled people are bedbound or fully paralyzed!)

ARTICLE 12. In the U.S.S.R. work is a duty and a matter of honour for every able-bodied citizen, in accordance with the principle: "He who does not work, neither shall he eat."

The principle applied in the U.S.S.R. is that of socialism : "From each according to his ability, to each according to his work."

[...]

ARTICLE 120. Citizens of the U.S.S.R. have the right to maintenance in old age and also in the case of sickness or loss of capacity to work.

This right is ensured by the extensive development of social insurance of workers and employees at state expense, free medical service for the working people and the provision of a wide network of health resorts for the use of the working people.

This is the USSR's 1936 consistution, emphasis mine. Not a perfect constitution by any means, but this is very clearly antithetical to what you believe happened. Disabled people in my own country today have less rights and even less guarantees of those rights being respected. Again, the USSR was not perfect and I'm not saying it was. But you're ascribing willful malice that is embedded in marxism to circumstances that were not easily circumvented. The USSR was an imperfect state lacking in sufficient social protections, which came from times of feudalism without any kind of protection in any aspects save for the nobility, and whose collapse led to unparalleled misery and war. "He who does not work shall not eat" never included disabled people. It's a slogan, and slogans are not nuanced. What the USSR never did was enshrine that slogan into law literally, it always explicitly addressed able-bodied people.

Let's also look at a more modern constitution, Cuba's, from 2019

ARTICLE 42. All people are equal before the law, recieve the same protection and treatment from authorities and enjoy the same rights, freedoms and opportunities, without discrimination on the basis of sex, gender, sexual orientation, gender identity, age, ethnic origin, skin color, religious faith, disability, national or territorial origin, or any other condition or personal circumstance that implies a harmful distinction before human dignity.

All have the right to enjoy the same public spaces and establishments.

Likewise, receive the same salary for the same work, without any discrimination.

The violation of the principle of equality is outlawed and is sanctioned by law.

[...]

ARTICLE 64. The right to work is recognized. The person in condition to work has a right to obtain dignified employment, corresponding to their selection, qualification, aptitude, and economic and societal requirements.

ARTICLE 65. Every person has a right for their work to be compensated as a function of its quality and quantity, expression of the socialist principle "from each according to their capacity, to each according to their work".

[...]

ARTICLE 68. The person who works has a right to social security. The State, through the system of social security, guarantees their adequate protection when they are unable to work because of age, maternity, paternity, disability, or illness.

[...]

ARTICLE 70. The State, through social assistance, protects the people without resources or refuge, not capable of working, who lack family members able to bring them help; and to families who, due to the insufficient income they recieve, if they so choose, in accordance with the law

I don't see anywhere a part that says all disabled people are jailed. Cuba definitely does have effective and real protections for all kinds of disabled people, and just like the USSR, the principle of the duty to work is not applied directly to disabled people. It's hard still to find information on the practical application of disability protection that's not funded by Radio Free Whatever, but here's an article about Cuba's:

[wilwheaton]

Frederick Douglass, who was born into Southern slavery, described the South as “a little nation by itself, having its own language, its own rules, regulations, and customs.” Fewer than 2000 families — six-tenths of one percent of the Southern population — owned more than 50 enslaved people and ruled the oligarchy that we call the Confederacy with an iron fist. The 75 percent of white people in the South during that era who did not own any enslaved persons generally lived in deep poverty. Women had no rights, queer people were routinely tortured and murdered, education for both enslaved Africans and poor whites was generally outlawed, religious attendance was often mandated, and hunger and disease stalked all but those in the families of the two thousand morbidly rich planter dynasties. Modern-day Red states are doing their best to recreate that old Confederacy, right down to state Senator Kathy Chism’s new effort to return the Confederate battle flag to Mississippi's state flag. Ron DeSantis and Mike Pence have both emphasized their presidential pledges to restore the names of murderous Civil War traitors to American military bases, celebrating their armed defense of the “values” of the Old South. Today’s version of yesteryear’s plantation owners are called CEOs, hedge and vulture fund managers, and the morbidly rich. They use the power of political bribery given them by five corrupt Republicans on the Supreme Court — with Clarence Thomas’ tie-breaking Citizens United vote on behalf of his sugar daddy Harlan Crow — to lord over their Red states, regardless of the will of those states’ citizens.

Why are red state 'welfare queen' oligarchs allowed to mooch off of blue states?

[howtofightwrite]

Was bounty hunting in the Old West as popular as the movies make it out to be? The actual history I've read suggests that that niche was mostly taken up either by private detectives from agencies like Pinkerton or by straight outlaws. Were movie-style bounty hunters mostly a myth?

Movie style bounty hunters were almost exclusively a myth. There were the odd exception here or there, but the concept of an old west bounty hunter didn't really exist until the 1950s.

The term, “bounty hunter,” is a little anachronistic as well. While there were people called bounty hunters in the 19th century, the term primarily referred to mercenaries. Specifically this was in the context of any signing or campaign completion bonuses that they would receive. That was the, “bounty.”

Using the modern term, most bounty hunters in the old west were actually local law enforcement officers, who relied on the cash payout bonuses from arrests. (And, in the case of these bounties, thinking of it as a pay bonus for law enforcement really is instructive.) In other cases, law enforcement officers would use a portion of those payouts to entice civilians to assist them in making potentially dangerous arrests.

Private detectives, including the Pinkertons, also sometimes tracked down outlaws, and as with law enforcement, the bonus pay was an enticement. Amusingly, Wells Fargo used to also operate bounty hunters specifically tracking outlaws who'd targeted their property. Though, other contemporary companies did the same. In this case, it's less of a “bounty hunter,” and more of a corporate enforcer, hunting down someone who'd crossed the company.

Another interesting thing to be aware of is that those wanted posters were not publicly distributed. There also wasn't a universal format, or source. Some were distributed by the Pinkertons (though, I'm not entirely clear on whether those were given to law enforcement or primarily kept for internal use, though at least some of their circulars did end up in the public record and have been preserved.) In a lot of cases, these were just a written description of the criminal, and a posted bonus (usually $100 or less.) I'm not completely sure how rare the posters were at the time, but very few have survived into the modern day. So, this was more of a resource for law enforcement, rather than something offered for public consumption. The image of a board of wanted posters presented for anyone wandering psychopath to peruse is a fantasy.

Freelancers, such as they were, seem to have been mostly working for private interests. These were often military veterans who would happily hunt down suspected criminals (such as cattle rustlers) and dispatch them. In general, that ends up looking a bit more like murder-for-hire, rather than what you'd think of as a modern bounty hunter, though it may inform some of the modern perspectives on the job. These are the ones you're probably seeing that get categorized as outlaws, and there is quite a bit of truth to that.

A sort of neat bit of trivia, the modern bounty hunter, (also, more commonly known as a bail bondsman, or bail bond agent), is a very old profession. However their history in the United States originated in San Francisco in 1898. The Old West came to an end in 1912 (generally), so there was a period of 14 years where modern bounty hunters existed in America, before the wild west was officially over. So, in that sense, there is some actual overlap, but it's not what most people think of when talking about a “wild west bounty hunter.” (And, on the subject of, “officially over,” it's worth remembering that the last range war in Wyoming took place in 1909.)

The image of the bounty hunter as a sort of freelance cop, who wanders around arresting outlaws, is a product of highly sanitized 1950s westerns.

-Starke

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[tacitusk1llwhore]

Don’t cancel me for this, y’all, but I’ve seen a lot of politically charged posts about RDR (as I should; games about outlaws and the corruption of big and small government are and always will be inherently political), but one thing has really bothered and stuck out to me the most, especially in male-dominated spaces in the fandom. The idea that the Arthur Morgan in this day and age would be a raging MAGA conservative—I’ve gotten so, so many posts about it on my TikTok today, and this is finally me snapping. Here are a few arguments I’ve heard for this. “When he hears that the Democrats want to take his guns, he’d say hell no to that.” “He’s from 1899; you really think he would vote for a Black woman?” And my personal favorite: “Arthur says in-game he doesn’t engage in politics.” I’m not going to go through each of these and explain, in detail with evidence from the games themselves, why I think these are the dumbest takes I’ve ever heard in my life. In a space I hope is more open to this discussion, I hope you’ll join me.

