#Hot Tree Publishing

[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. 

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[correlance]

Paradise Lost: How John Milton's 1667 work influenced "Hazbin Hotel"

I've been thinking about why the "fruit of knowledge" in Hazbin Hotel is depicted as an apple, as opposed to another fruit that would've been more accurate to the Middle East during the Fall of Man, as well as how Paradise Lost by John Milton (1667) influenced the show.

Per one source:

"Because the Hebrew Bible describes the forbidden fruit only as 'peri', the term for general fruit, no one knows [what exactly type of fruit it was]. It could be a fruit that doesn't exist anymore. Historians have speculated it may have been any one of these fruits: pomegranate, mango, fig, grapes, etrog or citron, carob, pear, quince, or mushroom."

Per Wikipedia:

"The pseudepigraphic Book of Enoch describes the tree of knowledge: 'It was like a species of the Tamarind tree, bearing fruit which resembled grapes extremely fine; and its fragrance extended to a considerable distance. I exclaimed, How beautiful is this tree, and how delightful is its appearance!' (1 Enoch 31:4)."

In Jewish and Islamic traditions, the "fruit of knowledge" is commonly identified with grapes. The Zohar explains that Noah attempted (but failed) to rectify the sin of Adam by using grape wine for holy purposes. Today, the "Noah grape" is still used to make white wine.

Furthermore:

"The association of the pomegranate with knowledge of the underworld as provided in the Ancient Greek legend of Hades and Persephone may also have given rise to an association with knowledge of the 'otherworld', tying-in with knowledge that is forbidden to mortals. It is also believed Hades offered Persephone a pomegranate to force her to stay with him in the underworld for 6 months of the year. Hades is the Greek god of the underworld, and the Bible states that whoever eats the forbidden fruit shall die."

So, how then did the apple become the foremost symbol of the "fruit of knowledge"? You can partly thank Paradise Lost by English poet John Milton, a work which the lore of Hazbin Hotel is based off of.

Milton published the book in 1667, a time when the hedonistic Restoration era was in full swing. The exiled King Charles II was restored to the throne as King of England in 1660, and was a party animal, with dozens of mistresses, and nicknamed both the "playboy prince" and "Old Rowley", the latter after his favorite lustful stallion.

However, the association of the "fruit of knowledge" began with a Latin pun long before Milton immortalized the association in Paradise Lost. Per the linked article above by Nina Martyris for NPR:

"In order to explain, we have to go all the way back to the fourth century A.D., when Pope Damasus ordered his leading scholar of scripture, Jerome, to translate the Hebrew Bible into Latin. Jerome's path-breaking, 15-year project, which resulted in the canonical 'Vulgate', used the Latin spoken by the common man. As it turned out, the Latin words for evil and apple are the same: 'malus'.

[...] When Jerome was translating the 'Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil', the word 'malus' snaked in. A brilliant but controversial theologian, Jerome was known for his hot temper, but he obviously also had a rather cool sense of humor.

'Jerome had several options,' says Robert Appelbaum, a professor of English literature at Sweden's Uppsala University. 'But he hit upon the idea of translating 'peri' as 'malus', which in Latin has two very different meanings. As an adjective, 'malus' means 'bad' or 'evil'. As a noun it seems to mean an apple, in our own sense of the word, coming from the very common tree now known officially as the 'Malus pumila'. So Jerome came up with a very good pun.'

The story doesn't end there. 'To complicate things even more,' says Appelbaum, 'the word 'malus' in Jerome's time, and for a long time after, could refer to any fleshy seed-bearing fruit. A pear was a kind of 'malus'. So was the fig, the peach, and so forth.'

Which explains why Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel fresco features a serpent coiled around a fig tree. But the apple began to dominate Fall artworks in Europe after the German artist Albrecht Dürer's famous 1504 engraving depicted the First Couple counterpoised beside an apple tree. It became a template for future artists such as Lucas Cranach the Elder, whose luminous Adam and Eve painting is hung with apples that glow like rubies.

Milton, then, was only following cultural tradition. But he was a renowned Cambridge intellectual fluent in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, who served as secretary for foreign tongues to Oliver Cromwell during the Commonwealth. If anyone was aware of the 'malus' pun, it would be him, and yet he chose to run it with it. Why?

Appelbaum says that Milton's use of the term 'apple' was ambiguous. 'Even in Milton's time the word had two meanings: either what was our common apple, or, again, any fleshy seed-bearing fruit. Milton probably had in mind an ambiguously named object with a variety of connotations as well as denotations, most but not all of them associating the idea of the apple with a kind of innocence, though also with a kind of intoxication, since hard apple cider was a common English drink.'

It was only later readers of Milton, says Appelbaum, who thought of 'apple' as 'apple', and not any seed-bearing fruit. For them, the forbidden fruit became synonymous with the 'malus pumila'. As a widely read canonical work, 'Paradise Lost' was influential in cementing the role of apple in the Fall of Man story."

To tie this back into John Milton's relationship with King Charles II of England, as mentioned, Milton originally served Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector of England, and the English Commonwealth, which was formed with the overthrow and execution of King Charles I on 30 January 1649, following the bloody English Civil War (1642 – 1651).

The King's two sons - the newly-christened King Charles II, the elder, and James, Duke of York (King James II), the younger - fled into exile on the European continent. However, with the death of Oliver Cromwell on 3 September 1658 came the 2-year-long dissolution of the English Commonwealth, and the restoration of the monarchy.

As for Milton himself, we can look to an article by Bill Potter.

Milton, born on 9 December 1608, was around 51-52 years old when King Charles II was restored to the throne. He attended Christ's Church, Cambridge in his youth, and mastered at least six languages, as well as history and philosophy; making him, perhaps, the most knowledgeable poet in history. He spent more than a year travelling across Europe, conversing with and learning from intellectuals, linguists, poets, and artists, including the famous Galileo Galilei.

However, Milton was a controversial figure of his time, being unafraid to criticize institutions of authority; arguing that "divorce was Biblical", for which he was routinely condemned; joining the Puritans; penning the Areopagitica, a treatise on liberty in favor of Parliament and the Roundhead rebels, during the reign of King Charles I, arguing that the King must be held accountable by the people; and agreed with and justified the murder of King Charles I, for which Parliament hired him in 1649 as a propagandist and correspondence secretary to foreign powers, on account of his fiery manifestos against "the man".

The collapse of the Commonwealth with the death of Oliver Cromwell in 1658 did not deter Milton from continued political writing against the monarchy and the new public sentiment that brought about its Restoration under King Charles II in 1660. On the contrary, Milton - now totally blind, having lost his eyesight by the age of 44 in 1652, a decade earlier - began writing Paradise Lost in 1661, and spent the next six years dictating the work to transcribers.

A supporter of regicide, Milton was also forced into exile himself, and faked his own death, as Charles refused to pardon - and sought to execute - any of those directly involved with his father's murder. Milton's friends held a mock funeral for Milton on 27 August 1660, just months after the coronation of King Charles II on 23 April 1660.

King Charles II commented that he "applauded his [Milton's] policy in escaping the punishment of death [execution for treason] by a reasonable show of dying", but insisted on a public spectacle nonetheless by having Milton's writings burned by the public hangman.

After eventually obtaining a general pardon from King Charles II, Milton was imprisoned, and released, likely due to political friends in high places. He died, aged 64, in 1674. His theological views were sometimes considered heterodox by the best Puritans, and his political views came close to getting him executed on several occasions. His poetry, however, has endured as some of the greatest works in the English language, especially Paradise Lost; much of his greatest work was written during his 22 years of complete blindness.

One of the main factors in King Charles II deciding to grant a pardon to Milton was, ironically, Paradise Lost. While originally written by Milton as a scathing criticism of King Charles II and the monarchy - depicting Lucifer Morningstar as a sympathetic rebel against God, with King Charles II claiming that is right to rule came from "divine ordainment" - Charles II enjoyed the work, and authorized its publication on 20 August 1667. We know this because a 1668 copy of Paradise Lost in royal bindings by Samuel Mearne, bound lovingly in a fine red leather made of goat skins tanned with sumac, and stamped in gold with the royal cypher of King Charles II, was found. The endpapers bore a watermark with the royal arms of Charles II.

Per one Miltonian scholar: "The most single important event in Milton's life was the event against which he struggled most: the Restoration of Charles II, [and his relationship with the King]. Had it not come, we might have never had Paradise Lost...certainly, we should never have had [it] in [its] present power and significance."

Milton followed up Paradise Lost with Paradise Regained in 1671, three years before his death, with advice for King Charles II, urging the hedonistic Charles to "reign over himself and his passions":

"For therein stands the office of a King, His Honour, Vertue, Merit and chief Praise, That for the Publick all this weight he bears. Yet he who reigns within himself, and rules Passions, Desires, and Fears, is more a King; Which every wise and vertuous man attains: And who attains not, ill aspires to rule Cities of men, or head-strong Multitudes, Subject himself to Anarchy within, Or lawless passions in him which he serves." - John Milton, Paradise Regained, Book II, lines 463-472

To summarize: "If we must have a King back again, my Lord, please try to be a good man, unlike your father, who fell to his pride, [which was also the downfall of Lucifer]."

To quote another source: "Though the passage begins by noting that the office of a King is to bear the weight of public concerns, it is the control of one's private concerns that truly set a King apart as a virtuous character. Indeed, so important is self-command that any wise or virtuous man who attains it is like a king; any king who does not practice [self-command] is nothing more than a mere subject, ruled by anarchy and lawlessness."

Milton's words, too, echo a work written by Charles' grandfather, King James VI/I of Scotland and England: Basilikon Doron ("Royal Gift").

Per Wikipedia:

"'Basilikon Doron' (Βασιλικὸν Δῶρον) means 'royal gift' in Ancient Greek, and was written in the form of a private letter to James' eldest son, Henry, Duke of Rothesay (1594–1612). After Henry's death, James gave it to his second son, Charles, born 1600, later King Charles I. Seven copies were printed in Edinburgh in 1599, and it was republished in London in 1603, when it sold in the thousands.

This document is separated into three books, serving as general guidelines to follow to be an efficient monarch. The first describes a king's duty towards God as a Christian. The second focuses on the roles and responsibilities in office. The third concerns proper behaviour in daily life.

As the first part is concerned with being a good Christian, James instructed his son to love and respect God as well as to fear Him. Furthermore, it is essential to carefully study the Scripture (the Bible) and especially specific books in both the Old and New Testaments. Lastly, he must pray often and always be thankful for what God has given him.

In the second book, James encouraged his son to be a good king, as opposed to a tyrant, by establishing and executing laws as well as governing with justice and equality, such as by boosting the economy. The final portion of the Basilikon Doron focuses on the daily life of a monarch.

All of these guidelines composed an underlying code of conduct to be followed by all monarchs and heads of state to rule and govern efficiently. James assembled these directions as a result of his own experience and upbringing. He, therefore, offered the 'Basilikon Doron' ('Royal Gift') to his son, with the hope of rendering him a capable ruler, and perhaps to pass it down to future generations.

Overall, it repeats the argument for the divine right of kings, as set out in 'The True Law of Free Monarchies', which was also written by James. It warns against 'Papists' (Roman Catholics) and derides Puritans, in keeping with his philosophy of following a 'middle path', which is also reflected in the preface to the 1611 King James Bible. It also advocates removing the Apocrypha from the Bible."

King James VI/I further instructed his son and grandson:

"A good monarch must be well acquainted with his subjects, and so it would be wise to visit each of the kingdoms every three years."

"During war or armed conflict, he should choose old-but-good captains to lead an army of young and agile soldiers."

"In the court and the household, [a royal] should carefully select loyal gentlemen and servants to surround him. When the time came to choose a wife, it would be best if she were of the same religion and had a generous estate. However, she must not meddle with governmental politics, but perform her domestic duties."

"As for inheritance, to ensure stability, the kingdom should be left to the eldest son, not divided among all children."

"Lastly, it is most important...that [a royal] would know well his own craft...to properly govern over his subjects. To do so, [one] must study the laws of the kingdom, and actively participate in the council. Furthermore, [one] must be acquainted with mathematics for military purposes, and world history for foreign policy."

"[A royal] must also not drink and sleep excessively. His wardrobe should always be clean and proper, and he must never let his hair and nails grow long. In his writing and speech, he should use honest and plain language."

King James VI/I further supplemented Basilikon Doron with a written treatise titled The True Law of Free Monarchies: Or, The Reciprocal and Mutual Duty Between a Free King and His Natural Subjects.

"It is believed King James VI/I wrote the tract to set forth his idea of absolutist monarchism in clear contrast to the contractarian views espoused by, among others, James' tutor George Buchanan (in 'De Jure Regni apud Scotos'), [which] held the idea that monarchs rule in accordance of some sort of social contract with their people. James saw the divine right of kings as an extension of the apostolic succession, as both not being subjected by humanly laws."

Milton's own Areopagitica was a follow-up on De Jure Regni apid Scotos by George Buchanan, and also to The True Law of Free Monarchies, as well as the idea of the "divine right of kings". It takes its title in part from Areopagitikos (Greek: Ἀρεοπαγιτικός), a speech written by Athenian orator Isocrates in the 4th century BC.

Most importantly, Milton also wrote on the concept of free will: "Milton's ideas were ahead of his time in the sense that he anticipated the arguments of later advocates of freedom of the press by relating the concept of free will, and choice to individual expression and right."

The concept of free will, too, was a major topic explored in Paradise Lost. Per one source: "In 'Paradise Lost', Milton argues that though God foresaw the Fall of Man, he still didn't influence Adam and Eve's free will. [...] God specifically says that he gives his creatures the option to serve or disobey, as he wants obedience that is freely given [or chosen], not forced. Some critics have claimed that the God of the poem undercuts his own arguments; however, Milton did not believe in the Calvinistic idea of 'predestination' (that God has already decided who is going to Hell and who to Heaven), but he often comes close to describing a Calvinistic God. God purposefully lets Lucifer (Satan) escape Hell, and sneak past Uriel into the Garden of Eden, and basically orchestrates the whole situation so that humanity can be easily ruined by a single disobedient act. In describing the Fall of Man before it happens, God already predicts how he will remedy it, and give greater glory to himself by sending his Son [Jesus Christ] to die, and restore the order of Heaven."

In Hazbin Hotel, Adam also describes the Calvinistic idea of 'predestination', and that "the rules are black and white":

However, "This possible predestination leads to the theory of the 'fortunate fall', which is based on Adam's delight at learning of the eventual coming of the Messiah [from his bloodline]. This idea says that God allowed the Fall of Man, so that he could bring good out of it, possibly more good than would have occurred without the Fall, and be able to show his love and power through the incarnation of his Son. In this way, the free will of Adam and Eve (and Lucifer/Satan) remains basically free, but still fits into God's overarching plan."

However, there is one major flaw with this, and that is that we don't know if Jesus Christ exists within the Hazbin Hotel universe or not. Yet Charlie Morningstar, the daughter of Lucifer Morningstar and Lilith, and the "Princess of Hell", is depicted as a savior-esque figure within the show who, like God in Paradise Lost, encourages lowly sinners to choose obedience to God out of their own free will. More interestingly, Charlie does not come from Adam's bloodline; yet, while Lucifer decries 'free will', Charlie supports 'free will' instead.

Perhaps is is merely because Charlie, being the daughter of Lucifer and Lilith, claims to want to fulfill Lilith's "dream" of humanity being empowered in Hell ("The mind is its own place, it can make Heaven out of Hell, or Hell out of Heaven" - Lucifer, Paradise Lost); however, I think it also stems from Charlie having a genuine belief that 'free will', and people choosing to do good instead of evil, is "good" and "Godly".

True to Paradise Lost, this is also in fulfillment of God's plan; and, according to one fanfiction, why God allowed Charlie to be born to Lucifer and Lilith, so that sinners may be redeemed through Charlie.

For more on differing interpretations of 'free will', I suggest reading: "Free Will and the Diminishing Importance of God's Will: A Study of Paradise Lost and Supernatural" by Kimberly Batchelor (2016)

Excerpt: "'Paradise Lost' –and Milton’s purpose for writing the poem— is rooted deeply in postreformation Arminianism and this is apparent in its employment of free will. Chapter 1 argues that Milton turns to free will as a tool to justify the actions of God. Freedom of choice is God-given, and sets up a morality in which right and wrong are dictated by God. Chapter 2 shows that in 'Supernatural', free will is not given by a higher power; and, in fact, free choice functions as an act of defiance against God's will."

This raises the question: Is 'free will' given by God, using Lucifer as his vessel, in Hazbin Hotel, as in Paradise Lost? Or is 'free will' not given by a higher power; and, in fact, an act of defiance against God?

This brings us back around to our first question: Why is an apple, or 'malus', used to depict the "fruit of knowledge", especially if 'malus' means 'bad or evil', whereas Milton depicts 'free will' as God-given?

Well, for one, Lucifer still chooses to associate himself with apple symbolism and imagery, despite being skeptical of free will:

Based on the introduction to Episode 1, Charlie also views 'free will' as a gift (Miltonian), whereas Lucifer appears to view it as a curse.

However, Charlie also notes that it was through the 'gift' of free will that the "root of all evil" entered the world, for if mankind could choose to be good, then they could also choose to be evil ('malus').

John Milton states in Paradise Lost: "Of Man's First Disobedience, and the Fruit Of that Forbidden Tree [malus], whose mortal taste Brought Death (evil, malus) into the World, and all our woe."

Thus, the use of an apple specifically is likely a tie-in to what others have been speculating about a character that series creator Vivienne Medrano (Vivziepop) alluded to a while back: "The Root of All Evil".

However, "Roo" itself is depicted as possessing the body of a human woman, presumably Eve, the first one to eat the "fruit of knowledge":

Thus, we can discern that "Malus" likely refers to this character. (Also see: "Maleficent", a name that also uses the root word "mal", "evil".) As for Roo's intentions, if Charlie is "good" - and, if, in fact, Alastor was sent by "Roo" (Eve) - then they may want for Alastor to work on their behalf to "corrupt" Charlie, or make sure the hotel never succeeds.

This is because demonic power is tied to human souls, and there are "millions of souls" in Hell, which likely fuels the great power of "Roo". The more souls there are in Hell, the more powerful "Roo" becomes. The Overlords also get their demonic power from "millions of souls".

The deal between Eve and "Roo" might even be the first contract, or deal, between a human soul and a demonic entity; in exchange for 'free will', and the knowledge of good and evil, Eve allowed the "Root of All Evil" to inhabit her body, and to escape the void or prison it was confined to by Heaven (Hell?). (For one cannot be 'all-good' unless you attempt to 'eliminate' or 'ablate' evil; and, in Greek mythology, Zeus imprisoned the Titans in Tartarus for all of their evil deeds.)

Another possibility, brought up in an article by Gillian Osborne, is that Lucifer sees the "fruit of knowledge" as an apple, but it may appear as different fruits to different people, depending on how they view it. This also fits with Lucifer and angels being able to easily shapeshift.

In Paradise Lost, only Lucifer describes the fruit as an "apple" (malus), as he associates malus with "bad, evil", while the narrator also describes the fruit as "a mix of different colors" and peach-like. This then begs the question: "Did the fruit of knowledge of good and evil become 'evil' because Eve harbored resentment towards Adam?"

Quote: "Lucifer (Satan) gives Eve yet another hint that this tree may be more complicated than he wishes her to believe: although elsewhere in Milton's poem Eden is heady with its own newness, sprouting spring flowers left and right, the tree of knowledge is already old: its trunk is 'mossie'. Nevertheless, Lucifer claims to wind himself around the tree 'soon'; the quickness of his reported arrival stands in contrast to the timescales required to cover a fruit tree with moss (PL 9.589). Placing Lucifer's winding body between these two timescales—an easeful present and the inhuman scale of natural history—Milton suggests that there is something dangerous in entangling the past with the present. Yet, 'Paradise Lost' also makes deep biblical history feel like present politics for its readers. When Adam and Eve wander out of Eden at the end of the poem, they famously make their way not only into an earthly paradise, but also into the present. Eden's mossy apple tree therefore represents the pitfalls of conflating nature and history, of seeing any action in human history—even Eve's eating of an apple—as natural, if by nature, we mean inevitability. For Milton, history, unlike nature, is directed by humans, progressive, and, like the reading of 'Paradise Lost', hard work. While trees may inevitably collect moss the longer they live, Adam and Eve's labors in the garden, and our labors of reading, require agency and effort. Milton's poem refuses mourning the loss of Eden, [and the perfection of Heaven], in favor of a perpetual, melancholic, recreation of paradise: a present perfecting."

To quote Twisted: The Untold Story of a Royal Vizier, which also draws inspiration from John Milton's Paradise Lost: "It's an unfortunate situation...but you do have a choice [i.e. free will]."

[mariaxxxxx]

Blackberry (Steve Rogersx fem!reader)

Summary: You shouldn't have had too much to drink at that party, honey. (+18)

Warnings: 18+ ONLY/ Minors DNI, Angust, Hurt comfort, Sex, Apologies, Crying, Creampie, Passionate sex, virgin!reader, size difference, smut, soft!dom!, HEA, good ending, somnophille, slight degradation, duvious consent, menstrual sex, pregnancy, arranged marriage, inexperienced reader, abortion commented, unprotected sex (don't do that wrap this thing), kidnapping, aftercare, curse words.

series masterlist

A/N: English is not my mother tongue. I apologize for any errors.

A/N: The following chapter has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex. I ask that you carefully observe the warnings to avoid triggers.

The party at the Stark mansion was a success as always. The cream of society was made up of businesspeople and new candidates for a seat in the American Congress. Dresses and hats fluttered in the cool spring breeze. You devoured a bowl of sugared blackberries, leaning against the bar counter, while watching your parents talk with friends animatedly about some topic involving economics and money. For God! You were so bored not even one of your friends decided to join you in this den of ostentation and hypocrisy.

And nothing, no matter how exciting it was to be in a superhero's house, could appease the enormous boredom that consumed his insides. Not even alcohol could keep you company at this point, your father would die before allowing a drop of alcohol to wet his tongue, so you were left with sugary blackberries that proved to be a good aphrodisiac on a hot afternoon.

You swallowed the last blackberry and left the empty bowl on the counter. He walked to his mother and whispered ‘’I’m going for a walk’’ in her ear and left the room before his mother could retort. You easily dodged the hundreds of guests and headed to the farthest drinks tent where an efficient bartender was juggling. The tent was outside, near a clump of trees, away from the watchful eyes of his parents.

“A blackberry margarita, please.” You asked, leaning slightly over the ivory surface.

"Identity." He asked.

“I didn’t bring it, but I guarantee that I’m of legal age.” You smiled as convincingly as you could, but he didn't seem inclined to help you. You rolled your eyes. “I’ll give you 100 bucks for the drinks.”

The bartender looked at You in disbelief. You felt internally angry; The childish features still hadn't left his face like the cute cheeks and plump lips, and that always got him into trouble.

“Not happening, girl.”

"Please! This party is a big mess, if you know what I mean. I need to stuff my face or I’m going to go crazy.”

Again he looked at her in disbelief. He was probably one of those people who only saw parts published in gossip magazines about young heirs who got into trouble.

"It went badly."

You sighed. Your father didn't even let you bring your cell phone. It was not polite, in his opinion, for a rich girl to interrupt an important conversation because of a message.

“A straight whiskey, please.” The deep voice next to him. “And a blackberry margarita.”

Without having to present ID or leave a tip to guarantee efficient service, the man, the damn Captain America, got both orders at incredible speed. The only thing You could think about was how tall and handsome he was.

