As if Joanne couldn't get any shittier, she misgendered and insulted a woman who called for support, all because the woman had PCOS/PMOS and "didn't sound feminine enough."
Fuck her.
Your shitty children's series isn't more important than people's lives.
Simon "Ghost" Riley is not the kind of man to get your name tattooed on his skin.
He is the kind of man to get a red line tattooed, though.
"And what's this one?" You point to a circle-shaped serpent eating its own tail. "What does it mean?"
Simon closes his eyes for a moment, relishing on the feeling of having your hands on him. Your fingertips trace the black ink on his bicep, touch soft, touch too soft for him. Too tender. He shivers.
"Ouroboros," he grunts out, voice thick, as though that should clarify everything. The arm he has wrapped around your middle is pushed away as you sit up on the bed and glare down at him. He holds your glare for a moment, not because he’s returning it, but because your eyes are so beautiful and expressive that he bet he could tell what you're feeling just by the looks you give him.
Right now, you’re feeling mildly annoyed; he's confident in that.
His arm snakes around you, lightly pulling you back to lay beside him again, squeezing your waist as an apology. You relent, allowing him to pull you, resting your head just under his chin. "Means cycle," he murmurs against your hair. "Means..." he sighs heavily, not really into this whole pillow talk thing you’re doing, but indulging you still. Anything for you. "Means eternal cycle. Bein' stuck in it. Never breakin' free; eatin' you away."
That's the meaning he'd attributed to it, when he got that tattoo. Corny in hindsight, but true, nonetheless. Accurately reflects his life; born to a druggie father who'd beat him up, and his brother, and his mother. Grew up to be an angry teen and even angrier adult, so full of rage it scared him. Burdened to a shitty life as a butcher, and stubbornly rejecting it and choosing his own destiny by joining the military didn't help much. More suffering there, more violence, more blood. Different, but at its core, the same. Certainly didn’t stop things from crashing down right in front of him; didn’t stop his brother from following his father's footsteps and shooting junk up his veins. Didn’t stop his family from being killed. Over and over and over again; past, present and future, always been like that for him, full of grief and anger and violence, no matter how hard he tried to break free.
Until you. Until he met you.
You went quiet for a while in his arms, a frown on your face, looking pensive. Simon takes it all in while he can; he takes in the weight of your body against his, the smell of your hair, of your skin, of sex. The feeling of your body rising and falling with your breathing against his ribs, of your warmth, of the little hairs on your forearm that stand up as he traces an aimless finger there. Then you shoot up again, disrupting his quiet relaxation once more.
"Well," you start, turning away from him and rummaging inside one of the drawers on the bedside table. He feels your absence like he’s got a collapsed lung and someone has ripped away the oxygen mask from his face. "You're just perpetuating it, then. With that tattoo."
Simon lifts a skeptical brow. "Meanin'?"
"Meaning," you triumphantly hold up for him a red sharpie, "you're doing it wrong. If you want to break free, you gotta kill the snake."
He watches, immobile, as you uncap the pen and draw a single, thick line across the serpent's neck, like you’re effectively cutting its head off. The red ink contrasts nicely with the black, almost making it look real. Final.
"There," you smile amusedly, though behind your eyes Simon can see the seriousness there. The sternness of you, like you have his shoulders pinned with an iron grip, nails digging into his skin so he can’t tear himself away, an angry frown on your face, teeth bared. Like you’re shaking him, shaking the suffering off him, shaking all of the blood off, the death, the rage, the sadness and the violence. Forcefully cleansing him of the guilt that sticks to his skin like tar. "You've been freed."
Simple as that. Like he has no choice but to accept it. Accept your kindness, your understanding, your mercy. Let it make him into a better man; into a better person. Let you help him to forgive himself.
He'd spent almost a week bent awkwardly over the shower so the water wouldn't wash away your red line.
"If you don't got this exact shade of red ink," Simon had warned the tattoo artist, a scrawny bloke shaking from head to toe, "I'm –" gonna make you do it with your own blood, is what Simon was about to say, but stopped himself before the words had built up. Cutting the snake's head off, or whatever. "I'm leavin'."
