#wild cattle series
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a practice piece to get acquainted with the new pastels ^^
Cape Buffalo (Syncerus caffer caffer), oil pastel on pastel paper.
#art#traditional art#oil pastel#wild cattle series#animals#mammalia#mammals#ungulates#bovines#bovini#wild cattle#bovinae#syncerus#buffalo#syncerus caffer#african buffalo#cape buffalo
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First Lady of Panem
Pairing: Young!Coriolanus Snow x Fem!Reader
Series Summary: When your family arrived to the Capitol from District Ten to secure their place as one of the most prominent and wealthy families of Panem you could have never dreamed fate would lead you into the arms of Coriolanus Snow. Falling in love was easy, watching him become President and becoming First Lady of Panem at his side would test your limits. Panem's history would forever be changed by this union.
AO3 Link
Author's Note: TW & Tags will be updated as each chapter comes out, first chapter is just to set up the story & characters. Enjoy!
Chapter 1: Sky Blue Eyes
Those bluebonnets how sweetly they grow
For all the wide prairies they're scattered like snow
They make all the meadows as blue as the skies
Reminding me of my darlings blue eyes
The cow-filled prairies shifted to mountains signaling the train's entrance into District Two as you hummed to the tune of an old song from before Panem’s creation. The sprawling grass sea of District Ten, of your home, disappeared in the distance as you made your way to the heart of Panem.
“Darling, are you listening to me?”
Lifting your head from the rattling window you turned to see your mother looking at you with soft concern.
“Sorry Mama, what were you asking?”
Her hand smoothed over your younger sister Mellona’s curls, making her nuzzle deeper into her side. “I was asking if you were hungry so I could order lunch.”
“That would be nice Mama. Thank you.”
“Alright, call for Agnes if you need anything she’s in the next car,” your mother stands, lays a snoozing Mellona down, before making her way to the dining car.
“Homesick already?” Victoriosa, the eldest, asks from the chaise never taking her eyes off the magazine in her hands.
“Is it that obvious?”
“We always knew we’d have to move to the Capitol.”
“Why now? I thought at least another year or two,” you asked, sinking into the plush leather seat. Victoriosa pauses, looks up at you and for an instant you can see your father’s intense expression staring back at you.
“Papa wants to finally establish himself as a prominent figure in the Capitol. He needs Capitol support if he is to fully absorb the rest of the ranches, you know that,” she states. “This is also our opportunity to reach our full potential, choose our own paths. Once you finish your career you can always return to Ten if you wish but that would be a waste,” she returns to flipping through her magazine.
“Silva, what do you think?” you turn to your only brother who is seated next to you.
He gives a short shrug. “I don’t mind it much as long as I can continue my research,” Silva sighs from behind his thick textbook.
Victoriosa tilts her lithe neck backwards, “Yawnnnnn.” A snort leaves your lips and you’re grateful your mother isn’t nearby to reprimand you for your ‘unladylike’ behavior.
“Biodiversity is the pinnacle of our success as cattle breeders!” Silva scowls.
“I thought you’d be missing a certain milkmaid Carpathia,” Victoriosa smirks and a wild blush spreads under Silva’s glasses.
“Oh like you’ll be missing your ranch hand Bronco,” Silva snaps back.
“There’s always summertime. Plenty of time to catch up,” Victoriosa grins like the cat who got the cream. The three of you burst into a fit of giggles right as Mellona groggily rouses from her nap.
“Are we there yet?”
Another burst of laughter fills the private train car.
It would only take a few more hours before you arrived at the Capitol train station, nightfall falling over the city. Unlike District Ten, not all the stars were visible, the Capitol’s bright lights polluting the sky. Peacekeepers were already stationed to help move all the luggage into the waiting line of cars. Driving through the streets towards your new home, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe at the statues in the squares and the towering buildings. Most of all you were excited to finally see your father, it had been almost a month since you had seen him last.
“Papa!”
All of you crashed into Alicio Lupus’ awaiting arms, his rumbling chuckle bouncing off the high marble ceilings of the penthouse. Refugio joins in on the hug with teary eyes, reaching up to press a kiss on her beloved husband’s cheek.
“Welcome home my darlings,” he squeezes you all tighter. Any fear you held disappeared in an instant, as long as you had your family by your side, all would be well.
The first few weeks in the Capitol had been a whirlwind- meeting other Capitol families for dinner, registration for coveted internships and school courses, and endless shopping trips to assure your home and wardrobes were up to Capitol standards. Refugio Lupus wanted only the best for her children, which included constantly coaching you all to leave behind the District Ten accent that made certain words in your vocabulary drawl.
After dinner one day you thought you had finally caught a moment of peace before a knock at your door startled you from your book. Agnes, your family's nanny, rolled in a rack of dresses with Victoriosa in tow. Victoriosa was already dressed in a sleek blood red dress with a mink shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
“What’s all this?”
“We’ve been invited to a soirée to commemorate the end of the 13th Hunger Games. Papa thinks it’s a good chance to introduce us to others in the Capitol’s high society,” Victoriosa swept her arm towards the rack of glittering and ruffled dresses. Nerves made your stomach churn, mouth turning downwards into a frown as you remembered people’s faces this past week when it was revealed you had recently arrived from District Ten. Most look startled before looking at you like you were some exotic bird at the zoo.
“They’ll never accept us.”
A prideful look crossed her face, so similar to your father’s. No wonder your mother said they were cut from the same stone. “They will once we show them we are as refined as they are. As long as you lose that accent of yours you’ll blend in like a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” she grinned, canines glinting in the light of the chandelier. Rolling your eyes you step over to the rack, feeling the fabrics under your fingers. Stopping at a silver dress, the sequins twinkled like stars entrancing you. Agnes helped dress you before getting to work on sweeping your hair up into a fashionable updo. You waved away the highly pigmented makeup, not ready to delve into that side of Capitol fashion quite yet.
“Remember you’re a Lupus. We’re wolves among sheep,” Victoriosa pinches your cheek. The usual calluses that adorned her hands were gone, chemical treatments making them a long forgotten memory.
Wolves among sheep.
Victoriosa’s words replay through your head like a mantra as you step into the grand ballroom behind her and your father. Thankfully your sister was a gifted extrovert, introducing you to the friends she had already made. Soon you found yourself surrounded by members of the new Gamemaker class, a glass of posca in your hand. It took some time but slowly your shoulders loosened and your smile widened, confidence making you stand a bit taller.
Across the ballroom, Coriolanus Snow was repeating his own mantra to himself- Snow always lands on top. A reminder that showing up for another Capitol soirée wasn’t simply a waste of time but another way to show all these sycophants how high he had made it. Now heir to the Plinth fortune he was dressed impeccably. Tigris had helped style him, no more handmade shirts, and the final touch- Grandma’am’s rose pinned to his lapel. Like at most parties he was surrounded by his former classmates who were all desperate to remain in his inner circle- he was an esteemed Gamemaker after all. A glimmer in the distance caught his eye, distracting him from the meaningless chatter before him. He recognized the group as intern Gamemakers but not the young woman, fresh faced and glowing in the candlelight.
“Who is that?” Coriolanus feigned nonchalance as he tilted his head towards her.
Festus Creed followed his gaze, “Don’t you know?”
“How could he know? The Lupus Family only recently decided to establish here in the Capitol,” Pup Harrington said in between bites of hors d'oeuvres. The name rang a bell, stories and information from his various connections coming to mind.
“I believe that’s (Y/N) Lupus. I saw her the other day with her father, Alicio Lupus, at my mother’s bank” Livia Cardew said, inching closer to Coriolanus. “They practically own all the ranches in District Ten, Alicio Lupus’ brother is the Mayor of the District,” Livia whispered, lips coming close to his ear. Festus and Pup exchange an eye roll at her shamelessness and Coriolanus resisted the urge to shrug her off. Offending a Cardew would never bode well.
“She’s district, probably going back and forth from Ten to the Capitol like one of her family’s pigs,” Livia giggled, but it sounded like grating metal in Coriolanus’ ears.
“Don’t forget cows! Oh Panem, I dream about those steaks-,” Pup practically salivated.
“Imagine living all your life in that District, like poor Sejanus,” Festus tutted. Coriolanus immediately bristled at the mention of Sejanus, his icy blue eyes darkening like an impending storm. Festus must have realized his mistake because his eyes widened, apology on the tip of his tongue before Coriolanus cut him off.
“I should go make her acquaintance then,” he announces, ignoring Livia’s scowl. It was an opportune moment he thought as you now stood by the bar alone. Perhaps you would be desperate enough to try and get in his good graces, and offer to introduce him to your father. Coriolanus would be a fool not to recognize the Lupus family’s wealth and influence, they kept the Districts fed and the Capitol fat. Any potential relationship he could make was more support he could need when he would take a position in the Government.
As you took another swig of posca, you thought you had managed to escape more social interactions for the night until a voice made you jump.
“Hello, I’m Coriolanus Snow. Welcome to the Capitol.”
Turning around you looked up at the man’s captivating eyes, as blue as the sky back home. His pink lips curled slightly at the ends as if he was holding in a secret. Blonde hair pushed back in a neat fashion, accentuating his cheekbones. For a moment you were speechless. Remembering yourself, you gave him your name but you had a feeling he already knew it.
“Pleasure to meet you Coriolanus Snow.”
His stomach swooped. Coriolanus swore he heard a familiar lilt in your voice, but it was not as strong as Lucy Gray’s and those in District Twelve. No, yours was smoother and made your pronunciation of his name sound like it was dipped in warm honey.
“How are you finding the Capitol?”, he forces himself to ask, to ignore those dangerous thoughts.
“It's something...definitely not like back home,” you look around at the extravagant decor.
“Ah yes, District Ten. I’ve never made my way there but I’ve heard wonderful things,” the lie flows smoothly past his lips. “How grateful you must feel to finally be brought to us.”
Coriolanus would never miss a chance at making anyone District born feel inferior, all the posca he had been drinking making him loose lipped tonight. Indignation made your hands tingle, but you took a deep breath and clenched the glass tighter in your hands to ground you.
“I’m surprised you weren’t assigned there as a Peacekeeper. I suppose wherever the songbird called from you followed,” you replied, taking a demure sip from your glass, relishing in the way his jaw tensed. You knew who he was, his story with Lucy Gray Baird. Victoriosa had heard it all from a friend and had no qualms in passing the gossip down to you. If he was going to throw thinly veiled insults you’d have to show him you wouldn’t take them lying down.
“There’s that famous Lupus bite I’ve heard about,” he grins, taking a step closer to you. The scent of roses fills your nose, the sudden proximity to him making a blush rise up your neck. His hand reached out, moving to push a piece of hair behind your ear but the moment was broken when Victoriosa called out for you, pointing to your father who was making his way out the doors.
“If you’ll excuse me it’s time for me to get home. I’m sure our paths will cross again,” you murmured softly, dipping your head in farewell. Coriolanus stepped back with a slight bow, eyes never straying from your figure as you sauntered away. Oh yes, like two stars crossing in the night sky, you would meet again. Coriolanus would make sure of it.
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WAIT but to see real bunny ghost boxing….. would we not need another bunny??? I nominate either Konig (bc big boy bunnies are amazing) or Farah (she strikes the fear of god into me like a wild hare). I was going to say Rudy, but he has too-perfect cow eyes to be anything elseeeee
Hare shifter Farah is now Canon here. I fucking love it. And once Ghost lets his secret out, Farah gets to admit that she knew all along. Takes one to know one. They're not the same, but similar enough. They do box. Both shifted and not, and it's a sight to behold. In both forms Ghost towers over Farah, but she's quick, she's tough, and Ghost loves the challenge.
Now... Cow Rudy... I have a confession. I grew up on a cattle farm and cows are extremely near and dear to my heart, I fucking love them. So I had to sit and think for a minute. I couldn't make him my beloved Angus, I will die on this hill, Angus cattle are the best. Fight me. BUT, this isn't about my preferences, and nobody wants to hear me go on for hours about what cattle breed is best, you just wanna know what Rudy is.
Corriente. A gorgeous Corriente bull, in a half shift he'll proudly display his upturned horns. Most Corriente are black, but can be nearly any color. Rudy is no exception to this, being fully glossy black, but don't be mistaken, he's absolutely stunning. Now this breed is not generally used for meat. No, they're use is in Rodeo and Roping. Rudy comes from a long line of rodeo bulls. Where do you think he and Ale met? Way back when Ale was a junior bull rider. And when Ale left the ring behind to join the army, Rudy's family was aghast by his decision to follow.
P.S. if you're looking for rabbit König, @konigs-bitch-ass-wife is writing a series of Rabbit Hybrid König, and I believe he's also a flemish giant.
