#Camp John Hay | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bellarkeselection · 4 months

Text

When Dutton's Marry, They Go Big

Request from wattpad mackleann - Kayce and the reader come back from their honeymoon and the bunkhouse crew talk about how amazing the wedding was ( huge wedding 😏 )

"There's nothing that says we have to go back today. We could just stay out here." Kayce had his arms wrapped around me from behind while I was trying to put my shirt on.

Kayce and I had recently got married a few weeks ago. And we had been spending our honeymoon here at the Dutton Summer Camp. I giggled trying to not cave into his embrace when he kissed my neck. “Kayce, we have to go back to work.”

“Your mother doesn’t need you for another week right?” He mumbled into my neck until I spun around in his arms.

My mother Lynelle Perry was going to be stepping down and leaving Montana in the coming weeks since she got a higher job in government. Kayce’s father John was taking over her position as governor of the state. “No, she's busy helping your father. But I want to spend time with her before she leaves.”

“One more day won’t hurt anybody, darling.” Kayce leaned down, capturing my lips deeply.

I squealed when he got the chance to pick me up by my thighs and I wrapped my legs around his waist. “Kayce!” He carried me over to the edge of the bed sitting me down on it where we both fell backwards on the mattress.

“By the way you're looking at me right now I can tell that you’re not complaining too much.” Kayce smirked down at me only wearing some blue jeans and his boots that he kicked off.

Running my hands up his chest I wrapped my hands down his neck drawing him in for another long round of the morning. “Who I am kidding you’re hard to resist, Dutton.”

“So are you Mrs. Dutton.” He mumbled in between kisses and we laid in the bedsheets together till the next morning when we had to get back to the ranch.

Kayce drove the truck up underneath the Yellowstone Dutton ranch sign. We parked outside the main house where I turned in my seat facing him. “You know we could always hide out in the bunkhouse till the cowboys are done with work for the day.” A smirk was playing off my lips.

“I like the way you think, baby.” He smiled hoping out of his seat and I scrambled to get my door open. Kayce scopped me up before my feet could even hit the ground, carrying me to the bunkhouse door.

I giggled, wrapping my arms around his neck and he kicked the door opened. He sat me down on the nearest bed beginning to remove my shirt until someone else's voice entered the building. “You two look just like you did the day you got married.”

“Ryan! What the hell are you doing here?” Kayce broke the kiss, breaking the kiss that we was sharing seeing the cowboy standing at the edge of the bed.

Ryan raised a brow. “I should be asking, are you going to sleep on my bed right now?”

“Oh god! We didn’t mean for that to happen.” Covering my face with my hands I groaned feeling somewhat embarrassed at the very thought of what we we’re about to do before he walked in. “Wait what did you mean we are just like how we were on our wedding day?”

Ryan chuckled with a smile. “Your wedding was huge and I don’t mean it’s just because of who your mother is. But I also mean weddings and other big events don’t really happen here.”

“Ryan, Rip says we have to move more cattle across the ranch before Gator starts dinner. What….what are you talking to these two about?” Colby enters the barn seeing the three of us talking.

Ryan turns toward his fellow cowboy working. “I was talking about their wedding.”

“Ah yeah. I remember that day. That was the biggest amount of people I had ever seen here before. And the food spread was insane.” Colby throws his head back, running his fingers through his black curly locks.

Thinking back on my wedding day I smiled at the memory. Kayce had been dressed in a light white dress shirt, black tie and his only pair of not dirty blue jeans and some boots. I was wearing my dress obviously that had lace all over the train. I had put some of my hair up with a flower crown braid leaving the rest of it down going down my back. Paring it with my light tan cowgirl boots instead of heels. “I didn’t think you guys were so focused on our wedding. We weren’t even that focused on the details after we got to the ceremony and said the words "I Do.”

“Okay we’ll y’all should get out of here before Rip comes and kick your asses or better yet I’ll kick your asses if you tell anyone else we are back yet.” Kayce threatened sitting down on the bed beside me glaring at the two cowboys who were still standing in the bunkhouse doorway.

Ryan raised his hand up in the air. “Chill out man. We’re going.”

“Who knew married Dutton’s could be more demanding than they already were before.” Colby mumbled exiting the bunkhouse with his fellow cowboy.

Kayce ran a hand through his hair looking back at me. “Are you reconsidering coming back home early like I knew I would?”

“Possibly….do ya think we could sneak back to the truck without them noticing?” I asked him, grabbing his discarded cowboy hat up from the dirty floor putting it on my head after dusting it off.

Kayce smirked the same expression as me. He moved forward, capturing his lips with mine. “You are a genius. But we could just drive back to the Summer Camp for a few more days.”

“Fine Mr. Dutton you win.” I caved knowing he wouldn't leave me alone until I agreed. We grabbed our jackets and ran as fast as possible to his truck in the driveway. I knew the day I said yes I was in for one hell of a ride changing my last name to Dutton and I wouldn't change one thing.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

#kayce dutton #kayce dutton x fem!reader #kayce dutton x reader #kayce dutton imagine #luke grimes #big wedding #bunkhouse boys #yellowstone bunkhouse #yellowstone series #yellowstone imagine #yellowstone #yellowstone x reader #yellowstone fanfic #wattpad request #ask box is open for anything #comments really appreciated

122 notes · View notes

lewmagoo · 7 months

Note

Waking up to find your cowboy not in bed with you. His boots aren't by the door but you can see footprints in the freshly fallen snow outside. You follow them to the barn to see Rhett, asleep on a haybale wearing just his jacket. His flannel is now a nest for the barn cat's new kittens with another fleecy blanket added in for extra warmth.

rhett’s a tender soul. always has been. despite the fact that his father tried to quash that part of him, in an effort to “toughen him up”. rhett always kept that tender part of himself when it came to animals. he’s always had a special connection with them. with his mare, june, despite her stubborn tendencies. with the mysterious crow (affectionately named john) that follows him around every time he’s outside. with the cranky barn cat that tolerates only him. he’s the cowboy snow white, as you’ve lovingly dubbed him. there are always animals in his vicinity. he’s always been good about helping animals when they’re in distress. one time, he stayed up all night with june when she developed a sickness that required round the clock care. he nursed john the crow back to health when he injured his wing. he’s been known to raise orphaned baby squirrels and rabbits.

and then there’s the time that misty the cranky barn cat becomes pregnant. rhett watches over her carefully. it’s really a sight to behold. you’ve always loved watching him interact with animals. when you’re working in the stable or going on trail rides you’ll hear the way he talks to june, a low comforting rumble, communicating with her as if she understands every word he’s saying. you suspect she does. and of course there’s the way he’s so loving toward misty. she’ll always linger around his feet when he’s in the stable, and sometimes she’ll even climb up to sit on his shoulder. that happens less and less the more heavily pregnant she becomes. and then there comes the time when she’s going to give birth.

the closer the time gets, the more rhett checks on her throughout the day. and then, one morning, he slips out of bed early, leaving a lingering kiss to your forehead as you sleep peacefully, before he shoves his boots and jacket on and trudges out through the freshly fallen snow. that’s where he finds misty huddled in a corner of the stable, in the beginning stages of labor. he knows he can’t move her into the house, it would put her into distress. so he sets up camp in the barn. all he has is his flannel, so he shrugs out of it and allows misty to lay upon it. he’s a loving and gentle coach as she births her tiny little kittens, and once they come safely into the world, he tucks an extra blanket that he found in the tack room around the litter to keep them all warm as their mama gets settled around them. not wanting to leave her alone, he leans back against some stacked hay bales, but inevitably ends up falling asleep.

that’s where you find him an hour later. after waking up to an empty bed you head out to the stable to find him fast asleep, and there is misty the barn cat on the floor beside his feet, curled up with her new babies. it’s a precious sight, especially when you see he’s given up his shirt in order for misty to have a soft place to lay. you sit beside him on a hay bale and gently coax him awake. “rise and shine, cowboy,” you murmur. he stirs awake, and as he catches you looking at him, he smiles sleepily. “had t’ come help misty give birth,” he mumbles. “i see that,” you reply. “you make a great cat midwife.” he smirks at that. “thank y’. been practicin’ my whole life for this moment.” which is partly true. he’s been involved in plenty of animal births. “well, now that you’ve helped bring kittens into the world, how about some pancakes and coffee for breakfast? i’m sure midwifing made you work up an appetite.”

the promise of pancakes and coffee gets him up and out of his bed of hay, food motivated as he is. “don’t mind if i do,” he says as he pecks your lips. he still checks on misty throughout the day, and if the temperatures drop too low during the night, he will bring her and her babies inside to keep them warm. soon, your house is full of kittens. rhett is attached to each of them, even though he knows you can’t keep them all. before you find homes for each one, this is what he constantly looks like:

he gives one to amy. he keeps the rest, insisting that this is their home and he doesn’t want to uproot them from it. that’s how you end up having four barn cats. at least you can say you won’t ever have a mouse problem with them around 🤷‍♀️

(thank you @laracrofted for bringing up rhett covered in kittens because it’s awakened something i think)

#asks #rhett musings

108 notes · View notes

smushystrawbabies · 11 months

Text

✨ art under ramble ✨

It’s my dream that when (NOT IF, WHEN) Red Dead Redemption 3 releases it’ll be a prequel to the second game. I’d love if you’d play as a new character who is part of Dutch’s gang in the early days and you are part of the VDL gang vs O’ Driscoll feud, witnessing the death of Colm’s brother and Annabelle and all other crazy moments mentioned in passing in RDR2. But mainly what I want to see is Dutch, Hosea, Arthur and John in the early days. I want to see the curious couple and their unruly sons in their purest form! I want to see Dutch and Hosea hold hands again, sweet Bessie doing sweet things and John’s horrendous reading lessons, Miss Grimshaw whacking everyone into shape AND ARTHUR WITH COPPER AND BOADICEA!!!

