#flock of dimes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yanderenightmare · 3 months ago

Text

♡ TW: implied noncon, hyrbid au, hybrid auction, sex trafficking, suicidal ideations, dystopian laws, subjugation

♡ FEM reader

♡ P2: Clientele

It’s scary being a bunny hybrid—especially in a world where all natural prey is bred and raised like livestock, then handpicked and auctioned off to society's apex predators.

But then again, that’s been reality all your life.

If the choice were up to you, you’d stay at the farm and become a womb for breeders. Granted, they’re a bit intense, but rabbit bucks aren’t so bad. You would spend your days cozy in the hay, barefooted and messy-haired, with other fellow herbivores—all the cows, mares, ewes, and does out on the pasture, kept safe and far removed from the belly of the beast—free to live out your days never once having to lay your round eyes on an apex at all.

But such wasn’t your luck...

Of course, you could have fought. But fighting back is never a good idea—you never know if and when they could decide to send you to the slaughterhouse to make rabbit stew out of you instead— keep your fur to make a coat or carpet. They’ll have better use of you that way than they will with a misbehaving pet, after all.

You think about ending it yourself once you’re sitting in your cage listening to the speaker announce a heifer. That’s how the auction goes—typical farm animals first, other domestic species, then wilder exotic ones.

In an ill-thought way, you wish you were an exotic breed—something with wings or something they’d have to keep in an aquarium—all in all, something a little harder to come by than being a rodent. Rabbits are cute, but they’re a dime a dozen and are usually sold to those who don’t feel like spending too much—trigger-happy hunter types who’re looking for cheap toys that are easily broken and just as easily replaced.

You swallow thickly. Better yet, you wish you were a bigger badder herbivore that required respect—like an elephant or a rhino. No one would mess with you then.

But there’s no point in mulling over what you’re not. You’re prey. That’s just how it is.

But who knows? Maybe it won’t be so bad. You’ve seen someone come back to the farm after being auctioned. She’d lost an ear and could no longer speak, but other than that, she was alive and well…

You reconsider killing yourself. Suppose, the only thing keeping you from going through with it is the option of doing it later if and when it actually proves to be as bad as you imagine. You’ve never been good at making such decisions. Must be that prey mentality.

“Up next, we have a mini lop bunny,” the speaker announces, and you feel your cage move, carrying you into the spotlight where you can only see bright red eyes glaring back at you. You immediately look away.

“Known for their long ears, button nose, and round eyes—not to mention their docile nature. As one of the most popular bunny breeds on the market, mini lops are a house pet staple. Believe it or not, they’re also intelligent and social, thriving on attention, whether that be playing games or cuddling—making them the perfect choice to anyone in want of a domestic companion or a pet toy.”

You sniffle—crying and shivering, curling yourself up in a little ball within your cage, making yourself as small as possible, hiding from the predatory glares you feel surrounding you. You’ve only seen a handful of carnivores before—the shepherd dog that herds the flock back home being the biggest one. You’ve heard wolves are twice the size. Maybe you’ll be lucky and have a heart attack right now before any one of them can make their bids.

But then it starts. One number after the other. It feels over in the blink of an eye.

“Sold!” the speaker calls. “To the fine grizzly gentleman on table nine.”

Your eyes peel from being sealed shut, staring intently at your lap where you sit with your knees tucked to your chest—frozen and tense and teetering on passing out from lack of breath. Grizzly? You gulp with a swallowed whimper. Did you hear that right? As in bear?

“No-” You suddenly understand the point of the chains that had been fixed around your ankles and wrists—given they were the only thing keeping you from thrashing against the bars—breaths hitching as you felt the cage being reeled away to make space for the next one up.

A blanket is thrown over your enclosure, engulfing you in pitch dark before you’re carried off and placed down somewhere. The floor shakes beneath you after a small moment. Something purring underfoot. It feels a little different from the carriage you’re used to but you think you’re being moved.

It’s an hour or so until you feel it come to a halt, at which point your cage is picked up and carried off again, then placed down a few moments later.

You can’t see it, but you can smell it in the air—something dangerous. It must be him. The bear that bought you.

You shield yourself once the drape is lifted and you’re exposed to the light again, squealing, “Please, mister—please don’t eat me. I only eat grass—I wouldn't taste good. And- and—I wouldn’t be very filling anyway–” while trembling underneath the shadow of the apex predator before you.

Your jumping heart was expecting nothing short of instant death, though that’s not what ensued. Instead, there’s an unfamiliar sound. A rumbling. Almost like a growl. It takes a while before you recognize it as laughter.

“Shh, bunny,” the bear chuckles. “Don’t worry—I have no intention of eating you.”

He crouches down before your cage, though still big enough to tower over it.

“After all,” he says. “There would be little point in spending so much on something only so bite-sized.”

Your eyes flicker to his paw, where it jingles with something.

It’s a key.

“How about we get you out of that cage? Those shackles don’t look pleasant. I’ll remove them for you.” He unlocks the gate and swings it open, leaving you room to crawl out.

You don’t know if you should. On the one hand, the cage is keeping you safe, but on the other hand, you doubt you can stay in it forever. And who knows what might happen to his seemingly gracious mood if you refuse him.

“D’you—” It’s a silly question, but you don’t know what else to say. “You promise?”

He makes that sound again. Humored by you, it would seem. “Yes, Bunny, I promise.”

You decide to come out and only feel smaller for it, now exposed. But he keeps his promise, removing your shackles. Your eyes are peeled as he does, watching his claws be so close to you. Thick, long, curled, and black. They would puncture your skin and tear into your meat like it were nothing. You go goosefleshed at the thought.

“They always do these so tight…” he sighs. “Utterly unnecessary for domestic species such as yourself.”

You look up at him at that. He’s done this before, which must mean… “Do you—do you have others?” Or has he had others? Meaning… he doesn’t plan on keeping you around for long.

It’s funny how that overwhelming urge to run makes you go completely numb.

Meanwhile, he looks at you in silence. Surprised at your observation, perhaps, but then he smiles, fangs and all, and you nearly skitter back into your cage.

“You’re quite astute.” Again, he rumbles with a laugh. Then he stands and walks off, setting your cuffs down on a dresser.

You only now realize you’re in a bedroom, of all places.

“I suppose there’s no use in beating around the bush.” He turns around again and leans back against the drawers, arms folded upon his broad chest as he starts explaining, “I run an entertainment business—a fun house of sorts—you might call it a burrow, as my staff is exclusively made up of bunny rabbits such as yourself.”

A burrow? Like back home? Why would a bear be doing that?

“From now on, you’ll work for me. You’ll be trained in the arts of hospitality and pleasure and cater to a clientele of sophisticated apex predators such as myself.”

Hospitality and pleasure? It almost sounds like he means for carnivores to breed with you… But that would be ridiculous. What would be the point? It’s not as if you can carry other litters but kits anyway.

“You look confused,” he chuckles again. “Allow me to explain.” He pushes himself off the dresser. “Unlike most other mammals, bunnies don’t go into heat. No, instead, bunnies are, in many ways, in a state of permanent mating season—which makes you ideal for my intents and purposes.”

You’re not sure you understand what he’s implying. But you’re growing more certain you don’t like it…

“Moreover, bunnies are any hunter’s natural prey,” he continues while walking back toward you. “Making you the perfect meal to fulfill any customer's appetite.”

He pushes the gate of the cage closed, and it clicks back in place, now locked for good and no longer an option of escape, however poor.

