#daft rabbit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bitterrfruit · 9 months ago

Note

price….. in a.. a.. cowboy hat

girl... you have no idea what you have done to me with this ask. Cowboy Price!?? I had so much fun with this, I might even do a part 2! I'm sorry this took me so long - I really hope you like it!!! ��

18+ mdni - cw: chasing, spanking - 3.2k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You've got a habit of climbing the fence between them, snooping around Mr Price's property and leaving traces of your misbehaviour behind. This time, he catches you.

Here’s part 2!

Daddy had warned you about wandering onto Mr Price’s property. The lichen-coated fence that separated his land and your father’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of oak and pine trees, over a bumbling shallow creek. It was easy enough to climb over, but there was one little gap in the barrier, where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were more of your own land on the other side.

Mr Price was a reticent man. An arguably shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once or twice, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.

His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, dating back long before you were born. Whatever enmity existed between old men had not quite been passed on to the last remaining son, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.

Thus explained your intrigue. You found yourself strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way, once he had finally come home. Suddenly bearded and jaded, no longer the bright-faced young man you had distantly remembered, he had picked up where his father had left off. He lived alone, as far as you were aware, in his inherited six-bedroom farmhouse, atop a five-thousand-acre piece of natural splendour. Don’t bother the man, daddy would tell you, he’s not our friend.

But you had always been at the mercy of your impish curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college. You’d peek into his empty old shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.

Sometimes you’d sneak into his stables. You’d coo at his horses, stroke their velvet snouts, feed them the flowers you had plucked with a smile. They had grown to like you, his sweet horses, you wished you could know their names. They probably liked you more than him, no doubt, the mysterious little neighbour that would sneak in at dusk and feed them treats.

But your most regular habit – one that had gotten you into trouble before – was your proclivity for picking bunches of glossy red cherries from his rows of fruiting cherry trees. The orchard was under-loved and weedy, but those glimmering little baubles of ruby were just too delightful to let fall to the grass and rot.

He had caught you, once, while your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries. You had heard him yelling;

“Hey! I see you in there, missy!”

Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a rabbit and hopped back over the fence.

“There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady,” he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks, “You hear me?”

It didn’t stop you, of course, whatever threat he threw at you. If anything, it emboldened you. Now you meandered down the rows of cherry trees like they belonged to you, picking the prettiest ones, popping them behind your teeth and meticulously nibbling the flesh from the pit, spitting them into the grass as you moved onto the next.

You left a trail wherever you ventured. Little wet pits and green tooth-pick stalks in piles around the place; in stables, along pathways, among the cows. Sometimes you’d leave juicy red fingerprints on doorframes, on the planks of the fence, on horse snouts – perfectly incriminating.

Today was no different. You wandered in scuffing sandals along an old dirt road, green sprigs of grass almost covering it entirely. Some old route that settlers may have followed state to state, spotted occasionally with two-hundred-year-old milestones, ignored just enough to have been spared from crumbling to dust.

Shaded by a cottonwood, humming to yourself, you created a little tipi with your cherry stalks on the flat top of a mile marker. Balanced them carefully as you licked the fruity flesh from your teeth. And when a gentle breeze blew it over, scattering your creation, you leaned over the stone to pick them from the dry gravel around its base.

One, two, three, four…

At the familiar rumble of a truck trundling over dirt, you straighten your spine, palms resting on the edge of the milestone as you look over your shoulder. A dusty Chevy square-body had already coasted to a stop behind you, red paint faded and matte after a decade or two of proper use and neglect.

There he was, the enigmatic man, hanging his elbow out of the open window. Mr Price squinted through the glare of the afternoon sun, crow’s-feet pinching, eyes barely shaded by the cattleman he wore even inside his truck. Your throat bobbed with a swallow as you caught his eye; the flitter of adrenaline buzzed in your chest, toeing the line between nerves and excitement.

With a disapproving suck of his teeth, he grumbled at you, “What’d I tell you about catching you back here?”

Plucking the short skirt of your cotton dress downward, to cover where it had ridden up, you spun around to face him demurely.

“You said there’d be trouble,” you answered with a simper, shyly scratching the back of one hand with the fingernails of the other.

“Mhm,” he grunted in agreement, tapping the metal door with his palm. He flicked his head in gesture for you to make your way around to the passenger side. “Get in.”

A crease pulled between your brows as you frowned at him. “What for?”

“I’m takin’ you back to your daddy,” he barked, irate and impatient, “I’ve got some words for him, too.”

You absently kicked the rocky dirt with the heel of your sandal, pouting at him. “What words would those be?”

With a snort, he rocked his head to peer out of his windshield, then back to you. “To keep a fuckin’ handle on his daughter.”

“Don’t think there’s anything you could tell him that he hasn’t already tried,” you mumbled, attempting to subtly flick the handful of cherry stalks you had collected to the ground.

He chuckled at that, breathy and hoarse, a hint of frustration in his throat. “I believe that,” he scoffed, “c’mon. In. Don’t make me ask again.”

You chewed on your lip, squinting in challenge as you stood up straight. “Or what?”

Glowering at you for a moment, his nostrils flared in frustration, as he seemed to swallow what must have been an inappropriate retort. Instead, his arm retracted through his window, and following the thud of the handle he swung open the door with his forearm.

With a hop he landed in the dirt, dust rising from under his well-worn leather boots. You hadn’t seen him up close in as long as you could remember, and Christ, how he towered over you. It may well have been the looming shadow of his sizzling anger that made him seem so daunting, so delightfully thrilling. You felt the shiver of gooseflesh tingle down the nape of your neck as you tilted your head to look up at him, sheepishly watching his steady approach.

“You’ll be in more trouble than I will if you lay a hand on me,” you spat, with a faint curl in your lips, almost daring.

He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, wearing a snide and thin smirk, curled under his dense beard. But as his gaze raked you up and down, his sneer shifted quickly into a pout of disapproval, eyes caught on your chest.

“Care to explain this?” He queried severely, wide hand reaching for you; you leaned back further against the milestone behind you as if it might evade him. With his fingers he pinched the cream linen of your blouse, and for a moment you feared he was peering down the gap - brazenly inspecting your bare breasts underneath.

But, no, he instead curled the fabric between his fingers to show you the bright red stain dribbled down the front of your dress.

Oops. Your gut reaction was to giggle, yet unsure whether to admit guilt or feign ignorance.

As you parted your lips to speak, his judging hand suddenly moved to your face; a hold of your chin with a thumb and hooked finger. Piercing glare glued to your lips, his eyes sunk into a defeated ire, shadowed under the brim of his cattleman.

Your tongue writhed behind your teeth, heart thumping in your throat; as he tilted your head up and to the side. He used his other thumb to wipe your bottom lip, pointedly slowly, from the corner to the centre.

“You’re a little thief,” he gritted, dropping your head and peering at the red smear of juice on the pad of his thumb. “Aren’t you.”

Were you scared of him? It was hard to distinguish your fluttering heartrate between terror and thrill – perhaps a touch of both. Because you didn’t know him. You couldn’t trust him. You had no basis to assume he wouldn’t club you with a closed fist and throw you in the back of his pickup. But you felt the tingle his touch left behind on your lip. You got stuck on his pinched blue eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off your dress illuminating them like they glowed from within.

“No I’m not,” you muttered, readjusting your dress after he left creases in the low neckline.