"Here." He handed her the drink. “I got the impression that you forgot your identity and are being massacred by the damn bureaucracy.”

You smiled; by the drink and the wording so changing coming from a man considered by many to be an American God.

“Thank you, Captain.” You said as you took a sip of your drink.

“Steve. Just Steve.” He said taking a generous sip of his own drink. “I hope he really is of age. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

"Right. Steve. Just Steve.” You repeated with a mischievous smile. “I promise I will show you my ID as soon as possible.”

“What’s your name, pretty girl?”

You found yourself smiling and blushing at such a flippant compliment coming from such a divine man. You told him your name.

“A beautiful and delicate name. It suits you." He took another generous sip of his Whiskey and you took advantage and drank some more of your drink. It was sweet and went down as light as water.

“How can I thank you for the drink?” You asked.

"Talk to me."

You drank more of your blackberry margarita.

"About what?"

"Anything. Just… entertain me at this boring party.”

“Anything…” You took another sip. “As long as we can help ourselves to one more of these.” You got ready for your now empty glass.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Steve said, finishing the whiskey with a hint of a smile on his lips.

At some point, between conversations and glasses of margarita, Steve convinced you to show him every corner of the mansion. You accepted, looking excited about taking a tour with such a handsome man by your side. You and Steve left the tent, avoiding curious glances and boring conversations. He showed you the room where the Avengers met, the works of art that Tony insisted on buying, the training room and finally a long corridor with similar doors. He opened one of them and you entered a large room without windows, with a large sofa in the center, a minibar, a large TV that took up the entire wall and a strange device that you thought was a stereo.

It was large, clean and richly decorated. It felt like a sanctuary for leisure time. Steve pointed to the sofa and you sat down, he went to the minibar and returned with a bottle of reddish liquid. He sat down next to her.

  “Do you want to drink more”? He reached out his hand, wrapping his long fingers around the bottleneck. He extended this to You as if it were not a trap that You were about to willingly fall into. “It’s a liqueur made with blackberries. I got it from a senator at a party at the White House. I noticed how much You like the fruit and I would like You to try it.”

You had already had too much to drink. There were glasses and more glasses of margaritas, and you already felt your body a little soft, but you couldn't refuse the proposal of a man as beautiful as that. The man who sacrificed a lot for this nation. It's just a drink, You thought. Getting drunk next to Captain America, who is a hero, is a much better idea than getting drunk alone in a mansion. And you loved blackberries.

"Yes please." You mumbled, and Steve looked so proud of your response. He poured you a generous dose of drink. You drank. It was strong and very concentrated, very different from your sweet and light margherita. You didn't care you just drank more while Steve looked at You with a big smile. Beautiful. It was a beautiful smile.

One drink turned into two, then three and four.

“You’re blushing.” He smiled, he said drinking some of the liquor. “Your first kiss wasn’t that bad.”

You didn't notice. But You started sharing very personal things with Steve; You told him how your first kiss, as a child, was a disaster with a classmate you liked. You said how it was drooling and clumsy.

"It was horrible". You made a cart.” I did it because my friends wanted it. I should have waited longer.”

You don't feel it, but your knees spread of their own accord as a warm hand, not yours, lifts your dress a little and exposes the inside of your thigh and begins to massage in gentle circles as you finish another glass, laughing hard. , the heat growing whenever he got closer.

“A girl as beautiful as you should have someone.” He says in a reprimanding tone. He was close, very close. You drank more.

“No” You laugh, louder than usual, You feel so good, so light. But you feel a wave of disappointment wash over your body when you remember that you had no one. She couldn't even remember the last time she was touched or praised by the opposite sex.

“With such a beautiful face like that, it’s hard to believe.” He smiled. “Such a beautiful body and...”

He pauses.

“And…” You encourage him to continue.

“With breasts as beautiful as yours, I’m sure everyone…” He stops, looking embarrassed, his hand on your thigh about a little more. "Forgive me. This is inappropriate.

"No." You say quickly, urgently, although more slurred than usual.” I don't mind. You can praise them.”

"No?" He asks, his voice perfectly steady, with fake surprise behind it. Had you and he already had so much to drink because he didn't seem any different? “Would you mind showing them? I would love to see."

You shake your head and mumble no. With one hand, the other held the glass of drink, You released the bows on your dress that held your breasts, You didn't wear a bra, you didn't need them to make your breasts look beautiful, something you were secretly proud of. Her breasts bounce out towards him.

Steve reaches out his hand and gives it a nice squeeze. You let out a small moan at the intimate touch.

“I want to suck your six.” He blurts out.

His smile disappears, mostly in shock at such a bold revelation. But a part, a big part, of you feels flattered that Captain America wants to play with your breasts and all you wanted at that moment was for him to touch you.

"All good." You mumble in a slurred, broken voice.

Steve pushes your body until his head is between your breasts. You feel him take a deep breath, smelling you, his right hand grabs one of your breasts. He tilts his head and wraps his lips around your closest nipple.

The sensation is strange, it tickles, cold, but it warms up quickly. You had never felt someone do it like this before, it was much more like a brief lick or a clumsy and seductive suck like many boys did. But with Steve it was different. He was grasping as if trying to extract fluid that will never come out. He moans lewdly. You drop the glass and place your hand under his blonde locks, pressing his head against your breasts.

“Steve.” You let out a moan as he takes a long nip before releasing your breasts in a wet pop.

  “Where is your glass?” He asks.

You don't respond, because you're too oblivious to pay attention to his words. His body was hot, his vision blurred and his nipples hard and sensitive. You were oblivious when you felt Steve put a full glass in your hands, he mumbled a drink and you obeyed, wanting to leave him satisfied.

You drank more. Maybe four or five or six more glasses. You do not remember. The last one ended up kind of spilled because you couldn't hold it while Steve helped you take off his dress. You feel his head being placed on a soft pillow or perhaps a cushion, You couldn't tell; his vision was blurred and his senses were weak. Warm hands slide down your legs to your panties and gently remove them. Your blurred vision is bathed in the sight of Steve shirtless on top of you. Beautiful. He was so beautiful.

You're moaning and shaking with nervousness, or at least you would be if his grip wasn't holding you in place. Her pussy burned with heat and desire, it was like rough sandpaper that moved in and out, swinging a seesaw from hell.

“It hurts.” You mutter. You were a mess and you know it, the words come out slow and slurred. Humiliation rises deeper than pleasure can reach, and disgust crawls over your skin with a sheen of sweat. He had touched her before. Stimulating your clit until you came on his long fingers, but it wasn't enough, it never would be. He was big and thick, with powerful hips that caused her great pain with each thrust.

You weren’t expecting it when he tilted his hips just to rub the fat head of his cock against your aching pussy. You moan at the small shock waves caused by the brief contact with your clit, but he smothers your moans with a wet, hot kiss, taking away your oxygen. He shoved his cock back inside her ripped hole.

He moaned against You, his mouth open panting, as if he was feeling something that You didn't. The intrusion not only stretches, but burns and hurts. Dry fiction mixes with rough movement. The tears flow, You feel the wet trail they leave on your cheeks. The disorientation left You dizzy and contained, a prisoner of your own body, but that didn't stop Him from exerting his strength against You. He was heavy. Upon noticing your whimpering, the hand that was on your hips goes up to cover your mouth, spreading tears and saliva everywhere.

“It’s okay, my love.” He said between moans. “You are so beautiful and as sweet as berries.”

The blackberries. The damn blackberries were the ones who brought her here. Steve gives another powerful thrust, preventing any further thought. You scream into his hand. He begins to fuck with desire, with strong thrusts, riding his own release. You moan, writhe, scream when a sensation begins to blossom at the tip of your toes that rises to your abdomen causing your muscles to contract slightly and then relax. Steve doesn't stay far behind, he pulls out of your pussy and with one last thrust spills all of his semen inside of you.

You are sleeping too deeply to understand, but not too deeply not to hear. You hear some loud footsteps, a door closes, before you feel someone approaching.

"Mommy." You speak as you sit up, try to open your eyes, your mind is still spinning. A great light hits your eyes and you close them quickly. Little by little you open your eyes slowly until you get used to it.

You wish your mother had killed the man who enchanted you with smiles and drinks so that you would give yourself to him, you may fear that strange conversation and the lectures, but you longed for your mother's safety and her lap. But it wasn't his mother who was sitting next to him. It was him.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He says as he brushes the strands of hair out of your face. “Your parents are a little upset now, but they will get over it little by little, you'll see. They will be happy for their little daughter who has won over the national hero and is about to walk down the aisle.”

"What are you talking about?" You say roughly, trying to get up, but the quick action made your body weaken. Steve picks you up and sits back down on the couch.

“I will take care and spoil you a lot, my love. You will see. I will fill you with gifts and love. We're gonna have a lot of fun." Steve says with a scary look on his face.

"You are crazy." You say in tears. “My parents will...”

"Do not worry about a thing." He pulls away and stands up, walking over to the minibar counter where a red bowl awaits him. He pities her and returns to You. “I'm already taking care of everything. All You need to do now is eat.”

Fear flooded your body You had already trusted that man and look what happened, but You had already seen too many documentaries and police series to know how much this type of person hated being contradicted. Maybe being his sweet, obedient girl would provide you with some benefit. With your body shaking, you stretched to see the contents of that bowl. A sound of disgust escaped his mouth when he realized they were blackberries.

[https-furina]

✎ that poor birdy. ft. xiao x gn!reader content. fluff, a little hurt/comfort, naive (?) reader - they don’t know xiao isn’t human :p a little bit of xiao falling in love while being really inexperienced with it. mentions of xiao as a birdy ! not proofread 'm sorry >~< w.c. 1.5k words

notes. uuuuuuuu i loves him so much ;; santa pls can i has him under my nonexistent tree this year taglist. @ryuryuryuyurboat @soleillunne @rainswept

you followed the routine meticulously whenever you needed it, which was usually always when the inspiration runs dry from your veins. it stumps you every time, being in that scenario as a member of the wanwen bookhouse in liyue harbor. you never particularly want xingqiu chasing after you on whether you have any new material to publish.

the idea was first proposed in its early stages by a close friend - at least, that’s what you call him. you had been grumbling over a cup of steaming hot tea, head in your hands as you whined to xiao about an upcoming deadline.

“why don’t you travel for inspiration?” he had suggested and within seconds, your face had lit up. you stared at him with glittering eyes, a hopeful glimpse into your future right before you. xiao shifted nervously under your gaze, his gloved hands cupping his own cup of tea as he glanced away, the tips of ears feeling warm.

suddenly you would start disappearing for days, sometimes even weeks as the birth of your new found routine began. it was the saviour of your writer’s block, filling you to the brim with stories and poetry that everyone at the wanwen bookhouse fawned over. xiao never pondered where you would run off to, in all fairness he assumed you was prancing off to mondstadt, sumeru and even inazuma.

he never chased you up on it. after all, his suggestion had merely been a case of him trying to get the oddly clingy human that appeared from nowhere off his back for more than a day. your presence suffocates him as a yaksha and he takes your absence in his stride yet he leans against the railing of his room at wangshu inn, staring out at the endless stars all clustered together on a backdrop of indigo and he sees how your eyes glittered that day, like you had captured the stars and put them in your eyes. almost like fireflies in a glass jar.

xiao did however presume you was at least obsessed - his words, you simply call it a normal friendship - with him enough to bring back trinkets from your adventures but you come back empty handed each time with only a proud grin on your face as you dump your newest works onto the male. part of him is glad that you don’t, after all gifting on such a level outside of special occasions could come off as mating to the male bird. the other part of him - the humanoid part of him - wishes you would do it at least once to fill the empty void in his heart left from centuries of avoiding contact with people.

the kitchen at the wangshu inn is usually busy around this time of day as workers gather for their lunch break or couples take a leisurely stroll across the guili plains whilst liyue’s weather remains so warm and tender, humid to the touch with a cool breeze. xiao knows this well from how long he’s resided at the very top of the inn, where the breeze catches just right and rustles golden leaves above his head. the noise brought by the mortal world’s lunchtime would soon cease and he’d be left in the solace he craves so desperately to ease his pains; that is disregarding the fact that xiao finds the kitchen too noisy on this day.

someone jogging up the steps is enough for xiao to hide, after all he’s not expecting visitors nor does anyone ever seek him out on purpose now but he catches sight of your familiar head of hair and the waft of almond tofu through the leaves, the plate held carefully in your hands. he tries to make his sudden appearance calm, as if he’d always been there - you’re too innocent to put together myth to reality, even with his mask tucked securely to his hip.

“you’re back again,” he comments, gold eyes watching you carefully as you spin on your heel to face him, your initial look of confusion ebbing away at the sight of him, “almond tofu?”

“i figured i’d come back with a gift, at least,” you chime with a grin, holding out the plate to him. seeing your smile after a few days affects xiao more than he’d care to admit, his stomach filled with the odd sensation of butterflies - and a gift? “i remember you saying you liked almond tofu.”

the pale skin of his cheeks seems to flush with a subtle hue of pink causing the yaksha to flicker his glance away from you as he takes the plate of almond tofu, mumbling his thanks. what was this feeling? his brows almost knit together in confusion; could it be karmic debt? perhaps your presence as a mortal human was finally taking its toll on him. xiao parts his lips to excuse himself from your vicinity, wondering if he could gather some believable lies to get you off his back but he stares at the small details on your face and how you still smell like parchment and ink instead.

xiao moves away from you - albeit a little reluctantly - to the table presented neatly with two chairs by the railing, hidden in the shade of wangshu inn's great auburn tree. he settles in one of the chairs, clearing his throat as he watches you lean against the aforementioned railing.

"so where did you go gallivanting off to this time?" he asks curiously, taking small bites of the almond tofu you'd presented to him. it comes to him that he's never once asked where you go when you disappear from him and apparently the question catches you off guard when he glimpses how your eyes seem to widen a little in surprise, processing his sudden interest in your adventures.

"oh! i was camping out at qingyun peak again!" you lean back against the railing, letting liyue's breeze tickle your skin like a warm breath fanning down your neck. xiao pauses mid-bite, golden eyes blinking in bewilderment as he gazes at you. was that all? he furrows his brows, after all he had truly expected you to be going abroad to new lands for your inspiration - he's even more caught off guard by how you said again… so it wasn't your first time?

"is that all?" he voices aloud, listening to the sound of your sweet laugh on the wind at his response. the strange feeling in his stomach turns again and he almost drops the almond tofu on his spoon, clearing his throat as he looks away from you quickly. these feelings were not painful for him, he begins to realise in turn. the heat of his ears and the way his neck and cheeks soon matched their temperatures, the shake of his gloved hands and how his stomach felt like it was flipping - these were not associated with pain nor karma, confusing the yaksha further.

"eeyup!" you pop the 'p,' grinning over at him before looking up at the roof of wangshu inn, noting the numerous bird nests filled with eggs before you remember something you wished to bring up to him, "but i heard a little birdy calling out during the night, it sounded so sad."

xiao hums in response, turning his focus back to the almond tofu he was finding the most delectable - if you had made it like he assumed, you truly was an amazing cook. he considers voicing that thought out loud before he realises you are mumbling about the small bird you'd heard and xiao begins to ponder what type of bird you must have heard. in the middle of night and at qingyun peak… the more he thinks about it, he soon chokes on the tofu he was chewing. he clears his throat to cover his embarrassment, hiding his face as he waves you off when you rush to his side.

you'd heard him. xiao's heart races, thumping against his ribcage at how he gets himself out of this situation. how would he even begin to explain that the bird is lamenting, calling for its dead friends that will never return? his eyelashes flutter shut for a moment.

"i'm sure the bird is fine." he tries to reassure once he has finished chewing the tofu. you give him a thankful smile at his reassurance, settling in the chair opposite him with a drastic sigh.

"i hope so… that poor birdy," you go quiet for a moment, gaze drifted off into the distance in thought and xiao takes the moment to recollect himself, leaning back in his chair as he admires you subtly. you really was starting to become a pain for him, "you'll have to join me next time so you can hear it! you seem to know a lot about birds, xiao - maybe we can go find it!"

xiao grimaces but he doesn't let it show, a crack of a smile on his face at the sentiment behind you caring so much for this bird; caring for him, without ever realising it. perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to let you a little closer, after all these pains weren't hurting him.

"i'll have to take you up on that offer." he muses, fixing his gloves as a wide beam brightens up your face. oh, what a grave he has dug for himself.

© https-furina 2023.

[deathbecomesthem]

You Can't Go Home Again

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader | 8.1K Words

Hawkins, Indiana - 2006. Reader and Eddie are both 40. The Reader has a 19 year old daughter that is mentioned.

Summary: You're both in town for a funeral. This is a love story.

Contains smut, death, love, booze, and weed. Just like all the best things in life, you take the good with the bad or your ass misses out.

+18 only. No one under the age of 18 has my consent to interact with anything on my blog. I am old enough to be your mother.

If you like this story, please let me know. Reblogs are strongly encouraged. If it doesn't get passed around, it dies in this spot. Thank you @jo-harrington and @br0ck-eddie for reading this over and telling me it's worth publishing on this blog. I love you both more than words can express.

---

You can’t go home again. Or so you’ve been told. Yet here you are, zooming down the familiar stretch of highway that leads back to that place. You turn the thought over in your mind while your hand surfs against the wind outside of your car window. You aren’t going home, not really. Hawkins isn’t your home anymore. It hasn’t been since you pulled out of your parents’ driveway over a decade ago.

At least he had the common decency to die as the leaves started changing color, you think to yourself while your hand surfs in the wind outside your open window. The view is really spectacular. The trees look like they’re on fire as the sun begins to dip below the canopy. Indiana is flatland, but it’s still pretty in its own way. Wide open, it bares itself to you. It is what it is. There are no hills to hide behind. Not in these parts, anyway.

As you cross the county line, you flip on the radio and tune to the local country station. Might as well acclimate, you think, but really, you’re happy to hear Bonnie Raitt’s bluesy voice as you pull off the highway. She’s singing about how she can’t make someone love her, and you hold up an imaginary glass to toast the sentiment. That’s something you’ve learned the hard way.

I’ll close my eyes, then I won’t see.

The love you don’t feel when you’re holding me.

You don’t realize a tear has escaped your eye until you feel it rolling down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily and wonder when every little thing will stop making the tears come. It doesn’t matter, not right now. Not this week. Tears are appropriate for a funeral, and it’s what everyone will expect to see from you. Even if they’re borrowed tears.

At the stop sign at the corner of Elm and Maple you sit longer than the 3 seconds required by law. It’s not until a BMW pulls up behind that you push up the indicator to hook a right. As you pass by the entrance to Forrest Hills, Deanna Carter is singing about Strawberry Wine and being 17. You can feel heat rising in your cheeks when you let your own memories flit across your mind. It’s true, the hot July moon really did see everything the summer of 1985. 

You chuckle at yourself and turn the wheel, left this time. The old motel is up on the right, just at the Hawkins line. You’ve spent too much of your life thinking about a time that only existed for a moment. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because despite all of the daydreams you’ve had about running into him throughout the years, it’s never happened. And you’ve never taken the time to look. You’ve only seen him in your dreams, and what a delight that’s been.

The gravel crunches under your tires, and the feeling that something’s been forgotten rises like a wave. Every couple of hours, it comes unbidden. No, you haven’t forgotten her, she’s in her new apartment on the other side of town from your own. Right now, she’s probably out to dinner with Janey. It’s discount movie night, and that’s something every college student knows to take advantage of. You’re not forgetting her, but her absence leaves a hole that can only be filled with anxiety. It’s something no one really tells you, something that you wouldn’t be able to understand from words alone - your children are a piece of yourself that moves freely in the world. The further you move from them, the deeper the cut. 

You’ve already decided you’ll try to call tonight, hoping against hope that she’s still at her place when you ring in. Hearing her voice will fill you a little, and maybe at least make sleep easier. Maddy told you she’d miss you, and you know that’s true. It’s a good thing to hear each other every day, even if it’s only for a moment.

When you come around a wide curve in the road, you’re pleased to see that the bar next to the motel is still standing, and that the lights are on. You’re getting drunk tonight. Why not? For the first time in a long time, you’re only accountable for yourself. Hawkins can swallow you up for the week, and no one outside of this place will see it. And then you’ll never step foot into Indiana again.

—

It’s stupid, and he knows it. He hasn’t been back here in years, and the only reason he’s doing this is because he liked the old guy. Wayne taught him to respect that. To show up for the family. Always go to the funeral, he’d told him, it eases the pain for the loved ones and makes ‘em remember there were people in the world that gave a shit about ‘em. When Eddie was a kid, he remembered how it felt to look out into the church and see so many faces with tears in their eyes. He remembered thinking that it was important that so many people turned out to say goodbye to his Mama, even if they were people that he never got to know outside of that mourning space. Wayne was right, it does matter. It does help. And he’s showing up, even if the thought of seeing you makes his stomach dip and his heartbeat faster. 

It’s not about you, you fucking idiot. The words have been surfacing in his mind over and over this last week. It’s not about him, and he knows that. At least, his brain knows that, but there’s a place deep inside of him that can’t help but think about the possibility of something. Of what? Well, if he thinks too hard about it, his dick takes over. There have been many times over the years that Eddie let his mind wander back to his 18th summer, when the heat of your bodies rivaled the heat of the sun beating down on the two of you. Many times he’s touched himself, trying to find the right way to move his fingers to replicate the way your hands felt on him. He’s ashamed of it. He tries not to think about it, but the news of the funeral seems to have lit that spark inside of him again, just as he thought the old smoldering embers were finally snuffed out.

He told Wayne he’d be driving up for the services, hoping the old guy would be able to bring the rambler to meet him in Hawkins. It would save him the cost of a motel room, and the death of the old man’s friend is an unwelcome reminder that everything comes to an end eventually. But Wayne isn’t going to make it. Eddie should’ve known. As much as Wayne taught him about being there for the family, Wayne was closer to Jim than his blood ever was. Especially you. Wayne would be the first to admit that Jim made his bed, and now he’ll spend his eternal rest in it. Wayne will mourn in his own way, he’ll come down when no one knows he’s there to pour one out on his buddy’s grave. That’s alright. It’s how Jim would want it. The funeral will be a farce. People saying goodbye to an old bastard that no one really liked.

When Eddie passes the southerly Indiana border, his ass really starts to get sore. He should’ve flown in and rented a car. He’s getting too old for these long bike rides, and the Indian’s seat isn’t made for this kind of trip. He’s never seen the need to replace the warehouse installed seat, his daily commutes to the construction trailer are short, and he takes a work truck out to the job sites. Maybe it’s time to think about investing in a vehicle that allows for a little more comfort. His ass is only going to spread more from here on out. Turning 30 was like hitting a brick wall, all the years of fun have finally caught up. Now that he’s passed the 40-year mark, every day is a new opportunity to feel aches in parts of his body he never thought about in his younger years. Sometimes he would swear that he could feel his small intestine groan when he caught a whiff of something greasy. And sometimes he can’t go through the night without having to hop out of bed to take a piss. The most obvious reminder for Eddie is looking in the mirror and seeing the way his old tattoos have turned gray over the years, especially his beloved bats. Working outside in the sun has made them fade, and no amount of touch ups can bring them back to their former glory. Sometimes he thinks about you running your fingers over them, the way you ran them along the outline of the wings. 

