#hound-bandit

[toonsforkicks22]

Reminding y’all I have Bluey merch in my shop! Please check it out and possibly support!

[kyred]

Fanart colour wheel fanart is done! I forgot to upload this here when I finished it but hey, here we are now!!!

Currently I’m working on uploading these to places like gumroad and redbubble if you want to support me or get some of these as stickers. But either way, I’m done and it came out, really nicely.

If y’all wanna see more fanart, you can always suggest stuff and we’ll see if it gets done or not. Till then, enjoy!

[rinshiami]

💙A collection of Blue Doggos💙

[someguywriting]

mid movie swim time

[thatbanditqueen]

This is the most adorable song from Elvis that I've ever heard. You've got to listen to this.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b3p4cv_c05I

Oh dear Anon,

Thank you for sharing this! I was talking with @elvisabutler a some point about the infinite appeal of Elvis with babies and kids. I think that It Happened At The World's Fair might have my favorite scene of Elvis with a little kid, the first time he sings Sue-Lin to sleep.

How about anyone else? Favorite Elvis and babies moment?

xoxo

norah

[thundergoodspeed]

I've been binging Nuke's Top 5 recently and now I'm scared to go into dark hallways alone.

[heart-star]

A comic of the dog family from 80s pound puppies in Bluey's style and world: the parents Rusty & Lucy and the pups Andy, Candy & Mandy.

I'm sure that if this family was in the show or it had similar characters the Heelers would've been really nice friends to each other.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Run Away To Me (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, being hunted/chased, medieval period-esc standards, arranged marriage insinuations, toxic family insinuations, angst, protective Johnny?, etc.

A/N: This series is so Lord Huron coded

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

You rush through the low-hanging branches of the reaching pines, their green arms tearing at the once perfect and virginal white dress clothing your body; waves of delicate fabric like bird’s wings. Shredded and torn, you sob in large gasps while the shouting gets louder behind you—the pound of vile hooves along cobblestone. 

“After her!” Blood was rushing down a long slice in your palm, dripping to the verdant grass as you traversed the off-trial paths, the roads of animals and bandits—monsters in the night. 

Flashes of torchlight had gone out long ago, the rain slamming the ground with ancient purpose as the storm got angrier. Tree trunks slam into your shoulders, the wedding dress ripping away in strips as pine needles pierce the bare skin of your feet. Your shoes had slipped off as soon as you had started this mad dash. 

“She went this way! Quickly!” You run faster, shuffling down a long hill as mud gets packed into your flesh; infecting wounds with its slimy make-up. 

“Please,” your voice begs lowly, hiccuping out vowels as you drop to your knees at the bottom of a ravine before you sob and grit your teeth. Wading through the stream of chilled water, you dig into the ground and shove yourself up on shaking legs as rain pelts your head. “Please, I can’t go back.”

Even your thin clothes are heavy on you—body weighed down by terror and a desperate plea. Because what you said was true. You can’t go back. Can’t go back to the search party, can’t go back to the ceremony…and you can’t go back to the man you were supposed to marry. No, you’d rather face the woods. 

Scaling up the other edge of the ravine, you slam a bloody hand down to the rocks atop, pebbles flying past your face as a flash of lightning momentarily illuminates your field of view. Noises reminiscent of an animal carve their way out of your esophagus, teeth gritted as feet slip and strain. 

You heave yourself over and fight the weakness in your arms. Coughing, you pray the storm will wash away any trace of your charge to freedom—the blood and the tracks. With any luck, the hounds won’t be able to pick up your scent even with the strips of your dress left behind in the branches. 

Pushing away the water from your forehead, you stumble onwards on unsteady feet that pound with pain. Grasping at your gushing palm, you cry out as the burning pain echoes up your forearm.

“Whatever God is out there,” You speak in gasps, slurring the words as your dry throat grates. It’s all but lost to the wind in its great bouts of staggering attacks through the trucks of the trees. “Please, offer me sanctuary.” 

Lightning is the world’s answer, more streaks of light that make your soaked body flinch and shake even more. Yet, in that tiny second of light, there had been something in the far distance—a shadow. 

Your eyes peer harder, the calls from the riders suck in the back of your mind as they taper off as the search is re-routed. 

What was…?

Wooden sides, three separate rectangular shapes that stand firm in the rampaging elements. Your feet slide over the ground as you limp in the direction you’d seen them, the flesh of your body so cold that you had gone numb in the sheets of rainfall. 

A heart fills with senseless hope.

A homestead! With no other option, you take a deep, ragged, breath and continue on as quickly as you’re able; dress hanging off one shoulder. When you reach the front door some ear-ringing minutes later you’re barely standing upright—legs teetering and thighs shaking with dying vigor. 

Panting, your first banging to the wood is weak at best, barely a sound above the thunder and the slap of rain. You strangle a sob and wrench your shoulder back, landing three hard hits that act more like punches. Pain blossoms in your hand, but you continue striking the wood. 

There’s a loud ruckus from behind the blackened barrier, a yell, and before your knuckles can make themselves bleed from fear-filled adrenaline, the door is whipped open. A dim firelight spills out from a low hearth and you find yourself staring into the narrowed eyes of a man and his exasperated expression. 

There’s the beginning of a growl, heavy with an accented voice, “Now who in the hell is—!”

A strong jaw goes slack, brunette stubble stilling. Blue eyes like cobalt instantly peel back to show the whites, words strangled away in a sharp inhale. 

The man is in his late twenties, stocky, and clothed in a loose sleep shirt made of thin linen with black pants. His shoulders were near large enough to knock on the frame of the door as he stood in it, built with the strength of a boar and then some. His large, lightly-tanned hand on the door slackens as his eyes speedily dart down your disoriented form. Biceps the size of your skull.

Heart hammering, you stare for a moment longer, rain pelting your back and looking like a wet dog. It’s as if you’ve forgotten to speak beyond gasps for air, but your eyes implore enough for you. The stranger recovers from his surprise at seeing such a beautiful lone woman at his door with a clearing of his throat.

“...Christ, Dearie, you’re soakin’ wet out here.” He shoulders the door open wider without another question. “Inside, now, quickly.” 

You wrap your arms around your waist and speed into the shelter of the home, water dripping down to the wood as you shiver and your teeth clatter. Not for a second did you think if this might be safe or not, too scared of the riders and their hounds than anything. You wouldn’t allow them to drag you back to your husband-to-be. Not in a million years. 

Your voice is hiccuping as you speak.

“I…I don’t mean to i-intrude, I’m very sorry, Sir.” The man looks around his home before he spots a large bear fur by the messy bed in the corner—he rushes over and grabs it. “I ask forgiveness for w-waking you at such an hour.”

“Jesus, is that what you’re worried about?” Blue eyes crease at you as the heavy fur over your shoulders; your hands snap to catch it, the entire thing swallowing you as gaze up in confusion. The man frowns, staring back as water drips from your nose. “Let’s just focus on gettin’ you dry, yeah? You’ll catch your death like this, Little Lady.” 

A wide hand presses to the expanse of your spine, prodding you forward as you squeak at the sudden contact. You’re guided to a small chair in front of the hearth, plopped down and the sides of the fur are hiked up to your neck quickly.

The stranger kneels down in front of you, focused, and his tired eyes alight with worry. He makes sure the fur isn’t going to fall as he blinks over the state of your hands. He pauses, his large grip stalling at the sight of spreading blood. 

Your wound—you’d almost forgotten. 