“And a liar?” He scoffed, as he grabbed one of your wrists – lifting your hand to reveal the sticky burgundy juice under your fingernails, red drips dried in your palm. “You’re covered in evidence, missy.”

Snatching your hand from him, you crossed your arms in petulance. “It’s not stealing if you don’t use it.”

“The fuck it isn’t,” he snapped, hooking his hands onto his hips. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”

“I can walk home,” you grumbled, “you’re not the boss of me.”

Huffing in anger, he leaned forward – looming over you with a domineering lour. “While you’re trespassing on my property – yes I am.”

Glaring up at him from under your brow, you nibble at the inside of your lip as you pouted at him. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t go with you. Kidnap me?”

He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some rope in the truck,” he gruffly warned, “you gonna make me use it?”

Did you imagine the glint in his eye? Did you make up the lascivious quip in his tone? Whether or not it was dreamt, it plucked a coy smirk in your lips.

He was daring you, wasn’t he? Goading you to challenge him.

So with a glistening smile you reached for his cattleman hat – plucked it from his head, and swiftly placed it on your own. Too big to sit properly, you perched it on the back of your head so that you could still see out from under the brim.

“Hey!” He barked, lunging to snatch it back from you – but you bolted, kicking off your sandals, ducking under his arm and sprinting across the dirt road. Through the field of grass and dry wildflowers, you bounded like a deer. “Fuck’s sake.”

Holding his hat in place, you peeked over your shoulder in your escape, and he was swiftly in pursuit.

“God dammit, girl, you get back here!” He roared – already closing the distance. You hadn’t expected a man as bulky as him to sprint as fast as he was, charging after you like a grizzly.

You only giggled, leaping over fallen logs and stray planks of wood, weaving between the tall white oaks that littered his prairies.

“If you get so much as a dent in that hat I’ll fuckin’–”

“You’ll what?” You squealed through a grin, holding the skirt of your short dress in a fist against your hips, to allow your legs to sprint in full stride.

You heard him grunt, close to a growl, as he encroached on you. “You’ll be in big fuckin’ trouble!”

Breathless, panting, you failed to think of any witty response as you dashed towards one of the many stables on his expansive property – this one devoid of horses or livestock, simply a storage building for stacks of haybales and racks of tools. You’d perused it before. He might have found more discarded cherry pits in there.

He was behind you already, as you barrelled through the ajar stable door, stumbling into the centre of the dishevelled space. Illuminated only by the cracks of glowing sunlight that broke through gaps in the plywood boards, you stood amongst dust and scattered hay. You turned and faced the entrance, watching in anticipation as he steamed in after you.

Face burning red in fury and exasperation, he jabbed two angry fingers in your direction. “Give me the hat,” he ordered, throaty and severely – no longer joking.

But stubborn as you were, overly enjoying the needless chase, you were not going to capitulate that easily. You stood poised to dash, and with hunched shoulders, he prepared to hound after you.

“I like it,” you puffed, exhilarated, purposefully impudent. You pinched the brim, pulling it down with a disingenuous hat-tip. “It probably looks better on me.”

“Even if it does,” he chided through teeth, out of breath, “it’s not yours.”

You snickered girlishly, pursing your lips. “Maybe it should be.”

“Give it to me.” He thundered, hand outstretched, your heart flipped in your ribs at the sudden eruption of stern rage.

So you spun on the ball of your bare foot, before flitting hastily towards the rickety ladder that led up to the hayloft. Clambering up it like a spider, the old wood and rusted nails squealed in dispute of being used for likely the first time in decades.

But he was blindingly rapid in his chase, and before you made it even halfway up the ladder, his heaving forearm scooped around your waist, hooking you by the stomach.

“C’mere,” he growled through a clenched jaw, as he peeled you from the ladder; hoisting you like a small animal, holding your back to his chest with a constricting arm, leaving your feet dangling high off the ground.

You writhed and kicked, bucking like a goat, still holding his hat tightly to your head to prevent him from snatching it back from you. “Let go of me!” You squeaked, still giggling.

“No,” he snarled, “I’m taking my fuckin’ hat back, and then I’m taking you back to your daddy so he can knock some goddamn sense into you.”

You whinged, clutching his thick forearm in an effort to loosen his grip; nails digging into his bronzed and hairy skin, corded with veins bulged from the exertion of keeping you contained. His body burned like a furnace, pectorals stiffening underneath you as he flexed them, while he hauled you towards the exit.

“It’s just a hat,” you whined, “you’ve probably got heaps of them.”

Your obstinance was aimless – no particular interest in the hat, and no true understanding of why you fought so desperately to keep it. Maybe you just wanted to see how far you could push him. Wanted to see what would happen.

“It was my father’s,” he griped, anger approaching a boiling point as you continued to squirm around in his grip.

You groaned in dispute, still holding the leather cattleman tightly to your head. “Well he won’t be needing it, will he?”

That was a step over the line.

You knew it immediately, quick to bite your tongue after the words spat from your lips.

And his retaliation was sudden and severe; dragging you closer to the exit, he tossed you unceremoniously, almost tumbling down with you into the pile of block-shaped haybales that sat by the stable door. You landed face-down against the bale, winded, a squeak jumping from your chest with the impact; and his hat toppled from your head, rolling out of reach.

He kneeled beside you, with his forearm weighing against your lower back - you were flustered and confused by his haste. Skirt hitched up by the fall, he suddenly swung his free hand down with an open palm, smacking against the bare skin of your ass with a thunderous whack.

“Ah!” You squealed, a shriek, followed quickly by a breathless whine that slipped from your lungs outside of your control. The explosive clap rang in your ears, echoing within the bowels of the stables, loud and shrill. And the sting was sharp, hot and prickling like a brand, no doubt the raised outline of his hand was quick to form in your shivering skin.

A silence followed, pregnant and heavy, and you dared not move nor breathe too loudly – you inhaled and exhaled with trembling breaths, lips parted and wet, eyes wide as you stared into the packed hay.

He was dead quiet, too. Panting throatily, he kept you in place; grip of you not easing, though he stayed utterly still. You thought he might apologise, might express some remorse, might beg for you not to tell your father what he did. But he was silent. Like he had even surprised himself.

You tilted your head slowly, peering at him doe-eyed over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered, close to a whisper, dripping with pleading humiliation.

“For what?” He growled; his glower potently intimidating, a glimmer of voracity in his shadowy eyes, strained like he was suppressing greater hunger.

With a whine you turned your head back, facing ahead into the shack wall, you spoke quietly and nervously. “For taking your hat.”

Followed another swing of his arm, wide hand colliding with your rear in another deafening crack, forcing a laboured squeak from your chest. But there was something more than pain in your throat, wasn’t there? A whisper of thrill, a yelp of delight in your subsequent gasp.

And he must have heard it, took it as encouragement; as you felt the hand of his arm that pinned you down curl into a fist, balling the fabric of your dress tightly in his palm – lifting up the hem even further, you felt the cool air of the stable bite at your stinging skin as your ass was entirely exposed.

“Yeah?” He rumbled, gritting teeth, huffing like a beast. “What else?”

#bet his handprint is the size of a dinner plate #john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain john price #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price smut

2K notes · View notes

merakiui · 1 month ago

Text

thing.

yandere!skully j. graves x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, stalking, fear/paranoia, brief mention and description of dead animals note - "he is there—and there again, but you cannot see him plain, for the shadow lies so darkly on the hill."

There is a bundle of black roses propped against your door. Thirteen of them, devoid of thorns, but the threat is still there—nestled within the petals, a foreboding symbolism.

