#the confederate jack

[plixiedust]

Everyone needs a hero, nobody needs a star!

Will you still adore me when I’ve gone way too far?

The rebel force will save me, they grabbed my little hand.

Threw me in the pickup truck, cause I don’t understand!

[paulic]

what the fuck did Paul mean by “in another world we could stand on top of a mountain with our flag unfurled”????!!!?? I very much doubt he meant the pride flag but do you mean ENGLAND? DO YOU MEAN THE ENGLISH FLAG PAUL MCCARTNEY??????????????? Do you feel like you can’t admit to being British in this world

[are-we-really-doing-this]

Posting this clip so I don’t fucking lose it again.

[griffinappreciator]

she bites.

fem Griffin that is just as horrible and insane as the original when??

[dalekofchaos]

There was never a rat in the Van Der Linde Gang

I'm gonna be honest. Micah is a conniving snake. But there was never a rat.

Why did Blackwater fail? Dutch killed a mother in cold blood and then a massacre happened. The money was a set up and Dutch took the bait. Pinkertons swarmed the area and even Landon Rickets was there.

How did they find them at Horseshoe? By chance the Pinkertons found Arthur and Jack fishing, but was it really by chance? What happens in chapter 2?

A bar fight where fucking everyone in town is there, which afterwords Dutch is there

You sprang Sean free and there are bounty hunters who flee, you seriously don't think they talked??

Oh yeah, ARTHUR AND MICAH SHOOT UP A FUCKING TOWN

John killing Micah led to Ross and Fordham finding him. Any of the missions I mentioned practically led Milton and Ross to finding Arthur near Horseshoe.

How did the Gray/Braithewaite scheme fail?

The Grays knew what they were doing and so did the Braithewaites. They played both families instead of just one and instead of LYING LOW. Dutch's vanity, ego and sense of wanting petty revenge against Confederate white trash caused Sean to be killed and Jack to be abducted.

How did Saint Denis fail?

Dutch played Bronte in his own city, refused a favor(you do NOT refuse the Mob asking a favor) which caused the set up, then Bronte's murder and finally the Bank Robbery which they knew they were there.

The common theory is someone from the gang snitched and talked to the Pinkertons. Who exactly ? Micah ? Well, Agent Milton said they picked up Micah AFTER they came back from Guarma, so it could not have been him. Molly ? Again, Milton said they did pick her up (not mentioned when), but she did not say anything. I have also read theories that it might have been Agibail who snitched to which my response is - pure BS.

The truth is, nobody snitched, nobody talked. Yes. Yet the reaction of the Pinkertons was insanely fast, as if they knew the robbery was going to go down. How you wonder ? Well, it's simple. It's a long one, but have a read.

From the very beginning of the game, Dutch has been claiming that they are a few steps ahead of everyone else, but his arrogance proved to be the downfall. You see, the Pinkertons are not as dull and foolish as Dutch claim them to be, they are extremely efficient as a detective agency proven by the fact that they tracked down Arthur in Valentine. Now, when the gang moved to Clemens Point near Rhodes, the Pinkertons lost their trail for a while. However the gang contradicted their own plan of staying low by creating a huge chaos in Rhodes after killing both the Gray's and the Braithwaite's (best mission in the game btw). As soon as the word spread of the massacre of both the families in Rhodes all over the place, the Pinkertons connected the dots and knew that it could be the Van Der Lind gang who created the fuss and if so, they must be camping somewhere near Rhodes. Nonetheless, they found the gang hideout after sniffing around, a day or two after the Braithwaite massacre. At this point Agent Milton knew these bunch of people would not be too hard to find as all you need to do is to sniff around an area where there has been murder and madness.

Now to Saint Denis, Dutch dismissed Hosea's idea and went after Angelo Bronte just after the failed trolley station robbery. If he listened to Hosea, hit the bank at once, then vanished, the Pinkertons would have never caught on and they would be harvesting mango's in Tahiti. But a failed trolley station robbery followed by a huge shootout in the city killing dozens of cops then followed by a kidnapping and murder of the most powerful man in the city was enough chaos for the Pinkertons to realize it's the Van Der Lind gang. So they knew the gang is around this city and increased security in Saint Denis hoping that the next time they attempt a robbery, it would be the endgame. That is why as soon as the bank robbery started, the Pinkertons were all over the place.

It is also easy to explain why Hosea was captured and Abigail escaped. While causing the distraction, both of them did not realise how fast the response is going to be. The Pinkertons caught Hosea as his face along with other male members of the gang was known to them, specially Hosea, Dutch and Arthur as they have been the oldest members of the gang. But Abigail at this point was unknown to them so it was easy for her to walk right past them without them realizing.

Why did the gang fell?

Micah got into Dutch's ear, Hosea died and Arthur got sick.

Micah promised him riches and the glorious scores that appealed to Dutch's ego and vanity. But he wasn't the rat.

If he did rat, he was playing Dutch and the Pinkertons to get the Blackwater money and the money for turning in Dutch.

However.

It was all Dutch.

Dutch. killed Cornwall in broad fucking daylight. Arthur sprung John out of prison, they blew up a fucking bridge, Dutch led the Natives to their doom, Colm's execution turned into a bloodbath, an attack on the Oil Refinery which led to the deaths of Colonel Favors and Eagle Flies and to top it all with robbing the military. It's no fucking wonder the Pinkertons found them.

There was no rat. The Pinkerton’s were actually just good at their jobs. Micah being a rat makes no sense if you actually think about it. There’s NO WAY the pinkertons would have been ok with the death of Leviticus Cornwall as he was paying their wages. Micah and Dutch planned to kill him together. There’s also the fact that Micah straight up killed Pinkertons in the firefight that ensued cornwall’s death. Micah was an asshole but not a rat. Watch that scene with Milton and Arthur again…Milton would have most likely let Arthur go with that false information but Arthur decided to attack him. There was never a rat, they got played.

It's a combination of things on why they all failed.

Reason 1. Dutch's vanity and ego. Dutch desperately needed to be seen as this great American hero. He cares more of the thrill of “one last score” it’s all about his ego and how he has to be seen as this Evelyn Millerian figure. This great American Literature hero when he’s really as bad as the greed that he says poisons America. He never cared about the people in the gang. It was the prestige of the name "The VAN DER LINDE Gang" HIM. He wanted to be seen as this infamous outlaw and righteous leader. He didn't care about the people in the gang. Arthur? He was dying and he didn't care. John? He wanted him to hang. Abigail? He left her behind the first chance he got. Micah killed Susan RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM and Dutch didn't care. He considerd Mary-Beth, Pearson and Uncle leaving as a betrayal. Dutch never cared for the people within the VDL Gang. He cared what they could do for him and the glory they could bring him. It was never of settling down to become farmers, it was always about the thrill of being an outlaw the that great big score.

There are a lot of people who think if Hosea never died, then Dutch never would've lost it. He was always bad. He just had good ways of masking it. Hosea failed at every venture to talk out of getting Dutch to see sense and avoid bloodshed. If Hosea lived, there is a very good chance that Dutch would've lost it and had Hosea killed. Either it would've been an accidental death like he tried by leaving Arthur behind, he would've went into full paranoid mode "You're trying to undermine me and take the group from me" and order Hosea to draw his gun and then shoot him. Like Hosea said "You'll damn us all" and he did.

Reason 2. Loyalty to a fault.

Loyalty held the gang together. Loyalty was what Dutch valued - blind, obedient loyalty. “He had a plan,” after all.

