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twola · 22 hours ago

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All is Calm, All is Bright

This is my entry for the @rdrevents #rdrSecretWinterExchange! Its the first time for me to participate in something like this and I had a ton of fun doing it!

the prompt was: johnigail and/or marston family centric - marston family’s first christmas on the ranch

PG13-ish? Language (hey - it’s Red Dead) and there’s some insinuatin’ of things that married folk do. Happy holidays @vittoriaisfuckingpathetic!

God damn woman, goddamn woman with those goddamn pretty eyes, and evil smile and…

Oh, who is he kidding? That woman’s got him wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. That’s why he’s heading into Blackwater when the prairie is cold as dickens and he feels like he froze his ass off on this ride into town. The grey clouds cast darkness over the land, and though sunset is a few hours off, it is dark enough to lose one’s way easily.

John Marston groans underneath his heavy coat, tucking his head into the open collar, “C’mon now boy, just get me into town and I’ll getcha all the damn treats that you want.”

The roan Tennessee Walker beneath him nicks its head up, neighing in discomfort against the wind rolling off Flat Iron Lake. Blanketed in white, snow covering the prairie, he can barely see the trail ahead of him, having to rely on muscle memory and his sense of direction to get to Blackwater.

“It’s Christmas. The first time the boy’s been in a home for one, hell, it's the first time I’ve been in a home for one. Probably you too.”

Abigail, as always, was right. Her voice rings in his ears, and though he wants to grumble terribly, it warms him to see her smile as he leaves. Seeing excitement in Jack’s eyes, for the first time in a very long time. Fortunately, It's not long before he comes upon that old white church on the top of the hill heading into town - he’s able to urge his horse to trot faster down the well-traveled road, where hoofprints and wagon tracks have the ground visible underneath the snow.

The plod of his horse's hooves change their tenor as he reaches the cobblestone main streets of Blackwater. It's a sound that he bites back a derisive comment to - much preferring the soft, muted sound of his horse walking on the open prairie. When John reaches his destination, he slides out of the saddle and hitches his horse to a post in front of several shops. He brushes snow off of his shoulder as he quickly moves toward one of the shops.

Blackwater Sundries - Family Owned since 1895

The bell above the door rings as he pushes the door open, quickly closing it behind himself to stave out the cold wind.

“I’m here to pick up an order under the name Marston.”

The young woman behind the desk smiles before turning to the table behind and her, grabbing a wooden crate. She struggles, slightly, hoisting it to the counter, and John leans over the counter to steady her by taking the crate's edge.

“Thank you kindly, Mister Marston. This here’s got a smoked ham, a can of candied yams, a can of asparagus, a wrapped fruitcake, and a bottle of my momma’s mulled wine. She just made it this morning. A Christmas gift for everyone who made an order with us.”

“That’s mighty kind of her, Miss.” John slides the crate closer to himself on the counter. He digs one hand into his satchel for the envelope of money that Abigail had sent with him for the order. Placing it down on the counter, he gazes once over the crate and its contents, “Miss, do you possibly have a sack to put this all in? I only have my horse, ain’t brought my wagon.”

“Course, Mister. Let me wrap up the bottle in extra canvas.”

After the girl wraps all of the items carefully in canvas and finally in a large sack, she holds it out for John to take, “Ham is already spiced and smoked, so just have your wife warm it up in the oven. Yams and asparagus just on the stovetop. Shouldn’t take more than an hour and you’ll have a nice spread.” She states cheerily as John shoulders the sack.

He snorts to himself as he nods a farewell, striding back to the door and the howling wind outside. Blessedly, this was one meal that Abigail would not be able to ruin. He loves that woman from here to hell and back, but Lord, cooking wasn’t one of her strong suits.

John braces himself against the cold as the door swings open, gritting his teeth against the blustery wind that rushes through the city street. Cursing to himself again, he quickly secures the bag to his horse’s rump, taking a moment to dig in his satchel for a peppermint candy that he feeds the Walker before unhitching him and climbing up.

It’s a cold, long ride back to Beecher’s Hope, and night has truly fallen by the time John can see the glow of lights from the main house. He leads the horse to the barn, opening the two large doors and bringing the Walker to one of the stalls where he had shoveled fresh hay into. John brings his hand down the horse’s mane affectionately as he unties the bag of items and pulls the saddle from the horse’s back. Once the Walker is settled, John shoulders the bag and heads back outside, walking quickly up to the house, pushing inside the door seeking warmth.