“Now what’s this, then?” The brunette's words are quiet, very in-tune with your state as you try to catch your breath and shiver. It was like coaxing a wild animal. 

Blinking, you shift your hand farther under the bear's fur, bringing it to your chest. 

“I won’t be here long, Sir. I promise,” you try to change the topic, but quickly jerk your nose into the crook of your arm as you sneeze, bending over slightly as mud and blood stain your skin. 

Lips tighten along a square face.

“It’s Johnny, Miss.” The world outside rages on, blocked out by the four walls of this nicely sized home of wooden logs and boards. It was well-made with pine and cider, the large hearth in the back wall with inlets near the shuddered windows and various crudely carved pieces of art. 

Weapon displays lined the walls, various makes and models hung on pegs. Axes and swords, spears with red-leather shafts set next to halberds of black steel. You blink at them in slight concern, not used to being around weapons. 

Johnny, as he calls himself, sees this and quickly explains as he rubs at the back of his head, eyes crinkling. 

“Ah, Johnny MacTavish, the blacksmith, that is,” a small, rough chuckle echos out. 

You ease at that. 

“Mr. MacTavish,” you give your name and offer a kind, yet still anxious, smile. “I give my thanks for allowing me shelter. A-and the fur.” 

His gaze slips down to your hidden hand once more, face swirling with an unidentified emotion before studying your torn wedding gown.

“Well, I’m not one to leave a person out on my doorstep in weather like this. Certainly not a Lady.” His brow raises, head tilting. “You going to let me clean that wound a’yours or am I going to have to fish it out myself?” 

Your body tenses slowly, bare feet shuffling over the floor. Staring at Johnny, you gaze at the strangely cut hair atop his head and the messy strands that speak to a night of shifting on his bed. His face is honest and open to you, blinking in soft question as his head angles to the side with an easy twitch of his lips. 

“It’s really not necessary,” you try to chuckle but it falls flat, eyes red and heart still speeding. 

Johnny sighs and glances at the fire, blinking before he shifts to grab another log and toss it in with no concern for the heat of the flame that lap at his fingers. You watch his muscles bunch under his shirt and quickly look at your lap. 

“I’m not the greatest doctor out there, Dearie, but I can do good with washin’ out a cut an’ wrapping it.” You study him and nervously tighten your lips. Johnny’s face seems to soften, hands going up and wrists tilting as his knee stays connected to the floor; firelight on his face. A small smile blooms. “C’mon, I’m not that scary of a bastard, am I?”

You spare a tiny chuckle, shoulders jumping as rainwater slips down your chin. Your shivering was still going on, and would until you got a change of clothes, but the warmth from the fire was helping tremendously. Already feeling was returning to your limbs. 

“Ah,” the blacksmith huffs a laugh, “there’s a smile. Now, let's have a little look-see shall we?” 

Under the fur, your hand lightly shifts, coming back into view, slit palm and all. Johnny’s eyes darken, face going serious behind his stubble. Brown brows turn in. 

“Now where in the hell did you get a—” Just as his gigantic hands were about to circle around yours, there was a violent knock at the door. 

You shoot up in an instant, jerking away from the blacksmith as he snaps his head to the front, eyes lighting. He stands up slowly as you back up a few paces, eyes frantically darting back and forth. The knocking starts up again and thunder peels from outside. 

Your form flinches.

“You can’t let them take me back,” you say quickly, breathing catching up in speed again. Fear burns your lungs and suddenly you’re ten times colder than before. “Mr. MacTavish, please, I can’t go back.”

Another round of knocking shakes the barrier. Blues eyes stare at you blankly, half-turned face pulled in visible confusion as Johnny’s jaw clenches. 

A voice echoes from under the door as the blacksmith once more lets his eyes linger down your battered frame; taking in cuts and the limp you carry. Muddy feet and water stained red. His hands twitch at his sides. 

“These are the guards of Lord Wilkin, would anyone in this home come to make him or herself known? It is of the utmost urgency!” You grow more fearful, head darting to find any other exit in this home but you land on nothing besides the windows. Your fingers shake with panic.

No, no, no.

Confusion gives way to deep concern.

A hand grasps your upper arm and you’re being hurried to the corner wall by the front door with fast feet and a firm, iron, grip. An accented voice mumbles quietly by your ear, “Keep quiet for me, Dearie. It’s alright, you let me take care of it.”

He stands you there and takes one last look at you, blinking, before grabbing the bear fur and pulling it above your head in a swift motion. There’s a quiet chuckle as you tense and slam a hand up to the brown material instinctually before Johnny darts around the corner and opens the door. You hold your breath and listen.

“Well, steamin’ Jesus, you bastards have any idea what time it is?! And in this damning weather, you show up at my door reamin’ on the wood like you’re the one who has to keep it anchored to the frame.” There’s a fast conversation of apologies and explanations that you can't catch above the yell of the rain.

“Does it look like I give a shite about a lost bride? Not my fuckin’ place to keep ‘er…I’ve seen nothing besides you…anyone out in this storm is as good as lost…” You listen and stay completely still, holding your breath as if it’s a prisoner in your lungs. 

You can hardly believe it. Why was this man…lying for you? A wounded stranger that had shown up at his doorstep in nothing but a tattered gown and babbling through tears. Anyone else would have turned you over—especially to your betrothed, Lord Wilkin. He owned these lands and held fiefs by all who lived here. Not a man to mess with, if your slit palm was anything to go by.

“Go on!” Johnny calls loudly, and the door closes a second later, the latch locking. There’s a moment of nothing, before the clearing of a throat and a soft call. “Well, they won’t be back, least.” 

He pops around the corner and smiles comfortingly. 

“Sorry about the yellin'.” You part your lips in innocent awe and you take a deep breath before speaking slowly.

“Why would you do that?” His expression tightens, crossing his arms over his chest. Under him, his large hips shift.

“Ya asked, didn’t you?” Your blank expression only serves to make him chuckle heartily, head shaking. Johnny hums, “I won’t press you about it all tonight, though I well should. You’re in no shape for it.” Cobalt eyes glance at the food before looking back up. “But I’m guessin’ you have a good enough reason to sneak off as I hear you did.” 

The very blood in your body heats with warmth.

You’re waved back over to the chair by the hearth. “Let’s get that injury looked at and I‘ll get you a change of clothes. You can take my place for the night,” eyes twinkle, “there’s no bed bugs in it, Dearie, knight’s honor.”

“What about iron shavings?” You call back softly, lips jerking up momentarily. The man’s actions had given you a large amount of trust in him. Johnny blinks in surprise at your joke, but a large grin grows moments later as you walk over delicately.

“Can’t say for certain, but I promise there’ll be no weapons under the covers. If anyone breaks in they’ll find my fists to be the first iron they get a touch of.” 

Your laugh bounces off the walls, hand coming up to cover your mouth in the picture of a cultured upbringing. Johnny chuckles in turn, looking smug. He liked your laugh, it seems.

“That was detestable, Mr. MacTavish.” You sit down, and Johnny kneels where he had been before—his hand outstretched where you carefully place your wounded limb. 

Immediately you feel the scrape of old burns and calluses, hands hardened by long hours of labor and intensive demands. You’re certain these are the hardest hands that have ever touched your skin, but it astounds you by how gently you’re being caressed and turned. People with far fairer flesh have never handled you like this. As if you would break apart with the barest of pressures.

