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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

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Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 7.1k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, violence, swords & firearms, abductions, hurt/comfort, torture references, nakedness, needles, gore, etc.

A/N: Alright, and that's a wrap on this mini-series. Biker/mechanic!Ghost is next on the list.

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

You hit the water and immediately push back to the surface, ignoring the burning of your open wounds.

“John!” Your high and panicked call can’t be heard above the yells to arms and the distressed wails. “What are you doing?!” Bodies get chucked from the side of the ship and all you can do is watch as they meet the water around you—skin cut open and eyes dead.

While the sea was numbing your pains, your heart was hurting enough for all of them; hands flailing to try and help keep you above the waves. But everything was so dark, only the light far above giving you a sliver of perception.

“John!” You scream again, eyes snapping back and forth along the ship. Your arms burned with heat.

“Go!” The words ring out and make you cringe, graveled and ragged—an order. But how could you? Vile grunts and skin meeting skin sound out, no more shirking blade edges or the boom of pistols. Fists meeting ribs, bared teeth.

“The Mermaid was wearing tags! He’s part of the King’s forces!” The leader. “If we can’t have the beast, we’ll have the coin from a turncoat!”

“Deserter!”

“Traitor!”

“Tie him to the post!”

Your ears twitch and pull at the horrible words, lungs near hyperventilating and black waves going red. If you weren’t able to ingest water, the way your head was slowly sinking would have left you sputtering and choking.

What will they do to him? Why can’t I help? It was the only part in your life where you regret having a tail, because now you can’t save John in the same way he saved you. Your eyes lock helplessly to the upper deck, far, far above. You can’t drag yourself up or even find the energy to stay above water.

Your strength was waning quickly—you needed to be tended to; healed. But it felt worse than a betrayal to see not even a glimpse of John’s brown hair or his large arms. To not feel the hold he kept on you. You wanted his lips and his flesh to be pressed into you, to venerate your image as he always did.

A Hierei that worships at the shrine that is you.

“Curse you,” you say aloud to the men above. The ones that tie your raging love to a post; you hear his low growls and biting expletives like blades in their own fashioned way, the sea garbling your words. “Curse your greed and your violence!”

But no one listens, and with a heavy and weighed heart, you have to let your dead muscles rest as they give out completely against your will. Sunking under the battling waves, you feel like dead weight; no different than the various bodies around you that John had dispatched.

You felt useless.

Above you was John, being tied up and taken—taken to a King that wants your species dead. You don’t want to leave, but the current is snatching you away like seaweed, limp and broken. Whatever John had done to your wounds, the fabric of his shirt was holding fast to your shredded flesh, but it didn’t stop the agony or the inner conflict.

He was right above you…why aren’t you strong enough to help?

Your eyes flutter, hair and arms floating.

Everything grows dark, but John never once leaves your mind. Perhaps the Fisherman was worshiping you, but you did the same unto him.

The eyepatched leader’s words loop in your brain, paired with storm-blue eyes. Gentle praises.

“...I think he loves the beast!”

Your body sinks with the rest.

—

The sand under you is coarse and dry as your eyes barely open, chest rising and falling but shakily, stuttering in its course. Small noises groan in the back of your throat, fingers like stones beside your face.

Everything hurts, but something has woken you up. Noises. Muttered speaking.

“Now why would she have these?” There was a moment of clinking metal and a low huff.

You groan louder and curl into yourself more, only to stop when the tears in your flesh pull. Your lungs inhale sharply.

“Oh, Christ,” the accented voice is smooth as it gets closer. “Easy, then, Ma’am. Shite, I was hoping you’d stay under a bit longer, I’m not bloody done yet.”

Forcing your eyes open, you hiss at the burn of morning light, laying on your stomach with…your brows tighten…were you wearing a tunic? A hand meets the back of your shoulder and you cry out, jerking.

“Woah!” More force is applied to keep you down but it only makes you struggle more. “Please, I’m trying to stop the bleeding!”

You stall at this revelation like a bird, panting. Muscles tight, you cautiously look over your shoulder to weakly stare at whoever this man was.

Brown eyes meet your own, and a dark-skinned complexion over an oval face. They blink at you with concern and hesitation, sparing only a nervous smirk and a chuckle. You stare widely, saying nothing.

“I…I’m just trying to stop the bleeding. Whoever got you,” this man trails off, glancing down at your tail. “Well, they did some proper damage.”

“Who are you?” Your voice is damaged from all the screaming you’d done, cracking and frail. You stifle a cough and survey the land with frantic snaps of your orbs. This wasn’t your cove.

Where were you? What had happened to the ship? To John? Your hand travels to your neck but lands on nothing. It’s like the world stops turning.

The necklace.

“My name’s Kyle, Miss, but I’m just as well off being called Gaz—” Your hand snaps to his shoulder, wrenching him down in a violent slam to the sand; with a shove of your ailing body, you cross an arm over his chest to pin him.

Brown eyes widen, and one hand easily raises in a placating manner. You don’t bother to look at the other, your head broken into bits of instances and images of horror.

“Where is it?” Your lips hiss out. You didn’t know you could make a sound like that.

Kyle, dressed in a fine outfit of a Bookkeeper, furrowed his brows at you. He didn’t look off-put by your brashness, or by the fact that you were of the Merfolk.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am…I’m not following. Where’s what, exactly?” There was a glinting at his throat, and you snatched at it with a glare and snarl of ‘thief’ on your tongue.

A blade presses into your side and you freeze. Kyle stares up at you with a frown on his face, body tight. “I think you should let that go, Miss, yeah?”

The metal discs are the same as John's, but they hold a different name entirely.

“Kyle Garrick, Sergeant, 141st company under the King.”

“One Hundred and Forty-First?” You whisper in a hushed voice and the blade loosens from you. Mouth opening and closing, you forget for a moment what Kyle is. Your eyes go glossy with hope. “You know John?”

Eyelids blink at you in astonishment and all at once the knife is sheathed at his hip once more. Gaz gapes, his slight stubble shifting on his face as he talks slowly.

“Yes, I do…how do you know the Captain? No offense, but I didn’t peg him for the type to run off with…well…” he trails, chuckling. “Not run exactly, then, is it?”

You glower and push back, flinching at your aches but waste no time in speaking frantically to the man as your tail flaps. If he was on the same ship as John was, they certainly knew each other well; Kyle had to assist you.

“Please, you need to help me,” The man’s face goes serious and he pushes himself up, “—there’s been a terrible event. John has been taken, don’t you understand?” Your hands grasp at his collar, forgetting to ask about the missing necklace in your mounting hysteria. “They took him. They’re bringing him back to the King and it’s all my fault!”

You don’t know if it’s the pain or the fatigue, but your emotions spill from you in droves, silver tears falling like drips from a blacksmith's smelter to the beach of this foreign place. Your body feels unable to hold itself up—so much blood lost.

Gaz gains a sheen of panic at your state, gripping your shoulders lightly above the given tunic.

“Now, now, Ma’am, steady. You’ve lost a lot of blood, eh? We need to get you sorted.” But internally your words disturbed him. John had been taken? His Captain? And he had known a mermaid?

“I don’t need to be sorted,” you mock, shaking him, “I need my John back! And you’re going to help me.”

Kyle gazes around awkwardly, clearing his throat and trying to comfort you as his upper half gets forced back and forth.

“First,” he stops you with a firm squeeze on your shoulders, “we’re getting you stitched and wrapped, Ma’am. If what you’re telling me is real,” Gaz pauses, glancing at the sea lapping at your tail, “then I need to get in contact with the others.”

Your body slightly sags, panting and shaking. While you should have asked who the others were, your adrenaline was too great to allow you to think above the fact that Kyle was going to help you. He had known John—that was enough for you to know he was a good person.

“Easy,” the man mutters, face pulled in concern. There’s a moment of tense silence before Gaz shifts a hand to the pocket inside of his tweed frock coat, slipping to the side of his green notch vest. He blinks his brown eyes at you before he lightly takes John’s necklace from the depths of his clothes. Kyle presents them as your shoulders loosen with a small sliver of comfort. “I believe you were looking for this, yeah?”

He spares a friendly, boyish, smile.

Your fingers brush his as you delicately take the metal up, fingertips weeping with torn flesh. Staring at them, you bring the item to your lips and kiss it gently after a moment of agony, a few more tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Oh, John,” you whisper, “you fool, what have you done?”

“I’ll be needing to move you, Ma’am,” Gaz clears his throat and looks back to the grass-coated road. The beach where you had washed up was near the bottom of a slight hill, and along with sand, there were a lot of pebbles. The wind was chilled. “I was just finishing up with a temporary binding when you woke. We can speak more when I get the larger wounds stitched.”

You see his gaze fall down you once more.

“I’d think there’s a lot to catch up on.” Shuffling John’s necklace over your head, you allow Kyle to take bandages from his Gladstone bag which he had brought down from the road with him. He says he found you on the beach unconscious not five minutes before you woke back up as he takes out John’s tunic strips before packing the wounds with fresh material.

“You stopped?” You ask quietly, body shaking. “Why?”

“Well, I left the same time that the Captain did,” he explains, looping fabric around your tail as you shudder and clench your teeth at the long cuts over your scales. Kyle spares you a glance before continuing. “Same reason too. The minute innocent beings were being hunted, everyone in the One Hundred and Forty-First deserted. They weren’t too happy with us, I’d imagine. I do what I can to help anyone, regardless of species.”

Gaz pulls back and finishes up, brushing his hands on his folded legs and sighing.

“We all separated and led our lives the best we could—got jobs, hid ourselves, the like.” While the story was fascinating, as John was rare to talk about the King or his service beyond a clenched jaw, you truly were suffering from blood loss.

Every moment it became harder to keep your upper-half vertical and your eyes open. Gaz’s words slurred in your eardrums as the sand under your hands got pushed back by pressure like a rock being dragged. Your head must have swayed, because the next moment you’re being lifted with a grunt and a steadying of feet.

“Can’t say I’ve ever carried a mermaid,” Kyle grumbles to himself, blinking down at your form as our head rests limply on his chest. “Certainly not one that knows Price of all people.”

You focus on your breathing as he ascends the hill, going slowly and holding your form tight so as not to drop you. While not John’s size by any means, the man was still strong in a more lean and lithe way where your Fisherman’s was upfront and bare with it.

You’re carried down the trodden path to a lone house on the upper hill above the water, small and quaint, it’s only a single square room.

Truly this event speaks to your luck—how on earth had you found perhaps one of the only men on the planet that knew John and sympathized with magical creatures?

Kyle sets you back on his bed softly, pillows pressed into indents of your head and cheek.

“Alright then,” he sighs, “let's get this figured out, yeah?”

You’re offered food and water, but all you care about is sleep. Your tail hangs off the end of the bed and your fins ache with torn skin. Without even looking at your scales, you know they’re damaged immensely. Most will be left with great scars.

Merfolk could be called vain in their lifetime, and the sentiment wasn’t entirely untrue. You were beings of elegance and beauty—ethereal lustfulness hardwired into your DNA. Image was important to you, and this loss was great.

But the loss of John hurt more than any torture someone could inflict on you; any wounds. You needed him back.

As Gaz prompted you to tell your story, which you did with failing consciousness, your hand traveled to your necklace to grasp it tightly. Lips quivering. When the first push of the man’s needle entered your hard flesh, you never even felt it.

—

You awoke for the second time, once more, to the sound of speaking.

“Well, he’s sure gotten up to it while we’ve been away! Fuckin’ bastard.” This accent didn’t belong to Gaz, and thus your eyelids pushed back with slight unease. Had John’s Sergeant sold you out? With a struggle, you blink back to reality only to find a pair of bright blue eyes stuck on you.

For a moment you startle, those shades so similar to John’s that for a moment you had forgotten what had transpired. Then the pain in your tail strikes up and you balk back sharply.

“Soap!” Gaz hisses, grabbing the large and built man away from the bed. “Get the hell away from her, would you? Christ, she’s been through enough without having to look at that face when she wakes up, Mate.”