ANYWAYS

I had these really stupid ideas about how camp would work with so many characters, camp interactions and chores and tents. Maybe one day you are awoken by Miss Grimshaw shoving hungover Arthur’s head in a troth of cold water after a long night out and Hosea and Bessie chuckling by the fire. And by night you'll find new recruit Bill Williamson arguing with anyone he can find and Dutch teaching John slights of hands at the poker table. And what about all the new characters!!!!!?????

I get the impression that all the camp chores and tasks were dumped on baby John. You’ll find him dragging hay bales across camp, washing shirts, chasing chickens and half-ass-ly doing whatever jobs Arthur has convinced him to do by giving him an old penny after telling him it’s an ancient Roman coin that is worth a thousand dollars (lots of stuff like this happened you cannot convince he otherwise). While John peels potatoes in camp he dreams of getting his own gun, riding into town and robbing a bank just like a real outlaw! Then everyone would finally appreciate him as the awesomest and bestest gunslinger in all of history! Everyone knows that if John got his greasy hands on a pistol all hell would break loose. So he is cursed to camp indefinitely, at the expense of everyone around him. This absolutely led to him being a crazy teenager. Dutch's parenting is shit, we all know it.

Branching off the chore idea; if you called your horse in game, a little rat boy John would lead your horse to you. Come on just IMAGINE calling for your horse in camp and hearing faint steps approach you and when you look down you see a flea infested child holding your horse by a lead and spitting bizarre threats at you in an attempt to escape camp and rob some people.

sorry for the john posting :3c

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #john marston #rdr2 fanart #rdr2 john marston #red dead redemption #fanart #rdr #rdr2 headcanons #rdr2 john #red dead redemption 2 fanart #red dead redemption THREE???????#goofy ahh post #as usual #rdr2 precanon #red dead redemption 2 headcanons

166 notes · View notes

megbimbo · 1 year

Text

john marston; stitch me up, buttercup

a/n; mfw i go into a coma after every post, anyways this has been collecting dust for ages and i don't know why i didn't post it? figs def helped me write it tho. props. I FORGOT TO MENTION ty for also being an awesome photographer @thisfanisgonesorry hugs!!

cw; john takes care of you after a cougar attack, he's a bit of a grumpy pants. fluff.

wc; 1730

You rested your head on Arthur’s back as your arms stayed wrapped tight around his waist, trying to not wince or groan as he rode you into camp, Charles close behind. Blood was coating your entire lower half, a good portion of your pant legs being ripped away from your body. Camp was getting closer, you could tell, the familiar scenery that surrounded your temporary home becoming visible to you.

Shifting slightly, you lifted your head off of Arthur, who had been silent the entire ride back besides the occasional panic, bickering, and checking if you were alright. You groaned at the movement.

“We nearly there?” You mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear you. The sunlight peeked through the trees, almost blinding you entirely.

Arthur exhaled. “Almost, you alright?”

“I think so.” He nodded, Charles coming closer to the two of you to speak.

His smile was sincere, trying to cover the obvious concern on his face. “How’re you feeling, y/n?”

“Like hell, but I’ll be ‘right.”

“John won’t like hearing about this,” he said, raising his brows and looking over to Arthur.

In response, Arthur chuckled, the vibrations sending shivers as you rested your head on his back once again. “He ain’t gotta find out.”

Raising a brow, you took a mental note of the severe pain you were in, extremely doubting Arthur’s words. “Not find out that I’m covered in blood? Really? Camp ain’t blind.”

He nodded, fully aware, though he didn’t say anything. Probably exchanged a glance or two with Charles.

You closed your eyes, the ambience of camp coming into earshot. Probably the usual bickering and people crowding around the campfire, like usual. Made you wonder how they’d feel when they saw you. “I don’t want no trouble,” you said. “Just wanna get some rest.”

Arthur mumbled something in agreement, as Charles moved in front, probably to shield whoever was around. You lifted your head, acknowledging your surroundings. Everyone was either at the campfire, playing poker, or doing chores. It was then that you noticed John tending to the horses, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to hide your quite obvious injury.

It seemed neither Charles or Arthur could, either. The minute they both went to go hitch their horses, he immediately noticed, stopping the two of them, which included you on the back, dead in their tracks. Whether he noticed the blood or you first, who knows, but he didn’t look pleased. The hay bale he was holding hit the ground with a ‘thump’ as he dropped it, storming over. Tears began to form in your waterline as you turned your head away, knowing you wouldn’t be able to bear his reaction.

Charles tried to make conversation with him, meanwhile you sobbed quietly as Arthur poorly tried to comfort you. “Shh, we can’t have him knowin’ ‘bout this.” He knew there wasn’t a lot he could do, but he was trying his damn best.

Eventually, he sighed, as John approached the two of you. You turned your head back to face him, the tears streaming down your face as you were drenched in your own blood. He looked pained to see you.

“Y/n? Who did this?” he snapped, his raspy voice making it all the more intimidating, as he stared holes through his metaphorical brother.

“We went on a hunt, as you know, and, well.. it didn’t go all too well.” He wasn’t wrong. There was a cougar worth good quality that the three of you were set on killing before anyone else could. You each split up your own ways, your dumbass going the way towards the predator. Before you could even defend yourself, it attacked you, leaving you practically near death as the two men tried to shoot it, but it simply left. “Cougar, it was. The one we wanted.”

John immediately reached for you, helping you to dismount Arthur’s horse, as he wrapped his arm around you, supporting your weight because he knew damn well you wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere alone. “Did you kill it?” he asked, glancing around to notice no one else was nearby, taking a few steps away as he glanced at you, frowning.

“Well.. No.”

His eyes widened as his brows raised, looking absolutely gobsmacked. “You’re fucking kidding me? Y/n nearly DIED and you didn’t KILL THE FUCKING THING?!”

“John-”

“No, no! That’s the most bullshit I ever heard outta you!” he said, raising his voice and throwing his free hand up. “Someone nearly got killed, and you’re just gonna let the fucker live? You’re outta your GODDAMN MIND!”

Hearing the commotion, some of the camp rushed over, including Dutch. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Three of ‘em went hunting’, not only did Y/n nearly get killed but they didn’t even kill anything! Dumb bastards can nearly get a girl killed but not bring any game!” John yelled, the music from Dutch’s monograph in the faint background.

“Sort it out, will you? I shouldn’t have to parent grown men,” Dutch plainly said, not paying you any mind, and walked off, the rest of camp lingering to see what happens next. Hosea walked after him, most likely to have a talk about the interaction that just happened.

Now that he was gone, John took the opportunity to get closer to Arthur’s face, speaking in a hushed tone. “I don’t care if you nearly die doin’ it, but you’re both goin’ back out there and you’re not coming back till it’s fuckin’ dead.” To which he simply nodded, said something to Charles about ‘leaving these two be,’ and they both turned, riding out of camp and back into the wilderness they just returned from. You could hear Charles mock Arthur, saying ‘John ain’t gotta find out,’ as they did so.

He turned you towards his tent, slowly walking the two of you there, enjoying the silence, but most of all, your presence. Whether he’d like to admit it or not, he knows you could’ve died out there, and he’s grateful to have you. When people would approach, asking what was wrong, he’d hush them and say he had it covered. As the two of you approached his tent, he opened it, sitting you down on his cot, taking the moment to really take in your state.

“John, he was hurt too. You didn’t have to do that,” you said, weakly putting a hand out to grab his wrist.

He took note, sitting down on the bed next to you, staring into your eyes as he wiped the tears and blood off of your face. “He’ll manage, love. I’m worried about you. I mean, look ‘atchu. Still pretty, of course, but beyond fucked up.” Reaching to grab a box, he gave you a peck on the lips, opening it and grabbing out a few items, setting them down on his lap. “I’m gonna have to stitch you up, that alright?” You nodded, as he grabbed a cloth, dunking it in a bucket of water, as he cleaned the blood off of you in a nearly tender way. “You’re gonna be alright, I promise.” John’s voice that was yelling a few minutes ago had quietened down to soothe you, occasionally kissing you.

Afterwards, he picked up a different rag, dousing it in whiskey before using it to disinfect your wound. When you’d clench your teeth, or ball your hand into a fist, he’d notice, mumbling quiet words of praise

You smiled softly, looking down at the deep wounds. “You don’t have to do this, y’know.”

“‘Course I do,” he grinned, in an almost joking way, as he reached for a needle and a thin string. “Had to do this to myself, you’re lucky I’m a professional now.”

“You should be a doctor.”

“Hell no,” John responded, laughing for a moment, starting to stitch your wounds up. Occasionally, you’d make a squeamish face or grit your teeth together, to which he spoke in an attempt to comfort but also lighten the mood. “Got mauled by wolves ages ago. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it?” “You don’t say,” you commented in response. You remembered hearing briefly about this, but most of the camp agreed to not bring it up. He chuckled quietly, but didn’t comment.

John’s dark eyes softened as he continued to take care of you, humming to himself as he cleaned your wounds and stitched them. The warm lighting from the lantern shining on him in just the right way, and when he finally finished, he sighed.