Your breath stills as the blacksmith, with all the care of a butterfly, tilts your cut into the light and studies it, thumb absentmindedly brushing up and down your wrist. You hold back a shiver. 

“Ah,” he grumbles, still smiling yet more focused on your injury now. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You hum under your breath and try not to flinch when he wipes away a stain of mud near your wound. The blacksmith grunts to himself, gentle pressure at your flesh like the scuff of tree bark. But it wasn’t unpleasant. No, you thought, not at all. 

The two of you fall into a hole of soft silence, Johnny leaving for a moment to grab a bucket of water and bandages, saying in a mutter that he had plenty of the former to go around.

“Have a habit of burnin’ myself on my bad days, y’see,” he shimmies past, pausing before pulling back up the bear fur from where it had slightly slipped down your neck. “Comes with the job.”

Your face burns as he grabs what he needs, eyes stuck on your lap. You were astounded by the man’s ability to put away his obvious confusion for your care, how he was content to wait for answers until you were rested. It was honorable of him. 

Thinking back to Lord Wilkin’s guards at the door, your thighs shift over the chair. They’d be looking for you until they found you—be that days or months, it didn’t matter. The Lord wasn’t someone to let what he wanted get away from him. Like senseless beasts, your family would undoubtedly help. Your chest is stiff with worry. How would you get away with this?

The scene you’d made at the wedding wasn’t exactly subtle. 

Johnny comes back carrying a small bucket of fresh water, ladled from the wash basin, and a bundle of clean white cloth. 

“Alright,” he huffs, “let’s get this sorted, eh, Dearie?” The wound was very obviously a slice from a knife, anyone could see it. 

Johnny takes your hand once more and holds it in his palm, glancing up at you before dipping one of the cloths into the water and beginning to clean the cut. 

“Is it…bad, Mr. MacTavish?” You ask, worried about the likelihood of scarring. That would be the last thing you would want. The blacksmith looks up from where he pats the edges, the fabric already going red.

“Just Johnny, if it pleases you,” he smiles, hulking form seemingly all a facade to hide a cheeky and loyal Scot. “And…no, not bad. If you’re worried about a mark, don’t be—it’s deep but only at the beginning. A slight discoloration, no more.” His brows pull back, teasing, “You’ll not end up like me, at any rate.” Your shoulders ease back, and you let him work with a thankful comment and a giggle.

You watch and take in the way his jaw clenches and loosens as he works, completely focused as if he was fashioning an axe and not helping a complete stranger. 

“There’s no harm in scars,” you settle on saying, thinking over his last comment. Blues lock with your eyes, head tilting like a hound. Your face gains a slight heat to it and you stutter, “It’s just this one I’d rather not carry, Johnny.” Smiling warmly, you see the man’s lips part, his motions stalling for a moment as he looks up at you and blinks. “But yours suit you if…I’m allowed to say.”

It’s then that you realize that a slight flush has come to his cheeks, starting from under his stubble and leaking out to his cheeks like a red blaze—his gaze burrows deep with hidden fire that rivals the dancing shadows from the hearth.

Noticing, your own face burns all the hotter as the blacksmith quickly clears his throat, snapping his eyes away. Fingers once more cleaning your cut, he grunts out, neck now shifting to a blush of crimson, “...Thank you, Miss.” 

You stay in silence for the rest of the delicate process; the air heated and rolling with something. Electricity sparks when Johnny’s hands rub across yours, large enough to break you in an instant but acting like moss over a stone. You find yourself falling into a sort of comforted state you hadn’t felt in a long time—the fur over your shoulders and the tingle of skin-on-skin contact that expects nothing but offers all. 

“There,” Johnny says at last, and a part of you wants to cry when he pulls back, standing slowly. A firm but malleable wrapping is over your palm, a tiny knot tied in the middle to keep it from falling off. 

You bring it to your abdomen and blink, the other hand going to run over the material. 

“Thank you, Johnny. Truly. If I hadn’t found your homestead, I would have been lost.” The man rubs at the back of his neck, tunic bunched up by his elbows. 

“Gah,” after a second of bruising off the comment, he waves a hand while his wide chest puffs with pride. “It’s no trouble, really. Keeps me on my toes.”

Outside the storm continues to beat the walls, and the blacksmith can’t help but feel his eyes drawn to your dwarfed form under the large fur, the dripping water, and the weight of your gown. Based on the information from the guard, he had a decent story already forming in his head. 

A runaway bride and an angry Lord. By his own role as the fiefdom’s accomplished blacksmith, he should be turning you over. But your eyes had been flooded with tears when you’d pounded on his door; soaked in rain and mud—blood. No shoes. Freezing. 

You had looked so afraid, his heart had hurt for you, a strong need to shelter you stuck like a knife into his ribs. Johnny had seen much in his life, war, and death, but your desperation had stuck a cord in him. 

He’d keep you here with no charge, offer food and shelter, and do what he can to understand your situation. If not for simply hospitality sake, then because he had heard your laugh and had found it to be like a bird’s call in the wake of a dew-coated morning. Your soft skin like the wisps of fire from his forges. Your voice like a rippling spring. There was no way to describe the way he wanted to help besides to admit to himself that he was a good man. 

And, while cocky, the blacksmith had never once been self-absorbed.

He watches you rub at your damp cheek and starts out of whatever trance he had been sucked into. 

“I’ll…” Johnny rubs at his neck again, “I’ll get you that change of clothes, Bonnie. You just wait right here.” 

You stare at his back as he strides over, the fatigue washing back over you now that the adrenaline leaves in its stupendous sweep of heavy heartbeats. Anyone else would have given you up. Your face softens, seeing the quick dig of hands into the stack of clothes in the dresser. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” the man huffs, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dearie, all I’ve got are my tunics and pants.” Black and pale cream linen is held up on display. 

“Oh,” you mutter, “I don’t mind,” your chuckle makes his lips twitch with care. “I would just prefer to be out of this…thing.” Your eyes glare down at the tattered gown, breathing softly. “Anything is perfect.”

“Well, then I hope you don’t mind the smell of fire,” Johnny hums. “Here you are.” As much as his insides twist to understand the story, making sure you don’t run a cold was more important. 

Your legs push you up and you walk over softly, gliding over the wooden floor to take up the articles and dig your fingers into the warm and easy texture, thin stitching, and cuffed wrists. There was a cut down the neck with a tied cord looped through, making up an ‘x’ pattern. 

“I would say thank you again,” you begin, “but I think you’ll be getting annoyed with how many times I’ve already said it.”

Johnny laughs, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his feet. 

“Ah, perhaps only a little.” Silence laps into a minute, and you study him with slow puzzlement, tilting your head. For a moment, the man wonders what he’s done. The blacksmith’s dark brows furrow, lips moving back. He looks down at the clothes again and starts with a wild blinking of his lids. 

“Oh! Hell’s bells, right,” Johnny walks to the other side of the room and swiftly turns his back to you with respect and a burning neck. He cringes. “Christ.” 

You laugh brightly, letting the fur fall to the floor as you undress and shimmy into the borrowed clothes. Your nose takes in the scents of metal and fire—fatty linseed oil used to protect a blade against corrosion. With the crackling fire, you slip the large tunic above your head and find that it falls heavily over you; far thicker than it seemed and very comfortable, ending at your lower thigh. 

But those scents make your head spin, rolling up the cuffs as you bring your nose to the collar and once more take it in with a slow breath. You hum and move, throwing the bear fur back atop your shoulders and grabbing your ruined garments from the floor before calling out to the rod-straight figure. 