Doubt broke the gang apart. Dutch became suspicious, uncertain of the faith of even his most dedicated friends. This undermined the entire operation and caused its eventual downfall.

“You’ll betray me, Arthur,” Dutch says, “You’re the type.” Dutch couldn’t be more wrong on that account.

Micah is named by the Pinkertons as a rat, but according to them, he wasn’t approached until after they’d returned from Guarma. So, by that timeline, the Pinkerton’s hadn’t needed a rat to foil their plans in Blackwater, or to find Arthur fishing by the side of a stream, or for the bank robbery in Saint Denis.

The Pinkertons always knew where Dutch was and what he was up to. They didn’t need a rat, especially not after their return from Guarma. So, why drop Micah’s name?

Well, the Pinkertons knew the gang was scrambling, that they were on the run, and that it was damn near impossible to arrest one of them at a time without a successful rescue of said gang member, ie Micah, John, Abigail and Sean. They are not the local sheriff’s office, after all. They are the federals and they want Dutch Vander Linde done in for good.

Staring down the barrel of a gun, why would a Pinkerton agent spill their collateral to the enemy? Arthur wasn’t even asking for any information at the time. Why would this agent, in his dying moments, tell Arthur that Micah was the rat?

Unless the agent knew the gang was on thin ice, and that loyalty was all that was keeping it together. He introduced what he hoped would be a final blow to the gang, accomplishing post-huminously what had been his career goal in life.

Also, why would Micah become an informant after Guarma? What were the promising him? After all, he stuck with Dutch and formed a new gang after Arthur died. He never took a big cut from the government and ran. He was a brown-noser and an asshole, but stood nothing to gain from becoming a rat.

Arthur hated Micah, so he took the bait. He wanted a reason to hate him, to have him kicked out of the gang. Micah was pragmatic and greedy and he hardened Dutch’s humanitarian side - the side that Arthur valued. But, Micah being a rat wasn’t the truth.

After all, we know who became a rat - John Marston.

Arthur’s readiness to believe a Pinkerton’s dying words proved the point of the narrative - the gang fell apart because they lost faith in Dutch, and because Dutch grew jealous and fearful as their doubts became apparent.

Loyalty kept the gang together, and its absence tore the gang apart.

Reason 3. "We didn't need a rat. We got sloppier than the town drunk."

The gang was careless. It got sloppy and their overconfidence and ego was their downfall.

Micah wasn’t the cause of their downfall he simply hastened it. The game tells you from the opening titles how it’s going to end and why. It mentions that the remaining gangs are being hunted down and destroyed with the word underlined for emphasis. It was always going to end in their demise, it just happened quicker than it would have because they got sloppy, careless, conceited, and arrogant.

[cartograffiti]

An intro to the historical Zheng Yi Sao

Ruibo Qian's character in Our Flag Means Death is based on a real person, though like all its real pirates, she is a loose interpretation. In particular, the real Zheng Yi Sao wasn't born until 57 years after the real Blackbeard died!

In real life, she lived from 1775 to 1844. She was known by a variety of names; her birth name is usually given as Shi Yang. Zheng Yi Sao is the name most often used, which literally means "the wife of Zheng Yi" (more on him later), and you may also see variations like Ching Shih or Madam Cheng, depending on transliteration. Calling her Zheng, as Oluwande does, is good, or ZYS in fandom chat, but if fic writers crave a more personal connotation for a scene, Yang is a good choice for a given name consistent with the real woman. It's like the difference between Mr. Buttons and Nathaniel.

She was born in the Guangdong province, and many bios of her claim she worked on one of the boat brothels there, but this is speculation only.

When she married Zheng Yi, he was a successful member of a pirating dynasty, working as a privateer for emperors of Vietnam. The couple collaborated to unite six different pirate fleets operating off the Guangdong coast into a confederation, sealed with an agreement signed by the captains of each. Zheng Yi was informally recognized as the overall leader of the confederation until his death in a storm two years after the signing.

Zheng Yi Sao had the respect of other key figures in the alliance, and her smooth assumption of leadership was followed by a period of huge success and expansion for the pirate confederation, driving the Chinese government to desperation. This is where her reputation as a pirate "queen" comes from in real life, though I'm excited to see where the show goes with her fictional conquest of China!

In 1810, Zheng Yi Sao recognized that the confederation faced internal fractures and additional opposition, as Portuguese and British military forces allied with Chinese ships, so she led the confederation to bow out on a high, and use their immense power to bargain for a peaceful retirement, surrendering ships and weapons for pardons, supplies, and money. Although it's fictional that her crew was predominantly women, when Zheng Yi Sao surrendered, she did so accompanied by a delegation wholly composed of women and children who belonged to the confederation. At that time, the confederation consisted of 226 ships, 24 of which personally reported to Zheng Yi Sao.

If you're doing the math, she was only in her mid-thirties, and was far from done with life. She remarried, to one of her former captains, Zhang Bao, and accompanied him to the Penghu Islands, where he commanded a garrison. After his death, she returned to Guangdong and had another career of twenty-odd years, becoming the owner of a casino until her death at age 68 or 69 (nice).

She was one of the most successful pirates in history, both because of her power and her ability to survive it. I think she's neat as hell, and so have a lot of fiction writers! You might have encountered versions of her, or characters inspired by her, before, in things like Pirates of the Caribbean, the Bloody Jack novels, Assassin's Creed, and Doctor Who. It's fun to see a form of her in this! We can expect her arc to progress differently, but I hope having some context will help.

The most helpful things to note for the rest of the season for ofmd fans will be that Zheng is her surname, she wasn't really a contemporary of the other historical figures, and that her connection to sex work should not be treated as a fact, whether you want to include it in this fictional interpretation or not.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

deAdder

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

August 28, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Aug 29, 2024

Former president Trump appears to have slid further since last night’s news about a new grand jury’s superseding indictment of him on charges of trying to overthrow the 2020 presidential election. Over the course of about four hours this morning, Trump posted 50 times on his social media platform, mostly reposting material that was associated with QAnon, violent, authoritarian, or conspiratorial. 

He suggested he is “100% INNOCENT,” and that the indictment is a “Witch Hunt.” He called for trials and jail for special counsel Jack Smith, former president Barack Obama, and the members of Congress who investigated the January 6, 2021, attack on the U.S. Capitol. And he reposted a sexual insult about the political careers of both Vice President Kamala Harris and former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.

Meanwhile, Trump’s campaign has today escalated the fight about Trump’s photo op Monday at Arlington National Cemetery, where campaign staff took photos and videos in Section 60, the burial ground of recent veterans, apparently over the strong objections of cemetery officials. Then the campaign released photos and a video from the visit attacking Harris. 

Arlington National Cemetery was established on the former property of General Robert E. Lee in 1864, after the Lee family did not pay their property taxes. At the time, Lee was leading Confederate forces against the United States government, and those buried in the cemetery in its early years were those killed in the Civil War. The cemetery is one of two in the United States that is under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Army, and it is widely considered hallowed ground.  

A statement from the Arlington National Cemetery reiterated: “Federal law prohibits political campaign or election-related activities within Army National Military Cemeteries, to include photographers, content creators or any other persons attending for purposes, or in direct support of a partisan political candidate's campaign. Arlington National Cemetery reinforced and widely shared this law and its prohibitions with all participants. We can confirm there was an incident, and a report was filed.”