A stupid Halloween prank, you think, gathering the roses and tossing them out.

Come tomorrow, there is a new bouquet waiting for you. These are white, but they have their thorns. A small card accompanies the gift. There’s a message printed in an old typewriter font: No good?

Like before, you discard these flowers. You have no time for secret admirers or daft nonsense.

So the roses stop blooming at your door, tied up with pretty twine and ribbons. Instead, you receive bones and carcasses. A mouse skull. Deer teeth. A mangled bird, its wings snapped and bent at the joints. A rabbit’s foot, warm and still bleeding, the bone jutting out from severed flesh. The roses, you think, were a preview of what was to come—of what you’d soon be mourning.

These macabre presents are wrapped sincerely, shrouded daintily with frilly cloth. They come with their own set of cards, each one typed just like before.

I can see you.

Good luck on your exam today. Carry this rabbit’s foot with you and you shall know fortune.

This naughty bird is always cawing outside of your window. It wakes you up, so I silenced it for you. It is most beautiful in death, is it not?

Are you going to bring that friend of yours around again? I don’t quite like the scent they leave on your sheets. :(

So you share these morbid anecdotes with your friends over dinner. They don’t believe you.

“You’ve one persistent dog after you,” one of them remarks, eyeing the pictures with a curious, doubtful eye. “A real rotten mutt.”

“But I don’t have a dog,” you reply.

“Well, something’s coming home to you every night.”

“It’s just me. I live alone.”

“Do you? You sure nothing’s following you? You don’t hear the jingle of a collar? The soft padding of paws on tile, loyally trailing after its owner?”

At the time, you thought these were foolish questions.

“The flowers? Definitely a person,” your logical friend suggests. “The dead stuff? Probably a wild animal. A hawk once dropped a mouse in my yard. It’s normal. Someone’s just making a nasty time out of it, leaving those notes to scare you.”

That sounds reasonable. You choose to believe it even when there are inconsistencies and clues that prove otherwise.

You check the locks on your doors and windows. You consider buying cameras, but maybe that’s misplaced paranoia. No one’s inside your house. No person or thing could possibly get in. You’re not sure what would be worse: a tangible human being with human hair, human eyes, and human teeth, or a thing. A thing with claws and a razored maw. A thing with inhuman strength and the eerie quietness of a phantom, plucked right from your nightmares and dropped in reality.

A human being is tangible. A thing could be anything. It could also be nothing.

“I’m not interesting enough to have a stalker,” you tell your logical friend. “Not special enough or rich enough. Not attractive enough.”

“You don’t have to be,” they tell you. “Sometimes all you need to be is alone and vulnerable. Sometimes all you need to do is exist so that they have something to latch onto—something they can covet no matter what.”

“Do you think they’ll kill me?” you ask next, hesitating around that word. Kill. It’s so final and exact. “If they can do such gruesome things to those animals…”

“Or it could be a dog. Dogs don’t kill their owners. They’re loyal.”

“But it’s not a dog. I don’t even think this thing is domesticated.”

“Then what is it?”

“Something.”

It is something malevolent. It is something malicious. It is something you can’t quite fathom—something you can’t picture in your mind because it is always swapping shapes. One minute it’s a nest of mice dwelling within your walls. The next it’s a shadow creature—a demon or a monster. The next it’s a human with strange proportions, too-long legs and too-long arms and a too-long torso. The next it’s a dog with a long, long snout and very human eyes, with human hands for paws, with a curling smile that reveals gaps in its pointed, bloody maw. It feasts on flesh and hunts little, defenseless songbirds, and it’s after you because it wants something you can’t give it.

What does it want? Is this thing even real? Perhaps the anxiety is making a monster out of nothing.

You twist and turn in the dark, wrapped up in sheets that feel more itchy than they do comforting. You’re cold all over, sweating an ocean in your bed. You think your heart might burst out of your chest at any minute. Every creak and groan of the house unsettles nerves that are already pulled impossibly taut. You gaze into the dark doorway, squinting through shadows that look like they’re waltzing in and out of focus.

Or…

Is the door breathing? Is someone there?

You rub your eyes and relief filters in. There’s nothing.

Or…

Your phone cuts a slice of light through your bedroom. You shine it towards the door from where you cower on your bed. There’s nothing.

Your friend—the unfunny one—texts you then, and the vibration scares you more than your imagination. A text is tangible, easily categorized, and yet it’s the scariest thing you’ve just received at this moment, however ghoulishly playful it may be.

u need a leash for ur dog?

You drop your phone. It illuminates the space beneath your bed for a second before the screen shuts off.

You think you hear someone breathing or a heart beating. It’s yours.

Or…

Swallowing thickly, you reach for your phone. You feel soft, fluffy hair. At first, you think it really is a dog when a warm, wet tongue laves over your palm. But you don’t have a dog, and it’s then when you feel the rest of this…thing. Human ears. Human nose. Human mouth. Human teeth.

Another text brightens your phone. The screen flickers on.

You peek over the edge of your mattress to find a distinctly human face smiling back at you.

might as well get a collar too yeah?

#no one look at me i'm in my skully era #yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere skully j graves #yandere skully j graves x reader #yandere skully #yandere skully x reader

1K notes · View notes

samuhelll · 4 months ago

Text

“Ain't that the truth.” It came out with a huffy breath. When Sam smiles, it deepens the origami folds by his mouth. “But you know what?” he says, uncurling a finger toward her. “You’re a breath of fresh air.”

It may have been a joke to what she’d said. ‘Three minutes later, you’re practically underwater’.

The light from the payphone casts an egg-white glow that reminds him vaguely of a vacated motel lobby. She’s obliging, he thinks. She shields him from the rain. She offers no protest to the corner store. She unsparingly suggests ramen which conjures up, inexorably, the image of a dollar-a-dozen instant packages.

“Ouch. The envy of all undergrads everywhere,” he murmurs, clicking his tongue as if to say is it obvious I don’t have money? And he knows, improbably, that that’s not what she meant. That she’ll perhaps laugh along or maybe stare, stupefied. Sam picks up his briefcase, rattling off raindrops. “—Actually, I’m a known quantity,” he tells her, his mouth going lopsided. Sam spreads his fingers wide. “I’m talking face-on-every-bench, name-in-every-household. ‘Around the World’? Hey.” He smiles. “I consider that a memoir.”

Rain pelts the umbrella. It smells of petrichor, wet cologne, her shampoo. He looks aside. “How about you. Two A.M… I’m going with overachiever, or” —he holds up a finger— “life of the party.”

Ann's rather quick to notice the businessman at the late hour - FEW are out at this point and none without the umbrella. But he doesn't look like he's necessarily from around here either. He could have just been caught at a POOR TIME. Who hasn't been a victim to such an incident at least a few times? It's what prompts her to stop and share the refuge of her umbrella with him.

" You're welcome. " She offers a small smile; POLITE AND PROFESSIONAL despite the exhaustion from a late night working. Dark brown eyes flick down to his damp suit briefly and then return back to his face and offers a nod. " Truly. Sometimes you think it might just be a light sprinkle and three minutes later you're practically underwater with how fast its coming down. "

She's had that experience many times in the field when she was younger and fighting against nature to get forensic evidence before it was washed away. She STILL does on occasion.

The request comes as a brief SURPRISE but it makes sense. Everything's closed at this point. " Of course. There's a good one nearby, it has some decent ramen too if you're hungry. " She offers - as if she'd ever leave anyone somewhere less than good and safe. Not on her watch.

