#the gypsy cob one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dykepuffs · 11 months ago

Text

How Do I Make My Fictional Gypsies Not Racist?

(Or, "You can't, sorry, but…")

You want to include some Gypsies in your fantasy setting. Or, you need someone for your main characters to meet, who is an outsider in the eyes of the locals, but who already lives here. Or you need a culture in conflict with your settled people, or who have just arrived out of nowhere. Or, you just like the idea of campfires in the forest and voices raised in song. And you’re about to step straight into a muckpile of cliches and, accidentally, write something racist.

(In this, I am mostly using Gypsy as an endonym of Romany people, who are a subset of the Romani people, alongside Roma, Sinti, Gitano, Romanisael, Kale, etc, but also in the theory of "Gypsying" as proposed by Lex and Percy H, where Romani people are treated with a particular mix of orientalism, criminalisation, racialisation, and othering, that creates "The Gypsy" out of both nomadic peoples as a whole and people with Romani heritage and racialised physical features, languages, and cultural markers)

Enough of my friends play TTRPGs or write fantasy stories that this question comes up a lot - They mention Dungeons and Dragons’ Curse Of Strahd, World Of Darkness’s Gypsies, World Of Darkness’s Ravnos, World of Darkness’s Silent Striders… And they roll their eyes and say “These are all terrible! But how can I do it, you know, without it being racist?”

And their eyes are big and sad and ever so hopeful that I will tell them the secret of how to take the Roma of the real world and place them in a fictional one, whilst both appealing to gorjer stereotypes of Gypsies and not adding to the weight of stereotyping that already crushes us. So, disappointingly, there is no secret.

Gypsies, like every other real-world culture, exist as we do today because of interactions with cultures and geography around us: The living waggon, probably the archetypal thing which gorjer writers want to include in their portrayals of nomads, is a relatively modern invention - Most likely French, and adopted from French Showmen by Romanies, who brought it to Britain. So already, that’s a tradition that only spans a small amount of the time that Gypsies have existed, and only a small number of the full breadth of Romani ways of living. But the reasons that the waggon is what it is are based on the real world - The wheels are tall and iron-rimmed, because although you expect to travel on cobbled, tarmac, or packed-earth roads and for comparatively short distances, it wasn’t rare to have to ford a river in Britain in the late nineteenth century, on country roads. They were drawn by a single horse, and the shape of that horse was determined by a mixture of local breeds - Welsh cobs, fell ponies, various draft breeds - as well as by the aesthetic tastes of the breeders. The stove inside is on the left, so that as you move down a British road, the chimney sticks up into the part where there will be the least overhanging branches, to reduce the chance of hitting it.

So taking a fictional setting that looks like (for example) thirteenth century China (with dragons), and placing a nineteenth century Romanichal family in it will inevitably result in some racist assumptions being made, as the answer to “Why does this culture do this?” becomes “They just do it because I want them to” rather than having a consistent internal logic.

Some stereotypes will always follow nomads - They appear in different forms in different cultures, but they always arise from the settled people's same fears: That the nomads don't share their values, and are fundamentally strangers. Common ones are that we have a secret language to fool outsiders with, that we steal children and disguise them as our own, that our sexual morals are shocking (This one has flipped in the last half century - From the Gypsy Lore Society's talk of the lascivious Romni seductress who will lie with a strange man for a night after a 'gypsy wedding', to today's frenzied talk of 'grabbing' and sexually-conservative early marriages to ensure virginity), that we are supernatural in some way, and that we are more like animals than humans. These are tropes where if you want to address them, you will have to address them as libels - there is no way to casually write a baby-stealing, magical succubus nomad without it backfiring onto real life Roma. (The kind of person who has the skills to write these tropes well, is not the kind of person who is reading this guide.)

It’s too easy to say a list of prescriptive “Do nots”, which might stop you from making the most common pitfalls, but which can end up with your nomads being slightly flat as you dance around the topics that you’re trying to avoid, rather than being a rich culture that feels real in your world.

So, here are some questions to ask, to create your nomadic people, so that they will have a distinctive culture of their own that may (or may not) look anything like real-world Romani people: These aren't the only questions, but they're good starting points to think about before you make anything concrete, and they will hopefully inspire you to ask MORE questions.

First - Why are they nomadic? Nobody moves just to feel the wind in their hair and see a new horizon every morning, no matter what the inspirational poster says. Are they transhumant herders who pay a small rent to graze their flock on the local lord’s land? Are they following migratory herds across common land, being moved on by the cycle of the seasons and the movement of their animals? Are they seasonal workers who follow man-made cycles of labour: Harvests, fairs, religious festivals? Are they refugees fleeing a recent conflict, who will pass through this area and never return? Are they on a regular pilgrimage? Do they travel within the same area predictably, or is their movement governed by something that is hard to predict? How do they see their own movements - Do they think of themselves as being pushed along by some external force, or as choosing to travel? Will they work for and with outsiders, either as employees or as partners, or do they aim to be fully self-sufficient? What other jobs do they do - Their whole society won’t all be involved in one industry, what do their children, elderly, disabled people do with their time, and is it “work”?

If they are totally isolationist - How do they produce the things which need a complex supply chain or large facilities to make? How do they view artefacts from outsiders which come into their possession - Things which have been made with technology that they can’t produce for themselves? (This doesn’t need to be anything about quality of goods, only about complexity - A violin can be made by one artisan working with hand tools, wood, gut and shellac, but an accordion needs presses to make reeds, metal lathes to make screws, complex organic chemistry to make celluloid lacquer, vulcanised rubber, and a thousand other components)

How do they feel about outsiders? How do they buy and sell to outsiders? If it’s seen as taboo, do they do it anyway? Do they speak the same language as the nearby settled people (With what kind of fluency, or bilingualism, or dialect)? Do they intermarry, and how is that viewed when it happens? What stories does this culture tell about why they are a separate people to the nearby settled people? Are those stories true? Do they have a notional “homeland” and do they intend to go there? If so, is it a real place?

