sednonamoris

[sednonamoris]

trying to prepare myself for the pain that inevitably will come with ghost and john’s story 😭 i don’t think i will be ready

it’s gonna hurt so good !!

[sednonamoris]

uh oh sisters!! 🫢

[sednonamoris]

John Price who leans real close when you talk to him, dips his shoulders so he can hear what you’re saying. Makes you flustered everytime he ducks his head next to yours when you two sit together, his shoulder pressed flat against yours.

You think it’s because he likes you. A gesture to show you that he wants to be close to you and listen to what you have to say.

Whole time it’s cause he’s so old he can’t hear shit 😔💔

[sednonamoris]

back at it like a bad habit!! no context spoilers for ch. 27

[sednonamoris]

new ghost anthem just dropped 🗣️

[sednonamoris]

water of the womb

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: Jack is recovered in St. Denis. With the boy back in one piece John has to reckon with what fatherhood really means.

Warnings: Too much dialogue, daddy issues/fatherhood issues, references to violence, mild angst, kidnapping (+resolution), canon-typical violence/references to violence

Word count: 1,489

A/N: We're so back 😤

Series masterlist • AO3

—

John, Arthur, and Dutch are all in St. Denis chasing the hope that a stolen little boy is still alive.

Part of you wishes you’d gone with, but the better part knows it’s not your place. You’ve tried time and again to comfort Arthur and console Abigail and convince John that things will end up alright, somehow. Always stumbling on in spite of their upset. Always coming up with the wrong words. Times like these it feels like there’s hardly a right word to find. Sorry isn’t enough, and neither is some empty platitude, though you’ve tried plenty of both.

Jack is their son. It’s tough to be that scared.

The whole of camp has been walking on eggshells lest Abigail’s fearful wrath unleash itself upon them. She’s hardly spoken a soft word since her boy’s been missing, eyes balefire blue and scorching. No one can do right, and anyone sitting around not searching is to blame even though Dutch promised that he and both of Jack’s mismatch fathers would leave no smokestack city stone unturned. They’ve been gone since first light. Golden sunshine tells you it’s well past noon now. 

The law, at least, hasn’t caught up to you here at Shady Belle. That’s about all that recommends it; it’s not much of a manor house anymore, and the heat and the damp are worse in the heart of the bayou, and the alligators are far too close for comfort. It is good sport feeding them all the unfortunate souls that get in your way, though. Since John and Arthur threw those squatters off the dock they’ve been sitting in the depths, waiting. Watching. Now they’re content to eye your lure lazily as it spins through the murky swamp water in search of bass. Maybe some ambitious perch. A distraction.

Normally fishing relaxes you, or at least takes your mind off things. Today you’re wound tighter than your reel and feel like an old length of line that might snap at any moment. There’s that familiar itch you get right before a big robbery where you feel like you’ll crawl out of your own skin. The only way to curb it is reckless abandon, but that’s the last thing anyone needs right now. So here you are. On the dock. Fishing. Entertaining the alligators. Hours have gone by now without a single bite. 

“You’re using the wrong bait,” a familiar voice calls from the end of the dock. Hosea. You don’t turn to greet him.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yep. Should try live bait if you’re after those bass I’ve seen swimmin’ around.” His steps creak along the crooked dock as he settles to stand beside you. 

“You don’t think the gators will like those a little too much?” 

He laughs quietly and puts a hand on your shoulder. The sticky afternoon silences. “If you manage to reel a gator in with a worm I really will have seen it all.” 

You lean subconsciously into the touch and sigh out a laugh yourself. When the last of the line is reeled in you hook your lure and lean your pole against the dock by the empty fish pail and finally turn to face Hosea. The fine wrinkles of his weathered face have deepened with bad health and worry over these past few months. He looks about the way you feel.

“They’ll find Jack, won’t they?” you ask. No point pretending it’s not what’s on everyone’s mind. The crying orphan locked in your chest can’t bear to think of the alternative, but the hard, crooked adult you’ve become says there’s no way he’s alive. Things don’t just work out nice for people like you. Not after all that’s been done. 

“I have to believe they will,” Hosea says. “One way or another.”

You duck your head. “I guess that’s what I’m afraid of.”