“How’s that?” he smiled, putting everything back in the box and setting it aside once again.

“Still feel like hell, but better.”

He nodded, muttering a ‘good, good’ as he got up, grabbing a pair of his pants from his wardrobe, setting them down on the bed. “Wear those instead.”

Instead of trying to argue, you did just that, casually changing in front of your lover, even though he promised to not look, standing in a corner with his back to you. When you gave him the clear, he got back on the cot, laying down and tapping next to him. “You should rest.”

“In your tent?”

“Yes, in my tent. I don’t bite.”

“Bet those wolves did.”

He seemed taken aback by your joke, but laughed anyway. “I’m being serious. You need sleep.” You gave in at the promising offer of cuddling up next to John, as you laid in his arms, his hands running through your hair.

“John?”

“Hm?” he said, looking down at you.

“Know I’ve said it a hundred times, but you didn’t have to do all of this for me.”

In the moment, he brought a finger to your lips. “Shh, let me feel proud, buttercup.” To which you nodded, and the two of you cuddled in peace.

Suddenly, he spoke up, breaking the silence.“You’re so pretty, you know that?”

“Really?” You whispered, looking up at him, as he looked head over heels for you.

“Yeah. Even when you’re all bloodied up, ya still look perfect.” He mumbled, pausing briefly, before continuing his love drunken ramble. “Just glad to have you, that’s all. Happy nothing worse happened.” You snuggled into his touch at his sweet words, as you dozed off in his arms, knowing that even if you didn’t get the cougar, you instead had John Marston all to yourself.

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 hcs #john marston #john marston x you #john marston x reader #fluff #comfort fic #mentions of arthur and charles #john is very kind #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fluff

123 notes · View notes

onbearfeet · 23 days

Text

Queerwolf By Night: Queercoding, Media Literacy, and Werewolf By Night (part 3)

Lovely to have you back for this, the final part of our examination of WBN being queer as fuck. If you missed the earlier presentations in Media Studies and Writing Hacks With Kat, Part 1 is here and Part 2 is here.

We've gone through the Hays Code AND the AIDS crisis so far, and that's a lot, so could I interest you in a cup of coffee brewed over a campfire?

Thanks, Ted. You're a peach.

So let's look at the final scene of WBN through a queer lens. There's a needle drop, color is restored to the world, and we see Jack waking up in the woods to drink coffee, grunt at Ted, and eventually decide that sushi should happen.

(Side note: I have a whole rant about queercoding and sushi, but I cut it, so here's a gif of Aziraphale gayly eating sushi in Good Omens, which you should watch.)

Okay, enough queer angels. Time for more queer monsters.

First things first: this scene is SO DOMESTIC, y'all. They're literally playing house in the woods, in that Ted has built Jack an adorable little house and brewed his morning coffee. The camp is littered with little domestic touches like the French press and the guitar. It's a homey, if slightly eclectic, vibe. (Where did Ted find a payphone?)

There is no explanation for these objects being there, afaik; Ted and Jack both have presumably come from some distance away, involuntarily in Ted's case, so there's no reason Ted would know the location of a well-stocked camp to put an unconscious Jack down in if Jack even set one up. Presumably the camp is Ted's work, but there's never an explanation for where he got any items other than the robe and the phonograph. (I'm particularly curious about the flower mug, personally.) Yet the objects are not remarked upon, and the entire scene is played as if this is a relatively normal morning for the two of them.

In fact, most of the mechanics of the scene are effectively those of a morning-after scene, perhaps a morning after characters fall into bed for the first time. Jack wakes up groaning, crawls out of bed to see where he is, and finds his partner has laid out something like breakfast for him and is prepared to discuss the events of the night before whenever Jack is ready.

And speaking of that discussion, we once again have displays of queercoded masculinity: Jack and Ted being physically affectionate, playful banter, and emotional vulnerability when Jack asks about Elsa. You know the drill by now. The camera pans up as "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" swells and fades out.

Wait.

Rainbow?

Let's talk about music in this film.

Michael Giacchino is primarily known as a composer of film music. WBN is his directorial debut. I guarantee you've heard his music before, because it's basically in every summer blockbuster franchise. If you can't get John Williams, Danny Elfman, or Hans Zimmer (all of whom are getting long in the tooth), you get Giacchino and he turns in a fucking SCORE.

Now, I am not a music person. Not at all. But even my musically illiterate ass knows that traditional film scoring derives a lot from classical music, especially Romantic composers like Beethoven. And that means LEITMOTIFS, baby!

(I learned about leitmotifs from Bugs Bunny and Star Wars. Do not be impressed.)

A leitmotif is a short musical phrase that can be used to signify a character, object, or theme in a larger work of music. For a very basic example of this, look up the Force theme from Star Wars and watch a supercut of all the times it was used to indicate that someone was using the Force. Or just watch this Sideways video about why the music in Rise of Skywalker was ass:

youtube

Anyhoo. The point of leitmotifs is to give an audience a feeling without necessarily tipping them off to exactly WHY they're having that feeling. And Giacchino LOVES his leitmotifs.

So when he uses someone else's music, he's extremely aware of the emotions that can come attached to that music. It's literally what he does.

There are two pieces of music used in WBN that Giacchino didn't write: a late 1930s recording of Vera Lynn singing "Wishing Will Make It So" and Judy Garland singing "Over The Rainbow" from The Wizard of Oz. Let's start with Vera Lynn.

Vera Lynn was an English singer most associated with big band music before and during WWII. During the war, she was known as "the Forces' sweetheart", both for her efforts to entertain the troops and for the fact that she was kind of every British fighting man's waifu. What Betty Grable's legs were to American GIs, Vera Lynn's voice was to British servicemen. She's best known for the song "We'll Meet Again", which is about exactly what it sounds like. She was a nice lady, by all accounts, and there is a ferry boat named after her now.

A Vera Lynn song about childhood and wishing is what Verussa plays in the labyrinth, apparently to annoy Elsa, who switches it off (even though that's going to inform everyone of where she is). For the purposes of queercoding, Vera Lynn is mom and apple pie, or possibly mum and fish and chips, and above all she is safe, compulsory heterosexuality. The Forces' sweetheart.

Judy Garland, on the other hand, is a queer icon.

I can't overstate what a Big Deal Judy Garland and Dorothy Gale from The Wizard of Oz are in queer culture. The themes of the story, including acceptance of the unusual and embrace of a found family (along with the sapphic elements of some of the books), resonated so deeply with queer people that for several decades, "are you a friend of Dorothy?" was code for "are you gay?" The US Navy actually launched an investigation to find the mysterious "Dorothy" who was supposedly the ringleader of all the gay sailors.

And then there's the song itself, with its theme of longing for a faraway, more colorful place where those who don't fit in at home are loved for who they are. It's, uh, pretty resonant with the queer experience.

So I now draw your attention to the phonograph. Gramophone. Record player. Whatever it's called.

In WBN, we first see the player set up in the labyrinth, presumably by Verussa or at her orders. It's playing a Vera Lynn song about childhood and wishing, which apparently annoys Elsa so much that she switches it off, thus alerting Jack to her location.

The next appearance of the player is in the camp, where it's now playing "Over the Rainbow" beside Jack as he wakes up. Ted has presumably stolen it; there's no other candidate for that, and we already saw him swipe a murder robe for Jack, so why not a record player too?

In other words, Verussa Enthusiastic Heterosexuality Bloodstone sets up the Compulsory Heterosexuality Machine, after which Elsa Ally-Coded Bloodstone turns it off in disgust, and Ted swipes it and turns it gay for Jack's benefit.

That's the coding. That's BARELY subtext. I really don't know what else to tell you. This essay started with my making an offhand joke to bluemoonperegrine about Ted and Jack being "literally friends of Dorothy" and then realizing nobody else in the conversation had noticed this stuff.

So what do we do about all this? Is WBN queer? Does all the Wolfstone stuff pale in comparison to the glory of Russallis? Am I trying to start a ship war in a fandom so small it probably wouldn't fill up Vera Lynn's namesake ferry boat?

Jack, you can answer this for me.

Nope. Not trying to start anything. I happily read Wolfstone, and technically have written some. I love all three WBN leads and am happy to enjoy them in any configuration (although my personal preference is group napping in a puppy pile, because these characters deserve naps).

I just figured it was worth documenting all this so people who haven't had the benefit of my very strange education would be better equipped to recognize (and ideally enjoy) old-style queercoding when they see it.

Wait a minute. You promised writing hacks. It's in the series title and everything.

Shit, you caught me.

Obviously, queercoding isn't a universal tool. There are plenty of storytelling contexts in which it's much better to make characters explicitly queer. Representation matters, and all that.

But sometimes you won't have time for explicit confirmation (like when your story takes place overnight and nobody really has time to play tonsil hockey). Sometimes you won't be able to include it due to outside constraints (like Disney being Disney).

And sometimes, you'll remember that there are plenty of people who can't or won't pick up explicitly queer media. Homophobic parents who won't let their kids watch Love, Simon ... but who WILL let them read your YA novel about unicorns or whatever where there are two female unicorns who are, uh, life partners. Grumpy uncles who refuse to acknowledge their nephew's boyfriend until they notice that, hey, they kinda act like Finn and Poe from that Star War. And so on. Sometimes, coded rep is the best rep you can get ... and so it's useful to have. A good toolbox has ALL the tools.