1.) The gun control issue. I know, I know, this one seems pretty obvious; I mean, he’s a red-blooded American man and cowboy. How could anyone possibly think for a second he’d be for the party of gun control?? While this is true, you know what’s also true? The fact that he lost a child to gun violence. Now, of course we don't know exactly how Isaac and Eliza were killed, but judging from the time and efficiency, we can assume they were shot. Now let’s get away from assumptions. Arthur mourned the loss of his son, felt the agonizing, intense pain of losing a child, and said that it changed him forever, hardened his heart. Do we really for a second think that Arthur would listen to the story of Sandy Hook, Parkland, Uvalde, and countless others and say, “No, guns are more important.”? Absolutely fucking not. Not only has Arthur felt that loss, that pain, but he is deeply empathetic; hearing the testimonials of children in these buildings, families that lost their babies, would be more than enough for him to understand and push for common sense gun laws. The erasure of Arthur Morgan's trauma of losing his son and the erasure of his empathy for children and families is rampant in political spaces of the fandom; to simply assume that because Arthur is an outlaw, in modern times he would be this “don’t tread on me.” “Cares more about guns than kids” kind of guy is asinine to me. Even if he hadn’t felt that loss and that pain, there are multiple times in the game where he is given a deeper understanding of things he has never experienced; he becomes angry at that pain inflicted, takes the mission with Charles and the Bison, and hears about the vaccines being diverted from the reservations, and the Black doctor (I think he’s a doctor) you meet in Rhodes. Once he heard these stories, these testimonials, or saw the pain, the hardship, he was quick to step in and do something to make a change. He would not value weapons over the lives of people, as we can see from the game.

2.) This one is always fun to see because it assumes that Arthur is inherently racist. Now, I’m going to state one of my least favorite but still valid arguments: he has minority friends. This is very true; look at Charles, Lenny, Javier, and Tilly. Here is why it’s one of my least favorite arguments: you can have minority friends and still be racist, sexist, homophobic… Having friends doesn’t make you antiracist, so what makes Arthur antiracist? One camp interaction stands out to me the most in regards to this, the one with Tilly when they first move south. Tilly comes to Arthur in specific to talk about how nervous she is being so far south; she understands that the south is a dangerous place for dark-skinned people, especially the location they’re in. Arthur, while he tries to soothe her, pointlessly at first, claiming that it's a good place to run from the law, also understands this, almost immediately changing his tone and telling Tilly not once but twice that e personally will keep her safe, that she has his word that he personally will keep her safe; a man that has hate in his heart for POC would not do that, ever. Another interaction is one with Lenny, where Lenny points out that Arthur wouldn’t notice the difference in the more southern states because the worst they’ll do to him publicly is say that he is friends with POC (less soft than that, watch the clips of it on YouTube if you want the full dialogue), whereas for Lenny the worst that can happen to him publicly is a lynching (which he states all the way back in chapter one where he almost was lynched). Arthur is not ignorant of racism; he knows that it exists—I hate the whole “Arthur doesn’t know about racism.” Because he does, and saying he doesn’t is an insult to his intelligence and awareness of the world around him. He knows racism exists; he personally just cannot fathom it; he cannot picture himself perpetuating racism (again, see the scene in Rhodes with the Black man), which is where I think that confusion that people say he doesn’t understand it comes from—he isn’t confused by racism; he’s confused why that man assumes he’s racist, because in his head he simply can’t fathom being bigoted.

This one has two parts, so bear with me. This also assumes that Arthur is sexist; the argument I see for this is the one-off comment he makes to the working girl at the saloon, "I didn't know I was talkin' to a lady." Was this an ok statement? No. Does it make him a raging sexist? Also no. Let's look at his relationship with Sadie; he does not underestimate her because she's a woman; he trusts in her and her abilities with unwavering confidence, so much so that he entrusts the safety of John, Abigail, and Jack to her. Now let's look at the camp interactions, one of which Arthur states that he sees no difference between men and women (bi king) and that most are bad, but some are worth loving. A man who is a raging sexist would never say something like this; he would never equate men and women, but Arthur does see them as equals. I see a lot of people point out that Arthur is far more protective of the camp girls than most, but this isn't because he sees them as less than him; he just understands that a lot of them lack the ability to fully protect themselves (Love you, Tilly and Mary-Beth). He isn't quite as protective of the women that he knows with confdence can and will protect themselves with confidence, but even then he will stick up for them if needed. Arthur Morgan is a protector of women, which is so incredibly important today and back then.

3.) Here’s my favorite. Arthur doesn’t engage in politics. Looking at this in terms of the game, he absolutely does engage in politics; he has opinions on rights and the government; that is, in fact, political—he doesn’t vote, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t make political statements or isn’t even unintentionally political. Now let’s look at this in the frame of today. Being non-political in 1899 and being non-political in 2025 are two wildly different things; politics has changed drastically in the last almost decade where thngs have circled back around to be voting for or against human rights, and from my evidence above, Arthur would be voting for those rights. In modern times it is almost impossible to be nonpolitical; I dare say it's impossible. Everything now has politics attached to it; that argument is their gotcha moment because they don't understand that, which is why they make the argument in the first place.

So, why does this matter? Arthur is a pixel outlaw in a fictional setting of 1899 America. I guess in the grand scheme of life it really doesn’t, but in fandom culture it absolutely does. Many people, including myself, come to fandom spaces to escape, to cope with things from their past or events of the day, to chat about characters, and to share theories and art, and so on. Imagine someone who lost a child, sibling, or friend to gun violence logging on for their daily dose of distraction only to see someone making points as to why a character who is comforting to so many people wouldn’t care about the death of their lost loved one, just guns. A POC or member of the LGBTQ community doing the same and seeing arguments as to why Arthur is homophobic or racist. Seeing something like that is in fact harmful; taking things and stretching them to fit your narrative despite the actual source material pointing in the opposite direction requires erasure and explaining your own personal biases publicly. Someone stating that Arthur is a racist is just them stating that they themselves are a racist or that they themselves care more about guns than lives—as we’ve seen, the public stating of controversial things or overall morally reprehensible ideals when gone unchecked spirals and spreads, and soon we have a space of people who will openly state bigoted things and push the people in the fandom here for reasons of a shared enjoyment for whatever reason or the people who use things to cope or as a distraction out of the space, effectively ruining it and potentially the outlook on the content of the game. Fandom spaces shouldn’t tolerate bigotry, and lots of Red Dead fans have been expressing bigotry lately, and these people have started to go completely unchecked. It bothers me; it always will, even if it is just a silly cowboy game.

[i-was-today-years-old-when]

i learned that Treadmills Were Originally Created as a Form of Torture

The treadmill was invented as a rehabilitation device by a British man named William Cubitt in 1818. It was originally designed as a way to make prisoners more productive by milling corn, and pumping water at the same time. However it became a popular “atonement” device for lower level criminals.

It was a lot like the sport of log-rolling, only instead of falling safely into the water, participants would end up falling onto the hard ground below, and run the risk of becoming gravely injured.

Cubitt created several different versions of the treadmill. The most popular one was originally located at Brixton Prison in London and consisted of a wide wheel that prisoners had to run on. It could hold 24 prisoners. Most included partitions to prevent the prisoners from socializing.

The treadmill proved to be so popular that half of all prisons had them by 1842. Those unlucky enough to receive this punishment often did so for up to ten hours per day. One of the most famous people to endure it was Oscar Wilde, during his imprisonment for gross indecency.

The popularity of the treadmill, however declined. The British started to emphasize education as a means to rehabilitate their prisoners. Many argued that the treadmill was a dangerous practice that led to an unusually high death rate of prisoners. By 1898, they were outlawed.

Designs for a new type of treadmill designed for exercise emerged in 1913 when American inventor CL Hagen was issued a patent for a “training-machine.”

Later on, an American engineer named William Staub would create the modern form of the treadmill, called the Pacemaster 600.

Today, treadmills are one of the most popular types of exercise equipment in the world, though I’m pretty sure they are still considered to be a type of torture for some.

[markrosewater]

If Universes Beyond is "Additive" as you said a few days ago, then why not make an "additional" format rather than forcing a change to Standard?

The psychographics are about the different ways you can psychologically approach the game.

If you’re a Spike, you’re about proving what you are capable of (which often means winning, but not always). That means you focus on picking the best card for the job at hand. That’s going to be dictated by card power and not creative decisions. Whether you like a creative execution (be it in-multiverse or Universes Beyond) or not simply isn’t the deciding factor.