“What in the hell does that mean?” Soap, as he’d been introduced, was the epitome of a blacksmith—ash still on his square jaw and his large black apron tied at a stiff waist. His arms were as bulky as your head and while he was shorter than Gaz he made up for it in sheer muscle.

Blue eyes darken with annoyance before they swivel back to you, but they lighten just the same when they spot your fear-spiked expression.

“Sorry about that, Little Lady. Just curious, is all.” You swallow the saliva in your throat and turn to look at Gaz in question. “Not every day somethin’ like this happens.”

“Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish,” the man offers, rubbing at his neck apologetically. “Served with John and I. You can trust him.”

You blink and turn back to Johnny, and, sure enough, around his neck were the common silver discs that Gaz and John wore over the tunic and apron.

“A…” You try to remember what your Fisherman had told you about human customs. With a frown, you carefully extend a hand and hold it aloft while your tail rests and your other limb keeps you up. “A pleasure, Johnny.”

A wide grin meets your eyes and a hand is clapped into your own; shaking it firmly as yours remains limp.

“Ah, please, the pleasure’s all mine.” When his grip leaves you look down at the various stitches and thick wrappings around your body before thinning your lips and gazing back at Gaz. He stares and tilts his head when you lock eyes with him.

“Thank you, Garrick. I…I owe you a large debt.” He’s already shaking his chin at you.

“Negative, Ma’am,” Kyle denies. “The only thing we need to be focusing on is getting the Captain back. Simon should be along by the evening.”

“Sure the man’ll show?” Johnny raises a brow and stands to his full height, going over to the small table in the middle of the room and sitting down with a huff. He picks up a flagon and takes a sip of ale. “He’s far off cuttin’ stone.”

“I sent a rider out and said it was urgent. He should be getting it about now, yeah?”

“Well, hell, I’d sure hope so else we’re out of our favorite Ghost. Can’t have that.” You watch and stare at the ease these two converse with the other, years seem to bleed from their mouths like waves in water. They had it all figured out, and noticeably, they weren’t at all panicked.

“How are the both of you so calm?” You can’t help but ask. Brown and blue turn to furrow their brows at you.

“They took the bloody Captain. Only person worse than that to steal away would be Simon.” A chuckle. “I’m more worried about the bastards themselves than him.” And it was left at that.

At times throughout the day, Gaz would bring you bread to nibble on to help settle your stomach, water, and ale whenever you needed it. When the dryness of the air and the fireplace got too warm for you, Johnny would be the one to carry you down the hill to the water where you’d soak your wounds in the surf. In those moments you could finally take in the pure silence under the waves and let your anguish take hold.

But you always had to break the surface at some point, shimmy into the dry tunic that Soap offers with respectfully averted eyes, and let him carry you back with his bulky arms.

As it always did, the water let your wounds heal far faster than a man’s, though the aches were still intense.

John’s eyes would not leave you. His crown of stars or the lantern light on his face—the way he whisked you away from danger and put himself dead center into it. Keeping you to his large chest as he held aloft a sword in your honor.

“...I think he loves the beast!”

Oh, and you loved right back and you hadn’t told him.

It’s hours upon hours later when the door is shoved open as you sit up in the bed; tail limp and dim on the floor below. You look up in shock at the man whose frame nearly takes up the entire doorway, shoulders wide and thighs vast under work pants and a large tunic, cowl over his head and clasped with a brooch at his left pec. Under shined a deep brown gaze and pale brows, but his entire lower face was covered by cloth.

Intimidating, his visible expression was entirely blank. You wondered if perhaps a vampire had walked into this place without proper entry, but then you remembered the man Johnny and Gaz mentioned.

Simon. Ghost.

Well, he certainly fits the part, stone dust on his clothes and large boots stacked with scrapes. A Stonemason.

“There’s the man!” Johnny exclaims, raising his hand which has another cup of ale in it as he’d downed the other some time ago.

“Where’s Price?” Deep was Simon’s voice, and he spares you a glance but nothing more. Gaze falling down your tail with hidden flickers of intrigue and wafting back up to stop at John’s necklace. His brows pull in as he turns.

“Gone—taken to the King,” Gaz explains from where he leans against the fireplace, face serious.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon grunts, walking in and closing the door behind him. “Where was he last?” It’s mildly amusing to you that he doesn’t seem bothered or even surprised by a mermaid in Gaz’s home.

“Just off Harpies Nest,” Johnny pipes in, itching at shaved sides of his scalp. “Where the old beasts used to fly from.”

“I’m guessing she’s the reason for that, then?” Everyone was anxious to act, even you. These men were close, and while circumstance had forced them away from one another the loyalties still lay.

“Affirmative. Price’s been in good company, seems.” A stale glare is sent his way and he chuckles and puts up his hands.

“Is there anything we can do?” You ask, looking at each in turn. Seeming to still hold that ingrained ranking that all men in the service do, Johnny and Gaz look to Simon. Brown eyes blink slowly, turning to look at you in a narrowed thought.

After a while, he speaks in a monotone.

“They’ll be bringing ‘em to the castle to stand trial. We’ve already lost a day’s time and there’ll be no ship that can sail as fast as we need it to.”

“By land?” Gaz wonders. Johnny’s shaking his head.

“How do you expect we get the Lady through that?” Eyes turn to your lack of legs. Body stiff, you huff and grit your teeth. If they thought you weren’t going along, that was foolish of them.

“I can swim to the docks,” you pause, “but you’ll have to tell me the way, for I do not know it.”

John had talked about docks—places ships went to rest. You’re sure you can make it, even like this. You had to.

Johnny stares before he chuckles twice, sharing a glance with the others and motioning to you. “I like ‘er.”

Gaz and Simon look at one another with a side-eye, before Kyle sighs and shakes his head. Simon hooks his thumbs into his pants and huffs out, “Sure you’re up for that?”

“I’m helping John.” Pushing, you meet those brown eyes head-on and steel yourself. “I need him back.”

There’s no further fight, and Ghost takes everything you say at face value. “Fine.”

And that was that.

—

The plan was so stupid you wondered if these men had gone brain-dead, but inside the castle dungeons, John had no way of knowing that.

He frowned deeply as his pounding skull tipped back to connect with the cobblestone wall, blood dried over the right side of his face. A growl on his lips as the chains keep his hands high above him and hanging as his backside stays seated on the floor. His limbs had long since gone numb, circulation cut out in an uncomfortable state of numbness.

But inside of him, there was a sense of accomplishment despite everything. He’d gotten you away from dirty hands—away from hooks. Away from danger.

John could die happy with that.

On the ship, before he’d been brought to the castle, the crew had tied him to the mainsail mast with a ragged rope that had skinned his flesh in just minutes of the rocking waves. They’d taken his vessel as well, and all of his belongings were confiscated in the docks. From there it had been amused jabs at his stomach with fists and knife-throwing practice.

John had cuts along the sides of his arms and the meat of his thighs—clothes shredded and torn from blades. His forehead had a long gash from the scalp to the temple, dried now but pulling with red aggression.

The fisherman hums under his breath and thinks only of you.

It was a fact that you had brought music into his life; a melody of waves and scales that could not be denied. Songs that sounded like sea-foam and a lapping of a tail across the water. When he’d seen you that day from behind the black rocks, John had lost a piece of himself to your wide eyes and tilted head. That spark of connection.

He had never been so thankful for choosing a new place to cast his nets, because he’d unwittingly caught the greatest creature he ever could have—one people have been running after for years.

You.

John’s lips pull in a tiny smile, eyes going soft. Above him his chains rattle and his arms flinch, wounds burning, but for the life of him, he can’t stop smiling. Wherever you were, he hoped you were safe and that he gave you the best chance of survival. He hoped you could forgive him.

Footsteps echo off the ground, and John looks over to the iron bars of his cell stiffly, mask re-falling to his stern face like a curtain. Two guards in armor clink down the hallway, expressions hidden by hoods and cloth. One produces a rusted key from his belt and slips it into the door, the metal rattling as it gets forced back and forth until the telltale click signifies the opening of the lock.

“Finally letting me out, then?” John speaks dryly, voice holding a rasp.

No one answers, and soon John’s chains are dropped and his arms seized. Yanked up, the fisherman grunts in pain as his legs drag behind him across the cobble—being taken somewhere. Probably, if John had to guess, the noose.

Desertion isn’t something you can get out of shy of a life sentence; to hell or to a cell was entirely up to the King. And the King wasn’t entirely fond of John and his One Hundred and Forty-First.

John was forced out into the open courtyard, a dichotomy of brightly flowering bushes and expensive finery to the platform placed in the very middle. The brunette's lips thinned at the sight of the large and imposing body made of wood and rope belonging to the gallows, a grim reaper of earthly material. There would be no great fight from him, no roar of a death rattle, just a kicking of his feet and tight wheezes, but no more.

He knows his final thoughts will be of you—what you’re doing right now, how you’ll live the rest of your life. John hopes you don’t cry for him.

The two guards shove him forward, and already a crowd has formed below the viewing platform for the monarch himself, who sits in all of his finery. Wyvern leather for his gloves, unicorn horn for a scepter, and…John’s eyes go tight, scales that make up a crown of opal and gold. Vibrant scales.

Unmistakingly Merfolk, anyone who’s met one of the species would know it. It has the same shine as the one John holds in the pouch on his belt; the fisherman clings to the fact that, against all of it, you were still with him in even a small sense. You’d be with him.

So John grits his teeth and glares up to the dias defiantly as the guards hold him under the noose, shoving his head to the side to grab the rope. He feels no fear.

“Fuckin’ watch it, Muppet,” the fisherman hisses, snapping his head to the side to stare into the glinting brown eyes from under the hood. He pauses, brows furrowing. “What…?”

As his hands are forced behind him, they’re not tied as the excited murmuring from the crowd begins, the King’s forward-leaning attention.

They’re given a knife.

John hides his surprise and looks over to the other guard as he fits the noose over his neck. Amused blue, and around his neck the glint of silver discs.

“Oh, bloody hell, you’re takin’ the piss,” the former Captain growls lowly. He knows those damned eyes, just as he knows his former Lieutenant’s.

MacTavish and Simon.

“Chin up, Captain,” Johnny jokes under his breath hidden by cloth. “Show’s about to start. Let’s give ‘em a proper scare, yeah.”

Blue eye glare, but they lack the venom. A barred-teeth smile grows. How had this happened? Johnny steps back and goes to his side, the wood under their feet creaking. The crowd falls silent, looking to the King for the verdict.

The King’s fingers raise and John memorizes his face in that instant…because it’s only then that he sees Gaz.

Gaz, who was on the upper terrace of the courtyard’s walls, holding a musket with the stock trained to his cheek; body still and ready—tutored to a perfectly motionless trance. There aren’t any guards to be seen near him. It’s a moment of pure silence, a ruling energy. The crowd is waiting for the King to verbalize an answer that he’s never able to give.

As the monarch’s lips open there is an eardrum-bursting boom that shatters the call for John’s doom and instead spells his own in his very castle from one of his former men. A poetic ending, John would say, but he’s unable to verbalize it as he’s suddenly falling through the gallows hatch as Simon reems on the handle.

“Knife!” It’s all the Ghost yells in warning.

With a rush of air, there’s a split second to cut the rope before it breaks his neck, and with a snapping motion, John perfects it in an instant—instinct as sharp as any blade that could be put into his hand. He hits the ground with a loud grunt of pain and struggles to sit up until Johnny and Simon jerk at him from where they’d jumped down as well. Not a second too soon, as lead balls from rival guns were already hitting the gallows.

Not all the guards were dead, then, and apparently, the three had known that would be a possibility.

John would have to scold them later.

“What in the hell is going on?!” The fisherman barks, but he’s being dragged before he shoves their hands off of him and follows to where they beeline into the fleeing crowd.

“What?” Johnny belts out laughter. “No ‘thank you?’ We just saved your neck!”

“Left!” Simon shouts, and although John’s body can’t take much more, they all dart into the cover of the castle walkways. “Make for the docks—the Sergeant’s meeting us there.”

“Bloody fucking Christ!” John growls but quickly goes onto the most important topic. “She’s behind this, isn’t she?” Johnny’s smirk only confirms it.