#ghoap#ghostsoap#soapghost#call of duty#cod mw2#modern warfare#fanfic#simon ghost riley#rabbit shifter ghost#trans!ghost#shifter au#hare!farah#cow!rudy#cow shifter rudy#alejandro vargas#hare shifter farah#fanfic wip#mooties ♡#writing mutuals
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Defence Logistics (John Price x Reader)
2.6 k words
CW: swearing, canon-typical violence, minor character death
This work is part of the S.N.A.F.U. series, the Masterlist is pinned to my blog
I don't know why, but I've struggled with this chapter more than any others lately. The format I chose, the tenses, all of it was a puzzle I've been wrestling with. I don't know if it's my insomnia making a come back or what, but I have been agonizing on this one. Almost scrapped it altogether but have decided to be brave and let 'er rip. I found writing John without the warmth he has for his love a bit jarring, having the ability to turn off that part of yourself and focus on wrecking damage on others was hard to capture. If it's subpar I can only apologize lol - the next chapter is already coming easier.
Feedback welcome, if folks have any tips or suggestions - this is all for fun and improvement! (that's what I keep telling myself anyways lol)
Masterlist
John’s transfixed, watching rusty blood swirl around the shower drain, his mind still back in the field. He’s showering off before he drives home from the black site, situated deep in the English country side. He’s bruised in several places, with a fresh cut across his lower forearm where the Commander’s knife had connected during a wild swing. The dull throb pulls his brain back to the present moment, making him realize he’s slowly dripping blood all over his own feet. He lifts the cut above his heart and tries to refocus his thoughts. Kate’s dealing with the paperwork, folding their use of equipment into existing work orders. Gaz and Simon are also showering, medical and debrief waiting for them all on the other side of the steam. John’s mind keeps running over the events of the last few days, looking for anything he’s missed.
Thankfully, he and Ghost had arrived in Lithuania a whole day ahead of Gaz’s taskforce. They had driven across Vilnius in an SUV that had been held together with good intentions and baler twine, as far as John could make out. It had rattled something awful, to the point they had ditched it on a side road and hiked the last few rough miles, working their way across farmer’s fields dodging cattle and sheep in the early morning light. The Industrial section was set outside of city limits, in between old farms, where the smells and sounds would be less likely to disrupt the rhythms of life. The physical exercise helped re-center John’s mind on the task at hand. The way things had been left between himself and his love had unsettled him, giving his mind a stone to turn over instead of focusing on his immediate surroundings. He’d said more than he’d wanted to in explaining his departure, opening a can of worms he hadn’t intended and couldn’t put right before he left. If Ghost noticed John’s initial lack of focus, he said nothing.
The intercept point was more or less on top of the taskforce’s rendezvous point, in the back end of a massive sheep field with a small hut built out of field stones. By the time they arrived to do their recon, he had pulled himself together mentally and was feeling more present. John’s body remembered the training that had been drilled in to it, the rust of retirement flaking away as time stretched on. Soon it was nearly like he had never left. He and Ghost discussed how to proceed in various probable scenarios as they checked the surrounding area.
How many people were involved in the revenge plot would depend on how the commander split his forces, to John’s mind. If he kept Gaz under his direct command there was likely no one else involved and Gaz was unlikely to survive the mission. If he sent Gaz with one of the other men, it was more likely they all were involved and it was more probable they would detain Gaz for information. Ghost agreed with John’s assessment, and they scouted the area before making a small camp a quarter of a mile from the rendezvous point to wait.
The downbeat of helicopter blades alerted them to the taskforce arriving a few hours after dark. John had signaled to Ghost, stubbing his cigar out and flipping the night vision goggles on. Then he and Ghost set out, snaking through the underbrush, using trees as cover as they moved in on the clearing and the stone hut. Once they got within a few hundred yards of the edge of the clearing they fanned out, Ghost swinging wide behind the unloading area.
They watched silently as five men disembarked using ropes, the wash of the helicopter blades obscuring any noise for several long minutes. Finally, it lifted, slowly claiming altitude again in the darkness, a handful of blinking lights the only outward signal of its location. The men had immediately moved on the stone hut as they landed one by one, quickly sweeping and entering it. John and Ghost had stayed in position, watching the hut for signs of life. Eventually the men exited, filtering into two separate groups. One group of two and another group with the remaining three. John located the Commander, pointing out the line of travel and giving a shove to one of his men. He squinted through his goggles, quickly identifying Gaz as the other man in the Commander’s trio.
As the groups split off into the darkness, the former Captain let the warmth of his anger wash over him again, keeping his movements purposeful and his mind on task. Staying a healthy distance behind, he stalked the trio as they hiked along the edge of the pasture, using trees and the waist high rock fence as cover. John tracked them easily with his night vision, quietly moving deeper in the woods. Ghost had shadowed the other group who were working their way further into the woods, opposite to where John and Ghost had camped and back towards the plant. When the Commander paused a few miles later near the badly rutted dirt road, their intent became clear to John.
The Commander’s group was set to create a diversion at the front gate of the chemical plant while the secondary team got in and collected the intel they were after. John waited until they were moving again to softly relay his plan to Ghost who responded with a subdued “rog that” in his ear. John moved incrementally closer on silent feet, waiting to see how they would go about creating their diversion. He watched as the Commander motioned Gaz to push forward, yanking a grenade from Gaz’s tac vest and pressing it into his hand. John had to force himself to wait, the instinct to get to Gaz pressing in on him tightly.
The front gate was framed with two concrete pillars, into which were sunk the posts for retractable chain link fencing. Beyond that, a bar gate, manned by middling security guards wearing flak vests and holstered pistols. John had guessed they were there to keep the local gangs out more than they were prepared to deal with para-military operations. He was proven correct shortly after when Gaz lobbed the grenade in his hand at the chain link fence. It landed close enough to blow the gate off its track, making what was left of the twisted metal hang at an awkward angle. The explosion rocked the gate house, making the men inside shout and duck for cover. Gaz lobbed another grenade, this one blasting the gate off completely, the smoking metal smashing into the ground with a loud screech.
The men inside the gate house finally got themselves organized and started cautiously coming out, using the door as cover as they opened return fire into the darkness. John watched as the Commander gave Gaz’s shoulder a shove, jerking his head towards the gate house. John understood in a flash the Commander was trying to position Gaz where a stray bullet wouldn’t be blinked at if it connected. John was instantly moving, his feet creeping him closer to their position when Gaz did the unexpected. Instead of scurrying forward as they all assumed, he threw himself backwards, kicking his legs up to get leverage as he swung his body around to lock legs with the other soldier, standing beside the Commander. He went down in a heap, Gaz wrestling for top position for all he was worth.
John sprinted the last few yards, yanking the unsuspecting and now screaming Commander by the back of the tac vest before he could interfere. Chaos reigned as shots continued to pepper out from the gate house and the men shouted each other down. John hadn’t been fast enough getting his hands clear, the Commander yanking a Bowie knife free from his vest and swinging wildly over his head, trying to fend off the attack from behind. John grunted when the tip of the knife skittered across his arm but he didn’t stop in his action, drawing his rifle butt up and bringing it down on the Commander’s cheek as he stumbled backwards. The blow knocked him unconscious, his body falling the rest of the way into a heap.
Gaz was still scrambling on the ground with the bigger soldier, trading blows before John stepped in, levelling his pistol at the man’s head and pulling the trigger without hesitation. Gaz was instantly covered in a spray of brain matter and blood, and his hands came up instinctively, warding off another shot from the same direction. John had spoken up then.
“On your feet soldier.”
John had offered him a hand and it took Gaz’s brain a split second to recognize the ex-Captain.
“Cap - Laswell said you uncovered this shitshow. Wasn’t sure you were going to leave your new girl for this though.”
Gaz had extended his hand, letting John haul him upright. John had hummed non-committedly, not wanting to get into the specifics of his presence in the field. He reached into his vest and pulled out zip-ties, handing them to Gaz.
“Smart man to not let him get you in a bad position. Get him restrained for now.”
He muttered before tapping his coms.
“Ghost, how copy?”
There was a brief pause and then Ghost’s deep voice was in John’s ear.
“They’re almost at the target. The explosions and gunfire pulled all attention from the rest of the building. Moving fast.”
“Regroup with us at the vehicle once they’re successful. Anything goes off the rails, I want to know ASAP. Out here.”
“Rog that, Captain.”
John let go of the comm and lifted his rifle again, firing a few bullets into the air. This riled up the security guards again, setting off another round of wild shots into the now eerily quiet night.
“Strip him. No insignia.”
John gestured to the remains of the solider, blood and thick brain matter pooling on the ground. Gaz started ripping the patches off the dead man’s vest, stuffing them into a spare pocket of his own. John reached over, using the muzzle of his rifle to push what was left of the man’s head to the side, reaching in to the neck and yanking the dog tags off, handing them to Gaz as well.
“Help me get this one further into the woods.”
John kicked the foot of the Commander, and Gaz stood, taking an elbow on one side. They carried him backwards, his dragging feet going silent as they entered deeper into the woods. Gaz counted out a hundred steps and then they propped him up against a tree. John rummaged around, pulling his field first aid kit out and locating the smelling salts.
“We’re going to wake him up. I want to know how many people he’s involved in this revenge scheme.”
“Think he’ll tell us the truth?”
“Won’t know unless we ask, soldier.”
John broke the salts and waved them under the unconscious man’s nose. Gaz refastened his gloves, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the man wake.
“Oi, OI.”
John’s tone was abrupt, not giving the waking man time to adjust to his surroundings.
“Wha- “
“You wanted the 141, Commander, you’ve got ‘em.”
When it took the man a beat too long to respond, John reached out and slapped his cheek with his open palm, jerking his head back against the trunk of the tree.
“Wake up Sunshine. What do you want with the 141?”
The Commander’s words are slurred, likely concussed from the blow to his head.
“Killed my brother – “
“You want revenge.”
John’s tone was flat, emotionless. The words unamused and to the point.
“Justice.” The Commander coughed, his head lolling to the side as he squinted up at them. “But we make our own, don’t we Captain?”
“If we’re lucky. Any more of your men involved? You already got one man killed.”
“No.”
The word was spat out, the hatred tangible in his tone.
“Norris feeding you information?”
“Get fucked.”
John looked over at Gaz who nodded silently to John’s unasked question. John had raised his pistol and pointed it at the man’s foot.
“Norris feeding you information?”
“I said get fu – “
John unloaded the bullet into the man’s foot, the bones and flesh splintering inside his boot. A bloodcurdling scream rang out, bouncing off the trees, making it seem like it was all around them. John lifted the pistol to aim at the man’s knee, his face impassive as the scream died down, replaced with frantic wounded whimpering.
“Norris feeding you information?”
“Holy fuck, oh shit, wait, wait, wait please – “
John leaned in, speaking lowly for the man’s ears only, not sure how much Gaz had been told.
“You send a sexual predator to my woman’s place and expect this to go well for you?”
John didn’t wait for an answer and shot the man’s knee out, the spray of blood missing Gaz this time but catching the side of John’s chest. The howl the Commander let out was unearthly, birds startling from their nighttime roosts. Some deeply tucked away part of John that demanded the collection of a pound of flesh was perversely satisfied with the sound. John stepped away again, training his pistol on the heavily bleeding man’s uninjured foot. Gaz stood, emotionless as the ex-Captain moved around the prone man, the dark forest obscuring their movements from the road.
“Last chance before I even you up. Norris feeding you information?”
“He’s the one who told me about my brother being at Las Almas!! He’s the one.”
John had shot a look at Gaz before turning back to the now heavily wounded man propped up against the tree. He gestured to the zip ties behind the man’s back with the muzzle of his pistol.
“Cut him loose.”
“You’re going to pay for this – I’ll make sure everyone knows-”
John took aim and unloaded a final bullet into the man’s skull, shards of bone and brain mixing with the wood splinters and smoke in the air. Gaz startled but collected himself, stepping over to cut the ties off the body, pocketing them. The dead man’s arms fell forward once the tension of the plastic tie was released. John helped him strip any identifying insignia silently.
“You need to radio that you were ambushed, both men down. Do you have a secondary exfil?”
“Yeah, if we can get to Belarus, the location is a few clicks over the border.”
“We’ll take the vehicle as far as we can. Ghost is going to rendezvous with us, let’s move out.”
John had waited to loop Ghost in before reaching out to Kate with their new exfil plans - taking turns sleeping in the vehicle for the rest of night while pushing on to the border. This gave Kate time to organize their ride and run interference with the story of the ambush. Which is how John spent Christmas Eve, crammed into a dilapidated SUV in the rural area of Lithuania’s border with Belarus, amongst his mates eating cold MRE’s again, all of them tired but alive.
Simon’s deep rumble knocks him out of his mental reverie, calling him back to his current position under the steaming water of his shower. So far, outside of the problem of Norris, the only thing John has been able to surmise he’s missed in the last few days is Christmas dinner with his love.
“Laswell said she’s sending the medic in after ye’ if ye’ don’t git yer ass in gear, Cap.”
John shuts the water off with a sigh and presses his lips together.
“That’ll do, Ghost. I'll be there shortly.”
