Rdr2 Community - Blog Posts

: I love Charles so much! He's my fav character, I'm his fan!

And then the only thing how they show love for this character is being extremely horny about him all the time as if he's the sex-machine without feeling, and/or shipping him with Arthur as if he's the love of his whole life, and they're an actual canon.

People like that stop liking my posts already, you are the second point of my dni-list (the first point are basic dni; these who ship incest and pedo; and that type of male part of community)

Why do he looks like a scared puppy?🥀💔 Just look at him, at these eyes 💔💔

He yelled at me😭

Hear me out, русскоязычное комьюнити рдр. Я не могу перестать думать, уже на протяжении долгого, и ОЧЕНЬ долгого времени, про персонажей и песни. А именно про парочки. Я просто не могу нормально слушать «Ебанько — Лёшка лох» без того чтобы не думать об Мэри-Бэт и Киране. ЭТО ТУПО ПОДХОДИТ ИМ, НУ СОГЛАСИТЕСЬ???

Я также обязана написать с ними зарисовку по данной песне. Когда найду время. Если я его вообще найду.👀

Found that in my gallery and wanted to share it in Tumblr. I don't have anything to say, just amused a bit that despite how bad relationship the owners can have, their horses could be just two cuties (and I'm thinking about the Charles and Micah's reaction, if their horses would actually mate.. strange thought, I know, but that doesn't make it less interesting)

I have an urge to share with my thoughts about own fic with rdr OCs after I was crying and crashing my heart while listening to this song four days straight. Now I don't and just can't think about anything else than this angelic song and the animation I imagine in my head. But the problem is that it'll be spoiler (if anyone even read it), and I only released first chapter last month (after I was working on it from summer).

So the only one with who I can share it, is my friend with who I'm sharing and telling everything, but she don't have the opportunity to play rdr, and only know about the game from my yapping 💔💔

My favourite thing about shippers in rdr community is their 'super smart argument': "ac-actua-ally Ar-Arthu-ur an-and Ch-Charl-le-les we-were m-meant to be ca-canon, b-b-but authors cu-cut it☝️☝️🥺".

That's always so funny to me when they use it in some discussion about the ship, as if that's a really working and confirmed argument, and not some a made-up excuse just to defend this ship. I just can't get it, they're really refuse to understand this, or they're just so 'smart' to not understand that's fake?

While we're living in 2025, these guys are surviving with their IQ of a empty cigarette pack🥀🥀

: Ewww, shipping Arthur with Sadie is gross!!!

Said the person, who then goes ship Arthur with Charles, and Sadie with Abigail, as if they're not doing the same shitty thing👀

When will people understand that shipping Arthur with Sadie, and shipping Arthur with Charles is almost(!) the same thing? Both are overrated trash, if you'd ask me. But the fans of these are the exact same idiots, I mean real the same, because they keep insulting eachother, denying that they're both are the same problematics.

(Эти фанатики одного поля ягоды, которые тупо скидывают клеймо проблематиков фандома на друг друга, хотя обе стороны являются таковыми, так что тут даже ничего перекидывать ни на кого не нужно, оба долбики)

THAT male part of rdr community always will be one of the reasons why I'll laugh so hard until I'd have no air in my lungs and just die from amusement. Because, what do you mean you're homophobic, but your favourite characters are Dutch or/and Micah? (The fact that homophobes exists, not in fandoms but in particular, is already something amusing and stupid). What do you mean you're playing/played campfire girls mode? What do you mean that John and Arthur are the best fictional characters ever, and both are sigma males that disrespect women? What do you mean that rdr is the best game ever in the world? (cause ppl have their own opinions and preferences about games, you know) What do you mean that girls from the game are 'sexy whores', and not well-written, strong women that are trying to survive in this world? What do you mean that ONLY girls ruined the fandom? (there's some people that are really doing some things that ruin fandom, but there's males and females, so don't give such association to people only because of their gender🙏).