 He shakes his and lets his eyes wander over the swaying reeds and the dancing dragonflies and the dark water and the look on your face. “Bessie and I never had kids. Being a parent in a world like ours always seemed like too much to lose, and I’ve been on the run now longer than you’ve been alive.” You snort a little at his old man sentimentality and he continues, “But if something ever happened to you or Arthur or John, my heart would break like a parent’s, I think. Right now, with that little boy gone, it’s breaking.”

“Hosea…”

“Jack’s a good kid. It’s been good, seeing him smile. Seeing all of you smile. Maybe it’s selfish of me not to want to see that all go away, I don’t know.” 

“He is a good kid. I worry for…” You pause, uncertain, and when Hosea lifts his eyes to meet yours you know he sees what lies there unsaid. You’re worried for Jack—for all of them—but you can’t lose John. Not now. Not after you’ve only just got him. Maybe you’re selfish, too. “I guess I’m just worried,” you finish lamely.

He smiles sadly in understanding. Shady Belle stands vigil, waiting. The afternoon drags on. 

— 

You’re sitting on the porch with Abigail watching heat lightning flash among purple clouds in the just-dark sky when Jack rides in at the front of John’s saddle, grinning from ear to ear.

Alive. He’s alive. 

Dutch calls Abigail’s name. “We got you your son!”

It’s an overlapping chorus of Jack! and  he’s fine and we got him and you’re alright, darlin’ and Jack’s joyful reassurance that he’s been fed just fine - Italian food. The evening is sticky and hot; Arthur, John, and Dutch are covered in sweat. So are their horses. Abigail doesn’t feel it at all as she drops to her knees and scoops that little boy into her arms the first chance she gets.

“Come here, you silly boy!”

“Momma you’re squeezing too tight!” he protests, but she hardly hears him, unburying her boy with each squeeze of his very much alive body. 

“You found him.” Her laugh lies just on the edge of hysterical tears. “Dutch, Arthur, thank you. Thank you.” 

John stands there stiffly. She doesn’t even glance his way.

It’s not long before Jack gets swept up in the welcome committee’s warm embrace as the entire gang makes its way to the campfire and Pearson starts doling out drinks. Dutch walks off to speak with Hosea about whatever it is Bronte must have said or offered with the commandment to both Arthur and John to be with their family. Arthur makes for Abigail right away, arm around her shoulders and soft smile on his face. John looks wistfully toward Jack once more. Then he finds you. 

You open your arms and he buries himself in your shoulder, slumping with exhaustion and breathing deep.

“Wasn’t sure you boys would be back so soon,” you say as he steps back somewhat reluctantly. Jack’s sweet laughter rings out over the sound of singing.

“Wasn’t sure we’d be bringin’ back good news.” His mouth twists, unresolved anger and sick relief. His words from weeks ago still echo in your head. Like a son. Tough to be that scared. 

“He seems fine, anyway. How are you?”

“I’m—” He runs a hand over his face and sighs. When he finally raises his head to meet your gaze his eyes are stormy and sad. For someone so young he suddenly looks very, very old. “I been been awful to ��em, Ghost. Real awful.”

“I know.”

“Arthur is more father to that boy than I ever been.”

“Maybe.” 

He puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “Ain’t you chatty.”

You shake your head. “It ain’t my place, but I guess I’m trying to say there’s still time. Jack is young. You been a sorry father so far but you haven’t tried to be any better, either.”

“So it’s as easy as trying?”

“It could be.” 

He’s always been too stubborn for his own good so you leave it at that, standing on the edge of the celebration while everyone you know sings and laughs and makes merry. Jack sits in the dirt drawing nonsense with sticks while Abigail and Arthur stand watchfully over him. John keeps glancing over thoughtfully, mulling over your words and his feelings. 

John steps away to grab drinks and you watch Hosea across the campfire, eyes shining with tears and relief as he laughs through the lyrics of whatever next song Javier has started to play. Ángel de amor, tu pasión no la comprendo… Si la comprendo, no la puedo expresar… The sound is family. Home. It makes you think that sometimes things do work out nice for people like you, even if it’s just for a moment.

This moment - molten campfire glow, nighttime chorus, stumble-drunk steps - paid for in blood and gold. Hearing Jack’s laugh, seeing Hosea’s eyes shine, watching John whisper fatherhood promises to Abigail, you think it was worth the cost. 

