#Eating good warm bread and stew can be also

[starry-skies-tell-no-lies]

Birdie and their relationship with religion (version 1)

One of the things I really want to dig into is Birdie's relationship with religion. They were raised Roman Catholic, and that always came with some questions.

Then they started to realize that maybe secretly something over the course of time had started to chip away at their faith. They start to think about how if there's a plan for everyone then plans include other people doing bad things and it affecting you, and that can't be right.

It only gets worse when they start to realize that they are a they and don't fit nicely into the binary the church enforces.

For awhile they reject all religion. Yes, it is important to other people, but its only for other people. They don't really find meaning in any of the religions that they've heard of. The closest thing is maybe maybe witchcraft

(but they don't want to work with gods or spirits, and they don't want to cast spells, and slowly they come to realize that what they really like about it is taking time to slow down and think, and sense, and pay attention to the world and what makes you happy.)

They like the little rituals, not because they believe that it will work yet, but because they don't and sometimes 'just in case' is enough of a reason. And because it keeps them present and in the moment. It's just making a reason to actually enjoy life.

So, they decide that religion is allowed to be what they make it. They decide that it matters how they do things sometimes. They decide that sunrises are spiritual, and the stars are holy. They decide that sometimes talking to the moon in their head to thank her for light is a worth while thing to do.

They decide that all the things that catch in their chest and remove just a little bit of weight, the things that make them smile, well they can be religion too.

(and if its all the placebo affect, well the placebo affect works doesn't it? and they are so much happier having decided that things matter)

So they don't really believe in a god or gods, and they don't really believe in spirits, but they decide that they can treat everything like its alive like a stuffed animal. They may know that a tree won't really hear if they apologize when they bump into it, and that the moon will shine whether or not you thank it, but it feels like they have company if they acknowledge it, so they do. (and its just nice to be nice to things so there's that too)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

CAT-EYES

PAIRING: Runaway Groom!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Thief!Reader

SYNOPSIS: What begins as a normal day of stalking the back road for wealthy carriages, turns into a walking nightmare spanning three days. Who is this finely-dressed man stumbling about your woods?

WORDCOUNT: 13.3k

WARNINGS: Blood, injury, light gore, pining, intense banter, sarcasm, insults, kind of enemies-to-lovers but eh, angst, protective!John, light hurt/comfort, bittersweet?, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You were sitting in the branches again.

Lightly swinging your legs from over the sides, the rough bark at your spine shifted as you let out a tiny sigh into the chilled air. In your ears, you’re hearing the bugs fly past, and the large hart about fifteen feet away pushing through the undergrowth—built body just barely there as the puff of his hot breath wafts upwards. 

Twirling the arrow between your fingers, your bow sitting carefully in your lap, you close your eyes and listen. 

The years had come and gone and yet you remained here in this small corner of nowhere—resting in this old gnarled oak tree with its branches and leaves giving protection from the elements when nothing else would. Sure, you had a small home to call your own in these very woods, but your windows didn’t give a view of the back road to the East. Barely anyone took it now, and you think you’re partially to blame for it, but, well, perhaps those pesky nobles shouldn’t have been too prone to flashing their coin.

So it was their fault, and on your failing honor, the money always went to a good cause anyway. Who wouldn’t want a poor woman to eat?

But, no. There are rules that every thief follows, no matter how unsavory. You never killed anyone; you never harmed them, either. Just the money—a brandished dagger or an arrow to the side of a carriage wouldn’t hurt anything besides pride, and many of those you stole from had enough to last them multiple lifetimes. 

“Greedy fellows,” you sigh under your breath before you stretch like a cat, arching your spine and spreading your arms high above your head. The few rays of sun you get through the leaves dance across your face, but still, the thick layer of cold air is present all around. 

Shuffling a bit in your shoulder-wrapping, you yawn and fall back once more—licking your lips and thinking of warm stew and fresh bread from the inn down in the town. Shivering, your fingers move to play with your bow, tapping along the bend of wood as the trees are brushed by a soft breeze. The hart below huffs louder still—hooves crushing across the fallen twigs, and you think it’s a bit strange the thing is still here despite your scent clearly in the air, but your eyes are more focused on the road than an animal. 

Until it speaks.

“Hells fuckin’ bells, this damn get-up is going to be the death of me,” the words are barked out quickly—laced with heated anger as a branch is slapped by heavy hands.

Startling, your head snaps below you rapidly; heart jerking inside of your chest so suddenly that you nearly send yourself off the side of your perch. Scrambling for your bow to make sure it doesn’t clatter to the dirt of the Earth, you force down a loud gasp at what you see. 

“Bastard things,” meets your ears as you stare open-eyed at a bulky man as he stumbles out into the small clearing below your tree, looking behind him as he pants. Your jaw goes slack at the extravagant apparel clothing this sudden stranger—a red, black, and blue tartan thrown over his shoulder, pinned with the silver image of a great boar head, and the kilt has more than one bramble stuck into it as it swishes with his turn. 

He has a sporran as well, made of dark furs with three tassels hanging, the metal also silver, as your experienced eyes can tell as they narrow in confusion. 

“What in the hell…” You breathe quietly, leaning just a bit more over the edge of your branch slowly. 

There were black belts and buckles, rich shoes of leather, and your gaze slowly drags to the hanging body of a sword strapped to his waist, swinging as the man rests his feet and looks down at himself with a deep annoyance. There wasn’t an inch of him not coated in dirt, mud, or sweat—all that deer-ish panting and huffing escaping his mouth in condensed clouds. 

“Fuckin’,” he stops himself from continuing the curse, holding up his hands as he glares down at his form. “Jesus, this’ll never come out at this rate.” 

This comment made your lips twitch, eyebrow-raising as your sharp vision filtered from one detail to the next—learning the brown shade of his cut hair and the strange way it’s kept long down the center, and short along the sides. He had a strong build to him, and the boar broach, while it may be something to distinguish a family line as he seemed wealthy, perfectly reflected the individual. 

He was a being of muscle and stubborn willpower. All tusk and bristled fur.

Your eyes linger a bit longer on the silver of that broach—the thing that glints in the light alluringly. You hum under your breath, tilting your head softly. Yet, your impression was made, and your wits are about you as sharply as they always had been.

This was a formal outfit, for a formal occasion. So, why was this important man trampling through the woods where you were set to ambush the next unassuming noble on the road? Why was he looking over his shoulder so tense-like? Your curiosity had piqued the second you’d figured out the rabid crunching from the bushes wasn’t a deer but instead, a wealthy-looking man who wasn’t, you admitted, too hard on the eyes. 

Blinking, you smile, fingers twitching over your bow as the stranger brushes his vest rapidly, growling down at the large mud stains. 

“Lost, then?” Your voice makes him startle, skull whipping forward to the tree trunk until you whistle and lean forward; moving your bow to push away the cover of leaves. “Up here, now,” blue eyes immediately lock with yours and you hum, chuckling, at the moment of shock that shines through. “Poor bastard, look at you and all that mud. You’ve been through hell, mate, eh? By the state of you, I’d say you fought a bear and found yourself at the end of an unfortunate outcome.”

Your words are smooth—nearly sly just as they always are. There’s intent leaking out of every one of them until all that remains is a layered purpose, like that of a butcher peeling away flesh from a hide. You have to process that skin: lay it to a rack to let it dry before it can be stretched to the desired firmness, and, finally, softened.

You took as much pleasure in the mental hunt as you did the payoff. Where there’s money to be earned, there’s also knowledge—you were a thief of all. 

The man watches you with wide eyes, those blues glinting as they blink, glancing around rapidly to check for any others like you that may be hiding. He steps back, a hand brushing his sword, and you think to yourself slowly, he’s smart. 

You breathe down chilled air. Before he responds he checks to make sure it’s not an ambush—the man understands he’s out of his element here. He’s on edge. 

The both of you stare at one another, before your face shifts, brow-raising up on your forehead. 

“What, did I startle you?” Legs looping to hang off the same side, your body feels lighter than a feather as you send yourself over the edge, knees taking the brunt of the force as your head catches up to your stomach—grunting as you hold your bow heavily in one hand. The jostle moves the limbs of your arrows, kept in a quiver at the small of your back. 

Standing fully, you huff and set an easy smile to your lips, all teeth.

“My apologies, Lord.” Your free hand finds your heart, and you bend your spine forward. “I couldn’t help but see you down here below my tree.”

“Best to stay where you are,” the stranger grunts, only giving you enough of a glance to deem you unthreatening, apparently. Your form straightened. He watches you warily on the next go-around, attention always drifting to every snap of a twig off into the trees or the breeze shifting the leaves. “No need to apologize,” is the hurried reply, caught on a rough accent and a hissed gravel huff. “I’ll be on my way once I get my bearings. I don’t have time for conversation—and you should find your way home before long.” Eyes dart. “It isn’t good to be out today...or tonight, I’d say.”

If possible, your intrigue gains strength like a saint in Heaven. 

The man’s square face raves in a clench of his jaw, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Are you sure you’re not lost, Lord?” You continue, undeterred, and shift your bow to sling it over your shoulder. “I live in these woods, I’d have no trouble directing you to the road. It isn’t far.”

“It’s John,” he grunts, glancing over, out of sorts. He was tired—his limbs were shaking with exertion even if he didn’t realize it yet. You think that perhaps if he were more focused, he’d ask why a woman had just landed in front of him from the branch of an Oak; dressed in trousers and a tunic, with just a woolen wrap to keep out the chill. Dirt over her face and a cunning edge to her words. Or, maybe he did know, you wondered, and simply didn’t care at the moment. 

“Just call me Johnny. And,” he shakes his head firmly. “No. Go home to your husband, Bonnie, this doesn’t involve you.” He blinks, staring with a line across his forehead, stubble pulling along his cheeks. “I know this place—there’s a road just to the…” he turns his head to the direction of your trail, blinking at the coverage of thick foliage. “Fuck,” the dark-haired stranger growls, blues sparking up in a feral display of desperate weight. 

You can only see the winding bends if you have a vantage point—that was why you chose your tree in the first place. Your smile grows.

“It’s that way, Lord,” you breathe, pointing in the opposite direction of the road, back to the small path of brambles and bushes that leads closer to your home instead. “We pass my property on the way, I can offer you some drink for your troubles.” A chuckle wafts the air. “You look like you need it.”

There’s a large moment of hesitation, in which you begin to wonder if this prize might be too big to catch, but, then, as there’s a flash of something over John’s face, he grits his teeth and sighs. 

“Aye, fine,” he nods, looking to the side as he lowers his tense shoulders and clears his throat. You’re offered a sincere expression that borders on strained guilt. “Thank you, Dearie. I…” John pauses, frowning. “I hope I didn’t scare you too much when I burst through the trees like that—I’m in a bit of a rush if you can’t tell. I need to make for the shore.”

“My,” you huff, shifting your body and motioning him to follow—he does, setting his feet carefully ahead of him with experienced movements; keeping a respectable distance away. Johnny wasn’t new to the woods, then. He knew where to place his feet, at the very least. “The shore? That sounds exciting.” You conclude, hiding your creased brows as you stare forward. “Making for the South? I’ve heard handfuls are leaving for the weather.”

Looking over your shoulder, you make sure he keeps on your trail as you push through the bushes. “More agreeable, they say. Less rain.”

John chuckles, though he’s still visibly aware of everything around him. He spares you a look, a small smirk taking over his slightly chapped lips. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I just might.”

You’re surprised by the genuine laugh that fights in the back of your throat. Humming under your breath, you shrug it off as simply as a dog does a fly. It was painfully obvious neither of you trusted the other. 

John’s eyes were stuck on the back of your head, and yours were eager to slide back to his form on the off-chance you had to use the dagger strapped to the meat of your thigh, carefully hidden under your trousers and accessible via a cut in your pocket. He was all muscle, and already you know that any attack coming to you would be unwise to try and retaliate—slash and retreat was a much better escape plan. 

You could outrun him.

“So,” your words bleed curiosity, eyes imploring as you glance over your shoulder. “Why are you out in the woods, Johnny? In such a nice outfit as well. Is there something going on around here?” 

The dark-haired man tilts his head your way, sighing long. “A wedding, actually. Horrible thing, if I have to comment on it.” 

Your lips twitch. 

“Oh, aye. I’d heard about it in town not two days ago—something about a marriage of advantage? Who was the unlucky pair, then?”

John clenched his jaw, hand coming up to push at the smear of dried blood on his cheek, which you’d just noticed wasn’t dirt and instead the result of a branch slap. Pale cheeks were wind-bitten. Lungs heavy. You narrow your gaze before stopping the surge of questions in your mouth. 

“Some poor bastard, that’s who,” he responds slowly, mostly under his breath, before blinking. “How much further is the road, Dearie? No offense,” he grunts, staring seriously at you “but I'd rather not be here for much longer.”

The boar broach winks at you.

“Not far,” you smile coyly. “Forgive me, Lord John—”

“Just Johnny—”

 “—But I do hope you’re not a fugitive.” 

Blue eyes widen, sure feet faltering. 

“.... Negative, Bonnie, no, I’m not running from the law. You don’t have to worry about any of that with me,” he breathes, and not once does he look away from you. You have to commend the man, he seemed an honest fellow, and those, you knew, were very rare indeed in your time. “I just need to get out of these woods. You’ll never hear from me again after I’m gone.” He takes a breath, looking past you. “You have my word.”

“Is it worth believing?” You push, smirking. “There’s few dressed like you that I can say it is.”

John licks his lips as you both pass a fallen tree, standing more side by side than previously now that the density of bushes had dispersed. He huffs, sending you a side-eye before he seems to study your face, brows pulling jokingly. 

“I don’t think my answer would make much of a difference, would it?”

You pause, enjoying this man’s company more by the second. “No, it wouldn’t.” The both of you stare, before you grin and pull your sharp gaze away, chuckling. “Follow me,” you motion a hand. “Before you fall into a mud pit and completely ruin what little is left of your outfit that’s sellable—” You fumble, faking a cough as you clear your throat and finish off with tension now in your spine, “Salvageable.”

“If I’m bein’ honest, Bonnie,” Johnny grumbles, either not noticing the mistake or simply not registering it. “I wouldn’t fuckin’ care if it got covered in horse shit.” 

—

You open the door to your home, shifting out of your bow and setting it against the wall with your quiver following to rest beside it as two siblings should.

“You’re lucky,” you hum, “I just went to the well this morning—freshwater is in the basin, cups on the table.”

John’s eyes give a firm once-over, fingers fidgeting above his sword’s hilt. He nods once, moving into the doorway, and immediately goes to where you describe and grabs onto a carved cup, tilting it in his hands. 

“Thank you,” he mutters sincerely, hand dipping into the collection of water. “Eh,” John puffs a laugh, “I’d imagine I would still be stumbling along if it wasn’t for you, little Lady. These woods are larger than I remember them.” 

“You come from around here?” You ask, brushing down your wool wrapping as you pull at the burs in the fiber. “Don’t recall your face in the town, though I’m not there often.”

“Hm,” he takes down the water, and you watch his Adam’s Apple bob as droplets slip from his lips to drop off his chin. Once he had drunk the entire cup, he removed it and wiped at his mouth with his forearm, blue eyes peeking above it. “I…wasn’t in town usually. Not really my place—the forests outside of my property took most of my attention.” He confesses, head tilting as the strange cut of his hair flops along with his skull. “Those, I could run blind.”

“I’m sure,” you puff a laugh.

While the air was somewhat calm, there was still an underlying hesitancy: Johnny didn’t know who you were, and you didn’t know what he was running from. Both were important questions that needed to be answered. Yet, John seemed the casual type.

“Doubt me?” His eyes narrow, a smile brewing. 

“I never said that,” you walk past him, also grabbing a cup before dipping it into the basin. Your finger points. “But it would be interesting to test.” 

“Unfortunately,” John breathes, setting down his cup, “I’m occupied at the moment.”

“A groom would be,” you tilt your head, casually sipping at your drink. “Your wife must be fucking fuming right now.”

The room flips on itself, and the man is instantly frozen. 

Johnny stares, shocked, and you see his feet instinctually ready a stance to either blot to the door, or to take up his sword. His expression is layered with secrecy.

“...What was that?”

“I said your wife must be fucking fuming,” you say louder, slipping your hand into your pocket and shrugging to make it seem meaningless—your dagger’s hilt is smooth under your flesh. “Or did you not finish the ceremony? Betrothed, then, Johnny Boy?” Your eyes glint. “Hell, the event must have been absolutely laced with wealth. Did you have wine imported? New fabrics for your wedding clothes? I’d almost be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“That’s none of your business, Dearie,” he levels, glare heavy and firm while his face is stoic. You can clearly see his body wound up like a wild dog. “I think we’re done here.”

He backs up quickly, legs taking him to the exit until you’re suddenly right behind him, and the man feels the sharp press of a blade into the back of his spine.

Your lips are at his ear, and you chuckle. “Sorry, but we’re not done until anything valuable is in my hands and not on your body.” 

“If you wanted me naked,” he growls, glaring from over his shoulder, as his form is rod-straight. “You could have just asked, Little Thief.”

“I’d call it heavy persuasion,” you chuff. “Sounds better, don’t you think.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Johnny barks, teeth gnashing. “Put the knife down before this gets ugly.”

“I’m not entirely sure I want to,” your answer meets the air. “There’s enough silver and fine fabric on you to feed me for an entire winter, even when the deer move to better grounds.” 

John grits his molars, his neck bent as his fingers twitch at his sides, slipping along to his sword slowly. 

“Money? That’s why you’ve got a bloody blade on me? Christ, my day just keeps getting better and better.” You glare, anger moving behind your eyes. 

“Some people have to work for what they want, you—” Your hand is slapped to the side as John spins, and your dagger is sent along the floor in a loud clatter; a hand finding your upper arm as you gasp, and, suddenly, there’s the chilled edge of a blade at your throat. 

Wide-eyed, you gape at John as the man smirks at you, yet his orbs are infected with annoyance. 

“When you draw a knife on someone, you best know how to use it.” The edge is slightly pressed deeper and your body refuses to move. “You put it at the neck, Cat-Eyes.” John frowns, glaring. “Knew there was something about you—down to the bow and arrows.”

“What,” you growl out, a low embarrassment stemming in your gut as John’s puffs of breath move along your face. Your face burns, and your fingers jerk with anger. “A woman can’t have hobbies?”

“Not when I find ‘em up trees waiting to ambush any bastard that comes by wearing silver.”