And ppl who are/defending (supporting) this type of fans — get out of here

(«вон отсюда чтоб я вас не видел блять, черти ебливые блять, паскудники ебанные блять»; кыш💨💨🌬️🫸Кыш🌬️💨🫸🫸отойдите🫸🫸🫸кыш🌬️🌬️кыш🌬️🌬️)

Not tryning to be rude, but why not just make your own post talking about how charthur is 'disgusting', instead of commenting on a post that is clearly not for you? It's unnecessary imo

Good question. I type this into the comments with this shit because otherwise ppl just wouldn't notice my post. And also can't I can't find time to wrote all this, amd especially in language I don't know so well.

But if you insist so much, then I could made a whole post about all the things you and other fans of this shitty ship do and support, but keep denying that y'all are😘

Карен выглядит как cunty queen которая знает что она самая пиздатая

русреал ау рдр 2 часть 3: giirls

+ бонус

My dear bro, my girlie, your art are wonderful as always

modern russian au Charles my beloved 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

You're welcome, girl ❤️‍🩹 your arts are awesome, as always

my bro @vkoyxgs gave me this idea. thank u <3

+ bonus

Hosea sleeping in the dirt should be a crime

saw this photo on twitter and it still makes me SICK. ugly squinting bug

"psspsspsspss here kitty kitty psspspsspspsspss"

i say to the sweaty pathetic middle aged man

Colm drawing from a while ago :]

may I please have zombie sean? pretty please?🥺

For sure :]

I don't think he's feeling too happy about decomposing :/

Javier Durden & John the Narrator

John's lil boy

javier escuella hcs! ^-^

just some silly (some modern) hcs. sfw!/fluff!!! // sry i havent been posting!! :c

javier loves loves sweet things, every time you see him, he’s munching on a chocolate bar and he loves red velvet

if javier had kids with you he would NOT throw any baby stuff away even if they were like 30 he would still have their toys from when they were like.. 5 😭

INLOVE with tattoos that’s it

javier steals cheap cologne idc what anyone says JAVIER SMELLS GOOD 🙄🙄

chews on pencils if you asked him for a pencil you will feel all the teeth marks on it 😭😭 (you would probably see the eraser bit on……..)

idk why but I feel like he would love skateboarding but he sucks ass 😞

has thick ass blankets you’ll never be cold again

LOVES when u brush his hair in the morning

he cuddles his pillow

he’s awkward when he’s complimenting you 😭😭 even when you guys r dating he has build up the courage to say you look nice today

“Why won’t you choose me?”

john marston x f!reader

summary !!!! — you’re johns side chick but you’re getting pretty tired of it so you tell john u or abi.. unfortunately he won’t leave his wife for you.

warnings !: smut at the first part (not rlly smut srryyyy) mostly just angst, johns gets drunk for a lil lol and a stinky cheater lol……. I think thatst it !!! ^_^ enjoyyy 😴😴

i feel so bad for abi in this :c i love her smm ill make her smth soon !!

this is kinda short so i do apologize !! i don’t have time to make it longer :((

—

"Thank you, sweetheart. I needed this." John pressed his forehead against yours, the glimmer of sweat and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke filling your nostrils. Cupping your hips with his calloused hands, sliding his length out of your throbbing hole. You let out a whiny moan at the loss feeling of him inside of you.

"I know — I know, I’ll see you later?" John responded, you sighed softly. John was attempting to urge you to leave his tent quickly due to the rising tension within him. Johns heart was racing at the thought of his wife, Abigail, approaching his tent and finding you half naked in Johns tent as his cum rested on your chest. He personally never cared for aftercare, not with you. You were just something to get his stress out. John quickly grabbed a rag and began rubbing off the mess off of you, burying the rag deep in his pocket, making a mental note to throw it away later.

"John.. I, er — can we talk about this? I don’t —" Your sentence was cut short by John's abrupt intervention, as he hastily shoved you out of the tent. Without giving you a chance to speak, John rushed around, frantically tidying up the cot, completely ignoring your presence.

—

Another heated argument erupted between John and Abigail, yet this one was worse for the both of you. Abigail was growing more suspicious with each passing moment, she began questioning the mysterious marks resting on John's neck. The outlaw was at a loss for words, utterly incapable of formulating a believable lie.