So if you're building characters for your story and don't or can't have specific queer goals, throw in a little coding. Put a rainbow T-shirt on a kid. Let two boys hold hands or have literally any feelings. Let a girl say a girl is pretty. Look up some of the older symbols for queer love and have someone growing lavender in their garden, or use newer queer symbols and have a character crack an egg in a key scene. Have a character who's content without a romantic or sexual relationship, and has an arc about something else, because aces and aros exist too.

There's a whole universe of coding out there. Go add some layers to your work.

Or better yet--see if they're there already. You might surprise yourself.

Sometimes the monster has a familiar face.

#werewolf by night #media studies and writing hacks with kat #queer theory #queer coding #queercoding #jack russell #elsa bloodstone #ted sallis #writing advice #vera lynn #judy garland #leitmotif #michael giacchino #oh god please don't kill me for this #i am rambling not trying to start a ship war #if i seem defensive it's because I'm a Peggy Carter fan and the last few years in fandom have done psychic damage #friends of dorothy #thank you for being a friend of dorothy

24 notes · View notes

sednonamoris · 3 months

Text

arsonist’s lullaby

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: With Sean dead and the Confederate gold nowhere to be found, the Braithwaites learn exactly why boys are off-limits.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence/gore, canonical character death, arson/fiery deaths, angst, kidnapping, toxic loyaltyyyyy

Word count: 2,777

A/N: Emerging from my absence to post this chapter and fade back into the ether ✌️

Series masterlist • AO3

—

In the end, it’s a perfectly ordinary day when things come to a head.

Midsummer sun has beat down all day, only just now mellowing to a deep orange, early evening glow. Standing halfway up the path to camp on guard duty, nothing remarkable has happened at all, except maybe the number of deerflies you’ve had to fend off. Like the heat alone isn’t enough.

Micah and Sean and Bill rode into town on business earlier. Sean jabbered something about meeting up with Arthur and that Gray sheriff, but he was insistent on keeping the rest a mystery. High profile stuff, you know. Not for old-timers like you to worry about. You just rolled your eyes and sent him on his way.

Other than that, it’s been awfully quiet— Even after Karen and Bill and Lenny and Arthur hit Valentine’s bank the other week. If you were a more suspicious person you might call it too quiet, but it’s been nice to have a bit of a break. You and John have hardly spent a moment apart. Camp chores go quicker together, you tell everyone, but it hardly takes a genius to see you’re more attached at the hip than ever. Moving sacks of cornmeal and haying horses and chopping wood doesn’t usually result in the lovestruck looks stuck on your faces, after all.

Arthur, too, has enjoyed the down time. If he isn’t sharing a cup of morning coffee with his wife then he’s reading storybooks to his surrogate son, complete with ridiculous voices. He puts on a deep, gruff baritone for the bad guys, then pitches higher for a hero that sounds suspiciously like Jack. It’s sweet. The mantle of secondhand fatherhood fits snugly across his broad shoulders, and you can’t help but feel that if anyone ever deserved a second chance at all this, it’s him.

John’s been watching them with the strangest mix of joy and wistfulness and regret and shame. It’s always gone in a blink. You never quite know what to say.

But there’s no time to ruminate further when a slow, steady, thumping lope comes within earshot. You almost miss it, lost in thought.

“Who goes there?”

You’re not sure why you bother asking; the footfalls are too heavy to be anyone but Bill on Brown Jack. When they come into view there’s a tense set to Bill’s shoulders and unease in the whites of Brown Jack’s eyes. You see something slung behind the saddle, unmoving.

A body.

You only register it as Sean when he slows to a stop beside you.

It’s jarring to see the lively young Irishman so horribly, deathly still. His clothes are stained with blood and singed from bullets, but the gaping hole in his head is what turns your stomach and raises your hackles as well as the hairs on the back of your neck. Pulpy brains. Shards of skull. A once-bright eye bulged, crooked and unseeing. A damn good headshot.

Who would be gunning for him? you think. But really, after all the trouble you’ve been stirring down here, who wouldn’t? It’s only been a matter of weeks since you and the boys stole those horses. Less since he and Arthur burned the tobacco fields.

You look up at Bill after a long moment.

“Wanna tell me how the fuck you got the kid killed?” you say, voice low. Simmering. Seething in the summer heat.

Bill’s expression is caught between guilt and resentment. “It was them Gray boys.”

“Them Gray boys?”

“They were waitin’ for us! Arthur… well, he reckons they figured us out. Talked to that Braithwaite woman, I mean.”

“Where is he? Alive?”

“He and Micah ain’t far behind. Don’t expect they’ll be comin’ together.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just shake your head and try to think past the blood pounding through your eardrums. Ringing in your skull. “We gotta bury him.”

“I know,” he snaps.

Where would Sean want to be buried? With a view of the water? In the shade of the trees? Certainly not alone, but there’s little choice there. “We gotta— He deserves someplace decent.”

“I know.” Softer, this time. “...There’s a quiet spot up the other side of the path.”

You nod. “Don’t let the girls see.”

—

The air is thick and stagnant even as the afternoon fades into evening. You’ve always hated digging graves, and this heat only makes it worse. Cicadas hum. Flies buzz. Bill picked a good spot out of the dying sun, but sweat still pours down both of your faces and necks, soaking through your shirts. Salt stings your eyes and the tip of your tongue.

Once the hole is deep enough, Bill does his best to arrange whatever’s left of Sean with some dignity; arms crossed, a coin over his intact eye. It’s still a sorry sight. You take the pistol from his holster to give to Karen and let its dead weight rest in your belt while you and Bill get to burying. When the work is done, he stutters a few insufficient words over a yet-unmarked grave. He looks to you, then, and you fish your flask off your belt and take a strong swig before pouring a generous amount over the freshly turned earth.

“Cheers, brother,” says a hollow voice that sounds like yours. “Save us a seat.”

You don’t bother saying where.

—

Karen hits you when you tell her. A full arm swing. Open-palmed. Then again when you hand her the pistol.

You let her.

Feels like the least you can do.

—

The evening passes in a haze of numb grief. You don’t know what to do with yourself, so you hide, only emerging from your tent when you hear raised voices outside Dutch’s.

“Where’s my goddamn son?” Abigail demands. “They took him, didn’t they? They took my son!”

And Jesus if this day couldn’t get worse. Your eyes scan the camp, like you’d be able to spot little Jack where his mother couldn’t. The sick feeling that’s been festering in your stomach since Sean’s burial twists and writhes and weighs you down like lead. Everyone knows missing is about as good as dead these days, but you don’t dare say that to Abigail.

“Where is my son, Dutch Van der Linde?!”

More and more begin to crowd around the commotion. The girls lay consoling hands on Abigail’s shoulders that quake with anger and fear. Arthur’s face is grim and drawn beside her. John’s is shadowed behind them, torn between guilt and anger. Hosea pushes past the throng to lay blame on the Braithwaites— at least, he says Kieran saw some boys what looked like Braithwaites not far from camp earlier. After what happened in town today, you have to admit it makes sense. Both families have you figured out, and they’re out for their pound of flesh.

As if Sean wasn’t enough already.

“We will find Jack, we will bring him back to you, and we will kill any fool that had the temerity to touch one hair on that boy’s head,” Dutch vows in answer to Abigail’s frantic questioning. “Right now.”

And he turns on his heel and makes toward The Count to do just that. Everyone follows. Bill calls out asking about extra guns that are accepted readily. Micah and Kieran are ordered to protect the camp while you’re all away. Weapons drawn, eyes blazing, you mount your horses and make off into the night.

This is the warpath. The beating hooves and rushing blood. Moonshine canters steadily beneath you, keeping stride with Old Boy and Arthur’s mount on either side. It’s been a long time since the whole gang has ridden out like this, chomping at the bit for a bloodletting.

“I swear, I’ll kill everyone there!” John snarls. He’s settled into his anger now, quicker on its draw than his pistol.

“Easy, Marston,” Arthur says. His voice is low and dangerous like how he warns off strangers. Not family. Not John. “You don’t check your shots, Jack’ll end up dead too.”

“Don’t tell me to take it easy! That’s my—” but John chokes on the word before he can get it out.

Son, he was going to say. That’s his son.

But Jack is as much Arthur’s as he is John’s anymore, and right now neither one can stand it. You can’t bear to look at the fear nor the anger nor the burning blame in either of their eyes.

—

The oaks that line the path to Braithwaite Manor are always imposing, but here in the dusky nighttime you swear you can feel their ancient eyes watching. Bloody roots gorged on bloodstained grounds; twisted, gnarled branches grasping for a Heaven they’ll never reach. There are few stars that shine through the scattered clouds in the early night sky, but you wish upon every one that Jack is safe, and you vow that no one will make it out of here alive if he isn’t.

Everyone dismounts at the gate. Beside you John and Arthur are tense. Mouths set, trigger fingers twitching, eyes aflame with a primal sort of anger and fear that can only come from losing a child. Dutch, too, is furious. The fact that anyone would touch one of his own is normally enough to have him ranting, almost frothing at the mouth, but he must sense that Arthur and John need him calm.

Calmer than them, anyhow.

Ahead, the manor house is lit with a warm orange glow from its pillared porch. The moon casts strange light across the shadowy night, flickering in and out of cloud cover. There is only the sound of gravel beneath your boots and anticipation.

“Get down here now, you inbred trash!” Dutch bellows at the first sight of the Braithwaite boys.

“What the hell do you want?” they call back, like they don’t know.