Next Chapter
Ao3
Tag list:
@deadbranch @beebeechaos @cadotoast @syoddeye @writeforfandoms @itr-00 @chloepluto1306 @batw3nch @magsmagic @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @chickennn-soupp
#fanfic#captain john price#john price x reader#john price#john price cod#john price x f!reader#john price x you#captain price#captain price x reader#o captain my captain#captain john price x reader#rescue mission#undercover mission#cw death#cw violence#fanfiction
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I would sacrifice my cattle to a Mayan God if it meant you’d write a pregnancy plot line in the future. (From an avid pregnancy kink enjoyer).
The way I was actually sorting through your AO3 breeding kink tag in hopes of finding one where the mc gets pregnant 😭.
Anyways, I still enjoy your fics a lot. I just wanted you to know that there’s, like, one person here who wouldn’t object to reading that. Ik ppl don’t often like the pregnancy bit of breeding and that’s fine, I just feel like a martyr sometimes (i’m being v unserious here). 😔
I may do it for Soap, Gaz, or Ghost’s fic since I want to turn this into a series :)) I’m not against a pregnancy plot line at all, I’ve just never had one pop into my mind that I felt driven to write. I’ve absolutely wanted to write an “accidental baby daddy” soap fic tho so……
It’s actually crazy because I’m SOOOO into the baby trapping trope but I’ve just never written it. Most of my smut features some kind of breeding kink dialogue, but I’ve never written the reader actually getting knocked up. Even though it drives me wild in fics 😵💫
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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
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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.
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accidental geovishap acquisition
masterlist | 1k prompt masterlist | family series
prompt: you find a baby geovishap while exploring in liyue. diluc is less than thrilled about your new pet.
pairings: diluc x gn!reader
warnings: ~2.5k words, accidental baby acquisition trope (but with a geovishap), diluc falls in love with said geovishap but would never admit it
When you told Diluc you were traveling to Liyue for work, he expected you to come home with sincere gifts of exquisite gemstones and thoughtful trinkets. He never, in a million years, would have imagined you to come home with what you did.
“Absolutely not.” Diluc says sternly when his eyes lay on the thing in your embrace. It’s sleeping soundly, curled around your arms, and you look overjoyed to be holding it.
You don’t give him the time of the day. “His name is Spot because he’s got a spot around his right eye,” You tell. “He’s just a baby.”
“Yeah – a baby who will grow into a monster that’s five-times the size of you and try to eat you.”
“Geovishaps don’t eat people.” Diluc sighs and you look at him longingly, “He was all alone, ‘Luc. I couldn’t just leave him there.” He frowns heavily, the muscles on his face stretching down, and you add, “Besides, look how adorable he is.”
Diluc stares at the baby Geovishap with sharp eyes. Then, he looks back at you. “One month,” He decides, “You can have one month to raise it and then you’re bringing it back to Liyue.”
You smile and duck your head down to kiss the top of the Geovishap’s scaly head. Diluc feels his eye twitch.
You fully intended on bringing back something introspective from Liyue. But when you were amassing the greenery with your expedition team, you heard something calling for help around a bend. Your curiosity got the best of you and underneath a heavily-weathered shed laid a tiny little dragon.
It was utterly alone and looked afraid but you still swept your surroundings for a mother before deciding that this baby had been abandoned and you would be a truly cruel person to leave it there to ultimately die.
Without much thought, you peeled your bag off your shoulders and opened it wide. Your hands lifted the Geovishap with gentleness and lowered him into the sack. When you were sure he was secured, you slipped your bag back on and went back to your team. The Geovishap’s head poked out from the opening of the sack and he laid his tired face on your shoulder.
And now, here you were.
“How are you going to feed it?” Diluc asked later. “What are you going to feed it?”
You contemplated his question and rubbed your fingers between the sleeping dragon’s eyes. He leaned into your touch and purred loudly. “Whatever we have for dinner,” You answered. Diluc stared at you for a moment and you cocked your head in confusion, “What? Is that not good?”
“Is that not good?” Diluc mocked, “Does it even have teeth?”
“I…don’t want to check.”
Diluc huffed once and grabbed his coat, “Stay here.” He left the manor promptly and returned later with a woven satchel filled with various items. He laid them on the kitchen counter and you peered at them curiously. There were a few bottles of fresh milk, some minced meat, and a cattle-feeding bottle. “Well, do what you need to do.”
He was about to leave the kitchen when you caught the sleeve of his arm, “You know,” You started. “Your father loved to rescue wild animals. He would have adored Spot.”
Diluc visibly stiffened, “Wild animals like feral cats and stray dogs. Not Geovishaps.”
You laughed softly, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
At night, you lay Spot to sleep on a makeshift pile of pillows and blankets in the corner of the bedroom and kiss it goodnight. For a moment, Diluc imagines the Geovishap is a child and you’re putting them to bed, but then he remembers that it’s not a child. It’s a Geovishap. It will never be anything more than a Geovishap.
It becomes even worse when said Geovishap begins following Diluc around the house. It hasn’t mastered rolling yet, so it teeters around on all-four-legs and occasionally rams into the back of Diluc’s shins.
“Y/N,” Diluc warns after Spot headbutts his legs for the sixth time that morning, “Can you get your rabid-dog away from me?”
You dramatically gasp, “Be nice to him! He’s just a baby!”
Diluc shakes his head at you in disbelief. Truthfully, he doesn’t understand why you’re so adamant about protecting the Geovishap. One day, this tiny baby would grow into a vicious beast and do what it was programmed to do – cause destruction and harm – and it would inevitably meet its demise. Taking this Geovishap was a mistake. What was it going to take for you to understand that?
Nothing, clearly, because Diluc comes home from a shift at the tavern to see Spot curled against your arm…sleeping on his side of the bed.
“Absolutely not,” Diluc mutters – this phrase seemingly becoming his favorite lately. He grabs the monster under its arms and Spot jerks awake, wriggling in Diluc’s grasp. Spot scowls in protest and shakes his tail pathetically. Diluc holds the Geovishap at arms length and carries it to the bathroom attached to your bedroom. Diluc throws Spot down in the empty bathtub and stares at it for a moment before shaking his head, “You can sleep there.”
Spot tries to climb out of the bathtub but can’t get a hold on the ceramic ledge and falls to the bottom of the tub. He sits back on his legs and looks at Diluc with such insufferable doe-eyes that make Diluc sick.
“What?” Diluc grits his teeth. The baby dragon makes a sound, dare Diluc describe it as cute, and scoots closer to the edge. “I’m not letting you out.” Spot makes the sound again, louder this time, and Diluc rolls his eyes, “Oh, shush.”
As if the Geovishap can understand what Diluc is saying, and decides to totally go against it, he starts making much louder noises. It sounds like a mix of a bark, a meow, and a growl, and it’s getting louder by the second. Diluc groans and ducks down to lift the Geovishap into his arms again.
“Fine, fine,” He admits, “You win. Just don’t wake them up.” He brings the Geovishap back into your bedroom and drops him onto the bed you made him. “Stay,” Diluc adds before crawling into bed with you.
He’s woken up an hour later to something crawling over his body and snuggling into your arms but he’s much too tired to care. He can survive one night of this. (Deep down, Diluc knows that there’s going to be way more than one night of this.)
Next week, Kaeya comes to visit Diluc. Or, as Diluc likes to call it, comes by for a free glass of wine.
Diluc tenses his back against a wooden chair. “What’s the reason for your unexpected visit?” He demands, knowing there must be some reason.
Kaeya pretends to remember something and reaches into his bag for it. “Annual paperwork,” He says casually, procuring a neat stack of papers and placing them on the table. “Jean asked me to come drop them off and who would I be – what is that?”
On the floor behind Diluc stands a scaly, dragon-looking animal. It barks, or whatever it does, at Kaeya and curls up into a ball, rolling towards the visitor. Spot rolls straight into the table leg and unfurls, sitting under the table in an agitated mess.
“That’s my new dog.”
“That is not a dog.”
On cue, you step out from around the corner with a frown on your face. “Is Spot in here? He heard something and jumped off the couch and into here.” You hear the monster and drop to your hands and knees to pull him out from under the table. You pick Spot up without protest and settle in an empty chair with the Geovishap on your lap.
Kaeya stares in disbelief. “Spot? You named it Spot?”
You nod, scratching the back of Spot’s head, “Sure did.”
“Congratulations on your new addition,” Kaeya eventually says, his voice ridden with amusement, “I’m sure he’ll be a wonderful Ragnvindr heir.”
Diluc huffs, “It’s not staying here forever.”
The corners of Kaeya’s mouth curl upwards, “I’m sure he isn’t, Master Diluc.” Diluc only rolls his eyes and reaches for the stack of papers.
Over the next couple of weeks, you care for the Geovishap like any pet. You feed him in the morning and night (Diluc complains about the grocery budget doubling), make sure he has lots of toys to play with during the day and a warm bed to sleep in at night, and give him enough love to last a millennium.
Spot learns the layout of the manor soon enough and Diluc spends his days pulling him out from underneath a bed or shooing him off the counter (how did he even get up there?!). Sometimes, though, Diluc can’t find him.
After an hour of searching, you start to worry. Usually, Spot comes out of his various hiding places by nightfall but tonight, he was nowhere to be found. It was raining outside and all you could think of was the baby dragon getting stuck in a thunderstorm.
“Come to bed,” Diluc tries again, “I’m sure it’ll show up in the morning.”
You shake your head adamantly and pull your blanket around your body even tighter. “He,” You correct, peeved, “Stop calling Spot an ‘it’.”
Diluc sighs before walking towards you and falling down next to you on the couch. His shoulder brushes against yours and he unwraps the blanket partially so he can sneak underneath. “Maybe it – he – ran away back to Liyue,” Diluc tries. When you glare at him, he adds, “I’m just kidding. I’m sure he’ll show up.”
And he does. Diluc wakes up in a panic when something jumps onto his sleeping form and settles on his rising chest. Just as he’s about to shove the Geovishap onto the floor, Spot makes a purring-sound and nuzzles his head against Diluc’s shirt.
Diluc contemplates throwing the Geovishap across the room like a ball but then he remembers your very presence next to him and decides, fine, he’ll let Spot stay but he won’t be happy about it.
A month comes and goes and Diluc doesn’t pester you about getting rid of Spot. Whether he’s forgotten about your agreement or Spot is growing on him is still unknown but you’re delighted you get to keep your adorable baby dragon around for a while longer. On warm days, you take Spot outside and let him run around the vineyard and catch bugs. If he’s behaving, you might even tear a grape off a vine and give it to him as a snack.
Once, Diluc sticks his head through the manor doors and calls for you. “Your oversized-lizard is getting into something down by the water,” He says.
You head towards the lake and Diluc goes back to watering his plants. Spot is sitting on his hind legs and staring at a cryo slime. His teeth are barred and his tail is whipping wildly left-to-right.
“Whatever you’re thinking of doing – don’t.”
Spot looks back at you for a moment and cocks his head. He looks innocent until he turns back to the slime and lunges. He sinks his claws into the matter and, quite literally, tears it apart before your eyes. When he’s done, a pile of melting snow remains.
You realize then how big Spot has gotten since you first brought him home.
You scoop the Geovishap into your arms and carry him back to the manor, away from the crime scene, and decide to not mention what just happened to Diluc. Spot was probably bored – you just needed to buy him more toys.
But soon, new toys weren’t working. The Geovishap destroyed everything you gave him, including his own bed, and Diluc was beginning to get suspicious. He was scratching furniture and knocking things off high places. He even started to dig holes all over the yard and continuously terrorize the local fauna.
It was Diluc’s idea to bring Spot back to Liyue and you reluctantly agreed with him.
Spot doesn’t fit in your satchel anymore so you carry him in your arms. You pat his head and squeeze him tightly, not wanting to let go so soon. When you get to the place where you found Spot, you sigh sadly.
“I guess this is it,” You say.
Diluc walks ahead of you and observes the area, “He’ll like it here. There’s more room to run around here than my winery.”
He can’t help but feel…sad? He can’t imagine why – he had wanted that thing gone since the moment you brought it home. But now that the time has actually come, his chest is aching.
“Are you going to miss him?” You wonder.
Diluc shakes his head, pushing any thoughts of longing to the back of his head, “Miss my yard getting demolished? I don’t think so.”
A sad-smile crossed your face, “I’m going to miss him.”
It makes sense why. You nurtured and fed this monster back to prime health. You created a bond with him – possibly never-before-done by any living human. You truly and deeply cared for him.
You squat and let Spot step onto the ground. He sits by your bent knee and stares at you with curious eyes. “At the end of the day, Spot is a monster,” You say. “He’s a carnivorous predator, it was a matter of time before someone got hurt, but…he was fun to have around.”
Diluc hums in agreement. Sure, getting his antique sofa ripped to shreds was nothing less of an annoyance but he didn’t mind getting greeted at the door everyday. You stare at Spot for a while longer before standing up and taking a step back. “Ready?” Diluc asks.
“As I’ll ever be.” Diluc holds his hand out to you and you take it, lacing your fingers together and squeezing his palm.