Republican vice presidential candidate Senator J.D. Vance of Ohio first said there was a “little disagreement” at the cemetery, but in Erie, Pennsylvania, today he tried to turn the incident into an attack on Harris. “She wants to yell at Donald Trump because he showed up?” Vance said. “She can go to hell.” Harris has not, in fact, commented on the controversy. 

VoteVets, a progressive organization that works to elect veterans to office, called the Arlington episode “sickening.”

In an interview with television personality Dr. Phil that aired last night, Trump suggested that Democrats in California each got seven ballots and that he would win in the state if Jesus Christ counted the votes. As Philip Bump of the Washington Post pointed out today, Trump has always said he could not lose elections unless there was fraud; last night he suggested repeatedly that God wants him to win the 2024 election.  

When asked his opinion of Vice President Harris, Trump once again called her “a Marxist,” a reference that would normally be used to refer to someone who agrees with the basic principles outlined by nineteenth-century philosopher Karl Marx in his theory of how society works. In Marx’s era, people in the U.S. and Europe were grappling with what industrialization would mean for the relationship between individual workers, employers, resources, and society. Marx believed that there was a growing conflict between workers and capitalists that would eventually lead to a revolution in which workers would take over the means of production—factories, farms, and so on—and end economic inequality.

Harris has shown no signs of embracing this philosophy, and on August 15, when Trump talked at reporters for more than an hour at his Bedminster property in front of a table with coffee and breakfast cereal at what was supposed to be a press conference on the economy, he said of his campaign strategy: “All we have to do is define our opponent as being a communist or a socialist or somebody that’s going to destroy our country.” 

Trump uses “Marxist,” “communist,” and “socialist” interchangeably, and when he and his allies accuse Democrats of being one of those things, they are not talking about an economic system in which the people, represented by the government, take control of the means of production. They are using a peculiarly American adaptation of the term “socialist.”

True socialism has never been popular in America. The best it has ever done in a national election was in 1912, when labor organizer Eugene V. Debs, running for president as a Socialist, won 6% of the vote, coming in behind Woodrow Wilson, Theodore Roosevelt, and William Howard Taft. 

What Republicans mean by "socialism" in America is a product of the years immediately after the Civil War, when African American men first got the right to vote. Eager to join the economic system from which they had previously been excluded, these men voted for leaders who promised to rebuild the South, provide schools and hospitals (as well as prosthetics for veterans, a vital need in the post-war U.S.), and develop the economy with railroads to provide an equal opportunity for all men to rise to prosperity. 

Former Confederates loathed the idea of Black men voting almost as much as they hated the idea of equal rights. They insisted that the public programs poorer voters wanted were simply a redistribution of wealth from prosperous white men to undeserving Black Americans who wanted a handout, although white people would also benefit from such programs. Improvements could be paid for only with tax levies, and white men were the only ones with property in the Reconstruction South. Thus, public investments in roads and schools and hospitals would redistribute wealth from propertied men to poor people, from white men to Black people. It was, opponents said, “socialism.” Poor black voters were instituting, one popular magazine wrote, "Socialism in South Carolina" and should be kept from the polls.

This idea that it was dangerous for working people to participate in government caught on in the North as immigrants moved into growing cities to work in the developing factories. Like their counterparts in the South, they voted for roads and schools, and wealthy men insisted these programs meant a redistribution of wealth through tax dollars. They got more concerned still when a majority of Americans began to call for regulation to keep businessmen from gouging consumers, polluting the environment, and poisoning the food supply (the reason you needed to worry about strangers and candy in that era was that candy was often painted with lead paint).

Any attempt to regulate business would impinge on a man's liberty, wealthy men argued, and it would cost tax dollars to hire inspectors. Thus, they said, it was a redistribution of wealth. Long before the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia brought the fears of a workers' government to life, Americans argued that their economy was under siege by socialists. Their conviction did indeed lead to a redistribution of wealth, but as regular Americans were kept from voting, the wealth went dramatically upward, not down.

The powerful formula linking racism to the idea of an active government and arguing that a government that promotes infrastructure, provides a basic social safety net, and regulates business is socialism has shaped American history since Reconstruction. In the modern era the Brown v. Board of Education Supreme Court decision of 1954 enabled wealthy men to convince voters that their tax dollars were being taken from them to promote the interests of Black Americans. President Ronald Reagan made that formula central to the Republican Party, and it has lived there ever since, as Republicans call any policy designed to help ordinary Americans “socialism.”

Vice President Harris recently said she would continue the work of the Biden administration and crack down on the price-fixing, price gouging, and corporate mergers that drove high grocery prices in the wake of the pandemic. Such plans have been on the table for a while: Senator Bob Casey (D-PA) noted last year that from July 2020 through July 2022, inflation rose by 14% and corporate profits rose by 75%. He backed a measure introduced by Senator Elizabeth Warren (D-MA)—who came up with the idea of the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau—that would set standards to prevent large corporations from price gouging during an “exceptional market shock” like a power grid failure, a public health emergency, a natural disaster, and so on. Harris’s proposal was met with pushback from opponents saying that such a law would do more harm than good and that post-pandemic high inflation was driven by the market.

Yesterday, during testimony for an antitrust case, an email from the senior director for pricing at the grocery giant Kroger, Andy Groff, to other Kroger executives seemed to prove that those calling out price gouging were at least in part right. In it, Groff wrote: “On milk and eggs, retail inflation has been significantly higher than cost inflation.” 

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

The Heart of Your Home Pt 5

Summary: Arthur comes across a woman in need. What he thought was a simple good deed would take him down a much further path than anticipated.

Warnings: Some cursing and use of adult language

Word Count: 5,162

A/N: This one took a while. Enjoy!

“Arthur, come here,” 

Hosea’s voice roused Arthur from his thoughts. He’d been standing at the shore of Clemens Point, watching the gentle waves of the lake shine in the late morning sun. He hadn't realized how deep in his own mind he was, realizing that the pink rays of the early morning had long since disappeared. 

He turned and faced the older man, who was standing just before the edge of camp, looking at him expectantly. The shade of the ancient tree sheltering camp stretched almost to the beach itself. Arthur stepped away from the shore, joining Hosea beneath the shade. Relief from the sweltering sun was instantaneous. 

“Hosea,” Arthur said in acknowledgment, his hands falling to rest on his gun belt. 

“Arthur,” Hosea started. “Have you been feeling alright?” 

The question caught Arthur off-guard. He gave Hosea a slight confused frown. “Yeah, why?” 

“You’ve been quiet since we got here,” Hosea pointed out, his own frown of concern appearing on his lips. 

“Ah,” Arthur responded with a small shrug. “I’m alright, Hosea.” 

Hosea gave him a look Arthur knew all too well, one he often received in his adolescence and well into his adult life. It was clear the older man did not believe him. “Something’s on your mind, Arthur. You know very well I can tell.” 

Arthur sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to another. It was true; in the craze of having to pack up and move from New Hanover in such a hurry, everything that’d been in the forefront of his mind had been slammed to the back like careless luggage in a stagecoach. He hadn’t anticipated running into the Pinkertons while teaching young Jack to fish on the river, which heavily compromised their once safe location. 

Lemoyne was warmer than the previous state, though uncomfortably muggy and the land was unfortunately infested with Confederate apologizers. Three days have passed since settling in the secluded peninsula of Clemens Point, and while things are relatively quiet, Arthur felt an incessant tugging back toward the west. 