John makes to aim his gun and you brush against his shoulder as a comfort and a warning. He snarls but doesn’t shoot. Not yet.

Dutch continues, “We’ve come for the boy. You must’ve known we would.”

Arthur is little better off, glaring holes in the heads of every Braithwaite son and cousin and uncle and friend that emerges from the looming house. There’s more of them by the minute. You feel everyone tense around you. Their guns aren’t lifted - not yet - but all it will take is a sign from Dutch.

Not yet.

“That is a young boy. That is not the way you do things. Hand him over.”

“Get the hell off our land!”

Not yet.

Dutch’s eyes darken in challenge. He doesn’t so much as turn his head toward any of you, but the shift in energy is electric. The whole world holds its breath.

“If you ain’t gonna be civilized about this…”

Now.

All at once everyone opens fire. It’s a symphony of gunfire, bullets screaming by from every direction. You pull John behind a crate just as one grazes his ear. He snarls out a curse while you kill the man on the balcony who shot at him. The body tumbles over the railing and stains the steps red with blood and brains.

Dutch calls out marching orders, but through the din he’s nearly impossible to hear. John heads inside. You follow suit. The manor doors swing wide open like the unhinged jaw of a snake, welcoming you into the belly of the beast.

“Jack!”

“Where are you, kid?”

“Jack!”

His name echoes off expensive oak floors and through lofted ceilings. You tear through the lower floor like someone possessed, ripping open mahogany chests and finely stained china cabinets and the couch cushions of richly-rugged sitting rooms. Anywhere a little boy might fit. Then plenty of places he wouldn’t just for good measure.

Somewhere in the rush you lose John. Over the gurgling rasp of a Braithwaite son’s last breath you hear him shout something from upstairs. You make to run up the winding staircase but stop dead in your tracks when you see Catherine Braithwaite being kicked down them.

Dutch sneers, his lip curled with generational distaste for a man who preaches against revenge. She’s sobbing, spewing vitriol with every shaky breath. All her sons are dead now. You can see it in the gape of her burnt ash mouth. In the flames that lick the polished wood floors from their dropped torches. In the fire reflected back in Dutch’s eyes.

—

Jack isn’t there. Catherine Braithwaite uses her last breaths to gloat that he’s been sold to a man in the city.

Sold.

You watch Dutch let her go, then watch still as she runs screaming into the flames. The house collapses over a shrieking phantom of the Deep South with a groan and a sigh. By the color of the flames it’ll burn for hours yet.

The trees stare as you leave, gorged on blood and ash.

—

Dawn comes blood red and brutal, streaking through the sky with its first light warning. Dutch, John, Hosea, and Arthur are all gathered around the camp table to discuss your next moves. Whatever those are, though, you can’t imagine. John didn’t sleep a wink last night, just staring at tent canvas and stewing in blame. He looks awful. Everyone does.

You’re sat next to Abigail by the campfire. She says nothing, but the hunch of her shoulders and the blue-hot flame of her eyes tells you there’s nothing to be said. Her boy is gone. Missing.

You brought her a bowl of porridge for breakfast, but neither of you is up for eating much. She stares into the fire while it sits untouched in her lap. You push your oats around with the spoon and pretend not to eavesdrop.

Of course Marston’s scared rotten, Arthur says in hushed tones. I am too. We killed all them people— for what? For nothin’. There ain’t no gold here.

For living, Dutch corrects him, and you can’t help but think it’s a shame that not all of you got to that part. The living. Sean is dead and gone forever. For all you know, Jack might be too.

But all of that is put immediately to rest when Lenny walks into camp with two Pinkerton agents at gunpoint.

Milton and Ross, they call themselves, swaggering through the whole of camp like you’re not all outlaws and thieves. Killers. Everyone stands as they pass, slowly circling in like vultures to the promise of violence.

The matching felt bowler hats on their heads can’t hide the pockmarks on Milton’s face nor the smug, bristling mustache on Ross’. The government is surely paying a pretty penny for your capture if the fineness of their clothes is anything to go by. Their shoes are shined and polished. You can’t help but notice the way the red Rhodes clay oozes up beneath the soles and paints them muddy.

“This thing? It’s done,” Milton announces when he makes his way to Dutch.

Dutch barely bothers to turn and face him. He doesn’t stand. Everyone else slowly, slowly creeps closer. One step at a time. All coming together. Vultures. Violence.

Things like this are never just done.

Never.

Milton calls Dutch a lot of things. A shepherd of lost souls. A messiah. Sarcasm drips from the syllables, and you wonder how he might react if you told him Dutch was the only god to answer a single one of your prayers. Even Swanson lost touch with Christ long ago. Now when he falters he begs Dutch Van der Linde for forgiveness. All of you do.

“I’m nothing but a seeker, Mr. Milton,” Dutch finally says.

Milton’s eyes narrow. There's a faint expression you can’t quite place on his face when he replies, “You ain’t much of anything more than a killer, Mr. Van der Linde.”

He offers freedom, then. Three days to run and hide and live like civilized human beings in exchange for Dutch. It’s almost laughable.

Dutch steps forward and every gun in camp cocks. Agent Milton seems suddenly to remember how very much outnumbered and outgunned he is.

“I think your new friend should leave, Dutch,” Ms. Grimshaw says.

Milton calls it a mistake, calls you all fools, but the only foolish mistake you can see is letting them live.

—

John and Arthur leave together after all that. They make for a place called Shady Belle and promise Abigail it’s close to the city where her son is being held. A good spot to camp while everyone does what they can to bring that little boy home.

Looking at Karen, miserable and bleary-eyed drunk, you can’t help but think it’s awfully far from Sean’s grave.

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #ghost story #fran writes #ch. 25

30 notes · View notes

hasminnn · 5 months

Text

📍the manor at camp john hay, december 2023.

#travel #wanderlust #photography #baguio #philippines #the manor #camp john hay #woods #baguio city

0 notes

bucking-mustangs-with-wings · 3 months

Text

It's finally here, people. It will be posted on ao3 too which I'll make a seperate post with the link when I publish, but for now, Happy Reading! 💖☺

The air of the grounds was colder than the last few, a bite to the air that left the tip of John's nose stinging a little with the prick of it. Not enough to be a bother, but enough that him and the other boys had noticed it, a few more layers draped over their shoulders or a blanket haphazardly thrown over jeans as most sat around the fire pits outside their campers. A few sat with a beer or whiskey in their hands, taking a sip every now and then to warm their insides as well.

John cast a glance back over his shoulder at the others, reaching into his sheepskin jacket to fish out the pack of Malboros he'd managed to aquire from one of the boys before his run today. He pulled out a single cigarette and slipped it between his lips before meandering his way further from the camp grounds and the sounds of fire crackling and laughter and towards the arena and the chutes, which only hours earlier in the heat of the sun he had managed to score the highest once again, this time on a big brown and white bull they called Hitchcock. Mean son of a gun with monster horns filed off at the tips and sounded like a Greek beast of mythology when he bellowed.

Lighting the tip of his cigarette with one quick flick of his hand, John blew the first inhale out in flimsy swirls in front of his face, barely illuminated by the last few arena lights still on at this time of the evening, while a few straggling competitors worked their horses before calling it a night. It was the quietest part of the day, other than when everyone was fast asleep, and other than a few people scattered here and there, packing up equipment or officials gossiping leaned up against the fences, the whole place had turned into a ghost town. The yards situated out behind the chutes where they kept the cattle and bulls in waiting before each run or event was a wash of darkness, the floodlights only just managing to cast enough illumination to see where you were going without running into the panels.

Luckily, they were empty now, no monster bulls or crammed cattle, all of them either trailered off to the next event or back home to whatever close by ranch or farm they came from. John supposed not unlike himself and the other competitors, who would have a day or two to drive all the way up to Washington to do it all over again.

The taste of tobacco was acrid on his tongue, coupled with the burning cool inhale of the evening air, but he delighted in it all the same. It was hard to figure out where the tobacco smoke and his own breath ended, swirling once again out into the night like a poison promise.

As John looked down at his dust-mottled boots kicking through the dirt, he found himself rounding the edge of the main chutes and further into the holding yards, further into the quiet. Though amongst the silence, the low hum of a voice reached him through the dark, a low drawl only just distinguishable but not clear enough the make out any words. He thought it just one of the other boys that had hung back, maybe gotten lost on the way back to the camp grounds behind him, but as he squinted against the deepening black, the sun finally dipping behind the mountain tops in the distance, he could vaguely make out the dimmed line of a horse's back in one of the pens, the spotlights over in the arena giving that small light source reflected off the animals coat.

It made him pause momentarily, listening to the continued sliver of a voice in the horse's direction. The animal was standing contently, rustling its nose into what sounded like a hay net in front of it every now and then. The silhouetted outline of a hat peeked up over it's whither, then disappeared as whoever was on the horse's other side leaned back down before appearing again. The telltale sound of a hard-brush raking over it's coat cut through the air rhythmically.

Taking another draw of his cigarette while also taking another few steps forward, he was able to finally make out the shining golden coat of the horse barely distinguishable in the low light, the palomino a familiar image. Now that he could also see what horse it was, he could also recognise the hummed deep drawl of Gale Cleven, talking softly to her as he cleaned her off for the night. John leaned his shoulder against the corner of one of the metal panels, resting his left foot against the curve of his right and took another long but quiet inhale of smoke and just observed the exchange, not wanting to alert Gale to the fact that he was there just yet.