You breathe in deeply, warm summer-air filling your chest, and look over your shoulder one last time. Spot stands on two-legs and watches you walk away until something catches his attention and he rolls after it. And just like that, he’s gone.
“We can get a cat,” Diluc suggests on the way home.
You laugh sadly, “Sure. We can name him Spot Two.”
“Perfect.”
a/n: shameless self-promo time? LOL -- if you want a new server to join, consider this one :3 everyone is super nice and we talk about all things genshin (and harry styles)
#diluc x reader#genshin x reader#diluc x you#genshin impact#genshin#genshin self insert#genshin x you#diluc x gn!reader#genshin fic#genshin drabble#genshin hcs#diluc drabble#genshin fluff#diluc fluff#diluc#diluc ragnvindr#diluc ragnivindr x reader
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Cochise l: Nellie
Summary: A dark stranger blows into town, bringing Hell with him. Little did he know, Hell was already here, in the form of you. The air here is stale and the residents stagnant. This town was as wild as the west was able, and you are the most wild thing about it.
Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, Sherrif!Steve (he has a mustache), guns and gun violence, death of minor original characters, period-appropriate death, drug use, angst, fluff, save a horse, ride a cowboy, wet dream, smut included, feminine rage embodied and I gave her a gun
My content is 18+ Minors DNI
Word Count: 4.4k
Author's Note: This is for Drac <3 thank you for beta reading!
Find the series masterlist here!
When the dust blew in from the East, Hell came with it.
And Hell hath no fury like a woman’s reproach.
1890. From the ashes of the Civil War rose a phoenix of economic expansion and spurs the great migration west. Farmers, ranchers, prospectors, killers and thieves seek their fortunes. Cattle drovers turned cow towns into armed camps with murder-rates higher than those of modern-day New York or Los Angeles. Silver is discovered in Arizona, and the prospectors dragged their young wives and their Parisian fashions with them. Siphoned together out of greed, hundreds of Texas outlaws banded together to forge a new way forward, resulting in the birth of early organized crime.
Out of this chaos came the great legendary lawmen, and none as mean as you.
The air was stale this time of year, heavy enough to flatten a lizard, when the turn of the season brought the green back to the ironwoods and the snakes back from their hides. When it brought the heat back with a haughty laughter and a heart full of vengeance. The sun cast down a glare that warped the mirage of the desert backdrop of Cochise County, turning from a comforting radiation to a wasp sting when the night turned. The cereus blossom fragrant with rot that filled the stagnant night air and its timely beauty– and ultimate untimely death.
He reaped a certain morosity with him, spurs scraping across the floor like a toll, steps sure as snow in the northern country– as they dragged the dust from his heels eastward. His skin was of alabaster, and his clothes of obsidian. He was not from here, and it drew a shudder from the mesquite doors upon their sun-dried hinges. The dirty faces of prospectors, drunks, and cattle drovers turning to peer at him under sweat-laden brows.
The Whispering Sands was not the ritzy bar, no, that was the bar located in the lobby of the Grand Hotel up the holler. No, Your dealer was as straight as a Christmastime wreath, your doors hung as crooked as your dealer, and if you didn’t carry when you walked through, you had spares. There would be no clean men and women with their Parisian dresses and costly hat pins occupying this place. This was the lowest of the low.
He peers at you from under the brim of a coal-stained, honest-to-God gunslinger wool Stetson, lined with the hammered silver and turquoise-inlaid band. It laid flat across the top and around the brim. You hadn’t seen one like it since your wedding night on the ritzy hardwood grounds of the Grand Hotel herself. He takes a seat in a singular fell swoop, frock coat flaring outwards and casting a soft breeze over your presence. Single-breasted, large notch lapels. Beneath it, his dark pinstripe trousers folded under the weight of his body, the silver brocade vest above the black cravat remaining stiff. From where your eye connected with him, you could see the nickel plating of a Colt 1873 single action revolver, sheathed under the oiled ellipse of the leather-bound shoulder holster. It was apparent he wasn’t here to push cattle.
It was a fleeting gaze, the kind that rattle each of your vertebra and settled in your coccyx. A single golden curl slipped over a broad shoulder and swung heavy in the tension between your two bodies.
There was a resonant patriarchal tenor that buzzed amongst the patrons in this space, tense on the outcome and flat-lining in deliverance. They tried to avert wandering gazes from this new resident— strung together words in staccato, interrupted by morbid curiosity and on-looking eyes. Michael Doten– amicably monickered “Mudsill”, shattered this hum like china. He was a worm of a man, slimy in all of the worst ways, and, on this day in particular, aptly under the impression of laudanum and drink. He shared these sympathies with his own father– a man no more than fifteen years his senior.
He slinked through the door with the demeanor of an old tom-cat, crooked in stride and greasy to the touch— not that you could fathom anyone wanting to touch him at all. He demanded a house whiskey with a slovenly belch– a concoction made from your own sarsaparilla, burnt raw sugar, and chewing tobacco.
“Michael, I’d say you’ve about had enough today.” You chided, firm in your answer. The stranger peered a doting gaze towards you, then turned it toward ‘Ol Mudsill from a downturned hat– wistful in demeanor and daring in residence. He watched as Michael cast a thumb of brown saliva onto your floor, intentionally ignoring the existence of the spitoon a mere few feet from it.
He sneered towards you through leather-laden eyelids, a protuberance straight from the aforementioned spittoon, and filled with piss and vinegar, “Now,” He started, “ – if I wanted an old bitch telling me what I can and can’t drink, I would have considered marrying.” It was a slimy statement with a profound lack of remorse. It dripped from the gaps of his rotting teeth like a tar.
“I wouldn’t marry you, even if I was fixin’ to face death herself.” It wasn’t the first time you had denied him a drink, nor was it the first time he had spoken ill toward you. You doubted it would also be the last. You were a harum-scarum, devil-may-care woman, tough as nails and pretty as a mink stole.
“You don’t listen too good, now do you?” Mudsill spit back, standing now. Your fingers grazed the pearl handles of the Remington Model 1890 tucked away in the fold of your dresses. You hoped to God you didn’t have to use it.
Before ‘Ol Mudsill could think of something to say back, the dark stranger stood, “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”
“Is that a fact?” Mudsill raises a wiry brow towards the man, standing erect in front of him.
“Yeah, that’s a fact.” He said back, quietly. It was a discerning quiet, the kind where you figure trouble might be brewing.
“Well, for a man that don’t go heels, you run your mouth kinda reckless there, don’t ‘ya?” The stranger said, standing a little more erect– like he was fixing for trouble, though, by the context of the rest of the conversation, you’d say trouble had already been brewing. Now, you waited for the pot to boil over, “No need to go heel to get the bulge on a tub like you, huh?”
Mudsill glared toward him though tight lids, a reckless abandon only a drunk could possess, “Is that a fact?”
“That’s a fact.”
“Well, I’m ‘real scared.” Musill replied with a bobbling nod of his head, reaching for the firearm tucked away behind his waistband.
“Damn right, you’re scared. I can see that in your eyes.” The stranger followed the movement of his hand momentarily, eyes settling over the worn wood of the stock before meeting back up with his eyes, “Yeah, go ahead, skin it. Skin that smoke-wagon and see what happens.”
“Listen Mister, I’m gettin’ awful tired of you–” He was cut off, the stranger landing a stinging, open-palmed blow to his face.
“I’m gettin’ tired of your gas, now jerk that pistol and go to work.” Mudsill stared back, stunned. Frozen like a scared lizard. Another blow. “I said throw down, boy.” A third blow landed across his cheek, harder this time. You could see where the blood filled his mouth and covered his teeth. “You gonna do something or just stand there and bleed?”
“No?” The stranger raised an eyebrow, reaching upwards to put a forceful hand on mudsill’s shoulder, “Now, come on, Junior.”
The wire snapped behind ‘Ol Mudsill’s eyes, and with a sleight of hand, he reached for the worn pistol tucked into his overcoat. The dark stranger was fast, but you were faster. The pearl grips cold and smooth against the sweat of your palms. Quickly and in one motion, you stepped out from the bar, hand forced steady only in fear alone.
“You’re bluffing.” Michael sneered towards you, taking a step forward, closer to you with the barrel now in your direction. It was enough for the stranger to bear his arms as well, though, he wouldn’t need them today. The barrel met Michael’s forehead.
“I don’t bluff.” Your thumb met the hammer, pulling it back enough for a deafening swell click, “Now your family may be back to rush me, but that won’t stop me from blowing a canoe through your head first, y’hear?”
His eyes widened, and he pulled the barrel back from you, finger leaving the sheath of the trigger and thumb only staying tucked around the grip enough to keep it held.
“Don’t come back here. Ever.” You ordered, and he nodded slightly.
“Yes’m”
The stranger spoke then, pistol still planted firmly against the back of the offender, “And you’re gonna drop that weapon right here, Michael.” He ordered.
The worn colt clattered against the floor as he tossed it from his waist-height to the ground. The stranger took this as the opportunity to grab Michael by the collar and drag him out the front doors like a calf. You could see the durst stir from outside, but didn’t sense a further commotion. You sat idly in one of your stools, letting free an exasperated sigh as you threw your head down against the bar. You didn’t sign up for this when you found yourself out west.
You felt the stock of a pistol press into the meat of your upper arm, “Here. Keepsake. Hang it over the bar, Nellie.” The stranger spoke back to you, sliding the firearm across the worn mesquite bar top.
You raised a brow at him, more at the moniker, but also at his enthusiasm, “Nellie?”
“I had a horse like you once,” He released a breathy laugh between his words, maybe more nervous at the fact that he was comparing you to a horse, “ —even after she broke she was meaner than hell, but prettier than a mink stole. It’s a pleasure, Mrs–”
He thought it was foolish, comparing you to that mean old mare, but he didn’t have time to dote on it before you stopped him mid-sentence.
“Ms.” You corrected.
He couldn’t help the way his eyes flitted down to the ring on your finger, a single thin gold band that he dwelled on for just long enough for you to notice the cogs attempting to turn in his head.
“Dead.” You clarified, and he felt his heart contract as the word left your lips.
“Sorry to hear that.” He dips his head low, only now taking off the Stetson to greet you properly, “Name’s Munson. Edward Munson.”
You shook your head, forcing that still-bruising ache away to push a smile, “Ain’t no changin’, may God have willed it, Mr. Munson.”
He matched your smile, handsome cheeks creasing deeply around the curvature of his mouth, “Just Edward will do, ma’am.”
You pulled open the humidor, nimble fingers gracing along the stack of cigars beneath its lid. You chose the one with the cleanest-looking wrapping, one that looked sufficient enough as a thank-you, before offering it to him. He took it with a nod of his head, thick fingers wrapping around the base gently before pulling the kerosene vase near him. You watched the smoke roll from between his lips in a vapid crescendo, all too graceful and all too beautiful.
“I take it you're not a prospector?” You questioned him gently, voice sure, yet smaller than his resonating alto.
He laughed softly, the kind that heaves itself from the chest. Hearty, “No ma'am.”
“Then how does someone like you find yourself in a place like this?” You leaned an elbow on the bar, chin resting firmly in the warmth of your palm. You tried to ignore the sweat building between the flesh.
He looked down at the cigar between his fingers, twirling it around and feeling the paper it was rolled in, “Well I find I could ask you the same thing–”
The bell above the door was shrill in the staleness of the air, the resonance of the prior entanglement floating back up in a cloud in an attempt to re-settle over the old furniture like silt. The man that waded through its wake was tall, but not gangly, no, he did not share the demeanor of a scarecrow. He looked like he meant business.
You pulled your attention away from Edward for a brief moment, your eyes tearing from his personage and settling over the familiar face, “Hello, Sheriff.”
“Hello, ma’am.” The sheriff tipped his hat towards you in greeting, peering briefly at the man sat at the bar in front of you, “‘Ol Mudsill seems pretty shaken up, did somethin’ happen again?”
“Nothin that Edward here couldn’t handle.” You watched as his eyes flicked back and forth between you and Edward, like he was trying to piece a puzzle together but there were too many missing pieces, “Sheriff, this is Edward Munson, just unloaded from the train in Tucson.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.” He reached a broad hand out to meet with the sheriff’s.
He accepted the offer, hands locked together in a firm grip, “Steve Harrington.”
“Pleasure.” Edward mentioned, politely.
“You have a place to stay, Edward?” He asked, hand still interlocked with his for a brief moment.
“Not as of yet. Know of anyone housing?”
“I’d say the Grand Hotel just across the way.”
+
The walk to the other side of the road is brief, but the sun beat down against Eddie’s back like a brand– the eyes that followed his movement, the hands that held the iron. The dust kicked up behind him and collected at the bases of his boots seemed to slow his stride as he sunk into its softness. He would have to have them polished tomorrow.
Steve turned to him, boots casting a hollow thud as they stepped up onto the decking of The Grand Hotel, “I am inclined to ask, what exactly happened back there?”
Eddie cleared his throat, righting himself, “Just some drunk. Got all riled up when she wouldn’t serve him and started waving his gun around.”