If you’re a Timmy/Tammy, you’re about experiencing something. That means you pick the cards that best create the experience you want. If creative choices are a big part of that experience, then you will prioritize choosing cards that match what you want for your deck.

If you’re a Johnny/Jenny, you’re about expressing something. Your card choices are about you saying something about who you are. If creative choices are important to that message, it will impact which cards you play with.

The issue about mixing in-multiverse and Universe Beyond cards is only forced for the Spikes, because they’re the one psychographic that has to make choices irregardless of the creative execution of the card.

For the Timmy/Tammy and Johnny/Jenny players, if Universe Beyond cards dilute your experience, make other card choices. Don’t play with them.

That’s what I say about the cards being “additive”. You can add them to your deck if they enhance your experience. If they lessen your experience, don’t add them.

The big question is what matters most to you. If you’re choosing a card because it will increase your win rate, then you’re making a Spike-y decision. And that’s fine, but it means you’re prioritizing mechanics over flavor.

My core message is you the player have total power over what you play. You pick the format you play, you pick who you play with, and you pick the cards in your deck.

This issue isn’t new to Universes Beyond. Some people don’t like the cuteness of Bloomburrow, or the modernity of Duskmourn, or the famous characters in cowboy hats approach to Outlaw of Thunder Junction. If you want to make Spike-y decisions, then you play the card regardless of your personal opinion of the creative choices of the card.

Maybe you’re playing a card with a cutesy name you don’t enjoy, or a piece of art that’s not your style, or flavor text that you find groan worthy. That’s a decision you make when you build your deck and you choose what to prioritize.

Everyone has a different line of what creatively is acceptable, and it’s human nature to want to believe that your line is “the line”.

I’ve been doing this for a long time. Every line we cross is somebody’s line. But Magic, at its core, is about pushing boundaries and trying new things. It’s one of the defining qualities of the game.

My message is you can choose your own line. Magic adaptability allows you to play with what makes the game the most fun for you. You can choose to not cross your own line, but it does require you to prioritize that line over Spike-y decisions.

Look, we’re going to keep adding things to the game that players demonstrate they enjoy, whether that be mechanical or creative. It’s the defining quality of the game’s growth over the last thirty-one years.

And by the way, the data strongly, and I mean strongly, shows players enjoy Universes Beyond. All the people that made The Lord of the Rings the most popular set of all time are just as much Magic players as those that never purchased it.

And why not make an additional format? Because the data says there isn’t a large enough audience to support it. If there was, we’d make it. We’re very influenced by the desires of the players.

Our goal, as it has always been, is to make the best game in the world. We iterate, you give feedback, and we adapt. Lather, rinse, repeat.

One of the big lessons I’ve gotten designing Magic is that it’s going to adapt based on the totality of the desires of the players. Enough players like something, and the game starts adapting to it.

That adaptation is not always what I personally would choose, but over the years, I’ve come to realize the fact that the adaptation is not the choice of any one person, but the totality of the playerbase is the thing that makes Magic a game unlike any other.

It’s a living breathing entity that’s constantly becoming what its players want it to be. And that’s pretty cool.

[writers-potion]

Ethics, Conflicts and Secrecy of Magic in Your Novel

Ethics

Modern day magician would consider it unethical to use magic to harm others, but in history, curses and destructive magic was big business.

Some magicians would consider it unethical to interfere with a person's free will, while others might not

Some will never work under the influence of a substance (drug, alcohol), while for others it may be common

How a magician practice magic can vary depending on their principle profession (if they have a day job). A social worker and a drug dealer will have every different ideas about what magic should and should not do.

Make your magician morally gray. What are the consequences?

Challenge your magicians ethical standards. Would they still stick to the same rules even if their family/friend/livelihood is in danger?

Villainous Ethics

"never torture someone on Thursdays"

"perform harmful spells only when the moon is full"

"don't interfere with someones free will...unless the client pays in gold."

"never hurt an animal."

"never hurt someone over the age of seventy" (come before their birthday, please!)

"never attack another magician" (go for his wife instead)

"never harm a virgin"

etc., etc. just have fun with loopholes and loose interpretations of the rules you give your magicians.

The Wiccan Rede

The most widely followed principle is: "An it harm none, do what ye will", which is the Wiccan Rede. There are contentions about what this might actually entail.

This principle is an old one, one that was passed down orally before it was recorded. This means that "an" can be many things - it may be "because" or "since" or "if" or just gibberish.

You can have your magician character interprete this age-old rule in their own way, doing things that border between right and wrong.

Secrecy

In periods like the Middle Ages, magic was strictly banned and anyone who practices it (or is accused of doing so) prosecuted. The execution method varied: hanged, burned at the stake, etc.

Religious magic is problematic if it is not the predominant religion of the region or state.

Your character may be from a group of people who have been conquered or historically persecuted for a long time.

Languages in which the magic is conducted can be banned/outlawed.

If your magicians only work in secret:

Think of ways they use to hide their identities

Raise the stakes - what happens if they are discovered?

What if the magician thinks they're acting in secret but everyone actually knows?

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[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ wild west prompts 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ “those wanted posters are plastered on the doors of every general store and livery for ten miles in any direction - did you really think you wouldn’t be recognised?”

²⁾ “how charming of all these outlaws to wait until i was sworn in as sheriff before they rolled through town.”

³⁾ “i know this town is more modern than most we’ve come across, but i think there’ll still be questions raised if we head on into the boarding house together and ask for a single room.”

⁴⁾ “i can’t say i’ve ever seen a pairing so odd as a gravedigger and a midwife before.”

⁵⁾ “psst… psst! the guys took a ride out to the creek and spotted one of the sheriff’s goons scouting out the trail we took up here yesterday. we need to get moving, now!”

⁶⁾ “shit, if i knew they’d started making bounty hunters this pretty i would’ve stopped trying so damn hard to stay clear of you.”

⁷⁾ “that rancher came by asking after my hand again today. you don’t get your act together soon, and i’m gonna start letting him believe it’s a possibility.”

⁸⁾ "there's easier ways to get my attention than to get bucked, y'know."

⁹⁾ "does your madame require you to pay this much attention to all your patrons, or have you taken a shine to me already?"

¹⁰⁾ "for a city kid, you're starting to look awful comfortable up on that saddle."

¹¹⁾ "i can't help but find it curious that in a wagon train so big, you keep finding your way back to my side day after day."

¹²⁾ "i would've never brought us out west if i knew this is what laid ahead."

¹³⁾ "and tell me, do all your fellow preachers spend as much time in the cathouse as they do in their church?"

¹⁴⁾ "when you said you wanted to spend time with me i figured it'd be in the saloon, not driving a herd of batshit mustangs up the goddamn mountain on our own!"

¹⁵⁾ "the most fearsome gunslinger in the west is afraid of cats?!"

[sheriffaxolotl]

Rough Hands and Gentle Strokes (Chapter 1) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Summary:

In the rugged wilderness outside of Blackwater, a hardened outlaw crosses paths with a woman who challenges everything he’s ever known. A kind-hearted and resilient art teacher, she bears the weight of the world’s judgment, especially regarding a woman’s place in it. As their lives intertwine, he struggles with feelings he can’t make sense of, questioning his very purpose. In a world of harsh realities, can he dare to let someone in? And will she allow herself to soften enough to find love where she least expects it? Together, they come to heal, challenge each other, and discover what it truly means to fight for something worth living for.

Additional Tags: Romance, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Pre-Blackwater Massacre (Red Dead Redemption), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism

Chapter 1: The Touch That Lingers

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The sun hung high over the quiet town of Willoughby Creek, its golden rays dancing over the bustling main street. Children’s laughter floated through the air, mingling with the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels and the hum of distant conversation. Arthur Morgan tugged his hat lower over his eyes, squinting against the glare as he guided his horse, Boadicea, toward the general store. He wasn’t planning to linger—just pick up supplies and get moving. The less time spent around people, the better.

Compared to Blackwater, Willoughby Creek felt like a world apart. Where Blackwater thrummed with the energy of a growing town, a hub of commerce and the occasional confrontation, Willoughby Creek was still finding its rhythm—quiet, more laid-back, with a slower pace of life. The folks here went about their business in a way that reminded Arthur of the earlier days of civilization, before progress changed everything. A lot more open space, fewer buildings, and none of the modern hustle and bustle. In some ways, it suited him. But that didn’t mean he felt like sticking around long.

