#dutch is observant but only when he wants to be (otherwise i think he would have kicked micah out of the gang a long time ago) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nexionswild · 11 months

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IN WHICH MANEATER!reader admits their feelings for the van der linde boys. [p.1] [p.2]

includes: arthur ∿ john ∿ dutch ∿ hosea ∿ javier ∿ micah.

content warning: none, pure fluff, no pronouns [GN], some fem!words [“minx” “temptress”]

a/n: first headcanons in a while! personality may not be as accurate but eh, do what you will !!

✦ ﹒ arthur morgan

you.. what?

arthur doesn’t believe in being remotely worthy of any romantic interests, he always thought you were out of his league. needless to say, it’s a pretty loving yet interesting surprise. he even comes as far as questioning your tastes in men.

but of course, he doesn’t say no, and god knows what would happen to his mental state if he ever dismissed your feelings.

by the time your confession came out, he’d admit that he loved admiring you from a distance, seeing how you swayed men with your charms and wits. it was always fascinating for him in a weird way. he can’t quite put it in words, but by simply observing you, he could feel things.

“alright, alright … i’ll take the goddamn minx’s hand, but don’tcha go cryin’ on Grimshaw’s dress if ya’ startin’ to regret yer decision, understand?”

obviously, he’s so grateful to have you under his wing now. it’s almost like a dream he’ll never want to wake up from, it’s a blessing, even.

although arthur still doubt how long you’ll stay with him, due to his bad experience during his first relationships with some women, he’s trying to be optimistic about the way it will turn out.

he doesn’t have much to say or do, except awkwardly appreciating your presence and the way all of your attention shifted onto him, but he’s not a slacker in this relationship, hell no.

you’re constantly victim of his tease, and often gets to be his main focus every now and then. being a natural gentleman, he doesn’t mind offering you help during your missions. and his treatment gets especially more overwhelming after a task that includes seducing a feller for information. he’d like to say that he’s not the jealous type, he understands you’re just doing your job, but god. he should be the only man that gets to hear all of these sweet words.

✦ ﹒ john marston

completely and utterly baffled. him? you and him? together?

“why?” was the first thing that came out of his mouth. he regrets it.

when you explained it’s really by the way he behaves with you, the way he’s gentle and soft for you, always slacking around until he gets to work when you ask him to from dutch’s part, that’s where he realizes, he really didn’t made any efforts to try and keep his feelings away from you. he is embarrassed.

lord knows how red his face was when you admitted that he may be one of the most tender man you’ve ever came across from the millions of other ones you had to seduce for survival, to think he was one in a million, in a way, you made him feel special.

he could only hide his lips with the back of his hand as he reluctantly tried to look at you, in which he desperately can’t. and while you await his answer, his heart keeps beating faster and faster, he worries you may even hear the sound of his heartbeat from where you are.

eventually, after a long moment of awkward, peaceful silence, with the sounds of birds and winds clearing the void of noises your head, john eventually grumbled a little “yeah, i guess i like you too.”

he can’t believe that he managed to get into a relationship with someone as charismatic as you, knowing he absolutely has zero charms. but this reality doesn’t apply to you, it seems. with the way you shower him in compliments and constantly pampering him with kisses ever since your confession, it makes it hard to believe that he wouldn’t be a man of interest.

in return, he’d quietly shove all of his love and affection by pulling you into a simple hug or enticing you to join their partying when the gang suddenly pops out the alcohol and plays music for some event. he’s a fun man when he tries to be, otherwise, it’s really just long, and silent moments of adoration as he hugs and cuddles you from behind.

before he even got together with you, he was already a little frustrated with the men you had to engage with for the sake of the mission, but now that you’re his, his frustration is even worse.

“you better try and come up with som’ other plans, regarding [y/n] dutch.”

✦ ﹒ dutch van der linde

“of course, i’ll love you forever.”

he’ll tease you about your feelings, dutch already grew a reputation amongst women for his ability to entertain with just talks and conversations. he even swayed men to like him for being friendly. after all, why do you think he knows and have contacts with so many people?

admittedly, dutch secretly loved it when you confessed to him. there’s something about you initiating it that sparks a bigger interest in you. you were a pretty thing to look at, a painting in exposition for a museum. of course he had his eyes on you for a long while ever since you joined.

he only puts you in those (insufferable) tasks to see you in action, and boy, was he impressed with the way you’d easily wrap those creeps, men and women alike, around your finger so quickly. not only were you useful for the gang, but you proved you’re more worthy than those petty missions.

he’ll never admit how he would also punish himself watching you whisper those sweet-nothings into their ear, only hosea knew the kind of face he would make when you did your job.

surprisingly committed and devoted into this relationship, you honestly expected something lacking. i mean, the way he treated molly should’ve trigger those red flags, but there’s something about him that you couldn’t quite touch on, that was so annoyingly attractive. and that devotion never faded away, you always kept him entertain in some wicked way, god knows what kind of poison you have for him to be so hooked on you.

he’d always slide his hand around your waist, tracing the edge of your body with his fingers as he looked down on you. and the way you gracefully accepted his touch only made him want to crave for more, he wants more of your subtle validation every time he shares an intimate moment with you. you’re his elixir, and he will never stop getting sick if it means consuming you more and more.

don’t expect this relationship to end. he will never let go of you. ever.

good luck trying to contribute to the gang and do your job, because dutch will never stop fucking up your work for the simple fact that he should be the only one who gets to experience your seduction.

“i should seriously come up with different plans now that you’re mine.”

✦ ﹒ hosea matthews

it took hosea some convincing to let him know that you were serious about your feelings, he always took everything under a sarcastic joke, until he realizes you actually mean it, his smile drops as he’s processing the information.

hosea is aware he’s not as devilishly handsome as dutch, he thinks of himself as a boring old man who likes novels and wisdom. to think you, a young and seductive temptress, in love with him? he doesn’t know how to eat that in a whole.

that is probably the first time you ever seen him that nervous, but the way he plays it out as a joke was still endearing, but annoying, at the same time.

“who forced you? i swear, i won’t be mad if ya’ just told me, y’know?”

when he finally accepts the fact that you’re really interested, hosea couldn’t help but smile again. he’s a jokester, seriously, what do you see in that guy? he makes you laugh. (nudge nudge, wink wink) and the sheer fact that he made you bend over (not in that way)mon your tummy as you try to suppress your laughter into quiet snorts so many times was just charming, in your opinion. and impressive as well. no men made you laugh like that before.

you couldn’t care less if he was too old or too modest, he was the perfect amount of gentleman. he’s been loyal to you like some kind of butler, and it was just so lovely to see him act like such a domestic husband when you ask nothing from him, and it was even more funny to see him quietly appreciating your flirtatious remarks before you got together.

now that you are in a relationship, your teasing has gotten even worse, and hosea desperately tries to keep up with you but you always left him in long flustered silences before he cracks another joke to try and change the topic. but he doesn’t leave you do all the talk, when you need comforting words after a mission, he’s here. and he’s the perfect man for encouragement and motivation.

he understands that it must be hard to always be a man’s attention, and he couldn’t be any more proud of you for trying to play your part for the sake of the gang. he doesn’t care about the comments you have to use towards these men for information, he knows whatever you do or say, he’s the only one you love, and you’re the only one he loves.

“you’re just.. perfect.”

✦ ﹒ javier escuella

you’ve never seen him so. happily. flustered.

he doesn’t want to show this side to you, he’s a scary outlaw who knows how to handle a knife, guns and such. but you made his heart flutter, how is he supposed to react to your feelings in a way that wouldn’t miserably damage his image as a brave yet intimidating gunman?

being generally polite and soft-spoken, you couldn’t hear him literally grumbling in spanish under his breath, not like you could understand him anyways, he was talking too fast in your opinion.

“ay.. dios mío. i don’t know how to say it. but, i really..”

he can’t afford to look you in the eyes, you’re so beautiful and precious. you’re no saint and that, he shamefully loves it, so much. no amount of words can describe how he loves seeing you talking your way out of conflict with those honey words. and because of that, you’ll only ever hear his confession in spanish before he pulls you in an embrace, which told you that he’ll happily stay by your side if that’s what you want.

it frustrates you that he’ll only talk about his feelings in his native language, that’s his mother tongue, and as much as you love to hear his love words in spanish, you also want to know what that means. you want to hear those words clear and loud, and javier can’t help but chuckle at your desperation. it was adorable. he didn’t know you had that side for him; being cute. usually, he would only see you tempting men and women, or constantly hearing your teases.

seeing you pout just made him want to speak spanish more often, he savors everything you offer him. and there couldn’t be anything more delicious than your new expressions, he especially loves it when you blush for him, because it came to a point where hearing his mexican rants was.. weirdly attractive.

“te quiero mucho, querida.”

✦ ﹒ micah bell

WHAT? you had all the men in the world and out of everything, you chose him? him???

he doesn’t understand you, he really doesn’t. he’s been here, shaming all of your good graces and degrading you into oblivion since your sole purpose here is “to pretend to be a sexworker” and you like him?

fine. he may have been under your spell as well, i mean, you’re attractive. he knows that you are, why else would dutch set you up in dirty work like that? — but he have way too much pride, and if you think he’ll apologize for his behavior or told you about how he felt about you, safe to say: don’t get your hopes up.

not only is he straight up puzzled, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he’s been craving for you this whole time, he was just in denial. he had too much confidence and pride to admit that he’d ever fall in love with someone like you, i mean, he’s been acting like this for so many years, what makes you different from the others? why was your attention so important to him? you’re nothing but some whore, right? or so he thought.

“fine.. but don’t get yer’ hopes up, pretty girl. just cuz’ i’m blessin’ you with my last name don’t mean anythin’. got that, sweetheart?’

he’s lying. you know he is. blessing you with his last name? is he expecting you to stay until marriage?

not that you mind, since you’re crazy enough to develop feelings for him. and he’s crazy enough to make you want this marriage.

ever since that day, micah has been noticeably more attentive towards you, both by hearing out your adventures and by touch. you wouldn’t notice him scooting closer and closer whenever you talked, you wouldn’t notice the way his head cocked to the side as his hand slid up your waist, tracing the frame of your body before reaching your shoulder and firmly grabbing it, pulling you closer to him. you only noticed when you felt his breath tickling your chin.

oh, he enjoys having an effect on you. all those months, he’d seen you play your way with people in sexual nonsense. he never liked how you got all the attention, or that you were focus on anyone else but him for that matter, but now he’s got you just where he wants you to be, right beneath him.

he loves to see you get quiet when he’s close.

“well? don’tcha keep me waitin’ pretty girl, better talk or waste my time.”

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incarnateirony · 3 years

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Hi! I’m still not really over the last episode (and that happy montage in the end i-) and I’m feel confused about what’s part of the episode was fake. I mean the end totally is. But all Chuck scene was superweird too. And sometimes i think that it should be Cas instead of Lucifer and Jack felt him. I mean... confused! How do you feel about that?

Okay so here’s the thing -- this is a multifaceted episode--

BuckLeming, while often herded efficiently by Dabb, can muddy up the textual waters, leave gaps, and things unexplained.

However, that doesn’t account for Showalter’s choices in direction. Dutch shots out the ASS which are typically used to evoke that something is "wrong." Lots of panoramas, tracking shots, zooms and blurs in ways that simply are-not-standard for SPN. Extreme aerial shots.

One might even think “maybe it’s Chuck looking in on them!” but then you realize the same overhead view zoomed out on *Chuck* even and panned out to the horizon again.

One of the early mega-zooms literally zoomed out to The World, even. I’m just gonna gesture people to my tag on that and let them think on that, much less the empty world orbiting on the news or whatever the hell else.

There were *several* Cas-baits, yes. Yes, that was intentional from our actual authors.

But when it comes down to “fake episode”, here’s where we were at.

15.17-19 run immediately concurrently. At the end of 17, Chuck says this was his ending.

Now, the Winchesters largely derailed that ending, so Chuck was writing new material.

But Chuck is also seeking death.

He wrote a suicide note in 11. He wrote the story that would end in him and Amara being eradicated. And whatever influence he was exerting forcefully with Michael and Lucifer to bop the story around was all in the interest of seeing his book. One might think “to keep the Winchesters from killing him”, but he was desperate to see what his ending WAS, to know it and experience it and scream after them.

The dour taking of “no one cares” right after “I care(d)” about humanity is its own highlight going on. But wait, there’s MORE.

When Dabb dropped his pre-episode thing, we started talking before the episode.

So I mean, I think what we were *mostly* witnessing is the pen being ripped away.

But this is that emptiness that lingers even with Chuck generally resolved. They’re still kinda on the pages. The book is presented as shut, and the next steps are not taken. Development stops, if not drops.

This entire thing is so meta my damn head hurts.

Summarily: Is it just like, some weird AU that’s gonna go away? Not so much. Is it an incomplete portion of the story told from a skew? Absolutely. And is there still someone watching over them? T’would seem so. The whole World, even. Beyond Chuck.

Now the point at which we start blocking off issues of “eugenie writes like she’s 3″ is where we ask about things like “god power” or whatever else being thrown in the mix along with eugenie’s ki ball special effects that are literally always unique to her episodes, even if other people have to add the SFX.

So while it was a good bit of masterful work to do it via buckleming for this style of bump, it still inevitably has its flaws because... buckleming. But... Showalter was there. And one thing to note is almost every single scene entrance had some sort of major pan or zoom effect. That’s not typical for him.

The entire thing is designed to evoke, directorially:

One style: crooked shots, unlevel, unbalanced, uneasy feeling.

Second style: Over-under; some force is watching them on high, while others have a sort of brechtian absurdity, which seats it like a play on an elevated stage.

We are the audience, looking up at figures half the episode; but a second audience is looking in from “on high” and out over the world. As if perhaps even from the heavens.

Third style: CSI Miami, basically? Parts of this episode were sectioned off to be like a procedural crime drama in its cinematography and flashbacks. Which is ironic, because Dean loathes procedural dramas, but at the same time some of this fandom demands a procedural monster show instead of a family drama show.

Sam and Dean barely have any lines in the episode *until* we hit Crime Drama Time. Then suddenly, they reveal all of their case work. Despite Dean’s hatred of crime dramas, this is honestly when I feel like the brothers kicked in their own pen.

Let’s play a game-- the winchesters are aware they can write their own story. So they start telling the story they think people want to hear, or maybe just fill in the gaps from when Chuck gets dropped on his ass. Maybe Dean’s the one writing about how many times god punched them in the face whereas Sam is breaking down the crime scene investigation front. Another, where it feels like we’re loosely circling the war table as others lightly wander too.

But everything before that is the first and second style, and even after that, the overview-angle remains. The uneasiness is gone but there is an emptiness otherwise. But we are no longer spectators from beneath the stage, but staring into them.

I still very much expect everyone to “die” one more time and several specifics to choose to walk back into life at the end of it.

Is it a *complete* false narrative? No. We’re not just gonna turn around and be like “oh that whole ep didn’t happen.” But the writer lost his pen and got jacked at one point, while we also observed the stage from a series of angles as different audiences.

Riddle me this: Why show the World? “Because it’s empty and just them!” okay but there’s a lot of ways to show that which actually gets that point a whole lot better across than “here, here’s a planet that still looks lit up”--yes I know electricity is still running until stuff runs out but essentially speaking, the end of the episode shows us the kind of dramatic shots that could be used for that.

CASey just poofed in the World in the TV, seems legit.

Let’s see these overhead angles again, knowing it isn’t just Chuck.

This sort of overview is known for causing a “dollhouse effect” that derealizes the episode and makes them seem, well, like toys. Which is interesting. Because Chuck isn’t the only one watching them on high.

Cool, this is fine.

Either way, the entire episode is DESIGNED to cause some major uncanny valley. There’s a lot of parts that simply *haven’t been told or filled in.* It’s almost like evasive maneuvering, half the content just never made it to print, and what did wasn’t in its best draft. There may be battling authors, or a transition of authorship. But the thing is: this is not the complete story.

There is an entire missing section about Sam and Dean even finding out that Jack is a power siphon which they hadn’t witnessed yet much less arranged an entire plan.

Even Chuck’s episodes are generally told from the general POVs of the Winchesters, but this was absolutely not.

Matthew 28: 18: And Jesus came and spake unto them, saying, All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth. Put a pin in that one.

Unless CHUCK IS WRITING HIS OWN FAKE DRAMATIC END, the overhead view, however, IS NOT CHUCK PERSPECTIVE.

-- Regardless, the metaness of “fish in a toilet bowl BRL plot” stacked into this makes it very difficult to accurately decipher the lines, especially with only one watch so far--just skimming back through right now to grab a few things I remember.

Some parts are plot salad buckleming.

Some parts are us as forced spectators of a stage play.

some parts are shifting authorship

Some parts are the heavens looking out over the earth it loves.

------

It almost feels as if, within enclosed spaces, unsteadiness and stageplay, we have Chuck’s POV.

But by the end it ceases to have any relevance, as he is no longer the author, and instead, we have the Presence of Being overseeing them, letting the Winchesters argue for their own proverbial pen in their own storytellings between here and there.

ALTERNATE PROPOSAL:

it is all one point of view. All of it. Pretend you’re someone’s eyes on a situation, you just happen to be in the sky half the time, and the uncanny valley is pulling forward the concept of being a presence that simply isn’t *there.* For example we're looking extremely closely at passed out dean but the camera turns and raises to level with Sam before Dean gets up. Our viewership lens is rising to meet Sam.

The camera stays in motion to fill a role or slot of a viewer. At first it’s haunting and ominous, but at other times, it’s simply part of the room, when it isn’t hovering from on high. Rather than speaking of empty space, we are viewing The World through that empty space, as if it were a Being.

Just a few more eye catching shots.

But whoever or whatever frames the end, even without Chuck--like the story is still turning on the pages, roughly.

The montage at the end feels like the Swan Song one, more or less, but there’s no narrator, no chuck.

The writer, the writer we know at least, is Absent.

Men are writing their own Stories.

But they aren’t alone.

I know how you see yourself. Angry and dark like your father. You think that’s what you are. But you are the most loving man in the whole world. That is who you are.

Someone does care. Even if right now, Sam and Dean don’t feel like anyone does.

...Because of you. I cared. For you, for Sam, for Jack, for the Whole World.

I cared.

“That’s not who I am.”

I am.

I speak therefore I am.

#supernatural #spn #15.19 #meta #my meta #the world #world #absence #being #polol

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yanderedbdimagines · 3 years

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Hey there! Would you do some headcannons of how (The Wraith, The Doctor and The Trapper) would treat their darlings after they abducted them and how they would react if s/o try to fight back? (Sorry for any grammar mistake, my english is sucks)

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Haha don’t worry! Your English is just fine if I can assume that this language isn’t your native tongue. It isn’t mine either. That’d be Dutch, if you are curious. And even if it was I wouldn’t mind at all. We all have our vices.

Anyhow, I like this ask, and I believe it’ll go as I’ve written below.

PS: I made the so a crush.

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The Doctor

* He’ll watch and observe you closely for the first week after he’s given you the freedom to roam around in nearly all of the rooms and hallways of the hospital. You’ll only be allowed outside if you stay close to him and within arm’s reach so that he can keep a close eye on you.

* Eventually, he’ll pull you into different kinds of conversations in order to pick apart and understand your mind for as much as he can- documenting them for future use and trying to get a good grip on everything that will either displease you or make you happy when confronted by it.

* He’ll also try to perform simple tests on you without trying to hurt you for whereas possible, which includes a sudden blood draw, eye examination and a sudden tap against the knee… You are the only test subject he can’t ever fathom to lose since you obviously are more than that to him, so he’s unbelievably careful with your body… Unless you would ask him to do otherwise, of course… Oh boy…

* Like mentioned before, he’ll do almost anything for you. Just try and listen to him in return and remain genuine to your words, no matter how difficult it will be with a psychopathic killer like him.

* He’s a rather difficult and unpredictable man to understand and this includes the type of feelings he’d prefer for you to develop for him, although he isn’t very picky. He obviously want you to love him, first and foremost, but he definitely won’t complain if your love would be mixed with you hating him in your own unique way as well. It’d only show that you aren’t afraid to hide your true feelings for him, like many yandere’s would normally demand from you.

* Do know that if all you feel for him is resentment instead, which also includes you trying to fight against his overall advancements… Well… He’ll dislike that immensely and he’ll turn to draconic measures instead in order to *fix* that and try his chances there. This includes trying to find a way to brainwash someone under his control like what he’s always been trying to do for years now. For your sake, I can only hope for you that he won’t ever complete his lifelong goal if you’d ever want a chance of escaping him.

The Trapper

* He’ll be calm, distant and surprisingly understanding with your feelings. Some of his actions and word choices on the rare moments he does speak are going to be very rough around the edges, but he’ll be very tactical in his general approach of trying to win over your affections.

* You can say that he’ll try to think carefully about his own actions and attempts to adjust himself to your liking like a proper psychologist would do when dealing with a new client before slowly edging himself closer to you physically as mentally for as far as you’ll allow it. This way, he’ll hope to get you to fall for him on the long run.

* With half of a certain amount of time he isn’t around you or within a trial, however, he’ll patrol around his territory more than usual and place more beartraps*1 around the border than he usually would. An unintentional giveaway to other killers and possibly survivors that the Trapper currently has something underneath his wing that he’s very protective of and doesn’t want others to get close to… Something he’ll easily fight to the death for if it’d ever come to it.

* With the other half of the time, he’ll work on his blade and his contraptions and try to keep the estate in working order. Those machines won’t oil and maintain themselves as they are basically needed for him to do his job properly. Yes… Besides trials, this now also includes your *protection* from any outsiders.