What gorjers think of as classic "Gipsy music" is a product of our real-world situation. Guitar from Spain, accordions from the Soviet Union (Which needed modern machining and factories to produce and make accessible to people who weren't rich- and which were in turn encouraged by Soviet authorities preferring the standardised and modern accordion to the folk traditions of the indigenous peoples within the bloc), brass from Western classical traditions, via Balkan folk music, influences from klezmer and jazz and bhangra and polka and our own music traditions (And we influence them too). What are your people's musical influences? Do they make their own instruments or buy them from settled people? How many musical traditions do they have, and what are they all for (Weddings, funerals, storytelling, campfire songs, entertainment...)? Do they have professional musicians, and if so, how do those musicians earn money? Are instrument makers professionals, or do they use improvised and easy-to-make instruments like willow whistles, spoons, washtubs, etc? (Of course the answer can be "A bit of both")

If you're thinking about jobs - How do they work? Are they employed by settled people (How do they feel about them?) Are they self employed but providing services/goods to the settled people? Are they mostly avoidant of settled people other than to buy things that they can't produce themselves? Are they totally isolationist? Is their work mostly subsistence, or do they create a surplus to sell to outsiders? How do they interact with other workers nearby? Who works, and how- Are there 'family businesses', apprentices, children with part time work? Is it considered 'a job' or just part of their way of life? How do they educate their children, and is that considered 'work'? How old are children when they are considered adult, and what markers confer adulthood? What is considered a rite of passage?

When they travel, how do they do it? Do they share ownership of beasts of burden, or each individually have "their horse"? Do families stick together or try to spread out? How does a child begin to live apart from their family, or start their own family? Are their dwellings something that they take with them, or do they find places to stay or build temporary shelter with disposable material? Who shares a dwelling and why? What do they do for privacy, and what do they think privacy is for?

If you're thinking about food - Do they hunt? Herd? Forage? Buy or trade from settled people? Do they travel between places where they've sown crops or managed wildstock in previous years, so that when they arrive there is food already seeded in the landscape? How do they feel about buying food from settled people, and is that common? If it's frowned upon - How much do people do it anyway? How do they preserve food for winter? How much food do they carry with them, compared to how much they plan to buy or forage at their destinations? How is food shared- Communal stores, personal ownership?

Why are they a "separate people" to the settled people? What is their creation myth? Why do they believe that they are nomadic and the other people are settled, and is it correct? Do they look different? Are there legal restrictions on them settling? Are there legal restrictions on them intermixing? Are there cultural reasons why they are a separate people? Where did those reasons come from? How long have they been travelling? How long do they think they've been travelling? Where did they come from? Do they travel mostly within one area and return to the same sites predictably, or are they going to move on again soon and never come back?

And then within that - What about the members of their society who are "unusual" in some way: How does their society treat disabled people? (are they considered disabled, do they have that distinction and how is it applied?) How does their society treat LGBT+ people? What happens to someone who doesn't get married and has no children? What happens to someone who 'leaves'? What happens to young widows and widowers? What happens if someone just 'can't fit in'? What happens to someone who is adopted or married in? What happens to people who are mixed race, and in a fantasy setting to people who are mixed species? What is taboo to them and what will they find shocking if they leave? What is society's attitude to 'difference' of various kinds?

Basically, if you build your nomads from the ground-up, rather than starting from the idea of "I want Gypsies/Buryats/Berbers/Minceiri but with the numbers filed off and not offensive" you can end up with a rich, unique nomadic culture who make sense in your world and don't end up making a rod for the back of real-world cultures.

#worldbuilding #world building #fantasy races #racism in fiction #nomads #romani stuff

8K notes · View notes

eaaaazygurl · 2 years ago

Text

Yarrow and Blood

Pairing - Arthur Morgan x F!reader

Summary - In search of the herb Yarrow within the expanse of the Heartlands, you come across a bloodied looking Arthur Morgan departing Valentine after his conflict with Tommy. Being the camp medic, it's your duty to tend to the injured, but such close contact with the Outlaw invites some deep secrets to be revealed.

Wordcount - 6000+ (Finally a SHORTER fic of mine!)

Notes - Angst, physical injury, some good ol' fluffy stuff!

This was just a random idea I came up with in my head. It's by no means an amazing bit of literature, but I did enjoy writing this one! Things have been pretty tricky this last month and a half, so I apologise for my absence. I won't be posting regularly but I shall try my best to post as and when :)

Song I obsessively listened to whilst writing this: Novo Amor - Repeat Until Death

"Red petals, red petals, red petals..." Was all you could repeat to yourself for the better part of twenty minute or so, finding yourself in the middle of the grassy plateaus of the Heartlands, a beautiful stretch of land belonging to the state of New Hanover, during the late afternoon hours situated close to Valentine, the little livestock town in the near distance.

This particular plateau you were loitering about on, dubbed 'Citadel Rock' by the locals, was littered with an abundance of different herbs and flowers. One such flower you had been on the search for was proving rather difficult to find, you'd assumed this would be the perfect climate for such a herb, but you were by the second proving yourself wrong.

With a hefty sigh and a slap to your right knee, you stood from your previous crouched position to saddle back onto your mount, "Good girl, Nimbus," a beautiful silvery white Gypsy Cob mare with a sweet little singular plat in her long white mane.

Your frustration was becoming all too apparent as your browline creased and your jaw clenched.

You were the assigned medic to Dutch Van Der Linde's gang, so the entire line of men and women within said gang were all under your care, and having lost most (if not all) of your supplies during the evacuation from your previous camp in Blackwater, you were in desperate need to stock up.

The camp had no money, so buying a few tonics was out of the question. Even you yourself had been out of pocket the last few weeks, so collecting herbs to create various poultice for wounds and injuries was your only option now. You were grateful for the help Hosea had offered you to tend to your limited stock whilst you set off on the hunt for one particular herb.

A sudden strong gust of wind brought you back to your senses, letting out a dishevelled grunt at the irritation of the bluster, various strands of your own hair getting caught in your mouth. You pulled your black Gambler hat down to obscure the sun from your vision, all the while removing the fine strands of hair from your mouth.