“Pa’s back!” John hears his son shout from down the hall as he closes the door behind him. He shrugs some of the snow off his shoulder before kicking his boots off on the threshold.

“Go on and help him then!” Abigail shouts from the kitchen.

“Sir -” Jack bounds into view and holds his arms out and John hands him the sack of goods, “Mind the bottle in there.” The boy nods and carries the sack carefully toward the kitchen.

John finishes kicking his boots off and shrugs his wet coat off as well, hanging it on a peg near the door. He treads forward, further into the house, where the main room is brightly lit with sconces, candles, and oil lanterns to fend off the darkness of the night. Abigail has hung pine boughs on the mantle, cut from the trees on the furthest north reach of the ranch, right as it borders Tall Trees. The scent of pine wafts through the house, and John has to stop and survey the room, so filled with life, even in the darkness of the season.

Abigail flutters around the house like a madwoman, taking the bag from Jack and immediately running back into the kitchen. She orders the men of the house around as if she is in the army - wash up, change your shirt, Uncle, I swear to god if you drank John’s good whiskey you will sleep in the barn tonight -

By the time that he, Jack, and Uncle return in some state of cleanliness, Abigail has warmed up the food and placed it out on serving plates on the table. John cannot help but to stare at the bounty of it all - he was so far removed from the starving kid stealing bread at Jack’s age. Even far removed from eating Pearson’s stew around a campfire.

“Sir?” Jack waits patiently, his hands on the chair in front of him.

“Go on now, sit down and let’s eat.” John waves his hand at the table as he pulls out his own chair, and the clank and clatter of forks and knives on plates as food is served fills the room.

“And look at this - the Christmas spirit has even gotten to a sour ol’ bastard like John Marston o’er here.” Uncle guffaws between swigs of whiskey straight from the bottle, obviously having had quite a few sips before dinner even started.

“Old man, I swear-” John points his fork menacingly at Uncle.

“It’s Christmas, John. Have a heart and don’t abuse the elderly, for once.” Uncle retorts, to which John rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to threaten the old man, as per usual.

Abigail glares from across the table and John swallows his insult, breathing out his nose as he spears a piece of candied yam.

Soft conversation continues through dinner, the teasing and retorts that usually take up the table are blessedly absent - for once. John glances up from his empty plate across the table to his wife, and the smile that she gives him makes the hardened gunslinger blush - blush - of all things.

She mouths a “thank you” as Uncle drones on about how his stories are better in every way than Jack’s books - his son interjecting about how Uncle is no literary luminary. Laughter floats through the house - flashes of the quiet, empty room when he had just built the house dance behind John’s eyes - he is so thankful those days are behind him.

The dessert is served and eaten, conversation remains light and cheerful. For tonight, at least, work at Beecher’s Hope is forgotten - the crush of debts or ‘success’ at ranching.

“Alright now, Jack - go on and wash up and head to sleep. It's past your bedtime.” Abigail points one finger at her son as she finishes her glass of mulled wine and John can swear he sees a blush in her cheeks that he had not seen in years. After Jack grumbles for a moment and bids everyone good night, Abigail clears the table and with a yawn, retires, walking behind John and kissing him on his brow on her way back to their bedroom.

John has a few more glasses of whiskey with Uncle before they retire, recalling glory days gone by. Uncle’s storytelling gets more and more ridiculous with each drink - One-Shot Kid my ass. Mumbling something about how his lumbago ails him, Uncle schleps over to the couch. For once, John does not scold him about getting up to his place in the attic. Perhaps it was this ‘Christmas spirit’ that Abigail had gone on about. Standing up from the table, John rights the mostly empty bottle of whiskey as he looks up at the clock on the wall, another contraption Abigail insisted on furnishing this house. It’s past midnight - technically Christmas at this point. He sighs, slowly strolling down the hall to his son’s room.

He checks on Jack, pushing his door open ever so slightly. The boy has fallen asleep with his oil lantern next to his desk still on, a book open across his chest. John frowns, stepping fully into the room and making his way over to the bed as quietly as he can. He gently, carefully extracts the book from Jack’s grasp, placing it down on the bedside table; open to the page that his son had been reading.

John lingers, his finger on the switch to the lamp. The orange glow of light casts shadows through the room, and for a second, he swears the boy in the bed is a ragtag child, dirty and angry, saved from the gallows by wayward outlaws.

He shakes his head at the vision as he turns off the lantern, plunging the room into darkness. As his eyes adjust, he quietly makes his way back to the hall, pausing once again to look upon his son, silently swearing to himself that Jack will never have to live as he did at this age.