Time passes, and tattoos fade like memories. He knows too. He got to watch Wayne age, see the lines dig deeper and deeper into his face while he made sure Eddie kept a roof over his head. It’s amazing for him to think about the old guy, not really as old as he used to think. Eddie’s got more years than Wayne did back in those days. Close enough to be brothers more than father and son, but neither of them got a choice when it was time for his own Mama to go into the ground. The only one choosing in those days was Al, and every decision was a wrong one.

Eddie hates coming back to Hawkins, it stirs up the old shit he doesn’t think about anymore. It’s easier to see those times through rose colored glasses when he isn’t smack dab in the middle of the town that cut him so deeply in so many different ways. But he’s showing up. He’s doing this thing because it’s right. It has nothing to do with the minute possibility that he might get to find out how the years have treated you. Especially since he knows how you left Hawkins. But time does heal. Eddie’s proof of that.

—

The roadside motel is in better shape than you expect, so you strike your mental chalkboard on the pro side. At least you have a clean bed to sleep in for the next 6 nights. At least you won’t be forced to sleep on Uncle Jim’s couch. You think about what it will feel like being in his little shack. You think about how his own kids won’t show up to sift through his shit belongings to pull out any hidden treasures before the bank throws it all in the dumpster. You’re doing this thing for your father, because he asked you to. You need to make sure the stuff that ended up with Jim when your grandma died doesn’t get lost forever. No cash value to any of it, but it’s worth something to your dad, and he can’t face the ghost of his brother. Not even for his mother’s wedding band, or the family bible.

Your first thought when you opened the door to your home for the week was that you could still smell the faint scent of bleach hanging in the air. Good. These kinds of places have more personality, but it’s always a roll of the dice about cleanliness. The bed is soft, and the comforter smells of Snuggle. Also good. The scent is nostalgic, you can feel the muscles in your shoulders relax. You’ll be able to sleep here. You think that’s exactly what you’ll do. The heavy shades are drawn, so it’s full dark and quiet. You’ve got the room at that butts against the woods, but it doesn’t matter anyway, your car is the only one in the small parking lot tonight. 

You’re sinking deeper into the mattress, and you begin to float away. You sit on the edge of sleep, about to topple over it when your ears begin to register a distant sound growing closer. It’s a purr that grows into a deep growling rumble. You stumble to your feet to peek your head out from behind your curtain. It’s full dark now, but the orange glow of the lights at each door along the row of rooms illuminates the parking lot enough for you to see the bike and its rider. Leather clad, head to toe, he’s wearing a small bucket helmet - the kind your daddy used to say they’d have to scoop your brains out of if you wrecked - and sunglasses. You watch him make his way to the door next to your own and let himself inside. 

Well, you can think of a worse neighbor to have. At least you know you’re not alone out here. Maybe you’ll make a friend while you’re stuck in the hell that is Hawkins, Indiana. Maybe he'll let you bum a smoke or two.

—

You think about your call to Maddy while you walk down the street to the Hideout. She’s fine. All good. She got her new set of pots and pans from the big Sears out at the mall, and she didn't even need your help picking them out. Her dad did a good job. You’re happy for her. A girl doesn’t forget her first move away from home, and you suspect she's more nervous than she's been letting on. You can almost feel the butterflies beat in your own belly at the thought of rent checks and overtime while making it to class every morning. You hope she knows she can talk to you about it. You hope she remembers that you promised to help her if she gets into any jams. Maybe. Maybe not. She deserves to keep her secrets if it's how she wants to go about life. You'll be there either way.

Before you even open the door to the bar, you can smell the smoke and booze wafting through the cracks. That’s perfect. It’s why you’re here. You look down at your black jeans and smile. It took a few good jumps to get into, but your ass looks fantastic in them. You think you might even manage to get a drink out of someone, as long as the clientele is the same as it was when you were here last. Tammy Wynette is coming through the speakers of the jukebox, and the old curtains are pulled across the jury-rigged stage at the back. No band tonight. Just a couple of old drunks passing time at the sticky counter. You take the stool at the end, back facing the door, and think about what song you’ll choose for the room. 

“Hello, ma'am,” a bright eyed 20 something from behind the bar greets you as you shift your weight to get comfortable on the cracked cushion under your ass. Ma’am. You decide to let that one slide and give him a big smile. “What can I get for you?”

“Oh, I think I’d like a whiskey sour, kind sir.” The words escape your lips without much thought. You haven’t had one in ages. Possibly the last time you had a drink as sweet as a whiskey sour was in this very bar. It wasn’t hard to get served with Big Dave behind the bar, especially when Eddie and the boys played.

The boy nods at you and gets to work on your drink. You see him flip through a rolodex of cards hidden under the bar, cheat sheets. He likely spends his nights pouring pitchers of Budweiser, rarely having to figure out how to make mixed drinks. Especially when the customers are good ole boys between the ages of 35 and 70. Even back in your day, the girls only showed up when there were boys their own age on the stage. You wonder if Bev is around somewhere. If she’s still kicking.  The way the place still feels the same as it did back in '84 tells you she's still the owner of this shit stain of an establishment. But it's her shit stain, and good for her.

The bartender sets the glass in front of you with a cocktail napkin under it, fancy, and you feel a draft when the door at your back swings open. The drink isn’t bad, but you wouldn’t know if it was wrong. You don’t do mixed drinks. You’re a neat bourbon drinker. The sweet liquor does what it’s meant to, because you swear you can almost smell something familiar from the past as a figure goes past you. Like smoke and Old Spice with a hint of weed. This place is full of ghosts, you think, returning your focus back to glass coated in ice sweat.

“Hey, man. Three Wise Men and 3 fingers of Jim Beam.” The voice of the newcomer at the bar makes your head snap up. You watch his profile for a second. You see his hand disappear inside his jacket and come out with a pack of Camels. With a flick of his Zippo, his face is illuminated by the glow of the flame. You’ve seen it so many times, but even from this distance you catch sight of the creases that didn’t exist the last time you saw him. You wonder if you really did fall asleep if you’re really back in your motel room having one of your dreams again. The too sweet liquor on your tongue is real, and so must Eddie Munson be real.

You can’t peel your eyes from him, so you don’t try. You keep your gaze fixed to his face and wait for him to notice you. There are no words in you, and you’re afraid your legs will buckle if you try to stand up and walk over to him. You look at his hand, black lines decorate his knuckles. The ring on his left hand is silver, and you’re happy to see it sit on his middle finger. You banish the thought and break your gaze for a second to shake your stupid head.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Eddie’s voice echoes through the room, and everyone looks at him, even the drunk in the corner that can barely keep his head up. “Jesus Christ.”

Blood rushes to your head as he stands and makes his way over to you. Your heart is in your throat. You’d refused to let yourself believe that seeing Eddie this week was anything more than just a fleeting fantasy. The same fantasy that’s been playing through your mind for years. Pinch yourself, you fool. Too late, you’re standing on wobbly legs and giving him the kind of awkward hug reserved for old classmates - and apparently old lovers.

You break apart slowly, and sink down into your barstools, eyes never breaking contact. You think if you look away right now, he might turn into smoke and escape through the air vents. Your hands are on your lap, body still turned towards Eddie, Eddie Munson, and you pinch the skin between your thumb and index finger on your left hand until it hurts. This is real.

You’re both brought out of your shared reverie when the kid behind the bar slides Eddie’s drinks down to his new spot, along with the ashtray holding his still smoldering cigarette. Without a thought in your head, you pick it up and take a long drag before pinching it between your fingers to hand it back to him, filter out.

“So.” You exhale smoke through the word and let it hang for a second while Eddie brings the filter to his lips. The smoke of a kiss between the two of you hangs heavy in the air. “Eddie Munson, what brings you here tonight? Is Corroded Coffing playing a set later?”

Eddie’s crooked grin sits on his lips the same as it ever has, but it’s complemented by more fine lines at the corners of his eyes. You think it would be something to run a finger along them and feel the texture of his skin there. 

“You know, I had this-” Eddie shakes his head and makes a noise like a huff of incredulity at what he hasn’t even said yet, “-I had this idea that I might see you here tonight. I’m sorry about Jim.”

“Oh,” you can’t hide the surprise on your face. The sudden presence of Eddie has scrubbed your mind clean of your purpose in Hawkins this week. Uncle Jim is dead. You try for a small frown, but decide against it and say, “yeah. I’m here for the funeral. Also, I promised my dad to go through the house before everything ends up at the dump.”

Eddie nods. His eyes dart across your face and then down to your hands. You’re suddenly very aware of the way your ring finger on your left hand still holds the indent of a band that’s been missing for months now. You think it may never truly leave you. You wonder if he’s seen it.

“Well, I think this is fate.” Eddie slaps his hand down on the bar, still as sticky as ever, and waves over the bartender that’s drying a glass with a bar towel. He turns back to you and says, “We’re drinking to that old bastard tonight.”

—

“Do you remember,” Eddie’s voice is too loud, but the only person left in the bar other than the two of you is a drunk with his head resting on the counter. He doesn’t seem bothered enough to lift his head, “breaking into the abandoned warehouse? Oh god, you were shaking like a leaf ‘Eddie, we should leave. What if someone’s hiding out in here?’” Eddie’s impersonation of your 18-year-old voice is both insulting and wildly inaccurate.

“You fucking asshole, you were the one that hauled ass out of there when a squirrel crawled out from under a desk. The noise you made,” you snort at the memory, “you sounded like my mom that time she found a dead mouse in her sugar dish.”

“That little fucker went straight for me, you can’t deny it.” Eddie’s finger is pointed directly between your eyes in an accusation. On instinct, you grab it with your fist and twist his arm. This is an old routine, one that the two of you had down pat all those years ago. Except now, Eddie’s a lot stronger, and he’s able to twist his arm back. You find your wrist in his strong grip, and you have no idea how it got there. 

This is when you notice it. This is Eddie in front of you, but he’s not a boy. It’s not just your body that’s changed since the last time you were together. With his jacket thrown on the stool beside him, his forearms are bare before you. Sinful. Old ink and new, black lines and gray. But right now, it’s the flexed muscle that’s caught your eye. Oh, to be held by him.

The laughter in your chest dies and Eddie releases you. He waves the bartender down before he can call out a last call. One more round for the road, and you’re wishing you had a way to freeze this moment in time and keep him here. 

But you can’t, so you take your final shots and hug each other. Jackets are thrown over shoulders, and you make your way side by side to the door. 

“I’m staying at the motel on the corner. You should stop by sometime, I’ll be here all week.” You shove your shoulder into Eddie’s playfully and find that the booze has made your feet a little unstable. He puts an arm around you to keep you from stumbling.

“Well, let me walk you home then.” His arm doesn’t leave your side. You’re both hyper aware of the way his thumb strokes against the patch of soft exposed skin at your waist while you wander up the sidewalk, a little zig zag to your movements. 

It’s been a night of sharing memories with no talk of the present. No acknowledgement of that indent on your finger where a ring lived for so long. You let yourself drink in the cool autumn air with Eddie’s arms holding you close to him. You let yourself feel held by him. You let yourself imagine that maybe this is real, and you let a sliver of moonlight pierce the darkness you’ve been hiding yourself in for these long months.

“This is my stop.” You pull away and lean your back against the door to your room at the end of rooms that line the facade of the old motel. It’s dark out, and the pale orange glow of the light above the door frame does little more than cast shadows across Eddie’s face. He could be mistaken for that boy if not for the way his shoulders stand wider than you remember. “Will you come in, Eddie?”

He tastes like whisky and smoke, and that’s just how you remember him. Gods, his mouth. His tongue moves swiftly across your lips, and your knees begin to sink. Those strong arms hold you up, they keep you in your spot so he can take his fill. This is the kind of kiss, one that makes you weak in the knees, that you thought was a thing that only existed in your past.

“So, yes?” You break apart from his kiss and rest your head in his chest to catch your breath. 

“Yes, please.” Eddie kisses the top of your head and breathes in your hair before spinning you around to face the door. “Open the door, Sweetheart.”

The clicking of the door, and the snap of the deadbolt. Those things are clear, the anticipation of what comes next makes you laser focused on the feel of the metal under your fingers. And then it’s a flurry of mouths and hands. Teeth clicking, noses bumping. A stumble over a shoe in your shared path. You fall to the bed in a heap, it’s surprising how many articles of clothes have been discarded in the short distance between door and mattress. 

“Is this real, or am I dreaming?” Eddie whispers into your neck, hot breath on the spot that he remembers makes you keen. His teeth test the skin, and you reward him with a gasp and a roll of your hips. “Fuck, I don’t care if I wake in a mess like a teenager. If this is a dream, I never want to leave it.”

You’d forgotten the way Eddie uses his words, but your body remembers the steps. Fingers waltz along your wider curves, they’re a quick study and map out the places that make you whine. Make you catch your breath. This is what he thinks about so often, the way you get lost under his touch. Your trust in him is still alive, and his need reaches a fever pitch.

“Eddie, please.” It’s all you can say, but it’s enough to snap Eddie out of his reverie. His hands are stroking the valley at your chest while his cock throbs against the cotton fabric of his boxers, hypnotized  by the way your skin gives under the pressure of his fingers. 

As above, so below. Hot mouths reach into one another as he spreads your legs and sinks his length into your heat. For a fleeting moment, it's a perfect union of bodies. Two as one. You need your breath as he reaches deeper inside you. He rests his forehead on yours and snaps harder into you. His open mouth takes the groans that leave you as he hits that tender and hard to reach place inside.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. You feel so good.” Eddie’s words float around your face as you reach your peak. It’s the words, not the ecstasy, which draw the tears from your eyes. Beautiful. You believe him, how could you not? You want to tell him that he’s beautiful, because he is. Instead you wrap your arms around him and kiss him while he cums. The last rocks of his hips move in rhythm with the languid kisses you share.

—-

You wake in the morning to find crumpled sheets in the space that was occupied by Eddie Munson as you drifted off to sleep. It really was a dream, you think, but the stickiness between your thighs tells you that there was a man in this bed last night. The idea that he’s left without a trace doesn’t even pass your mind, because not Eddie. He doesn’t do that. 

You ignore the pounding at your temple and drop your feet to the carpet. A full bladder is an urgent thing that can’t be denied. The freezing tile under your toes jolts you to attention. You map your next steps while you piss, and then wash your hands. You take the time to brush your teeth before heading back into the dark bedroom to find an outfit for the day. It doesn’t matter where Eddie has wandered off to, you need to head over to Jim’s. Eddie can find you later. Eddie will find you later. That’s something you know. Right now? You need coffee. It’s when you go to put your shoes on that you see it. A tiny scrap of paper on the side table next to your keys.

I didn’t want to wake you. I had some business to take care of while I’m in town. Dinner? I’m staying in the room next to yours. I’ll be back by 6.

You shake your head. Your boozy brain missed it last night. Of course it’s Eddie in the room next to yours. The thought of him on that bike makes your head spin. Makes you throb. Dinner, sure. Food is fuel and you’re gonna fucking need it. In the meantime, you have a job to do.

The way to Jim’s house is familiar but strange. Like trying to hold onto a dream as you’re starting to wake. The roads have the same names, but the trees are taller. It feels smaller, the houses closer together. In no time, you’re pulling up the drive to the shack that stands at the far end of Oak Street. It’s easy to forget it, set a little farther back than the other homes, hidden in the shade of the oaks the road is named for.

With a deep breath, you step out of your car and move swiftly to the front door. The smell hits you immediately. It’s not overwhelmingly awful, but it’s not good. Mildew and smoke. It smells empty. So you fill it with the fall air by opening every window. You’re happy to keep your jacket on to replace the smoke with the smell of the dry oak leaves that litter the yard around the house.

The soundtrack to your day digging through the life of your Uncle Jim is provided by the records stacked up by the player in his living room. Bob Dylan, CCR, and Pink Floyd. It could be worse, so you’re grateful. The treasures you discovered hold no true financial value, but they are priceless. Photo albums of long-lost family members, depression glass cake stands and punch bowls, and the piece de resistance - the family bible. You run your fingers across the leather cover and smile. You did good, kid. Grandma’s ring, though. You’ll come back at least one more time and truly tear the place apart before you hit the road. If it’s here, it’s going home with you.

—

Rick’s place is still home for Eddie, more so than the trailer park ever was. Wayne’s home was never Hawkins, and it served him well to be back in the wild mountains of West Virginia from where the Munsons hail. But Rick is a Hawkins institution, and he’s only ever had love for Eddie without the pressure of the constant concern that weighed on Wayne and Eddie’s relationship. That’s how it is with a father and son. Rick is the fun uncle that taught Eddie a way to bring in cash without being under the thumb of some asshole. It’s served him well throughout his life, even now. Eddie can find work anywhere, he carries his skills in his hands.

Rick is expecting Eddie, and he’s sitting out front when the Indian hums up the road that hugs Lovers’ Lake. It’s still pretty out here from Eddie’s perspective, especially with the trees still hanging on to the leaves of various colors. Eddie’s already thinking about getting you to come out here with him before you both leave town at the end of the week. As soon as he caught sight of you last night he had decided to wring out as much as he could from this brief reunion. No time to waste, especially if maybe there’s someone you’re going home to. He’s not going to ask that question. He doesn’t want to know. For now, you’re both here, and that’s more than he thought could ever be possible. 

“Eddie! Oh man, it’s been too long, brother.” Rick’s on his feet and meeting Eddie in the driveway for a bear hug. “Sight for sore eyes.”

They sit outside on the back deck for hours, talking about the old days and the new. They watch the sunlight dance along the ripples in the water when the occasional fish comes to the surface for a waterbug. They pass joints back and forth, and sip on the instant coffee that Rick swears is better than that overpriced bullshit the coffee houses try to con people into buying. And then they get down to business for a few minutes over a game of pool. Like the old days. It’s healing to remember there is a place in this godforsaken hellhole that Eddie can feel like himself. It was never all bad, but nothing ever is. Eddie knows this, his own life is a mixed bag. He has to take the bad or else lose out on the potential good.

The sun is starting to sink down below the trees when Eddie swings his leg over the seat of his bike to head back to the other side of town. He’s glad. He’s hoping that you’ve decided to accept his dinner invitation. The memories were fun to relive, but his mind is whirring with questions about who you are now. He’d like to hear it. He’d like to tell you about the bands he plays with on the weekends back in Charleston. Last night was nice, but he’d like to spend some time with you while the lights are on. He let his cock carry him away too quickly last night, he hopes he gets a chance to take his time with you tonight. His thighs vibrate from the hum of the engine while he weaves down the streets. He’s half hard remembering the way you smell and the sound of your voice when you get lost with him.

—

“You’d really like her. She’s a natural musician, like her dad. I’m just glad she’s sticking close to home for college. I worry enough even with her living less than a mile away.” You’re rambling on about Maddy while Eddie watches your lips move. He’d had a feeling there was at least one kid back home, he’s dated enough moms to recognize the signs. 

“Oh, a girl after my own heart. I already love her.” Eddie’s thumb strokes the back of your hand, his arm reaching across the table. Your plates are empty, and your glasses are drained. Your concern about telling Eddie you have an adult child is forgotten now, and you’re gushing. Just as it should be.

“I’m sorry, I’ll stop talking about Maddy for a while. She’s the sun my life orbits around.” You tip back your martini glass, searching for any last remnants of gin. No luck.

“Yeah, you’re a good mom.” That thumb rubs again. “Of course you are.” Eddie looks around the restaurant and watches as the servers very purposely place chairs on top of tables, inching ever closer to the one where the two of you are seated. “I think we should probably let them shut it down, head back to the motel.”

Head back to the motel. That sounds really good, because Eddie’s wearing a tight black t-shirt that leaves little to the imagination. You can just make out the farmer’s tan that starts at the middle of his biceps. You hadn’t noticed it as much last night, but Eddie’s skin is sunkissed from years of working outdoors. A contract carpenter, he told you, and you could almost smell the sawdust and varnish when he explained about his special word working projects. You want to see them. You want to touch them. You have no doubt that they’re unique and special pieces. Eddie’s always had the ability to pull beauty out of the mundane.

“Will you drive, Eddie? Take me the long way home?” You’re already handing him your keys before he can answer. Of course he will. He’ll do anything you want, it’s always been that way. He’d stop the world if it would make you smile.

“Let’s go, Love. You can rest your head on my shoulder.” And that’s what you do. The walk to the car is slow, but Eddie’s arms need to stay around you. It’s where they belong.

He does take the long way, hooking a right when he pulls out of Enzo’s parking lot and heading for the back roads. One hand sits on your thigh. Your head can’t reach his shoulder in the car, so you lean it back and close your eyes. Linda Ronstadt’s been cheated and mistreated, she’s wondering when will she be loved? Some day, Linda, even if it’s for just a fleeting time. The idea pricks your chest, and you push it down. We won’t think about the end until it gets here.

“Will you be my date for the funeral, Eddie? I might not go if I have to do it alone.” You keep your eyes closed, and he squeezes your leg. He’ll go with you, you already know that.

“Yep. And then we’ll go back to the bar and get shitfaced. Bev will love it. Give the old gal something to be pissed about.” You snort at the thought of Bev trying to wrangle two 40 somethings trying to relive their youthful dalliances. Poor woman. But she would probably love it.

“I like your plan, Ed. Now tell me, did you smoke it all, or do you have some weed back at the motel?” You turn to face him, you want to see that crooked grin of his. “I’ve gotta call Maddy when we get back, but I think it’d be nice to sit outside and get nice and toasty.”

“Yeah, well, I might have a little. Can I ask you something?” Eddie turns the wheel and you’re looking at downtown Hawkins. You nod, but your mouth is dry thinking about the possibilities of what he wants to know that you haven’t already told him. “What kind of an asshole wouldn’t hold on tight to someone like you when you’re so fucking perfect?”

“Christ, Munson. Are you high already?” You pull a cigarette out of the pack sitting on the dash and light it. Just a drag before handing it back over to him. You’re both giggling, it was too much. “Well, you might have been the first to let me go, but you weren’t the last. But look at us now, hm? I think it’s better like this. Makes you realize that the grass isn’t always greener, ya know?”

Eddie blows smoke out of his nose and quietly mutters, “I was blind.”

“Nah. What I told you back then is still true, I’ll take what I can get from you, Baby. Any time, any place. It doesn’t have to be forever.” Eddie bites the inside of his cheek at your words but keeps his response in his mind. 

—

Eddie sits in his room rolling joints while you’re on the other side of the wall talking to your daughter. All that talk about the kid, and no mention of the dad. Eddie knows who Maddy’s dad is because word travels fast. He’s never really thought about the guy much, but Eddie’s pretty sure he’s the one responsible for the sadness living behind your smile. 

Eddie pulls the comforter off his bed. He’s taking it outside with him to wait for you on the bench that’s at the entrance to the cemetery across the street from the motel. There are no streetlights out here, and the dead won’t mind the company. They never do. The plans he had for this week are fading into one persistent thought - be with you as much as possible before it’s too late. The threat of Sunday coming too fast hangs over every second that ticks past. 

It’s harder for Eddie to push those thoughts away than it is for you, because of the regret. He can’t help but feel it, even though he knows that 1984 Eddie is not the same as Eddie today. He’s learned how to spot a good thing, and that’s you. The idea of holding onto you with both hands doesn’t send a lightning bolt of fear through his guts like it did when he was 18. This couldn’t have happened then, whatever this is. It’s a battle in his mind, trying to see through the haze of the memories, how real can it be when everything is shrouded by the past.

The inward battle halts when he sees the door to your room open. He focuses on your form growing larger with each step closer to him. He watches each step of your feet until you’re looming over him, blotting out the weak light from the motel across the street. You have a soft smile on your lips, and he memorizes the way those lips feel on his forehead before you flop down on the bench next to him. He spreads the comforter over your lap, and pulls you into his side. 