“It’s nothin’ Abigail.. just — quit it,” John attempted to pacify Abigail with a gentle rub of her shoulders, his free hand attempting to conceal most of the marks on his neck from her view by making his jacket cover most. She was unwilling to listen to those lies, growing tired of his bullshit and storming off. Johns hands slapped on his face, sighing frustratedly.

John could feel your gaze drilling into his skull, even after he strolled away into his tent. His temper had reached its limit, the pressure of his situation piling up on him as he responded in his usual brash manner. "What? I ain’t in the mood to deal with you either," he scoffed, spinning on his heel and storming off. A shiny bottle was held tightly in his hand, the contents inside indicating his desire for a brief escape from reality.

You never understood Johns relationship with Abigail. Nobody did. Not even John himself.

—

"I'm getting real sick of that attitude," you huffed, hovering above John as he lay flat on his back on the ground. He laughed drunkenly, his words barely intelligible as the alcohol took over his mind. "Why does it matter to you?" John laughed out a response, his words slurred and his speech already incoherent.

"Abigail or me." You firmly demanded, clearly frustrated by John's attitude. The outlaw's drunken wheezing laughter suddenly came to a halt, his sudden shift in expression making it clear he was getting angry. He propped himself up, his voice still slurred. "Are you serious..?" he uttered, his voice growing increasingly furious as he stared you down, his gaze burning into you.

John responded immediately, the words falling from his tongue without a second thought. "I'm not leaving my wife." He spoke through clenched teeth, taking a swig out of his beer before tossing the remainder onto the ground. The bottle broke into numerous shards on the ground, the sharp noise reverberating all throughout the encampment. You listened to him with a sinking heart, but a deep part of you knew his words to be true. You had dared to dream, wanting to believe that he would choose you, oh, how wrong you were.

"You don't love me?" You asked, your voice full of a deep sense of heartbreak and longing. John kept silent, refusing to answer your question, which gave you a clear hint at how he felt. He eventually muttered out a half-hearted "Sorry." before stumbling away, turning his back to you as you remained speechless, your eyes already filled with tears.

—

Everything has become different, John's behavior in contrast to his previous behavior indicating that something had fundamentally shifted in his attitude. He refused to even glance at you, never acknowledging your existence as he put all of his attention towards his wife. The attention he gave her was all the affection and care you'd desired, the sweet love and affection you yearned for. You could no longer help but feel the sting of jealously in your heart, envious of Abigail's privileged position and wishing you could be in her shoes.

You went to sit beside him, offering a small smile in a futile attempt at garnering his attention. However, he simply stood up and walked away, heading towards his shared tent with Abigail and leaving you in the chilly air alone once again. His indifference towards you only served to deepen your sadness, the tears filling up once more as the painful realization set in.

Why would you even think he would choose you?

teehee🙈🙈

“Pretty flowers?”

arthur morgan x female reader !!!

no smut, fluff, flustered arthur, barely put any work in this ^_^

—

Arthur entered Saint Denis and began to walk around aimlessly, the atmosphere of the town leaving a foul impression on him. He despised it with a burning passion, yet the memory of your conversation and your love for flowers prompted him to overcome that distaste and set off to find those pretty flowers you enjoyed.

After countless hours of strolling, Arthur managed to find an exquisite bouquet of flowers in a store, their sweet and pleasant aroma filling his sense of smell with each breath while the bouquet caught his attention with its beauty. Arthur cared nothing for the exorbitant price of the flowers. The thought of your sweet smile was more important to Arthur than money could ever be, and he felt content with making this small sacrifice to see you happy.

—

Arthur cradled the bouquet of flowers in his hands as he walked out the store, “I hope she’ll like em..” Arthur muttered under his breath. He gave the petals a light caress with the pads of his fingertips. He hoped you would immediately fall in love him and just ask to marry him on the spot. His attention remained focused solely on the flowers, causing him to accidentally bump into his horse. The horse was startled and let out a small huff in response.

“Ah, ‘m sorry, boah.” Arthur stuffed his hand in his satchel and pulled out an oatcake, feeding his horse. Arthur showed the horse the flowers with the intention of eliciting its reaction. The horse simply sniffed the flowers before going back to its usual duties, providing no discernable reaction.

Arthur's anxiety took the helm of his emotions once more, causing his frustration to bubble up in his chest. His uncertainty only further fueled his anxiety, as he awaited your reaction with mounting concern.