[sednonamoris]

Do y'all ever read a fic so good that it makes you want to elevate your own craft and also befriend the writer? It's almost like, "Hi! You write so well that you've inspired me to embark on a creative training arc. Also, can I yell about the character in your dms because you get it?"

[sednonamoris]

I WAS GONNA CHECK IF YOU EVER UPDATED GHOST STORY AND YOU DELIVERED. WE ARE SO BACK HALLELUJAH 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

OH YEAH BABEY 😎 hehe i totally snuck up on you guys i’m glad you’re all so quick with it ❤️‍🔥

(bonus baby pic bc that’s why i’m up in the middle of the night)

[sednonamoris]

water of the womb

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: Jack is recovered in St. Denis. With the boy back in one piece John has to reckon with what fatherhood really means.

Warnings: Too much dialogue, daddy issues/fatherhood issues, references to violence, mild angst, kidnapping (+resolution), canon-typical violence/references to violence

Word count: 1,489

A/N: We're so back 😤

Series masterlist • AO3

—

John, Arthur, and Dutch are all in St. Denis chasing the hope that a stolen little boy is still alive.

Part of you wishes you’d gone with, but the better part knows it’s not your place. You’ve tried time and again to comfort Arthur and console Abigail and convince John that things will end up alright, somehow. Always stumbling on in spite of their upset. Always coming up with the wrong words. Times like these it feels like there’s hardly a right word to find. Sorry isn’t enough, and neither is some empty platitude, though you’ve tried plenty of both.

Jack is their son. It’s tough to be that scared.

The whole of camp has been walking on eggshells lest Abigail’s fearful wrath unleash itself upon them. She’s hardly spoken a soft word since her boy’s been missing, eyes balefire blue and scorching. No one can do right, and anyone sitting around not searching is to blame even though Dutch promised that he and both of Jack’s mismatch fathers would leave no smokestack city stone unturned. They’ve been gone since first light. Golden sunshine tells you it’s well past noon now. 

The law, at least, hasn’t caught up to you here at Shady Belle. That’s about all that recommends it; it’s not much of a manor house anymore, and the heat and the damp are worse in the heart of the bayou, and the alligators are far too close for comfort. It is good sport feeding them all the unfortunate souls that get in your way, though. Since John and Arthur threw those squatters off the dock they’ve been sitting in the depths, waiting. Watching. Now they’re content to eye your lure lazily as it spins through the murky swamp water in search of bass. Maybe some ambitious perch. A distraction.

Normally fishing relaxes you, or at least takes your mind off things. Today you’re wound tighter than your reel and feel like an old length of line that might snap at any moment. There’s that familiar itch you get right before a big robbery where you feel like you’ll crawl out of your own skin. The only way to curb it is reckless abandon, but that’s the last thing anyone needs right now. So here you are. On the dock. Fishing. Entertaining the alligators. Hours have gone by now without a single bite. 

“You’re using the wrong bait,” a familiar voice calls from the end of the dock. Hosea. You don’t turn to greet him.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yep. Should try live bait if you’re after those bass I’ve seen swimmin’ around.” His steps creak along the crooked dock as he settles to stand beside you. 

“You don’t think the gators will like those a little too much?” 

He laughs quietly and puts a hand on your shoulder. The sticky afternoon silences. “If you manage to reel a gator in with a worm I really will have seen it all.” 

You lean subconsciously into the touch and sigh out a laugh yourself. When the last of the line is reeled in you hook your lure and lean your pole against the dock by the empty fish pail and finally turn to face Hosea. The fine wrinkles of his weathered face have deepened with bad health and worry over these past few months. He looks about the way you feel.

“They’ll find Jack, won’t they?” you ask. No point pretending it’s not what’s on everyone’s mind. The crying orphan locked in your chest can’t bear to think of the alternative, but the hard, crooked adult you’ve become says there’s no way he’s alive. Things don’t just work out nice for people like you. Not after all that’s been done. 

“I have to believe they will,” Hosea says. “One way or another.”

You duck your head. “I guess that’s what I’m afraid of.”

 He shakes his and lets his eyes wander over the swaying reeds and the dancing dragonflies and the dark water and the look on your face. “Bessie and I never had kids. Being a parent in a world like ours always seemed like too much to lose, and I’ve been on the run now longer than you’ve been alive.” You snort a little at his old man sentimentality and he continues, “But if something ever happened to you or Arthur or John, my heart would break like a parent’s, I think. Right now, with that little boy gone, it’s breaking.”

