ᖭ༏ᖫ

the quiet moments like this were rare. life always seemed to pull at you both, demanding attention, demanding motion. but when he was granted this, this simple, domestic peace, he savored it. he memorized the way you hummed absentmindedly, the way you leaned against the counter while waiting for the pan to heat, the way you existed so effortlessly

the pads of his fingers traced delicate patterns on your side, hands gently feeling the smooth skin. you leaned into his embrace and moved one of your hands to tangle in his hair, your fingers beginning to massage his scalp. he hummed quietly and leaned into your touch while his eyes fluttered shut

"feels good," he murmured, gently squeezing your side with his fingers. your gaze slid over his content expression, and you moved down to press a sweet, lasting kiss to his forehead. his soft hum of satisfaction urged you to continue. you moved your slow, tender kisses from his forehead to his nose, his cheeks, his chin, making sure to kiss and caress his entire face, until you pressed a final, lingering kiss to his lips before gently pulling away

once he noticed that your lips lost contact, his eyes lazily opened and met yours, and your breath caught in your throat at how he looked at you. "come back," he mumbled softly, moving one of his hands from your waist to cup your jaw in the process. he brought your face closer to his and ran his thumb along your cheek. you sighed and looked back at him, a subtle smile on your lips before you let him do it

he positioned himself above you and soon had you pinned beneath him on the bed, legs spread as he leaned in, crushing his mouth against yours. his body pressed against yours, still holding your jaw as he kissed you. his crotch met your thigh, moving slowly against it. you let out a soft moan as he moved his hips forward against your cunt, eyes shut when he slipped his tongue to tangle with yours. he moved slowly, feeling himself grow hard

he broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your mouths as he leaned in toward your neck, nuzzling his head against you. his teeth grazed the skin, still grinding into you with pressure, the outline of his cock straining against his pants. he sucked on your skin, a quiet whine escaping your lips. you felt him increase the pressure of his movements, his bulge shifting just right against you. you pulled him in, legs wrapping around his hips, making him press even closer

• joel doesn’t rush intimacy. ever. letting you get close is something he does slowly, deliberately, like he’s making sure this is real, and safe, before he lets himself settle into it

• physical touch is absolutely his love language, even if he’d never call it that. a hand at your lower back, fingers brushing yours, pulling you just a little closer without saying a word. it’s grounding. protective. constant

• behind closed doors, he’s gentler than people would expect. not because he’s unsure, but because the world is already rough enough. with you, he softens. slower movements, quieter moments, breathing in sync

• he’s a quiet intimacy guy. joel doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it lands. a low "you okay?" a murmured use of your name like it means something sacred. no wasted words

• once he’s in, he’s all in. joel doesn’t do half love or casual closeness. if he lets you stay, it’s long haul energy, even if he never says "forever" out loud

• he craves closeness more than he realizes. falling asleep tangled together, staying in bed longer just because he can. acting like it’s nothing, while it quietly fills a void he’s carried for years

• his protective instincts bleed into intimacy in subtle ways. not controlling, just attentive. always checking in without breaking the moment. a hand on your back, a thumb brushing your hip, making sure you’re okay

• he’s way more affectionate in private than in public. around others he’s reserved, guarded. alone? foreheads touching, hands lingering, soft little laughs you don’t hear often

• domestic intimacy hits him harder than passion ever could. sharing a bed night after night, waking up together, existing in the same space. that’s what really gets him, proof he’s not alone anymore

• he likes familiarity, routine. same safe place, same time of night, same unspoken understanding. it’s comforting, not boring, something he can finally relax into

• acts of service translate everywhere with him. fixing your jacket, warming your hands, quietly cleaning you up afterward without making a big deal out of it. it’s just care

• when things get slow and close, he watches you. real, steady eye contact like he’s memorizing you, just in case the world ever tries to take you away

• he’s understatedly dominant in the softest way. not commanding, not flashy, just a calm presence that makes you feel safe enough to let go and trust him completely

• simon isn’t loud about love, but it shows up in routines. fixing things around your place without being asked. making sure your car’s always got gas. walking on the outside of the sidewalk. he doesn’t need to say "i worry about you", he just makes sure you’re safe before you even realize you need it

• he’s not clingy but when he touches you, it means something. a hand on your lower back. thumb brushing your knuckles. pulling you into his chest when he sleeps like he’s anchoring himself. maybe PDA isn’t his thing, but private affection? constant, grounding and possessive in a soft way

• simon doesn’t talk about marriage early on, it feels fragile to him, like tempting fate. but once he’s in deep? he thinks about it a lot. a quiet ceremony. nothing fancy. just you, him and the promise that no matter how ugly the world gets he’s choosing you every single day

• he’s not the jealous type who starts fights, but the moment someone gets a little too friendly with you, his presence changes. an arm around your waist, a hand on your lower back, standing just a bit closer. no words, just a silent "they’re with me."

• simon struggles to verbalize feelings, but he shows them constantly. fixing your jacket, brushing your thumb with his, tugging you closer when he’s half asleep. if he’s stressed, he grounds himself by touching you, hand on your thigh, fingers laced with yours, forehead pressed to your temple

• behind closed doors, he’s not rushed. calm, steady and commanding in that quiet way that makes your knees weak. big on consent, big on checking in, surprisingly gentle afterward. he’s the type to hold you close once it’s over, thumb tracing slow circles like he’s memorizing you

in rdr2, he genuinely sees himself as a protector of the unwanted, a man standing between his people and a world that has already decided they don’t belong. he speaks in freedom, loyalty, resistance, not just as a leader, but as a moral authority. and that’s where it goes wrong. dutch doesn’t see himself as one of them. he sees himself as the one who knows better

at first he’s not entirely wrong. the world is cruel, indifferent, industrial. when his plans begin to fail, dutch doesn’t change, reality does. or at least, he rewrites it. "have some goddamn faith" stops being about survival and starts being about belief in him. doubt becomes betrayal. loyalty becomes obedience

his madness isn’t loud. it’s denial. he clings to "the plan" long after it stops being a plan and turns into a mantra, a psychological life raft. admitting failure would mean admitting he’s not chosen, not exceptional, not right. so he blames the world. the gang. even fate

arthur morgan sees through him. as arthur grows morally aware and starts asking questions, dutch responds with paranoia, not reflection. arthur’s doubt threatens the fantasy that dutch is infallible. by the end of rdr2, dutch is hollow, a man repeating ideals he no longer understands, desperately gripping the echo of who he used to be

by rdr1, there’s nothing left to hide behind. dutch rejects society entirely and retreats into the wilderness, surrounded by death. the rumors of cannibalism, his lair filled with human sized bones, feel less like shock value and more like metaphor. dutch consumes everything, people, ideals, meaning itself, just to survive the reality of his failure