* He won’t be fazed at all anymore if you’d ever try to fight and distance yourself away from him. At least, not now that he has you exactly on the spot he wants you to be, which is in the MacMillan estate. If needed, he’ll let a classic case of Stockholm syndrome do the work for him. Even years from now, you’ll eventually have to break underneath his advancements if he’s the only one you can freely interact with…

* If you do finally become his S/O, he’ll mellow out dramatically and he’ll loosen up the security around the borders quite a bit since he’ll have faith in your loyalty to him and how to keep yourself out of trouble. He won’t even care if you’d start up a relationship with anyone else out there, or bring them back as a third wheel. As long as you remain within a relationship with him, no blood will be shed.

1) Yes. He’ll most definitely have notified you about them since he prefers for you to remain unscathed. An unspoken warning if you’d ever try to escape him, though… Although they are so more used to keep killers, rivals and potential rescuers out instead of deliberately keeping you inside the borders. A security measure with extra benefits, funny enough.

The Wraith

* He’ll be over the moon with your presence alone, and he’ll show that through drawn signs and his overall actions seen that his ability to speak is nonexistent. In fact, the very first thing he did was giving you an hotel bell. One which came from the Mount Ormond Resort… A sign of his good trust and his promise to you that he’ll protect you from any dangers in and outside of his territory…

* His animalistic growls and rattled breathing will sound softer than what you’re used to, his piercing gaze set firmly on you as his head is stuck in its ever distinctive tilt. He loves watching you, and he’ll follow you to almost anywhere and everywhere when not in a trial. It can be a bit overbearing during those times, really.

* He’s actually very peaceful and submissive when he’s with you. In a sense, you have the leash on him instead of the other way around. Yet, that doesn’t mean he won’t show his metaphorical teeth to the people he considers his rival if they ever land in his field of vision.

* He will lose his mind, however, if you seem to feel threatened by their presence as well. He’ll also act similar to this if you’d ever try to run away from Autohaven wreckers with someone else by your side. Do know that this anger won’t ever be focused on you. He loves you too much to do that. The sight won’t be pretty when he catches them, so you best turn yourself away/run faster when he tries to kill them in the most brutal way he can think of at the time.

* If you’d ever try to fight back whilst captured or after you’d got caught after your failed escape attempt, he’ll let you. He understands you need to vent your frustrations, but you have to understand; he just can’t let you go. You’re too precious to him. You’re his lover after all.

* Like a puppy riddled with guilt, he’ll eventually bow down and lower his head as he tries to offer up his hand to you as apology for anything he might have done wrong(even though he might not fully understand why you didn’t like what he did on some occasions). His heart will break if you won’t reciprocate, but he won’t lash out. If anything, he’ll stick even closer to you than he did before whilst trying to smother you with small gifts and pamper you in any way he can until you finally do have to concede to his affections in one way or another. Or so he hopes…

#dbd #dead by daylight #reader #yandere #evan macmillan #herman carter #philip ojomo #doctor #trapper #wraith #insert #dbd x reader

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tiredcowpoke · 3 years

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TITLE: The Ease of a Storm PAIRING: Arthur Morgan/Reader. REQUEST: Unprompted. BLURB: A thunderstorm rolls in while you and Arthur are in the wilderness. WARNINGS: Thunderstorms, I guess? It’s mostly fluff. NOTE: I’ve seen a couple works where Arthur comforts the reader about a fear of thunder, but usually I sit there like “can’t relate” because I love thunder. To an extent at least. lol So, I figured I’d write something for people who like thunder and standing around in the rain as much as I do. I miss it in the winter where I live. Anyway, gender neutral reader! Kind of short but to the point and fun to write, so hey. There’s also a bit of a personal headcanon in there too.

Despite the pine tree, you could feel some wetness soaking into the fabric of the jacket you wore.

Thankfully, you had the foresight to take a heavier one that you usually wore, so the chill that settled didn’t effect you much. You could see your breath somewhat as the rain poured down on the ground around you, the branches of the tree at least making it only somewhat of a light spray. However, you had long since smelled the wet earth before the first drops fell where you were.

You had been sitting in the tent, reading, as Arthur had managed to doze off beside you in the late afternoon. Given the ride out to where you were near Strawberry, you weren’t sure if he was really out for the night or just napping. Still, the man deserved it. You had been acutely aware of just how much he worked for the gang, much to your own frustration at points when you just wanted to see him, have moments like earlier where you both could relax. That or when you wanted to help, but he brushed it off.

Still, it was nice to see. However, you weren’t all that inclined to join him and you had been getting a little restless when the first winds of a storm swept through the area. Luckily, the wind wasn’t too strong, just enough to add some chill and bring the rain your way. Normally, you knew you should have woken Arthur up and said something about the storm--it was still early out, maybe you could ride into Strawberry later if it gets worse.

Really, the idea of rain had gotten you a little excited. It had been enough for you to wait it out a bit before getting up and exiting the tent, wandering over toward the tree that you currently were standing under.

For once, your mind felt blank. At ease.

You could hear the rain falling against the ground and leaves of the trees, looking out over the small ravine as you watched the rain fall. You watched the dirt paths below, the odd rider racing through, hands keeping their hats securely on their heads as they rode through the downpour. There was the odd animal that would scurry across the paths down below, and you could hear them moving around near where you were. However, it didn’t seem like it was any cause for concern for you, your arms crossed in order to keep some heat in your jacket. You just listened, letting time pass.

There was no gang, no Arthur, no task at hand. Just you.

Though, your gaze flicked upward, catching a quick flutter of light in one of the clouds that loomed in the distance. Sure enough, there was a low rumble a few moments later, making a smile spread across your face.

However, you couldn’t hold onto the moment. Not forever, anyway. As the thunder settled, you heard a familiar voice call your name. There was a notable sound of alarm to it, making you turn to glance back toward where the camp was. You could see your horse standing under the tree you hitched her to, tossing her head somewhat but otherwise seemed unphased. Still, you shifted to push off the tree somewhat, hand coming down to rest against your holster.

“Arthur!” you called out, almost cursing yourself at possibly leading trouble your way instead of just heading back. Still...well, he had called out first.

Sure enough, you heard a rustle and hurried footfalls coming your way, as much as the rain threatened to drown the sound out as another rumble of thunder filled the air. Arthur walked toward you, hand resting on his hat as you relaxed somewhat.

“The hell’re you doin’?” he asked, accusatory but otherwise fine.

“Watching the storm,” you replied, turning to lean back to where you were against the tree trunk, beckoning him over with a small wave.

Arthur walked up beside you, pressing shoulder to shoulder as he tried to shelter himself under the same tree. As much as you weren’t freezing, the little warmth that offered was appreciated. You were fine with lapsing back into silence so you could listen to the downpour, but with Arthur there with you, you knew it would only be a while until he filled the silence.

However, you weren’t expecting the touch of sheepishness.

“Used to be...scared of storms. When I was little.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he replied around a sigh, “They used to get me bad, but after my mother passed...well, my ol’ man weren’t all that nice ‘bout it. Learned to stop cryin’ about them, but they used to make me anxious and thunder made me flinch well into me bein’ a teenager.”

“They don’t now,” you observed as a somewhat louder clap of thunder almost drowned out the last of his words--he hadn’t even blinked.

“Yeah, I stopped ‘round the time I got used to gunshots,” he replied, pausing a moment, “...and Hosea helped.”

“Hosea?”

“Yeah, think...think he noticed, when I was young,” he replied, a somewhat far away look in his eye as he continued, “About a year after I joined him and Dutch, he used to see a storm roll in and would linger about ‘round me. Tried to do some readin’ and writin’ too, if the storm weren’t too destructive. Eventually, he’d pull me away from camp and we’d watch it roll in if it weren’t too miserable. We were out west then, too...would feel the heat drop off and you just knew.”

“...I’ve always liked thunderstorms,” you admitted, “and rain. Ever since I was young. I’d get scolded a lot, running out into the rain and the mud whenever one would roll around.”

“You and I was two different kids, then,” Arthur commented, “Couldn’t catch me inside anywhere unless there was a storm.”

You let out a small hum in agreement, leaning against his side as you rested your head against his shoulder. The leather of his jacket had gone somewhat cold in the weather, some wetness on your cheek but you were getting rained on already. Though, Arthur shifted to wrap his arm around you and hold you closer to his side. You ran over what he told you in your head, seeing that scared little kid in your mind's eye (and tried not to think too deeply on his family life back then. He had mentioned a few things about his father, you were aware of what he was like.) Though, the Hosea story warmed your heart a bit.

Admittedly, you had noticed the photo of him, Dutch, and Arthur on the side of the wagon back at camp. When you first saw it, it was strange to see the younger versions of themselves. Though, you could imagine Hosea from that photo sitting on a bedroll under a tarp, trying to read to Arthur and them sitting together at the edge of camp.

There was some envy there, admittedly. You never really had much of a father-figure in your life. Then again, Arthur may not have either, if he hadn’t have joined up with the gang.

There was a history you felt relieved to be let in on, among other things that had developed as you and Arthur got close.

“I never took you for the storm watchin’ type,” he commented after the lingering silence, your head shifting somewhat from his shoulder.

“I never took you for someone who fears them,” you returned, letting out a small chuckle at the look he shot you.

“When I was a kid,” he stressed, “I ain’t no more. Don’t make me regret tellin’ you that.”

“I won’t,” you replied with another small chuckle, “I’m glad I heard it from you, I’m sure Hosea would have brought it up eventually. He does like to rib you.”

“He sure does…”

You smiled, reaching up to turn his head so you could kiss him. You held the gesture for a few moments, Arthur letting out a sound from the back of his throat before he pulled away somewhat.

“You’re soakin’ wet,” he commented, causing you to scoff lightly.

“You’re being dramatic. I’m a little damp.”

“No, seriously, I don’t even know how you’re not shiverin’,” he returned, though he didn’t shove you away from him as he glanced out toward the ravine again, “Though, hate to cut your fun time out here short, but that gets any closer and we might have to think about headin’ into town. I may not be scared of thunder no more, but I’ve seen what lightnin’ does.”

“...Yeah,” you admitted--you had been noticing the distance of the flashes and the volume of the thunder had been getting closer and louder.

“I’m sure it’ll be just as nice to listen to from inside that hotel in Strawberry,” he commented, stepping away from you.

As he did so, you could feel the coldness of the air seep in pretty quickly--maybe you were getting a little soaked. You cast one last glance out toward the gathering storm before turning and following him back toward the makeshift camp. As much as you loved storms, a warm bath seemed nice too.

#my writing.#arthur morgan x reader

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shootybangbang · 3 years

Text

[Talking Bird] 17: In which beans are ruined

[Ao3 Link]

At the mention of Trelawney, Arthur dimly recalls a scrap of half-remembered conversation from last year, when he’d idled with the man in a Lemoyne saloon while waiting for a mark to arrive. The first flicker of your existence, passing him by unknown. Like the brief touch of a licked finger through candle flame: deceptively benign, with just a whisper of the burn to follow.

Somewhere between his first and second glass of whiskey sours, Trelawney had mentioned the burgeoning demand for opium in Chinatown. A former contact of his had recently left the high stakes poker circuit to get in on the profit, and he’d lamented the loss.

“It’s a shame,” he’d said, absently swirling the ice cubes in his emptied glass and regarding the swirling wood grain of the countertop with a pensive, faraway look. And for once, the sentiment had sounded genuine. Knowing him, the man was grieving a lost business opportunity more than anything else, but it’d been a long time since Arthur had heard him even bother to feign emotion for a stranger. “She’s not suited for smuggling in the least. Can’t say I can see this ending well.”

Less Trelawney’s gift for prophecy and more stating the obvious, now that he knows exactly who he’d been talking about. Prickly disposition, clueless when it comes to violence, and far too trusting of strangers. The cavalier attitude of someone who’d never been exposed to serious conflict and who, having since been exposed, lacks even the conviction necessary to put a bullet in the man holding her hostage.

And far too delicate besides.

When you’d pulled the blanket down your shoulders to untie your braid, Arthur had tilted his head back just enough to catch an eyeful of your backside. A pretty thing to put to paper: the wet swathe of hair draped over your shoulder, the faint shadow of your spine a dark curve flickering with the shifting of firelight. Soft, dappled lines wrapped in the body of someone who’s caused him nothing but grief in the past weeks.

The view had confirmed something he’d already been suspecting: your lack of threat to anything larger than a rat terrier.

Judging by your physique, you’d probably struggle to lift anything more than fifteen pounds. Maybe twenty, on a good day. A veritably pathetic amount of muscle tone with none of the etchings that rough living leaves behind.

Some foreign high society girl fallen on hard times, he guessed. But oddly, none of the clumsy caution people of that strata have when confronted with any sort of real work. You’d fallen into the rhythm of whittling bark off the cottonwood branches too comfortably for someone unacquainted with physical labor, handled the knife with a deftness that comes only from rote repetition.

“I knew Trelawney had connections to some gang out west, but I never thought…” You shake your head slowly, dazed by the absurdity of this new development. “Did he know? When I sold them those bonds, did he realize they were yours? And why—”

“Nah, he wouldn’t have known. I, uh… wasn’t too keen on tellin’ folk I got robbed by a woman.” He rubs the back of his neck and lets out an embarrassed huff. “Told ‘em the whole thing was a bust.”

Looking back, he may as well have told them the truth. The lie hadn’t done much to salvage his pride, and had prompted weeks of jibes at his own expense. Snide little asides from Micah, overt ridicule from Bill, and the painful ordeal of Sean.

“Gettin’ sloppy in your old age,” he’d quipped. “I’ll tell you what you need, Morgan. You need to let someone else hold the reins for a change. Someone quick on the uptake, someone young and hot-blooded and—”

“Get back to me when you’re done complimentin’ yourself,” Arthur had replied, already walking away.

“Wait, Morgan — take me with you next time you ride out! I’ll scout somethin’ out, and we can…”

Sean had been insistent as a mosquito and twice as annoying, but ultimately bearable so long as he had a beer in his hand or a pillow over his head. His own head, though he’d been sorely tempted otherwise.

No, what had really driven him to leave camp had been Dutch.

Dutch and his put-upon fatherly air, all stern mouthed disapproval and downward sloping shoulders. His pointed observations of Jack’s tattered jacket, well on its way to becoming a patchwork Ship of Theseus. Pearson’s dwindling supply of seasonings, so scarce that the stews have become bland to the point of near inedibility. The stocks of medicine running low, bandages boiled so many times that their fibers have since frayed to a cobwebbed consistency.

“I know you’re doing your best, son,” Dutch had sighed, casting a weary eye over his threadbare kingdom. “God knows you’re the only man I can depend on to get anything done around here. But folks are… well. Folks are struggling.”

Arthur’s eyes had slid momentarily towards Dutch’s tent, resting on the golden gleam of the gramophone and the crisp cotton sheets laid across the bed. An unbroken sea of white, with not a stitch out of place. And not twenty feet away, Hosea’s shabby lean-to, the older man’s bedroll bearing the same disjointed array of colors as the rest of the camp’s accoutrements.

Dutch always did have a taste for the finer things in life. A level of refinement proportionate to the depth of his ambition, which in earlier days had been tempered by kinder, simpler ideals. Feed those that need feeding. Shoot those that need shooting. Robin Hood-esque, with a western (and occasionally lethal) twist. Evelyn Miller had been a fixture even then, but in those halcyon years Dutch had not yet twisted the author’s words to the tottering worldview that he’s since constructed.

The gang’s nascent success had bred standards and attracted new followers. A ragtag flock all too eager to nourish their leader’s growing, malignant appetite for grandeur.

“Just one last score, and we’ll be clear of all this… this manmade rot.” Dutch said, gesturing in the direction of Blackwater. “But for now, we’ve got to play their game. Get our hands dirty for the time being so we can wash ourselves clean of all this when we’ve finally got the means.”

Arthur had departed under the pretense of retrieving the missing bonds (impossible) or locating some cache of similar value (near impossible), but in truth he’d done so primarily for the preservation of his own sanity. More and more these days, he’s been seeing cracks in the foundation of the man who’d given him this life, dragged him out of the gutter and set him with a previously unwavering sense of purpose. And it feels treacherous — traitorous, even — to take any of it into question.

But as always, the open road and the unabiding sky of the prairie settled him into a different mindset altogether. The cycles of flora and fauna in untouched wilderness exist completely separate from the artifices of men, with the legacies of countless tiny lives encapsulated in the fine grit of the dust to which all things return. And in that certainty comes an overwhelming comfort. Everything else seems trifling in the wake of the vast perpetuity of nature.

A few days spent wandering would do him good, he’d decided. Spend some time away from all the trappings of civilization, then rob some poor sap on the side of the road so as not to return empty-handed.

And then you’d ruined his plans entirely by literally walking into him as he’d been passing through Strawberry.

“Well,” you say, offering up a small, nervous smile. “What now?”

What now, indeed. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Guess we take a visit to Trelawney’s,” he replies, already dreading the inevitable embarrassment of explaining the whole sorry situation to the man. “And if it turns out you’re tellin’ the truth, I’ll give you a ride from Rhodes to St Denis.”

You frown and furrow your brow. “Rhodes?”

“Yeah, Rhodes. Trelawney’s got a caravan there on the outskirts of town. You didn’t know?”

“You can’t take me to Rhodes,” you say automatically, as if stating the obvious. “I mean… look at me.”

“You’re a woman?” he asks stupidly.

“I’m an Oriental, you moron. And Rhodes is a fucking… it’s a fucking Raider town.”

“You’d be with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

You shake your head and set your mouth into a grim, flat line. “That’s worse. They might think we’re together. And they don’t take kindly to miscegenation.”

Your words have to them the quality of a veil being drawn back, exposing a corner of this country’s ugliness he’s not often been privy to. A familiar knot of guilt tugs at his innards, accompanied by the unpleasant, impotent sensation that surfaces each time he catches the ungracious stares of the crowd when walking into town with Tilly by his side. Each time he hears the practiced courtesy in a shopkeep’s voice drop away when the man turns away from him to address Charles. Each time he watches Lenny reread for the thousandth time the letter from his dead father, the creases in its paper worn so deep that it would have long since fallen apart were it not for the boy’s careful, reverent handling.

“You know those big plantation houses just south of Rhodes? They hire Chinese sometimes to work the fields. Cheaper than sharecropping, apparently.” The look on your face is drawn and bitter. The bite in your voice suggests something personal, the sting of an injury not yet healed. “One of the boys got involved with a white housemaid. He’d saved up for train tickets to Philadelphia, and they were… he was going to marry her there. Wanted an August wedding. The number eight’s lucky for us, you see. So August 8th, 1898… he thought it was all very romantic. Used to make this stupid joke that he wished he’d met her ten years earlier. Raiders strung him up in an oak tree a couple weeks before they were set to leave.”

Arthur’s tongue lies silent and heavy in his mouth.

You take in a deep breath that rattles with the failing determination of someone struggling not to break their composure, then look to him with a desperation so absolute that it seems almost indecent to witness. “Why don’t you just leave me here? Keep me tied up if you have to. Come back for me when you’re done with Trelawney.”

In the short span of time that he’s known you, you’ve made enough of an impression to warrant several conclusive classifications. A haughty, pampered little thing. An ineffective liar. A self-destructive fool — but not stupid. Definitely not stupid.

The sheer idiocy of your suggestion indicates a fear so deep that it’s completely severed you from your senses. Just a frightened little bird caught in a trap, scratching and clawing for the narrowest possible opening for escape.

“You’re tellin’ me to tie up a woman and leave her in the middle of nowhere? May as well just hand-deliver you to the wolves. No,” he says firmly, trying to shake off the unwanted pang of sympathy. Dutch had been right about one thing — the gang did need money, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this opportunity for it slip away out of misguided compassion for a woman who’d literally robbed him as he’d bled out. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Soon as we near Rhodes, I’ll tie you to Boadicea the same way I did when we left Strawberry.”

You blink and utter a disbelieving, “Excuse me, what?”

“Reckon they’ll treat us both a hell of a lot nicer if they think you’re a bounty. Gives me plenty excuse for keepin’ you in one piece, too.”

Your face ventures on a quick journey through the five stages of grief. The grief in question being for the loss of your dignity. The blank look shifts to a glare. You open your mouth to spit out something no doubt acerbic and very rude, but a flash of uncertainty crosses your face and you quickly bite your tongue. Then you lower your head and squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally open them again, there is a defeated resignation in them that attests to a lost mental argument.

“You better ride slow if you don’t want a repeat of this morning,” you say wearily.

Arthur shrugs. “Can’t throw up if you got nothin’ in your stomach. We’ll just skip feeding you breakfast tomorrow.”

To his relief, the atmosphere lightens to blessed, familiar hostility. You tell him to go fuck himself. That you’ll literally fight him for the apples you know he has tucked away in his saddlebags. That maybe you’ll throw up anyway purely out of spite. That he’s a miserable piece of shit who you wish—

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the outcrop for a fraction of a second, painting everything beneath it into harsh shades of white and black. It strikes as sudden and violent as a fiery whip crack, leaving behind it the bittersweet scent of burnt grass and a curl of grey smoke like a departing ghost. Its near-simultaneous clap of thunder drowns out your last sentence with an ear splitting boom so encompassing that the vibration of it seems to rattle down to the bone. The silence that follows has in it the anticipatory hush of the void prior to Genesis. You shatter it with a quiet but appropriately placed, “Jesus Christ.”