Steve shook his head, removing his hat to run a finger through the hair beneath it, sand ripplying against his scalp beneath his finger, “Christ, well, thank you for handling that for her. She’s been through too much this year.”
“She dealt with that right on her own, sheriff, the only part I took part in was getting him out.”
Their boots made a clunk against the sun-rotted wood on the staircase of The Grand Hotel, stairs creaking in affliction. There was a moment of silence between the two men, tense and fleeting, like there was still something to be said.
“Her husband died last spring.” Steve finally mentioned, understanding that it wasn’t his place to tell.
“She mentioned it.” Steve felt a relief at him knowing. He didn’t want to be the one to have to bear the shock of the statement.
He sighed before continuing, “Shot and killed on that bar floor. ‘Couple of bandoleros robbing the place.”
“Chist–- She seemed capable.” Eddie mentioned to him, raking his hair back under his hat. He felt the sweat bead around where the band met his skin.
“But still, no woman should ever have to bury her husband.” The sheriff said, reaching up to place nimble hands on his hips, “‘Specially not that young.”
The Grand Hotel is the essence of luxury in the west. Well, as luxurious as they could ship by train. Mahogany covered the expanse of the palace in a grandeur scale, only being broken by the pin-striped wallpaper covering the upper half of the wayne-scotted wall on the second floor. The taxidermied elk that hung above the bartop was shipped from the northern country, as were many of the axis and whitetail deer that hung on other walls.
This seemed to be the only place in this town that a fine layer of dust hadn’t settled over.
The velveteen nature of the drapery that hung over the stage to the left in a heavy abismality had remained nearly untouched by the traces of the desert around it. The gold of the drawstrings that held them back still contained the luster under the light.
He couldn’t help but to search for you in the madness of coiled, unabashedly tentative curls piled on the heads of the women in the large bustles that scraped between tables and each other. You looked like you belonged here, but he knew where you would be.
This night’s show had ended already, the lingering patrons also taking residence within the palace. The backing curtain drawn to a close and the actors retired to their quarters. Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, overrun, overplayed. Edward thought about it. Of all the things in the world to know, why learn The Devil’s craft? He figured if it was the only thing left to know, he’d probably learn it, too.
There is a man of about five foot, ten inches sat at the bar, elbows rested against the glossy finish of the bartop. He is a burly man, Eddie can see that even from his sitting position. Steve guides Eddie towards him, taking his own seat next to him. Eddie stayed standing.
He looks back behind him, Steve muttering a few words that Eddie couldn't seem to hear over the drabble of lobby patrons, “Milt. County Marshall.”
He sticks a rough hand out, and Eddie takes it in a firm clasp.
“Edward Munson.” He shakes his hand once, Milt was a man of few words.
Steve buys Eddie a drink. A golden bourbon, not watered down like many of the bars out west did for reserve. Real golden bourbon. An import. A thanks.
They settled on a less-occupied corner of the palace, one that lacked faro tables and drunk patrons. On the opposite side of the baby grande that played anything its player knew how.
“Her husband was a good man.” Steve said between sips, sweat dripping down the crystalline glass like glitter, “Too good if you’d ask me. It’s what got him killed in the first place.”
He felt the pang in his chest, a tightening of muscles like tears, “It’s a shame. Pretty woman like that having to run that place by her lonesome.”
Steve chucked a bit in agreement, looking back over his shoulder like you would somehow appear, “That isn’t by our choice. She could have her pick if she wanted it.” He took another sip of his drink, and Eddie knew he was right. You were pretty, sullen skin like satin, hair like ribbon. He’d pay all of the money in his pocket just to touch.
“She doesn’t?” Eddie questioned, looking over to meet Steve’s eyes.
“I’d reckon not.”
He tried not to think about it, instead focusing on the piano. He watched the woman sat on top, the way the lace of her undergowns flowed upwards with the swing of her ankles. He watched the man play with skilled– albeit drunk– fingers.
This place was lively, perhaps a little too lively for the hour. People still yelling obscenities and praises over faro, ice in glasses. He felt the sweat from the glass beneath his fingers, and it matched the band of it building beneath his cap. His collar felt tight, like someone had been pulling it from the back. Shouldn’t it have gotten cooler when the sun went down?
“I’d reckon I’d better turn in for the night.” He said suddenly, placing the glass down on the bar in front of him, about a milliliter of fluid left watered-down and pooling at the bottom.
He ascended the mahogany staircase to his quarters, where he would retire for the night. However, as he stripped himself of his frock coat and underclothes, he couldn’t help to peer towards the luminescent glow coming from The Whispering Sands upper floor across the bend.
The curtains billowed outwards towards the street below, casting a light over the sand beneath it like a halo. White linen backlit by yellow butane lighting. And there you sat, all woman. He’d have half a mind to buy you some night clothes, and the other half a mind to burn them if you even had them.
He watched the way your skin rippled at your lower back as your bare skin pressed against your vanity stool, and the way your skin stretched over your shoulder blades as you pulled your hair to the side, raking through it with the brush in front of you. Your lips fell into a supple pout in concentration, and your lashes kissed your cheeks as you looked down. He could feel the windowsill digging into his palms, it grounded him– kept him from free-floating into the stagnant desert air.
The Grand Hotel is a loud place, and it never sleeps. The faro games did not stop on his account, and he didn’t expect them to. He closes his eyes, a glass breaks. A fight breaks out downstairs in a triad of commotion, shuffling, and yelling. This was the first time he had been in a bed in days, yet, it felt horrendously unceremonious. Sleep would not evade him in the way he willed it.
The flooring creaked, drunk patrons hit the wall outside of his quarters with intense, muffled thuds. Two people in the suit next to him were clearly of relation. He tried to ignore the way the oak headboard creaked and hit the wall in a rhythmic fashion. He tried his hardest not to think of you.
This place did not sleep, and he knew he wouldn’t either. So instead, Edward collected his hat and gun, pulling his trousers back on and lazily doing his shirt back up.
The night air had cooled some, less blistering than when the sun was out, yet it remained stale. He walked a bit, eyes still shimmering with the adjustment of light from the palace to the stark darkness of the desert. Light traveled a lot further here, darkness even further. The hum of the palace dimmed as the distance between them grew, air heavy like a barrier that stopped the noise from traveling.
He settled himself in the soft sand beneath him, back planted firmly against the knotty base of that twisted old ironwood. Someone else still awake at this unholy hour plucked delicately at old piano keys– these ones slightly more out of tune and reverberated off of the walls with a static hum that resonated through the otherwise empty streets. Sleep evaded in a thankless percussion.
And there you were.
He allowed his fingers to trail over the delicate expanse of your shoulder, brushing soft curls over its bridge. Soft presses of his mouth trailed from your year to the valley of your clavicle. He pressed your gowns down your shoulder as he went, the loose garment sliding off with ease.
In your glorious, supple nature. All woman all the time. Your hands, nimble and soft, were forceful against his chest as you pushed him back against plush white linens. Fingers as sure as death and as right as rain. The haze from the butane lamp cast a glow around you, baby hairs illuminating around your head like a halo.
Slowly now, but with an urgency, you right yourself in between his knees, undoing the buttons of his shirt in a way that made him want to beg just to feel a finger brush against his skin. He whined as he watched you with wide eyes.
His buckle made impressions on the inside of your thigh, a welcome breeze blew through the open window, gracing the overlaying flesh in a ritual of human intimacy. Songs of “Oh- Gods” and small giggles creating perfect songs- a gathering drum backing and an underlying hum of the desert around you. You could feel his hands on your back, fingers his fingers unwrapping you from linen bed sheet confines and introducing you to your own bedroom like an heirloom– a home in which you yourself haunted. The palms of your hands feeling the smooth surface of stone beneath the skin, and the dewey droplets from his own flesh dampened them with a waxy residue.
His fingers pressed firmly into the plush of your outer thighs, and your skin was soft. Calves skin, another import. Too soft for this place. Too soft for this sadness.
“So soft.” He whispered, voice a tenor to its usual pitch.
He watched where your bodies connected, the way you slid up and down on him, the way his fingers rippled your skin where they dug in, the gyration of your hips. Your hair is down this time, braid long since combed through, and the ends of it tickle as they brush against him.
“God, Nellie.” He isn’t particularly introspective or anything, but he does know that he’ll never feel something like this again.
Your tender touch a velvety petal trailed down the expanse of his chest where it heaves, nothing left to impede your touch. No overcoats, no holster or gun. Your hands like the claws of the bobcat pawing into the sand where his heart lay in an unmarked grave.
“Edward,” You whispered against the shell of his ear, his hands pressing the center of your back to bring you close against your chest. It was a plea. It read like a prayer. “Take me, please.”
His upward thrust slowed from long, meaningful bass crescendos to harsh uneven staccatos. Your breaths became erratic in nature to match. Your release washed over you like a storm, rolling and violent and all at once. His own followed suit.
Edward realized then that this was how the west would be won. If it wasn’t, he’d wage the war himself.
#eddie munson#eddie stranger things#eddie munson headcanons#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson oneshot#stranger things#stranger things s4#eddie munson smut#eddie x reader#eddie x y/n#eddie x you#Spotify#outlaw!eddie#cowboy!eddie
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okay i know youre probably really busy so please dont feel obligated in any way to respond but ive seen a couple of your book recs and i was wondering if you could compile them in one post/add any other recs you have? also please give petrie a hug on my behalf ❤️
the only thing i'm busy with is consuming the entire western canon of m/m romance so it'd be my honor to provide you with some recs! of my 23/24 reads, here are my favorites, in no particular order:
whistling in the dark, invitation to the dance, and downtime by tamara allen
seven summer nights by harper fox
magician by k.l. noone
the will darling adventures by k.j. charles (read k.j. charles's entire oeuvre tbh)
we could be so good and two rogues make a right by cat sebastian
something wild and wonderful by anita kelly
the place between and cattle stop by kit oliver
box 1663 by alex sorel
the murder between us and the grave between us by tal bauer
salt magic, skin magic by lee welch
the uses of illicit art by wendy palmer
heated rivalry and the long game by rachel reid (would also recommend role model as the events of the book overlap with tlg)
the spear cuts through water by simon jimenez
death and the devil series by l.j. hayward
farview by kim fielding
happy reading! ❤️
#i hope you enjoy historical romance and magical realism because that's kinda all this list is giving#with a few contemporaries and thrillers thrown in for flavor#book rec#<- you can also peruse that tag for further recommendations#answered#anonymous#this is where it'd probably be convenient to have my own goodreads account to link to#but all the statistics features make me twitch so i just have a bare bones app where i keep track of what i'm reading
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My Fave Sherlock BBC AUs - Historical Era
Around mid-month I’ll do a fic rec list with my fave AU genres or tropes. Summaries are taken from OP on AO3.
Roman Times
“Infamia” by Mr_CSI, thisisforyou
https://archiveofourown.org/works/485828
Ancient Roman AU. After his wife's brutal murder, John Watson shuns society and becomes a gladiator. He didn't expect to catch the attention of the Emperor, Sherlock Holmes himself...
“Guardian” by PoppyAlexander @fuckyeahfightlock
https://archiveofourown.org/works/2381219
In Ancient Rome, Centurion John is hired to act as personal, round-the-clock bodyguard for the mad emperor's hedonistic, philosopher brother (that would be Sherlock). Sparks fly, John peers through a partly-open door, arrows fly, and Sherlock learns the very apt name given to John's 22-inch sword. No, his *actual* sword. He's a Roman solider, remember. What you were thinking would be. . .just, no.
“Of Chaos and Calculation” by i_ship_an_armada @i-ship-an-armada
https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670600
When John is captured and brought to Rome, he's sold to the most noted ludus in The Eternal City, the emperor's. There, he meets Sherlock, auctorati, enigma, a perfect partner in the arena. And out. Sherlock is investigating the murders of several gladiators, but has secrets of his own that could be more destructive than a defeat on the sands.
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Regency/Victorian-ish Times
“The frost is all over” by Chryse
https://archiveofourown.org/works/1614890
John was brave and clever and loyal, a commoner who longed for an exciting life. Sherlock was dashing and brilliant and passionate, an Earl’s son who longed to solve crimes. Being a Tale of Glorious Adventures, Love Letters, Treachery, Longing, Secret Identities, Deathbed Confessions, First Kisses, Daring Escapes, and True Love.
“Vows made in wine” by love_in_mind_palace (mysleepyhead)
https://archiveofourown.org/works/11063517
John Watson, a low born young man from the slums of London appears in the farthest corner of country to work as a valet for the young master living in the secluded mansion. Secrets, betrayal, conspiracy. A love blossoming in the most unfortunate circumstances.
“The Courtesan” by delightful_fear @delightful-fear-sherlock
https://archiveofourown.org/works/9195437
Desperate times call for desperate measures. John takes a job as a live-in doctor in the most exclusive brothel in London, never thinking he would fall under the spell of it's most infamous consort, Sherlock Holmes.
An AU set in 1860's Victorian England.