“Hosea…”

“Jack’s a good kid. It’s been good, seeing him smile. Seeing all of you smile. Maybe it’s selfish of me not to want to see that all go away, I don’t know.” 

“He is a good kid. I worry for…” You pause, uncertain, and when Hosea lifts his eyes to meet yours you know he sees what lies there unsaid. You’re worried for Jack—for all of them—but you can’t lose John. Not now. Not after you’ve only just got him. Maybe you’re selfish, too. “I guess I’m just worried,” you finish lamely.

He smiles sadly in understanding. Shady Belle stands vigil, waiting. The afternoon drags on. 

— 

You’re sitting on the porch with Abigail watching heat lightning flash among purple clouds in the just-dark sky when Jack rides in at the front of John’s saddle, grinning from ear to ear.

Alive. He’s alive. 

Dutch calls Abigail’s name. “We got you your son!”

It’s an overlapping chorus of Jack! and  he’s fine and we got him and you’re alright, darlin’ and Jack’s joyful reassurance that he’s been fed just fine - Italian food. The evening is sticky and hot; Arthur, John, and Dutch are covered in sweat. So are their horses. Abigail doesn’t feel it at all as she drops to her knees and scoops that little boy into her arms the first chance she gets.

“Come here, you silly boy!”

“Momma you’re squeezing too tight!” he protests, but she hardly hears him, unburying her boy with each squeeze of his very much alive body. 

“You found him.” Her laugh lies just on the edge of hysterical tears. “Dutch, Arthur, thank you. Thank you.” 

John stands there stiffly. She doesn’t even glance his way.

It’s not long before Jack gets swept up in the welcome committee’s warm embrace as the entire gang makes its way to the campfire and Pearson starts doling out drinks. Dutch walks off to speak with Hosea about whatever it is Bronte must have said or offered with the commandment to both Arthur and John to be with their family. Arthur makes for Abigail right away, arm around her shoulders and soft smile on his face. John looks wistfully toward Jack once more. Then he finds you. 

You open your arms and he buries himself in your shoulder, slumping with exhaustion and breathing deep.

“Wasn’t sure you boys would be back so soon,” you say as he steps back somewhat reluctantly. Jack’s sweet laughter rings out over the sound of singing.

“Wasn’t sure we’d be bringin’ back good news.” His mouth twists, unresolved anger and sick relief. His words from weeks ago still echo in your head. Like a son. Tough to be that scared. 

“He seems fine, anyway. How are you?”

“I’m—” He runs a hand over his face and sighs. When he finally raises his head to meet your gaze his eyes are stormy and sad. For someone so young he suddenly looks very, very old. “I been been awful to ‘em, Ghost. Real awful.”

“I know.”

“Arthur is more father to that boy than I ever been.”

“Maybe.” 

He puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “Ain’t you chatty.”

You shake your head. “It ain’t my place, but I guess I’m trying to say there’s still time. Jack is young. You been a sorry father so far but you haven’t tried to be any better, either.”

“So it’s as easy as trying?”

“It could be.” 

He’s always been too stubborn for his own good so you leave it at that, standing on the edge of the celebration while everyone you know sings and laughs and makes merry. Jack sits in the dirt drawing nonsense with sticks while Abigail and Arthur stand watchfully over him. John keeps glancing over thoughtfully, mulling over your words and his feelings. 

John steps away to grab drinks and you watch Hosea across the campfire, eyes shining with tears and relief as he laughs through the lyrics of whatever next song Javier has started to play. Ángel de amor, tu pasión no la comprendo… Si la comprendo, no la puedo expresar… The sound is family. Home. It makes you think that sometimes things do work out nice for people like you, even if it’s just for a moment.

This moment - molten campfire glow, nighttime chorus, stumble-drunk steps - paid for in blood and gold. Hearing Jack’s laugh, seeing Hosea’s eyes shine, watching John whisper fatherhood promises to Abigail, you think it was worth the cost. 

[sednonamoris]

ghost story

known by law enforcement, civilians, and outlaws alike as ‘the ghost rider of new austin’, you join up with the van der linde gang in your youth. so begins a long and complicated history.

