addicted to this for my wip. weird little modalish piece, but use seconds and a hammer and you have my heart

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@wipidek
addicted to this for my wip. weird little modalish piece, but use seconds and a hammer and you have my heart
this is simultaneously the shittiest and most painstaking map but i'm in it a few hours now that i could have spent writing so we're going for it, smudges and all
[to be completed when i stop gagging at how tedious it is to place every letter, and they still look like a ransom note, holding my fic hostage]
anon, that meant a lot, and i'm sorry for my mini crashout. just got frustrated with myself i guess. thank you for your lovely note - i'm keeping it for rainy days ❤️
just when I think I'm done, having a big old crisis of confidence that I even remember how to do this, and maybe i should've gone the short sweet route and maybe i fucked up the ending and maybe it's time to stop 🎉
taking myself out for a stern pep talk by an imaginary tough cop with a heart of gold played by Benicio del Toro, who always knows what to say
he says to get some damn sleep for once and doesn't technically roll his eyes
Randeaux from Afterlife Chapter 4
There was a true solar eclipse on May 28, 1900! Which I didn’t know about until I was thinking about finding gold in the stream, considering one neat property of raw gold is its luster even in shadow, and so I thought hey, what would create a shadow. Clouds? Meh. Anything standing on the earth under the sun? Meh. The moon? Hey, it would really be a wild coincidence if an eclipse really... And I took the rest of the day off. By local accounts, it was an unimpressive event; the path of totality was from Texas to Virginia, so this part of the world didn’t experience that incredibly eerie and special event, as noted in the rather disappointed-sounding article from that date
Gold - The last couple of years out west, I’ve panned for gold in controlled touristy locations and nat'l parks just to see what it really looks like among the grains of sand in the sunlight. Seemed like legit sensory research idk. And to see what the landscape and rock forms and trees in those places are like. I'm now the proud owner of a suspiciously exact 10 dollars of gold flake and a lot of free garnet and a very narrow understanding of geology. Also my list of youtube subs to modern day placer miners and gold snipers (people who snorkel in streams to find gold like if AI takes my job i'm not NOT considering buying snorkeling gear) is long. for sure some of these guys are planting gold for clicks, but some of this is legit gatdamn placer mining where they find big old chunks of lumpy gold in their sluices and get seriously excited. The fist-pumping bowlegged prospector dance is real
Cochinay. How much do I say here? Probably just that.
Who's got some epilogue love here? Been playing a lot of it lately, and I forgot how weirdly, endearingly rambly it gets. I didn't play it the first time, just turned around and immediately restarted the game. Second time, I was fully enchanted (?) by the echoes of grief, and life going on. You build fences. You build a house and get emotional about the bluebird. You milk cows. You scoop manure. You pull Arthur's guns out from under the bed and put on his hat and blow up some Laramies to the fucking triumphant brassy (re)birth of John Marston's music theme. You ride to Valentine to Willie Nelson. You can have chickens and do a high number of chicken-specific chores. It’s fucking silly, and a place where you realize the developers’ love for the game and reinforce your own. There's just one big thing always missing. To fix that bit, Redbird style, means yeah I’m just tunneling a bit more plot through, no need to pay attention, nothing to see here...but it might get smutty pretty soon, you've been warned
❤️ much love, more in a few days
ari
p.s. lil snippet from the beginning of chapter 5:
In the low-burning heat of his fever, lying there for hours too sore to move, sleep comes on him unawares, and after some unknown time in a strange light he finds himself nodding awake where he sits against the base of an old tree on the riverbank.
Her bare feet stand by his right thigh, toes curling, flexing with a crunch of sand. He wraps his fingers around the back of her ankle, and her legs are bare, and she is bare, her braid undone over her shoulder. She tilts her head when he looks up.
You’re here?
I’m here. She steps over his legs and slowly sinks to her knees, and he brings down his bent leg as she lowers and sits on his thighs. Her soft thatch exposed in the space between.
I’ve been waiting, she says. Her hands slide up his hips.
What for? He watches as she unbuckles his gun belts. Somehow he’s geared in every piece of equipment he owns, like he was expecting a goddamn showdown in the middle of Gettysburg. Double-slung. She pushes the tongue out of the second buckle and it falls off his hips like arms flung wide in death. His bandolier too; she lifts all eight pounds of it off his chest; he sits up as she hoops it over his head, his arm, and lays it aside. A shotgun he didn’t know he’d slung on his shoulder. She pulls brass knuckles from his shirt pocket although he’s never owned any. From his boot she pulls a knife he’s never kept there. She reaches around his waist, leaning so close he can smell honeysuckle in her hair and her breasts lightly flatten on his chest, and she pulls another unfamiliar revolver from the waistband of his trousers and sets it down against one of the roots that sprawl around him.
I been here the whole time.
Not all of you.
You’re one to talk.
