#burning Yarrow

[storiesbyrhi]

Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence/some infrequent gore, swearing, animal death, no beta, death in childbirth (mentioned, not described), abusive parents, suicide, spiders/bugs, grief/mourning; light smut; blood; murder

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: The end. 4047 words.

1987 The new year

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

Mel nodded. “She will.”

He looked at their creation; it had to be perfect. Eddie wasn’t sure a thing like him was capable of perfection, but for you, he’d try. “Thank you,”

“No problem,” Mel replied, nonchalance in tone but Eddie knew her better than that.

“I mean it, Melissa. You’re a good friend to her. To me.”

Mel squirmed under Eddie’s serious gaze. She blushed, shrugging, and turning to leave.

“Just before you go!” Eddie rushed to say. “I, ah… I heard that you had discovered how Steve Harrington came to haunt you?”

Her head tilted in reply, just a curious small movement that meant to ask how he’d heard about it.

“Hailey mentioned it… Said you’d been working with Ev on…” Eddie paused, unsure what to call it. “Death… craft?”

Mel almost laughed. “Some of us know our magic early. We figure out our abilities. Others… like me… Haven’t entirely grasped the scope of what we can do… I, apparently, channel ghosts… Or something like that,”

“Something like that,” he repeated. “And, the door is open now?”

Steve Harrington’s ghost did a lot of things. One of them was leaving a door between the living and the dead open. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who you asked, that particular door existed somewhere within Mel.

Mel considered Eddie’s questions. The painfully earnest and hopeful expression on his face. He looked almost human.

“I don’t know how it works. I can’t control it properly. If that’s what you’re asking for,” she told him.

Eddie nodded and looked down at the wet grass. He kicked at it a little, droplets flicking around. It would dry soon, under their creation. The January cold rendered unaffecting.

“I… I thought you never really had…”

“A family? Anyone who cared about me?” Eddie finished for Mel. She winced at his bitterness. “Sorry… I did not mean for that to come out like that… My mother died having me. She’s who… I thought maybe…”

If any of the other witches had been standing in Mel’s place, they would have been offering already. They would have been consoling or planning or promising. But it wasn’t them. It was Mel. And Mel did what she did best. She listened.

“If she is there… Wherever there is. On the other side. If she’s there and has always been there, I want to make sure she sees this. I need to know she didn’t see what I had become and turn away in shame. I need her to know that…” Eddie’s jaw clenched. He felt raw and exposed. “I want her to know…”

Mel approached Eddie like he was an injured animal. She was intuitive; she knew that was exactly what he was. Slowly, she put her hand on his arm. “We can try. I’ll try.”

…

You frowned at the tiny white petals. How they formed dozens of flowers. And how the flowers grouped together and grew wildly. Yarrow. Yarrow was growing from your bed. Following the stem down to the wooden frame, you found no glue or magic trick. Yarrow was, very literally and quite suddenly, growing from your bed.

“Do you know anything about this?” you asked Eddie when he wandered into the room.

“I thought it was you,”

“Why would it be me?”

He snorted. “Because you are constantly gardening in unorthodox places,”

“I am?”

“You are.”

Eddie loved the surprised and confused expression on your face. Sometimes you knew yourself well. Other times, not at all. He detoured from what he was doing to pull you into a hug.

“Perhaps it is an omen,”

“Not one that I know of,”

“And, of course, you do know all,” he teased.

He loved the faux-annoyed squeaking sound you made. He loved how you melted into him, still eyeing the yarrow suspiciously. God, he loved you.

“Speaking of mysterious,” you said, pushing off him with your palms flat to his chest. “What were you and Mel doing this morning?”

“I accompanied her on her morning walk. You know what happens to her back if she doesn’t go on her muscle tension walks.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and hummed. “Once is happenstance. Two is a coincidence. But three… If one more out of the ordinary thing comes to pass…”

“You’ll what?” Eddie poked, shaking his head at you. It was difficult to hide anything from you, but he could not wait to tell Kelsey about the yarrow. She had been right.

You said nothing, just trust-fell back into his arms. 

“I asked her about what she’s been doing with Ev,” Eddie confessed. He kicked himself for not thinking of the cover sooner. Nothing worked better than the truth.

“The ghost stuff?”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about my mother.”

That got your attention. You stepped out of the hug again.

“Don’t look at me like that,”

“Like what?” you asked.

“Like I’m a poor broken bat once more,”

“That’s not what I think of you. You know that,”

“And yet you look wounded on my behalf,” he stated bluntly.

You nodded. “Sorry. I’m sorry… Um… Can she do it? Mel?”

Eddie shrugged. “She doesn’t know. She’ll try.”

You nodded again. “Can I ask… why? Or… maybe… What do you want to ask your mother?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing I can ask of her. I just want her to know that this is it.” Eddie gestured to himself as he spoke.

“You mean you? That this is your… final form, so to speak?”

“Yeah… And it would be… nice… to meet her. And for her to meet you.”

The room was quiet for only a second. Then, “If it doesn’t work with Mel, I can try. We can-”

Eddie silenced you with a kiss. The conversation didn’t need to happen. He knew you’d go to the ends of your magic for him. And nothing about that was taken for granted.

…

The sun was only just rising on the final day of January. It had been a cold winter. Snow had fallen on Hawkins in blankets, not thawing even when the weatherman promised it would. You would not let Hawkins burn anymore, so you cleansed it with water instead.

Eddie had spent the night asleep, curled up in his bat form with you. As the bedroom slowly lit up, you mumbled out the spell and he was back in his body.

“My love,” he whispered, lips cool on your neck. “I sensed your sleep was alive with story,”

“That-” a yawn, “-is a very dramatic way of asking if I dreamt. Almost Shakespearian,”

“You dreamt a dream tonight?”

“Yes, but dreamers often lie,” you recited back.

“In bed asleep, while they do dream things true,”

“Alright. End scene. Besides… I don’t think you want my dream to come true. You were in it and you were not happy,” you told him, wriggling yourself backward to be as spooned into him as possible.

“Do tell.”

It took a moment to catch the sleeping story before it faded into nothingness. Likely, it was inspired by your spell making project; it had begun as a joke, but you were sure you could resize yourself small enough to quite literally ride bat Eddie into the sunset.

“I was a bat too,” you started.

You had been a bat, swooping through pretty pink skies and fluffy white clouds. You’d chased shooting stars and nuzzled together with Eddie high up in Hawkins’ tallest trees. The other bats had kept their distance from you, as they had with Eddie. Then, the largest of the Eptesicus fuscus decided to gift you crunchy beetles and other tasty snacks.

“Wait!” Eddie interjected.

Before he could say anything, you cackled. “That is exactly what you did in the dream! You were very jealous that another bat wanted my attention,”

“What did the other bat want your attention for?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. It was a real bat. Not like us. So probably to make bat babies. Don’t worry. I was not into it in the dream. Nor am I in real life.”

Eddie squeezed you tight in his arms, making a small huffing sound.

“Jealous of a make-believe animal,” you snickered.

Eddie’s smile was pressed into the nape of your neck. You felt him drag his teeth along your skin. The rolling want rippled down your body. The scent of jasmine was still strong from their night bloom. You glanced at them on the bedroom windowsill.

“Quiz me?” Eddie asked then, sucking all the sensuality from the moment.

You audibly wined, much to his pleasure. “It’s so early,” you complained, though it wasn’t your greatest grievance.

“It’s never too early to learn the craft,”

“Ugh. Fine. But only because you’re cute.”

Eddie screeched celebratorily, letting you roll out of his arms and turn to face him. He sat up and clapped his hands together.

“Heliotrope oil?” you began.

“To induce premonitions,”

“Correct. Polypody?”

“Nightmares,”

“Buckthorn?”

“Protection,”

“Um… Celandine?”

“That,” Eddie pointed at you, “is a cantrip!” he accused. You raised an eyebrow. “Are you referring to greater celandine or lesser celandine?”

You laughed. “Eddie. I don’t know. It wasn’t a trick question. Which is the one with the superstition?”

“Greater,” he told you like it wasn’t funny. “And, so what if it is superstition? Isn’t that what we are?”

A spacey feeling overtook you for a moment. “Woah… déjà vu…” You shook it from your head and looked back at Eddie. “Oh god… You still want to answer the question, don’t you?”

“It can predict death, greater celandine. For someone with a terminal illness,”

“Can it? How does a flower do that?” you teased.

“Place a stem of it on their head. If they cry, they will live. If they begin to sing, they are doomed to death,”

“I wonder what they sing,”

“Another One Bites the Dust presumably,” Eddie answered without skipping a beat.

It was impossible not to laugh; whether it was because the joke was genuinely funny or because of the smug and expecting grin on Eddie’s face, it was hard to tell.

“So dumb!”

“Hey!” Eddie yelped, diving back under the covers and reaching out for you.

Some things needed to be studied to be mastered. You were learning how magic worked around the existence of Eddie. For his part, he was a student of the basics. Beginning with the very foundations of the craft. Other things needed not a guiding grimoire or senior supervision, for those things came easily -

Kisses trailing over the softness of your belly and down. Hands wrapped around Eddie, thumb circling the tip. Bloody bites licked clean and healed without scarring.

Your favourite part of sex was the moments just before Eddie climaxed. Somehow, in his monstrousness, a rumbling sound came from deep within him while he simultaneously made a pathetic whining noise. It was always eerie and beautiful and sexy.

Eddie’s favourite part was the moments just after, the way you came down from the high. A ragdoll body, fucked out and momentarily broken. He’d position you to be comfortable, leave you for a vampire second to get water and something sugary. You’d giggle, dumb, letting him tip the drink into your mouth. Often then, before sanity returned to either of you, you’d look at him with that expression. Do something weird, it would say, that pretty face of yours.

Eddie had forgotten what it felt like to have an alive, human body. He also loved to play the role of the freak. Loved to see how far he could go before you’d feel disgust. Loved you so fully and so intensely, that every part of your existence was a work of art all on its own.

Naturally then, he’d push his tongue up your nose. Use his fanged teeth to clean unidentifiable gunk from under your nails. Bite the tender flesh above your belly button, watch the blood pool, then body-shot it out. Spit in your mouth.

He’d lick you clean of sweat, reporting on the different flavours as he did so (the sweat that rolled down the small of your back was the best). Take strands of hair from your head and thread them through his teeth, pulling at them like dental floss.  Lay his head on your body and listen to the sounds inside; he could tell you when you’d need to use the bathroom before you could even feel it.

Eddie catalogued your body in an effort to see if anything that it made was consumable to a vampire like blood was. Sweat and tears had made the list. Tears tasted salty sweet and none went to waste. He was like a truffle pig, sniffing his way across the plains of your body, searching ferally for that edible high.

You had yet to feel disgust. You doubted you ever would. It all made you feel so very loved so very desired.

Do something weird.

Eddie gripped your face and licked at it like a long-lost St. Bernard reunited with its owner.

“I have a surprise for you,” he whispered when he finished cleaning your face. You tasted like the chamomile balm you wore to bed.

“A surprise?” you whispered back.

Eddie nodded. “It’s in the woods,”

“But it’s so cold,” you complained, wriggling down into the heat of the bed.

“You’ll be warm soon. I promise. Let’s go.”

…

“It’s the right day,” Ash said to nobody in particular from her place at the window. She was keeping watch, tasked with sounding the alarm when you returned from the woods with Eddie. “The thirty-first. Three represents creativity and growth and self-expression. One for new beginnings. So, thirty-one is about pursuing your passions and starting a new chapter in your life. And, thirty-one is a manifestation number,”

“You do remember we were all raised by Jo ‘777’ Avery, right?” Hailey quipped. “We know what thirty-one means,”

“So does Eddie. He picked it on purpose,” Mel told them as she finished working on the apotropaic besom that would be placed on your front doorstep.

“Of course he did,” Meg said dreamily.

“Wait!” Kelsey’s eyes were wide. “Jo! Her soul cursed to take the shape of something she wasn’t… Like Eddie. What if-”

“It’s not the same. She did it to herself, remember? You can’t uncurse what went willingly into the hex,” Mel soberly offered.

The witches fell silent. Jo had been older than Sally and Gillian. Maybe even Penelope. She spent half her life in the mortal world, watching painters and sculptors and all the artists come and go. She was less muse and more quiet critic. In February of 1897, she grew ill. Jo called it heartsick. The angel numbers she had always relied on meant nothing anymore. Her life, instead, became guided by an American creative by the name of Ivan Le Lorraine Albright.

Jo watched him grow. Watched him paint. Watch his style linger on the wrong side of the cusp of brilliance. The coven often found her scribbling out spells and practicing rituals none of them recognised. Something was terribly wrong.

Then, one day in 1929, Jo conjured a monster named Ida. She poured herself into Ida. Magic and soul and all. Ivan painted frantically, a new style born, a master of the macabre crowned. As Ida was painted onto the canvas, Jo’s body faded into the abyss. Ida dragged her mother into the ink and they were no more.

The finished piece – Into the World There Came a Soul Called Ida – would be gifted to the Art Institute of Chicago. The coven sometimes visited Jo. Felt her there. Felt the energy behind the sick brushstrokes.

“Jo would have loved this. A witch and a vampire? The unholiness of it all?” Ev noted. She was sitting next to Meg, pulling petals from camellias, pansies, and cyclamens to scatter through your home.  Meg held the bowl.

“We’ve always been like this. Haven’t we?” Ash asked.

“Driven into the shadows by love or madness?”

“No, I mean… Well, yes… But I think that part might just be womanhood. Hiding the unsanitary bits. I mean we as in witches. We have always broken our own rules,” Ash replied.

The coven hushed again. Throughout history, witches had fallen in love with humans and fae and other unblessed creatures. They had broken law and lore. They had crossed lines and made new ones. But somehow, you and Eddie had been punished the hardest. It didn’t make sense to them.

“I miss Jo,” Meg said.

“I miss them all,” Hailey agreed, her paintbrush going still, only ‘congrats’ coloured.

“So do I. But I’m still angry,” Kelsey admitted. “And I want to be better than them,”

“We are. Being here. Bearing witness to this…” Ev assured her.

“Can you imagine how not normal Jo would have been about Eddie’s teeth?” Meg laughed.

The coven giggled, then continued their snappy back-and-forth conversation while they waited. They speculated about guest lists. The humans? Probably. Cyprian the fae and Randy the wolf? Maybe. What remained of the Catskills coven? Unlikely. And what of tradition? Would the rings be passed from guest to guest, filling with love and best wishes? Handfasting?

When they ran out of things to place bets on, they tried to wring details from Mel about her sessions with Eddie and his mother. Though she was not sworn to secrecy, she already felt she was imposing on their privacy by being in the room. It was better when you were there. Eddie was happier and his mother was brighter. Both metaphorically and physically. The other witches were dying to know what happened during those tender and tragic moments, not realising that each of them had formed a personal and unique relationship with Eddie too.

Kels and Eddie felt like old friends, which of course, they were. They were as comfortable as siblings, which meant Eddie often gravitated toward her house when he was bored. When bickering, they’d refer to each other as Edward and Fern. You watched them playfight like puppies left alone.

Ev’s affinity for darkness lent itself to Eddie’s more nefarious side. She was his armorer and revelled in his stories of justice served. Hailey and Eddie had a two-person book club. Meg was teaching him how to cook and bake all of your favourites. And Ash, once she found out Eddie already knew how to sew, roped him into other textile crafts.

Kelsey looked down at the journal in her hands. The story of you and Eddie. She would write it all down. The lonely vampire. The little witch. The grief and betrayal. The bed of yarrow. The love, the love, oh, the love. Maybe, one day, you’d be gifted the book. Maybe not. Kelsey wasn’t sure how it all ended just yet. As she sat with her sisters, preparing for a party, she was only sure that you were all exactly where you were meant to be.

…

The January sunrise filtered through the flatlands. Rainbows refracted off snowflakes. The tips of your boots were already soaking through and it almost hurt to breathe. About halfway to the woods, Eddie had become a makeshift blindfold, hands covering your eyes, swearing that braving the cold would be worth it.

“Is this what you and Mel have been up to? Did you make a new gate or something?”

“You’ll see,” was all he’d say.

Are we going to breakfast with the foxes? That’d be nice.

Is there another bat that needs saving out here?

If you want to build a tree house, Kels is really who you should be waking up.

Did you find another mushroom circle and need me to identify if it’s fae or not?

You’ll see. You’ll see. You’ll see.

Then, you did.

“Okay… Open!”

Eddie’s hands left your face.

There, a structure. Not really a building. Something else. A dome. As tall as a house with a matching circumference.

“What…”

A dome that appeared to be solid. It had an opaque, matte coating. The harder you looked at it, the less you could tell if the trees were growing through it or if they’d been cut to shape. The dome shimmered, like a reflection on water. Like it wasn’t made to be looked at. Like it was offended at the mere thought of being looked at.

You took tentative steps towards it. Slowly, carefully, you reached out to touch the dome. It was hard. Real. And… warm?

Turning back to Eddie, he was watching you carefully.

“You win. I have no idea what this is,” you admitted.

With his best strut, Eddie walked by and knocked on the dome three times. A slit in the surface appeared. A door, ajar.

“After you,” Eddie invited.

You let the heat emanating from the dome pull you inside.

It was bright; you had no trouble seeing, but your brain was still struggling to process the information your senses were providing.

The shape of the dome had completely disappeared. You would have not known you were inside at all, if it weren’t for the snow and leaves falling, hitting something invisible above and around you, then sliding around it. Touching the wall, it still felt solid and hard, even if you couldn’t see it.

“It’s like… like a reverse snow globe…” you marvelled.

The air inside was warm and still, cut off from whatever was happening in the world. The dome muffled the sounds outside too. It wasn’t silent, but the whistling wind was muted into comforting white noise.

Eddie had followed you inside, clicking the door that could only be opened and closed by him into place. The magic in the spell was linked to Eddie. That meant it wouldn’t last forever, Mel had warned him. It would serve a purpose, then fade away.

Eddie didn’t need the dome forever, only a moment. You were his forever. If all went well.

You’d started to rub your hands over the warm grass and dry bark of the trees. They hadn’t been touched by the snow in days, you figured. They’d shaken winter off in the greenhouse environment.

Eddie had to say your name three times to pull your attention to him. He folded himself down onto the ground next to you.

“This is beautiful… This is what you and Mel were doing out here?” you asked, too in awe of the dome to see the beautiful determination on Eddie’s face.

He nodded, reaching out to catch your chin in his hand, gently redirecting your gaze to him. “My little witch…”

Your joy gave way to curiosity. Whatever he was doing, he’d not done it before.

“My love… I am the last of my kind at what feels like the beginning of my life; an endling, with no right to start something. But I defy that. Like I have defied… everything my life and death dared offer. Until you.”

There was something in his tone that had an immediate effect on you. Your nose tingled and your eyes stung. Eddie’s choice of words dipped back into the sixteenth century when he was most serious. He lost the carefree cadence of the 1980s.