Giving Nimbus a gentle tap on the side with your spurs, you continued on, eyes scanning the green grass and various reddish coloured flowers you came across - not one of which was Yarrow, though you had decided to pick what herbs you could find that were useful along the way for safe keeping. What you did have back at camp for now desperately needed Yarrow to complete the mix, but a few extra bits here and there wouldn't hurt.

An hour long search resulted in nothing. No Yarrow. It was growing darker by the second and soon it would be virtually impossible to see what you were looking for.

You could hardly believe it when Nimbus set foot back onto the dusty path after leaving the heights of Citadel Rock, having been certain that afternoon that Yarrow would most definitely grow there. You'd even exclaimed excitement to Dutch, ensuring him that you would find what you were looking for. Now the thought of returning empty handed almost terrified you, Dutch was already teetering on the edge of complete insanity, and you didn't want to be the one to push him over that edge, but now you had to face the music; you were going to be returning back to camp empty handed.

That's when a nicker from Nimbus caught your attention. You had company, and the mare you sat idle upon recognised the scent up ahead.

You cupped your hand in front of the lowering sun to set your gaze on the little dot in the distance, galloping towards you after exiting Valentine. A billow of dust clouded up behind the steed, growing ever larger and the whinnies from Nimbus were gaining quantity, ears pinned forward curiously. You could feel the gentle sway of her posture as she almost attempted to stand taller as if to try and make out who was advancing towards you.

Once the glare of sunlight dispersed behind the mount, you instantly recognised the horse and the rider - a large, burley looking steed that towered over any other equine it passed, a grey/silver coat complimented with white splashes and dots here and there, a magnificent white flurry of long well kempt hair and neatly buffed pinkish hooves came charging towards you, and her rider draped in muddied black clothes hid his face behind that all too familiar leather hat of his, the freyed bolo rope tastles flittering behind him.

"Arthur?" Your voice was quick to catch the man's attention as he slowed his mount with a gentle "Woah there, girl," coming to a hault in front of you and Nimbus.

His face still hid all the same, replying with a quiet, "Miss Y/l/n."

Arthur's short, stiff reply had your expression scrunch up quizzically. Usually the both of you got along like wildfire to a parched heathland, always finding the time out of both of your busy schedules to sit by the campfire at Horseshoe Overlook and simply chat until either one of you was dragged away on duty, or you felt the pinch of fatigue calling you to bed. Arthur as of right now sounded agitated and monotone, not an ounce of friendliness in his voice that you came to look forward to hearing at the end of the day, for you had grown sweet on him many years prior, but decided against revealing those feelings to the Outlaw out of respect for his involvement with Mary Gillis (now Linton, so you heard, though her husband had passed.)

It was almost as if Arthur wasn't best pleased to see you, like your presence was the last thing he intended to see.

"How are you?" A little confused, you decided to begin your conversation with something... not too invasive. Despite concidering Arthur one of the most caring men you'd come to meet, you were fully aware of his infamous temper. You didn't want to disturb that hot molten lava beneath the surface that already threatened to seep through the cracks; you'd seen it once before in camp many years ago, a fury burning brighter and hotter than the sun. You also couldn't stand idly by and ignore a potential bereavement he was facing, however. Arthur seemed tense, and the way he was positioned told you he wasn't comfortable upon horseback. You had to take this slowly, unless it was absolutely necessary to push and pry.

Arthur didn't respond at first, only rotated his apparently stiffened shoulder and drew in a heavy sniff, one that sounded almost wet, "Doin' fine. I guess."

Something was most certainly bothering him. Arthur never replied to you with such dryness. You gently ushered Nimbus a little closer with a gentle tap of your heel, noticing how Arthur tensed with every small step forward, closer to him. It was at that moment you noticed it, a splash of dried blood lining his black collar that had a trail running from his neck and chin before slipping away under the brim of his hat that he lowered some more, hanging his head in a desperate hope that you hadn't realised: but you had.

Arthur was also completely caked in thick mud, a mixture of stagnant water and sheep excrement, an overpowering scent that caught your nostrils.

"Arthur... are you bleeding? And look at your clothes... you're covered in mud!" A single brow rose as you leant forward against that silver leather saddle of yours, trying to get a better judgement at the severity of - what you guessed was - a potential nosebleed, perhaps even a busted nose.

Originally you'd planned on being gentle with Arthur, but you'd changed your mind the moment you saw the crimson liquid staining his skin. Now you were worried. Now you understood why Arthur was so distraught to see you, because he was planning on running off to hide away from your gaze and your longing to treat him for his alements.

With a heavy sigh, you slumped back into your saddle again and crossed your arms, your voice dropping to a more professional tone, "I'm the camp medic, Arthur. You've got to tell me, or at least show me. Please?"

Arthur shifted uncomfortably on his saddle, swallowing thickly at the mere thought of letting you see his face. His hands seemed to tighten their grip against the leather reins, drawing your attention to the bloodied knuckles staining his skin. You wondered, only briefly, if Arthur was concidering a quick get away, but relaxed once he let out a heavy sigh of defeat, "Fine... I'll tell ya. Ain't no convincing you otherwise is there, woman?"

"No sir." You gave Arthur a devilish smirk and coaxed Nimbus to his Silver Dapple Pinto mare's side, silently thanking yourself for stocking up on Ginseng on your hunt for Yarrow. There was surely going to be a lot of swelling, you thought, as you studied the amount of dried blood upon Arthur's neck.

"I got into a fight with the town's tough guy. Got beat pretty bad. That's it."

You frowned, and although not being able to see much damage, the way Arthur awkwardly drew the back of his hand across his chin, wiping it against his leg told you he was still bleeding, "Christ Arthur! How did you get yourself into that?!"

"Just happened, I guess... it's nothin'." Arthur's awkward sideward shrug alerted you to more than just a busted nose. You studied the way Arthur had been awkwardly hunched over, shifting against the saddle on top of Nimbus to attempt a better viewing angle and failing all the same, chewing anxiously at your inner lip. You guessed his awkward shoulder roll from earlier indicated some damage there, and the obvious blood trailing down his shirt.