It would be unwise to return so soon after his encounter, knowing the entire state might be crawling with Pinkertons on the lookout. The gnawing guilt in him didn’t quell, however, because he didn’t have the chance to check in on you one last time. 

That tussle with the O’Driscolls and your hospitality painted a clear image in his mind. He’d made it a duty upon himself to wake up early a few days straight and ride by your house, on alert for any signs of trouble. He kept himself in the area by hunting deer and Pronghorn, turning pelts for profit and stocking up on more meat. 

Everything was quiet, as luck would have it. There was no further sign of the Irish gang, no retaliation on his part. 

By the third day, Arthur visited you properly. It took him those first few days to banish the lingering thoughts of the dream he had, although it was difficult to meet your gaze during the initial greeting. He provided you with some extra slabs of meat which you gladly cooked, allowing some normalcy between the two of you again. Your enthusiasm made him almost forget how he found you crying over your husband’s note. 

“Is it Mary?” 

The question startled him. He blinked and stared straight at Hosea with confusion. “What?” 

“I know that look of longing,” Hosea pointed out with a knowing smirk. “And I know you met with Mary a few weeks ago.” 

Arthur frowned. While it was true, Mary, his ex-fiancée, wrote him a letter which spurred a meeting between the two after years of no contact. Mary informed him that not only did her husband perish, but her younger brother had been swept into a cult and she needed Arthur’s help to rescue him. It wasn’t the reunion he once hoped for, and the entire experience stirred emotions both old and new that he couldn’t fully comprehend. 

“No, not Mary,” Arthur said with a shake of his head. 

“Someone else, perhaps?” Hosea supplied with a raised brow. 

“No,” Arthur repeated, shuffling awkwardly in place, growing more wary of the conversation. “Hosea—” 

“Now listen, Arthur,” Hosea interjected. “I know you very well by now, and I can tell when you’re thinking about someone.” 

“There ain’t no one I’m thinkin’ of, Hosea,” Arthur sighed with annoyance. But the statement was only half-true, his mind tugging at the guilt for leaving so abruptly. It was the guilt that confused him, knowing there was no sound reason for him to feel that way. His visits to you were sporadic at best, with rarely any solid promise on when he’d come by again. 

Perhaps it was because his last visits were a few days in a row, drawn back again for a good hot meal and decent company. You never once questioned his frequency, nor did he have a reason to state otherwise. He mentioned it was to ensure no intrusions from those slimy Irish bastards, but inwardly, he had to admit he grew fond of being your guest. 

These past few days allowed an odd emotion to manifest in his chest. Too often he cast his gaze along the northwestern shores of Flat Iron Lake, traveling up to the craggy plateaus of New Hanover, toward that little homestead nestled in the forest just twenty minutes outside of Valentine. 

“If you insist, Arthur,” the older man said with a smile that told Arthur that he didn’t believe him. “But if I may suggest, it’s rude to keep a lady waiting.” 

Arthur's heart skipped a beat and before he could respond, Hosea stalked off toward the center of camp where Dutch seemed to be in a conversation with John. Arthur stared after him, confusion roiling deep in the pit of his belly. 

He left shortly afterward, hoping to leave those thoughts behind by riding into the rolling hills just outside of Rhodes. Leaving physically, however, did nothing for the teeming thoughts in his mind. A distraction would be preferable. He supposed he could hunt to keep himself busy or scout the rest of the state for any potential large scores. He couldn't find the heart to perform either of these tasks, even though at any other given time he’d be more than happy to do so. Productivity should be at the forefront of his priorities, especially in a new, unfamiliar area. There were always new leads to follow, more jobs to acquire, more money to earn...or steal. 

He paused on top of the hill, his hat the only shelter from the beating sun. A warm breeze caressed his face, providing minimal relief from the pressing humidity around him. 

“C’mon, you idiot,” Arthur grumbled to himself, rubbing his brow free from sweat and hoping his words would ebb the growing reluctance within him. The breeze formed into a gust, carrying down to hills and swirling along the pathways of Rhodes, stirring up the red dirt to settle onto its rooftops. 

He ought to at least start there, and he urged his stallion toward the town. 

The initial search didn’t last long as he found himself in the Parlor House ten minutes later, the draw of alcohol outweighing the need of scouting for scores. At least it gave him a reprieve from the beating sun. He sat at the bar with a bottle of beer clutched in his hand, listening to the ambient sounds around him. It was still early enough in the day when it wasn’t busy aside from a handful of patrons. 

A giggle caught his attention, and he glanced down the bar to see a couple— no, an older man with the arms of a pretty woman wrapped around his neck. 

He did a double take. 

It wasn't...no, couldn't be. 

Upon closer inspection, it seemed a mere coincidence that this woman could've been your twin. She had the same hair and a similar facial structure, a smile upon her cherry red lips as she whispered something in the man’s ear, intentionally leaning over to give him a full view of her cleavage. She took the man’s hand, and Arthur watched as the man smiled and as if cast under a spell, stood up and allowed the siren of a woman to lead him away. 

Arthur scoffed at himself, wondering how he even thought of such a thing. You were no working lady, especially not at the heels of your husband’s departure. You were too sweet, too kind, void of the calculation lingering behind the eyes of those other women, offering the promise of sex and sweet nothings to earn a quick buck. 

But at that fleeting moment, he couldn't help the twist in his stomach when he thought it WAS you, draped across a man he knew wasn't your husband. 

Or, wasn't— 

Arthur abruptly shoved back from the bar, halting that thought instantly. His movement startled the bartender and another nearby patron, but he didn't care. He downed the rest of his drink and slammed the now empty bottle onto the bar before spinning on his heel and exiting the Parlor House. He couldn't explain that wayward thought, or the sudden need to mount his horse and ride all the way to New Hanover, just to ensure that the woman now most likely pleasuring that man behind closed doors was NOT you. 

He cursed at himself, shaking his head and running his hand across his face in frustration. Why was he thinking like this? It was nonsensical and irrational, not to mention a spike of...what was that? Jealousy? 

Jealous of what, exactly? Arthur stalked forward and leaned against a telephone pole in thought, his arms folding tightly. Envy was such a filthy emotion; one he’d experienced in his youth which led to situations that were less than ideal. He dug into his satchel, hands grabbing for a cigarette carton and glad to find one within. He pulled a cigarette out and proceeded to light it, taking a long drag of the earthy smoke to calm his nerves. He breathed out, slowly, focusing on the silver shroud spilling from his lips. It helped, marginally, but it allowed a moment of clarity. 

His eyes closed against the beating sun, ignoring the stifling heat as he pulled another drag. The roiling emotions in his belly quelled to a simmer, and he sighed out another puff of smoke. 

He then opened his eyes to see a young couple stride by, arm in arm, faces alight with laughter. Normally he wouldn’t give them a second glance, but something twisted in his guts. A dull ache radiated to his chest. It was a familiar pain, a reminder of what could’ve been a different life. He’d buried that long ago with any hopes that any sort of romantic relationship would rekindle. 

Mary had been his love, a love burning so deep that it left a permanent hole following their parting ways. A hole he attempted to fill with Eliza, and the ache sharpened with her memory. 

He stood up straight. “You’re a damn idiot, Morgan,” he grumbled. He’d convinced himself he wasn’t worthy of another chance at romance, not when he committed such heinous crimes and lost what was once precious to him as a result. 

But that didn’t stop the want, the need. The weight of a soft body against him, the warmth between his arms, the feel of lips against his. The way he would tangle his fingers into soft tresses, his name spoken in such a manner he could hear it all day long. 