The creaking of an old wooden sign as it swayed in the wind drew his attention for a moment, but he quickly shook it off, focusing on the task at hand. He wasn’t here to get lost in thoughts of how things used to be—he had a job to do.

But as he passed the edge of the small park by the church, something made him pause. A group of children sat cross-legged on the grass, their faces alight with concentration as they hunched over wooden easels. In the middle of it all was a woman, her voice soft but carrying a melodic quality that drew his attention. She moved among the children, her skirts brushing the ground as she knelt to examine their work, offering encouragement or gentle advice.

Arthur’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard laughter like that—pure, unrestrained, and joyful. It was contagious, and before he knew it, he’d stopped entirely, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Mister, you here to join the class?” piped up a small voice.

Arthur’s eyes darted down to a freckled boy staring up at him, a mischievous grin on his face. Arthur shook his head, glancing around as if to make sure no one else had heard.

“Nah, kid. Just passin’ through,” he said gruffly, shifting his weight. “Don’t reckon I’d be much good at somethin’ like this.”

The boy wasn’t deterred. “Aw, c’mon! It ain’t hard. You just gotta try. Here, I can show ya!”

Arthur took a half-step back, his hands coming up in a warding gesture. “Listen, I—”

“Mister!” the boy interrupted, his tone insistent as he grabbed Arthur’s sleeve and gave it a tug. “It’s real easy! Miss Harper says anyone can draw if they give it a shot.”

“Miss Harper?” Arthur repeated, glancing toward the woman now, who was crouched by another child and hadn’t yet noticed the commotion. He was about to gently extricate himself when the boy cupped his hands around his mouth and called out loudly.

“Miss Harper! This man says he can’t draw!”

Arthur groaned inwardly as several heads turned in his direction, including hers. The woman straightened, brushing her hands on her skirt as she approached, her expression curious. Her eyes—clear as a mountain stream—locked onto his, and for a moment, he felt rooted to the spot.

“Oh, now, don’t be shy,” she said with a smile that held both warmth and mischief. “We’ve always got room for one more.”

Arthur shifted awkwardly, one hand scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t think I’d be much good with all that,” he muttered, his voice gruff.

“Nonsense,” she replied, gesturing to an empty spot on the grass. “Art’s not about being good. It’s about trying. Besides, I’m sure the kids would love to have you join us.”

“Yeah, mister! Draw somethin’!” the freckled boy chimed in, tugging on Arthur’s sleeve again.

Arthur sighed, glancing between the boy and the woman, whose expectant gaze didn’t waver. He opened his mouth to protest once more, but the boy’s grin widened as he thrust a piece of paper and a bit of charcoal into Arthur’s hands.

“Here! Just try it!” the boy said.

With a resigned shake of his head, Arthur relented, muttering under his breath as he lowered himself onto the grass. The woman’s smile softened, and she crouched beside him, her presence unexpectedly calming.

“Here,” she said, demonstrating a quick, simple outline of a horse. “Just start with basic shapes. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Arthur’s first attempt was, in his opinion, a disaster. The horse he drew looked more like a lopsided mule, and the weight of so many curious eyes made his hands feel clumsier than usual. He wasn’t used to drawing where anyone could see—his journal was a private refuge, where lines flowed easier without the pressure of an audience. Here, under watchful gazes, it felt like every flaw was magnified. He half-expected the kids to burst out laughing. But when he glanced up, he found the woman studying his sketch with a soft smile.

“It’s got character,” she said. “And look at how strong those lines are. You’ve got a steady hand.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Arthur replied, his voice tinged with self-deprecating humor.

She laughed, a sound that made something in his chest loosen. “I’m not. Art’s about expression, not perfection. And you’ve got plenty of expression here.”

By the end of the lesson, Arthur’s initial awkwardness had faded, replaced by a reluctant sort of enjoyment. The children’s chatter and the woman’s easygoing demeanor had a way of disarming him, and he found himself lingering longer than he’d intended. As the children began to pack up their supplies, she turned to him with a curious tilt of her head.

“Thank you for joining us,” she said. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Arthur, Arthur Morgan,” he replied, adjusting his hat, his voice faltering slightly.

“Well, Arthur, it was a pleasure having you in class. You’ve got an artist’s spirit, whether you realize it or not.”

He snorted softly, brushing a hand over the brim of his hat. “Don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of that before.”

She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. There was a kindness in her face, a softness that felt out of place in a world that seemed to grow harder by the day. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. I’m Miss Harper, by the way. If you’re ever in town again, feel free to stop by. We’re always here on Wednesdays.”

Arthur nodded, tipping his hat politely, but before he turned to leave, his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, he noticed. Her hands, pale and delicate, bore faint smudges of charcoal, a small testament to her craft. Her dress was simple but well-made, the soft blue fabric catching the sunlight in a way that reminded him of clear summer skies. A loose strand of hair had slipped from her bun, framing her face in a way that made her look younger, almost carefree.

She didn’t seem like the sort who belonged to a place like this—Willoughby Creek, with its rough edges and tired faces. She carried herself differently, with a quiet confidence and a grace that made Arthur feel a little self-conscious of his own mud-splattered boots and worn clothes.

“Take care, Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice pulling him from his thoughts.

“You too, Miss Harper,” he replied, his voice rougher than he intended.

As he walked back to his horse, he could feel her eyes on him, and for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down, that thought stirred something unfamiliar in him—something cautious, but not unpleasant.

When he swung into the saddle, he hesitated for a moment, his gaze drifting back toward the park. The sound of children’s laughter carried on the breeze, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves. Miss Harper was crouched beside a young boy now, showing him how to hold a piece of charcoal properly. She laughed at something the boy said, her head tilting back slightly, her expression open and genuine.

Arthur scratched at the back of his neck, feeling an odd warmth creeping over him. It wasn’t like him to pay much attention to anyone, let alone a schoolteacher in a quiet little town he had no real reason to linger in. Yet, as he turned his horse toward the trail, he couldn’t help glancing back once more.

The memory of her smile stuck with him, as did the image of her standing there with the sun framing her like some kind of picture. For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name—something warm and unsteady, like the first rays of dawn breaking through the dark.

And as he rode away from Willoughby Creek, he found himself wondering if, perhaps, he might take a little longer to pass through next time.

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The ride back to camp was quiet, the sun dipping low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the trail. The gentle clop of his horse’s hooves and the occasional rustle of the trees were the only sounds accompanying him. Arthur kept his eyes on the road ahead, but his mind drifted back to Willoughby Creek, to the park, and to Miss Harper.

It wasn’t often someone stuck with him like that. Most folks he passed through towns barely left an impression. But her, with her calm voice and that unshakable, easy smile, had rooted herself in his mind like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

By the time he reached camp, the sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in hues of deep blue and purple. The gang was scattered about, some gathered around the fire, others tucked away in their tents. Arthur exchanged a few nods and muttered greetings but made a beeline for his own tent. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, not with the thoughts stirring in his head.

Once inside, he lit the small lantern on his makeshift desk and pulled out his journal. The leather-bound book felt familiar in his hands, the pages worn and filled with the fragments of his life—sketches, musings, and bits of poetry he’d never admit to writing. It was his way of making sense of the world, of keeping a piece of himself in a life that seemed to take more than it gave.

He flipped to a fresh page and began writing, his hand moving slowly at first.

“Passed through Willoughby Creek today. Nice enough place. Kids were laughing in the park. Seemed like the kind of town that don’t see much trouble, at least not yet. Met someone too. A teacher. Miss Harper. She said I had an artist’s spirit. Can’t say I know what she meant by that, but she weren’t mocking me, I think. Funny how some folks can see something in you that you don’t see in yourself. Maybe she was just being kind.”

He paused, tapping the pencil against the page. His jaw tightened as he stared at the words. It felt strange to put her down in writing, like it made the memory of her more solid, more real. With a quiet huff, he set the pencil to the side, rubbing the back of his neck.

But instead of closing the journal, his fingers lingered, his mind drifting back to the way she’d looked, standing in the park with the sun on her dress. Without thinking, he reached for the pencil again, the movements of his hand slower, more deliberate this time.