Keep reading

[sednonamoris]

OMG SO EXCITED! Can’t wait to read!!! I’ve missed john and ghost

AH i’m excited too but also scared it’s been so long since i put out any writing 😵‍💫💓 this summer is going to be a prolific writer era for me i’ve decided so stay tuned for hopefully lots more !!

[sednonamoris]

water of the womb

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: Jack is recovered in St. Denis. With the boy back in one piece John has to reckon with what fatherhood really means.

Warnings: Too much dialogue, daddy issues/fatherhood issues, references to violence, mild angst, kidnapping (+resolution), canon-typical violence/references to violence

Word count: 1,489

A/N: We're so back 😤

Series masterlist • AO3

—

John, Arthur, and Dutch are all in St. Denis chasing the hope that a stolen little boy is still alive.

Part of you wishes you’d gone with, but the better part knows it’s not your place. You’ve tried time and again to comfort Arthur and console Abigail and convince John that things will end up alright, somehow. Always stumbling on in spite of their upset. Always coming up with the wrong words. Times like these it feels like there’s hardly a right word to find. Sorry isn’t enough, and neither is some empty platitude, though you’ve tried plenty of both.

Jack is their son. It’s tough to be that scared.

The whole of camp has been walking on eggshells lest Abigail’s fearful wrath unleash itself upon them. She’s hardly spoken a soft word since her boy’s been missing, eyes balefire blue and scorching. No one can do right, and anyone sitting around not searching is to blame even though Dutch promised that he and both of Jack’s mismatch fathers would leave no smokestack city stone unturned. They’ve been gone since first light. Golden sunshine tells you it’s well past noon now. 

The law, at least, hasn’t caught up to you here at Shady Belle. That’s about all that recommends it; it’s not much of a manor house anymore, and the heat and the damp are worse in the heart of the bayou, and the alligators are far too close for comfort. It is good sport feeding them all the unfortunate souls that get in your way, though. Since John and Arthur threw those squatters off the dock they’ve been sitting in the depths, waiting. Watching. Now they’re content to eye your lure lazily as it spins through the murky swamp water in search of bass. Maybe some ambitious perch. A distraction.

Normally fishing relaxes you, or at least takes your mind off things. Today you’re wound tighter than your reel and feel like an old length of line that might snap at any moment. There’s that familiar itch you get right before a big robbery where you feel like you’ll crawl out of your own skin. The only way to curb it is reckless abandon, but that’s the last thing anyone needs right now. So here you are. On the dock. Fishing. Entertaining the alligators. Hours have gone by now without a single bite. 

“You’re using the wrong bait,” a familiar voice calls from the end of the dock. Hosea. You don’t turn to greet him.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yep. Should try live bait if you’re after those bass I’ve seen swimmin’ around.” His steps creak along the crooked dock as he settles to stand beside you. 

“You don’t think the gators will like those a little too much?” 

He laughs quietly and puts a hand on your shoulder. The sticky afternoon silences. “If you manage to reel a gator in with a worm I really will have seen it all.” 

You lean subconsciously into the touch and sigh out a laugh yourself. When the last of the line is reeled in you hook your lure and lean your pole against the dock by the empty fish pail and finally turn to face Hosea. The fine wrinkles of his weathered face have deepened with bad health and worry over these past few months. He looks about the way you feel.

“They’ll find Jack, won’t they?” you ask. No point pretending it’s not what’s on everyone’s mind. The crying orphan locked in your chest can’t bear to think of the alternative, but the hard, crooked adult you’ve become says there’s no way he’s alive. Things don’t just work out nice for people like you. Not after all that’s been done. 

“I have to believe they will,” Hosea says. “One way or another.”

You duck your head. “I guess that’s what I’m afraid of.”

 He shakes his and lets his eyes wander over the swaying reeds and the dancing dragonflies and the dark water and the look on your face. “Bessie and I never had kids. Being a parent in a world like ours always seemed like too much to lose, and I’ve been on the run now longer than you’ve been alive.” You snort a little at his old man sentimentality and he continues, “But if something ever happened to you or Arthur or John, my heart would break like a parent’s, I think. Right now, with that little boy gone, it’s breaking.”