The land outside is hedged low in the horizon, and the vastness of its sky swallows all else. It crowns as its dominating feature the movement of its anvil-shaped clouds. They shift leaden and portentous, translucent bellied and lit up by the jagged tongues of lightning darting throughout quick and sporadic as pale dragonflies. Roiling violet like the murky blood of some vast organism, pulsing membranous over the prairie with a fury of near biblical proportions. And below, the buttes with their strange eroded shapes like scattered islands in a black sea of grass. In the torrential dark, their silhouettes flash ivory with every strike of lightning only to sink back into the hushed umbra of night.

There is a muted look of awe on your face, as if witnessing for the first time the true scale of a storm. Something that before now had been glimpsed only through the gaps between high-shuttered buildings. Tempests caught in concrete snares and, not unlike the men that build them, diminished until they are but a feeble whisper of their former selves.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. “I never knew rain could be like this.”

With a jolt of displeasure, he finds that the soft expression on your face renders you unexpectedly pretty in the fire’s flickering light, the amber reflection of it bright as copper in your eyes. A gentle chiaroscuro, the smooth line of your cheek and shadowed hollow of your throat the anchor points to which his eye is drawn.

You shuffle a little closer to the outlook’s rain-veiled edge. The roughspun blanket, still drawn tightly around your shoulders, shifts. Arthur quickly averts his eyes, but even so is met with a sliver of bare skin that runs neck to navel. The subtle outline of a breast, the mild fishbone curve of a rib.

And all at once he’s unbearably, disastrously hard, filled with a painful but directionless longing — not just for intimacy, but for the simple reassurance of another body pressed close, skin to skin and breath to breath. A kind of tenderness he’s been deprived of for so long that the memory of it brings not warmth but the brittle cold of hoarfrost. Absence like a thick pane of ice, the things he’s lost visible just underneath.

From the periphery of his line of sight, you’re but an indistinct blur in the vague shape of a woman. How appropriate then, that you should be the focus of this formless arousal. And how infuriatingly pathetic. He hadn’t lied when he’d said you weren’t his type, and yet here he is, his cock stiffer than it’s been in months at just the suggestion of a woman’s naked body.

In desperate search of both distraction and something to obscure himself with, Arthur pulls back the front flap of his satchel and fishes out your blue notebook. He glances briefly in your direction, already anticipating your angry shout of indignation — but you’re far too occupied with watching the progression of the storm to so much as glance in his direction.

The notebook’s contents are far more legible than he’d initially assumed. Most of the foreign characters seem to be either names or places, which makes it possible for him to pick out the main thread of most sentences.

Its first half consists of what looks like a ledger. Neatly organized columns with foreign characters and numbers that he hasn’t the slightest idea how to parse. When he flips past it, a slip of paper scrawled with the same strange, flowing text flutters from the pages and alights delicately into his lap. Arthur picks it up, and as he examines it, it occurs to him that he has no idea how to orient it.

Prior to this, he’d only ever seen Chinese characters painted on the roadside food stalls accompanying railroad workers on their long trek westwards. A strange, complex syllabary. He’d once read somewhere that each word of the language had its own unique character. A sort of pictograph that, when studied, relays its meaning to those who knew how to read it.

He scrutinizes the slip of paper in his hand, but finds himself unable to pick out even the vaguest of resemblances. The corner of the paper bears a square seal of red ink, inset with an intricate consortium of straight lines. Curiosity spent for the moment, Arthur slots the document back in place.

The rest of the notebook looks to be an odd mixture of field observations and long, ornate paragraphs about various landscapes. A few pressed wildflowers, field observations of city flora and fauna, crudely drawn animals reminiscent of the scattered petroglyphs he’s found carved in long-abandoned settlements. An earmarked passage describing the wetlands bordering St Denis, full of strikethroughs and hastily added phrases squeezed into the margins. Another describing what sounds like Cotorra Springs.

“The amber fields are dotted with sprigs of larkspurs and wild flax like blue-violet stars,” Arthur reads aloud.

You turn to face him so quickly that your wet hair arcs through the air like an ink-stained brush, scattering water droplets that sizzle and hiss when they fall into the fire. Wild-eyed as a spooked horse, but frozen into a horrified silence as he licks his finger and traces the rest of the line across the page, continuing, “And even further north, viridian-blue pools from which rise plumes of white smoke, the water still and clear as glass. Hills of black obsidian —”

You scramble towards him and, while clutching the blanket around your shoulders shut with one hand, slap the notebook out of his grip with the other. It lands perilously close to the fire, but you snatch it up without giving a second thought to the nearness of the flames.

“That’s private,” you hiss, hugging the notebook to your chest the way one might accidentally smother an infant.

“Thought it was fair turnaround, seein’ as you never extended that same courtesy to me,” he retorts.

The memory of that miserable morning after surfaces in him like a bloated corpse too persistent to stay hidden. His billfold emptied, ill-gotten gains vanished, and his journal speckled with smeared, bloodied thumbprints from beginning to end. Above a sketch of a mountain wildflower he’d drawn a question mark next to, the word “crocus ?” written in an angular, jagged scrawl.

“Yeah, because I thought you were going to die!” you argue back. “Figured you probably had your next of kin listed somewhere in there!”

Next of kin. The phrase pierces through like a stitch popped out of place, and Arthur nearly flinches. It’s an unintentional blow on your part, but nevertheless he deflects the only way he knows how. When bitten, bite back.

“Oh that’s real charitable, comin’ from the dope-peddler,” he jeers. “You save this compassion for everyone you fuck over, or just me?”

A clear and unguarded expression of hurt crosses your features. The same you’d worn when he’d had to pry his shotgun out of your hands. Forlorn, helpless as a wounded prey animal. But it passes quickly into a cold disdain, your head raised high again and your eyes hard as flint.

“Do you know,” you say quietly, lip curling with contempt. “I seriously considered cutting your throat when I finally realized who you were. I should have.”

Then you blink, forehead wrinkling as you sniff at the air. You glance at the fire, where his forgotten can of beans is beginning to burn.

Arthur curses. He hastily swipes one of his discarded riding gloves from the grass and pulls it on, then grabs the can and blows on its contents, fanning away its delicate wisp of black smoke.

You retreat to the far inner corner of the outcrop and frantically page through the notebook until you find the red-sealed paper sheafed inside. With a sigh of relief, you slump against the rough granite wall, the tense set of your shoulders loosening as though some secret string stretched taut through the frame of your body had suddenly been cut loose.

A sullen silence permeates the shelter, punctuated only by the grating scratch of metal as he scrapes burnt food off the edges of the can with a spoon.

“You forgot to mention that the whole place smells like shit,” Arthur says finally. He keeps his eyes on the can, attention focused squarely on the arduous task of excavating beans.

“What?”

“Cotorra Springs. Smells like week-old shit. Especially around the pools.”

The rustle of blankets. From the corner of his eye, he watches you tentatively scoot closer. “You’ve been there?” you ask. Your voice is still deeply reproachful, but touched with genuine curiosity.

“You haven’t?”

“No. I’ve just seen pictures. And notes from people who have.”

“Huh,” he says. He scrapes another carbonized mouthful from the can. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you wrote about it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Sure.

The corner of your mouth quirks upwards in a reluctant smile that unfolds like the breaking light of a clouded dawn. “Well, that’s… that’s good to know.”

“You writin’ a book or something?” he asks.

“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” The smile wilts slightly, and you drop your gaze down to the notebook on your lap. “No. Just a favor for an old friend’s husband. The man fancies himself an explorer, but can barely string a sentence together. He’s paying me to pretty up his notes for him. Half of which I think are made up. There’s some bullshit in there about an enormous rainbow colored pond full of boiling water.”

Arthur laughs. “Naw, that bit’s true. I’ve seen it. It’s a hell of a thing.”

You seem skeptical. He doesn’t blame you. Even after having walked the rust-banded edge of that craterous spring himself, his memory of it still carries with it the preternatural awe of a place half-dreamed. He tells you about the slow gradation of color leading inwards from the rim. Ochre to cadmium, to turquoise, to a deep cerulean with the unreal brilliance of a painted ocean. Steam hanging like a pungent fog. Entire stretches of ground covered in a thick, boiling mud, bubbling ominous as something out of Dante’s Inferno. A constant gurgling of earth and water, as if he were treading upon some living thing in the midst of an infernal digestion.

Halfway through his description, you flip the notebook to a clean page and ask him for a pencil, then begin scribbling down his words with an unceasing, determined hand. This bemuses him. That anyone might find his drivel meaningful enough to commit to paper is a new experience altogether. It’s an odd feeling, but not at all an unpleasant one.

That is, until you begin peppering his narrative with so many questions that it takes the better part of an hour to accommodate them.

What kind of plants grew there?

“Bunch of disgusting slippery shit around the edge. Algae or something. Other than that, can’t think of a single thing that’d lay roots in boiling water and sulfur.”

Did the mud boil like roiling water, or was it more the viscosity of a slow simmering stew?

“More like wet cement, really.”

Were there animals?

“No. Nothing there for ‘em.”

Birds?

“Didn’t see any.”

Insects?

“A shit ton of gnats, but not much else.”

How wide were the prismatic bands around the crater? What was the geology like? Did the surrounding forest taper off gradually in the vicinity of the spring, or was the loss of vegetation sudden and absolute as a drawn border?

“Give me your notebook.” he says, having finally reached the point of exasperation. “Easier if I just draw it for you.”

To his faint surprise, you hand it over without hesitation. He sketches out what he’s able to recall, all the while acutely aware of the madness of the situation. Fucking illustrating an account of his own wanderings for the woman who robbed him while they both sit in varying states of undress. Scribbling out a messy landscape in the same notebook whose contents he’d derided just a little while ago. Focusing all his attention on Cotorra Springs so as to ward away the unfortunate possibility of another inopportune erection.

The mediocre drawing he finally manages to scratch out would have disappointed him under any other occasion. Instead, he feels a warm flood of relief at its conclusion. If this doesn’t shut you up, then nothing will.

Nothing will, it seems. To his immense chagrin, the drawing sparks another round of questions. After silently admiring his work just long enough to spark hope of your satiety, you ask him about the species of the trees. Had he explored the nearby forest? Were there flowers? What season had he visited in? Was the acrid smell of sulfur present even here?

“Look,” Arthur says wearily. “You clearly come from money. Why don’t you just hire someone out to take you sometime?”

You snort at the suggestion. The corner of your mouth lifts upwards into something that’s only nominally a smile, and more the type of grimace that accompanies an old wound. “The only two men I’d trust enough to take me out into the middle of nowhere are dead. And with the money I owe, I can’t… I can’t just… you know what?” you say abruptly. “It’s getting late and I’m fucking exhausted. I’m going to sleep.”

And with that, you tug the blanket tight around your shoulders and huddle against the ground like a felled shrimp. You lay with your back to him, the words left unsaid hanging over you both like an unripe fruit of a question.

Arthur fetches his bedroll and unfurls it close to the fire. A battered pillow emerges from the worn tarp as he spreads it flat. After a moment of contemplation, he picks up the pillow and tosses it in your direction. It hits you square on the head.

Immediately, you sit up and snarl at him. “What the fuck is wrong with — oh.” You pick up the pillow and grasp it tight, as if at any moment he might change his mind and demand it back. Your small “thank you” is puzzled and uncertain.

“I’m gonna put out the fire,” he says. “You try to slit my throat in the dark, I’ll wring your neck.”

But the threat comes out empty and toothless, and judging by the renewed sarcasm in your voice when you tell him you’ll keep it in mind, you seem fully aware of it.

Arthur douses the flames by kicking dirt over the embers, which glow dim and vermillion for minutes afterwards, fading slow to dull, crumbling ash when the heat finally bleeds out of them. The pleasant smell of smoke lingers inside the shelter for a good while longer, but even that dissipates eventually, leaving just petrichor and the crisp, clean scent of early autumn rain.

The worst of the storm has shifted westwards. Water drips in a steady stream from the outer edge of the overhang, churning the ground below to a soup of mud. The cloud cover is still dense, but it’s thinned enough that moonlight gleams through the feathery underbelly in a pale and spattered mottle. With it, he can make out the dim outline of your body, the rise and fall of your chest in a slow, steady rhythm he sorely doubts you’d have the patience to feign.

He lies awake there in the dark for a long while, shuffling through a jumble of discordant emotion. It’s as if the pieces of several sets of puzzles have been mixed together and jammed into an incomprehensible mess, so hopelessly and thoroughly muddled that he can no longer tell where one thing starts and another ends. He sorts his way through it until the rain weakens to a grey drizzle and the drip of rainwater turns from the unbroken stream of a faucet to a series of droplets beating out an abstruse morse code against the ground.

In the end, he’s only able to definitively place a single solid sentiment. Pity.

———

Couple notes:

Arthur's understanding of Chinese is incorrect, but aligns with the assumptions a lot of Western scholars during that time period had regarding it. There was a big tendency to treat it like Japanese, which despite using some of the same characters, uses a completely different structure.

Cotorra Springs seems to be based off Yellowstone. The big boiling rainbow spring is actually real: it's called the Grand Prismatic Spring and seriously does look like something out of a fever dream. Yellowstone also does smell like sulfur in some places, but it’s not so much like week old shit as it is the potent fart of someone who’s eaten far too many deviled eggs.

No algae grows in the spring. It's actually cyanobacteria, but there's no reason Arthur would know this. It does look pretty gross up close.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

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twdmusicboxmystery · 3 years

Text

The Orange Backpack Symbol

So, we’ve been batting around the symbol of the orange backpack for a LONG time. We first saw it on a hitch hiker in 3x10, Clear, when Rick and Michonne went and found Morgan. We’ve seen it and things like it many times since. We still aren’t entirely sure what it means, but these are some ideas we’re batting around.

(Not my edit but just thought it was funny. It shows the fandom picks up on these symbols, even if they often don’t know what to do with them. 😊) I’ll give you my fellow theorist’s observations, first. They are excellent and most likely correct, even if we can’t say for sure, yet. Then I’ll chime in with a few of my own.

@frangipanilove:

I’m still uncertain about the Orange backpack symbolism versus regular backpacks. It sort of depends on the Dutch angles from Coda. If the term “Dutch angles” was something that came from TPTB, then I can make a strong case about Orange being tied to Beth. If it didn’t come from the horse’s mouth then it’s a much weaker connection. It could still be a thing, but it’s just not a case I can argue very convincingly.

@twdmusicboxmystery: For the record, though we haven’t heard tptb specifically mention “dutch angles” in any particular interview that we know of, I do believe we can safely say this came from them. It was talked about in the fandom a LOT and I believe the writers themselves leaked the first idea for it. It’s also part of the “on screen notes” in the Amazon digital version of the episode. Amazon has no involvement in the show other than carrying it and wouldn’t know what to put in the on-screen notes. Which means they come from the production itself. So I DO believe the “dutch angles” idea can be seen as something confirmed by the writers. Back to @frangipanilove:

@frangipanilove: But either way, I believe the “back” in backpack is a reference to “come back” or “return”, “resurrection”, Sirius symbolism. Same with “back pocket”, as well as the torsos we’ve seen sometimes. My reasoning behind that is from season 3 when Merle returned to the show, and Michonne wrote a “biter gram” where she used a walker’s back to symbolize “go back” to Merle.

The original Orange backpack in 3x10, Clear, can be tied to return symbolism in many ways. They initially ignored the guy, then later saw him dead. They passed him, but returned to grab the backpack.

And we’ve seen the backpack numerous times since, and it’s easy to tie it to reunions and returns to one’s family etc. We saw it in Michonne’s trippy vision with Virgil as well. Basically, it’s more return symbolism, because she’s going after Rick. She’ll find him, but even if she doesn’t, the return symbolism has already happened in that she found his boots and the iPhone (apple symbol) with the etching. That’s return symbolism.

(To her, Rick is dead, but these told her he might still be alive, so he’s just been resurrected in her mind.)

So, I view the backpack symbolism as return symbolism, and then the question is if Orange is a symbol that adds something different to the symbolism, or if it just enhances the return symbolism.

@wdway:

It's funny that we're having a discussion about the brownish orange or rust color backpack because I wanted us to discuss it, haha. I've been thinking of it quite a bit in the last few weeks and I agree with you to a certain point, @Frangi, about it possibly being a reunions symbol.

I guess the difference for me is that I believe it also represents a journey. Some journeys are shorter than others, but a journey that reunites you to a person you have not seen for a long time, or even possibly thought were dead. In my head, that's for the rusty orange color.

In the Clear episode, team Rick passes the guy with the backpack, they journey to his hometown where he reunited with Morgan, someone who he was not expecting to see and may even believed was dead. The difference is, he picks up the backpack on his return home.

With Glenn, his rusty orange backpack journey was longer, but he ultimately reunited with Maggie who he hoped was alive but was not certain.

Daryl wore the rusty colored backpack when he, Rosita, and Denise took a short journey to a nearby community. On their way back home, they encounter Dwight. It was a reunion, but not a good one. And although Dwight was alive, the last Daryl had seen him, I'm sure Daryl hoped Dwight was dead.

It occurred to me while I was doing my research about the red rag that Daryl is wearing a rusty orange with brown legging on his right leg when he is on a journey to find/reunite the body of Rick. I need to go back and check but at the D.C. capital, there was a banner of an eye that we believe to be Emily's/Beth's. I believe that banner was a rusty orange, which would mean that there would be a reunion with someone that would require a journey to be reunited with someone believed to be dead.

I believe a regular or bright orange could possibly also be a journey color, but not necessarily a reunion with someone the person believed to be dead. Virgil had a bright or regular orange backpack when he found Connie. And yes, Connie was believed to possibly be dead but we are not led to believe that Virgil knew Connie, so the reunions part of it does not apply. Only the journey he had taken from his Island.

I do not know if tptb actually mentioned Dutch angles but I have seen several interviews of movie directors over the years that have used Dutch angle and have commented that it is something taught in film school that could represent something being somewhat out of tilt, something that is not quite right. I do want to mention that in the episode Stalker that has Daryl and Alpha in the garage there was Dutch angles around Alpha which ties it to the episode, Coda.

I think there were better images of the eye in the promo pictures for that season. The second shot is in the entry hall where they showed all of the different exhibits, banners in different colors, etc. What I want to point out is that chevron at the bottom. The banner looks like it reads, “Natural History,” and maybe the word “Living.”

@frangipanilove:

Regarding the Orange cover on Daryl’s leg, I interpret it as boot symbolism (it covers his leg = boot = trunk), which is synonymous with trunk symbolism IMO. That’s also what we see after Michonne has had her hallucination, including the orange backpack; she finds Rick’s boots in the boat. Boots = trunk and boat = vessel = vehicle.

So, I interpret in a way that ultimately points to the story of survival by way of trunk (three/tree/trunk symbolism). In Michonne’s case, it points towards Rick’s survival story, but because of the blue heron painting (among other things) we know that Rick’s story and Beth’s story are two versions of the same story.

So, when I interpret the symbolism around Michonne in that episode as pointing towards a reunion with Rick (or return to Rick), it means I also interpret the same symbolism as pointing towards Beth’s survival.

The banner in the museum in 9x1 IMO is eye = Sirius symbolism. This is because of Sirius as the “heavenly dog with a star in its eye” from the Robert Frost poem, and therefore also a reference to the one-eyed dog from Alone, among other things.

And in 9x1, the eye banner is orange, and Daryl’s leg wrap is orange. Which ties orange symbolism, eye symbolism and boot (Daryl’s leg) symbolism into Sirius symbolism. The orange backpack = return/resurrection. Daryl’s leg wrapping = boot = trunk = return/resurrection. The orange eye banner = Sirius = return/resurrection.

Also, I don’t think they will ever comment on whose eye it is on the banner, but you cannot convince me that it’s not Emily’s eye unless they specifically deny it.

This is a very short explanation of the symbolism pathway that leads me to think back = return. It’s a way to explain it that fits into my system. But basically, I believe what you say about a journey is just a different aspect of it. They’re slightly different ways of ending up at more or less the same spot. But in order to have a return, there kind of has to be a journey involved, otherwise it’s not much of a return, right?

Actually, I don’t know where you guys stand on this now, but I remember when the Michonne episode aired, @twdmusicboxmystery interpreted the apple symbolism as “separation.” I interpreted it as kind of the opposite: apples as a symbol of “bringing your family back, as Virgil said after poisoning Michonne. She said it took her family away from her, but I believe tptb use the apple symbolism as pointing towards reunion/return/resurrection.

My point is, we’re both right because they are two sides to the same story. There can’t be reunion unless there has been some sort of separation first. So, it could seem like I interpret the apple symbolism opposite to what @twdmusicboxmystery said after the episode, but I actually don’t think about it that way. I think we’re both picking up on what’s important about the apple symbolism, and then we use slightly different word to describe it.

I focus on the return/resurrection part, but in order to have that, there has to be some kind of separation or journey preceding it. You can’t reunite with someone you haven’t been separated from, and most likely, there’s a journey involved. Otherwise, it wouldn’t make much sense, right?

We first saw the eye banner when spoiler pictures from filming 9x1 emerged. They made no attempt to prevent the spoiler pics from coming out, they actually made quite the spectacle of it instead. I actually find that very interesting, because if it really is Emily’s eye, which I’m fully convinced it is, then it was a very loud announcement to TD about Beth, the eye/Sirius symbolism and also the orange symbolism.

We first saw Daryl’s leg wrapping in Stradivarius, right? We see the orange leg wrapping (IMO a boot/trunk reference) in Stradivarius, which is kind of the first we see of Daryl after the time skip, if you don’t count the small clip from the opening minutes of 9x6, which is an interesting clip. But you actually don’t see the orange leg wrapping there.

Which, if you don’t count the clip from 9x6 is kind of the first chronological appearance by Daryl after FM. You see him transitioning into the orange leg wrapping in FM, but chronologically that’s set in the time between 9x5 and 9x7. I love the little clip from 9x6, so packed with symbolism. But I do find it interesting that it doesn’t show the orange leg wrapping. It’s like they went out of their way to NOT show it. No idea if that’s significant or not, but certainly interesting.