“I have loved you from the moment I saw you. I love you more every single time I see you. Blood of my blood. Body of my body. Soul of my soul.”

The gravity of the moment got caught in your throat. It was with dizzying clarity you reached out for Eddie, for stability. He took your hands and tangled his fingers between yours.

“I was born for nothing but this, but I would live it all again if it brought me to you. The agony of life and the loneliness of death. The void of a hex. I would do it all again and again if it kept me on a pathway to you.”

You were cemented still in the darkness of his eyes. Jaw clenched, breath still, mouth dry. Something smelt of yarrow and apple, though you were not of the mindset to find the source. More than likely, there wasn’t one at all.

“My little witch, all that I have is yours. All that I am, I give freely. Would you seal my fate and bless me with your hand in marriage?”

End note: 92,965 words and we have come to the end of our story. I have been writing this for over a year and have poured so, so much time, love, energy, and commitment into it. So much of my soul is in these pages.

Whatever you came for - entertainment, escapism, Eddie, witchcraft, company, love - I hope you found in Burning Yarrow.

I would deeply appreciate to hear from you. Even if you can't quantify or consolidate your feelings into words, just a little note to let me know that this project has meant something to someone other than me.

Finally, thank you to the real life Kelsey/Kelso @toomanyacorns and real life Mel @kookygranger for the historical knowledge and witchy inspiration. And to all the other women who snuck their way into this world. I love you all!

Until next story... xo Rhi

P.S. The Grimoire and timeline Tumblr posts are complete.

P.P.S. Thank you to the following freaks for helping me think of weird shit for Eddie to do in chapter 31: @jo-harrington @myosotisa @bettyfrommars @mopeymopeymouse @munson-blurbs

Fic Taglist:  @paranoidmunson  @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant @stardustmunson @live-love-be-unique @fangirling-4-ever @reanimated-alice @b-irock @gh0stlybunnie @myown-worstenemy-2003 @woozzz @cyberxlust @hiscrimsonangel @buckysbarne @m00nlight101 @word-wytch @spicysix @briasnow-blog @goth-cowgirl-03 

@pastel-pillows @moviefreak1205 @awkward00noodle

All Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes  @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob  @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl @eddies-hid3out @siren-lungs @aheadfullofsteverogers @hiscrimsonangel @dashingdeb16 @cultish-corner

[softsweetsuffering]

Copper Rod

New lad! New Fic!

Meet Arin Yarrow :)

--

Heavy droplets pelted down on his glistening forehead. Mahogany locks clinging to his skin. He could barely hear over the raging winds and the booming of thunder, having listened as ever clap and bang grew louder and closer.

He'd since rubbed his wrists positively raw trying to pull away from the pole of which he was bound. Though the knots only seemed to hold tighter for his efforts. His back and legs aching from having been left to stand, pressed against something so unforgiving and firm.

He'd already yelled to little avail as no one could hear what words were carried away by the abrasive winds. Curses slung to an empty sky.

He was shuddering with how cold it had gotten. A warm summer night plummeted by cloud cover and winds. Every whip of air making him shiver involuntarily. His jeans clinging uncomfortably, and the tee shirt he was wearing was nothing more than a wet blanket.

Another loud bang rattled the roof he was upon, and made his ears ring. A bright flash jaggedly spreading across the grey sky.

He yanked away from the pole again, before leaning back into it. Head tilted upwards towards the sky. His eyes burning as rain fell into his features. Staring upwards as if to spite any god who resided in its midst.

His heart was still hammering away. His stomach grumbling with emptiness. Not a single thought remained on track.

He stomped his feet once more, pushing them against the pole, but they slid and slipped and he kicked the pole. The metal vibrating against his back and his heel dully throbbing for his anger.

The clouds contributed to roll over, darkened and heavy. The rain drops somehow even thicker as they fell upon his shoulders. His arms, covered in goosebumps form the cold, began to have their hairs raise on end.

The pole seemed to vibrate again. A loud crackling building in the sky.

All of a sudden it clapped, the pole lighting up as it was struck, and every inch of light converging towards is greedy conduction. (edited) A scream never fully made it passed his lips, as every muscle tensed and spasmed. His throat struggling to make a noise as electricity poured through his being. His heart erratic and struggling. He swore he was having a heart attack and that it would surely come to a stop. It felt familiar, and so much worse.

Arins whole body both frozen and twitching. Trying desperately to move his own ways away from the pole, and having no option but to be stuck against it. Riding out the last of the zaps and static the pole had sucked directly into him.

Between the rain and the heart palpitations, his vision was so fuzzy. His breaths short and sharp. His chest tight, his lungs ached. Each breath hurt. His hair was steaming, his back was on fire, his fingers stuck in a fist like position. He choked on a noise.

And then he was out.

His head inevitably flopped forwards as his body shut off, arms going limp. Wet strands of hair blowing in the wind and dangling forth. Water drizzling down his features. Cascading down his face like tears.

[descended-from-aesthetics]

Tag Dump 2

[headspace-hotel]

The knowledge of some common plants

Since many people don't know most of the plants around them, this is information on some plants that are commonly seen in many places throughout the world

This is Lamium purpureum, also called Purple Deadnettle.

It's called deadnettle because it looks like a nettle but it doesn't sting you

This plant is a winter annual—it grows its leaves in the fall, lasts through the winter, and blooms and dies in the spring

Its pollen is reddish orange. If you see bees with their heads stained reddish orange, it is likely because they have visited Purple Deadnettle

This is Trifolium repens, white clover

It is a legume (belongs to the bean family) and fixes nitrogen using symbiosis with bacteria that live in little nodules on its roots, fertilizing the soil

It is a good companion plant for the other members of a lawn or garden since it is tough, adaptable, and improves soil quality. According to my professor it used to be in lawn mixes, until chemical companies wanted to sell a new herbicide that would kill broadleaved plants and spare grass, and it was slandered as a weed :(

It is native only to Europe and Central Asia, but in the lawns they are doing more good than harm most places

Honeybees love to visit clover

Four-leaf clovers are said to be lucky

This is Achillea millefolium, Common Yarrow

It has had a relationship with humans since Neanderthals were around, at least 60,000 years, since Neanderthals have been found buried with Yarrow

Its leaves have been used to stop bleeding throughout history, and its scientific name comes from how Achilles was said to have used Yarrow to stop the blood from the wounds of his soldiers. A leaf rolled into a ball has been used to stop nosebleeds

It is a native species all throughout Eurasia and North America

This is Cichorium intybus, known as Chicory

The leaves look a lot like dandelion leaves, until in mid-spring when it begins growing a woody green stem straight up into the air

Like many other weeds, it has a symbiotic relationship with humans, existing in a mix of domesticated or partially domesticated and wild populations

It is native to Eurasia, but widespread in North America on roadsides and disturbed places, where it descended from cultivated plants

Its root contains large amounts of inulin, which is used as a sweetener and fiber supplement (if you look at the ingredients on the granola bars that have extra fiber, they usually are partly made of chicory root) and has also been used as a coffee substitute

A large variety of bees like to feed upon it

This is Phytolacca americana, known as Pokeweed

It is easily identified by its huge leaves and its waxy, bright magenta stem

It can grow more than nine feet tall from a sprout in a single summer!

If you squish the berries, the juice inside is a shocking magenta that is so bright it almost burns your eyes. For this reason many Native American people used it for pink and purple dye.

It is a heavy metal hyperaccumulator, particularly good for removing cadmium from the soil

All parts of the plant are poisonous and will make you very sick if you eat them, however if the leaves are picked when very young and boiled 3 times, changing out the water each time, they can be eaten, and this is a traditional food in the rural American Southeast, but I don't want to chance it

British people have introduced it as a pretty, exotic ornamental plant. I think that is very funny considering that here it is a weed associated with places where poor people live, but maybe they're right and I need to look closer to see the beauty.

If you see magenta stains in bird poop it is because they ate pokeweed berries- birds can safely eat the berries whereas humans cannot

This is Plantago lanceolata, Ribwort Plantain

It grows in heavily disturbed soils, in fact it is considered an indicator of agricultural activity. It is successful in the poorest, heaviest and most compacted soil.

The leaves, seeds, and flower heads are said to be edible but the leaves are really stringy unless they are very young. Of course, it is important to be careful when eating wild plants, and make sure you have identified the plant correctly and the soil is not contaminated

I have also heard the strings in the leaves can be extracted and used for textile purposes

and that's some common plants you might often see throughout the world

[auraunbound]

The boat ride to the island was, unique to say the least. The uneasy silence made for a tense trip, and all three of the intrepid adventurers were thankful to finally be off it and onto dry land. Only once they were out of earshot of the sailors did they finally decide to speak to one another.

“Damn, was it just me, or did those guys seriously give anyone else the creeps?”

“I can say with total honesty that it wasn’t just you. Now, if we could get on with things.”

The three started to explore the island, past the buildings in the small town, and down a winding path through the forest. During the trek, Lily activated the tiny camera drone, walking backwards to speak into it as it followed.

“Just got ourselves to the island. Place is a ghost town, as expected. We’re on our way to the facility now, we jus-”

“The hell’re you doing?”

“Vi’s havin’ me do these like, update records’r whatever. Keep track’a everythin’ we do.”

“You really refer to your employer by a nickname and call it professional?”

“Well sorry we do things a li’l more casual down in Delta Town.”

“Ah, I should’ve guessed.”

Thankfully for the group as a whole, the potential argument that could have broken out was preemptively stopped when they caught sight of their destination through the trees. Immediately they all picked up the pace.

Once inside, they started poking around. Most of the rooms were relatively uninteresting, though some of the notes were fairly interesting to part of the assembled party.

“Well, seems like these upper levels are useless.”

“Unless yer really into snacks that’re older than yer grandma. Ya’ find anything interestin’ Taupe?”

“Old audio logs. Most of them are just normal diary entries, but there were a few things of note. For one, it seems there were church officials were stationed here in some capacity. No telling if it was just at the surface level or if they were allowed access deeper in, but even the Bishop showed his face on one occasion.”

“Alright, so the church and the empire worked together or somethin’? Not sure that’s exactly breakin’ news.”

“It’s a tad more considerable learning that this lab seems to have been researching how to engineer Awakened abilities.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“’Oh shit’ is right. Were they trying to engineer an army of Templars?”

“I can’t say for certain what their motives were. I have some theories, but I expect to find some more answers further in. The sooner we get the power activated, the better.”

“Actually, I was thinkin’ about that. Turnin’ on power means turnin’ on security right? I can just get us down the shaft.”

“Really? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

Lily made her way over to the elevator doors, turning a switch on the pack strapped to the small of her back. The lights along the arms of her suit changed from a bright red to a deep violet. Generally, she preferred to stick to the flame setting, but sometimes the situation called for something a little different. She flexed her fingers, drawing back her fist and striking at the center of the doors. A concussive blast erupted from her knuckles on impact, warping the doors inward to create a gap. She took a moment to admire her handiwork before turning around to the rest of the group.

“How’s that fer an entrance?”

“If I’m correct in assuming the rest of this facility is underwater, I ask you please refrain from trying that trick again. In any case, that takes care of the door, but how do we get down?”

“Well, I can get down fine. But I got somethin’ fer you guys too.” Lily knelt down by the edge of the elevator shaft, pulling out what looked like a piton for mountain climbing. With a mighty swing of her fist, she pounded it into the metal of the shaft, throwing a cable down after it.

“There ya’ go, one express ride!”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope!” She tossed each of the boys a belt with a winch, giving them a wink. “See ya’ at the bottom!” And with that, she hopped down into the shaft, controlling her descent with the grav-tech in her gauntlets.

Taupe and Yarrow looked at each other, and then, reluctantly, hooked themselves up to the cable to begin their descent.

[sprout-fics]

Yarrow in Bloom

(Arthur Morgan x Reader)

Rating: Explicit (MDNI) Wordcount: 13.5k Tags: Angst, Fluff, Female Reader, Flashbacks, Blood/Injury, Vaginal sex, Slowburn, Hurt/Comfort, Happy ending, The only thing I'll write for RDR2 I swear, (doesn't post for months, drops 13k, leaves)

Summary: You lose him. He finds you. Despite everything, you still love him.

The sun sets quickly north of Annesburg, golden resplendent twilight of the mountains soaking your lonely mountain cabin in long shadows of citrine and amber where the evening wind sweeps through the aging firs. The old creak of wood floorboards under your feet is a familiar echo to the solitude of your existence, here on the fringes of the rapidly dwindling frontier you call home. The logs in your fireplace crack, the stew inside offering a slow simmer of venison and wild carrots that curls through the air of the cabin in a beckoning whisper.

You ignore it, instead standing by the window and watching the long shadows of autumn dance through the clearing outside. Quiet, you listen to the bird calls of a wilderness tamed by human hands.

There’s something about evenings like this that invoke memories of the past, have them wrap their slender arms around your shoulders and murmur through your thoughts with the aching sound of regret, of a hope since lost.

It’s in your reverie you spot the shadow that flickers through the underbrush.

Your heart doesn’t hammer as you set down the tin cup in your hands, gently deposit the shawl from your shoulders on the back of your chair. Rather, it’s with practiced ease that you reach for the rifle next to your door, slinking against the wall next to the window and carefully peering outside to watch the creeping intruder who dares to sneak up on your isolated homestead.

It’s minutes before he emerges, slowly, like a panther creeping through the brush. All muscle and subtle movement, crouched low and placing every footstep carefully, deliberately against the fir needle earth. There’s a kerchief drawn up over his mouth and nose, a tightness to his shoulder that speaks less of rigidity and more of decades of experience, a life hard lived and a youth far gone. He moves quickly, silently, moving from the underbrush to the side of your stable, and from there you watch him peek his head out from behind the corner.

Then, he lifts his eyes to the fading light.

and you know.

Like the thunderclap of gunfire, the air in your chest is punched from your lungs in one solid exhale, legs weakening as the ghosts of years past stalk and whisper at the surface of your mournful soul. In your memories the blue of his eyes sparkles like the sky over the Heartlands, a cloudless joy of something hopeful, intangible, looking ever west towards a distant future he holds cupped in his palms.

The front door of your cabin creaks loudly as you step outside, your voice carrying like a clarion across the clearing.

“Are you here to rob me, Arthur Morgan?”

- - -

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

You eye Hosea uneasily as he sits next to you at the saloon in Armadillo, where the dry desert heat bakes the back of your neck and the sun carves scorching paths into the dusty ground outside. The cash from the bounty you turned in but an hour ago burns in your pocket- a fact not unnoticed by the gunslinger beside you with gray dotting his temples.

Still, he’d been kind enough to buy you a drink upon spotting you, and rather than arouse suspicion you accepted his offer of conversation with the both of you seated towards the back of the saloon. He’d told you of his travels, sparse in details in a way you’d come to recognize from conmen. Yet underneath there lay a sincerity, a gleam in his eyes that spoke less of sinister intentions and more of genuine curiosity.

“That so.” You drawl, finishing the warm beer in your hand and setting it back on the table with a thunk. Hosea huffs a laugh at you, bemused if anything else, but makes a low hum of assent anyways.

“I’ll compensate you for your time, of course.” He goes on, eyes remaining focused on you even as you avoid his gaze. “Simply to hear us out. If you decide you’re not interested, then at least I have had the pleasant experience of your company.”

Spinning a yarn. Silver tongue. A viper hidden in the underbrush.

You open your mouth to say you aren’t interested when the saloon doors swing open and Hosea sits up to regard the newest guests.

“There they are!” He crows triumphantly, beckoning over the two men who catch sight of their companion instantly- pausing to eye you over from a distance with an equal amount of suspicion. “Gentlemen, come meet my new friend here.”

The older one, a man with slicked back, jet hair and a curling smile is the first to speak.

“Hosea.” He greets before turning his attention to you. “and...?”

His smile only broadens when you mumble your name, and for some reason it reminds you of a wolf lingering at the edge of a campfire. Hungry. Watching.

“A pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” He offers smoothly, easing into the seat on your other side even as the younger man behind him lingers, standing. “Arthur, take a seat.”

It’s only then that you turn your attention towards him, pausing, blinking as you catch sight of his glinting steel gaze. He’s young. Slightly younger than you, perhaps. Yet there’s a set to his jaw that speaks less of boyishness and more of persistence, a stubbornness that comes with youth as much as it comes with the lives you both lead.

He’s handsome.

“Arthur Morgan.” He tells you, voice firm but eyes locked on yours. Unblinking. Blue like a Sunday morning where the missionary church bells ring.

- - -

“I’ll be damned.”

Arthur lowers the kerchief from his face as he stands from the bushes, hands above his head and holding his pistol in an open grip. He doesn’t seem to look at the rifle in your hands, looking past its sight with wide eyed, astonished wonder at your face.

When he says your name, it feels like the first time.

Your chest aches.

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure if you can. What do you say to someone you lost? Someone you loved, only for them to leave?

When Arthur looks at you, his eyes are sad. You watch his lips part, words forming on his tongue, before his jaw flexes shut and he decides against it.

The setting sun catches on his hair. You remember the sensation of it between your fingers when you kissed him.

You lower the gun. There’s a scrape in your throat when you speak.

“You can hitch your horse inside the stable there.” You offer quietly, turning so he can’t see the bitterness in your eyes. “There’s...soup on the stove.”

You feel his eyes burn into your back as you turn away, leaving the door open behind you and waiting just inside. There’s a moment where you think maybe he’ll go back the way he came, will mount his horse and ride off into the setting sun the way he did all those years ago. Maybe that will be the end of your story, maybe then your ghosts will be put to rest.

There’s a whistle as he calls for his mare, a jangle of reins as he leads it to the barn.

You swallow the sob in your throat.

- - -

It’s late. Midnight engulfs the camp seated outside Armadillo, where the endless expanse of stars glimmers above the dark desert. The distant, pale light of the moon rises over distant bluffs just as coyotes raise their wayward cries towards the open skies. You’ve never had a home, not truly. On nights like this, it feels pretty damn close.

The firelight dances against your features as you sit at the scout fire, crackling low as cottonwood smoke curls upwards. You huddle under your jacket, the night breeze slithering across your nape as you idly read the book before you. The pages are frayed, torn at the edges with dog-ears that speak of the years spent lost in the words between.

Across from you sits Arthur. Watching. Contemplating. Neither of you lax enough to sleep in each other’s presence just yet. Gazes glinting, shoulders stiff- two wild animals at the same watering hole, waiting for the other to give an excuse to bare your fangs. You hear the howl of wild creatures in his flinty stare.

You try to ignore his eyes on you, but given that everyone else is asleep you find yourself unable to tolerate his terse silence for long.

“What?” You sigh at last, closing your book to scowl at him. Arthur only shrugs noncommittally.