Arthur swallowed hard, imagining exactly whose voice he’d love to hear his name being spoken. 

It was a mistake to come here. 

Finishing off the cigarette, he made his way back to his stallion. 

--- 

The sun settled steadily lower into the sky, bathing Clemens Point in a subtle orange glow. The camp was beginning to settle with full bowls of stew courtesy of Pearson, the nearby campfire slowly roaring to life amidst the darkening surroundings. Arthur found himself at the shoreline again, resting on a thick piece of driftwood. The familiar worn journal rested open in his hand, a pencil in the other as he sketched. 

It was the only thing that calmed his otherwise frayed nerves, delving into his inner thoughts. The light slowly faded with each stroke of his pencil across the smooth page. 

“Arthur?” A feminine voice caught his attention this time, and he turned to see Mary-Beth approaching him. 

Arthur smiled slightly at the young woman, tilting his head in greeting. “Mary-Beth,” he said. 

She smiled in return, her eyes shifting to his journal as she drew closer. “Oh, who is the lady?” 

He closed his journal and set it aside. “No one,” he answered. 

Mary-Beth gave him the same look Hosea had earlier, the one that said: I don't believe you. Instead of prodding further, she said, “You just seemed more quiet than usual, I wanted to make sure you're okay.” 

Arthur bit back a sigh, wishing his brooding thoughts were less obvious. Still, he couldn't blame her for asking; Mary-Beth was a kind woman, and he had no trouble speaking to her in the past about something that troubled him. “Not exactly,” he admitted. 

Mary-Beth waited patiently for him to continue. 

“I...” Arthur started, searching exactly for the words. “There’s someone...” 

“That lady you were drawing?” She interrupted, her eyebrows raising. 

He paused for a second. “Uh...” should he confirm or deny this? 

She smiled softly at him. “Arthur, it's okay. You can tell me,” she reached over a patted his knee. 

Arthur took a second, then matched her smile. Somehow, it was a little easier to speak to her than it was to Hosea. “It...is,” he admitted lowly. 

Mary-Beth straightened with excitement written on her face. “Are you in love with her, Arthur?” She guessed. 

The words made Arthur flinch. “No, no, nothin’ like that. I care ‘bout her though,” maybe more than he’d like to admit. He then took a deep breath. “When we was in New Hanover, I’d stop by her house on occasion. We’d have dinner and sometimes talked,” he shrugged. 

“That sounds nice,” Mary-Beth commented, her smile remaining. 

Arthur nodded in agreement. “But we left in such a hurry, I didn't have a chance to stop by. I know it's too risky to go back, but...” 

“You feel guilty,” she finished for him. 

Arthur sighed, his body sagging with the movement. “Seems real silly, but she’s all alone. Her husband took off on some sort o’ business deal and... we know what's out there.” He didn't have to explain the wolves, or the encounter with the O’Driscolls. Mary-Beth knew how unkind the world was to a woman alone. Hell, everyone in camp knew. It's what attracted them to the gang in the first place. It was a certain freedom that normal society couldn't grant. 

He had the fleeting thought of imagining you here too, but the image dissolved in a heartbeat. 

Mary-Beth's brow furrowed at this. “And she likes your company...without her husband?” 

“Not like that,” Arthur quickly amended, his teeth gritting as those previous thoughts began to surface. “He...leaves often. She calls me her friend, can't really blame her, she's jus’ lonely.” 

“And are you her friend?” 

Arthur blinked at the question. “I... suppose,” he said hesitantly, remembering the way he discouraged the title at first, followed by your vehement disagreement. It still troubled him slightly, knowing that getting too close to him could be consequential. But he kept coming back... “Yeah, I am,” he finally added. 

The young woman stared at Arthur with scrutiny for a long moment. Not judgmental but searching. Finally she said, “You're sweet on her,” it wasn't a question, but a statement. 

“No,” Arthur immediately denied, though his stomach lurched. 

“Arthur,” Mary-Beth said gently. “I can see it on your face.” 

His hands, which were resting on his thighs, balled into fists. He wasn't angry, rather, anxious. He was ready to further refute her claim, but the words wouldn't come out. He looked away from her. “She’s married,” he reminded her, although it seemed as if he was reminding himself. It’d gone quiet between the two, and Arthur took a chance to glance her way again. 

“I’m not one to judge,” she quietly said. “But it sounds like...her husband doesn’t love her like he should.” 

Arthur was inclined to agree, especially after his early morning encounter with you. The sway of money did things to a man, and he knew that better than anyone. He truly hoped it didn’t lead to your demise due to Frederick’s negligence. Perhaps he ought to ride out to Saint Denis and seek out this man himself and remind him what sort of dangers lurk just outside their front door. 

“Maybe...she needs a way out,” Mary-Beth added, gazing at him expectantly. 

Arthur took a deep breath and shook his head. “No,” he said, knowing exactly what Mary-Beth meant. A woman like you was too kind for his world. “She don’t need to be here.” 

Mary-Beth frowned slightly. “You know Dutch would--” 

“I know what he’d say,” Arthur interrupted. Even for a gang outlaws, Dutch had a knack for taking in lost souls. Hell, Sadie was only with them for over a month now and she began to become productive around camp. Even Kieran started to show promise after spending the first few weeks with them as a prisoner. “But...it ain’t a good idea. Trust me, Mary-Beth.” 

The frown remained on her face as she sat quietly, as if contemplating how to respond. She took a deep breath and uttered, “Then it sounds like you need to make a decision.” 

He looked at her in bewilderment. “On what?” 

“About her,” Mary-Beth supplied. “Either tell her your feelings, or let her stay with her husband,” her voice was gentle, but there was a finality in her tone. “And you’ll have to do it soon.” 

She got up then, offering him a smile before turning to head back into camp. Arthur’s stomach churned as her words settled deeper, and he picked his journal back up to flip to the page he’d been sketching in. A woman was facing away, but her head was turned to the side with amusement playing on her open lips. She busied herself over a stew pot, but her stilled motion was captured as if she were in a conversation. 

It was you, always chatting over your shoulder to him as you cooked the next delicious meal, and a small smile tugged on his face. 

That night, sleep did not come easily. As the air cooled it did nothing to remove the dampness that hung heavy like a blanket. He tossed and turned on his cot, wishing for his eyes to grow heavy. But his mind was too awake, buzzing with thoughts that incessantly bounced back and forth. 

 Eventually he sat up, completely abandoning the idea of sleep now. He would like to blame the weather, mosquitos beginning their descent once the smoke of the campfires died, but he knew damn well that wasn't it. 

Mary-Beth's words from earlier echoed, never ceasing entirely. They dimmed and heightened, tugging at his mind even when the beginning threads of sleep began to pull. Repeating mentally that one phrase that Arthur tried his hardest to push away. 

You’re sweet on her. 

He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. He’d spent hours trying to deny it, to banish those lingering thoughts. But the action felt wrong. 

“You ain't sweet on her,” he mumbled under his breath, further trying to convince himself, a sour taste forming at the back of his mouth as he said it. It's as if those words were a poison he needed to spit out. “You ain't...” 

Memories flashed through his mind like a film reel. Sweet, calm memories of hearty stew and roasted chicken and glasses of whiskey and wine. The savory smell comforting in a small cabin deep in the woods. The nicker of his horse upon seeing a familiar mare. A lovely smile and beautiful eyes lighting up at the sight of him, even though he didn't deserve it. 