“This is so romantic, Eddie. You, me, and the sleeping dead.” You sigh and nuzzle your nose into his neck. “You smell nice.” Your lips brush against his skin and the hair stands up in answer.

“What time are we leaving tomorrow?” Eddie asks as he places a joint between your lips. “I’m hoping to wake up next to you again, but I don’t wanna make any assumptions.” Sparks fly out from his Zippo, and you breathe in the weed smoke before answering.

“Baby, as far as I’m concerned, you could cancel your room for the rest of the week and move into mine. You don’t even need to ask what I want. This is it.” You look up at him and place the joint in his mouth. It’s hard to see his features in the dark, but you think his eyes look a little misty. “Hey now, don’t give me sad eyes, Eddie. We’ve talked about this already. I’ll take what I can get.”

“That’s bullshit.” Eddie’s voice is low and you’re already feeling a little lighter. It’s been a long time since you’ve smoked, and you can feel the cloud starting to creep across your thoughts.

“Oh? Well never mind then. Fuck you, Munson.” Your retort, but there’s no bite. You pluck the joint out of his fingers.

“I just mean, you deserve better than that, and I’m sorry.” Eddie kisses the top of your head, an apology of sorts.

“We all deserve better than we get, Baby. You should know that. It’s easier to accept it than to try and demand what other people can’t give.” You think the words came out right and can’t muster the energy to care if they didn’t.

“Yeah, but it’s still not right.” 

Right or not, it’s a truth you accepted a long time ago. It doesn’t stop the pain, but it kills the resentment. What more can you do? Life is hard enough.

—

The light stays on in your room tonight. The weed slows down time. It swallows you and Eddie up, and gives you the space to study each other. The rough calluses on his fingertips travel along the lines of your body, creating a roadmap in his memory. He needs to remember how to find you again, even when you’re a thousand miles away. He needs to taste you on his lips. 

The hunger is as strong as the previous night, it’s why your center on Eddie’s face. It’s why your nose leads the way down his torso, inhaling the smell trapped in the dark hair at the base of his cock. He tastes how you remember. Your mouth wraps around him while his tongue and fingers make you sing. He keeps one wide palm planted on the fat of your ass, his rip is hard enough to bruise. He keeps you in the spot until hot tears spill down your cheeks with the intense pleasure of it all. He keeps you there until he spills himself inside your mouth. And you drop, head on his hip, looking at his softening cock in front of you. You lean over and kiss its tip.

Eddie’s giggles are music to your ears. He suddenly needs to see your face, but your legs are still spread in front of him. He slaps your ass, hard enough to sting, but it works. You slowly move your legs over to the side, freeing him so he can crawl down to the end of the bed. He can taste himself on your lips and is surprised to feel his cock jump. You need a little more time than that, Bud.

“I need to tell you something.” Eddie’s arms are wrapped around your sweaty body, and he’s peppering kissing along the bridge of your nose. You release a questioning hum, trying to focus on his words. Sleep is calling to you. “I’m going to the funeral with you tomorrow. I’m going to Jim’s with you to finish the scavenger hunt from hell. I’m spending every fucking second with you until we both leave this shithole. But I don’t want that to be the end.”

“Everything ends, Baby.” You mutter into the skin of his chest. You feel his breath hitch and wonder if there are tears to match the stutter. “But it doesn’t have to end so soon if you don’t want it to.”

“I want to hold onto this, Love. I think we both know this -” Eddie points a finger between the two of you, “- is something special. It always has been. I’ll fucking pick my shit up and move to wherever you are. I won’t even complain about the snow. At least not the first year.”

“I’ll complain enough for the both of us. I always do.” You kiss his chest and look up at him. There are tears, You reach up to rub them off his cheek. You look at the hair at his temple and see the way the gray hair threads through his dark curls. You think it would be something, wouldn’t it? To see the gray overtake the black over the years. And you know Eddie doesn’t say anything to you that he doesn’t mean. It’s not something he’s capable of doing. “For Eddie Munson, my door is always open.”

“What about Maddy’s dad?” Eddie chokes on the words a little, but he gets them out along with a fresh tear that leaks from the corner of his eye. That’s something you’ve always loved about Eddie, he’s never hidden the tears when they show up.

“That’s been over for a while, Ed. I should’ve told you that.” You stroke his cheek and smile. “You’re down bad, old man. Wow, that’s really something, ain’t it?”

Eddie’s laugh rumbles through both of you. The years in front of you don’t look so bleak when you picture Eddie’s arm around your waist. The tears won’t sting so much if you have each other to wipe them away. It’s not too late, you’ve got two feet above ground. You’ve got two hands to hold onto this thing, and Eddie’s hands are holding on just as tight now. The memories and the future swirl together, and you thank god for those years apart. It’s so much sweeter this time around. 

You fall asleep with Eddie inside of you. I love yous breathed into your mouths. Eddie’s going to have to replace that seat on his bike if he expects you to ride on it with him. He’s adding it to the mental list he has running. Tell Wayne he’s moving closer. Pack his shit up in a Uhaul. Drive a couple hundred miles. Replace the bike seat. Wrap his arms around you and never let go.

[impala-dreamer]

Captive Audience

A Story from The Boys Universe

~Y/N gets invited to a party but fails to realize that she's the favor...~

Soldier Boy (Ben) x F!Reader

1,700 Words

Warnings: NSFW. Sex and Drug Use. 18+ ONLY

A/N: Written for @jacklesversebingo . "Lick it and find out." Please show some love and reblog. Reblogs are important!

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

Green. Green. Green. Everything about him reminded her of a forest. A deep, dark, mist-covered wood that should have scared her, but managed to ensnare her every single time.

Dark green eyes like the leaves; body solid and long like a tree trunk.

Looming over the table, he cast a shadow across her nakedness, blocking the light and noise from the party raging beyond the swinging kitchen door. It was loud, obnoxiously so, flooding the big house with new wave rock and roll and the unmistakable sounds of ecstasy cresting.

But none of that mattered.

There was nothing in her eyes but him, nothing on her mind but the delicious nervousness of wondering what he’d do to her next.

Ben had tied her up good, wrapping prickly kitchen twine tight around her wrists and forcing them above her head. They dangled off the end of the wooden slab and he had attached the rope ends to the closest table leg, keeping her stuck there in place. Her arms ached already, but she was happy to be on display for him.

Blunt nails dragged up her bare legs and dipped between her thighs. He pulled away with a grin.

“Nice an’ juicy. I like that.”

His voice was slow and certain, not a hint of flirtation lingering in his tone. He didn’t need to charm her anymore, she was already right where he wanted her and there was truly no escape.

Not that she’d try anyhow.

The table was cold but warming to her body heat more and more every moment. Her top was warming as well, both from his hands and his gaze. His eyes were like laser beams working their way up and over every curve of her form, and she wondered if x-ray vision wasn’t one of his powers. Patience surely wasn’t one, as he reached for her tits, callously closing his big hands around each globe and kneading almost too roughly. She hissed at the touch and moaned when his thumbs grazed over her nipples.

“Fuck…”

She whimpered. He grinned.

“Oh, you’re gonna be a blast, arentcha?”

Pleasure sparked through her system as his nails dug like pinpricks into the dusky shadow around her nipples and she chewed her bottom lip. Her eyes fluttered when he twisted; her breath caught when he tugged.

“K-keep going and find out, soldier,” she teased, hoping to earn another hard twist.

He obliged and her back arched off the table.

“God!”

Ben chuckled under his breath. “If I had a nickel for every time a broad called me that, I’d be… well, I’m already rich, so...”

Y/N shivered when he pulled back. “Rich, handsome, kind of a jerk- what else you got?”

Amused by her flirtatious bite, he stood back and dug into his pocket.

“Got some party favors,” he replied, pulling out a small baggie full of white powder.

“Thanks…” Y/N licked her lips. “I’d love some.”

He laughed and sucked his teeth. “Oh, this ain’t for you, dollface.” The plastic tickled her stomach, but he warned her through gritted teeth to hold still.

She held her breath too, just for good measure, and closed her eyes as Ben drew a line of cocaine down the center of her.

“This is new,” she whispered.

“It’s fuckin’ hot is what it is,” he corrected.

His breath was like steam on her flesh, the thick shadow on his cheeks beautifully distracting.

He bent over her and pressed his nose to her chest, breathing in the drugs and her scent from tit to clit.

Ben stood up with a jolt and wiped at the powder on his nose.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s good shit!” He shook himself and his pupils dilated, eclipsing the green. The surge invigorated him and Ben dropped down again, this time running his tongue down the length of her, following the pale trail the coke had left behind.

Her moan was loud and needy.

“Delicious.” He hummed against her soft skin; tongue lingering at the peak of her cunt. “Does your cunt taste as good?”

Vibrant eyes flashed upwards and Y/N melted, spreading her legs for him.

“Why don’t you lick it and find out?”

He cocked an eyebrow and then grabbed at her, strong fingers peeling her thighs apart even further. The skin burned under his touch, bruises readied themselves to spring up once the pressure was gone.

Y/N sucked in a heavy anticipatory breath as he exhaled against her folds. She was soaked already, throbbing just imagining the feeling of his lips on her cunt.

She didn’t have to imagine for long.

Ben kissed her clit.

She gasped.

He dragged his tongue down her slit.

She whimpered.

He jabbed two thick fingers into her.

She nearly screamed.

“Don’t be shy,” he urged, curling his digits deep inside. “Ain’t a real party if no one can hear you having fun.”

Y/N’s arms twisted against the ropes, desperate to drop a hand to his head and tug on the gorgeous tawny locks. “I’ll be sure to keep that in- holy fuck!”

Mid-sentence, Ben jerked forward with his mouth and bounced his tongue against her clit, sending sparks through her system. He licked fast and hard, almost to the point of hurting her, but he held back just enough to make it worth every ache.

Right at the brink, he pulled away. He gazed down with a smirk on his plump, ruddy lips and laughed.

“You seem stressed…”

Y/N thrashed on the hard table, denied and pitiful. “Frustrated is more like it.”

He winked.

The bastard winked at her, knowing full well how close she’d been and how bad she wanted it.

With a seeming snap of his fingers, he was naked next to her, clothing tossed haphazardly onto the floor by the door. His shoulders were huge, arms like thick branches, chest hard and twitching with every movement. His cock already hard and hanging down on his left thigh. Y/N’s eyes shot to it instantly and Ben puckered his lips, enjoying her lustful stare.

He wiped her juices from his face and rubbed them on his cock before stroking slowly. “You like that?”

She nodded. “Mmm, I do.”

His fist bobbed over the tip. “How much? Tell me.”

Y/N wriggled, stuck and hungry for him. “Love it so much. Fuck, your cock is so perfect. I need it…”

“Yeah?” He picked up speed; his upper lip twitched.

“Please… I need your cock so fucking bad.”

Teeth bared, he breathed deeply; chest heaving and biceps flexing as he jerked off in front of her. He put on a show; stepping up on his toes and arching his back as he thrust into his hand. He was crazed and wild-eyed; preening like a porn star. He always loved a captive audience.

Y/N was near to drooling; every bit of her wet and desperate for him. She squirmed and pouted, begging with everything she had.

“Please, fuck me, Ben. Please!”

“You need it bad, don’t you, doll?”

Y/N rolled her hips against the air. “Please!”

Ben licked his lips and looked her over. “So many choices…” Finally, he moved to the head of the table and pressed his legs against the edge. His cock dangled aside her face and he looked down, face glazed with authority and thirst. “Open up.”

Her jaw dropped immediately and her tongue shot out, reaching for his swollen head.

Instead of a gentle slide inside, Y/N earned a hard slap against her cheek. His cock was solid and smooth. The hit stung. She winced and it came again, another quick hit, this time against her lips. Y/N pushed her tongue out as far as she could and Ben rubbed his cock over it, tapping a few times before jabbing into her mouth.

He hit the back of her throat and Y/N swallowed down a retching gag.

He was big and unrelenting.

“Fuck, you take my cock so good… Knew you would. Fuck!”

Her neck was twisted, throat full and struggling. Her breath was quick and her body shivered. Every thrust rolled her eyes deep’ every pull back left with a tight pop of her cheeks.

Ben was vibrating, fucking her throat deep and hard. He sneered as she sucked; head tossed back and eyes glazed.

“So fucking good!”

When he could feel it surge, he jerked away from her mouth and climbed onto the table, straddling her hips. She tugged at the ropes, wiggled beneath him, but there was no release for her in either way.

Bending close, he squeezed her tits, thumbed at her nipples again. Y/N moaned loudly, screamed when he bit down hard on her right tit. His teeth dented the flesh, nearly breaking the skin. He licked it clean and sat back, fisting his cock once more.

“You want this?” he asked, jaw set tight, eyes narrowed on her lips and the longing in her eyes.

“Yes, please!” She gasped, body aching badly.

He sat back, crushing her thighs. “You want all this? You want my cum?”

Unconsciously, her mouth hung open again. “Please!”

His lip trembled, his wrist quickened.

He came with a roar that echoed in her bones.

“Fuck!” Ben doubled over and sprayed her stomach with his hot cum. He rocked into his fist again, shooting another quick load that landed on her chest.

He grinned and took a beat, breathing deeply, laughing with satisfaction.

“You…” He wagged a finger at her. “You’re a fantastic piece of ass.”

He was gone before she could reply, hopping down from the table and scooping up his clothing from the floor.

She watched him dress, lying helplessly on the table, still bound and painted in his cum.

“But…”

Y/N whimpered and he spun around, seemingly remembering she was there.

“Oh, yeah…”

Ben came close and pressed his lips to her ear. She held her breath, waiting for a kiss that never came. He exhaled against her throat and left her with a few words that sizzled in her brain, forever rattling around and reminding her that he was not one to take home to mama.

“Thanks for the fun.”

2024 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

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[randomgurl2326]

Run

Summary: the one where Carl almost gets his ass beat

It was a sweltering hot day in Alexandria; which means everyone is wearing revealing clothes. Including my dad…not the best sight to see.

For those who don’t know, my dad is Daryl motherfucking Dixon. I know, the redneck of the apocalypse. Clearly the overprotective daddy he is, he does not approve of me wearing revealing clothes, but oh well too bad dear father of mine.

Yes, the leaders son with the right hand-man’s daughter. Some people say meant to be, some say what the fuck. The ‘what the fuck’ one being my dad, my protector, my best friend. But in all honesty he loves me with Carl and that puts a nice smile on my face.

But today everyone was going to hang out by the pond closer to Alexandria. Everyone being my Dad, Rick(who I insist on calling Mr. Grimes), Michonne, Maggie, Glenn, and of course my oh so handsome boyfriend: Carl Grimes.

As I said before, to my father’s chagrin I was wearing revealing shorts, sort of, kinda, totally showing off a little bit of my ass, which my boyfriend was definitely enjoying a little bit too much for my father’s liking, which brings us to now…

“Hey kid, stop starin’ at my daughter’s ass,” this response from my dad to Car staring at my butt caused a lot of ‘oooooo’s from the group. My mouth fell open a little bit and I looked back at daddy and Carl and yell out, “Dad!”

My sudden scream of disapproval from me got a few laughs. Glenn looked over to me and said, “Oh my sweet little Y/N, when will you learn that this will not end.” He trailed off a little at the end with slight laugh, turning back to Maggie.

Carl puts his arm around my waist, and looks down at me with a smile, “Hey, darlin’, he’s right you know, I won’t get over this ass.” At the and of his sentence he grabbed at my ass and I swatted his hand away, grabbing his hat. “You’ll get this back when you learn how to behave, darlin’,” I said mocking his lil’ pet name he had for me since the start.

He pouted a little and said, “you know you love me.” I shook my head with a little laugh and looked down, then looking up into his eye a second later. “I know I do, but if you keep doin’ that my daddy is gonna beat your ass.” He smirked before licking his lips and looking around, “I thought I was your daddy.”

His response must’ve been a little too loud because everyone started laughing, my mouth was open with a dumbfounded expression, and my dad looked at Carl pissed. My dad started coming toward us and I looked to my scared boyfriend and kissed him quickly. “Run, Carl. RUN,” I said while pushing him, encouraging him to book it.

Carl finally ran with my dad trailing close behind him, everyone else laughing. I though Carl was actually gonna make it…until he tripped over a stick and daddy picked him up by the collar and pushing him against the tree.

“Boy, I’m gonna give you two seconds to convince me you should live…”

A/N: I believe this was my first real work I have ever published on Tumblr and please, please, please give me some constructive criticism. Or just feedback in general, that would be greatly appreciated. Also if you want to be added to any taglists for fandoms and/or characters or ask what fandoms or characters I wrote for, or just need to talk in general; I am almost always up, so please feel free to reach out. I love ya’ll.

Taglist: none yet

[monstersandmaw]

Male orc (Rhuarc) x female character - Part One (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Thank you to the two people who explicitly expressed interest in this story via my inbox. This one's for you. Here's Rhuarc the single dad orc and his girl, and how they met. I've even got some visuals in this one too!

Content: kidnapping, attempted human sacrifice, violence, some light gore, implied age gap, older male character, single father orc x small human female

Wordcount: 4344

Rhuarc tried not to resent the fact that the Jarl of Markarth’s crusty old steward had looked him up and down as he’d stood in front of the so-called Mournful Throne, and decided that the orc was either entirely expendable or utterly stupid enough to take on an entire Forsworn camp. By himself.

Apparently it was the latter though, because with his two adopted girls waiting for his return in Whiterun, Rhuarc was most certainly not expendable these days. Perhaps twenty years ago, he might have hurled himself at the nearest frothing lunatic disrupting trade routes and abducting travellers off the roads without much care for the damage he took — the fact that he’d lost the sight in his right eye before he’d turned nineteen was testament to that — but these days, his contracts required thought and planning.

Kill the leader of Hag’s End, an old Nordic tomb complex nestled away in the frozen mountains to the northeast of Markarth.

Easy.

By himself.

Less easy.

The place was huge, and crawling with more Forsworn than termites in a mound, and there was every chance he would encounter a hagraven there too. Fuck, he hated those things. Whatever unnatural magic was used to create those half-bird, half-women, he didn’t want any part of it.

His own magic was fairly rudimentary by the standards of the average mage: a few fireballs here, a few healing spells there, and he could make a pretty decent lance out of ice if he had to. After all, orcs were known primarily for how ferociously they could bludgeon something into Oblivion, but magicka did coil its way through some of them too, and his mother had been both an alchemist and a mage.

Now though, as Rhuarc crept up behind the Briarheart warrior who led this bunch of rabid lunatics, and slipped his arm around the man’s throat to hold him still while he ripped the strange replacement heart out of the half-undead creature’s chest, he wondered exactly what kind of magic these people used that let them replace an otherwise healthy man’s beating heart with the poisoned seed of a Briarheart tree. And what special kind of lunacy allowed someone to undergo it willingly. Perhaps it wasn’t willing though? What did he know about these people?

As the orc’s fingers curled around the prickly seed that was about the size of an apple, the magic of it felt at once too cold and too hot; the way white hot metal feels in that moment of pure shock if you touch it by accident before the pain kicks in. He released the disgusting ‘heart’ and it fell with a splatter of gore onto the snowy carpet covering the cosy little platform, from where the man ruled over his clan of Forsworn. Rhuarc would have to find a scrap of cloth to wrap it in so that it didn’t leak everywhere between there and the city of Markarth, but he was looking forward to depositing it directly into the stuffy old steward’s lap as proof of the kill and the contract fulfilled.

The Briarheart warrior went instantly limp in his arms and Rhuarc laid him down silently on the frozen ground, already starting to plan his next move. A shout went up a second later from somewhere to his right — his blind side — and an arrow pinged off the bastion wall beside him. With a curse, he rolled and ducked behind the hide wall of the leader’s large tent, breathing hard. Of course he’d missed one of them, and if she alerted anyone else, or that lurking hagraven, Rhuarc was fucked. He was tired. And cold. His joints weren’t quite what they had once been, and his muscles were seizing with the cold and from crouching in dark doorways and corners on the long and winding way up to reach this part of the secret redoubt.

With a careful peek around the support structure of the leader’s tent, he realised that this new Forsworn hadn’t actually spotted him properly yet, and he hefted the haft of his war axe in his hand. Throwing a weapon away was never a great idea, but he didn’t have a bow on him, and if he called magicka to his hands, a hagraven would certainly sense it. Not a chance he wanted to take, and given that the place was called Hag’s End, he thought it pretty fucking likely that there was one of the bird-legged, psychotic matriarchs of the Forsworn roosting up at the top of the complex on that balcony almost directly above him.

So, he drew back his arm and sent the blade of his war axe whirling away to bite into the breastbone of the Forsworn before she could spot him or cry out again. She fell with the clatter and rattle of bone and fur armour, her silly antlered headdress skittering away behind her, and he was off running immediately to release the weapon from her corpse and seek a new hiding place in case the commotion had drawn others.

As it was, Rhuarc crouched for a long few minutes behind the gruesomely-displayed corpse of an elk that had been partly taxidermied by the cold and stuck on a stake, with his breath billowing all around him, and the stillness of snow in the air. Had he got them all? He was spattered all up one side of his body with blood and even had a red streak in his otherwise white hair that he’d shaved close to his skull above his ears and left long enough to tie back into a ponytail on top. What a mess. Still, it would be worth the groaning bag of coin he was going to get for clearing the whole bloody encampment and making The Reach a little bit safer for travellers.

Just as he’d begun to relax, half thinking of getting the girls each a new dress with his earnings, a scream like nothing he’d ever heard before tore the silence in two and his blood went cold.

It had come from the balcony above him where a spar of stonework jutted out into the winter sky like the bowsprit of a ship, and it hadn’t been the harsh shriek of a hagraven. The scream had come from a woman in blind, abject terror, and the sound of it shocked him back to his feet before he’d even realised it.

Rhuarc thundered up the stone stairs behind him and shouldered open the carved doors of the inner sanctum of the tomb, plunging into the relative darkness without stopping to think.

Not thinking was a sure way to get himself killed, and by some miracle of the fates, he skidded to a halt just in time to avoid a pressure plate in the floor that would no doubt have unleashed some kind of magical or poisoned trap on him. Whoever lived here clearly didn’t let just anyone inside, and blundering around like a panicked mammoth wasn’t going to help anyone.

“Think, you thick-skulled orc,” he growled at himself, chest heaving and heart pounding in his ears like a war-drum. He was only a few heartbeats away from slipping into that infamous, orcish berserker rage, and he never ever wanted to find himself on the far end of a state of mind like that again. Caked in blood and viscera and surrounded by an array of corpses with no memory of how they had been felled… He shuddered and forced himself to steady his breathing before moving on.

What he confronted as he wound his way carefully and methodically through the dark, blood-stained hallways of the upper Nordic tomb proved to be as great a test of his prowess with blade and his magic as any he’d ever faced in his forty-six years.

Savage witches clad in long, magicka-laced, black robes hurled spells and curses at him that he only just dodged or warded in time to sink his axe into their skulls, but what made his skin crawl the most was the hagraven who seemed to be taunting him, letting him get one or two shots in before a swirl of purple and black magic enveloped her and she vanished to somewhere else in the complex.

Was she an illusion? Had he lost his mind or, worse, accidentally imbibed some poison from one of his victims that was making him hallucinate? He’d spotted enough deadly mushrooms growing in the dank corners of the dungeon that the suspicion remained, even as he ploughed on through the coven of crazed witches towards the woman who had let out that heart-rending scream.