“Not to mention…” He smiles again, and this time, you really wish you had a place to hide. “Bunnies are natural sluts.” He crouches back down, closer now, and curls his black claw up under your chin. “All you want is to be fed and bred all day, then fall sound asleep come night.”

You swallow thickly. Your question answered.

“And since you seem to be a smart cookie. I suppose there’d be little point in waiting."

He removes his tie.

"So, let’s start your training right away.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Aizawa ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Aiku ♡ DS – Doma ♡ HxH – Chrollo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

2K notes · View notes

clioerato · 2 months ago

Text

Three times Eddie was broken (one time he paid back a debt.)

Gas can and sandwich.

“…shit shit shit shit shit…”

Thoughts swarmed through Eddie’s head like a flock of pissed-off birds. He banged his forehead against the steering wheel of the dead van a couple of times, but not out of despair — no, that emotion had long packed its bags and left. This was just exhaustion. Bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion that weighed as much as a whole damn life.

The van had broken down somewhere between Indy and Hawkins. Old faithful — except it hadn’t been faithful since the late 70s. The fuel gauge had been unreliable for years, part of the van’s charming, self-destructive personality. Normally, Eddie kept an emergency gas can in the back. Normally, he was ready for this.

Not today.

He’d burned through the last of the gas on the way to Indianapolis, chasing the fool’s gold that was Corroded Coffin’s first ever real gig. A suicidal move, financially speaking. They hadn’t made a dime — just torched through every cent the band had scrounged over the past six months. Gareth had thrown in the last $30, hard-earned mowing lawns for Hawkins suburbanites.

And now, on the way home, Eddie was stranded on some godforsaken stretch of road. Nearest gas station? Miles. Dozens of them. And even if he could get there, he was already twenty bucks in the red. His stomach twisted painfully — not just from stress, but real, angry hunger.

“…fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…”

Eddie had a couple of options. None of them good. He could try to find a payphone — which meant abandoning the van and wandering god knows where. Or wait and hope someone drove by. This particular road wasn’t exactly busy, though. It was a forgotten thread leading into Hawkins, not even connected to the main highway.

And anyway, Eddie Munson hated asking for help.

He let his hands fall onto the wheel and dropped his head, eyes burning. But he blinked the tears away, refusing to cry. Not now. Not over this. The memory of the warm, buzzing crowd in Indy still clung to him — how for one second, they’d made him feel seen, like he mattered. Now, life was back to rubbing his face in the dirt.

Just… give him a minute. One damn minute to mourn his broke, miserable life.

His last cigarette had been smoked yesterday.

A knock on the van window made him jolt.

Eddie blinked. Another knock.

He turned his head — and no freaking way. No. Freaking. Way.

Somehow, in the cacophony of his own mind, he hadn’t noticed another car pull up. A shiny, spotless BMW. He’d recognize that car anywhere. The royal chariot of King Steve. And there he was, in the flesh, knocking on his window like this was normal.

Eddie (exhaling, trying to gather himself): “Harrington?”

Steve (frowning slightly): “Um… do I know you? Sorry, you look kinda familiar. You okay in there?”

Eddie: “Oh, do not concern yourself, Your Majesty. This humble peasant has merely run out of fuel. Go on, ride off into the sunset. I’ll just rot here in your kingdom’s ditch.”

Steve (still frowning): “Uh…”

Eddie wasn’t expecting anything from Steve Harrington — the golden-boy jock, rich kid, probably still coasting on daddy’s money and senior year glory. Mercy wasn’t exactly part of the Harrington brand.

So when Steve just… turned, got back in his car, and drove off?

Well.

Yeah, that’s right, Eds. What the hell were you expecting from that guy?

A fresh wave of helplessness washed over him, darker than before. He wasn’t even mad. He just… had nothing left. He slumped back against the seat, letting it swallow him whole. Maybe if he sat there long enough, the universe would forget he existed.

Time blurred.

Another knock at the driver’s door snapped him out of his haze.

Eddie turned, heart suddenly tight in his chest — and there was Harrington again. Except this time, he wasn’t just standing there awkwardly. He was crouching down, placing something by the van.

Eddie looked.

Two gas cans.

Eddie: “…uh…”

Steve: “Sorry, I’m kind of running late. Think you can pour it in yourself?”

Eddie: “…uh… yeah? Thanks?”

Steve: “No problem. Try to get home safe, alright?”

Eddie couldn’t speak. His throat locked up with a stupid mix of shame and gratitude. Meanwhile, Harrington walked back to his BMW, opened the passenger door, grabbed something, and came back.

He handed Eddie a brown paper bag through the window.

Steve: “This is for you too. Don’t know how long you’ve been out here. Sorry I can’t stay — really gotta run. Take care, man.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Eddie sat frozen for a second, the paper bag crinkling in his hands. He watched the car disappear into the distance, the heat of embarrassment still burning behind his eyes.

Inside the bag?

Two sandwiches. And a cherry Coke.

2. Stitches and Insurance

It happened after that gig—the one with the bigger stage. Their band was starting to make waves, at least in the kind of circles that lived off bootlegs and basement posters. Steve helped with this, oddly enough. Eddie simply left him in the bar for half an hour on their last trip to Indy, and returned to a table where three people were sitting with Steve, one of whom was the owner of the music venue. But bigger stages came with bigger risks. And this one bit back.

Eddie cut his hand. Badly.

He swore he’d stitch it up himself. Ever since the whole Vecna nightmare—the hospital, the endless tests, the morphine haze—he’d sworn off hospitals entirely. What he hated even more than the IV drips and fluorescent lights was the bill. He’d caught a glimpse of it once, a flash of paper on Uncle Wayne’s cluttered kitchen table. All those zeros behind a number no one in Hawkins should ever have to see.

Eddie had let out a string of expletives so strong, it probably cracked a window. And then he drove straight to Hopper’s office, still limping. The government owed them. Hell, wiping out Eddie’s medical debt should’ve been the bare minimum for silence. A couple stitches? They should’ve thrown in a house in the suburbs and a damn parade.

But no—Eddie had learned the hard way: it’s cheaper to die at home than heal in a hospital.

He told all of that to Steve—who, incidentally, was at his very first Corroded Coffin show. Eddie kind of felt bad. Ruined the guy’s night with blood leaking down his arm like a horror movie prop.

Steve didn’t argue. He just drove him to the hospital.

Two hours later, Eddie stormed out, still cursing under his breath. Bandaged. Stitched. And holding a fresh, infuriating piece of paper.

Then he found out it had already been paid.

Eddie: "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"

Steve: "You were bleeding and rambling about stardust and destiny. Sorry for grounding you, Vulcan."

Eddie (irritated but begrudgingly charmed): "You spoiled, trust-fund prick."

Steve: "I work at a video store."

Eddie: "You have a checkbook with no bottom, Harrington."

Steve: "Idiot parents. Occasionally useful. But I’m actually pretty decent at saving."

Eddie (quieter now): "Steve..."

Steve (more serious): «Eds… did you really think I’d let you bleed out just because you’re too stubborn to ask for help?"

Eddie swallows hard. He doesn’t answer. Just stands there for a second too long. Then, as Steve walks back toward the car, Eddie tosses it over his shoulder like it costs him nothing:

Eddie: "Thanks, Harrington. I’ll pay you back. As soon as I sign with a label."

Steve (grinning): "I’m holding you to that, rising star."

3. Ice Cream and Laundry Detergent

Steve just shows up at Eddie’s trailer, arms full of grocery bags, fumbling with the door and trying to kick it shut behind him without dropping anything.