.☘︎ ݁˖ strangers to lovers headcanons with arthur morgan - mdni! (light smut)
Arthur Morgan, who first truly notices you when he catches you grooming his horse.
Arthur loves his horse more than most people, and he’s fiercely protective of the animal. For weeks, he’d seen you around camp – the quiet girl who didn't make a fuss – but it wasn't until he returned from a short hunting session with Charles to find you meticulously brushing the grime from his horse's coat that he actually saw you.
He stopped in his tracks, leaning against a nearby wagon, watching the way your small hands worked with such tenderness.
You hadn’t only been cleaning his horse. Rather, you were whispering to it, your voice a soft melody that seemed to calm even the most spirited beast. He watched the way you leaned in to kiss the horse's velvet nose, a genuine, sweet smile lighting up your face.
In that moment, the hardness in Arthur’s chest cracked just a little. He felt a strange, sudden pull toward you, a desire to be the recipient of that kind of gentleness.
He didn't say much then – just a gruff “Thank you, Miss” – but as he walked away, he found himself glancing back over his shoulder.
He couldn't stop thinking about the softness of your expression and the way you handled something he loved with such genuine care.
Arthur Morgan, who starts spotting you everywhere you go around camp.
Once he noticed you, it was as if a veil had been lifted. Suddenly, you were the center of his periphery.
Whether he was cleaning his rifle by the fire or chatting with Hosea, his eyes would instinctively drift toward you. He’d watch you helping Pearson with the stew, the way you laughed at something Mary-Beth said, or the way you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear while reading a book by the lantern light.
He began to find excuses to be near you. He’d linger by the horse picket longer than necessary, or he’d “happen” to be walking toward the coffee pot just as you were arriving.
Arthur loved the quietness of your presence: you didn't demand anything from him, and you didn't judge the blood on his knuckles or the weariness in his eyes.
You just smiled at him – a small, shy thing that made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He started noticing the little things: the scent of wild herbs that clung to your skin, the way your voice hitched when you were nervous, and the way you looked at him with a curiosity that felt like a warm blanket.
Truth be told, he was terrified of these feelings, but he was even more terrified of the thought of you disappearing from his sight.
Arthur Morgan, who begins bringing you wildflowers from the fields during his rides.
Arthur isn't a man for poetry or fancy gestures, but he found himself captivated by the colors of the wilderness.
On his scouting trips, while the world was quiet and the wind was whistling through the pines, he’d spot a patch of bright yellow primrose or a cluster of deep blue cornflowers. He’d stop his horse, look at the blooms, and immediately think of you.
He’d awkwardly pluck a handful, stuffing them into his satchel, feeling like a fool for doing so.
“What am I doing..?” He’d mutter to himself, shaking his head.
But the moment he rode back into camp and saw you, the embarrassment vanished, replaced by a desperate need to see you smile.
He wouldn't make a grand production of it. He’d walk up to you while you were working, clear his throat loudly, and thrust the slightly wilted bunch of flowers toward you without looking you in the eye.
“Saw these. Thought... thought you might like 'em.” He’d grumble, his cheeks flushing a deep red.
“Why thank you, Arthur. They’re… well, they’re gorgeous.” You’d reply, face heating up as you grinned up at him.
But when you took them, your fingers brushing his rough skin, and thanked him with that beaming smile, Arthur felt a rush of warmth that no amount of whiskey could ever provide.
Arthur Morgan, who lets his guard down during a drunken slow dance at a camp celebration.
The camp was in high spirits, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat and the sound of a fiddle playing a lively tune.
Arthur had been drinking – more than usual – and the whiskey had softened the edges of his anxiety. When the music shifted to something slower, more melodic, he found himself standing near you.
The courage of the bottle pushed him forward.
He reached out a large, calloused hand, his voice low and slightly slurred.
“Dance with me... please?”
You didn't hesitate, sliding your hand into his.
Arthur was a mountain of a man, and he felt clumsy as he pulled you close, his boots stepping slightly out of time. He wasn't a dancer – he was a fighter and a killer. But as he felt your body press against his, the world around them blurred.
He loosened up, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction as he rested his chin on the top of your head.