@wdway:

You're right Frangi at the core we pretty much all believe the same thing. I agree totally with the eye banner being symbolism of Sirius the one-eyed dog but I also was very excited about seeing the Chevron symbol at the end of the entry hall banners, all in colors that can be tied to Beth. To me it speaks that there will be some type of military tie between the Sirius symbol (Beth) and the Chevron symbol (Commonwealth/CRM)

@frangipanilove: Yeah, agree on the chevron. They really like to pile on the symbols, don’t they. It’s symbolism on top of symbolism.

@wdway: We did actually see a quick glimpse of Daryl's orange legging in Who Are You Now, immediately following the reveal of the X on Michonne's back.

@frangipanilove: That’s awesome. Because that means that when we see it in Find Me, it’s the first time in the chronology he wears it. Assuming he had the orange leg cover during the entirety of 9x6, it means the very first time we see Daryl wearing it is when he’s standing waist-deep in the water spear fishing. Obviously, we don’t see it, but I’m going to assume we’re meant to believe he’s wearing it in the water while spear fishing.

Spear fishing is something we saw with both Leah and Carol in FM. He threw a fish at the front door with the X. In 9x6 we saw him catch a fish on the spear, then immediately a walker emerges from the water. All very strong symbols. Michonne has a very poignant voiceover, lots of symbolism there as well. He sees a walker representing himself grown into the tree trunks (three I believe). It reaches out for him, or something. Then the blue bird comes, grabs the ear worm, we see the nest, the bird babies. More poignant monologue from Michonne, tiny beacons of light etc.

@twdmusicboxmystery

What actually kicked off this conversation not long after Fear, 6x12, In Dreams aired, was that I noticed in Grace’s dream, when she met her daughter Athena, Athena was wearing an orange backpack. Not THE orange backpack, but another one.

I don’t have tons to add except to say that I totally agree with these two ladies. Another, slightly different (though not really) way you could look at it is that backpack always appears before someone dies, but there’s always a return as on the horizon as well.

In Clear, as @wdway mentioned, Morgan qualifies as a resurrection and return, but the hitchhiker carrying the backpack also died. In this case, Morgan also disappeared again, not to reappear until 5x01. So it was also the beginning of another separation between Rick and Morgan.

I seem to remember Carl having the backpack in 3x16, just before TF finally kicked the Governor’s butt. I’ve often wondered if it was a death omen for Carl. And it may have been, given that this is the episode where Gimple took over and probably planned Carl’s arc. But that wouldn’t come for a long time.

It’s more likely that it meant other things. Many of the Gov’s people actually did die, but that also kicked off the Gov’s arc where he disappeared and didn’t return until 4x08 when he bulldozed the prison. And there were HEAVY Beth parallels during those two episodes (4x06-07) about him. There were also smaller returns here, such as Karen returning to Tyreese at Woodbury, and them finding Andrea. Though she, too, actually died.

Michonne’s vision with Virgil has been covered pretty well here. Clearly it’s leading toward her finding Rick (reunion) but also kicks off her separation from her kids, Daryl and the rest of TF. We didn’t see obvious death around her, but I’m sure there will be some in her coming arc. The fact that she keeps ending up with Negan’s bat in her hands is proof enough of that.

I’m sure you can also see how the orange backpack ties into the left/right/back pocket symbolism as well.

So yeah. I think you get the idea. It’s a fascinating symbol, isn’t it? And one we’ll definitely keep an eye on moving forward. Thoughts?

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theories #team delusional #team defiance #beth is almost here #bethyl

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vanillasakura · 3 years

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IT’S FINALLY HERE <3

I first got into Red Dead around late July or so when I watched my friend and her dad speedrun the game, and one of the first things I came across for this fandom was Sapphic Week, so I’m very very happy to be able to contribute this year, especially as I’d be lying if I said the lovely ladies in this game weren’t the main reason I initially got into it and ended up buying it for myself.

Once again, a HUGE shoutout to @rdrsapphicships and Aldrig for hosting this event! I’m so excited to see what everyone creates <3 Without further ado, let’s get into it!

RDRSW21 Day 1: Music

Title: Close Your Eyes (As it Eats at Us)

Words: 1857

Pairing: Abigail Roberts/Molly O’Shea

Warnings/Notes: Slight John bashing I’m sorry but this takes place early chapter 2 so... slightly warranted

(Title from Close Your Eyes by The Midnight Club)

ao3 link

≿━━━━━━━━━━༺❀━━━━━━━━━━≾

Don't you know, when your eyes are closed, you see the world from the clouds along with everybody else?

Indeed, Molly was on her own much of the time. Dutch could only afford her so much attention, and when he was away from camp or otherwise occupied, there wasn’t anybody who really came up to her on their own will. Not exactly like she could blame them, Molly wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. Growing up, she’d always assumed otherwise, but after seeing how Karen and Tilly had told her to stop coming up to them and “being a bitch for no good reason”, she began to wonder if everyone back home was nice to her because they had to be. Even if Molly herself wasn’t a picture-perfect example of politeness, being anything but an angel to the O’Shea daughter could have been considered blasphemy.

It was lonely, terribly so, but Molly wasn’t quite sure what she could do to remedy the situation. She wrote poetry, she read books, she went on walks in circles around camp, she looked out over the valley (Horseshoe Overlook really hadn’t gotten its name from nowhere), but more than anything, Molly watched.

She watched how Reverend had gradually stopped bothering pretending to read the bible, instead choosing to start downing drinks earlier and earlier. She watched how Bill devoured Kieran with his eyes, all but confirming her suspicion that the man did indeed want to bed the new camp member. She watched how Karen would clench her jaw when Mary-Beth asked how things were going with Sean, but would then take his hand later and pull him out of camp, the pair slipping away to either do each other or to do nothing at all. She watched how Arthur hadn’t bothered to take down the photo of the woman who did nothing but cause him pain even after Hosea had told him to do so, instead still glancing at it longingly every now and again while he cleaned his guns in his tent. She watched Josiah practice speaking in all sorts of different accents on the outskirts of camp, correcting himself out loud whenever something wasn’t quite right. She watched how Jack would try and weave flower crowns for his mother, small hands shaking as he attempted to tie the stems of various blooms together, putting the ones he had broken too short or knocked a petal off of in a pile to his left. She watched how John admitted to Javier and Pearson that, if he could, he would kill Abigail and never think twice about it.

The comment shouldn’t have startled Molly as much as it did. She knew that John was a good man deep down, but the way that he uttered the confession without so much as a second thought as to if what he was saying was okay made her sick. Abigail was nothing if not kind, hard-working, and strong, nothing like the type of woman you would imagine deserved those kinds of threats. What made John that angry at her, Molly didn’t know, and she wasn’t quite sure that she cared to.

After that night, Molly didn’t just stop watching. She’d heard people say worse things, many times, but there was something about the raw earnesty in which John had spoken that made his words haunt Molly like nothing else had. She decided to start watching Abigail more, justifying it by telling herself that it was for the other woman’s safety, even though realistically, there wasn’t much protection that Molly could offer her.

And one of the first things that Molly noticed as she began watching Abigail was that the woman could sing.

Abigail had this habit, whenever she was sitting in her tent on her own while working on something that needed to be done, where she would hum a tune, letting her own voice pop in here and there with the words that she knew. It was an uncoordinated affair, but it was never intended to be anything but.

It was also adorable.

So adorable, in fact, that Molly decided that maybe she didn’t just need to watch anymore, maybe she could actually go and sit with Abigail. After all, much like her, Abigail was alone, more often than not. What harm could come of it?

“You need any help?” Abigail looked up from her work, pausing her humming as Molly stood by her, close, but not so much so as to suffocate the other woman.

“Didn’t know you offered that.” Abigail responded, expression unreadable.

“Hasn’t been something I’ve extended before.”

“With all due respect, Miss O’Shea, I don’t need anyone’s help if they only do so because they take pity on me, especially someone who ‘isn’t anyone’s servant girl’.” Abigail’s eyes turned cold, her brow furrowed, and Molly felt anxiety beginning to set in.

“That wasn’t my intention whatsoever, I just…” she trailed off, and Abigail cocked her head, “I just don’t want to be alone. Is it okay if I enjoy your company? Just for a short while.”

Abigail sighed, chewing on her lip. “I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t know that feelin’ all too well. Truth be told, you’re the first person who’s come up to me in weeks.”

“I have no idea why that is, though.” Molly picked a sock out of the basket by Abigail’s feet, grabbing a needle and some thread along with it. “You’re such a nice person, it truly is a shame that others don’t recognize it.”

“ ‘Nice person’? Miss O’Shea, you hardly know me.”

Molly felt the same dreadful wave of anxiety begin to rise inside of her again. “I may not have talked to you much in the past, but I’ve watched.”

“Watched? Me?”

“I watch everybody.” Molly admitted, stabbing the cotton with her needle. “Although I must confess, I do enjoy watching you. I know that isn’t exactly polite, though.”

“You’re right in that it ain’t, but I suppose I’m a hypocrite, so what does my opinion really matter?”

“You, a hypocrite? How so?”

“Gets lonely when nobody comes up to make conversation. Sometimes, you’ve gotta get your fix by watching others.” Abigail laughed. “You never really feel like a part of the group, but it can help alleviate the pain sometimes.”

“Have you ever seen how Karen and Sean sneak off all the time?” Molly asked. “Lord only can imagine what shenanigans they get up to.”

“If I know either of them, they’re probably finding some tree to fuck up against.” Abigail said, a smile appearing on her face. “Although, on second thought, maybe not, given what happened at his welcome party.”

“At the welcome party? I guess you must have seen something I didn’t. Mind sharing?” Molly asked, her interest thoroughly peaked.

Abigail snorted. “Well, you saw how the two of them were all over each other that night, right?”

“Would’ve had to be blind as a bat to not have.”

“Well,” Abigail continued, “at some point, I saw the two of them go into John’s tent, and given my proximity to them, it wasn’t hard to hear what was bein’ said and fill in the gaps.”

“So they slept together at the party? Can’t say that I’m quite surprised.” Molly tied up the thread as she reached the end of the tear, reaching for a handkerchief to work on next.

“They sure did, but that ain’t the good part.” Molly watched as Abigail’s eyes laughed, full of a mischief that she had never seen present before in her usually quiet companion. “Sean has got to be the quickest quick shot I’ve ever seen, and given my history, that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“No.” Molly covered up her mouth, stifling a laugh.

“Yes! Poor Karen never even got hers, it had to have been the most pathetic thirty seconds in her entire life.” Abigail smiled, and Molly’s heart twitched. Why?

“Thirty seconds? Wow, if that’s so, then maybe they aren’t all over each other when they go out, and you’re right.”

Abigail laughed, smiling at Molly. “Well, who’s to say, I’m not sure there even is such a thing as a constant when those two are involved.”

“You may be right there.” Molly puffed one of her cheeks out, trying her best to figure out what to bring up next. She was having a lot of fun, she should do this more often, especially as Abigail also seemed to appreciate the time they were spending together. “Okay, now is it just me, or does Bill look at Kieran a little too often for it to be considered friendly?”

“Oh, it’s not just you, no worries. I’m just a little surprised that out of everyone, he decided to be sweet on Kieran.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I mean, he’s nothing like the kind of men Bill’s been sweet on in the past.”

Molly stopped in her tracks. “Wait, you’ve known about Bill before this?”

“Yeah, it ain’t that hard to figure it out if you know what to look for.” Unable to gauge Molly’s reaction, Abigail continued on. “I mean, I don’t have a problem with it, whatever makes you happy makes you happy, y’know? And if that means lovin’ somebody of the same sex, I sure as hell don’t see a problem with it.”

“We’re in agreement there.” Molly smiled, going back to her work, her heart beat now more palpable. “I mean, as nice as it can be to see everyone here fall in love-”

“Or lust.” Abigail interjected, a smirk on her face.

“Or lust, that’s true-- I still think that my favorite person to observe is you.”

“Hm? And why is that?” Abigail still had that smirk on her face, raising an eyebrow. “What about me is so interesting that you’d prefer to watch me than whatever the latest addition to the Sean and Karen saga is?”

“I, uh,” Molly flushed, suddenly aware of what she was saying and how weird it could be considered. “I just, I like watching you hum and sing whenever you work. Something about it is just, I dunno, very relaxing.”

Abigail clicked her tongue. “You really do notice a lot, huh?”

“Yeah.” Molly replied sheepishly.

“I guess it’s only fair that I tell you that I find watching you write poetry is quite calming.”

“You saw me doing that?”

“How could I not? Both of us do a lot of watching and thinking, we’re both very similar in that regard.” she said, unbothered by Molly’s embarrassment.

“I’m… glad, you can find comfort in something that I do.” Molly settled on.

“The more we talk, the more I’m beginning to think that I just find comfort in you. Somethin’ about you just makes you easy for me to talk to.” Abigail smiled.

“The same goes for you.” Molly sighed, nibbling on her lip. “We should do this more often. I’m having a good time.”

“So am I.” Abigail agreed. “It’s much better to be with you than to be alone.”

“It really is.” Molly shifted a bit, turning more towards Abigail. Maybe working wasn’t so bad after all.

#rdrsapphicweek2021 #abigail roberts #abigail roberts marston #abigail marston #molly o'shea #rdr2 community #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fandom #red dead fandom #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #my writing #fanfiction #wlw #sapphic

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rodeo-boots · 3 years

Note

Hello hello!!💖💖😊 hope you're doing alright and your day's going fine and smoothly over there, dear!😊🌺💐🌻🌹🌺💐🌻🌹

For writing requests, can I request a morbell story??☺ at the first of chapter 2 when gang is going to live in horseshoe overlook, Dutch sends Micah with Lenny to Strawberry and then something happens which ends with Micah in jail. But I want it to be 'Dutch sends Arthur with Micah to Strawberry' so! Just imagine what will happen😆👀. Boys probably end up in jail anyway but I think..maybe with Arthur, Micah would act different..?

Fluff is always welcome and I don't mind smut too at all! And I'm ok with any tags too like blood/gore, angst, different kinks or..

Love you and thank you soo soo much!💜💗💜

I'm sorry this took a hundred years, but I still hope you'll enjoy this!! I hope you've had some wonderful days yourself, Merry <33

Rating: T

Words: 2221

Warnings: one instance of a homophobic slur, off-screen murder

AO3

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Dutch and his plans. His great plans that had gotten them in this entire mess to begin with. Arthur couldn't believe him these days, could only watch in bafflement as his mentor spoke one ridiculous idea after the other; but this one took the cake.

Why have a safe operation for once, right? Why send Arthur and Lenny to scout ahead and make sure West Elizabeth wasn't all swarmed by Pinkertons when you could have Micah, the very man who had gotten them in this situation to begin with. The man who's judgement had led them astray and towards the butchered ferry job in Blackwater, who's fantastic information had killed several of their people – with no telling if Mac and Sean were still out there, somewhere.

Obviously, Arthur had objected the instant he's heard what he was supposed to do. He had tried to talk to Dutch, to explain that Micah would find a way to turn even the easiest scouting mission into a bloodbath. Really, he had tried everything to convince him otherwise, to send him alone, for Goodness sake, but to no avail. Dutch's mind was made, and so he let his two best men ride out, in pursuit of information or fortune or anything, Arthur hadn't cared to ask.

–

"Oh, don't soil your britches, princess," Micah held onto Baylock's reins with a loose grip, his grin lopsided where he glanced at Arthur from the corners of his eyes. Of course had he caught onto his less than ideal mood, ever the observant type as he was. "We'll be havin' fun at the end of the day, I promise." His voice was syrupy sweet, almost sickeningly so, though Arthur had stopped listening to him a long time ago either way, staring ahead and onto the road in an attempt to accept his current fate.

He answered the man with a grunt, not overly eager to amuse himself. If it was up to him, they'd be in and out of the settlement within an hour, would take a look around and go, without being noticed in the best of cases. Those seemed rare these days, though.

"Lighten up." Arthur flinched when the man tossed him a bottle, barely catching it in his hands, an irritated gaze meeting Micah's smirking visage. The booze in Arthur's hands certainly wasn't the best, moonshine with a questionable label, glinting copper under the sunlight. His eyebrows furrowed, but he kept the bottle either way.

Maybe it was just what he needed now, a welcome distraction from the day Micah had planned for them to enjoy. Arthur was certain he'd enjoy it all the more if he witnessed as little of it as possible.

He uncapped the bottle, squeezing his eyes shut as the liquor burned down his throat, tipping it back further before tossing it aside. The glass shattered at the side of the road, Micah's own likely joining the shards where they lay, the man already reaching for another drink from his bottomless saddlebags. "See? Much better already." And this time, Arthur couldn't help but return his grin.

Arthur had been unable to keep track of time, with Micah's unrelenting talk, the bottles he passed him along the way. Strawberry was drawing closer by the moment and he knew it, traffic higher with every further step. It seemed to be a busy town, workers passing them by without a glance, whistling as they did the tasks of the day. Oh, how Arthur wished he could lead a life like theirs at times.

"You up for a meal, Morgan?" Micah clambered off his horse, shooting him another bright expression, his lids appearing heavier by the liquor he had consumed already.

"Dying of starvation," Arthur mumbled, a little heavier and slower as he dismounted his mare, holding onto the saddle to keep himself from falling gracelessly. He seriously had to overthink his approach to the drink some time, not as used to booze as he had been in his better days, wiping at his brow now before trailing after Micah and towards the hotel.

Even though they were new in the area, Micah seemed to know his way around, greeting the man behind the counter like an old friend before ordering their meals. Arthur didn't understand how he was standing straight after drinking all the way here, he himself barely holding onto the back of a chair. Hopefully with something in his stomach, his head would stop spinning again.

"Now, Mr. Morgan–" Micah waved his arm around in a great gesture of chivalry, pulling a chair out for Arthur to take. "Will you take this seat, and sit down with me?"

He grunted, plopping down onto the hard wood. Maybe if he followed along without complaint, Micah would take mercy on him and spare him more of his bluster. A single look at his self-satisfied smirk was enough for him to tell that that wouldn't be the case, however.

Their plates had emptied at a rapid pace, Arthur scarfing his food down eagerly, enlivened by the taste and the sensation of something in his stomach – something more agreeable than the liquor. He was chewing his second to last bite by now, glancing over and towards Micah and his plate with a furrowed brow. "Y'ain't hungry?" He asked, swallowing before he rubbed at the corner of his mouth. "S'real good–"

Micah had his eyes set on something else already, waving at him to be quiet before turning with a secretive stare. "You up for a game?" He asked, his drunkenness slowly manifesting in the drag of his voice, though the glint in his eyes was prominent as always.

Arthur shrugged, placing the fork in his hands aside, his gaze following the other man's. Upon seeing what he was seeing, however, his cheeks heated up in a cherry red, Arthur averting his eyes all at once. "The hell you on about?" He grumbled in irritation, not looking back at the woman Micah had focused on. Or rather, her cleavage.

"I bet'chu, I can hit her right in between those beauties." The corners of his mouth quirked up further, Micah taking his own fork in hand to prepare it as a makeshift catapult.

"You finally lost it now?" But Arthur couldn't help watching, not moving to stop the man as he took aim, his tongue peeking out between pursed lips. One second the fork was still loaded with mashed potato, the next, Micah tossed his head back with a shattering laugh, a scandalized gasp from the other table indicating that he had hit his target dead on.

The woman stood all at once, forcefully enough to make her chair tumble to the ground, not letting herself be stopped by the man at her side as she marched out of the building. Her face had been colored by embarrassment, by disgust, and while Arthur had every intention to feel bad for her, he couldn't. Instead, he found himself laughing along with Micah, giggling like the drunken fool he was, having to hold onto the wooden table as to not keel over.

–

Micah was a man of many ideas; few of them good. He seemed keen on seeing how far they could go before being kicked out of the establishment, doing the most in making those around him uncomfortable to elicit a response, Arthur rising to the challenge by doing just the same.

"Y'know what I could do?" Micah whispered, leaning closer to him as though his words were confidential, the lopsided nature of his smirk indicating that they were truly meant for all to hear. "Could lay you out on this table." His hand wandered up Arthur's thigh from where it had formerly rested upon his knee. He hadn't even noticed that. "I could fuck you silly for all these fine folks to see," he smiled, satisfied with the blush spreading over Arthur's cheeks and the tips of his ears.

He pushed the hand off his leg, keeping hold of the other man's wrist. "If that's what you want, I might just lay you out instead," he grumbled, though the threat within his words was lost in the slur of his voice. "Punch you out, s'what I mean."

They stared at one another for a tense few moments, Arthur's grip remaining firm around Micah's wrist.

With a sputtering laugh, he had to let go, however, shaking his head and reaching up to rub his eyes. Micah was quick to follow along, cackling like a maniac in his own right, even if his own words hadn't been all empty.

"C'mon, let's get outta here." Micah pat his knee in encouragement, grunting when he pushed himself to his legs. "I'm bored," he added, his eyes glinting mischievously. Arthur didn't care for his oncoming plans now, either way, keen on leaving the hotel to spare himself of further embarrassment, uncertain as to what he might've done already.

The past minutes, or hours, weren't as prominent in his brain as he would've liked, the influence of the drink undeniable in his every action. He didn't pass the bar-man another look, following after Micah as he ducked through the door, squinting when his eyes were met with darkness instead of the sun he had expected.

"How late's it?" He slurred, glancing at Micah in uncertainty, not at all remembering when or if Dutch would expect them back at camp.