She glances up through her lashes as she begins to work open the buttons of his shirt. So goddamn pretty he has to touch her cheek, sweep her freckled cheekbone with his thumb. She kisses his wrist but leans away, upright on his thighs, pushing the last button free at his waist.
What will I find when I unwrap you?
What I always been.
A raised eyebrow disagrees. She parts his shirt and presses her hands to his stomach. Pushes up and grips his chest muscles and he hardens for her everywhere. She feels him between her thighs and rolls her hips forward to ply herself on his shaft growing stiff along the inner seam of his trousers. He wants matters to unfold the way they used to, but she won’t let him hold her.
There’s more inside you. She says it with a deep and knowing stare.
Hi! I'm such a big fan of your works! I was wondering, when you wrote "Sweetbriar," were you inspired by the movie "A Star Is Born"?
Hi sweet anon! Um, it has to be wrong to feel this happy to see a question about my fic
A Star Is Born wasn’t the inspiration for SB🥲although, having just recently rewatched it, it makes sense why it comes to mind - tbh I cringed pretty hard when I realized that Bradley Cooper’s character also had substance abuse issues, and seeing her dad’s whole dining room of sweet old dudes. I always try to take a new path, though I'm also chuffed you thought of it. (And love the soundtrack.)
But SB is just personal with escapist levels of embellishment because there's something about an Arthur showing up when you need it. Plus, bands are just gangs that pay taxes (highly migratory, love a good campfire, every one has at least one diva, and sometimes they slay), and booze + pills are to musicians as TB is to handsome outlaws (dw i don’t plan on Arthur ending up either like in the game or ASIB).
While we’re on the subject: I’m realizing it's been since [checks watch] MAY? when I updated SB. Vowing to get the next bit posted soon as I can, especially knowing someone's reading (posting a chapter for a different fic soon, but Ch8 (&9) are maybe half done, and those two dorks haven't made it out of bed yet 😏)
May 20
We have ended up in this valley, on a ranch of no mean size, at the invitation of a man who appears to have some influence in the town. Shoots his mouth off a good deal, so he needs a man on lookout, I guess. But we have shelter and security, for now. While John runs off and I lose ground.
Time hangs over my head.
May 26
At the river today. Ten Crow is fishing upstream. The water is lower, and the river stones shine just under the ripple, quartz and agate you can almost see through.
Ain’t sure I can wait here much longer.
Hey! Are you still writing rdr2 fics? Love your work!
Heya! That's very kind of you, and I am :) More writing than posting, I guess; been a weird fall, but I've got a few things I could polish up. So maybe it's time to get back in the saddle💕
i met a writer once who lived across the street from her husband
thinking about her a lot lately
wip update - i've been super busy - and gutted by what's happening, well, everywhere - and haven't had much time to be around tumblr lately, seeing so many wonderful things i need to catch up on. for my own accountability, though, just putting up a couple of snippets from Afterlife ch4, plus a few pics from this place where they've landed and posting as soon as I can. love you guys, and hope everyone's alright💕
He hardly has a chance to get a better look at the length of the bar and the couple of men leaning there before a dark-haired blue-eyed sylph in her underthings perches one hip on the table and smiles generously down at him.
“A new one. My lucky day.”
Glancing up, as if she's stealing a moment for herself, she hikes a leg over his thighs before he has a chance to decline, and he stifles a closed cough.
“You from California?” She weighs almost nothing in his lap. Her weightless fingers swirl and play with the hair at the nape of his neck.
He checks the second story railing, the empty daytime shadows in the main room, and when his hands automatically drift toward her waist he drops them at his sides. “No.” He clears his throat.
She massages his shoulders as if she knows all the symptoms of resistance. “Boys from California pay higher. They ask for more too.”
“Do they.”
“They do," she says, wisely, blithely, her face light and sweet and her hips, nothing sweet about them. “Ten dollars and I’ll take you through that door and show you everything else you might want to see. Finer deal than you’d get anywhere east of California.”
She grinds herself against him and he automatically scans the room, the two men minding their business at the bar, but she hooks his face back to her with one finger on his jaw, and he shakes his head. “No, thank you.”
“No?” Before he can try to move her aside, she dips against him again. Like no one here ever stopped digging.
The first few drops of rain fleck his shirt as he climbs the steps to the cabin, toward a jumble of shouts within that weaken immediately when he opens the door to find Jack and Abigail on either end of the table and a bowl still wobbling to a stop on the floor and a tide of stew and biscuits scattered. Up in the loft, quiet sniffling. In front of him, Jack is a seething little bronco, never seen him so upset, and Arthur startles when he kicks the leg of one of the chairs. Abigail stands with a hand on the tabletop, looking pale, fury and shame in her eyes, and before he can say a word, she grits her teeth and stalks out the back door.