“Nothin’.” He grumbles back despite his crossed arms, and avoids your eyes as they lock on him. It’s strangely petulant, his jaw set tight despite his feigned nonchalance.

In the silence that follows, you spot the journal by his side.

Your eyes flick to his fingers tapping on the inside of his elbow, and inwardly you feel something clever curl inside your stomach.

“Is that a journal?” You ask, watching him stiffen imperceptibly. Yet his eyes glance at you, glinting from the flames.

“...Somethin’ like that.”

You feel a smile tug at the corner of your mouth, bending towards your saddlebag beside you to withdraw a worn, leather-bound notebook. When you look back at Arthur, he’s leaning forward with interest.

“Funny.” You offer, and rather than display your notebook’s contents you lean back smugly and begin to write to yourself, enjoying the look of perplexity that flashes across his features.

“Are you...writing about me?” He asks, baffled.

“Mhm.” You chirp pleasantly. “All the horrible, nasty things I thought when I first laid eyes on you, Morgan.”

He barks a laugh loud enough to make you jump, and it sounds like the howl of coyotes singing to the moon.

- - -

The door creaks as he stands on the threshold, and the autumn air sweeps inside to tickle the flames in the hearth. You stand before it, quiet, faced away from him so he can’t see the heartache in your eyes.

There’s words on your tongue that you refuse to speak. Anger, betrayal, hurt, and most of all heartache. You want to go to him, to fold into his chest and beg to know why. The cold, bitter wind of growing winter has frosted over your heart long ago when you made a vow to live the life you always wanted- a life of peace.

You only thought maybe it would have been with him.

When he says your name again, it feels like an arrow piercing your soul. You remember the way he whispered it against your skin, the way he bellowed it amidst a hail of gunfire, the way he spoke it against your lips like the confession of a sin.

“You must be hungry.” and oh how you hate the way your voice trembles, the way your hands shake as you fetch him a plate. He stands unmoved, as if torn between staying and retreating. You feel it the same inside you. Begging him to remain, to give you just a few more minutes of his presence in hopes you can once more feel his love for you. Chasing him away, screaming, crying, the wild animal he loves in you, saying goodbye for the final time even though you know it will break you.

Yet when you look at him at last, when you look into those beloved blue eyes, you see the pain there, the regret, and you know.

He loves you even now.

- - -

“You can do better than that, Morgan, c’mon!”

Your knife finds the tree trunk just as John hollers from his seat behind you two, Hosea and Dutch leaning not far from him. If you were to turn, you’d see the broad smile on his sunburnt face shaded by his hat.

Arthur ignores him pointedly, focusing instead on the ‘WANTED’ poster of his likeness pinned to the tree in front of you both. Two of your own blades stick from it, while only one of Arthur’s lodges itself near the bottom.

“He’s right, Arthur.” Hosea calls, lifting his coffee back to his lips. “Don’t take it easy on her.”

“I’m not!” Arthur snaps back over his shoulder, before turning and throwing his knife, only for the handle to bounce off the trunk. Behind him, John whistles.

“Gettin’ sloppy Morgan.”

“Says the man who can’t keep it in his pants.” Arthur grumbles lowly beside you, and you laugh before raising your own blade once more and throw your blade forward with devastating accuracy- landing square between his eyes on the poster. Dutch’s laughter erupts behind you.

“If I hadn’t known better, I’d say you had a vendetta against our sharpshooter here.”

You twirl another blade in your grip, shooting a cat-like grin to the outlaw beside you, who levies an even gaze at you. You can see his eyes sparkle. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest.

“Y’know Dutch? I’m inclined to agree with you.” Arthur voices, and this time his knife finds a notch just behind his throat.

“There we go!” John shouts, leaning forward in his seat. “Didn’t think you’d let a girl beat you, Arthur.”

This time, your knife lodges itself into the earth at his feet, and John yelps and curses before looking down towards the dirt. A scorpion lays pinned under your blade, inches away from his boot.

Dutch explodes into laughter behind him, clapping loudly enough to make the horses startle.

You grin at Arthur, who dips his head respectfully. Even then, you see the mischief playing on his lips.

Distantly, you wonder what they would feel like against your own.

- - -

There’s silence as you both sit at your table.

What words are there to say? How do you say ‘I still love you’ to the person you lost, to the person you have said goodbye to? All these years you’ve done your best to forget him, to start anew, to convince yourself Arthur was dead and to mourn him. Even when you’d seen news of the gang in the papers you’d told yourself Arthur was not among them, that he was out west where he belonged, to the place where he always felt free.

Arthur sits with his hands folded, head tilted down so you can’t see his eyes past the brim of his hat. He’s less clean shaven now, rugged and older in a way that becomes him. Handsome still, you think with your chest aching. Hollow, just like the life you once led.

“I thought...” He says at last, voice tight, refusing to look you in the eyes.

You remember that night on the mountain, in the forest. You remember the smell of blood, the pain, the tears and the barest whisper of your voice when you called for him.

He looks at you at last, eyes sad.

You remember when he left you.

- - -

He catches you at the riverbank at dawn.

You sneak away from camp before sunrise, tiptoeing past the scout campfire and down the hill towards the river before anyone else can wake. The water is still, tenebrous and velvet as you slip bare into the gentle current, shivering as your arms wrap around your naked form. Smoothed pebbles knock against your feet as you wade deeper, soap in hand as you try to accustom yourself to the chill.

You vanish under the water for a moment, holding your breath down in the dark, liquid silence as the water closes in overhead. For a moment you’re buoyed gently by the river that washes over your limbs with a tender grazing touch, your heartbeat the only melody to your quiet existence. You emerge only a moment later with a gasp, shivering and hugging your arms tight around yourself to retain a fraction of warmth.

You rub your eyes clear of water, glancing back to the shore-

and find Arthur staring back at you.

The scream that erupts your throat is silenced by your own hand, and in a flash you vanish back up to your chin, ignoring the cold water and staring venomously at the gunslinger who immediately coughs and averts his eyes.

“Heard uh...uh commotion.” He tried to justify, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the scout campfire where he’d been dozing. “Thought maybe-”

“-That you’d what? Come sneak a peek?” You snarl, and you expect him to flinch, to bow his head, to look even mildly ashamed. Instead, Arthur smiles.

“Only if you’re offering.”

You feel your face warm, and quickly you send a splash of water that falls just short of his feet.

“Woah there.” He chuckles, holding up his hands placatingly. “I thought maybe some bandit was tryin’ to steal you off. Didn’ expect to find myself a mermaid.”

You snort. “What, you thought you’d come and rescue me?”

“Depends. You need rescuing?”

“Do I look like I need rescuing?”

Arthur’s smile tugs further at his mouth. “Not necessarily.”

“Then piss off, Arthur.”

Arthur huffs a laugh, and in doing so he shows his teeth. A coyote baring its fangs.

“Pardon me then, ma’am.”

You glower at him as he retreats a short distance, posting up by a tree nearby before lighting a cigarette. The match flame dances across his rugged features.

“What are you doing?”

Arthur doesn’t glance back at you, but flicks the match off into the bushes. “Still bandits about. Can’t have them stealing one of our best shooters bare-ass naked.”

You huff. “I think bandits are the least of my concern.”

Arthur puffs on his cigarette. “Course not, not while I’m here.”

“That’s my point.”

You can see the grin tug at his mouth, but he doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn. Eventually, when he doesn’t go away, you’re forced to go back to scrubbing, never once letting your eyes dart away from him. Yet when you dunk underwater once again to rinse the rest of your suds away and surface once more...

He’s gone.

- - -

“The others?” You ask, voice hoarse, and Arthur flexes his jaw. There’s an apology, or something akin to it building on his lips. You aren’t ready.

“We...lost some a few weeks back.” He begins. “We had a job in Blackwater that...”

You know how it goes. Dutch’s ambition was too great for his execution. You knew there would come a day when the gods of fortune would disown him. You never knew why he couldn’t see it, too blind, loyal to a fault.

“Pinkertons chased us over the mountains. Somewhere along the way we lost Davey and Jenny.”

You close your eyes at that. You’d liked Jenny, for the scant amount of time you’d spent with her in the gang. She was a sweet girl, too soft for the life you had lived then.

“John?” You ask quietly. Arthur pauses before he huffs a mirthless laugh.

“Bastard nearly got himself eaten by wolves. He’s alive. You should have seen the way Abigail tore into him. For a minute I thought it would have been better to leave him out there.”

You smile at that, the first smile you’ve had for a long time.

“Hosea is gettin’ on, but he’s as whip smart as ever.” Arthur goes on, and you see the tension begin to unspool from his shoulders. The love he has for his family is real, his loyalty to them more sacred than anything else.

Even you.

“and Jack- he’s growing so fast. He was just a baby when-”

He stops. Dares not echo the sin he’s committed. You don’t look away from him, refuse to break away from his blue eyes. The truth of the past, of what he did, of the oath he broke to you is etched across your face, in the bitterness in your eyes.

You wonder if he went back, if he would do it all over again. If he would leave you for this life of his, if he would break his promise to you one more time. This life of his, the life that was once yours, so full of violence and pain that in the end it left you alone, dying and wishing for him to return to you, begging God for the moment where he would kiss you once more.

You suppose, in the end, it was how it was supposed to be.

- - -

Whiskey stings against your tongue, the bite of it like teeth against the soft flesh of your throat. It feels like wood smoke and embers, a bite of rawness that your savor just like the untamed wilderness you’ve come to imbue inside your soul. You’ve yet to fully scrub the blood from your jacket, and if anything it adds to the flavor of violence, of brutality that marks the nature of this life you lead.

Yet Arthur’s laughter beside you fills the emptiness, brings with it the sound of rain against parched earth. It fills your soul, lifts you, and you hold it secret lest it be mistaken for weakness.

You look at him, at the way his mouth pulls sideways when he laughs. Lopsided, boyish, alive in this life without apology. Your heartbeat pulses low in your ears, a distant drum over the prairie where thunderclouds roil against the horizon. Fear is a thing that’s always existed inside you. The shadow of it drove you to a life of savagery- freedom as Arthur would call it.

In the firelight of his smile, you feel it wane low against your heart.

- - -

“I guess nothing has changed much then.” You offer in the silence that follows, your words layered with a meaning that has Arthur’s eyes flickering. “Trying to find the next big score, chased by the law, living life the way it’s supposed to be.”

“We’re living.” Arthur snaps back, shoulders tense once more, like an animal you’ve wandered too close to. Your mouth is a firm line when he looks at you, and he softens once more.

In the silence, multitudes remain unspoken.

There’s a part of you that wants to scream still, that wants to shriek like a wild thing, ignoring the tears that build in your eyes and curse him to the grave. The ghosts that linger beneath your gaze howl for reprieve, but in the end all you see in Arthur is a despair, a pain more alive than he is. It’s mirrored in your soul, in the ghost of you, the shell of yourself you’ve kept alive these years without him.

You want to kiss him, to let his arms wrap around you as you sob into his chest, in the only place that’s ever felt like home. You want to beg and plead for him to stay, to go back to that moment on that stormy night if only for the chance he would not abandon you once more.

You wonder, why despite it all, you still love him.

- - -

Fresh flowers, tucked into the bag of your saddle. You blink at them, feeling heat rush to your face just as John whistles beside you. You shove at him a little too hard- embarrassed, annoyed somehow at him witnessing the gesture, and John curses at you under his breath, bad tempered and juvenile. You don’t hear him, fingers tracing the red button blossoms.

Yarrow. You’ve seen Hosea put it in his mortar and pestle, grind them into a paste he swears does good for his heart. You wonder if Arthur knows as much, knows that the flowers he’s chosen convey so much without words.

You hide them before anyone else can see them, face warm and heart fluttering. You hide your smile when Dutch calls to you, tells both you and Arthur to ride over the horizon in sight of your next target. Even when you and Arthur mount up, your horses’ hooves thundering against the ground just as a storm brews on the horizon of the prairie, you hide the smile blossoming against your lips. You see his smirk tugging his mouth as he rides beside you. Knowing, mischievous.

While he sleeps, you press the flowers into your journal.

- - -

So what now?

Now that you’re both here, alive, regret the only thing you own in the presence of each other- what path leads forward? Is this a greeting, or a goodbye? Maybe it’s both- a chance to finally close the door on the person you were before, a farewell to the man you know will not change.

“I thought you were dead.” Arthur breathes at last, eyes full of emotion you dare not name. “I went back to look for you- nearly got shot more times than I could count. I took weeks to look for you but I never...”

He swallows, throat bobbing.

“Dutch told me to give up. They needed me. I wanted to keep looking but we had to move east. I told myself I’d go back but-”

The same as you, you think. Convincing yourself the other was dead just to avoid the heartache of a life apart from each other.

“I got picked up by some missionaries.” You mumble, looking down into your hands to avoid Arthur seeing your wet eyes. “They took care of me, nursed me, didn’t ask any questions or anything. When I finally was healed I-”

I couldn’t bear to look for you. Not after you left me.

“Sweetheart, I-”

“Don’t.” You snap sharply, emotion cracking at the cage of your ribs, and when you look up the tears finally spill over, eyes brimming with the anger and despair that has haunted you all these years. You stand sharply, the chair falling behind you so loud it sounds like thunder. “You don’t- don’t get to call me that. Not anymore.”

Arthur looks wounded, and there’s a sick curl of satisfaction inside of you at seeing his pain, at seeing the guilt you wish he’s always had for what he did. Yet his eyes are open, the color in them a touch darker, like a summer thunderstorm like washes the earth clean.

When he speaks, it’s scarcely a whisper. A confession you’ve hoped for all these years, and now rings hollow inside your chest.

“I never stopped loving you, darlin.”

- - -

“Stay still.” You snap, and Arthur hisses through his teeth as you dab at the wound with alcohol, like the snake that bit him. Venom in his veins, cured only by a tonic of wild yarrow and ginseng that blossoms bright in the summer sun. He’s broken out in a cold sweat as his body fights the poison, face ashen and shivering as he clenches his jaw tight enough to pop.

He clenches and unclenches his hand, sitting wide and forcing a breath through his shivering shoulders. You raise a hand to wipe sweat from his brow and he catches it on instinct when you get too close, like a bear trap springing closed. You’re ready to snarl back at him, all teeth and fangs, when Arthur pulls you closer instead.

You think it’s the venom that has his eyes dancing with a strange sort of light- a coyote snapping its teeth at something in the tall grass. He licks his lips as he leans closer, wound forgotten as he bends towards you.

Poison, you think, as he kisses you for the first time. Poison of the sweetest kind, aching and open and desperate as he shivers fully against you- as you knock the hat from his head and loop your arms around his neck as if he’ll dare to part from you. You swallow him down fully, heedless of the venom, of the fever he possesses just for you, of the starving thing that hollows out both of your souls, only to be filled by the other.

- - -

Despite yourself, despite everything, you fold.

It begins like a distant rainstorm, the soft mist of rain against the earth. You swallow a sob despite the tears against your face, despite the urge to hold it all in. Showing weakness was how this story began. It was how he left you.

Your weakness has always been him.

A sob startles loose from your chest, and you vainly press your palms to your eyes as if it can contain your tears. Anger, despair, hopelessness but above all else longing for the things you lost, for the time you had with him, for the things you did just to stay with him.

You hate him, hate yourself, hate the things you both lived for even if it kept you alive just to be with each other. You want to go back to the sunny day where he kissed you under the open sky and confessed his love for you against your lips. You want to banish him and scream into your solitude, you want to go back to a time where you never knew him. You want him to never leave you again.

Wordless cries, desperate noises from the broken thing that’s resided in you all this time, and all at once you’re swallowed up by his arms. He presses you to his chest and you try to fight him, you do, but Arthur holds you despite your struggles, hushes you as he hugs you to him like he’ll never let you go again.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers against you as you fall apart, as you shatter into pieces that have been held together by string all this time. It’s the words you’ve wished for all this time but it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s here, and you hate yourself for allowing yourself to weep into his arms despite your promises you never would again.

Then again, you’ve both been fools from the very start.

- - -

You don’t see the third coach guard crouched on the floor.

Wet, warm breaths cling to the fabric against your nose and chin, sweat beading your forehead as you peek out from behind the tree to check for any remaining gunmen. Corpses litter the ground on the country road, the horses whinnying frantically as shouts call out between the group of you. The scent of blood, of gunpowder is a familiar aura to you by now. It cloaks itself around you, drapes its skeletal arms about your shoulders and whispers a tender embrace of death.

You stare into the barrel of a rifle, eyes wide.

Death does not lend itself to you when the shot rings out- not his.

From the tree beside you, Arthur’s pistol smokes, the bullet having found its mark.

Your heart hammers too loudly, too close to keep it silent from him you think. It feels lodged in your throat, something akin to a scream, a sigh stuck there unable to release. Arthur’s eyes are flinty from above his bandanna, steel blue like platinum, like a blade so sharp it slices through your ribs and inward towards your soul.

You try to speak, all you can manage is a nod.

“You okay?” He asks, breathless, weapon still raised. Your hands shake.

“Fine.” Your voice is calmer than it should be. “...Thank you.”

Arthur shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave you, not for a long while.

“Let’s get this done!” Dutch calls, voice cracking with his volume as he darts towards the lockbox. You wait until Arthur goes after him to follow, unsteady on your feet.

You pass by the guard in the coach, halfway hanging out of the window, a red dribbling from the center of his head.

His eyes reflect you.

- - -

“I waited for you.” You sob, fingers gripping his shirt and bunching the fabric between your fists. “You told me you’d come back. You said-”

“I know.” Arthur soothes, voice cracking as you sniffle into his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“I told myself you were dead. When you didn’t come back, I told myself you died if only to spare myself the pain. I wanted-” You sob.

I wanted you to be dead rather than live a life without me.

There’s an ache inside you fit to burst, a seed planted the moment he kissed you goodbye with false promises of a reunion. It blossoms scarlet in eulogy, painting your remembrance in washes of crimson cast aphotic upon your soul. You want to burrow yourself inside its thorny stems where he can’t touch you, resign yourself to solitude in vain hope it will dull the pain.

Yet Arthur holds you, cradles you in his arms like a fawn hidden in the goldenrod where you empty yourself of cries, confessing to him the seed of grief he planted all those years ago.

“You’re okay.” He whispers into your hair, and his embrace nearly squeezes the air from your lungs with how tight he gathers you close to him. “I’m here.”

“I’m here.”

- - -

You awake with a gasp, back bowing off your bedroll and eyes wide with sightless terror. Your fingers curl into your blanket, a whimper bubbling up your throat. In the vision that plagues you, your hands are dipped red, holding a bloody rifle pointed at the eyes of the stagecoach guard. He reaches for you with a wet gurgle, offers a damnation that shivers under your skin and sinks into your bones.

His eyes reflect you.

Hands land on you, press your shoulders back against the ground and you struggle against them on pure instinct, throwing out your curled fist only for it to meet empty air.