He yawns, rolling his shoulder as he walks back into the dining room, past the leftovers of the veritable feast they had for the Christmas meal, not bothering to clear it up until morning. Idly scratching his bicep, he winces slightly at the pull in the muscle - even after all these years, there are dull aches from the bullet wound he obtained in Roanoke. Brushing off the pain, he continues down the hallway, to his and Abigail’s bedroom. He quietly opens the door, expecting his wife to be fast asleep this late in the night.

He’s surprised when she isn’t, the fireplace blazing and sconces lighting the room.

Abigail lounges upon the bed like some expensive lady of the night, her long chemise lacy and near translucent in the night. Jesus, she’s as beautiful as she was at eighteen when he couldn’t have enough of her.

“Thank you, John.” She whispers softly. He almost can’t hear her, so enraptured by the sight of her with her long hair unbound, laying out on that bed.

Abigail nicks her head upward with that sly grin that stole his heart. John raises his eyebrows in questioning as he follows her motioning - finding a bright green sprig of leaves hung over the bed frame, tied with a red length of yarn.

“C’mon over here, gunslinger.”

#rdrsecretwinterexchange #abigail marston #jack marston #marston family #john marston #johnigail #red dead redemption fanfiction #rdr fanfiction #twolafic

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twola · 10 days ago

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Just a simple glimpse into the masterclass that is @redwritr ‘s work!

*feverishly takes notes*

How does one write intimacy and smut between characters because whenever I try it feels superficial

Oh gosh, ah geez. I feel like I face this question with every new scene. Thanks for making me think about it more closely ❤️[paces in a worn-in circle for days, by which point you've already finished your scene perfectly]

The very-TL;DR is: I don’t know. But I DO know that I recently watched a vid of an artist sketching an eye, and for 85% of the video it was like “yep, okay, that's an eye” and it was nothing super special until the end when they put a couple of white strokes on the iris and a couple shadows under the lashes, and it went from a good drawing to me grabbing the couch pillow like “HOLY SHIT THAT'S A REAL GODDAMN EYEBALL AND IT SEES ME"

Disclaimer: I don’t want to make assumptions about what might or might not be the source of what you feel is superficial in your scenes, especially since I haven’t read them. And we naturally have different voices and styles, more detailed or less detailed, etc. But for me, when my scenes feel flat, it’s almost always because I need to get closer to the action, which means finding details that show something deeper, so that’s what I’m babbling about below the break, and I hope there’s something useful

Writing intimacy: Since intimacy usually (?) involves close proximity, one suggestion might be to literally zoom in - focusing on a few sensory details that you’d only notice close-up can subtly lend a feeling of being closer in the scene and reflect the mood of their desire in the moment without stating it outright. The heat (or coolness) of breath (and body) suggests a certain distance between two people. Noticing eyelashes on cheeks (hm, unspoken symbol of wishes😏). Being close enough to see someone’s pulse in their neck, or smell smoke in their hair, or see the threadbareness/tidiness of their clothing and equipment. The roughness of whiskers on lips. Being close enough to notice someone’s imperfections and for them to notice yours. And then using that for emotional impact. Um, more on that below

Also using details related to their phase of relationship can help. If everything is new, intimacy feels kind of risky, and they’re noticing things differently than if they’re very familiar with one another. If they’re new to each other, they’re taking it all in, reading every detail for clues to their lover and their lover's depth of affection, like a cure for uncertainty. Shaking a little, even. If they’re familiar, intimacy takes on a form of knowing their partner thoroughly, and they notice when something is out of place, or something is new, and have ideas and feels about what that means. They know what their partner needs when they feel or look or act a certain way

Breaking through a feeling of superficiality: So coming back to using details to give emotional impact…kiiiiind of my fav thing to work on. First, to ramble even more, it feels like an effective action scene should be the natural result of what led up to it. And love scenes are action scenes. So if the love scene itself feels stilted or superficial in some way, find a couple of details you can use to root it in the setting/story and the characters’ relationship phase to help give it that third dimension. (And prioritize the details that highlight a mood or emotion you're going for.) Everything from their moods to the scenery (a rumpled bed says something, as does a perfectly-made bed) to the newness of their relationship can be fodder for details that help it feel rooted and 3D. If it’s a one-shot PWithoutP, you can still briefly give it a sense of place and logic to suggest how they came to be in this tangled situation, or if nothing else, to set off the scene like the right frame on a picture. If it’s set within a story, how is this scene the logical culmination of what has just happened to get here?