Micah tugged him down the stairs, the grip he had on his sleeve almost desperately hard. "Don't worry your pretty little head," he cooed, glancing back at Arthur with an almost alluring gaze, pulling him closer to offer him some more stability. "We got all the time we need." But Micah's eyes were no longer trained to his. Instead, he had focused on his lips, licking his own almost nervously.

"I always meant to tell you, Arthur–" his hold started to feel a lot more like an embrace, Arthur swallowing lightly as he watched the emotions pass over the other man's face. He was much too drunk to make sense of them, releasing a tense chuckle when Micah didn't continue.

"Meant to tell me what?" He eventually asked, his own arms slowly smoothing around the other man's frame. From this angle, he almost looked good, less crazed than what Arthur usually saw of him, more like the person he kept hidden from plain view in front of everyone else.

He didn't receive an answer, blinking in bafflement when Micah leaned in to press his lips against his own.

Arthur stood frozen for a couple moments, unsure if this was yet another game of his, another attempt to make the people around them uneasy like they had succeeded in doing before.

Micah didn't pull away with a smirk at his lips, however, in fact, he didn't pull away at all, deepening the kiss instead. He tilted his head, moving his lips so uncharacteristically sweet against Arthur's own that he had no choice but to melt.

His hands pulled the man closer, their bodies flush, chests pressing against one another. It was like a lover's embrace, like the last thing Arthur had ever expected to share, least of all with Micah Bell. Here and now, it felt more than just right, though.

He pulled away with a soft exhale, brushing a strand of hair out of the other man's eyes, his motions gentle. "What was that all about?" He asked, though his tone wasn't teasing. If anything, he wanted to know if he understood correctly, wanted to be certain that Micah had enjoyed this kiss for more reasons than his drunkenness; the question of a possible repetition already sitting on the tip of his tongue.

Before he could formulate any of his thoughts, however, another voice broke the tranquility around them.

"If that ain't van der Linde's very special queens," the man slurred himself, the Irish accent still clear in his tone of voice. "This is O'Driscoll territory, we ain't wanna see the likes of you perverts 'round here." Arthur had heard worse in his life, not expecting anything better from the likes of Colm's boys. But a look into Micah's eyes was enough to tell, that he wasn't about to let this slide.

He loosened his hold on Arthur, turning to the man slowly, his stare narrowed at the O'Driscoll. "Run that by me one more time?" His voice was low, the shyness from before wiped clear away now that he was facing the person who had seemingly ruined their moment.

Without Micah's assistance in standing, Arthur plopped down to the muddy ground, staring at the man's back until the spinning of his head became too much. He laid back, letting Micah handle this on his own, smiling dumbly at the distant thought of him protecting his honor.

The shots were faint, just like the voices drawing closer once they had pierced the silence, once they likely had pierced the O'Driscoll's skull just as much.

Arthur felt Micah's presence by his side again, the man dropping down next to him, tossing his weapons aside mindlessly. "Guess that marks the end'a our night," he chimed, his voice drowning out the calls of the sheriff, the law cautiously surrounding them. "I told you we'd have fun, though," Micah spoke up again, chuckling at this small success of the day.

#morbell #micah bell #arthur morgan #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #requests #my writing #rdr2 fandom

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lifeofroos · 3 years

Text

Part 43. Slowly but steadily getting there boys.

In short: Nico gets therapy from Dionysus. In this chapter, Dionysus explains more about the voices in Nico’s head. The story can also be found on AO3 and FanFiction.net! And in Tumblr tags like Dionysus, Nico di Angelo, Therapy, etc.

This might be crazy: Chapter 43: Demeters’ Divine pear Juice

Dionysus gave me a juice box when we got to the Big House. We sat down on a side of the porch where people rarely came, from which you could see the forest.

I put the straw in the juicebox. ‘I think you are going to tell me what you and dad think is going on in my head,’ I said, a little shaky.

‘Yes. After that, we will decide what to do about it.’

‘Okay.’ I took a sip. Oh, pear juice. ‘I want to know what it is. I have noticed you and Hades take it quite seriously, so…’ I shrugged, unsure how to finish that sentence.

Dionysus stared at one of the trees. Someone put it big, red mark in the middle of the trunk. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘Hades and I think that the faces and voices are coming from the Elder Gods. The Elder Gods are gods who were before, but are not anymore. Selene and Helios are examples, but there are also gods who got reïncarnated a few times. Eh, I am one of those. There have been two Dionysusses before me.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Sorry to I interrupt, but that must be weird as hell, knowing that.’

He shrugged. ‘I live with it. Anyway, these Elder Gods are supposed to be in a place not even the gods have ever seen. All we know about it is that it is not always in the same place. It moves. And when it does, sometimes a few Elder Gods get themselves stuck in Tartarus.’ He took a break to sigh. ‘The only way for them to get out is if they find the doors of death. Yet, for sóme reason, they always try to contact someone in the hope that person will come down to Tartarus to break them out, even though no-one can do that.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘If their target actually goes down to...’

‘Hadestown?’

‘...Tartarus, it usually does not go over well.’ He slouched a little. ‘And Hades and I think that target is you.’

I took a few sips of pear juice. ‘But there is something we can do about it,’ I said, trying to visualise a solution.

‘Yes, luckily. Multiple ways, even.’

‘Otherwise, you would not be so calm.’ I think.

‘Very observant. Probably the best way to get rid of them is via the diplomatic route.’

I pulled my legs upon the chair. ‘Does that mean that I will have to talk a bunch of primordials down?’

‘Elder Gods. Primordials are something else.’

‘Elder Gods, then?’

‘Diplomatic means without violence, in this case. How it is done is that you attract the peaceful spirits who are in the Elder Gods’ resting place, so that they can keep the spirits in Tartarus at bay. That does mean that you might still hear a voice sometimes, but those voices will be peaceful and wise. Taking the violent route means that you do not hear those voices either, but it will also give you traumas the diplomatic route won’t give you.’

I thought about that for a second. Would I mind a voice if it was peaceful? ‘Would the voices be near constant?’

‘No. They don’t talk much, and when they talk, it is usually enlightened babbling.’

‘It would be completely gone if I chose the violent route. But I assume that will cause hefty PTSD?’

‘Among other things.’

‘Alright. Then I trust that you are right.’

As soon as I said it, it felt like a stone sank into my stomach and I realised I did not, in fact, fully trust that he was right. This was something big, something dangerous. I could trust him, I knew that, of course, but... ‘Eh, that being said, what exactly are we going to do? How will I attract these peaceful Elder Gods?’

‘We will go to the underworld. Near the Styx lays a platform from where you can contact the peaceful Elder Gods. You will go into a trance. I will be the one to guide you through that state. You will make contact with the right voices and notice the bad ones leave. After we are done, the nasty voices will fully go away over the course of a few weeks.’

He said we’ll have to go to the underworld. Near the Styx. I knew Dionysus had never done anything to me, but somewhere inside I was afraid that he would hurt me. That he would throw me into the Styx and leave me there. I would be in trance, or otherwise said, unable to defend myself.

‘Nico, do you have trouble trusting me on this?’

I took a deep, deep breath. ‘Yes. I know I can trust you, but somehow I don’t.’

‘The fact that you told me shows that you indeed trust me. Now, I know your father would be willing to come with us, so that there is more than one person to witness what is happening.’ He shifted on the chair. ‘There is also a contact platform on Olympus, if that makes you more comfortable. However, there will be people walking around and trying to see what is going on there.’

I did not want to go to Olympus. I’d take the Underworld. At least I knew that place. ‘A third option, which can be combined with either of the previous two, is that I ask Hestia to come along,’ Dionysus continued. Hestia. I could trust Hestia. She would never hurt me. Yet, could I ask that of her? ‘That is not a strange thing to ask. She often comes along when someone has to meet the Elder Gods, because she calms people down.’

I squeezed my juicebox. ‘If that is so, I want Hestia to be there. I can trust Hestia. Yet, I think dad will want to be there too. Eh, and I understand that you will still be the one guiding me.’

‘Then that is what we are going to do.’ He stuck out his hand. I shook it.

‘Yes. Then that is what we are going to do.’

I didn't really know how to feel. I felt a cocktail of different emotions. Fear most of all.

‘I understand it if you feel strange. I am proud that you are still here.’

I nodded and drank a bit of pear juice. ‘It is a lot.’

‘I reckon.’

‘Eh, when will we do this? Right now? Tomorrow? In three weeks, three months?’

‘The only limits I set is that you must give me time to speak to Hestia first, I want it to be over with this very week and I want it to be right after you’ve had a meal. For that meal, you should stuff yourself. Eat too much, even. If it isn’t enough you might faint.’

‘Okay. Tomorrow then, if you can reach Hestia by that time. Right after breakfast. I want to get it over with and I do not want to chicken out.’

He smiled. ‘Very well, Nico. Very well.’

Will slept in my cabin that night. ‘Maybe now it can finally get better.’

‘Maybe it will.’ I moved closer. ‘I am afraid, Will. It sounds like a whole operation. I mean, Dionysus was pretty calm about it, which makes me think it cannot be that bad. But…’ I sighed.

Will kissed me on the top of my head. ‘I’ll be right here to hear it all once you're done. I’ll drop everything I am doing. I’ll let someone die if I am in the middle of an operation.’

I understood it was meant as a joke, but I was not really in the mood. I closed my eyes. ‘I want to sleep.’

‘Then you can sleep, Nico. You are safe.’

A/N: Kinda on the bridge about whether I’ll upload a chapter where Nico talks to Hestia or if I should get it over with and then write a chapter about Hestia. Update from future Rose: Hestia chapter will be there. Next up.

Okay boys I feel like I am kind of dragging this arc. Sorry for that. As said before, Hestia will be next and then I’ll get to The Thing and after that to the other Thing (Not saying much but it’ll be cool).

It suddenly hit me that Nico and Will being a couple was a whole shock in America, when in the Netherlands there was this book where someone (very obviously) had a mother in a relationship with a (non-evil) stepmother in like... 2008 and no-one batted an eye (Lena Lijstje, for all my Dutch readers) (I googled it. It was damn 2002).

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marybethsjournal · 3 years

Text

Always

Summary: Molly has hit a wall with Dutch and doesn’t know what to do; she feels completely lost. Not to mention that she has started to have complicated feeling towards another gang member.

Pairing(s): Dutch Van Der Linde x Molly O’Shea, Molly O’Shea x Sadie Adler (strongly implied)

Word Count: 1903

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265912

It was barely noon and the girls were day drinking yet again. This didn’t impress Molly much, but she had come to realize that nobody, not even Dutch cared about what she thought. Molly pushed the thought away. If she thought about how Dutch had been shutting her out and treating her badly in general, she would be driven to drink just like these harlots. And then she would be no better than them, which seemed to be the most humiliating thought possible at the time.

Molly was not surprised that Karen was leading the drinking charge of the day. That’s all the wench knew how to do, that and seduce men. She tried not to blame Karen too hard for that, though, because everyone knew Dutch was strongly encouraging her to put herself out there and if Molly verbalized her bias against working women, she’d have to implicate Dutch in the whole thing and she didn’t feel like doing that. Anything to exonerate her man from wrongdoing. What did surprise Molly was that that girl, Sadie, had joined the women for once. And not in the way Abigail had, coming over to get one drink and then gone back to her business (Molly didn’t blame her, she deserved a drink, especially since Jack had asked about 50 questions today already and the Marston man had tried to pants Bill and got a fist in his face in return). Sadie was downing the drinks faster than anyone else; she seemed to have no shame. Molly supposed that maybe she shouldn’t have been so surprised. Sadie had gone through a significant transformation over the past few months. When Sadie had been brought in by Dutch, Micah, and Arthur, she seemed weak and quiet. She had worn dresses and otherwise modest garments, although nothing too fancy. Now, she had the audacity to yell at the men and one day, when out on the town with Arthur, she had bought a shirt and pants and she hadn’t taken them off since. Quite offensive, in Molly’s opinion, but Sadie objectively pulled it off quite well. Molly had noticed herself staring at Sadie quite often, observing the woman. She couldn’t pinpoint quite why, but she assumed it was normal. Sadie was pushing boundaries and was overall quite an interesting woman, more interesting than herself. Not to mention, Sadie was very beautiful. Anyone could see that, it wasn’t an odd thing for her to think.

Molly found herself in the same situation yet again. She was staring at Sadie, who was downing another drink and laughing at some joke Tilly (or maybe it was Karen??? Molly wasn’t doing a very good job focusing on anything other than Sadie at the moment) made. Molly smiled, seeing Sadie throw her head back in laughter. Her smile was so huge and genuine. It was only recently that she had started smiling again. Sadie had taken it rough, just like any woman would, when her husband died. Molly knew the pain hadn’t gone away, but Sadie seemed to finally be letting herself enjoy life with little guilt. She thought about Sadie’s smile a little longer than she probably should have and her mind ended up drifting to a few nights ago when she and Sadie had danced. The whole camp was ambient with laughter and music, coming both from the gramophone and Javier’s guitar. Everyone seemed to have found a partner and was dancing: Mary Beth with Arthur, Jack with Uncle (their form of dancing was far different than everyone else’s slow dancing, the pair were waving their arms wildly and running in circles together), Karen with Sean, Tilly with Lenny. Hell, even Abigail and that fool John had put aside their differences for the night and were dancing up on each other, a bit too provocatively for Molly’s liking. Molly had actually been really excited about the spontaneous party that night. She felt the distance growing between her and Dutch the past few weeks and she was convinced that that night could make it all better. She had put on her finest dress, fixed her hair, and perfected before asking him. But to her surprise, he told her that he was too tired and maybe they could try another time. Her surprise had turned to horror when she later saw Dutch dancing with Susan. The worst part was, Dutch didn’t even seem to care when Molly noticed. It was like he didn’t even care about her feelings.

Molly had run into the nearby forest to cry. She knew her makeup would smudge and usually she would refrain from crying to the best of her ability, but she didn’t care anymore. It only took a few minutes before Sadie had snuck up behind her and asked her what was wrong. She had been sitting on a rock nearby, not in a party mood, when she had heard Molly crying, she explained. How embarrassing.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened so I can fight a bitch?”

Molly, despite her sadness, laughed. “It’s not really a bitch. It’s Dutch. Wouldn’t dance with me but he sure is dancing with Susan right now.”

“That old fart? Ah you can do better than him.” Sadie seemed to get an idea and clapped her hands together. “In fact, let’s show him what he’s missing. I’ll dance with ya.”

Molly was taken aback by Sadie’s proposal.

“I’m not too sure that’ll make him jealous. Maybe if I danced with Charles or something…”

“Oh come on! Sorry I’m not Charles.” Sadie grabbed Molly’s hand and drug her back into camp

Molly was confused as to why Sadie seemed so insistent to dance with her, but she was certainly pleased by the attention. She rarely got attention from this gang.

The dance went wonderfully; Molly almost felt something resembling butterflies in her stomach, which she dismissed as simple indigestion. It was perfect until Molly apparently got too close to Sadie and she asked, “Miss O’Shea, do you expect me to kiss you or what?”

Molly was horrified. She gave some phony excuse and ran away from the situation as fast as she could, ignoring Sadie calling after her. Things had been pretty awkward between them since then.

Molly was startled out her daydreaming when Karen yelled at her, “Hey Molly, what are you looking at? You wanna drink or something?” Oh great, Molly thought after realizing she had been staring this entire time.

Molly walked over to where Karen was and for just a brief moment, allowed herself to look at Sadie again. Unfortunately, Sadie seemed to have the same idea. Their eyes locked and Sadie subsequently excused herself to go talk to Abigail.

“What the Hell is her problem? Anyway, wanna drink? I’ll share mine. It’s the good kind of whiskey.” Karen offered some strong whiskey to Molly. There’s nothing Molly wanted less than to drink after Karen.

“I try not to drink outside of social settings.” Molly informed Karen, politely declining.

“Then WHY were you looking at me earlier?”

“I wasn’t.” Molly responded curtly.

“Then you were looking at Sadie. Cause I know you weren’t looking at these here two fools.” Karen made rude gestures at Mary Beth and Tilly.

“I wasn’t looking at anything, Karen. Just thinking.” Molly couldn’t find it within herself to look anywhere besides her feet.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. You two, get out of here. I need to talk to Miss O’Shea alone.” Molly tried desperately to get the other two girls to stay but Karen insisted they leave. Apparently, Karen had much more pull among the other women than Molly did. That wasn’t one bit surprising, but it still seemed wrong.

“Wow, you really don’t wanna talk to me. My feelings are so hurt.” Karen took another swig of her drink before continuing. “Listen Molly, you know just as well as everyone else that I think you’re lazy and entitled. Just all around a nasty person.”

Molly nodded. Karen generally was straightforward and rude when she wanted to me, but it still seemed the drink must be doing a number on her for her to be able to say what she just had said.

“But for some reason my the dumb bitch in me has started to care. I didn’t think I had an angel on my shoulder, but here she is, annoying as ever, telling me, ‘Karen, you have to warn Molly. You don’t wanna see her get hurt.’ And then I tell them back that I don’t care if you get hurt but I still feel like I do care afterwards.”

It didn’t take much of an intellectual to make the observation that Karen had had too much to drink. Molly honestly couldn’t understand what she was saying: it sounded like a whole bunch of incoherent rambling in which she said a whole bunch, yet nothing at all at the same time.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. You don’t have a heart of gold like myself. But at least you do have a heart. Listen, I just wanted to let you know Dutch don't care about you.”

‘“Leave me alone, Karen. You’re drunk and I won’t hear anymore.”

“See, you know it’s true! He sees you as a toy more than anything. You’re gonna end up hurt and he’s not going to care one bit.”

“If you think he’s so bad, why are you still running with him?”

“A lot of us don’t have a choice, miss society lady. Besides, I know better to get involved with him.”

“Sure, Karen. Thanks, I guess.”

Molly had walked away and pretended like she hadn’t cared but even days later, the short conversation haunted her at every turn. Even late at night, lying in bed next to Dutch, she replayed the whole ordeal over and over again in her mind. She hated to admit it, but Karen was right. The man lying next to her didn’t feel much for her anymore, if he ever had in the first place. It was just cold lying next to him. Like sleeping with a complete stranger.

She had spent several consecutive nights not being able to sleep out of worry. Late into the night, she would search Dutch’s face for any sort of sign that maybe he cared about something, maybe not even her. She always came up with nothing.

It had become all too much for Molly. She found herself crying yet again. She had never known herself to be this emotional. Part of her wanted Dutch to wake up and see her in pain, but she knew in her heart that he wouldn’t care. He would just be irritated that someone interrupted his beauty sleep.

One night when Molly couldn’t control her crying any longer, she left their tent so as not to disturb Dutch. She walked towards the rock that she usually sat on while she read a book during the day. On her way, she noticed that Sadie was sitting on another rock on the other side of camp. What was she doing out this late. She supposed she would have to find out. Now was her chance to finally talk to Sadie and apologize for whatever had happened between them.

“Can I sit here with you?” Molly asked Sadie when she approached her.

“Always.” Sadie smiled at her.

“That would be nice.”

#red dead fanfic #rdr #rdr2 #red dead redemption #molly o'shea #karen jones #sadie adler #dutch x molly #sadie x molly #o'shadie

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ikevamp-annalyne · 4 years

Note

Hiii! I saw ur mc with an insecurity of her big breasts, can i ask the same headcanon but now with mozart, dazai, isaac, theo and napoleon? Ty so much! 💗💖

Hey there! (*´∀`*) thank you so much for the request YwY I hope it will be good!

Mozart:

Well Mozart loves every inch of you, from head to toe. Including your full breasts. He loves them. Probably because they are yours and he woud throw punches at anyone insulting you and your body.

Just like with the smaller breasts headcanon, he would go to clothes' shop and get handmade and adjusted dresses, shirts and corsages for you. He will travel all over Paris to find good tailors!

He will also bring the clothes you already own, and get them adjusted, ocasionally throwing glares at some tailors ranting about how hard it will be, how much it will affect the fabrics, how it will make the dress less pretty, etc.

"Cut it out. I pay you for this work. I give enough money to your shop for having adjusted clothes. So get down to business and stop ranting about this. My lover needs those clothes, and she will have them. Speed it up."

Tailors now hate him because of how rude he is. But now, all of your clothes fit perfectly! Amd he loves it, because you look even more gorgeous and he will tell you again and again how much he loves you, and how much he finds you attractive -making love to you whenever he can...-

Dazai:

Dear God, he is used to Japanese women with often smaller breasts. So to him, it is a nice change of pace. He finds women beautiful in all possible ways, but he is quite curious and attracted to your chest.

While making love, he will play with your breasts a lot. Finding all the pleasure points he can. And he will remember all of them, of course. But what he prefers is sleeping on you, his head on your breasts. Best pillow.

When he will learn about your insecurity, he will be even more after your chest. And he will find ways to show off your cleavage a lot. He loves seeing more of your skin, and he wants you to build confidence.

After having Sebastian make a yukata for you, he will let you wear it and showing lots of skin around your breasts. To show you that your chest is a big asset. He wants women to look at you with envy. He wants you to see women crave for your breasts.

You will walk in town like this, and upon seeing the reactions to your cleavage, you will realise it is indeed something people crave for. Seeing people staring at you and hearing them whisper compliments will make you feel very pretty and sexy.

Isaac:

Babe Isaac is flustered. Honestly, he finds you beautiful and doesn't even understand why you are insecure. But he is aware of not being very observing when it comes to insecurities, fears, etc.

He will be awkward, trying to compliment your outfits, to give lots of attention to your breasts, to let you talk about your insecurities and comfort you... He tries hard but at times, it is a bit harsh on him. He is not used to this.