Arthur sagged, his head falling into his hands with the realization. No, not a realization. It'd been there all along, and he was tired of denying it. Relief flooded him like a wave, releasing the knot in his stomach but weighing him down at the same time. 

He was sweet on you. 

And that was dangerous. 

Decisions warred each other as he considered what to do. He was a fool to think his confession would make a difference to you; you were married after all. And even though Frederick’s choices were less than ideal, he had no doubt you would choose your own husband over him. 

Hell, who would choose him anyway? He wasn't worth your kindness, even though you endlessly provided it. 

It would be easy to just never go back, force the distance until these damned feelings dissipated on their own. He’d done it before, after all, when Mary decided on a life without him in it. The pain was unmatched, but time thickened the wound like a callus. 

But then he wondered what you'd think if he never shadowed your doorstep ever again. The way you worried over him the day you found him in the aftermath of the O’Driscoll massacre. You didn't have to treat his wounds, but you did anyway despite his efforts to deny the help. The way you insisted on feeding him with every visit, to allow his horse some rest as well. 

You would think the worst. Even though he was pretty sure you didn't know what he was, he was also pretty sure you would assume he died. Wouldn’t that be best, after all? 

Arthur slowly straightened, the thought settling uncomfortably heavy in his stomach. It wouldn't be fair to just disappear entirely, not without a proper farewell. 

And that's what he planned to do. 

A simple lie would suffice. He would tell you he’s moving further away, and although part of it was the truth, he wouldn't disclose the reason. Not to unveil his true self to you, and not to reveal his true feelings either. The mere thought of you finding out either of these made his heart thud. 

Maybe it would be for the better. If you knew he was an outlaw, maybe that’ll make the distance much easier. He could almost imagine the look of horror on your face before demanding he leave your house at once, never to return. 

That thought hurt more than he anticipated, but it was better than the ache gnawing at his chest since the trek to Lemoyne. That will disappear in time. 

He stood up from the cot, his body now too wired to even attempt sleep. This had to be done, and he might as well start now. 

--- 

A warm breeze fluttered across the busy street, carrying the scent of the lake water along with it. Your hair ruffled, stirring loose strands up from the bun you’d fashioned it into this morning. It was a gorgeous, sunny day in the town of Blackwater, a far cry from the perpetual chill that hung around your home in New Hanover. 

Civilization was also a welcome sight. Your cousin, who was a West Elizabeth native, arrived shortly after sending her your most recent letter about Frederick‘s newest trip. That prompted her to take you to Blackwater for the weekend, a town of which you’d never visited but had heard about. 

It reminded you of your home back East, and the memory brought along a feeling of nostalgia. You’d never thought you would miss the constant bustle of more urban areas; how busy it was at night compared to the sounds of nature that lulled you to sleep now. 

It was wild to you how different your life was compared to just a few months ago. You missed normal civilization, sure, but there was something about being tucked away in the wilderness that grew on you, especially after learning what to avoid. 

You couldn't help but to smile sheepishly to yourself. Having a close brush with death certainly changed your perspective on things, and it made you appreciate the sheer force Mother Nature had to offer. She was beautiful, but deadly. 

The sound of your name pulled you from your thoughts, and you turned to face your cousin. She was staring at you expectantly. 

“I’m sorry Rachel,” you say with an apologetic smile. “What did you say?” 

Rachel scoffed and rolled her eyes, but the grin on her face told you she was amused. “I said, would you like to check this out?” She gestured to the theater you two stopped in front of. 

You glanced up at the building, Blackwater Grand Theatre it was called, marquees boldly stating multiple shows. You shrugged and said, “I'm in for a good show,” you flashed your cousin a smile. “And lunch after?” 

Rachel nodded with a grin and stepped forward to the box office. You followed suit, only barely paying attention as Rachel shelled out a dollar for two tickets and headed inside after. 

Films were only something you’d witnessed once or twice in your life, there was a theater a few blocks from your old house that you managed to visit before marrying Frederick. Afterwards you'd been far too busy to even attempt, and you were glad to have another opportunity now. 

The two of you sat midway in the theater, watching as the silver screen flickered to life with the black and white images. The acting of course was overly dramatized, enhanced by the music. You laughed and made quiet commentary for the five minutes that the motion picture lasted. 

The end showed a couple passionately kissing on the screen. Your heart skipped a beat at the scene, and a sharp feeling of loneliness stabbed at your stomach. You curled into yourself slightly as if you'd really been injured. 

“Are you okay?” Rachel asked after noticing your shift in position. 

“Yeah,” you sighed, straightening back up to stand from your seat. An uncomfortable memory surfaced to the forefront of your mind; waking up to find Frederick’s letter which led to you sobbing in front of the fireplace. “I just miss my husband.” 

Rachel gave you a sympathetic smile and placed a hand on your shoulder. “I know, but that's why you're here with me.” 

You nodded at the reminder, grateful for this trip. The non-expectancy of it all was truly enough to busy your mind for a while, especially because you hadn't seen Rachel since your wedding. You followed her along the row of seats and toward the back end of the theater, melding into the small crowd that formed heading toward the exit. 

The two of you shuffled slowly out, surrounded by hot bodies and the murmurs of others discussing the film or other matters. You paid no mind, just wanting to exit the stuffy building in favor of a fresh breeze. Soon enough you were able to take a deep breath of air as you stepped back into the bright sun. 

Rachel then led you to a saloon for lunch. It wasn't what you expected for a meal, but the change of scenery was welcome. You'd gotten so used to cooking every day you'd almost forgotten what it was like to have someone else do it for you. 

The ambience, although buzzing, was soon tuned out as you focused on your meal of roasted chicken. Some words were exchanged between you and Rachel between bites, but otherwise no other conversation ensued. A small group of men filed into the saloon, and there was a business-like edge to the way they were dressed and carried themselves. You glanced at them briefly. 

“Pinkertons,” Rachel explained, catching your momentary curiosity. 

You nodded, turning back to your food. You didn't know much about them other than they were dutiful to the law. 

As you reached for another fork full of chicken, their conversation caught your ear. It was a quick mention, a name, really. Arthur. 

Another pang of homesickness coiled in your stomach. Arthur, your friend. It’d been almost a week since you last saw him, but you missed his calming presence all the same. You hoped he would take the time to see you again when you got back home. 

“Lost track of him after New Hanover,” you heard one of the Pinkertons say. “Bastard must've warned everyone to move.” 

“Course,” another grumbled. 

Huh, seemed like they were tracking down some criminals. Arthur was a common enough name, and you wondered if it had to do with the O’Driscolls. 

“Hey, are you alright?” 

Rachel’s voice almost startled you, and you realized you’d paused mid-fork. Glancing up to her, you nodded and finally resumed eating, turning out the rest of the Pinkertons’ conversation. 

By the time you finished your meals, the late afternoon sun started to sink behind the buildings, casting long shadows and bathing the town in a golden orange glow. It was so pretty here, and the heat of the day began to cool to a comfortable temperature. Rachel’s apartment wasn't far from here, but there was more of Blackwater to explore before turning in for the night. 

Rachel agreed to appease to your curiosity, pointing toward the Town Hall and mentioning how there was a small pier to have a better view of Flat Iron Lake, excitement grew and you started off, heading parallel of the Main Street as the day slowly darkened. 