Gale ducked underneath the curve of the mare's neck to change the side he was working on, the long white mane brushing over the brim of his black hat. He laid his hand against her shoulder as he started sweeping the brush down the line of her throat.

"Yeah, you're a good girl." His voice was calm and low, almost gravelled in it's tone. It made something unknown and foreign crawl it's way up John's back, a cold shiver not unlike the product of the chilled air sitting still around them. He swallowed it down with another draw. His eyes followed the long line of Gale's back, up to his shoulders that flexed with every pass of the brush, then down to the intricate leather work pattern of his belt, still only just visible. His gaze then tipped just a little further to the shape of his legs enveloped in dusty blue Wranglers, maybe a single size too big needed for the movement he was expected to need when in the saddle. He still looked amazing in them.

John shook his head of the thought and straightened, shoving his hands in the deep pockets of his sheepskin coat as he took a step forward.

"Hey, Buck. Little late out for you and your unicorn, ain't it?" He smirked, a hint of teasing in his tone. "Woulda thought you'd already be on your way up to Washington with the rest of 'em."

He could see Gale freeze in his movements, the brush halting it's path on Baby's coat. The mare snorted as if in protest, and Gale heaved a slight sigh, the line of his shoulders lilting slightly.

"Yeah, well. Guess I just needed a little more time to get myself sorted," the blond retorted coolly, his hand resuming the monotonous motions. "Could say the same about you, though I thought you'd be back at the campgrounds celebrating your victory for today."

Bucky felt the side of his mouth tilt at that as he came up close to Baby's head, watching the palomino mare side eye him as she buried her nose amongst the hay. In a fluid motion he lifted the sole of his boot and stamped out the remaining butt of his cigarette so as not to get any in either her's or Buck's face. He knew the blond hated the smell and the act in general. Especially if it was around horses or stock of any kind. John may have been as arse, but he wasn't a total one when he could help it.

Gale noticed the movement and hummed to himself in realisation, flicking a look in Bucky's direction before focusing back on the horse. An almost inaudible thanks floating on the air between them.

"Victory," Bucky said with a smile "I can celebrate any time. Plus I think Rosie hid most of the bourbon from me, the bastard. Or drank the rest of it on me, hard to say."

He couldn't one hundred percent trust his eyes, but he thought he saw the ghost of a smile light up Gale's face, only momentarily, before the other man tilted his head just enough so that it was out of John's eye line. It made something flicker in John's chest, but he swallowed it down before it fully formed itself.

Silence enveloped the two men for several minutes, Gale continuing with his grooming and John rotating his concentration between looking at Baby lazily chomping her hay and the way Gale's hands were so gentle and tentative over her.

Buck really loved his horses, John could see it every time he managed to catch a glimpse of him cinching them up before his runs, the way he handled the reins with the faintest touch, his seat in the saddle. The man was a legend among the rodeo circuit, whether it be the ropers or the barrel racers or any of the others. Even the bull riders. As much as John liked to tease him about it, crack jokes, he was in reality impressed with the man's skills and horsemanship. He knew it took a bit more of a different finesse than bull riding in it's own way. A soft-mouthed horse was a lot different than a hulking 1800 pound bull trying with every ounce of its power to unseat you by any means necessary. He had a lot of respect for any of the riders and their discipline, as much as he would blatantly deny it. Gale especially..

His mind flickered back to what he had witnessed, unbeknown to Gale, earlier in the day when the rodeo was full swing and the roping had just finished up. The officials were taking a hiatus between events to rake the arena and make sure it was set up with the barrels for the barrel racers.

He'd been present to Gale's run, seen the swiftness that he'd taken off, the mere seconds it took for him to throw the lasso around the quickly fleeing steer and the erupting cheers and hollers and whistles from the crowd as the announcer called out his praises. There were another few more competitors after Gale, but by the end it had been another flawless run, knocking the rest back on their haunches and adding another bright and shiny victory for Buck.

John couldn't help but smile seeing Buck do what he loved best, and be damned good at it. For all the jesting he'd spit forward in Buck's direction in digs at his manliness and the sport he ran, it really was just that, in jest.

He'd pushed off the fence and ran his hand through his sweat soaked hair before sitting his hat back atop and making his way behind the bleachers. Flashed Bubbles and Crosby a smile while they were bantering between themselves over something mundane.

His path was that of heading back to the campers, get his mind and head together before the drudging task of packing up his gear fell to him, just a part of the preparation to move on with the other guys to the next grounds and the next competition.

"Can't believe the shit you pull sometimes, Gale, I tell ya."

The cutting and frustrated voice of someone Bucky didn't recognise cut through the air a short ways ahead of him. It made John's brow crease, his eyes zeroing in on the distinct white and blue of Gale Cleven's own trailer slotted in amongst about five others parked in a loose circle.

John's footfalls became a little lighter as he moved silently in between a beat up off-white caravan and Crosby's gooseneck. One of the horses tied to the side of it gave him a flustered snort as he slipped up beside her, enough so that she hid him away from the eye line of the two figures Bucky managed to get in view.

Gale had his back turned to him, still all rigged up in his protective vest adorned with the countless patches of sponsors and brands he had supporting him, brown and blue chaps a little dirtier than when the day began. The tilt of the blond's black cattleman hat directed towards the dirt at his feet. The ridge of his shoulders looked tense but worn, a spring coiled, a pistol cocked. But worn (and almost defeated) in his stance nonetheless.

John turned his gaze to the older man in front of Buck, heavy set in his body build and a few inches shorter than Gale, greying hair peaking out from under the brim of his own hat. Silver-grey stubble lined his jaw, which was set hard. Almost as hard as his eyes, familiar ice blue but burning with this unfathomable disappointment and low intimidating anger.

John almost had to look away so as not feel that anger like it was directed at him. The air was absolutely thick with it. But that anger wasn't directed at him. It was directed at Gale.

"You expect to make it to the big leagues, make it to Vegas with a fucking dumpster fire of a performance like that? You'd last five seconds in that arena and not in the way we want it to count."

Gale's head raised slightly, maybe a vague attempt at making eye-contact with the older man in front of him, but quickly lowered it again, gloved hands coming up to rest on his hips. "I had a good run today, Dad. Another half a second off the clock than last season, and the others-"

"It don't much MATTER about the others than what you're putting out there, Gale! You're making it out here at the fairs and these simple half-time rodeos, but those buckles you got sitting at home ain't NOTHING compared to what you should be doing and bringing home."

The man took a step forward, digging his finger pointedly into the centre of Gale's chest, making the younger man have to rock back on his heels so as not to tip from the force of it.

"You're a Cleven, for fuck sake, act like one! Not like these nobody's and ranch hands you insist on hanging around with." the man spat cruelly.

There was a moment of silence, tension hanging in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife, before Gale's father moved even more into the blond cowboy's space, finger still firm against his sternum. Furious blue eyes only a whisper away from Buck's own, noses almost bumping as the scowl on Mr. Cleven's face deepened.

"You pick up your fucking slack, or don't bother coming home or using our family name. I won't have you tarnishing the Cleven's legacy I set out for you."

Another moment passed before the older man finally pulled his finger away from Gale's chest with a snap of his wrist. Bucky thought he'd see a hole left there in it's wake with the force he'd exuded behind it. Blood leaking out just as quickly as Gale's confidence must have been.

Without another word, Mr. Cleven turned with a low exclamation, wandering off back towards the main arena with the sound of spurs following behind him. John though, could only keep his eyes on the stone still figure that was Buck, the younger man not having moved a single inch as his father had stormed away from him.

As if it even possible, John swore he could see the fight leave Buck, ripped out from that invisible hole left behind by his father's finger. His shoulders slouched just that tiny bit, no longer standing tall like the Gale he knew. One of Gale's hands came up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger, brim of his hat tipping down once again so that his eyes were directed at the dirt.

John held his breath and felt something pull harshly inside of himself when Gale brought his hand away, and the distinct patch of wetness staining the soft tan leather of Gale's glove caught his eye.

With a heaved breath and a rolling of his shoulders, Buck finally moved from his position and disappeared in between the other trailers, leaving John with a stone-hard sensation in the base of his throat and a frown that ended up making itself at home on his brow for most of the remainder of the day. Even Curt had commented on it when he'd passed him earlier that night, over near the bull rider's camp as they had all been sitting by the flames of the fire pit.

Back in the present now, John was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of Gale's voice cutting through them. He blinked, focusing back on Buck's face, which uncharacteristically actually had a touch of worry surfaced there.

"Sorry, what?" John managed, sounding dazed, distracted.

The ghost of a smirk lifted one corner of Buck's lips, his baby blues almost baring a hole through John's own. "I said did you have a stroke? Haven't heard you this quiet since you got here. All those falls in the arena finally catching up to you?"

A huff escaped Bucky's lips, his own smirk mirroring Gale's, just a bit more obvious.

"Oh, har har, the pretty cowboy's got jokes, huh?"

If he didn't know better, he would have sworn he saw a hint of blush colour Buck's cheeks before his face went blank and he turned his attention back to the brush in his hand, which had once again gone stoically still in their exchange. Baby tossed her head in their direction in obvious protest before pulling at the hay again.

"You got no idea," Gale said lightly, clearing his throat with the same gentleness. His face had once again dropped into the emotionless mask that John was often witness and accustomed to, like the blond had internally put up some sort of barbed wire fence, intent on keeping any vague emotions sheltered and hidden away.

It was a fence John wanted to take a pair of wire-cutters to.