But honestly, him trying hard to show you how pretty and attractive you are plays a huge part in building some self-confidence. But what helps the most is how he listens to you, not saying anything but just paying attention to your words.

While you are talking, he will say some: "I see", "I guess so", "So this is why", "I don't think you should see this as a problem". Cutest thing was when he told you that all bodies are differenr, just like the stars.

"Stars are all different but beautiful in their own way. The only thing they think about is surviving through years and here we are, admiring them. Just focus on your own happiness, and you will come to love you like we love stars." Needless to say you burried him under a bear hug.

Theodorus:

"What?" "Yeah, look, my breasts don't look good in this. I always struggle finding goos clotges fitting." "Well, that's because you suck at finding clothes in this time. Let me do it and prove it to you, knabbeltje."

And here goes Theodorus strolling through Paris looking for all the clothes he could find fitting your appetising breasts. Because yeah he loves them. It reminds him of freshly baked bun and you know his love for sweet things.

He will struggle finding the clothes. And he goes back home with nothing bought. So you laugh at him and mock him; "I told you, you stubborn Dutch cheese". And he literally strips you, up and down, with no self-restraint nor shame.

"Well, learn how to accept yourself first, hondje! Tell me-" he says while placing you in front of a full-body mirror. "What is not of your taste here? All I see is perfectly-shaped breasts and beautiful curves. Don't you tell me otherwise."

Your theorapy -pun intended- will be to look at yourself, fully naked, everyday, and say out loud what you like in yourself and what you don't. And why you do like it or not. Theodorus wants you to build self-confidence all alone.

Napoleon:

As you are napping, he cuddles on top of you and goes like "aw, so soft" while snuggling against your breasts. You laugh while caressing his hair and saying "At least you like them... Not like me."

"Hm? What was that, nunuche?" "Well, they are so big and uncomfortable, I'd hope they'd be smaller but well... I have to live with it." "Big and uncomfortable, really? How come? They look perfect to me."

You proceed to tell him what you hate in your breasts, from their shape to their weight while talking about the way they look in clothes. He listens carefully and then has a lot of fun "counter attacking" what you are saying.

"Too big? But curves are proof of healthy", "their shapes, why is it a problem, since we all have body parts with different shapes?, "feeling their weight is a problem with your corsage, not your breasts in themselves."

In the end, it's more like an ode to your beauty and the perfection he sees in you. And an ode to accepting we are all different and we should all compose with that and love ourselves. Because it all depends on our own perception of ourselves.

I hope it is okay and not unrealistic? I kinda hit writing block with these headcanons because it was hard to come up with different reactions ^^'

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp mozart #ikevamp dazai #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp theo #ikevamp napoleon

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fedeipox · 3 years

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The Way of Time (Rdr2 fanfic) - Chapter 9 (1/3)

I’m back with my sh*t!! I should definitely keep writing, but I’m so full of things to do...

Chapter 9 (1/3) - Good morning, bad news

Words 3,3k

It took a little before he opened his eyes. First he regained consciousness, stretched his back on the hard ground covered by the old worn blanket, and then he tried to yawn. I say he tried because when he opened his mouth immediately a pain on his lower jaw forced him to close his mouth again and squeeze his eyes in a suffering expression.

“Ahi, coño” he swore and brought a hand to cover the right cheek.

That beast, the day before, had almost broke his face with that huge punch he had given him, and if it wasn’t for Arthur, who had distracted him, he would have been a headless Mexican by now. He wondered how Arthur was doing after that fight. He was the one who had got worse, being beaten by that big man in the middle of the road.

He finally decided to open his eyes and check if Charles was still asleep next to him or he had already woken up. He was already up of course, he didn’t expect otherwise. Sitting up, Javier also realized he had a terrible pain on his left ribs, but this time he had no idea of who among all those men inside the saloon had been the one to hurt him there.

“Hey, you getting ready?” he asked to Charles when he reached him near the horses.

“Ah-ah. We must meet with Trelawny in one hour.”

“I know, I know. Give me a minute” he said turning around and slowly heading to the kitchen.

He needed coffee, and something to eat for the journey. He greeted Pearson, Miss Grimshaw, Abigail and the Adler widow on his way to the coffee pot and as soon as he kneeled down and put his hands on it, Emily showed up.

“Arthur told me about the bar fight. How are you?”

“Fine enough.”

“You have a bad bruise on your face. You should put something on it, like some ice.”

“Where do you think I can take ice?” he snorted pouring himself some coffee.

“Right. I better reach Charles. I want to check how is he and then we should go out for the lesson.”

“We’re leaving” he informed her standing up with a grimace of pain.

“Leaving? Why?”

“We found Sean. We’re going to rescue him.”

“Sean, really? Have you told Karen?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, I’m going to tell her now! Good luck Javier!”

As she said that, she run away with her skirt fluttering in all directions. Javier shook his head, finished his coffee in a few gulps, took a couple of bean cans from the supplies and went back to Charles. In fifteen minutes, they were already leaving.

Karen had just woken up and she sat upright to stretch her back and rub her eyes. Abigail, who was already up, walked right in front of her, but she didn’t say anything, not even a ‘good morning’. Everybody in camp knew that they didn’t have to say a word to Karen in the morning, at least not until she had drunk her coffee and smoked her cigarette, especially her cigarette, or she would have summoned all the powers on earth and sky to make a lighting strike you exactly where you were, leaving only a pile of ashes on the ground.

Everybody knew that, except Emily who came running with a big smile on her face, or as Karen described her in her mind, the most idiotic expression she had ever seen. The hell was she smiling for so early in the morning?

“I have to tell you something that will make you…”

“Fuck off.”

“But…”

“Fuck off!”

“It’s about Sean.”

Despite the fact that she wanted to kill her at that moment, Karen looked up at her and that was all Emily needed to start talking.

“Javier told me they found him. Charles told me the law took him captive, but they’re going to rescue him. Aren’t you happy?” she said clapping her hands and making some little jumps that made her look more stupid than usual.

“Delighted. Now, please, will you FUCK OFF!”

Emily jumped at those loud and rude words, and turned around with a scoff.

“Screw you, Karen” she replied running away.

Karen stood up and slowly headed to the kitchen and only when she took the first sip of coffee she actually thought about what Emily had told her.

So, Sean was alive. Good. No, not just good, GREAT. She missed him, she was hoping so hard that he wasn’t dead, and she couldn’t wait for him to come back.

Karen shook her head. The hell no. He was a pain in the ass. He was a little piece of shit with the biggest ego she had ever seen in a person. As soon as they had seen each other, he would have surely started with all that fantasy about her being in love with him.

But of course she loved him. He was an idiot sometimes, but she did love him, she just couldn’t tell him. And yes, she couldn’t wait to see him again, and sit with him by the fire and sing one of those beautiful songs he knew, with that terrible voice he had that made him sound like a dead cat.

Karen smiled to herself and then pushed away the feelings and the thoughts, taking another sip and preparing for a day of work with Miss Grimshaw.

...

Javier and Charles weren’t the only couple that was leaving that morning. Walking again next to the horses, Emily spotted Lenny and Micah loading the last things on their saddles and she walked closer both pushed by the curiosity to know where they were heading and to tell them Sean would soon be with them again.

“Dutch told us to go to Strawberry. See how things are lying in West Elisabeth, find some opportunity. I guess Sean will be here by the time we come back, so we can have a party” said Lenny.

With most of the men gone, the camp soon became silent and at Emily’s eyes it appeared also extremely sad. The empty tents and campfires made it look like an abandoned place and she hoped that moment wouldn’t last much and that soon everybody would have come back.

Her mind went to Arthur and about how he was doing with the reverend. She had thought that rescuing him wouldn’t take much time, but she was wrong because she didn’t know Arthur was having a hard time at the Flatneck Station.

She decided to spend that time finishing the oil for John’s scars and when she was done, she went looking for him.

He was seated at one of the tables and he was studying a piece of paper with a lot of lines and names on it.

“You people seem to have a thing for maps” she laughed sitting next to him.

“Excuse me?” he asked frowning.

“Never mind. I’m done. Here’s the oil” she said leaving the jar on the table, which John took to study.

“It’s still too soon. You have to wait for those cuts to heal completely, which will take a week more, I think, and then you can start using it” she added.

“Well, thank you, I guess.”

“What are you doing with that?” she asked pointing at the map.

“Looking for a place to rob. A town, a ranch, something in the surroundings that could make us gain some money.”

Emily didn’t like the fact that he wanted to rob some people in a town or in a ranch, but she asked anyway: “and, have you found something?”

“Hosea said Valentine is a live stock town, so they should sell, what? Cows and sheep in there?”

“I’ve seen sheep when I’ve been there” Emily informed him.

“And the nearest place to have sheep may be this “Emerald Ranch”. We could go and find out if they are preparing some for being sold.”

“We?”

“Well, yeah I guess…”

John turned his head from left to right and checked the place like he was looking for something.

“There’s no many folks left, so I guess… I can’t bring Bill, he’d ruin everything so… maybe I’ll go alone” he ended looking again at the map and shaking his head.

“If you need a hand, and you just have to check something, I can come with you” proposed Emily.

“You?” asked John looking at her.

“Why? Because I’m a woman?”

“N-no…”

He wanted to say “because from what I heard you are as dumb as Bill” but her face made him understand that it was better if he didn’t utter that sentence.

“Yes, yes I think I can bring you with me” he said in the end.

“Good. When?” she asked.

“Well, I still don’t know. I’ll let you know.”

“Okay. Remember: everyday, twice a day, and your face will look much better in a month” she added tapping on the jar before standing up to go away.

...

Arthur left the reverend under his tent just when Miss Grimshaw came closer to ask what had happened.

“Just… the usual” he replied with a shrug.

“Poor bastard.”

“He was lucky, this time. Real lucky” he said going away.

He couldn’t believe the crazy chase that man had forced him to do that morning, and he was feeling already tired, but there was no time to rest.

He went looking for her. He wanted to tell her about his discovery, even if he already knew she would freak out at the news.

She was speaking with John. He waited until she stood up to go away and in the meantime he observed how the two of them looked so distinct from the distance: John so ugly, scarred and mean, Emily so pretty and neat. It must have been the same impression Arthur gave to the deputy when he walked inside the sheriff’s with her.

And how? How could Arthur walk beside her in the street and not feel diminished by her presence? And how couldn’t she notice that?

He took a deep breath and reached her.

“Hey.”

“Hey, you’re back. How’s the reverend?”

“Alive, for now. I found him. I found one of the men in the photographs. The pig farmer.”

“Emmet Granger?”

Emily already knew the people in those photos by heart.

“Yeah, and… well, I asked him about Calloway, but uhm… he wasn’t very pleased and… well I had to shoot him.”

“YOU DID WHAT?” she exclaimed bringing her hands to her face and covering her mouth in shock.

“Hey, he kept threatening me, and humiliating me, so first I returned the favor. Then, I was going away but he engaged me in a duel. I couldn’t…”

“You returned the favor?”

“I made pig shit rain on him.”

Her face changed immediately from shocked and disappointed to funny and goofy: she was trying to restrain the laughter.

“You did what?”

“I-I put dynamite in a pile of pig shit and made it rain on him.”

She busted out laughing and Arthur smiled at her amusement. He expected another reproach for his behavior, not a laugh.

“Anyway, I couldn’t leave without taking care of him” he said in the end.

“Jesus, Arthur” she whispered and brought a hand to hide her eyes, still smiling, but forcefully returning to a serious demeanor.

“You didn’t have to kill him.”

“Yeah, well next time why don’t you try to convince a crazy old man to talk about his past as famous gunslinger.”

“I would have if you had brought me with you! You promised I could come.”

“Believe me, you haven’t missed much.”

“But next time I’ll come with you. Say it!”

“Okay, okay. Next time we’ll try to convince the asshole together.”

...

Emily sighed and looked at his face. She wanted to ask more details about how Granger had died, understand if Arthur was just defending himself or if he had started the thing, but at the same time she was afraid to know he had been the one who started it. She didn’t want to think about him as a murderer.

“At least you found something about Calloway?” she asked in the end.

“Nothing.”

Silence fell between them, an embarrassing silence. Emily couldn’t remove from her head the image of Arthur shooting someone in cold blood, and at the same time, that image reminded her of something similar she had done recently, and the weight of her actions was starting to be felt again on her shoulders. Arthur cleared his throat before finding an excuse to leave, breaking the silence and the tension.

She couldn’t believe those people knew nothing but violence. It seemed they didn’t even try to find an alternative to killing, some way to convince people that wasn’t pointing a gun to their heads. She had created an idolized idea of them at the beginning, but that idea was starting to fade away.

But she had to admit the shower of shit was funny. She smiled again thinking about it. It must have been like one of those scenes in kids cartoons, like Mickey Mouse or Duffy Duck, just more… dirty.

In a couple of hours, in addition to everybody leaving camp, Arthur and Hosea decided to leave too. They wanted to go looking for one of the legendary animals in Hosea’s map. They called her intentionally to tell her about it, and not only that.

Arthur had already removed the saddle from his horse and he was tapping his hand on its back.

“I’ll leave Drover to you. Take good care of him, he’s a good horse” he said.

“You’re leaving it to me? And how… how will you travel?” she asked.

“I’m going to sell this one” he replied pointing at the big black horse next to him.

“And in the meantime, I’ll buy a new horse. Drover is good, but sometimes he gets scared easily, so be careful when you ride him.”

“I will” she said, but in her mind she was thinking she would have never tried to ride him on her own.

She looked at them mounting on the horses and disappear into the woods. And now, the camp really felt empty. However, Miss Grimshaw gave Emily no time to think about it, putting her to work after the days of laziness and boredom.

She was assigned to the clothes washing and she took the chance to wear her “normal” clothes and wash the shirt and the skirt.

“In the future is so much simple” she said to Abigail as they hanged the clean laundry.

“We have a thing called washing machine. You put the clothes inside and it washes them, so you don’t have to rub and ruin your hands with water and detergents.”

“Why don’t you build it, this way Miss Grimshaw will stop torturing us” she replied, but her tone was heavily sarcastic. Abigail was one of those who still didn’t believe in Emily’s story.

Talking seriously, no-one believed in the possibility that Emily truly came from the future, but some of them, like Mary-Beth, Tilly, Hosea and Charles, believed in her conviction that she came from the future, so if it was real for her, it was real for them too, but they didn’t actually believe in a fact, they believed in a belief.

“You all are too hard with her. She’s just doing what she thinks it’s better to make this camp work. Your hygienic situation it’s already unstable. Without her it would be disastrous” said Emily.

In those days she had thought a lot about the harsh reaction Miss Grimshaw had had with her, but also about how worried everybody said she was because of her disappearance, and so, Emily decided to forgive her and forget the fact that she had been slapped, and, on the contrary, she started to take her defense every time somebody silently attacked her for something she said or did in camp.

Since the place was much more boring with most of its people gone, Emily also started to visit Kieran constantly, alway being careful not to touch him with a single finger, but she had also noticed that since she had loosened his ropes and made him sit on the ground, no-one had tightened them again, so that now he could stay seated and sleep correctly.

Emily wondered if that had happened because she had somehow put some humanity in those people’s heart or just because no-one bothered to put him in the right place again.

With Kieran, Emily talked mainly about horses. When the man found out she knew nothing about those animals he loved so much, he decided to make her some real lessons about them.

“What about that one? What breed is it?” she asked pointing at Dutch’s horse.

“That one is an albino Arab, which is different from a white Arab because of his eyes, you see them? They are clear.”

“What about Charles’s horse? Taima. She is so strange, with all those colors.”

“He has an Appaloosa. Quite common horse, sweet and calm, good for training.”

It also happened that she brought Drover near the spot Kieran was tied to, so that he could give her indications about how to groom him. How to use the brush correctly, how to touch him, all the things she used to do with Charles.

“You know so much. If you weren’t tied here I’d ask you to teach me something more about riding, now that everybody who could teach me is gone” she murmured with a long face.

“I wish I were free too.”

“You know what you should do? Prove yourself to them. Give them something that can make them understand you are not a bad guy.”

But that was a real issue for Kieran, because he was terrified that, if he spoke, Dutch would kill him after he had what he wanted.

Emily didn’t want to hear it, she didn’t want to think Dutch or Hosea or somebody else could be so ruthless to kill poor Kieran as soon as they had what they wanted. She was aware that after what had happened she better didn’t stick her nose in that question, but she was taking it as something personal and wanted to do something: to prove to herself that those people weren’t as terrible as sometimes they seemed, to prove that Kieran wasn’t dangerous, to prove to everybody that kindness was the right way.

“Emily!”

The kid’s voice distracted her from her thoughts.

“Hey, Jack!”

“Can we play?”

...

Emily didn’t stop making up new games. Every time Jack asked her she always came up with something new. Duck, Duck, Goose was one of his favorites because they played with his mom, Tilly, Mary-Beth and Karen, even if the latter wasn’t very pleased to play and they had to force her. Then, there was hide and seek, Simon Says, which was super fun because they played with Mr. Pearson - whose name was Simon - and he always found something hilarious to make, and then Hopscotch and the Explorers. If Jack was having a bad day or he was bored he knew he could always go to Emily and she would have found a way to cheer him up.

That day they played hide and seek and when they were tired enough, to rest, Emily chose a particular spot in camp and told him to lay on the ground and look at the sky.

“Why?” he asked.

“You’ll see” she replied.

It was the perfect day: there were enough clouds and not much wind so that the movements they made created many shapes and figures. Emily explained him how it worked and soon they started to see every kind on thing in the clouds.

“Look! That looks like a dog! I like dogs!” exclaimed Jack.

“And that looks like roasted chicken! God, I miss chicken” Emily said bringing a hand on her half empty stomach.

“How does it taste like?”

“It tastes like chicken.”

“I’ve never eaten chicken.”

“What does it mean, you never tried chicken?” she asked looking at him in shock.

“Mr. Pearson only makes his stew. I eat that.”

Their argument went on for a while, until Emily sweared she would have found a way to make Jack eat chicken.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female oc #Javier Escuella #Charles Smith #kieran duffy #karen jones #jack marston

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hysterialevi · 4 years

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His Name Was Isaac - Ch. 7

Fanfic summary: During a mission to avenge his mother’s death, Isaac hunts down the men responsible for her murder and kills them off one-by-one, only to discover that his last target is taking refuge among the Van der Linde gang. In an attempt to kill them, Isaac attacks the gang and unknowingly becomes enemies with his own father, who is in the process of fighting his own battle for redemption.

Point of view: third-person

Previous chapter | Next chapter

This story is also on AO3

THE NEXT DAY

AURORA BASIN

Hauling the last of their supplies onto the back of the wagon, Arthur lifted up the rear guard and secured them in place, making sure that the few things they had left wouldn’t get lost during the long trek ahead of them.

For the time being, their plan was to head south to Manzanita Post and replace any of the resources that were destroyed, as well as trade for some new weapons with the people there. Afterwards, they’d travel north to Strawberry and search for any tips that could lead them to their next big score.

Arthur didn’t know what could possibly be worth stealing in that small, little settlement, but it wasn’t as if their gang had much of a choice in the matter. Whoever attacked their camp left them with next to nothing, and now, the only money they had left was from the bank job.

If they didn’t find something or someone to rob soon, they’d be at the end of their rope.

And there was no telling what Dutch would do then.

“Arthur!” Someone exclaimed, causing the man to look over his shoulder. It was Joe, coming up to see him.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, moving onto the horses.

Joe stepped next to the mounts, resting a hand on one of the hitching posts.

“I wanted to thank you.” He said.

“Thank me?” Arthur straightened his mount’s saddle, giving it a firm tug. “For what?”

“For savin’ my ass yesterday. Dutch nearly blew my brains out after what happened with Cleet. If you hadn’t intervened, I’d be dead in the ground by now. I owe you one.”

Despite the friendly sentiment, Arthur didn’t return Joe’s appreciative tone.

“Yeah, well... if it turns out you were the traitor after all,” he backed up from the horses, looking Joe in the eye, “...you’ll wish I let Dutch shoot you back there.”

Joe concealed his fear with a subtle gulp. “Of course. I understand. But, I was wondering something else...”

Arthur raised a brow. “...What?”

“Well... was anyone missing from the bank robbery?”

“Missing?” He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Everyone we planned to bring showed up. Why?”

“Because if everyone was accounted for, then it makes no sense to say that one of our own people sabotaged the supplies.”

Arthur gave him a firm reminder. “...Assuming you weren’t the rat, of course.”

Joe nodded. “Of course. But Cleet obviously didn’t do anything, and if everyone was present at the robbery, then how the hell is it possible that one of us poisoned the food? We’re a tough gang, but even we can’t be in two places at once.”

Arthur shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe they poisoned it before we left.”

“I’m pretty sure someone would’ve seen that,” the other man argued. “And besides, I think everyone ate in the morning. If the food was already poisoned, y’all would’ve died long before the Pinkertons cornered you.”

The older man sighed, unable to dispute Joe’s point.

“I’ll admit...” he said reluctantly, “it don’t make much sense when you put it that way. Fine. What d’you think then, Joe? If it weren’t one of us that did it, then who?”

Joe checked their surroundings for a second, making sure nobody else was eavesdropping.

“Well, just based on the timing of Cleet’s death, I’d say the food was poisoned while y’all was at the bank. This means that whoever destroyed the supplies knew our schedule. They knew when we’d be the most vulnerable. And most importantly, they knew the layout of the land. Otherwise, there ain’t no way they’d be able to sneak in so easily.”

Arthur placed a hand on his hip. “So, what’re you saying, exactly?”

“I don’t think it was one of us that poisoned the food,” Joe stated. “However, I do think it’s one of us that’s helpin’ them.”