Soon enough you reached the end and took a right, the covered pier coming into view immediately just a few hundred feet away. Your pace quickened as you bustled along, passing by someone who busied himself placing up a flyer along a line of similar parchment covered flyers. 

The stark contrast compared to the dark building wall caught your attention and you glanced, realizing the flyers were a cluster of wanted posters. Multiple men with high bounties for various crimes. You never bothered to look twice, wanting to avoiding immersing yourself in imagining whatever heinous crimes these lowlifes committed. 

Except one that your gaze lingered onto for a heartbeat longer. Your feet slowed as you fully took in the information. 

A man stood out from the rest. Wide shoulders, a chiseled jaw, stubble that dusted his chin. A worn black leather hat sat upon his head. Everything about him was familiar, down to the pair of eyes that even in the colorless photo you knew the exact shade of blue they would be if you saw them in reality. 

And beneath it, read:  

WANTED 

Arthur Morgan 

Reward: $5,000 

Your heart sunk to your stomach as your eyes read the bold letters again, then shifting to his face, hoping to find any difference to refute...the truth. 

But there was none. 

[tragantia]

Another regular occurrence whilst living with the Hooker clan would be to witness Jesse bitching about the inaccurate use of the confederate flag in modern historical representations. The next time he sees someone misusing the navy jack he's driving out to find them - this time it's personal.

Different animal, different flag, same energy:

[allzelemonz]

Sweet Blood: Bill Williamson X Male Reader

Fictober Prompt: Day 21, Blood/Murder Pronouns: None Mentioned Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut, violence Warnings: Appreciation of Bill’s size, kissing, gunfight, blood, murder, oral sex, blow job, hint of anal fingering, mentions of bathing together, goofy fluff, Bill is clumsy Summary: After a shootout Bill gets a little show that he enjoys more than he might expect.

If there is one thing Bill finds himself hating about Lemoyne, it’s the stupid confederate bastards that think they own the place. He was more than happy to go out riding with you, just spending time together. You’d been riding along, partly racing and generally messing around like fools until the bastards appeared out of the trees. Your horse slid to a stop, Brown Jack halting just behind. Before anything else, the raiders recognized the two of you from the gang and started shooting. Given how many of the bastards there were, Bill planned to run as much as he hated to, but your horse got scared and bucked you. And now he doesn’t even know where you are in the firefight.

He saw you get behind a rock and hasn’t seen you since, too busy getting Brown Jack out of danger and bolting for cover himself. His rifle needs cleaning and he wasn’t even planning on needing it today. Your shots help even if he has no idea where they come from. Halfway through, getting frustrated with his dirty rifle, he pulls his revolver. It’d feel a lot better if he could see you and know you’re not hurt. The last shot he lands lets his ears clear and the sounds of a struggle fill where the gunshots used to be.

Bill rushes, following the sounds of crunching leaves and labored grunts. He arrives just in time to watch you plunge your knife into the man above you, the man grasps at it but you drag it along his torso and his blood seeps out like a burst dam and he collapses. Bill, his head a little foggy, pulls the now dead man off of you. Your clothes are soaked in blood, splatters around your skin and hair, effectively covering you in red.

Bill stares for a moment before getting the sense to offer his hand. “Ya alright?”

“Yeah.” You groan as Bill helps you to your feet. “He came out of nowhere.”

That image of you essentially gutting the man flashes through Bill’s mind. “Bastard��” He mutters.

Bill watches you put your knife away, shifting on his feet in a bit of discomfort but he has no idea why. He knows you can handle yourself, if anything he sometimes likes watching you kill the fellers that deserve it. He writes it off as being worried about the horses and-

“Bill?” You say, making him look at you. “Did you just get hard from a gun fight?”

Bill feels heat rush to his face as he looks down and suddenly feels the ache. He’s about half hard, enough to strain against his pants for you to see. It wasn’t just the gunfight and he knows it. Sure, he might’ve rubbed one out after trading shots before, but this time he knows that seeing you stab a feller and get coated in blood had a hell of a lot to do with it. And he feels embarrassed because it’s weird to get off on shooting and stabbing… but you’re smiling at him and it makes his brow crease in confusion. He looks down, but can’t quite tell if you’ve gotten hard too.

“You want help, sweetheart?” You ask, your fingers digging under his gunbelt and pulling him closer.

Bill nods, grinning at the prospect of fucking in the aftermath of all this. He kisses you, his hands holding your face as your hand moves up to rid both of you of the hats that knock together. He feels hot all over, more than usual in the humidity, and he grips your hands to bring them to his shirt. You take the hint, unbuttoning it for him. He shivers as you hands run over his chest, sliding down to his stomach and lovingly squeezing at the extra fat there. He might fully collapse and melt under your touch one day, like snow in the summer, but for now he can keep his legs with the help of a large rock to lean against.

“D-Darlin’” He breathes heavily against your lips. “I want ya ta… can ya suck me off?”

You smile at him. Bill hates asking for things, much prefers to just let you do whatever you want with him, but he needs this. He needs to see you all bloodsoaked on your knees.

“We’re gonna have to get a bath or something after.” You say, looking down at the blood that now stains both of you. “Grimshaw and Dutch’d lose it if we walked around like this.”

Bill nods, giggling to himself. “Ya wanna share a bath?”

“Or a lake, I’m not picky.”

Bill kisses you sweetly before you kneel down in front of him. He scrambles to get his suspenders over his shoulders as you tug his pants down. Your hands leave blood in their wake, red stains settling in all the places you’ve touched and it makes Bill’s chest tight. His dick freed and his leg bare, he feels that tremble again and leans back more against the rock to keep himself up while you grip his thighs. You trail kisses over his skin, paying attention to his thickness with a care that makes Bill want to tell you how much he loves you but his mouth can’t quite form words, only lewd little noises that he tries to silence with his hand.

When you first lick at his head he nearly yelps, every sensation heightened by the fact that you’re in the aftermath of a shootout, out in the open, covered in blood, and Bill is half naked for anyone to see. He looks down and finds his hairy chest flushed pink, the only thing covered is his arms as his shirt hangs open. He’s been foregoing union suits since moving down into the humid south, and he’s a little glad for it when your hand wanders up to his hip to keep him still. The feeling of your fingers on his skin, damp blood smearing slightly, makes him groan into his hand. And when your mouth wraps around him, his legs finally give out and he falls on his ass.

“Shit!” He exclaims, looking up at you. “Sorry, shit that hurt.”

You cup his cheek, kissing him as if he hasn’t made a fool of himself. “I can see why we’ve only ever done this sitting down.”

Bill knows his face must be red by now, ears and all. “Y-Ya just… I can’t handle it, ya make me feel so damn good.”

“Just relax, Bill.” You say with a smile. “This just means I get to have those perfect thighs of yours around my head.”

“Ain’t nothin’-“

You shush him, stopping the self-deprecating comment and making Bill swallow the spit in this mouth. He settles his back against the rock, spreading his legs as you dip between them. He hesitates, but carefully puts his legs over your shoulders. He’s done it before but he’s always worried he’ll smother you or something, all you give him is encouragement. It feels amazing, allowing you to sink down so far onto his dick with only your own limitations in the way. You engulf him with the familiar angle, your nose pressed flush with Bill’s messy patch of pubic hair as he shivers and clenches his legs. Despite the weight on your back, you bob your head and use your tongue perfectly, Bill not able to think of anything else. You’re always perfect.