Without thinking, Buck let the words he so desperately knew Gale needed to hear slip past his lips and into the settled quiet of the night.

"You did good today. Just wanted to let you know that."

Once again, Buck's hand stilled in the movement of brushing, and Baby actually let out a grunt this time in obvious annoyance that her grooming kept being interrupted. Though the two men weren't faced, John could still see Buck watching him out of the corner of his eye. A startled deer ready at a moments notice to bound off at the first sign of danger.

It twisted John's gut, made him feel a rising disdain towards the man he knew was now the cause of Gale's weariness, if not partially or fully, he wasn't one hundred percent certain.

All the boys there had been through their fair share of rough upbringings, absent fathers, dead fathers, non-existent, you name it. And he should have know Gale was no exception. Having a father and mother himself who didn't exactly show their support when he told them he wanted to pursue bull riding as a career, John had a bit of a more gracious understanding of most situations. It was a far stone to throw though, when you had an asshole of a father like Buck's obviously was, and a famous asshole of a father at that, that expected you to fill his boots even bigger than he could until you were bursting from the stitchings in the side.

It was no small talk that Gale Buck Cleven was, well, a Cleven. One of the most famous roping names in the rodeo world as far back as what Bucky could remember reading about in one of the Western Horseman magazines he had flicked through one day off of the coffee table in Curt's trailer. Generation after generation of skilled horseman, Champions and legends, articles and newspapers and long-winded news stories on the internet. Most of them featured Gale's name as the precipice now, but always circling back to the great Cleven cowboys that came before him. And God, were they some big boots to be expected to fill.

But as far as Buck could tell, Gale was continuously climbing the ranks in anything he set himself to. It was always his name being praised over the speakers, and his hands that those buckles and trophies were passed into at the end of the day.

" 'preciate it," Buck mumbled carefully, so low John almost didn't catch it. "But it coulda been better. Alot better."

Bucky scoffed in reply, his mouth slightly agape in a grin that this time hinted on something a little more intent than playfulness. "Are you kiddin' me? Buck you kicked their sorry asses out there today. I ain't ever seen you get the timer buzzed that fast, and I can say now that the amount of times I've seen you compete, wouldn't surprise me if you broke some sort of record."

As the words sunk into Gale, he sat the brush on Baby's back, her hide twitching at the feeling, and turned to face John fully but slowly, a look almost akin to surprise knitting his features underneath a confused frown.

John almost thought Buck was going to say something in contempt in his direction, but as he saw Gale's gaze soften ever so slightly, his eyebrows flickering for a millisecond into something that almost resembled confusion, his heart squeezed with that unknown feeling once again.

"You've watched my runs?" Buck said softly. "All of 'em?"

John's mouth once again dropped open as an unexpected warmth flushed the top of his own cheeks. He lifted his hand to rub at the back of his neck, through his own slightly damp dark curls there.

"Uh, well, yeah. The ones I've seen since I got here to this circus anyway." he said with a smile. He wasn't going to tell Gale that he may have also looked up a few of his runs in Buck's slightly younger days, all bright eyed and just as determined, but not as much tension permanantly etched on his features.

John couldn't believe his eyes when he witnessed Gale's entire stance soften, even if it was only by a hair, something unspoken opening up there as an actual chuckle slipped past Gale's lips with a small shake of his head and a genuine grin breaking through.

He dropped his eyes from John's for a second or two, looking lost in a thought. "Circus is about the right way to put it, I reckon." Gale huffed.

His eyes flickered back up to look squarely at John's own, before casting off over towards the arena that was still lit with a few spotlights. Most of the riders that had been walking their horses around in circles had retired for the night. The sands were empty and still.

Something still troubled and haunted Gale's eyes though, and John couldn't help but swallow down an uncomfortable thickness that had settled itself in his sternum.

"I mean it, though. I'm not bullshitting you." Buck said gently, following Gale's eyeline to the arena. "I may not be much of a horse type cowboy, you know I can't really ride for shit," Gale chuffed at that, "but even I can recognize a real cowboy when I see one, especially one that's a rank above the rest."

Gale actually looked back and held his eyes for more than a mere few seconds this time, something so soft but still that hint of disbelieving pooled there, but it was a damned start. It felt like an entire lifetime that John held that gaze, letting himself be swallowed by it.

Buck's long pale fingers rested once again on the jut of his hips, which cocked slightly to the side in the movement. "Never thought I'd hear a genuine compliment from John Bucky Egan himself," Gale managed.

Once again that coltish smile shaped the blond's lips, wider, more confident this time. Still a tad sheepish, still guarded, but Buck found himself wanting that smile to stay, for a lot longer than mere seconds. He wanted to see that smile every second. Wanted to relish in the fact that he had caused that, had cut down that first strand of metaphorical barbed wire that had obviously wrapped itself around Gale's heart.

His own grin mirrored Gale's then, he couldn't keep it at bay. Couldn't wrangle it back.

"Don't get used to it, pretty boy. I gotta keep up appearances you know." Bucky leaned forward slightly, hand coming up beside his mouth and giving a quick glance in either direction before slipping Gale a wink. "The boys might think I've gone soft."

Gale rolled his eyes with what Bucky could have sworn was fondness.

"Can't have that now can we." he chuckled.

The warmth of it gave John's heart it's own flame. It cast itself there like a stray needle from a cactus catching in the hem at the bottom of his jeans. There to stay, not easily shaken this time.

Still with that smile, John regarded Buck carefully, letting himself fully take in the man standing in front of him. The slightly dusty blond hairs straying out from underneath his hat, falling in a haphazard curl on his forehead. The soft baby blue eyes, framed by dark blond lashes that fanned his cheeks in an almost elegant way every time he blinked or lowered his gaze. The strong line of his nose that lead down to the cupid's bow of his top lip then down to the fullness of them, that put the prettiest buckle-bunnies to complete and utter shame.

"You know, uh," John began softly, his smile dropping the tiniest bit, only in concentration at the serious tone he now felt rise in him. Buck cocked his head to the side at the sound, "when this whole circuit ends at the NFR is Vegas, and there were only two cowboy's left in that arena, it'd be me, and it'd be you, Buck."

Something sparked in Buck's eyes, his smile towards John softening even further as a deep but gentle laugh escaped him. "Don't count on it."

24 notes · View notes

immajustvibehere · 2 years

Text

The Romantic Poet

Paring: Arthur Morgan x female Reader

oneshot: fluff, flowers & dancing

summary: You have been running with the van der Linde gang for a while now. One evening, you find a clue that someone in the gang might be falling in love with you. It doesn't take long until you figure out that Arthur could be the one.

find my Masterlist here

2500 words, 14 minutes reading time

A week had barely passed at Horseshoe Overlook when you returned to your tent after a day of chores. The gang was still in the process of settling in, transforming this small and well-hidden patch of grass into a spot you honestly felt at home. Everyone had been working their asses off and because of that it had slowly started to become a cozy place with tables, campfires, henhouse and all the wagons and tents set up. You had just finished mending the last of the men's coats and were ready to call it a day, maybe taking your book and reading a few pages at the fire or joining the other girls for dinner when you saw a flower on your sleeping mat.

Puzzled, you picked it up and inspected it. It was a violet snowdrop, no doubt. You sniffed it happily - you loved flowers. But...who put it there? It hadn’t been there in the morning. Flower carefully in one hand, you strolled to Mary-Beth and Tilly who were sitting in their tent, eating stew and talking to each other.

"Look what I found in my tent", you presented the flower to the girls who had looked up when you got closer. "That's a beautiful flower, y/n", Tilly confirmed. "What do you mean you found it in your tent?", Mary-Beth inquired with a smile on her face. "Well...it was lying on my mat. I don't know, wasn't there when I left it in the morning. None of you put it there, did you?", you asked.

Mary-Beth smile seemed to grow: "Of course not! We haven't left camp since we arrived, and you only get those flowers close to the mountains."

"So, who...", you started.

"One of the boys, of course!", Mary-Beth interrupted, "Looks like you've got a secret admirer!"

You couldn't help but blush: You? A secret admirer? It would have been easier to convince you that somebody was giving you the run-around, but you still sat down with the girls. After only five minutes, there was an excited conversation going on in which you tried to figure out who could have possibly left the flower on your bed.

"Could have been Lenny", Tilly suggested.

"Charles or John...", Mary-Beth went on.

You smiled embarrassed, listening to the girl's suggestions.

"Maybe some of the older ones? A drunk reverend or Bill, Mr. Pearson...Oh, y/n! I really hope it wasn't Micah", Tilly continued mockingly. The idea made you cringe. Suddenly, Arthur walked past you carrying a hay bale. He eyed you quickly, nodding and murmuring an "Ev'ning ladies." After he was out of earshot, you heard Mary-Beth giggling: "I think we found your secret admirer."

"What?", you felt your cheeks burn up.

Tilly also looked satisfied: "I didn't know Arthur was back. I haven't seen him at camp the whole week. In this case- obviously it must be Arthur."

It was really difficult to hide your excitement. Truth is, you had secretly hoped it would be Arthur, but it was too good to be true. You had developed some feelings for him over the last couple of months, pretty soon after you had started running with the gang half a year ago. Not that Arthur had ever given you a particular reason to love him, but you found him handsome and had noticed that he is by far gentler and kinder than it might look like at first glance.