“Johnny?” His arms lightly jerk, as if he’d been unfocused, but he doesn’t turn around. “Where would you like me to throw these?” 

The blacksmith delicately tilts his head to the side and utters with his eyes stuck to the side wall. “Bin by the door is just fine.” You look to the container holding scraps and other garbage to be taken out and drop the gown in before rubbing your cheek. 

Wide cobalt eyes stare at the clothes you wear heavily, jaw loose before he re-set it and averts his gaze. Johnny chuckles to ease himself and loops his thumbs into his waistband, embarrassed.

“Do you need anything else, then?” Your eyes blink with fatigue.

“No, I…I don’t think so.” Gazing at the home, your lips thin. Your family would have a heart attack if you even mentioned that you were staying the night at a complete stranger’s homestead. No protection, no way to beat off a blacksmith beyond a well-placed punch, and running from your betrothed. To say that you’d cause anything less than a heart attack would be generous. But Johnny felt different. Firmer in his emotions and intentions. Far more than the Lord. 

That was really all that matted. 

“Are you really sure this is okay,” you still ask hesitantly, gargantuan clothes atop your frame. Johnny is already nodding firmly.

“It’s my pleasure. I won’t be turnin’ you back out to the woods in a storm like this.” For whatever reason, the next words fall from his lips like an oath. “There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.” 

Your hand burns with the memory of his gentle grip and your heart skips beats. You feel as if a great weight is lifted, even if only for a night. 

“Alright,” your words barely make it to air, and you grip the bear fur harder to stop yourself from kissing this man’s cheek, wanting to take him into a tight hug. 

Johnny takes a blanket from the bottom of his bed and shuffles over to the inlet below the shuddered window, sitting down while you slowly walk forward. 

“But, Little Lady,” you rest on the edge of the bed and look up to find him watching you intently, leaning back with a hand behind his head and the other on his stomach. The fire still crackles, the storm still dances outside, and the room is still tight with something you can’t put a name to. Like you’re caught in a trap of soft pillows and the scent of metal, you listen to the blacksmith with bated breath. “I’ll be needin’ answers…you hear?” 

Licking your lips, you nod tersely. “Tomorrow,” you agree. 

Johnny gazes off into your eyes, the runaway bride that had shown up on his doorstep and captured his attention like a bird made of a white wedding gown and panicked breath. He sneaks a peek down at your wrapped hand as you settle on his bed, burrowing into his furs and his covers—wearing his clothes. 

For some unknown reason, the smallest of blood stains makes his chest roll with bright anger. 

“Tomorrow,” he grunts through a tight jaw before he fights to turn his head away from you. It’s a long while before he sees any type of sleep, listening to the sound of your soft breath and the crackle of the fire.

TAGS:

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[jiubilant]

went into a fugue state today and downloaded many immersion mods. a few highlights:

spouse's freedom: your spouse will now leave the house and go about their normal daily routine instead of waiting wretchedly around for you to come back

take a nap: exhausted from adventuring? doze off in your chair. suffer lore-friendly back pain

civil war battlefields: adds abandoned battlefields across skyrim so that you don't forget there's a war on

bandit hounds overhaul: adds more dogs to bandit hideouts and strongholds and ups the realism by making them more dangerous. being rushed by a slavering wolfhound should worry you a little

immersive laundry: townspeople now hang their laundry out to dry :) it's cute

northern bathhouses: adds saunas to skyrim's larger settlements. hit gunmar with the viht (you can't actually hit gunmar with the viht)

bury sinderion: lets you give poor sinderion a proper burial. don't just leave him there...what are you going to tell avrusa

arkay's cremation: restoration spell that cremates the dead in sanctifying fire, in case you're not the sort to leave a trail of bodies in your wake

riverwood trader is a mess: makes lucan's and camilla's shop actually look as though it was ransacked by burglars. you can help them clean it too

not the immersive bees: bees will swarm you if you bother them. use this to your advantage in battle

[verumvidere]

\\ MUTT ID PACK

names ;;

archer, bandit, blaze, bruno, brutus, canine, diesel, dire, falcon, fanger, gunnar / gunner, havoc, hawk, hund, malice, razor, rebel, revel, revenge, rex, rogue, scout, sledge, spike, striker / stryker, tank, wolf

pronouns ;;

bite / bites, growl / growls, mutt / mutts, stray / strays, howl / howls, cur / curs, muzzle / muzzles, cage / cages, snarl / snarls, rabid / rabids, feral / ferals, canine / canines, maul / mauls, hunt / hunts, chain / chains, hound / hounds

titles ;;

{X} who bites the hand that feeds, the abandoned stray / mutt, {X} who wanders alone, the outcasted, {X} who has been muzzled / caged, {X} who howls at night, the stray of the streets

genders ;;

muttial, canigoric, thingmutt, boymutt / girlmutt, traumamutt, muttfreak, dogkillgender, weirdpup, aggressivecaninegender, baddoggender, muttlexic, canirabic, muzzlegender, bloodymuzzic

[DIVIDER ID: a black chain gif divider that moves horizontally across the screen. it repeats twice in this post. END ID.]

[dez78]

I need you, darling

-------------------------------------

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Spawn Astarion x Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, Blood (18+)

Additional Tags: Astarion being angry with you, Scared Astarion, Romanced Astarion, Boi is worried sick about you.

Summary: A battle goes to shit and Astarion is the first to notice.

(Not my gif)

As you were trekking the wilds with your companions, you stopped because something lurked ahead.

"Be careful, soldier." Karlach warned you. Your eyes were careful, tracing every shape in front you.

"Astarion, you smell anything?" Gale joked with a smirk, Astarion scoffed at him, crossing his arms across his chest.

"I'm not some type of blood hound!" He said offensively as he turned his nose up. Gale smirked as he waited patiently.

"The blood is average, so it's probably humans. Likely bandits or traders." Astarion replied after a silence.

You treaded carefully, watching the trees with your peripheral vision. Your companions at your back, watching every direction, weapons drawn.

Just then you heard the buzz of an arrow as it whizzed past your head, clipping your hair.

"Archers!" Gale cried, you and your companions took cover then.

"Bandits." Astarion scoffed.

You used your tactics to take out the archer, using your own crossbow. You pierced his throat with a bolt.

"Nice shot, soldier!" You heard Karlach complimenting you. You smirked cocky as you bolted out, a bandit surprised you and took a slash at you.

Your quick reflexes responded, you snapped your hips, the blade missing your most vital organs or so you thought. You were quick to cut his throat. He bled out, falling to the ground, grasping his throat.

Your companions charged out then, Astarion used his dual daggers to slice through the enemy, Karlach used her axe to crush her enemies, and Gale stood back blasting fire.

You used a dagger for the last bandit, throwing with precision and ending his life by getting him in the eye. You smiled victoriously.

Then you winced suddenly, you looked up just as Astarion turned around. The wind had shifted, and he picked up a sweet scent. Karlach and Gale approached.

You stumbled as you looked back down, despite being covered in bandit blood and the men on the ground, bleeding on the forest floor. Astarion knew your scent.

You looked down, your tunic starting to soak as fresh blood gushed from an open wound. You thought the blade missed, but it was apparent that in fact did not.

"Y/N!" Astarion rushed over to you.

"Oh shit, you're bleeding, soldier." Karlach noticed a few moments after Astarion.

"We need to get to camp." Gale suggested.