Eddie: “What the hell is all this?”

Steve: “You said you were out of detergent. And coffee. And, swear to God, I watched Henderson steal your last bag of chips yesterday. I’ve been picking the kids up from your place three days in a row, and your cabinets are still a desert.”

Eddie: “Wait—have you been snooping through my cabinets?”

Steve: “It’s the kids.”

Eddie: “Jesus, Steve. That’s not a reason to throw money at me. I’m not your kept man.”

Steve (half-lies): “Eddie, I did it for the kids. Max hangs out here more than at home, she feels safe with you. Dustin’s over like every other day. Will’s finally planning his first DND campaign after the break. This—this is life happening. Kids.”

Eddie doesn’t buy it. Yeah, his finances are a dumpster fire the size of Indiana, but that doesn’t mean Steve has to play savior. He’ll figure it out. He’s an adult, goddammit.

But something about it hits him in the gut—something ugly and hot, tangled in guilt. He feels like a loser, like he’s bleeding self-worth out of every pore. Writing their first real album is eating up every hour, and even then, he’s behind. Part of him wonders if things would be easier—for both of them—if he just gave it all up. If he shelved the band, got a normal job, stopped pretending the dream meant something.

He knows none of this is Steve’s fault. But that ache in his chest—the thrum of self-hate and fear—is louder than reason. It’s just another reminder that Eddie has nothing to give Steve. Not really. Nothing but his stupid, breakable heart, which probably isn’t worth a damn. All he ever does is take.

Eddie can’t…

They differ. Loudly.

Steve leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

Ten minutes later, Eddie pulls out a pint of chocolate hazelnut ice cream from one of the bags. His favorite.

He sits on the windowsill, eats straight from the tub, and whispers into the dark:

Eddie: “You’re an idiot. And I love you. But you’re an idiot.”

+1. The Key to a New Life

It’s been almost two years. Eddie’s now the frontman of Corroded Coffin, a rock band climbing charts faster than anyone saw coming. His posters hang in teenage bedrooms across the country, and cassette tapes with their live recordings sell out weekly. He’s got a voice that cuts like broken glass and a heart that only beats for two things: music and Steve.

Steve smiles during their last call before Christmas. Eddie’s on tour. Steve—now officially the band’s manager, somehow infuriatingly good at handling everything from venue bookings to financials—isn’t with him for one reason: the kids. It’s senior year for their shrimp troop, and Christmas is just around the corner. Eddie promises to be back in three weeks, just in time for the holidays.

The call comes when Steve expects it the least. He picks up the phone, already half-distracted.

Woman: "Richard Harrington?" Steve: "Hi, this is Steve Harrington. Richard’s not home. You might wanna try his assistant—should I give you her number?" Woman: "No, I’m at the right address. Hawkins, [street name]?" Steve: "Yeah... that’s right." Woman: "My name is Abigail Richardson. I’m a realtor. I’m calling to let you know we’ve found buyers for the house. They’d like to schedule a viewing next week. I’ll call the day before to confirm." Steve: "...Wait. Abigail, sorry—what buyers? I didn’t know the house was even on the market." Abigail: "It’s been listed for two months now. I have all the notarized paperwork. I’ll bring them by so you can take a look. I’d recommend contacting Richard Harrington directly." Steve: "Right. Okay. Thanks." Abigail: "I’ll be in touch. Have a nice day."

Steve lowers the phone slowly, like it’s too heavy for his hand. His eyes roam the room as if he can anchor himself with a single glance. His parents had been here two months ago. Said nothing. Had they already known then? Had they already planned to erase him like a smudge?

There weren’t many good memories in that house. The few warm ones he had were wrapped in Eddie’s cigarette smoke, long talks with Robin on the staircase, and the laughter of kids who saw him as something solid. Still, it was his house.

The only one he’d ever had.

The following week passes in a haze. He can’t reach his parents. The viewing happens. A young couple, bright-eyed and expecting, signs papers that same afternoon. Steve hopes they break the curse of the cold Harrington mansion.

Hopper helps go over the paperwork. Then claps a firm hand on Steve’s back and mutters, “There’ll always be a room for you here, kid.” He’s given a week to pack. It all fits into three boxes, which he hauls to the Byers-Hopper place.

Everything blurs. Steve moves through days like they’re underwater. He retreats into himself, thick with the echo of old voices: Useless. Forgotten. Nothing. Now he’s homeless, too.

He doesn’t tell Eddie. He can’t. The guy’s on tour, living off adrenaline and noise. He doesn’t tell Robin either—she’s got finals, and anyway, he doesn’t want to say it. Words make things real, and Steve’s not ready to admit how badly it all hurts.

Christmas creeps closer, slow and bright.

One afternoon, Steve hears tires crunching on gravel. He looks out the window and sees it—Eddie’s new van. Not the old rustbucket, but the one they bought with their first real tour paycheck.

Eddie (storming inside): “Steve, what the hell? I go by your house and there are strangers living there! What’s going on?” Steve (half-laughing, half-crumbling): “Well, guess I’m officially free from the Harringtons. Like the wind. Or decaf coffee—completely useless.” Eddie (smirking): “Jesus, Steve. I had plans for Christmas, sweetheart. You’re messing with my whole script here."

(He pulls out a small box.)

Eddie: “So, uh... I’ve got a two-bedroom in Indy now. It’s not much. But... I figured it was time to return the favor.” Steve: “Are you... asking me to move in?” Eddie (offering the box): “It’s yours. A key. To a place where someone waits for you. Where you’re home. I know you weren’t planning to leave Hawkins yet—hell, kids. But… I want you in my life. Always. Forever. If you want me to. But if you don’t, that second room... it’s yours. Whenever. However. We can even make it legal if that helps. Because, Steve... it’s my turn to give back.”

Steve stares at him, eyes stinging.

Steve: “You don’t owe me anything. But somehow... you’ve already given me more than my parents ever did.” Eddie (softly): “Because you deserve it. Every damn thing. And more. I love you.»

Steve: "I love you too. Let's get out of this town after Christmas. We'll be just a phone call away from the kids."

#headcanon #ao3 fanfic #eddie munson #steddie #steve harrington #eddie x steve #steve x eddie #steve harington #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #ficlet #fic prompt #writing prompt #writer #ao3 writer #ao3 author #ao3

403 notes · View notes

sunderwight · 1 year ago

Text

With moshang I think I'm equally fond of the possibilities/concepts where either Shang Qinghua is ludicrously attractive to demons in a broad sense (but doesn't realize it), or, where Shang Qinghua is just some weird little gremlin and everyone else cannot wrap their head around why THE Mobei Jun is so smug about seducing this man.

Or a combination, where no demon in their right mind would ordinarily look at Shang Qinghua and perceive a sex icon, but because such a high-ranking demon has clearly done so, they go "well there must be SOMETHING going on there" and then look closer and before they know it they're on the slippery slope to being horny about a guy who could help file their taxes or arrange to have their clan base's faulty plumbing fixed.

Basically it's all good. Demons en mass going "yeah yeah big scary dudes who punch good are a dime a fucking dozen around here, but do you know how hot someone who can skillfully use an abacus is?" vs demons going "the ice king is a respectable ruler but he has garbage taste in men, we all just smile and politely nod while he insists the weird rat guy he fixated on as a teenager is a catch" vs demons going "I really don't see the appeal -- wait he did what? he killed how many guys at once with 1 trick? he betrayed WHOMST? and lived?! and he knows how to get my door to stop making horrible squeaky noises?! okay yeah figures the king would marry him" but every option is a winner.