“Proper girl you’ve got there, Gaz found her on the shore. Else we’d never have heard about it all before you were dead and gone.” John blinks at him. “Getting reckless without us, now?”

The former Captain ignores the remark. “Where is she?”

“Oi!” Ghost hisses, looking over his shoulder as the three hurry on as shouting rings from behind them. “Get your head in the game. Focus on not getting shot, yeah?”

Brown meets blue.

“You’ll see ‘er soon.” Simon ends, dead eyes shifting to a form that rampages through the hallway behind them. “Behind!” He calls loudly, and John ducks just as a knife is thrown with pinpoint accuracy. A sound of a body hitting the floor echoes over the distant screaming and calls of alarm.

The King is dead.

All of the men reach their destination by sheer luck and the knowledge of how to use a blade, cobblestone leading to open streets and back alleys. Finally, the wide stretch of sea was visible, and a shadow slinked out of a corner quickly.

“Hell,” Gaz blinks at them, “do you think I’ll ever be let back into the castle?”

Johnny pants a laugh. “You’ll be lucky to get into the province, ya sneaky Bastard. Fine fuckin’ shot.”

Simon looks at them. “Gaz, Johnny, get to it.”

They’re by the open water of the dock, long wooden walkways stretching out with ships shifting in the waves. John wonders if his boat is here in the back of his mind, but his eyes are already combing the waves greedily in search of you.

Were you here? Oh, he hoped you weren’t. You’d be placing yourself in the middle of a very real and present danger.

“Get to what?” John questions, looking at each man in turn. “What ‘ave you planned, eh? Seems I’ve missed the meeting where we decide to assassinate the bloody monarch in broad daylight.”

Gaz places a hand on his shoulder as he shimmies past. “Best to leave the heavy lifting to the ones who can stand fully, Captain.”

“Aye,” Johnny confirms. “You’ll want to be here more than anywhere, bet ya.”

Simon shares a look with the blacksmith and grabs John by one shoulder, leading him to the water as Johnny takes the other. The brunette blinks quickly in confusion and grunts an expletive.

“Get your hands off of me you pair of—!”

“Have fun!” Johnny and Simon both shove him into the water with a final push and dart off like wisps.

Water rushes into his ears, covering his head and soaking his clothes before it drags him under. John’s arms flailed to propel him back to the surface. A jolt later, his head is breaching the water with a venomous glare and a barked order on his lips to a vacant audience. The boys had already sprinted off to who knows where.

“Son of a…” John trials, weak legs kicking to keep him afloat. Something brushes his thigh as water drips from his nose, cleaning away the blood with a reddish tint to the liquid.

The fisherman startles, head snapping down just as your hands grasp at his abdomen, sliding up as you press your lips deeply into his in one swift motion. He gasps, grip instinctually moving to hold onto the small of your back.

You press into him tightly, pushing every emotion into the locking of your mouths with desperation and longing. Sighing deeply into the kiss, John melts into you as your tail brushes his legs, torn fins visible and shimmering stitches pulling at flesh. Scales glint somewhat brighter under the waves, water dripping along your shoulders and wetting your hair.

John brings you closer when he realizes it’s your form around him, eyes fluttering closed and fingers weaving behind the base of your skull. It’s as if the world stills for that quick and reverent second as if everything is right. The both of you break the kiss with soft eyes, and after a moment of staring your chest releases a chuckle; hands coming up to capture your fisherman’s cheeks, weaving through those beard hairs once more.

The brunette stares at you and lays his forehead into yours, not knowing what to say. A smile plays on his lips.

“...It seems my fisherman had more of a reckless side than I anticipated,” you speak for him, whispering into the air. Your eyes flicker over the cuts and bruises visible on his pale flesh and a flash of fear alights in your expression. “Oh, John…What have they done to you?”

“Just scratches,” the man reassures delicately. “It’s alright, Love. I’ll live.”

But you both know this conversation can’t happen here. With a few more pecks of kisses to his lips, you ask in an ethereal voice, “Do you trust me?”

Your hand is locked to his wrist, pulling him along the waters as your head tilts at him and tail sliding along his flesh.

John wastes no time. “Of course.”

Lips flicker to a small, loving, grin and then you drag him under the water.

—

“Do they hurt?” He asks you carefully, running a calloused hand along the tears in your fins you know will never heal fully. You sit on the rocks below Gaz’s home, the water still dripping off of both of your bodies.

Out farther in the water the three other men are sailing back in John’s fishing boat, a few minutes out. You blink down at him and move a hand to shift his jaw upward to you, humming.

“Not when you touch them like that,” confessing, you keep close to him, held tightly under the crook of his arm and breathing in that scent of rope and wood oil. You practically vibrate with comfort, all of your worries able to be put aside at last.

John looks down at you and chuckles, putting a deep kiss on your scalp and taking a deep inhale.

“Cheeky,” he teases. You smile.

“And yours?” Your voice speaks out in question as the water brushes your tail.

The man peels back to look down at you slowly. “Already better…I owe you, Sweetheart.”

Huffing, you shake your head, “You owe me nothing. The only reason you were there was because of me.”

John’s brows furrow, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your head back to him. He stares into your eyes for a long while until your face starts to heat with emotion, blinking up at him innocently. His blues dart over the healing cuts and marks with hidden emotion.

“I’d do it again,” John whispers. “A million times over, you hear? I’d be a bloody fool not to.”

He kisses you as you both wait in the setting twilight for the others, bloody and beaten—more scar tissue than anything else—but still your John.

“Thank you,” he mutters into your lips, and then again when he nips at your flesh. The man plays with his necklace at your collarbone as he traces patterns in your scales and smirks when you shiver.

He wonders how he got so lucky when the others anchor the boat near the shore, hopping off and wading the rest of the way to the beach. John kisses your forehead and says he’d be right back.

You watch him with glinting eyes as he walks over to his men, taking each in a heartfelt handshake and conversing honestly. Your eyes blink at the care they display for one another and raise a hand when they peel off, back up to Gaz’s home to rest.

They reciprocate and disappear atop the hill.

What’s he doing? You ask as you watch John climb aboard his vessel and rummage around his fishing barrels, opening some and tossing the tops to the deck. Hands shifting along the rocks, you can’t hide the amusement or affection in your eyes at the sight of his ramping annoyance. What was he looking for?

Your fingers go up to play with his necklace and watch.

You can’t say you feel much heartache at the loss of your cove—even with the king dead, you were still hunted for your scales—though you had grown to see it in a new light. The place was only a home when John was there, and you knew wherever you went as long as he was there it would be alright.

The both of you wouldn’t let anything happen to one another.

John comes back carrying something tucked in cloth, a small parcel held in one hand and longer than it is wide. Your interest is immediately piqued, curiosity straining your eyes.

He holds it out to you with a mischievous glint and a smirk.

“Go on,” John motions. Blinking at him, your brows furrow as you carefully take the item from his hands, settling it in your lap before you shift the cloth away.

Your fingers go to cover your mouth, small gasp entering the air.

It was a golden box, engraved with movements that resemble lace and waves—shimmering in the low light.

“John,” you stutter, “what is…?”’

“Open it,” the man insists, kneeling down in front of you as if his muscles didn’t ache. “It’s the reason I was late that day.” John grunts, rubbing at the bottom of his beard and watching intently; crinkles beside his eyes.

You stare for a moment with burning tear ducts before you grasp ahold of the lid and open it after running a digit over the make.

Inside sits blue velvet and, strangely, your own scales, but atop that…the blinding gold of a pair of twin cuff bracelets—stones the same shade as your tail. It was perhaps the most elegant piece of jewelry you had ever seen.

For a solid minute you’re rendered speechless, mouth opening and closing as your tail hangs limp in the low tide. Chucking, John takes the pieces out and your ears twitch to the sound of your scales clacking together like glass.

“Why would you…” You can’t make sense of it.

John slips them over your wrists and you gape in wonder. They fit just perfectly.

You look up into your Fisherman’s face and feel tears drip down your chin. A hard hand comes to wipe them away as you laugh through a sniffle.

“Do you like them, then, Love?” He asks lowly, beard pulled back in a smile.

“Yes,” you say immediately, giggling. “How could I not? John, they’re lovely. Far too beautiful for me.”

The former Captain grunts and his brows pull in, frowning. “Now why would you say that?” He brings your hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Can’t make me change my mind on that, eh?”

Your eyes bore into him, lips parted. After a moment your face feels like it’s on fire and you cover your cheeks.

John laughs loudly, grabbing your arms and lightly squeezing the flesh before taking your grip back down to your lap. You smile so widely you’re afraid your face might crack open.

“No need to hide,” he hums. “Let me see that face.”

“You’re good to me, John.” His face softens, wrinkles fall away, and his chest swells with pride. You kiss his lips and whisper, “I bare my soul to you.”

It wasn’t an ‘I love you’ but something far more precious.

The man’s face deepens with devotion, gruff figure more than easily leaning over yours as you’re carefully laid back to the tiny pebbles behind you—a hand behind your head and at the swell of what would be a hip.

In the darkening night, the sun shines its dying light across the waves just like the extending fingers of John’s firm grip; dragging you into him as sea-currents would. Wrapping you both in kelp and a salty grave. His voice is the grating of sand, the slide of a rope across a wooden deck.

“Then I’ll take care of it for as long as I live.”

Your fisherman damns you to a crypt of land and air, and you couldn’t worship it more. To live and to die beside him is to have existed just as you should have.

TAGS:

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2K notes · View notes

ffsg0jo · 2 months

Text

�� his golden spear ��

character: dreamer!gojo × fem!reader (reader is poc/south asian coded but barely any mentions of physical features except nipples)

warnings: jjk × asoiaf , self-harm , madness , reader is from house martell , does NOT follow asoif canon everything is very vague/only minor references/not in timeline order , mentions of eye-gouging , mentions of death , ooc gojo , mentions of whores , reader has brown nipples urm i can't think of anything else , lowkey insta-love ish , some parts are disjointed on purpose , they dont know that hes a dreamer btw they just think hes batshit crazy , NO SPOILERS !!

w/c: 3.4k ish

a/n: this was written while i was sleep deprived and delirious, so read it with a handful of salt. it's been plaguing my mind, though, and i had to write it. it's also a lot longer than initially anticipated, so i hope you all enjoy it <33 all credits go to @sweetmelodygraphics for the dividers !!

fics4gaza :: jjk masterlist

Satoru was losing his mind. He's been having visions for the entirety of his life, vivid visions about the past, present, and future. At first, he thought nothing of them, being young and playing them off as his wild imagination or whimsical dreams. But when some were proven to ring true, fear struck through his heart.

His own mother's passing an example of it.

He could barely make sense of some, and others were so clear-cut they felt like memories. But regardless, the sense of impending doom never left his body. The visions, as of late, had only been getting worse, distorting his sight.

It was strange. Sometimes, he'd go weeks without dreaming only to be suffocated by an onslaught of nonsensical dreams, seeing them whilst he was awake too, rendered unable to distinguish reality from his debilitating hallucinations. His head constantly throbbed and ached, and he's wracked with crippling nausea more often than not.

Overwhelmed and overstimulated, Satoru feels like plucking his hairs out one by one. He doesn't know what to do with himself, his body on autopilot, dissociating when it gets too much for him.

In writing down his visions, Satoru thought he could begin to make sense of them, maybe try and figure out patterns, but they only served to confuse him more. Hurt his head more, and suddenly, he found himself subconsciously scribbling images into the air, without a quill or parchment in his hand. Others around him started to whisper of his condition. Targaryen madness, they’d say, sending him pitiful glances.

He so desperately wanted answers and respite, starting and ending his days in tears, but his madness overtook him.

His visions, dreams, whatever the hell they blurred into real life, and he felt like he was losing his grip on reality. He saw his hands dissolving before his very eyes. It's true what they say about Targaryens. When one is born, a coin is tossed, and the whole world holds its breath. Greatness or insanity.

Insanity ran through his dragon blood.

He sees the decapitated heads of the three-headed dragon, meticulously being sewed back on with a golden spear and red thread. He saw his dragon, Vermithor, grazing on sheep in fields, burning bright orange. A snake, wrapping around his arm and squeezing him tight. He will see a hand reaching towards him, a shiny ring adorning each finger, a soft laugh reverberating through his ears.