The older man took on a more serious tone. “...And who d’you think that is?”

Joe shook his head in uncertainty. “Whoever has the most to gain.”

Arthur fell silent for a moment, taking in everything Joe just said.

Despite his wariness about the whole situation, he couldn’t deny that the man raised a few good points.

As far as Arthur could recall, nobody was absent from the bank robbery, and there were no disappearances along the way either. So it didn’t make sense to say that the culprit was one of them.

And on top of all that, Arthur highly doubted that whoever poisoned the food would’ve stuck around afterwards. It was more likely that they bolted once the job was done, and hoped that the gang would take it out on somebody else.

Arthur had no idea if it was bounty hunters, or Skinner Brothers, or even the goddamned Pinkertons who were responsible for this, but now that he really thought about it... he was inclined to agree with Joe.

There was no way it could’ve been one of their own men that caused the damage, but it was definitely a Van der Linde that talked.

“Well...” Arthur said lowly, not wanting to reveal too many of his thoughts, “I still dunno what the hell is goin’ on here, but... you might be right. I just don’t understand why anyone would do this. Especially now, of all times.”

Joe shared Arthur’s confusion. “It doesn’t make sense to me either, but if we wanna survive this year, we better find the rat soon. I don’t like the idea of wanderin’ into all that civilization with a traitor among us.”

“Agreed. Lemme know if you see anything strange. Dutch is paranoid enough as it is. We don’t need him worryin’ about mutiny too.”

Joe nodded, taking his leave. “Will do.”

Returning to his business, Arthur finished up preparing the horses as they whinnied in anticipation and swayed their heads excitedly, clearly eager to get out of these treacherous woods.

It wouldn’t be long now before the Pinkertons finally closed in on their location, and if Arthur’s instincts were correct, then Dutch’s plan to get out of Tall Trees wouldn’t go nearly as well as he expected.

There were just too many unknowns. Too many threats lurking in the shadows. For all they knew, the same person who poisoned their food could’ve been watching them as they spoke.

Arthur just hoped that the limitations of civilization would slow them down a bit. Whoever was attacking them didn’t seem to be working with the law -- Pinkertons usually captured their targets alive -- and he doubted that the Skinner Brothers would be so covert with their tactics either.

No... he had a feeling that this was something different. Something more personal. The saboteur clearly had some sort of history with the Van der Linde gang that was motivating these attacks, and in Arthur’s eyes, it almost felt like they were trying to take them out before anyone else could.

He just didn’t know why.

“Arthur!” Dutch suddenly called from a distance, sauntering up to the wagons. “You ready to go?”

Arthur patted his horse on the neck, giving Dutch a firm nod. “Ready when you are. But what about the route we’re plannin’ to take? Everything look okay so far?”

Dutch coughed a few times, not even bothering to hide the weary look on his face. “You’re not gonna believe it. I sent Bill to scout the path ahead earlier, and he tells me one of the bridges we was gonna cross has been destroyed.”

The other man paused. "The hell? But everything was fine yesterday. How did it get destroyed overnight?”

Dutch was at a loss for words. “I have no idea. But this means we’re gonna have to take a detour. We’ll go along the central road to Manzanita Post instead, then head up north once we got the supplies we need.”

Arthur didn’t like the sound of that at all. “North? That’s where most of the Skinner Brother camps are, Dutch.”

“I know, son. But the only alternative route would take us so far south that the Pinkertons would most likely surround us before we even got near the state border. You know how big the Montana River is. They’d be able to pick us off there no problem. I’d rather deal with a few crazies than get captured by the law.”

Arthur let out a deep sigh, unable to think of any other solutions. “...Alright. If that’s the only choice we’ve got.”

Dutch put a hand on his shoulder, looking at him with a sincere gaze. “Thank you for trustin’ me, Arthur. We’ll get through this. Now, c’mon. Strawberry awaits.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A WHILE LATER

TALL TREES

Traversing the uneven terrain of the forest as the local wildlife scurried around them, the Van der Linde gang pushed through the silent woods as they kept their eye on the seemingly unreachable horizon, doing their best to remain hopeful.

Thanks to the collapsed bridge Bill reported earlier, they had been forced into the area of Tall Trees that was most notorious for disappearances, as well as having an alarming amount of Skinner Brother activity.

There wasn’t a single inch of this forest that felt safe to them, and with the constant threat of being attacked clawing at their minds, it was needless to say that the gang felt somewhat on edge.

It was only a matter of time until they snapped.

“How’s it lookin’ back there?” Dutch called out to the wagons behind him. “Everything seem to be in order?”

Shay gestured to the path beneath them. “Yeah, but I’ve noticed a lotta tracks on these roads, Dutch. Looks like someone’s been ridin’ around all over this place.”

Dutch didn’t seem too bothered by the observation. “Probably just Pinkertons searching for us. You see any sign of the bastards yet?”

“No, but we should be careful. These tracks look recent. I reckon whoever left ‘em is still roaming around here somewhere. They might not be friendly.”

Arthur sighed, lightly whipping the reins as Dutch sat beside him.

“Great. Another thing to worry about. You think it could be Skinner Brothers?”

The older man shrugged. “Who knows. There are plenty o’ things that could kill you in Tall Trees. If we’re lucky, it’ll just be a group of bandits targeting these roads.”

“Let’s hope so. I’d take a good, honest holdup over dealin’ with the law any day.”

Dutch chuckled. “Oh, absolutely. I didn’t think we’d ever see Agent Ross again -- not after everything that happened with Milton -- and yet, here he is. More despicable than ever.”

Arthur thought back to the robbery. “Did you see who his new partner was?”

He shook his head. “No, but he looked like a young man to me. Not as weathered as Milton or Ross. He seemed like the type of feller who would lack experience, but make up for it in brawn.” Dutch smirked humorously. “Kinda reminds me of you, all them years ago.”

Arthur laughed softly at that. “Not anymore, though?”

Dutch let out a tired breath. “Oh, I’m afraid not, son. We’re still strong, mind you... but even we ain’t as spry as we used to be. Time will do that to you.”

The younger man’s tone sunk a little. “...And, erm... how’s your health doing? You been feelin’ alright recently?”

Dutch cleared his throat. “About as well as you can expect at my age. I ain’t got long left in this world -- we both know that -- but I don’t want none of you cryin’ over me. I’m not dead yet. Let’s just focus on headin’ east and finding a suitable doctor who can treat me. Then we can start worrying about my health.”

Arthur decided to drop it for now. “Alright. Just... lemme know if you notice anything strange. I don’t wanna wait till it’s too late.”

The other man chuckled. “Worrying about your old man, are we, Mr. Morgan? Well, ain’t that just sweet.”

Bringing their discussion to an end, Dutch’s attention was suddenly diverted from Arthur when Micah shouted at him from behind, pointing out a peculiar obstacle blocking their path.

“Hey, cowpokes! I think I see somethin’ on the road!”

Squinting his eyes, Dutch peered into the distance and tried to make out the large object barricading the road, only to freeze in shock when he realized it was a toppled stagecoach decorated with corpses.

There were no signs of the culprit as far as Dutch could see, but judging by the freshness of the bodies and the smoke rising from the coach, he assumed they were killed not too long ago.

“...Ah, shit.” He murmured to himself, taking in the morbid scene. “This probably just happened. Poor bastards. Who d’you think did this?”

An alarm went off in Arthur’s head. “Well, I dunno who did it, but I sure as hell recognize those bodies. Is it just me, or do they look like Skinner Brothers?”

Dutch examined their mottled skin and diseased faces, unable to deny the resemblance.

“No, it ain’t just you...” He replied grimly. “But who in their right mind would attack Skinner Brothers? And in broad daylight? Surely, that would bring nothing good.”

Arthur was at a loss. “It’s beyond me. But... somethin’ don’t feel right about this.”

Dutch raised a brow. “What d’you mean?”

“Think about it. Why the hell would you attack someone as crazy as the Skinner Brothers unless you were tryin’ to get attention? And to leave their bodies lying out in the open, right in the middle of the road...” Arthur put a hand on his revolver. “...I think someone wanted us to see this.”

A sense of dread filled the other man’s eyes. “Who?”

“No idea.” Arthur climbed down from the wagon, readying his gun. “But I’m gonna find out. Wait here.”

“Shay!” Dutch called, signaling the man to follow Arthur. “Go with him, will you? Let us know if you find anything.”

Carefully approaching the grotesque scene, Arthur and Shay quickly started to sift through the carnage that was left behind as they searched around for clues, curious to see who on Earth could’ve caused such a mess.

The stagecoach didn’t appear to belong to the Skinner Brothers -- the postal label on the side was enough to confirm that -- but its lockbox was full of cash and food instead of mail.

Right off the bat, Arthur assumed the Skinner Brothers must’ve stolen the coach and been using it to transport any valuables they looted, but he found it odd that whoever attacked them didn’t take any of it for themselves.

It just made him wonder even more what the motivation behind this killing was, and for some unknown reason, part of him began to suspect that the person responsible for this also poisoned their food.

He just couldn’t figure out what the correlation was.

“Hey, Shay,” Arthur said, “you see anything--”

Barely giving them any time to react, a lone bullet suddenly zipped past them and soared straight into a stick of dynamite that had been strapped to a nearby tree, causing it to explode with a bang as the impact sent Arthur and Shay flying backwards.

Meanwhile, the tree’s trunk snapped into two as the upper half collapsed onto the road, separating Arthur and Shay from the rest of the gang.

“Holy shit!” Mackintosh exclaimed, stumbling to his feet. “What the hell is this?!”

Arthur took cover behind the stagecoach, holding his revolver close. “No idea!”

“Hey!” Dutch yelled from the other side. “You boys still alive?”

“...For now!” Arthur answered. “But we can’t stay here! Y’all focus on findin’ another way around! We’ll catch up to you later!”

“But--”

Another bullet planted itself into the ground next to Arthur’s feet, prompting him to become even more frantic.

“--Just go!”

Staying behind while the gang fled in search of a detour, Arthur and Shay remained huddled up by the stagecoach as their pursuer continued to shower them with bullets, scraping off splinters of wood from the vehicle with every shot.

They couldn’t see who was attacking them or where they were, but just based on the direction of the trajectory, Arthur guessed they were firing at them from within the woods.

“Can you see them?!” Shay shouted over all the commotion, peeking around the edge.

“No! But I think they’re using the trees as cover! Keep shootin’ at the woods! I’m gonna try to get this stagecoach back on its wheels!”

Shay threw a bewildered look at him. “What? Why?”

“Because if we can get this thing movin’ again, then we can use it as cover while we make our way down the road. Now help me lift it up!”

“I thought you wanted me to shoot at them!”

Arthur stuttered. “I-- oh, for Chrissake, just lift it!”

Giving the coach a firm heave, the two of them worked together to bring it back to a standing position as their attacker carried on with the assault, trying fervently to take them out.

Arthur didn’t know why, but he got the impression that the assailant was mainly after him. All of their bullets seemed to be aimed in his general direction more so than Shay’s, and the fact that they separated him from the rest of the gang only made him wonder if they were a long-lost enemy he had forgotten.

“Jesus Christ...” He muttered through gritted teeth. He certainly hoped it wasn’t anyone who used to run with the Van der Lindes. Arthur already had a hard enough time when it came to fighting rival gangs or enemies that they encountered on the road, but if this was someone he knew from before... he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to kill them.

“Almost got it...!” Shay groaned in a strained voice, his arms now starting to quiver from the coach’s weight.

Finally tilting the sturdy vehicle back onto its wheels, Arthur hurriedly yanked one of the doors open and slammed his body against it, pushing the coach forward while Shay fired back at their attacker.

Judging by the way the foliage twitched with the pursuer’s movements, Arthur assumed they were venturing further down the path in an attempt to stop them and probably setting up some other kind of trap.

He had no idea if they had a second stack of dynamite lying around somewhere, or if they were going after the rest of the gang, but at the moment, Arthur only prayed he’d live long enough to find out.

“Shit!” Shay shouted as a bullet darted through one of the coach’s windows. “This bastard’s got good aim!”

Arthur pressed harder against the door. “Well, make sure yours is better!”

Forcing the stagecoach up a steep hill, Arthur mustered as much strength as he possibly could and flattened his palms on the door’s surface, trying to ignore the ache that was now spreading in his arms.

The vehicle budged a little bit, but even with all his effort, it wasn’t nearly enough to get the damned thing over the hill. He’d need help.

“Shay!” Arthur grunted out. “Lend me a hand here!”

Putting his gun down for a moment, Shay jogged over to Arthur’s position and helped the man push the stagecoach up the sharp incline, both of them now battling against its unforgiving weight.

With their strength put together, the coach finally started ascending the hill’s abrupt angle and continued to slide along the path, giving them some much-needed cover from the never-ending storm of gunshots.

“You got it?” Arthur checked, his boots now digging into the ground.

Shay gave the vehicle another shove, clearly struggling with it. “I... I think so...!”

Before anymore progress could be made however, another bullet suddenly hit the side Shay’s leg and sent him tumbling to the ground, causing him to cry out in pain as the stagecoach began to roll backwards.

“Goddammit...!” Arthur exclaimed once he realized the vehicle was headed straight for him.

He tried to leap out of the way of the oncoming stagecoach and dove to the side of the road, but was ultimately rammed directly in the ribs before being thrown into the dirt.

He could hardly breathe. It felt like his heart had just been knocked out of his chest, and the whole world around him looked like it was going black.

He desperately gasped for air and crawled through the slick mud, unable to even see where his gun had dropped.

The only thing he could hear at the moment was his own hammering heartbeat and the feeble croaks that escaped from his battered lungs, accompanied by the muffled sounds of gunfire and shouting.

“...Shay...!” He wheezed, sluggishly rising from the ground. “...Shay...! Where... are you...?”

Scanning his surroundings, Arthur gazed further down the road and managed to spot Mackintosh himself at the top of the hill, scrambling around in panic due to the new wound in his leg. What really caught Arthur’s attention, though... was the fact that he was no longer alone.

Yanking out his hunting knife, Shay frantically tried to get away from the stranger and wildly swung the weapon a few times, only to receive a fist to the face when the assailant grabbed his arm.

The sheer force of the attack sent him reeling back and caused a fresh stream of blood to flow from his nostril, staining his lips and teeth red.

It shocked Mackintosh how strong his opponent was, considering their seemingly young age, but it was more than evident to him now that this man was no stranger to these types of affairs.

There was an undeniable ferocity in the nature of his attacks, and just based on the pure sense of hatred that illuminated from the man’s glare, Shay guessed this was an enemy he had made in the past.

He just couldn’t figure out who he was.

Lunging at the young man again, Shay limped towards the attacker and sliced his knife downwards, cutting a gash in the stranger’s coat but not actually reaching his skin.

He lost balance due to the bullet now buried in his leg and plunged to the ground beside the young man, allowing his opponent to turn the tide of the fight.

Taking out his own knife, the stranger grabbed Shay by the collar and hauled him to his feet, making sure he couldn’t escape. Afterwards, he took hold of Shay’s abdomen and thrust the blade forward, jabbing the weapon deep into his gut.

“...Mackintosh...!” Arthur exclaimed upon witnessing the attack.

He tore himself away from the ground and weakly approached the violent scene, hoping to help Shay even though he knew it was too late.

The man was already bleeding profusely from the stomach and had hardly any color left in his skin, but even then, it was obvious that the young man wasn’t done with him yet.

Ripping the blade out of Shay’s stomach, he slammed the man against a nearby tree and held him in place, looking directly into his tormented eyes.

There was a sense of despair engraved in the young man’s expression, and the longer Shay studied his oddly familiar features, the more he began to recognize him.

“...Shay. Mackintosh.” The stranger growled slowly, his tone sharp with anguish. “I finally have you. After fifteen, goddamned years... I finally have you.

Shay stared at the young man in fear, unsure of whether or not he was identifying him correctly.

“Who... are you?” He breathed out, still exhausted from the fight. “Why are you... tryin’ to kill me...?”

The stranger gave him a firm shake, his grip growing even tighter.

“Look at me,” he urged. “You know me, Shay. Far better than you may think.”

Taking a minute to sift through his memories, Shay practically watched his whole life flash before his eyes as he thought back to where he was fifteen years ago, trying to reshape the world around him.

At first, nothing immediate came to mind, but upon peering deeper into the young man’s sorrowful gaze, a specific memory suddenly jumped out at Shay, and he felt his entire body freeze.

He remembered three other men. Three other outlaws.

Charles Baumann, Thaddeus Blackmore, and Eli Whitley.

They robbed a cabin. Killed the owner too. She was a young woman, hardly into her twenties.

And worst of all, Shay remembered she had a son. A boy of only six years. He witnessed the whole murder, and ended up being taken in by them due to Whitley’s insistence.

But Shay never watched him grow up. He abandoned the small gang not too long after they killed the boy’s mother. The guilt would’ve destroyed him otherwise.

Now, though, everything made sense to him. The Pinkerton ambush, the poisoning of the food, the sabotage of the supplies... it was all linked to him. It was all because of what he did fifteen years ago.

This young man was that same little boy, and he had come for revenge.

“...Isaac Morgan.” Shay said plainly, finally understanding who he was. “It’s you. You’re still alive... after all this time.”

Isaac clenched his jaw, attempting to hide the tears that glossed over his eyes.

“I couldn’t die.” He replied, his voice trembling slightly. “Not without killin’ you first. You and your men... you took everything from me. You took Eliza from me.”

Shay closed his eyes in remorse, not even bothering to bargain with the boy.

“...I know, Isaac.” He said gently. “I know what we did was wrong. That’s why I left. Eli, too.”

A morbid thought crossed Shay’s mind. “...Where is Eli, anyway? Are you lookin’ for him as well? Or have you found him already?”

Isaac nodded. “He’s dead, Shay. Him and the others. You’re the last one.”

Mackintosh wasn’t surprised. “...I thought so.”

Interrupting their exchange, a soft rustle suddenly emitted from behind Isaac’s back and caused him to whip around in curiosity, leading the young man to find himself face-to-face with a new stranger.

Isaac recognized the man as the same gang member Shay was riding with earlier, but contrary to what he expected, the man didn’t appear to be hostile. Instead, he approached the two of them peacefully, and kept his gun in his holster.

Still, Isaac wasn’t willing to take any chances and immediately pulled Shay into his grasp, holding the knife up to his throat.

“Back off!” He warned. “I will kill him!”

The other man raised his hands in a diplomatic manner, attempting to calm the boy down.

“...Easy, Isaac,” he soothed. “It’s okay. Just take it easy.”

The boy paused abruptly, unsure of how to react. “What? How d’you... how d’you know my name? Who are you?”

The man steadily approached him, keeping his hands in the air.

“I heard your conversation with Mackintosh,” he explained. “You... you lost your mother when you was a boy? Is that right?”

That only confused Isaac even more. “How the hell do you know Eliza was my mother? Why do you even care? Answer my question! Who are you?” He pressed the knife harder into Shay’s throat.

The man stopped in his tracks, not wanting to provoke the boy any further. Instead, he decided that actions would speak louder than words in this scenario and simply reached upwards to remove his hat, unveiling the familiar face that hid underneath.

He couldn’t believe it. Mere moments ago, Arthur was dragging himself through the mud, doing anything he could to survive. He genuinely thought today would be the day he died, but now... he was talking to someone who he never thought he’d see again.

He didn’t know if the boy would remember him, or if he would even still love him after all those years of being separated, but one thing was for certain -- Isaac was Arthur’s son.

And against all odds, he was still alive.

“...It’s me.” Arthur revealed, doing his best to keep himself together. “I’m your dad.”

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #isaac morgan #dutch van der linde #Micah Bell #Bill Williamson #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 oc

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diverse-writing · 4 years

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Pt. 1-Hi! I'm a Black woman writing a Fanfiction for an anime series called Food Wars and I'm creating a sister and brother who are half-Lakota (Itazipcola Band) and half-Black American. They're going to a Japanese Culinary High School, the same school their great-uncle (Kiowa) went to when America was in Japan, post-WWII for a few years as his father was in the army. It's a very competitive school with diverse characters and cooking styles/types. They both want to travel and see a new country.

(continued) They live in Sioux Falls, SD after moving from the Cheyenne River Rez years ago. The family owns a Catering company with Native, African, and American Southern food (Mom is from VA) that does Showcasings, Chef Demos, and feeding the people within both communities while mentoring the youth. Annie (Older sis) wants to be a Pastry Chef as Andrew (little bro) does mostly savory, especially BBQ. Annie was on a kid's baking show as Andrew won kid's BBQ competitions. Both siblings want to help their communities by spreading awareness about poverty, suicide, and other stuff. They are active in their Native heritage. I did research in Natives in Japan, and I found that it's a bit mixed. Some people don't know about Natives, or that they do but only through the news and old western films. There's this one guy who went to a tribe to learn about the culture and he went back to Japan to teach his students about how the Natives truly lived. There's a Native jewelry store in Tokyo So some Japanese do know about Natives, I want to write a few small scenes where the Japanese students ask questions that are stereotypical about Natives and Black people, but they learn from the siblings. Annie begins to have a crush on a boy who is mixed indigenous (Ainu/Saami), but isn't connected to those cultures, because of his Ainu dad dying and Saami mom leaving him. He was adopted by a rich Japanese/Danish family. I want him to learn more about his heritage after falling for Annie and begins to heal from his past through learning about the Saami. Before he didn't want to do anything with them due to his mom. Andrew falls for a Japanese girl who does Medicine Cuisine. He's a expert in Nutrition and tries to help his people's health issues. They have a cute relationship. I thought of these characters just like any other person. I'm Black and I don't like seeing stereotypes. Annie and Andrew love music due to their dad formerly being in a band with only one album. They're both crafty with the Arts due to their grandparents on both sides teaching them. Annie is more outgoing, goofy, and blunt than Andrew but she enjoys the simple stuff in life and loves fashion (Vintage 60s/70s and Punk) Andrew is more quiet and shy, but not antisocial. He just likes doing his own thing while teasing his sis on her shortness and crush. He likes comfy, Punk clothing. I was just wondering what is offensive and not. I want to show their food and aspects of culture, like Powwows (I've been watching videos on Lakota Powwows) and I've been wondering if there's a coming of age ceremony. I don't want to show it just mention it. Is this where people get their Lakota name? I don't want to do religious ceremonies since that's sacred and also I'm not really religious, but what if I want to allude about it? Sorry that this was way too long!