I'm also a big fan of both Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua being not very attractive to demons in general, but it also being really common for demons to get super weird about first crushes and fixate hard on them, so in that sense they are completely normal choices for a couple of high-level demons to marry. Like the demon populace can appreciate the emperor actually landing his hot teacher and the king successfully marrying his teenage sweetheart. It's an idealized fantasy in terms of the scenarios, even if the actual guys are just weird humans. Nearly every average demon has lifelong daydreams about successfully seducing their first crush, so regardless of who those crushes turned out to be it's still a power move for LBH and MBJ to actually succeed.

Bonus if the fact that both SQQ and SQH are peak lords from the same sect leads to a bunch of demon kids developing crushes on the other remaining, unattached peak lords, and chaos ensuing. Especially for Liu Qingge. I think it would be funny for him to gain a flock of teenage demons with crushes, whom he keeps trying to fight off, only to discover that beating them up does NOT discourage them at all (actually makes the crushes worse). Or Yue Qingyuan getting mobbed like he's a pop star any time he makes a diplomatic visit to the demon realms. Sha Hualing deciding that she's just waiting for Liu Mingyan to become a peak lord before they make things official, since That's Obviously How It's Done, or Qi Qingqi doing a head count one day and realizing she suddenly has a bunch of unfamiliar "guest" disciples who sigh at her a lot and have funny-colored eyes...

#svsss #moshang #bingqiu #scum villain #scum villain's self saving system

2K notes · View notes

leezlelatch · 2 months ago

Note

can i request some slow dancing with terzo? ♡

I Know Why (And So Do You), Terzo x F!Reader

“You set a dime, bella, do you see?” Terzo asks, his back to you as he puts a record on the stereo against the wall. He pulls a dime out of his pocket, glancing at you over his shoulder with a boyish smirk. “On top of the needle.” He sets the dime right on top, and you think maybe it looks a little precarious.

“Will it hold?” You ask, approaching him to lean against his side. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, the record beginning to spin. You wait for the dime to fall off, but it says.

“Sì, amore,” he says, pressing his lips to your temple. “It is the record that spins, eh? Not the needle. The dime will prevent it from skipping.”

“Skipping?” A smile plays at your lips. “Is there something wrong with the record? Is it scratched? Warped?”

Terzo clicks his tongue and plants a firm hand on your waist, pivoting you to face him. He wags a finger in your face, lips thinned. But his eyes sparkle. “You are thinking I don’t take care of my records, cara, correct?” His tongue snaps the ‘t.’ “We are having a problem, you and I.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a lousy — ah!” You squeal as his teeth lunge for your throat, and he bites the skin with a growl deep in his throat. His fingers dig into your waist, and begin to tickle. You dissolve into giggles that transition to a moan when his tongue soothes the bite. “You don’t play fair.” Your voice is a soft whine.

“Hmm, it is a Papa’s duty to keep his flock on the righteous path, no?” He purrs, tugging lightly on your earlobe.

“Oh, do you consider yourself a holy man?” Your voice is a little breathless. Terzo tilts his head back and laughs. You take the opportunity to return his bite, and he hisses in delight.

Terzo spins you suddenly, taking hold of your hand, the other remaining at your waist, fingers splayed as if he must hold as much of your softness in his palm as possible. “Holy? Ah, amore, no. Not holy,” he says raggedly, looking into your face. Your noses nearly touch. “I burn. Burn with need for you.”

He steps forward, and you step back. His fingers twitch against your waist and he turns, drawing you along with him. “I blaspheme,” he continues. “For the divine light does not hold a candle to your beauty.” You dance, a slow almost-waltz, your eyes locked with his as he leads, hands cradling you close to him reminiscent of your lovemaking. “I speak heresy. For not even Lucifer is worthy of my soul, for it belongs to you.”

Your lips part, nearly stumbling, but he holds you fast. Did the record stop? You can’t even tell. “You shouldn’t say that,” you whisper.

“No? Are you worried I shall be struck down?” He grins, cocksure, but his eyes maintain their intensity, pinned to your face. You hide your face against his chest, and you stop dancing. Terzo’s fingers slip through your hair, and you feel the press of his lips against your hair. “Amore?” His voice has softened.

“Terzo,” you gasp, consumed by his love, by your love for him. “Do you think we should talk to Sister?”

He frowns, lifting your chin. “Talk to Sister? What is the matter? Have I-?”

“To get me canonized.”

Terzo’s eyebrows draw in, and a moment passes. And then he laughs, hard, lifting you and spinning, the world suddenly a kaleidoscope of color. You shriek, holding onto his shoulders, but his smile is radiant. “Sì, amore, sì. Why don’t we start a new religion while we are at it, eh?” He sets you down, kissing you. “Baptize me with your wet - ai! Antichristo!” He rubs his arm where you pinched him. “Amore!”

“You shouldn’t talk to a saint like that,” you say, laughter in your voice as you begin to back up toward the bedroom.

Terzo’s eyes grow dark and he grins like a wolf that’s found his prey.“Let’s see what kind of martyr we can make out of you, then.”

#the band ghost #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus terzo #papa emeritus iii x reader #female reader #papa emeritus iii fanfiction

105 notes · View notes

wisteriasymphony · 4 months ago

Text

"Yes, Claire left in a huff this morning. Apparently she can dish it out but can't take it," Gabriel grumbled, the telephone tucked between his collarbone and his ear. "You work as a model and yet the reality that broads like you are a dime a dozen is some sort of shock? ..No, Audrey, not you, them. They're- Fucking forget it. I need a cigar. Talk to you later." Gabriel slapped the phone back into its receiver, standing up from his office chair. Claire leaving was for the best—The minute she'd started to run her mouth, her worth as a muse had all but flown the coop. And he meant that literally: His desk was a mess of unfinished, malformed designs, nothing he could even sell as that avant-garde social critique couture crap. Not even working with her sat on his lap did anything after a while.

But the good thing about fashion was that women were plentiful. If he was a stock broker or movie executive he'd need to be choosy about he treated the next tight-bloused intern. But he wasn't any of those chumps, he was Gabriel fucking Agreste. And if Audrey was right, he was only going to keep rising to the top, become a god among men. The broads would flock to him.

There was a knock on the door to his office.

"What is it?"

Gabriel was in the middle of lighting his cigar, letting it stick out of the side of his mouth and practically hang off his lip. He had been expecting either his secretary or one of the other men to be at the door—perhaps Alphonse had another client for Gabriel to see or Charles was in the middle of holding off another press hound—but what walked through the door was instead a young girl with perfectly curled blonde hair, all swept in a ponytail over her right side.

“Mr. Agreste?”

Emilie Graham de Vanily, if he had remembered correctly, had been traded through a few hands as a model over the past few months. She’d been working through that Elite Model Management that had just started up maybe 7 or so years prior, and she easily had that sort of ‘Model of The Year’ image about her: Bright green eyes, good jaw, and a body that filled out her clothes just enough without it being too egregious. Gabriel would’ve been a sucker to let her slip past his fingers with the 1979 Spring/Summer Paris Fashion Week steadily approaching, and if he wanted to keep her he’d have to pull all the stops.

Gabriel’s shoulders softened, and he took the cigar out of his mouth. “Emilie, just Gabi is fine,” he smiled. “Come on, we’re friends, aren’t we? Sit down, sit down.”