The horse began galloping back to camp. Arthur was completely immersed in his thoughts about you, unable to focus on anything outside your presence in his mind. He paid no mind to his horse or where it was headed, his attention only on the thought of you at camp. Every little gesture you displayed made his heart swell with happiness, yet he had yet to notice his horse heading the wrong way..

The horse let out a startling whine in response to the sudden gunshot, bucking Arthur off its back and causing him to tumble into the dirt. The bouquet was now covered in mud, its beauty tarnished and its fragrance muted. Arthur's careless movements as he rolled in the dirt caused the bouquet to get crushed underneath him, the flowers trampled in the result.

“Shit..” Arthur was overwhelmed by feelings of humiliation after noticing the state of the bouquet, disappointed that he would be presenting you with such messy and ruined flowers. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of laughter coming from afar, prompting him to hastily duck behind a tree and hide from view, Arthur stuffed the flowers into his satchel. He cautiously observed his surroundings, scanning for the sound with rising concern.

O'Driscolls filled up the camp, their boisterous laughter and the clink of beer bottles filling the atmosphere. The gang members did not care about being quiet, as their behavior was rather outlandish and chaotic, their lack of concern for noise apparent to Arthur.

Arthur leaned down, reaching for his shiny revolver and firing numerous rounds towards the men, his anger evident from his sharp and abrupt shooting. Each O’Driscoll tried putting up their best shot but died one by one. Arthur’s arm flew up to his head, wiping the sweat dribbling off his forehead. Putting his two fingers in his mouth and began whistling for his horse. His horse soon turned up, nuzzling its face into Arthur’s calloused palms.

“Awhhh, it’s alright, boah.” Arthur was quick to dismiss his horse's actions, forgiving its small misdoings without second thought. Even if the horse made a bigger mistake, Arthur would still be quick to forgive it.

"Let's head home," he stated softly, putting his revolver away and beginning to move away from the area, staring down at the torn flowers resting in his satchel.

—

Finally returning to camp after the encounter with the O'Driscolls, Arthur was greeted by several gang members with a few smiles and familiar greetings. However, when Arthur's gaze met yours, seeing that soft smile you gave him, he was filled with a blend of emotions. His throat tightened as he swallowed the lump down, the sweat beading down his body the physical manifestation of his anxiety.

This was the moment Arthur had dreaded, yet he couldn't back out now. He attempted to wipe off most of the mud on his body but it failed miserably, just getting it more on his pants. Arthur grew annoyed but with a deep breath, he summoned all of his courage and approached you, digging the crushed flowers out of the satchel with his shaking hand. His hand slowly stretched outward, attempting to offer you the pitiful bouquet.

“For you..” Arthur's voice was barely audible, seemingly unable to hold his ground and meet your gaze as he attempted to offer you the pathetic bouquet. The crushed flowers were the only remnants of the beautiful bouquet Arthur had once envisioned, and the sight made him feel deeply embarrassed. He remained staring at the ground with an intense stare as he waited for your response.

"What happened to them?" Your soft and concerned voice greeted Arthur's ears, eliciting a wave of shame and frustration. He felt mortified by his appearance, your reaction to him a painful reminder of the unfortunate incident that brought about the crushed bouquet.

"They.. were like this when I first got em," Arthur lied quickly, he was a terrible liar but he didn’t wanna tell you the true story. You would’ve laughed in his face. taking a deep breath. His gaze remained fixed on the ground while his body visibly tensed up from the embarrassment.

“Oh, what a shame.” You sighed softly, knowing Arthur was attempting to cover up the truth, but you were unwilling to pursue the matter any further. Your gaze found his blushing cheeks, your heart warming at the thought of him trying to get you a gift. It was an unexpected sight, seeing the ‘rough n tough outlaw’ so flustered and embarrassed as he attempted to give you the crushed bouquet. You took it in your hands, smiling at the sight.

“I know it’s not pretty —“ Arthur scratched the back of his neck. He began speaking but you interrupted him quickly.

“I love them.” You smiled, kissing his cheek.

John Marston hcs!!! ^.^

no nsfw :c

first time writing for john!!!! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა some modern !