" You don't have to repay me or anything like that. " It's nice of course that he offers, but she WASN'T doing this out of expectation for anything. She wants until he has his briefcase before she starts to walk, heels clicking against the sidewalk while she makes sure to set a decent pace for them both towards the corner store. " New to visiting this area? "

#sharpsuite #( samuhelll: v: main. )#TBH thinking might ?? start this weekend if i dont end up falling down my ffxiv rabbit hole. ill def hit u up when i do tho!#also sorry sam talks a lot huh. too much for someone whos like a soaked cat rn lol #ty ann.. shes his hero. ''ty for your service'' her says to her (saluting)#also yea thats daft punk

10 notes · View notes

beautifulpersonpeach · 9 months ago

Note

what do you think of the rainy day fight bpp? we’ve heard both sides’ version of the story but what really gets me is how jungkook during festa 2020 didn’t even feel any secondhand embarrassment when jimin was telling the story when all the other 5 members were feeling it lol jungkook was kind of endeared by the memory by the way he was smiling

***

Aren’t they just adorable?

Jimin was doing major damage control in that Festa 2020 live lmao. The members were calling it a romance drama, Jimin took over the telling from Jungkook, saying a whole lot without saying too much, and Jung Kook had the silliest most endeared smile on his face the whole time.

When Jungkook calls Jimin his catalyst, I feel the rainy day fight shows us one of the best examples of how Jimin fills that role for Jungkook.

My quick summary of what the rainy day fight was given what jikook have said about it: There was tension in the group due to how (a hormonal teenage) Jungkook behaved and treated his hyungs. Stern words were exchanged and everybody left the practice room, except Jimin and Jungkook. Jimin then had a frank conversation with Jungkook which ended with Jimin saying something to the effect of ‘if this is how you’re going to be, fine. I won’t care about you anymore.’

I feel like Jimin to that point had been Jungkook’s biggest support and most ardent advocate. I’ve talked before about how the attention Jimin showered on Jungkook in their early years was genuine and partly served the purpose of helping establish the maknae centrally within the group. Jungkook is someone who needs a lot of love, by his own admission, and Jimin is someone for whom giving love is instinct. It’s natural to him. They were both far from home and found home in each other.

I think the rainy day fight was one of the first times it really hit Jungkook how much he loved and relied on Jimin. Left alone in that practice room, rain pouring down hitting the roof tops, Jungkook felt a world in which Jimin treated him like any other bandmate was unbearable. He realized that for Jimin to even make a comment like that, he must’ve fucked up royally. It caused him to reflect and before long, he ran after Jimin.

We all know how the story ends, with jikook finding each other in the rain, hugging it out, and talking way past midnight on the roof of their dorm. The guys have said this happened in 2015 or 2016.

There’s no bigger Jimin Stan than Jungkook, and no bigger Jungkook Stan than Jimin. This hasn’t changed in 10+ years. And this is the thing that I find most interesting about jikook: how consistent they are. Not even the most highly awarded Oscar winner can put on an act for 10+ years, and then even when off the clock, choose to spend 18 months joined at the hip while completing a mandatory military service, all to serve a company’s fan service narrative.

Anybody who thinks Jungkook hates Jimin, would do anything malicious to him, or that Jimin thinks somehow less of Jungkook or would put up with bullshit from Jungkook because Jimin is oh so kind… anyone who thinks this is insane. In my opinion.

I’m talking daft as a brush, mad like a rabbit on crack. Just plain delusional, no two ways about it. Jikook are the og “you are me, I am you.” The rainy day fight is one of the key instances we see this play out, crystal clear.

#jikook #jimin #jungkook

187 notes · View notes

roguelov · 3 months ago

Note

I need need need Soulmate!DreamxHobxReader to be friends to lovers😭

I need them to not start dating immediately just because they're soulmates. I need them to just hang out and spend time with each other. To have deep but also playful conversations with each other and discover their likes and dislikes, what's important to them, their thoughts and opinions. To slowly open up to each other about the shit they've been through. To start confiding in each other when they've had something bad happen or they're just not feeling well. To go through some bad times together.

I just need them to slowly fall in love with each other, not because they're soulmates, but because they genuinely care for each other and want to be together.

PLEEEAAASEEEEEE I LOVE A GOOD SLOWBURN SO HAVE SOME FLUFF

You pointed up to the rolling clouds of the Dreaming, “Rabbit.”

Hob, who laid beside you on the hills of Fiddler’s Green, snorted, “Are you daft? That clearly is a dog.”

Morpheus, nestled under a large oak tree a few feet away from the pair of you, glanced up seeing the clouds. To him, it was neither. It was a simple cloud on a simple sky.

You huffed, yet a smile grew on your lips. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” Hob laughed.

“Well, I think it looks like a rabbit, like the one I had growing up.”

Hob rolled onto his side, looking at you. “You had a rabbit?”

You nodded. “Had him when I was young, didn’t have a great name tho.”

“What was it?”

“… Green Bean.”

Hob let out a bark of laughter. “Green Bean? Why on earth did you make that rabbit suffer?”

“I thought carrot was boring! Okay? So I choose the next vegetable in our fridge.” You sat up, playfully glaring down at the man. “And what of you, had any pets?”

Hob shrugged. “Had a dog named Scruff.”

“And Green Bean was bad? Talk about typical,” you joked. You and Hob peered back at Morpheus. “What about you? Any pets?”

Morpheus shook his head. “No, never did.”

“Well that’s a bit sad,” you mumbled.

Morpheus shrugged, unbothered by the fact. “I suppose I never needed one, and besides the Dreaming is full of pets to begin with.”

“But they aren’t yours,” Hob countered.

“No,” Morpheus began, “but I do home them, so in a way they are mine.”

“I guess,” Hob muttered.

In an instance, rustling sounded off in the thicket tall grass. You and Hob both whipped your heads around. The first to poke out was a small pink button nose, followed by a black and white rabbit. A dog - scraggly and a mutt - bounded through and leapt onto Hob’s chest. You and Hob were both shocked and elated to see your old pets again.

Morpheus smiled from his spot. He learned in that moment he quite liked making you both smile.

#the sandman #morpheus #dream of the endless #robert gadling #hob gadling #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #hob gadling x reader #hob x reader #Dream x reader x hob #Morpheus x reader x hob #x reader #anon #ask

59 notes · View notes

femalemonsterhunter · 4 days ago

Text

Another redrawn meme I wanted to participate in for a moment.

Moreover, here's my first redrawing of this original Steven Universe short comic/I Think We're Gonna Have To Kill This Guy meme on Twitter to include my two favorite villains from different media, Victor Quartermaine from Wallace & Gromit: the Curse of the Were-Rabbit and Cliff Feltbottom from CatDog. And it turned out to be pretty fun to draw.

The original SU short comic meme is made by Haus Of Decline on Twitter.

Art is belongs to me (C)

Victor Quartermaine from from the Wallace & Gromit franchise belongs Ardman Animations/Dreamworks Animation (Especially about the full-length film)/Nick Park (c)

Cliff Feltbottom from the CatDog is belongs to Peter Hannan and his eponymous production/Nickelodeon Animation Studio/Serom Animation/Rough Daft Korea (C)

22 notes · View notes

liketwoswansinbalance · 5 months ago

Note

Dear Rafal:

As some spirit swans shapeshifter angel possession thingy do you create souls and ship them off to the real world?