The girl practically beamed from his words, skipping over to take a seat on one of Gabriel’s large leather armchairs and practically being swallowed whole by it. She crossed her legs, both hands together and placed in her lap.

“You wanted to see me, right? About your next designs?”

“Yes, yes. I was hoping to have you look over them with me,” he said almost flippantly, watching as her eyes lit up. “But– But but but. I just got the unfortunate news that Claire Freeman won’t be working with us for Fashion Week.” Emilie tilted her head, a furrow in her blond brows. “She wasn’t very nice to you anyways, Mr. Agreste. Maybe it’s for the best.”

“An astute observation—One I entirely agree with.” Gabriel twirled his cigar in his fingers, adding “But that leaves me without a crown jewel to show off my collection. I was hoping you’d fill that role for me.” It was almost comical how easy it was to make Emilie smile, a sort of sparkle emanating off of her every time Gabriel said the littlest thing. It was a refreshing change of pace from Claire, a woman with a permanent scowl and a face that he could tell was beginning to wrinkle. Nobody would’ve wanted to watch her up on the catwalks anyway, not when a hot young dish like Emilie Graham de Vanily could take her place. He’d change some things over, tweak the proportions, take a few overnights to fix things to fit the new girl, and it would pay him handsomely. In hindsight, it might’ve been worth it to throw Claire out himself if she hadn’t done the dirty work for him. “I’d love to!” “Good. Now that includes filling in for the dinner reservations I had for La Scène. I always take my main girls out the first night." He tapped the end of his cigar on his desk's ashtray as he spoke. "How old are you again?" "Seventeen." Gabriel laughed so hard tears pricked his eyes. "No, you're not," he smiled. "Not if anyone asks, that is."

#thewarmembraceofshadow #gabriel agreste #miraculous gabriel #emilie agreste #emilie graham de vanily #writing blurbs #miraculous fandom #miraculous lb #miraculous fanfic #miraculous ladybug

50 notes · View notes

boundwithpurple · 13 days ago

Note

are there any recent albums (past 5 years) that you'd recommend?

i am a pretty terrible music listener but off the top of my head:

glory, perfume genius

head of roses, flock of dimes

sorceress, jess williamson

saint cloud, waxahatchee

stereo mind game, daughter

sharon van etten & the attachment theory, sharon van etten

all mirrors, angel olsen

and in the darkness, hearts aglow, weyes blood

dragon new warm mountain i believe in you, big thief

blue weekend, wolf alice

17 notes · View notes

xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 1 year ago

Note

Some gaslamp au for the poor?

"Poor dear," Barbara said, dabbing at your cheeks and forehead with a cool cloth, "she's coming around now."

"Jason, be a gentleman and get a lemonade?" Stephanie said sweetly, batting her eyes.

"Stephanie-"

"Go," she said, switching from being sweet to shooing him like a recalcitrant rooster. "You can play hero in a moment."

"I'm not-"

"Sure you aren't," Barbara said soothingly. "Now go, please. She's over warm and a lemonade would probably do her some good."

Jason nodded mutely and turned to find a refreshment for you, trusting Stephanie to dispel the crowd. As it turns out, she's judged right. The attention they'd paid you was drawing attention.

And you had a veritable flock of young men who suddenly found plush curves and spectacles very appealing. And young ladies who were very curious to know why YOU of all people were so interesting to any of Bruce Wayne's children.

You'd become a sensation.

As you should, if Jason was being honest. Socialites were a dime a dozen in this town. But a girl who was like you? The country doctor's daughter who ran wild in the woods and spent her childhood climbing trees and picking wild strawberries? Who tamed a baby fox? The town would be scandalized.

But. When you stood by yourself at a musical evening, swaying in time to the music and listening. When your nose crinkled when you laughed. When your eyes met his... But. He wasn't- well. He'd be better off a bachelor. Like Bruce. Or like Dick. The life they lead was dangerous.

He'd be better off finding you a nice man. A safe man. With deep pockets and a permissive attitude. Who would let you be pampered and indulged. Who wouldn't care if your children were boys or girls as long as they got your nose crinkle and your eyes. And who might let you keep a fox instead of wearing one.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #ask answered #minors dni #reader insert #gaslamp!au

164 notes · View notes

eidolocene · 2 days ago

Text

Animal Spirits - Vulfpeck

This is a true love story song / A triumph and a glory song / With only one small caveat / This one hasn't happened yet

ALIENS - The Griswolds, Transviolet

People fucking bore me, just say that you don't know me / Treat me like a lovesick alien / Feed me paranoia and say that I'm below you / Just leave me with the spaced-out aliens

2young - Stop Light Observations

I walked outside and saw something that I had never seen / All of my neighbors were butt-naked and were turnin' green

Magnetic - Tunde Adebimpe

From inside, I heard a message cry / Shinin' like mirrors in the sky / Said, "Get your head right and hold it high" / Said, "Look around now / Babe, you know you got the touch"

Boogie - Fulton Lee

Every story I know it ends and bruises / Everybody I meet don't get to chose / Just what they're up against / Look with the rainclouds rolling in

Hypotheticals - Lake Street Dive

I got a Plan A, and I got a Plan B / And if it's absolutely necessary, we'll go to Plan C / Whatever I gotta do to be with you

Sunshine In The Room - James Bay, Jon Batiste

I don't know how I don't know why / You turn grey skies into blue / You're the best high, you burn so bright / You're like sunshine in the room (yeah)

If I’m Honest - Trousdale

Is that too honest? I do it everytime / I say too much, then I cross the line / I trip on my words again / I wonder if I tell the truth / Would he go? Would he stay? Would he want me? / Would I laugh? Would I cry? Would it haunt me?

Life On The Line - The Walters

The thought of losing yous / Been catching up to me / And it is a future I just never wanna ever see / Guess it is all over and it is decided / I am all yours and your all mine

Broken People - almost monday

One to 99 years old / Yeah, we all cry and we all hold on to what we can before it's gone / Yeah, let me get a little technical / You've got to understand / You've gotta love the world / We've gotta work together and make each other whole

OK - Wallows

I'm someone who likes to talk things through / The hardest thing is getting it out of you / I should sit back and give you a break / Let you close your perfect eyes

R.I.P. - half-alive, The Walters

You are electric / I watch you dance in the morning light / I'm acting reckless, yeah / You pull me in like the ocean's tide

Make a Move - Amelia Day, Noah Floersch

Time for you to get a cluе / I'm sick of waitin' on the other side of the room / I know you think you got nothin' to lose / But it's time for you, time for you / To make a move

Settling - Ripe

You're still tryin' / But maybe if you let it go / And just stop tryin' / Finally say what's on your mind / To hell with timing / Is it easier to bite your tongue

Trajic Magic - Stop Light Observations

I can see your diamond / Everybody's lyin' / I might just / (Try)

Mr. Blue Sky - Dawson Hollow

Hey there, Mr. Blue / We're so pleased to be with you / Look around, see what you do / Everybody smiles at you

Section 14 (Two Thousand Places) - The Polyphonic Spree

You gotta be good / You gotta be strong / You gotta be two thousand places at once / And I know there's a lot outside the window / It seems a lot for you and me

Taking Control - Birdtalker

Love was another way to say that I’ll carry you / Whatever you wanna do, turn me left or turn me right / Only daring to speak up in order to safely regurgitate opinions I heard / Mentality turned on me now I can barely remember my name

Human - Lenny Kravitz

I'm gonna keep my head to the sky / Gonna walk each step with pride / ‘Cause I came here to be alive / I am here to be human

Dance With a Stranger - Lake Street Dive

Left, right, front, side, find somebody new / And then take them by the hand and say you understand

Day One - Bon Iver, Dijon, Flock of Dimes

And some may say that you lack the stuff / And you burn it down and clack your cuffs / But you may have to toughen up / While unlearning that lie

always be you - Montaigne, David Byrne

It'll always be you / You might not always come through / But I know you're trying to / So it'll always be you

Three Six Five - My Friend

Are you listening? / I wanna tell you everywhere I’ve been / Take my hand, ‘cause there are no answers / And there are no ends

#MokarunWeek2025 #Spotify

13 notes · View notes

sednonamoris · 2 years ago

Text

thunderstruck

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: A storm brews over your journey with John to meet an old friend and make a profit on the Braithwaite horses. What will happen when lightning strikes?