The lines came hesitantly at first—a curve of her face, the loose strand of hair, the faint crinkles around her eyes when she smiled. Arthur wasn’t much for portraits, but there was something about trying to capture her that made him focus in a way he hadn’t in a long time. The memory of her dress, that soft blue, kept coming back to him, and he shaded in the folds, the light catching just so.

When he finally sat back, hours must’ve passed. His fingers ached, and the lantern’s light had dimmed, the flame flickering low. He stared at the page, at the image he’d sketched—a rough rendering of Miss Harper, caught mid-smile, with a faint outline of trees behind her.

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn fool,” he muttered to himself.

His gaze drifted to the small table beside his cot, where a worn, silver-framed photograph stood. Mary. The sight of her smile, frozen forever in that picture, made his chest ache in a way he’d grown used to but never truly stopped feeling. His calloused thumb brushed the edge of the frame, tracing the curves of her face. She had looked at him like that once too, full of hope and possibility, before it all fell apart. Before he let it fall apart.

A familiar weight settled on him, that dull ache of knowing how much he’d lost and how much of it had been his own damn fault. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat stubborn and unmoving, and set the photo back down gently. For a moment, he just stared at it, the silence of the night pressing in around him.

Then his eyes shifted back to the open journal on the desk, to the rough sketch of Miss Harper. The lines weren’t perfect, the proportions a little off, but her smile—he’d gotten that right. It was different from Mary’s, lighter somehow, like a breeze instead of a storm. It wasn’t better, he told himself—just different.

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath as he studied the drawing. That ache in his chest was still there, but now it felt... tempered, softer, like a wound starting to scab over. For the first time in what felt like forever, the thought of tomorrow didn’t feel quite so heavy.

And just before he drifted off, he thought again of Miss Harper’s laugh, of the way she’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another shadow passing through. For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt the edges of hope creeping into the corners of his mind. And he didn’t hate it.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────°

The days passed in the usual rhythm of camp life—chaotic and loud when it needed to be, quiet and tense when it wasn’t. Thursday came and went with a botched supply run outside of Blackwater that ended in an argument over who’d gotten the directions wrong. Friday blurred into a long, cold ride through the mountains with Hosea, chasing down a lead on a gang of highwaymen. By Saturday, Arthur was back at camp, fixing a broken wagon wheel while Dutch rambled about their next big score.

Life didn’t slow down, not for a moment. Yet, in the quiet spaces between the noise, Arthur found his mind wandering back to Willoughby Creek. To her.

It wasn’t deliberate, at least not at first. He’d catch himself thinking about the way her hands moved as she worked, smudged with charcoal but still delicate, or the way the sunlight had lit up her hair, catching on the loose strands.

He’d been cleaning his gun Thursday night when the memory of her voice drifted in, unbidden. “You’ve got an artist’s spirit.” He’d chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head, but the words lingered. What had she seen in him that made her say that? Surely not the man he was now, the man who spent his days riding hard and his nights drowning out the sound of his own thoughts.

On Friday, during a break in the ride with Hosea, Arthur had found himself idly sketching in the dirt with a stick while they rested. The lines he drew made no sense, but his hand kept repeating shapes he didn’t notice until later—curves like the hem of a dress, the outline of a tree, even the faintest hint of a smile. Hosea had teased him about looking distracted, but Arthur just grunted in reply and went back to saddling his horse.

By Saturday afternoon, as he worked on the wagon wheel, he caught himself staring off into the distance. It was a fleeting thing, just a moment of stillness in the midst of camp chaos, but in that quiet, he wasn’t in camp at all. He was back in Willoughby Creek, standing under the shade of those trees, hearing the laughter of children and watching her crouched beside a boy, guiding his hand as he drew.

“Arthur! You listening to me?” Dutch’s voice snapped him back, sharp and impatient.

“Yeah,” Arthur replied, shaking himself out of it. “I’m listenin’.”

As the days passed, Arthur tried to push the thought of her from his mind. There was work to be done, things to keep him occupied—patrolling, hunting, keeping an eye on the camp. But in the back of his mind, she lingered, like a quiet hum, always present.

Monday morning found him sharpening his knife by the fire, his thoughts drifting once again to Willoughby Creek. He wondered if the park was still the same, if the children still laughed and ran through the grass. His hand paused mid-motion as he remembered how she’d looked at him, so calm and steady, and how he’d felt like just another drifter passing through. Yet, something about the way she hadn’t turned away when he spoke to her, how she’d seemed interested, had made him feel... noticed.

The sound of a twig snapping nearby brought him back to the present. He glanced up, seeing John and Bill coming back from the river with supplies. Arthur gave them a quick nod, but his mind was elsewhere. His hand returned to the knife, but it wasn’t the blade he was focused on. He found himself absentmindedly carving small, jagged shapes into the wood. Faint outlines of trees and curves that looked a lot like the one he’d seen on her dress.

Tuesday came, and with it, another long ride out to check on the progress of a deal with a neighboring gang. Arthur kept his focus on the job at hand, but as the hours passed, he couldn’t help but feel the distance between himself and the men he rode with. Their conversations felt distant, like noise he couldn’t quite tune into. The laughter, the insults, the stories of past misdeeds—none of it really reached him. He was there, but not fully.

He found himself scanning the landscape, the sparse trees, and distant hills, as if searching for something—or someone—that wasn’t part of the life he had. His mind was somewhere else, half-wishing he were back on that road to Willoughby Creek, wondering if she might be walking down the street, or sitting in the park again, perhaps drawing quietly in the afternoon sun.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, Arthur could feel the weight of it, the pull in his chest. The thought of returning to Willoughby Creek was on his mind constantly, as if his body had already decided. He told himself he was just passing through, that there was no harm in a quick stop—just another day of rest on a long journey.

But deep down, something had shifted. He wasn’t sure if it was the pull of her smile, or the way she’d spoken to him, or the feeling that there might still be something good left in the world for someone like him. But he knew he couldn’t keep pushing it aside.

The morning light on Wednesday was crisp, and the air smelled different—fresher, almost. He saddled his horse with the usual motions, but this time, they felt deliberate. There was a purpose in his steps that hadn’t been there before.

As the camp began to stir with activity, Arthur rode out, his mind already miles ahead, heading toward Willoughby Creek once more.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly, or if he would even find her there. But the thought of seeing her again, of hearing her voice, filled him with a nervous anticipation that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

And for the first time in days, his heart beat with something resembling hope. He didn’t know where it would lead, or if he would regret it. But for now, he was content to let that small, foolish hope guide him toward something he couldn’t quite name.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────° The ride was long, the familiar landscape blurring past him, but Arthur felt none of the usual impatience. His mind wasn’t occupied with the weight of the past or the worry of what the future might bring. Instead, it was filled with thoughts of Willoughby Creek, the sound of children’s laughter, and the faint memory of her smile. Each mile felt like an unwritten story, one he wasn’t sure he was ready to live—but it was pulling him in anyway.

As the afternoon wore on, the town’s silhouette finally appeared in the distance. It looked just as he remembered—quiet, unassuming, with the same rows of buildings, the same dusty streets, and the same park tucked at the heart of it. The closer he got, the more he felt a strange flutter in his chest, like a bird trapped in a cage, beating against the bars. He’d come here once before, without much thought or expectation. But now…

Arthur slowed his horse as he rode into the heart of the town, giving the familiar buildings a cursory glance. His heart rate picked up as he approached the park, the place where he had met her. The children were still there, running around in the sun, their laughter filling the air. But he was looking for something else.

He dismounted, the soft thud of his boots hitting the ground drowned out by the noise of the bustling park. Arthur scanned the area, his gaze landing on the familiar figures of mothers, fathers, and townsfolk, but not her.

For a moment, he considered leaving, just turning around and heading back to camp. It wasn’t like he’d promised anything—hell, he hadn’t even told her he was coming back. But something told him he had to stay, even if it was just for a little while longer.

And then, as if by fate, there she was.

Miss Harper was standing near the edge of the park, crouched down beside a child, guiding his hand as he drew. Her soft blue dress fluttered in the wind, and her hair—loose and wild in the breeze—seemed to shimmer like sunlight through the trees. For a moment, Arthur just stood there, watching her, feeling the weight of something both familiar and foreign stir inside him. He hadn’t expected to feel this nervous, to feel his heart race like it did when he was face-to-face with something he wanted but didn’t know how to reach.