"Okay," you muttered quietly and halfly to yourself as you squinted, the concentration forming a wrinkle within your browline, and a crease of your nose, "Let's get you back to camp, mister. I'll try my best to fix you up with what little we have."

The ride back to camp, albeit short, was anything but delightful.

Arthur was silent. You could almost sense the regret and guilt radiating from the man as you both gently spurred your mounts onward, careful to avoid any company that might take interest in robbing an injured man and his friend. You knew the both of you were well equipped to defend yourselves, but you'd much rather get Arthur back home and into your tent for a good clean-up and check over before running into anymore altercations.

As for Arthur, he hated the fact that you'd now see him bruised and beaten. He had no care in the world for anyone else to see him in such a state, but to have you witness the mess he'd got himself into... it made him recoil into his saddle, head hung to hide the disgust on his face - a disgust he felt for himself. "You goddamn fool." Was what he kept repeating to himself under his breath, though you could clearly pick up on those words unbeknownst to him.

While you were the gang's official medic, and you had treated the enforcers wounds in the past, Arthur more often than not would avoid camp for a few days after a bad beating and only return once he had somewhat recovered and the swelling had mostly gone down. In fact, it was a well known fact between all of the Van Der Linde gang members that Arthur would disappear after a fight, and they all knew exactly why he would, too. He simply could not face you in such a manner.

You always scolded him for hiding away, always questioning why he'd be so silly as to shy away from treatment, how his wounds could have become infected or how you could have cast any broken bones. Arthur admired your desire to treat him with every little bump and scratch you saw, how you'd emphasise your worry for his wellbeing whenever he'd return after hiding away. It seemed today of all days, when Arthur was the most bloody and bruised and covered in sheep excrement, was the day you'd finally be able to treat him good and proper, rather than run and hide from your presence.

"Who goes there?" John's raspy voice echoed from the treeline ahead of you both, the twinkle of a shotgun barrel catching your eye as you steadied Nimbus.

"Just me and Arthur, John." Waving your hand to grab John's attention, you offered him a welcoming smile, "How's those stitches holdin' up?"

"Just fine, thanks Y/n. Surprised to see Arthur with you there," John took a step forward, his face scrunching up with delight as he took one long glance at the dishevelled Outlaw upon his silver steed, "Dutch told us about the bust up you had in Valentine. Shouldn't you be off hidin' or somethin'?"

"Shut your face Marston." Arthur's tone was stale, cold and agitated once again as he narrowed those sharp turquoise eyes towards John. The two were brothers, not so much by blood, but they had both grown up together, raised by Dutch Van Der Linde and Hosea Matthews. It was only reasonable to assume they fought. A lot. Like brothers do.

Rolling your eyes, you decided to move on forward and leave the two men to throw snide remarks at one another.

The camp's lantern lights and lit firepits were a glow through the thick treeline now, and you could hear the nickering of content horses grazing on dry hay and the clashing of spoons against bowls from hungry men and women all getting their share of Pearson's stew, "Come on then, gotta get this one all cleaned up now that I finally have him," calling over your shoulder whilst wavering your hand towards a tense Arthur, you gave John a polite goodbye, reminding him to keep that wound clean as you left the amused Marston at his post.

Pushing through the treeline the first person you were greeted to was Karen. She had been fussing over her own horse, Old Belle, before setting her sights on you, "Y/n! Been wonderin' where you'd gotten yourself off to," and then Karen's expression lit up like a stoking fire, turning her attention to Arthur who had pushed through the foliage after you, steadying Pandora at her respective hitching post, "Oh and Arthur Morgan, too! What a surprise! Thought you'd have got yourself lost for a few days lookin' like that."

Arthur shot Karen a disgruntled stare, clearing his throat with a monotone, "Glad t'see you too, Miss Jones..."

"Bill told me what happened down at the Saloon, Dutch too." Karen added as she drew one last stroke down Old Belle's neck, earning a pleasant nicker from the elderly horse, "Said you got yerself into a full-on fist fight with the town's top dog. Said you looked a state after and oh boy! Williamson certainly wasn't tellin' tales!"

"Yes. Thank you Karen, for recounting the obvious... now, if you'll excuse me," Arthur wavered Karen off, barely allowing her the time to respond as he pushed past once he had hitched Pandora. He hadn't even given his poor mount the usual praises and strokes he would gift her after a long day on the road - not even a treat. You could hear the whinnies of disappointment rolling from the Fox Trotter as she cuffed a hoof along the dry earth below her.

Karen parted her jaw readying to throw out verbal retaliations to the man, but decided against it, turning her attention to you instead with a dumbfounded expression, "Wow. He really is in a bad mood, ain't he?"

"Yeah, he is. Probably 'cause he didn't get a chance to hide away from me this time... sorry Karen, I really should..." You beckoned towards Arthur who had now made it to the opposite end of camp into your medical tent and sat himself down onto one of the stools, rather unceremoniously, grunting in the process.

Karen stopped you with a flick of her hand, "Go tend to him, I'll settle Pandora. Y'best come find me after, though! Got plenty of Whisky to share round the fire tonight!"

"I'll hold you to that!" You called over your shoulder as you hurried off at the confirmation that you could leave, waving to the woman before you began stalking towards your tent.

Fingers fiddled anxiously together, practically tying themselves into knots as you came closer and closer to the busted Outlaw ahead of you.

Despite your professional approach, the reality was heavy against your shoulders. You'd known Arthur for years by this point, and still after all this time, after coming to terms with the impossible odds of calling Arthur your own, being so close to him still threw you off ballance... not necessarily in a bad way, but you could never truly get over those feelings you held for him.

You'd heard the term 'soulmates' from Mary-Beth once before around the small campfire that lie on the outskirts of camp, sharing one of her nauseating romance novels. You remembered how she spoke fondly of that term. 'Two people destined to be together,' she said, and then recalled how devastated she had been to announce that the main character in that novel she had been reading at the time had found their soulmate, but that particular opposing male character had not been 'ideally made for them,' not sharing that characteristic longing for the other. In fact, the man in said novel had found themselves their own 'soulmate,' leaving the main character heartbroken and alone.