Warnings: Jealousy, emotional constipation, past relationships, strong language, love confessions, handjobs, penetrative sex, spit as lube (smut easily avoided if you want to skip over it)

Word count: 4,418

A/N: whew!! twenty-three chapters later these two finally got together - i hope you all have enjoyed the ride, and look forward to the rest as much as i do!! let me know what you think <3

Series masterlist • AO3

—

Thunderhead Gulch is an average plains town situated, as the name might suggest, over a gulch where a violent stream rumbles through otherwise quiet countryside. The rockiness of the area lends itself to pastureland and little else; herds of cattle roam and graze, and farmers with rough hands and kind eyes tend their flocks. The town’s storefronts are simple but well-kept, very much like the people who run them. It’s a place for good, honest people looking for good, honest work.

And it’s exactly where a perfect criminal lives.

Half a week’s worth of travel brought you here, all the while John asking questions you’ve done your best to avoid answering. An old friend from Tumbleweed, is all you’ve told him about the forger you’re meeting. Just a quick reunion and a job done right and we’re out of there. There’s no one else you’d trust to do this job right, but it’s been a long time. You can’t entirely blame John for the skeptical scowl on his face.

The curio shop you hitch your horses in front of is nestled into Thunderhead’s downtown like it’s been there forever, fit to burst with every secondhand oddity imaginable. Broken clocks and one-eyed dolls and discontinued dime novel serials line the front windows. Inside, a narrow and winding footpath from front to back is all that remains to customers. Every other square inch has been claimed by stacks upon stacks upon stacks of the curiosities this shop is named for.

You and John squeeze your way through the door to the cheerful tinkle of bells. Behind the counter lies a precarious stack of antique bear traps. There’s not a shopkeep in sight.

“Hello?” John calls out.

“In the back!” a muffled voice replies.

You smile in recognition. John’s expression is entirely mystified, but he takes the look on your face as his go-ahead to forge a path through, weaving around cracked China displays and rusted revolvers and moth-eaten wedding gowns.

Past all that, between stacks of other men’s trash and lost treasures, sits Lottie Reed.

Surprise colors her sharp, angular face the moment she looks up from the faded throw pillow she’s mending, and though time has wrought its changes you still recognize the wild spirit you met once upon a childhood ago in the depths of her seafoam eyes.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that a Ghost?” she asks. Her face is still surprised, still cautious, but a smile threatens the severity of her shock.

“I’m afraid your shop is terribly haunted, Miss,” you grin.

Just like that her needle and thread are thrown aside as she rushes in for a hug. Her wiry frame curls around you in a vice grip, stood on her tip-toes and clinging like if she holds tight enough you won’t be able to fade away like lost memory. You laugh and hug back warmly. It’s been too long.

John coughs uncomfortably after a moment.

“Oh, I clean forgot my manners,” you say, extricating yourself from Lottie’s embrace and taking a step back. “Lottie Reed, this is John Marston.” John gives a lukewarm smile. “John Marston, this is my old friend Lottie Reed. We grew up together.” Lottie extends her hand to shake.

“Good to meet you,” John says past his stiff shoulders and wary stare. “Ghost never mentioned much of you before.”

“We lost touch for a spell once I married and moved up here,” Lottie says. John raises his brows. You clear your throat. “Back in the day I earned a cut off stolen horseflesh for forging papers, but Melvin didn’t like me being a part of that life.”

As you recall, he didn’t like you being a part of Lottie’s life. The two of you lived fast and free before he came into the picture, a perfect suitor picked by her parents. Settled, property-owning, and respectable, Melvin was everything Lottie’s family ever imagined for their lettered daughter. You, a cast off orphan with nothing to your name but a government arrest warrant, were not.

“Wherever is Mr. Reed?”

“Dead. The fever got him two years ago.” Lottie smiles wistfully. “I wrote, but I don’t imagine you ever got the letter.”

“I’m… real sorry.” You’re not sure if you’re apologizing because he’s dead or for a letter you never read. Maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t try to get in touch until now. You never liked Melvin much, but you and Lottie... Well. It’s all in the past now, where things get twisted and lost and can’t ever change.

“Any chance you’re still in the paper fixin’ business?” John asks. Tension looses from your shoulders at the change in topic. “Ghost and I got a couple horses that need buyers, and from what I understand they’d go for a prettier penny with your help.”

Lottie stands up straighter, businesslike, when she says yes.

“Melvin left me everything, but as you can see,” she gestures to the worthless paraphernalia surrounding you, “it isn’t much. Why don’t you stay by the house tonight while I fix up those papers? It’s been a sight too empty for too long. I’d like the company.”

“We’ll be there,” you promise, clasping her hand before stepping away.

It’s been too long since you’ve slept in a proper bed with a roof over your head, and longer still since you’ve caught up with an old friend. John’s mouth tightens when you say it, maybe because you agreed without asking, but you can’t imagine why a hot meal and some company would bother him. It never has before.

—

Dinner proves an awkward affair.

By the time you and John broke camp and herded your stolen horses to the property, twilight had already painted the house and neighboring barn in dreamy purples and golds. John bitched the whole time you put the horses up, set off by something he refused to tell you about. Then when Lottie met you at the front door in a pretty green dress with her dark curls pulled up it only got worse. She ushered you both into her humbly lit dining room, where a wonderful meal awaited. He glared through the whole affair, despite the warmth of the fire and the kindness piled on every plate. You asked for seconds. He asked to be excused.

Now he’s off sulking somewhere while you show Lottie the horses down at the barn. So long as he doesn’t scare any buyers away you just have to trust that this mood of his will pass with time.

Old Father Time nickers you back to the present, begging for a treat that Lottie offers up gladly. She giggles at the tickle of his whiskers when he takes it from her outstretched palm. His dark coat gleams even in the nighttime. Autocrat paws and tosses his dappled head. Cerberus whickers for his own share of attention, earning an affectionate scratch behind the ear. As you introduce each stallion and his accomplishments Lottie hums thoughtfully, mentions a few adjustments she’d like to make on their papers accordingly. It’s nice to work with a professional. You’d almost forgotten what the luxury of forged papers felt like, so long spent with unlettered outlaws and people otherwise uninterested in the horse business.

“They’re fine animals,” Lottie says, then gestures to Old Boy and Moonshine. “What about these two?”

“I found Old Boy there skinny and abandoned. Perfect timing that John needed a new horse. He put the weight back on him and has him trained up nice.”

“And the roan?”

“A friend died and left this beast behind,” you say with an affectionate pat to Moonshine’s silver-blue neck over the stall door. He rolls an ornery eye at you, but doesn’t offer a bite like he might have just a few months ago. “He’s mean, but he’s mine.”