“Mate,” you sneer, eyes glimmering. “At this point, you can keep your damn silver. It’s more of a reward to watch you stumble like a fool through the woods five feet from the road.” Johnny’s face tightens, yet there’s little time to fight like children anymore when the sound of breaking branches is echoing off the windows of the house.

Both of your necks whip to the door, yours a great deal more carefully as you’re slightly nicked by the sword's edge, but the drip of blood is voided. High voices carry over the air.

“Find him!”

“His tracks lead through here—get the hounds on it!”

“Here!”

Your brow raises, smirk getting larger as you chuckle under your breath. “Better get on your way quickly, then.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Johnny snarls, all at once ripping his sword from your neck yet keeping his ruthless grip on your upper arm. He looks nervous now—his eyes jumping from one place to another, thinking. “Where’s the damn road, you minx.”

You shrug, eyes sharp. “What road, Lord?”

The strong man rages, eyes burning with a thousand suns as the sword is taken from your neck and re-sheathed in one motion—a second hand staples itself to your waist, gripping tightly. You blink, saliva swallowed down thickly at the dig of heavy fingers into flesh as your heart stutters.

“You’re going to tell me,” John levels, shifting the both of you back as the sounds of fast footsteps are echoed by the bay of dogs. “As much as I would enjoy being away from you in any capacity at all,” you smile humorously to him through his dead-tone monologue, “I need a guide out of these woods and across the land. If you won’t help willingly, I’ll just have to make do.”

You blink, confused. 

“Make do?” Your body is taken up, and you shout as you’re ruthlessly flung over the man’s shoulder with a hiked toss. 

Johnny’s smirk is lost to you, but his chuckle is not as he dashes to the door and slams it open, taking a quick left and looping the house—diving into the foliage as if a fish to water. “Unhand me, you brute!” You scream, clawing and hitting at the man’s back—kicking even, as your knee speedily finds his ribcage. “Ow!” John laughs, his grin highly amused as he turns back to look at you. The shouts from the trees get larger, but that doesn’t help you much as you’re both soon going deeper and deeper into the woods. “Jesus, you have a pair of legs, don’t you?”

“If I were marrying you,” you bark down at him, struggling with all of your might as your home disappears from view. “I’d be running instead of the other way around!” 

“Well,” Johnny calls, his sword bouncing off of his hip. “It’s a good thing you’re not, then, isn’t it, you bonnie little thief? Your husband would be dead and all of his coin in your dirty pockets!”

“Stop calling me a thief!” You send a closed-fisted slap to the top of his head, and he grunts, balking to the side. “Learn how to handle a fucking lady!”

“Lady?” He breathes heavily, shoving into another bush as leaves get tangled in his hair—twigs stuck in yours as you scowl rabidly. “If you’re a lady, Bonnie, then I’ve got a beast waiting for me back at my ceremony.”

—

He stopped when the light of the sun was low, and your constant attack of his spine left an array of large, fist-shaped bruises on his skin.

“Easy,” John grunts, dropping you with a huff to a down-turned stump. 

It isn’t long before you shoot back up, hands clawing for his throat. “Hells Bells!” The man ducks, boyish glint in his eyes as he darts to the side, stepping out of the way as you stumble on tingly legs.

“I’m going to skin you alive,” you yell. “Piece of utter dog shite!”

“Now that’s a bit strong,” John breathes, panting from his mad run for his single life. “Don’t you think?”

You take one step forward, and he takes two back—stuck in a game of cat and mouse. Your eyes are like tiny fires, illuminated with only anger and hatred. 

“Give me one reason why I should even attempt to help you,” your screams rise above the trees, hands splayed as John puts his hands to his knees, taking down breaths as sweat dribbles down his neck into his vest. “You-you,” your tongue fumbles, “kidnapper!”

“Technically, it would be an abduction, Dearie.” You slap him across the face and see the man’s cheeks go red from the blow. Shoving your nose nearly right into his, you sneer. 

“Correct me again, and it’ll be your balls I hit next.”

He swallows, blinking, before he smirks and pairs it with a chuckle as his eyes spark. “Yes, Ma’am.”

You growl as he holds up his hands, moving one to rub at the back of his neck and itch at the shaved portion of his scalp. That damned smirk—you despised it.

“Get me to the closest port,” John settles, getting to business as his expression mellows out. “And I’ll make it worth your while, I give you my word.” 

“What?” You laugh, shaking your head in exasperation the longer the silence falls; realizing how serious the man is. “Oh God in Heaven, this has to be a joke.”

“Anything you ask for, you can have from me when this is over,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his mud-caked shoes. “I don’t need more than the fee to secure a spot on a good ship sailing away from here, and whatever is left I’ll give to you if you want it. You win in this situation, and I’m not trying to hide it from you.”

Your sharp eyes hone in, unwavering in its heat.

“Christ,” Johnny breathes, “I’d even give you my damn socks if that’s what it takes—I need to get out of here. Quickly.” 

You stare, sneering. “Is your betrothed a damn witch or what?”

Blue eyes blink, and his words are firm as they meet air. “Are you taking up my offer or not, Cat-Eyes?”

“Of course, I’m taking the offer!” You bark ruthlessly, rolling your eyes as you kick at the dirt. Rocks and grass fly as darkness settles heavier. “I’m not a fool.”

“Well,” he sighs in relief, looking to the shadows along the ground. “I can’t say you’re that, either, but you are certainly something.” 

You narrow your eyes at Johnny but don’t waste your time any longer as you turn and study what you can see. 

You had grown up here—in this land. The woods knew you just as much as you knew them. Already you could pinpoint a general map of this section based on the large cracked boulder to your right, and the tiny cluster of trees across the way. You knew the way to town, and from there, the port. 

“It’s a three-day walk,” you grumble, side-eyeing the man as he moves to lean against a trunk. He wouldn’t be moving through the night—you didn’t complain on that front either. “You grab at me like that again, and I’ll—”

“Let me guess,” Johnny raises a brow. “You’ll hit me in the balls.”

Your thin lips tell him all he needs to know. 

Shuffling past him, you frown and pull your wrapping closer, shuffling your chin into it. No fires for warmth, you know—not with people on your trail.

“I want an explanation,” you turn and dig into him, walking closer as John looks to the side. “If I’m sticking my neck out, I want answers as well as coin.” Poking him in his chest, you force your neck to find his gaze. “Why are you running?” 

Johnny sighs, licking his lips as he nods with a low, “Fine.”

You tilt your head, and John moves back to sit against the stump, moving out his hands in an honest display. 

“I was told I needed to marry and produce heirs if my house was going to survive, aye?” He states, and you know the story well. “My parents are gone, and my sisters are all married, but my estate is barren of anyone besides myself and the staff. To keep the peace, I gave my word that I would join into a union to secure my assets for my bloodline.”

It was all so formal, the talk of a wife and children—you never understood it. Why couldn’t people simply marry who they love and leave it at that? All this bloodline and assets. Don’t they ever get sick of it?

“What’s your last name, then,” you ask. “McDuff? Mackenzie?”

“MacTavish,” John shakes his head, rubbing his hand up and down the back of his neck. Blue eyes stay with yours. “John MacTavish, I have lands to the North.”

Your brows tighten, arms going to cross themselves. “You’re running from your home because of a union you can freely exit?”

“It isn’t free,” he grumbles, shaking his head firmly and setting his jaw. “My father’s wishes for his children were written down and sealed. I was to marry a daughter of Arthur Campbell when I came of age.” John chuckles face going a bit pink. “As you can see, I’m a good few years past that.” 

You tilt your head, and while Johnny was certainly passed the normal age of a male in his position to be wed, it struck you as odd as to why he didn’t want to be in the first place. In marriage during these times, a man has little to lose when joined. Almost nothing else changes for them except another title is added to their long line of others already living under him.  

John continues, and you stay your snake-like tongue for now. “Wasn’t until I learned that by now, Mr. Campbell’s second born daughter, who was the only one near my age, had passed nearly an entire year ago—leaving only the oldest behind.”

“And?” You hum, intrigued to see where this goes. Johnny itches at his chin, scratching the stubble that lives there along with the dirt and grime. “What, I’d imagine the head of the Campbell family wanted to uphold the arrangement?”

“Aye, they did,” John grunts, nodding. “Fiona Campbell was the woman I was set to marry today.” He pauses, sighing heavily before looking to the side. Darkness had set, and there was little light by way to see the expression of guilt growing on his face. “I’m not lyin’ when I say I didn’t want to make such a mess of it, but there’s only so much a man can do when he learns his bride is not only twice his age,” John breathes, grunting, “but also just…” He stops himself, sighing. 

You frown, gut swirling. 

“She was blank, do you understand?” Johnny asks, motioning a hand in a display of unknowing explanation. “All she seemed to care about was children and wealth. A slate waiting to be filled with someone else’s thoughts and ideas. I didn’t want to be the one to fill it—I’ll not be some husband that runs a wife around like a dog. That isn’t right to me; it wasn’t how I was raised.”

Your mind twists on itself with an indefinable feeling—skin tight to your bones as if taken and tied by ropes. Your heart pumps blood a little harder, but just because this man seems less of a bastard doesn’t mean you like him. He’d dragged you into this hunting party of his grand problem, and the sooner you got your payment, the better and easier it would be to disappear.

“How noble,” you huff, rolling your eyes. Yet, your voice is hiding an under-the-breath shock. “So you bolted into the woods?”

Johnny rubs at his nose bridge, growling in annoyance. “Yes—it was the best cover I had. Been going through the trails since sunrise.” He slaps his hands to his knees and stands back up with a grunt and an ache in his thighs. His sarcastic voice peels the shadows. “Are we satisfied, now, Bonnie?”

“I won’t be until you’re out of my sight,” you level, moving forward. “So are you going to bed so I can drag you to the port or not?”

John’s body is heard shifting as you slip down the trunk of a tree, backside hitting grass as you settle in for a restless sleep—pulling your wrap tighter over your shoulders. Here you were: weaponless and in the company of a runaway groom still in all of his finery. 

You wanted that damn boar broach. 

“Sleep’ll be smart, we need to be up early,” John says seriously, his shoes shifting the leaves. Letting the chill seep in, you burrow into your fabrics and glare ahead. Johnny’s sly voice is so reminiscent of yours, that you have to wonder if the two of you were cut of the same cloth. “I won’t be opposed to a cuddle if you get chilly, Little Lady—”

“I should have stabbed you when I had the chance.”

Johnny’s low chuckles waft over the air, and then the silence settles fully. 

Yet, you’re up far later than you anticipated…and you find this honest man’s confession to be bouncing inside of your skull like an enraged bird.

—

“Christ, did I do that?” A finger is pressed under your chin, tilting your head up as you strangle a gasp at the sudden motion. 

Johnny looks at the tiny cut along your neck from the edge of his sword—the barely-there irritation of the skin that you’d been itching at as you walked forward through the trees. 

He frowns, glancing into your eyes as your body stills at the feeling of warm flesh. 

It was the first day of walking, and the silence between the two of you had stayed. Not only were you annoyed at the situation, but also John’s story—you’d been mulling it over since last night. 

But below that anger, you might have even felt a little wrong. 

“Who else?” You sigh sarcastically to the man, trying to hide the rising flood of heated shock. Thick digits drag along your esophagus slowly in study, and John’s face creases the longer he looks. He’s hunched near you, too—and you can smell the low scent of leather and earth. 

Johnny pulls back with a huff and slips a hand into his sporran. Your eyes watch with blatant distrust until a relatively clean rag is taken out by a steady hand.

He motions with it. “Come ‘ere. Let me get the dirt out of it before it gets infected, eh?”

You sigh lowly but decide it’s a good idea at the very least before nodding—John’s fingers return as the light from above leaks through the branches. The morning was cold, but not unreasonable; the woods gave shelter from the otherwise abusive wind of the open country.

“Look at that,” you breathe, “The first nice thing you’ve done for me.”

“Ah,” John lightly glares. “Not quite right—I carried you away instead of making you run with me.”

Your eyes roll, and Johnny’s chuckle echoes off the surroundings.  

“Such a gentleman,” you grumble, feeling the rag press into your throat and the soft scrape of it across your scratch. 

“So,” the man hums, blue eyes stuck to your flesh as he takes care of it far more nicely than you’d imagined someone to be. “Seeing as I’ve shared my sob story, Cat-Eyes, I think I’d like to ask after yours.” His voice is full of amusement. “As we’ll be keeping one another company.”

“It’s less as in-depth than yours,” your fingers twitch as Johnny moves back after the cleaning is done—returning the rag to his sporran as he blinks. 

“I don’t believe that,” he raises a brow, as you ignore the remembrance of his touch and continue, paving the trail as the dark-haired man follows a close distance behind. “Can’t say there’s many times I’ve seen an unwed woman wielding a bow and thieving someone out of their money. I’ve seen a lot of things, Bonnie,” he laughs, “but never that. Scared the hell out of me when you dropped down.”

“You can add me to the top of the list, I suppose,” you puff a teasing breath. After an expecting pause in the conversation, you grow bored of the nothingness. 

“I’ve lived out here my entire life—I do what I have to. That’s all there is to it.”

John’s face gradually pulls into itself, only looking away from you to glance at the path to make sure he won’t fall. 

“No family?”

“None,” you tilt your head, shimmying under a low branch and pushing leaves off your shoulders. They sway to the ground softly as you brush an arm over your forehead, sensing Johnny’s attention. 

The man grunts. “M’sorry.”

Your feet stumble for a moment, pace faltering, until you cover it up easily. You turn to stare, narrowing your eyelids as open blues watch silently. John’s shoulder brushes yours.

“It’s life,” you blankly answer. “Least I wasn’t married off. Where you had to worry about a blank slate, I had to worry about becoming a broodmare for a man who most likely would never love me.”

Johnny licks his lips, eyes darting to the ground. “Can’t imagine you like that,” he mutters, but it isn’t some joke—he’s truthful. 

“Perfect,” is what his ears twitch to. “Because I’d sooner act like you and bolt from my wedding as well.”  

“Would that make me the thief in your story, then?” Johnny asks, chuffing as he smiles towards you, reaching a hand above him to push another branch out of the way—separating it from your form as you bend under. “I’m tellin’ you, I wouldn’t be very good at it. All that dropping down from trees would have my knees screamin’. Not that they don’t already.”

Your laugh pierces his chest, and the man sends a kind if not a bit startled, show of interest to you. It sounded like a bowstring slapping a wrist—harsh and telling all at once: something to be known and understood even if heard only once. 

John blinks at you, and his heart patters along in his chest.

“I think it would be more fun to think about you with a dagger,” you narrow your gaze at him, smiling. “A small thing like that would disappear in your hands, Johnny Boy.” 

“Disappear?” He tilts his head, raising his hands to hover in front of him. “Ah, they’re not that big, are they?” 

You shift, and, nearly without thinking, you slip your hand to sit above his. Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes going wide as you reference the size of his grip under yours, but allows you to regardless. A blue gaze slides to your face, openly imploring, before they dart back down to your shared hands as the roughness of his callouses scraped against your flesh. 

“Care to compare?” You smirk, lifting a brow.

Johnny’s lips parted quickly, blinking a few times as he tried to find the words to accompany his running mind. He clears his throat, but the small sheen of red pigment on his cheeks is undeniable. 

Laughing, you detach the connection and pull ahead, leaving the man behind as he stutters with a fast pulse.

“You’re the strangest woman I’ve ever met,” is what he decides minutes later, a large grin on his face—he was enjoying this, for whatever twisted and flawed reason, he was. John’s adrenaline was pumping, his heart was pounding, and his feet were passing over the earth, yet, even better, his brain was sparking at a mile a minute for the woman who walked only three feet ahead of him. He watches you take these trails like an expert, not having to look down at your feet as stone and wood are passed as if you were water above them, whispering and nearly silent.

“At least I’m not boring.” Your eyes meet him, and in them, they create some horribly beautiful amalgamation of twin flames—two sparking fires that feed from the same ember. “You would never catch me becoming a housewife, Johnny Boy.” Your gazes never break. “There are far too many things to steal in this country, and so very few men who can keep up.” 

John’s chest moves in the beat of his pulse—his attention wholly transfixed upon the sight of this wild-born woman whom he’d only met yesterday. There were leaves in your wrap, and brown-black mud coated up to your ankles, even sweat sitting at your temple, yet you moved with grace befitting a Lady: never seeming to tire of jokes or firm surety. Yet…you weren’t cruel—you weren’t without purpose. 

Any accomplished thief would have just stabbed him and taken what they needed in your house. You offered John water, however, you chose to give him a chance to comply. It was such a small thing in the grand scheme, but Johnny was always one to analyze how one feather on a bird can affect the flight pattern, so to speak. One action that speaks volumes. 

You liked creating games, and, lucky for him, John loved to solve them. 

And that glint in your sharp-slitted eyes was becoming more and more enjoyable every second, he found. 

Pushing back the strands of his wayward hair, John keeps up with you for every step, not unfamiliar with how to traverse unsteady terrain. He wasn’t lying in what he told you—he had spent most of his life in the forest beside his home: hunting, fishing, riding. There wasn’t an activity he didn’t enjoy when he was outside, though his mother was always heavy on him about the mess he brought back. 

Blue eyes drop back down to your dirt-laced pants, and the man can’t help but give his best, lip-pulling smile. 

Hell, if he didn’t know any better, he would say that you were something that made so little, and at the same time so much, sense to him. 

“Well, maybe they just aren’t accustomed to hiking, Little Cat-Eyed Thief.”

There was something special in the glances you two would throw one another.

—

Your hands dip into the clear water, fingers open to feel the current drag through them gently. 

“If you want a sip,” you say, cupping the liquid and bringing it up to your lips, “it’s safe. This river flows down from the hills—not perfect, but there’s only a small chance it’ll make you sick.” 

John comes up and hums as he sits down beside you, folding his legs under him and leaning forward to submerge his arms up to his elbows in water. He sighs, and you hear the river gurgling as the man begins to rub up his flesh, getting rid of all the grime. 

“Good to know.” Blue eyes spare you a look as he continues. “What’s this one called?”

“Woodney river,” you answer. “Old Man Jack Woodney ran a water wheel on this river a long walk West. If this place had a name before that, it won’t tell.” 

Johnny washes his face, scrubbing at his stubble as the scratch of it plays in the side of your ear. You watch along the opposite shore, eyes going from trees to birds—even to the shadows of fish that quickly swim past. Sighing, you have to admit the beauty of this adventure. There were few times you could say you’d gone this far into the woods with no wealth to trade in with the townspeople. 