Perhaps that was the reality you faced. Arthur was your soulmate, but to your understanding, Mary was Arthur's.

Nevertheless, you had to pull yourself together. You still had your close friendship with the Outlaw, and at this moment in time he was your patient awaiting your treatment.

You drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and entered the tent.

"Hey you," you addressed the irritated Outlaw with a friendly smile, taking a few delicate steps across the small space inside the tent. It was a relatively large accommodation, able to fit your workspace in at one side as well as your belongings and bedroll on the opposite inside the canvas tarp walls. Above you both, hanging from a hook embedded into the wooden pole that held the roof of the tent upright was an oil lamp. You took the cold metal of the lamp into the palm of your hand and sparked a match you had retrieved from your pocket, the box held between your teeth so that you could strike the lighting strip. You swiftly held the tiny flame to the wick of the lamp, igniting it and watched on for a second longer to ensure the flame burst to life. Confident with the result, you flicked the dead match from your fingers through the slight opening of your tent curtains and took a seat opposite Arthur, your eyes settling on him.

Arthur was hiding behind his iconic leather hat, shifting uneasily when he realised you had sat, just by the lack of noise you were making once you settled down.

"Arthur..." You attempted to make contact, sitting forward ever so slightly with your elbows pressed against your kneecaps, chin nestled into the palms of your hands.

Arthur cocked his head down some more and tensed up, boots slowly dragging backward to bring his own knees closer towards him, shoulders hunched inward. He did not respond.

You'd never seen the man so anxious and deathly silent before. In fact, the sheer silence you were experiencing from him made you a little uncomfortable, but moreso worried. You had to at least convince him to talk, "Please, Arthur... I need to see you. I want to see you..."

"Why? You'll only be revolted by what you see..." Arthur finally responded, but his tone was low, subdued and perhaps even a little hoarse. Nevertheless, he remained seated and hiding still.

Off he went again, degrading himself. You'd heard it many times before, just in earshot though he'd never noticed you listening in. Whatever terrible self-image this man had pained you greatly.

Your brows knitted together, forming a collection of wrinkles upon your forehead. Your lips fell into a frown and your eyes darkened, heavy with sadness. Why couldn't Arthur see himself the way you saw him... "Well, firstly it's my job. I can't treat you unless I see where you're hurt, and secondly I won't be revolted."

A slight scoff came from the man. He teetered his head upwards, just slightly, but not enough for you to see his features, the shadow cast by his hat too dark to make out his face, "Why're you so sure? I'd turn tail and run if I saw me."

"But it's not you seeing yourself Arthur, it's me. Seeing you." You wanted so desperately to grab either side of Arthur's face, to hoist him up to look at you, deep into your eyes, to see the truth behind them as you spoke. That, however, was a bad idea for a number of reasons. You didn't want to piss Arthur off, and you most certainly didn't want to cause more harm than there already was.

"But-"

"Nuh-uh. Hush." You stopped the Cowboy before he could further degrade himself and drew yourself forward, hands outstretched and ready to grasp onto him.

Arthur attempted to pull back, but the twinge of seering hot pain that tore through his back held him in his previous position, a hiss escaping through his teeth.

"Look..." You began, mentally taking note of Arthur's backpain and began to gently fix his collar, cuffing off the dried mud from his shoulders next, "Whatever happens Arthur, I'll never leave. I promise. No matter what you do, how you look... why would I walk away from the person I care the most about?"

There was a brief pause from you as you sorted the twisted left suspender. Perhaps you had said too much? Sometimes you weren't as careful with your choice of words, and your secret feelings had almost been revealed a handful of times. You silently cursed yourself, chewing awkwardly at the inner flesh of your lip, hoping that such a sentence wouldn't invoke some sort of discomfort from the bust-up Outlaw.

Instead, Arthur perked up, eyes meeting your own despite the dark shadow that fell over them, "You care about me the most?"

His tone was curious, rather than disgusted. You let your shoulders lax, "Well, yeah. Of course! Who else would I come and tell my silly and embarrassing stories to round the fire?"

Arthur sensed you weren't quite telling your all, but decided against prying any further. The hope he had for you sharing the same complicated messy emotions that was dubbed most popularly as 'love' was overshadowed by the terror of rejection - even if you had just ensured him you'd never leave.

With a heavy sigh, Arthur let his guard down. His calloused fingertips met the rim of his hat, and despite a short hesitation, slowly removed it from his head. Whatever hair had been hidden underneath the expanse of said hat was now wildly sprung in various directions, some strands falling over those deep, turquoise eyes which met your own, wide and seeping with anxiety.

Arthur's face was relatively in tact, but his left eye was beginning to darken with deep blue-black bruising, and his nose was swollen to some extent. A few shallow cuts adorned his cheeks and forehead, and a single deep split weaped with blood on his top right lip.

Your first reaction was that, not of horror or revolt, but something completely opposite. Your brows rose into an arch, your mouth twisting into a bittersweet half-smile, "Thank you."

Sheer overwhelming emotion rushed over Arthur like a vicious flash flood, completely wiping out any expectation he had. You hadn't backed off, left and ran for your mount. You hadn't even shown an ounce of regret; you just smiled at him, and suddenly you were wiping your thumb ever so softly across his cheek, removing what he assumed had been fresh blood off of his cheekbone. However, when you pulled your hand back, the liquid resting upon your thumb was not that of crimson liquid, but clear salty water; tears... "Y-you really ain't bothered...?"

"Arthur Morgan. Why would I be? You're still as handsome as ever in my book," you shrugged nonchalantly, as if what you had just said was such a casual thought on your mind - which it was, truthfully.

Arthur choked up, drawing in a shaky breath in a feeble attempt to settle himself. He pressed the bridge of his nose only briefly, quickly retracting his hand at the sudden surge of pain. Guilt began to bubble within the pit of his stomach as he watched you collect a full pail of water from underneath the table beside you, a fresh washcloth in hand, "I'm real sorry..."