Just as he sensed he was gaining the top of the tower, the hagraven disappeared amid a final storm of eerie, flickering magicka, leaving him alone in an echoing chamber at the top of a staircase lined with mortuary shelves.

Over to his left, an arcane enchanting table crackled with residual magicka from a recent use, the blueish runes on its onyx surface glowing in the dim light, and on his right, an ancient monument reared up like a tombstone, carved with a script he couldn’t read. He had no time for any of that, and paused just long enough with his hand on the last door to gather his breath and the last ragged remains of his strength, before shoving all his weight into swinging them open and stepping out onto the snowy balcony beyond.

A blast of freezing air hit him full in the face, but it wasn’t the cold that stole his breath and his senses.

There on a low, wide, stone altar, a Nord woman had been bound hand and foot, stretched out and completely naked, and she was thrashing weakly despite the wounds at her wrists and ankles from the ropes. Tears tracked pale lines through the dirt on her face and her bare chest heaved with broken, choking sobs as she arched her back in futile protest.

Over her prone figure loomed the emaciated figure of a hagraven with a glinting, black dagger raised in her taloned hands.

Rhuarc didn’t think.

He hurled a bolt of ice at the creature, and might have been surprised to find that it had actually struck her right in the stomach if he hadn’t already been concentrating on drawing the ambient moisture into his hand to freeze into another shard of ice as thick as a tree limb. The hagraven let out a shriek that should have made his ears bleed, and hurled a fireball at him for the indignity of him getting a hit in first.

Searing flames exploded all around him and he smelled singeing, though he wasn’t sure if it was his fur armour or his own skin, and he didn’t care. He leapt forwards, diving into a roll in the snow to douse any lingering flames, and as he came up he launched a second spike of ice directly at the hagraven’s weathered, distorted face. Her black, beady eyes narrowed and she bared rotten teeth with a snarl as she clenched her clawed hand and prepared to fling a second fireball at him.

Rhuarc had closed the distance between them in a few powerful strides though, and before she’d finished the spell, he grabbed her by her flimsy arm and felt the snap of it breaking in his grip as he yanked her away from the altar. Before she could even muster a screech, he lopped her head off with his axe. He didn’t stop to watch her abandoned carcass slide over the edge of the parapet, down into the void of snow and cooling corpses below, and turned instead to the woman laid out on the table.

The dagger had fallen from the hagraven’s claws to land beside her right hand and she was reaching frostbitten fingers for it.

“Easy,” Rhuarc said, holstering his messy axe at the loop on his belt and realising he probably looked as frightening as the hagraven had. Six foot six and broad as a barn door at the shoulder, Rhuarc now had blood all up his face from one of the witches, a nasty burn on his shoulder that was only just now making itself known, and a long cut on his abdomen that was oozing blood down his solid paunch. As he’d got older, he’d lost the iron definition he’d had in his youth, but he was probably the strongest now that he’d ever been in his life.

No wonder the woman was staring wild-eyed at him like he was some animal barbarian, but his heart physically hurt in his chest when he saw the welts and bruises standing out starkly on her pale, Nordic complexion. Her long, midnight black hair was loose and lank and greasy, her lip was split and swollen, and there was a vibrant, purple bruise all around her left eye socket. Those dark brown eyes glared up at him with fierce defiance though, and her fingers found the hilt of the knife.

He smiled. “I know I look a sight,” he said in a low, quiet rumble, holding both hands up, bloody palms towards her. “I’m gonna help you though. Let’s get you healed up and out of here. I’m not sure what you can wear though…”

“My… My clothes are in… were in… a chest… in there,” she croaked, twitching her head slightly towards the chamber he’d just left. The swelling in her lip clearly made talking painful, and she sounded like she hadn’t had any water for days. That, or the thick, raw, red line around her throat was responsible, flanked by distinct, finger-sized bruises the colour of a ripe plum. It made his orc blood boil to see marks like that on a person’s body, but he made himself focus on the more immediate task of helping her.

“Alright. I’ll untie you — may I use that dagger?”

She nodded and reluctantly let her fingers go loose again. With the rope lashed so tightly around her wrist, she didn’t have enough purchase to lift her hand free of the hilt, so Rhuarc carefully slid his bloody fingers underneath hers and he eased the blade out.

Concentrating, he sawed steadily through the thick rope, and she hissed as she flexed her fingers when the rope finally sheared and one arm came free. The raw chafing showed him just how hard she’d fought her captors, and he found the warmth of pride glowing in the pit of his stomach for this stranger and her resilience. Methodically, Rhuarc moved his way around the table to free her ankles next before finally cutting the ropes binding her left arm to the cold table, and all the while keeping his eyes off her naked body as best he could.

“We need to get you somewhere sheltered. Can you sit up?”

She tried valiantly when he asked, but her strength failed her in a rush and she slumped back down with a gasp.

Rhuarc dropped the knife to the stone at his feet and stuck his right hand under her head just in time to stop her cracking her skull on the stone platform of the altar, and he cradled her lolling head in the palm of his hand. His already-bruised knuckles clunked against the altar under the full weight of her head as she surrendered at last, spent.  

“Easy,” he said. “I’ve got some magic. I’m going to heal you, alright? Keep steady, then we’ll find you some clothes and get you out of here.”

Her dark eyes rolled as the golden light of healing magic washed around her, and she slumped at last into unconsciousness.

Rhuarc picked her up with detached efficiency and carried her out of the biting wind and back into the tower that formed the top part of the tomb’s inner sanctum, marvelling at the Nord’s resilience to the cold. He knew that her people were tougher than most humans in these conditions, but still, with everything she’d been through, she probably should be dead.

Her small body was soft where many Nords were made of hard muscle, and he suspected that she had not been raised to be a fighter. That the Forsworn would snatch her away from whatever battle-free life she’d led before and defile her like this made his blood sing all over again and his hands itched to sink his axe into a nice, crunchy, Forsworn skull. He let the thought go with a growl around his thick tusks and shouldered the doors open.

With her pressed against his bare chest, he felt the tingle of magic in her blood too, and he recalled the way her body had drunk his own restoration magic down like water poured onto dry sand. Perhaps the fact that she was probably a mage had been why the hagraven had been about to sacrifice her in that unholy ritual.

Inside the echoing, stone room with the enchanting table, Rhuarc found the chest she’d mentioned, and he crouched down awkwardly in front of it with her half-draped across his lap, her naked body propped up by his right arm. He really didn’t want to have to use one of the beds in the tower that the witches had clearly slept in, but if the woman needed to rest, then he would stay with her and see that she was safe.

Just as he was fiddling one-handed with the catch of the chest, which luckily wasn’t locked, she drew in a deeper breath and came-to with a mewling sob of discomfort. Her bare legs were touching the floor and the room wasn’t much warmer than the air outside because of a huge hole in the ceiling, but at least they were out of the wind.

“I know,” he said without looking at her. “I’m going to find you something to wear. Just give me a second.”

“Thank you,” she rasped, and the sound became a sob as she squirmed in his arms, trying to curl inwards on herself. Whether that was to cover her naked body better or simply because she was hurting in every way humanly possible, he wasn’t sure. “Thank you. I thought that was it, when… when she… she —”

“Shh,” he said, briefly tightening his hold around her shoulders with a slight curl of his right arm, worried that if she grew too distressed, he might drop her. “It’s over now. You’re safe.”

“Thank you,” she said again, and then added with a little sniffle, “My name is Syl, by the way.”

“Rhuarc,” he grunted, finally lifting the lid of the chest. “This your stuff?”

She peered forward and nodded. An undyed linen shirt and brown trousers had been roughly stuffed into the wooden chest, along with a pair of softly-worn, fur-lined boots, a thick, fur-lined jacket, and a small alchemist’s pouch that fitted on a belt around the hips. He had something similar himself for the road, choosing to forgo the usual traveller’s pack with a bedroll and cooking pot. He hunted or foraged for what he needed and cooked it over an open fire and slept under the stars when he absolutely had to, but mostly, he actually planned his journeys to halt at an inn for the night these days, because he was too damned old now to be sleeping out of doors in the grass like a bloody wild boar. He also thought he glimpsed some linen underwear and wrappings in the chest too, but he didn’t let his gaze linger.

“You… need a hand?” he asked quietly, but she shook her head.

“I can just kneel here for a moment. I’ll be alright,” she said in a steady, if rough voice. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “I’ll be over there,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his thumb over his left shoulder.

He helped her slide off his lap where he’d crouched beside the chest, and steadied her briefly with a hand at the small of her spine to stop her tipping backwards. Her flesh was still cold from lying out there on the table, but she couldn’t have been out there for too long before he’d found her, or she’d have died of exposure. Even a Nord couldn’t survive naked in the snow for very long.

Only then, with his rough palm pressed against the pale softness of her skin, did it strike him that it had actually been a very long time since he’d seen another naked body, and the feel of her skin beneath the calluses of his palm distantly stirred the cold embers of desire in him that had lain dormant and out of mind for longer than he cared to remember. Even for an orc, he wasn’t exactly short of people showing interest, but it just… hadn’t been something he’d wanted. Then of course, he’d found himself the adoptive father of a pair of ten and eleven year old girls, and all thoughts of romance and the so-called ‘Dibellan arts’ had evaporated completely from his life like autumn mist.

With a sigh, he banished the faint and inappropriate sensation and levered himself stiffly to his feet. As he did, he felt the cut in his lower belly pull with a sharp prick of pain and when he looked down at it, he found it already suppurating. His thick, naturally green, orcish skin had turned a nasty, angry red around the slash and something was oozing out of it that wasn’t blood. Poison. Fuck.

Glancing around the room, he wondered if there were any ingredients stashed way that the witches would have used, but he was in the wrong part of their stronghold for that and anyway, who knows what they might have been brewing in there? Thinking about what limited stocks he kept in the emergency pouch on his belt, he drew out two carefully-sealed glass bottles and tipped their contents into the cupped palm of his left hand. It was hardly ideal, but it would do for now, and he smeared it onto the open wound.

The flash of pain made him grunt, but with a soft fizzing, the powders got to work and nullified the festering poison before it could spread.

“Rhuarc?”

When he turned around at the sound of her voice, he found Syl looking at him from where she was still kneeling in front of the wooden chest.

“Are you alright?” she asked with a frown.

Her alto was still hoarse and rasping, and he wondered if she was still in pain. “I’m fine. Are you? Did I heal you enough?”

At his question, she smiled, and something in his chest slipped sideways when he saw it.

How could a woman who’d just been through the torment she had experienced still find the grace to smile like that? And at an orc of all creatures.

“Yes,” she said, and, now that she was dressed, she stood slowly; cautiously.

She wasn’t very tall for a human, perhaps five foot five at most, and her body seemed somehow even smaller in her loose-fitting, practical clothes. He could clearly see the swell of her hips though, and the definite curve of her breasts, and her dark eyes looked very large as she regarded him. In an attempt to tidy herself up, she had tied her lank, black hair back off her face in a low ponytail, but she still looked like she’d taken one hell of a battering, despite the healing magic.

And yet, there she was on her own two feet, and her resilience was suddenly as devastatingly attractive to him as were her natural good looks. Rhuarc swallowed thickly, utterly floored by what he was feeling for the first time in decades.

“You’re hurt,” she said, eyeing the wound in his stomach.

He felt her open herself up to start channelling magicka, and his own mismatching eyes went wide. “No, don’t!” he gasped, taking an involuntary step towards her and holding out both hands in a kind of warding gesture. “Please, you need to conserve your energy. I’ll heal myself in a moment. I was just waiting for the poison to work its way out first.” No point sealing up the cut with all the vileness still inside, after all.

Syl walked slowly towards him, moving like a black cat along a wall, with her gaze focused on his bare paunch.

Rhuarc’s breath caught and he froze. He couldn’t have moved so much as a muscle then, even if an army of hagravens had descended on him.

When Syl came to a halt in front of him, she brought her fingertips up to touch the fevered flesh around the wound. Very carefully, she let a tiny thread of golden magic seep into him, and he honestly did not mean to let out the noise that left his lips. He hadn’t even known he was still capable of making a sound like that.

Pleasure curled deep and visceral in his gut, both from the whisper-light contact of her fingertips against the trail of hair on his stomach, and from the way her magic coiled and twisted inside him, stitching him up from the inside out and cleansing the last of the poison’s putrefaction in the same deft stroke. She wasn’t just some hedge witch with a little magic: Syl had to be a master of the school of restoration with a healing that skilled.

“There,” she breathed. “Just looks a bit of a mess now,” she added, eyeing the blood that still covered him in a series of spatters and smears.

He couldn’t catch his breath for a moment, but he cleared his throat and stepped back. “Not much different from usual then,” he said a beat too late and painfully aware that his gruff bass sounded far more winded than when he had fought his way through the entire complex to reach her. “Thank you.”

With a long inhale, she let her hand fall back against her side and turned her big, dark eyes up to regard him. “So… what happens now?”

I hope you enjoyed this one? I'm fairly certain most people aren't going to read down to this point, so if you did, please consider reblogging it to help it find more of an audience, and give Rhuarc and Syl some love?

And if you want to learn more about how they fall in love on their journey away from Hag's End, be sure to leave me an ask or a comment! Otherwise I'll assume there's no interest and won't keep sharing it. :)

Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

[drawloverlala]

Some Clip Studio Assets

Hello! I just published a brush for Clip Studio Paint, it’s a cyber effect brush!

https://assets.clip-studio.com/es-es/detail?id=1993559

And along with sharing it with you I also wanted to share some of the assets I've found on the assets store that I think you may like as well! ^_^

here I put them down the read more! (warning it may be a bit too long of a post!)

✒Inking and drawing brushes:

Smooth Ink

Smooth Inker

Voyageffen

Line brush

Ink pen textured

crack lines on surfaces

S Zara Pen

Nong Pen

Line Drawing pen

Rough pen

✏Writing Brushes:

Calligraphy pen set

Halloween themed pen

Neon Pen

Retro brush

🎨 Painting brushes:

Soft fluffy paint (One of my favorites!)

Thick brush set

🖼 Gradient maps:

petitchery set

Holo gradient set

Ommug gradiation map

Toffi's Gradient set

🎇Patterns:

Tone Brush set

Tone Brush set 2

Pretty stone floor pattern

Stone floor pattern

cute Halloween Pattern

Hexagonal pattern

Cute textures (they are patterns)

Sweater pattern brushes

Gun Club Check (plaid pattern)

Lemons pattern

patchwork patterns brush

Argyle pattern brush

Cat face pattern

Cloud and flower pattern

cute brushes and patterns (cactus, peach and clam)

cute simple patterns (warning: they have pretty bright colors, may cause eye strain)

80's patterns

strawberry pattern and brushes

flowery patterns

10 cute plaid patterns

Avocado pattern.

📜Textures:

Textured brush

Glitter star textures

Gold glitter set

Random Textures 1

Random Textures 2

Random Textures 3

Random Textures 4

3 Textures set

Atmosphere set brushes (rusty textures)

📚Background objects:

Wire fence

Books brush 1

Book brush 2

Book brush 3 (fancy)

Bottle brush

Piano brush

Magic Drug shelf set (has baskets, jars and bottles)

City

Window brush

🧁Food:

Cookie brushes

whipped cream brush

Sausages

Many sausages

Bread brush

strawberries and cream

berries brush

strawberries

fruit toppings

Avocado!

🌱🌼Flowers and plants:

Roses1

Roses 2

Tree leaves brush 1 (pretty good)

Peonies

Bougainvillea

Geranium

Easy bush set (this one is pretty good too!)

Palm tree leaves

Mimosa

Flower brush (for cute effects)

✨Effects:

Gaussian blur brush

White drops brush

Glitch effects

Prism brushes

Dual prism brushes

Shiny flowers and sparkles

Retro Filters

Tech brushes

Mini deco effects 1

Mini deco effects 2

👑Ornaments:

Ornament Brushes

Ornament Brushes 2

Oriental Emblem 1-10

Oriental Emblem 21-30

Oriental Emblem 31-40

43 types of decorations

27 Oriental patterns

Ornament material

X-mas brush set

Exotic fantasy decor.

👕Clothing:

Shoe laces set

Shoe laces 2

Sweater knit patterns

10 types of brushes of bows with frills

Patchwork stitches brush

socks/panty/stocking(?) brush

Tattered brush

💕Misc:

Feathers

wind effects

Hot mess confetti

Cute Confetti

Confetti

Halloween particles brush

Fishes

Twinkle brush

Cute pattern 10 pieces set 1

Cute pattern 10 pieces set 2

Cute pattern 10 pieces set 3

Cute pattern 10 pieces set 4

Cute pattern 10 pieces set 5

Star brushes

Halloween washi tape

Puppy stickers!!!

And those are most of the assets I've collected so far from Clip Studio's assets store!

I hope these may result useful to you!

[jkabbi]

bewitched | 01

╰┈➤summary: Former neighbors turned lovers, your enchanting romance with Jungkook takes a magical turn. A spell to protect him shapes your past, and now, as a flower shop owner, an unexpected reunion brings buried secrets to light. Past and present collide in a captivating tale of love and mystery.

╰┈➤pairing: jungkook x reader (f)

╰┈➤genre: cf2l, fluff, angst, magic au

╰┈➤warnings: just cursing and salem being a menance. also, jungkook hot ass back

word count. 8.4k

╰┈➤note; hi! this is my first fanfic and i was very nervous about publishing it. i had this idea for a while and i need it to share it. the fic has some touches of my favorite series (sabrina the teenage witch) but the plot is different and the characters (apart from salem).

alsoo, english isn’t my first language so writing this was a challenge but i hope its okay ;)

and thats all, i really wish u enjoy it and please be nice, this is my first time and im scared😭😭

next.

series masterlist

You consistently gravitated towards a wardrobe painted in familiar tones and patterns – greens, browns, blues, and yellows – with a penchant for clothing adorned by botanical or floral designs.

Yoongi used to make fun of you for it, although there was never a day that he didn't tell you that you looked good.

It was difficult to explain but your affinity for the colors could only be explained by your abilities.

Since you were little, you used to spend days in the sun in the grass, surrounded by trees and grasslands.

You loved playing with the butterflies that flew around or watching the birds that sang and flew freely. You used to talk to the fish that swam through the rivers or to the rabbits who hid in their burrows.

Your obsession with plants also did not diminish with the passage of time; Always worried that the flowers in your aunt's garden were well cared for—including the plants of other neighbors around—you used to water them, sing to them, and prune them.

Surely that obsession guided you to own your own flower shop.

You also used to have great pride in having so much knowledge of them, especially when you were a little girl, since you used to help the ladies in your neighborhood with their plants, giving them advice and tips to take care of them.

Especially one, who was your neighbor next door.

Mrs. Jeon was a pleasant woman, with pretty features and very affectionate towards you.

She was a housewife and had two children; Junghyung and Jungkook. Although you didn't interact much with them.

You still remembered the day the Jeons moved into the house next door.

It was summer and you were returning from your adventures in the forest near the neighborhood, where you talked to the small animals and encouraged green life to grow.

When you turned onto your street, you could see a large moving truck in the house next to yours. Curious, you arrived at your front yard and watched as the movers walked in and out of the house with furniture and boxes.

Before you could watch a family get out of a family car, your aunt Binna called you from the entrance to go take a shower for lunch.

Reluctantly, you left, not before taking a look back.

Years later and you still have the same feeling of warmth that you received every time you remembered the past.

“Why are you smiling at the shovel?”

That's where your memory lane ends. Behind you was Yoongi, who had a small philodendron in his arms.

“Why couldn't I smile at the shovel?” you retorted, leaving the shovel on the counter and sitting up.

Yoongi chuckled, shrugging casually. “I've always known you have a few screws loose. Feel free to continue charming the shovel.”

Mirroring his smile, you quipped, “Thanks for the endorsement, my esteemed companion. You'll be the honored guest at our shovel-themed wedding.”

Setting the plant by the large window, Yoongi fetched his water sprayer from his apron pocket. “I feel truly appreciated,” he replied, misting the green leaves.

From the spacious wooden counter, you opened your laptop, checking the latest email – an order for an outdoor wedding floral arrangement.

“We've got another order,” you informed from your seat.

“For what occasion?” Yoongi abandoned the sprayer, approaching curiously.

“A wedding,” you replied, studying the details.

“Another one?” Your friend leaned beside you.

You shifted for him to read the screen. “At least they're giving us four months," you nodded.

“And the payment is good,” you added. “Our end-of-year getaway might happen after all.”

Yoongi smiled beside you as you bounced with excitement. It might not be a lavish affair, but you cherished the yearly trip with Yoongi and his partner to a quiet seaside town.

A serene ambiance enveloped the place, with only a handful of individuals, and in winter, it turned into a magical haven.

(It was also a place full of magic, but that was a detail that you left hidden)

“Well, in any case, we should celebrate,” Yoongi stood up, heading towards the door to switch the sign from open to closed.

You stretched in your seat and agreed. “What's on the agenda for today? I was thinking of bringing some cakes from Jimin's favorite bakery for our movie night.”

“Oh, about that..." Yoongi hesitated, “Jimin texted me. He's inviting a friend from his college days to join us tonight. Is that okay? I mean, I know you're not a fan of meeting new people, and if you prefer, I can suggest postponing the gathering to tomorrow.”

Taking the broom, you looked at Yoongi affectionately. “It's fine, Yoongs. If he's Jimin's friend, I'm sure I'll get along with him.”

Worry etched Yoongi's expression. “Are you sure? I mean, in the hierarchy of friendships, you come first. Jimin could easily rearrange his plans for us tonight and meet his friend tomorrow.”

Giggling, you enjoyed seeing how much Yoongi cared. “Don't worry. I'm a big girl. I can handle Jimin's college buddies.”

Yoongi smiled in relief. “Alright, but do let me know if you feel uncomfortable or anything.”

“Okey dokey,”you said, raising your palm.

“Okey dokey,” Yoongi replied, giving you a high-five.

The relentless July sun bore down on your head.

Frustrated by the forgotten hat at home, you silently headed to the bakery.

After buying Jimin's favorite cakes —a mixture capable of putting you in a diabetic coma—you headed towards your friends' apartment, which was a few blocks away.

Your friends' neighborhood was your favorite place to visit.

It was a residential area, which was always in perfect condition.

Grand and expansive, the houses stood adorned with enchanting gardens—a sight that never failed to captivate you. Each residence was meticulously maintained, but it was a particular house that unfailingly left you in awe. A colonial masterpiece, it boasted a white facade adorned with vibrant red tiles. Cascading vines adorned the balcony, reaching down to the floor in a display of elegance. What truly set it apart was the magnificent garden, a vibrant canvas of fiery-hued flowers and exquisite sculptures. It spoke volumes about the refined taste of the person fortunate enough to call it home.

Having successfully banished any lingering awe, you reached the enchanting street where your friends resided. Courtesies exchanged with the concierge, you gracefully entered the awaiting elevator, confidently selecting the sixth floor with a soft chime resonating in the enclosed space.

Underneath your composed exterior, a subtle current of nervous anticipation flowed.

It wasn't a matter of feeling overwhelmed by strangers; rather, your unease stemmed from a lack of familiarity with personal social interactions, even though you navigated such dynamics daily in your professional life.

Your inclination leaned toward maintaining a small, close-knit circle of friends, an approach that steered you away from embracing new connections. However, the person you were about to encounter wasn't just a mere stranger but an integral figure in Jimin's life. You were steadfast in your resolve not to burden Jimin with the dilemma of choosing between friends, an ardent desire to avoid becoming a source of disappointment.