"I'm fine." You muttered, Astarion wasn't having it.

"You've done one dumb thing today already." He snarled as he picked you up. He carried you back to the camp. Gale and Karlach hot on his heels.

You faded in and out of consciousness, all you saw was Astarion. His face was washed with panic, dread, and concern.

"~Stay with me, my love.~" His voice sounded so far, yet he was right above you. Before it went black you heard the fear in Astarion's voice as he spoke,

"~Don't leave me. I need you, darling.~"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

When you came to, you were at camp.

"She's awake!" Gale cried; the companions rushed over to you. Astarion hadn't left your side.

"What happened?" You asked groggily as you sat up, rubbing your throbbing head.

"You stupid, girl!" Astarion suddenly snapped at you, your heart twinged as you looked up with sorrowful eyes.

"You could have died, you idiot!" He was livid as he fumed. You winced from his raised voice, looking like a kicked puppy.

Astarion relaxed and took a deep breath,

"I'm sorry. I was just worried sick about you, I-" He pursed his lips, you looked at him, still hurt.

"I thought I lost you." He breathed out in a shallow breath. He bowed his head, on the verge of tears.

"Everything we been through, and I thought that was the last of you. As soon as I smelled your blood, I was full of dread, fearing the worst." Astarion explained. He took your hands in his.

"That was a stupid thing to do, but you're not stupid or an idiot. I just couldn't imagine the pain if I had lost you. I-" Astarion explained, he stopped again.

"I care about."

"I love you."

You raised your eyebrows in surprise, he had never said those words before without it being some kind of joke. You looked into his eyes and saw the concern and sincerity. He meant it. He loves you.

"Please, for the love of the gods. Please, be more careful next time. I don't think my fragile heart can take that kind of pain again." Astarion pleaded with you, his eyes were genuine, and his voice was shaky. You nodded your head slowly as a smile crossed your lips.

"That's a good girl, darling." Astarion said softly as he leaned in and captured your lips in a tender kiss.

[pupsmailbox]

DOG︰WOLF ID PACK

NAMES ⌇ ace. affen. affie. aidi. airendale. akita. aksaray. alano. alex. alfie. annie. apollo. archie. aries. armant. artemis. artois. ash. asher. aurora. badulf. bailey. bandit. barbet. barkley. basenji. bear. beau. bella. beowulf. biewer. blue. bluey. bolt. boris. boxer. brad. brenard. brittany. brutus. bud. buddie. buddy. buster. buttercup. buzz. cailean. cain. cairn. caleb. canaan. cane. canid. canis. carlo. carol. catellus. celeste. charles. charlie. chase. chewie. chip. cliff. clifford. coco. collie. conall. conan. cooper. daisy. dale. darwin. dash. daxie. dexter. diana. dire. dixie. duke. dylan. echo. emory. eros. eskie. ester. fang. fenrir. fido. finn. ford. fox. frankie. ghan. glen. gold. gordon. gray. grey. griffon. grim. grimmwolf. hamilton. harley. havana. hero. hound. howl. hunter. indie. indy. jack. joey. kai. kaleb. kalev. kelpie. ken. kerry. kibble. kibs. kit. lady. leo. leon. llewelyn. lola. lowell. lucine. lucy. luna. lupin. lyca. lycro. lycus. mace. maisie. mal. malinois. marley. max. mia. miles. milo. mingan. mob. molly. mudd. mutt. nala. night. noire. noiresse. noirette. nova. nugget. nyx. oliver. ollie. orion. oscar. paxton. peach. pebble. phoebe. picard. pila. pluto. poppy. puff. pup. ralph. randy. red. redd. remus. rex. rhys. riley. rocky. rolfo. roman. romulus. rosie. rover. rowdy. roxie. roxy. ruby. rudy. ruff. rufus. ruppell. russel. russell. sadie. scottie. scout. scruff. scruffy. selena. shep. shepard. shepherd. silver. sophie. spike. spitz. spot. stafford. star. stella. stick. storm. stormy. suki. teddy. terry. tiger. tosa. venerie. walker. will. wolf. wolfgang. zip. zoey.

PRONOUNS ⌇　arf/arf. awoo/awoo. ba/ball. ba/bark. bark/bark. bite/bite. ble/blep. bo/bone. bo/bork. bork/bork. cae/canine. can/cani. cani/cani. canin/canine. canine/canine. cha/chase. chew/chew. claw/claw. co/collar. coll/collar. cute/cute. dig/dig. dog/dog. drool/drool. en/energy. fang/fang. fe/fetch. floof/floof. fluff/fluff. fluff/fluffy. fur/fur. fur/furry. ga/game. grey/grey. grim/grim. gro/growl. growl/growl. grr/grr. guard/guard. ho/howl. houn/hound. hound/hound. howl/howl. hunt/hunt. jump/jump. lea/leash. leash/leash. lo/loyal. loyal/loyal. lu/lupi. moon/moon. mutt/mutt. muz/muzzle. night/night. pa/paw. paw/paw. pawprint/pawprit. pet/pet. pla/play. pla/playful. play/play. pooch/pooch. predator/predator. pro/protect. pup/pup. puppy/puppy. ri/rir. ri/ruff. roll/roll. rough/rough. ru/run. ruff/ruff. run/run. slob/slober. snarl/snarl. sni/sniff. snout/snout. soft/soft. squi/squirrel. star/star. star/starry. sti/stick. tai/tail. tail/tail. teeth/teeth. teeth/teething. tre/treat. tre/tree. wa/wag. wa/walk. wag/wag. walk/walk. wolf/wolf. wolf/wolve. wolv/wolve. woof/woof. yap/yap. yip/yip. ❤ . 🌳 . 🎀 . 🎾 . 🐕 . 🐕‍🦺 . 🐩 . 🐶 . 🐺 . 🐾 . 🐿 . 👀 . 👅 . 💗 . 📢 . 📣 . 🔆 . 🔊 . 🔍 . 🗯 . 🥎 . 🦮 . 🦴 . 🧸 .

[a-den-of-demons]

Rwby apocalypse (salem plot);

my muse is a well known bounty hunter within the bandit outposts, both under Salem’s command and those not. With his high capture count, salem catches wind of his activities, she sends a bandit that’s under her command to request his audience.

The message was sent, and later that night, scorch, a reptilian faunas carrying what appeared to be a coffin slung over his shoulder walks into her throne room. Once scorch was a good distance from her throne, he sets the coffin down next to him and kneels before her, bowing his head towards her.

“It’s a honor to meet you queen salem, I am scorch, I’ve been told that you have requested me for a task. How may I serve?”

Salem looked down at her loyal hound, “It is an honor. And I have a task for you.” A screen appeared with four women. One with long blonde hair and glasses, another long pink hair in a ponytail, one with long blue hair and an intense look, and lastly a redhead in a ponytail as well, “We found these huntresses are hiding in the ruins of the city around beacon. You are to capture them. They are all yours to do with what you want, as long as they are captured. Understood?”

[seraphim-coinz]

Hello again!! Would you mind if we requested another NPT? (Or,, the other acronym we haven't learned yet fjsbfjd)

Ngl we kinda became obsessed with seeing those– and also we've been feeling very doggy lately so! Queer (trans/nonbinary) doggy NPT? :D it can also be kitty if you prefer!

Tysm once again!!

-🦇🐈‍⬛

System Names: The Puppygenders. The Queer Pups. The Enby Hounds. Trans Best Friend. Trans Man's Best Friend. Canine Queers. The Wagging Tail Collective. The Howling System.