Lottie laughs. “Like your cowboy, then.”

“He ain’t—we’re not—” you fumble, “I don’t—”

“The outlaw doth protest too much, methinks,” she cuts you off gently, with that smile full of home and heartbreak. The quote scratches at almost-lost memory in the back of your mind. Summers spent sneaking into a family home through the second story bedroom window. A warm hand in yours. Her familiar voice reciting Shakespeare while you pretended to understand the lines you parroted back.

“The outlaw protests just enough,” you frown. “He ain’t mine, though I will apologize on his behalf for the way he acted at dinner. John’s plenty mean, but not like that. Not usually, anyway.”

“He’s jealous,” she says like it’s obvious. “I can hardly blame him.”

“If he wants you, I ain’t standin’ in the way, Miss High-and-Mighty,” you laugh, caught off guard by the sudden turn in conversation. It’s a high-up, nervous sound.

“Miss Nothing-to-him,” she corrects. “Can’t you see? That man only has eyes for you.”

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted to hear and you’re not quite sure what to say. Emotions flash through you like lightning and brush fire, electric scorches of surprise and denial and self-deprecation. Longing. Hope.

“You think?” is all you manage to muster.

Lottie’s eyes are far too sympathetic. “I know.”

“And you don’t… mind?” Your shoulders cringe even as you ask it. Some things are just worth checking.

She sighs, turns to face you fully, and takes your hands in hers. “I loved after you for a long time. The idea of you, really. A dashing outlaw and a horseback rescue from the life I didn’t want.” She offers a wry smile as she continues, “I only heard that you took Daddy’s money and ran long after the wedding was over.” You start to apologize, but she cuts you off before it ever leaves your mouth. “It’s done, now. I don’t think either of us would go back and change it if we could. I’m happy here, now, and you have your cowboy. Your John. It’s time you let yourself be happy, too.”

“Funny enough, you’re not the first person who’s said that to me.” You drop your chin and try to stop the burn of tears that threatens your composure as you squeeze her bookish hands with your calloused ones. “Thank you, Lottie.”

She squeezes back and smiles. “You’re welcome.”

When she says your name, you feel a little less like a ghost.

—

On the walk back up to the house you spy movement in an upstairs window. Just a blur by candlelight.

You wonder how much John saw from up there. If jealousy burns his eyes and the back of his throat the way it used to for you, watching him and Abigail together. It lights a spark of something low in your belly, hope or want or vindication. A grim, simmering promise of things to come.

—

The next morning greets you sunshine-bright and singing. The grasses sway gently with the breeze. The birds flit from leafy tree limbs outstretched in the sky’s great blue embrace. Lottie insists on giving you not only the agreed-upon papers, but breakfast for the road as well. The fistfull of cash you fetch from your saddlebag is more than she asked for, but when she protests you push her hands back gently. After everything, it’s fitting payment.

“Ride safe, now,” she tells you, shielding the sun from her greenglass eyes to look up at your mounted form. “It’s nice now, but a storm’s brewing. Can you smell it on the breeze?”

You can. Sunshine undercut with petrichor and the buzzing, electric promise of lightning. “We will. Thank you again, Lottie. For everything.” Live well.

“The same to you, old friend,” she smiles your way, then turns to John. “Keep an eye on this one, will you?”

“Always do.” His voice is curt, and his eyes are sharp and unkind when he says it.

Mean, you think as you sneak a look at his striking profile. But mine.

You wave one last goodbye before riding off, stolen horses in tow, false paperwork tucked into your breast pocket. The pair of you make for the horizon line and don’t look back.

—

John is quiet in the coming days. Uncharacteristically so. You catch him staring at you when he thinks you don’t see; eyeing the length of your neck as you drink from your canteen, memorizing the planes of your face lit by campfire, burning a hole in your back as you ride ahead. All the ways you’ve watched him since you were young and scared and barely knew what to call the ache in your chest and the scorch of your want. That anguish which even now you refuse to name; you know what it is.

Maybe Lottie was right.

Maybe John knows it too.

—

As you ride toward the next town, and the next one, and the next, the sky darkens from shades of blue to grey to not-quite-black. The storm hasn’t hit yet, but rain heralds its coming on the wind. In the hoofbeats of the horses you hear thunder.

—

A man in tweed with a curled mustache buys Cerberus behind a saloon in Split River. John orders you both a round of drinks to celebrate. His fingers brush against yours when you toast your glasses together. It tastes of wildfire. Stings the whole way down.

You’re forced to leave when he almost takes a man’s head off for asking you to share a dance shortly after. The jaunty fiddle tune haunts your steps into the lamplit streets as you beat your hasty retreat, John’s shoulder clasped tight beneath your burnt whiskey fingertips.

—

In Steelhead, a farmer with a nose for a pedigree takes Autocrat off your hands. That night he puts the pair of you up with his other farmhands to get you out of the nighttime chill. It’s a kindness you hadn’t counted on, but it feels cruel the moment you see a man, broad and strong with eyes the same shade as yours, agree to light John’s cigarette. Across the room they lean in close. Closer. The butts of their cigarettes glow shrouded in smoke as they share the intimacy of nicotine breath, but the whole time John’s eyes are on yours. A punishment. A dare.

In a bedroll as far from everyone else as the room allows, you don’t sleep a wink.

The following morning breaks grey and ominous. You can’t leave the place far enough behind.

—

Rushing Spring houses Old Father Time’s new owner, a fashionable young woman whose father can refuse her nothing. He barely looks the horse over before offering more than your asking price, and you shake his hand without giving him a moment to think twice.

“Better get going if we want to beat this weather,” John says as they walk away with their new purchase. His eyes are squinted up at the sky, storm grey and swirling. It’s the most he’s offered to speak since Lottie’s.

“You’re right,” you agree. But as you glance up at the churning clouds above you, you’re not so sure that you will.

—

The rain catches you the next afternoon in open country, not a settlement in sight. It starts as a drizzle, errant drops that speckle the leather of your saddle and pepper Moonshine’s coat, but soon crescendos into an all-out pour. It comes so thick and fast that you can hardly see John and Old Boy just a horselength in front of you. John turns to shout something over the downpour, but the wind snatches his words. It’s too dark to read his lips.

When he turns his horse away you follow blind.

There’s a rockface somewhere off to the left, you know. You’ve seen irregular shelves and outcroppings from a distance. Maybe John spied something like that before the rain came? Maybe he’s just trusting that he’ll find shelter before an errant lightning strike hits anything nearby. Whatever the case is, his luck holds. You endure only a few more minutes of being utterly soaked before the dark, yawning mouth of a cave opens up before you.

The horses shake their dripping coats the moment you step inside. Their unshod hoofbeats echo with the rainfall. Lightning flashes, lighting your surroundings for a heartbeat and a half. It’s enough to see that the cave doesn’t run dangerously deep; you need not fear it housing some slumbering bear or wildcat’s den, but it’s enough to keep the rain from soaking you entirely. So long as it doesn’t flood, you guess.

Without so much as a word you and John fall into a routine that’s been established since you were kids. You untack and hobble the horses, toweling them dry as best you can. Moonshine tenses beneath your hands at the distant rumble of thunder rolling ever closer. John starts a fire and gets to warming food. Canned beans, it looks like. Better than nothing. You set the tent tarp on the ground to keep the bedrolls dry. The extra blankets you have packed away aren’t quite wet. It’s a sadder, damper camp than you normally pull together, but in the wake of this weather you’d be hard-pressed to do better.