Okay, this is a huge question but I’ll do my best to answer it with the GIANT caveat that I’m not indigenous and am only answering to the best of my knowledge. If any indigenous followers--particularly those with experience in Japan/with Japanese culture, though of course all are welcome--have thoughts or feelings, as always feel free to add more information and/or correct me!

A few observations that jump out, based on your description of your narrative framework:

Their food. Okay, while I know absolutely nothing about the food cultures you describe, I’m a huge fan of connecting with your culture through your food (and your stomach!) so I love this framing. That being said, to my knowledge African American food is fairly distinct from African food, with the former more likely to be in their cultural background given your description (obviously, in this situation you’re the expert on Black culture so feel free to totally ignore me here).

Andrew’s food interests. Related to the previous bullet point, based on my understanding Medicine Cuisine and Nutrition would be super interesting focuses for him given his cultural background. It’d be super cool to seem him integrate his various cooking specialties and heritages into nourishing food to support his people.

Knowledge about Native Americans in Japan. I do think it’s likely accurate that unless someone in Japan has personally done research, the average Japanese citizen probably knows very little about indigenous Native Americans in the same way the average American knows very little about Japanese indigenous ethnic groups.

Relatedly, I think it makes sense for their Japanese classmates to ask stereotypical questions, but you should steer clear of just plain offensive questions. As you likely know, answering stereotypical questions about your identity and heritage is exhausting and should be treated as such within the narrative. Your characters are in school to educate themselves, not to educate their classmates, so while the latter may occur sometimes I don’t think it should be their focus. So while the intent of the questioning scene may partially be to help answer readers’ questions about Annie and Andrew’s heritage (and Black and Lakota culture to an extent), remember that the ultimate goal of representation is not to educate others but to help people within those demographics see themselves on the page. And more likely than not, Black and Lakota readers won’t want to see characters representing themselves having to answer the same repetitive questions they face down all the time.

I know you only mentioned him in passing, but I have a lot more thoughts specifically about Annie’s mixed Ainu/Saami crush. I don’t want to tell you *not* to write him but I do think there are several pitfalls you need to carefully avoid moving forward.

His Saami mother. There’s a big stereotype around POC abandoning their children, being absent or flighty parents, or otherwise just failing to properly nuture their children. While I’m unaware of any specific stereotype regarding indigenous parents, I would tentatively say that doesn’t mean those stereotypes don’t exist, so tread carefully. That being said, I do know there’s a stereotype about indigenous people being alcoholics, so you should absolutely avoid characterizing his mother as such because as an outsider, you don’t have the power to subvert that stereotype.

His relationship with his heritage. I would also be very cautious while writing his arc of reconnecting to his heritage. While reconnecting is unfortunately a very real (and very under represented) process for indigenous people, it’s an extremely difficult and personal process that I don’t think outsiders are qualified to write in-depth about. Though I don’t think you should necessarily gloss over his reconnecting process, I do think it should perhaps be a side character arc, rather than his defining character arc. For example, he might mention to Annie that her passion for her heritage has inspired him to research his own family, or else maybe he’s pictured buying a book on the Saami language. (The current discussion around Rick Riordan’s portrayal of Piper’s imperfect reconnection to her Cherokee heritage makes some really good points, so I’d check that out if you’re familiar with his books. I’d be happy to link you if you’re curious.)

His adopted family. I have to admit--as the daughter of a transracial adoptee in a family full of transracial adoptees, this framing makes me very wary. While I know transracial adoption parents likely have only the best intentions, the adopted child themselves often end up hugely disconnected from their birth cultures. It’s often an extremely stressful and traumatic event, especially in cases where the adopted parents don’t learn about their child’s birth culture themselves and/or only teach the child their own cultures (in this case, Japanese and Dutch). Honestly, with all due respect, I have yet to see any fictional narratives that properly address the trauma of transracial adoptions and given everything else going on in your writing, I’m not sure how well you would be able to write about it. More in the next bullet point.

His extremely mixed heritage. While I don’t want to come across as rude, I do have to ask: what’s your intention behind making a single side character with four different cultural backgrounds, especially backgrounds that you the author don’t share? The reality is that, no matter how much research you may do, these four cultures--Ainu, Saami, Japanese, and Dutch--are very rarely found in combination, and I think you’d be hard pressed to find any #ownvoices accounts from similar scenarios that you could hypothetically draw on to write more accurately. As a result, you’d know very little about how these different cultures meld together, and you’d have almost nothing to go on to write about his mixed multicultural background and the tensions that come with it. While I understand you may be attached to his parental setup and his backstory, I would highly advise simplification to avoid straying into territory you neither understand or are qualified to write about. Given your focus on his reconnecting, I would probably recommend keeping his Ainu father alive and cutting his adopted family. That way, you cut the number of unknown cultures in half and you can truly dedicate yourself to writing his Ainu heritage and his reconnecting process well.

With regards to your actual question about Lakota religious ceremonies, as a non-indigenous person I’m definitely not qualified to answer specifics about Lakota coming of age and naming ceremonies. That being said, I know this: Native American ceremonies, rituals, traditions, and lore are often closely guarded and not shared with outsiders. And I don’t just mean outsiders don’t share in the ceremonies themselves--outsiders often can’t even learn about the ceremonies because the knowledge itself is guarded. (This information is secondhand from my Blackfoot professor last year. If I’m wrong or if any indigenous followers have more accurate information, as always I’m open to critiques and suggestions!) As you continue researching this, I’d definitely be mindful of the source; if it comes from an official Lakota or indigenous source, it’s likely okay to share or discuss, but if all you can find about Lakota religious ceremonies is from, like, someone’s blog or Facebook post or something, then that information likely wasn’t approved to share and you shouldn’t write it into your story. Given that this seems to only be a character detail mentioned briefly, you may be able to simply mention the characters’ Lakota names in passing without referencing the ceremony itself.

Sorry for the long response, and I hope at least some of this information helps!

(Also, if you read this post, this is a good example of a really well researched and thought out ISO Sensitivity Reader question. Obviously, I’ve provided what information I can and this individual seems to have done lots of research, but the execution comes down to... well, the actual execution.)

#long post for ts #ISO Sensitivity Reader #writing about race #writing indigenous characters #this is a whole essay question with an essay response whoops #bullet point tw #one of these days I will write about the multigenerational harms of transracial adoption but today is not that day

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jaimehqs · 3 years

Text

Did you see the moving van outside? It looks like there is a new resident moving in. There’s a new name on the resident directory and it’s JAMES ‘JAIME’ CARMICHAEL. They are a 34 year old PEDIATRIC NEUROSURGEON (CURRENTLY IN FELLOWSHIP) and they seem quite cool. Well, they come across as someone who is COMPASSIONATE, RECLUSIVE & DEMURE but they can also be VERBOSE, WORKAHOLIC & STUBBORN.

TRIGGERS

as a disclaimer, below you will find triggering content, chief among them is CHILD NEGLECT and MENTIONS OF WORKING IN A HOSPITAL. my overall trigger warning tag to blacklist which will be used on ALL of my tw posts will be: hey don't look at this, but i will be tagging specific tags too.

PSA: if you’re interested, please check out my CONNECTIONS page !

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: james alexander malcolm carmichael

NICKNAME(S): doesn’t particularly mind his birth name, but at times people have often called him jaime.

BIRTH DATE: september 25, 1986

AGE: thirty-four

ZODIAC: libra

GENDER: cismale

PRONOUNS: he/him

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: panromantic

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: demisexual ( it isn’t so much so that cris is completely disinterested in sex (he’s got a perfectly good libido, thank you very much), he just doesn’t find himself sexually attracted to people based on physical appearance or initial impressions. instead he finds personality, intellect, and existing emotional attachment considerably more compelling )

NATIONALITY: british

ETHNICITY: english, dutch-german jewish

OCCUPATION: pediatric neurosurgeon ( currently in his fellowship program )

POSTIVE TRAITS: independent, versatile, adaptable, curious, inquisitive, intelligent, divergent thinker, anti-authoritarian, self-actualizer, flexible, original, ambitious, charismatic, creative, loyal, thoughtful, warm-hearted, respectable, compassionate

NEGATIVE TRAITS: stubborn, unconventional, uncooperative, assertive, cynical, temperamental, withdrawn, restless, insecure, jealous, intolerant, naïve, impatient

BACKGROUND

BIRTH PLACE: england, united kingdom

HOMETOWN: oxford, england

EDUCATION LEVEL: went to university of oxford and majored in human physiology, went to medical school at ucl for 4 years, did residency for 7 years, and now is currently in last few months of pediatric neurosurgeon fellowship program

FATHER: william carmichael

MOTHER: diana carmichael

SIBLING(S): two older brothers and one older sister: nathaniel, matthew, and sarah

CHILDREN: none

PET(S): female ragdoll call named ginsberg ( yes, she’s named after allen ginsberg )

OTHER IMPORTANT RELATIVES: cecelia and grant ( grandparents on mom’s side )

PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS: 2 serious romantic relationships in the past

BACKSTORY

— TRIGGER WARNING BEGINS —

- when someone hears the name carmichael, they automatically think of words like prestigious, wealthy, and perfect. and who wouldn’t? with the father being a lawyer and mother owning her own real estate business, you had to think like that. in the public eye the carmichael family was flawless. everyone wanted what they had. jaime carmichael, was born into a world where perfection was of the utmost importance. the carmichael family is one of those prestigious families that has always been full of wealthy and high-class snobs, and jaime’s parents were no exception. he grew up learning how to be charming and how to be well behaved. jaime’s childhood years consisted of him sitting restlessly at various fancy parties and dinners, while his mother kept him from all the fancy treats so that he would grow up to be fit and strong. jaime’s parents were always cold and emotionally isolated from him, only after a perfect son to show off to the world.

- as a young, restless little child, jaime sought escape from his shallow, chilly life in the form of a friend. his friend taught him that there was such a thing as warmth and friendliness, told him lots of stories of greek mythology, and he learned that his parents had been lying about “tactless individuals” being horrible people. however, when his father found out about his associations with his friend, within a week, the boy mysteriously disappeared. since then, jaime kept all his unapproved-of friends to himself except from his grandparents on his mom's side who loved him unconditionally and were his best friends.

— TRIGGER WARNING ENDS —

- jaime is the youngest child of the 4 carmichael children & although there are age gaps between him and his siblings he doesn’t feel as though he’s the stereotypical ‘forgotten child’. this reason is solely base off the fact he typically makes himself scarce anyway to go off to do his own thing lmfao.

- for most of his adolescents up until adulthood, jaime always has had a rather tranquil personality. he never was one to act on emotion or impulsiveness, which meant most of his time he was seen in the his father's den reading about art history, helping his mother around, etc instead of learning the family business like his other siblings. it never personally interested him, so he never thought to pay much attention.

- because of his serene behavior, also came the fact that he’s mostly reclusive and demure, too. one would think being of carmichael blood would mean one would act diplomatic in all situations, but not for jaime. when given the chance, he will most likely be in the back listening rather than participating unless addressed, making him a great observer of his surroundings because of this skill. he prides himself on being a great listener in important situations even if people may believe he’s not particularly interested.

- a lot of people have come to believe over the years that because of his reclusive personality, he must be unapproachable.

- which he would clearly tell anyone that rumor is further from the truth. it’s not that he’s unapproachable, per se, it’s more of the fact he doesn’t typically go up to people to spark conversation unless it’s for work or art related means. otherwise, his conversational skills are subpar at best and he doesn’t mind much.

- as unfortunate as people’s misconceptions are when people do have the courage to approach him, they’re always surprised he’s rather civil, zen, and all around friendly and not at all like the rumors make him out to be. he always has to laugh at those kinds of things, of course.

- but besides that, he’s also witty and sarcastic. he likes to crack jokes and puns ever so often, even though he can have pretty dry humor at times. his sarcastic remarks are never meant to be harsh, but because of his dry humor undertones, he can sometimes come off rather offensive.

- although jaime has patience, he’s still a carmichael through and through, which he will not let anyone forget. he is unafraid to stand up for himself when he feels he’s in the right–or at least, attempt to do so. and although he strives to contain his zen aura, he can fall into fits of frustration and annoyance quite often when his family are involved ( which happens to be quite often ).

- jaime doesn’t care to raise his voice or scream his head off when he’s upset, because frankly, he doesn’t see that as a reason to make his point come across effectively. but when he does become upset, his silence speaks louder than any person’s words could muster. it’s actually quite scary how the atmosphere around him drastically changes when he becomes angry. in simple terms, he’s somewhat like a praying mantis in the ways he becomes very still & silent. one look can be a 1,000 words unsaid. if he’s upset at you, his silence will cut deeper than anything.

- importantly, jaime’s romantic sexuality is panromantic, meaning he would pursue both sexes and beyond romantically. when it comes to developing a far more intimate relationship, however, jaime is demisexual. meaning it is not so much so that he is completely disinterested in sex ( he’s got a perfectly good libido, thank you very much ), he just doesn’t find himself sexually attracted to people based on physical appearance or initial impressions. instead he finds personality, intellect, and existing emotional attachment considerably more compelling.

- although he often makes himself scarce when it comes to familial ties, jaime is fiercely protective and loyal to his family. no one will ever come between him and his family.

- he was born and raised in oxford, england.

- when he graduated from secondary school, he pursued a higher education by going to university of oxford. in the beginning, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to major in. the possibilities were endless, of course, but he wanted to pursue something he loved and also make a decent living on his own two feet when he graduated. at first, he thought he would be interested in something to do with the arts, but that dream died rather quickly when he rationalized how he didn’t want to make his passion for art into a full-time job that he would come to quickly hate in a few years. so, after some thought, he weighed his options and fell into step with human physiology. he always believed he had an eye for helping people and it was also a perfect career to fall into when it came to making a really great income. from there he studied his ass off by finishing university in 4 years, went to med school at ucl medical school, did his residency in 7 years, and is currently in his last few months of his pediatric neurosurgeon fellowship program.

- to put it plan and simple jaime is an art ho. jaime always loved anything artistic. even when he was little, he would go around with his disposable camera and take pictures of everything and then take to paper to draw the things he had taken pictures of as well.

- he’s like a hippie dippy child of the universe. no joke. no seriously, his place at home is full of sensual shit and art. it’s getting out of hand and somebody needs to stop him soon.

- he strongly believes that art is an umbrella term that relates to expressing oneself ( not just through photography and painting ) and that everyone has the freedom to express themselves however they please. because of his beliefs, he chooses to break gender roles like bread and wears whatever the fuck he wants because yolo.

- his appearance pretty much represents his hippie dippy lifestyle with him wearing all sorts of cute hipster shit. he’s clothes are v flow-y but don’t let that fool you. he doesn’t miss the opportunity to represent his upper-middle class within his style, so he does dress to impress, let me tell you ( he’s a fashion ho too ). his hair color changes sometimes too depending on his mood but it’s generally never too eccentric.

5 RANDOM FACTS

1. to put it plan and simple jaime is an art ho. jaime always loved anything artistic. even when he was little, he would go around with his disposable camera and take pictures of everything and then take to paper to draw of all the things he had taken pictures of as well.

2. he’s like a hippie dippy child of the universe. no joke. no seriously, his place at home is full of sensual shit and art. it’s getting out of hand and somebody needs stop him soon. he strongly believes that art is an umbrella term that relates to expressing of oneself ( not just through photography and painting ) and that everyone has the freedom to express themselves however they please. because of his beliefs, he chooses to break gender roles like bread and wears whatever the fuck he wants because yolo.

3. has a female ragroll cat named ginsberg. he named her after allen ginsberg because he’s obsessed with the dead poets society and sometimes deems himself as a member.

4. sometimes when he’s nervous, he will tap his leg pretty quickly.

5. jaime is never one to get drunk ever. he’s usually the one to always babysit the drunk ones ( he’s the honorary dad friend ), but he thought one day he would have a little solo party in his apartment on the one saturday night he had off and watch the lizzie mcguire movie for nostalgia purposes. long story short, he eventually ended up drunk on wine and recorded a whole music video of myself dancing to the ‘what dreams are made of’ song. let’s just say that video recording will never see the light of day.

OCCUPATION & INCOME

PRIMARY SOURCE OF INCOME: being a pediatric neurosurgeon.

SECONDARY SOURCE OF INCOME: when he has the time, he’ll usually do photography and/or art commissions. but it’s mostly only as a hobby and when he feels like it.

CONTENT WITH THEIR JOB (OR LACK THERE OF)?: it’s a tiring job, but well worth it.

PAST JOB(S): during high school, he used to help his mom with her real estate business by handing out flyers and during med school, he would work as a tutor.

SPENDING HABITS: mostly he spends money on his hobbies such as photography and art supplies. he also spends spoiling his cat, too. if he’s really feeling like a ‘treat yo self’ moment, he’ll splurge on a designer outfit or a shit ton of food.

MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION: when he was about 10 years old, his grandmother gifted him a book on the history of art because she knew he had a passion for it. it’s a bit tattered and dog-eared but it’s well loved when it comes to looking for inspiration.

SKILLS & ABILITIES

TALENTS: painting, being ambidextrous, somehow waking up at the ass crack of dawn every morning.

LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: english, french, and a bit of korean.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS

FACE CLAIM: ben barnes

EYE COLOR: deep brown. his eyes are as hickory as rich as the earth’s soil; stained with the color of hot chocolate on a cold winter night that wraps around you like a blanket; engulfs you in its warmth and makes you feel at home.

HAIR COLOR: warm brown. his hair is a lovely whisky, the color of fallen leaves browned and sleek with the first rain of autumn.

HAIR TYPE/STYLE: thick, full, and silky to the touch. shaved and shortened on the sides. primarily put into a curly contemporary quiff. sometimes grows out his hair to shoulder length and then puts it into a bun.

GLASSES/CONTACTS?: wears contacts and glasses.

DOMINANT HAND: technically both, but uses the right more.

HEIGHT: between 5′10-5′11.

EXERCISE HABITS: goes for a 2 hour run/jog every saturday morning, but let’s be real, he doesn’t exercise much lmao.

TATTOOS: currently doesn’t have any, but wants to get one someday.

PEIRCINGS: as a rebellious teenager, he once got his tongue pierced on a dare ( long story ), but ended up liking the look of it anyway ( he doesn’t wear it any longer but will sport it out once in while just for shock value ). he also has industrial piercing on his right ear and both lobes pierced.

MARKS/SCARS: probably? but nothing too big or noticeable.

NOTABLE FEATURES: has particularly long eyelashes.

USUAL EXPRESSION: neutral???

CLOTHING STYLE: light and flowy high fashion displayed throughout an extensive wardrobe, mixed with dark and elegant taste. commonly paired with rings of all sorts and simple necklaces.

JEWELRY: varies rings and necklaces.

ALLERGIES: none

DIET: predominately pescatarian.

PHYSICAL AILMENTS: none

PSYCHOLOGY

MORAL ALIGNMENT: true neutral and occasionally teetering on chaotic good.

TEMPERAMENT: delicate and unfaltering, never without a sense of poise. posture tall, a prominent feline sway in his walk – every move is calculated. appears very energetic and optimistic when first meeting, but has a very apollonian vibe once you get to know him well. very much of a flower child, as you will. he expresses his tranquility in his persona and actions.

MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: generalized anxiety disorder.

OBSESSION(S): his cat, food, binge watching soap operas and sci-fi shows, baby yoda aka grogu, sleeping when he can.

COMPULSION(S): buying too much art supplies and home décor.

PHOBIA(S): coulrophobia ( fear of clowns ).

ADDICTION(S): none that he’s aware of.

DRUG USE: smoked weed once and thought he was gonna die. moral of the story, he never touched a drug again.

ALCOHOL USE: social drinker

MANNERISMS

SPEECH STYLE: can range from intimate, formal, to casual.

ACCENT: british

QUIRKS: refuses to hurt any animal, including insects, fights for human rights, belongs to a fan club, enjoys jokes with puns, has an obsession with a particular TV show, series, film, or franchise, gardens, is always reading, paints, takes pictures of everything, practices calligraphy, must drink coffee or tea to “wake up”, is “organized chaos”, loves to hug, taps foot when bored or nervous, sleeps during the day, always answers a question with a question, always answers a question with a question, goes off on tangents, is extremely sarcastic,

HOBBIES: photography, painting, anything art related.

DO THEY CURSE OFTEN?: like a motherfucking sailor.

FAVOURITES

ACTIVITY: anything art related.

ANIMAL: cats, red pandas, ferrets.

BEVERAGE: tea or coffee.

BOOK: and then there was none by agatha christie

COLOR: blacks, greys, purples, mustard yellow.

DESIGNER: balenciaga and dior

FOOD: salmon or tilapia

FLOWER: sunflowers

HOLIDAY: halloween

MODE OF TRANSPORTATION: train or car

SCENT: vanilla or lavender

WEATHER: fall type atmosphere

#florencev.intro #florencev-starters #child neglect tw #hospital mention tw #hey don't look at this

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