You side-eye John and study him just as heavily as you do a wild animal.

He wasn’t unattractive, you admitted. Strong—sturdy. Johnny was capable in a way that most Lords wouldn’t be, some, you guessed, would already be complaining about the uncomfortableness of their clothes or the flesh of their blistered feet. But John was bright-eyed; more than once you’d seen him actively watching the stretch of the trees for any sign of his pursuers. He never complained. Not once.

“You’re not as insufferable as I thought you’d be,” you say. Frowning, your hands push back into the water and cup some of the chilled liquid. You let it drip before you extend your hand to your neck and feel your eyes droop in relaxation. 

Johnny laughs, staring at you for a minute as he slowly raises a brow. His face shows amusement.

“Am I supposed to be insulted or not?” 

“I leave that for you to decide.”

John cracks his knuckles and shakes his head as he stands. “C’mon,” he drags, but the smile in his voice is clear. A hand is set in front of yours. “Sooner I get out the port, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

Your face softens slightly. 

“Am I ever going to get an apology for being tossed like a sack of potatoes?” Skin meets skin as you slip your hand into his, and the man pulls you to your feet as you smile. Calluses brush yours, and yet again, you find you enjoy this game—perhaps more than any other you’d played before.

And you don’t understand why.

Johnny’s fingers are firm over yours, curling as water drips to the ground below in reflective droplets, and you think back to the first time you’d met him—panting breath and rapid eyes. Your eyes glance to that boar broach, and find it attached to a man that is suddenly more of a mystery than a closed book. 

“Easy,” John mutters, steadying you by your shoulders as you remember where you are. The dark-haired man squeezes your flesh and looks into you.

Blue eyes glint, and that smirk, you find, is always followed by a tiny tint of his head. “And what’s that look for, Cat-Eyes?”

“You called me strange.” 

John’s brows furrow. “Aye. I did.” He looks you up and down slowly. “You are.”

You do the same to him, not wasting more than a moment. “And I find it funny that you haven’t said the same thing about yourself. You’re far more strange than I’ll ever be.” 

“Guilty,” Johnny smiles, nodding slightly. His hands are still on you, and he doesn’t seem to even notice. “I don’t think a normal one would fuck off from his own wedding, would he?”

“Or kidnap a woman as a guide,” you state, pulling out of his warm hold even as your stomach flips as you brush past

“Again,” John’s hand motions through the air. “Abduct.” 

“You’re just saying that because it sounds slightly better,” you grimace over your shoulder. “Like comparing a dog to a wolf.”

Johnny is hot on your heels, and when the river-eroded stepping stones to the other side of the water are the clear path to take, he’s already on the first and holding out his arm for you as a true gentleman would. You glance at him and hop to the first stone, liquid sloshing at your shoes. 

Your smirk is stuck with his like two pieces of a quilt, and neither of you realizes it.

“You put a knife to my back first, Dearie.” John puffs and his face is right next to your ear as you both cross the stones—you lean into him and elbow his side before your arm slips into his. The man grunts, blinking as he chuckles above the slosh of water. 

“So? Maybe I only point knives at the men I like.” 

“Then I’d say you have every right to put one right at my throat.”

Feet move carefully over rocks and the spray of the water that coats them—a dance of wit in their own right. It was like animals circling one another, all sharp eyes and pulled lips trying to find weaknesses. Deadly flirting and addictive banter. 

Where annoyance was such a common emotion, now there was a near expectation of jabs; of tantalizing quips for the glimpse of another's mind.

Neither of you could understand the other, which was exactly why you both reveled in the brush of warm flesh. 

“Careful,” your feet meet the hard ground once more on the other side, and John only lets go when he knows that you don’t need him to steady you. “You’re engaged, Johnny Boy.”

Your tease slips in one ear and out the other, and the man watches you turn and begin walking again with sly eyes. John’s wide gaze stays stuck there for a moment—mouth eager to continue any conversation given. Watching you walk, his heart beats speedily. 

“I think my, ah, reputation has all but ruined my chances on that front—”

There’s something unique about the sound of an arrow sinking into flesh that can’t really be forgotten. John had heard it many times—even been behind the bow that shot it; the slap of the string across his forearm, the set of his shoulder blades widening until the arrow disappeared. 

But there’s something worse knowing that the sudden expulsion of air from lungs, in fact, belongs to you and not some wild animal. 

You’re hit in a fraction of a second, down on the ground in less than that—your mind not even understanding above the immediate pressure and the slam of earth. You gasp loudly, and then the pain hits. 

Hand snapping to your left bicep, your eyes slash down to stare as grass and mud fly into the air, rabid sounds escaping the back of your throat at the image that strikes you. An arrow was stuck deep into your skin—sticking out as blacked feathers flutter at the end of the shaft. The adrenaline hits rapidly, but the expression of horror still remains.

“Cat-Eyes!” Johnny yells, rushing forward, and unsheathing his sword, the sound of metal on metal harsh, but not as harsh as the sound of blood in the man’s ears. 

You see the swelling of crimson, and, from under your fingers, the red of blood slips as your breathing gets hoarse. Biting into your lip, the quick sound of an under-the-breath groan of agony ripples.

But you’re not stupid.

Scrambling to your feet with the arrow still poking out of you, Johnny gets to you and pushes you behind him just as your shaking legs straighten—-your eyes slashing the woods in panic. Pain can wait.

The runaway groom spares you quick glances, pushing you further behind as his raging gaze darts this way and that. He yells into the trees, anger and order infecting his voice, “Show yourself!” 

Just as suddenly, there’s a relieved call and a moving shadow. You clench your eyes tight and grit your teeth as a wave of pain rockets through you.

“Fuck,” you grind out, lost under the louder voice. Blood drips to the ground.

“My Lord!” Men burst through the leaves, bows, and swords aloft. “Quickly—to us!”

Johnny’s face is stiff; there isn’t an ounce of care, but the flash of recognition is swift, and in his chest, his heart, once beating so quickly, drops to his stomach. 

Knights. His knights. Christ, the two of you hadn’t been fast enough. 

“Stand down!” John spits, and cares little now for the thought of robbery or assault on his person—these men wouldn’t hurt him, but they were tasked to bring him back. “Fucking bawbags, the lot of you.”

His sword is sheathed by twitching fingers, and no sooner were those digits around you instead.

You pant hoarsely, face tight as your vibrating body tells you to run—eyes locked onto Johnny’s, the man in front of you ushers you over to the trunk of a tree hurriedly, uttering, “Just breathe now, Dearie—listen to me. It’s alright, aye?” 

“What is this?” You raggedly push out, flinching as your spine meeting the bark jostles your arm painfully. 

Your teeth grit, tears collecting in the corner of your vision.

“Knights,” John mutters as if his words are chased by wolves. “They’re after me—probably thought you were either holding me hostage or trying to lead me into an ambush.” The colorful fabric of his pinned tartan is dragged off from over his shoulder and shoved into your weeping flesh, and you lightly moan in agony, head falling back to the tree. 

Tears slip from over your cheeks.

“Easy.” John’s concern is palpable. Worried eyes dart from your face to your wound. “Jesus,” he utters under his breath, anger flashing. 

“Who is this?” One of the knights asks, taking a step forward as Johnny holds the fabric to your wound and speaks to you lowly, utterly ignoring the people behind him. 

“I need to break the shaft off, okay?” Blue eyes try to keep even, and John’s other hand captures your cheek. He levels your face right in front of his, breathing lowly. The man clears his throat as your tight gaze flutters, tightening his grip. “Hey,” Johnny breathes. You grunt, voice a low grind. 

“Just make it quick.”

John’s lips thin. “Yes, Ma’am.”

His large hand swiftly moves to the arrow, gripping around it just where flesh meets wood, you hiss loudly, spitting and raging as your vision partially blackens. Pain sparks up and down your spine, racing like a cat after a mouse.

“Lord,” one knight tries again, coming closer and reaching out for Johnny’s shoulder. “We need to get you back to Castle Campbell—we’ve been hoping to find you unharmed for your future wife’s comfort. Everyone is in a panic!”

“I’ll count down to three,” Johnny whispers to you, breathing heavily as he swallows and steady himself, hand lightly clammy. He wished he had his hunting gloves with him, but this was the best he could do. “Eh,” the man grunts, eyes steady, “You listening, Bonnie?”

“I don’t care what you count to,” you nearly bark, orbs flashing. “Just break the damn thing off—!”

The wood snaps with a defining splinter, and your scream afterward has the man having to hold you up with his arms around your waist, muttering into your ear with his lips against the shell. 

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” John hears the clatter of the shaft to the grass just as the knight’s hand is heavily placed on his shoulder. “Breathe. M’right ‘ere.”

You sag into Johnny taking in the scent of sweat, blood, and dirt—the musk that stays even as your ears start ringing and the voices start getting louder. 

“Best get your hands off o’ me before I break ‘em, Mate” Johnny grunts from deep in his chest, shifting your body to the side and effectively ripping his flesh out of the knight’s hold. 

All the others shift nervously—hands on their swords and looking back and forth between the strange scene.

Who were you? A mistress? A bandit luring their Lord away? Why was he with you out here; going in the opposite direction of where the ceremony was supposed to take place? They’d been given orders, and a knight is no good unless he can follow them. 

John MacTavish was needed, and their duty was to see it through.

Johnny’s tartan had fallen to the ground behind the two of you, getting kicked by feet as they shuffle and as your blood slips off of your limp fingers. Mind failing, your pain-addled form shakes even as the knowledge of imminent danger is present. 

You needed to figure out a way to get out of here. 

Pushing your head up from Johnny’s shoulder, your eyes flutter but manage to analyze what little you can see clearly—adrenaline can take care of most of your agony, only leaving a dull ache as your heart continues to rage. 

A group of four knights have their hands on their swords, and all of their eyes are on John. 

Run, a deep part of you urges. Your legs are still good. Take off—none of them know the terrain like you do. You’ll be free. 

You pant, your nostrils flaring with every breath as your sweat trickles off your jawline. Johnny’s grip on you tightens, head shifting back and forth, unknowing where to anchor itself, not understanding which is more important—your state, or your safety. 

Free, free, free. 

Your mind flashes to an empty house: silent woods. How you would go months without seeing another human face, but that was your own choice. 

Wasn’t it? 

Your eyes slip to Johnny.

“We’ve been tasked with bringing you back, My Lord,” the first knight says, looking heavily upon the runaway. “We have our orders. Please understand.”

“And I’m telling you your orders are utter shite,” John spits. “So back the fuck up and drag yourself out of this place. Now.” He glares, teeth snapping. “Those are my orders.” 

Your arm is numb, and your chest expands as it sits on John’s own. And you think.

You knew you were a selfish person. 

There was no debate about it—even when you’d stolen enough coin to feed you for weeks, there was still a part of you that longed for some chase; some challenge to your senses. You liked stealing. You liked the looks on people's faces when they realized they were being swindled for every valuable item they had in their possession. But there was something you liked even more than all of that—a challenge. 

Johnny, to you, was that challenge. He was the largest challenge you’d ever faced. A Lord who was running from a bride, a man who held his beliefs higher than praise or standing…a blue-eyed stranger who matches your poking jabs word for word.

“Damn,” your growl, and John takes it as an exclamation of pain. 

He grits his teeth and studies you, opening his mouth as his concern grows at the smell of blood. 

“We need to tie it off,” he utters. “Bastards made me drop the tartan—I’m sorry, Dearie.”

Your lips are near his ear.

“When I say ‘go,’ run to the left.”

Johnny halts, attention snapping down. His fingers flinch around you, face open until the mask of sudden knowledge flies over it like a curtain. But it’s gone just as quickly—hidden by intelligent eyes that glint. 

He doesn’t question you, and, in the crux of your shoulder, you get a near-infinitesimal nod from Johnny’s head. 

The guards grow suspicious, all mulling closer by the second the longer you two remain so close—on opposite ends, you feel your heart mirroring John’s in a rapid and ravaging pulse: Thump-thump, thump-pump, thump-pump-thump.

Your attention is split three ways.

One: the rising numbness of your limbs and the heat of your brain. Two: the spread of Johnny’s panting breath across your sweat-slick skin and his hands tightening. Three: knights and the clatter of their armor. How they slide their hands across their weapons like intimate partners—the tension building in a hemp bowstring and the sound of arrows hitting off one another; one taken and played with between fingers so similarly to how you would act. 

Your tear-stained eyes glare at the knight who’d shot you, your expression building into an act of hatred. 

They take a step forward. 

“Cat-Eyes—” Johnny begins to warn slowly. 

“Go.” Your words are no shout. They don’t echo off the trees, which all hold their breeze in expectation, they don’t ring in ears except the ones of the man holding you. But they’re like the personification of a sword strike—like the release of an arrow and the impending thump of it hitting home. 

The knights dash forward with calls for their Lord to stand down, but John’s already flinched away with a heavy grunt. 

You do the same, your plan already formed—you would run the opposite way as Johnny, only slipping off when the cover of bushes had enshrouded the both of you to create two sets of tracks. With any luck, the guards would break off into two groups and pursue the both of you, and you could easily lose yours. 

From there, circle back and find John: get your bearings before—

Arms never detach from your waist, and you’re once more tossed into a strong grip.

Eyes bugging, your focus breaks as gravity leaves and your head goes light. Johnny dashes away, and, just as the last time, you’re in his boar-like hold. 

“You idiot!” You bark, the only difference to your predicament now is that you’re held in a bridal grip and not slung over his sweaty shoulder. There was only a small sliver of relief before the annoyance overtook you. 

Johnny’s body crashes through the leaves, the shouts of the knights following as he gruffly raises his voice to the wind. The trees shake with amusement. 

“Thinking you could hand over some directions, Dearie?!”

“Thinking you could put me down?!” You shout back, your arm sparking with pain as your opposite wraps the man’s neck firmly. “Damn.” Your lips twist in response. “My legs work just fine, you know—I wasn’t shot in the arse!”

“Acting like you were,” John grumbles, a branch slapping his cheek before you can. Despite it all, he chuckles wholeheartedly at his own joke.

An arrow whizzes through the air, and you yelp, ducking behind his body even more as your skull fits under his jaw. Your eyes snap to the visible terrain as Johnny’s legs push from one side to the other, running in a zig-zag pattern to avoid any more injuries. 

“There,” your brows rise, fighting past the pain to find the familiar slash of a gnarled willow tree that whizzes by in brown and dark green. 

Your head rises to see more of the woods, only to be pushed back down by an all-expansive hand as John utters a fast-breathed and firm, “Not the best idea.” 

He shoves through brambles, and the sounds of rampaging knights are gaining. The second John sloshes through a low pool with a loud curse, you know instantly where you two are. 

“Take a left near the overhang with vines coming down!” 

“That one?”

“Yes!”

And so this game continued long after the knights had been lost to the woods, stumbling about without any sense of where they were, and the two of you came to a panting halt an hour later. Deep night was setting in on the second day, and, as your shaky feet hit the ground, John kept a heavy eye on you. 

“Steady,” he mutters, sweat pouring off his face; saturating his clothes. He worriedly stares, looking you up and down.

Your vision swirls, the glade around you the exact place you both needed to be. There were hills here—surrounded by thick trenches carved by rivers long dried. The stars were out, and the moon was shining down; one thin trickle of a river was feet away, the sound of water on rocks addictive to your pounding ears.

All of it was null to the way your gut flipped at the humming agony of your arm. 

Your hand snaps to the puncture and the flood of blood is enough to leave your fingers dripping with crimson glinting in moonlight. 

There’s a heavy ripping sound, and then you find yourself sitting down in the grass as Johnny shoves the torn fabric of his suit into the small river. You hear the splashing as you glance down at your arm before rapidly looking away, biting at your lip as your spine hunches. 

“Christ almighty,” you growl, glaring to the side as your fingers quiver. Tears well.

“The arrowhead is keeping pressure,” John hurries to speak, trying to distract you just as his own exhaustion is bare to see. The rung-out fabric is looped around your arm, tying off until you have to strangle down a scream at the tightness on your flesh. “We have to keep it there until there’s enough sterile material to fix it up.” 

“Your knights are pieces of work,” you hiss, more from the wound than anything.

John gives a little look, blue eyes darting up until falling. 

“Aye, they are.” His strong jaw clenches. “This shouldn’t have happened, Dearie.”

You stare as he finishes up, and you feel his fingertips slipping along your arm. Your eyelids droop, closing as your nostrils suck in shaky air. You take a moment to take in the silence that follows, John’s eyes not straying as your face is illuminated. 

He watches the streaks of dirt along your skin, and, in a soft attempt to fix this, he stands and moves to the river once more—cleaning his hands. Johnny takes the rag out of his sporran and wets it, coming back to your body as the grass waves back and forth. 

 “Let me…” the man says slowly, and your eyes open back up as the chilled item is pushed to your cheek. 

Wide orbs staring forward, you swallow as John concentrates on cleaning your skin carefully. 

“Infection is my immediate concern,” the man says with a sigh, yet continues as your tongue stays tied; face growing more heated by the second. “But you mentioned it takes three days to the town, aye? That’s not unmanageable with two already under our feet.” 

Blood, dirt, and sweat slip away with every drag of the fabric, and, stuck into his suit, that boar broach still sits—crooked now, but still there.

Your attention is momentarily taken by it, and your fingers twitch before you notice how very close John’s face is to yours. 

The man focuses, relaying a plan as you’re stuck mute; your arm holding its own heartbeat as the grass shifts.

“I’ll use what I have to get you into a doctor. Make sure there’ll be no problems before I get going.” John blinks, tilting his head. “‘Course, that’ll decrease the amount you’ll get in turn.”

“Fortunately for you,” you breathe, voice strained, and blue eyes stick to yours. John pauses, brows slightly pulling up on his face. “I value my own life too much to complain about a man paying for my care.” 

John’s rag stays where he placed it, right on the swell of your cheek as, this close to one another, you can see the scar on his chin—one that curves to the muscle and bone. 

He was handsome, make no mistake about it. You knew it; you understood it. A lord with morals and the smarts to go along with the strength—now that was utterly unheard of. You liked that, truthfully. Someone who could think, and plan. 

And, of course, follow directions. 

“You’ll be fine,” John mutters, glancing to the side, yet his head doesn’t move back. He clears his throat with a sigh. 

You roll your eyes, moving out and grabbing his hand with the rag. Johnny’s expression startles, arm tensing as you steal the dripping fabric from him. Water runs down your neck.

“I know I am.” You huff, smiling. 