I have a case where I know someone very well and he just seems to be very similar to you. (cough cough)

Also if Rhian was a girl (or some genderbend AU) would you let me be her gf?

Rafal: [peers down at you from the sky through slitted eyes] I'm not a "thingy" as you claim. Nor am I possessed, and if you'd like to see a man possessed, turn no further than downwards, at my aging mirror image. He's bound to die eventually and I doubt he'll be joining me. [He grins.]

As for your query, the answer is no. Not currently. When I did involve myself in... low, earthly affairs, every mortal soul I had a part in creating was apparently deficient in some way or another. Always, it was: [said in a mocking tone] this one's imbued with an excess of "spite" or "hubris," that one is just plagued with "instability," and a third was impacted by a so-called "disregard for its own species" and a "malcontent temperament"—why should I care?

Amid those general issues, the few souls of mine that had been placed in the Woods were reported to be "cursed," what we call our failed projects, those who can't descend to the Woods and live "ordinary lives." They had to be reworked by my colleagues, who discovered that many of those restless mortals held unconscious, fully-formed vendettas against pirates, Seers, and blond men. Don't ask.

All of my creations have been scrapped thus far, including a potential distant relative I devised for my Stymphs: the razor-beaked, flesh-eating sparrow. It was marvelous, and I'm sure my living students would've found it just lovely. Unfortunately, Heaven didn't approve of my vision for a new and greater Woods, which is pointless, seeing as the Blue Forest is already populated with killer, puffball rabbits. My Woods would've been built upon cautionary tales, to whittle away at the simpletons who believe that as long as they're Good, they "deserve the world" as they're constantly told. The Evers were always entitled as they always received the benefit of the doubt automatically, a privilege my Nevers will never live to get for themselves. It's why they must take what the world deprives them of, which I can understand to an extent. [resentment creeps into his voice.] After all, I nearly got what I wanted, only for it to slip through my fingers. So, instead, my Nevers are trapped with a daft leader and just languish under a losing streak, as far as I can tell.

Besides, my title isn't "guardian angel." Heaven wanted to assign me to a post as a patron of travelers and physicians, but I declined, and took up record-keeping duties since, for the time being, I don't wish to see anyone. I'm not content with menial tasks, but there haven't been any other offerings worth my time, aside from staging a coup, whether it be a coup d'état or coup de grâce for a certain someone, well... I haven't decided yet.

However, I do hope that my brother's still around when the Second Coming rolls around. I'd be all too satisfied to see the dire look on his face as he trembles when I tap him on the shoulder. Then, I'd drag him to a punishment equal to his worldly crimes in whichever circle of Hell happens to be his final destination, all while the rest of the apocalypse roars around us... Something to look forward to, I suppose. The other angels tell me not to be so sure, or that I won't want justice by that point. But however long it takes, I'll be here. Waiting for my moment in that dying sun.

[Rafal likes to think he's moved past earthly proceedings, but in reality, he's still probably bitter, begrudging, and unforgiving (so far), and would prefer to think of himself as beyond trifles like mortal lives that aren't his. He probably just needs time to settle and accept his death. Eventually, he'll reform further though, and grow into his Goodness.]

Rafal: Who is this case of yours? [You don't have to elaborate if you don't want to.]

Do whatever you'd like with Rhian. I'm not his protector any longer, and he’s more than capable of "defending" himself. Just let me take his soul once he dies, and we'll have a deal. [He extends a hand pulsing with sorcery to you to shake.] A contractually-sealed deal.

#school for good and evil #rise of the school for good and evil #fall of the school for good and evil #rafal #rafal mistral #rhian #rhian mistral #sge #sfgae #the school for good and evil #tsfgae #rotsge #rotsfgae #fotsge #fotsfgae #my post #ask #dialogue #angel

35 notes · View notes

espers-n-espurrs · 2 months ago

Note

im surprised ur hanging out with them so much considering how dangerous psychic type trainers are. having their pokemon mind control people, trap them in dream dimensions, just straight up kill them in ways impossible to link as an actual murder and not freak accident. psychic specialists are all terrible murderers and youre probably next. especially since victoria has a hatterene. get a little too happy with her and you wont have a working windpipe anymore.

i was going to answer a different anon before this but the notif of this snapped me away from the other one because. what. what the fuck is wrong with you.

are you stupid? daft? got nothin but bells between your ears?

been falling down those conspiracy rabbit holes, eh? and ive been plenty happy around barcelona and she hasnt tried nothin on me, dimwit.

speaking of things you dont understand, havin bit into the rotten apple and let the toxins run through you to poison the mind to where everything you spew is full of rot and decay.

#pkmn irl #pokeblog rp #rotomblr #pokemon irl #rotumblr #askbox #victoria / MN tag #// ANON OH MY GOD #tw death mention #tw violence mention

27 notes · View notes

soy-soi-si · 4 months ago

Text

Beastmen au - specific species inspired by @a-twistedheartslonging :)

Heartslabyul

Riddle Rosehearts : Netherland Dwarf Rabbit

Trey Clover : Shire Daft Horse

Cater Diamond : Sun Conure Parrot

Ace Trappola : Norwegian Forest cat

Deuce Spade : tibetan mastiff

Savanaclaw

Leona Kingscholar : Cape lion

Ruggie Bucchi : Spotted hyena

Jack Howl : Dire wolf mixed polar wolf/African Gray wolf

Octavinelle

Azul Ashengrotto : Giant Pacific octopus (Size) mixed Caribbean Reef Octopus. (Color)

Jade Leech : Channomuraena vittata (Chinese moray)

Or Giant moray mixed ribbon.

Floyd Leech : Channomuraena vittata (Chinese moray)

Or Giant moray mixed ribbon

Scarabia

Kalim Al-asim : Bengal Tiger

Jamil Viper : Coral snake (Color)

Mixed Reticulated python (Size) /Black mamba (Venom)

Pomefiore

Vil Schoenheit : Trumpeter swan

Rook Hunt : Braque Francais

Epel Felmier : Honey badger

Ighnyhide

Idia Shroud : Burrowing spider mixed Gooty Sapphire Ornamental

Ortho Shroud : Spotted Frog/Robot

Diasomnia

Malleus Draconia : Aether Dragon/ Darkness dragon Mixed Storm/lightning dragon. (Komodo dragon esc)

Lillia Vanrouge : Vampire bat

Mixed With Old World fruit bat

Silver Vanrouge : Sloth bear

Sebek Zigvolt : Sebecosuchia Crocodilian Mixed Human

#twst #disney twst #twisted wonderland #twst au #beastmen #beastmen au #random #fic prompt #twst boys #inspired

50 notes · View notes

localratwithcowboyhat · 8 months ago

Note

This may sound daft but since i am aware you know a lot about it, is the Gef the Mongoose case real or was it just a hoax? /genq

Well there has been news articles on him in the 30s and people did report missing rabbits in think? There also has been an interview w him. But other than the information provided by the irvings there is no real evidence, tho after the family left the farm house and a new person moved in she reported having cached a weasel looking creature ( that she killed ) ( that was as 1945 tho, so its been a few years since the irvings left) and thats the last thing we know from, what might have been, gef the mongoose

the only one to ever actually see gef was monica ( ? The daughter | i forgot her name) but there’s no actual pictures of him i think, only drawings.