Driven by the profound aversion to letting down your friends, you made a conscious decision to present a facade of normalcy for the impending meeting. It was a commitment to navigate through the evening with an air of ease, recognizing that, in the grand tapestry of life, this was merely a single night – a challenge that, with resilience, you believed you could gracefully overcome.

As you reached the designated floor, you traversed the pristine, white hallway, and with a gentle knock, you announced your arrival at the penultimate door. After a brief pause, the door swung open, revealing Jimin's golden locks.

“____!” he exclaimed, “I'm thrilled you could make it!”

A wide smile graced your face. “It's wonderful to see you too. I brought some pastries.”

Jimin reciprocated the smile. “If I weren't gay, I'd definitely kiss you!”

Amused, you laughed and stepped into their apartment. The ambiance of Jimin and Yoongi's residence exuded a youthful yet elegant charm, reflecting both your best friend's personality and that of his partner.

“Come on, Yoongi is busy preparing some meat on the balcony,” the blonde guided you.

“Ah, you've made it,” Yoongi greeted. “I thought you'd be melting in this heat.”

You snorted, “Don't even mention it. I absorbed the last rays of the day's sun on my way here.”

“I offered to pick you up by car,” Yoongi scolded, brandishing his grill knife.

You playfully dismissed him with a wave of your hand. “I know, I know. But I didn't want to distract you, and besides, I enjoy the walk. It adds a magical touch to the whole experience.”

“You're unbelievably stubborn,” Yoongi teased.

To that, you simply shrugged your shoulders, embracing your determined nature.

“What's the heated discussion about?” Jimin interjected, holding a couple of beer cans.

“How intolerable this brat can be,” Yoongi grumbled.

Jimin chuckled, extending a can towards you. You graciously accepted, and the blonde headed to his boyfriend, delivering the other can.

“By the way, Yoongles mentioned you invited a friend from college,” you remarked.

Jimin settled beside you. “Oh, yes, I apologize for not informing you earlier. I know you're not a fan of mingling with strangers, but Yoongi assured me everything is fine.”

You nodded. “No need to worry; I'm perfectly fine with it.”

Jimin visibly relaxed. “Great! You don't have to stress about anything. My friend is not only nice but also incredibly funny.”

Smiling, you inquired, “Were you two very close friends?”

Jimin reclined in his chair, looking at you with evident happiness.

“The connection we shared was extraordinary. Despite his initial shyness, he gradually transformed into a popular figure. Sadly, we lost touch after graduating, and a year ago, he embarked on a global adventure. Now, he's back,” Jimin revealed, his eyes reflecting the depth of their friendship.

“That's truly wonderful. I've always dreamed of an extensive journey myself,” you shared.

Jimin nodded, disclosing, “I followed his captivating journey through his Instagram. His photography gained significant acclaim.”

“Photography, you say?” you inquired.

“Yes, even though his academic focus was in computer science,” Jimin explained, sipping his beer.

“That's remarkable. I'm genuinely happy to hear that his life has taken such a positive turn,” you remarked.

Jimin's emotions seemed to shift. “He's been through a lot, and witnessing his growth brings me immense joy.”

Before you could respond, the doorbell rang, prompting Jimin to leap up.

“It must be him!”

“He appears quite excited.” You noted, then turned to your friend, who was occupied with browning the meat.

“Yes, Jimin told me that his friend had a crisis and that's why he left for a year. Apparently he's a good guy and you know how Jimin is, too sensitive with those he loves.”

“Jimin has been an exceptional friend. I consider myself fortunate to have crossed paths with him,” you expressed sincerely.

A look of profound affection from Yoongi reinforced the warmth of the bond you shared with both of them.

“He's equally delighted to have you in his life, Bub,” Yoongi assured, a sentiment that brought a genuine smile to your face. In a life where you consciously kept your circle compact, the presence of Yoongi and Jimin proved to be the most precious and enriching.

In the midst of your conversation with Yoongi, the imminent return of Jimin momentarily slipped your mind. The air was filled with a blend of voices, among which Jimin's curiosity stood out.

“It's very quiet living here! Are you planning to look for something similar?” You heard Jimin’s voice.

However, the response was drowned out as the balcony door swung open with a resonant creak. Gathering mental fortitude, you adorned your best smile in anticipation.

“Hi, I’m…” you couldn't finish your sentence because you froze.

As you faltered in your attempt to introduce yourself, a sudden surge of paralysis gripped you, freezing your words on the precipice. The room hung suspended in a disconcerting silence, amplifying the tumult within. The boundary between jest and reality blurred, leaving you grappling with a maelstrom of emotions – the impulse to scream, the yearning to shed tears, and an inexplicable urge to escape. Your body, however, betrayed you, caught in a rigid state, joints locked, breath arrested, mirroring the stillness of your heart.

Swift to recognize your distress, Yoongi deftly intervened, redirecting the unfolding awkwardness.

“Hello! I'm Yoongi, Jimin's partner,” he declared, striding purposefully towards the newcomers. To diffuse the palpable tension, he continued, “And this is my best friend, ____,” punctuated by a subtle nod from you.

The newcomers responded with a tentative smile, their composure visibly unsettled. The girl, attuned to her boyfriend's wandering gaze on your figure, diplomatically interjected.

“Hello! I'm Jiwoo, Jungkook's fiancée,” she proclaimed with an air of gentle formality. The weight of the term "fiancée" lingered, resonating deeply in your thoughts.

Jeon Jungkook has a fiancée.

Jimin orchestrated the seating arrangement, placing them beside you. In this surreal juncture, Jungkook introduced himself, his voice an echoing remembrance from the past. Summoning the courage to meet his gaze for the first time since his arrival, you found your breath arrested by the sight of his face, an unsettling pause enveloping the room.

Standing before you was a man whose stature surpassed your recollection, a towering presence accentuated by his impressive height and robust frame. Cascading down his shoulders, his once-familiar dark hair now framed a countenance marked by the passage of time. The revelation of an intricate tapestry of tattoos adorning his arm became apparent, unveiled by the sleeves of his short black t-shirt.

Yet, it was the constancy of his gaze that struck the most profound chord within you. Despite the exchange of words with Jimin, his doe-eyed stare remained unwavering, anchoring your attention in an unsettling and unwelcome connection.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, unable to endure another second in the shared space where their gazes lingered, you gracefully excused yourself. A swift retreat led you to the refuge of the bathroom, seeking solace within its walls as the echoes of their continued scrutiny lingered in your wake.

As your anxiety reached a fever pitch, its palpable effects reverberated in the environment. The handwash faucet, seemingly responding to your heightened state, unexpectedly opened by itself, and the bathroom window flapped vigorously, propelled by an unforeseen gust of wind.

With your heart pounding relentlessly in your chest, you managed to slide down the cool tiles of the bathroom wall, seeking solace on the floor. The overwhelming pressure pushed you into a state of vulnerability.

Recalling the advice from Aunt Yoon's lessons, you instinctively covered your ears with your hands and shut your eyes, resting your head on your knees. Familiar voices echoed in your mind, guiding you to find composure amid the storm of emotions.

In an attempt to regain control, you focused on slow, deliberate breaths. As you exhaled, you directed your attention to the bathroom light. With a graceful sweep of your hand, you extinguished its glow, enveloping yourself in complete darkness, except for the soft illumination seeping through the window.

Within this shadowed cocoon, you conjured a small halo of light with your hands, orchestrating its gentle movements. This newfound distraction allowed you to redirect your focus, creating intricate animal shapes within the luminous halo.

Gratitude welled up as the calming effects of this self-imposed light show permeated your senses, coaxing your pulse back to a more manageable rhythm. Amidst the mental whining for teleportation powers, a shadow beneath the door brought you back to reality.

A delicate knock followed, the sound reverberating through the bathroom.

“Are you okay, Bub?” It was Yoongi.

Contemplating your next move, you acknowledged the inevitability of leaving the bathroom sanctuary. With a sigh of resignation, you rose to your feet and opened the bathroom door, prepared to face the outside world once more.

In the clarity of the room, your friend's worried expression was evident.

“Yes,” you managed to respond, your voice carrying a subtle tremor.

Observing your condition, Yoongi's skepticism lingered, although he refrained from pressing the matter further.

“I don't feel very well. I suspect it was something I ate. Can you excuse me to Jimin and his guests? I don't want to appear rude,” you admitted, attempting to convey sincerity despite the weakness in your words.

Yoongi maintained a neutral expression, nodding in acknowledgment. “I'll go get my keys. Wait for me here.”

Your immediate protest burst forth, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “No! I'm sorry, but I believe it's better for me to go alone. It's not too late, and the fresh air might alleviate my discomfort.”

Raising his eyebrows, your friend expressed concern, “Are you sure you're okay? Should I take you to the hospital?”

Offering a reassuring thumbs-up, you dismissed the trembling in your hands. “Everything is fine; I just feel a little dizzy and tired.”

Before Yoongi could interject, Jimin's voice echoed from outside. “Go,” you urged tensely, “I'll be fine. Just excuse me from Jimin.”

A complex array of emotions played across your friend's face, showcasing his inner struggle. After a few contemplative seconds, he sighed. “Okay, go, but be careful. Let me know when you arrive, and if you feel unwell, don't hesitate to call.”

Embracing him briefly, you departed the apartment swiftly, propelled by a sense of urgency that matched the pace of your footsteps.

With a hasty nod to the doorman, you left the haven of your friends' neighborhood, exhaling a sigh of relief. Under the cloak of night, you found solace in the anonymity it granted, allowing a cathartic scream of frustration to escape into the open air.

Unmindful of the sidelong glances from passersby, you surrendered to the maelstrom of emotions within. The night became a silent confidant to your inner turmoil, and the unbridled tears mirrored the tempest of feelings that engulfed you.

Despite knowing you should control yourself, especially since today's forecast didn't include torrential rain, you ignored this. You didn't bother hiding your magic, which triggered a downpour the moment you left Jimin's apartment.

Facing the reality of your evasive tendencies, you couldn't deny the stark truth about your emotional susceptibilities, a trait often criticized by Aunt Yoon as a vulnerability. In your solitude, your tear-streaked face and swollen, reddened eyes painted a vivid portrait of vulnerability—a deviation from familial expectations. Yet, in this nocturnal moment, it was only the gaze of strangers that bore witness to your emotional upheaval.

As you reclined in the bathtub, contemplating the unexpected encounter with Jungkook, a whirlwind of emotions engulfed you. Surprisingly, Salem, your usually mischievous cat, lay perched on the bath chair, radiating an uncharacteristic air of understanding – a stark departure from his typical penchant for mockery.

It dawned on you that Salem was privy to the intricacies of your history with Jungkook, intimately aware of the emotions that resurfaced during the encounter. His unspoken support, though unexpected, held a unique depth, a testament to the unbreakable bond between you and your feline confidant.

With a deep sigh, you decided to share more details with Salem, letting your feelings spill out like water from a broken dam. “I never imagined he would come back into my life. Not after all this time,” you confessed, your voice tinged with vulnerability.

Salem listened intently, his green eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. “Life has a funny way of surprising us,” he mused, his tail swaying gently.

You nodded. “I just wish I could have been more composed when I saw him. Instead, I froze like a deer caught in headlights and ran away.”

The cat brushed against your arm, a gesture of reassurance. “It happens to the best of us. Emotions are messy, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

You couldn't argue with that. Jungkook's presence had stirred up a whirlwind of memories, both happy and painful. “I thought I had moved on,” you admitted, running your fingers through the water absentmindedly. “But seeing him again brought everything back.”

Salem, ever the sage advisor, offered his perspective. “Moving on doesn't mean forgetting. It means learning to live with the memories without letting them control you.”

His words resonated with you, providing a sliver of clarity amid the emotional turmoil. “I know, Salem. I need to face this too, even if it feels like reopening old wounds.”

“I'm surprised you accepted this so quickly,” your cat confessed.

You sighed slowly, playing with the soap bubbles.

“I have to, apparently Jimin adores Jungkook. That means I'll have to run into him at least one more time,” you growled.

Salem laughed, throwing his head back showing his white fangs.

“You talk like it's strange that Jungkook is charming to everyone.”

You gave him a knife-sharp look. “Of course I know Jungkook is charming. I knew it from the first moment I saw him”

Your cat looked at you mockingly “I see that your jealousy is still active.”

You threw water at him, making him hiss at you.

“Careful with this beautiful fur, human girl!” Salem looked at himself, looking for any part of his body that was wet.

“I'm not jealous,” you replied.

“Yeah, of course,” your cat replied sarcastically. “As if you didn't suffer a mental breakdown every time Jungkook went to tutor that Cheerleader that you didn't like.”

You got up offended, spilling some water that overflowed onto the floor.

“For the love of Satan! Stop throwing water on the ground!”

You giggled but with a snap, you dried the wet floor without much difficulty.

“Better?”

Salem sighed irritably, but let it go. He knew that you were still affected by the events that occurred a few hours ago.

“I'm sorry,” you looked at him with your bright eyes, on the verge of tears. “It's just that I missed him so much and seeing him there was like my soul returning to my body.”

Salem nodded, his cat-like eyes focused on your trembling countenance. “I understand, although you must also remember that it's not the boy's fault that he hasn't seen you for almost ten years.”

You screeched in frustration. “I know! That's why I'm mad at myself." You clenched your fists. “I'm not being fair, I know.”

In seconds, hot tears of helplessness fell from your eyes.

You had cried so much that you felt like you were running dry, although you preferred to cry naked in your bathtub with your talking cat as a witness than cry like a loser in the streets with the pouring rain.

Salem nudged your hand with his head, a gesture that felt oddly comforting. A small smile played on your lips.

“I appreciate having you around,” you whispered gently. “Despite our occasional squabbles that resemble sibling rivalry, I find joy in having you as a part of my life.”

You and Salem remained in the bathroom, a peculiar duo bound by a history that transcended the ordinary human-pet relationship. The atmosphere softened, and Salem, with a twitch of his tail, broke the silence.

“You know, for a human, you're not half bad,” Salem teased, his green eyes glinting mischievously.

Rolling your eyes, you retorted, “And for a cat, you're surprisingly sentimental.”

Salem nudged your hand playfully, “Only for you, _____. But don't let it go to your head.”

You chuckled, grateful for the levity he brought to the moment. “I won't. So, any plans on how to deal with the Jungkook situation?”

Salem feigned contemplation, his tail swaying side to side. “Well, we could start with not throwing water on the floor every time you're annoyed.”

You laughed, “Fair enough. I'll work on that.”

As you began to drain the bathtub, Salem leaped down, pacing around the bathroom like he owned the place. “Remember, we're in this together, Human. I'm not letting you face the Jungkook dilemma alone.”

With a smirk, you replied, “Good to know, Cat. Teammates, right?”

“Teammates,” he affirmed, and as you stepped out of the bathroom, you couldn't help but appreciate the unique bond you shared with your sassy feline friend. Little did you know, the challenges ahead would only strengthen the unspoken understanding between you and Salem, making your friendship an unexpected source of strength in the face of life's unpredictable twists.

Indulging in an emotional outpour in the midst of a torrential downpour probably wasn't the wisest choice, and now you found yourself grappling with the repercussions of that impulsive decision.

Pain reverberated through your skull like an explosive symphony, each beat an agonizing pulse. Swollen to the point of incapacity, your eyes resisted attempts to open, trapped in the clutches of the affliction tormenting your body. A relentless cough seized you, each convulsion intensifying the already distressing situation.

The warmth radiating from your skin forewarned of an impending fever, threatening to pull you into the abyss of its debilitating embrace at any given moment. As discomfort layered upon discomfort, your physical state became an intricate tapestry of misery, weaving together the threads of throbbing pain, swollen eyes, and an unrelenting cough.

The incessant playback of ABBA's melodic tunes only intensified the predicament. Feeling utterly disheartened and shrouded in darkness, you impulsively struck your nightstand, yearning to silence the persistently chirpy alarm – a feat that proved elusive.

“Salem!” you bellowed in frustration, confident your feline companion was alert. Typically, at this hour, Salem reveled in observing the morning skirmishes between your neighbors, perched contentedly by the window. After a brief pause, you sensed the delicate touch of small paws on the wooden floor, followed by a graceful leap.

“What happened to your face?” inquired your concerned cat, gracefully traversing the expanse of the bed. Emitting a weary sigh, you replied, “What do you think?!” dripping with ironic exasperation. “Could you kindly put an end to the ABBA serenade? It's throbbing in my head.”

“I thought you'd never ask. I was on the verge of contemplating a window escape,” Salem quipped and a welcome hush settled in as the music ceased, leaving behind a palpable tranquility.

“Your appearance is rather dire,” mused your cat. “I'll venture into Binna's ancient cookbook, see if there's a remedy for your congestion and eyes.” With that, your feline companion gracefully exited the room, leaving you alone with the weight of your thoughts.

A peculiar sensation enveloped you, a departure from the serene routine you cherished. Yesterday's surreal events disrupted your tranquility, plunging you into an unexpected maelstrom. As stress mounted, the realization dawned: today, opening the store was an improbable feat. You resigned yourself to the inevitable task of informing Yoongi about your illness.

Contemplating calling him, you hesitated, anticipating his inevitable arrival at your apartment. After leaving you to your own devices yesterday, the gravity of recent events ensured he wouldn't let another moment elapse without seeking an explanation. You understood the futility of avoiding the impending conversation; Yoongi's familiarity with you meant evasion was a futile endeavor.

The internal conflict intensified. While you sought to shield your secrets, not for your sake but for the safety of those around you, memories surfaced of the last time an unwitting innocent had stumbled upon your hidden truths. The stakes were higher, and the delicate balance between disclosure and protection hung in the uneasy silence of your apartment.

The internal turmoil dissipated with a knock on your front door, a sure sign that it was Yoongi. Despite your initial inclination to feign slumber and play ignorant, you dismissed the unfairness of such tactics. Struggling against your physical discomfort, you made your way to the door, relying on muscle memory to navigate the lock on the first attempt.

“Hello,” you greeted him, your voice laced with drowsiness. As the silence lingered, your anxiety mounted. “Tell me you're Yoongi and not a stranger.”

Assured by his familiar voice, you sighed in relief when Yoongi confirmed his identity. "It's me, Daisy,” he reassured, but concern etched his features. “What happened to you?! Do you need help?”

Before you could dismiss his offer, Yoongi's hands gently grasped your shoulders, guiding you back into the apartment. “You should have told me you were like this!” he exclaimed, a mix of frustration and worry evident in his tone. “Go to bed, let me prepare some herbal water and soup.”

Attempting nonchalance, you responded, “It's okay. Salem is taking care of it,” the words slipping out without much thought. Heading towards your room, you realized Yoongi wasn't following.

“What's going on?” you questioned.

“How is Salem going to take care of that?” Yoongi pressed, seeking clarification.

In a quick mental scramble, you conjured an excuse. “You know I like to joke about Salem being almost like a person,” you explained, hoping he would attribute your words to the haze of illness. Yoongi relaxed slightly, accepting the explanation. “Okay, let's go,” he agreed, unknowingly stepping into a web of secrets and feigned normalcy.

You found solace in the eccentricity of your speech and demeanor, knowing that Yoongi rarely took your statements seriously. “I guess this is about last night,” he remarked, momentarily halting your steps.

“Uh, yeah, about that…” you hesitated, reaching your unkempt bed where Yoongi dutifully set about fixing the disarrayed bedding, tenderly covering you.

“I'm sorry,” you murmured, opening your eyes just a sliver, the figure of your friend a bit blurred.

“Why?” he inquired, settling on the edge of the bed beside you.

“For being a lousy friend,” you confessed.

Yoongi chuckled. “Why do you think you're a lousy friend?”

A lingering silence enveloped the room as internal debate raged on. The decision to divulge or withhold weighed heavily on your mind, yet the fear of losing Yoongi eclipsed the burden of guilt.

“Last night,” you began, releasing a fraction of the truth.

“I can't say I don't care, but the truth is, I don't know what happened with you last night.”

Observing your uncertain expression, Yoongi placed his hand atop yours. “It's okay if you don't want to tell me, but if you need someone to share those things with, you know you have me.” His reassurance offered a comforting anchor in the tempest of secrets and unspoken words.

“It’s not that! It's just that…” you blurted out, grappling to organize your thoughts. “It's hard to tell you this.”

Yoongi's expression shifted to surprise. “Is it something bad? Although it hurts me a little to think that you can't tell me things.”

“No!” you blurted out again. “I mean, it's not a bad thing, but it is a secret—something I haven't shared with anyone. I can't leave you with that weight on your shoulders. I care about you deeply, and this is a very old personal issue of mine.”

Yoongi sighed, his touch on your hand offering a reassurance. “I understand that you have secrets and everything, but I need you to trust me. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

Frustration welled up within you. You comprehended your friend's earnestness, and part of you yearned to unburden yourself, seeking refuge in his understanding like a vulnerable child. Yet, the weight of the secrets, particularly this one, loomed heavily.

“I trust you with my life,” you asserted firmly. “Don't ever think that I don't trust you. But this is delicate, and I don't want to put you in danger, okay? It's for your own good. I need you to understand.” Your hand found his, emphasizing the gravity of your words, seeking a connection that transcended spoken language in the complexity of shared trust and unspoken fears.

Yoongi's gaze lingered on the juncture where your hands met his. Your small, pale hands, adorned with various scars, each a testament to childhood mishaps, contrasting sharply with his own larger, slender fingers—resembling those of a pianist, unmarred by any blemish.

Having known you for about five years, Yoongi recalled his initial impression of you as a girl thrust into the adult world, seemingly vulnerable yet never to be underestimated. Physically unassuming, you harbored an indomitable strength within. Even on the brink of collapse, you seldom sought assistance, always striving to navigate challenges independently.

Your independence, strong will, and stubbornness were palpable, complemented by a warmth and genuine concern for your loved ones. Despite the tough exterior, Yoongi understood that you harbored a complex relationship with your family—a topic shrouded in silence, as if you had grown up in solitude.

Yoongi sighed, breaking the contemplative silence. “It's okay. I understand. But when you're ready, please tell me. Otherwise, I don't know how to help you, kiddo.” Despite your persistent self-reliance, he emphasized his commitment to ensuring your well-being.

The unspoken bond between you and Yoongi transcended mere friendship; it was a pact of mutual support, a promise that echoed in the intertwining of your hands—a connection that conveyed a shared understanding even in the face of undisclosed burdens.

Giving him a warm smile, you say, “I've got you, Yoongi. When the time's right, I'll spill all the beans. I Appreciate you rolling with the punches in my life and being the constant in all the chaos. You're my rock, Yoongi.”

A spark of anticipation ignites within you, and you can't help but feel a renewed sense of connection. You eagerly await the day when you can share your truths with Yoongi, not just because it's necessary, but because he's earned the right to know the intricacies of your heart. Until then, the unspoken bond between you two will continue to strengthen, paving the way for a future where your shared trust transcends the undisclosed burdens you carry.

The weight of the term "coward" bore down on you, a bitter truth you grappled with. In refusing your friends' invitations, you felt the sting of guilt, recognizing the unfairness of your actions. Yet, each declination seemed like a desperate attempt to shield them from the mysterious reality you were living.

Deep down, you were keenly aware that Yoongi harbored suspicions about your enigmatic secret and your reluctance to join gatherings since Jungkook's return. But so far, he chose to maintain a respectful silence, understanding the complexity of your situation. You knew that inevitably, you would have to face them or reveal the truth, a daunting prospect that loomed on the horizon of your clandestine reality.