She looked up, her eyes catching his almost immediately. A soft gasp escaped her lips, quickly followed by a tentative smile.

“Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice warm and surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

For a moment, Arthur couldn’t find his words. He’d imagined this moment a hundred times over the past week, but now that it was here, he felt strangely tongue-tied. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Didn’t mean to surprise ya,” he said gruffly, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured I’d pass through.”

She smiled again, and it was like a weight had been lifted off his chest. “Well, I’m glad you did.” She gestured to the empty space beside her. “I’m just showing this young man how to make a proper tree. You’re welcome to join us.”

Arthur glanced at the child she was speaking to, a boy no older than eight or nine, holding a piece of chalk in his small hand. He looked up at Arthur with wide eyes before quickly looking back to Miss Harper.

“I’m no artist,” Arthur muttered, his gaze flicking back to Miss Harper, who raised an eyebrow playfully.

“Not yet,” she said, her voice light, teasing. “Come on. I already know you have a steady hand.”

Arthur hesitated, but the offer was genuine, and the warmth in her eyes made him take a step forward. He crouched down beside them, his large hands seeming out of place beside the small child, but he did as she asked, picking up a piece of chalk and tracing the outline of a tree on the pavement. It was simple, nothing special—but it was enough.

For a long while, they worked in silence. The child drew beside them, occasionally looking up at Arthur’s rough attempt at a tree and giggling. Miss Harper’s soft voice would occasionally offer guidance, and Arthur found himself listening to her without realizing it. Her words, like everything else about her, seemed to settle into him, easy and natural, like the feeling of home he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

The peace between them stretched on, the quiet hum of the afternoon blending with the sound of chalk on stone. Arthur’s mind was surprisingly clear, filled only with the image of the tree he’d drawn—a simple, crooked line, but something about it felt... right. He caught himself smiling, despite his usual grimness. It was easy here, in this moment, with her, surrounded by children and the laughter that filled the air.

But just as he thought he might finally relax, a voice cut through the air, sharp and unwelcome.

“That’s enough, Miss Harper.”

Arthur’s hand froze mid-stroke, the chalk slipping from his fingers and falling to the ground. He glanced up, his brow furrowing as a man in a long coat and flat cap approached them, his gaze fixed firmly on Miss Harper. The man was stocky, his chest puffed out like he carried the weight of the world, and his tone was anything but friendly.

Miss Harper looked up, her smile faltering just slightly. “Excuse me, sir?”

The man jabbed a finger toward the group of children, his face contorting in a mix of disdain and authority. “It’s improper, you know,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “For a woman like you to be out here, teaching them... especially teaching these girls. It’s one thing for them to learn how to read a bit of writing, but this—this nonsense, drawing and such—is no place for a lady.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened at the man’s words, something dark flickering in his chest. He could feel his muscles tensing, ready to rise and say something, but Miss Harper was already speaking, her voice calm but firm.

“I’m not teaching them nonsense,” she replied, standing up straight, her gaze unwavering. “I’m teaching them to create, to express themselves. There’s nothing improper about that.”

The man’s face twisted with outrage. “It’s unnatural,” he spat. “A woman’s place is in the home, not out here, teaching this kind of thing to young girls. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Miss Harper.”

Arthur’s hand clenched into a fist at his side, his eyes narrowing on the man. He knew the type—men who thought they had the world figured out, who believed they knew their place and everyone else’s. This wasn’t a man who saw women as anything more than tools for family and housework. It burned in Arthur’s gut, seeing her challenged like this, in front of the children who looked up to her.

But Miss Harper didn’t back down. Her voice was steady, though there was an edge to it. “You’ll have to excuse me, sir, but I don’t believe I asked for your opinion. I’m teaching them what they deserve to know. You’d do well to mind your business.” She glanced over at the children, her expression softening. “Now, go on, all of you. Let’s finish this tree.”

Arthur could feel the tension crackling in the air, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. But he admired her, how she stood her ground, her face resolute and calm even as the man’s anger bubbled up.

“Now you listen here—” the man started, stepping closer, his voice rising.

Arthur stood up slowly, the ground beneath him seeming to settle into place with each movement. He had no particular desire to get involved in this kind of fight, but something in him bristled, instinctively wanting to defend her.

“Is there a problem here, sir?” Arthur asked, his voice low, but unmistakably firm.

The man turned to face him, sizing him up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Arthur’s broad shoulders and the unmistakable presence he carried. There was a moment’s pause, the man seemingly calculating whether or not to escalate things.

“I’m merely stating a fact, friend,” the man said, taking a step back, his bravado faltering slightly as he looked up at Arthur. “A woman has no business doing such things.” He shot a venomous glance at Miss Harper. “It’s a shame. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, teaching these girls such ideas.”

Arthur took a step forward, his hand hovering near his hip where his gun rested, just a reminder of who was standing here with him. “You’re mistaken,” Arthur said quietly, a cold edge to his voice. “Now you best be moving along, rather than standin' around, talkin’ down to women like you seem to enjoy doin’.”

The man’s eyes flickered to Arthur’s hand as it rested near his hip, a subtle but unmistakable warning. His bravado faltered for a moment, the cocky expression twisting into one of irritation as he took a half-step back. He seemed to reconsider his position, no longer willing to push things too far with a man who clearly wasn’t one to back down.

“Fine,” the man muttered, his voice dripping with venom. “I’ll go, but mark my words, Miss Harper—this isn’t over. A woman has no business teachin’ those girls how to think for themselves. I’ll see to it that someone puts a stop to it.” He shot a final look of contempt at her, eyes narrowing, then turned sharply on his heel and walked away, his heavy footsteps leaving a trail of tension in the air.

Arthur watched him go, his jaw clenched tight, but he didn’t say anything more. The man wasn’t worth the trouble, and Miss Harper didn’t need any more of his nonsense. She stood silently for a moment, the weight of the encounter pressing down on her, but she didn’t let it break her. Arthur could see that, see how she straightened her shoulders and took a breath, as if shaking off the shadow the man had tried to cast.

“Don’t worry about him,” Arthur said, his voice softer now, though the edge of anger was still present, a remnant of the tension in his chest. “He’s just talk.”

She glanced over at him, her eyes meeting his with a small, appreciative smile. “Aren't they all?,” she said quietly, though there was a subtle tightness in her tone. “Doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

Arthur nodded, his hand shifting away from his hip and resting at his side. He didn’t know what else to say. The kind of world they lived in—where women had to constantly fight for respect, just for being who they were—was one he didn’t fully understand, not like she did. But he could see it now, the quiet toll it took on her, the way she had to pick herself up every time someone tried to put her down.

She sighed, looking back at the children who were still drawing, their laughter slowly returning to the air. “Thank you for stepping in,” she added, her voice softer now. “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the moment pressing in. “I don’t take kindly to men talkin’ to women like that,” he said, his tone steady but firm. “You don’t deserve that.”

She smiled, a small but genuine curve of her lips that eased some of the tension between them. “Well, I appreciate it all the same. But you’re right—he’s not worth dwelling on. I’ve dealt with far worse.”

Arthur watched her closely, his gaze lingering on the way she carried herself, her shoulders squared, her face steady even after the man had left. There was a quiet strength in her, but it wasn’t the kind that he imagined she wanted to wear all the time. But what if she didn’t have to? What if she didn’t have to face it all alone, shoulder to shoulder with the weight of every fight?

The thought lingered in his mind as he shifted on his feet, watching her interact with the children, a soft smile lingering on her lips. There was something about the way she carried herself, like she was always poised, ready to meet any challenge head-on. But in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t pushing in on her, she seemed so different. He wanted to see more of that side—the one that wasn’t always hardened by the world’s cruelty. The one that wasn’t always on guard.

Before he could dwell on it for too long, he felt her hand on his arm, a soft touch, delicate but warm. Her fingers rested there for a brief moment, and it was like the weight of everything else faded away. She looked up at him with a kind smile, her eyes reflecting gratitude, something soft and sincere in her gaze.

“Thank you again, Mister Morgan,” she said quietly, her voice gentle. “I truly appreciate it. You didn’t have to step in, but I’m glad you did.”