"I think he even blushed when he saw the flower", Mary-Beth added, fetching you back from your daydreams. "Oh, I just remembered. We rode past quite a few of snowdrops when we came down from those nasty mountains and you went on about how much you missed flowers and vegetation for about half an hour. Surely, he must have overheard that", Mary-Beth reminded you - and it was true. Arthur was on the wagon behind yours, you recalled actively looking at him, admiring his tired expression while he was smoking. You had also watched him when he was unbuttoning his winter coat after you had left the snowy areas.

"Y/n!", Tilly mocked.

"What?" Oh no, you hadn't been listening.

"I said: What are you going to do about it?", Tilly repeated her question you hadn't registered the first time. You managed to shrug.

It was hard to fall asleep tonight. Was it really Arthur who had left you the flower? Did he even notice you ever before? You swallowed as you remembered an incident in Colter. Dutch, Micah and Arthur had been out to look for some food and returned with a handful of provisions and Mrs. Adler. Then, you stayed in the house you had been assigned to, not greeting the men, simply because you had been too put-off by the idea of going out into the cold again. You had been sitting on a chair close the fireplace, wrapped in blankets when Arthur had come in.

"Hey y/n. Yer alright?"

You had nodded: "Sure. Cold but fine. Am I...Am I needed?"

"Ah, no. Didn't want to disturb ya. I just thought I should bring ya ehh-" he had looked at the can in his hand "some assorted biscuits."

You had taken the can, smiling at the man. Thinking back, his red cheeks might have not only been because of the cold. "Thank you, Arthur. I would have got some food later...I mean...you found enough food, didn't you?"

"Yeah...but I saw Uncle and Micah pocket some stuff they shouldn't 've and thought...I better bring ya something b'fore it's all gone."

You had chuckled and thanked the man, who, after throwing some more branches into the fire, had excused himself with a "Catch ya later then".

The next few days you tried to pay more attention to Arthur. You would wish him a good morning and a good evening if your ways happened to cross around that time. He always returned to camp in the evening to sleep there, probably because he, Javier and Charles were planning to rescue Sean who had been caught in Blackwater. When the day of the rescue had come, you were nervous. You remembered what state the gang had left Blackwater in and to have Arthur go so close...

"G'morning", Arthur greeted you. You were sat on the edge of the hill, your legs dangling and a coffee mug in hand. It was still very early and the people in camp only slowly started to wake up. You knew Arthur and the others would ride to get Sean early in the morning and you wanted to say your good-bye, but now Arthur had caught you off guard, still mulling over everything that could go wrong. Arthur stood next to you, his hands on his gun belt.

"Good morning, Arthur", you replied with a nod. Arthur considered you for a second before he said: "Ya look a bit pale. Everything okay?" You nodded quickly, not wanting him to worry about you: "Yeah. I'm just...it doesn't feel right to have you go so close to Blackwater."

Arthur gave you a reassuring smile: "Don't ya worry, we'll get that Irish bastard back in one piece." You looked into your cup, avoiding eye contact: "But can you promise to bring yourself back in one piece?" There was moment of silence before Arthur cleared his throat and muttered a "Sure".

The conversation was more than embarrassing, but you found some consolation in the smile you exchanged with Arthur afterwards. Still, as soon as the three men had left camp your anxiety started to rise with every passing hour. Concentrating on chores was difficult when your eyes always ventured to the track that leads to your camp. The sun was slowly setting when you heard the sound of hooves and cheers coming from the trees and moments later the group arrived, led by Sean. You noticed immediately that Arthur was missing and when you approached Charles about it, he patted your shoulder and smiled: "Don't worry, y/n. He's only a couple of minutes behind us. He stayed to look for valuables at the bounty hunter's camp."

This stopped you from worrying too much, but you still waited close to the track from which you suspected Arthur to arrive. Karen mocked you for not helping to prepare for the party that was soon to start, but Mary-Beth was kind enough to distract her. You only heard as she whispered to Karen that you had "very good reasons" to wait on Arthur. Did you, though? It's not like just because he was so kind as to leave you a flower in your tent once that he now expects you to greet him personally every time he comes back from a mission.

You were about to head to the others and lend them a hand when you heard the crunching of twigs and turned around again. Arthur was approaching on his horse. You looked at each other when you got a glimpse of something red and greenish in his right hand, though it quickly disappeared behind the horse's neck when Arthur noticed you looking down. "Glad you're back", you stuttered. "Yer all that's left from the welcoming committee?", he smiled kindly, dismounting only after he let whatever he had held in his hand disappear in his satchel. You blushed: "Well, yeah...the others are...uhm...getting ready for the party. I thought I'd wait for you..."

"Thank you", he smiled flustered and walked next to you. "Got some good loot?", you asked. "Oh yeah, some rings 'n buckles...might be worth a couple of dollars", he answered. "The most valuable thing you got", you started mockingly, "is - of course - Sean. I have to say I missed his banter." Arthur laughed: "Ya really missed this? I'm not afraid to admit I stayed behind to get rid of it again." You shared a laugh before Mary-Beth called you over.

"It's way harder to talk to Arthur knowing he might like me!", you admitted in a whisper to Mary-Beth. "So you like him back, do you?", Mary-Beth giggled. You looked at her shocked for a moment, you had thought it was as clear as day, but apparently it wasn't? But admitting it...you managed to stammer some nonsense. "It's okay", Mary-Beth calmed you "I understand." She gave you a wink and went off.

After a couple of minutes, the party was in full swing. People were singing and drinking, Sean was particularly loud. Of course, you greeted him too and Sean hugged you tightly, laughing: "Ah! I missed ya beautiful face, y/n!" Dutch got the gramophone running and you joined Hosea who sat on a chair, watching Dutch and Molly dance.

"Hey Hosea", you said, sitting down next to him. "Ah, great timing y/n! Do you know how to dance?" You blushed a bit and shook your head: "No, never done it." Hosea clapped on his thigh and had a big cocky smile in his face: "Perfect! Arthur my boy, come over here!" You whirled around. What was that about? When Arthur was close enough, Hosea sat up straight.

"Listen here, Miss y/n just told me she had never danced before. I'd teach her myself but I'm too old for that so how about you show her some moves", Hosea suggested. You panicked. While your eyes were roaming the scene you caught a glimpse of Mary-Beth who was looking at you, seemingly very satisfied. So that was her doing…

"I don't know, Hosea...I'm not a great dancer myself...", Arthur went on.

"Oh no, I insist. A lady has to dance", Hosea now shooed you off the chair. Helplessly, you looked at Arthur who was clearing his throat. The two of you held eye contact for what felt like an eternity, both of you too embarrassed to make the next move.

"Come on now! What are you waiting for?", Hosea cheered.

Arthur led you to a piece of grass with more space. "'s that okay? Ya don't have to dance with me, if ya don't want", Arthur's voice was deep and kind. You nodded: "No, no. I really want to. But I can't dance...at all...", you swallowed. "'s fine...", Arthur went on, "we'll figure it out."

Slowly and carefully, as if he wanted to give you another opportunity to back down, he placed his right hand on your hip and with the left hand took your right hand. It barely felt like he was touching you, he would just let your hand rest on his. You knew enough about dancing that you put your free hand on his shoulder. Arthur would make a slow step, forcing your foot in the according position and counting the rhythm. You didn't dare to lift your eyes off the ground, you feared stumbling or stepping on Arthur's feet, if you would do so.

"Y/n", Arthur said, but you didn't answer, expecting a kind of question or statement to follow your name. But nothing came for a while. Suddenly you felt his hand leaving your hip. Smoothly it was placed on your chin which was then lifted so you had to look up. "Don't look down. Jus' follow my lead, ya doing good", Arthur praised. You were a blushing mess at those words and your heart beat faster immediately. "B-But I'll step on your-", you tried to explain. "I don't mind. I've been shot at today, I can handle ya trampling all over me", Arthur assured you.

The dancing went fine, you managed to keep up and whenever you stumbled, Arthur corrected your steps smoothly. You would have almost called yourself a natural dancer, when Arthur started to speed things up a bit, performing little twirls and twists with you. They had you stumble and wobble all over the place, but Arthur caught you every time, bringing you back into the rhythm of the music. Both of you were laughing and panting after ten minutes. You had of course noticed that Arthur's grip on your hip and hand had got more confident with every minute and you were sorry to let go, but you had to catch your breath.

Mary-Beth had ventured close to you to and she said amusedly: "See Arthur, it's okay to dance. Doesn't mean we won't stop thinking you're angry and sad."

"That what you think of me?" Arthur replied while his hand travel through his hair, shoving loose strands off his forehead.

"Sad in a good way, like a romantic poet", Mary-Beth giggled.

You blushed at those words, still panting next to Arthur and Mary-Beth. Suddenly, Arthur's eyes were on you again. With a soft smile on his face he said: "Well, that's about all I can muster."

The next day you woke with a slight headache. Apparently, you had drunk a bit too much after your dance with Arthur. Once you sat up, your gaze fell on red flowers on your table, lying on a note. There was no need to hold in your smile, even before reading the note you knew it had to be from Arthur. The note only confirmed it. "Thank you for the dance". You looked around. The sun had risen but the camp was still quiet with everybody suffering from the aftermath of the party. But, with his broad back turned towards you, you saw Arthur sitting at a table, his hat lazily on his lap and his hair unkempt. You figured you might as well join him for a morning cup of coffee.

------×

I'm sorry this is a bit rushed, but I wanted to get it out there. I have so many unfinished drafts .-.

If you are interested in a longer slow burn, you might want to read my story Chance Encounter

#arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption community #rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr fanfiction #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr

480 notes · View notes