Names: Bailey. Charlie. Stick. Riley. Bear. Indie. Blue. Roxy/Roxie. Zip. Peach. Ollie. Echo. Dixie. Cooper. Luna. Coco. Nala. Suki. Harley. Teddy. Leo. Apollo. Scout. Bandit. Dexter.

Pronouns: Pup/Pups. Dog/Dogs. Paw/Paws. Yip/Yips. Wag/Wags. Coll/Collars. Mutt/Mutts. Hound/Hounds. Leash/Leashes. Bark/Barks. Wolv/Wolves. Howl/Howls. Pooch/Pooches. Pet/Pets. Dig/Digs. Teeth/Teeths. Bite/Bites.

Usernames: ouppyqueer. thetransdoggo. howlingenby. enbypupper. queermutt. muttgendersss. multigendermutt. enbydoggo. dogtrans. puppyboyyyyy. puppygirlllll.

Titles: The Happy Little Dog. The Puppy Who Digs Up Genders. The Enby with the Softest Ears. [prn] who Bites. The Playful Puppy Queer. The Perfect Puppy. [prn] who Loves to Play (With Gender).

Genders: Puppydoll. Pinkpuppycoric. Boymutt and Girlmutt. Vampupboy. Octopupgender. Thingmutt. Traumadog and Traumamutt. Puppyboy.

Labels: Agender Pup. Black/White Siberian Husky Link. Pup/Pups Pronoun Flag. Mutt Flag. Mutt4Mutt Attraction. Stray Dog. Mutt Faggot. Service Dog. Assigned Puppy At Birth.

I used the pronouns in this NPT on an account I mod on! Here! (link)

Also I might actually scream if I search "puppygender" and get NSFT again!

[deepperplexity]

Prompt 5. Grave Of Snow [A2]

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem!Reader

POV: Second, Reader & Third, Brandon

Setting: The Lands Around Delaford Estate & Delaford Estate

Continuation of: Prompt 1. Chimney Soot

A/N: This was harder to write than I'd thought it would be. My own greatest death fear is drowning, no other manner of dying scares me more than that but this fic as being buried alive and it's quite a horrendous thing too - and it's Christmas time, what a super jolly way to spend it 😂 Gosh, I hope you weren't expecting Rickmas2023 to be all sweet and fluffy 🙈👍❤

On another note, we're making an ice rink in our backyard (nearly done) and I just realised this year I have no prompt for ice skating 😱 Like, sure, you can connect almost any prompt with Ice Skating but there's no dedicated prompt for it this year - feels a little weird 😂

Tags/TW’s: Buried Alive, Fear Of Being Harmed, Mentions Past Physical Hurt (hand lashing and punishment), Fear Of Losing Someone, Mentions Past/Current Fears (being buried alive) ...and good doggies doing a good job too

Abbr.: Y/N - Your Name

Word Count: 3.2k+

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

⩤• You •⩥

You wiped at your face, the soot still clung to your skin, leaving you looking like a bandit raccoon as the handkerchief had protected your lower face. The dusty dress lay abandoned on the floor as you pulled on the rags you’d come to Delaford in. This can’t be happening, cannot, cannot be happening! The colonel! I-, I-, oh, I’m my own ruin!

You banged open the door, and slammed it shut by cheer force while running before you even released the handle. The winding, narrow steps were a death trap in your rush to get away. You were not going to stay for a lashing, for a rough yelling, for any punishment the upstanding man deemed fit for your actions — for your lack of knowledge about the very man himself rendering you unable to treat him correctly even. You didn’t even take the time to say goodbye to Mrs Garber, or inform Cook about you leaving. You just ran out into the snowy winter land outside as the winds whipped around, tossing about that very snow. While the clouds hid the warming rays of the sun, the sky was as grey as your trembling hands.

The night had gifted the world with another few inches of snow the stable boys were helping the other servants to shovel, but the servants’ side wasn’t cleared yet so your legs plummeted into the white cold to your mid-thighs. You shivered and hissed as your dress hiked up, the long underpants you wore upon your arrival were still up in your quarters. Your rush hadn’t allowed for more than your dress, shoes, and cloak to be put on.

You clumsily forced your way through the snow, not knowing where any paths were you only focused on reaching the tree line up ahead. It was far off, but you were determined to get away before anyone could get their hands on you. His gentle eyes still lingered in your head, the sweet warmth his voice spread through you, the slight scrutiny he’d viewed you with — as if he’d been trying to see beyond the soot and covering handkerchief. You’d never felt any tingle like the one he’d made your skin warm under. What was that even? A sudden lapse of judgement? A lust, like other men throw my way when they want to take advantage?No, that thought didn’t sit right with you. His gentleness was too clear, yet you knew nothing about him and you had met people like that before. Kind, caring, sweet — on the outside. Behind closed doors, that was a different matter entirely.

You feel forward, plummeting into the snow as your foot tripped on something. You were crawling forward a second later, determined to reach the trees, to hide among them and get away from the estate you had hoped would have been your salvation through the freezing winter. Now, well, you were even worse off than before. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I shouldn’t have tried so hard! I should have just told Mrs Thatch about the clog!

You reached the trees just as the sound of hounds filled the air. A foreboding dread filled you from within as you picked up the pace and nearly ploughed your way through the snow, your foggy breath heaving out of you while the hounds' yelps and howls seemed to turn louder. You grasped the first low-hanging branch of a pine and pulled yourself forward as the imposing trees sheltered you from the biting winds, the sounds of the hounds half drowned out as you dragged and pulled yourself forward until the snow lessened, burdening the branches above rather than the ground below.

A sigh of relief escaped you as you grabbed another branch and pulled yourself forward one final time before the snow only reached your knees. The relief was felt too soon while you sought to get deeper among the trees. You stumbled forward, snagging your foot on a hidden root below, only to grab a hold of another branch. It slipped through your numbing fingers, the pine needles like cutting blades — hardened by the cold — as they sliced at your palms while you ended up in the snow with a panted breath at the impact nearly burying your face in the white cold. Then you were pummelled.

The branch had been released with such force the tree swayed, its branches being freed of the heavy snow above before the sudden springing rippled through the nearest tree. Snow came crashing down in waves and you could do nothing but shield your face as the weight forced you to lay still — burying you completely without your cry of fear penetrating the deadly mass. Lord, no, you thought as you lay immobile with only a small bubble of air around your face thanks to your raised arms.

Why his chuckle echoed in your head, why the sturdiness of his body against yours filtered through the fear, why the gentle curiosity in his eyes shimmered before your mind's eyes you couldn’t tell. The echo of silver bells, the crackling of a fire, the swirl of dancing couples in wonderful dresses and beautiful frocks seemed like a hazy fog of a dream you’d wished for all your life and were now never to experience. Not even as an attentive maid blending into the scenery without anyone taking notice. In that foggy dream, keeping the horror of your grave of snow at a distance, he stood at the very centre and his eyes — gentle and sweet — were only on you. The tingling warmth in your numb fingers and toes felt as real as the crawling chill along your back while you struggled more and more to breathe and stay conscious.

⩤• Brandon •⩥

“Samson, search!” he bellowed, his voice travelling further than needed. Your dusty handkerchief held tightly in his harsh fist, the hound’s nose just having been buried in it before the other dogs took a whiff. The hound howled, setting the other dogs off with yelps and barks as they dove into the snow, the path your body had cut through it already starting to fill with the swirling snow the harsh winds threw about.