The laughter echoed in his head ever since. He heard it almost all day and night now. A brief respite only when he clamped his head tight between his hands.

His ears are permanently scratched and raw.

The world strangely seemed to take a golden hue, and he felt like all the colours blur into one, and he could no longer tell them apart. He became breathless when his usually white hair turned red, his brilliant cerulean eyes, gold. The red bleeding through the gold, into orange, dripping down his skin.

He was trying to gouge his eyes out. He brought the valyrian steel dagger up to his face, and just as he was about to cut the stupid things out, the Lord Commander sworn to his father, disarmed him, tackling him to the ground. Satoru kicked and screamed and sobbed. He wanted the visions to end, he wished to see no longer.

The small scar on the apple of his left cheek serves as a sorry reminder.

In attempts to subdue the noise ringing in his head and the visions blurring his sight (as well as any further attempts of Satoru harming himself), the blackest of black materials was tied tight around his head. With his ears sufficiently muffled, and his eyes bathed in darkness, he felt like he could breathe.

It helped. He felt somewhat calm for the first time in years.

Despite the cloth tied around his eyes, Satoru could still strangely see. Whilst it wasn’t as clear as before, he could still make out figures and shapes, and if someone was standing close enough, their faces. His good friend Lord Suguru had tried the cloth and was completely blinded, so it was odd that Satoru could see through it. Still, with his vision limited, he felt safe from his own mind, and it wasn’t the strangest thing about Satoru at all. Not by a thousand miles.

On occasion, his visions would come back, pain shooting through his spine, and nothing in the world could stop them. Definitely not the flimsy cloth tied around his head. In those times, he had to be restrained and constantly watched by guards, lest he pour scalding molten lead into his eyes and ears.

The Mad Heir is what they called him. A laughable name you thought when you first heard of the proposal that was brought to you and your father. You felt insulted.

Satoru of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to The Iron Throne.

The Mad Heir to The Iron Throne.

How dare they offer you, a ruling Princess and Heir in your own right, a mad Prince. Marriages were rarely happy, oft filled with malcontent. The sanest of men mistreated their lady wives and what of mad men? You could hold your own, of that you were sure, but you did not want to go into a marriage fearing your life. You truly did want love to blossom in your union at some point, regardless of what seed sowed it.

But if an alliance was to be forged, to unite the Seven Kingdoms, and strengthen your house, then you were to meet in a little more than a moons time. You had little choice, your father pleaded and was adamant that you met the Prince at the very least. Begrudgingly, you accepted.

Packed and ready to set off, you mentally prepared for the long journey via ship. Maybe you'd get to see a dragon or two, you reconciled, forever curious about the wonderful beasts.

A marriage. That was exactly what Satoru needed. Another problem to add to his heaping pile of problematic problems. He did not understand why he had to get married. He was young, only one and twenty. He hadn't even had the opportunity to sample the whores of Flea Bottom yet.

Not that he had any interest in whores to be completely transparent. Between his debilitating madness and constant training, lessons, and attending small court, Satoru barely had time to breathe.

With his father's refusal to take another wife after his own mother passed came the incessant shoving of Satoru to marry his own.

He knew he was being stubborn; he knew realistically that if he did not breed, then the Targaryen line would end with him. If he had at least one or two children, if he was to pass before his time (which was looking very likely), then at least they'd inherit the throne.

But Satoru was adamant that the Targaryen line would not end. He'd seen it in a vision, clear as day. A girl with long white hair and blue eyes that mirrored his own, sitting peacefully in flames with three dragons circling her.

He consulted every single history book he had access to, and whilst they mentioned Targaryens being resistant to fire, there was no mention of a girl with three newly hatched dragons bathing in flames. To have one hatchling is considered a blessing many Targaryens are not fortunate to have, but to have hatched three? Almost impossible. With the lack of documentation, Satoru figured it must have been the future he saw.

Though there was something in his gut telling him to meet with the Princess he was to wed. And whilst he was plagued with madness, Satoru wholeheartedly trusted his intuition. He knew there'd be something to gain from the meeting, but he didn't know what just yet. Maybe an answer to his dreams? Unlikely, but tugging in his gut wouldn’t cease.

In less than half a moons time, he was to meet his potential future wife and Queen. And for once, he wished he'd receive a clear vision of what his future was to be.

Stares followed you as you walked through the courtyard of the Royal Court, having finally, after a month of travelling, reached King’s Landing. Some curious, others leering, you did not have the energy to pay them any more mind. To be frank, you were exhausted, not faring too well with weeks at sea. You wanted to soak in a warm bath and sleep in a real bed. If you hadn’t been so tired, you might’ve met their stares with a glare.

You knew why they were so ‘fascinated’ by you. You did not look like the noblewomen they were used to seeing. The burnt orange chiffon that covered your body was almost see-through, and if one was to look, really pay attention, they could see the brown of your nipples. A generous amount of your cleavage was on show, half covered by the red material draped around one side of your body and tucked into your arm.

A golden necklace, studded with amber stones, adorned your neck, with matching earrings, and a gold headband fixed just on top of your hairline. Your hair was free and unbound, unlike the ladies of court around you, who had their hair twisted into intricate braids.

Your mother, the Princess of Dorne, and your father were both bathed in similar colours, albeit a little more conservatively. Together, you were a blazing sight, embodying your house motto; unbowed, unbent, unbroken.

Your Royal convoy was met by the King and his Lords, who bowed and kissed your mother’s hand and warmly greeted your father. You bowed to the King, politely thanking him for his hospitality, and he responded to your words with a warm, familiar smile.

His son, the Prince, was nowhere to be seen. And although many might have been offended, you paid it no mind. As the Heir to Dorne, you knew very well just how busy his schedule could be. And in truth, you were nervous, wanting to stall your meeting as much as possible.

The maids led you to your room and had preemptively set up a warm bath for you to soak in, and you graciously thanked them. Your own personal maids took the liberty to add milk and honey to the warm water. Thanking them all once again, you dismissed them, wanting to bathe in peace.

You do not know how long you spent in the bath, lost in your thoughts. The water was now less than lukewarm, and your fingers had pruned up.

Whilst your body had been soothed and relaxed, your mind was far from. You had heard whispers about the Prince’s striking beauty, the magnificent blue of his eyes. Yet you still feared, usually the pretty ones had the worst personalities and egos in your experience. You had tried to ask the maids, but all they said was that ‘it would be the most agreeable match, your grace’.

The fact that no one was willing to tell you about your potential husband to be worried you.

All you knew was that he was mad and devastatingly handsome.

Sighing, you got out of your bath and dried off, calling your maids to help you get dressed. Once again, you donned light and airy chiffon, this time opting for a simple, short sleeved red dress and a burnt orange scarf draped over your left side and tucked into your waist with a golden band. The scarf was embroidered with gold outlines of the sun, matching your house sigil. A golden snake bracelet was wrapped around your forearm, but you decided to forgo the rest of your jewellery besides your rings. You wanted to explore the castle and feared too much jewellery would make unnecessary noise.

There were still quite a couple of hours till you were meant to dine with the Targaryens, so you quietly slipped out of your rooms and set out to explore your potential future home.

Nerves were worming throughout Satoru’s body, unsettling him deeply; he could hardly focus on the book in front of him. He had another dream last night, a golden spear barrelling straight through his heart. Except there was no pain or blood, he felt entirely at peace, and his heart had beaten even stronger.

Satoru had wrenched off his blindfold off, desperately searching through the archives. He tried to find out what the golden spear could mean or potentially represent. Initially, he thought it would mean there would be a good hunting season perhaps, and in another text, it made mention of how a spear could symbolise courage and achievement. Still, there was something in his gut telling him that it couldn’t possibly be it.

Maybe he’d die having won some great war? That wouldn’t make too much sense given that the Seven Kingdoms were at the height of their prosperity, and if his betrothal was to go well, that would only serve to further that. Every single possible conclusion he came to, his body was telling him he was wrong.

His palms dug into his eyes as he roughly exhaled, cursing under his breath. The doors to the library opened, and he knew a servant had probably found him to tell him he was to go back to the training he was skipping.

“I’ll be right there, just give me a moment.” He said, his breath coming out in quick pants, palms digging into his eyes further.

The pain brought him great comfort.

Instead of hearing the doors close, he hears light footsteps coming closer towards him. Gently, soft hands grasp at his wrists, slowly pulling them away from his eyes.

Satoru is shocked stiff, wondering which servant had the audacity to touch him in such way.

His eyes open, and the first thing he sees is a golden snake wrapped around a forearm. A jolt goes through his body, every single hair on his body stands, and his vision bleeds red.

A snake, the arm, Satoru’s vision from months ago finds him once more. He’s rendered breathless at the sensation, gasping for air. The hands move from his wrists to cup his face.

“-okay?”

His hearing is muffled, and his eyes struggle to find focus. His stomach bubbles with excitement and trepidation. There’s a soft voice lulling him back to reality, a familiar voice that he can not quite place. Fingers stroke his cheek, the cold rings bringing great ease, and eventually, it pulls him out of his own head.

“Just breathe,” the voice tells him, fingers gently closing his lids and returning to stroke his cheeks. Satoru’s breath somewhat evens out as he focuses on breathing. Once he’s settled, he squeezes his eyes shut and gains the courage to open them one more.

You’re beautiful, is his first thought. Breathtaking. An explosion of red and gold, a beautiful sunset orange.

You look like the answer to all his prayers.

“-you okay?”

Satoru snaps out of his thoughts and realises you’re talking to him. He wordlessly nods, his eyes moving away from your figure in embarrassment. Your hands fall from his face, and Satoru misses their warmth already. The incessant tugging in his gut had died down to a gentle pull, and Satoru knew, with certainty, he found what he was looking for.

“I apologise for touching you so brazenly, my Prince.” You said, thinking that the man in front of you was probably uncomfortable by your touch. You figured out who he was as you stepped into the library, after all, how many white-haired and blue-eyed people were there, casually walking around the Keep.

You knew you probably shouldn’t have touched him, but he looked like he was having a panicked episode. His breath came out quick and ragged, eyes blown wide and teary. You remembered how your parents would hold your face to ground you and guide you to breathing normally again, helping you calm down.

Satoru slowly turns back to you and takes you in once more. It’s better than the first time he laid eyes on you. His soul feels at peace, his body wanting to cave in on yours. He doesn’t even realise it, but the ringing in his ears had finally quietened down.

He notices the rings on your hands and instinctively moves to grab them.

“A spear?” He questions, somewhat frantic. You let him take hold of your hand, wanting him to feel at ease in your presence and quickly recognising this was the supposed madness everyone spoke about.

“Our sigil,” you explained gently, as he moved his face closer to your hand in disbelief. “Of House Martell. A sun, with a golden spear through it.”

“A golden spear,” Satoru repeated, a breathless laugh escaping his lips. “How could I have been so stupid, of course it’s your sigil!”

The Prince’s erratic behaviour was more than a little alarming, but for some reason, you were not worried or in fear. You let him process whatever he needed to process, seeing the cogs turning in his brain.

His eyes also visibly cleared up, and his face looked much more relaxed. The Prince really was strikingly handsome. You felt drawn to him, fighting the urge to hold his hand properly, fingers itching to trace his little scar and stroke his supple cheeks once more.

“I apologise, Princess,” he says, calmed after minutes of just staring and fiddling with your ring. “It is unbecoming of a Prince to treat you in such a way.”

Still, he made no move to release your hand; you found that you did not mind, liking the roughened touch of his fingers on yours.

He looks up at you with those gorgeous eyes, and you realise if they were the last thing you saw, you would die a satisfied and happy woman. You shake your head at him, as if telling him not to worry about it. If anything, you should be apologising to him.

“And I also apologise for your betrothal to me.” His voice is a lot firmer than before, but still soft and whispery. You go to open your mouth to refute his statement, but he speaks before you can.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, so please-“ he gestures to the chair next to him with his free hand, “-sit, and we can discuss matters.”