The simplicity of the gesture—the warmth in her touch—struck him more than he expected. For a moment, he felt his heart skip, something unexpected stirring in his chest. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, especially not this close. His breath caught, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe properly. His chest tightened, the way it did when he was caught off guard, like the world had tilted slightly on its axis and he hadn’t quite found his balance again.

He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden rush of warmth flooding his cheeks. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but the words tangled in his throat, slipping away before he could form them properly. His usual gruffness, his tough exterior, suddenly felt inadequate. It wasn’t like he was a man who stumbled for words, but in front of her, with the gentleness of her touch and the softness of her gaze, he found himself out of his depth.

He shifted on his feet, his hand moving slightly as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. His fingers twitched at his sides, the calluses from years of hard work suddenly feeling like they didn’t quite belong. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to find his footing again, but the warmth of her touch lingered, a constant presence that made him feel oddly exposed, yet strangely... safe.

“Ah… uh… yeah. Nothin’ to thank me for,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual, a little quieter too, like he was unsure of how to match the softness she was giving him. “I just... I don’t like seein’ people talk to ya like that.”

His words came out a little jumbled, as if his mind wasn’t quite catching up with his mouth. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the awkwardness that had crept into his chest. But it didn’t help. He still felt that strange flutter in his stomach, like he’d forgotten how to be around someone who didn’t look at him with suspicion, or fear, or just plain indifference.

She smiled again, a soft, understanding smile that only seemed to make him feel even more flustered. Arthur’s gaze dropped briefly, looking anywhere but directly at her face, though he could still feel the weight of her attention on him.

“Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice light and reassuring, “you’re a good man. I appreciate it more than you know.” Her hand lingered just a moment longer, a light touch on his arm before she gently pulled it back, though the warmth of it stayed, as if it had seeped into his very bones.

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” Arthur mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck again, his mind still racing as he tried to regain some sense of normalcy. “Steppin’ in for folks. Ain’t my place, and I... I ain’t no hero.”

She chuckled softly, and the sound was like music to his ears. He risked a glance up at her, seeing the twinkle in her eye, the gentle amusement that softened her features even more.

“I think you’re more of a hero than you give yourself credit for,” she teased, her voice light and playful, but with that same quiet sincerity. “Least, today, you can be my hero.”

Arthur’s heart thumped in his chest, and he suddenly realized he couldn’t quite remember how to stand properly. His hands shifted at his sides, his boots scuffing the ground beneath him, and he gave her a sheepish look—something close to a nervous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His mind wandered just briefly, noticing how her presence felt calming in ways he hadn’t expected. She had a soft scent to her, like wildflowers mixed with the faintest trace of lavender, and it lingered in the air around him as she stood so close. He wasn’t sure how he’d never noticed it before, but now it was almost impossible not to.

He blinked, his thoughts scattering a bit. It wasn’t just that though. There was something about the way she moved, the gentle fluidity in her motions, like the world around her didn’t need to be rushed. The way her hair framed her face, soft curls catching the light in a way that made him want to reach out and touch it—though he didn’t, of course.

"Maybe..." he said, his voice a little lower than usual, unsure of the weight of her words but feeling a strange warmth spread across his chest all the same. "Maybe just a little bit."

He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, but the smile that tugged at his lips remained, a little hesitant, a little shy, as though he was still trying to figure out what exactly it meant to be someone’s hero. The quiet joy in her gaze, the way her words hung between them, was enough to leave him feeling like he was standing on shaky ground—but for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t a feeling he minded.

Arthur stood there, still a little off balance from the strange warmth she’d ignited in him with just a few words and a simple touch. He had always been good at keeping his distance, but right now, with her standing so close, it felt like the world had suddenly gotten a little softer. Her presence was something he didn’t know how to handle, but he was starting to like the feeling of it.

When the moment stretched on, and the air seemed to hum with something unsaid, he cleared his throat, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the quiet fluttering in his chest. He looked over toward the path leading back to town, where the shadows were beginning to stretch long, the light fading as the sun dipped lower. The thought of her walking alone, that man possibly still lingering somewhere in the back of her mind, didn’t sit well with him.

"You know..." Arthur started, scratching the back of his neck, unsure of how exactly to word it. "I’d be happy to walk you home, Miss Harper. Don’t think I want that man bothering you again." He glanced at her, offering a quick but genuine smile. "I reckon you’ve got enough to deal with without folks like him getting in your way."

The suggestion felt strange coming from him—like he was trying to do something good, even if it didn’t come naturally. But it was the right thing to do. Besides, he found himself wanting to keep her safe, to make sure she didn’t have to carry the weight of the world alone, not when he could help.

He shifted on his boots, suddenly aware of how clumsy his words had sounded, and he added, “If you don’t mind the company, of course.”

Miss Harper regarded him for a moment, her gaze soft but searching, as if weighing his offer. Arthur shifted on his feet, suddenly self-conscious of the silence stretching between them. He didn’t know what he expected—maybe her to turn him down politely or give him a teasing remark, but when she finally spoke, her voice was warm, thoughtful.

"I’d like that," she said, her eyes meeting his with a quiet sincerity that made his chest feel a little lighter. "I appreciate the offer. I really do."

Arthur felt a small, relieved smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He nodded, more to himself than anything, before turning slightly toward the path that led out of the park. His steps were a little slower than usual, like he was reluctant to rush this, but at the same time, he felt a strange sense of rightness in walking beside her, not as a guard or a protector, but just... as two people sharing a quiet walk home.

They fell into step beside each other, a comfortable silence wrapping around them. The distant chatter of the children, still lingering in the park, faded as they walked away from the lively scene, the evening air growing cooler with each passing minute.

Arthur couldn’t help but glance over at her now and then, though he tried to keep his attention on the road ahead. He found himself noticing little things—the way the setting sun caught her hair, making it shimmer like gold in the last light of the day, or how the faint scent of lavender seemed to follow her with every step. It was subtle, but it was there, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, it made him feel like he was walking through some kind of dream.

As they neared the edge of town, where the dusty road met the outskirts, Arthur found himself thinking about how easy this felt. Like it wasn’t just a simple offer to walk her home—it was something more, something that felt right, like he was supposed to be here with her.

"So," he started, breaking the silence as he turned his gaze to the darkening horizon, trying to keep his thoughts focused on the conversation instead of how his heart seemed to be beating a little faster. "What’s it like... teaching these kids? I mean, I can’t imagine it’s the easiest thing, especially in a place like this."

He glanced over at her again, his expression curious. It wasn’t just the teaching that intrigued him—it was the way she’d handled everything, the way she’d stayed so composed even when people tried to tear her down. He wanted to know more, to understand more about her, about what made her the way she was.

Her eyes flicked toward him, a thoughtful expression crossing her face as she considered his question. “It’s not always easy,” she said after a pause, her voice carrying a quiet strength that seemed to come naturally to her. “But it’s worth it. These kids, they deserve a chance to learn, to grow up knowing there’s more out there than just what’s around them.” She smiled slightly, a soft, wistful look in her eyes. “I just wish... I wish more people saw that. Saw the potential in them, in me.”

Arthur’s heart tightened at her words, and he glanced down at the dirt road beneath them. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must be, always having to prove yourself to the world, to constantly be pushing against the current. He wondered what it would feel like to just be able to exist without that weight pressing down.

“You don’t have to prove a damn thing to me,” Arthur said quietly, his voice low but firm, though there was something almost tender in his tone. “Not for me, or anyone else.”

She looked at him, her expression softening, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, she gave him that small, quiet smile again, the one that made something flutter in his chest.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “That means more than you know.”

They continued walking in comfortable silence, the night growing darker around them as the stars began to twinkle overhead. Arthur couldn’t help but feel like this was a moment he’d remember, one that was almost too peaceful, too perfect, to be real. But in that moment, he didn’t want to think about anything else—just the quiet rhythm of their steps and the warmth of her company.

As they approached the small house at the end of the road, the comforting quiet of the evening wrapped around them. The flickering light from the window illuminated the soft, rustic simplicity of the building, a humble cottage nestled against the edge of the town. Arthur slowed his steps as they neared, not wanting the walk to end. Something about it felt different—like it had meant more than just getting her safely home. The idea of saying goodbye had an unexpected weight to it.

When they reached the front gate, Arthur glanced over at her, his voice quiet but tinged with curiosity. “Well, here we are,” he said, hesitating before adding, “You got someone inside waitin’ for you?”