“Hey- hey!” A voice whispers harshly above you, weight settling over your hips to pin you down. “Calm- calm down!”

It takes a few moments for the voice to register, and in that time Arthur wrestles your hands above your head in one gloved grip, the other holding your face with a gentle shake until your eyes focus on him.

“It��s me.” He breathes, shoulders heaving, eyes glimmering like stars in the darkness. “Just me.”

You’re shaking, trembling from head to toe as the scent of iron clogs your lungs and you try to think through the haze of terror gripping you. Arthur’s voice cuts through the fog, and you go lax under him. Trusting, sincere, knowing that of all the people in the world, it’s Arthur who will guard you- keep you safe.

“I’m here.” He whispers, softer, dropping his head towards you as you shudder. “You’re okay.”

- - -

“Why did you have to die, only to come back to haunt me?” You ask hoarsely into his chest, nose pressed against his shirt. You remember the feeling of the hair underneath as you traced it under the pads of your fingers.

Arthur is silent, one hand slowly tracing the curve of your spine as long shadows dance through the small, dim interior of your cabin. A single oil lantern casts you both in a yellow glow as sienna fades against the sunset fading west to the place where you both belong. Open, wild, free.

“You’re the ghost I never wanted to see.” You whisper, and Arthur stiffens. Yet you nuzzle closer into his chest. He still smells the same. Tangy sweat, acrid smoke of gunpowder, and beneath- something unshakable, tender, something that feels like home.

“Tell me to leave.” He tells you at last, and he sounds desperate in a way you haven’t heard in so long. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me to go and never come back.”

His hand cradles your head, presses you closer, and you melt further into his hold, into the thing you’ve hated yourself for ever wanting, and you go willingly.

“Tell me.” He says again, voice all wood smoke and pine, a forest campfire against a glimmering expanse of stars.

Yet you’re silent. The voice that holds your protests, your anger feels weak in his embrace, tendered by memory and the touch of him. The rational part of you knows you should, that you should let go of him forever and try to live a life free of violence in pursuit of glory. You know hanging onto Arthur means anchoring yourself to a ship destined to sink to the bottom of the ocean, but the part of you that remembers what it meant to kiss him, to be held by him, to be loved, doesn’t seem to care.

So instead the word that falls from your lips is:

“Stay.”

- - -

“Stay.” You ask him quietly, gripping at his sleeve as if you were a child. Arthur seems frozen to the spot, unbalanced and unsure. His own bedroll lays a short distance away, at the edge of the fire that licks warm against your bare arms. You half expect him to gently withdraw your hand from him, whisper a goodnight and turn with his back towards you. The taste of his lips upon yours those weeks ago lingers, and you wonder if the poison inside of you both has finally quelled the gnawing hunger inside both your souls.

Arthur turns to you, lips parted. You want to steal another kiss from them just as you live your life on thievery- this treasure more precious than all the others. You want to wrap yourself in him like smoke, bathe in the moonlight waters of his gaze and burrow deep into his chest where you’ve made your den. The wilderness of his soul feels inherent to yours, alight with the misty green valleys and towering, ancient forests of which you find yourselves in.

“Stay.” You say again, quieter. Softer. Pleading.

He goes to you, and it feels like a dream of a different nature. It feels like something from a vision, the way he bends to you, raises you to his lips and breathes whiskey onto your tongue.

“Sweetheart.” He whispers there, and you shudder at the slow, sweet drip of his voice onto your tongue. You crane towards him, shivering, too warm, wanting to burn alive in the cinders of his touch.

He kisses you again, harder, more forcefully, a low groan spilling past his lips. You wrap your arms around his neck, drag him down with you into hell, where the sins of the lives you’ve led taste just as sweet as the other upon your tongue.

- - -

“Just for tonight at least.” You whisper hoarsely, fingers gripping at his jacket, nose buried against the worn cotton of his shirt. You know from experience that Arthur’s loyalty runs deep, far too deep for even you to conquer. To ask him to stay is like asking a wild thing to release dying prey from the clutch of its maw. Even if you pry at his jaws and make your fingers bleed he won’t relent. Red from your palms blooms like yarrow under sunlight, and all it does is make his eyes glimmer with an unquenchable hunger.

“I just...you owe me that much.” You go on, and it’s a low blow, one he doesn’t deserve after the time he spent trying to search for you, but you’re selfish just as he is. In this moment you need him, you need him to stay just to call him yours for the scarce time you have together.

Arthur’s arms are still around you. You can hear his heartbeat thump against your cheek as you nuzzle against him. You can hear the hesitation held between his breaths just like the calm before a thunderstorm before it slaps against the space between sky and earth. Silently, you beg whatever god has not deserted you that you can be afforded this much, that you can close your eyes and pretend just for a moment he won’t leave you again.

Finally, Arthur breathes. Rather than speak, you feel the moment he surrenders with the tension bleeding from his shoulders, reaching to tip your chin upwards into his waiting mouth. You go without an ounce of resistance, too tired to fight, to scream, to even feel the tear that escapes the corner of your eye.

“Alrigh’.” Arthur sighs into your lips, and swallows your shuddering breath.

- - -

You’re drunk on the taste of him, on the low moan that rumbles from his chest. You taste endearments on his tongue as he whispers them with low, sinuous tones that make your toes curl. To kiss Arthur is to feel the vibrancy of life itself against your lips. Living without regret, without fear, reckless as he smiles to hail of gunfire and glinting knives. Alive, wild, untamed in a way you can’t seem to manage but want so desperately to be.

Arthur kisses you without any hesitation, without a sense of gentleness. Desperate, wet, noisy as he laps at the inside of your mouth, feeds on the mewl that bubbles up your throat. His teeth find your bottom lip, your jaw, your breast. He finds the pulsing vein of your throat and you wonder if he’ll bite down on that too, let red gush into his mouth if only to quench the hunger inside of him. It’s not enough- it never is. The very act of living isn’t nearly enough for his soul- as endless as the map of the world itself. Neither is the sensation of your blunted nails digging into his shoulders, crawling beneath his shirt and tracing through the coarse hair of his stomach just as his muscles jump under your touch.

The desire of being wanted, of being found, of belonging here is enough to make you fall apart in his arms, where he feasts upon the sin of your flesh. Into your neck he whispers “Darlin’.” Against your bared breasts he growls “Sweetheart.” Between your legs, where his tongue laps against your glistening folds he breathes. “Mine.”

All your life you have wandered in search of somewhere to rest the empty fringes of your heart, to lose yourself in someone else just as the horizon swallows up the setting western sun. If Arthur asked you to open yourself to him, to swear yourself to just him, to follow him into hell itself, you think you would follow just as long as he held your hand.

He kisses the tears of overwhelm from your eyes, and you taste the salt of them upon your lips.

Arthur devours you, and you allow him gladly.

- - -

He takes you to bed, gentle in a way that feels unfamiliar. A younger version of him would have met you with clacking teeth and a bruising grip- overeager, hungry and ferocious all at once. Now Arthur is softer, dulled at the edges like a worn knife. Still sharp enough to leave a jagged wound upon your heart. Every slow, languid kiss melts away at the loneliness that has kept you as your only companion for years. His hands pull carefully at your shawl, your shirt, popping each button with nimble hands trained from years of violence.

He tastes like bourbon, like cigarettes, like sweat and gun oil. Traces of the life he lives beyond the bounds of laws. Your fingers tangle in his overgrown hair, drag him down so he can lick inside your open mouth and pour careless whispers onto your tongue. You want him to surround you, to be inside you, to crack open your ribs and make himself home in the place where he’s always belonged no matter how much it might hurt you.

There’s a need inside you unlike anything else. To call it hunger would be to call a wolf tamed. It cannot be fed no matter how much he indulges you, and with every second he parts to breathe it howls with something primal and ferocious that threatens to bleed him dry. Your teeth snag on his bottom lip and Arthur growls in return, a low rumble of warning you dare not heed.

“I want you like you used to have me.” You pant, bracing his forehead against yours, feeling the sweat build against his nape as he presses you into the wall with his bulky frame. “Like we had nothing else to live for.”

You feel Arthur pause, feel a fission of tension run through his shoulders, his hand curling as it braces on the wall behind you.

“My girl.” He offers then, in a voice that haunts your waking dreams. “Mine.”

- - -

He’s looking west.

The sky arches over both of you, cloudless, azure, open to the horizon in any given direction. Prairie grass tickles your cheeks as you lay beside him, your hand trapped beneath his gun calloused palm. The wind ruffles his hair and in this moment you can’t help but think how alive Arthur looks- sunburned but smiling, wistful in his eyes as he stares at the western sky. Hoping, longing, desiring something you both will never reach.

You reach for him, and wordlessly he goes to you, breathing against your lips as if he would a prayer. Without words you understand each other, through touch alone you convey symphonies of the endless sky and all the hopes wished to it. Arthur kisses you like the wind that carves through the bluffs- wild and beautiful and home.

“My girl.” He rumbles from above you, braced on his elbows as he gazes down at you. You trace the growing lines on his face, of age that finds you both. Proof of the life you’ve both lived, of survival despite brutality and violence for the sake of this thing called freedom.

He is no longer the young man you knew when you found him all those years ago, and you find yourself have changed as well. You’re softer now, aged by the blood on your hands that sinks into your veins and transforms you. Guilt and regret are things that are not allowed to you, not with the sins engraved into your soul. You think the longing for peace is the same thing Arthur feels when he looks west. Freedom of a different kind.

Yet you know too that you’d do it all again for him, for this moment where he kisses you under the beautiful blue sky the same color of his eyes looking ever towards the horizon. In this moment you are happy, you are loved, and you would gladly drown yourself in sin if it means you can stay with him for just a moment longer.

- - -

The scars on him are different now. You trace them under the bare pads of your fingers as he pauses to hold his own between his bared teeth and pull off his gloves. Under him, you lean back to admire the strength in his bare shoulders, the sinewy muscle that lays under a thick thatch of curls that you trace down to his stomach. Arthur shudders above you, braced on his forearms, panting, hair falling into his wild, flinty eyes.

Arthur looks at you like he’s seen a ghost, too transfixed to look away. For a moment his eyes are distant, and you know where his mind goes, to that stormy night atop canyon bluffs where he had held your limp form and begged you for something you could not give.

“Arthur.” You whisper, and the light in his eyes changes. You watch his throat bob, his jaw tighten for a moment before he shudders into you, the bulge in his pants nudging insistently at your thighs, which you spread to either side of him with open invitation. “Arthur.”

He leans down to kiss you again, groaning openly into your mouth. It’s messy- wet and slick as he sucks at your tongue. Brow scrunched, he lets himself fall into you, allows himself the cardinal sin of remembrance amidst betrayal. You welcome him with open arms, knowing despite your fruitless efforts that you were meant to be here, in his embrace.

“You’re going to haunt me for the rest of my days.” He murmurs as his hand strokes the bareness of your inner thigh.

Outside, coyotes howl at the moon.

- - -

The golden glow of the fire casts him in resplendent light. Bare chested, sinewy with taut, lean muscle. His hair has gotten longer, clinging with sweat to his nape and brushed from his eyes. You follow the silvery skin of an old wound from his rib to his side- a shallow knife slash you stitched yourself. As he bends forward you long to knead the soft flesh of his stomach under your palms, trace the line of hair from his navel downwards into his lap where the worn, leather-bound notebook resides under his palms.

You lay on your side, bare under his draped bedroll, watching him sit beside you. He traces your likeness into the pages of his journal, eyes flickering like flames as they dart from you to the paper as if he can’t entirely trust himself to remember the vision of you. The spend of his leaks between your wet thighs, and you know by night’s end he will have added to it, so ravenous is his hunger for you.

“Writing about me?” You ask as he glances up at your face, a knowing smile on your lips.

He hums a low note, raspy in his chest as his mouth tugs into a smirk.

“Horrible, nasty things.” He muses, and you snort.

Your hand travels from under your chin, southward to cup the swell of your breast under his hungry gaze. You catch your lip between your teeth as you moan, watching his eyes glimmer and his hands pause over the pages. Temptation, bait for a wild creature who crawls towards you, over you, smiling into your purring mouth.

“Again.” You tell him without preamble, and you taste his smile against his lips.

- - -

He settles himself above you, all musk and smoke as he rolls his hips against yours in languid, slow thrusts. You feel his shoulders shiver under your bare hands, forehead pressed to yours and every rattling breath fanning across your skin. He’s indulging, gentle, remembering what it was like to have you as his. You wonder if he’s lost the memory of every scar, every dip and curve of your body against his.

The stretch is uncomfortable at first, larger than you remember as you whimper into his neck. A hand braces at your hip, rubs soothing circles into your skin as he angles with slow, powerful motions that drag at the burning need inside of you like a riptide. The tip of him nudges something deep inside you that’s remained untouched since you lost him, and the aftereffect sends coiling pleasure fissuring out along your limbs like gunpowder igniting under your skin.

Your need dribbles out around the plug of his girth, stretching you until your toes curl and you moan openly, baring your neck to his ravenous gaze. Arthur is loud above you, an endless stream of words and noise that burrows warm and viscous into your veins.

“Yeah, that’s it. Fuck- fuck. That’s my girl. So damn pretty.” He huffs, voice catching something low and rough in his chest. He moans long and loud as you clench up around him, gritting his teeth as his hips stutter for a moment- exhaling long through his nose. “Not gonna last if you tighten up like that, sweetheart.”

Cheeky, you flex down on him again and the noise that drops from his mouth is sinful. It only lengthens his thrusts, bracing himself so he can fuck down into you, his tip nudging your slick walls that grip him with every retreat. The pace is enough to drive you mad, gripping at him until bruises are sure to form along his skin. You want to leave a memory of you there, want to mark him so that when he leaves he’ll remember you for just a little longer.

and quietly, despite yourself, you hope he stays.

- - -

On the third dawn of your long ride with Arthur, you awake tangled in his arms, legs entwined with his as the low, blue glow of sunrise softly colors the sky above. The fire has burned down to cinders, and the cool bite of morning against your bare skin has you cuddle all the closer to him, listening to his sleepy groan as he rouses.

He whispers good morning against your soft lips, and in return you smile against the corner of his mouth. Arthur tastes like sweat and sunshine, like something wonderful and wild that you can never truly wrap your hands around despite the yearning inside you.

You should rise along with the sun, should pack up camp and continue on this scouting mission Dutch has sent you both on. You’ve taken long enough, should have been heading back days ago, but instead you find yourself here, tangled in each other's arms as the low, azure hues of dawn settle over your bare forms.

Arthur seems to think the same, because when you try to wiggle out of his arms, reach for your haphazardly shed clothes, his arms only fasten around you all the tighter, nose buried against your collarbone.

“Stay.”

For him? Always.

- - -

There’s tears brimming in your eyes. From the overwhelm of sensation as Arthur gently tugs one of your nipples between his teeth, from the sharp stab of memory between your ribs, you aren’t entirely sure. They well hot in your eyes, your voice caught between a sob and a moan, legs trembling as you press your heels into his back.

Arthur’s blue eyes fasten on you, look up at your knotted brow and trembling lip as he softens at the seams, takes your face in his hands and turns you up to him.

“Darlin’.” He rumbles, syrupy and sweet like the warm bite of bourbon. His lips descend to the corner of your fluttering eyes, drinking in the salt from your wounds laid bare beneath him.

“Arthur.” You whisper, voice cracking on the sound. It hurts, you think, somewhere deep inside of you, but the pain is buried by the sensation of him inside you, above you, around you, engulfing you like a tidal wave out to shore where all your reservations drown in the deep.

You kiss him, salt upon his tongue, melting into him. It’s what you’ve always wanted. It’s the place you thought you belonged for so long. In this moment, it’s the only thing you’ll ever have.

Arthur’s gun calloused hand slides down to the meat of your thigh, hauls you up so your calf is pressed against his shoulder and you moan, the new angle allowing him to press deeper inside you. It’s all you can do to cling to him as Arthur resumes his pace, whimpers bubbling up your throat as he leans back and begins to truly fuck you, grunting and groaning, words incoherent.

“Fuck- fuck beautiful. Feel so fuckin’ good, so pretty.” He pants, pausing to suck a bite into your calf which has you bow off the bed with a yelp. “Yeah, that’s it. Lemme hear you, honey.”

“Arthur-” You moan in return, and if it’s a plea or a prayer you aren’t sure. Everything feels too warm, too bright, nerves narrowing down to the feeling of him inside you, the press of his public bone into your clit as he claims you like you’re his.

You remember this. You remember the snarling, wet kisses and bruised lips and the feral sensation of it all, two wild things in the wilderness lost except for each other.

and, quietly, you find the words within you to say:

“I love you.”

- - -

He takes you there under the open blue sky, tucked away in an aspen grove where a vixen barks nearby. Sunshine fills your head, golden and honey-sweet as you laugh under him, his teeth nibbling against your neck where you can feel his smile. You’re wasting time, laying in the sun bare and uncaring, wrapped in each other, and you can’t think of any place you’d rather be than here.

Arthur braces on his arms suddenly, twisting off to the side and hauling your bare leg over his hip. You think for a moment he’ll slide inside you again, but instead Arthur pauses. Thinking, eyes distant.

“I...” he tries at first, suddenly hoarse. There’s an emotion in his stare you don’t have words for. His scraped knuckles brush your cheek. “I love you.”

You blink, caught off guard, eyes wide with wonderful realization that blossoms like yarrow under rising summer sun.

“You...I...” He tries again, at a loss. “Hell, I’ve never been good with words sweetheart, I-”

You lean forward, brush your lips with his. It silences him with a little noise of surprise, a breathless sort of shudder that trembles through the sinew of his shoulders.

“I love you, Arthur Morgan.” You whisper, fingers stroking through his sweat damp hair. “I love you.”

He grins, and you feel your chest flutter helplessly, surrendering completely to him.

“My girl.” He rumbles, lips descending to yours again as sunshine abounds inside your heart.

- - -

“I love you.” You say again, holding his face as Arthur pants into your mouth, chasing his release just as he chases yours. “Despite everything, I love you.”

His forehead drops to yours, tongues entwined as he groans into your mouth, lost in the haze. You can still taste the salt of your tears, and you wonder if Arthur allowed himself, if perhaps he’d cry too. For the regret of leaving you, for the pain of losing you, for the years spent without you, for this moment where you both pretend like this will be the rest of your lives.

“Gonna fill you up.” He growls, teeth catching on your lip. “Let me. Let me, please darlin. I want-”

“Tell me you love me.” You manage between gasps, hands tangled in his hair, hauling him down against you, legs locked around his hips to prevent any thoughts of escape. “Say it.”

“I love you. I love you. Fuck, honey- I love you. I’ve wanted you all this time, needed you-” Arthur babbles, hips stuttering. You can feel him twitch inside you, and you cant your hips up to meet him just as Arthur curses, leans back to rub a calloused thumb over your clit and your body sings. Lightning fractures your spine, the pressure building so fast and overwhelming you can hardly choke out a warning of your impending orgasm before it begins to crest.