"Why are you apologising for?" You gave Arthur a half-amused, half-quizzical look as you gently began to wash away the grime and blood from Arthur's cheeks. His hot breath faltered against your wet lips, you were incredibly close, though you had to be to get a better judgement on how clean the wounds were.

"For not trustin' you sooner... I'm a real big fool..."

"No, Arthur. You're not. I don't think I'd be best pleased letting you see me all black and blue either," you pulled back for a short second to offer the man a reassuring smile, rinsing the washcloth and going back once more, chipping away at the dried blood that had crusted against Arthur's short beard, "Besides..." You paused, your eyes meeting Arthur's only just, and returned to cleaning the wounds. Your stomach knotted and your mouth almost went dry, but something deep inside you was forcing that question out of your throat, "I suppose Mary would still have you, even if you looked like this. She still sends you letters."

You had been the one to place the letter addressed to Arthur onto his bedside table a few weeks ago, when Arthur had been out exploring the Heartlands. You knew Mary Linton's handwriting. Arthur had shown you it many times before, in the past. It wasn't hard to make out the perfect cursive writing that danced along the white sheet of paper.

Arthur's expression darkened slightly at the mention of Mary Linton.

Perhaps you had spoken too much now. You felt yourself begin to panic, wondering if you had accidently touched a nerve. You knew that after such a messy breakup, Arthur didn't enjoy bringing Mary back up. But you had to know. You simply continued working at Arthur's injuries in an attempt to avoid confrontation.

"Y/n..."

"Sorry... I don't mean to bring her up I just... I was just curious, seein' her letter and all. I didn't read it! I just know her handwriting..." pulling back to throw the washcloth onto the ground, you turned your back to Arthur and began digging through what little stock you had left in your pantry. Hosea had kindly offered to make up some poultice earlier that day before you ventured out to look for some Yarrow, and lucky for you, it had been the poultice you needed. When you turned, you found yourself face to face with Arthur Morgan. He had shuffled closer now, close enough to be a mere inch away from your nose as he gazed at you.

"A-Arthur?"

"I ain't sweet on Mary no more."

"You aint?" Bewildered, you gave Arthur a few disbelieving blinks, breath hitched in the back of your throat.

How could he say that? Surely he was just trying to make you feel better? You'd seen him leave with that letter after reading it. He'd gone to see her...

"No." Arthur repeated, sighing softly at the fleeting memories, "I'll always have a soft spot for her, sure. But... I ain't sweet on her no more. Kinda... been sweet on someone else, actually." His hoarse awkward laugh drew a reddened blush from his cheeks as he attempted to look away from you out of embarrassment.

You felt your heart sink. If it wasn't Mary, then who else? It couldn't have been you. Perhaps it was Karen? Or Mary-Beth? Couldn't have been Tilly, the two were practically siblings. Maybe it was Charles? You couldn't be sure...

Arthur kept his gaze steadfast against the tent canvas, clearing his throat to break the uncomfortable silence. His jaws parted to say something, but no words came out.

"Let me rub this poultice in," you smiled awkwardly, attempting to settle the awkward atmosphere between you both, lifting the pulp twirling your hand to signal Arthur to sit back a little.

Arthur agreed, giving you a small nod and shut his eyes, allowing you to press and pack the mixture into his wounds. Gently moulding circles around the scratch above Arthur's brow, the Cowboy let out a hiss of discomfort at the ebbing throb and sting, causing you to apologise, promising you'll be gentler. Happy with that result, you moved onto Arthur's lip, carefully padding away at the wound with a pulp-smothered finger. The both of you held your breath. The feeling of Arthur's lips were surprisingly soft, all things concidered. They seemed dry, cracked and dehydrated, but in fact they felt soft and plump to the tough. The sensation made your heart jump.

"There, all done. See? Wasn't so bad now, was it?" You pulled yourself back and turned to pat your hand in the water pail beside you, removing the remaining poultice. When you turned back to study your works upon Arthur's face, jaw parted to tell him how brave he had been in an attempt to lighten the mood, Arthur was gone... "Arthur?"

You'd practically burst through the tent curtains into a now pitch black camp, only lit by the dancing ember flames of the campfires littered about the clearing, holding the enforcer's hat tightly in your grasp, "Arthur!"

"Woah, woah Y/n. Relax." It was Charles who came to your side. He had heard the commotion from the campfire close by, hands stuffed with a number of hand crafted poison arrows. A large hand found your shoulder to ground you, "You looking for Arthur?"

"Yeah, did you see him? I was just treating him, I'm not sure if I've completely finished yet - he just up and left before I got the chance to see..." There was a flitter of panic in your voice when you remembered you hadn't even checked the state of Arthur's body yet. He could still have wounds that needed attention.

Charles gave you a gentle smile, replacing a strand of hair behind your ear that had fallen out of place. He gave you a look of understanding, knowing that deep down, your worries didn't just lie with your work, but the feelings you had for the Outlaw. He knew how you felt, he could see it, but he wouldn't be one to start gossip. Charles pointed in the direction past Arthur's tent, "He went that way. I don't think he'd have gotten far, just follow that trail and you should find him."

Giving Charles a swift hug, you began to jog in the direction of Charles' pointed finger, "Thank you!" You called over your shoulder, not catching the look of awe on Charles face as he watched you go.

Not even a few minutes later, you found Arthur. Charles was right, he hadn't gotten far. In fact, Arthur had only made it a little ways off from camp, so much so you could still make out the flames through the treeline. He sat there, legs dangling over the edge of the Overlook, eyes studying the ground below that lead towards the Dakota River off in the distance.

"Arthur."

The Outlaw startled, giving you a not-so graceful look when you came forward, "Tryin' to scare me to death? That in your portfolio of medicine now?"

Although his tone was a little standoffish, you returned that blazen expression with a kind smile, coming to sit beside Arthur with his hat between your fingers, "You forgot your hat."

"Oh." Arthur shuffled awkwardly, taking back the leather cap to rest it against his kneecap, "Thank you."

"Why did you run off like that?" Your tone was delicate and forgiving, fingers coiling around the few grass strands that grew below your feet in an attempt to keep your mind busy.

