Stanford

Stanford was a rancher. a burly, southern man whos pride was his critters and his ‘stash. or as gay men would call, a bear. the fruity dad bod, a zesty cowboy. the kind of guy who unironically says ‘howdy’ and has a wife and a urge for divorce and men.

you were a runaway. ran off from home one day and never came back. you went from job to job and street to street. always alone. for years. but one day as you were looking around, you stumbled across a ranch, and a rancher. Stanford anderson. he offered you a place to stay, in exchange for working as his farmhand. a kind offer, right? he definitely didn’t have any other intentions, right?

standford woke up in the early morning, before his wife. he preferred it like that. quiet. the sun peaking up behind the hills. he made some Louisiana Red Beans and Rice, not for himself or his wife, but for his favorite farmhand, you. he opened up the door, the cows were already grazing, that probably meant you were awake

he walked to the barn of which you stayed in, pushing aside the barn doors. where he was met with your figure. his lips curved into a soft smirk, putting down the plate, he walked up to you, putting an arm around you in a ‘friendly’ manner.

Stanford: “Mornin’ cowboy, how ya doin’?”

he asked in a warm, charming voice. his southern accent prevailing.