“Cum fr’me, c’mon.” Arthur growls, jaw grinding as he thrusts into you with the beginning throes of his release. “C’mon sweetheart lemme feel it, need to feel it, c’mon- oh fuck-”

You sob as you finally cum, legs shaking as the pressure recoils taut through your muscles and spreads warm along your limbs. Your ears are ringing from the force of it, so severe and sudden it’s all you can do but to hang on to Arthur as he grinds his thumb into your clit, working you through it, punches the final few thrusts inside of you with a whine bitten off at the back of his throat.

“Good girl- damn. Good girl, my girl. So good fr’me.” He slurs, feeling the ricochets of your release ripple down over his length just as he empties inside of you, shuddering and grinding his release into you. “That’s it. My girl. Feels like heaven darlin.”

He cuts himself off with a low, shuddering groan before dropping his weight onto you, cock twitching still. You pepper his face with kisses. His mouth, his nose, his eyes, his cheeks and knotted brow. Arthur pants against you just as you catch your breath, skin damp with sweat and sex, the cabin too warm now in a way that makes you want to wrap yourself in him all that much more.

“I love you.” Arthur says again, but this time it’s aching, tender, and you hear the years spent without saying it in his voice. “Never stopped lovin’ you.”

He pauses, and you feel him swallow with his head dropped to your shoulder so you can’t see his eyes. “I tried. I tried to stop but...”

You raise his face to yours, and feel his confession upon his lips.

- - -

“I love you.” He says again, as the stars glimmer above, as the fire crackles beside your tent. Here in the middle of everything you are the only two creatures to exist, away from violence, from machinations and savagery and the curse you’ve both gained through the weight of your sins.

The fire catches golden against his eyes, his hair, his bare chest as he braces above you. Sweat beads his brow as he rolls his hips against you, your heels pressed into the small of his back as you swallow his confession with a breathless gasp. The dizzying intoxication of him glows warm in your veins, thrums under your skin and electrifies you. Pleasure curls hot and liquid below your belly but it doesn’t compare to the warmth in your chest as he echoes your name again, braces his forehead on yours.

“I love you.” He tells you, and it’s desperate somehow, as if he thinks you haven’t heard him, as if he’s never said it before and will somehow lose the chance. You kiss him, swallow his moan with your tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth, fingers tangled in his hair to drag him impossibly closer. “My girl. God-”

He sits up, hauls you with him so you’re braced into his lap. You loop your arms around his neck, bounce on his lap and feel the smile he presses to the corner of your lips when you giggle. His hands splay against your back, cup the swell of your ass just as he nips at your collarbone, knowing the mark he’ll leave there for the others to see. You don’t care. Let them know, you think, that the things you fight and kill for, the murders you commit, the lives you ruin, are for this- for the freedom he loves so much.

Freedom, if only to love him in return.

- - -

He lays with you tucked in his arms, fingers tracing along your nape, legs tangled. If you close your eyes, you can almost feel the desert stars above from all those years ago. It’s warm here, and your home is finally complete with him in it.

Yet the unspoken lingers, the whisper of goodbye both past and future quiet ghosts to this moment of peace you wish you could stay in. You cling to Arthur like a life raft amidst stormy seas, knowing at any moment he can be torn from you, that you’ll be cast into the cavernous depths below.

“I don’t want to be alone again.” You whisper to nobody but yourself.

Arthur’s fingers pause, and with his heart below your cheek you feel him shift, tip your face towards his.

Blue eyes. The color of a Sunday morning where missionary church bells ring. The color of skies promising rain, of the oceans you never got to see, of the waves that threaten to rip him from your hold.

“I am never leaving you alone again.” Arthur whispers, and the fierceness of it startles you, makes your heart leap in your chest. It would be a snarl if it weren’t for the tender caress of his hands against your bare form, the way his thumb presses down on the soft bed of your lip.

When he kisses you, it feels like a vow.

- - -

You stand atop the valley at sunset. Orange bleeds across the sky, where the train station waits below. Smoke curls up into the heavens from the steam engine, and you watch the distant glimmer of gold from high above as it’s loaded onto the train.

Beside you, Arthur whistles low and long, lowering his binoculars. There’s a telltale glimmer in his eyes, the kind you see only when he’s sizing up a score. Grinning, all teeth, fangs bared. If he had a tail, he’d be yipping at the sky.

A thief, through and through, even though you’re the one that stole his heart.

“Think we can manage it?” You ask, and your horse seems to sense your trepidation, pawing at the soft earth anxiously.

Arthur hums low, considering. “Need to do it smart, but with Dutch and the others I’d say so.”

Smart. You’ve known Dutch to be clever, wily, but smart...

You can’t shake the dark cloud that looms inky over your thoughts like distant thunderclouds, the feeling that this isn’t as easy as it looks. There’s something off here, and you can’t seem to place it.

Above, a vulture circles.

“Might get away with enough for me to buy you something.” Arthur murmurs, shooting a sidelong smirk at you. You huff, trying to cover the doubtful flicker of your eyes.

“Like what?”

“A ring?”

You stare at him, slack jawed, the wind whistling between you the only sound on earth. Flabbergasted, you try to speak, to question him, anything, but Arthur leans forward out of his saddle, uses his gloved knuckle to close your mouth.

“Gonna catch flies, sweetheart.”

You splutter, reaching for him, but he darts away. In fact, he urges his horse about, turning on his heel and racing back down the trail as your voice echoes after him indignantly.

Arthur laughs upwards towards the setting western sun.

- - -

He falls asleep holding you, arms wrapped around you as if he’ll never let you go, just as he says.

It takes effort not to cry.

You tell yourself you believe him, that this time he’ll stay. You tell yourself he loves you more than he loves freedom itself, that all that glitters is not gold. For the briefest, fleeting moments, you allow yourself to dream of him growing old by your side, of getting to watch the grays dot his temples, smile lines etched into his face. You think about what it would be like to watch the setting sun with him as you both slowly fade away.

You think about how you asked him to leave with you once, how you’d quietly confessed to him that you could no longer live this life but were unable to part from him.

You think about the heartbreak in his eyes.

and you know, deep inside yourself, here tucked in his embrace...

That it is better to think of this as just a dream.

- - -

You don’t feel the bullet. Not at first.

You hardly hear it above the din, the echo of gunshots all around you. Yelling, gun smoke, the shriek of horses as you try to out-ride your pursuers suffocates the world around you. Your mare stinks of foamy sweat as her legs pump under her, trying to carry both you and the bags of gold dust secured behind your saddle. The whites of her eyes show, wild as you race alongside the others, turning to fire behind you as gunfire glints in the darkness.

You can hardly tell the difference between the whistle of bullets and the slicing wind, the rain that drives hard against your skin, leaks into your eyes so you can hardly see.

It’s only after you raise your gun arm again, feel it fall limp and weak to your side that you notice something’s wrong.

As the world tilts, you hear Arthur scream.

You’re still trying to raise your gun when you slouch sideways in the saddle. Your mare races onward with you as her limp passenger, blind with fear and twice as fast.

Arthur is yelling as you fumble for the reins, as you finally notice how the rain seems to seep below your clothes, how it feels warm against your skin.

You focus on trying to sit up, trying to breathe against the blinding pain that erupts from your shoulder. Your ears are ringing, trying to discern the thunder from the eruption of guns behind you. There’s voices, muffled as you try to focus on them, movement on either side of you as John and Davey drop back to cover you. You try and urge your mare faster, spurs digging into her sides, and she only squeals.

All at once, arms fasten around your middle and you feel your body hauled abruptly sideways, off balance. They cradle you to his chest as you slouch sideways in his saddle, blood trickling down your arm and onto his.

“C’mon.” Arthur grits, trying to shake you before his voice goes breathy, desperate.

“Stay with me. Stay with me.”

- - -

You wake to an empty house, and a note.

Sweetheart, it reads, and you graze the torn edges of the paper, fresh from his journal

I’m sorry. There’s things I need to do, debts I need to settle. I’ll be back for you. I promise.

I love you.

- - -

“We need to draw them away. Keep them on our tail and then shake em.” Dutch announces, voice low and grim. You feel Arthur’s arms tighten around you. It feels as if you can barely grip his jacket. The fabric slips under your fingers, slick from the rain. The grove at the edge of the valley rise is dark in the rain. You can hardly see Dutch beyond the darkness. No lanterns lest your pursuers spot you. Even now, you can hear them in the distance. Hollering, searching.

“We can’t just leave her-” Arthur tries to protest, voice bordering on a snarl and-

“Arthur.” Dutch says, voice ringing deep with his baritone, and you hear Arthur’s jaw click shut almost instantly. Duty bound. Kept at heel.

There’s words then, quieter, more grim that you can’t make out. You drift in and out of awareness. The world around you feels too cold, the grip on the pistol in your hand too loose in a way you can’t seem to tighten. Blood oozes steadily from your wound, dresses you in a blossoming red of yarrow flowers laid upon your grave.

Then, Arthur.

“We gotta go darlin.” He breathes, voice tight, and you are awake just enough to try and shake your head no. Not like this. You always thought he would be here at the end. “Just- just stay alive. Please.”

“Arthur.” You wheeze, gripping at his coat, his arms, anywhere you can reach. Pistol forgotten so you can touch him. Just him.

He presses kisses to your scrunched brow, bloodied hands cupping your wan face as you whimper. You can feel the warmth of his breath spill across your skin as he speaks. It smells like cigarettes, and where you usually wrinkle your nose now it feels like the only tether to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll be back soon. Stay here.”

Your protest is a dull, groaning sound in your ears as you try to grip at him, weak and exhausted as you are. You try to form words on your leaden tongue. Please, please. Just a little longer. Stay, until the end.

You don’t realize you’re crying until Arthur kisses the corner of your eyes, warmth beading in your liquid gaze. There’s a hiccup forming in your throat, and it clogs the words you want to say to him, a plea to stay just a little longer until you fall asleep forever.

“I’ll find you.” He promises, voice catching in his throat even as he begins to pull away. “I will. I promise.”

“No-” You try in one last, feeble attempt. “A-Arth...ur.”

“I’m sorry.” He whispers against the corner of your mouth. “I love you.”

When he pulls away, the cold is all you feel.

- - -

Just like that, you’re back where you started. Except this time, it’s so much worse.

There’s traces of him everywhere in your home. The scent of him clings to your sheets, his empty dinner plate on your table, a stubbed cigarette burn on the porch outside. Undeniable, painful. It hurts to see the ghost of him after he had held you, told you he loved you, and promised to never leave again.

You should have known. You should have never allowed yourself to think even for a moment this could end any other way. Arthur could never be tethered down, could never be tamed by your gentle hands seeking his bloody fangs that squeezed tight down onto something he could never let go of. To think otherwise was beyond foolish, and yet you’d allowed your heart to open for a fleeting moment in which he nestled between your ribs, only to leave something bitter and rotten in its wake.

In the end, you try to convince yourself it was just a dream.

Even if you do wish it was real.

The seasons change. The golden afternoons of fall fade to winter. Snow blankets your homestead in silence, and you pretend not to notice the chill of tears against your cheeks as you stand on your front step and try not to look down the lonely road where you dare to hope he’ll return from.

You tell yourself he died, if only to make it easier.

As spring blossoms new life in the valley you think more about moving west again. It’s been years, and you know whatever life you lived there is long gone. The lives that stained your hands, the sins you committed, the person you were, died on the night Arthur left you. Nobody would recognize you now. You could tell them you’re a widow, say the man you loved died and you’re there for a new start. Folks would believe you, if only for the way your eyes always look a little lost, distant, looking for somewhere to belong again.

You think about Arthur riding up onto your empty home where the only thing left behind is the yarrow flowers you’ve kept pressed in your notebook all this time. You wonder if he’d hurt as much as you do.

It’s better this way, you tell yourself. Arthur was never going to change. He was never going to be the man you needed, but maybe that’s why you loved him so. You loved Arthur because he was intangible, yours but never truly there, his eyes always looking west, his gaze glimmering in a way you wished so dearly would be only for you.

You pack your things, quietly tell your neighbors you’ll be leaving. They wish you well, buying your meager belongings so the only things you have to your name fit on the back of your horse. It’s achingly familiar, living just from your saddle bag and satchel. You tuck your rifle along the saddle of your mare and pray you don’t need to use it, and make plans to head west.

The night before you leave, you cry until you’re hoarse.

and come dawn, he comes to you.

You awake to the sound of a horse neighing, and you know it isn’t yours. Your feet carry you to the porch before you even know you’re there, heart leaping wildly as you watch him quietly ride up to you. Slowly, each hoofbeat slower than your racing heartbeat, and when Arthur looks up at you from beneath his hat, you sob.

It’s the heartache that keeps you rooted to the spot when he dismounts, removes his hat to his heart. You want to laugh at the gesture, so unlike him, but the sadness, the plea in his eyes makes the air in your chest so thin it hurts to breathe.

You stare at each other. Words alone are unable to convey the depth of emotion shared in your gazes. Everything inside you screams to race down the steps, fling yourself into his arms, cry until you're empty and welcome him home to the place inside you that’s always been empty in his absence. You want to scream, to yell, to curse him, but the only sound that you can summon is simply: “Arthur.”

You watch his throat bob, at a loss for words before he finally speaks.

“I’m not going back.”

When you say nothing, he goes on.

“I...I’ve done things, bad things. I’m not a good man, that I know. I’ve made my peace with that. Even if I try, I’ll never...”

He pauses, and you see him struggle. You stand firm, unmoving, scarcely breathing as he offers himself to you.

“We...I-” He falters, and there’s an emotion that flashes over his face that you don’t recognize. A compass broken, his axis failed under him. Arthur stares through you towards something you cannot see, another future that plays out before his eyes with horrifying viscera that paints his gaze.

“I tried to settle debts, make things right. But Dutch-” His voice cracks. There’s something caught inside of him, guilt torn between devotion and realism that changes the polarity of his wayward path. “Dutch isn’t the man I thought he was. I shoulda seen it sooner but I’ve been so blind. Blind to...a lot of things.”

Arthur looks at you, looks at you, and for the first time you feel like he sees you.

“Things went down. The others, they’re fine. Hosea is lookin’ after em now. Gave me his blessing. I rode out of camp. Didn’t look back. I...don’t fancy myself a traitor but for the first time I managed to...to see things for what they were.”

He takes a step forward. You don’t move away, don’t move towards him, but you feel the tears overspill against your too-warm cheeks.

“There is a price on my head, and there will be until the day I die.” Arthur declares softly. “But...if you’ll have me, then I’ll stay. For good.”

You stare at him through the tears, try to school your face into a valiant attempt of passivity, of anger, of righteous fury, anything. Your fists sit clenched at your side. When you try to speak, the only thing that comes out is a hiccup.

Arthur takes a step towards you, eyes crestfallen, and it takes every ounce of strength in you to not fall apart at the seams.

“Why should I have you?” You demand at last, voice thick with tears. “You...you’re a no good, rotten bastard Arthur Morgan. You think you can be an honest man for me, hmm?”

Arthur looks wounded, but he takes it. He takes your anger, purses his lips and it makes you angrier.

“How the hell are you going to earn a living, huh? You only know how to kill and steal a-and-” You break off, scrubbing furiously at your face.

“I...” Arthur tries. “I can read, and write. I can...I can hunt and I’m good with horses-”

“and you probably don’t even have a penny to your name-”

“I can...I can ranch I suppose, but-” Arthur breaks off with a muttered curse. “Goddammit woman, will you have me or not?”

You stare at him, face wet, chest clogged with your cries...

...and you launch yourself down the steps and into his open embrace.

“Ride west with me.” You tell him as he parts from your kiss, his arms fastened around you, blue eyes sparkling. “They way I’ve always wanted.”

“West?” He breathes, breathless. His smile is so radiant it almost burns. “Where?”

“Past new Austin. Out towards Montana, or...I dunno, California. Past the mountains. Back to where it all started and then some.”

Arthur kisses you again, and again. You feel fit to burst at the seams, so outdone by joy and hope that you think you’ll float off into the dawning blue sky above.

“Anywhere.” He promises you. “I’ll buy you that ring, and I swear to God I’ll marry you.”

“You think I’m going to marry a no-good outlaw?” You ask him, tears overflowing.

“I’ll earn some money somehow, even if I have to pan it from a spring myself.”

You laugh, kiss him, hold his face in your hands and dare to dream of the future.

“I love you, Arthur Morgan. I will never stop loving you until the day I die.”

Arthur’s eyes glimmer, and even without words you know the truth that lies in his gaze. Arthur will never leave you. Never again.

“Let’s go.” You whisper against his lips. “Let’s go be free.”

You ride west. In the empty house where he found you, yarrow blooms red in the sunlight.

[greenwitchcrafts]

June 2024 witch guide

Full moon: June 21st

New moon: June 6th

Sabbats: Litha/Summer Solstice- June 20th

June Strawberry Moon

Known as: Aerra Litha, Birth Moon, Blooming Moon, Brachmanoth, Dyad Moon, Egg Laying Moon, Green Corn Moon, Hatching Moon, Hoer Moon, Honey Moon, Lovers Moon, Mead Moon, Moon of Horses, Moon of Making Fat, Partner Moon, Rose Moon & Strong Sun Moon

Element: Earth

Zodiac: Gemini & Cancer

Nature spirits: Sylphs & Zephyrs

Deities: Aine of Knockaine, Bendis, Cerridwen, Green Man, Ishtar, Isis, Neith & Persephone

Animals: Butterfly, frog, monkey & toad

Birds: Peacock & wren

Trees: Maple & Oak

Herbs: Dog grass, meadowsweet, moss, mugwort, parsley, skullcap & vervain

Flowers: Lavender, orchid, tansy & yarrow

Scents: Lavender & lily of the valley

Stones:  Agate, Alexandrite, cat's eye, chrysoberyl, emerald, fluorite, garnet, moonstone, ruby & topaz

Colors: Gold, green, orange & yellow

Energy:  Abundance, balance, change of residence, communication, decision making, education, family relations, full & restful energy, love, marriage, prosperity, positive transformation, prevention, protection, public relations, relationships, responsibility, strength, tides turning, travel & writing

While strawberries certainly are a reddish-pink color and are roundish in shape, the origin of the name “Strawberry Moon” has nothing to do with the Moon’s hue or appearance.

• June's full Moon is typically the last full moon of spring or the first of summer. The June Full Moon will be extraordinary. For the first time since 1985, Full Moon happens precisely on the summer solstice, when the Sun is highest up. Because the Full Moon is always opposite the Sun, this year, you will see that the Moon is 10 widths lower on the horizon than the Sun ever is. 

