I Love How John Bares His Teeth At That German Guy In Rdr Yes Hahaha Snarl Now Boy >:)

please just let me go

I had a Dream we Fly on Golden Wings

🐺Uh, I love that fella!

At my funerals play the entire perverts album of ethel cain or ill make a big ass storm and become an evil entity

everything eats and is eaten, time is fed

It’s just something about John Marston being twenty-six. Little John needs saving again. Twenty-six and he thinks he’s going to bleed out on a snowy mountain top. Twenty-six and he’s watching his friends die all around him. Twenty-six and he’s got a kid and a wife to think about. Twenty-six and one of the only fathers he’s ever known gets shot in front of him. Twenty-six and the only father he’s got left stands idly by while he gets arrested. Twenty-six and the only father he’s got is disappointed to see him out of jail. Twenty-six and the only father he’s got leaves him to die on the side of a railroad track. Twenty-six and he’s on a snowy mountain again, this time saying goodbye to his only brother. Little John needs saving again. Take my hat this time, too. I know, I know. Twenty-six and starting a life. Twenty-six and utterly, completely, absolutely alone.

I was so scared chapter five begun that I decided to replay rdr1

he is trying his best to be good he is trying his best to be clean but his hair never stops growin’ and the blood never stops flowin’🩸🕊️❤️‍🩹

i love epilogue john with short hair oouuuuhooo i love him there is just something about it auuhhhhh something something trauma and recovery and intense desire to rid himself of this brutal past that haunts him so deeply but he never can and never will and it will never be enough, he will hide his face and introduce himself as an imposter until his real name sounds like a vulgar obscenity on his tongue, he will bite his tongue and bury his nature and keep his revolver holstered until his hands twitch with excitement and he tastes iron and feels at home, he will scrub his skin raw trying to erase phantom hands and he will cut his hair with a dull knife until his head is bleeding his knuckles ache and his back itches and the river will carry the hair, the blood, the grime and shame and longing scrubbed from the tender skin between his legs downstream and he will imagine that he is clean, he will imagine that he has cut the last bit of them out of his life for good, he will imagine a life of peace and forgiveness and acceptance until he feels a cold breeze on his bare neck and a sickening warmth in his gut and a heavy gnawing pain in his chest and he hears those terrible, awful, heartbreaking whispers of “son” and “brother” on the wind and he isn’t crying, he isn’t crying, he isn’t crying

Brothers fate,

oh my god get the fucking chatgpt shit out of my john marston tags i’m just here for sad dog art and cowboy kisses