To try to give examples, I started thinking abt 2 hypothetical scenes. Again, maybe this is all totally obvious - I’m just throwing my brain spaghetti at the wall in case anything sticks (other peoples' moms did this too, right?), and it’s fun to think about:

F!OC or Reader + HH Arthur, their first time, no exterior drama, just the right, simple conditions, canon Chapter 2

F!OC or Reader + HH Arthur, not their first time, occurring right after some drama or violence, unideal conditions, canon Chapter 4

So for hypothetical #1 details, let’s say she hasn’t been in his (assume closed) tent before, at night, so everything is new: what’s that picture, what’s that flower; who is this guy? Maybe he stumbles over his words, or tries to make her comfortable - he seems shy, maybe even inexperienced, but willing, in the formal way he invites her to sit, or offers her water - no, he rethinks it - whiskey. Seems like they both need a sip right now. He hastily turns over a picture of someone on its face before she can see it. He lights a lantern (or turns it off). When they touch, is it awkward at first, or is it somehow the most natural thing in the world - damn propriety - and what details show confidence or hesitation? In the dark, what are her senses picking up? He probably tastes like the whiskey they just shared. Did he trim his beard that day, did he bathe (for that matter, did she, and does there come a point where that’s less important than the matter at hand)? Does he move willingly, or is he motionless for a while, implying maybe his head is going haywire before he gives in? How does he take off his gun belt - distractedly? Fumbling, like it’s in the damn way? Does she take over? Is one of them more confident than the other? BTW, what’s the choreography? Who’s in control?* What things in the dark tent, over the course of this scene, might pick up the little bit of light there is by being metallic or, um, wet? Voila, literal eyeball-shine. At a key moment or in the end, what details show the intensity of what's happening or what has happened and how they are maybe a little changed? Voices, bodies stretching, a relieved smile, hands unconsciously entwined, breathing synced, falling asleep, even just being under the same blanket

*sidebar: a few times, when a scene wasn't working somehow, i've switched who was in charge of matters, and suddenly things seemed to flow more naturally, and in hindsight, it was more logical as to character development and events leading up

Hypothetical #2 - they’re at Shady Belle. Evening. There are people outside doing their thing. Maybe these two prefer not to be discovered. Have they wanted to find this time alone for a while? He comes back exhausted - sweating, possibly bloody, seems a little traumatized, can’t really find the words but needs solace, which she suspects because he can't really speak enough to greet her the way he usually does, or stands there mute, not even taking off his coat or hat. He's so tired, he stumbles over his boots. Kneels on the floor by the bed - his posture supplicant and needing relief; he seeks her touch. She washes some blood off his face with a rag. He nuzzles his face in her hand, breathes harder as if he might almost cry except she kisses his cheek, the side of his mouth, and things steer in a more passionate direction. The bed springs squeak. There’s singing outside, so we and they feel reassured that no one can hear. OR, they can hear someone far away outside drop something metallic, so we and they feel instantly cautious; oh noooo, they have to be super quiet.** The bed is rumpled (or maybe she straightened it, and the room is tidier than when he left it - not to just fall into gender roles, but…okay); together, they don’t fit neatly in a single bed, and nothing about their situation is ideal but they always make do; we know because they aren’t bothered (alternatively, they're sick of it, and maybe he takes care of it, damn mattress, throwing it to the floor for more elbow room). The windows are steaming from the humidity, which happens to give a feeling of brief and merciful privacy. The air has a pinkish quality (to me, a color that suggests healing, and love), and smells like oleander that she picked (an item for her lover, something sweet and fresh). Details that all hint that there is something (mainly she) in that room that will make him feel better during a difficult time, and that’s exactly what’s about to happen

**second sidebar: oh god [gets hit by lightning] underlying all of this is tension of some kind, more or less. which to me is essential smut fuel. put a tension-causing detail wherever you want to tensionize™ something and kick it up a notch, and then release when ready (or don’t - you devil, you😈)

And finally - if you’re worried your scene feels superficial, try not to be hard on yourself. Sleep on it, let your brain chew on it in the background, and come back the next day and keep going, or share it with a beta reader, and eventually I really believe you will find the details that bring it to life the way you want it. Often (or for me, every fkn time😒), the right details don’t make themselves obvious until the end when it’s all coming together, so if you’re still feeling like it’s superficial, say this, which I’m trying to convince myself of constantly through clenched teeth: It’s not bad, it’s just not finished yet ❤️

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