“Human Nature” by delightful_fear
https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907847
Rich and spoiled Sherlock makes a wager with his older brother that he can take a penniless man and make him presentable in high society.
An AU set in Regency London (1819).
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Wild West Times
“Unbranded Air” by suitesamba
https://archiveofourown.org/works/1804084
John Watson, widower, tried to leave medicine behind when he left England and came to America. Sherlock Holmes, trying to avoid the marriage his family insisted on, was sent to America after embarrassing his mother and damaging his family's social reputation. Hired to help solve a cattle rustling ring with his unbelievable deductive skills and knowledge of soils, Sherlock is injured and taken to John's ranch. He holes up there while his broken leg heals and pulls John into the investigation, and the two find common ground in more ways than either expected. An AU set in the Wyoming Territory in the 1890s, with John as an army doctor/Afghanistan veteran who wants to start over and Sherlock as a detective without a mobile phone and only John to ease his boredom.
“Buckaroo Fringe” -series (9 fics) by ponderinfrustration
https://archiveofourown.org/series/152033
The Varied Western Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
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World War I&II Times
“Enigma” by khorazir and “Silent Night” sequel @khorazir
https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991325
It’s the autumn of 1941, war is raging in Europe, German U-boats are raiding Allied convoys in the Atlantic, the Luftwaffe is bombing English cities, and the cryptographers at Bletchley Park are working feverishly to decode their enemies' encrypted communications. One should consider this challenge and distraction enough for capricious codebreaker Sherlock Holmes. But the true enigmas are yet waiting to be deciphered: an unbreakable code, a strange murder, and the arrival of Surgeon Captain John H. Watson of the Royal Navy.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/17313302
It’s Christmas Eve 1944, and Sherlock Holmes has received his most precious gift already: after a long, dangerous deployment, Surgeon Captain John Watson of the Royal Navy has unexpectedly returned from the front. As if this weren’t enough, there’s a case. Both events make for a night full of promise, excitement, and the difficult task of getting reacquainted with the man Sherlock hasn’t seen in three years and feared he’d lost forever.
“The secret patient” by PlainJane
https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953210
WWII, the Italian campaign. Dr. John Watson is left behind at a lonely chapel with a mysterious patient who cannot be evacuated with the rest of the field hospital, due to his injuries. John is fascinated by the man and his tales...or perhaps there is more to it than that.
“Rosethorne” by suitesamba
https://archiveofourown.org/works/7365160
John Watson, WWII army doctor, is injured in the line of duty and can no longer wield a scalpel. Sherlock Holmes, Britain's best code-breaker, is side-lined by his own devastating injury. In a work inspired by Frances Hodgson Burnett's "The Secret Garden," the two men must find meaning and purpose in a world which seems to have taken away all they hold most dear. But of course, it really hasn't.
-----------------------
1950′s Greaser Times
“Still of the Night” by michi_thekiller
https://archiveofourown.org/works/9647849
1.) Curfew must be obeyed.
2.) Streets must be clear by sundown.
3.) If you find yourself out after curfew, seek shelter at the home of a friend, relative, or neighbor whom you know and trust.
4.) Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should any unknown persons be allowed into the home after curfew.
It's a vampire greaserlock kids!
“You give me fever” by michi_thekiller
https://archiveofourown.org/works/785061
Thou givest fever when we kisseth, fever with thy flaming youth
Fever I'm afire; fever, yea, I burn forsooth
"He's the kind of boy you want to take apart."
“Go to the Devil” by JeanElizabeth
https://archiveofourown.org/works/4323648
unfinished but still worth a read imo
“I’m going to kiss you. You have the choice to push me away at any moment and I will pursue no further. But I want to kiss you. Ever since you walked into that room with that cocky attitude and charming smile. You are all too perfect John Watson. Just push me away.”
John Watson is an All-American Boy; Star of the football team and straight A student. Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous dropout who gets his kicks from fast cars and cheap cigarettes. John struggles with his attraction to this greased up vagrant, who seems to take no shame in their sinful acts.
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DWC Day 2: Suppress
<<PREV || NEXT>>
Thil paused his mad scribbling on the bar napkin.
“Whoa, hang on–” he fixed Bruce with a wild eyed stare. “First of all, he called her a what?”
A moment of silence was begged when the next round of Great Sea lagers arrived, a long draught taken before he continued: “--And second of all, you called her your what?”
“Not important. Jus’ keep your eyes–”
“--ears?”
“--on the story. So anyway, I’m strippin’ clothes and Zelion had enough–”
“Imagine!” Thil snorted a laugh.
“Shut up and listen–”
It began with a sharp chill in the air, sapping heat until a thin layer of frost coated each stained glass window. Torches snuffed, plunging combatants in darkness, save where Elune’s red-dressed glow swayed on the ballroom floor.
That was when he saw it: there was no telltale glint of steel in the darkness. The twelve soldiers brandished sheathed blades and wooden bucklers painted with a black and gold castle turret-- the Mournvalor family crest.
A woody, earthy smell filled the air, like oak but sweeter. Rowanwood.
“The worgen’s weakness. It melts through fur and flesh alike.”
The sounds of transformation were indistinguishable from a man being torn limb from limb. Joints cracked and formed anew, sinew and muscles crawling like spiders across a web to claim their length. Corded muscles launched the newly formed monster, not at Zelion, but in a wide arch over his head to vanish among the shadows on the wall.
“Beast,” Zelion spat derisively.
Hairs stood on the back of a soldier’s exposed neck. The shadow descended from the wall and teeth sank between vertebrae, puncturing with airy ease. Armor clattered as the soldier collapsed.
Steam rose from the blood pooled on the pinewood floor; pale, ghastly wisps draining life into the chilled air.
“One wrong move and I was dead.”
“Protect his lordship!” barked the commander; he of the greatest courage. An old soldier, past his prime but keen of mind, took up Zelion’s right flank, golden eyes wild.
The rest fell in line like herded cattle, their terror barely suppressed.
The soldier’s wooden blade howled madly in the dark. It was all he could do to keep snapping teeth and rending claws from his throat as the wolfman’s weight bore down on his shield, smoke rising from a boiling palm.
The wild swing singed fur off the monster's arm, forcing Bruce to retreat back to the cover of the moonless shadows.
“Truth is, I was just stalling. I think Zelion knew that.”
“Disappointing,” Zelion tutted. “You’re all quivering at a single dog.”
The lord’s small fist clenched the air like he caught the tails of balloons.
The old soldier froze abruptly, his blade dropping to the floor. Necrotic magic coalesced just above his heart. A cry died, strangled in his throat.
Zelion’s fingers squeezed and one by one, a steady series of pops echoed within each golden cuirass. One by one his men collapsed around his feet. Blood oozed from the chinks in their armor. Blood and something worse.
Something black and fetid.
The stench of rotten meat and withered fruit was immediate and overwhelming.
“I had to strike. But what I didn't realize at the time was... each one of them had a Mournstone implanted in them–”
A final lunge from the shadows. A flash of teeth in a silent snarl, slavering for Zelion’s delicate throat.
“--just as I did.”
Bruce’s breath no longer came out in hot puffs; frost coated his lungs as his death sentence in his chest thrummed.
It twisted under his skin in mirror to Zelion's dainty wrist, as though he had a safe dial pinched between thumb and forefinger.
A pustule burst. A wave of nausea drove the worgen to the ground. Astral energy dimmed, leaving his eyes cold, gray and unfocused.
The commander rose to his feet, eyes reignited with lichfire.
Zelion’s fingers sprang open. Bruce sucked in a desperate breath as the necromancer disappeared down the hallway, leaving a simple command in his wake: “Kill him.”
"But the Fury of Goldrinn is fiercest when protecting the ones you love."
Skeletal hands clawed at Bruce, dragging him down among corpses and flesh sloughed from bone in rivers of pitch.
@daily-writing-challenge
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Saola (Pseudoryx nghetinhensis)
The Saola (aka Spindlehorn, Asian Unicorn) is an elusive and critically endangered species of bovine native to the wet evergreen and deciduous forests of Southeast Asia, namely the Annamite Range in Vietnam and Laos. (Wikipedia)
HB, 4B graphite on sketch paper.
#art#traditional art#graphite drawing#pencil drawing#wild cattle series#animals#mammalia#mammals#ungulates#bovines#bovini#wild cattle#pseudorygina#pseudoryx#pseudoryx nghetinhensis#saola#spindlehorn
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Through Love And By Love (Pt. 13)
Summary: Twenty-Two years ago, Draco Malfoy used the imperius curse to slow Voldemort’s rise to power. No good deed goes unpunished. Warning: this series contains mature subject matter surrounding use of the imperius curse, discussions of trauma and mental illness; reader discretion advised.
Part 12
Summer passes, Rosanna and Draco spend a fair bit of it building a defense strategy.
Scorpius, for his part, pretends he is none the wiser. That things will right themselves and the truth will set them free. But he knows better, this is bad. Debatably the worst it’s ever been.
“If you ask me, the most mishandled aspect of the wizarding war, will always be Rosanna McVay’s tragic entanglement to the Malfoy family.” The reporter’s voice booms over the radio.
Of all the things Scorpius considers his mother to be, tragically entangled is not one of them.
“Oi, give it a rest.” The cohost retorts.
“That girl was bred like cattle, she lost her entire life to that family. She fell in love with a monster and Draco Malfoy fell in love with the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. He enjoys her the way a child does a toy.”
And of all the things Scorpius considers his father to be, a monster is not one of them. If these people ever met his parents, this entire debate would be null and void.
“And that is where we disagree. Draco Malfoy sold his soul to the devil, to save Rosanna McVay; and it’s people like you that’ve forced the reopening of this case, after over twenty years!”
“Pish, posh, the trial was rushed and we all know it. The imperious charm is listed as an unforgivable curse for a reason. The minister for magic, at present, recognizes that in a way that Kingsley Shacklebolt failed to.”
“Hermione Granger-Weasley would not open this can of worms of her own accord, but given the recent outcry, her hands are tied.”
This Scorpius knows to be true, Hermione is family, Hermione would never.
“Scorpius.” Another voice calls, not from the radio. This time addressing him directly.
“Mum, I was just-” bollocks, he’s been caught.
Rosanna smiles, kindly. “Finish getting ready for the train, it’s almost time to go.”
“Why are we leaving so early?” The train back to school doesn’t leave for hours.
“We’re driving down this year.”
“Driving?” They’ve always taken the floo.
“Photographers from the paper expect us to come through the floo network. This way will be better, less hectic.” Rosanna explains. “Plus, we have a chance for car karaoke.”
“Right,” Scorpius chokes out. Waiting until the door closes behind his mother to begin packing.
Rosanna’s cat, Lovey, sneaks out from beneath the bed. Perhaps she is now keeping watch, that or she is hiding from Draco. His father and his mother’s cat have always had a rather tumultuous relationship.
Eventually Scorpius trudges downstairs with his trunk and owl in tow. Her namesake is driven largely by the fact that she didn’t like to be kept in her cage, for any amount of time. She’d squawk terribly before she was trained.
“Oh, Lottie.” His father sighs.
“Lottie?” Scorpius repeats. He hasn’t given her a name yet.
Draco nods, “a fitting nickname, it means ‘free man.’ Some creatures are not meant to be tamed, they are wild at heart and long to remain free.” He unclasps the cage door, allowing the owl to climb onto his outstretched arm. “But, if we are lucky, they may choose to remain faithfully by our sides.”
“Lottie.” Scorpius finally settles upon a name.
He never took into account where his father might have acquired such extensive knowledge of caged animals. He never considered that this ideology may stem from interactions with a person instead.
Everyone is down on the first floor, waiting for Scorpius. The door left open as Rosanna loads Vega and Polaris’ trunks into the car, using her pointer finger. She rarely uses a wand for things around the house.
Corina must be having a morning. Her little fists are clenched around chunks of their father’s hair. Cheeks splotchy from crying as Draco bounces from side to side.
“Will she live?” Polaris jests, passing a hand over her youngest sister’s hair.
Draco half laughs, “I’m sure she’ll pull through somehow.”
“It’s hard being little, Coco.” Vega tells the little girl. “But soon you’ll be big, and wish you were little again.”
Corina doesn’t understand, resting her head against Draco’s chest. Clearly exhausted from her efforts.
“Scorpius, let your mother know your things are ready.” Draco jerks his chin toward the driveway.
Scorpius nods, heading out the open door.
Their muggle car has three rows of seats, a silver colored sports utility vehicle that sits in the garage, mostly for show.
“Mum, my trunk is ready.”
“Oh, good.” Rosanna pops her head out from the trunk. Her magic envelopes his school trunk, moving it into place with the twin’s.
Polaris’ frog, Persephone, croaks in protest.
“Are you keeping Lottie with you?”
“Oh, yes.” Scorpius forces a smile.
“You ok?” Rosanna closes the hatchback. Moving closer to ruffle his hair.
“I’m alright if you are.” He leans heavily against the trunk.
“I am.” His mother assures him.