You push the rag onto his own face, and begin your cat-like approval of his character, washing away the grime just as he had your own. A blue gaze stays firmly on your flesh, the man’s shoulders loosening until he’s sitting just in front of you. Verident grass whispers in a language like a soft breeze, and you study Johnny’s skin until everything becomes a mosaic of scars and blemishes—stories woven into sinews holding as much history as the tines on an elk or the chipped tusks of a boar. 

Two days and he’d become even more of a mystery than he had been before. Or maybe he always had been, and now your previous contentment had grown into an addictive curiosity. 

He’d called you Cat-Eyes. 

You couldn’t love a title more—not even if Lady were on the table.

“I settle my scores,” you grunt, tilting your head as you push back mud from his forehead, leaning in. “You wash my face, I wash yours.”

“Literally, then?” A sarcastic eyebrow makes you huff. 

“Is that not what I’m doing, Johnny Boy?” 

“Seems so, Cat-Eyes.”

Your matching glares hold no venom. 

Smirking, you lean back after the last swipe at his forehead, pushing Johnny’s skull back as he chuckles, moon-lit visage something you would see scrawled on the parchment of an old story-teller's sketches. A man not made for this age.

Your face softens slowly, and it is a strange thing sitting atop the sharpness of your eyes. 

John’s chuckles fade, and his breath catches in his throat. 

“You’re an odd fellow, John MacTavish,” you say, here, with blood from an arrow wound drying to crack along your skin. 

Your head tilts, eyes narrowing. 

John’s lips slowly pull upwards, and the water on both of your faces drips to the listening earth. This place is alive with possibilities, and all of them stem from the growing draw of twisted human souls.

A just Lord and a cunning thief.

A sharp-eyed cat and a strong-bodied boar. 

A future and a past—riddled with arrow marks; long sword slashes.

“Well…then I’m thinking we make quite the pair, Bonnie.”

—

The third day was spent on the latter half of the journey. Re-correcting the course and giving the best directions you could with the numb ache of your arm spreading up your shoulder. 

But the town came easily as the midday sun rose to crest your heads. 

“Want to lean on me?” Johnny asks, standing close by, but you’re already shaking your head. 

“Feels better to keep myself focused,” you mutter, grimacing. You look at the entrance to the town, and as you both walk it, the stares are immediate—shocked residents looking at the haggard appearance of two individuals. 

“Alright,” John sighs, side-eyeing you. “Just let me know if you’re goin’ to keel over, yeah?” 

“Duly noted,” you tilt your head his way. Your lips smirk like a smug child. “You’ll catch me, won’t you?”

Johnny chuckles, shrugging his wide shoulders as his tattered finery is chock-full of brambles and leaves. 

“Can’t say no to that.”

The Lord kept his promise—the doctor took the arrowhead, cleaned, cauterized the wound, and sutured you back up. For payment, as you lightly touch the bandaged section of your arm, you find your eyes freezing as a silver glinting reflects off the light through the window. 

Johnny hands over his boar broach to the doctor. 

Widely staring at the prize being pawned off for your health, your heart stutters in heavy greed.

No, you rapidly think. No, that was the one thing that I—

Your eyes inexplicably snap to Johnny. 

The immediate thought is that he looks angry, but, the next and more accurate one, is that he looks sad.

John’s blues continue to follow the broach as it disappears into the doctor's pocket, and you see the weight fall back to his chest and arms—sitting heavy like a stone. The man’s feet shift along the ground for a moment, and he looks like he’s about to say something before he grits his teeth and shakes his head to himself. John grunts, fixing his nose.

You blink, and then your heart twists in on itself for no reason at all. 

Or maybe there was a reason. 

“C’mon, Cat-Eyes,” Johnny sighs heavily, tilting his head as his arms cross. “Time to see me off, then.” 

He walks out the door, and your eyes follow like a loyal dog. 

Standing there for a moment, your lips contort your face into a deep frown, sharp eyes gaining a sheen of light anxiety. Yet, there was no mistaking it—it had been said a million times—if there was one thing you could do, it was play a game.

Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

“Oh my,” you mutter, putting a hand to your head and stumbling. 

The doctor starts forward quickly, grasping at your un-injured arm. “Careful now, Woman. Don’t rip my sutures.” 

He tells you, getting you fully up as you chuckle, placing your hands above his thigh, fingers twitching on the fabric. 

“Apologies, apologies,” you mutter, retracting your hand and cupping it against your abdomen with a meek smile. “Just a little lightheaded. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Best be off, now,” the man grumbles, and you’re out the door swiftly. 

Your shoes meet the cobble as you shift your hands into your pockets, shifting your body to look along after the large form that leans against the home waiting for you. 

“Ready?” Johnny asks, though his attention is firmly planted on the ground five feet away, lost in thought.

“Aye,” you sigh, nodding your head to the East. “Port’s that way—let’s get this nightmare over with.”

“Hm,” Johnny agrees, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Quite the adventure for a runaway.”

“You can’t have thought it would be easy?” Your brows furrow. “You’re heir to the MacTavish lands.”

“I never said I thought it would be easy,” John moves at your side, a great hulk of honesty. He hands over his attention at last as you fiddle with the smooth item in your pocket. He huffs. “Just that it was an…experience, to say the least. One I’m not sure I’d want to go through again.” 

“You’ll miss me,” you say confidently, meeting eyes with a smirk and a cocky shift to your form despite the lessening pain. 

Johnny watches. He smiles, eyes crinkling. “Aye. I will.” You pause, expression stilling. The man hums, and you swear there’s something special in the way you can describe his look as delicate. 

“You were the one part that I don’t regret,” he says lastly to you as if the words aren’t spears laced with poison. 

Your breath gets caught in a way it never has, and John seems not to notice as he pulls ahead, muttering about him seeing the docks. The smell of salt water slaps your nostrils.

The legs under you slow until they’re stopped, and you look after the man as he begins speaking to workers along the port, asking for a spot on the large ships that sit in the water, rocking with the winds.

Your eyes trail, seeing the way he talks with such confidence—openly offering physical labor as his payment for even the dark quarters with the other laborers. 

After what seems like hours of watching, you see him shake another man’s hand, and, just like that, passage is earned. He jogs back over, smiling. 

You open your mouth to say something, but find the words null and void. You don’t know what to express. For once in your life, everything seems to be moving horrifically fast.

“Well,” John’s expression slowly sombers. “I suppose this is it then. I said you could ask for anything, and, I suppose,” he shifts the sword on his belt off after a moment, looking down at it. He holds the item, testing its weight. “I suppose this is all I have left.” Blue eyes slowly meet yours. “If you’ll take it.”

Always a thief, never a saint.

“I suppose it’ll have to do, Johnny Boy,” you sigh, the pain in your heart outweighing the one on your arm. “Hand it over.”

The sword is transferred and slipped to your waist. Many a man on the docks gives you strange looks, and, you find you welcome it—none could compare to the admiration in Johnny’s. 

You lick your lips. 

“Do one thing for me, hm?”

“Anything,” John mutters, not blinking. 

You move forward, and place a firm kiss to his lips.

The man freezes, fingers twitching at his sides, before he sags and bends into you—his great hand capturing your cheek until all that remains in the sear of his heat and the scent of the earth. 

You softly pull away, though not far enough as to where you can’t feel his breath on yours. Gazing into his eyes, you smile the widest you can remember.

“Don’t go running away from another wedding anytime soon. I can only save so many Lords until my reputation gets slandered.”

“You’re ruthless,” John growls, smirking as his eyes glint, looking you up and down. “Little Thief.” 

He leans in for another kiss, but your hands only shift above his sporran before you dart back, chuckling. 

“Always,” your hands brush his sword on your hip as you walk backward, grinning behind the strange pressure in your heart. If someone asked, you wouldn’t even know how to describe it.

John takes a step after you, face open and raw—an emotion you feel like mirroring if not for your excellent control. 

Not yet.

“I’ll take care of this,” you call, patting the weapon. 

“Good,” Johnny calls, taking one more step forward before stopping himself. One of the shipmates calls from the dock, and his eyes snap there with a jaw tense. He looks back at you and blinks, brows pulling in. In the heat of the moment, he exclaimed, “I’ll be back for it one day, Cat-Eyes!” 

“Lovely!” You yell, back turning. “I’ll be waiting for you then. I do hope you’ll be able to get through the woods, and, please, don’t keep a woman waiting! You’re much too handsome for any of that.” 

And then you’re gone. 

Johnny stares at where you were, his smile large and his face heated, and after a louder call from the dock, he’s forced to turn and jog to the ship, hurrying up the board until he can stand on the swaying deck with his two feet. 

He looks around, chuckling to himself, and still, his eyes shift back to land without fail; hoping for a glimpse—a small shadow. 

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, the man reaches into his sporran for his rag, intent to clean and set it to dry when he’s able to get the chance to settle in. It’s one of the last items to his name no matter how pathetic. 

Yet, his hands touch something far more precious. 

Johnny’s body goes as straight as a tree when his fingers caress smooth metal, and, slowly, his grip pulls out the silver of his broach. 

It glints in his palm as he sets it there, and his breath is stolen in one great bound of shock and confusion.

“What in the…” He already knows. 

Johnny’s feet take him to the railing gently, and his body stands there—torn wedding clothes and all looking over a town that begins to move as the ship sets sail. He holds the broach carefully, not intending to let it go for an age. He just needs to lay low for a while. He needs time.

John smiles. 

“I won’t keep you waiting,” he mutters to the moving homes, and he swears he sees the glint of a sword from between the buildings, and two sharp eyes digging into him. 

You’re there, of course. Hidden as always. 

You want your trees back, and you think that a day of sitting in your Oak is a good idea. 

There’s dirt on your face again—your lips are chapped and your face is bitten by the wind; scars and blemishes that time won't heal but make all the more visible as the ages pass by on bird’s wings and cat purrs. Yet here is an action held immemorial. 

A gift given freely by a thief is one to be treasured like pure gold, and the man on the ship knows that more intimately than any other as he clips the broach to himself with a hum.

You both watch the other from opposite, distant points until there’s no sun in the sky left to see with. Just a faint hope lights the way: the hope that your eyes will grace each other's visage, at the very least, just one more time in your life. 

There was never a story so willing to be experienced than that of a runaway groom and his cat-eyed Thief. 

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[alloftheimaginesblog]

Headcanons for Samwise Gamgee making his spouse meals at any chance he gets...

He knows the importance of food and never ceases to remind you about how important it is to eat. He'll always prepare you breakfast, second breakfast, lunch, snacks, supper, dinner and tea. He never judges your portion sizes or how much you eat, he loves the shape of you and if you are curvy/plus size, he adores those curves.

He's a very good chef and you are always so thankful for him and his abilities.

Obviously he uses potatoes a lot, pretty much every meal because they're so versatile.

Eggs over easy with spices and herbs and herby breakfast potato cubes and a cup of hot tea.

"Made with love for my love."

Sausages, hash browns, bacon, beans, tomato, maybe more eggs.

Sandwiches with tomato, lettuce and turkey with a side of crisps for extra crunch.

"You want more? Was it good? You liked it?"

He's not only good at cooking, baking is also a skill he has.

Pancakes with berries and cream, scones and jam and clotted cream. Pastries like croissants and chocolate or maybe ham and cheese.

Toast with cheese, beans; simple but he always serves with an award winning smile.

"Here you go, beautiful. If you want more, I'll happily get you more."

Your favourite meal he makes is a roast dinner which could consist of ham, turkey, chicken or beef, roast potatoes, yorkshire pudding, sprouts, parsnips, carrots and a hearty load of gravy on top.

Sometimes he'll make a stew; leftover meat with carrots, potatoes, onions and gravy with crusty bread to dip.

Soup of all flavours (his lentil and bacon is the best though) with buttered bread. He always makes lots during the winter.

"To keep your stomach warm."

Fish with a side salad, thick chips and mushy peas.

Pasta that you help him make for scratch with a garlicky, onion tomato sauce with meatballs or sausages or even sometimes chicken with homemade garlic bread and cheese for the top.

Dessert is always delicious too...

Rich chocolate cake with ice cream and berries.

Sticky toffee pudding - a recipe passed down through generations.

Ice cream - all and every flavour you can imagine. He'll take you on walks, find berries and wild edible flowers and make ice cream from it.

Pastry stuffed with jam, cream and chocolate.

Waffles with caramel drizzled over the top.

Fruit salad, the fruit fresh from the garden.

After dinner, he'll bring you cups of tea and water with a kiss on the forehead.

Tea with biscuits.

Hot chocolate with marshmallows and fresh whipped cream for the top.

Toast as you read your book, winding down for the evening.

Before you go to bed, he double checks that you're satisfied and happy; that you're not in need of anything else. He's impossibly kind.

[dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night]

Eden part eight

Masterlist linked on my pinned

TW: referenced starvation, hair pulling, degradation, implied sexual abuse, pet whumpee, sadistic whumper, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers

Jay still laid slumbering when Ezra woke, hours after falling asleep.

Even the dark purple and gray bruises clustered around Jay's cheeks and eyes couldn't entirely obscure how peaceful they looked.

Ezra tucked a lock of hair behind Jay's ear. Their eyelids fluttered open, and upon seeing Ezra, they bolted upright.

"Where am I?"

Ezra placed a hand on their trembling shoulder. "My home. Christopher and Colt are having a date. You've been sleeping in here with me."

"Oh," Jay said softly. "I remember now."

"Do you want some food?"

"I'm not allowed."

"I'll take the blame if there's any trouble. Christopher let's me eat when I'm hungry, so long as I don't spoil my dinner."

"You get dinner?"

"Yes. Now come on. We've got to be quiet so we don't bother them."

Jay nodded, and followed Ezra to the kitchen. Colt and Christopher weren't anywhere to be seen, so Ezra figured they were outside.

Ezra pulled out two ceramic bowls from a cupboard and two spoons from a drawer. The borscht was still simmering, so he didn't have to bother with heating it up. He laid everything out on the table.

"Come eat." He gestured for Jay to sit down. "It's nice and warm. You'll like it, I promise. And there's sour cream in the fridge if you want it. And white bread in the cupboard."

"This is more than enough, thank you. Am I allowed to use the spoon?"

"Of course. How else would you eat it?"

"Colt likes it when I eat like a dog."

Ezra internally seethed, but didn't dare insult Colt in front of Jay, who would surely panic.

"I would like for you eat like a person," he said calmly. "We won't get in trouble."

Ezra began to pick at his own food, to show Jay that there was nothing to fear.

Jay picked up the spoon, taking a few moments to figure out how to adjust it properly in their hand, and hesitantly took a bite of the stew.

"Oh my God," they exclaimed. "This is amazing. Thank you Ezra. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Ezra said softly, suddenly guilty for having so much when Jay lacked basic necessities.

Jay scarfed down their food, leaving the bowl empty in a matter of minutes.

"You should let that settle," Ezra said. "Then if you're still hungry we can have more. You can get a glass of water if you want."

Jay hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a clean glass from the open dish washer. They filled it with water from the tap, then chugged it as quickly as possible, leaving the cup in the sink.

After pushing their chair closer, so that it was right against Ezra's, Jay sat down. Ezra put his arm around them.

"Thank you Ezra." Their eyes brimmed with tears as they spoke. "For everything."

Before Ezra could answer, Christopher opened the door and walked into the kitchen, followed by Colt.

"Oh hello," Christopher said. "Did you have a good nap? I checked in on you. You're both so pretty when you sleep."

"Yes we did sir," Ezra said, warmth creeping into his cheeks. "And thank you."

He couldn't help being delighted by the compliment, despite Jay also being included and Christopher's fiance standing right next to him.

"Who said you could eat?" Colt asked, glaring at Jay. "I sure as hell didn't."

Jay sunk down in their chair. "I'm sorry master. I-"

"I told them it was okay sir," Ezra interjected. "I was hungry and thought it would be rude to eat when they weren't. My master has different rules than you. I take full responsibility sir."

Colt huffed a laugh.

"It's alright," Christopher said. "I left the stew on the stove in case either of you got hungry."

"Really dollface?" Colt asked. "You let your pet eat the same food as you?"

"Stop calling him dollface," Ezra snapped. "It's so rude."

"Ezra," Christopher warned. "I did not complain, so you have no right to."

"If you were my pet, I would beat you black and blue," Colt said. "Seeing as you're not, I'll leave punishment up to my fiance. I see he still likes piercings."

"I will handle Ezra after you leave," Christopher said firmly.

"I'm sorry sir," Ezra said. "I'll shut up."

"I'm actually enjoying what the two of you have going on," Colt said, changing the subject slightly to suit himself. "Are you enjoying Ezra's company you stupid slut?"

Jay sunk down further in their chair, whimpering.

"Hey," Ezra snapped. "Don't call them that. We weren't...having sex or anything like that." Ezra's cheeks burned as he spoke, but he continued. "They aren't a slut, okay?"

"Right," Colt drawled. "Like I totally didn't see the two of you in bed together. I must say, I'm a little bit disappointed that you didn't invite me in to watch."

Jay sobbed, burying their face in their hands. Ezra hugged them tightly.

"Shh, it's okay," he whispered soothingly. "You're okay. Breathe."

Colt laughed wildly. "I'm really going to enjoy watching you love birds spend quality time together. Excuse me, I need a cigar, and Christopher won't let me smoke in his house."

He strolled into the laundry room and out of the house.

"Ezra," Christopher said. "We really need to work on your behavior. You're always so good for me, why can't you behave yourself all of a sudden?"

"I hate Colt," Ezra admitted. "With his stupid laugh and his greased back hair and the way he treats you and the way he treats J- my friend."

Jay nuzzled against Ezra's chest, still sobbing horrendously.

"That's enough," Christopher said. "Colt is my fiance. I understand why you may be...disturbed by everything happening with your friend, but that is no excuse for rudeness."

"Yes sir," Ezra relented. "But we didn't have sex. I'm not lying about that."

"I know, Colt is simply being cruel. He has no understanding of physical affection outside of sex, and it drives me around the bend sometimes."

"Yes sir."

"Colt will be leaving in a few minutes with your friend," Christopher said. "But we have arranged for me to pet sit while he goes out clubbing next week."

"Yes sir." Ezra stroked Jay's hair. "Can you calm down now? You really need to breathe."

Jay choked back another sob, and nodded. "Thank you sir-" They hiccuped, trying to keep their crying under control. "For inviting me back. Even though I've been bad."

"Nonsense," Christopher said. "You have been very well behaved."

The door opened and Colt walked back inside. "It's time for us to be leaving," he said sharply.