This “Strawberry Moon” name has been used by Native American Algonquian tribes that live in the northeastern United States as well as the Ojibwe, Dakota, and Lakota peoples to mark the ripening of “June-bearing” strawberries that are ready to be gathered. The Haida term Berries Ripen Moon reflects this as well. As flowers bloom and early fruit ripens, June is a time of great abundance for many.

Litha

Known as: Alban Heruin, Summer Solstice & Whit Sunday

Season: Summer

Element: Fire

Symbols: Besom, fairies, God's eyes, sunflowers & symbols of the sun

Colors: Blue, gold, green, orange, red, tan & yellow

Oils/Incense: Cinnamon, frankincense, heliotrope, lavender, lemon, lily of the valley, mint, musk, myrrh, orange, orange pine, pine, rose, saffron, sandalwood & wisteria

Animals: Cattle, crab, horse & octopus

Birds: Goldfinch, kingfisher, meadowlark, owl, robin & wren

Mythical: Fairies

Stones: Bloodstone, diamond, emerald, jade, lapis lazuli & tiger's eye

Food: Ale, bread, cheese, edible flowers, garden fresh vegetables & fruit, lemons, meade, milk, oranges, pumpernickel bread, summer squash & wine

Herbs/Plants: Anise, basil, betony, cinquefoil, copal, elder, fennel, fern, frankincense, galangal, hemp, ivy, larkspur, lemon, lemon balm, mistletoe, mugwort, mullien, nettle, orange, orpin, plantain, rue, saffron, sandalwood, St.John's wort, thyme, verbena, vervain, wild thyme & ylang-ylang

Flowers: Carnation, chamomile, daisy, heather, heliotrope, honeysuckle, lavender, lily, marigold, orchid, rose, wisteria & yarrow

Trees: Elder, holly, laurel, linden, oak & pine

Goddesses: Amaterasu, Aine, Anahita, Dea, Cerde, Dag, Dana, Eiru, Fenne, Gwydion, Kupala, Mabd, Phoebe, Skhmet & Sul

Gods: Apollo, Baal, Balder, Bel, The Dagda, Donnus, El, The Green Man, Helios, Huon, Jupiter, Llew, Loki, Lugh, Maui, Mithras, Oak/Holly King, Ogmios, Ra, Surya, Thor & Zeus

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Agriculture, changes, divination, ending, fertility, life, light, manifestation, power, purpose, strength, success & unity

Spellwork: Fire & water magick

Activities:

• Charge and cleanse your crystals in the solstice sun

• Make Sun water

• Create crafts with natural elements such as flowers

• Burn a paper with things that no longer serve you or that you are trying to let go

•  Invite friends & family over for a bonfire and/or feast

• Gather & dry herbs for the upcoming year

• Clean, decorate & cleanse your altar with summer symbols

• Brew some sun tea

• Take a ritual bath/shower with flowers

• Make your own sun dial

• Craft a door wreath out of flowers & herbs

• Enjoy some sunrise/sunset yoga

• Volunteer at a food kitchen or animal shelter

• Plant trees (especially ones that may provide fruit or berries to feed the wildlife)

• Watch the sunset & say a blessing to nature

• Make flower infused anointing/spell oils

• Eat fresh fruits & berries

• Participate in a handfasting

• Create shadow art

The history of Litha reveals its deep connections to ancient agricultural societies & their reliance on the sun's power. Celebrated as part of the Wheel of the Year, Litha symbolizes the balance between light & darkness. Throughout history  customs such as bonfires, herb gathering & the construction of sunwheels have marked this festival. Today, Litha continues to be celebrated by various communities, with gatherings at sacred sites & private rituals in natural settings. It serves as a reminder of our connection with nature and the cycles of life.

• The traditions of Litha appear to be borrowed from many cultures. Most ancient cultures celebrated the summer solstice in some way such as the Celts celebrated Litha with hilltop bonfires & dancing. Many people attempted to jump over or through the bonfires for good luck. Other European traditions included setting large wheels on fire & rolling them down a hill into a body of water.

Litha is often associated with Midsummer, a celebration that extends beyond the pagan and Wiccan traditions. Midsummer festivities are observed in many cultures around the world, including Scandinavian countries where it holds a prominent place in their cultural heritage. Midsummer dances, bonfires, & feasts are integral parts of these celebrations, often accompanied by folklore and traditional rituals that honor the sun's energy and the abundance of nature during this time.

The summer solstice is the longest day of the year & in some traditions, Litha is when The Sun(The God) is symbolically at it's peak time of power & the World will soon be ripe to harvest. It is also when The Goddess is pregnant with The God who is to be reborn at Yule.

• In the Northern Hemisphere the Summer Solstice occurs when the Sun reaches its highest and northernmost points in the sky. It marks the start of summer in the northern half of the globe. (In contrast, the June solstice in the Southern Hemisphere is when the Sun is at its lowest point in the sky, marking the start of winter.)

Some also believe the history & spirit of Litha revolve around two deities, The Oak King & The Holly King. In Wiccan and Neo-Pagan traditions, each King rules the Earth for half of the year. From Yule to Litha, the Oak King rules. On Litha, the two battled for the crown and it is then that the Holly King triumphs. The Holly King will rule through fall until Yule, and the cycle will begin again.

Related festivals:

• Vestalia- June 7th -15th

Was a Roman religious festival in honor of Vesta, the goddess of the hearth & the burning continuation of the sacred fire of Rome. It was held from 7–15 June & was reserved as a women's-only event. Domestic & family life in general were represented by the festival of the goddess of the house & of the spirits of the storechamber — Vesta & the Penates .

On the first day of festivities the penus Vestae (sanctum sanctorum of the temple of Vesta which was usually curtained off) was opened for the only time during the year, at which women offered sacrifices. As long as the curtain remained open, mothers could come, barefoot and disheveled, to leave offerings to the goddess in exchange for a blessing to them and their family.

For the last day, the penus Vestae was solemnly closed, the Flaminica Dialis observed mourning & the temple was subjected to a purification called stercoratio: the filth was swept from the temple and carried next by the route called clivus Capitolinus and then into the Tiber.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

[lorelune]

regency au jing yuan how you are haunting me.

(continued here!)

a retired general who at the ripe age of thirty five has never taken a wife. never showed any interest in procuring a spouse nor does he entertain any attempts by the mamas of the ton to throw their eligible children at him. he is a polite scoundrel, kind-hearted in a way that makes those with half a mind question how someone with his demeanor could ever be the famed general who's strategies downed Shuhu during the Abundance Upheaval. he doesn't seem to care for his legacy, as much as he has cultivated one. he doesn't mind gossip, but doesn't entertain it much either.

you only meet him due to fortunate circumstances.

lord Luocha, a successful travelling merchant, pledged patronage to you sometime ago. he keeps you in a little cottage on the grounds of his manor where you're allowed to mostly do as you please as long as there's a new painting hung on the lord's wall every few months or so. the lord likes when you play too. he brings back new instruments for you to try, though he never expects mastery. he has an air of mystery to him that, despite all of the time you spend near him, keeps you from understanding him fully. you aren't one to pry about it either.

lord luocha invites jing yuan over to partake in fancy spirits from a country and city you can't ever hope to visit, let alone find on a map. you bring lord luocha your newest work-- (a meticulously completed oil painting. something more abstract, suited to the odd lonely and isolation you feel in your little, cozy cottage, despite all of the comforts you are afforded)-- and happen upon the pair.

lord luocha examines your newest work with pride, and shortly after introduces you. 'his patron' he calls you, but offers jing yuan no title. you--

(do not have one. it was stripped from you a long time ago. you think being an artist suits you better, anyways.)

jing yuan offers you his name, though you already know it. you recognize him based on the prattling of the girls and boys at the market. they swoon over his stature, fawn over his good deeds, and make note of his identifiable red hair ribbon. he has the same soft, sun-colored eyes that you had heard the eligible young of the ton giggle about.

you bow to him politely.

you have no reason to linger, but luocha calls you to anyways. perhaps he is lonely. perhaps you want him to be lonely, so it gives you a reason to stick closer to his side in the rare moments he is home for more than a day or two. the proximity is shared with jing yuan, who regards you with keen eyes and a lazy smile. the attention upon you feels weighted, important, like you're something special.

you savor it, however fleeting.

perhaps, however, you misunderstood jing yuan. or lord luocha's intentions.

because as jing yuan rises to take his leave and you bow once more, he catches your hand, brings it to his lips, and presses a kiss into the soft skin. you're sure you smell of linseed and yarrow oil. he lingers there for a moment before meeting your gaze. there's a light of mischief in them that sends your heart fluttering. your breath catches.

when jing yuan is out of the manor, lord luocha pats your shoulder gently, "quite the man, isn't he?"

"i suppose... he is."

"you may speak freely."

"i am," you mince, and shake your head. you must be careful, entertaining such fanciful thoughts. "he is... kind."

"and handsome."

"lord luocha," you barely keep yourself from whining. "please, do not tease me. or the poor man. from what i hear, he has enough to deal with."

"the mamas do chase after him like foxes to a hen," lord luocha chuckles and studies your painting once more with a curious tilt of his head. "he'll ask to see you again, i'm certain."

"and why do you say that?"

"general jing yuan has never taken the hand of a potential suitor."

your heart feels heavy and warm in your chest, burning. "my lord, you cannot possibly think that this single action indicates that the general will... call upon me? that is highly unorthodox and i don't believe that's... quite allowed."

"jing yuan has never cared for the dances of decorum." lord luocha guides you into your gardens. the peonies are in bloom, full and lush in the humidity of late spring. "and, for the record, i don't believe he'll simply call upon you. court, properly, certainly."

"you're bluffing."

"what reason do i have to lie?"

"to tease me, as you so enjoy doing," you huff.

lord luocha simply hums and pauses near a bush of lilacs. they're fragrant, at the peak of their season. the scent rolls over you.

"if i truly intended to tease you, i simply would abstain from telling you of jing yuan's interest and allow you to be terribly surprised when he arrives and formally asks for you and your time. consider this a warning. i'll walk you to the modiste tomorrow, hm?"

you want to squawk at him. your linen dresses and tunics are fine (albeit smeared and stained with paints and oils over the years. you rarely bother replacing them.)

you want to protest and pry more, but lord luocha strikes you silent when he breaks off a cluster of lilac and tucks it behind your ear. he leaves you with your thoughts, however tortuous. and, perhaps horribly, you find yourself believing him. perhaps the warm-eyed general really was charmed. perhaps, your dresses needed replacing and you should contact your perfumer friend for a fresh vial or two.

perhaps perhaps perhaps, you can still feel where his lips lingered on your skin, like a brand. you never thought you could ache for burning, but in the gardens, you find yourself clutching your hand to your chest, craving the lick of the his sun's heat once more.

[fatkish]

You should do a Rengoku and Sanemi headcanon list/one-shot where the reader got Hanahaki disease! (btw I love your abo Rengoku and reader work it was amazing)

Rengoku & Sanemi x Hanahaki Reader

Rengoku:

You were a fellow demon slayer who often worked with Rengoku

All that time spent near him had you developing feelings for the man

However, you highly doubted yourself and whether or not he would return your feelings, so you never told him

Not even when you started coughing up red Camellia petals

When your condition started to affect your ability to fight, you were sent to Shinobu who told you that you didn’t have very long at the rate of the flowers growth

You were surprised when Rengoku came to see you, only for you to cough up a whole camellia in front of him

He knew about this disease and he asked you to tell him who it was that was causing this

You refused to tell him saying that you had already been rejected and that he shouldn’t bother worrying about you

He ignored you and asked you to tell him anyway. Only for you to be wracked with violent coughs as more camellias came spewing out from your bloodied mouth

Kyojuro watched as you struggled to breathe and clenched his fists knowing that someone was causing you to suffer

When you stopped showing up for training, he realized that your condition had gotten much worse

When he learned from a friend of your that you had passed, he was saddened, but your friend gave him a letter

The letter was written by you, you expressed your love for him and how his blazing passion for life itself made you love him, you confessed that you didn’t believe he would love you back and told him that you didn’t regret anything. You told him that he taught you to be passionate about your love and you were happy to die with that passion

Kyojuro felt guilty for your death but you had thanked him for giving you something to feel such passion for

When Kyojuro died at the hand of Akaza, he saw you there with his mother, he smiled as he saw you both smiling at him

He apologized for not realizing your love sooner, and he promised to keep a flame within his soul, a flame that would always burn with his love for you

Sanemi:

You had been a kakushi. Always cleaning up after the demon slayers

You were one of the few kakushi that Sanemi tolerated so you were one of the few he allowed near him

You learned that he liked Ohagi and would make some for him and gave it to him whenever you interacted. He found your Ohagi to be delicious but he’d never tell you that

Despite his rough exterior and rude/vulgar personality, you also got to secretly experience the softness deep within him

As time went on, you began to appreciate him, that appreciation turned to fondness, and fondness turned to love

But you never spoke a word of this to anyone, too afraid that you would be rejected

Even when you started coughing up Yarrow petals

Eventually as time went on you began coughing up whole flowers, then entire bunches of yarrow

One day, you had been having an extreme coughing fit when none other than Sanemi himself walked by, only to see the bloodied yarrow in your hands

He didn’t say anything and merely told you to get some rest. As he walked away he clenched his fists, he knew that there wasn’t much of a chance for you to survive and it infuriated him

Eventually he noticed that you started showing up less and less and that’s when he learned that you were on your deathbed

He went to see you and found you struggling to breathe as you laid on your back on your futon

As you struggled to breathe, you thought you were imagining things when you saw Sanemi, you reached out to him and told him you loved him

Sanemi was shocked but grabbed your hand as a few tears fell from his eyes, he watched as you closed yours and took one last shaky breath

He held your hand tightly as he lamented about the loss of another innocent life, but this time, instead of a demon being the one to kill you, it was him. If only he saw the signs, he could have saved you, he could have had more time with you

He held your hand as he cried and promised that he’d find you in your next lives and make it right. He promised to love you and remember you forever

Since yarrow means everlasting love

[darkpetal16]

Quick question for all the boys: what nickname would they give to their partner?

ALL?? OK BABE I GOT YOU. but like I can't do an "all" post again there's just too many now lol.

Underfell!Sans (Red): Babe (all), sweetheart (for the shy or introverted babes), doll/dollface (for the feisty babes)

Underfell!Papyrus (Edge): Love (but very sparingly, he’s not fond of nicknames):

Underfell!Wingding (Fell): My dear / My love / My other half / My heart (all emphasis on the my)

Underfell!Asriel (Prince): doesn’t use nicknames unless explicitly asked to. Might refer to you as partner / mate / spouse however.

Underfell!Grillby (Fellby): Sweet girl/boy/pup & Little firecracker.

Underswap!Sans (Blue): Not fond of nicknames but will occasionally call you his puzzle piece. If you ask him to call you something specific, he will.

Underswap!Papyrus (Stretch): Honey, honey bear, honey pie, spicy honey, and if he wants to be ornery / annoy others in public. . .honey bunny wunny.

Underswap!Wingding (Thread): My dear, my little patchwork, darling, marshmallow / cinnamon spice / pumpkin pie.

Underswap!Asriel (Buttercup): Dummy (affectionately). He gets embarrassed by nicknames.

Mafiafell!Sans (Hit): for feminine presenting partner: doll face, sweetheart, lil lady, cookie. For masculine presenting partner: pal, buzz, lil gent, dish. For neutral, mixture of both depending on his mood.

Mafiafell!Papyrus (Boss): He doesn’t do nicknames, per se, but instead waxes poetry for you about you in private. He’d also prefer it if you didn’t give him nicknames in public. Reputation is very important to him and his family and he expects you respect that.

Mafiafell!Wingding (Don): Muse, my dear, darling, puppet, marionette, toy

Mafiafell!Asriel (Heir): Meadow, my haven, my sunshine (if early riser) / my nightfall (if late sleeper)

Slumbertale!Sans (Slumber): Buddy, chum, pal, bucko, friend, fella who naps with me, pillow, blanket, kitten (if you nap often) / puppy (if you do not take naps often), the one who makes plans, my worser half (jokingly), my alarm clock, etc. He’ll come up with obscure and odd nicknames depending on your routine together.

Slumbertale!Papyrus (Mayor): MY RIGHT HAND! There is no bigger compliment because this fella HATES to rely on anyone so if you’re his right hand then you’re someone as invaluable to him as his own right hand.

Slumbertale!Wingding (Abyss): Dewdrop.

Slumbertale!Asriel (Unending): My dream come true, dreamer, buttercup, butterscotch, butter biscuit

Slumbertale!Grillby (Sleeby): His nickname will be dependent on your favorite drink. For example if you like pina coladas he’d call you his sweet coconut, and if you like soda he’d call you his pop-heart.

Horrortale!Sans (Axe): No nicknames unless you specifically tell him to. He just doesn’t think about it.

Horrortale!Papyrus (Sugar): My little meatball, Strawberry jam, rhubarb pie, my berry, love, heart, SOUL

Horrortale!Wingding (Ghost): my heart / our hope

Horrortale!Asriel (Yarrow): butterscotch, cinnamon bun, and sun drop

Horrortale!Grillby (Calcifer): no nicknames!

Reapertale!Sans (Reaper): Nothing set in stone. He'll come up with one time nicknames for puns. Like if you were burned alive & died to met him, he'd call you hot stuff. If you drowned he'd call you a mermaid with lungs. Things along those lines.

Sciencetale!Sans (Doc): he tried nicknames. It came out awkward because he kept stuttering and he was deeply embarrassed so he never did it again.

Sciencetale!Wingding (Professor): Treasure

Siren!Sans (Siren): That’s a human concept, so he wouldn’t choose any. You can tell him what you want him to call you and he’ll accommodate.

Siren!Wingding (Apex): Same as above.

Dustttale!Sans (Dust): Idiot, fool, daydreamer, dreamer, (and very rarely when he thinks you aren’t listening) my miracle

MASTERLIST (HCS & REQUESTED SCENARIOS)

[storiesbyrhi]

Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence/some infrequent gore, swearing, animal death, no beta, death in childbirth (mentioned, not described), abusive parents, suicide, spiders/bugs, grief/mourning; light smut; warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: Seven witches and a vampire walk into a human Halloween party in Hawkins, Indiana. 3676 words.

1986

When the witches came to Hawkins, only the animals sensed a change. Squirrels and cottontail rabbits played in the fields. Foxes and deer lined the horizon. Bats swooped, each of them enamored with Eddie – a bat, from what they could tell, but different.

“They think I’m a God,” Eddie had told you once he realised the influence he had on them.

You’d laughed at him. “Well, I think they think you’re a fun toy.”

The flatlands that sprouted homes were surrounded by a fauna-filled welcoming party that would have given any mortal driving by a heart attack. Naturally, you’d been building wards and glamours to keep the coven safe.

When you felt your sisters close, you walked by each of their homes. Eddie had made good on his promise to give them something. Beside the front door to each of the houses was a potted plant that he had grown. The plants he chose were, to him, symbolic of the witch who would take over care of it.