But its still debated whether it was real or not

#gef the mongoose #gef the talking mongoose #ask #confess your sins #i love this story so fucking much

45 notes · View notes

elliegoose · 2 years ago

Text

who else on this gay little website now permanently thinks of face to face by daft punk as the bunny bunny dance song because oh babey i am always thinking about that little rabbit and her moves

#elise.rtf

271 notes · View notes

bitterrfruit · 20 days ago

Text

wild cherries [1]

[masterlist]

Price x f!Reader - tags: modern western AU, cowboy!Price, light sadomasochism, brat taming, spanking, humiliation, chasing, dubcon if you squint 18+ mdni - 5k words

Tell me why, Is it hard to make arrangements with yourself When you're old enough to repay but young enough to sell?

Daddy used to warn you about wandering onto the Prices’ property.

The lichen-coated fence that separated their land and your family’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of white oak and ponderosa, crossing the babbling river that fed water to both ranches. The barrier itself was fairly short and easy enough to climb over, but there was one small gap where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were your own long-neglected cherry orchard on the other side.

You had almost lost your little gateway, after so many years away; at a college across the country for four, and hopping between jobs like a rabbit for the next few. In that time the grass surrounding the fence had grown long and dense, the thicket far thornier and weedier than it was when you were a girl.

Then, you really only knew the Prices by name. You were expressly forbidden to talk to, let alone look at any of them. They aren’t nice boys, daddy had told you, I won’t have them near you.

Now there was only one left, and it seemed the rules had changed.

Jonathan Price, the last remaining, was a reticent man. A shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.

His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, originating long before you were born, the seeds of which were planted many generations ago. Whatever enmity that existed between dead old men had not quite been passed on to the remaining sons, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.

Your older brother Miles had told you as much, when he picked you up from the airport a three-hour drive south. More than fifteen years your senior, Miles was thrust into the demanding vacuum your father left, and despite laments, he certainly played the part.

“It wasn’t a question,” he chided, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. There it was, that glimmer of your father’s spirit, especially bright whenever Miles got away with telling you what to do.

You hung your elbow out of the window of his carmine red Silverado - a new toy - and rested your chin on the back of your hand.

Only offered back a grumble; “I don’t even know him.”

A lie.

You had encountered him the last time you returned home for summer, and the time before that. Encountered was the sweeter way to put it, pestered might be better suited.

Once you heard he had finally come home, you found yourself impishly eager to pry, to observe, to take a mere glance at the last remaining man of the family yours hated so ferociously. You were strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way. Intrigued by the mystery that shrouded him, the man you were never allowed to know.

And you had always been at the mercy of your wicked curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college, then during your brief stints of being in-between jobs. When you ventured through the gap in the fence, you’d prowl around his estate like you were attempting to memorise a maze. You’d peek into his old and empty shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.

The most recent occasion you had slithered into his orchard, last summer, he had caught you. While your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries, you heard him holler;

Hey! I see you in there, missy!

Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a hare and hopped back over the fence.

There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady, he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks. You hear me?

Miles chuckled at your retort, dragging you back from the warmth of your rose-tinted reverie. “Well, he knows you.”

“So?” You bit, shutting your eyes as the warm summer wind lapped at your skin.

“So, it’d be rude if you don’t go and say hi.”

“I don’t think he’d care whether I say hi,” you muttered. “He hates us.”

Miles returned a terse sigh. “I’m trying to change that. I don’t want us to keep fighting the same fight our dads did. I don’t think anyone alive even remembers what the fight was about.”

You knew you were getting close to home when you drove past the towering boxelder tree with the crooked trunk, the one you had named the wobbly tree as a little girl; it always looked like it was on the verge of toppling over. From that tree onwards, you had committed the landscape to memory. The distant mountain peaks that caught the red glow of the afternoon sun. The dense lumber pines that coated the closer rolling hills. The rows of poplars and cedar windbreaks that protected their plots of farmland. The blue and yellow wildflowers that grew over the edges of the chip seal road.

You listened to the roar of cicadas, loud enough to be heard over the engine of the truck; a sound you didn’t realise you missed so dearly until you escaped the perpetual industrial hum of the inner city.

Home, at last. Under the old log archway, boasting the hanging wrought iron sigil of a rearing stallion, and your family’s claim; Fenton Ranch. The truck rolled over the raw gravel of your long driveway, reduced to dust under decades of heavy tyres. You could smell home in the air; distant firesmoke, livestock, cut grass. You drove past the stables, then the sheds, you spotted some of the familiar faces of ranch hands that had worked for your father before they worked for Miles. Among them, some new ones.

Your generations-old house came into view, two storeys high with a wrap-around veranda, cladded in chipped white siding and adorned in carved cornices. Sat atop a circular hill of dry grass, it was sheltered by a ring of century-old white oaks that kept it shaded from the blistering summer sun.

At the top of the porch steps stood your sister Evelyn, tall and strawberry-blonde, she leaned against a column and offered an insouciant wave as Miles pulled the truck to a stop.

Dust rose from under your sandalled feet as you hopped out of the truck and into the gravel, raising your arms to the sky to stretch out the tension that had built in your stomach. As the stretch forced a squeal through your gritted teeth, Evelyn called to you;

“Hope you don’t think you’re on vacation, Honeybee.”

There was a touch of humour in her tone, but knowing your ever-pragmatic sister, she was not joking.

You did think it funny how quickly hearing your nickname hurled you back in time, had you feeling as though you had never left home. A teasing sobriquet stemming from your toddlerhood; having learned that bees get their honey from flowers, you developed a penchant for suckling on them - clovers and dandelions that you had picked from the grass, honeysuckle and lilac plucked from bushes within reach. My little honeybee, mom used to call you. A nickname that stood firm after she passed, repeated in honour of her, so often that as far as those around you were concerned it had long usurped your birth name.

Miles hauled your old suitcase from the bed of his truck, unrequested; he was a gentleman, on occasion, when he felt it appropriate to be one. You followed him towards the house, stopping to greet your sister en route as he continued to carry your cargo to your bedroom.

Evelyn gave you a smile and hug with her slender arms, quick and purposeful. Straight to business; “So what happened with Wendell Bishop? I thought you liked it there?”

The marketing agency that recently had you in their employ, the third company you had worked for in the last two years. You stifled a roll of your eyes with a slow blink, not wanting to argue with your sister in the first five minutes of returning home - though it would be far from the first time. Despite Evelyn being closer in age to your brother than yourself, you bickered like you had been born a day apart.

“It was fine, I just - it wasn’t for me.”

“Ugh, for God’s sake, Bee.” She groaned, “it’s never for you.”

You had no dispute within you but a shrug, and you walked past her to head indoors.

“You know you can’t float around forever,” she barked after you, and you shut the screen door behind you.

The interior of your house was breezy, windows and doors open to allow the summer draught to flow through every room and corridor like blood through veins. The old hardwood creaked and groaned underfoot as you wandered towards the staircase, catching brief glances at the old family photographs that peppered the patterned walls. Some from your childhood, some faded sepia film dating back three generations; Fenton ancestors whose names you had forgotten or never learned.

Miles brushed past you as you made your way to your bedroom, and he stopped you with a word.

“Evelyn made jam,” he said, and the edge in his tone told you that you needed to stop and listen.

The recipe for the strawberry jam the women of your family would make on special occasions was one passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter since the inception of the line. It incorporated a touch of cranberry to make it a little tart, a sprinkle of salt to deepen the flavour. What made it extra special, mom would say, was that it was made with love. You didn’t imagine Evelyn put much love into it, because it wasn’t written explicitly into the recipe, wasn’t given quantifiable measurements.