Jay leapt to their feet. "Yes master." They sniffled. "Goodbye Ezra. I'm glad I got to meet you."

"Goodbye," Ezra said sadly, standing from his chair. "I'm glad too."

Jay hugged Ezra, desperate for one last scrap of affection before returning to whatever horrors Colt had planned for them.

Ezra wrapped them in his arms and squeezed them as tightly as he could, as though he could protect them.

"Aww," Colt mocked. "Isn't that sweet?"

Jay broke away from Ezra, their eyes brimming with tears, and walked back to Colt's side.

Colt grabbed Christopher and pulled his head down, then kissed him in a terribly sloppy manner, disgusting Ezra.

After he was done with his show of blatant disrespect, Colt grabbed Jay by their hair.

"Come on you filthy whore."

He dragged them out of the house by their hair while they erupted into tears, quickly fading from hearing.

Ezra walked back to his bedroom and laid down, wishing Jay was in bed with him. He wanted to put his arm around them and keep them close forever.

Taglist: @devourerofcheesecake @elim-flower @thedarkmongoose @whumpsday @whump-by-robin @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @annablogsposts @whumpshaped @seetheothersideofparadise @knittedeyebrowsandcardigans @whatwasmyprevioususername @boonasaurusrex @suspicious-whumping-egg

If you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, tell me ♡♡♡

[etherati]

Taproot - (6/25)

So I guess Wednesdays just aren't a great day for this, so let's call it Thursday and Sunday, going forward! Also gonna start adding music recs for each chapter, but feel free to ignore if you feel like it would be too distracting. Will edit the old chapters to include them.

Content warnings: Canon-typical violence, Sypha and Alucard being on the cover of a romance novel, and a lot of vampires getting melted. HYDROSTORM!!!

🎵 Music pairing: Whatever It Takes - Imagine Dragons

< -- Back | Next -- >

Go to part: one | two | three | four | five | six

Solstice night. The longest night. The sun set hours ago, here on the coast of the Black Sea, tracking its way westward toward the foothills and the mountains beyond them and, eventually, all the rest of Europe. Toward home. 

Will it be dark there, yet? Will the wolves be closing in?

Sypha can’t justify hiding herself away as she waits, not tonight. The waiting has become a desperate vigil, something that recognizes its own futility but refuses to bend under the weight of that recognition. But tonight is important and if she is here, if she must still be here against all her wishes, she will at least be present for it.

She’s cleaved close to the people she cares most about all evening: her grandfather, Lily and Arn, Kiri, the others who kept her family group knit together when outside forces did their best to claw it apart, all those years ago. They eat, fresh bread from the cooking stones and warm rabbit stew, laced with exotic spices from all over their people’s collective range, little pops of heat and sweetness and green earthiness, peppery and rich. 

It’s a celebration meal. Tomorrow morning, the sun is reborn. She knows that isn’t how it really works—has seen the planetary models in the castle library, knows that the sun is a fixed point and certainly neither lives nor dies—but that’s never really been the point. It’s a midpoint, a way to mark time, and the lengthening days mean warmth and easier travel and eventually better food stores.

In front of her, the bonfire crackles, raging mindlessly, consuming its fuel, throwing embers; something about it steals the breath from her lungs for just a moment. It feels something like the weight of sudden, unbearable prophecy, but almost more primitive than that. Inescapable, not like fate is inescapable but like gravity is inescapable.

There’s a shimmering off to her side, and it draws her attention before she consciously acknowledges it. It’s like a heat mirage, rising from the road in midsummer, and it hangs human-sized in the air, obscuring everything behind it. Caught up as she is in the breathless oppression of the fire, it takes Sypha a moment to realize what she’s looking at.

The mirror.

It’s—it’s the mirror. They got the message, they—they’re alive, and they got her message, and this is her passage home— but—

“Sypha?” her grandfather says from her other side, settling one hand on her shoulder. “That is what you have been waiting for, no?”

“It is, but...” 

But something isn’t right. She squints into the shimmer, can make out the far wall of the study, but no one has come through to greet her. What if—what if her message fell into the wrong hands? What if this is a trick? What if—

Then, in the haze: a body flying past in flames, and a very familiar figure following after it, the brilliant glow of the chain whip’s weighted end tearing through the space ahead of him. A hoarse cry. Wood splintering, glass breaking. There’s a splash of blood across the far wall, vibrant and lurid, and was that there a second ago?

In any event: that answers that.

“Okay,” she says, shouldering the pack she hasn’t let out of her sight for days, bracing herself for whatever she finds on the other side. Her boys are in trouble; they need her. “I’m going.”

Her grandfather makes a nonverbal noise, like someone restraining themselves from saying what their heart most wants to express. It’s dangerous. Stay here. Stay safe with us.

“Good luck, my angel,” is all he actually says—or, if he says more, it’s lost to her as she leaps into the breach, sound and vision smearing, reality disappearing up itself in a twisting, sucking inversion that leaves her, momentarily, unsure that the physical world ever existed, that she ever, in fact, had a body—

—then suddenly she’s there, and the shift from quiet night spaces, the calm hiss and pop of the fire, to this cacophony—it sets Sypha’s every nerve on end, her entire body protesting everything about what just happened in waves of churning nausea. She fights it down. Not the time. Not the fucking time. 

Her pack hits the floor hard and she casts around, urgent, taking it all in.

There are at least eight… enemy combatants, in the study with them. They look like vampires but they’re acting more like mindless monsters, with none of the grace she’d seen in their combat against Dracula’s generals. No weapons. No subtlety. Just tooth and claw, and speed, and ferocity. Feral.

They’ve got Adrian cornered against the far bookshelf, swiping and charging from every angle. He has a bloody gash across his face, his hair stuck to the wound, ghoulish. His eyes are wild from the fight, nearly as wild as those surrounding him. He has his sword in hand—not in the air, not aiding him as she knows it can when he’s at his best, but simply slashing inelegantly at arm’s length, keeping the surrounding vampires at bay.

She visualizes a fireball between her fingers, wills it into existence—wastes no time thinking about why he’s having so much trouble, and sends it straight into the thickest knot of them. Demons might resist flame but vampires, she knows with certainty, burn. 

Two of them light up, screaming, filling the air with the acridness of burning flesh—then the Morning Star comes slashing through out of nowhere, ripping one of the feral vampires just about in half even as it embeds itself in the next one over, waves of energy rippling through it to blow the second one apart from the inside out. 

That’s four down. That’s good.

“The mirror!” Trevor shouts to Adrian, and she’s not sure he even knows she’s here yet, as preoccupied as he is with getting the mob off of Adrian. He swings the whip again, a good amount of its length coiled around his fist to shorten the throw in this confined space—lands only a glancing blow, enough to enrage but not really damage, an ugly welt burned across the vampire’s face.

It hisses, furious. Sypha readies another fireball, to back up the missed shot. Trevor smirks into the thing’s face, unaccountably smug.

“Oh, that hurt, didn’t it?” he snarls, swinging the bladed star almost lazily in between them. Taunting. Backing his way toward the door, the staircase leading down. “Come on, I’m a way more interesting target than prince prissy-hair, here.” 

Ah. He missed on purpose—he’s trying to goad them away from Adrian. And it’s working; they’re worked up, agitated, and maybe it’s the smell of Belmont blood so nearby, dripping from his hand where it clutches the whip’s handle, but they’re peeling away from Adrian, easing their predatory, monstrous way toward Trevor instead. 

That’s all the window Adrian needs—with a pained hiss, he phases through the gap they’ve cut for him, right to Sypha’s side. Turns to the mirror without a thought, hair hanging lank and bloodied in his face, red-stained claws working at the mirror’s surface. Working to shut it down, she realizes with a chill—to seal it, so that none of their attackers decides to go barreling through and have Speaker for dessert.  

A lot of things happen all at once, then. 

Trevor doesn’t have a straight shot to the door—there’s one coming up behind him, cutting that path off, and with a shout, Sypha sends the fireball she’s been holding straight into its face. It catches fire, screams and flails, is easy for Trevor to sweep aside and get past, but there are suddenly more of them in the room than there had been and oh, they’re coming through the windows. Right through what should have been impenetrable wards.

Adrian seals the mirror, the Speaker camp fading from the glass. He turns to her, as if he’s just now noticing she’s there. A shrieking, wild-eyed vampire drops from the window behind them, and before she can even summon more flame, the sword in Adrian’s hand has whipped out and cleaved it cleanly in two.

“Sypha,” he breathes, staring; he didn’t even take his eyes off her to make the strike. They’re wide, wild with red, desperate and longing—and before she knows what’s happening he’s sweeping her up with an arm around her waist, pulling her into a kiss that is nothing short of ravenous. He doesn’t even try to be gentle, as he usually is with her; it’s all teeth and  possession, a primal sort of hunger that seeks to pleasure but also to claim, to make her moan and make her bleed, to turn her world inside out. 

It is, frankly, a fantastic kiss.

But it goes on just a touch too long, in the circumstances—they surely paint an attractive picture, Adrian with his bloody sword held aloft, Sypha with her hands ringed in fire, the two of them locked in the impassioned embrace of lovers too long separated. But they are being just a little bit invaded by vampires, and that fact demands attention, demands focus.

“Okay,” she says against his mouth, putting her hands flat to his chest and pushing; he’s immovable when he wants to be, but he’s learned these cues and he bends to it now, letting her put space between them. “Kill vampires now. Continue that later?”

A flash in his eyes, a sharp-toothed grin, and he swings back into action—maybe not as graceful as he usually is, maybe a little rushed, but no less lethal with that blade, now that he’s out from being cornered.

When she looks, she realizes that Trevor’s gone, off down the staircase already, most of the remaining vampires on his tail, and it’s the effort of a mere thought to fill that corridor with flame, purge the creatures in pursuit of their hunter, give them nothing but embers and ash to pass through to find their way back to his side.

“How the fuck are they getting through the wards?” Trevor mutters; he doesn’t expect an answer, is too busy dodging a wild, animalistic swipe of claws through the space his face had just been in, moments before. He catches the arm on its way by, lets the beast’s momentum carry it face-first into the stone of the staircase wall, taking advantage of it being momentarily stunned stupid to slam a throwing knife through its throat. The body tumbles down the stairs, out of sight.

“They’re old,” Adrian says from beside him, his presence crowding in on Trevor’s, which is comforting enough when he’d thought himself alone, but then—

“They’re not that old,” a familiar voice, one he hasn’t heard in two weeks, sharp and a little flustered and no wonder, dropping into the middle of an assault with no warning.

“Sypha,” he says, sheer relief, and before she can go on a tirade about the fact that wards don’t work that way, they don’t just turn off when they age, something else is going on and he knows, he knows—he reaches out and pulls her in by the back of her neck, presses a quick kiss to her temple, breathes her in. It’s the contact of an instant but in that instant: soft curl of hair against his cheek, smell of salt air and wood smoke, magic shimmering beneath his lips like a second skin.

“I missed you too,” she says, smirking a little as he breaks away, leans to peer around the archway. “But Adrian has your greeting beaten by a mile.”

“Yeah, well,” Trevor says, no patience for mincing words. “That’s because apparently the solstice makes vampires go feral, and in his special case that translates to ‘horny as fuck’.”

“Trevor…” Adrian growls, warning.

“Really?” Sypha asks, something in the tone saying that she already believes him. Trevor spares half a second to wonder what he missed, bailing out of the study like he did. 

“Oh yeah,” he says, hooking the chain whip back to his belt, reaching to unsheathe the sword instead. The staircase is narrow and winding, and anything coming up it to meet them will be in close quarters before they can blink. He edges down the stairs, one at a time, hyperfocused on the space in front of them. “Shame we’re being invaded, this could have been a really fun night.”

“Belmont.”

Sypha laughs, all nerves, magic crackling around her. “You would have had me miss that?”

“Oh my God, no,” Trevor says, grinning despite himself, despite the situation. Suddenly, everything feels right again; it feels like things can be okay, if they just hold onto their wits and see this through, try not to get sloppy. “You’d have to be here, or he’d wear me the fuck out.”

“If we are quite done discussing this,” Adrian says from behind them, glower audible in his voice; when Trevor risks a glance up and behind at him, he can see that the gash on his face is nearly closed, that his eyes are still bright with blood but not like they’d been before. There’s a focus there now, a clarity, that he’d lacked. Good enough. “Can we consider having an actual plan?”

“What,” Trevor says, “and ruin our perfect record of jumping into things blind and pulling off stunning victories regardless?”

“They haven’t all been stunning.”

“But they have all been victories.”

“Yes, yes,” Sypha cuts in, already sounding exasperated. “Recklessness is very dashing, until it isn’t anymore.”

And Trevor’s about to say something smartarsed in return, then stops himself, wonders for a moment if all this solstice madness is catching, because of course she’s completely, totally right. “Fine, okay. Got any ideas?”

“What do they want?” Sypha asks, voice low. 

Trevor jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Adrian, self-explanatory. “Single-minded, too. Took a lot to get them to go after me instead.”

“I saw some of that,” she says, considering. “So should we hide him, or…?”

Adrian grumbles something disagreeable; Trevor ignores him. “What I want to do is hide him under a rock somewhere, yeah.” That’s what his gut wants, what his heart wants. The screams echoing through the stone walls, vampires breaching their defenses anywhere there’s a window, are a solid reminder of why he needs to listen to his head instead, right now. “What would be smart to do is use him to lure them out into the open and take them all out at once.”

“Can you do that?”

Right, she isn’t up to date on all of their preparations yet. He scrapes the sword lightly against the stone as they descend, hoping to draw out anything that’s waiting for them around the next turn. “If you’re okay with no hot baths for a while.” 

“That was supposed to be an option of last resort,” Adrian protests vaguely. 

“Yeah, well, that was when we thought we had control over their points of entry and assumed we could bottleneck them,” Trevor says, and he can hear the irritation in his own voice. “Some of the variables have shifted. Besides, we hide you away, all that’s going to do is drive them into every nook and cranny in this place looking for you. It’ll take weeks to root them all out.”

“I’m not in favor of hiding—”

“All right, then,” Trevor whispers, drawing to a halt; up around the next bend, the light’s different, brighter. Intersection? Open landing? He almost never takes this staircase. “Do you have another suggestion?”

“We go down to the hall and we fight,” Adrian grits out, still sounding a little breathy, a little wild. “Keep the water as a backup plan, but try to fight them off first.”

Trevor shakes his head, sighs in frustration. “That could rack up casualties. Who’s being reckless now?”

Just a low growl in response, and okay, frustration is no longer the word; Trevor has officially fucking had it with this.

“No,” he says, turning to take hold of the collar of Adrian’s jacket; he tosses Sypha a look that he hopes conveys Cover the stairwell for me while I talk some sense into this idiot. Bright orange lights up between them all as she primes a spell. “You don’t just growl and get your way, that isn’t how this works.”

That seems to shake him—the snarling, bloodstained visage collapses into a mask of shame, flush rising up his face. “I wasn’t trying to threaten—”

“Listen to me, Adrian,” Trevor interrupts, because good God do they not have time for a guilt spiral. “You’re not thinking clearly right now. You’re spoiling for a fight and I get it, okay? I do. But a fight will get people killed. It could get one of us killed. And normally we wouldn’t have a choice but to risk it, but we’re in a crazy position right now—we have a way to take out all of them with minimal casualties, and it would be beyond insane not to use it.”

A huff of breath, defiant. “You don’t have to—they only want me.”

“Yeah, they do. They want you dead, and they want it bad, and they’re not going to have a, a civilized duel with you following the rules of engagement, all right?” Not that the dhampir could even handle that, right now, but Trevor’s not going to push his luck by provoking ego. “Adrian. I need you to trust me, I need you to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“We have talked about this,” Sypha adds, not looking up from where she’s sighting down the length of her arm, flame at the ready. “We trust each other, and we work together.”

Something about the sound of her voice, so familiar and so painfully absent for the last two weeks, seems to get through to Adrian where his own words have failed—she plucks a chord in him, or maybe just completes one, the dissonance of two notes rounding out into three, and it’s like watching a sleepwalker come back to themselves.

“Of course,” Adrian says, finally, reaching to sheathe his mother’s bloodied sword; in this close, tight corridor it would be next to useless anyway. He draws the knife from his other hip, settles it comfortably in his hand. “Lead the way.”

Isabel had not been lying when she told the Belmont: she is no commander of soldiers. She had still hoped that, crazed as their attackers are tonight, her thoughtful leadership and the Belmont’s tactical prowess would give them enough of an edge to keep the enemy forces from breaching the castle.

Hope, it turns out, while not completely useless, does not win battles. 

She’s out here with her four ranged comrades, and Belmont had brought them an entire crate of bolts from who knows where; they’re not in danger of running out. But they’re also making little headway. Have they managed to thin the attacking mob? Yes. Have they eliminated it? Not by a long shot. A bigger force than they expected, maybe, but four marksmen just aren’t enough.

So. Fine. There are other ways to go about this.

The crossbow bolts are still whizzing dangerously close as she darts out of cover, gets a running leap off of the stone banister, jumps directly into the fray. The bodies are thickest where the massive doors have started to bow inward, the insane strength of those bodies undirected except for the most basic drive: break down the doors, get into the castle. 

She lands among them, claws three of their throats out before they even register her presence. It’s easy to duck and weave among them, their reflexes dulled by bloodlust and unused to seeing their own kind as an enemy, and so she tries to carve the still-beating heart of the mob out of its chest, winnows and thins them from within.

A crossbow bolt plants itself into a vampire’s eye socket, less than a foot from her own. The sound of metal striking dense, heavy bone echoes in her ears, as does the screaming that follows. In the single moment’s disorientation, she catches a set of claws across her face, splitting her cheek open down to the bone, and without a second thought she takes hold of the arm that did it, snaps it in two, reels the attacker in and drives her own claws into his throat.

And if this is all she can do now, be a whirlwind of claws that rends apart her own people, the ones who would ruin everything she and hers have fought for—so be it. Her people have their orders; they know what they need to be doing. If she falls here, they will fight on.

There’s a horrible screaming of metal, mechanisms twisting under strain, and the doors begin to give way.

The sudden noise of the door mechanisms failing and the roaring of their invaders is jarring, harrowing, after so much silence and so much waiting. They’ve heard screams elsewhere in the castle, echoing in that labyrinthine way that teases and taunts but is impossible to ever actually track down—and they’ve stayed put, because they are those doors’ last line of defense.