The question hung between them, light yet weighted, and he found himself almost bracing for her answer. He wasn’t sure why it mattered to him, but it did. His eyes flicked to the house, then back to her, wondering if he’d be handing her off to a husband or another man, someone who might look at her the way he wanted to.

Her eyes softened as she met his gaze, and there was a faint amusement in her smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes in the same way it usually did. “No,” she replied, her voice steady but not without a touch of something else, something private. “No husband.”

A small, unexpected relief flooded through him at her words. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d been holding his breath until it was released. He hadn’t thought about it before, but in that moment, a part of him was grateful that there was no man waiting for her, no one to claim her, to take her away from the quiet moments they’d shared.

“Well, I—” Arthur cleared his throat, feeling a bit awkward. “I didn’t mean to... I mean, I just didn’t want to be handin’ you over to anyone. Figured if there was a man, he’d be worried, you know?”

Miss Harper’s smile softened, and she gave a little shake of her head. “I understand. But no, no one’s waiting for me.” She paused, as if considering something before her eyes met his again, this time with a hint of something more vulnerable, more sincere. “I appreciate you walking me home. I know I can handle myself, but... it’s nice to have someone watch my back, even for just a little while.”

Arthur shifted on his feet, a little caught off guard by the sincerity in her words. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come right away. Instead, he just nodded, his heart feeling uncharacteristically light in his chest.

“Well, you take care of yourself, Miss Harper,” he said, his voice gruff but soft, the way he always spoke when the moment felt important. “You don’t have to worry about anyone botherin’ you while I’m around.”

She gave him a small nod, her smile more knowing now, as if she saw something in him that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to acknowledge. But it was there, and it made something twist pleasantly in his gut.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan,” she said quietly, her tone full of unspoken meaning. “I’ll be alright. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Arthur hesitated for a moment, standing there in front of her small, quiet house. He wasn’t sure what to do next—whether he should say something else, or just leave it at that.

As they neared the small wooden porch, Arthur’s boots scuffed softly against the gravel path, and the quiet hum of the evening seemed to press in around them. They were standing at the base of the steps now, and without thinking, Arthur found himself stepping forward, his hand reaching out toward her.

"Here, let me help you," he said, his voice a little rough as his fingers hovered near her elbow.

She glanced at him in surprise, then down at his outstretched hand, her brows furrowing slightly, but there was a softness in her eyes that made something in him tighten. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing—he just knew he wanted to offer her something, some small gesture to make sure she got inside safe and sound.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it might seem, but her smile, warm and gentle, eased the awkwardness in him.

“That’s kind of you,” she said quietly, her voice soft, like she wasn’t sure what to make of the simple act of him offering his hand. But without hesitation, she placed her hand in his, the warmth of her fingers sending a strange spark through him.

He helped her up the steps, not saying a word, but somehow it felt like the simplest, most natural thing in the world. He was conscious of the way her hand fit in his, the way her presence seemed to fill the quiet space between them, the sound of her soft breath just beneath the night sky.

When they reached the top, she paused, turning to face him with a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes meeting his, and there was something in them, something unspoken that made Arthur’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.

“Don’t mention it,” Arthur muttered, his heart beating a little faster than it should, his hand lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he pulled it back. “Just don’t go doin’ any more of that stuff, alright?”

She chuckled softly, a warm, genuine sound that made his heart skip a beat. “I won’t. But I’m glad you’re here. I truly am.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak for a moment, the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t used to moments like these, to soft touches and quiet smiles that lingered in the air.

"Well, you take care, Miss Harper," he finally managed to say, his voice a little rougher than usual, and as she stepped back into the doorway, he turned away, his mind buzzing with all the things he hadn’t said. As the door closed behind her, he hesitated, standing there for just a moment longer, before turning and heading back down the path.

Arthur walked a few paces away from the porch, his boots making steady crunching sounds against the gravel. He kept his gaze forward, not daring to look back. But the feeling in his chest, the strange warmth in his blood, refused to let him go. His heart thumped against his ribs like a wild thing, and the heat of her hand, where it had briefly touched his, still lingered on his fingers, as if it had somehow settled deep into his bones.

He finally came to a stop, his boots shifting slightly as he rubbed a hand over his face, the same hand that had touched hers. A low, frustrated groan escaped him, more from the feeling than the words he couldn’t quite manage to say out loud.

"Goddamn it," he muttered, shaking his head as he dropped his hand back to his side. His breath was a little unsteady, like he couldn’t quite catch it. He could still smell her—something sweet, something soft and natural, mixing with the crisp evening air. And for some godforsaken reason, it made his blood feel hot, too hot for the night.

His fingers twitched, like they were still waiting for her touch to return, and the thought of it made him grit his teeth. "What the hell’s wrong with me?" he grumbled to the night, kicking a small stone in frustration. His mind raced, chasing around the moments of the evening, the way her smile had made his chest tighten, the way her touch had felt like the most natural thing in the world and somehow, still, the most terrifying.

He stood there for a long minute, breathing deeply, his thoughts tangled with the heat in his blood, trying to make sense of it.

Finally, he gave a low, frustrated sigh and turned away from the house, his steps more purposeful now, though the unease in his chest lingered like a shadow.

One thing was for sure—he was far from done thinking about her.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────°

I haven’t edited this yet, but I’ve been craving to write something sweet and different from Bleed, Survive, Remember. I wrote until I was happy and giggling about it, and I’m excited to see where it goes. I’ll make sure to edit it later!

[moonwoodhollow]

My 𝐓𝐨𝐩 24 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 from 2024🎉

I was kindly tagged by @surelysims/@theplottdump to share my favourite screenshots of 2024, so let's go and buckle up!

Oh, and before I forget, I'll tag: @elderwisp, @bunnithechubs, @acuar-io, @hauntedtrait, @elderberries-and-honey

@whyeverr, @irrewilderer, @neishroom, @nyssasims and @cheapeazzze &

@thebramblewood (don't feel pressured to do this btw & take your time, if you were already tagged, sorry!)

Midcentury Modern Madness, as I call it. Once you've got it, you'll keep it and feel the itch to build another Midcentury build every once in a while.

Ah, the duality of a woman -> that was when I created Griselda Oreolo, an ancient vampire for @thebramblewood's story and thought It'd be cool to tell her origin story, which I did... except for adding the really cool epilogue that I had in mind. It's on the list for 2025.

Ah yes, another woman with two sides (is that a pattern?). @acuar-io asked for outlaws, and I (hopefully) delivered. I was initially thinking I could do some sort of historical gameplay/story with her, but then I remembered what I'd have to build for that kind of story, and I quickly gave up.

You don't see me very often doing gameplay and if I do, I rarely post about it on the blog; but I'm still doing the 'have as many babies until elderly challenge' (NOT the 100 baby challenge, okay!). My opponent? @simsofstrawberryhill who sadly lost all of her progress. Does that mean I already won? Probably! Will I continue playing? Yes. Because as exhausting as it is, it's also the most ridiculous gameplay I ever had.

Aeons ago (2023) I started a story with Venessa Jeong as my main character, I still took lots of screenshots for story posts that never saw the light of day in 2024, but hey not all hope is lost, we might get somewhere in 2025.

Ah, the Simblr Met Gala, that I obviously needed to go to with no other than Venessa. I still love the shots I took and I can't wait until next year.

One of the few men I put in situations this year, although he was way more present in @bunnithechubs bachelorette challenge, which he obviously didn't win, I mean who could go against the hunk of a man that Darius (by @rasoyas) is?? Yeah, no one. Would you believe he's currently living in that Christmas house I posted about 2 days ago... I can smell a story brewing, but it has to wait until next year!

...Now for some aesthetic screenshots of some interior I really loved doing this year. More to come next year!

Truly a Christmas miracle - I finally had another opportunity to show this lovely couple, André and Prisha!

And that's a wrap with my favourite Christmas couple! Enjoy your holidays everyone <3

[wwasted]

fin's fic recs: meet me at the chapel & jump the gun by @swifty-fox

(part of the eudaimonia series)

“My name’s Gale,” He says, right before the door shuts on their encounter. And his outlaw laughs, wild and delighted, and not for a second does Gale think he’s being laughed at. “Your name,” His outlaw says warmly, “is Buck.” -- Modern day Outlaw John Egan just won't stop robbing Gale's convenience store.