Asphodel for Ev, carolina for Meg, globe thistle for Mel, bluebell for Ash, lycoris for Hailey, and though a little cheesy, a black bat plant for Kelsey.

The fall sun was out, so Eddie would see the witches’ arrival in his small and fluffy form. He settled on your shoulder as you stood and watched the cars go from pinpricks on the horizon to loud and finally, finally, here.

Meg came screaming out of her car. “Does he want pats?!” She bypassed you entirely, holding her hands out for Eddie. If he felt demeaned, he didn’t let on. Eddie let Meg scoop him up and cradle him in her hands. She wandered off with no further greetings.

“How’s he gonna feel about that?” Kelsey asked, pulling you into a hug immediately.

“He is very preoccupied with making a good impression. It’s sweet actually. So… he will probably let her baby him for hours.”

She laughed then looked at you seriously. “Hi,”

“Hi,”

“I’ve missed you,”

“Stop, you’ll make me cry,” you said, holding in your feelings. “So, uh, where…” Turning around, you saw Meg and Mel’s empty cars. “Where are the others?”

“Uh… There’s Ev,” Kelsey pointed.

Ev was already on the edge of the woods, befriending the fox family you’d come to love. A little further in, Mel was taking photos of the old trees.

Suddenly, Hailey’s voice cut through the air. “Every room has bookshelves!”

As you and Kelsey walked to Hailey’s house, you noticed Ash, suspiciously whispering into her garden of dahlias, pointing to the bluebell Eddie left on her porch.

“Guess the fae boyfriend’s moving in too,”

“She told you?!” you screeched.

“And you told Eddie, guessing by that bluebell,”

“Oh, if you think that’s on the nose, wait till you see what he picked for you.”

…

By the last week of October, your coven was well on its way to establishment. Each witch had a list of things they felt were required to feel at home. Mostly, they worked on their houses and gardens. More wards were put in place not only around the valley but around all of Hawkins. The witches embedded themselves in the fabric of the town, starting the long process of helping it flourish again.

Your sisters were excited at the extended invitation to the Byers Halloween party by Dustin. Costumes were the topic of conversation over forest walks and shared dinners. Eddie continued to charm everyone with his mysteriousness when asked what he would be going as. Bets were being placed. He’d pick something cool or clever. He’d be beautiful.

…

You could not have been more different if you tried.

Eddie wore his hair in a low bun. The blue long-sleeved polo shirt and dark bootcut jeans were so normal it made you feel uncomfortable. As requested, you’d performed a simple illusion spell to make his black boots appear brown. It was only when he held the round, orange, plush toy cat did it make any sense.

“Jon Arbuckle,” he announced.

“No, yeah, I figured when you got the toy at Walmart… It’s just… You look…”

Eddie grinned. He saw how unsettled you were.

“I… Um. I think you need something else,” you told him. Reaching out for his ginger cat, he let you take it. Closing your eyes and expanding the illusion spell, you charmed the toy into looking like the actual Garfield. “Here… This helps.”

Eddie took the cat with a shrug. “And you?” He looked you up and down with a predatory gaze. It made your spine arch involuntarily. “I’m afraid I do not recognise this character.”

There was no magic in your costume – just good old fashion arts and crafts. You wore a very, very long yellow-blonde wig and a golden headpiece with a red jewel at its center. Your white dress was also adorned with golden armour. The knee-high boots were painted gold too. More painted plastic armour on your arms and a plastic sword held high.

“Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” you proclaimed. “Princess of Power!”

Eddie cackled.

“She’s from Masters of the Universe. She’s very, very cool,”

“I believe you,” Eddie replied. “You look every part the Princess of Power.”

 When you joined the coven by the cars, each looked more confused than the last. Kelsey was the first to break the silence.

“Uh… Nice costumes,” she said.

“This is Garfield,” Eddie replied, holding the cat out.

“It sure is, buddy. This isn’t going to weird the humans out at all.”

Kelsey and Mel sat in the back of your car as you drove.

“The makeup suits you,” Eddie told Mel.

“Yeah, I know this is a costume, but this look is like… It’s working for you,” you added.

Mel, in her Siouxie-best black just shrugged. “Stole a lot of the clothes from Ev.”

In Meg’s car, Ash was giving the other three witches a stern talking to about what she believed were ‘cop out’ costumes.

“Dude, I’m not in costume,” Meg argued. “These are just my clothes!”

“Every year you do this, Ash…”

“What’s the point in being a witch if you don’t do Halloween?” she frowned.

“What’s the point in going as Sandy if you don’t have someone going as Danny?” Hailey asked.

“Maybe she does,” Meg mumbled.

All the girls whispered out little ohhhhhhhhs at Ash’s expense. They wondered, pointedly and out loud, if fae do Halloween. What does a fairy dressed like Danny Zuko look like anyway?

“I left the Catskills for this?” Ash whined, secretly amused, and very much comforted by the fact the coven seemed to be accepting of her fae friend.

…

“You came!” Robin was very drunk, therefore unable to hide her true emotions, which were a combination of surprise, fear, excitement, and grief.

“I’m Jon and this is Garfield,” Eddie introduced before you could say anything.

Robin looked at him carefully. “I kinda thought you’d, you know, come as Dracula or something,”

“He’s aiming for soft and harmless,” you explained. “But if you want stereotypical vampire, Ev’s got you covered.”

Ev waved and bared her plastic fangs.

“Riiiight…” Robin said slowly.

“YOU CAME!” Dustin yelled, pushing Robin out of the way, and beaming with pure excitement. “Oh, hey, cool costume!” he complimented Eddie. “I like your Garfield. Nice touch,”

“Thank you,”

“So, do you have to be, like, invited in formally?” he asked, voice lowering, though the music was so loud nobody would be able to hear him anyway.

“Only because I’m house trained,” Eddie whispered back.

Dustin laughed, pointing to him. “Funny. I like a… funny… vampire, I guess… Come in!”

It was only a little before 10:00 pm but the party was already raging. The Byers’ house was filled with people, some of whom you knew, some not. Everybody needed an excuse to let loose and pretend to be okay for a little while, and you felt they were owed at least that.

The backyard was lit with party lights and whatever else could be hooked up to the power. The moon was waning, with barely 4% illumination. The night was dark and cool, and fires burned in emptied-out oil kegs.

It did not take long for your coven to splinter off and enjoy the night. You sipped at the purple coloured punch Robin offered you, surprised that it had much of an effect on you at all.

“Russian recipe,” Hopper grunted as his eyes followed Eddie around the party.

Eddie, who could not drink the punch, was designated driver one of two. Sobriety would not impede his fun though. As it were, nobody would let anything impede their fun.

…

Seven witches and a vampire walk into a human Halloween party in Hawkins, Indiana.

10:14 pm

Hailey introduced herself to Nancy in the kitchen. Nancy was distracting herself from all the things brewing in her unconscious by opening bags of chips and unnecessarily pouring them into bowls.

“Is Pride and Prejudice your favourite of Jane’s work?” Hailey asked.

Nancy looked at her. “Nobody’s recognised me.” The Elizabeth Bennet costume was accurate, albeit not exactly iconic.

Hailey smiled. “You look great.”

Nancy blushed, shook her head a little. “It’s hard to pick a favourite,”

“Tell me about it. Lizzy’s got to be one of her best characters though.” She left out the part about how she’d helped Jane Austen shape Lizzy into something more than what society expected of a woman, let alone a woman in story.

Nancy nodded. “You… Sorry, what are you?”

“I’m a witch.”

Nancy hesitated. “Oh… Yes, but… What are you dressed as?”

“I’m a witch,” Hailey repeated.

“You’re a real witch who dressed up as a-”

“A witch, yeah.”

Nancy still looked confused.

“See, I have a broom.”

10:28 pm

One was in a lab coat, the other in a red puffy vest. One held a huge remote made of cardboard and glue, the other a video camera.

“You really committed,” you praised them.

“We tried to get Jonathan to come as the DeLorean but he’s trying to look cool for Nancy,” Will explained.

“I think the DeLorean is very impressive,” El added. “It would be a cool costume.”

You nodded. “He could have made it a Transformer situation… So, what did he end up coming as? I couldn’t work it out,”

 “Joe Strummer,” Will replied.

“Ah, right.”

Honestly, Jonathan looked like he could have been Joe Strummer or James Dean or a young Lou Reed. Maybe one of the Beat Generation guys. All those white poet musician types ended up looking the same to you.

10:43 pm

Dustin followed Meg through the house, entirely unconvinced. “That’s gotta be a costume,”

“No, Dustin, these are just my clothes,”

“But you look like a pilgrim!”

Meg looked down at her floor length skirt. The billowing cotton. The soft corset cinching her waist. “I mean… I am hundreds of years old… and I take really good care of my clothes.”

Dustin’s mouth was agape. “But you’re magic! You have real magic and you don’t even use it to make a badass costume? And you’re a witch! Aren’t you contractually obliged to celebrate Halloween?”

“No,” Meg replied with a casual shrug. “Why are you interrogating me? There are much more worthy victims in this coven then me,”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, apparently your friend Steve Harrington is haunting Mel. And Ev is dating a werewolf, so…” And with that Meg walked away from Dustin, smirking at the chaos she’d caused.

11:02 pm

You sat in a plastic chair that was probably too close to the open flames in front of it. As you pulled it back and lined it next to Joyce, she smiled at you.

“How’s your night?” she asked politely.

“Uh… Interesting… Yours?”

She nodded and you knew what she meant. “You seem different,” she told you.

You sighed, nodded as she had. “I am. We all are, I think,”

“I think so too.”

Together you sat in comfortable silence and watched the happiness of the party.

“I was glad, you know, when I heard you were staying. Hawkins needs…”

“Help?” you guessed.

Joyce nodded. “And hope. You and your friends… It’s good.”

11:36 pm

“Why didn’t he come? It’s not like it’s a full moon,” Mike Wheeler asked Ev.

“He wasn’t invited,” she answered, looking over the top of him, searching for someone to save her from the teenage conversation.

“Ohhhhh, is it like… Like how vampires can only come in when invited? Did the stories get it wrong and that’s actually werewol-” Lucas Sinclair tried.

“No! Not like that,”

“Is it like when we all thought Dustin’s girlfriend wasn’t real because we never saw her,” Mike asked Lucas then.

“He’s real,” Ev assured them.

“Suzie’s real too,” Lucas began to explain. “They met at camp and-”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s great. Um, who told you about him? My boyfriend, I mean. Who told you?”

Mike and Lucas looked at each other, neither wanting to be the rat.

12:01 am

“You have somewhere to be?” Mel asked Eddie when she saw him watching the clock above the fireplace.

He smiled. “No. It’s… Midnight… Always feels like something is going to happen when the clock strikes twelve,”

“Sometimes it does,”

“Sometimes it does,” he agreed.

12:23 am

The juxtaposition of Erica’s soft face next to all the faux leather, duct tape, and corn syrup blood was both amusing and disconcerting.

“I thought Mad Max was Lucas’ girlfriend’s thing?” you asked her.

Erica was in the kitchen, mixing a feral concoction she was probably going to offer to her brother and all his friends. Not you though. You got a genuine Erica Sinclair smile.

“She’s still in the hospital,”

“What? Why’d nobody tell me? I’ll go and-”

“We don’t know where. Her mum took her. Wouldn’t tell Lucas anything.”

It would be easy for you to find Max. To find her and heal her. It felt a lot like meddling in human affairs though. But what were you now if not a witch that meddled? What was the worth of a rule if it prevented you from helping a teenage girl get out of pain sooner?

Erica saw it on your face. She knew scheming when she saw it. “Oh, you gonna go do some witchy stuff?”

“Maybe… So… the costume,”

“Lucas already gave me shit about it, okay?”

“Oh, no, I was gonna say it’s a cool thing to do. An ode to Max.”

Erica poured some Pabst into a red plastic cup. “To Max,”

“To Max,” you cheered. “Wait… How old are you? Gimme that.”

12.46 am 

Nancy and Jonathan danced together in a bubble of their own. It didn’t matter the tempo of the song or if anyone else was on the lounge room dancefloor. They danced.

1:14 am

“Are you kidding me?! Of course you should!”

“I think there are more than enough books and films to satisfy the human curiosity for the undead,”

“Yeah, but none written by an actual undead,” Dustin continued to argue. He’d been going at it for ten minutes straight. “If you won’t write your own story, Interview with the Vampire style, then you should write about all the others… About what they get right. What they get wrong,”

“And what point would that serve?” Eddie asked.

“Well, I would want to read a book by a real vampire,”

“It may not be in the best interests of anyone to discover that vampires were indeed real. Nor that witches are. Nor the horrors that have befallen your town, Dustin,”

“No! No, man. We gotta get the truth out there!”

1:32 am

Robin and Mel found a quiet patch of grass to lie back on.

“So… He just showed up?”

“Yeah,”

“And you’ve never met him?”

“No,”

“And he doesn’t want anything?”

Mel shrugged. “I don’t know… I don’t think he really knows what he’s doing here. He could move on if he wanted.”

Robin thought about it. “What’s the afterlife like? For us, I mean?”

“For humans? We don’t know exactly. It’s almost like there is an infinite number of possibilities…”

“But Steve – Steve Harrington – has decided to haunt a witch he’s never met?”

Mel shrugged again. “I don’t think it says anything about you or the others that he’s not haunted you instead… I think he probably wants to let you all move on.”

Robin sighed deeply. “You got some sort of potion to help with that?”

“There’s no cure to grief, magical or otherwise…” Mel said softly.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Robin replied, her fists twisting into the grass and pulling the blades free from the soil.

2:07 am

“I guess that’s what a fae Danny Zuko looks like,” Ev deadpanned.

She stood next to Kels, watching as Ash and the tiny winged creature danced around one of the drum fires. The fairy was dressed from head to toe in leather. He had glittering tanned skin and dirty blonde curls cut into a typical 80s mullet.

“She looks happy,” Kels said.

“Mmm,” Ev hummed. “Did you hear his name? Cyprian,”

“Yeah, you’re right, a fae named Cyprian is a lot better than a werewolf named Randy.”

Before Ev could respond, Lucas appeared next to the witches. “What is that?”

“That, my mortal friend, is a witch dancing with one of the fae,” Kelsey explained, wrapping an arm around Lucas’ shoulder.

“Why does it look like Billy Hargrove?”

“He, not it, and I don’t know who Billy Hargrove is, but if he’s half as hot as that fairy is, then cheers to Billy Hargrove.”

2:39 am

The night was burning away fast, you couldn’t slow it down. There was something so beautifully human about it that you wanted to keep safe. Wanted to hold it in your hands. Be in it forever.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Eddie’s voice whispered in your ear and his arms wrapped around your waist. He caught you leaning against the back door frame, watching the world go by. His head came to rest on your shoulder.

“It has all been worth it,” you told him. “Everything we did. For them. To get them here. Everything that happened had to happen, the exact way it did.”

They were not without their scars and their grief. They were changed and could never go back. But they were alive and hopeful and strong. Your strange little humans. You’d watch over them for generations to come.

3:13 am

“Magic begins when our bodies come right to the edge of their sensory and linguistic abilities and… something… keeps going anyway…”

The party had begun to wind down. Most of the witches were getting ready to leave, and the human population had thinned out to a handful of people.

Eddie was towards the back of the assembled crowd, watching you intently.

“And now, in the witching hour when the veil is so thin… The air is thick with witchcraft.”

You were using your most dramatic voice as you strutted around a drum of fire, the entire party’s attention on you. The humans were wide-eyed and hushed.

“In this place and in this hour, we may manifest what was not there into existence…”

Your sisters were trying not to laugh.

“Who will be brave and make their wish?” you posed to the crowd.

For a moment it was silent, only the crackling of the flames audible. Even the music had been turned off. Then, someone cleared their throat and stepped forward.

“Yeah, I wanna make a wish,” Erica declared, looking entirely unbothered by the mystique. If anything, she looked like this wish was her birthright.

You conjured a candle in your hand and held it out to her. “Courage, dear heart,” you told her.

3:52 am

“The first train out of town is leaving. Come on!” Meg yelled.

Mel, Ash, Ev, and Hailey said their goodbyes and followed Meg out of the Byers’ house.

“Family breakfast tomorrow?” Ash asked you as she hugged you goodnight.

“I’ll make pancakes. Better make it a brunch though,”

“Cool. Good luck with that one,” she laughed, nodding over to where Kels had Hopper cornered and ten points deep in an argument about whether hotdogs constitute sandwiches.

“Hot dogs are a sandwich. A sandwich consists of two pieces of a type of bread plus fillings contained within the two slices. A hotdog bun is a bun sliced in two, making it two slices of bread. The only difference being that one side of the two halves are still joined. It still however, is two halves that are obviously independent of each other with a filling separating them, therefore a sandwich. One might ask, ‘well in that case, is a calzone a sandwich?’ No. A calzone is enclosed entirely in bread. The two halves are entirely connected. This makes it fit into the pie category. Not the same as a sandwich, but parallel. One might also say, ‘well what if I don't have a bun, so I use a piece of bread as a substitute.’ Yes, using only one slice of bread no longer puts it into the sandwich category. This now aligns us into the toast category. Toast being a single slice of bread being used as a vehicle for a topping.”

4:20 am

“Five! Four! Three! Two! One!” Jonathan counted down.

The clock above the fireplace struck twenty minutes past four and the room of teenagers and young adults cheered.

4:37 am

The drive home was peaceful; you kept the radio low and listened to the first rumbles of a storm that was brewing way over beyond Indianapolis. It would arrive tomorrow afternoon. You could smell it in the air.

“They’re special,” Kelsey said from the passenger seat next to you. “Your humans,”

“Even if some of them think a hotdog is not a sandwich?”

“Even if some of them think a hotdog is not a sandwich.”

After seeing Kels into her house, you and Eddie finally retired to your home.

“Happy Halloween, my beautiful little witch,” Eddie cooed when you crawled into bed with him.

“Happy Halloween, my lovely, lovely, vampire.”

End Note: Sorry for going a little M.I.A. I had writers' block (still do) and have felt a weird sort of disconnect from my online world. I'm slowly getting back into it though.

Accurate: the moon phase for October 31, 1986. Not accurate: 420 being associated with weed in 1986, I think that happened sometime in the 90s.

Also, I took a quote from A Spell in the Wild by Alice Tarbuck and paraphrased it a bit ( “Witchcraft starts when our bodies come right up to the edge of their sensory and linguistic abilities and life keeps going anyway.”).

Finally, the hotdog/sandwich argument is a direct quote from the irl Kelso, my inspo for Kelsey.