—

in an emo band (he plays guitar and lead singer >_<)

doesn’t know how to do division, if he was in high school he would have all F’s :c

takes up the whole bed. U wake up on the floor 😭

wears mismatched socks (sometimes steals urs bc he can’t find his)

thinks burp r hilarious

CANNOT cook 😭🙏🙏 this man can’t even make eggs

he has that two in one shampoo and conditioner shit

john orders pizza like everyday his house reeks

buys paper plates cuz he don’t wanna wash dishes

johns a wet pathetic cat but I love him ૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა

Arthur Morgan hcs ! ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

no nsfw, sorry !! :(

inlove w funnel cake !! (he would be munching that shit UP !!!)

he wouldn’t like horror movies sadly (probably said smth like “it’s lame”…. )

type of guy to read magazines while on the toilet

hates pickles

Arthur would have like a super thin blanket when he’s sleeping (i think this is canon.. poor man)

doesn’t like buying shoes

likes his food plain (also loves warm ketchup)

uses dove deodorant

໒꒰ྀི ੭-ࡇ-꒱ྀི੭ Might do John next !!!!!! sry i don’t got a lot to say abt this man 😞😞 love yaa!! :3

I feel happy and refreshed today😼

(Sorry for the stain, my TV is old 😼)

Well, I did some doodles of Arthur Morgan🤠

he is so silly cutting his hair

Here Cassie again !

P.S. Question for Traditional artists, how do you post your works? You scan them or something?

EAAYUURRRGGGFGGGGHGHH.,….

i will not share the thoughts that go through my head whenever i think about the red vest fit

Watercolour from a few years ago and a recent gouache study

Hiii! I saw on your pinned that you’re a fan of RDR2, so for your alphabet challenge, would you please write NSFW letter X for Arthur Morgan? Thank you!

ohhhh anon you have TASTE. i’d be DELIGHTED to write this for you.

x is for x-ray | arthur morgan

warnings: explicit sexual content, nudity, detailed anatomical description, language consistent with 1800s setting, voyeuristic focus on male body, light exhibitionism, use of second person pov, erotic fixation on physicality, unprotected sex implication, emotionally intimate context, mild praise kink undertones

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

notes: hey angels just a lil note—i absolutely love writing for challengers and the bear, and i’ll always be down to explore more of that, but if you ever feel like sending in asks for other fandoms too, please do! it really helps me stretch my creativity and explore new voices/vibes. writing for arthur morgan was such a joy, and i’d love to dive into more worlds like that. don’t be shy! okay i’m gonna stop because my hands hurt, i wrote a lot today 😭 enjoy!

The room in Valentine is nothing special—wood-paneled, narrow, scuffed floors and faded wallpaper peeling at the edges—but it doesn’t matter. The second Arthur strips off his coat, it ceases to be a hotel room. It becomes a cathedral. A shrine. A holy place built around the gravity of his body. And for the first time, you get to see him not as he’s dressed for the world—layered in denim and dust and guns—but raw. Bared.

It starts simple: the shrug of that trail-worn coat from his shoulders, the soft thud as it drops over the back of the chair, the flick of fingers undoing buttons down his shirt. But there’s nothing simple about the man himself. Arthur’s frame commands the space like it was built to worship him. Broad. Thick. Weather-hardened and sun-fed. His shoulders stretch the fabric of every shirt he owns, and once he peels it off—slow, like it’s never occurred to him someone might want to watch—it becomes impossible to look away.

He’s built like the frontier. Rugged. Untamed. A map of sweat and sun and scars. His skin is the color of oak bark in summer, golden and burnished with the kind of tan that doesn’t fade—it’s in him. Part of him. A deeper warmth than just skin-deep. His chest is massive, pelted with a coarse dusting of tawny-blond hair that gathers dense across the sternum, softens as it trails down his stomach in a thick line. His pectorals are full, heavy, not sculpted like a statue’s but lived-in—flesh formed from years of labor, from chopping wood, breaking horses, dragging bodies.