“You’ll take him some, won’t you?” Miles asked, when you only gave him a small grin of pleasant disinterest.

You chewed your lip, kicked the floorboards with your heel. Inevitably, you would have slinked over the fence and skulked around the Prices’ land once the sun kissed the horizon, once you could be sure the man and his ranchmen would be settling in for supper. Some unfathomable part of you would rather be caught by him in the act of a crime, than to knock on his door like a sycophant.

There was something vaguely humiliating about the idea, presenting yourself on his doorstep, as though supplicating for approval you didn’t want or need. Obvious that you had been ordered by your authoritarian brother to go and apologise to Mr Price for your past transgressions. While, in actuality, Miles was not at all privy to such transgressions, you knew Jonathan would find sneering satisfaction in seeing you feign politeness, play at being ladylike.

As far as Miles could tell from your sulking, though, you were merely nervous about being forced to greet an intimidating stranger. Not entirely incorrect, you supposed.

“Sure,” you finally conceded, with a huff. “I’ll go over in a bit.”

Miles offered a pleased grin under his sun-bleached beard, placed his sturdy and grateful hands on your shoulders. “‘Preciate it, Bee.”

You took a brief hour to recuperate after the long drive. Rinsed your face and combed out your wind-knotted hair, unpacked your well fed suitcase into your old and rickety chest-of-drawers. Everything you owned you had stuffed into luggage - the lease at your little apartment had come to an end, you knew you’d be home for the foreseeable future. You hung your winter coats away in your closet, out of season. You lined up your shoes and boots by the door.

You greeted the working collies with a scruff of their heads and a kiss on their noses, as you ventured outside into the heat of the afternoon. You said hello to the greying foreman who knew you from your girlhood.

“Soda’s turned out behind the barn,” he told you, and you gave him a sunny smile as you trudged over in your well-worn boots; their tan leather dry and wrinkly, the thread of the embroidered paisley patterning had come loose in spots after years of putting the boots to work.

You spotted your painted mare in the middle of the paddock behind the stables, grazing on golden grass, dried to hay. Recognised her by the white splotches on her chestnut coat, the bright stripe that ran down the centre of her head and turned her snout pink. She raised her head at your familiar whistle, and you heard her whinny cheerily before she trotted towards the log fence you leaned over.

“Hey, sweet girl,” you cooed. You petted her snout with a loving hand, and she nickered softly to greet you. “Missed ya.”

You led her through the gate into the shade of the barn, adjusted her bridle over her head and fed the bit between her teeth. Using an old step-stool you hoisted yourself up and over her back, with no stirrups to help you.

You had always preferred riding bareback; Soda’s coat was soft, and her back was narrow and forgiving. You imagined saddles as corsets, that the poor girl lacked the kind of mouth that could tell you how sorely uncomfortable it was. But you thought she said as much in the ways she could, with a toss of her head and a loud snort whenever she was approached with one.

Besides, you often took her for rides on a whim, forgoing instructions to stay within sight of the house - it was easier to hop on her back and trot off into the trees without having to saddle her.

Your short powder-pink sundress rode up your bare thighs as you adjusted your legs to bestride your horse. You tugged the linen hem down with a shimmy, to avoid revealing the treats underneath to the odd ranchman that passed by. Mom would always chastise you when you rode in a skirt, hammered on about how indecent and impractical it was. She wasn’t here to tell you so, now. If she was, you would have told her it was too hot for jeans.

“Hey,” you heard a sharp holler from your sister, she trotted towards you as you rode Soda out of the barn. “Hold up.”

You looked down at Evelyn - only on horseback did you have the ability to do so - and she raised a crocheted net bag for you to take. Carrying three jars of jam, each a different shape and with multi-coloured lids - you had almost forgotten your homecoming gift.

“Oh, yeah,” you said, with an apologetic giggle, taking the bag by the handle. “Is there still some left for us?”

“Plenty,” Evelyn replied through a smile. “He doesn’t get all of it.”

“What’s a lonely man going to do with all this jam, anyway?” You asked coyly, and Evelyn pursed her lips at the playful derision in your words.

“Hopefully, eat it with a spoon and think about how kind we were to share it with him,” she answered, with her brows raised. “And come to ask us for more.”

You tilted your head, a bewildered knit between your brows. “You guys buttering him up for something?”

She gave you that pacifying grin, the one that told you she believed the true answer would be beyond you. “‘S nothin’ like that, Bee. We’re just trying to smooth things over.”

Her answer was dishonest, you saw through her simper. But it was never worth the effort to pry any further. “Whatever,” you chuffed, tugging at the reins and setting off.

“You can take the truck, you know,” Evelyn yapped, before you had the chance to give Soda a gentle kick to speed her up.

Shrugged. “It’s a nice ride.”

Evelyn frowned at that. “How would you know, hm?”

Another shrug, you concealed the flush in your cheeks as you turned to trot down the drive.

It was a nice ride. Soda had a steady gait that never made you sore, and she was pleased for the outing, as easily bored as you were. You decided to take the conventional route to the Price ranch - this was an official visit, after all. Stayed in line with the drive, you mindlessly plucked leaves off of reaching branches as you passed them and tossed them to the grass beneath you. Cars and pickups passed you on the road, kicking up dust and making you squint. The sun of the late afternoon was baking on your back, but the warmth was a tender embrace, and the gentle breeze that cooled you was a kiss to follow it.

The majority of the trees on the Price Ranch were bunched around its borders, though the odd fir or cottonwood was scattered among the wheatgrass-coated hills; enough shade for his hordes of black anguses to huddle under.

You passed under the towering arch of the gate, the logs aged and splintering, the stone pillars holding them up were worn down by wind and dust. The sign above you flaunted in great big letters, like a shout, PRICE. Beneath it the head of a longhorn, carved directly into the stained pine shield that hung from its chains. The road to his gargantuan farmhouse was winding but mostly flat, and you gave Soda an encouraging pat on the side of her neck, as if she was the one in need of reassurance.

Even the house was foreboding, much like the man himself - dark and expansive, constructed with stacked logs and piled stones, rock chimneys climbed up three of its walls. Its windows were vast but few and far between, grids of stained wood crossed over the glass and made it difficult to see in from a distance; to your chagrin.

You dismounted Soda by a fenced pasture, and hitched her reins to one of its posts. She was a loyal girl, but as helplessly subject to her curiosity as you; she needed an anchor to keep her from drifting away and whinnying at the stallion in the paddock over.

Patting down your skirt and hanging the bag of clinking jars from your shoulder, you marched with an artificial confidence up the stone steps of his front entrance. Drummed the front door with your knuckles in three sturdy knocks, you hung the net bag by the handle from two demure hands, fingers knitted together.

You swallowed.

Came the deep thumping of heavy footsteps, they approached the other side of the door, slow and beating. A clatter, a thud.

The door swung open and just about vacuumed you inside, you adjusted your feet so you didn’t lose balance.

Jonathan was almost as tall, near as wide as the doorframe he stood in. He glanced above you, expecting someone taller, before he craned his head downward to look at you, and you felt your heart flip behind your sternum.

“Well,” he huffed, voice hoarse from a day’s worth of yelling. His stare narrowed as he soaked you in, crow’s-feet creased; piercing eyes raked from your head to your feet, painfully slowly, and back up again. “Ain’t you a nice surprise.”