Before you sit next to him, you grab the hand already on yours with your other and look at him imploringly.

“I know they say that you are mad, my Prince, but you are not broken or incapable of love. In truth, I was a little insulted by your proposal at first, but I truly think I could come to greatly care for you, if not love.”

You had not felt safer with a man alone, as you had with Satoru, besides your own father. It was a strange and indescribable feeling, but you felt as though your souls truly were connected, his presence bringing you ease. You didn’t believe in soulmates or love at first sight. You knew all too well just how cruel the world was, but in Satoru, you found the next closest thing.

Satoru visibly melts at your words. In truth, that’s all he could ask for. He presses a chaste kiss to your conjoined hands and nods.

With a smile on his face, he thinks he could learn to love you too.

He gently guides your hand to sit in the chair next to him, his sturdy thigh comfortably pressed against yours. For the first time in his life, Satoru opens up to someone about his thoughts and feelings with great ease.

In the next couple of hours, you truly get to know the ins and outs of the Heir to the Iron Throne, as he too became familiar with you, the future Princess of Dorne. Before you knew it, it was time for the dinner the King had prepared to welcome his guests.

You and Satoru had shyly walked to the dining hall together, side by side, your hand still in his grasp and resting on his arm.

His blindfold remained forgotten on the desk.

179 notes · View notes

minkdelovely · 6 months

Text

love and power

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

chapter five

“camouflage so you can feed the lie that you’re composed.”

Alastor x Fem!Reader ; MDNI 18+ ; [y/n] used sparingly ; Alias in Hell is Sylvie

tags/warnings: descriptions of fear and violence, alastor is going through it, victorian inspired flustered pining, flirtation but vaguely threatening, slow burn eventual: smut

word count: 3.3k

author’s note: apologies if this is a little mellow, but i figured it would be a nice change of pace considering the last couple chapters have been kinda tense. and if i’m being honest, i’ve been feeling inspired by some of my cozier writings - it’s about time some of that energy made its way here! lol

prelude ; chapter one ; chapter two ; chapter three ; chapter four ; chapter five ; chapter six ; chapter seven ; chapter eight ; chapter nine ; chapter ten: part one ; chapter ten: part two

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

It had been a long night.

Despite how hard you tried, sleep came in small doses that only served to make you more restless. The sounds you heard in Alastor’s room rang in your ears as if they had never stopped. It had been guttural and animalistic, but unmistakably him. Cold dread sank into you as your mind lingered on what happened, the terror in you not yet subsided.

His bath was drawn and you had just finished lighting the candles on the fireplace mantel, but sensed a shift in the air when you began turning down the bed. Dismissing it at first as a draft or just a lingering trace of Alastor’s general spooky energy. That shadow of his was always up to something. If only that had been the case.

The fit of rage that came from the locked part of Alastor’s suite was so deafening and sudden that for a moment you were disconnected from yourself, until it all came crashing down on you like a wave in a storm. You fell to your knees and tried to catch your breath, your heartbeat pounding in your throat so violently it felt as if you’d choke on it. Mixed in with the howling was the clear sound of destruction, but of what, you couldn’t be sure. Absently, you thought of a tree being felled, but dismissed it as shock.

Snarling, thrashing, ripping.

It seemed never-ending and you were frozen in place, though desperate to be anywhere else. As the shock began to fade, a separate fear sank in: what if he found you here? Yes, he had sent you up here in the first place but this was… vulnerable. You found yourself on both sides of the coin. If you stayed here, he’d either harm you by accident or on purpose, neither of which you wanted.

Your arms were shaky but you managed to start crawling towards the door, not trusting your legs to be strong enough to stand. That would have to wait for the hallway. With every inch of progress you made toward escape, the cacophony from the other room began to fade, soon replaced by ominous, heaving breaths. Shit. He was winding down…

Panic gnawed at you, urging you forward, and you hissed at the sting of a rug burn blooming on your knee. A small price to pay. Whatever Alastor could do to you would be far worse. Instinct kicked in and you rose to your feet, nearly rolling your ankle as you closed the gap and pulled the door open. You were turning to close it when you saw him.

Even in the relative safety of your bed, you felt your breath picking up, chest tight. It was an image you’d soon not forget, if ever. Alastor stood in the doorway of the connected room, his shadow huge and glowing green, looming behind him, both of their faces wild. Blood was running down the sides of Alastor’s mouth and he was dirty and unkempt, his eyes were their usual red but with a mania you hadn’t seen in him before. He was still panting, his body shaking in the doorframe with each breath from the strain.

Every hair on your body stood on edge as your blood turned to ice, feeling his menace even from your place just beyond the door. You should have just closed it or ran away but you were paralyzed in his gaze, barely managing to breathe in his stifling presence. His mouth opened but you didn’t hear whatever he said over your pounding heart. Before you could register the movement, Alastor’s shadow materialized in front you, leering down with a ghoulish, fanged grin and shrieked in your face. Its cackle echoed off the walls as you fled.

The clock in your room chimed and you shuddered against the early morning light seeping in from behind your curtains, the pit in your stomach hardening.

It was time to get up.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

You had gotten yourself ready with as much time to spare as you could allow, knowing you’d need it. The door to Alastor’s room had never been a welcome sight but today it was downright threatening, practically daring you to knock as your knuckles hovered over it. A shaky breath escaped you as your arm fell to your side. You couldn’t do it. Not yet.

It was hard to decide which fate was worse: being late or being here at all. Not that you were late, but he wouldn’t know that you’ve spent the past ten minutes fretting outside his room (with ten still to go). So yes, late is what you’d be if he so chose. As for showing up in the first place, considering the circumstance, he might wonder where you found the nerve and not in a way that’d be rewarded with praise. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Fuck it, you thought, inhaling through your nose as you steeled yourself, bringing your closed hand back up to the door. It wasn’t your best, but you managed a couple decent taps. And waited.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Alastor didn’t sleep often, but he was unable to fight the wave of exhaustion that bore down on him after the adrenaline from his outburst wore off. Though to blame it all on that would be skirting the truth. Ever since the battle with Adam, things haven’t exactly been going according to plan for the Overlord. The scar on his chest and broken microphone a constant reminder of how close he had come to a true death.

He would never admit it, as he barely could even to himself, but being without his microphone was becoming truly unbearable, picking away at his self-image as each day without it passed. It pained him like a phantom limb and despite several attempts so far to mend it nothing had worked. Another blow. If the others had noticed him without it — which they definitely had — they had wisely kept their mouths shut regarding its absence in the weeks that have passed since the assault.

The problems just seemed to compound on each other. Losing to Adam, breaking his mic, the Vees knowing about all of it, Rosie forcing you on him, you killing Donny, which in turn put him right in the palm of Valentino’s hand. Valentino, for fuck’s sake! Even in his deep state of sleep Alastor’s brow furrowed, clawed hands puncturing the sheets as his subconscious worked through all of this again.

But before collapsing into bed, there had been clarity. If there was anything in the world one always had control over, it was perspective. And while things could surely be going better, Alastor had definitely suffered through worse in the past. These were just… growing pains. Any and all who underestimated him now would regret the day they ever crossed his path. The Radio Demon chuckled, still sleeping, with the scent of smoke slowly coaxing him back to consciousness.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Something was wrong. Alastor normally opened the door within seconds of your arrival, but minutes had passed since the third round of knocking. Maybe he wasn’t there? It wouldn’t be shocking for him to have gone somewhere, considering the night before. But something inside you didn’t feel satisfied with that. There hasn’t been a single morning so far that Alastor hadn’t set up some kind of task or errand for you just to press your buttons. Would he really have missed an opportunity to lay into you about seeing him like that last night?

You found yourself gripping the door handle. There’s no way it wouldn’t be locked, right? Then again… who would ever be stupid enough to walk into Alastor’s room without permission? It was a double-edged sword of sorts; his ego and other’s audacity. A nervous laugh escaped you as the knob turned in your hand, easily as a knife through butter. Apparently you were stupid and audacious, pushing the door open just enough to poke your head in.

“Oh shit,” you groaned, clenching your jaw.

The room was dark, save for the candles that were burning low on the fireplace. It was a miracle it hadn’t gone up in flames. You bit your lip, considering your next course of action. You’d just snuff the candles and get out of there. He’d never have to know you had been here alone.

You made your way to the lounge area where the fireplace was and got to work extinguishing the candles with the snuffer, pleasant-smelling smoke wafting in the air as you made your way down the mantel. You were just about to put the last one out when you heard a low chuckle somewhere behind you, the snuffer nearly slipping through your fingers at the shock from the sudden noise.

Cold sweat prickled your forehead. He was in here. Your eyes scanned the darkness, squinting, eventually settling on the bed. All you could see was a lump of duvet, his form indiscernible underneath, but it was the only place he could be. If seeing him lost to rage had been bad, catching him whilst asleep was much worse. There was no doubt that plenty of people had seen him the way he was last night, it had just been your first exposure. But you knew there wasn’t a single soul in Hell who had ever seen him sleeping, and you didn’t want to find out what the consequences would be for that transgression.

You turned back to the mantle, saying a silent prayer to be able to leave before he woke up as you snuffed the final candle. A sigh of relief escaped you as you gave a quick look over your shoulder, Alastor seemingly undisturbed, and began to tiptoe towards the door. You welcomed the coolness of the brass doorknob under your fingers, freedom blossoming in your chest.

“And just where are you off to?”

Your shoulders scrunched up and you faltered, the authority in his voice undeniable despite being coated in sleep. He was destined to always get the best of you, wasn’t he? You straightened and turned to face him, feeling slightly off-kilter at the image of Alastor sitting up in bed. Eyes having adjusted more, you could make out messy hair and the drowsiness that still clung to his eyelids. Somewhere in the worry, the word cute settled in your mind, followed quickly by a scolding. You didn’t have the luxury of admiring him when he was undoubtedly preparing a verbal lashing for you.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” you said, clearing your throat a little as your eyes moved away from him, flustered. It was hard to keep your mind straight seeing him like this, something you didn’t think would ever be an issue. “The candles were still burning, so I just came in to put them out. I’m sorry I woke you up, I’ll come back later if you need to sleep more.”

He hummed as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the action so innocent and foreign it made your pulse spike. How was this the same man you had seen last night — or any day since you first met, for that matter? In this moment he just seemed so… soft. It was disarming, to say the least, and you were doing your best to keep your wits, finding it to be a more difficult task than expected. Even with how uneasy you were for fear of being in trouble.

“You’ve caught me in quite the compromising position! I don’t believe anyone besides my mother has ever seen me in bed,” he said soberly, pinning you in place with his stare just as he had the night before. He was clearly not pleased, but the wrath you had been expecting wasn’t there. The filter in his voice dropped. “I expect you back here in fifteen minutes. With coffee.”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

When you returned you found Alastor staring off into the horizon, sitting at the small table on the balcony in his housecoat. You were very familiar with it, usually picking it up off the floor or the back of a chair, but never had you seen it worn. You also noticed he had combed through his hair, but there was still just a hint of unruly bed head that remained. The tingle crept back up your throat and you swallowed, needing to focus on keeping your expression neutral. His ear twitched at your approach but he didn’t move to look at you until you were setting down the coffee, reaching out for his mug with an un-gloved hand. You had never seen his hands before, you realized, the high collar of your dress suddenly feeling too tight.

He inspected you, the cogs of his mind working as you stood there, and you tried not to fidget. You’d like to take his dissatisfaction with as much grace as you could muster. A minute passed before he finally smiled, the familiarity of his expression a relief despite the calculation you knew was behind it.

“Have a seat. We need to talk.”

You don’t say, you thought apprehensively, but did as you were told and sat across from him, folding your hands in your lap. You felt like you were trapped in the most vexing cycle possible of deja vu.

“You have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, don’t you?” he jeered, chuckling into his mug as he took in the quick flash of shame on your face. He could be speaking to quite a number of things now, and you felt the scorch of a blush spread up your face. “Did I frighten you last night?”