You huddle close to the small fire with your plate of food. John sits opposite you and says nothing. Just watches. You watch back. The way his sharp features accentuate with shadow. The way his damp skin is drenched in firelight. His hair is plastered to his cheek, and your fingers twitch with longing to smooth it back and kiss the raindrops from his lips. When the next lightning strike flashes, you see unmasked want reflected back in his eyes.

“John…” you start, but can’t find the right words. How do you give voice to thoughts you’ve smothered for years now? How would you even begin?

“I need a drink after all that,” he says, pulling his flask from his belt and taking a swig. “How ‘bout you?”

Your mouth is terribly dry. “Sure.”

The offer doesn’t surprise you, but the way he hands it over, slow and deliberate, your fingers brushing together, does. Instead of retreating back to his side of the fire he remains with his hungry eyes and sharp mouth. You can’t quite bring yourself to look away as you drink. It burns like whiskey, but it tastes like him.

“Somethin’ else out there,” he says, inclining his head toward the mouth of the cave. Lightning flashes, and a clap of thunder - the closest one yet - punctuates his statement. “Reminds me of all them years ago, picking you up out of the mud. You remember that?”

“How could I forget? Saved my life.” Marked it forever. Changed it. For better or for worse.

“Every time it storms I think about that day,” he confesses. His hand reaches up for your face, cupping your cheek. You swear your heart stops. His brows knit together. “I don’t know that I would’ve saved anyone else.”

“I’m not sure I would’ve let anyone else do the saving.”

The rough pad of his thumb strokes the side of your neck. You swallow past a dry mouth and watch his eyes trace the line of your throat. Firelight flickers across his features. He leans in closer.

“It was always gonna be you and me, wasn’t it?” His breath fans your lips; whiskey and want.

Lightning arcs across the sky outside, lighting his face in that same eerie glow it did the day you met. He’s so beautiful. You’re so tired of pretending.

Before the thunder has a chance to crash, you answer him with a kiss.

It’s everything.

Electric.

You feel the boom of thunder in your chest when it comes, feel his hands wandering there and know it’s where they’ve always belonged. When he bites your lip and pushes you onto your back, your body accommodates him without thinking. He settles into the space between your legs and pulls back just long enough to admire, a wolfish gleam in his eye. What a sight you must be, spread out and chest heaving, eyes blown wide with years’ worth of want, face half-lit by the fire.

“Fuck,” he says, breathless, and then kisses you again. “Should’a done that sooner.”

But you’re here now, and it’s everything you could ever want or imagine. Better, somehow. You know John better than you know yourself and still his passion surprises you as he presses chapped-lip kisses further and further down your neck. You gasp when he bites down and feel him smirk against your rainsoaked skin. He’s paid back in kind with a sharp tug at the root of his hair, your hand tangled in those long, dark strands. A groan sounds from deep in his chest and he pulls away long enough for you to see the grey of his eyes go black.

“Tell me you want this,” he says.

“I want it.” You squirm, rolling your hips against his just to see desire glaze across his face. “I want you.”

“Shit, Ghost,” he says. “You always had me. I’m yours. It’s all yours.”

Whether he means his body or his heart or his soul you don’t rightly know. Right now you hardly care. All you know is that his hands are all over you at once, pulling layer after layer of soaked clothing away until you’re almost completely bare beneath him. Your nipples pebble against the sudden exposure to evening storm air, and his hungry eyes watch your every move, every breath beneath him. He’s a sight himself; half hard already, those soaked-through breeches plastered to his skin leaving little to the imagination. His hair is all a mess and his scars stand out against scarlet and his eyes are dark and bright. You help him tear his clothes away and grin when his broad, lean chest gleams in the flickering light of the campfire. You run your fingers against the dark hair there and feel him shudder beneath your touch. Heat rushes to your core when he removes his pants, leaving his cock exposed and flush against his stomach. You move to lick a stripe down your hand when he grabs your wrist.

“Don’t,” he says, face flushed. Eyes bright. “I like when it hurts, a little.”

He licks his lips. You grin and take him in your hand. His breath catches and his hips stutter as you set a slow, steady, punishing rhythm.

“Goddamn,” he curses. “Just like that.”

You’re dizzy with power and want. Seeing the effect you have on him, his chest heaving, his eyes rolled toward the heavens, makes that simmering warmth in your belly start to boil over. You smooth a calloused fingerpad over his tip just to watch him shudder. Precup smears. His eyes squeeze shut, and all too soon he’s pushing your hands away.

You tilt your head in question and he grins, half-shy. “I ain’t gonna last if you keep that up.”

“That’s the point, dumbass.”

He shakes his head, bends to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Want to feel you, first.”

Heat floods your body from your chest to your fingertips at the confession.

Hard to argue with that.

He makes a strangled sound at the back of his throat watching you wriggle out of your pants, moaning outright when you take his hand and put his fingers in your mouth. His eyes glaze over and he thrusts them to the back of your throat just once to see what happens. You hum around them. His eyes go even darker.

Hesitantly, maybe even a little reverently, he starts to work you open. The further he goes and the more you relax into it, the rougher and more confident he becomes. One finger becomes two, becomes three. Still you want more.

“Yeah?” he says as you moan, half cocky and half like he can’t believe he’s the lucky son of a bitch making you see stars. You hate that it wrecks you the way that it does.

“Yeah,” you breathe, tilting your head up to press a kiss to his jaw.

He takes your face in his hands and kisses you back properly, thoroughly, before lining up to your entrance and thrusting in all at once. It’s that special kind of too-much ecstasy, your vision going dark and your voice keening at the sensation.

“Shit, you feel good,” he whines.

“Please, John,” you say, though you’re not sure what you’re begging for other than more.

Lightning screams through the storming sky outside and his pale skin glows in white-hot light. He takes you apart to the sound of fading thunder and falling rain. You shift to meet the thrust of those narrow hips halfway, and rake your fingers down his back with each burst of pleasure. If there’s such a thing as completion, it must be this. The way your bodies fit together, the way you know every thought that flashes behind the wolfish want in his eyes. Each unspoken, understood I love you. He taught you to do it long before he recognized the feeling returned, and when you finally reach the peak of your pleasure you sigh it into his skin.

I love you, John Marston.

“Fuck, Ghost,” he pants. “Fuck. I love you too.”

His thrusts get sloppy, chasing his own high, and when he pulls out and spends himself across your stomach his voice cracks saying your name. It’s never sounded sweeter.

After a few settling breaths John leans down and presses a firm kiss to your forehead. You miss his warmth for only moments when he rolls away to find a rag to clean you up. The two of you fall asleep in one another’s arms. Outside, the rain slows and fades away to a drizzle, then nothing.

—

You wake the next morning to wiry arms wrapped around you and John’s face pressed into your stomach. He snores softly, and you allow yourself a quiet moment to admire his sleeping form. It’s impossible to stop the fond smile that steals across your face. Carefully, carefully, you extricate yourself from his embrace.

When you step outside, morning birdsong greets you. The grass beneath your feet is as dewy as the pinks and yellows and robin’s egg blues that paint the sky above. It’s the kind of sunrise that only comes after a storm.

You lean against the rockface and light a cigarette, watching the smoke dissipate on the fresh morning breeze. It isn’t long before John joins you. Wordlessly you pass him your cigarette, and wordlessly he takes a drag. He breathes smoke into the air and smiles.

Together you watch the sun rise.

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #fran writes #ghost story #ch. 23

123 notes · View notes