Lost in contemplation, you found solace in the transformative touch of your magic on a calla lily's withered leaves. The visual metamorphosis from faded yellow to vivid green offered a momentary escape from the turmoil within.

The idea of visiting a neglected park to tend to the forsaken plants flickered in your thoughts. However, your recent weeks had dwindled into a mundane routine—shuttling between your apartment and work with little room for spontaneity.

Salem, your feline confidant, dismissed your cautious approach, deeming you a “scared chicken.” Yet, Salem wasn't navigating the unpredictable streets, fearing an accidental reunion with a former love entwined with his fiancée.

Seeking refuge in the familiar, your nights were painted with Gilmore Girls marathons, a shared ritual with Salem. In this routine, you found a fragment of normalcy, although Salem's affinity for reality shows, particularly the extravagantly dramatic ones, wasn't lost on you—typical of a devoted Jersey Shore fan.

On one of those nights, there you were, clad in bunny pajamas and cocooned beneath a soft, pink blanket. Salem, your feline companion, lounged nearby, sporting cucumbers over his eyes as he reclined in an armchair atop a plush pillow.

“I don't understand why Rory makes such a big deal about being with that cute boy,” Salem remarked, his feline skepticism directed at the TV screen.

You sighed, your attention captivated by the unfolding drama on the television. “Well, Rory is classified as a good girl, and he's a bad boy, as they say,” you attempted to rationalize the protagonist's actions.

Salem sighed dramatically, almost dislodging one of the cucumbers from his eyes. “These children today with their labels. That's not a bad boy! Having a bad personality and doing unexpected things is not being bad. In my human era, I used to set houses on fire for fun.”

You couldn't help but glance at your cat, suppressing a laugh. “Salem, the difference is that he simply behaves badly socially. You, on the other hand, wanted to dominate the world.”

Offended, Salem shifted, grabbing a corn cap and defiantly placing it in his mouth. “What's wrong with wanting to take over the world? I was honestly doing all you vapid humans a favor.”

You sighed, fully aware that attempting to alter your cat's worldview was a futile endeavor. Despite his occasional moral quirks, his loyalty to you remained unwavering, even if his ethical compass was a bit unconventional.

Salem chimed in, dismissing the idea of Rory choosing her boyfriend over the 'bad boy.' “Anyway, she'd be stupid to choose her idiot boyfriend over the 'bad boy,'” Salem quipped, offering his feline commentary on the TV drama.

Casually grabbing a handful of popcorn, you nodded in agreement. “I can't deny that. Jess is very charming.”

Salem burst into laughter. “You always fall for the character like him,” he teased, capturing the essence of your penchant for captivating personalities.

You shrugged, acknowledging Salem's astute observation. Personality, indeed, held considerable weight in your assessments. However, a somber undertone enveloped the room as your cat uttered, “Although Jungkook was a different story.”

Salem, quick to rectify any potential discomfort, clarified, “I mean, Jungkook wasn't a bad boy, but he was very charming.”

A bittersweet smile played on your lips. Salem's words rang true – Jungkook was undeniably charming. In fact, “charming” had been his nickname during your past relationship. His allure extended beyond his striking physical features to his dark, captivating eyes. Yet, it was his multifaceted personality that truly distinguished him. Jungkook, a gentleman and a hopeless romantic, possessed a charisma that left an indelible mark.

However, the charm didn't diminish his playful side – a penchant for competition and teasing that brought both joy and occasional exasperation. The memories of those moments played like a silent film, evoking a mix of nostalgia and the inevitable ache that accompanied thoughts of Jungkook.

Your talking cat, astutely perceiving the direction of your thoughts, chose to intervene. “It's late. My dream of beauty awaits me,” he declared, nonchalantly removing the cucumbers from his eyes, as if signaling the end of his entertainment.

You absentmindedly nodded in response. “Hey brat, you should go to sleep. Your dark circles are getting worse every day,” your cat stated, taking a few steps into his designated space.

As always, your cat's acerbic comments carried an underlying truth. Your dark circles, silent witnesses to your restless nights, had indeed become more pronounced. It wasn't that you were resistant to the idea of sleep; it was just that ever since the unexpected encounter with Jungkook, restful slumber had eluded you. Moreover, an inexplicable fatigue had settled into your bones, leaving your body more exhausted than usual.

The nightly escapades with Gilmore Girls and Salem's company, while comforting, couldn't completely mask the deeper anxieties that lingered beneath the surface. As you stood on the precipice between wakefulness and dreams, the echoes of the past and the uncertainties of the present converged, casting shadows that manifested as visible signs on your weary face.

Yoongi had mentioned his and Jimin's trip to his parents' house, but it only fully registered today when he sent a message reminding you that, for the day, you would be the sole occupant of the store.

Luckily, you were already en route, having woken up ahead of the alarm. Mornings held a special allure for you, a time when the world seemed brimming with possibilities. The birds serenaded from the trees, the plants stirred to life, eager for a morning sunbath, and people bustled about, preparing for their day.

Fortune favored you, as the day unfolded with a surprising calmness, sparing you from a hectic workload. Capitalizing on the tranquil atmosphere, you decided to close up shop early and head home, intending to invite your cat for a leisurely outing.

Salem, seemed overjoyed at the prospect, his daily entertainment having temporarily moved away—the neighbors next door.

You adorned yourself in a thin dress adorned with vibrant flower patterns, the perfect attire for basking in the sunny day. A diligent application of sunscreen followed, a necessary precaution for your sensitive skin.

However, Salem's animal instincts prevented him from roaming freely without a leash. Although not a conventional cat, his unpredictable nature necessitated a careful approach. As you prepared to take him out, the anticipation of a sunlit excursion filled the air, promising a serene interlude amidst the routine of your day.

“Do you prefer that we go to the park near the center or the one near this sector?” you inquired, capitalizing on the deserted streets to engage in a conversation with Salem.

Salem's tail swayed as he noticed bugs fluttering near some flowers. “Let's go to the one close to your friends' neighborhood. Let's take advantage of the fact that they're not in the city,” he responded absentmindedly.

Enthusiastically, you and your cat set off in that direction. The park near your friends' neighborhood held a special charm—beautiful, serene, and known for its delightful ice cream offerings.

Upon arrival, you witnessed the expansive park filled with families enjoying their leisure time. Opting to settle near the pet-friendly area, you and Salem joined the ranks of others with the same intention.

As you observed, puppies frolicked joyfully, engaging in playful antics, while cats gracefully navigated their designated climbing structures. Salem, for once, seemed poised for a predator's pursuit, his back raised and gaze fixed intently on the grass.

Seating yourself, you embraced the idyllic scene, the carefree interactions of pets mirroring the leisurely afternoon unfolding around you.

After a delightful stint at the pet-friendly section, you suggested to Salem that it was time for ice cream—an idea that sparked shared excitement. The ice cream stand in this park had a well-deserved reputation for its delightful treats.

As you traversed the park toward the exercise area, the ice cream cart came into view, attended by an elderly gentleman exuding warmth. “Hello,” you greeted. “Can you give me two ice cream cones, please?” You opted for the classic strawberry and vanilla combination, while Salem subtly indicated—keeping it hush-hush from the vendor—his preference for chocolate and cookie flavor.

Equipped with your chosen delights, both of you sought refuge from the heat under the shade in the nearby area.

“There are quite a few humans exercising,” Salem observed between licks of his ice cream, which you held out for him.

You nodded, your mouth occupied with the delectable treat. In the vicinity, exercise platforms hosted several people, likely part of a group that gathered for communal workouts. The gusty afternoon wind played its part, occasionally obstructing your view as you contended with strands of hair billowing into your face.

Amidst bites of ice cream and the distant hum of exercise enthusiasts, you and Salem reveled in the simple joy of a sunlit day, punctuated by the sweet indulgence of shared treats.

The tranquility surrounding you shattered abruptly when Salem, positioned next to you, nearly dropped his ice cream. “What happened to you?” you inquired in surprise, brushing strands of hair out of your face.

As your vision cleared, you observed your cat, seemingly paralyzed by something in his line of sight. Following his gaze, you discovered the source of his astonishment—a muscular figure executing pull-ups on some bars. However, your fortune took a turn for the worse as you recognized the specimen to be none other than Jungkook.

His sweaty back adhered to a tight black t-shirt, elevating the temperature on your cheeks. While you had always been aware of Jungkook's well-maintained physique, your mental image had been anchored in his teenage years, not this embodiment of masculinity.

“Damn,” you and Salem echoed simultaneously. As you continued to gawk, your grip faltered, leading to the unfortunate demise of your ice cream. Yet, your attention remained captivated by the man before you.

An involuntary reaction stirred between your legs—a sensation dormant for far too long. However, the enchantment was abruptly disrupted by the barking of a large dog nearby. Panic set in; you were with Salem, and despite his mischievous tendencies in his golden age, he remained a cat.

Swiftly scooping up your feline companion, you used your magic to clean the fallen ice cream with a single hand.

In a near sprint, you attempted to escape the scene swiftly, but your efforts were thwarted as the same barking dog bolted towards you at full speed. Closing your eyes in fear, you clutched Salem tightly to your chest, shielding him from potential harm.

“Fuckin-!” Salem's protest was muffled as you squeezed him even tighter. Panicking, you beseeched the approaching dog, “Oh, cute little dog! Good dog! Don't eat my cat, please!”

To your relief, instead of feeling sharp teeth, the dog leaped onto you, licking you eagerly and wagging its tail with unbridled joy. As you cautiously opened your eyes, you found the little dog gazing at you happily, devoid of any malevolent intentions.

Before you could identify the source of the new voice, the dog leapt off you. “I'm sorry! I promise he doesn't have any bad intentions; he's just very playful!” the owner explained.

“Don't worry…” you began, only to be interrupted as you locked eyes with your unexpected savior. “Oh, it's you!” Jungkook exclaimed with unusual excitement.

Struggling to respond, you found yourself once again speechless in his presence. Jungkook, unaware of your rigid demeanor, continued, “Sorry about my dog! He's still a puppy and tends to be playful.”

Feeling claws digging into your stomach, you silently cursed Salem. As Jungkook spoke, you attempted to break free from your frozen state. “Hi, um... sorry, it must be because of my cat.” You finally managed to speak, avoiding direct eye contact. “Don't worry, I did notice.”

Jungkook's smile was blindingly bright, leaving you momentarily stunned. “He's cute,” he remarked, pointing to your chest where Salem was concealed.

Suppressing a laugh at the irony, you agreed, “Yes, although he's not much of a dog lover.” You gestured towards Bam, who was curiously sniffing around “He’s cute too”

“He is. Although his size can be intimidating,” Jungkook commented with a smile.

Unable to resist, you inadvertently mirrored his smile. “How old is he?” you inquired, curiosity piqued. Bam, a Doberman with a sleek, dark coat, stood at a height reaching up to your belly. He exuded an air of elegance and grace.

Jungkook's response drew an astonished gasp from you, “Almost seven months. I know, it's the same reaction every time I mention his age.”

A laugh bubbled from you as you adjusted Salem, his curious little head popping up from your arm. “Hello, little friend,” Jungkook greeted your feline companion warmly, fostering a comforting warmth within you.

You introduced Salem, playfully mentioning, “Unlike Bam, let's say he's not very young”.

It wasn't exactly a lie – you had known Salem since you were a baby, and according to your aunts, Salem had been a cat for quite a long time.

Jungkook extended his tattooed hand towards you, curiosity dancing in his doe-like eyes. “Can I pet him?” The sudden closeness caught you off guard, but you managed to reply, “Sure. He's not aggressive.”

Jungkook's gentle strokes on your cat's dark fur left Salem completely enchanted, purring happily in your arms. “Apparently, he likes affection,” Jungkook observed, his eyes locking onto yours.

You smiled shyly, your pulse quickening. “No. He only likes you,” you shared, attempting to bring a lightness to the situation. “He doesn't like people very much. Hopefully, he can put up with Yoongi.”

Jungkook grinned at your words, and before temptation could take hold, you squeezed your cat and smoothed down your dress. “I think it's time to go,” you said casually, concealing any nervousness. “It was nice seeing you.”

Surprisingly, Jungkook seemed momentarily taken aback by your swift departure. “Oh sure!” His cheerful tone dimmed slightly. “I'm sorry about what happened with Bam. I hope you had a good afternoon.”

You nodded shyly, uncertain if another encounter with the sweaty yet undoubtedly attractive Jungkook would be good for your heart.

“Well, I guess I'll see you on Wednesday?” he suggested, subtly trying to delay your departure.

“On Wednesday?” you asked with a feigned innocence.

Jungkook chuckled. “I guess Yoongi hasn't told you yet. We're having a barbecue with friends to celebrate my return to the country. It's at my friend's house where I'm staying, just a few minutes from here.” He shared this with a shy smile, “You're invited; I hope you can make it.”

Despite the initial inclination to decline, Jungkook's charm left you powerless to resist his hopeful gaze. “Okay,” you agreed after a moment, pulling your gaze away from his eyes to survey the surroundings. “I'll see if I can come.”

Jungkook's smile persisted, seemingly undeterred by your attempt at resistance. “I'll look forward to it. It's going to be a blast.”

You chuckled nervously, “Don't set your expectations too high.”

Jungkook, still smiling, leaned in slightly and said, “Hey, it's going to be a fun time on Wednesday. Good food, good vibes. You gotta be there!”

You chuckled, “I'll think about it. Can't promise anything, though.”

Jungkook, with a playful grin, countered, “Come on, live a little. We didn't meet properly last time, but I think we'll get along. I already like your vibe, and I can see that Jimin and Yoongi adore you”

You raised an eyebrow, “My vibe, huh? Well, we'll see. No guarantees, though.”

Jungkook, keeping it light, gave a casual shrug, “Cool. Wednesday it is, then?”

Despite your initial resistance, Jungkook's carefree demeanor and magnetic aura prove to be a formidable combination. Succumbing to the easy flow of conversation and the genuine warmth he exudes, you find yourself nodding in agreement. “Sure, Wednesday it is,” you reply, trying to downplay the subtle thrill that creeps into your tone.

Jungkook's smile widens, a playful glint in his eyes. “Awesome! Can't wait to hang out. It's going to be a good time, I promise.”

Internally shaking your head at your unexpected change of heart, you shoot back, “Don't get too excited! I'm just there for the food.”

As you walked away, the realization dawned upon you – you were in deep trouble. The echoes of Jungkook's laughter lingered in your mind, and the casual commitment to a Wednesday gathering now felt like the first step into a maze of unpredictable emotions. Somehow, in that lighthearted exchange, you couldn't shake off the feeling that the road you were on might lead to a place where your carefully constructed emotional boundaries would be tested.

[mouse-of-dimitrescu]

@blood-red-ocean I lost your ask for some reason, I'm really sorry, had trouble with publishing but here's the Christmas fic with Alci that you asked for five million years ago ❤️❤️❤️✨✨✨

Terrorism and Christmas Cuddles

I greatly apologise for publishing this so late, recently moved houses and it was a big mess up but here it is, five million years later, it's not even Christmas anymore lols, I do apologise ❤️✨

WARNINGS: none?

❊╌──┈⊰᯽⊱⊰᯽⊱┈──╌❊

Christmas was coming around quickly. Alcina and you had already put the Christmas tree up together, and she held you high so you could pop the star on top of the tree. You had been in a relationship with Alcina for three years and had become extremely close. She would carry you everywhere, whenever she could. Your Alci absolutely loved to scoop you up in her arms.

And that's where you found yourself one snowy evening. It was two days before Christmas and the bonhomie of the castle seemed to lighten by a thousand. Alcina was holding you in her arms. You were both standing in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil before you could have your hot chocolate.

" Draga, I do remember some chocolate chip cookies. The cook baked them a few days ago before going on her Christmas holiday." Alcina mentioned, searching the cudboards.

" Oh yum. Maybe we can watch a movie too?" You suggested.

" That's perfect. Terrorism and Christmas are the best combo." You chuckled.

Alcina smiled, placing you gently on the counter. " That sounds like a plan. Would Die Hard suffice?"

" We can watch something else— oh dear, no cookies I'm afraid." Alcina pouted slightly.

" We can make them." You thought out loud. Your lover initially scoffed at the suggestion but then searched your eyes.

" Are you serious, draga? Making cookies this late in the evening?"

You shrugged. Alcina rolled her eyes with a small chuckle.

" You are unbelievable. But okay." Alcina said. She got the ingredients out and you fetched a bowl, sneaking a chocolate chip in your mouth, making Alcina smile.

You and Alcina added the ingredients and made the mix. She eventually put the tray in the oven and closed it, wiping her hands on a cloth.

" Right. Now we wait." Alcina smiled and found the opportunity to pick you up again. She placed you down on the counter and handed you your hot chocolate while she drank her own.

" We're going to make another cup for the movie." You noted.

" I'll put some snacks on a plate too. The hot chocolate will be finished within seconds." Alcina looked down at you and kissed the top of your head, caressing your cheek with a small smile. " You're so pretty, dragul meu." Alcina said softly.

You blushed. " Thank you. Well, you are beautiful too."

Alcina pinched your cheek playfully, making you giggle. " This is what I'm talking about. Too cute." She kissed the tip of your nose and leant against the counter next to you. You scooted closer to your love and rest your head against her body, she was way taller but if you could reach, you would have kissed her cheek.

It was moments like these when you knew that you had everything you could possibly want. You belonged. And so did Alcina. It was were you could gaze silently at one another, in pure admiration that compelled worship. It was an honour to be the person who made Alcina smile. You loved the way her eyes crinkled and lips curved upwards.

A short while later, the cookies were done. You took them out of the oven and placed the tray on the stovetop.

" Let's just leave them to cool down a bit while we make more hot chocolate. Then we can have them warm, sweetheart." Alcina smiled and began making the second round of hot chocolate for the evening.

Afterwards, you took the chocolate chip cookies and hot chocolate to the living room and snuggled under the blankets with Alcina. She made sure that you were warm and decided to pull you closer to her. You kissed Alcina's cheek and drank your hot chocolate.

" I love you." You smiled.

You got the remote and switched on the television, picking out Die Hard as planned. The movie began playing and you had already finished your hot chocolate. You reached for the jar of chocolate chip cookies and took one out, biting into it and humming happily at the taste.

Alcina's cheeks flushed slightly and she smiled back, kissing the top of your head. " I love you too, ingerul meu." ( my angel )

Alcina eventually lay down properly and picked you up gently, placing you on top of her comfortably. " Is this okay, draga? Are you comfortable?" She asked, playing with your hair.

Alcina took a cookie out of the jar as well and began eating it, eliciting the same reaction. While watching the movie, her hand gently caressed your arm, drawing light lines upon it underneath the blanket.

You nodded. " Yes, Alci. Are you?"

Alcina nodded with a small smile. She frowned when she looked back at the movie. You got a bit worried and nudged her.

You smiled and nodded. " Yeah, Alan Rickman. He was a good actor." You responded. Alcina hummed and let you lay your head on her chest as she twirled your hair between her fingers. She reached for some food with her free hand and chewed on it mindlessly as the movie played.

" That man. The actor. Didn't he act in Love Actually?" Alcina asked.

When the movie was coming to an end, you were drifting off to sleep in Alcina's arms. She noticed this when you began to lightly snore. Looking down at you, she let out a light chuckle and brushed your hair out of your face. Alcina traced her fingers gently over your cheeks, nose, forhead and lips, admiring every feature.

She slowly got up with you in her arms, turning off the television and heading upstairs, humming a soft tune. Snuggled in bed with you, Alcina turned off her lamp and held you close. It was a cold evening and the shiver that travelled down your spine awoke you. You fluttered your eyes open, a bit confused by your surroundings.

" Mm?" You rubbed your eyes and opened them, the moonlight revealing your surroundings properly. You saw Alcina gaze at you with an amised but loving smile.

" You fell asleep, draga. Come cuddle close to me and keep yourself warm." Alcina pulled you slowly towards her by your waist and brought you in for a light kiss. You smiled into the kiss and held her hand.

" Thank you for this evening, Alci. I really loved it." You said tiredly.

Alcina smiled at that. " I'm so glad, draga. I enjoyed it too." She squeezed your hand gently.

You looked up at Alcina and kissed her cheek. " Good night, I love you." You whispered, cuddling into Alcina's chest.

@winterfireblond @littledollll @blood-red-ocean @ness029 @aemilia19 @barbarasstar @sirclitoressa @im-a-carnivorous-plant

" I love you too, ingerul meu. Sleep tight."

❊╌──┈⊰᯽⊱⊰᯽⊱┈──╌❊

𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 ❤︎

[sailor-aviator]

Til the Summer Comes Again: Prologue

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

"I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, 'Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.'" — Lewis Carrol

Summary: Bob was a winter spirit who loved what he did. He loved making individual snowflakes. He loved the way the snow sparkled in the winter sun. He loved the laughter his creations brought to people around the world. What he didn't expect, was to fall in love with a human girl from a small town. He has until the summer comes again for her to reciprocate his feelings if he wants to remain on earth, but will the shadows that haunt her get in the way of happily ever after? (JackFrost! AU)

Trigger Warnings: Language, Talk of the supernatural, Winter spirits, Winter themes, Bob watches reader from afar, Demon-like entities, Fluff, Pining, Yearning, Father Winter, Talks of death. I think that about covers it.

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: And here it is! The prologue that I've been so excited to write for weeks now! I really hope you all enjoy this one because I already know it's going to be a personal favorite of mine. As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! You can find me on AO3 under sailor_aviator where all of my works will also be published! If you enjoy my work, please consider sending me a tip!

Series Masterlist || Robert "Bob" Floyd Tag List

Bob didn’t know why more humans didn’t like the wintertime. It was his personal favorite, and he wasn’t just saying that because he was a literal embodiment of winter. Bob loved everything about this time of year. He liked the untouched snow as it rested softly against the ground, and he loved the children who would clamber out of their warm houses to play in it. He liked how soft and fuzzy everything felt as the snow fell from the sky, and he liked watching people stick their tongues out to catch the flakes. He liked watching people dance across the ice of the ponds, sliding unseen alongside them. He liked the laughter of the children as they got the day off from school. He liked winter.

But he always wondered what warmth felt like.

He wondered what it would feel like to be snuggled under a blanket with a loved one. What it would feel like to wear a cozy sweater. What it would feel like to sip on a cup of hot chocolate. What it would feel like to embrace a lover by the fireplace.

“It’ll do you no good to dwell on it,” Tom had told him one day, eyeing him knowingly as Bob sat perched on a branch by the pond. He had been watching the children play a game they called hockey for quite some time now, his mood growing more sour as the want to join became stronger. But he couldn’t. Because they couldn’t see him.

“I know,” he grumbled, his knees pressed close to his chest, the lower half of his head buried in his arms, muffling his words. “But I still want to join them. Why can’t they see us?”

“Because humans lost their ability to see and use magic a long time ago,” Tom explained patiently, resting a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “And it would do you no good to grow attached. You’ll live as long as there’s winter. They’ll live as long as they can. Count your blessings, Bob, for there is no joy in losing that which we love.”

It was moments like those that Bob remembered why Tom had been deemed “Father Winter,” having been nicknamed “the iceman” by the sprites his own age. The younger sprites, however, viewed him as a father figure.

“But how can I know what love is if I never get to hold it?” He mumbled. Tom let out a long sigh.

“Love is not something you can hold, Bob. It’s something you feel. It’s the feeling of never wanting to part from someone, of wanting them to be happy.”