He had never been spellbound before. The way he had seen only your eyes surrounded by black ash ought to have discouraged any sensations within his chest but, alas, the wonder your eyes were and the manner you spoke with had taken him by such surprise his heart had no chance but to pound. He’d never thought sticking his head in a chimney while talking about Santa Claus would have lurched his entire body into a warm pounding. You had spoken so sweetly, your eyes those of someone who knew hardship yet prevailed. He was enthralled with the glimmer in them the second your eyes had connected in the dark of the chimney.

The hound howled again as he stepped out of the protective walls of stone, through the servants’ door, and felt himself sink to right above his knee in the snow. Remembering the disarray of your quarters, the discarded dress, the abandoned second undergarments that should have clad your body to protect against the snow — no matter the horridly tattered state of the thin fabrics — made his stomach twist.

He was not unfamiliar with the cold, the wetness, the dampness of melted snow, and how it would cling to one’s body. He had spent far too many seasons in service of the royals not to have experienced all sorts of weather and their respective challenges. And now you were out there, exposed and frightened given the horrendous look you had offered him before running away in a poof of swirling ash dust. There had been something wrong with that look, the dread of it — and the manner you had wrung your hands before you. what harm has befallen you before? Have hands been laid atop you for such a small thing as spreading ash?

He gave chase, following the loud dogs with servants following behind him with his heart in a harsh pounding. The snow wasted no time clinging to him, seeping through his clothes not suitable for the weather in the slightest. The only thing he’d done was drape a heavy cloak around himself while Mr Barkley had fetched the hunting dogs, his beloved hound at the helm of the pack. He was grateful for having taken that extra second to at least do that as the wind was bitingly cold, nearly clawing at his cheeks while the sky above seemed to darken by the second until the snow being thrown about was so thick the clouds above were no longer visible.

“Samson! Search!” he called, the hound howling back while your trembling shoulders filled his head. Something had been done to you, someone had hurt you for something akin to what had just happened and he could not fathom anyone harming anyone over cleaning, or stumbling, or not knowing the face of a man they had never before met.

Samson howled and came bolting back toward him, Christopher felt his heart stop as the dog kept sniffing the ground at his feet, searching for a fresher scent. The trail you’d left behind was gone, he could barely see an inch before him as the snow stuck to his lashes. He pulled out the handkerchief again, beckoning Samson to take a new whiff — the hound ignored him while sniffing the ground harder, burrowing his nose below the top layer before digging his way through the snow toward the trees Christopher knew lay not far away even if he could not see them.

“Sir Brandon!” Mr Barr called behind him. “Sir! The winds are too strong!” the man called over the howling of that very phenomenon of nature. “We shall find her! Or she will perish out here!” he called back, not stopping his trudge forward despite the snow gripping him nearly to his mid-thighs by that time. I shall not lose her to this storm , he thought while leaning forward to push through the snow faster, following the small dent after Samson and the rest of the dogs. “Sir! It’s too dangerous!” Mr Barr called, but he ignored it. He had faced danger, and the storm wrapping him up was nothing compared to the horrors of his past, or the pain contained within it.

They reached the trees and the thickness of the branches kept the worst of the winds at bay, the snow on the ground lessening for each step until it barely came to his knees and he could move faster. Samson’s howl up ahead caught his attention, he’d found something. Christopher barged forward, running despite the snow and whipping branches, until he found his dogs digging at what appeared to be a mound of snow created by yielding branches.

His heart leapt toward his throat, making it difficult to breathe. Are you in there? His mind had time to wonder before he lurched into action. If you lay buried under such heavy snow, had you any air to breathe? Had you broken anything? Were you crushed? To be buried alive had been one of his greatest fears back in the East Indies, and even before that. When he was a lesser man, fighting in trenches filled with muddy water that could have easily turned into a watery grave in the madness of battle.

He dug, and dug, and dug until his skin felt as if it would slide off his icy fingers and his nails crack with the cold. That was when your fingers appeared, icy cold and unmoving. His lungs stuttered on a sharp intake of air while Samson licked the fingers quickly. He dug with all his might just as the servants appeared behind him. “Dig, men! Dig! ” he demanded with such a dark rumble he barely recognized his frantic voice himself.

A frantic moment later you were dug out from the snowy grave he would not allow to become an eternal resting place. He dragged you too forcefully into his arms, wiping away snow from your cold face, smearing the ash further — hiding your face from him behind a blotchy mess of black and grey — but he could not have cared less as he saw foggy air part from between your lips. His shoulders sank with relief before he held you up and took off his cloak by interchanging his arms. You were tightly wrapped but unresponsive as he stood with Samson by his leg, his entire body wiggling with the motion of his tail as it wagged relentlessly from having found his target.

⩤• You •⩥

You shivered, a wet rag graced your forehead in a rubbing motion while the deep sigh of a woman echoed all around you. “Stupid child, why would you run in such a manner,” Mrs Garber nearly whispered, the familiarity of her voice softening the pounding of your heart. “And from the colonel no less, foolish girl.” You couldn’t tell if your mother’s long-lost friend was angry or worried, her voice didn’t let it slip through fully.

When your eyes blinked open she was leaning over you, and you were almost too warm. “Oh, Y/n,” she said while you blinked a few more times to clear your vision. “Foolish girl, you had me so worried!” she chided, but, perhaps affectionately so. “Mary?” you asked and she sighed but nodded. “Where-, where am I?” you asked as your eyes flicked about the glorious room as you tried to move your stiff limbs. A giant canopy of thick fabric was above you, the mattress beneath was the most comfortable one you’d ever laid upon, and the covers atop you felt lush — like silk, expensive silk.

“Oh, sweet child, you’re in—” “Mrs Thatch,” came that gravelly voice which sent goosebumps along every inch of your skin while your heart picked up the pace a notch as you turned your eyes toward the slightly ajar door. “Give me an occupation, or I shall run mad,” he continued so quietly it shouldn’t have been possible for you to hear the words. But his voice travelled far, even in such a low tone appearing to be far away given the echo to it. “Colonel, sir,” that shrill voice from the grand room before said. “There is little to do but wait. She is in good care with Mrs Garber, sir.”

Your eyebrows scrunched, he sounded anxious — it didn’t suit that voice at all to have such a tone. You found yourself wishing to hear that chuckle of his again. Perhaps you had a fever and were delirious? “You have had the master so worried, Y/n. How could you do such a thing to the good man?” Mrs Garber chided quietly but you couldn’t quite grasp the words. “Now, you lay here and I shall fetch the man before he drives himself to insanity. You apologise, you hear me? He is a gentle soul, I will not have you tormenting the respectable man with your nonsense behaviour. Your mother wasn't able to run away but that does not give you the right to bolt in such a manner.” Her eyes were harsh, nearly glaringly so, as she rose and tucked the cover all the way up to your chin before smoothing out your hair in what you believed to be an attempt at making you appear more decent.

Your heart pounded harder with each step she moved toward the door. When she pushed it open you sat up, the cover pooling around your waist while the nightshirt placed on you kept you covered from your collarbones and down. “She’s awake, sir,” Mrs Garber said and, not a second later, he was in the doorway. “Miss Y/l/n,” he said without taking so much as half a step into the room itself. His voice was that of relief, his gentle eyes warm in the glow of the hearth at the opposite end of the room from where you lay in a giant bed.