Now, as the doors give way, the attackers start spilling in as soon as there’s a gap wide enough to pass a body through—climbing over one another, fighting each other to get in, some of them already bloodied, some of them injured and healing in front of their eyes. All of them mad.

On the upper landing, at the top of the stairs, Jeanne resettles her grip on her short sword, squares her stance. She stands among humans, but she is no stranger to fighting vampires; they’re always curious about her, always wanting to see how her strength holds up to theirs, how her relative lack of weaknesses will play out in a fight. She is no stranger to sparring with vampires, or with having to forcefully turn away troublemakers at her people’s gates. She has never killed one, never wanted to kill anyone, does not truly believe herself capable of facing an intelligent being and taking its life.

These, though?

These are horrifying. These aren’t people. They’re animals, monsters, slavering beasts. And they were human once—something even she cannot claim—but right now, they are just fodder for her sword and her claws, fodder for the blades and spears of the five who stand around her.  

Tomorrow, they might be different. The morning may find their sanity restored. 

Guilt can, also, come in the morning. Right now, she has a job to do.

Luca Gregori considers himself a patient man. He is practiced in all forms of acceptance, these days; he is not quick to judge. Alucard of Wallachia, infamously opposed to killing, killed his own father? He clearly had a good reason. The Belmont is more than just a general, to his Lord? The stuff of crazy gossip, maybe, but to him it’s not even worth a second thought. That vampires are not just monsters, that they are as unique as the   humans they once were and as individually responsible for their choices as anyone else—this is a foregone conclusion for him, these days. But it is perhaps for the best that he has never, before now, gone abroad on this night, because this horrorscape is enough to sour anyone on the night world.

He’s bleeding from his shoulder, where one of the beasts got their claws into him. It’s his off arm, so it’s not impeding the swing of his grandfather’s blade, but it throbs and aches and he knows it’s going to draw more of them, and the whole point of being here is to get inside and let the others know that things are going to hell—but they’re going to hell so quickly that it’s all he can do to keep fighting them off, keep the entrance he’s guarding protected.

A pause in the onslaught—a chance to draw breath, halting and rough—then another is there, is leaping clear over him, alighting on the wall above his head, clearly more interested in the window above than in tangling with him directly.

Too bad. The sword becomes a projectile, spearing the intruder through the chest as if they’re made of no more than paper; all that sharpening had a purpose. The vampire tumbles, sword and all, to his feet. Goes still.

Luca doesn’t hesitate—he pulls the blade free, brings it up as he spins back toward the open grounds, anticipating another attack.

Another attack doesn’t come.

The night isn’t silent, not remotely—but the commotion seems, suddenly, to be elsewhere. He can hear a ruckus from around the corner of the castle wall, where the main entrance sits, and he supposes that the defenses there might be falling. He considers the tactical implications of abandoning his post and offering aid.

Then, from the corner of his eye: a flicker of light, in the ruins of the old, burned out estate.

From the moment his eyes met Sypha’s in the study, from the moment he held her against him and felt her pulse racing and the heat of the fire in her hands and the determination she held in her heart to save them, to save both of them—

Adrian isn’t sure how to explain it. It feels like something that’d been swirling, dangerous and intoxicating, through his brain and his gut has, somehow, settled. It’s still there, glinting in the sediment like gold dust, begging to be stirred back up, tempting the swipe of a lazy, greedy hand. But the water between them is finally clear.

He wonders: how much of this is the blood, how much Trevor’s proximity, how much the primal desperation of longing for an absent lover?

They encounter few opponents on their descent. One of them Sypha impales with a long, deadly spear of ice, one Trevor neatly beheads, and the third falls under the bite of the traitorous blade in Adrian’s hand, screaming and bleeding. And perhaps it is too agonizing a death to inflict on anyone—but they ought not have attacked him and his loved ones, then.

He remembers Trevor saying it, in the field outside the castle: If you even breathe threateningly at me or mine—

This isn’t vengeance, he knows, shaking the blood from the blade and continuing onward. It is self-defense, defense of his home. Defense of their life, of the way they’ve chosen to live, and damn anyone who thinks they have any right to punish him for it.

When they finally reach the entry hall, when his boots land in exactly the sort of bloodstain he had hoped his new carpets would never see, the scene is utter chaos—and not all that dissimilar to the scene they themselves had broken up when they strode in that front entrance a year ago. A home under assault. Those loyal to its master standing in its defense. 

This time, though, the fighting doesn’t pull to an awed standstill when they enter the room—not that any of them expect it to.

Still, Trevor swears, low. He’d obviously been hoping the doors hadn’t failed yet, that this could be done cleanly. Now, there will have to be a fight, which means there will be losses. Scanning around, Adrian can tell that most of the unmoving bodies scattered about belong to their enemies, ragged-looking in a way that none of Isabel’s people had been, but there is a downed human among them, moaning and clutching his middle and probably not long for the world.

“Have any gotten past you?” Trevor shouts to the small knot of fighters holding the upper landing against the assault. This room was designed to be a funnel, to be easily defensible from this spot, and Trevor had been wise to only station their defenses here, rather than wasting them elsewhere in the hall. If his father’s generals had been half as savvy, the three of them would have had a much harder time taking that first victory. “Into the rest of the castle?”

“No,” a young woman snarls back, blood in her short dark hair, fangs flashing. “They’d have to kill us all first.” She brings her sword around in an elegant arc, takes her attacker’s hands clean off, then lodges the blade deep into the vampire’s ribcage to finish him off. She’s untrained—that much is obvious from the way she handles the blade like an edge and like a point alternately, depending on what she needs, but she’s fast and fluid and far stronger than any of her compatriots, and has a natural fighter’s instincts.

It makes complete sense, given that she’s Isabel’s resident dhampir. Something he’s been asked to accept in passing, as if it were a common thing. As if he’d met another in his life, ever.

Adrian’s self control is already worn to a thin patch, barely there, threadbare. It takes a monumental act of restraint to not just snatch this one up mid-battle and hide her away somewhere safe, if only to be sure she’ll live long enough to speak with him. Because as solid a fighter as she is, she’s getting overwhelmed.

He can’t do that, can’t deprive the battle of her strength. But there are other ways he can help her odds of survival.

“Belmont,” he says, reverting smoothly to formality. He draws his sword again, readies both blades. “Can you handle the water?”

“Can you get those doors closed?” Trevor counters, changing his sword out for his whip, the links clinking at the movement. On the other end of the long hall, the doors are gaping open to the night, their mechanisms stripped and ruined; there’s no one coming through them, which is a pretty good sign that they’re all already in here. Trevor sends the weighted end of the whip whispering through the air, taking his targets out with terrifying precision. “If this is going to be a killing pen,” he grunts between throws, “then we really need to close the gate.”

“I can do it,” Sypha says, looking between them, her gaze settling on Adrian, and it’s like she can see straight through him, right to the core of his anguish. “Go help them, I will handle it.”

There’s a suspended moment there—they are three again, they are together, they are within touching distance and are within each other’s grasp—and then Sypha leans in and embraces them both, quick and hard. 

And then she is, again, gone—headed down the stairs to traverse the sea of bodies that the entry hall has become, dodging and weaving around swords and claws and worse, angling to get closer to the entryway. 

Adrian watches her, watches the fluidity of her movements, the way she skirts danger so effortlessly—then her hands go into the air above her head and a gust of wind kicks up, forceful. The doors slam shut with a resonant thud.

All that’s left to do, then, is give Trevor a significant nod, the man’s hand tightening on his shoulder before letting him go— and dive into the fight.

Trevor doesn’t know exactly what Sypha had done to seal the doors, once she’d closed them. It’d apparently involved melting the moving parts and rendering them useless as doors, because she claims, in clipped shouts over the roar of fire, that they cannot be opened again now.

Which—shit. It shouldn’t have mattered, he’d all but demanded they be closed, but—

There’s a panel set into the wall here, under his hand, modeled to look like just another stone; beneath it, something Adrian connected up to the same magical—sorry, science—bullshit that lights the torches by themselves. When he presses it, it will cause an ember of flame to burn something, something that very much likes to burn, that likes it so much that it tends to explode; the pressure will tear apart the pipes running through the castle, to a lesser degree the further away it gets. But here in the main hall, it will be a downpour.

There’s a panel under his hand, and when he presses it, holy water will pour down like rain and it will melt away every vampire in the entry hall like the last grey, gritty snow of spring.

There’s also a vampire staring across at him, black braids disheveled and tattered, blood streaked across her face, fierce determination burning in the burgundy eyes. Fucking Isabel. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have followed the attackers inside, the fucking idiot; this is why the status of the doors is, suddenly, important. “Why are you—I told you not to be here, we have   to—”

“Do what you need to, Belmont,” she interrupts, steely, eyes only for the fight. “I was warned; I made my choice. I won’t have any of my people die because you dragged this out for my sake.”

“Fuck,” Trevor says, and then, because once is rarely enough: “Fuck.”

“It’s been an honor,” she says, ignoring his invectives, holding a clawed, bloody hand out expectantly.

And for just a second, Trevor just looks at it—looks back up at the landing, where her people are weakening, becoming overwhelmed, even with Adrian’s help. Looks to Sypha, summoning ice and fire, holding her own effortlessly for the moment but how long can that last?

An honor, she says. And against his best efforts, it has been.

He can’t wait. He knows that. This is their one chance to keep the casualties in their favor, and the window is narrowing. 

His hand rests on the panel. Just another ounce of pressure.

Sypha, twenty feet away, spinning solidity from the moisture in the very air, projectiles that pierce like steel, barriers that protect her like any shield... 

Trevor narrows his eyes.

“Fuck that,” he says, smacking Isabel’s hand aside, everything coming together. “Sypha! Need some ice over here now.”

“On it!” she shouts back, and it’s like she’s been listening

in and already knows what he’s asking for—the ice blooms from the air, swirling around Isabel, enclosing her within its walls like something caught in a glass bottle. Trevor finds himself, as always, impressed with both Sypha’s talents and her perceptiveness, with her almost preternatural way of knowing exactly what they need when, in any fight, in any challenge. How did they ever survive two weeks without her?

He slams the panel hard.

A half second of held breath, a building roar, and then: the rains come.

Sypha thinks, in the split second she has to spare between one task and the next, that she should get a medal for figuring things out, after this fight is over. 

It’s not as if they’d had much time to explain things to her—between the need for vigilance on the staircase and the need to split up down here in the hall, all she’d managed to pick up was that they have some new allies fighting with them, and that Trevor’d had some sort of plan involving a mass dousing. Putting it all together, well—she’s just that good.

“I guess that’s that for this group,” Trevor says, shaking the water from his sleeves, wringing it out of his hair with an antsy urgency. The downpour hadn’t lasted long—a tremendous amount of water, but whatever they did to open the pipes, it had been incredibly effective. Possibly overkill. Definitely overkill in terms of their attackers, and someone with a weaker stomach would probably be turning green by now, overwhelmed by all the strangled screaming and the smell of charred flesh, bodies consumed in blue flame, ashes floating down all around them.

Sypha’s never had a particularly weak stomach. She’s seen worse; she’s done worse.

So, left standing: The three of them, and their human allies up on the landing, and the vampire Trevor had had her lock into ice—the only one of them all not sopping wet from head to toe, and thankfully so, if she’s really on their side. 

“God, that feels fucking weird,” Trevor complains under his breath and to no one in particular, shaking a foot as if that will somehow empty his boots of the water she can hear sloshing in his socks.

Adrian raises an eyebrow at Trevor from the landing, sheathing his sword, his knife. He looks like a very blonde drowned rat, and he’s just as antsy, like he’s been wrapped entirely in itchy wool. And that’s no surprise from him, in the circumstances, but— 

“Does it?” Adrian asks, keenly curious. Sypha narrows her eyes at both of them, wonders if maybe there’s something else in the water, some irritant or chemical that she’s just not feeling yet.

But Trevor just shakes his head dismissively. “Not the time,” he grumbles, reaching for the whip at his side, suddenly all business. “There might be more of them further up in the castle, we can’t let our guard down.”

“Then let me eliminate a distraction,” Sypha offers, pressing her hands together in front of her face. This is not her specialty, so she will have to focus, but it will do no good to have saved their ally only to have her burned by the floor they stand on—and regardless of Trevor’s grousing, Adrian is, she’s sure, legitimately uncomfortable. She summons a gust of air that rises from the space around her, a concentrated blast of dry wind that ripples through her robes, through her hair, stripping the moisture right off of her. 

Once she feels her own hair brushing dry against the nape of her neck, she sends the wind outward, swirling through the hall like a cyclone, pulling the water from skin and hair and clothes, from carpets and tapestries, and carrying it all up and away.

Well. Not away. It has to go somewhere, but she’ll cross that bridge later. 

“Better?” she asks.

Adrian shakes his hair out like the mane of some legendary beast. It’s still got that humidity dampness to it, that extra fluffiness, but it’s an improvement. “Much. Thank you.”

And she’s just about to go start melting their visitor out of her ice cage—she’ll need to get the story from Trevor later, of how exactly a vampire, not a dhampir but a full-blooded vampire, managed to earn such loyalty from him—when a man she’s never seen before suddenly appears through one of the side doors, right behind Trevor, wheezing and out of breath from running. The sword in his hand is coated in dark, stale-looking blood. 

“Trevor!” she shouts, bringing up a fresh fireball, but when Trevor spins to face the intruder, his stance immediately relaxes, hand leaving the hilt of his sword. 

“It’s all right,” he says, one hand out to her to say, stand down. “He’s one of ours. Gregori? What’s going on?”

“It’s—” Wheeze, cough. “They’re—”

“They’re what?” Trevor demands, patience thin.

A prolonged, whistling inhale, desperate for air, and then the man visibly makes an effort to compose himself, to regulate his breathing. “They’re gathered in the ruins,” he manages, then takes a deliberate breath. “Talking about a vault or something. That they’re going to get a weapon that will make them unbeat-able? That’s all I got—I couldn’t keep listening, they would have spotted me—”

“Fuck,” Trevor breathes, glancing at the doors, and Sypha knows: the hold.

“Wait,” Adrian says, holding up a hand, forestalling     Trevor’s obvious kneejerk reaction of running off to defend his family’s legacy without a moment’s thought. “They should have spotted you regardless. Or smelled you. And they acted as if they didn’t?”

“Actually, yeah,” Trevor says, narrowing his eyes at Gregori. “That sounds a little bit like bullshit. Is it bullshit, or is there something else going on?”

“I saw what I saw,” the man says, puffing up in defense of his assaulted pride. “I can’t explain it, but I’m not lying to you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Trevor murmurs, after a long, considered study of the man’s face. He presses one hand across his eyes, gestures with the other. “Maybe he’s lying to get us there, or maybe they let him get away so he’d bring this information to us, which is also a ploy to get us there.”

“It is a trap either way.” 

“Or they just want us to leave the castle undefended.”

Sypha sighs, fingers twitching restlessly around her magic, half-sigils that she’d trained into muscle memory to avoid accidentally conjuring fire when she’s restless. “But we can’t leave it alone, can we?”

Trevor just shakes his head. “Okay,” he says, after a thoughtful moment. “Sypha, get our frozen bloodsucker off ice. Jeanne?”

A dark-haired young woman turns at the summons, hands braced on the landing’s banister, paying perfect attention. There’s a stillness to her that’s a little unnerving to Sypha, almost like...

“They’re not getting in the front,” Trevor says, clipped, as Sypha carefully directs her fire, melting away the walls of the impromptu ice shelter. “If they come from anywhere it’ll be those little doors on the side there. You think your people can handle that?”

Jeanne looks to the newly freed Isabel, who despite seeming a little dazed, nods sharply. 

“All right,” Trevor says, sounding like a man who has no idea if he’s doing the right thing, is doing it anyway and damn the consequences.  “Good enough. Let’s go.”

< -- Back | Next -- >

Go to part: one | two | three | four | five | six

[strawberrystepmom]

Gm kendalll!! What’s your favorite recipe? Like what do you think defines you as a person?

my sweet sorin this is truly one of the most thoughtful questions i've ever been asked so thank you so much for taking the time to do so. i had to sit down and really think about it for a bit but to me, the only answer is caldo verde.

caldo verde (literally green soup) is something i ate almost weekly growing up - a deceptively simple soup made from potatoes, sausage of some kind, and a mountain of beautiful green kale. it's hearty and soothing, something that my grandfather ate often growing up on a dairy farm.

when my papa was still with us, he made big pots of it and we'd go over to their house and have fresh bread and our soup no matter the season and it was a time i recall as being really important because it taught me the value of just listening and being together. we would all talk over each other, ten convos going on at once, yet i dont think i've ever felt more heard in my life than i did during those dinners.

now everyone has their recipe. my papa had his that i now have, his sisters have and had their own, fuck i think my sister has her own but it's deceptively simple. you can use chourico, that is not my recommendation, i use linguica and recommend you get it if you can find it because it adds a lot of smoky flavor to the soup itself. it makes your home smell so warm and inviting, too. im not sure where in the world you're at, but i highly recommend taking the time this fall to do the following:

procure one pound of linguica. cut it into medallions or half moons, whichever you prefer, and set it aside. chop up 4-6 potatoes in bite sized cubes. chop a yellow onion (or two if you're serving a lot of people as i tend to do) and i am insane and use four to six gloves of garlic. i grate mine with a microplane but you can rough chop, use a press, use pre minced, etc. whatever is easiest for you!

heat good olive oil in a soup pot and saute your onion and garlic until your kitchen starts smelling really good. i stress good because a lot of the flavor basis comes from the oil you use here. once the onion and garlic are good, add your potatoes and sautee them for a few minutes just to let them start softening. at this point, i add my linguica. i let it fry for usually a good 8 or so minutes to really infuse the olive oil and veggies with the spices in it and then i remove it so that it doesn't get tough and hard to eat while everything else stews.

add about 6 qts of water and chicken bouillon powder to your potatoes, onions, and garlic (we are a knorr household but use whatever you have - boxed broth is also a great option here). crank up the heat and let it come to a simmer for about 25-30 minutes. at this point you will have a really beautiful soup and certain people will remove the potatoes from the stock and use a food processor/immersion blender to make them smooth and like a thickener but i dont, i prefer the more rustic experience and leave them whole. add your linguica back and let it simmer for a few more minutes then dump in the largest handfuls of kale you possibly can. i use like a pound per four servings bc im an insane person and love it lmao this will wilt really quickly and all you have to do is stir it until it all looks cooked through.

best when shared with people you love with a fresh loaf of bread from your favorite bakery.