“Hosea…”

“Jack’s a good kid. It’s been good, seeing him smile. Seeing all of you smile. Maybe it’s selfish of me not to want to see that all go away, I don’t know.” 

“He is a good kid. I worry for…” You pause, uncertain, and when Hosea lifts his eyes to meet yours you know he sees what lies there unsaid. You’re worried for Jack—for all of them—but you can’t lose John. Not now. Not after you’ve only just got him. Maybe you’re selfish, too. “I guess I’m just worried,” you finish lamely.

He smiles sadly in understanding. Shady Belle stands vigil, waiting. The afternoon drags on. 

— 

You’re sitting on the porch with Abigail watching heat lightning flash among purple clouds in the just-dark sky when Jack rides in at the front of John’s saddle, grinning from ear to ear.

Alive. He’s alive. 

Dutch calls Abigail’s name. “We got you your son!”

It’s an overlapping chorus of Jack! and  he’s fine and we got him and you’re alright, darlin’ and Jack’s joyful reassurance that he’s been fed just fine - Italian food. The evening is sticky and hot; Arthur, John, and Dutch are covered in sweat. So are their horses. Abigail doesn’t feel it at all as she drops to her knees and scoops that little boy into her arms the first chance she gets.

“Come here, you silly boy!”

“Momma you’re squeezing too tight!” he protests, but she hardly hears him, unburying her boy with each squeeze of his very much alive body. 

“You found him.” Her laugh lies just on the edge of hysterical tears. “Dutch, Arthur, thank you. Thank you.” 

John stands there stiffly. She doesn’t even glance his way.

It’s not long before Jack gets swept up in the welcome committee’s warm embrace as the entire gang makes its way to the campfire and Pearson starts doling out drinks. Dutch walks off to speak with Hosea about whatever it is Bronte must have said or offered with the commandment to both Arthur and John to be with their family. Arthur makes for Abigail right away, arm around her shoulders and soft smile on his face. John looks wistfully toward Jack once more. Then he finds you. 

You open your arms and he buries himself in your shoulder, slumping with exhaustion and breathing deep.

“Wasn’t sure you boys would be back so soon,” you say as he steps back somewhat reluctantly. Jack’s sweet laughter rings out over the sound of singing.

“Wasn’t sure we’d be bringin’ back good news.” His mouth twists, unresolved anger and sick relief. His words from weeks ago still echo in your head. Like a son. Tough to be that scared. 

“He seems fine, anyway. How are you?”

“I’m—” He runs a hand over his face and sighs. When he finally raises his head to meet your gaze his eyes are stormy and sad. For someone so young he suddenly looks very, very old. “I been been awful to ‘em, Ghost. Real awful.”

“I know.”

“Arthur is more father to that boy than I ever been.”

“Maybe.” 

He puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “Ain’t you chatty.”

You shake your head. “It ain’t my place, but I guess I’m trying to say there’s still time. Jack is young. You been a sorry father so far but you haven’t tried to be any better, either.”

“So it’s as easy as trying?”

“It could be.” 

He’s always been too stubborn for his own good so you leave it at that, standing on the edge of the celebration while everyone you know sings and laughs and makes merry. Jack sits in the dirt drawing nonsense with sticks while Abigail and Arthur stand watchfully over him. John keeps glancing over thoughtfully, mulling over your words and his feelings. 

John steps away to grab drinks and you watch Hosea across the campfire, eyes shining with tears and relief as he laughs through the lyrics of whatever next song Javier has started to play. Ángel de amor, tu pasión no la comprendo… Si la comprendo, no la puedo expresar… The sound is family. Home. It makes you think that sometimes things do work out nice for people like you, even if it’s just for a moment.

This moment - molten campfire glow, nighttime chorus, stumble-drunk steps - paid for in blood and gold. Hearing Jack’s laugh, seeing Hosea’s eyes shine, watching John whisper fatherhood promises to Abigail, you think it was worth the cost. 

[sednonamoris]

Bite the hand and all that

[sednonamoris]

from swan lake by maureen seaton, published in furious cooking

[Text ID: I want you.

Everything I say sounds like that. /End ID]

[sednonamoris]

trust that price has done this to hound at football matches before to keep them out of trouble w the ref

[sednonamoris]

Art by Priya Kakati

[sednonamoris]

Art by Essi Välimäki