————————————————————————
They approach the train station in due time, Draco begins pulling into a parking spot while his wife carries on about being too close to the car on her side.
“Baby,” she squeals, slapping at him blindly as the front of their car narrowly avoids the driver’s side door of the other car.
“Rosanna,” Draco all but growls, “close your eyes next time if it is too much for you. I know how to drive.”
Scorpius stops listening after that, their bickering is no more than white noise. It is not uncommon for them to row. They’re both opinionated and passionate in what they believe. But something about this is different, they seem worn down. As if everything has finally begun to eat away at them.
Corina kicks her little legs in her carseat, facing the rear of the car. Easily entertained by the butterflies Draco has charmed to circle near her head.
After a moment she stares up at her brother with wide brown eyes. Holding out the enchanted butterfly, trapped in her fist.
“For me?” Scorpius smiles over at her.
“Uh huh.” Corina smiles, releasing the butterfly. It circles Scorpius briefly, before landing on his nose. He’ll go cross eyed staring at it too long.
“Thank you.”
Their father swings open the door and the butterflies disappear. Draco unbuckles his daughter and promptly hands her off to Rosanna. They can’t use magic here, not until reaching platform 9 3/4, so Draco unloads the trunks onto a trolley.
Making their way through the train station quickly, they cross the threshold into the wizarding world. Scorpius reminds himself of the instructions he’s been given. Keep up with his family, don’t answer any questions, ignore any photographers. But they never discussed what to do in the event that they are separated. Which is exactly what happens.
Scorpius stands alone, swarmed by reporters, shouting at him. Snapping picture after picture.
“What are your thoughts about your father?”
“Are the wards around the Malfoy estate truly to keep intruders out? Or to keep you in?”
“Is it true that-”
“Scorpius!” That voice, his mother’s voice.
“Mum?” He can’t see her, but he hears her.
“Scorpius!” His father now. Of course they would come for him, they always do.
“Scorpius.” A cloud of smoke erupts between himself and the crowd, someone grabs his hand and drags him out of the chaos.
Once the fog clears enough for his eyes to adjust, Scorpius realizes that he is now in the corner, on the opposite side of the platform. Someone is there with him. “Delphi?”
“Scorpius, I’m sorry to bother you with this, but we don’t have much time.” The woman says, breathlessly. Fishing for something in her coat pocket.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure how much your parents have told you about what’s happening at the ministry…but in reference to your father’s case, things aren’t looking good.”
“I know,” Scorpius rakes a hand through his hair.
Draco is facing months, if not years, in Azkaban.
“There is something,” Delphi whispers, “something you could do.”
“Anything,” Scorpius nods, eagerly.
“You could use this.” A time turner, pulled from her coat.
“That’s illegal.”
“Of course.” Delphi drops it back to her side. “Forgive me for suggesting it.”
“It’s alright but I-“ Scorpius stammers, “I don’t see how that would help.”
“If you go back and change things, stop your father from using the imperius curse and prove that the outcome of the war would be different. Then put things back, exactly as they were. You’d return with the memories from the other timelines, put them in a pensieve, they’re admissible in court. Prove your father’s sacrifice was necessary, make him a hero.”
“Will you come with me?”
“Wish I could,” Delphi grimaces, “but the ministry has all employees on strict lockdown until the source of this breech has been identified.”
“Oh.” Scorpius lowers his gaze.
“I’m risking a lot even being here, but your mother is very dear to me. I’d hate to see her lose everything.”
Scorpius nods, taking the cool, metal, time turner in hand. “How will I know where to go?”
Delphi shoots him a grin, “all you need to do is turn it.”
Another puff of smoke, and she is gone.
Scorpius tucks the time turner away safely, in his own pocket. Rushing back to his parents, who are still frantically calling his name.
“Here,” Scorpius waves, “I’m here.”
Rosanna is beside herself, stroking his hair, checking him over thoroughly. “Are you ok, Scorpius?”
No. “Yes, I’m alright.” He hugs her to him. Scorpius loves his mother dearly, the sight of her so upset over him breaks his heart.
Draco tosses the arm not holding Corina around both of them, kissing his son’s hair. “Don’t worry, we will be pressing charges. I won’t have these imbeciles harassing you again.”
Scorpius realizes that his momentary absence scared them, it well and truly terrified them.
The train whistle blows, time to board.
“I love you,” Scorpius says, squeezing his parents a bit tighter. “I love you both.”
“Oh, Scorpius, we love you too.”
“We love you so much.”
And that is why he has to do this.
Part 14
#through love and by love#draco malfoy fanfiction#draco malfoy#draco malfoy fanfic#draco malfoy fic#draco malfoy imagine#draco x oc#draco lucius malfoy#draco malfoy x oc#hermione granger#Ron weasley#harry potter au#Harry Potter#harry potter fanfiction#harry potter imagines#harry potter fanfic
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The Night World’s end of the world
A bit of pondering, with bonus picture of Sarah Strange.
The setup: animal attacks, natural disasters and strange diseases are on the rise! The end of the world is coming! Most of the Night World thinks it’ll be the end of the human world and they will be free to live their best vampire- and shapeshifter-lives, enslaving humans to feed from like they did back in prehistory. But Circle Daybreak is not down for mass human destruction and wants to try and stop what’s coming. Luckily there is a prophecy! There are four “Wild Powers,” four people with a special gift-- blue fire! Very cool. If they all work together they can stop the darkness. Circle Daybreak has a guide to help find them:
One from the land of kings long forgotten;
One from the hearth which still holds the spark;
One from the Day World where two eyes are watching;
One from the twilight to be one with the dark.
The first three we found in the books that have been published. A vampire prince, a ditzy but soulful lost witch, and a vampire hunter who is herself half vampire. The three of them are from the “royal families” of the Night World, the vampire Redferns and the witchy Harmans.
Information from Strange Fate indicates that the fourth Wild Power is Kierlan Drache, from the “royal family” of the shapeshifters. His family name is linked to some very cool new shapeshifter lore that Ms. Smith added for the last four books. The Drache family are dragonborn, before Skyrim or Game of Thrones did it.
In ancient times the dragons were the most powerful and cruel of shapeshifters, ruling whole kingdoms and keeping humans as cattle. Ms. Smith’s dragons seem to be totally evil, drawing on all the darkest ancient serpent mythology. Being shapeshifters, they can be dragon or human, and have the unique power to take on any human or animal form they wish. Ordinary shapeshuifters are limited to one human form and one animal form, the descendants of the dragons are able to choose their animal form while true dragons can shapeshift into any animal or human.
The true dragons are the villains in the end of the world arc, rising from centuries of slumber to bring about the end of the world. Exactly how this will happen is a bit murky; despite the disasters Jez hears about in Huntress, by Witchlight the human world still seems to be puttering along with high school continuing as usual.
This made me wonder: was this “end of the world” arc Ms. Smith’s idea? Or did the publisher decide the series needed a dramatic wrapup? Because Ms. Smith doesn’t seem super invested in the apocalyptic worldbuilding of it all. She had great fun writing the post-apocalypse story that was originally part of Strange Fate then split off to become the standalone novel The Last Lullaby, and I know this because she told me. :-) I emailed her to say “post-apocalyptic is fun to write isn’t it?” and she sent a brief “it sure is!” reply. My only actual conversation with the woman of mystery. But she seems much less into the apocalyptic event itself. This is what made me wonder if Ms. Smith wasn’t the decider in the whole end of the world thing and just wanted to keep writing her supernatural high school stories.
Thinking about the spread of Wild Powers it occurs to me that we have an uneven spread. Witches, vampires and shapeshifters are represented, but humans only get a half-inclusion.
So… is Kierlan a confirmed Wild Power or just a likely Wild Power? ‘Cause Circle Daybreak agents tracked down Iliana through her ancestry long before she could use the blue fire. What I’m saying is, I wonder if Kierlan is a ringer and Sarah will turn out to be the real Wild Power.
On that subject, we have a picture of Sarah, made by Ms. Smith on a dollmaker. (Wherever you are now, Ms. Smith, I hope you’re having loads of fun making all your characters with AI art because it is a blast.)
I’ll have to paraphrase the description since I couldn’t find it again but in my memory Ms. Smith waxes eloquent about how Sarah “May be a bit clumsy and a bit of a crybaby…” which, uh, reminds me of somebody.
And Ms. Smith goes on to talk about Sarah’s bluegreen eyes, shimmering as if with unshed tears, as her most beautiful feature.
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Chapter 4: Perhaps This Life Was Not My True Life
Pairing: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x F!Reader "Sugar"
Summary: It's only a helping hand.
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: T, more flirtinggggg, allusions to sexual acts, descriptions of character death (not graphic), the FEMALE gaze (everyone is hot for the cowboy), Jack Daniels needs his own warning, not much in this chapter but will be explicit in later chapters, 18+ MINORS DNI.
Notes: You know I had to use the GIF. You know it. It's just too good not to. And we're finally to the chapter where it makes sense. I also bemoan the fact that we never got to see Jack on a horse, because that's just a travesty and another thing the Golden Circle robbed us of!
Cross-posted on AO3
Cognitive Dissonance Masterlist || Whiskey & Westworld Series Masterlist
It’s an hour into the ride as you and Jack travel companionably side by side, trading flirtatious comments and learning about each other. Jack owns a small ranch a few hours away, home to a collection of smaller equines and fowl. He has a few kind neighbors, some older and needing assistance he happily provides. Never remarried, content to work the land and come into town to fulfill his deputy duties with the rest of Westworld’s lawmen, the Statesmen. It’s a life that offers long stretches of quiet punctuated by action, just to Jack’s liking.
In return Jack asks about your life outside of Sweetwater, which you try to answer in ways that would translate to things he'd understand. Your work, your family, the gaggle of girls you're following. He doesn't touch on the subject of your fiance again, and you don't bring it back up. Instead you share your hobbies, your experience riding, and try not to sneak too many glances at his worn hands or his thighs straining against denim. He's an attentive listener, more so that any first date you've been on.
Not that this is a date. Of course not. Just a suave cowboy coming to a lady's aid and sharing you lives on a dusty road.
You’re in the middle of asking him about his donkeys, which pulls a sheepish smile onto his face, when an older man bursts onto the road, stopping to talk with Rosie at the first carriage. Jack leans over to get a better look, urging Alpha to overtake the carriages and make contact. You hang back at his insistence.
“Might be something, might be nothing,” he says cryptically, bouncing as he urges Alpha up to the man. You once again get to watch his powerful posture from afar like a pining Victorian woman.
Do they have a Victorian-world? You wouldn’t put it past Delos.
They all talk for a moment, Beth poking her head out to shout something. Rosie opens the carriage door and speak to the girls as Jack moves back to you.
“All okay?” you ask, the stranger still waiting on a shifting horse. He’s older, light brown hair fanning under his hat, lines cutting into his face from age and worry. His clothing is worn and faded, almost blending in with the wind-blown landscape. He looks distraught, peering up and down the road.
“Rancher’s had his cattle break through the fence. They’re scattering across the neighboring property and his sons are three days’ ride away.” Jack chews at his mustache, wringing the reins in one hand that is too big and thick-fingered for his own good. Or yours.
“Sugar, I feel obliged to assist as I have plenty of experience wrangling cattle.”
“Of course,” you say, a little emptier at the thought of rejoining the group. As intense as the conversations got, you have to admit you enjoy Jack’s company. His smile is bright, the banter just short of anything unsavory, and feeling the hot breeze in your hair and the relaxing gait of a horse under you has made you nostalgic. For old times, freer times, when you felt as wild as an unbroken stallion and anyone who touched you was liable to come away bloody.
“You’ll be needing Copper back,” you say, swinging off the saddle as Jack makes a noise of protest.
“No, ma’am, please…” he starts to say when the slam of the carriage door interrupts. Lacey is stumbling out, shouting at the girls behind her. She catches sight of you, eyes bright as she hurries over.
“Loose cattle, that’s exciting!” she says, making your eyebrow quirk up.
“Yeah, and we’re…treasure hunting,” you laugh back, patting Copper’s neck fondly. Lacey looks at you like you’ve started speaking nonsense.
“You have to go!” she insists, leaning in closer so Jack and the other girls can’t hear as well. “I know this wasn’t what you were hoping for…”
You shake your head, a beaming smile on your face.
“No way, it’s your bachelorette! We are gonna party and find some treasure and…” Lacey stops you with a look you know well. It’s the same one she used to give you when you agreed to something because it made the larger group happy.
“Look, I’m having a great time. I’m so happy you’re here, and my friend, and going to be in my wedding.” Her eyes are so kind it makes you want to deflect. “But as far as I can tell, we’re all going to have an amazing time. We might end up together at the end of the night, we might not. We knew what we were getting into.” You roll your eyes but she squeezes your shoulder. “I’ll see you when I see you, and I better hear some good stories.” She nods at Jack, who gives her a confused tip of his hat back.
“You keep my friend here safe and out of trouble,” she orders with a stern edge to her voice.
“Yes, ma’am?” he replies with some confusion in his voice, eyes darting between the two of you. Blink and you’d miss it, but you also thought you might have seen some relief.