You felt your cheeks heat, your fingers gripping the cover atop your legs harshly while your eyes folded from his intent viewing of you. Your heart ran amok as he stood in figure-disclosing attire with his black frock coat nearly clinging to his waist while the shiny boots adorning his feet glimmered in just as black a colour.

“Miss Y/n/l? Are you fairing?” he asked while taking a step closer, making your head jerk up. “I-, I am,” you stuttered. “Sir, I’m-, I apologies, for my behaviour,” you continued while you endeavoured to remember what had happened after you lost your grip on the branch with slicing blades for pine needles. “Not a word about it,” he said as he began moving in, toward the foot of the bed. The light of the fire encased him in a glowing halo, making his hair shimmer and the glimmer in his eyes appeared brighter as his eyes held yours.

Why is my heart running rampant? I’m-, I’m all tingly all over when he views me. Your thoughts were uncertain but your body seemed to react in a wholly new way to the grand man before you. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice dipping lower. You could only manage to shake your head. “You were buried in the snow,” he said after a moment. His fingers curled around the footrest of the bed, his knuckles whitening at the force used. Your breath hitched at the sight, so alike hands around a riding crop used for lashings.

Your fingers began fidgeting, your hands wringing and rubbing atop the cover. The memory of the pain was far too fresh. “Miss?” he said, snatching your attention. “Are your hands hurting?” You stiffened for a second before you let go and grabbed the cover anew while shaking your head. “Did someone lay harm upon you?” You didn’t move, didn’t say a thing, only kept your eyes on his whitening knuckles. It was a common thing, after all. Masters laid hands upon their servants as they deemed fit, and you had time and time again ended up at the mercy of such wicked, cruel men and women were either fate or a coincidence.

Your breath hitched as he suddenly pushed off the bed frame, stepping around to stand at your side in less than three long strides. You shrunk into the mattress, his imposing figure hard to take so closely — yet, it wasn’t just fear of retribution that made you do so. No, no there was something else entirely imposing about him that you fought against so as not to be drawn in. If it were his handsomeness, the memory of his sweet chuckle, or those gentle eyes that now seemed to flare with something darker you couldn’t quite say. But he warmed you in places he ought not to have been able to reach at all.

“No matter,” he said quietly, a mere drawl of a whisper. “You are safe here, miss. No harm will befall you within my estate.” “S-sir?” you squeaked out, confused at his sweet words spoken in such a harsh tone. “Are you not to punish me?” you continued with a tremble to your voice that had far more to do with the warmth he spread within you than the question you’d just asked. His eyes flared before his entire face softened. “No, my sweet. No punishment shall ever befall you for breathing life into my heart with those eyes of yours.”

…To Be Continued…

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: Ugh, theses two... Gosh, I do love it when emotions are instant and soulmate-like 😩👏 And another cliffhanger it is - are we excited to see where this goes? 👀😘

I'm working as hard as I can to make sure I'm as early as possible posting and I'm going to start working on tomorrow's prompt right away, I have a little extra time today (aka I'm taking the time today 'cus I need it 😂) so perhaps I'll start working on Thursday's prompt too - tomorrow we're getting back to Turpin again anyway! 🥰👏

Q: If you had to choose between only listening to Christmas music and no other music or only watching Christmas movies and no other movies through all of December - what would you choose? 👀 A: I'd say I'd choose Christmas music - but, I love it and almost exclusively listen to Christmas music through November and December anyway 😂 Only watching Christmas movies would be harder 🙈

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[Dec:2023]

[daisymintt]

I have too many ideas for Merlin fics so I’m just gonna dump them here, if you write one please tag me I’d love to read it!

• Arthur is seen as a traitor to the crown and is about to be killed when Merlin saves him and they go on the run and become some of the most well known bandits in Camelot, the Fallen Prince and his Warlock (inspired by Americano by Lady Gaga)

• A beast that feeds off magic goes to Camelot and takes Merlin, Arthur and the Knights embark on a rescue mission

• A visiting Noble introduces a new “sport” to Uther, sorcerer hunting. In which a captured sorcerer is released into the woods with only the clothes on their back and are hunted down by knights and specially trained hounds. Intrigued, he partakes of this “sport”. Merlin is disgusted and goes into the forest to help them escape only to become the prey. Will he be able to keep his magic secret? Or will he be doomed?

OR

• Merlin on the run inspired by the song Run Boy Run

• Rumor Has It/Rumor Mill, a bunch of different rumors start cropping up in Camelot varying from absurd to believable

• A visiting Lady takes a shine to Merlin, Arthur gets jealous.

• Arthur and Merlin are on a hunting trip and stop at a tavern. While there they overhear a local ghost story about an ghost that of a Lady who lived in the manor up the street. Her husbands kept dying “mysteriously” and she went mad with grief. They say the manor is haunted. Merlin takes it seriously and Arthur teases him about, later they go to the abandoned manor and have an encounter with the ghost. Get trapped in the manor. The ghost carries a bloody hatchet. Nearly takes Arthur’s head off. Similar to Constance Hatchaway.

• Stardust AU

• Arthur follows in his dad’s footsteps and sets out to kill the last Druid, a boy called Emrys. Little did he know that his friend Merlin was that druid. Inspo: Still/Neva Flows Reprise

• 1920’s America Merlin runs a speakeasy

• Gaius is away dealing with an outbreak of sweating sickness at a border town leaving Merlin as acting Court Physician while he’s away.

- A visiting Nobel lady goes into labor, Merlin has to help her.

• Merlin catches a cold yet refuses to stop working, his magic is also affected. Every time he sneezes something magical happens leaving chaos in his wake. His magic stops reacting when he Gaius sneaks him a sleeping draught mixed with some cold medicine (or at least the medieval equivalent that addresses the symptoms), Arthur not so subtly frets about Merlin’s wellness.

OR

• Merlin overextends his magic and when he gets back to Camelot he tries to do a small spell and it doesn’t work, discovers he has a “Sorcerers Cold” it doesn’t affect the physical body but the magical one. In other words, how magic is on the fritz until he can get some proper rest.

• Last Night Gus episode where they super drunk and wake up in weird places. They spend the day trying to piece together what happened last night

• A sorcerer disguised themselves as Merlin to get close to Arthur

OR

• A shapeshifter that appears as your hearts greatest desire appears as Merlin to Arthur and lures him into a trap, Merlin has to save him. Classic who’s the real Merlin scenario where Arthur has to ask a question that only the real Merlin would know the answer too.

• A vampire arrives in Camelot.

• Merlin’s shadow has the wings of a dragon, Arthur notices

• Merlin and Arthur have been arguing over something for a while now, Leon is tired of being stuck in the middle of it and traps them in a room. He refuses to let them come out until they figure out whatever they’re fighting about. (Ten minutes in the closet trope)

• A drunk Merlin finds himself in Arthur’s room, Arthur takes care of him. Merlin is very affectionate when drunk. (Inspo: bad idea right? By Olivia Rodrigo)

• Merlin and Morgana are friends and Arthur is jealous of there close bond, Arthur thinks that they’re courting and confronts Merlin about it.

• Morgana or someone casts a spell while the knights, Arthur, and Merlin are asleep on a quest that joins their dreams together. Merlin is very skittish afraid that he may accidentally reveal his magic. Inspo: A Nightmare on Killmotor Hill! Season 2 episode 19 of Ducktales.

• 5 weird places Merlin has fallen asleep and one not so weird one (it’s Arthur’s bed)