<3

[regnantlight]

@fhulhuse-of-muses sent:

"--for Her Majesty's safety!"

"For goddess' sake, I won't have you eating every one of Princess Zelda's deliveries!"

"But they're from Ganondorf again! Just because one package was safe doesn't mean that the next one will be!"

"That's no excuse to eat a good handful of those chocolates, you greedy toad! If we deem a package safe, then it's our duty to deliver it to Her Majesty. What you're doing is tantamount to stealing mail!"

The two guards argued back and forth until they saw Zelda entering the room. They stood at attention.

"Your Majesty! Good morning! We have another delivery from Ganondorf." The guard snatched the box of treats from the "poison-testing" guard and handed it to her with a respectful bow.

Inside the box was another note:

"There are things that I need to discuss with you, Princess Zelda. Come to the hill at these coordinates alone. I mean no harm in our meeting. That is a promise. -Ganondorf"

|| TOTK Verse || Plotted ||

Zelda had taken the first note she received to Queen Sonia the morning following its arrival. The Queen met with her privately over a breakfast of hot tea, eggs, fruit, and fresh bread with honey and butter. At first, the older woman seemed mildly amused by the entire ordeal.

“And here I was under the impression that your heart was already spoken for, my dear Zelda.”

“That—“ Zelda felt her cheeks grow warm as she nearly fumbled with her tea. “No, Queen Sonia, you have the wrong impression—I do not intend to truly court Ganondorf, by any means. I merely thought, if I do allow him to pursue me—meet with him, correspond with him—then perhaps I can gain greater insight into what his intentions are with Hyrule.”

“Hm,” Queen Sonia hummed, resting her chin atop her interlaced fingers. “I suppose you still believe him to be a threat…?”

Zelda nodded before trailing her eyes to the table, brows furrowed as she spoke. “I know that King Rauru has already spoken on the matter, but I can not help but feel that something horrible will happen…and if I can stop it, if there is something I may do—“

“Zelda,” the Queen’s slender hand slid across the table to rest over Zelda’s arm. “You carry too much weight on your shoulders. I know,” she continued as Zelda made a move to speak, “that you only want to help…”

She paused then, gaze gentling before she prodded, “Forgive me, but I must ask—have you ever courted anyone before, Zelda? Properly?”

“No.” The answer came honestly as Zelda closed her eyes, “Not…properly.” There had been no time in her endless dedication to training, to her research, to reciting hours of prayer in freezing waters—she did not fall in love through courting.

She fell in love through rain and long travels and stews cooked over an open fire.

She fell in love privately, and while many suspected, no one knew, and when Zelda was finally free to be open about her affections, everyone was gone.

And even then, there was no courting, per se, merely…coming home.

Sonia nodded. “I understand. I will not treat you like a child, Zelda, but…do be careful. Courting is a dangerous game, in so many ways…but it is also a useful tool for precisely this purpose. If you intend to allow Ganondorf to get close to you, I will offer as much protection and guidance as I can…but you will largely be alone. Are you prepared for that…?”

I was alone for 100 years, Zelda wanted to say, while red eyes tore at my soul with more hate than I have ever seen.

Ganondorf could not be worse than that, she thought.

Though his darkness felt familiar and since witnessing him, she had nightmares of those red eyes more and more—

“I will be careful,” Zelda said instead, and when she came across the second note, she kept her word. Took every precaution. Informed her guards just where she would be, and when, and for how long, and to retrieve her should she be delayed.

And she met him, alone, just as he requested.

Red eyes burned in her memory, claws reaching for her beyond their soul-bound cage, promising the death and destruction of everything she loved.

“Good evening, Ganondorf,” Zelda nodded, hands folded before her as slipped into an engrained sense of etiquette that even a century could not erase, “Thank you for your gifts. You are too kind. I trust your time in Hyrule has been well?”

[aesthetikins]

church grim recipes with meat for @bitchywitchheart

i think of traditional english or scandinavian foods and i think hearty warm food. you can never go wrong with a good old beef stew in my opinion

good cuts of meat for stewing are full of collagen and are tough if cooked quickly like a steak. long, slow cooking in a stew will break these tough cuts down until they fall apart whereas cooking a lean cut like this will turn it dry and tough and unpleasant to eat. chuck, short rib, brisket, and cross cut shanks are great for stewing. you may also be able to find cuts labeled "stew meat" in the meat section of your local grocery store

old fashioned beef stew

1/4 cup flour

1/4 teaspoon black pepper

1 pound beef stewing meat, trimmed and cut into cubes

5 teaspoons olive oil

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

1 cup red wine (you can omit this if you can't legally buy wine or don't want a mostly full bottle sitting in your house)

3 and 1/2 cups beef broth

2 bay leaves

1 medium onion, peeled and chopped

5 medium carrots, peeled and cut into 1/4-inch rounds

2 large baking potatoes, peeled and cut into 3/4-inch cubes

2 teaspoons salt

combine the flour and black pepper in a bowl. add in the cubed beef, tossing the chunks to coat them evenly in flour. heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil in a large pot. add beef to the pot a few pieces at a time, avoiding overcrowding (basically just avoid having the pieces touch, give them breathing room). cook the beef, turning it over to brown each side, about 5 minutes per batch. add more oil as needed between batches

remove the beef from the pot and add the vinegar and wine. cook over medium heat, scraping the browned beef and flour bits off of the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. add the beef, broth, and bay leaves. bring this to a boil, then reduce to a slow simmer

cover and cook, skimming off bubbles from the top of the broth on occasion, until the beef is tender (about 1 and 1/2 hours). add the onions and carrots, then cover and simmer for another 10 minutes. add the potatoes and simmer until all of the vegetables are tender, about 30 more minutes. add broth or water if the stew is dry. sea salt and pepper to taste

imo any stew is great with a good loaf of bread. pick your favorite kind, i think its nice with a long baguette or roll thats been slathered with butter. tear off chunks and dip it in between spoonfuls of soup

[koreposion]

Something sweet for Geno to think about before it all goes downhill from here.

Horror and Geno have been preparing the meal all day. They both got up early to clean up the castle's kitchen and set up the cook wear. Pre-heat the oven, premake batter and ferment yeast for bread. They both switched between cooking and cleaning with ease.

Working on a big meal for the evening also meant that others came into the kicthen throughout the day. First for breakfast in which Geno had made burritos and handed them out. Second for lunch, Horror had made tea and sandwiches that were labeled for each member. Finally then there would be the time before they took everything out to the dinning room. When they would need help carrying everything.

Both dressed in short and loose clothing to make movement easier, paired with aprons and oven mitts, Geno and Horror worked vigorously. They had taken breaks over their course of cooking, but it was soothing to always be doing something.

They flowed together easily, Horror correcting spices and Geno checking temperatures. Making sure the texture was right and some tastes weren't too strong. Cutting up fruit and frosting desserts, plating everything and keeping it warm.

"This is the most normal I've felt in forever." Geno said as he placed a cake into the freezer and started cutting into cooked meat.

"Keeping busy does that I've noticed...have you not been keeping busy?" Horror questioned as he test tasted the stew in the crockpot and added a touch more spice.

Geno quickly chopped through the rare meat as he spoke, not nicking himself with the knife once, "The whole getting used to you guys and then the eldritch God magic has been driving me crazy." He spoke honestly, not caring who might be listening.

"I've noticed, I don't like it when the others look at you like you're weird." Horror comments as he moves over to some mashed potatoes, adding just a bit of salt, "Your reactions are normal, no one would react well if they were told their magic was being changed against their will. I sure didn't."

Geno pauses as Horror speaks to him with sympathy, he wasn't sure what he was expecting, "Really? But you seem so..."

"Alright. Yes, but unfortunately you get used to madness and it's made to be the most normal thing apart of you." Horror comes close to Geno, taking the knife from his hand and washing it, "It's okay that you're upset about it, no one likes the idea of losing their mind. Seeing as you barely know who you are right now."

He then opens the oven and makes a small cut into the chicken, "I combated that feeling by just being away from everything once in a while." Once he confirmed it was cooked he took it out and set it onto the table.

"Yeah, but I don't....I don't want to talk Blue that I want to get away from all of the crazy that's happening. It might upset him" Geno says as he checks another oven with Mac n' cheese in it, "I sorta like him a lot."

"Well then you don't have to word it like that. You don't even really have to tell him- make sure to check the other batch." Horror offered his solution to the matter, "Just hang out with me one day and we don't have to talk about work or our bosses. We can just look at cool things and eat good food."

Geno listened, checking the other batch of macaroni and taking it out. It was made for Dust seeing as he didn't like crunchy things. He placed that beside the chicken and closed the other oven with the unfinished macaroni.

"That sounds like fun...I wouldn't mind it..." Geno smiled to himself as he thought about going out, he hasn't been much places. Mostly because he always had a hard time choosing where to go next, "As long as you pick, I'm bad at choices."

"That's fine with me, I'll text you a date later. Now let's finish this up so we can take a break before dinner." Horror said as he nuzzled his skull against Geno's as he carried two trays of cookies.

"Got it!" Geno gave Horror a big smile as he got to work on frosting the cake he had put away before.

Dinner was very pleasant that evening.

[direwombat]

💭

af;ljkasfdl;k thank you so much this wholly ran away from me so it got so much longer than i thought it'd be whoops

What the recently imprisoned "recruits" don't realize, is that although the dinner bell stands in the courtyard where they're being caged, it's ringing isn't for them. Caged animals are fed once a day at dawn. If they're lucky. Sybille knows this, and hangs back as frail and starving bodies rush towards the bars, pleading to the Chosen to give them some food.

She remains huddled in the corner of her private cage -- a "treat" from both Kit and Jacob that's both a blessing and a curse. Just how they wanted it. It's smaller than the others, an actual crate meant for a large dog. She doesn't have much room to move, but she doesn't need to share it. The only real problem with it is that she has no one to huddle for warmth with now that the weather is turning.

The Chosen all file orderly into the Veterans Center, but among the sea of red and black moving towards the intimidating brick edifice, a lone figure moves against the tide. Striding towards her cage with an air of authority and lunch-tray in hand is Kit.

The poor bastards in the larger cages nearly trample each other to get closer when they realize food is entering the yard. Their faces press against the bars and arms claw as they cry out for mercy. But Kit ignores them, her confident stride unbroken as if she doesn't even hear them. She stands before the door to Sybille's cage and crouches down, letting the tray rest on the ground.

A hearty venison stew steams enticingly in a bowl with a piece of bread and small salad on either side. Sybille's stomach cramps and growls loudly, but all she does is scowl at the other woman, fully expecting to be taunted by having her eat in front of her. Show her what she's missing.

But instead, she says, "It's going to snow tonight, Bunny." She stirs the stew with a plastic spoon, letting the aroma carry on the wind and making Sybille's mouth water. "Now, you can stay out here if you think that coat of yours will be enough," -- she scoops up some meat and carrots, showing off the meal before tipping the spoon and letting it fall back into the bowl -- "Or, if you promise to behave, not only will you get a hot meal, but you'll also get to sleep in a nice warm bed."

On cue, a particularly harsh wind comes cutting through the courtyard, causing her to shiver and huddle deeper in her leather jacket. It bites harshly at her cheeks and fingers and she can't hold back the full body shudder that violently rips through her. Damn her, Sybille thinks. Damn her and damn Jacob. She knows exactly what she's doing.

She flashes Sybille a toothy smile. "So, what'll it be?"

Her pride is perhaps the hardest thing she's ever had to swallow, and the two of them have had her eagerly choking on it time and time again. "I'll be good," she breathes desperately through chattering teeth. Please, I'll be so good, just don't leave me here.

Kit's smile widens. Fishing a key from her pockets, she unlocks the padlock securing the door of the cage shut. Sybille crawls towards her, right into her open arms, gratefully melting into the heat of her body as she allows Kit to half-carry her inside the Veterans Center. Her terrible and beautiful guardian angel bringing her to safety.

She doesn't feel a hint of remorse as she leaves behind the horde of prisoners begging to come inside too.

[floydsmuse]

Meggy, I'm trying really hard with the Calvin thoughts, I really am, but the Miles Miller thoughts/thots really started talkin and it just couldn't be helped (lol).

Benny absolutely loves to help with the chores around the ranch and he's so friggin cute while doing it (lol). Maybe it's a warm spring day and the grass is nice and green, the flowers are in bloom and everything is just bursting to life. Maybe you're pregnant with Jesse and your bump is getting in the way a little bit. You're hanging all the sheets, pillowcases and shirts out on the clothesline to dry and you drop one. You squat down to pick it up but Benny comes waddle-running over and sternly tells you, "No mommy, no! Daddy say no bend over! I gon help you!" (lol).

Miles loves bringing Benny to go and collect the eggs because he knows it'll keep the broody rooster and the hens in line and from pecking his boots. Benny will be tossing the feed to the chickens while Miles is checking to make sure the eggs aren't fertilized before bringing them back to the house.

Miles and Otis both teach Benny how to milk the cows too. You and Miles adopted four females who mated with a bull and it was one of the best decisions you could have made since it cut back on the grocery bills. The other good thing too was that Miles and Otis didn't have to milk them as often since the calves are still little and can nurse in the early hours of the morning (Rhett and Royal also do that with Abigail, one of the dairy cows Cecelia took in) and you guys get all the milk, cheese and yogurt you could want (especially since Miles is a fiend for all three, lol). You know too that it's time for the cows to be milked when Benny comes back carrying a metal bucket and clanking it with your wooden spoon (lol).

The orchards are by far yours and Miles's favorite places on the ranch. The grape orchards always smell so good and there's rows and rows of apple, blueberry, apricot and huckleberry bushes. Miles loves being out in the field but seriously hates cutting the grapevines back if they're really overgrown and has to keep poor Benny from eating half the crop because they're just that good (lol).

On the property, you're especially grateful for the swimming hole. Montana winters are super cold but oof, those mountain summers are HOT. Half the time you and your family will just dive in without a second thought on especially hot days. Benny loves looking for the duck nests and watching the mallard and his mate leading their little duckies down to the water and anytime you guys have stale or moldy bread that needs to go, Benny will gladly take it down to the swimming hole to feed to them.

He also loves to help with the vegetable garden too. Benny loves to yank up the carrots, parsnips, radishes, turnips, beets, ginger, garlic, potatoes and onions and Miles doesn't mind in the least when dirt sprays everywhere. He loves to pick the tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, beans and big fat squash that like to creep through the dirt. In Fall, you guys get big, fat orange pumpkins that soon become jack-o-lanterns, soups, stews and pumpkin pies.

Speaking of which, Benny loves to help in the kitchen too, especially when you make the German chocolate cake that Miles's grandma, Essie, used to make and it's so tasty especially with the farm fresh eggs, milk and cream that you guys have (lol). Beef, pork and chicken are especially easy to get and Miles even trained the pigs how to find mushrooms which is an added plus for the kitchen. You always have fresh bread being baked no matter what time of the year it is and you always laugh when Benny pulls up a chair and sits in front of the oven to watch it rise.

Meggy I promise you I will try and get some Calvin thoughts/thots together soon, I'm tryin and it's a BITCH!!!! (lol).

Mary my darling! don’t worry about it :) i will gladly accept any thots/thoughts that come up! i love our precious boy Miles & i can’t wait to read what you’ve sent in!

~ aww little Benny helping out with the chores :,) i just know he feels like such a big boy & is all giddy to help out mommy in any way he can🥹 Benny running over to you to pick up what you dropped is just so sweet! Miles wouldn’t want you to lift a single finger while you’re carrying baby boy & would do everything he can to make your pregnancy as easy & effortless as possible for you!

~ i could so picture Miles bringing Benny to collect the eggs & milk the cows too! that couldn’t be more perfect :,) idk why but for some reason i could see Miles having a ton of knowledge on all the animals on the farm & he’ll share little facts with Benny & you at any given chance! he’s so fascinated by all creatures & animals that roam the earth. he almost loves them more than he does humans, but with an exception of you & Benny of course ! i could also see animals being super attached to Miles, like even deers or squirrels will come up to him & he’ll happily feed them or give them a little pet. He’s like the wildlife whisperer or something. a real life prince charming🥰

~ ahh not Benny eating up all the grapes🤣 i can’t say i blame him tho. they are super yummy! especially fresh ones straight from the vine! a swimming hole? that sounds intriguing! i need one of those when it gets hot😅 aww Benny pulling out veggies from the vegetable garden is so cute! i like the idea of you & Miles gathering up all the veggies & squash to make some delicious soups/meals! i love Benny being a big help & getting so involved with all these activities around the farm :,)

~ Benny helping in the kitchen too?! Mary! it’s just cuteness overload at this point🥹 i could picture him being all giggly & excited when you ask him to help you bake/cook! when you or Miles offer to help Benny, he playfully shuns you away & is all like “i got it mama, dada. no need any help.” which proceeds to make you & Miles laugh. you let him do his thing, but are always there to guide him or help if he needs it! :)

Mary! these thoughts were so sweet & just what i needed tonight🥰 as always, thank you for sharing them with me! i look forward to see what you send in next💗

[spooniechef]

The Dinner Diaries, Day 1 (fried rice, 1 spoon)

My eating habits are not the most orderly things in the world. I thought it might be a good idea to actually try documenting what I eat for a month or so, just so that I've got some kind of record. Also means that I've got a bit more scope for throwing out recipes, even if they are simple, basic, "Everyone must know how to do this" recipes. Because who knows? Maybe people don't, or maybe I do it in a way that people might find easier.

I'm not generally a breakfast person so I had coffee and a couple of gluten-free chocolate digestive biscuits. For those not of the British persuasion - digestives are sort of the plainest cookies in existence, sommetimes elevated by dipping one side in chocolate. So it kind of feels like ready-made oat-bread toast spread with Nutella. I guess that counts as breakfast, more or less.

Skipped lunch because my so-called 'breakfast' was too close to the lunching hour for me to be very hungry, but around 3:30, I had one last slice of my Admiral's Gingerbread (recipe in last post - oh, hey, I have a hand mixer now! Making that monstrosity inspired me to get one). Not because I ran out, precisely, but because my stepfather was in the neighbourhood and he likes baked treats, and since I couldn't eat all of the rest on my own before it got stale, I gave him the last two slices so that they'd have a good home.

Dinner, though - that was my triumph. See, I did a pork roast last week, and a roast chicken the other day, so I had a little bit of roast pork and a lot of roast chicken, the former needing to be eaten basically now. But I had plans in that direction. Nothing says "use up the last bits of cooked meat before they go manky" like fried rice. The recipe that follows is going to be a little vague, but I'll leave notes.