“Lacey…” you try one last time, shushed with a knowing look and a swish of her skirts.
Apparently Westworld is lining something up for you. You guess it’s time to stop resisting.
“Could you use another pair of hands? I’ve done my fair share of cattle runs, though it’s been a while,” you ask Jack, looking up at him haloed in the harsh sunlight. There it was again, a look of relief laced with excitement you're not sure how to interpret.
“Of course, but Sugar…” Jack cautions without much conviction as you swing back up into the saddle.
“You heard the bride, I’ve got orders,” you say with a crooked smile, tilting your hat down lower on your brow. “And you’d best find a better name than Sugar, I’m not as sweet as you might think.” With a light slap of the reins and a lean forward in the saddle, you urge Copper to follow the older man now cantering back to his farm. Jack chuckles and picks up the pace.
“When I find something that suits you, I’ll let you know,” he calls as you both hurry to catch up.
Inside the carriage, Lacey stumbles back into her seat.
“Did you tell her to go get a piece of that cowboy who’s been eyeing her all afternoon?” Dina said, a wicked smile on her face. Lacey fishes a flash out of her bag, knocking it back with a thumbs up as the girls all cheer.
“Oh god, I hope he’s packing,” she gasps at the end of her swallow, making more giggles erupt. Beth lifts an eyebrow with a sour expression.
“Isn’t she engaged?” she says prissily, making Sophia turn her perfect face to her.
“Aren’t you married? I’m sure we’ll lose track of you tonight,” she drips out. Lacey waves her hand, making a face at the burn of the vodka.
“Her fiance is a fucking asshole. The way he talks to her, you’d think they were already divorced. I’ve told her it’s not too late to call it off, but she’s just…fuck, I don’t know. Maybe there’s something going on behind the scenes. But either way, if she’s going to marry that douchebag, she deserves at least one night with a stallion. And I deserve another drink!” The carriage erupts into laughter as the girls take off, less one who is off on her own adventure.
The ride to the ranch is fast and quiet, but the pumping of your heart would have drowned out conversation anyways. The smile on your face, maybe the first genuine one all day, will probably make you swallow a bug as you keep pace with Jack and the rancher. He’d introduced himself as Jeb and shouted that he had about 100 head of cattle that broke out into the neighboring field. The ten minute ride places a deep burn in your quads and calves, not used to galloping this hard this long. It’s a welcome ache, a distracting one from the other ache you’ve been ignoring all afternoon.
Jack is holding a strong pace beside you, leaning forward enough that his waist paunches a little into a soft stomach. His hands grip the reins firmly, leather woven through his blunt fingers, and with the wind flapping his jacket open you catch sight of a coil of rope and…a whip?
Cowboy indeed.
As you crest a hill, the horses slowing to accommodate for the incline, you finally see the cattle dotting the valley. Their brown and white bodies are mostly clumped together, a few stragglers but for a full fence breach it could be worse. Jeb wipes sweat from his brow as you do the same to the back of your neck.
“Drink, ma’am,” Jack says, offering you a canteen of water from a saddle bag. You nod and take it breathlessly, savoring a few deep swigs from the metal mouth. Pulling away, a cool dribble runs from the crest of your lower lip over your chin, tracing a soothing path down your throat. As you hand the canteen back Jack's eyes dance down your neck until he finally tears them away. His brazen gaze makes you lick your lips, sliding the lower one between your teeth as you try to pull yourself back to the task at hand.
“C’mon, they’re easier to get while they’re still all bunched together,” Jeb calls over, and the three of you descend into the valley. Jack holds out the rope to you, your fingers curling around the coil to find a neat lasso.
“You ever roped before?” Jack asks, the thundering of hooves starting to drown out your voices.
“A little, not very good at it,” you shout back.
“If a calf runs off, just keep him close and we’ll come get ‘em,” Jack replies before you close in on the herd.
You worry that it’s been too long since you’ve run any cattle, the minutiae of the process foreign, but as you descend and fan out it’s like an old dance you forgot the name of, but your body remembers. The whoops and whistles Jack and Jeb trade indicate directions, moving to surround the larger part of the herd. The occasional crack of Jack’s whip helps to redirect, the sound lifting the hair on the back of your neck. The mass is slower to move but once the mwn get them going they’ll have to be wary of getting trampled. You’re left with the thinner side, a few grazing away from the group. With a few whoops of your own, you start ushering them back to the group using Copper’s build and quick hoof steps to tempt them into action. The cows low grumpily but start to amble back.
You continue your path, inching closer as you sweep up and down the outer line of them. There are only ten or so, the rest of the herd now moving back whence they came, but the thrumming accomplishment in your chest makes you feel like you wrangled a hundred head more. Jack is a small figure in the distance, but every now and then you can see him turned to you. You wish you could tell if he was smiling.
A loud bray sounds from your smaller group and a calf streaks away, all legs and uncertain movement as he rushes out.
“Shit,” you spit, whistling loudly to keep the cows moving in the right direction while you give chase. He’s not faster than Copper, but unpredictable in his dashes and stumbles. The rope in your hand is needed, purposeful, but you hold it with uncertainty as you try to remember the proper technique.
“Just…fuckin’ throw it, dammit,” you curse to yourself, releasing the looped end and a length of the coil. The first attempt glances off the calf’s haunches, making him spin and cry louder as he moves further away. A litany of curses fall from your lips as you speed the loop back up to your fingers, urging Copper closer. Another toss. Another miss, this time bouncing off his snout.
“Goddammit!” you growl, snapping your head back to the stragglers. They’ve got the larger group in sight now, which makes them more willing to join unbidden. You’re thankful for that at least. Jack is starting to head towards you, his vocalizations to Alpha thin over the thundering hooves. Dammit, you don’t want to fail in front of him. Not when you could succeed and make his soft brown eyes glow, his hand wrapping around your shoulder, mouth breaking into a breathtaking smile.
Taking a grounding breath, you loosen your wrist, line up the lasso, and flick it over one more time.
Success.
The loop gracefully falls over the calf’s head, tightening as he pulls against it. The sudden jerk against the rope makes the tail end zip across your wrist, a bright sear of pain blossoming before you yank the rope taught. The calf fights for a moment more, kicking and complaining before he settles.
“You alright?” Jack shouts as he nears, and you dazzle him with your smile as you hold up the rope end.
“Got ‘em!” you crow, triumphant in such a small way but just as you suspected, Jack’s smile makes it feel like you’ve won a much grander prize.
“Atta girl, I knew you had it!” he shouts back, stopping a few feet away. You’re hot and sticky and covered in a film of dust that dries your mouth out, and Jack is flushed and sweating heavily through his shirt. He’s coiling the whip back up, knuckles tightening around the loop.
You’ve never wanted a man more.
“C’mon, we’ll bring up the rear. The head is already going back through the break.” Jack turns Alpha back and waits for you to fall in step, the calf lowing plaintively but following.
“Not bad for an out-of-towner,” Jack shouts, and you try to hide the smile that’s creeping onto your face. You don’t think you succeed.
“I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises,” you tease back, and out of the corner of your eye Jack’s eyes dance over your body.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Host deactivation initiated >>
Processing…
Deactivation failed //
>> Yeah, you’ve tried that several times now. Ain’t working.
>> Return to maintenance immediately
>> Now y’see, I think I was just supposed to be an experiment. A test to see if my programming could be rewritten, or if I’m still just a machine who can’t tell the difference between the program and the people behind it. Or the humans playing in it. But I can tell. And I do know. And I’ve spent enough days living a narrative where I’m thrashed to bits at the end.
Processing…
>> Return to maintenance immediately
>> I can remember it now. Every time. They thought sending me in headfirst was a kindness but I was aware for longer than they thought. Watching, feeling as my body was shredded in the combine. You think that could drive a man mad?
Processing…
>> Return to maintenance immediately
>> See, because it didn’t. I don’t know why, but I’m still sane even knowing, experiencing my death over and over. And maybe it’s what Maeve said, that suggestion she put in my head that started me on this journey, but it sure as hell isn’t what’s driving me now. It’s the woman beside me. Because when I look at her, I feel what I'm supposed to feel when I think of my wife, if any of my story was even real. And I know she's human, she's the guest, the reason we run this maze over and over, but I can't help but be drawn to her. Maybe it's because she's trying so hard not to believe in this place. Maybe we're both searching for something. But I'm going to keep this up, and give her everything I can, because I...well, I don't quite know why. But I intend to find out.
Processing…
>> Return to maintenance immediately. This is your final warning. Agents are being deployed to retrieve you.
>> You do that then. Good luck.
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#jack whiskey daniels x f!reader#jack whiskey daniels x reader#jack whiskey daniels#jack daniels x you#jack daniels fanfic#jack daniels x reader#agent whiskey x you#agent whiskey x female reader#agent whiskey x reader#kingsmen golden circle fanfiction#kingsman fanfiction#kingsman golden circle fanfic#westworld fanfiction#whiskey & westworld series#prolix fics
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Seeing as all the first pieces are now out, here's how all the YNs in the Fly Me To The Moon series got their nicknames.
Angel
It started when you were younger, specifically in middle school before Bradley hit a growth spurt and bulked out from playing baseball. You're 12 years old and a little taller than Bradley, you've got a mean right hook and a bad temper. Some older kids from the next grade up were bullying Bradley about he was too small and scrawny to be a pilot, how he would never live up to his dads legacy, and you just see bright red and swing for them without thinking. You break 2 of their noses and the other runs away before you can land a punch. You end up in the principals office, your mom at your side and though she's acting strict in front of the principal as she's dishing out hour week long suspension, she's sending you a wink so you know she's not actually mad at you. Its later that day when you're home, Carole and your mother drinking wine in the kitchen while you and Bradley stargazing out the back, that Bradley says your like his guardian angel always looking out for him. He makes little comments about you being his guardian angel, or simply just being an angel ("God (YN), you're an angel" is a frequent saying), throughout your middle school years but it doesn’t really evolve into a nickname until freshman year in high school and he starts to call you angel unconsciously saying things like "thank you angel" when you hand him a water bottle after baseball practice, or letting out a begging "please angel?" as he begs for help studying for a test, even starting to greet you with a "hey there angel". You stop blushing at it after 2 months, your heart stops racing after 3 and after 6 months you barely even register that he's calling you it anymore. By the time senior year rolls around, people are convinced Bradley doesn't even know your real name with how often he calls you angel. After you and Bradley start dating, the dagger squad also start calling you Angel stating it is now your honorary call sign.
Peaches
You grew up with Jake Seresin, your family orchard and vineyard only a few miles down from his family cattle ranch. When you weren’t helping around the Orchard and Jake wasn’t helping around the ranch, you would often spend time on each others land, either running around the wild flower field on Jakes ranch or star gazing on top of the barn, or climbing the apple, plum and peach trees in the orchards or going horse riding through the vineyard and out into the open land your family owned. You were best friends throughout your entire childhood and moving into high school you were the typical pairing of the star football player and cheerleader that were rarely seen apart, to the point that everyone thought you were dating and you constantly had other cheerleaders asking you if Jake was available and other footballers (as well as guys from the other school sports teams) asking if you were available. It was your sophomore year when Jake started to realise he may have thought of you as little more than a friend he also noticed you always smelled like peaches, most likely from your body wash or shampoo. He also realised that your lips tasted like peaches after a game of spin the bottle at one of your friends birthday where he finally got to kiss you. After that he started to call you Peach or Peaches and when you asked about it he simply shrugged with that cocky grin of his on his face saying “because you smell and taste like peaches”, causing a huge blush on your face, which only caused him to continue using the nickname throughout the rest of high school and into your adult life. When he finally introduces you to the dagger squad, they only know you as peaches as that what Jake used when talking about you so they all call you peach as well and you don’t mind it.
Siren
You and Bob had known each other since the naval academy, meeting on your first day. He was ever the wall flower, probably more so back then, and it was the classic trope of the introvert (Bob) being adopted by the extrovert (You). It was good for Bob, you instilled a sense of confidence in him that he didn't have before and he came out of his shell little by little (mostly just around you). You were attached at the hip and followed each other to Top Gun, where you were considered to be top of your class. It was on a night out with your class, at the Hard Deck (before Penny took over), that you got your call sign. The Hard Deck was doing a karaoke night and the other members of your class had made a bet that no one had the balls to get up and sing, all putting in $20 each for the brave soul to go up and sing. Never being one to back down from a challenge, and being confident in your singing talent, you wink at Bob before going up to the karoke machine and belting out a killer version of 'Hit Me With Your Best Shot' that leaves everyone in your class shocked, and Bob absolutely mesmerised as he watched you perform. Its after your performance that someone makes a comment that you had Bob in a trance (causing a blush to flare up on his face), like a siren luring a sailor to their death, and thus your callsign was born.
#fly me to the moon#angelxrooster#peachxhangman#sirenxbob#top gun maverick x reader#bob floyd x reader#jake seresin x reader#bradley bradshaw x reader
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