His cocksure voice was rumbling and deep, it sunk under your skin and made you turn pink. You had only ever heard him shouting, heard his roars in the distance when he chastised either you or his ranchmen. Now he uttered his words so low that you could hear the gravel in his throat, it made you want to press your ear to his padded chest and feel the vibrations of his sonorous voice directly from its origin.

You took the same time to inspect him - realising you hadn’t ever seen him up this close, close enough to smell him. He smelt of hard work and cigar smoke, salt and musk, the warmth of his mammoth body reached out and touched you as if the evening air was suddenly cold. His smoky blue t-shirt had stains of sweat between his broad pectorals and down from his neck, the cotton coated in dust - he had only just turned in from a long day of wrangling, hadn’t yet had the chance to shower or to change.

He lifted a bronzed and furry arm to lean his elbow against the jamb of the door, so thick with well-earned muscle they threatened to tear the sleeves of his shirt with the slightest flex. You wondered if he picked up his cows with his bare arms, carried them around like they weighed no more than bales of hay.

His cheeks were ruddy with sunburn and vigour, his firm jaw coated by a dark and barely kempt beard, specked with silvers. His expression was stern, though a glimmer of interest in his steel-blue eyes belied his severity. Heavy lids hung low by virtue of looking down at you, his lips in an analytical curl under the thick moustache that grew under his nose.

You blinked up at him, and opened your lips to speak - but a gruff snicker from him sucked the air from your lungs before you could utter a word to greet him.

“Brought me a gift?” He asked richly, glare stuck on you and not the sack of ruby-red jam you hung from your fingers.

Finding yourself, you gave him a pursed smile. “Miles made me come and say hi.”

“Made you, did he?” He snorted, oozing a knowing arrogance.

“Yep,” you said, lifting the bag to present it to him. “Eve cooked up some jam.”

You saw his temples bulge as his jaw clenched tightly, expression sinking into what looked to you like twisted disappointment.

“Nice o’ you,” he grunted disinterestedly, paying no mind to your olive branch. After a troubled sigh, he asked; “Where’ve you been, lil’ miss Honeybee?”

The use of your nickname made gooseflesh shiver down your spine. He could only have heard that from your siblings or their ranchmen - how often had they spoken to him? Discussed you while you weren’t there to hear it? Last you thought, they never interacted at all. Now, he seemed to mock you with it.

But he uttered it so casually, with such a coating of sugar, that it rinsed you like praise.

“Just working,” you replied flatly, shuffling on your feet, vaguely embarrassed to admit you had abandoned the job already. “In the city.”

“Mh,” he hummed, giving you a placid nod. “Back for good?”

You bit back the smirk that coaxed your lips. “Maybe.”

“I’ll have to build a taller fence, then, won’t I?”

Unable to discern if there was any humour in the forcefulness of his tone, your tongue curled behind your teeth as you tried to find a response that wouldn’t incriminate you.

And you failed. “I’m a good climber.”

He didn’t quite smile, you saw his chest rise and fall with a hounded breath.

“I bet you are.”

The air became thick, filled your lungs like smoke, and you almost coughed in the loaded silence.

“Y’know,” he started, crossing his arms over his wide chest, tucking his hands under his arms and inadvertently augmenting the biceps you shamelessly stared at. “Your sister came ‘round the other day. Warned me about you.”

Your brow furrowed at that. “Really?”

You could tell he battled a grin, he licked his teeth behind stiff lips. “Uh huh.”

Wondering how often he had conversed with her, you swallowed the juvenile jealousy that rose in your throat. “What’d she say.”

“That you’re prone to getting in trouble,” he said, through a deep purr. “But she told me you don’t try to.”

You tilted your head, and the sly simper that had you had been containing finally curled in your lips. “I don’t know why she’d say somethin’ like-”

“I don’t believe her,” he gritted, steamrolling over your flimsy defence.

Heat blossomed in the apples of your cheeks. “You don't?”

“No,” he rumbled, leaning down to you. His face a foot from yours, you shrunk under his glower, watching him cautiously from under flitting lashes. “I think you try very hard.”

You held your tongue between your teeth, taming it before it gushed out something you might regret. Clawed at your mind for any kind of refutation, but it melted like sugar on your tongue.

Watching in bashful silence, John reached forward and hooked a finger into your bag. Reaching inside, he plucked out a jar; it was dwarfed within his wide hand, he spun it around in his palm as though looking for a label. He went to open it, and the tendons and muscles of his forearms rippled under his skin as he twisted off the stubborn gingham-patterned lid. It broke loose with a pop.

He dipped his pointer finger into the juicy red preserves, scooping out a lump of it. Thick finger sticky with the sugared fruit, he put the tip of it between his lips, sucked it clean as he looked down the bridge of his nose at you.

His mouth made wet noises as he evaluated the flavours with his tongue, you felt a flutter in your core. Lips pursed, he raised his eyebrows. “‘S good,” he remarked.

You smiled sheepishly. “Well, it’s yours,” you raise the bag. “These too.”

He twisted the lid back onto the jar, then took a step towards you as he reached for your net bag and dropped the jar back in with the rest. And he continued forward, another step, and you landed on your hind foot. You inched backwards as he loomed over you, and backwards again; you felt your heel go over the edge of the top step, your balance tipped - until his firm hand caught your upper arm, and he swiftly held you upright.

Lost for words, you opened your mouth. “I-”

But he shut you up with a bear grip of both of your shoulders, and adrenaline needled down the nape of your neck. He lifted you a few inches off the step, and spun you around like a doll before dropping you unceremoniously back to your feet, facing out towards your horse.

He was instructing you to leave, unsaid but unsubtle.

“Go on,” he chuffed, and your breath hitched as he gave you a cajoling pat on your behind with his palm to coax you forward.

You obliged him, walking abashedly towards Soda with your heart in your throat and your gift ungiven. He followed you closely, not allowing more than two feet of distance to grow between his body and yours; as though prepared to snatch you if you dared to bolt.

“Tell your sister, I don’t want her goddamn gifts,” he sneered, and you dared not look over your shoulder at him.

Soda gave you a quiet nicker as you came to a stop beside her, ears flicking nervously at the predator behind you. You shushed her gently as you unhitched her reins, and using the bottom rail of the fence you stepped up to mount her. Reaching over her back, your legs hung over her side as you awkwardly tried to pull yourself upward.

You felt the evening breeze under your skirt, quietly aware of how much of yourself you bared to him. You wondered whether he might be stealing his glances, if he might have spotted the pink hem of the panties you wore underneath. You wondered if he thought they were pretty. You wondered if he wanted to see what they concealed.

You yipped as you suddenly felt his hand against your ass, a heavy fist; realising quickly that he had clutched the hem of your dress, when he tugged it downwards to give you some decency. Scolding you implicitly.

With a frayed breath, he growled; “And I don’t want fuckin’ trouble.”

Swallowing a timid gasp, you pulled yourself up onto the mare’s back and mounted her properly, legs hanging over either side of her torso. You hoped that from your perch he couldn’t see the glowing red in your cheeks, the flare of heat that spread over your decolletage like a rash.

“You hear me?” He badgered, arms crossed and brow rigid.

You gave him a winsome nod, an imperceptible simper, as you gave Soda a soft kick in her side to set her off.

With an innocent grin, you crooned; “I’ll do my best, mister.”

can you tell i love neil young

#john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price #john price x f!reader #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cowboy price #bitterfruit fics

131 notes · View notes