He seemed pleased to think so, his close-lipped smile triumphant as always, and he wasn’t wrong; he had scared you senseless. You pursed your lips, turning the question over in your mind as you considered your response. “Yes,” you said tentatively, drawing it out. “Of course I was. I hardly slept, if that’s what you want to hear. Though I think this is scarier.”

Alastor tossed his head back, laughing heartily after you motioned at him with your finger. Seeing him in his housecoat and pajamas — and slippers?! Your nails bit into your palm as your mind went momentarily blank, and you feigned a cough as an excuse to turn your face away. This was beginning to feel worse than if you had walked in on him naked. It was so much easier to remember his authority when he was in his usual pomp. This felt way too intimate, borderline domestic, and it was making you restless.

You found yourself wishing you could be impaled on Vaggie’s spear as his laughter died down, the look he gave you now heavy-lidded, provocative, and smug. Without meaning to, you had played into stroking his ego. Perfect.

“I didn’t realize I was such a horror in the morning! Though to be fair you ensnared me, so I never stood a chance,” he sulked, letting out one of the most melodramatic sighs you’ve ever heard. “But once the fear wears off, I hope you can appreciate what an honor it is to bask in my presence like this. There are some who would kill for the privilege, you know.”

He gave you a wicked smile over his mug then, yellow fangs radiant before disappearing behind his lips as he took another loud sip of coffee. Something about the way he said it gave you a thought almost too absurd to consider but… he couldn’t be… flirting? Alastor always had an air of playfulness, which normally conflated with his twisted, sometimes sadistic, sense of humor. It was very possible that he was trying to lure you into a state of vulnerability just to knock you down a few pegs. He had been so upset last night. How was he in such light spirits today? A pattern that was beginning to exhaust you. You couldn’t — wouldn’t bite.

Besides, you had been fully prepared to be punished this morning. And within a matter of hours you had managed to see him in not one, but two very private situations. Though last night’s tantrum was something he probably felt no shame in as it could be perceived as a show of strength. Which, for the record, you were fairly certain you had been witness to a meltdown. But managing to walk in on him sleeping? If there was anything you thought he’d consider a killable offense well… that had to be near the top of the list, right?

“Well it’s certainly not something I ever thought I’d see — nor had I planned to,” you said, absently running a hand through your hair as you worked up your nerve. Here goes nothing. “But in my defense, the door wasn’t locked and you told me not to ever be tardy, so I don’t see how this is completely my fault. And anyway, now we’re even. We’ve both been in each other’s room without permission while the other was sleeping.”

Or had he forgotten? You wouldn’t comment on the rest.

Alastor hummed pensively, the expression on his face almost impressed as he laced his fingers together to rest his chin. “Ahhh, there’s that cheek I’ve grown so accustomed to! Good morning, Sylvie.”

You bristled, but reciprocated with a sigh of defeat. “Good morning, Alastor.”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The rest of the morning passed without incident, a welcome reprieve from recent mornings. After getting past the incident from last night and this morning, Alastor had finally told you about Charlie’s wish to have you join in on daily activities with the other residents. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t gratified at how nervous you seemed at the change in your routine, though it didn’t surprise him. Adaptability wasn’t quite your strong suit; you were a creature of habit.

When you had asked about what happened with Angel Dust last night, well… he told you all you needed to know for now. His meeting with Valentino was none of your business, anyway. Above your pay grade, he had joked, earning a nice glaring pout in return. As if it wasn’t enough fun teasing you, your scent was especially floral when you were embarrassed, almost akin to cherry blossom. A fact he would be keeping at the forefront of his mind.

As Alastor gave himself a once-over in the mirror, he caught sight of the bed behind him, now made to perfection. He had never paid you much attention while you were cleaning, typically preoccupied with grumbling at the news and nursing another cup of coffee. He laughed a little recalling how meticulous you were when it came to making the bed. You took it rather seriously; he had never seen your face so set in concentration as you went back and forth to ensure the top sheet was even before tucking it in. Whether that was by choice or duty, he knew it was his fault, but he didn’t mind. Why argue with such great results?

In fact, he was nearly tempted to sleep more because of how you attended to the task. Though he didn’t remember much of what happened in his cool-down the previous evening, he could still feel how secure he had felt under the taught sheet. Combined with the weight of the duvet, it was as comforting as his mother’s embrace. So it was no wonder he had slept as hard as he had.

Though it was a bit troublesome that he hadn’t known you were in his quarters until the candle smoke had woken him up. But seeing you trying to hide your unease as he lounged around in his nightclothes had been a worthy trade.

Satisfied with his appearance, Alastor took a deep breath and sighed, donning his trademark grin. It was time to see what that pestilential fool of an Overlord wanted.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fan fiction #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #alastor smut #hazbin hotel smut #slow burn #alastor slow burn #song fic #if i can't have love i want power #love and power #x reader #alastor the radio demon #the radio demon

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17020 · 28 days

Text

DOLLHOUSE

Don't look behind the curtains, because you might not like what you see about Yn Ln, and Hajime Umemiya. tags: angst! ume is a complete ass (im sorry zevie and to everyone), very self indulgent, i need emotional compensation as do yall, toxic relationship sorta. it's definitely a blurb! not proofread my eyes are puffy.

Hajiime Umemiya is the perfect boyfriend. Kind, attentive, patient, with compliments slipping past his lips every few seconds. Strong, affectionate and intelligent is what he is, constantly worrying about you and being your personal hype man. To the public eye, Hajime Umemiya was perfect.

Not you, though.

A witch. A master manipulator who always managed to carefully pull the strings of the puppet that was Hajime Umemiya. What was once a perfect couple slowly rotted in foreign eyes, the image of you and Umemiya leaving a bitter taste in the townspeople's mouths.

What they saw was Umemiya's suffering. Arguments, which led to him spilling his heart out to his friends, who told their friends, who told every citizen of Makochi. Complaints, which made Umemiya feel trapped in a maze with no exit.

There's two sides to every coin.

Arguments, which were caused by Umemiya's denseness. Because he paid no mind to what you liked or what you preferred, and had stuck to what he thought you liked instead of learning. Complaints, because after five fights, Umemiya had finally understood that no, you don't like gold jewelry, and you're dripped in silver every day. According to him, he knew you wore silver, but he wanted you to wear gold because he liked gold.

Complaints, because his friends knew no boundaries, constantly molesting and groping him in your presence. Couldn't they at least wait until you were gone?

Arguments, because Hajime Umemiya didn't trust you, accusing you of falling for his best friends, treating you as a liar, a deceiver, a cheater. Even after reassurance, his threats to break up were present. Umemiya's insecurities were a fair match to yours...

But there was one half who did something about it, and another who had your fears in one ear, then out the other.

The straw that broke the camel's back was when Umemiya's priorities changed in university.

Because Umemiya thought for himself, and went back to his ways of being a self-preserving, desperate puppy, clinging onto anyone be it good or bad, for attention. What's it to you?

He went to the people who hurt you. Hypocrisy was certainly at it's finest, because Umemiya was now adopted into a clique which had shit talked him and your relationship, offering him fake smiles after spilling all of his and your secrets in a club on a random Thursday.

You were spiraling.

Not only was his clique two-faced, but they had hurt you in the past, having been part of the group years prior and being nothing but ignored and criticized. A bullet to the head would have hurt more than to see Umemiya's texts saying he belonged there, belonged with cheaters, shit talkers, and assholes.

Hajime Umemiya is too naive for his own good.

Fights had become more common as he expressed his liking for the group with each passing day, as you warned him about his 'friends'. His response? Laugh it off, as they were nice and welcoming. Plus...

"They haven't done anything bad to me, so why should I care? I like being there, I don't like being alone, and they're cool!"

Your heart shattered. Especially after checking your socials and seeing the girls you despised posting your boyfriend as if he were Mattel's newest and hottest Ken; the center of attention for all Makochi to see.

You were done.

Pleads were not enough. Crying to him was never an option, as he simply brushed off your feelings, as his smile grew wider at the thought of the upcoming party he and his new friends were to attend that same night.

Hajime Umemiya was also done.

A final complaint. A final warning. A final plead. Your words were in vain, with your boyfriend shoving each and every one of your words up his ass. He didn't care, not one bit, and it showed.

Because self-preservation was most important to him. Better to be alone than in bad company right? Hell no. To Umemiya, that was absolute bullshit.

"They didn't do anything bad to me, baby, so I'm hanging out with them and consider them best buds. I don't wanna be alone and the girls are so nice to me, so don't worry about it."

Don't worry about it? It took a day for him to make up his mind.

"The girls are my friends, and I'm sorry they did you dirty and talked badly about our relationship, but I'm lonely. Yn Ln, you have been the greatest gift life has given me and I'll love you forever. We're done."

taglist (open, yippee!): @stunie @kaiser1ns @nyxypoo

#wind breaker x reader #wind breaker (satoru nii) x reader #umemiya x reader #hajime umemiya x reader #windbreaker x reader #wind breaker x y/n #wind breaker x you #umemiya x y/n #umemiya hajime x reader #he better not complain that i used his exact words here #thats what you get

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nebulablakemurphy · 1 year

Text

Moves & Countermoves (Part 22)

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

Part 21

The hovercraft is only half full. Peeta, Cashmere and Y/N. Finnick, Cressida, Pollux and the others left the day before, they’ll be catching up with them once they reach the outskirts of the Capitol.

Y/N says goodbye to her children before school. Though Haymitch will be there in her absence, leaving never gets easier.

Peeta is skittish, from sitting under the harsh lights.

“You ok?” Y/N lays a hand over his.

He nods, still trembling. “My name is Peeta Mellark. I was born in district twelve…”

This is a new grounding technique he’s been practicing with Dr. Aurelius. It seems to calm him as they take off.

Y/N rests her head against the seat. Recounting the way she ran back down the loading ramp before take off, just to be held by Haymitch one last time. Even though he couldn’t go and she couldn’t stay. Just breathe.

————————————————————————

The truck that brings them in to meet the rest of their squad is welcomed with weapons trained on them, hot and ready.

Cashmere jumps out first. “Come on, Peeta. We got ya.”

“Y/N?” Katniss lowers her weapon.

“Hey.” Y/N smiles, one hand behind her holding Peeta’s. Protect Katniss from him. Protect him from Katniss.

“That’s close enough.” Gale says as they approach.

“Hey, stop.” Finnick steps out to greet them, pushing Gale’s gun to the side.

“What’s going on here?” Boggs demands.

“Coin sent us.” Cashmere explains, “guess she thought you could use a few extra hands.”

“How thoughtful.” Katniss snarks. Whatever game Coin is playing, they’re not meant to win.

“Tell me about it.”

————————————————————————

As it turns out, Daisy is not a fan of the formula provided by district thirteen. She is also very aware of the fact that Haymitch is not her mother and she’s isn’t thrilled by that either.

“Shhh,” Haymitch rocks her against his chest. “Daddy’s here.”

“It’s like she only wants Y/N,” Madge offers.

“You and me both, kid.” Haymitch stares down at his daughter, shifting between feet.

“It’s hard on everybody when she goes,” Madge admits, “but for what it’s worth, I think you’re a great dad, Haymitch. I know Y/N does too.”

Haymitch nods.

“I can take her for a while. A change of scenery might help.”

“I gotta figure this out on my own.” Haymitch mutters, under his breath.

————————————————————————-

The Star Squad sets out to film their first propo. With the assistance of the hollow, they’re able to clear the courtyard full of pods before entering.

Two large machine guns slide out from the pillars, raining bullets between the group; split in two to take cover.

Katniss on one side with Cashmere. Peeta, Y/N and Finnick on the other. There’s not a word Katniss can think of to describe the way it feels, watching Y/N place her hands over Peeta’s ears. Trying to muffle the gunfire.

Peeta lays his own hands over hers, his lips moving; quickly. “I’m a painter and a baker…I always sleep with the window open.”

He is trying, Katniss knows this. Even now, Peeta remembers everything she tells him, in great detail.

Y/N catches her staring, somehow she always does. Finding Katniss’ eyes and offering a tiny smile.

Katniss considers glaring at her, because she shouldn’t be here. She should be in thirteen, safe; the way Katniss left her. The other half of Katniss wants to make a run for it, to fall into her arms and say thank you. Thank you for always taking care of me, even when I ask you not to.