Here's what you'll need:

Rice

1 onion, quartered and sliced

4-6 cloves garlic or 1-2 tablespoons garlic puree

Whatever meat you happen to have handy, cut into chunks (about 1" or so)

Various vegetables (for the purpose of this, we'll say frozen mixed veg)

0.5 thumb-length fresh ginger, grated (or 1.5 tablespoons ground ginger, separated)

Approximately 1/3 cup soy sauce (or tamari, if you're gluten-free)

Other spices to taste (I like a dash of ground coriander, personally)

Like I said, this is so vague because so much is according to taste. Fried rice the way I do it is basically the Hoover Stew of rice dishes, so it's basically "throw stuff into the pot according to taste, heat, FEAST". So take just about everything with a grain of metaphorical salt, okay?

Here's what you do (or here's what I do):

Boil the rice however you would normally (I generally use a pot even though I have a rice cooker because I can just throw in a cup or so of frozen mixed veg just before the rice is cooked and let them finish off together); set aside

Ditto vegetables, unless you've cooked them with the rice

Heat some oil in a pan; sautee the onions with half the garlic until the onions are transparent

Add your meat, the half-tablespoon of ginger, and about a third of your soy sauce (and other spices to taste); heat for 3-4 minutes, stirring once or twice, until the meat is warmed through

Add the rice and vegetables, dump in the rest of the soy sauce, ginger, garlic, and all other spices and heat on low for maybe five minutes, stirring regularly so that the soy sauce mixes evenly into the rice

I find this way works because it's not a lot of effort, but still layers the flavour better than just dumping everything in all at once.

So dinner was Fried Rice A La Spoonie, and dessert was a can of peach slices. So there was one balanced meal out of today, anyway. I do have leftovers so maybe there'll even be lunch tomorrow! That would be a step in the right direction.

This is my week off after three weeks of nightmare at the office, which has left my spoons at an all-time low, but I do have plans for interesting meals this month. I have duck legs - a slight extravagance but they were on sale - and the fixings for a good bacon and eggs breakfast and plans in the direction of a Wacky Cake. But mostly, honestly, I hope you'll be patient with me as I mostly try to finally get my eating habits in some semblance of order. Whether or not I'm very active, pain does burn calories, and one meal per day is probably insufficient.

[spongebob-connoisseur]

Since I've seen you make posts in the past discussing some of the things Slappy likes to eat, what are some of his favorite foods, and would this be different for the human version of him?

Can this man even cook or does he just like eating fast food more so? (Not that that's a bad thing XD I can't cook to save my own life)

Also, thank you for posting the release date for the upcoming SpongeBob episode with him, I'm very excited to see it in October~

No problem! I seriously can't wait for his episode too! He deserves his very own episode <3

As for Slappy and food. I'll just write out headcanons for him and food in general.

I think the only differences between his fish and human counterpart is the fact that he can't get away with eating soap as a human. There's only so many times you can call poison control ya kno? I mean he'd definitely joke and tease the idea of wanting to eat soap because it smells so good but he wouldn't really. Or would he???

Anyways whether fish or human he'd be a food lover. He loves all kinds and I can't see him disliking anything. Hes always willing to try new things.

- He's definitely LOVES carbs. We know how much he LOVES cake (both kinds). And he was likely eating his way through the bread wars so we can assume he likes bread too lol. He definitely loves breads, cakes, pastas.

- He has a HUGE sweet tooth. I can imagine him being easily bribed with sweets. He loves sickly sweet things. He finds pound cake kinda disappointing. No frosting :( he'd still inhale and enjoy it but he wants teeth rotting sweet.

- Idk why when I first got this ask, I was thinking Slappy would make nyquil chicken. He'd definitely see some bullshit online and think it is a good idea. He doesn't fear death so he's kinda unstoppable. For some reason I can see him being the one to create these challenges?? He's probably responsible for the tide pod challenge too.

- Enjoyer of strange food combinations. Banana grilled cheese, pineapple on pizza, soy sauce and ice cream. I think he's down for any weird good pairing so long as it has some sort of sweet element.

- Adventurous eater in general. Like that Peter Parody from Cockatoos for Two. Always willing to try new things. Hopefully he doesn't kill a $50,000 bird to eat.

- does he cook? I mean he likes food so he'd definitely try making stuff for himself. I see him enjoying cooking shows a lot. He'd probably attempt making some stuff. The kitchen would become a huge mess and he'd likely create some kind of unholy abomination. But I also see him making cute bat shaped grilled cheese sandwiches and creepy pasta and whatever. He'd likely have to babysit Nosferatu's kid so he has to be able to make food for him. So he can cook but his skills are kinda limited. He's trying his best.

- I feel like Slappy is banned from a lot of fast food places/resturants. I don't need to specify why. Look at this guy. I think ordering pizza or some sort of delivery like undersea ubereats is the way he usually goes. He tips VERY well but he is very unnerving to put up with lol.

- Since Slappy is a Peter Parody, I do want to take some stuff from Peter Lorre himself!

- there's a story of Peter getting pissed because he was served a salad. I don't think Slappy would make a scene but Slappy probably thinks salad isn't an actual meal. He'd inhale it because he loves food but he'd be sad and pouty or he'd be looking around for something to eat afterwards. That doesn't mean he doesn't like veggies. He does like them very much! Salad just doesn't hit.

- a lot of sources cite Peter loving Hungarian goulash. I think slappy would like that too. I think Slappy would enjoy stews in general. Very warm and comforting.

- theres a story of Peter for one of his movies. One of his co-stars said he'd take a very smelly lunch of cheeses and garlic. In the scenes where he was supposed to strangle her and she'd scream. She said she wasn't screaming because she was scared. She screamed because his breath was rank lol. Probably Slappy. Mans a garlic enjoyer. Slappy probably enjoys smelly cheeses. "Everything stinks and decays..." I think he enjoys funky foods in general. I think he'd like fermented foods like sauerkraut very much.

- personal garbage disposal. If you can't finish a meal then he'd happily finish it. I don't think he'd directly ask. He doesn't seem like the type to ask directly "are you gonna finish that". He's too well mannered. He'd just look at you like a puppy who wants to try some. If you offer him some then he'd politely incline and then inhale it all.

- Enjoyer of mint chocolate chip ice cream. His color palette reminds me of it. Also I think that ice cream flavor is very nasty. He'd love it.

- Enjoyer of all things mint. Mint and anything. Mint and watermelon. Mint and cucumber. Idk why he seems like the type. Probably smells like mint and uses mint cucumber flavored lip balm.

-There was jokes on how he'd eat lip gloss/lip balm. In human form he wouldn't really be able to (don't want to call poison control). But he would finish them quickly. Bad idea to make them smell so good and sweet.

- probably would happily eat mystery meat. I mean most folks already do. That's typically school lunch meat or hot dogs. But Slappy really wouldn't mind it. You could slip a lil human in there. He wouldn't mind it. He makes a few jokes of cannibalism. You can never be sure whether he really means it.

- probably a big fan of dinner shows. No real reason. He likes food. He likes live performance. Seems like a match made in heaven <3

And there you have it! This ask was very fun. Do what you will with this information lol

[serraic]

[ TASTE ] Away from the noise of the festivities, the Chefs of the Round Table (the cooking club) has set up a mostly-private bonfire to test out some of their new creations. Their latest masterpiece? Something called a “marsh mallow,” a recipe from the Sreng region sweetened with vanilla and sugar. It’s supposedly delicious when toasted over a fire…

“ Ah, so you've made your way to the festivities as well, I see, ” Kent greets Serra when he sees her approach the bonfire. It is at this point he hands her a stick, careful to pick one where he's not pointing a sharp point directly towards her, and also holds out two white, fluffy confections in his outstretched palm once she has taken the implement.

“ It's sweet, you'll find. ” He recalls the last time he gave her sweets for a Day of Devotion festival that she seemed quite overjoyed with it, so he presumes she is of a similar mind to him when it comes to confections. “ A bit airy like the macaroons, but it's a bit more… gooey, for lack of a better term, in its consistency, I would report. They're highly edible in any case. ”

He has his own stick, roasting them over the fire. The sugar begins to turn dark, crimson eyes keeping a check on them as he attends to his peer as well.

Serra’s pretty sure this is something she ought to be stuck up about. Cooking her own food, on an open flame, with a stick? It’s absolutely unlady-like. She should shove the whole thing at Kent, force him to do it, anxiously watch the soft, squishy thing turn brown, and stop him just before it caught on fire.

But here’s the truth — despite all her posturing, and despite the fact that she forced Erk to make most of her meals when she was part of the so-called legion, Serra is actually not a total stranger to cooking. It was one of the many chores the sisters gave her once she started getting on their nerves — so, about as early as she could talk and walk herself. Her cooking career, of course, isn’t very varied — she knows how to make stew when you hadn’t had meat or vegetables to add for days, how to break bread so stale it was hard as a rock without any utensils, how to barter for chicken slimy enough to put off normal customers, but fresh enough to not get her and the other kids sick.

This... is something else.

The sky above them is clear — large, dark blue, spotted with pockets of stars. The fire is warm in the stinging cool of the evening, unusual for this time of year — she pulls her cowl closer to her and smiles, for a moment. Look how far she’s come. Someone staying next to her because he wants to — bathed in beautiful moonlight and not in the shadow of the abbey — holding something sweet — her stomach not clenching, her head unclouded, her spirits high.

She thinks, maybe, it’ll be fun to cook it herself. Maybe cooking isn’t so terrible, when you aren’t so sick with hunger you have to fight to not eat the raw ingredients before you can even add them to the pot.

“How do I know when it’s done?” she says, cheerily, setting to stabbing the thing through like he’d done, and admiring her handiwork with it before setting it near his, in the flames. “Ha ha! Highly edible?! Hah! That’s just like you. C’mon, Kent — are they any good?”

[sheddings]

senses and oddly specific headcanons.

what does your muse smell like? the outdoors, mostly. he spends a lot of his time among the trees and woods. he smells of cloves, too, and eats them raw.

what does your muse's hands feel like? hot. he runs warm, even feverish. his skin is on the rougher and dryer side. he doesn't practice things like skincare and is an outdoorsman. 

what does your muse usually eat in a day? animal souls. they're the only viable things that have any value to him and they're the only things that will sustain him. cloves for pain. he can eat other foods, too, but they provide nothing other than enjoyment. he likes hearty dishes—think meats, bread, stews, potatoes—and drinks.

his palette isn't refined and he'll like most anything.

does your muse have a good singing voice? by default, he sounds like matt b.erninger who's known for his baritone. mumbleberry pie. i guess yes, but not to matt's extent. he'd struggle with high notes.

does your muse have any bad habits or nervous ticks? nicholas doesn't consciously identify nervousness or compartmentalizes it as most, i think. he does have habits, though, or observable traits. 

verbally, he stutters. not in the way you think, but in that he's not the most eloquent. he backtracks midway, rewinds, and searches for his words carefully, even if they come out difficult to understand or, admittedly, floppishly. 

physically, despite his face being very still or stoic, his body language is louder. he scratches at his shoulder or collarbone or elbow or neck, tugs at his ear or prods behind it, rubs the side of his nose or his thigh, uncrosses and re-crosses his arms. the list goes on. he also looks down when he smiles or laughs, though they tend to be rarer and more half-smiles or -laughs than full, genuine ones. 

none of these necessarily mean he's nervous or antsy, though they can.

as far as bad habits go, i can't think of any besides an unwillingness to discuss or face, at length, the unpleasant, and it's like pulling teeth getting him to confess negative feelings or things that might cause arguments. he’s too passive in life—he allows trouble to come and go like apathetically watching your house flood—and would rather sweep things under the rug. less seriously: maybe leaving dishes in the sink. he microwaves his tea. has little inflection when he speaks. this makes some think he’s being dead serious when he isn’t. it can make things awkward.

what does your muse usually look like/wear? comfy and simple. he dresses in what's comfortable—worn pants or jeans, cardigans, cotton button-downs—and rarely dresses in suits or more formal clothes. he doesn't care for fashion. 

he wears large and square black-framed glasses, too, but because he actually needs them. 

is your muse affectionate? how much? how so? nicholas isn't soppy in affection. he's more a stable anchor and rock than a doting man, and he's neither a mother hen nor the type to sweep you off your feet. he's small gestures and quiet at heart. 

he's the everyday affection people tend to not notice anymore, like a small kiss on the cheek every day before work until it's imperceptible. like knowing how you like your eggs. things you take for granted. he doesn't call attention to it.

what position does your muse sleep in? on his back, sometimes a hand tucked behind the pillow. he likes to nap and often lays one hand or laces his fingers over his belly when he does.  

could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room? yes, but not because he's loud. just low. it carries the way a bass does.

tagging: @crimeloyalty, @denieddeath, @goldfanged, @gravemet, @indeath, @lykaiia, @serpentongue

[vpureindia]

Top 10 Benefits of White Oats, Oats, Oatmeal, Way to Eat and More!

White oats are whole oat grains that have been boiled and then rolled into flat flakes. They are also referred to as rolled oats or outdated oats. The oats' shelf life is increased and maintained by this method. Unlike other varieties of oats, such as steel-cut or quick oats, white oats are produced using a particular rolling method that gives them their uniquely flat shape.

White oats have a mild, nutty flavour and a slightly chewy texture. They are commonly used in various culinary applications, including breakfast cereals, baked goods, and as a base for oatmeal. Due to their versatility and nutritional benefits, white oats are a popular ingredient in many households and are widely consumed worldwide.

What are the Benefits of White Oats and Oatmeal?

Oats are a popular option for a healthy diet because of their specific nutritional profile. They include a lot of carbs, especially fibre, which can support healthy digestion and help you maintain your weight by making you feel fuller for longer. Oats are a great source of plant-based protein for vegetarians and vegans because they also include an adequate quantity of protein, particularly compared to other grains. Furthermore, oats are a great source of vital vitamins and minerals essential to overall health and wellbeing, like iron, magnesium, phosphorus, and B vitamins.

Oatmeal is among the most popular ways to take Benefits of eating oats with milk. Oats are first ground into a fine powder or split into smaller pieces to make the oatmeal. They are boiled with milk, water or a combination of the two to get a creamy, porridge-like consistency. According to nutritional requirements and personal tastes, oatmeal can be adjusted by adding different toppings and flavourings such as fruits, nuts, seeds, honey, or spices.

People can enjoy oatmeal at any time of day because it is a very adaptable dish. It's a popular, warm, and comfortable healthy breakfast products online that gives you a healthy start to the day. Oats can be added to baked products like bread, muffins and cookies to add flavour and texture, or they can be used in savoury foods like soups and stews.

Top 10 Health Benefits of White Oats

Rich in soluble fibre (First Benefits of White Oats)

This type of fibre, called beta-glucan, helps lower cholesterol, manage blood sugar levels, and improve gut health.

Good source of protein (Second Benefit of White Oats)

Compared to other grains, oats offer a decent amount of protein, keeping you feeling fuller for longer.

Packed with antioxidants (Third Benefit of White Oats)

These compounds fight free radicals in the body, potentially reducing the risk of chronic diseases.

Potentially helpful for weight management (Fourth Benefits of White Oats)

Oats' fibre and protein increase hunger, which may help with weight management.

Potential benefits for heart health (Fifth Benefits of White Oats)

Research indicates that by lowering blood pressure and cholesterol, oats may help reduce the risk of heart disease.

May improve blood sugar control (Sixth Benefits of White Oats)

Beta-glucan in oats can improve blood sugar regulation, which benefits people with obesity or diabetes.

Versatile and nutritious (Seventh Benefits of White Oats)

Oats are easy to incorporate into your diet and can be enjoyed in various ways, from oatmeal to baked items.

Help with skincare (Eighth Benefits of White Oats)

Considering the advantages of oats for skin care, they help reduce acne and absorb extra oil from the skin. Oatmeal's anti-inflammatory and antioxidant qualities aid in removing dead skin cells and treating dryness. It helps exfoliate the skin and gets rid of waste, and thus, it functions as a natural cleaner.

Promotes better sleep (Ninth Benefits of White Oats)

Melatonin and complex carbs can be found in oats. These encourage better sleep by increasing the amount of tryptophan that reaches the brain. Eating muesli has countless benefits. You can use oatmeal externally on your skin and hair for optimal effects and include it in your diet.

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Babies' digestive systems will accept the oatmeal. Thus, it is safe to feed them. Furthermore, it is a naturally occurring bowel movement. Thus, babies are less sensitive to experiencing constipation. If you believe muesli would be a fantastic choice, purchase the least processed oats immediately. From steel-cut oats to instant oats, you have various options.

Including white oats in your diet can be as easy as having a muesli bowl for breakfast or adding oats into other recipes, like baked goods, savoury dishes and smoothies. They provide a nutritious and adaptable supplement to a balanced diet, promoting health and general wellbeing.

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How to eat Oats to Take Benefits of white oats

There are several delicious and nutritious ways to eat oats. Here are some popular methods:

Raw Oats:

Smoothies: Blend oats with your favourite fruits, milk, vegetables, and protein powder for a nutritious on-the-go breakfast or snack to take Benefits of oatmeal for breakfast.

Yoghurt Bowls: Mix raw oats into yoghurt with berries, nuts, and seeds for a satisfying and fibre-rich parfait.

Overnight Oats: Combine rolled oats with milk, yoghurt, or water, and add fruits, nuts, spices, and other toppings. Refrigerate overnight for a quick breakfast.

Energy Bites: Combine oats with nut butter, dried fruit, and seeds for bite-sized energy boosts.

Cooked Oats:

The oatmeal: This traditional breakfast dish can be prepared overnight, in the microwave or on the fire. Add your preferred fruits, seeds, nuts, spices, and toppings like maple syrup or honey to personalise it.

Baked Oats: By combining eggs, spices and other ingredients, muesli can be made into a substantial and delicious breakfast dish baked in the oven.

Savoury Oats: Experiment with oats in spicy meals such as meatballs, vegetarian burgers, or stuffing.

Pancakes and Waffles: To add texture and fibre, you can add oats for pancakes and waffles to the batter.

Oat Flour: To make flour for cookies, muffins, and other baked items, grind rolled oats.

Choose whole grain oats whenever possible for maximum nutritional benefit.

Experiment with different cooking methods and flavours to find your favourites. Don't be afraid to get creative and add your touch to oat-based recipes. Pay attention to portion sizes, especially when adding toppings or sweeteners.