Arthur gazed over at you for a brief moment, fingers trailing across the rim of his hat. He sighed softly, letting the misty breath escape his nostrils in a plume of white cloud, "Had somethin' on my mind, is all."

You let your gaze fall across the landscape ahead of you, the moon painting the crater below you both with a silver shimmer. Two Whitetail deer, a Doe and a Buck, came streaking out from the treeline to graze on the dew littered grass, "I'm all ears, if you need it."

Arthur had taken note of the deer below, too. A rare, genuine smile of content crossed his lips for a second. It was as if the mere sight of such creatures brought him peace, and the courage to speak his mind. He turned to face you, arm leaning against his thigh, "Remember the day I went to visit Mary? She was down at Valentine, rentin' a room for a couple a' days. She asked me to get her brother back."

Now your attention was on Arthur, that strand Charles had sorted earlier falling into your vision once again, "Jamie?"

Arthur hummed a confirmation, "Yeah, Jamie. Well, I went and got him from those Cherlonian folk, odd bunch... got him back to Mary at the station."

You remained silent, but listening all the same with a short nod.

"Well... Mary actually offered me to run away with her. To leave. There and then..."

You paused, shooting the Outlaw a curious yet confused gaze, "Why didn't you take it...?"

There was a long silence. Arthur's eyes focused on your own, his pupils blowing outward and his voice box riveting inside his throat as he swallowed thickly. There was a moment in which the two of you felt an emotion unlike any other. A chill in the wind that buffeted the strand of hair hanging limp across your left eye.

Your hearts thundered as one, and Arthur gently removed that strand and replaced it behind your ear again.

You felt yourself swallow hard, doe-eyed and intrigued.

With another drawn-in breath, Arthur met your gaze with purpose, taking your tiny hands into his oversized palms, sweaty and clammy with anxiety as they were. Despite his fear, it was now or never... he couldn't keep that secret hidden in the confines of his journal for much longer.

"Y/n... I...I'm sweet on you..."

Silence eloped the both of you for a moment. You were suddenly slack-jawed, eyes widening ever so slightly in disbelief.

"Those herbs you kept findin' on your desk? I collected 'em. The orchids? Me. That little golden pocket watch you said you loved? Went and got ya another one when I found out you lost your last one." Arthur muttered a little quieter than usual. He wanted so desperately to whip his hat back on, to obscure his face. He wanted to run, to charge to Pandora and run a thousand miles. He couldn't take another rejection, but he couldn't handle hiding the truth for much longer, either. He chewed at his lip, sweat forming upon his brow as he watched your expression evolve.

"I uh... I could jus' leave I... sorry for makin' you uncomfortable-" but before Arthur could leave, you struck.

Hands enveloped Arthur's face on either side. You were careful not to disturb any injuries whilst you pulled him back towards you. Finally, you let your lips meet his own.

Your lips were soft, sweet and tender, like honey on a rose bud.

His were rough, dry and intoxicating.

You both danced your lips together, so slow and inviting. It felt like you'd done this before, and it felt so right... as if you'd done this a thousand times before over the course of a thousand years. Large hands took your peach-fuzzed cheeks into their palms whilst your own smaller hands cupped the back of Arthur's neck, drawing tiny shapes across his sun-kissed skin.

Your dance lasted a short while longer until you pulled back, your lungs crying out for oxygen. Arthur too, panted heavily. His gentle gaze met yours, and you gave him a perfectly sweet giggle, the kind that you would make when relieved realisation would set in.

"So uh... was that part of the treatment then? Or..."

"Don't be silly," you scoffed playfully back at Arthur, batting his shoulder gently with a smirk, "That was genuine."

"Oh, good. Was worried that maybe I'd have to get myself beaten for another one." Arthur gave you a beautiful smile, one that creased his eyed and made his cheeks flush. The two of you exchanged a thousand looks, letting the serenity of the atmosphere just set in for a moment.

"Suppose this is the part where we talk things out and realise how foolish we've both been, dancin' round eachother all these years..." Arthur chuckled softly, tapping at his side with open arms to usher you into an embrace beside him.

You obliged happily, taking your stead in the comfort of his security, resting your head into the crease of Arthur's broad neck, "Should probably get some fresh clothes on ya. You're still muddy as hell."

Arthur took a glance down at his muddied clothes, a humorous smile dawning his features as he relaxed into you, "Yeah, probably should."

The pair of you relished the tranquility of the moment, allowing the serene moonlight to drown you in complete bliss. You hummed quietly, nuzzling deeper into Arthur's chest, appreciating the warmth that radiated from his bare skin where his shirt had unpopped.

"Ah-" Arthur chirped as though remembering something. He was careful not to disturb you, nestling his hand into the open flap of his satchel that sagged at his opposite side, "I found ya somethin'."

"Oh?" Interest piqued, you gazed over towards Arthur's hand which had now retrieved the gift. Clutched between his fingers was a small bouquet of red petal flowers.

Once you had finally realised just what these flowers were, you gasped with wide eyes and practically let out a squeal, "Arthur! That's Yarrow!"

"Sure is, sweetheart." Arthur felt his cheeks burn up at the sight of your bright-eyed expression, "Found it growin' on the outskirts of camp as we was comin' back, well hidden too. Didn't want Dutch kickin' up a fuss over it so... don't tell him I found 'em. Was all you."

"Oh Arthur- thank you! But I can't take all the credit," you took the Yarrow from Arthur and placed them down at your side, taking Arthur's hands into your own. You began pecking gentle kisses against his bruised knuckles and then to the soft flesh of his palm, "So..."

"Hmm?" Arthur pulled you back into a loving embrace, raising a brow in question.

Your mind thought back to the many years you'd spent smitten over Arthur, giggling halfly to yourself as you gazed upward into Arthur's sparkling ocean-eyes, so full of curiosity and excitement.

"About us bein' sweet on eachother all these years... Where did you wanna start?"

#arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 community #rdr2 #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #Spotify

181 notes · View notes

creoterative · 3 years ago

Text

AoT Characters as Horses

DON’T TEASE ME FOR THIS, I’VE GOT A WILD IMAGINATION

also just a few characters, I’ll take the warriors, because my time is limited at the moment (and my energy)

Warnings: It’s all fluff. But don’t you dare have any dirty thoughts about this, you lunatics.