“I feel love for you,” Bob mused, thinking about the man he would call father if he had one. He thought of his fellow winter sprites, running around the woods and through the streets. “I feel love for the other winter sprites too.”

“That’s because we’re your family,” the older sprite smiled. “We love and care for each other. Now, come on, Bob. There’s still work to be done.”

Bob thought about Tom’s words often, wondering if the feeling of something missing inside of him would ever go away. Was there something wrong with him? The other sprites didn’t know what he was talking about when he mentioned it.

“I feel just fine,” Ellie would say, looking down at herself.

“No missing parts from me,” Ivan confirmed.

So Bob stopped talking about it, and years passed. It wasn’t until one winter day years later that he realized what it was that he had been missing.

You were a tiny thing, old enough to walk and talk, but still young enough to discover the world. Your eyes were wide as they watched the flake fall from the sky, breath coming out in small clouds as you gasped.

“It’s snow, Mommy!” You grinned, tugging on the older woman’s hand. She chuckled, crouching down to meet your eyes.

“That’s right, baby. The winter sprites are working extra hard this year!”

“Winter sprites?” You asked her, head cocking to the side in curiosity. Bob leaned in to hear better. It wasn’t every day that the humans talked about his kind.

“Yes, honey,” your mother smiled. “The winter sprites work hard every year to make sure that we have snow. Without them, we wouldn’t have winter at all.”

And then she had stood, walking off to talk to a neighbor. Bob floated down from his perch on the tree branch, eager to see your wonder at his work. You dug your tiny feet into the snow, kicking up experimentally. You paused as you watched the snow settle, a grin breaking out onto your face. You leaned down, scooping as much snow as you could in your tiny arms. You sprung upwards, jumping as you scattered the snow about you, giggling with so much glee that it pulled a laugh from Bob himself. You stopped, eyes wide as they zeroed in on him, an act that took Bob completely by surprise.

“Who are you?” You called out to him, eyes wide as they took him in.

“I’m,” he started, glancing around. “I’m Bob.”

“Bob?” You hummed. “Why are you dressed like that? It’s cold out. Mommy says we have to dress warm or we’ll get sick.”

A smile tugged on the corner of Bob’s lips. “I don’t get cold. And I don’t get sick.”

“You don’t?” You gasped, taking several steps towards him. He crouched down so that he was eye level with you.

“That’s right,” he smiled. “I’m a winter sprite.”

Your eyes grew so big, Bob worried that they would fall right out of your head.

“You are?” You exclaimed, smiling excitedly. “You made the snow?”

“Some of it,” he nodded. You grabbed his hand with both of yours, and Bob gasped at the feeling. Was this warmth? How could a creature so tiny create such a wondrous sensation?

“Thank you,” you whispered, eyes wide as they stared up at him, squeezing his hand tightly.

“Y/n! It’s time to get going!” Your mother hollered from over by her car. “We’re going to be late for your dance lesson!”

You glanced back at Bob, smiling softly as you let go of his hand, dashing off towards where your mother stood.

That wasn’t the last time Bob saw you, but it was the last time you saw him. He wasn’t sure why you had been able to see him that day and no other after that. But, he had sat back and watched you. He had watched you grow as a dancer. Had watched you go to school. Had watched you blossom into a beautiful, young woman. Every time winter would come, he’d be right where you were, clinging onto you until Spring forced him to let go.

The colors of the leaves had just turned when Bob appeared again, waiting for the time when he could stick around longer than a couple of hours as the autumn sprites finished their work. His visits this time of year were limited to the bitter cold nights and the frosty days that were becoming more frequent as the months went on.

“Son, it’s time to let go.”

Bob jumped, turning to see Tom standing behind him not too far away, a gentle smile on his face. He felt his cheeks turn red as he turned back to watch you through the window. You were curled up on your couch underneath a blanket, a mug of what he assumed was tea sitting on your coffee table as the fire crackled in the hearth. You looked content as your cat, Harlow he had heard you call it, dozed away on your lap. He imagined that was what cozy looked like, and he wished with everything he had that he could be curled up next to you, holding you in his arms.

“I don’t want to,” he murmured, eyes shining as he fought back tears. He heard Tom sigh, drifting up and sitting down next to him with nary a sound. “I want to be with her.”

Tom said nothing as Bob thought back to what the older sprite had told him almost twenty years before. He certainly didn’t want to part from you, and he certainly wanted you to be happy. If that was what Tom had called love, then Bob wanted to know what he felt for you because there was so much more to it. He wanted to hold you, to celebrate with you when something good happened, to dry your eyes when you cried. He wanted to press his lips to yours, spending a life together with you. For the first time in his existence, he felt envious of the men who grew up and grew old. He wanted that with you.

“Is there no way that I can stay with her?”

A beat passed before Tom sighed, sitting back on the branch.

“There’s one way,” he admitted reluctantly. Bob perked up, eyes widening with hope as he looked at the old sprite. “But I can’t guarantee that it’ll work.”

“I’ll do anything, Ice,” he pleaded.

“I can use my magic to cast a spell,” Tom started, staring at Bob thoughtfully. “It’ll turn you into a human temporarily, but it’s up to you to make it permanent. I have a friend who lives in town. He can see us, and he’ll be able to get you settled while you work on making the spell permanent.”

“And how do I do that?”

Tom turned to face him fully now, blue eyes serious.

“She has to return your love by the first sign of spring. If she doesn’t, then you’ll turn back into a winter sprite for good.”

Tag List: @seresinsbrat @fanficfandomlove @bobgasm @goldenseresinretriever @hopip99 @lemmons1998 @yuckosworld @theamuz @rosedurin @kmc1989 @linkpk88 @deliriousfangirl61 @nouis-bum @topherwrites @lightdragonrayne @number-0-iz @princessofglitterland @agentorange9595 @reidshearts @pittbull-enthusiast

[impala-dreamer]

Prey For Me

A Story From The Boys Universe

~Nothing's worse than being chased through the woods by an all powerful supe... except, maybe, getting caught... ~

Soldier Boy (Ben) x F!Reader

1207 Words

Warnings: NSFW, Cat and Mouse Play, Biting, Breeding, Beautiful. It's porn...

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

The forest was endless and the light was starting to fade. The sky above the canopy was ebbing to indigo, flooding the woods with the golden glow of sunset.

Dead leaves crunched beneath your shoes; damp moss slid through the treads, threatening to pull you down. Branches tore at your arms, thorns scraped at your exposed flesh; the trees were relentless, but so was he.

“Come out, come out wherever you are!”

Soldier Boy’s deep voice echoed through the woods, bouncing off of the landscape and vibrating through your chest.

He was after you.

He was pissed.

You were in trouble.

A scream bubbled in your throat but you bit it back, denying him the pleasure of knowing you were terrified.

“Come on, Y/N,” he sang, whistling casually with every other step. “You can’t keep running forever…”

Shaking, you clung to a tree for a brief moment, desperate for a deep breath. “I can try!” you yelled back, instantly cringing when his footsteps silenced.

He was listening, pinpointing, focusing on your location.

“Ain’t no place you can hide.”

His voice was clearer suddenly, closer, as if he’d turned toward you. Panting, you peered through the trees, squinting in the dusky light, but it was useless. His suit was as green as the leaves, his eyes even more so. The forest was the perfect camouflage, the perfect place to track you down and end it all.

“I will find you.”

Rotting wood crackled beneath his boots as he advanced.

“And when I do…”

Trembling, you pushed away from the tree and took off, arms pumping, chest aching.

“You’re mine.”

Your ears were ringing, pulse pounding like a bass drum in your head. On and on you ran, beating away the lower limbs, twisting around trunks, racing for your life.

As you skirted a thick patch of trees, a piercing whistle made you jump and the roots grabbed at your toes, pulling you down. Face in the dirt, you scrambled to get up, but the earth was damp and slippery, the panic in your system too electric.

“There you are.”

Gasping, you spun on the dirt and looked up to see his smug glare and gloating smirk.

“Knew I’d catch you.”

Breathless, you reached for him, fingers grazing the star-embedded fabric covering his upper thigh. “So you did…”

Ben fell to his knees and crawled close. “You didn’t have to run so damned far.”

“Wanted to make it fun for you. Chase down your prey and all…” Your knees spread for him as he approached and you tugged on his sleeves, wanting him closer, faster.

Another smirk lifted his plump lips as he set his hands aside your head and hovered over you. Hair fell into his eyes as he dipped to kiss you, lips ghosting your mouth, breath teasing, hot and delicious. “Hope you’re not too tired though…”

You locked your legs around his trim hips and kicked his ass with your heels, pushing him into you. “Never.”

He bit down on your bottom lip, growling as the adrenaline peaked. His kiss was rough and hungry, his tongue laced with whiskey and lust. You clawed at his suit, scratched at the nape of his neck, tugged your fingers through his hair, needing more.

“Well,” you teased, lips at his ear while he nibbled on your pulse. “You got me. What’re you gonna do about it?”

He moved fast, ripping his way through your clothing, shredding the fabric at your breasts and cunt.

“I’m gonna bruise you…”

His suckling kiss was dangerous, nearly breaking the skin around your nipples as he toyed with each in turn.

“Gonna bleed you, breed you, make you scream…”

His teeth were viscous, scraping the delicate flesh wherever he pleased, making his way down.

When you reached for him, he swatted you away. When you tried again, he pinned your arms above your head. He was insatiable, his lust almost canibalistic the way he bit down into your shoulder, licked at your hips, tore at your thighs.

“Please-”

Your body was aching, blood boiling beyond what you thought was safe. Every cell was screaming for him.

“Ben- Please!”

Green eyes shot upwards and slick, slightly swollen lips curled devilishly.

Within a breath, he had you where he wanted you; your shoulders pushed deep into the leaves, your back arched, hips high. He dropped down and shoved his tongue between your legs, diving into your cunt without hesitation or preperation. None was needed.

Instant pleasure sparkled through your system and your eyes rolled to the darkening sky. His lips pulsed on your clit, tongue swirled deep inside. He devoured every bit of you, drank down every drop of sweetness you gave up.

Moaning, slurping, humming into you, Ben lost himself in your cunt, feeding on your essence.

“God- Fuck- I- Ben!”

Another swipe of his tongue had you shaking, thighs clamping down around his ears as you came.

He didn’t let the moment linger, flipping you over easily onto your belly. The sweet but murky scent of leaves and dirt flooded your senses as he tugged your ass upwards and yanked down his pants.

His cock slid through your slick and you let out a moan that echoed through the trees.

“Yeah, you want that, don’t you, doll?”

Biting back another cry, you looked back at him, eyes blurred and lustful. “Yes… Please!”

His half-gloved hands clung to your plump hips as he buried himself in deep. The pressure was exquisite and you pushed back, taking him all the way in.

“So fuckin’ tight, damn!”

He hissed with each thrust; jaw clenched and teeth bared as he fucked you on the forest floor.

A victim to his rhythm, you rocked on your knees, kept your face out of the muck. Your body pulsed tight around him and his nails dug into your flesh, breaking the skin just enough to make you scream.

“There it is!” he howled, slapping your ass and grinding in harder. “Gonna fill you up real good… Paint your fuckin’ insides white.”

Tears flooded your vision and the forest blurred into muddled shades of green. The sun was nearly gone and the air was cooling around you as night fell.

He kept you warm.

He kept you on edge, crazed and aching.

Fingers raked through your hair and pulled, yanking your head back viciously. Your spine curved unnaturally and your jaw dropped; eyes wide and tongue out, you took the last thrusts with a strangled cry as he came, gushing into your throbbing cunt.

You fell when he let go, your body vibrating and limp.

Ben tucked himself away, laughing to himself as he looked you over. His cum was dripping down onto the forest floor and he reached down to scoop it up with two thick fingers.

“Hey-” Crouching down, he turned his hand and shoved the two messy fingers up into you. “Don’t waste it…”

You whimpered when he pulled out; raw and overly sensitive. “You’re… fucking amazing,” you whispered, barely able to lift yourself off the ground.

Dark lashes fell, green eyes narrowed on your face. Sucking in his bottom lip, he let it fall away with a slow scrape of teeth.

“I know,” he grinned. “I know.”

2023 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

@aditimukul @agirlwithdemonblood @amanda-teaches @akshi8278 @alwayskeepfightingsweetheart @b3autyfuldisast3r @babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @because-imma-lady-assface @bloodline1632 @charred-angelwings @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @covered-byroses @djs8891 @deanwinchesterswitch @deansyahtzee @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @iamsapphine @idreamofdeanie @ilsawasanacrobat @impalaspixie @jawritter @justcallmeasmodeus @kazsrm67 @kittenofdoomage @leigh70 @lovealways-j @lyarr24 @mariekoukie6661 @maggiegirl17 @mistressofallthingsgeeky @pandaxo79 @peachy-vans @rachiem4-blog @roseblue373 @sacriceria @samwellwinchesterthebrave @sexyvixen7 @spideysimpossiblegirl @spnexploration @stevekempscocktails @the-wounded-healer05 @thoughts-and-funnies @vulgar-library  

[sngchngs]

Modern mdzs character headcanons

The Lans

Lan Qiren absolutely keeps a Burn Book. He uses it to keep records of every misdemeanour. Of every transgression. He has an entire chapter dedicated to Wei Wuxian.

Lan Xichen keeps a hidden stash of hard candies in his room. He likes to suck on them when he meditates.

Lan Wangji records his guqin playing and listens to it on his airpods when he's practising his sword techniques.

Lan Sizhui likes to sketch people. When he has a few free moments, he will find a spot, either in a park or a bench on a street, and will pull out his sketch pad and pencils and discreetly sketch people's expressions.

Lan Jingyi is a gamer. He plays games like Horizon: Zero Dawn; Yakuza; Minecraft; Kingdom Hearts. All his games (including his ps4 console) are hand-me-downs from an older cousin. He has a page or two in Lan Qiren's Burn Book.

Other sects under the cut ⬇️

The Jins

Jin Guangyao is a philanthropist. When he's not busy being the Chief Cultivator, he likes to (anonymously) donate huge swathes of money to various humanitarian and environmental causes. The only people who know he does this are Lan Xichen and Jin Ling.

An unfortunate accident (involving Wei Wuxian) left Jin Zixuan paralysed from the waist down. He competed in Para canoe in two Paralympics. He is now an editor of a publishing company.

Qin Su did not marry Jin Guangyao. (From an early age, she knew that their relationship was that of siblings.) She owns and manages a law firm that helps victims of sexual assault. Her firm has a high success rate.

A few times a month, Jin Ling helps out at a local dog shelter. He takes Fairy, and together, they help socialise some of the more timid dogs. Jin Ling prefers animals over people.

The Jiangs

Jiang Cheng is a bit of a tea connoisseur. When he's not busy managing his Sect, he likes to unwind with a pot of tea. He has sampled teas from all over the world and has a pantry full of jars of all sorts of teas.

Jiang Yanli is a successful cook/chef who owns her own restaurant and who has her own TV show and cookbook. Her husband, Jin Zixuan, edited and helped fast track the publication of her book.

Wei Wuxian loves eating chilli chocolate. To the point where he makes his own and experiments with the heat of the chilli.

The Wens

Wen Qing owns three cats. One munchkin and two rescues. Her house has been decked out with shelves, ladders, platforms, and scratching trees. She has an entire room dedicated to the cats with an indoor jungle gym.

Wen Ning likes travelling. He's been to over a dozen or so countries and plans to go to more. It was Wei Wuxian who got him into travelling.

The Nies

Nie Huaisang runs an art blog (as well as a few social media pages). As well as his art, he posts pictures of his pet birds as well as any wild birds he sees. His artworks are phenomenal, with a nod to more traditional styles. He has thousands of followers.

Despite his tough exterior, Nie Mingjue has sensitive taste buds and can't handle food that is too spicy, too sweet, or too hot in temperature.

~~

[turtlesandfrogs]

So I was scrolling and saw this image in an article about the European heat wave,

And was like, uh, are you missing something there, buddy? Like all that red in northern Africa? Because that's a lot of red.

And I was going to give them the benefit of doubt, since I don't know much about the climate in Northern Africa, aside from Morroco and Egypt, which seem like really hot places, so you know, maybe it's normal there?

But nope, that's not the case:

"While the planet broke multiple records for average worldwide temperatures last week, a heat wave gripped northern Africa.

The region has been experiencing some of the most intense heat waves in recent years, but in many cases they’ve been under-reported due to misconceptions about Africans’ ability to withstand them.

“Africa is seen as a sunny and hot continent,” said Amadou Thierno Gaye, a research scientist and professor at Cheikh Anta Diop University in Dakar, the capital of Senegal. “People think we are used to heat, but we are having high temperatures for a longer duration. Nobody is used to this.”

North Africa, the Sahara desert and the Sahel, a semi-arid belt north of the Sudanian savanna, are some of the most vulnerable areas because they have larger land masses relative to the rest of the continent, meaning they tend to heat up faster. Scientists have attributed the unprecedented temperatures to a combination of human-induced climate change and the return of El Niño, a natural phenomenon that alters weather patterns.

The Sahel, for instance, has been heating at a faster pace than the global average despite being hot already. Burkina Faso and Mali, both in West Africa’s Sahel, are among countries that are set to become almost uninhabitable by 2080, if the world continues on its current trajectory, a UK university study found. Its people are especially vulnerable due to shrinking resources, such as water, and poor amenities, and a dearth of trees and parks means there are few options for places to cool off.

“People talk of climate change as if it’s a thing of the future,” said Gaye. “Climate change is already here and we see its implications in people, livelihoods, economies and even in cultures.”

While studies on heat impacts on health are limited in Africa, research published last year found that children younger than 5 years old are particularly vulnerable to the hotter weather as they are less able that adults to self-regulate their bodies’ temperatures. The authors estimated that heat-related child mortality was rising in sub-Saharan Africa due to climate change. Other researchers have named the elderly, pregnant women and people who work outdoors, as groups at risk of heat strokes or heat-related infectious diseases.

Elsewhere on the continent, the crisis is also being felt. In the Horn of Africa, at least 43,000 people died in Somalia alone last year as a result of the worst drought in four decades. A study found that global warming is changing rain patterns and bringing more heat to Somalia and some of its neighbors, for longer stretches of time. Further south, unusually destructive cyclones in 2019 claimed more than a thousand lives in Mozambique and Zimbabwe alone.

“If we continue business-as-usual, the heat is not just going to get worse, it will get much worse,” said Mouhamadou Bamba Sylla, research chair in climate change science at the African Institute for Mathematical Sciences in Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. “We are going to see more frequent, longer and more intense heat waves.”

Much of the continent, responsible for just 4% of the world’s greenhouse gas emissions generated from burning fossil fuels, is ill-prepared for a hotter world. Meanwhile, Group of 20 nations, with air conditioning and access to functioning healthcare facilities, account for 80% of the world’s emissions.

Hundreds of millions of Africans lack electricity to even power a fan. One in three people in Africa is affected by water scarcity, according to the World Health Organization, so hydration can’t be taken for granted. Even shade is harder to come by due to widespread deforestation and land degradation. And only 40% of people on the continent are covered by early warning systems for extreme weather.

“More funds have to be allocated to climate adaptation and they need to be made more easily accessible to the most vulnerable countries,” Sylla said.

The UN climate talks later this year aspire to come up with a plan for richer nations to pay for loss and damages. But they’ve collectively fallen short of their commitment to spend $100 billion each year on projects in developing nations to cut emissions and to help them adapt.

“That’s where the issue of climate justice comes in,” said Gaye. “It’s not just that people are uncomfortable, climate change is killing them.”

[sitp-recs]

Hello, thank you for all your hard work!! ᕦ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ᕤ

As a former drarry fic addict I want to go back to reading again. Could you please recommend me some really good fics with happy endings?? They could be really old or brand new (๑•̀ㅁ•́ฅ✧

Hello and welcome back! I’m afraid you’re never leaving Drarry again 🤣 happy to share some recs, I decided to highlight fics published within 2017-2022 (some very prolific years imo) and I think you might be familiar with a few already. These are mostly long, plotty fics; I can def do a shorts version if you’re interested (in fact I’d love to do it sometime because short fics are my jam), I just didn’t want this post to get even longer. You’re also welcome to check my master post with many other lists. Happy readings!

2017

Blood and Fire by @lqtraintracks (E, 45k)

9 1/2 Days by @magpiefngrl (E, 69k)

Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love by @aibidil (E, 80k)

Dwelling by aideomai (T, 83k)

Balance, Imperfect by @bixgirl1 (E, 91k)

What We Pretend We Can't See by gyzym (M, 131k)

Things Worth Knowing by Femme (E, 164k)

2018

In The Red by @bixgirl1 (E, 45k)

Take the Air by dysonrules (M, 51k)

Orbit by HenryMercury (E, 52k)

Little Compton Street by @writcraft and LLAP115 (E, 65k)

Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them by nerakrose and dustmouth (M, 96k)

All Missing Things (Can Be Found) by daisymondays (E, 100k)

Changing Tides by carpemermaid (E, 109k)

A Sword Laid Aside by @korlaena (E, 128k)

Away Childish Things by lettered (T, 153k)

2019

amid this warm and steady sweetness by warmfoothills (E, 21k)

Like Lightning at Your Fingertips by potterwatch (T, 43k)

Turn from Stone by @harryromper (M, 45k)

The Beauty of Thestrals and Other Unseen Things by @writcraft (E, 63k)

The Promise of Summer by Omi_Ohmy (M, 66k)

That Old Black Magic by bixgirl1 (E, 77k)

I Am Not Who I Became by mab_di (E, 93k)

Who we are in the shadows by @quicksilvermaid (E, 100k)

Way Down We Go by @xiaq (T, 109k)

Grounds for Divorce by Tepre (E, 122k)

2020

Vortex by @xanthippe74 (T, 20k)

Nice Things by aideomai (M, 22k)

Clouds That Veil the Midnight Moon by @drarrytrash (E, 36k)

(Un)wanted by @aibidil (E, 36k)

Unseen by @jackvbriefs (T, 47k)

The Four Doors by @fluxweeed (E, 49k)

Modern Love by @tackytigerfic (E, 61k)

Super Rich Kids by @thusspoketrish (E, 81k)

Criminal by @the-sinking-ship (E, 83k)

The Liars Department by @dorthyanndrarry (T, 103k)

Far From The Tree by aideomai (E, 112k)

2021

Take A Chance On Me by @mintawasalreadytaken (E, 41k)

The Trouble with Wanting by waldorph (E, 60k)

The Compact by astolat (E, 64k)

Home Truths by @skeptiquewrites and @fantalfart (E, 67k)

Timecode by Rasborealis (M, 73k)

Among Ancient Pines by @graymatters, @cambiodipolvere and only_the_heart_knows (M, 74k)

Nor All That Glisters by @sweet-s0rr0w, Danceabra and @fantalfart (E, 110k)

This Ain't the Garden of Eden by @romaine2424 (E, 131k)

By the Grace by lettered (T, 140k)

The Secret Keeper by @the-fools-errand and Razielim (M, 225k)

2022

Eager for the Sky by @oknowkiss and @upthehillart (M, 35k)

Heal Thyself by astolat (T, 47k)

Vis-à-Vis-à-Vis by @vukovich (E, 50k)

Meet Me at Midnight by @the-starryknight (T, 57k)

Kept in Cages by @sweet-s0rr0w and @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm (E, 77k)

all the western stars by @oflights (E, 78k)

A Case of You by @epitomereally (E, 97k)

where all the veins meet by eight_of_wands (E, 146k)