Closing his eyes, he let himself breathe in the scent of your hair, swaying slowly to the music. For a few minutes, he wasn't an outlaw on the run; he was just a man holding the woman he loved.
“Yer real pretty…” He whispered incoherently yet sweetly into your ear, a confession born of alcohol and longing, and for the first time in years, Arthur felt truly at peace.
Arthur Morgan, who finally kisses you after you help him back to his cot.
The party had wound down, and the whiskey had finally caught up with him. Arthur was stumbling, his head spinning, and you were the one who caught him, looping his heavy arm over your shoulder to guide him back to his small, secluded corner of the camp.
He was leaning heavily on you, his breath warm and smelling of rye, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin tingle.
As you helped him lower himself onto the cot, you lingered for a moment, your hand resting on his chest to steady him. You started to pull away, but Arthur’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist with a surprising firmness.
He pulled you down, and before you could gasp, his lips were on yours.
It wasn't a polished kiss; it was desperate, hungry, and filled with all the words he had been too scared to say. He tasted of alcohol and longing, his beard scratching your skin, but the heat of it was intoxicating.
While he groaned into your mouth, his hand moved from your wrist to the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into him. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were clouded with emotion, his forehead resting against yours.
“I've wanted to do that... for so damn long.” He whispered, his voice cracking.
Meanwhile, you had hidden your face in the crook of his neck, too speechless to reply.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who is a mess of shyness and awkwardness the morning after.
The sunlight filtering through the canvas of the tent felt far too bright the next morning.
When you woke up and looked over at Arthur, he was already awake, staring at the ceiling with a look of sheer panic on his face. The bravado of the whiskey was gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable uncertainty.
Whenever you tried to speak, he shifted away slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Mornin’...” He muttered, his voice gravelly.
He couldn't quite look you in the eye, his ears turning a bright shade of crimson. He was terrified that he had overstepped, that you would regret the kiss, or that he was simply too ruined of a man to be what you deserved.
But as the day progressed, the awkwardness turned into a tender, tentative courtship. He started holding your hand in secret, his large thumb stroking your knuckles while you walked. He’d leave little notes or pieces of candy on your bedroll.
He was still the rugged outlaw, but with you, he was a boy in love, constantly checking to make sure you were happy, his eyes following you with a devotion that was almost painful to witness.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who treats your first time together with a reverence that borders on sacred.
The transition from kissing to something more happened on a quiet, moonlit night, far from the prying eyes of the camp. He had led you to a secluded spot by a stream, the grass soft beneath you.
Arthur was trembling – not from cold, but from a sheer, overwhelming nervousness. He had spent his life taking things by force or fighting for survival; the idea of being gentle, of truly cherishing someone, was terrifying.
As he stripped away your clothes, his hands were shaking. He kept pausing, looking into your eyes for permission, his voice a low, unsteady rumble.
“You sure? I– I don't want to hurt you. I'm not– I ain’t a gentle man, darlin’.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure in my life, Arthur.”
You’d assured him that you wanted him, and the look of relief and desire that crossed his face was heartbreakingly sweet.
When he finally entered you, he did so with agonizing slowness. He stopped the moment he felt any resistance, his muscles locking up, his breath hitching in his throat.
He stayed still, his forehead pressed against yours, waiting for you to adjust, whispering praises into your skin.
“Yer so tight… fuck, sweetheart.” He hissed, his voice thick with emotion.
He didn't rush. He focused entirely on your pleasure, his movements patient and rhythmic. Every time you gasped or arched your back, he would slow down, kissing every inch of your face, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.
“M– Mmh! Arthur… feels s’good..!” You’d mewled into his ear, and he responded by capturing your lips in a kiss.
Arthur was so focused on your comfort that he almost forgot his own needs, his heart hammering against your chest.
And when he finally came inside with a groan against your ear, he'd let go. He collapsed against you, sobbing quietly into your neck, finally feeling like he belonged to someone.
Boyfriend!Arthur, who becomes incredibly protective and affectionate in the aftermath.
After that night, Arthur changed. The softness he had shown you became a permanent part of his demeanor when you were alone. He became your shadow, always ensuring you were fed, warm, and safe.
If another man looked at you for a second too long, Arthur didn't need to say a word; one dark, warning glare from beneath the brim of his hat was enough to send them scurrying.