————————————————————————

Y/N calls Haymitch, using the hollow as soon as they’re hole up somewhere safe after the pods, after Snow’s broadcast announcing they were all dead.

It had just been the Leeg sisters…and Boggs.

“Ah,” Haymitch finally answers, his image displayed across the grainy screen in her hands, “she lives.”

“Oh good, you’re still up,” Y/N smiles. “I didn’t want to wake the kids, I almost waited until morning but-”

“Do me a favor, anytime you’ve narrowly escaped death and had it broadcasted to all of Panem, do not wait until morning to call me.”

“Deal,” Y/N agrees.

“How are you holding up, angel?” Haymitch sighs.

“I’m alright.”

“What’s wrong?” He can see it in her face.

“I miss you,” she shrugs, blinking back traitorous tears. “That’s all.”

Haymitch purses his lips, “when this is over, we’ll never have to miss each other again. We’ve got some fight left in us, we can ride this out.”

Y/N nods, “no, I know.”

“Hey,” Haymitch calls her attention back to the screen. “I love you, be safe.”

“I love you too.” She ends the call, they have to keep things short, on the off chance communication is being intercepted by the Capitol.

Cashmere waltzes over, plopping down beside her friend. “You should’ve let him come.” She teases. “Now he’s there and you’re here, and you’re both miserable.”

“He wouldn’t have been able to focus. And god forbid something happened to me, you really think he’d just keep going?”

“Like you could?” Cashmere calls her bluff.

Y/N bites back a grin. “I die, he dies. He dies, I die. That’s why he’s there and I’m here. So we don’t kill ourselves trying to save each other.”

Cashmere gets it, “you’ve gotten smarter about it, I’ll give you that.”

“I had to. Sometimes the only way to win the game is to bend the rules.”

“So when this is over and there’s no more…” Cashmere searches for the words. “Moves and countermoves, what are you gonna do? What’s your happy ending?”

“Me, Haymitch, the kids, Madge. We go back home to twelve, rebuild. Make a real life for each other, no more cameras, no one watching; we earn our happy ending. What about you, Cash?”

“I don’t know.” Cashmere shrugs, “I guess I have to figure that out.”

“You could come stay with us, there’s plenty of room.”

“Maybe for a while,” she agrees.

“I’d like that.” Y/N bumps Cashmere’s shoulder.

Part 23

Series Taglist: @praline357 @flowercrowns-goodvibes @justheretoparty420 @avocadotoastwithegg @treehouse-mouse @emo-markie @spilled-mi1k @magical-spit @greaser9902 @jessicamellarky @yourebuckingkiddingme @smuha2004 @sendhelplease @ninimackbrews @wittiestrain184 @r1dd1kulus @erenluvr69 @helpimhyperfixating @jackierose902109 @jellybear455 @dreammgc @dadbodfanatic-x @ftdtcmlovr @inky-sun @ms-brek-ker @undercover55655 @mischiefmanaged21 @avoxrising @koiphisch @drwho-ess @daisydaisybilly @misfits1a @nj01 @eruannaaa-blog @thatkindofgurl

#moves & countermoves #haymitch abernathy fanfic #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy #haymitch abernathy x y/n #haymitch x reader #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch fanfic #haymitch x y/n #thg haymitch #hunger games fanfiction #hunger games #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark

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dragon-ascent · 2 years

Text

Paraphernalia

You are an avid collector of Rex lapis merch...and your husband is Rex Lapis himself.

★彡fluff, fun stuff, zhongli finds you amusing as always

Zhongli had revealed his identity to you much before you two had gotten married. You’d been very respectful and told him how much you admired him as both a man and a deity...but oh boy, if Zhongli thought that was where your devotion ended, he was in for a long ride.

“Oh my freaking gosh! Eeeee!”

At your squeal, Zhongli is immediately at your side. “What is the matter- ah.” He sees the pamphlet you’re holding and suddenly it all clicks into place.

You clutch your husband’s arm, barely able to contain yourself. “New Rex Lapis plushie launching tomorrow! Eeeee! Let’s go down to the store as soon as it opens!”

Zhongli kisses your forehead, his heart fluttering at your enthusiasm. “Allow me to take a look.” He gently takes the pamphlet from your hands and peruses it, then looks up at the bed you two share...where you also keep your enormous pile of Rex Lapis plushies. “Erm...dear, what is different about this new one?”

“Look!” You point at what the new plushie is holding. “It comes with a free Mora coin plush! I haaaaave to get it!”

It’s worth it, really. There’s nothing Zhongli cherishes more than seeing you happy. And when he finds you the next day curled up in bed, napping away with your brand-new Rex Lapis plushie pressed to your chest, he finds his heart melting like the sweetest chocolate on a summer day.

Of course, with how fanatical you get sometimes, you get so caught up in all your Rex Lapis paraphernalia that you almost forget who Zhongli really is...

“I’m doomed! I have blasphemed!”

“Did you sit on the lap of one of the Statues of the Seven again, dear?” Zhongli inquires without even looking up from the morning paper. “I told you, it does not count as-”

“Even worse! The new glow-in-the-dark Rex Lapis keychains are all sold out and I missed my chance to buy them!”

At this, Zhongli gazes at you sympathetically as you huff and puff around the room, equal parts agitated and distressed. He knows how much your collection means to you. “I see. Well, you can get one when they restock, can you not?”

“No way!” you cry out, staring at Zhongli like he had just grown horns and a tail. “The restocked keychains will be B-grade ones! I need to own only first-edition, top-quality merch!”

“Ah. Oh dear...”

“What would Rex Lapis think?” you wail, flopping into your husband’s sturdy arms. “Rex Lapis, what do you think of me?”

“I don’t think ill of you, darling, I never could,” Zhongli assures, planting a soft kiss to your temple. “I still love you regardless of how many Rex Lapis-themed items you possess.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice!”

Zhongli chuckles. “I’m saying that because I love you, and married you for love. I never once wondered how many keychains in my image you obtained before I slid the ring onto your finger.”

Your lip wobbling, you ask, “Do you really mean it?”

“Of course I do, my beloved,” he answers softly, kissing the spot under your ear and wrapping his arms around your waist. “Come now, let me show you just how much.”

Of course, even when he offers you tender, affectionate consolation, Zhongli still ultimately wants to see you at your happiest. So wherever he can, he tries to pull some strings~

“Darling,” Zhongli calls after a long day of work. “I’m home!”

“Welcome home!” You run over to him and give him a peck on the lips. “How was your day?”

“Quite eventful,” he answers, “especially since I managed to procure a very important item.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “An important item? What is it?”

Zhongli smiles, holding out both of his hands, fists closed. “I shall let you find out.”

Utterly intrigued, you look at both closed fists, trying to gauge which one has the item. It must be quite small to fit in his palm...what important item could be that small?

Pushing away the question since it was sure to be answered within a few moments, you go with your gut and pick the right hand. Zhongli’s smile widens and he opens his palm...

Gasping, you let out a squeal. “Is this...what I think it is?!”

“The very same.”

Still in disbelief, you take the keychain and observe its details. “It - it really is a first edition glow-in-the-dark Rex Lapis keychain...oh my gosh...but how..?”

Zhongli pulls you into a hug, chuckling at they way you seem to vibrate in his arms in excitement. “I managed to get ahold of a scalper and...persuade him to sell it to me at regular price.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You beam, singing his praises while waving the keychain around happily. “I love Rex Lapis sooooo much!”

Your husband kisses you, practically glowing at your happiness. “Rex Lapis loves you too, my beloved.”

#zhongli #genshin impact #zhongli x reader #genshin #genshin x reader #sini writes #zhongli x you #fluff #drabble #rex lapis

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beepersteeper · 7 months

Text

Digits -- Astarion x Tav smut

Astarion was reading a book across camp. Nothing out of the norm. He was fidgeting with a coin aimlessly to keep his hand busy.

Tav watched completely entranced in watching the coin move so smoothly over each slender finger, being flicked into the air and caught seemingly without any attention given by Astarion. Her concentration was broken when the hand with the coin stopped and waved at her with the coin between his pointer and middle fingers. Her cheeks flushed and she sheepishly waved back mouthing “sorry. Zoned out." Across the camp. Astarion waved the thought away and continued into his studies.

Tav turned a quarter turn to face Karlach to strike up conversation to distract her from his gorgeous hands. The next day she caught herself staring again as he picked several locks throughout their adventure.

“I could teach you, if you wanted." Astarion stated right before hearing that successful click of the lock releasing “its like magic every time."

“Huh?" She says hiding her startle

“Lock picking" he states handing her a tool set “you'll get the next one" leaving his hand on hers just longer than necessary.

The party continues along their path, when they ultimately come across a locked chest and Astarion ushered Tav to kneel in front of him. He knelt behind her, pressing his body to hers guiding her hands through the motions of the task.

“You really just have to listen and feel what the lock is saying. Figure out what is a good resistance and what is a resistance that will make you start over” he says too quietly into her ear, his cold breath caressing her skin.

When the lock clicks and falls open Astarion whispers in a husky soft tone "good girl." And quickly stands trailing his fingers up her arm and across her shoulders before he walks away talking over his shoulder "there will be more for us to practice with.”

Back at camp for supper, Astarion seems to be constantly doing something with his hands. Twirling a dagger between his fingers, tapping his finger tips on the table. Running his finger over the rim of his glass and bringing the liquid to his lips to lick it off of his fingers, meeting Tav's eyes with his own.

She retired first to her tent before the others saying “I'm just awfully tired. I'll see you all in the morning." A chorus of goodnights follow her to her bedroll. She ties the flap closed and rests into her bedroll, pulling out her sketchbook. Without really thinking she sketched his hands as best she can from memory. The perfectly manicured nails, the marble smooth skin, and a few thick veins covering the back. She was finishing sketching his nimble fingers and rounded knuckles on his ring finger when she hears a voice from outside her tent

“Tav, are you awake?" Astarion whispers.

Shit she whispers to herself and tucks the notebook under her stack of books “yeah, come in." she calls to him.

He ducks to get under the knot “I was hoping you were. You ran off pretty quick from dinner, everything alright?" Sitting behind her as he usually does for his supper.

“Yeah, like I said, just tired. Those goblins really took it out of me" she half lied and I couldn't watch your fingers anymore without wanting to put them in my mouth she thought as she braided her hair off to the side opening her neck for him.

He notices the notebook to the side of the bed with a detailed image of what looks like his right hand.

He traces a finger along the vein on her neck feeling her pulse race. He grabbed her jaw tightly, leaning her head to the side to expose her flesh completely. He slid a finger under her top to open the place even more. He rested his other hand on her thigh adding pressure and squeezing slightly as he punctured her already scared skin.

She rested her hand on top of his, relishing in the tender moment she's allowed to have with him. Feeling his hands on her. He finishes and adds pressure to the wound with his tongue to stop the bleeding.

When he would usually let her chin go, he didn't. He instead put his thumb on her bottom lip slightly opening her mouth. “I've seen you staring.” He whispers. Tav's shoulders tense. “I've got to say. I've been told that almost every part of my body is desirable, but I think my hands…” he moves his hands from her, completely pulling the sketch book in front of her to see “is a first."

Tav tried to fold into herself out of embarrassment only to be stopped by his strong hand returning to her jaw holding her still facing forward. "What do you want to see these fingers do?” he purrs “I know you've thought some dirty things darling, practically undressing me with your eyes at dinner.” Before she could answer he put a finger in her mouth pressing her tongue down, opening her mouth rendering her mute. “Well if you won't answer I guess I'll just have to figure it out myself.”

He lets her close her mouth and slides two fingers in and out of her lips, making her suck on the fingers that she's watched for days. She moans, enjoying the invasion of her mouth.

“Is that what you wanted?" He asks, knowing she still can't talk “nod." She nods moving her tongue as much as she can, feeling his fingers across her hungry tongue.

He uses his free hand to loosen her pants and with her help shimmy them down her legs. He runs his nimble fingers across her thighs. Then he reaches across her body and drags his nails from her knee past her core and up her body grabbing a breast firmly causing her nipples to harden. “like putty in my… well” he laughs, pulling his fingers from her mouth letting her lick each digit before he returns the two to her tongue holding it down again, holding her jaw open.