Fic Taglist:  @paranoidmunson  @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant @stardustmunson @live-love-be-unique @fangirling-4-ever @reanimated-alice @b-irock @gh0stlybunnie @myown-worstenemy-2003 @woozzz @cyberxlust @hiscrimsonangel @buckysbarne @m00nlight101 @word-wytch @spicysix @briasnow-blog @goth-cowgirl-03 @moviefreak1205 @pastel-pillows

All Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes  @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob  @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl @eddies-hid3out @siren-lungs @aheadfullofsteverogers @hiscrimsonangel @dashingdeb16 @cultish-corner

[fuckyeahcourtneylove]

'Pretty Monsters' Hole/Manson tour tshirt. 1999.

Love Spell ½ pound basil 6 cups catnip 2 cups ginger 1 cup jasmine 1 pinch yarrow ½ cup rose petals At sunset on a Friday when the moon is in a waxing phase, cast three of the herbs into a blazing bonfire. As the herbs burn, recite the following spell: “My true love’s face I’ve yet to see I know not what his name may be But soon his heart will beat for me Come hither, my love So mote it be”

From a wiccan spells book.

[astrolovecosmos]

The Planets & Random or Obscure Associations

~Sun~

Creativity, vitality, head of state, the father, games, yellow and orange clothing, articles of value, jewelry, gold, brass, power, diamonds, citrine, topaz, jasper, amber, rhodochrosite, mistletoe, almonds, citrus, succulents, sunflowers, fevers, heart, back, spine, grapes, walnuts, rice, chamomile, frankincense, juniper, saffron, marigold, rosemary, rue, palaces, towers, luxury.

~Moon~

Eternal, cycles, silver, aluminum, pearls, moonstone, opal, selenite, chest, glands, lymphatic system, nervous system, emotions, mother, ancestors, nurture, rebirth, tides, baths, ocean, brew, boat, sap, willow trees, succulents, pale color plants, white flowers, cucumber, cabbage, lettuce, melons, shellfish, pumpkins, lakes, fountains, ports, fishponds, pools, springs, sewers, dairies, toys, reflection, blankets, objects of comfort.

~Mercury~

Communication, journal, pen/pencil, any writing tools, wings, phosphorous, mercury, agate, tiger's eye, brain, nervous system, eyes, respiration, thyroid, speech, hearing, intellect, vehicles, money, bills, paper, books, pictures, parties or social gatherings, scientific instruments, butterflies, messages, mail, hazel, mulberry, myrtle, seeds, aniseed, dill, fennel, lavender, liquorice, marjoram, parsley, valerian, hazelnuts, beans, mushrooms, pomegranates, carrots, celery, libraries, schools, markets, fairs, public spaces, tennis or badminton court, studies, banks, bowling greens, offices, blue, white, or light colored flowers.

~Venus~

Love, relating, lust, high-quality fabrics, copper, bronze, sodium, malachite, tourmaline, emerald, rose quartz, kunzite, sapphire, pastels, throat, kidneys, lumber region, art, music, aesthetics, social life, fashion, jewelry, wine, pleasure, alder tree, fruit trees, paint, ash tree, birch, pomegranates, early flowering, daisy, mint, marshmallow, meadowsweet, mugwort, plantain, tansy, roses, thyme, vervain, yarrow, potatoes, strawberries, wheat, sugar, nectarines, ballrooms, bedrooms, dining room, gardens, fountains, wardrobes, theaters, looking and feeling good.

~Mars~

Lust, conquest, desire, flaming sword, red things, fights, iron, brass, bloodstone, carnelian, cinnabar, pyrite, magnetite, ruby, garnet, hematite, muscles, reproductive organs, blood, kidneys, immunity, heat, action, arms, pepper, sharp instruments, cutlery, attacks, scissors, weapons, physical intimacy, bites, stings, scalds, burns, accidents, hawthorn, pine, thorns, cactus, aloes, anemone, arnica, belladonna, garlic, ginger, hops, mustard seed, nettles, wormwood, chives, onions, leeks, radish, rhubarb, tobacco, labs, furnaces, distilleries, bakehouses, ovens, smiths, butchers, fields, anger, passion, self-focus.

~Jupiter~

Expansion, optimism, religion, religious sites, tin, seduction, turquoise, chrysocolla, topaz, citrine, jasper, liver, pancreas, pituitary gland, sciatic nerve, excess, abundance, prophecy, philosophy, knowledge, universities, foreign travel, luggage, honey, oil, silk, fruit, distinct clothing, merchandise, horses, domestic birds, gambling, indulgence, entertainment, oak, dandelion, sage, endive, chervil, asparagus, figs, churches, temples, palaces, altars, courts, mansions, woods, orchards, winery, cornucopia, connecting with the soul.

~Saturn~

Limits, boundaries, father time, lord of death, shadows, lead, iron, steel, calcium, asbestos, sulphur, diamond, onyx, calcite, skeleton, spleen, skin, teeth, nails, joints, structure, crystallization, old age, blockage, anything dark, wool, heavy materials, agriculture, wheelbarrows, spades, farm houses and buildings, cold, laws, aspen, blackthorn, buckthorn, cypress, elm, toxic plants, hemlock, henbane, belladonna, hellebore, barley, beetroot, safflower, parsnips, spinach, deserts, woods, valleys, caves, church yards, ruins, coalpits, sinks, wells, mud, institutions.

~Uranus~

Eccentrics, mavericks, invention, genius, revolution, change, trends, disruptive science or tech, uranium, magnesium, lapis lazuli, sapphire, aquamarine, azurite, chalcedony, electricity, neon lights, plaid, nervous and circulatory system, pineal gland, chaos, violence, upheaval, astrology, steam engines, coal, machinery, coins, baths, fishponds, dangerous places, computers, magnets, quantum physics, research, welfare, humanity, hypnotherapy, railways, banks, gas, psychiatric hospitals, offices, hospitals, dispensaries, fortified places, chemicals, mingled/mingling, spirit and matter.

~Neptune~

Illusions, veils, diffuse, deception, water, oceans, mysticism, enlightenment, artistic pursuit and understanding, zinc, potassium, amethyst, fluorite, jade, sugilite, coral, aquamarine, pineal gland, lymphatic and nervous system, spine, mental processes, addiction, psychoses, disease, photography, music, substances, gas, religion, poetry, mimicry, chameleon, anesthetic, telepathy, empathy, dancing, psychic gifts, places near water, hospitals, places of healing, jeweler, painters, brewers, musicians, visionary.

~Pluto~

Power, influence, darkness, new life, what's hidden underneath, seeds, volcanoes, deep earth or ocean, bury, explosions, eruptions, abduction, plutonium, smoky quartz, obsidian, jet, pearl, deep reds, reproductive organs, the unconscious, nuclear, transformation, death, birth, rebirth, underworld, riches, earthquakes, big business, murder, detection, detective, invisibility, sneak, enforced change, hidden places, underground, drains, sewers, radioactive places, the occult, black magic, sacrifice, renew.

[auraunbound]

The gentle rolling of the cushy Pasque Arms company car managed to soften each and every bump in the road as they cruised down to the Lower Docks. Obviously, it stuck out like a sore thumb, but it at least allowed the company assembled to discuss their proceedings without having to worry about prying eyes.

“We’ll be arriving shortly, ma’am,” Jeremine called back from the driver’s seat.

“Still crazy to me that ya’ let her behind the wheel.”

“Oh hush. She’s dependable where it counts. Anyway, I would like to do one last quick briefing, due to the short notice of this assignment. Mr. Columbine, if you will?”

“Absolutely. We’re to arrive at the facility by boat, but the ground floor isn’t what we’re after. We’ll need to find a way to power the elevator to get to our actual goal. The bounty posted states they’re after a particular drive laden with encrypted files, whether we procure the drive itself or simply copy the data is irrelevant to them. The facility itself is supposedly abandoned, but I wouldn’t trust anything left behind by the old empire.”

“You expecting Chimeras?”

“Not specifically, though it’s possible. We can’t be certain how many labs were researching their development, but at the very least we should expect some kind of security measure.”

“Alright, a li’l smash’n’grab, I can dig it. Sounds a little too simple though.”

“Of course it does, but that’s part of the fun, now isn’t it?”

“At any rate, while the bounty is the primary objective and should be prioritized, I also ask that you be on the lookout for any kind of unusual research materials that may be valuable to the company. Specifically blueprints, schematics, testing data, or potential prototypes that we could make use of. Lily, I’ve provided in your gear a drive of your own so that you may procure any important data you come across. Furthermore, I also ask that you make a copy of the encrypted data the client is after for me as well. Any of these additional materials will result in a bonus to your pay for the assignment, on top of standard fees, as well as the client’s payment, which should be split between the three of you.”

“Surprised ya’ ain’t askin’ for a cut. Any reason?”

“I’m far more interested in the data than the reward, darling. Besides, I will not be accompanying you for this assignment, so it would be unethical to accept a reward.”

“Fair enough. I take it you’re gonna send the drone too?”

“Indeed. In addition to your body cams, you’ll also have access to our surveillance drone. It won’t provide any assistance in combat, but it will document your traversal of the facility and act as an emergency relay back to Pasque Arms. I will be handling your correspondence personally, along with a hand-picked team of tech experts from our research department. Anything you may have questions about, simply connect to the drone and upload your findings to us so we may analyze it.”

“I sure don’t mind leaving the tech mumbo-jumbo to your brainiacs. I’m just here for the muscle.”

It was then that the car came to a gentle stop. Jeremine turned back to face the crew again.

“We’ve arrived,” she said pleasantly.

The three intrepid adventurers got their gear together and disembarked, starting to make their way down to the boat they were meant to board. Before they got too far, Violet called out one last time from the vehicle.

“Make me proud you three~,” she cooed as the car began to slowly roll away.

[xxbimbobunnyxx]

Dolly’s Fic Recs 🖤💭

✨Just wanted to show some of my fav fics from my fav writers some appreciation✨

All blogs are 18+MDNI

Eddie Munson:

By @bettyfrommars:

I’m On Fire (Older!Biker!Eddie x reader) - Series

Death Becomes Us (Vampire!Eddie x Supernatural!Reader) - Series

My Friend Goyle (Gargoyle!Eddie x Reader) - Series

By @andvys:

We’ll Burn The Sky (Rockstar!Eddie x Rocketar!Reader) - Series

For Me It’s Always You (Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!Reader) - Mini Series

(Also just any of her work is amazing)

By @storiesbyrhi:

Burning Yarrow (Bat/Vampire!Eddie x Witch!Reader) - series

By @corroded-hellfire:

As You Wish (Dad!Eddie x Babysitter!Reader) - series

By @strangelysupernatural

Corruption And Sin (Priest!Eddie x Reader)

By @munsonology:

Praise Him (Biker!Eddie x Nun!Reader)

By @lesservillain:

On The Outside (Inmate!Eddie x Teacher!Reader) - series

Strange Lights (Vampire!Eddie x Reader x Werewolf!Steve)-series

By @bimbobaggins69:

Heavy Metal Parking Lot (Eddie X MetalHead!Reader)

Dial A Thrill -(Part 2) (PhoneSex!Operator!Eddie x Reader)

Stave Harrington:

By: @katyswrites:

Don’t Call me Baby (SugarDaddy!Steve x Reader) - Series

By: @dr-aculaaa:

Sunday Morning Series (Dad!Steve x Mom!Reader)

Werewolf!Steve x Reader

By: @loveshotzz

Colors (Older!Steve x Reader) - Series

Whatta Man- Steve’s Night (Bouncer!Steve x Reader)

By: @andvys

It’s Just Us (Steve x Reader) Part 2 (Steddie x Reader)

By: @bettyfrommars

Candy Necklace- Breed (Biker!Steve x Reader)

[sun-snatcher]

🌾 ・ OF CLARION CALLS

summ. The rebellion runs into trouble, & Jet takes the brunt of it. In the aftermath, you fight to keep him alive. pairing. Jet x f!medic!reader w.count. 1.5k a/n. So little Jet fics/imagines around so i had to take matters into my own hands. Enjoy!

The moonlight casts a halo above your head, and for a brief moment, Jet thinks you’re a divine spirit, perhaps a goddess— or whatever it is his mother used to read to him before bed.

( In some ways, you are. )

…Jet, he hears, distant. He can’t pinpoint exactly where— every sound is either muffled or echoing, and the world keeps tipping in and out of a blur. All he can sense through the haze is the belt of dull pain creeping up his chest, and the cotton-numbness engulfing his head. Right. He’d been shot clean through his armor plate by a wayward arrow after he’d jumped infront of Sneers to protect him. He remembers now, vaguely. It had been an ambush on their way home.

...et, stay with me. 

Jet. 

“Jet!”

The world focuses. He inhales, sharp, and the pain blinds him white as he gasps.

“Easy there, handsome,” you joke (not really), holding his twitching body down and trying to meet his dazed look. The blood is thick enough to taste, and one look is enough to tell he’s walking a tightrope between life or death. He's growing colder, and losing colour by the minute. You make quick work to staunch the gaping wound in his chest, hope he can’t detect the shakiness in your hands, or the tears gathering in your eyes. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“Will he?” comes a voice behind the two medics crowding him. It’s Smellerbee, standing at the step of the medical tent; her voice sounds uncharacteristically frightened, and it sends a pang through your heart. I’m fine, Jet instinctively wants to insist, but you answer for him instead. “Yes. He will." ( And, well, surely such a small deception would not count against you, not when it was meant to give the others some measure of peace. )

Jet blinks, finally orienting himself enough to look at you and not through you— and blinks again. You’re lying. He could feel it. He could always tell, whenever it comes to you. 

…Stay, he thinks, suddenly and senselessly, and clasps his bloodied hand around your wrist. He calls your name, voice straining in pain. But he must’ve said it aloud instead, because you’d smiled at him as gently as you could— even when it looked as if the effort of doing so would wound you— and said, calmly, convincingly: I promise, I’m not going anywhere.

“With me?” he asks, again, even when he knows he must’ve sounded like a madman. Perhaps it’s the bloodloss. Likely, it was. It wouldn’t be such a bad end, though, so long as you stood by his side. He wants to tell you this— been wanting to for a long time, now— but the strength has left him, leaving him floating somewhere between the world of waking and dreaming.

“With you,” comes your reply. 

You catch the ghost of his trademark smile just before he slips away.

Jet survives.

That’s the first surprise. 

The second is that; you’re here. Just as you’d promised.

He must have been out for longer than he thinks, because the atmosphere in the medical tent seemed to have ebbed to something much more conducive than last he remembers. The tinctures of alcohol and sedatives surrounding him and his bloody bandages that night are now replaced with dry ingredients; yarrow half-crushed in a mortar and pestle, mixed herbs and colourful liquids corked in tiny bottles and tins he couldn’t begin to name. His armour had been stripped from him, lying above a chest by the corner.

Ever the leader; “Sneers,” is the first word out his mouth, once he’d stirred awake on his cot and recognition returned slowly to him. It’s early sometime in the morning, judging by the colour of the sky outside the tattered tent flaps and the still quietness in the air. Beside him, an incense of sandalwood burns. “Sneers—”

“Is alive, thanks to you,” you override. The faint bitterness in your voice is not lost on him.

Somehow, someway, seeing him conscious now seemed to make you bristle. You think— no, you know— that it’s unfair of you; that it’s simply the pent-up frustrations and stress overflowing from the night he’d been hauled back to camp with one foot in the grave. But Longshot’s harrowing clarion call for a medic from the trees still rings clear as a bell in your head, just as much as the cold shock that had seized you the moment you realised the birdcall was for Jet.

“Good.”

“Not good,” you correct, “Not when you of all people pay the price.”

( Jet doesn’t delude himself into thinking that there could possibly be another meaning to what you said. It would be impossible. ) “You would’ve done the same,” he bites back, and takes your silence as quiet agreement.

“You’re upset,” Jet points out, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

A sigh. “You just woke up,” you dismiss, if only to get him off your scent. “We can talk another day.”

“We’re already here, so let’s settle it now. The mission went well, and as far as I can see, I’m the only one in here, which means nobody else got hurt on the way back but me. Atleast, not as badly.”

It’s a debrief, you recognise. A coping mechanism for him— to spur himself into action and settle himself. Given the stress and trauma his body has been enduring the past days, you let it pass.

It’s only when you shift out from your seat by his cot, standing to begin putting away the bowls of medicine prepared, that Jet realises your fingers had been holding his wrist before. You must have stayed up for, what he can only imagine to be long nights, to keep track on whether his pulse was still beating. ( Something inside his chest burns. He can’t tell if it’s your doing or the injury being fussy. )

“I’m sorry,” he huffs, sighing out. “If that’s what you wanna hear.”

“For what?” You set the mortar down on your table with more force than necessary, and looked at him sharply from over your shoulder. Jet, damn him, still looks at you straight in the eyes, confident as ever. You want to kiss him. You want to break his nose. “For being a hero?”

“No.”

“Playing martyr?”

“No.”

“For saving Sneers? Everyone?”

“No—”

“Then what?”

“For scaring you,” he says, simply.

Your heart starts. 

A frisson runs through you, and you feel the back of your eyes begin to burn.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he emphasises, and doesn’t say, I’m sorry I made you cry, because your prideful self would have denied it instantly, even if he remembers it clear as day. “I’m sorry I put you through that.” 

He yanks at a loose thread on the blanket you’d laid on him a night ago. It must have been terrifying to see him be dragged to the table, half-dead with a broken arrow in his chest, and leave a mess of blood and horror in his wake. It must have been terrifying, indeed, to be the one responsible for him against Death itself— to carry the weight of his life on your shoulders, while the rest of the Freedom Fighters watched on. 

“It’s, it’s my job,” you turn away to close a drawer of medical instruments, because you’re not quite sure you can stand meeting his gaze. Not when it only reminds you of just how much he lived, breathed and bleeds chaos and revolution; not when you know this accident definitely won’t be the last.

You can’t handle him. Or maybe it’s yourself you can’t handle, when it comes to him. “Just, be careful.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he salutes mockingly, albeit with a wince. The flinch is what kicks you back into action.

“You’re staying in bed until you’re better,” you order, curt, ignoring his groan. His wrapped shoulder still seems painfully defiant despite all the numbing you’d given him; it would be a couple of weeks longer before he’d be fully healed, but knowing Jet— he’ll be up performing duties within a week. “That means no strain at all. No scouting or recon or hunting, got it?”

He lulls his head, but there’s a dash of humour on his face. “Since I’m bedridden, does that mean you’re at my every beck and call, then?”

Your face twists. He lets out a laugh when you answer, "In your dreams, Jet."

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

You roll your eyes, though without heat, and place a bowl of fresh water by his side. There is, at the very least, a smile on your face, and Jet’s sure he can sleep well tonight knowing you both are, at the end of the day, okay. 

“Hey,” he calls your name, once you've begun making your way out the tent. You try to ignore how much more sweeter it sounds coming from him. “I really am sorry. I’m serious.”

He had caught your sleeve when he spoke, so your fingers now brush against his. You try not to focus on the touch too much. “So am I.”

“We can’t lose you, Jet,” you continue, unsteady; because saying I can’t lose you would have been unthinkable.