But with you, he was a different man.
He loved to wake you up with soft kisses on your shoulder, his large body curling around yours like a protective shield. He started talking to you about his past: the things he regretted, the dreams he had given up on.
He trusted you with the parts of himself he had hidden from Dutch and the gang; the parts that were fragile and frightened.
He’d spend hours just watching you, his hand resting on the small of your back, a look of pure, unadulterated adoration on his face.
He still brought you flowers, but now he’d tuck them into your hair, his fingers lingering against your skin.
He had found something in you that he thought was lost to the world: a reason to believe that he was more than just a gun for hire.
The cops very clearly planted evidence on him because they had to make an arrest because all eyes were on them and whoever actually did the deed was making them look stupid.
Why would the real killer hero have kept the weapon on his person and traveled two states over while carrying it and a manifesto in his bag, conveniently turning the crime into a federal matter? The same guy whose bag they found in a park, filled with monopoly money? Why did the police turn off their bodycams, take Luigi's stuff, drive a block away, turn their bodycams back on, go back into the restaurant, and then arrest him?
From the moment of his arrest, even left-of-center media has been presuming his guilt without examining anything (e.g. calling him "the killer" instead of "alleged" or "accused") and then when I say he didn't do it, the nearest person chimes in with some quip that tells me they think he did do it but should go free anyway. Don't get me wrong, I would have the same attitude if he had done it. But he didn't. It makes me feel like the only sane person in the world, even among my staunchly leftist friends.
arthur morgan is not a good man. he knows this, always has. the life he leads is not a good one : an outlaw at best, scum of the earth at worst. a criminal with no means of redemption, the blood on his hands too becoming of everything he knows and everything he is. even saints cannot save him now ( and you both know this ). but you-- you are good, you are everything meant for radiance. you, who is brighter than the sun itself, always find the good in everything, even him.
he doesn't get it. tries not to overthink it, really. easier for both of you that way -- better for him to not spiral in that rabbit hole of self deprecation and doubt, and easier for you -- better that he doesn't push you away, try to get you away from a life you should not live.
"i love you, you know." you whisper one night, your hand on his cheek, lips soft against his, like something meant to be holy. "love you so much, arthur morgan."
he doesn't get it, but he kisses you all the same like it's the only thing that might save him ( as if he was meant for saving, anyway ).
"you sure about that?" he tells you, and the slight teasing in his voice is not enough to mask the doubt that creeps into his being, invades his every thought and second of existence in a brave new world. "better men to love out there, sweetheart."
you hum, gentle, never dissuaded. you and your goddamn heart of steel, so stubborn and soft all at once.
"you always say such nonsense." you kiss him again. once, twice, three times, just in case he forgets tonight. "i only want you, you fool. i love you, always. it'll always be you, you know."
he sighs into your kiss, and you feel the way he smiles against you, like a silent surrender.
( he knows. of course he does. he kisses you back. once, twice, three times. just in case you forget tonight. )
you don’t know why you thought simon would be a cocky fuck.
maybe it was how cool and collected he always was. that hot, quiet confidence.
if only you knew when you’d finally got him into bed. ready for him to be rough, to be a little mean, not that you’d mind.
in reality, he was whining into your neck as he pumped into you at a primal speed. whispering and mumbling half words into your throat as he groped you anywhere he could. his eyes were rolled and he was drooling on your collarbone.
“o-oh.. oh, fuck- nghhhuhh… yyeah?.. awww… my baby.. gonna fill y-you… mhm…”
sweet little brain-numb nothings falling of the tongue of the smartest, coldest man you know.
and you could’ve cum just from the sight when he lifted his head and started actually panting and pathetically stuttering his hips against yours like a mutt.
quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
Today I lost my rooster, Grommet and one of my hens, Pepper. I'm so devastated, and honestly I don't know what to do. Pepper was my baby, my oldest hen. I'd had her for 6 years. Grommet was her baby, he was 4. I loved them both so much. I know I never really talked about them much, but I loved them like any other pet. They were family, as odd as that sounds. I'll honour them tonight, since I didn't get the chance to bury them. They'll live on forever in my heart.
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