Now the cabin is silent, awkward, just him and the two boys in the fading light, and up in the loft there is another sniffle, and down at the table Jack is a sullen powderkeg. They face off a while. It’s strange, squared up with the kid all riled, like meeting himself thirty years ago. Who’d paid for it at the end of a belt more times than he’d ever counted. Carefully, Arthur takes a breath, lets it out, watching this kid burn with feelings he can’t put words to.
As if nothing happened, he starts cleaning up the mess, and sets out three bowls, and calls out to the room in general that food is set out, but won’t force Ten Crow to come down, nor Jack to sit. He gives the boy another biscuit, and sits at the table alone to eat in peace while he nibbles in the corner. Wipes Jack’s small sticky, crumby hands and face with a rag, tucks him into bed, leaving a biscuit on the stand by Ten Crow’s bunk where he lies curled up, facing away. Cleans the table, stokes the little stove and boils water, and plucks a few mint leaves from one of the drying bundles overhead to steep them in a cup.
Out on the back porch, he offers the cup to Abigail with the handle out. She cradles it in her hands rising sproutlike from the bundle of the quilt wrapped around her shoulders, and keeps the steam close to her face, and with an easy groan he sits beside her on the bench as rain sheets off the eaves and the clouds hang low over the mountains.
He sniffs, crosses his boots out in front of him. “Well that’s settled.”
“They okay?”
“Sleepin like cubs.”
“Thank you.”
“How you feelin?”
She blows tiny wrinkles on the surface of the tea and stares ahead.
“Why you askin?”
“Can’t I ask how you’re feelin?”
She raises an eyebrow at him, and takes a deep breath and sighs, and straightens her head as if to take in the view of the valley. “And ruin this nice evenin?”
Rain patters in the mud under the eaves and hushes in the young grasses growing long.
He doesn’t know rightly how to say it, but Nell’s expression comes to mind, flatly patient while he gets the hell over being stuck about asking.
“I noticed – uh –” He coughs into his fist. “Supper put you off, last couple nights. The meat –”
In her eyes, she looks younger, a little frightened, a little indignant, and not allowing herself to glance at him fully, as if she would give herself away. He clears his throat.
“Red couldn’t stand it, the stench. Turned her almost green...I didn’t know at the time. Ain’t sure if you knew, she was, uh –”
“I knew.” She squeezes her lips together so tight they’re white around the edges, scowling when her chin quivers.
“She'd chew on mint, said it helped.”
“It does.”
He stares out at the valley. Thinking out there in the world is a man who deserves strangling for doing this a second time. Or maybe he’s the fool, expecting different.
Through the high tone still fading in his left ear and the muddle of his bitter thoughts, she’s asking “How do you feel?” as a low rumble boils in the air, coming from the expanse of low clouds and invisible mountains beyond, quietly booming all around them, slow to fade, never quite silent, instilled in their bodies in pulses and beats, a quiet and relentless agitation, ripples that never come to splashing; nothing released, only gathered.
He blinks up at the gray misty sky, following the sound across the valley, and smirks a bit. “Oh about like that.”
from the May 28, 1900 Daily Inter-Mountain, Butte, Montana
Alongside other gems:
wait wait hold the fuck on - i saw this after i posted it. and for the record i did not name my town after an actual town, not that it's the most original name in a gold mining region which is partly the point, but STILL👀👀👀👀👀
2022, 2025
2022, hadn't picked up a pencil since high school. 2025, still don't know shit about color, and i'm just poking around in the dark, frustrated more than anything. it's reassuring to see progress, but at the time i always think it looks like him and later wonder what the hell i was thinking, and the notes don't lie. time to take a class!
when i get home on sunday nights and try to write
Telluride, CO; Deadwood, SD ; Virginia City, MT ; Ouray, CO; Bannack, MT
some of the lineage of the town of prospect. I mean they're western mountain/mining towns. just relocate a hotel to the end of the street in that first pic, give it a touch of earthquake/drunk city planner, and you get the idea. though she's got a few secrets of her own
Prospect. The name has all the ring of wishful thinking about it, as they pass the steep hillside outside the entrance to town, littered with crosses and headstones like the stumps of a felled forest. He recalls a plain of stumps outside of Strawberry, and thinking they reminded him of gravestones. Wires sag from telegraph poles like they could hardly bear the last message they received.
Never seen a town more in need of a fire. Laid out like a crumpled wad of paper between the hills, its own road more like a washout creek, a bed of skull-sized rocks and the mud sluiced between them. The false fronts are the only structures with square corners; the rest of it sits cockeyed, as if the town, in being named, had asked its purpose, and in reply the ground under it had risen in a jagged earthen shrug.
love to see what youse are working on <3
-ari
i know i should use layers but i ride dirty
and this is going to be like trying to keep soot off a white dress
ah we're on this page of the project 2025 handbook already? cowboys in turtlenecks coming soon (or not coming at all😒)
(but seriously, the IODA bill and anti-free-speech legislation is on the way and fic writers and readers may want to call their congresspeople)