He slid his hand down her body once more and easily inserted one, then two, then three fingers into her core. Causing her to let out warm breath and whimper from her mouth. He focuses on bringing her to climax with only his hands, the very things she's been idolizing. Arching his fingers into her hitting the spot deep inside that shoots pleasure through her core. Her breath quickens a bit and then more when he starts playing with her clit softly, barely touching her at first. And then rubbing circles into her tender flesh speeding up her breath.

Electricity shoots through her body as she arches her back and lets out a loud moan, unable to muffle her pleasure because he had locked her jaw open.

After she finished riding her high he brought his fingers out slowly, stings of her sex slightly hanging from his fingers. He brings his wet fingers to his mouth making sure she was watching him enjoy her taste cleaning every part of his skin that was covered in her sex, thoroughly and slowly keeping eye contact with her. He smiles as she watches him slack jawed. “Delicious. I'll see you tomorrow morning, do try not to stare too much darling."

#astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion smut

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swifty-fox · 6 months

Text

What Comes After

blacked out. wrote 1.7k fic for @bcolfanfic's Young vets AU.

Fanfic/Sequel of

Tw for aftermath of a suicide attempt and all that may entail

Nobody tells you what to do in the hours after your husband tries to take his life. Nobody says you’re going to be angry.

Nobody tells Gale how much he’ll have to pay for gas to the only Hospital for miles, seven hours tailing the red ominous lights of an ambulance there seven hours back all alone for the first time in a long while (one-hundred-twenty-seven dollars and fifty-three cents).

There’s nobody to tell him how to smile at his husband as he’s led away in a stunned daze. Does he smile at all? Small and painful and fake?

And who can he ask what to do as he comes home to a now empty home, dawn well past finished and a hole the size of a man's life in the wall. A hole, no bigger than a nickel and just perfectly at eye level. The difference between a happy ending and a tragedy; the scales tipped kindly in his favor this time.

You never wrestle for a gun. That’s the easiest way to get your own damn self shot.

A coin flip. Heads for John, Tails for Gale.

“Guess the quarter got stuck in a crack.” he mutters. He knows his thought patterns aren’t quite clear, confused and weighed down by exhaustion and shock.

Somewhere an animal is in pain. It gasps raggedly; sharp and raw. Someone should put that animal out of its misery, nothing deserved to be driven to sounds like that. Gale knows he is that animal. He swipes at his suddenly-tear soaked cheeks with a rough palm and sits down on the floor hard.

His phone is in his hand, it’s first instinct to want to call John, hear his teasing voice (it hadn’t been teasing in a long time Gale Cleven don’t you lie). Bucky wouldn’t answer. He knew it would be a day or two before he would get an update on his husband. Not until observation was over, until paperwork was filed and permission was given. The nurse had explained it all through the ringing in Gale’s ears.

“Curt.” Buck says, shocked by the steadiness in his voice even as more tears trail their acidic way down his face.

“Hey Buck, y’just caught me on break what’s up?” The familiar voice, clipping all it’s ‘T’s away to nothingness devastates Gale. He lets out a sob with all the violence of vomiting.

“Gale?”

“Ah fuck Curt, John had a gun.” Gale moans, covering his eyes and trying to breathe. The gun, now tossed carelessly on their bed like a stray shirt.

Nobody tells him how to inform their friends of what has happened.

“What.” Curts voice is so strangled, so tiny that Gale realizes his fatal error immediately.

“He’s okay. He’s okay Curt the gun- it went into the wall. He’s at a hospital right now. He’s where he needs to be.”

Gale had heard that phrase a lot; spoken by people trying to reassure themselves that their loved ones would come home whole and healed. Now he was one of those people whispering the phrase with false confidence.

John needed to be Home.

Curt devolves into a mess of swearing, punctuated with a passionate “Fffffucking VA!”

“I woke up and he wasn’t next to me. I thought maybe he had gotten out somehow, past the alarms. I’d already gotten my gun out of the house Curt I didn’t think-”

There's muffled voices on the other line, Curt talking to someone else, “- No I’m sick can’t you see? Gotta go Sean sorry. Fuck the client pardon my fucking french I gotta family emergency.” A car door slams, the sound of keys in an ignition. “You didn’t know Buck. It’s not your fault you did exactly what ya should’ve.”

“He had the gun to his chin,” Gale says numbly.

Is there anyone to tell him how to get that single heart-stopping image out from behind his eyelids? He saw it every time he closed his eyes.

“Fuck, Gale.” Curt exhales. “He’s okay?” so vulnerable, so sad, needing to double check just in case.

“He’s in fucking psych ward. I can’t even call him.”

“Yeah dumb question.” A pause where Gale just tries to breathe, looks up at that hole in the wall. It could be a woodpecker's hole on any tree outside. It was in his home and smelled faintly of gunpowder and terror. “I’m looking up plane tickets right now.”

“Y’don’t have t-”

“G’fuck yourself, I’m coming.”

Gale has no strength to argue, he’s got nothing left, really.

“I almost lost him, Curt.”

“But you didn’t.” Curt still sounds stressed and Gale feels a twinge of guilt for ruining the guy's day just because he wasn’t able to help his own partner. “You did everything right. And you’re going to go to bed, then you’re going to wake up and I’mma be there. And we’ll deal with things together.”

“Together,” he echoes.

“Get some sleep Buck. I’ll send you a text when my flight lands.” Curt orders before hanging up.

The thought of going into the bedroom; to the bed he shared with John. To have to see that fucking gun again.

Nobody tells him how to handle that.

Gale falls asleep on the couch instead.

-*~*-

When he awakes it’s night again and he feels such a violent sense of deja-vu that he has to do a walk-through of the whole house just to make sure that saving John hadn’t actually been a dream. That his body wasn’t lying somewhere with horrifying finality.

Nobody tells you that maybe your husband's trauma-based decisions might cause a little trauma themselves.

Even though he knows there will be nothing - John's phone kept safely in a plastic bag along with the rest of his personal effects- Gale checks their messages first. Scans them for any sign, any slip that he may have missed that told him what Bucky was planning. ‘Love You’s’ and ‘Be Home Soons’ and ‘Get There Safes’. Bucky had been struggling, but he hadn’t seemed quite that bad yet.

Or maybe Gale just hadn’t wanted to see it.

There’s a text from Curt showing his seven hour direct flight was only a half hour from landing.

Exhaustion still claws at Gale as he shuffles out to the truck, clothes rumbled and sweaty from sleep, from stress; from wrestling a fucking firearm from a man determined to end his life and Gale’s in the same action. The truck is too silent. John usually sat to his right, hand on his thigh or the back of his neck; always touching Gale in a way the blonde allowed no other man to do.

He has to pull over to stop himself from hyperventilating.

When he pulls into the pick-up zone at the Airport it’s nearly deserted aside from a short familiar man in a windbreaker and military boots.

Curt takes one look at his pale face and walks around the nose of the car to the driver's side.

“Budge over.” He says, opening the door and waving an impatient hand at Gale.

Gale didn’t think he could, felt like his hands were glued to the smooth leather of the wheel. Just twenty-four hours ago he’d driven Bucky to the hospital in this car. He wondered at how quickly he’d gone from seeing the next steps so clearly in front of him to having to remember how to even speak. He was a puppet, his strings cut the moment John had entered the doors of the hospital. Through security guard checkpoints and metal detectors and locked doors. It was like being back in the desert with that level of protective diligence; or perhaps a prison

That can’t be very good for Bucky.

Nobody told him it might have been a good idea to inform the hospital why sometimes the glint of metal in the light made John do a double take.

When Gale still hasn’t moved, Curt lets out a tender sigh and unclips Gale’s seatbelt for him like the other man is a child.

“Come on Cleven, scoot on down the line.” He says gently, gives him a light push.

This is enough for him to move his wooden limbs, shuffle awkwardly over the center console and collapse gracelessly into the passenger seat. Curt hauls himself into the truck with an awkward grunt. He takes a second to maneuver his leg, move the seat upwards and the wheel down, and adjust the mirrors.

Gale sits there, opening and closing his hands. John had sat here last. Cried here not because he was alive and safe like Gale had cried; but for the opposite.

Nobody told him how to sit in a puddle of his husband’s shed grief.

“Here,” Curt tosses his phone into Gales lap. “Text Kenny for me will ya? Tell him I got y- got here safe”

“Does he know?”

Curt pulls out of the airport, opens a window and leans his arm out as if he could air out the stuffy melancholy of the truck. “He asked where I was going. I didn’t-”

“John’s gonna hate it.” Gale mumbles “He won’t want anyone to know.”

“Yeah, well, if he didn’t want people to know, maybe he shoulda woken you up. Shoulda called m-” Curt cuts himself off, presses sturdy boxer’s fingers to his mouth. “Fucking VA.” he curses again.

“Fucking VA.” Gale agrees. And it feels a little good.

-*~*-

When they arrive back at the house It’s Curt that leads them inside. Curt, who picks up the gun, carefully disassembles it and puts it safely in the lock-box to be gotten rid of later. Curt who makes them a simple dinner of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

They stand at the counter, eating silently. Gale feels wired and too awake, his sleep schedule beyond to fucked.

He’d have to call out of work tomorrow. Maybe take a short leave. How could he even pretend to be okay for the kids?

“This is- In here right?” Curt’s eyes are jumping around the dark room, searching searching.

Nobody tells you the shame that curls in one's belly when you have to show your best friend the bullet hole that nearly ruined all their lives.

Curt puts his hands on his hips, bread crumbs stuck to the corner of his mouth and brow furrowed. Neither of them say much for a long time. Curt surveying and Gale staring a little blankly and replaying the sound of the gunshot over and over in his head.

“Well,” Curt finally drawls, “That’s an easy fix. You got any spackle?” he turns and smiles at Gale, crooked and reassuring,

Gale thinks he’d like to tell someone about this part. The part where people show up for you.

#swiftywrites #buck x bucky #cleven #buck cleven #john egan #gale cleven #bucky egan #bitches have too many names #curt biddick #young vets au #suicide tw #mota

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months

Text

CAT-EYES

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

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

WORDCOUNT: 13.3k

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

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

You were sitting in the branches again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until it speaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could outrun him.

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

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

Your lips twitch.

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

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

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

The boar broach winks at you.

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

“Just Johnny—”

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

Blue eyes widen, sure feet faltering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure,” you puff a laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...What was that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Find him!”

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

“Here!”

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your sharp eyes hone in, unwavering in its heat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your thin lips tell him all he needs to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown, gut swirling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wanted that damn boar broach.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No family?”

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

The man grunts. “M’sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I supposed to be insulted or not?”

“I leave that for you to decide.”

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

Your face softens slightly.

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

And you don’t understand why.

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

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

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

“You called me strange.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tears slip from over your cheeks.

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

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

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

“Just make it quick.”

John’s lips thin. “Yes, Ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Free, free, free.

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

Wasn’t it?

Your eyes slip to Johnny.

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

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

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

You knew you were a selfish person.

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

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

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

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

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

Your lips are near his ear.

“When I say ‘go,’ run to the left.”

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

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

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

Your attention is split three ways.

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

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

They take a step forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That one?”

“Yes!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, of course, follow directions.

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

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

“I know I am.” You huff, smiling.

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

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

He’d called you Cat-Eyes.

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

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

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

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

“Seems so, Cat-Eyes.”

Your matching glares hold no venom.

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

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

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

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

Your head tilts, eyes narrowing.

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

A just Lord and a cunning thief.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t say no to that.”

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

Johnny hands over his boar broach to the doctor.

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

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

Your eyes inexplicably snap to Johnny.

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

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

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

Or maybe there was a reason.

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

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

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

Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always a thief, never a saint.

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

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

You lick your lips.

“Do one thing for me, hm?”

“Anything,” John mutters, not blinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet.

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

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

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

And then you’re gone.

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

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

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

Yet, his hands touch something far more precious.

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

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

“What in the…” He already knows.

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

John smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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