Porco Galliard

- Porco is a Standardbred and way too proud of that

- He loves when he can show off his two extra paces, the Trot and... the Pace

- He is very sportive and loves to go on long hikes or train in the hall for competitions

- But when he gets older, he also gets a little bit calmer, not expecting as much from himself as before

- Porco was originally planned to be a jumping horse, his owner being a participant in the Longines Global Champions Tour, but because he wasn’t the easiest partner although he had talent, he was sorted out and sold to a young woman. She owns a smaller stable, so he doesn’t have all the flair of a champion, but he lives a good life there.

- He hates it, but his owner does train him in natural horsemanship, which requires a lot of attention from him. And he isn’t exactly a horse that has a good amount of patience.

- Porco needs an addition of Selenium in his food because he is pretty low on that.

- He’s had some problems with his tendons, especially the ones in his front right leg

- Porco loves to get groomed, then he feels like a special boyyy

Pieck Finger

- She’s a Gypsy Vanner Horse, with all it’s beautiful features, the long hair, the big spots...

- Pieck has a relatively dark coat for some reason

- Her hair is often braided because it is very delicate and long, the same goes for her tail

- She doesn’t eat hay like a normal horse, she throws it around first to get the lowest layer, then she’ll slowly eat her way up

- That girl looooves strawberries, she doesn’t need lipstick, she chews on them for a minute and it’s red all over the place

- Pieck is sometimes used for the kids, they can groom her, braid her hair, and they can take her out for a walk

- She has very soft lips (I mean the mouth, you perverts), wayyy too soft for a horse, but that’s why children love her

- Pieck pulls the coach most of the time and she especially loves to do it for a wedding, she is made extra beautiful on these occations

- Even though she is relatively tall, she is so damn quiet, especially on the meadows, you won’t hear her approach you from behind

- She is a specialist in Natural Horsemanship and can do a lot of tricks like standing on her hind legs or jumping on command, bow down or do a pirouette

Annie Leonhardt

- A pure bred Lipizzaner mare, but this girl doesn’t give a shit about her origins

- She’s well trained in all sorts of arts, she’s a professional when it comes to dressage, but she can also jump and run very good. Only problem she has is her attitude.

- She’s reserved, doesn’t interact much with other horses, but her owners and other humans are the devils to her, she only lets certain people touch her.

- Annie doesn’t care about food that much, what she can eat, she eats

- She once had the audacity to walk straight into her owners house and steal some carrots. She isn’t afraid of anything, not even stairs.

- She’s too intelligent for da people, like, seriously, that girl knows how to open doors, how to destroy a saddle, how to get her head out of the halter or bridle and she can open the door of her box. So whenever she gets hungry for an extra extra extra food, she just waits until it’s dark, opens her box, goes to the food chamber and feasts on the good hay cobs or the pellets (somehow she doesn’t get fat though...)

- If she likes someone, she won’t obey to them every day and all the time, but she is very good to work with if she trusts you. She just has these days. Mares, you know. (quote by Reiner)

- Annie is incredibly soft with children, although she teaches them manners if they are too rough with her, pull on her hair or something else that is annoying to her

Bertolt Hoover

- He’s a Clydesdale with an unusual height, even for a large breed as this

- He’s that type of horse, who tries to roll over in the box and gets stuck in the corner

- Belly rubs are the beeeeest

- He’s strong, but knows his height and weight, so he’s careful where he steps and what he touches

- Although his owner loves him for his kind nature, he can be pretty nasty, when he wants to be. For example he hates it when people leave a broom or something similar in front of his box, so he just grabs it with his teeth and throws it through the hallway.

- He chews on the rope on his halter when he has to wait a longer time (he’s huge, it takes a bit to groom him...). And because he does it when nobody watches, he needs a new rope every once in a while.

- Oh, and he likes watermelon. And salad.

- Bert is used to pull coaches, but he doesn’t like the harness, so his owners only take him out with the coach on sundays

- He runs away when he sees children, mostly because when he was younger and on the meadow with his mother, they threw stones at him and the mare, so he is afraid they’ll do it again

- Bertolt has a strict routine for every day of the week and if that is interrupted by something unexpected, he gets frustrated and even a little anxious

Reiner Braun

- Trakehner, sportive, large and loves to do stupid things

- When he’s in the hall and it’s cold outside, he loves to play ‘dragon’, which is done by breathing out heavily through his nostrils and creating a huge cloud. You can just put him in the hall and let him stay there for hours, he’ll do nothing else.

- Until his last day on this earth, that boy doesn’t know how to play with one of those big balls for horses. He stands there, looking at it, maybe walking around it, sniffing the thing, then he kicks it and runs to the other end of the hall.

- Well, he loves kids, they like to see him in action, but the adults don’t allow them to sit on his back because he tends to be a little... rough when he’s excited. That boy doesn’t know how tall he is, unlike Bertolt.

- Reiner suffers from cushing syndrome, which is why he needs to eat a small pink pill every morning. Because of this condition he can’t be used in sports anymore, and he grows an unnaturally thick coat in the winters.

- He thinks donkeys are the most hilarious thing on earth. Good thing they are his neighbors, so he can watch them all day long and have a good laugh.

- Because of his strength and stubbornness, especially at the beginning of a relationship with a new human, they use a curb bit for him, which allows the rider to have more control over him if he decides to do his own thing again. And surprisingly he is more comfortable with this one than with a regular bit.

- But once you have reached a certain level of bondage with him, he’s the sweetest thing you could imagine, especially when jumping, he is extra careful.

- Unfortunately though, a little boy gave him a sugar cube once. Now he can’t get enough of that and it’s ruining his teeth.

- If he makes a mistake, he gets super anxious for a good amount of time and tries to do it perfect afterwards

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin #AoT #AOT headcanons #pieck finger #porco galliard #annie leonhart #reiner braun #bertolt hoover #headcanons #horses #nopervertshereplease

21 notes · View notes