He can’t warn you, despite his effort too, all that comes out is a gasp as your finger traces around his rim, exposed from the slant of his hips. He releases down your throat and his legs clench around you, holding you in place as you swallow his cum and suck him through the pleasure. Bill goes limp when it’s done, his mind a fog and only faintly aware of your kisses on his thighs as you put his legs back on the ground.

“You really need a bath now.” He hears you mutter, the faint feeling of your hands buttoning his shirt accompanying. “Got dirt all over you now.”

Bill chuckles lightly, his senses coming back as he catches his breath. You help him stand on wobbly legs so he can pull his pants up. You catch him when he stumbles, keeping your arm around him like he’s drunk.

And when you put his hat back on his head he smiles bashfully. “Love you.”

“Love you too, lightweight.” You smile, pecking his lips.

“Ain’t like I’m drunk.”

“Might as well be with all this wobbling.”

Bill looks down at his feet. “Sorry.”

“I’m the one that did it.” You say, picking his head up to kiss again. “Now let’s get cleaned up.”

[thegreenleavesofspring]

In reference to that confederate flag post, I’m honestly curious why one would have pride in that flag. I grew up in the north and was taught that that flag symbolized bad things. I know not every southerner was pro-slavery and I don’t think the history and culture of the south should be erased or demonized, but I find it hard to shake the bias. If that flag doesn’t mean pro-slavery, what does it mean for you? I hope this doesn’t sound accusing, I legitimately honestly don’t understand and would love an answer 💕

I appreciate your respect in this matter, I read the same history books you did and I know well what the commonly taught thing is.

I could wax long about the various disputed reasons for the War. I will not, on this post; many better researchers than I have already done so. I do not condone slavery, of course; I would hope nobody would. But that is also not, not really, the subject under discussion.

Of the Confederate States of America, it was a very small percentage of the population who owned slaves - something like 3-5%, if I remember correctly. The vast majority of the people were not plantation owners, but small individual farmers and tradesmen and families.

And then the war started and it didn't matter, anymore, whether they owned slaves or not; all of the South was under attack. Whether one owned slaves or not, it was one's home and wife and children and fields and livelihood being razed and left dead. It was take up arms, or perish.

Condemning all of the South and all the Confederate soldiers for slavery would be the same as condemning every American citizen for Bush's Iraq War or Obama's Syrian bombings.

That flag is the flag of my people who did not deserve to die for the sins of the elites of their day.

That flag is still to be found in the homes and on the trucks and on the tackleboxes and inked into the skin of today's Southerners. Because it's our flag, and it means the rednecks, the jacked up pickups, the crazy stunts, the jacked up trucks who drove into Houston floodwaters when the Army trucks stalled out. It's the gentlemen who will stop to help you with a flat tire and the ladies who will bring over a casserole and it doesn't matter what color your skin is if you're polite and courteous because people are people.

That flag is an emblem of Southern culture.

My home and my people are not without our faults, but the prevalent narrative of our flag meaning slavery is just a smear campaign - and an unfortunately very successful one.

[mimi-0007]

Johnny Robinson (1947–1963) was a young African-American teenager who, at age 16, was shot and killed by a police officer in the unrest following the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama. Robinson and several others were allegedly throwing rocks at a car draped with a Confederate flag. A Birmingham police officer, Jack Parker, who was riding in the back seat of a police car, shot and killed Robinson. Parker was never indicted for the killing and claimed that he had only fired a warning shot, and that a stray pellet must have killed Robinson. Johnny Robinson was born in 1947 and had a difficult upbringing in Birmingham, as the city had seen 50 racially driven bombings from 1945 to 1963. He was the oldest of three children and attended the Alberta Shields School. A few years prior to his death, Robinson's father was murdered by a neighbor, leaving his mother alone to raise her children in a city fraught with racial violence.

[stupittmoran]

Top 10 headlines the media didn't tell you this week, Repost & FoIIow for more.

Governor Greg Abbott signs a bill making it a state crime to enter Texas illegally.

Fulton County counted 20,713 votes that did not exist in the 2020 election; Trump "lost" by 11,779 votes.

Senate staffer fired after filming gay sex tape in Senate hearing room; apparently, we're not the only ones getting f*cked by the government.

Dismantling of a Confederate Memorial in Arlington Cemetery was halted by Trump appointed Federal judge.

Vivek Ramaswamy to withdraw from the Colorado GOP primary until Trump is allowed to be on the ballot.

The State of Tennessee is suing BlackRock, the world's largest financial asset manager, for misleading investors about their money being used to fund ESG policies.

California Lieutenant Governor demands Secretary of State remove former President Donald Trump from the 2024 ballot, the last US president to be removed from ballots was Abraham Lincoln.

A second Democratic candidate joins Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., claiming the left is rigging the primaries for Biden.

New Supreme Court filing claims Jack Smith was never properly appointed as Special Counsel, declaring all of his legal acts null and void.

A Federal judge ordered more than 150 names linked to Jeffrey Epstein to be unsealed, 3 of the names will remain sealed, who do you think they are?

If you appreciate this Top 10 recap, remember to Repost and FoIIow me for another week in a clown world 🤡🌎

From

TaraBull𝕏

@TaraBull808 on Twitter/X

[haveyoulistenedtothisalbum-poll]

Tracklist:

Hypocrite • Horrible • Kringle • Lollirot • Media C-Section • My Cat (94) • Super Sadist • Spit And Rape • Swollen (94) • Yellow Brick Road (94) • American Made • Boy Grinder • Bruises Are Back In Style • Cherry Scented • Chocolate Chicken • Choke • Confederate Fag • Cumdumpster • Don't Wake The Baby (95) • Everything's Brown • French Kiss The Elderly • Girl Scout • Working With Meat • Cockroach Waltz

Spotify ♪ YouTube

[victusinveritas]

Veterans of 4 different wars from the same town of Geary, Oklahoma, 1940’s. From top left to bottom left, clockwise:

Pearl Perry “Jack” Johnson (1923-1997) born in Davis, Oklahoma. WW2 veteran. Registered for the draft in June 1942.

Hilyeard H “Red” Young (1895-1965). Born in Texas, WW1 veteran, owned a barber shop in 1940.

Andrew Jackson Everist, Sr. (1849-1945), born in Iowa, served in the Illinois 57th Regiment for the Union in 1864-1865 at the age of 15-16. The medal he’s wearing is the Gettysburg 75th Reunion Veteran’s Medal, but it was given to both Union and Confederate vets.

Oscar P Ruth (1872-1961). Born in Illinois, Spanish-American War veteran. Self-employed electrician in 1940.

[ltwilliammowett]

Hijack

There are many suggestions for the origin of the word hijack, a 19th century Americanism that originally meant the coercion or illegal seizure of a person. In all versions of the word's possible origins, the plot line and outcome are the same: one person is seized forcibly by another. The stories vary only in the identity of the person responsible for the seizure or the use of the key word, hijack.

According to the nautical version, " Hi, Jack!" was a prostitute's come-on to a lonely sailor on shore leave. Anticipating a pleasureable encounter with the lady of the night, a distracted, unwary sailor was instead struck from behind and knocked senseless by one of "the lady's" confederates.

He was then sold to a ship in need of a crew. The counterpart where a poor Sailor was kidnapped while drunk and then in a state of drunken unconsciousness was dragged onto a ship - usually to China - was called Shanghaiing.

The word hijack, also spelled highjack, now means the illegal seizure of cargo or a vehicle in transit, or sometimes even the theft of ideas.