The hair down the center of his chest glows golden in the angled light, catching the color of the sunset leaking through the curtains. It creeps over his collarbones, softens the harsh ridge of old scars. One scar slices diagonally across his left pectoral, paler than the rest of him, like a whip cracked hot against the skin long ago. Another curls near the hip, a jagged crescent hidden in the shadow beneath his ribs.

And then the suspenders fall. The belt buckle clicks. He kicks off his boots, and his pants sag low on his hips. Wide hips. Solid hips. Built for carrying weight—saddlebags, corpses, the weight of guilt he doesn’t speak of. When he pushes those pants down, slow and unceremonious, he steps out of them like a man shedding his sins.

He is naked in the truest sense. And it’s devastating.

Arthur Morgan’s cock hangs thick between his thighs, flushed deep red at the head, darker toward the base where the hair thickens into a coarse nest of dirty blond. It’s big even soft. Long enough to demand respect. Heavy, veined, the foreskin resting back just enough to tease the slick pink of the glans beneath. A single bead of precum shines there, like he’s been holding back too long. And you know he has.

As you stare—open, shameless—he twitches. His cock thickens slowly, like it’s waking, like it’s watching you as much as you’re watching it.

Arthur notices. His smile is shy, but crooked, a hint of self-deprecating charm. “Ain’t exactly a prize hog,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, but you can see it—the flush crawling down from his cheeks to his chest. He likes being seen. Even if he doesn’t know how to say it.

His thighs are thick and wide-set, dusted with blond hair, dappled with fading bruises, knotted muscle flexing under skin every time he shifts his weight. There’s a line of scabbing down his shin from a ride through bramble or a botched dismount. His calves are strong, veined, the kind only years of walking, climbing, riding could build. Everything about him is earned.

And that stomach—not flat, not soft, but strong in a way that’s real. A faint curve over the belt-line. Muscles beneath the skin, not gym-trained but carved by work. He’s got a fine dusting of hair there, too, curling tighter below the navel, guiding the eye downward toward the dark root of his cock.

His arms are worth their own chapter. Thick biceps that stretch the seams of his shirts, veins standing prominent, forearms like sculpted stone. His hands? Massive. The kind that wrap around the butt of a rifle like it’s nothing. The kind that grip reins and throats and thighs with the same ease. They’re calloused and dirt-streaked and holy.

And the more you look, the more detail unfolds. His neck is thick, corded with sinew, shadowed by stubble. There’s always a touch of sweat just at his temples, the scent of him musk-heavy—leather and iron and firewood smoke, cut with the faint sweetness of molasses if you get too close to his throat. His beard is full, well-kept but untrimmed, flecked darker around the chin and mouth, soft-looking despite the thickness. And then there’s his hair—messy, sun-lightened, curls catching at the nape like he’s been riding all day with his hat off.

He’s staring now, too. Watching you watch him. That stormy gaze softened around the edges with something quiet. Something almost vulnerable.

“I know I’m rough,” he says low, voice catching like wind in a canyon. “Ain’t got much polish to me. But… well. I clean up all right, don’t I?”

And you want to laugh. Want to cry. Because this man—this towering, muscle-bound, scar-splattered outlaw—is standing bare before you, cock heavy and leaking, chest heaving just a little from the weight of your gaze, and still he wonders if he’s enough. If he’s worth looking at.

He’s more than enough. He’s obscene in his beauty.

You reach for him like gravity pulls you there. Your hands span his hips, your fingers brushing the wiry curls at the base of his cock, and he shivers. That flushed cock jumps against his stomach. The skin there is so hot it burns, a furnace under your palm. You drag a thumb over the slick head and he grits his teeth, groans low and deep, a sound pulled from somewhere in the belly of him.

“Fffffuck, sugar,” he gasps, shoulders flexing like a draft horse under harness. “That’s—s’tender. Been thinkin’ about this too long.”

But you don’t stroke. Don’t tease. You just look.

You memorize the shape of him. The texture of his skin. The way every part of him—from the pink of his nipples to the curl of his toes—is alive with anticipation. And when he leans back on the bed, thighs wide, cock resting against his stomach and glistening, one arm propped behind him to hold his weight—he looks like a goddamn vision. Like something carved out of the dirt and sun and blood of the West itself.

Arthur Morgan, in full.

And nothing’s ever looked better.